Archive of Our Own

Mike is totally and completely fucked.

This is what he gets for wearing jeans that are too tight for their own good: complete bankruptcy. Or, he will be bankrupt if he doesn’t find his wallet soon. He’s checked the pockets of every pair of pants he owns, the gaps between the washers and dryers at his local laundromat, the hallway leading to his apartment— and nothing.

Who is he kidding? Some stranger has definitely stolen it off the floor by now. This is New York. He might as well cancel all of his cards and kiss the hundred bucks he’d uselessly stored in there four years ago goodbye. He’s never seeing his wallet again.

As a last resort, Mike stops off at the coffee shop he’d spent the morning studying in. He ignores the judgemental stares of the baristas as they greet him for the second time in the last three hours, heading instead to the booth on the far end of the room. He peeks under the table— nothing— and the bench he’d been sitting on. Again, nothing. With a grimace, he slides his hand between the cushions, praying— to no avail— that his fingers don’t come into contact with any crumbs that previous customers might have left. Even worse than the filth wedging its way under his nails is the sinking sensation in his stomach when he comes up empty.

“Are you looking for something?”

Mike leaps off of the cushion he’d been kneeling on, spinning around to face the voice that has mysteriously appeared behind him. His mouth drops open as he searches for a reply, and he’s not sure whether his sudden fumbling is due to his near heart attack, or the absolute stunning beauty of the man before him. His hair is golden, but not blond; face soft, yet chiseled. He’s a man that defies all logical possibilities, but here he is, standing in front of Mike. Mike swears he sees a beam of light shining behind him. An aura? Is that what those look like?

Mike is enamored, basically. That’s what he’s trying to say.

Eventually, after several attempts at human speech, he nods. “My wallet. I left it here. Or— in my apartment. Or on the sidewalk. I’m not exactly sure.”

Great going. He can’t believe he just ran his stupid, big mouth in front of the cute guy. He’s going to think he’s an idiot.

Cute Guy doesn’t turn away from him— doesn’t even laugh in his face. He just tilts his head in an adorable little gesture, stepping up to the bench curiously. Mindlessly, Mike shuffles back to make room for him. He’d honestly feared that Cute Guy was the manager of this shop, and he’d come to yell at Mike for disturbing the lovely atmosphere with his frantic searching. If he is the manager, he’s certainly a nice one.

Cute Guy reaches his own hand between the cushions. Mike is about to inform him that he’s already tried that when a sliver of familiar brown leather pokes out between his fingers. Cute Guy pulls his wallet out of the crack, presenting it to Mike with a pleased smile.

“How did you—“ Mike starts, then cuts himself off with a shake of his head. He should know better than to trust his own searching skills. Back home, he was notorious for losing shit. Whenever he’d ask his mom if she'd seen his shirt, she’d tell him to check the laundry basket. He’d reply that he already had, obviously, because he wasn’t an idiot. His mom, already clearly annoyed at his pestering, would march down the basement stairs and pull his shirt right off the top of the laundry pile Mike had rifled through mere minutes ago. So no, he really shouldn’t be surprised. “Thank you,” he finally remembers to say. “That was— I can’t believe it. You saved my ass.”

Cute Guy only smiles harder. It’s really beautiful on him. Mike thinks that anything would look beautiful on him, but his smile is different. It’s special. It suits him. “It’s no problem,” he says, then sticks his arm out in greeting. “I’m Will.”

Will. Will. That’s… kind of an underwhelming name for someone so clearly favored by the gods.

“I’m Mike,” he says belatedly. He quickly pulls his hand out of Will’s grasp and sticks it in his pocket when he feels a blush creep onto his cheeks. “Seriously, though. Thank you. You’re, like, an angel or something.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Will says, but given the way he ducks his head in embarrassment, Mike can safely guess that he’s flattered. “You just seemed like you could use some help.”

Mike immediately cringes. “How long were you watching for?”

“A while,” he says, evidently finding the whole thing very amusing. Mike is glad that he’s enjoying his pain. “But at least it gave me an excuse to talk to you.”

Will has somehow managed to render him utterly speechless twice in the same minute. He’s sure that the blazing heat that’s spreading across his face— to an almost fatal degree— is speaking for him. They’re flirting, now? The cutest guy Mike has ever seen is flirting with him?

“Uh— yeah,” he says dumbly. He wants to die. “Me too. I mean— I’m glad, as well. At least, I assume you’re glad. You’re probably starting to regret it now. I’m… a social disaster.”

“No,” Will says. Mike doesn’t trust him one bit— not after having watched his smile grow larger and larger as Mike rambled on nonsensically. “Well— you are a bit of a disaster,” he amends, and that, Mike can believe. “But it’s endearing.”

Oh. Okay. So the pretty boy likes losers. That works out great, because Mike is a huge loser.

Mike opens his giant mouth once again, with the intention of coming straight out and asking for Will’s number, like the suave guy he isn’t. In reality, he’s likely about to make an even bigger fool of himself.

Neither of these things end up happening, as Will cuts in before he can get a word out— which might actually be for the best. “Sorry, I have to run. See you later?” He’s already moving for his bag by the time Mike lifts his hand to wave.

“Yeah,” he says, watching dazedly as Will hurries out the door, returning the gesture with a grin as he steps out onto the sidewalk.

Fuck.

He is so, so fucked. He can’t believe he just let the most gorgeous man he's ever seen walk out of his life forever. They’re in the largest city in America. There is no see you later— not without meticulous planning on both ends. Mike loses his own sister half the time.

He might as well kiss his own sanity goodbye for the time being. There’s no way Will is leaving his mind any time soon.

Mike has gone back to that stupid café every morning since the incident.

Now, going out for coffee isn’t exactly a rare occurrence for him— nor would he ever consider trying a different shop than the one at which he’d met Will last week. Mike requires a daily intake of caffeine or he’ll go clinically insane. Does he usually make his own coffee at home for the sake of financial security? Yes. But it’s not as if he has anything better to do than wait around hopelessly for a practical stranger to walk through those doors.

He’s pathetic, he knows. On the bright side, Mike has never been so productive in his life. No way in hell is he going to sit all alone in a coffee shop, watching each patron enter as he sips his drink. He’s not a creep. Every day, he brings a little something to work on; a book he’s been meaning to finish, some old notes for his upcoming literature test, his writing journal with non-sequential passages scribbled around the place. It turns out, cafés are good for getting work done. Who knew?

His bank account is about to take yet another hit as the embarrassingly familiar cashier rings him up for two-fifty. Regretting every single one of his life choices, Mike reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. His heart stutters in his chest when his hand comes into contact with nothing but his own ass. Frantically, he searches his left pocket instead, as if he’s ever kept his wallet in there even one time. A quick pat-down of the front of his pants confirms the worst of his suspicions.

It’s gone. His wallet is gone again, and now he’s seriously considering the possibility that this café is cursed. Mike has no problem with that; it’s not like he’s ever coming back here anyway, because now he has to go through the humiliating process of telling the cashier to forget his order.

“You should get a chain for that thing.”

Mike jumps six feet in the air, head snapping in the direction of the amused voice behind him. It belongs to none other than Will, looking perfectly put together as always. Maybe he should get a bell, Mike thinks bitterly. Of course. Of course Will had to show up at the café today of all days. Of course he had to be waiting in line behind Mike the one time he decided to make a complete idiot out of himself.

Will doesn’t give him time to respond; not that he would’ve been able to anyway. His hand is already pulling a five dollar bill out of his own wallet, pressing in close against Mike’s back as he hands it to the barista.

Mike’s brain only starts working again after she’s typed the information into the register. “You don’t have to do that,” he tells Will, though they both know it’s too late.

There’s a humorous sparkle in his eye. Mike has already learned that this look means danger for him. He’s set himself up for a world of mockery. “I think I do,” Will says with a smirk.

Mike was absolutely correct; he’s no match for Will’s teasing. “This isn’t, like, a common occurrence,” he says in a rush, desperate beyond reason for this stranger to know that. “I’ve only lost my wallet three times before. This would be the fourth. You caught me on a bad week.”

Will’s expression does not settle into one of impressed admiration. His eyebrows raise in shock, though it’s clear that it’s not at Mike’s amazing organizational skills. “Four?” he asks, accepting the change that the cashier holds over the counter. He grabs onto Mike’s wrist, dumping it straight into his open palm. “Here. Buy yourself a key ring, for both of our sakes.”

Mike stares down at the crisp dollar bills in surprise. “Oh— no, Will, it’s fine,” he tries to say, but Will is already pushing him toward the pickup counter, apparently having noticed the growing line behind them. Courteous as ever. “Seriously,” Mike says, shoving the money into Will’s chest. “I can’t take this. You’ve already done enough.”

Will merely shushes him, hands remaining steadily on his shoulders until he’s backed Mike all the way to the far corner of the shop. His innocent little grin is almost enough to convince Mike that Will hadn’t intended to give him a heart attack with his touch. Does Will have any idea what he does to him?

“Keep it,” he demands. “It’s a gift. Just in case of emergency.”

Mike has half a mind to protest— but unfortunately, Will just melted the other half out of his ears. With a grumble of dissatisfaction, he tucks the bills into his pocket. Will is right. He has absolutely nothing on him right now— not even his subway card. He’s stranded. If, god forbid, something happened to Nancy across town, he wouldn’t be able to get to her.

“Well— thank you,” Mike says, for lack of a better response. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You will not,” he replies immediately, almost offended. “You don’t know what a gift is, do you?”

Mike’s stomach flips at the sight of his lopsided smile. He dips his head low, so as not to be caught blushing. “Gifts are usually reciprocated,” he says. “I feel like I’m always on the receiving end of this relationship.”

Will’s grin brightens as he rocks forward on his toes, hands clasped adorably behind his back. “I never said that you couldn’t make it up to me.”

Mike can do that. He’ll give Will whatever he wants. Money, a kiss, his organs— anything. He should. Kiss him, not give away his organs. Will is right here in front of him, standing so close that Mike can practically smell his cologne. Is he leaning in, or is that just Mike’s imagination?

He’s going to do it. He’s going to kiss those beautifully plush lips, so pink and soft. He’ll relish in the way they give beneath his own, the way they mold to fit his mouth just perfectly; the taste of Will, the scent of him, everything. It’ll all be his.

“Order for Mike!”

Mike nearly leaps out of his skin for the second time today as a new barista slams his cup on the counter next to them. Really— there was no need for him to yell. Mike is standing two feet away. Way to kill a mood.

The gods are not on his side today.

Mike has a sneaking suspicion that divine intervention was not at play here. The icy glare he’s sent by the barista suggests that the guy knows exactly what he had interrupted— and he’s not happy that it'd taken place in his shop.

That’s Mike’s cue to grab his cup and walk hastily in the other direction. Thankfully undeterred by the mortifying disaster that is, well, his entire being, Will follows him all the way to the booth where they first met. Yeah, he’s romantic and shit.

Oddly enough, Will doesn’t claim the chair opposite to Mike, choosing instead to squish into the booth beside him. Should Mike have offered him the booth instead, with its extra room and cushioned seat? Or perhaps he should’ve pulled the chair out for Will, like a gentleman, and now he’s being punished for his thoughtlessness.

He won’t complain— not when it forces their elbows to brush as Will lifts his arms to the table, rolling the paper casing of Mike’s straw into a little ball. It’s now that Mike realizes his hands are completely empty.

“You didn’t order anything,” he says, as if Will needed him to point that out. Is it possible that Will had actually forgotten his own order in the midst of all the chaos? Or maybe he lost his wallet right after paying for Mike’s drink. Or—

Oh shit. It’s Mike’s fault.

Will paid for his drink using the money he’d set aside for himself. He can’t afford anything because Mike stole the last of his paycheck right out from under his nose. Will donated his coffee money to a douche that still gets an allowance from his parents.

For once, it’s Will’s cheeks that erupt in a blush. It’s a little unfair how radiant it makes him look; Mike is always left an ugly, tomato-y mess. “Honestly?” Will says. “I was never going to. I just saw you in the window and wanted to say ‘hi.’”

Oh. Oh, okay. That’s sweet. That’s very sweet.

“Really?” he asks, knowing that his face must be breaking out into a huge, goofy grin by now. He screws his mouth to the side in an attempt to tamp it down, but traces of joy remain on his lips and in the shine of his irises. “I’m glad. I was sort of hoping I’d run into you here again.”

It’s Will’s turn to ask, “Really?” He seems so excited at the prospect that Mike can hardly believe it. All that for him?

“Yeah. I mean, you ran out before I could ask for your number last time.”

There. He did it. He shot his shot. And he only feels a little nauseous about it.

Will laughs softly. “Sorry, I was in a rush. I promised that I’d meet up with my sister.” He goes quiet after that, smiling up at Mike as if he’s already handed over the metaphorical talking stick. When Mike doesn’t take the turn he’s been granted, Will tilts his head, puzzled. “Oh,” he says after a long moment, eyes going wide. “You want it?”

“I mean, no pressure,” Mike hurries to say. Either this guy is seriously clueless when it comes to romance, or he’s too much of a sweetheart to reject Mike to his face. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. It was just… a thought.”

“No, I want to,” Will assures him. “But— okay, you’re not going to believe me, but I promise I’m telling the truth. My phone is fried.”

“Fried?” he asks. Will is right— he doesn’t believe him. He’ll really make any excuse to get out of this, won’t he?

Will nods gravely. “Singed. During a storm. My apartment’s old; the electrical is all fucked up. Sometimes the TV starts blasting when I’m not even home.”

“So you’re… haunted?”

“Ghosts don’t exist,” he says, with so much conviction that Mike is actually starting to think that his bullshit story might have a bit of truth to it. Either that, or Will is a fantastic actor. “No— this is entirely the fault of human engineering. Technology is a nightmare.”

Mike lets out a humorous breath through his nose. Judging by Will’s confused expression, he hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Okay, grandpa. Here,” he says, tipping his cup toward him. “Do you want a sip?

Will only spares him a short glance before diving straight in, his gorgeous lips wrapping around the straw. He sits back with a thoughtful nod. “That’s good. What is it?”

“A latte?” he says, shooting Will an odd look. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“No,” he confesses, cheeks glowing with a sheepish flush. “Basically never. I was homeschooled as a kid.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Mike says, reclining against the backboard of his seat. Finally, they’re on even ground here. Will might be a flirtatious dork, but he’s a dork nonetheless.

“What? How?” he asks, as if genuinely floored by this revelation. It’s cute.

“You just— you give off the vibe that you really like interacting with people.”

Will opens his mouth to argue, then promptly shuts it. “They’re fun,” he says in a mutter.

“They’re not, but okay,” Mike says. He takes a long sip of his super niche cup of milk and coffee. “So what do you do for work, then? If, I presume, you’re not in college.”

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“Again with that. You have to start trusting me more, man.” Man? Way to go, charmer.

Will laughs nonetheless. “Alright, alright. I’m a bodyguard.”

Okay— to his credit, Mike never does believe him. Will is… well, he’s not scrawny, but he certainly isn’t a body builder. But who knows? Maybe he’s hiding giant canons under that flannel of his. And isn’t that a thought. A nice thought. A lovely thought that Mike is going to save for a time that isn’t right now, when the man he’s fantasizing about is sitting directly beside him, waiting for a response.

“You can say it,” Will says after a prolonged silence— and possibly one too many passes of Mike’s eyes along his frame. “I don’t look like a bodyguard.”

“No,” Mike says, though he’s obviously lying through his teeth. “No, you do. I mean— I’d be intimidated by you, for sure. I’m sure you’re fully capable of all that… brute force, and stuff.”

Will doesn’t seem very convinced by his performance, letting out an amused chuckle. “I’ve never actually had to fight anyone. It’s more… making sure that my client doesn’t get themself into trouble. Ensuring that their day runs smoothly— all that.”

“So you’re basically an assistant.”

“No!” Will exclaims, jaw dropping low in offense. “No, Michael, I am not an assistant.”

“What’s wrong with being an assistant?”

“Nothing, if that was what my job was.”

“Sure,” Mike says, nodding slowly as he brings his straw to his lips. Will’s lips were on that straw. He clears his throat to cover up his startled choke. “So— you work for the president, or something?”

“Yes,” he says sarcastically. “Yes, Mike. That’s why I live in New York. No, my client is much cooler than the president.”

“Oh?” Mike asks. “Who?”

Unexpectedly, Will slips out from his side of the booth. He smiles down at Mike in that incredibly beautiful way of his, and says, “That is a question that must wait until later. I have to get to a meeting.”

Mike does his best to conceal his disappointment. Again? It seems like every time things start to get real between them, Will is rushing out the door. If he hadn’t sought Mike out this afternoon, he’d probably assume that Will was running away from him.

“Mr. President?” Mike asks, hoping that his solemn tone can be passed off as a joke.

Will shakes his head. Dare Mike say, he looks a little fond. “My boss.”

Oh— the big president, then.

“But I’ll catch you later?” Will asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” he says. “Later.”

Mike watches him disappear from his life once again. Once again, he lets Will believe that they might have a “later.”

Bumping into Will the first time was a miracle; a world-tilting, mind-shattering miracle. Their reunion was a one-in-a-million coincidence. There is no possible way that Mike could ever be that lucky for a third time. He’s allergic to good things— and Will is the best of them all.

Mike has his wallet on him today. He checked three times prior to leaving his apartment— and has patted himself down every subsequent minute afterwards. Yup— it’s definitely on his person.

For once, he wishes that he’d left it at home.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise in alarm before he feels the body of another, much larger man press up against him. His footsteps pause, his hunched spine straightening out at the sharp sensation of a blade poking into it, posture no longer bothered by the weight of the grocery bags in his arms.

A nimble hand slides its way into his pocket, almost imperceptible. There’s a loss of weight that Mike is becoming frustratingly well-acquainted with, but neither the man nor the knife give him a reprieve.

Mike hates his life.

Just a quick trip to the store— that’s all he wanted. A nice stroll under the moonlight. And yeah, maybe it was a bit idiotic of him to assume that he could walk alone through the city at ten p.m. and come out unscathed. But he was out of milk! Is that really his fault? Sue him for thinking that being a six-foot man would render him safe from muggers.

Mike hisses under his breath as the knife shifts against his arched back, slicing a layer of skin. A deep voice sounds in his ear, loud in the silence of the night. “What the hell?” it asks. The question is not directed at Mike; the man’s head seems to be pointed somewhere to their right.

Mike tries to turn toward the commotion, but the man sets a forceful hand on his shoulder.

“Michael Wheeler,” another voice says. This one makes Mike’s heart accelerate for an entirely different reason. It’s familiar, but just barely; approximately the level of familiarity one would have for a stranger that they’ve met exactly twice.

This time, Mike manages to crane his neck far enough to see the figure standing beside his mugger. Will is flipping through his wallet without a care in the world. How it got into his hands in the first place, he has no idea.

Will glances up at the mugger with a dubious, almost bored expression. “I don’t think that’s you. Why don’t you pull your scarf down from over your mouth and we’ll see.”

“Will,” Mike whispers, shooting him a sharp glare when Will looks his way, unbothered. He’s crazy. He’s fucking insane. “He has a knife,” he says, darting his eyes pointedly to the hand that the mugger is currently holding to his back.

This, as it turns out, was not the brightest move. The mugger quickly releases Mike, declaring him a non-threat, and lunges toward Will with his blade outstretched, as if Mike had just reminded him it was there. Mike spins on his heel just in time to see Will swing his forearm up to collide with the man’s, sending the knife clattering to the ground.

Right. He forgot. Bodyguard.

Mike isn’t sure whether it’s adrenaline or pure, unrestrained attraction that causes his stomach to swoop. He’s definitely sure which is at fault when Will asks, “Would you like to try again?”

The mugger takes a single step backward, then another. He bends down to grab the knife from the sidewalk and sprints off in the opposite direction. Mike would laugh at his cowardice if he wasn’t so terrified himself.

Will turns to him with a smile, passing him back his wallet. “Chain, Michael.”

He can’t bring himself to laugh as he tucks his wallet safely where it belongs. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Will shortens the distance between them, tilting his curious head. “Are you alright?”

Mike doesn’t reply; he dives forward, wrapping Will in a tight hug. No. He’s not alright. He might’ve been murdered right here on the street if Will hadn’t shown up at just the right time. He lets out a shaky breath against Will’s shoulder and struggles to inhale another. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Will’s hands rise to his back without hesitation. His embrace is firm— strong arms around Mike’s trembling form. Steady fingers rub up and down Mike’s spine, as curled in on itself as it is, as if Will is happy to be doing this; happy to be holding Mike like he would a frightened child. “You’re okay,” he says. “I’m right here.”

It’s unfathomably comforting— the assurance of an acquaintance he barely knows. Mike trusts him as if he were his own mother. He feels a wave of calm rush into his brain, eating at the fear that had taken home there.

Mike breathes in deeply through his nose and is hit with another. Will smells like… light. A clean, bright, yellow light. Like sunshine. Not the polluted sunlight that they get in New York; the sunlight of his childhood, braced against a vivid blue sky.

When Will pulls back to meet his eyes, he can tell that his own are dazed. His mind is all foggy. It only makes sense; he’s on the come-down of a huge adrenaline spike, after all.

“Any better?” Will asks.

“Yeah,” Mike says, nodding dumbly. “All better.”

Will looks extra pleased at that. “Good. Would you like any help carrying your groceries home?”

Mike glances down at his feet, where his bags have been unceremoniously dumped onto the ground by none other than himself. There go his eggs. “Uh— yeah, if that’s possible. Unless you have something better to do. I don’t want to keep you. You’ve done enough.”

Will dismisses his concerns with a shake of his head. “I live to help,” he says, grabbing the bag on Mike’s right. The heavy one, he notes, with the perishables that have definitely spoiled by now. “Where to?”

Mike blinks several times, watching as Will starts down the sidewalk without him. Hurriedly, Mike snatches the bread and bananas from the concrete and meets him at his side.

By some miracle, when he unpacks his groceries not ten minutes later, he finds every single item intact.

“Are you sure you didn’t just hallucinate him?” Lucas asks the next day.

Mike turns over onto his stomach, his eyes rolling along with him. He twirls the phone cord around his pointer finger like some love-struck girl, dropping his hand to the mattress the moment he realizes that he’s doing so. “He’s real, Lucas. I’m not crazy.”

“Cute and into you? I’m not sure, man.”

Mike feels a heat rise to the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t hate it, exactly, humiliating as it is. “I never said he was into me.”

“You didn’t have to,” Lucas says. “Have you told him that you’re leaving?”

“Don’t put it like that. It’s only for a week.”

“Yeah, a week in Europe. Can you stand to be that far away from your precious Will?”

The fire only grows hotter. He’s sure that his face is bright red. “Shut up.”

The issue, Mike has found, that comes with being close to his family, is that he’s expected to actually spend time with them. That means attending the pre-paid vacations that his mom only insists on to keep up the Wheeler image. And for his baby sister, of course. Twelve years old is plenty young enough to still enjoy hanging out with the family.

Why they scheduled the trip during spring break and not, say, summer, is anyone’s best guess. But if Mike wants them to keep paying for his apartment, he’s going to have to drag his ass to France. And Italy. And England.

“So— have you?” Lucas prompts again, after a silence that drags on for a moment too long.

“No. I mean, I don’t think we’re that close. We’ve only talked a few times— does he need to be informed whenever I take a vacation?”

“No, but given how often you two seem to ‘coincidentally’ bump into each other on the street, he might notice your absence.”

There’s something in Lucas’s tone— something that he can’t quite place. Accusation— suspicion, maybe. Mike doesn’t like it one bit. “What are you trying to say?”

“That one of you is definitely stalking the other. And I know it’s not your clumsy ass. You’d be caught in a second.”

“That’s bullshit!” he exclaims. Will couldn’t be more innocent. He’s the sweetest person Mike has ever met.

Lucas sighs deeply, as if he already knew that Mike would argue. “Seriously— do you not think it’s weird how often you two cross paths? This is New York City, Mike. Have you ever seen the same person twice?”

It’s a fair point; one that Mike has considered many times before. It’s also pure and utter slander upon Will’s name. “Well— maybe we have a similar route. We drink at the same coffee place. Is it crazy to think that we just happen to live near each other?”

“I don’t know, man,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “Just— be careful, alright? The city is home to way too many creeps. Even cute ones.”

No— Lucas is wrong. Will could never be a creep. Could he? He saved him. Three times, to be exact. He even offered to walk Mike home afterwards. Would a creep follow someone all the way to their door?

Well…

No. Will is a sweetheart. Lucas is just jealous of his impeccable game. Mike will show him.

Mike tries his absolute hardest to understand society’s obsession with giant, ancient buildings. He gets it, okay? They’re a marvel of engineering. The mere fact that they’re still standing is a miracle in and of itself. Not to mention the sheer beauty of it all. The details carved into every inch of stone would have taken hundreds of people an entire lifetime.

But after spending three long days doing nothing but slowly meandering through the oldest buildings in all of Europe, it loses a bit of its effect. Another click of his mother’s camera to his right, Nancy’s hum of interest to his left, and Mike is about ready to lose his mind.

He’s never been the most patient person. He can’t remember a vacation where he wasn’t scolded for his restless fidgeting— though, can he be blamed when he’s stuck with a mother that stops to look at every single thing she ever sees? It’s an archway. The same black, marble archway that they’ve walked past twenty times since they entered the palace of Versailles. And Mike doesn’t even know what could have Nancy so intrigued. He has a suspicion that she’s faking it just to seem smarter than she is.

Mike suppresses a sigh, knowing the angry comment his mother would make if he released it. He tips his head backward, just as the other dozens of patrons around him are doing. Their intent is most certainly not to assuage their insurmountable boredom, however. They do not feel the urge to spin around in circles like he does. They simply admire the beautiful painting above them— no doubt the greatest accomplishment in all of human history, or whatever. Mike didn’t pay attention in his world history class.

It’s pretty, he guesses. He’s never painted on a ceiling before, personally, but it must be difficult. Lots of angels. Lots of war. People on big, white clouds, sitting against a blue sky. Seventeenth-century shit.

His eyes follow the natural arch of the ceiling, all around the curved edge of the frame. They land on one angel in particular, for reasons unbeknownst to Mike. There are hundreds of figures on the wall, but none of them call to him the way that this one does. He squints up at the ceiling, searching for something— anything— that stands out about this blob of paint.

Nothing. That’s his answer. It really is just a blob of paint, because the idiots who made this palace built the roof too high to actually admire any of the art.

Mike sighs in pain. There’s only one thing he can do.

With great reluctance, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the stupid opera glasses that his mom bought the entire family; the very ones that he swore up and down he would never, ever use. Before his mom can turn around and catch him in the act, he lifts the binoculars to his face.

And the angel is— gorgeous. Lightly tanned skin, eyes of green and brown, the most beautifully golden hair that Mike can confidently say he’s ever seen.

Except, that would be a lie. Mike has seen hair like that before. Perhaps not more beautiful, but equally so.

Maybe he has gone crazy, like Lucas said— maybe he’s seeing his crush everywhere like a lovesick idiot— but that angel is a mirror image of Will.

Will— his Will— looks like an angel. He knew it. He knew that Will was the pinnacle of mankind. He knew that Will was pretty enough to have posed for the artists of Versailles, and now Mike has proof.

Mike pulls out his digital camera, snapping a picture of the lookalike. If anyone ever gives him shit for comparing Will to the physical embodiment of beauty, they can argue with the photo. Maybe he should show Will. Would he even believe it? He has to. The evidence is right here in his hands.

Mike has always been skeptical of reincarnation, but he’s seriously starting to doubt himself. Who knows— maybe this angel’s reference was Will’s great-great-great-great-great grandfather. Mike will have to ask whether or not he’s French.

“Michael!”

Mike turns toward his mother’s voice, finding her halfway down the hall. She’s waving him forward with an impatient expression. “Let’s go!”

Oh, sure. She’s allowed to rush him.

Mike has been just a tad jumpy since, you know, being robbed and everything. Each unexpected touch— every sudden noise— has him panicking. Even his dad had commented on it, and he never notices anything. It’s especially bad at night, but even on a clear day like this, the streets of New York are one big, flashing warning sign.

It’s for this very reason that the sensation of two hands coming up to cover his eyes is extremely unwelcome. His heart lurches at the loss of sight. Reflexively, he drives his elbow backwards into the sturdy body behind him.

Unfortunately, the body evades his attack in one swift sidestep. Or, perhaps Mike had been extremely lucky, because as he spins around to confront his mugger, it’s only Will's alarmed face that greets him.

“Sorry,” Mike blurts, crossing the distance between them and circling his fingers around Will’s wrist. “I’m so sorry, holy shit.”

“No, it’s alright,” Will says. “I deserved it. That was a dumb way to say ‘hi.’ I saw it in a movie once.”

Mike can’t help but laugh. What a homeschooled little dork. With his head ducked, he finally notices the long black leash that’s dangling from Will’s hand; the one that Mike is currently clinging onto. Mike lifts it up in the air, following the line with his eyes until they meet the cutie on the other end. “Who’s this?” he asks, squatting down to let the sandy, scruffy dog sniff his hand.

“Chester. I’ve had him forever. You can pet him, if you’d like. He’s harmless.”

Mike would love to. He scratches the darling boy behind the ears, earning himself a tail wag in return. “Are you two going on a walk? Huh?” he asks Chester, in the embarrassing tone that always manages to slip out when he comes into contact with anything adorable and fluffy.

Will, who is also adorable, though a little less fluffy, answers for him. “We are. Would you like to come with us? Just to the park,” he says, pointing to the end of the street.

“Yes,” he says far too quickly, hopping back onto his feet. “Definitely. I was heading there as well, as it so happens.” He was actually planning on stopping by the library to read, but even he isn’t a big enough nerd to choose books over a cute boy.

Will smiles, his front two teeth poking out slightly below the others. He hooks one of his arms through Mike’s as if it’s nothing and leads him down the sidewalk.

The park is actually really nice. Mike has never visited it in the three years that he’s lived here, preferring the indoors far more than the outdoors. Less bugs, for one. Less time peeling off his sunburned skin in the mirror.

Trees are quite pretty, though— even more so when he’s observing them at eye-level, rather than a bird’s eye view from his fourth floor apartment. They smell nice, too. It reminds him of Indiana. He likes it, as hard as he’d tried to escape that place.

They walk once around the perimeter before Will abruptly changes direction. He— well, Chester— guides Mike to a lovely little pathway at the far end of the park, fading grass under their feet and a canopy of trees overhead. It’s lovely. Of course it is— it’s Will’s.

“I haven’t seen you around recently,” Will says, his voice as gentle as the swaying leaves around them.

“I was on a trip,” he explains. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lucas is saying, “I told you. Stalker.” Mike bats his image away. “With my family.”

“Oh,” he says. Will doesn’t seem upset by it, like he imagines a real stalker might— Mike engaging in his own free will, and all. If anything, he looks pleased. “Did you have a nice time?”

“It was alright?” Mike says uncertainly. “Lots of statues of old dead dudes. Not exactly an amusement park, but I guess I’m ‘cultured’ now.”

Will’s hand trails slowly down the inside of Mike’s forearm, causing the hairs to stand at attention. He finds Mike’s clammy palm, tucked away in his jacket pocket, and laces their fingers together. “I’m not sure that we’re going to work out after all,” he says, brushing up against Mike’s shoulder. “I love to travel and look at a bunch of dead dudes.”

Mike’s heart stutters, then stops dead in its tracks. His feet follow its example. That was it, right? That was real. This is real— this thing between them. It’s not all in his head. Will practically just slapped Mike across the face and said, “Hey, idiot. I’m interested in you. Do something about it.”

He should. He should do something about it.

Will turns to him, eyebrows pinched in concern. “Mike?”

“Sorry, just— I want to make sure I’m reading this correctly,” he says, his pulse racing erratically. He glances between Will’s open, honest eyes. “This is romantic, right?”

A shy grin appears on Will’s face, and he gives a one-shouldered shrug. “If you want it to be.”

Mike is silent for a long moment, his forehead scrunching up in confusion. “What?” he asks. It sounds almost as if Will is trying to be romantic— like he thinks that he’s being generous by allowing Mike to choose. In all honesty, it makes his heart crack right down the center. “Will— what does that mean?”

“Just…” He shrugs again. “I don’t really mind either way. If you want us to date, then we can.”

Sometimes, it really feels like he’s talking to an alien. “That’s not how it works, Will. Do you want us to date? Because if not, just tell me so. You don’t need to let me down gently. It kind of hurts a lot worse.”

For the first time, Will looks truly remorseful. “No,” he says, grabbing onto both of Mike’s forearms— to prevent him from leaving, he presumes. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to let you down.”

Mike has a hard time believing that. “Just be honest with me,” he says. “That’s all I want.”

“Okay.” Will nods to himself, lowering his arms to his sides and clenching his hands into fists. He takes a deep breath, then raises his eyes to meet Mike’s. “I don’t feel attraction in the same way most people do. I’ve never really had the desire to pursue someone in that way.”

Mike feels it like a punch to the gut. He’s developed soul-crushing, all-consuming feelings for the most incredible guy in the world, and he never even had a sliver of a chance. He doesn’t think he’s ever fallen this hard for anyone, and he doesn’t know if he ever will again.

He refuses to let his disappointment show. He promised that he’d hear Will out completely, and goddamnit if Mike is going to ruin their friendship just because he’s a little bit in love.

“I feel a lot for you,” Will says, as if it could mend even a fraction of Mike’s shattered heart. “There might not be fireworks when I’m around you, but I do like you. You’re pretty, and funny, and ridiculously smart. I want to be with you in any way I can, whether that’s platonic or romantic.”

“You—“ Mike pauses, finding himself suddenly unable to form words. Will thinks he’s pretty? “You would date me? Still?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, idiot,” Will says, taking a step closer, leaving only an inch of space between their chests. “I like you. Maybe not exactly how you like me, but I just… I want you to be my person. I’d like to love you, if you’ll let me.”

It’s not everything Mike had wanted. There may be a bit of lingering disappointment at the thought of Will being anything less than completely attracted to him— but it’ll be enough. It has to be enough.

“That was… really romantic, actually,” Mike says, hooking his pinky around Will’s. He scans Will’s face, only a breath away from his own; his pretty mouth, his sparkling eyes, the mole just below his nose. In the next moment, Mike’s lips are on his, one hand tangled in Will’s hair, pulling him up and in.

Nerves spike through Mike’s stomach, warm and pleasant. He basks in them for one, two, three more kisses, before leaning back to press their foreheads together. “So— you don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” Will asks, breathing heavily through his parted lips, teeth on full display. “Happy?

“No. The butterflies.”

Will’s joy dims right in front of Mike’s eyes. He looks almost ashamed. “Oh. No, I don’t. Is that okay?”

Mike just can’t have that. “It’s perfectly fine,” he says, not bothering to mull his words over for long enough to know whether or not they’re a lie. He doesn’t think they are. “Your smile is plenty.” He’s exceptionally glad when it returns moments later, brighter than the sun. Brighter than that angel in Versailles.

Yes. He was definitely telling the truth.

Will’s arms travel up his back, locking them in a tight hug. He rises up onto his tiptoes, tilting his head back and puckering his lips adorably. Mike grants him his wish immediately.

A wave of uncertainty hits him as soon as Will comes into view again, that rosy glow returning to his cheeks. He looks undoubtedly happy. And yet, Mike has doubts. “Are you sure this is okay? We don’t have to kiss, if it grosses you out.”

“You could never gross me out,” Will says. He offers another kiss between each of his words. “I. Like. You.”

Mike licks his lips, ready to give him something to be grossed out about, when Will suddenly jerks to the side. “Hey— Chester!” he scolds, pulling at the leash with all his might.

“I think he’s had enough of us,” Mike says, settling a hand on Will’s lower back. He’s allowed to, now. “Maybe it’s time to head home.”

Will lets out a deep sigh. “I guess. Maybe we could do something tomorrow, though?” he asks hopefully, peering up at Mike from under his lashes.

Mike’s stomach flips. “Yes. Absolutely. Where should we meet?”

“Café. Two o’clock.”

“Cool,” he says, unable to tamp down his grin. “It’s a date.”

Dating a man without a phone is a lot harder than Mike had anticipated. Future outings are arranged at the end of each one previous, and Mike can only pray that nothing comes up between then. So far, not a one has been canceled; Will is a perfect gentleman and would never stand him up.

The evenings are lonely without a goodnight call, as are the mornings and most afternoons. Mike has taken it upon himself to send his dear nightly letters— though, he knows that they won’t arrive until several days later, at which point he’ll have already filled Will in on the most pressing drama, but it’s the thought that counts. In return, Will mails him a sketch. Some are drawn as they sit together in their booth at the café, chatting about nothing and everything. Some are drawn lying in the grass at their park. Some are drawn privately in Will’s home.

Mike’s birthday is spent drinking milkshakes with Will in an old diner. Lucas and his girlfriend tag along, too— mostly so that Mike can prove Will’s existence to his exceedingly annoying best friend. He counts it as a date anyway, as it’s only their second.

Spring fades as they approach the cusp of summer, the first few days of June bringing blue skies and fresh flowers along with it. Mike carries those very same flowers in his hand right now, having stopped off at the florist on his way to their favorite meeting place. Will is in charge of this morning’s date, and he had refused to tell him the location ahead of time. Mike has a feeling that he just hasn't decided yet.

He nearly trips over his feet as a kitten runs out from behind a box in the alleyway beside him. Luckily, he has the agility of a cat himself, and rights his balance before he can fall face-first onto the sidewalk. That would have been a disaster— showing up to their date with a torn pant leg and bloody forehead.

Mike’s first mistake was stopping. The kitten’s first mistake was not.

He watches in horror as it bolts out into the road, right in front of a speeding car. He lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the vicious murder. Through the gaps in his fingers, he sees the car swerve, relief filling his chest for only a second. That’s all he has before every inch of his body erupts in a fiery pain, and then, a moment later, nothing. Numbness. He can’t feel the warm cement under his back— the blood dripping down his fingers.

He thinks he might hear his name. When he peels open his eyelids, Will’s distraught face is staring down at him, blocking out the sun. Mike’s head is in his lap, he thinks. Will is saying something more, but he can’t quite understand him over the ringing in his ears. It’s alright. Mike is content to die here, in Will’s arms. He only wishes that the flowers could have survived the crash.

He takes in the beauty of Will’s features one last time, then closes his eyes forever.

Mike doesn’t remember opening his eyes, but they appear to be that way all the same. There isn’t much to look at— just endless walls of white. Or maybe black. He can’t exactly tell.

He spins around— or, more like imagines spinning around, because his feet don’t seem to move. A figure that he hadn’t noticed stands before him, glowing brighter than the day they met. Will, shedding sad, gorgeous tears. Why is he crying?

“Mike,” he says, taking a not-quite-step forward. A hand cups Mike’s cheek, just as it had been moments ago. He can almost feel the phantom pressure through this weird dreamscape.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asks him, brushing away a few of his stray tears with the back of his hand.

The sound Will makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re dead, Mike.”

“No, I’m not,” he says. “I passed out from the blood loss.”

Will only smiles up at him; the kind a parent would give their child when they’re being naively hopeful about something.

“Oh— come on,” Mike says. He’s not sure why he’s even arguing with his own imaginary version of Will. “If I’m dead, why are you here. Are you an angel, or something?”

“Yes,” Will says.

He sounds so serious about it that Mike can’t bring himself to laugh. It’s sort of nauseating how unfunny the situation suddenly is. Will isn’t joking; Mike knows the tone he uses when he’s joking. So either his brain is severely concussed and sending him some truely bizarre dreams, or—

“I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you,” Will says through another wave of tears. “I promise I’ll explain everything when we’re back, just— you have to let me heal you. Please.”

Mike can’t deny him anything when he looks like this. Even if this is all in his head, what harm would it do to indulge him? Angel or not, he’d follow Will into the depths of hell. “Okay,” he says. “Heal me.”

Will brings their foreheads together with a tight-lipped smile. “I need you to look away,” he says when Mike’s gaze remains locked on his. “Don’t look at me. Please. Listen for the earth.”

Mike takes a deep breath in, then slowly releases it. He fights the urge to reopen his eyes, though it’s a lot harder than he’d expected. It’s as if it’s calling out to him— Will’s glow. It feels like the promise of warmth and safety. It feels like the scent of Will.

He’s the light, Mike realizes. He’s the light that Mike is supposed to follow into death.

The sound is faint, at first— a low buzzing in his ear. He’s not exactly sure what it is. A bee, maybe. A fly. His mind latches onto it, letting it guide him back to the ground. As he gets closer, the buzzing grows into the familiar hum of voices. Several overlap at once; dozens, really. It’s nearly overwhelming enough for him to let go. The afterlife is much more peaceful.

He forces himself to hold on, for Will’s sake. The golden light slowly fades into another— much harsher, and far less beautiful. When his retinas begin to burn with it, he finally opens his eyes.

Will’s head moves to block out the sun once again. His tears are dripping onto Mike’s skin, but he doesn’t mind one bit. “Hey,” Will laughs, voice wet and so, so relieved. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he says, petting the hair along his temple, as if Mike is the one that’s freaking out here. His hand comes back covered in blood.

Mike only has a moment to be concerned about it. Will waves the hand over his body in an almost imperceptible motion, and a tingle begins to radiate throughout his entire being. Something magical, for sure. Glad Mike didn’t make all that up.

“You can sleep, if you’d like,” Will tells him. Great. Sounds good. Mike is suddenly very sleepy. “You’re safe now.”

The world fades into black for the second time this morning.

Waking from a deep, well-needed slumber is perhaps the worst feeling in the world; at least, it was, before Mike had experienced what it’s like to nearly die. Being forced out of sleep in the middle of a REM cycle is like digging himself out of his grave after being buried alive.

That is not how he feels when he opens his eyes to yet another pure white room. There’s a low beeping in his left ear, which he first assumes to be a side effect of coming back from the dead. What’s a little tinnitus in exchange for his life?

The smell of rubbing alcohol clues him otherwise. This is not his popcorn ceiling. This is not his lumpy bed. The hand that’s holding his is not his own, nor is it Lucas’s.

He turns his head to the side; it flops onto the pillow moments later. It’s a weird sensation— being very clearly drugged out of his mind while his brain couldn’t be any sharper.

Will is the first thing that he sees; his presence is starting to become a bit of a trend, now. He’s perched in the uncomfortable waiting-room chair beside Mike’s hospital bed, watching him with a fond expression. Maybe it should be creepy. Maybe it is creepy. He doesn’t care. Will saved his life.

Mike isn’t entirely confident that he didn’t make the whole thing up after all. It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, neither does any of Will’s behavior leading up to this point. His complete lack of human socialization, his distaste for modern technology, the way he always shows up exactly when Mike needs him…

Will is his guardian angel. He has to be. Mike is his client.

He isn’t sure what this means for them— for their relationship. He doesn’t think that Will would pretend to be into him just to make his job a smidge easier. It must be real. Right?

“Hi,” Will says, running one of his hands down the back of Mike’s, while the other is clasped securely in his palm. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m in one piece,” he replies, his eyes doing a cursory scan of his body. It’s littered in casts. “Surprisingly.”

“There shouldn’t be any pain. I took all of it away.”

Mike attempts to squeeze his hand in thanks, but finds his muscles too weak to manage it properly. “If you went through all that trouble, why not fix the bones while you’re at it?” he asks with a teasing smile.

Will doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, keeping his mouth in a firm, straight line. “I really wish I could, but there were too many witnesses. It’s a miracle that you’re still alive. If you walked away without a scratch, people would ask questions.”

“Hey,” Mike says. “It’s alright. You did what you could. You saved me.”

He shakes his head, lowering it to hide his face. Mike catches the tear that slips down his cheek anyway. “I should have been there. I could have prevented it.”

Mike should ask. He needs to ask. As shitty and selfish as it is, he can’t console Will without knowing the truth. He can’t enable a monster disguised as an angel. He needs to know who Will is.

“Yeah? How? By stalking me?”

Will’s head shoots up, alarm coating his features. “No,” he says. Mike might believe him, if not for the fact that he immediately follows it up with, “Well, kind of. It’s complicated.”

“How is it complicated?” he asks. He regrets raising his voice the second Will flinches in his seat. He’s just— shocked. He’s betrayed. He can’t believe that he had been naive enough to dismiss Lucas’s claims.

Worst of all, he’s still in love.

“I was looking out for you!” Will exclaims, eyes pleading for Mike to trust him. “I wasn’t following you around, I promise. I never went anywhere you didn’t allow me to go. That day in the café— the day we met— I established a connection with you. I felt a tug every time you ran into trouble. That’s all, I promise.”

Okay. Say that’s true. Say that Will didn’t watch his every move. That still doesn’t explain one thing. “Why?”

“Because I love you,” Will says, lifting his hand to his mouth to muffle his sob. It’s the first time either of them have spoken the words aloud. Mike feels himself falling for them against his better judgment. “I couldn’t afford to lose you, Mike.”

“You didn’t even know me,” he says, voice frail in the quiet room.

“I did,” Will insists. The admission stirs a sickening feeling in Mike’s gut.

“How?”

Will avoids his gaze, staring down at his lap. “You'll think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t,” he says, pulling his hand from Will’s grasp and laying it over his trembling fingers. “I would never think you were crazy.”

Will takes a deep breath, releasing it in one shaky exhale. “I know you. I’ve known you for a long time— generations before you were born. I saw you. In my mind. I didn’t know when, but I knew you would come into my life one day. I’ve been searching ever since. And you almost left me,” he says, wiping the fresh tears from his face with his sleeve. “After two months. You were almost gone.”

“Will…” Mike isn’t sure what to say. That he’s obviously forgiven? That Mike regrets ever doubting his golden heart? That this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him?

He simply opens up his arms instead, wrapping the one that isn’t encased in a sling around Will’s back as he dives in for a hug. He lets Will lay his head over his bruised— possibly broken— ribs as he cries. He deserves it after decades of anguish.

Decades? Centuries? Millennia?

“Will,” he says after a moment of comforting back rubs. “How old are you?”

He doesn’t know why this of all things is what his brain gets stuck on. He’s curious, okay? He never thought he’d date anyone even five years his senior.

Will pulls his cute little face out of Mike’s hospital gown, looking up at him with his signature guilty smile. “I’m not really sure. Time is a human concept. We don’t keep track of age up there.”

“Uh huh,” Mike says, raising his eyebrows in suspicion. “That sounds like a convenient way to say ‘really fucking old.’”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, smacking Mike’s injured arm. Rude. “I chose this body to match yours. You should be grateful.”

He is. He’s very grateful. He’ll always be grateful for Will. “I love you, too, by the way,” he says, kissing the crown of his head.

Will nuzzles into the touch, demanding another. He’s somehow maneuvered himself into a sitting position, though his chair had been up against the wall just seconds ago. Mike doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to his powers. He won’t lie— it’s kind of hot.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Will says. Mike assumes that he’s referring to the very thing he was just pondering about. It’s only now that he realizes— he’s not entirely certain that Will doesn’t have the ability to read minds. “I just— I wanted you to like me for me, not my status. Or worse— what if you were intimidated by me?”

“I wouldn’t have been,” Mike assures him, knowing that he can’t really promise him anything. He’s intimidated right now— though that’s more the fault of the unknown. What can Will do? What has Will done that he still doesn’t know about?

All of those questions will be answered in due time. Above everything else, he trusts Will. They don’t paint just anybody on the walls of Versailles, after all.

Mike wonders how that even came to be. Did Will come to the artist as an angel? In a vision, perhaps? Or was he as he is now? An unfathomably beautiful man with kind eyes and a gentle smile? Has he even been a human long enough for that to have been possible? Is he even, really, a human at all?

“Will?” he asks, twirling a lock of gold hair around his pointer finger. It feels like life itself.

Will hums in response.

“Why aren’t you, like, living in the clouds, or whatever?”

He props his bony chin onto Mike’s sternum. It hurts for a fraction of a second before a tingling sensation replaces it. “I told you. I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike says, because he does. Maybe that was a stupid way to phrase his question. “But is that… normal for angels? You mentioned a couple meetings with your boss. I assume that’s, you know, the boss. Is Earth a temporary thing for you? Do you just pop in every once and a while, or…”

Will seems to understand what he’s asking, even as he trails off. He cups Mike’s cheek in his hand, forcing their eyes to meet. Mike hadn’t realized that he’d glanced away. “I’m not leaving you, Mike. My visits to Earth have always been short, but I wouldn’t let anything pull me away now.”

“Won’t your people get mad?”

“No,” he says. “I wouldn’t have been given the vision if I wasn’t meant to follow you. They’re allowing me to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“That’ll be quite a long time,” Mike says, as if Will needs a reminder of his immeasurable age. “I mean, you know that I’ll… go first, right?”

Will shakes his head. “We agreed that, once your time is up, mine will be too. I’ll lead you to the afterlife safely, and then… I’ll be granted peace. With you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says weakly. Why would anyone do that? Mike isn’t worth dying for. Not even a human should take that deal, let alone someone who wouldn’t otherwise know death.

Will clearly disagrees. “I can’t live without you, Mike. I don’t want to. I’ve seen more than enough in my lifetime. Immortality can’t last forever.”

Mike would argue that it absolutely can. That’s the entire point. Will was supposed to see everything. The stone age, the pyramids— even New York in the grand year of 1992. He should live to see Mike’s grandkids, and their grandkids after that. It’s not fair to him to give that up.

And now it’s too late. Mike can’t take back Will’s offer for him. He’s signed away his life and it’s all Mike’s fault.

Will thumbs away the tear that escapes his eye. “What’s wrong?” he asks. He sounds so concerned, like he genuinely can’t imagine why this would be upsetting. “I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

“No, but— you’re closer to the end of your life than I am. I have, what, seventy years at best? That’s like a day to you.”

“Hey, come here,” he says. He stands from his chair only to bend right back down, hugging him so that their heads are aligned. It allows Mike to bury his face into his neck. “I’m right here, my heart. I’m still here. I’ll be here for as long as you know life.”

“You should be here longer,” Mike says, though he knows it’s pointless.

“I’d rather spend a day with you than face eternity alone,” he says. Mike can’t even be mad at him when he’s being so romantic. “And, believe it or not, seventy years is still a long time. We can fill it any way you’d like. Do you want a dog? We can raise a dog.”

Despite himself, Mike laughs. “I don’t think I have a choice. I’ve grown pretty fond of Chester.”

“Good. He’s grown fond of you, too.”

Mike breathes deeply, inhaling his favorite mix of sunshine and safety. He likes it here, in his embrace. He wants to spend the rest of his days here. He can. Will has granted him that privilege. He can have everything he wants if he simply accepts Will’s decision.

He thinks he might be able to. It was a stupid, self-sacrificial decision to make— but it was Will’s, and it was with Mike’s best wishes at heart. The least he can do is try to live a long, healthy life, giving Will all the love and affection he desires in their limited time.

Even afterwards, they won’t separate. Assuming that Mike behaves well enough to be welcomed into Will’s world, they'll enjoy an early retirement at the nicest resort in all of creation. Mike can’t wait to hear all about Will’s home.

For someone who doesn’t particularly care about kissing, Will sure is good at it. His back is flush against the wall of Mike’s bedroom— though, truly, Mike is the one that feels pinned in place. Will’s hands are on his face, pulling him closer, while Mike’s— finally cast-free— are settled on his lower back, slowly slipping under the hem. Will acknowledges his advance with a short laugh, but otherwise doesn’t put a stop to it.

His skin is warm as sunshine itself. Mike wants to crawl inside of it. He settles for the next best thing instead, inching his hands higher until he’s practically wearing Will’s shirt along with him. He rests his fingers on the crests of his shoulderblades, right along two identical stripes of rough scar tissue.

“Mike,” he says warningly.

“Hm?” Mike asks, neither removing his hands nor stopping his barrage of kisses

“I’m ticklish there.”

“Oh,” he says, still refusing to pull away. “Sorry.” He’s not. In fact, he lightens his touch as he caresses the lines of raised skin.

Maybe it was his intention all along to get Will to guide him away from his lips. Maybe it was his goal for Will to ask, “Did you want to see them?”

Even if it wasn’t, he nods eagerly.

Will exhales sharply through his nose, amused. Mike watches eagerly as he lifts the bottom of his shirt, the smallest sliver of stomach peeking out from under it. He feels like the world’s biggest lottery winner when Will tosses it onto the floor, gifting Mike the honor of admiring his beautiful chest. They haven’t even gotten to the main attraction yet, and he thinks he might die.

Will does not take his time in unfurling his wings. In a blink, his perfectly human body has transformed into a perfectly angelic one, giant feathers extending outwards in either direction. They can barely be contained by Mike’s tiny bedroom, the tips of his wings brushing either wall. Mike doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so white. If white is the absence of pigment, Will’s feathers contain even less so.

“Wow,” is all he can say. His hand moves without his consent, reaching out to touch, but thankfully he catches himself before he can cross a major boundary. “They’re so big.”

“They do have to carry all of me, so,” Will says with a shrug. “You can feel them, if you want.”

Mike doesn’t need to be told twice. He lays his palm gently onto the underside of his left wing, right next to his arm. It ruffles once, startled, then settles against the contact. It’s unbelievably soft. Mike resists the urge to run his fingers through the pillowy feathers, unsure whether or not it would hurt.

It’s absolutely magnificent. Will is magnificent. Who else on earth can say that they’ve touched an angel’s wings? Who else can say that they’ve met an angel.

A not-unfamiliar wave of insecurity rolls through him. He must’ve been still for too long, lost in his own thoughts, because when he raises his eyes, he finds Will’s already staring down at him, worried. Mike really needs to get better at hiding his emotions.

Knowing that Will won’t let him off the hook without an explanation, Mike asks, “Will?”

“Mhm?”

“Why do you want me? I’m just a human.”

“Why do you want me? I’m an angel,” Will counters. It’s the dumbest comeback Mike has ever heard.

“That’s my point. You’re magical. You’re etherial. You could have anyone and anything you’ve ever wanted. There are five billion people out there— and those are just the ones alive right now. Why me?”

Will smiles up at him, pressing a finger to the tip of his nose. “Because you’re the best of them all,” he says. “You’re my favorite.”

He has a very hard time believing that he, Mike Wheeler, is the most objectively perfect human to have ever existed. Surely an angel wouldn’t settle for anyone less. But Will did. Will settled for below average.

Maybe Mike isn’t objectively perfect. He is subjectively perfect to one person, though. And that person is the most perfect of perfect. That has to count for something.

“Come here,” Will says, not waiting for a response before leading Mike to the bed by his wrist. He pushes him down onto it and climbs right in beside him, wrapping him up in his arms. Will’s wing comes second, covering him like a weighted blanket. Mike lets out the most embarrassingly contented sigh as the feathers brush his face. “Do you like them?”

“Maybe,” Mike says, not allowing himself much plausible deniability as he snuggles in close. If this is heaven, he finally understands all the hype. “I love you.”

Will plants a kiss onto his hair. His body is instantly flooded with warmth as Will channels all of his love into Mike’s psyche for him to enjoy. It swirls around his heart, a tangible, undeniable sense of Will settling deep into his bones. “I love you, always,” he says.

Mike already knows. The evidence can be felt throughout every inch of him.