Archive of Our Own

Mike notices the silence before he notices anything else.

Not the comfortable kind they’ve always had between them, either. Not the easy silence that used to fill long bike rides home after campaigns or the quiet that settled naturally whenever they stayed up too late in Mike’s basement, half-awake and tangled in blankets while some movie played forgotten in the background. This silence feels careful. Delicate. Like one wrong word could crack it open completely.

Rain taps softly against Will’s bedroom window as Mike climbs through it, pulling himself inside with a grunt before shutting it behind him. The room smells faintly like wet grass and paint and something sweet Mike can never name but always associates with Will. The lamp on the bedside table casts everything in warm yellow light, catching against the soft curls falling into Will’s eyes as he sits cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, sketchbook abandoned near his knee.

“You’re late,” Will says quietly, though there’s no real annoyance in it. He looks tired more than anything else, like he’s been thinking too much again.

Mike drops his backpack onto the floor and exhales. “I had to wait until my parents went upstairs. Nancy almost saw me leave.” He kicks off his shoes near the dresser before sitting beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush accidentally. “You know, some people would appreciate the risk I’m taking here.”

Will huffs softly, finally glancing at him. “Some people also don’t say they’ll come over at eight and then show up almost an hour later.”

“It was forty minutes!”

“That’s still late.”

Mike grins automatically, and finally—finally—Will smiles a little too, small and fleeting but real enough to make something ache warmly in Mike’s chest. It happens every time. Every single time Will smiles at him, Mike feels it somewhere under his ribs like his body reacts before his brain can catch up. He hates how obvious it feels sometimes, even though nobody has noticed. At least, Mike hopes nobody has noticed.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly across the sky. Will pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands before leaning back against the side of the bed, eyes drifting toward the rain streaking down the glass. For a while neither of them says anything, and Mike tells himself it’s normal, that this is what they’ve always been like. Quiet. Comfortable. Close.

But lately everything with Will feels too close.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming anymore,” Will admits after a while, voice quieter now.

Mike turns toward him immediately. There’s something hidden underneath the sentence, something hesitant and uncertain that twists painfully in his chest because he knows Will well enough to hear it. He always knows when Will means more than he says.

“Hey,” Mike says softly, bumping his shoulder against Will’s. “I told you I would.”

Will gives a tiny shrug, eyes lowering. “Yeah, I know. I just…” He pauses, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek. “You’ve been disappearing a lot lately. And I don’t know— it just feels like I’m losing my best friend.”

The guilt hits Mike instantly because it’s true. He has been avoiding him, at least a little. Not on purpose at first, but enough that Will noticed anyway. Mike keeps finding excuses to leave early or skip movie nights or sit farther away than he used to because being around Will lately feels unbearable in the best and worst way possible. Every glance lasts too long. Every accidental touch lingers in his head for days afterward.

And the worst part is that Will keeps looking at him like nothing has changed.

Mike forces out a laugh, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

Mike opens his mouth, then closes it again because he doesn’t actually have an answer. He can’t exactly say I’ve been trying not to fall more in love with you than I already am.

Will watches him carefully, brows pulling together slightly. “Did I do something?”

The question comes out so genuinely worried that Mike’s stomach twists painfully. Will always does that—immediately assumes he’s done something wrong whenever someone pulls away. Mike hates it.

“No,” he says quickly, maybe too quickly. “Jesus, no. You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?”

Mike looks down at the carpet because he can’t look at Will while answering that. The rain outside grows heavier, filling the room with soft static. He can feel Will beside him, warm and familiar and terrifying all at once.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Mike mutters weakly.

Will lets out a quiet breath. “Mike.”

The way he says his name nearly ruins him. Gentle. Hurt. Like he’s asking Mike to be honest with him.

Mike swallows hard before leaning back against the bed too, staring up at the ceiling. “You ever think about leaving Hawkins?” he asks suddenly.

Will blinks at the change in subject but answers anyway. “All the time.”

“Yeah?”

Will nods slowly, eyes softening as he looks back toward the window. “I think maybe there’s a version of me somewhere else that’s easier to be.” His voice grows quieter after that, almost fragile. “Somewhere I don’t feel so…wrong all the time.”

Mike’s head snaps toward him immediately.

“You’re not wrong,” he says before he can stop himself.

Will looks startled by the intensity in his voice. “Mike—”

“No, seriously.” Mike shifts closer without realizing it, frustration bleeding through now because he hates hearing Will talk about himself like that. “You’re not. God, Will, you’re like the kindest person I know.” He laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head. “You care about people so much it’s actually ridiculous sometimes.”

Will stares at him quietly.

Mike continues before he loses his nerve. “You make everyone feel better just by being around. You notice things nobody else notices. You remember everything about people.” His throat tightens slightly. “You make people feel safe.”

The expression on Will’s face changes slowly after that, something vulnerable slipping through the cracks. Mike suddenly realizes how close they’re sitting now, their knees pressed together on the carpet, and his heartbeat stumbles hard in his chest.

“You really think that?” Will asks softly.

Mike almost laughs because how could Will not know? How could he not see what he does to people—what he does to Mike specifically?

“Obviously,” he murmurs.

Will looks away first, but Mike catches the faint pink rising into his cheeks before he does. The sight makes warmth bloom painfully through Mike’s chest because sometimes he thinks maybe there’s something here between them, something terrifying and impossible and real.

But then he remembers reality exists.

So he stays quiet.

After a moment, Will smiles faintly to himself and says, “You know, I think you’re the only person who’s ever really understood me.”

Mike feels his heart crack open a little at that.

Because he wants to tell him the truth. He wants to say I understand you so well it’s killing me. He wants to confess every awful, aching thing he’s spent years burying alive.

Instead, he forces out a crooked smile. “That’s dramatic.”

Will laughs softly, nudging his shoulder again. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

And Mike thinks that might be the problem.

Because understanding Will has never been difficult. Falling in love with him was the easiest thing Mike has ever done

Mike tries not to think about the way Will is looking at him after that.

He fails almost immediately.

There’s something devastating about being seen so gently by someone you can never fully have, and Mike thinks that’s what scares him the most about Will. It isn’t just the obvious things—the way he smiles with his whole face now when he’s genuinely happy, or the softness in his voice whenever he says Mike’s name, or the way he unconsciously leans closer every single time they talk like some invisible force keeps pulling him nearer. It’s the quieter things that ruin Mike completely. The fact that Will still remembers how Mike takes his coffee after all these years. The way he notices when Mike gets overwhelmed before Mike even realizes it himself. The way he always makes space for him without asking, like being beside him has become instinct.

Mike thinks maybe he could survive loving Will if Will were cruel about it.

But he isn’t.

He’s gentle. Careful. Patient in ways that make Mike feel like his ribs are splitting open.

The rain outside grows heavier, drumming steadily against the roof while the room settles back into silence again. Will reaches over absently for the sketchbook lying beside him, flipping it shut before resting both hands on top of it. Mike notices paint smudged faintly across his fingers, blue and yellow staining the edges of his skin. For some reason, that tiny detail almost hurts to look at.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Will says eventually, voice low enough that it almost disappears beneath the storm.

Mike snorts softly. “You’ve said that like three times already.”

“Because you keep doing it.” Will tilts his head slightly, studying him with that same unbearable softness. “Usually you talk more than this.”

“Wow. So now I’m annoying?”

Will laughs under his breath immediately, the sound warm and fond enough to make Mike’s chest tighten. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He pauses for a second before continuing more carefully. “It just feels like your mind’s somewhere else lately.”

It is.

It’s always with you, Mike almost says.

Instead, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and shrugs weakly. “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

Mike lets out a surprised laugh at that, and Will smiles a little wider like he’s relieved he managed to pull the sound out of him. God, Mike notices that too—how hard Will tries whenever Mike seems off, how he quietly rearranges himself trying to make things lighter. Mike wonders if Will has any idea how loved he is. Probably not. Will has never been very good at understanding what he means to other people.

“Can I ask you something?” Will says after a moment.

Mike glances over. “Depends. Is it weird?”

“Very.”

Mike groans dramatically. “Great.”

Will’s smile softens into something quieter as he pulls one knee closer to his chest. “Do you ever miss being kids?”

The question catches Mike off guard, mostly because of how sincere it sounds. He looks over properly this time and sees that Will isn’t joking at all. His expression has gone distant again, eyes fixed somewhere near the rain-streaked window.

“Yeah,” Mike answers honestly after a second. “All the time.”

Will nods slowly like he expected that answer. “I think I miss when things felt easier.” He hesitates briefly before continuing. “Not easy, exactly, because obviously everything was kind of a nightmare back then too, but…” He laughs softly to himself. “I don’t know. At least I understood where I fit.”

Mike’s stomach twists painfully.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’ve all grown older, but somehow Will still looks at the world like he’s standing outside of it. Like everyone else was handed instructions for how to exist properly and his copy got lost somewhere along the way.

“You fit with us,” Mike says quietly.

Will gives him a small smile. “I know.”

“No, I mean it.” Mike shifts toward him slightly, his voice growing more earnest before he can stop it. “You never have to wonder about that, okay? Never.”

Will looks at him then—really looks at him—and Mike immediately regrets how honest he sounded because suddenly the air between them feels too warm, too full of things Mike has spent years trying not to say out loud.

“You always say stuff like that,” Will murmurs.

Mike blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you think it’s your job to keep everyone together.” There’s no accusation in his tone, only something achingly fond. “You don’t even realize you do it.”

Mike looks away first this time, staring down at the carpet while his pulse stutters unevenly in his throat. “Well, somebody has to.”

Will shakes his head softly. “You care too much.”

The words hit Mike harder than they should because if anyone else had said them, they would’ve sounded teasing. From Will, they sound understanding. Like he knows exactly how exhausting it is for Mike to carry love around inside himself like this all the time.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mike mutters.

“I don’t think it is.” Will’s voice grows quieter after that. “I just think people don’t take care of you the same way you take care of them.”

Mike feels something painful lodge itself beneath his ribs.

The worst part is that Will does.

He always has.

Mike remembers every tiny moment suddenly all at once, like his brain betrays him on purpose. Will sitting beside him after fights with his parents even when neither of them knew what to say. Will falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights because he trusted Mike enough to let himself rest. Will quietly defending him whenever someone misunderstood him. Will remembering things Mike mentioned once years ago and bringing them back up like they mattered.

Will has always loved him carefully, just not the way he wants Will to

And Mike doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You know what your problem is?” Mike says suddenly, mostly because he needs to break whatever this feeling is before it consumes him alive.

Will raises an eyebrow slightly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“You think too little of yourself.”

Will groans immediately, dropping his head back against the bedframe. “Mike—”

“I’m serious.” Mike turns toward him fully now, words spilling out before he can stop them. “You act like you’re hard to love or something, and it’s insane because you’re literally the easiest person to care about ever.”

The room goes completely still.

Mike realizes what he said a second too late.

Will stares at him quietly, something unreadable flickering across his face, and suddenly Mike can hear his own heartbeat over the rain.

“I didn’t mean—” Mike starts quickly. “I know what you meant,” Will says softly.

But that’s the problem. Mike isn’t sure he does anymore.

Mike can feel panic beginning to crawl its way up his throat almost immediately after the words leave his mouth. It settles there hot and uncomfortable, because Will is still looking at him in that quiet, searching way that always makes Mike feel like he’s being peeled apart layer by layer without Will even trying. The room suddenly feels too small for this conversation, too warm with the storm pressing against the windows and Will sitting so close that Mike can feel the heat radiating off his skin every time their knees brush together. Usually those accidental touches are easy to ignore, or at least easy enough to pretend they don’t affect him, but tonight every little thing feels magnified to a painful degree. The sound of Will breathing. The softness in his eyes. The way he keeps worrying the sleeve of his sweater between his fingers whenever he gets nervous.

Mike wants to take the sentence back immediately.

Not because it isn’t true.

Because it’s too true.

Will keeps staring at him for another second before his gaze lowers toward the floor. “You really think that?” he asks quietly, and there’s something fragile hidden inside the question that nearly destroys Mike on the spot.

It would be easier if Will laughed things off more often. Easier if he rolled his eyes or turned everything into a joke like Dustin would, because then maybe Mike wouldn’t constantly feel like every conversation with him mattered in some terrifying irreversible way. But Will listens to people when they speak. He holds onto words carefully, especially the kind that sound honest. Mike has known that about him since they were kids. He remembers being twelve years old and calling one of Will’s drawings cool in passing, only to find out months later that Will had kept the paper folded safely inside one of his notebooks because the compliment meant that much to him.

Mike swallows hard and forces himself to answer. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Obviously I do.”

Will lets out the faintest shaky laugh, though it doesn’t sound amused. It sounds overwhelmed. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “Sometimes I feel like people only love the version of me that’s easy.”

Mike’s chest tightens painfully at that. “What does that even mean?”

Will shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that clearly means more than he wants it to. His voice comes quieter now, nearly drowned out by the rain outside. “Like…the quiet version. The version that doesn’t ask for too much. The version that doesn’t make things complicated.”

Mike stares at him in disbelief because it’s impossible to imagine Will as complicated. Not because he isn’t layered or emotional or difficult sometimes—he is, obviously, everyone is—but because loving him has never once felt difficult to Mike. Loving Will feels as natural as breathing. It lives inside him without effort. It always has.

“You don’t make things complicated,” Mike says immediately.

Will glances over at him then, eyes soft and sad all at once. “I think I do.”

“No.” Mike shakes his head harder this time, frustrated now because he hates hearing Will talk about himself like he’s something inconvenient. “Will, you literally apologize when people bump into you. You cry during commercials about dogs. You still keep every stupid note people give you because you think throwing them away is mean.” His voice grows gentler without him meaning it to. “You are not hard to love.”

Will goes very still after that.

The silence that follows feels different from before. Heavier somehow. Not uncomfortable exactly, but charged in a way that makes Mike’s pulse stumble unevenly in his chest. Outside, lightning flashes briefly through the window, bathing the room in pale silver for half a second before disappearing again. Mike catches the way Will’s expression changes in that brief moment of light—something vulnerable flickering openly across his face before he looks away.

“You say things like that so easily,” Will says after a while.

Mike frowns slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t realize what your words do to people.”

The sentence lands harder than Mike expects. He opens his mouth automatically, prepared to laugh it off somehow, but the look on Will’s face stops him completely. There’s too much emotion there, too much honesty slipping through the cracks of whatever wall Will usually keeps around himself. Mike suddenly becomes terrifyingly aware of how close they are sitting, how little space actually exists between them now.

“I’m just telling the truth,” Mike says quietly.

Will’s eyes meet his again, and something in Mike’s chest nearly snaps under the weight of it.

“Yeah,” Will whispers. “That’s what scares me.”

For a second, Mike genuinely forgets how to breathe.

The rain continues steadily outside, thunder rolling softly in the distance, but the entire room feels suspended around those words. Mike can’t tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all anymore. Every instinct inside him is screaming to look away, to say something stupid and lighthearted and ruin this moment before it turns into something dangerous, but he can’t move. He can only stare at Will, who looks equally startled by his own confession now, cheeks flushed faintly pink as though he didn’t mean to say the thought out loud.

“What do you mean?” Mike asks finally, though his voice comes out quieter than intended.

Will hesitates immediately. Mike watches the panic flicker across his face in real time, watches him retreat inward the way he always does whenever he accidentally reveals too much of himself. He ducks his head slightly, fingers tightening around the sleeves of his sweater.

“I don’t know,” he says quickly. “Forget it.”

“Will.”

“It’s nothing.”

Mike feels frustration rise instantly because Will always does this. He opens up just enough for Mike to glimpse something real before trying to shove it back down again. Usually Mike lets him. Usually he doesn’t push because he knows how scared Will is of being too much for people.

But tonight feels different.

“It’s obviously not nothing,” Mike says softly.

Will keeps his eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. “I just mean…” He laughs nervously under his breath before trying again. “You say things so honestly sometimes that it’s hard not to believe every single word.”

Mike’s stomach twists painfully.

Because he does mean every word.

That’s the problem.

He looks at Will’s bent head, at the soft curls falling into his eyes and the nervous tension in his shoulders, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed by the terrifying urge to reach over and hold his face in both hands. To make Will look at him. To tell him everything all at once.

Instead, Mike clenches his hands tightly in his lap and says, very carefully, “You should believe them.”

Will finally looks up again after that, and the expression on his face is so open, so achingly hopeful, that Mike immediately feels his entire world tilt sideways.

—

A few days later, Mike realizes he’s made a horrible mistake.

Not because of anything Will said. That’s the worst part.

Will hasn’t acted weird about their conversation at all. If anything, he’s been softer with him ever since that night, and Mike genuinely doesn’t know how to survive it. Every interaction feels unbearably tender now, loaded with something unspoken that hangs between them constantly like static before a storm. Mike keeps catching Will looking at him when he thinks nobody notices, his expression distant and thoughtful in a way that makes Mike’s chest ache. And every single time Mike catches him, Will smiles immediately—small and shy and warm enough to ruin entire lifetimes.

It’s torture.

Because Mike can’t tell if he imagined the whole thing.

He can’t tell if Will almost said something that night or if Mike only heard what he desperately wanted to hear.

And now he can’t stop thinking about it.

—

The summer air feels unbearably humid by the time Mike bikes over to the Byers’ house that Friday afternoon, his thoughts loud and tangled from the second he wakes up. He almost turns around twice on the way there. By the time he reaches the driveway, his stomach is in knots so tight it physically hurts.

He tells himself to act normal.

The problem is that he doesn’t remember what normal feels like anymore.

Jonathan answers the door first, looking exhausted in the familiar older-brother way he always does. “Oh,” he says blankly upon seeing Mike standing there. “You again.”

Mike rolls his eyes immediately. “Nice to see you too.”

Jonathan steps aside with a snort. “He’s in his room. Has been weirdly happy all morning, by the way.” He pauses deliberately. “Wonder why.”

Mike nearly trips over absolutely nothing.

“What??” he mutters automatically, heat rushing into his face as Jonathan laughs under his breath and disappears toward the kitchen.

Mike takes the stairs two at a time mostly because if he thinks too hard about Jonathan’s comment, he might actually pass out. By the time he reaches Will’s room, his pulse is already racing for no reason at all.

The door is half-open. Mike knocks lightly against it anyway before stepping inside.

Will is sitting at his desk near the window, sunlight spilling warmly across the room and catching against the side of his face. He glances up immediately at the sound, and the second he sees Mike, his entire expression changes so quickly it almost physically hurts to witness. His face softens. His eyes brighten. He smiles instinctively, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And there it is again.

That horrible magnetic pull.

“Hey,” Will says, and somehow even one word from him sounds fond.

Mike leans awkwardly against the doorway, trying desperately to act like his heart didn’t just somersault violently in his chest. “Hey.”

Will spins slightly in his chair to face him better. “I thought you were coming later.”

“I was bored,” Mike says, which is technically true. He’s been restless all day, unable to focus on anything because every thought somehow circled back to Will eventually. “Also Dustin kept calling the house and I think if I listened to him talk about Cerebro for another ten minutes I would’ve died.”

Will laughs softly, and Mike immediately feels his shoulders loosen at the sound. God. This is pathetic.

“You could’ve just hung up,” Will says.

“You say that like Dustin would allow it.”

“That’s fair.”

The room settles into something easy after that, warm sunlight filtering through the curtains while a cassette tape plays quietly somewhere near Will’s bed. Mike notices immediately that Will cleaned his room a little. The sketchbooks stacked neatly beside the desk. The scattered pencils finally shoved into a cup instead of lying everywhere. There’s even one of Mike’s old sweaters folded over the back of Will’s chair, and the sight of it nearly short-circuits Mike’s brain entirely.

Will notices where his eyes land and immediately flushes pink.

“Oh,” he says quickly, tugging the sweater into his lap. “You left it here last week.”

Mike stares at him for a second too long because Will says it defensively, like he’s embarrassed Mike caught him keeping it.

Like maybe he wears it when Mike isn’t around.

Mike’s pulse spikes so violently he almost gets dizzy.

“You could’ve given it back sooner,” he says carefully.

Will shrugs, not meeting his eyes anymore. “I forgot.”

The lie hangs between them so obviously that Mike almost laughs.

Instead, he walks farther into the room and drops onto Will’s bed before he can overthink himself into oblivion. Will watches him quietly from the desk chair, fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeves of Mike’s sweater still pooled in his lap.

Neither of them says anything for a moment.

But it doesn’t feel awkward.

It feels dangerous.

Mike hates how aware he’s become of every tiny thing Will does lately. The way he tucks his hair behind his ear when he’s nervous. The way his voice softens unconsciously whenever he talks directly to Mike. The way his gaze always lingers half a second longer than it should.

Or maybe Mike’s just imagining it all because he wants it too badly.

“You’re staring again,” Will says suddenly, though he sounds more shy than uncomfortable about it.

Mike nearly chokes. “I am not.”

Will smiles faintly, ducking his head. “You are.”

“I literally wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

Mike opens his mouth to argue again before realizing something terrifying.

This is flirting.

Or at least it feels dangerously close to flirting.

The realization hits him so hard that he abruptly looks away, pretending intense interest in the posters near Will’s wall while his heartbeat pounds unevenly beneath his ribs. He hears Will laugh softly under his breath at the reaction, and somehow that makes everything worse.

“What?” Mike says defensively.

“Nothing.” Will’s smile only grows slightly. “You’re just acting weird again.”

Mike groans dramatically, dropping backward onto the mattress. “You’re obsessed with saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Mike throws an arm over his eyes. “Maybe I’m just naturally strange.”

Will is quiet for a second before speaking again, softer this time.

“No,” he says gently. “I think something’s bothering you.”

The sincerity in his voice immediately wipes the humor out of the room.

Mike lowers his arm slowly and looks over at him. Will’s expression has gone serious again, concern written openly across his face in that painfully honest way Mike has always loved about him. He looks like he genuinely wants to understand. Like Mike matters enough to be figured out carefully.

And suddenly Mike can’t breathe properly again.

Because how is he supposed to survive this?

How is he supposed to keep pretending friendship is enough when Will looks at him like that? When every moment between them feels heavier now, fuller somehow, like they’re both standing at the edge of something neither of them knows how to name yet?

Mike swallows hard before sitting up slightly.

Will watches him carefully.

And for one terrible, impossible second, Mike thinks about kissing him. The thought hits Mike so suddenly and so violently that it genuinely scares him.

One second he’s sitting there staring at Will from across the room, sunlight spilling across the floor between them in soft golden strips, and the next he’s imagining what would happen if he crossed that distance entirely. If he stood up, cupped Will’s face with shaking hands, and kissed him the way he’s secretly wanted to for longer than he’s willing to admit even to himself. The image arrives fully formed and devastatingly vivid in his head—Will’s surprised inhale, the warmth of his skin beneath Mike’s fingers, the possibility of him kissing back—and Mike has to physically dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from spiraling completely.

Because he can’t think like that.

Not about Will.

Not when this is the one good thing he has left that still feels steady.

Will tilts his head slightly from where he’s sitting at the desk, concern flickering across his face almost immediately. “Mike?”

Mike realizes too late that he’s gone completely silent.

“Hm?” he answers quickly, voice embarrassingly strained.

Will’s brows pull together. “You okay?”

The question sounds so genuinely worried that Mike nearly laughs from the irony of it all. No, actually, he’s definitely not okay. He’s sitting in his best friend’s bedroom trying not to think about kissing him while said best friend looks at him with enough softness to make Mike feel physically ill from wanting.

“Yeah,” Mike lies weakly. “Just tired.”

Will doesn’t look convinced.

“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

Mike forces out a shrug, leaning back against the wall behind the bed in an attempt to look casual. “Maybe I’m dying.”

“That’s not funny.”

The response comes immediately, serious enough that Mike looks over in surprise. Will’s expression has tightened slightly, something anxious flickering briefly through his eyes before he smooths it away again.

Mike’s chest aches.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I was joking.”

“I know.” Will looks down at his hands for a second before adding more quietly, “I just don’t like hearing stuff like that.”

The tenderness hidden inside the sentence settles painfully somewhere beneath Mike’s ribs. God. Will cares so openly sometimes without even realizing how much of himself he’s giving away. Mike wonders if anyone else notices it too, or if it’s one of those things only he gets to see.

Probably because Mike spends all his time looking for it.

The cassette near the bed clicks softly as the song changes, filling the room with low static for a second before music starts again. Outside the window, the late afternoon sunlight has begun fading into softer shades of orange, shadows stretching slowly across the floorboards. Everything about the moment feels strangely intimate, suspended in that warm quiet space where neither of them seems eager to leave.

Will breaks the silence first.

“You know what Jonathan said to me yesterday?”

Mike groans instantly. “Why do I feel like I’m about to get bullied?”

A small smile tugs at Will’s mouth. “Because you are.”

“Great.”

Will laughs softly before looking down again, fingers absentmindedly twisting the sleeves of Mike’s sweater still pooled in his lap. The sight alone is enough to make Mike’s heartbeat stumble all over itself.

“He told me,” Will begins carefully, “that sometimes people spend so long being scared of something that they don’t realize it’s already happening.”

Mike stills immediately.

Something about the sentence makes the air feel thinner.

“What does that even mean?” he asks, trying for lightness and failing miserably.

Will shrugs, though he looks nervous now too. “I don’t know. Jonathan says weird stuff when he thinks he’s being profound.”

Mike snorts faintly, but his pulse has already started racing again because there’s something loaded underneath the conversation now. He can feel it. They’re circling around something dangerous again, something neither of them knows how to touch directly without risking everything.

Mike hates how badly he wants to touch it anyway.

Will glances up after a moment and catches Mike staring at him again. This time, though, neither of them looks away immediately.

And that—

that feels new.

Mike doesn’t know when it changed between them exactly. He doesn’t know when lingering eye contact started feeling intimate instead of normal, or when every silence began carrying the weight of unsaid things between them. Maybe it’s always been there and Mike only notices now because his feelings have gotten too big to ignore anymore.

Or maybe Will notices it too.

The possibility terrifies him.

Will’s voice comes softer after a while, almost hesitant. “Can I ask you something without you making fun of me?”

Mike’s throat suddenly feels dry. “Depends on what it is.”

“Mike.”

“I’m kidding!” He shifts slightly on the bed, trying not to look as nervous as he suddenly feels. “Ask.”

Will hesitates long enough that Mike can physically see him debating whether to say the thought out loud at all. Then, very quietly, he asks, “Do you think people can accidentally fall in love?”

Mike forgets how to breathe. Everything inside him seems to stop at once. The room. The music.

The air.

His heartbeat crashes violently against his ribs a second later.

Will still isn’t looking directly at him anymore. His gaze is fixed somewhere near the floor, cheeks faintly pink like he regrets asking already. Mike can see the tension in his shoulders, the nervous way his fingers tighten around the sweater sleeves.

And suddenly Mike understands with horrifying clarity that this question matters.

A lot.

“What kind of question is that?” Mike manages weakly.

Will lets out a nervous laugh under his breath. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about it.”

“You just randomly sit around thinking about love?”

Will glances up briefly then, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath from Mike’s lungs.

“Sometimes,” he says softly.

Mike’s heart is beating so hard now it actually hurts.

Because there’s something here. There has to be.

Nobody looks at someone like that unless there’s something here.

But fear rises just as quickly as hope does because if Mike is wrong—if he misunderstands this, if he ruins everything because he wanted too much—he doesn’t think he’d survive losing Will afterward.

So instead of saying what he really wants to say, Mike laughs quietly and looks away.

“Yeah,” he murmurs carefully. “I think it probably happens all the time.”

Will goes quiet after that.

Not hurt quiet.

Something else.

Something softer.

Mike risks looking back a few seconds later and immediately wishes he hadn’t because Will is smiling to himself now, small and shy and unbearably happy in a way that makes Mike’s entire chest ache.

And suddenly Mike realizes something terrifying. Will looks exactly like someone in love.

—

He’s sprawled dramatically across the basement couch with one arm hanging over his face while Lucas sits cross-legged on the floor nearby, completely focused on fixing one of Dustin’s stupid radio parts like this is a normal afternoon and not the worst crisis of Mike’s entire life. The basement smells faintly like soda and old carpet, the familiar hum of the lamp filling the silence while rain taps lightly against the tiny windows near the ceiling.

Mike has been talking for almost twenty minutes straight.

Lucas has unfortunately been listening.

“I’m serious,” Mike says for what might be the fifteenth time, sitting upright suddenly enough that the couch creaks beneath him. “Something weird is happening.”

Lucas doesn’t even look up from the screwdriver in his hand. “You’ve said that already.”

“Because it’s true!”

“Or,” Lucas says calmly, “you’re insane.”

Mike glares at him immediately. “You’re being unbelievably unhelpful right now.”

Lucas snorts softly. “You called me over here just to pace around your basement and sigh every thirty seconds.”

“I do not sigh every thirty seconds.”

“You literally sighed before saying that!”

Mike opens his mouth to argue, then immediately shuts it again because unfortunately Lucas is correct. The worst part is that Mike knows he’s acting insane. He knows normal people probably don’t spend entire days replaying conversations in their head trying to decipher whether their best friend is secretly in love with them. But Mike can’t help it anymore. Every interaction with Will feels loaded now, every glance and smile and quiet moment pressing against his chest until he thinks he might actually explode from the pressure of it all.

Lucas finally glances up then, expression somewhere between concerned and amused. “Okay,” he says slowly, setting the screwdriver down beside him. “Start over from the beginning.”

Mike immediately sits up straighter. “Thank you.”

“I already regret this.”

Mike ignores him completely. “So first of all, he’s been acting weird.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Mike gestures helplessly with both hands. “Just— weird! I don’t know how to explain it but he’s acting weird.” He pauses, frowning as he tries to explain it. “Like he keeps looking at me all the time now.”

Lucas blinks. “Mike, people usually look at the person they’re talking to.”

“No, not like normal looking.” Mike feels frustration immediately rising again because nobody understands how impossible this feels except him. “It’s different.”

Lucas stares at him for a second before letting out a laugh. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You are down horrendous.”

Mike nearly chokes. “Shut up.”

Lucas points accusingly at him now, fully entertained. “No, seriously. This is actually painful to watch.”

Mike grabs one of the couch pillows and throws it directly at his face.

Lucas catches it easily, still grinning. “You’ve been in love with him for years and somehow this is only now becoming a problem?”

Mike freezes instantly.

The room goes completely silent.

Lucas’ smile slowly disappears as realization dawns across his face a second too late. “Oh,” he says weakly.

Mike can physically feel panic shoot through his body all at once. “What do you mean by that?”

Lucas stares at him carefully now, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “Mike.”

“No, what did you mean?”

Lucas lets out a slow breath through his nose. “I mean…come on!”

Mike’s heart is pounding violently now. “Come on what?”

Lucas looks genuinely baffled. “You seriously thought nobody noticed?”

Mike feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath him.

“No one noticed,” he says immediately, voice too fast and too sharp.

Lucas gives him a look.

“Oh my god,” Mike mutters, horrified. “People noticed?”

“Not people,” Lucas corrects quickly. “Just me— and maybe Max.” He pauses. “Definitely Max. She probably found out first before I did.”

Mike makes a strangled noise before collapsing backward onto the couch again, dragging both hands over his face so hard it hurts. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“This is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Lucas snorts. “That’s dramatic considering we’ve fought interdimensional monsters.”

Mike lowers his hands just enough to glare at him. “Lucas, focus.”

“I am focused.” Lucas leans back against the couch casually. “You’re the one spiraling.”

Mike groans loudly before sitting upright again, restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. “Okay— but that’s not even the point right now!”

“Then what is the point?”

Mike starts pacing immediately because sitting still suddenly feels impossible. “The point is that I think something’s happening with Will too.”

Lucas watches him carefully now. “What kind of something?”

Mike runs both hands through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know!” He laughs nervously under his breath before continuing. “He asked me if people can accidentally fall in love.”

Lucas goes completely still.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Lucas blinks slowly. “That’s…kind of a crazy thing to ask someone.”

“I know.” Mike points at him aggressively. “Thank you.”

“And what did you say?”

“I panicked.”

Lucas nods immediately. “Of course you did.”

Mike throws himself back onto the couch again with enough force to make the cushions bounce. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it because what if he actually likes someone and just isn’t telling me?”

The sentence comes out more emotional than Mike intends. Frustrated. Hurt, almost.

Lucas’ expression shifts immediately.

“Why would he have to tell you?” he asks carefully.

Mike freezes.

Shit.

For a second he genuinely can’t think of a response. His pulse spikes violently as Lucas watches him with growing suspicion, and Mike suddenly feels exposed in a way he absolutely hates.

“Because,” he says quickly, “he’s my best friend.”

Lucas keeps staring.

Mike presses on nervously. “We tell each other stuff.”

“Do you?”

Mike falters slightly. “Yeah?”

“Mike, I think you forgot that we’re also best friends? Will is my best friend too! And he doesn’t need to tell me if he’s in-love with someone. Lucas raises an eyebrow. “And— you’ve been in love with him for years and haven’t told him.”

Mike nearly falls off the couch. “Can you stop saying it like that so casually?”

“Mike.”

“No, seriously, you’re making it sound real.”

Lucas laughs softly despite himself. “Because It is real!”

Mike hates how easily the words hit him.

Real.

That’s the terrifying part.

Because this isn’t some stupid crush anymore. It isn’t temporary or harmless or easy to bury alive. Mike has tried to ignore it for years and somehow it only got worse. Every version of his future somehow leads back to Will eventually. Every important memory he has includes him somewhere inside it.

Lucas watches him carefully for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time. “Do you think maybe you’re more upset about the idea of him loving someone else than you are about him keeping a secret?”

Mike’s stomach drops instantly. Because yes, obviously yes. The thought alone makes him feel physically sick.

“What if he does?” Mike asks before he can stop himself.

Lucas’ expression softens slightly. “Likes someone else?”

Mike nods weakly, staring down at his hands now.

The basement grows quiet after that, filled only by the distant sound of rain outside and the low buzz of the lamp overhead. Lucas studies him for another second before sighing softly and leaning back against the couch.

“Mike,” he says carefully, “I’m gonna be honest with you.”

Mike immediately groans. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

“I really don’t think Will looks at you like someone who’s in love with somebody else.”

Mike’s breath catches.

Slowly, he looks up.

Lucas shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, dude. Come on.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth again. “He practically lights up every time you walk into a room.”

Mike stares at Lucas like he’s just spoken another language entirely.

For a second, he genuinely can’t process the sentence. It hangs there in the basement between them while the rain continues tapping softly against the windows overhead, quiet and steady and completely indifferent to the fact that Mike’s entire internal structure is currently collapsing in on itself.

“He practically lights up every time you walk into a room.”

Mike’s throat suddenly feels dry.

“You’re insane,” he says weakly.

Lucas gives him a long look. “Okay.”

“No, seriously.” Mike sits forward abruptly, elbows on his knees now, fingers tangled nervously in his hair. “You don’t understand. That’s just how Will is.”

Lucas snorts immediately. “Mike.”

“It is!”

“Will barely talks to strangers without looking like he wants the floor to swallow him alive.”

“That’s not—”

“And somehow with you,” Lucas continues over him, “he suddenly becomes an entirely different person.”

Mike opens his mouth again, ready to argue, but nothing actually comes out because the problem is that Lucas isn’t wrong. Mike has noticed it too, even if he’s tried desperately not to think too hard about it. The way Will’s entire face softens whenever Mike shows up somewhere unexpectedly. The way his voice changes slightly around him, warmer and lighter in a way that feels private somehow. The fact that Will always sits beside him no matter where they are, like it’s instinctual at this point.

Mike’s chest tightens painfully.

“You’re reading too much into it,” he mutters, though he sounds less convinced now.

Lucas leans back against the couch cushions, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Mike, last week at the arcade he spent twenty minutes trying to win you that stupid stuffed frog.”

Mike immediately flushes. “He was just being nice.”

“He looked like he was fighting for his life.”

“That’s because the machine was rigged.”

Lucas laughs outright now. “Oh my god, you are impossible.”

Mike groans loudly and drops backward against the couch again, pressing both hands over his face. Everything feels too overwhelming suddenly, like his thoughts are moving too fast for him to keep up with. Because part of him wants to believe Lucas. God, he wants to believe him so badly it physically hurts.

But wanting something doesn’t make it safe.

And if Mike lets himself hope too much only to find out he misunderstood everything, he thinks it might genuinely destroy him.

“You don’t get it,” he says quietly through his hands.

Lucas’ voice softens slightly. “Then explain it to me.”

Mike slowly lowers his hands and stares up at the ceiling for a long moment before speaking again. “If I’m wrong about this, I lose him.”

The honesty in the sentence settles heavily into the room.

Lucas doesn’t interrupt.

Mike swallows hard, forcing himself to continue even though his chest feels painfully tight now. “I mean it. If I say something and he doesn’t feel the same way…” He laughs softly under his breath, but there’s no humor in it at all. “How do you come back from that?”

Lucas is quiet for a moment after that.

“You really think Will would stop loving you just because you told him the truth?”

Mike’s heart stumbles at the wording.

Stop loving you.

Not stop being friends with you.

Not get uncomfortable around you.

Loving.

Mike looks over sharply, but Lucas either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mike mutters weakly.

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Mike grabs another pillow and throws it at him again. Lucas catches this one too, annoyingly effortless.

“You know what your problem is?” Lucas says.

Mike points accusingly. “Everyone keeps saying that to me lately.”

“Because you keep acting insane lately.” Lucas tosses the pillow back onto the couch beside him before continuing. “You spend so much time panicking about ruining things that you don’t notice half the stuff happening right in front of you.”

Mike frowns slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means Will looks at you like you hung the moon or something.”

Mike’s stomach flips violently.

“That is such a weird sentence.”

“You know I’m right.”

Mike looks away immediately because he can’t handle hearing things like this out loud. The worst part is that tiny moments begin replaying in his head instantly without permission. Will smiling the second Mike walked into his room the other day. Will keeping his sweater. Will saying you’re the only person who’s ever really understood me in that soft trembling voice that kept Mike awake half the night afterward.

And then—

Do you think people can accidentally fall in love? Mike presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he mutters.

Lucas laughs quietly. “That bad?”

“You don’t understand,” Mike says immediately, dropping his hands again. “Everything feels weird now. Like every conversation means something else underneath it.” He pauses before adding more quietly, “And I can’t tell if I’m imagining it because I want him so bad.”

The confession slips out before Mike can stop it.

The room goes silent.

Mike freezes in horror approximately three seconds later.

Lucas stares at him.

Mike stares back.

Then Mike immediately grabs the nearest blanket and aggressively throws it over his own head.

“Oh my god,” he groans from underneath it. “Forget I said that.”

Lucas bursts out laughing so hard he nearly falls sideways off the floor cushions. “Mike!”

“I’m serious.”

“You said it like you’re in a romance movie.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Mike curls tighter into the blanket cocoon, face burning alive. He can still hear Lucas laughing at him, which only makes everything worse somehow.

“This is why I never tell you things,” Mike mutters bitterly.

Lucas wipes at his eyes dramatically. “Okay, no, hold on.” He tries to compose himself, though his grin remains firmly in place. “You want actual advice?”

Mike peeks out from under the blanket reluctantly. “You’re physically incapable of giving good advice.”

“That’s true,” Lucas admits. “But I’m still gonna try.”

Mike sighs deeply. “Fine.”

Lucas grows quieter then, more serious than before. “I think you should stop treating this like it’s already doomed.”

Mike looks down at the blanket pooled in his lap.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Not really.” Lucas shrugs lightly. “You know how terrifying it was with Max at first? I spent months convinced she hated me every time she looked annoyed for more than five seconds.”

“She does look annoyed all the time.”

“Exactly. It was impossible.”

Despite himself, Mike snorts softly.

Lucas smiles faintly before continuing. “The point is, you can’t spend forever waiting for absolute certainty before you let yourself feel something.” He pauses. “Because you’ll never get it.”

Mike falls quiet after that.

The rain outside has softened now, turning gentler against the windows while the basement settles into a heavy kind of stillness. Mike stares at the floor, thoughts twisting painfully together inside his chest.

“What if he doesn’t want me like that?” he asks eventually, voice smaller than intended.

Lucas watches him carefully for a second before answering.

“He does, you’re just too oblivious to realize that”

—

By the time Saturday evening arrives, Mike has managed to work himself into such an anxious state that Karen asks him twice if he’s sick.

He says no both times too quickly.

Now he’s sitting in the basement pretending to reorganize campaign notes he hasn’t touched in months while his heart pounds so loudly he swears it’s physically echoing through the room. Lucas’ words from yesterday keep replaying in his head over and over again in a loop he can’t shut off.

The kid practically lights up every time you walk into a room.

Mike hates how much he wants it to be true.

Upstairs, the front door opens.

Mike immediately freezes.

He hears muffled voices, then footsteps moving through the hallway, and suddenly every nerve in his body feels electrified. A second later Will appears at the bottom of the basement stairs wearing a dark green sweater Mike recognizes immediately because it’s the one that always hangs slightly too loose around his wrists. His curls are damp from the evening rain outside, cheeks pink from the cold air, and for one horrifying moment Mike completely forgets how to function like a normal human being.

Will smiles the second he sees him.

There it is again.

That stupid unbearable softness.

“Hey,” Will says, breathless from the stairs. “Your mom made me take cookies.”

Mike blinks dumbly. “What?”

Will lifts the plate slightly in explanation, smiling wider now. “She said and I quote, ‘You boys never eat enough.’”

Mike lets out a quiet laugh despite himself. “That does sound like her.”

Will walks farther into the basement after that, setting the plate carefully onto the coffee table before shrugging his jacket off. Mike tries very hard not to stare while he does it and fails completely. Everything about Will feels distracting lately. The shape of his hands. The warmth in his voice. The way he looks comfortable here, like Mike’s basement belongs to him a little too.

Maybe it always has.

“You okay?” Will asks suddenly.

Mike realizes too late that he’s been staring again.

“Yep,” he says immediately.

Will’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Okay.”

The teasing in his voice makes Mike’s chest tighten strangely.

For a while things feel normal. Or at least as normal as they can feel now. They sit on opposite ends of the couch eating cookies while some terrible horror movie plays quietly on the television, neither of them paying much attention to it. Will keeps making commentary under his breath about every stupid decision the characters make, and Mike keeps laughing harder than the jokes probably deserve just because hearing Will laugh afterward feels worth it.

It’s easy.

That’s the dangerous part.

Being around Will has always been easy in the way breathing is easy—something Mike does naturally without needing to think about it. But now every little moment carries this unbearable undercurrent beneath it, this constant awareness pressing against Mike’s ribs. He notices every time their shoulders brush. Every time Will looks at him too long. Every soft smile.

It’s driving him insane.

At some point the movie fades into background noise completely while Will flips through one of Mike’s old campaign binders from middle school. He’s smiling to himself as he reads, knees tucked beneath him on the couch.

“Oh my god,” Will laughs softly. “You actually wrote ‘Michael the Magnificent’ unironically.”

Mike groans immediately. “Give me that!”

“No, this is incredible.” Will ducks away laughing when Mike reaches for the binder, clutching it dramatically to his chest. “Wait, hold on—‘Known weaknesses: emotional attachment and betrayal.’ Mike!”

“I was twelve!”

“You were insane.”

Mike lunges for the binder again, and this time Will barely manages to dodge him before both of them end up collapsing sideways against the couch cushions in a mess of laughter and tangled limbs.

And then—

They freeze.

Because suddenly Mike is very, very aware of the fact that Will is underneath him.

Close.

Too close.

One of Mike’s hands is braced against the couch beside Will’s head. Their legs are tangled together awkwardly, and Will’s laughter dies slowly into silence as they stare at each other from inches away.

Mike’s breath catches instantly.

Will’s face is flushed from laughing, curls falling into his eyes, lips parted slightly as he looks up at Mike with an expression so soft it physically hurts to see. Mike can feel his heartbeat everywhere now, sharp and uneven beneath his skin.

Nobody moves.

The air between them feels heavy suddenly.

Dangerous.

And for one impossible second, Mike thinks Will might kiss him.

Then Will looks away first.

Not dramatically. Not awkwardly.

Just enough to break whatever was happening between them.

Mike immediately pulls back too quickly, heart pounding violently against his ribs now. “Sorry,” he blurts out.

Will sits upright slowly, fingers tightening slightly around the binder still resting in his lap. “It’s okay.”

But his voice sounds strange.

Quiet.

Mike hates how tense the room suddenly feels after that.

The movie continues playing in the background, some actor screaming onscreen while neither of them speaks. Mike can physically feel the shift between them now, the fragile awkwardness settling over the basement like fog.

Will clears his throat softly after a moment. “You know,” he says carefully, still looking down at the binder instead of Mike, “sometimes I think you get scared whenever things become real.”

Mike frowns immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Will shrugs lightly, though the movement looks nervous. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously.”

Will finally glances up then, expression harder to read than usual. “You always pull away.”

Mike feels his stomach tighten instantly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Will laughs quietly under his breath, but it sounds more hurt than amused. “Forget it.”

Mike’s frustration sparks immediately because he’s tired of these half-conversations lately, tired of Will saying things that clearly mean something before shutting down the second Mike asks about them.

“No,” Mike says sharply. “You can’t just say weird cryptic stuff and then refuse to explain it.”

Will’s expression shifts at the tone. “I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“Well, you did.”

Silence crashes between them.

Mike immediately regrets how harsh he sounded, but something restless and panicked has already started unraveling inside his chest because Will’s right. He does pull away. Constantly. Every time things get too close or too honest or too real, Mike panics and ruins the moment before it can ruin him first.

Will sets the binder carefully onto the coffee table.

“You know what?” he says quietly. “Never mind.”

Mike exhales sharply, standing up from the couch because suddenly sitting still feels impossible. “No, because now I wanna know what you meant.”

Will looks up at him, frustration finally flickering openly across his face now too. “Why?”

“Because you keep doing this!”

“Doing what?”

“Saying things that obviously mean more than what you’re actually saying!”

Will stands up too quickly now, hurt flashing across his expression. “Maybe because every time I try to say something real, you act like it terrifies you.”

Mike stills.

The basement goes completely silent except for the television humming faintly in the background.

Will looks like he regrets the sentence immediately after saying it, chest rising unevenly as he looks away.

But Mike can’t stop staring at him.

Because the thing is— Will sounds angry. But underneath the anger, he sounds hurt

Mike feels the words hit somewhere deep enough to leave bruises.

For a second neither of them moves. The television continues flickering pointlessly in the corner of the basement, casting shifting light across Will’s face while the silence between them stretches tighter and tighter. Mike can hear both of them breathing now, uneven and shallow in the sudden stillness. Will keeps his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, jaw tense like he’s already regretting everything he just said.

And the worst part is that Mike knows he’s right.

Every time things start feeling too honest between them, Mike panics. He changes the subject or turns something into a joke or physically pulls away before Will can see too much of him. Not because he wants to hurt Will, but because he’s terrified of what happens if he stops pretending for even one second.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike says finally, though the sentence sounds weak even to himself.

Will lets out a short disbelieving laugh and finally looks up at him again. There’s frustration written all over his face now, but beneath it Mike can still see something softer unraveling at the edges. Something wounded.

“Seriously?” Will asks quietly. “You’re gonna say that?”

Mike runs an anxious hand through his hair. “I just don’t get why you’re acting like I’m doing something wrong.”

Will stares at him for a long moment before shaking his head slightly, almost like he can’t believe the conversation is happening at all. “Because you keep looking at me like you want to say something,” he says, voice trembling faintly now despite how calm he’s trying to sound, “and then you completely shut down the second I get too close to figuring it out.”

Mike’s heart nearly stops.

The room suddenly feels too warm, too small, every inch of space between them unbearably charged.

Will notices.

The realization crashes through Mike so hard it leaves him dizzy.

Not everything. Maybe not the whole truth. But enough.

Enough to notice the staring and the nervousness and the way Mike keeps reaching toward him only to jerk back again like he’s touched something dangerous.

Mike swallows hard. “Will—”

“And I’m trying really hard not to take that personally,” Will continues before he can finish. His voice grows quieter after that, more vulnerable. “But it’s difficult when it keeps happening.”

The hurt in his expression makes guilt twist violently through Mike’s chest because this entire time he’s been so caught up in his own fear that he never stopped to think about how confusing all of this must feel from Will’s side. Mike pulls him closer, then disappears. Says things too honestly, then acts terrified afterward. Looks at him like he matters more than breathing sometimes, only to shut down whenever Will edges too close to understanding why.

If Mike were Will, he’d probably feel insane too.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” Mike says softly.

Will laughs weakly under his breath, though there’s no humor in it at all. “I know that.” He looks away for a second before continuing more quietly, “That’s what makes it worse.”

Mike’s chest aches so painfully now it almost feels unbearable.

Will wraps his arms around himself slightly, like he’s trying to hold his own ribs together. “Sometimes I honestly can’t tell if I’m imagining things,” he admits. “Like maybe I made something bigger out of nothing and now I’m ruining everything because I can’t stop hoping for stuff I shouldn’t.”

Mike’s breath catches sharply.

Hoping.

The word echoes loudly in his head.

Will still isn’t looking at him anymore, and suddenly Mike understands with terrifying clarity that this conversation matters far more than either of them intended it to. They aren’t talking around things anymore. They’re standing directly at the edge of something huge and frightening and irreversible.

And Mike’s terrified.

Because one wrong sentence could change everything between them forever.

But Will already looks hurt now. Tired of waiting for Mike to either step closer or finally back away completely.

“I don’t think you’re imagining things,” Mike says before he can stop himself.

Will goes still.

Slowly, he looks back up.

Mike can physically feel his heartbeat pounding against his ribs now, each breath harder to pull in than the last. He should stop talking. He knows he should. But once the truth starts slipping out, he can’t seem to shove it back down again.

“I think…” Mike pauses, panic flashing through him immediately. “I think maybe I just suck at this.”

Will’s brows pull together slightly. “At what?”

Mike laughs nervously, dragging both hands over his face before dropping them again. “Feelings. Talking. Existing normally.” His voice grows quieter after that. “Especially around you.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Will stares at him so intently it almost hurts.

Mike’s pulse keeps climbing higher and higher beneath his skin because he can see the realization slowly forming on Will’s face now, piece by piece. All the half-finished conversations. The lingering stares. The panic every time things became too real.

Will takes a small step closer before he seems to realize he’s doing it.

“Mike,” he says softly.

And god, the way he says his name.

Like something precious.

Mike feels himself unraveling completely under the sound of it.

“I’m trying really hard to understand what’s happening right now,” Will admits quietly. “But you keep saying things halfway.”

Mike lets out a shaky breath.

Because he knows.

He knows exactly what Will is asking for.

Honesty.

Real honesty.

The kind Mike has spent years avoiding.

“I can’t—” Mike starts, then stops abruptly, frustrated tears suddenly stinging unexpectedly behind his eyes. “I don’t know how to say this without ruining everything.”

Will’s expression softens immediately at the panic in his voice. “Hey,” he says gently. “You’re not ruining anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

Will steps closer again despite himself, barely any space left between them now. “Then tell me.”

Mike looks at him helplessly.

And suddenly every single thing he’s spent years burying alive feels dangerously close to the surface.

Mike feels like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

The basement suddenly feels too quiet, too small for everything pressing violently against his ribs. Rain taps softly against the windows near the ceiling while the television flickers forgotten light across the room, but none of it feels real compared to the sight of Will standing directly in front of him crying with the same terrified expression Mike can feel tearing across his own face.

He can’t handle it.

He genuinely can’t handle seeing Will like this.

Because Will looks devastated already, and Mike hasn’t even said the worst part yet.

“Mike,” Will whispers again, voice trembling so badly it nearly breaks apart completely. “Please just tell me.”

The softness in his voice nearly kills him.

Mike lets out a shaky breath that turns into something dangerously close to a sob, dragging both hands through his hair before looking away because if he stares at Will too long right now, he’s going to completely lose control of himself.

“I don’t know how,” he admits brokenly.

Will takes a tiny step closer immediately, instinctive and worried. “You can just say it.”

Mike laughs weakly under his breath, but there’s no humor in it at all. “Yeah? That easy?”

“I mean…” Will’s own voice cracks slightly now. “Maybe.”

Mike finally looks back at him then, and the sight waiting for him almost physically hurts.

Will’s eyes are red from crying. Tears still cling to his lashes, slipping slowly down his cheeks while he stares at Mike like he’s terrified of whatever comes next but wants it anyway. The expression on his face is so open, so heartbreakingly vulnerable, that Mike’s chest caves inward completely.

God.

He’s so in love with him.

The realization crashes through Mike again with enough force to leave him breathless.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Mike says suddenly, voice uneven.

Will blinks softly. “Like what?”

Mike gestures helplessly between them, frustrated tears burning hot against his skin again. “Like I matter too much.”

Will’s breath catches.

And there it is again.

That horrible, impossible hope.

Mike wipes angrily at his face before continuing, emotions spilling faster now that he’s started. “You ask me what’s wrong all the time, but how am I supposed to explain this to you?” His voice shakes harder with every word. “How am I supposed to tell you that every time you smile at me lately, it feels like my heart’s getting ripped out of my chest?”

Will looks completely still now.

Like even breathing would ruin the moment.

Mike paces one uneven step away before immediately turning back again because distance feels unbearable suddenly. “And I tried ignoring it,” he admits shakily. “I really did. I kept thinking eventually it would go away and things would just go back to normal, but it only got worse.” He laughs softly under his breath, exhausted and overwhelmed by himself. “Every conversation with you feels different now. Every time you touch me, every time you look at me too long, every stupid little thing.”

Will’s eyes shine harder.

Mike notices immediately.

Of course he does.

“You asked me before why I keep pulling away whenever things get too real,” Mike continues more quietly now. “It’s because I’m scared all the time.” His voice cracks painfully. “I’m scared that if I let myself want this too much, I’ll ruin the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Will shakes his head instantly, tears slipping free again. “You’re not ruining anything.”

The sentence hits Mike so hard he almost stops breathing.

Because Will says it immediately.

Without hesitation.

Like he means it.

Mike stares at him helplessly, chest rising unevenly as emotions crash violently through him all over again. “You don’t understand,” he whispers.

“Then help me understand.”

God.

The way Will says things like that.

Like Mike is worth being patient with. Worth listening to carefully.

Mike feels tears sliding down his face again before he can stop them. “I notice everything about you,” he admits shakily. “That’s the problem.” His eyes squeeze shut briefly as another broken laugh escapes him. “I notice when you’re nervous because you start messing with your sleeves. I notice when you’re sad even before you say anything. I notice every time you walk into a room and immediately look for me first.”

Will inhales sharply.

Mike opens his eyes again slowly.

“And maybe I’m insane,” he says quietly. “Maybe I made all of this bigger in my head than it really is because I wanted it too badly.” His voice trembles apart again. “But lately it feels like there’s something happening between us, and I don’t know what to do with that anymore.”

Will’s face crumples completely now.

Not in pain.

In recognition.

Like he knows exactly what Mike means.

The realization sends panic and hope crashing together violently inside Mike’s chest.

Will takes another shaky step closer until there’s barely any space left between them now. Mike can feel the warmth radiating off him, can see tears trembling on his lashes, can hear the unevenness in his breathing.

And suddenly Mike realizes they’re both standing here waiting for the exact same thing.

Neither of them moves.

The space between them feels impossibly small now, charged with something so raw and fragile that Mike thinks one wrong breath could shatter it completely. Will’s eyes stay locked on his, glassy with tears and unbearably soft, and Mike can’t look away even though it feels like being seen too clearly. Like Will is staring directly into every terrible, desperate feeling Mike’s spent years trying to hide.

Mike’s breathing shakes unevenly.

Will’s does too.

And somehow that makes everything worse.

Because this isn’t one-sided anymore. Mike can feel it now with terrifying certainty, hanging between them in the silence like something alive. Every lingering glance, every almost-conversation, every moment that felt too heavy to just be friendship suddenly crashes together all at once until Mike feels dizzy from it.

Will swallows hard before speaking again, voice barely above a whisper. “You really thought you were alone in this?”

The question breaks something open inside Mike’s chest.

He stares at him helplessly. “How was I supposed to think anything else?”

Will’s face twists immediately, hurt flashing openly across it. “Mike…”

“No, seriously.” Mike laughs weakly under his breath, though it sounds closer to another sob. “You have no idea what this has been like.” He wipes furiously at his face again, frustrated tears slipping down faster anyway. “I kept trying to tell myself I was imagining things because the alternative was too terrifying.”

Will shakes his head softly, eyes shining harder now. “You weren’t imagining it.”

Mike’s breath catches painfully in his throat.

The room goes completely silent again.

Will’s chest rises unevenly as he looks at Mike with this awful, overwhelming tenderness that makes it hard to breathe properly. “I thought you were pulling away because you didn’t feel the same way,” he admits quietly. “Every time things started feeling…different between us, you’d panic and disappear.”

Mike closes his eyes briefly, guilt twisting violently through him. “I know.”

“And I kept thinking maybe I ruined everything by wanting too much.”

The sentence hits Mike like a physical blow.

Because that’s it.

That’s exactly it.

They’ve both been standing on opposite sides of the same fear this entire time, loving each other quietly while convincing themselves the other person would eventually leave if the truth ever got too loud.

Mike opens his eyes again slowly.

Will is still crying.

So is he.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Mike says immediately, voice rough with emotion. “Jesus Christ, Will, you could never ruin anything.”

Will lets out a shaky breath that sounds dangerously close to breaking.

And then, before Mike can stop himself, he reaches for him.

His fingers brush tremblingly against Will’s wrist at first, hesitant and terrified, like he’s still half-convinced this isn’t real and Will might disappear if he moves too quickly. But Will doesn’t pull away.

If anything, he leans closer.

The realization nearly knocks the air from Mike’s lungs.

Will’s hand slowly turns beneath his until their fingers press together properly, warm and shaking and real. Mike feels his entire body react instantly, heart pounding so violently it almost hurts.

“Oh my God,” he whispers brokenly.

Will laughs softly through tears, and the sound absolutely destroys him.

Because Mike knows that laugh.

Knows every version of it.

But he’s never heard this one before.

This one sounds relieved.

Mike stares down at their hands for a second like he can’t fully process what’s happening. Years of wanting this—wanting him—have conditioned his brain to expect rejection, to expect loss, and now that Will is standing here holding his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mike feels emotionally winded by it.

“I was so scared,” he admits quietly.

Will’s thumb brushes shakily against his knuckles.

“So was I.”

The honesty in the sentence makes Mike’s chest ache.

He looks back up slowly, and Will is already watching him with tears still slipping down his face, expression soft and wrecked and so full of feeling that Mike thinks he could stare at him forever and still never fully recover from it.

“You know what the worst part is?” Mike says weakly after a moment.

Will blinks slightly. “What?”

Mike lets out a breathless laugh. “Lucas knew before I did.”

Will stares at him for one second.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs.

The sound bursts out of him suddenly through all the tears and emotion, bright and disbelieving and so painfully fond that Mike feels warmth explode through his chest despite everything.

“Oh my God,” Will says, covering part of his face with his free hand while laughing shakily. “Of course he did.”

Mike starts laughing too then, helpless and emotional and completely overwhelmed, both of them standing there crying and laughing at the same time while years of fear slowly unravel between them.

And somehow, somewhere in the middle of it, Will steps even closer.

Will stops so close that Mike forgets how to breathe again.

Their hands are still tangled together between them, both shaking slightly, and Mike can feel the warmth of Will’s skin against his own like it’s something dangerous. Something holy. The basement feels unbearably quiet now except for their uneven breathing and the rain outside, soft against the windows like the world is trying not to interrupt this moment.

Will’s face is only inches away.

Close enough that Mike can see every detail of him perfectly—the tear tracks still shining on his cheeks, the way his lashes stick together slightly from crying, the tiny tremble in his bottom lip every time he exhales. And his eyes—

God.

His eyes look wrecked.

Not scared anymore.

Just full.

Full of too much feeling all at once.

Mike thinks he might die from it.

Will squeezes his hand once, small and trembling, and whispers, “Say something.”

Mike laughs weakly under his breath because that’s impossible. There are too many things inside him now, too much love and panic and relief all crashing together violently in his chest. He doesn’t know how to fit any of it into words without breaking apart completely.

“You’re really here,” he says instead, voice cracking softly.

Will’s expression crumples again immediately, overwhelmed emotion flashing across his face so openly that Mike’s chest aches from looking at him. “Mike…”

“I know that sounds stupid,” Mike says quickly, tears burning hot against his skin again. “I just—” He shakes his head helplessly. “I spent so long convincing myself none of this was real because it hurt less that way.”

Will steps even closer.

Now their bodies are almost touching.

Mike’s pulse goes completely unsteady.

“You idiot,” Will whispers shakily, crying again now too. Not angry. Not cruel. Just impossibly emotional. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

The sentence destroys Mike instantly.

His face twists before he can stop it, another broken laugh escaping him through tears. “Are you kidding me?” he asks helplessly. “Will, you are literally all I fucking want.”

Will lets out this tiny shattered sound like the confession physically hit him.

And suddenly Mike can’t take the distance anymore.

Not even the tiny amount left.

He tightens his grip on Will’s hand instinctively, eyes searching his face desperately like he still needs proof this is happening, proof that Will is standing here crying over him in the exact same way Mike’s been crying over him for months.

Years.

“I don’t wanna be your friend,” Mike whispers.

The words come out softer this time.

Not angry.

Not panicked.

Just painfully honest.

Will’s breath catches violently.

Mike steps closer until they’re finally chest to chest, both of them shaking so hard it’s almost ridiculous. Tears blur his vision again immediately, but he forces himself to keep looking at Will anyway because he needs him to understand this. Needs him to hear what Mike’s actually trying to say.

“I mean, I do,” he says brokenly, voice trembling apart. “God, of course I do. You’re my favorite person in the world.” He laughs shakily through another wave of tears. “But I can’t keep pretending that’s all I want from you anymore.”

Will is crying so hard now that Mike can barely stand it.

“I can’t sit next to you and act normal every time you touch me,” Mike admits quietly. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t think about kissing you all the time, or that hearing you say my name doesn’t completely ruin me.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “And I know this is messy and terrifying and probably the worst timing ever, but I’m so in love with you that it actually hurts.”

Will’s face completely falls apart.

Not in heartbreak.

In relief.

Mike sees it happen slowly, like the tension inside Will finally snapping after being pulled tight for far too long.

“Oh my God,” Will whispers, crying openly now. “Mike.”

Mike’s own tears fall harder at the sound of his voice.

“I tried so hard not to,” he admits shakily. “I swear I tried. Because I thought if I let myself want this for real, I’d lose you.” He presses their joined hands tighter between them unconsciously. “But then you started looking at me differently and saying things that made me hope, and suddenly I couldn’t survive pretending anymore.”

Will shakes his head immediately, tears slipping endlessly down his face. “You were never gonna lose me.”

The sentence hits Mike so hard his knees almost give out.

And before he can even process it fully, Will reaches up with trembling hands and grabs his face like he’s terrified Mike might disappear.

Will’s hands are trembling against Mike’s face.

That’s the first thing Mike notices through all the panic and adrenaline crashing violently through his chest. Not the tears still slipping down Will’s cheeks, not the way they’re standing so close their breaths keep mixing together unevenly between them, not even the fact that this is actually happening after months of almosts and unfinished sentences and longing so unbearable Mike thought it might kill him someday.

It’s Will’s hands.

Shaking just as badly as his own.

And somehow that completely destroys him.

The basement is silent except for the rain outside and the sound of both of them trying and failing to breathe normally. Mike can feel Will’s thumbs brushing shakily beneath his eyes, wiping away tears that keep replacing themselves immediately anyway. Will is looking at him like he’s terrified and overwhelmed and happy all at once, and Mike genuinely doesn’t know how to survive the expression on his face.

“You’re crying harder now,” Will whispers softly.

Mike lets out this helpless breathless laugh that cracks apart immediately. “Whose fault is that?”

Will laughs too then, tiny and emotional and wrecked around the edges, and the sound caves Mike’s chest inward completely.

God.

He loves him so much.

The realization hits harder now somehow, standing this close to him with all the pretending finally stripped away. Mike spent so long preparing himself for rejection, for losing him, for heartbreak, that he never let himself imagine this part. He never imagined Will looking at him like this—like Mike just handed him something precious instead of terrifying.

Will’s eyes flick downward for one dangerous second.

To Mike’s mouth.

And Mike notices immediately.

Of course he does.

The air between them changes instantly.

Mike feels his heartbeat stutter violently in his chest while Will’s breathing catches hard enough that he hears it. Neither of them moves after that. They just stand there staring at each other from inches away like they’re both waiting for permission they already have.

Mike thinks he stops thinking entirely at some point.

All he knows is that Will is right there.

Close enough to touch everywhere.

Close enough that Mike can see how pink his lips are from crying, can see the tiny tremble in them every time he exhales shakily. Will’s hands tighten slightly against his face like he’s scared Mike might disappear if he lets go.

“Mike,” Will whispers.

And the way he says his name—

soft and emotional and impossibly full of feeling—

completely ruins him.

Mike kisses him before he can lose his nerve.

It happens instinctively, desperately, like his body moves before his brain can catch up. One second they’re staring at each other crying in the middle of his basement, and the next Mike is leaning forward with shaking hands and kissing Will like he’s been starving for it.

The moment their lips touch, Will breaks.

A tiny shattered sound escapes him immediately, something between a sob and a gasp, and Mike feels it against his mouth hard enough that it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

Because Will kisses him back instantly.

Not hesitant.

Not unsure.

Like he’s wanted this too.

Mike feels his knees almost give out from the relief of it.

The kiss is messy right away. Tearful and uneven because both of them are still breathing too hard, both crying too much, but somehow that only makes it feel more real. Will’s hands slide shakily into Mike’s hair while Mike grabs onto the front of Will’s sweater like he needs something solid to keep himself standing upright.

And God—

Will kisses him so carefully.

Like Mike is something fragile he’s afraid of hurting.

That’s what completely destroys him.

Mike makes this helpless broken noise into the kiss and pulls Will impossibly closer, foreheads knocking briefly because neither of them knows what they’re doing and neither of them cares. Years of wanting are spilling out of both of them at once now, hidden inside every trembling inhale and desperate touch.

Will is crying against his mouth.

Mike realizes it a second before he feels tears slipping down his own face harder too.

They pull apart suddenly just to breathe, but neither of them moves away. Their foreheads stay pressed together, breaths uneven and warm between them while the entire room spins around Mike violently.

Will’s eyes are still closed.

His lips are trembling.

Mike stares at him like he’s witnessing something holy.

“Oh my God,” Mike whispers shakily.

Will laughs through a sob, opening his eyes again slowly. They’re impossibly soft when they meet Mike’s. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Mike feels another wave of emotion hit him so hard it physically aches. He reaches up without thinking and wipes at Will’s tears with trembling fingers, completely overwhelmed by the fact that he’s allowed to touch him like this now. Allowed to love him openly.

“You kissed me back,” he says weakly, like he still can’t fully believe it.

Will’s face crumples again immediately in the softest way possible.

“Mike,” he whispers helplessly, almost laughing through the tears now. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

The confession absolutely wrecks him.

Mike lets out this broken sound that’s half laugh, half sob, before kissing him again immediately because he genuinely doesn’t know what else to do with that amount of happiness.

This kiss is slower.

Still emotional, still trembling around the edges, but softer now too. Certain in a way the first one wasn’t. Mike cups Will’s face carefully this time, thumbs brushing damply over his cheeks while Will melts closer with a shaky inhale like he’s been waiting forever for Mike to hold him this way.

And maybe he has.

Will smiles against his mouth halfway through the kiss.

Mike feels it happen and nearly falls apart from how sweet it is.