fourth of july like. one whiteclaw in and it's so fucking hot will thinks his skin is going to melt right off his bones, little pile of pink-red flesh in the sand. july is biting, scorching. white-burnt, the heat that hurts. will's just glad he's not in boston. at least by the ocean, there's a breeze. he's got his phone in his pocket, but he isn't looking at it.
two whiteclaws in and gabe is early because he's always trying to get on colleen's good side. he's brought watermelons. never shows up empty-handed. how did he even get so many? "stopped on the side of the road for them on the drive," he says. "traffic's a bitch today." "it's always a bitch; it's the cape." "well, i think he's going to be late." whatever. will doesn't care. 12 noon, and the sun is a ball of fire in the sky, roaring.
three and a half whiteclaws in and the people are doing what people do on a fourth of july party. loud music, the heat of bodies. will's doing it, too. he likes a party; it's all red-white-and-blue. jeans with a nice white crop-top and red details. her name is harvey, she's an old friend of grace's. gabe's giving her eyes like, wow, top-notch. "happy america's birthday, ntdp," he says in will's ear. will wants to say something mean, like how gabe's only american because it makes his hockey more impressive. instead, he goes and sticks his hands in the icebox. it hurts. his skin is inflamed. he feels like he's being cooked alive. when he brings another whiteclaw, condensation slick against his palm, gabe looks surprised. "thanks, bud." harvey's nowhere to be seen. will is a good host, so he nods and lets it all happen to him.
five whiteclaws down and it's the hottest part of the day. people are walking around with fistfuls of ice pressed to their vital points. one time their rookie year, will and mack ate a whole pint of grocery store chocolate ice-cream in jumbo's driveway. back when they were losing like it was all they knew how to do. they were so sad together, sitting on the sticky asphalt, bright, bright stars of the shittiest team in the league. mack and the whole weight of hockey on his shoulders, not even nineteen, too miserable to eat so the ice-cream melts from his spoon down his fingers and his wrist. sinking below the waters, drowning in it. will leans over and licks off the chocolate, chilled tongue against mack's pounding radial pulse. mack, wide-eyed: what was that for? will: can't put it into words that make sense. "acts of service," he says, and it makes mack smile.
six whiteclaws down, and leno finally shows. will swears he can feel it, feel cape cod get heavier as leno gets out of his borrowed truck; empty hands. maybe it's just that will's six drinks in, but leno looks bigger. broader. not kinder - the opposite, probably. his freckles are the same color that will remembers them being. he daps gabe up like they're still two thirds of the same hockey game, and then he's looking at will, whose fingers have started to go numb from the alcohol. blue eyes that are not kind, and have not changed since they were seven and learning how to stand on skates and hold a hockey stick at the same time. the weather app tells him it feels like 106 degrees. the earth is running a fever, and will's been infected by it. "happy america's birthday, ntdp," leno says. will tells him he's too late - gabe made that joke hours ago. leno shrugs like he couldn't give a damn.
still six whiteclaws down, because will's clinging to control by the tips of his fingers, and the barbecue is going. bill and the uncles. the role of the husband, the man of the house - cooking raw meat. jokes are made that it's so hot, the grill isn't even necessary. little pink patties of flesh, roast them right out on the sidewalk and it'll get the job done. colleen tells will to go inside and pull more ice from the basement. it's a relief in the house, thirty degrees cooler and dark and quiet. he catches a glimpse of himself in the big mirror in the foyer. antique thing, iron-y and gritted at the edges like the reflection's gotten too old to keep up all the time. he looks wild. like he's been in the sun all day, mostly drinking. flushed and his hair dark with sweat. skin pink everywhere, all over. like he's been ravished by the heat, kinda. glassy eyes. he takes a picture. "who's the lucky girl?" asks leno's reflection. will doesn't know what leno is doing here. "colleen sent me to help with the ice." "that's not what i meant," says will. "you invited me," says leno's reflection. he's closer now, enough that will could step back and touch the real thing if he wanted. will says, "let's get the ice," and leno says, "sure, smitty. whatever you say."
eight whiteclaws down and finally - finally - the sun has hit the halfway mark down the sky. it feels like there's never been anything but this heat, baking will's insides, turning his head to stew. gabe's picked up on the fact that will hasn't eaten, and brings him a plate of watermelon. red, juicy flesh, sugars dripping down the back of will's throat, down his fingers and his wrists, as if he could get any pinker. it doesn't sit great in his stomach, but it's better than nothing. gabe is watching. leno is also watching. will licks the juice off of his own wrists because he's a good host and he can put on a show.
ten whiteclaws down and the sun is dying and will lets leno hit in his childhood bedroom. hockey trophies on the dresser, eagles jersey in his closet, leno's dick in his mouth, heavy and red. leno gets his hands in will's hair and fucks his face for real and will opens up his throat so leno can fit without choking. when they get to the real thing, it's what will wants. leno doesn't really bother with the fingering part, but will's okay with that. he's learned to like when it hurts, and anyway, they've got twenty minutes before someone comes looking. gabe's probably already figured it out. will considers sending him a picture: cum watch? considers sending it to mack instead, like fingers slipped, sorry celly. don't wish u were here. inside of him, leno says, "this is why i got the invite, right? because he won't give you this." and will is too full, too drunk, too heat-tired to say anything other than, "lean, please." so leno fucks him for real, like he's carving a space for himself out of will's insides. he won't kiss him, but he'll lay will out like this, knock him right out of his head, out of this fever-heat. smelling like he's older, different cologne, rougher hands that leave darker bruises, gripping the back of will's neck and pushing him into the pillows like he doesn't care how will is feeling. will goes, grateful for something to keep him quiet, because he's worried he'll say the wrong name. in the end, he doesn't say any name at all, and leno spills across the sweat-slick dip of will's spine, and that's kind of funny; all the work of fucking will raw, yet he won't ever finish inside of him. "why are you laughing?" leno says, and he sounds mean because he's scared that will is making fun of him. and maybe will is, but leno came all this way just to get will out of his head, and will always gets so sentimental after an orgasm, and he doesn't really want to fight, and he wishes mack was here to hold his hand. so he says, "you were good, lean. you're always good." and leno doesn't kiss him, but he does run a hand down the length of will's back, all light and feathery. smearing his own cum into will's skin. "you want a hand?" he asks, and will says, "no. go find gabo. i'll clean up."
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