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Mike hasn’t always had anxiety.
He remembers the long, unburdened stretch of boyhood before it learned his name- endless afternoons pedalling nowhere, skinned knees and breathless laughter, hours spent playing in Castle Byers crafting worlds all their own, sleepovers that blurred into morning, D&D campaigns that ran too long and ended too late.
He’d been teased, bullied- sure. Those cuts marred, left their own persistent bruises. He still carries them. But anxiety didn’t make a home in his chest back then.
That came later. That came with monsters and loss, with death and wreckage and the harrowing understanding that the world could split open beneath his feet.
Now anxiety, pure and vehement lives burrowed within him.
He imagines it as a flame, lodged deep in his lungs. Ever-present. Waiting. Most days it’s only a flicker; he’s worked damned hard to get it that small. Years of therapy, years of laying himself bare, prying apart his own ribs to inspect the damaged pieces inside.
He’s learned how to breathe through the worst of it, how to set his jaw when the fire flares, threatening to consume him whole.
He’s learned, too, how to let the smoke escape- how to vocalize the hurt, to share it before it chars him fully.
Every now and then, however, the anxiety blazes inconsolably through his body, and all his careful strategies- the coping mechanisms, the techniques he’s honed- can’t stamp out the inferno.
Sometimes he feels it building, a pressure in his veins. Other times it arrives without warning, a rogue spark catching gasoline.
What makes it worse is that he’s been doing so well lately. He and Will are finally together- they finally got their shit together and confessed what had been orbiting between them for years. It’s been the best five months of his life.
Mike isn’t naive; he knows love doesn’t cure anxiousness. But he’s been living inside something sheltering and safe, a fragile bubble- sharing a bed, clothes, a life with Will; the unbridled happiness has diminished the flames.
This particular flare-up ignites on a Friday night in late April. They’re going on a date. To a club.
Mike hasn’t been on many public dates with Will yet. Even though being queer is slightly safer in the city, it’s still the nineties. Things are changing- opinions softening, edges rounding- but it’s slow, glacial work. Mike can’t exactly walk down the street holding his boyfriend’s hand, no matter how fiercely he wants to.
They also haven’t been to many clubs. Mike can’t endure them- the suffocating press of bodies, the music he doesn’t listen to cranked far too loud.
He’s been to bars with Will, loud but not so stifling that it hinders conversation. They’ve not been a to club. Not like this.
Will is incandescent with excitement about the idea. The gay club just opened. It’s a chance, he says, for a proper date- to drink, to dance, to make out. Mike argues they could do all of that in the comfort of their own apartment, but Will is glowing, vibrating with it.
The more the idea settles, Mike can’t deny it’s thrilling- the prospect of dancing pressed flush against his boyfriend, unhidden. It makes his fingertips tingle.
So he agrees; they get ready to go out.
Mike pulls together an ensemble he hopes will pass for club attire- his favorite jeans, worn supple in all the right places, paired with the green shirt Will bought him for Christmas.
He tries to tame his hair, fingers combing through it until it looks acceptable. Adequate.
Will, meanwhile, looks stupidly, unfairly exquisite.
His hair is pushed back, mostly, though a few defiant strands have slipped loose, falling over his forehead. Before they leave, he lingers at the tiny wall mirror by the front door. Mike watches, transfixed, as Will bites his plush lower lip in concentration and clicks the silver hoop into his ear. The sight lands somewhere low and deep in Mike’s chest. Fuck.
The white T-shirt fits Will like it was tailored for him- skimming his broad chest, pulling snug across his shoulders before tapering down to his waist with effortless precision. He’s tucked it into blue jeans, casual and devastating. It’s mesmerizing.
Will shrugs on a leather jacket to ward off the evening chill, and Mike thinks- helplessly- that he might actually faint at how fucking delectable Will looks.
They walk close together on the way there, shoulders nearly brushing, fingers grazing now and then as their arms swing. But once they’re inside- IDs checked, Will’s jacket exchanged for a ticket he tucks into his pocket- Will takes Mike’s hand outright, lacing their fingers together with open, giddy satisfaction.
Mike barely has time to savor it before the club crashes over him.
Neon lights pulse and fracture the room, vibrant color splintering across walls and bodies.
The air is dense- sweat and cologne layered thick in his lungs. Music hammers up through the floor and straight into his bones, the bass thudding through his blood until his nerves begin to buzz in sync with it. The flame stirs, fluttering low in his stomach.
There are so many people. A living tide of motion, a collision of styles and selves- punks in ripped leather and chains, drag queens shimmering in sequins and lashes, men in mesh and denim. Skin gleams; latex catches the light.
Couples sway together on the dance floor, laughing, kissing without hesitation. Others are pressed into corners and along the walls, mouths hungry, hands bold and unashamed.
The joy is loud, extravagant, existing in a hundred different forms. It’s a riot of queerness, exposed, dazzling.
Something bright and electric sparks through him, fizzing just beneath his flesh. He feels alive.
Mike looks at Will, at the unguarded delight on his face, the way he seems to glow in this space; the feeling sharpens into something almost euphoric.
Mike squeezes Will’s hand, grounding himself in the weight of it.
Will squeezes back, grinning, then pulls them to the bar.
He shouts over the pounding music to order two Jack and Cokes. The bartender nods, pours the liquor generously, then slides the drinks across the slick surface with practiced ease.
Will sips at his drink; Mike gulps it far too quickly.
The flicker inside him dampens, heat settling instead of flaring. His shoulders ease. His jaw unclenches. He exhales without realizing he’s been holding his breath. He orders another before he can second-guess himself.
They dance.
Close, instinctively. Mike’s hands at Will’s waist, Will’s arms looped over his shoulders. Will moves with ease, hips swaying, rhythm perfect. Mike’s long limbs falter, his movements never quite right. Will notices, looks at him conspiratorially: he pulls Mike closer, chest to chest, until he feels the beat in Will’s body as much as through the floor.
Will mouths along to every song, grin radiant. Mike can’t help but smile back.
The third drink mellows the room, edges blurring, lights smearing, sound melting into something hazy.
Songs blur together. Sweat pools along Mike’s back. They dance for what seems like hours and Mike loves every second of it. He moves his hands to the small of Will’s back, his fingers resting at the top of his jeans. Will’s hands are everywhere: along his spine, brushing over his shoulders, guiding his hips. Eventually, they move up to his hair, scratch the nape of his neck.
Heat washes over Mike.
He puts his mouth to Will’s ear, “Hey! I think maybe I need to sit for a while!”
Will nods, looping his arm around Mike’s waist and guiding them to the bar. He orders two more drinks and a water, then steers them toward one of the tall, cramped tables near the edge of the room.
The surface is sticky, the air thick with cigarette smoke, but somehow Mike can breathe a little easier here. He can hear Will a little more clearly.
Will hops onto a stool and gulps down the water, a trickle of liquid running down his neck.
Mike can’t stop looking at him. Thick lashes brushing honeyed cheeks, eyes that hold a thousand hidden colors, the way exertion has flushed his skin like sunlight through rose glass.
Mike counts his lucky stars- he’s fallen in love with someone so miraculous, so impossibly beautiful, who somehow loves him back. A warm, urgent ache blooms through him.
They lean together over the table, hands clutched, shouting snippets of conversation back and forth, their noses practically brushing. Mike inches closer to Will’s lips; then, a shadow falls across his shoulder.
A blond, impossibly tall man lures over Will. Arms crossed, biceps bulging from his tank top.
“Hey, handsome,” the man booms, slamming a hand down on the table between them. The impact makes Mike flinch; the flame in his lungs flickers violently. His fingers are forced to let go of Will’s.
The blond man leans closer, the scent of musk mixed with arrogance hitting Mike in the chest. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, voice low, insinuating, as if he owns the space and everyone in it. Mike swallows, lungs tight.
Will looks taken aback, a tinge of annoyance flashing in his eyes. “No thanks,” he says, calm but firm. “I’m not interested.” His hand returns to Mike’s, stroking his knuckles.
The blond turns to Mike, sizing him up with a predatory snarl that echoes the bullies from his school days. Instantly, Mike feels two inches tall. His shoulders hunch instinctively, eyes dropping to the table. Shame coils in his chest at how easily he’s been shrunk.
The man leans even closer to Will, tilting his head like a wolf sizing prey. “Oh, please. You can do better than that.”
It’s true, Will could do better; the statement stokes his singeing chest.
Will’s face has turned dangerous.
The man won’t stop. “I mean no offense, dude,” he says looking Mike up and down, “but you look like that,” his lips curling in disgust. “And you- ” He towers over Will, voice low and flirty. “-are fucking delicious.”
The fire scorches Mike’s throat, the smoke burns deep in his lungs. He can’t breathe. Needs to breathe.
His stool scrapes back; he stumbles toward the bar, desperate for distance, for air, for anything to quench the blaze.
He can vaguely hear Will shouting- his name, maybe? Or at the man?
Mike is already swallowed by the crowd. He moves, bumping into people until he finds himself at the bar, breath coming too fast.
The bartender wavers in front of him, he asks Mike what he wants with an impatient scrunch of his brow. When the words tumble out of his mouth, Mike doesn’t really recognize his own voice, he’s not sure if he’s in control of it. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth.
Apparently, he’s ordered shots. Four of them. He stares blindly at the tiny glasses full of clear liquid for a second. The flame claws at his lungs.
He pounds them back one after the other.
They burn his throat. He hopes, desperately, that the sting will drown the fire gnawing at his stomach.
Instead, it only fuels it.
His chest tightens. His heart skids, thuds in erratic bursts. Fingers tingle, then go numb. His vision narrows, edges of the room flickering.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He isn’t sure how he gets there; he makes it to the bathroom.
It’s revolting. Green-tiled walls dulled with grime, cracked at the corners. Stickers and flyers litter the stalls- some torn, some curling, advertise DJs and drag shows. The floor is slick, sticky under his shoes, littered with crushed cigarette butts and something wet that might be a spilled drink- or worse.
The air is thick, the potent odor clings to his nostrils. He braces himself over a sink, hands gripping the chipped porcelain so tightly his knuckles blanch.
The fluorescent bulbs buzz overhead, harsh and unrelenting, casting a sage tint that makes the tiles look almost toxic, his skin pallid.
His reflection wavers in the streaked mirror, edges of the glass fogging from the humidity. His chest hammers, ribs straining for air that won’t come.
Ugly.
The word slams into him, white-hot. It’s been a while since it last had this much power, but it’s virulent now, spreading fast.
Mike stares into his own diluted pupils. He can’t stop cataloguing every single thing he fucking hates.
His nose- too sloping, too large. His lips- horrid. His chin- stupid. His muddy brown eyes- dull, wrong, nothing remarkable. His knees wobble. Bile rises up his throat. He can’t breathe. Shit.
All at once, his ears ring deafeningly; the only sound the thumping of his own heart crashing through his temples. A vice clamps around his throat, sudden and ruthless.
He can’t breathe.
“Mike!”
The voice is frantic. Closer now. “Mike!”
A hand wraps around his wrist, warm and real; the person he loves most in the world appears beside him in the mirror. Mike lets out a choked, broken gasp.
“Hey- hey, Mike, look at me,” Will says, tender but urgent, trying to pry his hands from the sink. Mike’s fingers resist, locked tight. When Will finally manages to loosen them, he turns him by the shoulders until they’re face to face.
The slight height difference means Will has to tilt his face up to meet his gaze.
He’s so fucking beautiful.
The thought lands wrong- too sharp, too much. Mike winces.
What the fuck is someone so ethereal doing with someone like him? That guy fucking knew it. Everyone does. His vision tunnels, darkness creeping in at the edges.
“I’m- I’m going to be sick,” he mumbles and then he’s stumbling toward a stall, dropping hard to his knees on the vile floor, emptying his stomach violently. His body folds in on itself, helpless.
Will is there instantly, crouching beside him. One hand rubs slow, steady circles into his back. The other brushes damp hair away from his eyes, again and again.
Mike wants the room to swallow him whole.
You ruined it. You ruined everything. The date. Will was excited. He was happy. You had one job. One. Fucking idiot. Fucking worthless piece of shit.
Eventually, the heaving subsides. He slumps back on his heels, shaking, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Will flushes the toilet and helps him up, steadying him like he might tip over again at any second. Mike can feel clammy sweat slick along the back of his neck, soaking into his collar. His hands won’t stop trembling.
He closes his eyes. The room is spinning.
He can’t look at Will.
After a moment, Will’s hands rise to his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the hollows above his collarbones. Mike had told him once, months ago, that when anxiety flared it felt like fire pushing through him; the pressure always building there, like it was trying to escape. Sometimes, pushing back against it helped. The fact Will remembered makes a sudden, thick lump lodge in his throat.
“Mike,” Will says, low, voice trembling just slightly- most people wouldn’t notice it. Mike does. “You’re okay. You’re here with me. You’re safe. We’re just gonna breathe.”
A fist pounds the stall door. Mike jumps. His pulse spikes.
“Well, can you two fucking breathe somewhere else? Some of us are trying to piss,” an obnoxious, whiny voice calls from outside.
Will swears under his breath, eyes flashing with sharp, protective annoyance. He takes Mike’s hand- firm, decisive- and pulls him forward. They push through the bathroom, then the club, people zooming past in streaks of light and noise. The music thuds behind Mike’s eyes, the floor pitching beneath him.
The world wobbles, tilts, refuses to stay still.
At some point, Will’s jacket is wrapped around his shoulders, heavy and familiar, and Mike can’t quite remember how they made it back through coat check so quickly- only that Will didn’t let go once.
Then they’re outside.
The fresh, slightly chilly spring air hits him, sharp and bracing. He gasps; it does nothing to cool the embers still sizzling through him.
His chest heaves uselessly, breath skimming shallow and fast.
His hand scrapes against spiked brick. He leans his shoulder into the wall. The panic is too heavy, his limbs too weak. He slides down helplessly, spine dragging against stone until he lands on the bare ground, knees drawn in, Will’s jacket pooling around him as he curls inward, trying not to shatter.
He feels Will drop down beside him. “Baby, I need you to breathe, okay.” His hands find Mike’s once more, warm and unrelenting.
They don’t often use pet names, so the endearment zaps through him like a jolt of electricity.
He sucks in a breath. Deep. Full. Just like his therapist taught him.
“Good, that’s good, Mike.” Will leans into him slightly, weight anchoring him. Mike relishes it, lets himself sink into the pressure. “And again- slow. In through your nose. That’s it.”
They sit like that on the unyielding sidewalk until his heartbeat slows, until he can feel blood rush back into his fingers, until the fire inside him shrinks to curdling ash. He still feels drunk, disoriented, everything fuzzy at the edges.
Mike tucks his head into the crook of Will’s neck.
Will’s teeth chatter.
Shit. He hates the cold. Shit.
“You’re cold. Fuck, here.” His voice comes out hoarse and wobbly. He clumsily shrugs off the jacket and hastily wraps it around Will, pulling the fabric tight.
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Will says, brows upturned in concern, eyes shining with love. “Let’s go home, okay?”
“I’m sorry… I ruined our date,” Mike mutters, syllables still sliding together. How the fuck is he still wasted?
Will shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, voice hushed.
Will is incredible. He guides them off the floor, along the city streets, props Mike’s teetering form up the entire time, helps him navigate endless flights of stairs. Finally, he lets them into their apartment. Every movement is entrenched with kindness, patience. It makes Mike want to weep.
Will strips Mike of his clothes, helps him into pyjamas, stands close as he brushes his teeth, makes him drink two full glasses of water. He doesn’t rush him, doesn’t grow impatient with Mike’s uncooperative, lanky limbs. He strokes his back, kisses his cheek. Reminds him to breathe.
After an indeterminable stretch of time, he tucks Mike into bed, pulling the covers up snug around him. Will slots himself behind, wraps an arm lightly around his stomach. He kisses Mike’s neck. “I love you so much,” he whispers into the dark.
“Love you more,” Mike slurs back.
Sleep is broken, too hot, unkind.
Mike wakes to sunlight spilling through the curtains in thick, unapologetic bands. He squints, groans miserably and turns his head just enough to catch the luminescent digits of the alarm clock.
10:26.
His skull throbs dully behind his eyes, each pulse echoing like it’s bouncing off bone. His mouth tastes like copper and regret. Nausea presses close, swirling in his stomach.
The room is drenched in golden light, far too bright, far too cheerful for how utterly wrecked he feels. It glows against the navy sheets, warms the spines of book stacks littering the floor, catches on the edges of familiar clutter. It pools over the photograph on his nightstand.
Mike’s favorite one.
Jonathan took it a few years ago at Thanksgiving- junior year. Mike had stopped by Joyce and Hopper’s place with Will before heading back to Hawkins to visit his family.
They’re huddled together on the couch, mugs of hot cocoa cradled in their hands, shoulders pressed close, heads bent toward each other like magnets. Their smiles are wide and unguarded.
It was taken months before they ever admitted how they felt but the love is already there- vivid and unmistakable.
For a while, it lived on his bookshelf, tucked secretly between his novels. But since he and Will got together, it’s found a home in a silver frame and now resides, pride of place, beside their bed.
Usually, the photo makes his chest soar.
Today, it turns sour.
Mike’s gaze snags on his own crooked smile, the way his features sit slightly off-kilter, his skin too pale, his hair an unruly mess. The old, treacherous thoughts slither in easily, like they’ve been waiting just outside the door. The flame flickers, unstable, hungry.
He exhales sharply and flips the frame facedown.
He buries his face in the pillow, lets his hand drift across the mattress behind him.
Empty.
Will’s gone.
He presses his face deeper into the fabric, breathing in the mingled scent of laundry detergent and Will’s shampoo. It helps. A little. He blinks hard, tries to fend off the sting behind his eyes. Counts to one hundred in his head. Focuses on breathing. In. Out. Slow.
A mug is set gently on the nightstand.
The mattress dips.
“Morning sleepy head,” Will murmurs, sliding in behind him, pulling Mike back against his chest. “You alive?” There’s the faintest thread of attempted humor woven through his voice.
Mike rolls over carefully, his skull protesting the movement. He buries his face in Will’s chest instead. “Debatable.”
Will lets out a quiet huff of laughter; the vibration rattles straight through Mike’s aching brain. “Headache?” he asks, fingers threading gently through Mike’s hair, careful not to tug.
“Feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it,” Mike mutters honestly.
Will hums and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “I brought you Advil. And coffee.”
The tears threaten again, sharp and sudden. Mike nuzzles closer, clinging.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I love you. I’m sorry.”
Will’s arms tighten around his back. Another kiss lands against his temple, warm and safe.
“No sorries allowed, I’m afraid.”
Mike frowns; his brows knit together, the movement sending a fresh spike of pain rippling through him “Why?” he asks quietly. “I behaved like a jackass.”
Will shifts them, movements careful but efficient. He scoots lower on the bed until they’re eye to eye, until he can cup Mike’s face in both hands.
“No, you didn’t, Mike,” he says. “You were very sad. And very drunk. That’s okay. You’re allowed to be both of those things. You didn’t do anything bad.” His eyes are wide, earnest, almost pleading. “I know you haven’t panicked like that in a long time, and I’m really sorry it happened. But you never- ever- have to apologize.”
Objectively, Mike knows he’s right. Somewhere tucked away in the logical corner of his brain, the truth sits patiently.
But embarrassment- and the stubborn, flickering anxiety still smoldering within him- are louder right now.
Chagrin pulses though him, he knows how sensitive Will is to drunkenness after growing up surrounded by the recklessness and violence of his father. But Mike still ordered the shots, still fucking drank them. Even though he knows what it does to Will. The thought of being anything like Lonnie makes his stomach turn, his lungs blaze with sizzling heat. Mike can’t believe he put Will through that. He’s the worst fucking boyfriend to ever exist.
“I was an asshole, Will,” Mike chokes out. “Of course I have to apologize. I ruined our date.” I ruined everything.
“They’ll be more dates Mike,” Will says, his eyes sparkling, “It wasn’t a one-time thing. You’re kind of stuck with me.”
Mike doesn’t want him to feel stuck, trapped. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats, pungent regret taints the air.
Will tuts. “Would you expect me to apologize for my nightmares?” Will counters, thumbs brushing feather-light over Mike’s cheeks.
“That’s different.” Mike’s gaze slips past him, fixing on the wall behind Will’s head. He can’t look at his face anymore- can’t bear the open understanding there, the unbearable gentleness of it.
“How?” Will tightens his hold just slightly, guiding Mike’s face back until their eyes meet.
“It’s different because your nightmares are real,” Mike says, voice roughening, “and this was just some stupid fucking insecurity.” It’s vain. Vapid. Ridiculous. Childish. He swallows. Self-loathing bleeds into his tone. “It’s nothing like your nightmares.”
His breathing stutters, a stupid sob tearing loose from his chest. Outside the window, a bird sings- bright, insistent, far too pleased with itself. The sound slices through the room. The sun soaks them; it has the audacity to shine.
Another sob wracks his chest. Will catches the tear that escapes with his thumb.
“Talk to me, Mike,” he says. There’s strain in his voice now, pain threading through the care.
Mike squeezes his eyes shut. His head throbs dully. The air tastes faintly of stale alcohol and old sweat, last night clinging stubbornly to the room. “I was already kind of anxious about going out,” he says. “But I wanted to push myself. I wanted to dance with you- I wanted to go on real date with you.” His voice splinters. “And I was having fun. I really was. But then that guy- ”
The words jam in his throat, thick and immovable.
“You know you don’t have anything to worry about, right?” Will says quietly. The mattress shifts as he moves closer, heat radiating off him. “Please look at me, Mike.”
Mike opens his eyes.
Will’s face is close, cheeks flushed in the morning light, eyes soft but unwavering. “You never have to worry,” he says. “I’m never going to choose anyone over you.”
The sentiment floods through Mike. It washes over him, warm and sincere- but it doesn’t extinguish the flame. It’s not the right balm. Not for this.
He needs to explain.
“It’s not exactly that,” he says, and regrets it immediately when the next words refuse to cooperate. He could have just nodded. Could have accepted Will’s comfort and let it lie. Instead, his chest tightens. How does he explain this without sounding ridiculous?
The word frogface rises greedily to meet him.
He spits it out.
Will recoils- just slightly- before bleak understanding crosses his features.
Mike squeezes his eyes shut again, like he can block out last night, this morning, this entire conversation if he tries hard enough. It’s stupid. That a nickname could still burrow under his skin like this. Will, Dustin, Lucas- they were bullied mercilessly, for things far worse than Mike ever endured. He knows that. He knows how small this sounds.
It feels conceited. Self-absorbed. Pathetic, that he’s held onto the epithet for so long.
More tears leak free.
After a few seconds of agonising silence, Mike makes himself look at Will. At the worry in his eyes. At the way he’s still holding Mike’s face like something delicate.
“I’ve always known you’re more beautiful than me,” Mike continues. The words feel like glass in his throat, but once they’re out, they won’t stop. “And I don’t even care. I mean- I do, but not in the way you think. You’re stunning. Inside and out. That’s just… a fact.”
His chest tightens, breath stuttering.
“But last night- ” He swallows. “Watching him look at you like that. Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was something in the way.” His fingers curl into the sheets. “I could see it on his face. That you could do better than me.”
His voice drops, smaller now. Bitter. “It made me realise that people are going to pity you. Judge you. Because it’s obvious. Because it’s so clear that I’m not… that I don’t measure up. That I’m not worthy of you.”
He laughs weakly, the sound breaking apart as it leaves him. Tears spill despite his best effort to stop them.
“I didn’t panic because I was jealous or because I thought you’d leave” he whispers. “I panicked because everyone else could see so clearly why you shouldn’t stay. And maybe, you’d figure that out too, soon enough.”
He shivers.
Will takes a deep breath, the cogs in his head turning visibly. His hands cradle Mike’s jaw. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion, “You, Michael Wheeler, are the single most beautiful person I’ve ever known- and I’m ever likely to know.”
Mike’s lips twist; his stomach dips. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend,” he argues, hands brushing over Will’s shirt, fingers kneading the fabric.
“No. I don’t have to say it,” Will replies. “I love you for what’s in here,” he says, sliding his fingers over Mike’s chest, “and here,” moving them to his temple. “The fact that you’re so outrageously hot you make me weak at the knees is just a bonus.”
Mike’s mouth pops open in shock. A surprised laugh escapes him, tangled with another wave of tears.
“You made me realize what beauty is, Mike. You made me realize what true love feels like. How could you possibly feel unworthy of me? You are beautiful. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I wish you could live in my head, in my heart. Then you’d know, for sure, that you should never have to feel another insecure thought about how I see you, about how worthy you are- ever again.” His eyes glimmer in thought, “In fact- wait here.”
He scrambles from the bed, sprinting down the hall to what used to be his room. Will hasn’t slept there for months, since he started sharing Mike’s bed.
Mike listens to the slap of quick footsteps on the wooden floor, retreating and returning just as fast.
Will reappears in the doorway, breathing a little hard. He’s holding something.
A sketchbook.
Worn. Creased at the corners. The spine held together with duct tape. The pages yellowed, wrinkled with use and age.
Will crosses the room in three long strides and sits back down on the bed, knees brushing Mike’s. He opens the sketchbook without ceremony and flips to a page near the beginning, fingers sure, like he’s been here a thousand times.
“This,” Will says, tapping the paper, “is what I see.” He nudges the book toward him.
Mike takes it tentatively.
The first few pages are clearly juvenile sketches, drawn haphazardly in different-colored crayons.
Some are half-finished. All of them are Mike.
Even in Will’s childhood drawings, the resemblance is unmistakable.
As Mike turns the pages, the drawings shift- grow more skilled, more refined.
Mike slouched over his D&D binder. Mike laughing, head tipped back. Near the middle, there are pages and pages of just his eyes. His mouth.
“I drew a lot of those when I was in Lenora,” Will says quietly. “I really missed your smile.”
Some are barely more than lines. Others are careful. Reverent.
All of them are undeniably him.
“I draw what I love,” Will continues. “I always have.”
Mike’s throat tightens painfully.
“You think beauty is about symmetry,” Will says. “About perfection. About fitting into whatever mold some asshole at a club- or some mouth-breathing bully- decided matters. But that’s never been what I see.”
He gestures for Mike to keep going.
More Mike. In high school. In college. While they’ve lived together. His hands. His shoulders. His stupid, hunched posture when he studies in the library. Mike asleep in this very bed, mouth slightly open, tendrils falling into his eyes.
“You’ve been beautiful in every iteration of your life. Because you’re you. Because you’re kind, protective, funny, stubborn. Because you love so fiercely and so loyally.”
Mike’s vision blurs.
“And because,” Will adds, softer now, “you make me feel chosen. Every day.”
Will gently takes the sketchbook from Mike’s hands, closes it and sets it aside. Then he cups Mike’s face again, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes, catching tears Mike hadn’t realized were falling again.
“That guy in the club didn’t see me,” Will says. “He saw a body. A face. He saw something he wanted to own for a night.” His jaw tightens. “You know me, you see me. And I am so, so lucky to have you. You are so precious to me.”
Mike shakes his head weakly. “But people look at us and-”
“And they see how much I love you,” Will interrupts gently. “They always have, Mike. I wasn’t exactly subtle about it.” He exhales. “And more importantly, I see someone who makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. Someone who dries my tears without making me feel weak. Someone who knows that I hate mushrooms. Someone who knows exactly how I take my coffee. Someone who helps me see the light in the dark, reminds me what it means to be alive. Someone who holds me through nightmares and never once makes me feel broken.”
He leans his forehead against Mike’s.
“There is no version of reality where I am settling. There is no universe in which I don’t think you are utterly, wonderfully gorgeous.”
Mike knows Will’s words aren’t magic. They’re beautiful to hear, and they help- dulling the wildfire to a manageable flame- but they aren’t a cure. There’s still work to do in therapy. Still insecurity to untangle. Still trauma to unearth, slow and stubborn.
But for now, they ease the sting.
He presses a soft kiss to Will’s cheek. “Thank you,” he chokes out. His heart squeezes. Will tucks Mike into his chest and resumes the gentle detangling of his curls. They lay there for a few careful, tentative minutes.
Eventually, Mike takes his Advil then drags himself to the shower- washes away the grime, the tears, the remnants of alcohol and panic. Steam fogs the mirror; water drums against the tile. It’s glorious to stand beneath the spray and watch everything spiral down the drain, his shoulders finally loosening as the heat sinks into his bones.
By the time he returns to the bedroom, wrapped in clean clothes and squeezing the water out of his dripping curls, things feel more stable. The harsh brightness of the morning has muted, slanting lazily through the curtains. Will has changed the sheets, cracked the window. The air smells cleaner. Calmer
A fresh mug of coffee waits on the nightstand- the first long since gone cold.
Will declares it a lazy day.
They climb back into bed and tangle themselves together, unhurried. They talk. About the movie they watched last week. About the one they want to see this week. About the painting Will’s been working on, about whether there are more cats in the world than dogs. They talk about getting a cat next year- when they’ve finished college, when they move into a place that’s really theirs. They talk about jobs, about the future, stop when it starts to feel too big for the day.
The sun drifts higher, then slowly away, shadows creeping across the walls. The city beats on below them.
Eventually, the conversation circles back.
Mike is stretched out with his head in Will’s lap, eyes half-lidded, very much enjoying the way Will’s fingers drift through his hair- gentle and absent-minded.
“You know,” Will muses, fingers combing slowly, “I can’t believe I didn’t know you felt that way about yourself.” There’s still a strain to his voice but the tension has thinned. “I can’t believe I’ve been letting you wander around all these years being so mean to yourself.”
Mike turns his head to look up at him. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s not your responsibility, Will. I need to figure out how to deal with my own shit.” A small smile tugs at his mouth- tired, but real.
Will brushes a strand of hair off his forehead, thumb lingering there. “I know,” he says gently. Then, with a hint of a grin, “But still.” His fingers resume their slow, steady motion. “You better get ready for a lot of reminders about how beautiful you are, mister.” Will leans down to capture his lips and a wonderful, safe kind of warmth spreads through him.
Mike hasn’t always had anxiety. There was a time when his body didn’t hold heat and panic so close to the surface.
But this is who he is now. And that’s okay.
Anxiety lives in him like the freckles that adorn his face, like the dark of his eyes- unasked for, undeniable. A flame he didn’t choose, but has learned to name. Some days it is molten. Some days it only flickers.
And when it flares, there is somewhere to land.
A shared bed. Soft sheets.
There are satin hours and silky coffee and a man who knows exactly how to steady him without trying to fix him. A man who stays unequivocally by his side.
The flame still exists. It’s survivable.
Mike doesn’t face it alone.