Chapter Text
Mack should have walked the other way the moment he saw the media team huddled together.
They had a look when they were planning something, heads bent close, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, phones already in their hands like whatever they were about to suggest had been decided before he even arrived. He knew that look. He’d been the victim of it enough times to recognize the warning signs.
And, sure enough, when Laurel glanced up and spotted him, her entire face lit up.
“Mack,” she called, triumphant.
Ah. Target acquired.
He slowed but didn’t stop, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. “Why are you saying my name like that?”
“Come here,” she said, already laughing.
“That’s not comforting.”
Still, he drifted closer, because he always did. Because saying no to them required a level of self preservation he had never quite mastered.
Laurel spun her phone around toward him. “We need content.”
“I give you content every day,” Mack replied immediately.
“Not that kind.” She grinned. “We want something people will scream about.”
He should leave.
He doesn’t.
“What.”
“It’s a trend,” she said, delighted with herself. “You kiss your best friend and film how they react.”
Mack blinked.
Then he laughed, loud and sharp. “No.”
But Laurel just kept holding the phone there, letting the video play, someone leaning in, chaos erupting, everyone losing their minds in a way that looked easy and harmless and temporary.
“It’ll be funny,” she insisted. “He’ll freak out.”
Mack crossed his arms, rocking back on his heels. “Or he’ll kill me.”
“Even better,” someone muttered.
Mack exhaled through his nose, glancing away, already uncomfortable with how quickly they had landed on Will. Of course it would be Will. There wasn’t anyone else Mack stood close enough to that this would even make sense with.
And that was the problem.
“It’s stupid,” he said.
“But you’re perfect for it,” Laurel countered. “You two are inseparable. People love you together.”
“We’re not—” Mack started, then stopped, because he didn’t even know how to finish that sentence without sounding defensive.
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”
The hesitation surprised them.
It surprised him.
“What’s the big deal?” one of the interns asked. “It’s just a joke.”
Just a joke.
Yeah.
Except Will wouldn’t know that.
Will would look at him first, always at him, like he was waiting for the rules of the moment to be explained. Will trusted him in a way that was effortless and enormous and, suddenly, felt dangerous to play with.
Mack shifted his weight. “I don’t want to make it weird.”
“You won’t,” Laurel said instantly. “He’ll laugh.”
Maybe he would.
Probably he would.
But there was a tiny, treacherous part of Mack that wasn’t completely sure.
And the fact that he couldn’t be completely sure made his stomach twist.
He should say no.
He opens his mouth to.
What comes out is, “I mean… it’ll be quick, right?”
Laurel’s grin turned victorious. “Five seconds.”
Five seconds, Mack thought.
How bad can five seconds be?
He nodded once, already regretting it. “Fine. Whatever.”
Cheers broke out around him, way too loud for what he’d just agreed to. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. Laurel was already launching into filming tips, logistics, the promise that the internet would eat it alive.
Mack barely heard any of it.
All he could picture was Will’s face if, for even a moment, he believed it.
He forced a laugh, shaking his head. “You guys suck.”
But as he walked away, bag heavy against his spine, the excitement behind him fading into normal locker room noise, the dread stayed put.
Five seconds.
By the time Mack gets to Will's, he has almost talked himself out of it six separate times.
Will opens the door in sweats and a t-shirt, hair a mess, smiling in that soft, automatic way he reserves just for him.
“Hey,” Will says. “You ate yet?”
Mack shakes his head, stepping inside. The house smells like laundry detergent and whatever takeout Will had earlier.
“I ordered takeout,” Will continues, shutting the door. “Figured you’d show up starving.”
“Yeah,” Mack says faintly.
He follows Will into the living room, heart beating so hard he’s certain it’s visible through his shirt.
This is stupid.
It’s just a prank.
He can already hear Will calling him an idiot.
Laurel had texted him five minutes ago:
don’t forget to film!!!
Right.
Film.
“I, uh—” Mack clears his throat. “Yeah thanks”
“Go for it.” Will says nodding towards the takeout bag. But he doesn't need to eat. He needs a second to breathe.
Why is he so nervous?
Mack hadn’t expected this part to be the hardest.
The suggestion had sounded hilarious in the locker room, everyone laughing, promising it would be quick, painless, viral. Just lean in, grab the reaction, done.
Now he’s with Will in his living room and it feels impossible.
Maybe he should warn him first. Let him in on it. They could fake it, exaggerate, make it funny.
But that defeats the point, the whole thing only works if it’s real.
And for some reason, the idea of stepping into Will’s space without permission to do something like that makes his pulse jump into his throat.
“So,” Mack says, hovering instead of sitting.
Will glances up from the couch, eyebrows pulling together. “So?”
Mack shrugs, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Pick something to watch. Surprise me.”
Will grins, instantly pleased, already reaching for the remote. “Rom-com it is.”
Of course it is.
They watch something ridiculous and soft and predictable. Will loves it, Mack can tell by the way he leans forward during the important scenes, by how he keeps commenting on the writing like he’s in a classroom instead of his own house.
“That right there,” Will says at one point, gesturing at the screen, “that’s proper payoff. You spend the whole movie building tension and then you let them have it.”
Mack hums in agreement, even though he’d lost the plot twenty minutes ago.
He likes listening to Will when he gets like this, animated, passionate, hands moving as he talks. He could probably sit through anything as long as Will kept narrating it.
When the movie ends, Will reaches for his drink, still mid thought. “People think the grand gesture is what matters,” he says. “But it’s not. It’s everything before that makes you believe it.”
“Yeah,” Mack says.
His heart is racing.
He slips his phone out of his pocket, angling it carefully hiding in the pillows, thumb hovering before he presses record. The little red light appears.
There’s no going back now.
Will keeps talking, oblivious. “If you don’t buy the relationship, the kiss just falls flat.”
Mack swallows hard.
“I’m buying it,” he mutters.
Will snorts and looks at him. “You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?”
“I do,” Mack insists quickly, eyes darting everywhere except Will’s mouth. “Build-up. Emotional investment. Big moment.”
Will studies him.
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Will says, softer now, amused but wary. “Why are you so tense?”
Because I’m about to kiss you as a joke, Mack thinks hysterically.
Instead he laughs, rubbing sweaty palms against his jeans. “I just— I'm not.”
The timer on his phone keeps moving.
He needs to do it.
Before he loses his nerve.
Mack inhales, chest tight, gaze flicking over Will’s face like he’s memorizing it.
All he has to do is lean in until Will shuts him down.
Will will laugh.
He’ll push him away.
Call him an idiot.
Then Mack will show him the camera.
They’ll both laugh.
Simple.
Mack grabs the front of Will's shirt.
He leans forward, heart thundering so loudly he’s sure Will must hear it, and squeezes his eyes shut like that might make this easier, like it might turn it back into something harmless. He waits for the laugh, the shove, the inevitable ‘Cely, what are you doing?’ But it doesn’t come. Instead Will’s smile wavers, confusion slipping into something softer, something almost fragile.
“Mack?” Will asks, barely above a whisper. The sound of his name is what undoes him. Mack’s fingers twist in the front of Will’s shirt, grounding himself, and before he can lose his nerve, before he can think better of it, he closes the distance and kisses him.
It’s meant to be quick.
In and out.
A punchline.
Will inhales sharply in surprise, Mack feels it, the hitch of breath, and for a split second he thinks here it is, here comes the shove, the laughter, the what the hell.
It doesn’t come.
Will doesn’t move away.
His hand comes up instead.
It hovers at Mack’s side like he’s asking permission, like he’s terrified of assuming wrong.
Then Mack doesn’t stop, and Will makes a choice.
He pulls him closer with a firm grip on his hip, drawing Mack down onto the couch edge between his spread legs. Will’s other hand slides to the back of Mack’s neck, fingers threading into his hair to hold him steady. He kisses back, not soft and tentative, but with a warm certainty that takes control, his lips pressing harder, parting Mack’s mouth with a gentle insistence. His tongue slips in, tasting, exploring, as he tilts Mack’s head slightly to deepen the angle, sucking lightly on his lower lip before diving back in.
Mack’s mind goes blank.
Because Will is warm and solid and right there, mouth claiming his with deliberate pressure, tongue stroking against his in slow, commanding strokes that send heat pooling low in Mack’s gut. Will’s fingers tighten in his hair, guiding the rhythm, not rough but unyielding, pulling Mack flush against him so their chests press together, breaths mingling hot and ragged.
There’s a quiet sound in Will’s throat, relieved, almost disbelieving, a low hum that vibrates through the kiss.
He’s not joking.
He thinks this is happening.
Mack feels himself melt into it before he can stop it, feels his own hands clutch tighter at Will’s shirt, feels the kiss deepen further as Will’s free hand grips his waist, thumb brushing under the hem to skim bare skin, holding him in place while Will controls the pace, slowing it to savor, then pressing harder to demand more.
Oh God.
Will shifts, nudging him back a fraction with a hand on his chest, breath uneven. When Mack opens his eyes, Will’s are open too.
Hopeful.
Terrified.
“Mack,” he whispers.
And Mack remembers the phone.
The trend.
The fact that this was never supposed to be real.
He jerks back.
Air slams between them.
Will’s hands drop immediately.
“What—?” he starts.
Mack turns, grabs the phone, stops the recording. His ears are ringing.
“I— it was—” he stammers. “They told me to do that TikTok thing, I didn’t think you’d—”
Will goes very still.
Understanding spreads across his face in slow, awful recognition.
“Oh,” he says.
He nods once, like he’s reorganizing the entire moment into something survivable.
“A prank,” he adds.
“Yeah.”
Will swallows.
He tries to smile.
“Good one,” he says.
The phone is still in his hand, his thumb pressed hard against the dark screen as if he could smother what just happened, push it back into nothing. Across from him, Will sits on the edge of the couch, shoulders squared, back straight, like posture might keep him from folding in on himself. The air between them feels scraped raw. Ten seconds ago Mack had been in his space, in his hands, breathing him in. Now it’s like they’re separated by something wide and uncrossable.
“A prank,” Will repeats.
He says it carefully, kindly, like he’s the one responsible for softening the blow.
Mack watches understanding settle over him in slow layers — confusion giving way to recognition, recognition reshaping itself into embarrassment, and then, finally, into acceptance. Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because Will is already deciding he’ll survive it.
“Right,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
The word lands like he’s swallowing glass.
“I’m not posting it,” Mack says immediately, too fast, panic leaking into the edges of his voice. “I swear, I won’t.”
Will shrugs, small, contained. “You can do whatever you want.”
It’s not permission.
It’s resignation.
Mack takes a step closer and hates how cautious he has to be, like Will might bolt if he moves wrong. “Will…”
Will rubs a hand over his mouth, nodding to himself, eyes bright in a way Mack has seen only a handful of times, after bad losses, after phone calls from home, after things he pretends don’t get to him.
“I just wish I’d known,” Will says.
Mack’s throat tightens. “Known what?”
“That you were joking,” he answers, and there it is, the crack he can’t quite hide. “Would’ve helped me not make an idiot out of myself.”
“You didn’t,” Mack says instantly.
But Will gives a faint smile, the kind that exists purely to end conversations.
“I kissed you like you meant it,” he replies.
Every syllable is careful. Measured. Controlled.
Mack feels something in his chest cave in.
“I didn’t mean to trick you,” he says, hating how small it sounds.
“I know you didn’t,” Will says, just as quick, still protecting him, still generous even now. “I know you’re not like that.”
And that somehow makes it worse, the fact that Will refuses to let him be the villain, refuses to put the blame anywhere except on himself.
Will exhales, shaky, eyes dropping to the floor. Mack can practically see him revising the last ten minutes, rewriting them into something safer, something he can carry without breaking.
“I just got it wrong,” he says quietly. “Read it wrong. That’s all. It's my fault you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting—er, I’ve always felt—” Will laughs humorously, looking blankly at the ceiling and his voice breaking. “You know what? It doesn't matter.””
Like hope is a miscalculation.
Like wanting more than friendship is a personal error.
“You can say it,” Mack whispers, desperate, because if Will buries it now it might never come back up again.
Will looks at him.
Really looks at him.
And Mack sees everything he wasn’t supposed to see, affection stretched thin with caution, want dulled down into patience, the terror of having stepped forward and finding out there was nowhere to land.
“I thought you meant it,” Will says.
No dramatics.
No accusation.
Just the truth, laid gently between them.
Mack almost can’t stand to be in the same room with it.
“You kissed me back,” he blurts, because he can’t let Will carry it alone.
Will flinches.
His jaw tightens, he nods once.
“Yeah,” he says.
It takes him a second longer to keep going this time. “I did.”
A breath leaves him, uneven, and he forces a humourless little huff through it. “Won’t make that mistake again.”
The words gut Mack.
“That’s not—” he starts, but nothing he has will make this better. Nothing will rewind the moment to before Will let himself believe.
“I’m sorry,” Will adds, softer now, like it costs him something. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Sorry.
As if loving him were something reckless. Shameful. Too much.
Mack’s eyes burn.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says.
Will gives him a look that is heartbreakingly fond, heartbreakingly final. A look that says ‘I know you mean that’, and also ‘it doesn’t change anything’.
“You don’t have to fix it,” Will replies.
Silence swallows the room.
Heavy. Total.
Will pushes himself to his feet, not abruptly, not angrily, just because if he stays sitting there, Mack might watch the exact moment he comes apart. He smooths his hands down the front of his sweats, a useless gesture, buying time, putting himself back together piece by piece.
“We’re good,” he says.
And it’s brave, the way he offers it.
It’s merciful.
It’s killing Mack to accept.
Will doesn’t look at him when he says it. Maybe he can’t. Maybe if he does, he’ll hope again, and he’s already learned what that costs.
Mack stands frozen, phone dangling at his side, staring at the space between them where something fragile and extraordinary had existed for one terrible, shining minute.
He had been chosen.
And he had turned it into a joke.