Chapter Text
Will leaves Jane at the swings because she’s fine.
She’s going high enough that her shoes flash in the sun, laughing every time she kicks forward. She doesn’t even look over when Will hops down and wanders toward the sandbox. If she notices, she doesn’t care.
There’s a boy in the sandbox. Smaller than Will, dark-haired, knees dusty, hands buried in the sand like he’s digging for something only he knows is there. He looks up when Will approaches, eyes bright in a way that feels warm instead of sharp.
Pretty, Will thinks. Nice.
The boy smiles at him like they’re already friends.
Will climbs into the sandbox without asking. They start building something that doesn’t really work—piling sand into walls that keep collapsing. They laugh about it. Sand gets everywhere. The boy bumps Will with his shoulder like it’s an accident. Will bumps him back, harder.
It turns into wrestling pretty fast. Kids do that. They roll around and giggle and grab at each other’s shirts. Will ends up on his back, the boy sitting on his stomach, both of them out of breath.
Then something sharp happens.
“Ow,” Will says, more surprised than anything.
The boy freezes. His face goes pale in a way that looks wrong on someone that small. There’s a smear of red at his mouth. He scrambles back like he’s scared Will’s about to yell or cry or—
He starts crying first.
Will sits up and touches his neck. It stings, but only for a second. Something warm moves through him, fast and familiar, like it’s always been there. When he pulls his hand away, there’s nothing. No blood. No mark.
The boy stares at him, crying hiccupping into something quieter. Will doesn’t feel scared. Mostly, he feels confused.
Jane calls his name from the swings, louder this time. Will looks back, then forward again.
“It’s okay,” he says, because it seems like the right thing to say.
He climbs out of the sandbox and runs back to Jane. When he glances over his shoulder, the boy is still watching him, eyes wide and serious, like he’s trying to remember something important.
Their dorm is quiet when it happens.
Mike sits close on the couch, knee pressed against Will’s. The lights are low. There’s a blanket bunched up between them that neither of them is really using.
Will tips his head to the side without being asked.
Mike is careful. He always is. He takes his time, slow and steady, like he’s counting in his head. Will grips his shoulders, fingers digging in, more for himself than for Mike. He bites his lip and stares at the far wall, focusing on breathing through it.
The sting fades almost right away. It always does. Will can feel his magic move, familiar and quiet, smoothing everything out like it knows exactly what to do.
Mike relaxes against him, tension easing out of his frame. He stays there longer than he needs to, but Will doesn’t say anything about it.
When Mike finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against Will’s shoulder for a second. They sit like that, not talking.
Outside, someone laughs in the hallway. A door slams down the hall. Normal sounds.
Will’s hands stay on Mike’s shoulders.
They’ve always done this.
Mike is still there when Will opens his eyes again.
Not pulling away. Not rushing. Just… lingering.
Will exhales a little laugh that comes out softer than he expects. His head feels floaty, limbs warm and loose in that way that means Mike’s taken more than usual.
“Hey,” Will murmurs. “Easy on the pull, Drac.”
Mike huffs against his shoulder.
Will grins, eyes half-lidded. “I’m serious. I feel like I just took one of Max’s experiments. You know. The ones with her special herbs.”
That gets him a real laugh. Mike pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes bright and unfocused in the way that always happens after. “You’re dramatic.”
“Mm,” Will says. “You’re strung out.”
Mike winces, sheepish. “Okay, yeah. Maybe. Sorry. Been a little… wired lately.”
“It’s fine,” Will says easily, because it is. He shifts closer without thinking about it, shoulder bumping Mike’s chest. “I’ve had worse.”
Mike’s hand is still at his neck, thumb brushing skin that’s already smooth again. He hesitates for about half a second—more out of habit than doubt—then leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss right where the bite had been.
It’s barely anything.
It still makes Will’s breath hitch.
Mike notices. His smile goes crooked. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Will says, immediately, then softer, “Yeah. Just—loopy.”
“Good loopy?”
“Obviously.”
That seems to settle something in Mike. He relaxes fully this time, weight tipping into Will’s space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will adjusts without being asked, arm coming up around Mike’s shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.
The afterfeed warmth rolls through them both, slow and heavy. Mike sighs, deep and content, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s really safe. Will feels his magic hum low and steady in response, familiar as a favorite song playing quietly in the background.
He could find that warmth anywhere.
But it’s easiest like this.
“Just a few more minutes,” Will says, already knowing how this ends. “Then bed.”
Mike hums in agreement, eyes already closing. “Rest,” he murmurs, like it’s a promise.
They don’t make it to bed.
They fall asleep right there on the couch, tangled up under the half-used blanket, the wards humming softly around them like nothing unusual is happening at all.
Because to them, it isn’t.
Will wakes up stiff and warm and vaguely annoyed about it.
The couch has done something to his spine overnight, and the blanket is twisted around his legs like it tried to escape and failed. Mike is gone, which tracks—Mike always wakes up first. Will stretches, blinking at the ceiling, and takes inventory.
No bite marks. No lingering ache. Just that soft, floaty afterfeel still humming under his skin.
He sits up, swaying a little, and that’s when Mike appears in the doorway with two travel mugs and a small vial already uncapped.
“For you,” Mike says, handing it over like it’s contraband. Which it is.
Will squints at the liquid. Pale gold. Sharp herbal smell. “Is that—”
“Pick-Me-Up,” Mike says. “Max’s. From last week.”
“You stole from your best friend’s fridge.”
“She labels aggressively,” Mike says. “I panicked.”
Will laughs and downs it without arguing. The effect is immediate—heat flushing through him, head clearing, limbs snapping back into place like everything’s been tightened one notch too far.
The loopiness is gone.
He exhales, a little disappointed, before he can stop himself.
Mike notices. Of course he does. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Will says, automatically. He rolls his shoulders, steadier now. “Just… you know. It’s usually the only proof.”
Mike doesn’t ask for proof of what. He just nods and hands Will his coffee.
Their first class is Ethics of Applied Magic, which is exactly as thrilling as it sounds.
The lecture hall is already half-full when they get there. Will drops into a seat near the middle, pulling out his notebook. Mike follows and, without thinking about it, drags his chair over so their legs knock together under the desk.
It feels right. It always does.
The professor is talking about consent frameworks and magical influence when Mike leans back, stretching, like he’s settling in for something comfortable. His shoulder brushes Will’s. He doesn’t move away.
Casters have auras. Everyone knows that. Most of them are subtle—background noise, barely-there impressions unless you’re trained to notice.
Will’s isn’t subtle and it never has been.
Mike breathes a little deeper, posture loosening, like he’s stepped into warm sunlight. He doesn’t comment on it. He never does. He just exists there, close enough that Will can feel the faint hum of satisfaction rolling off him.
Like it’s his too.
Will tries to focus on the lecture, pen moving across the page. He keeps catching Mike glancing over, not at him exactly—just at the space they share.
The potion did its job. The class hasn’t.
And for a brief, quiet moment, Will misses the way it felt to be a little less himself and a little more them.
The professor clears her throat and taps the edge of the podium.
“Let’s talk about ethical gray zones,” she says, like that isn’t the entire syllabus. “Specifically, long-term magical dependencies.”
Will pauses mid-sentence in his notes.
Mike stills beside him.
“Now,” the professor continues, pacing slowly, “this often comes up in creature–caster dynamics. Vampires, sirens, certain shifters. When repeated magical interaction creates emotional or physiological reliance, intent alone isn’t enough to make it ethical.”
Mike leans back in his chair, arms folding loosely. Will can feel the shift anyway.
“The key question,” she says, “is whether both parties retain the ability to choose freely—or whether the bond itself begins to make the choice for them.”
Someone a few rows up raises a hand. “But what if both parties consent every time?”
“That’s the common defense,” the professor replies. “And sometimes it’s valid. But consent doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Power, healing, relief—those things complicate the equation.”
Will’s pen digs a little too hard into the page. Mike glances over, quick and quiet.
Their knees touch. Mike doesn’t move them away.
“So,” the professor finishes, “ask yourselves this: if the bond disappeared tomorrow, would both parties be equally okay?”
The room hums with low murmurs as she moves on.
Mike leans in just enough that only Will can hear him. “You okay?”
Will hesitates. Then nods too fast. “Yeah. Just… stupid question.”
Mike hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop. He shifts closer instead, shoulder pressing warm and familiar against Will’s arm. The aura settles back in place like it never left.
They meet Max and Lucas outside the building afterward.
Lucas spots Will first and immediately starts talking, words tumbling over each other. “Okay, so for Creature Studies—are you doing the comparative habitat thing or the ethics add-on? Because I swear the professor hates the habitat one unless you tie it into migration patterns—”
“I’m doing the add-on,” Will says, relieved. “The inter-species clause stuff.”
Lucas brightens. “Yes. Thank you. Okay, so—dragons—”
Max hasn’t said a word yet. She’s staring at Mike.
Specifically, she’s staring at Mike’s very obvious, very relaxed posture. The faint, contented edge to his expression. The way he’s hovering just a little too close to Will’s shoulder.
Then she looks at Will.
Her eyes narrow.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re looking especially bubbly this morning.”
Will chokes on a laugh.
Mike, meanwhile, shrugs like he’s been accused of borrowing a hoodie. “What? He had a rough night.”
Max crosses her arms. “You stole my Pick-Me-Up.”
“You left it in the fridge.”
“You snuck it out of my stash.”
“And?” Mike says. “If you don’t want people taking your potions, you should put them somewhere I can’t get to.”
Max stares at him flatly. “You can smell a potion from across campus.”
Mike grins. “Exactly.”
Lucas blinks between them. “Is this—should I be concerned?”
“No,” Max and Will say at the same time.
Mike just bumps Will’s shoulder, smug and unapologetic, and Will lets himself lean into it for half a second longer than necessary.
Ethics class can ask whatever questions it wants.
They already know their answers.