Archive of Our Own

The taxi door slams shut with a finality that makes Mike wince, the sound echoing too loud down the empty New York street.

It’s one-something in the morning, the air biting cold, and Will is absolutely pissed.

The cab doesn’t even wait; it screeches away from the curb, leaving a cloud of exhaust and two very tipsy, very agitated boys standing on the sidewalk in front of their dorm.

"You're unbelievable," Will mutters, turning on his heel and marching toward the glass doors.

"Actually unbelievable."

"What?" Mike demands, stumbling after him. His battered black Chucks scuff loudly against the pavement, his long limbs uncoordinated and frenetic.

"I did you a favor! You should be thanking me!"

Will scoffs, spinning around so fast Mike almost walks into him. "Thanking you? Thanking you?"

"Mike, we were there for what—fifty minutes? An hour? Not more than a fucking hour and—"

"Yeah, and it took that guy exactly two minutes to start acting like a fucking creep!" Mike shoots back. He throws his hands up, looking wild-eyed under the streetlights.

"Didn't you see his pupils, Will? They were huge. Like—they were so fucking huge. That guy was practically vibrating—"

"What are you even saying? He was just talking to me—"

"He was leering at you!"

"He was buying me a drink!"

"That dickhead was drunk out of his ass!"

Mike snaps, his voice cracking as he paces a tight, frustrated circle on the sidewalk.

"He was probably coked up too— I couldn't just... I couldn't just stand there and watch it happen. Motherfucker looked like he wanted to bend you—"

Will groans, letting his head fall back against the cold brick of the entryway.

"Shut up! You just say whatever, Mike."

The alcohol swims in his head, making his limbs heavy and his patience paper-thin.

Because this is the third time this month.

The third time Will has managed to find someone who doesn't immediately look away, only for Mike to swoop in like a frantic mother hen and torpedo the entire interaction.

Mike doesn't get it.

He can't get it, and Will knows he never will.

He can walk into any bar or library in this city and find five girls willing to give him the time of day.

He doesn't understand that for Will, finding a man who actually looks at him that way isn't just difficult—it's like searching blindfolded for a needle in a haystack, all while Mike keeps setting the damn haystack on fire.

"You ruined it," Will says quietly, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a hollow, familiar ache.

"He was nice, Mike. He was actually looking at me. You—you ruined it."

"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat!" Mike argues, though his voice loses its edge when he sees Will's face. He steps closer, swaying slightly.

"I don't care!" Will pulls away. He fumbles in his pocket, fingers numb as he finally jams the key into the lock and pushes into the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of the lobby. "I just want a chance," he whispers, more to himself than to the boy trailing behind him.

"Just one chance where you don't goddamn intervene."

"I wasn't intervening," Mike mumbles to Will's back, sounding petulant and sulky as they hit the elevator.

"I was looking out for you."

"Yeah," Will says bitterly, hitting the 'Up' button a little too hard.

"You're always looking out for me. That's the problem."

The silence in the elevator is thick, suffocating, smelling of stale beer and Mike's cologne. 

Will leans against the mirrored wall, refusing to look at Mike. Because he knows if he does, he'll see that stupid, worrywart expression that makes it impossible to stay mad at him.

And Will needs to be mad. 

In fact, Will needs to fume with anger because without it, he'd just be devastated.

Devastated that he's still here. Devastated that, despite the new city and the thousands of miles between them and Hawkins, he's still so hopelessly naive.

"You're wrong, by the way," Mike says softly as the elevator lurches upward. He’s staring at his shoes, his jaw tight. "I mean, about me ruining your chances. I'm not trying to stop you from being happy."

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

A scoff escapes Will's throat before he can stop it.

"You—do you think I can't handle myself or something? Be honest."

Mike lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as the doors open. "No," he mutters, stepping into the hallway.

"That's not it, at all."

"Then what is it?" Will demands, chasing him down the narrow corridor.

The alcohol makes him bold, stripping away the filter that usually keeps these questions locked in his throat. "Seriously, Mike. Tell me. Why is it such a big deal to you? Is it the possibility of me having fun and getting a little tipsy? Is that what freaks you out?"

Mike stops dead a few feet from their door, his back rigid.

"You know it's not that."

"Then why do you act like it is?" Will presses, stepping closer until he's talking right into Mike's shoulder blades.

"Every time, Mike. Every time I get close, you find a reason to drag me away. You treat me like some—some fragile saint who can't handle a messy night."

He lets out a dry, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Why should it be a problem for you if I hook up wi—"

"You're not getting it!"

Mike finally turns, his face pale and his jaw working.

"He was a dirtbag, Will! He didn't care about you!"

"So what?" Will throws his hands up, his face scrunching with anger. "Maybe I didn't need him to care! Maybe I wanted someone who didn't give a single fuck, Mike. You ever thought about that?"

He steps into Mike's space, a shaky finger pressing into the center of Mike's chest.

"Maybe I just needed to feel wanted for one night without you hovering over me to check if it's 'good enough'!"

Mike's mouth opens, then closes, his eyes darting over Will's face for a take-back that isn't coming.

"Yeah? Is that what you need?" Mike asks, his voice deceptively quiet.

He looks agitated now, like he's been slapped across the face a hundred times.

"A quick fuck with some coked-up frat guy who's so out of his mind he can't even focus his eyes, much less dick you down right? That's your perfect 'chance'?"

"God— stop making it sound like I tried to commit some kind of crime." Will continues, his body burning with an emotion he can't really name.

"A quick fu— a quick thing doesn't have to mean anything!"

Mike stares at him for a long, agonizing second, his chest heaving and his eyes dark.

Then, he spins, jamming the key into the knob with a violent twist. The lock clicks open with a heavy snap. He looks back at Will for only a second before shoving the door open with his shoulder.

"Fine," Mike spits. "Get in."

"Don't boss m—"

"Get. In."

Will huffs a sharp, jagged breath but finally yields, stepping over the threshold into the dark.

Mike follows close on his heels, his presence a heavy, looming weight as he grabs the handle and pulls the door shut with a final, echoing thud.

The lack of light makes Will slightly stumble. He peels his leather jacket off, letting it drop to the floor in a heap. His fingers go straight to the back pocket of his jeans, digging for the crumpled pack he's been hiding there.

It's a new habit he picked up in the city, one he knows would make his mom lose her mind.

He can almost hear her voice now—a frantic, high-pitched lecture about his lungs and his health—which is rich, considering she'd probably deliver it right before stepping onto the porch to light one up herself.

The irony doesn't stop him.

He flicks the lighter.

The sudden spark cuts through the dark, illuminating the sharp angle of Will's jaw and the glassy look in his eyes. He takes a long drag, filling the stale dorm air with the acrid bite of smoke.

"You're such an ass," he exhales, the gray cloud ghosting from his lips into the darkness.

"You're actually such an ass."

Mike doesn't argue.

On any other night, the click of the lighter would be the cue. A cue for Mike to cross the room and slide the window up.

They'd climb out onto the fire escape, legs dangling over the alleyway, shoulders touching as they passed the cigarette back and forth in the cold air.

But tonight is different, so Mike holds his ground.

He stands rigid against the door and watches the cherry of the cigarette burn bright orange in the shadows. Smoke curls from Will's mouth and hangs heavy in the air.

Mike breathes it in deep, letting the secondhand burn settle in his own lungs. It tastes like tar and cheap tobacco, but it's the closest he's been allowed to get to Will all night, so he doesn't complain.

He knows he's wrong. He knows he's being an unreasonable prick.

The guy wasn't a monster, he was just interested. 

Maybe he just wanted to swallow Will's face and that was alright.

Maybe he wanted to sink his sick fucking teeth into the soft, pale skin of Will's throat; maybe he only wanted to leave a bruise that wouldn't fade by morning.

It wasn't a state crime, after all. Not really.

That's what happens at these things.

That's what their peers do. They bite, they trade spit, they drool into each other's filthy mouths and call it a day.

Completely normal.

Right?

Except if it's so fucking normal, Mike shouldn't be teetering over the edge like this. He shouldn't feel this heated.

He's tired and very much buzzing.

He can't help it. With a blink of an eye, he's back in the noise of it all.

The noise of this new life Will is so desperate to build. A life full of people Mike doesn't know and, if he's being real, doesn't really care about.

To Mike, these people are just interference. Static-filled silhouettes trying to find a gap in the armor he's built around the two of them. They nudge and they pull, chasing their own friction, their own pathetic spark, unaware that the air around Will is already dense with a history they can't even begin to understand.

He's the one who makes sure it stays that way. He stands just a little too close, shutting down conversations before they can even start, positioning himself like a human shield until the rest of the world gives up and goes away.

He likes being the only person in Will's orbit. He likes the gravity of it.

That's why, in his own defense, he doesn't even want to come when Will asks in the first place. He only loses the resolve to refuse because Will looks at him with those wide, hopeful eyes, talking about how they need to socialize more and how they can't just spend their entire school year hiding in their dorm.

It's a familiar cycle. 

Mike digs his heels in, Will wears him down, and eventually, he just runs out of ways to say no.

And tonight is no different. So, Mike finds himself playing the part.

He spends a full hour in their cramped bathroom, dodging the steam from the shower while Will fusses over his hair and pulls on his clothes. He lets Will reach up and fix his curls in the mirror, convinced that if this is what Will wants, he can handle a few hours of small talk instead of staying home and reading the new comic they'd picked up.

But somehow, the bathroom sees more of them than the party does.

Once they get there, Mike just sticks to him. For about half an hour, he navigates the crowded apartment by basically following Will's lead. He's just having drinks, bumping shoulders with Will in the hallway and waiting for the night to be over.

He's managed to convince himself he's putting on a gold-star performance until Will steps away for a couple of minutes.

Just a quick trip to the bar for a refill that leaves Mike stranded in a knot of classmates whose voices he can't hear over the pounding bass.

Time turns thin and brittle under the flickering blue neon, yet Mike stands frozen, watching a stranger’s hand drag across the scarred wood of the counter.

It inches closer to Will's arm until it's just a hair's breadth away. The guy leans in, his mouth hovers far too close to the shell of Will's ear for Mike's liking.

What the fuck?

Mike just stands there. His fingers cramp around the plastic cup as Will reaches back.

His hand traces the dark, sharp lines of a tattoo on the stranger's forearm.

He's smiling, entertaining the stranger's bullshit like he's actually into it and Mike feels like he's being erased in real-time.

He takes a long miserable swallow of his drink— doesn't even taste it. He just needs something to do with his hands so they don't start shaking.

Mike forces a sharp breath out, trying to push the image of that guy's hand away.

The room is suddenly too quiet, the air heavy with everything they aren't saying.

"Will..." Mike says, his voice rough, stripped of the bite it had in the hallway. "I'm not trying to—"

"I said don't talk to me!" Will snaps.

He jams the half-finished cigarette into the empty soda can on his desk, the aluminum crinkling under the force of his thumb. He spins around, eyes blazing.

"Did you see how they looked at us?"

Will takes a step forward, his voice rising, cracking with sheer embarrassment. He rubs at his bicep, laughing sharp and sarcastic.

"When you grabbed my arm? Like I'm your little fucking puppy that wandered too far? You think you own me or some shit now?"

Mike stays paralyzed in the entryway, watching Will's knuckles turn white against the cheap wood.

"No—no. I was just trying to help—"

"Help?" Will cuts in. "Okay. Cool. Start with backing the fuck off next time."

Oh. 

Mike's fucked up.

Big time.

He knows he should apologize. That's what this moment calls for.

But he didn't mean to make a scene.

Why should he apologize for stopping an asshole from getting too close to his best friend?

Since when is he supposed to just let a stranger walk up and crowd a space that has belonged to Mike for a decade? Supposed to be okay with sharing?

Still. 

He pushes off the doorframe, pulled forward by a gravity he's too far gone to fight. He's vibrating out of his skin, alcohol buzzing through him like a live wire.

He crosses the last few feet and stops just inches from Will, breath hitching as he catches the sharp bite of smoke tangled with Will's cologne.

"I'm... sorry," Mike finally manages.

The silence drags the word out of him, makes it sound rough and thin. Like it hurts to say.

Will almost laughs.

It's a shitty apology, hesitant and half-formed, but it still lands somewhere it shouldn't.

Will knows he's only sorry about the mess of it—about pushing too hard, about being told he fucked up. Sorry about everything except the part where he made sure no one else's hands were on Will.

Will turns slowly, deliberately. He leans back against the edge of the desk, the wood biting into his skin like a reminder to stay upright.

Mike's right there.

Too sharp. Too close. 

His jaw is tight, ticking like he's fighting his own mouth. His hands keep flexing at his sides, clenching, loosening, clenching again.

Will hates that he notices. Hates the jolt that shoots through him.

He watches Mike's gaze drop to his waist, then snap back up.

"You're sorry?" Will repeats. His voice is barely a whisper.

Mike just nods.

Heat rushes up Will's neck before he can stop it. He parts his lips, a small, shaky exhale slipping free. He regrets it instantly.

But Mike doesn't miss it.

He sees the pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing the hazel, the flush deepening across Will's neck.

"Yeah," he murmurs, quiet enough it barely feels like an answer.

He takes a careful half-step closer, like he's waiting to be stopped.

"Can… can I?"

Will tries to answer. Nothing comes.

He just stares back, his chest rising and falling in jagged breaths.

Mike's shaking hands move, coming up slowly to land heavy and hot on Will's sides.

"Just—say the word, okay?"

Will sucks in a sharp breath but he doesn't pull away. His fingers curl reflexively, thumbs digging into the denim of Mike's jeans as his eyes catch the glint of the stud in his eyebrow.

Then, Mike begins to sink.

It isn't rushed. On the contrary, it's very deliberate.

Like a decision he's already made and can't back out of.

His palms slide from Will's hips to his thighs, slow and burning through the denim, dragging with a weight that feels possessive enough to make Will's pulse spike. 

Will grips the front of Mike's t-shirt, fingers twisting into the cotton just to anchor himself.

Just to keep from swaying.

Mike's hands tighten on his thighs, fingers digging in like he needs the proof of muscle under fabric. He exhales shakily, the breath ghosting warm against Will's stomach.

"It messes with me," he admits, quiet and rough.

Will doesn't move. Can't. His hands stay locked on Mike's shoulders, knuckles tense, like letting go would be worse. 

Mike lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

"Don't like it. You letting them close, knowing the only thing those guys want is a mouth to put their dick in."

The words land ugly. Possessive.

They hit something sharp in Will's chest but his body doesn't reject them the way it should.

Mike shifts, knees sinking deeper into the rug. He leans forward suddenly, urgency snapping tight as he presses his mouth against the rough denim of Will's thigh. The fabric scratches against his lips.

"Can't let you give 'em a shot. I just can't."

His hands slide back up from Will's knees, fingers spreading over his sides and dragging slow over the curve of his waist. Will feels it everywhere, the heat, the pressure, the unmistakable intention behind it.

The vibration dies as Mike's jaw shifts. His mouth opens wider, teeth catching briefly on a rough seam as he drags his lips upward.

"Not a single one of them deserves this."

Will feels the wetness seeping into the denim, the sensation punching straight through the barrier and scorching underneath. The heat of Mike's breath bleeds through the fabric, his voice carrying clean through to skin.

Mike's mouth presses back down. His lips and tongue drag against the jeans like restraint itself is an insult.

Will gasps, the sound sharp and wrecked, and his legs give out completely. He slumps back, his lower spine colliding with the edge of the desk hard enough to knock another breath loose.

It's too much. The pressure. The steady hold of Mike's hands keeping him upright. 

Just the damn sheer audacity of it.

Will's fingers clamp white-knuckled around the edge of the desk behind him. He stares down at the crown of Mike's head, wide-eyed, stunned by how fast his body betrays him.

Mike shifts, pressing another wet, hot kiss higher, dragging his face against the denim like he's trying to inhale Will through the fabric.

"They'd just waste you," Mike mutters against the rough seam, his voice thick and slurring with dark satisfaction. Will bites his lip, barely stifling the sound threatening to spill out.

He looks up, his chin resting on Will's thigh, his eyes glazed and swimming with a terrifying mix of lust and possessiveness.

"You're too warm for that," Mike rasps, his voice dropping to a rough growl.

"You burn way too fucking hot for that."

He withdraws his hands slowly, leaving ghost-prints of heat on the denim, and stands.

It's a slow, looming movement.

He unfolds to his full height until he's towering over the space again, blocking out the dim light of the street lamps. Will feels small in the shadow of him, pinned against the desk, heart beating so hard it feels like a bruise against his ribs. 

Mike's hands slide up, they cup Will's shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscle. 

Then, maddeningly slow, they drag.

Over the chest, down the ribs, until fingers hook under the hem of the sweater. 

He slips his hands underneath, cool palms flattening against the fever-hot skin of Will's stomach.

Skin on skin. 

The air in the room seems to vanish.

Will's body buzzes with a high-frequency electric hum that makes his teeth ache, the feeling of those hands under his clothes overloading his system.

He can't help it. He leans in without thinking, a fraction of movement. 

Mike notices.

His lips part, a sharp, heavy exhale escaping them.

He leans in, too. 

But he doesn't stop where Will does. 

He leans in until their noses brush, until they're breathing the same recycled air. His lips hover a millimeter away—close enough to feel the static, but not touching.

That does it. 

Will snaps. He surges forward and closes the distance.

Their mouths meet.

Will gasps into it, lips parting without hesitation, and Mike is there immediately.

They don't kiss so much as pull from each other, slow and wet and devastating, like neither of them is willing to be the first to breathe.

Mike tilts his head, nose brushing Will's cheek, and presses deeper. He sucks at Will's lower lip, a heavy, dragging pull that sends a sharp bolt of heat straight through him. It feels deliberate. Like he's trying to learn him by feel alone.

A sound tears out of Will and disappears into Mike's waiting mouth.

Because fuck, he has been waiting for this forever.

The Wheelers' basement. The silence of the van. The roller rink. Years of restraint and swallowed want, all of it tightening into this moment.

He doesn't want careful. He's done with careful. 

He's sick of being handled like something fragile, like he'll crack if someone grips him too hard.

He wants the mess. The teeth. The proof that someone has finally stopped holding back.

Mike seems to hear it.

A low groan vibrates against Will's mouth before the kiss finally breaks. A thin string stretches between them before snapping as Mike drags his open mouth down the sharp line of Will's jaw.

He doesn't pause.

He can't— not when he's this hungry.

He goes straight for Will's neck. His tongue is broad and wet against the pulse under Will's ear, licking, pressing, leaving slick warmth behind like a claim.

Will's head tips back, knocking softly into the wall. He drags in a jagged breath.

Mike follows.

He presses his mouth to Will's throat, humming when he feels it jump beneath his lips. He kisses it open-mouthed, tongue circling, tasting sweat and salt.

It's messy. Too shameless for their usual dynamic.

Warm slickness trails down from Mike's mouth, catching the light as it slides over Will's collarbone and disappears beneath the sweater. It still isn't enough. Mike's grip tightens, turning rough, anchoring Will in place with something raw and territorial.

Then he drives forward. A sharp slam of denim against denim knocks the breath clean out of Will as he's pinned to the wall, Mike grinding into him with no apology.

"Mike—" Will chokes, barely getting the name out.

Mike doesn't slow. He rolls his hips in a heavy, punishing circle, using Will like an answer to an ache he's carried too long.

Will's hands fly up, fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of Mike's neck. He pulls hard, nails scraping to his scalp.

"Yes," he breaks, arching into it, chasing the pressure. "Yes—"

Mike growls against his throat and drives forward again, harder, grinding himself right into the sensitive line of Will's thigh.

"Fuck," he pants, breath hot against Will's ear. "You like dragging me down?"

Another slow roll of his hips—deliberate, mean.

It pulls a broken sound out of Will before he can stop it.

"Do it. Pull harder."

Will complies.

Fingers knot tighter in Mike's hair, dragging him closer like he's got something to prove.

Mike bites just under Will's ear, letting the sharp sting turn into heat as he sucks over it, holding it there until the friction goes blinding and Will's hips jerk helplessly into him.

Then he pulls back. The loss is instant and brutal.

A frustrated whine slips out of Will before he can catch it, humiliating in any other universe. Not that Mike cares. He is already moving while Will's tipping forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

"Come,"

He shoves Will back a few stumbling steps toward the bed, clumsy and tangled with knees knocking and hands slipping, but neither of them looks away. The mattress hits the back of Will's legs and gravity finishes the job.

Will sinks down. Mike follows immediately, stepping between his knees, boxing him in. But he doesn't rush.

His hands hover for half a second before settling at the hem of Will's sweater. He grips the fabric, grounding himself, and looks up—really looks.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, low and steady.

Will can't find words. His throat locks. He nods instead, breath stuttering, arms lifting in a clumsy, impatient motion.

Mike smiles, small and crooked, and pulls the sweater up. For a heartbeat, there's only wool scraping skin and the clean scent of detergent.

He leans down, mouth opening to drag his tongue slowly up the center of Will's torso to his collarbone.

"Jesus," Mike mutters.

He works his way across Will's chest with no hurry; kissing, sucking, mapping heat everywhere he can reach.

"You're— you feel really good."

Will feels his body throb, chest rising and falling, every nerve alight. Cool air hits slick skin, Mike's mouth roaming with deliberate slowness, and even without the weight pressing down, it's enough to make him hot and bothered.

He feels so damn exposed. 

Marked.

He needs more.

"Mike," he chokes, head tipping back. "Mike—"

He needs Mike moving. Pressing back, matching him.

"You're too far," Will pants, voice cracking. "Can't feel you."

He bucks up sharply—meets nothing.

"See?" he snaps, half-whine, half-challenge.

Mike freezes for half a second, then scrambles back like the bed's on fire. "Yeah," he breathes.

"Okay. You want my jeans off?"

Will nods.

Mike doesn't waste time.

He shoves his jeans down, nearly trips kicking them away, movements frantic and uncoordinated while Will fumbles at his own waistband. He swears at the stubborn button, fingers pressing and tugging, impatience flashing with every pull.

"Easy."

Mike drops to his knees. He catches Will's wrists, pressing them gently into the mattress. Not restraining him, just keeping him steady.

"Let me," he says, rough but careful.

He brushes Will's shaking hands aside and makes quick work of the button. The zipper hisses in the quiet room.

"Hips up, William."

The name hits and Will lets out a breathy, giddy laugh before he can stop himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, heat rushing straight to his face.

"Okay," he whispers, already arching.

"Okay, Michael."

Something in Mike's expression softens, startled rather than smug this time.

He lets out a sharp, disbelieving huff of a laugh as he drags the jeans down in one heavy pull, denim rasping over skin. He doesn't linger, moving quickly to press his mouth at Will's hip bone, just enough to make Will's vision stutter.

He follows the line down, pressing heat into the inner thigh deliberately. Will gasps, back lifting helplessly off the mattress, fingers tangling hard in Mike's curls.

"Too tempting for your own good," Mike mutters, crawling back up.

He settles between Will's thighs and drops his weight down, pinning him without warning. The slick he left behind earlier turns cold, skin dragging against skin.

Mike snaps his hips forward. Once. Hard. The damp cotton of their boxers grinds together, friction biting sharp enough to wrench a sound from Will that he immediately clamps shut.

Mike catches his attempts to keep quiet instantly.

He doesn't want that. He's fantasized about hearing Will moan over him like this for far too long.

"No, don't," Mike murmurs.

He drives forward again. Harder this time, more relentless.

Will's hands claw into the sheets, knuckles whitening as a broken moan slips free anyway.

"Open."

Mike slides his thumb between Will's teeth, pressing down until Will's mouth gives. It rests against Will's tongue, holding him there as he grinds down again.

Will goes still for half a second and then gives up. His tongue curls without thinking, sucking wetly at the intrusion. Mike hitches a sharp breath, hips stuttering before he finds the rhythm again, thumb moving in time with each roll.

"Nothing smart to say anymore?"

A breathless laugh slips out of him as Will swallows around his thumb.

"Go on," Mike murmurs.

"Tell me how much of an asshole I'm being."

Will's hand rises, fingers closing around Mike's wrist. His thumb drags once, almost absent over the inside of Mike's pulse. Then he curls a sharp little middle finger. A silent, cheeky fuck you.

Mike's eyes drop to Will's hand, narrowing slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tension coils in his chest, and a sharp inhale slips out before he murmurs an amused, "Uh-huh?"

Well, if he's bratty enough to give him a finger, then it's just fair for Mike to give him one right back.

"Another?"

He presses Will's wrist down against the rising curve of his erection, giving a sharp, teasing push. Then, without missing a beat, he slides a second finger into Will's mouth.

Will's head tilts back as his eyelids flutter and roll.

The irises vanish upward, sinking into his skull until nothing remains but a stark, terrifying expanse of white.

The sight catches Mike off-guard. 

White, unblinking.

His body goes rigid, muscles taut, memories clawing back like he never left them. He sways, split between pulling back and holding on tighter.

And yet—he feels something grounding. Will's hand is still there, gripping and present.

Mike blinks. Slowly. Tentatively.

Will's fingers trail lower then, settling along the curve of Mike's bulge, palming him with bold, deliberate pressure.

It hits Mike like a lightning strike, recalibrating him in an instant. His eyes widen, dread melting into sharp awareness.

"Oh… fuck," he rasps. "You—you looked like you were trancing out on me."

"Mhm? Scared?" Will murmurs and lets out a breathy laugh.

"No… Just— Imagine if those stupid powers still worked."

He drags his fingers down to the small of Will's back, tugging him closer. Then his hand dips lower, pressing firmly against Will's ass, squeezing, then slapping it once.

"You’d see why I can’t stop looking."

He keeps the rhythm, letting his hand slide along the curve, palming, rolling, teasing, while pressing his hips into Will's.

Will shudders violently, drool and slick coating his chin as his chest arches against Mike. Suddenly the mattress beneath is too yielding, swallowing the pressure. He’s starving for the solid weight of Mike's body, for the kind of leverage he can only get by taking him from above.

"Wait—wait—"

Mike stops, caught mid-motion.

"Let's swap. Wanna sit on you."

"Yeah... okay. God, yeah."

With a careful precision, Will guides Mike down onto the mattress, straddling his hips. They press flush against each other. His hands find Mike's chest and shoulders, steadying, gripping, letting him feel every flex of muscle beneath.

Mike exhales sharply but he doesn't resist. His hands also drift up to Will's sides, fingertips tracing heat along ribs and waist, then sneak lower, palming the curve of his ass, giving a sharp squeeze that makes Will hiss.

Will rolls his hips forward, slow at first.

Just testing.

The damp cotton drags, friction biting, and the sound Mike makes is low and involuntary. His head tips back against the mattress.

Then, Will grinds again. Harder this time.

The movement knocks a broken noise out of him, something halfway between a whimper and a gasp. His hands slide up Mike's chest for balance, fingers curling into his shirt as he starts to move.

Rocking, humping, chasing the pressure with zero finesse and shame.

Mike's grip tightens at Will's sides. His thumbs flex, dragging along warm skin, keeping him right where he wants him.

"Fuuck," Mike breathes.

Will's answer is another roll of his hips—messy, desperate, uncoordinated. His mouth falls open as the friction stacks and stacks.

Mike stays pinned, staring as Will trembles above him. He traces the way his body reacts before his brain can catch up. The way he's riding the feeling like he can't stop, like he doesn't even want to.

He groans, hands sliding from Will's sides to his hips, guiding him just enough to help him find the angle and rhythm.

"Mmm," he murmurs, voice rough. "Just like that…"

Will shudders, sinking slower this time. The curve of his ass drags perfectly over Mike, finding the fit, every inch pulling a sharp inhale from him. He smirks just enough to see it, watching Mike stiffen, every nerve raw under his hands.

He rolls again, hips tilting in a teasing arc.

"You always get this nasty when you're wound up about your friends?"

Mike groans, head tipping back. "What—"

"—No, seriously," Will cuts in, grinding down again, dragging the friction out so Mike feels every slick inch. He leans forward, palms braced on Mike's chest. "Just… just wanna know."

"What are—"

Will grins a little, making Mike jerk before he can resist. "Come on, enlighten me." he pants, voice trembling.

"Do friends usually do this in your world?" Will asks, words breaking around ragged breaths. "Hump each other when one of them gets jealous?"

Mike's hands slide up his sides again, thumbs pressing into ribs, warning tangled with desperate need.

"Lucas?" Will pushes harder, letting Mike feel the full curve of him. "Dustin?"

Mike exhales a guttural, wrecked sound. "You know that's not—"

"Oh," Will interrupts, grinding down again. "So it's just me? Lucky me, then. Didn't realize this was a perk of being your best friend."

Mike swallows thick. He hadn't expected this at all—hadn't expected Will to call him out mid-fuck, mid-grind, mid-everything.

"You—God… you're insane. Stop—taunting me."

Mike rocks up to match the tilt of Will's frame, every movement teetering on a jagged edge. Will leans in, hands braced against Mike's chest while their hearts hammer a mismatched rhythm. Every shiver and twitch feeds the fire between them.

Their mouths crash together, teeth grazing and lips parting in starving need. Will tilts his head, working Mike's mouth until his groan dies against Will's tongue.

Mike surges up, the fabric between them so damp that another inch and he’d be inside Will with ease.

Which is exactly why he’s finally had enough of these stupid boxers.

His fingers hook into the elastic of both pairs at once, a messy, impatient tug that finally strips the pretense away. When they collide again, the shock of it stuns the breath right out of his lungs.

There is no more almost. Nothing is left to imagination.

The kiss stays glued shut. Will isn't even bothering to swallow anymore, he's just devouring Mike's lips until the excess slickness has nowhere else to go. It's an involuntary drip that slides off his tongue. Mike takes it all though, swallowing in a hard, reflexive gulp.

He hauls Will closer, fingers digging into the fullness of his hips to anchor the contact. Without the fabric in the way, the rubbing is unfiltered. The searing burn turns Mike's vision dark at the edges. He’s angling up now, getting himself perfectly lined up.

"G-good?"

Will surges down again, the head of his cock dragging in a punishing slide. He lets out a shattered sound at the shift, his frame bowing as Mike drives back with a vulgar intensity.

"Yeah… Just a little more—"

The friction is blinding, a raw and messy collision that leaves them both gasping for air they can’t find.

Mike wants to sink through Will, to bury himself so deep he hits the back of his guts, but there’s no room left for words and even less time to be careful.

They’re both slick with sweat and far too close to breaking to do anything but lock together, every sensitive nerve electric as Mike presses against the opening. Every press is a rhythmic grind that makes the bed frame creak in time with their gasps.

Will's head tips back, Mike watches the muscles there jump as he lets out a jagged sound.

"Oh my— fuck-"

Mike matches every stroke, hands clenching tight on Will's skin to keep the pressure constant. The slickness is everywhere now, it's a white-hot frequency vibrating through both of them.

The tension in Will's legs winds up tight, his back arching as the pace turns frantic. Mike is right there with him, his own body locking up, his toes curling into the sheets as weight of the feeling becomes too much to hold back.

"Baby—" Mike gasps, the sound dying against Will's collarbone.

Will answers with a hard, final surge. A demanding tilt that finally snaps the thread.

Mike goes under, his vision flashing white as he snaps, finishing in one last, heavy grind right against the slick crease of Will’s ass—pushing up like he’s trying to bottom out against the very center of him.

Will follows a heartbeat later, a choked sound dying against Mike's neck as he spills all over Mike's chest, his frame finally sagging and radiating a heavy, lingering warmth.

The silence that follows is thick. They stay like that for a long time, two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm in the dark while they both try to remember how to breathe.

Will eventually pulls away, hovering on his knees over Mike's lap. 

He looks like a disaster—hair matted to his forehead, eyes still dark and hazy. He glances at Mike's chest and then immediately averts his gaze, the reality of it finally catching up to him. 

He reaches for the clothes at the foot of the bed and tosses Mike's own shirt at him.

"Clean yourself up."

The biting, taunting edge from before has frayed at the seams, leaving behind something raw.

Will won't meet Mike's eyes, his fingers trembling as he tugs his boxers back on. He's already retreating, trying to put his armor back together and crawl into the safety of the platonic again.

Mike sits up, his head swimming as he uses the shirt to wipe at the mess on his skin. Every movement feels clumsy.

"Will," Mike starts, his voice sandpaper rough. "About—"

"Don't," Will cuts him off, finally looking at him with a guarded expression.

"Don't do the thing where you try to explain it away because you're confused. Or because the lights were low and, I don't know, you were pissed off at some guy for whatever reason."

Will swallows hard, his pulse jumping in the hollow of his throat.

"If this was just a heat of the moment thing, if you just needed to prove something to yourself—then just say it. We can pretend it was just the adrenaline."

Mike stops mid-wipe, the damp shirt gripped tight in his fist. "Pretend?"

He drops the fabric, the sound of it hitting the mattress dull and heavy.

"Will, I almost broke the bed trying to get close to you."

The honesty of it is too blunt, leaving no room for the softness Will is starving for.

Will flinches, his gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets. The words feel like a confirmation. 

To get close. 

To the friction, to the release.

Only physical and he knew it.

What the fuck had he been thinking, really?

That a few years of pining and a messy night in the dark had changed the fundamental nature of Mike Wheeler? That Mike was going to love him now, after he had all the time in the world to do it and still hadn't?

Yeah, well. Fuck no.

Will finishes pulling his boxers up, his movements stiff. He is already bracing for the impact of a goodbye, certain that Mike is about to start backpedaling.

Across the bed, Mike watches him, pulling his own clothes on with shaking fingers. He sees the withdrawal, the way Will's shoulders are already hunched as if he's trying to disappear.

Mike is silent too, his throat feeling like it's been lined with lead. He starts fidgeting with his fingers, picking at a loose thread on the sheets just to have something to do with his hands.

He's stuck and panicking, the walls of the room feeling like they are closing in on every secret he has kept since he was ten years old.

"I wasn't pretending," Mike says, his voice low and jagged.

Will looks up. His stomach is turning with a sharp, cold anxiety, his breath catching as he waits for Mike to continue. He's searching Mike's face for a lie, for a joke, for anything that would let him run away and hide again.

Mike lets out a long, heavy sigh and finally sits all the way up.

He moves his hand slowly across the bed, hesitant and cautious, until the tips of his fingers are just barely touching Will's. It's the smallest point of contact, but the most honest thing Mike has done all night.

"You know I'm not good with these... things," Mike murmurs, his eyes fixed on their hands. 

"I'm not... I'm not like you. I don't know how to paint what I'm feeling or write it down to make it make sense."

He swallows, his throat tight, the words feeling like they are being dragged out of him.

"I just get… loud, or I get angry, or I pretend nothing is wrong."

Will gulps. He's spent so long imagining a moment like this that now that it's here, it feels like a trap.

"And I don't know what you think I'm confused about, Will. I- I'm just tired." 

Will lets out a shaky sigh, the sound hitching in his chest as he teeters on the edge of a collapse he isn't quite ready to give in to.

"Tired of not understanding some things about myself. Tired of feeling like I've been running nonstop for years like a— a fucking coward."

Will's eyes grow glossy, a thin veil of moisture reflecting the dim light, and he ducks his head, hoping the shadows are deep enough to hide the way his composure is fracturing.

"You're not a coward," he says, his voice small but steady.

Mike lets out a short, silent laugh, a dry huff of air that carries the bitterness of years spent looking the other way. It is a quiet, self-deprecating sound that says yeah, sure, even as he remains anchored to the bed by the weight of Will's presence.

Will's fingers move then, a tiny, tentative shift on the mattress that finally closes the distance.

Mike reacts instantly. He slides his hand over and interlocks their fingers, gripping Will's hand with a sudden, desperate strength, as if he is afraid that letting go would cause the last few minutes to vanish.

He takes a long breath, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. 

"I'm... sorry," Mike whispers, his fingers seeking out the frantic thrum of Will’s pulse where it hammers against the thin skin of his wrist. "I made you wait for so damn long, didn't I?"

The question finally forces the salt over the rim. 

Will can't help it. A single tear escapes, trailing a hot path down his heat-flushed cheek.

He lets out a quiet, wet sniff and shakes his head, a soft, fragile smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"No," Will whispers, the lie sounding like the most beautiful thing Mike has ever heard.

Mike's heart aches, a sharp, physical throb in his chest at the sight of that smile.

He leans in, his other hand coming up, slow and cautious, to brush the tear away with the pad of his thumb.

His skin is rough against Will's, but his touch is incredibly gentle, lingering for a second too long on the curve of Will's cheek.

"I'm so sorry, and I- I want to make it up to you." Mike murmurs, his thumb grazing Will's skin one last time before his hand drops slightly, hovering near Will's neck. 

He looks like he's bracing himself for a different kind of rejection now—the kind that comes with hope.

"If you... I mean, if you would want to... you know, uh. Maybe let me take you on... a, a date? Like, a real one?"

The word hangs in the air, foreign and impossibly heavy. 

A date.

Will stares at him, his breath hitching so sharply it actually hurts.

A date?

It's a word he has spent half his life carefully scrubbing from his vocabulary, a concept he had filed away under 'things Mike does with other people.'

He thinks about every time he had to swallow a confession to make room for Mike's silence. He thinks about the years spent being the architect of his own misery, carefully building a version of their friendship that could survive anything as long as he kept his own heart out of the light.

A choked laugh escapes Will's lips, more a sob than a sound of joy.

He looks down at their joined hands, at the way Mike's fingers are still locked with his, and he feels the decade of pining finally begin to settle into something solid.

"A what?"

"A date," Mike repeats, his voice cracking. "Like… I pick you up after class. We go to a movie, dinner, or… I don't know, we go back to that shitty diner we used to like."

He shifts on the bed, his thumb twitching against Will's hand. "I mean—if you want to," Mike adds quickly, his voice rising in pitch.

"We don't have to make it a thing. It's just an idea. If it's weird, we can just… forget I said it. We can just stay like this. Whatever you want."

Will chuckles. It starts small, then grows into a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and makes the glossy remnants of his tears sparkle.

"No," he says, his voice much clearer now. "Yeah. I mean, yeah. I'd love that."

He looks down at their interlocked fingers and then back up at Mike, his thumb grazing Mike's knuckle.

"Just… not that diner. Last time we went, I'm pretty sure the milkshakes gave me food poisoning."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll find somewhere else. Somewhere with, like, actual health standards. I promise."

He shakes his head, a lopsided, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth.

"I'm such a dumbass," Mike says.

It isn't a dramatic confession, just a quiet, honest realization. 

"I could've said all this a long time ago. I feel like I wasted so much time."

"It's okay," Will replies, after a beat.

"…I mean, it took you long enough. But what matters is you did."

They sit in the quiet for a moment, the air still heavy with the scent of them, the bed a wreck of tangled sheets and discarded clothes.

Eventually, the practicality of the situation starts to catch up. Mike looks down at the mess they made and then back at Will.

"We should probably... actually clean up," Mike says, his voice a little sheepish. "Before we both just pass out."

Will nods, though he looks just as tired as Mike feels. He slowly untangles his fingers from Mike's and sits up, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Okay," Will says softly. "You can go first."

Mike watches him for a second, the idea of being apart feeling suddenly unappealing. He reaches out, catching Will's wrist before he can get off the bed.

"Or," Mike starts, his voice still a little rough, "we can shower… together? Maybe? If you’re down."

Will pauses, his back to Mike for a second before he slowly turns around. A soft, flustered pink creeps up his neck and into his cheeks.

"Umm, I—I guess. Do you want to?"

Mike doesn't give him a chance to overthink it. He stands up and starts to gently drag Will toward the small bathroom.

"I definitely want to," Mike says, a bit of his old, stubborn confidence returning now that the heaviest part of the night is behind them.

Will lets out a little, flustered giggle. He's still resisting just a tiny bit, his feet shuffling against the carpet, but he's smiling so wide it's a wonder his face doesn't ache, "You're so pushy."

"Just making sure you don't change your mind," Mike retorts. He stops just at the bathroom door, looking back over his shoulder.

"So, seriously. Wednesday? After your figure drawing class? You're free?"

Will's smile softens, his expression turning thoughtful.

"Yeah, I'm free. I mean, I have to stop by the post office first. El told me on the phone that she sent another thick envelope. Apparently, she and Max spent the whole weekend at the Santa Monica Pier, and she took a ton of Polaroids she wants me to see."

Mike nods, a genuine, relaxed smile on his face at the mention of El. 

"That's fine. I'll drive you to the post office. We can look at the photos over dinner."

He reaches out and flicks the bathroom light switch. The light hums to life, and they both squint for a second. It’s the first time they have seen each other in full light since they got back to the room.

Will's lips are swollen and red, purple marks already starting to show on his neck. Of course, Mike can't help but stare.

"Is it too bad?" Will asks, his hand coming up to hide his throat.

Mike bites his lip, trying to hold back a smile. He feels a weird, quiet sense of pride that those marks are there for anyone to see now. He likes that they're visible.

"No," Mike says, his voice steady. "Not too bad."

He starts to get a little red in the face as he keeps looking. Will tilts his head, watching the way Mike is flushing.

"What's up?" Will asks.

"Nothing," Mike says, though the color in his cheeks doesn't fade. 

"I just— love how you look. And how you feel. And- you. No big deal."

Will pauses, his hand still hovering near his neck. "What did you say?"

Mike lets out a shy little chuckle, looking down at the floor for a second before meeting Will's eyes again. "I said..."

"I know what you said," Will interrupts, a small smile starting to pull at his mouth.

"Okay... you want me to say it again or? I can say it again. Look."

He waits until Will is looking right at him.

"I love y—"

The words are barely out of Mike's mouth before Will is moving, closing the space to pepper Mike's face with a dozen messy, frantic kisses.

He gets Mike's nose, his chin, and his forehead, his hair tickling Mike's face as he murmurs it back between every single peck.

"You're such an idiot."

He sounds so light, so genuinely happy.

"I love you too," Mike says. He is trying to catch his breath, his hands resting on Will's waist to keep him from stumbling over their feet.

The words start to mix together as they both keep saying it. Their voices overlap in the small, echoey space until they finally remember to start the water.

"Okay, seriously," Mike says, his voice low and finally steady. "We should actually get in, I'm kinda cold."

Will hums, his eyes still closed as he lets out a long, content sigh. He gives Mike one last, lingering peck on the corner of his mouth before finally stepping into the steam.

"Fine," Will whispers, leaning in to catch the scent of Mike's hair as the water hits them.

Then pauses for a second, pulling back just enough to look at him.

"Mike..? Have you been using my twelve-dollar coconut shampoo? Come on!"