Chapter Text
Sharing an apartment with Will Byers has proved to be a brilliant idea for many reasons.
For starters, living with someone in just sixty square meters means dividing rent and expenses. He and Mike consume merely thirty dollars of electricity a month, plus the cost of gas, but it's almost rarer for them to be seen at the stove than at the supermarket, so that was never a problem to begin with. Landlines can be a hassle, especially because long-distance calls translate into empty wallets; but when you share the house with a roommate, you gain the advantage of splitting everything up.
Another point in Will Byers' favor is that he makes sure every purchase is meticulously made together: ornaments, tableware, even that stupid cactus-shaped coat rack Mike spotted at a small antique shop (he had to practically beg on his knees to bring it home).
The truth is: Will has a much more sophisticated, artistic eye than Mike, so he knows what complements their apartment’s walls and furniture and what clashes. “Tablecloths are better red,” and “you can't have a red nightstand if your bed is blue” were his last comments, which can be a bit misleading at times. Mike isn't naive enough to believe that coat hangers magically grow feet at night and lock themselves in the closet.
Having a roommate helps combat loneliness, especially for an aspiring writer like Mike. New York can be thrilling, but also frighteningly aggressive, if you don't have someone to share your daily struggles with at the end of the day. Sometimes, when Mike is banging on the typewriter, Will peeks at his desk—his bust pressed against the back of Mike's chair—and takes a quick look at the manuscript, commenting here and there on what to keep and what should be changed. No criticism, no envy; Will Byers is not that type of person. Suggestions only.
On the note of personal growth, living together also means learning to compromise and adapt to each other’s habits. Over the past three months, Mike has discovered more about himself than he ever did in nearly twenty years: he has realized that while he stays organized when studying—keeping books and paperwork grouped by subject on his desk—he's much messier in other areas (the reason he's late for most morning classes is that he struggles to find something clean amid the growing pile of clothes at the bottom of his bed). And Will, tactfully, shows up in his room once a week with the laundry basket to patiently remind Mike to do his laundry.
But the most important reason sharing an apartment with Will turned out to be such a great idea is that he’s still Mike's best friend: they grew up together, they shared secrets and moments of weakness, they cried on each other's shoulders, they saved the world. Mike is certain that even if he lost his voice overnight, Will would still understand his every thought as if it had been spoken aloud.
Declaring that words aren’t needed between them is an understatement; sometimes they don’t even need looks: every time Mike wakes up under a cloud, Will has a steaming breakfast waiting for him as if he had anticipated it long before leaving the house. And when Will falls asleep on the couch, caught by a wave of fatigue, it's Mike who remembers to warn Joyce that she won't be able to hear from his son on the phone that night.
It has always worked this way between the two of them; it continues to work this way, and always will. That's why last summer, when Mike was picked for the Marjorie Hale College of Letters, it felt completely natural to suggest that Will move in with him. What could be more exciting than spending the next four years with his childhood friend, right?
Now.
There is only one, significant reason why sharing the apartment with Will Byers has proven to be a bad idea. A mistake, actually.
Which is…
“Uggghhh!”
Mike's head snaps up for the thirtieth time in the span of fifteen minutes, and—yep, still there. Will is still there, his knees hidden under the kitchen table, his fingers on his right hand snapping against the paper, his pencil abandoned near the sketchbook. If Mike hadn't already witnessed this scene a million times, he might convince himself that Will's index finger was trying to communicate through Morse code.
Even though it's an attempt destined to be in vain, Mike moves the book away from his knees and straightens his back a little. The sofa creaks slightly under the weight shift, the noise booming in the apartment like a ringing.
“You, uh….” Mike clears his throat, coughing into his fist. “You good?”
Will doesn't even lift his head from the drawing. “Yes.”
Mike knows it's a plain, simple lie. It's not just his instincts that tell him this, but a good number of factors: the purple crescents under Will's once-delicate eyes, now reminiscent of a vampire who's skipped too many breakfasts and hungers for his next victim; or, the red patches coloring Will's arms and, Mike is fairly certain, part of his legs, a result of the compulsive scratching Will has been doing for the last five days.
Not to mention the veil of sweat uniting his forehead with the ends of his hair—when was the last time he took a proper shower? When did he last take time to care for his appearance? Judging by the razor blade stripes still visible on his jaw, Will must have shaved with the light off that morning. This would also explain his choice of clothing (not that Mike would judge anyone based on their style, but he didn't think Will was the type to wear a graphite-stained tank top and velvet pants, especially at home).
But it's an obvious request to be left alone, and Mike certainly doesn't want to start an argument, so he mutters a quick, “Alright,” before focusing on his studies again.
He does so for a good handful of minutes, picking up where he left off. He almost finishes Raymond Carver's paragraph on minimalism before a new grunt distracts him from reading.
This time, however, before Mike can open his mouth, Will has already sprung to his feet, using his arms as leverage and noisily sliding the chair across the wooden parquet. Without saying anything, the boy walks around the table and marches towards the kitchen corner, oblivious to the mess his heavy steps create on the floor. His shoulders are hunched down, weighed by an eerie shadow, and each step sounds more menacing than the last. Mike is honestly amazed that the neighbors haven't already reported them to the police.
What are you doing? Mike would like to ask, but he realizes on his own as soon as he sees the amount of water Will is pouring into the kettle. There's a rustle in the pantry, a door closing, and then Will reappears in Mike's field of vision, match in hand.
Stop starting his brain suggests, knowing that Will clearly doesn't need Mike's judgmental look directly at his back.
Thus, Mike lowers his head back to his book. He can perfectly imagine what is happening in the kitchen: Will grabs the infusion box, chooses his favorite (apple and cinnamon, because his tastes have remained unchanged since he was six), waits for the water to boil, and pours the contents into the Star Wars cup (again, his tastes have remained unchanged since he was six).
The scent of the herbal tea wafts toward him, even though Mike is in the living room. When Will returns to his table, the trail of steam rising from the cup is so thick that Mike imagines he could cut it with a knife. It might make his mouth water if only Mike didn't hate any kind of spice.
Will grips the handle, swirls the contents a couple of times, and finally brings the cup to his mouth. He savors the herbal tea in contemplative silence—the same silence Mike had longed for during the last hour of studying. He decides to take advantage of it and throws himself headlong into his book.
For a while, it works: no disturbances, no distractions. Just two people sharing the same air and the same challenging exam session. Will begins to scribble on his paper again, alternating each stroke with a sip of herbal tea.
Mike finishes reading the notes at the end of the page when a discouraging thud makes his ears perk up. Frantically, he searches for the cause of the noise—and, as expected, his worst nightmare has come true: the cup is upside down, liquid spilled onto the paper, and a patch is spreading on the floor like an oil stain.
Mike shifts his gaze to Will in horror, finding him with his pencil still clutched between his index finger and thumb, eyes fixed on the mess he's created. His mouth is agape, but not the slightest breath comes out.
Then, even more abruptly than before, the table shifts, and the chair scrapes against the floor; but this time, Will has dropped it. Mike watches the pencil bounce off the wood, droplets splashing from all sides, staining the few stretches of paper that had miraculously escaped the water.
“Will—”
But Will has already gone into his room, unable to hear anything else outside his dazed fury. The door slams shut, shaking the walls of the entire apartment.
This is bad.
Mike throws the book onto the couch and runs down the hall, slowing only at the mat Will has placed in front of his door. Before knocking, he takes a deep breath, hoping it will be heard on the other side.
“Hey, buddy. Don't worry. Umh…” Mike looks around, expecting to find the right thing to say. “We can fix it.”
Yeah, no. Wrong strategy. Poor choice of words.
“We?” comes from the other side of the door, a little stifled.
“You can fix it,” Mike corrects himself immediately. “You're the greatest art-minded... mind I've ever known. And if you can't, I'm sure your professor will understand. Accidents happen to everyone.”
There's a half-suppressed sound inside the room, and Mike can't tell if it's a sob or a sarcastic laugh. “Sure. I’ll tell the drawing teacher that I couldn’t bring him my 'study of space' because I was so nervous that my hand slipped.”
Mike considers countering that everyone gets nervous, but he holds back to avoid making another fatal mistake. Instead of needlessly filling the air with words, he raises a hand to tap on the door, but it suddenly swings open.
Will looks at him, but he doesn't really look at him: his pupils are light-years away, distracted by the stream of negative thoughts taking over his body. His hands are tightly twisted together, and Mike almost has the instinct to untangle them himself.
“I'm going for a walk,” Will mutters, mechanically. It almost sounds like a robot is talking. “I need to calm down. And then… I'll start over.”
Mike stands still for a couple of seconds. Then he steps aside to let him pass, because what else could he say? He is definitely not the one who chose to enroll in one of the most prestigious academies in North America. And he's definitely not the one who put his heart and soul into that scholarship, knowing he had to meet the crazy expectations of the faculty.
In order to continue studying at the Silver Academy of Art, there are certain standards an unwealthy student like Will Byers must maintain: first and foremost, an impeccable grade point average. If you do not have good economic conditions, the institution can come to cover your tuition, provided, of course, that you are fully dedicated to the cause.
The point is, Will is fully dedicated to the cause: God only knows how many times Mike has seen him spend sleepless nights just to finish a painting, or follow a wave of inspiration until his eyes were watering from exhaustion.
But passion, very often, is not enough. Not alone.
“I'll wait for you here,” Mike murmurs. He never knows what to say in these situations when his best friend reaches this state. “If you need anything.”
Will nods imperceptibly, but Mike is pretty sure he's not listening. He walks toward the shoe rack, grabs a cardigan from the cactus-shaped coat rack—not before glancing sideways at it (Mike really should have left it in the closet), and finally walks out the door.
Mike waits until the door has closed before jumping onto the couch with a sigh. The herbal tea spread out on the table has now cooled, and the raindrops have stopped tapping on the pavement.
It’s going to be a long week.
The following Wednesday, Will fails his technical drawing test.
Mike hears it coming before the announcement is even made public: he deduces it from the footsteps weighing on the stairs, as if an elephant were trying to reach the fourth floor of a two-room apartment, knowing damn well there will barely be enough space to sit since the CRT television occupies ninety percent of the living room.
Mike quickly presses the button on the remote, and the background hum of the antenna is drowned out by the creaking of the door.
If Mike hadn't witnessed his first girlfriend literally explode in front of him, he would have considered this one of the worst moments of his life.
Nothing in Will's face suggests there's any hope for the future: his cheeks are sunken deeper than Mike remembered, or maybe it's just the pallor of his skin that makes him look like a skeleton. Despite Will's attempts to push his hair away from his forehead, it falls forward, but it does so as if it were completely sagging, dry, and lifeless like withered flowers. He even forgot to wear his lucky earring—the one Mike helped choose and which Will once cared so much about.
Mike feels his heart sink. He can't stand that sight.
“You don't understand how the structure works,” Will whispers, more to himself than to Mike. “Your hand is too limp.”
When Will finally looks up from the ground, Mike manages to get a full view, and it's even worse than before: there are signs of crying everywhere—under his eyes, on his red nose. Mike hadn't seen him like this since they were teenagers fighting monsters from the Upside Down.
“That's what Mr. Byrne said when he saw my panel,” Will explains, turning his head toward the window. He contemplates skyscrapers for a while, letting the warm afternoon rays add a little color to his face.
Mike moves uncomfortably to the couch, finding it hard to know where to place his hands. He'd like to strangle Professor Byrne now, but he knows it's a bit of a reckless move.
Finally, Mike relaxes his knees and shrugs. “It’s pretty common to receive some constructive criticism. You're in college to learn.”
“That's also the only thing he said.”
Mike shuts up at that.
Will drops his bag back onto the floor, and some of his drawing materials slip out—rolled sheets, a pencil case, erasers. Mike wants to offer to put them away, but he knows Will hates anyone touching his drawing supplies.
“I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up for dinner.”
Will walks past Mike without daring to look at him, and Mike stops holding back for just a moment: “Will, please.”
“It's fine.” Will raises a hand to interrupt whatever was about to follow. “I just… got to get better.”
How can you explain to someone who doesn’t believe in themselves that it’s not just about talent? That there are so many other factors at play that it becomes difficult to list them one by one?
Simple: you can't. Not when he is so ingrained in his soul that not even concrete evidence—like professors at his academy praising him one day—would change that.
And so, Mike watches Will disappear from his field of vision, knowing that all that remains for his best friend are shattered dreams and another sleepless night.
That night, when Mike knocks on his door to warn him that dinner is ready, Will doesn't answer.
Not that a plate of pre-cooked spaghetti topped with—uh, whatever sauce was leftover in the bottom of their refrigerator—was particularly inviting, but Will never complained about Mike's cooking, not even once. In fact, he had gulped down three slices of raspberry cheesecake even when Mike forgot to add cream and sugar, all while maintaining an impassive expression. So, this is something new; something serious.
“Will?” Mike tries, giving the wood a couple more knocks. “Dinner's ready.”
Will is the lightest sleeper Mike knows, which means there’s no way he’s asleep. When they were kids, and Will used to sleep over at Mike's, Karen's heels clattering upstairs were what woke Will promptly at seven in the morning. Even as they grew up, this remained true: even now, Mike has to tiptoe if he wants to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, because he knows that at the slightest sudden movement, two people would be awake in that house.
Therefore, if Will doesn't give any responding signals, it can only mean one thing: he's not hungry. Or rather, he doesn't want to leave his room and confront reality, or anything else. Or Mike. And even if the thought hurts him a bit, he understands that defense mechanism perfectly.
So, Mike lets it go.
He leans back against the counter and climbs onto one of the stools, eating his plate of spaghetti in silence, accompanied by a can of Coca-Cola and the sound of his fork clinking against the ceramic. If it takes him longer than it should, in the vain hope that Will decides to pop up by the end of the night, no one will know.
It's only when he's ready for bed, with his pajama bottoms on and halfway through putting on his T-shirt, that he hears it: the ruffling of Will's sheets, the slippers gliding on the hardwood floor, and the handle bending.
Without hesitating for a second, Mike lowers his T-shirt, throws open his bedroom door, and reduces the distance between them by walking down the entire hallway in less than five seconds.
Will steps back, taken by surprise, but his breathing calms as soon as he catches Mike's gaze in the dark. “You scared me.”
You too, Mike thinks, but he keeps it to himself. “I left you a portion of spaghetti on the counter,” he says instead. “And there should be some zucchini in the fridge, if you prefer. Not sure about that, though.”
Will shakes his head. Though the only light source is the glow from nearby skyscrapers, his eyes still appear tired and red. “I'm not hungry. Thanks.”
Why are you lying? It's always been so easy to deal with Will, even in his most vulnerable moments. Is this what college does? Transform people until they become unrecognizable to their dearest friends?
Mike wants to scream.
“Oh,” He raises his eyebrows. “Why are you up then?”
“I needed to pee?” Will gives him a strange look because Mike does indeed sound very inquisitive.
He tries to shake it off by sounding casual: “Yeah, me too.”
That’s… surely something.
Will mimics his expression, frowning harder. “Well, we can’t go together, can we?”
“We can’t,” Mike confirms, nodding encouragingly. Faced with Will's confused expression, he realizes how idiotic he sounds. “I mean—sorry, I… I'm babbling. Ignore me. I really don't have to go to the bathroom.”
Will slowly relaxes his frown, but his features remain tight, indicating that he’s still not entirely convinced. “Okay.”
“We can take a walk,” Mike suggests on impulse. As he speaks, he realizes it is actually a good idea. “Wanna grab an ice cream? Or a coffee?”
“Mike,” Will snorts, and it's the closest sound to a laugh Mike's heard from him in the last week. “It's midnight.”
Mike shrugs. If he's forced to use these ploys to get Will out of his room, then so be it. He doesn't even care that he's half in his pajamas when he grabs the coat hastily thrown onto the chair and extends it to Will.
“What do you say?”
Will shifts his gaze between the coat and Mike. It takes him a moment to decide, as if admitting defeat costs him more than running a marathon in winter wearing his boxes only. In the end, however, he accepts what Mike is handing him and puts the keys back in his pocket.
“An ice cream will do.”
If Mike is tidy when he studies, so much so that he remembers the colors he uses to underline and the page numbers to be revised, then Will is diametrically the opposite: responsible and punctual in real life, always polite and composed; but when he studies, he drags with him a chaos that takes over every available surface, colonizes every empty chair, and his books seem to multiply like Jesus with the loaves and fishes.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, planning on not being perceived by the students stationed behind them. “Could you move the manual?”
The cool thing about the library is that Will is not at home, so he has the right to take up as much space as he wants. The downside of the library is that Will is not at home, so he has the right to take up as much space as he wants.
“Sorry,” Will mutters, moving the hefty hardcover volume he had been pushing against Mike's notebook to the side. The book lands next to him with a loud thud, prompting a girl at a nearby table to give him a sidelong glance.
Mike goes back to watching Will, studying how he passively moistens his lips to focus—he often does this when a topic catches his interest, or if it is extremely complicated. Mike hopes with all his heart that it's the first one.
A month has passed since what Mike likes to call ‘the ice cream episode,’ rather than ‘the Will Byers nervous breakdown episode,’ which sounds not as nice as two childhood friends enjoying pistachio cones while strolling through the streets of New York.
Since then, the situation has only worsened; not drastically, just… gradually. Which is definitely a problem because it suggests a new collapse could happen soon, and neither of them is prepared for an event of that magnitude.
“Will,” Mike sighs, putting his notes aside for just a minute. “You're shaking.”
“What?” Will lifts his head from his reading, looking like he's been caught red-handed in the middle of a robbery. Behind his eyes, Mike reads the most genuine confusion.
“Your leg,” Mike explains carefully, making a vague gesture under the table.
Will looks down, and his eyebrows shoot up—he's just realized that the earthquake that seems to be shaking the entire city has its epicenter right in the library. Immediately, his knee stops bouncing against the wood, and his left heel finally connects with the ground.
“Sorry,” Will repeats, mortified. He glances around to ensure he hasn't caused too much disruption, though Mike believes most of the nearby students are likely in a similar state of anxiety.
“It's fine,” Mike reassures him, and then, more gently, “You're fine.”
‘I'm not’ Will's face is screaming, but nothing comes out of his mouth; just a faint, broken sigh. Apparently, the anxiety he's repressed for so long has found a new way to manifest. And it's becoming a trouble.
“Why don't we go for a walk in the garden?” Mike points with his chin to the glass window overlooking the outside, in front of which a group of young people has just gathered. Behind them, he can see a couple of hedges and picnic tables. Will watches them hesitantly.
“You need to release some energy,” Mike insists, nudging Will's leg again. “You look like you're two seconds away from exploding.”
“I feel like I am,” says Will, placing both hands on the center of the table to relieve some tension. His limbs refuse to be less stiff, akin to those of an automaton.
“Will,” Mike tries once more, this time much more direct, “you fought against Ve—you've faced worse than an intermediate Portfolio review, don’t you think?”
“It's different,” Will lowers his voice further, and Mike doesn't know if he's doing it on purpose, but his knee has started shaking again.
“The demogorgons, Vecna… nothing will ever compare. But precisely because this is something so… so normal,” Will’s voice rises half a pitch, drawing the attention of a student nearby. “I don’t know how to deal with it. I can’t rationalize this.”
Mike senses the piercing looks of the guys behind him. Even though it’s not the right place, he tries to ignore them as much as possible, giving Will the space to express himself.
“It's all so new. For the first time, I feel like I have control over my life, and at the same time, I—don't,” Will stifles a bitter half-laugh. “Maybe Vecna really fucked up my brain for good. Maybe I'm not able to do this anymore,” he gestures towards the rest of the library for emphasis. “Be a person like anyone else.”
Mike can see the lump around Will's throat because it's the same sensation he's feeling right now. Without thinking twice, he reaches out to the edge of the table, trying to get a little closer to the other guy.
“Why don't we talk about it at home?” he proposes kindly.
Will shakes his head strictly. Squinting to avoid tears, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and resumes staring at his book. “I can't. I have to finish these chapters.”
“Will.”
“Mike.”
And it's such a harsh sound, so out of the blue, that Mike immediately falls quiet. He has never heard Will say his name like that before.
It's… odd. Authoritarian, leaving no room for debate. Rude.
It's the complete opposite of who Will is.
Realizing there's nothing else to do, Mike lowers his head to his notes.
He still feels the chill that ran down his spine when Will ordered him to stay in his place. He's not quite sure about what to do with it.
“No, seminar access is only for those studying at Columbia,” Mike explains, absentmindedly twisting the phone wire around his fingers.
On the other end of the call, an unclear whisper is heard. Then, one of the two clears his throat and says, “And also—”
“Yes, exactly, the screenwriting course too,” Mike adds, stretching his legs to the end of the couch without touching the pillows. His bowl of peanuts sits abandoned on the coffee table, now covered in a fine layer of crumbs and salt.
Lucas makes an indignant grunt. “What a shame, man. I was really hoping you could direct the new, uh…” Someone suggests something near him, and suddenly Lucas turns confident again: “… Indiana Jones?”
Mike presses the phone tightly to his ear. “Is Max there with you?”
“No,” Lucas replies, just as Max loudly chimes in, “Hi, Wheeler.”
Mike pretends that the corners of his mouth haven’t lifted into a smile and crushes his face against the pillow. “This was supposed to be a conversation between men only.”
“It is,” Lucas confirms, and Mike can almost picture him nodding. “Max is covering her ears.”
“I’m so not doing it.”
“Whatever,” Mike grunts as he pushes himself up on his elbows. “I need her help anyway.”
“Oh?”
Lucas doesn’t have time to give his opinion because the cornet is making high-pitched sounds and an annoying air shift. Mike has to turn away from the phone. Someone shouts—Lucas, probably—and soon Max’s unbearable voice takes the lead of the conversation:
“Missed me?”
“Not really,” Mike admits, because even though he doesn’t deal with The Party every day, nothing has changed each time they meet in person. “I need some advice.”
“Then you asked the wrong person. Bye!”
“It’s about Will.”
That does it.
Max brings the microphone closer to her mouth since her voice now sounds cleaner and more distinct: “What did you do?”
“Huh? Noting.” Why do people assume Mike is some kind of bad guy? It’s irritating. “Will is nervous about the projects he has to present next week at the Academy. Like, really nervous.”
“Define nervous.”
“He hasn’t slept at night, he repeats the same phrases over and over, and this morning, he practically created a moat from how many times he circled the kitchen table.” Mike grimaces. “And then, he… uh.”
Max seems poised to say something mean, but Lucas intervenes: “What does he do?”
Mike glances at the bathroom door. It's still sealed, and the water is still running, proving that Will hasn't gotten out of the shower yet.
“He snaps at me,” Mike admits, a little fearful. “Constantly. I mean, not constantly, but like… every time I suggest something stupid, or try to make it laugh, or make too much noise when I eat.”
For a while, there's only silence on the other side of the line, and Mike wonders if the connection is broken. Then he hears Max's laugh: “Will snaps at you?”
“Will snaps at all?” Lucas chuckles, apparently finding such a tragic situation equally comical. “And let me guess, what does that tell you? ‘Sorry, Mike, would you be so kind as to lower your voice?’ Or ‘Please, Mike, don't put your slippers on the couch, it's antigenic’.”
“I hate you so much,” Mike hisses, though he moves his feet on the ground, being careful not to touch the couch while doing it.
“We're not the ones terrified of Will Byers, of all people,” Max retorts, with a smile so broad it comes out of the damn telephone.
Mike crosses his arms in front of his chest. He just doesn't understand: why are they underestimating him?
“He killed three demogorgons.”
“Yeah, and he cried in his fourth year of high school for accidentally crushing a grasshopper with his bike wheel,” Lucas points out, unimpressed. “Look, must be the season, okay? He's stressed about studying. We are all more aggressive when we feel vulnerable. You can't blame him for that.”
Mike frowns. “I'm not.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I'm just looking for a healthier way for Will to vent his frustration.”
Max takes back possession of the phone, because now it's her voice that's banging into Mike's poor ears. “What Lucas is pathetically trying to say is that even though Will is accustomed to dealing with intense emotions, it doesn't mean they don't often overwhelm him. Be an honorable roommate, don't leave dirty dishes lying around, clean that garbage can of your room, and you'll see that Will will return to being the angel we all know.”
Mike clutches his fingers around the phone until the tips turn white. He didn't even notice that the bath water stopped pouring a while ago.
“What if it doesn't work?”
Max snorts irritably, and Lucas giggles at the microphone. “Well,” he begins, and from the direction the conversation has taken, it's not hard to guess what comes next: “I could suggest a few ways through which Will can vent his… how did you call it? Frustration.”
Mike is caught so off guard that his ears catch fire.
Unfortunately, he doesn't have time to send Lucas to hell when the bathroom door swings open. Will steps into the living room with damp hair, a towel slung over his shoulder, and his shirt clinging to his still-moist skin due to the condensation.
Mike panics—did Will hear everything?
Before Lucas and Max can figure out what's going on, Mike has already hung up the call and pushed the telephone away as if it were burning.
Now, the hum of the television is the only source of sound in the room.
Will looks at the phone with a question painted on his face. Mike can't take it seriously when his cheeks are still deep-red and his forehead shiny from the shower.
“Max,” Mike says, as if that explains everything.
Apparently, it is sufficient enough because Will doesn't investigate further, and he heads to his study station instead.
“Did you take a bath?” Mike tries to break the tension, but he fails miserably.
Will freezes halfway across the room to glance sideways at Mike. “No, I played wrestling with the hand shower.”
Mike feels his smile creeping. “Did you win?”
Will is about to smile back, but his eyes land on the bowl of peanuts, half of which are scattered across the coffee table (right, Max had said something about being a good roommate), and that momentary light fades.
“It didn't work,” says Will, dry. “The regenerative bath. I thought it would have a surprising effect on my muscles, but I feel worse than before.”
Mike shifts his gaze to the loose sheets of paper strewn across the kitchen table. “You could take a break.”
When he straightens up and meets Will's gaze, he instantly regrets having done so—to be honest, he regrets all the words that have left his mouth over the past four weeks.
“Or—you could… you know...” Mike inhales twice, embarrassed. Then, he coughs into the palm of his hand. “I could clean my room.”
Will blinks once. “That would be great.”
Not a single fly buzzes in the room.
When Will turns his back on him, Mike swallows.
Yeah. Okay.
That same evening, while they are perched on the kitchen stools, it happens again.
The apartment is colder than usual; they left the window open after cooking, and the late November fog has crept through the vents. Will's drawings are scattered all over the table (admittedly, they've invaded other common areas as well, but Mike is afraid to point this out to him), so they had to adapt by dining on the counter with some leftovers reheated in the oven.
Mike has one bent knee underneath him and a leg dangling in the air, while his jaw struggles to tear down a now three-day-old piece of bread. Without noticing, the fingers of his right hand tap to the rhythm of the tune he's mentally singing—it must be an old Tina Turner song, or somethingfrom the new Pepsi commercial. When his fingertips touch the wood for the umpteenth time, Will explodes, twisting his entire body towards Mike:
“Can you stop?”
Mike stops chewing.
“This,” Will points to his hand resting above the counter and narrows his eyes. “You've been doing it all day. It's annoying.”
Mike inhales through his nostrils. He's really trying to stay calm, but Will's attitude is starting to drive him crazy too: “Well, you haven't been a ray of sunshine either.”
Will increases his grip around his fork—Mike fears for a moment that he will use it to pierce his eye—but eventually relaxes his shoulders, giving up. All the aggression suddenly evaporates from his body, and his back curves again.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, playing with the only remaining green bean on his plate. He pushes him away with his fork and watches him roll back into place, distracted. “I know I've been a little uptight these days.”
'A little uptight' is a way to put it, Mike thinks, but he silently invites him to continue with a nod. “It's okay.”
“It really isn't.” Will lets go of his fork and places his elbows on the table. “I keep taking it out on you because it's easier. You know, because you live here and you’re my best friend… but that's not okay at all. You don’t deserve any of this. You deserve someone who treats you better.”
Mike notices that Will's eyes are covered in a veil of exhaustion, but also something else: they shimmer, as if they are holding back tears. Will lowers his head to hide it, knowing Mike wouldn’t let him get away with it.
“You know that friendship goes both ways, right?” Mike leans in a little closer so his words clearly reach Will's ears. “That certainly won’t change my opinion of you, Will.”
Will says nothing; he simply stares at the empty plate, which reflects his image almost like a mirror. His mouth is still twisted in a grimace of sadness.
“I just think you need to find a better way to fight your anxiety,” Mike specifies. “To… physically reset yourself and release some adrenaline.”
Will lets out a mocking scoff. “And what’s that? I've tried everything. I even went for a run, Mike.”
Mike has a hard time imagining Will in racing gear speeding down the sidewalks of America’s most famous city, so he quickly dispels that thought. “How about a cold shower?”
“It's basically December.”
“Breathing into a paper bag?”
Will runs a hand through his hair, which seems to invade his forehead more and more. You have to cut them, sooner or later, Mike mentally hums.
“It doesn't work,” Will cuts him off. “Neither that nor the essential oils I bought on Thursday. I’ve stopped drinking coffee, I stretch before bed, but everything feels the same as before. And it’s frustrating.”
Frustrating. There's that word again.
Mike suddenly has an idea, but when he tries to express it, he realizes something is blocking him: “What about—uh.”
Will turns to him, intrigued. Mike tries to open his mouth again, but his resolution falters.
Why is it so hard to talk about these things with Will? They always share everything. They've been friends since they went to kindergarten. Wait—maybe that's the problem? They’ve known each other for so long that introducing certain topics feels too embarrassing?
Not that Mike never thought about… that. He has discussed it with Lucas in the past, and it even happened with Steve once. But with Will? That’s uncharted waters. A whole ocean.
“Have you tried to…” Mike timidly suggests, biting at his tongue.
Oh, fuck it. Can't be that hard, can it? For what reason should talking to Will about this make a difference? Mike has always treated his friends the same way. More or less.
In a sense, it's slightly different with Will—but that’s only because they grew up together. Even if Will is a saint, that doesn’t mean he likes being considered one. Mike isn’t supposed to make exceptions for anyone, least of all his best friend.
“Have you tried jerking off?” Mike suggests everything in one fell swoop, getting rid of the boulder that had been blocking his breathing.
Several emotions flicker across Will's face simultaneously: shock, confusion, severe discomfort, panic—his face begins to match the color of the tablecloth, and his eyes dart around before settling somewhere other than Mike's face.
“I—uh.” Will clears his throat, but the sound is still hoarse. “Um.”
Mike pretends his cheeks aren't getting hot as well, and he shrugs. “All I'm saying is, it's a pretty normal way to deal with accumulated energy.”
Will's eyes meet his for only a split second before drooping again. “I guess.”
“And there's nothing to be ashamed of,” Mike continues, interpreting Will's reaction as a simple expressive block. “It’s a good alternative for releasing physical stress. I do it too, sometimes.”
Will's face becomes even more purple, if that's possible. His eyes refuse to meet anything other than the plate in front of him, almost like he’s on the verge of self-combustion. “Mmh.”
“So,” Mike picks up, casually fiddling with his napkin. “Have you?”
Will inhales for a long time before speaking. Mike watches his Adam's apple rise and fall a couple of times while the boy chooses the appropriate number of words: “I don't… really do that.”
Of all the things Will could say—and there was practically an endless list of options—this is the one that leaves Mike most taken aback: “What do you mean you don't?”
“I do, I just…” Will corrects himself, and admitting it causes him to raise his voice an octave, like he does when he panics. “I just don't do it as much as you guys usually… do.”
Mike has stopped finding the conversation awkward for a while now; he’s just intrigued by this new discovery about Will.
“You don't like it?”
“No, it's—uhm.” Will swallows dryly, and his hand instinctively travels to the glass of water. His fingers twitch near the edge. “Different.”
“Bad different?”
Will lets out a trembling sigh, and Mike is afraid he has pressed more than he should have. Luckily, though, Will is just gathering the courage to answer: “I don't know. I've never felt the instinct to… uh…”
“Jerk off,” Mike suggests.
Will winces. He resumes a moment later: “Between Vecna, everything that happened to me in Upside Down, and… well, you know that yourself. Our adolescence never felt like a real adolescence.”
Mike nods, fully understanding what Will is trying to say. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Will repeats, absentmindedly. “I suppose things like this affect everything. Every aspect of your life. So I've never found it particularly… er, appealing.”
Mike finds it almost natural to smile at that adjectival choice. To make Will feel less out of place, he shifts even closer. His knee grazes Will's chair—and Will flinches.
“But you tried,” Mike deduces, slowly.
Will insists on keeping his gaze down. “Yeah.”
“‘Cause you…” Mike follows the contours of Will's jaw with his eyes; if he can’t see it on his face, he hopes to catch a reaction from at least the rest of his body. “Because you want to.”
Will rotates his head slightly so that his peripheral gaze intercepts Mike's figure. It’s a challenge to read anything other than the discomfort in his expression, but Mike finds it somehow captivating. How much longer can Will stay flustered? How long until he snaps at Mike?
“Mike,” Will breathes, broken and uncertain. “Can we—talk about something else? Please?”
Mike squints and quickly comes to his senses. “Of course,” he replies, putting a considerable distance between their bodies. “Of course, I—sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”
When did he get so close to invading his best friend's personal space? But most of all, when did he think it was okay to make Will upset?
Mike wants to mentally beat himself up. The conversation took a strange turn. How the hell did that thought pop into his head?
“It's cool.” Will hesitates over that statement more than necessary. “You weren’t the one who made me uncomfortable. It’s just weird talking about it with y—someone. I'm not used to it, that’s all.”
Mike nods repeatedly, hoping the darkness around them will conceal the warmth gathering on his cheeks. “You don’t have to explain yourself. We can drop it.”
Will nods in return, handling the fork with passive interest. Mike follows the movement with his eyes.
“I cleaned up my room,” he decides to break the silence. “Yesterday. I threw away the pizza cartons and dusted the shelves. Even the models.”
Will finally breaks into a smile, and all the tension that had been between them evaporates in an instant.
Now they’re the same as always: two best friends sharing a top-floor apartment filled with Post-it notes plastered on the refrigerator and late bill notices.
“So,” Will jokes, arching an eyebrow. “Miracles do happen.”
There are fourteen hours left until the delivery of the Portfolio when Will finally loses his temper.
It's not a pretty sight. To be honest, it's even worse than Mike imagined.
Now, the signs were all there: trembling fingers, annoyed sighs, sheets of paper flying from one side of the kitchen to the other. He should've seen it coming. Yet, when Will throws his pencil to the floor and steps on it, Mike is still taken by surprise.
“Fuck it,” Will curses, moving the drawing off the table, as if the mere presence of his work were causing him pain.
Oh. This is new.
Will practically never swear. He only does so very rarely, like when it's a matter of life and death. Nasty language doesn’t suit him at all.
“I'm too hysterical to finish the job,” Will explains, though it's unclear to whom he’s speaking—Mike or himself? “I will never be able to present my portfolio in front of fifty people and walk out of that classroom without having a heart attack.”
The folder containing the rest of his projects lies abandoned on a chair, and some of them are on the verge of falling to the floor. Will makes no effort to save them.
Mike stops tinkering with the radio he has been trying, in vain, to fix. He’s afraid to make even the slightest noise, given the tension hanging in the air. In fact, he’s not the only one who senses it, since Will thought it best to throw open the window to ‘stimulate his ideas.’ Now, in addition to resembling a psychiatric institution, their apartment feels like an igloo.
“Professors will hate me,” Will continues, unabashed. For the first time in months, he seems genuinely confident in what he is saying. “I'll become the target of my classmates’ jokes, and next month, I'll have to say goodbye to my scholarship.”
“Okay,” Mike intervenes, because the situation is escalating quickly. “This is a bit drastic, don't you think?”
“Is it?” Will shoots him a cold, icy glare, and suddenly, the kitchen is no longer the coldest area in the house. “If I can't present this stupid portfolio decently tomorrow, my career is over, Mike. Over.”
Mike wishes he could reassure him, but he feels crushed under Will’s judgmental gaze. When his best friend gets an idea in his head, it’s easier to tame a lion than to change his mind.
Without further hesitation, Will pushes away his chair and strides down the entire length of the living room until he slips into the hallway. Mike is convinced he’s about to lock himself in his room, but just before reaching it, Will turns left.
The bathroom door closes abruptly as he passes, and Mike hears the click of the lock.
Mike shrugs and gets back to work. In the next few minutes, he has all the time in the world to straighten the radio antenna, replace a faulty valve, and clean all the remaining components one by one. When he's done, Mike places the radio in the center of the coffee table and listens to its buzz for a few minutes, pretty contented with his work.
His eyes automatically drift to the wall clock above the pantry. It's been a while since Will locked himself in: eight, maybe nine minutes? Typically, Mike takes the same amount of time to shower, but Will hasn't turned on the water knob, otherwise Mike would feel it flowing through the wall pipes.
He reaches for the radio and turns the crank, putting an end to the buzzing. There's always a chance that Will is sobbing at the bottom of the tub, and Mike needs to ensure that’s not the case.
The situation becomes worrisome after ten minutes: no signal arrives from the other side, and the hands of the clock keep moving.
“Will?” he shouts, unsure if his friend can actually hear him.
Deciding it’s better to risk getting yelled at than let Will be alone, Mike gets up from the couch and ventures into the hallway.
Each step feels shorter than the last when you don’t know if helping your best friend is the right move. It’s one thing to console someone seeking comfort; it’s another to respect someone who has clearly stated they prefer to be left alone. Who is right: the mind or the instinct?
Unfortunately, Mike has always been the type to follow his heart. “Will?” he calls again, closer to the door. “Is everything all right in there?”
Nothing.
Is it possible that Will is so down bad that he can't hear someone on the other side of the wall?
“Dude,” Mike insists, raising his voice a little. “Are you okay?”
Mike presses his ear against the wood and finally makes out something: a shifting weight, scavenging hands, the unmistakable muffled breathing that Will takes when he's agitated—he's definitely crying, isn't he? And for some reason, he doesn't want Mike to know.
“You're scaring me,” Mike admits, punching the door. Given the condition of that apartment, it's easy to assume that a stronger blow could knock it down. “Should I come in?”
“No!” squeaks Will, who, for the first time, deigns to acknowledge Mike's presence. He responds so lightning-fast it's hard to believe he's crying a river of tears.
Mike lowers his hand, but continues to keep his fist clenched by his side. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn't do it.”
Silence.
The air in that room must be so still that even a fly would be afraid to flap its wings.
But Mike is losing his patience.
“Listen,” he starts, sticking his ear to the wood, “if you don't give me a satisfactory answer in the next, let's say, twenty seconds, I'll—”
“Mike.”
Will pronounces his name similarly to how he did last week at the library, only more… short-winded. Uh, does that make sense?
The breath that preceded it was trembling, so much so that the syllables did not quite vibrate in the air. Like, when someone who's been running uses their remaining energy to catch their breath.
But it’s all wrong, because Will isn’t making any physical effort; he’s consumed by anxiety. In fact, he’s locked himself in the bathroom for—oh. Oh.
Oh shit.
“Fucking—oh my God,” Mike leaps back, putting a safe distance between himself and the door. His head is throbbing with embarrassment. “I didn't mean to…”
But Will must be even more uncomfortable than he is, because the only thing that escapes his lips is an ashamed cry. After this, he’ll no longer have the courage to be seen in public.
Mike wants to bury himself alive.
“I’m sorry.” Mike shakes his head, even though Will can't see him, because honestly, he’s completely lost his clarity. “I swear, I’m… I’m mortified.”
Of all things, Mike didn't think Will was doing that. But it's his fault, because when you think about it, he himself suggested the idea. And apparently, Will decided to take it literally. In those precise ten minutes.
Mike should have waited, given Will his time, and kept at least a mile away from the bathroom. But he didn’t, and now he’s paying the consequences.
He's going to kill himself tonight and murder Lucas Sinclair right after.
“Sorry for interrupting,” he blurts out, running a hand over his face and finding it unsurprisingly warm to the touch. “You can keep going.”
Fuck, that came out wrong.
Will shares the same thought since he exhales hastily: “Wh—what?”
“No, no, no,” Mike spreads his arms, overwhelmed by pure panic. “I mean, I know how hard it can be. For you. Um. You know, to get it… done.”
Despite the door, Mike can imagine the horror framing Will's face; which, in fact, is even worse than having him face-to-face in the flesh.
“You should go ahead. All the way in.” Mike closes his eyes, realizing he sounds like a complete incompetent. He has never been so uncomfortable in his life, so uncomfortable that every word presses heavily on his tongue. “I mean, please, keep going.”
After that statement, something changes in the air.
It is no longer static, but slightly fizzy—as if the particles had started moving faster, and now the atmosphere had just become overloaded.
Mike is pretty sure Will is infected as well, because he senses him holding his breath.
Instead of doing what he set out to do (disappear into his room and avoid the bathroom for the next forty years), Mike remains fixed in place.
He should go. He really should retreat to the living room and tune into the sounds of the television, or the radio, or any electronic device at his fingertips. He could read a book or browse a comic. He could count the ants on the kitchen window.
He should leave Will his space and forget everything.
But Mike doesn't shift. He remains completely still. Dumbfucked. Like a statue.
Will releases some air out of his lungs, and Mike can visualize his chest emptying and bulging in the process. Will's slippers slide across the floor, probably because he’s finally changing position.
After that, a cold silence reigns again, the kind that sends shivers down his spine. But it’s certainly not just the open window or the drafts creeping up Mike's rolled-up sweater.
Will is motionless on the other side of the door, in all likelihood more terrified than the other boy. He must be so petrified that, for a good minute, he doesn’t have the audacity to make a move.
Neither of them speaks. Neither sucks in air.
But then, something changes again.
Will swallows softly, struggling to accumulate saliva in a throat so dry that it could only compete with Mike's.
It's not easy to understand what’s happening because of the wall, but Mike imagines that Will's hand has found a different place than before because the breath that follows is more fragmented than the previous ones.
Will is taking his sweet time to guide his fingers where they had been interrupted, measuring every second carefully, and waiting—waiting for the corridor to be clear again.
And Mike…
Mike's fingers unintentionally twitch where they were resting at his sides. He can't understand why his feet refuse to obey his brain. The voice of his consciousness is screaming red alert on repeat like a broken record, but his body doesn't desire to cooperate.
“Um, Mike?” It comes uncertain, broken by tension. “Are you still there?”
Mike is, in fact, still there.
He doesn't know why, and he doesn't know why he hasn't fixed it yet. But he doesn't even consider lying: “Yeah.”
Will wobbles. Mike has no problem visualizing the expression he has assumed, and it must be because of their fifteen years of friendship: a frowning forehead, uncertain eyes, dilated nostrils… unstable breathing.
Mike waits for Will to order him to leave. For him to tell him to move out, find another place to live, and never be seen again.
None of this happens.
On the contrary, Will seems to adjust his grip—nothing drastic, just… a little bit lower, Mike would dare say. Like, judging by the sound.
Mike wouldn't call himself an expert, but don't handjobs work all the same way? The logic behind it is equal: you start slowly, one finger pressed down, with two others surrounding the length—and then go back up. Little by little. That's what Will is doing, right?
Sweet Will. Mike's caring, always smiling, innocent best friend.
This should be a repellent image. Mike is supposed to be poking by now at the idea that the person he grew up with is jerking off in his bathroom. Such a fantasy would be revolting to anyone, or worse, nauseating.
Except it's not.
Or at least, it's disorienting, without a shadow of a doubt. But not in the way it should be.
Will moves his hand again, and this time, a more distinct sound than the others follows: smooth, akin to dragging rubber shoes across a wet floor.
Mike feels like his mouth is dehydrated. “Will,” the name escapes him, swift and painless. Without thinking, Mike opens his lips. “Are you touching yourself?”
Will goes back to being a stone, and that subtle hiss stops abruptly. Whether it’s from embarrassment or something different, it counts for less than zero, because Mike can't help himself:
“No, no—it's okay. You're… good.” Mike swallows, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat that keeps him from speaking properly. “You… you’re doing good. Very—uhm, good.”
Mike is pretty sure he just heard Will stifle a startled sob despite his best attempts to make the minimum noise possible. That has an unexpected effect on Mike.
Automatically, as if his body were being piloted by an outsider, his feet move towards the door. It's just a matter of two, three steps maximum, nothing more. Nothing less.
When Mike's nose is only a span from the door, his head tilts just enough for his ear to match one of the wooden scalings. His heart is starting to beat faster.
“Will,” he begins, feeling his warm breath crash against the door. He shakes off a shiver and presses his ear even more against it. “Keep going.”
Will lets out a sound that might be indignant if the circumstances weren’t so different.
“Mike… I—” Will is probably shaking his head, pushing away the humiliation by biting down on his lip. “I can't. I can't even—”
“Yes you can,” Mike interrupts. He doesn't know where all that authority comes from, but he doesn't stop to think about it. And then, taking himself by surprise, he adds, “I'm going to help you.”
Huh.
That's new. Mike didn't know he had it in him.
Will opens his mouth wide, and a hoarse sound surfaces. Soon after, Mike hears his teeth clash, an indication that Will has preferred to close his jaw. Mike would love to chase that feeling, to force the other guy to relax his lips so he can hear him more clearly, but he doesn't dare to cross that invisible line.
Instead, he searches the depths of his mind for enough rationality to appear confident, and pushes a little more: “Hey. Breathe.”
And Will—actually listens to him. He takes a hesitant breath at first, but then replaces it with an appropriate inhalation, the kind that frees the mind. Oxygen begins circulating through his veins again.
“What do I do now?”
He's… asking? No, he's not. He's demanding.
Mike pushes his shoulder slightly against the door so that at least his voice is clearer. The fact that Will trusts him to guide him in something so private makes Mike feel inexplicably powerful.
“Tell me, uhm.” Mike clears his throat. “Tell me what you want—need?”
Will takes a few seconds to think, but the wait feels so unpleasant that Mike feels his chest compressing. Little by little, shame begins to creep back in, challenging curiosity. Common sense starts to break through his clouded mind, reminding him that this is Will Byers, and that Mike is helping him come.
Shit, shitshitshit, this is such a bad plan.
Will will regret it for the rest of his days, and Mike will no longer have the bravery to think about him without picturing what is happening on the other side of the door.
“I want to, um,” Will freezes, and Mike can practically see his eyebrows inclining forward. “I want to feel good.”
Unexpectedly, Mike's doubts are chased away by something stronger. Something that will be better dealt with another time.
“Okay,” Mike replies, pretending his mouth isn't being kneaded. “Don't worry. I'll make you feel great.”
Will doesn't say anything, but Mike gets the impression that it's not out of discomfort. In fact, he is convinced the reason is exactly the opposite.
Riding that wave of unplanned confidence, Mike flattens his palm against the door and brings his lips closer to the surface: “I need you to put your hand at the bottom,” he instructs. “No pressure. Just touching.”
Initially, Mike isn't sure if Will is actually following him; in fact, it could all be Mike's sick fantasy. But then, the other guy coughs in embarrassment, and Mike no longer has trouble imagining the hand clutching at the base of Will's cock.
“Alright,” Mike picks up, finding himself more stuck at the door with each passing minute. “Start rising. Use only your fingertips. No—”
“Pressure,” Will interrupts him, to mock him, but his voice is distorted by a change of direction that sends goosebumps down Mike's arms. “Fuck. Okay. What now?”
That dirty language again, the one Will never uses. Will simply doesn't do curse words. A mass of heat clumps in Mike's stomach.
“Slide your thumb to the tip,” he imparts, remembering what he likes. “You have to tease it.”
“Yeah,” Will replies, a little breathless.
Mike realizes that even though he never ordered it, Will is involving him in that building momentum. The tangle of conflicting emotions in his chest grows stronger than before and is almost impossible to put aside. He tries anyway, for Will's sake:
“Start going down. Use your whole hand—and wrist. Don’t forget to bend your wrist.”
Despite the predictability and foreboding of what was about to come, nothing could have prepared Mike for the obscene sounds that would follow his instructions.
It escalates so quickly that Mike finds himself bouncing at the low sound Will releases when his hand moves down, carrying with it skin that must already be wet to the touch, given the sticky sound.
“Don't stop,” Mike finds himself muttering, hoarse.
Luckily for him, Will has no intention of interrupting right now; he repeats the wrist motion four, five times, finding a satisfying rhythm that brings out another sneaky wail.
Mike wants to hear more of that. Mike craves to hear more.
“Good,” he says, pursing his lips. At this rate, he too will find himself breathless. “Does it feel good?”
In response, Will releases a sound that is halfway between a confirmation and a choke, and at this point, his head is probably tilted back, his lower stomach filled with pleasure, and his cheeks flushed. His eyes point upward, his breath trembling from the shocks that electrify his body with each stroke.
‘Is this the first time Will experiences such lust?' Mike can't help but wonder. Has Will ever given himself pleasure driven by desire like he's doing now?
“A little faster,” Mike suggests, imagining Will's fingers sliding up to the tip and then all the way back down. The increasingly frequent wet sounds confirm that picture, and they are music to his ears.
Mike pushes his nose against the door, his lips grazing the curvature of the wood. He is practically tiptoeing in the doorway, hypnotized and eager to capture as much as he can. His own breath comes back to him each time Will adjusts his grip and chokes back a grunt.
“Yes,” Mike praises him, even though his view is blocked, and he can only rely on what he hears. “Just like that.”
Will increases the speed, and now all that fills the air is just sharp inhales coloring the boy's voice. He's close, Mike senses it perfectly, as clear as daylight; and confirmation comes immediately:
“Mike.”
“I've got you,” Mike reassures him, closing his eyes. “Let it go. You deserve it.”
It takes a couple more pushes before Will finally collapses, a shuddering moan wracking his body as the orgasm hits him. It's the furthest thing from elegant—it's messy, agonizing, engaging.
Mike absorbs every insignificant whimper without missing any of them. He clings to the fantasy forming in his mind and drinks in every sound that escapes from the other side of the door.
Intense. That's the most appropriate word to describe it.
Mike realizes he held his breath only when Will drags his foot across the floor, reminding him that they are still on planet Earth and that this is not a dream.
Nope; nothing that happened in those few minutes is an illusion or a trick of his imagination.
That is the reality of the facts. And the facts are—Mike helped Will get off. Casually. Voluntarily.
“Shit!” he whines, jumping back so suddenly that he almost trips over his own heels. He reluctantly recovers, using the opposite wall for support, and straightens his knees. “I—ehrm. I'll wait in the living room.”
Even though it sounds more like a statement, the way it comes out makes it closer to a question. Knowing that no answer will likely come, Mike staggers to the nearest cabinet, which turns out to be the chipped dresser the landlord refuses to throw away, and tries to straighten himself out properly.
Once he regains a stable position, it's much easier to reach the couch and let himself fall onto the pillows with a grunt.
His face immediately collides with the drastically different temperature of the velvet. Looking back, Mike is grateful that Will left the window open because he needs to cool the fuck down.
What the hell was that?
If he told anyone, they would laugh at him because there is no way in heaven or on earth that Mike talked Will through his orgasm.
Did Will enjoy it?
Did… did Mike enjoy it?
The bathroom door opens fifteen minutes later, revealing that Will took twice as long to regain his normal complexion as he did to release himself.
Mike has picked up a comic from the ground and is pretending to study the images when, in reality, he can't concentrate for shit. He spares Will a quick glance: sweaty hands, sweater tucked into pants, a red stripe on the back of his neck—still very much uncomfortable, it’s confirmed. Not that Mike feels any less so.
“Hey man,” Mike chokes out, pulling himself up a bit on the couch.
Will freezes on the spot, halfway between the kitchen and the living room. His face suggests that his intention was to go unnoticed and pray that, once he reached the table, Mike would leave him alone.
“Are you—” Mike is glad that Will can't maintain eye contact because he fears he wouldn't be able to either. “You good?”
Are we good?
Will nods once, shyly, and then adds a second, more decisive nod. “Yes. Thanks.”
Anytime: that's the first thing Mike thinks, but fortunately, this time, his brain acts before his instincts. He coughs into his elbow. “Sure.”
Will nods one last time—persisting in avoiding Mike's face—and waves toward the table, finally finding his safe space. Without further hesitation, he picks up his pencil and begins scribbling, the scratch of the paper filling the awkward silence.
Mike hangs his head over his comic. The cartoons swirl around his vision like a confusing sea of letters.
His mind is spiraling, and there isn’t much he can do except cast, from time to time, fleeting glances at the boy sitting a little further away, fully aware that Will is never going to reciprocate them.
It was weird.
It is weird. Mike needs to admit it to himself to avoid a mental stroke.
Nothing dramatic, for goodness' sake. What occurred was just… bizarre. Different from usual.
But again, what yardstick does Mike have to compare this experience? The hot magazines that moron of his dad was hiding in his nightstand drawer? The videotape Steve recommended to him two years earlier?
He and Eleven (peace be upon her soul) never went that far. They never did anything different than kissing or falling asleep on the couch, snuggled up together.
Also, why is Mike comparing his old relationship to the unexpected turn of events of the previous day?
He and Will are nothing like that. Mike is not... and Will—well, he kind of is, but that’s an entirely different point.
Will needed help, and Mike, being the good and charitable friend that he is, lent a hand. Well, figuratively. Jesus Christ.
Neither of them took a wrong step, right? It happened. It… happens. And it's not like either of them exactly backed out.
Yet, the unsettling feeling eating away at Mike’s stomach can only stem from uncertainty: What if Will had changed his mind? What if, after sleeping on it, he realized that what Mike did was disgusting?
Mike can't afford to lose Will. It's out of the question. Even if it means falling on his knees and begging Will to stay in that house, Mike is willing to do it.
He is already preparing his apology speech when he hears Will coming up the stairs, and his heart sinks.
Words die in his throat, anxiety clouds his mind, and he's so terrified of having that conversation that he doesn't notice how happy Will's footsteps sound before the boy opens the door wide:
“It worked!”
Mike steps back, and his ankle collides with the cactus-shaped coat rack—he always forgets to make it disappear. “Uh.”
Will drops his bag to the ground to spread his arms better, his body practically vibrating with energy. “I passed the check! One professor even complimented me, Mike. She wanted to shake my hand!”
“Oh,” is all Mike can manage to say. This wasn’t what he expected. A spontaneous smile still manages to break onto his lips. “Congratulations.”
Will is so over the moon that Mike fears he might take flight. He’s never seen him so elated. If he had known it took so little to make Will enthusiastic, he would have suggested that alternative much earlier.
That means they're cool about it. Nothing different in their relationship. They will continue to behave as usual.
Fantastic. Mike couldn't have asked for anything better.
“At first I was a little hesitant,” Will admits, going around the couch to squeeze into the kitchen. “My hands were shaking. But when I started my presentation, the anxiety vanished. There was no excess energy left in my body, so I spoke without interruption for ten minutes. It felt like I was listening to a stranger.”
Mike gives him a little nod, hiding his hands inside the pockets of his pants to prevent Will from seeing them fidget. “That must've been incredible.”
“Yes!” Will confirms, closing the refrigerator. He contemplates the can of Coke for a few seconds, probably checking the expiration date. “I've never felt so relaxed. Like, sure of what I was exposing.”
Then he looks up, and something flickers behind his eyes—embarrassment, but only for a moment. Mike almost misses it.
“I wanted to thank you. For, you know,” Will gestures with his free hand, then returns to squeezing the can to keep his fingers occupied. “Yesterday.”
Mike turns his head slightly, battling the heat creeping over his ears. “You already did.”
“Yeah, but—” Will runs his tongue over his lower lip, stalling. “Now I have confirmation that it actually works.”
Mike attempts to respond with a chuckle, but it soon turns into a strangled verse. The images, or more than anything, the sounds of the previous evening, become more vivid than ever. He dismisses them with a shrug.
“That's what friends do.”
Will raises his eyes for just a moment, studying Mike's expression. If he were looking for something specific, he couldn’t find it, because Mike insists on keeping his features relaxed. His expression does not reveal any doubt.
“Sure,” Will breathes, walking past whatever emotion was running through his mind with a small smile. “Sure it is.”