Work Text:
December 1989
Mike sits in his car with the engine off, listening to the gentle rhythm of snow ticking against the windshield. The new Byers-Hopper house glows from the inside out, Christmas lights casting a multicolored haze over the snow-covered bushes below. The split-level is still new- bought by Joyce and Hop soon after their wedding the summer before- and tonight it’s hosting their inaugural Christmas party.
“A Christmas Extravaganza!” Joyce had declared weeks earlier at Friendsgiving. Hopper had been less enthused, though Mike caught the smile he gave her when she wasn’t looking. Will had only rolled his eyes, quiet affection lingering in the corners of his silence.
From the street, Mike can see that Mrs. Byers-Hopper? Byers-Hopper?- has gone all in. A full plastic nativity sprawls across the lawn, wreaths hang beneath every window, and a giant, glowing Santa stands guard by the front door. Inside, figures move from room to room, their laughter spilling out into the cold, tangled with music drifting through a cracked window.
Extravaganza indeed.
If only he could make himself go inside.
There’d been a careful distance between him and Will lately; one that became harder to ignore, with each passing day. What used to be easy and familiar has turned into something more foreign and deliberate: quiet, careful non-touches; moments where he could feel the words Will doesn’t say; both of them tiptoeing around the obvious.
He knows what he feels now, suspects- terrifyingly - that Will feels it too. And that’s the problem. He doesn’t want to lose the friendship, doesn’t want to change its shape just months before college pulls them in different directions, doesn’t want to pretend he hasn’t noticed how the world treats things - people - like this. Like them.
Snow keeps falling. The car grows cold.
The car grows cold but Mike doesn’t move, not until the front door opens and a shaggy head of hair pops out to peer through the snow.
Will. Of course.
He spots Mike’s car across the street and shoulders his way onto the steps, his arms wrapped only in that dumb Christmas sweater he’d found at a thrift store the week before, picking his way down the drive in Converse-clad feet.
Mike sighs and opens the door of Nancy’s - no, his - station wagon. “It’s freezing out here, what the hell are you doing?”
“Could ask you the same,” he calls back, standing firmly next to the mailbox. “Are you gonna come in?”
Mike crosses the street quickly, checking for cars as he moves, and joins him on the other side. “Nah,” he says. “Figured you’d bring the party out to me.”
Will laughs and a stupid thrill shivers through him at the sound. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and follows Will up the sidewalk.
“Everyone’s here already,” Will was saying, his voice light and giggly. Soon, they are inside, toeing off shoes and jackets to toss on the coat rack.
“Basement’s already a disaster,” Will says over his shoulder, leading them to the kitchen. “Erica took over.”
The house smells of pine and sugar cookies, and it hums with noise: overlapping voices and music and the low thud of footsteps upstairs.
Joyce, in her own Christmas sweater, intercepts them by the eggnog, already mid-motion, ladle in hand. Two bowls sit on the counter beside her, one marked KIDS in cheerful red marker, the other pushed farther back, conspicuously unmarked.
“Hey Mike, glad you could make it! Want any eggnog?” She asks brightly, as if his presence was not even a question.
Mike opens his mouth to decline out of reflex, but Will steps in front of him, peering into the bowls with exaggerated seriousness.
“Which one’s better?” Will asks.
Joyce snorts. “Nice try.”
She points firmly to the labeled bowl and pours them each a mug. “That one.”
Mike takes a sip. Sweet. Thick. Overpowering in only the way eggnog can be.
Will does too, and blinks, clearly unimpressed.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Thrilling.”
Joyce laughs and moves on, her attention caught from the next room. The moment she’s gone, Will leans in conspiratorially.
“Don’t drink that one,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”
Mike hesitates. “Why?”
Mike watches Will refill his mug from the unmarked bowl with an ease that catches him off guard.
“Will,” he says, before he quite knows why.
Will looks up, brows lifting in question, cheeks already flushed from warmth and laughter. “What?”
Mike hesitates. He hadn’t planned on saying anything, hadn’t even been sure what the feeling was until it was already there, lodged somewhere behind his ribs.
“Nothing,” he says finally.
Will studies him for a second, then shrugs, unfazed. “It has barely any rum in it.”
Mike nods, even though that’s not what’s bothering him.
He’s not worried about the eggnog. Not really. He’s had worse, done worse, made messier choices without thinking twice. If anything, he’s surprised to realize he doesn’t mind having some himself.
What surprises him is Will.
There’s a version of Will that’s lived in Mike’s head for a long time: careful, contained, quietly good in a way Mike never felt like he was. Someone who followed rules because the world had already taken enough from him. Someone Mike needed to protect.
This Will- warm, grinning, leaning in too close- doesn’t fit that picture.
And Mike doesn’t know what to do with that yet.
Will nudges him with his elbow. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Mike looks at him then- really looks- at the easy confidence in his smile, the way he’s standing like he belongs there, like nothing is weighing him down.
“I know,” Mike says.
He pours a little of the adult eggnog into his own mug anyway.
Will’s grin turns triumphant, his cheeks pink under the kitchen lights.
“It’s the good stuff,” he stage-whispers.
Mike takes a careful sip.
Oh.
He looks back at Will, suddenly understanding a few things all at once. The warmth, the ease, the way Will’s been standing just a little too close since he opened the door.
“You’ve been sneaking this all night, haven’t you?” Mike asks.
Will shrugs again, unapologetic. “Maybe.” He laughs then, real and unguarded, and grabs Mike’s sleeve, tugging him toward the stairs.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re missing everything.”
Mike lets himself be pulled, acutely aware of the heat curling low in his chest that has nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with the weight of Will’s fingertips on his arm.
“Everything” turns out to be Erica leading the group in a dangerous game of Truth or Dare.
“Nice of you to join us, Wheeler,” Max calls from Lucas’s lap, her own cup of eggnog balanced loosely in her hand.
Mike lifts his chin in greeting and takes in the scene. The basement is crowded and warm, bodies sprawled across couches and carpet, voices overlapping. A sliding glass door at the back looks out onto the snow-covered patio, fogged over from the heat inside.
Dustin stands in the middle of the room, mid-strip, grumbling loudly.
“Now,” Erica says. “Go outside and stand in the snow for twenty seconds.”
“You said ten!” Dustin protests.
“That was before I found out you wear Tweety Bird boxers, Henderdork. Twenty seconds.”
Max and El dissolve into laughter, nearly spilling their drinks, while Lucas buries his face in Max’s shoulder like he wants no part of this.
“Absolutely not,” Dustin says, clutching his shirt to his chest. “It’s freezing!”
“Correct,” Erica replies. “That’s the point.”
Steve, leaning against Eddie like he’s the only thing keeping him upright, raises his cup in solidarity. “For the record, this is why I don’t play games run by children.”
“You just lost rock-paper-scissors,” Eddie says, bumping his knee. “You suck at lying, Harrington.”
“True,” Steve admits with an amused smile.
Mike hangs near the edge of the circle, eggnog warming his hands and his head, trying to keep track of everyone at once. Nancy sits cross-legged on the floor with Jonathan beside her, her shoulder tucked against his knee while he twists absently at the string of her sweater. Robin has claimed the far end of the couch, snow boots still on, watching the chaos while Vickie remains deeply focused on a staring contest with the rug.
“Twenty seconds,” Erica says. “Go.”
Dustin lets out a dramatic groan and bolts for the sliding door, yanking it open just long enough to sprint barefoot onto the patio before slamming it shut behind him.
Erica skips across the room and locks it.
They wait.
Ten seconds in, there’s pounding.
“LET ME IN,” Dustin yells.
“Ten more seconds,” Erica says sweetly.
Mike laughs before he can stop himself and feels Will’s shoulder bump his as he leans closer to the door.
“Your sister is evil,” Will murmurs, glancing at Lucas.
“Yeah,” Lucas agrees. “But she’s an efficient Game Master.”
Mike looks back at Will. He’s smiling, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. He looks loose in a way Mike isn’t used to — like something around his edges has softened.
At twenty-one seconds on the dot, Erica flicks the lock and Dustin skids across the carpet, collapsing dramatically at Lucas’s feet.
“I hope you’re happy,” he gasps. “I can’t feel my toes. Or my balls.”
“Not my problem,” Erica says, scribbling something on the scrap of paper she’s appointed herself scorekeeper of. “Next.”
She looked up.
Her eyes flicked briefly between Mike and Will.
Mike felt it immediately, the shift in the air. He knew he was next, and he knew what he’d choose.
“Truth or dare,” Erica said, dragging the words out. “Will.”
Will blinked and finished his eggnog. “Uh. Truth.”
Erica’s grin widened.
Mike’s stomach dipped, and he didn’t know why but he was sure that whatever came next was going to matter more than it should.
“Who in the room makes you the most nervous?”
The question was followed with a series of “Ooohs” but Will just grins back. “Anyone who asks me questions like that.”
Rather than press further, she turns turns to Mike. “Truth or dare, Wheeler.”
The room goes quiet. Mike swallows. “Truth.”
Erica smiles, slow and deliberate, and Mike is sure he’s never hated a freshman more than this one.
“Is it mutual?”
Mike freezes. “Is what mutual?”
Erica doesn’t answer right away, instead levels him with a Look™️.
The room waits with her and Mike swears he can feel every set of eyes on him.
“Well,” Erica says finally, shrugging one shoulder. “If you can’t answer, then I guess that settles it.”
A collective groan ripples through the basement.
“Lame,” Dustin declares from the floor, tugging his shirt back on. “You can’t ask a vague question and then not explain it.”
“I absolutely can,” Erica says. “And I did.”
She tosses the scrap of paper over her shoulder, then claps once, sharp.
“Okay. Dare Round for the cop-outs. Rules state if you can’t legitimately complete your Truth or Dare, you must complete the opposite.”
Mike exhales, slow and shaky, his pulse still thudding in his ears.
Erica stands.
“Will,” she says, already moving. “Up.”
Will hesitates just long enough for Mike to notice, then he stands, setting his empty mug aside. His cheeks are still that adorable shade of flushed and his expression is unreadable but open.
Erica’s eyes flick to Mike.
“You too, Wheeler. Follow me.”
Mike’s first instinct is to protest. “How am I a cop out?” He asks, even as he stands, legs feeling strangely light, and follows her to the doorway between the basement and the stairs.
That’s when he sees it.
Mistletoe.
It hangs a little crooked from the frame, unmistakable and stupid and very, very deliberate.
“Oh, come on,” Steve mutters, somewhere behind them. Eddie laughs.
Robin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like delight.
Max’s eyebrows lift, just slightly.
Erica steps back, hands behind her back, satisfied. “Rules are rules.”
Mike’s mouth goes dry.
“I dare you both to stand under the mistletoe.”
He’s suddenly, acutely aware of how close Will is — close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off him, can smell nutmeg and something distinctly Will underneath it. Will looks up at the mistletoe, then back at Mike, his expression careful, searching.
The room is quiet again. Not teasing. Waiting.
Mike’s heart pounds hard enough that he’s sure Will can hear it. This is it, he thinks: the thing he’s been circling all night, all year, the thing he’s been too afraid to touch. He leans in before he can overthink it, before fear can catch up.
And then, at the last second, he shifts. This isn’t what he wanted, it’s not how any of this should have gone.
Instead of Will’s mouth, he presses a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
The room explodes.
“Oh my GOD,” Dustin groans. “BOOO.”
“That was the biggest cop-out I’ve ever seen,” Steve says, half laughing.
Erica stares at Mike like she might actually throw something at him. “I cannot believe I orchestrated all of that for that.”
Mike pulls back, heart racing, his face burning. “What? You said-“
“I said rules,” Erica snaps. “Not semantics.”
Will’s hand comes up, fingers brushing his own cheek where Mike kissed him, and the look he gives Mike is neither angry or embarrassed.
Before he can even try to read further into it, Erica has lost interest in them, turning her attention back to the group at large. The next game they decide on is Euchre, which Mike happily stays out of.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” he says to no one in particular, and excuses himself from the room.
He makes it to the bathroom down the hall, next to Will’s room, before he lets out the breath he’d been holding in one sharp gasp. Palms braced on the counter, he stares at his own reflection in the darkened mirror over the sink. His pupils are wide and he’s somehow even more pale than usual. His heart is still racing, face warm, the echo of the room’s reaction buzzing in his ears. He breathes in slowly, trying to get his feet back under him.
He hears footsteps behind him, which stop at the open door.
“Wow,” Erica says mildly. “You didn’t wash your hands.”
Mike closes his eyes. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Clearly,” she says, and there’s no bite in it this time. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him like she’s reassessing a puzzle. “You know you ruined my whole plan, right?”
He turns to face her then. “You can’t just do that.”
Erica lifts an eyebrow. “Do what?”
“Push people,” Mike says. His voice is steady, even if he doesn’t feel it. “Like we’re your little puppets to do your bidding. You don’t get to decide when.”
For a second, he expects her to laugh it off. To snap back. To call him a coward again.
Instead, she exhales through her nose.
“I thought I was helping,” she says. Quieter. Less sure. “You two have been doing your little dance for months. I thought I could help speed things up a bit.”
Mike swallows. “That doesn’t mean-“
“I know,” Erica cuts in, holding up a hand. “I know.” She studies him for a moment, eyes serious.
There’s a beat of silence between them, the noise from the basement muffled but still present: laughter, music, life continuing without them.
“I like him,” Mike says finally, the words tumbling out before he can overthink them. Saying it out loud feels strange and grounding all at once. “I’ve liked him for a while. And I didn’t want that-“ He gestures vaguely toward the stairs. “To be the way he finds out how I feel.”
Erica’s expression shifts again. Softer. Thoughtful.
“So that’s what that was,” she says. “You weren’t bailing. You were saving.”
“Yes,” Mike replies, relief and frustration tangled together. “And I don’t need you forcing it. Or making it into a joke.”
She nods once, then says, “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Erica adds like an afterthought, like she’s not used to saying it without coercion. “I wasn’t trying to mess things up. I just… thought if I pushed hard enough, you’d both stop overthinking.”
Mike snorts. “You’ve met me.”
She almost smiles at that.
“For what it’s worth,” Erica says, uncrossing her arms, “no one down there cares. Like, genuinely. Steve’s practically dating Eddie, Robin’s been obvious forever. You guys are late to the party.”
Mike huffs a laugh.
“And if anyone else decides to be weird about it?” She shrugs. “Congratulations. They get me.”
Mike looks at her and feels something in his heart ease a fraction.
“Thanks,” he says.
Erica tilts her head. “You gonna talk to him?”
“Yeah,” Mike says, surprising himself with how sure he sounds. “Just… not tonight.”
She nods, satisfied. “Good.”
Then she turns to go, already halfway back down the hall before she pauses.
“Oh,” she adds over her shoulder. “And Mike?”
Mike raises his brows.
“That was the most respectful cop-out I’ve ever seen,” she pauses. “Nerd.”
And then she’s gone.
Breathe, Mike. Breathe.
He waits a few minutes more before heading back to the main area, letting the noise of the party swell again around him. Laughter. Music. Someone arguing about euchre rules as if they mattered at a Christmas party.
His eyes find Will first, of course, and for half a second, Mike almost ruins it right there.
Almost shoves him back against the wall, almost kisses him until the world narrows to heat and breath and certainty. Almost lets everyone else fade into nothing.
The thought hits him hard enough that he has to look away.
“Hey,” Will says anyway, smiling at him like he always does, easy and warm and dangerous. “Wanna go look at Christmas lights? A few of us are gonna go for a walk.”
A walk would be nice, Mike thinks. Cold air. Space. Something to steady himself. It would help sober him up. Not that he’s anywhere near drunk.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds great.”
They drift up the stairs, pulling on boots and coats, and looping scarves around necks. Joyce’s voice floats from the kitchen, warning them not to wander too far and to please watch for cars.
The cold hits them all at once, sharp and bracing, with snow crunching underfoot. Breath blooms in the air, laughter trailing behind it.
Pairs form without discussion.
Max slips her hand into Lucas’s pocket like it’s muscle memory. Steve throws an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, nearly knocking him sideways. Robin and Vickie fall into step together, heads bent close, their conversation already private. El drifts between everyone, careful to give Mike and Will distance.
Mike only realizes how close he’s walking beside Will when their shoulders brush.
Neither of them moves away.
They lag behind the others, the group stretching out along the partially shoveled sidewalk, voices overlapping ahead. The street is quiet, houses glowing with Christmas lights, the snow reflecting everything back brighter.
Steve slows at the front, glancing back toward the house and earning a middle finger from Mike. “Okay, not here.”
Eddie grins, already digging into his jacket. “Relax, Harrington. I respect the badge.”
“You respect not getting arrested,” Robin says.
“Same thing.”
They all laugh, ducking briefly behind a snow-laden hedge, breath fogging thick in the cold.
Will tucks his hands into the sleeves of his coat as they move past the group. “It’s colder than I thought.”
Mike nods. “Yeah.”
Their steps sync without effort and Mike watches as their breath follows suit.
Briefly, it feels like the night is holding its breath. Like if Mike turned his head just slightly -
An errant snowball hits Will square in the back of the neck.
“HEY—”
Another one follows, this time barely missing Mike.
“Oh, it is on,” Mike says, already scooping up snow with his bare hands.
Chaos erupts instantly: obnoxious laughter, shouts, and snow flying in every direction.
Will laughs, startled and impossibly gleeful, and Mike barely has time to react before a snowball explodes against his shoulder. He catches his gaze, grinning.
The moment breaks, swallowed by the fight. But, it doesn’t disappear, and by the time they trudge back to the Byers-Hopper household they’re all tingling, breathlessly covered in snow.
🎄🎄🎄
Mike wakes the next morning to light spilling into the basement’s main room, piercing through his closed eyes from his spot on the couch.
It spreads across the floor in pale bands, catching on the edge of his jacket where he dropped it on the chair the night before. His mouth tastes like sugar and stale air, his head heavy but clear enough that there’s no confusion about everything that had happened.
Unfortunately.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, replaying everything he didn’t do. Everything he almost did. The weight of Will’s shoulder beside him on the sidewalk. The warmth of his laugh. The brief, devastating softness of his cheek under Mike’s mouth.
He sits up with a groan.
Upstairs, the house is already awake. Someone is making coffee. Joyce hums, off-key and cheerful, and Hopper’s voice rumbles in response to something she says.
Normal.
He wonders if Will is awake and figures his best bet would be to check with Joyce first, rather than stand in his bedroom with a potentially sleeping Will.
Mike pulls on his shoes and jacket before heading up the stairs, moving on instinct more than anything.
“Morning,” Joyce calls. “There’s coffee if you want it.”
“Thanks,” Mike says, already scanning the room.
She follows his gaze and smiles like she knows exactly what he’s looking for. “Will went outside. Said he wanted some air.”
Mike nods once and doesn’t trust himself to answer.
Mike steps onto the porch and the cold hits him again, instantly chilling him despite his coat. The yard is quiet, the snow untouched save for a single set of footprints leading toward the back of the property.
He follows them, stepping carefully into each one so as to protect his own shoes from the snow cover.
Past the tree line, the footprints wind between thin, leafless trees, stretching on for several yards. The crisp air tinges Mike’s nose and ears red, and he tugs his hood tighter around his face.
He hasn’t been out here before. Has no idea where it leads.
Between school and part-time jobs, their time together has already grown scarce. He knows their younger selves would have jumped at the chance for new woods to explore. Maybe they would’ve built another Castle Byers. Higher this time. Safer. Anything to keep Will protected.
After several minutes, the footprints veer left, down a shallow embankment, and end at the edge of a small, ice-covered pond.
And there he is.
Will sits bundled in layers on an old fallen log, his back to Mike, face turned toward the water. A faint cloud of breath drifts in and out, slow and steady. Mike pauses, suddenly unsure if he wants to interrupt something that feels earned.
He doesn’t get the choice.
Will turns, meeting his eyes.
Mike’s feet move before he quite realizes it, and a moment later he’s standing beside him, taking in rumpled hair and the old quilt wrapped around Will’s coat.
“Wasn’t sure you’d find me out here,” Will says easily, scooting over on the log.
Mike sits and wordlessly accepts the edge of the quilt when Will offers it.
“I didn’t think I could get used to the trees again,” Will continues, gaze still fixed on the pond. “It’s easier with the snow. Everything’s bare. Clean.”
Mike lets him talk.
There were so many moments where Mike couldn’t shut up, where even he got tired of hearing himself. But Will? Mike could listen to him for days. Years.
“Jonathan showed me this place before he left for school last summer,” Will says. “He and Nancy found it on one of their walks. I like to sketch here.”
He hands Mike the sketchpad Mike hadn’t noticed before and flips to the most recent page.
The drawing steals the air from Mike’s lungs. The pond is nearly identical- the angle, the stillness, the quiet- rendered with a realism that makes it feel alive.
“I love it,” Mike says, honestly. “You’re so talented, Will.”
His eyes burn the longer he looks, and he hates himself for it. For crying now. For not being able to stop.
Will notices, because of course he does. His expression softens, that familiar crease forming between his eyebrows.
“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
That does it.
Mike sniffs, wiping at his face with his sleeve, breathing in the cold before answering. How is he supposed to say everything he’s been avoiding saying?
“It’s just-” He stops, tries again. “You’re incredible. You’re amazing. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Will smiles, but Mike doesn’t stop.
“And in eight months I’ll be at IU, and you’ll be at Ball State, and I know it’s only, like, three hours, but what if everyone at IU sucks?” He laughs weakly. “I’ve heard business school is brutal, and that’s all my dad talks about -Kelley this, Kelley that-”
He grips the sketchpad tighter, words spilling now.
“You’re gonna be a famous artist, like Jim Davis or something, and I’ll be some boring businessman just like my dad, and I’ll never see you again and-”
“I’m not going to Ball State,” Will says quietly.
The words land like an avalanche settling, taking the world as he’s known it and turning it on its head.
Mike freezes. “You- wait. What? Where are you going?”
Will shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the ice. “I got a scholarship letter from IU last week. Early admission.” He hesitates. “I sent my rejection to Ball State on Friday.”
Mike stares at him, speechless for maybe the second time in his life.
“I’m actually thinking about psychology,” Will adds, fingers worrying the edge of the quilt. “Maybe a minor in art. I think it’d be nice to help kids like… me.”
He trails off.
“You mean kids who are gay?”
Will freezes this time, and Mike is sure he’s fucked up.
“Well,” Will says after a moment, “I meant kids who were abducted by supernatural entities and held hostage in a foreign dimension. But I guess the odds of me helping a gay kid are pretty high, too.”
Mike laughs - a full, gut-wrenching, body-shaking laugh that sends Will into an equal fit of hysterics. Soon they’re both laughing too hard to breathe, and somewhere between the gasps come more tears. Tears of relief. Of happiness. Of everything in between.
Mike takes a deep, shuddering breath, wipes at his eyes, and scoots closer.
“I didn’t want to lose you again,” he whispers. “I don’t think I could survive it.”
“You don’t have to,” Will promises, slipping an arm around Mike beneath the quilt.
His hand is warm despite the cold, and they lean together as the sun brightens, scattering glitter across the snow.
“Can I ask you something?” Will murmurs, sinking into Mike’s shoulder.
“Always.”
“Last night,” Will says, quiet but steady, “I wanted you to kiss me. For real.” He shifts, just enough to look at him. “Did you want to kiss me too?”
Mike doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to kiss you.”
Will’s breath catches. “Then why don’t you?”
So he does.
Turning to face him better, Mike leans in, expecting his nerves to catch up with him. He expects his heart to race, his thoughts to scatter the way they always have before. He expects the moment to feel too big for his body. Part of him even expects it to feel wrong, kissing Will.
It doesn’t.
This kiss is warm and certain, Will’s mouth fitting against his in a way he hadn’t known possible. Mike exhales into it, breath leaving him in a way that feels earned, not stolen.
Other kisses had been loud inside him. All urgency and fear and hope tangled together, like he was trying to convince himself of something.
With Will, he doesn’t need convincing.
Will’s thumb brushes his jaw, grounding him there, and Mike feels something lift in his chest. Not fireworks, or panic; just a quiet, expansive joy that makes everything else feel smaller by comparison.
When they break apart, Mike’s smiling without realizing it. He knows his chest is going to explode with how good, how right, everything feels.
He’s never felt this light before.
“Oh,” Will says softly, a matching smile on his face. “Wow.”
Mike catches Will’s hand, lacing their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Because it is.
Being with Will has always felt a little like breathing: easy, unconscious, and suddenly impossible to imagine living without.
The realization lands softly within him, settling warm and sure against his bones. The pond stays frozen. The world doesn’t change. And yet, something shifts- quiet and undeniable- giving Mike something he’s wanted for longer than he ever let himself admit.
He presses a kiss to each of Will’s knuckles, then leans in to meet him again. The kiss is stronger this time. Deeper. Certain. A promise of something more.
Mike knows this part is real.
And this time, he isn’t afraid to keep it.