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Will and Mike lingered in the apartment kitchen. They made sense as roommates, Mike thought—Max, Lucas and Will. All very neat, good taste in decor and they paid their rent on time. Mike never pays his rent on time.
He doesn't live with any of the party. He had wanted to—don't get him wrong. Originally the plan was to share with El and Dustin, but Mike had sent his room submission in too late. Typical.
A charged silence hung between them, the only sound being that of Will sketching. Mike had a tendency to fumble through moments like this, finding comfort in little quips to shift the vibe. It's expected of him, really, he can't help himself.
Mike's suggestion this time, however, was completely unexpected. Before Mike could even decipher it, the thought had reached his lips and just tumbled out.
"You'd look good as Luke Skywalker."
"I'd—What?" Will's head snapped up from his sketchbook, a small, soft wave falling across his forehead. Cute. His fingers, which curled round a freshly sharpened pencil, courtesy of Mike, stilled on the page.
"For Halloween, I mean!" Mike scrambles to explain, his hands waving frantically in front of him, "I think you would be the perfect—a really good—it would be cool if you dressed up as Luke." Will's eyebrow quirked in amusement.
"Right."
Mike could feel Will's eyes drift over him, taking him in. Mike felt a buzz thrum through him from the attention. There was no malice behind his gaze, just a glint of wonder, cogs turning. Still, doubt began to creep its way into Mike's mind. So stupid.
"Oh my god, forget I even said anything!" Mike scrubbed his hands down his face, hiding from the embarrassment. The familiar sound of Will's laugh echoed around the room.
"No, Mike, it's a cool idea!" Will reached for Mike's wrists from where he sat, prying his hands away from his eyes. Mike gives in with little objection. His forearms tingle with the heat from Will's palms. Will grins, cheekily, "I just wasn't expecting you to suggest it so out of the blue, that's all."
Max abruptly slides into the kitchen, and Will drops Mike's hands, the moment broken. Her shoes squeak against the tiled floor, Lucas' sweater tied loosely around her hips. She claps her hands expectantly.
"A drink for the parched maiden, if you would be so kind, Wheeler!"
Mike scoffs as he rumages around the cabinets for a glass. He rolls his eyes in a silent protest. He knows better than to talk back to Max, especially in her own apartment. In a split second decision, Mike grabs a second glass before swinging the cabinet shut. He was sure Will had to be—as Max put it—parched by now too.
"So, what are you two blabbering about? Dustin has had Monopoly ready for ages and you know he doesn't like waiting," Max groans, a sarcastic imitation of Dustin's complaints, as she wraps her arms around Will's shoulders. Will leans back into her touch, a soft smile spreads across his lips.
"Mike wants me to go to the Halloween party dressed as Luke Skywalker."
Mike lets them chatter as he pours them their drinks. Although he doesn't say it much, he's glad Max joined their party. Amidst his feigned annoyance towards her, he has a soft spot for Max. She really does complete them.
"You're more of a badass Leia type," Max muses, planting a friendly kiss on Will's temple. Mike makes a small noise of protest, clumsily clinking their glasses together as he sets them down in front of the duo.
"But—I'm going as Han Solo!"
Max narrows her stare, a thought dances around in her head. Mike knows that look. She's seen right through him.
"Okay?" She detaches herself casually from Will's back, "It can be a couple's costume then."
Mike shoots her a glare, she catches it and shrugs as she reaches for her drink. A small, strangled sound comes from his side, Mike hazards a glance over at Will. For a split second Will looks like he's going to keel over, until he shakes himself and coolly takes a sip from his glass.
"It's alright, Max," he laughs, awkwardly, "lookswise, I think I'm more of a Luke anyway."
Mike nods casually, as if his recent revelation surrounding Will and Mark Hamill's resemblance hasn't been rendering him dumbstruck—in a totally normal way, of course. Mike notices Max and Will seem to be communicating through knowing signals, ones he, frustratingly, cannot decipher. He cringes inwardly, God, this is so awkward. His palms have pooled with sweat. When did that even happen? He wipes them down the front of his jeans. To his relief, Max suddenly cracks through the tension.
"Well, this has been riveting," she takes one last sip of her drink and slides it towards Mike, "thank you for the beverage, good sir!"
Mike doesn't make a move towards it. Will grabs the glass before it can tumble off the counter, his arm brushing against Mike's. Mike flinches at the contact, he'd forgotten how close Will was. He feels his chest tighten. Pull yourself together, Mike.
Max bows out the kitchen, but not before popping her head round the doorframe,
"I don't know about you, but some of Han and Luke's scenes seemed pretty cosy to me."
Mike feels his ears burn.
Painting has always been an escape for Will. Observing the way the colours bleed into the canvas, the way the paint chases after his brush, the beginning of a new story taking shape on a page.
There’s only a handful of things Will loves more than painting—one of them being his sister, Jane. So, when she asks him if he can paint her nails for her, he eagerly accepts.
They're sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Jane and Dustin's couch, and an easy conversation flows between them. Will was unsure of the time, he'd lost track of it a while ago. Hanging out with Jane seemed to make the day just disappear. He knew it wasn’t too late, though, because Dustin hadn't made an appearance yet and he didn’t finish classes until midday.
“What design are you wanting this time?” Will asks, voice muffled, his bunny-like teeth clamped around the lid of a polish bottle, “flowers could be sweet—or polka dots, maybe?” He combs through Jane’s nail polish kit for a sewing pin.
Will relishes in the challenge of painting on a smaller scale. He thrives in the daintiness of the task and the patience it requires. Although, his teeth are aching from gripping the polish brush and he’s starting to get agitated, still on the hunt for something tiny and spherical he can use to make dots.
“Could you do something Halloween-y?” Jane’s soft voice pulls him out of his oncoming spiral. She plucks the lid from Will’s mouth, absentmindedly rolling it between her freshly polished fingers as she decided, "Like cats."
"I'm not sure if cats are—uhm," Gotcha. Will produces a small pin with a round head and wiggles it triumphantly in the air. Jane shoots him a thumbs up as he resumes his thought, "very Halloween-esque, Ellie."
Her lips quirk into a pleased smile. Will was the singular person still allowed to call her that, reserved only for her brother. She was fond of the nickname. It sounded pure when he said it, comforting, like it finally suited her.
"They definitely are," Jane's eyes drift up in thought, still fiddling with the polish lid, "maybe I will be a cat for Halloween." She screws the top back onto the polish bottle as Will pulls her other hand across into his lap then dips the sewing pin into a white polish.
"Alrighty," he chuckles, "Cat nails coming right up!"
Will falls into a comfortable rhythm. He slowly adorns each purple-polished nail with a little cat, carefully manoeuvring her hand so as to not smudge his work. Jane's eyes suddenly light up, an almost teasing glint in them.
"Max told me you are going to the party as Luke Skywalker," a mischievous look sneaks onto her face, "because Mike told you to."
She leans back onto her hands and kicks her legs wildly in front of her, squealing. Before Will can protest these heinous allegations, the door to the apartment swings open revealing a dishevelled Dustin.
"Honey, I'm home!" He hollers before noticing Will. He corrects himself, "honies, I'm home!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Will notices a light dusting of pink begin to bloom on the apples of Jane's cheeks. He pockets this information; he'll interrogate her about it later. Dustin ruffles Will's hair as he slumps down onto the couch. Will bats at his hands and makes a noise of disapproval, smoothing hair back out when Dustin has finished his attack on it.
"Well, update me," Dustin coaxed. He swings his legs over and rests his feet on Jane's head. She doesn't even flinch at the action, Will can't help but notice the domesticity between the two. Another thing to bring up later, he notes. "Any hot gossip for old Henderson?"
Will shakes his head a touch too quickly—Dustin squints at him, suspicious. Jane begins to speak, her voice laced with amusement,
"We were just talking about how Will is dressing up as Luke Skywalker for Carl's Halloween party."
Dustin's squint doesn't waver. If anything, it gets deeper.
"What happened to 'I'm going as Bowie and none of you can stop me'?" He teases. Will feels his face start to heat up.
"I just uh—I just thought that maybe—well it's kind of hard to—"
"Mike told him to," Jane interjects before Will can make a bigger fool out of himself. She wiggles her eyebrows at him playfully as Dustin makes a comically surprised noise. Somehow, this is worse than whatever Will's explanation was going to be. He cringes.
"No, Ellie, that's not — he didn't tell me to," he stutters. They're both grinning at him, egging each other on. Will feels more flustered than ever, "he asked me to!" He finally gets out and flops backwards, eyes closed, exasperated. His body hits the floor and he wants nothing more than for it to swallow him whole.
"And you said yes!" Dustin gaffaws, "oh my god, this is brilliant. Jane, quick, go grab the phone and ring Lucas!" Will hears Dustin's feet slide off her head and hit the floor. Jane shuffles beside him, her knees cracking as she stands. He bolts upright.
"Absolutely not. No ringing Lucas is necessary here!" Will splutters. He leans over and lightly whacks Dustin's leg in feigned frustration. Dustin dramatically sweeps his leg into his arms and cradles it, pouting his lips at Will. He rolls his eyes in response, "yes, I said yes. Surely that isn't that strange."
"That's not the part I'm focused on," Dustin clarifies, "I'm just wondering if this random suggestion from Mike has any connection to his sudden and, I don't care, I'll be the one to say it, slightly concerning obsession with Mark Hamill."
Dustin was right. Mike had recently become infatuated with Mark Hamill and Will had noticed it too. A couple weeks ago he'd been sent by the party to accompany Mike to find and rent a movie for their next movie night. Will didn't understand why Mike couldn't have just made the trip himself, but the reason soon became clear to him while they were scouring the shelves for a suitable film.
"What about this one, Will?" Mike produced a tape from the fixture in front of him. He flipped it around from front to back in his hands, pretending to study the information before him. Will turned around from the shelf he was sifting through and peered over Mike's shoulder.
"You're joking, right?"
"What?" Mike had spun round to face him. Too close. Will could've sworn he saw Mike's eyes dip down, sneaking a glance at his lips before he took a step back, flummoxed. "Why would I be joking?"
Will laughed, incredulously, "because we watched that the last time we all hung out!"
He watched as a red flush crept up Mike's neck, the Star Wars: A New Hope VHS heavy in his hands. Mike huffed before shoving it carelessly back where he found it but not before he could sneakily—or, rather, what he had thought had been sneaky, Will spotted it immediately—run his thumb over Mark Hamill's face on the cover. Interesting. Will had given him a small, sympathetic smile, one that Mike returned, before beginning to read through the titles again. In the end, after much debate, they settled on Will’s suggestion of Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark and Mike had sulked the whole bike ride back home.
“Dustin is never wrong, Will,” Jane pulls him to his feet. She gives Will’s hands a quick squeeze before hastily letting go of them. Her eyebrows shoot up as a thought dawns on her. “Oh! Oh—I have just remembered something!” She runs over and hops onto the couch, stomping on the cushions excitedly. “Mike admitted to me the other day that he thinks you look like Mark!” She throws a pillow at Will which narrowly misses and so she chucks another. Bullseye. Will squeaks, arms coming up to cover his head in a weak defensive tactic. Dustin climbs up on the couch with her and takes hold of her arms. They begin to jump together, both shrieking in amusement.
“Oh my god, you guys are reading into this way too much,” Will laughs, grabbing his coat from the rack next to the door. He watches as Jane and Dustin bounce around on their couch trying not to tumble off of it. Unbelievable. Will’s cheeks ache from smiling so much. “I better get going, Lucas is cooking tonight and Max will kill me if I miss another family dinner.”
“Wait, Will, before you go, I must query,” Dustin pants out as Jane and him drop down to sit on the couch. Jane’s hair looks wild, and when she pushes it back and out of her face Will can see a twinkle in her eyes. Dustin, face flushed, bumps his elbow into hers affectionately before turning his attention back to Will, “Who’s Mike dressing up as?”
Will shrugs, feigning indifference, and edges his way out of the front door. “Uh—Han Solo, I think,” his nose scrunches as he sticks his tongue out between his teeth. Dustin squawks and Will hurries out the door, slamming it shut. He hears two muffled thumps which he presumes is a pillow, thrown by Jane, hitting the door behind him and then falling to the floor. Dorks. Will giggles as he leans against the outside wall. The bomb had been dropped.
Mike stands in the apartment bathroom, his reflection stares back at him as he twists his belt into place, fiddling with the holster. His costume had come together surprisingly well. He’d settled for wearing clothes that he owned or had borrowed since his college allowance was painfully slim. His parents wanted him to fend for himself. Whatever that meant.
Thankfully, he already had the perfect pair of jeans but, as usual, his shirt was a touch too baggy, the top two buttons undone revealing a slither of freckled skin. More importantly, he didn’t own a vest. Dustin, as always, had saved the day and let Mike borrow one of his—with a promise to take care of it with his life. They shook hands on it.
For once, Mike actually feels like he looks cool, maybe even attractive. He shoves his hands in his hair and shakes it out, his curls flopping over his eyes. He absentmindedly tucks some strands behind his ear before pulling them back out again. The messier the better, Lucas had said to him. He shoots himself finger guns in the mirror before swivelling on his heels and starting towards the living room. He can hear the party chattering through the walls, music softly ebbing throughout the apartment.
“Jane, you should’ve dressed up as Leia!” Mike overhears as he reaches for the door handle. He pauses, cringing. Him and Jane dated when they were teenagers, the break-up wasn’t dramatic or heated—in fact, she broke up with him. They were better as friends, but then again, maybe they always had been. The thought of them being perceived as a couple makes him feel slightly nauseous now, and his hand begins to fall from the handle until he hears Jane laugh.
“Absolutely not, I did not want to be matching with Mike. No, thank you!”
The room erupts into muffled laughter. In a split second decision, Mike grabs the handle and shoves the door open. He tackles into Jane, swinging his arm around her neck—placing her in a headlock—and playfully ruffles the top of her head with his fist. She giggles, trying to free herself from the ambush.
“Mike— Mike, I am sorry!” She cackles, “I did not want to lie!”
He finally lets up and Jane puffs, blowing her now tangled hair out of her face. Her lips tuck inwards, into the goofy face she makes when she is unimpressed. Mike cackles, pleased with his work, before leaning down to reposition her cat ears which had gone askew during the scuffle.
He looks around at his friends who are all weak with laughter. He relishes in how much effort everyone has put into their costumes this year—well, almost everyone. Max is stood to the side in what Mike presumes is her costume, which is just her normal clothes with a sparse splattering of blood and a pair of pathetic vampire teeth sticking out of her jean pocket, forgotten. He expected nothing less from her.
Lucas and Dustin have gone all out. Dustin is dressed as Beetlejuice, nursing a red solo cup smeared with white paint from his hands and lips, his striped suit looks as if it has been pulled directly from the film. Mike thinks Dustin looks almost dapper, if he ignores his wiry, green hair and the black circles painted around his eyes.
He watches as Jane skips away towards Lucas, black skirt and cat tail swishing. She reaches up and swipes his sunglasses from his head and slides them onto her whiskered face and—Lucas looks good. He’s dressed as Marty McFly, donning his signature red gilet over a jean jacket. His sleeves are rolled up revealing his toned forearms. Mike wishes he was as effortlessly suave. He falters.
“Wait,” he blurts out, “Where’s Will?”
“Right here.”
Mike turns to his left to find Will cradling two drink-filled cups, generously holding one out towards him. Mike feels his brain short circuit. Will had answered his pleas and had come dressed as Luke Skywalker.
A cream colored tunic hugged his frame, a leather belt tight around his waist, a lightsaber flush to his side. He was wearing a pair of matching trousers which were tucked into knee-high boots, and despite the extra height the boots gave him, Mike was still taller. He felt his heart squeeze with a sense of pride, but he’ll have to unpack that later. His eyes roamed frantically. Mike was unsure of where to look—or where not to look.
“Uh—Earth to Mike?”
His gaze shot up. Will was staring intently at him—a charmed smile playing at his lips. Mike’s tongue darts out to wet his own, incredibly chapped lips. Will’s eyes snap down at the movement before blinking and letting out a small breath through his nose in an attempt to compose himself. He shakes the cup in his outstretched hand. “Are you just going to leave me standing here like an idiot with this cup or are you going to take it?”
Mike’s expression softens, relaxing as he takes the drink from Will, their fingers brushing. The slight touch makes Mike’s mind buzz, or maybe that was just the alcohol.
“Yoohoo!” Max waves her arms at them, “Are you guys done? It’s time to go, chop chop!” She points at her invisible watch, shaking her head and grabbing Lucas by the arm, before dragging him out of the room. Mike feels his face glow scarlet. How long had he been staring?
Dustin knocks back the rest of whatever concoction is in his cup and, alongside Jane, follows behind them. He bumps into the doorframe on his way out, cursing. Mike wonders if Dustin is going to make it through the night. He switches his attention back to Will who is sipping slowly at his drink. Mike finds he can’t stop looking at Will’s mouth. What was wrong with him tonight?
“Come on,” Will chirped, discarding his cup on the table beside him, “wouldn’t want to miss the party now, would we?” He gives Mike’s chest a light-hearted punch before catching up to the others. Mike feels his whole body tingle. He downs his drink.
Mike is going to die tonight and Will is going to be the cause for his demise.
Mike was right; he was heading to an early grave, but he can’t find it in himself to blame Will because, technically, it was his own, pathetic fault.
He really shouldn’t have suggested that Will change his costume to Luke Skywalker because now it was impossible to deny the thrum of attraction that pulsed through him whenever Will was near, and Mike knew deep down that it wasn’t because of his obsession with Mark Hamill—he’s unsure if it ever was.
Mike finds himself lingering around the punch bowl in Carl’s kitchen. He feels the music reverberating through his chest, the sharp, low thump of bass deep in his ears. He sips at his almost empty cup. He was on his fourth—fifth?—drink of the night and, despite his best efforts, Mike is starting to feel too relaxed, his free arm dangling heavy at his side. He’ll probably need to sit down soon.
He didn’t really know Carl. Seemingly—well, according to Jane, anyway—he was in a couple of Will’s classes and they had hung out a few times outside of college. He scowls.
For totally separate reasons, not related to Will at all, Mike decides Carl and him probably won’t get along.
“Jesus, who pissed you off?”
Mike feels a warm shoulder bump into his and turns to find an inquisitive Will, head tilted, a soft tinge of pink blooming across his face. Mike wonders if it’s from the alcohol or something else entirely. He grins at him.
“No one, that’s just my face.”
Will grins back, poking at his chest, “Well, you don’t look as mopey now as you did before I came over, so I don’t think that it’s just your face.” Mike feels himself burn. Was he that obvious? He gives himself exactly one second to panic.
“Maybe it’s just you using your Jedi mind tricks on me!”
Mike curses inwardly. That was so lame. He sees a flash of a feeling that he can’t quite pinpoint blur across Will’s eyes. Mike thinks about what to say next—hopefully something that isn’t as painfully dorky. Will beats him to it.
“I’m not!” Will huffs out a laugh, “Whatever is going on in that head of yours is all you.”
There was a lot going on in Mike’s head, too many overlapping thoughts—too many of those thoughts being Will. He watches as Will reaches for the ladle, the one swimming in the punch bowl, and pours himself a fresh drink. Mike’s eyes trace the curve of Will’s nose; linger on the tiny scar on his cheek; he fixates on Will’s perfect eyebrows as they furrow while he concentrates on not overfilling his wobbling cup. Will looks back at Mike, “wanting a refill, Solo?”
Mike gazes at the movement of Will’s mouth as he speaks. He finds himself entranced by the mole just above his top lip, and the urge to run his thumb delicately along it overwhelms him. Huh. Mike blinks and realises he’s been studying Will’s face for an abnormal amount of time.
He shudders, attempting to collect himself, crimson flooding up his neck and over his face. Is it hot in here? He dumbly holds out his cup as Will tips the vibrant—and probably dangerous—liquid into it. He takes a gulp too hastily and chokes, coughing, as he manages to force out a clipped ‘thank you’.
In an attempt to help, Will claps a hand onto Mike’s back. Mike finds the heat emitting from it unbearable. He hopes, recklessly, that it brands him. God. Mike blames the thought on the excess amounts of alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, distorting his senses, blurring the already fuzzy lines between the two of them. He wonders if they’ll cross them tonight. He stops choking.
“Thanks, I thought I was a goner for a second.” He sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth and shuts his eyes—an underwhelming impression of a dead person.
Will snorts. “Well, I couldn’t let the other half of my couple’s costume die on me, could I?”
A beat passes and then his eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening in realisation of what he has insinuated. To Mike’s surprise, Will doesn’t retract his statement, but a matching blush now grows on his face instead. Mike gawks. He opens his mouth to speak before closing it immediately, flustered.
Was Will flirting with him? The air grows thick with a newfound tension but, before Mike can do anything reckless, Jane stumbles her way over to them. Lucas holds his arms out from behind her—encasing her into her own little bubble. He monitors her, an apologetic smile plastered on his face, as she teeters from side to side and grabs frantically at Will’s arm.
The air clears. Jane’s cat headband is nowhere to be seen and one side of her whiskers has smudged down her face in streaky, black stripes. At least someone is drunker than him.
“Will—Will! Come on,” she hiccups and Mike holds back the laughter threatening to escape him, “Let’s dance! No one else is dancing with me.” Jane pouts stupidly, and it tips Mike over the edge, a cackle spilling out of him. It breaks Lucas too, whose laugh booms over the music, head thrown back. Jane gives Mike as sharp of a look as she can manage.
“Don't be mean to me, Mike,” she giggles, evilly, “I know things!” She brings her pointer finger up to his lips, shushing him. Mike cheekily bites at her finger and Jane yelps.
“Yeah Mike, don’t be mean to her! She knows too much,” Will jokes, wiggling his eyebrows and playing along. Mike is going to combust. What does she know? More importantly, what does he know?
Will holds out his hand, “I’ll dance with you, Ellie! Let’s find who’s on aux and get them to play some actually good music.” Jane beams as she grasps his hand and twirls towards the living room, tugging him along behind her. Will hangs back as best he can, giving both Lucas and Mike a quick wave before giving in to Jane. He gets yanked out of sight and, on Will’s departure, Mike decides to be brave.
“Lucas, do you—”
“So, how—”
They both attempt to speak at the same time, their voices creating a mumble of unintelligible noise. Mike tenses. His surge of courage dissipates. Shit, shit, shit. He’s about to backtrack when he hears Lucas speak.
“You go first, man,” he insists and Mike just stands, zoned out. His brain is stuck in a constant loop of choices and yet none of them seem like the right decision. He could just make something up, Lucas can’t read minds—as far as he knows—but, a little voice tells him he should ask. That this would help. That Lucas would help.
Lucas is staring at him, a concerned look laced with amusement. “Mike, what the hell, dude! You look like you’re about to explode!”
“Do you think Luke Skywalker would ever be into Han Solo?”
The words slip out before Mike can overthink them. They hang in the air, charged, waiting to be addressed. Lucas startles before finding his feet in the conversation again. Mike sees him ponder for a moment before forming his carefully curated answer.
“Well, personally I think it depends on the movie. I’ve actually heard some theories on this and—”
“No—Like, let’s say—Let’s say that—Uhm—Han and Leia broke up a while back and Luke’s been—Uh, how do I put this? Flirting?” It all feels too real as soon as it falls from Mike’s mouth but he can’t stop now. Lucas nods along, expectantly. “Uh, and I’m—I mean Han—Han is unsure if Luke is actually into him but he thinks he’s been giving him—Uhm,” God, his hands feel clammy, “like, signals. Or, well, they could be perceived that way. Han thinks that. That they could be perceived that way. Yeah. Uhm,” Mike drags off the end of his sentence.
His eyeline had dropped at some point because now he finds himself staring at Lucas’ trainers—he wonders if they’re new. He thinks they’re new, maybe. Mike wrings his nerves through his hands and he feels a cold chill run down his spine. He cautions a look at Lucas. His lips are circled in a small ‘O’ shape and his brow lifts as he begins to put Mike’s riddles together. He swallows.
“Okay, as someone who knows Wi—Luke—Sorry, Luke Skywalker,” Mike lets out a sigh of relief. Lucas gets it. Lucas is helping and he’s not breaking Mike’s made-up scenario world. He’s playing into it, not with jest, but with fondness and caution woven through his words. Mike’s eyes glimmer. He knew Lucas would understand. It was safe. Mike was safe. Lucas sets a hand on Mike’s shoulder and he gives it a firm, grounding squeeze. “I’d say he’s been signalling to Han for a long time—longer than Han even realises. Luke’s just been waiting for him to catch on.”
Oh.
Oh, right. Huh.
Mike’s mind races. The pieces are finally falling into place. The shared looks; the grab of the wrists; the bump of the shoulders; the brush of their fingers as one passes the other everything they’ve ever asked for; the secret smiles between them—only them; the ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ flirtatious quips. Not just over the past few weeks, but for a long time. For as long as Mike can remember, even.
He glances over at Will through the doorframe into the living room. He’s still dancing. Arms floating through the air, as he sings the lyrics enthusiastically at Jane. He looks freer than ever. Mike’s heart skips as it finally dawns on him. Will had dressed like Luke for him. Mike had asked and Will had agreed. As always.
“Hopefully that gave you some—and excuse the pun—new hope,” Lucas chortles, impressed with his reference and Mike finally allows himself to laugh along.
The air is feverish in the living room. Bodies packed tightly together as they sway to the music. Mike fights his way through the swarm of college kids, a determination swells in him—he has to find Will. He mumbles awkward ‘sorry’s as he pushes past the swinging limbs, narrowly avoiding the thrashing around him. He spots Will and swims through the crowd over to him.
“Will, I need to talk to you!” Mike shouts over the drone of sound, the words blurring in his ears, pulsing. Will squints, his face etched with confusion. He points to his ears and shakes his head, still bopping along to the music. Will can’t hear him. Mike clarifies, “I have to tell you something!”
Will silently laughs—or at least it looks like it. He can't hear anything over Hipsway playing. Will bites at his nail, deciding, before hooking his hand around Mike’s neck and pushing up onto his tiptoes. He brings his lips to Mike’s ear, cupping it with his other hand. When Will begins to speak, his breath puffs, hot, over where Mike’s neck meets his earlobe.
Mike shivers. He feels faint.
“Sorry, hi,” another soft exhale as a small chuckle escapes Will. Mike is definitely going to faint. “I can’t hear you—or anything.”
Mike isn’t paying attention to the words flowing over him, he’s too pent up. Frustrated. Overwhelmed with his most recent realisation. Overhasty, he grabs Will by the waist, who squeaks in surprise. Mike steers him out and away from the crowd.
He drags Will upstairs and finds a deserted hallway where he halts them. They both pant, catching their breath. He realises his hands are still settled on Will’s waist. He swiftly retracts them as Will laughs.
“What the hell, Mike!” An amused grin tugs on his cheekbones as he smooths down his tunic, “Warn a guy next time you plan on doing that!” Next time. Mike bites back a smile.
“Sorry, sorry!” Mike raises his hands in defence, “I just needed to speak to you—alone,” he tacks onto the end. Will’s eyebrow slides up, almost a smirk. He watches Mike expectantly. The silence—apart from the muffled music—is deafening.
“Well—I’m here. You have my full attention.” Will continues to fix his costume despite it all being in order, “I’m all ears.”
Mike takes a steadying breath. His hands flex at his sides, itching to fidget; he suppresses it. He looks at Will, whose smile still rests on his face, and then glances around. Still in solitude. Mike gnaws at his lip, chewing at the cracks already splitting the skin and tastes metal. His eyes drift shut in contemplation.
Mike realises he doesn’t know what to say. He should’ve planned what to say. He laughs, softly, embarrassed. It wasn’t like this was the biggest moment of his life or anything. So dumb. He inches his eyes open and gives Will an apologetic look. Sorry I’m an idiot. Mischief shines through Will’s cheeks, a subtle but coy smirk reaching his lips. He stares up at Mike through half-lidded eyes.
“Do you want me to use my jedi mind tricks on you?”
The dam breaks and Mike’s heart floods. He crashes into Will, hands flying to his hips, his stomach swooping as their lips clash. A pleased sound jumps from Will, startled, and he snakes a hand up into Mike’s hair. In their haste, their teeth clank together but Mike can’t find it in himself to care.
It’s messy. Raw. He slips his tongue into Will’s mouth, tracing his gums, committing the feeling to memory. He tastes of skittles and stale cigarettes and Mike feels a sudden craving, a hunger, for Will to shotgun smoke into his mouth. He tastes of fruity booze and drunk confessions. Overwhelmingly, though, he tastes like Will. Mike crowds against him, backing him into the wall.
Will is a great kisser, Mike realises. He feels positively dizzy with it.
As he goes to take a step back to recalibrate his mind, Mike stalls when Will slides his pointer finger into his belt loop and tugs him back in. Their bodies flush, hip to hip, and Will’s chest solid against him. Mike feels his gut drop dangerously, achingly low.
The atmosphere buzzes around them—thick and whirring. Mike’s fingers flex, pressing into Will’s waist. Will gasps into him and Mike squeezes again, more purposefully this time. Will whimpers. The noise makes Mike’s eyes fog and he wonders what other sounds he can wring out of him.
Mike drags his lips along Will’s jaw, leaving wet kiss marks in his wake. He grazes his teeth down the junction of his neck and shoulder—gives an experimental bite, just to see what reactions he can draw out of Will—he nibbles and tentatively sucks at his neck. Will jolts, eyelids fluttering closed, a sigh rushes over his lip. Mike grins before reconnecting their mouths. He slides a leg forward, pushing his knee between Will’s. They’re impossibly close.
A daring spark flies between them. Will cards his fingers through Mike’s curls before giving them a sharp tug. Mike keens. They pull apart with a soft click, lips shining, slick with spit.
A deep blush spreads over Will’s face, his eyes sparkling—pupils blown out. Mike’s eyes dart to the small bruise beginning to bloom on Will’s neck, intense crimson and light purples painting his tan skin. This time, Mike feels like the artist out of the two of them.
Mike feels the sudden urge to speak. As per usual, he can’t relish in silence like Will can. An admission tumbles out of his mouth—in a similar manner to the one that started Mike’s original meltdown in Will’s kitchen.
“I love you,” he blurts out, before clamping his mouth shut. Jesus Christ. They’d made out drunk once and Mike was already confessing his undying love. He flushed—mortified—waiting for Will to push him away. Except he doesn’t. Will sticks his tongue in his cheek, plotting, before reaching up and pressing a chaste kiss to Mike’s lips.
“I know.”
Mike flusters at the reference. “Did you—Did you just ‘Han Solo’, Han Solo?”
“Maybe I did. What can I say, I’ve always been a sucker for Harrison Ford,” Will flirtatiously runs his hands along Mike’s vest and Mike feels giddy with it. “A little kitty told me you think I look like Mark Hamill,” he teases, “is that why you asked me to dress up as Luke?”
“That and because of my super, big, gay crush on him,” Mike admits, shyly. “Which I’m sort of realising might have just been my super, big, gay crush on you.”
Will breaks into a fit of laughter, biting his lip to stifle it the best he can.
“Are you actually laughing at me, right now? I admit I’m in love with you and you’re laughing!” Mike giggles alongside him.
“Sorry! It’s just—you are such a dork,” Will swipes away the amused tears that have pooled in his eyes, before, adoringly, returning his gaze to Mike, “I love you too, by the way—if you couldn't tell.”
Mike’s heart soars. He has never felt so free. Will makes him feel so free. He wants to tell Will every thought he has ever had. He wants to wear goofy couples costumes every Halloween with him. He wants to pick a movie with him and watch it, just the two of them. He wants to hold Will’s hand. He wants Will to be his. He wants to be Will’s. In a way, It feels like he always has been. In the haze of it all, Mike just can’t seem to find the right words. But then again, when can he ever?
So, instead, he kisses him about it and when Will kisses back, Mike decides he’ll work the rest out later.