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It is, and Macklin really can’t stress this enough, all Will’s fault when it comes down to it. The dayger Mack can take some partial blame for. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank quite so much. But he’s spent the whole season– and the fucking Olympics for Christ’s sake– staying at the top of his game, never once indulging in substances besides a beer here and there. He feels like he deserves to nurse his wounds from losing gold and the playoffs within a couple months of each other. Plus, Smitty isn’t around to babysit him. Which leads this whole thing back to being all his fault.
Macklin is happy right now. That much he can comprehend. The alcohol swirling in his gut, sending his head all woozy. God, it’s been so long since he’s been drunk. He can’t even remember the last time he was this out of it. It’s peaceful, but the overflowing lawn of people in front of him tells a different story. He’s certain he’s seen more than one person throw up. He just prays it’s not him next.
Which is why he’s sitting here on the pavement. His brother is lost in the crowd somewhere, some of his old BU buddies are nearby, and the cool asphalt feels quite nice. It’s certainly grounding him a little bit. Nostalgia overtakes him. Good old Boston nostalgia. Getting drunk with his college friends, talking to strangers, spilling out onto the streets. Things are different of course. The most notable being Macklin is asked for more photos than he used to be.
That, and he can’t stop thinking about Will.
Okay. So, there’s that. Will. On his mind. But not the way he used to occupy Macklin’s thoughts– not jealous comparisons of their college stats at their respective schools. Not annoyance at his perfect fucking cheekbones or his easy smile. No, today he just sits there in his mind, taking up space. Like a new groove has been etched into Macklin’s brain matter, and it spells out “William Charles Patrick Smith, #2.”
He’s currently off cheering on the actual marathon, opting out of the dayger for the time being. Mack can recall the last few Marathon Mondays he’s celebrated here in Boston. They were always like this; with his friends from BU, at a dayger or a darty or whatever they’re called nowadays, and nowhere near the actual runners.
But in the past, he wasn’t sitting alone on the pavement, thinking about Will Smith when he should be partying. Okay, he was probably thinking about Will back then just as much as he does now. But it was different. It was excusable by the fact that Mack sort of hated him. Only hate never felt like the right word to describe it. It was more like… well, he doesn’t want to call it jealousy. But that’s probably what it was, if he’s being totally honest. Which he often is when he’s drunk. The thing is, he doesn’t feel like that about Will anymore. They’re not Boston rivals, they’re teammates in San Jose. And they’re best friends. Macklin has never had a friend quite like this– not that he hasn’t been this close with anyone before, but that no friend of his has ever occupied his thoughts so frequently.
He should be basking in how good it felt to break Jumbo’s record. He should be reminiscing on how much fun he had playing in San Jose. He should be looking forward to Worlds, which he hasn’t officially committed to, but who is he kidding? He can’t say no. He should be looking forward to the off-season, to training, to making the playoffs next year. And he is doing all of those things. It’s just that they each come with Will Smith. Will holding up the record breaking puck with a big dumb grin on his face. Will in San Jose, picking him up for practice or going to breakfast with him or coming over to watch movies. Will’s end-season media interviews, talking about their summer plans and their hopes for the 2026-27 season. It’s endless. Macklin might have a problem.
“You hanging in there?” someone asks, clapping his shoulder.
“I’m good,” he replies. These sunglasses are at least dimming one of his senses, letting him focus on something other than how blurry his vision has gotten. But it’s not really helping, because it’s just leading him to zone out and think about Will some more. Fuck.
His chest aches a little bit. It’s a sensation he’s all too familiar with. It’s the feeling that closes in around him when he gets drunk enough to stop pushing down the thoughts he’s tried to push away since he was in high school. It’s the feeling that crushes him from every angle when he’s pointedly averting his eyes in any locker room he’s ever existed in. It’s a feeling that sticks to him like cotton falling from trees in Vancouver during early summer. It’s a feeling that coats his every move like that old hoodie he had to throw out after he smoked weed in it that one time. The smell was inescapable. He didn’t realize it wouldn’t ever go away. Not even if he washed it clean or hid it away or tried to pretend it didn’t exist. He hasn’t smoked since, kind of too embarrassed to tell anyone but Smitty. Professional athletes don’t do drugs. Okay, maybe some of them do, but Mack doesn’t want to be one of them. He doesn’t even know why he tried it in the first place. Somewhere inside him, maybe he’d hoped it would reboot his system, give him a revelation of some sort and then he’d finally be able to feel normal. It didn’t.
Mack suddenly feels as though he might throw up. He contemplates it for a moment before the bile in his throat subdues. His chest aches something awful, his stomach hurts, and his head is swimming. But the concrete is cold. It’s cold and real. And Will Smith is calling him.
The profile photo for Will is one Macklin snapped back in October, right after the season started. He’s giving that distinct shy smile towards the camera, pressing his lips together, looking a little embarrassed, with a black backwards cap on his head. Bits of his hair are sticking out under the hat, like little wings, and his ashy eyes are honed in beyond the camera, towards who was behind it. Macklin was.
It could be changed. Mack has got about a million funny or embarrassing photos of Will, photos he knows Will hates. He’s got professional ones of him on the ice, ones of them together, ones of them doing stupid shit. The point is, he has a plethora of photos of Will Smith. And yet he keeps the profile photo this specific shot. It’s such a good photo. It makes Smitty look almost beautiful.
He admires it for too long, and the call goes to voicemail.
Shit. Will’s fault, again. Or maybe it’s Mack’s. He should probably change that profile photo to be something less enticing. He thinks he could stare at that photo for hours. He calls Will back, his face ID deciding to be difficult thanks to the hat and glasses. Whatever.
“Smitty!” he says.
“Hey, man, where are you at?”
His voice is soothing.
“At a house party… somewhere.”
“You with Aiden?”
“I think he’s still inside.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m on the ground.”
There was a small pause.
“The ground?”
“The ground.”
“Okay, I’m gonna call Aiden and figure out where you guys are at.”
Mack certainly couldn’t complain about that. Not one bit, not even if he wanted to. He hears the phone line disconnect, but there’s something comforting about keeping the slightly overheated phone pressed to his ear, where Smitty’s voice was just moments ago. Fuck. He can’t keep doing this. He wonders if Will is coming to party with them or what. A part of him really fucking hopes so. Hopes for an excuse to enter the crowd, drink some more beer, get pressed up against Will amidst the rowdy darty-goers who have no care for personal space.
He should probably address that at some point. But he’s not going to. He’s resigned to sit here on the slightly damp pavement and wait. It’s getting a little uncomfortable, but something about moving from his spot on the ground feels like too much. His head is still swimming, afterall. He feels some weird primal desire for a cigarette.
Aiden appears not long after Mack finally takes the phone away from his ear. He looks entertained, not even the least bit concerned for his very drunk younger brother. He’s grinning down at him, looking almost gleeful.
“How much did you drink?” he asks.
“A bit. Where’s Smitty?”
Aiden shakes his head in an amused sort of way, looking at Macklin a little curiously. It’s a familiar expression, one Mack is far too familiar with. He knows what it means. Aiden is one of the few people he’s confided in about… stuff. He’s the only person that knows more about Macklin than Will. Although, after this past season, he wouldn’t be surprised if Smitty has surpassed him by now.
“Should be here soon. He’s coming to get you.”
“To party?”
“No, to take you back to where you’re staying, dumbass. You’re not gonna last the rest of the day like this.”
Mack finds that to be a bit presumptuous. If he waits long enough for the drunkenness to fade a bit, he’s certain he’ll be fine. Fine enough to start drinking again by the evening. Honestly, it sounds like an ideal day. And again, he deserves to celebrate or drown his lasting olympic/playoff sorrows. On the other hand, getting dragged back to the Airbnb he and Will are sharing downtown and spending the rest of the day together honestly sounds like a much better deal. His sorrows are better drowned with Smitty. When he’s around, it’s like Macklin feels double the effects of any substance he’s ever done or tried.
“I want to stay,” he says decidedly.
“Well, that’s not happening. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough.”
Macklin glares up at him, wincing at the sun through his sunglasses. “Haven’t,” he argues.
“Sure. I’m just sayin’, last time you were this drunk you talked too much.”
He gives Mack a very knowing look, the smug kind of one you could only give to your brother and have him know exactly what it means. And Macklin, of course, knows what Aiden is referring to. Last summer, back in Vancouver, when they got packs of beers and drank, just the two of them, until Mack was on the brink of throwing up and spilled his guts verbally before he could physically. It’s an evening Aiden has never directly brought up with him since. Probably because he knows Macklin wouldn’t entertain the conversation. He’s barely brave enough to think about the things he said that night, let alone talk about them again.
A pair of hands grip him under the arms from behind and haul him up to his feet unexpectedly. His legs take a moment to orient themselves underneath him, one of them half asleep. Jesus, how long was he sitting down for? He turns to see Will standing there, car next to the curb, spinning the keys on his index finger.
“I can walk just fine, you know,” Macklin says immediately. He realizes that the slurring of his words probably doesn’t help his case. Smitty’s skin looks nice.
“And that’s why you’ve been sat on the ground for thirty minutes?”
Mack scoffs. Will is right, of course, but he scoffs anyway.
“You guys good for the rest of the day?” Aiden asks, already sounding like he’s itching to head back into the festivities.
“Sure, sure, we’re fine. I’ll get him back. Bye, Aiden.”
“Thanks, Will!” he calls back, already walking away.
Will takes a look at Macklin, and he tries to ignore the way his chest pounds a bit when they make eye contact. He brushes off his backside, some pieces of gravel and dirt from the ground stuck to him, and looks back up.
“Sure you don’t want to join the fun?” Mack queries, wiggling his eyebrows.
Will shakes his head. “I think I’m good. Come on, bud.”
Mack’s stomach squirms and twists as Will opens the door for him and coaxes him into the passenger seat, reminding him to buckle his seatbelt before he walks around to the other side.
“I’m not that drunk,” Mack complains as he clicks the belt into place.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Will teases, pulling out of the parking lot.
Some pleasant guitar is playing over the radio, and Mack watches longingly as they depart the party. Something feels like it’s clawing its way up his throat, and it’s not physical.
“How was the marathon?”
“It was fun,” Will smiles, drumming his fingers mindlessly over the steering wheel as they weave through traffic and people carrying signs for the marathon.
“Just fun?”
“It was good, Mack, seriously. I’d ask how your party went, but I don’t think I need to.”
“Jesus, you and Aiden act like it’s illegal to drink.”
“It is, Mack. You’re not in Canada.”
“But I’m Canadian…”
Will just laughs and shakes his head. “If only that was how it worked.”
Mack must’ve zoned out or dozed off or something, because the next thing he knows, someone is gently shaking his shoulder. Warm fingers brush the side of his neck. He blinks. The car is stationary, parked crooked on the pavement.
“We’re here, bud,” Will says quietly. “Need help getting out?”
“I’m good,” Mack insists, fumbling with his seatbelt to undo it.
He stumbles into the Airbnb. His urge to throw up has gone away, thank goodness, but his head is still swirling. And his stomach is doing that weird thing, like nerves or adrenaline or something different. Will keeps watching him as he kicks off his shoes, like he’s afraid Mack is going to fall over. He probably will if he doesn’t lay down.
Mack steps over to the kitchen sink, cupping water in his hands and splashing his face with it before drinking straight from the faucet. He’s aware of Will watching him, probably worried at how quickly he hunched over. But Mack knows he’s not going to vomit. Smitty needs to stop being so worried all the time– because that’s all he is. Worried. He’s like a mother hen, constantly making sure everyone else is okay. Mack never gets to pay him back. Just once he wants to drop his gloves for Smitty. Lay someone else out on the ice for a dirty play against his boy. He had that chance once, back when Will got hurt. But that was just a scrum, one he got pulled out of before he could do any real damage.
Lightheadedness hits Mack like a truck, along with a faint ringing in his ears that he only notices once he turns the faucet off. He wipes the water out of his eyes, running a hand through his hair as he straightens up. At some point between the concrete he sat on and getting out of Will’s car, his hat and glasses disappeared. As much as he wants to stay conscious (it is only about 4pm, after all), he knows he needs to lay down. He was basically gone in the car. Better to take a nap now, drink more water later, then go to bed for the rest of the night. If he’s lucky, he won’t have a hangover tomorrow.
He stumbles out of the kitchen and into the nearest bedroom.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Will says, following close behind. “That’s my room.”
“Why does it matter?” Mack grumbles, flopping onto the bed.
Some of Will’s clothes scatter the spread of comforters and throw pillows and wrinkled sheets. The room is a mess already, and they’ve barely been in Boston a few days. This is shocking to Mack– Will always keeps his side of the room spotless on away games. He absentmindedly presses his face into one of Will’s quarter-zips. Mack wore it the other day, but it still smells like Will’s cologne.
“Dude! Outside clothes?”
Mack grumbles again, incoherent words.
“I know you’re drunk, but seriously? If you’re gonna sleep in my bed, at least take your clothes off.”
Mack’s brain does a two-step to register what his best friend has just said. Then he giggles.
“Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean. You’re covered in dirt. I don’t even want to know how you got so gross.”
“Your room is a mess anyways,” Mack replies, but he starts attempting to take off his jersey that barely fits over his hoodie.
“Yeah, it’s messy, not dirty. Jesus, come here,” Will replies impatiently, circling over to the side of the bed so he can reach Mack.
Mack sits up groggily and swings his legs down to the ground, sitting on the edge of the bed next to the cluttered night stand. Will grabs the bottom of Mack’s hoodie and pulls it up and over his shoulders, until he’s just in a loose gray t-shirt. Macklin doesn’t want to think about the way his stomach double flips over at the brush of Will’s hands, the bossy yet attractive demeanor displayed on his face.
“Pants, too. You’re on your own for those.”
Mack doesn’t know what drives him to do it, but he shakes his head, looking up at Will standing over him with pleading eyes.
“I’m comfy like this. Can’t I keep them on?”
His voice sounds a bit like begging, he realizes that as the words escape his mouth. But he knows somewhere in the back of his drunken stupor of a mind that he’s not begging to keep his pants on. He’s begging for Smitty to take them off.
“No, you’ve got mud and gravel all over them. Take them off.”
“But I–”
“Jesus, how drunk are you?” Will sounds almost actually annoyed, but Mack knows him better than that. There’s impatience there in Will’s voice, but he knows when he wakes up sober later, Will is going to chirp at him and laugh with him about all of this.
Each of these thoughts are wiped clean from Macklin’s brain when Will kneels down in front of him, his hands going to the front of Mack’s pants, unbuttoning them excruciatingly slowly. When he’s done, he pulls them roughly down. Mack is a little bit speechless, unsure if this is actually happening or if it’s a drunk fantasy/wet dream of some sort. His boxers stay on, thank fuck, because Mack knows he needs at least a little bit of fabric to protect the fact that he’s got a semi.
“Happy?” he manages out, not daring to meet Will’s eyes.
Will lets out a small huff. “Yes. Now go to bed.”
Mack bites back a grin as he flops back onto the bed, the comfort of the pillows swallowing him immediately. It feels like laying on a cloud. Finally, as his eyes slide shut, the room stops spinning. Though he isn’t sure if it was spinning from all the alcohol he drank, or from the way Will’s hands felt nicking against his skin.
He fades in and out of consciousness, completely unaware of how much time is passing. All he knows is that he blinks barely awake a couple of times and sees several items of interest; a glass of water placed on the bedside table, a travel sized bottle of Advil next to it, the soft vibrations of a low male voice humming a song, and the pressure on the mattress, creating a dip as someone settles next to him.
When he wakes sober (without a headache, thank fuck) his head is pushed into the crook of someone’s neck, an arm wrapped around him, fingers brushing over his bicep, a face buried into his hair, their warm breath teasing his scalp every couple of seconds. It is, quite possibly, the most comfortable he’s ever felt. It must be dusk. That would explain the light outside. He couldn’t have been asleep for too long. There is quiet music playing from the other room, so Smitty must’ve put that on not long ago. It then clicks for him that the person he’s cuddled up with is Will.
Will, who is also in his boxers and t-shirt, who is basically as good as cuddling Mack, whose dick is currently hard and straining against the plaid fabric of his briefs. The simple sight of it is enough to awaken Mack fully, and make him aware of his own “morning wood” even though it is anything but morning. He considers what kind of conversation might follow waking up cuddling with your best friend, both sporting considerate hard-ons, wearing barely any real clothes. It is not a conversation he is brave enough to have. Which means he really has to take care of this… well, this.
If he can make it to the bathroom without waking Will up, he can rub one out quickly, maybe whip up some food, put on sweatpants, act like he’s busy nursing a hangover and not hiding how horny he is for Will Smith. He’s trying not to think about how they ended up like this– how Will must’ve grabbed the water, thinking of Mack as he did, how he must’ve stripped off his own clothes and climbed into bed with him when he could’ve gone to Mack’s room, or even the couch. No, he chose to slide in next to him, not even climbing under the covers, probably so as not to wake him up. And he wrapped his arms around Mack, deliberately, while he was still asleep. It’s a gentle comfort Mack just can’t explain, especially not now that he’s sober.
So he shifts slowly, hoping to slide out unnoticed, because the twist in his gut is not caused by alcohol, and he needs to get himself under control. Splash his face with cold water again and remind himself that this– all of this, whatever it is, isn’t okay. Will is– he’s good. He’s placed high on a pedestal above anyone else, with his ashy eyes and his blonde hair and a smile that could wreck anyone. He shouldn’t be here, unknowingly holding Mack’s heart in his palms. It’s not fair. Mack needs to sink, back down to where he belongs, where thoughts like this can’t touch him.
Just as he moves Will stirs, pulling him in closer.
“Are you awake?” Mack dares to whisper.
“Comfy,” Will mutters back, his groggy sleep voice sending Mack right back to their last away game, and how Smitty sounds right when he wakes up. Mack doesn’t bother putting up a fight. He settles back down, breathing in and out slowly, willing him not to think desirable thoughts about Will. Sometimes it’s like someone is infiltrating Macklin’s mind, ignoring every instinct he has of self preservation, and telling him to envision a future where the witty smile Will often flashes him is one of love beyond friendship. It’s torture.
“I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” Mack whispers.
A lie, of course, but he just can’t stand this. His heart hammering against his ribs, his intestines knotting up, his face smushed into the warm crease of Will’s neck. All he wants to do is slide in closer, cover Will’s body with his own, suck softly on the sensitive skin under his jaw, pepper his face with kisses, leave bite marks on his shoulder.
“Mmph,” Will responds, releasing his arm from around Mack.
He picks himself up and practically sprints to the bathroom.
His face is red and hot, his hair is a crumpled mess, his t-shirt is wrinkled. He looks flustered. And he’s hard. He splashes his face, leaving the faucet running for a few extra seconds so Will thinks he’s actually using the bathroom.
His hard-on won’t go away. And Jesus, it’s fucking embarrassing, but he can’t actually rub one out quietly. No matter how much he’s tried before, and he has tried– to stay quiet, that is– he just can’t.
So he returns to the room, his eyelids still a bit heavy but not as bad as before the cool water, praying Will has returned to his slumber.
But he hasn’t.
He’s sitting a bit more upright when Mack walks in, almost in waiting. And his eyes flicker with the same sort of fire Mack recognizes from the way he watches the puck during a close game. His eyes ripple downwards, unmistakably noticing Mack’s dick, which has unhelpfully gone fully alert.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“Yeah,” Will breathes out as Mack steps closer. “You hungover?”
“Nope,” he replies, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Are you still tired?”
Macklin shrugs. “Nah."
Will nods his head slowly, his eyes trailing down over Mack’s torso, across his arms and finally meeting his eyes.
“What?” Mack asks, because he needs some acknowledgement that something really has changed. They’ve never cuddled during a nap together before, never held each other softly like that. Mack was drunk. That’s his excuse. What’s Will’s?
“Nothing, just…”
“What?” he asks impatiently, almost daring for an answer he’s not sure he’s quite ready to hear yet.
Smitty just looks at him– really looks at him– and his eyes have turned unreadable, not a single crease on his face giving away what he’s thinking.
“Come here.”
Mack obliges, though unsure what he’s being beckoned for. He climbs back onto the bed, back next to Will.
“We going back to bed?”
“I’m not tired.”
“No?”
He faces him, resting down on the sage green throw pillow that’s too hard, designed just for decoration, not actually to be slept on. Mack thinks he can feel the heat radiating off of Will’s skin. He always likes to be warm. He wears layers on top of layers, cranks up the thermostat constantly, blasts warm air in his car. And his skin is always pleasantly warm, except the tips of his fingers, which often turn white from lack of blood flow, especially when he straps his gloves too tight for a game, which Will always does. He never learns. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Will isn’t a very superstitious player, but there are things in his routine he’s never changed, not since the day they officially met at Dev Camp.
“Turn over,” Will commands lightly, and Macklin obeys.
Will wraps an arm around him, sliding another under the pillow, slotting Mack’s back against his front, spooning him delicately. Goosebumps erupt down Mack’s spine at the casual movement of it all, like they’ve done this a thousand times before even though they certainly haven’t.
Mack can’t remember the last time he’s deliberately cuddled like this with someone, let alone as the little spoon. He feels cradled in a way that sends him back to childhood for a moment, when physical touch was so normal and not something he felt like he had to guard unless it was being used as a weapon. He can’t quite pinpoint the moment that changed. Probably sometime between when hockey turned from his hobby into his lifestyle.
Will lifts his hand and rakes it through Mack’s hair softly, his fingers scraping his scalp. He practically dissolves at the touch. It’s soft and comforting and definitely not something best friends do. He feels Will’s breath on the back of his neck, slow and steady.
“Thought you weren’t tired anymore,” Macklin mumbles. He isn’t either, though he’s sure he could be lulled easily.
“M’not.”
“So what are we doing?”
The question sounds a bit more loaded than Mack intends it to be. But he’s sure Will understands the intention behind it.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Mack doesn’t have to consider his answer. “No.”
He expects Smitty to keep combing through his hair, but he pulls his arm away slowly and brings it lower, slinging it over Mack’s waist. He keeps it there for a moment, but Mack can sense the hesitation in his actions. His arm is tensed and the muscles feel flexed, like he hasn’t fully relaxed it yet.
“Do you want me to stop?” Will asks again, directly into Mack’s ear, the vibration from his vocal chords and the brush of his lips on Mack’s earlobe sounding like a song he could play on repeat forever.
“No,” he whispers.
He isn’t quite sure what he’s agreed to, but it becomes abundantly clear when Will moves his hand lower, hovering slightly, until he presses a flat palm to Macklin’s dick.
Mack lets out a small gasp before he can keep it in.
One more time, with his voice lower and seductive unlike Mack has ever heard it before, Will speaks.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Mack feels a hot flush rise up his cheeks. The thought of telling Will “no, keep going, keep touching me, I want your hands on me,” is so embarrassing because it’s Will– he shouldn’t want Will like this. He hesitates. Is indulging in what he wants– no needs– going to fuck everything up?
“Mack?” Will whispers, pulling his hand away instantly.
“No,” Mack says, a beat too late.
He can sense the pause in Will’s demeanor, even though he can’t see his face.
“Are you–”
“Will,” Mack whines, and he’s surprised at how desperate he sounds.
“I’m sorry, I–”
Jesus, he’s not making himself clear enough. He sounds uncomfortable, uneasy. He doesn’t sound like he’s dying to have Will put his hand back on his dick.
“Touch me, please,” he manages out, reaching backwards, blindly grabbing Will’s hand and pushing it back to where it was.
This time Will doesn’t hesitate, and Mack can’t hold back the noises that escape him as Will’s hand dives under his boxers, pumping him slowly. It’s dry, too dry. If this were any normal hookup, Macklin would get impatient immediately. He’d tell the girl to spit on her hand, get instantly annoyed at the lack of technique. But this is different. This is Will– his Will.
He drags his thumb over Macklin’s tip, spreading around precome until Mack instinctively pushes backwards, simultaneously trying to escape the overstimulation and press back against Will’s extremely hard dick.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
Will attaches his lips to Mack’s neck, kissing and biting and sucking.
Without warning he pulls his hand away, pulling Mack flat on his back and climbing on top. He rests on Mack’s thighs, looking him in the face for the first time. Those ashy eyes. Jesus. Mack is so fucked. Wordlessly, Will folds down Mack’s boxers until his dick is free, resting on his stomach, fully erect and dripping. He does the same to himself, then leans forward as if it’s the most routine thing he’s ever done, and kisses Macklin.
And this kiss is– oh. It’s everything Mack’s been imagining since Dev Camp. It’s everything he’s convinced himself he hasn’t been dreaming about since they played each other in college. Will’s tongue slides into his mouth easily like it pokes out when he’s concentrated. And when he moves even closer, crushing their bodies and dicks together, Macklin feels like he’s ascended to another planet entirely. Scratch that, another universe.
“Smitty,” Mack manages out. “Please.”
He can’t possibly put it into words, just prays that Will understands. Which he does. He pulls back and finally– finally spits into his hand, not once breaking their eye contact.
Suddenly Macklin is at center ice, leaning low over his stick, staring Will Smith in the eyes as he prepares for their first face. He should be waiting for the puck. But instead he’s waiting for Smith to blink first.
Will slides their dicks together, pumping slowly over the both of them. His hand can barely fit around them, but Mack can’t possibly find it in him to care. He places his hands on either side of Will’s hips, squeezing tightly, reveling in the way his skin feels, feeling the rise of his climax etch closer.
Will is making noises, ones that make Mack’s stomach flip over in the best way possible, choking on the words that squeeze out of his mouth.
“Jesus, Smit– fuck–”
He’s tumbling over the edge before he can realize it, before he can stop himself to make this last longer. A moment later, Will is slumping over him, obscenities spilling out in between the kisses he latches to Macklin’s neck. His hand stills, his breathing heavy as his body weight settles on Mack.
“Oh, my God,” Mack whispers, unsure who he’s declaring it to.
“Are you okay?” Will asks, his face still buried in his neck.
Macklin puts his hands on either side of Will’s face, bringing him up to face him, cupping his cheeks softly.
And he kisses him again, because words seem like a feeble attempt to explain how he’s feeling, and well… A kiss seems like answer enough.