Archive of Our Own

Macklin Celebrini loves his life. He loves his team and his city, loves the rush of a game, loves the restless itch that he gets under his skin as adrenaline builds and builds, loves the roar of the crowd when he makes an insane goal. And even though that might be a bit egotistical, Mack has proven time and time again why he's earned those cheers that rattle the SAP Center more often than not these days.

Most of all, Mack loves William Charles Patrick Smith, his best friend. If you had told him two years ago that him and Will would be attached at the hip, he would laugh in your face. Or, smile politely and let out the most fake sounding media laugh that had been trained into him long ago. Mack had never really been good with people, had always put his training before anything, was younger than a lot of the other guys he played with, and was generally extremely awkward. It's like some higher being - maybe Will's God, maybe Rick Celebrini - had ensured that all of his everything would go into hockey, which left nothing for socializing or friendships or really, anything else at all. It was like all the grace and skill that he had on the ice deserted him the second he took off his skates.

So, when he and Will had ended up at Dev Camp together, sharing a hotel room, he had resigned himself to deal with some stilted small talk from his once-rival-turned-teammate. But Will was maybe the most confident person in the entire world and they had fallen headfirst into quite possibly the most codependent friendship to ever exist.

Really, Mack is content to just be with Will in a way that he isn't with many others, never feels like he has to perform for him in the slightest. The first time he had punched a hole in hotel room wall and then immediately started sobbing, Will had only given him a hug and then bodily forced him into the bed. Mack hadn't even been that surprised when Will crawled in right next to him, immediately pulling up TikTok and made such stupid commentary that Mack couldn't help but laugh. They laid like that until Mack had fallen asleep. And when he woke up, Will was still right there, mouth open and so soft looking. It was one of the first moments that being in Will's orbit made Mack tempted to get on his knees in worship.

Maybe it was then, or maybe it was that first day of Dev Camp, or maybe it was a hundred million little moments that had happened over the course of knowing each other, but Mack knew that he was in love with Will. And he felt overjoyed - still does - because Mack has trained himself to hope for so, so little. He had first realized he was gay at about the same time that he realized that he had a real chance at the NHL. So, it was easy to nod to himself and come to the realization that that part of himself would never see the light of day, at least until retirement. He couldn't throw the NHL away for some relationship, would never even consider it. But he had never thought that he would be able to have the person he loved so close all the time, to be best friends. And knowing that he and Will were here, had a chance of making the Sharks actually fucking good, could maybe get a couple Cups, he smiled to himself. Let himself imagine their jerseys hanging up in the SAP Center, decades and decades with his favorite person on Earth.

-⭐-

They are sitting on the back porch of Will's childhood home, both watching TikToks off of Will's phone because Mack is feeling like a fat cat in the sun, too lazy to move at all, perfectly content with his lot in life. Will stays busy in the off-season, but he had a free week and had practically begged Mack to come hang out. After confirming that Colleen really didn't mind if he came over, he booked it over to Boston in a way that would probably come across desperate if anyone but Will Smith was the one waiting for him.

The current TikTok is something stupid, not in the funny way and completely unmemorable - everyone's FYP has at least a couple of flops - so it comes out of the blue when Will turns to face him. Mack hadn't realized how close he had gotten until Will nearly knocks their skulls together. Pulling back a bit, Mack raises an eyebrow at Will.

"Dude, we really need to move out of those guest houses," Smitty straight up whines at him, which makes Mack's heart do a tiny little flip that he does a decent job of ignoring. He just hums in agreement, knowing that Will has more to say, and after maybe a millisecond, Will is opening his mouth again.

"And we basically live together anyway and I drive you everywhere. It'd be easier if we just moved in together, bro!" He says it in a rush and leaves his mouth open at the end, bunny teeth on display, like an excited puppy. Mack swallows. It's not like they need to, they both have enough money to get their own places and long enough contracts that would make it worth it. There isn't a great way to justify it, but Mack finds himself grinning and nodding back. Mack's talented, but really, denying Will isn't one of Mack's particular skills.

Will rushes in to tell Colleen, buzzing with energy and excitement and Mack lets himself be tugged back inside. Colleen grabs her laptop and suddenly, they're all looking at apartments. Mack doesn't really contribute much, more than happy to let Will take point on this one, but he feels drunk on his own happiness and sends up thanks to Will's God that he's allowed to have all of this. It feels insane and unreal and like the thousands of dreams that he's had over the last two years. He lets that feeling settle into his bones and his soul and watches as Will and his mom settle on the perfect apartment.

-⭐-

The next few weeks blur into Zillow links, chaotic FaceTimes, and Will sending him increasingly unhinged photos of what they could do with a "bonus room." (Mack had never considered that the sentence, "Smitty, we can't have an aquarium with actual sharks in our apartment, dumb-ass," would ever leave his mouth, but everyday with Will was something new). And then suddenly Mack is back in San Jose, side-by-side with Will, carrying boxes into the apartment they somehow signed a lease for. They both had very few belongings to bring, but when they told the team, almost everyone had sent "house warming" gifts, and Mack stayed silent about how stupidly happy it made him while Will groaned that nothing would match and it would throw off the vibes, or aesthetics, or feng shui, or some shit. For a hockey dude in his twenties, Will could rival a magazine for how much he cared about how everything looked. It was so clear that Colleen had raised him to be a younger version of herself.

Staring at the blank slate that was their clean and modest apartment, Mack felt that low buzz of anxiety run under his skin. What does he know about living with someone else besides his family? How the fuck is he supposed to help furnish, let alone decorate, this place? For a moment that seems to stretch and expand, pushing time to its very limits, he feels there is some secret book, a guide to do everything perfectly and that everyone else had gotten one and he hadn't. That maybe this was finally the moment Will saw him for what he was - some half-human hockey robot - and decided that it was too damn much and left him alone again.

Of course, this is broken by Smitty's loud fucking mouth-breathing echoing loudly in the empty apartment as he takes in the space. Where the anxiety had hit him, he can clearly see the joy and excitement in Will's face. Will bounces slightly and the gold of his hair catches in the light and for a second, Mack is stuck stupid by how beautiful he is, and he regrets not paying more attention in his classes if only he could remember some sort of Greek god or statue to compare him too. Right now, all Mack can compare the older boy to is a puppy, metaphorical tail wagging, but the thought makes him blush a bit so he pushes it down.

"Macky!" Will drags out the -eee sound and Mack's heart clenches in soft fondness as he thinks again how fucking lucky he is. "Look at this, it's fucking perfect dude. We gotta go shopping, maybe Ikea, definitely Target. Should we have stuff delivered? I don't really wanna be ogled at around a store but I wanna see the stuff in person before we buy it." The easy grin on his face slips a little and his eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure out the best solution to this conundrum. Mack's fingers twitch almost imperceptibly with the urge to smooth it out and physically erase any worry from him, but of course he holds himself back.

Instead, he offers a half-hearted shrug and says, "I hope you know that the decorating is all you, Smitty. You know I'm fucking hopeless with all that shit. Maybe we can go to the stores to look at shit and then order what we actually want online so it get delivered here?"

Will's smile jumps back onto his face as he nods eagerly and once again, Mack can't help the little voice in his head that simply says puppy. "Oh yeah Macky, you don't know shit about making things look pretty. That's what happens when your only sister is younger than you, though, so 's'not your fault." Mack smiles back at him, all gummy like it only gets around Will, or talking about Will. Mack is getting ready to move to the kitchen to start unpacking the dishes that the Wennberg's had gifted them when Will's voice trails after him. "And anyways," he starts, mirth clear in his voice, "I'm the perfect housewife. I'll make our house a home Macky, don't worry."

Mack is so fucking glad he hadn't actually grabbed any of the glassware because he would have dropped it so fucking fast as shock and - fuck, arousal that he tries and fails to push away - hit him over the head like a goddamn club. He feels the red hot blush cover his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and even the back of his neck where Will could see it. After a too long stretch of time, Mack forced out a chuckle but even to himself it sounded strangled.

Will continues on, either not noticing Mack's flush or more likely just ignoring it. He steps closer, bumping their hips together affectionately on his way into the kitchen. "You know you'd be lost without me, Superstar. I'm basically your wife already." He says it with a chuckle and clearly no idea how much it get to Mack as he resolutely tries to distance the words Will and wife in his head. Now standing in front of the cabinets, he raises and eyebrow at Mack and gestures for him to start handing him their plates so he can put them away. "I mean, who else is gonna make sure you eat something besides protein bars and blue Gatorade?"Will is still clearly amused, but Mack realizes that he has got to say something back to his chirping to get him to stop.

"Well, you wouldn't even be a good wife. You can't even do you're own laundry, Willy!" It's stupid and comes out spluttering and way too high with an embarrassing voice crack, but its something, so that's something to be thankful for at least.

Will snorts, delighted, like Mack just handed him the best chirp he’s ever heard. “Rude! My laundry is fine. Mostly. And anyway, that’s why we’re a team.” He bumps their shoulders together again, closer this time, like he’s rewarding Mack for fighting back. “You keep me from destroying all my clothes, I make sure you don’t die of, like, scurvy or something from not eating enough real food. Perfect system.” He says it so casually, so confidently, like it’s obvious that the two of them fit together like this. Mack feels something twist low in his stomach, sharp and warm and terrifying. Will just grins at him, still completely unaware of the emotional crisis he’s causing, and holds out his hands for more plates. “Come on, Superstar. Hand ’em over. Housewife duties.”

Will stacks the plates away with a little flourish, still grinning like he is having the time of his life. “Perfect system,” he repeats, pleased with himself. Then he glances over his shoulder at Mack, eyes bright. “Come on, hubby, move a little. I need to get to the drawer.” Mack’s brain stops working completely. The word hits him so hard he almost forgets how to breathe. Will said it flippantly, clearly just trying to see how far he can push the joke before Mack snaps at him to stop. Unfortunately, Mack's brain has decided to melt into a helpless pile of goo and its all he can do to stop a stupid, dopey grin from showing on his face and making Will realize that Mack was letting him take this way too far.

Before he can recover, he feels Will's warm, calloused fingers on his waist through his thin t-shirt. They had always been pretty touchy with each other, Will more so than Mack, so it wasn't a completely unfamiliar sensation, but with his mind still reeling from the conversation a second ago, Mack freezes. Smitty is just using it to gently guide him out of the way because he's standing in the middle of the archway into the kitchen. Which, Mack finally registers, is bad because Will is trying to get out and has to push around his 5'11, 190 pound body. Mack only registers this because Smitty's body is pressed firmly against his for just half a second, warm and comforting and absolutely perfect. And then Will is moving on, back into the living room to continue unpacking. Feeling like a dog on a leash, Mack really has no choice but to follow him.

As they continue to unpack, Will lets the whole "wife" thing drop and Mack finally shakes out of the stupor he was in to be mostly normal again. But all the while, he thinks of how utterly domestic this is and selfishly hopes that he can have this forever.

-⭐-

Suddenly, two months has passed and their apartment is perfect. Maybe not quite magazine worthy, but perfect for Mack because he can see Smitty's in every decoration. It feels more like home than anywhere else ever has, though he would never say it aloud for fear of it worrying Will and then being forced to talk about his childhood and family - or, more accurately, Dada. It's not like Mack hide anything from Will - well, expect for the one thing, but that barely counted - but he learned early on in their friendship that some of the shit Rick Celebrini had made him do wasn't quite normal because when he would mention it to Will, his eyes would go all wide and worried. It makes Smitty sad to think that Rick was more coach than dad, so unlike his own upbringing. It doesn't bother Mack, but he hates making Will sad, so he just tries to avoid the topic as much as possible.

Regardless, they've fallen into a rhythm now. They wake up, Will makes their breakfast protein shakes and Mack packs their bags for practice. Like always, Will drives them where ever they need to go. Really, since moving in together, Mack has barely touched his own car, but he has almost no reason to so long as Smitty is willing and able to drive him around. They practice, if they don't have a game later, Smitty chooses a restaurant or cafe from his ever growing list and they sit and people watch for a few hours. If they do have a game, they go back home to take a pregame nap, wake up early enough to eat some chicken and rice and get ready to play. On off days, Will and Mack spend most of their time curled up on the couch, probably too close to each other - possibly close enough to be considered cuddling, though Mack tries not to think about that for the fear that his heart would go into overdrive and kill him on the spot - and they throw on a movie. Sometimes its an action, sometimes it a RomCom, and sometimes its some weird shit that Will's seen on his FYP and is curious enough about it to "force" Mack to sit through it with him.

Truly, Mack should have been prepared for something to fuck up his day because it had been going so well. They had a stretch of four home days, so that was a full week of being at home without having to worry about packing and unpacking or getting used to a new timezone or routine. They had won a game against the Oilers, pulling an OT win. Of course, it was a Mack goal with a Will assist. It was a fucking beaut, a no-look pass from Will and then Mack was sinking the puck in the upper corner of the net. The adrenaline was still high for both of them, but when they had home games, the team was less likely to go out and celebrate after. And, of course, Mack still can't legally drink in the U.S., so instead, they had headed back home. Mack throws himself onto the couch and Smit walks into the kitchen, coming back just a moment later with two beers.

Will passes him the beer after he sits down and clinks their bottles together before taking a long pull. Mack watches the line of Will's throat as he swallows, then forces his eyes back to the TV before he embarrasses himself. They settle, both grabbing at the huge throw blanket that lays across the back of the couch. As Mack fixes the blanket around them, Will scrolls through his list of movies, humming softly under his breath. Mack notes with no small amount of satisfaction that its Credit Card Baby by Wham!, which he had introduced Will too. "Let's watch something Christmas-y, Macky!" Will says and it's way too fucking early in the year to watch any holiday movies, but Mack gives in easily enough. Besides never being able to say no to Will, he's pretty distracted by the aching in his legs. Will turns something on and Mack isn't paying attention in the slightest, riffling around in the basket under the coffee table for some Icy-hot. As he rubs the cream into his sore muscles, he can't help but let out soft, pained whines. After a moment, he can feel Will's eyes on him, so he turns his head to look.

Smitty's eyebrows are raised and Mack feels himself flushing for no reason at all. "Macky, you hurting? Want me to help rub it in for you?" And maybe Mack has gotten worse over the course of living with Will, and maybe he's selfish, because he just bites his lip slightly and nods, handing the cream over to Will. He takes it and says softly, "Alright, Superstar, legs up here for me." Mack quickly follows the instruction and tries to suppress his noises, more aware of them as Will's deft hands rub knots out of his tense calves. Time passes, and the movie drones on and Will has been rubbing his legs for a while now, but it doesn't hurt anymore and Will doesn't even seem to realize that his hands are still moving. Mack feels like he could fall asleep right here.

Will’s hands slow, then stop completely, resting warm and steady around Mack’s ankles. The movie flickers across the room in soft colors, and the only sound is the quiet hum of the TV and Will’s breathing. Mack feels himself drifting, heavy and comfortable and stupidly content. He should pull his legs back. He should sit up. He should do anything other than melt into the couch like this, but Will’s touch is gentle and grounding and Mack has never been good at denying himself these small, selfish moments. He lets his eyes fall shut for a second. Maybe longer than a second. When he opens them again, Will is watching him with a soft, amused smile, like he has caught Mack doing something endearing instead of something humiliating.

“You falling asleep on me, Superstar?” Will asks, voice low and warm.

Mack tries to muster a glare, but it comes out more like a slow blink. “Long day,” he mutters.

Will squeezes his ankle lightly, then shifts to sit up straighter. “Yeah. Good day though.” He reaches for his beer again, takes a sip, and leans back into the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Feels nice to just chill.”

Mack hums in agreement, letting his head fall back against the cushion. He feels loose and warm and safe in a way he knows he should not. It is too easy to imagine this as something permanent. Too easy to believe that this is theirs and theirs alone.

Which is why the next words out of Will’s mouth hit him like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh, by the way,” Will says casually, eyes still on the TV, “I can’t do movie night tomorrow. I told Brooklynn she could come over tomorrow."

Mack’s entire body goes still. His heart drops so fast it feels like missing a step on the stairs. The warmth drains out of him in an instant, replaced by something sharp and cold and heavy. He feels stupid and awful. Of course, he knew Will was seeing some girl. Unlike him, Will told Mack absolutely everything. And, unfortunately, the walls of their apartment are quite thin. Since Mack never brought anyone home, he doesn't think Will knows just how much he can hear. He's pretty sure that Will assumes his white noise machine drowns out anything that might escape the confines of his room, but Mack has heard things from Brooklynn that he wishes he could forget.

Suddenly, jealousy hits him, acrid and pulsing, venom in his gut that aches to be expelled. It's not that Will is dating someone, because Mack doesn't feel entitled to him or anything, but Will is telling him, which means that she's going to be in the apartment for an extended period of time. During the day. Maybe they'll sit and cuddle on the couch and watch a movie together. Maybe they'll stand in the kitchen, Will making them both something to eat. No, Mack isn't jealous that Will's dating someone, but rather that he is bringing someone into their home, tainting it with the presence of someone who isn't them.

Which is a fucking insane thing to be jealous of, and Mack realizes that Will is waiting on him to respond, one hand still loosely circling his ankle. So he makes a conscious effort to relax himself, hopes that his eyes look hazy enough for Will to assume its from tiredness and not from frustrated tears that are trying to push their way free. "That's nice Smitty," he mutters, praying to Will's God that his voice doesn't crack and that he sounds properly exhausted. "When's she coming over?"

Will shrugs, still relaxed, still completely unaware of the way Mack feels like he is being hollowed out from the inside. “She said she’d come by around noon,” he says, taking another sip of his beer. “She wants to make lunch or something. I told her she could use the kitchen.”

Mack forces himself to nod, even though the words feel like they scrape against something raw inside him. Noon. Lunch. Their kitchen. Their home. He swallows hard and hopes it looks casual. “Cool,” he says, like a fucking idiot. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

Will shifts a little closer, nudging Mack’s knee with his own. “You can hang out with us if you want,” he says, smiling like he is offering something kind. And Mack knows how much his approval seems to mean to Will, how much he wants Mack to get along with any person in his life. So far, the only person that Mack can't at least tolerate is Leno, but it seems that maybe Brooklynn was going to be on that list as well. “She’s nice. You’ll like her.”

Mack feels something in his chest twist painfully. He knows he will not like her. He knows he will resent every second she spends in this apartment. He knows he will hate the way she laughs at Will’s jokes and the way Will will look at her and the way she will sit on their couch like she belongs there. But he cannot say any of that.

So he nods again, hoping the dim lighting hides the way his eyes sting. “Maybe,” he says. “Depends how tired I am.” Again, Mack wishes he could believe in Will's God, just so he can have someone to forgive him and relive him of the guilt that washes over him, lying to Smitty's face.

Will grins, bright and easy. “You’re always tired, Superstar,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “You can nap on the couch while we cook. I don’t mind.”

Mack almost laughs at how cruel that is without meaning to be. The idea of lying on the couch while Will and Brooklynn move around the kitchen together feels like torture. He can already picture it. Her voice. Will’s laugh. The way they will stand close together. The way she will touch his arm. The way Will will let her. Here, in their home. Mack has no right to feel betrayed, but still, he can't help but feel suddenly unmoored and alone in a stormy sea. He swallows again, harder this time. “We’ll see,” he says.

Will nods, satisfied, and turns back to the TV. He pulls the blanket higher over both of them and settles in like nothing is wrong. Like he has not just cracked open the quiet, fragile world Mack has been living in. Mack stares at the screen without seeing anything at all. His chest feels tight. His throat feels thick. He tries to breathe around it and tells himself that he is being dramatic and stupid and selfish. All of which is true, but none of it helps. So he lays there until the credits role, wishes Will a good night and then goes to his bedroom. He closes the door softly, turns on his white noise machine, and get in the bed. He pushes his face into the pillow and cries silently until he lets the sadness drag him to a restless sleep.

-⭐-

Mack wakes up the next morning feeling like he did not sleep at all. His eyes are gritty, his head aches, and his chest feels tight in a way that makes him want to burrow deeper under the covers and never come out. The white noise machine is still humming beside him, steady and soft, but it does nothing to quiet the dread curling low in his stomach. He lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that today is just another day. And he knows in reality, that it is. He lets himself wallow for ten minutes, sets a timer and everything, before he forces himself to push it down.

He drags himself out of bed eventually, splashes cold water on his face, and hopes it hides the evidence of last night. When he steps into the hallway, he can already hear Will in the kitchen, humming along to something upbeat. It sounds like Wham! again. Mack pauses in the doorway, watching Will move around the kitchen with easy confidence. Will is barefoot, hair messy, wearing one of Mack’s hoodies without even realizing it. He looks so at home that it hurts.

“Morning, Superstar,” Will says when he notices him, smiling like nothing is wrong. “Protein shake is on the counter. I made yours extra thick since you looked dead last night.”

Mack forces a smile. “Thanks.”

Will grins wider, pleased with himself. “Big day today. Brooklynn’s excited to meet you.”

Mack’s stomach twists. He nods, pretending to sip his shake so he does not have to answer. Will does not notice. He just keeps talking, bright and warm and oblivious, filling the kitchen with a voice Mack usually loves. Mack stands there, holding the cold cup in his hands, and tries to breathe around the ache in his chest. Time seems to bend and change in a weird way and before Mack knows it, its 11:45 and he's on the couch, Will sitting beside him. Its an off day, and Will had thrown on some other game as background noise and was scrolling through TikTok.

Brooklynn shows up exactly at noon.

Mack hears the knock before Will does. He is in the kitchen, pretending to rinse out his protein shaker even though it has been clean for ten minutes. When he realized the time, he pushed himself up, feeling suddenly like he needed to put distance between him and his best friend. Like this girl might be able to see through him just by seeing how comfortable they are with each other. His stomach twists so hard he has to grip the counter for a second for fear so doing something stupid, like falling or throwing up. Will, who has been pacing around the living room in a state of excited chaos, perks up immediately.

“That’s her,” he says, bright and warm, like this is good news. He jogs to the door, smoothing his hair with one hand. Mack watches him go, feeling something inside him sink lower and lower, and with it, he feels his throat constrict and words float further and further away. He knows without a doubt that he'll likely go nonverbal, but tries to push it away, tries to fight throw it, tries to make a good impression for Will's sake.

Will opens the door with a dazzling grin. “Hey, Brook.”

Her voice floats in, high and sweet and clear and confident. It pisses Mack of immediately. "Hi, Will." She steps inside, sliding her shoes off, acting like she belongs here, like this is a space that she is just allowed to occupy. Will leads her into the kitchen and suddenly, Mack is faced with her. She's pretty in the way that sorority girls always are. Long blond hair that's wavy, but never curly. A tan that's probably from a bottle, but could be from a family boat knowing Smitty's tastes. Perfect nails and a pretty white dress. Dainty and small and utterly perfect. She smells like vanilla and flowers and the scent feels slightly cloying to Mack, but he recognizes that he probably has an inherent bias.

Brooklynn turns to look at him, smiling and Mack forces himself to straighten up.

He wipes his hands on a towel even though they are not wet. He tries to smile. He hopes it looks normal.

“Hi,” she says, bright and friendly. “You must be Macklin.”

He nods and swallows, tongue thick and awkward in his mouth. “Mack is fine,” he manages to get out in a decently appropriate amount of time.

She beams at him like he has said something charming, though he's just telling her his name. Mack can see that its a pretty smile and her teeth are perfect, if not slightly too white. Its unnerving. “Will talks about you all the time," she says in her melodic voice.

Mack feels his heart stutter. He glances at Will, who is already blushing, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah,” Will says. “We live together. He’s my guy.”

And fuck if Mack is supposed to know how to interpret that. Maybe is Mack wasn't gay, wasn't in love with his best friend, he could laugh it off. Maybe it would have meant nothing at all. But all Mack can think, suddenly possessive, is 'my wife,' which he tries to clear away and is an objectively insane thing to have flash in his mind at this moment. Will hasn't made that joke from 2 months ago again, though the guys chirp them lovingly in the locker room about them being so domestic all the time.

Brooklynn sets her tote bag on the counter. “I brought stuff to make pasta,” she says. “Hope that’s okay.”

Will nods eagerly, all puppy again, and says "That's perfect, babe. Mack loves pasta." Mack wants nothing more to sink into the floor.

Brooklynn starts unpacking ingredients like she owns the kitchen. Olive oil. Garlic. Fresh basil. She moves around the space with easy confidence, opening cabinets without asking, humming to herself. Will follows her, chatting, laughing, bumping her shoulder lightly as he reaches for a pot.

Mack is frozen as he sees his future. Of course, Mack would be happy being around Will forever, but Will would eventually want a girlfriend. A wife. Maybe children. Will would move on and grow up and leave Macklin all alone again. The thought makes him feel cold and detached. Mack mutters something noncommittal about not wanting to crowd the kitchen and moves to the living room, trying to push down the impending panic attack. He sits on the couch and curls his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Mack had never been religious and hadn't ever attended a church. Rick Celebrini didn't believe in letting anyone or anything have more control over life than himself, and that extended to any form of deity. So, Mack didn't know what to do as he cast his mind out.

'Hey," he thought, feeling foolish, 'Will's God, if you're out there anywhere, can you do something to get me out of this? I don't want to ruin Will's time or have him worry about me if I get up and leave. Really, maybe you owe him this. He's such a good person, he deserves happiness and not to worry about his teammate crashing out over some stupid shit. So, yeah, if you could find a way that I can leave without it making Will feel bad, could you do that?' That seemed to cover it, though even Mack could guess it was a shitty prayer. Thinking that, he realized he forgot something, 'Oh shit. Um, Amen, I guess."

And Mack probably didn't believe in anything, but Will did and Will deserved anything and everything good this life had to offer. So, he felt almost satisfied when his phone rang a few minute later.

"Hey Dada," Mack said as he pressed the phone against his ear.

"Macklin." His father's voice wasn't harsh, but it wasn't warm either. It was almost mechanical. "I reviewed last night's game."

Mack's stomach drops and he has to stop the hysterical laugh that wants to bubble out of him. Because his prayer was answered, he would have a reason to leave now. But he would have to deal with Coach Celebrini. It seemed like a worthy exchange, though just barely. He can't help the way that his spine straightens and his face goes carefully blank. Mack glances around and makes eye contact with Will, who's looking at him through the archway into the kitchen. Mack stays silent, knows that his father doesn't want to be interrupted, no matter how long he pauses.

“Your inside edge collapsed on the second‑period transition,” Rick said. “You lost speed on the pivot. That is unacceptable. I am going to the rink. You will meet me there. We will correct it.” And then he hung up, not waiting for Mack to respond, because any response besides 'yes, dada,' was unacceptable. Mack continues to stand with the phone pressed against his ear for half a second too long. He feels even further removed from himself than he was before. It helps to prepare himself like this. To remove himself from his body, to make it nothing but a machine, a receptacle that would take what Rick Celebrini gave it and churn it out into "generational talent."

Will is still standing there, eyebrows once again furrowed in concern. Mack starts to walk, only to find that his legs feel stiff and Will meets him halfway.

“Everything okay?” Will asks, voice soft. He reaches out like he might touch Mack’s arm, then hesitates, hand hovering in the space between them. Mack can be weird before and after meeting with Rick and he appreciates that Will is trying to be cautious in his approach.

Mack nods once, sharp and decisive. His words come easier now, because, really he isn't speaking them. He is somewhere else, about three feet away from his body, just floating and watching. He is nothing, he is not even a person. Somehow, that makes it better. Still, the voice that sounds like his speaks, even if it sounds unnatural and stilted. "That was Dada. I have to go. I am losing speed on my pivots and I need to train with him for a few hours to fix it."

"But its our off day."

"Yeah." Will opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, probably something about his father, but that's still a sore topic for Mack, so he interrupts him before he can even begin. "He's just making me better, pushing me to be perfect. If I don't train, I'm just another young player and in a few years, maybe just an ordinary player. He's why I'm as good as I am." The words come without thought, drilled into him by Rick for as long as he can remember.

Will's jaw tightens, but he signs and shakes his head slightly before saying, "Do you want me to come with you?"

Mack truly wants nothing more, but Brooklynn is in the kitchen and Rick Celebrini can barely stand Will on a good day. Today does not seem like it's a good day. So, instead he shakes his head. It takes more effort than it should, controlling himself from so far away.

"No, stay. You have company, anyway." When Will still looks dubious, he continues, "Really, it's ok. It's just Rick, Willy."

Will is clearly still not happy, but he nods anyways and says,"Text me when you get there. I know you hate driving in the middle of the day."

"I will." Then, half a second later, he calls slightly louder, "Hey Brooklynn, I got to run, last minute training. Sorry our first meeting was cut short. Some other time."

Brooklynn turns, smiling politely. “Hope practice goes well, Macklin.”

He grabs his keys from the bowl by the door. His hands are shaking, he notices through the fog surrounding his thoughts. He hopes no one notices. Or, he hopes that Will doesn't notice, because truly, he couldn't give less of a shit what Brooklynn thought about him.

-⭐-

Four hours later, Mack is driving home with the late afternoon sun slanting low across the windshield. It is still bright out, the sky a soft gold that makes everything look warm and gentle. It feels wrong. His body aches in a deep, heavy way that settles into his bones. His legs feel like they might give out if he tried to stand. His shoulders burn. His lungs still sting from the cold air of the rink. He wants to curl into his bed and sleep for days. But they have a game tomorrow afternoon.

Rick hadn't yelled. He'd never needed to yell to dress someone down to their barest parts and rebuild them. He had simply pointed, corrected, demanded, repeated. Over and over. Again. Again. Again. Until Mack’s edges were sharp enough to cut through the ice. Until his legs shook. Until he could not think about anything except the next pivot. He tried to stay in that almost meditative space, but his thoughts began to push in on him, so he reaches for the radio, desperate for anything to drown them out.

There's a song ending, Mack feels like its familiar, but he's not paying attention. The station plays pretty popular pop music, so its not like he has to focus on it too much. But then all of the sudden, the radio announcer is one as says, "The next song is both heartbreaking and nostalgic, Harry Style's cover of Girl Crush." Again, Mack doesn't think much of it, but then the singing starts.

I got a girl crush

I hate to admit it, but

I got a heart rush

It ain't slowing down

I got it real bad

Want everything she has

That smile and that midnight laugh

She's givin' you now

Mack keeps driving, though he can feel his eyes start to water, all of the emotions pushing into him suddenly, leaving him feeling overwhelmed. Still, he tries to push through. The song keeps playing.

I wanna taste her lips

Yeah, 'cause they taste like you

I wanna drown myself

In a bottle of her perfume

I want her long blonde hair

I want her magic touch

Yeah, 'cause maybe then

You'd want me just as much

And I've got a girl crush

I've got a girl crush

This is when the tears actually start to fall and quickly turn into ragged, ugly sobs that rack his body so much that he has to pull over into a random gas station parking lot, glad for the tint on his car windows that give him privacy for this breakdown. He knows that its easiest to let it run through him, that trying to hold it back will only prolong it. He feels like a fucking idiot, like he's disgusting. He feels like he did the first time he had noticed another boy in the locker room and realized that something was different and wrong and that he would have to be on guard for the rest of his life making sure it never crept out of the box he kept it locked in.

The song drones on and on, almost mocking him because it feels like it's speaking to him specifically. And suddenly Mack wishes he could. Could steal Brooklynn's perfume and spray it all over himself. Could take her lip gloss, the sticky pink one he had heard Smitty compliment her on earlier, and smear it across his own mouth. Could slip into her white dress and her perfect smile and her easy confidence. Could be the one Will looks at like that. Could be the one that Will could love, easy and right and completely uncomplicated. Maybe if his name was Mackenzie and he had been born a pretty girl, he would have met Will at B.C., probably at some frat party.

The thought makes Mack choke on a sob, because that's not what he wants at all. He doesn't want to make himself smaller or fragile. That's just the only version of him that Will could ever love.

The shame hits him again, harder than before, though it hadn't really ever left. He folds forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, breath shaking out of him in short, broken bursts. Because besides the main fact that Will is straight, Will is also Catholic. They don't talk about it much, because its personal to Smitty and something that Mack has figured out that he can never understand, so he doesn't know how… devote Will is. He does know that he wears his cross everywhere, goes to Mass when he can, and has his grandmother's bible on a dresser in his room. Really, Mack knows nothing about Catholicism, but everyone knows the Catholic church stance on gay people. And suddenly those vague, distant ideas feel terrifyingly close, close enough that he can feel them pressing against his ribs, close enough that they make it hard to breathe.

Because if Will ever found out, it would not just be the crush that ruined everything. It would not just be the fact that Mack is in love with him. It would be the fact that Mack is gay at all. The fact that he has been sitting beside Will on the couch and laughing with him in the kitchen and sleeping across the hall from him every night while carrying this secret like a live wire under his skin. The fact that he has been letting himself bask in Will’s warmth, letting himself orbit Will’s life, letting himself pretend that their closeness is innocent when it has never been innocent for him. The fact that he has been selfish enough to want more.

The fear rises slowly at first, then all at once, a cold, choking thing that wraps around his throat and squeezes. He can picture it too easily, the moment Will finds out, the way Will’s face would shift, not into anger but into something far worse, something quiet and horrified and disappointed. He can imagine Will stepping back, not because he is cruel but because he is good, because he is kind; because he is everything Mack is not, and good people recoil from things that feel wrong. He can imagine Will trying to be gentle about it, trying to let him down softly, trying to say something like I care about you but not like that, and Mack knows that would be the moment everything breaks. Not because of the rejection, but because of the disgust he is sure would flicker across Will’s face before he could hide it.

The shame rolls through him in a slow, suffocating wave, thick and heavy and impossible to outrun. He presses his forehead harder against the steering wheel, as if he could push the thoughts out of his skull by force, but they only grow louder, more insistent, more cruel. Before he can stop himself, he feels is fingers tapping his skull rapidly, trying to expel some of the energy and make the thoughts stop. Then all at once, his hand tightens into a fist and he is slamming it into his head over and over and over until he feels dizzy and the physical pain takes over the front of his brain until finally he stops.

He drags in a shaky breath, then another, but they catch in his throat, turning into these small, broken sounds he cannot swallow down. His vision swims. His skin feels too tight. The steering wheel feels too textured under his palms, the sunlight too bright on his face, the song too loud in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to force himself back into his body, but the panic keeps cresting, keeps crashing, keeps pulling him under. He needs to stop before he spirals so hard that he crashes, shattering into something unrecognizable and unfixable. The car is still, the engine humming softly beneath him, the world outside moving in slow, indifferent lines while he sits here unraveling in the driver’s seat. The sunlight pours through the windshield in thick, golden sheets, turning the air around him into something syrupy and suffocating.

Then, the realization cuts through the fog of panic like a thin, bright thread. Will always checks his location after days with Rick. He never says it, never admits it, but Mack knows. He knows the way Will hovers on the edge of worry, trying not to smother him but unable to stop caring. Knows that Will can't stand his father and can't stand Mack being around him, but tries not to bring it up after their last blow-up fight about the topic right before summer. Knows that Smitty has him on Find My Friends and could be checking his location at any time.

The thought sends a tremor of urgency through him, something small but steady enough to hold onto. He cannot let Will come find him. He cannot let Will hear the wreckage in his voice. He cannot let Will see him like this, blotchy‑faced and shaking and barely holding himself together. He cannot let Will ask what’s wrong, because Mack has no answer that wouldn’t ruin everything. He forces himself upright, though the motion feels like lifting something heavy and waterlogged. His hands tremble as he reaches for the napkins stuffed in the center console, pressing one to his eyes, then another, blotting away the wetness. His reflection in the rearview mirror is a mess - eyes swollen, cheeks flushed, hair sticking damply to his forehead - but he keeps wiping, keeps smoothing, keeps erasing, as if he can scrub the evidence off his skin.

He drags in a breath, slow and deliberate, the way he does before a faceoff, the way he does when Rick’s voice is still ringing in his ears. He counts the inhale, counts the exhale, lets the rhythm settle him, lets the repetition smooth the jagged edges of his thoughts. He focuses on the physical world: the faint hum of the engine cooling, the smell of sun‑warmed upholstery, the steady pressure of the seat beneath him. He lets those sensations pull him back into his body, back into the present, back into something he can manage. Little by little, the shaking eases. Little by little, the world stops tilting. Little by little, he becomes someone who can walk into the apartment again and pretend his is fine, pretend that he is more human than thing. He wipes his face one last time, tosses the crumpled napkins aside, and reaches for the ignition.

He turns the key, pulls out of the parking lot, and the world blurs into something soft and indistinct, a smear of gold and shadow and motion that barely registers. He drives on instinct alone, muscle memory doing the work while his mind floats somewhere far behind him, still stuck in the gas station parking lot, still folded over the steering wheel, still trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. He doesn’t remember the turns or the lights. He doesn’t remember the last ten minutes of road at all. It feels like blinking - one moment he is parked, unraveling, and the next he is pulling into the parking lot of their building.

He's halfway across the lot when the front door of their apartment swings open and Will's walking toward him. He looks over Mack, clearly seeing the remnants of his breakdown and his jaw tightens slightly. Still, when he reaches Mack, his voice is gentle. "There you are, Superstar. Rick kept you for while this time."

Mack swallows, the motion thick and uneven, and forces something like a nod. “Yeah,” he manages, though it comes out thin, scraped raw. He wishes that he could get back outside of himself, like he was earlier.

“You look beat,” Will says quietly, stepping closer, close enough that Mack can feel the warmth radiating off him in the cool evening air. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside, Macky.”

Inside, the apartment is dim and soft, the overhead lights off, the only glow coming from the lamp in the corner. It smells faintly of basil and garlic from earlier, but Brooklynn is nowhere in sight. Mack feels a small, guilty wave of relief at that. Will closes the door behind them, then turns back, leaning his shoulder against it like he’s trying to look casual, even though his eyes are still scanning Mack’s face like he’s reading a scouting report.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, careful, like he’s trying not to spook him.

Mack forces a breath, forces his shoulders to settle, forces his face into something neutral. “Just tired,” he says again, softer this time, hoping it sounds believable.

Will studies him for a long moment, not pushing or prying, just looking, the way he does when he’s trying to figure out if Mack is hurt after a bad hit. Then he nods once, slow and accepting, even if he doesn’t fully buy it. More than anything, Mack just wants to go bury himself under mountains of blankets and cry himself to sleep, but he knows that Will feels the need to take care of him. So, when Will gently guides him over to the couch with a hand on his lower back, Mack acquiesces and settles into his spot. Smitty slings the soft blanket over him, muttering something that Mack doesn't try hard enough to catch, still numb and reeling from both his breakdown and practice with his father. Before he can get in his own head about Will leaving or whatever it was that he said, he's back in from of him, holding a bottle of Gatorade and a bowl of…something.

"Here, Superstar," Will says, softly, handing him the bottle. Mack notices that this particular nickname pops up more often after he's spent time around his family, but tries not to think about why Will feels like he needs the reassurance. "You should try to eat a little. Just something small."

Mack shakes his head automatically. "'M not hungry, Smitty."

"I know," Will says, gentle and coddling in a way that Mack knows he doesn't deserve. He never pushes, never condescends, never even gets frustrated. If Mack believed in his God, maybe he could get Will to be sainted, or whatever the actual term is. "But you barely drunk any of your shake this morning and you didn't eat anything of substance before you went to… train with Rick. You look like you're about to pass out, bud."

Mack swallows, throat tight. He doesn’t want food. His stomach feels like a clenched fist. But Will is looking at him with that soft, worried crease between his brows, the one that always makes Mack feel like he’s being held together by someone else’s hands.

“What is it?” Mack asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Will glances at the bowl. “Just some rice. And a little chicken. Nothing heavy. I put extra salt on it ’cause you sweat like a maniac when Rick gets ahold of you.” Mack huffs out something that might be a laugh if it weren’t so thin. Will smiles at the sound, small and relieved, then nudges the bowl a little closer. “You don’t have to finish it,” Will continues in that comforting tone. “Just a few bites. For me?”

And just like that, Mack is reaching. That's all it takes, all it every take really. Mack is pretty sure that Will knows all he has to do is look at him with his puppy eyes and imply that Mack doing something would make him happy and Mack will do it. Mack reaches for the bowl with hands that still tremble faintly. Will doesn’t comment on the shaking, he just shifts a little closer, like he’s ready to steady the bowl if Mack drops it. Mack takes a small bite. It tastes like nothing. But Will’s shoulders relax the tiniest bit, and that’s enough to make Mack take another.

“There you go,” Will murmurs, voice warm and low. “Good job, Superstar.”

The praise hits Mack in the chest like a physical thing. He swallows hard, blinking fast, and Will must see something flicker across his face because he reaches out, slow and careful, and rests a hand on Mack’s knee.

“You don’t have to talk,” Will says. “You don’t have to explain anything. I just… want you to feel okay.”

Mack nods, staring down at the bowl so Will won’t see the way his eyes sting again. He takes another bite. Then another. Will stays right there, hand warm and steady on his knee, like he’s anchoring him to the couch, to the room, to the world. When Mack finally sets the bowl down, Will squeezes his knee gently. “Thank you,” Will says, like Mack did something monumental instead of eating six bites of rice.

Mack’s voice is barely audible. “Yeah.” Will keeps his hand on Mack's knee and with his other hand, reaches for the remote, turning on some sort of cheesy RomCom that's been on his list for a while now.

"Guess I made it to movie night after all, huh, Macky?" Will says it with a humerous lilt, but suddenly, all Mack can think about is that it is his fault. Brooklynn probably left because Will was too worried about Mack to really focus on her. Mack still doesn't feel bad for Brooklynn, but he feels terrible for Will. His best friend had plans and he fucked them all up because he was too fucking emotional, couldn't push it all down until he could fall apart in the privacy of his own room. And now, Smitty is still sitting here, taking care of him, using his day off babysitting Mack to make sure he doesn't fucking lose it. Mack stares at the screen, but the images blur. His throat tightens. His eyes burn. He tries to swallow it down, tries to breathe through it, tries to force himself to be normal, to be fine, to be anything other than this pathetic, needy mess. But the tears come anyway. At least this time, their silent, just salty tracks slipping over his cheeks and onto his lips. He tries to tilt his face away slightly to hide without drawing Will's attention.

But Will always notices. “Macky?” Will’s voice is soft, almost a whisper. Concern, not panic, because he knows Mack well enough to guess at least some of what is going on in his fucked up head. “Hey… hey, bud. What’s going on?”

Mack shakes his head, blinking hard, trying to wipe at his face without making it obvious. “Sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Smitty. I don’t- I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey.” Will cuts him off gently, already shifting closer, already reaching out. “None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mack’s breath stutters . He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking, and Will moves without hesitation, sliding an arm around his back, pulling him in, guiding him until Mack’s head is resting against Will’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “C’mere,” Will murmurs, thumb brushing the back of Mack’s arm in slow, grounding circles. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Mack tries to apologize again, but the words dissolve into a quiet, broken sound. Will hushes him softly, the way he does when Mack gets hit hard in a game and tries to pretend he’s fine. “Let’s get you to bed,” Will says after a moment, voice still low and warm. “You’re exhausted.”

Mack nods, or something close to it, but when he tries to stand, his legs wobble. Will steadies him instantly, one hand at his elbow, the other hovering at his back like he’s ready to catch him if he tips. They make it a few steps down the hallway before Will pauses, glancing at the sweat‑damp collar of Mack’s shirt, the way his hair is plastered to his forehead, the faint smell of the rink still clinging to him. “Macky,” Will murmurs, gentle but firm, “you should shower first.” Mack's stomach drops. He doesn't have the energy, barely has the strength to stay upright. The idea of standing under bright lights, of peeling off his clothes, of being alone and wet and vulnerable sounds so fucking impossible. Without really noticing, Mack lets out a little whine, thin and high and humiliatingly helpless, the kind of sound he hasn’t made around anyone else since he was a kid and Rick pushed him past the point of coherence. The second it slips out, his face crumples, shame flooding him so fast he sways on his feet.

Will reacts before Mack can even think about steadying himself. He steps in close, one hand firm on Mack’s elbow and the other coming up to cradle the back of his neck. His voice drops into something soft and steady, the tone he only uses when Mack is hurt or overwhelmed. “Hey, hey, Macky. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Mack tries to answer. He tries to say sorry or I’m fine or just give me a second, but nothing comes out. His throat locks up completely. His mouth opens, but the only thing that escapes is a shaky breath that barely counts as sound. His brain feels like static. His chest feels tight. His voice is gone. He feels small and stupid and exposed.

Will notices immediately. His expression softens in a way that makes Mack’s stomach twist, not with embarrassment but with something dangerously close to relief. Will does not ask him to talk. He does not push. He just nods once, slow and understanding. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Not right now. Just nod for me if you’re still with me.”

It takes effort, more than it should, but Mack manages the smallest dip of his chin. Will smiles at him like he just did something monumental. He rubs a slow circle between Mack’s shoulder blades, gentle and grounding. “There you go. Good job, Superstar.” Mack’s breath stutters again. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he tries to hold himself together. Will keeps his hand on him, steady and warm, and guides him gently toward the bathroom. He keeps the lights low so they don't overwhelm him. He moves with quiet purpose, turning on the shower, adjusting the temperature, pulling a towel from the cabinet. He keeps talking the whole time, voice soft and steady, giving Mack something to hold onto. “You’re overwhelmed. That’s all this is. You’re not doing anything wrong. I’m right here.”

Mack's naked now, and trembling so hard his teeth almost chatter, and Will doesn't even blink. He just offers his arm as a support, letting him lean as much of his weight as he needs. It feels strangely normal, almost mundane, like Will is helping him after a bad flu or a concussion, not guiding him through the aftermath of a breakdown. Mack feels no heat, no embarrassment, no desire. Just a bone‑deep gratitude that he got so unbelievably lucky to have Will Smith as a best friend.

Will steps with him carefully, making sure Mack’s feet are steady on the tile before nudging him gently toward the shower. “Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just step in. The water’s warm.” Mack tries to answer, but his throat stays locked. The words are there somewhere, trapped behind the static in his brain, but they will not come out. All he manages is a small, shaky inhale as he grips Will’s forearm and steps under the spray.

The hot water hits him and his whole body jolts. His breath stutters. His knees buckle for a second before he catches himself on the wall. Will sees the wobble and immediately shifts closer, not inside the shower but close enough that Mack can feel the steadiness of him through the curtain. “Easy, Macky. You’re okay. Just breathe. Let the water help." Mack presses his forehead to the tile, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling in uneven, shaky bursts. He still cannot speak. The static in his head hasn’t cleared. Words feel impossible, unreachable, like they’re behind glass. Will seems to sense that silence is dangerous right now, that quiet leaves too much room for Mack’s thoughts to spiral. So he starts talking. Not about anything heavy or serious. Just… talking.

“You should’ve seen Reavo today,” Will says, voice warm and steady through the steam. “He tried to convince Toff that he could do a backflip off the bench. Full confidence. Zero hesitation. Toff looked like he was about to call 911 preemptively. Which, like, he probably should've 'cuz I just can't see Reavo being able to do a backflip." Mack's shoulders twitch, the closest he can get to a laugh right now. “And then Mis started chirping him about being old, so Reavo starting trying to hit him. Dicky tried to mediate, but he was laughing too hard to be useful.”

Will pauses just long enough to check on him. “You still with me, bud?” Mack lifts one hand from the wall and gives a tiny thumbs‑up outside the curtain. It’s all he can manage. Will sounds like he smiles. “There he is. Good job. You’re doing great. Now, next step, shampoo, Macky." Mack reaches for the bottle with shaky hands. He fumbles it once, but Will doesn’t comment, just keeps talking like nothing happened. “Eky was trying to teach me this TikTok dance earlier,” Will says, amusement coloring his voice. “I swear he made half of it up. There’s no way that’s a real trend. He kept saying I was too stiff, which, rude, because I have rhythm. I do, you know I used to dance." This makes Mack's lips twitch into an almost smile as he scrubs at his hair, low and clumsy, but he gets it done. The water rinses the suds away, warm and heavy on his scalp. His breathing evens out a little more.

“Perfect,” Will says softly. “Now conditioner. Same spot. You got it.” Mack obeys, still silent. Will keeps talking, filling the room with soft, harmless noise to keep any of Mack's scary thoughts away. "Oh, and Toff is making us come over for dinner with him and Cat. Said something about needing us to be guinea pigs for a new recipe. He showed me a picture of what it's supposed to look like and I told him I’m not eating anything that looks like it came out of a hamster cage. He said I’m dramatic. He’s wrong, though. It literally looks like a pile of sawdust."

Mack’s shoulders shake again, this time with something closer to a quiet, exhausted laugh. Will’s voice warms even more. “That’s it, Macky. You’re doing so good. Just rinse now. Let the water do the work.” Mack tilts his head back, letting the water wash through his hair, down his neck, over his chest. His muscles loosen. His breathing steadies. The static in his head quiets just enough that he can think again, even if he still can’t speak.Will waits until the water shuts off before pulling the curtain back and stepping forward with the towel, holding it open like a shield.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Come here. I’ve got you.”

And Mack does. He steps forward, dripping and exhausted, and Will wraps the towel around him immediately, pulling it snug and rubbing at his hair in slow, careful motions. “You did really good,” Will murmurs. “Let’s get you dried off and into bed.”

Will keeps the towel wrapped around Mack’s shoulders as he guides him out of the bathroom, one hand steady at the small of his back. His legs feel unsteady, but Will moves slowly, matching his pace, making sure he never has to walk more than a few steps without support. In Mack’s room, Will flicks on the lamp instead of the overhead light, keeping everything soft and warm. He sets the towel aside and reaches for the clean clothes he knows Mack keeps in the top drawer. A loose t‑shirt. Soft shorts. Nothing constricting. Nothing that will make him feel trapped. Will helps him get dressed, able to communicate with looks and sounds and Mack knows exactly what he needs to do and it makes him feel a bit better.

When Mack is dressed, Will guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. Mack sinks down heavily, shoulders slumping, eyes half‑lidded with exhaustion. Will crouches in front of him for a moment, searching his face. “You still with me, Macky?” he asks softly. Mack swallows, wets his lips, and manages the smallest hum in response. "Good, Superstar, doing so good for me."

He pulls back the blankets and helps Mack lie down, adjusting the pillow under his head, tucking the blanket around him like he’s something precious. Mack curls onto his side automatically, knees drawn up, hands tucked close to his chest. He feels wrung out, emptied, but safe in a way that makes his eyes sting again. Then Will toes off his shoes, pulls back the other side of the blanket, and slips under it without hesitation. He settles behind Mack, close but not crowding, giving him space to breathe. The warmth of him seeps through the thin cotton of Mack’s shirt, steady and solid. Will shifts once, twice, until he finds the right spot, then drapes an arm loosely around Mack’s waist, not trapping him, just holding him in place like an anchor.

"I got you," Will murmurs, voice low and breath warm against the back of Mack's neck, "You just rest, Superstar. I'm right here." Mack shifts back instinctively, pressing himself into the hard line of Will's body, making himself feel small and safe and cared for.

"Thank you," Mack manages to whisper out, voice stalling and cracking, not sounding natural at all. Still, Will pushes his face into his hair and Mack can feel his smile. For a second, it almost feels like Smitty is kissing his head, but Mack shakes the thought away.

"There's my Macky. You can sleep now, I'm not going anywhere, bud."

-⭐-

Mack doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes with a pounding headache and the empty-numb feeling that lingers after his breakdowns. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels fuzzy and wrong, somehow. There's a solid warmth at his back and a hand on his hip that he knows is Will, and even as embarrassment floods him, he is once again so fucking grateful for Will Smith for not leaving him in the middle of the night. Maybe Mack is closer to believing in something. Not Will's God, but the inherent goodness of Will himself, pure and radiant.

Mack doesn’t move at first. He just lies there, staring at the wall, letting the fog in his head settle into something dull and heavy. His body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. His limbs ache. His eyes burn. His throat is sore in that way it always is after he’s cried too hard, even though he barely made a sound. Will shifts behind him, just a small adjustment, the kind people make when they’re half‑asleep and trying to get comfortable. His hand, still resting on Mack’s hip, tightens for a second like he’s making sure Mack hasn’t slipped away in the night. The warmth of it spreads through Mack’s skin, grounding him in a way that makes his chest ache. He should pull away, now that he is awake. He feels like he is taking advantage of Will's good nature. But he doesn't move. He stays exactly where he is, curled into himself with Will curved around him like a shield. Embarrassment prickles under his skin, hot and sharp, but it’s drowned out by something softer. Gratitude. Relief. The kind of bone‑deep safety he only ever feels with Will.

Will breathes out slowly, the exhale brushing the back of Mack’s neck. “You awake, Macky?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, but somehow more attuned with Mack than Mack is with himself. Still not wanting to break the moment, Mack just hums and nods his head lightly. “There you are,” Will says softly. His thumb rubs a slow arc against Mack’s hip, absent and comforting. “How’s your head?”

Mack tries to answer, but the words don’t come out right. They get stuck somewhere behind the fog. What escapes is a quiet, broken, “Hurts.”

Will shifts again, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see Mack’s face. “Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off Mack’s forehead. “I figured. You had a rough night.”

Mack squeezes his eyes shut. Shame crawls up his throat, thick and choking. He wants to apologize. He wants to explain. He wants to say something that makes this less pathetic. But all he manages is a tiny shake of his head.

“No,” Will says immediately, reading him like he always does. “Don’t do that. Don’t go there. You didn’t do anything wrong, Macky.” Mack’s breath stutters. He curls in tighter, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Will lets him, then settles back down behind him, sliding an arm around his waist again, holding him steady. “Just breathe,” Will whispers. “We’ve got time.” Technically, they don't really have much time - afternoon game, morning skate, all of it - but they've woken up at an ungodly time, and for once, Mack just wants to let himself sink in the feeling that is being held and Will seems perfectly content to let him do just that.

Hesitantly, Mack speaks up, though he can feel the embarrassed flush run over his face and neck in hot splotches. "Smitty, can we say in bed for a bit longer?"

Will nods against the back of his neck, nuzzling into it a bit more than strictly necessary, though Mack would never complain. "'Course we can, Macky. Whatever you need."

They lay there for about another hour, luxuriating in that sweet warmth between wakefulness and sleep. The world outside the soft blankets doesn't exist yet. Just the slow rise and fall of Will's breathing against Mack's back, the steady weight of him. Mack lets himself float in it, suspended in a rare pocket of quiet where nothing is required or expected of him besides just existing. Will doesn't move, doesn't talk, doesn't even check his phone. He just lies there with him, in their bubble.

Mack knows they can't stay here forever, but he still can't help but pout as Will stretches out and groans. Will’s joints crack in that familiar way, his whole body arching like a cat waking from a nap, and Mack feels the loss of warmth immediately. The air against his back is cold, too cold, and he instinctively curls in on himself.

Will notices, of course. “Aww, don’t do that,” Will murmurs, voice still thick with sleep as he flops back down beside him for a moment, pressing his lips against Mack's shoulder in a suggestion of a kiss, though Mack knows better than to think anything of it. It's just the type of absentminded affection that Will gives out so freely. “You’re gonna make me stay here all day.”

Mack shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing miserably. “Could be worse,” he mutters into the pillow.

Will huffs a soft laugh, the sound warm and fond. “Yeah, it could,” he agrees. “But if we don’t get up soon, Warso is gonna have both our asses., and he already hates me, so….”

Still, Mack just whines and pushes his face further into the pillow. After a moment, he feels Will's hand run soothingly up and down his spine a few times. He focuses to suppress the shiver at the casual, lovely weight of it. And then Smitty's talking again, muttering softly, "You stay here, Superstar. I'll be back before you know I'm gone." Even as he says it and slips from the bed, a frown pulls at Mack's face at the wrongness of the statement, no matter how lightheartedly it was said. Mack thinks that maybe more than anything else, he is aware of Will's presence, eyes always drawn to him in a crowd, able to find him on the ice without looking. He doesn't get to think about it for long, though, because just a few moments later He’s balancing a glass of water, two Advil, and a protein shake like it’s nothing, like taking care of Mack is the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright, Superstar,” Will says softly, settling on the edge of the bed. “Sit up for me.” Mack pushes himself upright slowly, blinking against the throb behind his eyes. Will steadies him with a warm hand on his shoulder that Mack can't help but lean into slightly.

“Here,” Will murmurs, offering the pills and water. “Take these.” Mack does. Will watches until he swallows, then hands him the shake. "Here's your shake, but I want you to drink some before we get to practice. You still didn't eat enough yesterday." Mack's stomach rebels at the thought, somehow the last part of his body to recover from emotional nights like these and it must be clear on his face because Will says, "Come on, just a few sips, Macky, just for me." He's grinning, all lopsided and dimpled and Mack doesn't even think any more about denying him, taking a few small pulls.

When Mack lowers the bottle, Will takes it from his hands and sets it on the nightstand. “Good,” Will says, voice warm and relieved. “You're doing so good, Mack.” Again, Mack doesn't know much about religion, but he imagines this must be what it feels like to have God's grace, to feel the supposed warmth of his presence that Will tried to explain once. When Will give him that little bit of praise, it feels like Christmas morning, all warm and soft and perfectly safe that Mack melts inside.

Will pats Mack' knee once before shifting back on the bed and sitting crossed-legged near the pillows. "Go ahead and start packing our stuff. I made the shakes yesterday while you were with Rick, so I'll sit here." His voice is still soft, heartbreakingly gentle in a way that Mack finds hard to ask for in his brutish body, so he's glad that Will can just sense his need for it. So he nods, finally pulling himself out of bed and starts going through the motions. It's so familiar that he barely has to think about it, can just let himself fall back into his body more and more until he feels fully normal again.

There is a soft creek as Will shifts on the bed, and just from that, Mack knows that Will is going to start talking, trying to tread carefully on a tough conversation. And just like he thought, a second later, Will's voice fills his bedroom.

"Macky," his voice is tender and kind and Mack fights himself not to bristle at it because he knows that he most likely won't want to hear what comes next. "You scared me last night." He's glad to have something to do with his hands as he continue to pack, even as his breath hitches and shoulders hunch in on themselves. The soft morning in bed suddenly seems far away as he tries to make himself smaller, smaller, until he is nothing again, less of the threat that he somehow came across as.

""M sorry," Mack replies, broken and ashamed, "Didn't wanna scare you."

Understanding exactly where his head went to, Will stands up and places a soft hand to Mack's bicep. "No, Macky, nothing like that. You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart ." The word slips out, easy as nothing, and Will doesn't even seem to register it. Still, Mack freezes for a millisecond, his brain blanking out like someone had unplugged him.

Will called him sweetheart.

Will called him sweetheart.

Will called him sweetheart.

And for some reason, in this moment, that last one is that thought that sticks, because no one has ever called him that. Its a word that feels too soft, too warm, too much like something he hasn't earned and doesn't deserve. He brain spirals, trying to make sense of it. But then, it makes sense. Will, his perfect, loving self meant it platonically, as a way to make Mack see some good in himself. Just like when he calls Mack Superstar, like he has the ability to read Mack's insecurities and find the exact right moniker to assuage them. It's nothing more than Will being the perfect friend to ever exist in this world.

Mack forces himself to continue to pack, nods to show the he is listening and Will can continue his statement as he pushes the thoughts about Will and pet names down, down, down. Will takes the cue and sits back down, this time on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. “

You scared me,” Will repeats, quieter now, like the words are fragile. “Not because of anything you did wrong. Not because you were… loud or out of control or whatever you’re thinking.” Will exhales, slow and shaky. “You scared me because I’ve never seen you fully disappear like that. “You were right there in front of me,” Will continues, “but it felt like you were a million miles away. Like I couldn’t reach you. Like I was talking to you through a wall I didn’t know how to break.”

Macks hands are fully shaking now, and he fits the urge to bite his arms to release the restless energy that has filled him. “I’m always gonna help you,” Will continues, voice cracking just barely. “Always. You know that. I’ll sit with you, I’ll hold you, I’ll stay up all night if I have to. I’ll do whatever you need, Macky. But last night…" Will pauses, searching for the right words. “Last night, I didn’t know if I could bring you back. That's all that I meant. I just-"

He cuts himself off suddenly, blowing out a breath and Mack knows that this is it, the thing that he has been wanting to say and dancing around. And even though he hesitates, Will pushes through, "I just hate hate that you had to go over there. To him."

Mack's stomach drops and, really, he's almost fed up with how emotional the last day and a half has been because, once again, he feels like he's going to throw up. Will keeps going, needing to get it all out, even as his voice changes almost imperceptibly. He sounds like he is talking to a wounded animal that might lash out it approached wrong. Mack knows its not an unfair comparison.

"I know he's your dad and that you love him and that you feel like you have to. And I would never do anything to stop you from going. But I still don't like it, Macky. I don't like you being alone with him. I don't like what it does to you. I don't like the way you come back looking… hollowed out and empty. I'll spend however long you need putting you back together, but I hate that he has the power to break you in the first place, Superstar. I'm not asking anything from you, but I need you to know that I worry and that I hate that you go through it alone."

Mack feels confused and unmoored again, at a loss for words, so he just nods and walks over to Will. When Will stands and faces him, Mack just gently knocks his head into his shoulder, like an overgrown cat that decided to keep its claws sheathed this time. Will runs a hand lazily through his hair and then steps back. Will smiles at him and they continue one with their day, content to leave it at that.

-⭐-

Monday

The universe hates him, Mack is sure of it. Because it starts that afternoon. They're on their way to the arena, Will driving like usual. Smitty is adamant that driver get to chose the music -a rule Mack has never once challenged, even though Will doesn’t curate playlists so much as surrender to whatever Spotify’s Top Pop decides to throw at them. The drive isn't long, but traffic makes it drag and they've listened to a few Taylor Swift songs before it changes. At the opening notes, Mack goes still and curses his luck. Will's the portrait of casual ease - drumming the steering wheel, humming off-key, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like he's in an All-American car commercial.

Mack sits there, not wanting to draw Will's attention by skipping it, as Harry Styles voice rings out through the sound system in the truck. Mack breathes, and breathes, and breathes. He's fine, the song is just a song, and he doesn't think about it any further. He's thankful when they get to the rink because just like always, everything falls away and makes sense when he's surrounded by ice.

Tuesday

Brooklynn comes over after dinner, her voice carrying easily through the apartment. Mack hears her laugh from the kitchen and feels something in his chest tighten. He slips into his room before she can see him, closing the door quietly so it does not draw attention. He sits on the floor with his back against the bed frame, knees pulled up, headphones in. He hits shuffle and the song starts again, soft and slow. He does not skip it. He does not think about why. He just breathes and lets the sound fill the space around him.

Will knocks on his door, trying to get him to come out, but Mack lets his eyes slip shut and pretends he's asleep. When his door cracks open, he hears the soft, fond noise Will makes, but tries not to think about it as the door closes again.

Wednesday

The arena is buzzing, the kind of electric noise that usually settles Mack’s nerves. Game nights always do. The lights, the crowd, the cold air rolling off the ice, it all snaps him into place. He feels steady as he skates to the dot for a defensive zone faceoff, rolling his shoulders back, settling into the familiar crouch. This is the part of his life that makes sense. This is the part he can control.

The ref waits for the music cue to fade out before dropping the puck. It's always random and loud, and Mack never pays attention to it. But, he has done something awful, maybe, to deserve this fate. Because the opening notes to Girl Crush fill the stadium and Mack’s breath stutters. His fingers tighten on his stick. The ice suddenly feels too bright, too sharp, too close. He tries to shove the sound away, tries to pretend he doesn’t hear it, but the melody threads itself through him, tugging at every place he’s been trying to ignore.

The ref drops the puck and Mack moves a second too late. The opposing center wins it clean, skating past him with barely a glance. Will snaps his head toward Mack, confusion flickering across his face before he turns to chase the play. Mack forces himself back into the headspace of the game and ignores the irrational sting of betrayal he feels for the song finding him in this place that is supposed to be sacred.

Thursday

They go to a café after practice, something they have done a hundred times before. It is one of Will’s favorites, all big windows and mismatched chairs and the smell of espresso that clings to your clothes. They sit by the front window, the one with the best view of the sidewalk, and Will immediately starts people watching. He points out a woman in a bright red coat and decides she is on her way to break up with someone. Mack snorts into his drink. Will grins like he has won something.

For a little while, it feels normal and easy. Like the last few days have not been slowly wearing him down from the inside. Will keeps talking, spinning stories about strangers, and Mack lets himself relax into the rhythm of it. He even laughs once, a real one, and Will’s eyes flick toward him like he is memorizing the sound.

Then the café radio changes.

The opening notes drift through the speakers, soft and unmistakable. Mack goes still. His fingers tighten around his cup. He keeps his eyes on the window, pretending he is fascinated by a dog tied to a bike rack outside. The song keeps playing, threading itself through the quiet space between them.

Will stops talking. Mack can feel him looking, waiting, trying to understand something Mack cannot explain. Instead, he focuses on breathing evenly, calming the anger that has crept up on him at this fucking song. He wills his face to stay neutral. Will does not say anything. Mack is grateful for that, even as the song settles under his skin like a bruise.

Friday

It is the start of a long weekend, one of those rare stretches in the schedule where the team gets three full days without games. Only an optional skate in the morning, nothing else. Mack should feel relieved. Instead he wakes up with a heaviness in his chest he cannot shake. He feels aggravated at himself, for feeling like this and letting it make him have such a shitty week.

He migrates to the kitchen, and Will is already there, hair sticking up in soft curls and wearing one of Mack's hoodies without realizing it. Mack is bulkier than Smitty, so it hangs off one of his shoulders a bit, showing the edge of his collarbone. He smiles when Mack walks him, sunny and perfect and offers Mack a steaming cup of coffee.

"Made it how you like. Piles and piles of sugar, Macky," Will says, nudging the mug towards him with his knuckles.

Mack takes it because he doesn’t know how not to. “Thanks.”

Will leans back against the counter, watching him with that soft, searching look he’s been wearing all week. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Mack lies, taking a sip so he doesn’t have to elaborate.

Will doesn’t push. He never pushes. He just nods and reaches for his own mug, lifting it to his lips. The hoodie slips a little more off his shoulder, exposing another inch of skin, and Mack looks away so fast he nearly spills his coffee.

“Optional skate?” Will asks, voice light, like he’s trying to keep things easy.

“Yeah,” Mack says. “Might as well.”

Will’s smile brightens, small but real. “Good. I didn’t want to go alone.”

That does something to Mack’s chest he doesn’t want to examine. He clears his throat, sets his mug down, and grabs his bag from the hallway. They drive to the rink with the radio on low. Will’s phone connects automatically, like always, and Mack is grateful the shuffle gods spare him this morning. He stares out the window, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

Optional skates are usually loose and easy. Guys joke around, chirp like crazy, take lazy shots. Mack is glad to get some ice under his stakes and clear his head a bit. He puts one Airpod in, leaves the case on the bench in case this one dies or anything, and is generally content to just fuck around with his team.

Like always, him and Will are glued together from the moment they step on the ice. Will bumps into Mack's hip with his own. "Move it, Superstar, you're in my lane."

You don’t have a lane,” Mack says, flicking a puck at him.

Will blocks it with his skate and grins. “I have every lane.”

“Delusional.”

“Talented,” Will corrects, tapping Mack’s stick with his own. “And humble.”

Mack snorts, skating backward as Will follows him like a shadow. They run a shooting drill together, passing back and forth, chirping each other, laughing when Will whiffs a shot so badly it hits the boards with a sad little thud.

“Shut up,” Will says, even though Mack hasn’t said anything.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Mack rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. The ice feels perfect, the team is great, and he feels normal again, like he can finally interact with his best friend again without getting all… territorial.

Will taps the toe of Mack’s skate with his own. “Bet I can beat you to the far blue line.”

Mack snorts. “You? Not a chance.”

“Oh, so you’re scared.”

“Of you?” Mack laughs. “Never.”

Will grins, bright and competitive. “On your mark, Superstar.”

Mack barely has time to brace before Will shouts, “Go!” and takes off early, cackling.

“You cheating asshole!” Mack yells, pushing off hard, chasing him down the ice. Will’s laugh echoes off the boards, wild and delighted, and Mack feels something in his chest loosen for the first time all week.

He catches Will easily, bumping his shoulder as they cross the line. “Told you.”

Will is breathless, grinning. “Rematch. But first-”

He skates backward toward the bench, still smirking. “I’m stealing your other AirPod. I wanna hear what you’re listening to.”

Mack’s stomach drops.

“Will- don’t-”

But Will is already reaching the bench. He grabs the case Mack left there, pops it open, and plucks out the second bud with a triumphant, “Ha! Mine now.”

“Will, seriously-"

Too late.

He slips it into his ear. Mack decides that if Will's God exists, he's a fucking jerk, because a few seconds ago, Girl Crush had started up. Will grins at him, clearly only hearing it as a love song as the first few lines play.

"Ohhh, okay, Macky," Will teases, eyebrows wiggling. "Didn't know you were in your feelings today, bud."

Mack's stomach drops straight through the ice. “Will,” he says, too fast, too sharp. “Give it back.”

Will laughs, not getting it at all. “Relax, I’m not judging your taste. Honestly? Kinda fits you. Soft boy vibes.”

"Will." It comes out strangled and a little breathless.

Will’s grin falters, and he looks Mack up and down before tilting his head slightly to the side. Unbidden and completely unwelcome, Mack's brain quickly flashes puppy. A slight frown pulls at Will's face as he actually listens to the lyrics and understands how different it is when a man sings the song. Why Mack might be listening too it.

“Mack…?” Will says quietly, the teasing gone. “Hey. You okay?”

Mack’s throat closes. He shakes his head once, sharp and panicked, reaching out with a trembling hand. “Please. Just- give it back.” Will does, immediately, and even now, even as disgusted as he must be, Mack knows that he wants to help the impeding panic attack. Mack tries to snatch the headphone back, but barely manages to hold it with how much his hands shake. No, scratch that, his how body is shaking now and his breathes are coming in these gasp-y little motions that aren't filling his lungs and suddenly everything is too much and he needs to get away.

“Mack,” Will says softly, alarm creeping into his voice. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

But Mack can't. He turns on his skates and pushes off, not fast, not graceful, just desperate. He heads for the nearest gate, nearly fumbling the latch with his shaking hands. Will is right behind him, close but not touching, murmuring something steady and low that Mack can’t process. The moment Mack’s blades hit the rubber flooring, his knees almost buckle. He grabs the wall, sucking in sharp, useless breaths.

“Okay,” Will says, voice gentle but firm. “Let’s get you out of here. He doesn't touch Mack, but stays close enough that Mack can still feel the warmth of him, and Mack feels like he might be in actual hell in this moment. Mack stumbles down the hallway, vision tunneling, the cold air of the rink giving way to the warmer, quieter corridor. Will nudges open the door to the stick storage room and waits for Mack to step inside before following and closing the door behind them.

The second the door clicks, Mack's breath breaks and the tears that he had been trying to repress flow over. "I'm sorry," he gasps, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm -" Before he can stop himself, think about how it will look like to Will, his hand has curled into a fist and he hits himself in the head in time with his apologies, once, twice. Then, a warm hand is grabbing his wrist and wrenching it away.

"Mack. No." Will's voice is firm and horrified and nothing like the teasing from the ice. Mack tries to yank his arm back, humiliated and panicked, but Will doesn't let go.

"Let go-" Mack chokes out, voice wrecked and barely sounding like himself.

"I'm not letting you hurt yourself," Will says, voices careful and calm and so, so scared. "I've got you. You're okay. You're okay, Macky."

Mack’s knees wobble, and Will moves with him, guiding him down to the floor without ever releasing his wrist. His grip softens the moment Mack stops fighting, sliding down to hold Mack’s forearm instead, grounding, not trapping.

Mack,” Will murmurs, crouching in front of him. “Hey. Breathe. You’re safe.”

Mack’s breaths come in sharp, broken gasps. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” Will says instantly. “I know you didn’t. You’re overwhelmed. That’s all this is.”

Mack squeezes his eyes shut, tears spilling over. “You don’t- you don’t understand-”

Will’s face softens, something warm and pained flickering across it. “Then help me understand. But listen to me. You don’t get to hurt yourself to apologize to me.Ever. You don't ever need to do that.”

Eyes firmly clamped closed, Mack shakes his head and whimpers. "Gonna hate me, Smitty. Gon' hate me. Wont ever talk t'me again. I'll be-" his voice cracks, "I'll be all alone again."

“Mack.” It’s not gentle this time. It’s not soft. It’s urgent. He's crowding forward now, pushing into MacK's space and some part of Mack wants to run away while the rest of him just wants to lean into him. “Hey. Look at me,” Will says, voice low and steady. “Mack. Look at me.” Mack shakes his head harder, curling in on himself, breath hitching. “You’re not gonna be alone,” he says, firm enough to cut through the panic. “Not now. Not ever. I don't hate you, I could never hate you. You hear me?" Will's voice drops down to a murmur. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving. You're not losing me."

Mack lets out another broken, gasping sound, shaking his head so violently it looks painful. "You don't- you don't know," he chokes, feeling disgusted with himself, "You don't know what it means."

He opens his eyes to see Will's expression change, something like heartbreak. "Then tell me," he says softly, "let me understand."

Mack’s whole body trembles. His voice is barely a whisper. “You’ll hate me.”

“I won’t.”

“You will,” Mack insists, breath stuttering. “When you think about it. When you- when you realize what I-”

Will leans in, close enough that Mack can feel the warmth of him, close enough that Mack can’t escape the sincerity in his eyes. “Mack,” he says, steady as bedrock. “Tell me.”

Mack’s chest caves in on itself. He squeezes his eyes shut again, putting any sort of distance he can between himself and the words he's about to say. He forces them out like they’re tearing him apart. “I’m-” His breath catches. He tries again. “I’m not-”

Another broken inhale. “I’m not straight, Will.”

The silence that follows is sharp and trembling. Mack braces for the recoil, the disgust, the step back. But Will doesn’t move, not an inch. Instead, he exhales softly, like he’s been holding his breath for Mack this whole time. “Okay,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Thank you for telling me.”

Mack’s eyes snap open, confused, terrified. “You’re- you’re not mad?”

Will’s face crumples, devastated that Mack even thinks that. “Mad? Macky, no. God, no.”

“You’re not…disgusted?”

Will shakes his head immediately, fiercely. “Not even close.”

Mack’s breath shudders. “You’re not gonna leave?”

Will draws in a deep breath, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears. "No Macky, I'm not gonna leave. Not because of this or anything else. You're stuck with me, Superstar."

Mack whimpers again, "No, Smitty, 'm gonna fuck it up, make you uncomfortable. Make- make you leave. You're straight, gonna feel weird 'round me."

"No, baby," Will murmurs, soft and instinctive, "I'm not straight."

Mack freezes like the air has been punched out of him. Will shift closer, crowding into his space even more, voice steady and warm. "I guess its time that I do this officially. I'm bi, Mack."

Mack's eyes fly open again. “You are?”

Will nods, slow and sure, completely unafraid in this moment. “Yeah. I am.”

Mack shakes his head, breath hitching. “Then why- why are you even here? Why are you- " He swallows hard. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Will’s expression softens into something unbearably tender. “Because I care about you. A lot more than I should, probably.”

Mack blinks, stunned. “What… what does that mean?”

Will lets out a shaky exhale. “It means I like someone. Really like someone.”

Mack’s heart stutters painfully, clenching and he thinks that maybe if he focuses enough, he can hear it shatter. “Oh," he responds pitifully.

Will watches him carefully. “Do you want to know who?”

Mack nods, tiny and terrified.

Will leans in, close enough that Mack can feel his breath. “It’s not Brooklynn.”

Mack’s breath catches. “But, you’re dating-”

“We broke up,” Will says quietly. “Tuesday.”

Mack stares at him, confused and trembling. “Why?”

Will’s voice goes impossibly gentle. “Because I realized I was staying with her for the wrong reasons. And because I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t feel something for someone else.”

Mack’s voice cracks. “Someone else?”

Will’s eyes soften, warm and steady. “Yeah, baby. Someone else.”

Mack swallows hard. “Who?”

Will cups his cheek with one warm, steady hand, and can't stop the fond chuckle the rolls out of him. “You.”

Mack makes a small, broken sound, like something inside him is finally giving way. “You’re- you’re not lying?”

Will shakes his head, thumb brushing away a tear. “I’ve never lied to you. And I’m not starting now.”

Mack’s breath shudders. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Will murmurs. “Just let me stay. Let me be here with you.”

Mack nods, barely.

Will leans in slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. “Can I…?”

Mack whispers, “Yeah.”

And then Will's lips are on his, soft and warm, gentle and so perfectly right. It's more of a peck than anything else, a promise of more later, of figuring this out together. Mack thinks that maybe this is what communion is like, taking in the essence of some perfect being. He sighs into the kiss, finally feeling settled. Will taste like the crisp, cool air of the rink and the coffee from this morning. That thought makes his head swim and he finds himself reaching out, his fingers curling into the rough fabric of Will's shirt, trying to get even closer. It feels less like a kiss and more like a transfusion; Mack is a hollow vessel, and Will is pouring something vital back into him.

Will’s breath hitches against Mack’s mouth, a small, fractured sound of pleasure that breaks the last of Mack’s defenses. He realizes then that Will is trembling, too. Not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the moment. It is a revelation that levels the playing field. Will deepens the kiss, his lips parting against Mack's with a slow, deliberate pressure. His tongue slides gently against the seam of Mack's lips, asking, inviting, and Mack doesn't hesitate. He lets himself receive it, like a blessing he never thought he deserved. The sensation is overwhelming but tender, Will's presence filling him steady and sure, like the grace Will's God might offer. Mack's body relaxes, the tight coil of panic and fear completely resolved under the radiant orbit of Will Smith.

For a moment, they just breathe together, foreheads touching, the world finally quiet. Then Mack pulls back a fraction, blinking like he’s coming out of a trance.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he blurts, voice hoarse and accusing in the most pathetic way possible.

Will actually laughs - a wet, shaky, disbelieving sound. “Tell you what? That I like you? Macky, I literally called myself your wife, multiple times!”

Mack’s mouth falls open. “I thought you were, I don’t know. Joking!”

“I WASN’T JOKING,” Will says, throwing a hand up. “I said, and I quote, ‘I’m basically your wife already,’ and you just stood there like a stunned baby deer!”

Mack sputters. “Well, well you didn’t- you didn’t say it like- like that!”

Will stares at him. “How else was I supposed to say it? Should I have sent you a PowerPoint? A carrier pigeon? A singing telegram?”

Mack glares weakly. “You could’ve just said you liked me!”

“I TRIED!” Will gestures wildly between them. “I have been flirting with you for literally TWO YEARS. You’re impossible!”

Mack crosses his arms, which would be more effective if he weren’t still trembling and half in Will’s lap. “You’re impossible.”

Will snorts. “Yeah? Well, you’re my impossible." Mack goes pink to the tips of his ears. Will softens immediately, leaning in to press a tiny, grounding kiss to Mack’s cheek. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.” Mack melts. Fully. Completely. Like a man who has no bones left.

“…You still should’ve told me sooner,” he mutters into Will’s shoulder.

Will groans. “Oh my god.”