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Mike had already been in the kitchen for a few minutes, coffee mug in hand, enjoying the Sunday morning by pretending he didn’t have a pile of college essays to write and an even larger one to read, when he heard the footsteps.
He didn’t even need to turn his head to know who it was. Will dragged his feet when he woke up; all he did was slip sneakers over his sock-covered feet and shuffle them along as if he were still halfway glued to the floor. The sound drew closer, and then Will appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Mike looked at him and stopped chewing.
Will’s hair was completely flattened on one side, his face still flushed and slightly marked by the pillow, and his hazel eyes were only half-open as he rubbed one of them with the edge of his sleeve. He was wearing a dark blue sweater—old, slightly frayed and torn—that Mike was certain belonged to him. A very, very old gift from one of his grandmothers, to be exact. But their clothes had started to blend together ever since they began sharing an apartment. The loose collar slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of the white undershirt he wore beneath it; the hem reached down to mid-thigh, and the sleeves covered almost his entire hand, leaving only his fingertips peeking out.
Will looked so beautiful; appearing even smaller inside that sweater. More delicate… more… soft, somehow.
Mike couldn’t look away.
"Morning," Will murmured, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, giving Mike goosebumps for reasons he couldn't quite grasp. Will brushed past Mike without noticing his gaze, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a mug. The sweater rode up slightly as he reached out, and Mike saw the hem of the t-shirt underneath, the curve of his thin waist, and… He looked away quickly, his face heating up.
"Good morning," Mike replied, but his voice came out sounding strange. He cleared his throat.
Will filled his mug with coffee—a habit he’d picked up after starting art school—and leaned against the counter, bringing the cup to his lips with both hands.
Mike was still staring. He knew he should stop, and somewhere in his head, a much more sensible voice was screaming at him to look away, drink his coffee, and pretend nothing was happening. Curiously, it sounded a lot like Max’s voice. But that voice felt very distant now.
Will didn’t even notice his entire internal battle—which Mike was actually grateful for; what with the end of the semester, everything going on with Will's scholarship, his work as a teacher's assistant, and a relationship that would, with any luck, soon be a failure.
Mike finally looked away; it was almost forced and painful, like ripping off a band-aid. He lifted his mug, drank the rest of his now-cold coffee, and the only thing he could think was: This isn’t going to go away, is it?
Maybe he should do something. Tell Will just to get rejected once and for all and stop daydreaming about spending Sunday mornings curled up in bed, or about pinning Will against the counter he was leaning on, pulling up that sweater—his sweater—and finally… kissing him.
Delusions...
Mike sighed. Will finished his coffee, put the mug in the sink, and shuffled his feet back toward the bedroom. He didn't even look back.