Little snippet of what I'm working on
āWhat kind of weird?ā Will asks, quieter now.
Mack swallows. āJust my ā my body feels off.ā
Thatās enough.
Will doesnāt push. Doesnāt question more. He just nods slightly and reaches up, hands steady as he unbuckles Mackās helmet. The click of the straps sounds too loud in the quiet room.
āOkay,ā he murmurs. āLetās get you out of this stuff, yeah?ā Normally they keep themselves a bit more separate in the locker rooms, but tonightās loss warrants a bit more closeness, Will decides.Ā
Mack doesnāt help.
Thatās the second thing thatās wrong.
Usually, even when heās upset, heād at least go through the motions. Now he just watches, eyes tracking Willās hands with an intensity that feelsā¦ off. Too focused. Too still.
Will pulls the helmet free, sets it aside, his hand just briefly running through Mackās hair, then moves down, fingers working at the laces of Mackās skates.
Mack feels it, sort of, kind of.
He sees what Willās doing. Sees the hands, the movement. But the sensation doesnāt match. Itās dulled, so distant, he wouldnāt even be sure a hand was actually there if he didnāt see it with his own eyes.
His stomach twists.
Somethingās not right.
He tries to shift his foot, to help, and it moves but not the way he expects. Not fully and entirely too slow. Like thereās a delay between thought and action. He tries again, more forcefully ā this time there is no movement.Ā
Panic flickers, low and sharp.
āā¦Will,ā he starts, but the word catches, too quiet, too unsure.
Will doesnāt notice yet. Heās focused, slipping the first skate off, then the second, pulling away the gear with practiced ease. Socks and pads follow, then the rest of the leg equipment, piece by piece.
Mackās legs are free now, except for the bulky hockey pants.He watches them.
They donāt feel like his.
The panic grows.
āHey,ā Will says softly, glancing up. āYou with me?ā Mack nods, a fraction too slow.
Will hesitates, just for a second. Then he moves on, reaching for the hem of Mackās tarp. āArms up.ā
Mack obeys automatically, lifting them. The fabric slides up, over his ribs, his chest āĀ Then over his head.
Darkness.
And suddenly thereās nothing.
No sense of where his body is now that his vision is gone. No grounding. No feeling in his core, his legs. Nothing to tell him how to stay upright.
The jersey snags on his left armās shoulder pad, trapping his arms halfway up.
Mack sways.
He doesnāt see it happening ā only feels the shift, the tilt of the world as it slides sideways.
He tries to correct. His body doesnāt respond and then heās falling.
ā Oh shit, Mackie ā !ā
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
stormborns
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
