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Will didn't wake for any external reason other than his body deciding it was time to see sunlight.
Of course, the sunlight in question took the form of Mike Wheeler running a 1977 Hotwheels Maxi Taxi (front dented from ages of pushing cars at each other to make them crash as toddlers) up his bare thigh. His lithe, nimble index and middle fingers were in a curved V, and positioned on either side of the roof to inch it best he could towards Will's waist. Innocent brown doe eyes, voided of any trauma gained over his teenage years, traced the pitch-black wheels struggling by from years of slowly being worn down.
There was no need to say anything, really. Will managed to watch his boyfriend with his left eye, right side of his face stuffed into his pillow since he'd flipped over onto his side at some point in the few hours of sleep he'd gotten, paying attention to his softly pretty face instead of the itching sensation in his skin facing towards the ceiling. Mike's lip had a cut where it jutted out on the bottom, courtesy of his tendency to never seek out chapstick until Will made him, and his cheeks were an alluring shade of warm beige in the morning light that contrasted with Will's golden tan from their summer-long visit to Myrtle Beach. Lovely hair, almost that of Aphrodite's, fell over his left eye and tickled Will's calf.
Will thought that Mike would use one of his five-dollar words to describe somebody like this in one of his short stories, one of the kinds nobody has ever heard of, one of the way-too-long ones like pulchritudinous. Beautiful, angelic, beguiling. Will wanted to lift him off the bed and slow-dance to some song from the 1940s or 50s floating out of the radio, Mike's nude body stunning in the nine A.M. glow leaking through the half-closed curtains.
"Michael." He whispered, voice not slicing but rather crookedly chopping the air like a child being taught to cut carrots by a mother for the first time.
The ravenet started, so lost in the motions of driving the dandelion yellow taxi up Will's form that the whole world around him had faded away. He settled almost immediately-- there's a gentle comfort in the first sounds of a lover in the morning being gifted to you. "William." Mike murmured, pressing his feet against the bottom of the motel bed to move himself up to eye level with Will. The car slid off Will's torso, onto the bed, as Mike rested his forehead in the before-empty space in front of Will's nose.
"You sleep okay?" Mike asked, still in the same low, quiet tone it had been before.
Will nodded, and brought up a hand to tuck the locks of hair still in Mike's face behind his ear. He didn't move his fingers when he finished-- instead, he traced Mike's jawline down to his chin, up his lips and nose and between his temples, leaving tingles as he did, until Will lingered at his hair part. Butterscotch lolly eyes took their turn, memorizing Mike's gorgeous little smile, his chest heaving with wispy-cloud breaths filling the air, stomach jutting out in a supple half-sphere, waist marked with purplish-red lines from the sheets, imperfect legs spread slightly apart. It thrilled Will; his ability to call Mike sweetheart and boyfriend and darling, to kiss his magnificent absent-of-muscles body and bubblegum pink lips, to have him like this. Nineteen years old and they'd celebrated their three-year anniversary yesterday with a treasure hunt consisting of their past romantic moments all around Hawkins, wine with their friends at The Golden Hour, and sex in room seven at Motel 6.
It took Will longer than he should've, with his slow thinking and the pure existence of Michael Theodore Wheeler, but he finally inquired, "Did you really bring a toy car in your bag?"
"Yeah. Used to be yours but you left it at my house once and I never gave it back. Thought it'd be a good time." Mike lifted his arm to bring Will's wrist down to the side of his face, who then took the chance to stroke his thumb across Mike's skin.
Will giggled, low and musical. "You're only now admitting to the crime?"
Mike didn't respond, just hummed and motioned for Will to lift up his torso so he could slide his hand under. Mike gripped his back, pulling him close to tuck his face into Will's throat. His Adam's apple bobbed under Mike's eyebrow as he swallowed, adjusting his body to make himself more comfortable. The sound of shifting sheets rose like warm air spilling into kitchens full of memories as ovens open to show off freshly baked brownies, cookies, cupcakes Mike and Will had fed each other on the floor before crawling into the full XL bed. Chocolate frosting still mingled with the scents of artificial strawberry and leftover weed from the last guest, the taste of the icing still hinting at its presence in both boy's molars.
Soft, blooming-blueberry lips pressed themselves against panther-black hair, and began to separate to sing softly against the strands.
Am I guessing that you love me
Dreaming dreams of you in vain
I'm confessin' that I love you, over again
Mike laughed quietly as he felt the vibrations of his boyfriend's words, removing his face from Will's neck to look him in the eyes. "Your voice is a little low for that one, you know?"
Will shushed him. "I can sing whatever I want." He leaned down, bedhead-hair dragging against the pillow to properly kiss Mike on his lips. Close-mouthed, tender, careful. "Because you'll write P.S., I love you in those love letters you leave in my locker."
Mike flicked Will's bicep. "Told you, wasn't me. You just have a secret admirer. Like she signs it, you know? Couldn't be more obvious. She's secret."
"Nobody writes a cursive b like that, Michael." Will murmured, lifting his hand to caress Mike's nape.
"I think they do." Mike defended playfully. "Absolutely."
Will let out a loud laugh, startling Mike from their previous whispered conversation, and rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, arms eagle-spread off the bed and onto Mike's cheek. Mike lifted Will's wrist to jokingly kiss the moles on his forearm, up and down and back again.
"You're adorable." Will announced. "Absolutely." He added mockingly.
"Now, am I?" Mike beseeched sarcastically, giving Will his best impression of Max's cheesy that's presumptuous of you, stalker look she'd given Lucas before she'd gone blind.
"Pulchritudinous." Will rolled his head over onto the side, and grinned. Eyes fluttering open, scrunched tight by his lips touching the stars.
There was a beat of silence, Mike's face crinkling from confusion before he spoke, saying, "...I don't actually know that one."
Will dropped his mouth into an O, then laughed again. "It-it means beautiful. Like the way you kick your legs in the air when you read Hans Christian Andersen and the Grimm Brothers on your stomach."
"Will!" Mike blushed pretty, smacking his stomach with the back of his hand.
"Too bad since it's true." Will smirked, always adoring Mike's reactions to his flirtatious comments.
Mike sighed, and stared into Will's endless eyes. He didn't say anything else, instead letting himself get lost in his midnight star pupils, Snow White's fair skin sclera, crow feather eyelashes that looked like they'd been tended to with mascara, caramel drop irises. Mike stared for a long time, and thought. Thought about eating cereal on the floor for dinner when there's a table right next to them, wedding anniversary gifts with emerald green bows that take too long to tie, buttoning each others' shirts before formal meetings, buying Hotwheels for him at secondhand stores, him giving Mike stuffed animals every time he has to spend the night away like he promised, letting him eat the majority of the chips he'll say are for the both of them, memorizing each other's work schedule by heart to know when they can drop by to say hello, buying him roses on boring days where nothing ever happens, listening to his voice read poetry both have heard a thousand times before they go to bed unless they're too tired. Mike wonders if Will would read him that poem he heard once, found typed in Times New Roman 10-point in a paperback at a hotel he'll never stay in again, written down on spiral notebook paper fallen somewhere in his cluttered mess of a room.
He thinks of it now, shifting once more to settle his weight on top of his future husband's bare body. I wonder if he'd call it ours, Mike thinks as he presses a chaste kiss to Will's chest before fluttering his eyes closed again. He recites it, silently, as he reaches for sleep's aging hand-- and doesn't know he mumbles it into the air as their fingers intertwine. Doesn't realize that Will hears but can't really understand what he's saying.
I’d like to be a nest if you were a little bird.
I’d like to be a scarf if you were a neck and were cold.
If you were music, I’d be an ear.
If you were water, I’d be a glass.
If you were light, I’d be an eye.
If you were a foot, I’d be a sock.
If you were the sea, I’d be a beach.
And if you were still the sea, I’d be a fish,
and I’d swim in you.
And if you were the sea, I’d be salt.
And if I were salt, you’d be lettuce,
an avocado or at least a fried egg.
And if you were a fried egg,
I’d be a piece of bread.
And if I were a piece of bread,
you’d be butter or jam.
If you were jam,
I’d be the peach in the jam.
If I were a peach,
you’d be a tree.
And if you were a tree,
I’d be your sap…
and I’d course through your arms like blood.
And if I were blood,
I’d live in your heart.