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God is perfect.
Will knew this before anything else. Before he knew his hair was blonde, before he knew his eyes were blue, before he knew he would stop breathing without hockey, before he knew he liked baking, before he knew liking Flynn Ridder from Tangled was wrong, before he knew his parents and Grace loved him-he knew God is perfect.
God was perfect.
Will knows now his hair is blonde and Mack likes running his fingers through it. It was a few weeks after the shark's first roadie, the two were just sat in a random field in the middle of nowhere, they just got in the car and will drove- straight and then left and then left again and then he kept turning and driving and driving and driving some more and more and the road snaked underneath him like the devil tempting Eve to eat the apple, until Mack mentioned he was hungry and Will realised he couldn't even feel the steering wheel under his hands and couldn't see the road, only the glaring signs in his head telling him to keep driving.
He parks shoddily in the parking lot anyway.
They don't end up eating. Will wonders if Mack was ever hungry, or if he just wanted Will to stop driving. Instead, they sit under a tree neither of them can name-definitely not Mack- and Mack begins yapping about something Will isn't paying much attention to. He's still nodding along, because if not, Mack would dull his eyes slightly and bite his lip and stare at the grass as if he can see each blade and each cell and each nucleus and each strand of DNA coiling tighter and tighter around itself until it feels like its wrapping around Mack's neck and he is breathing too quickly.
And Will likes seeing Mack smile-he knows that for certain too.
Mack stopped talking after a while, picking a daisy with a clear, brisk snap and Will wonders if it hurt the flower- until Mack brushed his fingers through his blonde hair and placed a daisy on top, white petals facing the sun. Will giggles-and he can't remember why he was even thinking about DNA anymore.
And Mack does it again-and Will knows he likes seeing Mack smile, so he lets him.
It's a post on Mack's burner account on Instagram-a photo of the top of Will's head, daisies catching the shattered sunbeams and painting them across Will's loose waves. Every since that day, Mack's constantly been running his fingers through Will's hair, fingers playing with each strand and twirling with each curl.
Will knows his hair is blonde and Mack likes running his hands through it, like Will knows God was perfect, and like Will knows his eyes are blue.
Mack was crouched in front of him on the ice, hands on his stick, puck between them, yet still managing to look down at Will. Will aches to drop to his knees and pray-not to God- but to Mack, to beg, pray, plead, just for this divine human to even breathe again in his presence. But Mack is smiling at him, as if he would keep breathing the same air tainted as it passes through Will's blackened lungs.
"-Smitty, I said get lower 'cause you're not bending your knees properly, just relying on being forward to grab the puck, which means you making sudden movements is more unstable and your reaction time is slower-cause you're so unstable."
Will shuffles his feet wider, like Mack tells him, words washing over him as if purifying him of his sins, the holy water soothing the burning shame on Will's skin. Mack still wins the face-off.
He still grins at Will, green eyes flashing, and tells Will to get back into position, and "Smitty, bend your knees more, I said!" Will bends his knees until his thighs ache and burn.
Will grabs the puck before Mack, smiling back at those divine green eyes. Mack grins too, shoving him lightly out of the way and grabbing the puck, giggling and Will joins in too. And they keep going back, Will's thighs burning more and more each time but he's grinning more and more.
They are back to the centre of the ice, Mack looking down at Will, green eyes roaming over Will's body and soon his whole body burns, burning so deliciously Will aches to roll in the fire and swallow it into his own being.
"You look so generic, Smitty." Will cocks his head, tongue thick in his mouth. Mack grins. "Not saying its bad, blonde hair blue eyes, y'know? Like, type of guy everyone in history would love." Mack shrugs. "Not saying its a bad thing Smitty. Your eyes are pretty-blue, like the ocean."
Neither of the get the puck that time.
Will stared at his blue eyes-like the ocean, waves tossing and fighting in them for reasons he doesn't know, growing savage at the simple praise, until the currents morph into something too violent and spill over his cheeks, carving burning lines down his face that don't burn nicely this time. Will's liked his blue eyes a lot more after that.
Will knows his hair is blonde and eyes are blue and he would stop breathing without hockey, just like he knows God is perfect.
His ribs ached, a snare biting down on them, metal digging into his skin and ripping through flesh and muscle and bone until each crunch gets louder and Will wonders if this is what each daisy felt when Mack plucked them cleanly off the stems to use their dying bodies to make Will pretty-and Will's blood is painting the floor to make a shrine for the God above, looking down on him with a hatred so deep it is making the fires in hell burn hotter and lick at the crust of the Earth.
But there is no photo to show the evidence and the daisies are all dead-Will googled how to dry flowers and the daisies are now suffocated between two paper towels and layers of sellotape choking the life out of them. While Will's body is clean, no blood running down his ribs and no snare consuming his flesh and shoulder-just Will and a singular hockey glove on because he threw the other on the ice when he left, and the knowledge he won't be playing a few games because God let him be thrown into the boards and a hockey stick jammed between his ribs and this snare biting his shoulder.
He couldn't wrench it out of his skin no matter how much he tried.
The trainer told him he can't play.
God told him this was his punishment. For worshipping the air leaving Mack's lungs more than the cruel, cold hands of God, the same hands that checked him into the boards, dressed in the jersey of Wotherspoon. These hands are pinching at his skin, poking until bruises form on his pale tender skin, kisses of pain God is scattering over his body to remind Will of His power.
Mack's tender hands are warmer than those of God's. "We won, did you see Will, we won. We won? We won, didn't we? And you'll be on the ice soon, you will, cause I can't play if you're not on the ice, I can't."
Will nods. They are in the hotel now. He doesn't know when that happened. Is the snare still stuck in his marrow, licking the chops of a vulnerable Will Smith at the commands of the perfect God? Maybe Mack has pulled it out, hands a warm balm, fingertips pressing warm kisses to Will's flesh, tracing over his ribs, playing each rib like piano keys.
"I'm fine Mack. I won't be out the whole season anyway, just like an extra holiday anyway. Just gonna miss my amazing commentary on the ice, who's gonna give you those amazing passes now?" Mack doesn't answer, fingertips presses kisses firmer into Will's skin, and Will wants Mack to dig his fingers in so deep they pierce flesh and dig through his bone to pull out the rotten, tainted thing God threaded through Will's body when he was making him.
But then perfect Mack would be tainted.
Was God tainted when he made Will then, contaminated by this rotten radiation from inside him? But God is perfect.
Mack is more perfect- so he won't be tainted either.
Mack just digs his chin into Will's neck-the side of the good shoulder, though he is on so much pain medication eh wouldn't feel someone shattering his shoulder blade into a million pieces if they wanted to- and breathes out shakily, warm air hitting Will's skin in waves like the ones beginning to roll over each other in his eyes. They seem to spread to Mack's eyes, green clouded over and he closes them. Will's thumb gently pries them open, unveiling a piece of delicate art.
"I'm ok, Mack. I promise. I'll be back quickly." Will prays to the God who hates him for this to be true, for the boy shakily pressing himself back into Will's neck, tears cleansing Will's skin and the holy water pouring from his eyes baptising him.
"You better be. I swear to God, Will-" Mack bites down lightly on Will's neck, teeth mumbling warm prayers and caressing his skin softer than a snare. "I won't be playing without you. Like, fuck, I'll be playing, but I won't like it. Its gonna be so boring, and, fuck, you'll be ok. You'll be ok."
Mack bit down on Will's neck, as if tethering him here just by his teeth alone.
Will saw the bite in the mirror that night, God being merciful and pointing a shard of moonlight into the bathroom, enough for Will to trace the bites with his eyes in his reflection. Or rather, God was being cruel once again. Reminding Will that the snare around his shoulder is the same snare Mack has bitten into his neck, reminding him of the minutes and hours and days spent off the ice. Minutes, hours, days, second spent without Mack. His warm presence replaced with that of God's, already corrupting the soothing kisses Mack left on his flesh to instead let them burn shame onto him.
Will knows his hair is blonde, his eyes are blue, he can't breathe without hockey and he knows he loves baking, just like he knows God is perfect.
God had reached his cold claws into Mack's brain and scratched words of hatred deep enough into the organ that Mack was silent, mouth shewn shut by the pathetic loss of this evening. As if Mack's shoulder won't almost buckle under the pressure of being expected to pull the team to wins each game, yet God grasps Mack's shoulders and pushes them further until they are now shaking- Mack sat on the sofa, silent.
Will pulls Mack up, ignoring the look the boy gives him. He drags him to the kitchen, flicking the light on as they pass (Will's reminded he needs to go shopping, Patty also mentioned the boys finished the ice cream and he mentally reminds himself to buy some more considering the amount of food Will's also eaten from their fridge). Yesterday, he had let himself open the notes app and type a few more recipes he wanted to try, and today-though he isn't trying a new one- he decides its finally time to use the bananas he keeps putting of eating as they are too mushy.
"Banana bread."
Mack just keeps staring. Will nudges him-lighter than Mack does on the ice. "We're making banana bread. The one you liked at Thanksgiving, cause you scoffed it all and fought Toff just so you could eat the stuff stuck to the pan." Mack rolls his eyes, mouth already wide open, teeth shining, so Will- of course- cuts him off. "And I bought, like, 3 packets of chocolate chips so yes it has enough chocolate and no its not dark chocolate you health freak."
A packet of flour gets spilt on the counter within the first 2 minutes. Mack looks up sheepishly. "Mate, I swear, I just-"
"Profesional hockey player and can't even pick up a bag of flour, and I'm not cleaning that, you-"
"Will it was literally your idea to bake I'm not cleaning-"
"And who literally cannot place a bag of flour on the counter, cause-"
Mack's very mature response is to grab a handful of flour and chuck it at him, dust flying in the air, replacing the suffocating presence of God. His mouth opens wide again, teeth linting like the silver thorns of Jesus' crown in the sunlight, and giggles fall from it in a way that blesses him as if he is submerged in holy water for years and his sins are stripped from his entire being.
Will grabs a handful and throws it to Mack, who in turn pokes his finger into the batter and swipes it on Will's cheek. Will giggles, the laugh bubbling up inside him and overflowing thickly out of his mouth. "Mack!"
Mack just grins, and Will opens the tap and sprays Mack with water. The boy pokes his fingers under his shirt, poking between his ribs like he has blindly mapped will's body out, and Will screams gleefully- wriggling back until he hits the counter.
But the counter edge is softer than usual, Mack's arm resting on it so Will doesn't injure himself, one of his hands still tickling Will's ribs and laughing-mixing with Will's giggles. His ribs begin to ache as he is heaving, begging Mack to stop, swallowing mouthfuls of air between each word, until Mack's fingers slow and caress over his skin.
"We actually gonna bake this Smitty, or are you just gonna blame me for something obviously your fault?" Will shoves him back, throwing one last pinch of flour at Mack's face and he picks up the whisk. "I need 500 grams of flour. Preferably in the bowl and not on the counter this time."
That was the best banana bread Will ever made. The chocolate chips weren't mixed in properly because Will left Mack in charge of it, its stuck to the tin again because they were too busy chatting rather than greasing the tin, and Mack accidentally turned the oven off halfway through so it hasn't risen properly, but it is the best thing Will has ever made.
Mack had 3 slices that evening. Its usually a struggle to even get him to smile hours after a loss. Mack just looked up at him and grinned, when he took his third slice, and is cutting one for will too. "See how much better it turns out when you let me bake?"
Will just scoffs and snatches his slice form Mack's warm hands. He doesn't even grace Mack with a reply. With another laugh, Mack just kisses Will's forehead, warm breathe seeping into every single one of Will's cells and burning over the brand of the cross etched into his forehead since he was younger. "Yeah right Smitty, keep lying to yourself."
When he went shopping with Mack the next day, he bought more packets of milk chocolate chips along with tubs of ice cream for Patty, and Mack drops a new bunch of bananas into the shopping basket.
Will knows his hair is blonde, eyes are blue, he knows he would stop breathing without hockey and he knows he loves baking, just as he knows God is perfect and he himself is not.
He first watched Tangled with Grace when he was 7. But Grace was talking about something her friend Olivia did at school when Lily had lied about dating the person Olivia had a crush, and Will was too busy listening to Grace rather than pay attention to the other blonde girl on the screen. Will always thought Rapunzel was a worse Disney version of Gracie anyway, and so Will never really wanted to watch it after that.
But Grace wanted to watch it again when Will was 12, so Will sits on her bed with her, and lets the film start.
And, begrudgingly, he admits he might like it, and he likes the chameleon and is trying to ask Grace for its name when Flynn Rider came on the screen. And Will doesn't understand why Disney would make him more pretty than the main character.
Will also doesn't understand why he is lying awake 8 years later, unable to sleep as God wrenches each rope of artery and vein tighter and tighter around his neck. His bones shatter, each jagged piece joining the claws plucking each layer of his flesh apart: sinking past his skin, mutilating his muscles into thin strips and ruined fibres as the search for the rot infesting further into his body continues; walls and bars of bone shaken and audibly creaking as they are broken sadistically, chains or blood vessels untied as if God is untying a present wrapped just for him. He pries apart the wrapping paper as his organs are strewn messily across the floor, God leaving the mess hastily bleeding on the ground as if He is a 3 year old child opening their gifts on Christmas.
His bones are thrown carelessly into each corner of his room, blood splattering onto Mack's face, trickling through his skin and tainting him. His veins tighten around his neck as he chokes him tighter, digging into his rotting flesh and the parasite infests him further.
But God seems to have lost amusement at the useless body before him.
The rot has seeped into all aspects of Will's body, infecting them as blood begins to cover his mangled limbs like a useless blanket. His perfect God gathers him in His hands, cold hands congealing the sticky blood to hide his sins. Yet they have been written so deep into Will's being he doesn't know where his sins begin and he ends.
Perhaps he is only his sins. A pathetic collection of each sin glued together by spilt blood and holy water: Will's first lie, Will missing Mass one day by saying he had hockey, and now Will remembering the face of a man more than the Hail Marys he recited as a child.
The face of the man next to him.
He shakily extends his hands, afraid of the claws of God resting passively somewhere nearby. But no talons reach for him, only his shaking skin rubbing against Mack's cheek. Has Will's blood seeped in too dep? He can't see it. He knows it was there-he knows just like eh knows God is perfect, just like he knows he needs to leave, to not keep caressing Mack's face, not trace Mack's lip, not stroke Mack's nose and tremble his hands over the blood somewhere staining Mack's skin.
He can't see it. He should scrub harder, or rub the blood off his won hands-he will taint Mack further, and Mack is the most divine being Will has ever laid eyes on.
So he rubs further against Mack's face, but the blood isn't coming off, its already tainted him, and Will jerks back sharply and- too sharply- and falls off the bed, thumping as his heart shatters because he's ruined Mack.
Tainted him.
The veins tighten further around his neck, and he begins clawing at the ropes digging into his trachea.
They aren't loosening.
He isn't being quiet-Mack will hear him. He's ruined Mack enough, ruined himself enough. He's not beign quiet enough, he's being too loud, too loud, too pathetic, too ruined, too rotten to be saved, too tainted, too devoted to the wrong God, the God lying in his bed who bakes with him and puts daisies in his hair and kisses his forehead like he is baptising him.
Not the imperfect, fake God in the sky, whose face is twisting with fury and hands reaching down to wrench his heart out of his body and stand over his corpse. But the hands of his God reach him first.
Warm, soft, running through his hair, and a broken voice whispering "Will? Will, baby, what's-Will. Will, baby, you're bleeding. You're-Will, Will, look at me baby, look at me, open your eyes. Baby, let me see them, your beautiful blue eyes. Remember what I said-pretty, blue, like the ocean. When we were at the rink-we stayed for, like, 3 hours after y'know? It was fun, was it fun baby? It was. I like when we do stuff, just us two, do you baby?" He should nod. He wants to. God-the imperfect, jealous, cruel God- is twisting his neck tighter and his trachea keeps splintering.
He nods anyway.
"Like the daisies-remember that baby? Still have the photo, its my homescreen. You were so pretty-are. You are so pretty. So perfect."
Mack is perfect. Unlike God.
Mack is even more perfect when he baptises Will, breath coming closer to Will's mouth, warming the tainted flesh. "Will, baby?" Mack's perfect lips are cleansing him, wiping away the sin from inside him, breathe exiting his lungs and straight into Will's lungs-so warm, perfect, a heavy comforting weight.
"Will, baby, I love you."
Will knows his hair is blonde, eyes are blue, he can't live without hockey, loves baking, and liked Flynn Rider more than Rapunzel. Will knows god was never perfect.
Will knows the only perfect thing is Mack-Mack, and Mack kissing him.
"I love you Mack."
"Stay with me Will, eyes open. Look at me, please baby. I love you."
Will opens his eyes.
Their god was never perfect. His God-Mack- is.