Archive of Our Own

Mike accepts three truths about himself that he’s absolutely certain of: he can never truly keep his mouth shut, he can't stand to be alone, and Will Byers has the most beautiful hands he’s ever seen.

He’s been fixated with them ever since they first started hooking up: how they look when they’re ink stained from painting, how their veins look in the morning light, how they look wrapped around his dick. They surface to the front of his thoughts whenever he’s bored and doesn’t know what else to think about. It doesn’t help that once said thoughts drift to Will, it’s impossible to stop. He likes thinking about all facets of Will: his smile, his hair, the way his eyes look when he’s sleepy and trying to fight it. It all bleeds together in his mind.

Which is exactly why he’s stuck in the predicament he finds himself in now. He knows it’s irrational, the internal spike of panic that blooms in his chest every time he looks at Will. He shouldn’t care this much. At twenty four he should be able to swallow it down, compose himself with grace and keep his face steady when Will smiles at him so sweetly like it’s nothing. He definitely shouldn’t be freaking out over the way their eyes meet when they’re in public and clearly thinking the same thoughts, noticing the same things.

It shouldn’t matter. They made all their decisions out of necessity at first anyways: to live in a shoe-box on the Lower East Side because it was cheaper to split a rent controlled place. To start fucking on a semi regular basis because it was convenient. No strings, no mess, easy cleanup. That was the deal, and it was going great. Until Mike's obsession started festering.

Right now Mike can’t stop over thinking, can’t stop staring over the same hands that are currently being put to work making them both breakfast, flipping pancakes and wrapping elegantly around a mug of coffee. He watches Will move around their kitchen from the table, fussing about in Mike’s tattered old Hawkins High gym shirt, the one that’s too big on him and occasionally slips off his shoulder until he has to readjust it. It’s comically large on him after years of being stretched out, hem hitting him mid thigh, and Mike’s mouth waters at the thought that he might not be wearing anything underneath. Knows this to be the case, because he’d peeled those boxers off at three in the morning when neither of them could sleep, and they’re definitely still on the floor of Will’s bedroom.

“I can feel you staring,” Will says, not bothering to turn around. Mike can hear the smile in his voice, the one he can’t see from his angle at the table.

“What? I’m reading,” Mike insists, straightening the newspaper in front of him obnoxiously loud to help make his point.

“Mhmm?” Will hums. “The same page for the last ten minutes?”

Mike grunts in response, unwilling to humiliate himself further with what they’d both know is a fake denial. Will laughs, and it rings in Mike’s ears. He wants to hear more of it. More than that, he wants to go up and wrap his hands around Will’s slim waist, press kisses to the spot behind Will’s ear that always makes him giggle, take the spatula out of his hand and fuck him over the counter.

He does none of that. Instead, he clears his throat and reminds himself that today is a Tuesday. They have rules about weekday mornings, even if they’re unspoken, that morning sex does not a productive day make. Weeknights are great, encouraged even, but mornings are supposed to be normal. Roommate normal. Best friend normal. Not whatever the fuck Mike is thinking about now.

Will busies himself by plating their food and the normalcy of it brings Mike back down to earth. He sets Mike’s plate in front of him gently like he’s handling precious cargo and it makes Mike’s breath stop for a second. Mike notices this of course, like he notices all things about the way Will moves: how careful and deliberate he is with his things. How he’s this way with all of Mike’s things, too, as if Mike matters, like he somehow did something deserving of all these random acts of small kindnesses. How Mike feels so desperately the opposite in his own body: He’s broken three mugs since moving in by sheer clumsiness alone, chipped a bathroom tile when he was drunk and careless, and nearly pulled a cabinet door straight off its hinges simply because he wasn’t thinking.

“Thanks again,” he says, taking the syrup bottle Will offers to him before settling. Their fingers brush briefly, and it’s not on purpose, couldn’t be, but Mike feels the warmth from Will’s hands and has to look away before he does or says something stupid.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Will starts, sitting down in his spot across from Mike and tucking one leg underneath him to sit. From where he is, Mike can vaguely see the curve of a pale thigh, skin milky white against the dark wood grain of their chairs. He can see a spot, barely noticeable, where Mike left a mark with his teeth last night; he has to tamp down his dick and wills himself not to get a boner right now.

“Dangerous,” Mike remarks, cutting into his pancakes with more force than necessary. He’s hungry, though he’s not sure it’s for food.

“Haha,” Will rolls his eyes, talking between bites of food. “I was thinking it might be fun if we could have some people over this weekend. Lucas said he’d come up from Philly, and Max is in town for that networking thing, so–”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no.” Mike shoves the biggest piece of food he can fit onto his fork into his mouth to avoid explaining himself. The truth is he doesn’t want anyone invading their space. It feels so perfect and safe and cozy and all the things he knows it won’t feel if Lucas makes that face at him, one that says we all see what you’re doing and you’re a total idiot. Doesn’t think he could mentally or emotionally handle overhearing Max cornering Will and telling him he deserves better, probably.

What he has with Will right now, whatever you could call it, it works. It works because they don’t tell their friends about it, because they get to hole up together in their tiny shitty apartment and fuck like animals whenever they want to without labels. It’s convenient, easy and fun. It won’t be if they let anyone into the cohabitation nest they’ve built together to examine what they have too closely.

“You’re being weird… .” Will frowns, tilting his head and looking at Mike curiously like he’s trying to understand where he’s coming from instead of jumping straight to an argument. Trust Will to be sweet and kind and understanding even when Mike is definitely being weird.

“I’m not being weird! You’re being weird.”

“What! How am I-” Will starts, then stops immediately when he catches himself getting worked up. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

He gets up to take his plate to the sink and scrape the rest of his breakfast, even though he barely touched his food. Mike watches him, the way he walks, the way his spine presses through the thin cotton. Thinks about all the ways he talks without speaking, the way he curves into himself when he’s unsure about something, when he’s trying to keep the peace even to the detriment of himself or his own interests.

“Hey,” Mike says, because he can’t ever stop himself and his mouth always gets him in trouble. “Come here.”

Will turns, eyebrows raised. “Hmm?”

“Just come here, please” Mike tries, nicer this time as he beckons him over with his hand.

There’s a pause where Will stays in place, wiping his hands on their dishtowel, and Mike almost thinks he’ll say no before he eventually relents and pads over.

“What is it?” Will asks, quieter this time, careful like he’s trying not to spook anything.

Mike reaches out and hooks two fingers into the fabric of the borrowed shirt, tugging gently. Will steps closer, into the space between Mike's spread legs, and Mike can smell him now, the coffee he made this morning and the syrup on his fingers and the faint ghost of Mike's own cologne from last night. His hands find Will's waist, thumbs pressing into the hollow of his hipbones, and Will makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat that goes straight to Mike's dick.

“I thought we had rules about mornings..” Will lets his voice drift as he slowly starts to give in to Mike’s advances. He places his hands on Mike’s shoulders, fingers fidgeting like he’s grappling for something more stable to hold onto. He looks small and delicate, like he’ll break if Mike is too thoughtless with him.

“Fuck the rules,” Mike says, pulling him down into his lap in one swift movement. It’s milliseconds before his mouth is on Wills, kissing him, pulling him down, closer and closer until there's no space left between their bodies. Mike drinks in every sigh Will makes against his mouth, holding onto him so tightly he should be more concerned about the grip marks he’s definitely leaving on Will's perfect skin. Knows he’ll want to see them later, kiss them crazy, file it away in his mind under things he likes and appreciates about Will Byers body.

“Mike,” Will gasps, pulling apart briefly to look into his eyes. It sounds like a question, and if Mike were a better person, he’d pull away and they’d have a very healthy conversation about boundaries and feelings and sweet things Will deserves to hear. Right now, Mike is not feeling like a good person.

Instead of unpacking all the things in Will’s gaze, he nods towards his room down the hallway. “If we do this, we do it right. Bed. Now.” It’s easier this way, because it’s what they know and what they’ve grown accustomed to. Mike has always loved easy.

Will moves to slide off his lap and takes his hand. Mike looks down at those perfect fingers, elegant hands, gets caught on them again, and lets Will lead him down the narrow hallway to Mike's room. The pancakes go cold on the table. Briefly, Mike considers that they’ll both run late for work, but he can’t even pretend to care about that right now.

He presses Will against the door as soon as it closes behind them, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand and using the other to grab at his stomach, his ribs, the perfect expanse of his abdomen. Will arches into every touch, emboldened by Mike’s enthusiasm, and Mike wants to take his time with this, wants to kiss and lick every inch of him like it's the first time all over again even though he knows that deep down he could navigate Will's body in the dark.

"You need to tell me what you want, gotta use your words okay baby?" Mike says against Will's neck, teeth scraping the tendon there.

"You," Will gasps. "Only you. Mike, Please."

Deep down, Mike knows that’s the problem. Will always asks for everything so sweetly, always says please like Mike's doing him some kind of favor when the truth is Mike would give him anything, everything, would set himself on fire if Will asked him to.

Mike moves to kiss him again, deeper this time, like he’s trying to claim him. His hands snake down to Will’s waist, the waist he’s fucking obsessed with and daydreams about at his boring day job, thumbs pressing into his hipbones hard enough to leave marks and this time on purpose. He knows what Will likes, has noticed every reaction, every pant and sigh, knows that Will would never share it out loud but that he’s caught him more than once staring at them naked in their shared bathroom mirror with a twisted grin on his face like the cat that caught the cream.

“Gonna carry you now, okay?” Mike asks now, picking up Will with resounding strength and carrying him the few steps towards his bed. It’s still disorganized from the night before, but he sets him down as gently as he can, crawling in after him so that he’s covering Will's body with his own again. He’s obsessed with the way his hands span Will’s waist almost entirely, would like to properly worship that waist if he wasn’t so preoccupied, and begins to pull his old shirt off Will completely.

“Fuck,” Will groans, laying back down against the pillows, now completely naked and exposed. Mike works at pulling his own clothes off in a flurry, going as fast as possible so Will doesn’t get cold without his body heat. When he goes back to him, Will's hands scramble to grab for his back to pull them flush against each other again.

One of the only things he thinks he truly knows how to do is this, right here. This is the language they speak when words fail, this is the one thing he doesn’t completely fuck up.

He coats his fingers with the bottle of lube still left still on the nightstand from last night, and begins to work Will open slowly. He carefully watches every emotion play across Will’s face, sensitive and needy at first, and then the way his eyes flutter closed when he knows he’s hit the right spot. Will’s hands are white knuckle fisted in the sheets, and he’s making the prettiest sounds Mike has ever heard. He wants to kiss those hands, wants to bring them to his mouth and bite them and worship every fucking finger.

He never actually does. Instead, when he knows Will is good and ready and he’s staring at Mike like he might die if he doesn’t fuck him right this second, he moves to line himself up before entering slowly. Inch by inch, he’s enveloped in that same familiar heat, totally enraptured by the way Will’s mouth falls open on a silent moan. He’s so tight, always so tight no matter how many times they do this, and Mike has to stop so he can catch his breath, so he doesn’t cum right away like some bumbling teenager.

“You need to move,” Will whines, though the demand sounds more like begging. His voice is wrecked, and Mike obeys because he always does and always will. He wants to give Will everything, because he deserves everything. He begins fucking into Will with long measured strokes, using one hand to clutch at his waist and the other to cradle his cheek. Will meets him every time, thrust for thrust, shameless and whimpering. Mike wishes they could stay like this forever, just him buried in Will, in this room, where it’s safe and they’re together and untouched by the reality that persists in the world around them.

Mike’s hand moves to cup Will’s jaw, trying to keep that lush mouth open so he can drink in every sound, every moan, but Will is biting at his hands before coming completely untouched, just from Mike fucking him. The spurts come all over his belly, audible gasps releasing from his lips like he can't believe it.

The sight of it nearly sends Mike into overdrive. The way Wills face goes from tight at first to slack with pleasure, hands reaching for Mike, clutching wherever he can reach and his body squeezing around Mike its-- it’s too much all at once. This pushes Mike over the edge, too, and he comes with a shudder, grinding his hips in as deep as he can possibly go. For a moment there's nothing in the world but white noise and Will's breath in his ear and the feeling of being exactly where he's supposed to be. He’s so fucking happy and satiated he could die.

Later, when they’re lying together in the sticky, sweaty aftermath, Mike traces his fingers lightly across all of the marks starting to form on Will’s skin around his hips and abdomen. They’re both completely exhausted, and Mike can’t bear to think of them parting now. He honestly still feels like he’s trying to catch his breath; leave it to him for sex to be his only form of exercise.

“We’re both going to be late for work,” Will muses, staring at the ceiling. His eyes feel droopy and tired, like he’s ready to pass out. His voice sounds wrecked.

“What if we both called in,” Mike says, mumbling against the skin on Will’s shoulder. It tickles, and he can tell because Will moves his arm in a funny way.

“You’re funny,” Will huffs, like the idea of this is a far away pipe dream and not a reality they could make come true with a few simple steps to the landline.

Mike tightens his grip around Will now, moving so he’s speaking into his neck. “C’mon. You don’t wanna go, I don’t want you to go. Let's skip it.”

“That’d make three times this month”

“So?”

“So I’m going to get myself fired.” Will muses.

“Then fuck that place. Get fired. Stay here with me, where it’s warm,” Mike says, completely devoid of any humor in his voice anymore. He sounds like he means it.

“Mike.” Will says flatly, like he’s not in the mood to joke with him for much longer.

“I mean it,” he murmurs into Will's skin. “I need you. Please stay.”

Mike should laugh this whole thing off. Should help Will get dressed, should walk him to the subway, should kiss him silly before he leaves. He moves to do none of these things, however, only burrows impossibly closer to Will so all he can breathe in is the scent of his skin. He’s so tired of deflecting, of pretending none of this matters to him anymore, when it’s the only thing that matters in his sad little life at all.

When he opens his eyes, he notices Will moving to turn and look at him, confused and a bit scared, like he can’t believe this is real. Like he’s bracing himself for a joke.

“Okay,” Will whispers. “If you really need me.”

And it’s only seconds but it feels like years before he’s leaning in to kiss Mike softly, like he’s feeling shy and vulnerable and a million other emotions at once.

Mike kisses him back, soft and slow and carefully like he deserves, and tries not to think about how fucked he is, how many ways he could screw up something so good, almost too good to be true and happening to him. He tries to push away all the thoughts running around his head that are centered around what happens next, all the conversations they'll need to have, about all the ways this could go wrong.

“Yeah, I really do.” Mike responds just as quietly, moving to press kisses all around Will’s face. His cheek, his brow bone, the bridge of his nose, all things he’s obsessed with.

For now there's this: Will's waist under his hands, Will's mouth on his, Will's heartbeat so loud he can feel it thumping against his chest.

For now, it’s enough.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

They live in a relative bubble of peace and perfection for three weeks. Will doesn’t get fired, and Mike’s boss chews him out for calling off at the last minute, but they survive to see another day.

Three weeks of sharing morning cups of coffee together, three weeks of exchanging coworker stories over every dinner, three weeks of calm and tranquility before Mike’s vision tunnels in the middle of aisle three at Super Grocer, between various cans of soups and jarred condiments.

The dread is overwhelming and it hits him like a truck. It’s only been three weeks and Mike is struck with the fact that the other shoe still hasn’t dropped, that the reality of the situation is he’s been pretending he’s not fucking terrified for what this means for the both of them, that they’ve yet to discuss what “Stay” means. They’ve been spending every waking moment not at work together, and it suddenly feels cloying and overwhelming and Mike can’t fucking breathe.

He has the immediate urge to bolt, filled cart be damned, and he flees the store in a hurry.

When he gets back to the apartment, Will is there, sitting on the couch with his sketchbook open on his lap. He’s drawing something carefully, deliberately, and he looks up like he’s been caught when he notices Mike’s barge in with a panicked look on his face.

“Oh, hi. You’re home later than usual. Should we order in?” Will asks, smiling at him.

“I’m going out,” Mike rushes to interrupt him, and watches the smile on Will's face falter momentarily.

“Oh, okay. Where-”

“Out.” Mike says, voice short and curt. “Me and some buddies from work. Don’t wait up.” The lie comes easily, too easily, and it feels both awful and freeing at the same time. He turns to grab his coat off the rack by the door, patting his back pocket to double check he’s got his wallet, and then he’s back out the front door like he never came in. He doesn’t stop to turn and look at Will, doesn’t think he could handle the look on his face right now. He closes the door behind him in a hurry, harder than he has to.

“Have fun,” he hears from behind the wall, Will’s muffled voice soft and vulnerable.

He leaves without replying back.

Mike doesn’t go out with any of his work friends. He heads to a gay bar not too far from their place, and nurses four beers before he begins to lose count on how many drinks he orders for the rest of the night.

He’s entertained a few guys here and there, young guys like him that have small statuesque figures and light blonde hair and pretty smiles. He gets flirted with, flirts back in return, but at the end of the night he feels like he’s on the wrong side of tipsy and his stomach is in knots. He can’t stop thinking of the way Will looked at him before he left, like he was disappointed in Mike. It feels like he’s been waiting for that look, waiting for that disappointment ever since they started up this whole thing.

Eventually he lets some random guy buy him a few more drinks, and goes through the motions of pretending to be a real person in public. He laughs at what he thinks are supposed to be jokes, touches him on the arm every time he orders another round, and smiles at him in between sips of the god awful cocktails they’re drinking.

“You want to get out of here?” The man asks, encroaching on Mike’s space, and Mike genuinely considers it for a moment. Considers that this might be the thing that fixes him, that getting under someone else's skin might make him forget about Will’s. But that’s all the thought he gives it before he thinks of Will’s sweet face, of his doe eyes and his flushed cheeks. Of the way it would cause something completely irreparable, even beyond total friendship forgiveness.

“Nah, I’m good,” Mike responds, removing himself from the bar and heading home, alone.

When he gets back, the apartment is dark, and he stands outside Will’s bedroom door for a few moments, deciding whether it’d be worth it to knock. He decides against it when he considers that he doesn’t even know what’d he’d say if Will was still awake, which judging by the light off underneath his door, is unlikely. He heads to his bed, head still spinning from alcohol consumption, and tries to fall asleep.

                                                                                         ⋄✧⋄

It happens in increments, the way Mike slowly starts to pull away. He tries to make the distance that he creates seem casual, only problem being that Will is way too observant for that. Mike can see him noticing, can tell by the way Will’s face micro-expresses the hurt he feels without verbally saying anything out loud every time Mike comes up with some new excuse not to spend time together, to have dinner in his room, to go to bed early, to be anywhere that’s not existing in the periphery of Will.

Mike also tries to keep the touching to a minimum now, and though they still fuck occasionally, it’s not like it was before. He no longer reaches for Will afterwards, no longer presses kisses to his face or shoulder or neck, no longer traces shapes into his skin. It’s strictly sex, and although they both come, it feels dull, performative and bordering on clinical. From time to time he’s rougher than he was before, like he thinks it might be possible that this is what rewinds the clock and reminds them both what it was originally: no labels, no strings, just two bodies getting off purely out of convenience.

Will lets him do whatever he wants, still, because of course he does, but Mike can tell by the look on his face when they’re done that this is no longer satisfying enough for him.

"Mike," Will tries one night, three weeks into Mike's careful and steady dismantling of whatever they'd started building. "Can we.. Do you think we could talk about-"

"I'm tired," Mike rushes to cut him off. "Work was hell today. I'm gonna crash."

He sees Will face fall, watches his shoulders hunch over like he’s trying to make himself smaller. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Sure."

Mike hates himself a little more that night.

It’s a chilly afternoon when Lucas heads up to crash with them, taking the train over from Philly. Mike totally forgot he was coming, which Lucas swears is bullshit because they confirmed the dates three separate times over the phone, and he gets home from his shift at the record store to find him and Will sitting on the floor around their coffee table, surrounded by chinese takeout cartons.

“There he is!” Lucas grins. “The very elusive Mike Wheeler. I was beginning to think you were a myth.”

“Funny,” Mike mutters, dropping his bag at the door and his keys in the bowl. His eyes shift from Lucas to Will, chopsticks in hand and gaze focused on the floor like he’s afraid of making eye contact. He’s wearing a soft henley that Mike wants to peel off him, and his cheek is resting on his knee. He looks soft and tired, with purple hues coloring the bags under his eyes. He thinks he might be responsible for putting them there.

“Grab a plate, man. We ordered your favorite for you, Kung Pao chicken, two stars spicy.”

Mike nods and goes along with the motions even though he hasn’t felt hungry in weeks. He’s losing weight rapidly, weight he doesn’t need or have to lose, but he can’t help it, has felt so choked up and stressed out lately over the weirdness that’s become his life that he can barely stomach food anymore. He sits down anyway and fills his plate, because he knows he’d never hear the end of it from Lucas if he didn't.

They eat while Lucas fills them in with details about his new job, some consulting thing Mike doesn’t completely understand, and he touches on how well things are going for Max while Will pushes his food around his plate, seemingly not that interested in eating. Lucas keeps glancing between them like he’s waiting for them to interject, to joke along with him or tease one another like they used to do, but is instead met with silence and polite nodding.

“So..” Lucas continues. “How’s the roommate thing going? You guys haven't killed each other yet, so it must be going well!”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s great.”

Both Mike and Will answer at the same time. Lucas glances between them, like he’s not sure what to make of it.

“Okay, fine and great are the same thing. But I’m glad you guys are getting along.”

Mike can feel Will's knee less than an inch from his. He can feel the heat radiating off Will’s body, wants to give in and let it pull him closer like a magnet. He scoots away before he can follow through with it.

“He’s a better roommate than you ever were,” Mike teases suddenly and out of nowhere. He misses their old dynamic, when they could all laugh together over stupid stuff.

Simultaneously, Will gets up and stretches. He’s fighting sleep, Mike can tell. “I’m going to clean this stuff up. Mike, do you want the rest of the Kung Pao?” he asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I’m good.”

Will nods and disappears into the kitchen. Once he’s out of earshot, Lucas leans forward.

“Okay, what’s going on? Why didn’t you give me a warning that things were awkward between you two? I would've never crashed here.”

“Nothing's going on.”

Lucas looks at him like that's a cheap answer. Like he knows Mike is lying. Probably because he does.

“Bullshit. We’ve been friends since we were seven. I can read you like a book, and I know when you’re lying. Will looks like crap, and you’re both acting weird. So I’m going to ask again, and I want a truthful answer: What the fuck is going on?”

Mike stares at the coffee table, zeroing in on the ring left there from the time he forgot to use a coaster. This is what he was afraid of, and now it’s all coming true. His friends finding out something is different, that he’s changed, that he can’t explain any of it and his home doesn’t feel like a safe hideaway anymore. “I already told you we’re fine. You’re imagining things,” he says, exasperated, like he wants Lucas to drop the subject already.

There’s a long pause, where Lucas looks back to make sure Will isn’t listening in. Then he leans back on his hands, shaking his head. “Mike, you gotta fix whatever it is you did. I’m telling you this as a friend and because I care about you: You’re going to lose him if you don’t. You know that, right?”

Mike feels his stomach plummet. He suddenly feels sick, like he wants to vomit. Instead he swallows down the feeling and sighs. “Please just drop it Lucas. I’m begging you,” He says miserably.

Lucas looks at him for a long moment, face colored with disappointment and frustration. “Yeah, man. Okay. Whatever you say.”

They don’t ever address it again. Lucas crashes at their place that night, on a couch that doubles as the world's most uncomfortable pull out bed. The same couch that Mike and Will have fucked on a thousand times, which honestly might be underestimating it, and he heads out on Sunday at noon with a big hug for Will and a tight one for Mike.

“Call me,” Lucas says at the door when they’re alone. “I mean it, man. No more of this disappearing shit. Call me and we’ll actually talk.”

“Yeah,” Mike nods, already knowing he won't follow through. “I will, promise.” He lies.

October bleeds into November and Mike gets even better at avoidance. He starts picking up extra shifts whenever he can, begins saying yes every time his boss or coworkers ask if he wants to go out after work, and goes to as many free shows as their record store can snag tickets to, even to the artists he doesn’t like. He does all of these things knowing Will is potentially still sitting at home, alone, wondering what the fuck happened to him, or to them. Most nights he drinks until the feelings are washed out by the buzz in his system.

They still hookup sometimes, though the amount is growing increasingly sparse. Mike is so weak, and Will always preens so sweetly at any attention he gets at all, but everything is different now. They don’t get to talk or discuss what they want, it’s more perfunctory than anything. Will bites his lip and doesn’t make the same noises he used to, the ones Mike always wants to drink from his mouth. He doesn’t stay after they fuck, either, anymore. He always heads to his room, like he’s saving himself the disappointment of a cold and meaningless afterglow.

It’s better this way, Mike tells himself afterwards. Thinks, maybe this is what we should’ve been doing all along.

He almost believes it.

The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

The confrontation happens not long after, it’s early November and the trees in central park are starting to shed thanks to the sudden drop in temperature. The weather outside is consistently gray and gloomy, and it feels like they haven’t seen a single ray of sun in weeks.

Mike gets home late again one night, after a grueling twelve hour shift of making small talk with customers and pretending his life isn’t falling apart to see Will sitting at the table. He looks determined, with his hands clasped in each other, and Mike can’t think of anything he’d rather not be doing more than this right now.

“We need to talk, Mike,” is the first thing out of Will’s mouth when Mike walks in. He drops his keys in the bowl next to the door, feeling his shoulders droop.

“Can it wait till tomorrow? I’m so tired and I wanna crash–” Mike starts before he’s interrupted by Will putting up a hand to stop him.

“It can’t. Please sit, because we need to get this over with,” Will says.

Mike sits, still in his work clothes from earlier. He hasn’t even taken off his jacket yet.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Will starts.

It shouldn’t be that shocking. For some reason, Mike’s heart still stops. “Can’t do what?” he asks, like he’s stupid. Maybe he is, for thinking this could continue on much longer despite how miserable they both are.

“This.” Will gestures between them. “Whatever this is. Was.” He corrects himself. “Look, I thought it would be enough for me, to have you in any way that I could, even if it meant nothing to you. But it’s not enough. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Will-”

“Let me finish,” Will says, and his voice sounds wobbly all of the sudden. He’s fighting tears and doing a great job of it. It makes Mike feel sick all over again. “Look, I get it. We had sex and you felt put on the spot, so you said something you didn’t mean. Then instead of admitting it and telling me that to my face, you’ve been trying to send a message without talking to me. I don’t blame you for it. I’m sure in some way you thought you were doing some kindness for me. Trying not to embarrass me, maybe. But just because this… thing between us doesn’t mean something to you doesn’t mean it never meant anything to me. It did, and that’s the problem. It’s always meant something to me.”

“That’s not-” Mike starts, but he’s cut off again.

“Mike, I’m saying that it’s okay. You don’t have to feel so guilty anymore. Because I’ve realized this is not.. Compatible with my life anymore. I want to be with someone who wants me. You honestly look at me like I’m a nuisance to you now, and it’s not– I don’t ever want the person I’m with to look at me like that. So I think we should stop hooking up. No more sex or blurred lines. Just friends. Because I think I’m ready to date, and to do that, we need to stop being so enmeshed in each other's lives.”

There are a million different things running through Mike's head right now. The fact that Will thinks he looks at him like.. Like he’s anything less than spectacular makes his whole body sag with guilt. All the times he’s tried to stay away, held himself back, it’s all coming back to blow up in his face. He wants to tell Will how sorry he is, how all of this is one colossal misunderstanding and he can’t have anything nice in his life without crushing it in his hands, but none of it makes it out of his mouth. He feels like there’s a knife placed between his ribs and he’s struggling to breathe. He wishes that he didn’t deserve any of this, but he knows he does. Knows the push and pull schtik he’s been pulling was bound to blow up in his face eventually.

Will sits there and stares at him silently, with a few tears running down his cheeks. He reaches up to wipe them away furiously.

Mike’s mouth is dry. His tongue feels too big to fit behind his teeth. “So you want to date other people?” He asks, and then immediately wants to punch himself in the face. Why the fuck was that the first thing that came out of his mouth? Jesus Christ, he needs to be fucking hospitalized for foot in mouth-itis.

“Yeah,” Will nods. “I want to date and fall in love with someone who actively wants me, and I can’t do that if I’m stuck in this cycle with you.”

“Ok,” Mike nods, trying to get over the way it physically feels like his heart is seizing and breaking all at once. “Will, I should’ve told you that you were never a nuisance. Never anything negative. At all. I don’t… I don’t know why I acted that way,” he relents, even though he does know, subconsciously at least, that he’s been trying to protect his own heart this whole time and never once thinking about Wills.

Will looks at him with something like pity, and that almost feels worse. “Ok, Mike. Whatever you say. I’m glad we’re setting this boundary. No more sex, only roommates. And if we can’t be friends by the end of this, maybe I should look at moving out.”

He gets up to leave the table, and his posture is a little straighter, a little more sure of himself. Mike watches him, reaching out to stop him by his sleeve before he can stray too far.

“Wait! Will, I- I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth, I did mean it. When I told you to stay, I meant-”

Will cuts him off, yanking his arm from Mike's grip like he’s been burned. His face morphs into something that looks equal parts hurt and enraged. He’s so fucking beautiful and angry that Mike wants to cry.

“Mike, for the love of God, stop. Let me get over you like a normal person. Let me go so that I can move on and be with someone who truly wants me. Please, just.. just let me go.” He pleads.

Mike truly doesn’t know how he’d even begin to respond to that. There’s a million things running through his head, but his brain feels fuzzy, like time is moving slowly around him. He wants to tell Will that he wants him, really fucking wants him and was acting like a stupid scared child, and that he’s a sorry idiot. A bigger part of him wants to disappear into the floor and never come up again. He knows he should be defending himself, apologizing, begging for forgiveness, but none of it leaves his lips. Will doesn't bother waiting for a response before he’s headed to his room, closing the door behind him. It’s not even a slam, which is the worst part, because now Mike is also reminded of how Will never slams doors: he’s too conscious of their neighbors, he’s too sweet and kind and thoughtful for his own good, but it hits Mike’s ear all the same. The door clicks shut, and it feels final in a way nothing between them ever has before.

Mike sits at that table for a long time. Hours, maybe. Frozen in time. He doesn’t know if he cries, doesn’t know if his body does anything. All he does is replay the last two months, that September morning when he pulled Will into his lap, when he changed the course of their lives forever by asking him to stay. When Will said okay like he trusted Mike to be delicate with him, to not fuck it up.

In some sad way, he supposes, he should’ve anticipated it ending this way. He has never been good at holding on to things he cares about. He’s got a rough streak, has always been too careless with his things, even when he was a kid, so quick to panic when stuff starts to get real. His mom used to tell him that he needed to slow down and learn how to be gentle with the world, how to hold things with an open palm instead of a closed fist, but Mike has always held onto things too tight or not at all, and either way, it all ends up broken and shattered.

He thinks about Will moving on and dating somebody new. He’ll probably move on to some guy who’s the polar opposite of Mike, someone who actually has their shit together, who can offer more than just barely scraping by for rent in their shitty apartment with a dead end job in a building that’s eventually going to close and end up repurposed as a gentrified cafe or fast food joint or fuck all. He thinks of Will at some restaurant with a guy who isn’t Mike, laughing politely at his jokes, holding his hand, making those soft sounds in bed that Mike once thought belonged to him.

His chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped a fist around his lungs and is squeezing. He wonders vaguely if anyone has ever died of heartbreak.

Mike knows everything about Will. Has known him for eighteen years, loved him for—

No. That's not that's not what this is.

Except it is, and maybe always has been. Even back when they were kids in Hawkins and Mike couldn’t describe what he felt with words, just knew that Will mattered, that he was essential to his well being. Maybe every stupid thing Mike's done since they moved to New York has been him running from that truth, from the certainty that Will Byers is the most important person in Mike's life and Mike has no fucking clue how to handle that.

He goes to his room and doesn't sleep. He gives up after multiple tries and countless readjustings of his body, exhausted in a way that doesn’t allow him to feel truly tired. At some point near dawn, he can hear Will get up, the shower beginning to run, his feet shuffling around in the hallway and kitchen. Mike stays in bed throughout the entire ordeal, until he hears the front door close and can be sure that Will's left for work.

Mike doesn't see Will at all for the rest of the weekend. He tries to make sure of it, timing his comings and goings so they're always barely missing each other. He leaves for work before Will wakes up, comes home after Will's gone to bed. He's a coward, he knows this about himself, but he can't face Will yet, can't look at him without thinking about what Will said.

I need you to let me try to get over you.

Like it's something Will has to do. Like Mike is an illness, an addiction, something to recover from. Maybe the description is apt. He doesn’t feel like he knows anymore.

Monday morning, Mike wakes up to an empty apartment and a note on the kitchen counter in Will's handwriting:

Took an early shift. Leftover coffee in the pot. —W

It's the most they've communicated in three days. Mike stares at the note for a long time before folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. He doesn't know why he keeps it. He just does.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

November drags on in shades of dreary gray, the darkness succumbing them to nightfall earlier and earlier. Mike feels the ache of tiredness deep in his bones, coming home at a time that always feels later despite his schedule staying the same.

The air in their shared apartment has changed. Now, Mike and Will move around each other carefully, unlike they’ve ever done before, like they’re strangers.

Will starts going out more, which Mike is always taking note of in his periphery. He can tell because Will starts wearing cologne, starts dressing nicer and spending an hour between getting home from work to prep before leaving for the night. Although he knows he’s not allowed to be jealous, especially after everything that happened between them, he still feels a pang of sadness in his chest knowing that they can’t even hang out as friends anymore.

“I’m going to be gone for most of Saturday, maybe Sunday too, so you’ll get the apartment to yourself in case you want to have anyone over,” Will mentions casually one night when they’re both moving around each other in the shared space of their small kitchen.

“Oh?” Mike asks, trying to mask the genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Yeah, I’ve been going out with this guy who works in the same building as my office. Daniel. He’s nice, uh, I think you two would probably get along if you met him,” Will offers, like this isn’t weird. Like he isn’t totally breaking Mike’s heart with such a simple sentence. Like Mike totally deserves this, which he does, but god does it twist the knife.

“Cool.” Mike forces out.

“Yeah,” Will agrees, more to himself than Mike now, smiling as he cuts the sandwich he’s making diagonally. Like he always does, because Mike always notices stuff like that.

Mike wants to ask him a million questions, all of them sharp and ugly and undeserved like what this guy does for work, whether he’s funnier than Mike, smarter, easier to love. If he treats Will the way he deserves, the ways Mike failed to. If he knows that Will wakes up in a panic sometimes over nightmares about their old life in Hawkins, if he knows every curve and inch of his body the same way, if he’s taken the time to study the slope of his wrists and the shape of his hands.

Instead, Mike settles for “Have a good time,” and escapes to his room, his plate of food left uneaten and sitting at the table untouched.

Saturday rolls around and Mike makes sure he leaves first thing in the morning so he’s not home to watch Will get ready. He takes an extra shift at the record store that only lasts him four hours, so when he’s done he walks around the city until his knees ache, stopping occasionally for a coffee or to finger through discounted books for sale outside the shops.

Eventually he ends up at a bar, drinking his woes away alone at the counter like some sad sack. He chats to the people that try to talk to him occasionally, usually responding in one word answers until they get tired of his negative energy and move on to someone more interesting. It’s just as well.

He gets home at two in the morning, unable to account for the past twelve hours, like he was abducted by a UFO and placed back on earth with no recollection of how to be a real person. He goes to Will’s bedroom, notices there’s no light on through the crack by the door, and crumples in on himself finally, his knees giving out from underneath him and powerless to hold up his weight any longer.

He felt the warning ache in his chest first, but now that he’s finally succumbing to it completely, he freely lets out the sobs that he feels have been building in his eyes for the past month, all of it coming from some untapped, awkward place inside of him right there in the hallway. He’s never been great at addressing what he’s feeling, his emotions always coming from some sideways place and manifesting as sarcasm, or restlessness, but now all he feels is the pain of his own actions and his heart beating out of his chest.

He eventually makes it to bed, moving on autopilot, and doesn’t even bother to turn on the light before he’s collapsing into bed. The tears keep coming, though it’s quieter this time, soaking his pillow. For a moment he remembers the note from Will that he’d put in his back pocket, and reaches for it. When he fishes it out, he can’t see in the dim light of the room, so he his fingers fiddle with it absently. He feels unreal, hollowed out, like a shell of a human. Eventually he loses his fight to stay up when exhaustion wins out, and he’s able to fall into a restless, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Mike wakes to the sound of movement in the kitchen and the smell of bacon on the stove. He forces himself up, emerging from his room like he’s still unsure whether or not he’s ready to face the sunlight.

Will is already up and cooking when Mike spots it, a small mark on his neck supposedly from last night. It’s the kind of mark Mike used to leave on him before he fucked it all up. It makes his heart hurt.

Will looks sleepy but content, a smile on his lips while he listens to the radio.

“Good morning,” Will greets him without turning around. His voice is light and cheerful. “You want some breakfast? You look… worse for wear,”

“No,” Mike objects, his voice coming out rough. He clears his throat.

“You’re never hungry anymore. You sure you’re doing okay?” Will turns around to ask, like he genuinely cares. Like he doesn’t know the direct cause of his rapid weight loss.

“I’m fine.”

Will studies him for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders, turning back to focus on plating his food. “If you say so.”

Mike should leave. Should go buy some ibuprofen and a bacon egg and cheese from the bodega around the corner to help nurse his hangover. Should do a lot of things other than stand around here and torture himself.

He stays, because he’s a glutton for punishment. “Uh, how was your date last night?”

Will shrugs, “It was good. Daniel’s super nice, and we’re already planning something next week.”

“Great,” Mike says hollowly. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Will nods, moving to the dining table. It’s cluttered with mail Mike’s been meaning to go through, and when Will shoves some of it out of the way, Mike tries to gather all of it, feeling sheepish for the mess. “It’s uh.. it’s just nice to have someone who wants to be around me. I think it’s been a long time since I’ve been wanted.”

The words feel like a direct hit at him, and Mike pauses, standing more straight so he can look him in the eyes. “I always–”

“You may have wanted me, but you were so embarrassed to be with me.”

“That’s not- That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe it’s not, but it’s what it felt like.” He finishes up his food, throwing his used dishes in the sink and leaving for his bedroom. Mike wants to stay and have it out with him, but he catches a whiff of cologne that he knows doesn’t belong to Will and feels ill. The words he wants to say die in his throat. He feels like he’s going crazy, overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and grab at Will, to shake him and ask what the fuck he's doing, doesn't he know that he and Mike are- that they're-

That they're what? Nothing. They're nothing because Mike made sure of it.

"Will," Mike pleads, and Will pauses in the hallway, looking back.

"Don't," Will says softly. "Whatever you're about to say, please, just don't."

He disappears into his room, and Mike is left standing in the kitchen alone, surrounded by the smell of breakfast and coffee. The apartment still has Will’s things, Will’s music playing on the radio, Will’s presence all over the walls, but it doesn’t have Will. Not in any way that matters anymore.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

Mike makes it another five days. Five agonizing days of watching the hickey on Will’s neck slowly disappear, five days of Will coming home smiling with no explanation other than what Mike knows he can infer, five days of ignoring their landline because everytime it rings Mike intuitively knows it will be Lucas wanting to talk.

Five days of Mike's own thoughts driving him slowly insane, until he can't take it anymore.

It’s Thursday night, late, and the door to Will's room is closed. He’s probably inside painting, or drawing, or dreaming about his perfect future with Daniel, and Mike is busy pacing the living room like an animal in a cage. He’s been trying to hype himself up for this for the past hour, though multiple pep talks have been had inside his brain and yet he still feels nervous.

He gathers every bit of courage and knocks on Will’s door.

“Yeah?” Will asks, voice muffled behind the wall.

Mike lets himself in then. Will is laying in bed on his stomach, sketchbook open, wearing that old Hawkins High tee shirt that used to belong to Mike. His hair is loose around his shoulders and his feet are bare and he looks so much like home that Mike physically aches.

“Can we talk?” Mike asks.

Wills expression hardens instantly. “Look, if this is about the dishes, I already promised I’d do them tomorr-”

"It's not about the dishes." Mike steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "It's about– fuck. It's about us."

“Mike…”

“Please, I need to talk to you. Or at you, I can’t decide which. It’s super important that you listen to me, alright?” Mike runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words, the ones that might finally make some part of this make sense. “You were right. About everything. I freaked the fuck out. That day, when I left to go out, it was because I was running scared. Because I don’t… I’m not good at this, Will. I’m not good at relationships or feelings or any of that shit. I mess things up. It’s what I do. And the idea of this getting too real, of our friendship turning into something more that I could ruin, scared the shit out of me.”

Will is very still, his hands frozen on his sketchpad. "Okay.." he says carefully.

"I pulled away from you and acted like a fucking coward because it all seemed so much easier than facing the truth. At first I told myself it was fine, because it meant we could go back to being friends, and I should be happy with you in my life in any capacity, especially now when I don’t deserve it. But I can’t pretend like it doesn’t kill me to see you with someone who’s not me."

"Mike.."

"I'm in love with you." The words come tumbling out of his mouth in a rush, fast and desperate to be believed. "I've loved you forever. Honestly, I think it all started when we were kids and you showed up at school in that ridiculous wizard costume and I thought you were the most courageous, beautiful person I'd ever laid eyes on. Definitely since before we moved in together, before the first time we fucked and I couldn't get my brain to stop thinking about your hands, or the way you move, or how much I like way you say my name. I'm completely fucking gone for you and I have been for a while, and I'm so sorry it took me this long to figure it out."

The room is very quiet. Will's eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted, and Mike can see his chest rising and falling quickly like he’s unable to catch his breath.

"Say something," Mike begs. "Please, Will. Say anything."

Will sets his sketchpad aside carefully. His hands are shaking. "You.." He stops, swallows hard. "You can't do this to me, Mike."

“What? What do you mean?”

“You can’t just..” Wills voice trails off, but he moves to sit up; his box spring mattress squeaks when he does. His chest puffs, like he’s trying to tamp down some kind of overwhelming emotion that floods him. “You can’t just spring this on me and act like it fixes everything. You ignored me for two weeks, made me feel like shit for existing in your presence, and left me second guessing whether or not any of what we had was ever real. You telling me you love me because you suddenly decided to be jealous over the fact that I’m moving on with someone else isn’t only unfair, it’s fucked up.”

“I know,” Mike rushes to continue. He can hear the doubt of his confession in Will’s voice, and it’s doing something awful to him emotionally. “It’s so fucked up of me, and I’m so fucking sorry. I’ve been such an asshole, and I’ve given you every right to tell me to fuck right off. But I do mean it, Will. I love you. I love you so much. Not because I’m jealous of Daniel, or anyone else, but because you’re you. Because you’re kind and talented and take care of me, and you make my world feel a little less scary. Because you make everyone a better person when they’re near you. Because you light up every room you enter, and because when I imagine my future, you’re always there, right next to me in it.”

Tears are sliding down Will's cheeks now, and Mike wants to reach for him so that he can wipe them away and kiss it all better. Instead, he stays where he is, glued to the floor.

“I have a date with Daniel tomorrow,” is all Will says, voice wobbly and stressed.

“I know that.”

“He’s nice, Mike. He wants to take me to the Met and discuss art with me. He cares about my interests and doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much or simply.. Convenient.”

“I understand that, and If you want to see where that goes and give it a real chance, I’ll back off. Because you deserve that kind of love. I’ll be your friend and your roomate and nothing else, and I’ll be so fucking happy for you. I just needed you to know how I feel. I needed to tell you, at least once, even if it’s too late. I needed to say it out loud so you know it exists.”

Will stares at him, speechless. Then: “How can you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“How can you know you’re in love with me?”

Mike thinks about it. “Because I’ve felt it every day of my life since I first met you, I just didn’t have the words for it. It’s like background noise that's on in my brain even when everything else is shut off. Everytime you pull away, my body’s first instinct is always to follow you. To fix it. To get back to you. And it’s not because you need me,” he rushes that part, like he can’t stand the idea of insulting Will. “It’s because I do. I’m the one who needs it. Needs you, always.”

“Mike,” Will whispers. He looks unusually pale and sickly. His tears flow freely and silently.

“I know, It’s a lot to take in, and I’m sorry I took so long to tell you. If it’s any consultation, I’ve always had shit timing.”

“It’s not.”

“I know,” Mike repeats, and he can't stand the distance anymore, has to move closer after holding himself back for so long. He crawls onto the bed, pulling Will into his arms so that he can cry as much as he needs to into his shirt. “I know that I don’t deserve another chance, but if even a tiny piece of you still has feelings for me and thinks we could be something real, I want the chance to prove it to you that I can be the person you deserve. I want to take you on dates and kiss you on the subway and spend every morning waking up next to you and not be scared of it. I want the chance to treat you the way I should have been treating you the whole time.”

Will clutches at Mike's shirt, his face buried in Mike's chest, and Mike can feel his tears soaking through the fabric. "I'm so tired," Will breathes against his skin. "I'm so tired of wanting you and not having you. Of trusting you only to get hurt again."

Mike presses his face into Will’s hair. "I know, baby. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

They stay like that for what feels like a long time, glued together in Will’s bed with Mike holding him until Will’s crying eventually lessens out and turns into heavy breaths. When he finally pulls back his face is red and splotchy, and he looks a mess. Christ, Mike loves him so much.

“I need time. I need to think about what this all means and what I want. I can’t keep putting your feelings before mine,” Will says quietly.

Mike's heart sinks into his stomach, but he puts on a brave face because that’s what Will deserves and nods. “Okay sweetheart.”

“You should know that even after everything you said, I still feel hurt. You telling me you love me doesn’t erase the past few months of pain I’ve been having to deal with alone. I could’ve handled you breaking things off with me, it would’ve hurt but I would have survived it, but this was on another level. I trusted you, Mike, and you broke that trust. So now I need some time to know whether or not I can actually believe you now.”

Mike swallows, taking one of Will's hands in his own. “I understand that. I’m willing to wait however long it takes. And I will back off, if that’s what you want. But I need you back in my life, in any capacity, no matter what you end up deciding.”

Will looks down at their joined hands. “What if I continue to see Daniel? Are you going to freak out on me?”

“Honestly, I’ll probably hate it, but I’ll swallow it down and be happy for you because you deserve to be happy with whoever you're with. Even if it’s not me.”

"I can’t give you an answer right now," Will confesses, beginning to pull away so he can disentangle their bodies gently. Mike misses him immediately, but goes anyway. "Please, try to understand that I’ll need some time to figure out what I want. What's best for me."

"Alright," Mike nods, even though every instinct is selfishly screaming at him to fight harder, to convince Will this very second that he’s the right one for him. "Okay. I'll give you time. I really do want you to be happy.”

He stands up, heads for the door. When he reaches it, he pauses, looking back. Will is still sitting in bed, hugging his knees to his chest, looking smaller and more vulnerable than Mike has seen him in a long time. Mike's chest feels raw and cracked open, like he reached inside for his heart to check if it’s still working.

"For what it's worth," Mike says quietly, "you were never just convenient. You were never just anything. You've always been everything to me. I was just too scared to admit it."

He leaves before Will can respond, closing the door behind him softly because Will hates loud noises. When he gets back in his own room he cracks open his window to listen to the life going on outside and lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. He hears car horns, sees the reflection of ambulance lights reflecting off his walls as they pass by, and some person shouting at what sounds like a taxi driver. How weird it is, to hand over your heart to someone without knowing whether or not they’ll want to keep it.

He doesn’t manage to sleep at all that night.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

It’s roughly seven thirty a.m. when Mike hears the faint sounds of Will starting to wake up. He walks from his bedroom, to the bathroom, back to his bedroom and then the kitchen. If he thinks about it hard enough, he could map out Will’s daily morning routine without even watching him, just by knowing he’s a creature of habit like that.

Eventually he hears the front door open and close, knows he’s left the apartment to go to work, and that’s when Mike finally forces himself up to brave the day. He’s got the day off, so he decides to do the magnanimous thing and call Lucas, to talk the way he’s been wanting to.
t
It’s hard at first, catching Lucas up on all of the shit that’s happened because of his stupid behavior. Honestly, he’s expecting to be called a myriad of names– stupid, idiot, useless all come to mind– but instead, Lucas’s voice stays soft and understanding.

“Can I just say, I can’t believe you actually did it. I’m proud of you guys for taking that leap, even if it did cause you to end up in this situation. It was exhausting being around that much pining when neither of you were willing to make the first move,” he jokes, teasing Mike gently.

It makes the weight of the world that’s sitting on Mike’s shoulders dissipate. He was nervous to tell Lucas about all the ways he messed up, sure, but it was equally terrifying to admit he’s loved their mutual friend, one that’s a boy like him, since before he can remember. And now they’re just two friends, talking about their relationship woes, and it’s the easiest thing.

“Well, I mean, it’s possible Will might not ever want anything to do with me romantically ever again and we’ll all be right back to square one.” Mike is talking like this is lighthearted, like he’s keeping the jokes alive, but Lucas sounds so serious when he speaks next it almost gives him whiplash.

“Dude, of course he wants to be with you. All you have to do now is show him that you love him.”

“But I did tell him! I literally barred my heart and soul to him last night and it still ended poorly. Both of us cried, it was a whole thing.”

“Yeah, but you have to know by now words are cheap. You need to genuinely show him you care about him, beyond just saying it. Max always tells me she knows I love her because I’m happy to do all the things she hates, like wheeling the trash to the curb when it’s dark out. It might seem little, but those things make up the moments that keep the love alive.”

“When did you get so wise?”

"Honestly? Max taught me everything I know. And she loves me enough to teach me how to be better at loving her back, you know? So we talk about our feelings sometimes, even when it’s hard, and it’s made me learn a lot about myself and relationships in general."

Mike snorts. He still has a hard time imagining Max as the woman she is today and not the sassy girl he grew up alongside. “Ok, but what if I do everything you told me and he still picks somebody else?”

“Then you’ve gotta confront that decision and make peace with it. But until then, you can’t sit around waiting for him to make up his mind. You need to show him what he means to you and that you know him better than anyone else does.”

Mike considers this. His mind goes to all the things Will does that he takes for granted, like making enough morning coffee for the both of them, cooking dinners without being asked, and being there for Mike even when he definitely doesn’t deserve it. Thinks about how Will told him: I’m so tired of wanting you and not having you.

Maybe there’s an answer in that, in being there. Maybe Mike needs to stop wanting Will and start actually being there for him. Not only when it's easy or convenient, but always. The way Will has always been there for Mike.

“Yeah. I think I know what I need to do now.”

“That’s my boy!” Lucas says, and Mike can feel the sincerity in that statement from a whole state away.

They talk a while longer before eventually hanging up, promising to hang soon and call each other more often. It helps Mike feel a fraction lighter, at least. He’s admitted to something he didn’t even have the pride to name a week ago, and it feels so freeing.

When he looks around the apartment, he thinks of all the things he sees that reminds him of Will: His empty coffee mug sitting in the sink, his jacket strewn over his chair at the dining table, his records cluttering the shelf next to Mike's. All of these small reminders of their lives intertwining with each other's.

He is struck by the idea of how devastating it would be for him if those things were to disappear or change in any way, and he is hit with a sudden epiphany. By the time Will gets home tonight, Mike is going to have a strategy, and for once, he's not going to chicken out.

It’s hours later when Will comes through the door, arriving back home from work. His hair looks wind swept and his jacket shoulders are damp from the light rain that started only after he got off the subway.

He’s surprised at what greets him when he opens the apartment door, which is Mike stirring something on the stove that smells criminally enticing. He also notices the counter cluttered with all kinds of groceries, some vegetables that’ve been finely chopped, and a few slices of cake from the expensive bakery down the street that they only visit on special occasions..

He’s taking off his scarf and hanging up his jacket on the rack when Mike notices him, looking shocked at first and then devolving into a wide smile that takes over his entire face.

“Uh, hi. I’m making dinner! I’m going to be done pretty soon if you want to change out of those wet clothes.” He says, wiping his hands on his pants. He’s aiming to sound nonchalant, like this is a normal occurrence and not one of the first times he’s bothered attempting to turn on the stove since he burnt a packet of ramen so bad it set off their floors fire alarm and the building had to be evacuated.

Will should be more concerned for the state of their kitchen, but instead he’s caught so off guard he can’t even process what he’s seeing right away. He reaches to place his jacket on the hook near the door, but his gaze never turns away.

“You cleaned too…” Will notes, looking around at their spotless apartment.

“Yeah, figured it couldn’t hurt. I’m cooking that Green Thai Curry you love.”

Will stares at him, speechless.

“I know I said I’d give you time,” Mike says, moving to start plating their food. “And I will. This isn’t about that. But I also figured it couldn’t hurt to try and show you what you mean to me. That you were never just convenient. That you matter– that you’ve always mattered to me.”

Will is trying to muster up the courage to respond with the right words when they’re both interrupted by the landline ringing on the wall, and it takes some of the pressure off the conversation at hand. Mike looks exasperated by this, like it’s ruined his flow, and he goes to pick it up for a second and then place it back so that the ringing stops.

“Who was it?” Will asks

“What? I don’t know.”

“What if it’s an emergency?”

“If it’s that big of an emergency then they’ll call back. Will, I’m more interested in what you have to say.”

“When did you learn to cook this?” He settles on, finally.

“Um, I bought a cookbook earlier. I’m praying it’s good, cause I’ve never attempted anything as complicated as this. I wanted to do something nice for you, the way you're always doing things for me.”

Will comes closer, and Mike can tell his eyes have gone glassy again. “Mike..”

“You don’t have to say anything. I meant it when I said I want to show you I’m serious about us. This is just part of me trying. Honestly, it might taste terrible, because I’m a novice, and I know the kitchen looks a mess right now-”

"You really did all this for me?"

"Of course I did." Mike's nods. "I'd do anything for you. I should have been doing things like this all along. I should have been better. And I know one dinner doesn't make up for everything, obviously, but I'm trying to show you that I can be the person you deserve. That I want to be that person."

He is quieted immediately by the tears that appear on Will’s face. He feels terrible, like he can’t stop fucking up or making Will cry, even when he’s trying to do something nice. It’s like he can’t help destroying everything in his hands.

"Will!" Mike starts, closing the distance between them. He reaches up to wipe the tears away with his thumb, cradling Will's face. "What’s wrong? Why are you crying?"

"Because-" Will's voice breaks. "Because I've been so angry and hurt these past few weeks, Mike. It’s so confusing when I've been trying so hard to convince myself that I should give Daniel a real chance, that I need to move on, but then you go and do something like this for me and I—" He closes his eyes, leaning into Mike's touch. "I don't know what to feel."

"You don't have to know right now," Mike concedes softly, in that gentle voice he reserves for Will and Will only. "I meant what I said about giving you time. I'm not trying to manipulate you or win you back with grand gestures. I just wanted to show you that I'm serious. I'm going to do my best to keep showing up, keep trying, whether you pick me or not. Because you matter to me, Will. You’re my best friend, you've always mattered to me."

Will opens his eyes, searching Mike's face for something. "What if I can't trust you? What if I let myself believe you and then you freak out again and push me away?"

"Then I'll spend every day for the rest of my life proving you can trust me. I might fuck up sometimes, because I know I'm a mess and I’ve never felt this strongly about anything before but I won't run away again. I promise you that. Whatever happens, whatever gets hard, I'm not going anywhere."

Will's crying subsides, and he’s wiping his hands on his face, back to looking like it never happened. His cheeks near his eyes stay a little puffy but other than that he’s glowing, radiant like always.

They stand like that for a long time, swaying slightly, Mike running his hands up and down Will's back while Will’s breath evens out. The curry is getting cold, the kitchen is still a disaster. Neither can bring themselves to care.

None of it matters.

Eventually Will pulls away. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I got your shirt all wet."

"I don't care." Mike brushes Will's hair back from his forehead. "Feel better?"

"A bit." Will manages a watery smile. "Sorry, I definitely look like a mess right now."

"You look beautiful," Mike says, and he means it. Will always looks beautiful, but especially in this kitchen light, raw and vulnerable and real, without any of the careful walls he's been keeping up around Mike lately.

Will's breath catches. "Mike-"

"Come on," Mike takes Will's hand and leads him toward the table. "Let's eat before everything gets cold. And then you can tell me about your day, and I'll genuinely listen instead of just waiting for my turn to talk. I’ll even watch that home renovation show I pretend to hate but secretly kind of love. You know, the one with the couple that we both think kinda hates each other. And then.. I don't know. Whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" Will repeats, and there's something fragile and hopeful in his voice.

"Whatever you want," Mike confirms. “I just want to spend time with you. Really spend time with you, the way we used to before I fucked everything up."

Will looks at him for a long moment, then squeezes his hand. "Okay."

They sit down at the small table, knees knocking together in the cramped space. Mike serves the curry and it is, in fact, not terrible; a little too spicy and the vegetables are slightly overcooked, but Will eats every bite and even goes back for seconds. They talk about Will's day, about the office drama he doesn’t take part in but overhears every bit of and the project he's currently working on. Mike listens, actually listens, asks follow-up questions, doesn't interrupt or turn the conversation back to himself.

It feels like the early days, when they first moved to New York and everything still felt so new and exciting. Back then, they’d stay up late talking about their dreams and their fears and everything in between into the late hours of the morning. Before Mike got scared and started pulling away, they had something special.

After dinner, Mike starts cleaning up, and insists he can do it alone when Will rises to help. "You’ve cleaned all week, it’s my turn." Mike says, shooing him away until he sits back down at the table to watch him. There’s a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, something shy and private that makes Mike’s heart feel full.

When Mike presents the cake he bought for dessert with a flourish, Will laughs, the sound bright and surprised and perfect and filling the apartment.

"You remembered!" Will says, looking down at the cake like it's something precious.

"Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you, Will. What you like, what you don't like, what makes you happy. I may not have been paying attention the way I should have been, but I always remember."

Will reaches to take a bite of cake, eyes closed, and lets out the softest sound of pleasure that goes straight to Mike's gut. When Will looks up and opens his eyes again, they're darker, and Mike has to grip the edge of his chair to keep from reaching for him.

"This is so good," Will says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Will takes another bite, then another before setting his fork down. "Mike, I have to tell you something."

The pit in Mike’s stomach drops at the sudden sincerity he hears in Will’s voice. “Okay.”

"I made plans with Daniel a few weeks ago to go see this collection at the Met, and I think maybe I should still go.”

Oh. That’s definitely not what Mike was expecting. He swallows down hard to try and mask the fear and disappointment that well up inside of him. "Okay."

Will's hands are fidgeting with his napkin, tearing it into small pieces. "It’s not because I don't want to be with you. I need to know if there's something there with him, or if I'm just subconsciously trying to replace you with someone safer."

It hurts, hearing that he can’t be considered a safe choice, but Mike gets it. He does. He probably deserves to be thought of as a lot worse at this point. "That makes sense. It’s the smart thing to do."

"Does it?" Will looks up finally, his expression uncertain. "You're not upset with me?"

No, Mike wants to say. I'm not upset with you at all, couldn’t ever be, it’s just that I want to tell you not to go, to stay here with me, to give me another chance right this second before I combust. But that's not what Will needs to hear. That's Mike being selfish again, only thinking about what he wants instead of what's best for Will.

"I'm okay with it," Mike forces out. "I want you to be sure, Will. I don't want you to pick me because of one dinner and some cake. I want you to pick me because you want to be with me, not because you feel guilty or because I'm pressuring you."

Will's eyes are shiny again. "Wow. You've really changed."

"I'm trying to," Mike says. "For you and for us. For me, too, I guess. I don't want to be the person who runs away when things get scary, who hurts the people he loves because he's too much of a coward to be honest."

"You are not a coward," Will says softly.

"I was, and I know it. About all of this, and you." Mike reaches across the table, covering Will's hand with his own. "But I'm working on it, and I'm going to keep working on it, whether you give me another chance or not."

Will turns his hand over. "What if I go on this date with Daniel and realize I want to keep seeing him?"

The question feels like a knife between his ribs, but Mike keeps his voice steady. "Then I'll be happy for you. It'll kill me, but I'll be happy for you. Because you deserve someone who makes you happy, and if that's Daniel, then—" He has to pause, has to breathe through the wave of pain. "Then that's what matters."

"Mike-"

"But please don’t assume I'm just going to give you up," Mike adds quickly, voice gentle but still firm. "I'm not going to chase after you or make your life difficult or anything like that. But it’s not possible for me to go back to pretending I don't love you, so I’m not going to. I'm not going to date other people or try to move on, because I don't want to. I want you. So if things don't work out with Daniel, or you decide you want to give me a chance, I'll be here.”

Will is looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. He doesn’t understand how Mike can go from this compulsive, avoidant person to the man he’s sitting across from now. "How do I know you mean it? How do I know you won't panic and push me away again the second I let you back in?"

"You don't," Mike admits. "You’ll have to trust me. And look, I know I haven't given you any reason to trust me lately, but I'm asking you to anyway. Because I know that I believe I love you enough to fight for this, for us, even when it's scary. Especially then."

Will pulls his hand back and wipes at his face. "I don't know if I can do this right now."

"That's okay."

"No, I mean–" Will stands up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I need to go to bed. I need to think. This is all a lot, Mike."

"I know." Mike stands too, resisting the urge to reach for Will again. "Get some sleep. We don't have to talk about this anymore tonight."

Will nods, already backing toward the hallway. He pauses at the doorway, looking back at Mike with an expression Mike can't quite read. "Thank you for dinner. It meant a lot to me."

"Anytime," Mike says, and he means it. "I mean that literally. Anytime you want me to cook for you, even if it's a disaster, I'll do it."

He gets a small smile out of Will, and it makes this whole evening worth it. "I'll remember that."

Then he's gone, disappearing into his room and closing the door softly behind him. Mike stays in the kitchen for a long time, surrounded by the evidence of his attempt to make things right: the dirty dishes, the half-eaten cake, the groceries and leftovers that still need to be put away.

He starts cleaning up, washing dishes by hand even though it takes forever and he’s already emotionally exhausted, using his last bits of energy to wipe down every surface until the kitchen sparkles. It’s late by the time he finishes, and his hands are cracked and dry from the hot water and soap, but he feels calmer. Like he's done something productive with the nervous energy that always seems to thrum in his chest when Will’s around.

                                                                                        ⋄✧⋄

It’s later in the day, around 3 PM when Lucas calls. Mike picks up on the fourth ring, glad to have something to do instead of waiting around in dread that Will might come home tonight and tell Mike he no longer has a chance anymore.

“Hey! Have you been avoiding my calls?” Lucas asks, voice easily distinguishable on the phone.

“What? No! I’ve been trying to do what you said, you know, woo Will and tell him all about how much he means to me.”

“So how’d it go?”

“I thought it went well, but then he told me in the middle of it that he’s still planning to see some other guy this week.”

There’s a pause of silence on the other end. And then: “Wait, but I thought you two..”

“We’re not. I mean, not yet. Not officially. We almost were, but that’s when I fucked it all up. I told him I loved him after it all went to shit, but he said he needed time. I feel like I'm losing my mind.”

“Jesus, that’s loaded.”

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What else is there for me to do? He said he wants time and some space to figure it out. So I’m trying to be respectful of that even though waiting really fucking sucks.”

“I don’t know what to say, that sounds horrible. You make me so happy I’m out of the dating pool.”

“It is horrible. But I brought it all on myself, you know? It could’ve been easier if I’d been honest with him from the start and confronted my fears like an adult; instead I ran away scared like I did when we were kids. Now I have to be the one to wait, even though the not knowing is literally killing me. I wish I could know what he was thinking right now.”

Lucas sighs into the line. “Look, for what it’s worth, I think it’s gotta be you. He’s been in love with you since we were kids, I mean, we all saw it. That doesn’t just go away, even after a few bad weeks.”

Mike’s chest starts to warm at that familiar thought. He never could tell when they were younger, but hearing it from his friends now that the man of his dreams was in love with him, even once, is comforting. “You honestly think so?”

“I know so,” Lucas replies. “But you have to be the person he deserves this time, not just say you will be. Because it’s going to get hard, and scary, and you’ll be forced to work through it. And Will deserves somebody who will work through it with him together.”

“I know,” Mike says, dragging a hand across his face. “I’m trying.”

"Try harder," Lucas tells him, but his voice is gentle. "And call me when you know what happens, okay? I'm rooting for you guys."

The phone call ends after that, and Mike feels the same way he does every time he gets off the phone with Lucas, which is marginally better. He decides to do something that feels productive while he waits, and takes a shower, dressing up to go for an aimless walk to try and burn off some of the energy he can’t get rid of.

It’s a clear afternoon, and although the chill seeps into his bones no thanks to his wet hair, it’s surprisingly clear and sunny outside. He walks without a destination in mind, trying to busy his brain so it doesn’t circle back to the dread of the matter at hand.

He honestly doesn’t even mean to find himself on the steps of the Met until he’s already there.

Fuck.

He sits down, a few paces away from a group of girls who are dressed in preppy outfits and speaking in a language he doesn’t know. A few steps down he notices a family and their dog sharing dinner, and a crazy amount of tourists pass him by without so much as a second look. The sun is setting, even though it’s still early in the day.

He feels invisible, people watching like this. So invisible that he forgets it would’ve been a wise choice to hide when he sees Will.

He’s approaching from fifth avenue, arm in arm with a tall good looking man who must be Daniel. They look approachable and nice together, and it makes Mike feel sick. He is very grateful that he skipped dinner.

He watches them enter the museum, and Mike has to physically force his head to look the other way so he won’t be caught gawking. Shouldn’t be caught at all, lest he expose himself as a stalker freak. He’s worried he might do something, like punch Daniel in his stupid perfect face.

When he turns to look back, they’ve disappeared from his view completely and Mike is alone again with the impending, crushing feeling of dread.

He needs to leave. He should get out of here, go home or to a bar or literally anywhere else in the world, but he physically can't bring himself to move. He stays, despite the alarm of impending doom going off in his head, and waits where he sits. For hours. He tries not to think about how much fun Will is having inside, or how nice it must be for him to have someone to discuss art with who actually understands what he’s saying. He wonders if Daniel is saying smart things about each painting and if Will is looking at him with the same glint in his eyes he used to have when he looked at Mike.

The night grows increasingly colder around him, and nearly two hours later, they emerge together. Mike shakes as he stares at them, partly from the cold and partly from anxiety, unseen and far away enough that they won’t notice him, standing and talking to each other incredibly close. Will is smiling up at him, and Mike feels like taking a bullet right now might hurt less than watching his childhood best friend and possible soulmate fall in love with someone else right in front of his eyes.

Then Daniel leans in and kisses him.

Mike stands up so fast he gets dizzy. He can't watch this. He can't fucking watch this.

He turns and walks away briskly, walking without seeing where he's going. His eyes are burning and his throat is tight and he refuses to cry on a New York City sidewalk like he’s some kind of teenager who got his heart broken for the first time.

Except that's exactly what this feels like, because his heart is breaking. Later tonight he’ll be forced to confront the end of something that died before it ever got the chance to begin.

He gets a few blocks away before he pulls over and vomits everything he’s eaten in the past 6 hours.

He walks for miles after that, not able to see where he’s going but not caring either. He doesn’t trust his body to stop moving, doesn’t think he is brave enough to face what awaits him at home. Home, where they made their tiny little apartment into something lovable and eclectic and theirs. Home, which it won’t be when he gets back and Will tells him Sorry, Mike, but you should move out so I can move my sweet wonderful boyfriend who isn’t you, in.

It’s past one AM by the time Mike manages to drags himself home. His feet are killing him and his knees ache, but he feels like a hollowed out shell of a person, like all the important parts of him were ripped out and discarded along the way back.

The lights are still on when he climbs up their four floor walkup, and he wonders what Will is still doing up. What he’s doing at home. Prays to God he didn’t bring that boy back.

He takes a deep breath and opens up the door.

Will is on the couch, cuddled up under a blanket with a steaming mug of tea perched carefully on the arm rest, startled by Mike's sudden appearance. He’s wearing that Hawkins High shirt again, and he looks so soft and sweet that Mike wants to cry.

“Where were you?” Will asks, face making a complicated expression. “I’ve been waiting up for you for hours.”

“I went for a walk.”

“For six hours?”

Mike shrugs. He can't tell Will where he really was. Can't admit he was at the Met, watching like some kind of stalker creep. He shudders thinking about the truth. "I needed to clear my head."

Will sets his mug down and stands up. "Mike, are you okay? You look.. Rough. "

"How was your date?" Mike interrupts, because he needs to know, needs to rip the band-aid off right here and now. "How was Daniel?"

Will goes very still. "It was.. it was nice. He's a nice guy."

"Good." Mike pushes off the door and heads toward his bedroom. "That's good, Will. I'm happy for you."

"Mike, wait, can we please talk–"

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed." Mike says without looking back. He knows that if he looks at Will right now, he's going to fall apart. "We can talk tomorrow."

"Mike, please-"

"Goodnight, Will."

Mike closes his bedroom door and leans against it, pressing his palms against his eyes. He hears Will on the other side, hears him standing there, the quiet sound of his breathing. Waiting for Mike to open the door. Waiting for Mike to ask him what happened, what he decided.

But Mike can’t do it. He can’t open his door and bring himself to acknowledge that Will chose Daniel over him. He knows that makes him an insecure coward, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get over it once he does.

After a long while, he hears Will's footsteps retreat and his bedroom door open and then close.

Mike slides down to the floor and puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t cry often, but now he’s crying big, ugly sobs that won’t stop. He presses a hand over his mouth to try and muffle the sound, trying to save himself at least a piece of dignity. He is consumed with the guilt that he might cause Will if he were to overhear, and tries to get a grip on himself.

He fucked this up so badly.. He had the only thing he ever wanted, and he fucked it up by being scared, by pushing him away and waiting too long to figure out what he wanted. And now Will is going to be with Daniel, and Mike is going to have to watch it happen, and stand bystander as he see’s Will fall in love with someone else, someone that should’ve been him, and there's nothing he can do about it.

Mike forces himself up, finally, after the biggest waves of tears have eventually subsided. He changes out of his clothes in a stupor, brushes his teeth, crawls into bed. He stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about Will on the other side of the wall. Tries not to think about Daniel's mouth on his. Tries not to think about anything at all.

He’s almost completely asleep when he hears a soft knock at his door. His eyes fly open. “Yeah?”

The door opens slowly. Will is silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, and Mike can't see his face.

"Is it okay if I come in?" Will asks quietly.

Mike's heart is hammering. "I thought we said we’d talk tomorrow."

"I can't wait until tomorrow." Will steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "Mike, I stayed up all night because I need to tell you something."

Here it comes. Mike sits up, unable to make eye contact. "Okay."

Will crosses the room and sits on the edge of Mike's bed, close enough that their knees are almost touching. Even in the dark, Mike can see that his eyes are red-rimmed, like he's been crying.

"I saw you," Will says.

Mike feels his blood run cold. "What?"

"At the Met. On the steps." Will's voice is soft, not accusing. "You were staring at us. You were still there when we left, too.”

"Will, I—" Mike tries to think of an excuse, but doesn't come up with anything to say. There's no good explanation for why he was there, so he shuts his mouth instead. His heart is beating so fast.

"Why didn't you come say hi?" Will asks.

Mike closes his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. "Because I couldn't. I couldn't watch you with him. I know I said I wanted you to give him a real chance, and I meant that, but I couldn't- I can't—" His voice breaks.

"Mike, look at me."

Mike opens his eyes. Will is watching him with an expression Mike can't read in the darkness, or see very clearly through the tears starting to form in his eyes. He’s so tired of crying.

"I broke it off with Daniel," Will says.

Mike's brain stops working. "What?"

“We talked for a long time after leaving the museum. I thought it would help make the choice easier, but what did it was when he kissed me. It felt so wrong to be kissing anyone who wasn’t you. He took it really well, though, and the moment I made it clear to him it couldn’t go any further, it was like my life sort of made sense again. But when I came back, you were gone again and I felt so confused and worried. I thought maybe you’d got cold feet.”

Mike can’t breathe. "What? Will, No! I-"

Will cuts him off, "The whole night I couldn’t stop thinking about you and the dinner you cooked even though I know how much you hate cooking. Or the way you held my hand while I cried, and how much it hurt when you started pulling away, and what all of it meant." Tears are sliding down Will's cheeks now. "I tried so hard to want him, Mike. I really did. I know that he would’ve been the safe and easy choice and he probably wouldn't hurt me the way you did. But that’s not what I want. I want you. Only you. Always."

Mike's hands are shaking. "Are you- are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life than choosing you." Will slides closer, close enough that Mike can feel his breath against his cheek. Can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell him. It’s so calming.

“Me either. I wasn’t before, but I am now. Have been, for a while.” Mike replies. He wishes he could see Will's face in the light right now, and could watch every emotion playing across his eyes. He loves those eyes. Would love to drown in them someday.

"I’m in love with you Mike, and I have been since we were kids. I'm honestly terrified right now that I might be handing you the power to hurt me again, or that you might panic and push me away like before, but I'm even more terrified of not taking this chance and always wondering what we could have been."

"I won't hurt you again," Mike says fiercely. "I swear to God, Will, I can’t and I won’t–”

"You might," Will considers. "We might hurt each other sometimes, because that's what happens in relationships. But as long as you promise me you won't run again, that you'll stay and at least try to talk things out with me, I can handle being hurt. I don’t think I could handle you leaving again."

"I'm not leaving." Mike reaches for Will's face, cupping it in both hands. "I'm never leaving, not now that I’ve got you. You're stuck with me now, okay? For as long as you'll have me."

Will makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "That's a really long time."

"Good," Mike says, and then he's kissing Will, finally and properly for the first time since all of this started. It feels different from every other kiss they've shared, tender and careful, like they're both afraid of breaking this fragile new thing between them.

Will parts the kiss with a soft sigh, his hands coming up to clutch at Mike's shirt. Mike can tell Will is crying again, but he's smiling too, wide and bright and beautiful.

"I can't believe you followed me on my date," Will says, laughing through his tears.

"I wasn't following you," Mike protests, but he's smiling too, can't help it. "I kind of ended up there, and then I couldn’t bring myself to leave until I saw you. I really needed to see you, even if you didn't see me. Even if it hurt."

"It hurt me too," Will admits. "Seeing you there and not being able to go to you. Having to pretend I was interested in what Daniel was saying when all I wanted was to run down those steps and kiss you in front of everyone."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I had to be sure." Will threads their fingers together. "I needed to know that this was real and that I wasn't running back to you because it was comfortable or familiar. I needed to be sure that I was choosing you because I want you, not because I'm afraid of being alone."

"And?" Mike asks, even though he knows the answer, needs to hear it anyway.

"And I want you," Will says simply. "I choose you. Every time, I choose you."

Mike pulls Will into his arms, holds him so tight he's probably crushing him, but Will doesn't complain. He just burrows impossibly closer, his face pressed into Mike's neck, his arms wrapped around Mike's waist.

"I love you," Mike breathes into Will's hair. "I love you so fucking much. Everything about you. Your hands, your waist, the way you always look for the best in people, the way you take care of me even when I don't deserve it. You make me want to be better. I love all of it. I love all of you."

"I love you too," Will murmurs against his skin. "Even when you're an idiot. Especially then."

They sit like that for a long time, holding each other, breathing each other in and sharing the same air. Here, in Mike's small bedroom in their tiny apartment, everything is quiet and still and right.

"Stay," Mike says eventually. "Sleep here."

"I was planning on it," Will says, pulling back just enough to look at Mike's face. "I'm not going anywhere."

They get under the covers together, tangling their legs, and Mike pulls Will close with his back to Mike's chest. He presses a kiss to the nape of Will's neck, right where his hair starts, and feels Will shiver. He considers going lower, turning it into something dirty, but they’re both so emotionally exhausted that he stops himself. He can feel Will’s body start to go lax with sleep.

"Mike?" Will whispers quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for not giving up on us."

Mike tightens his arm around Will's waist. “You’re welcome. Thank you for waiting for me. I’m going to do right by you from now on, if you’ll let me.”

Will makes a soft, contented sound and laces his fingers through Mike's where they rest on his stomach. Within minutes his breathing evens out, deepens, and Mike knows he's asleep.

Mike stays awake a while longer, listening to Will breathe, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of him, the realness of him. He thinks about all the ways he almost lost this, all the times he almost fucked it up beyond repair. He thinks about Daniel's mouth on Will's and feels a pang of jealousy, but then he remembers: Will chose him. Will came home and climbed into his bed and said I choose you. Mike was worth choosing to someone.

Mike kisses Will's shoulder and closes his eyes.

"I love you," he whispers into Will's hair, into the space between them that doesn't feel like space anymore, just home.

And maybe it's his imagination, but he swears he feels Will squeeze his hand in response, even in his sleep. Like even unconscious, even dreaming, Will knows. Will hears him.

Will is his.