Chapter Text
The road stretches on longer than Will remembers, winding like it’s forgotten where it’s supposed to go, swallowed on either side by trees that grow too close, too tall. Mike keeps one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around Will’s, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles into his skin as if repetition alone can smooth over everything they said to each other two nights before.
“I’m serious,” Mike says, glancing over for just a second too long before forcing his eyes back to the road, jaw tight but voice soft in that careful way he only uses when he knows he messed up. “I’m gonna make it up to you. This weekend. Everything’s gonna be perfect, okay? Just… us. No distractions.”
Will watches the trees instead of him at first, watching how the light flickers between them in uneven bursts, gold one second, gone the next, like something is interrupting it, like something is standing in the way, and he tells himself it’s just the angle, just the way the branches overlap, just his imagination doing what it always does when things get too quiet.
“You don’t have to make it perfect,” Will murmurs finally, though his fingers loosen slightly in Mike’s anyway, betraying his grasp. “You just… didn’t listen. That’s all.”
Mike exhales like that hits harder than yelling would’ve, his grip tightening in return. “I know. I know, I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head with a quiet, frustrated laugh. “God, I suck at this.”
That almost pulls a real smile out of Will, small and reluctant, but real enough that Mike catches it out of the corner of his eye and latches onto it immediately, relief flashing across his face like a lifeline.
“There it is,” Mike says, softer now, squeezing his hand. “I can work with that.”
Will rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning his head back against the seat as the trees begin to thin just enough for the lake to start peeking through in fragments of dark blue, almost black in the late afternoon light, still and wide and familiar in a way that hits him somewhere deep in his chest.
They used to come here every summer when they were kids.
Before everything got complicated. Before growing up meant learning how to hurt each other without meaning to.
“Do you uh… Do you remember that dock?” Mike says suddenly, nodding ahead like he’s reading Will’s thoughts, like he’s been thinking about the same things this whole time, or at least trying to. “The one my mom said was gonna collapse on us one day?”
Will huffs a quiet laugh. “It did collapse.”
“Yeah, but not when we were on it,” Mike grins, a flicker of something breaking. “So technically, I was right.”
“You were not right,” Will says, turning to look at him properly now, the tension easing just a fraction. “You jumped on it on purpose.”
“And it held!” Mike insists, a little too proud of himself for something that happened years ago and that could've gotten them hurt, but it’s easy, so easy to fall back into that rhythm. That version of them that existed before constant apologies that had weight and silences that meant so much.
The cabin appears suddenly after that, tucked back from the road like it’s hiding. Half shadowed by trees, the paint more worn than Will remembers it to be. The windows are dark and unreadable as Mike pulls the car to a stop in the gravel drive.
For a second, neither of them moves.
The engine ticks as it cools, the sound loud in the forest's quietness, and the woods feel… still. Not peaceful, not exactly.
Just watching.
“You okay?” Mike asks, quieter now, like he feels it too but doesn’t want to give it a name.
Will nods, forcing himself to push the feeling down, to frame it as nerves, leftover tension, anything but the way the back of his neck prickles like he’s stepped into something he wasn't sure of.
“Yeah,” he says, offering a small smile as he finally lets go of Mike’s hand to reach for the door. “It’s just… been a while.”
Mike nods, like that makes sense, like that’s all it is, and he’s quick to get out, circling around to the trunk, already slipping back into that determined energy, that I’m going to fix this if it kills me mindset that Will knows so well it almost aches.
“Wait here,” Mike calls, already grabbing their bags. “I’ll get the door, dad said he left the key under the—”
“—the third plank,” Will finishes automatically, stepping out anyway, gravel crunching under his shoes as the air hits him cooler than expected, carrying the faint scent of lake water and something older underneath it.
Mike pauses, glancing back at him with a small, nostalgic smile. “You remember.”
“I remember everything about this place,” Will says, softer now, eyes drifting past him to the cabin, to the porch, to the windows that reflect nothing back.
Mike disappears up the steps, crouching near the edge of the porch, prying up the loose board with a practiced motion, and Will lingers by the car for a second longer than he should, scanning the tree line without really meaning to, gaze snagging on the spaces between trunks, the places where shadows sit too thick, too solid.
A shape thats gone as soon as he focuses on it.
Will frowns, stepping forward, shaking his head as he climbs the steps after Mike. “Did you see—”
“Got it,” Mike cuts in, holding up the key with a small, triumphant grin, completely oblivious, and Will hesitates, the question dying on his tongue as he forces himself to let it go.
It’s nothing.
It has to be nothing.
The door creaks when Mike pushes it open, the sound loud in the quiet and the inside smells like dust and old wood and summers that never quite left, the air heavier than it should be, untouched for too long.
Mike steps in first, flicking on the light—nothing.
He frowns, flipping the switch again. “Huh. Power might be out but it's fine, I’ll check the breaker in a sec.”
Will nods, stepping inside slowly, his gaze drifting over the familiar layout, the couch, the small kitchen, the hallway leading deeper into the cabin, all of it exactly how he remembers and yet… not.
⊰═══════════════════⊱
The cabin settles around them slowly, like it’s remembering how to be lived in, every step stirring dust and old echoes as Mike moves through it with quiet determination, setting their bags down, checking switches, cracking open windows to let the cold air bleed through the stale warmth, and Will watches him for a moment from the doorway, something softer settling in his chest despite everything.
After Mike fixes the breaker, it doesn’t take long for them to fall into something easier.
The shower is small, the water pressure uneven, but they end up there anyway, shoulders brushing, laughter slipping out between quiet apologies and lingering touches that say more than either of them quite knows how to put into words.
Mike wrapped one of his hands around Will’s waist, his other traveling upwards from Will’s bare chest to the side of his face, cupping it softly.
He looked down at Will, making eye contact. Noticing every droplet of water falling from Will’s eyelashes.
“Im– Im so–”
“I know.” Will interrupted before Mike could finish his one hundredth apology of the day.
Mike leaned in slowly, closing the space between them and placing the softest most careful kiss into Will’s lips. Will wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck as Mike picked him up slowly, their kiss never breaking in between.
They were okay. They would always be okay.
When they step back out into the cool air, wrapped in towels and familiarity, it almost feels like nothing ever went wrong.
✦
By the time Will is unpacking in the bedroom, folding clothes into drawers that still smell faintly like summers from years ago, Mike is in the kitchen, moving with surprising focus, the soft clatter of pans and the faint pop of a cork echoing through the cabin.
“Don’t come in here,” Mike calls, half-serious, half-laughing. “I’m doing something impressive and I refuse to be judged.”
“I’m always judging you,” Will calls back, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth, just ease, and when he finally does step into the kitchen, he pauses in the doorway, caught off guard.
It’s simple, but it’s effort.
Candles lit across the counter, uneven but glowing, two plates set out, a bottle of wine already poured, and Mike standing there like he’s not entirely sure if he pulled it off or not, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances up.
“Okay, don’t—don’t expect like, five-star restaurant level or anything,” he says quickly, a little nervous now. “But it’s… decent… right?”
Will just looks at him for a second, something quiet and full in his chest.
“It’s perfect,” he says softly.
And Mike lights up.
✦
Will cuts into the steak carefully, more out of caution than with elegance, shooting Mike an openly suspicious look across the candlelit table while Mike watches him with barely concealed anxiety, elbows planted on either side of his plate like he’s physically bracing for judgement.
“Relax Mike, you’re staring at me like I'm about to become the food critic that ruins your small business restaurant,” Will says, fighting a smile as he lifts the first bite into his mouth.
“Im staring because I need to know if I accidentally poisoned you.”
Will rolls his eyes, finally tasting it, and the second his expression changes, Mike leans forward immediately.
“What? What does that face mean?”
Will chews slowly on purpose now, dragging the moment out as long as possible just to torment him before finally mumbling, “Okay, wooow.”
Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
“It’s actually really good.”
Mike lets out a loud, dramatic exhale, slumping back in his chair with a hand over his chest. “Jesus Christ. Okay. Great. Awesome. Cool. Yeah I like, wasn’t terrified or stressed at all.”
Will laughs softly into his wine glass, shaking his head. “Yeah right… Since when can you cook anyway?”
“Umm I can’t,” Mike says immediately, “That’s the scary part”
“Mike.” Will says softly, rolling his eyes in a teasing manner.
“I uh– I asked my mom to teach me before we came up here.”
That catches Will off guard a little.
His smile softens around the edges as he looks back uop at him properly. “You did?”
Mike shrugs, suddenly pretending to be very invested in cutting his steak. “I mean…yeah. I wanted it to be nice.”
Something warm settles quietly in Will’s chest at that, something almost painful in how sincere it is.
“You made me a candlelight dinner in a haunted forest cabin,” Will says. “That’s either really romantic or the beginning of a murder documentary.”
Mike snorts loudly enough to nearly choke on his drink. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, this cabin is not haunted.”
Will raises an eyebrow.
Mike points at him with his fork. “You are not allowed to start with your creepy theories yet. We’ve been here like three hours.”
“I’m just saying,” Will says, grinning now, “first the lights don’t work, there’s no neighbors for miles, and the woods look like they eat people.”
“That is literally every horror movie you’ve ever made me watch talking.”
“You liked them.”
“I liked you, so I had to watch them.” Mike corrects without hesitation.
The words slip out naturally, easy and instinctive, but they still land between them heavily enough that Will looks down for a second, smiling into the rim of his glass.
Mike watches him quietly for a moment before speaking again, softer now.
“You remember the snow ball?”
Will huffs a surprised laugh immediately. “Oh my god.”
“What?!” Mike grins. “You do remember.”
“Of course I remember. You stepped on my shoes like six times.”
“That was not my fault.”
“You literally cannot dance to save your life.”
“I can! I was just– I was emotionally overwhelmed.”
Will laughs harder at that, and Mike just stares at him for a second, visibly distracted by the sound, by the way candlelight catches across his face.
“You looked terrified that night,” Mike says after a moment.
Will glances up. “I was terrified.”
“Why?”
Will shrugs slightly, gaze dropping back to his plate. “I don’t know. Everyone had dates. Everyone already…” He gestures vaguely. “Knew how to be normal around each other.”
Mike’s expression softens.
“I remember seeing you sitting alone,” he says quietly. “You looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”
Will groans, covering part of his face. “Please don’t remind me.”
“then you looked at me like I was insane when I walked over.”
“You had a date.”
Mike snorts. “I was in middle school, Will. It wasn’t exactly the love of my life.”
“She looked mad.”
“She was mad.”
Will laughs again, shaking his head. “I remember asking if you were sure you wanted to dance with me.”
Mike’s smile fades into something gentler then, more honest.
“You know what I remember?” he says softly.
Will looks up.
“I remember thinking I didn’t care what anybody else thought as long as you didn’t spend the snowball dance alone.”
The air changes slightly after that.
Not awkward.
Just quieter.
Heavier in the best way.
Will stares at him across the table for a second too long, his chest tightening around something achingly fond, and Mike, suddenly self-conscious under the look, ducks his head with a small laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Will says softly, unable to stop smiling now. “You’re just… really different than you were back then.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. “Better or worse?”
Will pretends to think about it.
Mike kicks his foot lightly under the table.
“Hey.”
Will laughs quietly, finally answering. “Better.”
And Mike smiles at him like that’s the only answer in the world that mattered.
⊰═══════════════════⊱
Dinner stretches longer than expected, conversation slipping from careful to comfortable, from apologies to memories, from the fight to everything before it, the kind of talking that feels like stitching something back together piece by piece, and by the time their plates are empty and the candles have burned lower, the tension between them has melted into something warm, something familiar, something that makes Will forget, just for a while—that anything ever felt wrong.
“I have tomorrow planned,” Mike says at one point, leaning forward slightly, eyes bright in the low light. “Like, fully planned. You’re not allowed to ask questions.”
“That already sounds suspicious,” Will smiles, nudging his glass.
“Nope. Trust me.”
Will studies him for a second, then nods. “Okay. I trust you.”
✦
Later, when the dishes are left in the sink, rinsed but forgotten, the quiet settles back in around them, thicker now, wrapped in candlelight and the distant stillness of the woods, and Will stands at the counter, hands resting on the edge, staring absently out into the dark window.
He doesn’t hear Mike approach at first.
He just feels him.
Warmth at his back, arms slipping around his waist, a breath against his neck that sends a quiet shiver through him before the first kiss even lands, soft and lingering just below his ear.
“Mike—” he starts, but it comes out quieter than he means it to.
“I’m sorry,” Mike murmurs against his skin, the words low, repeated like they’ve been sitting on his tongue all night, like he needs Will to hear them, to feel them. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
Will exhales, his hands reach down instinctively, fingers curling around Mike’s hands as he leans back into him, the tension that lingered finally giving way under the weight of it.
“I know,” Will whispers. “I know.”
Mike turns him gently, hands sliding to his sides, guiding him around until they’re face to face, and for a second, neither of them moves, just looking at each other in the low, flickering light like they’re trying to memorize something.
Mike dips slightly, just enough to catch Will’s gaze fully, his expression open in that way that always makes Will’s chest tighten, and then he’s kissing him—soft at first, careful, like he’s still asking permission.
Will answers immediately.
The space between them disappears all at once, hesitation burning away into something stronger, something that pulls them closer, hands gripping tighter, breaths catching between kisses that grow deeper, more urgent, like they’re trying to make up for lost time all at once.
Will’s fingers tangle in Mike’s hair, pulling him closer, and Mike’s hands find his waist, steadying him, they reach down, wrapping around Will’s ass and lifting him with ease enough that Will’s breath hitches and his legs wrap around Mike’s waist, the world narrowing down to warmth and closeness and the way Mike keeps whispering his name like it means everything.
“Will, Will, Will.”
They move without thinking, without breaking apart for more than a second at a time, until Will is sitting on the edge of the counter, Mike between his knees, the air thick with something unspoken and overwhelming and needed, and for a moment, everything else, the cabin, the woods, the quiet, fades completely.
It’s just them.
Just this.
Mike leans in again, slower now, pressing a kiss just beneath Will’s jaw, then another, softer, like he’s trying to say something without words, and Will’s head tilts back slightly, eyes closing, breath unsteady as his hands slide down to grip Mike’s shoulders.
Soft moans leave Will’s mouth over and over.
“Mike…” he murmurs, barely audible.
“I love you,”
“I love you,” Mike breathes back into Will’s mouth, the words warm against Will’s lips, almost swallowed by the way he presses closer, like saying it out loud only makes him need to prove it more.
Will’s breath stutters, fingers tightening in his hair as he pulls him back up, kissing him again, deeper this time, everything between them collapsing into something desperate and consuming, like they’re both trying to erase the last twenty-four hours entirely, like if they just hold on tight enough nothing can touch them here.
Mike’s hands slide along his sides, firm and grounding, anchoring him there on the counter as their foreheads knock together in a quiet, breathless laugh that doesn’t quite make it all the way out before it dissolves into another kiss.
Will’s hands find the hem of Mike’s blue sweater and lifts it off immediately, Mike following suit as he takes off Will’s soft yellow shirt in a rapid and desperate manner only to come back to each other and kiss even more passionately.
Will moans softly as Mike kisses and bites his neck like he's been hungry for it. Will tilts his head back as his hands begin to unbuckle Mike’s belt, sliding it off and unbuttoning his jeans with ease. Mike can’t take the hunger for Will any longer and wraps his hands around him, lifting him from the counter, carrying him over to the cabin’s warm brown couch, their lips never separating in the process.
He lays Will down gently, Mike towering over him with with both hands on either side of Will’s head as he comes back down to kiss his neck, tracing his body with kisses until he reaches his chest, his nipple, his stomach, all the way down until he reaches Will’s sweats. Mike pulls them off desperately, kissing Will’s happy trail, then kissing lower and lower until he reaches Will’s bulge through his soft blue underwear, kissing and moaning as he feels Will grow inside his underwear.
He looks up at Will who’s head is still tilted back, moaning, and breathing heavily, he watches as his chest rises with every grunt.
Mike freezes as he takes in the sight before him, to him, he’s the most beautiful person he will ever lay eyes on.
His fingers coil around the waistband of Will’s underwear, pulling down slowly and carefully, teasing him when–
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The sound tears through the cabin like it doesn’t belong there, loud and sudden, echoing off the walls in a way that makes Will flinch hard enough he sits up, breath catching somewhere in his throat as everything in his body goes rigid at once.
For a split second, neither of them moves.
They just stare at each other.
“What the hell—” Mike starts, already pulling back, his voice low but sharp now, every inch of him shifting from soft to alert in an instant.
Will’s heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might actually hurt, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as he looks toward the front of the cabin like he expects to see something standing there already,
“Mike,” he says, quieter than he means to, the unease from earlier snapping back into place all at once. “Who would even—”
“I don’t know,” Mike cuts in, running a hand through his hair quickly, trying to steady himself, already standing up. “Maybe—maybe a ranger? Or like someone checking the place? It's the first time the generator and lights are on in this cabin in a long time, maybe a sheriff is just checking it out?”
The explanation sounds thin even as he says it.
Another second of silence passes and—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Will moves fast, suddenly aware of everything all at once, the open space, the windows, the dark of the forest outside pressing in, he stands slowly after Mike, he pulls his underwear back up and reaches down blindly, grabbing Mike’s sweater from where it’s been discarded on the floor, pulling it on without thinking, the fabric swallowing him whole as it hangs loose against his thighs.
“Don’t open it,” Will says quickly, taking one step closer to Mike, his voice tight now, fear threading through it despite himself. “Mike, don’t just open it—”
“I’m not,” Mike says, his jeans still unbuttoned and hanging loose, feeling the cold chill of the cabin against his bare chest, he’s already moving toward the door, slower now, more cautious, his bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. “I’m just gonna check.”
Will follows immediately, staying close behind him, close enough that he can reach out if he needs to, like distance suddenly feels like the worst possible idea.
The cabin feels different now. Smaller and colder like the walls are closing in around them.
Mike reaches the door, pausing just beside it, his hand hovering for a second before he leans forward, peering through the peephole—
Nothing.
He frowns, shifting slightly. “The porch light’s out.”
“Turn it on,” Will says quickly.
“I am, it was working earlier.” He flips the switch on and off.
Nothing.
The darkness outside stays thick, swallowing the porch completely, leaving only the faintest outline of something standing there—tall, still, just barely visible against the trees.
Will’s breath catches.
“Mike…” he whispers.
Mike straightens slightly, his jaw tightening as he leans closer to the door instead, voice louder now, steadier than he feels.
“Hello?” he calls. “Who is it?”
There’s a pause.
Just long enough to feel deliberate.
Then a voice pierces through, it's soft, calm and female.
“Is Tamara home?”