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Will stared at his bedroom ceiling and willed away the tears.
This was fine. He was fine. Today was great. He'd been ignored, pushed aside, yelled at, and El had assaulted someone, but really, this was going great. Oh yeah, and nobody remembered his birthday.
Well, that wasn't quite true. After all, his mom had remembered, and given him a hug and a sketchbook before going to pick up Mike. Jonathan had remembered, had patted him on the head with a muffled 'happy birthday buddy' before going to get high with Argyle again. Will wasn't sure at which point his older brother had stopped being an always-reliable fixture in his life, but he didn't like it. (El hadn't remembered, but that was fine. Will wasn't 100% sure she knew what a birthday was.)
Jonathan had given him a pack of pastels.
And it wasn't that that was bad! Really, it wasn't, and the pastels and sketchbook looked great and probably drew great, just-- Will had expected more. Which sounded rude, and awful, and demanding, but...
It was his birthday.
And Mike hadn't remembered.
Will grabbed his pillow and clutched it tight to his chest. How could Mike forget? He knew he'd never be able to forget Mike's birthday, not even if he tried.
But Mike evidently didn't feel the same.
It wasn't fair. But then again, when had Will's life ever been fair?
He rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow until he couldn't breathe, holding his breath until his head spun and face went red, but he still didn't pull up. Then there was a knock at the door.
He instantly, instinctively, sucked in a breath, and ended up choking on his pillowcase, fuzz coating his tongue. His face was still buried in the pillow, sufficiently muffling the sound. Will got up, stumbled to the door, flung it open, and—Mike?
For a second he just stared, all off his earlier irritation evaporating. He just looked so soft, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, curly hair ruffled every which way, ankles poking out of his too-short pyjama pants.
"Hi," Will said, for lack of anything better.
"Hey," replied Mike, and Will opened the door, letting him in without another word.
They both sat on the bed, backs against the headboard, just like they had so many times before. Will wiggled uncomfortably under his quilt, tugging it up his legs until it covered his lap. Mike twisted a corner of his t-shirt back and forth.
"So—"
"I—"
They both laughed awkwardly. Mike's eyes seized onto Will's, and Will was struck with the sudden realisation that he had no idea what Mike was about to say. Something felt fundamentally wrong about that, about looking into Mike's deep brown eyes and facing the total unknown. This isn't how it should work, he thought. But again, it didn't really matter what he thought. The universe had never seemed to take it into consideration.
"Sorry," Mike said, voice small and hushed in the darkened bedroom. "I'm sorry."
Will blinked. He wasn't sure why, but he hadn't really expected an apology. "It's fine," Will hurried to say, hurried to say anything that would make things normal again, not this strange cold wall between them.
"No, it's not. You were right," he said vehemently. "I was being mean, and awful, and ignoring you, and--and I don't even know why!" Mike's voice was wet and frantic, eyes wide and shining in the pale moonlight. Will wished above all that he knew what to do, what to say, how to fix this.
"I'm a horrible friend. I really am."
And he just sounded so sad, so miserable, that Will's mouth was moving with speech before he had time to give it a thought. "No you're not," he said, voice stronger than it had felt for a while. He ignored the part of him that had been screaming for months about Mike, because, well—something was clearly going on here.
"I yelled at you," Mike said plaintively, "On your birthday."
And that—Will froze. He sucked in a breath, and just held it, unsure of what else to do. Shakily, after a second, he let it out again.
"You... you remembered?" He barely breathed out, light flickering to life within his chest.
Mike just stared at him, head slightly tilted. "Obviously," he said, sounding affronted that anything else was even a possibility.
Will grinned. He beamed, big and bright, staring at Mike, because Mike remembered. All of a sudden it didn't matter that Mike hadn't written to him for a year, didn't matter that he'd ignored him all day, didn't matter because he hadn't been forgotten. He smiled at his best friend (they were still best friends, right?) heart feeling about to burst. And Mike blushed, and Will stopped. He'd embarrassed him. Gotten too big, too much, too obvious.
"Sorry," he muttered, and Mike tipped his head in slight confusion.
"No reason to be," he said with an attempted casualty. Will crossed his legs, watching as he reached one hand into his pants pocket, fumbling with something.
"Here," said Mike, shoving a small wrapped package into Will's hands hurriedly. "Happy birthday."
It was too dark to see what exactly he was holding, but it was still clear that the gift was wrapped horribly. Tape stuck to his fingers as he fumbled with it, but Will didn't mind. How could he, when Mike had done this just for him?
Methodically, he unwrapped it. A small pile of balled-up tape formed next to him as he went, and Mike fidgeted more and more, leaning closer with every layer Will took off. Why were there so many layers? It was like pass the parcel, but... stickier. Mike's shoulder pressed against his, and Will stopped moving. He stopped even breathing, the warmth spreading through their contact heating up his whole body. He must be blushing right now, and that thought startled him into unwrapping it again.
After far more tape than there was a right to be, something small and weighted tumbled free.
Will picked it up, turned it in his hands, trying to figure out what it was. A cassette tape. He ran his fingers along the edge, smile tugging at his lips. In the dark, he could just barely make out For Will written on the front. Mike made him a mixtape.
"Thank you," he finally said, voice breathy. Mike made him a mixtape. His stomach filled with shining bubbled, popping and spreading bursts of warmth through his insides. He grinned wider than he had in a long time.
"Well, I had to get you something good," Mike said, sounding overwhelmingly relieved and softly shy. "You're my best friend."
Will turned the mixtape in his hands again, and in a fit of sudden confidence let his head drop to lean against Mike's (very pointy) shoulder. For a second, Mike froze, before leaning his head atop Will's.
"Yeah," Will said softly. "Best friends."
On the cassette tape, his fingers traced over the words.
For Will, Love Mike.