Chapter Text
|
Will’s mouth curves before he can stop it. It’s small at first, then it spreads, slow and delighted with this new information. “Mike,” he says, testing it. Mike’s jaw tightens immediately. His eyes flick to Will’s mouth, then back up, irritation flashing there, sharp and almost fond, like he doesn’t like that this feels good. He definitely doesn’t like that Will knows his name now. “Don’t,” he says, low, warning threaded through the roughness. Will grins wider. “Relax,” he murmurs, still pinned, still warm, still very pleased with himself. “Mike.” Mike exhales through his nose, annoyed, flustered, clearly recalculating. His hand finally drops from Will’s waist, but not far. Never far. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Great. You got my name.” He looks Will over once more—“MIKE! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!!” Mike flinches this time. Not much, but enough. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, tipping his head back so it thuds lightly against the door. His hand lifts, scrubbing down his face like he’s trying to wipe the moment off him. Like that’ll work. “WHEELER,” the voice insists, louder now. “I swear to god, if you’re dead—” “I’m ALIVE!” Mike snaps back, sharp and irritated. “Give me a fucking second.” Silence. Muffled footsteps retreating. A door slams somewhere down the hall. Mike exhales. Long. Slow. Controlled. He opens his eyes again and immediately regrets it, because Will is still right there in front of him, flushed, grin bright and unrepentant. Worse: Will looks entertained. “Wheeler,” Will says, tasting it the way he did Mike’s name. Curious. Farr too pleased. “That’s you?” Mike’s eyes narrow. “No.” “Mike Wheeler,” Will says, and he can’t stop smiling now. Victory, amusement, heat—it's written all over his face. “You yell at people like that often, or am I special?” Mike huffs out a laugh despite himself. Short. Disbelieving. His gaze drops, takes in the curve of Will’s mouth, the faint flush on his throat, the place where his own hand had been not two seconds ago. “You’re very close to getting thrown out of my room.” Will tilts his head. “You gonna do it?” He pokes a finger deliberately against Mike’s chest, imagining it as a gentle pat to the devil on his t-shirt. Mike’s jaw tightens. He swallows hard, realizing Will is finally touching him back. His eyes darken—something greedy, restrained, fighting for control. “No,” he admits. That seems to surprise them both. Another knock, lighter this time. A stage whisper through the door. “Dude, seriously. It’s on the rug.” Mike groans, tipping his head back for half a second before leaning in and pressing his forehead briefly to Will’s. Not accidental. Not gentle enough to mean nothing. “Don’t move,” he says quietly. Then, decisively, he grabs Will by the hips and pushes. Will stumbles back, knees hitting the edge of the bed before he falls onto it, breath knocking loose in a startled laugh. Mike turns immediately, swiping stacks of comics off the mattress and onto the desk and floor in one irritated sweep. “Stay,” Mike says, sharp. Seriously, like it matters. “Don’t go anywhere.” Will blinks up at him, sprawled on the bed, shirt crooked, pulse still racing. “Sure.” “And don’t touch anything.” Mike shoots him a look that promises consequences later, then moves for the door. He unlocks it quickly, opens it just enough to slip through, glancing once over his shoulder, checking Will is still where he left him, before pulling it shut quickly behind him. Firm. Final. Like he doesn’t want anyone else knowing he let someone into this room. The door clicks, and outside, the muffled pulse of a party presses against the walls—top 2000’s hits thumping, laughter and shouts drifting through the hallway. Will exhales. He sits up slowly, looking around. The room is a mess in the most personal way possible, comics everywhere. Stacked, scattered, some carefully bagged, others clearly read to death. Posters half-taped to the walls. A nightstand crowded with figures and empty monster and fizzy drink cans, loose change. Wheeler had been very serious about him not touching anything. Byler lasts maybe.. ten seconds. He reaches for the nearest comic, flipping it open carefully, like he’s handling evidence. The margins are worn. A corner wilted. There’s a faint crease where someone’s clearly reread the same page more than once. Yeah. This explains a lot. He’s just about to put it back when his eyes drift toward the desk. The vodka bottle sits there, exactly where Mike left it. Right beside it: a foil packet. Then another. XL. Will blinks, closing the comic with exaggerated care and sets the comic back exactly where he found it, aligning the spine with unnecessary precision, like that somehow makes up for the crime of curiosity. He does not touch the condoms. But he does notice them. His gaze drifts instead to safer things. Ish. There’s a desk chair with a hoodie slung over the back, sleeves stretched and soft-looking, like it gets worn more than washed. A backpack dumped half-open on the floor, notebooks spilling out. A pencil case unzipped, pens everywhere, one snapped clean in half. Will smiles despite himself. There’s something intimate about it. Not in a polished way, just… honest. A room that belongs to someone who doesn’t expect company, who doesn’t curate. Someone who reads until the pages bend, who forgets cups on his desk, who locks his door like it’s a vault. Will wanders closer to the shelves, hands tucked safely in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. The comics aren’t random. They’re grouped by series, by artist, by something that makes sense to Mike Wheeler’s brain even if it doesn’t immediately to Will. There are sticky notes poking out of a few, little handwritten labels in sharp, slanted handwriting. don’t lend Variant reprint—trash ending Will huffs a quiet laugh. On the wall above the bed there’s a poster that’s half peeled off, the tape yellowed with age. Something sci-fi. Something intense. Someone brooding with a sword and shield. Will tilts his head, studying the wizard with a purple cape next to him. “Wizards,” he murmurs to absolutely no one. The bed itself is barely made, sheet wrinkled, comforter kicked halfway off like Mike left it in a hurry. Will sits on the edge carefully, like the mattress might tattle on him. It dips under his weight, soft, warm, still holding the impression of someone else. That gets him. He leans back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling, breathing in air that smells faintly like laundry detergent, alcohol and cola. It feels weirdly grounding, like stepping into someone’s head without being invited. Will checks the door. Still closed. Louder music pumping outside now, muffled laughter and cheers drifting down the hallway. He should stay put. He will stay put. But then his eyes catch on something tucked half-under the bed: a sketchbook. Black cover. Elastic band snapped. Will hesitates. He nudges it out with his foot instead of his hands. Technicality. Inside are drawings. Rough, expressive. Panels reimagined. Characters mid-motion, faces intense, familiar. Some original stuff too, designs, scenes, ideas scrawled in margins with arrows and notes. It’s good. Like, really good. Will’s chest tightens a little. Of course it is. He’s so absorbed he almost misses the sound of feet running outside the door. Almost. Will snaps the sketchbook shut, slides it back under the bed with his foot, and straightens just as the lock clicks again. He’s back on the edge of the bed. Hands visible. Innocent. Mostly. The door opens. Mike steps inside, and freezes when he sees Will sitting there, surrounded by his mess, his comics, his space. Their eyes meet. For a beat, neither of them says anything. Mike closes the door behind him slowly, deliberately. His eyes narrow, then flick down. He grabs the vodka bottle from the desk in one smooth motion and just as casually sweeps the XL condoms into his other hand. Not hiding it or trying to be subtle. Will swallows, heat rising. Mike steps toward the bed, and he’s already leaning in, teeth nipping at Will’s bottom lip, claiming it. Will’s breath hitches, and instinctively he leans back. Only… the bed is pushed against the wall. There’s nowhere to go. Mike leans in, weight solid and unrelenting, and suddenly it feels like he belongs here. Not just in the room, but part of it. Like the scattered comics, the crooked posters, the nightstand clutter, they’re extensions of him. Every move is confident, calibrated, and he presses Will insistently against the wall at the head of the bed, knees bending on the blankets as he angles closer. Warmth, weight, solid pressure. Will’s hands fly up to push at him, but it’s a pathetic attempt. Mike’s grip is greedy, and he keeps him pinned without force, coaxing obedience. At the same time, another hand slips under Will’s rugby top, palm spreading warm against his side, thumbs brushing, teasing along his ribs until Will shudders. Then Mike’s thigh nudges forward, grinding lightly against his own. It’s subtle, but it carries a clear intent, one that has Will’s brain painfully aware of his own growing boner. He tries to focus, tries to think, but Mike’s teeth are in his mouth, and his hands are sliding everywhere. The bed creaks. Blankets twist. “You touch anything?” Mike asks, pulling back just enough for a thin, obscene line of saliva to stretch between their jaws, between Mike’s tongue and Will’s lower lip, trembling before it snaps. Will is still pinned to the wall, spine pressed flat, shoulders boxed in by Mike’s arms. There’s nowhere for him to go but up, chin tilted helplessly, breath knocked loose from his chest. His ribs brush the cool plaster every time Mike shifts closer, like the room itself is holding him there. Will’s chest heaves. His gaze catches helplessly on Mike’s mouth. On the slow drag of his tongue as he wets his lips, the piercing glinting silver in the spill of moonlight from the window. It looks wicked. Will’s still catching his breath, voice wrecked as his body leans forward even as Mike’s mouth pulls away. “Define touch.” |