Chapter Text
cover art by mugi ♡
Chipped paint sheds on Will's shoulder as he throws his body weight into the apartment door, jiggling the handle as he does. He's got no clue how Mike gets it open so easily. Finally, the door gives, and he stumbles inside.
Coat off. Keys on the counter. Shoes by the door.
No lamps are on in the cramped living room. The closed blinds keep out the winter sun, so everything is dim. Gray. The door to Mike's room, directly across from Will's, sits ajar. There's a beat up couch they'd taken from the side of the street when they moved in, and Will's extra throw blanket hangs off the back of it, undisturbed since Mike last used it for a nap.
Mike's not here.
In his room, Will goes to set his latest picks from the library down on his nightstand and almost drops them.
His hands. Something's wrong with his hands.
They're covered in grime. Dirt. Blood, so much blood. His heart dives through the floor, and he scrubs at the skin.
Nothing comes off.
He heaves toward the blinds to yank the strings there and his room floods with bleak daylight.
His hands shake, but they're clean. No slimy mold. No blood. Just very dry knuckles and skin scratched crimson by his own nails.
Will counts on his next inhale. Holds before the exhale.
Despite the years between him and everything that happened, he still gets this feeling. These images of his skin, unclean. His heart races as fast as the night he snapped Henry's leg and stole his voice, howling for Max to run through his rotting mouth. As fast as it did when the Abyss sank toward the Upside Down. Faster than when he stopped Henry from reaching El at the last second inside the Mind Flayer.
The feeling looms over him, always coating his shoulders, always staining his hands. He swears the stains seem so real, he's convinced they're more a part of him than his actual body; marks that his skin has grown around, same as the silence that spread around his throat like a sickness. A sickness Mike caught, too.
No matter how much Will washes his hands, the stain's stuck on him like he's rusting from the inside even though he knows—he knows—it's a trick played by his mind.
His anatomy is shuffled. His mind has never been right, not since 1983, but especially after.
Those last moments of Henry's life, he felt them. He saw a flicker of Mom through Henry's view right before the axe hacked, and then Will blocked the door to the hive mind forever. Cemented it shut with everything he had before his access to that power ceased to exist.
He'd tried to be normal. Finishing high school like he was a background character of a play, saying his lines and pretending to scratch letters onto a prop notebook day after day. Slowly getting back to hanging out with the group without one or more of them crying. Finding minimal sleep those nights in the cabin when he could feel, like a sixth sense, Hopper's silent cries into Mom's arms from the other room.
More closed doors.
Then came the college acceptance letters. It didn't matter that he got in to three other schools. Jonathan was at NYU, so Will would go there. Easy.
The night of graduation, at the close of the Party's last campaign, he looked Mike in the face and saw how much he wished his story about the mage was true. But Will had known Mike longer than the others. His best friend knew he'd never see El again, even if, in some distant reality, the story was real.
If.
They said they believed.
He'll never ask Max, Lucas, or Dustin if they were lying.
But then there's Mike, so desperate to move forward that it probably doesn't matter if they were lying or not.
When Will left Hawkins, he didn't ask permission. The way he knows Mike was desperate is that he followed Will without question, like he'd slapped a handcuff to Will's wrist and secured the other side to his own.
Wherever Will walked, Mike stumbled behind him, lost.
Lost without her.
They don't talk about it. Will can't. But it's all Mike seems to want to do in the silence that's so thick, Will struggles to move through it.
They've never been more distant even though they live in the same stupid apartment with both their names on the lease.
Will can't wrap his soul around his grief, so he shuts it out; Mike oozes his grief through his pores so loudly that Will doesn't need to guess at the words lodging in his throat. When he does speak, Mike does so as if through a gag. Teeth bared for a fight, voice sawing its way out of his mouth.
It wasn't like that before they left for the city. But as the months passed, it's like Mike fell back down the huge staircase he's been climbing since the night it all ended, and now he sits there at the bottom, waiting.
Their apartment is thick with ghosts.
Will didn't know it would be like this. Surviving. Everything that happened inhabits each moment of the present. The weight of it all is so heavy that, even in the brief seconds he's distracted enough to forget, he holds a sense of needing to remember something that's slipped his mind. There's never any relief. His nights seem endless with nothing to combat the cold moonlight knocking on his window.
To block it out, Will stays busy. Does what he's supposed to do.
He goes to class. Tries not to think about his stolen childhood and keeps his gaze on the horizon, or whatever dumb self-help shit he cycles through week by week. Sees Jonathan every week or so. Finishes his coursework the night before it's due. Sits in the right spots in class to make himself seem like an eager student. Smiles the right way at his peers to maybe, just maybe, pass as a totally-normal-and-definitely-not-traumatized guy from a small town in Indiana that experienced years of interdimensional horrors that'd blow the minds of any sci-fi enthusiast or conspiracy theorist.
It's all a distraction. Even the people he loves, they try to make him feel loved, and he knows he's loved, but the problem is Will can't feel much of anything. Nothing's real anymore.
When his heartrate calms, Will shuts the blinds and doesn't bother taking off his frozen clothes, just crawls into his bed and tries to get warm.
That's another thing. Will thinks he'll never be warm again. Not completely. Especially not in the colder months. He'll always need a crutch, like an extra jacket or gloves. Triple pairs of socks. Double blankets at night.
His fingernails are almost always blue. He doesn't pick up a paintbrush because he can't stand to look at them, to see that part of himself that he just can't seem to file away in some dusty corner of his brain. At least, for his art class, he sticks to pencils and pastels, those things he can move sporadically without caring much about the result or paying attention to his cold, stained hands.
Point is, Will's tired.
He remembers too much, and he scratches scabs off his raw hands, and he and Mike drift in and out of a quiet life in their creaky apartment in New York City, bracing for more bad to come for them.
Will doesn't have the capacity to think about his feelings for Mike. Those thoughts that used to keep him up at night don't plague him anymore, not through the fog of all this loss. And the guilt that used to eat at him, the guilt of loving another boy, that's long gone.
Mike is just a physical void in front of him, too pretty to look at, too dangerous to get close to, too painful to think about.
So, Will survives each day by forcing himself out of bed, checking the hall for Mike before he slips into their shared bathroom to brush his teeth, eating one meal a day—two, if he's lucky enough to remember, and trying to sleep through the night.
But then Mike ruins everything.
Their conversation about visiting home for Christmas goes like this:
Will, jittery from his fourth cup of black coffee that sears his tongue and does nothing to warm his cold bones, jolts when Mike's monotone voice scrapes at him from his bedroom doorway.
"What about winter break?"
Not even a Hello.
Will turns in his chair, tapping his pencil on his sheet of notes from his last run-through of his English final—some twenty-page paper that he'd loosely threaded together from when he'd made himself come up with an idea at the beginning of the semester, since that's the only way Will gets things done now, by meticulously planning each part of his life step by step without any feeling or inspiration because he can't afford to stumble or he'll never ever get back up.
Mike's skin almost matches the day's overcast sky. His hair is limp with grease. His lips are chapped, rimmed red.
"You mean stay here or go home?" Will asks.
Home as in Hawkins. Mom's coming from Montauk for a day trip because she and Hopper are still settling in from the move. Will could go there, but the Party had planned to meet in Hawkins for the holidays until Lucas and Max backed out a few weeks ago. Dustin'll be there, though.
"Yeah. My last final's in the morning."
Will knows this. Mike has told him four times about this final and has turned down Will's offer to study together at every turn.
"You want to go?"
Mike shrugs. "Kinda have to. Family time. You?"
He could go. It's what kids his age do when they're away at school. They go home and see friends, feel like a kid again. He probably should go, really. He's been avoiding phone calls the last few weeks when he'd been doing so well with them at the start of the semester, and he hasn't been able to bring himself to respond to Max's latest strongly-worded letter.
But if he stays, and Mike goes, Will can get some time to himself. A little bit of relief. No threat of ending up sleeping in the basement at Mike's house.
"Not really. But you should go. I already talked to Jonathan about it anyway. Things are… you know."
Mike stares at him. Keeps staring. His iris and pupils blend together.
This weird silence is a part of them now. They both get so quiet when the grief roars like thunder.
Mike leaves. He doesn't ask if Will's sure, or if Will really wants to spend Christmas by himself. As far as Will sees, Mike packs a few shirts and even fewer pairs of underwear for the couple of weeks he'll be gone, and Will can't bring himself to say anything when he walks out the front door, because if he does, he's afraid he'll tell Mike that he's sorry.
Sorry for everything.
Sorry he's here instead of El.
Mike goes, and Will takes the extra throw blanket off the back of the couch. It's not enough to keep warm.
Two weeks to himself, that's what it was supposed to be.
Two weeks of no classes, sleeping all day, not thinking of Mike or anything that happened, exploring the city more. Maybe sneaking into a bar just to do it. He considers buying Christmas lights to string around the apartment, but the thought makes the back of his throat grow wet. Alone with the lights, he'd only think of Mom calling out for him.
Nope, no thank you.
On the fifth night of being home alone, a few days before Christmas, Will curls up on his twin mattress beneath enough layers that he should be able to feel his feet, but he can't. He's still shivering as sheets of snow pelt the window. The wind croons something lonely. Or maybe Will is projecting.
While sleep creeps around his peripheral, waiting for its chance to strike but never quite committing, he floats above any thoughts that might lead to carefully locked memories.
Then, sounds boom from the front door like the damn military is trying to break it down.
Adrenaline slams into Will. He launches out of bed, legs crouched as if he'll need to run.
The front door rattles with its one loose hinge as someone, not the military, pounds on it from the outside.
Will tries to make his lungs work properly again.
More pounding on the door.
"Will, come the fuck on!"
That's Mike's voice.
Will straightens.
"One second," he croaks, unsure if Mike can hear him, but then the pounding stops.
The extra deadbolt, that's why he can't get in.
Each step through the apartment is unsteady as his pulse struggles to calm. The metal deadbolt on the front door is warm to his fingers. The door handle's less of a hassle from the inside, but Will doesn't get the chance to mess with it before it crashes open and he has to dodge Mike as he storms in, slamming the door behind him.
He's soaked with melted snow, face unreadable in the dark.
"Uh, did you drive back here in the storm?"
No answer. Mike brushes by, knocking his shoulder. It's the first time they've touched in months, and it stings.
"Dude," Will tries again, "that's, like, twelve hours in the car. What happened?" Mike stands there, swaying in place, rubbing his forehead. He'd probably be pacing if there were any space for it between the kitchen and living room. Something's very wrong. Dread rises from Will's heels and settles like a black hole in his chest. "Mike, will you please answer—"
Mike's face twists. It's an ugly look on him.
"I couldn't do it. Is that what you wanna hear?"
Will's brow furrows. "What?"
"I couldn't fucking do it. Couldn't be there. Can't." He steps back, then forward again, boots creaking over the floor and leaving wet prints. Is he drunk?
"That's… okay. You don't have to be there."
"No. It's not okay. That's what you wanted, right? For me to go back alone with the Party split up." His fingers fist in his wet hair. "Everyone moving on, when I'm just—fucking stuck."
For the first time in months, something other than cold nothingness seeps through Will. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Mike shoves a hand in his direction. "You made me go alone."
"No, I didn't. You asked if I wanted to come, and I said—" Will cuts himself off.
Oh. He'd said no. Okay. He can see how he'd missed that. It hadn't seemed like a huge deal at the time.
The harsh rise and fall of Mike's chest worries him. He's clearly breaking down about, well, Will hasn't figured out the scope of what it is yet, but he knows it's got to do with exactly what he's been trying to forget. To avoid. Even Mike, lingering in the outer edges of his vision, is something he tries not to focus on, because that means more sharp guilt carving into him.
Will missed Mike reaching out over something as simple as traveling to see friends together because he was focused on his own survival. That's what Will is doing in New York. He isn't living, but neither is Mike. Mike, who's the heart of the Party. Who followed Will here because—why?
Will never asked. Hadn't let himself think of it except that it made the most sense with their long history. Mike had chosen him out of everyone to stick close to when he needed comfort. And Will, in his sudden desperation to mechanically swim away from everything, had let Mike flounder.
Did he really not notice, or was Mike good at hiding it?
"I'm sorry," Will says, breaking the silence. He has to be mature, right? Because Mike is hurting and it's partially Will's fault, even if he didn't mean to hurt him. "I misunderstood. I would've come with you if I'd known."
"Don't lie." Mike's voice is a scalpel. Will has never heard him use that tone. Not with him.
"I'm not lying."
Mike stops his restless fidgeting, standing motionless. The sight makes Will uneasy. "Yes. You are. That's all you and I do now."
Will doesn't get that. He doesn't want to get it.
"Mike." The way he says his name sounds so broken to his own ears. More alive than anything he's spoken in months.
"I asked you to come with me and you didn't. And I was there. And you weren't. And I came with you when you left, because… because I thought you needed me. And you don't. You're fine. You're always fucking fine with your stupid routines and your stupid phone calls to the Party. So fine, all the time."
Will blanches.
Mike takes a step toward him, and the space between them crackles. "But I know you're just trying to fool yourself, right? 'Cause that's what I'm trying to do, too." Another step. "And I asked you to come."
"You didn't."
"I did."
"That's not fair. You never asked me directly. I can't read your mind."
"Nothing is fair." It echoes between them. "She's gone. And you're right here, but you're gone, too."
Will recoils, back pressing against the front door. "Don't say that."
"You are," Mike sneers. His face is wet. "You're gone. We won, and you're right in front of me, but you're gone."
It's defense, the way Will's lip curls, and he hurls his next words back in the same heated tone Mike's using. "You're such a hypocrite."
Mike takes another step. Close enough that Will might need to keep him away. "Maybe. But I'm no liar."
"Oh, and I am? What've I lied about?"
Mike's eyes glow with triumph, like he's been planning this, like he's already won whatever argument he's been having in his head. Apparently, this shit's been eating at him for who knows how long, because this can't just be about winter break and blowing off his poorly communicated cry for company.
The air around them becomes a graveyard as Mike says, "What you said at the Squawk, before the final battle."
Will hates thinking about it, how frantic he was to prove to Henry that he could conquer those nightmares of the future before they ever happened. How he could say what he did despite knowing that some of the people in that room would never look at him the same, but at least Henry couldn't use his secret against him anymore, not when he spilled it himself. It was humiliating, mostly, and only a tiny bit freeing.
Will doesn't regret it, but he does.
His tone is dead. "What about it."
"I get it. The guy you were talking about was me, right?"
If Will moved at all right now, he'd disintegrate.
But he is brave enough for this. Mike already knows about him. This can't carve any new wounds.
"That was the implication."
"No, don't do the roundabout shit. The guy you had a crush on was me. You looked me dead in the face as you said it."
He is brave. He is.
"Yes."
Mike does the last thing Will wants him to, and takes another step. "I thought so. I was distracted, naturally, in the moment. Like, yeah, I kinda replayed every interaction we'd ever had in under ten seconds in my head, and a lotta stuff started to make sense. But that's not the point."
"Can you get to it, then?" Will would rather die than think about the way his voice shakes. "I thought we were fine. I'm over it. You said we could be best friends. That was that."
"Yeah. It was. But after everything—today, I was sitting there." Mike sucks in a sharp breath. "And I thought about the van. The painting."
Will curls his fingers into fists at his sides, digging his nails into his palms to distract from the sick pangs of panic shooting through him. The painting. The one that's currently hanging on Mike's bedroom wall.
"What about it?"
"That was all you, wasn't it? Not her. The speech about me. I got that now. Just earlier, actually. Cool. I understand why you lied."
"I didn't lie," Will says. "That was real—"
"Bullshit." There's agony written all over Mike's face, and Will doesn't know what to do, or what's happening, or how to fix this from going any further. "You have no idea what that painting means to me. What you said—I thought about it every day from the moment you gave it to me. Every single day. And you just go and tell me it basically meant nothing. What you felt. It wasn't actually that deep, right? It was just about you, and you had me, what, on some kinda pedestal all because of a crush? So all of that about me being the heart and making El—you—feel better for being different, like you're not a mistake, and giving you courage… That wasn't true."
Will's mind is blank.
"Right?" Mike presses.
"That's not…" He stops, then barks a laugh. "You missed the entire point! I told you it was about me. I was—it was me understanding that I didn't have to hate myself anymore for how I felt. That has nothing to do with the painting."
"Yeah, it does. You said you needed me, but if I was just a crush, then you don't need me, and that sucks! And—and you made me go home alone."
Will doesn't know if he's confused, infuriated, disgusted, or all of those at once. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mike beats him to it, crowding Will against the door before he can stop him.
Mike might be gangly, but his shoulders are just as wide as Will's, and tonight, his bomber jacket steals him the win on size, not to mention the extra inches he has in height.
There's something about being forced against a surface and having to look up. Will has been against surfaces before. Slimy rotting ones that caress him everywhere.
Will's heartbeat kicks into a run. He squeezes his eyes shut, and it's like he's back there again. Can smell Henry's breath, and the too-sweet molding petrichor of the Upside Down. Can almost taste the things shoved in his mouth, like pennies and bitter minerals, mushy enough to fill his throat, further than his throat, going and going even as he choked.
And then warm fingers yank at the collar of Will's sweater, and his eyes fly open to find Mike's. It's Mike's breath on him, stale from however many hours its been since his last meal. It's Mike so close to him, eyebrows in a furious dip, heat churning off his skin between the tiny gap of their bodies.
This might be a nightmare. Will might actually be back in Hawkins, still strapped to that wall as vines grope his neck and chest and waist and legs, blood leaking from his eyes and ears as he tries and fails to keep Henry from using him as a spy, from violating his mind again. All of this time, all of this numbness, has all been a dream, and Henry is here to finish him off in the worst way possible; he'll finally die, but it'll look and feel like it's by Mike's hands.
But no. The pain on Mike's face is so visceral, Will could touch it if he reached out. It's too real to be a nightmare.
"Are you sure I was just crush?"
Will can barely speak. "This isn't about you. It's about me." He lifts his chin, nerves alight at how horrifically close they are. "But, yeah. Pretty sure."
He wasn't sure at all, actually. He thought he was doing the right thing, saying that at the Squawk, looking at Mike and hoping he'd know he was talking about him so that the guilt could be over with. He was letting Mike know that it was okay, that Mike didn't have to love him back because Will was fine with himself.
In a way, Mike was a crush. Intense infatuation. But everything else he felt for Mike was deeper than the even the deepest parts of Will's bones. Will was always fixated on him, this boy who was out of his reach, even before he wanted romance. And then Robin helped him see how much better things could be if he just gave up the hate and loved himself for who he really is.
It's not like his feelings for Mike went away, but Will could live without him if he needed to. So, he forced it into the open, and the soreness from loving Mike changed. Morphed. Turned sour.
Henry influenced that.
It was easier to just let Mike go.
"So, I'm right," Mike says. "The painting…"
"I meant every word," Will says. "We're best friends. Everything I said that day still stands."
Mike studies his face, and frowns. "Are we best friends?"
"Yeah," Will says earnestly. "Always."
"But I was just a crush."
Jesus, what does it matter? Why does he care so much? He's given Mike what he wants and humiliated himself enough. He's been way too nice considering the boundaries Mike has stomped all over tonight. And Will is done.
"What do you want me to say?" His tone slips low. "You're pissed off I'm not pining over you? Are you really that conceited?"
Mike shifts back, shoulders rolling, and Will braces himself instinctually thanks to a childhood of growing up with his dad, and every year since his dad left that's been filled with supernatural torment.
Mike has never, ever hit him. But the way he looks at Will now, like he's so rageful even though Will doesn't get why… He might do it. He really might.
But Mike doesn't hit him. He just crashes into Will with the rest of his body.
Will is paralyzed against the door. It's not quite a hug. Mike breathes over his neck, and Will flinches at harsh fingers scrabbling over the sides of his sweater.
Will has never been so aware of his body, skin bristling under Mike's hovering mouth, the danger of Mike's burning hands gripping him like he can pull chunks of his flesh out and leave Will pocked full of Mike-shaped craters.
Heat covers Will. Mike is too close.
So Will shoves him, but Mike doesn't budge. Will shoves again, harder, and Mike relents, but leaves his hands tangled in Will's sweater.
Mike's brows are pinched waves. Will should say something. Should grab him back. Should tell Mike that he's hurting him. But Mike's not hurting him, not really.
Still, he carefully tugs Mike's wrists away.
"Mike—" Will is strangled by the weight of his name. "What're you doing?"
Shock strikes Mike's features like lightning. And the rage is back. This time, when Mike reaches, it's with intent. Slow, like he's gonna let Will stop him, and Will doesn't get it. He shouldn't have said what he said, he knows that. Mike has never gotten physical with him before. But this isn't a fight, so what is it?
His hands are still reaching, and a part of Will wants Mike to touch him.
He hasn't been touched in so long. Not like he's needed. Or hated. And maybe he deserves Mike's anger for being the one who's here instead of El. For being guilty of everything Mike said. For running so far into himself that he left Mike behind, accidentally making Mike feel like he's not needed.
Mike drills into Will's space, presses against him, slides his arms around him so tight that Will might crack a rib.
It wasn't a hug before, but it is now.
Against his throat, Mike says, "I needed you… but you checked out."
Goosebumps flare over Will’s neck, down his back and arms.
Too close.
He hooks his chin over Mike's shoulder, sweater gradually growing damp from Mike's soaked jacket.
"So did you. Maybe we can change that. Talk more. We can do it right now. What do you want to talk about?"
"Nothing," Mike grits out. "Don't say anything. I don't want to talk anymore."
It's Will's turn to clench his fingers into Mike. "Exactly. You don't want to talk. You were just as checked out as me, and now you're blaming me for your own problems, and things that I can't control—"
Will goes very, very still as Mike shoves his face at the crook of his neck hard enough that it's like a bite. The ceiling stares down him where he's trapped against the door.
Mike smells like wet clothes and clean sweat. His hair drags across Will's cheekbone as his mouth slides, hitting Will's jaw, teeth covered by his lips but still sharp enough for Will to feel them through Mike's lips.
It claws a wild shiver from him. His head smacks back against the door with a thud.
What is happening?
Mike inhales at the corner of Will's mouth.
He can't move. Can't even breathe.
Heat pools at the base of Will's belly. His hands hurt from how hard he's holding Mike's jacket. He should do something. Shake him out of this trance, maybe.
Pull him closer.
No. Absolutely not.
"Mike," Will whispers. "Whatever you're mad about, m'sorry."
"Liar."
Asshole. Stupid, manipulative, self-absorbed asshole. Is this how it's going to be now? Mike making everything into a fight. Torn apart by grief, by Will's grief on top of that, and yet dumping the burden of it all on him.
"Fuck you," Will spits.
Mike's eyes flick between his. In the barest hints of light, his pupils are the size of coins.
"Yeah? Push me," he says. Will's fingers clench even harder in his jacket. Wet nylon squeaks against itself. "Do it. Let's see."
Realizations hit Will like a meteor shower, shrieking streaks of light as superheated rocks burn up in Mike's atmosphere.
Mike is suggesting Will wants him close.
Mike is challenging him to see if he'll do it. Push him away, or pull him in, because Mike—
He drifts closer.
"You need me, right?" he says like it's a fact. Will achieves the smallest head shake of all time. Any more, and their mouths will touch.
No, he doesn't need him. He doesn't need this.
His pulse is in his cheeks. His stomach is pressed against Mike's. Will is going to die of shame. Of the fact that he has never wanted anything more in his life than he wants Mike right now, and he doesn't even care that Mike's exploiting that.
A finger skims the hem of his sweater, at his hip, then dips into the waistband of his sweatpants, scorching.
Will freezes. "What—"
"Shut up, just shut up—"
Then Mike's mouth is on his.
Will has never kissed anyone. Hasn't had the time. It's not gentle by a long shot. It doesn't even register that what they're doing even is kissing until teeth dig into his bottom lip and he shoves his face harder into Mike's in retaliation.
Mike pulls back.
Will's trying so hard to find the words to ask what the hell that was—
And then Mike's nose is bumping his cheek and his lips are back and Will is just as weak as he always used to think.
He can't even really respond as Mike slowly eats at his mouth. Doesn't know what to do. But with another dip of Mike's fingers at his waist, Will gasps, and Mike takes advantage of his open mouth.
Will just lets him. He tries to breathe through his nose. Tries to unclench his fingers from Mike's back. Can't.
Mike's tongue slides against his, and it plucks some of Will's thoughts from his brain. Mike pauses to nudge their noses together, and there go more thoughts. Mike runs the hand that isn't at his waist up to the nape of his neck, and thoughts don't matter anymore.
It's a trade, Will realizes. Kissing. It's back and forth. In and out. Push and pull. Tongue and teeth and slick lips.
Mike tugs at his hair and Will's knees shake.
He snaps back to himself, wrenching his head to the side so fast his neck pops.
Thoughts. He needs to get his thoughts back.
Mike just attaches his mouth to his throat and works his tongue there instead.
"What's happening?" Will rushes out.
"Dunno." It's slurred against his skin. "Want to."
Not good enough.
Will's throat tightens. Mike bites down on his neck, and Will feels it jolt all the way below his hips. He chokes down a noise, but doesn't know if it comes from the sudden despair or the way Mike's touching him.
Will tugs at his jacket, and Mike gets what he's asking, pulling back to look at him.
Will has never seen him like this. Almost sleepy, but concentrated. Impatience all over him. Like Will is something he wants.
He doesn't have the strength to push Mike away. He needs Mike to realize how wrong this is. How much of a bad idea it is, and how easily this will wreck everything they have. And for what? For Mike to feel needed? For Mike to see how fast Will bends for him—how far he'll go before he snaps?
"Don't do this," Will says, and he watches it slam into him. Watches him process it in the bounce of his forehead, the way his eyelids open and lower again.
Mike knows what he means. And Will sees the moment he decides he doesn't care about the consequences.
"Tell me to stop, and I will," Mike says. The right words lodge violently behind Will's teeth. Mike leans in, and Will tilts his mouth up because he’s weak, just for Mike to not let him close, lips dancing away. "Tell me," he says again.
Will could have it, just for a night. He could stop thinking. He could feel what it's like, whatever Mike wants, and maybe… maybe it'll all go away. His feelings. The numbness. Maybe Mike could finally know how shocking it is, how monstrously Will wants him, and finally be scared off.
Mike presses him against the door. Their hips touch, and Will goes rigid. Heat rakes up his neck, pulse hammering in his ears. It's so obvious exactly how much he wants Mike; his sweats hide nothing.
He expects that to snap Mike out of it, for him to understand what he's doing and with whom, but rejection doesn't come.
Curiosity glazes Mike's eyes.
He rocks his hips forward, and Will can't help it—his mouth drops open.
"Yeah?" Mike says, fingers tugging at Will's waistband until there's enough room that, if he wants to, he can slip them inside.
Mike was right. Will is a liar.
He slams his mouth into his. Sloppy, clipping his own lip with his teeth, clutching at Mike's shoulders to rid him of his stupid jacket. Mike licks into his mouth before breaking away to shrug the thing off, then attacks Will's neck with his mouth and shoves his hand down the front of Will's sweats and boxers all at once.
Mike's hand, sweaty and hot enough to scald, lightly grips him, and Will's brain evacuates his skull.
There's a small moment where Mike stills, hesitating, and Will's on fucking fire, legs ready to buckle because no one's ever touched him like this, and this is Mike, his best friend in the whole world.
Then it's just blissful pressure dragging up and down while Mike sucks at his throat and his shoulder works with each movement of his hand.
Too much. Not enough. Will's breaths come in hitches. He didn't know anything could ever feel this good. He never wants it to stop.
His own hand moves as if possessed, fingers grazing Mike's belt, fumbling to undo it. Mike wheezes a noise against him, and then Will's in a frenzy, taking care of the buckle, popping the button of his jeans and ripping the zipper down. The fabric of his boxers is soft cotton and overly warm, and Will slips his hand inside before he can overthink it.
Mike groans.
It's the hottest thing Will's ever heard. Straight out of a dream he'd have where he'd wake up with sticky bedsheets and a gut full of shame.
Something like wonder sings in his veins when he finds Mike achingly hard.
Will did that. Mike likes what's happening right now. Wants it. Holy shit.
He jerks his hips into Mike's hand and wants to scream when Mike does it back.
He's thicker than Will expected, a fact that he packs away for later because it doesn't quite match the rest of his skinny body, and Will's hand must be painfully cold because Mike's cock is molten in his grip.
The angles are awkward with their wrists and forearms bumping, but it's so good. Will can't stop stuttering out pathetic breaths.
His lips find Mike's hair and he inhales through his mouth, and his other hand grips the back of his head.
God, Will wants to devour him. He's finally touching him and just a taste is unbearable. He wants to know what it's like to do this every day. To wake up next to him. To kiss him casually. To date.
It slams into him like a comet, building so fast it almost hurts. His mind goes mute except for Yeah, yeah, yeah, and Mike's fingers grip just right around the base of him, and he's spilling into his fist with a wrecked sound.
Then, Mike goes still at the same time Will feels him pulse in his hand, and suddenly his grasp is slippery.
The aftershocks fade fast as the chill creeps back in.
Mike's draped around him, his weight is the only thing keeping Will standing, stuck against the door. Their hands are in each other's pants and they're both sucking air, and oh, no.
Will can't break the spell. The black hole of dread returns, swallowing everything. His hand slips from Mike's head. Mike's hand retreats from his sweats, but he stays caging Will's body.
The first brush of eye contact hits like a bomb.
Fuck. It's etched all over Mike's face. He's freaking out.
"Mike." He rips his hand from Mike's jeans, and Mike glances down, and so does Will. His stomach swoops at the sight of white all over his own palm, already cooling. He wipes it over his sweats and it rolls over the fabric, sticking there like a web. Shit. "Are you okay?"
They just ruined things. He shouldn't have proved Mike right. Doesn't want him to think about it. Doesn't want him to regret it.
Time's frozen between them, and Will is too afraid to speak again until finally, Mike says, "Told you."
The black hole stretches to all of Will's hidden corners.
And then, "Uh, I'm really tired," Mike says. "Long drive."
Will just nods. The last ten minutes don't feel real.
Mike's not slick, but they're both going to explode if they don't get some space immediately. So, he lets Mike peel away. Lets the cold rush back in. Lets himself murmur a response to Mike's promise of seeing him in the morning.
After Mike's bedroom door closes, Will stands against the front door, painted in his childhood best friend's cold semen until his legs go numb.
He floats more than walks back to his room after cleaning himself up in the bathroom. Doesn't notice he's crying until he can't see the side of his bed even with the streetlight seeping through the blinds. Everything blurs.
Sleep dangles mercy in front of him, but never lets him reach it. He loses himself in a single thought until the morning comes:
El.
Mike was always hers. How would she feel knowing he just stole that experience for himself? Knowing Will is the leftovers that, for whatever reason, Mike chose to indulge in. Maybe he was the closest thing Mike could get to her. His amazing, powerful, ethereal El.
In a way that breaks him, Will realizes he got what he used to always want.
For a moment, he got to take El's place.