Chapter Text
Providence, Rhode Island
October 1991
Wednesday 11:30 AM
“...That sounds,” Will begins carefully, pencil hovering midair as he already regrets his choice of group-project partner, “kind of difficult.”
Olivia – a girl he met a week ago, whom he’d thought would be far less cliche and careless than she’d actually turned out to be – squints at him. “Difficult how?”
To be fair, she’d cornered him at the long, paint-splattered table near the windows with the good light. It smells faintly like paint water and printer ink, as usual, with someone in the corner cutting foam board far too aggressively. The art room is loud, in a soft, constant way. He wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, so it’s not his fault that he needed to sketch out a trillion composition ideas for his other classes before anyone else got to his favourite spot. It’s also not his fault, or rather won’t be, when one of the twenty ways Olivia’s idea could go wrong pans out.
“I mean,” he starts, pushing his pencil between his fingers, “we have, like, three weeks. And we’d have to build props. And find costumes. And find models. And… what else was it you said, sorry?”
She grins. “Fog.”
Will winces internally. “I just – um, I need –” Olivia looks unimpressed at his stammering. “I mean, we need…uh –”
This is a group project, so maybe it’s just supposed to be painful, just like all of them have been for the past year and a half at RISD. But, God, can’t they also be historically inspired, emotionally resonant? Can they not involve glitter like Olivia had tried to pitch earlier? Especially when the project is literally for a class called Medieval Imagery in Modern Contexts, aka twelve-year-old Will’s dream that he never imagined he’d undertake in an academic setting.
Aka illuminated manuscripts, tapestries, weird symbolic paintings where nobody smiles and everything glows gold – all things that had Will nearly vibrating out of his seat when he saw it on his printed timetable. Things that made him go back to his shitty, cold apartment with a big smile on his face instead of feeling dreadful about said shitty, cold apartment. He’d pulled books off shelves he didn’t think he’d ever have use for, pored over illustrations of saints and knights and towers disappearing into the clouds. Stayed up too late sketching arches and halos and careful, symmetrical compositions, telling himself it was just because he liked the aesthetic.
Which was true! Of course. Mostly.
It just needs to be one hundred per cent perfect, that’s all. Totally reasonable. That’s why, when Olivia had said something about a battlefield earlier and only described it as cool, his brain had wanted to go back and slap his last week's self.
Olivia grins again. “You love this assignment way too much.”
He opens his mouth to deny it, then stops, glancing down at the edge of his sketchbook where a tiny knight – with some curly black hair and maybe a little shield, sue him – peeks out from behind a margin note. He quickly nudges his hand over it.
Okay. Okay fine. His chest feels warm and annoying at the thought of it all, at the idea of quests and magic and armour and blah, blah, blah stories. All things that remind him of –
Remind him of dramatic, emotionally loaded imagery that is perfect for photography and later a huge painting, that’s all. Definitely all.
Definitely not because when he was nine, he and Mike had built a cardboard and pillow fort in the basement and swore they were knights of some made-up order. Not because the minute Mike had suggested Will would be a wizard instead, Will had let him, even though he knew his best friend secretly wanted to shoot sparks from his hands too. Not because every little thing that his roommate and best friend talks about when he means something in an irresistibly sweet way is about this kind of thing. Not because every time he watches Mike watching him use even an ounce of his leftover powers, he feels like a painting in a gallery.
Not because Will had hated the idea, back when they’d discovered the art of escaping into a hidden fantasy world together, that growing up meant you’d eventually get handed a sword and told what you were meant to do.
He swallows.
He doesn’t know why it surprises him that Mike still does that, still reminds him of every time he believed in him with a simple word like sorcerer, first naming him the Wise when he was only six. Still, still asking him to use his powers carefully, even though Will has surely gotten the hang of it by now. Always gasping in wonder, clapping his hands a little, when Will makes the lights in their apartment flicker for fun. Someone who can weaken him with even just a tiny, awe-inspired look – that’s just who his roommate is.
It’s who he’s been for thirteen years first, then another year and a half living together – long enough to feel like an era of its own, which is horrifying as a specific and short amount of time when you realise you’ve memorised someone’s sleeping habits.
Right now – if Will checks his watch, which he absolutely does not – Mike is probably still in his bed, either curled up like a cat or sprawled out completely. Baggy pyjama pants twisted around his legs, hoodie tangled in the sheets and leaving him shirtless. Sleeping through two lectures he swore he’d go to.
Will exhales through his nose. Impossibly sleepy Mike. Who uses nerdy metaphors and has listened intently to Will’s rants about Olivia’s ideas for two nights straight now, agreeing wholeheartedly, scowling at exactly the right places. God, it’s cute.
Damn. Damn it.
Being over Mike is never the right word for what he is, he supposes. You can’t get over something you never actually had, y’know? Even if you thought you did, just for a brief, heartstopping moment – you still can’t call it that with a full chest.
Accepting, then.
Accepting his fate that there will probably always be a part of him that thinks of Mike as his heart. Quietly, internally. Sometimes externally, if Mike would allow him in the twilight hours to just speak how he speaks back. It’s not like Mike makes it easy anymore, not like he used to.
Once something has words, it starts demanding answers, even for years after. He can tell himself he’d never do anything to jeopardise what they have, he can tell himself that being roommates and best friends is the most and only satisfying conclusion to their story. They have movie nights and grocery lists stuck to the fridge with a broken magnet shaped like Indiana. They have inside jokes so old that neither of them remembers where the hell they came from. They have toothbrushes in the same cup and banter about whose turn it is to take out the trash and deep conversations on long bus rides home.
Will would protect that with his entire life.
But he also knows – knows, deep deep deep down, annoying traitorous heart that he has – that if Mike were to ever, ever say anything different…
If Mike did anything more than throw him those strange, unreadable looks in the middle of the night that Will can shamefully pretend are looks from a lover. Or more than lean in too close in loud clubs when they’re trying to persuade the other to leave. Or more than rest his head in Will’s lap when he’s tired after a long day and just wants some warmth.
Will would fold. Which is incredibly inconvenient, actually.
Inconvenient when he has no idea, cannot pinpoint it for the life of him, when Mike started becoming… clingier. So affectionate and subtly fond. Or maybe it’s always been this way since Vecna. Maybe. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Mike asks where Will’s going whenever he grabs his jacket. Stays up late at night whenever Will stays at the library until one in the morning.
It’s sweet, really. Sweet and Mike-like. Something that Will’s always wanted ever since fucking ‘85, right? So. So he doesn’t need to… wonder about the limits of that. Or how much he can push them.
Wow, okay. He lets out a slow breath and finally looks back up at Olivia, who has been waiting patiently, pen hovering.
“Okay,” she says, widening her eyes. “I have another thought.”
Will blinks, dragging his mind kicking and screaming back into the present. “Uh-huh.”
He listens as she rambles on a little bit more about battlefields and such, but eventually she lets Will butt in, just enough for him to sway her toward combining their ideas instead of making it entirely her own vision. After some deliberation, flipping through messy notebooks, questions, explanations, Will finds himself leaning into an idea of old battle paintings, something raw and heavy in the aftermath. Though only because Olivia suggests focusing on one person instead of the chaos of war.
It’s apparently vital that they stage it, take a photo first to show their progress, then paint from that.
Will nods slowly, turning it over in his mind and finding that… he wants to. Photography isn’t something he does often so artistically, though when he does, he’s reminded with a smile of his brother. Of running down beaches in California, ‘86, with his sister, Jonathan clicking his camera for more and more pictures. Will still has a small snapshot of him and Jane smiling broadly with ice creams tucked into his wallet. Jane has another in hers.
“We just – I guess we…” Olivia says, blowing out a sigh before her eyes suddenly light up with a new idea. “Ooh, it could be a king. He has a crown on, with – with his cloak blowing in the wind. He’s gotten his victory, but he’s, like, sad about it.”
Will presses his lips together. He can see it.
And he can also see exactly why he doesn’t like it. He could easily guess why, if he wants to embarrass himself or dig up old wounds. He finds he doesn’t much like the idea of something so big, so singular. Chosen-by-fate. Told what they’re meant to do instead of doing it out of duty.
He clears his throat before more ancient and forgotten things in the pits of his memory begin surfacing.
“Or,” he says, very casually, definitely not fuelled by any past fantasy. He closes his eyes and imagines. Who would choose to be marred, to stay broken and wounded in the name of honour?
“We could… like – make him a regular knight, or something.”
She squints. “That’s less dramatic.”
Before that’s the point slips out of his mouth, Will says quickly, “Not necessarily. I mean, knights were everywhere. Most of them weren’t famous; they were completely unknown despite everything they did. They didn’t get many paintings, so maybe we should… I dunno. Give them one?”
He wonders if she can hear the note in his voice, the one that sparks whenever he even begins to parallel his thoughts with the past. It’s the only solace he really gets in talking about his growing years, remembering that no one can know all he sacrificed, all the things his friends had, all the things his roommate and he sometimes remember to talk about on cold nights in long, deep conversations.
She doesn’t say much before shrugging, but Will’s pencil starts moving without him really deciding to let it – his telekinetic mind working faster than his limbs sometimes. It comes out in little bursts on occasion, which is really not helpful if it starts here, in the art room, next to a completely oblivious Olivia.
(He can’t wait to complain about it to Mike later.)
The rough outline of simple and unadorned armour appears on the page, followed by a figure standing amid a haze. He already starts thinking about lighting, composition and colour palettes –
And absolutely not about the fact that Mike went as a knight to last year’s Comic-Con – or rather his D&D character, which was very much not a knight (Mike’s insistent words). He just needed a knight’s costume because it was all he could find on short notice.
Anyway, Will pushes the thought away. He does not wonder about the limits of things. He does not. The outline of the sketch does not keep coming out with messy hair and soft eyes anyway.
“It could show the simplicity of it,” he adds, careful not to sound too attached to the theme, lest he’s forced to unfriend someone purely based on their knowing, even if she has cliche ideas. “And the way… war kind of… forgets the ones who actually fight in it. The abundance of them and how they’re interchangeable despite all being… heroes.”
He swallows, surprised at how steady his voice sounds. Good. He risks looking up and finds Olivia studying him in a way that makes his stomach twist with nerves – she’s just a little too thoughtful.
“Huh,” she says finally. “Okay.”
Will waits for the but. It doesn’t come. Instead, Olivia leans closer, eyes flicking between his sketch and her own notes. Thank goodness he didn’t get Max or any of his art friends for this. They’d clock everything immediately and give him a look that’ll very much not allow him in good conscience to complain about it to Mike later. Which is all that he wants right now.
“Yeah. No, that works,” she says. “It’s more tragic.”
“Oh,” he says, dumbly.
“We can make it look like they’re wounded or something,” she continues, only making Will swallow.
Shit. Just imagine it, Will.
You don’t really have to imagine it –
“Maybe some blood on the armour. On their face.”
Will sniffs, tapping his finger against his knee restlessly. Don’t think about it, it’ll only get weirder again if you think about it.
“Maybe on their hands –”
“Yep! Yeah, cool,” Will blurts, finally getting her to stop listing things that make his brain supply unhelpful images of Mike.
Mike in May. Mike with blood on his clothes.
Mike with blood dripping down his wrists.
Stop. Weirdo. He forces instead of a safer picture. Mike, before he’d cut his hair again, at Comic-Con last year, with a cheap metal breastplate strapped crooked over his hoodie. Mike had insisted, very seriously, that he was a paladin-variant, not a knight, thank you very much. And it was really adorable, so, that’s much nicer. A nicer image.
There. Will clears his throat and makes his pencil keep shading. “Sounds good,” he says, inwardly praying that it’s enough for her to stop and be quiet for a second.
It is not.
“Yeah, and… the knight could be kind of slumped,” Olivia goes on, oblivious to how much Will wants to scribble out every sketch on his page right now. “Not dead, obviously, but really exhausted. A little wild. His sword could be in the ground, and he could be leaning on it? Maybe the helmet’s off so you can see his face, and he has kind of a bloody nose or scar, I dunno –”
Will nearly snaps his pencil. But he doesn’t. He does, however, grip it a little harder than necessary.
The second she supplied the image of his helmet off, face visible, the face he imagines is Mike’s. The blood he imagines is –
“That – yeah,” he manages. “That could work.”
He has every right to shut this down and pivot to something else. Maybe it could instead become something about a medieval princess, or they could go back to the stupid king idea from earlier. Anything that doesn’t make guilt, endless torrents of the stuff, shoot through his chest in waves that feel suspiciously like pleasure or desire that just won’t. Burn. Out.
“See? You’re into it.” Olivia grins because she’s right. She’s just not right about why.
Without waiting for a response, Olivia leans back in her chair and sighs.
“Okay. So, we’ll need someone willing to model for the photo shoot.”
Will freezes for half a second.
His mind, traitor that it always was, already sprints ahead of him.
Someone tall enough to wear armour, someone who already has a set of armour in his damn closet. Someone patient and willing enough to stand around, someone who looks good in fake blood. Someone who looks brave after being wounded, perfectly prepossessing even after through fog and ash – scratch that, especially. Especially after being brutalised, corrupted, eyes made wild with the mess of taking a life.
His new partner tilts her head. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who’d be up for that, would you?”
Will blinks at her, opens his mouth, and closes it again. Then: “...Yeah,” he says, because lying has never been one of his strong suits.
He absolutely does.
Providence, Rhode Island
May 1991
Saturday Night
Will had brushed it off as the heat of the moment.
That was what he’d told himself afterwards, anyway, and what he’d repeated until it sounded less like a flimsy excuse that anyone with a brain would recognise as completely untrue.
It had been May. Early summer – warm and sticky, where their apartment never quite cooled down, no matter how many windows they cracked open, no matter how many times they called their landlord about the broken A/C. It was nighttime, too. Windows were open so the air clung to their skin, making everything louder, closer.
Will was hunched over the tiny kitchen table, his canvases stacked against the wall after he’d taken them out of his room, pages of reference photos spread across the surface.
The assignment, one he’d later wish to forget but never would, had been a horror-themed reinterpretation of some popular artist’s piece. Will had been told to be expressionist, tap into something that terrified him. He’d almost laughed and whispered to himself what shall I choose?
He would wonder later whether his professor sees the love spread and slickly wiped into the eyes of the marred face in his portrait, the lust waiting like a gun in a locker. If he sees the shiver, the pricks down Will’s spine whenever he moved things with his mind and pondered upon how far it should avoid going lest he bring back the monster that put the ability there. If anyone, really, could somehow see the truth, and what it took to make the portrait what it is. Who would see it and tell Will what to do about this novel, unclean desire?
In the evening on that Saturday, though, the only thing Will thought about was how to use unsettling textures. At least, so far. He didn’t know that he would get rid of the painting right away. He didn’t know that he shouldn’t have taken it so overboard or let Mike insist on keeping him company. He should have known that the love he’d gotten accustomed to would bloom into something horrifying if he let it.
Maybe this is all a little dramatic. I was just fake blood. It was just Mike.
Mike leaned against the counter in a white t-shirt, pyjama shorts and socks, hair still damp from a shower he’d taken, holding a glass of orange juice he kept forgetting to drink.
“You sure this is enough?” Mike asked, squinting at the palette of reds Will had mixed. Crimson, maroon, something almost purple. “It kinda looks like jam. Dammit… want toast.” Mike turned around and looked at the kitchen cupboards.
“It doesn’t look… okay, maybe,” Will had said. “Still needs to be thicker, though.”
Mike turned around and raised his eyebrows with a snort. “That sounded weirdly intense.” Then he puts on a mock-creepy voice, as if imitating a vampire. “I need the blood to be… thicker for this ritual, this incantation –”
Will threw one of his small paintbrushes at him.
They bickered and prepared the canvas for hours, taking their time amongst doing other things that weren’t very productive. Will wondered if Mike just had a poor attention span before realising how much he laughed at and actively encouraged it. Midnight came and went without either of them noticing. The fridge hummed. Music played softly from speakers in the corner. It was an old mixtape that Mike had made years ago and refused to throw away.
By one in the morning, they were both looser around the edges. They weren’t drunk by any means. Or high – whatever. There was warmth and giggling and talking too fast, probably sleep deprivation in a sense. Mike had likely barely slept last night, working too hard on his English essay, and Will certainly had a terrible enough sleep schedule to rival even that.
Mike paced while Will continued to paint very much without his friend’s help. “Visceral, is a really good word. That’s what you should call it, or, like, kinda call it. I dunno.” He’s been trying to come up with a name for Will’s piece for about twenty minutes, even though Will had never asked.
“Ugh, I have no clue, Mike. Can you just hand me – hand me –” He reached out with grabby hands, the other resting on the frame of the easel.
Mike raised his eyebrow as he chewed on a potato chip and handed over a larger brush. He could have gone to sleep by then. Instead, he had his legs kicked up on the coffee table, eyes droopy. He had the energy that made Will want to scream into his pillow. Mike’s hair had dried in a wavy way, messy and scraggly, begging to be kissed into.
“You should maybe have a clue, it’s due tomorrow.”
Will scoffed and then groaned through his teeth, pressing a fist into his scalp. “God, shut up, okay?” he said, before laughing a little, maybe accidentally portraying that he never actually wanted Mike to shut up. Ever. “I feel like passing out whenever someone asks me for a name for this – this bullshit.”
“‘S not bullshit, Will,” Mike mumbles softly, serious as a heart attack. Curse him, making Will’s insides all gooey. “Stop acting like a tortured genius.”
Will had laughed despite himself, warmth curling around his stomach. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”
“You are tortured,” Mike said seriously, pointing at him with the bag of chips. “Artist’s curse.”
“Oh my god.” Will turned to give him one last look, spotting Mike’s grin, crooked and soft but somehow wicked too. That should have been enough of a warning.
The fake blood sat in a plastic squeeze bottle Will had bought in a crafts shop yesterday when he’d been out with Mike again. It was corn syrupy with a weird mint and salt smell that made the whole room reek faintly of toothpaste and vinegar. Will set it next to the canvas while he stepped back to squint at the composition.
An eerie, dripping feeling traced down his spine at the sight of it. Even though it was just a painting.
The eyes of the marred figure on his canvas stared at him, taunting him on how accurate it was. Staring into his thoughts, reading them and telling him – look behind you –
“Mike!” Will exclaimed as he watched a hand reach for the bottle on the table out of curiosity. “Don’t touch that,” he mumbled, sighing in relief as he put his brush back to the canvas.
“I’m not touching it. ‘M just curious,” Mike whined, pulling his hand away for a second.
There was silence, long enough for Will to regret every choice and thought for the millionth time, and consider once more that maybe Max was correct when she said he had an awful taste in men. Then:
“Shit.”
Mike had touched it. Or, more specifically, when getting up from the couch, he’d bumped the table with his leg.
The bottle wobbled and tipped. It spilled, red syrup sliding across the table slowly. It was viscous and crimson, even a bit appetising.
“Jesus fucking – Mike –”
“Sorry, Will, sorry –”
“You couldn’t catch it?!” Will lunged for the kitchen, searching for paper towels at the same time Mike did, following behind with his voice pitched higher and pleading.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened! I’m sorry, Will, I’m –”
“Stop apologising, it’s your coffee table too, Mike,” Will said, punctuating his thoughts with a little grunt as he finally found the paper towels – Shit. “Oh god. We have like… five sheets left.”
He turned around, searching for Mike to share his disdain with, only to find that he’d abandoned the kitchen and gone back to the scene of the crime. Will rolled his eyes at that reckless, adorable need to help out. Aka the same thing that had gotten them into this whole sleep-deprived mess in the first place.
“Oh fuck, it’s on the floor kinda,” Mike muttered, grabbing the bottle.
Will immediately saw how it would go wrong, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop Mike’s clumsy, long fingers from squeezing the bottle accidentally. A fresh streak of red arced onto his fingers.
Rushing over with the last remaining paper towels, Will groaned, “Oh my god, be careful.”
Mike, making a series of disgusted noises with a crinkled scowl on his face, held out his hand for Will to wipe. Will grabbed his wrist and pressed the towel into Mike’s palm, deep, rich colour blooming on both sides.
“Sorry – wait, why is it so sticky, ugh,” Mike said, then stared down at the paper in Will’s grip. “Was that… the last bottle you had?”
Will gave him a look, eyebrows crinkled in horror. He nodded forcefully, biting his lip. “Yep.”
With that, Mike burst into laughter, distractingly snorty giggles pouring out as his fingers tightened again around the bottle in his hysterics, letting more spill from what had to be a broken cap.
Will noticed it first, gasping and swatting Mike’s arm lightly as he tried to wrench the thing from his grip. “I swear to God, you need to be caged.”
Relinquishing it with another chuckle, Mike took the time to look down at his hands. They were coated now, glossy red between his fingers, smeared across his palms as if he’d deliberately bathed them in it.
Will stared at the veins lying beneath his skin, now outlined by a fresh coat of crimson.
Flexing his fingers, Mike blinked and giggled softly. “Huh, this is kinda cool. We should use this blood for Halloween or something.”
It was the way silky strings of red connected Mike’s fingers as he splayed them and un-splayed them in curiosity, the way his eyes widened slightly as a grin spread across his face, that sparked the first inkling. The thought that this was something Will should very much not be staring at, should not be wishing he matched.
“Uh, don’t – don’t move,” Will said, his voice softer than he meant it to be, the words more heavy than he ever wanted them. Don’t move. Stay in this exact spot so I can capture it somehow. His mind jumped to the camera in his closet. To whether people would find the pictures and what they’d think. Whether they’d be scared of Mike, or in awe, like Will was.
“I’m cleaning it up,” Mike said simply, like this was nothing.
“You’re making it –”
Too late. Mike bent down, palms still held up until he reached for the remaining paper towels Will had set down on the clean part of the table. Blood dripped down the side, forming long, sticky trails toward the wood flooring, ending in spots.
Fake blood. Of course.
Mike dragged his hands across the table, only spreading the red farther. Some streaked onto the edge of his shirt, darkening the white fabric. Will pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. It was definitely in frustration, and definitely not because watching this felt so terrifyingly wrong.
“You’re not exactly helping, Mike,” Will said, swallowing the sudden shakiness instantly, wondering if Mike heard it, clocked it. An image flashed: Mike turning to him, sneering, going what’s wrong with you? Why is your face and neck completely pink?
Mike sighed, then paused, looking down at himself. His hands were a mess, obviously, but there was also a large smear across his stomach where he’d brushed against himself without thinking. Drops speckled his shorts. Then – chuckling under his breath as he shook his head – he scratched at his face, leaving behind a few, delicious red streaks right near his mouth.
Jesus Christ. Will turned away, blinking. “Why are you laughing, just –”
“Because!” Mike held up his hands, wincing, trying to signal Will to mirror him. Right. Of course. Because Will was supposed to be disgusted. Only disgust should be rippling through his stomach, something that would scare him only because it looked like Mike had been through the wringer. Not something that would scare him because he looked almost ravenous. Debauched.
“That’s not – this took me an hour to mix,” Will mumbled, taking a step back when Mike stood up, showing off the full extent of the massacre.
Then he opened his mouth, and apparently the universe decided to torture Will that day, because Mike said, in the same voice he had used when he had imitated a posh nobleman in one of their old campaigns, “I’m honoured to bleed for your art.”
Holy shit.
Will’s knees nearly buckled. He can’t remember for the life of him what he’d said to that.
All he knows is that he’d grabbed the back of a chair without realising it, pulse thudding in his ears. A floaty sensation overtook his limbs, knocking him off-balance as the room tipped a few degrees to the left.
This definitely wasn’t because of the way blood, so realistically gooey, spread across Mike’s hand, glossy and dark. Or the way his shirt clung to his stomach and chest, right over his heart, where it had soaked in. Or the stupidly theatrical way he stood there, like he’d stepped out of one of their campaigns. A wounded paladin. So noble, so brave and sacrificial. He was honoured to bleed for Will.
Warmth pooled low. It was sudden and positively horrifying.
Will swallowed hard.
“I – uh,” he blurted. “I need – bathroom.”
Mike tilted his head like a confused dog that had just been refused a treat. “What? Are you okay?”
Come up with something fast, Byers. Oh my god. “It’s just getting really… gory,” Will said weakly, waving a hand at the table. It wasn’t a lie. “I think we need, like, a towel, Mike. Or… more towels. Many towels.”
Incredible. Just nailed it there.
Mike nodded, scrunching his mouth to the side. Then, oh and then, his tongue darted out. His pink tongue swiped at the fake blood smeared on the side of his face from earlier. He shouldn’t have done that. Something twitched inside Will again. Jesus. This time, he was sure his reaction was visible.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mike asked softly, eyes narrowing with concern.
“Yep! I’m fine, alright?” Will was already backing away, nearly bumping into the kitchen counter on the way out. “Just – be back with the towels!” he called before turning and practically fleeing down the hall.
The bathroom light clicked on, far too bright.
With the door shut tight, Will braced both hands on the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, chest rising and falling quickly. Well, he couldn’t exactly deny it now. Something is royally fucking wrong with him. A glance in the mirror only proved it further; his face was flushed, his hair was sticking up at the back from where he’d run his hands through it.
Then he looked lower in the reflection. At –
Oh. Of course.
Of course he was hard.
“No,” he whispered to absolutely no one, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on a pressure other than the pounding awareness of the heat in his pants. This was not happening. This was Mike. He knew he was in love; he knew he found Mike attractive ninety-nine per cent of the times he shouldn’t. He knew he was down horrendously for the worst possible person to be in love with – his best friend, the boy he lived with, who borrowed his socks and forgot to replace the toilet paper and made him watch terrible movies at two in the morning.
And he’d been fine with that for years. It wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t wrong. He didn’t need Mike to feel the same way about him to be happy. Blah, blah, blah.
But this? This was… a whole other ballgame.
He dragged a hand down his face, trying to think back to when times had been simpler. More innocent. Untarnished, untouched, by built-up resentment or whatever the hell this was supposed to mean.
Despite any efforts, his brain immediately supplied Mike anyway: blood-smeared and tainted, bright-eyed, grin crooked and brave, looking wild and devastatingly gorgeous with his long, slender fingers dipped in that glossy red. Uncaring of who saw him like that. He’d been too close to the fearless version Will used to make up in his head, a beautiful version Will knew he could not resist if true. That impossible Mike only existing in his mind had been the solace. It had been the comfort that he stayed there. Safe.
Now it wasn’t. Now it could be real.
Well, just like always – he had to try. Try to get a handle on this, the way he’d done with every other desire. This was just another hurdle.
He turned on the tap just to have something to do, then decided cold water was a smart idea, so he splashed it over himself, his wrists, his face. Once he had done so, he leaned closer to the mirror, forcing himself to breathe the way Jonathan had taught him years ago.
In. Hold. Then out.
The initial rush dulled, shame creeping in to replace it. Sharp pricks of it needled behind his eyes. God.
He felt awful.
What kind of person gets turned on by their best friend standing in their living room, covered in fake blood? What kind of person wants to see it every day of their life? What kind of person wants to see that, paint it, then stare at it every minute, appreciating and loving it? What kind of fucked up guy wants to slide their fingers through the mess, to mould the beauty and cherish it like that, praise it?
A deeply, deeply broken one, apparently.
Will stared at the ceiling, willing the moment to pass, his body to cooperate, his thoughts to go anywhere else. Another deep breath was inhaled.
Rent money. Homework. Laundry. Groceries.
Eventually, mercifully though he felt he did not deserve it, the feeling ebbed. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. Distant enough that he wasn’t in immediate danger of losing his mind.
The only clarity he gained, however, was fear. What would happen once he stepped out of the bathroom and back into Mike’s presence? Not just Mike – the Mike whom he’d created with the building blocks of his mind that only an artist’s curse would supply, incarnated finally in human form, beautiful and brave, his heart. He was surprised his eternally concerned best friend hadn’t knocked on the door yet.
But even as he straightened and reached for a towel from under the sink, he knew.
He knew that he didn’t want to be ashamed of it. Not of the image of Mike, red-streaked and theatrical, so sacred it ached something ancient in his throat. It wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
So, maybe he’d have to learn to get used to it. Learn that it wasn’t so bad. Again.
When Will returned with a towel, a little dazed and… confused, he’d found Mike sitting on the floor. He was inspecting his shirt in wonder, painting a small circle over his heart. Every vessel under Will’s skin jumped at the sight.
He was playing with the blood. Fascinated by it, too.
Mike lifted his head, his eyes softening when he saw Will was back from the bathroom. Don’t ask me what’s wrong, please, please don’t –
“Hi,” he sighed, before lowering his tone. “Are you mad at me?” he mumbled, his eyes glittering and sorrowful, earnest. Puppy-like.
Back to his old self, then. Still lovable, but at least manageable, right?
For a moment, though, Will imagined it. Imagined he’d walked in on a guilty Mike. What would his reaction have been if his best friend had truly committed a serious deed, something dangerous, something dirty and wrong, and asked Will for penance? Asked Will so innocently whether he was wrong for it, begged for forgiveness for his sin. Are you mad at me, Will? For ruining everything?
“No. I’m not,” Will whispered, answering every version of Mike in his head. Never.
Providence, Rhode Island
October 1991
Friday 10:00 PM
Will is losing.
Not catastrophically, but with every card Mike plays, he can see the game slipping away.
They lay sprawled across the living room floor, backs against the couches, the coffee table between them littered with decks, the discard pile, and half-empty mugs of sweet hot chocolate. One lamp glows instead of the overhead light, casting everything in warmth that Mike specifically said would be perfect atmospheric lighting for MTG. Will has to agree.
Outside, traffic hums faintly through the drafty window. The only other sound is Mike fidgeting with his cards, which stops when he narrows his eyes and –
Will drops his head back against the couch. “Ugh, you’re an asshole.”
Mike hums a laugh as he moves his cards, lips quirking just enough for a dimple to pop out. “And yet still not victorious. C’mon. You can at least try.”
“Shut up.”
Mike makes a little tsk noise and refocuses. Two turns later, it’s over.
Illegally smug, as always, Mike leans back on his hands. “Wow, and what was it you said? Earlier? That – that you’ve been playing this with Jonathan since you were –”
Will rolls his eyes and flicks a card from his discard pile at Mike, who crosses his arms in front of his face like a defensive cat, gasping before it turns into laughter.
“I wasn’t trying to brag then,” Will says, wishing he were more annoyed than he actually is. There’s something uniquely endearing about the way Mike never wins or loses like a normal person, and thank god he’s Will’s roommate. No one else could put up with this.
“I think you were just a little bit,” Mike says, leaning back until his head thumps onto the rug with a happy, overly contented sigh, hands lacing behind.
“Okay, Mike,” Will mutters, moving to start cleaning the cards with precise stacks. He yawns just as Mike lifts his head, attention piqued as his eyes track Will’s hands with sudden focus, until a thought seems to pop up.
His voice is sly. “What if I commemorated how many times I’ve won lately?”
“What are you talking about?” Will says casually, stacking with precision because he is absolutely not going to focus on the butterflies detonating in his stomach right now. That’s stupid, especially when Mike is being annoying, not cute. Not cute.
“Seven times, sevennnn,” Mike drawls, his voice going higher, which makes Will glance over and wonder if he’s sleep-deprived again. Or sugar high from the hot chocolate. Either way, whatever gets Mike like this, arms spread across the floor like the wings of an angel, Will isn’t about to argue with it.
“Mhm,” he hums, “And what are you gonna do, Mike?”
There’s a pause while Mike rolls his head back and forth on the rug. Then he sniffs, and a grin creeps into his voice, “Tattoo my score onto me.”
Will rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You say that about everything.”
Mike lifts only his head to crinkle his nose in a scowl, pushing his lips out a tiny bit and saying, “No, no, I don’t –”
“You wanted a tattoo after beating Dustin at Mario Kart.”
“Yeah, which sounded really cool at the time, but when you say it like that it sounds so stupid,” Mike whines, shifting to prop himself up on his hands, fixing Will with a look he probably has no idea is melting his insides.
Will doesn’t even realise he’s been staring too long in silence before Mike laughs, bright and easy.
“I’d look cool with like… an eyebrow or a lip piercing though, right?” Mike asks, sniffing and twisting his facial muscles as if testing how it would feel.
For a moment, Will imagines what the boy with black messy hair and a stupid nerdy pyjama shirt would look like with metal marring the features, something silver against pale skin that sometimes goes faintly lavender in the moonlight.
He aborts the thought immediately.
“Mm, maybe,” he mumbles, which is the understatement of the century. It’s not that Mike would look cool, he’d just… look so – so –
“I feel like by next year’s Comic Con, I should,” Mike says, flashing Will a grin clearly meant to provoke a teasing retort about chickening out the second a needle touches his lip.
But Will can’t see that right now. All he can picture, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for it later, is the idea of being the one to do it. Of piercing Mike’s skin, of watching those wide, brown eyes glisten when the dull pain hits. I’m awful.
All he can see is the armour Mike wore last year. And then – he remembers. It’s no surprise. There’s not much else to think about lately, except maybe the way his stomach flips at the realm of possibilities. How Mike might look on camera, just like Olivia had described.
It’s been a couple of days, and… shit. This is the perfect moment to ask, isn’t it?
Will presses his lips together, gathering every scrap of courage he has, every ounce of self-control required to make this not horrifically awkward. Not make it obvious he’s been dreaming about Mike in medieval aesthetics, about how unfairly well he fits them, how bright he’d look coated with blood, wounded in battle and –
God. He scrunches his eyes shut for half a second, as if bracing for a cold water plunge, then opens them again.
“Hey,” Will says, aiming to be offhand and probably missing by a mile. “Uh – just a random question. Well, not random. But. Like, it’s off-topic, um.”
“Great, that’s fine, what?”
Will shrugs, steeling himself. “Do you still have that knight armour, from Comic Con?”
Mike blinks, lips pursing as he thinks for a moment. “Yeah. Why?”
Something seriously athletic happens in Will’s chest. “Cool, cool. No, I was just wondering.”
Mike frowns. Great. Maybe he should follow up, but Will opts to stare intently at his deck of cards, shuffling them and suddenly convinced that eye contact might be the thing to push him over the edge.
Mike waits, patient as ever.
This is stupid. He shouldn’t feel shy about this, especially when he’s been a little self-indulgent with Mike before. He’s modelled for Will, stood in front of a window for a lighting study, asked if he should take his shirt off to make it look better, and Will had agreed. Mike has balanced awkwardly on a chair for a perspective assignment, let Will paint his hands in blues and purples and gold. Sometimes just for fun.
Will once called him handsome, just to see how he’d react. If he can recall, it did manage to make Mike bashful, blushing and shaking his head with a small smile that Will had wanted to make even wider. They’d shared a quiet laugh, the question still in the air of whether Will had meant it as a joke.
So why does this feel different? What happened to the fun in teasing out the part of himself that had once felt so wrong? Why does the idea of painting Mike in armour, streaked with blood, looking brave and exhausted, make his chest tighten? It’s not fair.
Might be the excuse of art he’s clinging to. He’d be staging something so private, the mess of his own wants, and arranging it physically while Mike stood there, unsuspecting. Surely oblivious to the most embarrassing fantasies just because he trusts Will’s art so completely. He’d be taking advantage of what Will values most. His stupid, gun-ho loyalty.
“What’s going on?” Mike tilts his head, curls shifting.
Will swallows, knowing his palms are sweaty now. Nothing suspicious about that at all, totally normal for a friend to be sweaty and overheated about blood. “It’s for the medieval project,” he says finally.
Mike’s eyebrows lift as he leans, interest sparking. Will isn’t sure why he expected anything else. From Mike’s perspective, he’s just doing what he does. Helping Will with his art.
“The medieval one?” Mike asks, buzzing a little. Will nods, which earns a relieved sigh. “Ooh, yay. I was kinda… hoping you’d ask me to help with that one. ‘Cause like… it sounds incredible.”
Incredible. Will’s face pinks pleasurably. “It is, yeah, hm.”
“Can I model for you again?” Mike asks. Expectant, maybe even hopeful. Will studies his face for the signs, some glittering plea in his eyes.
Mike just seems… open, curious. He’s brightened again, so effortlessly that Will’s stomach betrays him and swirls. He leans over the table, shuffling the deck of cards between his hands with lazy, practised flicks, thumbs riffling the edges, knuckles flexing, tendons shifting beneath skin like something alive writhing under silk. It burns behind Will’s ribs, like he hasn’t stared at them an unreasonable number of times already.
“Oh, maybe,” he says, far too quiet for how loud his thoughts suddenly are. Modelling is one thing. It’s familiar territory, Mike sitting still while Will sketches his face or the sharper slope of his shoulders through a sweater. That’s manageable and what they do.
This? This is Will trying very hard not to picture Mike in a dented breastplate, or the concept of his jaw smeared red with the blood of Will’s enemies, eyes sharp and wild and shining with devotion.
Will presses his lips together. Mike notices.
“What?” he asks, freezing in the middle of shuffling, cards suspended in his hands. His eyebrows knit. “What’s wrong? You’re kinda pale.”
Will squeezes his hand into a fist out of view, shifting in his seat, gaze darting to the sketchbook on the bookshelf, to the figurines standing in front of it, then back to Mike’s eyes. Because he can’t lose to this, he can’t slide back into someone who desperately pines and panics for Mike’s attention, he can’t go back to the small, stuttering boy who never let himself imagine.
“I’m fine, Mike –”
“If you don’t want me to model, that’s okay,” Mike says, leaning in and lowering his voice like this is some serious confession. It makes Will want to snap. “I just thought it sounded really cool so far, even though… you haven’t told me what you’re planning on doing yet. For it. But still, I’m – I’m willing.”
“I know. I was going to tell you.” Ooh, maybe that was sharp. It makes Mike pause, satisfying in a way.
“...Okay,” he says carefully. “Then what?”
Will considers pivoting and asking to borrow the armour instead, saying actually I’ll wear it, Michael, and take photos with a tripod, spare himself the mental spiral entirely. That’s logical. A very smart decision, if you ask him.
But then he looks back at Mike.
At the way he’s started to shuffle the cards again without thinking, hands fluid and quick. At the narrow bones of his fingers, the faint scar on one knuckle from a scuffle in the Vecna years, a memory from when things weren’t as comfortable. The way his wrist flexes, blue-ish veins showing as he bends the cards. Will wonders if Mike can see it in him when his gaze drifts to his cheekbones, a concentrated mouth, the small line between his brows.
Annoyingly clueless to the storm inside his best friend. Thankfully clueless to the unhelpful image that this all supplies: dark streaks across skin, red against snow.
Will’s chest tightens, but he exhales slowly through his nose, letting the want hum the way it usually does. His palm smooths over the hardwood flooring as a reminder of where he is. Their apartment. Theirs.
“The armour,” Will blurts, making Mike glance up with a hopeful stare. “I need you to wear it just for… a photo.”
“Oh, a photo, awesome,” Mike says, genuine excitement threading his voice, making affection tug at Will’s limbs again. “Do you want me to do… like, dramatic poses or something?”
“Sure,” Will replies with a laugh before he can stop himself, already knowing the expression Mike’s about to give him. He can’t meet it, not when there’s more to say, more than just a picture of Mike posing in armour.
“But, Olivia and I,” he adds, forcing himself to keep his gaze on Mike’s face, not relenting even when Mike cutely grins and rolls his eyes at her name, having heard every complaint. Will snorts at this softly. “I know, but uh – we were thinking. We wanted our knight to look injured.”
“Yes, right,” Mike mutters automatically, then blinks. “Wait, injured? Why?”
Can’t you just fill in the fucking gaps? Will sighs but refrains from groaning, rubbing the side of his face and forcing a smile. Or – well – it isn’t hard when Mike looks like his tail might as well be wagging. “Well, it’s fake, obviously. Like – stage blood. It’ll be as though you’ve come out of battle.”
Mike considers this for exactly two seconds before his face lights up. “Ohhh.” He leans back again, cards forgotten, delighted. “That’s awesome. So with the fake blood it’ll be like…”
Like what? Like when I secretly lost my mind seeing you covered in blood that one night? Like when I’ve tried not to indulge in the memory every day since? Will’s pulse stutters, his blood running cold, ironically. Please don’t think of that night. Please don’t bring it up.
“Like…” Mike squints, and Will wants to strangle him or scream. Is he dragging this out on purpose? Then a laugh comes out of Mike’s throat, almost self-deprecating as he shakes his head. “Sorry, trying to think of something really artsy and smart to say.”
Will’s chest loosens as a grin spreads across his face. “Oh, god. Let me – let me settle in.” A clear of his throat hopefully shakes the tremble in his tone. Mike’s warm chuckle makes his heart sing.
“Okay, um, the knight represents… it…uhh.”
Will bites his lip to keep from laughing, though Mike doesn’t make it easy with the face he’s pulling. It’s kind of hilarious, and eases Will down. It helps sometimes that Mike can go from looking gorgeous to wearing a clueless expression that just makes Will want to roll his eyes. And kiss him silly.
After barely enough time, Mike shakes his head and sighs with a grunt. “Okay, I give up already. What is it?”
“You don’t need to worry about all that,” Will says quickly. “You’re just there to…model and…” He trails off, mouth still open, wondering if Mike can hear the look pretty echoing in the silence. “I only need a couple of photos to show my progress. Just know that it’s intense, I guess. And graphic.”
Mike blinks. It’s subtle, but Will, unfortunately, has been able to clock every movement Mike makes on a daily basis since they were eight. His shoulders stiffen just a touch, and his lips part the tiniest amount, enough to look like he’s buffering.
“Graphic,” Mike repeats, eyes maybe a little wider than usual – or is he actually squinting?
Wait. Shit. He’s gone back to being unreadable again, and Will needs to fix this fast. It’s been a lovely evening, and he’ll be damned if he goes to bed with an ache in his heart that’s anything but warm from an interaction with Mike. “I mean – it’s not a huge deal,” he adds with a slight groan, hoping Mike feels just a little ashamed for questioning him. “I’m not forcing you, Mike. I can ask anyone else, I know a couple of people in my class who –”
“Wait, wait –” Mike quickly rambles, shaking his head a little. A teensy bit of unearned guilt passes through Will’s chest at the sight of him so panicked. “I’ll do it. I wanna do it.”
“Really? I mean, you don’t have to,” Will replies casually, because apparently this is what his mouth has decided to do instead of taking the win. “It’s kind of a lot, and I don’t want to make it sound like I need you to. I just thought… y’know. Maybe.”
Mike sits up straighter, sudden and decisive in a way that admittedly throws Will off completely.
“Will, I want to,” he says firmly. Then he hesitates, grinning shyly and sending a flood of warmth through Will’s chest. “I was just… making sure that it was super graphic.”
Will looks up again, meeting Mike’s mischievous eyes, his face already wearing a signature smirk that is completely unfair. Unfair because it only makes him want to smile even harder. Makes him want to enact his fantasies even faster, maybe test the limits of this thing, test the limits of how much Mike can handle what he’s imagining before he leaves Will for good.
“And also,” Mike adds, exhaling as he shifts, shrugging one shoulder, “you always make cool stuff. So, hello? Obviously I wanna be in it. I don’t wanna miss out.”
A treacherous warmth pools behind Will’s ribs. “Oh, thanks. Yeah, sorry.”
“Shh, don’t say sorry,” Mike murmurs, smiling so wide that he scrunches his nose a little, and Will’s reminded swiftly of every time he’s ever wanted to squeeze his best friend until he pops. “So, when do you wanna do it?”
Oh, he’s enthusiastic? Let’s see how long that lasts.
Will shakes the negative thoughts away, letting the rational side of his brain – no matter how small he thinks it is – take over and remember Mike’s smile. His words. “Soon, I guess. What, do you need to get the costume from back home?”
“No, no, I have it here,” Mike says, before crossing his legs. “So… tonight, then?”
If Will had water in his mouth, he would have done a spit-take. Moments like these make him wonder why he ever feared Mike’s willingness to be his model. No matter what they did.
“Tonight? Mike.”
“Mhm, why not? We already ruined the living room with fake blood once before, so we might as well commit to the bit.”
Will lets out something between a laugh and a horrified noise of distress at the wildly out-of-the-blue mention of the night in May.
Does he think about it that much? Surely not as much as Will has. Surely not in the same way.
“Mike –”
“We can go grab the armour right now,” Mike continues, already twisting himself to shove up off the floor.
A panicked heat rushes straight to Will’s face. God, he hates how easy it is for Mike to do that: just sit there, cross-legged with stars in his eyes, talking about dousing himself in fake blood like it’s the most fun, not-insane thing in the world. But if he’s being honest, it’s also deeply, deeply pleasurable. It makes him giggle.
“Mike, I don’t really have… much of a plan yet,” he admits, shaking his head at the boy across from him, who freezes mid-rise, blinking before slowly relaxing again. Will braces.
“Then we should make one.”
Will refrains from rolling his eyes, if not at Mike, then at himself for the fuzzy feeling in his belly. Five minutes ago, he’d wanted a cigarette. Now, he barely needs anything of the sort with all this adrenaline coursing through him, enough to last a lifetime.
“Okay… what plan are you thinking about?” he asks, acting disinterested.
“Right, so.” Mike nods, pleased, gearing up. “We could have dramatic lighting, um, dirt and leaves and stuff. And then you could… do some like, light makeup? Or just SFX stuff, for the wounds. The fake wounds, obviously.”
Will feels faint. “Uh-huh.”
“Um, we could go somewhere…” Mike trails off, looking to the window, before a lightbulb clicks. “We could go to the woods off-campus, that would be cool, right? To – tonight?”
Will wants to choke on his own saliva and die. As much as he loves Mike’s eagerness, something he wants to take away or take for granted, there’s no way he can do this tonight. There’d be a preparation period, after all – a whole few hours at least before he can even think about touching up Mike with SFX makeup, holy shit. He’s touched him before, many times, obviously. But this is different, somehow.
He steels his shoulders and pretends to be fed up. “Again with ‘tonight.’”
Mike tilts his head, eyes wide and hopeful. “What? It’s perfect, it’s dark already. And you’re clearly in that mood.”
“What mood?”
“An artistic mood.”
Jesus. Will takes a deep breath, playing it off as mild exhaustion as he presses his lips together, forcing himself not to smile. Or – well. Not too much, at least. “I just –” Will starts, then recalibrates once he sees Mike rub at his eyes. “It’s late too. I don’t wanna make you too tired.”
“I’m not,” Mike argues, stifling a yawn. “Even if I was, pretending to be a knight in shining armour for you won’t push me over the edge.”
For you. Will presses his lips together so hard they hurt. He shouldn’t imagine. Not now, not –
His brain does it anyway.
In his mind, moonlight reflects sharply off metal, illuminating the dirt on Mike’s cheekbones and the glisten of blood smeared along his jaw, dripping down the column of his throat, soaking into fabric underneath the collar. Mike stands ruined but resolute, eyes blazing with ancient nobility, looking at Will like he’s saying I’m this way for you. Only –
Will aborts the thought so violently he’s sure it’s somehow audible. He swallows hard.
“I could totally stay up,” Mike continues, then lowers his gaze a little, smiling slightly. “For you.”
The guilt crashes in right after, replacing what Will thought would be warm affection. He can’t wait until this is over.
Can’t wait until they finish the painting, and that’ll be the end of this phase. It may sate Will’s hunger, but it can’t be rushed. The painfully selfish thing to do would be to do this to Mike tonight, tired enough that he might let something slip, and while he’s let himself indulge selfishly over the past few years – he’s earned that much – he cannot spend hours arranging Mike into something that short-circuits his brain and makes his hands shake every time he has to touch him. He needs distance.
He needs sleep. He needs to lie very still in bed and stare at the ceiling.
Will drags a hand down his face. “Look, I’m tired,” he says suddenly, forcing himself not to care what Mike thinks. “Way more than I thought, to be honest. Okay?”
Mike pauses, then seems to abandon whatever he had loaded up, squishing his mouth to one side as he looks away to bob his head. His skin turns slightly mottled with red.
There’s a disappointed silence for a beat, then, “...Tomorrow?” he ventures, eyes so hopeful that for a second Will can convince there’s more behind it.
His chest tightens anyway. Tomorrow means he has to live with this only for one more night. He inhales, slowly, exhales. “Yeah,” he says softly, savouring how Mike’s face lights up. “Tomorrow.”
On the outside, he smiles back, trying to make it look like he’s just placating him. Like Mike is the one who wanted to do this, far more than Will, who’s only humouring his roommate’s desire to be an artist’s subject. Mike’s the one being a desperate fool.
On the inside, Will is absolutely doomed.