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The evening in the Wheeler house is unusually quiet. The basement air is thick with the smell of damp wood, old comics and a little bit of dust. Every inch of the space is so painfully familiar, yet Will feels like an intruder.
It's been a few days since the Wheelers let them stay here. An incredibly generous gesture. Joyce keeps profusely thanking Karen every time they bump into each other in the hallways.
Will is curled up on the mattress he was given, trying to take up as little space as possible. His sketchbook is open in his lap, laying there uselessly. He's been trying to draw for about an hour now, but an empty page keeps looking back at him.
Usually this helps keep his mind somewhat occupied, but right now it almost feels nauseating. Every stroke of a pencil reminds him of their current situation.
Vecna's status is unclear, Max is in a coma, Hawkins is split in four, the entire town is terrified and on the brink of satanic panic. But most importantly, Mike has not properly spoken to him since they came back from California.
Will tries not to think about that too much. They've all been knocked completely off balance, doing their best to deal with everything that's going on.
Plus, it's not like Will has initiated anything, either. He and Mike agreed to become a team again, like they used to be. Will was delighted about that, but it quickly became painful.
Whenever he's in Mike's proximity, he feels the still fresh wound on his heart rip open all over again. Then it takes twice as long to patch it up, before the process repeats.
Every pat on the shoulder, lingering look, quick and distant 'Morning' sets every nerve in Will's body on fire. It's not much, barely anything really. Still, Will finds himself clinging to those little interactions, replaying them in his mind as he drifts off to sleep.
He doesn't want to feel this way. He's already given up hope of reciprocation, presented his heart to Mike on a platter with El's name signed on it. That warmth isn't his to have.
Tears blur Will's vision again. He roughly wipes them away with his forearm, tosses the sketchbook aside with a frustrated huff. So stupid.
The mattress feels rough beneath him. The same one he's slept on during countless sleepovers he and Mike had growing up. He has every spring memorized, remembers the backstory of each stain and rip in the worn fabric.
Everywhere he looks only reminds him of the better times. When he could laugh and spend time with his best friend without a pit of acid forming in his gut.
Will lays down, hugs his knees, seeking some comfort. The rest of the house is quiet, with everyone either scattered across their rooms, or out constructing plans of action.
Will wanted to join, but Joyce insisted he stays away from danger. It makes him feel useless, being treated like a fragile doll. Still, no matter what argument he tries to make, it's as if he's talking to a brick wall.
As Will gets lost in his anxious thoughts, he misses muffled steps approaching the basement, hesitant knocking on the door. He only registers it when it swings open with a painfully familiar creak.
Will assumes it's Jonathan, finally leaving Nancy's room to prepare for bed. He sits up, with a snarky remark on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly evaporates once he sees who it actually is.
"Hey."
It's Mike. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, a worn shirt drapes over his shoulders, hair is messier than usual. He's been sleeping a lot, or at least that's what Will assumes. He's not sure what else someone can do locked in their bedroom most of the time.
"Hey," Will answers, sits up in his improvised bed. Feels almost embarrassed, with his blanket all tangled up, the little clothes he has resting in a clumsy pile on the floor.
Mike stays at the top of the stairs at first, rocking on his heels slightly. He looks over the basement as if he's the guest, before finally descending.
The steps creak beneath his feet, and he stumbles a little on the last one. Stops in the middle of the room, his posture tense and awkward. He looks like he isn't sure what to do with his limbs. Ends up leaning on one of the wooden beams.
"Are you, uh.. Are you busy right now?" Mike asks, scratches the back of his head.
"Um.. No, not really," Will replies, no less awkwardly. Tries to shift into a more casual pose as he speaks.
"I need a favor."
"Okay," Will says quietly, and nods.
"Can you cut my hair?"
Will hesitates. Everything in him screams to say yes, heart does a happy flip in his chest. Warmth spreads all over his body, little explosions bloom in his fingertips.
"Oh, I.. I don't.. really know how to do that," he says instead, wincing. Instinctually, his hand comes up to touch his own hair, which is probably a complete mess right now.
Mike visibly deflates, his tense shoulders slouching just a bit. His expressive brows curve in that way they do when he's disappointed. Will tries to ignore it.
"Maybe you should ask Nancy, or my mom," he continues, bites the inside of his cheek.
"I'm not asking your mom," Mike says through a laugh, tugs at one of the curls draping over his shoulder.
"Okay, fair," Will manages a weak giggle, feels some of the tension leave his spine.
For a second, the air becomes lighter, easier to breathe in. Will lets himself share a laugh with his best friend, forget about the horrors beyond the borders of the house.
Mike smiles in that specific way that always makes Will warm all over. His nose scrunches with it, eyes squint shut and freckles almost seem brighter.
Will looks. Just for a second. Feels the sting in his heart, and lowers his gaze back to the floorboards. His fist tightens around the blanket.
"I want you to do it," Mike says, his voice lowering to that soft and tender register. It coats Will like gooey and sweet syrup, and he can't help but lift his head like reflex.
"You do?" he whispers, brows pinching together.
"Yeah. I don't trust anyone else," Mike nods.
For a second, they just look at each other. Soft gazes locked together, the sparks of that familiar bond. Then Mike shifts on his feet, looks down at the floor and starts fidgeting with his hands. Like a switch flipping.
There's an internal battle in Will's mind. He should decline, save himself the trouble and more heartache. This is too intimate, and he knows he can't be normal about this.
On the other hand, this is the most words he and Mike have exchanged in the past few days. No quick 'Morning' or 'Night' when passing by each other in the hallways. No short glances. They can properly spend time together.
"Okay," Will gives in. Feels his heart dip painfully as he says it.
Mike lights up. His eyes widen, brows jump towards his hairline. The corners of his mouth twitch into a soft smile. Will is so screwed.
The air in the downstairs bathroom is damp, almost smelling moldy. The overhead light is cold and harsh, flickering from time to time. Some of Jonathan's and Will's toiletries are spread out on the little shelves and the aged sink.
Mike steals Karen's good scissors from her bedroom, drags a chair into the already cramped bathroom. The wooden legs scrape harshly against the tiled floor. He sets the chair in place and sits on it backwards, legs spread wide and arms folded on the back of it.
Will is in the doorway, with a brush and scissors in hand. A big part of him regrets agreeing to this, wants to retreat before it's too late. Another, more sentimental part of him, is beaming.
He's glad Mike is sitting with his back turned. Will's cheeks are so red it's impossible to not notice.
He takes a few tentative steps inside the bathroom, the cold floor biting at his feet even through his socks. Keeps some distance between himself and the creaking chair.
Mike looks so different now, more mature. His shoulders are broader, sharper. Even when he's slouched over, he takes up space.
There's just so much more of him. Even as he's sitting down, Will can barely peek at the crown of his head. His long curls drape over his shoulders, some of the ends tangled together from what Will assumes is laying in bed.
They catch the unflattering overhead light, and look almost silky. The obsidian color is like an endless void. Will wants to run his fingers through them so badly, but holds himself back. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, unsure what to do.
"Sorry if it's, like, dirty. Thought it'd make more sense to shower after," Mike says sheepishly, runs a hand through the longest curls, untangling them.
"Y- Yeah," Will stutters, barely processing the words. He puts the scissors onto the edge of the sink, starts carefully brushing Mike's hair without touching it. "What, um.. How do you want it?"
"I don't know," Mike sighs, slouches in the chair even more. Will has to take an extra half step to keep brushing. "I just want all this gone. It's annoying."
Mike runs his fingers through the long locks in the back, ruffles them up roughly. Will can't see his face, but he just knows he's grimacing. Can imagine the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose, the scrunch of his eyebrows, the curl of his lips.
"Honestly, just do what you want. I trust your judgement," Mike continues.
Will tries to ignore the way his stomach flips at the words and the soft tone. He takes a steadying breath, starts to brush more thoroughly.
The curls get caught on the bristles, tugging Mike's head back. Will keeps wincing, wants to say sorry, but he doesn't trust his voice right now. He carefully untangles every knot, his other hand gradually joining the process.
At first he carefully holds the hair, so it's not too painful when it gets stuck. He doesn't notice when his fingers dive in fully, curls naturally twirling around them as he works.
"Is it okay down here? Not too cold?" Mike asks.
"No, it's great. Um.. Thanks for.. letting us stay," Will shakes his head, feels a tremor in his fingertips.
"You don't have to keep saying that," Mike huffs out a laugh, his shoulders shaking with it. Melts into the chair more, softens his voice. "You're always welcome here."
Will doesn't reply. His brain clings to the words, that tone. Hopes that they can belong just to him someday, instead of his family. He shakes those thoughts off like they burned him, finally reaches for the scissors.
"Okay, um.. I'm gonna start cutting," he says as he situates himself.
Mike nods, then suddenly sits up so straight the back of his head nearly collides with Will's chest. With a startled sound, Will backs up just in time.
He carefully takes one inky strand into his hand, brings the scissors to it. The blades catch the overhead light as they close around the hair. With a crisp, sharp sound it falls to the floor, soft as a feather. Mike whips his head around to look at it.
"That's a lot," he comments, brings a hand up to touch the trimmed spot.
"S- Sorry," Will feels his stomach drop.
"No, no! That's good!" Mike reassures, looking back at his friend with round eyes. Glances down at the curl again, spilling over the floor. "That's really good."
He turns around again, keeping his back straight. Will swallows and continues, snipping more hair away. He recalls what his mom taught him, the few times he helped El with her hair. Thinks about how happy she was with it, how much time she put into maintaining those chocolate curls.
Thinks about the broken look on her face whenever she passed a mirror after California, all those soft locks now gone all over again. His mind keeps spiraling further, rot seeping through.
Mike should've asked her to do this. Why did he ask Will? Mike should be with his girlfriend, try to make up with her. Instead he's crowding the basement bathroom with his best friend.
Will feels acid climbing up his throat, swallows it despite the pain and the sting.
El is training, she's too busy for this. Everyone is. Will is simply the only option available, being left behind constantly. That's the only reason why they're here.
His brows pinch together outside of his control, frustrated. More and more locks keep falling to the tiled floor, pooling at Will's socked feet. It almost physically hurts. He's always loved Mike's curls.
Slowly, the tremor in his hands fades, leaving simple steady focus. He just needs to get this done, and they can go back to their usual routines.
The mass of hair on Mike's head shrinks more and more. Air hits the back of his neck again. He reaches up to touch it, scratches where the short trimmings tickle his skin.
It looks a bit choppy, so Will adjusts his grip, changes the angle. He starts cutting into the uneven layers in short and quick movements, trying to blend them the best he can. It's what his mom does.
More short hairs sprinkle over his hands and Mike's neck. Without thinking, Will blows at them, pats them away. It hits him only a second later, and he feels his cheeks heating up. Mike doesn't seem to react.
"Have you talked to El?" he asks, breaking the silence of the bathroom. His voice is so quiet and unsure Will almost missed it.
"Um.. Last night, over the walkie," Will rasps, feels that sting in his heart again. His movements stutter, stomach churns.
Of course Mike is going to ask about his girlfriend. Will doesn't get to feel upset about that.
"How is she?" he asks, putting on a casual and supportive tone despite his guts twisting into a painful knot.
Mike stiffens. His posture slumps just a bit, before he manually fixes it. Clears his throat, nervously drums on the back of the chair with his bony fingers.
"Training, probably," Mike mumbles, shrugs way too sharply. Will hears another thick swallow. "She, uh.. She's still not talking to me."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Will blurts out, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. His fingers burn when they graze against Mike's skin.
Mike doesn't respond. Doesn't nod, doesn't hum, doesn't say anything. Will can see the tension climbing up his friend's spine. He must still be torn about their last fight.
El hasn't said a word about it, and Will did not pry. Mostly because there are far more pressing things for her to worry about. Deep down, though, he just does not want to hear about it any more than he already has.
He gave Mike the painting. The one he spent so long on, pouring all the love, care and their shared history into every stroke. The one he sacrificed to help his best friend and sister when things were off between them.
It wasn't his plan. That was supposed to be a simple gift after months of being separated from Mike. Then it all became a catastrophy, and the painting turned into something much deeper.
Will gave it away. He's done all he could. The wound is still fresh, weeping. The best he can offer now are generic supportive words, though even that feels like he's peeling his own skin off. He hates himself for thinking this way.
More hair gets trimmed off as Will tries to shape it. He feels safe like this, with Mike turned away from him. He can't see the painfully obvious blush on Will's cheeks, the way his hand trembles when he needs to tilt Mike's head or touch his stupidly soft hair.
Slowly, the cut takes shape. It's cleaner, rounder. Will trims off a few stray longer wisps that he missed. He runs his fingers through the short hair before he can stop himself. It feels soft, a little scratchy.
Mike relaxes under the touch, lets out a quiet, content sigh. Will freezes, snatches his hand away like he got burned. His heartbeat picks up its pace.
"It- It's done," Will blurts out, hurries to wrap this whole thing up before he can embarrass himself any further.
"Can you do the front, too?"
Will barely has time to blink before Mike is twisting around in the chair. It's a little clumsy, his long legs bumping into cupboards, knees knocking against walls. He avoids the pile of his own hair on the floor, settles down facing his friend.
"Um.. Y- Yeah, sure," Will stutters, suddenly feels sweaty everywhere.
Mike looks up at him expectedly, those brown eyes even wider and brighter with the new hair. All Will can do is swallow, and do what's asked of him.
He grabs the brush from the sink, but not before knocking it into the bowl from the tremor in his hands. Mike's arm jerks instinctively, then falls back into his lap.
Will starts by brushing out the knots and tangles, each move even more careful and hesitant than before. This is so much harder, with Mike staring right into his soul. Will tries to avoid the gaze, focuses on those inky curls in front of him, but he can feel it.
Without the longer pieces framing everything, the front looks too round, almost like a mushroom. The corner of Will's mouth twitches upwards at the thought.
"What?" Mike notices. Of course he does.
"Nothing," Will snaps out of it, shakes his head quickly.
He brushes out the rest of the curls, until he has a nice canvas to work with. Grabs the scissors, and pauses.
He can't mess this up. One wrong move, and Mike might have to buzz all of this off. The thought breaks Will's heart even more.
Will looks, eyes focused and steady as he maps out the haircut in his head. Mike's bangs are too straight, too neat. Everything is too long and round.
While he's zoning out, he misses movement in front of him. Mike kicks away the abandoned pile of hair on the floor, freeing up an island of space between his spread legs.
Will only notices when he feels something pulling at him. He looks down, sees Mike's fingers curled around the hem of his shirt, stretching the fabric. Will follows before he can stop himself, now standing between Mike's knees.
He feels his brain short circuiting, forgets where he is and what he's doing. Mike doesn't flinch. He glances down to where he's clutching at Will's shirt, then looks up.
Will's eyes are focused on the crack in the wall, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He risks a few quick glances at Mike's hair, but doesn't dare move lower. He might just explode right here if he does.
"You okay?" Mike asks, casual as if nothing is happening.
That's how it is to him, anyway. He has no idea how such a simple gesture sets every nerve in Will's body ablaze.
"Yeah, just.. thinking," Will mumbles, clears his throat after a pathetic voice crack. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't," Mike insists. Lowers his voice to a soft, velvety whisper. "I trust you."
Will has to tightly press his lips together before he says something that will keep him up at night from embarrassment.
He starts cutting. Grabs at random strands, and snips. The sounds of blades coming together are crisp, breaking up the dead silence of the room.
More curls fall to the floor, a few land on Mike before he brushes them off. His grip on Will's shirt remains. Fingers pinch the cotton, thumb drags along the stitching. Will does his best to ignore that.
It's mindless. Mike always needs something to do with his hands. It doesn't mean anything more.
Will's face feels hot, no matter how much he tries to calm himself down. This is all too much. His hands tangled in Mike's hair, those dark eyes boring holes in him, unmoving. The hand on his shirt seems to pull more, even though the distance between them is already way too small for comfort.
Will clears his throat, takes a small step back. Feels some of the heat drain out of him. Mike's face crumbles by a fraction, every feature twitches before relaxing again.
His hand falls back into his lap, the worn cotton going slack. Eyes follow, dropping down to the floor. Will feels like he can breathe fully again, but a small part of him misses the contact.
Gradually, his moves grow more confident. The tremor is mostly gone, hands now precise and quick. He tilts Mike's head when needed, using the smallest touches possible.
By the time he gets to the curls around Mike's ears, it's like he's in tunnel vision. He tries to gently steer his friend's head, get a better angle, but it's not good enough. His hand moves on its own, grasping Mike's jaw and turning his face more firmly.
Will pauses, eyes widening. The contact is like lava, and he feels Mike's jaw tightening under his fingertips. He snatches his hand away so fast his wrist bone cracks.
Neither of them says anything. For a long moment Will feels like he's suspended on a tight rope. Any wrong move and everything will shatter. So he stays still, every muscle rigid.
Mike blinks a few times, then his features visibly soften. The harsh angle of his jaw smoothes out, eyes narrow back to their natural position. Will exhales, soft and quiet. Continues on with his task, now more aware.
He cuts the curls around Mike's ear, careful and cautious. From this angle he can see the tendons standing out on his friend's neck, the way the muscles work as he swallows. Tries not to look there too much.
When time comes for the other side, Will hesitates. He stands up straight, waits for Mike to somehow guess what he wants and turn by himself. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't.
"Can you, um," Will tries. His own voice sounds foreign to him, wobbly and nervous. When Mike turns to look up at him it's like his mind gets wiped clean. "T- Turn your head, please."
Mike does, but it's not the right angle. Will tries again, stuttering and stumbling over his words. Nervously gestures with his hands, trying to communicate what he needs. No matter how much he tries, Mike turns every other way but the correct one.
"Oh my God," Will huffs, growing frustrated.
He gives up, brings his fingers to Mike's chin and moves him exactly how he needs him. The quickest, lightest touch he can manage. Leans in to continue cutting.
He swears he can see Mike's lips twitch up into a smile, but tries to ignore it.
"Your hands are really soft," Mike whispers.
Will has to stop, otherwise he might just cut Mike's ear clean off. Takes a second to settle his heart, beating in his chest cavity like a trapped bird.
"It's nice," Mike adds.
Will has to wrench his eyes shut and hold his breath.
"Th- Thanks," he chokes out, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.
He's done with the other side much quicker. Now all that's left are those bangs. Will subconsciously kept them for last. He has to look at Mike head-on, no hiding or turning away.
Will tries to avoid touching his friend again, really tries. He waits for Mike to get the hint, sit up straight, but it doesn't come. His head stays put, eyes jumping all over the place as he chews on his bottom lip.
Will sighs quietly, curls his hand into a tight fist to prevent it from shaking. Moves it towards Mike's face, right as he turns. Will's fingers end up dragging along that sharp pale jawline, from the chin all the way to the ear.
The contact is brief, and Will jerks away from it as soon as he registers it. Still, it feels like there are explosions blooming in his fingertips.
"Is it done?" Mike asks.
"Almost. Just, uh.. the front left," Will mumbles, gesturing at his own head.
He could've lied. Could've said it's done and be free, but he can't bring himself to do that. A part of him doesn't want this to end.
Will clutches the scissors in his hands, hears the plastic handles straining. Mike keeps looking at him, like he's drinking him in almost. Eyes dark like two bottomless voids, so focused and almost curious. They keep jumping around Will's face, stay somewhere low before jerking upwards again.
"You should probably close your eyes," Will says.
"Right," Mike nods after a brief pause. His brows furrow ever so slightly, lips press together tight.
His eyelids fall closed, and Will feels like a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. Much easier without those black orbs constantly on him. He watches the way Mike's lashes flutter against his cheeks, eyebrows twitch a little.
He clearly looks for too long, because Mike opens one eye to glance up at him.
"Are you gonna do it?" he asks. A little chuckle slips past his lips, nose scrunches.
"Y- Yeah. Sorry," Will mumbles.
Mike closes his eyes again, his face relaxing. Will brings a palm up, slots it between Mike's hair and forehead. Just how he's done it for El when she needed her bangs trimmed.
He has to touch Mike now, it's unavoidable.
The skin feels soft, warmer than Will expected. He shakes the thought away, focuses on the task at hand. With those same short and quick motions, he cuts into the harsh line of Mike's bangs. Softens them so they look more natural.
From this angle Will can only see the lower half of Mike's face. The freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, his slightly chapped lips. He can't help but look when Mike licks them quickly, just reflex.
This part takes Will no more than a minute, but it feels like eternity. His moves are a bit sluggish, muscles stiff from the nerves. Mike sits and waits, hands clasped together in his lap, thumbs rubbing against each other.
Somewhere halfway through Will feels something tickle his palm. Assumes it's the hair trimmings. They're both covered in them by this point, itchy and red all over.
"Okay," Will breathes out once he's satisfied with the cut, runs his fingers through Mike's hair to ruffle it.
When he moves his hand, he's immediately met with those same brown eyes, as if Mike has been looking already. Will freezes for a second.
"Hey," Mike whispers with a small smile on his face.
"Hey," Will replies through a startled, nervous laugh.
"Is it done yet? Or do you need, like, three more hours?" Mike teases, raising a playful eyebrow.
"Careful. I'm the one with the scissors," Will scoffs.
He fully runs his hand through Mike's hair, roughly ruffling it and pressing down on his head. That pulls a loud, melodic laugh out of Mike. Genuine, sweet. The kind that makes his face scrunch up and voice rise in pitch.
For a second, Will lets himself enjoy this. To share a quick laugh with his best friend as they tease each other.
"It's done," he says as the giggles die down, swipes the leftover hair off himself.
Mike stands up, shakes his entire body like a dog getting out of water. Sends little sharp hairs flying everywhere. He very dramatically picks a few out of his eyes and mouth, wincing and spitting. Will watches him, a fond smile decorating his face.
"Fuck, this feels so much better," Mike sighs in pure bliss, runs his hands through his much shorter hair. Pays extra attention to his neck, rubs it, feels the breeze hitting it.
He bends down to look in the mirror, takes in his reflection from all sides. Will watches him from the doorway, a warm sense of pride blooming in his chest.
His eyes can't help but trace Mike's side profile, now opened up, almost softer looking. The sharp slope of his nose, dotted with freckles, those slightly chapped lips pulled into an excited smile, eyes much rounder and more eager, scanning the mirror.
"It's perfect," Mike says, turning to look at Will.
"Y- Yeah?"
"Yeah," Mike nods eagerly, turns back towards the mirror. Pinches at a few strands, shaping them. "It's exactly what I wanted."
"But.. you didn't tell me what you wanted," Will mumbles, brows furrowing in confusion.
"I knew you'd get it right," Mike smiles.
Will's breath stutters. It's like the younger version of his best friend is looking back at him. Those inky strands swoop over his forehead, curl stubbornly around his ears. It almost makes his features look softer.
Like that boy that approached Will on the swings, that sparked his love for D&D. The boy that always held his trembling hand through all the troubles, despite being terrified himself.
Will's best friend that believed in an alternate dimension rather than accepting his death, that saved him from literal possession.
The sweet, caring boy he was before all the teenage angst and relationship troubles. He's still in there, just sharper, broader.
"Thanks. Seriously," Mike continues, stumbles over the hairy floor to pat his friend's shoulder. His long fingers curl against the cotton of Will's shirt, wrinkle it.
"You're welcome," Will says softly, feels his skin burn under Mike's palm. To distract himself from that, he moves to grab a broom. The grip on his shoulder only tightens, pinning him in place.
"I'll clean it up. Don't worry about it," Mike waves a dismissive hand, squeezes past Will to walk through the doorway. A path of more hair trimmings follows him.
Will goes shortly after. Shakes off as much hair as he can, then steps out. Looks at the stripe of cold white light stretching across the floor. His eyes jump around, trying to snag at something new to occupy his mind with, now that this is done.
He's both happy about it and almost mourns it. Despite the ache in his heart, this felt nice.
"Actually," Mike speaks up, finger up in the air. Will immediately turns towards him like reflex. "Do you wanna, um.. come upstairs?"
"You mean..?"
"My room."
That warmth comes back, spreading through Will's bloodstream like honey. He feels himself melting, all rational thoughts leaving him. Mike leans against a wooden beam, scratches his arms and neck as he speaks.
"I- I mean, I need to clean all of this first, then shower," he rambles, gestures back at the bathroom. "But we can go upstairs afterwards, if you want. I got a few new comics. They've been on my desk for, like, months."
"Months?" Will parrots, brows jumping up into his hairline.
"Yeah," Mike shrugs sheepishly, folds in on himself, shy. "It.. It felt wrong to read them without you."
Will melts, almost feels tears pricking at his eyes. Swallows them down. His cheeks ache from how hard he's smiling now. Wide, genuine.
"But- But it's fine if you don't wanna. It is kinda late, I guess. Um," Mike continues, words stumbling over each other.
"I'd like that," Will cuts in, voice more breathy than he planned, but doesn't care.
"Yeah?" Mike lights up. His eyes gain a certain sparkle, lips curl into an almost wolfish smile.
"Yeah," Will gives a shaky nod.
"Okay, um. Then I- I'll go shower really quickly, sweep all this up, and we can go," Mike's mouth never closes, hands fly around in hurried, jerky gestures. Will can't help but chuckle. His eyes drift back to his mattress.
"Can I take my sketchbook?" he asks, points at the book, half open and abandoned in the blanket.
"Of course," the chaos leaves Mike's voice. It drops to a much softer, almost tender register. His face follows, relaxing.
They both stop and just look at each other. All giddy smiles, almost childlike excitement sparkling behind their eyes. For now, nothing else matters. They can just be best friends, hanging out. Like the old times. The apocalypse can wait until tomorrow.
"Okay. Cool."
"Cool."
