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They didn’t sleep the entire night. It was easier not to, safer in a way. Like if they kept the lights on and stayed moving, the morning wouldn’t come.
They played Chel, shooting pucks into nowhere while their screeches bounced off the walls, filling the room for the last time. Fast food bags sat untouched on the kitchen counter, the fries going cold in their wrappers. Neither of them had the appetite to finish anything, they were focused on the presence of one another, as if it was the only thing keeping the two of them upright.
Mitch kept changing the playlists, a mix of old warm-up songs and post-win songs, even that one stupid remix they’d fight over every single time it came on throughout the season. The one that Auston always skipped on purpose just to get a rise out of him, except he let it play the whole way through this time. Like a final desperate attempt to show... something. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but he knew something was there.
It should’ve felt like just another late night, but it didn’t, and they both knew it. It felt like something was ending, and neither of them wanted to say it out loud, so they didn’t. Instead, they settled for the comforting silence of seeing their jersey numbers next to each other on the screen over and over again. Maybe if they played enough games, it might start to feel normal again.
“One more?” Mitch had asked, barely above a whisper. He’d already said it fifty times that night, but this time it cracked the silence of a game neither of them were paying attention to anymore.
Auston nodded, even though his eyes were burning and his hands began to feel sluggish on the controller. “Yeah. One more.”
And then another. And another. Until the sun was rising and the airport bags had made their way to the door throughout the comforting chaos of the gaming. Until there was nothing left to do but drive him to the airport.
Auston didn’t say much when they left the apartment. Just took Mitch’s duffel bag, locked the door behind them, and walked him to the car like he hadn’t done it a hundred times before. But this time was different. This time felt like walking someone to a door you weren’t allowed through. As if the moment he stepped past it, everything would change, and all Auston could do was watch.
The car ride was supposed to be twenty-five minutes, but Auston stretched it out like his life depended on it. He rolled to full stops at yellow lights he’d normally breeze through, took the slow lane that Mitch had always chirped him for avoiding, and didn’t bother rushing to pass anyone ahead of him. The clock didn’t fight him, but time still moved anyway.
Mitch sat curled in the passenger seat, his hoodie pulled up and sunglasses on, even though the windows were tinted. Like if he hid enough of himself, maybe Auston wouldn’t see how badly he was falling apart. But Auston knew. He always did.
The silence between the two wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t angry either. It was full. Full of the things they weren’t saying. Full of the weight of everything they couldn’t.
Auston felt like he should be asking things. About the contract. The move. The number he’d wear. If he’d hate the heat. But every question sounded like a plea in disguise, and Auston didn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight. But still, it slipped out eventually in a tone that felt foreign to his lips. Rough, and too light.
“You gonna wear that ugly gold helmet?”
It was soft. Like if he said it quietly enough, it wouldn’t sound like a goodbye. But it was forced casual. Too much effort to sound normal. And he felt that if he himself could tell, Mitch was probably just as aware, yet he didn’t mention a thing. Instead, Mitch snorted under his breath, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I dunno. Depends if it makes me look fast and shiny or not.”
Auston tightened his hands on the wheel, like the last thing that was keeping his walls from cracking in an instant. “You already look stupid. Helmet won’t change that.”
They both smiled, but it barely lasted. The joke fizzled before it even had the chance to land. Then the silence crept back in, heavier this time. Auston could feel it in his throat. Behind his ribs. He shifted in his seat, eyes locked on the road ahead, knowing it was the only thing left that he still had control over.
“You could’ve told me sooner.” he said finally, his voice held the same weight that he felt in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a confession. A quiet, tired truth with nowhere else to go.
Mitch hesitated, hiding behind those ridiculous sunglasses as he stared out the window. “Would it have changed anything?”
Auston’s grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles growing white, not out of anger, but in some pathetic form of desperation to try and hold something together. “No. But I still wanted to know.”
That was it. He didn’t say he deserved to know. Didn’t say you were supposed to tell me before the rest of the world. Didn’t say you broke something when you didn’t. Didn’t say you’re leaving and I don’t know what to do with it. He just drove. And Mitch didn’t answer either.
Then silence settled in again, not empty, but full. Full of the things they weren’t saying. Full of everything they were trying to hold onto for just a little bit longer. The silence held them both, as if they stayed quiet enough, maybe time would too.
The way into the airport was silent, almost as if they’d settled for the rest of the trip to be that way. Auston had parked like he always did, second level, back corner, half a spot over the line. Mitch used to chirp him for it, he called it the worst parking job in Toronto, and Auston would roll his eyes and do it again next time anyway. Mitch didn’t say anything this time. Neither of them did.
The elevator ride up felt like a countdown. Mitch chewed the inside of his cheek like he was trying to bite back everything he hadn’t said yet. Auston just stood beside him, arms crossed too tightly, staring at the floor number tick by as if he could will them to slow down with nothing but a glance. Yet they kept ticking past. Like a taunting click of what neither of them could avoid.
The terminal was buzzing, alive with movements, voices, and distant announcements, but it all sounded warped. Like background noise to a moment that shouldn’t be happening in real life. Everything moved too fast. Check-in. Bag drop. Security line creeping closer. It all unfolded so easily, like the world had no idea what it was about to tear apart for good.
Auston kept his hands in his pockets. If he didn’t, he was afraid they’d reach for something they weren’t allowed to hold anymore. He should’ve said something in the car. Or earlier that week. Or weeks ago. When Mitch told him about the offer, when he caught him packing, when the guys joked about “desert heat” and “party cities” and Auston just smiled like he wasn’t dying inside. But he hadn’t said anything. Never did, and probably never would.
And now they were here, standing just outside the security barrier, bathed in sterile lighting and silence they didn’t know how to fill, once again.
Auston glanced at the floor, then at Mitch, who was hugging the strap of his carry-on like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Like if he let go of it, he might fall apart right there on the tile.
“You got everything?” Auston asked, voice rough.
Mitch nodded. “Yeah.”
Simple. Barely audible. Almost like he was doubting his own words. Both of them knowing there was one more thing he could take. Yet somehow, his words hit louder than anything either of them had said all morning. Another pause. Another beat that stretched too long. Auston shifted his weight, dug his fingers deeper into his pockets.
“You’ll… be good there,” he mumbled. You’ll be fine. You’ll move on. You’ll have a life that doesn’t have me in it. You’ll forget about me eventually.
Mitch looked up at him, tired, sad. That stupid kind of half-smile that always showed up when he didn’t know how to say how much he was hurting, yet Auston knew everything he was trying to say with one glance. He always did. He always would.
“You’ll be good here.” The words spilled out like a sorry excuse of an answer, Mitch’s voice growing less convincing with each word he said. Getting shakier with each syllable, like the sentence was collapsing under its own weight. Neither of them believed it. Not entirely. Auston didn’t answer at first. He just stared at him, like if he blinked too long, Mitch might disappear entirely. Like this version of them, standing here, still barely whole, might vanish the second his eyes closed.
“Yeah,” he said eventually, even though it felt like a lie in his throat. Another wave of noise surged around them, footsteps, wheeled bags, laughter, but it all sounded too far away to matter. Like the world was still spinning, but somehow they'd both been left behind.
Mitch stepped forward, hesitating for just a second, like he was scared one more step might shatter the last thing they had between them. He looked like he was going to speak. Like maybe he’d say “Don’t let go.” Like maybe he was waiting for Auston to. Then he moved.
He wrapped his arms around Auston in a way that wasn’t casual, wasn’t easy, and wasn't clean. It was messy. Desperate. The kind of hug that wasn’t about comfort, it was about memorizing the shape of someone’s body so you didn’t forget it when they were gone. Like you'd be able to hold anything else and remember the exact moment you lost it all. And Auston broke.
He wrapped his arms around Mitch so tightly he felt him shake in his grip. He took in the familiar scent of his shampoo, the one he had always said he hated, but found himself growing more addicted to with each brush the pair made. His fingers dug into the fabric of his hoodie, not caring if his nails dug through the fabric. Almost wanting them to. Wanting to leave a mark of his hidden words. To leave a mark of everything he wanted to spill right then and there, but refused to. He pressed his face into his shoulder and held on, like he could anchor them both to the ground if he just didn’t let go, ignoring the way his knees were growing weak in desperation to just... stay.
Mitch let out a shuddered breath, sharp and small, like he’d been holding it in all morning. And Auston felt it. Felt it in his chest. In his ribs. In his fucking throat. Felt the stab of the empty breath, as if it spoke millions of words in one huff.
He breathed him in. Memorized the weight. The curve of his shoulders. The way Mitch’s hand gripped the back of his hoodie like he was holding on for dear life. Praying he'd never forget the feeling of the pressure on his back every time the two tangled in a hug, even on the ice under all the eyes. Nothing ever mattered once they had each other in their grasp. But neither of them said anything. There was nothing left to say. What could they say that wouldn’t make this worse? What could they say that wouldn’t come out as a plea? So they just held each other. Longer than anyone else in the terminal. Longer than they were supposed to. Longer than Auston knew he’d be able to stand once it ended.
Eventually, Mitch pulled back, slowly and reluctantly, his eyes glossed over. He didn’t wipe the tears away. Just let them sit there like they belonged. As if he was trying to prove to Auston he truly cared. “I should go,” he said, too quiet. Too convinced. Too sure. As if he already boarded the flight in his mind.
Auston nodded, even though his chest was burning like hell. Even though his hands were still reaching without physically moving. “Yeah.”
Mitch stared at him for another second, just one more. And Auston swore it was the hardest part. Because that second held everything. Everything Mitch wasn’t saying. Everything Auston couldn’t bring himself to ask for. He thought maybe he’d say I’m sorry. Maybe I love you. Maybe please tell me not to go. But all he did was step back, then crack that stupidly comforting half smile, the one that would be burnt into Auston’s eyelids for longer than he’d ever be able to deal with.
Without another word, Mitch turned away. One foot. Then another. Each step felt like a fracture, like the ground itself was splitting beneath Auston’s feet. And Mitch didn’t look back.
Auston almost preferred it that way, because the second Mitch’s eyes met his one last time, everything they’d been holding together would shatter. They both knew it. If Mitch looked back even once, just once, they’d both crumble. They'd lose all the pieces they’d been clutching onto, right there, in the blinding, cold silence of Terminal 16.
And Auston wasn’t sure which would hurt more between the look that would break him if he caught a glimpse, or the empty space where that look should have been.
That last chance to be on the same team, even if only for a moment, had slipped quietly away. And now nothing but haunting silence would linger where 16 should be in Toronto. His linemate. His support. His anchor. His home. His 16.