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The thing about the Sharks’ Christmas party was that technically there had been a memo.
Something about “professional conduct,” “remember you are representatives of the organisation,” and “please don’t traumatise the interns.”
Will had definitely opened that email. He’d even read the first two lines.
…And then he’d seen the words “open bar” in the next paragraph and, in his defence, he was only human.
The banquet hall is done up like the inside of a snow globe: fairy lights tangled through garlands, a fake-snow photo wall, someone’s terrible idea of an inflatable Santa in the corner. There’s a DJ, a karaoke setup, and several tables’ worth of food that everyone swears they’ll eat after “just one more drink.”
Will is already a little fuzzy around the edges, warmth licking under his skin from the cheap wine he let Hertl hand him and whatever mystery cocktail Eky convinced him to try.
“Will,” Mario says, slinging an arm around Will’s shoulders as he leans against the bar. “How many is that now?”
Will squints at the glass in his hand. “Uh.” He counts in Swedish, loses track at three, starts laughing. “Not… enough?”
“That’s a four for sure,” Mario tells Mack, who’s just joined them with a beer in hand and cheeks pink from laughter and cold air. “Just so you know. Your boyfriend is at the ‘not enough’ stage.”
“Good,” Mack says, all easy grin and bright eyes, dropping a quick kiss to Will’s temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He’s fun there.”
“I am always fun,” Will informs them, poking Mack in the chest. The poke lands a little lower than he aims. He giggles. “’M so fun.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Mario mutters.
Across the room, the DJ clears his throat into the mic. “Alright, boys, karaoke sign-up is open. Who wants to embarrass themselves first?”
A slow, evil smile spreads over Eky’s face.
“Oh no,” Mack says immediately. “Absolutely not. No, whatever you’re thinking, no.”
Eky’s already moving. “WILL!”
Will straightens like someone just yelled Faceoff! “Huh?”
“You wanna sing?”
Mack’s hand tightens on Will’s shoulder. “Ek, don’t you dare.”
Eky ignores him completely, eyes gleaming with drunk mischief. “Will, buddy, bestie. Come on. It’s Christmas. You gotta serenade someone.”
Will blinks, glances from Eky to the stage to Mack. Mack shakes his head, mouthing no as emphatically as a man with a beer and a bad Christmas tie can.
“Serenade…” Will repeats slowly.
The idea lodges in his brain like a glitter bomb.
Serenade.
Christmas.
His boyfriend.
His stupid perfect boyfriend with his stupid pretty face and his stupid soft hands and…
“Okay,” Will says, determination snapping into place. He tips back the rest of his drink in one go, the room wobbles approvingly and thumps the glass on the bar. “Yeah. I’m gonna do it.”
“Will,” Mack tries, laughter and a small thread of panic mixing in his voice. “Baby, that’s…”
“It’s too late,” Mario says gravely. “We’ve lost him.”
By the time Will stumbles onto the little stage, a crowd has formed in front like they’re expecting blood.
Phones are already out. Of course they are.
The DJ leans in. “What’re you singing, man?”
Will’s brain, drunk and full of Christmas, does not hesitate. “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
Behind him, there is an audible reaction from the team.
“NO WAY.”
“Oh my god.”
“Someone film this. No, like, from multiple angles.”
Will turns, finds Mack in the crowd immediately. He always does. Mack is standing slightly back, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing at his forehead like he’s trying to stave off a headache. He looks both horrified and fond, like a man watching his favourite person set themselves on fire.
Will lifts the mic and points straight at him.
“You,” he says, in front of literally everyone. “It’s… it’s about you. Obviously.”
The room erupts.
“Obvious?” Eky cackles. “I don’t think you’ve made it obvious enough, buddy, maybe say it louder so the reporters outside can hear…”
“GET OFF THE STAGE,” Mario yells, but he’s laughing too hard for it to be convincing.
The intro starts, those glittery Mariah Carey chimes and Will’s heart starts hammering along to it.
He’s drunk. He’s happy. He’s going to absolutely destroy this song in all the wrong ways.
He’s never been more excited in his life.
To his vague credit, the first few lines actually go… okay.
He sways a little, finds the beat, leans into the mic with exaggerated seriousness.
“I don’t want a lot for Christmas…
There is just one thing I need…”
He points the “one thing” directly at Mack, who covers his face with his hand. The guys around him howl with laughter, shoving at his shoulders.
Will walks the front of the stage like it’s a sold-out arena, grinning at his teammates, throwing a cheesy wink at the coaches’ table just to make Quinn almost spit out his drink.
“I don’t care about the presents… underNEATH the Christmas tree…”
He absolutely butchers the riff, his voice cracking on “tree” so badly that even the DJ winces. The team roars in appreciation, the kind of noise usually reserved for overtime winners and massive hits.
“YEAH, WILL!”
“SIGN THIS MAN TO A RECORD DEAL!”
“NO, DO NOT DO THAT,” someone yells.
Will laughs so hard he nearly misses his next line, dragging a hand through his curls, cheeks aching. There’s a fizzy, reckless joy sizzling in his chest. Every time he looks at Mack, standing there with his beer and his ridiculous soft eyes, his heart lurches like it’s trying to sing along too.
“All I want for Christmas is YOUUUUU”
He goes for the note.
He should not have gone for the note.
It comes out somewhere between a dying kettle and a small, wounded animal. People double over with laughter. Hertl falls into Mario’s shoulder. Eky nearly drops his phone.
Will, undeterred, throws his free hand in the air like he’s nailed it.
The chorus hits, and something in him breaks loose. He starts dancing or more accurately, flailing, hips swaying off-beat, shoulders going one way, feet going the other. He half–moonwalks, half–stumbles, catching himself on the mic stand with a breathless giggle.
Oh, he’s going to be bullied about this until he’s forty.
He does not care.
The second verse becomes less about singing and more about screaming the words with his whole entire soul. He keeps making eye contact with Mack on purpose, drawing invisible hearts in the air at him, clutching his chest dramatically on “I won’t make a list and send it to the North Pole for Saint Nick.”
By the bridge, some of the guys are singing along, arms around each other, off-key chorus of chaos.
“And everyone is singing…” Will warbles.
“NO THEY’RE NOT,” Eky calls, but he’s singing too.
Finally, the last big “All I want for Christmas is yoooou…” arrives like a train and Will jumps on without checking where it’s going.
He screams it. There is no other word.
It’s long. It’s high. It’s unhinged.
The room loses its mind.
When the music cuts, Will is panting, sweaty, pupils wide, grinning like he just scored a hat trick.
He drops into an overdramatic bow, nearly falling off the edge of the stage. Mario and Hertl catch him, their shoulders shaking with laughter.
“That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Mario tells him warmly. “I’m so proud.”
“You,” Will says, breathless, jabbing a finger vaguely in Mack’s direction. “You. Come here. You’re my…you’re the…”
“The You,” Eky supplies. “All he wants for Christmas, baby.”
The entire room chants. “Maaack! Maaack! Maaack!”
Mack’s face is so red it clashes with his stupid snowman tie. Still, he puts his beer down and walks up toward the stage like a man on his way to his execution.
He gets close enough for Will to grab him by the lapels and drag him in.
“Hi,” Will says, the word a little wobbly around his giggles. “Merry Christmas.”
“Hi,” Mack replies, voice low and fond and absolutely gone. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, lips twitching. “That was…”
“Romantic,” Will says.
“Traumatising, actually.”
“Shut up.” Will leans in, presses a loud, smacking kiss to Mack’s cheek. The room screams, catcalls, whistles, someone genuinely trilling like a referee whistle. “Love you.”
Mack’s whole expression softens, even as he shakes his head. “Love you too, you menace.”
There is a chorus of exaggerated “awwwwwww” that would put a teen sitcom audience to shame.
Will flips the room off with both hands.
The night goes on in a blur of food and bad dance moves and shots that Will definitely does not need. He ends up in an ugly sweater contest he doesn’t remember signing up for. Mack slow dances with him to “Last Christmas” in the middle of the room while everyone hollers lyrics around them.
At some point, Will ends up on Mack’s lap on one of the couches, legs draped over his knees, both of them laughing too hard at something Tyler said to breathe properly. Mack’s fingers are idly twined in the hem of Will’s sweater, thumb rubbing back and forth over his hipbone, casual and possessive at once.
“You okay?” Mack murmurs, leaning in near his ear.
“I sang Mariah,” Will whispers back, like it’s a state secret. “In front of everyone.”
“Yeah, baby. We were all there.”
“Did I sound good?”
Mack opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it again.
“Emotionally, yes,” he settles on. “Objectively… no.”
Will snorts, half-offended, half-delighted. He smacks Mack’s chest with the back of his hand. “You’re supposed to say I’m amazing at everything.”
“You are amazing,” Mack says immediately, without even thinking about it, like that’s the easy part. “Just… maybe don’t quit your day job.”
Will beams at him, heart doing that wet, messy thing in his chest. “You’re so in love with me.”
Mack’s eyes flick down to his mouth, then back up. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”
There’s a moment where the room seems to tilt. The music fuzzes into the background, lights blending into soft bokeh. It’s just them, drunk and over-sugared and stupidly, ridiculously happy.
“Wanna make out?” Will asks, voice very serious.
Mack chokes on his drink. “You can’t just ask that at the team party.”
“Why not?” Will blinks wide, innocent eyes at him. “We’re, like, established. It’s on the record. Everyone knows. It’s all very official.”
Across the room, Mario is attempting to limbo under a garland and failing spectacularly. Several players are taking photos like proud parents.
“Yeah,” Mack says, amused. “I know. I’m just saying they will never shut up about it if you start something here.”
Will thinks about that. Really considers it.
Then he shrugs. “Worth it.”
Mack bursts out laughing, head tipping back. Will uses the opportunity to slide off his lap, grab his hand, and tug.
“Come on,” he says, weaving them between tables. “We can at least find a corner.”
“Famous last words,” Mack mutters, but he follows, fingers laced through Will’s like they’re glued there.
They end up in a side hallway just off the main room, where the noise dims to a muffled roar and the lights are low and warm. There’s a big window overlooking the city, snow falling lazy and slow outside, and some fake mistletoe taped crookedly to the doorframe.
Will points at it, wobbly and delighted. “Look,” he says. “It’s legally binding.”
“That’s not how laws work,” Mack says, but he’s already crowding Will gently up against the wall, one hand landing beside his head. His eyes are dark and soft, alcohol-loose and honest.
For a second, they just look at each other. Will’s heartbeat thumps loud in his ears, his body humming with booze and adrenaline and… this. The familiar, endless warmth that is Mack, looking at him like he hung the damn moon.
“You’re ridiculous,” Mack says quietly. “You know that?”
“You love it,” Will replies, reaching up to curl his fingers in the front of Mack’s shirt. “You love me.”
“Yeah,” Mack breathes. “I really do.”
Then he kisses him.
It’s not neat. Their teeth clack a little because they’re both laughing, still grinning against each other’s mouths. Will tastes sugar and beer and peppermint from the candy cane Mack stole earlier. His hands slide up into Mack’s hair, tugging lightly, and Mack makes this low, pleased sound that Will feels all the way down his spine.
“Careful,” Mack murmurs against his mouth. “You’re gonna start trying to hit those high notes again.”
“Shut up,” Will says, laughing into the kiss. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“Obviously,” Mack says, kisses him again, slower this time.
The hallway smells like pine from a nearby wreath, the faint scent of cologne and spilled wine drifting in from the main room. Will’s world narrows to Mack’s hands on his waist, thumbs pressing through his sweater, the way he leans in like he’s trying to erase any space between them.
They break apart after a while, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing a little too fast.
Mack’s eyes flicker down, then back up. “All you want for Christmas, huh?”
Will hums, smug. “Yeah. Got everything else already.”
Mack’s expression wobbles, like he’s trying very hard not to get emotional while slightly hammered in a hallway under plastic mistletoe.
“You’re such a menace,” he says again, but it comes out soft, like a secret.
Will kisses the tip of his nose. “Merry Christmas, Macklin Celebrini,” he says, words fuzzy but sincere. “Sorry for the permanent second-hand embarrassment.”
“Oh, that’s all mine now,” Mack says, laughing. “But you know the boys…”
The door behind them swings open.
“OH MY GOD.”
They jolt apart, turning to see Mario, Eky, and Tyler framed in the doorway like a very judgmental nativity scene.
“This is so much better than I imagined,” Eky says, phone held up. “The mistletoe? The hallway? The lean? I’m going to win the group chat forever.”
“Delete that,” Mack says, pointing at the phone.
“Absolutely not,” Mario says. “This is going in the team hall of fame. Right next to the time Will fell off the bench celebrating an empty-netter.”
“That was one time,” Will protests. “And I was pushed.”
“You tripped on air, dude,” Tyler says, already typing furiously. “Group chat: ‘Mariah & His Christmas Wish.’”
“I hate you all,” Mack mutters, but he’s still smiling, one hand resting possessively at the small of Will’s back.
“Hey, you did this to yourselves,” Mario says cheerfully. “First the Mariah concert, now the hallway make-out under cursed mistletoe.”
“It’s not cursed,” Will says. “It’s very romantic.”
“Oh my god, he’s proud of it,” Eky groans. “We’re never making him shut up.”
“Never,” Will agrees happily, snuggling back into Mack’s side like a drunk cat. “You guys are just jealous because you don’t have a Christmas You.”
“Oh, I’m using that,” Tyler says. “‘Christmas You.’ That’s your couple name now.”
Mack drops his head onto Will’s shoulder, laughing helplessly. “We are never living this down, are we?”
“Nope,” Mario says. “Not in a million years.”
Will grins, tips his head to rest against Mack’s. The party noise rolls back over them as they’re herded out of the hallway, back into the warmth and light and chaos.
“Good,” he says, loud enough for all of them to hear. “I don’t want to.”
The next morning, Will wakes up with a hangover that could slay a small dragon and approximately eighty-seven new notifications.
His head is pounding. His throat hurts.
He rolls over, squinting at his phone. Mack is sprawled beside him, hair a mess, one arm flung over his face like he’s trying to block out the entire world.
Will opens the team group chat.
The first thing he sees is a video of himself on stage, absolutely murdering “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The caption reads “our very own Mariah Scary”.
The second is a photo of him and Mack in the hallway, mistletoe above their heads, their mouths mashed together in a kiss that is somehow both very drunk and very soft.
In the background, snow falls behind the window like someone added a filter.
Tyler has drawn little hearts around them.
Will stares at it for a long second, heart doing that stupid squeeze-and-flutter thing.
Mack groans beside him. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
Will turns the screen, shows him.
Mack peeks through his fingers, then drops his arm entirely, laughing even as he winces at the light. “We’re dead,” he says. “They’re going to bring this up for years.”
Will’s cheeks ache from smiling. He tucks himself closer, presses a kiss to Mack’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says. “Is nice, though.”
Mack glances at him, expression softening, all the way down to his hungover bones. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “It is.”
Will drops his head back onto the pillow, humming off-key.
“All I want for Christmas is you,” he sings, voice scratchy.
Mack groans and throws a pillow at his face.
“PLEASE,” he says. “I am begging you, for the sake of my hangover, never sing that note again.”
Will laughs, muffled by the pillow. “No promises.”
Their group chat pings again. Another screenshot. Another meme. Another round of chirps.
They are never going to live it down.
Will wouldn’t have it any other way.