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It’s 1992, and Mike Wheeler has been losing his mind for exactly five years.
Actually, if he’s being honest—and therapy is supposedly all about being painfully honest—he’s been losing it since he was twelve. It’s just that lately, the loss of his brain function feels less like a slow leak and more like a total structural collapse. The blueprints are gone. The foundation is cracked. He’s just standing in the rubble, wearing a worn out flannel shirt and pretending he knows how to be a person.
He’s living in a tiny apartment in the city with his best friend, which is the dream first-grade-Mike would have traded his favorite D20 for.
However, current-college-Mike is finding out that maybe dreams are just nightmares with better lighting and a shared utility bill. Because he is struggling. Every time he hears the coffee pot whir to life or sees Will’s toothbrush sitting next to his, it’s a direct assault on his nervous system.
For context, here are the cold, hard, terrifying facts (as curated by Mike’s crumbling psyche):
In 1987, Will Byers (his best friend since kindergarten) had saved his life. And, not just "pulled him out of the way of a car" saved his life, but "levitated and snapped a Demogorgon’s neck like a KitKat while it was three inches from Mike’s jugular" kind of saved his life. It was violent, it was miraculous, and it was the exact moment Mike’s brain chemistry decided to rearrange itself without his permission.
He remembers the sound of the snapping. He remembers the way the air had felt charged, like a storm was living inside Will’s chest. Which, he guessed, was true in hindsight. But, in that moment, Will wasn't just the shy little kid from Hawkins who really liked to draw, he wasn’t the zombie boy; he was magic. He was everything.
But, most importantly, Mike remembers the look in Will’s eyes—the look of raw, terrifying devotion. It was a look that said I would burn the world down to keep you breathing, and Mike had felt it in the marrow of his bones.
And what did Mike do? Praise him, of course.
He’d called him a “sorcerer” in the most starstruck, pathetic voice he could’ve possibly managed. He was breathless, in awe, his heart thrashing in his chest. For five glorious, terrifying seconds, Mike was ready to fall to his knees and say anything.
But then, he panicked.
Like. Hard.
Because later, at the WSQK tower, while the world was still ending—literally screaming in agony around them, the sky bruised and splitting open, the air thick with the stench of ozone and rot—Mike took that look of devotion Will had given him and shoved it into a box labeled ‘Best Friends.’
Mike had looked at Will and effectively said, "You're my best friend! Let's keep it that way while we potentially die!"
Classy, Mike. Real fucking smooth. He friend-zoned the person who had just become his entire universe because he was scared.
He was terrified that if he acknowledged what that look of "devotion" actually was, he’d have to acknowledge that he felt it, too.
Then, to add to the downward spiral, Eleven was gone. She had sacrificed herself in a burst of light and static, leaving Mike in a state of heartbreak that he thought he understood. He wore that grief like a badge of honor, a piercing thing that he assumed was the ultimate price of love.
Spoiler: he was wrong. He absolutely did not understand it.
The grief was real—a deep, heavy stone that sat in his chest for a year. It was a cold, sharp misery that he carefully tended to, convinced that this was the most profound loss he would ever face. He spent months calling into the void of his supercomm, waiting for a girl who wasn't there, and mourning the future he thought he had mapped out.
But then the government-funded therapy started. And that’s where the real damage happened.
You see, Mike’s therapist—Dr. Hayes, a woman with sensible, rubber-soled shoes and a voice like sandpaper rubbing against wood—had spent months peeling back his layers until there was nothing left but a bundle of raw, twitching nerves.
At first, it was just talk of trauma and the "Extraordinary Circumstances" of his childhood. But then they started poking at the hollow spots Mike hadn't even noticed were empty.
Things got complicated.
His "heartbreak" over El was tangled up in something much older and more complex. And as Hayes dug deeper, Mike was forced to look at the static in his head every time he thought about Lenora, about the letters he couldn't write, and about the boy who had been his entire world long before a girl in a hospital gown ever fell into it.
"Michael," she’d said, leaning forward. "Did you love her? Or did you love the idea of being the person she needed?”
Man, what the fuck?
It was a total lobotomy.
It turned out his "epic romance" was actually just a messy cocktail of "intense admiration" mixed with a heavy dose of "I have no idea who I am if I'm not needed."
The confusion was worse than the grief. It was a frantic scramble as Mike realized he had been mourning the wrong things—or rather, he’d been using El as a shield to keep from looking at the terrifying truth of Will. He loved El, obviously, but he wasn’t in love with her.
It was an alarming realization. Like, being told he’d been using a fork to eat soup for seven years and wondering why he was still hungry. He did love her, but it was the "I think you’re a literal god" kind of love, not the "I want to grow old and argue about taxes with you" kind.
And then came the kicker. Dr. Hayes had asked about the ‘KitKat’ moment, as Mike so lovingly referred to it. She asked him about the Demogorgon-snapping. Why Mike felt… things…about it. Why did the memory of Will Byers, eyes glowing and jaw set in a line of lethal concentration, make Mike’s skin feel two sizes too small?
Was it the display of power? Maybe. He’d always had a thing for people who could throw a car with their mind.
Was it selflessness? Definitely.
Was it the fact that Will Byers—the boy Mike had been trying to "protect" since kindergarten, the boy he’d befriended on the swings and checked on and fretted over until Will explicitly told him he was okay—was actually a total badass? Could it be because Will had looked at the demo trying to kill Mike and decided that simply wasn’t an option. Was it the way Will had unlocked a dormant, terrifying power just to fully crunch that demo (and two others, to be exact) like a toothpick because he couldn't stomach the thought of Mike being hurt? Bingo.
And that was only the beginning. Hayes had even more ammo. She asked about their childhood. She asked when Mike had decided Will was "special." She asked when he had decided that he, Michael Wheeler, was the only one allowed to worry about Will.
She had initiated a full and brutal psychiatric breakdown of his whole life up until this point.
So, yeah, he’s been processing that. It was hard, okay? It was like trying to untangle a Slinky that had been run over by a truck. Several trucks, actually. Over and over again. Or something equally as difficult.
Anyways. Now, they’re in the city. Will and him. Together. Roommates. The goal.
They’d graduated and placed Hawkins firmly in the past. The "move-in-together" plan Mike had been pitching to his mom since he was six had finally come true. It should be perfect.
It is, instead, a daily exercise in psychological fucking warfare.
Living with Will is like trying to ignore a neon sign in a pitch black room. Every morning, Mike watches as Will moves around their cramped kitchen—stronger now, more sure of himself—but still possessing that same quiet, devastating kindness that makes Mike want to scream into a pillow. Will is the person who knows exactly how Mike takes his coffee (too much sugar, embarrassing amount of cream). Will is the person who knows which floorboards creak and avoids them when he comes in late so Mike doesn't wake up (not that Mike can go to sleep until Will gets home safe anyways, but still, a very thoughtful action). Will is the person who stayed with him as his closest most treasured friend when everyone else had a reason to leave.
But, as it turns out, being "just friends" with the person who owns your entire soul is actually just a full-time, unpaid internship in suffering.
And the worst part? Will is just…Will. He’s the sweetest, most genuine guy in the entirety of the earth. He treats Mike with the same kindness he’d show a stray kitten. He’s so caring, and kind and Mike is convinced, with the desperate certainty of a man drowning at sea, that Will doesn’t feel a thing.
How could he? Mike looks at his own reflection in his bathroom mirror and…he sees the guy who was too blind to see Will’s pain for years. He sees the guy who forgot his own best friend’s birthday when he visited California over spring break because he was too busy battling his own suffocating, confused ego. He sees the boy who begged his mom to let Will move in when they were six, not realizing that he was actually asking for a life sentence of unrequited longing.
It’s a clusterfuck, truly.
He watches Will across the living room—Will, who is selfless and brave and somehow didn't let the Upside Down rot his soul—and Mike feels that routine physical ache in his throat. It’s the kind of angst that feels like a heavy wool coat you can’t take off, even when the apartment is sweltering and the radiator is clanking.
He’s living the dream. He’s with his person. And yet, he’s never been more alone in his entire life. Because how do you tell your best friend that you’ve been in love with him since the goddam Reagan administration? How do you tell the guy who literally saved your life that you’re currently ruining it just by wanting him to touch your hand?
So, he doesn’t. He just drinks his lukewarm coffee, listens to the sirens on 5th Avenue, and continues losing his mind. One day at a time.
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Mike was currently staring at a stack of laundry like it held the secrets to the universe, trying to figure out how he was going to get the motivation to start on his British literature essay.
He was so deep in his own thoughts—specifically a spiral about how Thomas Hardy probably also had unrequited feelings for a dark-haired boy who drew better than him—that he didn't hear the floorboard creak. It was the one near the kitchenette, the one Will always tried to avoid.
"Mike?"
Mike jumped, nearly knocking a precarious pile of mismatched socks onto the floor. He spun around to find Will standing in the doorway.
Will looked…well, he looked like Will. Which was to say, he looked like the sun had decided to take a human shape, move to New York, and wear an oversized sweater that looked soft enough to drown in. It made Mike’s heart pang in that familiar, rhythmic way—the way his hair was rustled so gently from a nap, the way his green eyes were so shy and wide and— wait, why was he so nervous looking?
Will was fidgeting. His fingers were picking at a loose thread on his cuff, his shoulders slightly hunched in that way that usually meant he was preparing for a rejection he didn’t deserve. Mike’s internal protector—the one that had been on high alert since the second grade—immediately flared to life. He was ready to start a fight with whoever was making Will this anxious. Probably their bullshit landlord. Oh, wait till Mike gets a hold of him.
"Hey," Mike said, his voice coming out an octave too high. He cleared his throat, trying to summon the "cool, super-platonic roommate" persona he’d been practicing (and failing) since they signed the lease. "What’s up? Is everything okay? Is the sink leaking again? Because I told that guy—"
"No, no, the sink is fine," Will interrupted, a small, tentative smile flickering on his face. He stepped further into the room, but he wouldn't quite meet Mike’s eyes. He seemed suddenly fascinated by a smudge on the wall near Mike's closet. "I was actually just…I was wondering if you had plans this Saturday?"
Mike’s internal monologue screamed. Plans? Saturday? Is he asking me on a date? No, Mike, shut up, you’re the best friend. Keep your head in the game. Best friends do things on Saturdays.
"Saturday? Uh, no. No plans. Just me and my…lit assignment. Which can totally wait, by the way. It’s boring. It’s garbage. Why?" Nice, Mike. Very cool and casual. Not desperate at all.
Will let out a short, nervous laugh, his cheeks flushing a faint, dusty pink that made Mike’s mouth go dry. "Well, I saw a flyer at the library. And I know it’s it’s really dorky. Like, peak Hawkins AV Club dorky." He paused, taking a breath. "But there’s a Renaissance Faire happening in Tuxedo Park, outside the city. You know, knights, giant turkey legs, people speaking in bad Shakespearean English…the whole thing."
He finally looked up, his eyes hopeful but braced for Mike to laugh, or worse, to find it childish. "It's the last day and I just thought…since we spent half our lives role playing this stuff anyway…maybe you’d want to go with me?"
Mike froze.
In his head, the 1992 New York apartment dissolved. It was 1983 again. It was Will in a purple wizard hat with stars glued on it. It was the two of them hiding from the world in a wood-paneled basement, creating universes where they were the heroes because the real world didn't have a place for them yet. And now, Will—the man who had snapped a monster's neck to keep Mike breathing, the man who had seen the darkest parts of the world and come back with his kindness intact—was shyly asking to go eat a turkey leg and watch a joust. With him.
It was so sweet it actually hurt. It was the "things" Mike's therapist talked about, bubbling up in his throat like carbonation. Mike could cry, to be honest.
"A Ren Faire?" Mike repeated, trying to keep his heart from thudding out of his ribcage. "You want me to go with you?" It was intended to be a clarification question, but it came out sounding breathless, like a confession.
Will’s face fell just a fraction, the light in his eyes dimming. Shit.
"I mean, we don't have to. It was a stupid idea, I just thought it might be a fun break from the city, I—"
"Will," Mike cut him off, stepping forward before he could think better of it. "Yes. Obviously I'll go with you."
The way Will’s entire face lit up should have been illegal. It was a radiance that could have powered the entire tri-state area. It was the kind of smile that made Mike realize he was absolutely, legitimately, 100% screwed. He wasn't just a best friend. He was a total goner.
"Really?" Will asked, his voice losing that defensive edge.
"Yeah," Mike said, leaning against the dresser and trying to look normal while his soul was vibrating at a frequency only dogs could hear. "I mean, if I don't go, who's going to make sure you don't accidentally join a traveling troupe of minstrels or something? You're too polite, Will. You’d be playing the lute in a tavern by Tuesday."
Will chuckled, a bright, clear sound that made the room feel ten degrees warmer. He turned to head back to the kitchen. "Right. Okay, cool. I’ll call and see if I can reserve tickets or something?
As Will disappeared around the corner, Mike slumped back against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
Saturday, his brain whispered. A Renaissance Faire. With Will. The two of them. Together. All day. Dressed up.
He was going to die. He was definitely going to die. But as he looked at the pile of laundry and his half-finished essay, he realized he’d never been more excited to face his own demise.
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By Thursday evening, Mike had already spent three hours in the back corner of the university library, surrounded by dusty volumes on medieval heraldry and 14th-century armory.
He’d gone there under the guise of "researching his essay," but the British Literature required readings were currently buried under a stack of diagrams illustrating the proper draping of a surcoat.
He had to be serious about this. This was something Will was excited about—actually, visibly excited—and Mike was determined not to let him down. Besides, if he was being honest with himself (which he only did in the safety of his own head), he was pretty excited, too.
He loved being a nerd; he missed the weight of a plastic sword and the feeling that his only responsibility was to protect his party. But more than that, he needed this to be perfect because, for the first time in years, the "party" was just the two of them.
He’d finally landed on a vision. He found an illustration of a knight’s travelling gear—not the clunky, shiny plate armor of a palace guard, but something weathered, practical, and undeniably cool. He’d spent ten cents on a grainy photocopy, folding it into a tight square and tucking it into his pocket like a forbidden treasure to show will.
Perfect.
"Hey, Will?" Mike asked the moment he crossed the threshold of their apartment, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. His voice had that forced, gravelly quality he used when he was trying to hide the fact that his heart was doing fucking wind sprints.
He moved to the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the laminate counter. From there, he could watch Will, who was hunched over the tiny dining table, the evening light from the window catching around his head, mimicking a sort of halo shape. How fitting, Mike thought. Will was sketching, his brow furrowed in concentration, a smudge of charcoal already darkening his cheekbone. Cute.
Will looked up, his expression open and curious, his hand pausing. "Yeah? You’re back late. British literature still trying to kill you?"
"Something like that," Mike started, his fingers twitching against the photocopy in his pocket. He took a breath, bracing himself. "I was thinking about the costume for Saturday. For the Faire. I don't want it to just be, you know, a some fabric or whatever. I want it to look...right. High effort. Like we actually mean it."
He pulled the crumpled paper out and smoothed it onto the counter. "Do you think you could help me? With the artist’s eye and everything? You know I have, like, zero talent for making things look...nice."
The way Will’s face lit up was almost painful to watch. His shoulders dropped any tension, and he set his charcoal pencil down with a definitive click and was across the room before Mike could even blink.
"Really?" Will asked, his voice bright with genuine excitement. He leaned over the counter, his shoulder brushing Mike’s as he studied the photocopy. "You want to do the full tunic and the coat look? Mike, this is awesome."
"Yeah?" Mike felt a rush of relief so strong he almost felt lightheaded. He looked down at the top of Will’s head, noticing the way his hair swirled at the crown. "I just want it to be perfect. You're the only one who really knows how to make it look...actually good. Not like a Halloween costume or something."
Will was already in motion, his mind clearly whirring a hundred miles an hour. He began rummaging through his supply bins in the corner, tossing aside rolls of canvas and tubes of paint. "I can get some leftover heavy linen from the art department tomorrow—they’re throwing out scraps from last semester. And I think I have some silver-painted mesh from that sculpture project last year! It would look kinda like chainmail under a tunic if we layer it right."
He turned back to Mike, his eyes wide and shining. "I honestly didn't think you'd want to go that far with this. I thought you were just doing it to be nice. I'm really...I'm really excited, Mike. It’s going to be so fun."
Mike watched him, a lump forming in his throat that made it hard to swallow. He felt a surge of that same, protective devotion—the kind that usually ended with him doing something stupid or, if he was lucky, brave.
I’m taking it this far because you’re the one looking at me, he thought, the words staying firmly locked behind his teeth, right where they belonged.
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The floor of Will’s room was a chaotic sea of charcoal sticks, stray acrylic tubes, and now, the heat from a hot glue gun.
Mike stood awkwardly in the center of the rug, wearing the black base layers and the heavy leather boots they’d found at a thrift store in the East Village. He felt a bit like a blank canvas, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud-thud against his ribs as Will circled him like a shark—a very small, very focused shark with a mouthful of fabric pins.
"You're sure about the chainmail?" Mike asked, his voice sounding thin in the quiet of the room. Will had gone out of his way to charm the theatre department into handing over the metal mesh, and the light rings rattled softly as Mike lifted his arms. "I feel like I’m about to go join the Crusades. Or, like, a heavy metal band. Is it too much? I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."
"It completes the silhouette," Will murmured, his voice muffled by the pins he was holding in between his lips. He spat them into his hand and dropped to his heels, meticulously adjusting the hem of the deep red surcoat. He reached out, pulling the fabric taut over Mike’s chest to pin the side seams. "And with the hair? The bangs? Mike, trust me. It works. It’s very...Joan of Arc chic."
Mike looked down at the top of Will’s head. He could see the concentration in the set of Will’s shoulders, the way he was treating this piece of fabric like it was a commissioned masterpiece. It made Mike feel a sudden, sharp ache in his chest—the realization that Will was pouring all this effort into making Mike look good.
Will stood up to buckle the black leather sword belt around Mike’s waist. Because he had to reach around Mike’s hips to snag the strap, he had to step deep into Mike’s personal space.
Mike froze. Every muscle in his body locked into place, terrified that if he moved even a millimeter, he’d give himself away. Up close, he could smell the faint scent of that stupid vanilla candle that always clung to Will’s clothes. Mike didn’t even like vanilla—he’d always thought it was cloying and basic—but on Will, it was the best thing he’d ever smelled. Hell, If Will liked it, Mike would buy stock in it.
As Will’s fingers fumbled with the buckle, his knuckles brushed against Mike’s hand, resting near the belt loop.
It was a small, accidental touch, but to Mike, it felt like a low-voltage electric shock that traveled straight up his arm and settled in his throat.
Don’t jump, Mike told himself, his pulse performing a sudden, frantic tap-dance against his ribs. It’s just a belt. He’s just helping. Normal friends help each other with fake swords.
"Oops, sorry," Will whispered. He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, his eyes flicked up to Mike’s for a split second—a look that was so wide and honest it made Mike’s lungs stop working—before darting back down to the leather strap.
A small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; he seemed so happy, so genuinely content to be in the middle of this creative whirlwind.
"It's fine," Mike managed to say. His voice cracked just enough to be humiliating. He forced himself to grip the hilt of the prop sword, his knuckles turning white, just to keep his hands from shaking. "I just...I don't want to mess up the 'silhouette' or whatever.”
Will tightened the belt with a final, firm tug and stepped back to survey his work.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Will reached out and brushed a stray lock of Mike’s hair out of his eyes. His touch lingered just a fraction of a second too long on Mike's forehead, his thumb grazing the skin near Mike’s temple. Dear god.
"There," Will said softly, his voice rippling with a quiet kind of pride.
Mike looked at himself in the full-length mirror. With the long, dark hair framing his face and the bold color of the surcoat, he looked striking. His cheeks began to heat up at the thought of Will dressing him up like this.
"Now," Mike said, trying to regain his footing as his face burned. "Are you ever going to show me yours? Or am I the only one playing dress-up while you sit there in a flannel?"
Will just smirked, a playful glint in his eyes as he stepped back toward his closet. A garment bag hung there, completely opaque and mysterious. "Patience, Mike. A masterpiece takes time. You’ll see it Saturday morning. I think this one will be worth the wait"
The silence that followed Will’s "worth the wait" was heavy. Mike stood there, mind racing over the ideas of what Will could possibly be hiding and rooted to the spot on the rug, feeling the weight of the metal on his shoulders and the even heavier weight of everything he was thinking about. Gulp.
This was so difficult.
He wanted to stay In this room forever. He wanted to sit on the edge of Will’s bed and talk until the sun came up, the way they used to in the basement when the world was small enough to fit under a blanket fort. He wanted to ask Will what he was thinking about when his thumb brushed Mike’s temple. But, the "Best Friends" box in his head was rattling, straining against the pressure of a decade of longing.
"Right," Mike finally breathed, the word sounding more like a surrender than an acknowledgment. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to find his footing on a floor that felt like it was tilting. "Patience. Noted. I’ll...I’ll leave you to it then."
He turned to head toward the door, his boots thudding dully on the rug. The movement felt clumsy, his limbs feeling too long and his heart feeling too big for his chest. He stopped at the threshold, his hand lingering on the doorframe, and looked back over his shoulder.
Will was already turning back to his desk, but he paused, looking at Mike with an expression that was so soft it felt like a bruise. "This was fun. Go get some sleep, Mike. Saturday’s a long day."
"Yeah," Mike said, a ghost of a smile appearing. "Goodnight, Will."
"Goodnight, Mike."
Mike retreated to his own room—the room he was increasingly starting to view as a literal holding cell for his own neuroses. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, letting out a breath he felt like he’d been holding all evening.
He didn't even take off the costume. He just walked over to his bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, the metal mesh clinking softly in the quiet room. He looked around at his space—the stack of textbooks he wasn't reading, the posters on the wall that felt like relics of a version of himself he was outgrowing, the empty chair where he usually sat and stared at the wall when the "Best Friends" charade got too exhausting.
He reached up, touching his forehead exactly where Will’s thumb had lingered. The skin there felt warmer than the rest of his face.
Joan of Arc chic, he thought, a frantic, helpless laugh bubbling up in his chest. Will and always preferred Mike's bangs, making fun of his combed hair relentlessly and asking for the return of “douchebag” Mike for months when they first moved in together. Of course, he had cancelled his hair appointment the next day.
He flopped back onto the bed, the prop sword digging into his hip and the chainmail rattling against his chest. He was twenty-one years old, living in the greatest city in the world, and he was currently losing a mental war to a guy who smelled like vanilla candles and took his coffee with too much cream. This was ridiculous.
He stared up at the ceiling, watching the light from a passing car sweep across the plaster. He thought about the library research, the photocopy in his pocket, and the way Will had looked at him in the mirror. He realized then that he wasn't just going to a Renaissance Faire. He was going on a mission. And even if Will didn't know it yet, Mike was done playing the sidekick.
He stayed in the armor for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of Will moving around in the next room—the scrape of a chair, the soft click of a lamp, the ultimate, agonizing silence of the apartment settling into sleep.
He’d concede for tonight. He’d stay in his room. He’d play the part of the roommate. But Saturday was coming. And as Mike finally started to unbuckle the belt, his fingers still tingling from Will’s touch, he knew one thing for certain:
He was going to make sure Will Byers had the best damn day of his life.
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Mike didn’t sleep. Not really, anyway.
He spent most of the night drifting in and out of a fever dream where he was a knight in a painting that Will was constantly touching up with a brush, adding more red to his cheeks, more silver to his shoulders. When the sun finally started to bleed through the grimy New York skyline, Mike gave up on the idea of rest entirely.
He was in the kitchen by 7:00 AM, moving with the jittery, hyper-focused energy of a man who had replaced his blood with espresso.
He wanted to do something—anything—to offset the overwhelming nerves of the day ahead.
He was halfway through flipping a pancake when the floorboard creaked. The "Will" creak.
Mike’s heart did a violent somersault against his ribs. He didn't turn around immediately, terrified that his face was currently broadcasting his entire internal monologue in 4K resolution. "Morning," he said still facing the stove, his voice sounding like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. "I, uh...I made breakfast. Sustenance for the journey. Or whatever."
"Mike, it's seven in the morning," Will’s voice was thick with sleep, a soft, honeyed sound that made Mike want to walk directly into the traffic outside.
Mike finally turned, spatula held like a defensive weapon. Will was standing there in his pajamas—a pair of oversized flannel pants and a t-shirt that was definitely one of Mike’s old ones from high school. Where did he even find that? His hair was a chaotic nest of soft brown locks, and his eyes were still half-lidded. He looked so domestic, so at home, that Mike felt a pang in his stomach. It was the " taxes and growing old together" kind of love hitting him like a freight train to the gut.
They sat at the tiny, cluttered table, the air between them smelling of maple syrup and the lingering scent of Will’s vanilla candle. Mike barely tasted his food. He was too busy watching the way Will’s fingers wrapped around his coffee mug, the way he blew on the steam, the way he looked entirely too beautiful for a man who had been awake for exactly six minutes.
"You're quiet," Will noted, poking at a square of pancake. He looked up, his gaze catching Mike’s and holding it. "Are you nervous? About the Faire? We don't have to stay long if the crowds are too much."
"No!" Mike said, a little too loudly, breaking from his trance. "No, I'm...I'm good. I'm excited. I just want it to be...I want you to have a good time, Will. That's all."
Will’s expression softened into something so tender it made Mike's lungs ache. "I'm already having a good time, Mike."
What was that supposed to mean?!
"Okay," Will said, standing up and clearing his plate. He had that playful, secretive glint back in his eyes. "I'm going to go get ready. No peeking. I mean it, Wheeler.”
As Will disappeared into his room, Mike slumped forward, resting his forehead against the cool surface of the table. He listened to the sounds of Will moving—the rustle of fabric, the clink of whatever accessories he’d hidden in that garment bag.
Every minute felt like an hour. His brain swirling 1980’s fantasy tropes around the image of the boy in the next room.
He heard the sound of a zipper and felt his face flush, he immediately pushed his chair back and headed for his room to do get ready.
Okay, that was enough, Michael.
He stood in front of his bedroom mirror, tugging at the black sleeves beneath his surcoat. He looked like a painting—the dark hair, the sharp lines of the armor, the moody intensity in his eyes. He looked like a protector. And, admittedly, he kind of looked cool.
He stepped out into the living room, his boots heavy on the linoleum, going to wait by the front door.
Then, Will’s door opened.
Mike stopped breathing. He actually, physically stopped.
Will stepped into the light of the living room and it was like a head-on collision. A spectacular explosion of color and memory. He remembered Will’s old purple wizard cloak—the one from middle school with the wonky stars and the jagged hem. This was not that.
Will stood there in a cloak of deep, stardusted purple velvet. It caught the light in ripples of shimmer, heavy and regal. He had a silver circlet resting against his brow, and his eyes...Will had used a bit of glitter and dark shadow around them, making them look piercing, otherworldly, and utterly devastating.
The "Best Friends" box in his brain shattered into a million tiny pieces, and Mike was standing in the debris, clutching his prop sword like a life preserver.
Will stepped fully into the center of the cramped living room, and Mike’s brain effectively short-circuited. He had been prepared for a cape. He had been prepared for a staff. He was not prepared for this.
His ears were lined with silver cuffs that caught the morning light—delicate chains draped from the cartilage to the lobes, shimmering with every slight tilt of his head. Around his neck was a calculated chaos of silver necklaces: thin chains, heavy links, and a single obsidian pendant that rested right in the hollow of his throat.
Oh, I’m dead, Mike thought, his pulse skyrocketing. I am so, so dead.
The dark shadow around Will’s eyes made the green of his irises pop with a lethal intensity. Holy shit. He’s so hot. is he so hot? Since when is Will allowed to be this hot? Hot. Hot. Hot.
Mike had always known he had a "thing" for nerds, but seeing Will like this, so confident and curated, was a critical fucking hit to his heart.
"Mike?" Will asked, a shy smile breaking through his own nerves. He reached up, his fingers brushing the velvet at his collar. "Is it too much? I know it’s a bit more...dramatic than the old one."
"No!" Mike choked out, his voice a pathetic rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You…Will, you look...incredible. I mean, the silver...and the...you look..."
Say it, you coward, his brain hissed. Tell him he looks like the most beautiful thing in Manhattan.
"You look exactly like the character," Mike finished lamely, his face burning with a heat that could have melted his chainmail. "Only...better. Way better."
The triumph that flashed across Will’s face was almost as devastating as the costume itself. He stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and something metallic—maybe the silver, maybe the charcoal—filling Mike’s lungs.
Will reached out, his fingers steady as he adjusted the high collar of Mike’s surcoat. His knuckles brushed against the silver necklaces at his own chest, and the sound of the clinking metal was the only thing Mike could hear over the roaring in his ears.
"You look pretty good yourself. The red really suits you."
Mike’s face felt hot. Will thinks he looks good. The alarm bells were ringing. He is going to only wear red forever starting now.
“We should probably get going,” Will says, giggling and moving past a statued mike.
Mike followed him down the five flights, watching the silver cuffs catch the dim light as Will moved. He sent a quick, desperate prayer up to the grimy ceiling tiles of the apartment building.
Give me strength, he thought. Please, fucking give me strength.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The drive to the Renaissance Faire was different.
Usually the car would be filled with loud music and Mike’s frantic plan-making. But today, the interior of the car felt smaller than a phone booth.
The air was thick and heavy, and the velvet of Will’s cloak was draped over the center console, spilling over the edge like a silent purple tide. Every time Mike moved to shift gears, the back of his hand brushed against the fabric, and it felt like a jolt of static electricity straight to his brain. It made his head feel full of cotton and his palms feel embarrassingly damp.
Mike kept his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. His dark bangs were swept back by the wind from the cracked window, but his peripheral vision was entirely occupied by shimmering violet and the silver glint of Will's ear cuffs. It was truly maddening. How was he supposed to merge onto the highway when he was currently sharing space with a literal fantasy prince?
"You're being quiet again," Will said softly.
Mike nearly jumped out of his skin. He didn't look over. He couldn't. His mouth was so dry, he needed water. Gallons of it. Maybe to drink. Or, maybe to drown in. Mike didn’t really mind at this point.
Will was fiddling with the silver necklaces around his neck, the velvet of his sleeves bunching at his wrists. "Is it the chainmail? Is it weird? I told you it looks good, Mike. Really.”
"No, that's– that's fine. The chainmail is fine," Mike blurted out, finally glancing over.
The sight of Will—velvet shimmering, the silver chains clinking softly, looking like the most beautiful boy Mike had ever fucking seen—made his heart do a violent somersault.
Was it always this hard to get a grip?
“I’m just...thinking about the, uh, crowds." Mike stammered, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
"The crowds?"
"Yeah," Mike said, his grip tightening on the wheel until the leather groaned. "There are going to be a lot of people there, Will. A lot of...guys. And you look...I mean, you look good. Really good. People are going to want to talk to you. They’re going to ask about the cloak, or the necklaces, or..."
They’re going to try and take your time away from me, Mike’s brain finished with a snarl. They’re going to see you the way I see you and I’m going to have to fight a guy in a leather bodice.
Will blinked, a slow blush creeping up his cheeks. "I did it for me, Mike. I'm not going there to talk to 'other guys,’ or whatever. I'm going here just because I've always wanted to. Plus, I've always wanted to do this with you. Properly."
Mike felt a surge of heat in his chest—a mix of possessive pride and pure, unadulterated pining. He reached out, his hand hovering over the velvet on the console for a second before he gathered the courage to actually touch it. He brushed his thumb against the fabric, right near Will's knee.
"I just..I want to make sure we stay together," Mike said, his voice dropping to a low, serious vibration. "It’s a big faire, you know? Easy to get lost."
Will looked down at Mike’s hand on the velvet, his breath catching.
He looked back up at Mike’s profile, and for a second, a knowing, soft look entered his eyes. It was the kind of look that made Mike’s stomach drop. It was too perceptive, too tender. It made Mike wonder if his "protective knight" act was as subtle as a brick to the face.
Does he know? Mike wondered, a cold spike of panic hitting him. Does he see me shaking?
But then Will just smiled, that small, private smile that was reserved only for Mike. "You're not going to lose me, Mike," Will promised, his voice barely audible over the hum of the old car's engine. "I’ll be right behind you the whole time. I promise."
Mike nodded, cool waves of relief washing over him. He finally let out the breath he felt like he’d been holding since Thursday and steered the car into the gravel lot of the Faire, the tires crunching over the stones. Through the trees, the faint, tinny sound of lutes and the boisterous shouting of vendors began to drift in through the windows.
Okay, Mike thought, checking his hair in the rearview mirror one last time. Time to go play hero.
The transition from the quiet intimacy of the car to the overwhelming sensory explosion of the Renaissance Faire was like jumping into a cold lake. Mike stepped out of the driver's side, adjusted his sword belt, and waited for Will.
When he finally stepped out, the stardust on his velvet cloak caught the full, unfiltered morning sun. He was fucking glowing. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-fantasy novel, and the effect was immediate. As they walked toward the heavy wooden gates of the entrance, heads began to turn.
Mike felt a surge of adrenaline. He stood taller, his surcoat catching the breeze, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his prop sword. He wasn't just Mike Wheeler anymore; he was the goddam Paladin. And the Paladin had a job to do. Keeping Will in his line of sight was the priority—anything else was secondary.
"Keep the, uh, circlet on," Mike muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they passed through the gates. "It makes it easier for me to spot you in the crowd."
Will laughed, his eyes bright with the magic of the atmosphere. "I think people are spotting me just fine, Mike."
He wasn't wrong. A group of "peasants" in burlap tunics pointed as they walked by, and a girl at a flower-crown stall audibly whispered, “Oh my god, look at his cloak.”
Mike felt a flare of heat in his chest. It was that fierce, protective jealousy—the "fighting for attention" he’d been dreading all night. God, this was going to be harder than he thought.
They were stopping near a booth selling hand-carved wands when it happened first. A guy—older, probably a college senior, dressed in a decent rogue outfit with too many leather straps—approached them.
But he didn't even look at Mike. He went straight for the Sorcerer.
Already? Mike thought. They hadn’t even been here ten minutes yet.
"Hey, man," the guy said, leaning in close to Will, a smirk on his face. "That velvet is incredible. Did you sew the stars individually? They’re really detailed. Must have taken a lot of... dedication."
Will blinked, his eyes flickering with a mix of surprise and classic Will-politeness. "Oh, uh, yeah. I did. Thank you. It took a while."
"I can tell," the guy said, stepping even closer, effectively trying to edge Mike out of the conversation.
He was invading Will’s personal space, the space Mike had spent three years respectfully orbiting. That was not going to fly. "I'm a big fan of the cleric archetype. You here with a group, or just wandering solo?
Mike felt his blood pressure spike. Solo? Was this guy blind? Mike was standing right there in six feet of surcoat and chainmail.
Before Will could even form a polite response, Mike stepped into the space between them.
It wasn't subtle. Apparently, jealous Mike Wheeler didn't do subtle; he did "human wall." He didn't push the guy, but he made the sheer physical presence of his stature (how could this guy not see him, seriously? He’s like five inches shorter than him) and clanking chainmail unavoidable. He loomed, and for once, he was glad he was tall.
"He's with me," Mike said.
His voice was deeper than usual, gravelly and protective. He didn't look at the guy; he looked at Will, his eyes intense and fixed. Will just blinked back, a look of shock plastered on his mouth.
"We’re actually late for the...archery tournament," Mike added, his hand balled at his waist.
When did he get so bold?
The rogue looked at Mike, then at the prop sword, then back at Will. He seemed to realize that Mike was about two seconds away from an actual, non-roleplay duel. Mike wasn’t scared; they could scrap right here next to the tapestry booth for all he cared. He’d take a ban from the Faire if it meant this guy backed off.
The guy nodded, clicking his tongue and holding up his hands in a mock surrender. "Right. Archery. Got it. Nice robes, anyway." He backed off, disappearing into the sea of tunics and corsets.
Will stood there, his face a brilliant shade of pink, his silver necklaces rattling against his chest from Mike’s sudden movement. "Mike," he whispered, a little breathless. "You didn't have to do that. He was just being nice."
"He was being creepy," Mike stated, rolling his eyes, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "And rogues are, like, infamous for being untrustworthy and weird. I had to."
He shrugged his shoulders, trying to regain any semblance of coolness he had left in him. He felt like an idiot, but a very protective idiot.
Will looked up at him, the sunlight reflecting off the silver around his face. He didn't pull away. Instead, he reached out and lightly touched the fabric of Mike’s sleeve, his fingers lingering just like they had in the bedroom. Gulp.
"Oh, you had to, huh?" Will asked, a playful, smile tugging at his lips.
“Totally,” Mike promised, his voice softening as the panic subsided into something warmer and far more dangerous. “Standard Paladin procedure.”
Will’s smile turned into something more tender, something that made Mike think that maybe, just maybe, Will didn't mind being "protected." But Mike quickly shut that thought down. He’s just being nice, Mike told himself. He’s Will. He’s nice to everyone.
He couldn’t get his hopes up yet. They had only just arrived, and the day was still so young. There was still plenty of time for Mike to make a fool of himself, or for someone even more charming than a rogue to come along and remind Mike why he was just the "best friend."
"Come on," Will said, giving Mike’s sleeve a little tug. "If we're 'late' for archery, we should probably at least find where the range is or something."
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The Faire was a labyrinth of sights and smells—roasting turkey legs, sweet almond glaze, and the earthy scent of trampled grass. Mike walked a half-step ahead of Will, acting as a human prow to cut through the sea of corsets and tunics, his eyes scanning the crowd with a vigilance that was 10% Paladin roleplay and 90% pure jealousy.
They stopped at a leatherworker’s stall where Mike tried on a pair of gauntlets that were far too expensive, just to hear the leather creak. He watched Will out of the corner of his eye.
Will was gravitating toward the illuminated manuscripts and the hand-poured candles, his fingers tracing the edges of gold-leafed paper with a reverence that made Mike’s heart ache. The way the sunlight hit the silver cuffs on Will's ears, highlighting the elegant slope of his neck, made Mike’s throat feel like he’d swallowed a handful of dry hay.
"Look at this one, Mike," Will said, pointing to a sketch of a dragon coiled around a lone tower pinned up on the wall. "The shading...it looks like it's moving."
Mike leaned in, their shoulders brushing. The red of his surcoat bled into the deep purple of Will’s velvet. Up close, he could see the tiny stars Will had hand-sewn onto his cloak, and the sight of that painstaking effort made Mike feel a surge of affection so sharp it hurt to breathe a little.
"Your dragons are better," Mike said firmly. He wasn't being nice. He meant it. Everything Will touched had a soul that these things lacked. Will’s art was a window; this was just a souvenir.
Will huffed a laugh but ducked his head, the silver necklaces around his throat clinking softly. "You're biased. You've been looking at my sketches since we were like babies."
"No, well, maybe. I'm an expert on your work," Mike countered. "There's a difference between bias and objective truth.”
Nice, Michael.
As they moved deeper into the woods of the event, the noise of the main thoroughfare began to fade. The scent of frying dough was replaced by the low chime of wind bells and the thick, heady scent of heavy incense and dried sage. The trees here grew closer together, their branches draped in tattered ribbons and strings of wooden beads. Tucked between two massive oaks was a tent of deep indigo silk, embroidered with silver moons that seemed to glow in the shade.
A sign out front, weathered and written in elegant, looping script, read: The Seer of Souls – Truths Told, Paths Revealed.
Will stopped immediately, staring up at the words.
"Oh, come on," Mike said. "It’s probably just a lady with a crystal ball she bought at the mall."
But Will was looking at the tent with a strange, quiet intensity. "Maybe. But look at the runes on the entrance, Mike. They're the ones for...hidden things."
Will wiggled his eyebrows at Mike, a playful challenge in his green eyes.
Fuck it, if he’d follow Will into the Upside Down; he could certainly follow him into a purple tent. There was nothing to be nervous about.
"Fine," Mike grumbled, though he didn't pull away when Will’s hand found his wrist to lead him forward. "But if she says I'm going to marry a barmaid or that my 'aura is brown,' I want my five dollars back."
Will’s eyes twinkled as he pulled back the indigo flap, the starry fabric swishing behind him. "Just keep an open mind, Sir Wheeler. You might learn something about yourself."
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Mike thought, taking a deep breath and stepping into the dim, incense-heavy dark of the tent.
The interior was dim, lit only by a few flickering votives. A woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows sat behind a low table. She did not look like a fraud. Shit, okay, maybe there should be something to be nervous about.
"Oh, a Paladin and a Cleric?" she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "A classic pair. One the shield, one the soul."
Mike felt his neck prickle. He sat down on a velvet cushion, his knees knocking against Will’s in the cramped space. The anxiousness Mike had felt in the car was back, but now it was amplified by a thousand in the silence of the tent.
"Join hands," the Seer commanded.
Mike froze. For a split second, his brain tried to find an exit strategy—some witty, deflective remark to diffuse the sudden, heavy gravity in the tent—but the words died in his throat. He looked at Will. Will’s hand was already out, resting palm-up on the black velvet of the table. In the flickering candlelight, Will’s skin looked like porcelain, his silver rings glinting like tiny, fallen stars against the dark fabric.
Slowly, Mike reached out. His hand looked massive and clumsy next to Will's, his fingers still slightly shaking with adrenaline.
When his fingers finally laced through Will’s, it wasn't the accidental brush of a belt buckle or the fleeting contact of a shared coffee mug in their kitchen. It was grounded. Will’s skin was warm, radiating a heat that seemed to travel straight up Mike’s arm and settle in the center of his chest. Will gripped Mike back with a surprising, steady strength—a silent I’m here that made Mike’s vision blur for a fraction of a second.
What had he gotten himself into?
The Seer didn't look at their palms. She didn't trace their lifelines with a gnarled fingernail or peer into a crystal ball. Instead, she leaned forward, her eyes fixed entirely on the point where their hands met, where the fabric of Mike’s sleeve pressed against the velvet of Will’s.
"You seek to protect," she said, her voice dropping into a low, rhythmic cadence that seemed to vibrate through the floor cushions. She looked directly at Mike, her gaze so sharp it felt like she was peeling back the silver mesh of his armor. "But you fear the thing you protect doesn't need you. You wear the red of a warrior to hide the heart of a boy who is terrified of being left behind."
What the actual fuck.
Mike felt like the air had been kicked out of his lungs. The sound of the lutes outside, the shouting of the crowds—it all vanished. There was only the fragrance of incense and the crushing weight of the truth. He gripped Will’s hand tighter, his knuckles turning white, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of Will’s palm as if he could anchor himself to the earth.
How on earth did she possibly get that right off the fucking bat? It was the exact thing he’d been circling in therapy for months—the "Michael, why do you feel you have to be the hero to be loved?" talk he and Dr. Hayes had hashed out. It was the fear that had kept him awake in their apartment, listening to Will breathe in the other room and wondering if he was just a relic of Will’s past rather than a part of his future. He’d spent years convincing himself that his worth was tied to his utility—if he wasn't the leader, if he wasn't the protector, if he wasn't needed, then why would someone like Will stay?
He felt exposed, naked despite the layers of linen and leather. He wanted to pull away, to laugh it off, to tell her she was a hack, but his hand wouldn't move. It was like he and Will were fused together by the sheer force of her words.
He looked at Will, desperate to see if he was laughing, but Will was perfectly still, his eyes wide and fixed on the Seer, his pulse thrumming against Mike’s fingertips.
Mike’s throat felt tight, a lump forming that made it impossible to swallow. He was currently losing a fight against a woman in a silk tent, and the worst part was, he was terrified she was just getting started. She hadn’t even gotten to Will yet.
He felt Will's fingers twitch against his own, a gentle squeeze that felt like a lifeline and a question all at once.
He gulped down nerves, his throat clicking as he swallowed, watching the Seer finally turning her gaze toward Will. The shift in her energy was palpable—the way she looked at Will wasn't with the pity she’d shown Mike’s "warrior" facade, but with a quiet, unsettling reverence.
"And you..." she whispered, her eyes tracking the silver chains at Will’s throat. "You walk in the stars, but your feet are anchored by the one beside you. You hide your power in velvet, waiting for the Knight to see what is already in front of him."
Hello? What was that supposed to mean?
Mike’s brain scrambled to translate the riddles. Waiting for the Knight to see? He was right here! He was looking at Will every single second of every single day until his eyes burned. He saw the silver, he saw the velvet, he saw the kindness. What else was there to see? Was she saying Will was hiding something? Or was she saying Mike was blind? (The therapy version of Mike whispered 'both', but he shoved that voice into a dark corner of his mind).
The Seer leaned back, the shadows of the tent dancing across her lined face. She looked at them both—at their joined hands, at the way Mike was leaning into Will’s space without even realizing it—and a small, knowing smile played on her lips.
"The path is already written," she said, her voice sounding less like a person and more like an echo to Mike's panicked ears. "You are not two travelers on a quest. You are the destination for each other. Why do you fight what the stars have already settled?"
The silence that followed was deafening. It was a physical weight, pressing Mike down into the velvet cushion. He couldn't look away from the Seer, but his entire nervous system was hyper-focused on the point where his skin met Will's. He could feel Will’s pulse thrumming against his thumb—a frantic, stuttering beat. It was terrifyingly fast. It was exactly like his own.
Mike felt a wave of nausea roll over him. This wasn't just "nerd stuff" anymore. This was the raw, terrifying truth of his life being laid bare by a stranger in a costume.
The destination for each other. It sounded like a death sentence. It sounded like the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It sounded like a lie he wasn't allowed to believe.
Suddenly, the tent felt like it was shrinking. The indigo silk walls were closing in, the scent of the incense becoming cloying and thick, like it was trying to choke him. The string lights and flickering candles blurred into a singular roar of light as his vision began to spin. He knows, Mike thought, a spike of pure, unadulterated panic piercing his chest. If she keeps talking, he’ll know.
He could feel the truth bleeding in through the silken ceiling, dripping down like hot wax. He could not be in here anymore. He couldn't stay in this small, dark space where the air was made of his own secrets. He was going to suffocate under the weight of his heart if he didn't get out right now. Will didn’t need to know—not like this. Not in a purple tent surrounded by "hallucinogenic" candles or some bullshit.
Mike’s fingers twitched, a cold sweat breaking out under the silver mesh of his sleeves. He had to break the connection. He had to run before the Seer said the one thing he couldn't take back.
"We...we should go," Mike managed to say, letting go of Will’s hand in a hurry, like it had burned him. The seer raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her place, eyes on the space where their hands had separated. Mike threw her a look, a mix of shock, confusion, and anger. His own wild eyes challenged her steady gaze.
That was enough. Mike tugged at Will’s arm, and they stumbled out of the tent and back into the sunlight, the bright colors of the Faire blurring together as he dragged them through the trees. Mike’s head was spinning. The destination for each other. The words felt like a brand on his brain. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Mike won’t believe it.
The cool afternoon air hit Mike’s face as they moved, but it did nothing to douse the fire roaring in his ears. He was walking too fast, his heavy boots thudding into the dirt, still gripping Will’s sleeve as if he were pulling him away from a live grenade. He didn't stop until the indigo tent was swallowed by the crowd and the reek of incense was replaced by the sharp scent of pine and sawdust.
"Mike! Mike, slow down," Will panted, finally digging his heels into the gravel.
Mike let go as if he’d been electrocuted. He spun around, his hair damp from sweat against his forehead. His chest heaved beneath the fabric of his costume, the chainmail on his arms feeling like a hundred pounds of lead.
"She was a fraud," Mike blurted out, his voice cracking. He started pacing a small circle in the grass, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. "A total scam. Did you see those candles? They were probably scented with, like, drugs. Or something, I don’t know. That’s how they get you. They say stuff that sounds deep but means nothing."
The destination for each other. The words were looping in his brain like a broken record.
"Mike..." Will’s voice was quiet, steady. He was standing there with his velvet cloak draped around him, the collar slightly askew from the frantic walk. He looked far more composed than someone who had just been told his soul was tethered to the person standing in front of him. How was he so normal about this?
"And joining hands?" Mike continued, his pacing getting faster. "That’s a classic cold-reading tactic. She could sense our pulses or whatever and guessed we were nervous because, I don't know, it’s a weird tent! It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean the stars have 'settled' anything. I'm the one who decides things, not the...not the stars."
He stopped suddenly, facing Will. He was terrified that if he stopped talking, the silence would force him to look at the truth. He was terrified that if he looked too closely at Will, he’d see the same realization mirrored back at him—or worse, he’d see nothing at all.
Will took a slow step forward. The silver on his sleeves shimmered. "Why are you so angry about it?"
The question was innocent but Mike’s bravado still flickered. "I’m not angry! I’m just...it’s a lot of pressure, right? To say someone is your 'destination’, Will. We’re not on a journey or anything,” he huffed, trying (and failing) to catch his breath. Mike’s heart was still hammering, but he forced himself to straighten his belt out, his fingers fumbling with the leather. He couldn’t look at Will—not yet. He was too afraid of what he might see if those soft, perceptive eyes caught his own.
"I’m just skeptical, that’s all," Mike repeated, his voice steadier but still thin. "It’s like D&D. If the DM tells you exactly where the campaign ends in the first ten minutes, what’s the point of playing? It’s bad storytelling."
Will didn't push him. He just adjusted his circlet, his expression unreadable as he watched Mike spiral. "Right," Will said softly. "Bad storytelling."
The silence that followed was heavy, but the scent of woodsmoke and sugar drifting from the nearby stalls offered Mike a desperate lifeline. He needed to move. He needed to do something before he completely disintegrated.
"I'm starving," Mike blurted out, turning on his heel toward the row of food vendors. "Let’s get something to eat? My treat.”
He marched toward a stall draped in checkered bunting, the sign promising The King's Finest Pretzels. He was desperate, and the distraction of salt and dough was enough of one as ever. Will followed behind at a slower pace, his purple cloak sweeping over the grass, looking like he was processing a thousand things. Mike was too nervous to ask what things he could possibly be mulling over.
When they got to the front of the line, Mike ordered two massive, salt-crusted pretzels that were nearly the size of his own head. "Here," Mike said, thrusting a grease-stained napkin toward Will.
Will took it, his fingers brushing Mike's for a split second, and Mike almost dropped the food.
They sat down on a hay bale at the edge of the clearing, away from the thickest part of the crowd. Mike took a massive, aggressive bite of his pretzel, mostly so he wouldn't have to speak. But as he chewed, he realized he’d made a tactical error.
The pretzel was covered in a thick, sticky honey-mustard glaze he hadn't noticed.
A dollop of the yellow sauce landed right on his chin, and another smear caught the corner of his mouth. Mike, preoccupied with his internal crisis and the way the word 'destination' was still ringing in his ears like a gong, didn't even notice.
Until Will let out a tiny, stifled sound. When Mike looked over, Will was biting his lip, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The tension that had been radiating off Will since they bolted from the tent seemed to snap, replaced by a soft, genuine amusement.
"What?" Mike asked, his mouth full of dough.
"You have..." Will gestured vaguely at his own face, his smile finally breaking through. "You’re a mess, Mike. You have shit all over your face."
Will didn't wait for Mike to find a napkin. He reached out, his velvet sleeve brushing against Mike’s chainmail, and used his thumb to gently wipe the corner of Mike’s mouth.
The world stopped. The noise of the lute players, the shouting vendors, the kids running past—it all faded into a dull hum. Mike froze, his breath hitching as Will’s thumb lingered for a second on his skin. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture, the kind of thing people in movies did right before the screen went black.
Will’s eyes dropped to Mike’s lips for the briefest of moments before he pulled his hand back, looking suddenly very interested in his own pretzel. Dear God.
"There," Will whispered, his voice thick with a shy kind of heat. "Fixed it."
Mike swallowed hard, his appetite suddenly gone. He looked at Will—the stardust, the purple velvet, the smudge of salt on his thumb—and felt that wall in his chest finally start to crumble. He wanted to say something—to ask What was that? or Why are you looking at me like that?—but the words were too big for the space between them.
Will seemed to sense the internal earthquake Mike was experiencing. He shifted on the hay bale, bumping his shoulder against Mike’s in a way that was grounded and familiar.
"Hey," Will said, his voice returning to its normal, comforting register. "Let's not let that weird lady ruin the day, okay? She gets paid to be dramatic. That’s the whole point of the Faire."
Mike took a breath, letting the cool air settle his lungs. The spiraling panic from the indigo tent began to recede, tucked away into a small box in the back of his mind. "Yeah," Mike agreed softly, his voice finally steady. "You're right.”
Will smiled, and it was a relief to see the brightness back in his eyes. "Exactly. It’s just...atmosphere. Like the fake accents." He nudged Mike again.
Mike could do this. This was fine, everything was fine. "I mean, I know I was complaining about the drive, but you were right. This is actually...It's really cool. Way better than being stuck at the apartment all day staring at our textbooks."
"Yeah," Will agreed, "It is."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, just people-watching. It was the same effortless feeling again—the simple ease of existing in the same square foot of space without needing to fill it with noise. Mike felt the panic from the Seer’s tent receding, filed away in the back of his mind. He felt the fire in his ears finally recede. He can deal with the rest later. For now, it was enough just to be here.
"We should go see the blacksmith next," Mike suggested, feeling a bit more like his usual self. "I want to see if those swords are actually balanced, or if they're just for show. And you wanted to look for a sketchbook, right?"
Will’s eyes lit up. "Yeah, I’d love to."
"Then that's the plan," Mike said, standing up and offering a hand to Will. He did it without thinking this time—no hesitation, no over-analyzing. Just the Knight helping his Sorcerer up from the hay.
As Will took his hand, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, the purple velvet and red linen overlapping once more.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The blacksmith’s forge was tucked away at the edge of the forest, marked by the rhythmic, ringing cling-clang of a hammer meeting glowing steel. The heat hit them before they even saw the fire, a dry wave that made the chainmail on Mike’s arms feel suddenly, realistically heavy.
Mike’s eyes widened as they approached. This wasn't the painted plastic or foam of the main thoroughfare. These were real weapons—heavy, oiled, and dangerous. These were way better than a candlestick or a flare gun, these would’ve actually damaged a demogorgon.
"Whoa," Mike breathed, stepping up to a rack of longswords. He reached out, his fingers hovering over a hilt wrapped in dark leather. "Will, look at the cross-guard on this one. It’s actually balanced."
Will stood just behind him, purple velvet pushed back over his shoulders to keep away from the stray sparks. "It’s beautiful," he murmured, but he wasn't looking at the sword. He was looking at the way the firelight played across Mike’s face, casting sharp shadows that made him look less like a kid in a costume and more like the grim, dedicated protector he was trying so hard to be.
The blacksmith, a mountain of a man with soot-stained arms, looked up from his anvil. How do these people exist in real life, he thought.
He caught sight of Mike and let out a low whistle.
"Ho there," the man boomed, his voice vibrating in Mike’s chest. "Looking for an upgrade? That prop at your hip wouldn't last a second against a real monster."
He doesn’t even know the half of it, he thought, thinking back to smacking a demogorgon with a shovel in the Turnbows dinning room.
He straightened his shoulders, instinctively moving a half-step in front of Will. "Just admiring the craftsmanship. It’s...impressive."
"Here," the blacksmith said, picking up a finished blade and holding it out hilt-first. "Feel the weight. A sword is simply an extension of the soul, they say. Let’s see if yours is heavy enough to carry it."
Mike hesitated, then took the sword. It was shockingly heavy, cold and demanding in his grip. He had to use both hands to keep it steady. He felt the raw power of it, the reality of the weight. It made the intensity in his ribs sharpen. He felt like he could actually defend something with this. He felt like he could defend Will.
"Try it," Will encouraged softly, stepping closer.
Mike shifted his stance, his boots digging into the dirt. He swung the blade in a slow, controlled arc. The whistle of the steel cutting through the air was the most satisfying thing he’d ever heard.
"Perfect," the blacksmith grunted. He then looked at Will, his gaze softening. "And the Cleric? You’ll be needing something to keep that velvet clean while your Knight is in the fray. A mace, perhaps? Or a staff of Rowan?"
Will smiled, shaking his head. "I think I'll stick to the magic. It’s safer for everyone involved. I like the power of using my mind."
Mike wanted to laugh, if only the blacksmith could’ve seen Will, arms extended and eyes pure white. He wouldn’t know what to do. Mike handed the sword back, his hands still buzzing from the vibration of the steel. He felt more like himself than he had all day—stronger, more capable. He looked back at Will, who was watching him with a quiet, shimmering kind of awe.
"You looked like you knew exactly what to do with that," Will whispered as they stepped away from the heat of the forge. "It was.. a little scary, actually. How much it suited you."
Mike adjusted his belt, his heart doing a small, proud thud. "Protecting you is basically my full-time job. Has been since, what, second grade? Now I just have the proper equipment."
Will nudged Mike’s shoulder with his own, the velvet of his sleeve sliding against Mike's arm. "Oh, please. You were so little. You weren't protecting anyone; you were just the loudest person in the room."
"Whatever! Tactical distraction is a valid defensive strategy!" Mike countered, a grin tugging at his mouth. "And for your information, I am now a highly trained college student with a very realistic fake sword. I’ve leveled up."
"You’ve leveled up your hair, at least," Will teased, reaching out to flick an out of place chunk of Mike’s bangs.
The touch was brief, a playful gesture between friends, but Mike felt it like a spark. He pulled back slightly, his face heating up from more than just the forge's embers. He had no idea how Will could be so casual, so effortless, while Mike constantly felt like he was walking a tightrope over a pit of spikes.
Does he see it? Mike wondered, his throat tight. He looked at Will, who was already turning his attention to a small table near the back of a stall, looking at a stack of leather-bound journals with the same gentle curiosity he gave everything. Mike felt a familiar, dull ache—the realization that while he was busy trying to be everything for Will, Will was probably just happy to be out of the apartment.
This sucked. He thought, watching as Will turned a specific journal over in his hand, the silver clasp glinting back at him.
“Do you like that one?” Mike questioned, his voice sounding forced and thin as schooled himself and tucked his feelings away.
Will’s thumb traced the pebbled leather cover, his expression thoughtful for a fleeting second before he shook his head. He set it back down on the green velvet-covered table with a quiet carefulness.
“Yeah, but I don’t need it," Will said, his voice light, though there was a trace of a sigh hidden in the words. "It's too expensive, Mike. Let's just keep walking. There’s a lot more of the Faire to see, right?”
He looked at the merchant, then back at Will’s retreating back, already moving on, the purple of the cloak swirling around his ankles. He fell into step a half-pace behind, a position he was painfully used to—close enough to see the way the sunlight caught the stray hairs at the nape of Will’s neck, but far enough that he didn't have to explain the look of utter longing on his face.
As the rhythmic clang of the hammer faded behind them, replaced by the distant, ethereal trill of a wooden flute, the air turned cool and sweet with the scent of pine. Mike walked with a newfound weight in his step, his hand still tingling from the heavy vibration of the steel blade he’d held. He felt taller, steadier, but his mind was a tangled mess of "what-ifs."
He glanced at Will, whose violet cloak seemed to drink in the deepening shadows of the forest path. Will was quiet, his fingers idly tracing the silver embroidery of his sleeve, and Mike couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking about the Seer’s words, too. Every time their shoulders brushed, Mike felt a jolt of electricity that had nothing to do with the static of the velvet. He was stuck in a loop—wondering if the "Knight" Will was waiting for was someone else entirely, or if Mike was currently failing the most important quest of his life by staying silent. The forest around them felt enchanted, coursing with a tension that made the simple act of walking side-by-side feel like a high-stakes mission.
Mike’s heavy boots on the dirt path provided a steady baseline to the melodic chaos of his thoughts.
"I’m just saying," Mike said, nudging Will’s shoulder with his own, trying desperately to get out of his head and talk to the person he came here with. They’re best friends, he needed to get a grip. "if we actually lived in a fantasy realm, I’d definitely be the one carrying all the gold. You’d spend it all on enchanted paints and silk ribbons within twenty minutes of hitting the village square."
Will let out a soft, indignant huff, though his eyes were dancing. "Enchanted paints are a strategic investment, Mike! How else am I supposed to scry for enemies if I don’t have the right pigments?"
"By asking the guy with the giant sword to go look behind the bush, duh," Mike countered with a lopsided grin. "It’s a very cost-effective method. Low overhead, high efficiency."
Will laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to cut through the heavy scent of woodsmoke and old-world magic. "Maybe I don’t want that! I think I'd be the mysterious hermit in the woods by myself. The heroes have to visit me for cryptic advice."
"See? That’s my point!" Mike pointed a finger at him. "You’d be alone in a hut with like, three owls and no snacks. You need a Paladin. Someone to bring you groceries and tell the local villagers to stop throwing rocks at your chimney or something."
Will’s smile softened, turning into something a little more private, a little more pointed. "Is that right? You’d bring me groceries in the enchanted forest?"
Mike’s chest tightened in that pleasant, aching way it always did when Will teased him.
"Weekly deliveries," Mike promised with a curt nod. "Premium service."
"Well," Will whispered, his sleeve brushing against Mike’s arm as the path narrowed. "In that case, I guess it’s a good thing I already know where to find a Knight."
Mike’s heart did a frantic little tap-dance against his ribs. He opened his mouth to make a joke—to keep the banter safe and light—but the way Will was looking at him made the words stick in his throat. He felt like he was walking a line between a joke and a confession, and for a second, the "scary" part of the Seer’s prophecy felt less like a threat and more like an invitation.
But Mike ignored it. Because they were laughing again, the heavy tension of the fortune teller finally starting to dissipate.
Until they turned the corner toward the row of craft tents and the atmosphere shifted once more. The path near the tavern was congested, smelling of sour ale and smoke. Three men, clearly locals who had been at the "King’s Mead" all afternoon, were leaning against a fence, looking for a target for their drunken boredom.
One of them—a guy with a thick neck and a face flushed red from drink—spotted Will’s shimmering purple velvet.
You have got to be kidding me, Mike thought. Things were just starting to be normal again.
"Whoa, watch it there, Merlin," the guy jeered, pushing off the fence. He stumbled slightly, his eyes glassy and mean. "That’s a lot of glitter for a grown man, don't you think? Pretty fancy for a walk in the dirt."
His friends barked out a harsh, ugly laugh. Will’s face went pale, the bright glow of their previous conversation vanishing instantly. He instinctively ducked his head, his grip tightening on his sleeve as he tried to simply melt into the crowd and walk past.
Absolutely not.
"Just leave it, Mike," Will whispered, his voice tight.
But the drunk guy wasn't done. He stepped directly into Will’s path, his chest puffing out. "I'm talking to you, Star-boy. That's a lot of fabric for a guy who looks like—" He reached out, his hand clumsy and aggressive, aiming to yank the velvet of Will’s cloak right at the shoulder. Will flinched back, his shoulders tensing as he prepared for the inevitable tug.
But, before the guy’s fingers could even graze him, Mike was there.
He didn't think. He didn't deliberate. He moved with the sudden, violent grace of a coiled spring. Mike slammed his palm into the man’s sternum, using his height and the momentum of his stride and shoving the drunk backward with a snarl.
The man staggered, his boots tripping over each other until he hit the wooden fence with a heavy crack. The man’s friends froze, their drunken laughter dying in their throats like it had been choked out of them.
Mike stood his ground, legs braced. His hair fell over his brow in messy, dark streaks.
His eyes were dark, dilated, seeing red. He stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked ready to actually draw it—fucking prop or not.
What was this guy's problem?
The drunk guy on the fence didn’t scurry away. Fueled by fermented honey and the bruised ego of being shoved in front of his friends, he let out a growl and scrambled to his feet. He was shorter than Mike, but broader, and he lunged forward with his fists balled, his face a mask of drunken rage.
"You think you're a real knight, you little shit?" the man spat, his voice thick and slurred.
Mike didn't flinch. If anything, the challenge seemed to settle something deep in his bones. The frantic panic he’d felt in the car, the confusion from the Seer’s tent—it all condensed into a single, sharp point of focus. The Protector. He stepped away from Will, creating a clear line of defense, and began moving toward the fence with a slow, predatory deliberation. The red fabric of his surcoat flared as he walked, his heavy boots crushing the dry grass. He didn't reach for the prop sword this time; he reached for the man’s space. Mike moved into the guy's bubble with a terrifying lack of hesitation, his hands opening and closing, ready to either catch a punch or throw one.
"I dare you," Mike hissed, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. He loomed over him, vision narrowed. "Try and touch him again. Go ahead. See what happens."
Mike’s eyes were cold, fixed on the man’s jaw. He was already calculating—one hit to the chest, another shove back into the rails. He was ready to take it farther, for him to accept the dare.
"Mike, stop!" Will’s voice cracked through the tension, sharp and urgent.
Mike didn't look back, but the sound of Will’s voice was like a tether. He leaned in, his face inches from the drunk man’s. The guy hesitated, his bravado finally faltering as he looked into Mike's eyes and saw absolutely zero doubt.
Was he being too much? Was this overkill? Maybe. Probably. He didn’t care. There was nothing to lose.
"Hey, man, take it easy—" one of the friends started, stepping forward.
Mike swung his gaze toward him, "does it look like I’m taking it easy?" He took another step, fabric snapping with the movement.
The drunk guy spat on the ground near Mike’s boot, a final, weak act of defiance, before allowing his friends to drag him away into the shadows of the tavern. "He’s crazy, man," he muttered, tripping over his own feet as his friends grabbed his shoulders. "Let's just go."
Mike didn't move an inch until they were at least twenty yards away. He stood there like a statue, his chest heaving with the leftover adrenaline.
Finally, he let out a sharp, clipped breath. He turned to Will, the murderous fire in his eyes instantly flickering out, replaced by a frantic, buzzing concern.
"Did he get you?" Mike demanded, his voice still rough and vibrating. He reached out, his hands trembling as he checked Will over, his eyes scanning for any tear in the velvet or mark on his skin. "I saw him reach at you–did he pull your hair? Will, talk to me."
"No, no—I'm fine," Will said. He was looking at Mike with a look of pure, stunned realization. Mike had been protective before—he'd seen him jump in front of bullies and adults alike—but this was visceral. "I'm okay," Will breathed, his voice barely a whisper. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the silver mesh on Mike’s forearm. "You... you were going to actually fight him?"
Mike bobbed his head in response, the adrenaline finally starting to turn into a shaky coldness. "I was going to kill him. I mean, not really, but...I mean, nobody treats you like that. Not while I'm standing here. Like, what did he expect?"
He reached up, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he straightened Will’s headpiece, which had gone askew in the scuffle. For a second, his hand lingered near Will’s temple, his thumb brushing the skin.
Okay, reel it in, Michael.
"I—-Okay," Will whispered, looking up at Mike with wide, shimmering eyes. “Thank you.”
Another nod. "Come on," Mike said, his voice lighter, a bit more grounded. Holy shit, what has gotten into him. "The stalls are still open for another couple hours. We haven't even seen the back half of the village yet."
As they moved away, Mike kept his arm almost touching Will's, his eyes like a hawk's, scanning the crowd for any other threats.
But his heart? His heart was doing a victory lap.
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The rowdy crowds were thinning, replaced by the warm, romantic glow of torchlight and paper lanterns that hung from the low-hanging oak branches. They walked closer now, their shoulders constantly bumping, the red and purple fabrics blurring together in the flickering dim light. Mike was having trouble breathing; the way the lanterns caught the silver threads in Will’s cloak made him sparkle like a living constellation. Mike almost tripped four times because he couldn't stop fucking staring.
As they wandered, Mike’s eyes were zeroed in, scanning every stall. He remembered Will lingering at a booth earlier—the one with the heavy scent of tanned hide and beeswax—looking at a handcrafted leather sketchbook. At the time, Will had put it back with a small, wistful sigh, calling it "too much," but Mike had seen the way his fingers had traced the grain of the cover, as if memorizing the feel of it. Mike didn't care about the price or the practicality. He wanted Will to have something he really liked, especially after the recent shit-show at the tavern path.
"Oh, wait," Mike said suddenly, patting his surcoat pockets with a fake frown. "I think I left my...uh, my souvenir coin back at the blacksmith's stall. Or maybe that Witch's booth?"
Will paused, looking concerned. "The one you bought this morning? Do you want me to come with you?"
"No! No, stay here," Mike said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I’ll be two minutes, I promise."
Before Will could argue, Mike was already weaving through the crowd, the crimson of his surcoat a blur as he doubled back to the leatherworker's. He reached the stall out of breath, his heart hammering. He didn't even look at the other wares. He pointed straight to the stunning, hand-bound leather journal with the rustic silver-plated clasp shaped like a dragon's wing.
"That one," Mike told the merchant, reaching for his wallet and pulling out the cash he'd been saving for a new typewriter.
New book in hand, he hustled back. Will was standing there, right where he left him, looking like a dream in the twilight.
"Find it?" Will asked, tilting his head.
He didn't let Will protest, pulling the heavy book from behind his back and holding it out. "I lied. I went back for this."
"Mike, you did not," Will whispered, his fingers catching the heavy red fabric of Mike’s sleeve as his eyes widened. "I have a dozen half-finished journals at the apartment. It’s too expensive, and we still have to pay for parking—"
Mike turned, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, stubborn devotion. "No arguing," Mike interrupted, his tone firm but layered with a fierce kind of affection. "You wanted it, I got it. End of story."
"I didn't say I wanted it, I said it was—"
"You stared at the grain of the leather for ten minutes earlier, Will," Mike said, his voice softening as he stepped closer, effectively blocking out the noise of the surrounding Faire. "I saw you. Just let me do this for you. Please."
Mike didn't wait for another protest. He passed the book over to Will immediately, his fingers lingering as the heavy, leather-bound weight changed hands. He watched as Will’s fingers reflexively curled around the leather.
"There. Now you have to fill it with something good. And show me everything. No pressure," Mike muttered, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched Will run his thumb over the silver wing. For a second, Will looked like he was going to cry, or maybe hug him, and Mike’s internal compass spun wildly. If this was how Will reacted to gifts, then Mike was going to buy him everything. Anything he wanted. Just so he could watch Will feel appreciated.
"Now," Mike said, clearing his throat to break the sudden tension. "Let's go get some mead and find a spot for the joust. I kinda want to see if these guys are actually as good as they think they are."
They wove through the thinning crowds toward the tavern, a massive open-air pavilion lit by roaring iron braziers. Mike stepped up to the counter, securing the mead.
He handed a giant, heavy, foaming mug to Will, their fingers brushing against the cold ceramic. The drink was golden and thick, tasting of wildflower honey and a sharp, warming sting of alcohol that immediately settled into Mike's chest.
"To the sorcerer," Mike had toasted, his voice a bit rougher than intended.
Will had clinked his mug against Mike’s with a grin that made Mike’s stomach do a slow roll. "To the Knight. My brave, bossy protector."
Mike didn’t want to even dissect what that meant. Instead, he tipped the mug to his lips, letting the alcohol hit his tongue and effectively numb his mind.
They sit and drink for a minute, letting the drinks soak in. Even ordering another round, because why the fuck not.
With the mead buzzing pleasantly in their systems, they made their way to the main arena. The thundering of hooves on the dirt made the ground vibrate beneath their boots. Two knights in full plate armor charged at each other, their lances shattering against shields with a deafening crack.
They settled in the front row of the arena. Will was sat, leaning over the wooden railing, completely absorbed in the spectacle. A knight in bright yellow silks was galloping past, and Will let out a loud, genuine cheer, his face flushed pink—partly from the mead, partly from the excitement.
"Go on! Get him!" Will shouted, waving his free hand. He looked incredibly cute—messy hair, the book Mike had got him tucked under his arm, his eyes sparkling with a carefree joy that Mike hadn't seen in years.
Mike, however, couldn't look at the horses. He was too busy having a quiet, internal meltdown. He took another long swallow of mead, the warmth blooming in his chest. The destination for each other. The Seer's words were back, echoing through the haze of the alcohol. He looked at Will’s profile—the way his eyelashes brushed his cheek, the way he looked so right in that velvet.
Mike’s brain felt like it was re-wiring itself in real-time. Every "impulsive" thing he’d done today—the fierce defense against the drunks, the desperate need to buy the perfect gift, the way he couldn't stop touching Will’s sleeve—it wasn't just looking after him– It was something...else. Something steady and ancient.
"Mike, did you see that?" Will turned to him suddenly, his eyes wide and bright, his hand landing on Mike’s knee for balance. "The yellow knight almost unhorsed him!"
Mike didn't answer. He couldn't. He just stared at Will, his heart stuttering. He was in love with his best friend, the thump behind his ribs hitting harder than any lance in the arena could even try to.
"Mike?" Will’s smile faltered slightly at his silence, tilting his head in confusion. "You okay? S'the mead hitting you?"
The golden mead had worked its magic, blurring the sharp edges of Mike’s panic into a warm, humming bravery. He sat as close to Will as the wooden bleachers allowed, their thighs pressed together. "Yeah," Mike breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “Just…happy.”
Will nodded, turning again. "Come on, Blue! Look at the horse! He’s faster, Mike, I’m telling you!"
The Yellow knight—the one Will had been cheering for earlier—had just been clipped, his shield splintering into shards of painted wood. Now, the Blue knight was thundering down the tiltyard, his lance steady as a rock, his armor gleaming like a mirror under the torchlight.
"You switched sides?" Mike teased, his voice low and private against Will’s ear. The mead made the world feel soft at the edges, but the heat where their legs pressed together was sharp and undeniable.
"The Yellow guy got cocky!" Will shouted back, rolling his eyes and laughing as he turned to look at Mike. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with the buzz of alcohol and the moonlight. "Blue has better form anyway. He’s more...focused."
With a final, bone-jarring crack, the Blue knight struck center-mass. The Yellow knight tumbled into the dirt, and the arena erupted. Will jumped up, accidentally—or, treacherously Mike’s brain supplied, maybe not so accidentally—grabbing Mike’s hand and squeezing it hard as he cheered.
But Mike wasn’t paying attention to the winner. He didn't care.
He wasn't looking at the horses or the splintered wood or the crowd. He was looking at Will’s profile, the silver light catching the curve of his smile and the way his throat moved when he laughed. The destination. It wasn't a place on a map. It wasn't the college campus or their apartment or the car ride home. It was this moment, with Will’s hand in his, smelling like honey and the promise of something Mike was finally brave enough to want.
As the crowds filtered out of the arena, the distant, rhythmic thrum of a drum drew them toward the village square. A massive bonfire was roaring in the center, throwing sparks high into the indigo sky, and a circle of people had formed, arms linked, moving in a fast, chaotic folk dance.
"Oh, no," Mike muttered, a small grin tugging at his lips despite his mock-horror. "Will, don't even think about it."
"Come on, Mike! It's the last night!" Will was practically glowing, the mead making him bold enough to tug on Mike’s arm with real strength. "You're a Knight! Knights have to dance."
"That doesn’t make sense. Knights brood, Will. They don't skip!"
But Will was already pulling him into the circle, his laughter infectious. A girl in a white bodice grabbed Mike’s other hand, and suddenly they were swept up in the momentum of people moving as one. It was dizzying—spinning, hopping, laughing until their lungs burned and the world was just a blur of orange firelight and dark trees. In the center of the madness, there was only Will: his velvet cloak swirling like a violet storm, his eyes never leaving Mike’s.
Every time the dance brought them chest-to-chest, Mike felt that same electric spark, the kind that made the chainmail on his arms feel like it was conducting a current. He wasn't re-evaluating his feelings anymore. The evaluation was over. The results were in, and they were written in the stars, just like that crazy woman said. He was so, so in love.
His therapist was going to have a field day hearing about this.
The rhythm of the drums was no longer just music; it was a real force vibrating in Mike’s sternum. The village square was a whirlwind of motion, lit by the flickering tongues of the bonfire. Mike and Will were both well past the "buzz" stage of the mead, the world around them feeling soft, blurred, and wonderfully malleable.
They were pulled into a massive serpentine-like dance—a sprawling line of people that snaked and coiled around the fire. Because they were so unsteady, they were practically clinging to each other. Mike’s arm was hooked firmly around Will’s waist to keep him from tripping over his own velvet hem, and Will was leaning into Mike’s side, his head lolling back with a joyous laugh. Mike could feel his breath on his neck. His heartbeat jumped at the feeling of the warm air fanning across his skin.
"Mike! Stop being so...stiff!" Will shouted over the frantic piping of a flute. He reached up, grabbing Mike’s shoulders. "It’s a celebration!"
"I am celebrating!" Mike yelled back, though his focus was entirely on the way Will’s eyes were blown wide with delight. The firelight danced in the dark pupils, reflecting the embers until it looked like he was carrying the very stars the Seer had mentioned. "I'm celebrating the fact that we haven't fallen into the fire yet!"
The dance suddenly shifted, a group of rowdy villagers breaking the line and pulling the dancers apart to form smaller circles. Before Mike could protest, a large man in a green tunic grabbed his hand, spinning him clockwise, while a woman in a floral crown swept Will in the opposite direction.
Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through Mike's mead-induced warmth. "Will!"
The chaos of the festival became a blur of faceless strangers. Mike was tossed from one pair of arms to the next, the rhythmic stomp-stomp-clap of the folk dance feeling like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. He was a head taller than most of the crowd, his lanky frame jerking through the motions, but his height offered no comfort—only a better view of the space where Will used to be.
Every time he swung around, his eyes searched the shifting sea of color for that specific shade of violet.
"Will!" he shouted again, but his voice was swallowed by the raucous shriek of the bagpipes and the rhythmic thundering of hundreds of boots.
He felt a sudden, irrational surge of the old terror—the kind that lived in the back of his throat since 1983. It didn't matter that they were at a public event with hundreds of other people; to Mike’s lizard brain, a crowd was just another version of the woods, a place where Will could be snatched away while Mike wasn't looking. The mead, which had been a warm companion moments ago, now made his head swim with a twisting, frantic edge.
Where is he? Where is he?
He caught a flash of silver—a circlet? No, just a girl’s necklace. He swung past a man in a burlap tunic, his hand gripping the stranger’s arm with a strength that probably left a bruise. Mike’s jaw was set, his breathing coming in shallow, hiccuped hitches. The need to find Will was a physical ache, a magnetic pull that made every second spent spinning in the wrong direction feel like an eternity.
Then, blessedly, he saw him.
Will was across the circle, fifty feet away being spun around by a girl in a pink blouse, her hand in his as they skipped through the steps of a dance Mike didn't know the name of. Will was laughing so hard his eyes were screwed shut, his head thrown back to expose the pale, elegant line of his throat. He looked so free and beautiful in the firelight.
Mike’s heart felt like it had expanded, pressing painfully against the inside of his ribs, too large for his chest to contain. Seeing Will so happy—seeing him look so light, knowing he had played even a small, clumsy part in facilitating that joy—made the very last of Mike’s internal walls crumble into dust. The "Protector" role wasn't just a costume or a D&D archetype anymore. He didn't just want to keep Will safe from drunks or monsters; he wanted to be the reason Will laughed like that for the rest of his life, to be the person who caught him every time he spun.
As the song reached a frantic, screeching crescendo, the circles finally broke. The momentum sent people stumbling in every direction, but Mike had his internal compass locked. He lunged through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed "oofs" and elbows of the people he bumped into, his eyes never leaving the purple cloak.
When he reached him, he didn’t just grab Will’s hand; he surged forward and pulled Will into a messy, lurching embrace. His hands gripped the velvet of Will’s back, bunched up in his fists as if to ground them both to the earth before the world could spin them away again.
"Got you," Mike panted, his forehead coming to rest against Will’s. They were both heaving for air, the heat of the bonfire radiating off their skin. The world was still spinning in a dizzying blur, the drums were pounding like a war march, and Mike was hopelessly, desperately, and undeniably in love.
Will didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned into Mike, his weight trusting and heavy, his breath sweet with the lingering heat of the mead. "You always find me, Mike," Will whispered, a soft, dazed smile playing on his lips. "It’s your best move."
The drums shifted then, abandoning the folk melody and falling back into another frantic, double-time gallop that echoed off the surrounding trees like thunder. The village square became a blurred tapestry of firelight and motion. The drinks had rendered Mike’s limbs heavy, but his heart felt dangerously light, buoyed by a sudden, terrifying bravery. They weren't just dancing anymore; they were glued to each other in the center of a swirling mass of bodies.
Other couples were being swept up in the same primal rhythm—young lovers in tattered tunics and bodices stealing kisses, old regulars in heavy wool swaying with eyes closed. The proximity was overwhelming. Because the circle was so tight and the movement so fast, Mike was forced to keep his arms locked firmly around Will’s waist, his fingers feeling the curve of his spine through the thick velvet. Will’s hands were draped over Mike’s shoulders, his fingers occasionally tangling in the dark, sweat-damp hair at the nape of Mike’s neck.
The world began to tilt on its axis. Every time the music swelled, the crowd surged, pressing them chest-to-chest. Mike could feel the rapid, staccato thump-thump of Will’s heart against his own—a rhythm that competed with the drums for dominance. The scent of Will—vanilla, woodsmoke, and the sharp saltiness of sweat—was addicting, far more intoxicating than the alcohol itself.
"Mike," Will breathed. It wasn't a question; it was a ghost of a sound whispered against Mike’s ear as they spun. He sounded just as dazed as Mike felt, his head tilted back slightly, his eyes searching Mike’s with a soft, vulnerable curiosity that felt like it was stripping Mike bare.
Mike didn't trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth, he knew the truth would just spill out, unfiltered and messy and far too much for a crowded village square. He just tightened his grip, pulling Will closer until there was no space left between them, no room for doubt or secrets. He felt like he was drowning in the best way possible, sinking into the violet and the silver and the heat.
The music reached a fevered pitch, a deep thrumming that felt like it was beating from inside Mike’s own chest. The village square was a vortex of orange light and flying dust. As the song hit its peak, the groups fractured. People began to split off into other small clusters, but they didn't stop moving. Instead, they formed another even more massive, living ring around the fire, their boots hitting the packed earth in a synchronized, bone-shaking stomp.
Stamp. Stamp. Clap. Stamp.
It was all so deafening—a primitive, wordless chant rising from the crowd that drowned out the frantic strings and the shrill pipes of the instruments. Mike and Will were caught in the center of the surge, the eye of a hurricane made of linen and wool. The proximity was bewitching; with every collective stomp, the crowd pressed inward, forcing them closer together. Mike’s arms were straining, his muscles tensing beneath his chainmail as he locked his hands around Will’s waist to keep them both upright against the shifting tide of bodies.
Will was breathless, his head lolling he laughed into the night sky. He looked at Mike, his eyes wide and shining with a mead-fueled bravery that made the glitter on his cheeks look like real celestial fire.
"Mike! Listen!" Will shouted this time, slurring over the rhythmic clapping. He reached down, grabbed Mike’s forearms, leaning in. "It sounds like a heart! The whole place is beating!"
Mike was dizzy—not only from the heavy honey of the mead or the centrifugal force of the circle, but from the terrifying, beautiful realization that he never wanted to let go. He never wanted to be anywhere else. He adjusted his grip, his fingers digging into the fabric of Will’s cloak, pulling Will flush against the front of his surcoat. Surrounded by a hundred strangers chanting and stomping in the dark, it felt like they were the only two people in the entire world who were actually real. Everything else was just smoke and noise.
"I can't feel my legs!" Mike yelled back, a manic, breathless laugh escaping him. He pulled on Will’s waist, their foreheads bumping as they spun. "I don’t even know if I'm moving anymore!"
"Then don't let go!" Will leaned in, his voice dropping into a register that was somehow audible despite the noise. He looked at Mike with a raw, unfiltered honesty that only the mead and moonlight could provide.
"I’m never letting go!" Mike vowed, the words tearing out of him before he could think to muffle them. He adjusted his grip, his hands pressing into Will's back.
Will’s response was a blinding, lopsided grin that made Mike’s vision go soft. He buried his face in the crook of Mike’s neck for a split second, his forehead hot against Mike’s skin—a gesture so intimate, so trusting, that it made Mike’s head spin faster than the dance ever could.
The music reached a final, crashing crescendo, a literal explosion of sound from the pipes and drums. One last collective stomp shook the ground, vibrating through the soles of their boots, and then—silence.
It was a sudden, jarring quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the heavy, ragged breathing of a hundred exhausted dancers. Mike and Will stayed locked together, swaying slightly like two trees in the aftermath of a storm, the adrenaline and alcohol still humming in their veins like a live wire.
The silence following the music was almost as loud as the drums had been, ringing in Mike’s ears. His lungs burned, his chest heaving in sync with Will’s, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. His hands were still buried in the purple velvet, his fingers tangled in the fabric as if he were trying to merge their two costumes into one. He could feel the heat radiating off Will, the wild thudding of a heart that matched his own.
Will pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching Mike’s in the dying glow of the bonfire. His silver circlet was lopsided, his hair was a disaster, and he was the most beautiful thing Mike had ever seen.
"Mike," Will whispered, his voice steadying, though his hands remained anchored to Mike’s shoulders. "We're...we're not dancing anymore."
The world was still swaying, a slow, rhythmic tilt that followed the ghost of the drums. Mike’s pulse was a frantic, irregular thing, and the heat of the bonfire felt like it had been swallowed by the sudden, cooling air of the night.
"Walk," Mike managed to choke out, his voice thick and gravelly, sounding like it had been dragged over the very gravel beneath their boots. "If I stop moving...I’m going to collapse."
He didn't let go of Will entirely as they stumbled away from the dying fire. The transition was clumsy, their legs tangling in a mess of boots and heavy fabric, but eventually, Mike managed to loop a steadying arm around Will’s waist, tucking him firmly under one of his arms. Will leaned into him, his head resting against Mike’s shoulder as they wove through the shadows of the crowd.
The noise of the Faire began to recede, replaced by the soft, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the distant, lonely call of a barn owl. They found a low stone wall at the edge of the village square, tucked under the sweeping, silver-grey branches of a willow tree that wept toward the dark earth. Mike practically fell onto the cool stone, his heavy boots thudding into the dirt, and he pulled Will down beside him with a gentle tug.
They sat in a companionable, breathless silence for a long time, the only sound the distant chatter of the dispersing crowd. Mike’s adrenaline was crashing hard, leaving behind a raw, buzzing vulnerability. He looked at his hands—they were still shaking. Still warm from holding Will so closely.
"That was..." Will started, then broke off into a tired, happy laugh. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, his eyes fluttering shut as the cool bark met his skin. "I think I left my soul back there in the circle."
Mike’s eyes wandered from Will’s dazed smile to a small flower stall. Most of the blooms were sold out, their buckets empty, but a cluster of white moonflowers stood out, glowing like fallen stars in the dark. They were starting to sober up, the heady rush of the mead cooling into a soft, glowing embers-type of warmth. The Faire was ending; the lanterns were being snuffed out one by one. But Mike had one more thing on his mind. One more thing. A knight's token.
"We should probably get to the car," Mike said softly before he stood up, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. "You know, before they lock the gates and we're stuck here until next year."
Mike ignored the way the world swayed as he took his first step, his focus locked on those luminous white petals. Will’s voice was a soft, confused tether behind him—"Mike? Where are you going? The car is that way"—but Mike was on a mission. He moved with a single-minded intensity, his heavy boots thudding in the grass.
He reached the stall, his fingers fumbling with the last few crumpled bills in his wallet. The merchant was already packing up, her face tired under a headscarf, but she paused, seeing the tall knight with the messy, sweat-damp hair and the look of absolute, desperate purpose in his dark eyes.
"The moonflower," Mike managed, his voice a bit thick. "Please. Just one"
He didn't wait for change, didn't even count the bills he handed over. He took the stem gently, holding it like it was made of blown glass, and navigated his way back to the stone wall. Will was watching him, his head tilted to the side, the silver light of the moon catching the confusion—and something much softer, something like realization—on his face.
Mike didn't say a word. He just leaned in. With newly sober and steady, focused fingers, he carefully tucked the flower into the silver clasp of Will's cloak.
"A favor," Mike whispered, his thumb grazing the velvet of Will's shoulder, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of the skin beneath. "From your knight. So, um, you don't forget tonight."
Will reached up, his fingers brushing Mike's as he touched the cool, silky petals. "I don't think I could forget this if I tried, Mike. I think it’s stuck in here now," he added, gesturing vaguely to his chest.
The village square was fading into a quiet hum of crickets and distant laughter as Mike led Will toward the parking lot. The weight of the moonflower on Will’s cloak and the leather-bound sketchbook tucked under his arm felt like physical anchors, keeping Mike grounded even as his head continued to spin from the mead and the adrenaline.
Mike kept his hand firmly on Will’s shoulder, ostensibly to guide him through the dark patches of the forest path, but mostly because he didn't know how to function without that physical connection anymore. His mind was a frantic loop of everything that had just happened: the way Will had looked in the firelight, the heat of the dance, and the terrifyingly clear realization that "best friend" was no longer a big enough word for what Will was to him. It was a word that felt like a too-small shirt, straining at the seams until it finally ripped.
I love him, Mike thought, the words rattling beneath his sternum. I love him, I love him, I love him.
Will stumbled slightly over a tree root, and Mike’s arm snapped around his waist instantly, pulling him flush against his side. "Easy," Mike muttered, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears—deeper, more breathless. A protective edge that wouldn't go away.
"M'fine," Will murmured, leaning into the contact rather than pulling away. He looked up at Mike, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. "Just...dizzy. The stars are moving too fast."
By the time they reached the car, the silence between them had shifted. It wasn't the awkward tension from the morning; it was a heavy, expectant quiet. Mike unlocked the doors and helped Will into the passenger seat, moving with a focused, knightly care that made his chest ache. He made sure Will’s cloak wasn't caught in the door, his fingers lingering on the handle for a second.
As Mike climbed into the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel, listening to the rhythm of Will’s breathing.
Mike finally turned the key, the engine’s hum filling the small space and grounding them back in the twentieth century. He glanced at Will one last time before pulling out of the lot. Will was already drifting off, his fingers curled around the edge of his new book, the white moonflower glowing in the dark like a beacon.
"Go to sleep, Will," Mike whispered, his heart finally finding its steady rhythm. "I've got you. I’ll wake you up when we get home."
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The drive back was a low-frequency hum of tires on asphalt and the soft, rhythmic click of the turn signal. The interior of the car felt like a pressurized cabin, holding in all the heat and heavy truths of the day. The world outside the windshield was just a blur of dark trees and the occasional flash of a green highway sign, but inside the car, everything felt dangerously concentrated. Too real, too much.
Will was slumped against the passenger window, his breathing deep and even, until a particularly sharp pothole jolted him awake. He blinked, disoriented, as his eyes landed on the white moonflower still tucked into his cloak.
"Mike?" Will’s voice was sleep-thick and scratchy, cracking around the edges. "Are we back?"
"Almost. About twenty minutes out," Mike said, his voice sounding tighter than he intended. His hands were fused to the steering wheel at ten-and-two, his knuckles white under the passing glow of the highway lights. He looked incredibly stiff, his gaze locked with a frantic intensity on the road ahead, like the lane lines were the only thing keeping him from drifting off into a completely different headspace. He felt like if he moved even a fraction of an inch, the precarious dam holding back his thoughts would shatter.
Will shifted in the passenger seat, the heavy sketchbook sliding off his lap as he moved. He caught it instinctively, his fingers curling around the cool, pebbled grain of the cover. He looked down at the silver clasp, then turned his head to study Mike’s rigid profile in the dashboard's dim blue light.
Mike felt his throat close up, a knot of emotions forming behind his windpipe. He could feel Will’s eyes on him—heavy, perceptive, and far too knowing for Mike’s liking. In the silence of the car, the "Knight" persona felt like it was peeling away, leaving Mike exposed and raw. He knew Will was looking for the cracks. He knew Will could see the way his chest was heaving even though he was sitting perfectly still. If Will spoke again right now, if he asked even a single "Why?", Mike wouldn't be able to lie. Not here. Not in the suffocatingly honest dark of a 2:00 AM drive.
He needed to stop him. He needed a little more time—maybe an hour, maybe a week, maybe the rest of his life—to sort through the messy, glowing wreckage of his feelings and find words that didn't sound like a total surrender.
“Go back to sleep, Will,” Mike whispered, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached out with his right hand, his fingers finding the sleeve of Will’s velvet cloak where his arm was draped over the center console. He began to rub a slow, grounding circle on Will’s forearm, the texture of the fabric soft against his palm. It was a gesture meant to soothe Will, but as Mike felt the warmth of Will’s skin beneath the layers, he realized it was the only thing keeping his own heart from beating right out of his chest.
Mike kept his hand there, his thumb grazing the edge of the velvet, until he heard Will’s breathing even out again. He had twenty minutes of silence left to figure out what he was going to do once they reached the apartment and the "armor" finally had to come off.
When Mike finally pulled into the apartment parking lot, the engine's hum cut out, leaving a silence so thick it felt like another passenger in the car.
Will was half-asleep, his head lolling against the headrest, the white moonflower still miraculously pinned to his chest. Mike sat for a second, his hands finally loosening their white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He looked at Will, seeing him without the distraction of the Faire or the courage from the mead. He felt his chest squeeze at the way Will’s eyelashes were fanned out on his skin. Beautiful.
"Will," Mike whispered, "we're here."
Will groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open but clearly not quite connected to his legs yet. He fumbled for the door handle, but Mike was already out of the car and around to the passenger side.
Will swayed on his feet, nearly tripping over the hem of his purple velvet cloak and Mike instinctively hooked an arm under Will's knees and another behind his back. With a grunt of effort—thankful for the adrenaline that hadn't quite left his system—Mike scooped him up.
"Mike!" Will let out a surprised, muffled laugh, his arms instinctively winding around Mike's neck for balance. "I can walk...mostly."
"Shut up," Mike muttered, his face heating up as he began the trek toward the apartment stairs. "You're a hazard to yourself. Just hold onto the book."
Will didn't argue further. He tucked his face into the crook of Mike's neck, the heavy book pressed between their chests. Mike climbed the stairs with a fierce, stubborn determination.
The staircase felt like a mountain, and the weight of Will in his arms—velvet, limbs, and leather-bound paper—was the most precious cargo Mike had ever carried. Every step was a deliberate, grounding thud. Mike’s lungs were burning, partly from the physical exertion of hauling a grown man up a couple flights of stairs in prop chainmail, and partly because having Will this close made it feel like all the oxygen in the hallway had been replaced by the scent of Will’s skin.
"Almost there," Mike grunted, more to convince himself than anything.
He managed to fish his keys out with one hand, bracing Will’s weight against the doorframe for a precarious second before the lock clicked. He shouldered the door open, the familiar scent of their apartment—stale coffee, old books, and Mike’s laundry—greeting them like a return to reality. But the reality had changed. The apartment looked smaller, simpler, and somehow wrong compared to the golden, torch-lit world they’d just left.
Finally setting Will down on the edge of his bed, Mike stood there, his arms trembling—not from the weight of carrying Will, but from the sudden, jarring absence of it. The "armor" he’d been wearing all day—the leather, the surcoat, the persona of the protector—felt like it was shrinking, pressing in on him, forcing the truth to bubble up to the surface. He could feel it simmering under his skin, hot like magma, swirling and twisting and so impossibly hard to ignore.
He watched with bated breath as Will carefully undid the moonflower from the silver clasp. Will’s fingers were slow and methodical, his movements reverent as he laid the white bloom gingerly on his bedside table next to the new sketchbook. Mike swallowed hard, the lump in his throat feeling like stone. He watched the curve of Will’s neck, the messy, flattened hair where the circlet had been, and he felt a surge of want so sharp it was almost painful.
He wanted to step forward. He wanted to close the three feet of space between them and never let it open up again. He wanted to tell Will that the Seer was right, that he had reached his destination, and it was a messy bedroom with a pile of sketches in the corner and a boy who looks devastatingly pretty in purple.
“Thank you for carrying me,” Will said, his voice a soft, exhausted rasp. He rubbed his eyes, the stardust on his cheeks now just a faint, shimmering smear. He looked up at Mike with a weary, lopsided smile that reached all the way to his eyes. "I'm so tired, oh my gosh. My brain is still spinning in circles. I think I’m still hearing the bagpipes."
He’s tired, Mike’s internal monologue screamed. Don't be a selfish idiot. Let him sleep. He’s vulnerable and tired, and you shouldn't do this right now. You’re a Knight, remember? Knights are noble. They don't corner their best friends in the middle of the night because they finally understand they’re in love.
But Mike’s hand was already moving. He curled a fist into his side, fisting the rough fabric of his surcoat until his knuckles turned white, the metal rings of the prop chainmail biting into his skin. He looked at Will—really looked at him—and was overwhelmed by a wave of endearment so massive it drowned out every scrap of common sense he’d ever possessed.
He watched Will ruffle his own hair, the dark strands sticking up at odd angles, trying to get it to settle after a day of being crushed by a circlet, and Mike realized he couldn't wait another twenty minutes, let alone another day.
The Knight was done. It was over. He didn't want to be just a protector anymore; he wanted to be Will's.
"Will," Mike said, his voice sounding like it was being pulled out of him by force. It was too loud for the small room, vibrating with an intensity that made Will freeze, his hand still buried in his hair.
Will turned his head, eyes widening as he registered Mike’s rigidity. "Mike? What's wrong?"
Mike took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. The distance between them felt like a canyon, even though it was only a few feet. "Nothing is wrong. Everything is...fine. I just..." He trailed off, his heart was jumping, it was pumping so loud he was positive Will could hear it. "Uh, can we…talk?”
Will’s hand dropped from his hair, his fingers lingering near his temple as he tracked Mike’s movement. The room felt smaller than it had five seconds ago, the air charged with a static electricity that made the hairs on Mike's arms stand up.
"Talk?" Will repeated. The word was soft, a little slurred, but his gaze was sharpening. He shifted on the edge of the mattress, the bedsprings giving a low, lonely groan. "Mike, it’s three in the morning. We’ve been talking all day."
"I know, but I have to. I--I need to talk to you," Mike said, his voice dropping an octave. He took another step, closing the distance until the toes of his dusty boots were inches from the hem of Will’s cloak.
Mike felt like he was going to puke, his head was whirling. The Paladin was supposed to be stoic, but Mike Wheeler had never been good at keeping his heart from leaking out through his sleeves. Like, ever. He looked down at Will, seeing the way the lamplight hit the gold in his eyes, and his brain felt like a skipping cassette tape, tripping over the same two words: Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.
"I've been... I've been acting like a lunatic today," Mike started, his hands moving restlessly at his sides, fingers twitching at the red fabric. "The fighting, the journal, the...the way I wouldn't let go of you during that dance. I keep telling myself it’s because that’s what I should do. As a best friend to you. As the paladin. But that's...it's a lie, Will. It's a total, pathetic lie."
Will sat perfectly still, his breath hitching. His eyes were swirling with an emotion Mike couldn’t decipher. "Mike..."
"No, let me finish, because if I stop I’m going to run back to my room and lock the door," Mike interrupted, his intensity flaring. He leaned down slightly, his shadow looming large against the wall. "I didn't buy you that book because you needed a place to draw. I bought it because I wanted to be the one to give you something you wanted. I needed to be the reason you looked at something with that expression on your face. Because I..."
He broke off, his chest heaving.
"Because you what, Mike?" Will whispered again, his eyes searching Mike’s with a terrifying, hopeful clarity.
This was torture. Real, genuine torture. Mike’s mind raced backward, a fuzzy slideshow of the last decade. He saw Will leave on his bike in the rain; felt the soul-crushing fear that had defined his childhood the moment he heard Will had gone missing. He remembered the literal, physical pain in his own chest every time Will had collapsed or clutched the back of his neck in the years that followed. He remembered the suffocating helplessness of not being able to reach into Will's mind and pull the darkness out himself.
They had clawed their way back to this—this "best friend" status—through blood, trauma, and years of careful, quiet rebuilding. It was a fragile, beautiful thing they had built, and Mike was about to take a fucking sledgehammer to it.
The risk was astronomical. It outweighed any reward his logical brain could possibly calculate. But then he looked at the moonflower on the nightstand, and the silver-clasped sketchbook resting on the bed. He looked at the prettiest boy he’d ever seen, still draped in stardust, and suddenly, the risk felt like the only option. The easiest choice he’d ever have to make.
He hadn't spent twelve hours in chainmail and a heavy surcoat just to be a coward in this bedroom. He was tired of chasing it, tired of reducing his entire world to "just friends" because he was too scared to be the Paladin for real.
This devotion was real, unlike anything he’d ever known before. And If Will wanted him to wear these dusty boots until the soles wore thin, he would. If Will liked the messy bangs of a Joan of Arc haircut the best, then Mike would never touch a pair of scissors again. If Will was the world, then Mike was the moon— a silent, silver satellite made just for years of circling and admiring him. Existing only because of the gravity of the person in front of him. Destined to be caught in his orbit forever.
He wanted to be the man who deserved Will Byers. We wanted to earn his love everyday.
"Because I'm in love with you," Mike finally choked out. The words felt like they were made of solid lead, dropping into the space between them with a final, echoing thud. "And I have been for so long that I don't even remember who I was before it started. It’s just...it’s you, Will. It’s always been you. You do this to me.”
Mike felt a tear prick the corner of his eye, but he didn't look away. He couldn't. Not now. Be brave, Michael.
"And when I panicked at the Seer today," Mike continued, his voice trembling as the words spilled out in a desperate rush. "It was because it was the first time I’d ever heard it out loud. It was the first time someone else looked at us and saw exactly what I’ve been trying to hide. She just, like, said it. I’ve been...I’ve been talking about it in therapy, trying to figure out how to even say the words to myself without my lungs fucking closing up. And then she just fucking said it. And I was so scared I’d lose you if it was true."
He took a deep breath, his knuckles burning where they were still anchored at his sides. "I’m so sorry I’ve been such a mess all day. I just...didn't know how to be your best friend and the person who loves you at the same time anymore."
His chest was heaving, he couldn’t stop. The avalanche had started.
"And the dance," Mike added, his voice barely audible. "I wasn't just holding you so we wouldn't fall, Will. I was holding you because for the first time in years, I didn't have to make an excuse to have you in my arms. When the crowd started chanting and the drums were pounding...I felt like if I gripped you hard enough, I could finally stop the world from moving. I could just stay in that circle with you. I could just be the guy who loves you, and the rest of it—the stuff at home, the school, the fear—it wouldn't matter."
He closed his eyes, the sensation of the mead-warmed air and the vibration of the drums still echoing in his bones. "I hated every second that we were separated in that crowd. I felt like I was losing my oxygen. I saw you laughing with those strangers and I...I’ve never been more jealous of a bunch of people in my life."
Will let out a shaky, wet laugh. "I wasn't laughing because of them, Mike. I was laughing because I could see you through the gaps in the circle. You looked like you were ready to fight anyone who got in your way, just to get back to my side.”
Mike blinked, eyebrows drawing together in earnest. “I would’ve. I still would.”
Will’s eyes were wide and glassy, traitorously giving away scraps of his emotions behind the shining green of his irises.
God, he really was so stunning.
“You know,” Will breathed, “That’s all I've ever wanted. Since we were little. I’ve never felt safer than I did back there, knowing you were looking for me."
His words were tinged with a sharp, bittersweet edge as the reality of a decade of silence seeped out. Mike felt his stomach drop, the adrenaline that had carried him through the dance and the drive home pooling around his feet in a cold, heavy sense of defeat.
“Will-”
“I’ve always wanted your attention, Mike,” Will whispered, his voice trembling so hard he had to swallow to keep going. “My whole life I’ve fought for it. Yearned for it. Convinced myself it wasn’t…it wasn’t ever going to happen. These feelings I have felt were unrequited. I built a whole world around that fact when we were, like, twelve. I made peace with the idea that I’d just be the person who stood beside you while you looked at everyone else.”
He let out a wobbly breath. “So, when you say these things, when you tell me you’re in love with me, I don’t know where to put it. It feels like a dream I’m going to wake up from, and you’ll just be Mike again—the Mike who forgets to call, the Mike who doesn't see me. I'm afraid that if I believe you, the floor I made is going to disappear under me.”
Mike’s heart felt like it was being physically squeezed. He reached up, covering Will’s shaking hands with his own, his palms pressing the velvet into Will's skin. As it turns out, rejection wasn’t the thing Mike should’ve been afraid of. It was this. It was hearing how he’d accidentally, carelessly hurt Will for all of these years. His mind reels, his own eyes starting to well as the weight of his past blindness hits him.
"You don't understand what it was like, Mike," Will said, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. He didn't pull away, but his gaze drifted to the wall, lost in the shadows. "Watching you with El...it wasn't just that I was jealous. It was that I felt like I was being erased. I was right there, in the same room, in the same house, and I was invisible. I was the 'best friend' you talked to when she wasn't around, the person you used to fill the gaps. It hurt. It hurt so much.”
He let out a sharp breath, his fingers moving, curling deep into the fabric of the surcoat now.
"And then we moved in together for school. God, Mike, it’s been the best and worst thing thats ever happened to me. Every morning I’d see you across the kitchen, and it was everything I ever wanted—and every morning I’d have to remind myself that I couldn't reach out. You were so close, just on the other side of the wall, but it felt like you were on another planet. I was sitting right at the table with the person I loved, eating cereal and pretending I wasn't literally dying"
Will finally looked back up, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of exhaustion and a burgeoning, terrifying hope. He gestured vaguely toward the door.
"And then today...tonight..." Will’s voice caught. "The way you looked at me. The way you wouldn't let anyone else near me. For the first time, Mike, I didn't have to fight for your attention. I didn't have to be the loudest person in the room or the one in the most trouble. You were just...there. For me. Not for the party, not for some Upside Down bullshit. Just me. This has been the best night of my entire life, and I am so scared that when the sun comes up, you’re going to realize you made...a mistake."
Will’s breathing was shallow, his eyes wide and searching, desperate to find a lie in Mike's face so he could protect himself before the crash.
"So, if you're going to say these things," Will whispered, his voice cracking, "you have to mean them. You have to really mean them, Mike. I can't...I can't survive you taking this back. I’ve been hurt for so long, and I’ve spent so many years convincing myself I was okay with just the crumbs you threw at me. If you give me the whole world tonight and take it back tomorrow morning, I’ll break. I'll actually break."
The honesty of it was a like a blow to the jaw. Mike realized that while he had been playing at being a Knight all day, Will had been a soldier in a war Mike didn't even realize he was fighting—a war for his own heart, waged in the quiet corners of their shared life. Mike didn't hesitate this time. He moved his hands from Will’s wrists to his cheeks, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear that had caught the lamplight.
"I know," Mike breathed, his voice steady and low, vibrating with a conviction he’d never felt before. "I know I’ve been the one who hurt you. I know I’ve been careless and blind and...and a coward. But I’m looking at you right now, Will, and I’m telling you: I’m not going anywhere. There is no version of tomorrow where I don't love you. There is no version of the sun coming up where I wake up and regret a single second of today."
Mike leaned in further, their foreheads pressing together, the bridge of their noses just barely brushing. The world outside the room—the distant hum of traffic, the ticking of the kitchen clock—all of it ceased to exist. "I’ll prove it. I’ll prove it every single day. I’ll prove it when we’re making coffee and when we’re doing laundry and when we’re old and gray and wrinkly. I’m right here, and I’m yours. If you'll have me."
Will let out a long, shaky exhale, his eyes finally fluttering shut as he leaned into Mike’s touch. The fear didn't disappear—years of hurt don't vanish in a second—but for the first time, it was outweighed by the heat of Mike’s palms against his face.
"Okay," Will whispered, his voice finally finding a bit of strength. "Okay, Mike."
"I've been talking about this in therapy for months," Mike admitted, the words coming out in a low, sheepish confession. "My therapist...she kept asking me what I was so afraid of. And I told her I was afraid of losing my best friend. But then she asked me if I was actually keeping you if I was hiding the most important part of myself from you every single day."
He shifted, his knees brushing against the edge of Will's mattress. "It’s been a slow process, Will. Like, a really, really slow one. Learning that being 'brave' isn't about fighting Vecna or–or wearing a plastic sword or something. It took me a long time to realize that the scariest thing I’ve ever faced wasn’t the Mind Flayer—it was the idea of looking you in the eye and telling you the truth. And today...seeing you at that Faire...seeing how happy you were just to be there with me...it gave me the courage. Seeing you smile, so goddamn happy I realized. I realized– I couldn't go back to the way things were. I didn't want to."
Will’s eyes opened, searching Mike’s face for any hint of a lie and finding only a raw, terrifying sincerity. The Paladin wasn't just a costume anymore; Mike was finally standing guard over the thing that mattered most.
"I’ve spent so much time being the leader that I forgot how to just be…me," Mike continued, his voice dropping. "I was so focused on being—this protector—that I didn't realize the person who needed the most protection was you, from my own stupidity. Will, I’ve spent every morning for the last year watching you make toast and thinking about how much I wanted to kiss you, then just...drinking my coffee and pretending I wasn't.”
The moonflower on the nightstand seemed to glow a little brighter in the dim light. Mike tilted his head just a fraction, his lips hovering mere inches from Will’s.
"I love you, Will," Mike whispered. "And I mean it. With everything in me—with every stupid, clumsy part of my heart—I mean it.”
The silence that followed Mike’s words wasn't empty; it was heavy with the weight of every year Will had spent convinced this was impossible. Will’s breath hitched, a broken sound that seemed to catch in his throat as he looked at Mike.
Will’s lower lip trembled, and for a second, he looked like he might actually break apart. He let out a soft, huffed laugh that was more of a sob, his head shaking slightly in disbelief.
"I...I don't know what to do with that," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I've spent so long rehearsing how to live without hearing you say that. I had a whole plan, Mike. I had a whole life mapped out where I just...loved you from a distance and hoped it was enough."
He reached out, his fingers fumbling as they traced the edge of Mike’s jaw, moving with a reverence that made Mike’s heart ache. He’ll have to die before he ever hurts Will like that again.
"And now you're here. And you're saying it. And it feels like..." Will paused, his eyes bright with tears he refused to let fall. "It feels like the world just started.”
"But…I love you too," Will finally breathed, the words coming out in a rush of awe and absolute surrender. He let it fall between them like a vow. "I have loved you. Through everything. Through the Upside Down, through the move, through the years where you didn't see me. I've loved you every single day of my life, Mike Wheeler. And I don't think I could stop even if I tried."
Will’s confession hung in the air, shimmering and real. “I've loved you every single day of my life.” Mike felt the weight of those words settle over him, a mantle far heavier and more precious than the boots and chainmail he wore. He looked at Will, seeing the track of a single tear through the faint, lingering stardust on his cheek.
God, he really was so stunning. He was the sun and the moon and every star the Seer had ever seen in her crystal ball.
Mike’s own eyes were burning, his vision blurring with sheer, overwhelming relief. He thought of the hours he’d spent today just watching Will—tracking the way he moved in that purple cloak, the way his eyes lit up at the mead, the way he laughed when they were spinning in the dirt. He had blown so much time being afraid, so much of his life wasting energy building walls, when all he had ever really wanted was to be right here, in this quiet room, with this specific person.
“Thank god,” Mike mumbled, his voice cracking as he gave a wet, breathless laugh, a hysterical sort of joy bubbling up, a manic release of years of pent-up tension. He leaned in further, his hands sliding from Will’s cheeks to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the soft brown hair. “Now, can I please kiss you? I feel like I'm going crazy.”
Will let out a shaky, beautiful sob of a laugh, his fingers tightening their grip on Mike’s red surcoat, pulling him the final inch. "Yes," Will breathed, his eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, his face tilting up like a flower to the light. "Please, Mike. Finally."
Mike didn't wait. He closed the gap, his lips finally meeting Will’s in a kiss that was a decade in the making. It started with a desperate, frantic edge—a collision of relief and pure bottled-up hunger.
Mike’s hands were deep in Will’s hair now, his fingers curling against Will's scalp as if he were trying to pull him closer than physically possible. He kissed Will like he was a man finding water in the middle of a desert, with a raw, unshielded honesty that made his heart feel like it was beating in his throat.
Will met him with equal fervor, his arms winding tightly around Mike’s neck. The heavy velvet of his cloak bunched up between them, but he didn't care. He was making a sound, a low, soft whimper of realization that this was real, that Mike was here.
They broke for air only to immediately press their foreheads together again, both of them gasping, their eyes still wet. Mike’s thumbs traced the line of Will’s jaw, his touch light and reverent. He felt dizzy, but for the first time in his life, it wasn't the kind of dizziness that made him want to run or hide. It was the kind that made him want to sink into the floorboards and stay forever.
Mike was the one to lean in again, the kiss softer this time, slow and exploratory, like they had all the time in the world to learn the rhythm of each other. There was no more panic, no more crowds to navigate, and no more armor to maintain. There was only the gentle, rhythmic drag of Will’s breathing against his own.
Mike’s hands moved with a new kind of confidence, sliding from Will’s neck down to the heavy velvet of his shoulders. He felt the ridge of the silver clasp—the one that had held the moonflower—serving as a reminder of how far they’d come in just a few hours.
Will responded by tilting his head, opening up to Mike in a way that felt like a physical surrender, his fingers tangling deeper into the dark curls at the nape of Mike’s neck. He was guiding him, anchoring him, making sure Mike knew that he wasn't going to disappear the moment the kiss ended.
But, it wasn't just a kiss anymore; it was a conversation. Every soft sigh and every shift in pressure was Mike saying I’m sorry for the wait and Will answering I’m here, I’ve always been here. It was a confession of every secret they’d ever kept, every letter Mike hadn't sent, and every painting Will had kept hidden.
Mike felt a surge of protectiveness—the true Paladin finally finding his purpose—as he pulled Will closer, his heart thundering against his ribs like a war drum. He wanted to memorize this: the way Will tasted, the way his hands felt steady and demanding against Mike’s chest. His mind was clouded, lost in the slide of their lips, in the soft, wet sounds of their mouths meeting.
His brain was chanting at him, an endless, worshipfull string of Will, Will, Will.
The slow, exploratory rhythm broke suddenly, the tenderness being consumed by a sudden, desperate heat that made the air in the small room feel like it was catching fire. Mike groaned into the kiss, a sound that vibrated deep in his throat. He surged forward, his hands abandoning Will's hair to grip his waist, pulling him so flush against his chest that the metal of his chainmail pressed hard into the soft velvet of Will's cloak. It was a friction that should have been uncomfortable, but it only made the desperation worse.
Will’s response was immediate and vocal. He let out a sharp, needy gasp, his legs tangling with Mike's as he hiked himself further up on the mattress, dragging Mike into his space. He wasn't just receiving the affection anymore; he was taking it. His hands weren't just resting; they were roaming, fumbling with the heavy leather straps of Mike’s surcoat, his nails catching on the buckles, desperate to find the skin beneath
"Mike," Will breathed against his mouth, his voice wrecked and hungry, a sound Mike had only ever dared to imagine in the darkest hours of the night. "Please...I can't...the cloak...get it off."
Mike didn't need to be told twice. He broke the kiss just long enough to look at Will, his eyes dark with a possessiveness that would have been terrifying if Mike hadn't been meeting it with equal fire. He reached for the silver clasp of Will’s cloak, his fingers trembling with a frantic energy.
The velvet hit the floor and Mike followed it down, his hands sliding under the hem of Will’s tunic, his palms finally finding the searing heat of Will’s bare waist. Will let out a long, shaky moan, his head falling back as Mike’s mouth found the sensitive skin of his throat.
Mike’s hands moved to the buckle of his own sword belt, his eyes never leaving Will's. The sword belt hit the floor too, joining the cloak with a metallic thump, followed quickly by the weight of Mike’s surcoat in a heap of forgotten royalty. Mike was breathing like he’d just run a marathon, his chest heaving under the thin, sweat-dampened tunic he wore beneath the armor.
Will’s eyes traveled over him, dark and hazy with a hunger that made Mike’s blood turn to liquid sparks. Will reached out, his hands trembling as pawed at the sharp line of Mike's jaw and the pulse thrumming frantically in his neck.
"You have no idea," Will rasped, his voice dropping into a register that made the heat in Mike’s abdomen spike. "You have no idea how hard it was to focus today. Watching you walk around in this all day..." He let out a breathless, needy laugh, his fingers tracing the silver links. "I’ve been wanting to tear this off you since the moment we stepped into the village. You looked so...hot, Mike. It was torture."
Mike let out a low, rough hiss. He didn't feel like a clumsy dork anymore; he felt powerful, fueled by the sheer desperation in Will’s eyes. His hands find the hem of Will’s tunic and tug it upward.
Beneath it, Will was writhing—tan skin stretching to show Mike the (captivating) rise and fall of his chest.
Mike’s breath hitched at the sight.
He pushed Will back onto the pillows, hovering over him, the bed creaking under their combined weight. The room was a mess—purple velvet tangled with red cotton, dusty boots kicked into corners—but in the center of the chaos, they were finally, viscerally connected. Mike’s mouth crashed back onto Will’s, more demanding now, as he felt Will’s bare skin against his own for the first time—the staggering, electrifying heat of it—and he felt his entire world catch on fire.
How had he lived this long without this? How had he spent years standing three feet away when he could have been feeling this soul-consuming friction?
Mike’s hands were everywhere, worshipping every inch of skin Will finally allowed him to touch. He traced the line of Will’s ribs, the curve of his waist, and the sharp, delicate points of his shoulder blades with a frantic, trembling reverence. It was pure devotion, burning hotter than the bonfire in the village square, a literal lifetime of suppressed longing finally finding an exit.
Mike didn't give Will a chance to catch his breath. He pressed him deep into the mattress, the weight of his body finally settling where it had belonged for years, pinning Will down with a finality that signaled they were past the point of no return. The bed became the entire universe—a small, warm island in the middle of a dark apartment, shielded from the rest of the world by the weight of their history.
"You think I looked hot?" Mike muttered against the sensitive curve of Will’s ear, his voice a rough, serrated edge. He reached down, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his own chainmail, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. "I felt like I was going to fucking combust every time you looked at me. Every time your cloak brushed against my arm, I was losing it."
He finally managed to shrug out of the links, the metal sliding off his shoulders and hitting the floor with a final, echoing rattle. Underneath, Mike was just skin and bone and a heart that was beating loud enough for both of them to hear.
When he leaned back down, the direct contact of his bare chest against Will’s was like a static shock—a searing, grounding heat that made Mike’s vision go white for a second.
Will let out a low, broken moan, his eyes fluttering shut as his back arched off the bed, seeking more of that friction, more of the reality he’d spent half his life dreaming of.
Mike could only watch in awe as Will’s hands, no longer shy or hesitant, traveled frantically over the expanse of Mike's chest. His nails dug slightly into Mike's skin, a desperate, anchoring grip as if he were trying to memorize Mike's body through touch alone.
"Mike," he choked out, his voice thick with a decade of unspent desire. "Finally. Please, finally."
He moved with a desperate, worshipping intensity, his mouth trailing a path of fire from Will’s jaw down to the hollow of his throat, leaving marks that would serve as proof in the morning light that this had really happened. He felt a little crazy, but at least they were crazy together. Every touch was an apology, every kiss a vow.
As the last of their clothes were kicked away into the shadows, the boundary between them vanished entirely. There was no more Cleric, no more Paladin, no more best friends—just Mike and Will, two halves of a whole, finally locking into place.
The air in the room was stifling, coated with the scent of salt, heat, and the sweet fragrance of Will and whatever detergent he used for his sheets. Mike moved with a sudden, desperate grace, his body hovering over Will’s as he pinned Will’s wrists above his head. The friction of skin against skin was a revelation—a sensory overload that made Mike’s vision swim.
"Will," Mike rasped, the name a prayer on his tongue. He looked down at the boy beneath him—the boy who had been his secret; his greatest fear. Will’s face was flushed, his eyes dark and blown wide with a hunger that matched Mike’s own. The stardust on his cheeks had been smudged away by sweat and kisses, leaving him raw and beautiful in the dim lamplight.
Have mercy on my heart.
Will let out a low, shaky moan, his hips tilting up to meet Mike’s, searching for a closeness that went beyond the physical. "Don't stop," Will breathed, his voice breaking. "Mike, please...I’ve spent my whole life wanting to know what this felt like. Don't you dare stop."
Well, that’ll do it.
Mike groaned, the sound vibrating against Will’s chest as he buried his face in the crook of Will’s neck. He was done being careful. He was done treating Will like something that might break. He wanted to leave his mark, to stake a claim on the heart he had almost lost a dozen times over—to the Upside Down, to distance, to his own staggering stupidity. His hands slid down, palms flat and burning against the heat of Will’s stomach, feeling every hitch, every frantic shudder of Will’s breath.
Every movement was a frantic exchange of years of repressed energy. There was an urgency to it that felt like they were trying to merge into a single person, to erase the space where one ended and the other began. Mike’s mouth was everywhere—on Will’s shoulder, his collarbone, his lips—worshipping him with an intensity that bordered on religious.
It was pathetic, really, how much he needed this. How much he needed Will to know that he was the center of everything. He was blinded, overwhelmed, and completely at Will's mercy.
Will’s fingers dug into the muscles of Mike’s back, pulling him down, demanding more. "You're mine," Will whispered, the words a fierce, possessive covenant against Mike’s skin. "Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," Mike choked out, his eyes locking onto Will’s with a terrifying devoutness. "Always. Only yours." He was swallowed in his want, ruined by it, and he didn't care. He just wanted to disappear into the heat of Will’s skin and never have to find his way out again.
"I can't believe you're real," Mike rasped, his wrecked.
Will’s legs tangled with Mike’s, pulling him closer, demanding a level of intimacy that made the walls of the room feel like they were closing in. He was a man drowning, and Mike was the only thing keeping him from the depths.
There was nothing gentle about the way they moved. It was a total collision, years of longing—a frantic, starving effort to make up for every second they had spent apart. Mike’s movements were driven by a raw, possessive need to prove that he was here, that he was staying, and that he worshipped every inch of the person beneath him.
Will was a beautiful, flushed mess. His head was tossed back against the pillows, his throat bared and vocal, letting out sharp, needy cries that Mike caught and swallowed with every crushing kiss. Will’s legs were locked around Mike’s waist, pulling him in, demanding that there be no space left between them. The friction was a white-hot agony of pleasure, a sensory overload that made Mike’s vision blur at the edges until the only thing in focus was the gold in Will’s blown-out eyes.
"Mike—Mike," Will gasped, his fingers clawing at Mike’s shoulders, his back arching off the sheets in a desperate, beautiful line. He was trembling, vibrating with the sheer intensity of finally being taken by the person he had worshipped in silence.
Mike groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated want. He let go of Will’s wrists and slammed his palms flat against the mattress on either side of Will’s head, his muscles jumping under the strain of his own momentum. He was heavy and hot, a physical weight that Will seemed to crave, meeting every downward press with a frantic upward tilt of his hips. "I've got you," Mike rasped, his voice a wrecked, primal growl. "You're mine. I'm never...I'm never letting go."
He began to move with a relentless, driving pace, his breath coming in burning hitches. He watched the way Will’s eyes rolled back, the way his lips parted to let out a sequence of wrecked, breathless "Mikes" that sounded more like an invocation than his name. Mike felt his own control fraying, snapping like an over-tensioned wire.
Will’s hands moved from Mike’s shoulders to his hair, pulling him down, his movements frantic and uncoordinated as they both neared the edge. “Mike, please. Please."
Mike’s response was a sharp, biting kiss to the junction of Will’s neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin as his pace became a blur of heat and friction.
The desperation reached a fever pitch, a frantic, blinding crescendo where the years of "just friends" and "best friends" burned away completely. Every thrust against each other— every scratch of Will’s nails against Mike’s back— was a signature on a contract that could never be broken. They were moving together in a frantic, perfect synchronicity, two hearts finally slamming against the same wall.
Mike buried his face in the crook of Will’s neck, a choked, broken sound escaping him as he finally came.
He felt a flash of that old, familiar teenage embarrassment—that pathetic, raw vulnerability of being young and so hopelessly in love that he couldn't even pace himself. They hadn't even had real sex, yet the simple, desperate friction of their bodies and the staggering weight of Will finally saying his name over and over had been enough to send him crashing over the edge. He was completely undone by him.
Beneath him, Will let out a long, high-pitched keening sound, his fingers digging into Mike’s hair, his whole body shuddering, it was a total collapse.
Mike fell into the space beside Wil with a huff, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and spent adrenaline. He didn't say a word; he just reached out, his hand trembling as he found Will’s and laced their fingers together, gripping him tight in the dark.
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't the lonely, suffocating silence they had lived in for years. It was thick and honeyed, broken only by the sound of two pairs of lungs fighting to find a steady rhythm again. The air in the room felt different—the molecules had shifted, rearranged by the sheer force of what had just happened.
Mike lay there, his chest heaving, his skin humming with a residual electricity that made every point of contact with the bedsheets feel sharp. He didn't move for a long time, terrified that if he shifted, the spell would break and he’d find himself back in that itchy chainmail, still wondering what if. His stomach twisted at the thought of that reality—the one where they said "goodnight" at the door, the one where he went to his own room and stared at the ceiling until dawn, drowning in his own silence.
Finally, he rolled onto his side, his arm heavy as he draped it over Will’s middle. Will was staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide and glassy, his lips parted as he took in shallow, shaky breaths.
Mike kept his arm locked around Will’s waist, pulling him so close that there wasn't a single draft of cool air between them. He felt the steady, rapid-fire thrum of Will’s heart slowing down against his own ribs, the two of them settling into a shared, exhausted downshift.
“Holy...wow,” Mike finally croaked out, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh into the crown of Will’s hair. “Will. That was...I don't even have a word for that. My brain is literally fried.”
Will let out a soft, shaky chuckle, shifting so he could look Mike in the eye. His face was still flushed, his eyes bright and slightly unfocused in the best possible way. “I think the word is ‘finally,’ Mike. It's a pretty good word. One of my favorites, actually.”
Mike’s expression softened, the humor fading into a look of raw, aching sincerity. He reached up, his thumb tracing the bridge of Will’s nose and the soft curve of his cheek. He pokes his beauty mark above his lips. “You’re so beautiful, Will. I’ve spent years trying to look away because it hurt too much to see you and not be able to...to do that. But tonight? The..the way you looked at me? I felt like I was fully losing my mind. You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
Will’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening on Mike’s forearm. “You really mean that?”
“Every word,” Mike whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of it. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to Will’s forehead, then his temple, then the bridge of his nose. “And I am so, so sorry. I’m sorry it took me a decade to get my head out of my own ass. I’m sorry I let you feel invisible. I’m a total idiot. I was just so terrified that if I let myself look at you for too long, I’d never be able to look at anything else again.”
He pulled back just enough to catch Will’s gaze. “I wasted so much time, Will. We could have had years of this! That's such bullshit!”
Will reached up, his palm warm against Mike’s jaw, his thumb brushing over Mike’s bottom lip, which was still swollen from the heat of their collision. “Hey. We have now. We have tomorrow. And we have every day after that. That’s all that matters.” He flutters his lashes, teasingly adding, “but, for the record, I accept your apology.”
Mike let out a huffed, watery laugh at Will’s teasing, the tension finally breaking into something light and effortless. Something more like them. He leaned into the palm of Will’s hand, kissing the center of it before looking back at those fluttering lashes.
"You’re a brat," Mike whispered, though there was zero heat behind his words—only a profound, dizzying adoration. "But you're right. We have now. And I’m going to spend every fucking minute making sure you never have to wonder again. I'm going to be so annoying about it, Will. I'm going to hold your hand in the grocery store. I'm going to buy you every goddam flower in the city. I'm going to fill that sketchbook you have over there with notes about how much I love you. I'm making up for lost time starting immediately." He pulled Will even closer, if that was possible, tucking Will's head under his chin.
Will hummed, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment as he closed his eyes against Mike’s chest. "I think I'd like that. Especially the staring part. I've missed your attention, Mike."
"You have all of it," Mike vowed, his voice dropping to a sleepy, solemn whisper. "Every bit of it. Forever."
Will let out a long, happy sigh, his eyes finally fluttering shut as he tucked his face into the hollow of Mike's throat. "Okay," he murmured, his voice drifting toward sleep. "I'll hold you to that, Wheeler."
The apartment was silent, save for the distant hum of the city and the soft, synchronized sound of their breathing. Mike tightened his hold on Will, his chin resting atop Will’s head, his fingers still interlaced with Will’s as if they were afraid that letting go would cause the room to dissolve back into the "just friends" reality of yesterday.
"Go to sleep, Will," Mike murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration that Will felt in his bones. "I’ll be right here. Same bed, same Mike, just...a lot more in love with you than I was yesterday."
Will didn't answer with words; he simply squeezed Mike’s hand, a final, tired confirmation of the peace settling over them.
The tension that had lived in Will's shoulders for years—the constant, bracing expectation of disappointment—finally evaporated. He felt light, grounded, and for the first time in his life, completely safe.
The sun would be up in a few hours, and with it would come the reality of rent, and classes, and the world outside. But for now, in the tangled warmth of the blankets, everything was perfect.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The morning sun spilled into the room like liquid gold. The moonflower on the nightstand was now a tightly furled coil, its midnight bloom over.
"Morning," Mike grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a newfound, lazy contentment, burying his face in Will’s shoulder. "Please tell me yesterday actually happened and I didn’t just have the most vivid dream of my life."
Will turned in the circle of Mike’s arms, blinking against the brightness. Mike looked soft—just messy hair and eyes that were already searching Will’s face with that terrifyingly open faithfulness
"It happened," Will whispered, a small, triumphant smile tugging at his lips.
Mike’s thumb brushed over Will’s knuckles, his expression turning distant and soft as he looked back much further than California, than the end of the world—but, all the way to the beginning.
"You remember the day I called you 'Will the Wise' for the first time?" Mike asked, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "In the basement. We were barely ten, and you were so worried your character wasn't cool enough. You thought everyone wanted to be the Fighter or the Paladin."
Mike let out a huffed laugh, pulling Will’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. "I remember looking at you across that table, and even then, I couldn’t look away. Because, I mean, even as a kid, I knew you had some kind of power over me. You were the only one who could make the game feel real. I think I was already in love with you then, even if I didn't have a word for it. I just knew that if you were the magic in the room, I wanted to be the one standing right next to you."
Will’s eyes shone, a soft flush creeping up his neck. He remembered that afternoon vividly—the of old basement wood and the way Mike’s eyes had blazed with such intense certainty that it made Will feel like he actually could cast spells.
"I spent years thinking you just liked the character," Will whispered, his voice thick with a decade of realization.
"No," Mike countered firmly, leaning in to brush his nose against Will's. "I just really liked the boy behind the character.
The gravity of the past finally seemed to lift, replaced by the mundane, beautiful reality of a Saturday morning. Mike stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the bed, and offered a hand to Will. "But, enough about the past. If I don't get some coffee and a massive plate of eggs into you, I’m going to lose my 'Best Paladin' title to a stupid breakfast sandwich."
Will laughed, taking Mike’s hand and letting himself be pulled up. The room was a mess of their life together—scattered books, half-finished canvases, and the heavy costumes from the night before—but it felt like home in a way it never had before.
And Mike could cry, really. He’s never been so fucking relieved.
As he leaves the bed, his heart is warm, but there’s this sharp, buzzing irritation under his skin—the kind you feel when you realize you’ve been looking for your glasses for an hour only to find them on your own head.
He goes to his room (regretfully, because the five-foot walk feels like a cross-country trek now that he knows what it’s like to have Will in his arms) to change clothes. He stands in the center of his space and looks around. This room was his fortress of solitude, the place where he’d retreated every night for the last two years to overthink every "goodnight" and every "see ya tomorrow" to the point of total exhaustion.
All the time he’d spent in this room, since they’d moved to the city, fighting for his life trying to be cool and normal...when it was fucking mutual the whole time? He could scream.
He looks at his desk, where he’d sat staring at the back of Will’s head through the open doorway, rehearsing conversations that never happened. He looks at his own bed, where he’d lay awake for hours, convincing himself that the way Will’s hand lingered on his arm was just "best friend stuff."
It wasn't just this room, either. His mind flashes back to his room in Hawkins—the last door on the left, the blue paint and wood paneling. To the basement, the years of staring at the phone and waiting for a ring, or staring at Will and waiting for a sign.
God, what an idiot. All those nights he’d spent agonizing over whether or not he was "weird" or "broken," and Will was right there, probably doing the exact same thing in the room down the hall.
He pulls a clean sweatshirt over his head, his hands shaking slightly with a mix of leftover adrenaline and pure, unadulterated frustration at his own thick ass skull. This was bullshit. He really needs to talk to Will about just making one of the rooms a studio or something so they can just sleep together all the time. The idea of "his" and "his"—rooms feels like a relic of a past he’s ready to bury.
He catches his reflection in the mirror. He looks different. His hair is a mess, his eyes are a little bloodshot from lack of sleep, but the "knight" in him feels finally, truly settled. He’s not fighting a shadow anymore; he wasn't bracing for a rejection that had only ever lived in his own head.
Mike takes a deep breath and heads back toward the door. He was done with this room. He was done with the cold, quiet corners of his own mind where he’d spent so much time hiding.He was going back to the person who knew the worst parts of him and loved him anyway.
He was going back to Will.
He catches Will sitting on the edge of the bed, half-dressed in a soft t-shirt, staring at his own hands with a look of pure, bewildered shock. Will looked up as Mike enters, and for a second, they just stare at each other, the weight of their shared realization hanging in the air.
"You were doing it too, weren't you?" Mike says, his voice a mix of a laugh and a groan.He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, his legs feeling a little like jelly. "In Hawkins. In this apartment. Every time I thought I was being 'subtle' and failing, you were in here thinking I didn't care? That I was that…oblivious?"
Will lets out a long, shaky breath, a small smile breaking through his daze. "You were the king of obliviousness! Or I thought you were, I guess.” He rubbed hand over his face, “I thought you were…I thought you were just being…Mike. I thought I was reading into things because I wanted them to be true so badly. I spent two years in this room convinced you only moved in with me because it was 'convenient' or whatever."
Mike makes a sound of pure physical pain. "Convenient? Will, I moved to a different state because every time you’d talk about a future that didn't explicitly involve me living three feet away from you, I felt like I couldn't breathe. We are both absolute disasters."
He crosses the space in two steps, pulling Will up and into a crushing hug. "But we’re done with that. No more guessing. From now on, if I'm being a freak, it's because I love you. If I'm being overprotective, it's because I love you.”
He pulled back just enough to look Will in the eye, nodding his head with a fierce, stubborn finality. “Also, no more separate rooms. I’m moving my stuff in here today. Or you're moving into mine. I don't care, as long as there’s only one bed involved."
Will laughed, a bright, genuine sound that made Mike’s chest feel like it was finally expanding to its full capacity.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The walk to the diner was only three blocks, but it took them twice as long as usual because Will seemed physically incapable of being more than a fraction of an inch away from Mike.
Will was usually the more reserved one—the one who moved through the world with his shoulders tucked in, trying to take up as little space as possible. But this morning, it was like the dam had broken. He was buzzing with a new, restless energy, his body gravitating toward Mike’s like he was caught in a tractor beam.
Halfway down the first block, Will slid his arm through Mike’s, hooking them together at the elbow and leaning his entire weight against Mike’s side. He tucked his face into the shoulder of Mike’s denim jacket for a brief, fleeting second before looking up at him with a wide, dizzy grin.
"You’re walking too fast," Will teased, though he was the one practically tripping over Mike’s feet just to stay close.
"I'm walking at a normal pace, you're just, like, glued to me," Mike said, but he couldn't hide the absolute, smug satisfaction radiating off him. He shifted his arm, unhooking their elbows only to wrap his hand firmly around Will’s waist, pulling him flush against his hip. "Not that I'm complaining. Keep going. See if I care."
"Oh, you definitely care," Will murmured. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers idly twisting the collar of Mike’s shirt, then smoothing it down, then doing it again.
He was fidgeting, his touch light and constant, as if he needed to verify Mike was still solid matter every few seconds. When they stopped at a red light for the crosswalk sign, Will didn't just stand there; he turned into Mike’s space, resting both hands on Mike’s chest and looking up at him with a gaze so soft and needy it made Mike’s knees weak.
Mike soaked it up like a fucking sponge. For years, he’d been the one subtly reaching out, the one lingering a second too long, always terrified that Will would pull back. Seeing Will this uninhibited—this clingy—was the greatest ego boost of Mike’s entire life.
"People are looking, Will," Mike whispered, though he made zero effort to move. In fact, he leaned down, his nose brushing against Will’s temple.
"Let them look," Will breathed, his fingers curling into the fabric of Mike’s jacket, pulling him just a fraction closer. "I don't care about 'people.' I’ve spent my whole life caring about what people think. I just want to be close to you. Is that okay? Am I being too much?"
Mike felt a surge of that fierce, pathetic devotion again. He tightened his grip on Will’s waist, his thumb hooked into the belt loop of Will’s jeans, anchoring him.
"Too much?" Mike laughed, the sound low and breathless. "Will, you couldn't be 'too much' if you tried. I want you to be as clingy as humanly possible. I want everyone in this city to know that you’re with me."
Will beamed, a real, radiant glow that made the morning sun look dim. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth before hiding his face in Mike’s neck again. "Good. Because I don't think I can stop. I feel like if I let go, I’m going to float away."
"I've got you," Mike promised, kissing the top of Will’s head and ignoring the walk signal for an extra three seconds just to hold him there.
When they stepped inside the diner, the bell above the door gave a cheerful, tinny ring that seemed to punctuate the end of their old lives. The place was relatively empty—just a few regulars hunched over newspapers and the aroma of sizzling hash browns—but Mike didn't even look at the empty tables. He scanned the room for a target and headed straight for the deepest, most secluded corner booth in the back.
As they reached it, Will didn't even hesitate. Usually, he’d slide into the opposite side, creating that safe, polite "best friend" buffer of a sticky table and salt shakers. But today, he followed right on Mike’s heels, sliding into the same side of the booth and crowding Mike against the window.
"Whoa, okay," Mike chuckled, though he was already lifting his arm to drape it over the back of the seat, creating a space for Will to tuck himself into. "Same side? You’re really not kidding, huh?"
"It’s a big booth, Mike. I felt lonely over there," Will teased, but his actions were far from teasing. He pressed his entire side against Mike’s, his thigh flushed against Mike’s denim-clad leg.
He reached under the table, finding Mike’s hand and tangling their fingers together in his lap, his thumb tracing the lines of Mike's palm with a restless, needy rhythm.
Mike let out a huffed, happy sigh, shifting his weight so he could lean his head against Will’s.
"I like it," Mike admitted. He used his free hand to adjust Will’s collar, his fingers lingering on the skin of Will's neck. "I like that I don't have to look across the table to see you. I can just...feel you."
The waitress approached, dropping two menus onto the table with a practiced "Mornin', boys," but she paused for a beat, her eyes flickering down to their tangled limbs and Will’s head resting on Mike’s shoulder. She offered a small, knowing smile before setting to mugs down and turning back to the kitchen.
The liquid was steaming and dark, but Mike didn't move his arm. He just used his free hand to doctor his cup, though his focus remained entirely on the boy tucked under his wing. The booth felt cozy, a small, vinyl-wrapped kingdom where they could finally draw up the blueprints for their future.
"So," Mike started, his voice low and vibrating with a new kind of excitement. "The move. I was thinking...your room has better light for your desk, but mine is closer to the heater. But honestly? It doesn't matter. I’m thinking we turn my room into a dedicated studio. A real one. No more painting in the corner of the living room or on the kitchen table. And we keep yours for...well, for us."
Will looked up from his coffee, his eyes wide. "A studio? Mike, that’s—that’s a lot of space to give up."
"I’m not giving it up," Mike countered, rolling his eyes. "I’m reclaiming it. I spent months in that room listening to you move around through the wall, feeling like a total creep because I was tracking your footsteps instead of sleeping. I don't want to live in that room anymore. I want to live where you are."
This was good, Mike thought. This love, this terrifyingly intense passion that he felt, was finally being transformed into something solid—something foundational.
Will deserved everything. He deserved a love that didn't come with conditions or fine print, a love that was loud, proud, and unwavering. He deserved to be romanced in every way possible—from grand, sweeping gestures that made his head spin to the quiet, everyday devotions of a hand held under a table. Will had spent so much of his life being a ghost in his own story, and Mike was done letting that happen.
Giving Will his own studio was just the beginning—the first tangible thing Mike could do to make those dreams come true.
He wanted to see Will’s brushes soaking in jars on a real desk, his canvases taking up the space they deserved, lit by the morning sun instead of a cramped corner lamp. It was more than just a room; it was Mike’s way of saying I value you. It was just the first phase in Mike’s master plan of making up for every second Will had ever felt second-best.
Mike looked at Will and felt a fierce, burning resolve. He was going to be the one to fill Will’s world with color, to be the steady hand that kept him grounded and the voice that constantly reminded him of his worth.
The studio was simply step one. Step two was making sure Will never had to wonder, even for a single heartbeat, if he was the most important person in the room—to Mike.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
When the check finally came, Mike practically wrestled Will for it, a triumphant grin on his face as he slapped down enough cash to cover the meal and a generous tip for the waitress who had witnessed their silent revolution. He didn't want to wait for change. He didn't want to wait for anything. He was ready to go home—not back to the apartment where they were roommates, but to the place where they were finally starting their life. Together. As a unit.
As they stepped out of the air-conditioned diner, he reached down and laced his fingers through Will’s, his palm pressing firmly against Will's. It was a public declaration, a simple gesture that felt louder than the drums at the Faire.
"One bed," Will reminded him, swinging their joined hands slightly as they walked. His voice was light, but there was a grounded, beautiful confidence in his step that Mike had never seen before. "You're sure about the studio? You won't miss having your own space to mope in?"
Mike let out a huffed, happy laugh, pulling Will closer until their shoulders were bumping with every stride. "I’ve moped enough for three lifetimes, Will. If I need space, I’ll go for a walk. But when I’m home? I want to be where you are. I want to see your sketches on the walls and your paint on the doorknobs. I want the whole place to look like you."
They turned the corner onto their street, the familiar red-brick face of their apartment building coming into view.
"You okay?" Will asked, his voice soft, his side still pressed firmly against Mike’s as they walked.
"Yeah," Mike breathed, letting out a long, shaky exhale. "I was just thinking...I’m actually glad it happened the way it did. All of it."
Will tilted his head, a confused but curious smile playing on his lips. "The chainmail and the mead? Or the ten years of us being idiots?"
"Both," Mike said, "I mean, I hate that I was such a coward for so long. But if we hadn't gone to that Faire...I don't know if I would’ve found the guts to say it. I needed the costumes to realize it was real."
He stopped walking altogether, pulling Will around to face him just a few yards from their front door. Every shitty thing we went through—the moves, the distance, the silence—it was just the path to get here. But, I’m thankful for the map, even if it was a mess. It led me to this street, and this morning, and you."
He looked at the apartment building again, then back at Will, his eyes burning with a fierce, quiet joy.
"I'm going to make you so happy, Will," Mike whispered. "I'm going to spend every day proving that I was worth the wait."
Will didn't say a word. He just stood on his tiptoes and pulled Mike down into a kiss that tasted like sunshine and second chances. When they finally broke away, Will reached for the sidewalk entry door handle, but he didn't let go of Mike’s hand.
"Come on," Will smiled, pulling him toward the stairs. "We have a lot of boxes to move."
Mike stood there for a beat, watching Will navigate the front door with that new, effortless grace, and he felt a final, lingering wave of gratitude for the absolute absurdity of the last twenty-four hours.
He looked down at his own hand, still feeling the ghost of the heavy leather gauntlets, and then back at the apartment where a pile of discarded chainmail was currently waiting for him on the floor. A year ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of a Renaissance Faire being the turning point of his entire life, but now he wanted to send a personal thank-you note to every larping enthusiast in the state.
"Will?" Mike called out as they started the trek up the stairs, their hands still firmly locked together.
Will glanced back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"
"I was just thinking," Mike said, a lopsided, slightly manic grin spreading across his face. "If I ever meet the cashier at the fabric store you went to, I’m giving them a recommendation for a raise. Because honestly? If you hadn't put on that cloak, I might have spent another three years thinking I was just 'really committed' to our friendship."
Will let out a startled, melodic laugh that echoed in the narrow stairwell, the sound pure and bright. "Oh, so that was the catalyst? Not my sparkling personality or my devastating wit? Just a yard of cheap fabric and some glitter?"
"It was a very convincing yard of fabric," Mike teased, pulling Will closer as they reached their landing. "It really brought out the 'I need to kiss you or I'll die' in me. Very effective."
Will shook his head, fumbling for his keys while Mike hovered close. "You are so pathetic, Michael Wheeler."
“Maybe,” he chirped, “but I'm keeping the velvet. We're framing it. It's the family heirloom now."
Will’s laugh was bright as Mike pulled him through the door and into their new reality, the heavy click of the lock signaling the official end of their separate lives—and the beginning of the best, most ridiculous story they’d ever tell.
Thank God for Sorcerers.