Archive of Our Own

The locker room is silent aside from the muted sounds of everyone shedding their gear, packing it all away for the last time in this room, this arena, this country. No one speaks for a long time, not until Crosby ambles in, a few minutes behind, and gives them The Speech. The loser's speech. The one full of almosts and next times, and we did our bests, the consolation pride that's hard to feel deserving of while soaking in his own disappointment and misery.

After that, a few hushed conversations break out, quiet condolences and tight hugs, firm hands clapping on shoulders. There are more than a few misty eyes and stiffles awkwardly overlaid with manish coughs. McDavid, red-eyed and grim-faced in his stall, has hardly looked up from the floor, still sitting with his pads on and his jersey in his hands.

He knows everyone is upset and disappointed that none of them did what they set out to do. But Mack—Mack is fucking crushed under the weight of his own helplessness. They were wrong about him. Everyone. He's not special, he's not the fucking future of the NHL. He's good, but he's not good enough.

He wants to see the footage. It's not like he doesn't know where he went wrong; he fucking knows. All of it is going to stay with him; it'll haunt him, he thinks bitterly, like that reporter had said. But he wants to replay it until it's burned into his brain, until he learns how to never fuck up like that again. How to not let everyone down like that again.

His phone dings, and he frowns down at it, reading the message from his mom.

We'll meet you outside. I love you

His eyes sting. He knows he needs to hold it at least a little together until he can get out of here. He doesn't know if it's better sitting and stewing here with his team, knowing everyone in this room is fighting the same losing battle against that dense pain rattling their chests, shouldering—almost—the same burden of losing, or if he'll actually feel better when he burrows himself in his mom's arms, lets her tell him it's okay, that they're still so proud of him. Charlie and RJ will make him laugh even though he feels like there's a boulder on his chest crushing the air out of his lungs. He wishes Aiden were here to pull him into a bear hug and ruffle his hair like he's done since Mack was a kid. His dad will—fuck, Mack doesn't even know what to say to him.

He knows his dad is proud of him, that he'll say all the nice words and tell Mack that despite the loss, he did good—is good. He knows his family won't look down on him for losing; he nearly had to shut himself in the bathroom and cry when he heard that voicemail they left him. But there's no way they won't be at least a little disappointed. Mack is fucking disappointed. It'll stick with him, probably forever, getting so close and coming up short. Failing.

He wants to scream. He wants to ball up all the thoughts and feelings swirling violently in his head, hurl them in the ocean, and let them sink to the murky bottom. He wants to get back on the ice and fire at the empty net until his wrists ache and the muscles in his arms and shoulders scream and protest until they finally give out. He wants to get on a plane and fly home, get in his bed, pull the covers over his eyes, and shut the world out.

But going home means seeing his team, seeing Will, and the thought of that has that boulder on his chest gaining mass, getting heavy enough to crack ribs. He can't think about it right now. That Will's team won, his country. That Will is probably high-fiving his friends and thinking that, sure, losing sucks, but Mack should feel happy and grateful to have even gotten to play in the Olympics, gotten a medal. He won't know that the silver had felt so heavy around Mack's neck that he'd taken it off as soon as he could. He's sure that later he'll find a way to feel something akin to good about it. He has an Olympic medal, and that's something, it is, but it's going to take a while for the sting to ease enough for him to appreciate it.

They haven't spoken since Will's good luck text last night, and Mack is trying not to be bitter about the fact that, now, Will is probably sending out congratulations and God bless America texts with fucking bald eagle emojis. Whatever. He still has nearly two days before he's back in San Jose and has to face it.

"You okay?"

The words startle him out of his reverie, and he realizes that he's been staring at nothing for a while now. He turns his head. It's Tom, standing a few feet away with his gear bag on the bench in front of him, zipped up and ready to go.

"Sure," Mack says belatedly with a shrug.

Tom nods, probably knowing it's not really true, that none of them are particularly okay right now. His eyes are dry, though, and clear. He doesn't look sad, really, with his jaw set and his back stiff; he mostly looks angry. Or determined, maybe, Mack can't really tell. His gaze is serious, just shy of stoic, when he steps forward and closes the gap between them.

He brings a hand up and grips Mack tight on the shoulder, squeezing once before letting it slide up and cup the back of his neck. His palm is heavy and warm, fingers a little rough where they rest on his skin. And big, he can't stop himself from noticing. Mack has to look up to meet his eyes, and this close, he can't stop himself from noticing that either.

"You did good, kid," Tom says earnestly. "Really fucking good."

Mack bites his cheek and nods. He can feel the way his lashes are still clumped together wetly every time he blinks.

"You too."

"I mean it," he insists, hand tightening on his neck. The pressure is grounding. "Not just today. Every game. You were fucking killer."

He means it. Tom, in Mack's limited experience, is a hot head and a bit of a bullshitter, but he's honest when it counts. And he doesn't dole out empty compliments. Mack knows because every time he gets one, it's delivered intently, not the casual off-hand praises slung easily amongst the team. He kind of hates the way it makes his cheeks heat.

"I—" Mack starts, fighting the urge to protest. "Thanks."

Tom stays looking at him for a moment before pulling away, the feeling of cool air rushing to his skin eclipsed when the pad of Tom's thumb sort of lingers, barely a second too long, dragging softly along the column of his neck in a way that makes Mack's breath hitch. He doesn't know if it was on purpose. Or if he imagines the way Tom's eyes flick down to his lips for just a second when he licks them.

There's a tense moment where neither of them moves, just stands there looking at each other in a room cloyed so thick with misery it's almost cloudy, hard to breathe.

Mack feels a little itchy beneath his skin under the weight of Tom's gaze. It's not that he didn't notice that Tom was hot—it was sort of hard not to—but he'd kept it in the back of his mind. Tom is hot and tall and has at least 30 pounds on him, and he's older in a way that kind of adds to the appeal. Mature. It makes Mack squirmy that he has to look up to meet Tom's eyes, the way his beard scratches slightly against Mack's cheek when they hug. Mack has noticed, but he's had much bigger things to worry about than silently lusting after his teammate up until this point. Bitterly, he supposes now that it's over, he no longer has that problem.

The driving hope of winning that had been rushing in his ears since they'd won their first game, so sweet on the tip of his tongue, has turned to sour ash gumming up at the back of his mouth, in his throat, and there's nothing he can do but try to swallow around it.

"Go see your family," Tom says, voice a little rougher than it had been a second ago. "We're all gonna take some time to sulk for a bit before we pull it together. Then come meet us in Cap's room tonight. We're gonna get shitfaced and probably bitch about America until we feel better."

That makes Mack crack a weak smile. He knows a couple of the guys are going to have some choice words.

"Yeah, okay," Mack nods. "I'll, uh, I'll see you then."

He makes his way out of the locker room with his bag slung over his shoulder, a few of the guys patting him on the back and ruffling his hair as he goes. He keeps his hood up and his head down as he exits the arena, trying desperately to ignore the buzz around him, but it's there in the air, the hoots and hollers of the victors, and Mack can barely breathe.

After a few hours with his family, he does feel better. Not good, but after crying so hard he nearly burst a blood vessel, wrapped up and pressed tight between his mom and dad, he can almost manage to push the heartache to the side enough carry on with a degree of normalcy. It feels marginally less like his world is crumbling and taking the ground beneath his feet with it, at least.

He wakes up from his nap feeling kind of like he's been run over by a truck. The cut on his cheek still stings, hot and tender to the touch, and he can't help pressing on it a little, testing out the hurt that had previously been dulled by adrenaline.

Shea must have woken up from his own nap a little while ago, Mack can hear him puttering around in the bathroom. He should probably get up soon, but his limbs feel almost as heavy as his heart.

He has two unread texts and a missed call from Will on his phone from a couple hours ago that he hasn't opened. Mack thinks about calling him back—fuck, he wants to talk to him, wants to hear his voice and soak up the comfort of someone who gets him, but he can't bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to have to congratulate Will—apple pie eating, fourth of July celebrating, star-spangled banner waving, American through-and-through Will—on the win for his country. He can't. Not right now.

Will is his best friend, but he's also more than that, and right now, Mack doesn't have the fortitude he normally has to separate everything that they are and aren't into the neat little boxes he needs to keep himself sane. It's not supposed to be complicated, but them hooking up for the last several months has caused several problems for Mack, specifically. Mack thinks he's done a fantastic job of ignoring them. Of containing them. Of letting it be what it is without pushing for more. He's a little too tender for that right now.

It's nearing nine o'clock when he and Shea make it to their captain's room down the hall. Almost everyone is already there, and a few more trickle in after them. Not Binnington, though, Mack notes. There are quite a few from the women's team, too.

Mack gets drunk, but he doesn't get shitfaced. It's good to be with everyone. His team, temporary as it was, still feels like something special. The next time he sees any of them, it'll be from opposite benches, opposing sides of the faceoffs. He'll be slamming them into the boards and blocking their shots and shaking their hands after games when only one of them will be feeling the sting of a loss. For now, though, they're all on the same side, united by a country that most of them don't even live in.

With a couple of the younger guys, he marvels in the fact that, despite not winning gold, they're fucking Olympians. They have tangible evidence, a piece of metal they can feel the weight of in their palms or around their necks to prove that they've gotten this far, and that's something no one can take away from them. It feels good, it feels better.

The mood in the room fluctuates between solemn and raucous throughout the night; they do end up bitching about America for a while. And even though it's a place many of them call home, he can't help that spark of pride being Canadian in a room with more Canadians than he has been in years.

Some of the guys seem to shake off the loss rather well, some are still sullen and withdrawn. It helps that the women's team, at least, have had a bit more time to sit with it, and they're in pretty good spirits.

He bumps into Tom while he's leaving the washroom—quite literally—they have a small collision near the door jam. Tom puts a hand on Mack's waist to steady him when he's almost knocked over.

"Oh!" Mack jolts, swaying slightly. "Sorry. Hey."

Tom's hand is still on his waist. And it's not—some guys are handsy, in that easy, bro-y, camaraderie-driven type of way—but Tom isn't really. At least, Mack didn't think so. No more than the rest of them. Mack tries not to let it affect him, even though he feels like he's burning at their point of contact, his shirt doing nothing to allay the heat of Tom's hand.

He thinks about that same hand, big and heavy on the back of his neck in the locker room, the lingering touch, and the almost too-intense eye contact.

"Hey, liney."

His hand slides off of Mack's waist, once again lingering a second too long.

"Hey," Mack says again uselessly, a little breathless.

Tom says something, but the noise swelling in the room makes it so that he has to lean in a little for Mack to hear him. He tries to be chill about it, but the alcohol is making him loose and buzzy. Making it hard not to notice all the things he's been doing a great job of not noticing. Mack leans in a little further, letting himself sway forward to reply. It's dumb, he thinks—he knows—having this silly little preoccupation with a teammate. It's dumb and reckless and maybe a little dangerous, but he can't stop himself from wanting.

He shouldn't push, shouldn't test boundaries like these, ones that are rock-solid, as thick and impenetrable as a mountainside. He could get himself into trouble, could come away with an awkward retreat or a black eye.

Out of anyone, Mack probably picked the wrong guy to bite his lip and bat his eyelashes at. Tom is nice, but Mack has watched him snap to violence several times. For some reason, right now the thought sparks heat in his belly. Maybe he wants to hurt, maybe he wants to do something reckless and futile and get shoved up against a wall—in passion, in disgust—Mack doesn't really care right now. Nothing will hurt more than losing today.

So he lets his gaze linger and stands a little closer than he should and laughs in a way that's meant to be coy, but Mack is pretty sure just looks dumb.

"Wait, was it dumb or dumber who got you?" Tom asks, chirping him about the cut on his cheek courtesy of one of the Tkachuck brothers.

"Which one is which?"

Tom fixes him with a look.

"Dumber," Mack sighs, "I think."

"Brutal," Tom smirks, taking a sip of his beer.

"Yeah, whatever, man."

Mack shoves at his shoulder, a little harder than he'd meant to, but Tom doesn't budge an inch, stupidly solid without even trying.

"Hey," he protests anyway, narrowing his eyes, mock-offended, "penalty. Roughing."

"Remind me, how many times have you been in the penalty box this season?" Mack chirps, biting his lip around a smile.

Then he starts pretending to mentally recall, counting off his fingers until Tom rolls his eyes and they both laugh.

"Yeah, you're real cute, Celebrini," Tom quips with a snort.

Mack is quiet a beat too long. And he's about to laugh the strange, sudden tension off, only then, Tom is giving him this look that he doesn't know how to decipher. Mack peers up at him through his lashes and holds his breath for long enough that he starts to get dizzy. Then he swallows.

"You think?"

Then he cringes. God, he sounds so fucking earnest, and he hadn't meant to. It was supposed to be a joke, light and sarcastic and meaningless. That's not how it comes out. He wants Tom to think he's cute, wants him to want Mack back, and his voice betrays all of it: his naïvité, his desperation for someone to see something good in him rumbling loud enough in his chest that his bones vibrate, trying to stretch its hungry limbs out for a taste of something more. Mack's face burns as Tom blinks at him for several seconds.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice low and rough, "I do."

And oh. Mack ducks his head, breath hitching. He didn't think it was possible to blush further than he already had been, but the heat in his cheeks feels close to scorching. He wants to grab the beer bottle Tom is holding and press it to his cheek. Instead, he just stands there dumbly and tries to tell himself that what he thinks is happening can't possibly be happening. Surely, at any moment, Tom is going to laugh and clap him manfully on the shoulder and go join the rest of them.

But when he blinks back up to meet Tom's eyes, they're leaden with the weight of his stare. He looks curious and a little challenging, like he's wrapping his fist around the chord of tension between them and testing its give. And if Mack were to back off, to laugh and step back, he knows that Tom would let the moment melt and slide easily away as if it were never there. But maybe if he leans in…God, this is such a bad idea.

Mack has a hard time knowing when he's being flirted with at the best of times; the guys are always chirping him when he unwittingly walks away from a girl who had been trying to get with him. But this feels different. And he is starkly aware of the heat ripe between them, taught as an anchored rope, and he wants.

Heart hammering wildly, he takes a tentative step forward—just enough to be salient but not so close that anyone would question it—and he tries not to think about Will. He doesn't want to wonder what he'd think about this. What Will would say if he were standing across the room watching Mack lean in and pointedly—bolder than he feels—look down at Tom's lips before dragging his eyes up to meet his eyes again. If he'd be annoyed or weirded out or happy for him or jealous. If he would even care.

Tom's gaze darkens as a look of understanding passes between them. Something undecipherable plays fleetingly across his face before he nods, almost to himself. Tom's gaze rakes over him, dragging down and then up again, pausing at his lips that Mack can't help biting.

"Do you wanna…" Tom trails off, clearing his throat and tipping his head towards the door.

Mack is already nodding before he can give himself time to think it over. Tom huffs a laugh. Mack knows that he constantly gives himself away—always too eager, too earnest, too demanding—when he has his sights set on something.

No one thinks anything of it when they leave at the same time. That's probably because they don't know that he and Tom won't be parting ways at the closing of the door, that Tom will lead him down the hall, all the way to the other end of their block, to his room. Apparently, Kuemper is spending the night at the hotel his family is staying at, his wife, kid, and parents, so they're alone.

Tom's room looks almost exactly like his and Shea's, but mirrored; the same beds and chairs and the same round table with the same ugly vase on the opposite side of the room.

Mack is nervous, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he kicks off his shoes by the door. He knows he didn't mistake the looks Tom had given him, that he was flirting back, but still, he feels like he's waiting for the tide to turn and the universe to point and laugh, for the cage to open and the wolves to come out.

He's nervous, but he knows what he wants; he's practically shaking with it. He wants those hands back on him, he wants broad shoulders and thick biceps, and unshakeable weight to press him down into the bed. He wants to fly home tomorrow with bruises he can't explain. He wants to kiss and touch and come so hard he won't be able to think about anything else—about this wreck of a day, or their soul-crushing loss, or his stupid best friend, who Mack is finding it increasingly hard keep off his mind.

He wants to be wrested from his body and compressed down to nothing but matter.

He wants to get fucked.

He and Will have never done that. They do handjobs and blowjobs, and sometimes they just grind their hard dick's together until they both spill hot and messy against each other.

But there was one time Mack had been on Will's lap, thighs spread wide around his hips, pants off but his shirt still on—he probably looked so stupid Winnie the Pooh-ing it—not that he'd had much brainspace to care at the time with the way Will was jerking him off slick and tight and perfect. He'd reached back and grabbed a handful of Mack's ass while he licked into his mouth and moved his fist over Mack's dick. He squeezed the flesh, let his fingers drift closer to Mack's crack, slow and almost testing, and Mack couldn't help the way he moaned into Will's mouth when his fingers dipped just slightly between.

It had only taken another handful of seconds of Will's hand tight on his cock and his fingers brushing over his hole for Mack to come messily between them. He hadn't realized how sensitive he was there, how good it would feel to be touched like that, and he was surprised and a little overwhelmed by the way he wanted more. He—mostly—didn't have a crisis over the fact that he wanted to ask Will to touch him there properly, to slick up his fingers and push them inside him, to put his cock inside him. Mack feels dizzy with want just thinking about it.

Since then, he hasn't done more than press a couple of fingers inside himself when he jerks off, only a few times, but enough to know he likes it. That he wants it. Wants more of it. He's been wanting to bring it up, to ask Will if maybe he'd want to finger him or fuck him, but has chickened out every time, biting the words off his tongue before they can escape and wreak havoc. What if Will said no? What if he thought it was weird or gross, and Mack had to stand there with burning cheeks and humiliation cramping his gut, curdling with the want that he knows would stubbornly remain.

He has a feeling Will might think it's too…gay, or something. A line they can toe but never cross. Jerking or sucking each other off—gay as it obviously is—is nothing more than easy orgasms. Nothing more than casual and convenient. They come, then they slide right back into normalcy, almost like nothing even happened. Will will wash Mack's come off his hand, then toss him an Xbox controller and plop down beside him on the couch with loose limbs and easy grins.

Mack thinks that sex—real sex—would feel like more. Would feel like cracking himself open and letting someone pick apart the mess within. Something they might not be able to come back from. There's nothing unplatonic about them outside of their occasional hook-ups; they're not dating, they're not anything other than friends who sometimes get each other off. Mack knows that. Mack is fine—more than fine—with that.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself, that he sometimes has to clench his fists to stop himself from giving in to the urge to run his fingers through Will's hair. That he thinks about him when he's in bed, blinking up at the dark ceiling, right at the cusp of dropping off to sleep. Or that he holds his body extra carefully when he sometimes—after a loss, after a win, after too many days on the road start to make Mack feel unmoored and restless—wants to press in close, tuck his face into Will's neck and breathe him in. To sprawl all of his limbs over him, feel skin and heat and the hard planes of Will's chest against his own until he feels right again.

They're not like that; it's just that Mack, maybe, sometimes, is a little lonely, no matter how full his life is. Or, not lonely, but like he's stuck living in a strange solitude in his own head. Trapped there by the pressure and expectation squeezing him from all sides, including from within. He finds himself trussed up on the inside of his skull with nowhere to go, nowhere to set it all down.

Will helps; he always helps. But Mack stupidly and selfishly wants more. He always wants too much, too loudly, too brashly—more of Will's attention, his touch, his praise; he wants more wins; he wants more time to see his family; he wants more of the good days and less of the bad ones; he wants to be the player everyone says he is; he wants to not let them down, to not let himself down. He wants and wants and holds it all in his head and hands, trying desperately to keep it from spilling everywhere.

He does a passable job, he thinks, shouldering it. He does his best on the ice, and he calls his parents whenever he can, texts his brothers and sister; he fights hard for the wins and tries not to let the losses stick to him like flypaper, he keeps his hands and his stupid fucking feelings to himself, and he definitely doesn't ask Will to fuck him.

He thinks about it, probably an embarrassing amount, but he holds it in, head and hands, along with everything else.

Today, though, everything is slipping; falling through his fingers as they scrabble uselessly for the purchase he desperately needs to keep himself afloat. And if he can't hold it, then he has to find another way of getting by. Maybe he doesn't deserve to have something he wants right now, but everything else is lying in tatters at his feet except for this: the room charged with frenetic tension that makes the hair on the back of Mack's neck stand on end, Tom taking a slow step towards him with heat in his eyes.

Mack swallows thickly and tips his chin up—bracing, anticipating, both.

He can't help the way he goes pliant and boneless the second Tom gets his hands on him. It's just—there's something about him. Maybe it's that he's older, taller, fucking huge in a way that makes Mack go a little hot all over. But Tom kisses him, lips surprisingly soft against his, contrasted by the rough scratch of his beard against Mack's chin and upper lip, and it's good.

It makes his mind go quiet while his body thrums with the beginnings of arousal. Tom kisses like he's staking a claim. It's not unlike the way he moves on the ice, brash and imposing and a little rough. Mack likes it. Likes the scrape of his beard, the way he has to strain up to kiss him, the large hands cupping his jaw and spanning his waist, the slick tongue pushing past his lips, the broad firmness of his shoulders when Mack slides his hands over them.

It's not like the way Will kisses. He can't help the comparison; he's the only other guy Mack has ever kissed. He tries to shove away the intruding thoughts of Will's lips on his, the way he kisses Mack all easy and teasing, the way he slides their lips together and licks into Mack's mouth like he has nothing to prove, like he already owns it. The way they'll both smile into their kisses, always breaking away to laugh at something or other. The way he'll smirk all cocky, even as he lets Mack shove him around a little.

This is nothing like that. This is heat and foreign hunger and big hands on his waist and his mind blissfully blank for the first time all day besides the heady shock of being allowed to want. He's drunk on this and the beers he had earlier, everything molten and spit-slick.

Mack makes a low sound into his mouth when Tom urges him forward—backward, Mack can't tell up from down right now—until Mack is pressed against the wall, barely registering the way the cool chill of the plaster seeps through his shirt. Tom gets a hand on his thigh, urges it up over his hip in a position that has Mack panting and hardening in his sweats. It's kind of embarrassing, really, the little noise he makes when Tom slides a big hand to his ass and squeezes, uses his grip to pull Mack into him so their hardening cocks brush together through layers of fabric.

He wants this, he wants more, he wants all the things he's not usually allowed to have.

"Please," he breathes, before he can stop himself.

He hates how desperate he sounds, but he can feel Tom smile against his mouth. Then he's reaching down and grabbing two handfuls of Mack's ass, palms hot and wide, fingers digging in, and Mack moans, tipping their foreheads together, pushing into his touch. Mack gasps again when Tom hoists him up, just fucking lifts him clear off the ground like it's nothing, and Mack just barely has the presence of mind to wrap his legs tight around his waist, hands scrambling for purchase on his neck, his shoulders.

He's never been in this position before, never been kissed rough and hot by a guy big enough to hold him up like this—like a girl, his mind supplies—and he probably likes it too much, wants to drown in it and never come up for air. Tom's hands are back on his ass, holding and squeezing, and Mack can feel the hard press of his cock between them, and he wants it so bad, wants to be taken, wants to be spread open and filled, doesn't know how he can be so starved for something he's never had.

Mack drags his mouth from Tom's, whimpering when his teeth dig into Mack's bottom lip as he pulls away.

"Fuck me," Mack breathes against his cheek, nose dragging along his temple, bolder than he feels, but exactly as desperate.

"Jesus Christ, kid," Tom groans, hands tightening on Mack almost painfully for a moment.

When he doesn't say or do anything else, Mack pulls back to look at him.

"Will you?"

Tom hitches Mack up in his arms, where he'd slipped a little, pressing him into the wall and rolling their hips together.

"Yeah, I'll fuck you."

His voice is rough and deep, clearly affected, and Mack preens a little at that.

They strip each other down to their boxers in a rush, hands and lips and teeth and heat. Mack's mouth goes dry when he takes Tom in.

Broad shoulders, firm pecs with a light smattering of chest hair, fucking washboard abs and—Mack is surrounded by pro athletes near constantly, he's no stranger to guys in great shape, but he's never been allowed to let his gaze linger like this. He's never gotten to touch. And he thrills with it now, running his hands over Tom's biceps, his chest.

Mack isn't really self-conscious about his body; he's in the best shape of his life, he works out, but he's starkly aware he doesn't look anything like this. He's been trying lately, but he still doesn't have the bulk, the muscle definition, and he certainly can't grow chest hair. It brings into sharp, dizzying focus that Tom is a man. A man who's going to fuck him. Mack realizes that he might be out of his depth.

Tom kisses him again, and this time Mack doesn't stop himself from trying to climb him like a tree. Tom laughs into his mouth, walks them over to the bed, and tosses Mack onto it easily. Mack's teeth knock together a little when he bounces on the mattress with a huff.

Mack wriggles out of his boxers as Tom grabs something—they need lube, right—from his bag in the corner of the room, and tries not to look nervous and awkward, spread out on the bed when Tom knee-walks over to him. He's not sure that he pulls it off.

Some of the desperation from before has eased away in the moments between touches, but Mack is still riled up, can't help but give himself a slow stroke when he sees the way Tom is looking at him.

"You ever done this before?" Tom asks as he slots himself between Mack's spread legs.

He runs a hand up Mack's thigh, and that's when he notices that he's trembling a little.

"Yeah," Mack lies, biting his lip.

Tom raises his eyebrows at him, skeptical, and Mack frowns, caught out.

"I've done—stuff," he defends stubbornly.

"Right," Tom allows, sliding his hand up Mack's thigh and between his legs, where he reaches down to drag a finger over his hole. Mack gasps at the touch, feeling himself tense. "But have you done this?"

"I—" Mack tries, breathless from the way Tom is rubbing dry fingers over his entrance. "I know what I want."

That seems to be enough for him, because Tom reaches over to grab the lube without further comment, popping the cap and squirting some on his fingers. This time, when he brings his hand back between Mack's legs, his fingers are cool and slick, and he wastes no time circling a finger around Mack's hole and starting to push in.

"You ever touch yourself here?" Tom asks, his finger sliding all the way in.

"Yeah," Mack admits, red-faced, "sometimes."

"Fuck, that's hot."

He moans and lets his head fall back onto the mattress when Tom works a second finger inside him. It's a stretch, but it feels so good, infinitely better than when he does it himself.

Mack reaches down to touch himself, his cock hard and twitching, leaking all over his stomach, and it feels so good, a jolt of pleasure that he feels all over his body. Then Tom does something that has Mack moaning way too loud, clenching down around his fingers as precum drips from his cock.

"Oh my god," he gasps, hips stuttering.

Tom keeps at it, thrusting his fingers in and curling, and Mack is basically humping his hand now, fucking himself on them. He can feel himself getting close, and he has to let go of his cock, curling one hand in the sheets and the other in Tom's hair. It doesn't help. He still feels that heat in his belly, coiling tight like a spring.

"Wait, wait, stop, I'm gonna—" Mack pants, bringing a hand back to squeeze at the base of his cock in an attempt to stave off his orgasm. He doesn't want to come like this; he wants to come on Tom's cock. "Seriously, I'm close—fuck—if you don't stop, I'm gonna come."

"Do it," Tom urges, "come."

Then he's pressing his fingers in and rubbing, and Mack is seriously going to pass out or something.

"But I want—"

"I'm still gonna fuck you," Tom assures, "you can come again."

It's not a question. Mack nods anyway. Then Tom is leaning down and closing his mouth around the head of Mack's cock and sucking while his fingers continue thrusting into him, and Mack is done. His orgasm feels like it's wretched out of him, and with a shout, hips bucking wildly, he's coming in Tom's mouth.

Tom slows but doesn't stop, fingers still moving in him as he pulls off of Mack's dick with a wet sound that shouldn't be hot but definitely is. He's shaking through the aftershocks, a little sensitive but still wanting more, can feel his hole fluttering around Tom's thick fingers.

Mack stays hard while Tom finishes fingering him open, cock not even flagging a little as he screws three fingers into him until Mack is begging. Tom bites at his hip and withdraws his fingers, sitting back on his heels.

There's a pause that Mack uses to catch his breath.

"Shit," Tom curses, hanging his head.

"What?"

"I don't have a condom."

"Oh."

"I really didn't think the Olympic condom shortage was gonna end up being a problem for me," Tom groans.

"I don't care," Mack decides. "Do it without one."

Tom raises his eyebrows at him, licking his lips.

"You sure?"

Mack nods. Athletes are screened and tested constantly. And he wants this so badly he can barely form the words. So he reaches forward and grabs Tom's cock through his underwear. It feels thick and hot in his hand, hard, as he rubs over the damp fabric. Tom groans, pushing into his hand.

"I want—" Mack insists, trying to hold his voice steady, "—I need it."

"Fuck, you're gonna kill me, kid," Tom mutters to himself.

Then he's kicking his boxers off, parting Mack's thighs enough to slide between them and kiss him deeply.

When Tom urges him onto his stomach, Mack goes easily, trying to breathe and calm his racing heart as he pushes up onto all fours. For all his confidence, Mack still kind of feels like he's losing his virginity again. He doesn't say that, though. He doesn't want Tom to think he's some kid that he needs to be coddled or hand-held through this. That he can't handle it.

Tom pushes into him slowly, one steadying hand on his hip as he works Mack open on his cock. It burns a little, and Mack breathes through it, willing his body to cooperate the way he always does when he's pushing it to its limits. Tom takes it slow, urging him to relax and groaning as Mack takes him deeper and deeper. It feels like it goes on forever, an endless downpour until he's full and shaking with the effort of holding himself up.

"You okay?" Tom asks, running a hand up his back.

"Yeah," Mack pants, letting his deathgrip on the sheets loosen a little, letting himself rock back slightly.

"Fuck, you're tight," Tom moans, hand digging into his hip. "Feels so fucking good."

It makes Mack keen, soaking up the praise like he's starved for it. With shaking arms, he drops to his elbows, the change in angle making Tom's cock slide impossibly deeper into him, every synapse firing at once, pleasure zipping down his spine fast and inescapable.

"Oh my god," Mack chokes, voicing embarrassingly high.

He lets his head hang between his shoulders as he trembles and pants.

"That's it," Tom murmurs when Mack finally starts to relax around him, "there you go."

The words sink into him like melting butter, trying to stifle his noises as Tom rolls his hips into him in a slow, dirty grind.

When he finally starts to fuck Mack for real, it's so good; the pressure inside him, the stretch, the way he can feel each jolt of pleasure everywhere like a shockwave. His cock is hard and leaking onto the sheets, but he can hardly think about it right now.

He appreciates Tom going slow, letting him adjust; it's sweet, but Mack wants more. He wants it harder and faster and deeper, wants to have all the thoughts fucked out of his head.

"You're not gonna break me," Mack grunts, pushing his hips back forcefully so Tom's cock slides in hard. "Fuck me like you mean it."

"Yeah?"

Mack doesn't get a chance to answer, because then he gets what he wants as Tom swears and shoves him face-down into the sheets, hand on his hip to keep them up, and thrusts into him hard. The slightly rough bedding makes the cut on Mack's cheek throb, but he doesn't care; it just reminds him how much he needs this—to hurt him, to ground him, to take him apart so he can put himself back together later. Eventually. All of it.

Like this, gasping into the sheets, back arched, a rough hand on the back of his neck, practically scruffing him, he finally feels right. He can feel himself drooling on the sheets, eyes half lidded no matter how hard he struggles to open them further, as if letting more light in will give him back some of his faculties. He can hear Tom murmuring something from behind him, but he can't quite make the words out over the blood rushing in his ears.

It's heady being stretched so full he's almost choking on it. If he'd thought his own fingers felt good, this is like—like drowning and being resuscitated over and over again.

He doesn't know if he can go back to not having this, his first taste turning him into an addict. He whines and fists the sheets, clenching around the deep drag of Tom's cock, toes curling as he fucks him open.

"Harder," he pants, slurred and breathless.

He feels it when Tom really snaps: the tightening of his hands on Mack's body, enough to bruise, the almost punishing pace of his thrusts. All that tentative carefulness falls away to rough, brutal fucking. It's a lot, probably too much; it doesn't hurt, but it's so overwhelming he can hardly get any air into his lungs, breath punched out of him by every unrelenting thrust. Mack can feel the frustration, the upset, the raging tempest roaring and raging, and he revels in it.

It was a fucking devastating loss, and he's still devastated even as he writhes and moans and sobs into the sheets. Maybe this is part of it, feeling this good while feeling so utterly desolate in perfect paradox.

"You're taking it so good," Tom grunts between thrusts.

Everything is hot and slick and sweat-soaked, and for several blissful minutes, he doesn't think about the game, or the disappointment, or whatever fucked up situation with Will he has waiting for him at home—can't think about anything besides the hard cock splitting him open and the filthy words Tom is muttering as he fucks Mack through the mattress. Mack doesn't even care that he's crying. That the noises he's making are high and pathetic and vaguely humiliating.

His orgasm sneaks up on him; he doesn't even realize he's close until Tom folds himself over him, the hot line of his body blanketing Mack's entirely, arm sliding under him to wrap around his chest. Tom kisses along his neck, and Mack feels it all over; it's good, grounding, not a single part of him going untouched.

"You gonna come for me?"

His hips haven't slowed, still fucking Mack deep and hard and—yeah, Mack is gonna come.

"Please," he whines, too gone to be embarrassed by his own desperation. "I need—"

He doesn't know what he needs. He can't think, can't breathe, everything is winding and shattering and burning all the way through him. Then Tom slides his hand from Mack's hip under him and wraps his fingers around Mack's throbbing cock. Yes, that. Mack cries out, so close he can taste it.

"There you go," Tom moans in his ear.

"F-fuck—" he babbles helplessly, "shit, yeah. It feels so—I'm gonna—"

It barely takes him a handful of strokes before Mack's mind whites out as he comes.

It feels like it goes on—fuck, forever—caught in the liminal space between consciousness and complete black-out. He feels it everywhere, all the wrecked, fragmented pieces of him gathering and shattering over and over for however long it takes him to shudder through it.

He comes to, boneless, but still twitching with the aftershocks, to Tom biting kisses into his neck, the hard press of his cock in him still inescapable, even though he's mostly stopped moving. Mack is buzzing all over, still having a hard time catching his breath.

"Can I—" Tom asks, nudging his hips forward a little.

"Yeah, don't stop," Mack slurs, clenching down weakly on his cock.

Tom starts up again, short, hard thrusts that have Mack gasping with oversensitivity.

He needed it before, but he needs this, too. Tangible evidence of his body used right. No misfirings, no almosts, no breaking your neck when you fall short.

He tried so desperately to be good enough, wanted it more than he's ever wanted anything, but the inescapable fact of it was that he wasn't. Maybe here he can be, though, maybe he can do something right, be what someone needs. It won't fix it, it won't right the wrong or grant him vindication or absolution for his shortcomings. It'll be a brief respite, proof that not all of his efforts are in vain.

Right now, he can't do anything besides mewl weakly into the sheets and hope the moans and grunts in his ear mean he's making Tom feel good. Chanting weakly, yes, yes, yes, when Tom says that he's close.

He can feel it when Tom starts to come, the way he twitches inside him, hips grinding deep and stilling, can feel the wet heat filling him. He lets himself float in it for a minute. Tom is boneless and heavy on top of him, crushing him a little, but it's nice.

Eventually, he pulls out with a hiss, and Mack whimpers a little at the feeling of sudden emptiness. Tom flops onto the bed beside him, and Mack doesn't bother trying to get his limbs to work right now. He wrinkles his nose at the feeling of the warm trickle of Tom's come slowly leaking out of him, and for a second, he has the insane thought to push it back in. Instead, he lies there and tries to get his brain back online.

It's funny, he'd come here wanting gold and instead is leaving with the wrong colour medal and a load of his teammates come inside him. The thought is so absurd that he has to laugh a little, breathless and slightly frenzied with tear tracks still damp on his cheeks.

Tom lulls his head to look at him, a smile playing on his lips.

"What?"

"Nothing," Mack laughs, shaking his head, "just, this is not how I thought this day was gonna go."

That shocks a laugh out of Tom, and Mack knows he knows what he means. The game, the sex, all of it.

"Yeah," he sighs, "me neither."

Eventually, Tom heaves himself off the bed, and Mack takes that as his cue that he should probably get up and out. He hasn't really had time to process any of it yet, a little dazed and sore when he moves. He wonders how embarrassing it would be if he were to leak come everywhere trying to waddle to the bathroom.

Tom pads back to the bed with a white cloth in his hand, and Mack watches him kneel on the bed and urge Mack back into lying on his stomach.

"Oh," Mack starts, "you don't have to—"

The first pass of the cloth is warm and damp and feels good enough against his skin that he shuts up and lets it happen. When the cloth passes over his hole, Mack hisses, jolting. It feels hot and sore to the touch, tender.

"Sorry," Tom says, keeping his touch light, "s'it hurt?"

"No, not really just, like, sore, I guess."

Tom doesn't say anything as he wipes Mack down with careful hands,

He really didn't expect this. Tom is a nice guy, but this is just strange. As much as he hadn't expected to end up fucked through the mattress, he definitely didn't expect to have Tom Wilson cleaning lube and come off him in the aftermath.

Mack realizes with a start that he's being soft with him, being sweet. That he made Mack's first time good, is still trying to make it good. And it's—nice. But right now it's making his eyes burn and sting all over again. Making his heart contract painfully because he doesn't deserve it. Maybe any of it, but definitely not this.

Mack sits up when he's done, feeling raw and exposed, naked in a way he's not used to. He's not going to cry, he decides; despite what it feels like, he's not actually some blushing virgin who cries after sex.

Tom asks if he's okay, and Mack stares down at his naked thighs and bites his lip as he nods. Hollowed out and wrung dry, he's not sure if he's okay; maybe he won't be for a while. He's not going to cry, though, he's not. He hates the way Tom is looking at him right now, serious and concerned and apologetic like he did something wrong. And he didn't, it's not his fault that Mack is fucked up with piles and piles of rotten mess tumbling out of him and sloughing to the floor.

Mack gets dressed in silence, working hard enough at not crying that he doesn't really think of anything else. Before he leaves, he turns back to look at Tom.

"Thanks," he blurts.

Tom furrows his brows at him.

"For what?" His voice is a little rough.

For winning with me and losing with me and being nice to me and fucking me so good I'll be thinking about it for weeks. For everything. Mack shrugs.

"Just…thanks."

Before he can get the door open, Tom pulls him in for a kiss, nothing heated like all the rest they've shared. Just a few seconds of lips moving together, just punctuation. Then Mack is out the door and trying not to look like the torn-apart mess he feels as he makes his way back to his own room.

He wonders if he should tell Will about this. They still talk about girls, sometimes. They're both a little busy and focused on hockey to really worry about dating right now, but sometimes when they go out with the guys, Will will leave early with some blonde girl on his arm. Mack flirts with some of the girls in his Instagram DMs, but nothing ever really comes of it.

This is the kind of thing you tell your best friend, but Mack knows it's not the same. Easy back-and-forths about some hot chick or another isn't the same as telling Will that he'd gotten fucked by a man more than ten years older than him during the fucking Olympics. Or telling him that he liked it, that he wants to do it again—that he wants to do it with Will. Mack isn't very good at keeping secrets, though, especially from Will. They always end up tumbling out of him before he can stop them. This is the first time that has ever terrified him.

He's going to ache tomorrow. Sitting on the plane is probably going to suck. Maybe he'll still be feeling it by practice on Wednesday. Maybe when Mack is back in San Jose, Will will greet him with a tight hug and a pat on the back, tell him how awesome he played, how stoked he is for him to be an Olympic scorer, then he'll step back to look Mack in the eye, and somehow he'll know.

For all Mack knows, it's painted on his face, smeared blood-red across his cheeks and chin and neck and chest like a scarlet letter.

He doesn't know if Will will have some sort of Catholic moment about the sodomy of it all. Mack doesn't know if he'll get that look, like there are stormclouds rolling in his eyes, if he'll press forward or pull back. He doesn't know if Will will strip him out of his clothes and take him apart or if he'll leave three careless feet of space between them on the couch while they watch a movie or play video games. He doesn't know, Will probably doesn't even know, he probably doesn't think about it when they're not getting off.

Maybe Will won't even want him anymore when he finds out that, for Mack, it's more serious than easy orgasms and fooling around. That he wants more—that maybe, after this, he needs more. Needs Will to take him apart and put him back together, no press close and stay. Needs him with a totality that shakes Mack to his core.

He'll try to pick it all up before he gets home. Stack those neat little boxes up, hidden out of sight where their contents can't upend his entire relationship with Will. Mack really isn't in the mood to lose any more right now.

Sad and lost and heavy and permanently stained bruise-purple by the loss and everything that followed, he falls asleep aching and empty in ways he didn't know he could be.