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The closet in the Wheelers' basement is smaller than it looks, but then again, it's not made to hold two eighteen-year-old boys.
Quite a predicament this is, the situation Mike Wheeler finds himself in. Voices buzz outside, Max and Dustin squabbling over something menial; he can imagine Lucas and El sharing exasperated glances. The radio hums with some pop hit of the summer, and somehow, the early evening cicadas sing even louder. The darkness is suffocating, dust and musky wetness feel like they're clogging up Mike's poor lungs. He almost wishes there were clothes in the closet to wipe his sweat off with. Maybe then he'd be able to distract himself from the fact that Will Byers is mere inches away from him.
He shouldn't have let Max goad them into doing this. He should have shut the whole operation down the moment he saw her share a smirk with El when they were still out at the diner, innocently eating shitty waffles and soggy fries. He should have never agreed to let everyone come back here, he should have never let Robin and Steve pawn them off a twelve-pack of disgusting Sam Adams, and he should have never, ever let Dustin put his empty bottle in the middle of the circle they were sat in, comfortably buzzed and basking in normalcy.
But Mike had let them. He had let Will order them a plate of waffles to share, spilling sticky cheap table syrup over the eggs as well. He had let it slide when Max called him out for favoritism, forcing him to sit next to Lucas instead of Will (which, in hindsight, was totally a ploy, and he was totally going to get her back, bad). He had let El and Dustin share a beer, finishing it off too quickly, and had made no note of the way they went in for seconds, drinking much more slowly this time. And so it was that he, Mike Wheeler, had let himself be pushed into a cramped closet in the basement of his childhood home, stood face-to-face with his best friend, as his friends pressed start on a ticking time-bomb.
Seven minutes.
He just needs to survive seven minutes of this.
What kind of a game was Seven Minutes in Heaven, anyway? Stupid. It was stupid and pointless, because no one could force anyone to do anything once they were out of sight, and, in the case of his friends, it seemed, out of mind as well. Which is good, because it isn't like Mike is planning to do anything, anyway. Except for wipe off his rapidly beading sweat, but the stupid closet is empty.
Save for the body of his five-foot-eight best friend.
It's hard to ignore Will when he's practically flush with Mike; they were each leaning on opposite sides of the closet, but the toes of their sneakers were touching, and Mike could all but feel sweat evaporating off of Will in the boiling heat. Everything was getting a bit fuzzy, and staring at the dark floor was giving him vertigo.
He looks up at Will. The tiniest bit of light filters in through the cracks in the door, illuminating him from below. Mike's eyes bore downwards until he can just about make out Will's features, and the fact that Will is looking at him. Right at him. Like, at his face.
"So, uh," Will whispers, and Mike's heart skips several beats. He wasn't expecting Will to say anything—he had gone into this under the assumption that they would both wait it out, seven agonizing minutes of nothing but choking heat and dust and faraway voices—and the sound of Will's voice so close to him pulls the rug right out from under his feet. His stomach churns, and Mike finds himself leaning against the wall a little harder, hoping that it might open up and swallow him whole, the way flat surfaces seemed so prone to doing just a few years ago. When no red glow appears in his periphery, Mike uses the wall as support, bracing himself for whatever is next to come out of Will's mouth.
"Should we… Should we play the game?" Will whispers, hanging his head low, as if having let some great, shameful secret loose.
Mike gapes at him, grateful for the darkness. When the blood runs back to his brain, he realizes with a start that it has not brought with it an understanding of what the hell Will could have possibly meant by that.
"Wh—what do you mean—what do you mean, play the game?" He stammers, trying his best to sound aloof. But Mike has never once successfully feigned nonchalance, and it seemed his losing streak was far from over. If he were to break it, Will wouldn't be one to bear witness to such a victory, that much was for sure.
He's certain Will is smiling. He can feel it in the way the air gets ten degrees hotter.
"Y'know," Will's voice comes out so softly that Mike has to strain to hear him over their raucous daydrunk friends, "do the Heaven thing, not just the seven minutes."
Mike balks. "And what—what exactly does playing the game look like?" He asks stiltedly, a little too loud, an unspoken between two people like us? hanging off the end of his question.
A long moment passes. Too long. Mike lets his shoulders relax a tiny bit, relieved that Will seems to have given up on doing anything but biding their miserable time. His relief is short-lived, though, every trace of it draining from his body when he sees Will's silhoutte straighten in the dark and feels him draw impossibly closer.
A firm hand lands on Mike's waist.
"Like this," Will whispers, and Mike feels his breath on his cheek. There's an unmistakeable hunger in his voice. The type of hunger that only darkness and isolation brings out of human beings, the type of hunger he had seen in Will's eyes seconds before he had wiped out three Demogorgons at once. The type of hunger that made Mike understand why vampires roamed at night.
Mike feels himself lick his lips, mind entirely out of body. He feels himself put a hand on Will's and peel it off of where it sat slotted perfectly above his hipbone. He feels himself press up farther against the wall, and he wants to scream, wants to take himself in his own two hands and strangle himself for how stupid he was being right now. This was very likely the only chance he would ever have to know if it was true—if he was right about himself, about Will, about the two of them—and here he was, throwing it away.
A silence settles within the closet, a stillness so deep Mike can feel it in his bones, so unmoving that he thinks he might start collecting dust as well.
Will's breaths are heavy, labored with wasted courage. He's still close to Mike; so close that if Mike moved even a centimeter, their noses would likely brush.
Which is why, in double-defiance of himself, Mike does exactly that. Will smells of chamomile and cinnamon, summer into autumn, a crisp breeze cutting through the heavy musk of their petri dish of a prison. It's enough for Mike to feel high on, and he wiggles around again under the pretense of straightening out, back still flush against the wall. He doesn't get away with it quite as cleanly this time, though, and Will grabs his wrist, taking a condemning half-step that traps Mike between him and the wall.
"Play the game, or don't," he whispers sharply. "Decide."
Something starts to tear inside of Mike. His skin erupts in goosebumps, as if all of the sweat on his body has evaporated at once. Maybe it's the determination in Will's voice. Maybe it's how tightly Will is choking his poor wrist. Maybe it's the way that this very predicament was one that Mike would cry himself to sleep over, sinful daydreams turned into mind-melting weakneses. Ultimately, though, it's most definitely the beer that causes Mike to let out a primal sound, something between a whimper and a whine, so very afraid.
Mike Wheeler wasn't born good. As much as this was obvious to everyone around him, it was ten times more obvious to him. In school, he'd always studied to hell and back only to scrape by with mediocre grades, even in his favorite subjects; it was always chalked up to him being a poor test taker. He wasn't athletic in the least, often finding himself winded after going up a single flight of stairs, a fact that somehow remained unchanged even after nearly half a decade spent fighting the supernatural and surviving the end of the world. His nose was placed awkwardly on his face, obtrusive in its angle. His eyebrows betrayed his every thought, and there was a scar on his chin from where he'd been pushed to the ground by bullies some seven odd years ago— a permanent reminder of his social status amongst Hawkins youth. He defaulted to jealousy towards the people around him, prosperous relationships irritated him and it was difficult to partake in celebrations of other peoples' successes when he could never remember the last time he'd managed to succeed in anything worth celebrating himself. He was prone to shutting down when asked about his problems, and was often lazy in tending to the things he cared about, fearing what might happen if things went wrong—where did wasted care go? He was raised to be resourceful, reuse, recycle, but can you repurpose love?
Mike wasn't sure if he dared to hope that you could—especially not him. When Will had sat him down within the shoddy, decrepit remainders of Castle Byers earlier that summer to tell him things they both already knew, the entire conversation had held an air of finality: things were clear, now, Will was who he was, loved who he loved, and he wasn't going to hide it anymore. Will was good like that. Headstrong, stubborn, sometimes bratty, but always in the name of honesty, kindness, friendship. There was a gentle chivalry about him—he didn't show off his goodness, he simply was good, in every way that Mike was not and never could be.
Mike's rare moments of goodness came from want. Mike wanted something, wanted it so badly, and every kindness of his drowned in that want, washing away any valor or worth his virtuous deeds might once have held. He had long since reckoned with the fact that one of the few things he could do well in this life was want, strongly and selfishly, and it was through his acceptance of this fact that he was able to contend at all with how he would never get what it was that he wanted.
All it took to shatter his fragile shield of resignation, though, was one word uttered as it was with a terrifyingly ferocious hunger.
Decide.
Maybe Mike wasn't as good at wanting as he had convinced himself he was. Maybe, right now, in this damp, forsaken hell of a closet, that wasn't the worst thing in the world. Mike knew there was no room for boys like him and Will in this world—even if Will was able to put those words behind him, Mike couldn't, not after years and years of brown eyes and garbled voices slowly chipping through his brick-walled psyche until they made sure that if he understood nothing else, he understood that.
This darkness, pure in its stillness as it swallowed the gallant laughter of their closest friends—their family—on the other side of the thin wooden door, felt otherworldly in its own right. Like it was carved out of space and time and Heaven, maybe, for boys like Mike Wheeler and Will Byers.
The noise he had made, unwitting as it was, was confirmation enough that Mike was going to play this game, though how well he would play remained to be seen. That was more up to Will than it was to him, anyways. Not pulling away (but not pulling Will any closer, either), Mike twists his arm in Will's grasp and wraps his long, bony fingers around Will's wrist; it's too-tight and desperate and it hurts him because he's sweating and friction is stupid, but the pain is what he deserves for wanting, and for so selfishly taking what he wants—or rather, letting what he wants give itself to him, thereby endangering the most special thing in Mike's rather benign post-apocalyptic life—but it's an answer, and that's all Will needs.
From outside, a bottlecap pops and glass clinks as the radio fades into another song; hilariously, it occurs to Mike that it might be The Cure, but there are more pressing issues to focus on. Will's breath is hot and sticky against Mike's neck, his other hand is splayed gently against Mike's abdomen, as if he's still scared Mike might run away—but Mike doesn't think he can move at all, not even an inch. He doesn't think he wants to.
Will doesn't kiss Mike. His lips brush against Mike's neck, up by his ear, then his jaw, his nose, his forehead; Will's free hand makes quick work of Mike's torso, crawling up over his bicep and shoulder, eventually coming to rest with a firm fistful of Mike's thick dark hair. Mike is trying so hard to be good, to stay silent—quiet, at least—but it's well-established that Mike has never once been good at anything, and is quite possibly the absolute worst at the act of being good itself, so all he can do is listen to himself gasp and groan, mind split between his body and the air around it.
Mike can just make out Will's face hovering centimeters away from his, breathing heavily. Their exhales mingle in dissonant harmony, yeasty and syrupy sweet, asking and answering every question that their vocal chords don't dare utter. The whites in Will's eyes shine as they occasionally catch the slivers of light that sneak in from under the door to the closet, and Mike's vision starts to blur again when he realizes Will's pupil's arent looking up to meet his. He feels his mouth move, but no sound comes out.
Will gets closer, impossibly, tilting his head to just the right angle, key aligning with its lock, as though they were crafted gently by God himself with the intention of opening every door in the world.
The gap between them is so small, now, that Mike swears he can feel a breeze when Will's eyes flutter shut, but he's rooted in place. Mike had made his decision. Will was the one who wanted to play the game. Do the Heaven part, not just the seven minutes.
Will's lips ghost over Mike's. It's not a kiss. It never will be.
"It's not real if we don't say it out loud," he whispers, sliding the hand that's in Mike's hair down to the nape of his neck and bringing his own forehead up to press against Mike's.
"Right?"
Mike's answer comes in the form of a shaky breath and an agonized groan. He's not as quiet as he had been thus far, and while in no position to assess how loud he was being, Will's thumb coming to rest on his lips shuts him up quickly and tells him what he needs to know.
They stay like that for a few moments. Mike wonders if Will thinks that keeping the soft pad of his thumb against his lips will make it feel any more like a kiss, and the thought of Will Byers wanting something that badly sobers him up enough to manage a few short words.
"There are worse things than just doing it, you know," Mike whispers, voice hoarse and hollow with need.
Will presses his thumb harder into Mike's lips as he speaks, confirming his suspicions.
"Like," Mike's free arm comes up to meet Will's where it rests on his neck. "Saying something stupid. Like saying this feels right."
Will gasps, and his eyes are still glued to Mike's lips when he speaks. "Or, I'm so fucking happy," he whispers back, sounding more like he means it than he has meant anything else that has left his mouth in the last eight or so hours at the very least.
Mike smiles, poking his tongue through his front teeth, licking a stripe up Will's thumb. It's quick, sloppy, silly, even, for the situation they're in, but it's enough to break Will's trance.
"What are you thinking?" Will asks, fond mumble cracking on the last word. It's grotesque, the way he can't hide his sorrow, like they're doing something so wrong, when he of all people should know that the most right thing to do in this world is to love. "What are you thinking, saying something like that?"
Mike recognizes his tone; the solemn resignation in the way Will's voice trembles tells Mike that he's losing another battle to himself.
He smiles, bringing his hand down to Will's waist, lithe fingers ghosting along his silhouette. For all the nights they had spent together as kids, crushed on Will's too-small twin bed in the Byers' house or a tangle of limbs on the couch in the Wheelers' basement, for all the movies watched with Will pressed into Mike's side, for all the Demogorgons they had pulled each other away from, firm hand in firm hand, Mike was sure that this was the closest he had ever been to Will.
A slow, creeping horror plants its first seeds in the back of Mike's mind, tending to its new garden with droplets of Mike's sweat and spit.
"I'm not, though," he says. "That's… That's something anyone could have said," he pauses, rubbing circles into Will's hipbone with his thumb. "That's something anyone could have said about anyone," he reassures, the remaining air in his lungs escaping all at once. Neither of them are particularly convinced, and neither of them do a good job of hiding it.
"Mm-hmm, Will affirms. Mike knows this tone of Will's too, like he knows all of them—all of Will—and he gives their still interlinked forearms a tug—gentle but firm enough to send Will stumbling towards him. Will gasps, a gentle, wanton sound, the hand he'd held against Mike's face rushing to brace against the wall. It's music to Mike's ears. This would have saved me back then, he thinks, if I had to choose one song, I would still listen to this one on loop.
Mike isn't sure how many more small tugs and faint groans it's going to take for them to close the distance between them entirely, but he's coming around to the idea that it's better if they never do. Not even here, where the cramped darkness veiled the sin of proximity, lips on skin and hands in hair, even if only by technicality. Their friendship has always been best enjoyed this way: hushed giggles turned away from the crowd, shared looks and bumps of the knees, thinly veiled half-confessions in a language only they could understand, where paladin weapons were unbreakable and sorcerers had unlimited spell slots.
"But you didn't say it," Will hums, sounding braver again. "You didn't say it to me." His hand finds its way to Mike's waist, dipping low and slipping under the hem of his frayed old t-shirt. Mike gasps; if he was frozen in place before, he must be contracting hypothermia now, Will's touch like velvet against his sensitive skin, shocking him cold despite the electric fervor of the small closet. He feels his mouth move again.
"Never."
Will must have cast a spell on Mike somewhere along the line. That was the only logical conclusion. Maybe it was with a wave of his wooden toy wand in third grade, or when he'd healed the Party for the first time in their earliest campaign, or when he'd saved Lucas, Robin, and Mike all in one fell swoop in the Mac-Z. Maybe it was in the back of a van, or at a roller rink, or in this same basement, sharing Halloween candy in Ghostbusters costumes. Most often, Mike thought it was that afternoon in Castle Byers, only a few months ago, when putting words to ideas unlocked a world he wasn't aware he could be a part of.
It was hard to convince himself even of that—Will the Wise, wasting a spell slot on him? On Mike Wheeler? The Mike Wheeler who was notorious for being an awful boyfriend and about as bad a friend and maybe sometimes a kind-of-okay brother? Ultimately, though, between believing his best friend had wasted a spell slot as a level-eighteen Sorcerer and crying himself to sleep over the sudden downpour of unrequited love, Mike by far preferred the former.
If they didn't say it out loud, it didn't mean anything. It didn't even exist, really. That was the nice thing about Hawkins, Indiana: if you kept quiet about something long enough, it would disappear (if it was ever unearthed to begin with). They'd seen it happen plenty, there was a reason the apocalypse had been effectively contained to their wretched town; when Will had first broken the seal on his most tight-lipped secret, it had been the talk of the town for better or worse (mostly worse) for a few weeks, but he had kept his head down, and now, aside from a few odd looks from the Sunday churchgoers, no one seemed to care. At least, they did a good job pretending they didn't.
Maybe that was a spell Will had cast, too. Maybe that was why Mike was so prone to Will's every whim—why here, now, despite Will's fingers against his skin, droplets of sweat dripping onto the dusty floor in nurturing unison, the garden of fear in Mike's mind begins to wilt. There was nothing to fear when it was him and Will; they would step out of this closet and nothing would change. It would be between them, the darkness, and God, and if according to God, love was the most powerful thing in the world, how mad at the two of them could he really be?
"We just have to wait," Will whispers, the band of Mike's boxers slipping from his fingers and snapping against his skin. Mike lets out a sound of desire, and for this he is not sure God will forgive him. Perhaps this was His blind spot, but He was not deaf. "I'm good at keeping quiet," Will smiles, pressing his face into the crook of Mike's neck. "Not so sure about you though, hm?"
He's right, of course. For as well as Mike knows Will, Will has always been able to read Mike to an absolute fault. Not that this in particular was so difficult to discern, though, and as if to hammer home the point, Will's teeth nip at Mike's earlobe, and Mike feels the rumble in his chest grow strong, too strong for his ribs to contain. He grasps at Will's shirt, biting his own lip in defiance—the second most obvious thing about Mike Wheeler, to anyone who dared remain in his presence for more than all of two minutes, was how stubborn he was.
Unfortunately, though, the third most obvious thing about Mike Wheeler is that the only person he relents to is Will Byers.
The sound that tears out of Mike is thunderous, a release of passion and desire smothered steadfast since before Mike even knew what love meant, but felt it all the same.
Mike feels Will's body shake, momentarily sobered cold-turkey until he realizes that Will is laughing. It's a quiet sound, more physical than sonic; clearly Will is set on proving his own point, too. Mike all but melts into Will's giggle, throaty and rolling, seductive, even, though he's fairly certain Will wouldn't waste that on him, either. There were prettier boys in Hawkins. Boys with the right type of love to give, boys without the wrong type of body count.
"Sshhh," Will manages between breaths, half-hearted enough that Mike knows he doesn't mean it, and the implications of that are too much for him to even begin to internalize without his brain melting out of his nose. Which at this rate might happen anyways, because Will is tugging at his hair, making room for himself on Mike's neck, whispering reassurances only half-intelligible over what might be Toto or maybe Duran Duran, something along the lines of "as long as we're quiet, no one'll know," and "it's nice here like that, forgiving," and then, "right, Michael?," and Mike feels again as though the ground might open up and swallow him whole. That might be less embarrassing than having to deal with his knees giving out.
The smart thing to do is not to say anything, and while he often tended towards cluelessness, Mike wasn't dumb. His mouth hangs open as he gasps for air, but he doesn't talk. He nods desperately, fractured and frantic, yes, yes, no one needs to know. No one will know. We'll hold onto this for as long as we can. Maybe forever, if we can stay in this quiet.
Will smiles against Mike's neck, humming soothingly. He squeezes the hand that's still wrapped around Mike's wrist in silent assurance; this, no doubt, uses up a spell slot, and Mike's heart clenches with guilt. His body relaxes, though, and his breathing stabilizes the tiniest bit. He finds it in himself to rest his head on top of Will's, an arrangement second-nature to them from dozens of movie nights and sleepovers, except now, instead of in front of the television, heartbeats drowned out by tinny rom-com dialogue, Will had his arm around Mike's waist—under his shirt—and Mike realizes that he's been frantically grabbing onto Will's bicep. Firm, stable, warm. That had always been Will, and it seemed that his body was slowly catching up to his heart.
Mike gives Will's bicep a squeeze. It's a means to a questionable end—reassurance, maybe? To remind himself that Will was real? That this was real? He's not sure. He doesn't need to be.
"Ah,"
It's barely audible, but it's there, it's something. It's reassurance, moreover, it's proof, physical evidence not just of Will Byers in the cramped closet in the back of Mike Wheeler's basement, but of the fact that Mike being in there with him meant something,.
Mike was well aware of the maddening effects of power of any kind, really—authoritarian police chiefs who wielded guns like gold medals, innate hivemind powers that catapulted you to senseless cruelty, doors into dimensions that were too easy to get lost in—and this was no different. Stubbornness was a good alibi for fear: you don't look afraid to anyone when you're proving a point. And Mike, currently, has several points to prove, none of which his mind is clear enough to focus on in the wake of having elicited a reaction from Will Byers in the manner that he had.
Aching for more, Mike gropes pathetically, sliding his hand up Will's shoulder and into his hair. He can't see Will, but he knows that here, like he does anywhere and everywhere else in the world, Will looks perfect, sunkissed skin splattered with summer freckles, shining with sweat (and maybe, if Mike was lucky, a blush on his cheeks as well), mousy brown hair all messed up from Mike's—Mike's!—hand running through it, tugging at all the wrong moments, shirt crumpled and pupils blown; Mike doesn't think Will could look anything less than resplendant if he tried. In this quiet, dark corner of the world, where only the two of them exist, bound by what they cannot and will not say out loud, Mike doesn't think Will could ever misstep, ever make this awkward or do the wrong thing.
He does not extend himself the same grace.
In between gasps and mewls he remains acutely aware of his knee poking into Will's thigh, the way hand of his that unrelentingly grips Will's wrist shaking, and the way his breaths don't quite even out; if any more light had made it into the small space, he was certain Will would have called the whole thing off, maybe even called a paramedic with how ill and off-kilter Mike was acting. Not that he was the peak of suave on his good days, but there's a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him that even if he doesn't say it, he still feels it. This high that drags him so, so low. Will Byers.
"T-touch," Will stammers out, and Mike can hear him lose a handle on his breathing, heartbeat, voice.
"Touch me," he sighs sharply. "I—I want to be touched." Will's voice, in this moment, is the only noise in a silent world to Mike. His words are a morning birdsong, crashing waves of darkness and blue on a rainy night. The rasp in his voice is the warm crackle of a winter fireplace and his breath the whistling California winds on a hot April's day. It's the only song Mike wants to listen to; hell, he'll rent the longest tape he can burn just to hear it on loop. It'll be his good-morning alarm and his nighttime lullaby, every movie he watches at the cinema will be soundtracked with it, it'll be his every hymn and prayer and maybe now he won't be so reluctant to go to church on Easter.
Mike happily obliges.
Before he can ask again—before he needs to ask again—Mike pulls Will in, positioning his face in the crook of Will's neck, nose in his hair, drinking in Will's scent, sweet-spiced and homey and, right now, savory, spiked with beer and dust, a pungent reminder of the here and now. Will's shirt comes untucked and Mike runs his hand up and down his spine, taking in the bump of every vertebrae, the way Will's skin is soft and hot and sticky with sweat and goosebumps and still Mike doesn't let himself think it's anything but the combination of summer heat and alcohol.
Will's head tips back as Mike's arm emerges from the back of his shirt's collar, large hand cupping the base of Will's skull and allowing Mike's fingers to snake and tangle again through his soft hair. Mike can feel Will's abdomen pressed against him where his shirt has ridden up, skin-to-skin, and the sliver of contact is almost enough for Mike to relent the weak reigns he has on his want. But they have family just outside the thin closet door and the radio is on its third song, so he settles for gently licking a stripe down Will's neck, bared and ready for him as it was. For once, a thought surfaces above the perverse noises Will is making, he could do to be the canvas, not the artist.
It takes all of Mike's remaining self control not to bare his teeth as he feels the muscles of Will's shoulders tense the farther down he drags his tongue and ghosts his lips in saccharine revenge. He keeps his head there, at the base of Will's neck, taking in the cannonade of Will's heartbeat at its loudest. Logically, Mike knew that this was his doing—Will had asked, he had obliged, pleasure, in situations like this, was cause-and-effect—so if Mike was merely a means to an end, why was he torn between pride and guilt? He was always playing tug-of-war with these feelings; being the rope, for once, was a new experience but torturous all the same.
Will shifts his free arm, trapping Mike where he was. His grip on Mike tightens, and Mike nearly faints when he feels a tug on his pants from where Will has threaded a deft finger through one of his belt loops. The song on the radio out in the basement climaxes, all post-punk synth and bass, and Mike can feel it in the floor, like a prayer for which no words exist.
Will's head falls to a rest on top of Mike's, and Mike takes to sliding his hand down Will's spine again. The change in posture emphasizes the muscles in Will's back, making him feel broad and sturdy; not at all like the small, trembling Will Byers who had first caught Mike's eye on that swingset—but somehow exactly the same. Warm, cunning, always in-tune.
Mike had always wanted something from Will. He had wanted Will to be his friend when he'd asked him that day in the playground, he had wanted Will to be the one by his side at the Snowball, he had wanted the painting to be from Will in the back of that wretched Surfer Boy Pizza van. And now, one doomsday later, all he wanted from Will…
"Nothing," he whispers into Will's shirt. "It's nothing, right?"
Will hazards a gentle, breezy laugh, untangling himself from Mike the slightest bit, just enough so they can lock eyes in the dark. It's more of a feeling than anything, the best they can do is fix their gazes on the reflective glint in the whites of each others' eyes.
Will unhooks his finger from Mike's belt loop and runs it along his waist, not letting the way Mike's hips buck involuntarily deter him from his torture. He reaches the center of Mike's abdomen, just under his belly button, and pulls his shirt back down.
"Stop talking," he whispers, the radio outside softening into pre-broadcast static. "Stop talking forever."
Mike can hear the smile in Will's voice. He feels Will's breath on his face as he titters.
"You'd hate that."
Will steps back. He doesn't let go of Mike's forearm.
Mike doesn't let go either.
When Max swings the closet door open, God sounds like every one of their friends laughing at once.