some sort of ripple effect

by sylvianightshade

Summary:

In the end, it doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters. Because what’s really in control is the tension. This elusive string tied between their chests that’s always changing length. Right now it’s so short and taught and strong that Will can’t imagine resisting it. So really, it was never a matter of if he would. Just when. When will he fold? When will he let go and let himself follow Mike into the water?

He dares to glance down at his knees, where he can see Mike’s fingers peeking out from behind his calves (as if he needed that visual reminder that they’re touching), and then back up to meet Mike’s expectant gaze.

He’s going to do it. He’s such a fucking idiot.

OR

Mike & Will have a long overdue conversation on the way back to Hawkins— by, in, and around a random motel pool.

Mike still hasn’t come back to the room.

It’s been four hours since he left. Five hours since they got here. And twenty-six hours since they watched El convulse under flickering freezer lights, until her nose bled dry and her skin turned cold and her eyes flew open in solemn victory, every ounce of her energy gone.

Nobody at that time had felt the need to press her for details, once she was up and awake and no longer gasping. “I saved her,” she’d said, and that was it. But Will remembers how reluctant Mike was to accept this. The edge to his posture, the shadow in his expression. Waiting patiently, desperately, for more. Which is precisely why Will assumed he’d gone to talk to her, now that they’re a day out from everything.

Maybe it’s too soon. There’s no set cool-down time or recovery period for something like this. But to talk, at least? The night after the incident, in the quiet of a largely deserted motel? Seems appropriate.

That line of thinking started four hours ago, though. Four hours ago, Will had convinced himself (tried to, anyway) that he was going to go to sleep and ignore the temptation to interfere. And now it’s been four hours of Will lying wide awake and ramrod-straight atop a shitty mattress with what could generously be described as a comforter pulled up to his chest, only occasionally shifting to check the digital clock on the table beside him.

He feels insane for it. But he can’t help spiraling, as the numbers creep closer and closer to two a.m., and there’s nary a sound outside the motel room door. No mildly unsettling scratch or creak or click. Instead, the door stays shut, resolute and mocking him.

Will sucks in a deep breath, taps his fingers against the tacky bedspread. Under normal circumstances, he would have gotten up to look for Mike a good while ago. Insomnia is a character trait they share, and have shared for ages, and Will is used to treating Mike’s with his presence. He’s used to Mike treating his the same way. Being apart like this, neither one of them is going to get any rest. He knows that. Despite the soul-torturing awkwardness and distance between them of late, this remains a fact.

And it’s this fact that finally gets Will to fold, gritting his teeth and cursing his incurable brain as he throws the comforter back and swings his legs over the side of the mattress in one sweeping motion.

The door does creak when he opens it into the empty hallway. His shoulders tense up in tandem with the noise, eyes shooting left toward Jonathan and Argyle’s room, before swiveling to look right at El’s. Another monument to his pathetic core— and a testament to his non-existent genius, because he’s really standing out here with no plan despite having four fucking hours to come up with one.

El’s door is cracked, like always. But there’s no sound behind it. Maybe they fell asleep. Maybe Mike was never in there at all. Will can’t be sure unless he looks.

Except— what the hell is he talking about? He can’t look. That would be weird. He is so unbelievably weird. It’s his faulty wiring. Perhaps next time, the retrieve Mike objective should come with a comprehensive list of steps.

Having effectively gone from agonizing over where Mike could possibly be while lying in bed to agonizing over where Mike could possibly be while standing in the hallway, Will feels about ten seconds away from a breakdown. He’s fully ready to turn tail and run back into his room, where the darkness and solitude will be able to hide his tears of bitter, sleep-deprived frustration— with a dash of that deep, aching pain he’s been carrying around in his heart for years but doesn’t really like to talk about— when he catches sight of something at the end of the hall.

A lump of fabric. A sweatshirt, maybe? Mike’s sweatshirt, Will determines, upon closer inspection. Lying in a heap outside a glass door, beyond which Will can see mellow flood lighting, like the kind in those backyard pools he only ever observed, behind houses he could never afford. He wasn’t aware that this motel even had a pool, but it’s the most logical leap with what little context clues he has.

Perplexed, he pads across the strangely textured carpet in his bare feet until he’s near enough to confirm this theory. Not only is Mike’s sweatshirt crumpled just before the pool’s entrance, but he’s apparently discarded his pants as well. Will can see them, clearly and carelessly tossed into the corner on the wet tile floor. A sight which raises many alarms, of various disciplines and intensities.

But most importantly, Will can see Mike. Not in El’s room or roaming the great plains, but perched on the side of the motel pool with his legs dangling in the water. Head bowed, hands gripping the painted ledge. He’s also, notably, facing away from Will, which is both opportune— in the event that Will decides to chicken out and leave— and undesirable— in the event that Will wanted to enter without inciting a jump scare.

Really, there should be no debate. And yet, it seems Will has moved on to part three of freezing in agony over Mike’s whereabouts, this time with Mike in full view. God, why is he like this?

It takes him one minute. Literally; he starts counting in his head, as an automatic tactic to steel himself against the urge to flee. This was his mission, after all: retrieve Mike. Now with a more detailed but still incomplete string of bullet points beneath it, starting somewhere around open the fucking door, moving on to get Mike and his clothes away from the water, and ending with the two of them asleep in separate beds.

That first bullet point proves more difficult than originally anticipated, when Will eventually gathers the nerve to carry it out, because the door gets caught on Mike’s sweatshirt, for fuck’s sake—

He manages to free the fabric enough to slip around it, leaving it outside on the dry land where it belongs. But now he has to deal with feeling his bare feet on a cold, wet, undoubtedly germ-infested surface. (He briefly considers using Mike’s abandoned clothes as platforms to shuffle safely across the floor, but he quite simply does not possess the coordination he would need for that.)

To Will’s surprise, neither the door’s glass bottom scraping over carpet and cotton, nor his light footsteps dipping into the puddles of water are noisy enough to draw Mike’s attention. Maybe he’s been out here all four hours and thus lost all contact with his physical reality. Will wouldn’t rule it out.

He still pushes it to the last possible second, coming to hover a few feet shy of the pool ledge. “Mike?”

This vocal disturbance snatches Mike’s focus instantly. He doesn’t whip around so much as smoothly swivel his head in Will’s direction, eyes locking for one shining moment in which Will swears he can see something like victory or relief reflected in Mike’s pupils. “Oh, hey.” And then his eyes shutter, drop down Will’s body and back to the floor. So, maybe not.

“Hi,” Will says, tentative and curious and not at all impatient (he hopes). Tragically, he has nowhere to go from there, because every follow-up sounds a little too desperate and codependent. Aren’t you coming to bed? I can’t sleep without you. Yeah, there’s no way. “What are you doing?” he asks instead.

He almost wishes he’d gone for one of the more revealing options, if it meant that Mike would look at him again. But the water has reclaimed Mike’s gaze, and he hardly blinks as he spends about half a minute pondering Will’s question. “Um.” Will watches his jaw flex subtly. “Thinking.”

Descriptive as ever. Will tries not to dwell on how long ago they could have been having this conversation, potentially placing them closer to the sleep stage of tonight. It’s too late to change it now; and besides, he’d be kidding himself if he said he was all that opposed to staying up and talking with Mike until the sun rises. “Are you okay?” Will presses, not bothering (too tired) to keep the note of worry out of his voice.

As it turns out, the worry was very much warranted, because Mike does not immediately deflect. He sits there in silence for eight more seconds, chin lifted and brows furrowed. “I don’t know.”

There’s a sudden swooping in the pit of Will’s stomach that reignites his urge to run. Which makes sense, since it’s the kind usually reserved for warning him about approaching danger. And Mike’s answer is, in a way, dangerous. It’s honest. Vulnerable. Reaching back to a time before they stopped being close, when Mike would open up to Will about almost anything. But it’s also distinct from that era, tinged with something new and raw, delivered so carefully in Mike’s tone and mirrored in his body language. 

Will has no pre-programmed response, no cure-all to offer Mike in this moment. He just has his presence. Treatment enough for Mike, once upon a time. But this Mike— the one pushing his legs gently through the water, leaning back on his palms to make it clear how relaxed and comfortable he is with sitting in front of Will in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxer shorts— is different. This Mike is one he hasn’t seen before… maybe ever. Numb and reserved while somehow breathing freely. What the hell happened in those four hours?

To find out, Will has to stay. And the thing is… he’s not sure it’s a good idea to stay. In fact, there’s an insistent pressure at the back of his mind that’s telling him it’s a terrible idea. But there’s also, just… no conceivable universe in which he wouldn’t.

In the wake of this realization, he is once again bombarded with potential queries. Can I stay? Do you want me to stay? Do you want me to leave? Do you want me at all? His brain scraps them automatically, mouth moving to form something more appropriate. “Can I…” He waits for Mike’s gaze to land on him and shifts in place under the attention. “… think with you?”

Mike blinks at him slowly, expression lifting the longer he stares, like he’s come to his own realization. Which also has some dangerous potential to it. Except it’s not scary, the way he nods. It’s light. “Yeah. Sure.”

His permission feels like a checkpoint. Like they’ve made it past the first hurtle of… whatever this interaction will turn out to be. First of many hurtles, no doubt.

As evidenced by the awkward beat in which Will does not move, because he’s stuck debating where exactly he should go. It would be very weird to just stand here in uncomfortable silence. But he’s nervous about going near the pool. He’s nervous about going anywhere near Mike in general right now.

That was the implication of the with you, though. He has to be relatively close to Mike to be able to think with him. Maybe he could just…

He searches the space for some sort of towel bin. Quickly locates one in the corner and makes a beeline for it. He can feel Mike’s curious gaze on him as he moves, feet slapping arrhythmically over the gross, cold floor. Hence why he needs one (or more) of these towels. Although they are communal towels. So they’re not very fluffy, nor are they all that big. Still, Will has to fold the one he selects, in half and in half again, until he’s crafted a square he can properly sit on.

He’s hyperaware of Mike watching him as he returns with the folded towel, curious gaze turned skeptical. Will stops about an arm’s length away from Mike’s spot, bends down to place the towel atop the tile. And that’s when Mike laughs.

It’s a soft, barely-there laugh, but Will genuinely cannot remember the last time he heard it, so the sound nearly knocks him out of his crouch and into the pool. He manages to compose himself once he realizes that Mike is laughing at him, but the warm feeling remains. “What?”

He gets temporarily caught in Mike’s amused squint before the other boy shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What?” Will demands, standing to his full, indignant height and gesturing to his clothes for effect. “I was planning on sleeping in this! I don’t want to get my pants wet!”

“Just take them off, then,” Mike responds, far too fast to evaluate the suggestive nature of his… well, suggestion.

Will flushes rather automatically, flicker of panic in his chest. Judging by how rapidly Mike mirrors his reaction, turning red and away from Will, this was not an intentional provocation. Of course not. Why would it be? Will doesn’t know why he was even considering that option.

He doesn’t know why he’s even considering following through and removing his pants— which wouldn’t be so wild, okay, he has boxers on underneath— but the longer he stands there like an idiot, the more the mindset takes over his previously sensible brain, until he figures: fuck it. I’ll be an idiot.

He at least has the foresight to step away from Mike first, fingers fumbling with the drawstring on his sweats. He’s trying to be meticulous with it, though, since the whole point of this was to not get his pants wet. So he’s careful not to drag them across any puddles as he steps out of the pant legs, one at a time. His instinct post-removal is to fold them and set them somewhere, preferably dry and clean and out of the splash zone. And the next natural step, in Will’s head, is to then grab Mike’s pants off the floor and drape them over a chair so they can air out away from any stray water droplets, too.

Which is maybe a bit much, hence the return of Mike’s patronizing amusement as Will settles down on his pre-placed towel, accompanied by another disbelieving head-shake. “Ridiculous.”

“Shut up,” Will retorts. Ruffled, but not as moody as he’s pretending to be.

Mike keeps watching him as he adjusts to dip his now-bare ankles into the water. Trying to catch Will reacting to the cold, no doubt. It’s a feat on any day of the week, so Will isn’t too cut-up about not being able to hold back his shiver. He does send a pointed side-eye at Mike, daring him to comment. But Mike just smiles as he turns away, so Will’s whole resolve he had going pretty much evaporates.

They sit like that for a while. Two minutes? Will’s count might be off. He’s a little preoccupied with making sure his knee isn’t knocking into Mike’s, keeping his hands in his lap and hunching forward so their shoulders don’t brush. God, he misses the time before he was so self-conscious about this shit. He misses being able to exist in close proximity to Mike without worrying if they’re too close, if it’s too much. The pressure to rein himself in for years has formed this habit of overcorrecting. To the point where moments like these feel like a test. For both of them, somehow. How long can they go without acknowledging each other?

A question with no set answer. It’s rendered irrelevant anyway, when Mike’s voice pierces the silence around them. “So, I talked to El.”

Given how many of their conversations over the past week have been about El, and given Will’s initial assumption that Mike had indeed gone to talk to her, the fact that he’s saying so shouldn’t be surprising. And it isn’t. It’s just the way that he says it, that sets off Will’s preemptive panic. He squeezes his hands together. “Oh?” Tries not to show how nervous he is. “About what?”

If Mike notices this weirdness, he does not make it known. He just shrugs. “Just, kinda… everything.”

It’s Mike’s exact brand of vague. Will almost huffs through his nose in frustration. Almost, because he’s supposed to be keeping his cool, and Mike hasn’t actually given him anything to react to. Yet.

This all changes with his next words, which he drops in one deceptively casual breath. “We’re not together anymore.”

The nature of the delivery is somewhat inconsequential, though, because no amount of build-up could have possibly prepared Will to hear that sentence. Coming from Mike’s mouth, a single day after he poured his heart out to this person that he’s apparently no longer even dating.

“What?” Will utters, shock seizing his whole chest. This can’t be right. “Why?”

He’s finally looking at Mike straight-on again, so he can see how, inexplicably, the other boy doesn’t seem all that upset. Just resigned. “Well,” he starts. “One: she did dump me when she left for Nevada.” This is also fucking news to Will, but he doesn’t deem it fit to interrupt. “And, two…” Mike continues, a bit slower, like he’s working up the courage to admit this next bit. “All the— bullshit I said to her when I was trying to save her life didn’t exactly inspire her to want to take me back. So.”

These words, however true they are, simply do not compute for Will. He’s so lost. “Bullshit? What bullshit?” He scans Mike’s face for an answer, and the one he finds is just as confounding. But it’s also the only option. “You mean… what you said— in the freezer?”

What he said in the freezer being his aforementioned love confession that supposedly didn’t inspire El, which— Will doesn’t even know what to make of that, because now Mike is nodding, and that confirmation really just throws him off entirely.

“I…” He shakes his head. “I-I don’t— I don’t understand. What…” He’s scrambling to make sense of this. “What part of that was bullshit?”

Mike’s response comes late and quiet, directed at the water with a hollow note. “A better question would be what part of it wasn’t.”

He looks so… guilty. Like he’s serious. It’s incomprehensible. Will is convinced that he might be hallucinating. That would make sense, given how sleep-deprived he is.

But he knows that feeling pretty well, unfortunately. And he knows this isn’t it. This is real. Mike is really sitting here, prompting Will to pick apart his own impassioned speech to find the lies. More accurately, to find the one truth. Which should be easy. Will swallows. “The part where you love her?”

Mike twists his lips into a wry smile, eyes still cast down in front of him. “Guess again.”

Now Will is certain that he’s hallucinating, actually. It must be a different kind of auditory anomaly. Because there’s no way Mike just implied what he implied. “What are you talking about?” Will keeps his gaze on Mike for extra surety, even though Mike is refusing to look back. “You don’t… love her?”

It sounds absurd. It is absurd. But Mike’s face doesn’t change at all. He’s outwardly unaffected by the audacity of this accusation. This monumental, life-altering accusation that would have Will running for cover, but Mike…

Mike just sits there. Silently. Brooding, like he’s already come to accept this absurdity and is now trying to figure out the best way to express that to Will.

“I did,” he says, after a while, and his voice is so, so small. “But it was never like that.”

He might as well have dropped a nuke in Will’s lap.

It was never like that. Echoing around the empty space, in the room and in Will’s head. He’s too speechless to think, until the thoughts start pouring in rapid-fire, and then he’s too consumed by them to speak.

It was never like that?? What the absolute hell have the last two years been, if it was never like that? What the hell have they been doing? What does ‘like that’ even mean? What is happening? How could Mike, after everything he’s said and done, not be deeply, madly, and desperately in love with Eleven?

Will is on the verge of shouting something along those lines, when he catches the dip of sorrow in Mike’s expression. The slant of his brows, and his mouth, and the dull weariness hiding behind his eyes. And suddenly, the shock that’s been enveloping Will’s insides transforms into something worse.

Pain. Because Mike is in pain. And it’s a pain that feels… so familiar to Will. Like it’s his own. Chronic, inescapable. A pain that can’t be helped. A pain that can’t be changed, and it hurts so much more when you try.

Maybe Will shouldn’t be feeling angry, or confused. Maybe Will should understand. Maybe he should be feeling some terrible remorse, for the part that he obviously played in this.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says, and despite the stutter, it comes out stronger than expected.

As does Mike’s steady reply. “It’s not your fault.”

Will can’t accept that. “Isn’t it, though?” he stresses, not missing the way that gets Mike to finally look at him, something sharp and guarded taking over his expression. “I mean,” Will continues, clarifying. “I-I pushed you to— say those things…”

Mike’s quick to correct him. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “You told me to say something.” His eyes slip away again, back to the water. “I chose to lie.”

There it is again. Lie. Bullshit. Yes, there was a time that Will did associate these terms with Mike and El’s relationship. But he had attributed it to his own jealousy. And he’s so far removed from it now that to hear these things… and from Mike?? It’s so… confusing. He’s so confused.

“I thought it would help,” Mike admits. “But I don’t think it actually did.” Will gets a little lost in the nuance of that, drawn back by Mike’s swift concluding statement. “She knows now anyway, so.”

And he ends it right there. So. So what? So, Mike just walked in and told her that he lied? Will cannot picture that. El must have known he was lying, in the moment or right after or something. Which would kind of explain how extra cold she’s been throughout the past… day. God, it’s only been a day. Why did Will think that was enough time again? Why did Mike think it was?

He’ll never get an answer to that, he knows. His ability to interpret what Mike is thinking has eroded over time— due to his own insecurities and Mike’s indifference. At this point, Will’s not sure which of them is more responsible.

He can blame Mike right now, though, for bombarding him with all this shit out of literally fucking nowhere. But he’s still stuck in his default bias, because Mike is gnawing ever so slightly on his lower lip, half-anxious and half-contemplative, and Will has to tear his gaze away to focus on the bottom line. The crux of this whole conversation. “So… so, what, it’s just— over?” he asks. “Just like that?”

Mike doesn’t respond immediately, but the nod he gives is slow and sure. “Yeah,” he states. “It’s over.” No trace of doubt or hesitation. And then, as if that wasn’t final enough, he continues. “I think it’s been over for a while, actually.” Which— what the fuck?? “But it was…” Mike trails off and Will assumes he’s going to say something like complicated, but instead, he finishes with, “We just couldn’t see it.” And somehow, those five words are far more complicated than complicated. Not to mention incredibly vague.

But Mike doesn’t stop to explain. Just surges on, undeterred by the chaos he’s stirring. “So, um. Sorry for… spending all that time boring you with the details.”

All that time, meaning this past week of Will playing relationship counselor to something that was already over. Yeah, Mike should be apologizing for that. (The ‘details’ part is a little more confusing, though, because it’s not like Mike gave very many in the first place.)

His eyes flick over to Will’s, briefly, and he angles his shoulders to be more open, a few degrees closer. “Honestly, I…” He does hesitate here, rubs his lips together, and then meets Will’s gaze again. “I kinda thought you’d tell me to break up with her.”

This explanation for his behavior is the strangest one so far. Will balks, feeling stunned and blindsided and a little like he’s been caught. “What? Why—” He hurries to deflect. “Why would I do that?”

Mike shrugs. “ ‘Cause… you already did?”

Now Will is actually confused. “What?” he repeats, brow furrowed in magnified outrage, playing offense and defense at the same time— which is not an act, by the way, because Mike is going to need to cite some evidence for this. “I’m sorry, but when did I ever use the words: ‘you should break up with El’?”

“Okay, maybe you didn’t use those words exactly,” Mike concedes, tiny smile hidden in the corners of his expression. “But you did kind of imply it for an entire summer.”

Will can feel his blush resurface— out of embarrassment, yes, but also out of shame. Because he doesn’t love to remember last summer. “That—” He stops himself. “That was different.”

It shouldn’t make sense in context, but Will won’t risk elaborating. He’s not good at explaining himself. And Mike seems to understand anyway. He matches Will’s vague allusion and limited vocabulary in his response. “Yeah. Well. You were right.”

About what? Will may never know. He assumes that Mike is referring to the whole ‘you should break up with El’ thing. Which is definitely something he was peddling (albeit not very discreetly) during this period.

Thinking about it pulls some of that old antagonism to the surface, and Mike gets this look, like he’s remembering, too. “I was being an asshole,” he states, calm and firm and indisputable.

For some reason, despite the fact that it’s definitely not the most shocking thing Mike has said all evening, this admission trips Will up. His brain sort of stutters to process it. Maybe that’s due in part to how exhausted he is, or how validating it feels to hear Mike own up to his past indiscretions. Either way, a childish retort forms in Will’s head, and his mouth moves to speak it without full permission from his higher mental faculties. “You’re always an asshole.”

It’s so dumb. And a little bit mean, and a little bit true— but above all, it’s a joke. One hundred percent. The only thing is that Will didn’t stop to consider the ramifications. He doesn’t know if this is the right time to be making jokes like that, or making jokes at all, or if Mike will even understand that he meant it as a joke.

Based on the way Mike’s eyes sharpen with humor, the dreaded ramifications are fortunately not going to be an issue. He gets it. Of course he does. And he gives it right back, posture loose and tone lighter. “At least I’m not always uptight.”

Will knows he has no right to be offended— and he’s not, really— but that’s never stopped him before. His mouth falls open, brows shooting high. “Uptight?” he repeats, because at the very least he’s going to judge Mike’s choice of insult. “Really?”

Mike’s amusement grows even sharper, as his gaze travels down the length of Will’s body to the towel under his ass, and back up again. “Yeah,” he maintains, and Will has to fight the fucking butterflies swirling in his stomach now from that look, Jesus Christ.

He flushes and huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as though that will protect him from Mike’s influence. “Well, I’m sorry that I actually have hygienic standards.” 

He’s trying so hard to remain indignant, and Mike is not making it easy. Sitting there half-smiling at Will with fondness and mischief in those eyes that were so full of pain mere minutes ago. It’s maddening. Infuriating, even. Will is never going to get over him.

“You know,” Mike says, and like. Will doesn’t, but he lets Mike continue— which turns out to be a mistake. “I am so tempted to push you in right now.”

Will freezes, mild terror taking over. “Don’t,” he states. Begs, more like.

Mike’s mischievous eyes keep brightening as his smile grows wider.

“Mike,” Will warns, slow and serious. “Do not.”

He’s tensed up and leaning away just from the thought of Mike disregarding this, even though Mike’s physical stance hasn’t shifted hardly at all. Nor has he broken their minute-long stare, which is honestly disconcerting— except Will’s wrong again for assuming anything, when Mike drops his eyes lightning-quick down to Will’s lips, and then turns away, and promptly launches himself into the pool.

With no regard for how close he lands to Will, obviously; he just uses the leverage he has to propel himself off the ledge and crash through the surface of the water. “You—” Will has to cut himself off so he can flinch, but his reaction time is still too slow. The splash covers him in seconds. His legs, his shorts, a good bit of his shirt and arm. Only a few droplets manage to hit his face, but that’s solely because he threw up his hands when attempting to deflect the wave. The absolute nerve.

He’s glaring as Mike resurfaces in front of him, pushing his hair out of eyes so he can grin up at Will. “Asshole,” Will finishes, and it only makes Mike smile more. “Are you crazy?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. He’s treading water even though he could probably stand on the pool floor with no problem. The chemical-stained number in the corner reads six feet, meaning they’re situated somewhere closer to five. It’s easier to float, though. And Mike does look like a weight’s been lifted off him. (Because it has, literally. His own weight.) He’s even more relaxed than he was when Will first got here. “Come on,” he prompts, touching down the way Will thought he could. “It feels nice.”

He cannot be serious. Will curls his lip. “Uh, no.”

“Why not?” Mike pushes some water away from him, the ripple washing over to lap further up Will’s shins. “You’re already wet.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Will snarks, kicking one foot out to send the wave back at Mike in retaliation.

Mike lets the water knock against his chest, unbothered. The absolute fucking nerve. His eyes are unreadable, too, for the moment. So dark and far away. But they do brighten again, gradually, as Mike starts to pull his body closer. “Will…”

And Will knows immediately what he’s doing. “No.”

“Wi-illl,” Mike taunts, half-singing it, still creeping forward.

“No.”

His reprimands do nothing to discourage this determined little shithead Mike. Who is now less than a meter away from him.

“Don’t you dare.”

Mike is daring. To be fair, the fact that Will is fixed in place, leaving his legs in the water and thus vulnerable to attack, might be sending mixed messages.

“I will kick you in the face,” he claims, to remedy this.

That threat works just as well as the other ones did (it doesn’t). “No, you won’t,” Mike counters, and he appears wholly confident in this assumption. As he should; Will would never intentionally do harm to Mike’s face. He likes Mike’s face the way it is.

He’s not super used to it being in this position, though. Right in front of him. Beneath him. Close enough that Will can feel the tiny gusts of Mike’s breath making the hairs stand up on his skin. Close enough for Mike to lift his arms out of the pool and— slowly, methodically, maintaining eye contact all the while— touch Will’s legs. Snake his palms up and around his calves, dragging fresh water across the muscle, stopping just under the knee. Fingers curled to facilitate his grip. Keeping the pressure light, but firm, so Will can feel it.

And Will fucking feels it. He feels every square inch of contact like it’s burning him. Mike’s handprints seared into his skin, thumbs and forearms brushing over and bumping up against him as Mike softly squeezes. “Come on,” he tries again. “Swim with me.”

There’s still this shadow covering his eyes, like he’s trying not to show how much he wants Will to join him. But he’s all melted. He’s pleading. He’s holding Will’s legs and staring up at him through shining irises, begging him to jump. Jump and I’ll catch you.

Yet another absurdity. Because they just— they don’t do this. They don’t touch like this. Mike doesn’t touch Will, point blank. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary, like this past week of high-stress situations. Their days of casual physical affection are buried behind a slew of unpleasant memories.

Although this can hardly be considered casual. Casual wouldn’t make Will’s blood pulse where Mike hands lay. It wouldn’t be this terrifying, and mind-numbing. It wouldn’t render him so utterly speechless. All of which are factors contributing to the deadlock at hand, with Mike waiting ever so patiently and delicately for Will to do or say something. He’s not going to pull Will in. Will has to decide. To break contact, shake him off, climb away. Or fall into Mike’s gravity, like he always wants to.

(Clarification: he doesn’t actually want to fall anywhere. Especially not into the pool. Especially not into Mike’s arms. Because falling sucks. He’s already done it.

He’s already done it, and reaped the consequences of that impact, and resolved that he would never do it again. And now here they are, hovering just before another checkpoint of tonight, and Will is the one in control. Mike has passed it to him, willingly. Deliberately. Testing that flimsy vow of self-restraint.)

In the end, it doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters. Because what’s really in control is the tension. This elusive string tied between their chests that’s always changing length. Right now it’s so short and taught and strong that Will can’t imagine resisting it. So really, it was never a matter of if he would. Just when. When will he fold? When will he let go and let himself follow Mike into the water?

He dares to glance down at his knees, where he can see Mike’s long fingers peeking out from behind his calves (as if he needed that visual reminder that they’re touching), and then back up to meet Mike’s expectant gaze.

He’s going to do it. He’s such a fucking idiot.

“Fine,” he says, and this time it’s way softer than he’d like it to be. Mike hears it well enough; his eyes shift back from pleading to pleased. Because he’s gotten Will to do what he wants, yet again. Will’s sheer frustration at this consistent truth manifests in him being petty and jerking one knee out as a prompt for Mike to release his grip on Will’s legs. “Back up.”

Mike obeys without another word, letting go of Will and floating back out of the way. Still staring, though. They’re always staring. Will blinks to break it out of spite. And nerves.

His fingers tighten around the pool ledge as he grits his teeth at his own stupidity. It’s fine. He’s already wet. His towel is soaked through. Jumping into the pool won’t change anything. It won’t. (But even he doesn’t believe that.) And he doesn’t want to wait any longer, lest Mike get the impression that he’s scared. Or worse, uptight. Will feels a touch of amusement at that, because okay, it was a little funny. And a little mean. And a little true. So, the perfect insult, just like his.

And this is a perfect demonstration of why it is so true, because Will is still fucking stalling. Just do it. He banishes the fear and steels himself, taking one quick, deep breath before he (finally) plants his feet against the wall and pushes off.

The pool doesn’t go that deep, as he already established. But the position in which Will enters, knees curled kind of close to his body, sends him all the way under. His toes brush the tile on the bottom, bubbles popping out from his nose and rushing up to the surface with him— which he feels rather than sees, because he did shut his eyes before jumping. He’s not a complete moron. Although his decisions so far tonight would indicate otherwise.

Breaking back out of the water proves just as difficult as usual. Will has to spit out some of the liquid that crept into his mouth, wipe the chlorine-filled moisture away from his eyes so he can open them without it stinging. And the first thing he sees once he’s got a clear view again is Mike, of course, grinning smugly and stupidly at him from the other side of the pool. “Beautiful.”

“Shut up,” Will snaps— or tries to, but he’s slightly hung up on Mike calling him beautiful, even if it was a joke. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

To his surprise, Mike does not point out how little he actually said and how little it actually took for Will to be convinced. Instead, he skims his hands over the water, still smiling. “Isn’t it nice, though?”

There are already goosebumps forming on Will’s arms, which he hugs across his chest. “No,” he argues. “It’s cold.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah, if you just stand there.”

Will has no witty comeback for this.

But he also has no desire to move, so he’s stuck just standing there until Mike— slowly and of his own accord— wades over and stands in front of him. Lingers for a couple seconds, waiting for Will to do something. And when he doesn’t, Mike does it for him. He reaches out and pries Will’s hands away from his shoulders, tugging him forward. “Come on,” he says again. “I know you know how to swim.”

Memories of more pleasant summers fade into color and temporarily consume Will’s thoughts. Lazy afternoons spent at the lake, just messing around in the water for hours. Looking at the little fish. Dredging up weird rocks in the shallows. Mike helping Will brave the deep sections. Will teaching Mike how to hold his breath for longer, and giggling at how annoyed Mike was that he could never win their competitions in that area. Tracking the funny wrinkles that formed on their fingers. Mike getting burned, always, unless Will reminded him to reapply his sunscreen, and sometimes even if he did.

There’s no risk of that here. The only light in the room is shining up from under the water; and it’s bright, but not overpowering. Not enough to make Mike’s skin peel.

Will eyes the grip Mike now has on his wrists, and considers twisting out of it. It wouldn’t be hard. Mike’s not holding on very tightly. But Will finds, in taking this steady moment to relax and let some warmth back into his body, that he doesn’t really want to.

So he twists his hands to grab Mike’s wrists in return. Strengthening the grip. Mirroring what they used to do, when Mike would lead Will deeper. It’s a concession of sorts, and one that Mike notes. His face lifts with understanding and delight, and he sinks further down until the water’s over his shoulders, pulling Will along into the deep end with him.

They do disconnect once they’re fully submerged. Per breath-holding rules, they are not allowed to touch. That would be interference. Something that Mike has never once employed because he is far too proud, even though Will’s done it a thousand times.

Right now, Will has his eyes closed. Because he’s still being cautious; pool water is not the same as lake water. It might be cleaner, technically, but he’d rather not have chemicals ruining his vision. The thing is, though… he really wants to open his eyes to look at Mike the way he normally would. That’s what always made these competitions fun.

Sure, it’s a little strange that they’re having fun with this at all. With everything that’s been going on. Their friends and families almost died yesterday, and now they’re in a random motel pool… doing what, exactly? Fighting the awkward tension with stupid games? It’s so inconsequential. It should be. It shouldn’t feel so important.

And yet. Here they are.

Will can sense Mike’s shadow behind his eyelids, drifting back and forth in front of the light, and decides he has to look at him. It’s been almost a minute. Mike’s record is two. He’s not going to beat that tonight, Will is sure of it.

He lets the time tick over the sixty-second mark, and then pries his eyelids open. His brain protests the pain immediately, struggling to regain focus. Which then provides Will with a proper glimpse of Mike, whose eyes are already open, and whose mouth is quick to follow, bubbles spurting and body jolting backward as he rises to the surface in a hurry. Confused, but victorious, Will follows him.

As soon as his ears are above the water, Mike is contesting the results. “That doesn’t count.”

Will wipes at his face so he can see Mike clearly again. “What?”

“That doesn’t count,” Mike repeats, and Will almost snorts at how adamant he sounds.

“Why not? It was totally fair.”

“It was not fair,” Mike claims. “You scared me.”

He’s furrowing his brows in that way he does when he’s trying not to get upset. So ridiculous. It provokes Will’s personal brand of shithead and makes him want to cheat for real.

“That wasn’t on purpose,” he clarifies, for the record.

Mike takes it, however reluctantly. “Whatever. Rematch,” he says.

Will nods, and they go under again.

This round, Will keeps his eyes open the whole time. It gives him a nice— but painful— view of Mike’s weightless form. Arms raised as pressure points to keep him grounded. Dark hair splayed out around him, moving in rhythm with the manufactured pool current. T-shirt floating up his waist a bit, but Will is not supposed to be looking at that. He could use it to his advantage, though…

Not bothering to be subtle about it, Will sways forward, pulling himself through the water toward Mike and half-expecting him to back up in response. But he stays still (as still as he can, anyway). Eyes wide and cheeks puffed out. Letting Will scan him. When their gazes lock again, there’s a moment where Will swears he sees Mike start to lean forward, too.

But they’re underwater, so it’s probably just that his depth perception is off. Fortunately, it’s not enough that he can’t lift his leg and poke Mike in the solar plexus with his toes, prompting an even bigger spurt of bubbles from Mike’s mouth, and some from Will’s, too, as he watches the other boy flail.

He is not able to stay down. Will is, of course— and he does, internally cheering with triumph— but only for a few extra seconds. He doesn’t want to keep Mike waiting long.

“That was on purpose!” Mike splutters, once Will can hear him again.

Will grins. “Nuh-uh,” he denies. “Foot slipped.”

“It did not!”

His outrage is far too funny. Will can’t help teasing him. “What do you know?”

“You are a cheater!” Mike insists, shoving a wave in Will’s direction. “That’s what I know!”

There’s a laugh dying to break free from Will’s chest, and with no real reason not to let it out, Will does. He laughs, at Mike’s exasperation, at his own idiocy, at their whole situation— at the fact that he was ready to go to sleep four hours ago, and now he’s soaking wet and wired and likely to be up four hours more. And because it feels good to laugh, because he’s just realized he hasn’t done it in a while either.

When he looks at Mike again, all of the other boy’s former irritation has evaporated. There’s a soft smile on his face now. And that fondness— the same kind from earlier. Will still has no idea what it means.

But he’s feeling too light to care. “You can’t prove anything,” he says, and he starts to backstroke toward the shallow end of the pool.

He gets about halfway when what he knows is Mike’s hand seizes his ankle and pulls, but it scares the shit out of him anyway. And it unleashes a rather embarrassing squeal from his throat that he tries to cover up by kicking his foot free.

“You are a cheater,” Mike says, advancing on him with a fake-menacing aura and a smile that gives him away. “And I can prove it.”

“You can’t,” Will maintains, swimming backward so Mike can’t close the distance any further.

But Mike’s not giving up the chase. “I can.” He tosses another wave right at Will’s face, forcing him to flinch. “I’ll hack the security cameras.”

“There are no—” Will’s reply is knocked from him, quite literally, as his back hits the pool wall. Damn; he did not manage to swim in a very straight line. How poetic.

Now he’s a little bit trapped, and Mike looks positively gleeful. They’ve returned to a spot where the water level only reaches mid-torso, so he’s able to plant his feet and block Will from escaping easily. “There could be,” he says, in response to Will’s denial. “You don’t know.”

Will has to take second to think of something to say, presently distracted by Mike’s proximity. Don’t look at the water rolling down his neck. “I know you can’t hack them,” Will manages, eyes firmly fixed on Mike’s face. Swallows when Mike raises an eyebrow and hurries to elaborate. “Not without, like. Suzie, or something.”

Mike huffs appreciatively at Will’s reference, tilting his head as he then considers it. “I could get Suzie to help me.”

Will pulls a disbelieving face.

“I could!” Mike insists, jabbing him in the ribs and conjuring another dumb little squeak that has Will batting his hand away. “I’m very nice!”

He says it with too much conviction for a man who just tried to attack Will’s organs. So it’s Will’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You are not nice.”

Mike twists his mouth into a pout and narrows his eyes, unable to dispute the plain truth— because they both know, disregarding the nuance of individual situations, that Will is right. “Well, she’s very nice,” Mike amends. “And she’s smart. And cool.” He flicks more water at Will. “She would totally help me.”

There’s this strange and petty urge to tease Mike further building up in Will’s chest. One that he really shouldn’t let take over, he knows. It’s like a compulsion. Like a button he’s not supposed to press. But it’s right there, and Will is speaking before he can stop himself. “Careful,” he says. “Don’t go falling for Dustin’s girlfriend now.”

It’s so stupid. He’s so stupid. He should not have said that, God oh God, why did he just say that, why did he bring the conversation back to that, what is wrong with him—

But Mike doesn’t freak out or shut down. He looks mildly confused for a second, brows twitching together, eyes searching Will’s. And then he blinks, and his face smooths out. Softens, even. And Will thinks: oh, maybe it’s fine, actually.

Prematurely. Because Mike’s gaze then drops to Will’s lips again, and he shakes his head a few times before re-locking their stares. “Not possible.”

Never mind. Things are not fine. This is… dangerous, again. Will is backed into a corner here, with Mike’s gangly form blocking his exit. And now he’s feeling incredibly on edge about that fact. But the last thing he wants to do is push past Mike and make a big show of it. He just needs to get his heartbeat under control. Just calm down and breathe.

He finds himself swallowing again, to hide his nerves. “We should… probably get back to the room.”

Maybe his brain is just clouded from all the tension, but Will swears he catches a flicker of something… elusive in Mike’s eyes. Panic? Disappointment? It’s hard to tell, even from up close. “Why?” Mike asks, and his tone is weird, too. “You cold again?”

Like a reflex, Will folds his arms in. “No,” he claims, despite suddenly feeling the effects of Mike’s assumption.

The corner of Mike’s mouth lifts, and he scans Will’s posture carefully, focusing in on where he’s now grasping his own elbow and reaching out to lay a hand there. Over Will’s fingers at first, and then further up his arm. Brushing all the bare skin beneath his shirt sleeve. And it’s warm again, Mike’s touch. Not quite burning, but enough to multiply Will’s goosebumps, and send a flush to his cheeks, and stop his breath— which he had just regained, goddamnit.

“Liar,” Mike says, more of an observation than an accusation, but Will still feels both.

It’s that word, combined with the gesture, combined with every other confusing thing Mike has done tonight, that pushes Will out of freeze-mode and into confrontational-mode— the one that activates anytime they’re fighting. Which they’re not now, and they’ve haven’t been, but they might be. In a minute. Depending on Mike’s reaction to being confronted, which is often to flee.

But Will can’t take it anymore. There’s too much pressure on his lungs from all the tension. “Why do you keep doing that?”

He asks it while staring right at Mike, who merely blinks in confusion. “Doing what?”

It’s nerve-wracking to have to say it, but he has to say it. Will shoves the anxiety down his throat so he can speak. “Touching me.”

The effect is instantaneous. Mike’s eyes flash with that guarded insecurity, his grip on Will’s arm goes slack, and he pulls his hand away like he’s been caught. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” Will sighs, because now he’s made things even more awkward. Probably unavoidable given the circumstances, but. “I just…” He tries to keep his focus on Mike as he continues, so as not to show any hesitance. “I thought we didn’t do that anymore.” Tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice as well (with questionable success). “I thought you didn’t want to.”

Judging from the conflict on Mike’s face, he knows exactly what Will is talking about. “Oh,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yeah.”

Oh, yeah. Like he just remembered that actually he doesn’t like touching Will, nor does he want to ever again, and this whole evening has been an anomaly. Wouldn’t that be another perfect slap in the face for Will’s collection.

“Um.” Now Mike is the one under pressure, and shifting nervously from it. “I-I do,” he utters, countering Will’s hypothesis. “Want to.”

Okay. So, maybe Will needs to temper his tendency to jump to conclusions a little bit more. But also no, he won’t, because what?? He’s still so confused, and Mike is still talking nonsense.

“I just…” He’s looking at Will like he’s the anomaly. Like he’s some secret, wild thing that Mike wouldn’t dare touch. But he wants to? He exhales, timid and unsteady. “I know I shouldn’t.”

Will wants to grab his shoulders and shake him in frustration. “What does that mean?” he asks, bold and desperate and tired of Mike’s cryptic words.

Mike keeps gazing at him quietly. “What do you think it means?”

And that. Just. Will might actually scream. “No,” he refuses, shaking his head. “No.” As much as it scares him to be so direct, he’s done being yanked around like this. “Mike. I’m right here.” He gestures imploringly. “Just talk to me!”

The way we used to, Will doesn’t say. Back when Mike actually listened, and cared. Before he was afraid to touch Will. Before he decided he shouldn’t.

Will can feel his heart brimming with unshed emotion. “Just tell me,” he says, because he can handle it. Whatever the truth, whatever Mike’s reasoning. No matter how painful. He can take it. He just wants to know.

Mike, for his part, appears chided. Anxious. Brows bent and eyes cast down at the water between them, flicking about there like he’s searching for something. Whether he finds it or not is unclear. All Will sees is Mike’s exhale, and his nod, and then the dark brown of his irises as he looks up to meet Will’s gaze again. “Okay.”

Relief and anticipation jump to the forefront of Will’s emotional distress scale. Brilliant, he thinks. They’ve finally reached the next checkpoint. He’s finally going to know what the fuck is going on.

Except Mike’s not done. “Can you tell me something first, though?”

He delivers the question cautiously, but with the same desperate sincerity that Will just demonstrated. Which does not negate the fact that he’s asking Will for more, in response to Will asking him for more. A trade-off. Or a way to further stall this confrontation. Brilliant, Will thinks, but with a sarcastic edge this time.

Of course, he’s not gonna say no. It’s not like he has any idea what Mike wants from him, nor any chance of figuring it out. And if the long route is the only route to getting answers, he might as well take it. He shrugs, quick and cursory. “Okay?”

Mike spends four more seconds staring at Will with part of his lip tucked between his teeth, and then he asks. “Did you mean what you said? In the van?”

It’s not specific enough for Will to panic just yet. But he does react, turning his anxiety into exasperation. “Mike, we were in that van for like ninety hours—”

“About the painting.”

Ah. Well. Panic it is, then.

Will opens and closes his mouth a few times before fully shutting it. And then tearing his eyes away from Mike. Which is so goddamn suspicious, because this is such a simple question that he just said he would answer. And now here he is, floundering. For no reason at all.

It’s just. He has this sinking feeling that he knows why Mike is asking. Hours after that presumably intense and intimate conversation with El.

Mike notices Will struggling. He has to. But he doesn’t push. “You made it for me,” he continues, alleviating some of the pressure on Will to answer. “You said that.”

He did say that. If only he could say anything right now. Glancing back up at Mike for a split second, Will manages a quiet nod, and hopes it’s enough.

It seems to be, based on the way Mike sort of brightens. “So, that was true.”

He’s fishing for more confirmation. Will gives it to him in another nod.

And then. Mike says the four words that Will’s been dreading he would say, and the gentle delivery does nothing to lessen the impact. “But El didn’t commission it.”

Fuck.

Will has to clench his jaw so tightly to keep the all-too-familiar panic from spilling out. Not that it matters. His face is definitely burning with shame, and his eyes are definitely giving him away. But he can’t take them off of Mike now. He can’t risk missing his reactions.

“She didn’t know anything about it,” Mike continues, and it’s somehow both a question and a statement of what he clearly knows to be true: El didn’t know about the painting at any point. When Will told Mike, or when Mike asked her. God, that must have been awkward.

Couldn’t have been more awkward than this, though.

Will is seriously considering ducking under Mike’s arm and bolting. But he’s back in freeze-mode, unable to move or think properly. Especially not with Mike looking at him like that again— like he’s an anomaly, only Mike is sure of it now.

“She doesn’t need me like that,” he observes. And this time, it’s not a question at all.

Will can’t summon the ability to speak or nod anymore. Because it seems like Mike doesn’t really need him to. He’s worked it all out for himself. And Will is just stuck in this realization with him.

He doesn’t have to be stuck looking at him, though, so he breaks eye contact. Directs his focus at the water and tries not to have a complete meltdown. In his peripherals, he can see that Mike’s still watching him, careful gaze magnifying Will’s embarrassment.

“Why did you lie?” Mike asks, after a while, and his voice is so unexpectedly soft, and curious. Which is nice, because at least he’s not angry— but how the fuck is Will supposed to answer that without revealing absolutely everything?

Because this is a question that he does have to answer. This is one that Mike’s not following up with on his own. This is the literal moment of truth.

Will wishes he’d stayed in bed.

He shuts his eyes, briefly, as though the action will transport him back there. But it does not. Why would it? That’s not his luck.

So, discarding sudden teleportation as an option, Will bites down on his tongue and tries to think. Maybe he can still ease into this. Maybe he can take a page out of Mike’s book and be cryptic. As long as he’s technically being honest, that should work. He won’t implode from shame then, at least. Hopefully.

This is still going to suck, though.

With the very last vestiges of his confidence, and a very shaky breath, Will answers. “Same reason you did.” He lets that settle for a moment, pulling his gaze back up to Mike’s so he can see the other boy’s curiosity and confusion for himself before he delivers the next bit, coolly, to clarify. “I thought it would help.”

The shift in Mike’s expression signals that he’s understood Will’s callback to their pre-pool conversation. His dark eyes blink and narrow, and his gaze drifts down to the water as he nods. Processing whatever meaning he’s gleaned from Will’s masterful vagueness, while Will waits in the excruciating silence and tries not to scratch open his forearms.

It would easily be enough to drive him mad, if it lasted any longer. But Mike takes everything in pretty quickly. Presses his lips together and looks back up at Will with a new sort of scrutiny. A little bit hopeful, a little bit desperate. “Did you mean it, though?” he asks again. “What you said about me?”

It’s not fair of him to sound so invested in the answer. Because Will doesn’t have the strength to give it to him the way he wants. Mike must know that.

His eyes grow more earnest anyway, and he asks one final time. With the proper, damning emphasis. “Did you mean it?”

Will stares up into his face, defeated and begging. “Mike…”

But Mike’s not backing down. “Please, Will,” he begs in return. “Just tell me.”

Using Will’s own words against him. Not so much a nasty trick as an effective play, but the terror crawling around Will’s heart is more inclined to believe the former. That Mike is asking for something that he, again, must know. At this point, how could he not? How could he believe that Will pulled all that sentiment from nowhere? He’s not as inventive as Mike. He’s not the one who writes the wild, tragic stories. He just lives them.

And this. This is a moment he always knew was coming. Eventually, one of these days. He’d slip up. Say or do something that was too much, too far. Mike would figure it out, and Will would be left alone, and empty, with nothing but the shards of his own fractured feelings cutting him open.

The water’s not such a bad place to bleed out, all things considered. There might even be some beauty in that image, if it weren’t so fucking painful.

Will can feel his heart start to crack, the longer he looks at Mike. At those stupidly pretty eyes that have ruined his entire life. Maybe if Will doesn’t answer, they can just stay like this forever, and he’ll never have to feel the full cardiac rupture.

But. That’s not his luck.

He can’t keep this up. Mike will see through it. So maybe it’s better that they’re not just stuck. Maybe it’s better to just… rip off the band-aid.

Will sucks in all of his breath and prepares for the worst. “Yes,” he confesses, barely audible to his own ears. “I meant it.”

Less than a second passes before a wave of petrification far too large for the pool they’re in comes crashing up against Will’s lungs. Because holy shit. He said it. He’s done it. He’s fucked it up, officially.

Mike knows. He has to know, now. And he’s never going to look at Will the same way ever again.

That should be a cruel and agonizing seal on Will’s fate. Except. The way that Mike is looking at him now— while certainly different, yes— is not cruel or agonizing. There’s no trace of disdain in his expression. He’s not disgusted, freaked out, or horrified. He’s not even sad.

Instead, he looks— relieved. And he sounds relieved, when he lets out the heaviest, shakiest sigh in tandem with his irreverent response. “Thank fucking God.”

Will blinks rapidly, so taken aback that his fingernails dislodge themselves from his skin and he loses that defensive posture, palms falling away from his forearms and back into the water. Because that… was not on the list of things he was expecting to hear from Mike. Today, or ever. Especially not in response to— this. Either Will misheard, or he’s missing a lot of context.

He doesn’t get the chance to process his initial shock before Mike speaks again, relaxing with every word. “This was about to get really embarrassing otherwise.”

Okay, yeah, Will is definitely missing some very important context. Because there’s no way that this is… Mike can’t mean… can he? The only method Will has to ask, in this strange, confusing moment, is to shake his head and stutter. “Wh-what? What are you—”

His voice dips out as Mike reaches forward to take his hand. Under the water; and yet there’s a spark spreading out from where they touch. Will’s breath hitches at the contact. Explanations and possibilities swirling around his head, too fast for him to keep up. Too brilliant for him to hope when he was just feeling so stripped of it.

As he lifts his gaze from their hands to Mike’s face, though, he sees something far less elusive shining there. Something that sends the hope pouring back in— sudden, yet slow, and all-consuming. Like a good kind of burn.

“You were right,” Mike starts. “When we fought last week.”

Much of the context is still missing, but Will notes with some satisfaction that this has been a trend of tonight— Mike admitting fault and asserting Will’s correctness in their past disagreements. He’ll take it, even if he’s not sure why…

“I could have written to you,” Mike clarifies. Oh. Will’s confusion mounts, actually, but he listens as Mike continues. “I wanted to, but…” He lowers his voice and his gaze, and Will sits in the careful silence for the few seconds that it lasts. “I didn’t.”

On the surface, this seems unrelated to their current conversation. But Will assumes that Mike wouldn’t be bringing it up if it wasn’t relevant. Besides, it feels important— knowing that Mike at least wanted to write to him. That he wasn’t totally forgotten in their six months apart.

And it gets even heavier as Mike gives another, smaller sigh, and a minuscule head-shake. “I just… kept trying to call you instead,” he reveals, like it’s dumb. “But I couldn’t even do that right. Because it sucked at first, that you were gone, and I didn’t want to think about it. But I wanted to… hear your voice.”

The skin beneath his freckles is turning red now, and Will is so fucking confused, and yet so captivated. “But I didn’t want you to hear mine,” Mike continues, cryptically. “And then once I did get the guts to actually call, there was that stupid busy signal all the time. So I figured I should wait for you to call me.”

He’s only half-tripping over his words, but it’s still jarring for Will to witness. “So I kept waiting for that,” Mike repeats, a little unsteady. “But you never did, and it really sucked, so I thought that if I just stopped…” He pauses there to swallow. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

It’s the most profoundly vulnerable and honest reasoning Will has ever heard. He has to take a second to run all of it back, and then the guilt starts to permeate, as he realizes the part that he played in this version of Mike’s pain, too.

Because Will’s radio silence was one hundred percent on purpose. He was actively avoiding calling Mike. For practical reasons, and for petty reasons, and for deep, resentful reasons. It was hard, living in Lenora. Not receiving any word from the person he missed the most. He was lonely. And angry, and sad. He thought that cutting off communication would be the best way to deal with his own hurt.

But he never considered, in all those months he spent staring at the phone and waiting to hear Mike’s voice, that Mike was back in Hawkins doing the same thing.

He sees that loneliness reflected in Mike’s eyes now, as they stand one foot apart. “But it did hurt,” Mike confesses, quietly. “ ‘Cause you weren’t there.” His voice fades in volume while swelling in intensity. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

That last phrase fucks with all the remaining indignation Will had.

He exhales involuntarily, still hyperaware of where Mike’s hand is clutching his. But he doesn’t look down at it. He keeps his focus on Mike’s expression. “I’m sorry,” he offers, and then a bit of residual exasperation does flare. “God, why didn’t you say that?”

Mike isn’t fazed by his accusing tone. “Because then you would’ve known.”

Will searches his eyes, brows knit together. “Known?”

Mike gazes right back at him and, stunningly, doesn’t falter with his response. “How much I need you.”

Despite everything that’s just transpired, Will cannot say he was at all prepared for Mike to admit something like that so freely. Whatever that even means, beyond the obvious. It sends his pulse racing— which Mike should definitely be able to feel, given where his fingers sit on Will’s wrist.

The heavy atmosphere has only grown, air around and between them so thick with tension that Will can’t place. Or maybe he can, but he’s not quite ready to. He’s not quite sure if this is even really happening.

And Mike’s next action doesn’t help sway him one way or the other on that front. He’s still in muddled territory, as Mike slowly lifts their joined hands out of the water, brings his other one around and beneath to cup Will’s knuckles. Creating support for him to trace a new, gentle line down the center of Will’s palm. Same as before, when Mike held his calves, the contact and the water sliding across his skin sends a burning chill through Will’s veins. All the way up to his face, where he knows he must look ridiculously flushed.

Mike’s not looking there, though. He’s focused on Will’s hand. On curling his fingers around Will’s and folding them down over the palm he just explored. Still slow enough for Will to resist any of it. Which, predictably, he doesn’t, instead squeezing the tendons in his forearm to reciprocate Mike’s careful grip.

That gets Mike to look up at him again. Enigmatic spark in his eye that promises something serious. Something relevant. And he gives it— an answer, finally, to Will’s question that prompted all this.

“I know I shouldn’t touch you,” Mike says, hands absolutely still where they’re holding Will’s. “Because I want to.”

And just like that, every thought Will has ever had rushes right out of his head, leaving behind nothing but a simple, reverberating: Oh.

He stands in frozen silence as, for the third time tonight, Mike’s gaze falls to his lips— and for the first time, it stays there as he speaks. “I really want to.”

This bold declaration, convincing in context with everything else, collides with Will’s abdomen and sucker punches him back from his temporarily thoughtless void. Brain now streaming an endless loop of Mike wants to touch me, holy shit, what the fuck, he wants to touch me—

And amidst this chaos, something suddenly occurs to Will. Puzzle pieces from earlier in the evening start to align and transform. The sequence of events leading up to this moment, stretching all the way back to when Will was lying alone in the room.

In fairness, he has been thrown off so many times already in the past hour that he’s not exactly thinking straight. His priorities are incredibly out of whack. So the one question on the tip of his tongue probably should be something else, but as it happens, this is the one thing that Will, in this particular moment, is determined to know.

“Were you waiting for me to come out here?”

The beat of hesitation is enough to confirm his inquiry, but Mike answers anyway. Shedding all reluctance and dropping the last of his pretenses. “Yeah.”

Yeah. Will almost laughs. There’s certainly adequate confused and shellshocked hysteria rattling around in his chest to warrant such a reaction. But all he manages, in the space that follows Mike’s response, is a quick release— of breath and tension and half of his composure. “Why?”

“To see if you would,” Mike replies, like that’s a completely normal thing to experiment with.

Will finds himself repeating that perplexed breath and shaking his head in disbelief at Mike’s sly antics. “And what were you gonna do if I didn’t?” he asks, pointedly.

He’s hoping to trip Mike up a little bit. But there is apparently no amount of prodding that can faze this current, concentrated Mike, who sways just slightly forward, into Will’s space. “I don’t know,” he says. “But you did.”

And, well. He’s got Will there. “I did,” Will echoes, faintly.

Mike’s eyes are dancing all around his face. “Why?”

Will swallows his heartbeat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Now focused entirely on his lips, Mike repeats, “Why?” in the lowest possible tone that Will can practically feel vibrating through him. And when his gaze flicks back up to meet Will’s again, it’s over.

Will has no latent abilities that would allow him to resist telling Mike the truth. Not after all that. After everything Mike has admitted to him, both prompted and unprompted. Will can’t hold back.

It’s still utterly terrifying, and Will does spend a few seconds debating. Gearing up before he lets go, takes the leap, and says it. “Because I need you.”

There’s an almost-tangible shift in the air. A signal that they’ve crossed another checkpoint, and now they’re flying off the edge toward whatever’s next with only half the clouds cleared. Will feels it on his face— the sheer burn of embarrassment and anticipation, perfect accompaniment to his wild pulse.

Mike’s face displays only a portion of these symptoms. His cheeks are red, yes, but they’re also raised toward the outer corners of his eyes, plumped and crinkled with delight. Or affection, or gratitude, or all three, but the point is he’s no longer uncertain. He’s pleased. He’s looking past the perceived anomaly like he’s got Will all figured out now. And maybe he does.

The water stirs around his ribs as he takes another step, further in, putting him toe-to-toe with Will. Face-to-face. Close enough that their joined hands slip slightly apart, to accommodate Mike’s full-body presence. “Well,” he says, projecting the word straight to Will’s core. “I’m here.”

Another loaded statement that would be too vague, were it not for the way that Mike refuses to stop staring at Will’s lips. The way he slides both hands from Will’s grip and lifts one in slow-motion, up toward the narrowing gap between them. So, so carefully and gently making contact with Will’s jaw. Tracing its curve with feather-light fingers, until he’s properly holding it. Cupping Will’s face in his wide, wet palm.

Will has no idea what to focus on— Mike’s eyes or his lips or his fingers brushing the nape of Will’s neck. His thumb sweeping once under Will’s cheekbone. The pounding rush of blood in his ears, or the heat beneath his skin. The alerts flashing loud and red inside his well-trained, cautious mind. Contradictory: this is bad, this is good, this is not good, this is very bad.

“Mike,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”

The question doesn’t halt all activity the way Will thought it might, but it does give Mike pause. Will watches the impulsive spark he was brandishing melt into more controlled curiosity. Flicker of concession. “What do you want me to do?” Mike murmurs, matching Will’s tone.

And oh, that is so not fair. Putting it all on Will, again? Asking him what he wants when Mike is standing right there, so close and so tempting?

What Will wants is to twist it back around and plead innocent to his cheater charges, because Mike has proven to be far more guilty of that. Mike, who apparently had at least a portion of this planned out, who has employed several cheap tactics and utilized supremely unsporting advantages, who now has Will caged and drenched and winded. Wondering if he should really let go of his inhibitions.

(He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. And yet…)

“I…” Will tries, before his dry mouth cuts off his vocal chords. He sort of understands Mike’s plight now, because his ambushed brain has decided to direct all focus to Mike’s lips, as though that will help.

And it doesn’t. Mike leans in a fraction closer, eyes hooded and intense. Not daring to do anything. Still waiting for permission. But that familiar terror leaps into Will’s throat all the same, reminding him of all the precariously stacked factors to this equation— all the glaring reasons why not— and it forces him to speak, to finish his thought in the most sensible way. “… I don’t think this is a good idea.”

That amalgamation of situational, social conditioning achieves the effect Will was anticipating earlier. Brutally quick, yet painfully slow. Mike’s face takes on a studious, detached understanding. The sign that he at least comprehends where Will is coming from, even if he doesn’t want to. His answering expression, while muted, is laced so blatantly with hurt and disappointment, and Will feels the cold creep into his heart as he watches Mike’s gaze fall down to the water. As he nods, and starts to pull away.

Will can’t allow that, though. He’d be insane to let Mike go right now. If he did, it could easily destroy them both. Something far more urgent flies up his sternum and pushes past that stupid psychological fear. Something ingrained so deep inside that it’s like a reflex.

His hands shoot out to grab Mike, to keep him from retreating any further. One clutching the forearm of the hand Mike just dropped from his face, the other digging into Mike’s shoulder, trapping some bits of wet fabric in his grasp.

Mike’s half-tilted cheek turns back to face Will, eyes lit with a startled flare. Momentary question marks appearing above his head that gradually dissipate as Will watches his hope reemerge, and his muscles relax under Will’s hands. Which is just—

Will’s face burns so brightly that he can’t even look at Mike anymore. He modifies his grip on Mike’s arms and directs his gaze downward. Addressing Mike’s chest as he picks up the conversation thread. “But…”

He can feel Mike stiffen initially, and then relax all over again, tension dissolving even more rapidly with this cycle. And in the brief silence, Will’s screaming urge to look at Mike again, actually wins out. He flicks his eyes back up, and is rewarded instantly by Mike’s even, hope-soaked stare. “But?” he echoes, light.

Will’s insides swarm with turbulence that forces his gaze back down. He’s getting whiplash and it’s entirely self-induced. “But, I…” He fights the deflective desire to remain vague and only allude to what he wants. Mike asked. Mike asked, and Will is answering. “I want you to…”

Albeit not very successfully. It’s like his throat is physically closing up every time he tries to finish his sentence. Who knew confessing deep truths could so efficiently and inexplicably limit bodily autonomy?

Will swallows to clear the way, very conscious of Mike’s gaze on him even before he decides to look up again. He’s pretty sure this is the hardest he has ever blushed in his life, because his perpetually freezing skin can barely remember what it feels like to be cold. “To, um…”

Mike does not meet him halfway. Just quirks his eyebrows with impish amusement. “Yes?”

He’s such an asshole. Will huffs through his nose, genuinely quite nervous despite his irritation. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

There is some steel behind the question, but it’s largely rhetorical. Will expects Mike to stay silent and maintain this teasing demeanor. Making Will do all the work, for the thousandth time.

Instead, Will is graced with the most pure and passionate expression he has ever seen bloom in those pretty eyes. Not an absence of light, but an inclusion of gravity. “Yes,” Mike repeats, at a soft, low decibel that knocks Will from his defensive position completely.

Maybe it’s not so moronic, to say it. Maybe Will should say it. Because he knows that, if he asks, Mike will do it.

But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? That’s what scares Will the most. Knowing he has this sort of control over getting exactly what he wants. That he might’ve had it all along, but now he knows, and he can use it. And he just doesn’t trust himself with that much power. He doesn’t trust that it won’t backfire. His heart can’t take any more damage. 

But. But.

Mike’s thumbs are brushing idly over Will’s skin where they connect. He’s quiet. He’s waiting. He’s so fucking beautiful, even with his hair all tangled and wet, and his bangs plastered to his forehead. Maybe even especially like that.

Will can’t resist him. Even if it’s only once. Just to see, just to get it out of his system. He’ll allow himself at least that.

He releases the enormous breath that’s been sitting in his chest all this time, and whispers his foolish request. “I want you to kiss me.”

Every ounce of embarrassment he feels, and has felt, over the course of the past… three years? Is instantly worth the fondness on Mike’s face.

It’s worth the smile in his eyes. It’s worth the speed with which he raises his hand to hold Will’s jaw again, just as gentle as before but leagues more certain. His other hand finds Will’s waist under the water, and both points of purchase pull them closer together, and Will stops breathing again, now practically on the verge of passing out. He manages to stay upright, though, if only because Mike’s hands are keeping him that way. And he clings to Mike in return, right hand shifted to lay against his collarbone, left resting on his forearm.

For one, fleeting moment, Will expects him to lean in without another word. But there is still a lingering doubt, an insecurity for which Mike has to seek Will’s reassurance. “Even if it’s…” He hesitates, searching Will’s eyes. “Not a good idea?”

Will understands what Mike is asking, unfortunately. And he understands that answering it would, in theory, upend his attempt to have this be any sort of insignificant thing that they could move past. Which is a little bit terrifying; but in all honesty, the thought that they could ever recover from this was a stupid one to begin with.

“Yeah,” Will confirms, and that one word breaks the last of their bounds.

Mike still moves slowly. Fingers firm against Will’s side and face, eyelids sliding down as he focuses on his target, as he leans in so close that their noses brush, and Will is trying to keep his eyes open all the way, but they flutter shut the split-second before Mike’s lips connect with his.

And then he is struck with the unbelievable reality that Mike is kissing him.

Mike is kissing him. Mike is kissing him. Mike is fucking kissing him. 

And it feels— like nothing Will has ever experienced, which makes sense, but it also doesn’t, because it’s just simple skin-to-skin contact. And Will knows what that feels like with Mike. He knows how warm and electric it is.

This is not that. This is a sensation one thousand times more powerful, and beautiful, and brilliant. This warmth spreads through his whole body, this electricity fizzles into his bones, and he feels like passing out again— which he thinks is more commonly referred to as swooning.

But he doesn’t. He stays strong. He is not about to faint during their first kiss.

Mike’s lips are still pressed gently to his closed mouth, and Will realizes that he hasn’t technically responded at all. So he tries pressing back, leaning into the kiss. Which reignites the brilliant sensation, which is then multiplied even further, when Mike parts his lips, and Will catches them, and oh, this is so much more than he imagined it would be. Soft and steady, lighting him from the inside out.

His fingers curl over Mike’s shoulder, the pad of Mike’s thumb brushes the corner of Will’s mouth. And then it’s Mike’s fingers that are sliding under Will’s jaw, to his chin, as he lifts it to delicately break the kiss.

Every motion is suspended. It takes seconds for their lips to fully disconnect, for their breath to return, for Mike to lean back. For Will’s eyes to open. And his first glimpse of Mike’s face post-kiss— flushed and frazzled and stunning— renders him categorically speechless.

Mike looks somewhat speechless himself, in addition to being nervous, as he pulls his fingers away from Will’s chin. “Um.” His voice breaks on the word, and he has to spend another handful of seconds rebuilding it. “How was that?”

Will doesn’t quite understand. In fairness, his brain fog is incredibly thick. So he can only really manage a single, dazed blink. “What?”

Mike’s fidgety demeanor increases. “Well…” He licks his lips. “Th-that was your first kiss, right?”

He sounds anxious about the answer, like maybe Will was secretly kissing people in Lenora. Like Will would have subjected himself to that with any of the girls who were interested, or could have found any appropriately available and willing boys, all while juggling his emotional turmoil about being away from Hawkins. Away from Mike.

Mike, who just kissed him. Just now. For the first time. Holy shit.

Will nods, still stuck in slow-motion, and Mike looks relieved. And then nervous again. “So, was it… um.” He lifts one shoulder, casually self-deprecating. “Was it any good?”

It takes a moment for Will to comprehend that Mike is essentially asking him to rate the kiss. Because apparently he has no faith in his own skill, which is almost laughably ridiculous. As though Mike could ever be a bad kisser. As though Will could ever think that of him.

But he is genuinely concerned, Will can tell. Trying to cover up how much he cares just in case Will decides to be mean about it. Preemptively flinching away, closing himself off, putting himself down. He’s leaving his fate in Will’s hands, but with enough space to retreat from rejection if he needs to. And it’s that thought, finally, that hits Will square in the chest, and re-contextualizes the past two years, or maybe even the past ten.

Because he’s spent all this time trapped in his own head, carting around his own feelings. Shoving them down and dreading what would happen if Mike ever got ahold of them. And in all that time, he never fully realized how much influence he could have over Mike’s feelings. That maybe Mike’s been scared of him, too. But that’s the truth he’s seeing now.

That he, Will Byers, is capable of breaking Mike Wheeler’s heart.

And that manages to present itself as more shocking than the fact that they just kissed.

It’s also an incomparably wonderful realization that makes Will concurrently sad and overwhelmed with affection for the boy in front of him. This thoughtful, doting Mike who used to appear around Will on a daily basis, but whom he hasn’t seen all that often in recent memory. This Mike who is so concerned with what he can do for Will, wondering if Will needs anything else, or has any notes for him. This Mike is ridiculous, and incredible, and chaotic. He’s giving up control. He’s letting Will lead. Deferring to him, directing all focus at his wishes. Remaining on guard, so he can be strong in the aftermath.

It’s Mike. It’s all of Mike. Right here, within Will’s reach.

Will doesn’t know what to say. He has too much to say. He wants to stay in this moment and never leave. He wants to throw his arms around Mike’s neck and kiss him again. He wants to tell him how beautiful it was, how beautiful he is, how he should never, ever change, how he makes Will feel so, so—

“I love you.”

There’s a few beats where Will’s shock at his own boldness (read: idiocy) refuses to let him register what it is that he’s just said.

So, he’s left with Mike’s reactions only— the rapid blinking, mouth dropping open, brows shifting higher up under his bangs. An expression that he holds for a decent stretch, before it seamlessly melts into something so gentle, that grows more breathtaking the longer he looks at Will. His eyes soften, and his lips turn up at the corners, and his blinking slows down considerably.

It reminds Will of the way he looked in the van. Which reminds him of the painting, which in turn reminds him of the confession—

The confession.

And then he’s slammed with an insurmountable wave of panic, for the seven hundred thousandth time, as he recalls the irrevocable truth he just let slip, holy—

“Shit,” he swears, scrambling. “Shit, I— that— I-I didn’t mean to—”

“I love you, too.”

There’s a few beats after that where Will’s shock at Mike’s boldness refuses to let him register what it is that Mike has just said.

But this buffering period passes more smoothly inside his chest. Wrapping ribbons of relief around his heart that cradle all the cuts and bruises he’s sustained from years of wearing it on his sleeve. It’s what he imagines it would feel like to be hit with a mending spell. Because Mike’s words are healing him. Soothing his hurt, repairing his wounds. Just like they always used to.

And Will has just enough time to embrace this. To see his tender feelings mirrored on Mike’s face, to note that they’re breathing in unison, and to wonder how significant or uncommon either of these things ever were. To watch Mike’s gaze wander between his eyes for a good while, before it settles down on his mouth, and wavers, as Mike reflexively worries his own lip. “I’m… pretty sure I’m in love with you, actually.”

He says it at a high enough volume for Will to hear it, but low enough to convey how insecure he still is about sharing this information. Understandably. His jaw flexes and his eyes start to shine, blinding Will when he raises them again, with how much… emotion is spinning there.

Love. It’s love. Mike loves him.

Mike is in love with him.

He’s just said so, to Will’s conscious mind. No audience, no prompt for elaboration. Because he wanted Will to know. Because he’s taken it upon himself this evening to be fucking insane, and astonishing, and brave.

Because he’s in love. Apparently.

And in response, all Will can conjure is a meek, breathy, “Oh.”

So, he’s still processing. Forgive him, for needing more than thirty seconds to come to terms with the fact that Mike Wheeler is in love with him. Something he’s only ever wished for in his wildest dreams. Arguably the most desperate, tragic desire of his heart, that he had resolved to put behind him literally yesterday.

What the fuck?

This is surreal. Too surreal for Will to accept that he isn’t dreaming, or hallucinating, or somehow incredibly high off of second-hand smoke. At least, not without checking first.

He moves the hand he had laying over Mike’s collarbone, up to the side of his neck. Okay, he can feel that. He can feel Mike’s hand on his waist, too. There is a physical body here. For extra surety, though, Will decides to pinch the skin and tendons between his fingers.

Which garners a dramatic jolt and an outraged cry from Mike. “Wha— ow! Why? What are you doing?”

Will thinks about apologizing but doesn’t. He releases Mike’s neck, satisfied with the results of the experiment. “Just… making sure you’re real.”

The expression that crosses Mike’s face at that is part-bewildered, part-amused, and part-sympathetic. “I’m real,” he huffs, assuring, and pinches Will’s wrist (much more gently) in retaliation. “You dick.”

Will raises his brows, affronted. “Me?” He uses his offending hand to shove Mike’s shoulder (much less gently), as he narrows his eyes. “Just how long have you been in love with me, exactly?”

His accusing tone succeeds in flustering Mike, whose red cheeks turn even redder. “Um.” He’s not looking at Will anymore. “I… don’t know.”

Will doesn’t buy that for a second. “Bullshit,” he states, crossing his arms for extra effect.

They stand in the water in silence like this for close to a minute, while Mike struggles to meet Will’s challenge. His palm is molded to his own torso now, fingers sort of twitching there as he glances around the pool in an attempt to locate some way to avoid answering, or some way to make his answer sound better.

And seemingly gives up, at the forty-two-second mark, twisting his mouth and making sheepish eye contact with Will. “Maybe always?”

Will barely has time to display his incredulity before Mike is surging onward.

“Look, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know… how long the— love part’s been around.” He sounds sincere, if a bit cornered, and he shrugs helplessly with his next admission. “I can’t remember ever feeling differently about you.”

This certainly fits with every other astonishing claim Mike has made tonight, but fuck if it doesn’t still blow Will’s mind. The way Mike says it, like it’s some inescapable fact. That he’s loved Will all this time.

Mike swallows, face practically pure scarlet as he stares blankly at the space in front of Will’s chest. “But, I do remember…” He pauses there to half-mumble the rest of it. “The first time I… realized I wanted to kiss you.”

And again, to hear these new bits of information and cobble them together is one thing. But to conceptualize that this journey Mike is unveiling actually took place? For Will, to imagine Mike having these types of thoughts about him? Is pretty damn difficult to wrap his head around.

Not so difficult that he can’t press Mike for details, though. He manages to temper his curiosity when he asks. “Which was?”

Logically, he knows that the answer is not going to be ten minutes ago, or yesterday, or last week, because it seems like Mike has had more time than that to figure this out. But honestly, Will can’t fathom casting his prediction much further back either. Hence, he is unprepared for Mike’s actual, humble response. “Eighth grade. The Snowball.”

As though Will hasn’t been shocked enough times already tonight. “What?” He balks, rush of strange energy dancing through him. “You wanted to kiss me back then?”

Mike looks embarrassed, or maybe guilty. But he’s serious above all else. “Yeah.”

That strange rush turns slightly giddy, and Will is able to revel in it for a short while. Before he thinks it through. And the implications catch up to him, and the feeling turns sour. “But, then…” he starts, slow, brows pinching together. “That means…”

Mike knew. He knew right at the start of his relationship with El, and the whole time they were dating. He knew before last summer. Before their fight.

And now he’s sending Will a stare that is absolutely riddled with guilt. “Yeah,” he repeats, quietly.

They sit in that for a while. Mostly because Will has nothing to say. He’s caught up trying to decide if Mike’s awareness makes his behavior over the past two years better or worse. And he… he honestly doesn’t know. This is all coming at him way too fast.

Thankfully, Mike provides him with some supplemental reasoning, unable to stay in the awkward silence for long. “I was trying to ignore it.”

Will glances up to see him struggling— hands poised at the water’s surface as he’s wringing them anxiously, that note of sorrow back on his face. It cuts down some of the hurt under Will’s ribs and shifts it slightly to the left. To the section reserved solely for Mike.

Mike, whose words do not come as easily as they did mere minutes ago. His eyes glisten, and his voice shakes. “I thought it would go away, if I…”

If he pretended. Will feels the hot air leave his lungs entirely, replaced by the raw sting of pain. 

It’s the same pain he felt earlier. The pain that he knows all too well. Gnawing, biting, breaking. Aching. He’s lived with it controlling him, too. So he knows how thoroughly it can choke and overtake. How it feeds on fear, and destroys any joy it finds.

It destroyed him that summer. And Mike, he realizes now. It attacked them both. Tore them messily apart, so that even with their shared agony, they were still cursed to suffer alone.

Somehow, knowing that makes it hurt so much more.

“I know.” Mike’s voice neatly interrupts Will’s thoughts. “I fucked it all up.” He declares it with such loathing. “I’m an asshole.”

Will is very taken aback— by the harsh slant of Mike’s brow and the hatred in his tone— and he uncrosses his arms, reeling. “What? No. Hey…”

His instinct, now that they’ve crossed beyond that old self-policed physical boundary, is to shift forward, with the intention of taking Mike’s face in his hands. There’s a flicker of hesitation, still, the second before he makes contact— because he’s not totally sure if this action falls within the realm of things they can just do now. But he’s met with no resistance. And that presses on something tender and wild at his core, that he’s being allowed to offer this sort of comfort to the person he loves, freely.

Mike leans into his palms, expression losing some of its vehemence in response to Will’s touch. Not as much as Will had hoped, but…

He strokes his thumbs over Mike’s skin to placate him further (still not quite over how wonderful it feels). “Look, I’ll be honest,” Will starts, because he has to start somewhere. “I am a little mad at you.” He makes sure to follow this up before Mike has a chance to get discouraged again. “But I understand.”

Mike blinks down at him, inquisitive brows bending back in the opposite direction as he stares. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Will assures him. Pleased that his assurances are actually working. “I mean…” He loosens his hold on Mike’s jaw, palms sliding just beneath it. “It’s… not like I said anything either.”

Another offering to appease Mike’s over-abundance of self-blame. Which, Will recognizes, is not so out of place. He does have a lot to make up for. And Will is not going to let him off the hook for everything yet. Those kicked puppy eyes aren’t always enough to save him from Will’s bitterness.

(Although, he can only count on one hand the number of times he hasn’t been won over via this expert persuasive method, so that isn’t saying much.)

“But,” Will continues, ignoring this. “I also didn’t have a girlfriend, so—”

“Did you want to kiss me back then, too?”

And of course, just like that, Mike’s question throws Will completely off his rhythm.

His arguments die on his tongue, his hands slip to the base of Mike’s neck, and he stutters, stalling. While Mike scrutinizes him from above, and Will tries not to look away, lest he be called a liar. Again.

Why does he end up in these traps so often?

After about fifteen seconds of this stalemate, wherein Will has to reconcile that he might have actually brought this on himself (this time, anyway), he budges. Slightly. “… Maybe.”

Which is enough, apparently, for Mike’s mischievous side to reemerge. Kicked puppy eyes turning playful in a way that does not melt Will’s resolve except yes it does. “Maybe?” Mike echoes, poking the exact spot between Will’s ribs that gets him to flinch and relinquish his hold on Mike’s neck as he folds in on himself.

“Okay, yes, fine! I— I did,” Will admits. Mostly to escape any additional onslaught that might occur, because he’s not exactly in a position where he could duck out of range.

Mike doesn’t pester him anymore, though. He keeps his hands to himself as he contemplates Will’s answer. Squinting lightly, letting out a soft, “Huh.”

From the intensity of Mike’s focus, Will feels like he’s still in danger. Not the terrible kind, but the definite kind. The I-might-have-to-say-more-embarrassing-things kind. And he’s spent over half his life avoiding that kind of danger, so the habit of cringing away when confronted with it is a hard one to kick.

It’s a good thing he’s working on it, though. Because Mike’s next question, while delivered quite casually, is definitely worth cringing away from. “So, how long have you been in love with me, then?”

Well.

Will has to conquer: first, the hurtle of his heartbeat quickening, and then the sandy, scratchy excess of panic in his mouth. Before he can properly deflect. “Hey, I never said that.”

And his attempt doesn’t fall flat in the sense that Mike actually believes him, but in the sense that he sees right through it. Which makes sense, and Will supposes it was a futile effort. There’s no way to wriggle out from under the dark, delicate attention Mike is giving him now.

“Didn’t you?” he counters. Soft, but unwavering.

While there are a number of exchanges from this evening that he could be referring to, Will is pretty sure he knows which one was the most incriminating. And it is, of course, the one not contained to this night, or this pool. Extending all the way back to the van, to Will’s spur-of-the-moment speech with the very thin veneer and very real emotion behind it, that he just claimed as his own less than thirty minutes ago.

So. It would seem he’s walked into it again.

He purses his lips to hide some of the innate embarrassment, using Mike’s prior statement as a meager defense. “I never used those words exactly…”

This, too, is a deflection, no matter how much he technically conceded. And Mike isn’t letting him get away with it. Gazing softly, comfortably, completely at him. Not even bothering to acknowledge how weak Will’s buffer was, and instead brushing right past it. Honing in on the true answer to his impossible inquiry, which he repeats in a more serious murmur. “How long, Will?”

God, the way he says it makes Will want to answer. But it’s yet another in the long line of direct questions that have no simple answer. No answer simply given, anyway.

Except one, and Will spends the next minute pointlessly pondering whether or not he should use it, when it’s the only response that’s ever fit. Not specific, but accurate. And it’s been dealt once already.

Will stares up at Mike, resistance leaking out of him as he offers, finally, his full concession. “Maybe always.”

Another checkpoint, and another mood shift. Mike’s expression lifts with joy that Will finds himself mirroring, for the brief period that it lasts. Before it fades, just as quickly, into something more somber. Bittersweet, maybe. And Will thinks he knows why.

He can feel it, too— how much they’ve both endured, keeping all of this bottled up inside. How it would’ve been nice, if they’d been able to let it out from the very first time they felt it. Maybe then they wouldn’t have so much history to hurtle. Maybe they wouldn’t have left as much damage in their wake.

Will’s heart aches for El, good God. It was bad enough when he thought he was the only one hurting her, but now they’ve gone and kissed and she’s going to know. She’s going to hate them. And Will won’t blame her, because she never deserved to be at the center of this. It’s not her fault no one told her anything.

Although, he supposes, no one told him anything either. And no one told Mike anything. So really, they were all three stuck in a situation that they didn’t want or understand. Hiding, pining, wishing for things to change.

And, well. Things have changed. Everything has changed. Despite all the pain they bore… maybe it’s good, that they’ve reached what they were all silently aiming for.

Will vaguely registers Mike taking his hand under the water again. Tracing smooth circles across Will’s knuckles with his thumb, chin dropped and eyes glazed over in contemplation. “I’m an idiot.”

It’s sort of pathetic, and abrupt enough that Will almost snorts. But he wisely restrains himself, because he knows how serious this is. Even if he does agree. “A little bit.”

Mike’s gaze lifts rather immediately, and now his eyes are very present and shining wide again, even though Will purposefully measured and toned down his response to avoid such a reaction. Apparently not enough. So, he braces himself to take on more of whatever Mike is about to give him. (Which, it turns out, is more pain. Go figure.)

“I’m sorry,” Mike says. Scraping all the way to the bottom of Will’s compassionate core with that soulful stare. His already-formidably-furrowed brows crease further as his gaze falls. “I’m so sorry, I…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. But he doesn’t have to. Will knows. Even if he didn’t, he would be able to tell the depth of Mike’s remorse from his face alone.

Will squeezes his hand, itching to provide at least a base level of comfort. “It’s okay.”

This overstatement causes Mike to look at him very skeptically, somehow frowning and raising an eyebrow at the same time.

Will returns the look with steady optimism. “It’s gonna be okay,” he revises.

And he does mean that. They will be okay. He will eventually forgive Mike, for everything. He’ll tell Mike everything. They’ll get over the hurt as best they can. Because they’ve always been able to forgive each other, and they’re not about to stop trying now.

Given all of that, Will expects Mike to accept this draft of encouragement more readily. So he’s surprised when Mike’s expression barely cracks, and his eyebrows twitch even closer together. “It might not.”

An upsetting sentiment to hear at first, since Will initially takes it in context with his own meaning. That Mike is saying they might not be able to forgive each other. That their relationship might not be okay. But the moment he elaborates, Will instantly understands that Mike is approaching this from an entirely different angle, expressing the fear they’ve both had all along: it might not be okay = we might not be okay.

Mike shakes his head. “We might have to… I mean, we’re gonna have to…”

Hide. From everyone, potentially. Indefinitely. And what a toll that could take. What a toll it’s already taken. Will’s chest tightens, romantic euphoria effectively zapped by this crushing reality. “I know,” he murmurs, in solidarity and a valiant attempt to be soothing.

He can’t tell if it works. Just watches Mike swallow thickly, blinking back some strong emotion. “Which is why I…”

Why he hid in the first place. “I know,” Will repeats, because he does. There’s no need for Mike to explain what Will has experienced so intimately. As a last resort, he moves to wrap Mike’s hand in both of his. Eyes locked, squeezing once. “I know, Mike.”

That seems to quell Mike’s completely valid (but still not fun to stew in) worries. For now, anyway. While they have the space and the silence and the relative privacy to slow their hearts down.

Will’s focus remains on Mike’s eyes, and the full spectrum of human emotion that appears to flash behind them as Mike reciprocates that focus, eventually landing somewhere between helpless longing and bewildered awe. “God, you’re so…”

He trails off and leaves it there. Which is supremely unfair, because now Will’s mind is racing to fill in the blank with anything but question marks and, tragically, keeps coming up short.

But this confusion is only momentary; Will gets a much better sense of what Mike means when he uses their joined hands to pull himself the tiniest bit closer, raising his free hand up toward Will’s face. And Will’s stomach still twists wonderfully at the contact, and his skin still flares under Mike’s touch, because this is all still very, very, very new.

Especially the way that Mike’s eyes have darkened. He’s not shuttering them anymore. He’s not keeping his actions within the confines of their platonic bond. Instead, he’s brushing his knuckles across Will’s cheek, splaying his fingers against Will’s jaw. Running his thumb over Will’s lips. And scanning everything like he’s seeing it all for the first time (while Will tries not to collapse under the attention). 

“It shouldn’t be wrong,” Mike utters, in a tone that suggests he’s thought about this… perhaps more than once.

The irrationally ashamed corner of Will’s brain begs him not to engage, but the sheer, cathartic hope that arises from Mike’s words momentarily blocks that nagging voice. “What?” he asks, around Mike’s thumb, which moves to rest at the edge of his mouth.

“This,” Mike replies. “The way I feel, the way I…” His voice cuts out, and he pulls it back with some accompanying unsteadiness. “… want you.”

Will’s brain ceases to function entirely at that, and remains in stasis for the next sixteen seconds.

And then, something does come crawling up from the depths to temporarily disable him, like a cold hand squeezing his heart, and his lungs, and his throat. Because Mike is right. This shouldn’t be wrong. But they both know it’s not that simple.

Will especially knows it. Will especially had this fear and aversion drilled into him from a very early age. Yes, he wanted this— he’s wanted it for so long— but he’s not supposed to have it. Mike isn’t supposed to want him back. Mike isn’t supposed to want him at all.

They were supposed to keep ignoring it. They were supposed to be more careful. Will could have been more careful. Maybe if he hadn’t made that painting or that speech, these feelings would still be safe inside their chests. They wouldn’t be in immeasurable danger. They could have avoided all of it. They could have gone their whole lives pretending there was nothing between them.

And what a miserable existence that would have been.

A bit of resistance climbs up to combat the cold pressure around Will’s organs, pushing it away and making room for fresh oxygen, and thoughts free of decade-old shame. Because honestly? At this point? Will is fucking tired of the shame. He’s tired of being paralyzed and forced to make the hard choice, to do what he’s supposed to do, when all it really amounts to is senseless suffering.

Hard choices are not always right, no matter how much they may be lauded. But brave choices usually are, Will has found. Brave, or stupid. They go hand-in-hand.

And Will is so stupid. He’s stupidly convinced— staring at the beautiful, agonizing expression on Mike’s face, feeling the warm solidity of his palm and the gentle caress of his thumb, knowing that Mike wants him, needs him, loves him— that this is right. Not smart, certainly. But right.

In the silence, Mike has almost caught up to Will’s line of thinking; but he’s not quite there, and Will can’t make his vocal chords work in time to stop the hollowness from carving itself into Mike’s expression. Turning it more agonizing than beautiful.

“Still not a good idea, though, right?” he asks. Clearly trying to keep his voice monotone.

Will’s heart wants to break all over again, just from how resigned Mike sounds. There’s the barest bit of hope in the question mark, in that he’s not sure and needs Will’s confirmation. But Will can’t lie to him either. “Yeah,” he confirms, because it’s really not a good idea.

Mike appears to take this pretty hard at first, not yet foreseeing the second half of Will’s response. He nods, and his hand slides off of Will’s jaw. But Will isn’t giving him the space to doubt this time. He catches Mike’s hand before it falls completely, drawing that mildly defeated gaze back to him, now mildly reinvigorated.

Will wraps his fingers around the palm he’s holding and pulls it in close to his chest. “But…”

That word softens Mike’s pain almost immediately. His hand twitches in Will’s grasp. “But?”

A smile starts to tug at Will’s lips. “But,” he says, looking at Mike very seriously. “We’ve had worse ideas.”

From the light look on Mike’s face, the narrowed eyes and short exhale that twists into an agreeable grimace, there’s no need for Will to cite any examples. He has effectively raised Mike’s spirits.

He does have more to say, though, and he jumps to provide his reasoning once he’s gathered the nerve. “Also, you just kissed me and told me you’re in love with me, so there’s really no way I’m letting that go.”

Mike actually huffs a laugh at that. It’s Will’s favorite kind, too— small and pretty, eyes dropped to downplay his blush. “Yeah, fair.”

The atmosphere doesn’t feel quite as somber anymore, imbued with the light from their idealistic words. But Mike doesn’t lift his gaze back up at all either. Parted lips resealing, pressed into a line. It stirs Will’s concern the longer it goes on.

He lets go of Mike’s hand, reaching for his chin instead. “Hey.”

Mike reacts to the gesture, and to Will’s voice, and he smoothly raises his head to meet Will’s eyes. A good bit of apprehension settled right where Will thought it would be.

Trying not to let the panic take over, he detangles his other hand from Mike’s grasp and brings it up so he can hold Mike’s face like he did before. This, too, Mike accepts, and Will basks in that quiet warmth. Waits a few seconds, even though there’s not exactly a gentle way to say this. Still, he adjusts his tone to be as delicate as possible. “You’re not gonna run away from me again, right?”

Hurt flashes in Mike’s eyes, but it’s not his own. Guilt, then. “No.” He puts both of his newly freed hands on Will’s wrists, as a sort of physical reassurance. “I promise, I won’t,” he declares, with the desperation of someone yearning to be believed. “I won’t leave you alone.”

And the thing is, Will does believe him. Not from the desperation or the conviction or the sentiment with which he says it. But because there’s simply no room left between them for any more lies.

Mike rubs his palms idly over Will’s wrists and squeezes, joking. “You won’t be able to get rid of me now.”

Will bends his eyebrows in amusement, at the joke and the thought that he would ever want to be rid of Mike. And then the deep relief comes flooding in right after, filling him with this warm, aching glow, as he absorbs Mike’s reassurance that he won’t leave. That he’s willing to stay by Will’s side, even if Will doesn’t think he needs it. Like the Mike who used to follow Will everywhere, just to ensure that he wouldn’t have to do anything alone.

Only it’s more, this time. So much more.

Will’s adoration shows through where his hands touch Mike’s neck, and his thumbs trail smoothly over Mike’s jaw. An action that feels so instinctive, yet deliberate— and the reaction it provokes from Mike is certainly enthralling to witness. Small though it is, Will can see it. The width of Mike’s shining pupils and the color dusting his cheeks, as his breath sort of hitches, and he adjusts his grip on Will’s wrists. Almost unconsciously, like the way he can’t seem to keep his focus from drifting to Will’s lips.

And the way he licks his lips before he starts speaking, voice low and measured, but very close to breaking. “Also. I did just. Um. Kiss you.” Predictably, this is what does it, and he has to pause there, briefly. “So, uh…” He clears his throat for extra surety. “Like you said, there’s… really no going back from that.”

This is not quite what Will said, which Mike seems to realize, as he quickly adds on, for clarification.

“I mean— I mean, I don’t want to go back from that.”

Will just keeps staring at him, a little confused but mostly entertained that he’s set Mike off on a ramble now.

“I mean, I don’t— I—” Mike sighs and gestures vaguely. “If you’re— if you want, then— I would want to— keep— you know…”

Will gets the picture, and so puts him out of his misery. “Are you trying to say that you want to kiss me again?”

Mike has consumed his entire bottom lip, blush redder than Will’s ever seen it. “Yeah.”

Will’s heart does that fluttering thing that he used to hate, but is starting to love. Accompanied, strangely, by a slight twist of nervous anticipation, which prompts him to ask. “Right now?”

Mike’s eyes land distractedly on Will’s mouth. “Yeah,” he says, a bit breathier.

The anticipation spikes, in a manner that Will would usually expect to paralyze him. Instead, it rushes through him, sends the blood pumping out to every muscle in his body as though it’s seeking to limber him up. Giving him full autonomy for whatever he wants to do next.

Mike, on the other hand, starts to rein himself in, half-shrugging. “Or, you know, whenev—”

Will kisses him.

It’s easier than expected, since he had a hold on Mike’s neck already and could pull himself right to Mike’s lips. However, it’s also uncoordinated, since Will caught him by surprise, and mid-speech. But it sends a spontaneous, impulsive thrill through him that he doesn’t normally get to feel, and Mike responds to the kiss pretty immediately, so it ends up okay.

When Will pulls back, Mike looks sort of winded, and shocked— which Will would grin about, if he weren’t feeling virtually the same. So he rubs his lips together and sends Mike a small, sly smile. “Now’s good.”

His words appear to break whatever daze Mike was under, and Will watches his eyes shift back to that light, soft, fond shade. He exhales once. Spirited and intent, as he reaches up between Will’s arms, takes Will’s face in his hands, and kisses him properly.

Properly, as in their mouths actually align, and it’s steady and sure— and properly, as in Will feels that brilliance ignite inside him again. Even stronger this time, and growing with every second, every motion. He’s kissing the boy he loves. He’s being kissed by the boy he loves, and it’s amazing.

Mike is so careful with him. Delicate, and slow, like he’s actively trying to savor this. His fingers lay soft around Will’s neck. Hot and cold all at once where they’re touching, sending shivers along Will’s skin. Nose gently nudging his cheek. Pressing but not pushing, guiding Will back to him, as their lips separate and reseal.

Will discovers fairly quickly that this mechanism is there so they can more effectively breathe between kisses, and jumps to take advantage of it. Because he’s starting to get somewhat light-headed, and their kisses are decreasing in length but increasing in number— not so rapidly that Will can’t keep up, but he has a sense that it could get away from them. Especially with how Mike’s hand is sliding down the side of Will’s neck, to his collarbone, to his chest. Right over his thundering heartbeat.

And then, Mike makes this noise against his lips. Like a hum, but half-broken in the middle. And Will is incredibly new to this whole kissing thing, but it’s like his body just knows what to do. Or he’s already so in tune with Mike that he’s able to echo the noise, exactly and unintentionally.

Which then causes Mike to repeat it— or something close to it, anyway— as his hand slides lower, past Will’s ribs and over his scar, and Will’s hands slide further up on Mike’s shoulders in response. He feels like he’s shining, or burning, or both. Like he could burst at any moment. And then Mike wraps his forearm around Will’s waist, to tug him closer. And that feeling— the feeling of Mike’s palm spread on the small of his back— shoots a bolt of electricity up Will’s spine that ultimately breaks them apart.

Will’s hand flies up to grip Mike’s neck so he can pull himself away from Mike’s lips and actually, properly breathe again. Which, as it turns out, is something they both desperately needed to do. In sync, again. Their foreheads are still pressed together, and Mike’s chest is rising and falling at the same pace as Will’s.

Mike does recover quicker, though. Or at least, he is first to move out of position, loosening his hold on Will’s waist and neck as he leans back to look at him. And when Will does the same, he can see precisely how unraveled Mike is— breathless, disoriented, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated. But he still manages to collect himself, to brush a comforting hand over Will’s jaw. “Are you okay?”

Will is so fucking in love with him, it’s insane. “Yeah,” he nods. Still in the process of getting his breathing a bit more under control.

He can tell that Mike is also attempting this, and wonders if their thoughts are aligned as well. It would depend entirely on how that whole experience made Mike feel.

For Will, it’s complicated. Because his mind is consumed by how incredible that was— and how incredibly embarrassed he is about that fact. Product of the unfortunate, irreversible shame forced onto him. He doesn’t want to be ashamed, but there’s a part of him, which he’s finding a bit difficult to ignore right now, that is. Ashamed that it felt so good, that he liked it so much. He’s not supposed to like it. They’re not supposed to be doing this, this is such a bad idea—

No. No. Will shoves those thoughts as far away from him as possible. He doesn’t want or need to be thinking that. They are doing this, and it’s— it’s— fine. It’s fine.

He watches Mike tuck his lips together and then slowly release them, color fading back in until they pop, vivid and dark against his pale skin. More than fine.

Will nearly shudders as he attempts to compose himself, to voice his most pressing thought. “Does it—” He needs an extra moment to catch his breath and swallow, it seems. “Does it always feel like that?”

Almost imperceptibly, Mike shakes his head. “No.”

Will’s mild surprise and confusion must show on his face, because Mike elaborates. “I mean, I— I don’t know,” he says. “It… never has before.”

It was never like that, Will remembers— curiously, as he stores this additional information away. He’s not fully sure what it all means yet, but. He’s starting to maybe get an idea.

Now is not the time to be discussing it, though. “So, um,” Mike continues. “This is… all kinda new for me, too.”

Will clocks the vulnerability and desire mixed into his expression, and has a much better idea of what that means. “Oh,” he responds, faintly.

They stand there in silence for a bit, while Will debates what to do or say next. He’s a little preoccupied with how close Mike is standing, and the way he’s staring at Will like— like it’s not possible for him to look away. Will is feeling trapped in a similar predicament. Thoroughly lost in Mike’s eyes. In the shadow of this moment, they look almost black. And it’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.

He’s gorgeous, and he’s right here, and Will can’t resist. “Do you want to keep—”

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, and then they’re melting back together.

This time, it’s a bit more urgent. The careful, gentle nature from before hasn’t vanished by any means, but it has faded to make room for this new energy. One where they’re both content with the bizarre reality that this feels good, and they want to keep doing it, and see how many times they can kiss before they explode.

Not that Will is concerned about actually exploding in any capacity. It’s more about what his heart and his lungs and his spotty vision can take of Mike’s lips before they have to call it in. And Will is hoping that, for once, his body won’t fail in this regard. That it’ll let him keep kissing Mike for as long as he wants.

And he is pleasantly surprised when this bout of kissing does last longer than their first. But it’s right as they’re bumping up against that record that things shift, and get… better, but also worse. In terms of Will being able to handle it.

It starts with a simple change; Mike’s left hand moves to join his right on Will’s waist. Not around it or anything, just— resting there. And Will’s right hand moves to join his left on Mike’s jaw. And with this new positioning, there’s a sudden transfer of… well, control. That now Will is the one guiding Mike back to his lips every time they separate. And it sends this wonderful warmth spreading through his chest, that Mike is comfortable enough to allow this. That he trusts Will to steer his face and their actions, while he just stands there and holds on.

He is responding, though— quite enthusiastically— to the whole kissing bit. Leaning into every one with ease and purpose. Parting his lips further, and further, until they’re practically breathing into each other’s mouths, which should probably feel a lot grosser than it does. All of this should probably feel a lot grosser than it does.

Things don’t technically escalate at all from there. It’s just that Will’s one hand ends up sliding back into Mike’s hair, fingers sifting through the curls at the base of his neck, and then roaming higher, clutching at the strands like he’s wanted to do a thousand times. And it feels just as beautiful as he thought it would, even though they’re damp and slimy instead of soft. That must make Will insane, right? He’s insane to like this. He’s insane to want it. But they do say love makes you crazy.

Mike, for his part, seems to enjoy it, too. Because he makes that noise again, and his grip tightens on Will’s waist, and he presses firmer against Will’s lips. So, Will slides his other hand into Mike’s hair, to see if he can elicit the same reaction— and sure enough, Mike is humming and exhaling and putting even more pressure under Will’s ribcage. It sets his head spinning, lungs working furiously to keep up. He’s pulled Mike closer to him, as a consequence of having both wrists around the back of his head. Forearms brushing the sides of his neck, elbows hovering over his shoulders. And Mike is leaning down just as much as Will is leaning up, so it feels like a true, mutual embrace.

They continue like this for a period of time that Will does not have the focus to calculate, but it feels like it’s been a while. Or only a few seconds. Everything is too hazy to tell. Will’s fingernails are lightly scratching Mike’s scalp. Mike’s palms have traveled around Will’s ribs, up over his scapula, and back down his spine. They’re nearly suffocating every time they forget to breathe, nearly gasping when they remember. And it could not be more perfect. Except that Will’s lips are simultaneously searing and numb, and he’s getting very dizzy, and the buoyancy of the water is giving him the overwhelming urge to jump and wrap his legs around Mike’s waist, which is about the point where he decides that they should definitely probably stop.

Using the leverage he already has on Mike’s neck, Will breaks from the insatiable kissing stream, and blurts something out before he’s had a chance to catch his breath. “Okay, we…”

His false start serves as a clear marker, that they are done kissing for now. Which Mike obeys, though he doesn’t take his hands off of Will— and he looks absolutely wrecked, and it’s quite devastating to Will’s self-control.

But he maintains the distance between them (he also hasn’t taken his hands off of Mike), focusing as hard as he can on his words, instead of Mike’s lips. “We should… really get back to the room.”

It is a reasonable concern, and one that he’s had for a while. Mike just blinks at him, still semi-panting, and his brows crease in mild amusement. “Will, I don’t think there are actually any security cameras.”

Will bites his tongue to combat the swell of affection that arises whenever Mike is being cute. “Yeah, I don’t either,” he agrees. “But someone could just… walk in, still.”

He does mean someone, as in one of the maybe three strangers staying at this motel with them. But it’s more so someone, as in one of the three people that accompanied them on the drive here, who definitely do not want to bear witness to this, and it would mortify Will for the rest of his life if they did.

Mike appears to concur, based on the way his expression turns more serious, and a little panicked.

Will pivots to supply an additional line of reasoning. “And besides, we have to be on the road tomorrow.” He pauses, reevaluating. “Or— today. In a few hours.” Damn, they are kinda screwed. “So, we should try to get some sleep,” he continues anyway. “So we can actually get up on time. And we have to dry off, and change, and… shower…”

He probably should have put those last tasks in a different order, but his stupid brain tripped over the concept of showering and was trying to hold out on saying it in front of Mike. Even though he’s not implying anything, and of course Mike wouldn’t think that he’s implying anything, and it’s completely fine and normal.

And yet, he’s blushing. He can feel it. And Mike is, too. So they’re both going to be disastrously awkward about this, it seems.

“Yeah, uh,” Mike nods, clearing his throat. “Good point.”

Isn’t it just.

Will waits, but neither of them budge. Mike still has a hold on his waist, while Will’s hands have drifted to Mike’s collarbone. But Will is not really the one who can do anything about the situation. He’s stuck against the pool wall, and Mike isn’t moving to free him at all.

After about fifteen seconds of this, Will presses gently on Mike’s chest as a prompt. “So, um. You have to let me—”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Mike stammers, letting go of Will entirely and stepping back through the water.

He’s so unbelievably endearing. Will wants to grab him and pull him back in and pick up where they left off right here. But no; they need to leave. They need to calm down. Will exhales that wildness, inhales some restraint, and moves all the way into the shallow end so he can climb out of the pool more easily.

It’s still not the smoothest exit, and he can feel Mike’s stifled amusement from behind him as he watches Will struggle. “Do you need help?”

“Shut up,” Will retorts, cursing his lack of upper arm strength, but he does manage to plant one foot in the pool gutter and haul himself up, twisting around so he lands settled on the edge. Like he was before they got into this brilliant mess, sitting with his legs dangling halfway in the water.

At this end, the top of Mike’s head is more level with Will’s chest. Which means he can stand even closer, trail a teasing finger up the ticklish part of Will’s calf.

Will gets that involuntary jerk and lightly smacks Mike’s hand away. “Don’t.”

They’re both on the verge of smiling, even though Will is trying very hard to be serious. It’s just not that convincing. The irritation doesn’t come as naturally as it did pre-love confessions and kissing sessions.

He scoots back and lifts his legs out of the water before Mike can do anything else. Entertained by the subtle, mesmerized look Mike is sending him, as he maneuvers himself onto his knees. Tucks the balls of his feet against the tile, sits back on his heels. And extends one hand out, palm-up, for Mike to take.

He’s not leaning far enough over to lose his balance; he’s made sure of that. Still, he can only hope that Mike won’t try to test his stability. He has shown a strong proclivity for that sort of mischief this evening.

But, to Will’s delight, Mike does not reject his peaceful offer. Just takes his hand and lets Will do the pulling.

Which ends up requiring both hands, and Will has to lean so far back that he’s essentially rising to his feet at the same time that Mike is rising from the pool. And no, he doesn’t slip at all, and neither does Mike. They are both perfectly in control. Even during the last bit, where the momentum tugs Mike in a little too close once he’s back on the tile, and his hands end up near Will’s waist again. Their hands, intertwined, are hovering near Will’s waist again, for a few beats. (Will does not give in and place them there, nor does he reach up and drag Mike back down to him. He just thinks about it.)

They let go— instead of pursuing another unwise course of action where they would be in danger of slipping, probably— and Will steps away to put that much-needed space between them. One step backward, then two, as Mike takes one step forward, then two. Like Will is still pulling him, but this time it’s with that invisible rope attached to their chests. It’s sort of funny, and sort of brilliant.

Either way, the distance they’ve established doesn’t change. Mike doesn’t technically get closer. Will swings around so he can walk forward anyway, not sure what that does to the connection, but he’s assuming it’ll loosen it enough for now, so they can do what they need to do without distraction. For example: collect their discarded clothes— which Will actually moves past, heading for the towel bin first. Because they are dripping everywhere.

After gathering a few, Will turns back around to find Mike standing beside the table, holding their previously-possibly-dry pairs of pants over his arm and against his wet body. Will makes a noise of feeble protest. “Wha— Mike.”

Mike blinks at him. “What?”

Will gestures to the fabric in his arms that, yes, is now soaked in patches, as Mike pulls the pants away from him to inspect them. “Oh. Shit.”

Will sighs. Well, they might be re-packing damp clothes. Not the end of the world— they’ve been there, done that. Potential mildew is gross, but he’ll take it over their usual, life-threatening problems.

“Sorry,” Mike offers, and Will shakes his head.

“It’s okay. We’ll just— hang them up in the room, I guess.” He sincerely doubts they’ll dry in the next few hours, though. “Here.” He tosses Mike one of the towels to use as a barrier. And to maybe keep them from tracking water all the way down the hall.

Maybe being the operative word, because they do still leave a trail of semi-visible footprints and scattered spots along the carpet. And Mike’s sweatshirt ends up getting wet, too, even though Will is the one who picks it up and tries to keep it dry. He uses the towels and everything. Turns out, it’s not as easy as he thought— and being slightly wet all over certainly does not help.

On the bright side, they do manage to creep past the other rooms, and quietly open the door to theirs, and quietly shut it again, all without incident. It’s not until they’ve deposited their damp clothes over the squeaky air conditioner and turned to face their bags that things take a minor turn, as Will finally recalls a very crucial and problematic detail. “Shit.”

“What?” Mike asks.

Will looks at him, a bit helplessly. “This is all I brought to sleep in.” Seems like an oversight now, but in his defense, he wasn’t expecting to be swimming in his sleepwear at any point on this cross-country trip.

Mike appears impressively unbothered, given that this predicament is almost entirely his doing. “Oh, well, I have some extra clothes.”

That, in contrast with the spontaneous pool excursion, is something Will was expecting— both the supply and the offer. He worries his lip anyway. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I packed like three pairs of—”

“No, I mean…” Will trails off.

And Mike very quickly realizes what he means. “Oh. Right.”

They stay in that awkward, disheartening truth for a few beats before Mike speaks again, right back on his sensible problem-solver mode.

“Well, it’s just to sleep in, right? I mean, nobody’s gonna see.” He pauses there. “Except me.”

Will supposes this is also true. Only slightly less awkward, but much less disheartening. (And maybe a little bit wonderful, too.)

“Besides,” Mike says, turning toward his duffel. “You used to borrow my clothes all the time.”

The way he drops it feels unfairly innocuous, Will thinks, for a statement so needling. He shifts as his cheeks warm, mumbling his protest at Mike’s back. “It wasn’t… all the time.”

And that halts Mike’s motion in a way that Will knows is not innocuous. He knows he’s just initiated something, when Mike turns right back over his shoulder and crosses his arms, studying Will with measured playfulness. “True or false: you still have my grey Star Wars sweatshirt.”

Will’s fluster gets (predictably) worse in response to the inquiry— because how dare Mike set up a trap like this when he clearly knows the answer, and how dare he look so smug about it when he has no guarantee that Will is going to fall in for real. His silence has walked him to the edge, true. But as he stands there in the embarrassment, he is swiftly reminded of an unfortunate— but in this case helpful— technicality.

So now it’s his turn to be coy. “False,” he states, elaborating before Mike can call him a liar. “No one has that now. Our house got shot up and ransacked.”

It’s blunt, but he doesn’t mean for it to salt the mood at all. And, based on the way that Mike is biting his tongue and nodding at the floor, tiny curve still visible at the corner of his mouth, it doesn’t. Although they are both stuck remembering the experience, until Mike’s voice cuts back into the silence.

“Right.” He gives a more decisive nod, fixes his mouth in a determined line, and straightens. “Well. I’ll have to get you a new one, then.”

Will squints at him, replays the wording with confused exasperation. “Get me— what? It was your sweatshirt!”

“My sweatshirt that you stole,” Mike claims.

“I did not—” Will pauses to collect himself, and his memories of that night, so he can respond accordingly. “I did not steal it. You told me to wear it— you begged me to wear it, actually.” He shrugs, though the gesture isn’t as casual or as innocent as it would normally be. “And then you never asked for it back.”

His reasoning does not sway Mike. “That is still stealing,” Mike asserts. “Just… stealthy. You burgled me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Will denies, even though Mike is right.

“You did.” Mike moves closer to him. “You kept my sweatshirt on purpose.” Which— yeah, he very much did. “And then you took it to another state.” Also a fair point, Will thinks, as Mike stops just in front of him, carrying that clearly exaggerated disapproval into his tone. “And then left it there, which is kinda rude.”

Unfortunately for Mike, Will meets his teasing easily. “Sorry, I didn’t anticipate the government assassins.”

And unfortunately for Will, Mike barely hesitates either, scrunching his brows in mock seriousness. “At this point, how could you not?”

Damn. Will’s only comeback is to try and hide the smile that’s threatening to take over his face. But it’s not so terrible, he supposes, to have lost this round of banter. Because Mike is smiling, too. And most things are worth seeing that.

For a moment, Will anticipates Mike swaying forward, leaning down, and recapturing his lips. An action that he certainly wouldn’t mind at all. But he would also have to chastise Mike for causing further distractions, and he of course takes no pleasure in doing that.

Unfortunately, none of this happens, because Mike decides to sway backward instead. Takes one step and then turns on his heel, directing his focus once more to the packed duffel bag and the potential sleepwear for Will therein. He’s already unzipped it. “Towel,” Will reminds him, before he can touch anything.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike dismisses, but he does stretch to grab one and dry his hands.

Will waits patiently while he digs around for the proper clothing, admittedly curious to see what Mike will give him, and whether or not he will recognize it. The chances are split pretty evenly, and he’s honestly not sure which outcome he would prefer. Either way, he knows he’ll be feeling some feelings about being dressed entirely in Mike’s clothes (minus the pair of dry boxers Will grabs from his own bag). Good feelings. Definitely.

He’s already feeling quite pleasant and comfortable when Mike’s search comes to a close, and he swivels back toward Will with the selections in his arms. Away from his wet t-shirt and body, thankfully. But he doesn’t approach, instead opting for more false skepticism. “If I give these to you,” he starts. “Are you going to give them back?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Mike—”

“Are you going to give them back?” Mike repeats, firmer, as though any change in tone would be enough to sell this as a real concern.

Will purses his lips. “Yes.”

And he thinks the bit’s over, but of course Mike’s not done. “Do you promise?”

Will feels a light flare of exasperation at that. “Do you care?” he counters.

There’s a few lingering seconds where they just stare like this, Mike trying not to crack and Will silently berating him, before Mike gives in. And fucking tosses the clothes— underhand, but still— at Will’s unprepared arms. “Not really.”

Luckily for both of them, Will does catch the no-longer-neatly-stacked bundle, fumbling a bit but managing to keep it dry. After which point he deems it fit to meet Mike’s teasing grin with a mild glare, huffing as he starts toward the bathroom. “You’re so annoying.”

Mike’s voice follows him, volume suggesting he may have taken half a step forward as well— courtesy of that invisible pull between them. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”

Will reaches the slightly ajar bathroom door and twists back around. “Fuck you.”

And then he gets to be entertained by Mike’s incredulity, not quite ever losing that smile as his mouth falls open and his brows shoot up. Will can’t keep the humor off his own face either. Watching Mike transition from shocked amusement to smooth offense.

“I am never giving you anything ever again,” he declares.

Will’s demeanor does not change. “Okay, Mike,” he replies. Disbelieving.

This causes a pout to settle in the corners of Mike’s expression. Not quite all the way to kicked puppy eyes— which would be much less effective than usual anyway since they’re not actually fighting— but he does look pitiful enough that Will decides to dissolve the act. 

He holds up the clothes in his arms as he leans his shoulder against the cracked door and nudges backward into the bathroom. “Thank you.”

Mike doesn’t reply. But Will catches a glimpse of his face after he sets the sleepwear on the sink counter and goes to close the door all the way, and he appears to have gotten over Will’s slight rather quickly. Unsurprising.

Will stops thinking about it as he shuts the door. The lock clicks into place, the dull thrum of the fan starts up. And he releases a long overdue breath of tension.

Now alone in the relative quiet, he is finally able to take a moment, or several, to process everything that has occurred in the past two-ish hours. Because this has been, without a doubt, the single most fucking insane night of his life so far. Not in a horrible way, and for that he is so very grateful. But in terms of scale, of things that would fit under the normal and non-insane night category for him, absolutely one hundred percent of the events that have taken place here at this motel have fallen beyond those bounds.

A fact which has certainly taken its toll. He’s been thoroughly, emotionally and physically affected by this whirlwind of new information and activity. He can see the prominent external proof on display in the bathroom mirror. His damning reflection, all flushed cheeks and wild eyes. Wet clothes clinging to his body, goosebumps scattered over his skin. His hair doesn’t look as horrible as he’d imagined it would, but it is still damp and messy. And his lips…

He peers closer, steps right up to the counter and leans over it to evaluate how red and glossy and puffy they are. Kiss-swollen. He raises a hand to touch them absently, the ghost of Mike’s lips reappearing with the action. They’ve kissed now, haven’t they? Several times. In rapid succession. Will was there, and he remembers. He’s definitely not losing his mind at all over it. He’s definitely not wondering if and when they can do it again.

He lets his hand fall, and his gaze follows the motion, landing on the heap of dry clothes piled beside him. To his delight, he does recognize the shirt that’s on top; it’s one that Mike got a few sizes too big, dark blue and long-sleeved and still likely to be loose on Will. The sweats, however, are new, and light, and Will’s only hope there is that he doesn’t trip over the extra inches of fabric at the bottom of each pant leg.

More likely than not, it’ll be fine. He has maybe sixty square feet to cover and then he’ll be asleep. He’ll manage, he thinks, moving to switch on the shower, and waiting for the water to heat up some, before stripping off his wet shirt and boxers and hanging them over the empty bar from which he’s just pulled his towel.

It’s nice and hot by the time he hops in. The steam is already fogging up the mirror, and Will has to focus so hard on getting his hair and his body clean so he doesn’t just luxuriate in that warmth for ages, like he very desperately wants to. The pressure and the temperature combined are just so soothing. Especially after the pool. His muscles are relaxing and his mind is going blank. But he can’t stay in here forever. He has to get out so Mike can get in.

He allows himself thirty extra seconds to bask, once he’s finished with everything, and then shuts the water off before he can start waffling. Ready to brave the cold of the room. Luckily for him, though, the enclosed space lets the steam permeate while he’s drying off and getting dressed. And, as predicted, Mike’s clothes do hang off his frame a bit, shirt sleeves stretching past his wrists and pant legs covering the tops of his feet. But they’re comfortable, and they’re warm, and they’re Mike’s. And that’s all Will really cares about.

When he opens the bathroom door, some leftover vapor escaping with him, he is rather startled to find Mike sitting right there on the bed in front of him, facing him. On a folded towel, because Will’s insistence on keeping shit dry has gotten through. The instant spike of energy in his chest has more to do with how suddenly close they are again.

Mike appears similarly affected. By the proximity, sure, but his eyes sweep over Will’s figure, wide and glazed in a way that makes it clear where his focus is currently drawn. Will notes the color fading into his cheeks the longer he looks, and suspects it’s not (entirely) from the steam. Nor is his slack-jawed expression purely a reaction to how well Will fits into his clothes.

Or. Maybe it is, actually. Point being, this is a very strange new experience for Will— to witness Mike looking at him this way. To be on the receiving end of such blatant admiration, when he’s usually the one doing the staring. It’s sort of… nice? Pleasant, despite how self-conscious he feels. And overwhelming. Just like everything else that’s happened tonight.

Will shifts out of the doorframe, edging past Mike’s knees and enjoying how Mike’s gaze keeps following him. “Um. You can go in now,” he prompts, and tilts his head in the proper direction for emphasis.

That manages to snap Mike out of his stupor. He blinks twice, and then away from Will, blush brightening ever so slightly. “Right, yeah.”

Will watches him pick up the stack of clothes from the comforter beside him and head straight into the bathroom without another word. Actively fleeing, from Will or his embarrassment or both. Will smiles at his back, and then at the closed door. More of that warm feeling bubbling up from his core.

He walks around Mike’s bed, across the room to his adjacent one, and promptly tips backward onto it. The poor mattress quality denies him any real bounce, but the jarring nature of the flop still achieves the desired effect. Will’s arms fall by his ears automatically on impact, and he brings his hands up to his face from there. Covering it, rubbing at it. Taking this second stretch of alone time to further contemplate what the fuck is going on.

He knows he’ll need more than a couple of hours to fully accept everything as it is, and as it has been— and yet, his brain remains convinced that it’ll all sink in quicker if he gets a head-start now. Which is not objectively incorrect. But he’s still gonna need that time, regardless of whether or not he spends it thinking about this. About Mike. And kissing Mike. And confessing his love for Mike. And Mike confessing back. And kissing him again.

These memories— facts, as far as Will knows— are taking up so much space in his brain that they’ve managed to land in polar opposite hemispheres. One is bright with a stupid, giddy embarrassment that seizes his insides and refuses to let up, replaying each moment, each sensation, and reveling in all these wonderful new feelings. The other is dark with a stupid, irrational but immutable fear that none of this is real and he’ll wake up with a shattered heart tomorrow. Or that it is real, but their affection isn’t enough, and it’ll be too hard for them to handle, and Mike will change his mind, thus leaving Will with a shattered heart even further down the line.

That second fear is not so baseless, given how the past couple of years have gone. That second fear is every reason Will claimed this was a bad idea in the first place. Because it is. It still is. A leap of faith with no guarantee of success. His trust in Mike has been unfortunately broken, too often and too recently for him to feel one hundred percent secure in their decision to pursue this. Whatever it is.

And yet. All of those valid concerns just don’t seem as pressing when Will remembers how Mike held his face, and his legs, and his waist. How Mike looked at him and spoke to him with no trace of falsehood or posturing. How Mike teased him and listened to him, challenged him and deferred to him. How Mike’s lips sparked against his. How it felt to touch Mike, too.

Will used to believe, back when he started developing this specific, romantic attachment to Mike, that no one else in the whole world would ever compare. Sure, there were other boys he found interesting enough to get flustered around, but no one else could ever possibly make him feel the way Mike made him feel. Which, yes, were the dramatic musings of a hopeless pre-teen. But now that Will has graduated from looking and wishing to having and kissing, he’s starting to think his younger self wasn’t that far off.

Because this is the most incredible thing he’s ever felt. This thing, this love, with Mike. It’s deep, and strong, and vibrant. All-consuming. Mike is it for him. There is no one else.

He hasn’t seen enough of the world to actually know that— just California and Indiana, and even then his radius of travel has been small (when speaking about this dimension, anyway). But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be rational. He wants to keep kissing Mike. He wants to feel something good. He wants to hold on to what they have right now, for as long as it dares to last.

On that note, his current musings are interrupted by the sound of the shower shutting off, which alters the white noise in the room— marginally, but enough that it’s noticeable. And now Will’s thoughts have strayed from what the fuck is going on right now to what the fuck is going to happen when Mike comes out of the bathroom.

They’ll go to sleep, presumably. That is the plan. But Will’s exhaustion has not yet overpowered his wired state, and he doubts Mike is faring any differently. So the plan is very up-in-the-air, in that it will very likely suffer some modifications and setbacks. Which is fine.

Will really does want to be unconscious, though…

He’s still pondering how he might achieve this goal when the bathroom door finally cracks open, and he turns his head automatically toward the disruption. And is instantly struck with the urge to sit up and gawk as Mike emerges.

Because holy shit. He’s gorgeous.

Will was already well aware of that fact, but this is a level beyond the norm. This is Mike in clean cotton, stepping out from a wall of steam with his skin all flushed and scrubbed and glowing. Looking pacified, relaxed. Hair already drying into those loose, frizzy curls that Will knows are so soft now and fucking hell, he wants to touch them— an impulse stemming not only from the usual place, but also from how intimate this feels. To see Mike like this, specifically after everything else that’s happened tonight. Everything they’ve said and done. This is such a tender scene now. Domestic, even.

But above all, it is highly inconvenient, and counterproductive to Will’s sleeping plans.

He has to concentrate quite hard on closing his jaw and schooling his features so as not to appear completely smitten. Based on Mike’s knowing smile, this does not work very well.

He shuts off the bathroom light and walks around his bed, to the side that Will is facing. So now he’s brought his warmth and his freshly-showered smell right into Will’s personal sphere, and it is a feat of superhuman strength and resolve that Will does not immediately pull Mike down onto the bed with him. He’s tempted to— possibly more than he’s been tempted by anything ever in his life— but he resists.

Mike hovers near him a few beats longer, staring through hooded eyes. “Do you need me to get the light?” he asks, and Will is somewhat distracted, but not so much that he can’t perceive the single light source in the room, and from there deduce that Mike must be referring to the lamp that sits on the table between their beds.

He glances at it. Then back up to Mike. “Nope,” he responds, reaching to turn the switch and plunge them into darkness.

His eyes take a second to adjust, and then settle on the outline of Mike’s body, still standing in front of him. Silhouetted, with no real distinguishing features, but the closeness sort of makes up for that. Will notes a blurry shape that he thinks is Mike’s arm, rising toward the lamp and flicking it back on, and Will’s eyes adjust much quicker to this development. And now he can clearly see the exasperated amusement on Mike’s face. “Really?”

Will shrugs. “What? You asked, I answered.”

“So you were just gonna go to sleep and leave me in the dark?”

“We were both in the dark,” Will argues. “And yes, I was gonna go to sleep. We have to sleep.”

Mike shifts on his feet. “Okay,” he concedes. “But do we have to sleep in separate beds?”

Will’s pulse jumps at the question he suspected was coming, but still doesn’t know how to handle. This is the problem he was trying to work out before Mike was done in the bathroom, but his track record of wasting time overthinking things has remained unfortunately spotless. So now they’re stuck facing this awkwardness.

At a loss, Will swallows and gives another shrug. “It’d probably be weird if we didn’t.”

Mike dawns an expression that Will can’t quite read, and proceeds to study him, pinning him under it. “Really?” he repeats, tone more measured. “ ‘Cause I was thinking it’d be weird if we did.”

Shit. Will flounders for a moment, blood pumping anxiously in his gut and limbs and throat. Mike does have a point. It seems implausible and ridiculous to exist with so much space between them after having crossed so many boundaries. Particularly the physical ones. But Will is worried, still and always, of taking things too far. Would this be too far? His mouth is extremely dry and his palms feel sweaty, as he stares up at Mike’s suddenly very towering, statuesque form. He’s so much taller from this angle and Will can’t decide how he feels about that, or about anything, really. His thoughts are spiraling out of control, and he doesn’t know how to get them back. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. “I…”

“Will.”

One word, like a reset button, extended as gently as if Mike had touched him.

Will blinks. And a wave of calm washes over him as, upon further inspection, Mike doesn’t appear quite so intimidating anymore. He’s softened his posture and his voice, and he looks— earnest. Reserved. It soothes a large portion of Will’s anxiety.

“I want to go to sleep,” Mike clarifies, evenly. “I just don’t want to be that far away from you.”

Oh. Oh, Will thinks, relaxing even further at the reasonable request. Now he just feels silly for panicking about nothing.

Mike, on the other hand, starts to fidget in front of him, like he’s preparing to take a step back. “Is that okay?” he asks.

It’s solid on the surface, but timid in comparison with everything else he’s said over this short span. Which Will finds just a little bit funny, and a lot sweet, now that he’s calm again. Because of course it’s okay. It’s what Will wants, too— the proximity and comfort of Mike’s presence to help soothe his insomnia. That was literally his entire goal at the top of this venture. He doesn’t know why he was making it overly complicated.

(Well. He does, but. Things are fine now.)

Nodding, Will replies, “Yeah.” And scoots back to make room for Mike on the bed.

He watches the nervous energy evaporate from Mike’s body as well, as he waits a respectful amount of time for Will to get settled, before climbing under the covers beside him. Keeping a respectful distance, taking up a respectful amount of room. And then stretching to switch the lamp off again. Respectfully.

In the dark, Will can only just barely make out Mike’s profile. Nose pointed up at the ceiling for a decent while, until he notices or feels Will staring and turns his head down onto the pillow. Will does not move from his position, curled up on his side and facing Mike. But he does let the corner of his mouth quirk into a smile. And maybe Mike’s eyes have adjusted quicker to the lack of light, because he seems to breathe out on cue, and then he’s shifting to mirror Will.

And then neither of them are moving, or breathing. They’re just staring. Trying to keep absolutely still, like they’re in some sort of competition over it. That would be fine under different circumstances, Will supposes, but from what he knows about sleeping— which is a lot, by the way; he’s pretty much an expert— they both definitely need to be breathing to do it.

Which means he must take matters into his own hands. As in, steer them toward the correct course for achieving a state of unconsciousness that is not accompanied by brain damage.

It’s a rather simple plan. The first step is to recommence the breathing process, and the second is to speak. “We’re never gonna fall asleep like this.”

Will thinks he hears Mike start to breathe again, too. “Yeah,” the other boy agrees, through a light laugh, so yes, Will was correct. Mike is breathing. So they’re both breathing. Good. That’s what he wanted.

The thing about Will’s plans, though, famously— they never have enough steps.

Which is another way of saying that he has no idea how to get from actually breathing to actually sleeping. They haven’t changed their situation enough. They haven’t moved. They’re still facing each other, and staring at each other. Will can feel his chest constricting with the urge to hold his breath again, which would just put them back at square one, and then they’d have to repeat Will’s two-step plan forever until they died.

Before they can get stuck in that feedback loop, Mike takes the reins and speaks. “What if I… held you?” he suggests, bold but quiet. “You know, like— like we did… that one time.”

As with so many other memories stirred from their conversations tonight, Will is immediately transported back there— to that one time, when they were thirteen, and Will’s nightmares had gotten so bad and so frequent that they started scaring Mike. And instead of going to his mom or Jonathan for help, Mike just took matters into his own hands— literally— and insisted on being right there to calm Will down whenever he woke up.

This happened during one of the many consecutive nights Mike had spent at his house that week, Will recalls. Not too long before everything went to shit. Mike was so adamant about looking after him back then; behavior which definitely fed into Will’s crush. Because Mike could always make him feel so safe and understood. Will has really fucking missed that. It’s genuinely still surreal to think that he might have it back now.

He’s taken too long to answer, so Mike starts backtracking. “Or— I don’t know, maybe that would be too weird.”

“No,” Will says, before either of them can question the idea any further. “That would be nice, actually.”

He senses rather than sees Mike’s delight at this, and then they’re back in a brief stalemate that Will quickly realizes is just Mike waiting for him to roll over. Right. Because this is one of those few-and-far-between moments where Will has to make the first move.

It doesn’t take much effort to reverse his own position, lifting the covers slightly as he turns and flips onto his other side. But it does take some effort to keep still, as Mike shifts up close behind him, slides his arms around Will’s waist, and pulls his chest flush against Will’s back.

He inhales with the motion, exhales once they’re settled; and there is, at first, the typical, overwhelming spike of energy that accompanies Mike’s touch. Will feels the series of warm shivers ripple through him, paradoxically, in response to Mike’s arms encircling his torso, and Mike’s lungs expanding across his back, and Mike’s breath coasting over the crook of his neck. But there is a calming comfort in all of this as well, stemming from Mike’s solid weight wrapped protectively around him, and Will finds himself relaxing into the embrace almost instantly.

He closes his eyes. Slows his breathing to match Mike’s, lets one hand come to rest over his. And he notes the gentle way Mike sinks into it, too. Both of them moving past the initial tension and latching onto that warm comfort instead.

“You were right,” Mike murmurs, after a while. His voice is soft, barely audible, but their connection sends it reverberating through Will’s body, so he has no trouble hearing the words.

“Hm?” he responds, lethargically.

Mike sighs out his response. “This is nice.”

He sounds so content that Will has to smile, something light and hysterical making its way up his throat and escaping through his lips. And his nose, partly. It’s not all that neat, but Will doesn’t really care. He’s far too busy absorbing this long overdue physical affection.

Mike adjusts his grip on Will’s waist, firm hold complementing his now more alert state. His voice still remains somewhat lazy, though. “So. I was thinking…”

“Oh no,” Will quips, and Mike’s fingers dig into his ribs in quick retaliation.

“Shut up,” Mike huffs, ignoring Will’s squeak. But he does wait, all patient and innocent, for Will to stop squirming before he continues. “I was thinking,” he restarts. “When we get back to Hawkins…”

His sentence trails off automatically there, which is maybe understandable but still not great, for the few seconds of silence that Will spends imagining all the possible ways it could end. All the possible issues they could have to face, as early as tomorrow morning.

Thankfully, Mike chooses to tackle one of the less stressful ones. “Where are you gonna stay?”

Will’s eyes open again in the darkness. He can honestly say he had not given that much thought until this exact moment. He did consider it briefly, before their trip in the pizza van became about finding and rescuing El. But it is a very good question.

“I mean, there’s people living in your old house,” Mike points out. “And Hop’s cabin is kind of a mess. And there’s only, like, one motel and it’s pretty shit.” He trails off again, a bit more apprehensive. “So. It would probably make the most sense for someone to… host you.”

Will is hit with another wave of affection that threatens to tear his chest apart. He tucks his lips together to combat this, putting pressure there until he has collected enough vocal fragments to speak smoothly. “Are you offering?”

He half-expects Mike to start shifting uncomfortably behind him, but no such movement occurs. Instead, Mike stays still and quiet, like he’s debating how best to answer. And he doesn’t seem to need much time to decide. “Yeah.”

Will’s surprise at the casual, direct response is sucked into his heart rather immediately, to be transformed into more affection.

Affection that holds strong, even as Mike does shrug and provide the largely unnecessary reasoning that Will thought he might. “I mean, we’ve got the space.”

And like. Will has to tease him. He’s been granted the perfect set-up here. “Right,” he muses. “And is that space for just me, or… are Jonathan and El and Argyle invited, too?”

Mike’s silence and subsequent response are both infused with the exact sort of halting defensiveness that Will was trying to elicit. “Well. Jonathan and El and Argyle can stay in, like… the guest room, and the basement.”

Will hums, nodding. “Cool. So I’ll be in a tent outside, then.”

Mike sighs in exasperation. “No, you…” He must know that Will is joking, but that doesn’t diminish his frustration at having to elaborate (reasonable payback for the evening prior, Will thinks). “You could… stay with me. In my room.”

He says it very sheepishly, but sincerely. And Will’s desire to continue teasing drops off, as he is confronted with this option that he actually has not seriously considered before.

Staying in Mike’s room.

On the surface, it’s not that wild. He has done it before, but only for a night or two at a time, and that was all (mostly) pre-puberty. They’re older now, and they’ve moved into brand-new territory. Like, relationship territory. Even if their version of a romantic relationship looks very different from most, it’s still going to be active behind closed doors.

Will’s stomach starts to churn a bit. He can feel himself falling back into that anxiety from earlier, which turned out to be unwarranted, so this version of it probably is, too. After all, they can’t technically share Mike’s bed. In Hawkins. In his parents’ house. That wouldn’t be very practical. Right?

Mike doesn’t clarify this for him— at least, not instantly. “If you want,” he adds, in the midst of Will’s silence. It’s unclear whether he meant for that to tie off the last remark or begin this next proposition, but either way, Will gets his answer. “We could do this every night.”

There’s a sort of reverence in his voice that single-handedly prevents Will from spiraling, as he tries to figure out the most appropriate approach to this hypothetical. There are quite a few conflicting factors, most of which point him in the direction of cynicism. Not his usual outlook, to be sure; but unfortunately, the longer he thinks about it, the more that seems to be the best fit.

He unclenches his jaw and grimaces— pointlessly, because Mike can’t see him, but that doesn’t erase the instinct. “I don’t think you want to do this every night,” he says. Half-hoping it’s too quiet for Mike to hear.

Mike definitely hears it. He doesn’t say anything, but Will feels his breathing shift, and his hyperactive feet still under the sheets, pattern of movement disrupted.

Will decides to clarify, now to keep them both from spiraling. “I’m probably gonna wake up screaming more than once a week.”

It’s mere fact, unavoidable and bleak. And yet, for some reason, this explanation inspires Mike to relax. His feet start up again, idly. “That’s okay,” he claims. “I’d rather be there for that. So I can help.”

Of course he would. Will should have known, since that was the whole reason they ever did this in the first place. Mike wants to help. His incurable need to be needed has only gotten stronger in the absence of Will feeding it. And it is admirable, Will supposes— and sweet, and so like him— to want to rescue Will from his own mind.

Still. “You’re gonna blame me when you get shit sleep.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, and Mike doesn’t miss a beat. “Will, I always get shit sleep.”

He says it in the same tone Will used earlier; appropriate, as this admission, while unsurprising, is still quite bleak. Will can’t help feeling bad. Like maybe he’s already responsible for Mike’s restless nights. You know, since all their shared trauma was Will’s fault to begin with.

He could use that to argue his point, actually— that he’s done enough, and there’s no need to stay stuck in this bizarre sunk-cost fallacy just to make things even worse. But Mike’s arms shift around him before he can properly pursue this train of thought. And then his words lead Will to abandon it completely, in favor of a more compelling point. “Have you ever considered that maybe we would both sleep better, if we were together?”

And now Will feels like laughing— which, leave it to Mike to bring him out of a dark mood with a single sentence— because the phrasing is absurd. Has he considered it? Only about a hundred times over the past several years. Probably more. And he was well within his rights to consider it, given the sheer amount of evidence he has in support of this hypothesis, from all of their past sleepovers, and their past crises, and now from this past week, too. And all of this observation has brought Will to the conclusion that he does indeed sleep better with Mike around. Definitively.

So, has he considered it? “Yes,” he admits. Quiet and reluctant, but truthful.

This answer seems to satisfy Mike, even though Will never technically specified what he had considered and whether it was positive or negative. As the silence drags on, his thoughts start to twist back toward the negative. Mike’s conditions were that this sleeping situation would benefit them both. Just because Will sleeps better with Mike around doesn’t mean the opposite is also true. Which was Will’s whole concern in the first place.

But, he reasons, if Mike’s presence calms him down and lulls him into a more restful than fitful state of unconsciousness, then the odds of him waking up screaming are greatly lessened, so the odds of him waking Mike up this way are also greatly lessened, so the odds of Mike getting decent sleep are greatly increased. So it is a mutually beneficial situation, or at least should function that way in theory. Will’s only lingering worry is that, if they do this enough, his body will eventually adapt to Mike being there, and his default stress level will climb higher to match the comfort, thus putting him right back where he started.

“But it won’t be perfect,” he says aloud, instead of expressing his whole mountain of fears. It won’t be a magic fix, he means. It won’t strip away his nightmares, or cure their shared propensity for shit sleep.

Mike doesn’t falter here, either. “It doesn’t have to be,” he replies. Soft and simple, reassuring Will more efficiently than his own convoluted rationalizations ever could.

It’s easier to breathe somehow, after that. Will’s chest isn’t so tight with distress. He languishes in this new freedom for a good while, making Mike wait but also just enjoying himself, before he concedes. “Okay.”

Mike instantly perks up. “Okay?” he repeats, curious.

“Okay, I will… consider sleeping in your bed with you.”

Will can feel Mike’s energy brighten even more, can hear the smile in his voice. “Really?” 

He’s so fucking cute and Will can’t even see him. “Yes,” he reiterates, no longer all that interested in playing it cool.

Mike seems quite happy with this, feet twitching comfortably for a brief period, until they halt mid-motion again and a note of worry seeps into his tone. “You know you don’t have to.”

Will is temporarily detained by the force of his love for Mike in this moment— a state he would revel in longer, were he not so wary of the ramble he can sense Mike is gearing up to deliver. “I know,” he asserts. And he squeezes the hand Mike has resting against his stomach for good measure.

He hears a tiny intake of breath behind him, and then Mike is squeezing back, gently tightening his spooning grip and burying his face in Will’s shoulder. “Cool.”

His delight is contagious, and it surges up through Will’s core with such intensity that he has to bite his lip, to keep that giddy energy inside. Mike’s nose is tucked in against his back, and his hair is actually brushing over Will’s skin now, just as soft as he knew it would be. God. Will is going to explode, he thinks. Maybe. This is too much sensation, too much positive input for his overloaded brain to handle.

Not that he’s complaining, though. This is the best he’s ever felt in his life and he is going to fucking savor it.

As he does— as they lie there, embracing, for a stretch of time that grows so hazy, Will loses complete and total track of it— he cycles through many thoughts. He ponders Mike’s suggestion, that they could do this every night, and he ponders his own assumption, that he could get used to it. And he really can’t seem to wrap his head around those possibilities anymore. Having this every night would be too wonderful— in general and to ignore, thus negating the potential for it to become a regular thing in either capacity. But he ponders it.

He ponders falling asleep in Mike’s arms, and waking up that way, too. He ponders rolling over to look at Mike’s bedhead, to watch his eyes open for the first time every morning, or afternoon, or whenever they decide to get up. He ponders laying his head on Mike’s chest and curling up around him, listening to his heartbeat. He ponders kissing the spot between his eyebrows to smooth away his frown. He ponders what it will mean, to be with Mike. What they can do now that they’re no longer afraid to seek comfort in physical touch. What sort of touches they’ll be able to get away with in public, and what sort of touches they’ll reserve just for each other.

It’s possible to guess, but impossible to know. Until they get there. They have the rest of forever to figure it out. (Will ignores the distant, cold reminder that they might not get that much time; because that’s sort of a given at this point, and he’s not in the mood to confront it.)

His pondering fades as Mike stirs and shifts around him again. “Hang on, my arm is going numb.”

He uses the one he has draped over Will’s waist to curl him in closer, pulling his other arm out from under Will’s ribs so he can slide it up onto the pillow and over Will’s shoulder instead. This new positioning is more comfortable for them both, and thus more conducive to falling asleep. Although Will’s heart does skip a little at how tucked together they are now. Mike’s forehead buried in Will’s hair, lips and lashes grazing the base of his neck.

“Mm,” Mike hums, contentedly. “Better.”

His words feel like kisses themselves, absorbed into Will’s skin and traveling through every nerve ending. He’s going to die from this, he thinks again. Exploding is off the table, though. That would be too violent for how tender this is. Maybe he’ll transcend, fizzle out of existence in a dazzling display of light. Maybe he’ll take Mike with him.

Their hands are still entwined over Will’s abdomen. Right by his scar, where Mike touched him when they were kissing. The warmth spreads out from there now, in a way that makes Will want to cry. From joy, relief, pain, exhaustion, and that other unnamed emotion always coiled at the center of his body. He can feel the tears prick inside his skull, desperate to open the floodgates and grant him that catharsis. A heavy breath escapes him. The dim view he has of the room starts to blur at the edges. He’s not looking forward to the headache this will bring, but he’s not sure he can stop it.

That is, until Mike’s lips brush his neck again. Intentionally or not, Will can’t tell. What he does feel is the new warmth blooming from this contact point, sending out gentle, reassuring waves that quell his misgivings and highlight his enchantment; and he exhales one more time, shuts his eyes, accepts the few tears that slip down his cheeks. But that’s all. He doesn’t need to spend minutes or hours crying in the dark. He just needed to let go, to release that little bit of tension, so he’s no longer at risk of being overwhelmed.

(For now, anyway. Just as he doubts that he will ever get used to this, he can’t imagine that Mike’s touch will ever stop overwhelming him either.)

His thoughts settle, and he tries to match Mike’s breathing again, which helps to settle them further. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’s safe. He’s happy. And he really is fucking exhausted, so it doesn’t take long for his grip on the waking world to grow looser, as his limbs grow heavier.

Eventually, many minutes after they’ve established an effective, soothing rhythm, Mike’s voice comes in softly behind him. “Hey, Will?”

He sounds like he’s about to fall under. “Yeah?” Will manages, the same sort of thickness in his tone.

Mike barely hesitates. “I love you.”

It’s mumbled into his back, but it’s the clearest and brightest thing Will has ever heard.

And he realizes, in this moment, that he’s not going to die. Not from this. Mike’s love, wrapped up in these daring, gentle words and actions, isn’t killing him. It’s healing him. Invigorating him. He’s just grown so accustomed to these forbidden feelings slowly wearing him away that he forgot how much they can build him up, too.

Or maybe he didn’t forget. Maybe he’s just never had this before. Maybe he’s never entertained the idea that his heart could guide him somewhere that doesn’t hurt. And maybe he still can’t fully believe that. But the way Mike is holding him now, it’s almost like he’s trying to disprove this, to wipe away Will’s doubt.

In the grand scheme of things, Will knows they might not be okay. He knows he’s destined for more pain, and it’s likely that Mike is, too. But he thinks, as long as they do have this— as long as they have each other, to fall back on, to run to, to embrace— then the monsters they’re forced to face might not swallow them whole anymore.

Will sinks back closer to Mike’s chest, rubs his thumb in circles over Mike’s wrist. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, steady and strong.

And that sentiment is what finally, finally lulls them both to sleep.

Notes:

Damn, I hope nothing bad happens to them now. I guess we’ll see in 2035.

Thank you, dear readers, for engaging with this chaos. Hopefully you got something good out of it.

(And hopefully you were able to suspend your disbelief about how fucking fast that happened, and also their ability to afford three rooms instead of like one or two, and also the fact that they stayed at a motel at all, etc. etc.

There’s a reason this is not what happened in canon lmao. I just do what I want. That’s like the point of fic anyway. Gotta get these silly little scenarios out of my head.)

<3<3<3<3<3<3

Update: I wrote a companion piece to this called just another downpour and it’s about the night of the sweatshirt theft.

<3<3<3<3<3<3

Another update: I finally finished writing the unofficial Elumax sequel to this called now we crawl against the tide. Featuring Byler but not Byler-centric like the first two.