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Mike’s car pulls up ten minutes early.
The engine has a rhythm he’s memorised without really meaning to, a sound that pulls him toward the window before he can stop himself. He waits until the car is fully parked before heading downstairs, like he needs the extra few seconds to settle something inside his chest.
And Mike doesn’t honk. He never does. He just waits, already against the blue Honda Accord Mr. Wheeler gifted Mike for his 18th birthday, saying his son needs to learn how to take care of something so valuable before he leaves for college (and Mike doesn’t really enjoy driving, but he likes picking Will up anyway).
“Mom?” Will says.
Joyce looks up from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Yeah?”
Will hesitates, then crosses the room. His voice is casual, but his heart isn’t.
“I’m going out with Mike.”
Joyce’s smile deepens, proud and gentle. “Have fun, honey.”
Will hesitates again, then smiles. “I’ll be back later.”
“Don't stain your clothes with paint.”
“Stain? No, it's just a picnic, I think.”
Joyce crosses the room, a knowing smile on her face when she presses a quick kiss to his forehead like it’s muscle memory. "Oh, sure, baby."
Will exhales, lighter than he felt a second ago.
Before he grabs the doorknob, Will sees him watching the front door like Mike’s afraid he might not open. But then he steps outside, and Mike’s face lights up in a way that still feels like too much, like something Will isn’t sure he deserves.
“Ready?” He asks.
Will nods, lips stretching into a smile because that’s what they do when they see him. Instant reflection built over the years, and the hazel-eyed has no intentions of questioning how.
He’s ready. He thinks.
Mike opens the passenger door for him, and he feels so light, so cared for, so happy. He’s been doing that ever since they started with dates; it’s kind of a new thing. Not dramatically new but different enough to make his chest buzz. Will hesitates before getting in, like he’s waiting for Mike to say something else, but he just smiles and closes the door gently behind him.
The car smells like laundry detergent and something faintly sweet, probably the granola bars Mike always keeps in the glove compartment and never eats. It also smells like him — familiar, cozy, strong, and permanently him. Will clicks his seatbelt into place and watches Mike get in with a smile so big that Will is sure he might look creepy.
“William,” Mike starts, looking at him oh ever so tenderly attentive.
“Michael,” he replies, playfully grabbing Mike’s face and stroking his cheeks.
Mike laughs, breathy and content, the sound caught somewhere between his chest and Will’s hands. He lets himself be held like that for a second longer than necessary, eyes soft, unfocused, like he’s memorising the feeling.
And he watches him — the curve of his smile, the way his jaw tightens trying not to laugh, the quiet confidence of someone who knows where they’re going. Something warm settles in Will’s chest, familiar and dangerous. Mike fakes a funny face and bites his thumb.
“Oops,”
Will rolls his eyes, but his tone stays soft anyway. “Hi.” He says, watching Mike lean into the touch rather than pull away.
The taller one reaches out first, closing the space between them. It feels soft when his fingertips touch silky curls ever so wild at Mike’s nape. The kiss is tender, like a promise, and it feels like that every time. Will feels a hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek the same way he did before, like he’s grounding himself right there.
Gentle and unhurried, all warmth and familiarity, like something they’ve done a hundred times in doorways and kitchens and quiet moments that didn’t ask to be named. Will melts into it easily, smiling into the kiss, hands still resting at Mike’s cheeks and jaw like that’s where they belong.
When they pull apart, Mike blinks at him, a little dazed.
“You’re evil,” He says quietly.
Will grins. “You like me.”
Mike laughs, then leans once again to press a quick kiss to his temple before pulling back just enough to rest their foreheads together.
“Hopelessly, tragically.” He replies, voice warm and certain, grabbing his chest dramatically.
Will smiles, slow and pleased, thumbs brushing just beneath Mike’s eyes. “I think you’ll survive.”
A hum. “Debatable.”
He turns the key anyway, the engine coughing to life, and Will finally lets go — reluctantly, like he’s setting something delicate back where it belongs. The car eases onto the road, tires crunching softly over gravel, and for a moment, they ride in a quiet that feels earned.
Mike reaches over without looking, fingers finding Will’s knee like muscle memory. He feels it everywhere.
“So,” Mike says, casual in the way that means he thought about this in the morning. “I have a plan.”
Will arches a brow. “You always have a plan.”
“Yeah, but this one’s better,” Mike insists. “Trust me.”
“I do,” Will says easily, surprising himself with how true it feels. He watches Mike’s hand on the steering wheel, steady and sure. “What kind of plan?”
He grins, that sideways smile that still makes Will’s chest do something strange. “A proper date.”
A soft laugh and, “you say that like we haven’t already been on, like, a million dates.”
Mike shakes his head. “Mhm, this one’s different, though.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because,” he replies, glancing at him for just a second, eyes bright and intent, “I want this one to be different.”
The words settle between them. Will swallows, nodding once, like he’s afraid speaking might crack something open too soon.
“Okay,” he says. “Lead the way.”
Mike squeezes his knee — gentle, reassuring — and turns back to the road.
Will leans his head against the window of the passenger seat, watching the trees blur past, heart full and steady in a way he’s still learning how to trust. He thinks about the way Mike says his name. About the way he stays. About how every time Will expects the moment to slip through his fingers, Mike reaches out instead.
And Will lets himself believe —just a little— that maybe this time, it won’t disappear.
They drive in comfortable quiet for a while, with Robin’s voice in the background and Steve’s weird sound effects on the radio — Will just melts into it, somehow, letting the hum of the engine out the sharper edges of his thoughts. He thinks, —unhelpfully— about how Mike was serious about this date being different, and how he doesn’t know what to do with that thought except hold it very carefully and hope it doesn’t break.
When Mike finally pulls into the park, it’s not one of the busy ones. There’s a playground nearby with children's swings and a yellow slide, but no shouting kids or barking dogs — just a vast stretch of grass near the trees, the lake glinting in the distance. Will feels something settle in his veins, warm and uncertain.
Mike kills the engine but doesn’t move right away.
“We can… uh,” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “We can sit over there, if you want. I brought a blanket.”
“That’s fine,” Will said quickly, too quickly, as if afraid the option might disappear if he didn’t take it. “Sounds nice to me.”
Mike's smile this time is smaller. Almost shy — real.
Will lets his lungs be filled with fresh air and the smell of trees once they’re out of the car. Mike pops the trunk and steps back, letting it rise with a soft creak. Inside, there’s a blanket folded too neatly to be accidental, a paper bag with handles twisted tight, and a familiar plastic container rattling when he moves it.
Will notices everything.
“You packed,” Will says fondly, because of course he did.
Mike shrugs, but there’s pride there. “I had a list.”
“A list,” Will repeats, amused.
“Yeah,” Mike says, stacking things carefully in his arms. “You deserve a list.”
Something about that makes Will’s throat tighten. He follows Mike across the grass, the ground uneven beneath their feet, the quiet stretching around them like it’s making space on purpose. The spot Mike chose is shaded, close enough to the lake that the water flashes between the trees when the light hits it just right.
Mike spreads the blanket out with care, smoothing the corners like he’s afraid wrinkles might ruin something important. Will watches him, heart whole in that quiet, aching way that feels almost too big for his chest.
“You’re being very serious about this,” Will says softly.
Mike looks up at him, earnest. “Yeah.”
No joke. No deflection.
Will sits first, folding his legs beneath him, fingers brushing over the fabric of the blanket. It’s warm from the sun. Mike joins him a second later, close but not crowding, their knees touching easily.
For a moment, they just sit there, listening to the water, the distant sound of someone laughing somewhere far away. Mike reaches into the bag and starts pulling things out.
“Okay,” he says, like he’s presenting evidence. “I brought your favourite crackers. The strawberry ones. And strawberries, of course, grapes, and those sandwiches you like, with too much cheese.”
Will laughs. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”
“I know,” Mike says. “That’s why I did it.”
He pulls out the container last—revealing slices of fruit, arranged carefully, like he actually tried. Will stares at it, something warm blooming behind his ribs.
“You cut them,” he says.
Mike shrugs again, sheepish now. “I had time.”
Will doesn’t comment on what that really means. Instead, he reaches for a piece of fruit, then pauses, offering it to Mike first.
Mike accepts it with a smile, fingers brushing Will’s in the exchange, a tiny spark that feels like punctuation.
They eat slowly, talking about nothing important—about a movie Mike wants to rewatch, about a sketch Will’s been working on and never finished. Mike listens like every word matters, giving Will time to talk and his own to reply. One of a million things about Mike is that he finds words for everything, somehow.
And eventually, Mike clears his throat.
“So,” he says, casual but not really. “I brought something else.”
Will’s heart gives a small, anticipatory jump. “Yeah?”
Mike reaches back into the trunk and pulls out a flat bag, setting it between them. He unzips it, revealing canvases, paint tubes, and brushes carefully wrapped in cloth.
Will’s breath catches.
“You didn’t,” he says.
Mike smiles, wide and nervous all at once. “I did.”
Will reaches out, fingers hovering over the canvas like he’s afraid it might disappear if he touches it too fast. “Mike…”
“I thought,” Mike says, rubbing the back of his neck, “we could paint. Each other. Or—whatever. You know. Just… for fun.”
Will looks at him, really looks. Sees the way Mike’s knee bounces just a little, the way his eyes keep flicking back to Will’s face like he’s checking for approval.
For a moment, Will forgets how to speak.
Then he smiles—slow, genuine, unguarded.
“I’d love that,” he says.
Mike exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Will nods. “I really would.”
They set everything up together, brushes laid out between them, paint caps twisted open. Will dips a brush experimentally, watching color bloom onto the canvas, feeling something settle inside him.
Across from him, Mike pretends to focus on his own supplies—but Will catches it. The nerves. The way Mike keeps glancing up at him, like he’s memorising angles, like this matters more than he’s willing to say.
Will blinks. “So, it's like portraits?”
“Yeah. But—” Mike holds up a finger, smiling like he’s about to propose a rule in a game. “No peeking. And we don’t show until we’re both done.”
Will feels something steady click into place inside him.
“Okay,” he says, without hesitation.
Mike looks relieved. And then, suspiciously, a little terrified.
They set everything up side by side, canvases propped against the basket. Will unscrews the paint lids carefully, lining them up by color, already thinking about undertones, about how light catches on Mike’s hair, about the way his eyes change depending on what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t notice—can’t notice—the way Mike watches him for a second too long before dipping his brush into the water.
And Will thinks, with a quiet, steady certainty—
This is what staying looks like.
Will mixes his colours carefully, even though he tells himself he doesn’t have to. He could paint Mike from memory—could do it with his eyes closed, probably—but there’s something grounding about doing it right, about translating what he feels into something he can see.
He glances up more often than he needs to.
Mike is sitting cross-legged, canvas tilted toward his knees, brush hovering uselessly above it. Every time Will looks, Mike looks back just a second too late, like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. His mouth twists in concentration, tongue pressing briefly to his bottom lip—a tell Will has memorised without meaning to.
“You’re not even painting,” Will says.
“I am,” Mike replies immediately, then hesitates. “Just… conceptualising.”
But Will notices the nerves in small things.
The way Mike’s knee bounces, even when he’s pretending to be relaxed. The way he keeps wiping his brush on his jeans, even though it’s barely wet. The way he clears his throat every few minutes, like he’s rehearsing something in his head.
“You okay over there?” Will asks lightly.
“Yeah,” Mike says too fast. “Totally. Just—art is stressful.”
Will laughs under his breath. “Interesting, I remember this being your idea.”
“I know,” Mike says, there's a smile on his face, but he's looking up—too concentrated in whatever he's doing.
Will smiles and goes back to his canvas.
He blocks in Mike’s shape next, light lines first, loose and forgiving. He knows Mike would tease him for this—say something about him being intense—but Will likes giving himself room to adjust. Mike is all angles and movement, impossible to pin down unless you really look. Will does.
He deepens the colours around the eyes, even though he tells himself not to. He always starts there. It feels like cheating, like saying the quiet part out loud, but he can’t help it. Mike’s eyes are what made him fall. Still make him fall. They’re too bright for someone who spent so long pretending not to care.
“Stop squinting at me like that,” Mike says.
“I’m squinting at the light,” Will lies.
Mike hums, unconvinced. Will can feel his gaze anyway, warm and steady against the side of his face. It makes his chest buzz, the familiar mix of confidence and something more fragile underneath it.
Freckles appear one by one, placed with the kind of attention you give to constellations, not skin.
He breathes out when it finally looks like him.
The rest comes easier after that. Will darkens the hair, lets it fall messy and familiar, just as it always does when Mike forgets to care how he looks. He adjusts the color again and again, trying to capture the way they hold both fear and determination all at once. When he gets it right, his chest aches.
Only then does he add the armour.
The metal isn’t heavy. Will makes sure of that. It’s shaped to fit, not to trap. He paints it like something earned, not imposed—soft highlights, worn edges. The heart on the chest plate is faint, almost hidden, as if it’s meant only for those who know where to look.
The sword comes last.
Will’s hand is steadier now. The blade rises straight and clean, pointing upward, not at anyone. It isn’t a weapon meant for killing. It’s a promise. He paints the hilt carefully, fingers wrapped around it in a grip that says I won’t let go.
Every few strokes, Will pulls back, tilts his head, compares the canvas to the version of Mike that lives behind his ribs. He corrects what feels wrong. He softens what feels too sharp. He paints not what Mike is, but what he has always been to him.
“Stop staring,” Mike says, not looking up.
“I’m literally painting you,” Will replies.
Mike grins. “Yeah, and I’m extremely distracting.”
Will hums. “That’s one word for it.”
When he finally stops, his hands are trembling—not from fear, but from having held something precious for too long.
He sets the brush down gently.
Like if he doesn’t, he might break the spell.
“Okay,” he says, sitting up straighter. “I think I’m almost done.”
Mike startles. “Already?”
Will smiles. “I knew what I wanted to draw.”
Mike’s lips curve at that, something soft and fond flickering across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They sit in silence for a few more minutes, finishing touches only. The world around them stays gentle—wind in the leaves, water lapping quietly, time stretching without asking anything from them.
“Do you want to go first?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
Mike shakes his head quickly. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
Will laughs. “You’re the one who suggested this.”
“I know,” Mike says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which is exactly why you should go first.”
Will studies him for a second, catching the nerves again—the way Mike’s shoulders are just a little too tense, the way he won’t quite meet his eyes.
He nods. “Okay.”
Will turns the canvas around.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He lets it sit between them, angled just enough for Mike to see it clearly, like he’s offering something fragile but not apologising for it.
Mike goes quiet.
Not the usual thoughtful quiet—the kind that comes with a joke loading—but still, stunned. His eyes move slowly across the canvas, tracing shapes, colours, details. His mouth parts, then closes again.
Will waits.
“Will, you're—” Mike starts, then stops. He clears his throat. “This is really good.”
Will huffs. “That’s it?”
“No,” Mike says quickly. “No, I just—” He looks back down at the painting, like he’s afraid it might disappear if he doesn’t keep watching it. “You made me look… happy.”
“You aren't?” Will says, without thinking.
Mike’s throat bobs.
"I'm the happiest when I'm with you. I guess that must be why you see me happy all the time." He tilts his head to the side, as if thinking deeply.
Will watches his face shift, the way it always does. “You move your eyebrows too much,” he says quietly, not teasing. “Like… they react before you do.”
Mike blinks. “What?”
“They give you away,” Will continues, voice steady but careful. “When you’re nervous, they pull together like you’re bracing for something. When you’re trying to be brave, they lift, like you’re convincing yourself first. And when you’re happy—really happy—you don’t even notice them.” He swallows. “You never hide it as well as you think you do. I have seen you express other emotions, Mike.”
“Like what?”
“Are you really asking that right now?”
Mike doesn’t answer right away. His mouth opens, then closes, like he’s searching for the version of himself Will just named.
Will exhales, shoulders tense. “When you’re scared,” he adds, softer now, “you joke. Not because you think it’s funny, but because you don’t want anyone else to be afraid too.” His fingers curl into his sleeve. “And when you’re angry, you get quiet. You stare at the floor as if you look up, you might hurt someone with arrows coming from your eyes.”
Mike’s brows knit together—exactly like Will said they would.
“And when you’re sad,” Will continues, voice barely holding, “you act like you’re fine. You smile too fast. You say you’re happy, even when you’re not.” He finally looks at him. “But I can always tell.”
Mike swallows. “You make it sound like I’m… easy to read.”
“You’re actually not,” Will says immediately. “But I can see it. I can see you. Even when you don’t want it to show.”
Something in Mike’s face breaks open then—not tears, not quite—but recognition. Like being seen somewhere he didn’t know was exposed.
“Oh,” he says. Just that.
And Will realises, a little too late, that he’s been painting this version of Mike for years. Not on canvas. Inside himself. Quietly. Faithfully. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
There’s something unmistakably them in the painting—not just Mike as he looks, but Mike as he feels. The light around him isn’t coming from anywhere specific; it just exists, like it’s his natural state. Will’s painted him mid-expression, caught between a grin and something softer, something private.
“You even got the stupid freckles,” Mike says quietly, pointing to the tiny marks.
Will smiles. “They're not stupid.”
Mike laughs, a little breathless. “I love the way you do that.”
“Do what?”
“See me,” Mike says.
The words land heavier than Will expects. He swallows, suddenly aware of how exposed he feels, how much of himself is sitting right there in paint and canvas.
“I just paint what's to paint,” Will says.
Mike shakes his head. “No, you... You paint what people don’t notice.” He gestures vaguely at the canvas, then lets his hand fall back into his lap. “I spend so much time being loud so people don’t look too closely. And you just—” He exhales. “You look anyway.”
Will feels that familiar tightness bloom in his chest. The same one he gets when someone names something he didn’t realise he was carrying.
“I like looking at you,” he says, because it feels wrong to soften it. Because Mike deserves the truth said plainly.
Mike’s mouth curves, just a little. “Yeah. I noticed.”
The air between them feels warm, heavy with things already said and things still waiting. Will shifts closer without thinking, knees brushing. He studies Mike’s face the way he had on the canvas, but this time there’s no paint to hide behind.
“You do it too,” Will says.
Mike blinks. “Do what?”
“See me,” Will replies. “You always have.”
Mike’s breath stutters.
“That’s different,” he says.
“How?”
Mike thinks about it. Will can tell—he always can. Finally, Mike says, “You let yourself be seen. I just… let myself fall into it. Just because it's you.”
Will reaches out before he can second-guess himself, fingers brushing against Mike’s wrist, right where his pulse is strongest. It’s grounding. Familiar. Real.
“Maybe that’s why,” Will says quietly. “Because you don’t try to be anything else with me.”
Mike swallows. His fingers curl slightly around Will’s, tentative, like he’s asking permission even now.
“You make it feel safe,” Mike admits. “Like if I mess up, you’ll still be there. Like I don’t have to perform.”
Will thinks of the painting again—of the way he’d softened Mike’s edges, not to change him, but to show what was already there.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” Will says. “Ever.”
Mike lets out a breath that sounds like relief. He squeezes Will’s hand once, grounding himself.
“Okay,” he says, voice steadier now. “Okay.”
They sit there for a moment longer, hands still touching, the world narrowed down to the space between them. Will has the strange sense that something has shifted—quietly, irrevocably.
Then Mike clears his throat.
“Before I lose my nerve,” he says, attempting a grin that doesn’t quite land, “I think it’s my turn.”
Will’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.
“Yeah,” he says, voice soft but sure. “Okay.”
Mike picks up his canvas with both hands.
For a second, he just holds it there, resting against his knees, fingers curled tight around the edges like it might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. He doesn’t look at Will—not yet.
Will feels suddenly hyperaware of his own body. The way his heart is beating too fast. The way his palms are damp with paint and nerves. He tells himself—lightly, jokingly—that whatever Mike painted can’t possibly be worse than the way he’d felt handing his own heart over in acrylic and brushstrokes.
“Okay,” Mike says, exhaling through a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No laughing.”
“I would never,” Will says, offended in principle.
Mike lets out a quiet laugh, then finally—finally—turns the canvas around.
Will’s brain stutters.
It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at—not because it’s unclear, but because it’s too clear, like his mind can’t decide where to land first.
The world narrows to a single point behind Will’s eyes.
Will you be my boyfriend?
His brain short-circuits completely. His thoughts scatter, useless, replaced by a ringing emptiness that feels a lot like falling.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Mike starts talking immediately. Too fast. Panic spilling out of him in a rush.
“Okay, so—I know it’s dumb, and maybe too much, and you don’t have to answer right now, and I know we kind of already—like—we kissed, and talked about us, and obviously I want—I mean, I’ve wanted this for—” He laughs, high and breathless. “I want to be with you because you’re the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t too much or not enough at the same time,” Mike continues. “Because when you walk into a room, things change. You don’t even try to make them change. They just do.”
He looks down, then back up again, eyes shining with something painfully sincere. Mike's cheeks are angry red, and Will can already tell he's worse— that familiar crimson blowing through his own cheeks, wildly attaching to every inch of his face.
“You see the world like it’s worth paying attention to. Like every detail matters. And when you show it to me, it does matter. It becomes real because you noticed it first.”
Will’s hands curl into his own painting.
“I want to be with you because you’re brave in ways people don’t clap for,” Mike says. “Because you keep going even when you’re scared. Because you’re soft and you don’t apologise for it anymore—not with me.”
His voice wavers. He doesn’t stop.
“And I want to be with you because you let me be better. You don’t ask me to be. You just… make me want to be. When I’m with you, I write things in my head. I plan. I imagine futures I never used to let myself imagine.”
Mike swallows hard.
“When I think about forever, I don’t think about big stuff first,” he says. “I think about this. About afternoons like this. About you painting with your tongue between your teeth, and me pretending I’m not watching." He laughs quietly, almost embarrassed by how much he’s saying. “I want to choose you in all the small ways. Over and over. I want to wake up and know it’s you, and go to sleep knowing you’re still there.”
Mike finally reaches out, fingers brushing Will’s knee, grounding himself.
“I don’t want a love that disappears when things get hard,” he says. “I want the kind that stays. The kind that learns. The kind that writes itself slowly, even when it’s messy.”
He meets Will’s eyes, unwavering.
“I want to be with you forever, Will,” Mike says simply. “Not because I’m asking for a promise—but because I already know it’s you.”
The quiet that follows is devastating in its own way.
Will can barely breathe.
It feels like something someone has already chosen.
And Will swears can feel Mike's nervousness for the way their hearts have always been attached, but he has to let him say it all.
Because Mike inhales, like there’s still more, like he doesn’t know how to keep it in, just like Will imagined.
Connected. All the strings attached.
“And I know we’re just eighteen,” he adds, almost sheepish, like he’s bracing for someone to laugh. “I know that’s what people always say. What do I know about love? Not sure," Mike admits. "But I know it starts with you. And when I think about being with you, I don’t think small.”
He gestures vaguely, like the future is too big to point at properly.
“I think about a place that’s ours,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just somewhere we come back to. I think about you taking over the couch with your sketchbooks, and me pretending I don’t mind. I think about cooking together and burning something and ordering food anyway.”
Will’s chest aches.
“I think about grocery shopping,” Mike goes on, smiling softly at the absurdity of it. “About arguing over cereal. About having a stupid pet that loves you more than me. About doing the boring stuff with you and realising it’s not boring at all.” His voice lowers. Steadies. “I want to share a life with you,” he says. “The quiet parts. The everyday parts. The parts that don’t look impressive to anyone else.”
Mike reaches for Will’s hand, holding it like an anchor.
“I want to give you everything,” he says, softer than he's ever been. “Because I want to be with you. Because choosing you feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever done.”
He swallows, eyes never leaving Will’s.
“And I promise,” Mike says, voice firm now, certain. “I’ll never let go of you. No matter whose eyes are on us. I don't care about that stuff anymore. I surrender to your smile, and to keep sharing happy memories with you.”
The words don’t sound like a vow made in the rush of the moment. They sound like something he’s already decided.
Will feels it settle into him—deep, steady, undeniable.
A future not shouted into existence, but built.
One ordinary day at a time.
“I thought painting would make it less terrifying but it actually made it worse, because now you’re just staring and not saying anything and I think I’m dying—”
He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving, like his body doesn’t know what else to do with the sudden rush of everything. “You—” He stops. Tries again. “Is this—are you—”
His throat tightens painfully, emotion rising so fast it leaves him dizzy.
Will presses his hand to his mouth, suddenly aware that he’s crying. Quietly. Unapologetically. The kind of crying that comes from being loved too precisely.
“You idiot,” Will whispers, voice shaking. “You absolute idiot.”
Mike panics immediately. “Is that bad? Because I can—”
Will lunges forward, cutting him off, hands fisting into Mike’s jacket as he pulls him close. Mike freezes for half a second before melting into it, arms wrapping around Will like muscle memory.
“Not bad at all,” Will says into Mike’s shoulder, laughing through tears. “Yes, Mike. Of course I’ll be your boyfriend.”
Mike makes a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“Yeah?” he asks, incredulous. “You mean—”
Will kisses him.
It’s messy and urgent and a little clumsy, mouths colliding, laughter spilling into it because neither of them knows what to do with all this joy all at once. Mike kisses back like he’s been holding this in forever, like the world might end if he doesn’t.
They break apart only because they have to breathe.
Mike presses his forehead to Will’s, laughing now, really laughing. “Boyfriend,” he says, like he’s trying the word out. “You’re—wow. You’re my boyfriend.”
Will is quiet for a moment—not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he wants to say it right.
“When I picture staying,” he begins, eyes fixed somewhere just past Mike’s shoulder, “I don’t think about places first.”
Mike listens. Completely still.
“I think about knowing where I stand,” Will says. “About not having to wonder if I’m allowed to take up space. About coming home and not feeling like I have to disappear into myself.”
His hand tightens around Mike’s.
“I think about being with someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much when I’m scared, or too quiet when I’m tired. Someone who doesn’t need me to be anything other than what I already am.”
His voice is steady now, stronger with every word.
“I picture being seen without being watched,” Will says. “Being loved without being questioned. I picture a life where I don’t have to earn softness.”
Mike’s breath catches.
“And I know I don’t always say things right,” Will adds, a small smile breaking through. “But I want to choose you in the ways I know how. By staying. By noticing. By loving you even when it’s quiet.” He looks back at Mike then, eyes open and unafraid. “I don’t know what forever looks like,” Will says honestly. “But I know how it feels. And it feels like this. Like you.”
He cups Mike’s face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes, grounding himself in the reality of this. Of being chosen. Asked. Seen.
"I love you," Mike says. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.
And everything falls into place. All at once.
Will’s breath catches—not in surprise, exactly, but in recognition. Like something he’s been circling, finally has a name. He doesn’t rush to answer. He steps forward, forehead resting against Mike’s shoulder, hands curling into his shirt.
Mike freezes for half a second—then relaxes completely, arms coming around Will like that’s where they were always meant to be.
“I love you too,” Will says, muffled but steady.
Mike laughs quietly, a breathy sound that feels like relief more than joy. He presses his lips to Will’s hair, then his temple, then stays there, holding him.
Nothing changes after that.
Which is how Will knows it’s real.
“Mike?”
“Boyfriend,” Mike corrects, hopeful, testing the word like it might vanish if he doesn’t say it out loud.
Will’s smile softens, "boyfriend?"
And he wants to frame Mike's smile, so bright and beautiful. All just for him.
"Yeah?"
Will laughs, dizzy and warm and overwhelmed. “I knew you were not painting.”
“I panicked,” Mike admits. “I couldn’t draw your face without ruining it, so I thought—words. Words I can do.”
Will’s chest aches.
“I was so scared,” Will admits quietly. “I thought maybe you’d—change your mind. You looked so nervous.”
“Hey, no. Never that. I know it's you.” Mike’s smile softens, something fierce and tender flashing through it. “But yeah, I was actually terrified.”
“There was no possible scenario of me saying no, you know that, right?”
“Shut up, you just do that to me!”
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s nose, then his cheek.
“I see you,” Mike says, voice low and sure. “All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Will closes his eyes, forehead still resting against Mike’s, breathing him in. The fear doesn’t vanish completely—it never does—but it loosens its grip, just enough.
For the first time in a long time, being seen doesn’t feel like a threat.
It feels like coming home.
Mike kisses him again. And he melts into the softness of it all every time. Slower, harder, tender. It's them.
It’s not careful. Not rushed either. It’s warm and sure and full of everything they don’t have to pretend about anymore. Will makes a small sound into the kiss before he can stop himself, fingers curling into the fabric of Mike’s jacket like he needs something solid to hold onto.
Mike tastes like strawberries and apple juice and relief.
When they pull back, they’re both laughing again, breathless and flushed.
“We’re terrible at being chill,” Mike says.
Will nudges his knee. “You were the one who brought a whole proposal!”
“Hey,” Mike says, mock-offended. “It was subtle.”
Will snorts. “You wrote it in giant letters.”
Mike grins, unapologetic. “So you wouldn’t miss it.”
Will leans in again, this time slower, letting the kiss linger. He presses a soft one to Mike’s mouth, then another to the corner of his smile, like he’s mapping something familiar in a new way.
“Thank you,” Will murmurs.
Mike tilts his head. “For what?”
“For choosing me,” Will says. “For… trying.”
Mike’s expression softens, something tender settling in his eyes. He leans in, pressing a kiss to Will’s temple, then his hair. He's obsessed.
“Always,” he says. “You’re kind of my favourite person.”
Will laughs, burying his face into Mike’s shoulder. “I know.”
They lie back on the blanket, shoulders pressed together, the sky stretching endlessly above them. Mike’s arm is warm around Will’s waist, thumb drawing absent-minded circles into the fabric of his shirt like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is real — canvases forgotten, paint drying in the sun. At some point, Will reaches for Mike’s canvas again, careful not to smudge the words.
Will laughs suddenly, quietly, as the sound surprises him.
“What?” Mike asks, smiling into Will’s hair.
“I thought this was just going to be a picnic,” Will says. “Like… sandwiches and sunsets and maybe kissing a little.”
Mike snorts. “I mean. We did that.”
“You asked me to be your boyfriend.”
Mike grins, unrepentant. “Yeah, okay, I did that too.”
Will turns onto his side to look at him properly. Mike’s eyes are bright, still a little stunned, like he hasn’t fully caught up with himself yet. There’s paint smudged faintly on his wrist, grass clinging to his jeans. He looks… happy. Open in a way Will doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.
“We’re hanging this up,” he says firmly. “Somewhere important.”
Will laughs. “Your mom’s going to ask questions.”
“I’ll survive,” Mike says, grinning. He squeezes his hand two, three times — eyes dropping to their joined fingers like it’s something precious.
“This one was really different, huh?”
“I surprised you, and you said yes, sounds like victory for me.”
Will feels those words find their place inside his chest.
“I’m really happy you asked,” he smiles. “Because I really wanted to be your boyfriend.”
Mike leans over and presses a soft kiss to Will’s temple. “And I really wanted to be your boyfriend, too,” he replies.
It’s easy after that.
They pack up slowly, because there’s no rush — but the light is starting to shift, afternoon slipping toward evening. Will rinses the brushes in the lake, sleeves rolled up, water cold against his skin. Mike watches him the whole time, leaning back on his hands, smiling like he still can’t believe this is happening.
When Will comes back, Mike grabs his wrist and pulls him down onto the blanket again.
“We’re going to be late,” Will says, amused.
“So?” Mike replies, leaning in to kiss him again—quick, sweet, smiling into it. “Worth it.”
They leave with paint still on their hands, crumbs in the basket, the canvases tucked carefully in the backseat like cargo that matters more than anything else. The drive home is quieter than the one there, but fuller. Mike reaches over at a red light and laces their fingers together, casual and sure, like it’s always been this way.
Will rests his head against the window and watches the sky darken, thinking about color and light and the strange, astounding fact of being chosen.
When Mike pulls up outside his house, neither of them moves right away.
“So,” Mike says, eventually.
Will turns toward him, smiling. “Call me when you’re home, okay?”
Mike mirrors it. “Wish I could call you already.”
“So impatient,”
Will leans over the console and kisses him one last time before opening the door. It’s slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything.
When Will steps out of the car, Mike waits until he’s safely inside before driving off.
Will watches from his window until the car disappears down the street.
Later, in his room, after his mom questioned him at the kitchen table—with tender laughter, midnight forehead kisses, Jonathan saying he has to have a chat with Mike, and Will sentenced his brother's death for that—he washed the paint from his hands but left a faint, stubborn blue smudge on his wrist. He doesn’t scrub it away. He doesn’t want to.
He’s sitting on his bed, towel still bunched in his hands, when the phone rings—sharp and sudden in the quiet night.
He reaches for it on the second ring.
“Hi,” Mike says, like he’s been holding the word in.
“Hi,” Will replies, softer.
“I just got home,” Mike tells him.
“I'm glad,” Will says. He stretches out on the bed, the cord pulling tight between the receiver and the wall. “I’m in my room.”
They talk in pieces after that—about the drive, about how Mike missed a turn because he was distracted, about how there’s still paint under his nails, no matter how much he washes them. Will listens, tracing the blue mark on his wrist with his thumb, the receiver warm against his cheek.
The house goes quiet around him. At some point, Mike stops talking, but he doesn’t hang up. He just breathes on the other end of the line, steady and real.
“Let’s sleep on the phone?” Will asks, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Mike murmurs. “Of course.”
The line stays open. Will drifts off with the phone pressed to his ear, the quiet hum between them enough to hold him there.
“M-kay,” he murmurs. “Good night, boyfriend,” Will smiles at his own words into the receiver, heart complete and calm in a way that feels new.
For the first time in his life, being seen doesn’t feel like something he has to survive—it feels like something he gets to keep.
Because some things—he knows now—aren’t meant to be erased.
“Night, baby,” Mike says, gentle like an oath.
—
