Chapter Text
Mike’s long fingers blurred across the keyboard, the rhythmic clack-clack of the keys the only sound in his cramped Brooklyn bedroom. He was nearing the end of the first chapter of his final draft—a project that felt more like a confession than a novel.
It was a massive risk.
He was essentially rewriting their entire shared history, masking the "Party" in a strange, high-fantasy spin-off. Most of the gang had long since moved on, scattering across the globe like embers from a dying fire. Jane and Dustin were in Iceland, buried in astrophysics textbooks and heavy parkas. Lucas and Max had traded slingshots for sirens, working as a police officer and firefighter, respectively.
Then there was Will.
Will was thriving. As a newly established art student in the heart of New York, his surrealist pieces were becoming the city's latest obsession. Mike, a fellow graduate with a degree in literature, was still figuring out his place in the world—though for now, that place was a shared apartment with Will and Carlton, Will’s longtime boyfriend.
Mike’s own romantic life was a far cry from the epic sagas he penned. He was single—stubbornly so. While he kept a few "emergency contacts" for when the loneliness became a physical ache, he rarely made the call. It was simpler, and far less complicated, to let his own hand do the heavy lifting.
His decision to publish this thinly veiled autobiography was fueled by two layers of safety- firstly, He wrote under the pseudonym M.W. Eldritch, a name disconnected from his real-world identity. It also helped that
The "Party" didn't touch fantasy novels. Mike was certain that even if they stumbled upon a copy, they wouldn't make it past the first chapter of world-building and lore.
The pressure, however, was becoming very real. His publisher was breathing down his neck for the final draft of chapter one, and Mike was desperate to see it proofread, polished, and out of his hands.
He puffed out his cheeks, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. He was close. Just a few more pages, and he’d be done with the past—at least on paper.
The sharp click of the front door echoed through the quiet apartment, shattering Mike’s concentration. He glanced at the clock: past midnight. With a sigh, he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, the thin fabric of his white banyan—a snug undershirt—clinging to the lean muscle of his torso.
He’d taken up working out rece
ntly, a desperate bid to combat the physical "rot" of staring at a screen for fourteen hours a day. He’d envisioned those gym sessions as a bonding ritual with Will, but those plans usually evaporated. Will was almost always occupied with his boyfriend—just as he clearly was now.
The sounds started almost immediately, Mike was accustomed to them by now- the furniture being shoved aside in a clumsy rush,
the heavy gasps that filled the hallway and the final slam of their bedroom door closing with finality.
Mike winced, bracing himself. He knew the choreography of this routine by heart. Sure enough, the rhythmic thump-thump of a bed frame against the wall began its steady percussion. The huffs and puffs followed, punctuated by groans that definitely didn't belong to the voice that haunted Mike’s dreams. No, those sounds belonged entirely to Carlton.
Living with the couple had become a special kind of hell. It hadn't started out this way; they had moved to New York as a trio, a practical alliance against the city’s predatory rent. But somewhere between the first semester and graduation, the dynamic had shifted.
Will and Carlton became a "we," and Mike became a spectator on the sidelines. Now, he spent his nights trying to ignore the proximity of their intimacy, sometimes wanting to hurl himself out the window—and other times wanting to strangled a certain man whose name started with a "C."
Despite the frustration, Mike saw the effort Will made. Will was always mindful, carefully curbing any excessive PDA despite Carlton’s frequent whines for attention. He checked in on Mike with that characteristically kind voice and those wide, hazel-green eyes, ensuring he was comfortable in their shared space.
But Mike had noticed something specific—something he tried to tell himself wasn't an obsession. Will was never vocal. During their... private time, Will seemed to restrict himself, stifling every sound while Carlton remained annoyingly, performatively loud.
It wasn’t that Mike hated the idea of a vocal Will. In fact, if he were being honest—which he rarely was these days—he found himself waiting for it. He waited for those fractured seconds before Will came undone, or those rare, guttural grunts that slipped through the drywall. Mike’s ears were practically thirsty for them. When he did catch one of those stray sounds, he didn't just hear it; he relished it.
“It’s not that I feel something for him,” Mike’s internal monologue scrambled. “Pfft—he’s my best friend. Who happens to have a voice I... enjoy listening to.”
Okay that came out wrong.
Mike means that in the most non creepy way possible. He was only human and two other humans getting it on obviously made his horny. Just because those two men were male, doesn't make him a homosexual.
And just because the one voice that turned him on belonged to his bestfriend doesn't mean he was in love with the same person.
On those rare, agonizing nights when Will actually let himself go, Mike’s resolve would crumble. He would find himself slipping a hand beneath his waistband, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back against his chair as he chased his own high to the rhythm of his best friend’s muffled cries.
The next morning was always a masterclass in deception. He would sit across from Will at the breakfast table, laughing and smiling as if he hadn't spent the early hours of the morning coming undone to the sound of Will’s voice.
Yeah, he was totally normal.
Tonight, however, Will was silent. Mike sat frozen, his hand hovering over the keyboard as he strained to hear anything over Carlton’s obnoxious performance. The lack of Will’s voice was its own kind of torture, leaving a vacuum that Mike’s imagination was all too happy to fill.
His mind drifted through the wall, painting vivid, treacherous pictures.
Was Will on his knees?
Was he kissing Carlton with that same gentle devotion he gave everything else?
Or was he gripping the headboard, his toned body slick with sweat, eyes rolled back in a pleasure that Carlton was too loud to even notice?
Mike bit his lip, the white glow of the screen staring back at him like a blank canvas waiting for a confession. He imagined Will naked and flushed against the sheets—but in this version, the person looming over him wasn't Carlton.
In this version, Will was looking up with those wide, hazel-green eyes, and he was looking only at Mike.
That was the breaking point. Mike swallowed hard, pushed his square spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and began to type. He wasn't writing for his publisher anymore. He was writing a chapter that was forbidden, a scene that never happened, but one his body was screaming to make real.
He began to write himself into the story, starring alongside a certain brunette artist who was never supposed to be more than a "best friend."