Chapter Text
Anti-climatically, the paper bag he returns home with stays hidden beneath the bottom tier of their coffee table for almost a week afterwards. Lays there like a dirty secret (a simile or something? Will could never quite get the difference between those and metaphors straight), folded almost-flat and pushed deep enough that he is going to have get down on his hands and knees to fish it out.
It reminds Will of a joint he’d shoved under the mattress in his beach house bedroom when he was about fifteen. Shoddily rolled for him by one of the rowdier teenagers who vacationed further along the shore (Dad was a banker or something, and his Mom had been a beauty queen, but the boy had stick and poke tattoos on his thighs and listened to clanging seventies punk bands), it had probably been packed with weed so shitty it wasn’t worth the risk of Colleen or his coaches finding him out. So, Princess and The Pea style, Will had slept on it. Letting it haunt him for the last ten days of their Summer break before sneaking away to toss it into a public trashcan.
The contents of the Target bag is clearly different. Everything is. Will’s no longer a teenager, hasn’t been for three years. He co-signed for the roof he lives under and so nobody’s going to go nosing through his drawers for contraband, he can bring anything into the house that he damn well pleases. And he can’t actually break the rules if he’s making them up as he goes along; tracing them into sand rather than stone so that they can be written over when he learns something new, as many times as Mack needs him to.
But the paper bag feels hot enough to brand his palm when he brings it through their front door and somehow, diving to bury it under the table makes the most sense in the moment.
〰️〰️〰️
They’re both up at the breakfast bar. Chowing down on a barely passable chicken stir-fry that, as outlined by the print-out stuck to their refrigerator with a chipped Snoopy magnet, hits their protein goals. Under the cool wash of the kitchen ceiling spotlights, Mack isn’t Small so to speak but Will’s keen gaze follows the ungainly wrap of his fingers around his fork handle, the wobbly way he scoops up his brown rice, scattering grains down his front, and deduces that he also isn’t exactly Big.
It’s getting blurrier and blurrier, that distinction, as though it’s distorted by a water droplet shimmering on the line of it. Mostly when they’re cosied up at home, or when Mack’s being chauffeured in the Bronco (because it just makes more sense to go out in one car rather than two). Mack just gives in to it now and Will wonders how difficult it had been for him, to sidestep every urge to sink down, before he’d stumbled into given him the permission to. Now, when it’s safe enough, Mack’s learned that he can shed some of his adulthood and pass it over to Will as though it’s a sweater he was overheating in, here, hold this?
There’s lots for Will to love about the changes in their relationship but his favourite is that Mack’s stopped pretending as though he doesn’t suck on his fingers when he’s in immediate need of comfort. He’s even allowed Will to grip his elbow and guide his hand up, until it’s close enough to his lips for him to find his latch like he’s rooting for milk, his free hand flopping back behind him so that can he twist those fingers through Will’s curls, all lazy and babyish.
Primarily, the Mack currently slumped in front Will and their bland stir-fry is hungry and grumbly about aching, his lower body muscles still protesting a morning cardio session that had tested his limits until he swore he was feeling his heartbeat in his eyelids. He’s also busier than Will would like for him to be during dinner, with his phone propped on the counter and open on the IMPORTANT!! DON’T LOSE folder in his mailbox. Will should snatch it up and pocket it for the boy’s own good. Instead, he slides him a cold can of Coke Zero and commiserates as Mack tries to wrap his head around his ridiculous upcoming schedule. There’s training with Bedsy and his World Cup commitments with AirBnB, then hosting the bootcamp with Rick and Aiden before darting back from Vancouver to San Jose for meetings about the Sharks’ upcoming season.
He uses Will as a sounding board and that’s fine by him. It’s no hardship to nod here and there, murmur you booked your seat for that flight, yeah? Check you have a reference while you’re in your emails before stabbing at a chunk of bell pepper. Speaking out loud, listing dates and departures, is how Mack orders the abstract of it all into a timeline he can visualise in three dimensions. Probably using the same set of braincells that can predict an assist eight passes in advance. Listening to him to do so is one of the ways in which Will takes care of him.
Otherwise, Will busies himself with flicking through tiktok. Questioning his algorithm— anime, really?— and flashing the occasional funny video across the breakfast bar without expecting much more than a distracted half-smile from Mack. He knows better than to overwhelm him, or at least chooses his moments carefully. Though Mack’s undeniably fun to taunt that’s not where he’s aiming to lead the rest of their evening.
Will wants to keep it calm, quiet; find the sort of hush they can suspend themselves in. A drift of bubbles over the surface of a hot bath, drawn so that Mack can soak his poor, abused hamstrings and glutes. He’s going to be right there when Mack’s all done in the tub, waiting with one of their big white towels opened out for him to step into, and he’s going to feel the squeak of Mack’s clean skin against his own as he puts him down for the night with a final cuddle.
There’s no question as to whether Mack will let him do those things. Obviously Mack will let him because Mack’s hoping for those same things, he knows. Kid’s as transparent as a pane of glass in one of the windows at the front of the SAP. Not even a smudge to hide behind, just eyes made even rounder by how guilelessly earnest they are. He couldn’t even begin to deny how right and seen he feels when Will chooses for him, intrinsically trusting in his boybestfriend’s paternal urges to piece together a baby’s bath and bed routine for him. Lavender body wash and low lighting, Will twisting the dial to the rain setting on his white noise machine; the innate comfort that comes with predictability— the sort of list you’d find in a book bought for expectant first time parents. Maybe Mack will even get a story if he lasts long enough for it, a once upon a time there was a tiny little boy called Mackie who loved to clamber atop his best friend Shark and ride off across the ocean, searching for adventure…
But first, the Target bag with it’s red bullseye over the Hot Wheels box.
Registering the weight of Will’s determined gaze as it sinks back over him, Mack cocks his head, Rigney-style. Wondering and way too cute for his own good, with his hair hanging over the pretty quirk of his eyebrows.
“Whaaat? What’d I do, Willy?” He whines, “Do I have food on my face again? Tell meee.”
Predictably, Will beams as though Mack’s said something hilarious, the grin just bursting from him as he shakes his head, “Nah kiddo, don’t worry,” He assures him, “You’ve finished with dinner now though, yeah? Great job! Could you do me a huge favour and load our bowls into the dishwasher before following me through to the living room?”
“Yep!” Mack agrees easily with a smacking pop of his lips. “Not gotta put a cycle on though?” He checks, “We’ll sort it tomorrow?”
Yeah, the dishwasher can most definitely wait because if it’s us that does I’ll chicken out like I have for the past five nights.
“Sure, bud. Will’ll sort it in the morning, after breakfast. Thanks. I’ll see you in a minute, yeah?”
〰️〰️〰️
Will hears the shuffling of Mack’s two-stripe athletic socks between the kitchen tile and the living room hardwood before he sees him over the back of the couch, all endearingly unassuming in his mismatched shorts and sweater, with one sock scrunched down at his ankle and the other still clinging to his calf. There he is, Will’s heart beats, your Mackie, your little boy in the home you share. Mack’s hood has made it’s way up over scruffy hair and what peeks out flicks into fluffy wings, reminding Will of the flutter of Mack’s lashes. How they frame his dozy eyes when he’s staring up at Will from his chest. Will’s never noticed the details of another guy like he does Mack. Every single inch of him has become a polaroid for Will to keep, only they’re all in his head rather than tucked into the frame of his mirror like Grace’s. He can close his eyes and fan them out like a deck of winning cards— there’s the ghost of the gap between Mack’s two front teeth, the raised silk of his Olympics scar, the chocolate chip of a mole on his opposite cheek and the the broad, blunt half-moons of his nails.
Had he been in a different headspace, Mack might have come through with two High Noons or some interesting local IPAs swinging beside him. Instead he’s clutching one of the glass tubs of fruit that Will has recently started chopping and portioning out for him without needing to be asked. It’s so easy to do, all of five minutes work with one of their good knives, and the reward is Will getting to see his baby cheer over something as simple as mango chunks.
Although it no doubt makes his muscles nag, Mack’s legs fold in beneath him as he sags onto his side of the couch, feet tucked under his butt. Considering the corded thickness of his thighs straining against his Lululemon Pace Breakers, it has him appearing far more coltish than it should— than he has been since before Will came up against him in college. Will likes it in a way that’s almost wicked, how Mack’s regression sinks through his whole body until even his bones seem hollow with it. Making him little and light enough that Will could easily hold him in his lap, arms clasped around his middle and nose behind his ear to chase snatches of his boyish, salt and citrus scent.
He’s started having these filthy fantasies about wrangling him there when they’re on the bench in the locker room. Post-loss, maybe, when Mack’s so highly strung that he’s too difficult for anyone else to want to deal with. He’d fix it with Mack sprawled all soft across his thighs, wet tips of their dicks touching through their thin under-layers. Sway back and forth with him, patting a lullaby between his shoulder blades until he’s settled to empty-headed pliancy and hiding his finger sucking in Will’s neck. Yeah, they’re gonna give Mack the C but he’s still going to want to defer to Will, isn’t he? That’s a trip for Will’s ego.
With a very childlike carefulness, giving the task his full focus, Mack places the tub on the cushion between them. Will, barely even thinking before he acts, pries the lid from the tub for him, plucks out a halved strawberry heart and offers it up. The here, let me hand-feed you, little one unspoken but loud with their conversation lulled and no background noise from the black-screened tv. Mack’s open-mouthed surprise is syrupy sweet and he is so, so careful not to nip Will’s fingers. A peach segment follows, then two more strawberries and a slice of honeydew.
Without question, Will would happily feed him the entire tub, piece by patient piece. He’d let Mack fit flush against him and gorge on it all until his tummy ached and he pouted his way into Will rubbing it better. But Will also recognises when he’s bumping heads with procrastination. All evening long he’s been planning rather than doing, as though his boy is a million miles away and not tucked up like a little kid beside him, fruit juices bursting between his teeth.
And so instead, Will wipes his hand on his shorts and takes a deep, stabilising breath. Now or fucking never, coward, who shits themself this much over toy trucks?
At face value, that’s all that they are. Just two toy trucks, small enough that they’d fit in Will’s palm, side-by-side. But they’re also the ones four-year-old Mack had been heartbroken to lose. Or at least, they’re as close as Will could get, with him figuring the designs might have been through some changes since two thousand and ten. They have the shark and dinosaur heads and great big, bouncy wheels that will hopefully do sick three sixty flips when Mack throws them up just right.
They’re also a symbol of a very definitive moment in Mack’s life. That specific evening when he’d learned, in no uncertain terms, about what Rick was prepared to allow him to value and what he had to be prepared to give up before he could even confidently crayon his own name. Expectations that have dogged him ever since; parameters that Will is determined to bend, if not break.
It comes out of him in stops and stuttered starts— after somethin’ you were telling me the other day, I got you—. It’s nothing major— It’s not. Like it’s cool if you don’t even want it? Or whatever— but actually, after all of the drama of the purchase it’s self, and the panic once Will got it home, the eventual gifting of the monster trucks doesn’t come with too much fan fair at all. Sure, Will is unusually twitchy as he reaches behind himself for the bag, in case the contents earns a response more negative than he’s bargained for, throws everything they’ve been building into disarray. But he swallows that down to hand it over without ceremony as soon as Mack reaches for it.
He’d give Mack anything he held his hands out to him for. Wherever they were, no matter how many curious eyes they had on them.
“You can look inside, kiddo. You’re allowed.”
“For me, for real?” Mack asks as though it’s someone else entirely who expects Will to be the one to whip out his card out in almost every coffee shop they frequent.
“Yeah, bud. Just for you! I hope I chose the right ones. Can you check for me, Mackie?”
“Mmmyeah, can check.”
Obediently, Mack goes into the bag nose first. His hand follows. Hesitantly at first but then—
Then he’s bouncing with abandon and babbling some elated nonsense even Will’s finely-tuned ears can’t quite translate. It’s positive though, definitely positive, and the relief of it feels like a pour of warm water down Will’s spine. The Hot Wheels box is tucked into Mack’s fist and his fist is held high over their heads as though he’s pumping it in a celly. He only gives Will a split second to save the fruit before he topples over him, into him, his whole body buzzing with the kind of joy Will associates with Christmas mornings.
“My trucks, my trucks, my trucks,” Mack chants, awed, “These-these are my trucks, you found my trucks.”
“Yeah, I thought my Mackie might like some toys, hm? These seemed like a good place to start,” Will says, breezy as anything, as though there hasn’t been a constant knot under his ribs for the last week. With his arms full of squirmy Mack, he can’t remember why he’d even been worrying, “What do good boys say when they get a gift, bud?”
“They say thank you—”
Mack begins his reply before Will’s even finished asking and that’s just, fucking something isn’t it? From the brat who doesn’t see the point in an apology if he can throw money at whatever he broke.
“Um. Thank you for trucks.”
“Yeah, yeah that’s it, that’s it. You’re such a good boy for me, huh?”
Will’s palms itch for the feel of Mack until he cups his face. Tilting him a touch so that he can admire how the heat in his cheeks makes the green of his eyes spark as he blinks back at him, slow and sleepy. Melty from the praise, Mack would let Will move him however he pleased so as long as he could keep his trucks clutched close. Swallowed up by his hoodie and bracketed between Will’s hands and the accommodating spread of his legs, he’s gone all the way small. So fucking cute and itty bitty.
“Hey there,” Will coos, pausing for the toothy grin Mack gives him when he realises he’s being addressed again (as though Will could filter him out to focus on anything else), “It’s getting kinda late for little boys. So I think we’re gonna head for a bath and then bed really soon. But you can show me some cool tricks with your trucks in the morning, okay?”
“For definite I can, in the mornin’?”
“Yeah, kiddo. Shall we pinkie promise on it?”
“Mmm, ‘kay then, Dada,” Mack agrees as they link their little fingers. No fussing, no bargaining, just his complete trust in Will.
Will, who can’t do anything other than go ahead and shake on his promise, even as his heart ricochets up into some extra squishy part of his suddenly very loud brain and his own saliva tries to choke him, unwilling to risk a big reaction that might spook Mack in to taking that one word back.
Dada. Dada. Dada. Yeah, that’s him because Mackie’s his little boy now, that’s who he has become. Fuck. Will’s proved himself— feels like he’s earned Mack’s insistence on glazing him whenever he has a camera in his face and a journalist wanting him to justify Will’s place beside him on the ice.
Before he can overthink it, Will ducks in to press his mouth to Mack’s in a quick, firm kiss. A claim staked. Just open enough that Will can taste the peachberrymelon of Mack’s gasp, feel the searing, spit-wet slide of his lips clumsily goldfishing around his; so fucking clueless and adorable when he’s dropped down like this. Objectively, it’s a terrible first kiss but Will couldn’t give less of a shit. It means he can take the time to help Mackie learn. He’d do damage to anybody else who tried to get their hands or mouth on this Mack. He’d finally find that brutality people are always begging for him to bring to the boards. But it can’t be considered taking advantage when he treasures the kid above all else, right?
Mack looks lit the fuck up, anyway.
“More?” He slurs. His tongue is a bubblegum pink flash as he wets his lips in anticipation, his breaths leaving him in hot, overwhelmed little pants, “More kisses, Dada?”
“Yeah, yeah ‘course. But listen to me, Mackie— just with Dada baby, yeah? Nobody else can kiss you like this, you’re too small. But I love you so much, I’ll keep you safe.”
Even though they’ve lost most of the day’s light to the horizon, Mack’s wide, wet eyes remain greener still than the weed teenage Will had slept on instead of smoking. A pointed cardboard corner of the Hot Wheels box sticks out from between his fingers and digs insistently into Will’s bicep, his leg hair is downier than Will’s where their warm calves brush above his uneven socks and the next deep catch of their lips is intoxicatingly lush. Will feels high with it all; the pure, glowing kind you get from the good stuff you pay a premium for at a dispensary.
“Perfect. You’re perfect,” He tells Mack, voice rumbling between their chests with sincerity. He smudges his reddened lips over the tip of Mack’s pretty nose and then his clammy forehead, too, “I have the best boy in the whole world, don’t I? C’mon, let’s get you in the tub before I’m entirely too distracted.”