wima nantucket drabble idk
mack's never really thought too hard about where he'll be when he finally croaks, but he certainly never would've expected it to be in fucking coastal massachusetts.
that's where it's gonna happen, though. he knows it.
from the way his morning started off in sheets pressed stiff with starch, messy blond curls tickling his nose. the smell of expensive hotel lobby (it's called sandalwood, mack) and the remnants of sunscreen clinging to tanned-freckled-rosy skin.
the strong hands that stop his own from wandering below a trim waist, the slightly chapped lips that press against the tip of his nose when he grumbles in protest. up and at 'em, celly. we've got a birthday to celebrate.
those chapped lips, so fucking pink, now warm and wet from the running water in the shower that is absolutely not big enough to accommodate two full-sized hockey players. brushing over the links of his chain. tracing down the valley of his pecs, the faint line of hair leading down between his legs. still so pink. a flash of white teeth behind them, a teasing you'll be quick, right? before he's buried to the hilt in that wet warmth, surrounded by heat on all sides. the opposite of a sensory deprivation tank and he should hate it but when watery blue eyes look up at him, lips somehow curling into a smirk around his length, all he can feel is something sticky and mushy in his chest and a refrain in his ears that sounds a whole lot like i love you and will's right, it's over for him almost as soon as it starts.
coming out of the bathroom, skin flushed, watching back muscles ripple like water in a lake as blond hair drips into an open drawer. a bundle of powder blue stripes tossed his way with a here, these should fit.
eyes like sapphire pools scanning greedily over his lower half as he complains that no, they don't, it looks like i'm wearing the micro version of yours, they're gonna ride up all day, responding with is that supposed to be a bad thing?
they're celebrating a dog. one kinda like cali. this one falls in love the moment will sets his hand in soft fur and coos, just like she did. he's delighted, all toothy grin and giggles like wind chimes, lifting the big guy with similar ease. all of his delicious hard-earned summer bulk put to work. he puts his hat on the dog and holds his hand out for mack's sunglasses and says no, he needs something from each of us, like a joint gift when mack says use your own. a perky little nose scrunching up as he holds his phone out to take a photo, low voice gone squeaky in an attempt to lure the dog's attention to the camera lens. an infinite amount of patience for those he holds dear.
that sticky feeling from earlier, enrobing his ribs and his lungs and his heart. it's like wading through mud trying to parse through any of his thoughts beyond the picture his traitorous mind has come up with of them, a decade down the line, of a living being with golden hair and mack's restlessness–something from each of us–being the center of their world.
he's still stuck there, sitting poolside, watching the setting sun reflect off the rivulets of water running down a sun-kissed back. he's a little jealous of it, that giant ball of gas in space. the way it always gets to beam down on will, regardless of where he is, gets to cover every square inch of him in itself and leave its mark in caramel and honey and blush. they're better now, the ice of off-season distance and prickly pride melting away; he knows the two of them are something inevitable, north and south poles of a magnet, and mack can only pray that it's more like the rise and fall of the sun rather than a car crash. there's the sound of half-assed chirps and water splashing. glasses clinking and feminine laughter and the shrieks of rambunctious kids and this isn't really mack's scene but the way will's eyes always find his makes him feel like the only one on stage. on the ice. in every room.
he doesn't realize how tightly he's wound up, hands clasped in his lap, until a small hand offers the softest of touches to his wrist. he sees warm, kind eyes and a small smile and registers the question which one's yours? and they both know she's not referring to the kids.
he doesn't even have to answer before will's lurking, every bit the shark he is, standing between mack's legs before shaking off like a dog. his hands are clammy where they rest on mack's knees and his pendants jingle with each turn of his head and the water's fucking cold as it sprays on mack's bare chest and mack wonders how his heart hasn't exploded yet with all that he feels for the stupid boy in front of him.
his voice is soft when he asks are you ready to go? and normally mack would ask where but he's realized now that the answer doesn't matter. he'll say yes as long as it's with will.
