Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fifty.”

That’s all Auston says to him while they pass each other. It’s the way — it’s the way Auston’s voice sounds, low and soft, just like how he says “baby”.

Except Will’s not ready for it. He’s not ready to see Auston, to hear him, to even be near him, which is kind of a shame given they play for the same team.

Auston. An unavoidable mass. An unavoidable mess.

He fucking misses Auston. He hates himself for it, too.

It’d be so easy if he could just block it all out, if Auston’s voice could just fade and become one amongst the crowd, if Auston could just turn into the background — a silhouette, a shadow.

It’d be so easy if he could forget Auston existed.

▽▽▽

“I was with you first!”

“No, you weren’t,” Will says flatly. Sure, he was the one Auston ended up with, but he knows for a fact that he and Mitch had something before.

Somewhere along the way, Mitch and Auston became Mitch and Auston but nothing came of it. He never asked why, and Auston never spoke of it, but Will’s not a fucking idiot, despite what Auston thinks.

Auston’s staring — not the way he usually does, with sparkling eyes and a mischievous grin. He’s looking at Will like he wants to say something he’ll regret later.

“So, what do you want me to do? Stop seeing him? Fine.”

Will can’t stop the huff that comes out of his mouth, the haughty laugh of disbelief and disappointment. “No… No, I’m not asking you to stop seeing Mitch.”

“Then?”

The way Auston’s tone can sound so bitter and cold, it cuts into Will’s heart. Just a simple word, but it sounds like the end.

“I’m asking you to stop pretending you give a shit about me.”

The intended impact is probably lost, given the way Will’s voice cracks at the end.

Given the way he chickens out and walks away because if he has to look at Auston’s stupid fucking perfect face, he’s gonna lose it.

They lose to Ottawa. They lose to Columbus. Again.

It scares him how much he doesn’t care.

When he glances at Auston, it doesn’t seem like Auston cares either.

He wonders if Auston cares about anything at all.

▽▽▽

“Hey.”

Of course it would be Mitch to corner him.

“Hey,” he says back, though he doesn’t take his eyes off his dogs. The park’s not that busy — it’s winter, nobody wants to be outside except the dogs. And him.

“I’m sorry.”

Will doesn’t roll his eyes. Externally, anyway.

“No need.”

Mitch laughs — it sounds as hollow as Will feels.

“Kind of a need.”

Will shrugs. He’s tired of the conversation already.

“Let him fix it. Please.”

Pablo, the traitor, drops the ball at Will’s feet and bounds over to Mitch to greet him. Cool. Whatever. Leave him for Mitch, that’s fine. Seems like the trend, anyway.

“He’s miserable.”

“Sure,” Will answers, laughing. He’d meant to do it sarcastically, but he once he starts, he can’t stop. Auston. Miserable. Sure. Ha. Hahaha!

“He is,” Mitch says quietly. “I know it’s my fault, I didn’t mean — I thought we were cool.”

Will thinks about all the nights they’ve spent together, Mitch sandwiched between them. How had he not seen it coming, really? Him and Auston on opposite ends of the bed, Auston’s arm curled around Mitch with just his fingertips grazing Will's chest.

“We are,” he says curtly, turning at last to look at Mitch all crouched to the ground and petting Pablo. “Totally cool.”

The thing is, he knows he’s being irrational. It’s literally not Mitch’s fault for being so cute, so perfect, willing to do anything he’s asked. He’s a lot of things that Will isn’t.

Okay, is Mitch holding his fucking dog captive or what? He whistles for Banksy, who’s busy flirting with a lab twice his size before his ears perk. Banksy’s curls bounce as he trots towards Will and he’s reminded how good it can feel to have someone come running to you.

Mitch sniffs, his nose a little red from the evening chill. “Look, I get it — we’re not cool, I guess I just, iunno, wish we were? And I… really wish we could go back to before. I miss you. Auston misses you.”

Something inside Will snaps then. “Yeah? Then where the fuck is he?”

He knows the answer — Auston is at his apartment, on the couch or in his bed which most certainly doesn’t smell like Will anymore.

“Pablo, let’s go.” He doesn’t bother with leashes, he never really does, and turns to go home.

“Willy —”

“Look, it doesn’t matter, okay?” Willy calls out, still careful to keep his voice low. The last thing they need is for some fuckhead to tweet that the team isn’t getting along or whatever. “He chose you.”

“It wasn’t about choosing! It wasn’t a choice, Willy.”

“When you were sick, he said come on over — when I was sick, he told me to get some fucking electrolytes,” Willy throws over his shoulder. It sounds stupid when he says it out loud, but it’s just one thing on top of another. “I’m done.”

He’s done.

▽▽▽

“We can’t keep avoiding it, Will.”

Will’s lying down on his bed, with Pablo and Banksy on either side of him, the phone resting on his chest with Lewis on speaker.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, but Lewis is a good agent.

“I’ve got a phone call with Brad in three days,” Lewis says. All business. Will wishes he could be a little more like that, like — there’s Auston, teammate and liney and nothing more.

“Okay.”

“He’s not going to get us to the 11.8, I don’t think. But we can lower that, like we discussed. In good faith.”

“Okay,” he says again.

“Are you sure?”

It’s probably the closest Lewis will get to “are you good, man?”

“Yep,” he answers, trying to sound more sure than he is. He’s asking for a lot. Eight years? He knows Auston wants to be here too, wants to sign on again — what if they give him a contract like this too? What if he has to see Auston be stupidly happy and in love with someone else for eight whole years?

“Okay. You marked it down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Speak with you then.”

When he hangs up, he immediately rolls onto his belly and sticks his face in his pillow. What if he just simply suffocated himself instead? It sure sounded easier.

But then Pablo sticks his wet, cold ass nose in Willy’s ear, and he’s reminded that outside of the Leafs, he’s still got responsibilities. At least Pablo and Banksy love him.

“Okay, okay, come on. Jeez, you’re so needy.”

“Love when you’re so needy, baby.”

Shut up, Auston.

▽▽▽

“Willy.”

Fuck. He needs to find a new dog park, if everyone’s just going to fucking corner him here.

“Auston.”

It feels weird saying his name like this, cold like the air in the city, not like the name used to melt him from the inside out.

It’s not even Auston that gets to him first. Felix is just a bit bigger than Pablo and Banksy, but at enough to feel the difference when Felix jumps up on him.

“Hey, buddy.” He crouches down and runs his fingers through Felix’s tight curls.

Auston walks closer, close enough Will can smell him.

“Talk to me?”

What right did Auston have, to sound so soft, to sound so heartbroken and desperate and pleading, when Will’s the one who’s been left in the shadows.

“About?” He knows he can’t keep it up for much longer. Can Auston see through it, even now? Even when he’s trying to sound as cold and hard as the ice they skate on?

“Us,” Auston says plainly. “Because I want there to still be an us.”

Will wants that too. But he can’t say it. He doesn’t want to be the fool again, doesn’t want to get played again.

The silent stretches between them, the only sounds now belong to the dogs — all of them sniffing at each other in greeting.

“Unless… Unless you don’t want there to be an us?”

Fuck if it doesn’t hurt. It hurts to hear Auston even bring up the possibility, to hear Auston doubt him, as if he’s ever wanted anything else since being with Auston.

He can’t. Fucking. Breathe.

He can’t fucking breathe, he can’t fucking whistle for his dogs, he feels like the park is spinning around him.

He has to go. He has to go and — Pablo and Banksy, he knows they’ll follow — he’s just — he’s gotta go.

“Will? Will!”

He has to go.

His jacket feels too tight around him so he unzips it halfway, flicks the hood off so it doesn’t seem like walls are closing in on him. He has to go.

Auston’s voice follows him, fading in and out as he speed walks back to his home, the dogs staying close as if they know.

“Willy, I’m not leaving without you talking to me first.”

There’s the Auston he knows — no longer asking, but staying. Assertive, not quite demanding but enough so that you feel compelled to give him what he’s asking for.

“What is there to talk about?”

There. He said it. He doesn’t even care if it sounds cunty, he’s so tired of trying to pretend he’s fine. Unaffected.

“I fucked up, and I want to fix it,” Auston states plainly. “I just… need you to tell me how.”

What does he say to that? What can he possibly say? I know you love Mitch more than me and that bothers me?

“I don’t want to be —” Fuck, he hadn’t even meant “— to be your second choice.”

“What?” 

It’s out there. He said it, and even as the flush creeps from his cheeks to his ears, he’s so fucking relieved. It shows in every inch of his body as he drops onto the couch, as if the strings have finally been cut. His elbows rest on his knees as he drops his head into his hands.

It’s over. Everything — the worry, the guilt, the jealousy, the feeling of doubt. The constant nagging feeling of tippy toeing around someone he’s bared his entire soul to. It’s over.