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The silence in the dressing room is deafening. Auston would gladly give up every single bonus he’s earned this season to make it stop. It’s oppressive, all-consuming, broken up only by wet sniffs and tiny, broken noises that everyone is pretending to not hear. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Everyone just sits in their stalls and stares at nothing. Naz abruptly snaps a stick over his knee and Kappy squeaks, Willy quickly reaching over grab his hand. Auston doesn’t even flinch, stuck in a zone of self-hatred and bitter disappointment, swirling in a downward spiral and headed for sure destruction. But nothing, fucking nothing could feel worse than this. Complete and utter failure.
Babcock had left the room without a word, no words of encouragement or scathing criticism, just a nod of expectation that they’d all talk back in Toronto. They should all probably be showering, but no one even takes off their skates; Jonny, Travis, and a few of the other guys bent over with hands over their ears in an attempt to block out the screaming celebratory whoops and cheers from Bruins fans. The sweat drips uncomfortably down Auston’s back, the sticky grime from this game feeling even more disgusting than usual. He managed to take his helmet off before sitting down (Jake had thrown his across the dressing room) and his soaked hair falls annoying in front of his eyes, but his muscles are just too aching and angry to bother moving and swipe it back.
He can’t help going back, replaying every move, ever play, every deke, every shift, every shot, every block, every call, trying to find where it all got fucked. Auston’s brain naturally tells him it’s entirely his fault, that he never showed up to play, that he let his emotions get the best of him, that if he had played at his best the team wouldn’t have had to force Game 7. But he knows that’s bullshit, knows it’s a team sport and that one player can’t decide a game. Still. The doubt keeps coming back. He can’t decide if it’s comforting or morbid that every guy in the dressing room is probably having the same internal conversation.
He finally senses movement in the periphery of his vision and glances up to see Patty slowly rising up from his stall and walking to the centre of the room. He clears his throat and waits until he’s gotten the majority of everyone’s eyes. Auston holds his breath, praying to a God he’s not sure he believes in that there won’t be a speech. He’s not sure he can handle any sort of rousing ‘we did our best’ bullshit right now. ‘Best’ is only good enough if you win.
“Gentlemen,” Patty says quietly, expression empty save for the eternal warmth in his eyes that nothing seems to extinguish, “Let’s go home.”
It’s perfect. No grandiose language, no attempt at rallying the troops (which, now, would be pointless anyways), no tear-jerking declarations of love for the team; just a calm and easy instruction. Something they can follow. Something to focus on other than mind-numbing anguish. A routine.
And it works. Mo is the first one to follow Patty’s lead and start unlacing his skates, quickly followed by Bozie and Hainsey. It sets off a bit of a chain reaction, everyone following along and going through the motions almost without thinking, and before long, guys are filing into the showers just like any other post-game. Except, of course, that it’s not.
It’s a much quieter dressing room than usual. Almost eerily silent considering how loud it gets – even after a loss. Someone always cracks a joke or pulls a prank and gets everyone loose again, but it’s almost like there’s nothing to fight for so no one is willing to put forth the effort. Some of the guys stick close to one another – Willy and Kappy, Travis and Jonny, Mo and Gards – while others are avoiding their teammates with such ferocity it’s like they’re trying to forget anyone else exists. Auston just works on autopilot, barely seeing anyone and attempting to temporarily pretend he isn’t Auston Matthews.
Even still, he keeps trying to catch Mitch’s eye, trying to silently ask if he needs anything or just wants to be alone. Mitch won’t even let him see his face, which is concerning in an of itself, turning away and trying to keep his distance as if Auston can’t hear him sniffing viciously from a few stalls over. As far as he knows, Mitch hasn’t said one word since the final seconds trickled down the clock, and that was concerningly out of character.
There’s barely time to attempt an intervention however, the press bustling into the room with syrupy smiles and sympathetic expressions and far too many microphones. They close in on Auston just in time for him to grab a ball cap. He’s pretty sure his eyes are beyond bloodshot at this point, and there’s only one person outside of family who gets to see him cry.
Between worrying about Mitch and trying to keep his head down, he can’t focus on the questions; the apathy too great, the practice too irrelevant. Luckily the interview is relatively short, possibility because they’re taking mercy and likely because Auston doesn’t give two shits about acting like he wants to be there.
The reporters are finally leaving the dressing room when he catches the back of someone slipping out the door behind the crowd. It’s a lean form he’d know anywhere, a body he yearned over for months and has worshipped during long, languid hours in the safety of his own apartment; the one he holds throughout the good nights and dreams about drawing close to during the bad.
Auston takes a determined step forward, not caring that he’s still not properly dressed and caring even less about regulations regarding wandering the building after a game. He tries to make his way undetected, not wanting to field questions about where or why he’s leaving, and he’s almost made it to the door when it unexpectedly opens, Patty walking through it.
They both stop in their tracks, Patty looking at him with an inquisitive gaze.
“They asked to do an interview,” he supplies as to why he was out of the room. He doesn’t need to ask Auston out loud about what his plans were, the implication of his stride already obvious. He doesn’t begin a lecture about following the rules either though, which Auston was half expecting.
Auston looks down, mind trying to come up with a way to get through the door.
“I saw Mitch on my way down here,” Patty offers conversationally, and Auston closes his eyes in defeat.
“Matty,” Patty says gently, and he’s asking for answers now.
Auston’s not sure he can come up with words that make sense. His brain feels like it’s stuck in a haze, slow and useless. “He’s my person,” is what comes out, scratchy but achingly honest. “And we lost. And Marns- He left and I don’t know where he is and we fucking lost and he’s out there and I’m not with him-”
He finally meets Patty’s eyes, exhausted but still filled with unwavering care. The understanding there is overwhelming and instantaneous.
“Then go find your person,” the veteran coaches softly, nodding in the direction of the doorway. “I think he needs you right about now.” He pauses for a moment, reaching up to squeeze gently at Auston’s shoulder, eyes searching his face closely. “And maybe you could use him too.”
Auston swallows hard around the lump in his throat, nodding tightly at Patty with an attempt at a smile that ends up more like a grimace.
“You both know where to find me,” Patty adds, his voice quiet but firm. “Anytime, anywhere. You’re family. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Auston returns, trying to pretend his voice didn’t crack. “We know.”
Patty smiles back at him, and right now it feels like a miracle that anyone in this dressing room could emote genuine happiness ever again.
“Go on,” Patty urges, stepping aside, and Auston quickly strides out of the room, trying to smother the growing emotions before they bury him.
Auston finds Mitch in the visiting trainer’s room.
The lights are all off, but he can still make out the shape of a tall body, can’t miss the flash of blue eyes in the crack of light that’s let in from the hallway when he spins around at the sound of the opening door. He can’t miss that they’re wet.
“It’s just me,” Auston whispers, the sound floating out across the silence as he slips inside and lets the heavy door click shut behind him.
A relieved sigh comes at the sound of his voice, but it’s followed immediately with an odd sort of hiccup, a shuddering breath.
“Mitchy,” Auston murmurs, his chest aching with the obvious attempt at holding back a flood of tears, and he slowly makes his way past the row of beds and deeper into the room to where Mitch is huddling at the far corner.
“I’m fine,” Mitch tries to get out, but his voice sounds wrecked, wobbling and laced with untruth.
“Like fucking hell,” Auston rejects quietly, eyes finally adjusting to the low lights. Mitch is still in his UnderArmour, hair wet and face wetter, body shaking with the effort of trying to get himself under control. It’s physically painful to see him like this, so close being broken. And even still, there’s a glint of defiance in his eyes, an undying will to be strong, to keep going, to not show the pain.
Mitch’s resilience is one of the things that made Auston fall in love with him. But right now is not the time to be tough. Not with him.
“C’mere,” Auston whispers, holding out his arms.
Mitch is still for too long of a moment before he’s rushing the few final steps of space between them to fall into Auston’s chest, the sheer force of his embrace pushing him back with the momentum. Mitch’s arms are wrapping tightly around his waist, tugging them together, and it’s like the safety of his presence has finally let the armour fall away, the tears coming freely now. Auston encircles an arm low around Mitch’s back, the other hand burying itself in his long strands of hair, and the contact feels like an oasis from the chaos, a place to really let himself feel the hurt and not shatter to pieces.
He can feel himself crying too, although maybe not as violently as Mitch, all the rejection and dissatisfaction and regret and lost potential from their season now coming out in ugly sniffs and wet streams falling down his cheeks. He holds onto Mitch and clings to how solid he feels, the person that’s always next to him every step of the way. A memory of their goals together flashes vividly through his mind and he chokes a little, Mitch’s grip around him tightening a little in response.
They couldn’t do it tonight, he thinks to himself, flashing back to when Babcock put them together in the 3rd period in a final act of desperation. They got some good looks, but they couldn’t find the back of the net.
“It’s over,” Mitch croaks into the fabric of Auston’s UnderArmour, voice muffled. “We’re done.”
A few more tears fall down Auston’s cheeks before he can finally get out a response.
“I know,” he rasps, feeling lost except for the boy in his arms. “I thought we were gonna do it this time.”
Mitch nods wordlessly, his hair brushing against Auston’s neck before he buries his face once again in his chest. “So close,” he says in a tiny voice. “Fuck, we were so close.”
He’s almost shaking to the point where Auston’s starting to get worried about his breathing, and he strokes one hand in a slow, sweeping motion up and down Mitch’s back, trying to encourage a bit of calm. It actually seems to work at least a little, Mitch’s chest rising and falling at a much more acceptable rate, and the repetitive motion brings Auston down a few levels too.
He can’t help but hate it when the more relaxed state means he can start thinking again, can’t help but hate when he starts considering what the final loss really means, can’t help but hate it when he tries to figure out what the hell comes next. As horrific as the panicked sorrow was, it provided no respite to even think about things like locker cleanups or plane trips or going home or saying goodbye to teammates – some possibly who were in their last Leaf season. Being able to think almost feels worse, the small bit of clarity suddenly feeling like some sort of cosmic punishment for underperforming when he was needed most.
But then Mitch pulls away a little, still not going far, and it jerks him back to the present. He immediately looks down, hands coming up to cup Mitch’s tear-stained face with a gentleness he’s only recently learned that he possesses. He’s always adored those blue eyes – probably far sooner than he should’ve considering how long it took them to find each other – but it’s ripping him apart to see them filled with this much agony. He leans in and kisses Mitch once on his forehead, lingering long enough to warrant at least a few chirps if they were in the Leafs dressing room. Although, granted, perhaps not tonight.
“I’m not ready,” Mitch confesses, barely audible.
Auston slowly pulls away and looks down with furrowed eyebrows. “Not ready for what?” he asks quietly. “We don’t have to leave yet, it’s okay. Patty knows I’m with you. The bus isn’t going anywhere without us.”
Mitch’s face cracks as he shakes his head. “Not ready to say goodbye,” he gets out, another tear falling down his cheek.
“To hockey?” Auston guesses, mildly alarmed and increasingly concerned that there’s apparently another level of Mitch’s distress. “And the team? I know, me too. But we’ll see most of them in a few months at camp, and the guys that move on can still come hang when we have the right matchups. It’s not the same, but-”
“No!” Mitch interjects with a force unexpected enough to make Auston startle.
“No,” he says again, softer this time, tugging gently at the fabric of Auston’s UnderArmour and bringing their foreheads together, every inch of his face achingly sad. “Not ready to say goodbye to you.”
And suddenly everything stops. Auston’s heart, his brain, his ability to regulate his breathing, fucking time for all he cares. Everything is Mitch, because he forgot the end of the season also means the of Toronto.
“We’re going to get on a plane tomorrow,” Mitch whispers, his voice wavering with every word, eyes brimming as he tries so hard to keep himself together, “And we’re going to clean out our lockers. And then you’re going back to your apartment to pack. Except you’re not packing for a game, you’re packing to leave.”
Auston bites on the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood, shaking with every bit of truth he hears.
“And you’ll go back to Arizona,” Mitch continues with painstaking effort, “Alone. And I’ll stay in Toronto. Alone.” He trembles, tears finally spilling over once again. “I wasn’t just fighting for our season tonight, Aus. I was fighting for us. And we fucking lost.”
Auston shakes his head vehemently, trying to deny the reality, push it away until he can live in a place where they don’t have to ever say goodbye except from sunset until sunrise.
“And now you’re holding me,” Mitch cries quietly, “And I have to memorize it because soon this fucking memory is all I’m gonna have of you.”
Auston feels like his body is crumbling except his strength must still be there because he's pulling Mitch closer, so close, not a centimeter of space between them now. Any distance, no matter how miniscule, feels irreparably catastrophic, like they need to be together like they need to breathe.
"Marns," he gets out, and his voice is cracked, and it's all he can say, all he can think.
Mitch hiccups again, burying his face deeper in Auston's neck, and a sob wracks his chest, vibrating against Auston's body and hurting like a gunshot.
They stay like for a long time, holding each other and trying to lose themselves in reality for however long they have. Nobody dares interrupts them, the door opening once and swiftly closing again, neither of them moving away to look up and see who it was. This moment is everything; all they have left.
“I’m here,” Auston murmurs into Mitch’s skin, trying to burn the promise there like a tattoo.
“Me too,” Mitch whispers back, his lips tickling against Auston’s neck. “I’m right here. You’ve got me.”
That just makes Auston hold tighter. He wants to have him forever.
They embrace until their muscles lock up and the tears have stopped and the noises outside the room have all but disappeared, crazed screaming superfans included. Auston can’t tell how much time has passed, but he knows the sound of an arena getting ready to shut down. The bus to the hotel should definitely leaving soon, and unfortunately, they need to be on it. He’s damned lucky that he and Mitch are roommates though, because he doesn’t think they’ll be able to spend another second further than ten inches from one another until the moment Auston steps on the plane home.
He feels himself smile with his heart breaking, and reluctantly reaches around in an attempt to untie Mitch's arms from around his neck, but all that happens is his hands are tightly captured and they're left even further intertwined, pressing together however possible.
"Mitchy," Auston whispers, leaning their foreheads together and hating the words coming out of his mouth, "You've gotta let go."
Mitch makes a broken sound that goes right to Auston's heart, but he swallows hard, trying to stand firm. They can't hide here forever - no matter how much they want to.
"It's not forever," he promises, brushing up against Mitch's lips. "You know it's not."
"But it's not the same," Mitch protests quietly, voice breaking on the last word. "I can live with no hockey for awhile, Aus, and I can cope with letting down the city, the fans; but I can't deal with losing you too. Not at the same time. Not like this."
He's crying again now, all the emotions from the season coming out in salty tears running down his face and trembling, uneven breaths; unrelenting and ragged. It rips right through Auston's defences and he wipes the tears away with shaking fingers, shushing softly and pressing in close, kissing the wet cheeks.
"You know I'm not going far," he reassures.
"Arizona is 2,000 fucking miles away!" Mitch bursts out angrily, eyes shooting lightning. "It's a different fucking time zone! A different county! I can't wake up with you, we can't go out for dinner, I can't just come over if I miss you, you can't kiss me and whisper goodnight right before I fall asleep! So yeah, I think it's plenty far enough!"
"You know what I mean," Auston says firmly, trying to instill a calm he doesn't really feel. "It’s not like I’m never gonna see you. We’ll text and Skype and snap every day until you’re sick of me. I'm coming back to visit whenever I can, I promise. And you can always come down to see the desert sometime. My Mom was already texting me a couple weeks ago that she misses you."
Mitch sniffs through a laugh, a lone defiant tear still falling down his cheek. "Ema's the fucking best," he admits reluctantly, his arms sliding down but still locked around Auston's torso.
The smile - however pained it might be - instantly makes Auston's chest feel like it can breathe again, and he offers up a cautious one of his own, gently brushing their noses together.
"You could take a plane to Scottsdale after the media shit storm settles down,” he suggests in a murmur, the fresh idea already sounding like paradise. “Go home, say hey to your brother for me, maybe catch a Jays game, pack another bag, and then turn around and get on another plane to stay with my family for a week or something. It’ll be like I never left.”
Mitch’s lips are widening into a larger smile with every new detail, and when he easily rests his head on Auston’s shoulder, it only spurs him on.
“We’ll sleep in my old room even though my sister will tease us mercilessly, I’ll show you the sights. It’s probably not as impressive as Toronto, but it’s got its own charm. Temperature’s probably gotten up to 25oC about now… you can feel the sun on your skin again, we’ll wear our jorts around town like idiots.”
They’re swaying slowly now, moving to the rhythm and cadence of Auston’s voice, both lost in the potential of how perfect it all sounds.
“My Mom can make her tortilla soup – she knows you love that – and my Dad’ll probably kick up the barbeque and make some steaks at some point. He likes trying to impress people like that. We can drive up to this lookout point at nightfall and watch the sunset. No media watching us, no responsibilities, no chirping from Marty or Willy or Naz. I can kiss you whenever I want. Wherever I want. We can just disappear for a little while. You and me.”
Mitch’s breathing is evened out now, synced seamlessly along Auston’s, and when he lifts his head up again, the pure adoration painted across every feature of his expression is utterly breathtaking.
“When do I get my ticket?” he asks in a quiet voice, and the grin gracing his lips is never-ending.
Auston stares for a moment, caught in the moment and overwhelmed. And then he’s grinning and pressing forward and they can’t even kiss properly because they’re smiling so much and they just lost their place in the playoffs but fuck if Auston can remember a time when he’s felt this much hope.
They quickly devolve into hopeless giggles, exhausted with emotion and clinging relentlessly to each other; their shaking bodies causing a constant feedback loop of mirth and insanity.
“We should-” Mitch gasps in between heaving breaths of a very different kind than a few minutes prior, “We should probably get out of here.”
Auston knows he’s right; they’ve been AWOL for far too long already, and he tries to settle his own laughter, closing his eyes and blowing a long breath out, heart still thumping.
“Okay,” he finally says, sighing one last time. “Okay. Are you ready for this? Ready to let go?”
Mitch instantly looks pained at the explicit question, but there’s a glint of determination there too – an image of the not-too-distant future they’re both holding onto.
“I’m never gonna be ready for that,” he admits pointedly, “I’m never going to want to either.” Despite his words, his iron-clad grip around Auston’s body begins for the first time to loosen. Pride immediately springs up inside Auston’s chest.
“I’ll do it though,” Mitch continues, his eyes still shining, “Because I know it’s not the last time. It’s not forever.”
His arms are at his sides now, the two of them standing not even a foot apart and not touching at all; except Auston feels Mitch throughout his whole body, every beautiful piece.
“I fucking love you,” Auston chokes out, barely able to get the words past the sheer emotion tying up his throat. “You know that, right?”
“I know that,” Mitch promises, twitching like he’s fighting the urge to fall back into his arms. “Love you too.”
There’s a moment of silence that fills the room that feels weighted, a tone of finality in the air leaving room for the beginning of something else. Some new.
“You ready?” Auston asks again, but this time he’s expecting Mitch’s steady nod.
“Ready.”
The pain of the team losing doesn’t hurt any less once they’re out of their hidden room. It doesn’t fix any of the problems, it doesn’t get rid any of all the sympathetic texts, it doesn’t lessen the disappointment in Babs’ stare, it doesn’t stop them from seeing the red rimmed eyes of their teammates as they get on the plane.
But when they touch down in Toronto and once again Auston finds himself having to let go of Mitch, they both stop for minute outside Auston’s apartment, arms wrapped around each other, foreheads gently pressed together, eyes locked – and they smile. Because they know that even though it’s the end this season, it’s not the end of them.
There will always be more.
Of everything.