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jeanie-g · 19 days ago

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you said to send you any two players with a pulse so I'm here to be annoying about my sharks babies willmack with song #71 ❤

BABY SHARKS!! we literally just yapped about them a few hours ago, but wow they are the cutest!!! I've read, uh, 0 willmack...but i DID do some research. so, hopefully it's good.

it's basically a full fic tbh. and same as before, yadda yadda my actual #72 is irrelevant, so here's 71+2.

[#73] Jackie and Wilson (Hozier)

Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime / Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine / Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside / Sit back and watch the world go by

It's weird being back in Boston. From the moment they'd touched down at Logan, Will could feel it in his bones—this weird unrest. And sure, he was born in Lexington, grew up right outside the city, but it was different actually living in it. Getting his first taste of a professional career in hockey in a city made for it.

And now he's back, eight months since he packed up his dorm and went west. Since he left his family and his teammates to go follow his outrageous dream while they stayed behind.

Mack doesn't feel the dissonance like Will does. He was excited to come back to his old stomping ground. As they filed off the plane, he kept giving the other guys tips on restaurants and bars that don't card—all with this haughty air about him, like he lived here for longer than the nine months he did.

Will envies his nonchalance, wishes he could feel just as normal about all this. Because Boston treated him well, even if it was technically Newton. He loved his team and he liked his classes and he had a blast getting drunk and losing his shoes at frat parties on campus. He even liked the chilly falls and biting winters—often misses them when he's feeling strung out on the palm trees and unrelenting heat of San Jose.

But he can't help the queasiness that creeps in as they get closer and closer to TD Garden, because for the first time in his life, he'll step onto that ice in teal and white instead of maroon and gold.

Here's the thing: hockey players need to separate their lives in two. Before getting signed to the NHL, and after. They just need to, or all the stress of comparison will eat them alive. Guys can break records and win trophies in Juniors or at college, but the second they step foot on that league ice, none of it really means anything.

Commentators and journalists and fans expect there to be a difference in their playing—growing pains—but not much. Not if they're actually good. But it's scary how much of a difference there is. For Will, at least, it was terrifying. Still is, on bad nights when he can't catch a pass to save his life and the Sharks continue their deep dive down the division rankings.

Because you can't just make it to the NHL; you have to sustain yourself in it. You have to fight and claw to stay afloat before you find yourself on the fourth line and then the AHL affiliate, and then behind the bench coaching pee-wees at 32.

Mack, of course, doesn't feel any of this—at least, not like Will does. He got three points in his debut. He was sidelined with a hip injury for a month and bounced back like it was nothing. And yes, he goes on to the media to tout how "different and difficult it is here," and Will goes on to say that even if they don't score any points, "experience is progress," but he calls bullshit—on Mack and himself.

Whatever. He's getting sidetracked. He does that a lot—gets stuck in his own head, this endless rat race going round and round and round until someone—usually Mack or Tyler—snaps him out of it.

Anyways. He's back in Boston and everything's changed and nothing's changed at all.

He's fine.

***

The game is awful. There's no other word for it, really, no word so simple yet piercing that it encapsulates all that went wrong out there.

It's just awful.

Sloppy passes, incomplete plays, half-assed defense. The Bruins are a formidable team, but they aren't unbeatable. Some of the guys seemed like they'd already given up before the first face-off even took place.

Will tries his best to get shit going, but there came a point (probably 14 minutes into the third, when the score is 5-zip), where he has to admit defeat.

He listens to Warsofsky ream them out with half a mind, knowing exactly what he's going to say before he says it. When he looks up at Mack across the locker room, he has his head under a towel. He assumes this means he's just as miserable as Will is, but when they walk out of TD and board the bus back to their hotel, he's back to his jaunty self.

"Do you wanna watch Yellowjackets when we get back? It's finally on Netflix."

Will gives him what he hopes looks like an indignant stare. "No, I don't."

"New Girl?"

"No. I just wanna go to bed, Mack. Don't you?"

He plops down into his seat and Mack follows suit.

"Not really. I kinda wanna go out."

That makes Will twist his body until his right knee is practically in Mack's lap.

"Are you not embarrassed? I mean, how many BU fans came, you think, just to watch you? And that's the fucking game we play."

Will drops his gaze to the floor. Mack's silent for a moment, and Will thinks he's finally struck a chord. But then:

"More than you can say about BC."

Will turns his head and blinks at him. "Seriously?"

Mack just shrugs, and Will scoffs. He takes out his AirPods and pops them in, done with whatever this conversation is.

They don't talk until they enter their room, but Will's not mad at Mack. He just doesn't understand how he's not upset.

"You're pissed," Mack says, clairvoyant as ever, as he drops his bag onto his bed.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." Will drops his own bag by the foot of his bed, already kicking off his shoes.

"Isn't it nice, though? Being back home?"

Will chortles meanly. "You lived here for nine months, Mack. That's hardly home."

"I meant for you."

That feels like a blow to the stomach. He sits on his bed and stares at the TV. His reflection looks back at him in the semi-reflection, shrouded in darkness.

It's part of why he signed with BC in the first place, to be closer to home. It all worked out so well, he thought—he was so lucky. He got to be close to his friends and family for a year, maybe longer, until he signed with the Sharks and shipped off to California.

But now, he's starting to wonder if it would've been better if he went to Michigan instead. Maybe if he ripped off that bandaid earlier—got used to being away—coming back wouldn't be so hard.

"I think I know where to go," Mack says suddenly.

Will closes his eyes. "For what?"

"To make you feel better."

Will chortles again, but doesn't say anything else. When he cracks an eye open, Mack's looking at him expectantly. He never did know how to leave well enough alone. It's not like Will particularly enjoys wallowing in self-pity, though, so he acquiesces. Mack hasn't ever steered him wrong, if he's being honest.

"Fine. Where?"

Mack smiles. "It's a surprise."

The 'surprise' ends up being the Common, Mack asking the driver ahead of time to stop at the entrance on the corner of Beacon and Charles. Once Will realizes the destination is outdoors, he starts to protest—it's fucking January in Massachusetts—but Mack just says to trust him.

It's nearly midnight when they get there, the streetlights guiding their steps as they exit the Uber. Mack takes extra care to tip the driver $5, 'cause he's good like that.

Mack's carrying a bag, but he won't tell Will what's in it. Will's not in the mood to argue, so he just follows him wordlessly, ambivalent to wherever he's leading him.

The Common's pretty at night. Snow dusts the ground and bushes, and the waxing moon casts light through the barren tree branches. The noisemakers of the surrounding city haven't completely gone to bed yet, but the area around them is pretty sparse. Muddy footprints going in every direction remind Will how populated this place usually is. He takes a deep breath, watching his exhale puff out in front of him.

They finally come to a stop at the edge of Frog Pond. It's completely frozen over, probably has been for days now considering the impressions and swirls in the ice from skates.

Will doesn't know exactly what Mack had planned—he half-predicted they were gonna 'talk it out' on the Good Will Hunting bench—but it still comes as a surprise when Mack sets down his bag, crouches, and takes out two pairs of skates.

Will laughs hollowly. "Macky, no."

"Macky, yes," he replies, standing and handing a pair to Will.

"We can't skate here in the middle of the night!"

Mack shrugs. "Why not?" His nose is turning red from the cold and Will has to suppress the urge to reach out and cup it with his hands.

"I..." Will crosses his arms. "Because I don't want to."

Mack laughs, seemingly having no regard for the sleeping animals, or whatever. "Never have I known you to not skate when an opportunity presents itself."

Will rolls his eyes. "Why do you even want to? Sixty minutes of making ourselves look like Bambis on ice wasn't enough?"

Mack tilts his head and gives him a look. "I think this ice is a bit different than the rink at TD."

Will opens his mouth to argue that, actually, all ice is the same because it's just frozen water—but something in Mack's expression makes him think better of it. His eyebrows are pushed up, his mouth twisted in that hopeful smirk that either leads to triumph or mischief. Mack's trying to cheer him up, in his own weird way, and Will's kind of being a dick about it.

Will sighs. "15 minutes. Any longer and I think we'd be at serious risk of hypothermia."

Mack smiles that big, toothy grin that emblazoned itself into Will's consciousness the first time he saw it, and every time after. There's some addicting chemical laced in it; there's gotta be.

They find a bench to sit on while they put up their skates. Will didn't even think about how Mack obtained them until he sees the Bauer label.

"Mack, did you swipe these?"

Mack, again, shrugs. "They have our names on them."

Will smiles. "Can't argue with that."

The first step onto the pond is like any other, but as he sets his other skate down and pushes off—as he gets into a stride—he can feel the difference immensely. It's rough, and snowy—difficult to maneuver at first. He catches his pick on a bump at one point and nearly wipes out, causing Mack to stop and laugh.

He didn't realize it's been so long since he skated on ice like this—not manicured and smoothed, but natural—real. It brings him back to when he was just learning how to skate as a kid, uncoordinated but doe-eyed, eager to learn.

Mack lets him be for a few minutes, content to stroll on his own, but eventually he skates up and taps Will on the shoulder. "Race you to the bridge?"

"Oh, you're on, bud."

Mack giggles gleefully as he sets off, Will rushing to catch up before he can even complain that they didn't count down.

Mack's faster than him—always has been, even though Will won't admit it—but the uneven terrain makes him wobble. Will's able to catch up to him and nearly sidle by, grabbing his arm to try and throw him off balance.

"Hey! Cheater!" Mack cries, but it doesn't sound as accusatory when it's punctuated by laughter.

Will laughs, too, his eyes crinkling with it, which is what he blames when his blade catches a crack, causing him to lose his footing. Before he knows it, he's spun around and falling backwards, taking Mack with him.

He lands on his tailbone, the force of it pushing an "Oof" out of him, with Mack sprawled out on top of him.

"Oh, shit," Mack says, scrambling to sit up. His eyes are saucers. "Are you okay?"

Will is slow to sit up, hand moving to rub his lower back. "Yeah," he says, wincing. "Not broken or anything. Just gonna be wicked sore tomorrow."

Mack must be really distressed because he doesn't even comment on Will's use of 'wicked' like he usually would. He just roams his eyes up and down Will's figure like he has X-ray vision and can discern any other bodily injuries.

Will reaches out and places his hand on Mack's arm. "Mack, I'm fine, really."

That doesn't do anything, to calm him. So, he—well, he does it without really thinking. He takes Mack's hand. That snaps Mack out of it, his eyes flicking back to Will's.

"We're hockey players. We literally fall on our asses for a living. I think I can deal with a sore tailbone for a few days."

That gets a chuckle out of Mack. He doesn't remove his hand from Will's, so Will doesn't move an inch.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you out here to begin with. It was stupid."

Will shakes his head. "No, it wasn't stupid." He's not magically all better, but he finds himself feeling significantly lightened. "I was in my head. I needed a reminder—why we do this, I guess. It was good."

Mack smiles, no teeth this time, and Will thinks that maybe he likes this one better. It's more intimate—just for him.

"I wanted you to feel better," Mack says. "I know coming back was gonna be hard for you, and the game was...well, it was shit, so that didn't help things."

Will chuckles mirthlessly. Mack shrugs, continuing. "I guess I wanted to remind you that being back here isn't so bad."

"It's not bad. You're right. It's just..."

He looks off for an answer, and when he can't find one he comes back. Mack's eyes greet him, warm and understanding. And he gets it, Will knows. Underneath the accolades and the point streaks and the headlines, Mack knows exactly how Will is feeling. Perhaps, sometimes, he feels it more, that label of the 'No. 1 draft pick' weighing on him in a way Will can never know.

It's not about the game, not really, and Will only sort of admitted it to himself before now. It's about being back in the city he really made a name for himself in, before he lost that big-eyed, eager innocence he thinks is so foolish now. He wouldn't trade being in the NHL for the world; he's not that stupid. It just—it kind of sucks right now, and he thinks he's allowed that.

Mack smiles weakly, and he looks so young. Not like Will's that much older, but... it's crazy, how they're both just kids in the end. Kids destined for greatness.

"We should probably stand up now," Mack says. "My jeans are soggy as hell."

Will laughs and they let go of each other's hands to get up. When they do, though—Will spinning around to head back to their shoes—he nearly bumps into Mack's chest.

Mack laughs, and then Will laughs and makes to back up, but Mack gently grabs his arm. Will snaps his eyes up to his, and something in Mack's gaze pins him there. He's utterly incapable of moving, but he realizes he doesn't want to, not when Mack slowly leans in and connects their lips.

And, oh. Oh oh oh.

Mack's lips are cold, but his mouth is warm, Will parting his lips to get a better taste of it. Mack makes some sort of pleasured noise and allows it, taking hold of Will's cheeks and propping his chin up to kiss him deeper.

Will realizes, dizzyingly, that their noses are touching. He wonders if Mack's is still red.

Eventually, Mack pulls back and leans his forehead against Will's. "How's that for a homecoming, eh?"

Will laughs, his voice going high with it. Maybe the cold is getting to him; maybe it's the way Mack is still holding onto his cheeks, so gently.

"You fucking Canadian," Will huffs out, and Mack tips his head back to laugh.

That won't do, though. Will loops an arm around Mack's neck and pulls him back in, swallowing the sound and kissing that smile right off his handsome face.

He feels that unrest from earlier—when they touched down on the tarmac—finally fade away, replaced by something else entirely.

And maybe Boston isn't so bad, or the NHL for that matter. They can't be, not when they gave him Mack, like this, perfect in his arms.

Maybe everything worked out just right.

#baby sharks are baby sharking #obligatory boston mention #fic request

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