Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will is trying really hard, Mike can tell.

Trying to pretend like nothing is happening. Feigning ignorance. Like he isn't high-strung to his core, teeming with tingling nerves. Acting blind. Playing dumb. Brushing it off. Declaring it void. 

None of it's fooling Mike for a second. There's this thing that he does - a nervous tic - that gives him away. Well, a bunch of things. He fidgets with a particular finger, balls his hands into fists, rubs his palms down his thighs, jiggles a foot, and the one thing that still never ceases to floor Mike, he blushes.

And what is it that Mike's doing? To put it bluntly, he's staring.

It's a movie night. The whole party is huddled up together in the basement, lazy and content, snickering over Peter Venkman and his pitiful attempts at trying to woo Dana. But buzzing and blissful, too, like it's their first time watching it. As if, over the years, the worn-out VHS hasn't been played for them innumerable times already. 

But, as silly as this feels, Mike supposes it makes sense. Since the party rarely ever gets to meet up like this anymore. All of them in one place at the same time. And he has missed it. He can't remember the last time they spent time together like this, had a movie night, what with all the hustle and bustle of thei– high school. It's their senior year, and they're barely managing to scamper their way through it and to college. Right. 

They're almost halfway into October, Halloween being about two weeks away. The weather outside is frigid. Not freezing, but icy in a way that made everyone gulp down their hot chocolates before the beginning credits could fully roll around. 

Outside, the gelid wind howls and wails, tousling the decorations of paper bats and plastic skeletons as it drifts through the branches of the trees outlining the streets. Stirring tiny tornadoes out of the faded-orange maples that it causes them to cast upon the sidewalk.

In about every few seconds, the back door of the basement quakes a little as the gales strike it. But the party is cozy and snug inside, sprawled across the dimly lit space, passing around a bowl of popcorn between them and occasionally commentating about a glitch or the archaic atmosphere of the movie in muted mumbles.

Mike is perched on the armchair beside the coffee table, nearest to the TV. A little to the left of his stretched out feet are El and Max, sitting on the floor, nestled in warm blankets with their backs propped up against the front of the couch. Above El, is Dustin, sitting with criss-crossed legs and sagging into the arm of the couch with most of his attention on the popcorn in his lap, and a little on the movie. Just so he can join the hisses and whispers, should he wish. Lucas, who is situated in the middle, is side-eyeing his friend with disgust contorting his features. Deciding he's had enough with a huff, he shakes his head before yanking the bowl out of Dustin's digging paws, and rolls his eyes when he's shot a glare.

And Will... well. 

Will's pretty much out of it. Conscious enough to keep his glazed over eyes on the screen, but mind so obviously swimming in a trance.

It's only established again when Lucas passes on the bowl to him, only for him to not give a fuck about it, collide with his bouncing knee, and spill some of its content on Max's head. She hisses a curse and jabs a sharp elbow into Lucas's calf. El laughs while trying to help her pick the puffy corn out of her loose locks. Lucas makes a face at Will as he rubs a hand where it hurts, and Will, now having zoned back in due to the little commotion, looks back sheepishly at Lucas and makes a half-assed attempt at an apology. He couldn't have cared less. And it's all Mike can do to stop his lips from curling up. 

Yes, Mike hasn't taken his eyes off of Will. Not for a second.

Turns out his peripheral vision is spectacular, and that he doesn't give a fuck about popcorn either. Because Will is an absolute sight to behold right now. Even better now that he's out of his reverie. Shifting a little every now and then, fiddling with a button of his shirt, nibbling on a fingernail. 

He's a naturally restive person, so no one pays his restlessness any mind. No one but Mike. Mike always notices.

Especially now, when he's the one causing it. But Will seems really uneasy, even for himself. Edgy. Skittish? He looks about ready to bolt.

Mike sighs. 

Fine.

He figures he can relent, if only for a minute. Reluctantly, what feels like for the first time during the night, he lets himself glance at the TV screen.

“I'm sorry, I'm just not getting any reading.” 

“Well, are you sure you're using that thing correctly?” 

“Well, it's not… I think so! But, I'm sure there are no animals in there.”

“Well, that's great. Either I have a monster in my kitchen, or I'm going completely crazy.”

“.. I don't think you're going crazy.”

Oh, hell no. 

Goddamnit! 

Okay. Well, he tried. Whatever. This is not his fault.

Will's face is still resembling a firetruck. 

Mike, much to his amusement, actually watched the slosh of blood ripple up his best friend's throat, flood the tips of his ears, to finally reach and stain his cheeks. Like how a billow of seawater curls high and breaks into the shore to alter the pearly sheen of the sand into a muddy brown. 

Will's still bouncing that leg. But then he stops. To prevent the mishap from repeating, Mike presumes. Goes about crossing his legs, only to uncross them again. Probably realizing a beat too late that it will only make his situation worse. 

Mike doesn't snort, but it's a close thing. It's only then that Will finally looks up, and locks his eyes with Mike's.

It's what Mike was aiming for. Really. To make Will blink and swallow and squirm, and then look the one - the one who did that to him in the eye. But now that Will has set his gaze on him, expression a tad unsure yet hard, it's like Mike can't breathe.

How the hell does he do that? Does he know? Is that why he's doing it? Wait, isn't that what I wanted?

Something shivers and trembles in the center of Mike's chest, old and beaten, yet oddly possessing that ever-kicking tension. He blinks and looks away.

And, voila! His lungs resume their work.

Damn it. He was doing so good. 

Why does he get so flustered, so easily under Will's gaze? How? This has been going on for days, hasn't it? For weeks. Months. Hell, for years, if he's being completely rational with himself for a second. He should be used to it by now. It's a practiced dance. Only, this time, Mike worked up the courage to not duck away from those scrutinizing eyes. He finally did. 

Or, maybe – maybe not. 

Still, he believes he did enough to send a message. Leave a hint. Now if only Will could understand. He would, Mike reckons. He always does. It's Will. Mike trusts him. He will understand.

He better.

Mike doesn't think he can do that again in front of everyone. It's not like anyone gives a fuck, because, obviously. Duh. There's no risk, he feels safe, he's around people that care about him; would put their lives on the line for him. That gnawing anxiety and those fearful sensations have long ago simmered out. He's not a kid anymore. So, yeah. 

It's nothing new per se, but still. He's not used to this. Acting like a damn peacock! Never like this, even in the privacy of his home.

Mike has zoned out, he is aware. Just not enough to zone back in. He can sense the buttery smell of popcorn hanging around him, intruding the air he breathes. He can feel his wrist bending and beginning to ache under the weight of his head. He can make out the blocky outlines of the small TV, vague figures shifting and morphing on the beaming screen, and the shape of their dusty furniture cluttering the place. Will's drawings on the walls, tattered and wavy around the borders, yet somehow, still flaunting the caliber. 

Mike can't imagine anything - no matter how artsy - topping these drawings. They helped him keep his body and soul together during possibly his worst time ever on earth. He clung onto them to persevere through the juncture he tries not to think about to this day. And when Will came back, the drawings represented him still. More accurately so. 

Will had become more distant, quieter. During his earliest days back into his own world, he had turned into a mere caricature of himself. 

A faded wrinkly drawing, rough around the edges, devoid of color. Tacked high on a wall. Gathering dust. Out of reach. It used to make Mike's skin crawl so bad that he wanted to scream.  

He had almost lost Will. His Will.

Now, though, that ominous phase is over. A thing of the past. 

Will, being the Phoenix that he is, emerged from his ashes. Beautiful than ever with his signature sparkling eyes and blinding smile. Bowlcut gone. Crayons forgotten. Flannels, though, still hung high around his shoulders or wrapped low around his waist. Hair still long and glossy, hue like that of raw umber on fire, brushed back to no avail. Sometimes pulled back and bound up into a loose, tiny ponytail. Usually when he's working on an illustration - or engaged in any other task that would require the same measure of diligence, really. And other times? Always unruly. Gorgeous.

Will has always looked cute, but now, he looks like he's walked straight out of the shiny papers of one of those teen magazines. 

And, he's an artist! 

What typifies Will now is his brilliant work. All alluring and picturesque under crystalline graphite and shimmery charcoal. He uses paint, too. Of course, he does. But only the darkest tones of color possible. His art has turned tenebrous. But it makes heads turn, steps stutter, and eyes gawk, so Mike supposes it works fine.

Will has changed a lot and earned so much in such a short time, at such a young age, Mike feels like he's filled up to the brim with pride. His heart swells with a deep affection, and then heels sideways from its own weight whenever Will shows him a new painting or sketch. As per the rule, presents every single one of his illustrations to Mike before anyone else can lay their eyes on them. As if he's any worthy of critiquing Will's work. 

And each time, Mike stands stupefied, feeling his sense of self slipping away from him as he gapes at those sordid swirls and arcane patterns. All while Will hops on angsty feet behind him, peeking over his shoulder with nervous eyes to gauge his expressions. Anticipating a reaction. Or possibly – probably dreading one. 

It's ridiculous; the reason behind the motions.

Will always tries to cloak his trepidation the best he can, and Mike never tells him that he can't be hoodwinked. But as perplexing as it is, the truth is that - to this day - Will fears that he's going to scare Mike away. That Mike is going to take one good look at the product of his imagination, and sooner or later, bail out on him. As if he hasn't seen worse. As if the Demogorgon and the Mindflayer weren't the same things, only alive. 

After everything they've been through, supernatural and otherwise, this is what Will thinks will be the reason he finally loses Mike - the innate darkness within him. 

Clearly, despite all the shit Mike has gladly put up with for him over the years, Will somehow still manages to remain oblivious to how tightly he's got Mike wrapped around his little finger. Will's silly like that.

Of course, Will's fears never realize. 

Rather, with each piece of Will's mind bare for him, Mike only finds himself plummeting a little deeper down the rabbit hole that is his love for Will. And with his breath caught in the back of his throat, Mike ghosts his fingertips over the prominent strokes, delicately. Careful not to smudge them. Fearful they might come alive after all. It's not unviable. And he can't help but whirl and beam at Will - all pathetically lovesick - telling him that it's amazing, he's amazing, before – well. Before Will does whatever the fuck he does with the illustration. Who knows? Not Mike.

Red flames cloud his vision with an uproar piercing his ears, and he's abruptly pulled back into reality. 

“Hey, ass!”  

“What?” Mike jumps, snapping out of his stupor so violently he almost gets a headrush. Blinking through the haze rapidly, he looks around before catching a figure looming right in front of him. 

It's Max, towering over him with narrowed eyes and hands on her hips, chewing a piece of bubble gum obnoxiously. A stray popcorn is still tangled in her hair, dangling near the left cheek. “Where on earth are you?”

Mike huffs. “Nowhere.” 

His lungs are laboring and his head is spinning. The blast of noise was like he was floating peacefully in the depths of the ocean and a blue whale sneaked up on him and rumbled in his ears. He has to take a second to not yell at her again. He takes a deep breath, letting go of the padding of his armchair to rub his aching temples.

Max still hasn't moved. 

What now?  

He lifts his head, still slightly woozy, and glowers at her. “Stop crowding me, will you? I'm watching.”

Max tilts her head and frowns at him like he's speaking Japanese. But then her features smoothen out, and with a hooked eyebrow, her eyes leave Mike's face to trail over his head, tour the whole basement, exchange that look with everyone - the one that says, I'm about to end his ass.  

Mike's far too familiar with that grin - The Cheshire Grin, as he likes to call it. He knows what's going to happen next, and he's not in the mood. He's pissed off of her enough as it is, disrupting his thoughts. 

Nuisance.  

It's in moments like these that Mike knows, he knows how undeniably he cherishes Nancy. 

So, he does his best attempt at a death glare before she can open her mouth, although nothing has ever fazed Max. But – oh? For once it works, and Mike rolls his eyes at her shrugging and sliding out of his line of sight, gesturing at the TV with both hands, before he looks back at the blank screen.

Mike scowls, everyone else laughs.

“Like what you see?” Dustin teases. His toothy grin is audible.

Mike slumps into the chair with a groan. 

Great! Here we go.

“Let's watch another,” Lucas suggests between huffs of laughter, “Back to the Future?”

“Oh!” El jumps at the name. “Yes, please! I love that movie.” 

Lucas quips, “A hundred bucks says he'll space again in no time.”

“Hm. Real mature, Lucas,” Mike drones at the ceiling. 

Lucas is sure that he could drop everything right this second, if he wanted, and earn a living out of these wagers easily. Or so he says. And Mike doesn't know whether to feel pleased or infuriated every time Lucas tells him that. Maybe just embarrassed.

El, still on the floor beside Will's legs, chuckles. “It happens a lot.” And then, tilting her head and resting it on Will's knee, goes on, “Can you tell us why? Like, I really don't understand. It's be– ”

Mike makes an annoyed sound in his throat and twists in his chair, ready to snap a retort at El, because he doesn't want to think about that. He's not supposed to. But his eyes immediately, inevitably, fall on Will. 

Will is relaxed against the back of the couch, a hand busy picking at the threads jutting out of its ratty arm, looking at the floor with pink cheeks and a small smile gracing his lips. 

Calm, reserved, quiet - the perfect picture of class that he always upholds around the others. But Mike knows better. He sees the blush. It's a lot less notable, but it's there. 

And all at once, the clouds scatter and the sun shines through. Because that is a good sign. 

So Mike just shakes his head and, without bite, says, “All you need to understand is that you cannot watch another movie. Not tonight.”

Max sighs, long and dramatic. “He's always kicking us out.”

“Not all of us,” Dustin infers with his mouth full, not heeding the chewed crumbs of popcorn that tumble past the corners of his lips as he mumbles. 

God, will they ever stop giving him shit about it? It's getting really old. He knows how bad he has it. He knows it's only getting graver with time. He isn't dumb. Crazy? Check. Stupid? Check. Oblivious? Used to be. Never dumb, though. Since the beginning, he has always known and always strived to work on it. Make it go away. He even kissed a girl, for fuck's sake. It never came to pass, but he still tries to reign it in. In front of others, at least. Tries and fails. But the effort is there all the same. It counts.

Max clicks her tongue as if Dustin has just said something really wise, something that's figuring-out-the-big-bang wise - Dustin thinks he's yoda or some shit - even though it doesn't even make sense anymore. Has stopped making sense for a good, long while now. But then again, this is Max. And as far as Mike is concerned, she's willing to go to any lengths of dumbassery if there's even a small chance of him getting shot down.

Lucas snorts, looking at Mike like he knows him the best. And maybe, he does. Growing up together, side by side, would do that. The corollary of sharing a childhood. He's the closest thing Mike has to a brother. Usually, the thought makes him feel content. Fond, even. Right now, though, he wants nothing more than to wrestle that smirk off of his face. But it makes Will smile wider, so he thinks it's not so bad.

“I'm not kicking you out –” 

Max scoffs.

“It's gonna be late!” Mike contends, rolling his eyes at her the way he always does whenever she sees right through his bullshit and he doesn't want to admit it. It's unnerving.

“Yeah, guys,” Will adds, pushing off the couch. “It's uh –” He steps toward the nearby basement door and hooks his fingers into the blinds to peek out through them. A second or two later, he sighs and turns around, glancing at everyone with solemn eyes. “It's gonna get bad out there.”

I could kiss him right now.

“Exactly,” Mike says, rising from his seat. He rolls his neck and stretches out his arms like a cat to loosen his rigid muscles. Realizing how small the armchair is for his long frame when the bones pop. “Like, you can hear that, right?”

As if on cue, the air tide whistling outside kicks up a notch. It slaps along the walls of their house, ardent and blaring. The door gives yet another tremble and just like that, movie night is over and everyone is scurrying around the basement, digging into the pile of blankets and cushions to find their coats and scarves. While Mike takes out the VHS tape and puts it back in its case, the party starts climbing up the creaky stairs one after the other, talking among themselves. He finds Will following the trail - about to mount the first step - when he looks up after switching off the TV. 

His hand shoots out before he can stop himself and catches Will's elbow. He meets those acute eyes again. They blink up at him, big and curious.

“You could stay, if you want.” Mike curls his fingers around the elbow to pull Will closer, and goes on in a soft voice, “We could have a sleepover.”

Will seems at a loss. 

But then, with a little jerk, he catches up at the very next second. And with his mouth hung open and his eyes turned owlish, he takes a moment to stare at Mike, completely caught off guard. As if it's only now that it's registering with him, for real - the realization that it's indeed happening, that they're really doing this. 

Or – wait. Is this just Will with another flashback wading through his mind? 

On any other day, reading Will's face is as though reading a book to him, but right now, Mike doesn't know what to call that expression. 

Disbelief? Déjà vu? A jumble of both?

The moment passes all too soon for him to dwell on it.

Breathing a little faster, Will breaks and looks around, mouthing like a fish. “Um –” His gaze settles at the top of the stairs, and Mike feels him tense under his touch.

Apparently, El was still her way up. Now she stands at the crest of the staircase with one foot out of the basement door, head twisted back and tilted down to look at them, giving them a funny look. 

She heard.

Fuck.

Mike won't break. 

Quizzically, he arches his eyebrows at her, as if she's the one being ridiculous. It's something he's been told he's incredible at.

Will sways and shifts beside him.

Fortuitously, she makes nothing of it. 

Now, it would've been a different story entirely, had it been Max. Or even Lucas, or Dustin. And he doesn't even want to think about his parents and sisters. But El, being the angel that she is, leaves them alone. Shrugs and turns around, swinging her curls over her shoulder and hopping up the last step to disappear from their view. 

Well. It's going to be a good brunch tomorrow. She will needle him the next time she sees him, he knows. But that's the least of Mike's concerns right now. 

He focuses back on Will, only to find him giving Mike a flat, unimpressed look. A look so standard and intimate to him that it echoes within the verges of his mind, loud and crisp, look what you did. Are you happy now? 

That doesn't discourage him.

“So?”

Nothing. Deadpan. He'll take that as a yes.

“Good,” he breathes, letting go of Will's arm, and stepping away after unintentionally glancing down at his mouth.

Mike starts for the front door.

Chapter Text

Mike should have grabbed a coat for himself, too.

The paper-thin, gray sweater he's wearing did absolutely nothing to shield him from the biting cold. And the chill numbed his face, seeped into his bones, and crippled his limbs as soon as he slipped out the front door.

He stood at the foot of their wooden porch, sniffling and shivering, squeezing his hands under his arms with Will by his side - posture loosened and hands slack in his jeans, not at all bothered by the weather whatsoever.

They bade goodbye to the rest of the party, talking over when and where they will be seeing each other tomorrow since it's a weekend. Tomorrow is a Sunday. And for the first time in a long time, they have the chance to make the most of it. They rarely get to take on such opportunities anymore.

Lucas and Dustin - being the most eager of them all - took charge enthusiastically, considering all their options and pondering over each alternative for Mike to hum along to. Something about a movie – or was it the diner again? Or the mall, maybe?

Hell. He can't remember what he assented to. His attention fizzled out the moment Will excused himself mid-discussion - the instant Lucas and Dustin ended up delving into an argument of their own because old habits die hard - to engage in a whispering match with his sister near their parked cars. A whispering match, which upon Max's involvement, turned into a giggling match. And amidst all the frantic clamors of his two best friends and the weather being an absolute bitch, it was exasperating, to say the least. They might as well have been pointing a finger at him as they cackled and it would've been the same.

So, while his friends were successful in finding their way back to the conversation, Mike persisted scrutinizing them with narrowed eyes. Trying and struggling to eavesdrop through the unrelenting gusts of wind. Absentmindedly giving a nod to whatever choice his friends eventually settled on. Something Lucas wanted to check with Will, too. Something Dustin said wasn't needed because Mike's yes means Will's yes. Something which was proven factual when Will joined them again and earned Lucas a told you so slap on the arm.

Eventually, after squabbling back and forth for what felt like millennia, they sat on some plan and hours convenient to everyone - none of the details that Mike can recollect - clambered into their cars and pulled away onto the driveway. 

Then it was just Mike and Will. Alone. Blankly staring ahead of them. Alone. Trembling and fidgeting, respectively. Alone.

Sniffling for the umpteenth time, Mike dared a look at his best friend, and then he was getting pulled up the porch steps by the belt loop and into the relative warmth of their house with a mutter of, “Come on. You'll catch a fucking cold.”

Which is why, here he is now. In the kitchen.

Mike is leaning with his lower back against the counter, nursing another mug of hot chocolate, courtesy of Will. He cups the mug with both hands, wrapping his fingers around the surface to let the heat of the warmed china seep into his nippy fingertips, holds it right below his nose to let the swirling tendrils of steam soar and defrost his cheeks, relishes the rich savor of cocoa sweeping over his senses, and wonders why exactly is it so goddamn cold in the middle of fucking October. Or maybe it's just him and his fragile ass. He wishes he had the tolerance for the cold like Will, and mentally kicks himself for it almost immediately.

It's no picnic.

Will hates the cold. Wants nothing to do with it. His anguish tends to get the best of him around this portion of the year. Sullen days and sleepless nights. Nightmares that refuse to leave him alone the following day.

On those kinds of days, Mike feels the most useless. He knows it's not reasonable. He understands. Will doesn't need Mike's fixing. He isn't broken. If anything, it's Mike who needs Will, upfront and center. The fact doesn't surprise him. It's always been Mike needing Will in his life from that first day of kindergarten.

Still, that old instinct to protect and care doesn't seem to let up. It's something instilled deep within his subconscious, ancient and inveterate. And Mike, typical Mike, can't help but try and be there for Will in any way he can - all earnest eyes, soft smiles, and open arms. Will doesn't seem to mind for most days - all vulnerable eyes, relieved smiles, and clinging hands.

But some battles are to be fought alone, Mike has learned.

Sometimes a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold is not what he seeks. Will seeks space, and Mike understands that, too. He locks himself in the bedroom, maps out unfamiliar roads for solo-long-drives, channels his trauma into his art. Mike, albeit concerned, doesn't pry because he trusts Will enough to be able to handle himself. He respects those resolutions and waits for Will to come back to him with the patience of a saint. Will always does, each time causing Mike to grasp just how invincible he actually is. 

But today is not one of those days. Oh, no.

Will is cheery and lively and playful. All lustrous hazel eyes and sunny wide smiles. He is glowing. Has been for a while now.

They goofed off with the party the whole day and drove around all of Hawkins, just because. Bumped shoulders and nudged elbows and brushed fingers; stayed glued to each other's sides. Grabbed a bite at the local diner. Checked each other out whenever they thought the other wasn't looking. The usual.

Will has been his most natural and happy self today. It was novel.

Which is why Mike's finally considering going ahead with this ludicrous plan of his.

He is thinking.

The shudder is gone. The ice has thawed, and sensations are tingling back into the flesh of his palms and the skin of his face. Placing the hot chocolate on the platform beside him, he braces his palms against the edge of the counter and hauls himself up. Once he's settled, he reaches for the mug again to place it in the space between his legs. And then puffing out a calm breath, he closes his eyes, and runs the tip of his tongue along the back of his upper teeth. Wiggles and drums his fingers around the mug, and focuses on every clink. He reflects.

He's almost done with his drink, and he still has no strategy. He contemplates talking to Will. Confront him. But for some reason, the idea makes him balk.

They've never acknowledged this - this - this weird – otherworldly chemistry that they've always found humming between them. Alight with sparks and stirring with a tension so unbearable that it makes it almost impossible for them to be in the same room as the other without wanting to yell. 

No, they never quite got around to toeing the line like that, now that he thinks about it. Not in a manner as civilized as talking, anyway. 

Mike's never had a problem with putting his thoughts into words. He's a professional at it. And conversations with Will have always been the easiest. It's something he has found immense solace in over the years - the ease with which they can communicate with each other without missing a beat, no matter the impasse. And yet, he can't bring himself to do the right thing and just say it. Just the thought of it is making him squirm a little - whether it's because of the mortification of it all or the thrill it stirs in his gut, he doesn't know.

And hey, the alternative approach seems a lot more appealing anyway. Mike could open his mouth and embarrass the both of them, or… he could just cut the damn bullshit, push Will against a wall, grab him by the waist and lean down and just –

“Mike?”

Mike's head swivels up and there is Will. He's standing at the threshold of the kitchen, holding a bowl and some mugs in his arms. Expression vaguely curious but otherwise guarded. His hair is tousled like always. Few strands droop on his forehead stopping short at the tips of his cheeks, while some of the longer ones brush and fringe the sides of his face. 

And he's shifting his weight on his feet again.

I could help you with that, if you want.

Mike nods. “Hey.”

“You okay?” Will advances toward the sink adjacent to Mike's side. 

Mike inhales and goes on to say something - he doesn't know what - but whatever it was gets lost in the air he exhales as he watches Will stroll across the kitchen floor, all lithe and graceful. Barefoot. He's wearing one of his trademark flannels. Plum colored plaids, sleeves rolled up to the elbow in that way. The topmost button of the shirt is undone, baring the pair of clavicles that disappear under the collar. Mike wills himself to not drool.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asks, placing the dishes in the sink.

Oh, you know. Just thinking about shoving my tongue down your throat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Of course, nothing makes it past his lips.

Will turns his head fractionally toward Mike as he smooths a lock of hair behind his ear before picking up a mug to clean it. His expression is innocent, but his eyes are shining with amusement. 

Mike decides to take the plunge and spit it out –

Wait. What am I gonna say anyway?

Hey, Will? So, you know how we're in love, right? How we look at each other as if we hang the moon and the stars in the sky every night? How you sneak my freckles into your cosmic illustrations and how the heroes of my adventurous pieces somehow always resemble you? Yeah, well. I was thinking about it because – well. It's all I ever think about when I'm around you and uh, yeah. It's been going on for years now and what I'm trying to say is – is – no. I want to ask. I want to ask you if we could stop beating around the bush and make out?  

Yeah, no. That makes no sense.

– chickens out at the last moment, and shrugs. “Nothing.”

He frowns at the empty mug resting between his thighs.

Seriously? 

Will smiles at the bowl he's cleaning.

“Wh – where were you?” Mike's voice cracks as he makes a desperate attempt to change the subject because he can feel his cheeks going warm. He was doing just fine being alone by himself, but being alone with Will… 

And those words. Jesus. He's mad at himself for thinking them and letting them make his heart pound and abdomen clench.

What am I? A horny teenager? 

“Just around the house,” Will answers with an easy shrug. “Closed all the windows, checked all the doors and stuff.”

Mike nods along, mindless eyes set on the little birthmark right above the seam of Will's lips. Tracing the soft shadows under the swell of his cheekbone and the curve of his jaw as the mellow glow of the kitchen lamp hits them from above. Trying not to seem entirely focused on resisting the familiar itch to slide off the counter, to clamp his hands on its edge on either side of Will's hips, just so he could trap Will between his limbs.

It would be so easy. He knows Will would let –

Realizing he isn't helping himself with that thought considering how out of character it is, he inwardly berates himself, sighs and looks away. Directs his attention elsewhere before he pans out doing something stupid like giving in to it. Concentrates on the restless drumming of his fingers around his mug instead. It helps.

Not for long, though. Absorbed in his task, Will blindly reaches out for the mug. His forearm grazes Mike's thigh the same time their fingers brush and Mike's body springs to life. 

I should stop reacting like that, it's ridiculous. 

It's a deliberate move. There's nothing odd or unusual about it. Just Will being Will when no one's around anymore and they're on their own again and he has Mike all to himself. Mike knows. And yet, bowled over regardless, he can't help casting a feeble glance at Will. The ease with which Will toys with him sometimes - humble yet twisted enough - is yet to stop impressing him.

Mike swallows and drops his gaze to the wobbling stream of water dousing the dishes. His hands end up clasping the seam of the counter again, and the grip tightens a degree as he attempts to muzzle his wayward thoughts and curb whatever it is that's awakening in the pit of his stomach. 

“Then the basement,” Will continues, in no way opposed by his friend's unwillingness to respond. “Cleared up all that mess around the couch, too, by the way.”

Mike hums, but his attention - foolish and traitorous - is diverted someplace else. 

Will's hands.

Mike can't remember a moment in the stretch of his life when he didn't admire those hands. Even at the time when they were small and scrawny, and couldn't do much more than scribble a mess onto discarded paper with crayons until they went blunt, fiddle with his action figures during their intense storytelling sessions, and press band-aids onto Mike's busted elbows and knees in the wake of their playdates.

The hands that Mike can never get tired of holding, that he could never not want to kiss, that he would never not want to feel on him. Bearing slim and long fingers, with nails that are smooth and always clipped, they have a sort of delicate and elegant lure to them. But not in a way that one can call them girly because of how incredibly strong they can be. 

The hands that Mike believes to be strong and steady and firm, but masterly and skillful, too. And so suggestive and purposeful when the moment calls for it. 

The hands that are now dripping with water, and coated with a thin film of soap lather as they work around the last of the dishes. 

How does he make scrubbing a mug look so fascinating? I'll never know.

Like a dope, he studies Will's hand picking up all the clean mugs, looping a finger and a thumb into their handles, while the other grabs the bowl, and follows them as Will shuffles away, moving toward the shelves opposite them. With utmost care, he places the water-slicked dishes onto the platform, snatches a towel from the shelf, and leans on a hip as he starts to wipe them dry one after the other. He looks so in his element that the sight kindles a tinge of warmth within Mike's chest. He smiles. 

“Let's not serve them popcorn again,” Will muses, breaking the comfortable silence, as he swipes the cloth into the dip of the bowl delicately. “What do you say?” he asks, shelving it away and twisting his head to the side to grin at Mike. 

Mike almost didn't hear him. His stupid brain just couldn't help zero in on the strip of skin - veiling an inviting hip bone no less - that peeks out from under the hem of Will's shirt every time he raises an arm to set a dish in its place. Almost. But Mike's been here one too many times to slip up like that. 

In a flash, his lurking eyes fly up the same time Will's head turns, and Mike snorts, grinning back, “I'm sure no matter what we serve, Dustin will always find a way to strew it across the whole place.” 

Will rolls his eyes and exhales in defeat as he ambles to the table between them. Having shaken out of his daze, Mike levels his weight on his palms and swings forward, easing off the counter to rest with his back against it again. 

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Mike says, jerking his head to regard the hot chocolate powder and marshmallows in Will's hands.

Will gives a lopsided shrug of no problem as he puts them back in the cabinets with a small smile. Cool and collected. Nonchalant. Like it's part of his daily routine. A duty. Like it's what they do - take care of each other.

It's when Will turns around and faces him that it hits Mike like a bullet.

There's nothing else to do.

No movie night to keep him distracted. No friends to rib him. No chores to delay him. As they gaze at each other, they witness the realization dawning in each other's eyes at the same time.

Will's smile fades away as he stills near the table, at two arm's length, looking a bit apprehensive. Shy and cautious and waiting. But when he runs a hand through his unkempt hair, there's a confident touch to the action. And then Mike has no other way to see it. Will looks challenging.

Mike's heart races.

And in that moment, everything shifts. The energy in the air around them bends and warps, reorienting itself into something charged and thrilling. Stifling. Suddenly, the worthless sweater enwrapping his limbs feels thick and weighty, and for a fleeting second, Mike regrets having another hot chocolate.

This is it.

Mike pushes off and takes a tentative step forward. Will's breathing alters.

Yes!

Mike's been looking for signs. Something that tells him that Will isn't into this, isn't feeling comfortable. Doesn't want this. He's been looking out the whole day but getting stumped. All he could catch were the flaring cheeks and the fidgety swaying and the nervous swallows. Not to mention the subtle ways in which Will often dragged his eyes all over Mike's body. Which is enough. But still, he needs to know for sure.

He needs the reassurance that Will wants this, too. That Will's all in. That Will won't break.

There's only one way of finding out.

“So, what do you wanna do?” 

Will's eyes widen slightly.

Yeah, I'm not fucking around.

“I mean, it's not so late right now,” Mike says dryly. It's amusing to see how bashful Will is being right now, even though he knows he could bring Mike to his knees right this second, if he wanted. Mike can't complain, though. How else is one supposed to react to the love of their life coming onto them? He ventures. 

“You wanna watch another movie?”

As we go down on each other?

Will's eyebrows knit as his expression turns thoughtful. Like he's actually considering it. But then the moment is over, and he responds quietly, “Nah.” 

Another step.

“Okay. Well, we could play some video games.”

Although, there's something better we could be doing with our hands right now.

Will sighs, wandering his gaze about the place and rocking on the heels of his feet. He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans - probably to avoid fiddling with them. He lets out an audible breath as he looks down, and shakes his head, no. 

I can't help myself.

“What do you want?” He feels like a peacock again. 

And, behold. There's that blush again. A splash of scarlet traverses Will's features, and Mike witnesses it spread in stark clarity because of how perilously close they are. Just one more step, and Will would have nowhere else to look but right at Mike. Close enough that he can finally pick up on the muted notes of Will's cologne, imbued with - does he have to be smelling so nice after such an active day? - his own scent lining his skin – something that Mike is as familiar with as the back of his own hand. As he takes them in, he can also feel the damn heat that's radiating off of Will's whole body along with them to sear his own.

Yeah, he's definitely regretting that hot chocolate now because he's sweating in the middle of fucking October.

Will looks up through his eyelashes, and they flutter as he tries to string something coherent. His eyes - which seem to absorb rather than reflect the soft light illuminating the space - are a neat, striking medley of green and yellow and brown. The ways to describe them are endless, Mike imagines: moss on wood, four-leaved clovers and goldenrod, jade and amber, and maybe even an avocado. Will loves avocados. But the only one he can deem in harmony with them at this moment is a wide, lush field of pine trees shining with the sun on a hot summer's day. 

Belatedly, it's only then that Mike clocks in on how - to treat him with a view like that - Will has to tilt his head up a little to meet his gaze, and for the thousandth time, he realizes how much he loves having two inches over Will.

Just the right height for me to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I, uh...” Will starts in a low voice, but doesn't get too far, because he makes the mistake of breaking their eye contact. His eyes flick down and halt at Mike's lips. He inhales sharply.

And for you to indulge in the shape of my lips.

“...What?” Mike implores with a whisper, lowering his head and closing the remaining distance with a small, final step.

Their lips almost touch. Their noses do touch. With his eyes hooded on Mike's lips, Will backs up against the table with a shallow breath. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to rest them on the wooden surface behind him. It wobbles on its flimsy legs - the rattle is only a blip of sound, yet acute amid the risqué silence. But Will has no other option. He has to steady himself for the both of them because of how busy Mike is with being all up in his business. 

Mike's enjoying this act a little too much. He knows he's pushing it. He can't be acting so brazen around Will. Not now. Not here. (Not ever if he wants to see the light of the day again.) It probably won't bode well, but he figures it's worth the risk. He just wants to see what Will's going to do. Now that there's no denying Will wants this, too, Mike wants to know just how into this he exactly is.

Will doesn't respond. He's still transfixed with Mike's lips. And as the seconds tick by, his unwavering eyes prompt Mike to subdue a sudden urge to lick them. They feel so dry for some reason. Then he blinks, and while staring at Mike's lips, worries his own bottom lip between his teeth. 

Something tightens in Mike's belly and he has to stifle a groan. 

Fuck. He never realized how many ways this could go, and how damn agonizing this was going to be. His heart thrashes within his ribcage like it's trying to bruise his insides, and while he tries not to pant, the teeth sink deeper and what the fuck. Mike can't believe how much he's regretting this stupid idea of his, because right now, it's taking all of his self-control to not grab Will and toss him onto the dinner table behind him.

Every fiber that makes for his being is beseeching him to do something. Anything. To say fuck it, and move. At least rear up and free the poor lip before the flesh tears, if nothing else. 

And maybe this isn't easy for Will either. With his bottom lip caught under his upper teeth, he takes cautious, measured breaths through his nose. Like he's consciously trying to control his breathing. Like he's trying to keep himself in check. Each deliberate breath he lets out is a warm, teasing brush against Mike's mouth. Suddenly, he releases his lip. Mike figures it's because he's finally going to say something.

Mike is wrong. 

Instead, Will licks his lips, and the kitchen lamp fizzles just as his eyes darken, and biting back a gasp, Mike thinks, holy shit.

Outside, the tempest roars.

Mike can sense Will's resolve crumbling by the second the way he can sense the prickle of shiver charging up his spine and the hair standing at the back of his neck. Smothering the instinctual urge to light out and survive another day, he braces himself for the blow with clammy palms, tingling lips, and bated breath.

It never comes.

Instead, Will closes his eyes. 

Leisurely, his eyelids draw shut, taming that inborn, portending darkness within. Long, thick lashes fall and splay to create shadows on top of Will's cheeks, and obscure the persistent purple under his eyes as he takes a deep, calming breath through his parted lips. Mike can catch a subtle trace of cigarette smoke on it. 

And when his eyes blink open, they glance up at Mike again, clear and guileless. 

Mike marvels.

For a second, he doesn't know whether to feel proud of Will or be miffed at him. But considering everything he's been doing the whole day and knowing how impulsive Will can be, Mike can't deny how commendable that transition was.

While he's conflicted with his emotions, Will, with his newfound composure, breathes, “Clothes.” 

Huh? Are you asking me to strip?

Mike leans back a little and tilts his head, feeling lost. And it must show on his face because Will's looking at him expectantly - pointedly, like he's trying to remind him of something. Irritation clouds his features as if Mike's supposed to know what comes next. And then it clicks. 

Mike feels proud, definitely.

“I – um,” Will continues breathlessly, standing a little straighter, encouraged by the look of recognition on Mike's face. He flutters a hand between them as he struggles to speak, “I d– I don't have any clothes to sleep in.” 

He whisper-rushes everything in one breath just for the sake of saying them with his eyes somewhere on Mike's chest. Swallowing hard, he shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans immediately after he finishes speaking. And when he looks at Mike head-on, his shoulders fall with the next breath, as if he's relieved of finally spitting out the words.

Mike has to close his eyes for a moment as reassurance washes over him, soothing his nerves in waves. It soothes him so much, he can't help but detour then.

“Clothes.” He wants to hoot with laughter. There's no way he's ever letting Will live this down.

Sure enough, Will's shoulders hike up again. Defensive. He glares.

“What? You can't deny it's never not going to be hilarious,” Mike points out innocently. 

Will opens his mouth. Prompt. Ready to throw something back at Mike. Sass him. Maybe even shove him in the chest and call the whole thing off. He doesn't, though. He just lugs it shut again, seeming to consider Mike with a reluctant air, and then rolls his eyes instead. His lips quirk up as he agrees, half-hearted, “I guess.” 

Out of nowhere, his hands are secure on Mike's hips then - firm and weighted and pulling Mike's whole body taut in an instant - before he raises his eyebrows. “It won't be any longer if you don't get away from me in two seconds.” 

The hands fist into his sweater to drive the point across. 

So two seconds it is. Mike leaps back and out of Will's proximity immediately, letting Will out of where he was trapped between the table and Mike's frame.

The homely bubble pops, and as his heart topples down from where it was fluttering away in his throat, Mike tries not to mourn the loss of the heat and the scent he was clouded within.

It's for the better, though. Will almost broke. Mike saw it. More than that, Mike remembers how okay he was with it.

Will rights himself, and as he looks Mike over, there's something watchful about his face. And when that small smile takes hold of his lips again, he doesn't even try to conceal it. Smug bastard. 

He gestures to the threshold of the kitchen with a jerk of his head. “After you.” 

Mike smooths his palms down the crinkles in his sweater, taking his time while he smothers a smile of his own, and then rounds the table, starting for the stairs with Will following in his wake. 

Mike can't believe he still has his clothes on. 

Chapter Text

“Why are we going to your room?”

Mikeʼs hand falters, and his grip loosens around the doorknob. 

Theyʼve just made their way up the stairs, and a dim light drifts through the narrow corridor to enclose them within - the glow lent by the lamps that are still on in the foyer downstairs. Abating as it flows up the curved staircase and follows them deep into the hallway. And yet, quite enough for Mike to know where he is: standing right in front of his bedroom, with Will on his side and a stomach buzzing with impatient energy.

Only, Will doesnʼt seem as thrilled to get the party started. 

Mikeʼs hand falls.

What is he talking about? 

He makes a face at his best friend. “Why wonʼt we go to my room?”

“Shouldnʼt it be the basement?” Will says as if Mike is an idiot. 

Mike stares. “What?” 

“I donʼt know. I just –” His shoulders give a hitch, and a small crinkle appears between Willʼs eyebrows. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I guess I thought you said we were going to have a sleepover.”

Oh. 

Oh.

Mike is in fact an idiot for not seeing this coming. 

Will is just doing this out of spite. Somehow trying to get back at him for earlier. Balancing the act and choosing the worst possible time to do so. How fucking typical.

Mike resists rolling his eyes. He does shake his head, though. 

I should not have detoured. What was I thinking? 

He turns to face the door again.

“Well, I donʼt see how we canʼt have one here,” he says out of the side of his mouth, and then twists the door open to stop Will from speaking with him any further.

A once-over of the bedroom makes him blanch a little. Mike had a vague idea of what to expect on the other side, but he still feels oddly reluctant and uneasy as he edges inside with a step or two before looking around. He avoided thinking about this part, to be honest, and just planned to power through it with the whole Iʼll-cross-that-bridge-when-I-come-to-it kind of attitude. And he must say, now that theyʼre here for real, the actual sight before him is proving to be a tad more difficult to take in than he thought. 

First thing: itʼs really clean. Disturbingly so. Not an iota of dust in sight. Clean and tidy and well cared for. The same cannot be said for the walls, though. Bearing old, run-down posters here and there, they look like a spoiled collage. Some full and flat, some curled into themselves, some completely ripped off with errand patches stuck behind to marr the surface. A half-filled closet but no dresser. A cleared up desk. A bookshelf row stacked with a few comic books and paperbacks that would never find their way back to Mike for how shit they are. 

A bed sits across from the entrance, shoved right to the center of the wall by its headboard. Mike replaced the Twin with a King when he got the bigger room in freshman year to fit his spindly limbs, and also because – well. He wasnʼt a kid anymore. Something like that. 

Now, itʼs fully made, pristine with a useless mountain of pillows fluffed up at the head and the mattress cocooned in pale blue sheets - impossibly devoid of wrinkles and looking fresh. Too fresh. His momʼs pointless fussing. No denying that one. 

The windows to the left are bolted, but the blinds are rolled-up. Outside, the nasty windstorm seems to have piped down for now, and pearly streaks of moonlight seep past the frayed clouds and through the glass to land on the surface of the desk, stretch across the carpeted floor, and then finally lapse at the side of the bed. Theyʼre not the only light source in the room, though, for a compact lamp on the nightstand is left on. It fills in the whole space with a cozy, candle-like glow, and Mike has no choice but to slant it a rueful smile. 

Again, his momʼs doing. Itʼs a little quirk she developed when Nancy left for college - a habit of leaving a light on in all of her kidsʼ rooms. Just so it can spill from below the crack, into the hallway, and she can indulge in the fantasy of everyone being home whenever she passes by. 

All the details are not a lot and a bit too much at the same time, and for a brief moment, Mike actually finds himself considering the basement. Or even the kitchen. Because this room? Yes, itʼs going to be a problem. Itʼs just weird-looking. Aloof. Doesnʼt even have a smell of its own. 

But, well. Itʼs still his goddamn bedroom. No matter how discouraging. And though it feels like everything is going to tumble down like a house of cards any instant, thereʼs no way heʼs about to stumble now. He has to make this work. He can. He will. How difficult can it be? 

A blast of wind batters against the walls of the house, and the windowpane rattles. A couple of cherry-red maples come into sight with the current, swirling into a loopy pattern before sticking to the misted glass as if pulled by a magnet, and Mike turns to find Will eyeing the room as well - the bed, to be precise - and seeming lost in his thoughts. 

Heʼs still half-shrouded in the darkness of the hallway. 

“Well?” Mike beckons. 

Will looks at him and blinks, and then blinks some more as his head turns away. He pinches his tear ducts before turning back to Mike. He darts a quick glance to the room again, and with his arms still folded, draws out a contemplative hum. 

“Fine,” he sighs in resignation. He sticks out his chin to regard something behind Mike. “But you got a sleeping bag in there, right?” 

Mike has to clench his jaw to trap a bubble of laughter.

You asshole. Iʼm so in love with you. 

He clears his throat. “Donʼt worry, you wonʼt be needing it.” 

Willʼs lips twitch. “And why is that?” 

The question is as heavy as it is unwarranted, and the air thickens. 

Mike feels rooted to the spot as their eye contact lingers.

Say it, Will compels, and none of the playfulness that suffused his questions is present in his eyes where they bore into Mikeʼs, unflinching and steely, come on, just say it once and we can be done with this the way you want. 

Itʼs a last-second attempt at breaking Mike, and honestly? It would have worked like a charm on any other day – or even at another hour. Will would stare and Mike would crumble. Itʼs just second nature at this point. A knee-jerk response. One of his nervous tics, he supposes. But now, for a change, Mike finds himself pressing on. Just this once. If thatʼs what itʼs going to take to progress from here. He charges through that familiar impulse of ducking away and stares right back, not caring for his heart as it gives a stabbing thud out of tune in retaliation.

Because you will be sleeping over me. 

“Youʼll know if you stop running your mouth and get in,” Mike says instead, and with that, he pulls Will in by the shirt front.

The whoosh-and-slam of the door and the heavy thunk of Willʼs back colliding with it is as loud as it can be in a house so silent, and yet, Mike registers nothing past his heart lurching up his throat and the little exclamation of surprise that he swallows. Other sensations soon follow, and all of that tension - pent up and stretched thin and cruelly squashed for the most excruciating of hours - crests up from within him and cuts loose in the form of a keen shudder. 

A chest solid and flat against his. A soft brush of eyelashes tickling his cheeks. A pair of lips smooth and warm against his. A hand closed tight around his wrist – wrist of his hand that is still fisting the collar of Willʼs shirt. And when he brings it down to mirror the other one on Willʼs hip, the way Will just about sags in his arms.

Something shorts out in Mikeʼs brain when the pressure grows and Will breathes a sigh against his mouth. A soft, contented one. Guilt pools in his stomach like tar. The realization of how much distress he has made Will go through today and how big of an effect he really has on Will is immense. Not to mention, the simple brush of mouth against mouth is the last straw that breaks the camelʼs back. His whole body flushes with warmth, head to toe, and the plan of going meek and sloppy goes out the window. 

Mike slants his head to the side and slides his tongue along the gash of Willʼs mouth. It parts on a swift intake of breath, chest hitching against Mikeʼs, and lets him in. Restless hands come up to cling onto Mikeʼs shoulders, looking for some poise, and then shift again only to make their home in Mikeʼs hair as the kiss deepens. And amidst all the teeth, tongue, and breaths catching in the void between their lips, Will feels solid and real and so alive in his embrace, Mike doesnʼt think heʼll ever be able to get over this little power he has. The fact that he can do this. He can thaw the cold which has always resided in Will. An enemy turned companion. Nipping just below the layers of his skin. Frosting his bones. Keeping him impossibly cold at all times - so cold, even the iciest of weathers cannot shake him.

But as old and well-wised as the cold boasts to be, itʼs never quite succeeded in holding its ground for long, Mike has observed. 

Because with just a stare, he can make this numb skin swamp with blood-blush. With a shared personal space, he can make these stiff limbs start to fidget and radiate heat. And with a kiss, he can turn this body from a block of ice to a lit-up furnace. He can do this. He can make it go away. 

Feverish with this simple knowledge, Mike can do nothing but nuzzle in closer. Not minding to go up in flames if it means he can provide Will with some reprieve from the constant chill. When his hold tightens on Willʼs hips, fingertips digging into the flesh there, Will tilts his head back a little, as if welcoming all the life Mikeʼs trying to breathe into him. And Mike complies, pinning his waist to the surface behind him, and then moving further still, until theyʼre pressed tight from shoulder to hip to thigh.

A shiver shoots up the tail of his spine and stabs into the base of his skull when those hands, so soothing in his hair a second before, wind themselves into the waves and tug, eliciting a startled little gasp from Mike. The quality of the action - so sly and calculated - makes him frown. And then it sinks deeper because he can feel his cheeks go hot just like he can feel the pair of lips pressed to his stretching up. 

You little shit.

Itʼs cheating. Plain and simple. But Mike canʼt bring himself to care a bit. Heʼs a little too occupied with discerning all the flavors that explode on his tongue when he rubs it over Willʼs in a slow caress. 

What strikes initially is cigarette smoke. Briefing Mike in an instant on what Will was up to while he was busy tending his second fix of hot chocolate - a smoke break. The fact annoys Mike; he thought they agreed. What adds to the annoyance is how the staleness should be off-putting, but isnʼt because of how well Will can make it work with his own taste. Something that canʼt be defined, compared or contained. Only savored. Punctuating it is chocolate and marshmallows, and Mike wants more. 

He wants to chase these undertones, half-sugary and half-biting, that swirl together so neatly to make for a bittersweet goodness. 

He wants to go higher, seek further, lick deeper.

He wants to do so many things –

He pulls away, head swimming.

“Well,” Will wheezes, lips red and shiny from kissing. He drags in some air to center himself before relaxing his head into the door. His eyes are clear with relief as they look up at Mike. “That was easy,” he says, almost grinning.

Mike raises an eyebrow. “We could make it difficult, if youʼd like?”

Will snorts. “Really.” 

“Yeah.” Mike shrugs, because why not? Theyʼve derailed anyway. Will seems done humoring him. Plus, heʼs quite put-off with his surroundings. Some more talking wonʼt hurt. It might only help. “We could…” He trails off with a lick of his lips. Palms rubbing up and down Willʼs sides absentmindedly. 

He didnʼt really have anything predetermined and just made the suggestion as a retort. He does that sometimes. Seeing someone being sassy with him, his first instinct is to just say whatever comes to his mind. Just trust the snark in him, come back even harder, and figure out the rest later. 

Only, this time, he doesnʼt need to figure anything out. An idea comes to him before he can even start to scramble for it. He remembers the idea – that idea that crossed him in the kitchen during his silent contemplation. A fleeting thought. Quiet as a cloud passing over his head. Didnʼt even materialize to its entirety out of muscle memory and yet had him squirming above the countertop. He remembers that strategy. Oh, the uncharted territory. And how the mere thought of exploring it made his insides twist.

The plan was to apply the alternative approach. But hey, who says he canʼt apply both? 

Theyʼve come this far. He may as well.

Unbelievable as one may call it, they never addressed the elephant in the room. Not in a way two people are conventionally supposed to. Not in the way two best friends were more than capable of. Over time, it became a rule. An unspoken law. Itʼs just – there was no point in opening a door when what laid behind it was so obvious. Mike knows itʼs what Will believes. Heʼs always been straightforward like that, and Mike understands. 

When things first started to kick off after Will moved back for his senior year, albeit curious, they were both shy and unsure. A little awkward. And once the initial jitters wore off? It just seemed like a trivial thing to do for two people whoʼve always had a knack for finishing each otherʼs thoughts. 

And so it went. Mike got the message. Has gone along with it for a really long time. But he also knows that sometimes, thatʼs where all the fun lies. The conventional. 

His fear of the discussion being embarrassing still stands. Then again, thatʼs just what he thinks will happen, isnʼt it? Just a hunch. Itʼs a theory. What if itʼs not embarrassing? Hell, even if it turns out to be an ordeal, does he not trust their comfort level enough to transcend it?

What if theyʼre missing out?

Again. Only one way of finding out. 

“We could talk about how much I wanted you,” Mike puts forward, slow and careful, nuzzling into Willʼs cheek. “Howʼs that sound?”

Will goes stiff like a board. Unlatching his mouth from the raw patch of skin behind Mikeʼs ear, he pulls back to give Mike a confused, almost-blank look that says, did you just say what I think you said?  

“What?” Reigning in a smile, Mike dips his head to level their gaze. “Itʼs never too late, donʼt you think?” 

Horror fills Willʼs eyes. 

“No,” he whispers at once, his hands coming up to clutch at Mikeʼs sweater, fingers sinking into soft loops of yarn, indecisive whether to pull closer or push away. “ No. No way. No fucking way.” 

“Why? Whatʼs wrong?” Mike asks in a rush, deciding to see just how far he can go with this. He gets a gentle yet firm grip on Willʼs hands by the wrists and wrenches them away from his sweater. He pins them to the door, on either side of Willʼs head, before leaning forward to nudge Willʼs nose with his. “You looked like you wanted to talk a lot a little while ago.” 

Will gives a dull, humorless laugh at that. His lowered eyes come up to meet Mikeʼs in silent understanding. Of course you would choose to bring this up today, they say, youʼve never been one to let an opportunity pass.  

You got that right, Mike responds with a lazy stretch of his lips. 

God. He absolutely adores this ability of theirs. Being able to talk to each other like this - to exchange a single look, and know what the other is thinking, no words necessary. Itʼs an old practice now which felt like a luxury when they first discovered it. Has become more of a tradition at this point. A treasured, intimate one. Effortless, comforting and reassuring in that familiar sort of way, and so handy in times like these. 

Except for carrying out their little exchange, Will doesnʼt say anything more. Then pressing his lips into a tight line, he breaks their eye contact with a sharp turn of his head. 

A sweep of soft hair flicks Mike in the face and heʼs hit with a whiff of Willʼs shampoo. A delectable, citrusy smell of oranges in the winter. Infiltrating his nose to fill up his lungs and make him slump in the very next breath. He runs the tip of his nose over the cord sticking out of Willʼs twisted throat, from the back of his ear to the hollow in between his collarbones, and weakens when he feels Willʼs heart pounding in the knobs of his wrists. 

Mike swipes the pads of his thumbs over them and relents.

“Itʼs okay if you donʼt want to,” he says, words gusting into the curve of Willʼs neck, then twists to press his mouth to his ear. “You can listen.”

Will shivers. “This isnʼt funny.” His wrists twitch in Mikeʼs grasp as he shifts a touch. 

“No, itʼs not,” Mike says as he curbs a small noise. 

He isnʼt sure about this idea, but the squirming really isnʼt funny - the way Willʼs hips just bumped into his with an unconscious jerk. Damn Will and his sway-and-shift tic. Mikeʼs hands hurry downward to hold him in place. 

“Itʼs serious.” He draws back, and his gaze switches between Willʼs eyes and lips as he continues with a barely-there smile, “Iʼm very serious when I tell you that I wanted you so much, it was actually concerning.” 

“Mike,” Will echoes into the breathless space between them, low and thick and full of warning. His Adamʼs apple bobs silently. “Donʼt go there.”

Mike grins.

Watch me.

“We were never just friends,” he says, quiet and unhurried, while he tucks away a strand of fine hair threatening to poke Will in the eye. The tip of his finger travels a languid journey all over Willʼs features; across his forehead that is creased with tension, down his temple where his blood is pulsing, behind the shell of his ear that is blister-red, and then underneath the length of his jaw until it reaches his chin. Mike pushes it up. “You know that, right?” 

“Shut up!” Will spits with a frustrated noise, and Mike canʼt suppress the laugh that escapes his lips. It seems to fuel Willʼs rage further. Because his face hardens. He slaps Mikeʼs hand away from his face and then shuts Mike up for himself by snarling a hand in Mikeʼs hair and slipping his tongue in when his mouth gasps open. 

Groaning, Mike presses back immediately, head tilted low and jaw working urgently to keep up with Will. Mind going haywire with the sounds of their mouths, his hands wander. Fingers smoothening their way over the warm material of Willʼs shirt. Up, and then back down. The hard lines of his chest and abdomen are easy to make out before Mike even bunches the fabric up to push his hands in. Lean, firm muscles jump under his touch with each trembling breath, draped in soft, heated skin, and now Mike wants to see.  

Ignoring the sound of protest Will lets out when he tears his mouth away, Mike works at the line of buttons on Willʼs shirt. Popping them open one after another is no big feat, and once the halves are yanked to the side, his mouth closes itself on the jut of a collarbone before he even fabricates the move in his head. He grazes the delicate dips and arches of it with his teeth, then laps his tongue soft and slick at the faint indents when he nips a degree harder than intended. Will doesnʼt seem to mind, though. He just twitches with a soft hiss, and then buries his face in Mikeʼs hair to pant hot and ragged into it. 

Up close, Will smells just like he tastes. A combination of things; crushed berries, woody shrubs, sunbaked hay - the light and pleasant notes of his cologne that morph to something dark and spicy after theyʼve been on skin for hours. Something humble, but also capable of sending one into a frenzy when united with a compatible natural scent. Such as Willʼs - coffee beans, cigarette smoke, orange peels and warm skin. Usually, oil paints and charcoal would accompany, but Will hasnʼt touched his art supplies for weeks now. 

Mike takes his time to unearth every single note and label it, not at all feeling creepy about smelling his friend like this. All while Will breathes hard. He clamps a hand on Mikeʼs shoulder and scrapes the other through his drooping hair as he watches Mike nose down where his shirt hangs parted over his torso. And Mike keeps going - eyelids drawing shut, lips snagging, and fingertips whisper-soft where they slide down Willʼs sides - until his knees touch ground.

Something akin to pure, unadulterated instinct spirals to the surface when Mike sways back. Wild and roaring, like itʼs trying to rival the turbulence outside. It runs its phantom fingers up his spine, tightening the skin at his nape with gooseflesh and making the whole room swoop around him. His eyes open, heavy, and his palms come up to press flat at the front of Willʼs thighs, fingers spreading as they slide their way up the denim before stopping right above the pockets. 

He looks up. “Can I?” 

Will stills at the question. Slowly, he drops a hand to the top of Mikeʼs head as he gazes down at him, his mouth slightly parted. He threads his fingers through the disheveled mass, then fisting his hand lightly, he gives a little tug of Mikeʼs hair and whispers, “Yeah.” 

The answer is filled with such fondness that it ends up chipping a little halfway through. He goes on after a pause, lungs stuttering with a stilted, incredulous little laugh, “Of course.” 

His hand slips down to curl under Mikeʼs jaw, gentle, and then caresses his cheekbone with a drag of its thumb. 

Mikeʼs neck grows warm. 

He leans into Willʼs palm, drops a kiss there, and then reaches for the belt buckle to go about getting his offending jeans out of the way. 

Sitting on the floor, lowered to his knees like this, makes Mike abruptly aware of his newfound condition. Heʼs half-hard, and getting harder by the second; his dick is trapped within its confines. Straining. When that happened? He canʼt possibly determine. But the sensation increases tenfold now that he isnʼt enrapt with the smell and the taste and the feel of Will. His sweater is heavy and irksome over his frame, just this side of unbearable. Underneath it, he can feel every little fold and crease of his shirt, the thin material wrinkled with exertion and sticking to his sweat-damp skin. 

He brushes it all aside with an adjusting shift of his weight. There are more pressing matters before him. 

The metal of the buckle snags between his fingers and clinks as he undoes it before snaking the strip of leather out of the loops and chucking it onto the carpet. Careful not to brush his knuckles over the clear outline of Willʼs arousal within the layers, he flicks out the button with a soft pop. A hiss of the zipper follows.

Mikeʼs fingers are already inched into the waistband of Willʼs boxers when a hand twists into his hair and tugs. Again. Harder this time. Hard enough for Mike to know he has to look up. When he does, a weird sight greets him: Will is looking down at him and shaking his head, lower lip caught under his teeth so harshly that, for a second, Mikeʼs afraid he might bite through it. Before Mike can react, Will is hauling him back to his feet with a palm snug to the back of his head to draw him into another kiss. 

Mike goes willingly. 

Heʼs a bit confused, but he doesnʼt question it, mouth opening up to Willʼs probing tongue with a sigh. He doesnʼt stop either, bringing an easy hand between them to hook his fingers past the waistband again, and sighing anew at the feel searing-hard flesh filling his palm.

Will breaks away upon the gesture to hide his face in the crook of Mikeʼs neck, and that confusion turns to shock. And itʼs not only because of the jarring fact that Will is hiding his damn face - which is, well – holy fuck - but also because now Mike gets what those rapid, jerking motions of Willʼs head meant a few moments ago. The nervous action wasnʼt exactly a no. Not really. Well, obviously. Not a no as in, no. Stop. I donʼt want to do this. Iʼve changed my mind, but more like, no, wait, I canʼt watch you do this. Itʼs too much for me. 

“You used to think about this, didnʼt you?” Mike wonders out loud just as the thought forms in his mind, and knows heʼs hit the nail on the head when Will whimpers into his sweatered shoulder. Shock turns to giddiness. Giddy like he is on those rare occasions when heʼs poking around his old, abandoned clothes and finds a large bill in one of his jeans. 

He tucks his nose in Willʼs hair to give an affectionate nuzzle.

Oh, baby.  

For a beat or two, Will keeps breathing heavily against him, but then ducks his head away with a huff to rest it against the door again. Trying to glare at Mike through droopy eyelashes. Miffed that his face-hiding technique didnʼt work. 

“Itʼs okay if you did,” Mike whispers, earnest. He sidles in closer with a forearm up near Willʼs head. “I know I had.” 

Will squeezes his eyes shut, a wounded sound leaving his lips before they curl into a grimace. Like it pained him to hear that. Maybe it did. He arches his hips forward then, head tilting up, trying to seek some friction out of Mikeʼs unmoving hand. 

“You didnʼt have to, you know.” Mike drags his fingertips up the smooth skin - light, exploratory, not nearly enough - and then scrapes his teeth down the line of Willʼs jaw until he reaches below his earlobe. He nips at it, too. “All you had to do was ask.”

“God, Mike,” Will gripes at last, his voice pitching a degree higher in Mikeʼs ear. His palms push at Mikeʼs shoulders enough for their gaze to meet. His face is cross. “Knock it off!”

The urgency and the finality in those words rubs off on Mike. “Tell me Iʼm wrong and I will!”

And this is it. 

Itʼs as far as Mike can go and as much as Will can take. 

Will breaks with a shout of, “Enough!” and triumph ripples through Mikeʼs veins despite himself. Only then does it occur to him that in some removed, chronic manner, this is what he was working toward this whole time. This is what he was waiting for. This is what he loves about Will - the pushback. One second heʼs driving Will up the wall in a fashion he isnʼt used to, trying to get on every single one of his nerves until he reaches the last one, and the next thing he knows Will is batting his hand away and spinning them around. 

But itʼs not Willʼs hands - yanking and shoving and manhandling - that throw Mike into the wood behind him and pin him there. 

Willʼs eyes. 

Mike doesnʼt get more than a few hair-raising seconds to glimpse the shift - adrenaline coursing through him like hot licks of a wildfire and driving his heartbeat to a fast tick against his sternum, in his throat, his dick - before Will is on him again. But he sees it all the same. 

Willʼs eyes have gone dark. And this time, for real. For good. Not to be subdued like before for the sake of their little act, but to stay that way until Will gets what he wants. Pupils yawned wide to absorb all of that sunshine outlining them and release fog in the midst of those pine trees; turning his irises from a benign hazel to a vicious shade of green. Like how a black hole on the verge of extinction sucks up all the burning light circling it before collapsing in on itself to leave behind wreaths of smoke in the vacuum.

Something tells Mike he should be scared. Just that old survival instinct ingrained in the logical, rational part of his subconscious going off upon seeing something dangerous. Human in nature. With good intentions. Persistent as ever. And honestly? Fucking annoying at this point. Just doing its dreary job and telling him that he should be scared of this man before him; with his dark eyes, an even darker expression, and the bedside lamp giving an alarming spasm over his shoulder. That Mike should be flinching and wriggling away in fright, not standing muscle-locked with his breath held in preparation when Will crowds him against the door by flattening a palm on either side of Mikeʼs upper arms with a dull thud. But then Will rears up to catch Mikeʼs bottom lip between his teeth, nudges his legs apart to slip a thigh in between, moves it in a slow up-and-down motion, and all of it blurs away under the first wisp of pleasure that flickers low in his belly. Pushing a hitching breath past his lips, clawing sharp at his insides and priming him to full hardness. His hips stutter, unbidden, and Will makes this pleased little sound in his chest. And just like that, just like that, some bridge between restraint and desire that was already shaken flimsy several minutes ago, crumbles. 

All while Will waits. For permission, Mike thinks. Maybe awaiting a signal for whether to keep going or not. But despite that innate darkness having been spurred on, he doesnʼt move - his chest expanding and holding against Mikeʼs and his posture giving out an unmistakable message: let me. And so Mike raises a leg to curl it around Willʼs waist, dips his fingers into the silky fall of Willʼs hair to tip his head up, plunges his tongue into Willʼs mouth as far as itʼll go, and this time when his mind says fuck it, he does move. 

Want unfurls in him, immediate and brutal than ever after being denied for a whole day, and he has to withhold a pleasured little sound of his own at how perfect it is - the way theyʼre tangled to each other. An edgy hip bone presses to the front of his pants just right the instant he rocks forward, and once it happens, the inviolable urge to tail the sensation easily sweeps him under. Making him tap into that feeling again and again, blind and unabashed, hooked on Willʼs tongue and shivering when he feels Will grind up against the length of his thigh in turn. 

A charged energy hums just below the surface of Mikeʼs skin, as though heʼs a wire thatʼs been plugged into a socket, strengthening his grip on Willʼs hair when their pace starts to mount, swerving from deliberate to compulsive, and blotting out his purview beyond the breathy, muted noises that Willʼs releasing into his mouth. Or how their bodies are slotting together with every effortless, synced-up motion like theyʼre two pieces of the same puzzle. Or how he knows heʼll be reduced to a puddle of pure want any second now if not for Willʼs proficient grip on him - an arm coiled around his waist to keep him upright, a palm coasting down his hip, the side of his thigh, the underside of his knee. Will hikes his leg a bit higher, causing him to slip down the door an inch or two and level them to a similar height, and somehow this is so much better. 

As they fall into a fervent pulsing rhythm, mouths still fused together, Mike canʼt help imagining something he really shouldnʼt. Doing something else. Something more. Just a little bit. Just – just lifting his other leg, too, and – and winding his arms around Willʼs neck. Or rather, maybe – maybe digging his elbows into Willʼs shoulders instead, and then, with a minute jump, just – just crawl up Willʼs body. And then –

Mike chokes out an unintended moan, an arm scrambling to twine itself around Willʼs neck and clutch at his shirt in a burst of shock, trying to get his stupid brain to change trajectory, now, or just shut down altogether, but that backfires when an answering moan buzzes on his tongue, equally as needy. 

Scattered thoughts merge into a full-blown picture. A solid form and a pair of trustworthy hands holding him up and securing him to the door. His own limbs locked up around that form and squeezing it with vice-like strength. Mouths open and hungry. Steady hips snapping fast in the space between his thighs. His head tossing back with a groan. A set of teeth hinged onto his pulse point hard enough to cleave. Bodies grappling for purchase. Skin slippery with sweat, flushed with blood, and stripped bare.

The picture is utterly sinful, downright torturous, and a definite mistake. Want turns to need with the speed of an evening sky changing tint. Bringing him close to the edge too soon - far too soon. Mike gasps into the kiss as pleasure crackles in the cradle of his hips, potent and aching. Seeping into the muscles of his thighs to stiffen them and lighting up the nerves in his spine on each instinctual roll. A murmur of warning worms up his throat. If only he had it in him to lose the delicious heat of Willʼs mouth and the safety of his snug, protective embrace.

Maybe he does croak out something then, or maybe itʼs just Will who knows him too well. Because he stops. His labored breathing is cool over Mikeʼs wet, throbbing lips, and his arm is loosened around Mikeʼs waist. He reaches behind himself, hand drifting from knee to ankle, and peels off Mikeʼs leg from around his lower back before easing it onto the floor, but he stays close - still carrying most of Mikeʼs limp weight in his arms to give him a moment to collect himself. For which Mike is thankful.

It feels like both a millennia and a split second before a finger slips into Mikeʼs belt loop and steers him forward. Away from the door. Somewhere. He canʼt tell, but he shows little resistance. All of his blood has left his head and rushed elsewhere. He can no longer feel his legs. And so when his ass plops down on the edge of a soft mattress, he gratefully sinks himself into it. 

Mike takes in some much-needed gulps of air, his head foggy and bowed forward, then flicks away the curls catching on his eyelashes with a jerk and pauses.

Willʼs standing before him with his head down and his eyes fixed at his own watch. A hand busy plucking at its folding clasp. Bare-chested. And here, with the bedside lamp burning bright to Mikeʼs left, the contours of his torso catch the glow and stand out. Not a lot. Just enough to give his body definition. Finely-layered muscles, lithe and toned with regular exercise - which only really comprises a morning and evening jog. Will has always had a tendency of capturing a dusting of tan post summer months, changing his skin color from its usual creamy-white to a delicate rosy-peach. His frame is slender, starting with dainty clavicles and narrowing down perfectly to be flanked with prominent hip bones. Some birthmarks dot down his chest and stomach in a zig-zag pattern, like a steep Cassiopeia if connected to each other. How fitting, Mike reflects absently, to bear a constellation named after someone who was boasted for their unrivaled beauty. A trail of dark hair leads down from below his navel to disappear under his boxers peeking from the unzipped flaps. Thin and fine. Tantalizing. 

Mike doesnʼt realize how tightly his hands are gripping at the edge of the mattress until Will pries one off with an exasperated huff. He swallows hard, eyelashes fluttering, and dutifully twists his forearm to help Will take off his watch as well. Does it two more times when Will reaches for his cufflinks under the sleeves of his sweater. Lifts up his arms without being asked when Will tugs at the hem of his sweltering sweater to pull it up and over his head. It joins Willʼs shirt on the floor in a heap. 

And then Will is knocking his thighs open with a knee of his own, stepping in, and the dwindled sparks darting in the air around them flare to life again when he leans close with a hand pressed into the mattress and the other curled under Mikeʼs knee. He lifts it up a little before bumping Mikeʼs forehead lightly with his. Lie down, heʼs saying. 

A part of Mike knows he can no longer keep himself in check as he scoots back to the middle of the bed, squirming and settling, just a teensy bit put out with the clean, crisp sheets under his palms. While another part of him is just simply baffled that he even thought of making this work on his own terms in the first place. Clearly, talking was a bad idea. But what can he say? It was a forbidden territory and he was tempted. And now, here he is - completely stripped off of his ability to be meticulous with his thoughts. The picture his stupid brain waylaid him with just minutes ago made that pretty clear. And Will certainly isnʼt helping approaching Mike the way he is - following after him onto the bed on all fours with that composed, feline-like grace, roguish with his hair falling down over his forehead and his face filled with controlled strain. The dynamic between them has flipped back on a dime, and it sets off a wave of gooseflesh up Mikeʼs arms and down the slope of his back, making him very aware of the fact that Will could do anything he wanted to him at this point, and that if he does, Mike wouldnʼt have a single concern. And how he knows that Will knows it, too, doesnʼt help either.

Mike falls to his back with a soft phump, his heart jackhammering inside his ribcage upon Will closing in, and the soles of his feet slide back upon the cool sheets as the front of Willʼs thighs touch with the back of his, bending his legs at the knees to their full potential. He feels the mattress depress on either side of his frame - next to his rib and hip - before Will ceases completely to take in the sight beneath him.

Itʼs here, as he watches those darkened eyes map his body - ghosting up his chest rising and falling under his slightly skewed shirt, along the exposed column of his neck, and then across his blood-hot face before halting somewhere above his head - that a superior, more significant part of Mike rears its head to dominate all others. The one that knows he wouldnʼt want this any other way because, god, nothing else can ever feel this right.

It feels so, so right to have Will climb on top of him like this. To have his warmth roll over him, to have his scent wash over him, to have his frame close in from above just like an imposing sky does over a restless sea - caging him in place with nowhere else to go - and to just give himself away in a way that makes Will close the distance - that distance he so cruelly endeavors to maintain - with a helpless groan, and fuck, does it feel good. 

Will groans now, low and bridled, and Mike offers up his parted mouth just in time for him to seize. He swoops down and pushes in with a single, sinuous twirl of his tongue, and following a catch of breath, Mike heeds his own joining in with a cautious, yet eager little swipe. The passing brush of the tips of their tongues only wrenches another groan from Will who then presses in harder, trying to seek more of it with a purposeful slant of his head. 

Will is intent. Diligent. Focused even through the impatience heʼs so undeniably brimming with. And Mike? Heʼs perfectly content in being here, all laid out under Will, and letting his mind go all warm and fuzzy with the slick and smooth slide of their lips, the little puffs of breath Willʼs emitting through his nose where itʼs poking into Mikeʼs cheek, and how the maniac energy that was pervading all of Willʼs actions before is steadying into something calmer and more reverent. Every single response seems to resonate through Will when he draws it out of Mike, and that alone causes a stomach-flipping warmth to sweep through Mike, making him want to surge up and answer to those leisured, coaxing strokes without missing a beat.

Okay. Maybe not perfectly content. Thereʼs no point of contact between their bodies save for their mouths.

Mike brings his hands down to Willʼs face - apparently he had them raised above his head - and skims a wary thumb over his cheekbone. A slight tilt of Willʼs head into his touch, and Mikeʼs other hand that is open and lingering near Willʼs face buries itself in Willʼs hair. He combs his fingers through the strands tickling his forehead and temple and tucks them away. Then lowering them to Willʼs shoulders, Mike traces a path down his front, palms sliding over the yielding muscles with a sedate pace until he reaches the bones of Willʼs hips. Meeting no resistance so far only encourages him to graze the back of his hand, his curled knuckles, over that damn trail of soft hair lining the middle of Willʼs lower belly. So Mike does, and well, that seems enough to be Willʼs undoing. 

Thereʼs a shivery beat where their kiss pauses. Will makes a faint noise teetering somewhere between a hum of appreciation and a sound of disapproval, and Mike knows he should withdraw. But he canʼt get himself to move his stilled hand. Not while everything in him has gone taut all at once. And he figures he doesnʼt need to, because then Will is snapping his fingers around Mikeʼs wrists and slamming them back into their place with a sharp nip to Mikeʼs bottom lip.

A sudden moan rises in Mikeʼs throat as tension knots tight in the pit of his stomach at the jolt of pressure, only sinking its roots deeper when Will brings his wrists together to hold them up with a single hand before he stuffs the other under Mikeʼs shirt. Willʼs touch is hard yet somewhat ticklish, spreading a prickling fire in all the places Mike feels it and making him arch up into it, and that motion quickly turns into a full-body shiver the moment a thumb flicks over his nipple. When Will punctuates it with an exceptionally hard suck on Mikeʼs tongue, his wrists flinch in Willʼs clasp. 

Mike does not want to break free. He really doesnʼt. But he does need to hold onto something. Maybe grip the window sill – no. The headboard. Anything as he tries to rise up to Will in passion and power. 

Will relents with a minatory shove to the pinned wrists, and once freed, Mikeʼs hands scrabble above him. But when his desperate fingers rack through cold, empty air before hooking into the edge of the mattress, he belatedly realizes how theyʼve ended up lying horizontally on the bed.

Of course they have. 

Mike grins, breaking the kiss.

Taking the momentary loss of contact as an opportunity, Will fully draws away. Running a hand through his hair to get them out of his sight, he curls his fingers into Mikeʼs collar and with a tug, sits him up. And then balancing on his knees in between Mikeʼs legs, he makes a quick work down the buttons of Mikeʼs shirt, their foreheads brushing and rapid breaths mingling. Just as itʼs slipped down his arms, Mike shucks the linen off with an impatient huff and throws it onto the floor before letting Will push him down again with a palm flat above his sternum. 

Bare, Mike waits for those insecurities to surface. Because thereʼs nothing impressive to see here. He isnʼt lean and toned and tanned like Will. And he knows for a fact that if he breathes in particularly hard, his ribcage is going to pop out and show itself. Some freckles amass at the tops of his shoulders, diminishing as they spill down in a scattered mess over his chest and shoulder blades and arms. Some more litter his hips and lower belly and thighs. His body should have some more built for his age, he knows. But it never quite grew into its years, if only in height. 

None of it seems to matter now. In this one moment, just like he expected, Mike cannot bring himself to feel scarce. It just wonʼt happen. Not anymore. Not with Willʼs eyes and hands on him, at least. Rather, he feels like heʼs something valued. Or maybe just priceless. Because Will is looking at him like he would at a blank canvas. He is roaming his hand over him like he would over a blank canvas. 

Itʼs an artist thing. Mike has been to canvas shopping with Will far too many times to know how Will decides whether he wants to invest in a canvas or not. Or which ones are worthy of investing in. How he rubs and glides his fingertips over each surface like the perfectionist he is, to make sure itʼs the right foundation for the type of material and tools heʼs planning to use on it later on. Giving the same treatment to every single one until he smiles up at Mike because he has found what he was looking for.

Now, Will slots those long artistʼs fingers of his in the barely perceptible dips between Mikeʼs ribs under the layers, and as their tips slide up the curve of his side, Mike imagines them leaving colorful smears of paint in their wake. And just when he thinks the silence and the scrutinizing will drive him insane, he speaks up, “I think this is the part where you tell me how beautiful I am.”

Mike expects the small laugh Will snorts back, but the words that spring forth after it? Not so much.

“Yeah, well. You are,” Will says, his voice deep and his tone edged with fascination. A long breath rolls off his lips, his dark-green gaze steady over Mikeʼs half-naked form in wonder, like itʼs for the first time heʼs seeing it. “A lot more than before. I didnʼt think it was possible then, but here we are. I just never noticed –”

Mike pushes up on his elbows to capture Willʼs lips and shut him up. 

Only, he doesnʼt. 

“And god,” Will continues, muffled, tracing the shape of Mikeʼs mouth with a sloppy lick of his tongue. “This mouth of yours.” 

“What about it?” Mike smiles against him, eager to know what romantic thing Will would say next.

“I want to fuck it.”

“Jesus.” Mikeʼs elbows collapse under him. 

Another laugh echoes throughout the silence of the room. Quiet, unapologetic, and goddamn evil. The bar of moonlight powdered on the mattress right above them makes Willʼs eyes glint as he takes Mike in with his mouth ticked up in a smug, victorious little smile - Mike and his pulled-together eyebrows, his half-closed eyelids, his swollen lips parted as he gapes up at Will. 

“You canʼt just say things like that to me, you fucker.”

“Yeah?” Will raises his eyebrows. “Then how come you can call me a fucker?” 

“Well – you never took any of this seriously.” 

Willʼs eyebrows lower. “Yes, I did.”

Mike huffs. “You smoked.”

“I smoked because I took it seriously. I was nervous.”

That sounds reasonable enough to Mike, still floating in the arousal that rocked through him - zapping right down his spine and straight to his dick - upon hearing those husked words, flushing hot and ruddy in the cheeks and so, so fucking turned on, he pulls Will down by the face to crash their lips again, mumbling weakly, “Yeah, okay.”

Itʼs not a kiss. Not nearly. The already sensitized flesh of Mikeʼs lips tingles further as Will tucks into it as if starved, all insistent bites and harsh nips of teeth, and Mike knows he couldnʼt keep up if he wanted to. He tilts his head to the side and up with a shuddery inhale and gives in the gnawing teeth right away. Some hair get trapped in between their mouths a time or two, but that doesnʼt seem to hinder Will any. He nibbles and bites until the flesh goes tender and raw and positively mashed, until he can hear the soft gasps and hisses gusting out of it, and the sheer force of it all makes Mike reach up and check for blood on his lips when Will rips off before setting camp on that soft, susceptive spot behind Mikeʼs ear. 

As Mike attempts to soothe his burning lips with a swipe of his tongue, he realizes that, sometime in the past few seconds, Will has finally, completely lowered himself onto Mike. A solid, comforting presence draped over him and pushing him farther into the mattress. And while Mike appreciates the long-awaited feeling of skin-on-skin against his chest, the heavy but dormant weight nestled between his thighs is riling him in about a hundred ways. Even more so because he can tell that Will darts away every time he tilts up. 

“Will,” Mike tries feebly, squirming.

“What?” Will mouths up his jaw to seal their lips together.  

Frustration and instinct lap over each other inside Mike like sea waves in a thunderstorm as Will shoves an ardent tongue into his mouth, demanding and purely ravenous in its intent and forcing him to respond to it with a muffled, broken little whimper. His hips keep squirming up every so often, to no avail, and the illusion of a thrust makes him want to rupture out of his own body and scream. The vague pressure is there, but just so. Deliberate and provocative. Only revealing itself to have him wiggle in his place with expectation and then disappearing to leave him half-enticed and fully unsatisfied. And he knows heʼll get what he wants – anything and everything he wants if he so much as asks for it. Just says it once. Out loud. Thatʼs what this is about.

Mike never wanted to turn this into a game, but if thatʼs what Will wants, then fine. Mike will play. And heʼll play it better. 

He drifts his hands up, up, up the expanse of Willʼs back - careful to be slow and sly about it - and once they reach Willʼs shoulder blades, he digs in. He spikes his nails into the soft skin, starts dragging them down the smooth, shifting planes, feels them ripple and twitch underneath his touch – and there. It has the desired effect.

Willʼs hips snap down into his, hard and abrupt, and the kiss breaks as Mike gasps the same time that Will does. The welcome pressure is good. Addictive. He didnʼt realize just how much he missed it until now. And as his fingers claw the rest of their way down Willʼs back, desperate to keep the now-here heavenly pressure intact, Mike witnesses the last shreds of Willʼs impulse control ebb away. 

Will jerks with a clipped noise of pain over him, eyes falling shut, and then he bears down to pierce his teeth right into the cords of Mikeʼs throat, growling, this time not caring to relent even when Mike thrashes under him with a startled, hoarse cry in turn. Instead, Will just gets hold of Mike with two handfuls of his hair and goes straight for the roots - a payback for the nails - but Mike doesnʼt mind – barely even notices the crawling sting in his scalp because of the hips grinding down against his own in a continuous, merciless pulse, rubbing their hard flesh together until Mike is craning his head against the mattress with a heedless, rough groan that rings off the entire room and oh god Will wonʼt ease up, snitching yet another full-throated moan for himself with his mouth pulling at the base of Mikeʼs neck with a suction so hard Mike can actually feel his blood rush to the surface and clot into a bruise.

Will takes the lead in such a natural, unabating way, thereʼs neither a chance nor the compulsion to thrust up. If thereʼs any compulsion, itʼs only to keep his feet planted onto the mattress because, fucking hell, Mike has got a stupid, dumb brain that wouldnʼt quit.

Thereʼs another picture lying in wait, Mike can tell. And this time, he knows all at once that itʼs not going to be the kind heʼd be able to withstand. Not – not in this position; not with this fine, fevered, fantastic body undulating over his as his own writhes and - oh - and bucks under it, not with his frame disappearing into the dip of the mattress as if itʼs trying to grind him through it, not with these mindless, helpess noises pouring out of him in a stream so ceaseless that he feels glad of kicking everyone else out of the house, not with the cognizance of an unforgiving hand grabbing - fuck - grabbing at his ass and lifting it right off the bed while another fists his hair in a way that inhibits him from hiding his face, and definitely not when heʼs so goddamn conscious of how fucking easy it would be to just say fuck it once more and lose the remainder of their clothes, to wrap his legs around Will as high as possible, and to – yeah, no. This is not happening again. Absolutely not.

Mikeʼs eyes snap open as though heʼs been wrenched awake from the depths of an all-consuming dream. He flutters a hand on top of Willʼs shoulder - the shoulder his teeth were hooked into, apparently - and gasps out through a parched throat, “Will, you have to – god, Will.”

It takes a bit of clumsy pushing and jostling, a few more seconds of furtive indulgence as he twitches and whimpers through his struggle, but eventually Mike gets the persistent hands on his body to let go. They retreat, as does the mouth fastened to his pulse point, leaving behind a patch of saliva to prickle on his skin with a mark (undoubtedly) stark and blistering under it.

With a hard huff of breath that blows away the damp curls atop Mikeʼs forehead, Will hauls himself back to his earlier position: hovering above Mike on his hands and knees and breathing hard, his hair a glorious mess where it dangles down the side of his face in a glossy curtain. His eyes are shadowed somewhere on the side of Mikeʼs neck; unless one tries extremely hard, itʼs impossible to differentiate his pupils from his irises now. 

His jaw is tensed. “What.” 

“You –” Mike starts, then swallows in an attempt to relieve himself of his dry mouth. “You have to touch me.” 

That brings Willʼs eyes to his, and something like uncertainty flickers in them even as they heat up in response. Thereʼs also a hint of reluctance, and some defiance, too, and – well, a bunch of other things Mike would very much prefer not to discern right now. But if paraphrased, itʼs a standard look that says, I donʼt think thatʼs a good idea.

But Mike is breathless and frenzied and his blood is singing with a lust-infused sweetness that has him aching all over, and he reaches for Willʼs hand before he can actually protest and guides it to the front of his pants. “Cʼmon, just – please.” 

That does the trick. Itʼs got to be either voicing his desires out loud, or just straight up begging by uttering a simple please, and since Mike has somehow ended up doing both, the stubborn demeanor goes up in a puff of smoke; Will ducks his head with a loud exhale, his hand shifting a little under Mikeʼs as if caught between decisions. He gives a loose yet willing nod, but then caves entirely, his forehead dropping where Mikeʼs heart is banging against his sternum, muttering, “Just – give me a moment.” 

“Okay,” Mike breathes back immediately even though his dick is weeping, and if he doesnʼt free it soon, he will, too. 

But thank god for Will who stays true to his word. He must be equally high-strung, because itʼs only a moment after which he lifts up again and shifts backward so that he can rid Mike of his pants. 

Mike promptly raises his hips, and fights that mounting itch to tilt further into the oblique touch as Will picks at the button and zipper with quick, deft fingers. He dips them into the sides of Mikeʼs boxers, and in spite of how his expression has gone completely wooden with forced composure, Will is mindful of not letting anything graze with Mikeʼs dick as he eases the boxers down and off Mikeʼs legs along with his pants. 

Awash with overwhelming relief, Mike heavily sighs up at the ceiling; thereʼs nothing to chafe against his dick anymore, and he barely suppresses a shudder at being exposed to the chillness of the room. That feeling is soon drowned out by an immediate need for friction when a hot palm closes around him. 

With a composing lick of his lips, Mike sits up on his elbows to watch. 

While Willʼs grip felt like it was wary and considerate, it seems absolutely absent-minded and tactless by the way he angles the length with just two fingers and a thumb. Still, all of the air in Mikeʼs lungs punches out of him in a rush the moment Will gives a stroke up. The clasp is a lot more firm than it looks around the hard flesh, and as Will starts to establish a rhythm of sure, unfaltering tugs, Mike just about loses it each time he feels the knuckles of two of Willʼs other fingers drag along the underside of his dick. 

Those fingers really are skilled at everything they do. 

“Youʼre really good at this, you know,” Mike murmurs, entranced. He gives a stifled gasp at the hand pausing to swipe a thumb over the head, collect whatever moisture there is, and then resume once itʼs smeared all over the sensitive skin.

“Itʼs not the only thing Iʼm good at, you know,” Will mocks by responding in the same tone, clearly piqued that he has to do this of all things.

Mikeʼs head falls back as a laugh bursts its way out of him - a laugh far too warm and bright for what theyʼre doing. He shakes his head at himself - at how damn endearing he finds the sass when, objectively, itʼs something that would make him bristle. He folds a hand around the back of Willʼs head with a soft exhalation of, “Kiss me.”

Will wastes no time bracing his free hand onto the mattress and cant up. Their mouths meet in a hard, messy kiss, and Mike pants through his nose as he syncopates the involuntary, minute swivels of his hips to how Will is moving. Immersing himself into kissing like this allows him to be hyper-aware of each rousing motion - the teasing thumb, the sweeping knuckles, every flick of the wrist and pull of the hand pumping over him. A soft lustre of sweat rises to his temples, the slope of his nose, collecting in the hollows of his cheekbones and clavicles. Willʼs scent invades him. Rich and musky. Vivified from their bodies having been rubbed against each other as much as they have, bearing down on him along with the scorching waves of heat emitting from Willʼs body. And so has Willʼs taste - all those artificial flavors have been completely rubbed off his tongue, and now all Mike can taste is authentic Will. 

Heʼs comfortably reclined on his elbows, happy to keep his mouth open and pliable, pressing up only when Will presses down, and moaning low in satisfaction when Will briefly stoops away to swipe a hot, wet tongue up the curved stretch of his limp throat. Through his unfocused, upside-down vision, Mike espies those two cherry-red maples, still miraculously plastered to the windowpane, unwavering in the face of the roaring tempest which has now taken the form of a – a rainstorm? 

“Itʼs gonna get bad out there.” 

And then there are teeth snapping at his chin and his mouth is seeking Willʼs again.

The tempo is a touch more relaxed than it should be due to the lack of lube, but the hold is narrow enough and the fingers make sure to touch him in all the right places. Mike could do with this just fine; he can already feel that telltale ache beginning to bloom afresh in the tendons of his thighs. And he greedily absorbs every throb of sensation, lips fuming hot and glazed with saliva where theyʼre buried against Willʼs, heart pounding against his eardrums, in the tip of his tongue, in his dick, and Mike is only clocking in on how the frantic beat of Willʼs heart in the flesh of his lower lip matches his own when, all of a sudden, Will pulls away with a gasp, his hand stuttering to a halt. 

The jarring loss of friction puts Mike in a headspin. 

“I canʼt do this.” Will shakes his head, his breath fanning over Mikeʼs face in a wobbling sigh. “Sorry.” 

What? 

Mikeʼs mouth parts on a swift, fluttering inhale, his mind blanking out on how to articulate himself as Will slides down his body, much to his confusion. And then everything does tumble down like a house of cards the very second Will pitches down and licks up the whole length with a drag of his tongue. Mikeʼs breath hitches and catches like a hard spear to his chest, his hips jolting up toward the enticing warmth and wetness totally out of his control, hating how weak and reluctant he sounds when he protests, “Will.”

Will only responds by closing his mouth around the tip, and Mike canʼt watch anymore. 

Betrayal, annoyance, confusion, and above all, deep-seated disappointment - none of which are directed at Will, by the way - flood Mike as he succumbs to the feeling, but they do nothing to quash the restless onslaught of heat and tension and nerves tangling up inside of him, causing him to toss it all aside for now. Heʼll think about this later like he should. Regret it like he should. Or maybe he wonʼt. He isnʼt even sure anymore. Because right now he is shaking like a dry leaf, his abdomen clenching down on each breath he exhales into his hands covering his face, and all of his world seems to exist almost entirely around his dick. 

For genius technique or not, those fingers stand nowhere in the face of this: the exquisite feeling of those lips - the lips Mike still catches himself staring at during possibly the most inappropriate and mortifying moments - wrapping themselves around him in a snug fit, the slippery heat enveloping him completely as Will moves down, and the dripping-wet muscle of his tongue where it flattens itself to the underside when he pulls up. Mike is already all wound up from before, and he can tell it wonʼt take much for him to finish as Willʼs pace quickens, the suction of his mouth going noticeably stronger with lips that are soft and smooth and so tight, with a tongue thatʼs even softer; soft and delicate but not subtle in finesse with its fleshy-soft tip moving around Mike in quick, shallow little flicks until Mikeʼs afraid he might combust from how good it feels.

The hands curled around his hips make Mike grimace somewhat. Will is keeping his hips in place, holding them down on the mattress as he sucks and blows, grip bruisingly tight, the tips of his fingers sure enough to press marks into Mikeʼs pale, fruit-delicate skin. Itʼs weird. Heʼs acting like Mike is going to run away somewhere or buck up. Because he wonʼt, and surely Will should know that? This isnʼt like Will, but Mike decides to toss it aside, too; as if he could ever figure out what goes on inside that twisted mind of Willʼs. Plus, the pain doesnʼt even register as more than a faded sensation in the back of his mind. If anything, it only adds to the arousal which is sweeping through him in fluttering tendrils, brushing against every nerve ending housed within his body and setting his sweat-beaded skin on fire, making his insides simmer and bubble with imminent heat and he can hear the filthy sound of Willʼs working mouth over his own constant, poorly-stifled moans and murmurs. 

Strength tapers off his limbs as Mike finds him being pushed closer and closer to the edge with every unyielding back-and-forth. His spine dips off the bed as pleasure flashes through him like a jump of lightning between two clouds before coiling somewhere deep in his belly, hot-edged and lava-thick. And he is barely hanging on when a hand skates up his heaving torso, spreads up over the length of his throat, and then up further to hold his face by the side and ghost a spurring thumb over his slack mouth. An instinct sends Mikeʼs hand flying to Willʼs wrist and clinging tight just as heʼs tipped over with a raw, strangled moan, blood roaring loud in his ears and his body going tense for a few blissed-out moments before going completely boneless.

Awareness comes back to him incrementally, remnants of pleasure still shimmering in his bloodstream and pulling hard at his eyelids - the touch of a soft palm running up his inner thigh before stopping atop his knee, a bare chest moving with deep breaths, a long-fingered hand sweeping rumpled chestnut hair back.

Will is settled in between Mikeʼs loosened legs, calves tucked under him and head hanging back, his Adamʼs apple jumping through a gulp. When his head comes up, he turns it to the side to wipe at the corner of his glistening mouth with the heel of his hand, wandering his eyes - now clear as water and glittering with satisfaction - over the naked body melted in the mattress before him. 

He looks relaxed. At peace. Satiated.

Energy surges back into Mikeʼs limbs. He sits up. “Did you –?” he stops, gaze dropping to the open fly of Willʼs jeans. 

Will scowls. “No.” And though he tries to look offended his lips pull into a smile that shows his teeth.

“Good,” Mike sighs to himself, sagging back onto his hands to catch the rest of his breath. And then seconds later heʼs reaching for Will with a mumble of, “Well, then – cʼmere,” and hauling him to his knees by the undone flaps of his jeans before trying to shove them down with an unceremonious tug. 

“Whoa, wait. What are you –” Will cuts off, swatting at Mike and shooing him away with a fond, breathy laugh. He steadies himself with a hand on Mikeʼs shoulder, and then strips the denim and the boxers underneath off with the other, a lot more carefully, one side at a time. Once the clothes are pushed down his thighs, Mikeʼs guilt blooms.

Damn. It really must hurt at this point. Using just his hand wonʼt hold a candle. Not that thereʼs a point in giving a handjob anymore. And anyway, despite what happened just now - if Mike really lets himself think about it - Will has done really well. He kept his penetrating gaze averted, his unholy mouth shut, and his sneaky hands to himself for a full day; stayed well within the set boundaries. (For the most part.) More importantly, he didnʼt opt out at all those times when he had every reason to. Like when Mike pulled his leg in the kitchen. Or later, when he was put on a test of his comfort zone without preamble. 

Will could have shoved Mike in the chest, changed his clothes, and hit the pillow. Or he could have shoved Mike in the chest, stomped down to the basement, and watched another movie like Mike knows he wanted to. Or… He could have shoved Mike in the chest and done something else entirely. And Mike knows he wouldnʼt have been able to deny Will any of those things. And yet, Will allowed everything and came through. He didnʼt back down once. It was remarkable. Now Mike has to make it worth his while. Itʼs his turn to please Will, and god, heʼs about ready to pass away with that need alone. He wants to do something – give Will something that he wants. 

Some words from before float back to Mike, and just like that, he reaches a decision. 

He glances up at Will, who wiggles his eyebrows at Mike in turn. 

“Planning on doing something anytime soon?” 

Smothering the urge to grin, Mike just hooks a palm to the back of Willʼs knee as his answer and yanks, clutching him close with an arm around his waist once he lands in Mikeʼs lap with a tiny yelp. Then Mike twists, flipping them over. 

Will ends up where Mike was just moments ago. His shoulders slam down on the mattress and his hair spill free around his head, and little shockwaves of sensations run up and down Mikeʼs spine at the hand carding into his hair when he drapes himself on top of Will. He throws his tongue into Willʼs mouth, tastes himself as he licks around, and smiles when Will surges up to suck on it with a sweet, eager moan. His dick is a hard, slender line pressed to Mikeʼs hip, and so Mike begins slithering downward, leaving a moist path across the flat, honeyed extent of Willʼs torso until that damn trail of dark hair below Willʼs navel tickles his nose. Eyes landing on the burn-scar when he draws back an inch, Mike canʼt help but brush a fleeting customary kiss to it. 

Then he sits. Propped up on a hand next to Willʼs hip. Willʼs legs bracketing him. His heart rattling wildly in the back of his throat. His eyes resolute to stay on his hand as it circles around the base of Willʼs dick. 

Itʼs ridiculous, Mike knows. Itʼs unreasonable and senseless and so, so ridiculous, but Mike does not have enough courage in him to muster and make eye contact while he says what heʼs about to say. So, he just pretends to busy himself in dragging a slow fingertip down the flushed length as he says it.

“Now, what was it you said?” 

Will makes a questioning hum above him.

“Something about wanting to fuck my mouth.” 

A rough and gusty sound reaches Mike. Like Will just inhaled a sharp breath through his nose. When Mike does look up, déjà vu hits him like a truck at how Will has closed his eyes. How he is taking cautious, measured breaths through his nose. Like heʼs consciously trying to control his breathing. Like heʼs trying to keep himself in check. And how when his eyes flutter open again, they remain clear and guileless, regarding Mike from under leaden eyelids impassively.

Mike marvels for the second time during the night.

“You want to?” he pushes his luck.

“Do I want to?” Will grinds out slowly, making up for the lack of darkness with his tone. “Mike.”

The smothered grin frees itself, then. Thereʼs no need for further delay, and Mike fumbles around the ruffled sheets for Willʼs wrists, taking his time as he ticks a glance to the window, eyes flicking across the glass that - yes - is devised of those cherry-red maples now. He brings both of Willʼs hands to lay on top of his head, wrapping them around so that Willʼs fingers are tangled deep into the nest of his hair, tight and secure, before he dives. 

It doesnʼt take long at all. Will is warm and heavy and musky-sweet on his tongue, and Mike reminds himself to keep his teeth covered, the walls of his throat relaxed and his eyes sealed shut as Will begins to thrust inside his mouth, keeping still and letting those trustworthy hands set their own pace, guide him, anchor him as his brain stays primed to the breathy little gasping sounds of Mike and fuck and babe and god that keep oozing out of Willʼs mouth as he shoves as he pleases, hard, fast, and yet so impossibly, soul-stirringly careful that it drives Mike to do something that allows Will to reach deeper, and he obliges, rocking up while pushing Mike down at the same time, and then down further only to pause until Mikeʼs breathing goes choppy and his nails are cutting into his palms through the thin sheets and his brain is liquefied into a dizzy chanting chaos of yours, yours, yours, yours before releasing him for a beat and then resuming, and soon enough an exhausted but gratified moan is resounding in Mikeʼs chest at Will spilling down his throat and spasming to a stop with a low, satisfied groan above him.

Mike crawls up over to Will on jelly-like limbs, swiping the back of his wrist across his wet mouth and chin, and hesitates for only a second before saying fuck it and using the sedulously laundered sheets to rid himself of the mess. He coughs a couple of times experimentally to check if thereʼs any damage that needs to be taken care of, makes the mattress squeak and bounce as he flops down beside Will when heʼs assured there isnʼt, and wonders what exact moment it was when it started to rain. He managed to block out the loud barrage against the walls and the roof of the house, somehow. But now, the hum of the shower is easy to make out as they calm their aching lungs together. Instead of striking the windowpane in angled, drilling waves of fat droplets, the rain has steadied into a straighter, quieter drizzle.

One of them should roll up the window and let some of that refreshing, mud-scented brisk air in. Just the thought of it is inviting; the room has gone uncomfortably muggy with their body heat, and Mikeʼs skin feels tacky and sticky with sweat all over. 

Maybe grab himself a pillow, and get some water, too –

“Well.” Will awkwardly clears his throat beside him, clearly testing the waters. “That could have gone worse.”

Mike purses his lips over a tiny smile, and decides to have some fun first. He flips, turning his back to Will, huffing. “Iʼm not talking to you.”

Thereʼs a weary - and predictable - sigh behind him. Then, a warm chest pressing into his back, a thigh coming up to sling over his hip, gentle fingers brushing away the curls on his temple, and pacifying words being mumbled against it.

“I said I was sorry.”

Mike pushes his face into the mattress. “You sure didnʼt act like it.”

Another sigh against the nape of his neck. “I tried, okay? I really did, itʼs just –” A helpless huff. A slow, admiring hand ghosting down the slope of his back, around his hip, and then up over to the center of his chest. “It wasnʼt in my hands.”

“Exactly, it was in your mouth,” Mike tosses back, glad that his face is hidden. Heʼs trying hard not to smile, but itʼs a little difficult to accomplish that when he can feel the lips pressed behind his ear curving into a smile, too. And how he can tell that itʼs a pleased, smug one without having to look, doesnʼt help either.

“Mike,” Will echoes, snuggling in as close as possible. His voice drips like honey in Mikeʼs ear; warm and thick and sweet. “Thereʼs a reason why you were in drama and I wasnʼt, why youʼve done theater and I havenʼt.”

Mike groans at how much sense that makes. He rolls onto his back to look up at Will. “Do you even remember the last time you gave me a handjob?”

Will scowls, and this time he does look offended. And Mike watches, feeling mighty proud of himself, as the look only intensifies the more seconds Will spends on trying to come up with an answer. 

“I just did,” he settles stiffly.

Mike shakes his head. “That doesnʼt count.”

Will splutters. “What? I – why not? I did what you asked!”

“I donʼt remember you doing it like that.” 

Willʼs eyebrows furrow in obvious confusion, but then comprehension dawns on his face. He retreats, falling onto his back with his hands lifted up near his head. “Oh, forgive me for not knowing how to act like an amateur after thirteen years of vigorous practice.”

Can he stop making sense for once? 

“Yeah, alright. Whatever,” Mike concedes. “But I still canʼt count it since you so nicely fucked it up by employing your mouth to it.”

“I just – I didnʼt think it would matter much in the end.”

“Well, it should have. After everything that went to shit, it was the only thing that still had a chance. I donʼt remember you sucking me off that night, Will. It wasnʼt the plan.”

Will snorts at the ceiling. “Yeah, well. So wasnʼt the eye fucking during a movie night.” 

Mikeʼs heart leaps. “Thatʼs not what I was –” 

“And what was that, near the door?” 

Fucking hell. Mike looks away at that, rubbing his lips together; a self-conscious tic. He was kind of hoping that they wouldnʼt go there, and the irony of it is not lost on him. That was uncalled for, yes. Also, probably the most nerve-racking thing heʼs ever done in his life, and heʼs done many. 

Heʼs really not used to behaving like that anymore.

“I thought it might help you,” he tries to defend himself. Itʼs true, anyway. Kind of. 

“Well, it didnʼt. So congratulations!” Will smiles, mock-sweet. Then he pauses, and his expression morphs into something thoughtful and almost faraway. “You know, this wouldʼve been a lot easier if – like, instead of recreating our first time together, we were… Mm, I donʼt know, recreating our honeymoon or something.”

Mike stiffens, suddenly very much aware of his surroundings; his parentsʼ house and his childhood bedroom. He rubs a hand down his flushing face, muttering, “Jesus, Will. Shut up.”

“I mean, I wouldʼve nailed that. Just saying.” 

Mike grins into his arm folded over his face, the tips of his ears sizzling. And then, because there’s no harm in knowing: “... Which night would you want it to be?” 

“What ‘which nightʼ? I meant the whole week.”

Mike wants to smack himself on the forehead. “Of course you did. Is that even attainable within a single night?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Only if youʼre up for it, that is.” 

Mike fakes a hum of consideration. “If only I had a death wish.”

Will laughs, face tucked into Mike’s shoulder.

“Tell you what.” A strong arm worms its way under Mikeʼs waist, and before he can quite tell whatʼs happening, heʼs steadying himself up on his forearms as heʼs being hauled over to lie on top of Will as though he couldnʼt weigh more than a feather-stuffed pillow. “Letʼs do this again,” Will proposes, a sparkle of humor in his eyes not befitting the sincerity in his words. Mikeʼs eyebrows briefly slide up in turn, curious all the same, and Will softly strokes over the hair at Mikeʼs nape, working through all the tangles before picking out a thick curl for himself, rubbing it between the tips of his fingers and then twirling it around his index as he goes on, “Plan a campaign with the others, and Iʼll let you grope me from under the table.” 

Mike inhales sharply. He jerks back from where he was instinctively beginning to lean down to rub their noses together, mouth falling open. “I never groped you.” 

Mike did not grope Will. He really didnʼt. It was just some innocent footsie that he used to try to engage Will in during their last year of school. When the whole party used to come together for those extravagant, late-night campaigns that Mike specially wrote for a newly-returned Will. And he never ventured above the knee. As if he could. He still canʼt, and after having spent more than a decade as Willʼs boyfriend and more than a year as his husband, thatʼs saying something. 

It was only for observational purposes, anyway. Just to get a reaction out of a then-reserved Will. Itʼs not Mikeʼs fault he couldnʼt think of a better way to confirm his suspicions. And his ministrations proved to be fruitful, if he does say so himself.

Will hums, looking regretful, then brightens up. “Then hereʼs your chance.”

“Youʼre ridiculous,” Mike says blandly, tired already - Willʼs just playing, and they both know it. They are never doing this again. Will couldnʼt keep his hands off of Mike to save his life; they barely made it out of the kitchen - and then, because it needs to be addressed: “And the groper.” 

Will accepts the accusation like itʼs a compliment of the highest degree; all broad smiles and full teeth and eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth. Cheeky bastard. 

He leans up to playfully clamp his teeth into Mikeʼs jaw. “Youʼre ridiculous; this was your idea. Not to mention, really fucking ungrateful,” he grumbles, minutely nuzzling into Mikeʼs cheek, inhaling long and deep before giving an indulgent hum, and elaborates when Mike makes a tiny sound of confusion, pressing soft, damp kisses under Mikeʼs jaw until his mouth is tracing the shell of Mikeʼs ear, “You should be thanking me for not taking you by the door.”

Mike lets his eyes fall shut as a prickle of heat crawls up his neck, and he revels in the homely feeling of familiarity it brings along as he drawls, “Aw, there he is. My charmer of a husband.”

I wanted you to, Mike leaves unsaid, crouching and hiding his treacherously expressive face in his husbandʼs chest.

“Are you complaining, sweetheart?” 

“Stop calling me that!”

Theyʼve been cuddling for several minutes. Mike has shifted himself into a more comfortable position - torso plastered to Willʼs side, head resting on top of his shoulder, a leg carelessly thrown over his hips, a palm sliding up and down his side, light and indolent. Willʼs scent is easily accessible from where his neck meets his shoulder. Itʼs always the most prominent here, and Mike sticks his nose into his favorite spot and takes his fill. 

Heʼs aware of the fiddling, too. Will has his hands clasped behind Mike, fingers interlocked on the small of his back, and heʼs fiddling with that particular finger of his again. Rolling the platinum band encasing its base over and over as if itʼs the direct source of all his courage. Itʼs what Will does when thereʼs something heʼs thinking - something he wants to say or do but doesnʼt know how. Mike knows this because he does it, too. However, unlike Will, he tends to draw his courage out of the clinks his ring emits when he drums and taps his fingers against something.

Mike lets Will take his time, focusing on his hand as it skims down Willʼs ribcage. He pauses at the familiar feel of the scar tissue. Itʼs a shiny-smooth scrape of white skin. Right above Willʼs hip bone. Just the size of his pinky. Mike feels out the familiar ridges of it with his thumb, ropey but soft, before crooking his thumbnail right into it. He tests the give, and then prods a bit deeper just because he can. Deep enough to pain and cause it to turn whiter than it already is. Affection lights Mike up from within, warming him right down to his bones when Will does not so much as twitch. He gives no reaction at all. Just starts talking again, unaffected. 

“Speaking of our honeymoon… Have you made up your mind?” 

Mike blinks, then gives a vague, noncommittal hum. 

“Yeah?” Will perks up under him, speaking directly into his ear, “Youʼve thought about it?”

“Iʼll try, baby,” Mike tells him for the dozenth time, watering down his response by dropping little licking kisses down the side of Willʼs neck. 

It doesnʼt work. Will wilts.

“Mike, please. This is a really important one. I wouldnʼt be insisting otherwise – listen, hey.” He cradles Mikeʼs head in his hands. Trying to unlatch it from the crook of his neck. Ignoring the whine of protest and pushing it up until their eyes meet. “I promise you weʼll make it back before the book release.”

“Will, I –” Mike sighs, head slanting this way and that. “You know how it is with –”

“Yeah, I – I know, but please. I want you to be there with me.”

The absolutely torn look on Willʼs face makes something curl in Mikeʼs stomach unpleasantly. And fuck, Will can obviously see how close Mike already is to giving in because there he goes, pulling his infamous puppy dog face - the infallible weapon that heʼs allowed to deploy on his husband only once a month. 

“Come on,” Will cajoles, chin tilted low toward his chest, those large, sunlit-pine eyes of his bugged further in a way that fixes Mike in place and makes him wonder how a man can manage to look so unbelievably adorable at the age of thirty one. He spreads the pads of his thumbs over the freckles that bestrew Mikeʼs cheekbones. “I wanna show off my muse.”

Oh, right. Just then, a warm and certain voice pipes up in his mind, telling him, youʼre always going to be my dream.

Mikeʼs whole face flares. “Are you sure youʼre not dragging me along just to recreate our honeymoon?” he jokes to cover it. 

The weapon drops as Will deadpans, “Gee, what gave me away?”

Mike snorts, shaking his head before collapsing on Willʼs chest again.

Some more minutes roll by in which Mike ponders over whether or not to accompany Will to Amsterdam next month. Itʼs his first-ever exhibition thatʼs happening overseas. In the first week of November, in fact. Which is awesome. Mike couldnʼt be more proud of him. But the little hair in the soup is his own novel thatʼs slated to release in the same week: just a day after Willʼs exhibition, to be precise. And if Mike goes MIA around that time, leaving the damn country no less, thereʼs no denying his publisher and editor will have his balls for breakfast. 

But then again, this is Will. And since when has Mike been able to say no to him? Never, thatʼs when. Plus, itʼs that time of the year again. The anniversary effect will be in its full swing. Things are not as bad as they used to be, not by a long shot, but one canʼt be too careful. Some scars will always remain, Mike supposes. Which is fine. Will knows how to look after himself better than anyone else, should anything even happen. Be it March or July or November. Itʼs not the time thatʼs a problem. Itʼs the location – itʼs the thought of being on different continents and having Will to be so out of his reach that’s making Mike feel a little queasy. So, yeah. Mike can surely tag along. If not to fuss over Will, then for the peace of his own mind. 

Mike will go. Of course, heʼll go. His publisher will just have to tough it out. Besides, Will just said theyʼll make it back in time. How? Mike has no clue. But he trusts Will, so that confirms it. And hey! This way, it means Will would be there to stand by Mikeʼs side on his big day, too. God knows Mike is going to need all the moral support he can get at the release of this book of his. Because no matter how far his Will the Wise has seen into the future, Mike is not as confident about this story heʼs trying to tell as he was about the first one.

He opens his mouth to speak - to let Will know about this decision heʼs finally made - but Will beats him to it. 

“You sleepy?” he mumbles into Mikeʼs hair and jiggles him in his arms in a manner that, if Mike was in fact about to drift off, it would jolt him right back into consciousness. 

Mike rolls his eyes with a dumb little smile. Schooling his face, he props up on his elbows with a huff. “Do you want me to be sleepy?”

“You read me like a book,” Will says dreamily.

“Itʼs kind of my job, baby.” 

“So?” Will grins up at him, trailing a feather-light, tempting hand up the side of Mikeʼs thigh. “You up for something a little less juvenile?”

“Anything you want,” Mike breathes back, instant and primal, and he canʼt help but mirror his partner with a grin of his own as he does so; the way Will words things sometimes. 

Huffing out a little laugh, he ducks and hides his face in the crook of Willʼs neck again, mouth and nose pressing into the warm skin where he can feel the pulse thrum, gentle and steady. He inhales another lungful of his husbandʼs scent and sighs in contentment when his head goes a little dizzy the way he likes.

“Well, in that case...” Will trails off, and Mike feels the tendons beneath the skin heʼs smooshed into shift and flex against his face. 

When he twists his head a degree and peeks out, he finds Willʼs hand reaching for his jeans discarded by the foot of the bed. After getting a hold of it, he huffs and fishes out a quarter from its back pocket, and then carelessly tosses it to their side again. It ends up dangling along the edge, and then losing its footing, slithers off and drops to the floor with a soft rustle. Curling all his fingers to make an almost-fist, Will fits the tip of his thumb between his index and middle, and balances the coin over its knuckle before leaning into Mikeʼs line of vision and looking at him expectantly.

Will lifts up his eyebrows, heads or tails?

Mike shrugs, you know me. He always chooses heads.

“Pervert,” Will mutters under his breath. 

Mike scoffs. 

Yeah, youʼre one to talk.

Casual and smooth, Will flicks his thumb and with a clink, the coin takes off in the air. He wraps his arm around Mikeʼs neck again as they watch it flip over and over - the metal glinting with every quick roll as the beam emitting from the lamp strikes its surface - reach its high and low before finally touching down beside his head. 

It lands on tails. 

Will snaps his head toward Mike and feigns a gasp as if itʼs bad news.

“Yay.” Mike beams.

Shoving his arms into the mattress and underneath Willʼs waist, he flips and pulls a laughing Will on top of him.