Chapter 1: Careful
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This party sets the mood for bad decisions the second Will steps inside. Heat slams into him, too many bodies, too much bass, neon lights flickering like they’re trying to drown him. Someone presses a red plastic cup into his hand before he can say no, and he drinks out of reflex. It tastes like cheap vodka and worse judgment. He’s only here to prove something. That he’s normal. Social. A college student who goes to college parties and doesn’t immediately want to crawl out of his own skin. Then, him. The guy is sprawled on a couch that’s seen better days in one of the darker back rooms, like the party is a distant rumor. Long, dark curls falling into his face, unbrushed in a way that feels deliberate. Not lazy, careless. Like he knows it looks good and refuses to fix it out of principle. His band or some kind of club shirt hangs off his skinny frame, loose but lived-in, collarbone visible when he shifts. A vape rests between his fingers, veins faint but there, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. And in his lap, a comic book. Will actually stops. The room stinks of alcohol, drunk laughter, grinding sweaty bodies, and someone yelling lyrics off-key, but this guy is sealed off from it. White earbuds in. Shoulders hunched. Eyes tracking the page with total focus, mouth twitching like he’s reacting to something funny, or sharp, or devastating. Will stares. Then panics and looks away. He immediately relocates. To the far side of the room. Then farther. Then behind a group of pretentious wanna-be famous people he does not know. He avoids eye contact like the guy has noticed him, which is ridiculous, because the guy hasn’t lifted his eyes once. Get a grip, Byers! He refills his cup to give his hands something to do. But when he glances up, his peripheral vision just has to fuck with his mental health. Comic book guy is there again. Across the room. Not looking at him. Still reading. Still hot. Still vaping like he owns Will’s oxygen. Byer’s drags his eyes away and scolds himself, sharply, that this is stupid. He’s not being followed. The guy hasn’t even looked up once. He’s just there. He’s just getting snacks! Which he is. The guy pauses at the table, flips a page with his thumb, slow, practiced, like he knows exactly how annoying and nerdy it is, then reaches out and grabs a handful of chips without breaking focus. Long sleeves shoved up just enough to expose his forearms. Veins faint, wrist flexing as he turns the page again. The audacity. Will exhales through his nose, mortified, and smooths a hand down the front of his own button up like that might ground him. He’d put effort in tonight, accidentally, but still. It’s not like he intentionally came here for a post-exam shag. It’s not like he specifically picked a striped rugby top that clings in the right places, sleeves tight around his arms, worn-in jeans sitting low on his hips. And it’s just coincidence his hair’s behaving for once, falling into his eyes instead of frizzing out like the old fuckass bowl cut he had when he was twelve. He’s warm, flushed, sleeves riding up just enough when he moves. Will realizes, too late, that he’s walking toward the punch table. He reaches boldly for the vodka bottle, intent on pouring himself something strong enough to reset his brain—and suddenly, his wrist is caught. Warm fingers. Firm. Veiny. Will freezes. The guy finally lifts his eyes from the comic, not fully, just enough to take Will in by pieces. His gaze drops to Will’s arm first. The grip on his wrist shifts, thumb brushing the soft inside like he’s testing something. Like he’s allowed to touch him. Will’s brain instantly produces a mental sticky note—veiny hands—then panics, crumples it, throws it into the recycling bin in his head, sets the bin on fire, and pretends none of this is happening. “Careful,” the guy says. His voice is low. Close. The word feels less like a warning and more like a suggestion. His eyes trace upward, slow and unapologetic, over Will’s forearm, the sleeve stretched tight around his bicep, before finally meeting his gaze. There’s a pause. A beat too long to be accidental. Something flickers there. Interest. Appreciation. Hunger, maybe. And up close, it’s worse. He’s devastating. A sharp jaw softened by shadow, lashes too dark to be fair, eyes steady and curious with a hint of amusement underneath. The kind of face that knows exactly what it’s doing to people and doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. His arm brushes Will’s as he reaches past him, close enough that Will can feel the heat of him through fabric. He plucks the vodka bottle from Will’s hand like it was never Will’s to begin with. “Mine,” he says, perfectly serious. Then, without breaking eye contact, he turns away, bottle in hand, comic already open again with the other. Gone. Still reading. “What the hell,” Will mutters. He follows before he can talk himself out of it. The guy disappears down the hallway and into a bedroom. His bedroom, apparently, because when Will peers inside, there are comics everywhere. Stacked on shelves. Spilled across the desk. Littering the floor like evidence of a personality crime. Will leans against the doorframe, taking it in. He should be unimpressed. He isn’t. The guy isn’t reading anymore. He's pulled his earbuds out too. He closes the comic slowly, sets it aside, then tips the bottle back and drinks straight from it. No hesitation. No flinch. Will watches his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and realizing quickly that he is in very, serious trouble. When the guy finally notices him, he just stares. A little dazed. Maybe surprised, maybe not. Will lifts his plastic cup and tips it slightly, wordless. Empty. An accusation. The guy stands. Yeah. He’s tall. Will registers it properly now. Tall enough that when he approaches, slow, unhurried, eyes still fixed on Will, it feels intentional. He plants one arm above Will’s head against the doorframe, invading his space like he belongs there. Like Will has always been expected to end up exactly here. He tips the bottle and pours vodka into Will’s cup without breaking eye contact. Will doesn’t look away either, and the room feels suddenly airless, heat crawling up his spine like the bedroom’s turned into a sauna. The stream stops halfway. The guy glances at the cup, then back at Will—decisive, knowing. Like he’s already figured out Will’s limits and adjusted accordingly, deciding Will couldn’t handle a full one. Will notices the guy’s gaze dip—just briefly—to his belt. He shifts instinctively, lifting the cup just enough to block the slow advance of the guy’s hips towards his. The guy exhales, amused. His breath brushes Will’s face, warm, sweet, faintly carbonated. Cola-flavoured, maybe. “Relax,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that their noses almost touch. “You look like you’re about to bolt.” |
Chapter 2: Spill
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Will doesn’t move away. That feels important. The guy’s arm stays braced above his head, close enough that Will can feel the heat of him, smell the faint sweetness of the vape clinging to his clothes. He straightens just enough to bring the bottle back into view, and instead of lifting it, he lets the glass tap lightly against Will’s hip. Once. It’s not an accident. Will’s breath catches despite himself. His belt sits low on his waist, leather against dark denim, and he becomes abruptly, painfully aware of it, of how close it is to everything else. The guy’s eyes dip again, slower this time, unapologetic. They linger there like he’s already mapped the motion in his head, like he’s already practiced undoing it. Tap. Again. “You’re gonna spill,” Will says. A corner of the guy’s mouth lifts. “Am I?” He taps the bottle once more, right at the edge of Will’s belt buckle. Not hard. Just enough to feel testing. Will shifts, restless, and the movement draws the guy’s attention back up, eyes flicking to Will’s mouth now, then back to his eyes, like he’s comparing notes. “You always this tense?” Will laughs, a short, breathless sound. “You—” He stops, swallows. “You took my drink.” “Ahh correction,” the guy says easily. “I shared my drink.” He lifts the bottle, takes another sip, then lowers it again without breaking eye contact. This time, instead of tapping Will’s belt, he hooks one finger briefly into the edge of it, barely there. Gone almost immediately. Will’s spine goes rigid. The guy notices. Of course he does. His smile turns softer. More dangerous. “Chill,” he repeats, quieter now. “I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want.” Will meets his gaze, “And how would you know what I want?” For a second, the guy just looks at him. Like, really looks. “Because,” he says, tapping the bottle gently against Will’s belt one last time, “you’d have moved already.” The music thumps through the walls. Someone laughs down the hall. The party keeps going, oblivious. Will doesn’t move. Someone yells down the corridor, loud and incoherent. The kind of drunk shout that echoes and makes everyone flinch on instinct where laughter follows, uneven footsteps and a door slams. Will startles just enough to break whatever fragile, charged bubble they’ve been standing in. He turns his head toward the noise like it gives him permission to breathe again. Comic-book guy’s arm drops from the doorframe as a naked—fully naked, ripped, and another very unwell-looking partygoer barrels past the open doorway, shouting something about losing his phone or his dignity or both. A few people cheer. Someone else groans. Will takes the opportunity. He lifts his cup and sips, eyes fixed on nothing in particular where the crowd is cheering. The vodka burns. He welcomes it. Uses it as an excuse to stare anywhere but directly at the guy in front of him. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, his gaze slides back almost immediately to the stranger. To the way the light from the hallway cuts across his face. To the loose grip on the bottle. To the curls falling into his eyes again now that he’s stopped trying to loom. The guy notices. Of course he does! His expression shifts, not dramatically, just subtly. The amusement tightens. His jaw sets. He steps closer again, reclaiming the space Will hadn’t actually left. “You get distracted easy,” he says, voice low, threaded with something sharper now. Will swallows. “There’s a naked guy running around your house.” “That’s Dave,” he replies flatly. “Happens.” Will smirks before he can stop himself, then clamps his mouth shut like that wasn’t just an invitation. He takes another sip, eyes dropping deliberately to the rim of the cup. The guy doesn’t like that. Will can feel it, the way his attention is being tugged back, demanded. The guy shifts, taps the side of the bottle once against Will’s belt again, harder this time. Not playful. Not quite. “Hey,” he says, quieter. “I was talking to you.” Will looks up. The guy is closer now. Too close for casual. His eyes search Will’s face like he’s irritated by the idea of sharing his attention, with noise, with chaos, with anyone else in the room. “Sorry,” Will says, not sounding sorry at all. “Thought you said relax.” A beat. The guy hums, eyes flicking briefly to Will’s mouth again before locking back onto his gaze. He reaches out, not to touch this time, just enough that his knuckles brush Will’s cup as he steadies it. “Finish that,” he says. “Then look at me.” It’s not a command. It feels like one. Will does both, tipping the cup back and drinks the rest in one go. The guy watches him do it, actually watches. His eyes brighten in a way that’s almost embarrassingly open, like something instinctive slipping through. Big brown puppyish eyes, Will thinks distantly. Like he didn’t expect Will to follow through and is delighted that he did. And the burn hits. Will exhales through his nose, steadying himself against the door. Then, deliberately, he turns the empty cup upside down and settles it over the mouth of the vodka bottle like a cap. A quiet little clack. He keeps his hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck. So does the guy. Their fingers overlap at the base, warm, tactile, unhurried. The guy doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip firms, thumb pressing into the glass, knuckles brushing Will’s. Will looks at him over the rim of the cup, expression mild. Innocent, if you squint, and he gives the cup a slow, almost-thoughtless twist where it sits over the bottle. Just enough movement to be noticeable. Just enough to be more suggestive than appropriate. The guy inhales sharply. It’s quiet, but Will catches it. His gaze drops instantly to Will’s hand, then snaps back up to his face, pupils blown wider now, the amused edge gone, replaced with something focused. “Jesus,” he murmurs, half under his breath. Will tilts his head. “What?” The guy’s fingers shift, brushing Will’s knuckles this time, deliberate and grounding. “You do that on purpose,” he says. Will shrugs, still not letting go of the bottle. “Do what?” The guy leans in a fraction, close enough that Will feels it more than sees it. His voice drops. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” The noise of the party fades again. The guy moves first. He drags his arm down the doorframe beside Will’s head, slow and unhurried, past his shoulder, past his waist, making sure his forearm brushes the fabric of Will’s rugby button-up on the way. His wrist skims behind Will’s thighs, not grabbing. But he leans in as he does it, chest brushing Will’s, close enough that Will can feel the steady confidence in the way he moves. And the guy’s gaze never leaves Will’s face, like he’s watching for the exact moment Will might object. Will doesn’t. The guy’s other hand finds the door behind him instead. Fingers curl around the handle. He pulls, and in the same motion, he lifts. It’s subtle, more momentum than strength, but it’s enough. Will stumbles forward, catching himself against the guy’s shoulders as he’s pulled inside. The room swallows them, the dim light, the smell of paper and vape and something warm and like a comic-book store. The door shuts behind them with a solid click. The sound lands heavy. The guy doesn’t step away. If anything, he crowds closer as his hand slides down to the lock. He turns it slowly, deliberately, then gives it an extra little twist, just to make sure Will hears it. Click! A bit dramatic. Almost smug. He glances back at Will as if gauging the effect. Will’s heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise him from the inside. He’s still half-held, half-pinned, feet barely settled on the floor, the guy’s body solid and close in front of him. “You do this with all your guests?” He asks, voice steady through sheer force of will. The guy smiles, pleased. “Only the ones who cap my vodka.” They’re still holding the bottle between them. Glass cool against their palms. Fingers overlapping at the base like neither of them is willing to be the one to let go first. Then the guy shifts. His knee slides forward—higher this time—nestling deliberately between Will’s thighs. Not rushing, but claiming space like he already knows Will won’t move away. Will’s breath stutters despite himself. The guy’s mouth curves, tight and hungry. His free hand drifts back toward the door, like he’s forgotten it’s there, like his body has other priorities now. His fingers start to slip behind Will’s back, searching. Will catches his wrist. Lightly. Two fingers to stop him, nothing forceful. Just enough to say not yet. The guy stills instantly. His eyes drop to where Will’s hand is holding him back. Then to Will’s face. Something sharp and thrilled flashes there. Will tilts his head, innocent again. The guy swears under his breath, pressing his knee in a fraction more. “You’re killing me,” the guy mutters. Will tightens his grip on the bottle just slightly, thumb brushing the rim again. “You locked the door,” he says calmly, like this is simple cause and effect. The guy exhales, shaky, forehead tipping briefly toward Will’s shoulder as if he needs a second to collect himself. When he looks up again, he’s undone in the best way. Eyes darkened, mouth parted, restraint visibly fraying. He reaches out and pokes at Will’s waistband, almost absentminded. Clumsy. A little ridiculous. Like he doesn’t know what to do with all the want. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “And now I can’t stop thinking about this stupid belt of yours.” |
Chapter 3: Obsession
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One second Will is holding the bottle and the next, the guy grabs his hands. Both of them. He threads their fingers together without hesitation, palms flush, grip warm and sure. Will’s breath catches instantly. The veins—fuck—they’re right there, raised beneath the skin, fingers thick and steady around his own like they were made for this. The guy uses the leverage without mercy. His knee slides higher, decisive now, pressing in until Will has no choice but to give ground—spine hitting the door, shoulders flattening against it. Not rough. Just final. Like he's already decided where Will is going to end up. Will tries to focus. Fails immediately. All he can think about are the guy’s hands. How they turn comic pages. The way they curled around a vape like it was an extension of him. How they could hold him open—Oh. God. The thought spirals somewhere it absolutely should not go, and Will’s cheeks burn hot before he can stop it. He blinks, startled by himself. The guy notices. Of course he does! He laughs softly right by Will’s ear, breath warm, smug and delighted. The sound vibrates straight through him. One thumb—still holding the vodka bottle—slides along the underside of Will’s palm in a slow, absent stroke, like he’s grounding himself as much as Will. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That look.” Will swallows hard, hands still tangled, pulse loud enough he’s sure it can be heard. “Shut up,” he says, weak and breathless. The guy hums, clearly enjoying himself. His knee stays right where it is. His grip doesn’t loosen. Will’s eyes drift—just for half a second—past the guy’s shoulder, catching on the stacks of comics lining the walls. Too many. Some neat, some toppled, spines cracked and loved. A whole shelf bowed under the weight of them. The room that screams obsession. His brain latches onto it stupidly. The guy notices immediately and makes a quiet, impatient sound in his throat. Not a word, just a rough little grunt meant to pull Will back where he belongs. When that doesn’t work fast enough, he drags the lip of the vodka bottle deliberately under Will’s belt. Once. Will inhales sharply. Then again. The guy leans in slowly, deliberately, giving Will every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He stays pressed to the door, heart hammering, breath shallow, eyes flicking—just once—to the guy’s mouth. The flash of metal there, catching the light when he wets his lips, is all the permission it takes. He kisses him. It’s warm and firm and intentional, mouth tilting just right, pressure enough to pull a soft gasp from Will before he can stop it. The sound surprises him. The guy hums against his lips like he’s been waiting for it, like it’s a reward. The kiss deepens, and then there it is: the smooth, cool brush of a tongue piercing sliding against Will’s lip, teasing, deliberate, sending a jolt straight through him. Will’s hands come up without thinking, fingers sliding into the guy’s shirt, gripping fabric like it’s an anchor, wrinkling a devil character and letters that spell HELLFIRE. The guy’s hands loosen just enough to reposition, one still tangled with Will’s, the other braced at his side, crowding him closer. His tongue deepens, taking his time on purpose, and Will melts into it, every thought scattering. The noise of the party disappears completely. There’s only this, heat, breath, the soft scrape of a tongue piercing and the way the guy pauses just long enough between kisses to feel cruel. When he finally pulls back, it’s only by inches. Will’s eyes flutter open. He’s dizzy. Totally not blushing. The guy rests his forehead briefly against Will’s, smiling like he’s won something important. “Yeah,” he murmurs, breathing warmly, satisfied. “That was overdue.” The bottle barely makes it to the bedside desk. The guy sets it down like it’s an afterthought, like anything that isn’t Will has suddenly dropped several places down his list of priorities. Glass taps wood, forgotten, and then he’s back, closing the distance completely. He presses in. Not tentative. Not careful. He crowds Will against the door with his whole body, weight solid and warm, knee still braced between Will’s legs like it belongs there. Will barely has time to register it before the guy is kissing him again, harder this time, more confident, like he’s done pretending this is casual. Will’s hands fly up on instinct, gripping his shoulders hard. The guy’s shirt bunches under his fingers. He uses the locked door hold to steady himself, to keep from doing something embarrassing like melting entirely, but it’s useless. This guy is really good at this. It feels unfair and practiced. The kiss doesn’t let up. If anything, it gets slower. More thorough. Like he’s learning Will’s mouth on purpose, committing it to memory. Taking his time because he knows he has it. A hand slides to Will’s waist, fingers spreading there, warm and grounding. Another slips under the hem of Will’s top from the front, pushing it up inch by inch, not rushing, just claiming space. The touch is confident, exploratory, like he’s cataloguing reactions. Will makes a quiet sound before he can stop himself. The guy feels it immediately, smiling into the kiss. His hasty fingers hook loosely at Will’s belt—not undoing it, not yet—just looping there, pressing him against the wood, thumb settling at the waistband like a promise, and Will’s head spins. “God,” Will breathes against his mouth, half-lost already. The guy pulls back just enough to look at him—really look. Flushed. Pupils blown. Mouth pink and slightly swollen. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Yeah, fuck that’s good.” The word slips out of him rougher than before, lower, like it dropped an octave on the way out, and he freezes for half a beat afterward, like he didn’t expect it to sound like that. Will notices. There’s something unguarded in it now, something surprised, like the guy hadn’t realised how deep he was already falling into this. His grip tightens reflexively at Will’s waist, thumb pressing a little harder at the waistband. He exhales a short, almost incredulous laugh, breath warm against Will’s mouth. “Sorry,” he mutters, quieter. Rougher, and that does it. Will’s pulse kicks, sharp and bright, heat curling low in his stomach. He likes that, likes knowing he pulled that sound out of him. Likes that the confidence cracked just enough to show something real underneath. He tilts his head, presses forward again, not shy about it now. “Oh,” the guy breathes, voice still wrecked, still lower than before, like it surprised him on the way out. His forehead dips briefly to Will’s shoulder, a pause that feels necessary. Like he’s recalibrating. Will smiles, small and slow, because yeah. He knows. When the guy lifts his head again, his eyes have changed, less playful now, more intent. Focused. Decision made. His hand slides back up Will’s side, fingers splaying against warm skin beneath the bunched fabric of his shirt, grounding himself there before leaning in again like he’s done waiting. This kiss is different. Messier. There’s a tug at Will’s hair that borders on reckless, fabric scraping as the guy crowds closer, mouths colliding instead of meeting neatly. The door rattles faintly behind Will. Somewhere to their left, the vodka bottle sits abandoned on the bedside desk, a silent witness to something far louder and far less organised than whatever it was poured for. Will gasps when the guy bites his bottom lip. Not hard, just enough to make a point, and the sound seems to flip a switch. The guy groans low, breath hitching, like that wasn’t part of the plan either. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, pulling back just enough to look at Will again. Like he’s checking. Like he’s confirming this is real. Will opens his mouth to say something! Anything smug, smart, brave— And then there’s a sharp knock on the door. Three quick raps. “MIKE!” a voice calls from the other side, way too close, way too sober. “You alive in there? Someone vomited on the couch and it’s, uh. Bad.” ‘Mike’ freezes. For half a second, neither of them moves. They’re breathing too hard. Too close. Will’s button up is still half-pushed up, the guy’s hand still firm at his waist like it forgot it was supposed to let go. “Shit.” |
Chapter 4: Touch
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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.” |