Archive of Our Own

You Drew Stars

The Sharks had to win four out of the next five games to get to the playoffs. One more loss than that and the hope of playoffs was gone. They had to score almost every last fucking point to survive.

Halfway through the first one, it already felt like the whole season was slipping through Mack’s fingers.

Everyone knew they were playing at gunpoint. Every mistake might as well be the one that killed their chances, the one that threw away everything they’d worked for.

The bench was chaotic. Warsofsky barking orders. Teammates snapping at each other. The crowd turned restless and mean. Every missed pass drew a groan. Every turnover felt like a personal accusation.

The group that was usually a well‑oiled machine was cracking under the pressure. They carried the whole reputation of the franchise on their shoulders, but the harder they tried, the further away everything seemed to slip.

Warsofsky was losing his mind. Line changes were a mess. They were missing more passes than they made. Panic clung to the bench like thick smoke that made it impossible to breathe.

And every time Mack’s skates hit the ice, it was because the coach shoved him over the boards like he was the only one who could fix this. The only one who was supposed to. The future is teal, they said. The future is him.

Mack was the one who was supposed to save them.

But tonight, Mack looked like he was drowning in it.

His shoulders had been tense all day, and he’d barely said a word to his boyfriend sitting restlessly beside him. Will knew Mack better than Mack knew himself. He knew exactly how much pressure Mack felt, how it made him nauseous, how it made him go nonverbal when it got too heavy. Mack felt everything too much.

Every mistake felt louder. Every groan from the crowd felt personal. Every glare from the bench hit harder. Every shift he took was too long, and everyone he didn’t take felt like a failure.

Mack never played like this, not when he wasn’t weighed down by the whole world. But today wasn’t most days. Today he needed to win. And he wasn’t playing like Macklin fucking Celebrini.

He played with heavy legs and blank eyes, with slow reactions and missed passes, flinching at every noise from the crowd as if each one was aimed straight at him, hitting like bullets to the chest.

Will usually knew exactly what Mack needed.

Not today.

When Mack wasn’t on the ice, he was deep in his head, staring into nothing. Distant in his mind but physically close. He shoved his way through the bench to sit right next to Will, their bodies pressed together, but he answered Will with a single word at most. He wouldn’t take the tablet. Wouldn’t take smelling salts. Wouldn’t take anything.

No contact. No spark. No sign of life.

And it terrified Will.

Mack kept skating until his lungs burned. He left every bit of himself out there on the ice, and maybe that was why it hurt so much, why it felt so personal. With every shift, he left a little more of his heart out there, splayed open and skated over until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Mack wanted to feel something. Anything.

So he skated harder. Threw more weight into every step. Every battle. Every shot. It only made him play worse. Messier. More unpredictable.

They reached the third period after Mack completely zoned out during the second intermission. He barely registered the yelling, the blame, the panic in the room. He just sat there, staring at the wall with dead eyes and a hollow gaze that could make grown men terrified.

Two shifts into the third, he finally felt something.

Mack got shoved into the boards hard enough to rattle his bones. It hurt, but it hurt good. For a few seconds, he escaped his own mind. He needed more, craved it. Craved the relief of anything that wasn’t the suffocating pressure.

He dropped his gloves.

And with a smile on his face, he threw a punch with his whole body behind it.

He wasn’t up against some small, scrappy player. He was up against the other team’s fighter, the one whose whole job was chaos.

The guy smirked and something in Mack lit up. He wanted that hit. I wanted it like oxygen.

The punch landed square in his face. Then another, and another.

Mack could defend himself.

He knew how to. He’d grown up with an older brother. It was in his DNA as the younger sibling in a competitive family. He knew how to fight, how to defend himself, how to make grown men cry.

But he didn’t defend himself.

He took hit after hit, smiling through it, welcoming the pain because at least it was something. Something he understood. Something he could file away. 

Pain he could deal with.

Numbness, he couldn’t.

The crowd roared. The team panicked. Will froze. And Mack looked empty, empty with a smile on his face.

It ended as fast as it started, having the referees throw their own bodies in the middle of it. 

The other player went to the penalty box while Mack lazily made his way to the bench in no hurry.

The team medics wiped the blood from his face and taped the cut on his cheek before pressing ice to it.

Will didn’t leave his side. He hovered, terrified at the sight of Mack being hurt, terrified over why Mack didn't protect himself, terrified of what was going on in that fucked up head.

What he couldn’t understand was why Mack looked… relaxed.

Will had watched the pressure build for days. I watched Mack go silent. I watched him tense up, zone out, flicker between fear and exhaustion.

But now?

Now there was something different. Something looser.

As long as the pain throbbed in his face and fists, Mack could breathe again.

That was all the clarity he needed before stepping onto the ice for the final shift of the game, thirty‑six seconds left, when he sank the puck into the net.

It was a goal heavier than any he’d ever scored.

And he couldn’t even be happy as the team flew off the bench and hugged him with relief and excitement.

Mack felt none of that. All he got was a few minutes of easier breathing before the next game. Another game under gunpoint. Another one he had to win.

The locker room is a strange mix of celebration and dread. They won, but everyone knows they have to reset fast. Two days until the next game. Two days until the pressure starts all over again.

Mack can’t breathe. He can’t calm down. His mind is already racing ahead to the next game, and the one after that, and the one after that. Every thought feels like a weight pressing down on his chest. A part of him gets angry at the celebration around him. Angry at the teammates who can laugh and joke and live in the moment when he feels like he’s suffocating. But they don’t have the same pressure he does. They weren’t drafted as the one who was supposed to fix everything.

Will pulls him into a hug, dragging him slightly away from the center of the room. Mack almost pulls back, but Will only holds him tighter. Will knows exactly how hard this game was for him. When Mack realizes Will isn’t letting go, he melts into the hug, burying his face in Will’s shoulder. Will can feel the tension in every muscle, the anger, the fear, the exhaustion.

“Macky, we’ll get through this together,” Will whispers. Mack presses his face deeper into the crook of Will’s neck.

The team usually chirps them whenever they get within six feet of each other, which is always, but not today. Everyone knows this isn’t the moment to joke around. Not if they want to keep their heads attached to the rest of their bodies.

Will wipes away a tear Mack didn’t even know he had shed. For a second, Will sees something in Mack’s eyes that looks like the boy he loves. Mack breathes a little easier as they walk toward the bench, but the second he sits down, the pressure crashes back over him like a cold wave.

Players shower and leave at their own pace. Some linger, some rush out. Will and Mack are usually the last ones, messing around, laughing, wasting time. Not today. Mack is quick, almost frantic, wanting to get out of the rink. Will adapts without question.

They say a few goodbyes and leave in Will’s car.

“My place or yours?” Will asks quietly as they approach the turn.

“Yours,” Mack whispers.

They barely speak for the rest of the night. Mack goes straight to Will’s room and drops onto the bed. Usually they’d watch a movie, eat cookies with milk, argue about which Taylor Swift song fits the game best. Not tonight.

“Tired?” Will asks softly, hovering over him.

Mack hums.

“Physically or mentally?” Will asks, brushing a hand through Mack’s still damp hair.

“Please,” Mack whines, voice cracking.

“Yeah, I know, baby,” Will whispers, climbing into bed beside him.

He guides Mack up to the pillows and pulls the covers around them. They’re both still in sweatpants and hoodies from the rink, and Will doesn’t push him to change. He just wraps his arms around Mack from behind, kissing his temple, holding him tight until Mack’s breathing evens out.

Mack doesn’t fall asleep. Not for hours. Every pass, every missed shot, every turnover replays in his mind. He replays losses from earlier in the season, dissecting every mistake, every moment that could have changed where they are right now.

Mack stays at Will’s place the next day, their one day of breathing before its game-day again. They watch movies, bake (well, Will bakes and Mack sits on the counter watching), try to do anything that might distract him. But it always ends with Mack draped over Will, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Will is his safe place. His anchor. The only thing that keeps him grounded in the long, terrifying wait for the next game.

Mack sleeps half the day and panics for the rest. He barely talks. He watches game tape until his eyes burn. He stays awake at night replaying every game he’s ever played while Will sleeps beside him.

Will doesn’t mind when Mack gets agitated. He knows Mack loves him. He lets him be annoyed. Let him snap about his clothes not fitting right. Let him be mad at traffic, mad at the world. Will just pulls him into tighter hugs each time, and Mack melts into them every single time.

And for a moment, it feels like love might be enough to hold him together.

But the clocks tick faster than he would have liked. Evening approaches, another night before a game and Mack is really feeling this one.

Mack doesn’t sleep, but Will does, curled around him like he’s trying to hold the pieces of him together. Mack listens to his breathing, steady and soft, and it’s the only thing that keeps him from spiraling completely off the edge. He stays still for hours, letting Will’s warmth anchor him, letting himself pretend, just for a moment, that everything is okay.

When morning comes, Will wakes up first. He always does. He presses a kiss to the back of Mack’s shoulder, gentle and slow, like he’s afraid Mack might shatter if he moves too fast.

“Morning” Will whispers.

Mack hums, barely audible, pretending to have been asleep, but he leans back into Will’s chest. That’s enough. That’s everything.

Will coaxes him out of bed with soft touches and quiet words. He makes breakfast, even though Mack only picks at it. Will doesn’t push. He just sits beside him, knee pressed against Mack’s, hand resting on his thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Mack doesn’t say a single word all morning, but he stays close, practically glued to Will’s side.

They spend the day together.

Movies playing in the background to try and quiet down the noises going on in Mack's head.

Mack stretched across Will like a weighted blanket with Will running his fingers through Mack’s hair until he felt at least some of the tension melt out of him, piece by piece.

It’s the softest Mack has been in days. But Will also knows that a really soft Mack is a warning sign. It's the sign that Mack is trying really hard, grasping on to anything and everything to stay somewhat out of his messy brain. And that something is always Will.

At one point, Will shifts slightly and Mack's eyes shoot up, grabbing Will's waist to hold him down. Mack presses his forehead to Will’s chest. “Don’t go,” he whispers, voice small and cracked.

It's the first words he has said all day.

“I won’t,” Will promises, kissing the top of his head. “Not today. Not ever.”

Mack breathes out, shaky but real. Will holds him tighter.

This usually works. It usually gets Mack to calm down, to make him feel like he can breathe again whenever he breathes Will's air. But not today.

It's supposed to give him a few hours where it feels like the world has stopped. Like the pressure isn’t crushing him. Like he can breathe again.

But not today. Right now, all he can think about is the fact they have a game in a few hours that they have to get ready for. A game they can't lose.

The alarm rings on Mack's phone. The alarm that was supposed to wake them up from their pre-game nap that they never took.

Mack’s body tenses under Will’s hands.

The weight comes crashing down even harder.

Will feels it the second Mack’s breathing changes.

“Hey,” Will murmurs, cupping his jaw and turning his face toward him. “I’m right here.”

Mack nods, but his eyes are already far away, already on the ice, already drowning in the what‑ifs and the must‑wins and the fear of failing again.

Will kisses him, slow and grounding. Mack kisses back like he needs it to survive.

“Macky, five more minutes and then we get up, okay?” Will whispers against his lips, “we face it together.”

Mack swallows hard and blinks a tear away. “Okay.”

Will pulls him into one last tight hug, holding him like he’s trying to keep him from slipping through his fingers.

The arena lights. The noise. The pressure. The panic creeping in harder than ever.

Mack’s heart is pounding as they step into the locker room. Most of the team is already there, and the tension hangs thick in the air, a heavy haze no one can shake off.

They move through the usual gameday routine: warmups, a round of sewerball, a couple of motivational speeches that never land, and a long strategy talk from Warso. Will listens to every word, terrified of being the reason they lose. He wants to win, of course he does, but more than anything, he wants to win because he’s not sure Mack could survive another loss right now.

Mack, meanwhile, can’t absorb a single thing. His mind is racing a million miles an hour and somehow standing completely still at the same time. Everything is foggy. Everything is noise. Nothing sticks.

But the world doesn’t slow down just because Mack’s does.

Before he knows it, he’s stepping out into the roaring arena. The crowd is deafening. The lights are blinding. He barely registers the first three minutes of play until an opposing player slams into him hard enough to snap him back into his body.

The hit stings, throbs, and for one brief second, the pain cuts through the haze.

He misses it the moment it fades.

Mack throws a punch back, feeling the pain shoot up his arm like a jolt of electricity. The other player takes the bait, and Mack’s face lights up when he sees him drop his gloves. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation.

He doesn’t fight back.

He just lets himself get hit.

Every punch knocks loose a little more of the panic choking him. Every blow gives him one second of clarity. One second of breathing room. One second where the pressure isn’t crushing him.

He lets himself get punched until his back hits the ice and the refs and teammates rush in to break it up.

Will never fights, Mack always says his face is too pretty to risk, but seeing Mack get beaten is the one thing that will drag Will into a fight. He’s the first one there, grabbing Mack, pulling him up, checking him over.

There’s a smear of blood on Mack’s cheekbone, but that’s not what terrifies Will.

It’s the smile.

The ref sends the other guy to the box, and Will follows Mack to the bench, hovering while the team doctor wipes the blood from his face. The Sharks waste their power play, and the other team keeps pushing, piling on the pressure.

Frustration builds with every missed shot, every turnover, every sloppy goal they give up.

Mack doesn’t even celebrate when he scores at the end of the first period.

They head back to the locker room down 1–4, and Mack is spiraling. He rips off his gloves and throws them into his stall before collapsing onto the bench with a thud. Some teammates flinch when he passes, others are too lost in their own panic to notice.

The tone in the room is the same as last game, desperate, frantic, suffocating. They all know they’re playing with a loaded gun to their heads. They have to win. There is no other option.

No one wants to blame each other, but stress makes people sharp, and the edges start to show. Voices rise. Some guys try to motivate the room. Others mutter about mistakes. Warso tries to shout over the chaos.

Nothing helps.

The buzzer blares, calling them back to the ice. They’re nowhere near ready, but the game won’t wait.

Will tries to catch Mack’s eye, tries to check in, but Mack’s gaze is a million miles away. Will can’t reach him.

Another puck drop. Another twenty minutes of skating until your lungs burn and your legs give out.

Mack is stuck somewhere between his brain and reality. He skates fast but thinks slow. His vision lags behind the speed of the game, and every pass he sends across the ice is just a little off. He loses pucks. Missed shots. He and Will can’t find each other on the ice at all.

The Sharks play agitated, stressed, ugly.

But Mack makes sure he’s the first one into every fight.

He realizes that if he throws a lazy punch after the whistle, he can bait someone into hitting him back, and earn the team a power play. But as the game goes on, he stops caring about the strategy. He just can’t keep himself out of trouble.

He throws punches, smiling as the pain shoots up his arm, waiting for the hit that will knock the panic out of him. He craves every punch like it’s oxygen, and a part of him is genuinely disappointed when the refs break things up too quickly.

Will looks at him with fear in his eyes every time he helps his increasingly bloody boyfriend off the ice. But Mack won’t meet his gaze. He just skates away, searching for the next hit.

And the terrifying thing is, it works.

Every new blow clears his mind a little more. Every bruise sharpens his focus. Every penalty box shift resets him.

The Sharks start taking over the game again as Mack plays with a clarity that only pain seems to give him. The opposing team keeps taking Mack’s bait, landing themselves in the box over and over. Mack threads perfect passes, nails his defensive reads, and before he knows it, he’s sinking pucks into the net like it’s nothing.

Any time the team stresses him out, a bad play, a sloppy turnover, a missed assignment, Mack throws himself harder into the nearest opposing player. Any pain works. A cross‑check. A shove into the boards. A slash across the arm. A fist to the jaw. Anything that gives him one second of air.

The clock winds down. The horn blares, signaling the end of the second period.

A 4–4 tie lightens the mood for almost everyone.

But not for Mack.

It doesn’t matter that he scored two of the goals and assisted on a third. It doesn’t matter that he dragged them back into the game with sheer force of will and bruised knuckles.

He still feels like he hasn’t done enough.

And when the team looks at him, it's with terror in their eyes.

Mack looks feral. Two band-aids on his cheek, a scrape on his chin, pupils blown so wide they’re almost entirely black. He’s vibrating with something sharp and dangerous.

Toff tries to rally the team, but it’s obvious they’re not playing like themselves. They’re not a unit. They’re a panicked mess of individuals who’ve forgotten how to move as one.

On the way back out, Toff grabs Mack’s shoulder and pulls him aside.

“Hey, Macky,” Toff says, stepping in front of him.

Mack refuses eye contact, tries to push past him, but Toff doesn’t budge.

“No. You listen to me now, kid.” Toff’s voice is stern, steady. “I know you’re stressing the fuck out. But you can’t keep throwing yourself into every single fight out there. It won’t help anyone.”

Mack doesn’t respond, doesn’t blink. He just stares straight through Toff like he’s not even there.

Toff’s expression shifts, worry, real worry. He’s never seen Mack like this.

He glances over at Will, silently asking for help.

Will shakes his head. Let him go.

Toff squeezes Mack’s shoulder once before stepping aside. Mack walks past him without a word, heading back toward the ice like he’s being pulled by gravity.

Toff watches him for a second, then exhales hard and follows.

Will catches up to Toff in the tunnel. Toff grabs his arm, stopping him.

“What’s going on with Mack?” Toff asks.

“Not sure,” Will says, voice tight. “He’s just… stressed. And I can’t get him out of it.”

Toff nods slowly.

“Did he answer you when you talked to him?” Will asks, sounding small, like he’s bracing for the worst.

“Yeah. No. Not a word.”

“Fuck,” Will breathes. “It’s bad, Toff. This is really bad.”

“Yeah.” Toff pulls him into a quick side hug. “But don’t worry. We’ll get through to him. We just have to get out there and win this game first.”

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Warso yells from the end of the tunnel.

Will takes a deep breath and steps back into the roaring arena.

Mack is already on the ice, drifting in slow circles, eyes unfocused. The look on his face before puck drop makes Will freeze, but the whistle blows, and the game starts whether they’re ready or not.

Mack tries too hard. Too fast. Too much. He’s skating like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.

They don’t even make it through the first shift before the other team scores off yet another missed pass from Mack.

Mack sees red.

He doesn’t go to the bench. He stays out, slamming into every player he can reach until he finds an excuse, any excuse, to start a fight after the whistle.

He throws his gloves and turns to the guy he just crushed into the boards.

“Can’t hit harder than that?” Mack taunts, smiling a smile that makes the other player hesitate. “Come on. Let me have it.”

The other guy obliges. Hard.

Mack takes the hit, then another, and another. He doesn’t back down. He throws a few punches of his own, but mostly he just lets himself get hit until blood is running from his nose and the ref drags him toward the penalty box.

It’s not his last visit there tonight. He loses track, third? Fourth? It doesn’t matter. The team kills the penalties while Mack sits in the box, chest heaving, mind finally quiet.

His body hurts so badly it leaves no room for anything else. And every time he steps out of the box, he plays better. Sharper. Clearer.

He sets up plays. He takes control. He drags the Sharks back from 4–6, then 5–6 and 6-6.

But the second the pain fades and the pressure creeps back in, he throws himself into another fight.

He’s unpredictable. He’s terrifying. But in his mind, the pain helps.

The penalties fuel him. The hits clear his head. The bruises let him breathe.

Will helps him up after every fight, hands shaking, eyes wide with fear, pleading words that never make it to Mack's ears, but Mack won’t look at him. He just skates away, searching for the next hit.

And somehow, through the chaos, through the panic, through the blood and the bruises and the spiraling, the Sharks claw their way back.

Will scores the final goal with three minutes left.

For a moment, he feels like maybe he’s good enough to help Mack get what he needs.

The team celebrates the win in the locker room but the second Mack walks through the doors it's like oxygen is sucked out of the room.

Mack doesn't look happy, relieved maybe, but definitely not celebrating.

Everyone looks at him with fear in their eyes, not sure how to handle this. 

They don't know whether to congratulate him for his points, thank him for giving his all out there, or if they would get beaten up over it.

Mack doesn't say a word, not to anyone, not even to Will.

He just starts stripping out of his gear, turned toward his cubicle.

Will audibly gasps as Mack takes his shirt off.

The scene under there is worse than anything he could have imagined.

The bruises are already blooming. Red turning purple. Dark bruises all over his ribs. A smear of dried blood running from his throat and down his chest, probably from when he got a punch to the nose. 

Will knows it’ll look ten times worse tomorrow. 

A few teammates instinctively look over, but Toff’s sharp glare snaps their attention back to their own stalls. No one wants to make this worse. 

Mack still doesn't look at Will. It's like he doesn't see him.

“Macky” Will says quietly, sounding small.

Mack doesn't turn around, doesn't realize Will is talking.

Will stares at Mack's back with growing desperation and panic.

He presses his thumb into one of the bruises at Mack's side, not to hurt him but to get some kind of attention.

Mack flinches. The pain snaps him back.

He turns, finally meeting Will’s eyes. And the sight destroys Will.

Mack’s face is blank. Empty. Like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

Will looks just as wrecked, fear, heartbreak, helplessness all tangled together. Mack can’t handle seeing that expression on the face of the boy he loves more than anything.

Mack’s gaze softens immediately.

He forces a tiny smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and lifts a hand to Will’s cheek, wiping away a tear Will didn’t even know had fallen.

“Mack…” Will breathes, even softer this time, like the word itself hurts.

Mack steps closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. The room is loud again, showers running, guys talking, skates clattering, but around them, it feels silent.

Will’s hands hover at Mack’s waist, not touching, waiting for permission.

Mack leans in first.

Their lips meet in the softest, saddest kiss they’ve ever shared.

Not hungry. Not playful. Not relieved. Just… broken.

It's the kind of kiss that just makes you want to break down crying. The kiss that is the last straw they have to grasp at to keep afloat.

They never kiss in front of the team, barely hold hands. That's the things they keep to themselves. 

It's too messy for everyone involved to have a couple in a team, but this is different. This is not about being unable to handle themselves. This is a desperate attempt to keep them both alive right now.

Will cups Mack’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of a bruise. Mack kisses him back like he’s trying to memorize the feeling, like he’s terrified he won’t get another chance.

When they pull apart, Mack’s breath shakes.

“I’m okay,” he lies, voice barely audible.

Will shakes his head, eyes shining. “No, you’re not.”

Mack swallows hard. “I will be.”

Will wants to argue. I want to beg him to stay. Wants to drag him home and hold him until the panic stops eating him alive.

But Mack steps back.

Just an inch.

Just enough to break the moment.

“I need to go home tonight,” Mack whispers, breaking their eye contact.

Will’s heart drops. “Mack—”

“Please,” Mack says, and it’s the softest, most fragile sound Will has ever heard from him. “I just… I need to be alone.”

Will closes his eyes, fighting the instinct to pull him close again. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, baby.”

Mack nods once, like he’s grateful and ashamed at the same time.

Will helps him pull his hoodie on, hands gentle, careful not to touch the bruises. Mack lets him, leaning into the touch for half a second before stepping away again.

“I'll drive you home,” Will says with sadness and worry in his voice.

Mack nodded once and started walking, closely followed by Will.

Mack kept his gaze glued to the floor, not wanting to face the terror he had inflicted on the team that night.

Will drives him home. The car is deafeningly quiet the whole way home.

They should be celebrating, and should be happy over the win. But they aren't.

Mack is too afraid of the last three games, feeling the pressure fall on him heavier and heavier for every second that passes.

Will is too afraid that he won't be able to keep Mack together until then. Afraid that Mack is just a ticking time bomb, threatening to go off at any moment.

When the car comes to a stop, Mack gives Will one last look, tired, scared, apologetic, then opens his door, stepping out into the night.

“I'll take an Uber to the rink tomorrow,” Mack says. Pretty sure he isn't showing up tomorrow.

The door closes behind him before Will has a chance to say goodnight. Before he has a chance to tell him to please take care of himself.

Will finds himself all alone in that car and he can just feel something inside him crack right open.

Mack doesn't show up.

Will texts Mack the second practice begins, no answer.

“Hey Will, wheres Mack” Ecky asks as Will gets out on the ice alone.

“Don't know” Will says, voice small and fragile like he is holding back much more.

“Oh, sorry. I just thought that he came here with you” Ecky apologizes, realizing he stirred up more than he had meant to.

Will skates away, afraid of starting to cry.

Will can't get his mind to focus on anything other than the fact that Mack isn't there.

Dicky assures him that Mack probably just overslept or something, which isn't too crazy for Mack to do. But Will knows that given the state of Mack these last few days, the situation could be much worse than that.

Will keeps to himself during practice. Not saying a lot of words.

He makes stupid mistakes he never does out on the ice during practice. He just feels out of place there when he doesn't have Mack to skate around with, giggling.

Toff notices, he always does.

He skates up to Will as they are waiting for their turn on a drill halfway through the practice.

“Hey kid” Toff says, throwing his arm around Will, giving him a squeeze that says, "I'm here.

Will just looks up at Toff with his worried sad eyes.

“Want me to join you to check up on Mack after practice?” Toff asks. “M guessing you haven't heard from him” He continues, reading the situation very well.

“It's fine, thanks” Will says, voice small. “I… I think that this is something that I have to do alone” He explains with tears in his eyes.

Toff hugs Will tighter and a tear falls down Will's cheek.

“Toff, I… I don't know whats wrong with him” Will shakes “He never shuts me out like this. Not this badly” 

“Aw Will” Toffs voice breaks a little.

“Yeah” Will breathes.

Toff can't tell him that it will be alright. Can't tell him that they will figure this out, that they can fix it. Because Toff isn't sure of that himself, and there is no way he could convince Will of it when he is having doubts about it himself.

Will just goes through the motions for the rest of practice. Looking up at the clock, counting down the minutes, the seconds until he gets to leave.

After what felt like the longest practice in his whole career, Will hurries out to the locker room faster than he ever has.

He strips out of all his gear and he can't be bothered with showering.

Will just needs to get to Mack's place absolutely right now.

He drives a fair bit over the speed limit, cutting through every yellow traffic light to get there as quickly as humanly possible.

Will don't even park the car, he just pulls into the driveway and shuts his car off before jumping out of it, running up to Mack's door.

He uses his own set of keys to get into the place.

Will throws the door open and is hit with darkness that drags the oxygen out of his lungs.

The whole tone in there is off. It's still dark, things are all over the place. 

There are dirty dishes sitting out, overflowing the sink with plates that are still half full and completely dried up.

Will is in a hurry to get to Mack, yet he can't seem to walk. Will is just stuck halfway through the front door, looking around the place, trying to remember when the last time he was there was.

He hadn't thought anything of it. They usually spent a bit more time at Wills place anyway, but now that he sees the state of Mack's place he remembers that he hadn't been there in the last month.

A low rustling sound from the bedroom throws Will out of his frozen state.

Will walks through the place before carefully opening the door to Mack's bedroom.

There are piles of clothes all over the floor. His suitcase from the last roadtrip lays unpacked on the floor by the side of his bags of gear. 

The curtains are drawn lazily, letting a little bit of sunlight hit the far corner of the room.

Will turns to the bed.

Mack is there. 

He is awake, eyes staring right out in the dim room.

“Macky” Will whispers, eyes wide open with worry.

Mack just groans.

“Hey baby” Will continues, but the response is even less.

Mack just lays there in bed. His mind is full of the pressure and noise from within to answer. 

Mack never answers when he gets too overwhelmed. He goes nonverbal, dissociates from the world.

“Mack” Will continues, more panicked “fuck” he whispers as he walks over to Mack.

Mack takes a deep breath before looking over at Will, meeting his eyes.

Mack’s eyes are empty. Completely empty.

Will’s breath catches in his throat. “Mack… baby, hey, look at me,” he whispers, kneeling beside the bed.

Nothing. Just that hollow stare.

Will’s panic spikes. He reaches out, brushing his fingers through Mack’s hair, trying to ground him, maybe trying to ground himself too, trying to pull him back into reality. “You didn’t come to practice,” he says softly, voice trembling. “You scared me.”

Mack blinks once. Slow. Detached.

Will swallows hard. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. I’m here now.” He forces a shaky smile. “Let’s… let’s get some light in here, yeah?”

He stands and walks to the window, afraid he might break down completely if he stayed there next to Mack. 

Mack doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Will pulls the curtains open, letting sunlight spill into the room.

Mack flinches at the brightness, curling slightly into himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” Will murmurs, rushing back to him. “I just… I needed to see you.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for Mack’s hand. Mack lets him take it, but his fingers are limp, cold.

Will squeezes gently. “You’re wearing long sleeves,” he whispers, noticing the hoodie pulled tight around Mack’s wrists. “You never wear long sleeves to bed.”

Mack tenses. He hates that hoodie, hates how it is sticking to his arms.

Will’s heart drops. “Mack… what happened?”

No answer.

Just that same empty stare.

Will’s panic turns into frantic movement. He knows Mack goes nonverbal, knows not to push him out of it. But it also freaks him the fuck out. 

Will stands abruptly, pacing the room, trying to breathe. “Okay. Okay. I’m gonna clean up a little, alright? Just… just stay there. I’m not going anywhere.”

He starts picking up clothes from the floor, shirts, hoodies, socks, all tangled together. He’s not even thinking, just moving, trying to do something, anything, to keep from falling apart.

He reaches a pile near the foot of the bed.

Mack’s breath catches.

Will doesn’t notice, not at first. He bends down, grabbing a balled‑up light grey long sleeve shirt.

Mack sits up so fast it’s like he’s been shocked. “Don’t,” he snaps, voice sharp and panicked.

Will freezes.

Mack’s chest is heaving, eyes wide, terrified in a way Will has never seen before.

Will drops the shirt.

There’s a small, dark stain on the cuff. Blood.

Will’s stomach twists. His hands shake. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push.

He just sets the shirt down gently, like it’s fragile.

Mack’s breathing is ragged now, panic rising fast. “Will—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Please don’t.”

Will moves instantly, climbing onto the bed and pulling Mack into his arms. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Mack collapses against him, shaking.

Will holds him tighter, burying his face in Mack’s hair. “Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe.”

Mack tries. He really tries. But the breaths come out uneven, broken.

Will cups his face, forcing their foreheads together. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Please.”

Mack does. And for the first time since Will walked in, there’s something in his eyes, fear, shame, exhaustion, all tangled together.

“I’m sorry,” Mack whispers, voice barely there.

Will shakes his head immediately. “No. No, baby, don’t do that. You don’t have to apologize. I know that this isn't you. I know that the pressure of the games are suffocating you”

“I should’ve been at practice,” Mack murmurs, voice cracking. “I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Will says softly, thumb brushing Mack’s cheek. “Just stop. You’re not okay. And that’s… that’s allowed. You’re allowed to not be okay.”

Mack squeezes his eyes shut, like the words hurt.

Will pulls him closer, holding him like he’s afraid Mack might disappear. “You’re coming to the road trip, right?” he whispers, voice trembling.

Mack nods. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

It’s a promise he makes too quickly.

A promise Will knows he can’t trust.

A promise Mack is making because he thinks he has to.

Will kisses his forehead, soft and lingering. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Mack’s breathing steadies a little, but the panic never fully leaves his eyes.

And Will sees it, really sees it, for the first time.

This is bad.

This is worse than he thought.

Will sits with Mack for a moment, embracing him in the hug, holding him close like he is about to run away at any second.

Mack finishes when Will's hand hits any of the purple bruises under that hoodie.

“Can I stay?” Will asks softly. “Sleep over” 

“Will” Mack says he is afraid he will have to break Will's heart.

Will’s heart cracks, well aware what the answer will be.

“I… I think I need to be alone,” Mack murmurs, voice hoarse.

Will’s voice cracks. “Mack—”

“Please,” Mack says, and it’s barely a sound. “Just tonight. I just… I need to sleep. I need to reset.”

Will nods, even though every part of him is screaming not to leave. “Okay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you need.”

Mack looks away, ashamed.

Will forces himself to stand, to give Mack space, to pretend he’s not falling apart. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning,” he says softly. “We leave at six.”

Mack nods again, “Yeah. I’ll be ready.”

He bends down and kisses Mack’s forehead, soft, lingering, terrified. Mack leans into it for half a second before pulling back, retreating into himself again.

Will hesitates in the doorway, looking back one last time. Mack is already curling into himself, hoodie sleeves pulled tight over his hands, eyes fixed on nothing.

He’s disappearing again.

Will leaves before he breaks.

“Good morning” Will says as he knocks on Mack's door, trying to be cheerful, trying to start the day on a different page than how they ended it yesterday.

The darkness is still thick outside as Will stands outside Mack's door at 5:57 am.

Mack doesn't say anything. He gives Will half a smile, one that doesn't reach the eyes, before pushing through, going to Will's car.

He throws his suitcase into the trunk of the car before silently sitting down in the passenger seat.

Will turns on their regular playlist to fill some of the deafening silence.

The roads are as empty as Mack's eyes as they run through the city on the way to the local airport where the team's plane waits to pick them up.

Teammates keep a bit of a distance from Mack, unsure how to even approach him.

They don't have to wait long before the whole team arrives. 

When everyone had arrived, Toff said some great words about how they are going to be united as a team on this last roadtrip of the season and how they should enjoy their last trip with this very rooster.

Mack didn't hear a word of it, and Will couldn't focus on anything but keeping an eye at Mack.

The team gets all their things in the baggage cart before starting to fill the plane.

Mack walks all the way to the very back before slipping into the window seat, dropping his bag into the seat next to him.

Will follows to grab his regular seat right next to Mack, but Mack doesn't make a move to remove the bag blocking his seat.

Will looks around, trying to figure out what to do. He never sits anywhere but next to Mack. Doesn't even know who else he could sit down next to.

Toff sits in the opposite window seat and one look at the situation is enough to get him out of his seat.

“Nope,” Toff says, getting out of his row. “Mack, you don't get to push him away” Toff continues, voice calm and firm. Not mean, but also not leaving any room for arguing.

Toff picks up Mack's bag, throwing it up above their seats before practically pushing Will into the seat next to Mack.

Mack sighs but Will shakes it off as good as he can.

Will places his hand on Mack's thigh and Mack winces in pain that he can't hold back.

“Shit, sorry” Will says panicked.

Mack catches Will's hand before he can pull it away. He moves it slightly higher up, more to the side, leaving it there for contact.

Will rubs mindless circles with his thumb, making sure not to move it out of the place that Mack guided him to.

They don't speak, but Mack does accept an airpod and leans slightly into Will as they watch a movie on Will's phone.

Will can hear Mack's stomach make a low rumbling sound.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Will asks softly, pausing the movie. “I've got snacks” 

Will can feel Mack shaking his head from where it's resting heavily on Will's shoulder.

“Mack I'm pretty sure they could hear your stomach all the way in the front of the plane” Will argues.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Will continue.

“Not hungry” Mack almost whispers. Voice weak and cracking from the first words he spoke all day.

Will picks his battles wisely when it comes to Mack. And this is not one that needs to happen, not right now.

So Will just gets his snacks out and continues to play the movie.

Will isn't hungry at all, but Mack usually has an easier time eating if he sees Will doing so.

So Will grabs Mack's favorite snacks that consist of the most boring oven baked, lightly salted lentil chips. That's about as unhealthy as Mack is willing to go to when it comes to snacks. The Rick Celebrini way of eating runs deep in his bones and there is nothing changing that.

Will munches on, and he can see Mack eyeing the bag. But he just won't touch it.

Will saves half of it for another time. He hadn't even bought them for himself. He had bought them for Mack. bought them as some kind of peace offering, something, just anything to get Mack to think of anything else for even just a second.

Toff is asleep beside them, and the row in front is empty.

Will brings his hand to the side of Mack's face, lightly brushing his thumb over the bruises and cuts on his cheek from last game.

He can feel Mack's face smiling just a tiny bit under his thumb.

Mack leans into Will with some more weight, lifting his face, turning it to Wills.

Will presses a sweet kiss to his temple and Mack lifts his head a little, eyes practically begging for another kiss. A real one. One that will make him feel anything other than the constant reminder of the fact that they could be getting home from this trip, having ruined every hope of playoffs.

Will listens to the gravitational pull in Mack's eyes and leans in for the kiss.

Mack licks the salt off his lips, his tongue begging to taste more. 

Eating, and enjoying the taste from Will's lips are different. He can't let himself eat, not when he isn't doing good enough. But this doesn't count. It's not him eating it, it's Will. And Will can have anything he wants. 

Mack pulls away after memorizing the taste of Will's mouth. The way it's a mix between his favorite snack, and his favorite boy. The way Will just makes it taste even better.

There is a while left on the flight and Mack has barely slept in days so he takes the opportunity to sleep against Will's shoulder. 

Will is a little sharper than Mack. Mack has a bit of softness rounding out his figure, but Will is leaner, more pointy. Mack always loved that about him. Loved how his muscles always had more definition than Macks, loved how he could see his bones move under his skin, loved how he could count a couple of his ribs. 

Will's shoulders shouldn't make for a good pillow, but Mack loved it anyway, loved how he could lean in and know Will could hold all his weight for a little moment. A moment where he didn't have to carry it all alone.

Mack loved how even with everything going on. Even when his words refused to leave his lips, even when he was acting like an ass, even when he was freaking out and pulling away, he could still show Will that he loved him. Because he really did. Mack loves Will. And Will loves Mack, even when it hurts.

The team arrives so late they can't have practice and they all go straight to dinner after dropping off their things in their rooms. 

Mack and Will always share a room and there was never a time where they didn't. They never shared with anyone else, never aside from that time they got Toff to have a sleepover with them.

Mack pushes his dinner around his plate, just taking a small bite anytime someone had looked at him for too long. 

Will kept glancing over Mack's plate but he couldn't say anything. Couldn't risk having Mack pull away even more at the accusations.

They spend a little more time with the team before going back to the room for the night.

Will tries to act normal, tries to engage in conversations but he can't lift his focus from keeping an eye on Mack who can barely sit still beside him.

After the first few players call it a night, going back up to their rooms, Mack tugs a little at Will's shirt, making a tiny gesture with his hand, signaling that he wants to leave.

Will listens, of course he does. And Mack disappears up as Will is saying their goodbyes, having to chase him through the corridor, catching up by the elevator.

Mack breathes a little easier when he steps into their quiet room and away from the rest of the team. His mind is already loud enough that the noise from the team just made it unbearable.

Mack grabs a shirt and sweatpants before locking himself in the bathroom without saying a word.

He turns the shower on, hoping it would hide his sobbing, but the tears never come. He has held them in for so long that he can't figure out how to release them anymore.

Mack takes a long shower, carefully rubbing soap over his body, the stings sending jolts of electricity through his body, all the way to his mind where it clears it bit by bit. Not a lot, but at this point, any and every thought that is about anything but the game tomorrow, is a welcomed thought.

He gets into his new clothes before leaving the room, throwing his towel into the hamper.

Mack gets back into the room, wearing a black long sleeved shirt and dark grey sweatpants.

“You cold? Want me to turn up the thermostat?” Will asks, surprised as Mack usually runs really hot.

“No, m fine” Mack almost whispers, voice unsteady and small.

Will nods and grabs his own fresh clothes before going in for his own shower.

Mack gets up and turns the thermostat down when Will isn't there. It's way too warm in the room for the clothes he is wearing.

It's late when Will gets back out, and Mack doesn't want to talk anymore, so he just lies in his bed with the lights off, trying to fall asleep but he can't get his brain to figure out that it needs to quiet down.

Mack picks through his breakfast the next morning, only eating it under the stern look from the team's nutritionist, and does the same at lunch.

He keeps his long sleeves on, changing when Will is in the bathroom, anything to not be seen.

Even just the thought of the game makes him nauseous. They need to win. They have a buffer of having to win two out of the last three games, but that one will be needed for the way harder opponents they have awaiting them. They can't afford to lose this one. Cant afford going into the last two, knowing they have to win both.

So losing is not an option.

Will and Mack wake up from the pre-game nap, a nap that Mack actually managed to get, but that has more to do with the fact he just couldn't sleep all night.

They get their bags packed and Mack gets into his base layer to have any hopes of keeping his bruised and beaten up body away from worried eyes in the locker room.

“Ready to go?” Will asks.

Mack is laying on the bed, all ready to go, but the second Will asks if he is ready to go, it's like it all just becomes even more real. The nerves hit him like a bullet to his chest, like he cant breathe, cant think straight, cant move. 

The paralyzing fear is only overpowered by the wave of nausea.

Mack files out of bed and takes a few quick steps across the room. He doesn't even have time to sit down on the bathroom floor as his stomach empties and what had once been his lunch fills the toilet.

Will runs after Mack, getting there just in time to see him hovering with his head over the seat.

Mack drops down to his knees, leaning his elbows on the seat, forehead landing in his hands.

Will is there in an instant, carefully rubbing an arm over Mack's back, comforting him as he heaves up the very last bit that was left in his stomach.

“Macky, breathe, your okay baby. It's okay” Will whispers in Mack's ear, pressing a kiss to his temple where sweat pearls up.

“Fuck” Mack groans, leaning back against the wall behind him, eyes closed.

“Nerves,” Will asks carefully.

“Yeah,” Mack nods, embarrassed and small.

“Let's go,” Mack says after another couple of seconds, not wanting to have the rest of that conversation.

Will hesitates, but after looking at his watch he goes with it.

They should've been down in the lobby a few minutes ago, and there are going to be a lot of mad and disappointed faces to deal with if they don't get there right away.

Will helps Mack get up from the floor and Mack whimpers, sounding small and broken.

Will follows a step behind Mack all the way down to the rest of the team. There are a few disappointed faces, but no one dares to say anything about them being late.

They get on the bus, Mack dropping down into the window seat at the very back.

Will shoves a protein bar and a gatorade into Mack's lap the second he gets down beside Mack.

Mack tries to refuse, shaking his head.

“Mack—” Will says, voice more decisive and stern than usual.

“M not hungry” Mack whispers, without turning around.

“Mack, the fuck man. Just eat” Will presses the bar into Mack's chest and Mack flinches as Will's fingers graze over one of his bruised ribs.

“Fine” Mack mutters, taking a chug of the drink, turning to face the window.

Will keeps staring at Mack the whole ride there, making sure he sees him eat.

Mack sighs every time he sees Will watching him. He picks the bar up and takes a small bite every time. He almost finishes it before they get to the arena, but as the team files out of the bus, Mack tries to shove it down his bag.

“Move” Mack pushes Will to get up.

“Not until you finish those” Will says, nodding to Mack's bag.

“Said I'm not hungry” Mack doubles down.

“Don't care. You just threw up your fucking lunch and breakfast. I don't care if you're not hungry, you still have to eat” Will doesn't budge.

“What's the holdup?” Warso yells from the front of the bus.

Will looks at Mack with stern eyes and Mack just sighs before shoving the last bit of protein bar into his mouth.

“Nothing, we're coming” Will answers Warso, looking at Mack with a bit more softness now.

“Happy” Mack asks, sounding mad, when he finished chewing.

Will nods and they join the rest of the team who are unloading their gear from the bus.

They do their regular pre-game routine. Going through all the steps. Warming up, listening to way too much talking, a quick game of sewerball and finally getting into their gear.

Mack tries to not show just how much his gear is hurting him, but he can never hide that kind of thing from Will.

Will sees how Mack flinches as he straps on his shoulder pads. Sees how he can't really control his face as his trap falls heavy on his arms, or how his hands hurt as he ties up the skates that still have some bloodstains on the laces.

Mack does what he did in the last game. He throws punches, spends more time in the penalty box than on the ice and his frustration with the team grows stronger and stronger for every missed pass or lazy play.

They are a mess out there, much for the fact they have to keep covering up for Mack's time in the penalty box. But it's still working.

Mack gets out of the box with a clearer mind and a hurting body, playing just a little bit better than he did before.

He scores some goals, more than what he causes the team to let in during Box Play. 

The Sharks are up by one by the time of the first intermission but they are just barely hanging in there. It's a mess. 

The team starts getting annoyed at the way Mack just continues to put them in a bad situation with all the penalties. Yet they can't be too annoyed with him, since he's been involved in every goal they have scored.

Warso can be mad though. “Mack what the actual fuck, stop throwing punches, we cant afford any more box plays” Warso yells furiously in the locker room, turning every eye in the room toward Mack.

Mack barely registers that he is getting yelled at.

The pain is fading and he begins to crave it again. Crave the way it settles every other thought down, if even just for a second. Craves the dull pain that shoots through his body, radiating from the hit of every fist.

So Mack goes back to the strategy that he picked up two games ago. 

He gets back on the ice for the second period where he practically begs the opposing players to beat him up until his nose is bleeding again, until his ribs feel like they are about to break, until his mind gets taken over by physical pain rather than the emotional kind.

Neither team scores a single goal in all of the second period and Mack brings absolute chaos to the rink. The referees started to lose their patience with Mack, so even when Mack doesn't throw a single punch, they sometimes just send both guys involved over to the penalty box.

Warso hesitates to let Mack out for every shift, holding him back as much as he can justify. 

Because that's the thing with Mack. when it came to any other player, they would be off the rooster if they ever acted out like this. But not Mack. No matter what state Mack was in, he was still needed out on the ice. A bad day for Mack is still better than a good day for half of the team. 

Mack was untouchable. Whatever happened, they all knew he was hitting that ice again.

And so he did, again and again. Fighting like his life depended on it, skating until his legs gave out, until his breathing made him feel like he was on fire.

Third period begins with a goal from the other team and the pressure is back thick. Pressure that makes Mack throw himself into another fight that he has no plan defending himself from.

But after every hit, the ones that don't land him in the box or on the bench, he goes on to play better, sharper, faster, more focused.

Halfway through the period, Mack scores on one of Wills passes, right after getting ripped away from a fight by the ref.

“Do you want to die?” The ref asks Mack after pulling him out of a fight that left him lying on his back with his head spinning.

Mack shakes his head.

“Then stop throwing yourself into fights you don't plan on winning” He continues.

Mack just skates away, done with his shift, done with that conversation.

The team is just barely pulling it off. It's yet another game that they win on the thinnest marginals of just one goal. But a win is a win for the points, but not in Mack's mind.

They won their third straight, but with only two games left in the season, they still had to win one of them.

The rest of the team starts breathing easier with every win. But getting closer to success only means getting closer to a defeat that will hurt even harder.

It's a defeat that has the added expectations of something great, a defeat that no one is predicting. So Mack doesn't let it be that for him. He doesn't let himself be happy, doesn't let himself be happy before they get that fourth win.

It's not over before it's over, and the season is certainly not over yet.

Mack strips out of his gear, more beaten up than ever before.

The blood from his earlier bloody nose has left dark stains on his gear that he throws into the hamper for the equipment guys.

Mack doesn't get out of his last layer, he keeps it on, sitting in his spot as the other guys get into the shower.

When Will gets out, he takes one quick look at Mack. He looks at the bruises down his neck, the marks on his cheeks and his bleeding knuckles.

Will gets a couple of band-aids out of his bag, looking to Mack to see if he can touch his hands.

Mack responds with the smallest little nod and Will grabs one of his hands softly, placing it on his own lap as he sits down beside Mack, wearing only a towel that hangs low on his hips.

With the most delicate touches, Will covers Mack's bloody knuckles with band-aids, one at the time. No rush, just savoring any and every kind of touch that he gets from Mack nowadays.

The team gets back to the hotel in time for a late dinner, far after all the guests have left the hotel's restaurant. 

They leave their bags down in the lobby before entering the restaurant.

The chefs left the buffet out for them and Mack gets as little as he can, spreading it out on his plate to make it look somewhat like the plates of the other players.

He picks through his food as the loud noise from his team, the clashing of silverware and the overhead lightning cuts through his brain. It's too overwhelming for a single thought to form in his head, let alone join any kind of conversation.

Mack bolts at the first opportunity he gets, just after the first two guys said goodnight and left.

Mack followed right behind, leaving half his food on the plate. 

Will hurries to follow, throwing a couple of quick goodbyes to the team, grabbing his piece of bread from his plate that was still half full, before almost running after Mack.

Mack got into the elevator before Will, buying him an extra minute or so.

By the time Will got back to their room, Mack was already in the shower, trying to drown out his stress from the hot stream of water from the shower.

Nothing worked. Nothing but pain ever did anything.

Will tries knocking on the door to the bathroom but he knows it won't get him anywhere.

He just keeps pacing around the room, cleaning up their things to have something to do with his hands. 

Will picks up the clothes they have both thrown over the floor, putting it in the bag where they pack their dirty laundry. 

There is a stain on one of the shirts, Mack's one, that makes Will stop for a moment. He freezes, seeing that it's what looks like another drop of blood on the forearm area of it.

Will doesn't get further in his train of thought before he hears the bathroom door unlock.

Mack looks between Will and the shirt in his hand. Will drops it into their laundry bag immediately, feeling weirdly guilty.

Mack lets it go. Tugging the sleeves of his dark hoodie further down his hands before turning the lights off and collapsing into bed.

Will is tired, so he won't fight Mack's decision to call it a night. It's late and their plane is leaving early tomorrow to travel back home.

Neither of them can sleep.

Will's mind won't stop trying to piece together what tís actually going on with Mack, won't stop trying to figure out just how bad things actually are.

Mack's mind wont stop suffocating him with pressure. Won't stop going over every single game of the season. He runs through every mistake he has ever made, trying to figure out how to make sure they get another win this season. Trying to figure out what he needs to do to get through a full game without losing his mind, without getting it so clouded and hazy that he can't think straight.

Will can't handle this distance. His heart can't stop shattering into a million pieces every time Mack pulls away.

That's his boyfriend. The one person who he should be able to talk to, the one that he is supposed to know well enough to know how to help him. But he can't. Will can't do anything to help Mack.

Will can't handle the distance. He gets up after a few hours of his mind spiraling, just to get it to finally shut up.

He pads through the room over to the other bed across the room where he carefully slips under the covers, wrapping his body around Mack.

Mack winces as Will's arms accidentally touch his arms and thighs. It stings like hell, but Mack tries to hold back his expression as best as he can.

“Fuck, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wake you” Will says, regret in his voice.

Mack doesn't say anything, afraid his voice will give away just how painful the contact between their arms are.

Instead, he grabs Will's arms, guiding them down to where Will's arms are draped over his stomach instead. It still hits some of Mack's bruises, but that pain is less sharp, more dull. The dull kind of pain that Mack has come to love.

They both fall asleep quickly, getting their first good night of sleep, only when draped around the other.

Will wakes first. The sun shines into their room, illuminating everything it can reach.

They have to pack their things together quickly before heading over to the airplane that is taking them home.

Mack groans sleepily, turning around to face Will. 

There is a small faint little smile on Mack's face as he meets Will in an impossibly soft kiss.

Will finally has to drag Mack out of bed, making sure they aren’t late.

They start packing their bags in the soft morning light, both of them moving slowly, quietly, like they’re afraid to break whatever fragile peace they managed to find in the night.

Mack folds his hoodies with trembling hands. Will gathers the toiletries. They move around each other like ghosts.

Will’s stomach drops as he sees a dark smear on the white hotel bed sheet. Right where Mack’s arm had been.

It’s kind of small, but unmistakable. Blood. Again.

Will’s breath catches. His chest tightens. He looks up at Mack instinctively.

Mack sees where Will is looking.

His whole body goes rigid.

“Don’t,” Mack says quickly, voice sharp, panicked, too loud for the quiet room.

Will lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m not, I’m not saying anything.”

Mack swallows hard, tugging his sleeves down over his hands, the sleeves sticking to his arms, hiding everything he can. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, eyes darting away.

Will doesn’t believe him. But he doesn’t push.

He just pulls the sheet off the bed, folds it over the stain, and sets it aside like it’s nothing more than laundry.

Mack watches him with wide, terrified eyes.

Will steps closer, gently brushing his fingers against Mack’s cheek. “We’ll get through today,” he whispers. “One thing at a time.” Before pressing a soft kiss on his lips, a kiss that tells Mack that Will loves him, no matter what.

Mack nods, but it’s the kind of nod that means I’m trying and I’m drowning at the same time.

They finish packing in silence.

The hallway outside their room is loud with teammates dragging bags and chirping each other, but Mack stays quiet, hood up, sleeves pulled tight, eyes on the floor.

Will walks beside him, close enough to be present, but not touching. Mack hasn’t reached for him once this morning, but he also hasn't flinched away.

They meet the team in the lobby.

Toff gives Will a look, a question, a worry, a how is he doing, but Will just shakes his head.

Not here. Not now. Maybe never, not by the way things are going right now.

Mack hands his bag to the equipment staff without a word. He stands off to the side, staring at the floor tiles like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.

Will wants to pull him close, wants to kiss his forehead, wants to tell him he’s safe.

But Mack is already slipping away again.

The team boards the bus to the airport.

Mack sits by the window. Will sits beside him.

Mack leans his head against the glass, eyes unfocused, watching nothing.

Will watches him, watches every breath he takes, every change in his expression.

The plane ride is quiet. Too quiet.

Mack doesn’t speak. Don't eat. Don't look at Will, not once.

He just curls into himself, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, like he is hiding away from the whole world.

Will sits beside him, heart breaking, knowing he’s losing him inch by inch, unsure how to ever get him back.

Mack tells Will that he will get to the rink by himself tomorrow morning. Will doesn't think Mack will show up, but he can't bring himself to be picking this fight.

He will check up on Mack tomorrow if he doesn't show up, but Will also just needs a few hours to himself. As much as he hates it, he just needs a bit of space from his boyfriend. Not a lot, but just for the night. He needs to fill his own cup before continuing to give his all to helping Mack. And that realization hurts, it hurts like hell, but Will can't hide from it any longer.

So Will goes home after dropping Mack off and takes the rest of the day to himself, as much as he can.

He tries to find things to do that don't remind him of Mack, but the more he tries to find something to do, the clearer it becomes that Mack is in every part of his life.

Will finally settles for taking a warm bath, reading a book. It still reminds him of Mack, but only of the good times. It reminds him of the cozy baths they used to take together before Mack started hiding away, reminds him of the books he used to make Mack read just so he had someone to discuss them with.

Will pushes the suffocating fear about how Mack really is doing, far away in his brain, just for tonight.

He orders the food that Mack never eats, turns on the movie Mack refuses to watch, goes to sleep in the pajamas that Mack finds to be too scratchy and loud.

It's lonely in the car to practice the next morning. 

The sun is just starting to come up as Will leaves for the practice. They have another game tomorrow already. The team barely had any time to breathe between all the games. Mack is taking it the worst, but none of them are handling it too well.

Will pulls into the arena parking lot, the sky still pale with early morning light. His chest tightens when he sees Mack’s car already there.

He’s early.

Too early.

Will sits in his own car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to steady his breathing. He’s relieved Mack showed up, but the relief is tangled with dread. Mack being early never means something good.

Inside the rink, the locker room is half‑awake chaos. Guys are yawning, stretching, chirping each other softly because it’s too early to be loud.

Will walks in alone.

Ecky looks up first. “Morning, Will.”

Will force a smile. “Hey.”

Dicky tosses a puck from hand to hand. “You good, man? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

Will shrugs, trying to play it off. “Long night.”

Toff walks in behind him, coffee in hand. He takes one look at Will and frowns. “Kid, you alright?”

Will nods, but it’s the kind of nod that fools no one.

Toff steps closer, lowering his voice. “Did Mack text you last night?”

Will shakes his head. “No. But his car’s here.”

Toff’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Me neither,” Will admits.

There’s a quiet moment, the kind that only happens when everyone is thinking the same thing but no one wants to say it.

Ecky breaks it with a soft, awkward laugh. “He’s probably just… I don’t know. Getting extra reps in?”

No one believes that.

Will sits on the bench, tying his skates slowly, methodically, like if he focuses hard enough he won’t think about what Mack might be doing right now. Like he can move his focus from the empty stall beside him and the empty car in the parking lot.

A rink staff member, one of the older guys who opens the building, pokes his head into the locker room.

“Morning, boys,” he says, then looks at Will. “Your buddy’s been out there a while.”

Will’s stomach drops. “Mack?”

“Yeah,” the man says casually. “He was already on the ice when I unlocked the doors. Must’ve gotten here before five. I… um, I think you should check up on him”

Will’s breath catches. Before five.

That means hours. Hours alone. Hours skating. Hours punishing himself.

Toff meets Will’s eyes, and the look they share is pure dread.

The coach blows the whistle. “Let’s go, boys!”

Will skates out with the team, heart pounding.

The second his blades hit the ice, he sees him.

Mack.

At the far end of the rink. Alone.

Shooting pucks over and over and over, body shaking with exhaustion, movements sharp and frantic, like he’s trying to outrun something only he can see.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge the team. Doesn’t even seem to notice they’re there.

Will’s chest tightens painfully.

Mack did notice them.

He just took one last minute to himself, trying to snap himself back to the world, back to the team, back to Will.

Warso calls out, “Mack! Let’s go!”

Mack stops mid‑shot.

He turns around, eyes empty, heart heavy, but he slowly skates across the ice, meeting the rest of them at center ice. His helmet hangs low, shoulders tight, silent. 

He is there, but not there.

The drills start and Mack gives it his all.

He skates fast, too fast. Pushes himself like every rep is a punishment, the kind of punishment he grew up serving.

Mack doesn't talk, doesn't smile, doesn't chirp. He barely even breathes right.

He zones out mid drill, misses passes he never should miss, doesn't register the instructions, forgets rotations, runs into teammates without apologizing. But for every mistake he makes, he skates harder, faster, more than he is told to, more than his body should be able to handle. 

Will watches him with growing panic, Toff with growing fear.

Warso just watches him with growing confusion.

But Mack doesn’t see any of them.

He’s somewhere else entirely.

Practice comes to an end, but Mack doesn’t leave the ice. Doesn’t even pretend to.

He just grabs a bucket of pucks, skates back to the far end, and starts shooting again like nothing happened.

Warso calls out, “Mack! We’re done!”

No reaction.

Will turns, watching him with growing worry tightening in his chest. Mack’s shoulders are hunched, his movements sharp and frantic, like he’s trying to outrun something.

Toff skates up beside Will, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, kid,” Toff says quietly, voice low enough that only Will can hear. “I’m staying for a while. Got some physio stuff to do.”

Will looks up at him, eyes wide, fear written all over his face.

Toff squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll check in on him. I promise.”

Will shakes his head. “I should stay. I should—”

“No,” Toff cuts in gently but firmly. “You need to go home for a bit. Get some rest. You can’t pour from an empty cup, Will.”

Will’s throat tightens. “But he—”

“I know,” Toff says softly. “I know. But this isn’t all on you. Let me handle him for a bit, okay?”

Will looks back at Mack, still shooting, still shaking, still lost, and his heart breaks.

“I don’t want him to think I’m leaving him,” Will whispers.

Toff’s expression softens. “He won’t. He’s not even seeing the ice right now, kid. He’s somewhere else entirely. Let me try.”

Will swallows hard, blinking back tears. “You’ll text me?”

“Of course,” Toff says. “Go home. Eat something. Sleep. I’ll bring him home when he’s done.”

Will hesitates, one last look at Mack, one last silent plea for him to turn around, to see him, to come back.

Mack doesn’t.

He just keeps shooting.

Will nods, defeated. “Okay.”

Toff gives him one more squeeze. “Good. Go.”

Will forces himself to skate off of the ice, every step feeling wrong, heavy, like he’s abandoning the one person he loves most.

He doesn’t look back again.

Because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to leave.

Toff comes back after an hour, hoping to see Mack's bag gone, but its presence tightens Toff's chest.

He can just imagine when he will find out there on the ice. Toff takes a deep breath, closes his eyes to steady himself. He needs to be calm, grounded, steady, because he knows Mack won't be.

He takes a breath before heading out to the rink that is quiet aside from the sound of pucks hitting the goal.

Toff is wearing his regular shoes, but he carefully walks out on the ice.

Mack stands exactly where he left him an hour ago. His head hung low, shoulders hunched over, legs shaking, arms barely lifting the stick anymore. Shots are weak, sloppy, unfocused. 

“Mack,” Toff calls softly. 

No reaction. Mack doesn't hear him coming, doesn't break his focus from the pucks and goal.

Toff walks closer, each step echoing across the empty rink.

“Macky,” he tries again, gentler this time.

Still nothing.

Toff finally reaches him and places a hand on his shoulder.

Mack flinches so violently the puck skitters away across the ice.

He turns his head slowly, eyes unfocused, like he’s waking up from somewhere far away.

“Hey, kid,” Toff says quietly. “That’s enough.”

Mack swallows hard, chest rising and falling too fast. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak. He just lets Toff take the stick from his hands. His fingers don’t even resist.

Mack hand realized just how tired his body feels, how it's all torn up and aching.

Toff guides him off of the ice, one hand on his back, steady and warm. Mack’s legs nearly buckle twice, and Toff tightens his grip each time.

In the locker room, the fluorescent lights feel harsh, too bright for how fragile Mack looks.

Toff helps him peel off his tarp.

Mack didn't realize what Toff would be able to see on the inside of the teal fabric of the tarp.

It's enough to make Toffs breath catch for a second. He can’t overreact, can't freak out. Toff have to be the fucking rock right now, even when he feels like hes halling apart like gravel. 

There are patches of half dried blood down the sides of Mack's tarp, over where his ribs were rubbing against the thick fabric. A faint smear on the inside of his sleeve.

Something that could be from a cut, or a scrape, or a bruise rubbed raw. 

“Mack…” Toff whispers, voice breaking.

Mack freezes.

His whole body goes rigid, like he’s been caught doing something shameful. His eyes go wide, then empty, then terrified all at once.

Toff steps closer. “Hey. Hey, kid. Talk to me.”

Mack shakes his head violently.

“Mack—”

“No,” Mack chokes out, voice cracking. “Don’t.”

He pulls his hoodie over his sweaty long-sleeved shirt so fast he nearly stumbles, tugging the sleeves down over his hands, hiding everything he can.

Toff softens his voice. “You need to shower. You’re freezing.”

Mack shakes his head again, harder this time. “No. No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Toff says gently.

Mack’s breathing turns uneven, panicked. His hands shake as he pulls the hoodie tighter around himself.

Toff steps back, giving him space. “Okay. Okay. No shower. It’s alright.”

Mack sinks onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, not loud, not dramatic, just small, exhausted tremors he can’t control.

Toff sits beside him, not touching, just close enough to be there.

“You’re okay,” Toff murmurs. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Mack doesn’t answer, doesn't look up, doesn’t move.

After a long moment Toff tries, voice barely above a whisper “Does Will know” 

“There is nothing to know,” Mack barks.

“Mack… If… If you're hurting— ” Toff continues, unsure how to possibly handle this.

“The fuck not. I'm not” Mack barks. “Shut the fuck up” He continues shouting.

He tries to stand up but his legs are too tired and Toff holds him down with a strong hand at his shoulder.

He just cries silently, shaking, completely drained.

After a long moment, Toff stands. “Come on, kid. I’m taking you home.”

Mack nods once, tiny, defeated, and lets Toff guide him out of the locker room.

The car ride is silent.

Mack stares out the window, eyes empty, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Toff pulls into his driveway.

Toff turns off the engine. “You want me to walk you in?”

Mack shakes his head.

“Okay,” Toff says softly. “Text Will when you’re inside.”

Mack nods again, barely.

He gets out of the car, shoulders slumped, moving like he’s made of glass.

Toff watches him go, heart heavy.

He stays in his car for long after Mack disappears inside, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ache. He lets his tears fall down his cheeks, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. Toff forces himself to breathe, forces himself to pull it together, to be strong, to be the adult here.

Tomorrow is another game, another must-win. Only this time, they can finally secure their spot in the playoffs. If they pull it off tomorrow, this could all be over, they could get Mack back, if he isn't already too far gone.

What awaits is another day where Mack will be shoved onto the ice like he’s the only one who can save them, no matter how he plays, no matter how much he throws himself into fights. 

And Toff knows, with a sick, twisting certainty, that Mack is nowhere near okay. 

Toff drives home in silence, the weight of what he saw pressing down on him like a stone. He doesn’t text Will. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what to say.

He just hopes Mack sleeps, hopes Mack shows up tomorrow in one piece.

But hope feels thin tonight.

Mack doesn't sleep, not for a fucking second. He doesn't show up in one piece, but he does show up.

Will picks him up in time for the game, chest tight, hopes low.

Mack tries to hold things together, tries to not give Will any reason to worry, but God, it does not work.

They try their best to hold a conversation, but it quickly dies down. They don't know what to talk about. Every subject feels dangerously close to hitting them like a knife to the chest, every subject is dangerous, too close to home, too distant. 

Traffic is fine, and they quickly get to the arena. Will breathes a little easier when he finally gets to step out of the car that feels like it's about to explode from the pressure, from the loaded silence between the words that tries to make it easier.

Mack is about done with the words he speaks that day. He doesn't feel like talking to his teammates when he steps into the half full locker room, and to be honest, they don't have much interest in talking to him either. 

Everyone is too afraid that things will blow up, too afraid to say the words that finally make Mack implode.

So they give him space. Will does too. He gives Mack some space, but he never fully lets Mack out of sight.

Will tries to be normal, tries to talk to his teammates, but his focus is just a little too shattered to fully engage. He just shares a few words with Ecky and a couple of the other guys, but not without throwing an eye over at Mack who sits completely still and silent in his cubicle.

They get in a game of sewerball but Mack disappears to the bathroom in the meantime. Only reappearing when it's time for the last meeting before the game.

Will brings him a protein shake, his favorite one, mint chocolate, that little psycho.

Mack tries to refuse, tries to signal that he isn't hungry. In all honesty he is so nervous that even the thought of food makes him want to throw up.

“Come on baby” Will whispers so quietly that only Mack can hear it over the noise of the locker room. “You have to eat something”

Mack shakes his head once but Will doesn't give up.

“When was the last time you ate?” Will continued, voice as low as before.

Mack doesn't want to answer that question, not that he can even remember the answer anyway.

“Fine” Mack whispers back, voice sharp but underneath it all his heart beats a little warmer, knowing that Will still takes care of him. Mack just sometimes wishes that Will didn't care this much.

Wishes that Will could see that he deserves someone better than Mack, someone less broken, someone who won't hurt him. Because the only thing that hurts more than the thought of Will leaving him, is the thought of Will staying with someone who is too broken to treat him right.

Mack can feel just how exhausted his body is from yesterday's practice as he lifts his arms to put on all his gear. 

He can barely lift his arms high enough to get his shoulder pads on. 

The straps cut into every bruise on his body that still lingers from the last few games, hiding under the black long-sleeved base layer that he put on back home before leaving.

His thick tarp rubs uncomfortably against his body and the elbow pads are just excruciating. His shorts are too stiff over his hips and the helmet rubs against a cut under his jaw.

They get out on the ice and Mack is nowhere ready to play. No one is. 

Everyone is affected by the atmosphere in the locker room and for a few games they all forget about the reason why they play hockey.

Hockey is supposed to be their safe space. The place they feel the most themselves, the place where they just get to go out there on the ice and play with the twenty players that make up their family. It's all they've ever really known in life, something that has been engraved in them since the first time they all stepped out on the ice as toddlers. 

Things go downhill real fast. They let the first goal in before they even get to touch the puck at all.

Less than thirty seconds in and they are already climbing up a hill for the rest of the game.

Mack is fucking mad. Mad at himself for not winning the face-off. Mad at the team for just letting the other team get through their defense, mad at everything.

So Mack does what he has been doing for a while now. He goes hunting down his first fight, goes hunting down something that he can unleash all his anger and pain and stress on.

He lands himself in the penalty box for a good thirty seconds before the opposing team scores the second goal of the game.

The team looks at him with disappointment in their eyes. It stings, but it stings less than his body.

Everyone knows that that goal is Mack's fault. He took a stupid fucking penalty, putting his team in a shitty situation, trying to fend off the other team with only four players on the ice.

Mack is exhausted on the ice. The rest of the team plays alright, not good. It's a little stressful, a little messy. But it's nothing compared to Mack who is behind in every situation, arriving too late, turning too slow, shooting too weakly, fighting too little. 

His teammates yell at him the next time he gets himself into a fight, a fight where he has three players from the opposite team on him.

His own teammates are nowhere to be seen. 

Toff holds Will back from joining, and the others just look at him with disappointment in their eyes. 

Mack is selfishly picking up his third penalty for the night and the team is sick of sticking up for him. If he can get himself into a fight, then he better start to learn how to make it out of one as well.

Mack knows he shouldn't do this, knows he needs to play with more self control. But we don't know how to stop. Don't know how to stop fighting, how to stop craving the hits. He doesn't know what else he can do to help the team, doesn't know how else he can even play hockey right now.

He can feel the players grabbing his tarp, tugging at him, hitting him, punching him until his back hits the ice. 

The refs finally get him free but it was unmistakably Mack's fault. They could see the patterns. Getting into a fight for the third time in the first period is not a coincidence. They knew he was to blame.

He gets sent to the box alone, punishing the Sharks with another box-play, well aware that they let in a goal in both ones prior to this one.

But not now, not again. Mack gets to spend the full two minutes in the box, panicking as he looks down his arm to see blood seeping through the teal fabric.

The period is almost over by the time Mack gets out.

The refs signal the end of the period and Mack hurries out to the locker room, throwing his tarp into the laundry basket standing in the middle of the room, wanting to hide the evidence.

He grabs his bag and gets into the bathroom to take care of his body, as the rest of the team files into the room.

Will sees Mack in the corner of his eye, but the door to the bathroom locks before he gets there.

The team is frustrated. They are down 0-3, and things are not looking good out there.

Some are throwing blame, others shut down trying to find the answer in their own plays, while Toff tries his best to unite the team, tries to motivate them, to tell them that they can still turn this around. 

Mack only gets back out in the locker room as the bell rings, signaling for the team to get back on the ice.

He grabs a new tarp from the back-up supply before hurrying after his teammates.

Mack gets more and more terrified as the second period goes on longer and longer without the Sharks scoring a single goal. He is so fucking terrified.

He is so zoned out that he barely registers when it's his time on the ice and Dicky has to practically throw him over the boards to get him out there.

Mack's whole body feels numb, his mind too terrified of losing, body too torn up to do things.

He slams another player into the boards before getting thrown down on the ice by that guy's teammate. 

There is a rush of adrenaline surging through his body, just like the ones he can't stop craving.

Mack gets a few seconds of clarity and finally scores a goal for the Sharks.

That's the problem though. He brings absolute chaos and so much bad energy to the team, but he can't be spared on the ice. He is too important to the team to be taken off. But not for long though.

Mack doesn't celebrate. He just looks for his next hit.

He goes back to the bench and everything he can think about is deciding who he could hit next, who the best fighter is on the other team. 

He just wants to feel something, anything to get him that adrenaline that gets him to play better.

If only the team can kill the two minutes of box play, then he can come in stronger afterwards. He wants to save them, he really does.

But the team can't hold back the goals in the next box-play. Mack doesn't save them, he breaks them even more. 

Mack gets a good hit, a good surge of adrenaline, but it dies down as he watches the opposing team score a goal from where he sits behind the glass of the box.

He hits his stick as hard as he can against the door as he sees the puck going in. It breaks in half with a loud bang that turns heads around.

Warso looks fucking furious.

The period is almost over and Mack doesn't get another second of ice time.

Mack totally flips in the second intermission. They are down by multiple goals and he can just feel it slipping though their fingers with every minute that passes.

He screams, he panics, he spirals.

Mack comes into the room throwing his stick and gloves across the room. 

He punches the side of his cubicle loud enough for the last few heads to snap his direction.

He blames himself, blames the team, fuck he even blames Will.

Everyone stops in their tracks, absolutely terrified.

They look beggingly at Will, like he could fix it, like he should be able to.

Will swallows hard, chest tight, and steps toward Mack. “Macky,” he says softly, voice trembling but steady enough to reach him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Mack doesn’t.

He’s pacing, breathing too fast, hands shaking, eyes blown wide with panic and rage. He looks like he’s about to tear the whole room apart.

“Mack,” Will tries again, stepping closer, palms open, gentle. “Baby, breathe. Just, just breathe with me, okay?”

Mack whips around so fast Will flinches.

“Don’t,” Mack spits. “Don’t call me that right now.”

Will freezes, but he doesn’t back away. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. Just, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?” Mack laughs, but it’s sharp and broken. “We’re losing. Again. And it’s my fault. Again.”

“It’s not—”

“YES IT IS!” Mack screams, voice cracking. “I can’t fucking do anything right tonight!”

He grabs his helmet and throws it across the room. It hits the wall with a sickening crack right beside Reavo whose eyes fly open with fear.

Will steps closer, heart pounding. “Mack, please. You’re scaring everyone. You’re scaring me.”

That does it. Mack snaps.

He spins around, fist half‑raised, not to hit Will, but because his adrenaline drowning out everything else.

Will flinches.

Hard.

And Mack sees it.

His face crumples for half a second, horror, guilt, heartbreak, but the panic swallows it before he can reach for Will.

Toff is there in an instant, stepping between them, one hand on Mack’s chest, the other on Will’s shoulder.

“Hey. Hey. Enough,” Toff says firmly. “Mack, breathe. Will, step back.”

Will’s eyes are wide, shining with tears he refuses to let fall. “Mack… I wasn’t, I didn’t think you’d—”

“Shut up,” Mack snaps, voice shaking. “Just, shut up, Will.”

Will goes still.

The room goes silent.

Mack’s breathing is ragged, uneven, like he’s choking on his own panic. He looks at Will, and something inside him twists painfully.

Because Will looks hurt. It really hurt. 

And Mack can’t handle that. Can’t handle being the one who put that look on his face. 

So he lashes out again.

“You don’t get it,” Mack spits. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have the whole fucking franchise on your shoulders.”

Will’s face falls.

“Mack—”

“No!” Mack shouts. “You don’t get to talk about pressure. You’re the fourth pick, Will! No one expects anything from you! You’re not the one they drafted to save this fucking team!”

The words hit like a punch.

Will’s breath catches. His eyes go glassy, hands shake.

The room goes dead silent.

Even Mack freezes, the second the words leave his mouth, he looks like he wants to rip them back out of the air.

But it’s too late.

Will takes a step back, like he’s been physically hit. “Okay,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”

Mack’s face collapses. “Will—”

“No,” Will says softly, shaking his head. “It’s fine. You’re right.”

Toff steps between them again, voice low and urgent. “Enough. Mack. Its fucking enough. Will have been nothing but patient with you, and you just keeps acting like a fucking asshole”

Mack’s chest is heaving. His hands are shaking. His eyes are wild and terrified and empty all at once.

He looks at Will like he’s watching the only good thing in his life slip through his fingers.

Will looks at him like his heart just cracked open.

Warso bursts into the room, yelling for everyone to get ready, but even he stops when he sees Mack and Will standing there like two ghosts.

“Get your shit together,” Warso snaps at Mack. “We need you.”

Mack doesn’t move.

He just stares at Will.

Will stares back.

And for the first time all season, Will doesn’t reach for him, doesn't take it upon himself to fix this.

Mack doesn't calm down for even a second. He brings all his anger with himself out on the ice right away and he doesn't even think before punching a guy at face-off for smiling at him the wrong way.

“71, what the fuck do you think you are doing today. That's the last straw.” The ref yells at him, sending him to the box before the puck even drops. 

“10-minute misconduct for roughing, Sharks player number 71” The speakers announce loudly.

Mack keeps his head down low as he makes his way to the box.

He sees the team fight for their life out there, trying to turn over the mess that Mack was supposed to clean up. 

This was the night that the Sharks were supposed to finally get into the playoffs, the night where he was supposed to complete the task he came there to do. He was supposed to be a large part of the rebuild, and was supposed to bring the team to the playoffs.

But he couldn't, all he could do was sit in that box, watching as the time went down. Watching their dreams slip through their fingers. They are so close to the playoffs that they can almost taste it, yet so far away.

With ten minutes left of the game Mack is let back out of the box that was filling up with pressure and anger.

He tries to get out on the ice for his shift but he feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back at the last moment.

“You’re not going back out there Celebrini” Warso yells at him.

“Tha fuck? Yes I am” Mack responds angrily.

“What don’t you understand? You are fucking benched, Celebrini,” Warso barks, voice echoing off the boards.

Mack stops dead.

For a second, he genuinely thinks he misheard. Benched? Him? Macklin Celebrini?

His chest tightens so violently he can’t breathe.

“I, I can fix it,” Mack stammers, voice cracking. “Put me back out there, I can fix it—”

“No,” Warso snaps. “You’ve done enough damage tonight.”

The words hit harder than any punch Mack took in the first period.

He feels the world tilt under his skates.

The bench is silent. No one looks at him. No one defends him. No one says a word.

Because they all know Warso is right.

Mack sinks onto the bench, helmet still on, gloves still on, chest heaving. His hands shake so badly he has to clench them into fists just to keep them still.

He watches the ice like it’s slipping away from him.

Like everything he’s ever worked for is slipping away from him.

He was supposed to save them, supposed to be the one who dragged them into the playoffs, supposed to be the future.

Now he’s just… benched.

A fucking liability. Macklin Celebrini is not supposed to be a fucking liability on the ice.

He can feel the eyes on him, teammates, coaches, trainers, all of them waiting for him to explode again.

But he doesn’t. He just sits there. Silent. Shaking. Breaking.

The last minutes of the game just pass by in front of his eyes but he doesn't pick up on any of it. He already knows that they have lost. They lost the game the second Mack started acting out, the second he started picking penalties like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Mack is terrifyingly quiet after the game.

He's not violent, just empty but everyone is still scared of him.

They have seen a new side of him that they didn't know he had in him. A terrifying side that was as much violent, as just pure cruel.

The things he said, the way he raised a fist at Will, how he threw things across the room and beat up players on the ice. Its fucking terrifying.

Mack doesn't say a word. He just strips out of his gear, keeping his base-layers on and gets out of there.

His car is still in the parking lot after Toff brought him home from practice yesterday.

No one stops him from going so quickly, no one really cares.

To be honest they are relieved to see him go. Because as much as they are all terrified over what he will do to himself, they are equally as terrified of what he might do to them if they say the wrong things.

Mack doesn’t even remember walking out of the arena.

One second he’s in the locker room, pulling his hoodie over his base layers with shaking hands, and the next he’s outside in the cold night air, the roar of the crowd long gone, the parking lot nearly empty.

His car sits exactly where he parked it yesterday morning.

He gets in. Shuts the door. Sits there. Just sit.

The silence is deafening.

His hands won’t stop shaking. His breathing won’t slow down. His chest feels too tight, too small, like there’s not enough room inside him for everything he’s feeling.

He presses his forehead to the steering wheel.

He can still hear Will’s voice, still see Will flinch, still hear the words he threw like knives.

Just a fourth pick. 

No one expects anything from you. 

You don’t get it.

He didn’t mean it. God, he didn’t mean any of it.

But he said it. And Will looked at him like he’d been stabbed.

Mack squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to do anything but replay the moment over and over.

He doesn't want to go home yet, he certainly can’t go back inside. So he drives.

Not far.

Just enough to feel like he’s moving, like he’s not trapped in his own skin.

He ends up in the parking lot of some closed grocery store, lights off, engine running. He sits there until the car gets cold, until his fingers go numb, until his eyes burn.

He doesn’t cry. He’s too far past the point of crying. He’s just empty, completely, terrifyingly empty.

When he finally drags himself home, it’s almost morning.

He doesn’t shower, doesn’t change, doesn’t turn on the lights.

He collapses onto his bed fully dressed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, ribs aching, head pounding, heart shattered.

He stares at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

He doesn’t sleep, not for a second, and when his alarm goes off for practice, he doesn’t move.

He can’t. He physically cannot get out of bed. His body hurts, head hurts, chest hurts. Everything hurts.

And the thought of seeing Will, of seeing the team, the thought of stepping onto the ice. It makes him feel like he’s going to throw up.

So he stays where he is. Still. Silent. Staring at nothing.

Practice starts, and Mack doesn’t show up.

Will barely sleeps. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Mack’s face, wild, terrified, empty.

He hears the words again, sharp as broken glass.

Fourth pick. 

No one expects anything from you. 

You don’t get it.

He knows Mack didn’t mean it. He knows Mack was drowning. But the words still sit in his chest like a bruise he can’t stop pressing.

When his alarm goes off, Will feels sick.

He gets dressed on autopilot, drives to the rink in silence, walks into the locker room with a knot in his stomach.

Mack’s stall is empty. He kind of already knew it would be, but Will tells himself it’s fine.

Mack is always early or always late, never in between. He’ll walk in any second.

But five minutes passed. Then ten, and warmups start.

Still no Mack.

Will’s chest tightens.

Ecky glances at the empty stall, then at Will. “He text you?”

Will shakes his head.

Dicky tries to joke it off. “He probably overslept. He does that.”

But Will knows, everyone knows.

He knows Mack didn’t sleep at all, knows Mack didn’t eat, knows Mack went home alone and didn’t answer a single message, knows something is wrong.

Warso blows the whistle. “Let’s go!”

The team files onto the ice. Will doesn’t move.

His hands shake as he pulls out his phone again, nothing. No text. No call. No receipt.

He can’t breathe.

Toff walks past him, slows, frowns. “Will? Are you coming?”

Will swallows hard. “I… I need to check on him.”

Toff studies him for a long second, then nods once. “Go.”

He grabs his keys, leaves his helmet on the bench, and runs.

Will doesn’t even change out of his gear, only ripping his tarp and shoulder pads off at a red light, elbow pads and shin pads at the next.

He drives faster than he should. His heart is pounding, hands won’t stop shaking.

When he reaches Mack’s building, he doesn’t knock at first. He just stands there, forehead against the door, trying to breathe. Then he forces himself to open it.

The apartment is dark. Too dark. Darker than it should be.

The air feels heavy, stale, unmoving, like no one has breathed in it for hours.

Will’s heart drops.

“Mack?” he calls softly.

No answer.

He walks down the hall, each step slower than the last. The bedroom door is half‑open.

Will pushes it gently. And there he is. 

Mack.

Curled in bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, face buried in the pillow. Unmoving.

Will’s breath catches.

He steps inside, voice barely a whisper.

“Macky…?”

Mack doesn’t move. Not even a flinch. But Will can hear tiny sobs. 

Will isn't there because he is weak, not because he thinks he deserves to be treated the way Mack has been treating him.

He is there because he is strong. Because he knows that this is not his Mack. He is there because he knows what Mack deserves. There because he is terrified, because he is the only one who can reach Mack. Most importantly, he is there because he loves Mack, and he is not going to give up on his boy. He will go down fighting if that's what it takes, but one thing is for sure, and that is that he won't abandon Mack.

So he takes a deep breath before letting a bit of light into the room.

Mack curls away from the light and Will breaks as he sees Mack looking completely empty.

There is a patch of tears on his pillow.

Will steps closer, slow, careful, like Mack is something fragile he might shatter by breathing too loud.

“Macky…” he whispers again.

This time, Mack flinches. Not much. Just a tiny twitch of his shoulders. But it’s enough.

Will kneels beside the bed. “Mack, please look at me.”

Mack curls tighter, pulling the hoodie sleeves over his hands, hiding them, hiding everything. His voice comes out small, hoarse, barely there. “Don’t.”

Will’s heart cracks. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me.” Mack says with a small broken voice.

Will swallows hard. “Why not?”

Mack shakes his head into the pillow. “I don’t… I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I already do,” Will says softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Mack’s breath stutters, a broken, shaky inhale that sounds like it hurts. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Will reaches out instinctively, and Mack jerks away like he’s been burned.

“Don’t touch me,” Mack chokes out. “Please. I can’t, I can’t handle it.”

Will freezes, hand hovering in the air.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I won’t touch you. Just… talk to me.”

Mack doesn’t.

He just cries silently into the pillow, shoulders shaking under the hoodie, breath hitching in painful little gasps he tries to hide.

Will’s voice breaks. “Mack, you didn’t answer my texts. You didn’t come to practice. I thought, "I thought something happened to you.”

Something ugly flashes across Mack’s face, shame, fear, self‑loathing.

“I ruined everything,” he whispers. “I ruined the game. I ruined the team. I ruined us.”

Will’s breath catches. “No. No, baby, you didn’t—”

“I did,” Mack says, louder now, voice cracking. “I hurt you. I said things I can’t take back. I… I raised my fist at you.”

Will flinches at the memory.

Mack sees it. And he breaks. His whole body curls in on itself, like he’s trying to disappear.

“I’m a monster,” Mack sobs. “I’m fucking broken. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to stop. I… I don’t know how to be okay.”

Will’s eyes fill with tears. “Mack, you’re not a monster.”

“I am,” Mack whispers. “You flinched. You were scared of me.”

Will’s voice shakes. “I wasn’t scared of you. I was scared for you.”

Mack shakes his head violently. “No. No, you should be scared of me. I hurt you. I hurt everyone. I can’t… I can’t control it anymore.”

Will tries again to reach for him, and again, Mack pulls away, hiding his hands under the sleeves, hiding his ribs under the hoodie, hiding everything.

“Don’t,” Mack begs. “Please don’t touch me. I don’t want you to see.”

“See what?” Will whispers.

Mack goes silent. Completely silent.

And that silence is worse than anything he could have said.

Will’s voice cracks. “Mack… what did you do?”

Mack squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping out despite him trying to hide them.

“I ruined everything,” he repeats, voice barely audible. “I ruined myself.”

Will’s heart shatters.

He sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching, tears running down his face.

“Macky,” he whispers, voice breaking, “you didn’t ruin anything. You’re hurting. You’re scared. And I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

Mack finally turns his head, just enough for Will to see his eyes.

They’re empty. Completely, terrifyingly empty.

“I don’t deserve you,” Mack whispers. “I don’t deserve anyone.”

Will’s breath catches. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Mack sobs.

“It’s not.” Will says with more certainty than over anything else in life.

Mack shakes his head, tears dripping onto the pillow. “I’m scared, Will.”

Will’s voice breaks entirely. “I know. I know, baby. I’m scared too.”

Mack curls tighter, sleeves pulled further down, hiding his body, hiding the marks, hiding the bruises, hiding everything he can.

“I don’t know how to be okay,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to stop hurting people. I don’t know how to stop hurting.”

Will covers his mouth with his hand to keep from sobbing.

“Mack,” he whispers, “we’re going to get through this. I’m not giving up on you. I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”

Mack shakes his head weakly. “You should.”

“I won’t.” Will argues, it's the one thing he can actually be sure of.

“You should,” Mack repeats, voice breaking. “Before I ruin you too.”

Will leans forward, voice trembling but steady. “You can’t ruin me,” he whispers. “But you’re breaking yourself. And I’m not going to let you do that alone.”

Mack finally breaks.

He sobs into the pillow, body shaking, breath hitching, hands clenched in the sleeves of his hoodie.

And Will lays down beside him, crying quietly, watching the boy he loves fall apart in front of him.

He watches Mack drown in front of his eyes, he's been watching it happen for a while now. But he doesn't know what he can do other than just be there beside him.

Will doesn't leave Mack's side for the rest of the day, I mean, how could he?

He doesn't leave the room, not even for a second. He just sits on the floor, leaning against the bed, close enough for Mack to feel his presence, but far away to not push.

Doesn’t ask questions Mack can’t answer, doesn't push to get anything from Mack, doesn't touch him. He just sits beside the bed, close enough to be there, far enough not to overwhelm him.

He talks softly, breathes slowly, keeps the room warm and quiet.

Mack barely moves, barely speaks, when he does it is heartbreaking. He barely breathes.

At some point, exhaustion wins.

Mack falls asleep mid‑apology, hoodie sleeves still pulled over his hands, face still damp with tears.

Will stays awake, watching Mack’s chest rise and fall. He watches the tension twitch in his jaw, watches the boy he loves sleep like someone who hasn’t slept in days.

Eventually, Will’s body gives out too.

He falls asleep sitting up, head resting against the side of Mack’s mattress, one hand on the blanket, not touching Mack, just close enough to remind him he’s not alone.

It’s the first time either of them sleeps in two days.

But the bed is empty when Will wakes up from his alarm. The room is cold, too cold, too quiet.

Mack's bag is gone, the kitchen is empty, his car is gone.

Will's heart stops for a moment. Panic claws up his throat.

He calls Mack's name, but he already knows that Mack is gone.

There is a note taped to the front door, folded once, taped up with the tape they use for their sticks. 

I'm at the rink. Just needed to work on some things before tomorrow
- Macky <3

Will jumps into his car, but he already set his alarm to the latest possible time to wake up before practice, so half the team is already there when he frantically runs from his car, toward the arena.

He runs straight through the locker room, ignoring the guys telling him good morning. This is not a good morning. 

He hears it before he sees it, the echo of pucks hitting the boards, over and over.

Will steps out on the ice, seeing Mack over in a far corner, alone, sweaty, shaking, shooting pucks like he's trying to break himself in half.

Mack doesn't look up when Will calls his name, doesn't look up when the rest of the team steps out on the ice, not when Toff sends Will to the dressing room, stepping in to help Mack instead.

Mack just keeps shooting, keeps skating. He keeps going over into every place he has ever missed the goal from, trying to figure out how he should've made that shot, trying to make sure he couldn't make any more mistakes tomorrow. 

Will gets back out as the practice begins and the only thing that pushes Mack to snap back to the real world for a few hours is the fear that he will be benched again tomorrow if he doesn't pull himself together right now. 

Mack joins in on every drill the whole practice. Trying his absolute best to keep the worry out of his head, making space to focus on the practice. 

He still doesn't speak, still doesn't laugh or chirp his teammates. But he is there, maybe not fully, but better than he has been.

He pushes his body hard, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion. Only focusing on getting good enough to win tomorrow. Getting good enough to bring the team a win in the last game of the season.

They have to win, there is just no other choice.

They have to win the last game of the season, on home soil. The game that decides if they make the playoffs or not. They haven't gone through the hell of the last few weeks, just to slip and fall when they are this close. Just one more win, one more game.

By the time practice ends, Mack is running on fumes.

He skates the last drill like he’s holding himself together with nothing but stubbornness and fear. His legs shake. His hands tremble. His breathing is uneven. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t let himself fall apart.

Not here. Not where anyone can see.

The team watches him with a strange mix of awe and dread.

He’s not okay, everyone knows it, but he’s trying so hard it hurts to look at him.

Will stands at the boards, helmet in his hands, eyes glued to Mack like he’s afraid to blink.

Because he is.

He’s terrified that if he looks away for even a second, Mack will disappear again. Slip through his fingers. Fall apart where no one can reach him.

When Warso finally blows the whistle, Mack doesn’t react at first. He just keeps skating, keeps shooting, keeps punishing himself.

Toff has to skate over and gently take the stick out of his hands.

“That’s enough, kid,” Toff says quietly.

Mack doesn’t argue.

He just nods once, small and tired, and follows Toff off of the ice.

Will meets him in the tunnel. Mack doesn’t look at him but he walks beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost brush. It’s not much, but it’s something.

In the locker room, Mack changes fast, still refusing to remove his base layers. He hides his ribs. His arms. His hands. His face. He hides everything.

The team doesn’t chirp, doesn't joke, doesn't breathe too loudly.

They’re all walking on eggshells, waiting for something to crack.

But Mack is quiet, too quiet, terrifyingly quiet.

When he finally lifts his head, just for a second, Will sees something in his eyes he hasn’t seen in days.

Not peace, but determination. A tiny, fragile spark of it.

“We’ll win tomorrow,” Mack whispers, voice rough. “We have to.”

Will nods, throat tight. “Yeah. We will.”

Mack gives the smallest, saddest smile, the kind that looks like it hurts him to make, and grabs his bag.

“Hey Mack… want me to come with you” Will asks quietly.

Mack freezes for a moment and Will already knows what the answer will be “I… I think I should just go home alone” He says quietly “just for tonight okay”

Wills hear crack “Okay”

Mack swallows hard. “I just… I need to get my head right. For tomorrow.”

Will nods, even though it feels like something inside him is tearing. “Text me when you get home.”

Mack nods carefully before he walks out of the locker room with his shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes forward.

Like he’s marching into battle, Like he’s already decided he’ll bleed for it.

Will watches him go, heart in his throat, praying that Mack will make it through the last game tomorrow, no matter the outcome.

Just one more, One last chance, One last shot, One last night to save everything.

Maybe they can do it.

Just maybe.

Will gathers his things slowly, the locker room emptying around him. He doesn't want to leave, because leaving means that the next time he steps into that room again is right before going out for that last game. The one that decides everything. And even though a part of him believes they will be able to win it, another part isn't as sure. 

And to be honest, Will has never been more afraid in his life.

He drives home in silence, no one to talk to, no music to listen to that doesn't remind him of Mack.

He showers, changes, sits on his bed. But time just seems to have stopped completely. 

Will waits for Mack's text; home, safe, goodnight, anything.

But the phone never buzzes.

Minutes pass and Will tries to find something to do, an hour goes past and he tries to watch a movie, then two hours, three, and he can't find any more things to occupy his mind with.

Will tries to call, no answer. Send texts, no answer.

For every minute that passes, Will can feel how his chest tightens more and more. His hands are shaking, mind is spiraling. 

He knows Mack, well maybe he just used to know him.

But he does know what Mack looks like when he is drowning, what he looks like when he is hiding something, what he looks like when he is hurting.

Will knows that Mack is not alright. He knows he hasn't been alright for a while now, but something feels more urgent and Will just can't shake the feeling. Can't shake the feeling that he should've followed Mack home tonight, that he shouldn't let Mack slip away like this.

Will grabs his keys.

He doesn't think, not at all. He just drives. He can't even recall how he got from his own living room to Mack's place.

He lets himself catch his breath for a second before leaving the car in Mack's driveway.

His place is dark, all the lights are off.

It's too quiet.

Will knocks, well aware that there wouldn't be an answer, but one can always hope.

He lets himself in and the heavy air hits like a punch to the gut.

“Mack” Will calls out softly.

Nothing.

Will walks through the place, heart pounding in his chest, ears ringing. 

The bedroom door is open just a little bit and Will carefully pushes it open enough to step inside.

Will is so fucking nervous he feels like throwing up, but he have to be strong. 

Mack is sitting on the floor, back against the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled low, hood over his head, eyes completely empty. So empty that Will can't see Mack in there. It's just a shell. The shell of the boy he loves. But it's empty. 

Will's eyes move through the room. The blinds are pulled halfway across the windows, letting in just a sliver of light from the streetlights but it's enough to still clearly make out every detail in the room.

There is an unpacked bag in the far corner, a couple of empty bottles of water lying on every kind of suffice. But that is what catches Will's attention.

What does however, is the balled up light grey shirt that lays balled up in the corner among some other pieces of clothes, being stained something dark. There is a towel shoved under the bed, just as stained as the cuffs on the hoodie Mack is wearing. 

Will's stomach drops. “Mack… what happened?”

Mack doesn't answer, of course he doesn't. What should he even answer, what should he tell his boyfriend. Tell him that he can't function anymore, tell him that he is broken, that he doesn't know who he is anymore.

Mack doesn't answer, doesn't look up, doesn't move.

He just shuts down completely, like someone finally pulled the plug and those empty eyes became impossibly more empty.

Will kneels in front of him, voice breaking. “Macky, please talk to me”

Mack's breath stutters. His eyes glaze, hands shake under the sleeves.

Will knows this look, knows this body language, knows that Mack can't talk right now.

Will reaches out, slowly, gently and Mack finishes so hard it knocks the air out of Will's lungs.

“Mack,” Will whispers, “I’m not mad. I’m scared.”

Mack squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping out despite him trying to hide them.

Mack opens his mouth to say that he is sorry, that he is so fucking sorry, but the words never get out, no matter how hard he tries.

Will doesn't leave, doesn't pressure Mack to talk.

He can't leave, and at that moment he isn't sure he will ever leave Mack's side ever again.

He just wants to wrap him up and take him far away from all the pressure. Take him away from hockey, from the games, the pressure, the losses. 

So Will stays. He sits on the floor beside Mack, close enough to be there, close enough to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, anything dangerous. But far enough away as to not overwhelm him.

He stays awake all night, watching Mack's chest rise and fall, terrified that if he looks away, Mack will disappear.

When the sun finally begins to rise, neither of them want to acknowledge it. They don't want this day to be here. But they can't hide from it. It's the day of the last game of the season, and from the moment they decide to get up, the rest of the day will be spent in preparations.

So Will lets Mack sleep through the sunrise. Let him sleep as the room gets lighter and lighter, but their hearts are just as dark and heavy as the night.

He lets Mack sleep through the morning and into the day, in parts to not make Mack suffer through more hours than possible, in parts to let himself have a second of rest, a second of knowing that as long as Mack is asleep, the boy he loves is safe.

But they can't put it off forever. 

Mack hadn't felt safe enough to sleep for a long time but there is something about having Will by his side that lets him relax just enough to actually sleep a little.

His body is aching when he wakes up, still sitting on the floor.

Mack's head is leaning on Will's shoulder as he wakes up and Mack flinches when he realizes it.

“Oh I'm sorry Mack” Will says softly with a tone of sadness in his voice.

“It's fine,” Mack says, thinking about leaving his head on Will's shoulder for another minute, but he can't bring himself to be too close to Will. cant bring himself to touch him. He thinks he doesn't deserve it. That he doesn't deserve to feel loved, to feel closeness, not anything but pain.

So he gets up, kicks his clothes on his floor to where the stains don't show. He knows Will has already seen it, but he does it for himself because those clothes make him nauseous. They make him feel like a failure, like it's proof that he is weak and falling apart. 

They don't talk. Mack doesn't know what to say, and Will is afraid that any word he says might be the last thing that finally makes Mack fall apart at the seems.

Mack goes out to the living room, falling down on the couch where puts a game tape on the TV.

Will follows, hovering just the right distance away.

He joins Mack for a while, watching Mack replay the tape over and over again, zooming in on his mistakes but skipping over every fight he caused in the games.

Will makes some pasta as their pre-game meal and he can just feel how the air gets heavier and heavier for every minute that passes.

Mack takes the opportunity to go and change into a fresh set of base layers for the game, closing and locking his bedroom door behind him.

He is back two minutes later and Will doesn't breathe until Mack is safe and sound back in his field of vision.

Mack tries to hold himself together, tries to make sure Will don't worry too much about him, very well aware that Will definitely should worry.

They both just pick through the meal. Will is so nervous, he feels like he's going to throw up, and Mack doesn't feel like he deserves to eat the food that Will cooked.

Both of them are barely functioning, but time doesn't stop just because they forget to breathe. Life must go on, hockey must go on.

Mack gets his bag ready and they both get into Will's car. 

Mack could've gone to the arena himself, and let Will go home alone to grab his things for the game, but there is no way that Will is going to let Mack out of his sight for long enough to do so. They both know it, and Mack doesn't even bother taking that battle. In all honesty he likes to have Will there with him, but he hates it just as much.

He hates how he feels like he is hurting Will, hates how he can't hide things from Will, hates that Will sees right through him. But Will is also the only thing keeping him safe right now. 

Will leaves Mack in the car for a minute while he runs through his place, gathering everything he needs for hockey, throwing it all into his bag that he doesn't even bother zipping up before he is back out the door.

They drive to the arena in silence and the air feels too thick to breathe through.

Mack shuts down more and more the closer they get. 

They both know the drive like the back of their hands. They know every street they pass by, every red light that is annoyingly green all the way there. They know every little shop they pass by, knows how they keep getting closer and closer to the arena that they won't leave before they know if they won or lost tonight.

They go past their favorite coffee shop, ten minutes left, past the restaurant they visited together on the first day with the team, seven minutes. They continue past the school where they read books for the children, four minutes, another traffic light, another cafe. Time is ticking.

Mack is barely functioning by the time they roll into the parking lot. His ears are ringing, brain is fuzzy, body feels heavy.

And Will is not much better off from his sleepless night and many days of worrying.

The countdown until puck-drop goes like always, but it just feels off. The team tries to keep up a good routine, following it to perfection. They try to pretend like this is a regular game, try to act like tonight doesn't decide the fate of their whole season. Mack can't pretend.

They all go through the routine of warming up, playing some sewerball, strategy, thirty minutes of getting dressed where everyone falls into their own personal bubbles.

It's all like normal, except nothing is. There is a new kind of pressure. Another level of nerves. The air feels heavier, the jokes more quiet, the laughter non-existent. It's heavier, sharper, more quiet.

As the thirty minute countdown starts, Mack can't make any part of himself pretend that it's just another game. Because it really isn't.

His hands shake as he tapes his stick, and re-tapes, and tapes it because he can't get it right.

His breathing is too fast, ribs ache under the base layers, eyes too wide, too dark, too empty.

Will watches him from across the room, heart in his throat, praying Mack can hold himself together for the rest of the game. For 60 minutes of hockey, just one more hour of playing. One out of the many thousand hours he has spent on hockey in his life. One more game, one more chance.

When they line up in the tunnel, Mack stands in front of Will, shoulders squared, jaw set, looking like a soldier walking toward the certain death of a firing squad.

Will reaches out, brushing his glove faintly against Mack’s but he is too locked out of his body to even register it. Mack stays completely still, eyes locked forward.

The national anthem plays in the loud speakers and they walk out into a roaring arena. It's so loud that it kind of gets quiet in an eerie way. So loud that their brains cut the noise out to focus on other things.

They get out on the ice and the puck with the weight of all their hopes and dreams drop down on the ice.

0-1. Five minutes in. It's a stupid mistake. A defensive breakdown. It's not Mack's fault, but it sure feels like it. He is on the ice when it happens and he just feels the last ounce of hope leave his body. The arena goes quiet, everyone can feel it. They feel just how heavy that goal was.

0-2. Ten minutes on the ice. A rebound that no one clears. Mack can see it happen in slow motion from where he stands three meters away on the ice. 

It takes everything in him to not break out in a fight right then and there. He hasn't thrown a punch. He cant risk it, cant risk causing a penalty. Not after how the last game went down. But he also knows that he won't hesitate a second from throwing himself into an ongoing fight that isn't his to fight.

Mack tries to make the opposing players start a fight, but they are too smart, too composed. They won't put their team in that situation, and Mack really tries to do the same, tries to keep himself disciplined. He is raised on discipline. Raised to not make those stupid selfish mistakes.

He doesn't fight, doesn't hit, doesn't panic. Not today, not right now. 

But he also can't keep his head in the game without getting that hit that he craves so fucking bad. So he just… shuts down. Completely.

He plays on nothing but muscle memory and unconscious decisions.

They go into intermission, down by two. A number on a board has never felt heavier, and seeing a zero next to the home team feels like a punch to the guts, just not the kind of punch that Mack wants to feel, needs to feel.

Mack sits in silence, staring at the floor, breathing too fast, hands shaking, arms stinging, sticking to his shirt.

Will lets him sit there in silence, but he never lifts his eye from him. He just sits there, watching Mack's chest rise and fall at an alarming rate. But as long as he can see him, he isn't actively slipping away, and that's about as good as it can get right now.

The second period begins.

1-2 Mack scores. It's a beautiful goal, one that he has spent hours upon hours perfecting. It's a flash of the player he is supposed to be, the player he has always been, the player that is buried deep within him.

The arena explodes and so does the team.

Will grabs him in a hug, happy to see just a sliver of the guy he loves.

Mack barely reacts to any of it. 

2-2 Will scores, Mack assists. Just like how they always used to play. They are known to be one of the most legendary pairing on the ice, and this is exactly why.

Mack drops the puck in exactly the right place and Will places it deep in the net.

Mack doesn't really notice it. Every bit of his brain is filled with the growing need for a good fight, the rest is just on autopilot. Maybe that's why he is playing like the player he has always been. His brain doesn't get a single say in anything he is doing on the ice right now, it's just muscle memory doing what it's supposed to.

The crowd is roaring, the bench is alive, and for just a tiny moment they all let themselves believe that they might actually get to do this.

Mack does get his fight. He doesn't have to start it, he just joins in after Ecky gets pushed into the other team's goalie. Mack doesn't hesitate for a second. 

The punches hit real good, spreading pain through every bit of his body, clearing out his head.

The refs eventually break the fight up and Mack's head is finally clear enough to be somewhat functioning. 

He hears the roar from the arena, sees the 2-2 on the scoreboard, and he feels like he can breathe just a little easier.

They go into the second intermission in a tie.

This is when it really matters. The whole season boiled down into one game, one period, twenty more minutes.

3-2 Sharks score early. The building shakes, the bench erupts.

Mack finally looks just a little relieved. Not much, not enough for anyone but Will to notice. But nonetheless, it's there.

They hold the lead with bleeding hands, fight for it, burn for it.

Five minutes left, four, three. Mack keeps out of trouble.

3-3 

A turnover, a bad pass from Mack, a moment of hesitation in the defense. 

It's Mack’s mistake, Mack's fault.

He knows it instantly. There is no way to hide from it. The whole arena knows it, the bench goes silent, heads in hands. 

Mack skates back to the bench like he is carrying a corpse. A corpse that can't think of anything other than how he deserves to be punched and kicked until he can't walk. 

He lets his head fall to the boards in front of him for the remaining minute of the third period. He cant watch the game, cant face the disappointed looks of his teammates… cant face Will.

They had it, they were so fucking close. They just about had it.

The third period ends in a tie.

Intermission goes by in the blink of an eye and they get out in OT, fighting like their lives depended on it.

But so did it for the other team who also had to win to get that playoff spot. 

Mack gets the puck from a killer pass from Will.

It's an absolutely open lane.

The arena holds their breath, the team holds their breath.

Mack pretends to go left, dragging the goalie with him, opening up an almost open goal.

He shoots.

Hard, careful, just like he has done a hundred thousand times in his life.

There is so much space to hit. 

He can barely look.

He just hears it.

Hears the bang of the puck hitting the goalpost, bouncing away from him.

The sound is deafening and Mack can hear every person in the arena sigh in disappointment.

The puck bounces out straight to the other team.

Mack reaches for it but he is too slow, too far away.

His legs don't quite respond, his body is done, too slow, too sloppy in the defense work.

The other team takes it down the ice. 

A 2 on 1. 

Will is alone back there and Mack can do nothing but watch as Will dives after the puck, just barely missing it.

The horn sounds.

The arena goes quiet.

Mack just falls to his knees as he hears the announcement over the speakers. 3-4 OT loss.

His body can't keep upright anymore. His face hits the ice and his whole body goes numb.

Around the devastated Sharks who are all at different levels of breaking down, is the other side of every game.

The winners, the guys on the other team celebrating the very thing the Sharks wanted to be celebrating instead.

One team is crying tears of joy, joy of beating the Sharks, of making it to the playoffs.

The guys in teal are destroyed. Absolutely destroyed.

They file into the locker room in complete silence. No one blames anyone, they win as a team just as much as they lose as a team. But Mack for sure blames himself. He blames himself for the expressions on everyone's face. They are all just… empty. 

The guys get into the shower, everyone just locked in their own bubble of despair.

The air fills up with the death of their dreams, the broken dreams, the feeling that they should've done better, should've won that game. But they didn't, they didn't win, so now they have to sit in that fucking room as the air feels heavier and heavier until its impossible to breathe.

Most guys are in a hurry to get out of there. Others sit completely still for ten minutes before they do even so much as blink.

“Mack, Toff, they want you for the media” The team's media manager explains, voice unsure and afraid.

Will shakes his head as he moves toward the young woman standing just outside the slightly open door, facing away from the room to respect their privacy.

“There is no fucking way you get Mack out there right now, I'm sorry. You can take me, but just please leave him be” Will begs quietly.

She agrees. She knows it was a bad idea from the start. But she is also just asking the guys for what media orders.

They wait for Toff for a second before they have to leave.

Will throws one last look at Mack who hasn't moved for the last fifteen minutes. But as long as he just sits there he should be safe, right? The rest of the team will keep him safe, right? At least that's what Will has to tell himself to keep on moving.

The kind of questions they get makes Will even more sure of the fact that they would've torn Mack to shreds.

He hates the media sometimes. I mean, come on, they fucking love to kick a guy when he is down, and Will and Toff and the rest of the Sharks are so far down that they cant even see where they fell from.

The questions keep raining on them. First it's the personal interviews that go on for ever and ever even though only half of it ever makes the final cut. So while they aren't doing their own interview they just have to stand there, watching the other one get grilled, one question at a time. Each one more stupid than the one before.

They finally move on to the joint interview that goes on for even longer. 

By the time they get back and grab their things, the rest of the locker room is empty. It's completely quiet but even without the people, the feeling of the loss still hangs heavy in the air.

They get into the showers without saying a word. What do you even say when your world just fell apart, when the thing you've been working so hard for for years just slipped out from under you from the tiniest of margins. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

They know what the other is feeling, and know that there isn't space in their minds for other conversations. 

So they just get ready as fast as they can before leaving that empty locker room behind them.

Mack's bag is gone.

He must've gone home.

They both know that Will can't go home right now. He has to go to Mack's place, check in on him.

“Hey, want me to go with you?” Toff asks.

“I… I think it's better if it's just me” Will says, voice completely broken and terrified.

Toff gives his shoulder a good squeeze before leading him out in front of him. Toff isn't quite sure that Will would have ever gotten out of there without his help. Will knows that Toff's thoughts are probably correct.

Will gets into his car and after a deep breath, or three, he finally starts the ignition and gets going. He can't get to Mack's place fast enough, yet a part of him just wants every traffic light to be red. Because the longer it takes to get there, the longer he can put off seeing Mack's expression. Will knows he should want to get there, knows he needs to hurry, and he does. He just wants to collect himself enough to be fine, to be strong. Because everyone knows Mack won't be.

His car finally rolls into Mack's driveway and Will gets out.

The place is dark, just like it has been the last times he had been there.

He doesn't even bother to knock, already knowing that no one is going to open that door.

Will's chest tightens as he opens the door.

Mack's shoes aren't there.

He steps further into the place, calling out Mack's name without an answer.

Will continues walking further. Mack isn't in the kitchen, not on the couch, not in the bathroom.

He pushes the door to the bedroom. A part of him already knows the room will be empty, but another part of him just needs to keep the hope up, just for a second, just to get him one last breath before the air is finally pushed out of him.

The room is empty, of course it is.

Will's chest tightens, his hands are shaking, breath coming too fast, too shallow, too uneven.

“Toff” Will cries, really cries as Toff picks up on the first signal.

“I'm getting in the car” Toff says and Will can hear the panic in his voice.

Will keeps on sobbing as he can hear Toff's car turn on through the phone.

“Will what is happening, where are you, where is Mack” Toff continues as he leaves his street.

“I…I'm” Will cant breathe.

“Will, kid, breathe with me. Okay” Toff continues, trying to keep himself and Will under somewhat of control.

“I'm… at Mack's place” Will says.

“Will, I will be there in five minutes okay. Just breathe” Toff continues. Will can hear his voice breaking.

“Toff, he… he isn't here” Will sobs louder now.

“Will. breathe. Just breathe. We will find him okay.” Toff assures Will, but the worst scenarios are filling Toff's brain.

The five minutes are more like three.

“Will, I'm turning onto the street now” Toff says and Will immediately steps out on the sidewalk.

He only hangs up the phone when he gets into the car.

Toff starts driving toward the arena because that's really the only other place Mack could possibly be right now. At least that's what they hope, what they have to tell themselves.

Someone from the rink calls Toff's phone as they turn out on the bigger street.

Will answer the speakers.

“Hey, Toff. I… um. You should probably come pick Mack up” Someone who works at the arena says. It's a number, not in his contacts.

“Where is he?” Will shouts.

“The arena. He is still on the ice. He has stood in the same spot, shooting pucks for a good hour or two by now” He continues to explain.

“Were there in three minutes” Toff says, trying his best to sound calm and collected. Two things he isn't.

The call ends and they breathe out over the fact that they at least know where Mack is. And if they know him right, he is still standing in the spot where he missed that last goal. Hitting the pucks from that space until he can't hit the goalpost anymore. 

Toff pulls up to a parking spot messy, taking up at least two boxes.

They run into the arena, through the corridors, out to the ice. 

Mack isn't there.

They move to the locker rooms in just as much of a hurry.

The second they get in there they can hear water running. The showers are on.

Mack things lay in a pile on the floor, like they were pulled off in a hurry.

Will stops for a second when he sees soaked bandages sticking out from under the shoulder pads. There is blood on the tarp, a drop on the floor. He follows the drops with his eyes, leading out to the shower in a pattern that makes him feel nauseous.

As Will gets his gaze up off the floor, he sees that Toff isn't standing beside him anymore. 

Will moves toward the showers, his legs feel glued to the ground but he moves them slowly. Like he has to be there, yet he can't face it. He needs a second. But Mack needs him more.

Will fully breaks when he sees Mack.

He is on the floor of the shower, water pounding down over him, flowing over the bare skin of his body that is more bruised than not. The marks go from deep red, to purple and yellow and it's painful just to look at it.

His eyes are empty, head resting back against the cold tiles on the wall.

He is completely out of it, on a new level that Will has never seen. It's never been this bad.

Will's eyes move further down to where the clear water mixes with the deep red.

Toff sees Will, sees how the pale boy looks like he just faced death.

Will cant breathe, cant move, cant do anything.

He doesn't register Toff getting up, pushing him away from there.

“Hey, Will. Breathe, breathe. I… I will help him okay. You don't have to see this. You don't have to take care of it” Toff says, a tear finally escapes his eye.

Will doesn't say a word. He just turns around and hurdles over the nearest trashcan before sinking down on the floor, tears flowing out of his eyes at a rate that would make him drown if he ended up face first on the floor.

Toff shoots a quick text to Cat on his way back to Mack.

Will needs him, but Mack needs him more right now, and neither of them will answer him.

Toff runs back, embracing Mack.

Mack just cries and cries. But he lets himself be held.

He feels like it's the only thing keeping him together. Like it's the only thing that will keep his insides from flowing out of the cuts on his arms, ribs and down the insides of his thighs.

Toff turns off the water and wraps Mack in a white towel that stains in an instant.

Mack doesn't react to any of it. He just looks empty, broken. 

Will’s hands are shaking so hard he almost drops the phone when it vibrates in his palm.

He doesn’t even look at the screen, he just answers, voice wrecked. “C‑Cat—”

“Will.” Her voice is soft, but steady. The kind of steady that cuts through panic like a warm hand on the back of your neck.

Will chokes on a breath. “I— I can’t— he’s— Cat, he’s—”

“I know,” she says gently. “Toff texted me. I know, sweetheart.”

Will presses his fist to his mouth, trying to stop the sob that tears out of him anyway.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t see him like that. I can’t— I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know what to do.”

“Will,” Cat says, firmer now, “listen to me.”

He tries. He really tries.

“You are not alone in this,” she continues. “Toff is with him. You don’t have to fix everything by yourself.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. “But he needs me.”

“And you’re going to be there for him,” Cat says. “But you can’t help him if you’re on the floor, throwing up, sweetheart. You need to breathe. You need to get up.”

Will shakes his head even though she can’t see it. “I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Cat says, voice low and certain. “You’ve done harder things than this. You’ve held him together for weeks. You’ve held yourself together for weeks. You can stand up.”

Will’s breath stutters. “Cat—”

“Will,” she says, and her voice softens again, “he’s going to look for you. When he comes back to himself, the first person he’s going to want is you. Not Toff. You.”

Will’s chest cracks open.

He presses his forehead to his knees.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

“I know,” Cat says. “But you love him. And that’s stronger than fear. It always has been.”

Will lets out a broken sound.

“Now breathe with me,” Cat says gently. “In… and out. Slow. That’s it. Again.”

Will follows her voice.

One breath. Then another. And another. His heartbeat steadies just slightly. His hands stop shaking enough that he can wipe his face.

“There you go,” Cat murmurs. “There’s my boy.”

Will sniffles. “I don’t feel like your boy right now.”

“You’re always my boy,” she says. “And Mack’s. And Toff’s. And you’re going to get up, and you’re going to go help the boy you love. Because that’s who you are.”

Will nods, even though she can’t see it. “Okay.”

“Say it,” Cat says softly.

Will swallows. “Okay. I’m getting up.”

“Good,” she says. “Now go grab the med-kit. Toff needs you.”

Will stands, shaky, but standing.

“Cat?” he whispers.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Cat says softly.

“Thank you.” Will says with a broken voice.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “Just go take care of your boy.”

Will hangs up, wipes his face with the back of his hand.

He’s still terrified, still shaking, still broken.

He grabs every med-kit he can find and makes his way to the showers.

Toff looks like he is barely keeping it together and Mack is still completely out of it.

Will drops to the floor in the puddle of water but he begins to move quickly.

His hands are still shaking badly and the sight of the red stained towel isn't making it any better.

But he knows what he has to do, knows that Mack needs him.

So Will and Toff rips the med-kits open and begin working.

They find anything they can to dress the wounds on Mack, beginning with the thighs. 

Will knows every inch of those thighs, knows right where he has a birthmark high up the inside of his left leg, but that one is buried under the blood and bruises.

They carefully wiped the blood away before dressing the mix of new and half healed wounds.

Will knew that Mack was hiding this. He has seen the blood, the secrecy, the way he has been hiding his body in long-sleeved shirts. But no part of him had ever believed it could have been this bad.

Will flinches as Toff peels the towel off of Mack's torso. 

He sees the streaks of blood falling down his ribs. Those perfect fucking ribs that Will have kissed all over a million times before. Ribs that are now raw and painful, yellow and purple with deep bruises.

With tears in his eyes, he continues to dress the wounds with Toff. 

They aren't deep, not in a way where they would be worried about him losing too much blood. But there are a thousand other things to worry about when it comes to Mack right now.

When the last of the blood is wiped up, and his wounds are covered, Toff leaves Will with him for a second.

Will moves to sit beside him, back against the same cool tiles on the wall. His knees are pulled up, breathing still uneven.

He sits far enough away to not make Mack feel suffocated, but close enough to really be there.

For a moment none of them speaks. The only sound is the dripping water and Mack's shaky breathing. 

Then Mack leans his tired body against the side of Will.

Will freezes, not out of fear, but out of heartbreak. Heartbreak that Mack finally got to a place where he felt so small and broken that he had to lean on Will.

“Mack…” Will whispers low, voice raw.

Mack swallows hard. His voice is barely there. “I’m sorry.”

Will shakes his head immediately. “No. No, baby, don’t— don’t apologize right now.”

“I ruined everything,” Mack whispers. “I ruined the game. I ruined the season. I ruined us.”

Will’s breath catches. “Hey. Look at me.”

Mack doesn’t.

He stares at the floor, eyes empty, water dripping off his hair, off his lashes, off the towel that’s already soaked through with red.

Will’s voice breaks. “Mack… please look at me.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Mack turns his head. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, terrified.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” Will says softly. “I know you didn’t.”

Mack’s lip trembles. “I tried so hard. I tried to be good. I tried to fix it. I tried to win. I tried—”

His voice cracks.

“I tried.”

Will’s chest caves in. “I know you did. I know, Macky.”

“I missed,” Mack chokes out. “I missed the net. I missed the whole fucking net. I… I saw it. I saw it go off the post. I saw it bounce. I saw—”

He cuts himself off, breath hitching violently.

Will reaches out, slowly, gently, and places his hand on the tile between them. Not touching Mack. Just offering.

Mack stares at the hand like it’s a lifeline.

“I can’t do this,” Mack whispers. “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to be okay. I don’t know how to—”

His voice breaks again. “I don’t know how to be me anymore.”

Will’s eyes fill with tears. “Then let me help you. Please. Let me help you.”

Mack shakes his head weakly. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to,” Will says, voice trembling but steady. “I want to help you. I want to be here. I’m not leaving you.”

Mack’s breath stutters. “You should.”

“I won’t.” Will's voice breaks harder.

“You should,” Mack repeats, voice small and broken. “Before I ruin you too.”

Will finally moves, leaning his shoulder further into Mack’s, letting their bodies touch deeper.

“You can’t ruin me,” Will whispers. “But you’re hurting. And I’m not letting you do that alone.”

Mack lets out a quiet sob and his head drops onto Will’s shoulder.

Will closes his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m here,” he whispers into Mack’s hair. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mack’s fingers curl weakly into the towel. “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” Will says. “Never, Macky.”

Mack lets himself lean. Let himself be held, let himself breathe.

Toff’s hands are wet, shaking, stained faintly pink from the water that’s been running over Mack. He steps back for a second because he needs air, needs to breathe, needs to not fall apart in front of the kid who’s already shattered. He lets Mack and Will get a second to themselves.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He fumbles it out with trembling fingers.

“Cat,” he breathes, voice cracking the second he hears her name.

“Toff,” she says softly. “Tell me what’s happening.”

He swallows hard. “It’s bad.”

“How bad?”

Toff looks back toward the showers, toward Mack leaning just slightly against Will on the floor, toward the blood swirling down the drain.

He closes his eyes.

“Bad,” he whispers. “Worse than I thought. Worse than any of us thought.”

Cat is silent for a moment, not shocked, not scared, just listening.

“Toff,” she says gently, “you’re doing everything right.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. I’m trying, but—”

“You are helping him,” Cat says. “You got Will out of there before it was too late. You’re keeping Mack safe. You’re doing exactly what he needs.”

Toff presses his free hand to his forehead. “He’s so out of it, Cat. He’s not even… he’s not even here.”

“I know,” she says. “But he will be. And when he comes back, he’s going to need you to calm down. He’s going to need you steadily.”

Toff lets out a broken laugh. “I don’t feel steady.”

“You don’t have to feel it,” Cat says. “You just have to look like  it.”

Toff’s breath stutters. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” she says softly. “But you’re not alone. Will’s there. I’m here. And Mack is still with you, even if he’s far away right now.”

Toff wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” Cat says. “You won’t, Toff. You’ve been holding that boy together, you and Will. You’re one of the only people he trusts. He needs you. We will help them, we will get Mack whatever he needs okay”

Toff nods, even though she can’t see it. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got him.”

“Yeah, you do,” Cat murmurs. “Now go back in there. Bring him clothes. Keep him warm. Keep him grounded. Will can handle the rest.”

Toff exhales, steadier now. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cat says. “Just go take care of them.”

Toff hangs up and grabs new clothes from the bottom of Mack's bag.

When he gets back, Mack's head is learning on Will's shoulder. Will's hand threading through his wet hair.

They look peaceful.

“Hey, Mack, I've got you some clothes” Toff says carefully.

“Thanks Toff. I meant, thanks for everything. Both of you” Mack says, voice low.

But to Toff it's a relief. It's a relief to hear Mack talk, to see that there actually is something behind those eyes.

“We've got you Mack, always” Toff say, only letting a tear out now that Mack looks more alive.

Will helps Mack get dressed, slowly making sure that the bandages don't get messed up.

They stand in the quiet, in the closeness for a minute, not saying a word.

“I…I want to go home” Mack finally says.

“I'll drive you two home right now” Toff says, finally feeling like he can breathe just a little more.

They move to the parking lot together, slowly but surely getting there.

“Where am I dropping you off?” Toff asks as they start driving.

Mack and Will sit in the back seat, leaning on each other.

“Wills place” Mack says, no doubts.

Toff nods and makes a right turn in on Wills street.

Toff pulls up outside Will’s place, the car humming quietly in the dark. He puts it in park but doesn’t turn the engine off, like he’s afraid the silence will make everything too real.

He twists in his seat to look at them.

Mack is slumped against Will’s shoulder, eyes half‑closed, exhaustion pulling at every line of his face.

Will has one arm around him, steadying him, grounding him, holding him together.

Toff swallows hard.

“You two good to get inside?” he asks softly.

Will nods. “Yeah. I’ve got him.”

Mack lifts his head just enough to look at Toff. His voice is barely a whisper. “Thank you. For… everything.”

Toff’s jaw tightens. He reaches back and squeezes Mack’s knee gently. “Always, kid. You hear me? Always.”

Mack nods, eyes glassy.

Toff looks at Will next.

“You call me if anything changes. I don’t care what time it is.”

Will nods again, voice thick. “I will.”

Toff hesitates, just for a second, then leans forward and presses his forehead briefly to the steering wheel, breathing out shakily.

“You scared the shit out of us tonight,” he says quietly, not looking up. “Don’t do that again.”

Mack’s breath catches. “I’ll try.”

Toff finally looks at him, and his voice softens. “That’s all I’m asking.”

He unlocks the doors. “Go on. Get him warm. Get him safe. Love you guys”

Will helps Mack out of the car, one arm around his waist, Mack leaning heavily into him.

Toff watches them walk in through the front door, eyes shining, until they disappear inside.

Only then does he let himself cry.

Will gets Mack inside quietly, gently, like he’s carrying something fragile.

He helps him out of his hoodie, out of his shoes, into clean clothes.

Mack doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t speak. Just let Will move him, guide him, hold him.

When they finally get to the bedroom, Mack sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

Will kneels in front of him. “Mack,” he says softly, “look at me.”

Mack lifts his eyes, slow, tired, terrified.

Will’s voice breaks. “You can’t do this alone. Not anymore. Not like this.”

Mack swallows hard. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Will says immediately. “You’re not a burden. You’re my person. God I fucking love you, you know that. And you have to ask for help sometimes. You have to let me in.”

Mack’s lip trembles. His breath stutters.

“Ask,” Will whispers. “Just ask.”

Mack closes his eyes, tears slipping out despite him trying to hold them back. “Help,” he whispers.

Will’s heart shatters.

He moves forward slowly, giving Mack every chance to pull away, but Mack doesn’t.

He leans into Will’s chest, hands curling weakly in Will’s shirt, sobbing quietly.

Will wraps his arms around him, holding him like he’s something precious.

“I’ve got you,” Will murmurs into his hair. “I’ve got you, Macky. I’m right here.”

Mack cries harder, not loud, not messy, just broken little sounds that tear Will apart.

They stay like that for a long time. Eventually, the sobs fade into shaky breaths. Then into quiet sniffles. Then into silence.

Will guides them both down onto the bed, pulling the blankets over them.

Mack curls into him instinctively, head on Will’s chest, fingers still gripping his shirt like he’s afraid Will might disappear.

Will strokes his hair gently. “Sleep,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mack’s voice is barely audible. “Promise?”

Will presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Promise.”

Mack finally lets go. Let himself rest. Let himself be held.

Will stays awake long after Mack falls asleep, one hand in his hair, the other around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him safe.

Because tonight, Mack asked for help.

And Will will never let him fall alone again.