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Will Byers is going to die.
Actually, no. He’s going to kill someone first—then die. That someone being Mike Wheeler, who, at this very moment, is standing in the dorm room they share, shirtless, wet hair dripping onto the hardwood, completely unaware of the chaos he leaves in his wake.
Will clenches his jaw and stares hard at his drawing pad, which is definitely not full of his best friend.
His completely straight, male best friend.
But seriously, Mike Wheeler will be the death of Will Byers.
He. Fucking. Swears.
Because if he has to watch a shirtless Mike with nothing but a tiny towel on walk around their dorm room one more time, humming under his breath and using Will’s towel to dry down the center of his stomach one more time, he’s going to combust. Full spontaneous combustion, straight into the carpet, ashes and all.
But Will has a sneaky suspicion that it will happen again because Mike is currently in the shower right now.
So yeah, Will Byers is definitely going to die, and this is how.
But not before he loses his entire mind.
Because he can hear Mike singing in the shower again. Off-key. Loud. And every so often—he swears it’s just to kill Will specifically—he drops into this low hum that vibrates through the thin bathroom wall and right into Will’s nervous system.
He drags his pencil across the page a little too hard, smudging the shading on Mike’s jawline.
No. Not Mike’s jawline. A generic, totally-not-Mike model. Just a concept. Just a masculine form. Just—
God.
Will closes his sketchbook and tosses it facedown on his bed like it might burn him.
This is so dumb. He is so dumb.
Because it’s been months. months of cohabitating in this too-small dorm, of seeing Mike sprawled out on his twin bed in only boxers, of bumping into him in their very small kitchenette, of accidentally brushing arms when they both reach for the same bag of popcorn. Every single one of those moments carves another notch into Will’s heart, until he feels hollowed out by want.
Mike doesn’t even notice. Of course he doesn’t. Mike’s still Mike —sweet, annoying, stupidly pretty. Mike, who hugs Will from behind when he’s cooking like it’s a completely platonic thing to do, calls him William just to make him roll his eyes and never thinks twice about changing in front of him like it’s not a goddamn assault.
Wait.
Why does Will no longer hear the water running?
No. No, no, no. Shit. He should leave. He should fake a cold, fake a fire drill, throw himself out the window and hope it distracts Mike long enough to give Will a moment to run out.
But it’s too late.
Will flinches.
The bathroom door creaks open, and steam rolls out like some sick, theatrical announcement.
Then—he sees him.
Mike steps out, barefoot, damp, towel slung low on his hips, dripping water onto the floor. His curls are wet, clinging to his forehead, and he's using another towel— Will’s towel, that fucker —to drag over his chest, light abs, and then—
Will doesn’t look.
Okay. He does look.
For, like, half a second.
Okay. Maybe more than that.
Mike catches him.
“Hey,” he says casually, like he’s not the devil incarnate. “You drawing?”
Will clears his throat and looks at anything— literally anything —else.
“Um, no,” he says, voice way too hoarse. “I was just… sketching random stuff.”
“Oh.” Mike shrugs, and tosses the second towel onto Will’s desk chair like it’s not a sacred object he’s just desecrated with his stupid, perfect body. Not that Will has actually seen all of his body.
Will watches the damp towel slouch against the back of the chair, a tiny wet circle blooming on the seat where Mike’s chest must’ve pressed. He swallows and looks away fast, heat crawling up his neck.
Mike turns toward his side of the room, humming again. Just a little. Like he’s forgotten Will entirely. Like, Will’s not fighting for his actual life over here.
He opens his top drawer and starts fishing around for clothes, still towel-clad, still damp. Still there. Will glances up—accidentally, accidentally —just as Mike bends slightly, digging through a pile of socks.
The towel shifts.
Will nearly blacks out.
It happens fast. So fast.
The only thing he really saw was some dark brown hair.
He tears his gaze away so quickly his neck protests. His eyes sting. He grabs the nearest book on his nightstand (something boring, something he won’t accidentally associate with Mike later— Biology of Cell Structures , sure, that’ll do) and pretends to read. Upside down.
“So,” Mike says a few seconds later, like he hasn't just shattered Will's last shred of sanity, “are you coming to the thing tonight? With Robin and Vickie?”
Will blinks at the upside-down diagram of a mitochondrion.
“What thing?”
Mike huffs out a laugh and turns around. Will doesn't look. Doesn’t. But he feels it—the shift in the air, Mike’s eyes on him now.
“You know. The movie night. Vickie rented something dumb, and Robin promised snacks that aren’t stale chips or sugary cereal.”
Right. That thing. The one Will had already said yes to like three times.
“Oh, right, yeah,” he says, slow, still staring too hard at the word cytoplasm . “I mean. Unless you don’t want me there.”
The second it leaves his mouth he wants to eat it back, chew it up and swallow it and maybe choke on it for good measure.
Mike scoffs, and Will finally risks a glance.
He shouldn’t have.
Mike is pulling on a t-shirt—slowly, because his skin’s still damp, so it clings a little as he tugs it over his head. The hem of the towel rides even lower for a second as Mike lifts his arms.
Will stops breathing.
“You’re an idiot,” Mike says, like it’s affectionate. Like it’s a reflex. “Of course I want you there. You’re my best friend.
Will tries to say something, anything. It comes out strangled.
Mike doesn’t seem to notice. He turns back to the drawer and grabs a pair of boxers.
Will almost screams.
“I’m, um—” Will shoots up from the bed, the book falling to the floor with a heavy thud. “Yeah, of course I’ll come. I just need to… use the bathroom.”
It wasn’t a complete lie; he really did have to go.
“Okay, just don’t take too long,” Mike says, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “We have to be there in— shit —ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Ten minutes to look normal. Ten minutes to make sure he’s not flushed and jumpy and visibly wrecked by nothing more than Mike’s existence.
Will nods way too fast. “Yeah. Totally. Two minutes.”
He escapes into the bathroom like it’s a bunker and locks the door behind him, heart hammering so loud it’s probably echoing through the pipes.
The room’s still humid from Mike’s shower. The mirror is fogged up, the tiles damp under Will’s socks, and everywhere— everywhere —there’s evidence that Mike had just been here. His toothbrush crooked in the holder. His shampoo left open on the shelf. His scent lingering in the air—something clean and warm, like citrus soap and heat and—
Will grips the sink.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, dropping his forehead against the mirror.
His reflection is useless, all fog and shame.
He feels like he’s been edged by life itself.
It’s not even what Mike’s doing. Mike isn’t doing anything. That’s the worst part. There’s no teasing. No flirting. No suggestive winks or lingering touches. Mike’s just… being himself —completely unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he is.
Will squeezes his eyes shut.
He cannot survive this.
He turns on the faucet and splashes cold water on his face. It doesn’t help. The towel image is still there— low on his hips, riding lower, Mike’s hand brushing it casually, the glimpse of dark hair right below his bellybutton, and the other area of hair that he saw when Mike bent down even lower —and Will is spiraling again.
He fans his face, then forces himself to use the toilet like a normal person. Washes his hands. Stares in the mirror like he can scrub the desire off his skin.
Eventually, he unlocks the door and steps back into the dorm.
Mike’s dressed now—thank God, thank God —in jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt with his shoes half-laced and kicked out in front of him on the rug.
“Finally,” he says, voice light. “I was about to leave you behind. You know how pissy Robin gets if we’re late.”
Will nods and grabs his coat. “Sorry.” He mumbles, and then they’re out the door.
Robin opens the door before Mike can even knock, her hair pulled up in a chaotic bun, wearing a faded Joy Division shirt and mismatched socks.
“About damn time,” she says, tugging them both in by the sleeves. “Vickie already started the previews without us.”
“She said you guys were five minutes away,” Vickie calls back from the living room, voice teasing but dangerous.
“That was at least ten minutes ago,” Robin mutters. “You're lucky I love you guys.” She says, turning to Mike and Will.
“You literally threatened to key my bike last week,” Mike says as he kicks off his shoes.
“Out of love.”
Will lingers near the door, still zipped up in his coat, trying to shake off the lingering fog of earlier and act normal. Whatever that means anymore.
“Will!” Vickie beams, waving him over. “Come sit before Robin tries to steal your soul with interpretive commentary.”
Robin gasps. “Excuse you, my commentary is academic.”
Mike flops down on the couch— the tiniest couch known to man —and immediately takes up two-thirds of it by sprawling like a starfish. Vickie’s curled up on the far left end with a blanket and a slice of pizza, and Robin goes to sit next to her, kissing her on the cheek, conveniently leaving… exactly one option for Will.
Right next to Mike.
Of course.
And the worst part was that Robin and Vickie (mostly Robin) were doing this —
Completely. On. Purpose.
Because ever since Robin and Vickie became friends with them back in 1987—when everything with the Upside Down was happening—they told Will they were together that same fall. Told Mike, too. Will has never told Mike about his secret, though. Even though he was okay with Robin and Vickie, he doesn’t think he’ll be okay with knowing that his own very male best friend has some not-so-platonic dreams starring him.
He did, however, tell Robin and Vickie his secret—
That he was also gay and completely in love with his best friend.
And from then on, it had been a mission. A long, drawn-out, highly orchestrated gay panic operation —led entirely by Robin and Vickie. Subtlety was not a tool in their kit.
Vickie, at least, tried sometimes. Robin didn’t even bother.
Every movie night, every double-date-but-not-really, every time they arranged the seating “accidentally” so Will and Mike were squished together, it was with this goal in mind:
Get Will laid.
Well, more specifically, get Will laid— by Mike.
“Look, all we have to do is get Mike laid by you, and he’ll realize that he’s not as straight as he thought he was.” Robin liked to say, usually with a smirk and a sip of her wine cooler. “I’ve seen him look at your ass on more than one occasion.”
Will hated how badly he wanted her to be right.
But there’s no way in hell that will ever happen because Mike is straight (has he mentioned that yet?).
Straight with a capital S, all evidence to the contrary be damned.
He dated El. For years. He kissed her at the Snow Ball. Wrote her letters while they were in Lenora. Told her that his life started the moment he met her. While Will was secretly dying inside. Sure, they broke up a year later, but Mike has dated plenty of girls since then.
So no. Robin and Vickie are wrong. Delusional. Misguided sapphic agents of chaos, who seem to think Will is something other than doomed .
Mike isn’t into him. Mike doesn’t look at him.
Except sometimes he does? According to Robin, but Will does not trust her.
So yeah. This couch arrangement?
Completely on purpose.
Will shoots Robin a look as he sinks down next to Mike, who—of course—spreads his legs a little wider, crowding Will even more. There’s no space between them. Not really. Mike’s thigh is warm where it presses against his. His arm drapes behind the backrest, casual and wide, and Will has to consciously stop himself from leaning into it like some desperate rom-com protagonist.
He focuses on the screen. Tries to, anyway.
He’s definitely in hell. Or heaven. Honestly, it's hard to tell the difference anymore.
Robin bites into her pizza slice, watching them shamelessly.
Vickie nudges her.
Vickie nudges her girlfriend’s knee hard enough to jostle the couch.
“Robin,” she whispers—not exactly quietly. “Let them watch the movie in peace.”
Robin wipes pizza grease off her lip, still staring, utterly unrepentant. “I am at peace,” she stage‑whispers back. “This is my peace.”
Thankfully, it seems Mike is too preoccupied with the movie to hear.
Will wants to sink into the springs and never be found again. Instead he folds his hands on his lap, trying to look casual while every nerve ending screams distance, distance, distance —and Mike’s long thigh stays right there, radiating heat through denim.
On‑screen, an astronaut’s helmet pops off in zero‑G. Blood floats everywhere in weightless, pretty globules. Someone screams. Robin does a director’s commentary about the fake physics. Vickie rolls her eyes fondly.
Mike flinches at a jump scare and— God help him —his hand drops to Will’s knee. Just a reflex, a startled grab.
But he lingers.
Thumb brushing the seam of Will’s jeans, light as static.
Will’s inhale is shaky enough that Robin’s gaze flicks over like a hawk spotting prey. She smirks around the lip of her soda can but miraculously says nothing. Vickie threads her fingers through Robin’s to keep her busy—damage control via hand‑holding.
Will swallows. His pulse pounds in his throat, his ears, everywhere. He waits for Mike to notice what he’s doing—waits for him to pull away with a nervous laugh or an apology.
He doesn’t.
If anything, Mike’s thumb strokes once, absent-minded, back and forth. Like he’s thinking. Like he’s forgetting whose knee he’s touching at all.
Will’s eyes sting. He stares at the television and says nothing.
Ten agonizing minutes later, the credits roll and Robin slaps her thighs. “Snack break. Soda run. Everybody hydrate or die‑drate!”
She hops up, towing Vickie toward the kitchen. “Will, can you help us?” Robin
Will blinks, momentarily stunned.
He knows what this is. It's not even subtle anymore.
“Help you?” he echoes, trying to sound neutral.
Robin doesn’t look back as she waves him on. “Yeah, you’re tall. And coordinated. And have opposable thumbs. You’re perfect for snack retrieval.”
“Hey! I’m taller. Why didn’t you ask me?” Mike says, almost offended.
“Because you are definitely not coordinated.” Robin snaps back.
Will glances at Mike, who’s leaning back into the couch now, rolling his eyes, stretching like a cat. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. Will looks away, fast, and stands.
“Okay,” he mumbles. “Sure.”
He follows them to the kitchen, where Vickie is already digging through the cabinets like a raccoon.
Robin spins around, arms crossed. “Okay,” she hisses in a stage whisper. “What the hell was that?”
Will rubs a hand over his face. “What was what?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Robin says. “Mike touched your knee like it was a love language, Will.”
Vickie’s head pokes out from behind the fridge door. “He lingered , Will.”
Will lets out a strangled noise and leans against the counter. “He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing.”
“Oh, he definitely realized,” Robin says, rifling through a box of Cheez-Its. “He did the thumb thing.”
Vickie gasps. “ The thumb thing? ”
Robin nods solemnly. “ The thumb thing. You don’t do that to your platonic best friend unless you’re in the mood to make out or emotionally ruin someone.”
Will groans, dropping his forehead to the cabinet.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters. “It doesn’t mean anything. You two are reading into it. Like always. I’ve told you guys one million times he’s strai-”
“Straight, we know.” Robin cuts him off, rolling her eyes. “We’ve heard it one million times.”
“Okay, then why do I have to keep reminding you?” Will says, annoyed.
Robin just smirks. This can’t be good.
“We have a plan.”
Will straightens from the cabinet like it just shocked him. “A what?”
“A plan,” she repeats, too casually, like they’re talking about redecorating or what to make for dinner, “A get-Will-laid-by-Mike-plan.”
No. No, no, no. There’s no way Will heard her correctly.
Will nearly chokes on air. “I’m sorry, what —”
Vickie winces, holding up a bag of gummy worms. “She’s been workshopping the name.”
“Not the point,” Robin waves her off. “The point is: the thumb thing confirmed stage four. He’s cracking. We strike now .”
Will’s voice jumps an octave. “Strike—? Robin, no! First off—what do you mean a plan? You can’t just plan for Mike to fall in love with me—”
“That’s the final step,” Robin says, cocking her head. “We’re aiming lower. Lust. Horny confusion. Accidental kisses. Boners with emotional consequences. After you guys fuck, he’ll realize how amazing it is to be with another guy, and the rest will be history.”
Will groans and clutches the counter like it might keep him upright.
“No, no. Absolutely not. First off, you know I’m a virgin, and Mike definitely isn’t. Secondly, he doesn’t even know I’m—” He lowers his voice, glancing toward the living room like Mike might be crouched behind the sofa. “— gay. Will whisper-hisses, pacing now. “He’s my best friend. If he knew, it’d change everything. He’d—he’d act weird, or he’d pity me, or worse—he’d start putting on pants after showers and I’d never see his stupid abs again!”
He stops. Blinks.
Robin blinks back.
Vickie coughs delicately into her sleeve.
“I mean—” Will claps a hand over his mouth.
Robin grins. “You wanna see the abs. That’s progress.”
“Kill me,” Will mutters into his hand.
“But that doesn’t even matter because none of that will happen—and I can’t believe I have to say this again. He’s. Straight.”
Robin lifts a brow. “ Really, I had no clue? It’s not like you’ve said it before,” he says sarcastically.
Will stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “Robin, please—”
“Okay, calm down,” Robin says, pushing a sleeve up like she’s preparing a PowerPoint. “You don’t have to come out to him yet. That’s stage five.”
Will’s eyes bulge. “How many stages are there?”
“Seven,” Vickie answers brightly. “But some are optional. And we can skip stage six if you actually manage to kiss him without passing out.”
“Vickie.” Will stares at her like a betrayed Victorian widow.
Robin claps once. “Stage one is simple: get Mike to touch you more. Casually. Intentionally. Knee thing was a fluke, but we can build from that. I’ll rig another couch scenario next week. Or better: movie night in your room. Make him sit on the bed.”
“No—no bed-sitting!” Will’s face is on fire now. “Do you want me to self-combust?!”
Vickie pats his arm. “That’s stage three.”
Robin grins. “Exactly. Stage two is boosting Mike’s awareness. Unbutton a shirt. Walk around half-dressed. Give him a taste of his own towel-wielding medicine.”
Will splutters. “You want me to seduce him?! Like, on purpose?! ”
“Yes,” Robin and Vickie say in eerie unison.
Will slumps dramatically against the counter. “You two are insane. I’m not doing any of that. It’s doomed. I’m doomed. Mike is straight , I’m in love , and this whole thing ends with me crying into a microwave burrito.”
Robin shrugs. “Or it ends with you crying while riding his dick. ”
Will lets out a high-pitched noise of despair.
“Oh my God.”
Vickie fist-bumps Robin. “Okay that one was good.”
Robin preens. “Thank you. I’m very proud.”
Will just groans and covers his face again. “You’re both going to hell.”
Robin winks. “Not before your virginity.”
Will ignores that and grabs a bottle of soda. “Can we please just… go back out there? Before he thinks we’re, I don’t know, talking about him?”
Robin opens her mouth, clearly about to say something like you mean before he figures out you're in love with him, but Vickie gently cuts in.
“Okay,” she says with a soft smile. “We’ll drop it. For now.”
“But–” Robin cuts in, “you have to promise us that you are going to do stage two.”
“No–”
“Come on, Will, just something simple but effective. You could… Ha! I got it. After you take a shower, you come out but… only in a towel.”
Will nearly chokes on his soda. “No way. No way. After I get out of the shower, I’ll be a blubbering mess, not some seductive genius.”
Robin grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Come on, it’s perfect! We know that him doing that to you catches you off guard. So maybe it will catch him off guard.”
Vickie has this wicked grin when she’d adds, “Especially if you do it right.”
Will blinks. “Do what right?! And it only catches me off guard because I’m gay… and he isn’t. And catch him off guard, how? Like what, I just… stand there, wet, and make eye contact?”
“Better,” Vickie says, already plotting. “You walk out wearing that ridiculous towel you’ve got that he keeps stealing, but you don’t tie it properly. Let it hang just low enough to be distracting. Then, casually—like you’re not trying—start drying your hair with your hands, running your fingers through the damp strands.
Will’s face is flaming. “You’re insane.”
Robin cocks her head. “Exactly. That’s the point.”
Will’s mouth is dry, but he manages to squeak, “And then what? He’s supposed to just… make a move? What if he just stares awkwardly and backs away?”
Vickie chuckles. “Then you’re one step ahead. You’ve planted the seed.”
Robin snaps her fingers. “And the towel is key. It’s basically like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He’ll be totally off balance.”
Will’s heart is pounding so hard he wonders if Mike could hear it all the way in the kitchen. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Come on, Will, at least try," Robin says, giving him a pleading look. "you never know… maybe Mike has a thing for slightly awkward guys who can’t quite manage a seductive pose without looking like they’re about to trip over their own feet.”
Will groans, rubbing the back of his neck as heat rushed to his cheeks. “Yeah, great. I’ll be the awkward bullfighter waving a wet towel at a charging bull who thinks I’m a damn joke.”
Robin laughs, not missing a beat. “Exactly. But hey, if the bull falls for you anyway, that’s a win.”
Vickie grinned, leaning against the counter. “And if not, at least you get to embarrass yourself spectacularly. Which, let’s be honest, is half the fun.”
Will takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead, which somehow feels more terrifying than any Dungeons & Dragons campaign or shadowy Upside Down monster they ever faced.
He sighs, knowing they weren’t about to let this go. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Robin and Vickie exchange victorious grins, like they just won a prize fight without throwing a single punch.
“Good,” Robin says, clapping her hands together. “You’ll thank us later.”
Will can only hope she’s right.
They all go back to Mike, who is still sprawled across the couch, eyes glued to the static-filled VHS screen. His expression is soft but focused, lips moving slightly as he murmurs along with the dialogue—probably reciting lines he memorized long ago.
Robin and Vickie exchange a quick glance, then Robin nudges Will forward with a barely suppressed smirk.
“Don’t forget,” Robin whispers, voice low but teasing. “Stage two awaits.”
Will’s brain was officially on strike.
It’s been three days since then, and stage two is still waiting —like some ominous cliffhanger he was too terrified to face.
He’d rehearsed his “casual towel swagger” a dozen times in front of the cracked dorm-room mirror: the subtle hair toss, the “just out of the shower” blinking, the half-smile that said I’m chill but really screamed please don’t embarrass me . Every single attempt ended with him looking like a total idiot instead of anything remotely seductive. So here he was, three days later, stuck in the exact same place, still unable to follow through on stage two of the grand plan.
Because Mike Wheeler was still a walking catastrophe of distraction.
He couldn’t even look at the bathroom door without remembering the way Mike’s damp curls clung to his forehead like they had a life of their own, the careless way his towel hung low on his hips like some kind of invitation, and that stupid, casual brush of his hand drying his chest that had turned Will’s insides to jelly.
Every time Will tried to build up the nerve, the mental image of Mike—shirtless, dripping water, humming off-key—came crashing in and completely demolished everything.
He sighed, flopping face-first onto his bed and grabbing his sketchpad, hoping the soothing scribble of pencil on paper would steady his racing thoughts. It didn’t.
Mike’s antics weren’t helping. Just this morning, Will had walked into the kitchenette to find Mike humming in the shower, loudly enough to echo through their paper-thin walls. Mike’s voice cracked on a high note, and Will had pressed his ear to the door, heart pounding like a drumline on parade.
And then, Mike stepped out of the bathroom again, dripping and towel-clad, completely oblivious to the wildfire he left behind.
Will groaned, turning the page in his sketchpad, smudging another attempt at a “generic male figure” that looked more and more like Mike with every erased line.
Why can’t he just be normal?
But of course, “normal” didn’t include a Mike Wheeler who regularly hijacked his towels and turned their tiny dorm into a personal runway.
The day had stretched out in agonizing slow motion since then. Every glance at the bathroom door, every innocent brush of arms in the cramped hallways, felt like Mike was intentionally tossing another match onto Will’s smoldering nerves.
He even found a note from Robin and Vickie one day on his bed:
“Stage two is waiting, William. Time to get moving or we start drafting stage three without you.”
Will groaned, folding the note and shoving it into his jacket pocket.
They’re not going to let this go, are they?
The plan loomed over him like a mountain he wasn’t sure he could climb—especially when the mountain had an adorable, towel-wielding devil grinning at the summit.
And yet… somewhere deep down, Will knew this wasn’t just about the towel or the nerves. It was about finally stepping into a world where maybe, just maybe, Mike Wheeler wasn’t untouchable.
Maybe Will had an actual chance … or maybe Robin and Vickie were completely wrong, like he thought, and Mike will hate him forever.
But there was only one way to find out.
He was going to do it.
Tonight.
The boiling water hits him like bullets.
Will sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, pressing his palms against the cold tile wall of the shower, trying to stay upright, trying to think through the noise in his head. His heart is hammering so fast it feels like it’s outpacing the hot water, like maybe it’s going to explode and leave the rest of him slumped and steaming on the floor.
But he has to do it.
He promised himself.
And Mike will be here in no less than five minutes to make dinner—well, more like bring dinner.
The steam clouds the mirror when he finally steps out, towel slung low around his waist. The water drips down his neck, and he wipes his hands shakily on the edge of the ridiculously small towel— the one Mike keeps borrowing and basically claiming as his own. It’s still damp from his shower, the fabric heavy and a little clingy where it touches his skin. He’s still fighting the urge to hide from the whole plan Robin and Vickie have schemed up for him.
A plan that basically boils down to: walk around in a towel so Mike gets horny.
The thought alone makes Will’s cheeks burn bright enough to light the entire dorm hallway. But Robin and Vickie insisted. “You have to catch him off guard,” Robin had said, “ and that towel? It’s the key.”
Vickie had gotten this wicked grin when she’d added, “Especially if you do it right.”
What did that mean?! If he does what , right?!
He stares at himself in the mirror. Pink cheeks. Collarbones flushed from the heat. Nervous as hell. His towel wrapped loosely, just low enough to feel scandalous
He squeezes his eyes shut.
And then he hears the door open.
Fuck!
“Will, I’m back—and I got Chinese!” Mike’s voice rings out casual and bright, the door slamming shut behind him with a dull thud.
Will freezes, heart punching into his throat so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fly straight out of his mouth. He’s still standing in front of the fogged-up mirror, dripping wet, towel hanging way too low. His hair is flattened to one side, skin flushed and still glistening from the water, and he hasn’t moved. At all.
He looks… ridiculous.
But also—kind of hot?
He’s not sure, and this is a terrible idea.
Mike’s footsteps echo in the kitchen, sneakers squeaking softly on the cheap linoleum as he gets closer, a plastic bag rustling in one hand.
Just walk out there. Act normal. Act like he’s not everything.
It’s now or never.
Will slowly opens the door; Mike is still looking away, setting the food on the table.
Will barely snatches his sketchbook off his bed, using it as some makeshift shield in front of him as he stumbles towards Mike.
“Uh, I got your usual. They gave us extra fortune cookies.”
“Okay, thanks.” Will mumbles out.
His fingers tighten around the edges of the sketchbook, knuckles pale against the soaked cover. Water drips from his elbow as he steps further into the dorm room, every inch of his skin suddenly hyperaware—of the air, of his body, of Mike standing there, completely unaware of the silent earthquake happening behind him.
Mike’s back is to him, hunched slightly over the desk as he unpacks the food. He shrugs off his jacket one-handed and tosses it over the back of the chair like he always does, his hair messy and dark, curls fraying at the edges like they’d been tugged by wind or his own restless fingers.
Will swallows thickly. His throat clicks.
He knows how Mike moves. How he frowns a little when he’s focused. How his shoulder blades shift beneath his hoodie. He’s memorized all of it a hundred times over—but tonight, tonight is different. Tonight, Will is dripping wet in a towel, and Mike is five feet away, and Will can feel his own heart thudding behind his ribs like a second pulse.
He feels exposed. He feels naked. He is naked, technically.
Mike finally turns—and freezes.
His eyes lock on Will, and for a second, neither of them speak.
Will doesn’t breathe.
Mike blinks.
“Hi,” Mike whispers.
Just hi?
Well, at least he didn’t call Will disgusting and run out.
“Hi,” Will responds back.
Will shifts, his thighs brushing against each other where water still clings between them. The towel bunches slightly at his hip. He adjusts the sketchbook in front of him, like it might hide the tremble running down his spine.
“You, uh… showered,” Mike says, turning back to the food.
He’s breathing heavily?
Will lets out a shaky breath that could almost be a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, voice softer than he meant, “just now.”
“Cool.”
Will’s not sure what to think. Sure, Mike is acting a little weird, but that could be because of anything.
Will takes another slow step forward, sketchbook still clutched in front of him like armor, but his chest is fully exposed now. Bare, damp, skin pebbling slightly in the cooler air outside the bathroom. He’s so aware of it all—the way the towel is barely holding, the way his wet hair drips against his neck.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Mike mutters, hands twitching as he fumbles with the bag, like he can focus if he just does something . His voice sounds higher than normal, light, off-kilter in a way Will has only heard when Mike’s flustered—it… it almost looks like Mike is purposely trying not to make eye contact.
Okay, maybe that is a little weird. But still, Mike is probably just tired. It’s not like he’s full-on ogling Will.
“Starving,” Will responds back.
Mike’s hand pauses mid-reach for a napkin. His jaw twitches.
Will steps a little closer.
He lets the sketchbook drop to the table. Not hard—just… enough. Enough for it to make a soft, deliberate sound between them.
“Uh,” Mike mutters under his breath, “You—you should probably, um—get dressed. Before you get cold.”
Will licks his lips.
What is he doing?!
“I-I’m not cold,” he says.
Mike glances up.
And Will’s heart nearly stops.
Because Mike’s eyes are wide. Blown-out in a way Will’s never seen before. His gaze flickers—down Will’s chest, to the towel, then jerks away so fast it’s almost comical. His ears go bright red .
What. The. Fuck.
Did—did Mike just check him out?!
No! There’s no way in hell!
There’s no way Robin and Vickie were actually… right.
It was probably just a fluke—just something Will’s very gay brain made up.
Yeah, that’s definitely it. Mike is probably very uncomfortable right now. He’s obviously trying very hard not to look at Will’s very male naked body.
“Uh… we should eat now.” Mike clears his throat and sits down, staring at his food.
God— Will feels like an idiot. A…complete, ridiculous idiot.
Because what the hell is he doing? Walking around half-naked like this? Testing Mike like this? Hoping for… what, exactly? A confession? A kiss? Some kind of sign that Mike wants him too. Wants him… like that.
Mike barely even looked at him, and when he did , it was like his soul tried to evacuate his body from sheer discomfort. He isn’t like Will. He doesn’t stare at the boys in the locker rooms. At sleepovers. And he doesn’t get the shame that comes after.
Mike's eyes are back on his food, and Will's still standing there like a dripping, trembling disaster. His stomach twists. The towel slips slightly at his waist, and he scrambles to tighten it, burning.
“You’re right,” Will says quickly, grabbing the sketchbook again to press against his chest, hiding what little there is to hide. “I should get dressed.”
Mike doesn’t answer, just nods with his head down like he’s trying to pretend this whole thing never happened.
And Will wishes he could too.
It’s been three days, and Wil is pretty positive—no, he’s sure Mike is avoiding him.
He’s supposed to go to Robin and Vickie’s today—but instead, he’s sitting on the floor of his dorm with a half-eaten tub of ice cream in his lap and a pencil tucked behind his ear, pretending like he doesn’t care that Mike hasn’t talked or looked at him in three days.
Three days.
Three days since it happened.
Three days since Will stood there soaking wet in a towel and let himself believe—just for a second—that maybe, maybe Mike wanted him too.
That maybe he saw Will.
And now? Nothing.
Not a late-night talk about a D&D idea. Not a “did you take my hoodie again?. Mike isn’t even walking out of the shower with just a towel on anymore; it’s now usually paired with a t-shirt. Which, if Will is going to be honest, he’s missing it… a lot.
There’s just silence.
Will sighs, stabbing the now melted ice cream like they’re the reason his chest feels like it’s been wrung out. The sketchbook he’d used that night is lying face-down beside him, like even it can’t meet his eyes. He hasn’t touched it since.
There’s a knock on the door.
Will nearly drops the icecream—scrambling to get up and answer like an idiot before he even registers who it might be. His heart does this pathetic little thump in his chest.
He opens the door, and it’s Robin and Vickie.
Robin doesn’t even wait to be invited in. She breezes past him like she owns the place, tossing her messenger bag on the bed and flopping dramatically beside it.
Vickie follows more gently, giving Will an apologetic look as she slides the door closed behind her. “We come bearing snacks,” she offers, lifting a plastic bag filled with gas station candy and something that smells like sour cream and onion chips. “And also judgment.”
“Not judgment,” Robin corrects, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Just… disappointment. Very queer disappointment.”
Will blinks at them. “What did I do?”
Robin squints at him. “Will, you’ve been moping for three days. That is three days too long. You were supposed to get laid, or at the very least, fondled. Shirtless makeouts. Hot eye contact. You both get boners and at least dry-hump. Some kind of progress.”
Will gapes. “I—what—I tried! His voice breaks embarrassingly, high and cracked and raw.
Vickie’s curled up on the couch, big sweater sleeves half-covering her hands. “You need a hug, a slap, and a reality check,” she says sweetly. “Pick two.”
Will groans and flops down beside her.
Robin sits cross-legged on the floor, crunching loudly. “So. We’re all thinking about The Towel Incident.”
“Please don’t call it that.”
“But it was such a towel incident,” Vickie agrees, handing Will a mug. “Mike looked like someone had unplugged his brain.”
“He hasn’t talked to me,” Will says quietly, fingers curled around the mug. “Not once.”
Will stares into his tea like it might give him answers.
Robin frowns. “Okay, but he also didn’t, like, scream and run away. That means something.”
“No it doesn’t.” Will shakes his head. “It means he was uncomfortable. He probably thinks I was trying to seduce him or something insane.”
“…Weren’t you?” Vickie says, eating chips.
Will glares. “That’s not the point.”
“You think Mike Wheeler is suddenly avoiding you for three days straight after only seeing you with a towel on and nothing else, and didn’t get a boner? Please.” Vickie says gently.
Robin sits up straighter. “Look, here’s the thing—you can’t live the rest of your life assuming everyone is going to reject you. Mike is a mess, sure, but he’s not cruel. He wouldn’t shut you out unless something’s going on.”
Will’s quiet for a long time.
Then: “What if I ruined everything?”
Robin and Vickie exchange a look.
“You didn’t,” Vickie says. “But you’re never gonna find out if you keep hiding.”
“So. I have another plan!” Robin declares excitedly.
Will blinks. “Another plan?!”
Robin grins. “Plan to break the standoff, obviously. You’ve done the towel. Time for phase two.”
Will’s stomach flips. “There’s a phase two ?”
“There’s always a phase two,” Vickie says, spoon in her mouth. “And I’m thinking… movie night.”
Will frowns. “We already do movie night.”
“Exactly,” Vickie says smugly. “Routine is comfort. Comfort is disarming. You ask him to watch a movie like everything’s normal, sit a little closer than usual, stretch a little. Maybe wear one of his shirts this time.”
Robin raises her eyebrows. “No pants.”
“What?”
“No pants,” she says again. “Just the shirt. That one black one he likes with the holes in the collar. He’ll lose his mind.”
Will turns bright red . “You guys are evil .”
“Evil lesbians,” Robin corrects.
Vickie looks at her.
“Well, one lesbian and one bisexual.” She corrects.
“Which, by the way, is something Mike could be—” Robin says smugly.
Will sinks back into the carpet, heart pounding like it might never stop. “I can’t believe this is real life.”
“Oh, it’s real,” Robin says, digging into the snacks. “And by the end of tonight, so is your very gay, very overdue dorm hookup.”
Vickie hands him back the ice cream. “Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength.”
Will spends the rest of the afternoon spiraling in increments.
First, it’s the outfit . The infamous black shirt. He finds it balled up at the bottom of his laundry pile, and when he lifts it to his face, it still smells like Mike. Faintly like his shampoo—cheap, minty—and some weird cinnamon body spray he insists doesn’t count as cologne. Will almost chickens out and puts on a pair of pants. But then he thinks of Vickie’s dramatic sigh of defeat, and Robin’s deadpan “no pants,” and somehow that’s worse.
So now he’s wearing the shirt.
No pants.
Just boxers underneath and socks that don’t match, and every time he moves, the shirt rides up in ways that make him want to hide under the bed and scream into his hands.
He still needs to ask Mike to watch the movie. It’s 4:58, which means Mike’s writing class should be over in two minutes.
He stares at the clock like it’s personally threatening him.
4:59.
His stomach twists. He paces. Adjusts the shirt. Pulls it down, pulls it up, realizes that’s worse, then pulls it down again. The fabric clings in the wrong places. Or maybe the right ones. He’s not sure anymore. All he knows is that his thighs are cold and his heart is louder than it should be.
5:00.
He should be here in a few minutes.
The door opens.
Shit, has it already been five minutes?
He freezes mid-step, one hand yanking at the hem of his shirt as if that’ll somehow make it longer, more decent. His heart is in his throat. His mouth is dry. His knees feel like they’re about to give out.
Mike walks in.
He’s got his bag slung over one shoulder, his Walkman was still half-on, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s been fidgeting with them the whole way home. His hair’s a mess. His face is flushed from the summer heat.
And then he sees Will.
Stops dead in the doorway.
Will doesn’t say anything.
Mike doesn’t either.
He just stands there, blinking, eyes dragging down—down the length of Will’s bare thighs, the tiny shirt barely covering anything, down to the mismatched socks, then back up.
“Hey,” Will says, too quiet, like it’s not his own voice. His fingers twitch nervously at the hem of the shirt. “You, um… class okay?”
Mike blinks again. “Uh.” His voice cracks a little. “Yeah. Yeah, it was—what are you—?”
“I wanted to watch a movie,” Will says quickly, too quickly, like he’s just remembered the cover story.
He grabs the remote. “I was thinking Poltergeist.”
Mike blinks, then nods—soft, hesitant. “Uh—yeah. Sure. Classic.”
A pause.
Will feels like collapsing.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Cool.”
Mike lingers in the doorway of his own room, right across the hall. “Now or…” Mike says weakly, his voice uneven.
Will shrugs, trying and failing to look casual. “Now’s good.”
It’s not good. It’s terrifying. His hands are sweating, and his knees feel like they’re about to betray him. The hem of the shirt keeps shifting when he breathes, betraying more skin than he’d ever voluntarily show Mike under normal circumstances. But nothing about tonight is normal. He’s doing it—he’s really doing it—and Mike’s just standing there, still looking like he walked straight into a hallucination.
And then Mike moves.
He nods again, distracted, and slips fully into the room, dropping his bag by the desk with a clumsy thunk . He doesn’t sit down right away. He glances at the TV, then back at Will, then at the couch like it might answer whatever question is frying his brain.
“Poltergeist, huh?” he says, voice a little hoarse.
“Yeah,” Will says, willing his voice not to crack. “Unless you wanted something else—”
“No. No, that’s cool.” Mike clears his throat. “Totally cool.”
There’s a beat of silence. Mike finally sinks down onto the edge of the couch, fingers nervously toying with a loose thread on his pants. Will sets the movie up with shaking hands, every remote button click impossibly loud. He feels Mike’s eyes on him like heat, sharp and silent. When he finally joins him he also— chooses to sit on the couch, which is a terrible idea— it's definitely small, thanfully not as small as Robin and Vickie's but still, there’s only a thin throw blanket between them and full exposure.
Will pulls the covers halfway up his bare legs self-consciously and pretends the quiet isn’t unbearable. That the movie isn’t already playing and he can’t hear a single line because his heartbeat is so damn loud .
Mike shifts beside him. Just slightly. The couch creaks.
Will moves a little closer; Mike shifts again.
God, he probably thinks I’m disgusting.
Will grips the blanket a little tighter.
He doesn’t let himself look at Mike—not really. Just keeps his eyes pinned to the TV, where some poor girl is being dragged across the floor by a ghost, and honestly? That sounds easier than this . Then sitting here half-naked next to the boy he’s in love with, who hasn’t touched him or laughed with him or even looked at him properly in days.
This is the worst idea he’s ever had.
The blanket slips a little lower, and Will tugs it back up fast, jaw clenched. He’s mortified. He feels stupid. And most of all, he feels exposed —not just physically, but in that aching, too-vulnerable way he’s spent years avoiding.
Thirty minutes into the movie, and Will’s barely registered a single scene. He’s not even sure what’s happening anymore—there’s some eerie static on the TV, a creepy clown doll in the corner of the screen, and someone just screamed off-camera, but it may as well be muted. His brain is static too, white noise and panic and the unbearable heat radiating off Mike beside him.
He hasn’t moved much. Just sits there, stiff under the blanket, limbs tucked in close, pretending he’s watching. At least Mike’s not completely avoiding his touch now—at some point during the last twenty minutes, his knee started brushing Will’s. Just slightly. A faint graze of denim against bare skin, warm and electric. Will isn’t sure if Mike meant to do it. Maybe it’s just how they ended up. But Mike hasn’t moved away, either.
Will can’t breathe right.
His fingers twitch where they’re curled in his lap, and every time he shifts, the shirt rides up again. He’s never been more aware of his own body. Of how exposed he is. The way the hem keeps shifting over his thighs, the way his skin burns under the heat of Mike’s gaze—even when he isn’t looking, Will can feel it, can sense the tension building in the room like pressure before a storm.
He risks a glance sideways.
Mike’s got one hand loosely fisted in the blanket. His other is braced beside his thigh, fingers tapping in a nervous rhythm. His brows are furrowed like he’s trying hard to focus, but his jaw is tight and his leg is bouncing slightly. His lips are parted. His eyes flick to the screen, then to Will, and then away again in the span of a second.
He’s doing that thing again. Where he won’t quite look at Will.
Will’s throat is dry. He swallows hard and shifts slightly, letting his leg press more deliberately against Mike’s. There’s a beat of stillness. Then Mike glances down at the contact, then back up—finally meeting Will’s eyes, really meeting them—and everything tilts.
His expression is unreadable. Caught between panic and awe.
Will opens his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. His chest feels like it’s caving in.
Mike speaks first, voice rough and quiet. “Are you cold?”
It’s a stupid question. The room is warm. Will shakes his head slowly. “No.”
Mike nods, distracted. His gaze drops again—to Will’s thighs, the edge of the shirt—then darts up so fast it makes Will flinch.
“Okay,” Mike says, barely audible.
That’s it; he can’t do it anymore!
If he’s going to ruin his friendship with Mike, he might as well go all the way.
Will shifts, breath held tight in his throat, and lets the motion carry through his whole body—he stretches like he’s just getting comfortable, even though comfort is the last thing on his mind. The blanket slips. Not entirely by accident. It pools around his hips, and his shirt rides up high enough to expose a flash of pale stomach, the waistband of his boxers cutting sharply against his skin.
He takes a sneaky glance at Mike, because maybe by some miracle Mike will be looking at him, and it wasn’t just a fluke that day. That it wasn’t just a trick of his cruel mind.
Will turns all the way to Mike and…
Mike is frozen .
Completely still. Like he’s been caught in some kind of spell, his eyes glued to the narrow strip of skin now exposed between the hem of Will’s shirt and the top of his boxers. His mouth is slightly open. His breathing’s gone shallow. He’s not blinking.
Okay, now Will is certain he’s not imagining it.
Mike’s staring at him like he forgot how to look away.
Will’s pulse stutters. His mouth is dry. He swears he can feel the heat radiating off Mike’s gaze, burning across his stomach like a brand.
He should say something. Should laugh it off, or yank the blanket back up, or pretend it was all a mistake. But instead—
Instead, Will holds his breath and lets him look .
And then he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He takes Mike’s hand and presses it against the bare skin between his shirt and his boxers.
Will’s heart pounds so hard he thinks Mike might hear it through his palm. His fingers curl around Mike’s hand, holding it firmly but not too tight — like he’s anchoring himself as much as Mike.
Mike’s breath catches in a sharp, startled gasp. His eyes go impossibly wide, flickering between the bare skin beneath their hands and Will’s face.
“Will—” Mike starts, voice trembling, panic barely veiled behind a desperate need. “What—what are you—?”
Will cuts Mike off before he can finish, slamming his lips hard and fast against Mike’s. Mike makes a surprised muffled gasp.
Mike’s lips are perfect. Plump, pink, slightly chapped. Will presses firmly, searching, needing; the slight scrape of Mike’s stubble against his own sending a jolt straight to his dick. He tastes the faint saltiness of sweat mixed with the faint mint of Mike’s shampoo—familiar, intoxicating.
Will’s hands tighten on Mike’s wrist, grounding him. He can feel Mike’s breath hitching, shaky and uneven. He leans in more, grabbing Mike’s hair.
For a long, heavy moment, Mike doesn’t respond. In fact, he doesn’t think Mike's kissing back… at all. Then, suddenly, Mike pulls back, his eyes wide and searching, panic flashing across his face.
“Will! Stop.” Mike breathes, voice rough, trembling, eyebrows arched. “I’m not—and you’re not— this isn’t—”
Oh God.
Will’s going to barf.
What the fuck did he just do?!
Will pulls back instantly “S-shit! I—I’m sorry, I thought—because you were— fuck. ”
His eyes began to water. What did he do?! He knew Mike was straight, but he just had to listen to Robin and Vickie.
His friendship with Mike is ruined forever because he couldn’t keep his stupid, horny heart in check.
Because he had to go and touch him, kiss him, throw everything into the fire like a fucking idiot.
Mike’s hand is still half-suspended in the air, like it doesn’t know where to go now that it’s not anchored to Will’s skin. He’s blinking fast, his breath still stuttering in and out like he’s been running. Will stumbles back onto his side of the couch, curling his arms around his knees like a shield, stomach lurching violently.
“I swear I wasn’t—I thought you wanted—” Will chokes, shaking his head, already looking for his bag, his shoes, an escape hatch . “You were staring, and you—God, I’m so fucking dumb, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Will.”
Mike’s voice is tight. Too tight. Not angry, but… scared?
Will freezes, every muscle coiled and buzzing, like he’s about to be struck.
“You thought I wanted that?” Mike asks, softer this time. He’s still looking at Will, eyes round and unreadable and wet.
Will can’t answer. He nods—barely. And even that feels humiliating.
His lip trembles. His throat is tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
“You—” Mike swallows hard, and then he moves. Slowly, carefully, like Will’s a scared animal. “You thought I wanted to touch you?”
Will squeezes his eyes shut.
“Yes. ” The word comes out cracked and small, but it’s all he has.
“But… you’re straight.” Mike’s voice breaks on the word, like it doesn’t fit in his mouth anymore. Like he’s saying it just to hear how wrong it sounds. He blinks again, slowly this time, his brows drawn tight, chest rising like he’s trying to catch up to himself.
Will look at him with tears in his eyes. His body is crawling with heat and humiliation. Every heartbeat feels like a punch behind his eyes.
“I’m not Mike,” Will whispers.
Mike flinches—just barely—but enough that Will sees it.
He swallows. Blinks again. His lashes are wet. His fingers are twitching where they’ve fallen to his lap, like they’re remembering something they almost did.
“You’re not what?” Mike says. Barely a sound. He’s looking at Will like the words might shatter him.
Will almost doesn’t answer. But what’s left to protect?
“I’m not straight,” he says. Quiet but clear.
“I… I don’t think I am either. ” Mike’s voice cracks on the last word, but the whole thing was said through tears.
Will’s breath catches in his chest.
For a second, all he can hear is the blood in his ears, the ragged pulse of something breaking loose inside him. Not his heart—it’s already in pieces—but something deeper. A belief. A fear. A truth he’s carried like a bruise for years.
“You’re not…” Will repeats, blinking through the haze. “You’re not straight?”
Mike shakes his head. He looks like he’s in pain. His eyes flick down to his lap, to his hands that won’t stay still. Then up again, desperate. “I don’t know what I am. I just—when you kissed me, it felt amazing.”
“But…you stopped me,” Will says, a fragile, bitter thread in his voice. “You told me to stop.”
“I panicked!” Mike snaps—then winces at his own volume. “I didn’t mean—I was scared, Will, okay? You touched me, and I’ve wanted that—I’ve thought about that, but I didn’t think you’d ever— God, I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me like that.”
Will stares. “You wanted me to touch you?”
Mike exhales like he’s just been caught. “Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck. Yes. All week. All month. Probably for longer than I even realized. You were sitting next to me in that towel and your fucking hair was wet and your thigh was touching mine and I thought I was going to lose it. I was already hard and trying to think about baseball stats or—fucking Vecna, I don’t know— anything to not just grab you.”
Will makes a broken sound in his throat, like he doesn’t know whether to sob or laugh. “Then why did you stop me?”
“Because it’s you!” Mike explodes. “Because I’m so scared to want you like this. To ruin everything. I’ve wanted to do things— horrible things—to you since you got here, and I thought I was losing my mind. I still think I’m losing my mind.”
All Will can say is this: “What horrible things do you want to do to me?”
Mike’s mouth drops open like he wasn’t expecting that—like he wasn’t expecting Will to say any of it out loud, like the words just tore themselves from his chest and threw themselves at Mike’s feet.
Will is still curled up, knees to his chest, heart ricocheting inside him like a trapped bird. But his voice—his voice is calm now. Quiet. Dangerous.
“What horrible things do you want to do to me?”
Mike stares at him. Blinks. His lips part like he’s going to speak, then shut again. His hands drag down his face. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, breathless.
Will doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. He’s trembling, but not retreating. And Mike—Mike looks like he’s unraveling.
“Tell me,” Will says. His eyes are dark, intense, horny , his voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
“I want to push you back against the couch,” he says finally, each word a trembling whisper. “I want to crawl on top of you and kiss you until you can’t think. I want to grind against you so hard you’ll still feel it tomorrow.”
Will’s breath catches in his throat. He’s stunned, paralyzed—but he doesn’t look away.
“I want to hear the noises you make when I’m inside you,” Mike goes on, quieter now, like the air between them has gotten too tight. “I want to feel how hard you get. I want to know what it’s like when you fall apart because of me.”
He stops, eyes wide. Like he’s just realized everything he’s said.
And Will—Will is shaking, but not with fear. Not anymore.
“You should do it then,” he says softly, voice breaking just slightly at the edges. “If you want to. You should.”
Mike doesn’t move.
Will leans forward, almost imperceptibly, the space between them charged like a live wire.
“I won’t stop you.”
Mike’s hands are on Will before he even realizes it—before either of them can take back what they said. His mouth crashes into Will’s with a force that feels like weeks, months, years of pent-up heat finally detonating between them. There’s nothing soft about it—not at first. It's messy and unpracticed and desperate, all teeth and lips and the ragged sound of their breathing.
Will gasps against Mike’s mouth, hands clutching at his shoulders like he’s falling, like he’ll shatter if he lets go. Mike cups the back of Will’s head, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a little until Will whines into his mouth. The sound goes straight to Mike’s cock.
Mike pulls Will on top of him, causing Will to straddle him now.
Will gasps, startled by the shift, but he doesn’t fight it—not even close. He settles over Mike’s lap, knees pressed into the couch on either side, his whole body flushed and trembling. Mike’s hands are on his waist now, gripping tight, like he’s terrified Will might disappear if he lets go.
“You okay?” Mike whispers, voice hoarse.
Will nods, barely, eyes wide and dazed. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Just—keep going.”
Mike groans low in his throat and surges up to kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands slide under Will’s shirt, palms hot against his bare skin, fingers tracing up his spine. Will shivers, his hips shifting instinctively, grinding down against Mike— and then freezing, gasping, because he feels it . Mike’s hard beneath him. So hard. And Will’s not any better off.
“Fuck,” Mike mutters against his mouth. “You feel— Jesus, Will—”
Will’s hips twitch again, and this time he does it on purpose . Just to see what it does to Mike. The answer is everything .
Mike’s head drops back against the pillow with a desperate groan.
“Oh my God.”
Will’s thin boxers do nothing to hide how hard he is. Mike’s sweats are damp at the front, stretched tight over the bulge pressing right up against Will’s. Every little shift between them drags their cocks together, separated by just two pathetic layers—well, one for Will of fabric that feels increasingly useless by the second.
Mike’s eyes flutter shut, mouth parted, sweat beading at his hairline. “Shit—Will—don’t stop—”
Will doesn’t. He can’t. He rocks forward again, gasping as his cock slides against Mike’s through the fabric. There’s no rhythm, just instinct—heat, ache, need. He braces himself with one hand on Mike’s chest, fingers splaying over the fast rise and fall of it, and the other tangling in Mike’s hair as he leans down to kiss him, harder this time.
Mike’s hands travel up Will’s back, shoving his shirt up in the process until it’s bunched under his arms. Will sits up slightly, pulling it off over his head in one quick, trembling motion.
“Yours too,” Will pants, breathless, staring down at Mike like he’s starving.
Mike doesn’t hesitate. He yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Will’s eyes rake over him—pale skin flushed, chest rising and falling fast, and that sharp collarbone—Will bounces his dick harder against Mike’s.
“F-fuck,” Mike whispers, like it’s the only thing he knows how to say anymore. His hands dig into Will’s hips as they grind together, harder now, faster, cocks dragging against each other with maddening friction.
“Will—can we go to… the bed?” Mike gasps, voice breaking on the last word, like he’s not sure he can last long enough to make it there.
Will doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
And that’s all it takes.
Mike surges upright, arms wrapping around Will as he stands, lifting him off the couch in one frantic motion. Will’s legs wrap around Mike’s waist automatically, his arms tightening around Mike’s neck. Their mouths stay close, breathing each other in. Mike nearly stumbles on the way to his room, but he doesn’t stop—not even when Will presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, his neck, whispering things like please , God, and Mike.
The door hits the wall when Mike kicks it open. He doesn’t even bother closing it. He crosses the room in a few messy, unsteady steps, and then Will’s back hits the mattress with a gasp, Mike following him down instantly, bracing himself over Will with one hand as the other cups his cheek.
For a second, they just look at each other.
Both of them flushed, wrecked already—lips red and spit-slick, pupils blown wide. Will’s hair is a mess. Mike’s chest is rising and falling like he just ran ten miles. And Will—Will looks at him like he’s something out of a dream. Or maybe like he’s terrified this is one.
Then he kisses him again, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that makes Will’s toes curl. Mike’s hand slides down, ghosting over Will’s chest, his stomach, until it finds the waistband of his boxers.
Will shudders. “Yes,” he says again, already lifting his hips.
Mike smiles. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Will bites his lip, his voice already breaking. “I don’t care.”
Mike breathes out a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, then leans in again, brushing his lips over Will’s like he can’t bear to stop touching him for even a second. “You’re—God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, fingers dipping just under the waistband now, teasing.
Mike slides them down—slow, reverent. Will’s cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and Mike has to stop, has to look. He breathes out something like a whimper. “Will…”
“Fuck,” Mike whispers, “You’re so hard.”
Will nods helplessly, eyes fluttering shut.
“I—I know.”
Then Mike reaches down to tug his pants lower, just enough to relieve the pressure. His cock aching hard, straining against the fabric. There’s a wet spot on the boxers. He grinds down against Will once, just to feel it—bare skin to boxers now, hot and slick and too much and not enough.
Will gasps, clutching at Mike’s sides. “Do that again.”
Mike doesn’t need to be told twice. He does it again—grinding slow and hard, letting their leaking cocks rub together through the thin fabric.
Will moans. “God—Mike—”
“Yeah,” Mike pants, rutting against him now, desperate and breathless. “I know. I know.”
Their movements grow more erratic, their hips chasing friction like they’ll die without it. Will’s legs fall open wider, wrapping around Mike’s waist again, dragging him closer. Mike ducks his head, mouthing at Will’s throat, sucking until he leaves a mark.
Will’s bare cock presses urgently against Mike’s boxers, but it’s not enough. He needs more— more skin, more heat, more contact. Without hesitation, his hands slide down Mike’s sides, gripping the waistband of Mike’s boxers and tugging them down slowly, deliberately, until Mike’s cock is freed, flushed and hard and leaking, resting against Will’s bare skin. There was that bunch of dark brown hair Will saw earlier. The hair he wanted to touch so bad.
So he does.
Will reaches for Mike’s pubes; they were wiry but oh so soft.
“Will—”
Will looks up at Mike; he has a pleading look on his face.
He looks back at Mike’s cock. It’s very long and thick, pale with a pink tip that’s leaking. Blue veins run down the sides.
Mike’s breath hitches as Will’s fingers finally close around him. Mike’s cock feels amazing in his hand; he flicks the pre-come off of Mike’s tip, causing Mike to moan.
He continues to jerk Mike off, and then suddenly he feels Mike's hands cup his ass. He was opening the checks slowly, causing Will to pant softly. He squeezes Will’s ass harder.
“God—Will, can I?” Mike asks nervously.
“What?” Will responds, confused.
“Can I—” Mike doesn’t finish his sentence, and all of a sudden, Will can feel Mike’s fingers begin to slide between his cheeks, teasing along the cleft of Will’s ass.
“Yes, God, please—,” Will begs.
Mike spits in his hand and begins to circle his entrance. His own grip on Mike’s cock tightens reflexively, stroking him faster, harder. Mike’s hips surge forward, fucking into the tight channel of Will’s fist.
Mike’s finger begins to penetrate Will’s tight hole.
“Ahh—” Will gasps. It feels so good.
Mike freezes, just for a second, breathing hard. “Do you want me to stop?” Mike asks softly, terrified, reverent. His hand stills, trembling where it rests right at the entrance of Will’s hole.
Will stares up at him, cheeks flushed, lips red and parted. He nods—just once—then catches himself, whispering instead, “No, keep going.”
Mike shifts above him, their bodies sliding together, bare skin on bare skin, everything hot and sensitive and raw. Their cocks bump and drag again, slick with need, and Will moans into the kiss, his whole body trembling.
Mike goes in deeper; his wall is wet with Mike’s spit. Will tightens around Mike’s finger, his walls clenching.
Will gasps—eyes fluttering shut, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from his chest. Mike’s fingers are slow, unsure, but warm. Every tentative motion sends sparks across Will’s skin, heat blooming at the base of his spine. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and shaky and a little awkward—but it’s them. And it’s real.
Mike’s forehead presses against Will’s shoulder. His breath is ragged. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his voice trembling like he’s afraid to be doing this wrong, afraid to break whatever fragile thing is finally happening between them.
Will doesn’t answer right away. He can’t. He’s too overwhelmed—by the way Mike touches him, by the way Mike is looking at him now, like Will is something sacred. Something worth waiting for.
“You’re not gonna break me,” Will murmurs, voice hoarse. He turns and kisses Mike—messy and deep, all teeth and tongue and desperation. “Just—don’t stop.”
Mike’s response is a groan, muffled against Will’s lips. His hands tighten their grip, one steadying Will’s hip, the other still teasing with growing confidence. Will’s head drops back, mouth open on a shaky breath.
Mike increases his speed and spits more onto his finger.
“Can I add a second one?” Mike moans.
“Yes.” Will responds back, arching up.
Mike adds a second finger to Will’s hole, stretching him out even more.
And then Mike directly hit his prostate.
“Oh fuck!” Will moans, loudly.
“Mike, there again—hit it again!” He begs, grinding back on Mike’s finger.
And Mike does.
God, Will definitely does not regret Robin and Vickie’s plan right now.
Will starts to feel pressure in his stomach. “Mike now. I—please fuck me now!”
Mike pulls his fingers out and immediately replaces them with his hard cock.
The tip of Mike’s cock fills Will’s rim; his hole clenches around it, causing both of them to moan.
Mike slowly slides in all the way, breathing heavily as he savors the tight, wet clench of Will’s hole around his cock. Will can feel every throbbing inch of him, stretching him in a way that’s almost too much but so perfectly perfect.
Mike starts to move, pulling out slowly until the tip remains inside, before slamming back in with a snap of his hips. “Fuck, Will…” Mike pants.
Will gasps, back arching off the bed.
“Mike…fuck…harder…” Will beg, wrapping his legs around Mike’s waist, urging him deeper, faster.
Mike grinds harder now, his cock throbbing. Will clings to Mike’s shoulders, fingers digging into them as he splits open on Mike’s cock.
Their moves become sloppy, and Will feels the same pressure in his chest from before.
“Fuck Mike. I’m gonna—”
Will’s sentence cuts off in a moan as his whole body tenses, the pressure inside him cresting, almost unbearable. He clutches at Mike, burying his face in his shoulder as his release hits—hard, sudden, overwhelming. It steals the breath from his lungs.
Mike groans at the feel of it—Will clenching around him, pulsing through his orgasm—and it pushes him right over the edge too. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills, buried deep, his mouth open against Will’s neck as he gasps and shudders and lets go.
They stay like that for a moment—bodies pressed close, slick skin against skin, their breathing loud and uneven in the quiet room.
Eventually, Mike speaks, voice soft and raw against Will’s ear. “You okay?”
Will nods, arms still wrapped around him. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Better than okay.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Mike lets out a breathless laugh and presses a kiss to Will’s temple. “Good. ’Cause I think I forgot how to breathe there for a second.”
Will snorts, burying his face deeper into Mike’s neck. “Yeah. Me too.”
Mike slowly closes his eyes, and Robin and Vickie will definitely be hearing about this in the morning.