Chapter Text
Mike wasn’t unaware of it. He wasn’t oblivious. He wasn’t that deep in denial.
At some point—somewhere between California, the Upside Down trying to eat them again, and everyone slowly filtering back into Hawkins, Will had gotten… weirdly buff.
Mike couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened. There was no dramatic moment where Will suddenly ripped his shirt off or announced it to the room. No obvious turning point. It had just… crept up on him. Quietly. Rudely. Like how you don’t notice you’re cold until someone hands you a blanket and suddenly it’s all you can think about.
One day, Will hugged him and Mike’s brain went, huh.
Another day, Will pushed his sleeves up to help Joyce with the dishes and Mike’s brain went, oh.
And at some point after that, Mike’s brain stopped contributing anything useful at all.
He didn’t know what Joyce had been feeding him. Whatever it was, it had to be illegal in at least three states. Or maybe it was something in the California water. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was trauma. Mike had heard that did things to people.
Whatever the reason, Will had come back stronger. Not in an obvious, show-off way, just solid. Capable. Like someone who could lift something heavy without making a big deal out of it.
Mike noticed.
And—this was the important part—he liked it.
Will had always made him feel safe. That wasn’t new. Even when they were kids, Will had that effect on him, a quiet steadiness that settled Mike’s thoughts just by being nearby. His presence felt like home in the simplest, most unfair way.
But now it was different.
Before, it had been sweet. Emotional safety. The kind where Will listened to him talk in circles and never made him feel stupid for it. The kind where Mike could breathe easier just knowing Will was there.
Now it was still that, always that, because Will Byers didn’t know how to love anyone without treating them like they hung the moon, but it was also the fact that Will could probably knock someone out if they looked at Mike the wrong way.
Not that he would. Will was too nice. He apologized to inanimate objects. He’d probably say sorry while throwing a punch.
But the thought existed.
And Mike’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, liked that too.
He liked knowing Will was capable. That there was strength under all that gentleness. That if something went wrong—if someone pushed too far, if the world got sharp and ugly—Will could step in without hesitation.
Mike liked not having to worry.
He also liked the way Will’s arms looked in his shirts now. The way fabric pulled where it hadn’t before. The way biceps had apparently decided to make themselves known. That was… separate. Completely unrelated. Not worth examining.
He was normal about it.
Anyway.
Today—today—it had really come to a head.
Everyone was helping the Byers–Hopper family move into their new house in Hawkins. Everyone. Even Steve and Robin had turned up, which was hilarious, because Mike was pretty sure they were both allergic to manual labour.
Boxes were everywhere. Stacked in corners, half-opened, balanced precariously on chairs. There was clutter on every available surface, like the house itself was still trying to figure out where things belonged. Dustin had put on a record almost immediately and insisted it would help with productivity, which mostly meant he kept stopping what he was doing to argue about which song should play next.
Everyone was making trips back and forth from the moving lorry to the house. In. Out. In again. Over and over. It was tiring, sure—but it was also nice. Familiar. The kind of chaos Mike had missed more than he’d realized.
He’d just dropped a box labeled KITCHEN?? onto the floor when he heard Lucas from the hallway.
“Woah, dude—let me help with that.”
Mike didn’t think anything of it at first. Lucas said that a lot. Usually right before ignoring whatever he’d been carrying and taking something heavier instead.
Then Will’s voice floated back, easy and unconcerned.
“Nah, I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Mike slowed without meaning to.
He turned.
Will was coming in through the front door, carrying not one, not two, but three boxes stacked neatly on top of each other. Balanced against his chest like they weighed nothing. His arms were wrapped around them securely, posture steady, steps unhurried.
No strain.
No wobble.
No pause.
Like he wasn’t hauling half the house inside by himself.
Mike’s brain caught up just in time to supply the worst possible detail:
Those are the heavy ones.
The ones he and Dustin had tried to move earlier. The ones that had required a full strategy discussion and still nearly taken them both out. The ones they’d abandoned almost immediately in favor of boxes labeled BEDDING and EL’S ROOM, which Joyce had very considerately packed with nothing heavier than pillows and stuffed animals.
Will walked past Lucas without slowing, offered him a quick smile, and kept going.
Mike stopped walking entirely.
He forgot how to breathe.
Will shifted the stack slightly, adjusted his grip, and continued toward the back of the house like this was completely normal. Like this was nothing. Like Mike wasn’t standing there having a quiet, internal crisis in the middle of the living room.
Across the room, Dustin glanced up, took in the sight, and let out a low whistle.
“Okay,” he said. “Since when.”
Lucas just stared.
Max—who’d seemingly materialised behind him out of thin air—whistled, sharp and unmistakable. Mike just about jumped out of his skin.
He whipped around, clutching his box like it might save him.
“Fucking hell, you scared the shit out of me,” Mike huffs.
Max had that look on her face. The one Mike had learned to fear over the years. Pure, unfiltered satisfaction.
“You like that,” Max grins, an annoying, shit-eating grin.
“Like what, Max?” Mike groaned, already exhausted. He didn’t even know what he was being accused of yet, and he hated that he knew it was probably accurate.
“That.” Max nodded pointedly past him.
Mike didn’t want to look. He really didn’t. But his body betrayed him, turning just enough to see Will gently setting the boxes down on the floor. All three of them. Carefully. Like they hadn’t weighed anything at all.
“How buff your boyfriend’s gotten,” Max finished, smug.
Mike felt heat crawl up his neck immediately.
“I—no,” he said, reflexive and unconvincing. “That’s not—he’s just—”
Max snorted. “Mike. Please. You froze.”
“I did not freeze.”
“Your soul left your body.”
“That’s not what happened.”
Max leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “You know those were the heavy ones, right?”
Mike swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You and Dustin almost died trying to move those.”
“We were fine.”
“You complained for, like, ten minutes.”
Mike grimaced. Okay, maybe he had.
Max straightened again, eyes flicking back to Will as he rolled his sleeves down, completely unbothered, already reaching for more boxes.
“And he just carried all three,” she continued. “Didn’t even blink.”
Mike squeezed his box a little too hard. “He’s… been working out.”
Max hummed. “Sure.”
“That’s normal,” Mike insisted. “People work out.”
“Mhm.” She tilted her head, studying him. “And people also don’t look like they’re about to pass out every time their boyfriend lifts something.”
“I am not—”
Max grinned wider. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing.”
“The staring. The quiet panic. The ‘oh no, my boyfriend is hot and strong and I don’t know what to do about it’ thing.”
Mike groaned, dropping his head back. “Can you not narrate my entire internal experience?”
“Nope.”
From across the room, Will glanced over, catching Mike’s eye. He smiled—soft, fond, completely unaware he’d just caused an existential crisis.
Mike’s heart did something stupid.
Max followed his gaze and sighed dramatically. “God. You’re so gone.”
Mike muttered, “He carried three boxes.”
“I know,” Max said brightly. “I saw.”
She clapped him once on the shoulder before grabbing a box herself. “Anyway. Can’t wait to see how much worse this gets.”
Mike watched Will bend to pick up another box—another heavy one—and felt dread settle comfortably in his chest.
The second time it happened, Mike was barley conscious.
It was movie night, and the Party had holed themselves up in Mike’s basement, which was somehow cozier than it had ever been. Someone—probably Robin—had insisted on string lights, looping them haphazardly along the ceiling beams until the whole room glowed warm and soft. There was an impressive, almost excessive collection of blankets and pillows piled everywhere, like they’d collectively decided to prepare for hibernation.
El had made a rule early on that they weren’t allowed to use the big light.
No one had argued. Not a single person had dared.
So the room was lit instead by mismatched lamps scavenged from around the house, all casting different shades of yellow and orange, and whatever hope and prayer was keeping the extension cords from exploding. It felt intimate. Safe. Like the world upstairs didn’t exist.
The perfect place for Mike to absolutely knock out in.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He really hadn’t. He’d been awake for the first movie, commentary and all, and most of the second—at least enough to know what was happening. But somewhere around the halfway point, the tiredness crept in heavy and unavoidable, dragging his eyelids down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
He was gone enough that his body gave up, but not gone enough to stop hearing.
Voices blurred together around him—Dustin’s occasional whisper, Lucas’s quiet laugh, the soft hum of the movie playing—but they all felt distant, muffled, like they were happening a room away. Mike barely registered them.
He’d curled in on himself without thinking, knees drawn up to his chest, shoulders slumping forward until his head tipped sideways and came to rest against Will’s shoulder.
Will didn’t move. Not even a little.
Instead, one of Will’s hands came up automatically, fingers slipping beneath the edge of Mike’s hood, scratching gently at his scalp in slow, soothing circles. Not absentminded. Deliberate. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Mike melted.
His whole body relaxed at once, tension draining out of him like he’d finally been given permission to stop holding himself together. His breathing evened out, deep and slow, forehead pressing more firmly into Will’s shoulder.
He was warm. Comfortable. Anchored.
Somewhere in the fog of almost-sleep, Mike registered the weight of Will beside him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid presence at his back. It made him feel impossibly small and impossibly safe all at once.
He was pretty sure—dimly, vaguely—that he’d never been more comfortable in his entire life.
El is the first to notice.
She shifts slightly where she’s sitting, gaze dropping to Mike curled in against Will’s side. His breathing has evened out completely now, slow and deep, his forehead resting heavy on Will’s shoulder.
A small smile pulls at her mouth.
“Mike is sleeping,” El says, softly, like she doesn’t want to wake him just by stating the obvious.
Lucas glances over, takes in the sight of Mike fully curled in on himself, and snorts under his breath. “Oh, dude,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s gone gone.”
Dustin leans forward from his spot on the floor, squinting at Mike like he’s assessing a science experiment. Then he grins.
“Past his bedtime, man,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s gone ten.”
Lucas lets out a quiet laugh at that, bumping Dustin’s shoulder with his knee.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “He picked the movie and everything.”
Max doesn’t even look away from the screen. She reaches into the bowl beside her, tosses a piece of popcorn into her mouth, and deadpans, “He’s missing half the movie. He subjected me to Jaws and isn’t even awake to watch it.”
Mike hears all of it. Sort of.
The words float through his head lazily, tangled together with the low hum of the movie and the soft glow of the lamps. He knows they’re talking about him—he just doesn’t have the energy to care. His body is heavy and warm, his eyes glued shut by exhaustion.
“Shall I wake him up?” El asks after a moment, earnest, already leaning forward slightly like she’s ready to try.
Before she can reach him, Will speaks.
“No—don’t.”
His voice is quiet, but firm enough that everyone pauses.
Will carefully pulls his hand away from Mike’s hair as he shifts, trying not to jostle him too much.
Mike reacts immediately.
A soft, unmistakable whine slips out of him, low and needy, his brow furrowing as he shifts closer without opening his eyes. His fingers curl weakly into Will’s hoodie, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Mike, baby, hold on just a second.” Will mutters quietly, tangling Mike’s hand from the fabric.
There’s a brief beat of stunned silence.
Then Max breaks it, delighted. “He just fucking whined,” she says, eyebrows shooting up.
Lucas laughs quietly, covering his mouth with his hand. “No way.”
Dustin’s eyes light up. “Oh my god. Like a toddler.”
“He’s tired,” Will says gently, not even looking up. His hand pauses for a second, hovering like he’s debating whether to move Mike or not. “He’s been up since, like, six.”
Mike barely registers the explanation. All he feels is the absence of Will’s hand—and then, suddenly, the warmth of Will moving closer.
A hand slides around his waist, solid and sure. Another slips beneath his knees.
And then—
He’s lifted.
The shift is smooth, controlled, like Will had planned it out ahead of time. No strain. No hesitation. Just up. Mike’s body leaves the pile of blankets, and for a brief, foggy second, his brain scrambles to catch up.
Oh.
Instinct takes over.
Mike curls in closer immediately, face pressing into Will’s shoulder, his arm drawing in tight against his chest. His grip on Will’s hoodie tightens without him meaning to.
Will adjusts his hold automatically, arms firm and secure.
Dustin stares openly, mouth falling open. “Bridal style is insane,” he says. “How are you lifting him? He’s so lanky.”
Lucas squints. “Yeah, dude, he’s, like… all elbows.”
“He weighs nothing,” Will mutters, already turning toward the stairs. His tone is fond, almost absentminded. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Max watches them go, head tilted, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“I hate you guys,” she says, affectionate and very loud about it.
Will doesn’t respond. He’s already halfway to the stairs, moving carefully, like Mike is something fragile and important.
Mike hears none of it clearly.
All he knows is the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek, the strength holding him without effort, the familiar smell of Will’s hoodie.
And before Will even reaches the first step, Mike is completely, utterly asleep.
The third time it happened was during one of those ridiculous late-night trips that felt inevitable the second someone said, “I’m hungry,” like it was a curse that couldn’t be undone.
They ended up at a store near the Byers house—the small, dingy kind that never really looked open, even when it was. The windows were fogged up, the fluorescent lights inside buzzing faintly like they were on their last legs. A crooked neon sign flickered in the window, missing at least one letter.
Behind the counter was a teenager who looked about three seconds away from quitting her job forever. She was leaning back in her chair, feet propped up, smoking a cigarette she had almost definitely stolen from the tobacco counter behind her. She didn’t look up when they came in. Didn’t even blink.
The place smelled vaguely like stale sugar, dust, and something fried a long time ago.
The shelves weren’t so much stocked as they were… survived. Most of the products were still sitting in the boxes they’d been shipped in—cardboard sliced open and shoved onto shelves without much thought. Nothing was organized by type or brand. Snacks sat next to cleaning supplies. Drinks were stacked in precarious towers like someone had just given up halfway through putting them away.
It wasn’t a great store.
It was cool, though.
And—more importantly—it carried the weird snacks El liked.
So here they were.
El was crouched on the floor near one of the lowest shelves, completely unbothered by the state of the place. She was methodically picking up different packets, turning them over, squinting at the labels like they were puzzles she fully intended to solve.
“Don’t sit on the floor,” Will said for the third time, hovering nearby with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “El, I don’t know what’s been on these floors, but you probably shouldn’t be sat on them.”
El hummed noncommittally, still crouched.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I like these.”
Will sighed, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press it. He just stayed close, like he was prepared to intervene if the floor suddenly attacked her.
Mike, meanwhile, was standing in front of the drink aisle—if it could even be called that—with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
He stared at the shelves like they’d personally wronged him.
Every option seemed worse than the last. Neon-colored cans promising flavors that definitely shouldn’t exist. Bottles with labels peeling off, the liquid inside suspiciously bright. Something labeled Energy Blast Xtreme that Mike was fairly sure would kill him on contact.
He leaned in closer, squinting.
“…Why are they all sticky,” he muttered.
None of them looked appetizing. None of them looked safe. Mike scanned the top shelves, then the middle ones, then back down again, like maybe the acceptable drink was just hiding from him out of spite.
He rubbed a hand over his face, brows furrowed so deeply they practically touched.
“This place is a nightmare,” he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Behind him, the cigarette crackled faintly as the cashier flicked ash into an empty cup. The lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere near the back of the store, something clattered and then went still.
Mike sighed and kept staring at the shelves, determined to find something—anything—that wouldn’t make him regret every decision that had led him here.
Then arms wrap around his waist.
Not tight. Just familiar. Secure.
Mike exhales without meaning to and turns his head, twisting just enough to look back over his shoulder.
Will is right there, smiling at him softly like he’s caught Mike in the middle of something endearing rather than on the verge of losing a fight with a shelf of expired beverages.
“Can’t find anything you want?” Will asks, tone light, like he’s already figured it out.
Mike sighs, leaning back into him without thinking. “They’re all sticky,” he complains. “And they look like they’ve been sat here since before we were born.”
Will chuckles quietly at that, the sound warm and fond, vibrating just slightly through Mike’s back. He loosens his hold but doesn’t step away, instead looking over Mike’s shoulder at the shelves like he’s taking the problem seriously.
His eyes scan upward.
“There’s sprite up there,” Will says, nodding toward the top shelf. “You like that, baby.”
Mike follows his gaze.
Sure enough, tucked way back on the highest shelf, half-hidden behind a row of aggressively neon energy drinks, is a single bottle of Sprite. It’s pushed so far back that it might as well be a personal insult.
Mike squints at it, then tips his head back to look at Will again.
“I can’t reach that,” he whines, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Will hums thoughtfully. “Alright,” he says. “Hold on.”
Mike doesn’t have time to ask what that means.
Will’s arms shift—one tightening around Mike’s waist, the other bracing more securely—and then the floor is suddenly not where it’s supposed to be.
Mike is lifted clean off it.
He lets out a small, undignified squeak before he can stop himself, hands flying out to grab at the nearest thing—which happens to be Will’s shoulders.
“Oh—!”
Will doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t strain. He just lifts him, smooth and easy, like Mike weighs nothing at all. Like this is the most natural solution in the world.
Mike’s heart slams into his ribs.
He prays—prays—that no one else heard that sound.
He doesn’t even open his eyes at first. Just clings there for half a second, mortified, acutely aware of Will’s hands firm at his waist, thumbs pressing lightly into his sides.
Then El’s voice drifts over, bright and delighted.
She looks up at them and smiles. “You squeaked.”
Mike opens his eyes.
Oh. God.
He’s fully airborne. Suspended. Being held up like this is normal. Like this doesn’t completely undo him.
“Mike,” Will says gently, like he’s coaxing him back to reality. “Grab it.”
Right. The drink.
Mike snaps back into action, reaching out quickly, fingers snatching the bottle of Sprite like it might disappear if he hesitates. He pulls it close to his chest, heart still racing.
“Got it,” he says, a little breathless.
Will immediately lowers him back down.
Just as carefully as he lifted him.
Mike’s shoes touch the floor again, and Will sets him down like he’s something precious, hands lingering for just a fraction of a second too long before pulling away.
Mike stands there, gripping the bottle, face burning.
Will smiles at him, completely unfazed. “Happy?”
Mike swallows. “Yeah.”
From a few aisles over, there’s a very distinct sound of someone losing it.
Dustin’s laugh echoes through the store.
El is still smiling.
The fourth time it happened, Mike as fully convinced that Dustin was fucking with him.
Which, to be fair, was not an unrealistic assumption.
They were in the Byers’ kitchen, gathered around the table with the original, noble intention of studying. That intention had lasted approximately an hour before dissolving into whatever this was now—notes shoved aside, textbooks abandoned, pencils being used exclusively for drumming or poking people.
Will was sitting at the table, hunched slightly over his notebook, sketching absentmindedly in the margins of his notes. His sleeves were pushed up just enough to be distracting, and Mike was very deliberately not looking at that.
Dustin, however, was looking at Will like he’d just had a terrible, wonderful idea.
“Will,” Dustin said suddenly, grin already stretching too wide to be trusted. “Arm wrestle me.”
Will blinked and looked up from his notebook, clearly pulled out of whatever world he’d been in.
“Huh?”
“Arm wrestle me!” Dustin repeated, louder, slapping his elbow down on the table like he was issuing a formal challenge.
Lucas laughed immediately.
“Dude, why?” he said. “You won’t win.”
Dustin shot him an offended look.
“I bet you I can.”
Max, sprawled sideways in her chair, didn’t even glance up.
“I don’t think you will.”
“Probably not.” Will mutters.
Mike’s soul left his body.
Probably not.
Not no. Not that’s stupid. Just—probably not.
Mike stared at Will, then slowly turned his head to look at Dustin, suspicion blooming hot and immediate in his chest.
This had to be a setup.
Dustin was grinning like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Which, frankly, was worse than if he didn’t.
“You’re serious?” Mike asked, voice flat.
Dustin nodded enthusiastically. “Dead serious.”
“You want to arm wrestle Will.”
“Yup.”
Mike narrowed his eyes. “Why.”
Dustin shrugged, still smiling. “Science.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is when I say it.”
Mike looked back at Will, who had gone back to his notes like this was none of his business, flexing his fingers absently before picking up his pencil again.
Mike’s brain supplied several deeply unhelpful thoughts in rapid succession.
This was a terrible idea.
This was absolutely going to end badly.
And somehow, inexplicably, everyone else seemed completely at peace with that.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I’m just saying,” he added, “I’ve seen Will carry stuff. This is not gonna go how you think it is.”
Dustin waved him off. “You’re all cowards.”
Max finally looked up, smirk firmly in place. “I wanna see how long it takes you to regret this.”
Will glanced up again, hesitating now, eyes flicking briefly to Mike like he was checking in.
Mike swallowed.
He had the distinct, creeping sensation that he was about to witness something he was not emotionally prepared for.
And worse?
He was pretty sure Dustin knew that.
Dustin slams his elbow onto the kitchen table with dramatic flair, scooting his chair closer like he’s settling in for a championship match.
“Alright,” He announces. “No excuses. No distractions.”
Lucas snorts. “You say that like this is going to last more than five seconds.”
Dustin shoots him a glare. “You don’t know that.”
Across from him, Will hesitates for a moment before setting his notebook aside. He looks faintly embarrassed, like he’s been dragged into something ridiculous against his will.
“I don’t really—” he starts, then stops, glancing around at the expectant faces. His eyes flick briefly to Mike, who is watching with a level of intensity usually reserved for life-or-death situations.
Will exhales. “Okay. But don’t get mad.”
Dustin grins. “Oh, I won’t.”
They clasp hands.
Mike’s brain helpfully stops working.
He zeroes in on Will’s arm immediately—on the way his sleeve rides up, on the solid line of muscle there, on how relaxed his posture is. Will doesn’t brace. Doesn’t lean in. He just settles his elbow, fingers curling comfortably around Dustin’s hand.
Dustin, meanwhile, is already tensing like he’s about to lift a car.
“Ready?” Dustin says.
Will nods. “Yeah.”
“Go!”
For a split second—a genuine, honest second—it looks like Dustin might have a chance.
His arm dips forward slightly. His face goes red. He grits his teeth, putting his whole body into it.
Will’s arm… barely moves.
Mike’s stomach drops.
Dustin lets out a strained noise somewhere between a growl and a yell. “Okay—wow—okay—”
Will blinks. “Do you want me to—”
“No!” Dustin snaps. “Don’t you dare go easy on me!”
Will presses his lips together, clearly trying not to smile.
He applies just a little more pressure.
That’s all it takes.
Dustin’s arm goes down smoothly, decisively, the back of his hand hitting the table with a solid thunk.
Silence.
Then—
El giggles.
Not a quiet one. A full, delighted laugh that bubbles right out of her. She claps her hands once, eyes bright.
Max immediately joins in, snickering as she leans forward on her elbows and grins like she’s just watched something deeply satisfying.
“Oh my god,” she says. “That was nothing.”
Lucas stares at the table, then at Will. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Dustin slumps back in his chair, staring at his own hand like it’s betrayed him. “…Okay,” he says finally. “I would like a rematch in, like, six months.”
Will pulls his arm back, flexing his fingers like he’d just finished writing for too long. “You did good,” he offers sincerely.
Mike makes a noise. Very quiet. Entirely internal.
His brain is screaming.
That was zero effort.
He didn’t even lean.
He asked if Dustin wanted him to go easy.
Will glances over at Mike, catching his expression—wide-eyed, stunned, something dangerously close to awe.
“You okay?” Will asks softly.
Mike swallows hard and nods a little too fast. “Yeah. Totally. Fine.”
Max looks between them, grin widening.
“Mike,” she says sweetly, “you look like you just watched your entire worldview collapse.”
“I did not,” Mike mutters.
Dustin squints at him. “You kinda did.”
Mike presses his lips together, refusing to engage, while Will reaches for his notebook again like he hasn’t just demolished someone in arm wrestling without breaking a sweat.
Yeah. He liked this a little too much.
The fifth time, it was all Mike.
He’d admit it. If pressed. Which he wouldn’t be, because no one was here to witness it but him and Will.
They were in Will’s room—again. Just the two of them—again. It happened a lot. Mike staying a little too late, checking the time with a theatrical sigh, declaring that it was way too late now, that Will would obviously be exhausted, that driving him home would be irresponsible.
He absolutely did not do it on purpose.
Never.
Will was sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out, a comic book open in his hands. He kept turning pages, but Mike could tell he wasn’t really reading any of it. His eyes skimmed the panels without focus, thumb pausing too long before flipping to the next page.
Mike was sprawled on top of him, boneless and comfortable, chin resting on Will’s chest. He could feel the steady thrum of Will’s heartbeat beneath his cheek, solid and grounding. The fabric of Will’s shirt was warm from his body, pulled taut where Mike’s weight pressed into him.
Will didn’t complain. He never did.
Mike stared up at him, eyes half-lidded, watching the way Will’s brow furrowed faintly in concentration at nothing. He traced the line of Will’s jaw with his gaze, the familiar curve of his mouth, the freckles he knew by heart.
The words slip out before he overthinks them.
“You’re strong.”
Deadpan. Flat. Like he’s stating a fact about the weather.
Will pauses. Lowers the comic just enough to look down at him properly. One corner of his mouth quirks up.
“I guess,” Will says, snorting softly.
Mike doesn’t look away. “Like,” he continues, adjusting slightly so his chin presses more firmly into Will’s chest, “very strong. Weirdly strong.”
Will’s chest rises with a quiet laugh. He lowers the comic completely now, folding it closed and setting it aside on the nightstand.
“Yeah?” he asks, amused, eyes warm as they search Mike’s face.
“Yeah,” Mike says easily. Honest.
There’s a small pause. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the house settling around them. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaks. The world feels far away.
Will’s hand comes up, resting at Mike’s side, fingers splayed comfortably against his back. He doesn’t pull him closer—just keeps him there, like that was always the plan.
“You like it?” Will asks, voice softer now. Not teasing. Curious.
Mike doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Yeah.”
Will smiles then—slow and fond and just a little shy. His thumb shifts, rubbing an absent-minded circle against Mike’s side.
“I can tell.”
Mike’s tilts his head back just enough to look up at him properly, a grin already tugging at his mouth.
“I’m that obvious?”
“Yeah,” Will replies without hesitation, smiling down at him. “Always.”
Mike huffs out a quiet laugh, more pleased than embarrassed. He shifts slightly, the movement lazy and unguarded. “You’ve been doing it all on purpose, haven’t you?”
Will’s smile turns a little more knowing. He shrugs, casual as anything, like they’re talking about nothing important at all.
“Only the arm wrestle,” he admits. “Seemed like a good time to test the theory.”
Mike’s eyes widen a fraction. “You—!” He lifts his head just enough to glare at him. “You’re evil.”
Will laughs softly. “Nah.”
“Yes,” Mike insists. “Absolutely yes.”
Will chuckles again, chest vibrating faintly beneath Mike’s cheek. “Nah. Just using it to my advantage.”
“Evil,” Mike repeats, squinting up at him. “Evil, evil man.”
“Maybe a tiny bit,” Will concedes, eyes bright.
Mike hums thoughtfully, the sound low and content, and then says—far too casually for the weight of it—
“I like when you pick me up. Like. A lot.”
Will makes a sound.
It’s a coo. An honest-to-god coo, soft and affectionate, like Mike has just said something unbearably cute. Before Mike can react, Will’s arms tighten around him, pulling him closer, locking him firmly in place against his chest.
Mike yelps, startled, then immediately starts laughing as he tries to squirm away. “Will—!”
“Nope,” Will says, amused and entirely unmoved. “You’re staying right here. Don’t fight it.”
“I’m serious,” Mike protests, wriggling half-heartedly. “Will, I swear—”
“You like it,” Will cuts in lightly.
Mike freezes.
Completely still.
His laughter dies off, replaced by a huff of air as he gives up the fight entirely, settling back against Will like gravity has suddenly doubled.
“Shut up,” Mike mutters, face warm, voice muffled against Will’s chest.
Will just snorts, tightening his hold a fraction—not restrictive, just certain. Protective. Like he’s claiming his space and Mike in it.
They fall quiet after that.
Mike stays exactly where he is.