Archive of Our Own

For Will Byers, the ice wasn't just some place to skate; it was his haven and his sanctuary. It was where he found peace and meaning. He'd practically grown up there, dedicating every spare minute and every ounce of his being to mastering its challenges.

The cold wasn't just a temperature; it was clarity. It cut through all confusion, all noise, all the junk that cluttered his mind. The sound of blades, a clean, precise whisper— that sound was music to Will. He loved the feeling of carving into the ice, the world shrinking down to nothing but the next turn, the next edge, breathing as one with his partner. This was his world, his truth.

But now, with the Pacific Coast Invitational just two days away—a competition that was supposed to be his big shot at Nationals—his truth was crumbling. Chloe, his partner, was down with a raging fever of 39 degrees Celsius.

Murray, his manager, was pacing around the empty rink, looking stressed. Murray always overreacted, and managed anxiety like it was an Olympic sport. He was on the phone, probably trying to find a solution. Will, on the other hand, just stood there, leaning against the wall, letting the cold sink into his thin sweater. He watched his breath turn into a small cloud—a habit of his.

“No, I know she's in the pairs for Spokane... Yes, I get the deadlines; I'm calling because of them... 'Unfortunate' doesn't even cut it, my man. We're hanging on by a thread here!”

Will tuned out Murray's rant and ran a hand through his hair. Even in the cold arena, his dark hair was damp with sweat from nerves. At sixteen, he'd come out. It wasn't a big announcement, more of a quiet confidence in how he carried himself during interviews. The skating world didn't seem to mind. Some fans supported him, a few older commentators mumbled something unclear, but on the ice, his sexuality didn't matter. Only the skill and artistry mattered.

But now? This felt like a test. Every muscle in his body, built for lifts, throws, and the intricate dance between partners, was buzzing with wasted energy.

Murray ended the call with a frustrated sigh. In the silence of the rink, it sounded like a gunshot.

“Okay, new situation. Chloe's out. The doctor says it's a bad flu—she can't even stand, let alone do a triple toe loop. All the junior pair skaters within 800 km are either competing, injured, or can't partner with you because of their contract.” He pinched his nose. “So, basically, we have... choices. In a way.”

“Choices,” Will said, without emotion.

That word didn't sound like his chance at success.

“There's this one guy,” Murray said, gesturing vaguely with his phone. “From a college team. Good singles skater. His jumps are... hit or miss, but when they're on, they're amazing. Great footwork, good stamina. And he's totally free—like, desperately free.”

Will pushed himself off the wall.

“A singles skater? For a pairs program we've spent eight months on? Murray, what about the lifts?”

”Are you going to drop out?” Murray asked, his expression serious, without the usual dramatics. ”Because that's the only other choice. Drop out, say goodbye to your points, and end your season. You're eighteen, Will. Time is running out.”

Will stared at the perfect, white ice. He remembered their program: Chloe's reliable hands, the weight of her in a lift, their spins in perfect sync. It was a beautiful memory but useless now. Will swallowed, feeling a bitter taste of fear.

“Who is he?”

“Michael Wheeler.”

The name didn't ring a bell. Will shook his head.

“And he said yes? To jump into a big pairs program with only two days to prepare?”

“He thought a new challenge sounded 'interesting',” Murray said, pausing strangely. “And I might have said the payment was double what it is. Don't look at me like that. Art needs money, and we're broke right now. He'll be here in an hour.”

An hour. Everything flipped, and the careful structure of his life—early mornings, protein shakes, physical therapy, and his partnership with Chloe, was gone. He was about to trust his body, his safety, his dream to a stranger named Michael Wheeler, who was intrigued by a challenge and a huge paycheck that seemed too good to be true.

Michael Wheeler didn't arrive with a fancy skater bag; he had a beat-up backpack over his shoulder, like he was on his way to a poetry reading. He was tall—Will noticed that right away. Lean, all long limbs and sharp angles.

The words “tall twink” flashed in Will's head—a term from the internet that could be cruel. But seeing him in person, Will thought it fit. He was slim, almost fragile, with messy dark hair falling in his eyes. He seemed tense, like he was buzzing. His eyes darted around the rink, from the high ceiling to the ice machine, then finally landed on Will.

“Uh, hey. You're Will, right? Murray told me... well, he said a lot.”

Michael's voice was higher than Will expected, fast and a little rough, like he talked too much or thought too loudly.

“I'm Will,” he said calmly, holding out his hand. Michael looked at it for a second before taking it. His handshake was surprisingly strong, his fingers long and cold. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“Quick is my middle name,” Michael said, a crooked, unsure smile on his face. It changed his whole look, lighting up his dark eyes with mischief. “Well, not really. I'm Mike, actually. Middle name doesn’t exist. You get it. So, pairs, right?” He dropped his backpack and kicked off his sneakers, showing worn skate guards underneath.

“Pairs,” Will repeated, still in disbelief. He was used to Chloe's calm, professional attitude. This was like dealing with a hurricane. “Do you have any experience with pairs skating?”

Mike shrugged, pulling out his skates. They were good, professional quality, Will noticed, but scuffed, clearly well-used.

“A little. One season in juniors, but I'm mostly a singles guy. I like... being free. Murray said I'd be playing the girl's role, though.” He said it matter-of-factly, like he was still processing it. His eyes scanned Will, taking in his muscular build. Something flashed across Mike's face. “I am taller.”

“I noticed,” Will said. “Not ideal, but we deal with it. The choreography is for a traditional pair. You'll take the female role—you'll be lifted, thrown, and lead the step sequence at the start. We'll need to change the grips, find new balance points... change everything.”

Even to Will, it sounded impossible. Mike just nodded, his nervousness turning into focus as he laced his skates quickly and skillfully.

“Okay. Show me.”

Just like that—no complaining about the role, no worrying about the height difference, no whining about how hard it would be. Just show him. That was the first thing Will noticed about Michael Wheeler.

It might be his only hope.

They stepped onto the ice, and Will felt the familiar sharpness of the blades. Mike pushed off, and his first moves were... something. Not the smooth glide of a pair skater, but wilder, more expressive. He moved fluidly, with a natural sense of rhythm, even in simple crossovers. But he turned harder and sharper than needed, like he was a soloist taking over the whole stage.

“Let's start easy, “ Will called out, his voice echoing. “Basic skating together, at my speed.”

The first few laps were a mess. Mike was ahead one moment, lagging behind the next. His stride was longer, less controlled. Will saw Mike clench his jaw. Then, suddenly, Mike closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes, he was different. He stopped trying to take charge and started listening—to the sound of Will's blades, to the rhythm of his movements. Soon, they found a shaky rhythm, their shoulders moving together.

“Not bad,” Will said, surprised. “Now, let's try holding hands.”

Will reached out, and Mike took his hand. His fingers were ice-cold, but he took them without hesitation. The contrast was clear—Will was used to Chloe's small, steady hand; Mike's felt like a bundle of tense bones. But as they skated, bending their knees together, a connection formed.

“Okay,” Mike muttered, to himself more than to Will. “Yeah, I can do this. It's just a dance. More or less. Just on skates. And someone else is holding you.”

Will almost smiled.

“Exactly.”

They moved on to the basics: Will as the center, Mike moving around him. Mike's balance was better than Will had thought, his core strong. But when Will brought up the simplest pair element—a basic waist hold, for lifts later—Mike hesitated.

“Wait, you mean... just grab me?”

“It's a normal grip,” Will said patiently, even though his heart was pounding. “I need to feel where your weight is, and you need to trust that I can hold you.”

Mike's cheeks turned pink. It wasn't just shyness; his eyes showed something more. Pride. Maybe a lifetime of being tall and masculine, and now he had to shrink, to be the one being held.

“I don't... people don't usually do that to me,” he said.

There was so much honesty and hurt in his voice that Will's focus broke.

“I'm not like other people”, Will said, keeping his voice steady. It was the voice you use when you're trying to keep someone from freaking out. “I'm your shadow on the ice for the next little while. When we're out there, those few minutes, I'm all that's keeping you from eating the ice. The fact that I'm holding you like this isn't just for show. It's a promise that I won't let you fall. You can trust me.”

Mike stared at him, eyes narrowed. He was trying to find a tell, some angle that would give away a lie. Seeing nothing but sincerity, the pressure seemed to drain out of him. He gave a short nod.

“Alright, let's do this.”

Will moved in close, fitting his hands around Mike's waist. He could feel the tight muscles and the sharp jut of his hip bones even through the thin workout clothes. He shifted their stance, widening their feet a bit for better footing, trying to get used to how Mike's weight shifted. Mike went rigid, holding his breath.

“Breathe, Mike,” Will murmured, leaning close to his ear. A little shiver ran down Mike's spine. “Loosen your knees. Don't be a statue; be a coiled spring, ready to go.”

Mike let out a slow breath, and some of the stiffness left his body. He crouched a little, and Will felt a tight, powerful force. It was nothing like skating with Chloe, who was always smooth and predictable. This felt alive and almost too hot to handle.

“There you go,” Will whispered. “On three, I'm going to lift you, just a little. One… two… three!”

He eased Mike up an inch or two, just enough to lift the blades off the ice for a split second. Mike gasped, but he didn't fight it. Instead, almost without thinking, he arched, finding a balance that felt weird but okay. Will lowered him carefully. For a moment, they just stood there, Will's hands still on Mike's waist, Mike's back pressed against Will's chest.

The only sound was their own breathing, heavy in the cold air, their breaths mixing. Will felt a jolt of something new and private. This wasn't Chloe; this was a stranger, and his heart was beating like crazy against Will's palms. He could smell men's cologne mixed with the scent of cheap laundry soap.

Mike turned his head slightly to look at Will. The sharp line of his face stood out against the bright ice.

“Was that… good?”

Will slowly let go, backing away to give them both space. The cold air rushed into the space where they had been so close.

“That was just step one,” he said, hearing his own voice sounding shaky. “We have a long way to go.”

But when Mike turned to face him, there was a spark of fire back in his eyes. Will felt a small bloom of something besides just nerves. It was tiny, like a seed sprouting, but it was there. This whole thing was crazy; it was reckless.

Mike grinned.

“So, what’s up?”

And then Will, even though he knew it was a terrible idea, felt a smile tugging at his own face. The huge ice rink waited silently. They only had two days to pull something great out of their hats.

“Next,” Will said, “we're going to learn how to fall. Together.”

Back at Will's place, the silence felt like a heavy blanket and a heavy weight. It was the wrong kind of quiet, a silence that said something was about to go wrong all over again. It wasn't a chill, relaxing quiet after pushing hard. It was the leftover taste of something almost crashing and burning.

His whole body throbbed, a chorus of aches about new pains: the struggle of trying to match someone else's weight, the strange strain across his shoulders from trying to hold up a partner who was way bigger than he was. He stood in the hot shower until the water turned cold, trying to wash off the icky feeling of nervous sweat and rink chill.

But even after the shower, he could still feel where Micheal Wheeler's tense waist had been pressed against his palms. He could still feel the hard angles of his shoulder blades. It felt like a tattoo that wouldn't fade.

Will flopped onto the old, gray sofa, worn down where he always put the ice packs. He grabbed his phone to scroll through his feed, hoping to forget everything. Time to escape into TikTok, where he could watch flawless skaters doing mind-blowing things to sad music. He wanted to drown everything out with envy and wonder until he could bury the small fear gnawing at him inside.

He knew he had to stop replaying the scene of Mike almost losing it on the exit from the twizzles, then throwing himself into a death spiral like a total maniac. It had taken Will's breath away because of the insane amount of trust it took. He especially didn’t need to remind himself about the bright look in Mike's eyes when he finally nailed the move. Remembering how Mike got angry wasn't helpful, not in a sulky way, but with a string of ridiculous curse words. A heat to try again, right now.

Just as he opened the app, a message showed up from a number he didn't know.

Unknown: hey. it's mike. murray gave me your number. said it was for 'organizational stuff'

Will stared at the text. Organizational stuff, sure. As if their risky scheme was as easy as scheduling training times. He waited, watching the dots blink on and off, a frantic pulse of light.

Unknown: listen, i get it, this is probably weird. and you're probably wiped. and rethinking every life choice that led to you being on ice with a lanky guy who can't tell his own ass from a lutz jump

Will snorted. He finally typed, his fingers clumsy on the glass.

Will Byers: Your lutz is okay. Your ass might be another story. Work to be done.

The dots flashed even faster.

Mike: HA. that's why i'm texting

Mike: murray said — work stuff only. but the thing is

Another pause, and Will could just see Mike pacing in a small room, messing up his hair and overthinking.

Mike: you're really interesting :)

Those three words, lit up on the screen, exploded into the quiet of Will's place. He blinked. Interesting? People saw him as graceful, disciplined, precise. Fans online had a hundred different usernames, some that made him blush. But this guy, Mike, looked at him and thought he was interesting?

Mike: not in a creepy way

Mike: okay maybe a little creepy because i got your number from our manager who's like a caffeine-addicted conspiracy theorist

Mike: but not actually creepy

Mike: just… you're usually so quiet, but it's not an empty quiet, like you're listening to rhings no one else can hear

Mike: and then you come out with lines like that one about holding, and you don't even blink

Mike: you didn't laugh at me when i almost killed us both on that step sequence

Mike: you just… got what went wrong

Mike: so yeah, i'd like to talk to the person, not just the 'partner' i got stuck with

Mike: only if you want ofc

Will read through it twice. The part of him that was so controlling, that had planned every detail of his life, panicked, telling him this was totally wrong. Too much.

This whole partnership was temporary, set up for now. To add this on top of everything, whatever this was, was too dangerous. If they failed, it would sting even worse. But that was the voice of the trained athlete.

There was another voice too, the one that was just eighteen, and had spent most of his life stuck on skating. Will was openly out, but his actual personal life existed usually in his head and in bad dates that went nowhere because he had so little time and energy to spare.

The chill from the ice hadn't just been physical; it was like a lightning strike of something new. A jolt of pure energy had slammed into his usual calm, and the resulting clash wasn't just heat – it was a weird, captivating light. His inner voice which he playfully referred to as his gay inner self, wasn't just whispering like it often did.It was right there, on the edge of his seat, practically jumping up and down with excitement.

“This guy,” it declared, ignoring every sensible thought Will had ever had. “This totally off-the-wall guy. He called you interesting. He's a beautiful mess, a walking disaster zone who trusted you to catch him in the air when he barely knew you! Answer him! Just say yes! Are you crazy? When are you ever gonna get an offer like this again?”

Will's thumb froze over the phone screen. He could almost see Mike's cocky yet vulnerable grin – a mix of challenge and raw honesty. He remembered the sheer guts it had taken for Mike to come up with this crazy idea in the first place. Then, the picture of his silent, empty apartment filled his mind, a void that endless scrolling could never begin to touch.

He inhaled deeply, letting the rigid professional barriers he'd carefully constructed melt away for the evening. Or at least attempt.

Will Byers: Not creepy. Definitely unusual. But hey, who are we kidding, I dig it.

Will Byers: And you're interesting too. Like, 'might accidentally revolutionize figure skating' interesting.

The reply was there almost as soon as he hit send.

Mike: IS THAT A GOOD THING? I'M GONNA SAY IT'S A GOOD THING

Mike: sooo. since we're both card-carrying members of the unusual clun. did you eat? or are you just chilling, staring at the ceiling, pondering the meaning of life? (i get it, btw)

Will glanced at the sad, empty pizza box sitting forgotten on his coffee table. Two days old. Since Chloe had gotten sick, he'd mostly been running on smoothies and a whole lot of anxiety.

Will Byers: Pondering the void with a side of dread.

Mike: ew, disgusting! hard pass

Mike: i'm stuck in this divey 24-hour diner, like, two blocks from the rink. coffee is basically motor oil, but the fries are sent from heaven

Mike: and they have pie :)

Mike: come hang out with me?

Mike: we can bond over sore muscles

Mike: or just, y'know, not talk

Mike: i just kinda don't wanna be alone with my thoughts right now

It was a raw and honest invitation with no frills and no manipulations; just a simple need to escape the echo chamber of their own minds. As if on cue, Will's stomach let out a loud, embarrassing growl, completely blowing his cool. A real smile tugged at his lips, and he felt the tense muscles in his face, tightened by days of stress and worry, finally start to relax. His inner cheerleader was already doing backflips.

“PIE, WILL! HE SAID PIE! AND FRIES! AND HE DOESN'T WANT TO BE ALONE! Snap out of it and put on your shoes, go, NOW!”

And he knew he wasn't made of stone. He was just trying to be responsible and stick to the rules he had set. He was made of muscle and nerves, of bone and a heart that sometimes beat way too loud in the deafening quiet. Right now, that heart was pulling him –hard– toward the chaotic, compelling guy, the terrible coffee, and the amazing, heavenly fries. That, and the fact he had not eaten a real meal in days.

Will Byers: Send the address. And order the pie.

Will Byers: Apple, if they have it.

Mike: woah, sassy man alert! you're one of those guys with, like, specific snack requirements

Mike: see you in 20

Mike: don't think about it too much :)

Too late. Will was already mentally rewriting the entire evening, anticipating every awkward silence and the potential for disaster. He scanned his closet, agonizing over every shirt before grabbing a simple, soft gray t-shirt. It was the best solution but it was certainly blurring the lines they desperately needed to maintain. Again, Mike's wide, surprised, trusting gaze flashed in his mind's eye, the way he had lingered on him after that first, fleeting lift.

He snatched his keys – the sharp, cold metal shocking his skin. Practically running, he burst out of his apartment and into the pulsing, neon-lit night, following the fragile thread of a that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. This wasn't just the most reckless thing he'd done all week.

And for the first time since Chloe had fallen ill, the pit of anxiety in his stomach was battling against a thrill too frightening to name and too compelling to ignore. Some might call it anticipation.

The diner was a time capsule. The red seats were worn smooth, the chrome a bit dull, and the air was thick with the smell of old grease, strong coffee, and that unmistakable lemon cleaner. It wasn't exactly cheerful, with those buzzing fluorescent lights, but there was a strange comfort to it.

Will saw Mike right away, not that he could have missed him. He wasn't in a booth. He was at the counter, all elbows and knees on a stool. His legs were wrapped around the base like he was trying to stay upright. The dude was seriously focused, like an artist studying his muse, digging into a giant pile of fries with a fork. Next to that, on a separate plate, sat an apple pie with a melting scoop of ice cream, like it was waiting for its turn in the spotlight.

Will sat down on the stool next to him. The vinyl was surprisingly warm under his legs.

“This is heaven on earth, right?”

Mike jumped, a fry stopped halfway to his mouth. He quickly shoved it in, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“You actually came. And yeah, this is destiny fried in oil.” He moved the fries toward Will. “I think they fry these in something that's basically plastic, but it tastes amazing.”

Will grabbed one. It was perfect. Crispy, salty, and soft. He nodded.

“Okay, I give up. It's pure genius.”

Mike grinned, a real smile that lit up his whole face, and waved over the tired waitress, ordering another cup of that disgusting coffee for Will. They just ate for a while, the silence surprisingly nice, broken only by the sounds of the kitchen and the low hum of the late news from a TV in the corner.

The stress and tension from the qualifying event, where everything was on the line, started to leak out of Will. He just felt tired, like a normal person.

“So,” Mike said, drawing circles in a puddle of ketchup. “You've been skating your whole life, right?”

It wasn't really a question. It was more like asking to hear the story. Will nodded, drinking of the bitter coffee.

“Since I was as little. My mom put me in lessons to help improve my balance. And I just kept doing it.”

“And you always wanted to do pairs?”

“I liked the idea,” Will said. It was easier to talk here, in the low light. “Singles is just you, but pairs...It’s a conversation on the ice. There’s something to be said there. He looked at Mike. What about you? You said you tried juniors.”

Mike's smiled turned wry.

“Yeah, one season. My partner was hard to work. Her dad was also our coach, which wasn’t a good combination. I needed to feel free, without too much pressure. I like singles for that matter. There are big jumps, and the chance to just feel the music.”

“But you said yes to this,” Will reminded him.

Mike looked at him, his dark eyes serious.

“Murray said it was important. And… I saw you skate last year. The piece with the piano music.” He looked away and began to stare at the salt. “I want to what it was. Even if it is a big failure in the future.” He threw a fry into his mouth. “And the pay.”

Will laughed, a real laugh that sounded weird to him.

“At least, you are being honest.”

“I'm trying,” Mike mumbled, his voice sounding a bit down. He pushed the pie towards Will, along with a fork. “Okay, spill. Aside from being great at skating and occasionally taking a tumble on the ice, what else is there to Will Byers? Got any odd habits? Maybe you're secretly obsessed with some trashy TV show?”

And that's how the real talk started. Will began to open up, showing he was more than just a list of skills. He talked about his mom, Joyce, who ran this kind of quirky antique shop, with a heart as big as the sky and a hug like sunshine. Then he mentioned his brother, Jonathan, who was off studying photography somewhere far.

He shared his guilty pleasure of watching cheesy horror films from the '80s until the sun came up. He also let on that he liked to draw amazing characters. Mike was all ears, not just going through the motions with polite questions, but really wondering about things.

“Why those movies?”

”What do you draw when you're on edge?”

”What's the strangest thing your mom's ever had in that shop?”

Mike, in turn, opened up too. He described growing up in a loud, loving, kind of too-much family where he was the kid in the middle, who was looked out for and had to look out for others. He brought up his younger sister, who he thought the world of. He spoke about how much he loved not just skating, but the stories it could tell.

He told about how he plotted stories, creating worlds for games he’d made up with friends in high school, and how he loved old stories, like myths. As he talked about a game he'd once run based on old tales, his voice got faster, and he started moving his hands around, showing the scenes.

He could be a lot, that was clear. He confessed to having major arguments with his old skating coach. He said that he'd sobbed over a sad dog food TV ad and that once, after a bad score by a judge, he skated his whole routine at midnight in an empty rink, yelling out the words. He was complex, full of life, like a storm of feelings.

Will found himself not just listening but almost getting carried away by what Mike was saying. It was exciting and a bit scary at once. He could see past Mike's show of confidence to the worry underneath. Mike was someone who felt everything deeply and was still figuring out how to live with that.

The pie was all gone. They refilled their mugs with that terrible coffee even though they really didn't want any more. The place was almost empty, just a driver having a late meal in one corner and a sleepy waitress.

“We should get going,” Will said, even though he really wanted to stay longer. “We have, like, just a day and a half to try to look okay to win something?”

Mike groaned, and lightly hit his head on the table.

”Don't remind me. I was beginning to forget that my legs exist.” He looked up. “Where do you live?”

Will told him his place was a simple apartment building, about a fifteen-minute walk, closer to the school than the rink.

“I'm staying in the dorms, which are like, five minutes from here,” Mike said, getting off the stool and putting on a worn denim jacket. He grabbed a handful of cash and tossed it down with a good tip, paying for both their meals. “Come on, I'll walk you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

”I want to,” Mike replied, not arguing, just sure of himself. “It's late, and I don't want to go back to my small room just yet. It feels too stuffy right now.”

Will got what he meant. His own apartment felt like a return to a quiet life, so he just agreed.

The air felt cold and a bit wet, smelling of rain in the distance and city streets. The streets were calm; the lights from the lamps made puddles of orange on the dark roads. Their steps made a steady rhythm on the ground. The noise from the diner turned into a nice quiet, a quiet that was now filled with the things they had talked about.

Will was very aware of Mike walking next to him, how he seemed to walk a bit slower to match Will's pace. Their hands touched now and again, which made Will feel electric. His usually focused mind was starting to get distracted.

“He walked you home. He didn't want the night to end. He watches your old routines. He called you interesting. He feels everything so strongly!”

Will had made up his mind to come out, and ever since then, it was as if his gay side wanted to party all night, every night. Before, it was like a quiet hum, barely there. Now? Forget about it. Wide awake and ready to go, like it wasn't planning on giving him a single moment of peace.

His brain started replaying the evening like a broken record, each moment crystal clear. Like when Will chatted about his drawings, noticing how Mike’s eyes stuck to his hands like glue. Or the way Mike talked about him skating, all soft and impressed. And that time at the crosswalk—how Mike, without thinking, moved him away from a gust of wind.

“He’s so not straight”, a sneaky little voice whispered in Will’s head. “I'm telling you, check him out. All that intensity? That’s not just liking skating, it’s something more.”

Then, out of nowhere, a memory popped into his mind. Like when you ask a search engine a question and then hours later it gives you an answer. It was a video he had watched a few months back, something from the skating gossip blogs. There it was: Michael Wheeler after some junior competition. A reporter shoving a microphone in his face, asking about his love life, all those rumors about him and his girl splitting up. And Mike, looking tired and maybe a little honest, just shrugged.

“Things didn’t work out. Love’s a mess. Guess I’m up for anything. Maybe bi, who knows? All those labels are kind of weird anyway. Next question.”

He said it right there on camera for everyone to hear. Will’s heart went crazy for a second there. He shoved the memory away, along with that voice that kept whispering in his ear.

“Too soon,” he thought. “This is just skating, nothing more.”

Mike was probably just being nice, maybe he was a little lonely or impressed by Will’s skating. Reading anything more into it would be arrogant and risky. He needed someone to be there with him, not to be crushing on. Not his skating partner, the guy who comes and goes all the time, and not him for sure.

“You go quiet when you think too much,” Mike said, his voice snapping Will back to real life. “Like you just disappear. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Will shook his head, smiling a little.

“Nothing much. Just thinking about tomorrow. The lifts. We barely even practiced them today.”

Mike made a face.

“Oh, that part where you literally throw me into the air and hope I remember which way is up, you mean? I’m so ready for that.”

He was obviously being sarcastic.

“You are great in the air, actually. Once you just do it, you’re solid, and you pull in quickly so you can spin faster.”

“You sound like my gymnastics coach. ‘Do it, Wheeler! Or you’re going to fall!’”

Will laughed again. He seemed to be doing that a lot around Mike lately.

“She was right about that.”

They got to Will’s place. Just a simple brick building with a flickering light over the door. They stopped under it, standing in that weird, buzzing light.

“Well,” Mike said, shifting around, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “This is you.”

“Yeah,” Will said. The word hung there between them. The night didn’t feel quite over yet. “Thanks for the fries and pie. And for talking to me.”

“Thanks for not being a robot. And for catching me that one time I almost kissed the ice.”

Mike’s smile was softer now, not so crazy, more real.

“I said I would,” Will said, repeating what he had said at the skating rink.

Mike looked at Will’s hands for a second, then back at his face. The air between them felt thicker, filled with all the stuff they weren’t saying. The day, walking together in the dark. For one crazy, floating second, Will thought Mike might try to come closer, maybe hug him. He saw it in Mike's eyes—a quick flash of wanting to, but nervous.

Mike just stepped back, breaking the moment.

“Yeah, you promised.” He cleared his throat. “So, see you at seven. So we can not die.”

“Seven,” Will said, his voice a little rough.

Mike gave a quick wave and left without saying a word, walking away. He disappeared. Will stood there until Mike went to turn the corner. Only then did he let out the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He reached into his pocket for his keys, the cold metal making him feel like he was back on earth.

“He’s a friend,” he told himself firmly, before unlocking the door and walking into his quiet apartment. “He needs a friend. I need a friend. That’s all there is to it.”

But as he leaned back against the door, the memory of Mike being so close still with him, the echo of him saying “maybe bi” going through his head, and the feeling of Mike right here, Will knew he was lying.

Then ice had shifted.

A fire had been lit, and it was never going away.

The clock struck seven.

The frozen surface, a perfect mirror, showed back their figures, reminding them of the crazy risk they’d taken. But overnight, things felt different. It wasn't newfound skill; they still had a long way to go. It was more like a small, brave seed of understanding that had sprouted in the space of late-night diner visits of shared comfort food, and those quiet, personal midnight talks.

Will started counting steps, his voice level and clear in the big, empty ice rink. Mike listened intently, focusing every part of himself on Will's instruction. A spark of focus now lit his eyes, and he leaned forward a bit, as if trying to catch every single word. They went back to the basics—starting with gliding side by side. Today, they got in sync faster, smoother. Their pushes matched up, and their blades stayed aligned for several long, incredible seconds. It was like two instruments finding the same weird, urgent song.

“Okay,” Will said, his breath hanging like a small cloud in the cold air. “Time for the turn, palm to palm. Remember, the spin starts on the 'and'.”

Mike nodded, his jaw tight. They moved. Their hands met—Mike's hold was sure now, not shaky. On the silent 'and', he pushed onto his outside edge, pulling Will into a spin. They turned. At first, it wobbled, but then it evened out. Their bodies acted as one. Will’s shoulder brushed against Mike’s back. Three solid spins—they were a single thing spinning. They finished the move, let go of hands, and Mike yelled in excitement, the shout echoing way up to the high ceiling.

“Yes! Can you believe that?! We didn’t fall!”

Will smiled widely.

“Yeah, I saw. That was… good, Mike. Really good.”

The praise seemed to fire Mike up; he became bolder and more excited. When they moved on to working through step sequences, being close became normal. Will’s hands were always on Mike: guiding his hip through a turn, supporting his lower back in a deep lean, fixing an angle of his raised leg. And that’s when Will’s hidden inner self, the one that sees everything and is always joking around, decided it was time for a party. Because he was touching Mike. A lot. And not just to help him with the skating move.

The first time, it was an accident. They were practicing for a lift—just a simple hold around the waist. Will was standing behind Mike, his arms around him, finding a good spot just above his hips. Mike, trying to find his balance, shifted his weight back, and Will’s right hand slid down, briefly brushing the curve of Mike’s ass before he could move it.

“Sorry!” Will blurted, his face feeling hot.

Mike just looked back over his shoulder, a faint blush on his face too.

“It's okay. My fault. I moved.”

But Will still felt it—the soft training material and the firm muscle under it. A mistake? A slip-up? Yet, his mind kept replaying the moment—the warmth, the shape, how good it felt.

About twenty minutes later, it happened again. During a switch where Will was supposed to move Mike from an inside edge to a straight crossover, his hand slid from Mike’s shoulder down his side and lingered—a little too long—on the curve of his waist. He felt Mike's stomach muscles tighten under the cloth. Mike didn’t move away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it a little, curving his back just a tiny bit.

“Oh my god,” the kid inside Will whispered. “Are you doing that on purpose? You’re a professional skater, and you’re enjoying touching your partner’s waist!”

Will tried to ignore the voice, to focus on the pattern of the move and the physics of the lift. But it was too late. It was like a floodgate had opened, filling him with a wave of inappropriate, almost adolescent realization. Every touch of shoulders, every steadying hand on Mike’s arm, every bit of close contact now felt charged with a new, forbidden feeling.

He became painfully aware of Mike’s body in a way that had nothing to do with skating—the dark curls damply curling at the back of his neck; the long line of his throat when he threw his head back laughing after a successful (if clumsy) death spiral; the unexpected strength in his lean body as he braced himself against Will.

And with this sudden wave came a strange thought—what was Mike like at thirteen? The image appeared in his mind: a younger Mike—a lanky teenager with the same wild hair, but even more messed up. Maybe a little taller. More awkward, his voice cracking, but with the same dark, intense eyes shining with a passion too big for his body. A kid who talked nonstop about dragons and games, tripped over everything, fiercely stood up for his friends, and felt everything deeply.

Will felt a strange, soft tug in his heart for this imaginary boy. Like an invisible thread linked them across time, aiming straight for the core that was still so clear in the guy standing in front of him.

“Hey, Will!” Mike waved a hand in front of his face, a little breathless. They’d stopped for water. “You spaced out. Already writing your winning speech?”

Will shook his head and took a long drink from his bottle, hiding his thoughts.

“Just… thinking about the next move. The throw—a salchow. Ready to try it?”

Mike's confidence wavered for a second—fear flashed in his eyes. Then he stood up straighter.

“Yeah. Let’s do it. Just… please don’t let me crash into the wall!”

“I promise,” Will said, and the word felt heavy with new meaning.

The throw was a mess—Mike turned too far and landed on two feet, stumbling but staying up. The next try was worse—he didn’t turn enough, and Will had to grab his waist to stop him from falling, pulling him in close. They froze for a moment—flustered, breathing hard, Will’s arms around Mike’s middle, Mike’s back pressed against Will’s chest. Will felt Mike’s heart beating fast through their clothes. It matched his own.

“Okay,” Mike breathed, not moving away right away. “We're… getting there.”

“Yeah,” Will whispered, his lips close to Mike’s ear. He made himself let go, and the cold air rushed between them like a shock.

By the end of the four-hour workout, they were soaked and full of a dizzying, exhausting joy. They hadn’t mastered everything, but they’d figured out parts of it. They had their own ways of talking now—a mix of skating words, shared looks, and Mike’s cursing.

Murray watched quietly from the side, missing nothing with his sharp eyes. When they stepped off the ice, their legs were shaking. Murray came over.

“Not a complete loss,” he said, which was high praise from him. “There’s… potential. Rough around the edges, but not boring. Wheeler, you have all the drama of those old silent film actors on the edge. Byers, you’re the steady guy trying not to be dragged down by the storm. Somehow, it clicks.” He patted them on the shoulder. “Rest up. Drink water. Dress run tomorrow, then we travel.”

He left them in the small hallway that smelled like sweat, ice cleaner, and old rubber. Mike pulled his skate covers on, leaning against the wall. He looked tired, but full of life.

“Well… that was… something.”

“It was,” Will agreed, starting to take off his skates; his fingers shook a little from the workout. The quiet that followed felt charged, like the night before.

Mike scuffed his sneaker on the floor.

“You, uh… going straight home? To draw your stuff or watch old movies?”

Will smiled down at his skates.

”Probably. Need to sleep.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Mike paused. “I was just thinking… our dorm laundry room is sad with lost socks and bad vibes. And I’m out of… good coffee. There’s this place, not the diner, but better, a few blocks past your dorm…” He went on, making up reasons. He didn’t even want food; he just wanted more time. “Unless you're tired of me. Or have something better to do. Which you do. I just…”

He stopped and looked at Will. The same vulnerability was there in his eyes. This fearless kid who threw himself into lifts was suddenly shy, afraid of being turned down. Will's heart did a little acrobatic routine in his chest, flipping and twirling like a seasoned gymnast. Inside, his very gay self was losing it, screaming.

”He totally wants to hang out more! Dude's a nervous wreck! Just look at him!”

But even through the joyful noise, Will picked up on something deeper—a real need for connection. Mike wasn't just being nice; he genuinely wanted this weird bubble they'd made to last a little longer. The crazy pressure of everything made normal life seem dull, and Will definitely didn't want to go back to the quiet. He'd rather stick around, close to Mike's wild energy, which he found himself liking more and more.

“I could go for a decent coffee,” Will said softly, “and I've been meaning to, uh, put off doing laundry.”

The relief on Mike's face was like sunshine after a storm.

“Awesome! Okay, cool!”

As they headed for the exit, shoulders accidentally brushing, smiles tired but real, Murray's head popped out of his office door. He didn't say a word, just watched them, his gaze lingering. He watched Mike's excited, slightly flustered gestures, Will's gentle, attentive expression, and that little bit of space between them that seemed to buzz with its own electricity. A slow, knowing smirk crept across Murray's face—the kind you get after years of watching people fall for each other.

”Don't stay out too late, kids,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Big day tomorrow. And try not to...get distracted.”

Mike and Will both froze, then turned bright red at the same time. Mike mumbled something that made no sense. Will just stared at the floor, feeling totally exposed.

“We're just getting coffee!” Mike finally blurted out, his voice a little higher than usual.

“Of course,” Murray said, his smirk growing wider. “The best partnerships often start that way. Just remember, what you have on the ice is one thing. But what you have off the ice...that could be a whole different game. Play carefully.

With one last knowing look, he disappeared. Suddenly, the hallway felt ten degrees hotter. The moment was ruined but also somehow more intense. Murray had said out loud what had been hanging in the air ever since that first accidental touch—since the diner, since that walk together.

The cool night air hit them as they stepped outside. The easy vibe they had going was gone, replaced by awkwardness. He...he reads way too much into stuff, Mike said, jamming his hands into his pockets.

“He's a drama king.”

“Yeah,” Will agreed, but it sounded weak, even to himself. They walked on in silence.

The coffee shop Mike took him to was a cool, cozy place with mismatched chairs and the amazing smell of real coffee. They got their drinks—black coffee for Will, some super sugary thing for Mike—and sat by the window. At first, they talked about safe stuff, like how weird the weather was or a funny video they'd seen, or which skates were best. But Murray's words—and their own messed-up feelings—hung over them like rain clouds. They were way too alert of each other, in a new, uneasy way. Will noticed Mike looking at his hands holding the coffee cup, carefully, almost nervously. Mike would start talking like normal, then stop mid-sentence, like maybe he was saying too much. They were like people standing at the edge of an ocean they'd never seen—feeling the pull of the water but scared to get wet.

Naming what they felt—that crazy mix of wanting to be near each other, attraction, interest, and feeling understood—would be like setting off a bomb in an already unstable situation. It would be selfish, reckless, and maybe destroy the partnership they were trying so hard to build. So, without saying it, they didn't. They pushed it down. Will focused on the bitter taste of the coffee, on the way the light hit the dust in the air. Mike went on about a teacher he didn't like, his words a steady background noise.

When they finally said goodbye at the corner near Will's place, it was quick and uncomfortable. A shaky see you later, a wave that didn't quite connect. Will walked the last block alone, the coolness of the night replacing the feeling of Mike being close. His thoughts were a mess. He remembered Mike's body under his hands, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked when he asked to spend more time together. And the scary, exciting thought that Murray had seen it all too.

He didn't get his feelings. Not really. They were too intense, too new, too tied up with pressure, being creative, and just trying to survive. And he didn't want to get them yet—understanding them would mean they had power, and he needed all his power for the ice right now. But, as he unlocked his door and stepped back into the quiet, he knew one thing for sure—that chemistry wasn't just something Murray had made up.

The morning of the dress rehearsal dawned with a sense of false calm.

It felt as if the wild, almost manic energy that had been swirling around them for the past week had been compressed into a single, tight, ringing sound. Will was up way before his alarm clock could even think about doing its job. He felt a strange sensation, like the ghostly touch of familiar hands, already jangling his nerves, preparing his body for what felt like a major showdown.

Today wasn't about daydreaming, chasing new ideas, or trying to form some kind of special thing. Today was purely about showing everyone what they could do. Showing that this crazy bet they'd made could, for just six minutes, look less like the rantings of a lunatic and more like a well-thought-out, sensible plan.

The practice rink greeted them with a cold and empty silence. Only Murray, the cameraman they'd hired to film their practice runs, and the sound of steel blades scraping against the ice as they did their individual warm-ups disturbed the stillness. All those cozy hangouts at the cafe, the awkward silences on the drives home – it all felt like a distant memory. Now, it was all about the work.

But even behind that professional mask, Will's feelings were stretched thin. He noticed every little thing, every shift in Mike's mood. The part of him that was a huge fan of Mike had taken a backseat, replaced by the cold, calculating strategist sitting in his mind, carefully analyzing every bit of information. And then, it was time to put on the costumes.

Murray, who was always talking about conspiracy theories, had an assistant – a tiny but incredibly energetic costume maker named Anya. She could create amazing things even with hardly any money and saw figure skating as another form of high art. She sized them both up with a single look, mumbled something quickly in Russian, and disappeared for two days. When she came back, she had outfits that were more than just clothes; they were a whole statement.

Will's costume was like darkness made real. A deep, matte charcoal black, almost swallowing the light, made from some incredible material. The cut was sharp and modern: a sleeveless turtleneck that hugged his body like a second skin, showing off the power of his shoulders and chest, slimming at the waist. The pants were made of the same dark material, perfectly fitted, with nearly invisible panels of lighter, stretchy mesh along the sides of his thighs to let him move freely.

There were no shiny sequins or glitter – instead, Anya used raised, textured stitching that looked like cracked ice or broken stone, running diagonally across his chest and back in threads of gunmetal grey and a hint of deep blue that you could barely see. He looked solid, like he was connected to the earth, a safe place in a world that was always spinning. He looked like someone who could give you stability, carved from the shadows themselves.

Mike's costume was the exact opposite.“Where Will was shadow and depth, Mike was light and fire. The base was a creamy, almost-white velvet, soft to the eye but not at all restrictive. On top of that, a see-through chiffon overlay, as if it were made of sunbeams, fading from gold to soft yellow and pale amber, catching every bit of light. The top was loosely wrapped, with a low V-neck that showed the hollow of his throat and a bit of his collarbone; the sleeves had pointed edges like butterfly wings, fluttering around his wrists.

The pants were slim and white, with thin, gold lines that looked like they were painted by hand, running down his legs like lightning or shooting stars. For his hair, Anya wanted it simple – a high ponytail that showed off his face, making the sharp lines of his jaw and neck stand out, hiding nothing about how he felt. He looked like an angel, not from this earth, like the very idea of air and energy made real.

Seeing each other in their full costumes for the first time felt like an earthquake. Will, as he was buckling his last boot strap, looked up as Mike came out of the changing room.

And just stopped breathing.

Mike in his practice clothes was good-looking, a bit edgy. Mike in this costume was simply amazing. The white-gold glow seemed to come from inside him, making his skin glow, his dark eyes deeper and more mysterious. The high ponytail showed off the graceful line of his neck and his sharp cheekbones. He looked both exposed and stunning, like a prince from some sunny old story.

Will's mouth went dry. The cool planner in his mind sputtered, giving way to pure, simple awe. Mike, looking back at Will, had his lips slightly apart. His eyes moved slowly over the dark, sharp lines of Will's costume, the textured patterns hinting at power hidden underneath, and then met Will's eyes again. His cheeks flushed a little above the gold chiffon.

“Wow,” he whispered, the word echoing softly off the walls of the concrete hallway. “You look… very serious.”

“And you…” Will searched for a word that wasn't 'gorgeous' or 'beautiful.' “...bright,” he finished, feeling a bit awkward.

Mike grinned, and that took the angel back to the regular guy from the cafe.

“Anya said I'm the wild light to your gravity. I think she just likes yelling at me to stand still during fittings.”

The costumes didn't just change how they looked; they changed how they felt inside. When they stepped onto the ice for the practice run, their whole dynamic shifted. Will in his dark costume was the anchor, the center – every move seemed careful, strong, rooted in the earth. Mike in the flowing, light fabrics became the energy circling that center – a flash, a spark, a wild arc of light.

Murray gave the signal. The first deep, swelling notes of their music filled the speakers. They began. The costumes made everything bigger. When Will guided Mike through a step sequence, the darkness of his hand against the light, golden material at Mike's waist was a sharp, mesmerizing contrast, like a brushstroke in a masterpiece.

When they came together in their first pair spin, charcoal and gold whirled in a storm, mixing and separating like storm clouds and sunlight. And the touches. Oh, the touches. The thin fabrics were almost nothing. When Will's hands slid to Mike's hips to start a lift, he felt the warmth of his skin, the tension of his muscles through the thin velvet.

When he caught Mike after the throw salchow – the landing was cleaner today, even though he still landed on two feet – his arms wrapped around the torso covered in yellow chiffon, and he felt the fast, scared beat of Mike's heart through the layers. Every touch was like a seal, a clear message of intention and feeling.

The part of him that was being a secret admirer (still too harsh a thing to say) was now writing up a file called Clear Proof.

Item A: The Costume. He's dressed like an angel, for real.

Item B: How Close They Are. Feeling it confirms they fit together really well and both like it.

Item C: Staring. Wheeler looks at him way longer than he needs to, 73% of the time.

Will tried his best to focus on the rhythm, on keeping the right angle, on where his leg was. But his mind kept getting stuck on details – how the gold chiffon fluttered when Mike jumped, catching the air like a wing; how sweat sparkled on Mike's neck; the strange, tight look on his face under the bright lights.

They moved into the last part – the most emotional. The music swelled into a sad, loving tone. The moves here were especially close – a series of tight holds, deep leans, and long looks. Will was supposed to pull Mike backward; Mike's back arched over Will's arm, his head thrown back, trusting him completely.

In that position, with Mike's golden body soft against Will's dark one, the world narrowed to the space between their faces. Mike's eyes were wide open – dark pools reflecting the rink lights; his breath came in quick puffs of steam in the cold air. The music, their beating hearts, the rustle of fabric – it all came together into one, stunning experience.

For a second, figure skating just disappeared. There was only them – the boy from the shadows holding the boy from the light, hanging in a moment of perfect, scary balance. Then the music asked for a release. Will did the last lift – a hard curve lift where Mike, balanced on Will's thigh, stretched out into a soaring arabesque.

The lift was perfect. As he lowered Mike, moving into the final pose – a hug, foreheads almost touching, hands gripping each other's arms tightly – the last note hung in the air and then died. Silence fell, broken only by their heavy breathing.

The pose hung in the air, a held breath. Will's hands found their place on Mike's upper arms, the unusual gold fabric a surprise of softness against his skin. Mike's responding grip on Will's forearms was anything but gentle. They weren't touching foreheads, but the space between them was small enough that Will noticed the details he hadn't before: the tiny droplets of sweat gathering at Mike's temples, the way his pupils seemed to take up his whole iris, the almost invisible quiver in his lower lip.

And his scent, something Will would recognize anywhere—a mix of honey sweetness, a clean, almost manufactured smell from the costume, and underneath it all, something just purely Mike. The spell broke with Murray's sharp, rhythmic clapping from the sidelines.

“Okay, he announced, his voice magnified by the empty space. “It's… there. I guess. Costumes aren't terrible. And the story… is a story.”

They jumped apart, creating a noticeable distance between them. Will felt the loss of contact like a sudden drop in pressure. The places where he'd touched Mike tingled.

The rest of the practice blurred into a confusing stream—Murray's comments (mostly critical), adjustments to the timing, nitpicking every little detail. Will reacted without thinking; his body did what it was told while his mind stayed stuck on the feeling of their performance.

Somehow, it was the best they'd ever done. Not in terms of technical skill, but heart. And that feeling went beyond just acting; it felt deeply real. When practice ended, and the scrape of blades gave way to the heavy thud of rubber skate guards, the usual tiredness was mixed with a strange, vibrating energy.

They walked back to the locker rooms quietly, the only sounds the squeak of their guards on the floor and the low hum of the Zamboni smoothing the ice. In the hallway, Mike finally broke the silence.

“That was… yeah, different.”

“Yeah,” Will agreed, unsure if he could say anything more.

He couldn't bring himself to meet Mike's eyes. He replayed his face, golden and a little breathless, again and again in his mind.

“I guess the costumes helped, right?” Mike said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. “Made it easier to get into character. You're solid, and I'm… sparkly.”

Will snuck a look. Mike was fidgeting with the end of his gold sleeve. His ponytail was coming undone, a few dark strands framing his face. He looked younger, more vulnerable, than the confident performer from before.

”You're not just sparkly,” Will said without thinking, his voice softer than he meant it to be. “You're like… the core of something bright.”

Mike's head shot up, meeting Will's gaze. The hallway seemed to shrink, the space filling with the unspoken emotions that had run high during their routine. Mike opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard.

Will watched his Adam's apple move in his throat. He knew Mike was searching for a way out, a simple explanation that would let them both off the hook. A way to keep from repeating the intimacy of the performance, just like he did last night.

“Maybe we could…” Mike started, then stopped. His eyes flickered to Will's lips for a heartbeat, then looked away. “I don't know. Head out somewhere? Not for coffee, though. We'll be buzzed as it is on the flight tomorrow.”

He was so clearly uneasy. Will felt a strange pull, wanting to step back but also wanting to prolong this feeling. Maybe he could torture him a bit. But the logical side of his brain—the one focused on his goals and the looming competition—took control.

“We still need to rest up,” Will managed to say. “We travel tomorrow, then practices start. Murray will murder us if we're exhausted.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed Mike's face, quickly masked by a nod.

“Yeah, right. Of course. Rest. Good idea.”

They changed in separate stalls, carefully hanging their costumes in garment bags. In jeans and a sweatshirt, Mike looked ordinary again, but the memory of him in gold and white was now burned into Will's memory.

They said a quick “See you at the airport” at the rink exit, with no offer to walk together. The professional line had been redrawn, but it felt flimsy ans weakened by the heat of what had happened on the ice.

Will walked home alone, the cool air doing little to calm the heat in his veins. He wasn't thinking about footwork or jumps. He was thinking about the weight of Mike's hands in his, the trust in his eyes during their spin, the nearness made possible by costumes that felt more like a revelation than a disguise.

He was thinking about the way Mike had looked at him in the hallway—a look that held a question Will didn't know if he could keep ignoring.

The attraction was far past being just a feeling. It was a tangible thing—the heat they'd created together, now trapped under the surface of rules, waiting for any opportunity to broke out. And as Will lay awake that night with a sweet, anxious feeling, he knew it was coming.

And it was only waiting for its moment.

An airport isn't just any old train station; it has this strange vibe all its own. It's like stepping into a giant church, but instead of stained glass and religious art, you're surrounded by huge, flashy ads. Forget the smell of incense; here, it's cheap coffee mixed with the harsh scent of cleaning stuff and that particular, sickly smell of gas. Will hated that smell.

He stood there, waiting near the gate. His duffel bag sat at his feet, and his skate bag leaned against his leg, like a friendly but clumsy dog. Around him, chaos reigned. Athletes in matching team jackets rushed around, their coaches barking out last-minute instructions. Everyone seemed so tense, you could practically feel the pressure in the air. Will felt like he didn't belong, like an outsider who had somehow wandered onto the set of a sports movie.

Just then, he saw Mike. Michael Wheeler, as always. Though, he wasn't moving like one of those athletes. Instead, he looked like a lost tourist who had accidentally stumbled into the wrong place. Huge headphones covered his ears, and a worn-out leather jacket was thrown over a graphic tee. He carried his skate bag like it was a ticking bomb, holding it as far away as possible.

Mike's eyes were wide, like saucers, fixed on the departure board with a mix of fear and interest. All that cool confidence he usually had on the ice was gone, washed away by the stress of the airport and the flight ahead. A sudden feeling hit Will, like a shock of electricity – he had to help Mike out.

Will raised his hand, hoping Mike would spot him. And he did, right away. A wave of relief washed over Mike's face. He started pushing through the crowd, accidentally knocking over a trash can with his skate bag along the way.

“Oh, hey, you're here,” Mike said, pulling off his headphones and letting them rest around his neck. He sounded like he was yelling. “I thought you had maybe, I don't know, taken off on a private jet or something.”

“On our budget?” Will tried to smile. “We're lucky Murray even managed to get us seats with a little extra room.”

“Yeah.” Mike dropped his bag to the floor, glanced around, and swallowed hard. “So, here we go. We're flying.”

“Yeah,” Will agreed.

They both understood what that meant, what it stood for, and it hung between them like a shaky bridge over a pit of their worries.

Finally, they announced boarding. Everything seemed to move in slow motion: the line, showing their passports, people trying to shove their bags into the overhead bins. Their seats were together, next to the window in the plane. The extra legroom was a bad joke for tall people. Mike immediately leaned his forehead against the cold window and stared at the ground crew working below.

As the plane began to speed up, Will could see how white Mike's knuckles turned as he gripped the armrests. He was breathing fast.

“You okay?“ Will asked, leaning in to speak over the noise.

“I hate flying,” honestly Mike admitted, his teeth clenched. “It's just not right. A metal tube in the air held up by... I don't know, hope and stuff I don't get.”

“Just think about where we're going,” Will said.

It sounded weak, even to him.

The plane raced forward, pressing them into their seats. As they took off, Mike grabbed Will's arm. His grip was tight. Will froze. He could feel Mike's fingers shaking and the pulse beating fast under his skin. He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over and put it on top of Mike's, pressing down lightly.

“It's okay,” he said quietly, just for Mike. “It's just noise and a bit of movement. We're fine.”

Mike didn't let go. He turned a little from the window and looked at Will. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide and dark. There was a sense of being unguarded in his eyes that all the protections fell away. He nodded once, and his fingers relaxed a little.

That's how they flew as the plane climbed higher, cutting through the clouds into the bright blue sky. The seatbelt sign turned off. The cabin settled down, with its hum. And Mike's hand was still on Will's arm, and Will's hand was still over it. It was more than just a sign of fear.

It was a point of understanding, a way to connect in that large sky. Will could feel every bone in Mike's fingers, the warmth spreading through their sleeves. His own heart, which had been beating steadily, now started to beat to a different rhythm.

After a long moment, Mike finally loosened his grip and pulled his hand slowly back to the armrest. But Will could still feel the touch.

“Sorry,” Mike muttered. “I...I don't like when the plane takes off.”

Will said, “It’s alright,” and he knew he meant it.

It was more than just alright. The nearness, the worry they both felt, and the natural way they reached out to each other had shifted something between them. It made them feel closer, warmer, and more real.

The rest of their plane ride went by in a daze. They talked quietly about everything and nothing, like the silly movie showing on the seat screens, the strange airplane food, and the first time Mike tried to skate on the ice, which involved a lot of falling, crying, and holding onto the rink walls.

They didn't mention the skating program or the competition. Instead, they created a simple, normal space for themselves up in the air, a temporary escape from the pressure that waited for them below.

But that bubble burst when they landed. It was a new country, a new city, a whole different world. The airport signs were in a language they didn't understand, and the air smelled different. As they drove to the hotel, the streets and buildings flashed past the windows. Murray was waiting for them in the fancy hotel lobby. At competitions, Murray was all business, serious and stern. He had arrived much earlier.

“Sign in, grab a quick bite, and get some sleep. Practice is at seven in the morning at the main rink. Don't be late, don't get lost, and don't mess around.”

He paused, looking at them, his eyes lingering on the connection between them. Even after they traveled across time zones and were exhausted, it was obvious that something had changed between them.

Their rooms were right next to each other, but they weren't connected. Will lay on the plain hotel bed, listening to the strange sounds of the city outside. He could still feel the faint pressure of Mike's hand on his arm. Sleep was a long way off.

The rink was huge. It wasn't just bigger than their rink at home; it was something else. It was vast and cold, and the echoes made it feel like the spirits of past champions were living there. The ice was perfect under the bright lights, freshly smoothed. Other pairs were already practicing, moving smoothly and gracefully as if trying to intimidate them.

Will felt like an outsider again, and his stomach was churning. But Mike seemed different, like that nervous traveler had disappeared. He stood by the rink wall in his gear, staring at the ice with a sharp and focused gaze. All his fear had turned into focus.

“It's just ice, Byers,” he said, as if he knew what Will was thinking. His voice was firm. “It's bigger, brighter, there are more people watching, but it's still ice. And we know what to do.”

Their practice felt different. The large space didn't swallow them up; it gave their unique style room to express itself. The sound of their blades echoed differently, giving weight to their moves.

When they skated their short program, it wasn't perfect. Mike stumbled on the double axel and was a little off on one spin, but something ignited how they skated the program. They weren't the most in sync or the most graceful, but they were alive.

Every look, every touch, every push and pull vibrated with feeling. Even the bored officials looked up from their tablets, seeming intrigued. Their chemistry, which crackled between them, was now impossible for anyone to overlook.

It had become a force on the ice, shifting the atmosphere around them. They finished the program, breathing hard, and skated over to Murray. Other skaters were watching, not with mocking eyes, but with interest and caution.

Murray's face remained neutral.

“Late release, uneven step sequence before the spin, you’re losing speed on the lift.” He paused, then a small smile touched his lips. “But nobody’s focusing on your feet.”

The day of the short program was gray and rainy, but inside the rink, it was a blaze of light and sound. The seats, empty during practice, were now packed with fans. The air buzzed with pop music, announcements in different languages, and nerves from the skaters.

Backstage, in the crowded warm-up area, the tension was thick. The smell of muscle rub and hairspray filled the air. Skaters stretched and bounced, their faces showing great focus or fear.

Will and Mike found a spot by the wall and began their warm-up. They didn't speak; they didn't need to. They communicated through their synchronized movements, deep breaths, and the occasional brush of shoulders.

When it was time to change into their costumes, it felt like a special moment. In the busy locker room, they helped each other with the final touches. Will zipped up the back of Mike’s gold costume, and Mike straightened the stitching on Will’s shoulder. Their fingers touched by chance.

They looked at each other in the mirror. The boy from the shadows and the boy from the bright lights, ready to face the heat.

Their names were announced, and they walked out of the dimness into the bright passage that led to the ice. The roar of the crowd was massive. Will only saw the rink ahead. Next to him, Mike took a shaky breath and exhaled a small cloud of vapor.

He turned to Will, his face pale, but his eyes were burning with that focused fire.

“Just us,” Mike said, barely loud enough to hear over the noise. “Like in the diner, like going home. Just tell me a story.”

Will nodded, suddenly feeling calm.

“Follow me.”

They took their places. The rink went quiet. The first notes of their music cut through the silence. What followed wasn't a perfect performance. Perfection was for those who moved like machines.

What Will and Mike created was their heart, their story.

The opening steps showed the desperation of their first practice. The first lift showed the shock of accidental touches. The step sequence reminded them of their night walk. When Will sent Mike into the throw, it was a leap of faith.

And when Mike landed, it was a triumph of will and determination. Making up for the mistake, he straightened up and flowed into the next move with a look of happiness.

The final spin was a whirlwind of dark and gold, of the storm inside them. And in the final pose, Will pulled Mike close, their bodies touching, foreheads pressed together as their breaths mingled.

The dark fabric of Will’s costume stood out against Mike’s shining gold. Under the spotlight, they were one. The music ended. For a moment, silence. Then the rink exploded. It wasn't normal applause; it was a roar of surprise, joy, and emotion.

Still holding Mike, Will felt the roar through the ice, through Mike’s body, through his own. He looked into Mike’s eyes and saw his own excitement reflected there, mixed with relief.

They skated to the Kiss & Cry in a daze, with the roar of the crowd still ringing in their ears. Murray was there, unusually quiet, just clapping them both on the back hard enough to leave bruises. They sat next to each other, watching the screen as the judges made their decisions.

The scores appeared. The technical score was alright, not great. Some errors and deductions. But the program components were high. Almost too high, since no one knew them.

Their skating skills, transitions, performance, and interpretation had worked. Will felt his heart pounding. They looked at the final score.

Fifth place. Mike grabbed Will’s hand, almost crying. They didn't care that everyone could see them.

“Fifth,” Mike whispered. “Come on, Will. Fifth.”

Will couldn't speak. He squeezed Mike’s hand and stared at their names with the others. That feeling of not belonging began to fade. Feeling of afraid turned into chance to make something amazing. They did more than skate.

They were noticed.

In the busy hallways to the locker room, everyone congratulated them. Mike still held his hand, which was all Will needed. The spark between them had caught fire for everyone. Now they had to figure out what to do next.

The rink roared, and they felt ecstatic. After the performance, the path from the Kiss & Cry to the mixed zone for media felt like an unreal tunnel made of voices, pats on the back from other skaters, and camera flashes that made them dizzy.

Will felt like he was floating above the ground, but also felt the weight of their place. Fifth place. Mike's hand held his tightly, keeping him connected to reality. They were led to the press area, where reporters shoved microphones forward. The first questions were predictable.

“William Byers! Michael Wheeler! What an amazing debut! How are you feeling?”

Another reporter piped up, “Michael, that throw was insane! Were you even a little bit terrified?”

Someone else yelled, “William, your partnership with Mike is amazing. Did you rehearse with a acting coach?”

They gave practiced answers, still riding high on the adrenaline, thanking their coach, each other, and recalling the crazy intensity of those last few days. Will had this professional smile plastered on his face, but he was so wired and with Mike's shoulder pressed so firmly against his, he could feel his composure crumbling.

Then, a reporter in the front row leaned forward. Will recognized that shark-like smile and the hungry look in his eyes. The microphone had the logo of a major sports channel.

“Mike, Will, that was a killer performance. Mike, I gotta ask... that final pose; the way you just seemed to melt into Will's arms has the internet going crazy. ‘Byler’ is trending. Everyone wants to know... who calls the shots here? Who’s really in the driver’s seat?”

He winked, and the implication was low and nasty.

“Come on, guys, who's top, and who's the bottom?”

The room went silent. A few journalists laughed nervously, but most leaned in, sensing a scandal. The question hung there, cheap and offensive, turning something beautiful into a crude joke.

Will felt this ice wash over him. His smile turned into a rigid mask. His gut screamed at him to shut it down, to give some bland answer about teamwork and mutual respect. But before he could even open his mouth, he felt Mike stiffen beside him.

But Mike didn't freeze, didn't blush, didn't stutter. A slow, almost dangerous smile crept across his face – not the bright, happy one from the ice, but something sharp. He leaned into the microphone, his eyes locked on the reporter.

“You know,” Mike said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the noise. “This is pair skating, not some solo act. We don't 'lead' or 'follow' like you're implying. We build momentum together.”

He paused, letting those words sink in. Then that smile widened, showing his teeth.

“But since you're so interested in positions… I'm the one who gets launched ten feet into the air and has to trust that Will will be exactly where I need him when I land. I'm the one who lets him grab me and spin me until I'm seeing stars. So, what does that sound like to you?”

The press zone went completely silent for three solid seconds. Then, all hell broke loose. Gasps, whispers, and the click-click-click of cameras filled the air, all capturing Mike's bold expression. The reporter was for once speechless, then smirked, realizing he'd gotten something even better than he'd hoped.

Will's heart was pounding so hard he was sure everyone could hear it. He couldn't look away from Mike. This wasn't dodging the question; it was flipping the script, turning that sleazy subtext into a declaration of trust, and it was incredible. It was the most brave thing he'd ever seen.

The press person, looking horrified, jumped in quickly.

“Okay, next question! Let’s stay focused on the skating!”

The following questions were a blur. Will answered automatically, his mind racing. Mike had taken that gross joke, and made it his weapon, and taken control of the situation. He could still feel the heat from Mike's shoulder.

Finally, they were pulled from the crowd and rushed down a quiet hallway toward the locker room, Will cracked. The second that door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise, Will turned to Mike. The locker room was silent, smelling like sweat and old metal.

“What was that?” Will's voice was quieter than he thought, a mix of awe and panic.

Mike seemed to shrink a little, the combativeness fading. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

“I just… I wanted to shut him up.”

“By basically agreeing with him in the most straightforward way possible?” Will stepped closer. The air between them changed, the question making everything too real. “You just told every sports journalist that you basically…”

“...That I trust you,” Mike said quickly, his eyes flashing. He stepped forward, too, until they were almost touching, the gold fabric of his skating outfit brushing against Will's dark clothes. “That’s what I said. That’s what trust is. Right?”

There was a challenge in his voice, but underneath it Will heard uncertainty. Mike was waiting for him to laugh it off, to retreat to safety. Will knew he should have done that. Everything in him wanted to smooth things over, call it a joke, put the walls back up. But he couldn’t.

He actually looked at Mike – the damp hair at his forehead, the slightly smudged eyeliner making his eyes look even darker, the determined line of his jaw. He saw the guy who was afraid of flying but had just stood up to a room full of reporters with a courage Will didn't have. He saw his teammate. The center of his world.

“That's not all,” he heard himself say, like he was talking from a dream, from a place he kept locked away. “And you know it.”

Mike's breath caught. All the confidence was gone, leaving him open, looking vulnerable, and suddenly very young. He looked into Will's eyes for a lie, a way out, but didn't find one.

A door handle turned and they jumped apart like kids getting caught. Two skaters from another team came into the locker room, talking loudly in German. The bubble burst, but the air was still electric.

They changed in silence. Every sound seemed too loud. Will's fingers were shaking as he tried to deal with the clasp at his neck. He could feel Mike watching him. When he finally got his hoodie on and turned around, Mike was already dressed, leaning against the lockers, staring at him.

“We should… celebrate,” Mike said quietly. “Fifth place is huge.”

“We need to get some rest,” Will said. “The long program is in two days. It's longer, harder.”

“I can't rest,” Mike replied, pushing himself off the lockers. “I'm wired. I feel like I could run forever. Or… I don’t know. Something.”

Will understood. The adrenaline hadn't gone away, it became a restless, hungry energy buzzing inside him. The idea of going back to their separate hotel rooms felt like punishment.

”Dinner, maybe?” he asked quietly.

Mike's eyes lit up.

“Yes. But not at the hotel. Somewhere… real. Where we won't run into anyone from the rink.”

They found a small, family-owned Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street, away from the fancy hotels. The place smelled amazing. It was crowded, noisy, and wonderfully ordinary. They were just two guys in hoodies, lost in the crowd.

They ate pasta and drank wine, and the tension from the locker room faded away, replaced by a dizzying lightness. They talked about the program, laughed about their coach's face, went over the scores, talked about other skaters, technique. They always went back to the press conference.

“You were amazing,” Will said, swirling his wine without looking up. “The way you handled that… jerk. I would have frozen.”

Mike shrugged, but he was pleased.

“He wanted something sleazy. I gave him a metaphor. An overly obvious metaphor.” He took a sip and looked at Will. The candle flickered. “Did you mean what you said? In the locker room?”

The question made Will's breath catch. The restaurant noise faded away. There it was – the line drawn in wine and breadcrumbs.

“Yes,” Will said with no hesitation.

The word clicked like a key in a lock. Mike carefully set down his glass. A smile bloomed on his face – not the fake one for the cameras, but something soft and real.

“That's a relief,” Will heard Mike breathe out. “Because, honestly, it's been more than just that for me too. I can't even pinpoint when it changed.”

The air around them seemed to vibrate with this honest, slightly scary declaration. Silence filled the space, but words were unnecessary. They finished their pasta, talking about everything and nothing – music, silly movies, beloved pets. Yet, every word spoken was now infused with this fresh understanding between them. Each glance held a secret, an unspoken message. And every accidental touch, like when reaching for the bread, sent a thrill racing through Will's arm.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, the cool night air a welcome balm to their heated faces. City lights danced on the wet streets. They walked close, but not touching, their nearness speaking volumes. They paused outside Will's room. The hallway was deserted, bathed in the gentle glow of wall lamps. The energy of the restaurant felt distant, replaced by the return of reality – numbered doors, and the looming pressure of the practice session.

“So… Mike mumbled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, suddenly struck with a wave of bashfulness. “I guess… I'll see you tomorrow then. Back on the ice.”

“Back on the ice,” Will repeated, his fingers tightening around the key card.

The moment stretched, charged with a sense of anticipation. A hidden invitation, a move to something more, lingered in the air almost tangibly. Mike took the lead, stepping closer, erasing the remaining space between them. He didn't kiss him. Instead, he leaned in and embraced Will tightly. His eyes were shut, and Will could feel his warm breath against his lips.

It felt like both a memory and a future promise.

“Just us,” Mike murmured, repeating their pre-competition mantra, but now with a weight carried deeper meaning. “Okay?”

Will lifted his hand, lightly grazing the back of Mike’s neck, feeling the quick throb of hispulse.

“Okay,” Will whispered softly in response.

Mike pulled back, his gaze serious. He gave a quick nod and turned, and melted into his room just a few steps away. Will remained in the quiet hallway for a long moment. His mind swirled with conflict thoughts—the risk of wrecking the thing they had, the possible damage they can do each other but an stronger drive bloomed inside of him: a feeling of falling into the unknown.

They weren't following someone else's lines anymore. They were making their own story, together.

The morning after the short program felt like the aftermath of a train wreck, minus the alcohol. It was a pure, unadulterated crash after a surge – the adrenaline, the emotions, and the stark realization that the free skate loomed just around the corner. That program felt like a monster waiting to be faced.

Will woke up to a dull gray light filtering through the cheap blinds of his hotel room. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, even ones he didn't know existed. His mind was a broken record, replaying moments from the night before: the deafening roar of the crowd, the brutal scores, Mike's knowing grin in the press area, their quiet and intense after-talk was kept private, and the quick, awkward hug in the bare hallway.

He felt exposed, completely bare. The neat little compartments he'd built in his mind – skating here, personal life there, the past safely locked away – it had all broken. All he needed right now was the ice. Not to practice, but for space and cool clarity, a place to think. He needed the sound of his blades scraping, the bite of the cold air, and the calm logic of physics.

He got dressed fast and texted Murray.

Will Byers: At the rink. Early practice. Need space to think.

He didn’t reach out to Mike. Their fragile thing felt too new, too sensitive for a morning text. He needed a buffer – he worried any pressure would crush it.

At that hour, the practice rink near the big arena was almost empty. Only the die-hards and the ones trying to hide showed up this early. The ice was perfect, fresh from being resurfaced, a blank canvas. Will laced his skates with precise movements, his fingers working automatically, his mind disengaged. He stepped onto the ice, pushed off, and felt the familiar cool glide, which brought a bit of relief.

He skated alone for a solid hour, grinding. He worked on jumps – triple toe loop, Salchow, loop. He did his step sequences until his lungs burned and his legs shook. He tried to lose himself in the moves, to become just a body working, a math problem solved with angles and sharp blades.

But his mind betrayed him.

Every jump brought to mind Mike’s sparkled gold costume flying through the air. Every turn reminded him of Mike’s strength, his support, his presence. Even the ice, his safe space, now held a ghost of Mike in gold and white. He was coming out of a demanding step sequence when he saw her by the boards.

Chloe was there, wrapped in a Team Canada parka, her blond hair in a messy bun. His old partner. The one who’d gotten sick. The one whose absence had made room of Mike. Will’s chest tightened. He hadn’t seen her since she’d left the rink, weak, coughing, her dreams fading along with his. He skated over and stopped a few feet from her, his breath clouding in the cold air.

“Chloe,” Will said, his voice sounding rough.

She gave him a small smile.

“Hi, Will. I saw you come in. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Her voice was softer than before, without the competitive edge. She seemed older, even though only days had passed. The illness had put shadows under her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, truly surprised.

“Watching,” she said simply, nodding towards the ice. “I’m… done. Officially. Doctors, parents… they said it won’t go back. Not at this level. I’m here with my coach, doing commentary for a local channel. Sort of a… next act.”

She tried to sound like it didn't bother her, but there was hurt in her eyes. Will was hit with guilt. He was here, skating in a huge competition with a brilliant partner, while she was on the sidelines with a lost career.

“Chloe, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she shook her head. “I saw your short program yesterday on a screen. Will… it was amazing.”

Her praise stung like a slap.

“There were a lot of mistakes,” he said automatically.

“It had life, she said gently. It was nothing like what we did. We were perfect, precise, like robots.” She stopped, watching his face. “You and him… you’re a wildfire. Scary and beautiful. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. And he’s completely gone on you. You know that, right?”

Will flinched. He protested in his head.

“What? No. It’s not—this is partnership, performance. Adrenaline.”

Chloe just looked at him with understanding.

“Oh, Will. Please. I spent years watching every change in your face. I know what you look like when you’re focused, annoyed, scared.” She leaned closer to the boards. “Yesterday, when you held him at the end of the program—that wasn’t performance. That’s called holding on to the only thing keeping you from falling. And the way he looked at you in the Kiss & Cry? Everyone sees it.”

The idea sounded strange, but it settled on him. Will just looked at the ice, unable to look at her.

“It’s not easy,” he said weakly.

“It never is,” Chloe agreed softly. “But listen to me. Don’t do what you’re thinking about doing.”

Will finally looked up.

“And what’s that?”

“Running. Shutting down. Acting like this isn’t real because you’re scared, unsure, and it messes with your control.” There was no anger in her voice, just the sad wisdom of someone who’d lost something big. “I got sick. It ruined our plans. No one’s to blame. But this?” She waved at the ice. “This is a gift. A messy, crazy, scary gift. He—this partnership, whatever you call it—don’t throw it away just because you’re scared of what might happen. Living safe is more scary. Believe me.”

Her words hung in the air. Will didn’t know what to say. Guilt turned into a twisting, aching longing—for her lost future, and for his own stubborn heart.

”I should go,” Chloe said, pushing away from the boards. “You need to get ready for the free skate. Go be amazing. And please, talk to him. Before you both explode on the ice.”

She gave him one last smile and walked away, her figure getting smaller.

Will stayed by the boards for a long time. Seeing Chloe felt like a good luck charm, but bad luck. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t the typical, bitter ex-partner looking for drama. She was a good person whose dream had ended—and she had told Will to chase his, no matter how messy it was.

The clarity he’d found on the ice disappeared, replaced by emotion. He did the rest of his practice on autopilot, his body working while his mind drifted. Back at the hotel, he found Mike in the small breakfast room, eating a pastry. When Will walked in, Mike looked up, his eyes showing happiness. No awkwardness. No embarrassment after the confession from last night.

Just pure, simple happiness.

“Oh, there you are,” Mike said. “Murray’s looking for you. Wants to meet at noon to talk strategy.”

He looked at Will closer, and his smile faded a little.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen something.”

And Will had. He saw a different life he thought he was supposed to live. He sat down heavily in the chair.

“I saw Chloe at the rink.”

Mike's face clouded over the second he heard the name. He knew the backstory, the unspoken history that hung between them.

“Oh. Um… how’s she doing?”

Will kept his voice even.

“She’s done with competing. A commentator now. Actually, she watched us skate.”

A flicker of concern crossed Mike’s face.

“And? What did she say?”

”She was blown away. Said we were like a wildfire out there.” Will took a breath, locking eyes with Mike. “And…” he paused, letting the weight of the words sink in, “she thinks you’re in love with me.”

Mike didn’t look away. He didn’t crack one of the jokes he would usually tell to deflect from feeling, though he did blush a bit. He held Will’s gaze steady, a serious look that made his eyes look dark and deep. He slowly took a sip of his coffee and gently put the cup back on the table.

“She has a good eye.”

The quiet admission packed more of a punch than any grand declaration could. It was like a jolt of electricity right down to Will’s bones. He felt as if the balance of the world shifted.

“Mike…” He started, panic starting to bubble up. He wanted to cram all the messy emotions into boxes, label them neatly, and shove them back into the safe corner of his mind labeled partner chemistry.

“Will,” Mike said softly, but firmly, cutting him off. “You don’t have to say a word. You do not need to feel the same way. You don't even have to get what you're feeling. Tomorrow, we are out on that ice, doing the free program—four and a half minutes, the hardest thing we've ever done. That's all that matters right now.” He reached a hand across the table, stopping before he touched Will, but close enough that Will could feel the familiar warmth. “We're not going to make this awkward. We're not going to fight about it. We're going to go see Murray and come up with a plan to get better than fifth place. Got it?”

Mike words felt like a lifeline. A generous, incredibly smart move, thrown right into Will’s swirling ocean of confusion. Mike was giving him time. The thing that was most important to both of them, their shared dream, was more important than needing instant answers. He was showing, without saying, what Chloe had understood right away: that what they had wasn’t just skating.

The tight knot of panic in Will’s chest loosened, replaced by thankfulness and a growing respect. Michael Wheeler might seem like a non-stop ball of loud energy, but his quiet strength and a kind heart were beyond his years.

“Got it,” Will whispered.

The word felt like a vow.

They met with Murray, going over footage of the pairs that were leading. Changes to their program were discussed and how the free skate could have a bigger impact. They picked sad film music for the new program and squabbled over energy, its speed, and what story they were conveying from the first few seconds on.

All the while, they understood each other in a way they hadn’t before. It wasn’t said out loud, but it felt real, solid. It didn’t add tension to the mix; it gave them strength. When Murray said they needed more connection, Will didn’t need to fake it. He just looked at Mike, picturing the hug in the hallway, the serious look Mike gave him during breakfast, and the right emotion came easily.

Later, during their last practice before the competition, they worked on parts of the free skate on their own. It was exhausting. The program required extreme effort, more lifts, more advanced steps, emotions that lasted long. They were tired, sweating, and still making mistakes. But there were special moments too.

In a difficult lift where Will had to lift Mike from a deep backbend, his body did it with a surprising ease and trust. Their eyes met and more was shared than just what their bodies were doing. In the step routine, showing struggle and then coming together, their moves weren’t just about the steps. It was an actual conversation. A shove from frustration, softened by an apology, a withdrawal that led to reconnecting. They finished completely spent, leaning on each other at the edge of the rink. Murray watched with his arms crossed, his expression giving nothing away.

“Still a mess,” he said gruffly. “The twist is off. You’re losing speed right before the final spin.” He paused, looking from Will to Mike. “But what's most important is already there. Tomorrow, hold onto that. Everything else is just window dressing.”

That—the link that started with a desperate grab of hands in a diner, the fear they shared on a plane, the spark of excitement in the press area, the words they spoke in secret, and the acceptance and forgiveness they showed one another. It was more powerful than any trick or spin.

That evening, there was no fancy dinner or deep talk in a hallway. They just got room service, ate in Will’s room, watched a dumb TV show, and talked about anything but the elephant in the room. It was simple, normal, and for the first time, it felt like what they had could exist separate from the rink. Before leaving, Mike paused at the door.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, more like a statement than a question.

“See you,” Will said back.

Mike nodded, smiled lightly, and left. Will lay in bed, thinking of how Chloe warned him not to ruin this because he was scared. He wasn’t ready to say how he actually felt. Ignoring it felt safe, like wrapping a warm blanket around his head. But he couldn’t ignore what he felt when he saw Mike.

It was real; it was powerful, and Mike allowed that feeling to fuel their shared fire. The new feeling didn't worry him anymore; it pushed him forward. Tomorrow, they would put every bit of that energy out on the ice and see how high they could go without falling.

The day of the free skate wasn't loud and stormy, but silent, so quiet it almost hurt your ears, as if the whole city was holding its breath waiting for the storm to begin. Will woke up before the alarm, the hotel room gray, and the sun just starting to come up. There was no fear, just a quiet feeling building in his blood, like a vibration only the two of them could feel.

He got dressed slowly. First the warm layers, then the outfit he’d been waiting to wear. The material was heavier than the one for the short program, a deep gray color with silver lines woven in that looked like lightning. This time they weren’t trying to look different from one another, but to improve the stormy feeling inside. They were both part of the same coming storm. He had just finished tying his skates when there was a gentle knock at the door. Will opened it, and Mike was standing there, already wearing his costume.

He seemed to glow, in layers of white and silver, like he was giving off light, like the heart of a blizzard. His hair was wet from the shower, none of yesterday’s eyeliner smudged on his face, and he looked younger, calmer.

“I couldn’t wait,” Mike said simply, holding out two paper cups of very hot, very bitter vending-machine coffee.

Will took one; their fingers touched. This touch didn’t spark, but it closed the distance, like completing a circle.

“Me neither,” he said.

They stood in the doorway, slowly sipping coffee, watching the city getting brighter. The comfortable silence between them felt like the night before. They were both focusing so much on something that it was as if a force field had formed around them. That was when Murray showed up. It wasn’t mean-looking this time but almost… peaceful. It seemed like he wasn't going to be sarcastic, more confident. He held a tablet, but didn’t look at it.

“Warm-up in thirty minutes,” he said quietly. “No videos. No last-minute changes. Your bodies, your heads… Everything is ready. Now just do it.” His eyes went from one to the other, his mouth lifting slightly into a smile. “You're ready. More than anyone here understands.”

The warm-up rink felt like a room full of controlled craziness. The sound of the blades cutting through the ice, the dull thuds of jumps gone wrong, and heavy breaths of people straining themselves filled the air. Each pair had worked hard to get there. You could feel the rivalry in the air, a silent contest fought through triple toe loops and death spirals.

Will and Mike found their corner and started their routine. They didn't work on the most difficult moves, focusing on the basics, moving together, and the special bond they had when they skated side by side, copying each other's moves. They saved their energy. More than that, they were wrapping themselves in a cocoon. Each time they crossed over at the same time, each move they copied, strengthened the connection Murray had spoken of.

Will saw the others. The polished Russians moved as if they could read each other’s minds. The strong Chinese skaters took big risks. The lovely Italians, all long flowing lines and emotion. They were perfect. That’s what the sport was all about. He thought, for a second, that they weren’t those skaters. Not even close. And for the first time, that didn't worry him. They were long shots, strong uncontrollable nature.

Soon it was time for the official warm-up in the main arena. They stood in the tunnel, waiting for their turn. Cheers greeted the pair before them. Beside him, Mike rolled his shoulders.

“Just us,” he said quietly, his eyes on the bright light ahead.

“Just tell the story,” Will replied.

They walked out. The wall of roaring sound and flashing lights hit them even harder than before. This was it – the big show. Looking up at the stands, it was just a blur of waving flags and excited faces. Will focused, his eyes locked on the ice, then on Mike, a silver-white blur next to him.

They skated a slow lap, getting used to the feel of the ice, letting the energy of the crowd lift them up instead of freaking them out. The six-minute warm-up whizzed by. They nailed the important stuff. Twin triple toe loops – smooth, like they were one person. The twist – soaring high, super confident. Good signs. But Will wasn't counting signs; he was feeling the moment – Mike's control on the edges, his own muscles knowing exactly what to do. A weird calmness settled inside him.

Back in the waiting spot, the world shrank back down to just them two on a bench, shoulders bumping. Murray stood close by, silent, like a guard dog. No speeches needed now – just a single nod, hard and sure. Then, their names rang out.

“Skating for the United States… William Byers and Michael Wheeler!”

The walk through the tunnel felt different this time – not heading into the unknown, but stepping towards something they had built, bit by bit, smashing every fear in the way. They skated onto the ice, diving into a wave of loud cheering. The crowd knew them now. No longer just another set of faces – they were something interesting, exciting, a pair that made people feel real emotions.

They got into their starting positions at the center of the rink, apart from each other. The first pose told the story – two separate storms brewing. Will – hunched over, head down, fists tight. Mike – like a statue from a romantic movie, arm reaching out to Will, body bent back as if he were being pulled by a super strong magnet.

The opening note of the cello cut through the noise like a hot knife through butter, killing the last of the clapping. The music was heartbreakingly beautiful, full of longing and a strong sense of purpose. And then they took off.

The first minute was all solo skating, dripping with sadness. Will sketched harsh lines on one side – showing trapped anger and being alone. Mike floated on the other, with a painful grace, every move a question, a search. The story was as clear as day: two strong forces, powerful alone but not whole, circling a cold world, looking for each other.

Their first coming together wasn’t soft or gentle– it was a smash. The music swelled, Will tore across the ice and threw Mike into the first big move – the triple twist. Not neat and perfect, but raw, explosive.

Mike flew – a flash of white against the cold ice – and landed in Will’s waiting arms with a heavy thump, like their first try had been. But the hold was solid now, hands wrapped tight around Mike’s hips, taking all the force perfectly. Not pretty – but true. This was the moment the storm found its center.

From that point, the program went wild, building into a dance of fighting and becoming one. Twin jumps landed with a fierce, almost angry drive. The step part played out like an argument on skates – quick jabs of irritation, a pull that couldn't be stopped, flashes of being perfectly together shattered by quick retreats.

This wasn’t the smooth, perfect show of the best pairs; it was the messed up, tangled, beautiful being together of two people choosing to build something together, even through the tough times. Mid-program came the scary part – a curved lift, Will skating backward as fast as he could, holding Mike in a dramatic line – Mike’s body flat to the ice, arms out, like he was flying…

Or falling. Trust – complete trust.

Will’s world narrowed to just the point of balance in his hands, the feel of Mike’s weight, the bright lights above. He held the lift for what felt like forever, lowering Mike into a smooth, floating backbend, their faces super close, chests rising. The crowd gasped – then cheered.

But the heart of the program was still coming. The music changed – the loud strings faded away, replaced by a lonely, ghostly piano. Peace. The moves softened, flowed. Long lifts, searching looks, moves born from each other instead of being done side by side.

Will’s most favorite moment – the one he’d played over and over in his head – was a simple, flowing glide. After a spin, Mike ended up with his back to him, gliding forward. Will placed his hands on Mike’s hips – not to push forward, not to hold him up, just to feel their link. For five happy seconds, they just glided.

Mike let Will lead, his body resting against Will’s chest, head tilted back, eyes closed in total peace. Will looked at his face – sweat on his temples, dark eyelashes quivering – and was struck by a wave of tenderness so strong it took his breath away.

In that glide, all confusion went away – all fear, all denying of what they really were. It didn’t even need a name. There was only being partners, trust, a feeling all its own.

The final minute burst into pure athletic strength – conflict turning back, changed into being one. Their final combination spin was a work of controlled chaos – a mix of gray and white, bodies weaving in and out, flying apart, coming back together faster and faster – a picture of the storm they lived in.

The music soared, and the last move – triple loop throw. Will poured everything he had left into throwing Mike. Mike flew – one spin, two, three – and landed on a deep, solid edge, arm out, face beaming with joy. He didn’t just land it – he owned it, making the landing itself a statement.

Then the final pose, as the last note died. Not the forehead touch from before– something bigger, more complete. Will stood strong, one hand at Mike’s waist, the other holding Mike’s raised hand.

Mike leaned back into Will’s holding arm, free hand reaching for the light, body a line of trust from fingertips to blades. Like a statue. To being partners, forged in storms and kept safe in calm. Silence hung in the air a heartbeat longer than they thought it would – as if the arena was stunned by the raw emotion.

Then the cheering exploded.

The sound was like nothing Will had ever heard – not just clapping, but a continuous, thunderous roar of approval, a standing ovation rippling across the arena. Flowers, stuffed animals, even hats rained onto the ice – a colorful storm of praise.

Still holding the final pose, Will felt Mike’s body shaking – from being tired or overwhelmed, he wasn’t sure. He tightened his grip a bit. They eased out of the pose like waking from a dream. Skating hand in hand toward the exit, they were met by a beaming, tearful Murray, who hauled them into a bone-crushing hug and lifted them off the ice.

“You’re crazy, amazing idiots,” he choked out. “Totally nuts.”

The Kiss & Cry area became a blur. They sat shoulder to shoulder, soaked in sweat and hyped up on adrenaline, staring at the screen. Technical score – super high, no big mistakes. Then the other scores.

Skills – decent. Flow – high. Performance – so high Will blinked, thinking he was seeing things. Composition – same. Interpretation – the highest of all. The arena buzzed, then exploded again as the final score showed up. Will couldn’t make sense of the numbers – he just watched as their result slid into place.

Third place. Bronze. They reached the podium at their very first competition. Mike made a weird, excited noise and turned to Will – eyes shining with tears, smile so bright it lit up the dark corner.

This time he didn’t grab Will’s hand – he just looked at him. And in that look was everything: hard work, fear, trust, things they hadn't said out loud, questions still in the air… and this crazy, amazing triumph.

Will met his gaze and, for the first time, didn’t hide what he felt. He let Mike see his admiration, his thankfulness, his overwhelming being. Let him see the feeling – deep, real, scary – that could no longer be kept a secret.

Later they were led to the podium – bronze medals cool and heavy against their chests. Standing on the third step, listening to the U.S. anthem for the winners, Will felt a weird calm. The Russian gold medalists were the picture of flawless perfection; the Chinese silver pair were awesome. And them – with bronze – they were the heart.

The beating, surprising heart of the event.

The medal thing was a daze – camera flashes, handshakes. But reality came back during the press thing, which felt like a circus compared to the first one. The questions were gentler now, with more respect.

“Will, Mike, congrats on bronze! How would you sum up this experience?”

“Mike, what was going through your head during the final throw?”

“Will, is what you have together getting stronger faster than expected?”

They gave answers with total ease, you could tell they were in sync whether they were on the ice or off it. Even the reporter from that trashy tabloid was there, which was kind of weird. He was just smiling and nodding like he respected them. It seemed like Mike's confidence early had set the tone.

It was late when they finally got back to the hotel and some peace. The team was planning a dinner to celebrate, but Will and Mike said they were too tired and wouldn't be going. It wasn't a complete lie. They were wiped out, but in a good way, like they had a satisfied feeling in their chest.

They ended up on Will's room small balcony overlooking the glittering city at night. They still had their team jackets on over their workout clothes and their bronze medals felt heavy around their necks. Standing at the railing, they took in the cool night air. They didn't say anything for what felt like forever, but the silence was loaded with everything that had just happened and all the things they still hadn't said to each other.

“Third,” Mike said finally, his voice quiet and full of wonder. He lifted his medal, letting the light in the room shine on it. “We actually made it to the podium.”

“Yeah,” Will replied, turning to look at him. The city lights were doing a light show in Mike's eyes, making him look like he had galaxies swirling inside him. “You were… amazing. Not just today, but always.”

Mike met Will’s gaze.

“We were.” He took a deep breath. “Chloe was right, you know. About it being a gift.” He paused, carefully thinking about what he wanted to say. “I don’t… I don’t need to label what this is, Will. Maybe not ever, at least not for anyone else. But after today… after what I felt when we were out there…” He moved his hand a little, toward the distant arena. “I need to know that it's real. That what—” he touched his chest and the space between them like he was checking it was there. “—that all of this isn’t just for show.”

That was the most real Will had ever seen Mike. No show, no trying to flirt, just a need to know things were safe. Old fears started to crawl up—fear of messing things up, of losing what little control he had. fear of stepping into uncharted territory.

But those fears got pushed aside when he thought about Mike trusting him in the lift, the calm look on his face as they simply glided, his pure joy up on the podium—and what Chloe had said about how lonely it would be if he played it too safe.

Will stayed where he was, he didn't reach out. He just looked into Mike’s eyes in the dim light. Every wall fell down and every feeling they hadn't talked about was showing right there on his face.

“This is the most real thing in my life,” Will said, almost whispering, but every word was true.

Mike looked into Will's eyes and like he was looking for something. When he found it, he froze for a second. Slowly, beautifully, he smiled softly only for Will to see with such relief. He nodded once, a full understanding of what was happening between them.

“Okay,” Mike whispered.

They stood on the balcony as the lights of the city went out one by one. The medals felt like a comfort and the space between them didn't feel so big anymore. It was shared ground, a place they could go together.

The kiss would happen, when it was right. So would the labels, or maybe not. All that mattered for now was the feeling they had in that moment, the new promise that they can face whatever came their way.

The bronze medal felt heavy against Mike’s chest, right where his heart hammered a frantic rhythm. Or maybe the weight wasn’t the medal itself, but the memory of Will’s gaze on that balcony. It was a look that had burned itself into Mike’s mind, honest and exposed, like someone dropping all pretenses and revealing their deepest truth.

“This is the most real thing in my life.”

Will’s phrase repeated again and again in Mike’s head. It was better than any song a computer could write. Like a comforting hand on his back, he knew this feeling was something genuine. The flight home was a blur. The adrenaline from the competition had gone, leaving only bone-deep tiredness and a strange, almost scary clarity.

Across the aisle, Will was asleep by the window, leaning against the plane’s wall. The soft cabin light made his face seem peaceful. Mike watched the gentle movement of his chest as he breathed, noticed the relaxed way his fingers rested on his leg. He seemed… complete. Somehow.

Mike thought that, for the first time since they’d met, Will Byers looked completely relaxed, at home in himself. The quiet peacefulness was breathtaking. Mike realized he wanted to cause that look. He wanted Will’s joy to be completely because of him.

That thought had been there in the back of Mike’s head since that first desperate moment their hands clasped each other at the roadside diner. He now understood that it was not just a momentary thing. This thing that they have is not an accident. They had experienced something near a magical thing. The fact that a couple of weeks can turned them from a stranger into medalist means there’s a strong between them. Mike knew this isn’t something that would stop when the plane landed in Chicago. Mike had to be Will Byers’s partner in everything. Not just in a competition, not ending it at the end of the season, but forever.

The idea echoed in his mind, maybe too dramatic for the situation but it feels so right. All his life in skating, Mike had performed alone. Because he had too much fire and ego, and it’s hard for everyone to keep up with him. So that, it makes him feel like a loner. His nature made the coaches frustrated because, he can't fit into their frame.

Mike had heard them say, “Unredeemable” and “Such a waste of talent”. Then Will appeared and caught him. He caught him in so many ways, not just in the physical movement on the ice but in every aspect of his life. Will was like gravity for Mike’s unruly spark. He saw what others didn’t - not a problem that needed to be controlled, but energy that needed guiding. With Will, Mike wasn’t a problem to be fixed. He felt like part of the solution.

Mike shifted in his seat, the medal making a soft sound against his jacket. His coach, Elena, a no-nonsense Russian lady who loved and hated his genius and his craziness both, was sitting several rows back. Mike imagined Elena was probably planning his next solo season. The same goes for his manager, David, who had been working on a press release about “Mike Wheeler’s experiment in pairs skating”, which was portrayed as a fun side work that runs with his normal career.

Then, Mike realized that he hasn’t talked with them after the free skate part, or even thinking about them. Mike was focused on Will, and their partnership, and their future together. They made him forgot his professional life. Mike briefly felt guilty, but it was quickly overtaken by a wave of assurance. They wouldn’t say no. They couldn’t. Not after everything they had accomplished. How could anyone witness their free skate, feel the arena's vibe, and think negatively? That would be ridiculous. In addition, Will wanted same thing.

Mike felt sure of it. Maybe Will isn't shouting it out loud as he does, because Will is too reserved for this, but Mike knows Will wants this, too. He could feel it in the way Will held him during practice. In the trust when he was skating backward. Mike will become the one who will shout it for Will to everyone. And he also knew the one person can do this and that's Murray Bauman.

Murray was across the aisle with his reading light on, staring intently at something on his pad. He was like a mystery that no one can solve, with a funny personality that hides his intelligent mind. Murray had faith in them when no one did. Murray created plays according to their connection. He saw it all. As if Murray felt Mike’s gaze, Murray lifted his head and stare at him.

His eyes, slightly unnaturally magnified by his glasses, met Mike’s. He didn’t smile but he lifted eyebrows. That invite was enough. Trying not to wake Will, Mike unbuckled his seatbelt and moves from the other side into the empty seat next to Murray. Murray sighs and moves the pad as if Murray was expected this would happen.

“Can’t sleep, kid?” Murray said quietly.

“Yeah,” Mike replied. He was so nervous that his mouth went dry. All the planned speeches - the smart about methods - were gone in one. The only thing he felt was that he wants it badly. “Murray. You have to let me stay.”

Murray moved his eyes.

“We’ve got another four hours of flying. I’m not gonna throw you out with a parachute.”

“Not from the plane,” Mike whispers. He leaned forward with his hand on his knees. “With Will. Stay with him. Be his partner forever. You have to… you have to do something. Please.”

That please was there in the flight.Mike Wheeler didn’t usually beg. He demanded, charmed, argued—but he didn’t beg. But now he's ready to beg here. Murray was staring at his face. He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose.

“Mike. You have a life. A work as a solo. You have a chance to fame. A lot of people invest a lot of effort and money in you.”

“I don’t care,” Mike blurted out. “I don’t want that. It’s all meaningless. I’ll just be alone again, an empty sound. And this—” he nodded toward the sleeping Will, “—this is music. You heard it. Everyone did. You can’t just turn off the sound.”

“Your coach. Your agent,” Murray calmly said again.

“They’ll understand,” Mike insists, but in fact, he was not sure. “They saw the score, saw the reaction. They are not foolish like that. They'll know I belong here. This thing I have to do. I’ll talk to them. I’ll makes them see. I’ll do anything. Just say yes. Say I can stay here. Will wants that, too. I know him.”

Mike really hopes that Will wanted this too.

“Did he say that to you?”

“He didn’t have to!” Mike suddenly shouts. “You saw him! Look at us. After the free skate part. After the boards, on the stage… Murray, he looks at me. He stares at me. I need that and that's more valuable than a contract.” He knew he sounds crazy, but he didn’t care. “I need this. We both need it. And, we can beat everyone. Not just be okay, but be the best. Just give a year of training with you and we'll win.”

He waved his hands, creating impossible dreams. Winning the World Championships and the Olympics. Murray was silent for a while. He saw the raw face of tired from the desire. He also saw the rough soul of the boy, who looked for the anchor.

“You’re ignoring one more thing,” Murray quietly said.

“What? Money? I’ll pay for everything. Moving problems? I’ll move in with him. I’ll live in his garage. Anything.”

“Not that,” Murray said. “Him. You’re so caught up in your desires, your needs, your willingness to sacrifice everything—have you stopped for even a minute to think about what this means for Will? Really?”

Mike confused.

“He wants to win. He wants to be first.”

Murray's voice was soft but firm as he corrected Mike.

“He isn't seeking a thrilling rollercoaster, Mike. He needs a safe harbor. For years, he’s carefully shaped a life that looks perfect from the outside. Then you showed up... you're unlike anything logical, a whirlwind of raw talent and untamed emotion. Asking him to link his career, his whole life, to you is like asking him to step into a storm that never ends. It isn’t just some skating gig. It's his well-being, his sanity. See how at ease he seems right now? That peace came at a price. And you could shatter it.”

Murray's words hit Mike hard, like a splash of ice water. His enthusiasm vanished, replaced by a wave of guilt. He glanced at Will, sleeping so peacefully. Murray was right. Will had built walls to protect himself, and Mike was practically demanding the keys to the city, wanting to fill it with chaos and noise.

”I wouldn't,” Mike whispered, his voice shaking. “I wouldn't ruin anything. I'd... I'd be his protector. You know, get it together for him.”

Murray offered a small, sad smile, full of understanding.

“You are who you are, Mike. And he wouldn’t want you any other way. Real magic happens when opposites come together, like ice and fire. But the ice has to make its own choice. Knowing full well it will melt sometimes when standing near the flame.” Leaning closer, he added. “Here’s what I know. Will took a chance on this crazy plan for one reason: he saw something in you that both frightened and drew him in. He knew it could be big, sure, but more than that, it offers him a taste of real emotion after years of going through the motions. You woke him up, Mike.”

Mike's heart was pounding.

“So… you'll talk to him? Push for the offer to happen?”

“Offers aren't required,” Murray said, adjusting his glasses. “It already happened. Remember the twist you put in during the warm-up program? The minute you two hit the ice. The federation is already calling non-stop. Sponsors want to sign you two. 'Mike and Will' are the hottest pair in the world right now.”

Relief washed over Mike, almost overwhelming him.

“So... this is actually happening?”

“Nothing is real until Will says it’s real,” Murray said, his voice serious. “And he has to say it of his own choice, without you pressuring him and worrying. Not because you begged me on the plane.”

Mike sank back into his seat, feeling drained. Murray was protecting Will—from the strain, from Mike's zeal. And he was right.

“Okay,” Mike sighed. “Then... what now?”

“Fly back home. Get things right with your trainer and agent. Give Will the time and space he needs to think. And… You must trust,” Murray said, glancing at him. “Trust what you two created. Trust is the only thing that gets you over tough parts of real life. If what you say is true, it’ll work out.”

It was the hardest thing Mike had ever heard: wait, have patience, believe. He looked at Will, who stirred in his sleep and snuggled against Mike's shoulder, wanting warmth. Mike froze, then slowly relaxed, letting Will get comfortable. He stared at the seat ahead, Murray's words repeating in his mind— trust the connection they’d built. Trust would be their only lifeline when real-world problems came.

He felt Will's weight leaning against him, his peaceful breaths. And he touched the cold surface of the bronze medal—a hint of what was ahead for them. Mike made a decision in that silence, in the low cabin light, thousands of feet in the air.

He would do the impossible. He would give patience a try. He would stay calm. He would sort out everything from his past. He would change to become what Will needs. Because Will Byers was his music, and he couldn’t go back to how his life was before. He wanted to dive headfirst, totally, completely into love. He wouldn’t give that up for anything.

The two weeks following the amazing return from the world contest turned into a rough patch for Michael Wheeler—some of the toughest days ever. The weird thing was, he brought it on himself. Murray’s advice kept ringing in his ears: give Will room to breathe, space to think. So, Mike backed off. This move, meant to be smart, felt like he was hurting himself, like cutting off his own arm.

He went back to his old practice rink in the suburbs. But the place felt off—too bright, too quiet, just empty. His skates, which felt like part of him at the competition, now felt clunky and strange. The ice seemed to have lost its spark, turning into just plain frozen water.

With Elena watching him closely, he skated his solo routines over and over. She kept pushing him to do those quad toe loops—the jump he could never quite nail. One good one, three bad ones. His mind wandered when he needed to focus on the jump.

“Your head’s not here, Michael,” Elena said sharply after a terrible session, her Russian accent cutting through the rink’s silence. She stood by the wall, arms crossed over her puffy coat. “Or maybe it is still at that competition—with your new friend.”

Mike stopped suddenly, sending ice flying. He didn’t bother arguing.

“Things are just different with him, Elena.”

“I see,” she said, her face hard to read. “It was… good on TV, good for a show.”

“That wasn’t for show!” Mike snapped, getting angry. “It was real! I skated better than ever. It was the only skating that meant anything.”

Elena just looked at him, her dark eyes missing nothing. She’d been his coach since he was an awkward, energetic kid. She’d seen his bad moods, his tears after losing, his proud smile after winning. She knew him inside and out.

“What does your manager say?” she asked suddenly.

David, his manager, had been blowing up his phone with messages—congratulations, asking about solo shows, and quietly suggesting contract deals that looked way better after the bronze. Mike gave him polite, but vague replies.

“I haven’t really talked to him,” Mike admitted, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

Elena sighed, her breath making a cloud in the cold rink air.

“You can’t have it both ways, Michael. You can’t live in dreams and reality at the same time. You need to pick. And if you pick pair skating, you have to do it right. Not like this—not sulking. You need to be all in. Sort everything out, like a business deal.”

Her words hit hard. So, it was all about business now. Not just feelings, not just music. Deals, promises, money. Talking to the people who helped him build his solo career—about leaving it. The thought made him tense up. But under the fear was a solid certainty. For Will. For them.

“Line up a meeting,” Mike said evenly. “You and David. I’ll be there.”

The meeting happened two days later in David’s fancy downtown office. David was around forty, well-dressed, talking in a calm, convincing way, like someone who makes big deals all the time. Printouts of Mike’s social media numbers were on the desk—more followers, way more likes. Elena sat by the window, watching silently.

“Mike! Hey, man! What a ride!” David smiled, pointing to a chair. “Everyone’s talking about you. We already have three solid offers, and a sports brand is super interested in a personal deal. They love your style.”

Mike sat, but didn’t relax in the soft leather chair. He felt tight, like something was about to spring.

“David, Elena… I need to talk about what’s next for me.”

David’s smile tightened, becoming more professional.

“Of course, Mike. That’s why we’re here. The games season opens doors for you. With this popularity, we can make you—”

“I don’t want to skate solo anymore,” Mike blurted out, grabbing his knees to stop them from shaking. “I want to skate pairs with Will Byers, for good.”

The room went quiet. David leaned back, putting his hands together. Elena didn’t even react, but her eyes sharpened.

“Mike,” David started. “That was an amazing performance, a great thing. People loved the story—but it was just that, a one-time thing. You’re a solo skater. Michael Wheeler.” He tapped the printout. “This popularity is because of you, your thing. Pair skating takes that away. You become part of something else.”

The familiar anger rose in Mike—being sold again. But he held it back. Murray’s words: be professional.

“David, with all respect, you’re wrong,” Mike said steadily. “Out there I wasn’t less—I was more. That image was beautiful, but fake. With Will, I have everything—excitement and feeling. Excitement that didn’t go away because it had a reason. It warms instead of burning.” He looked to Elena for backup. “You saw the routines. You know how I skated. With him I did things I’d never done in solo because I finally had a reason. I wasn’t skating for scores. I was skating for us.”

Elena studied him for a long time, then nodded unexpectedly.

“Triple throws at that level. Matching times. Artistry… that wasn’t acting. That was real.”

David looked back and forth between them, starting to doubt.

“Elena, are you sure? The money we put into his solo career—”

“Money we put into him,” she interrupted. “If he’s happy, and winning in pairs, it pays off. A bronze at a big competition the first time isn’t just luck, David. It’s a statement.” She looked back at Mike. “Of course, it’s not easy. Breaking deals, changing rinks—all that costs money. It’s messy.”

“I’ll buy out the deals,” Mike said right away. “Whatever it costs. I have money saved. I’ll do ads if I need to. I don’t care about the money.”

David rubbed his forehead.

“You’re really into this kid, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t about sports.

“Yes,” Mike answered.

Silence again. David looked at the papers, then out the window at the city. When he spoke again, the business tone was gone. He sounded more like a person.

“My wife cried when you skated. She never cries at figure skating,” he said. “Alright. Let’s say we deal with the deals… What about Byers? Does his coach want you? Does he even want this? Or are you making plans alone?”

That was what Mike feared most.

“Murray… he knows everything. He sees everything. And Will…” His voice shook. “He wants it too, I know. He just needs to know I’m serious. That I really mean it.”

David and Elena looked at each other. Then David nodded.

“Alright. Then we’ll do it. We won’t burn bridges—we’ll change the deals. Elena, we’ll change the agreement: mostly training in pairs, with some solo shows now and then. And you, Mike… we change the story. The Michael Wheeler brand becomes Wheeler of the Byers–Wheeler duo. The flame of a new American dream. We can sell that—maybe even better.” He was thinking like a manager again. “We’ll officially talk to Murray Bauman with a plan. If they agree—we’ll do it right.”

Mike felt so relieved he almost fell over.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Elena stood.

“Don’t thank us. Just work. If you want to be a pair skater, get twice as strong. Lifts need to be easy. Balance needs to be perfect. I’ll help, but you’ll work harder than ever. For you two.”

“Yes, coach!” Mike grinned.

The plan was ready in days—a neat package with a training schedule, money details, and a media plan. A real business plan for a dream. David sent it to Murray, and Mike waited nervously for an answer.

The waiting felt like forever. Mike trained hard to forget the worry—building strength for lifts, working his core for throws. He was making himself into the perfect partner, building brick by brick, pushing through the pain.

The chime of a message jolted him awake three days later. He grabbed his phone.

Unknown: Lakeview Rink. Tomorrow, 7 a.m. Sharp. M. Bauman.

His stomach did a flip. Sleep vanished. By 6:30 a.m., he was planted outside that old rink—Will’s rink, even if it wasn’t officially theirs anymore. The parking lot was bare, save for Murray’s beat-up sedan. The sharp, icy air, mixed with the fumes from the Zamboni, stung his face in a way that felt like… coming home.

He peeked inside. Murray was already putting Will through drills. Same old black practice gear, same effortless grace. Will hadn’t spotted him yet. Mike’s heart clenched. Just seeing him after two weeks felt like a punch to the gut. With shaky hands, he tied his skates and stepped onto the ice.

The scrape of his blades made Will look up, stopping mid-spin. Their eyes met across the rink. Mike tried to read Will’s expression—anger? Doubt? Indifference? Instead, he saw surprise flicker across Will's face, warming into a hesitant, careful smile. Murray skated between them.

“Okay, lovebirds, break it up. You,” he barked, pointing at Mike, “your idea is nuts. The money situation is still a disaster. Getting all the details set is going to be a massive pain.” He paused, his expression softening slightly. “But… it’s the most well-thought-out plan I’ve seen from a skater your age. Your manager did a great job. I’m in.”

Mike didn't get ahead of himself. Murray still had a point or two to make. He waited. Murray turned to Will.

“Mike’s got his act together. His coaches are on board, give or take a condition or two. His manager’s ready to work with us. They’re ready to move him here and redo things from the ground up. Now,” his voice dropped, turning serious, “it’s on you, Will. This isn’t just a practice run anymore. This is your time and who you are with.”

The rink went silent. Will glanced down at the ice, frowning—he always did that when he was thinking hard. Then, he looked up, meeting Mike’s gaze, his eyes steady.

“I read the plan. The part about what we want. The five-year thing.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “You wrote we could win the World Championship in three years.”

Mike found himself speechless.

“Pretty bold. Maybe even stupid,” Will went on, skating closer. “But when I tried seeing my future on the ice without all… this. Without you…” He shook his head. “It was just… nothing.” He stopped a few feet away. “So yes,” Will said, clear and firm. “I agree.”

The sky didn’t fall. But for Mike, the pieces clicked. Suddenly, every worry disappeared, and nothing felt wasted anymore. A laugh burst out of him—a mix of relief, of happiness, of pure, unadulterated joy. He was grinning so hard his face hurt.

“Really?”

“Really,” Will said again, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Alright, enough with the lovey stuff,” Murray said, sounding louder than usual. “We’re done here. I have a pair now. But it means starting all over. And you, Wheeler,” Murray said to Mike. You're not the only one here. You’re just half of a pair now, understand?”

“Understood, Coach.”

And so, as a new day broke over Chicago, Mike and Will started their first practice as partners. They fell into sync, needing no words. There was only the sound of blades on ice, eyes fixed on the horizon, all the new things they were going to become.

Mike was home. He was head over heels. And he was exactly where he needed to be.

The season was over. The competitive season came, it saw, it conquered. It had begun with a brief handshake at a roadside diner and finished in triumph with bronze at the World Championships. Now, the bright arena lights dimmed, the judges went home, and the hum of pressure faded away, replaced by quiet. For the first time since they became “Byers and Wheeler,” there was no next competition, no next program, no goal to hit.

Just… time. And Murray, for once sentimental, was ready to put his foot down.

“Two weeks,” he said gruffly, shoving a set of keys into Will’s hand. “No skating. No talk about skating. My cousin has a cabin up in Door County. Lake, trees, working fireplace. Go there, be normal people maybe for a bit. Try to get to know yourselves when you're not doing the impossible on the ice.”

That's how they found themselves in a wood cabin by Lake Michigan. The world outside burst color with new greens and blues. The cabin was everything comfortable, with wood beams, soft furniture, and the smell of pine needles.

The first few days were all about how to slow down. The quiet between them, language on the ice, was something else here. Not about pressure of performance, but softer, sometimes awkward, often nice. They slept in the upstairs bed, waking up to birds.

They made food in the kitchen. Mike burnt pancakes, Will made good coffee. They walked by the lake, not saying much, just existing without crowds or scores. During one of those walks, on the third day, they talked about more than skating. Things that were waiting their turn beneath the lifts and the jumps.

They sat on a log, watching the water. It was cold, but the sun felt nice.

“So,” Mike said, breaking the quiet, “I never asked. How did you… you know. Tell people? That you are gay?”

Will seemed a little surprised. They’d been close in their own ways, a kind of silent language that worked for them. But they’d never actually said it.

“It wasn't dramatic,” Will said, picking up a stone and throwing it in the water. It skipped and sank. “I was sixteen. My mom... well, she's Joyce Byers. She gets everything. She probably knew before I did.” He smiled. “I just told her one night after practice. I was tired of hiding… this huge part of myself that felt separate from the skating. She just hugged me and said, ‘Okay, does that mean you’ll let me set you with that boy I told you about?’ She was joking, but it was her way of saying it's okay.”

Mike listened.

“My mom cried. Happy tears. Worried about the skating world.” He shook his head. “Dad wasn’t happy. But he had to deal with it. And I didn’t need him to agree.”

Will smiled.

“And your sister?”

“Nancy? She said it was about time. Maybe now I won't be so dramatic.” Mike’s smile faded a little. “Friends were harder. Not because they weren’t kind, but I’d built up this… act, you know? A flirtatious womanizer who switches girls easily. It was easier than being a flirtatious bisexual who might actually feel something serious.”

Silence returned, the word “bisexual” hanging in the air. Will looked at the stone in his hand.

“And? Was it easier?”

“For a while,” Mike whispered. “It let me be friendly without being fragile. Until…” He looked at Will. “Until you showed up.”

Will held his breath.

“Until I what?”

“Until you didn’t believe the act. You saw the real me… and didn’t run away. You just… caught me.” Mike didn’t look away. “And then I knew I couldn’t fake it with you anymore. And that was scary, because I had more to lose.”

The truth hit them both gently, catching Will off guard with its simplicity. He thought back to the beginning: Mike, all confident swagger, trying to hide his fear, not just of messing up, but of getting close to anyone. It amazed Will how that facade had crumbled away bit by bit. They’d been practicing together, and this strange, soft side of Mike had started popping out. In those quiet times between drills, trust had started growing between, unexpected kindness blooming.

“I'm super happy you told me this,” Will answered, his voice soft. “Yeah, even back then on the balcony when we had that heart-to-heart, even if it was just a look.”

Mike’s voice was a low hum.

“Me too.”

The two stayed like that, not talking for a while. The sun was dropping in the sky, changing it into a beautiful mix of orange and purple. Their talk had opened something up for them. In the days that followed, they walked through that doorway, not rushing things, but making sure they went in together.

They shared stories about old crushes, awkward dates they were on, and the lonely feeling of being queer in the sports world. In this world, everyone acted like being straight was the only way to be. The pair spoke about what scared them most. Will hated losing his control and seeing the life that he had carefully made falling apart. Mike was scared of being too intense, pushing people away because he was all over the place.

When evening came, they sat snuggled together on the big couch in front of the fireplace, they realized that they felt closer than before. It wasn't just about being sports partners anymore; they were something more. Mike would stretch with his head in Will’s lap. Will would play with Mike’s hair while they all watched old movies. Other times, they only stared into the fire.

Away from the ice, they began to understand each other’s habits. Mike needed ten minutes of quiet time with coffee in the morning before he started his day. Will could sit for hours reading a book, getting super focused. He also realized that Mike would softly snore in sleep. Will sometimes mumbled about skates and spins.

On the sixth evening, they were under a blanket. The fire made shadows dance all over the cabin when Will’s phone started vibrating. He picked it up, thinking it was Murray. With him, it was a text, usually saying, “You still alive? Good.” But then it was his mom, Joyce, with her kind look and her usual fluffy hair.

“It's Mom,” Will said, kind of surprised. He put his phone to speaker. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Will, sweetie, hi!” Joyce’s kind voice filled the cozy room. “Oh, its wonderful. Everything's fine, don't worry. I was just thinking about you. Are you boys chilling at the cabin?”

“Yep,” Will said, glancing at Mike. “It’s quiet up here.”

“I’m so glad you're relaxing. My sweethearts deserve it.” Joyce paused. It sounded like dishes being cleaned. “Listen, I saw my schedule. I have three days off coming up. And Door County isn’t too far of a drive.”

Will’s breath caught. All of a sudden, he knew he wanted this. He wanted his mom to see him happy, not just on the ice, but that he was becoming. He wanted to introduce his mother to Mike, not as his skating partner, but as the person he cared the most for.

He looked at Mike, who smiled. He nodded. He knew what Will was thinking.

“Well, Mom,” Will started to say. His voice was warm. “That would be great if you want to come. I’d super love that.”

“Oh, Will!” Joyce was happy and was almost touching. “I'd love to! Let me bring food. I’ll cook a real dinner. The two of you probably survive on pizza and burnt pancakes!”

Mike was giggling and got a playful swat from Will.

“That sounds amazing, Mom,” Will replied, feeling good. “Text me when you leave. Be careful, okay?”

They talked a while longer, talking about her work and Will’s brother, Jonathan. It was a just a regular, comforting talk between family. When Will hung up, the room felt very quiet.

He put the phone down and looked at Mike. Mike gave a smile.

”All good?” Mike asked him.

Will nodded, swallowing the emotion he was feeling.

“Yeah. More than good. I just wanted her to see.”

Mike reached out and took Will’s hand. They laced their fingers together.

”I want to meet her, too. Not just her being a proud mom in the stands.”

“She’ll love you,” Will confirmed. “One look at you and she’ll think what to gift you.”

Mike gave a big grin.

“I hope it’s that sweater with flames.”

Will laughed. He put his head on Mike’s shoulder as they admired the fire, burning another piece of wood. The season was done. The competition had stopped. But here, by the lake, something else was starting.

They were building something new. It was not a about sport, but a foundation for life. It was one conversation after another with support. The love of a family would witness the relationship.

Outside, the stars twinkled. Inside the cabin, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Will Byers and Mike Wheeler were together where they belong.

The morning of Joyce's arrival dawned with a fog so dense, it felt like the lake was being hugged by a gray-green blanket. Will felt a weird flutter in his stomach, not the usual pre-competition jitters that made him laser-focused on the ice. This was different, softer, like the feeling you get when you really, really want two different parts of your life to get along.

Mike, sensing Will's mood, jumped into action. He moved around the kitchen with a quiet focus, soon producing a plate of perfectly acceptable scrambled eggs and toast.

“It's your mom, Will,” Mike said, handing him a cup of hot coffee. “She already digs me because I make you happy. And I haven't dropped you on your head yet. Well... almost.”

Will forced a smile.

”It's not that. It's just... things feel different now. More real, I think.”

“They are,” Mike said gently, his eyes holding Will’s. He reached out and brushed a stray hair off Will's forehead. “It's going to be... good. Just trust me.”

Later, around ten, Will heard Joyce's old car rattling up the driveway. His heart did a crazy flip-flop. Through the window, he watched her climb out—a small, energetic person bundled in a bright sweater against the cool morning air. She wrestled two huge reusable bags overflowing with stuff from the car, with a third bag slung over her shoulder.

Mike started to head outside to help, but Will put a hand on his shoulder.

“Give me a minute with her, okay?”

Mike nodded, understanding.

“I got you.”

Will went out to meet his mom, taking the heavy bags from her.

“Mom, did you bring the whole store?”

“Nonsense,” Joyce brushed off his question with a wave and pulled him into a one-armed hug that smelled of lavender. Letting him go, her eyes searched his face. “You look like you've been sleeping well.” Her glance flicked towards the house. “And happy.”

“I am,” Will said, feeling warm inside.

“Okay, then where is this... partner of yours? The one who finally made you stop looking at the ice like it’s some kind of physics equation?”

Just then, Mike appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’d changed into a simple gray long-sleeve shirt and jeans, ditching his usual style. He looked... normal, Will thought, fondly.

“Mrs. Byers,” Mike said, stepping off the porch. “I'm so glad to meet you!”

He offered his hand. Joyce ignored it, pulling him into a hug as tight as the one she’d given Will. Mike froze for a second, then relaxed, and Will saw a real, surprised smile on his face. Something in Will's chest loosened.

“No 'Mrs. Byers',” Joyce said, letting him go. “Just Joyce. And you must be Mike. The boy who makes my son... fly.” She looked him up and down, nodding. “You're taller in person.”

The next few hours were a flurry of activity. Joyce took over the small kitchen, unpacking groceries and immediately starting a giant pot of her famous chili. The cabin soon smelled amazing. She chatted easily with Mike, asking about his family, his training, his thoughts on the new rules—asking questions that were interested, but not intrusive.

Will was surprised and relieved that Mike answered openly, like he did only with close friends. He even made Joyce laugh with a story about a practice where he accidentally sent Will crashing into the wall. (“He didn’t say a single word for three hours afterward—just sulked and looked very unhappy!”).

Will mostly listened, enjoying how smoothly everything was going. It felt complete, like Mike was always meant to be here—in this cozy chaos, with his mom. After lunch, while Mike did the dishes under Joyce's watchful eye, she turned to Will.

“Sweetheart, can you help me get the rest from the car? I've got your favorite apple pie from your favorite bakery.”

It sounded like an excuse, and they both knew it. Will nodded, grabbing his jacket.

Outside, the fog was gone, leaving a clear, bright day. The lake sparkled. Joyce didn't head for the pie, instead leaning against the hood of the car and patting the empty space next to her. Will stood beside her, feeling that tightness return inside.

“He's great, Will,” she started, looking at the water. “A little wild—you can tell right away. Full of energy. But he's kind. And loyal.”

Will exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“Yeah. He is.”

“And the way he looks at you,” Joyce continued, her voice soft, “it's like you hung the moon and stars yourself! I saw it the second I got out of the car.”

Will's face got warm. He didn't know what to say. Joyce grabbed her phone.

“Jonathan asked me to show you this.”

She found a video and tapped play. Jonathan's tired but smiling face appeared on the screen. He was in a studio.

“Hey, little bro,” he said. “Mom says you're hiding out in a cabin with your partner, Sorry I couldn’t be there, I’m stuck editing all day long. However. I’m very pleased for you, Will. Mom has managed to brain-wash me to believe that guy is amazing, so please, please! Stay safe. I care for you.” Jonathan smiled. “Love you. I’ll see you both very soon!”

The video ended. Will’s throat tightened.

“Say to him that I’m safe.” 

“I will,” Joyce replied, putting her phone away. After a pause, she asked more seriously. “This is real, right? With Mike.”

It wasn't a question. Will looked at his feet.

“Yes.”

“And that worries you.”

Will looked up, meeting her knowing eyes.

“How do you do that?”

“Because I'm your mom, and I remember being young and scared of something so great it feels like it could destroy you.” She put an arm around his shoulders. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

The words came out, tumbling over each other.

“It just… happened so fast. We were strangers, then teammates, and now… We're thinking about the future. It’s what I wanted, but I never planned for it.” He swallowed. “I want to say how I feel. Not about how well we skate, but… the word that starts with L.”

He couldn’t say it. But Joyce knew.

“Oh, hon,” she whispered, holding him tighter.

“What if it’s too much?” His voice dropped in fear. “What if it messes things up? What if he’s not ready? We’re building something, and I don’t want to ruin it because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check.” He ran a hand through his hair. “When it was just skating, things were easier. Feelings were part of the routine. Now they’re… mine. And they’re huge.”

Joyce was all ears, letting Will pour out his jumbled worries – the ones he'd kept hidden during their peaceful week. When he was done, she gently cupped his face, making him look straight at her.

“Listen up, Will Byers. You’ve always been careful, figured everything out, and kept control, whether you were on the ice or not. That made you who you are: strong, disciplined, and successful.” Her eyes sparkled with love. “But love? You can't boss it around. It’s not like repeating a jump until it’s spot-on. It's taking a leap without knowing where you'll land. And guess what? You've already jumped. You’re already up in the air.”

Will felt tears coming, but he held them back, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“That boy,” Joyce went on firmly, “he sees the real you, the one hiding behind all that carefulness and planning. And he’s not running away. He’s building something real with you. He stood up to the whole world just to be with you. Does that sound like someone who'd be scared by how you feel?”

Will thought back to Mike on the plane, practically begging Murray. He remembered the look on his face when he was ready to give up everything. He remembered the way Mike looked at him sometimes when he didn't think Will was watching; a look that was full of respect and had nothing to do with his skating.

“No,” Will whispered. “It doesn't.”

“Then maybe,” Joyce said softly, “you're not scared of Mike. Maybe you're scared of giving too much of yourself to someone. Scared of being open. And that, my brave boy, is something to face head-on.” She kissed his forehead. “You don’t have to say anything until you're ready. There’s no rush. Just don’t let fear call the shots. You never let it beat you when you were skating. Don't start now.”

They stood there for a while, enjoying the quiet family moment, watching the sunlight dance on the lake. The weight in Will’s chest didn’t go away, but it shifted. It wasn’t a scary cliff anymore, more like the nervousness before a tricky move: scary, sure, but also something to look forward to.

Back inside the cabin, the chili was bubbling away, making everything smell warm and inviting. Mike was adding wood to the fireplace, the flames making his face glow. He looked up when they came in, his eyes immediately finding Will, silently asking a question. Will answered with a small, real smile and a nod.

Later on, Joyce said she was tired from the drive and went to bed in the guest room. Will and Mike settled back on the couch, the fire now just glowing embers. Mike held Will close, and Will leaned into him.

“Your mom is amazing,” Mike said quietly, kissing Will’s head. “She’s, like, a small, happy tornado.”

“She is,” Will agreed, burying his face in Mike’s shoulder. He breathed in deeply, smelling the smoke and his partner. Joyce’s words came back to him. “Mike?”

“Mmm?”

Will looked up into Mike’s dark, watching eyes. The scary, honest words were right there, ready to be said “I love you”. But his old cautious habits and fear of messing things up held him back. Instead, he said something else.

“Thank you. For being so… yourself with her.”

Mike’s face softened. He didn’t push. He seemed to know that something important had happened between Will and his mom and it needed time.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he said simply, and it sounded like a promise.

Falling asleep that night to the sound of Mike’s heartbeat, Will still felt scared and a little bit hurt from the past. But it was overshadowed by the comfort of the boy holding him and the new courage his mom had given him.

The skating season was done, but the most important performance of his life was just starting and, for the first time, Will thought he might be ready to really go for it.

The morning after Joyce left was clear, and the cabin felt different; somehow empty but also more like home. After his mom left, it felt warm and cozy, like her chili smell was still hanging in the air. A hand-knitted blanket she’d “found” in the car was thrown over the couch, and a new, quiet confidence settled in Will’s heart. Things went back to normal, but something had definitely changed. Talking to his mom had melted the ice that had kept him locked up inside.

Now, how he felt about Mike wasn't a secret anymore, not even from himself. It was real, alive, and you could feel it between them in every look and touch. Will could see it. Mike was more loving, gentle, and patient, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to catch him or jump with him, whatever he needed. Mike wasn’t rushing. He was just there, always dependable and real, making a safe place for them to be themselves without fear.

The day started with a walk up the winding path to the cliffs above the lake. The climb was hard, and the only sounds were their breathing, the crunch of pine needles, and seagulls in the distance. At the top, there was a flat, sunny rock with a great view: the endless blue of the lake meeting the light sky.

They sat close together, shoulders touching, sharing a water bottle. The view, the hugeness of the world around them, made Will's fears seem small and huge at the same time. “Fly,” the wind seemed to say in Joyce’s voice. Will’s heart was pounding, and not just from the climb. The words were stuck inside him, wanting to be let out. He looked at his hands, clenched in his lap, knuckles white.

“Mike,” he said, his voice sounding strange, tight, like a stretched string.

Mike looked away from the view and right at him.

“Yes?”

Will let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t look at Mike. He knew that if he saw those understanding brown eyes, he would either say everything or run. And he didn’t know which one it would be. So he stared at the big, quiet lake.

“All my life,” Will started slowly, as if carving each word from his soul, “I’ve… put everything in boxes. Skating here. Family here. And my… feelings, who I am, that was all locked away somewhere else. Safe and soundeparate.” He swallowed. “It was the only way I knew. The way to stay in control.”

He risked a glance at Mike. Mike was listening without butting in, his face open and honest.

“And then you came along,” Will went on. For a second, he almost smiled. “You just… crashed into all my boxes. Broke down every wall I’d ever built. You got into my skating, my head, my…” he hesitated, “my heart.”

The last word was almost a whisper, but it was there between them, being fragile and huge.

“And I tried. I really tried to keep it all in check. To make it just a partnership, performances, to… spark on the ice. Because I could handle that. It made sense.” He finally turned to face Mike, eyes wide and honest. “But it hasn’t been just that for a long time. Maybe since the moment you hugged me and didn’t let go.” His throat tightened. “What I feel for you… it’s not something I can switch off. It’s part of me, like breathing. It’s everywhere, in everything. It’s why we’re in sync, I think, when we’re out there on the ice. It’s why this—”, a sweep of his hand took in their spot, the untamed green stretching around them, “—feels like the one place I can really be myself. It’s all of it.”

He sucked in a shaky breath, letting go of his last bit of hesitation.

“I love you, Mike. Not just as my skating partner, but... I’m completely in love with you.”

Silence hung in the air, but it wasn't the heavy, awkward kind from before. This was thick with what was to come. Will could hear his pulse booming in his ears, the distant rush of the water below. He scanned Mike's face, desperate for any clue – shock, doubt, pity, maybe even rejection. What he saw made his breath catch. Mike’s eyes, so full of life and humor usually, were full of warmth, like a sunrise. Every feeling seemed to cross his features – great relief, a happiness that looked almost painful, and a gentleness that made Will’s heart ache in his chest.

A tear escaped Mike’s eye, making a sparkling trail down his cheek in the sunlight. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, he reached out his hands, the same strong hands Will had held so many times, felt all new, and gently cupped Will’s face. His touch was careful, almost worshipful.

“Will Byers,” Mike said softly, his voice thick with feelings. “Do you even begin to know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?” He gave a nervous little laugh. “I think I’ve been falling for you since that moment you looked right at my mess and didn’t even blink. Since you told me where I was messing up but still had faith in me. I loved you on that balcony when you told me the truth about everything. I loved you when you said ‘yes’ at the rink. I love you now – standing here – more than I can ever find the words to say.” He brought their foreheads together, their breaths mixing, “You’re my music, my reason, my best place. I love you. It's a lot, I know and it scares me.”

That – that honest answer, a mirror image of things in Will's own head – just broke down every single wall inside him. A wave of relief, happiness, a dizzying joy poured over him, strong enough it was almost scary. Tears that had been held back for so long spilled out, and he didn’t even try to stop them. He laughed, choked and happy, right through the tears.

Mike was smiling, too – that killer smile that could light up the whole world – with his own tears making tracks on his face. He wiped at Will’s cheeks really gently with his fingers.

And then something shifted. The spoken words, the confessions, faded for a bit, melting into something else – a new tension, softer, hotter, charged with a different kind of want. Mike’s eyes went down to Will’s lips, and then back to his eyes – with a silent question hanging there.

Will's heart, that had been soaring, suddenly skipped a beat and dropped right into frozen water. He knew what that look meant, what came next. And the thought of it – the real, actual thing of a kiss – hit him harder than a bad fall on the ice.

He got stiff, pulling back just a little bit. The happiness on his face went away fast, replaced by the scared look of something cornered. Mike stopped right away, his hold loosening, but not letting go all the way.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice soft like he was worried to scare him. “What's wrong? What happened?

Will shook his head. Shame mixed with fear. He looked away, not meeting Mike's eyes.

“It’s… it's stupid, that’s all.”

“Anything you’re feeling isn’t stupid,” Mike said, sure, and without pushing.

Will closed his eyes.

“I… I've never done this.” The words slipped out before he meant them to, helpless and embarrassed.

“Never done what? Mike wasn’t catching on just yet. Then it clicked in his mind. His face got even softer, if that was even possible.

“Oh, Will…”

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” Will blurted this out quickly. He couldn't stop now. “Not really like this. There was a dumb spin-the-bottle game at training camp when I was fifteen, but that doesn’t count. I never… wanted to really until today. And now I do, but I…” He opened his eyes and looked right at Mike, fear and needing something in his eyes. “I don’t know how, Mike. I'll be awful. And you… you’ve done this, right? You must know how. You probably… I mean, you just know.”

A slow, understanding grin spread across Mike’s face. There wasn’t anything making fun or showing off there – just simple, gentle care.

“So you’re worried about your skills, Byers?”

Mike asked it like it was a joke, teasing him softly to take the sharp edges off what he was feeling.

“Shut up,” Will mumbled, but he was already fighting a small smile.

Mike put his hands on Will’s shoulders, holding him steady.

“Listen to me, Will. None of that part is what matters. All it is for now is us, here, right now.” He leaned closer slowly, giving Will a chance to back out. “Is it ok if I kiss you?

Dread and wanting tangled inside Will. Wanting won. He nodded just a little bit. Really gently, Mike closed the last bit of space between them. Will shut his eyes. He could feel the warmth of Mike’s breath, could smell the familiar smell of his skin with that light scent of pine that was on both of them. The whole world shrunk to this one point.

And then Mike’s lips touched his. It wasn’t like in the movies. It was soft, and careful. Mike's lips were warm, a bit chapped from the wind, and they moved with a tender calm, like welcoming verses asking.

For a second, Will froze – everything stopped. So this is a kiss. It felt simple enough: pressure, warmth, soft touch. But the real thing… the real thing was music.

Then something took over – maybe instinct, or just the huge feeling that this was right. Will kissed back, at first awkward, unsure, trying to guess at the angle and the pressure needed. But Mike was right there, guiding him without needing to say anything – a small tilt of the head, a softer touch of lips, the littlest bite that sent a shiver down Will’s back. He breathed out softly into the kiss, letting go of the last bit of holding back, and the warmth he been feeling at his lips went all through him.

Mike’s arms wrapped around Will, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest. One of Will’s hands went into the soft hair at the back of Mike’s neck; the other clutched at his jacket. The kiss got deeper but stayed gentle, carrying a clear sound of shared love, of needing something held back for way too long.

It felt like learning and meeting – not needing words, more close than they had ever been. When they finally broke apart – breathless and unsteady – they stood there, foreheads together.

Will’s lips burned and tingled. He was shaking, but it felt good – like how your body feels when everything shakes you up for good. Mike’s eyes were dark and his pupils were wide. He looked completely, beautifully happy. A slow, loving smile touched his flushed lips.

“See?” Mike whispered, his voice cracking. “Nobody needs skills. It’s only… us.”

Will laughed with soft and giddy laugh. He felt so brave, like he could do anything. He felt so very loved.

“Do it again?” he asked, his voice so shy.

The answer was one more kiss – not as careful, more sure, but still having that trembling gentleness that made Will’s heart feel too big for his rib cage. They kissed until the sun started to go down, painting the sky with those hot colors that shone in the never ending lake below – a picture of the fire they had just lit inside themselves.

On that warm rock, high above everything, Will Byers knew that some leaps take you to a fall, but to the most solid ground there is – into the arms of someone who you love, who loves you back completely, truly, with nothing held back.

He was happy.

Just unbelievably happy.