Work Text:
The apartment sat in a low, dim light, the kind that softened the edges of everything without fully hiding them. Evening had settled in quietly, leaving the faint hum of the lamp and air conditioner in the corner as the only constant sound. Mike sat on the sofa with a book open in his hands, though he hadn’t turned the page in a while, his thumb resting between them as if holding his place out of habit more than intent. The space around him was still. Undisturbed, like everything had already settled into place. He shifted slightly, adjusting his position against the sofa before going still again, the page in front of him unchanged. After a moment, he turned it anyway.
Eventually, his eyes flicker toward the clock on the wall: 7 PM. It’s been three hours since his classes ended, three hours spent on the sofa with the same book open in his hands. He hadn’t thought much of it at first, but now the quiet stretches a little too long. Will still isn’t back. He should’ve been home by six.
Mike shifts slightly, glancing toward the hallway without meaning to, as if something might’ve changed while he wasn’t looking. It hasn’t. The apartment stays still, untouched. He tells himself it’s nothing—just a late class, maybe, or something that came up. Still, his thumb presses a little tighter between the pages, holding his place as if he might need it later. He doesn’t turn the page this time.
The front door opens with a soft click that barely disturbs the quiet. Mike doesn’t look up right away, but his grip loosens slightly as he listens, the faint shuffle of shoes, the familiar pause before the door clicks shut again.
“I’m back…”
The tone is familiar. Soft, a little whiny, a little worn-out, and it has him lifting his gaze from the book, glancing over his shoulder. In the kitchen, Will is already reaching for a glass of water, and even from here, he looks drained. There’s a slight slump in his shoulders, a slower rhythm to the way he moves. It’s probably been a long day; he’d mentioned his professors before, how demanding they could be, how much work they piled on. The thought makes something in Mike’s chest tighten, as if Will isn’t already doing more than enough.
Will lingers by the counter for a moment, finishing the water in slow sips before setting the glass down with a soft clink, like he’s letting the day slip off his shoulders. Mike watches a second longer than he means to, then lowers his gaze back to the book, eyes tracing the same line without taking any of it in.
“Long day?” he asks.
Will lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah… you could say that.”
A small pause lingers before Will finally moves, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room. Mike’s gaze follows him without thinking, catching on the details he usually overlooks—the slight crease between his brows, the way his shoulders don’t quite relax.
It’s nothing obvious. Just… different.
The space between them feels more noticeable now, like something’s shifted just enough to make him aware of it. Will stops near the couch, close but not quite touching, before settling beside him, the distance small enough to close, but neither of them does.
Mike’s attention drifts back to the book, then slips again just as quickly. For a second, he considers pretending to keep reading, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t stick. In the end, he sets it aside on the small table and reaches out instead, resting his hand on Will’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Will,” he says quietly, his voice softer than usual, something he doesn’t quite use with anyone else.
“Hm?”
His gaze lingers a second too long, caught between Will’s eyes like he might lose himself if he lets it. He doesn’t quite want to look away, though.
“Mike?”
Mike blinks, snapping back to the moment.
“O-oh, yeah. Uh… do you want some tea? Might help a little.”
Will pauses, then gives a small nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Mike returns it without thinking, patting his head lightly before pushing himself up from the couch and heading to the kitchen.
He fills the kettle and sets it on, already reaching for the box tucked in the corner of the cabinet, fingers brushing past a few before settling on chamomile without hesitation. When the water’s ready, he pours it carefully, letting the teabag sit a little longer than usual; Will always forget about it otherwise and ends up drinking it too light. He lets it steep, watching the color slowly deepen in the cup as he leans back against the counter, waiting. He doesn’t rush it.
A moment later, he returns and sets the cup down within Will’s reach before settling back into his spot on the couch. “Careful, it’s still hot,” he says, almost absentmindedly.
Will hums in response, curling his fingers around the cup and letting the warmth settle into his palms before lifting it. He takes a small sip, then another, slower this time as if testing it. “It’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Mike nods, his gaze dropping for a moment before drifting back, catching on the way Will holds the cup and the quiet pause between sips, before he looks away again like nothing happened.
Will keeps the cup close and takes another sip after a moment, unhurried. There’s no reason to rush through it. Mike notices the way he holds the cup now—less careful than before, more familiar, as if his hands have decided it’s safe to relax. It shouldn’t mean anything more than it does, just something warm in his hands after a long day, but Mike still finds himself watching it a second too long before looking away again. He reaches for his book out of habit, fingers brushing the edge of the page without turning it, then lets it rest there as his attention drifts back in the same direction it keeps returning to.
He doesn’t really think of it as a choice anymore.
It’s just what he does when Will looks like that. Tired in a way that isn’t dramatic enough to comment on but still obvious enough that ignoring it feels wrong. He wonders, briefly, if Will notices the pattern. If it means anything to him the way it quietly means something to Mike. The thought comes and goes without settling, replaced by the simple fact that Will is still there beside him, shoulders loose now, something warm between his hands as if it belongs there.
“Did you eat?”
“…Not really.”
Mike nods once, already standing before he’s fully decided to. “I’ll make something.”
He says it easily, like it’s just the next step in the evening. There’s nothing unusual about it, not even the way he knows without being told.
In the kitchen, he moves without much thought. Opening cabinets, checking what’s there, letting the familiar motions take over while his mind stays half in the other room. He doesn’t call it anything else. He doesn’t let it become anything else. It’s just food. Just something warm when Will comes home too late and looks like he’s been carrying the day longer than he should have.
When he comes back out, he notices Will hasn’t moved much, except to set the emptying cup on the table with the kind of care that suggests he didn’t want to stop holding it yet. Mike sets the plate down on the small table in front of him, not quite looking for a reaction, just making sure it’s there, then sits again like he never left.
Will glances at the food, then at him, and smiles faintly.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Mike says, almost immediately.
A pause.
“I wanted to.”
Will doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him for a moment too long, as if there’s something hovering there he could reach for if he wanted to, before it settles back into silence instead. But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods once, slow, accepting it without asking it to become anything else.
Mike blinks, that lands slightly differently than expected. But Will is already looking away, reaching for the food again like the moment has already been set back into place; neat, contained, not needing to stretch further than it did.
The quiet settles again, familiar in the way it always is between them, though Mike doesn’t fully return to it right away. Something about the pause lingers a little longer than the conversation itself. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. Something almost shifted, then chose not to.
Will eats a few bites in silence, then leans back slightly again, shoulders loose, gaze drifting somewhere between the table and the floor. Mike watches him for a second before he realizes it, then looks away, just a fraction too late for it to feel like it didn’t happen.
Will shifts, settling deeper into the couch, and lets out a small breath that sounds more tired than anything else.
“…You always do that.”
“Do what?”
Will shrugs, still not looking at him. “Like… notice things.”
It comes out light. Almost casual.
But it doesn’t quite land that way.
Mike doesn’t answer immediately, because anything he says feels like it would make it heavier than it already is. So he only says quietly, “It’s not hard.”
Will hums like he accepts that, but there’s a small pause after it that Mike still catches anyway. Then he leans forward again, picking at his food.
“Still,” he says, softer now. “You don’t have to, Mike.”
Mike watches him for a moment.
Then, just as quietly, “I know.”
But this time, it doesn’t feel like agreement. Just something steadier, something settled between them without needing to be named.
–
“Good night, Will.”
“Night, Mike.”
Just as Will’s about to step into his room, Mike clears his throat, stopping him.
“What?”
Mike hesitates, his throat bobbing. He wants to say something, but it stays lodged in his chest, unmoving. The quiet stretches, a little heavy, a little awkward, and after a moment, he gestures vaguely with his hands as if it might help.
“Will, I… uh… tomorrow I’m hanging out with Lucas. Max might be there too.”
Will tilts his head slightly. “Okay?”
“Do you want to… come with us?”
There’s a brief pause. Mike waits, wiping his palms against his sweatpants without thinking.
“Sorry, Mike. I’ve got a project to work on tomorrow.” It lands heavier than it should.
“Oh… okay. Maybe next time, then? It doesn’t have to be with Lucas and Max or anything.”
“…Sure.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
Mike smiles a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, uh… good night, Will. Sleep tight.”
“You too, Mike.”
They both retreat to their rooms, doors closing with a quiet click, and Mike’s chest feels tight, like something’s building there with nowhere to go. Did he just…
Did he just try to ask Will to hang out with him? Alone?
Part of him wants to take it back. Another part can’t stop replaying it.
Because, just for a second—
Will’s cheeks faded into a shade of crimson.
–
Morning comes earlier than it should. Mike’s awake before the alarm, staring at the ceiling for a while before giving up on sleep altogether, the quiet of the apartment feeling a little too full of last night. He turns onto his side, listens for a moment like he expects to hear something from the other room, then pushes himself up instead.
The kitchen light stays dim, just the one above the stove, enough to see without fully waking the space. He moves through it easily, like he knows where everything is without looking, starting the coffee first. The routine comes naturally, measured out the same way every time, the soft drip filling the silence as he leans his weight against the counter. It gives him something to focus on, something steady.
By the time the coffee starts to settle, he’s already reaching for the pan. Eggs crack cleanly against the edge, sliding into place without much thought, but he stays there a second longer than necessary, watching as they begin to cook. The syrup comes next, a small drizzle at first, just enough to catch the heat, before his hand pauses and tilts again, adding a little more. He doesn’t really think about it, just lets it happen, then looks away like it doesn’t matter.
He’s made it like this for months.
Two plates sit on the counter when he’s done, set out without much space between them. Two mugs, already filled, the coffee still warm enough to send thin curls of steam into the air. Everything is simple, familiar, exactly how it always is.
Mike lingers there for a moment, fingers resting against the edge of the counter, his gaze drifting toward the hallway without meaning to. It’s still quiet. He could call out, say something, make it known he’s up, but the thought fades just as quickly as it comes.
Instead, he waits.
His eyes flicker toward the clock, then back to the doorway, like he’s expecting something to shift if he just gives it time. The coffee cools a little. The eggs sit untouched. The apartment stays still.
He exhales softly, straightening up, one hand brushing absently against his sweatpants before going still again.
Then, the sound of a door opening pulls Mike out of it.
He glances up just as Will steps into the kitchen, still a little sleepy, hair slightly out of place, like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. He pauses when he notices the counter, the two plates already set.
“You’re up early,” Will says, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah. Couldn’t really sleep,” Mike shrugs.
Will hums, stepping closer. His gaze lingers on the food for a second before he reaches for the coffee instead, wrapping both hands around the mug. He takes a small sip, shoulders easing just a little.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
Mike just nods, as though it’s nothing.
They eat in a quiet that isn’t uncomfortable, but not quite the same either. At some point, Will shifts slightly, nudging his plate a little farther across the counter without really looking at it, he needs the space. He doesn’t say anything about the eggs, doesn’t point out the maple syrup, but he finishes everything anyway, slow and unhurried.
The mug stays in his hands a moment longer before he takes another sip, then sets it back down—closer this time, near Mike’s side of the counter.
For a while, it’s only the quiet clink of utensils and the low hum of the morning, and he keeps stealing glances without meaning to. It's like he’s trying to figure something out and coming up short every time, until he finally clears his throat.
“Hey, uh… about last night.”
“Yeah?”
Mike hesitates, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table before going still.
“I meant it. You know… about hanging out.” There’s a small pause before he adds, a little too quickly, “It doesn’t have to be with Lucas and Max... o-or anyone else. We could just—I don’t know. Do something.”
Will watches him for a second, like he’s trying to understand something that isn’t being said out loud.
“You mean… just us?”
Mike lets out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“Yeah. Just us.”
Will’s fingers curl slightly around his mug as he looks down at it, then back up again. “Okay,” he says, softer this time.
Something in Mike’s chest loosens before he can stop it. “Okay,” he repeats.
The word lingers between them, lighter than everything that came before it, and Mike glances down at his plate before looking back at Will. He’s not entirely sure what to do with that feeling yet.
“I, uh… I’m still going out with Lucas later,” he says after a moment, a little awkwardly, “but I can bring something back. For you.”
Will smiles subtly. “…Okay. Thanks, Mike.”
Mike nods, as though that settles it, even if it doesn’t. His gaze drifts, catching on the mug sitting a little closer to him than before, then slips away again—as if it doesn’t mean anything.
–
By the time Mike pulls into the café parking lot, the sky has already settled into something softer, the afternoon light stretching long across the pavement. Lucas’s car is easy to spot.
He’s a few minutes late.
They’re already inside when he walks in, the low hum of conversation and the sharp scent of coffee wrapping around him as soon as the door closes behind him. Lucas spots him first, raising a hand, and Max follows a second later, leaning back in her chair like she’s been waiting to say something.
“Finally,” she says. “Thought you bailed.”
“Traffic,” Mike shoots back, though there wasn’t much of it. He slides into the seat across from them anyway, something lighter settling into his chest just being there. “Hey.”
Lucas grins. “Hey, man.”
He orders at the counter a minute later, barely glancing at the menu before asking for something stronger than usual. It comes out darker, sharper, the kind that lingers on the tongue. He doesn’t think much of it when he takes the first sip. Just lets the warmth settle, steadier than it should be.
They fall into conversation easily after that. Classes, assignments, things that don’t really matter but fill the space anyway. Lucas complains about a professor. Max rolls her eyes about a group project. Mike listens, adds in where he can, nodding along. But, his attention drifts every now and then, catching on nothing in particular.
At some point, Will’s name slips into it. Casual. Unavoidable.
“You still living together?” Lucas asks, like it’s just another question.
Mike nods. “Yeah.”
“How is he?” Max adds, quieter, but not really asking the same thing.
Mike shrugs, taking another sip. “He’s… good. Busy.”
It’s enough to move the conversation along, and it does.
They finish up not long after, stepping back out into the open air, the shift from warm café to cool afternoon breeze making Mike blink for a second. There’s a park just down the street, close enough that Lucas suggests walking, and neither of them argue.
It’s quieter there. Open.
They fall into step without thinking, the conversation picking up again in loose threads, until Lucas suddenly stops mid-sentence.
“Wait—hold on.”
He’s already turning, pointing somewhere behind them.
“There’s a golden retriever over there. I’m gonna go say hi.”
Max snorts. “Of course you are.”
“I won’t go far,” he adds, already walking off anyway. He stays within sight, crouching down a few feet away, completely absorbed.
That leaves Mike and Max alone. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The space between them feels different like this, quieter, but not tense. Not the way it used to be.
Max glances at him, then away, like she’s deciding something.
“So,” she starts, casual, but not really. “You and Will.”
Mike huffs out a small breath, looking down at the ground for a second.
“What about us?”
“Don’t act dumb,” she says, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You know what I mean.”
The words don’t come right away. They never really do when it comes to this. Mike drags a hand through his hair, gaze drifting somewhere past the trees, as if the answer might be easier to find out there.
“I-I don’t know how to say it right,” Mike admits, his voice quieter now, gaze dropping somewhere between them.
Max watches him. “Then don’t say it right. Just tell me if it’s real.”
He exhales softly, as though that makes it easier, even if it doesn’t.
“Yeah?”
“…Yeah.”
“So?”
The question settles into him, and for a second he just stands there, thinking about it—about how long it’s been there, how it never felt like something that began so much as something he eventually noticed.
“It’s not something I started,” he says slowly. “It’s more like… something I grew into without realizing.”
Max tilts her head slightly, waiting.
Mike swallows, then continues, words coming a little easier now.
“It’s in everything,” he murmurs. “Not big things. Just… small ones that keep adding up. The way I notice when he’s tired before he says anything. The way I remember what he likes without trying. The way I keep… making space for him without thinking about it.”
He pauses, glancing away for a second before looking back.
“It’s quiet,” he adds. “It doesn’t feel like something loud or sudden. It just… stays. Like it’s always been there, even before I knew what it was.”
His fingers flex slightly at his sides.
“And when I try to imagine things without him in it, it doesn’t really work,” he admits, softer now. “Everything feels a little off, like something’s out of place.”
He lets out a small breath.
“So, I don’t think it’s something I chose,” Mike says. “I think it’s just… part of who I am now. And it’s him.”
Max doesn’t answer right away, her gaze lingering on him a second longer than usual, like she’s trying to take in what he just said without making it obvious. Then she exhales through her nose, a quiet sound that almost passes for a laugh, though it doesn’t quite land.
“Wow,” she mutters, glancing off to the side. “You’re… really gone, huh.”
It’s lighter than it should be, like she’s trying to keep it that way, and she nudges his arm, not hard, just enough to shift the moment.
“Took you long enough.”
For a second, she doesn’t look back at him, her expression turned away as she blinks once, quick, like it doesn’t mean anything, before running a hand through her hair and letting it fall back into place. When she finally speaks again, her voice is steadier, even if it comes out quieter than she probably meant it to.
“You have all the answers,” she says, giving his back a brief pat. “Go for it, Mike.”
The words settle between them, quieter than everything before, and for a second Mike just stands there, not really knowing what to do with it.
“Guys!”
Lucas’s voice cuts in from a distance, a little too loud for the moment, and Mike turns just in time to see him jogging back over, a wide grin already on his face.
“You are not gonna believe this,” he says, slightly out of breath as he slows to a stop beside them. “That dog? Literally the friendliest thing I’ve ever met. I think it liked me more than its owner.”
Max snorts, the sound quick and easy, like the shift doesn’t take any effort at all. “Yeah, I’m sure it did.”
“No, seriously,” Lucas insists, still riding whatever excitement he came back with. “It almost followed me back.”
“You say that about every dog,” she shoots back, but there’s a hint of a smile there now.
The moment folds back into something lighter, conversation slipping into place like nothing happened, but Mike still feels it, faint and steady under everything else, something that hasn’t quite settled yet.
He glances at Max for half a second.
She doesn’t look at him, but she nudges his arm again—just once, a quiet reminder.
Mike exhales, softer this time, and lets himself fall back into step beside them.
–
The conversation lingers longer than it should, even after Lucas starts talking again, even after Max falls back into her usual rhythm like nothing happened.
It stays with Mike on the drive home.
The road feels quieter than usual, the late afternoon light stretching across the windshield as he keeps replaying it, Max’s words sitting somewhere steady in his chest.
You have all the answers.
He exhales, tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. It shouldn’t feel this simple.
But it does.
Does it?
He pulls into a convenience store a few minutes later without really thinking about it, his body deciding before he could catch up. The bell above the door rings softly as he steps inside, the fluorescent lights a little too bright after being outside.
Mike pauses in front of the candy aisle, scanning without much focus at first, then reaching automatically.
Skittles. Reese’s Pieces.
Then he grabs them.
For a second, he lingers there, the crinkle of plastic faint in his hands, and something about it tugs at him before he can quite name it, a feeling that settles in his chest and pulls loose a memory he hadn’t meant to revisit. Will, years ago, smaller somehow, but brighter, the kind of smile that never held back, looking down at the same kind of candy in his hands like it was something rare, something worth more than it actually was.
“You remembered?” he had said, eyes wide, voice soft but warm in a way that stayed, and before Mike could even respond, Will had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, quick and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mike remembers how it caught him off guard, how he stood there for a second too long before hugging him back, a little unsure at first, then tighter when Will laughed into his shoulder, light and unguarded, like there was nothing complicated about it at all.
It hadn’t been anything big. Just candy. Just a small thing. But the way Will had looked at him—as if it mattered, as if he mattered—lingered longer than it should have, settling somewhere deep and quiet where Mike hadn’t really touched it since.
“Next.”
The voice cuts in, and Mike blinks, the memory slipping out from under him as he realizes he’s already at the counter, the cashier waiting, the candy now resting in front of him like it had always been there.
“R-Right. Sorry.”
He fumbles for his wallet, setting the money down, his gaze catching briefly on the bright packaging before he looks away again, something faint and lingering still tucked beneath his ribs as he takes the bag and turns to leave.
–
The apartment is quiet when Mike gets back, the kind of quiet that feels lived-in rather than empty. He slips his shoes off by the door, keys set down with a soft clink, his gaze drifting instinctively toward the hallway before he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Will?”
“In here!”
Mike follows the sound into the living room and finds him on the couch, sketchbook resting against his knee, pencil moving in slow, absent strokes. Will glances up when he walks in, just briefly, as if he didn’t mean to—but did anyway.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Mike.”
Mike lingers for a second, then lifts the small plastic bag slightly. “I, uh—stopped by the store.”
Will’s eyes flicker to it, then back to him, a hint of curiosity slipping through the tiredness. “What, did you finally remember how to buy groceries, or—”
“Don’t start,” Mike cuts in, but there’s no bite to it, just a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he steps closer and sets the bag down on the table between them.
Will leans forward a little, peering inside, and then pauses when he sees what’s in it.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet, that reaction, but it lingers. His fingers hover for a second before he reaches in, pulling out the Skittles first, then the Reese’s Pieces, like he needs to make sure they’re actually there.
“You didn’t have to,” he says, softer now, though it doesn’t quite sound like a protest.
Mike shrugs, settling down beside him, not too close, but close enough that their shoulders almost line up. “I know.”
Will huffs out a small breath, something like a laugh slipping through as he looks down at the candy again, turning the packet over in his hands. “Wow. This is—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Mike says. “I just… thought of you when I saw it.”
That seems to catch Will off guard more than the candy itself. He blinks, then looks away, a little too quickly, like he suddenly has somewhere else to focus.
“Right,” he mutters, almost to himself.
He opens the Skittles, the soft tear of the packaging filling the brief silence, and tosses one into his mouth before offering the packet out in Mike’s direction without really looking at him. “You’re not getting all the credit, by the way. I’m sharing.”
Mike huffs quietly, reaching in anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”
Will glances at him then, a little sideways, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
“You’re weird today.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Will shrugs, leaning back slightly into the couch, though his shoulder stays just close enough. “You’re being… nice.”
Mike snorts. “I’m always nice.”
“Debatable.”
“Wow. I’m hurt, Will. My heart is wounded.”
“Dramatic.” That earns a quiet laugh from Will, softer than before, but easier too, and for a second it almost sounds like something Mike remembers.
Will leans back into the couch, popping another Skittle into his mouth before glancing sideways at Mike. “So… how was it?”
“What?”
“Your hangout,” Will says, like it should be obvious. “With Lucas and Max.”
“Oh.” Mike nods once, reaching into the packet without really looking. “It was good. Same as usual.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Lucas spent ten minutes talking about some dog he saw,” Mike adds, a faint smile slipping through.
Will lets out a small laugh at that. “Sounds about right.”
“Max made fun of him for it.”
“Also sounds about right.”
There’s an easy rhythm to it, the kind of conversation that doesn’t need much effort, just small pieces passed back and forth. Will hums, reaching for another piece of candy, his fingers brushing against Mike’s for the briefest second before pulling back a little too quickly, as if he hadn’t meant for that to happen.
Mike stills for half a beat.
Will clears his throat quietly, eyes dropping to the packet in his hands. “Did you—uh… talk about anything else?”
The question is casual. It almost passes.
Mike glances at him, something flickering across his expression before he looks down again, thumb tracing absent patterns along the edge of the wrapper. “Not really,” he says. It’s not entirely a lie.
Will nods, letting it settle, though he lingers on it just a moment longer than necessary.
“Cool.”
The word falls a little softer than the others.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now, quieter in a way that feels more aware of itself.
Will shifts slightly, turning a page in his sketchbook, though he doesn’t actually start drawing again. Mike watches the movement without meaning to, his gaze catching on the way Will’s fingers rest along the edge of the paper, the faint smudge of graphite near his thumb.
“You’re staring,” Will says after a moment, not looking up.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m literally not.”
That makes Will glance up, one eyebrow lifting slightly, a hint of amusement breaking through.
“You’re doing it right now, Mike.”
Mike huffs, looking away like that proves his point. “Whatever, Will.”
Will smiles at that, small but real, and goes back to his sketchbook, though his pencil doesn’t move right away.
The candy sits between them, forgotten for a moment as the quiet stretches, until they both reach for it at the same time without thinking. This time, their hands don’t just brush past each other—they meet, properly, fingers pressing together in a way that makes Mike pause before he fully understands why. The warmth registers a second later, steady and real, and something in his chest catches on it, like the moment has gone on just a little longer than it was ever meant to.
Will stills too.
Neither of them pulls away right away, caught in that brief, uncertain pause where it would be easy to laugh it off, to move, to make it nothing, but neither of them does. It lingers instead, quiet and fragile, something small that somehow feels like more.
Will’s fingers shift slightly against his, almost moving but not quite. His gaze flickers up, catching Mike’s for just a second before slipping away again, a little too quick to be casual.
Mike swallows, the motion subtle but heavy in his throat.
“You can—” Will starts, then falters, a soft breath slipping out as he tries again. “You can take it.”
Mike doesn’t move at first, like his body hasn’t caught up with the moment yet, before he finally pulls his hand back, slow enough that the warmth lingers even after the contact is gone. “Y-Yeah,” he mutters, quieter than he means to.
Will nods, like that settles it, even if it doesn’t, his attention dropping back to the candy as if that’s where it’s supposed to stay.
Nothing about the space between them has changed.
And somehow, it has.
–
The rest of the evening slips by without much notice, conversation fading in and out until it settles into something softer, more familiar. At some point, the candy is half-finished, the sketchbook left open but untouched, and the space between them eases again, though it never quite returns to what it was before.
Time passes without either of them acknowledging it, until Will finally stretches, slow and a little worn out, his shoulder brushing Mike’s for just a second before he pulls back. “I should probably get some sleep,” he mutters, glancing toward the hallway.
Mike nods, a beat slower than usual. “Yeah. Me too.”
Still, neither of them moves right away, like the moment lingers just long enough to notice, before Will eventually pushes himself up from the couch, gathering his sketchbook and the now-lighter bag of candy. He hesitates briefly, then sets it back down on the table, like it belongs there. “You can keep it,” he says, casual, even if it comes out a little softer than intended.
Mike glances at the bag, then back at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I had enough.”
It isn’t really about the candy, but Mike nods anyway. “Okay.”
Will lingers a moment longer, as if there’s more he wants to say, but it never quite forms.
“Good night, Mike.”
“Night, Will.”
Mike watches him disappear down the hallway, the soft click of his door closing a moment later settling into the stillness. He stays where he is for a while, leaning back against the couch, his attention drifting until it lands, almost inevitably, on the half-open bag resting on the table.
He reaches for it without thinking, fingers brushing the crinkled plastic, and the earlier moment returns just as easily—the warmth, the pause, the way neither of them pulled away right away, something that had meant more than either of them knew how to name.
Mike exhales slowly, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees as he stares at nothing in particular. It should’ve been insignificant, something easy to forget, but it lingers instead, quiet and persistent in a way he can’t quite ignore.
He runs a hand through his hair before finally pushing himself up and heading toward his room, the apartment settling into silence behind him.
It doesn’t quite feel the same anymore.
His room greets him the way it always does, familiar in a way that should be comforting, but tonight it only makes the stillness more noticeable. He closes the door behind him, the soft click echoing faintly, and lingers there for a moment like he’s forgotten what he came in for.
After that, he moves on. Changing into something more comfortable, setting his phone down on the desk, pulling the covers back before sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s the same routine he’s followed countless times, but now it feels slightly off, as if something in it doesn’t quite fit anymore.
His attention drifts, unfocused at first, until it settles on the wall he shares with Will’s room. There’s nothing to hear, not really, just the faint suggestion of movement on the other side, or maybe just the idea of it, filling the quiet whether he wants it to or not. He lets himself fall back against the mattress, one arm tucked under his head as he stares at the ceiling, telling himself he should sleep, even though he already knows he won’t.
The moment from earlier returns uninvited, quiet but insistent; the warmth of Will’s hand, the way it lingered longer than it should have, the hesitation that followed, like neither of them knew how to break it. His fingers shift slightly against the sheets, almost unconsciously, as if the feeling might still be there if he focuses hard enough.
It should’ve been nothing.
He turns onto his side, facing the wall now, closer without actually being closer, his thoughts slipping somewhere he can’t quite pull them back from. It’s Will, always returning to him—the way he looked earlier, a little tired, a little softer than usual, the faint smile he tried to hide when he saw the candy, the quiet way he said thanks like it carried more weight than it should have.
It’s always been like that, hasn’t it? The small things. The quiet ones.
And then, without meaning to, he thinks about what he told Max: how it’s always been there, how it never really felt like something that began so much as something he eventually noticed. The thought settles deeper now, steadier than before, and he exhales slowly, pressing his face into the pillow like that might quiet it down.
It doesn’t.
Because when he tries to imagine things any other way—simpler, easier, without this constant pull toward Will—it doesn’t work. It never really has.
His eyes fall shut eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, but even then the feeling remains, steady and unmoving, like something that’s been there longer than he realized and isn’t going anywhere.
And now that he’s noticed it, he doesn’t think he can pretend otherwise anymore.
–
By morning, Mike knows one thing for certain, even if everything else still feels just out of reach. He doesn’t know how to say it—not yet. Every time he tries to shape the words in his head, they fall apart before they can become anything real, too big and too fragile all at once. But the feeling itself is steady, unmoving, sitting heavy and certain in his chest in a way he can’t ignore anymore. And if he can’t say it, then he’ll find another way.
It settles into him quietly after that, something closer to instinct than decision. He’ll show it. Not in anything grand or obvious, not in a way that demands to be noticed, but in the small, deliberate choices that linger long after they happen. It’s different from before, even if it looks the same on the surface. Before, it had been a habit, something easy and familiar. Now, there’s intention behind it, a quiet awareness threading through every movement, every glance, every moment he chooses to stay instead of step away.
It starts in the morning, with the soft clink of a mug set down on the counter before Will even walks into the kitchen. The coffee is already made the way he likes it, sitting there like it’s been waiting for him. Will pauses when he sees it, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe, or something softer that he doesn’t quite let settle. “Since when are you up this early?” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
Mike shrugs, busying himself with the cabinet instead of answering properly.
“Just wanted to try to make something for y—us.”
Will hums, but his fingers curl a little tighter around the mug than they need to.
It doesn’t stop there.
The pattern builds in quiet, almost unnoticeable ways, threading itself into their days so naturally it feels like it’s always been there. Mike pulls a blanket over Will when he falls asleep on the couch, careful not to wake him, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary before he steps away. He refills his water before he asks, leaves things within reach, remembers details that don’t seem important until they are. None of it is new, not really. But now it carries weight, something unspoken that settles into the space between them and refuses to leave.
–
Sometimes it’s less subtle.
Like the afternoon he comes home with flowers, slightly out of place in his hands, like he hadn’t fully thought it through until he was already standing there with them. Will looks up from his sketchbook when he walks in, brows drawing together in confusion before his gaze drops to what Mike’s holding.
“Did… someone die?” he asks, half-joking, though it comes out quieter than he means it to.
Mike snorts under his breath, stepping closer and holding them out, a little awkward about it. “No. I just—saw them.”
Will stares at the flowers for a second, uncertain what to do with them, then takes them carefully, as if they matter more than he knows how to handle.
“Oh.” It’s soft. Almost uncertain.
“They’re nice,” he adds after a moment, not quite meeting Mike’s eyes, though the faint color rising to his cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed.
Mike just nods, like it doesn’t matter, even if it does.
And then there are moments that catch Will off guard completely.
When he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sketches and open paint tubes, too focused to notice the streak of color smeared faintly along his cheek. Mike pauses when he sees it, watching him for a second longer than necessary before stepping closer without thinking.
“Wait—Stay still.”
Will barely has time to react before Mike’s thumb brushes lightly against his skin, wiping the paint away in a slow, careful motion that lingers just a second too long.
Time stops around them.
Will’s breath catches before he can stop it, his entire body going tense in a way that feels too obvious, too much, as his eyes flicker up to Mike’s face. They’re closer than he expected. Closer than they’ve been in a long time.
Mike doesn’t seem to notice at first, or maybe he does and just doesn’t pull away right away, his hand hovering there for a second before dropping back to his side. “You had something,” he says, quieter now.
Will swallows. “O-Oh… thanks, Mike.”
He doesn’t move for a second after that.
At first, he doesn’t know what to make of any of it.
He notices, of course—he always notices—but he brushes it off with a quiet laugh, a raised brow, something light enough to keep it from settling too deeply. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks once, half-teasing, though there’s something more searching underneath it. Mike just shakes his head, a little too quick, as if the answer would give too much away if he let it linger.
It should be enough. But it isn’t.
Because Will feels it, even if he doesn’t understand it yet. The way Mike looks at him sometimes, softer than before, like there’s something behind it he isn’t saying. The way his voice shifts without him noticing, quieter, warmer, like it’s meant just for him. The way his attention lingers, steady and constant in a way that becomes impossible to ignore once he starts paying attention to it.
And he does start paying attention, more than he means to.
It builds slowly, then all at once. The way Mike holds doors open, the way he walks a little closer than before, the way he brings him things without being asked, remembers things without being reminded. It slips into everything, into the spaces between their conversations, into the quiet moments where nothing is happening and somehow it still feels like something is.
And the worst part is… Will likes it.
He likes it more than he should.
It settles into him, that warmth, something familiar he’s carried for years, something he’s learned to keep quiet, to tuck away where it won’t be seen. But now it’s harder to ignore, harder to keep contained, because Mike is suddenly everywhere in a way he wasn’t before. Not in presence, but in the way he shows up, in the way he stays, in the way he makes it impossible not to feel it.
And that’s where it starts to shift.
Because the more it continues, the harder it becomes to understand.
Will finds himself watching Mike now, the same way Mike watches him, trying to read what isn’t being said out loud. He looks for meaning in the small things, piecing it together from moments that don’t quite connect, from gestures that feel like they should lead somewhere but never quite do.
And every time he thinks he’s close to understanding it, it slips just out of reach.
It would be easier if it meant nothing. It would be easier if this was just Mike being kind, being himself, being the same as he’s always been.
But it doesn’t feel like that, it feels like something more. That’s what makes it harder.
“Why are you being like this?” Will asks one evening, the question quieter than he means it to be, slipping out before he can stop it.
Mike pauses, just for a second. “Like what?”
Will doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know how to say it without saying everything.
And that’s the problem.
–
The evening settles into something that almost feels normal. The apartment is quiet in that familiar way, filled with small, ordinary sounds; the faint clink of a mug against the counter, the soft rustle of paper as Will flips through his sketchbook, the low hum of something playing in the background that neither of them is really paying attention to. Mike moves around the kitchen without thinking, rinsing a glass, drying his hands, glancing over every so often like he always does, like it doesn’t mean anything.
Will notices it anyway.
He always does.
At first, he tries to ignore it, focusing on the lines beneath his pencil, but the feeling lingers. The weight of Mike’s attention, the way it comes and goes like something hesitant, something unfinished. It’s been like this for days now, building in quiet ways, settling into the space between them until even the smallest moments feel heavier than they should.
Mike says something at some point—something small, something forgettable—and Will answers automatically, but neither of them really hears it. The conversation slips through their hands as easily as everything else has lately, leaving behind that same quiet tension, stretched thin and fragile.
Mike dries his hands on the towel, hesitates, then walks a little closer, like he’s about to say something more. He doesn’t. He just lingers there for a second too long, his presence pressing into the space beside Will in a way that feels almost intentional.
And that’s what does it.
Not anything big. Not anything obvious. Just that, another almost, another moment that feels like it should mean something and doesn’t.
Will’s grip tightens slightly around his pencil before he sets it down a little harder than he means to, the soft sound cutting through the quiet. He exhales, slow and steady, like he’s trying to keep something contained. It doesn’t work.
It doesn’t start as a fight so much as it finally stops pretending not to be one. The tension has been sitting there for days, quiet and patient, tucked into glances that last too long and words that never quite reach where they’re supposed to. By the time it surfaces, it’s already too much, pressing against Will’s chest until he can’t hold it in anymore. He turns sharply, pacing once before facing Mike again, his breath uneven, his thoughts tangled somewhere between anger and something far more fragile.
“Can you just—can you stop for a second?” he manages, though it comes out tighter than he means it to, like the words are being forced through something too narrow.
Mike stills immediately, caught off guard by the edge in his voice, something uncertain flickering across his face. “Stop what?” he asks, but the question feels wrong the second it leaves him, too simple for something that’s been building this long.
Will lets out a breath that almost sounds similar to a laugh, except there’s no humor in it, just disbelief and something tired underneath. “This,” he gestures between them, but even that feels useless, as if he’s trying to point at something invisible. “All of this. The way you’ve been acting like—like something’s changed, but you won’t actually say anything about it.” His voice rises despite himself, frustration breaking through the cracks. “You can’t just look at me like that and do all this… all this stuff and then act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Mike’s expression tightens, confusion bleeding into something defensive.
“I’m not acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then what is it?”
Will steps closer without thinking, his voice sharper now, but there’s something underneath it that trembles, something that sounds dangerously close to hurt. “Because I don’t get it, Mike. I don’t get what you’re trying to do, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to think anymore.”
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, filled with everything Mike hasn’t said. He tries—he really does—but the words catch, stuck somewhere deep in his chest where they’ve been sitting for far too long. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and Will sees it happen, sees the hesitation, the almost, and something in him just… gives.
“Right,” Will breathes, quieter now, like the fight is already draining out of him, leaving something rawer behind. “That’s what I thought.”
He shakes his head, stepping back like distance might make this easier, even though it doesn’t.
“Do you know what this does to me?” he asks, softer now, but somehow worse, because there’s nothing left to hide behind. Mike doesn’t answer right away, just watches him, and that’s all it takes for Will to say it, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “It makes me hope,” he admits, the words barely above a whisper, fragile and exposed in a way that makes his chest ache. “And I don’t get to do that. Not with you. I can’t keep—” he stops, swallowing hard, his voice breaking under the weight of it.
“I can’t keep feeling like this when I don’t even know if it’s real.”
The room feels too small after that, as though there’s no space left to breathe. Will shakes his head, already retreating, regret settling in just as quickly. “Just forget it,” he mutters, turning before Mike can say anything, because if he stays any longer, he might say everything, and he doesn’t think he could survive that if Mike doesn’t meet him halfway.
The door swings open, and the sound of rain rushes in all at once—steady, relentless, soaking the pavement, the air thick with it, as though the sky has been holding it in just as long as they have. Will steps into it without hesitation, letting the cold wash over him, hoping it might quiet the noise in his head.
Mike stands there for half a second, frozen, the echo of Will’s words still ringing in his ears.
It makes me hope.
It broke something inside him. He moves without thinking, following him out into the rain, the cold hitting him instantly, soaking through his clothes, dripping down his face, but he barely registers it as he catches up, his hand closing around Will’s wrist just enough to stop him.
“Will—please, wait.”
Will turns back, eyes bright and glassy, rain clinging to his lashes, his hair plastered to his forehead. “What?” he asks, but there’s no real bite left in it, just exhaustion and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Mike’s breathing is uneven now, his chest tight, everything he’s been holding back pushing forward all at once, messy and unfiltered.
“You think I don’t feel anything?” he says, the words coming out rough, almost disbelieving. “You think this is just me being nice, or what? being bored?” He shakes his head, running a hand through his already soaked hair, water dripping from his fingers as he tries to catch up to everything he needs to say. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know how. Every time I tried, it felt like I’d mess it up, like I’d say it wrong and you’d look at me differently and that’d be it. I thought—” he lets out a shaky breath, almost laughing at himself. “I thought if I just showed you, it’d be enough. That you’d get it without me having to say it out loud.”
The rain falls harder around them, blurring everything, the world reduced to the sound of it hitting the ground, their clothes, their skin, like it’s sealing them into this moment.
“But it’s not just that,” Mike continues, his voice softer now but no less urgent, the words spilling over each other like he can’t hold them back anymore.
“It’s not just small things or habits or whatever you think it is. It’s… you. It’s always been you, I just didn’t—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head, frustrated with himself now. “I didn’t know how to say that without making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, but it is. It’s everything, Will. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep, it’s in all the stupid little things I do without realizing, it’s—” his voice falters, but he pushes through it anyway, because he’s already this far.
“It’s in the way I look at you and the way I don’t want to look away, even when I know I probably should. I don’t know when it changed, or if it ever did, I just know I can’t turn it off. I don’t want to.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the space between them barely exists, his voice dropping, quieter but steadier, like this is the part that matters most.
“When you said it makes you hope,” he continues, his eyes fixed on Will’s like he needs him to understand this, “that’s exactly it. Because I’ve been hoping too. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”
The words settle between them, heavy and real, impossible to take back.
For a second, neither of them moves. The rain keeps falling, softening the edges of everything, turning the moment into something suspended, something fragile and endless all at once.
Will’s breath shakes, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he stares at Mike, trying to process something he wanted to hear for far too long. There’s still frustration there, still confusion, but it’s breaking apart now, giving way to something softer, something overwhelming and bright and terrifying all at once.
“You’re—” he starts, then stops, a breath catching in his throat as a disbelieving laugh slips out instead. “You’re such an idiot,” he manages, but there’s no real bite to it, just something fond and shaky underneath.
Mike lets out a breath that almost sounds like relief. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
And that’s it. That’s all it takes.
Because Will doesn’t wait this time.
He steps forward, closing the space completely, drawn in like something inevitable, like he’s been circling this moment for years and finally lets himself fall into it. His hand tightens in the front of Mike’s shirt as everything he’s held back finds its way out all at once, unsteady but certain, like if he hesitates now, he might lose it.
Mike stills for half a second in shock, breath catching, and then he’s there too, his hand coming up to cradle Will’s face, thumb brushing along his cheek as he leans into it without thinking, like this is something he’s known long before he ever said it out loud.
The rain falls endlessly around them, but for the first time, nothing feels unfinished. All the quiet longing, all the almosts and unspoken things, finally settle into something whole—like they’ve been circling this moment for years, only now allowed to arrive.
And neither of them pulls away.
For a while, it’s just that—close enough to feel each other’s breath, foreheads nearly brushing, the world around them blurred by rain that hasn’t quite let up. Will’s hand stays fisted lightly in Mike’s shirt, holding on, as though letting go might make all of this disappear.
His breath comes out uneven, quieter now, but steadier than before. “You really—” he starts, then falters, his gaze flickering between Mike’s eyes as if he's searching for something he’s already found. “You meant all that?”
Mike lets out a soft breath, something settling in him now, something that doesn’t waver the way it used to. “Yeah,” he says, low and certain. “I meant it. Every word.”
The words don’t feel stuck anymore.
They don’t feel like something he has to fight to say.
He looks at Will for a second longer, really looks at him—the way the rain clings to his lashes, the way his expression is still caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something hopeful—and this time, he doesn’t hesitate.
“I love you, Will.”
It comes out quieter than everything else, but steadier. Like something that’s finally found its place.
Will stills.
Not because he didn’t expect it, but because hearing it out loud feels different than he imagined—softer, realer, something that settles deep instead of crashing over him.
His grip tightens slightly before loosening again, his breath catching in a way he doesn’t try to hide this time.
“...You do?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Will lets out a soft, shaky laugh, the kind that breaks halfway through because there’s too much behind it, and then he shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to steady himself and failing.
“I love you too, Mike. More than I’m capable of.”
This time it doesn’t feel fragile. It feels certain.
The words settle between them, not heavy like before, not something to carry alone, but something shared, something that finally fits.
Will nudges him lightly after a second, something familiar slipping back in now that everything else has shifted. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to it, just something fond and a little breathless.
Mike lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well,” he glances down for a second, then back at him, softer now, “I got there.”
The rain keeps falling, cold and steady, starting to settle back into something real now that the moment has softened. Mike notices the way Will’s shoulders tense slightly, the faint shiver he tries to brush off, and something instinctive kicks in again, grounding him.
“Hey,” Mike says gently, his thumb brushing once more along Will’s cheek, lingering there. “We should probably get inside before you freeze.”
Will huffs out a quiet laugh, glancing down at himself like he’s only just remembering the rain. “I’m fine,” he says, automatic, though it comes out a little less convincing than he probably intended.
Mike raises a brow, not buying it for a second. “Yeah? Give it an hour.”
Will rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips now, softer than before.
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“I’m saving you from a cold.”
There’s a brief pause—not heavy this time, not uncertain—just enough for Will to look at him again, as if he’s still adjusting to this, to them.
“Okay,” he says finally, softer.
Mike nods once, his hand slipping from Will’s cheek, hesitating just briefly before finding its way around his waist from behind, pulling him in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, even if it still feels a little new. “C’mon,” he murmurs.
And this time, it finally feels like something they’re allowed to keep.