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Mike has personally decided that standing is far too much effort for his old, frail bones.
He isn't actually frail- or even that old considering vampire years, but all of that is entirely irrelevant information to him. What is relevant information is that standing is disgustingly hard. Every time he takes a step his vision swirls and his other foot comes forward to catch him and he's left a stumbling mess.
So he does the most logical thing, and collapses straight onto the hardwood floor below him. His spine spikes in pain a bit as he does so, and his head bounces a few jumps against the floor, but otherwise he’s fine. He can't feel much past the fuzzy warmth of alcohol enveloping his body anyway.
A few moments later he can hear Will catch up to him and take the whiskey bottle from his hand - oh shit was he spilling that? - and set it upright on the ground before the boy (really he's a man considering his 200 years on earth, but Will was turned in his early 20s, how is he supposed to look at that and think ‘man’?) settles down on the ground next to him.
His drunken vision makes it so that the ceiling swirls as he tries to focus on any of the designs. They're grand, he knows because Will had insisted on painting and designing their home, and really, who is Mike to say no? Unfortunately, he can't push past the foggy warmth enveloping his head to actually remember what the design is.
His eyes keep closing without his consent - rude - and then opening again when he remembers, hey man! Will is here, get your shit together, and then closing again when he forgets all about that and attempts to focus on the ceiling again.
Its not at all helpful that their ceiling is tall as fuck, I mean really, this whole ‘vampires live in manors’ stereotype they’re feeding into is harmful. His eyes are harmed. His eyes are offended. His eyes are pressing charges-
A finger pokes his bicep. And oh right, will is still here. That's super cool since he loves Will, and he thinks Will loves him.
“Will,” he slurs, dragging the word out and flopping head to the side so that he can look at the boy across the floor from him. “D’you Lv’ me?”
He’s met with a deadpan stare.
“Yes, yes Mike I love you. We’ve been together for 208 years.”
Okay but how is he supposed to know? He wants to know what will love about him, like he knows what he loves about will. Will who paints, Will who smiles, Will has witty remarks and a pretty face and warm hands. He loves everything about will, even his nightmares and his episodes and his weird tendency to wipe his paintbrush onto his clothes and ruin every good pair of pants that they collectively own.
He loves Will because he's Will. Will shouldnt love mike…because he's mike. Mhm. perfect logic.
Fuck, hes drunk.
“But how do i knowww?” he whines, and he's gracefully unaware of how stupid he sounds.
He watches Will reopen the bottle that lies between them and take a huge swig of it. Will fiddles with the top, before finally screwing it back on and turning his head to look at Mike.
They stare at each other for a moment, Mike looking at Will’s lips. They’re very pretty lips. Not that Mike is too acquainted with the beauty standards regarding lips, but everything about Will is the prettiest. Beauty standards don't apply to someone who has always soared above them in mikes mind.
“Do you want me to describe what I love about you?” Will whispers, eyes flitting across Mike's face from where their cheeks are squished against the floor.
“Yeah.” Mike whispers back. His cheek hurts on the hardwood floor. With this view though? He doesn't care.
Will looks at him- and he doesn't even need words anymore. The way that will look at him like he's the entire world. He doesn't think he'll ever understand why, but Willl at least somewhat likes him. 208 years is real commitment, after all.
Still though, Will talks.
“You just…understand everything.”
Mike makes a questioning noise, urging will on.
Will bites his lip, thinking of an explanation, so Mike waits. He tries to be understanding, he always has, but even with that he wouldn't exactly call himself an understanding person. He just gets will, and Will gets him, but that's different. That doesn't make him understanding, just strangely chained to wills thought process.
“Like, when I wake up from nightmares or something. You never say anything, you just know what to do. Or when I'm having a bad day or can't stand certain noises or colors or something stupid like that you just…know.”
“It’s not stupid.” Mike cuts off just as Will's finishing. Because it's not stupid- yeah Will can't handle certain mundane things like dark red or yelling or hell even certain foods without crying, but that's not stupid. Will came from a bad place, of course he's gonna have a bad reaction to it. It's inevitable, not stupid.
Will grins. “See?”
Mike's cheeks flush.
Will flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling rather than Mike. That's rude- he likes when Will looks at him. He likes being his lover’s muse.
He blindly reaches for the alcohol, almost tipping it over in his miscalculation, and attempts to unscrew it. Emphasis on attempts, because it does not work. Not one bit. His fingers feel like jello. They don't go where he wants them to and when they actually do they refuse to grip anything.
His hands just wont fucking work- every time he finally gets a semi-steady grip on the top of the bottle it slips from his hands and onto his chest. He yelps when it does.
Will groans, fed up with Mike's shit, which is terrible and evil because Mike's shit is the best shit, Mike's shit is the shit. He reaches over Mike, taking the bottle from him. The boy quickly unscrews it and hands it back to him.
Mike mumbles a thank you and takes a swig of the drink. For once he decides not to start shit over the fact that Will can do something better than him. Acceptance sits heavy in his gut, this world is cruel. If he were to voice his words Will would call him dramatic, and even If he were less drunk he still probably wouldn't admit to being dramatic.
Will inhales, preparing himself to speak as Mike wallows in self pity for his evil hands.
“I also like that you're pretty.” Will exhales.
Suddenly all of Mike's wallowing is stopped in its tracks. Will called him pretty. And yeah, Will's definitely called him pretty before and handsome, and beautiful, and every compliment on the damn planet, but it still never fails to knock the breath out of him.
He thinks Will is pretty too, the prettiest, in fact, and definitely prettier than Mike. Yes, Mike hasn't actually gotten a proper look at himself in nearly 200 years with the whole mirror thing, but he's still sure Will surpasses him in beauty. Will surpasses everyone in beauty. With his toned muscles and his nice smile.
Still though, he can't help but go back to the fact that he hasn't caught more than a slight, terrified glance at himself in a mirror in over 200 years. He bets that the average person looks in the mirror at least twice a day, the average person probably has at least a slight idea of what they look like. They probably know if they have dimples, how their hair usually lays over their shoulders, they probably know what they look like.
“Will?” he says, a little more serious this time around. He definitely hasn't sobered up too much, if at all, but still takes a swig of the bottle just to ensure that he won't anytime soon.
Will hums noncommittally.
“What do I look like?”
Will turns to look at him in confusion, brow furrowed and eyes contemplative as he scans Mike's face.
“What?”
“We can't use mirrors, how am I supposed to know if I'm pretty if I can't see myself?” Mike elaborates. Sue him, hes drunk and hes curious as to what the fuck he looks like.
Will stares at him a moment. Mike stares back.
Will turns so that he's laying on his side, and brings his hand up to trace Mike's jawline.
He swallows, watching his lover's eyes as they follow his finger and go around his features.
“You have a very sharp jawline,” Will begins, meeting Mike’s eyes and continuing. “and your hair- it's different from when we met. It’s…curlier, and longer.” Will points out, stopping his hand to rest against Mike's cheek.
Mike hums in response, the tone vibrating Wil’s hand where it rests on his face. His eyelashes flutter as he tries to keep himself from just leaning into his lover's hand and falling asleep right on the floor.
“You’ve also changed.” he mumbles to Will, giving in a bit and letting his face rest heavier into the palm below. Will chuckles at him.
“How so?”
“Your haircut isn't as shitty as it was when we were kids.” “My haircut was not shitty-” “and your muscles are a lot more...muscley. And you look a little less like a kicked puppy.”
Will laughs, curling his unoccupied hand around his stomach and wheezing. Mike smiles, watching Will laugh behind lidded eyes. He likes when his boyfriend laughs - it's a very pretty laugh. The type of laugh that makes you turn around to look at who's laughing, and then envy that your life is so boring and stupid and miserable that you can't laugh like that.
Will huffs when Mike finally lets his eyes slip shut and succumb to the exhaustion pulling at him.
“Tired?” he asks, and Mike hums a low affirmative.
Will laughs again - Mike loves when he does that - and takes his hands away to drag MIke onto his chest.
Mike mumbles incoherent words, pressing his nose into Will's collarbone.
Will kisses Mike's forehead. “Sleep, darling.”
Mike complies. How could he not?