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The thing is -Mike actually does not care for prom.
Like at all.
Can’t even pretend to smile when his mother asks him about it for the millionth time. He’s already suspecting she’s only this inquisitive, because she’s trying to live vicariously through him. But honestly it’s a bit much when she asks him about it during dinner, and then again, when she catches him going to the bathroom.
He’s seriously considering sticking a post-it note to his forehead with all the answers to her returning question -yes, it’s in a week, yes, El is going. No, he does not have a date.
Who cares about stupid prom?
He asks Will that, as they lounge on a grass hill next to their drying out clothes. The sun is beaming down at them in long bright stripes. Will is sitting up, so in order to look at him, Mike has to shelter his eyes, his face scrunches in a grimace, front teeth exposed.
They are by Lover’s Lake, the rest of their friends are still in the water, their screams and sudden bursts of laughter reach them, although they are sitting a good distance away from the edge of the lake. It’s not only their party, who chose this day to come here, he recognizes people from their school, settled in agreeable distances away from each other in small groups.
Will sits with bent legs and outstretched arms resting on his bony knees. His hands hang limply from his relaxed wrists. They hover over the long pale expanse of Mike’s torso. He tries not to think about the inch of distance. Will’s nape is curved and his head hangs low. The drops of water from the ends of his unruly strands of hair drip down to the ground in an uneven rhythm. There’s a white, soaked, towel resting on his shoulders.
The light illuminates his profile, making his mahogany hair appear almost blond, the strands shine as if weaved with gold. His skin is still wet, cold droplets of water slide down his face, torso. He’s flushed, from the heat, that for the past few days has started to feel like a physical presence, slowing them down, cramping their muscles.
It’s not revolutionary thinking, or even a revelation for him, but Will looks pretty good like this. Frustrated twitch of brows from the beaming sun permanently etched into his features, partially undressed, the lines of his frame tensed and irritated, like he’s ready to just stand up and plunge into the lukewarm embrace of the lake. There is a reason the entire female student body of Hawkins High makes googly eyes at him.
He skims his head just a tad to his left to graze Mike with a look, only one of his eyes is opened. He shrugs one shoulder.
Will also does not care for prom. Which is nice. They can bond over that. Or they could bond over that, but every time the topic is brought up Will looks pained, or becomes dismissive. Which, fair. As who cares about prom? But whatever, it is a big deal to most people, to their friends for example. And just because he doesn’t care for it, doesn’t mean he can’t talk about it.
“This again?” He asks. He has a baritone voice, and when it’s low and quiet like this -it’s relaxing.
Mike has to look away because his eyes start to hurt. He lays fully on his back, adjusts his legs, stretches his arms by his sides. Grips the strands of dry grass underneath his fingers.
“It’s just weird, I guess.” He mutters. Being vague on purpose.
“How so?” Will indulges him.
Mike rips a few strands off the ground, he opens his palm, but they cling to his warm and sweaty skin. “I would think you’d have a date.”
Will snorts, turns his head back. “You don’t have anything better to think about?”
That makes him feel a bit defensive. He wipes his hands against his shorts and sits up. Moves so he sits directly in front of Will, cross-legged. „It’s just- you agreed with Eleven that prom is fun and stuff, like she told me- but to me you’ve said you don’t care for it.”
Will shrugs, he’s still looking down. “So what?”
That’s a good question. One that Mike can't think about too much. He persists, “So do you actually not care, or are you sulking because you don’t have a date?”
That makes him look up again. Or more like - shoot his head up. He’s squinting, his eyelashes create long shadows on his cheeks. “You don’t have one either.”
“Yeah- but that’s different.” Mike says, half convinced himself.
Will hums, raises his brows, “How so?”
“I don’t-.” Mike squirms, hitches his shoulders up and looks down for a moment. He exhales, a drawn out, unnerved sound. Before the words tumble out of his mouth, he skims his eyes over the horizon, looking to see if anyone is close enough to overhear them. “You have options.”
There is a beat of silence, just between them, he’s pretty sure he can hear Max’s tremendous yell echo through the air. Mike looks up to gauge Will's reaction. He’s smiling, cheeks round, soft lines appearing by the corners of his mouth. He moves his hands to his knees, interlocking his fingers. They are staring at each other, before Will shakes his head and laughs, breathy and disbelieving, “Oh yeah? Name one.”
He’s saying this like a joke, like something ridiculous. Like he would say ‘Name one successful DnD campaign started by Dustin’, or ‘Name one time you didn’t oversleep to a hangout on Saturday’. And definitely not ‘Name one person who would want to be my date to prom’. It’s Mike's turn to laugh. It escapes his lips in stuttered gasps, “I could name hundreds. Jennifer Hayes? Stacey Albright? Mindy Novak?”
Will's smile flickers out of his face, like a shunned out spark, he looks to the side. Shrugs. When he speaks, his voice is mellow, but perched just a bit away from irritation. “So what? I should just go out with them, because you think they like me?”
“First of all, I don’t think - I know.” Mike holds up his hands, this feels important. “And second of all, of course not, Will. My point is you can ask anyone, and I am sure they’ll agree.”
“Trust me they wouldn’t.” He says, like it’s final. A self-deprecating laugh escapes his lips at the end of his words, almost forced out of his lungs, like this is beyond ridiculous. Mike suddenly becomes aware of a new problem, something he couldn’t even imagine happening.
“Will,” he says, low, gravely concerned. It makes Will turn his gaze to meet his eyes, “Do you own a mirror?”
Will groans, pained, he leans back, rests his hands on the ground behind his back, crosses his legs to match Mike. The towel almost slips off his back. Mike can see the full expanse of his torso this way, the small mole on the right side of his ribcage, the small pinkish burn scar above his hip bone. His point stands.
“It’s not about that.” He smiles. But it quickly disappears off his face, like he failed to give it meaning. “I know they wouldn’t.”
Mike looks at him, dives head first into the sure tone of his voice and can’t stop himself from gasping. “Who are they?”
Will reddens before his eyes, as if the flush from the sun wasn’t enough. Even his neck blushes the vibrant red. He doesn’t hide, bends his neck and rests his ear on his shoulder. “No one.”
“Wh-Will?!”
There is no wind, but there's a hum in his head. Or a buzzing. It may be the feeling manifesting itself as a thought, but because it’s so enormous and ever consuming- Mike can’t make it out. His lungs shrink in his chest, breathing accelerates and he's looking for the confirmation in Will’s feign calm demeanor.
There is no way.
His thoughts jumble together and he- he feels so much all at once that to remain sane he can only think one thing, and it’s - ‘Will is interested in someone’. He likes someone. A person exists out there that Will is enamored with. One that makes him want to go to prom.
The heat doesn’t help, he feels fried, overcooked.
Will sits up, he reaches out and places his hand on Mike’s bare shoulder, “What’s wrong?”
His eyes are so bright. Adored with dark lashes, longer than Mike has seen on the girls he got close to over the years. Mike’s breath becomes an audible huff and Will looks worried, forgetting to be embarrassed, act coy. Mike swallows around his dry throat, eyes wide. “Nrmph-“
Will looks even more concerned, his brows bend upwards. He opens his mouth, but Mike beats him to it, “Nothing!”
He takes Will's hand in his own, and pulls it down. Because it does make him calm down he doesn’t let it go. Acutely aware of all the people around them, how at first glance it would be like to see them. Sitting alone, inches apart, holding hands. But it has context. Will has cold hands, despite the weather. Mike is freaking out for seriously insane reasons. They are best friends.
Mike has been in love with him for many strange, wonderful, scary years.
He’s holding Will’s hand in both of his own. In a way he would a captured butterfly, the feeling is similar -the delicate flutter of wings against his skin, to the quaver of nerves. Will lets him, his movement is restricted, but he tries closing his fingers against Mike’s hold.
“It’s nothing.” He repeats, partially to convince Will, maybe to calm himself down. To voice the truth. He keeps looking at their hands, “Just- you’re such a bad liar.”
The hand twitches, momentarily squeezes harder. Will's answer comes to him, traveling through the stagnant oppressive air, like a rejuvenating chilly breeze, “Y-yeah. I don’t like lying. To you.” He coughs, once. “You know…” He trails off, expecting Mike to make up his own meaning.
Mike lets go of his hand, before he will forget how to. He pretends to adjust his shorts. When he looks up, Will is already looking back, tense bottom lip pushed into the top one, eyebrows bend upwards in a sulky, cute way, that makes Mike want to tackle him to the ground. His face is really hot, and only some of it is from the weather. Mike smiles, “So tell me the truth.”
Will continues staring, close to them a radio static cracks before a song starts playing. They both turn to look. It’s trashy, way too loud and somehow breaks the weird tension Mike felt in his gut. They look back at each other and grin. Mike's shoulders shake with the quiet laughter. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he also needs to know everything, otherwise he won’t be able to fall asleep.
Because he knows Will will use this distraction as a reason to skip this conversation, he asks again, “Who is it?”
Will groans right away, covering his face in his hands. “Stop. It slipped out, okay? I didn’t mean it.”
This somehow makes it worse, “Well, I know you’ve meant it, so why don’t you want to tell me?”
Will slips the towel off his shoulder by pulling at the edge until it falls down. He shoots Mike one affronted look, like he is the one being ridiculous, before he pushes on his knees and stands up. Mike looks up, eyes trailing up his body, trained not to linger too long. Will holds up his hand, “You coming with?”
He shelters his eyes from the sun to properly look at Mike. The waistband of his shorts rest below his hip bones. Mike can only stick out his lanky arm and let himself be dragged upwards. Follow after his quick stride.
When Mike submerges himself in the water, the thought circles him, like a relentless shark. He’s thinking of every person he’s seen Will talk to or heard mentioned and no one sticks out, no one is special enough to be granted this. He inhales until his lungs are pushing at his ribs and dives in completely. For a moment it’s quiet, the swoosh of water is clogging any other sound. The peering scalding sun can’t reach him. If he stayed here, Will would have to haul him out, breathe air into his lungs. His heart pulls him up. He breaks the surface and comes out the same.
Mike really wasn’t aware of just how much he loved Will until the day he moved out to California.
He must have felt it before then, because it didn’t just manifest in one day, but he can’t pinpoint where that occurred. He was a child stumbling into life head first, the promised innocence stripped off him, mercilessly sounding like an echoing gun shot.
He doesn’t remember much of his life before Will went missing, not specific memories, only the general things he was doing. When Nancy points out something from their childhood to demean him or in rare moments of endearment, the memory does come back to him. The little he remembers is filled with Will. He doesn’t remember each one of his own birthdays, but he remembers meeting Will for the first time, when they sat next to each other in class, when Will first invited him over to his house.
Mike has nightmares about Will going missing to this day. Despite that the big bad is long dead, they are safe, and the only remaining supernatural aspect of Will is his ability to make Mike forget words when their hands touch. It must be cemented in his brain, wedged in the tight space between the enormous love he carries and the memory of solitude.
And yeah maybe Will was always special, different to him, but that doesn’t ultimately mean love or whatever. Then this eventful day happened, Mike suddenly had to be separated from him and Eleven, like having them both in his life at the same time was just too perfect. And instead of his heart breaking because he was going long distance with his girlfriend, his breath was coming to him in shallow uneven gasps- because Will was moving far far away from him, outside his reach.
It felt like losing him again. Although, he was safe and Mike knew where he was. His presence was missing. He wasn’t there. And the contact was so limited it made him incredibly frustrated on better days, angrily crying into his pillow on worse.
So he missed Eleven, and liked to read her letters. But if he even thought about Will, his day was ruined.
Years of repression, world saving, breaking up with wobbly smiles and growing used to having everything he has wanted - led to him kind of reluctantly facing the Mr. Hyde of it all.
Which finally leads him to the stupid prom.
He can’t believe this is how he’s finding out Will has a crush on someone. Will has never -ever shown interest in anybody. Ever. He always seemed a little put off by the idea of having a girlfriend and romantic relationships in general. Which is fair, there’s time for everything and they were busy -Will was significantly busier.
They never shied away from talking about that stuff. Mike has spent hours going on and on about his relationship with Eleven, seeking solace, asking for advice, ultimately discussing their breakup with not a lot of details and a suspiciously warm face. A part of him wanted Will to figure him out, when he told him, say something akin to - ‘Okay, now tell me the real reason’. See right through his weird, out of place, reluctance to tell him exactly why they broke up, outside of that they were better off as friends.
Which they are. And it’s true. But Mike never felt the same about the two of them. When he was with El, when he wasn’t. Will exists as a separate phenomenon inside his head. There are feelings, people in his life, relationships he forms, but there are his feelings for Will, his relationship with Will.
So because it’s an irrevocable part of his life and because he always has had it, it did make him angry that it’s romantic in nature.
But now he is seventeen, lived in those emotions for years and has met gay people. Also was in like a different dimension and fought monsters so it gave him like a really big perspective.
Still there are problems which affect millions and problems that won’t leave his head. Even if he bashes it against the wall, the spike lodged itself pretty tightly straight into his good senses.
He’s looking at Will with narrowed eyes. The boy of his dreams and nightmares is currently sipping juice out of a straw, not a care in the world. He’s wearing a yellow striped shirt with short sleeves, it’s tucked inside a pair of washed out jeans, that are suspiciously familiar. Max is sitting next to him, pressing her shoulder into his in a way, that if he wasn’t a little scared of her, Mike would point out to be a little too close. Give the boy some space, or whatever.
The stupid prom is tomorrow. They already made plans where to meet and what to do after. He coughs, the sound’s artificial and broken in half, but it gets him the attention of the room. They are hiding away from the heat in his basement, sprawled on various furniture and the floor- in his case. The fan buzzes in the corner, but it’s still naturally colder in here, below the ground.
They had plans to watch a movie, but they’ve been talking nonstop for over three hours and the time to put it on just kinda passed them by. It’s getting late.
Mike is sitting on the floor, directly opposite Will. His back is resting against the other sofa. Eleven’s knee is occasionally bumping into the back of his head. The ground is cold, and if it was actually clean, he would lay on it, sprawled out like a starfish.
Will turns from Max to look at him, he absentmindedly pushes his tongue against the straw, as he takes it out his mouth and Mike closes his eyes, finds his inner zen garden, before speaking, “I think we need to stage an intervention.”
The plan he came up with isn’t perfect. Maybe selfish. But it’s actually well meaning. Because Mike is sure the person Will likes would want to go to prom with him. He wasn’t sure of anything more. If this was a quiz show, he would bet all the price money on that.
“Is it about the goddamn one time I have smoked a cigarette?” Max grimaces, looking at him like it causes her physical pain. Mike offers her the same look and shakes his head.
“Lucas already did that. And it worked, seeing as it ended in one cigarette.”
She briefly looks at Lucas, her expression drastically changes, before her eyes flicker back to him, “You literally wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Mike throws out his arms, exasperated, “Yeah, Max! Who wakes up from a coma and smokes a cigarette? That’s like if you had brain surgery and went to a Reagan rally afterwards!”
Max splutters a laugh. Will smiles, the corners of his mouth digging into his cheeks, and reaches over to place the juice box on the table between them. She says, “There was like eight months between those two things.”
“No, Mike is right.” Lucas says from his place on the couch, he’s sitting on the other end, next to Eleven, half of his body resting against the armrest, “You really need to learn the repercussions."
He’s grinning, clearly joking. Max rolls her eyes, but a smile graces her twitching lips.
Mike slaps his hand against the table. “It’s not about that! This is a matter of grave importance, guys.” He swallows, the words feel heavy, “Will.”
Will looks to him, maybe has never stopped. He has his hands in his lap, his hair is puffy and frizzy from the heat, there’s little color in his face already.
“Remember our conversation at the lake?”
He groans right away, hides his face in his hands. Perches his elbows on his knees. “Shut up.”
Mike nods. “Yes, you do. Guys-.” Mike straightens, feels a bit self-conscious for a staggering moment, before taking a deep inhale. “Will has a crush. And he’s scared to ask them to prom.”
“That’s so cute, Will!” Eleven clasps her hands. They had a long and emotionally tiring conversation about their breakup, the topic has been exhausted, so Mike feels only a tad awkward about her cheering this on. “Who is it?! You have to tell us!”
Her voice gets high when she’s excited like this. Mike angles his head to show her his smile. This is going according to plan.
Max clasps Will’s shoulder, who’s still hiding behind his hands. She shakes him, mouth agape, the corners turned up in barely contained excitement. “Will!”, she exclaims, almost bashful, “I didn’t know you had that in you. Who’s the lucky gal?”
She jokes. Will finally moves his hands away. There’s a small crinkle between his straight eyebrows, his eyes wide and unsettled. He rakes his fingers through his hair, briefly looks over Mike to El, before sliding his gaze to Max. Avoiding Mike.
“It’s no one,” his voice is mellow, peeking from the low sound is the unbidden hesitance, that only appears when he's lying. He’s a bad liar. Stringing his words, not focussing his gaze. He throws his arm out, gesturing, “Mike’s just upset he doesn’t have a date and is trying to shift the attention towards me.”
Mike splutters. Their eyes meet and Will smiles. It flickers out, like a dimming light and he looks down at his hands. Max says something hurtful, about his relationship status, Lucas eggs her on, because she brings out the worst in him, also the best, and the worst is very subjective to Mike.
He can’t hear them well. Eleven starts playing with his hair, because he doesn’t move. His eyes are stuck, watching Will pick at the dry skin around his nail. He is so honest, like an open book, and this one thing clearly makes him upset. This is serious, and Mike's plan sucked.
About an hour later, they dispense. When Will tries to leave alongside the rest, Mike thinks quickly and wraps his arm around his shoulders, stopping him at the bottom of the stairs. He looks mildly confused, but doesn’t do anything to fight against the hold.
After saying their goodbyes, Mike leads him to the couch, sits down with the arm still around his shoulders, as if the second he were to let go, Will would run away. “I’m beat.”
It’s comfortable, he finds himself relaxing, leaning his head against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling. The words he meant to say are stuck in his throat, hurt like a rock sneaking in the shoe and digging into the sole of the foot. He feels filled with stones. Heavy, from the pressure of wanting everything. Maybe he pushes Will so much about this, because if Will wasn’t seemingly available, single with no interest in anyone whatsoever, then this wouldn’t feel like a possibility. Yes, Mike knows it’s unattainable, but his mind goes crazy, imagining a time, maybe in a few years, where he somehow convinces Will to give him a chance.
He wants to move his arm away, but they are sitting plastered to each other's sides, so there is no space for it between them. So he adjusts his hold, inches closer, grips with his fingers the short sleeve of Will’s shirt.
Will is sitting with an inclined head, chewing his bottom lip. He’s inhaling and exhaling evenly, deeply, like he’s trying to calm down. He’s so warm, like a little oven. And despite seeking anything cold, even lukewarm, in his vicinity, Mike is drawn to that warmth, wants to overheat inside it, forget himself.
He pushes his fingers under the sleeve. “I’m sorry.” He starts, throat dry.
Will immediately looks up, frowns while their eyes meet, he shakes his head, but doesn’t get a chance to say anything.
“I shouldn’t have said that. In front of them.” Mike focuses on looking him directly in the eyes. Despite knowing what Will sees, what he can’t actually see, he feels exposed, like a wired nerve, a poke would damage him beyond repair. “This is the first time you've ever shown interest in anybody, and it’s like sacred- I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Will smiles, soft lines frame his droopy eyes, he looks sweet. With rosied cheeks. Cramped into the space between Mike’s sprawling frame and the armrest. “Sacred?”
“Hmph,” Mike pats his chests, for a moment feeling the soft cotton material of his shirt. “You know.”
Will shrugs, looks away.
“I mean like- a first crush is a big deal, not anything weird.” Mike submits, feelings a bit flustered.
“I guess.” Will still keeps looking off to the side. His nose has a slight curve at the bridge. He wants to run his finger down his face and feel the bump under his skin. “It’s an old-”, he hesitates. “It’s not new. Almost doesn’t feel like a first.”
The weight of his beating heart drags him down, it’s mocking him, drumming with quick urgency. He wants time to stop. Wants to take a moment to understand why his brilliant best friend is always out of reach. ‘It’s not new’, meaning he felt this way for a long time.
“Tell me.” Mike croaks out.
Will turns to him again, he’s surprised, his face is flushed. He looks. He’s embarrassed, for sure, like he’s taunted, but also shy, troubled, staring with a pleading edge to his gaze. His hazel eyes shine, the light caught inside them is mesmerizing, rueful. He looks in love. He looks like this isn’t a crush. Mike cannot believe he wasn’t aware of this, of how deep it goes.
His arm instinctively tightens around his shoulder. Will shakes his head.
“Why?” It’s his turn to plead. “Please, Will. Do you think I will make fun of you? Is it someone I know? From our friend group?"
“Why do you need to know?” Will’s voice carries an alarmed edge, like he’s scared of the answer.
Mike laughs, it’s a bit mean, but he can’t help it. He wants to confess to everything. It’s something he thinks each time Will leans into his side when they’re sitting down, each time he makes him laugh, each time their eyes meet. He wants to say it.
Will is in love with some stupid girl, who doesn’t even know. And he must have felt, rightfully so, that not telling Mike would be better. Maybe he understood the nature of possessiveness he feels, maybe he saw through him that day.
They were just the two of them, like right now. Closed off from the world. They were laying on his bed over the covers. Mike was talking, while looking at Will's profile, who nodded at the right parts, told him he’s happy they stayed on good terms after breaking up. Mike held his hand, between their bodies, they’ve never brought that up either.
He tries to play it cool. Seeing as begging doesn’t work.
“Just tell me.” Mike shrugs one shoulder. His heart pulses, the rhythmic sound accelerates like he’s about to explode. He swallows, tries to joke, keeping his tone light, but this fragile, broken, part of him sabotages his voice, stops him from pretending, so it comes out quiet, “Why are you so secretive?” An exhale, and then, “Is it me?”
Will’s face turns bright red. His eyes fleetingly widen, an understanding flares up in the shift of light catching inside them. Mike can hear him breathe sharply in and not let it out.
Wait.
He grasps his shoulder, suddenly his nerves are lit on fire, he’s aware of every inch of his skin. He leans back, just to see Will better. He feels jittery, like his insides are a shaken soda can. Buzzing, sparkling.
“It is?!” He exclaims.
Will’s shoulder hitch up at the sound of his overly loud voice, their gazes connect like magnets and Mike can see it. He can see the fear pressed into the fragile shift reflecting in his eyes, the soft lines of his bottom eyelids twitching upwards.
Will suddenly attempts to retract from his hold, making a move to slip away from under his arm, like this is something he can run from. Mike feels like that one time, years ago, he ate two large slices of chocolate birthday cake because Will didn’t want his own, saying it was too sweet. It was too sweet. The sweetness stuck to the inner lining in his throat, hazing his mind, like a pink cloud of dust.
Mike pulls him closer into himself with the hold around his shoulders, before leaning in to kiss him. Just a brush of lips, quickly pressed into the center of Will’s mouth. It’s soft, tense under his own. He does not kiss back, doesn't move at all in fact. It still feels like Mike was zapped with electricity. The touch lingers on his lips, swirls like an afterimage on their surface.
He pulls back an inch. Puts his other hand over Will’s heart. His chest expands and moves the palm up, then down, his heart beating widely, like it was pushing a whole waterfall of blood throughout his body. Mike wants it to purify him, he wants to be there too. Will’s huffs land on his face. His breath is damp and hot, melting inside Mike’s mouth. His eyes look crazed, hands frozen. “You-”, his voice is almost gone.
Mike, with some reluctance, puts the hand from his chest away to grasp Will’s wrist instead; he lets him, spellbound. He moves his arm to his own shoulder. Will keeps it there. Mike’s hand travels from the wrist, to his upper arm, fingers skimming his skin, until it settles on his bicep, he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a kiss there, right under the edge of his sleeve. His skin is smooth, captivating.
Will makes a small sound in the back of his throat.
They must move at the same time. Will’s familiar, warm face is pressed against his own, closer than they ever were. Their mouths brush against each other, with an uncertainty at first, like every skim of skin is a question. Will kisses his top lip, his spit sweeps against his cupid’s bow. Mike inclines his head and reaches deeper. His eyebrows are furrowed, he focuses on the softness of Will’s lips, on the tension growing under his skin. It’s whirling around his nerve endings.
Mike moves his hand to Will’s torso, gripping at the expanse of his skin, unsettled. He slides his palm down his chest, ruffles the pressed shirt, undoes one button by accident, and grips Will’s side. Feels the bumps of his ribcage under his touch. He pulls him closer, their noses brush.
He’s not thinking, when his hand moves around to Will’s back and presses him towards his body. Prompts him to almost edge off the sofa in the pursuit to crawl into his skin. Will makes a sound, muffled against the kiss. It sounds higher than his normal speaking voice, surprised. Mike slides one leg under himself, without pulling away, kisses his bottom lip, lets his mouth stay there, pressing, as his nerves shimmer.
He looms over Will, rakes his fingers through his hair. The strands part easily, weighing nothing in his hand, soft and floppy, they overlap in his touch.
Mike brushes his tongue against his retreating mouth, leaning further in, until Will has to lay his head against the back of the sofa. Will flicks his tongue against his, in a sort of faltering, timid way. It draws him in. In pursuit of it, he licks the ridges of Will’s teeth.
It stops being chaste. He’s too eager to have it, too overwhelmed with Will kissing him back; uncoordinated with the clumsy attempts to match his touch. His mouth is so familiar, Mike can picture it perfectly, every curve, the shade, how it looks stretched into a smile. It’s like winning. It’s like two north poles of persistent magnets merging together, in spite of the time it took, of how fragile the touch feels.
Mike eventually pulls away, winded.
He would be self-conscious about how loud he’s breathing, if he was coherent. His eyelids feel heavy, lips raw.
Will keeps a hand on his nape, his fingers absentmindedly comp through the almost sticky from sweat curls. He licks his lips and Mike watches with fascination. Will’s looking up, eyes almost crossing to focus on Mike’s face so close to his own. Their chests push up against each other with every inhale.
“Will”, he says. Frighteningly, unsure if he can come up with anything else.
He’s rewarded with a kiss. Pressed into his mouth, chaste and gone before he can do anything about it. Will then brushes his lips against his cheek, his mouth feels warm even against the temperature of his skin.
Time passes and they stay this way. Eventually muster up words. Mike tells him about the summer of ‘85.
The next day they go to the stupid prom, spend an hour poking fun at their friends' dance moves, before sneaking out.
It’s dark and they meander down the street, restless but undecided on their destination yet. Mike reaches out and grazes Will’s hand, it’s cold- in spite of the weather. He looks handsome in the white shirt, loose tie. A bit like a groom. Mike tells him that, and he blushes, flustered. Pushes his shoulder, and Mike stumbles back a step, but manages to grab his wrist, pull him in, feel his surprised exhale on his lips.