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Mike Wheeler is fucking dead.
If the level of pure brightness he was met with upon opening his eyes is anything to go off—alongside the spinning of his head, and the drowsiness of his body—yeah. He’s dead. And by some truly insane miracle, has landed himself in heaven.
Squeezing his eyes back shut with a noise that could probably be classified as a groan, Mike takes note of how strange his mouth feels. Or doesn’t feel, really—considering the numbness of it. Numb, scratchy, and for whatever reason, unclosable.
With his eyes still screwed shut, Mike starts blubbing his mouth the best he can manage, resembling that of a fish as he tries to figure out why the hell it is that he can’t close his mouth. Then, doing his best to push past the numbness, he familiarises himself with the soft texture engulfing the inside of his mouth.
…Cotton?
Did he die eating cotton? And because of this, is now in heaven with said cotton still in his mouth? Why in the hell was he eating cotton? And how did he die whilst eating it?
Mike hopes that this isn’t what he’s destined to be. The cotton-eating angel.
He also hopes that his afterlife body isn’t permanently stuck in whatever state it was in upon death. God—or whatever entity is up here, if any at all—would be cool with him altering that, right? If not, he guesses he’ll have to send his condolences to whoever out there had decided to die mid-shit.
Oh, thank fuck he didn’t die mid-shit.
“Mike…?”
A deep yet overly angelic voice Mike can’t even think to compare to anything remotely earthly cuts through his thoughts and…
Holy shit.
Holy shit, he’s about to meet God.
Finally halting his blubbing, Mike blinks his eyes back open and allows for his vision to adjust to the unreasonably bright light that’s still surrounding him. His head lolls to the side, vision coming in and out of focus as he tries to take in the image in front of him, blocking out all of his other senses.
Mike squints and… Oh.
Okay—why is God the dictionary definition of the word 'gorgeous'?
Well, Mike guesses if he were an all-knowing being with the ability to change their form, he too would choose to look this insanely beautiful all the time. Who knows, maybe the being in front of him isn’t God at all—just an angel who’s been tasked with bringing Mike to him, personally. Or he’s here to give Mike a tour of heaven. Or explain the cotton-eating thing, because there’s most definitely pieces of cotton in his mouth.
Mike goes to spit them out before the voice of the probably-angel, maybe-god speaks up again, snapping him out of his thoughts and causing his body to still.
“Mike—hey, no,” the angel says, lip twitching up slightly. Mike’s eyes dart to the movement. “Don’t spit that out, it’s keeping you from… bleeding out.”
Oh my God! he knows his name!
Distantly, Mike can hear a beeping noise rapidly speeding up, but he’s not exactly focused on that right now. All Mike does is blink up at the angel-god being, confused on why the hell he’s still able to bleed out in the afterlife, but keeping the cotton in his mouth, nonetheless. There’s no way he’s going to go against the words of someone this angelic. Seriously—how long did God (or this guy himself, Mike guesses) spend crafting out every aspect of his body? Centuries upon centuries, surely.
“Are you okay?” The angel—God—Whatever-the-fuck speaks up again. “Are you hungry? I have crackers, if you are,” he says before removing his gaze from Mike’s own, looking down for… something. Mike doesn’t know. He hasn’t registered any of the words. Only the voice.
“You haven’t eaten anything in hours,” he continues, eyes re-meeting Mike’s as he brings one of his hands up to shake a box of crackers lightly. It’s not like Mike sees it. All Mike can see is the angel’s face. The tiny moles covering it, the softness of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw—his eyes.
Christ, his eyes.
Two incredible, emotion-filled things painted a deep, hazel colour with tiny specks of brown and gold swirling within them. They’re staring into Mike’s own eyes, and he’s half-convinced they’re about to suck him in like two unreasonably beautiful black holes. If Mike were currently able to form thoughts that didn’t just consist of the word ‘pretty’ on repeat, he would come to the conclusion that he’s not opposed to the idea. At all.
Ethereal.
This being—he’s ethereal. In every sense of the word. There’s no way—absolutely no way—a sight like this could ever exist on earth, so—yeah. This is most definitely heaven.
“Mike…?” Prob-angel speaks up again, voice now oozing with something that Mike can’t seem to place. “Can you—can you hear me? Are you not able to talk, or something? The nurse mentioned temporary amnesia, but—” He cuts himself off, letting out a small huff. “Why are you just staring at me?”
“Are you an angel?” Mike finally speaks up—but his words are muffled from the cotton and slurred from the numbness, so it comes out more like, ‘Ah you‘n angeh?’
“Am I—” The angel starts, choking on a sudden giggle. Forget the cotton, or the crackers, Mike wants to consume nothing but that sound for the rest of his not-life. Hey, he’s in heaven (or the equivalent to it), surely it’s possible to physically eat noises here.
“Am I what?”
“An angel,” Mike repeats, words still slurred. “You’re an angel, right? You’re, like…” He trails off, squinting at the angel in question. He observes the way the smile on his face keeps growing, alongside the pinkness of his cheeks.
Cute, Mike thinks. He’s so cute.
“…Way too pretty not to be,” Mike mumbles, finally finishing his thought as he feels something start to flutter in his chest. Before the angel even has the opportunity to say anything, Mike’s sitting up in an attempt to look behind his back.
“Can you fly?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. “Angels can fly, right?”
The angel laughs again—a wholehearted, bubbly thing that Mike can feel reverberate through his bones.
“Mike, I’m not—”
“Where are your wings?” Mike cuts him off, eyes still narrowed. “I thought angels had wings. Do you have to—like, hide them? Can you un-hide them?” Mike asks, eyes flitting over his face. “I bet they’re as pretty as your lips.”
The angel just laughs again, trying to hide the noise behind his hand as he mumbles a somewhat quiet, somewhat exasperated, “Jesus Christ.”
“Wait, are you…” Mike trails off, brain struggling to process anything yet still managing to think about everything. “…Jesus?”
Maybe-Jesus, Maybe-Angel, Maybe-God stares at him with a look that Mike wants to be able to squish into a ball and keep in his pocket. Please tell him he has that ability here.
“No, Mike,” he responds through a smile he’s so clearly failing to bite back. “I’m not Jesus.”
“Ah,” Mike adds thoughtfully. “So you’re just an angel, then.”
“I’m—no,” he replies. “I’m not an angel, either.”
“Oh,” Mike stares at him, dumbfounded. “Are you… Uh…” Mike searches for something—anything else that this ethereal, angelic, perfect being before him could possibly be. Seriously, Mike can’t find a singular imperfection.
Oh! Oh, of course!
“An Aasimar!” Mike concludes, smiling as best and as bright as he can as he stares into those beautiful hazel eyes. “You’re an Aasimar! Duh!”
“I swear to God with you, Michael—” The Aasimar suddenly bursts out into proper, wholehearted laughter. Mike feels as though he’s glowing. The Aasimar certainly is. Seriously, how did he not pick up on it earlier? It was so obvious!
“You’re—you’re so—” The Aasimar breathes out through his laughter, clearly trying to get his thoughts to spill out of him in a way that’s comprehendable. Mike doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more understood. “You’re such a fucking— …Oh my God,” he voices as his laughter dissolves into giggles. “No, Mike,” he continues. “I’m not an Aasimar,” the (apparently-fucking-not) Aasimar tells Mike through a smile so bright that Mike almost wants to disagree with him.
“Of course you’d remember D&D races right now, of all things. Of course.”
Mike blinks at him, now completely stumped.
What?
So if this being before him isn’t an Aasimar, or an angel, or Jesus, or God… What is he?
Is this not heaven after all? A quick glance around the room he’s in confirms that… no. No, he’s not. Heaven (probably) wouldn’t require a bunch of tubes, wires, screens, and buttons.
Hospital.
He’s in a hospital.
A very earth-like hospital. Meaning he’s not dead, and this mysterious being exists on earth.
Geez, is he really just human? A boring, regular old human? How on earth—because that’s where he still is, apparently—does someone this… this! exist on earth?
“Oh,” Mike says dumbly, his brows still furrowed. “Wha—who are you, then?”
“So you really don’t remember me, huh?” Mystery Pretty Man—as Mike has now dubbed him—smirks. “I should have picked that up from the whole ‘angel’ thing, really. I thought that was just your weird, drug-induced way of flirting.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d remember a sight such as yourself,” Mike states plainly, face scrunching as he ignores the last two thirds of Mystery Pretty Man’s words entirely.
“Well, I’m flattered,” he responds with a snort.
“Are you my nurse?” Mike asks, returning to his mission of figuring out who exactly this man is, and why he—with his pretty voice, and his pretty lips, and his pretty eyes, and his pretty everything—has deemed Mike, of all people, worthy of his time. But before Mystery Pretty Man even has the chance to respond, Mike decides (‘decides’ is a strong word, in his current state) to tack on, “You have really pretty eyes.”
Mystery Pretty Man (or MPM, for short) snorts. “Pretty sure you shouldn’t be flirting with your nurses, Mike,” he responds with a chuckle, shoulders shaking.
“Oh,” Mike says, his lip starting to quiver. Bloodied-spit starts to dribble out from his mouth and onto his chin, but he pays it no mind. “Sorry.”
“Hey—wait, no,” MPM says, lifting the hand that’s not currently occupied by the cracker box to wipe at Mike’s lip and chin with his thumb. He wipes the spit off on his jeans before moving to rest his hand on Mike’s wrist—where it lays motionless above his blanket. Mike feels his heart rate spike at the touch, lets his gaze drift down to the contact, and his stomach drops.
Seemingly not noticing Mike’s sudden state, Mystery Pretty Man opens his mouth to finish his thought, and reassure Mike. Because of course someone so externally perfect is just as perfect internally. “I’m not actually your nurse. You can flirt with me, if you want.”
“No, I can’t,” Mike whispers, staring at the hand thumbing over his wrist as his eyes go misty. “You’re married…”
Mystery Pretty Man squints at Mike, flicking his eyes over his hand briefly, before looking back at Mike’s face. Mike seems to be incapable of dragging his eyes away from the ring situated on one of the fingers still wrapped around his wrist, but if Mike’s gaze were to re-meet MPM’s, Mike would find a small glint in his eyes.
“It would seem that I am, yes,” MPM states simply, as though that stupid ring isn’t the bane of Mike’s entire existence. “How unfortunate for you.”
“Divorce them.” Mike says instantly.
“What?” MPM asks, incredulous.
“You should divorce them, Mystery Pretty Man.” Mike repeats.
“Mystery pretty man?” The man in question… questions.
“That’s you, yeah.”
“Why am I ‘Mystery pretty man?’”
“Because you’re a mystery, you’re pretty, and you’re a man,” Mike pauses, before adding, “I think.”
“Logic checks out,” Mystery Pretty Man agrees, laughing again. “My name’s Will, though.”
“Oh,” Mike says, considering the name.
Will.
Will.
“Hi, Will,” Mike slurs, dragging out the vowels.
Yeah, that’s a much better name than MPM (Mystery Pretty Man, for long), Mike’s decided.
Will Smiles. “Hi, Mike.”
“Can you divorce your husband?” Mike asks, staring at the bunny teeth he can see peaking out of Will’s lips.
“Wow.” Will blinks. “Didn’t even consider the idea of me having a wife.”
Mike blinks back. “…Do you have a wife?”
“Well,” Will scoffs. “No.”
“Exactly,” Mike smiles, trying to make it look as triumphant as he can despite the cotton still in his mouth. “So…” Mike starts again, batting his eyelashes. Will tries (and fails) to repress a snort. Mike doesn’t even register it. “Can you divorce him, now?”
“Hm…” Will hums, smile evident in the sound alone as he places the cracker box on the ground and brings his hand up to rub at his chin, considering Mike’s words.
Mike wants to kiss him.
“I don’t know, Mike,” he says, his voice coated with something so fond and precious that Mike wants reserved for himself and himself only. “I love him very much.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Mike responds instantaneously, something white-hot swirling in his gut. “I love you more than he does.”
“Wow, that was quick,” Will says, smile shining through his tone. “I thought you didn’t even remember who I am. How do you already love me more than he does?”
“Because I do and he’s stupid.”
“I see,” Will hums, grinning. “Logic still checks out.”
“I’m a very logical person,” Mike agrees. “Is your husband logical?”
“He certainly thinks he is.”
“Well I know I am, because you just told me I am, and you could never be wrong about anything ever, so, you should divorce him so I can flirt with you.”
“So you can flirt with me?” Will questions, brows furrowing, smile widening. “What on earth have you been doing for the past five minutes if this isn’t flirting?”
“Truth-stating.”
“Truth-stating?”
“Precisely, yes.”
“Right,” Will manages to get out, biting his cheek. “Yes, of course.”
“So…” Mike trails off, staring at the glimmer in Will’s eyes.
“Mike,” Will huffs out another laugh—fond, amused, adoring. “I’m not divorcing my husband.”
“Oh,” Mike states, blinking at him. Once. Twice.
And then his eyes begin to well up with tears.
“Okay…” Mike chokes out, tears now trekking down his cheeks, “I respect your decisions…” he tacks on, before adding, “even if they're stupid.”
“He certainly is, yes.” Will confirms, moving his hands to wipe at Mike's cheeks before settling them back to where they were before.
Mike ignores him, stewing in his own jealousy. “And you probably met him in a stupid bar, and he probably always wears a stupid jacket, and he probably has stupid hair, and he probably has a stupid name, like… I don’t know. But the letter ‘C’ is speaking to me.”
“What are you—what?” Will stares at him, face going through a range of emotions. “What are you even talking about, Mike?”
God, there’s no way Mike’s going to be able to get over the way that Will says his name. The way it slips off Will’s tongue makes it feel as though it’s shooting Mike straight through his chest, accompanied with something fond and adoring. There’s no way Will would say C… whoever-the-fuck’s name like that. No way.
“I bet you don’t say Chance’s name like that…”
“Cha— huh?”
“Chance? No, that’s not right…” Mike’s mind wanders, searching for other ‘C’ names.
Conan? No, that doesn’t sound right, either. Camilo, maybe? Conrad? Carl—
“Carlton?” Mike decides. “God, his name’s Carlton, isn’t it? That’s such a stupid name. You shouldn’t even divorce him for me, you should divorce him for having such a fuckass name.”
“Who the hell is Carlton?” Will responds, bewildered, laughter re-bubbling up in his chest.
“You’re stupid husband that you need to divorce, Will!” Mike insists, completely serious as he brings up his hand that’s furthest away from Will and grips onto his wrist. “Please.”
“Mike—” He’s laughing properly again now, and Mike just wants for that distant beeping noise that keeps getting faster and faster to shut the hell up so he can hear Will’s laughter more clearly. “Mike, for the love of god,” Will manages to get out, “look at your hand.”
What? What good would looking at his hand do for him, right now? Does Will think Mike can read it, or something? He doesn’t care about how many kids the lines on his hands say he’s going to have, he just wants for Will to—
Mike looks at his hand.
He’s met with the sight of a silver band. On his ring finger. There’s a silver band on his ring finger. There’s a ring on his ring finger.
What?
What.
He’s—
“I’m married?!” Mike exclaims, not caring about the cotton he can feel falling out of his mouth. “Will, I’m— we’re—” Mike doesn’t even know what to say. Or think. He doesn’t think he’s capable of saying or thinking much of anything anymore as he fails to register the sight and feeling of Will carefully cleaning up the mess he’s made of his chest, chin, and mouth.
“Mike, baby, can you spit into this for me? It’s about time we changed your gauzes, anyway,” Will asks, holding a little baggy to Mike’s mouth as he obliges, spitting the bloodied cotton into the bag. Mike’s eyes don’t leave Will’s face for a second.
“Thank you.” Will smiles at Mike, grabbing a bag from the table beside them and pulling more cotton out from it. “Okay, now can you open up for me again, please?”
Hell yeah, he can.
Once Will had finished putting more cotton in his mouth, and sat back down in his chair, Mike decides that—yeah, there’s no way that whoever he married is better than this man. Well, he decided that the second he found out he was married. But this is the first time he actually allowed for the feelings to form into a proper thought.
“Will, let’s get divorced together.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s get divorced together.”
“Mike—”
“You can divorce Carlton, and I’ll divorce whatever simpleton I married, and we can live out our happily ever after!”
“Mike, we’re married.”
Mike blinks. “Huh?”
“We’re married, Mike. You’re Carlton.”
“Ew, no I’m—” Mike processes the words, brain still loopy. “We’re married?!”
Will laughs again, but it’s accompanied with a small, fond smile. “We are, yeah.”
Will’s smile only seems to grow, and grow, and the distant beeps quicken again, with it. Does Will’s smile control those beeps? They seem to quicken each and every time Mike watches one grow on Will's lips.
“Trust me,” Will continues, voice soft. “I have just as hard of a time believing it as you do, most days.”
Mike feels as though he’s going to dissolve into a puddle of goo. This is how he actually dies, he’s sure of it.
“Holy shit,” Mike murmurs, the gears in his brain slowly but surely turning as something clicks into place. “…Sorcerer?”
Will can only laugh in response. The distant beeping speeds up in tow.
“Holy fuck, it is you, isn’t it! I can’t believe I actually married my real life, honest to God—”
“Mike, shut up—” Will’s laughter—that incredibly sacred and stupidly bubbly sound—just grows louder and louder as he moves his hands away from Mike to clutch at his stomach. “You’re such a dork, oh my God.”
“What, and you’re not? I find that hard to believe, with the alien-thing on your shirt.”
“Wh—Mike, that’s Robert Smith. I cannot believe you just called Robert Smith an ‘alien-thing’.”
“Robert Smith?” Mike glares at the shirt. “Who’s Robert Smith? Why do you have a shirt of Robert Smith? Can he fight? I’ll fight him. I will, Will. Will will? I Will Will. No, I Mike Mike. You Will Will. Willllllll. Wiiiiiiiiiiiii—”
At… whatever this is, Will just laughs harder as he decides to join in on Mike’s stretching-out of Will’s name, but with Mike’s own.
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”
Cough.
Both Will and Mike’s heads snap to the direction of the noise. They’re met with the sight of a reasonably tall, skinny, and overly-eager man standing in the doorway of the hospital room. He’s wearing a white coat over a brown, striped suit, with red, high-top converse adorning his feet. He has a clipboard clutched in his hands, and a wide, toothy grin playing on his lips.
Mike doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at him. Seriously—what is up with this guy? Eh, he doesn’t care. He’d really like for him to leave, actually. He wants to go back to saying Will’s own name to him over and over. He really likes the way it feels leaving his lips, he’s realised.
With a glance at his clipboard, the new Mystery (not-as-pretty) Man re-meets Mike’s gaze. “Hello, Mike! I can see you’re awake!” His gaze then shifts to Will. “And you must be…?”
“He’s my husband,” Mike replies, not giving Will the chance to answer. He immediately feels himself heat up at the words. Namely the last one.
Husband. He’s Will’s husband, isn’t he?
He really hit the jackpot, huh?
“Brilliant!” Red converse guy states, far too enthusiastically, in Mike’s opinion. “My name is Dr. John Smith, and I’ll be your nurse this evening! I’m just here to ask you a few questions about how you’re feeling.”
“…Okay?” Will responds for him, seemingly just as confused as Mike. What kind of nurse even is this?
“Awesome,” Dr. John Smith replies, shooting the two of them another smile. “Okay, let’s start with…”
“Will,” Mike says the second they finally, finally make it to their car—Will just having buckled Mike into the passenger seat.
God is he excited for Mike to come back to himself. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s laughed so much in one day—which is kind of crazy, considering he spends every day of his life with Mike Wheeler. And Will really, really wants to talk about this aforementioned day to a not-drugged-out version of his husband.
“Willllll,” Mike repeats, seemingly not appreciating Will’s lack of a response. “Stop ignoring me,” he continues, words barely even audible. But hey, it’s not like they’ve ever really needed words to be able to communicate. “I’m your husband. Your Paladin. I thought you were supposed to love me…”
“I do love you, Mike,” Will reassures his very loopy, very high Paladin. “I love you so much it’s kind of annoying, actually.”
Annoying in the way that Will’s chest aches with an indescribable warmth whenever he wakes up to Mike pressing a series of kisses along the side of his neck. Annoying in the way that Mike manages to slip into every other one of Will’s thoughts. Annoying in the way that Mike’s name tends to slip into every other conversation he’s ever held, and will ever hold. Annoying in the way that just thinking about Mike’s smile causes for a smile of his own to break out on Will’s face.
Annoying in the way that… despite being husbands for years, and for being boyfriends for even longer, and for just being downright in love with each other for even longer—Mike still manages to find ways to make butterflies erupt in Will’s stomach. He manages that every. single. day.
And Will would be lying if he said that this annoyance of his wasn’t actually very, very welcomed. And encouraged. But he’s not telling Mike that. (He doesn’t have to).
“Really?” Mike asks, his dark brown doe eyes glimmering with hope. Fucking hell… what Will wouldn’t do for this man, he doesn’t know.
“Yeah,” Will responds, sure of the fact that his own eyes are glimmering too. “Really.”
“Does that mean we…” Mike leans in here, bringing up one of his hands and gesturing for Will to bend down to his level. Will does. “Kiss?” Mike whispers (very loudly, mind you) the word as though they’re seven years old again. Having a sleepover in Mike’s basement, being careful not to wake up Dustin and Lucas where they’d be sleeping near them.
“Yep,” Will whispers back, smile (somehow) widening. “We kiss all the time, believe it or not.”
And then Mike’s giggling. Loud and carefree, as he essentially vibrates in his seat.
“Really?!” Mike whisper-shouts, causing for Will to join in on the giggles.
“Mhm,” he hums his response.
Mike’s eyes shoot down to Will’s mouth, then. And back up to Will’s eyes. Down again, up again—down, up, down, up, down—
“Mike, you’re mouth is full of blood,” Will interrupts whatever thought-train is chugging through Mike’s head. “I’m not kissing you right now.”
Mike’s face drops. “But—” he whines, “but I—that’s not—this isn’t fair, Will!”
“Sorry, Mike,” Will says, genuine sorrow overwhelming his senses. “It wouldn’t be great on your jaw, either—just… one more day, okay? Then I’ll give you all the kisses you want. Promise.”
Will assures him, not being able to help himself as he stares at Mike’s face as a whole. He’s surprised this stupid puppy-face of Mike’s hasn’t killed him already.
“But… But I need you to kiss it better,” Mike murmurs. It reminds Will of when they were younger—around six, maybe seven years old—and Mike would ask Will to kiss all the cuts or bruises he’d get after falling off of his bike, or into a bush, or out of a tree… Mike fell a lot as a kid, Will’s realising.
Will considers his words, before planting a kiss on Mike’s cheek—careful to avoid his jaw. Mike blinks at him.
“Better?” Will asks, smiling at the blush he can see taking over Mike’s face. He missed when he was able to fluster Mike this easily.
“No,” Mike shakes his head. “Try here,” Mike says, pointing to his other cheek. And when it comes to Mike—Will is nothing but indulgent.
“There,” he says, pressing another kiss to the place Mike pointed to. “What about now?”
“Sorry,” Mike slurs, face somehow growing brighter (in every sense of the word). “I meant here,” he says, pointing to a different spot on his face. Will, again, indulges him. And himself.
“Better now?”
“No,” he points again. “I think you need to kiss me here.” So, Will kisses him there.
“Now?”
“No.”
Point. Kiss.
“Now?”
“No.”
Point. Kiss.
“…Now?”
“Um,” Mike starts, eyes dazed and misty. Will can’t believe that this is his life. That this is his husband. That he feels so loved everyday, and is able to give that same love right back.
Mike points to his bottom lip. Or tries to, anyway. He’s kind of forgetting how to use his limbs.
“Here?”
Will smiles, hopeless.
“Fine,” Will states, bringing one of his hands up to gently—oh so very gently caress Mike’s cheekbone. “But if you start kissing back, your blood is going to get all up in my mouth, which is disgusting—” The look on Mike’s face begs to differ. He’s going to be the death of him. “—And you could end up hurting your jaw more, meaning that it’ll take longer to heal. Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Mike blubs out, staring directly into Will’s eyes.
“Okay,” Will responds, knowing damn well that Mike’s just going to kiss him back anyway. It’s fine. Sober-Mike would kiss Will even if it meant experiencing all of the physical pain he’s ever felt in his life at once, but multiplied by infinity.
And so—with a fond ache in his chest, and butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach—Will kisses him.