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The thing about being best friends with Will Byers is that Mike knows exactly how talented he is.
Most importantly, Mike knows Will can draw.
I mean no shit, he's obviously known this since they were kids. Will's the one who sketches out all their D&D campaigns, turns Mike's completely incoherent rambling into actual maps that make sense. He paints the miniatures. He's good at art, whatever, Mike knows this.
Except apparently knowing it and actually seeing it are two completely different things and Mike is currently having some kind of weird crisis about it in his basement.
It's July. Three weeks into summer break. Outside was hot, sticky, and humid. The kind of weather where your shirt sticks to your back and you feel gross five seconds after showering. The campaign's on pause until Dustin gets back from camp so they'd decided to do something different—paint their D&D characters on actual canvases.
It was kind of Will's idea. Mike had mentioned it as a joke and Will had gotten this look on his face, all excited and nervous, bouncing on his heels a little, and Mike's chest had done this thing. So now they're here in Mike’s basement.
Two canvases are propped up against milk crates, cheap acrylics from the art store spread out everywhere, the basement smelling like paint and summer. Mike's pretty sure he has blue on his face somewhere but honestly he doesn't care.
"Don't look yet," Will says for like the third time, angling his canvas away.
"I'm not!"
"You literally just tried to."
"That was—shut up."
Will grins at him. There's red paint on his jaw and Mike has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it off, which is weird, right? That's a weird thing to want to do.
They've been like this since spring, closer. Ever since Lenora and the van and everything Will said—the stuff Mike still thinks about at two in the morning when he can't sleep. They're rebuilding something. It's not quite what they had before but it's not distant either. It's something new and Mike doesn't really know what to call it and he's definitely not thinking about it right now.
He looks down at his canvas.
At the stick figure.
Because that's what it is. A stick figure. A very detailed stick figure with really carefully painted robes and a perfectly rendered holy symbol, but still very much a stick figure.
It had started out okay! He'd done the basic sketch like they learned in art class—head, body, arms, legs. He'd tried to get the pose right. But somewhere around actually painting the arms he'd realized he was way out of his depth and he'd just... simplified. A lot.
Will's going to hate it. Or worse, he's going to pretend to like it to be nice and Mike's going to have to live with that forever.
"Okay," Will says, sitting back. Paint everywhere—his hands, his jeans, somehow on his neck. Smiling in that soft way that makes Mike's stomach do things. "Ready?"
Mike swallows. "Sure."
They turn their canvases at the same time.
Mike's breath just—stops.
Because that's him. That's supposed to be him, except it can't be, because—
Except it is. His paladin in full armor, sword raised, standing against some threat Mike can't see. But it's not just that Will's technically good at painting, which he obviously is. It's not the shading or the three-dimensional quality or all the tiny details on every buckle and strap.
It's the expression.
Determined. Brave. Heroic. Like someone you'd actually want fighting next to you. Like someone worth painting.
Like Will sees Mike as someone worth painting.
"Will," Mike breathes and he can't look away. "This is—"
But Will's not listening. He's staring at Mike's stick figure with the biggest, most genuine smile Mike's ever seen.
"Mike," Will says, voice all soft. "This is amazing."
Mike blinks. "What? It's a stick figure."
"It's perfect." Will reaches out, fingers hovering over the robes like he's scared to smudge it. "Look at all these details. And you got the holy symbol exactly right—I can't believe you remembered. This is so—god, Mike, I love it."
"You actually like it?" Mike asks and he sounds bewildered even to himself.
"Are you kidding? I'm hanging this up." Will finally looks away from the painting to look at Mike and his expression is so open, so stupidly happy it makes Mike's chest ache. "This is going right next to my bed. I'm keeping it forever."
"You're insane," Mike says but he's smiling too.
He looks back at his portrait. At Will's version of him.
"Is this really how you see me?"
Something shifts in Will's face. The smile softens, goes almost shy. "Yeah," he says quietly. "That's exactly how I see you."
They're sitting close. Knees almost touching. The afternoon light comes through the basement window, hits Will's profile, turns everything gold. There's still paint on his jaw and his hair's a mess and he's looking at Mike like—
Like Mike's something precious.
Mike's heart is hammering as he's suddenly aware of every almost-touch—their knees barely an inch apart.
Will's hand is on the floor between them, fingers splayed, and still covered in paint.
It would be so easy. Lean in. Close that tiny distance. Press their mouths together and finally know what it's like to kiss Will Byers.
Mike thinks about it. Really thinks about it. What it would feel like. Whether Will would kiss him back or pull away. Whether Mike's imagining the way Will looks at him sometimes—like maybe he wants the same thing.
The thought is terrifying and exciting all at once. Mike’s convinced he might actually combust if he lets himself think about it too long.
But then Will ducks his head, that small smile still there, and says, "Your painting's way better though."
The moment breaks. Mike breathes out. He didn't even realize he was holding his breath.
"Shut up," he says, nudging Will's shoulder. "I'm keeping mine forever too."
They clean up after that. Bicker about whose painting is worse (better?). When Will leaves he takes the stick figure carefully under his arm like it's valuable and Mike just stands there for a while after.
Staring at his portrait.
At the way Will painted him like a hero.
Like someone worth looking at.
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Mike's never been good with weapons.
He can swing pipes and baseball bats when the world's ending, sure. Throwing things if he has to. But guns? Guns are different. Guns need precision and steady hands and confidence Mike definitely doesn't have.
So right now he's standing behind Hopper's cabin, palms sweating, trying very hard not to look terrified.
It was Hopper's idea, shooting lessons. Practical, he'd said. After everything, they should know how to handle a gun. Joyce had argued but eventually gave in.
So here they are. August afternoon. Mike, Will, El, Jonathan. Standing in a line like summer camp except they're learning to shoot things.
El goes first. Perfect, obviously. Three shots, three cans gone. Hopper looks proud and unsurprised. She could probably just explode them with her mind but whatever.
Jonathan goes next. He's awkward with it, uncomfortable, but hits two out of three.
Then it's Mike's turn.
Fuck.
The gun's heavier and colder than he expected. It feels wrong in his hand, dangerous in a way that makes his stomach flip.
"Alright," Hopper says. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent. Weight forward. Both hands."
Mike tries but his hands are shaking and everyone's watching. El's probably bored already. Jonathan's thinking about Nancy.
And Will—
Will's watching with those eyes that see too much and Mike's trying so hard to look competent. Confident. Not completely terrified.
"You're too tense," Hopper says.
Mike tries to relax. It makes it worse.
Then Will's there. Stepping close.
"Here," Will says softly and his hands settle on Mike's shoulders.
Mike forgets how to breathe.
Will's fingers press into the knots there, working them loose. "Relax," he murmurs and his breath ghosts over Mike's ear and Mike's going to die. "You're not gonna shoot yourself, I promise."
"That's reassuring," Mike manages but his voice sounds weird.
Will laughs quietly. Just for him. Then his hands slide down Mike's arms, over his forearms, adjusting his grip. Mike's hyperaware of everywhere they're touching—Will's chest almost against his back, hands around his, guiding.
"Like this," Will says and shifts Mike's stance, one hand on his hip. Thumb pressing into Mike's hipbone through his jeans.
Mike's brain is offline.
"See? Much better."
Mike can't see anything except Will's fingers wrapped around his. Can't think about anything except how close Will is, how easy it would be to turn his head—
"Take your shot, Mike," Hopper calls.
Mike fires. Recoil jolts through him but Will steadies him immediately with his hands firm on Mike’s shoulders and hip.
The can wobbles. Doesn't shatter but close enough.
"Nice!" Will grins and the pride in his voice makes something warm unfurl in Mike's chest. "See? You're good at this."
"Only because you helped."
"Still counts." Will's hand lingers on his shoulder before dropping away. Mike immediately misses the warmth. "Go again."
Mike does. This time, whether because he's less nervous or because he can still feel the ghost of Will's hands, he hits it dead-on. The can explodes.
Will whoops. Actually whoops, arms up like Mike just won a championship.
And Mike—Mike can't stop smiling. Can't stop looking at Will, flushed and happy.
Later, after El wanders off, after Jonathan goes inside, Mike and Will stay in the clearing. The sun is starting to set, painting everything orange and gold. Will's explaining something about stance and breathing and Mike's trying to listen.
But mostly he's watching Will's mouth. The way his hands gesture, still paint-stained from this morning.
The way the light catches his hair.
"Are you listening?" Will asks, teasing.
"Yeah," Mike lies. "Totally."
Will rolls his eyes but he's smiling. "Sure. What did I just say?"
Mike has no idea. "Something about... breathing?"
"You're hopeless." But it's fond. Will steps close to adjust Mike's grip again. Fingers warm. "Here. One more time."
Mike raises the gun. Focuses on the target—can on a fence post twenty feet away. Breathes the way Will taught him.
Will's hand rests on his lower back. Gentle pressure.
Mike pulls the trigger and the can goes flying.
"Yes!" Will's hand tightens on his back, then he's turning Mike around, grinning wide enough to make Mike's heart stutter. "That was perfect!"
They're standing close. Closer than necessary. Will's hand still on his back, Mike still holding the gun. For a second they just look at each other.
Will's smile fades to something softer. Eyes drop to Mike's mouth. Just for a second before snapping back up.
Mike thinks: I could kiss him right now. Right here, sun setting, no one is around. I could just—
"Boys!" Joyce calls from the cabin. "Dinner!"
The moment shatters. Will steps back, dropping his hand. Cheeks pink. Mike can't tell if it's the heat or something else.
"We should go," Will says.
"Yeah," Mike agrees.
They walk back side by side and Mike tries not to think about Will's hand on his back. Tries not to think about how badly he wanted to close that distance.
He tries not to think that Will maybe wanted it too.
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Mike wakes up to rain hammering the window.
For a minute he just lies there, disoriented. Power's been out three days—something with the lines. The house is cold and quiet without the usual hum.
Thunder rolls overhead. Close enough to rattle the window.
Then he hears it. A small sound from the mattress on the floor. Sharp intake of breath.
Will.
Mike had offered his room when the basement got too cold. Jonathan's sneaking into Nancy's room every night anyway and Mike couldn't stand the thought of Will down there alone. So he'd dragged up the spare mattress and Will had accepted with this grateful smile that made Mike's chest tight.
Three nights now. Sleeping in the same room.
Mike's losing his mind.
"Will?" he whispers.
No answer. But Mike can hear him breathing. Quick and shallow. Awake. Scared maybe.
Mike remembers this. When they were kids Will hated thunderstorms sometimes. He would show up at Mike's door soaked from running through the rain and Mike would let him in. Mike made up stories about knights and wizards until Will fell asleep.
They haven't talked about it in years. But Mike remembers.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Will says but his voice is tight. "Just—can't sleep."
Mike should stay in bed and let Will deal with it on his own. They're sixteen, not ten.
But he can't. He physically can't lie here and listen to Will trying to steady his breathing.
Mike slides out of bed, plants his bare feet on the cold floor, and pads over to Will's mattress. He can barely see him in the dark—curled up small, shoulders hunched.
"Scoot over," Mike says.
"What?"
"Scoot over."
There’s a pause. Mike can almost hear Will thinking, weighing whether to argue. Then the blankets rustle as Will shifts, making room.
Mike climbs in. The mattress is narrow so they're immediately pressed close—shoulders touching, legs tangling. The blanket barely covers them both.
"You don't have to—" Will starts.
"Shut up."
Thunder cracks overhead. Loud enough that the house shudders. Will flinches.
Without thinking Mike wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer.
Will goes still. Then slowly relaxes into Mike's side, head tucked against Mike's shoulder.
"Remember when we were ten," Mike says quietly, "and there was that huge storm? You showed up at like two AM, completely soaked."
"I was scared," Will admits. Voice muffled against Mike's shoulder.
"I know. So I made up that stupid story about the knight and the dragon. I talked for like an hour."
"It wasn't stupid." Will's breath is warm against his neck. Mike tries not to think about how close they are. "I still remember it. The knight saved the wizard from the storm giant. They hid in a cave."
Mike smiles into the dark. "Yeah."
"The knight promised he'd always protect the wizard. No matter what."
Something twists in Mike's chest. He tightens his arm around Will. "Yeah. He did."
Outside the storm continues. Rain lashing, wind howling, and thunder crashing. But here, with Will pressed warm against his side, it feels safe.
Will's relaxing. Breathing evening out. His hand's on Mike's chest, right over his heart. Mike wonders if Will can feel how hard it's beating.
"Mike?" Will murmurs, half-asleep.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For this. For..." Trails off.
Mike knows what he means. For still being the person Will comes to. For not making it weird. For being here.
"Always," Mike says and means it.
Will sighs, soft, shifts closer. Hair tickles Mike's chin. Will’s hair smells like rain and the basement and something uniquely Will. Mike wants so badly to kiss the top of his head. His temple. To turn his face up and kiss him properly.
But Will's already drifting off. Body growing heavy. Breathing deepens. His hand on Mike's chest relaxes.
So Mike just holds him. Listening to the rain as he tries to memorize this—Will in his arms, trusting him.
When Mike finally falls asleep it's with Will's head on his shoulder.
In the morning they'll wake up tangled together. There'll be a moment of panic. But then Will will smile, soft and shy, say "Thanks for last night," and Mike will say "Anytime," and they'll pretend sleeping in each other's arms is totally normal.
For now Mike just holds him and thinks about kissing him and doesn't.
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Mike finds it by accident.
Tuesday afternoon, September. School's back. Mike's in the basement looking for his calculus notebook. He’s pretty sure he left it here yesterday working on the campaign with Will but it's not on the table.
He’s checking the shelves—maybe got mixed in with Will's art stuff—when he spots the canvas against the wall.
It’s facing away. But Mike can see the edge of the frame. Something about it makes him pause.
He shouldn't look. Knows he shouldn't. Will's art is private.
But curiosity wins because Mike's fundamentally nosy.
He flips it around.
His breath caught quickly.
Because it's him.
Not his D&D character. Just Mike. Mike Wheeler sitting on the basement couch, head tilted back, laughing at something outside the frame. Detail is insane—hair falling across his forehead, curve of his smile, light in his eyes. Will even got the freckles that dust Mike's nose in summer, already fading now that it's fall.
But it's more than technical skill.
It's how Will painted him. Like he's worth looking at. Worth capturing. Like Mike's laugh is something beautiful enough to put on canvas.
Mike's hands shake holding it.
This is how Will sees him.
Footsteps on the stairs. Mike tries to prop the painting back but his hands are clumsy and he's not fast enough—Will's there, freezing halfway down when he sees what Mike's holding.
"Mike—"
"Sorry," Mike says quickly, words tumbling. "I wasn't snooping, I swear, I was looking for my notebook and I saw it and—"
"It's not—" Will's face is bright red. Clutching the railing like it's keeping him upright. "I mean, I was just practicing. For class. It doesn't mean—"
"Will," Mike says.
"—anything, it's just homework, Mrs. Adams said draw from life and you were there so—"
"Will."
"—I didn't think you'd see it, I was going to hide it or paint over it—"
Mike closes the distance in three strides. Not thinking anymore, just moving. Driven by his thundering heart and the ache in his chest and the way Will painted him like he's precious.
He stops right in front of Will on the stairs. Will's eyes went wide and panicked. Waiting for rejection. Disgust.
But Mike's not disgusted. Opposite of disgusted. Doesn't even know what that is but that's what he is.
He reaches up. Cups Will's face in both hands.
"It's amazing," Mike says, voice rougher than intended. "You're so talented, Will. I can't believe—I can't believe you see me like that."
Will's breath hitches. Eyes searching Mike's face like trying to figure out if this is real. "How else would I see you?"
God, Mike wants to kiss him. Wants to surge up and press their mouths together and show Will exactly what he thinks. Of the painting. Of being seen like that. Of being looked at with that kind of care.
Thumbs brush over Will's cheekbones. Will's skin is hot under his palms.
Mike could do it right now. No one’s home—Nancy's at Jonathan's, his parents are at work, Holly’s at a friend's. It’s just them and the empty basement.
Will's eyes drop to Mike's mouth. Just for a second. Just enough to make Mike's breath catch, enough to think maybe Will wants this too.
But then Will's swallowing hard, saying, "It's really just for class, Mike, I didn't mean to make it weird—"
Mike realizes Will's giving him an out. A way to pretend this doesn't mean what they both know it means. A way to step back and laugh it off and go back to being just friends.
Mike should take it. Drop his hands, make a joke, let this moment dissolve.
But he can't. Not yet.
"Thank you," he says instead, quietly. "For seeing me like that. For painting me like I'm—" Struggles for the word. "Like I'm worth looking at."
Will's eyes go soft. "You are worth looking at, Mike. You always have been."
The words sit heavy between them.
Mike's thumbs are still on Will's cheeks. Will's hands grip Mike's wrists—not pushing away, just holding.
Kiss him, something in Mike’s chest demands. Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.
But what if he's wrong? What if he kisses Will and ruins everything?
"I should—" Will says, voice rough. "I should get back to homework. Essay due tomorrow."
It's a lie. They both know. But Mike lets his hands drop.
"Yeah," he says. "Sure."
Will edges past him, careful not to touch. Mike stands there, staring at the painting—at the version of himself in Will's mind.
Later Mike will lie in bed and replay it. The look in Will's eyes. His breath catching when Mike touched his face. ‘You're worth looking at’ hanging between them.
He'll think about all the ways it could've gone differently. All the universes where he was brave enough.
For now he just stands in the basement and looks at the painting and tries not to think about how badly he wants to be seen like that for real.
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It’s the first real snow of the season. Thick flakes from a dark sky, already coating everything white.
Mike and Will are supposed to be getting firewood. That was the excuse. Joyce had asked, Mike volunteered immediately, Will followed without question because that's what they do now—find reasons to be alone even though neither acknowledges why.
Now they're standing in the backyard, arms empty of firewood, watching snow fall.
"It's really coming down," Will says, face tilted up.
Mike watches him instead. Watches flakes catch in Will's hair, melt on his cheeks and eyelashes. His nose already red from the cold. He’s wearing Mike's jacket because he ran out without his own. It’s too big, the sleeves going past his fingertips.
Something about that—Will in his jacket, warm in something that belongs to Mike—makes Mike's chest tight.
"Yeah," Mike agrees, not looking at the snow at all.
Will glances at him and smiles. The smile that's just for Mike, crinkles his eyes. "Remember when we were kids and we'd catch snowflakes on our tongues?"
"You always caught more. It was infuriating."
"That's because I'm better at everything," Will says, teasing, eyes bright.
Mike shoves him. "Shut up."
Will shoves back, laughing, and suddenly they're wrestling like they're ten instead of sixteen. Mike gets Will in a headlock—gentle, playful—and Will elbows his ribs. Both laughing, breathless, cold, stupidly happy.
They end up on the ground somehow. Sprawled on their backs, staring up. The world is quiet except for breathing and soft whispers of snow. Mike can feel cold seeping through his jeans but doesn't care.
This—being here with Will, doing something simple and perfect—this is enough. This is everything.
"Mike?" Will says after a while, soft.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad we're friends again."
‘Friends’ lands like a punch.
Because they are friends—best friends, closer than they've been in years. But friends doesn't cover how Mike's heart races when Will smiles. Doesn't cover thinking about kissing him a hundred times a day. Doesn't cover the painting or sleeping in the same room or the thousand moments where Mike has to physically stop himself from touching.
"Me too," Mike says. What else can he say?
Mike turns his head. Will's already looking at him. Something in his eyes—soft and scared and hopeful.
Snow falls between them, catching in the space separating their faces.
Mike thinks: I could do it. Right here. Just lean over and kiss him and maybe he'd kiss me back. Maybe this is the moment.
He catalogues it like trying to preserve it: Dark sky. White snow. Will's face flushed from the cold and laughing. Breath fogging between them.
It would be so easy.
But what if Mike's reading this wrong? What if kissing Will ruins everything they rebuilt? What if they go back to that horrible year of not talking, avoiding each other, being strangers?
Mike can't lose him again. He won't survive it a second time.
So instead of leaning in, Mike just reaches over and brushes a snowflake from Will's cheek. His fingers linger longer than necessary. Will's eyes flutter shut.
"Come on," Mike says, climbing up, offering his hand. "We should actually get firewood before your mom sends a search party."
Will takes his hand—fingers cold through Mike's glove—and lets Mike pull him up. They’re standing close for a moment, hands linked. Mike can see Will's pulse in his throat.
Then Will steps back, letting go. The moment passes.
They gather firewood in silence. Walking back feels longer than it should.
That night Mike lies in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about all the times he's wanted to kiss Will Byers. All the moments he held back.
Wonders how many more he'll let slip away before he's brave enough.
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It happens in the dark.
They’ve been sharing Mike's bed for a week. Ever since the power came back—no excuse anymore. The basement has heat, Will's mattress is there. They could easily sleep in separate rooms.
But they haven't.
Neither of them have said anything. Will just appears in Mike's room every night around ten, Mike scoots over, they lie there talking until one falls asleep.
Tonight started the same. Will in his pajamas, padding across Mike's room, the mattress dipping as he climbed in. They'd talked about nothing for a while—Dustin's new campaign ideas, Lucas and Max being weird at lunch, whether Mrs. O'Donnell was actually evil or just seemed that way.
Normal stuff. Safe stuff.
But then Will had gone quiet. Mike could feel him thinking, the air between them charged with something unspoken.
"Mike?" Will says finally, his voice small in the dark.
"Yeah?"
A long pause. Mike can hear Will breathing, gathering courage for something.
"Why did you really offer to share your bed? After the power came back?"
Mike's heart stops. They've been dancing around this for days—weeks, months maybe. All the almost-touches, the lingering looks, the excuses to be close.
He could lie. He should probably lie, lie and say something about the basement still being cold or Will's mattress being uncomfortable.
But he's so tired of lying.
"Because I wanted you here," Mike says quietly. "I didn't want you to leave."
The silence stretches. Mike's terrified he said too much, pushed too far. That Will's going to get up and walk out and they'll go back to pretending.
Then: "I didn't want to leave either."
Mike's breath catches. He turns his head on the pillow, and can barely make out Will's profile in the dark. "Will—"
"I saw you looking at the painting," Will interrupts, rushing now like he has to get it out before he loses his nerve. "That day in the basement. When you found it. I know you said it was amazing but you looked—you looked at it like it meant something. And I've been going crazy trying to figure out if I imagined that or if you—if maybe you—"
He cuts himself off. Mike can hear his breathing, quick and shallow.
"If I what?" Mike asks, even though he knows. He needs to hear Will say it.
"If maybe you felt the same way I do."
There it is. Hanging between them in the dark. Mike's entire body feels electric, every nerve alive.
"How do you feel?" His voice comes out rough.
Will laughs, shaky and bitter. "Are you really going to make me say it?"
"I need to know I'm not—" Mike swallows hard. "I need to know I'm not making this up. That you're not just being nice because you feel bad or—"
"Mike." Will shifts closer. Mike can feel the warmth of him, so close but not touching. "I painted you. I painted you laughing and I spent hours getting it perfect because I couldn't stop thinking about your smile. About the way you look when you're happy. And before that—god, before that I painted you as a paladin because that's how I see you. Like you're someone heroic and brave and worth—"
His voice cracks. Mike's chest aches.
"Worth painting," Will finishes quietly. "Worth looking at. Worth everything."
Mike can't breathe. All those moments—the portrait, the gun range, sleeping during the storm, the snow—they weren't just in his head. Will felt it too.
"I think about kissing you," Mike says before he can stop himself. "All the time. Like, constantly. It's actually kind of a problem."
Will makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. That day with the canvases, I wanted to. And at Hopper's cabin when you helped me shoot. And during the thunderstorm when you fell asleep on me. And in the snow, and—" Mike's rambling now, words tumbling out. "And when I found the painting, I wanted to kiss you so badly I thought I might actually die if I didn't."
"So why didn't you?"
The question lands like a punch. Mike asked himself the same thing a hundred times.
"I was scared," he admits. "I'm still scared. Of ruining this. Of losing you again. We just got back to being—to being us, and if I kissed you and you didn't want it, or if you did want it but then regretted it, or if it made things weird—"
"Mike." Will's hand finds his in the dark, fingers threading together. "I've wanted you to kiss me for so long. Since we were kids probably. Since before I knew what wanting that meant."
Mike's heart hammers against his ribs. "Really?"
"Really." Will's thumb traces circles on the back of Mike's hand. "You know that painting? I've painted you twelve times this summer. Twelve. I have them all hidden in my closet because I couldn't stop and I couldn't let anyone see them because they'd know. They'd take one look and know exactly how I feel about you."
"How do you feel about me?"
Even in the dark Mike can sense Will's smile. Sad and fond all at once. "You really need me to say it?"
"Yeah," Mike whispers. "I really do."
Will shifts closer. They're face to face now, noses almost touching. Mike can feel Will's breath on his lips.
"I'm in love with you," Will says softly. "I have been for years. Since we were kids playing in your basement. Since you were the first person to be nice to me, the first person who made me feel like I mattered. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Mike Wheeler. You're—you're everything."
Mike's never heard anything more terrifying or more perfect in his entire life.
"I love you too," he says and his voice breaks on it. "God, Will, I love you so much. I thought I was going crazy. I thought maybe I was imagining all of it because I wanted it so badly."
"You weren't imagining it." Will's free hand comes up to cup Mike's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "Every time you looked at me, every time we sat too close, every time you found an excuse to touch me—I felt it too. I've been dying waiting for you to make a move."
"I kept almost doing it. So many times."
"I know. I could tell." Will laughs shakily. "Do you know how hard it was? Watching you look at me like that and not being sure if I could kiss you? If you'd want me to?"
"I always wanted you to," Mike says. "Every single time."
They're so close now. Mike can feel Will trembling, or maybe that's him. Maybe it's both of them shaking with the weight of this, the enormity of finally saying it out loud.
"I'm still scared," Will admits. "About what this means. About your parents and school and—and everything. About whether we know what we're doing. If this is—if we're—"
"I don't care," Mike interrupts. "I don't care about any of that. I care about you. About this. About us."
"But what if—"
"Will." Mike squeezes his hand. "I've spent months wanting to kiss you and being too scared. Years probably, if I'm being honest. I'm done being scared. I'm done holding back. I love you and I want to be with you and I don't care how complicated it is."
"Your parents—"
"Can deal with it. Or not. I don't care."
"School—"
"Fuck school. Fuck all of it." Mike's voice is fierce now, sure. "The only thing that matters is this. You and me. Everything else we'll figure out."
Will's quiet for a moment. Mike can practically hear him thinking, weighing the risks against the want.
"Are you sure about this?" Will asks finally.
Mike knows what he's asking. Are you sure about us? About wanting this, wanting me, when everything about it is complicated and dangerous and wrong to everyone who matters?
But Mike's never been more sure of anything.
He's spent months—years maybe—watching Will. Cataloguing his smiles, his laughs, the way he bites his lip concentrating. He memorized the exact shade of Will's eyes in different light. He knows how Will's voice changes when he's nervous or excited or scared.
He knows Will in a way he doesn't know anyone else.
And he wants him. Has wanted him so long he barely remembers what it felt like not to.
"Yeah," Mike says. "I am."
Will's hand finds his in the dark, threading fingers together. His palm is warm and callused from paintbrushes. "Me too."
Mike feels something settle in his chest. Something that's been restless and aching for months is finally still.
"So what now?" Will whispers.
Mike shifts closer until there's no space left between them. Until he can feel Will's heartbeat against his chest, quick and wild.
"Now," Mike says, bringing his hand up to cup Will's face, "I stop being an idiot."
"About time," Will breathes.
And then—finally—Mike leans in.
He moves slowly. Giving Will every chance to pull away. His free hand cups Will's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.
Their lips brush. Hesitant. Careful, like afraid of breaking something precious.
But Will makes this small sound—barely a breath, more a sigh—and tilts his head, and suddenly it's not careful.
Mike presses closer, deepening the kiss. Will's hand tightens around his. Their mouths are moving together, uncertain but eager, years of wanting poured into one kiss.
Nothing like Mike imagined.
Better.
Will tastes like toothpaste and something sweet. His lips softer than expected. He kisses like he's been thinking about this too, like he's been waiting, like he's afraid Mike might disappear if he doesn't hold on.
Mike breaks away just to breathe, pressing his forehead to Will's. "Is this okay?" he whispers.
"Are you kidding?" Will's voice is rough and breathless. "Don't stop."
So Mike kisses him again. And again. Learning Will's mouth, the way he gasps when Mike bites gently at his lip, the way his fingers tighten in Mike's hair when Mike tilts his head right.
Time stops meaning anything. Mike loses track of where he ends and Will begins. All he knows is heat and want and the overwhelming rightness of this.
At some point they shift—Mike on his back, Will following, half-sprawled across his chest. The weight of him is perfect, grounding. Mike's hands map Will's back, slide under his shirt to touch bare skin. Will shivers.
"Cold?" Mike murmurs.
"No." Will kisses him again, deeper, tongue sliding against Mike's in a way that short-circuits Mike's brain. "Definitely not cold."
They kiss until Mike's lips feel swollen. Until he's dizzy, drunk on the taste of Will's mouth and the sounds he makes and how he fits perfectly in Mike's arms.
When they finally break apart they're both breathing hard. Will's hair a mess, lips red and wet, eyes dark and hazy. Looks thoroughly kissed and something possessive curls warm in Mike's chest.
I did that, he thinks.
Will’s eyes are glazed over, it’s obvious he wants to keep kissing.
Mike smiles and sighs softly as he pulls him back down.
Will just settles on top of him, head tucked under Mike's chin. Mike wraps his arms around him and holds on.
They lie there wrapped around each other. Mike thinks about how they got here. The year not talking, circling each other, too scared. The slow rebuilding. All the almost-moments that led to this.
It’s quiet for a while. Mike starts to drift off, warm and content and happier than he remembers being, thinking about Will's heart beating against his, how his hair smells like paint and snow, how perfect this feels.
Then Will speaks.
"Mike? Can we—can we do it again?"
Mike laughs, soft. "What, kiss?"
"Yeah." Will props up on his elbow to look at Mike. Even in the dark Mike can see the want. "Can we?"
So Mike pulls him down and kisses him again. Slow and sweet and thorough. Kisses Will until they're both breathless, until fear and uncertainty fade to something easier, like hope.
"We can do that as much as you want," Mike murmurs against his lips. "I've got a lot of time to make up for."
Will grins. "Is that a promise?"
"That's a promise."
They kiss until too tired to keep their eyes open, until tangled so completely Mike can't tell where he ends and Will begins. When they finally fall asleep it's with Will tucked in Mike's arms and Mike's last thought is: This. This is what I've been waiting for.
In the morning they'll wake up still wrapped around each other. There's a moment of panic—shit, this is real, this happened—before the wonder. Before they look at each other and start laughing, giddy and disbelieving and so happy.
Will will kiss him again in daylight and it'll be just as perfect. Maybe better because they can see each other now. Because there's no more hiding.
But that's tomorrow. For now Mike just holds his best friend—his person, the boy he's been in love with longer than he can name—and lets himself be happy.
Finally happy.