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The world is too fucking loud.
The voices of Mike’s friends overlap in an obnoxiously irritating way. Every yelled word makes his brain pound against his skull, splitting his head like no migraine has ever managed before. His shirt collar digs painfully into the skin of his neck, despite the fact that it felt perfectly comfortable only this morning. The smell of his friends’ nacho burps, funny as they think they are, makes him want to gag. The endless barks of the dogs next door bounce across the walls, piercing his ears from every direction.
The world is too fucking loud, and Mike has had enough.
It started, as it always does, with a game of D&D. It was going fine— perfectly, in fact. That was, until his party began to fight. That’s not an unusual occurrence for them; it’s honestly stranger for them to agree. Something, though— something felt different this time. Mike doesn’t know what exactly caused it. Maybe it was his mom, who had interrupted his campaign without warning to call them up for dinner. Maybe it was Lucas and Dustin, who got a little too close for comfort during their time-out wrestling match, bumping into Mike on several occasions. Maybe it was Will, who tried to keep up their own private conversation while everyone else was screaming at each other. Maybe it’s because, try as he might, Mike can’t hear a single fucking word that anyone is saying, because they’ve all decided to join together to become a horrible cacophony of noise.
And if the neighbors don’t shut their damn dog up, he’s going to lose it.
Something itches under his skin; an urge to scream, to run, to kick, to do anything at all to disperse the tension in his body. It’s like he’s wearing a wool sweater that’s three sizes too small. He wants to rip it right down the middle.
Mike pulls at his shirt. He inches away from Will’s touch, ignoring the look on his boyfriend’s face. His hand jerks back a little too far, sending his binder clattering down on the table.
It’s not the noise that does it. It’s the idea of having to fix his stupid mistake that breaks him.
“Shut up!” he exclaims. It comes out a lot louder than he intended it to— though he hadn’t intended to speak at all. He finds himself unable to stop. He’s no longer in control of his own actions, and it scares the shit out of him. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Just— shut up.”
His outburst isn’t enough for him, apparently, as he kicks the table’s leg so hard that the pieces of their game roll onto the floor. Everyone stares at him in shock. He hates it. He hates how crazy he looks. He hates how he’ll be made fun of for this until the day he dies. He hates how embarrassed he feels. He hates that it isn’t enough to get him to stop.
He stands up hastily, his irritation only growing at the loud screech his chair makes as it slides against the floor. Will quickly follows him to his feet. He takes a step closer, reaching out an arm to touch him. “Mike—“
“No,” he says sternly, backing away. The word comes out all wrong. His voice sounds foreign to his ears. It’s like it doesn’t even belong to him. “Shut up.”
He thinks that might be the only thing he can say anymore. He’s stuck in a loop with no way out.
“Dude,” Lucas says. It sends Mike’s pulse racing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Everything. Everything is wrong, and he needs them all to shut up. Don’t speak to him, don’t look at him— don’t even think about him. Their thoughts are echoing far too loudly in his mind. You freak.
He scratches harshly at his ears, begging the world to quiet. He can feel his face begin to screw up in an attempt to reduce the amount of noise permitted to enter. How stupid he must look.
“Mike,” Will tries again, eyebrows drawing together in worry. Don’t pity him. Don’t. “Please calm down.”
Mike tenses in frustration when Will starts walking toward him. Will either doesn’t notice his discomfort, or he ignores it completely, deciding that the best course of action would be to set a hand on his shoulder. Mike feels the touch like a burn. It’s all wrong. It hurts. He needs it off.
Adrenaline spikes throughout his body. Before he can even register the command, Mike’s hand drops from his head, slamming itself down onto Will’s arm. Will pulls away with a yelp, grabbing the spot that will definitely form a fist-sized bruise.
Mike freezes. He hurt Will. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t. He didn’t want to hurt him. He just panicked. Why did he do that? How could he ever do that? He’s so horrible. He’s abusive. He abused Will. Oh god—
Mike does the only thing he knows how. He flees. He doesn’t have a destination in mind— he just knows that he needs to get out of here. His feet carry him up both flights of stairs on their own accord. He slams the door to his room behind him, then wrenches open his closet. He tucks himself into the corner, hugging his knees to his chest and ducking his head as he begins to cry. He thinks he might have been for a while, actually.
He hates himself. He loathes it all; everything about him. He’s so stupid. Why does he do this? Why does he always ruin perfectly good moments? Why does he freak out over the most pointless things? Why does he have to hurt the people he loves?
Everyone despises him for it. He knows they do. His mom has complained about it to his face plenty. The food isn’t gross, Michael; even your baby sister is eating it. Your snow suit isn’t too tight, stop throwing a fit. I don’t care if you’re in a bad mood— you need to answer my questions.
His friends never say anything about it, but he knows they want to. They’re probably laughing about him right now. He doesn’t want to imagine what they might be saying. Mike, the asshole. Mike, the toddler in a teenager’s body. Mike, the boy who always seems to fuck up.
His fingers tangle tightly in his hair. Without his instruction, they begin to yank on it. He’s not sure why he’s doing it; to punish himself for his behavior, or to get out the extra energy coursing through his veins. It helps either way. It keeps him just sane enough to cope with his raging emotions.
Light floods his vision as the door opens beside him. He wants to kill it, and whoever let it in.
The anger fades away as a familiar pair of shoes stop in front of him. They don’t attempt to get any closer, like he’d expected. Instead, they retreat to the other end of the room. Will’s body slides down the wall across from him. His legs need to remain bent to prevent them from touching Mike’s own, but thankfully they do.
Will doesn’t speak. Neither does Mike.
He knows that he should say something. What he did wasn’t okay. He should be begging Will for forgiveness and urging him to run away— to leave Mike and save himself. He can’t. Even the thought of apologizing right now is enough to make him want to drop dead.
He should die.
Will’s foot taps gently against his. Mike peeks up at him from behind his arms. He shouldn’t even be allowed to look at Will, but he does, selfishly.
Will doesn’t seem too mad— at least, not outwardly. Mike can’t imagine that he wouldn’t be, deep down. He betrayed his trust. He ruined their relationship.
“Are you okay?” Will asks. His eyes are filled with concern; a gentleness that Mike doesn’t deserve. He should lie. It’s not Will’s job to check up on him anymore. Mike lost that privilege.
He shakes his head anyway. He doesn’t have the energy to lie. It’s not like he even could; not when he’s crying on the floor of his closet.
Will’s frown only deepens. “What’s wrong?”
Mike doesn’t think that he can talk. All he’s able to do is demonstrate by putting his hands over his ears. His movements come out sort of strange. Exaggerated. Uncoordinated, as if his motor skills have regressed to a two-year-old’s.
“It’s loud?” Will asks, immediately lowering his volume to a whisper. The gesture is so thoughtful that Mike can’t hold back the sob that bubbles to the surface. He nods miserably. No one should be allowed to treat him this sweetly.
Will is quiet for a long while. Mike finally begins to relax. That’s all he wants— to sit with him in silence. Unfortunately, Will just has to break it. “Do you want me to leave?”
Mike shakes his head without a second thought. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t look annoyed about it in the slightest. “You don’t have to stop for me, you know.”
Mike’s forehead creases in confusion. Stop what?
Will understands his question without needing to hear it out loud. “You can keep flapping, or whatever it was you were doing when I came in. You don’t need to hide that from me. It’s not like I didn’t see it when we were kids.”
Oh. That. Mike doesn’t do that anymore. He’s not supposed to. It was childish even then, at the ripe age of eight. That’s what his mom and teachers said, at least. They’d make fun of him for all sorts of stuff— fidgeting, rocking, chewing on his fingers. He’s grown up now. He doesn’t need it.
Will must read the hesitation on his face, because he nudges his shoe again. “Come on. I know you want to. It always used to help when you were upset like this.”
He shakes his head, glaring down at the carpet below his feet. So embarrassing. How could he have ever let Will see him like that?
“Tell you what,” Will says. “I’ll close my eyes. Tap me when you’re done.”
True to his word, Will hides his face in his knees. Mike watches him curiously, but otherwise doesn’t move. He doubts that his old tactics would make him feel any better, but he wouldn’t use them even if they did. He’d rather not be humiliated.
He taps his sole against the toe of Will’s shoe.
The smile Will is wearing drops into a pout at the first sight of Mike. “You didn’t do anything.”
How Will can tell, he has no idea. Mike doesn’t even bother lying about it. He didn’t flail around like an idiot, and he’s proud of that fact.
All of a sudden, Will hops to his feet with an “oh!” Mike watches as he stands on his tip-toes, reaching for a box on one of the high shelves. He finally manages to grab it, setting it to the floor with a thud. He mouths an apology to Mike when he winces at the noise.
It’s a box of snow gear that Mike keeps stuffed in his closet for emergencies. He’s not sure why it’s important to Will right now, but he rifles through it like it’s life or death. After a minute, Will brandishes a pair of fluffy earmuffs with a pleased grin. He shuffles closer to Mike, holding his hands out placatingly to prove that he isn’t about to touch him without permission. He stretches the earmuffs apart, holding them just over Mike’s head. Then, he waits for Mike’s nod of approval.
When he grants it, Will settles the earmuffs gently into place. The fur itches Mike’s face a little, but they’re soft enough not to bother him. He sighs contentedly at the way they dull the noise around him. It’s not a lot, but it helps.
Will doesn’t reclaim his spot across from him. Instead, he sits down right beside him, leaving just enough of a gap for Mike to breathe.
Mike tries to give him a smile, but he thinks it might come across as a grimace.
“Okay?” Will asks him.
Mike nods fervently. It’s as much of a “thank you” as he can manage.
In the silence, he begins to unwind. He’s not sure whether it’s the exhaustion that’s hitting him, or the comfort he feels with Will at his side. Either way, he can feel the wall he’s built begin to fall away. His muscles lose their rigidity, allowing him to migrate his hands into his lap, rather than keeping them stiff at his sides. His fingers tangle together subconsciously, and he mindlessly starts to tug at them. It puts his mind at ease, as the restless energy burning inside him finally has a way to escape.
He finds himself rocking in place without meaning to. He knows he should stop it— but he doesn’t really want to. It’s only Will here, anyway.
The knowledge that Will’s eyes are on him causes a slight twinge of embarrassment in his chest. Mike pulls his legs in tighter. He tries to hide his face in the makeshift cave he’s created between his thighs and torso, but the motion of his rocking only causes him to bump his forehead on his knees. It doesn’t hurt as much as he expects it to. In fact, it sort of feels… nice. Like a satisfying high five, or a congratulatory pat on the back. He repeats the action again, and again, and again, until his brain is sufficiently scrambled.
He assumes that’ll be the end of it. The weird urges are out of his system, right? Wrong. The second he stops moving, he can feel himself begin to panic. Quickly, he drops his head into his hands and scrubs up and down the skin. It sends a pleasant tingle throughout his face. It reminds him of rubbing his cold hands together by the fire, the friction triggering what limited sensation he can still feel.
On an impulse, Mike throws his head back against the wall. A sharp pain blooms at the base of his skull, and he lets out an embarrassing whine. Damn his inability to use human words.
Will sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Oh— Mike,” he says sympathetically. If it was anyone but Will, it might have come off a little condescending.
A soft touch comes to rest at the place of impact, replacing the throbbing ache. Will cradles his head gently, lightly petting at his curls.
His hand retracts as quickly as it came. He holds it close to his chest, as if it’s been burnt. Mike gives him a questioning look. “Sorry,” Will says in response. “I forgot. I didn’t mean to touch you.”
Oh yeah. That’s good then, right? That Will cut the contact? It’s what Mike had said he’d wanted.
Except… he’s not sure if that's what he wants anymore. He liked Will’s touch. Sometime between now and the basement, it’d stopped being painful. Now, it’s warm. It’s back to feeling like the same loving caress it always does. He craves it, he thinks. He needs it to live.
Carefully, Mike leans over to lay his head against Will’s shoulder. Will is motionless for a moment, before he hesitantly winds a singular arm around his back, avoiding so much as grazing his waist.
Mike nearly cracks a smile. Such an adorable, thoughtful idiot. He gives a short nod of permission, and Will wastes no time bringing him into a proper embrace.
It leaves Mike hollow. He’s not sure why. The love is there— he can sense it. It just… isn’t enough to fill him.
Mike turns in his grasp. He hooks his chin over Will’s shoulder, then squeezes his middle tightly. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he isn’t giving enough love. Maybe Will can’t hear it.
He must be able to now, because a kiss lands on Mike’s hair, right below his cracked skull. Will returns the hug with just as much enthusiasm, then seems to think better of it, loosening his grip into a mockery of what it once had been.
No. No— that was it. That was what Mike needed. The pressure. The crushing weight of the entire universe on his chest.
Mike makes a vague noise of disappointment. He loves the tickle it leaves in his throat, where it’s squished up against Will’s body. His arms tighten once again, harder.
When he releases him enough to breathe, Will asks, “You want me to?”
He nods rapidly.
There it is— the delightful pressure. Will’s arms constrict around him like a snake trapping its prey. Mike doesn’t feel like prey. For once, he feels in control. He feels like he can finally tame the emotions that run his life.
He lets out a happy hum. His brain rewards him for it, so he does it again; a long, never-ending stream of nonsensical noise.
Will doesn’t seem to care. He presses his smile against Mike’s neck, and starts a hum of his own. His is much more melodic. Mike recognizes the song after only a few short seconds. It’s a Joyce Byers classic. He can nearly hear her voice singing along to it, steady and honey-sweet.
You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.
Mike sloppily begins to mimic it.
He’s not sure which of them started rocking first, but he falls into the rhythm anyway. His freshly-dried cheeks are dangerously close to dampening once again. Will is too nice. What other person would indulge their boyfriend for this long? What other person would put up with their boyfriend’s weird quirks like this?
And Mike had to go hit him.
Cautiously, he brushes his hand across Will’s bicep. After the third pass, Will says, “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”
Mike pulls away with reluctance— just enough for Will to see his pout.
“What?” Will asks through a traitorous laugh. “What’s that for?”
Mike dips his head, nuzzling it apologetically over the bruise that has surely bloomed by now. Sorry, his mind shouts. Maybe if he thinks it loud enough, he can transmit the message telepathically.
“I know you are,” Will replies, cupping the side of Mike’s head. Wow. Alright then. Since when could they do that? “But you don’t need to be. It wasn’t your fault.”
Mike glares at him disapprovingly.
“It wasn’t,” he insists. It’s hard to stay mad at Will’s self-blaming, overly-forgiving tendencies when he’s petting Mike’s hair so nicely. “You were scared. You told me not to touch you, and I did it anyway. I’m sorry. This was entirely on me.”
Mike isn’t sure he quite agrees with that; but it’s not like he can argue right now anyway, so he compromises by placing a lingering kiss to Will’s arm.
“Thank you,” Will whispers. “It’s all better now.”
He rolls his eyes, tucking his head back into Will’s neck. Now he’s just making fun. “Shut up.”
Will jumps a little at the unexpected noise. It was unexpected for Mike, too. He didn’t know he could speak. “We’re back to that now, are we?” he teases.
Mike wiggles unhappily in his grasp. That’s so mean. He doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
Will has the audacity to laugh at him. “You’re so cute,” he says, with a frankly disgusting level of fondness in his voice.
“Not,” Mike mumbles onto his skin.
“You are. You’re adorable.”
Mike doesn’t need to look up to know that Will is beaming from ear to ear. “‘M grown,” he says. The way he can’t seem to string a complete sentence together probably isn’t helping his case.
“Can you not be grown and cute?” Will asks, nuzzling their heads together in a gesture similar to Mike’s own mere moments ago. “You’re my boyfriend. It’s in the job description.”
Whatever. He is not cute, no matter how much Will accuses him of being so.
Mike collapses the rest of his body weight against him in retaliation, looping his arms around his neck and slumping down into a boneless pile of goo. Will grins into his hair, hoisting him up by the waist. He presses his lips to the spot of skin just beside Mike’s earmuffs. They stay sitting there for a while, content just to be in the other’s presence. Eventually, Will speaks up. “Do you think you’re ready to go back down?”
Mike shakes his head instantly.
“Why not?”
Because. Because everyone is going to stare at him. Because he’ll have to explain the commotion to his nosy, disapproving mother. Because he’ll need to talk to his friends like a normal person, using the energy he doesn’t have. Because he’ll be expected to fake a smile. Because everyone is going to be mad at him.
Mike’s forearm makes its way between his teeth. He begins to gnaw on it mindlessly. It’s gentle, at first— just a rhythmic motion to help organize his thoughts. Gradually, he starts biting down harder, to the point where he’s worried that his mouth will fill with the taste of blood. It’s both a punishment and a method to soothe his anxiety wrapped up in one.
“Oh, hey,” Will says, once he realizes the reason for Mike’s silence. Mike is confused how he even figured it out, until he remembers the mirror that’s hanging on the door beside him. A hand lands on his elbow. It tugs gently, but doesn’t force him to let go. “Do you have to do that?”
Mike nods.
“Well— can you use my arm?” Will suggests instead. Mike loves him. He loves how Will doesn’t try to control him, or pressure Mike into doing what he believes is best for him. Mike loves him too much to take him up on his offer.
“Can you try to be careful, then?” he asks. “I don’t want you getting hurt by accident.”
Mike thinks he can manage that. He eases up his teeth just a little, shifting to a new section of his arm. He doubts this will do more than leave a small indent.
Will rubs his back in thanks, before repeating his original question. “So, why can’t we go downstairs?”
Mike doesn’t answer immediately. He forces his jaw not to chomp down at the sudden discomfort that arises inside him. It starts at his diaphragm, traveling all the way up to his vocal cords. He doesn’t want to speak anymore. The thought fills him with dread.
“It’s alright,” Will says quietly. “No rush. Tell me whenever you’re ready.”
It takes a long time before Mike gains enough energy to reply. He gives up on his nibbling, choosing to pull at his hair again instead. Inexplicably, his tank replenishes with each tug— with each unintentional rock of his body. In the end, all he can utter are two simple words. “Can’t… pretend.”
“Pretend?” Will echos. “What? That you’re not struggling?”
Mike nods into his shoulder.
“Why would you pretend?” he asks, not unkindly. “You don’t need to pretend, Mike. It’s just the Party. You’ve known them, what— since you were in diapers?” That’s a bit of an exaggeration. It hasn’t even been a decade, actually. And he’s only known Max for like, three years.
At Mike’s head shake, Will says, “Figure of speech.” Oh. Right. “I just mean— you don’t need to hide. From any of us. If you think we’d make fun of you for this after all these years, then… I guess we haven’t been very good friends.”
That’s not fair. Anyone would look at him strangely after this. He deserves to be looked at strangely. It wouldn’t be their fault for treating Mike like the freak that he is.
“I’ll tell you what,” Will says, retreating enough to meet his gaze. “You and I are heading back downstairs. You’re going to be yourself— exactly as you are now— and if anyone has a problem with that, I’ll punch them square in the face.”
Mike can’t help the tiny smile that fights its way onto his face at the thought of Will punching anything, let alone their best friends. Will glares playfully at him, and pokes at his bottom lip. “Hey— what’s that supposed to mean? I can totally take them.”
Mike has no doubt that he’d have the strength to; the willpower to follow through, not so much. Will feels guilty about eating strawberries because they “used to be alive.”
As if reading his mind, Will gives him a shove. “Come on— on your feet. Do I need to carry you, baby?”
Mike shoves him right back, but not before he can blush bright red. Unnecessary. He hops up without needing any assistance, because he’s a fully capable man.
Will, ever the dramatic, falls to the floor with a grunt. Or, Mike should say, he slowly lies down on the carpeted floor beneath him. He stares up at Mike as if this is his fault.
“Ass,” Mike says.
Will pushes himself off the ground, unscathed. “Funny how you’re only able to speak when it’s to insult me.”
Yeah. That is funny. Why would that be, he wonders.
Will must not be too mad about it, because he grabs Mike’s hand only a second later and leads him out into the hallway.
Mike keeps his head down as he steps into the basement. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, curious, like they’re just waiting for him to make a wrong move. Maybe they’re waiting for another outburst. Whatever it is, he refuses to give it to them. He sticks to Will’s side as he guides them over to the couch. Mike sits beside him without a word, glueing their thighs tightly together. He wants to hide behind Will like a child and escape the scrutiny of everyone around him.
“Hi,” El says, after a silence that’s long past comfortable. “Is everything… okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Will says with a smile. His arm wraps around Mike, pulling him down to rest against his side. Mike decides to be brave, letting his guard down as he lays his head on Will’s shoulder.
El glances from Will to Mike. When he doesn’t answer her question himself, she asks, “Are you mad at us?”
Mike doesn’t wait to assure her, shaking his head adamantly.
“He’s just tired,” Will explains for him. It makes his cheeks burn with shame.
Mike winces the moment he sees Max open her big mouth. She’s definitely going to have something to say about this. She always does. He’ll never live this down.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t call him a nutcase; not a clever synonym, either. She only says, “Are you telling me that we won’t have to listen to Mike yap all night? Because I’m down.” Which— yeah, it’s still an insult. Mike would expect no less from her. But somehow, it feels less cruel than he thought it would. It’s a gibe— a friendly tease, rather than a joke at his expense. He can live with that.
Though, that doesn’t mean he has to take it sitting down, so he peels off his shoe and chucks it at her head.
“Dude!” Max exclaims, ducking to avoid the attack.
Mike flinches at the noise. He buries his face in Will’s shoulder, covering his ears with his hands. He’s starting to regret leaving his earmuffs in his room.
Will hugs his waist lightly. “Too loud?” he asks. Mike nods in response, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t yell, Max.”
“He threw a shoe at me!”
“Well— yell quietly, then,” Will says.
Mike unearths from his hiding spot, peeking open a singular eye just in time to see Max roll her own.
“You fucking bitch,” she whispers in her most menacing tone. It makes the threat lose a bit of its effect, but Mike hears it loud and clear. “Just wait. I’m going to get you so hard, Wheeler.”
It seems that she understands his middle finger right back.
El steps in front of her before she can launch her fist into Mike’s face. “Dustin said we could watch a movie.”
“Yeah, sure,” Will says, then looks at Mike in question. “I mean— is that alright?”
Mike shrugs carelessly. He’s not a complete stick-in-the-mud right now. Anything that doesn’t involve moving or conversation is totally cool with him.
“I vote Princess Bride,” Lucas says with a raise of his hand.
Will makes a noise of disagreement. “We just watched that.”
“Yeah, but at least it’s new. It’s probably the only movie here we haven’t seen at least five times.”
Mike doesn’t listen to their argument very intently. He runs his hand along the fabric of Will’s sweater, right over his ribs. It’s soft. And fuzzy. It makes his whole body feel nice. He watches the fibers of the yarn move with him. Up, and down. Up, and down. Up, and down. It’s mesmerizing.
“Okay— so what do you suggest, oh wise one?” Lucas asks.
Mike knows. He has the perfect option in mind. They’ll all love it.
He tugs hard on the bottom of Will’s sleeve. When Will merely continues on with his debate— something about volunteering Dustin to stop by Family Video— he tugs again, and again, and again. Finally, Will turns to him with a look of mock-exasperation. “Yes, Michael? What do you want?”
Mike leans in close to press their foreheads together. Telepathy worked once— he’s sure he can manage it one last time.
“Oh my—“ Will cuts himself off, throwing his head back against the couch. “Not again.”
Yes, again. Always. Every movie night for the rest of their lives.
“What?” Lucas asks, glancing between them. “What happened?”
“Mike wants Return of the Jedi. Again.”
He beams, despite the collective groan from everyone in the room. Will does know him better than anyone.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Dustin says.
Mike turns to Will with a frown. Even he seems like he’s going to turn it down. His own boyfriend. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Mike taps a quick message onto the inside of his wrist, right where his heartbeat is hammering. “Sad.”
This causes Will to hesitate. He looks Mike up and down, considering, eyebrows drawing together in a sympathetic expression.
Max does not appear to be happy about this development. “You put those puppy-dog eyes away, Michael. Will— don’t you dare cave.”
Will keeps his gaze fixed on Mike. He bites the inside of his cheek in deliberation. “Would it make you feel better?”
He nods, like a complete liar.
Will heaves a resigned sigh. He waves a hand at the VCR lazily. “Put it on,” he tells Lucas.
Mike smiles brightly, rising up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, it says. I love you.
Will glares down at him, definitely aware of the fact that he was just played. He rolls his eyes, and kisses Mike right back. I love you, too.
When the opening score begins to play, no one scolds Mike for how his hands start to fidget a little too enthusiastically. In fact, as Lucas glances his way, his demeanor softens at Mike’s obvious joy. “Alright,” he says. “Maybe it’s worth it just this once.”