Archive of Our Own

will 💛: u want ur regular from our chinese restaurant?

will 💛: we’re still having dinner right lol

Mike’s startled out of his reverie – glassy eyes staring at the screen through his blue light glasses, mouth slightly opened as he watches yet another YouTube analysis video about this superhero guy – by his phone buzzing twice, and then twice again, the heartbeat vibration that he set as Will’s default years ago, when they were still in high school and Mike was maybe a little bit more pathetic than he is currently. 

Only a little bit, though.

He clicks pause on the video – perfect timing, in fact, because it’s a cute still frame of that guy in the black and yellow suit flashing the camera the peace sign with what looks like, in Mike’s unprofessional opinion, a smile under the bandana that covers the bottom half of his face – and pulls his glasses down from his face, rubbing his eyes in a way that he knows will leave him with wrinkles by thirty but he really can’t be bothered to care. 

Mike was working on an essay for his literary theory class – another one of those fuckass prerequisite classes he needs to take to graduate, even though he’s double majoring in journalism and creative writing and literary theory has literally nothing to do with either of them – but then he got a notification on his computer that a new video dropped about a save that Spider-Man made a couple of days ago, and that led him to watching it and then another one that he had missed about how Spider-Man stopped a car crash a few weeks ago. Mike’s not obsessed with him, per se; he’s more…expressing a professional interest in the guy, since this is just the sort of thing he’d want to cover once he lands a full time job at the Daily Bugle, as opposed to this part time job there that ends with him picking up two of the same coffees for his boss and one of them, without fail, landing square on his chest and staining his shirt on his way to deliver them. 

He’s a glorified secretary, essentially, but he’s okay with it because it means he gets to be in the building, and it always makes Will giggle and flush the way that Mike has been obsessed with for years when he tells the story about how he managed to humiliate himself that day. That, alone, is worth the grief of this stupid job. 

He picks up his phone and is half surprised to find that he spent over an hour watching videos about Spider-Man – no, he doesn’t have a problem, he’s just interested – and he opens Will’s text. 

mike: yes pls i’ll pay

mike: i actually think i might ascend to the heavens as soon as i start eating im literally starving

The text chat is still, for a moment, and it allows Mike to fully appreciate the background of it – a fish-eyed picture of the two of them from a quite horrendous angle, looking up at the camera with matching grins. Mike has a ton of those pictures in his phone – too many to count, really – but this one was the only acceptable one for the two of them to look at every time they texted each other because in almost every single other picture, Mike is looking at Will with something like longing in his eyes, and that’s just embarrassing. 

The little bubbles that signify that Will is typing pop up, and Mike can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. 

will 💛: mke

will 💛: mik

will 💛: mike

will 💛: when was the last time u ate

Mike rolls his eyes, types out an answer.

mike: this morning

mike: we literally had breakfast together before u left

It was nice – instant oatmeal in their matching bowls, the smell of the apples Will always cuts for his oatmeal making the apartment smell like summer, like it always does when it’s the end of the semester and they’re about to waste away the hot city nights sitting on their fire escape, watching the world go by. Will had grinned at him when he tossed a handful of apple slices into Mike’s own plain oatmeal – he can’t hardly ever bring himself to doctor it up the way Will does, because money is tight enough as it is, but he also can’t stand watching Will eat bland oatmeal so he splurges for him – and then his eyes had widened as he looked at the tiny numbers above their stove and he quickly shoveled his oatmeal in his mouth and took off, giving Mike’s shoulder a squeeze as he maneuvered his backpack off of the back of the chair he was sitting on. Mike, decidedly, did not think about the way the warmth spread through his entire shoulder and down his arm and into his chest, and this was definitely not why he was delayed in getting to his one and only class of the day. 

will 💛: that was literally twelve hours ago

will 💛: ???????

Mike’s about to defend himself – he had class, and then the subway delays on the way back to their apartment meant that he couldn’t get to his favorite deli before they closed their lunch menu, and then he was working on his essay, hunched over his computer, until the notification from YouTube popped up – but then his phone buzzes once, twice. 

will 💛: im almost home hang in there

mike: my superhero <3

He doesn’t mean it like that – in a romantic way. It’s just what he feels – that Will is saving him from the horrendous fate of starving to death, that Will is his superhero, brave and smart and always there for Mike – and he was thinking about superheroes anyway, what with that Spider-guy from YouTube, and Mike is groaning and letting his head thump against his desk because he is really, truly head over heels in love with Will. 

And that’s like, objectively okay; he’s been at least three quarters in love with Will since they started living together a few years ago, and probably half in love with him since before that, when it was less of a steady ache in his chest and more overwhelming butterflies in his stomach and electricity shooting through his veins every time the two of them touched. He still gets those feelings sometimes – a lot of the time, really, if he’s being honest with himself – but he’s learned to control it a bit better, tamp it down into something manageable, because Will’s his best friend and also the best person he knows, and he deserves better than Mike stumbling over himself every time Will flashes him a smile with those bunny teeth or puts his cold feet under Mike’s thighs on the couch.

Plus, Will has a boyfriend. That’s definitely – a deterrent, to put it kindly. 

He hasn’t actually come out and said anything yet; Mike’s been trying not to push, but to subtly make it clear that he’s fine with it, he’s fine with Will getting out there in the city and dating and kissing another guy who’s probably much better looking and stronger and funnier and objectively just all around better than Mike. He’s fine with it, so he tries not to let himself be crushed from the inside out when Will is late for their dinners, or when he has to leave movie night early or cancel it entirely, or when he has to go to the studio real quick Mike, I’m sorry when they were supposed to commute back from campus together. 

Mike’s not sure why Will hasn’t told him yet – he’s really very normal about it all, nights spent with a pillow hugged to his chest and tears on his face aside – but Will shares so much with him already that it feels a little weird to ask for more, even if it’s not necessarily the kind of more that Mike wants. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s all fine. 

When Will doesn’t respond right away – other than a little yellow heart on the corner of Mike’s message that definitely doesn’t make Mike’s heart flutter – Mike decides to actually work on his essay, at least until Will gets back, so the two of them can sit on their ragged, second hand couch and eat their dinners with some movie or reality show reruns playing on the TV. They’ve been working their way through The Great British Bake Off, which has ended with the two of them inspired in the kitchen with flour in places where flour should definitely not be, and Mike’s looking forward to tonight’s episode, especially since they bought actual cookie dough to bake instead of having to make their own and have it end in disaster. 

He’s a full three pages into his essay when he hears the key turn in the lock, and he blinks, sitting up and cracking his back. He takes a second to glance at his phone and it’s – nine, and he and Will were texting at seven. 

Mike blinks again. Weird. 

“Mike?”

He hears Will’s shoes plop down one next to the other, and Mike’s about to get up when he fully checks his phone — an Instagram notification from Lucas, a Goodreads notification from El, a thumbs down and a clown emoji reaction from Max on their music sharing app, and —

will 💛: sry gonna be late 

“Hey,” Will breathes, suddenly at the threshold of Mike’s door, and Mike jumps, phone slipping from his hand. Will looks — good, unfortunately for Mike, his cheeks flushed and hair a bit of a mess. There’s a shadow where his chest disappears under his shirt and it looks a bit like a bruise, a hickey, which Mike very readily does not want to think about.

He does anyway.

“Hi,” he squeaks, and Will’s eyebrows do that cute thing they do when he can tell Mike is being weird. Mike clears his throat and tries again, aiming for nonchalant. “Dinner ready?”

Will slumps a bit against the door. “You will not believe the odyssey I had to get here, I’m so sorry I’m so late,” he says, and he looks genuinely apologetic, shoulders curling in on himself and eyes big and sincere. Which is — weird, definitely, because he shouldn’t be apologizing for having a boyfriend, if that’s where his priorities are. Mike’s — well, not fine with it, but he can pretend to be.

It would just be nice if Will could be a bit more forward about it, is all.

“It’s fine,” Mike says, standing on shaky legs. He stretches his back and doesn’t miss the way that Will’s embarrassed flush grows a bit deeper, but he’s sure it’s nothing, because it’s been nothing ever since Mike started noticing stuff like that when they were sixteen. “Let’s eat?”

Will nods, shooting Mike a thankful smile for not pressing the issue further. It’s not that he won’t press — just not right now, is all. Right now it feels like his stomach is going to eat him from the inside out, and he can smell the noodles he loves from here. 

Mike stops short when the two of them get to their tiny kitchen. “Did you reheat them?”

Will slumps again, handing Mike a take out box and a fork, because he doesn’t have enough coordination to handle chopsticks without flinging one across the room. 

Will would want to date someone who knows how to use chopsticks, someone who isn’t a total loser. Mike is, unfortunately, all too aware of this and his own total loser status.

“They were cold by the time I got home,” he mumbles, grabbing his own box off the counter. He digs through one of their drawers for the chopsticks El got for him a while back, when she visited Japan with Max for a school trip, and then beckons Mike into the living room with them. “I would’ve gone back to order more but they were already closed.”

Mike drops down onto their couch and sinks into the cushions a bit. Will sits next to him — they could only afford a loveseat and a beanbag, so they’re always in close proximity when watching TV, and Mike can’t exactly complain about that — and sighs deeply, opening his container with practiced ease. Mike watches him take a bite, and it’s nearly pornographic, the way his eyes roll back in his head with a deep sigh, so he elects to face forward when he asks, “What happened?”

Will shrugs, and Mike can feel it brush against his shoulder. “There was a bad accident on the street near the restaurant, and then I kept getting jostled on the subway, and then my train got rerouted, and then delayed, and it was just —“ he’s waving his hands around the entire time he’s talking, and Mike tries not to find it endearing but fails ridiculously. “Just awful.” He punctuates his sentence with a quick stab at his vegetables.

That doesn’t explain the bruise — hickey? — on his neck, but Mike’s willing to sympathize, because Will really does seem sorry. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he says earnestly, and in return he gets Will’s mismatched socks burrowing under his thigh. It makes him warm all over. He pokes at a piece of broccoli with his fork and drops it in Will’s container. “Will watching people set their kitchen on fire help?”

There’s a glint in Will’s eye when Mike looks at him, holding up the remote as if to prove he means on TV, not in their actual kitchen. He smiles, then burrows deeper into the arm of their couch. “Definitely.”

🌃🌃🌃

The next few weeks pass in a little bit of a blur; Mike is swamped with papers and reading assignments, forcing him to pull late nights at the library or hours upon hours at the coffee shop — conveniently, the one in a Barnes and Noble — where Will works and can get him discounted coffee. Their movie nights are, surprisingly, unaffected during this time, and Mike’s beyond grateful for it; he needs his designated Will time, time when he can let himself slip into thinking this is nice, I wouldn’t mind having this for the rest of my life, time when he can imagine that Will’s head resting on his shoulder after a shift is something he can have all the time, because they’re dating. 

The bubble is burst on one of those movie nights – one that Mike had been looking forward to all week, because there had been far too many things that had gone wrong in the past few days and he needed some time to decompress and maybe lay his head in Will’s lap to let Will’s fingers scratch gently at his scalp – when Will texts him as their bag of popcorn is spinning slowly in the microwave, half-popped. 

will 💛: not gonna make it tonight 

will 💛: :( 

will 💛: sorry

Mike tries not to let his disappointment sink directly into his stomach, but it’s impossible when he is suddenly aware of how long it’s been since he was last touched, since skin brushed against his with purpose. It makes him ache. 

mike: it’s fine

mike: i’ll be here when u get back 

And he will. It’s not like Mike had any plans tonight, outside of Will and sharing a thin, soft blanket on the couch while they watch a nature documentary to make it feel like they’re really in nature instead of in the almost-blistering June heat of the city. He dumps the popcorn in a bowl, grabs their last available bottle of alcohol – because fuck if he’s going to be sober for this – and walks over to the couch to slump onto it. 

Mike wants to be petty, actually. He wants to text Will something like have fun with him or hope he’s worth it or something equally bitchy, and if he was texting it to literally anyone except Will he’d take a screenshot and send it to Max and she’d immediately text him back a string of congratulations at being a little bitchy, but since it’s Will and Max is platonically in love with him far more than she is with Mike, doing something like that would land him in an early grave. So he doesn’t; instead, he texts something kinder, more best dude friends and less oh my god I’m so in love with you it hurts. 

mike: be safe :) 

He doesn’t get a text back immediately, and he really, really doesn’t want to be all pathetic and watch his phone for a response, so he puts it face down where Will would be sitting if he was here and he turns on their TV. 

It’s logged into his account, and he can see in the little notification bar that there’s a new video about that Spider-Man guy, and Mike shrugs to himself before clicking play. 

There’s a short introduction – “Who IS this guy?” with a montage of older footage that Mike has seen before and then a giant UNCOVERING THE SPIDER-MAN text across the screen – before the person dives in, going over a handful of the latest incidents where Spider-Man has been seen.

Mike checks the length of the video – it’s about an hour long, and then he realizes that the description says MONTHLY RECAP – and then, when he’s about to click away, realizes that he really has nothing better to do, so he hits play, uncorks the wine bottle and takes a swig, wincing at the taste. He really prefers hard liquors – stuff that gets him drunk quickly, like vodka or tequila or whiskey – but Will loves wine, got into it when El took him to Europe with her, and so now they have his wine and not much else. Mike needs to buy some more of those whiskey and coke cans, or the frozen wine coolers that he can sometimes get Will to drink with him, but he really can’t be bothered to go out right now just to get something that will get him wasted, so he settles for drinking their last bottle of wine. They’re going to have to go shopping for alcohol soon, anyway. 

The person doing the analysis is quite smart, Mike has come to realize, and that’s largely the reason he follows this channel instead of any of those other bullshit ones that make shit up just for clicks. This person methodically goes through all of the footage that they’ve been able to gather from this month – starting with a high speed car chase downtown, then that car crash near their favorite Chinese place, and then that robbery at one of the high end stores by Mike’s work – and explains what happened, what Spider-Man did, stuff like that.

It’s all quite fascinating, even as Mike’s brain starts to go fuzzy from the wine and his mouth goes dry from the popcorn he’s shoving in his mouth with one hand. The person is thorough, looking at the first frames where they can see him arriving on the scene and the last frames before he leaves. They make everything move in slow motion, trying to see what direction Spider-Man is coming from and where he could be going, laid over a map of Manhattan. Where is his base? How does he know when this stuff is happening? When does he show up?

Mike’s almost done with the entire video – there’s a video of Spider-Man helping walk an old man across the street, and then one of him webbing up a guy who was giving a pair of young women with temporary rainbow tattoos on their cheeks a hard time – when he hears Will’s key in the door. 

Mike’s well past tipsy now – drunk in that way only wine can get him, where he’s clumsy but still aware of how idiotic he looks – so he takes a deep breath and sits up, brushing the popcorn crumbs that had accumulated on his chest as he sunk lower and lower into the couch cushions into his bowl. 

The door opens slowly, and Mike takes a brief second to appreciate that he’s getting to live his dream – having Will come home to him, sharing an apartment together in a big city far away from Hawkins – before he remembers that Will has a secret boyfriend that he doesn’t want to tell Mike about. His mood sours instantly.

“Mike?” Will asks, and he hears the thump thump of his shoes on the floor. 

“In here,” Mike replies, wincing when it comes out slurred, all one word and slanting to the side. Will walks in with an exhausted look on his face that he manages to shutter up into something like amusement when he makes eye contact with Mike over the back of the couch.

“What’re you up to?” He asks, eyes sliding from Mike to the TV and back again. The amusement fades off his face and is replaced by something Mike can’t quite decipher, even with almost twenty years of friendship under their belt. 

Mike waves dismissively at the TV, where it’s paused on a close up of Spider-Man’s face, the bandana he uses to cover the lower half of his face and the goggles that cover his eyes. The hood that he usually wears in the videos leaves only a bit of his hair showing, but it’s enough to see that it’s chestnut and short, pieces falling into his eyes every once in a while. “Just – you know. Educational.”

Wow. He’s drunker than he thought. He tries to stand up – to prove that he’s not drunk, not on wine like a middle aged woman – but his legs get caught in the blanket he was under and he ends up falling back on the couch with a groan. 

Will does him the favor of not laughing directly in his face, but the way he’s stifling his giggle in his hand isn’t much better, since that leaves Mike jealous of his hand, where it’s pressed to his lips. He’s never drinking wine ever again. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Will says, diplomatically, once his giggle fit is under control. He glances at the TV again, where it’s still paused, and his lips turn from a soft smile into a frown, eyes bubbling with something Mike still can’t read. He picks up the bottle of wine and the bowl of popcorn, empty save for some unpopped kernels, and takes them into the kitchen, much to Mike’s dismay. 

Mike gets up to follow him – he wants to be near Will, damn it, wants to hang off of him and lay on top of him and burrow under his skin – but the world starts to spin and only stops when there’s a shoulder under his arm, the firm press of Will’s body next to his, and he looks down at where Will’s face is right there, thank god, and smiles, big and toothy. “Hi,” he says, and the vowel drags on his tongue long enough to make Will huff a laugh. 

“Hi yourself,” Will replies as he maneuvers Mike with a surprising amount of strength to reach down to turn the TV off. Mike feels more than hears some sort of whine being ripped from his chest – he wasn’t done with the video, and he likes this Spider-Man guy, even if he’s never actually met him in real life – and he’s only aware of its volume when Will shushes him gently, rubbing his calloused fingers up and down over Mike’s exposed forearm. 

Mike sighs, content, and lets Will walk him to the bathroom – where he, thankfully, leaves Mike to pee in peace, even though Mike knows that if he was truly wasted, Will would be in here with him – and then to his room, where he collapses on his bed. 

“I missed you,” Mike says, into his pillow, but it’s directed at Will and he hopes that’s obvious enough. He feels a pressure on his back, gentle but insistent, and he rolls onto his side to see Will sitting on the edge of his bed, hand still on Mike’s torso. 

“I missed you too,” Will whispers, and it’s the mix of that small admission and Will’s hand on his body, warm and tangible and here, that eases the anxiety that’s been building up in Mike’s chest since he got that text earlier, the anxiety that says one day you’ll leave me for him and I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. 

This is enough, though. Mike will settle for this softness, and as he loses consciousness to the gentle brush of Will’s hand on his ribs he asks the universe to make sure that he’ll remember this tomorrow. 

🌃🌃🌃

It’s only a few days later when Mike is running errands when he finally has a run-in with this Spider-Man guy. 

He’s on his way to meet Will at their favorite grocery store – their shared reusable bags stuffed inside the tote Will painted for him for Christmas – with his earbuds in. He’s grown more used to finding music to drown out the din of the city – the constant traffic, the people yelling for absolutely no reason, the general cacophony of millions of people living on top of each other – and so his volume is cranked almost to the max setting. If he was still the same self conscious boy he was when he and Will first moved here, he’d be worried that strangers on the street could hear the melancholy indie or — god forbid — the pop music blasting from his earbuds, but he’s found, after a few years here, that he doesn’t really care. He’s never going to see any of these people again, anyway. 

His phone buzzes in his hand – thump thump, thump thump, a heartbeat. Mike pre-emptively smiles. 

Things with Will have been a lot better, recently. The two of them have been able to meet up more often now that classes are out for the semester, and the only real commitments they have are work, each other, and their friends’ plans for vacation. 

And a secret boyfriend, maybe, but Mike’s been a bit less insecure lately, mostly because Will’s been showing up to their dates – as friends – more and more, and it’s been nice to be the center of Will’s attention like that again. He’s not showing up with random hickies anymore – not visible ones at least, but Mike doesn’t want to think about that particular caveat – and he’s not been as tired recently, which is really nice. They’ve taken to wrestling for the remote, and Will’s gotten a lot stronger for some reason, and Mike pretends not to be hot and bothered about it or the fact that Will looks drop-dead gorgeous when he’s straddling Mike and holding the remote above him with a breathless, triumphant smile. 

It’s nice. It’s easy. It feels like summer, in that indescribably nostalgic way, like back when they would hang out in Mike’s basement or at the lake all day, never spending more than a handful of hours away from each other. Sometimes being with Will feels like running through the sprinklers in his bare feet, and it is impossible for Mike not to fall in love with him, over and over again. 

will 💛: im gonna beat u to trader joes

will 💛: loser has to buy the other their drink of choice

will 💛: 😛

The addition of the emoji with its tongue out – one of the most reckless ones in the keyboard, if Mike’s being honest, and he would know, because El makes it a point to utilize every emoji on there – makes Mike roll his eyes, even as the notion of Will buying him a drink – like they’re something – makes his heart skip a beat. 

He types out a response and is about to hit send when he hears, through his headphones, a loud screech behind him, and he’s barely had time to turn around and see the car flying at him at an impossible speed before he’s being pulled out of the way, earbuds falling out of his ears and tangling around his neck. 

“What the fuck,” Mike breathes, and then he’s screaming, high pitched and terrified, when he realizes that the ground is no longer directly beneath him. There’s an arm around his waist, firm and very strong, and there’s a body pressed to his side that he clings onto for dear life.

He’s aware, vaguely, that he’s finally getting to meet the superhero he’s had a lowkey crush on – in a weird parasocial way, obviously – and he’s clinging to him like he’s a koala, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. He buries his face in Spider-Man’s neck and holds on as tight as he can, nails scrabbling for purchase every couple of seconds or so when he can feel them at the top of a pendulum and in free fall. 

He wishes he wasn’t so terrified, because he knows Dustin is going to be grilling him for all the physics behind this web-slinging ride, and Mike can’t focus on anything but the pit in his stomach from the motion sickness. 

They finally stop swinging – it might’ve been ten seconds or ten years, Mike has no idea – and Mike collapses to the ground, falling on his ass because his legs are shaking too hard. 

“Stay here, okay?” He hears, and it’s a deep voice in an unnatural way, like someone is trying to disguise their real voice. For a split second, Mike thinks Will is somewhere on the street with them, maybe running up to make sure that Mike is okay, but then he shakes his head and realizes there’s now nobody around him, so he must’ve been imagining things. Mike can barely register anything around him, since his vision is swimming, and he feels sick, so he turns to his side to throw up in the gutter next to the street. He hears sirens in the distance, and then sees a blur of blue and red as an ambulance flies in front of him, and then there’s a body next to him again, catching him as he slumps over to one side as his adrenaline starts to wane. “Hey, Mi – man, you’re all right.”

Mike blinks and looks over at the stranger, only to find himself looking back in the reflection of Spider-Man’s yellow goggles. His mask is pulled up over his nose, and his hood is up – one of the most common questions in the videos he watches is how does he secure it when he’s flying through the air? and now Mike’s wondering the same thing – with a few locks of hair scattered over his forehead. His suit smells like smoke, but Mike’s more concerned with the fact that he just threw up in front of a literal superhero. 

He groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Sorry,” Mike says, but he’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, so he follows it up with, “Thanks for saving me. I’m like – a huge fan, I guess.”

He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. He literally could not be more lame. He should tell Will to put him down when he gets back to their apartment. 

Spider-Man lets out a low chuckle, and it sounds familiar in a far away way, but Mike’s sure that’s just the adrenaline again. “No problem,” he says, giving Mike a pat on the back. It knocks the breath from Mike’s lungs. “I’m, uh, always glad to meet a fan.”

Mike wishes he could see if he’s smiling, and he briefly wonders what that smile might look like – if his teeth are like Will’s bunny teeth, if his lips curl in a mischievous way or like he’s radiating joy, two of Mike’s favorite expressions to see on Will – before Spider-Man is standing up, offering Mike a hand. 

“Um – I mean, I’ve gotta run –” he says, hitching a gloved thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got a date,” he blurts, and Mike imagines that he’s probably blushing under his mask but he can’t tell. 

Mike nods dumbly – he definitely wasn’t thinking about asking Spider-Man out on a date, but now he’s thinking maybe he should’ve at least considered it – and still the guy just stays standing there, like he’s expecting Mike to say something else.

He should, probably, say something, but he’s moving before he can spit anything out. He throws his hands around Spider-Man’s shoulders and hugs him for a second, two, before he lets go with what Mike considers a very manly pat on the shoulder. Lucas and Dustin would be proud. “Um, for saving me,” he mumbles, taking a full step backwards to keep him from doing something stupid like climbing into Spider-Man’s arms again. “Thanks."

Spider-Man stays still, like he’s – stunned, or something, and then he gives Mike a cute little two finger salute and says, “Don’t let me see you around!” as he swings away, launching into the air in a smooth arc.

Mike watches him take off with more grace than he could ever manage in his entire life and then laughs, a full, belly laugh, one that makes him bend over with his hands on his knees and tears coming out of his eyes. He’s – giddy, he decides, because he just got saved by a literal superhero from a life or death scenario and hugged him about it. He’s such an idiot, but he can’t wait to tell Will. 

As Mike untangles his headphones from his hair, he wonders if there’s anyone around that got that on video. Mike’s fifteen seconds of fame coming from the time he awkwardly gave Spider-Man an unsolicited hug was not on his bucket list, but it’s not exactly like he can control these things. He only hopes he somehow helped the analysis YouTuber he likes to get some more information on his identity, or something. That would be worth the relentless teasing he’s sure to have to endure from all of his friends, especially Max.

Mike looks down at his phone, at the unsent message in their text line. He taps send, and decides to save the story of how he almost died for later, when they’re in person. 

mike: buy me dinner first 😘

🌃🌃🌃

“I just can’t believe it happened,” Mike says, for probably the millionth time since he found Will browsing the fruity — and cheap — wine selection at Trader Joe’s. Before Mike could even say anything, Will had turned to find him on the aisle with a grin on his face, hair windswept and red lines on the bridge of his nose, probably from those cute wire-framed glasses he wears when he’s sketching intricate details. For some reason, he was wearing a black hoodie with one of his favorite yellow flannels pulled over it and buttoned, but Mike didn’t get to ask about why he was wearing a hoodie in eighty degree weather before Will was raising an eyebrow at him. What’s up with you? He’d asked immediately, because he knows Mike like that, can tell when something just happened that fundamentally changed his being. 

Oh, no biggie. Just got saved by a really cute superhero that I’ve been crushing on to help ease the constant ache of being in love with you, and was totally normal and cool about it. Just another day in the big N-Y-C. 

When he told Will what had happened – what had actually happened, not the story his mind had first wanted him to blurt out – Will had rolled his eyes, turning a pink wine bottle over in his hands. His cheeks were flushed like he’d had a couple glasses already. What were you even doing, almost getting hit by a car, anyway? 

Mike got the sense pretty quickly that Will didn’t like his story – whether that was about Mike being in life-threatening danger and seemingly not caring, or maybe, perhaps a bit selfishly, it was because Mike had been essentially flirted with by Spider-Man and Will was jealous – but he just couldn’t stop himself from talking about it. He was amazed, as they totaled up their groceries and Will put a few bottles of wine in Mike’s basket, next to the frozen wine coolers and bottle of tequila that Mike was hoping to have Will help him drink; he was stunned, as Mike pointed out where it happened on their walk home, arms laden with their Monet and Van Gogh reusable bags. Will had to take their Artist’s Garden bag out of Mike’s hand before he launched it into traffic in his excitement at replaying what had happened. 

Will was less than enthused, but he’d been friends with Mike long enough to know when to let him talk, and Mike had been friends with Will long enough to know when to shut up, so when he’d finished his story he asked Will how his day went, only to get launched into a story about his art from that day, a cityscape he was working on. 

Mike asked to see it, but Will had shied away, mumbling something about how it’s not done yet as he opened their apartment door. 

They’d been putting groceries away for about five minutes when the silence finally got to Mike, and he’d blurted it out again. Will rolls his eyes, but he looks fondly exasperated, instead of like he’s going to lock himself in his room for the rest of the weekend. “I mean, seriously, Will. Spider-Man!”

“I heard you the first thousand times you said it, Mike,” he says, leaving one of the wine bottles on the counter. He puts away the other two, and throws the wine coolers in the freezer. 

“Why do you not find this cool?” Mike asks, suddenly defensive. He’s curious, sure – he and Will used to share superhero comics under the cover of a blanket with a flashlight, and their first real conversation about being gay had started with a discussion about the relationship between Captain America and the Winter Soldier – but he’s also a little hurt that Will isn’t as excited about this as Mike is. Things like this don’t happen to him every day – scratch that, every decade – and he wouldn’t mind if Will, like, indulged him a bit. 

Unless he really is jealous. If he is, then Mike might explode into a billion pieces of heart-shaped confetti. 

Will sighs. He’s folding up their Sunflowers tote with too much precision; he’s thinking hard about his response, Mike can tell. “It’s just – kinda weird, that’s all. Like, you don’t even know this guy and you’re, like, obsessed with him.”

Mike blinks. He wasn’t expecting Will to actually be jealous. “What? I’m not – obsessed with him, I mean –”

“Mike,” Will interrupts, leveling Mike with a look that clearly means he can see through Mike’s flustered floundering. “You literally watch YouTube video lectures about him. I think you’re obsessed.”

“Well, that doesn’t –” Mike starts, earning him that look again, so he shifts. He scoffs, handing Will a box of rotini pasta. “Maybe he likes it, I don’t know. It’s just cool that, in all of this shitty world, there’s a literal superhero right in our backyard.”

“I don’t –” Will blurts, and then he takes a deep breath. He motions for Mike to hand him their frozen lemon bars for him to put in the freezer before they start to defrost. “Maybe he doesn’t like it, all the attention. What if he doesn’t want anybody to know who he is? Have you ever thought about that?”

Mike sort of can’t believe they’re having this conversation right now. He’s confused, more than anything; why does Will sound so upset? “Why wouldn’t he want anybody to know who he is?”

Will shrugs, going back to folding the bag again with too much focus. “Maybe it’s, like, a safety thing,” he says, eyes focused on the ground. “For the people he loves. What if people come after them?”

Mike pauses, retort on the tip of his tongue. He’s never really thought about that, about how being Spider-Man probably puts his friends and family in danger. What if someone wanted to get to him, somehow, for some reason, and to do that they went after his family? That’s certainly not worth any sort of fame that would come with revealing who he is, even if Mike is now dying to know what he looks like under his mask and goggles, if his smile is anything like Will’s. 

“You know, I hate it when you’re right,” Mike says, sighing. He can tell that talking about this touched a nerve for Will – probably because of all the threats his family had to deal with after his mom married the Hawkins police chief, much to Mike’s dismay – so he backs off, tries to regain that smile that was on Will’s face when he first saw him in the aisle in the grocery store, glowing with triumph at having won their little game, even though he definitely had a head start. 

That smile returns, after a split second. Will looks up at Mike, grinning, and then tries to tamp it down as he shrugs, ducking his head. “Yeah, well, you must hate me a lot of the time, then.”

Mike laughs; it sounds lovesick to his own ears, and he desperately hopes it doesn’t sound that way to Will. “Not even close,” he says, planting his chin on his hand, and he barely catches a bit of a blush on Will’s face before he’s turning around to pull two mismatched wine glasses out of their cabinet. 

“Let’s get drunk?” Will asks, eyes wide and hopeful, and Mike doesn’t think twice about saying yes with a grin. 

🌃🌃🌃

Mike’s one glass of Will’s wine and a handful of tequila shots in – from one of those stupid big boob shot glasses that Max got for him as a gift when she and Lucas came here last fall – when Will’s phone starts buzzing with an unfamiliar staccato on their coffee table. 

“Shit,” he says, and bolts upright so quickly he almost knocks Mike straight in the forehead. He’s off of Mike’s lap, empty wine glass abandoned in favor of picking up his phone and swiping to one side, holding it up to his ear. He gives Mike an apologetic look before he takes off to take the call in his room, and Mike’s left with his thighs feeling cold from everywhere that Will was touching him. “Hello? I know, I know, sorry –”

His bedroom door closes, and despite the thin walls that allow them to hear everything the neighbors do at all times, he can’t hear any of what Will is saying. Even if he could, Mike’s not sure he would want to hear all the lovey dovey stuff that Will is saying to his boyfriend – or, maybe they’re fighting, Mike isn’t sure. It did sound like Will was annoyed at having to take the call, so maybe – maybe –

Will’s door opens before Mike can finish his thought. “Mike,” Will says, and just by the tone of his voice Mike can tell that he’s not going to like what comes next. Will is wincing, like it physically hurts to have to break the news to Mike, and it’s enough to make Mike’s stomach drop even as Will’s looking a bit silly, hopping around on one foot while he tries to put his favorite yellow socks on. “I’ve got to go, I’m sorry, it’s –”

“It’s fine,” Mike says, even though it is most definitely not, and Will takes a break from hopping about to look at Mike. His eyes are full of some sort of emotion – hurt, maybe, or maybe annoyance that Mike is in love with him and wants to usurp all his time even though he has a boyfriend he clearly cares about more. Mike waves a hand, adjusting in his seat to pull his knees to his chest so he doesn’t feel the ghost of Will’s head in his lap anymore, the way he would turn his head towards Mike’s stomach to hide his laugh until he was on his second glass of wine and would let Mike watch him giggle, eyes bright and cheeks flushed and lips a very dangerous distraction for Mike, pulled into a gorgeous, toothy smile, the one that Mike only gets to see uninhibited when Will is drunk or high. “Go, like, whatever. It’s fine.” He does not sound fine. He sighs, and grumbles, “Tell him I said hi, or whatever.”

Will’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head. “Do what?” He asks, and Mike sort of wants to cry, because when Will is looking at him like that – eyes wide, mouth open, one sock pulled up higher than the other and his favorite yellow flannel buttoned up over a hoodie – it makes Mike feel like a fucking idiot. 

Before Mike can reply – which is probably a good thing, because he’s not sure what is about to come out of his mouth if he’s allowed to keep talking – Will puts up a hand and shakes his head, like he’s trying to dislodge the conversation from his brain. “You know what, no, I don’t have time for this right now,” he says, pulling up his other sock. He grabs his backpack from its cubby behind the couch and he’s right there but Mike has never felt like he’s so far away. Will looks at him, gaze carefully guarded to avoid showing any emotion, and Mike hates himself so much for making Will look like that, for making him feel like he has to shutter himself up for Mike’s sake. It’s not fair, none of it is, but Mike can’t help it, the jealousy that rears its head when Will has to ditch their plans for his boyfriend. He wants to be Will’s boyfriend. “We’re talking about this when I get back, though.”

“Okay,” Mike says, dumbly. He’s not really in the mood to argue with Will right now; he’d rather start bawling at Will’s feet to beg him for forgiveness than argue with him.

Will slings his backpack over one shoulder and then the other, and Mike watches, completely at a loss for what to say. This backpack is Will’s fifth of the year; for some reason, he keeps losing it, leaving it behind at the coffee shop or the studio where he’s working on his portfolio for grad school. Mike’s been surprised, every time he comes back home sans backpack, because between the two of them, Will’s always been the more responsible one, but maybe that’s just not true in this case. Mike’s taken to getting him pins to put on his tote bags instead of his backpack whenever he finds one that he thinks Will will like. 

Maybe he keeps leaving it at his boyfriend’s house.

Will’s toeing his shoes on in their tiny entryway when Mike can finally get his mouth to work. “Be safe,” he says, quietly, and Will pauses, halfway through lacing up his Converse. 

“I always am,” he replies, just as soft, and then he’s out the door. 

Mike’s not quite sure what to do with that. 

🌃🌃🌃

Mike wakes up in his bed with a start. The door just opened with a loud thunk, swinging into the wall, and he hears Will let out what he probably thinks is a quiet curse. He hears another thump, and Mike squints as he looks at his phone on his nightstand. 

2:51 a.m.

“Will,” Mike whispers, groggy. He’s too quiet for Will to actually be able to hear him, but he calls out to him anyway, half expecting a response because Will can read his mind like that. “Will?”

It’s quiet, save for some heavy breathing that Mike can hear through where he left his door cracked when he stumbled to bed, just so he could listen for when Will came home, if he was still awake. He figured he would be, since he was up crying and all, but then the crying and the tequila got to him and he passed out in the fetal position on his bed in his boxers and a T-shirt. 

He has one sock on, but there’s a groan from the entryway that cuts off abruptly, like Will was trying to stifle it. Something is wrong; Mike climbs out of bed and goes towards the door with one bare foot. 

“Will?” He tries again, when he’s in their tiny hallway, and he hears Will say something in response but he can’t quite make out what it is. It’s only a few of Mike’s abnormally long strides to get to their front door and entry way, and he’s stunned when he gets there. 

Will’s on the floor, slumped back against the wall, head hanging towards his chest. Their front door is slightly ajar next to him, and one of his shoes is halfway untied, like he couldn’t manage the energy to do any more than that. 

Mike is suddenly wide awake. 

“Will,” Mike says, stepping carefully over Will’s legs to close and lock their door. He sinks to the floor next to Will to see if he can get him to look at him, and when he does, he can’t suppress the gasp that wrenches itself free from his chest. 

Will manages to glance over at him, and his entire face is bruised, one eye swollen shut and cheek bloody. He licks his split lip, and Mike is too horrified to even track the movement the way he normally would. “Hi,” Will says, and it comes out slurred, which is terrifying. He reaches up a hand to Mike’s face, and Mike pulls it away from himself because his fingers are bruised too, knuckles bloody where they’re exposed from his fingerless gloves. Since when does Will wear fingerless gloves? “Mike!”

He’s delirious. Mike would think it was cute if he wasn’t scared out of his wits. “What happened?” He asks, slowly, because the way that Will is dragging his vowels has him thinking that Will’s head is probably hurt. Will’s dopey smile turns into a frown, one that Mike is all too used to, and suddenly, unbidden, one of the worst possible scenarios of Mike’s entire life flashes through his mind, unbidden. “Did he –”

He swallows, unable to even get the words out. “Did he do this to you?”

It hangs heavy in the air between the two of them, but then Will’s face splits into a grin, like he can’t believe what Mike is asking. “Jonathan?” He asks, and Mike’s not entirely sure what Jonathan has to do with this, but okay. Will’s already shaking his head, choking out a laugh. “No, no. There were muggers. With guns.”

Mike can feel his eyes bulge just about out of his head. “What?” He asks, but then Will slumps over, seemingly unconscious, and Mike catches him just in time to keep him upright. “Will, no, stay with me.”

Will mutters something, but with the way his head is nearly in Mike’s lap, Mike can’t understand a single word. “What? Hold on.” Mike maneuvers them just enough to get Will leaning against his shoulder, one hand on his chin to keep him from pitching forward. 

“Just need to sleep it off,” Will grumbles, but Mike is hesitant to believe him. This looks – it looks pretty bad, and he’s not entirely sure that he should even be sitting here with Will for this long and not, like, calling an ambulance or taking him to the hospital himself. 

Though, if Mike tried to walk them to the nearest hospital, he’d probably land both of them in the emergency room, and they most definitely can not afford that. So he weighs his options, and as much as he hates it, it makes more sense for him to keep Will here and do some research on how to help him for now. 

Mike can do that. 

“Come on, Will,” Mike says decisively, even though his gut is churning with worry. Will doesn’t move – slumps even further into Mike’s side, in fact, which would make Mike warm all over in just about any other circumstance – so Mike does his best to wriggle out from underneath him without letting him fall to the ground. He is – somehow – successful, and then he picks Will up from under the armpits to try to help him to bed. 

Will is, thankfully, conscious enough to help Mike stand him up, and they manage to get his arm around Mike’s shoulders before he goes limp again, muttering something about physics and Jonathan. 

Mike’s focus has narrowed completely to the task at hand: getting Will safely to his room, then his bed, and then figuring out the next steps from there. He takes a hesitant step forward, supporting both of their weights, and is pleasantly surprised when the two of them don’t immediately collapse to the ground. He can do this, maybe. 

It takes maybe ten minutes to walk the fifteen paces it takes to get to Will’s room, and another two to get Will to safely sit on the bed. Mike finishes untying his shoes and takes them off, setting them neatly next to each other by Will’s door – Will’s going to be grossed out by them being anywhere near his bed when he finds out, but Mike didn’t really have much of a choice – and then reassesses.

He should get Will comfortable, probably, and try to clean the cuts on his face and his hands. He needs to make sure there aren’t any other major injuries that he needs to treat – or actually call an ambulance for – especially since Will mentioned fucking guns. 

He can do this. He can be normal about this without collapsing into a pile of worry, completely useless to anybody in the world, especially Will. 

Mike peels Will’s socks off first, and is pleased to see that his feet seem to be fine, lacking any bruises completely. He gets Will to half-help him take off his flannel and hoodie in one fell swoop, lifting both up over his head. Will winces a bit at lifting his arms over his head, but doesn’t complain. 

“Okay,” Mike says, more to himself than to Will. Will turns his head towards Mike anyway, like he’s giving him his full attention even when he’s not completely conscious. “Okay, I’m going to take your pants off, now.”

Will fucking – giggles, nodding at Mike, and Mike flushes, because even when he’s loopy Will’s giggle is probably the cutest thing he’s ever heard. He takes a deep breath and then he’s grabbing the waistband of Will’s pants on either side of his hips, tapping his side to signal that he should lift his hips. 

His sweats come off easily, and Mike feels like he should look away, but he needs to make sure Will’s okay, so he doesn’t. He folds Will’s sweats hastily and then checks his legs for any cuts or anything. Nothing major, save for a few bruises here and there. Mike sighs a breath of relief. 

He feels kind of awkward with both him and Will in only their boxers, so he blindly grabs a pair of shorts to throw on for himself and then one for Will, some short, soft ones that say Most Ass-letic that Max and El got him for his birthday and that he tortures Mike with on a weekly basis. He helps Will into them, and tries very hard not to think about Will’s hands pressing into his shoulders for balance.

Next, Will’s undershirt. 

“This one now,” Mike says, tapping Will’s side. 

Will flushes, then takes it off quickly, in one smooth motion over his head. Mike’s breath hitches, despite himself, and he finds himself reaching forward and brushing the skin with his fingers before he can stop himself. Will hisses when he makes contact, so he pulls back immediately, pointer finger hovering over the old scar tissue on Will’s hip from when they were younger. 

“Fuck,” Mike breathes. It’s a warranted reaction, he thinks; Will’s torso is completely covered with the beginnings of bruises, deep purple and blue all over his skin. There’s no open cuts – thank god, because Mike might’ve thrown up if there were – but it definitely does not look pleasant, and Will’s wince seems to say as much. 

“‘S fine,” Will says, throwing his undershirt towards the pile of dirty clothes in his closet. He misses by less of a margin than Mike would have. “Just need to sleep it off. Shirt?”

Mike blinks at him. “Will, that’s not just going away tonight,” he says, as he rifles through Will’s pajama drawer. He pulls out a faded Queen shirt that he’s, like, ninety percent sure is actually his, and he must be really perverted to be handing Will one of his own shirts to wear when he’s in a state like this. He tosses him the shirt anyway. 

“My favorite,” Will whispers with a soft smile when he sees what shirt it is, and then Mike realizes he needs help putting it on, so he rushes over to help him.

Will, except for the bruises and blood on his face, looks gorgeous. Mike sort of wants to eat him, but he also really wants to clean him up and make sure Will’s recovery goes as smoothly as possible, so it probably wouldn’t be the best idea to add a bite mark to the various bruises Will has all over his body currently.

Maybe another time, his brain helpfully supplies, and he’s so taken aback by his own mind that he’s not even sure what excuse he stutters out as he takes off for the bathroom and their first aid kit. 

When he comes back, Will’s lying on his back, hair haloed around his head on the pillow. There’s blood crusted in it near his forehead, but that’s not really Mike’s priority right now. He opens the first aid kit on Will’s nightstand and pulls out the antibiotic ointment, a couple of bandaids, and an ice pack. Now that he’s not so stunned – and seeing red at the idea of Will’s secret boyfriend doing this to him – it doesn’t look as bad as he initially thought. He definitely doesn’t want to see Will like this, but it’s not like it’s unhealable, or anything, or will leave his face mottled with scars. 

Mike finds that he doesn’t even have to consider if he would still love Will anyway if his face was completely scarred; the answer is yes in a heartbeat. 

He starts off cleaning the cuts on Will’s forehead and cheek and wiping the blood off of his face. Will winces at the sting, and Mike wants to kiss his forehead to make it go away; he barely restrains himself. “Sorry,” he says instead, because he’s lame but also respectful enough not to kiss Will when he’s so obviously out of it. 

“‘S fine,” Will mumbles, but his eyes are a bit more focused now as Mike methodically treats his face, applying antibiotic ointment to the cuts and then putting on the biggest bandaid they have to cover it while Will sleeps. He’ll have to change everything tomorrow, but that’s okay; he’s going to take care of Will for as long as he needs. “Nicer when you do it, anyway.”

“Oh,” Mike breathes, stupidly, but he’s at a loss for words. Will’s watching him carefully, and Mike takes a deep breath as he goes in to thumb the ointment to the cut on Will’s lip. His entire body feels electric with it, like he’s touching a live wire and not his best friend, but he can’t help the way his breathing staggers out of his chest like he’s been running a marathon. 

His thumb lingers on Will’s bottom lip, accidentally. Will doesn’t seem to mind. 

He reluctantly pulls away to grab Will’s hands, where his knuckles are bloody. He uses a wipe from the first aid kit to meticulously clean each of Will’s fingers where they’re already starting to swell, and this time, when Will winces at the sting, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to the back of his hand, because he thinks he might literally explode if he doesn’t do something. 

“All patched up,” he says, turning away to hide his flush as he cracks their ice pack for Will’s face. He places it gently on Will’s cheek, under his right eye where the swelling is the worst, and then stays there for a moment, sitting on the edge of Will’s bed like he’s expecting something to happen. 

Maybe he is, who knows; it feels wrong to be away from Will when he’s like this, and it’s that realization that has Mike already planning what blankets he’s going to grab from his own room to lay on Will’s floor, just for tonight. 

Will’s fingers catch his wrist as he’s standing up. “Thank you,” he whispers, and there’s a lot of emotion in his voice, so much that Mike can’t pick out every individual one. 

Mike nods once. “Of course,” he whispers, and his voice is soft with a single emotion he can barely bear to hide. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Will makes a face that looks like pain, and Mike’s about to ask what’s wrong when he says, “I’m sorry I ruined our night,” all on one single breath. 

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Mike says, even though it’s not and he’s probably going to be a ball of nerves and worry once his adrenaline starts to wear off. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? When you’re feeling better.”

He doesn’t leave any room for argument, because he takes off for his room, grabbing his pillow and blanket. He grabs another, thicker blanket to put underneath him, and then he’s back in Will’s room, dumping them all on the floor. He should probably get some water for Will, too, for the morning, when he’ll probably need some aspirin, so he grabs that too, filling up Will’s favorite cup with water. 

When he rests it quietly on Will’s nightstand, Will’s eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering against his bruised cheeks, and Mike swallows, hard, before he turns towards his blankets to make his bed for the night. 

He’s just about to get comfortable – one blanket beneath him and the other covering his legs, the clear space on the floor barely tall enough for him – when he hears rustling from the bed. “Mike?”

Mike sits up, blanket pooling around his waist. “Will? Are you okay?”

“Um,” Will says, and it’s so quiet that Mike can barely hear it over the constant cacophony of the city. “Can you come up here, maybe?”

Will’s outlined by the nighttime lights of the city that pour in from the window, his soft, yellow curtains doing nothing to keep out the light. He’s beautiful, like this, even though he’s hurt, and Mike’s chest tugs with something like nostalgia as he remembers, vividly, being called into Will’s bed more than once when they were having sleepovers when they were little, back when Will would get nightmares and night terrors almost all the time. 

“Yeah,” Mike says, but it comes out quiet, choked, as his throat constricts with the memories that haunt him constantly. He clears his throat, and tries again. “Yeah, of course.”

Mike can’t see it, but he knows that Will is smiling. “Thanks,” he says, and then he hears some shuffling, probably as Will scoots to one side to make room for Mike. 

Will’s bed is far more comfortable than Mike’s – not just because Will is here, either, but because his mattress is genuinely the most comfortable one that Mike has ever laid on, and immediately Mike feels himself being pulled back into sleep, suddenly very aware of all of the tension draining from his body into the softness beneath him and the heat in front of him. The two of them are lying face to face, a pair of closed parentheses, and Mike can feel himself being tugged forward by either Will’s magnetic force or the dip in his bed where he normally sleeps when he’s alone. 

“Thanks, Mike,” Will says, so softly it barely carries between the two of them, and the last thing Mike feels before he’s pulled into unconsciousness is a split knuckle brushing over the apple of his cheek. 

🌃🌃🌃

Mike wakes up slowly, an arm around his torso and a warm body pressed to his back, from his neck to his calves. He presses back, into the warmth and softness behind him, letting out a little sigh of contentment. 

He feels – safe, so incredibly safe right here, on Will’s cloud of a mattress, sharing a pillow with his best friend, the puff of his breath on the back of Mike’s neck. He wants to stay here forever, he thinks; the morning sunlight is streaming in in golden rays, through Will’s yellow curtains, and it all feels saccharine, like Mike isn’t really here and living it all. 

Will’s hand tightens on his torso, fingers clutching his rucked up sleep shirt, and he buries his face in the back of Mike’s shoulder, his lips pressed to Mike’s shoulder, and – 

Mike jerks away. Or, rather, he tries to, but Will keeps him in place with his arm – seriously, when did Will get this strong – but it has the desired effect; Will’s face is separated from his skin, now, and his lips are right by Mike’s ear when he asks, “What is it?”

The image of Will’s face, beaten and bloody and bruised, flashes through his mind, unbidden. He wonders briefly if there’s blood on his shirt, now, where Will was pressing into it to – to kiss his shoulder, and if he needs to reapply the bandages and antibiotic ointment, if he needs to take Will to the hospital, if he needs to get up to get Will some more aspirin or clean his wounds again or –

“Your –” Mike says, as he flips around, Will’s arm still hanging loosely over his side. When he settles, he stops talking entirely, voice failing him when he takes in Will’s face, sans any bruising or cuts whatsoever.

Will’s looking at him with mild amusement written all over his features. The only signs of anything happening last night are a nearly healed cut on his forehead and a split lip. He smiles, and the cut skin on his lip pulls taught. “My what?”

Mike doesn’t respond, not with words, at least; he reaches out and brushes his thumb over Will’s cheek, which was swollen and bruised just hours ago. He wants to do the same to Will’s lip – press on the skin there until it turns white beneath his thumb – but he refrains, electing instead to clear his throat and pull his hand back. Will’s fingers press harder into his back, right over his spine, like he’s expecting Mike to pull away completely; he significantly overestimates Mike’s self-restraint. “Your face?”

He wants to elaborate but can’t, not when Will’s looking at him and his eyelashes are glowing golden in the sunlight. Mike thinks his heart stops and restarts at least twice before Will replies with a laugh, light and joyful. “This is my face, yes,” Will says, and Mike scoffs, rolls his eyes. He reaches out with one hand and shoves at Will’s shoulder, earning him a grin. 

“You know what I mean,” Mike mumbles, eyes sliding away, towards Will’s shoulder, where he just touched. He wonders if there are still bruises underneath the fabric of the shirt, or if it’s just the tanned skin that Mike used to have to avoid looking at when they spent days at the lake in Hawkins, lest he start drooling. He brushes his thumb over the seam of Will’s shirt – his shirt, actually, and the thought alone makes him lightheaded.

Will sighs, pulling away. He shifts until he’s laying on his back, staring up at the fairy lights that adorn his ceiling, and Mike’s torso feels cold where his hand was. “This is not how I wanted you to find out,” he says, which is – worrying, to say the least. 

Mike’s mind is suddenly whirring to life, coming up with and dismissing a handful of possible answers in the seconds it takes for Will to gather his thoughts. None of Mike’s answers seem very plausible – it’s unlikely for Will to wear so much makeup all over his body to make it look like he had bruises, or for their antibiotic ointment to be radioactive or suddenly otherwise incredibly powerful – so he waits, as patiently as he can for Will’s answer. 

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” Will starts, in a whisper so quiet Mike can barely hear it. Mike frowns; why would he be disappointed? It’s Will – he’s more curious than anything, and he certainly has no expectations. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you? Since you, like, probably already know at least a little – ”

“Disappointed me by having some fuckass boyfriend?” Mike blurts, and Will whips his head around so fast Mike can hear his neck pop. Mike needs to backtrack, stat. “I mean –”

“What?” Will says, and he sounds so genuinely baffled that Mike realizes he must have gotten literally everything wrong. “A boyfriend?”

Mike feels the sudden need to defend himself, even though Will isn’t really accusing him of everything; his tone is so incredulous that Mike feels like the world’s biggest idiot, and even though Will already knows that Mike’s an idiot, he doesn’t need to know the extent of Mike’s stupidity. “Well, just ‘cause, you know –” he says, and Will is looking at him like he doesn’t know, and Mike barely resists the urge to genuinely facepalm. He groans instead. “You’re always sneaking out, and showing up late, and I just, like, figured you had some secret boyfriend you didn’t want to tell me about.” Mike pauses, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. He turns away from Will’s wide eyes and gaping mouth – with more effort than he was anticipating – and says, quietly, to the ceiling: “When you came home beat up, I don’t know, I thought –”

He doesn’t continue. Will gets it, he thinks; he has to. 

“Oh,” Will says, finally, after a moment of allowing Mike to wallow in his misery. His insides are turning, because Will hasn’t exactly denied anything yet, not explicitly, but even the way he’d said boyfriend? – like it was an impossibility, something so inconceivable it was laughable – makes Mike’s stomach flip with something unpleasant, but not exactly the jealousy he’s been feeling for the past few months. 

They sit in silence for a moment more, the two of them lying next to each other on Will’s bed, heads so close on Will’s pillow that Mike can feel each breath he takes from where their shoulders are touching. Mike wonders if he should move away, even though he wants literally anything else; he wants to be closer to Will, on top of him, in his skin, but he’s not sure if the yearning that’s been eating away at his heart for the past ten years or so came across in his voice or if he just sounded like an asshole. He’s not entirely sure if the two are mutually exclusive or not. 

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Will throws out into the silence, and Mike gulps, nods. He wants to say something, a joke maybe, to ease this weird tension that has descended upon the room like the humidity of the dog days of summer, sticky and unmoving, but then Will continues, and it sounds like the words are being ripped from his throat. “I’m – Spider-Man.”

The words reach Mike’s ears in slow motion, and his brain stops working abruptly, white noise filling his skull. He sits up, blankets gathering around his waist, and he can feel his hair sticking up and out sideways and to his head. He blinks, and then turns to look at Will. “You’re Spider-Man.”

It’s not a question; it’s a statement, completely monotone, emotionless. Will’s looking at him like he’s scared Mike’s about to shove him out of the bed or get up and sprint out of their apartment in Will’s absurdly short shorts and his bare feet. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, as his brain restarts, kicks back into gear, revving so fast Mike wonders if he’s warm to the touch. He feels like he’s vibrating, and he looks at Will again, eyes big and wild. “Holy shit.”

“Mike,” Will hisses, in that voice he uses when Mike is being too loud and Will is worrying about their neighbors. He shrinks back into himself, avoiding Mike’s gaze to look at the ceiling, lips pulled into a thin line. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Fuck that,” Mike says, and he reaches out to put a hand on Will’s bicep, which is – maybe not a normal reaction, but he has to reach out and touch, has to be sure that Will is real and tangible and in front of him and not a figment of his weirdly jealous and obsessive imagination. Will’s bicep barely gives beneath Mike’s insistent fingers, and Mike pulls his hand back with an undignified squeak. He looks at Will, leaning over him so he can look him in the eyes. “This is literally the best thing that has ever happened to me. This is – possibly the biggest deal in history.”

Will barks out a laugh, his cheeks flushing bright pink. “Oh, come on,” he says, but he looks less sick to his stomach now, more giggly and breathless, and Mike thinks this might be the most beautiful that Will has ever looked, but he also thinks that nearly every day, so he’s only ninety eight per cent sure. Will rolls his eyes, and Mike wants to lean down and kiss him, taste the giggle on his lips. “I can think of at least seven things that were bigger deals in history, just off the top of my head.”

Mike huffs, leaning down to press his forehead to where Will’s neck meets his shoulder. “Nerd,” he breathes against the fabric of his shirt there, and then he jolts back up to look at Will with his mouth agape in shock. “Wait, you saved me the other day.”

Mike had clung to Will, buried his face in Will’s neck, hugged Will after it was all over. 

Holy shit. 

Will’s cheeks turn red, this time, along with the rest of his face and some of the skin on his neck. Mike’s fingertips buzz with want. “You’re just now putting this together?” He says, but Mike can hear the shakiness in his voice, like he’s nervous. “You never answered what you were doing, by the way. Almost getting hit by a car. You can’t be scaring me like that, I have enough to deal with as it is.”

“I didn’t know,” Mike squawks, staring at Will in incredulity before he realizes that Will is messing with him, sort of. He can feel his face turn red, and suddenly he’s too close to Will, leaning over him like this, so he leans back to sit on his heels. “The car came out of nowhere, I don’t know.”

Will reaches out for him, brushes his fingers against his knee for a split second before pulling away. Mike feels the touch in every cell in his body, radiating outward from the point of contact. “I know, I saw the whole thing happen,” he whispers, gaze going distant. Mike realizes, perhaps a bit belatedly, now that the surprise and excitement is wearing off, how horrible it must be for Will to see things like that happen every day, to Mike and to random strangers on the street who have their own complicated lives and webs of consciousness. The weight settles on Mike’s entire body like a weighted vest, and he can feel his childlike wonder at his best friend – his best friend, Will Byers – being a superhero giving way to things more complicated, like fear and sorrow and grief and a fierce, selfish want to protect Will from this, even if Mike isn’t the one that’s a superhero, between the two of them. 

It’s far too late for that, anyway. 

Will clears his throat and needlessly readjusts the blanket half-covering him, pulling them both back into the present. “Well,” he says, and he looks a little uncomfortable now, like how he did when Mike sat staring at him for a few minutes after he stuttered through the tear stained words I’m gay, Mike; then, too, the gears were turning in his head to process the information for so long that it started to freak Will out. “Now you know.”

“Why didn’t you –” Mike starts, but it’s a false one, and he trails off into nothing. It feels – wrong, somehow, that he didn’t know this about Will, that he didn’t piece it together earlier. He has half a mind to feel betrayed, even, before he remembers their conversation the other night, when Mike still hadn’t the slightest clue and Will had been carrying this burden for – god, had it really been months? Almost a year?

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Will explains, voice dripping with something Mike can’t quite place. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, and there it is again, that quick, burning jealousy, except this time it’s directed at Will’s hand and not some imaginary boyfriend Mike’s mind concocted. God, he really is pathetic. “I have – like, enemies, now, and if one of them found out about me and came after you –” He cuts himself off, blinking away tears. Mike reaches out and puts what he hopes is a comforting hand on his shoulder. Will takes a deep, shuttering breath. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. It’s dangerous enough with Jonathan, and –”

“Whoa, wait,” Mike says, crinkling his nose in confusion. He doesn’t move his hand. “Jonathan?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, don’t get jealous of my brother,” he says, and Mike scoffs, because that was definitely not what he was doing, not a chance. He just has some questions about why Jonathan knows, and not, maybe, Will’s best friend who he also lives with.

Will sits up quickly, so quickly Mike’s hand falls away, dragging down his arm. Mike pretends he doesn’t see the goosebumps left behind on Will’s bare skin. “I need to text Jonathan,” Will says, reaching over towards the bedside table to grab his phone. He yanks it off the plug and sits back, and now his thighs are lined up with Mike’s and Mike’s really very normal about it. “He’s probably been freaking out, after last night.”

Mike unfolds his legs, partly because his quads were starting to burn and partly because he wants to fling a leg over Will’s, knees spread and foot cradling Will’s hip. Will glances up at him, thumbs never pausing as they fly over his phone screen, but he doesn’t say anything. “What happened last night?”

Will sighs, and Mike can tell by the way his eyebrows are furrowed that he’s distracted by whatever Jonathan is texting back. “There was an armed robbery on one of the banks downtown, and then when I followed the guys they decided to try to mug this guy walking home from a bar.” He huffs a breath, and his face warms again as he types out one last message and puts his phone face down on the bed with a vengeance. Mike briefly wonders what Jonathan said that has Will reacting like this, but before he can think about it long enough to hedge a guess Will’s continuing his story with a shrug. “He needed help, so I stepped in. I ended up handing the guys over to the police, but they managed to get a few punches in.”

Mike scoffs, mottled and bruised skin and bloody knuckles appearing at the forefront of his mind. “More than a few,” he points out distantly, and Will shrugs again, looking at his hands. There’s no open cuts on his knuckles anymore, but they’re still a bit bruised, swollen. “So, what does Jonathan have to do with all of this?”

Will scoffs in annoyance, rolling his eyes for extra emphasis. “He fucking –” He starts, and then he deflates a bit. “He wants to keep me safe, so when he found out it was me, he told me he was either going to help me out or tell mom,” Will looks at Mike, as if to say and we both know how that would go. 

Mike huffs a laugh. “How did he find out?” He asks, but then he realizes he already knows the answer. Will’s looking at him like he’s expecting him to figure it out himself. “What, the Daily Bugle? Seriously?”

Will looks amused. “He was surprised you hadn’t figured it out yet, since you work at the Daily Bugle and live with me,” he says, and Mike scowls, because while he and Jonathan have gotten along better in the past few years – since Mike and Will started living together, really – because of the strings he pulled to get Mike a job, he still has to be a bit of a dick about Jonathan simply because he’s his sister’s ex-boyfriend and also Will’s sometimes annoying older brother. It’s not real contempt, not really; he remembers Jonathan bailing them out of trouble with Joyce and Hop when they were younger, the way Will’s eyes would sparkle when his older brother came to watch a movie or listen to music with them. “But he was also pissed when he found out, so.”

“I can see that,” Mike says, because he can, he has such a clear visual of it in his mind; Jonathan snapping a picture of Spider-Man as he takes his mask off and seeing Will there, his little brother, and texting him to meet, immediately. And then – worried words, in that tone that Jonathan used when Mike and Will got caught sneaking back into the Byers’ house at sunrise after a night spent getting high and stargazing next to each other on the hill outside Hawkins. “What does he do, exactly? To help you?” 

“Well, he gave me some of his clothes so I wouldn’t get recognized, first of all,” he says, and he motions between them to the pile of clothes where his sweatshirt currently rests. And – Mike can’t believe he didn’t realize last night, when he was literally taking Will’s clothes off of him, but he was – distracted, so he forgives himself, a bit. “And then he helps me track police radios, stuff like that. It means I don’t have to patrol all night anymore, which is really nice.”

Mike nods, processing, and then he sits straight up. “Patrol all night?” He asks, incredulous. “You used to patrol all night?”

Will watches Mike’s face carefully, as if he’s unsure exactly how Mike’s going to react. He should know, by now, is the thing – he should know that Mike is going to be slightly pissed, mostly because that means that Will was in danger and alone in the streets of New York City in the middle of the night.

Mike tries not to show his worry or his anger – not necessarily at Will, but at the situation, the ridiculousness of it all – by pinching the bridge of his nose. He brings his knee off of Will’s leg to curl it up into his chest; all he can think about, now, is Will, bruised and bloody like he was last night, waiting by himself in the dark in an alleyway somewhere before he came home so Mike wouldn’t notice and worry. He’s sick, a little bit, because he couldn’t do anything to help Will, only to hurt him like this. It hurts, maybe more than it should. 

“Mike,” Will says softly, a warm hand covering his wrist as he pulls it away from his face. Mike lets it go willingly, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Will much closer than he was before, their hips side by side, Will facing him with big eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

Mike scoffs. “I know that,” he says, and he’s a little upset to find that it comes out watery, teary. He clears his throat, finds a place on the blanket to focus on instead of watching Will’s face. “I know, it’s just –”

“You wanted to protect me,” Will says, less a question than a fact of life, like the sky is blue or I’m Spider-Man. Mike Wheeler is in love with Will Byers should be in there too, somewhere, in Mike’s opinion, but Will wouldn’t know that yet, so he doesn’t say anything. Will shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I wanted to protect you, too. It’s okay.”

Will’s right, as much as it upsets Mike to admit it. Will didn’t tell him, not because he didn’t want to, or he didn’t trust Mike, but because he wanted to protect Mike from the dangers that came along with being the best friend and roommate of a superhero, and also probably because he didn’t want Mike to worry when Will was gone all night and came back tired, bags under his eyes. 

Mike wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. Something sweet is on the tip of his tongue, something Mike has only ever thought, never said out loud, but then he thinks of something that’s a bit better to say, a little less revealing and a little lighter, too. 

“So let me get this straight,” he starts, and Will rolls his eyes, like he can tell by Mike’s tone where he’s going. Mike’s heart feels like it might beat out of his chest and land on the covers between the two of them, for Will to grasp and hold in his hands and own in a physical way, instead of just the metaphorical. “You’re Spider-Man, Jonathan is your weird, like, guy in the chair, you have freaky healing powers and can climb on walls with your bare hands and can shoot webs out of your wrists – and you don’t have a secret boyfriend.”

Will’s nodding along to confirm everything, but when Mike gets to the last part, he freezes, momentarily, before nodding with a bit more hesitation than before. “That all sounds about right, yeah,” he says, and he’s watching Mike with watery eyes, not quite tears but not exactly emotionless, either. He looks at Mike like he maybe wants something to be true, really, really badly, but can’t quite bring himself to fully hope just yet. 

Maybe – maybe Mike needs to be a little brave, here. Maybe he needs to take a leap of faith. 

He takes a deep breath, and it suddenly feels like his lungs aren’t working correctly, that they’re not taking in oxygen the way they should be, that his chest is collapsing in on itself as his heart grows so loud that he can hear it in his ears. “Would you –” he starts, and it’s a whisper, but he’s not sure he’s going to have any better luck, so he pushes through. Will’s close enough that he can hear him, anyway. “Would you…want one?”

It’s silent in the room the way it’s silent in New York, a stillness interrupted by cars honking and the neighbors’ low, muffled voices and the buzz of the city beneath their feet, but Mike’s entire world has narrowed down to this moment, this point of intersection in his life, all of the places where he and Will are pressed together. He realizes he’s holding his breath when he feels Will’s stutter out of him. 

Will’s eyes are wide, and there’s no mistaking it now – there are tears in his eyes, hopeful ones, and Mike has no doubt that his face looks the same. Will takes a deep breath, nods. “Yeah,” he says, but it’s quiet, like it got caught in his throat. He tries again. “Yeah, yes, I would want that. Very much.”

Mike exhales, and it comes out a bit like a breathless laugh. “Cool,” he says, because he isn’t really sure what else to say, even though Will Byers, his best friend and the love of his life and also their local superhero, just agreed to be his boyfriend. Cool might be the understatement of the century. 

Will laughs fully, and it might be the most beautiful sound Mike has ever heard. He’s grinning at Mike, teeth showing, and Mike wants. “Cool,” he repeats, and Mike’s laughing now, too, shoulders shaking with it. 

He’s not even gotten his laughing under control when Will moves forward, quicker than Mike could react, and grabs his face with both hands. “Can I kiss you?” He asks, because Will is always kind, even when he wants to kiss Mike so bad that his hands are shaking where they’re holding on to him, even when Mike thinks he might die if he doesn’t get kissed in the next few seconds and isn’t sure he even has enough oxygen to reply because Will stole the breath from his lungs. 

“Yes,” Mike gasps, and then they’re kissing, lips sliding together sweet and soft except for where Will’s lip is still split, skin stitching itself back together as it heals. Mike’s hands find Will’s thigh and his arm to steady him, and Will makes this noise and Mike thinks that this is probably his favorite way to die. 

He’s being lowered back down onto his back with little effort, which shouldn’t be affecting him as much as it is, but he can’t help making a soft noise into Will’s mouth that’s immediately responded to with Will’s own sound, somewhere between a gasp and a pleased sigh. 

Will’s lips are off his, then, and Mike can only complain for so long before he’s pressing kisses over Mike’s cheeks and forehead and the bridge of his nose, and mumbling something that Mike can’t understand. 

“What?” Mike asks, but it comes out on a gasp, because now Will is kissing the underside of his jaw and Mike’s reaching up to grab the back of his head to keep him there, fingers threading through his hair. 

Will pulls away despite this, and Mike whines, only to be met with one more chaste kiss to his lips. “I said,” Will mumbles, petulant. He’s pretending to be annoyed at being interrupted, but it’s not a very convincing act, not when his eyes are flickering all over Mike’s face like he can’t decide what he wants to look at next. “I’m like, a huge fan, I guess.”

The words sound familiar, and Mike rolls them around in his own mouth as Will’s lips pull into a bright and sunny grin, and when Mike places them he groans and shoves Will’s shoulder with very little gusto. “Oh my god,” he whines, trying to bury his face in his hands but Will won’t let him, catching and holding his wrists on either side of his head as he giggles in his face. “You should just, like, put me down. I’m so embarrassing.”

Will’s giggles are enough to soften the blow of Mike being the literal lamest person on the planet, and he cranes his neck to reach up and press a kiss to the closest part of Will he can reach – his chin, his nose. Then he falls back, watching the way Will’s features light up with laughter, and then – the rest of that conversation, bits of dialogue with a superhero whose voice he didn’t quite recognize comes back to him all at once. 

“Wait,” Mike says, and Will respectfully quiets, laugh lowering to a low murmur and a wide smile. His stomach is full of butterflies, fluttering faster as he remembers, as he realizes the enormity of a thing he’d initially dismissed now that it’s been re-contextualized. “Trader Joe’s was a date for you?”

Will flushes crimson immediately, leaning down to bury his head in Mike’s neck. “Shut up,” he says, and Mike can feel the words being mouthed against his neck, and he laughs, reaching up to card a hand through the back of Will’s hair. 

“Guess we’re both lame,” he says, and Will huffs a laugh as he comes back up to kiss Mike again. 

“Lame together,” Will agrees, nodding, and then they’re kissing, soft and easy and everything Mike has ever wanted in his entire life.

🌃🌃🌃

Mike’s stumbling his way down the street when his phone buzzes like a heartbeat – buzz buzz, buzz buzz. 

He’s got one arm full of a tote bag overflowing with picnic supplies – their folded up blanket they save for using outside, some sandwiches Will made before he took off this morning, that strawberry cake from Trader Joe’s that Will loves that Mike bought in secret on the way out of the apartment – and his other arm has a tote bag full of art supplies – brushes and paints and Will’s sketchbook with the cityscapes he draws sitting on top of a building when he needs peace and quiet and two canvases for him and Will to paint each other on while they eat. He’d even managed to shove two of the collapsible cups that Dustin got them a few years ago into the bag, and wrapped Will’s favorite summertime wine – that light pink watermelon flavored one – in the picnic blanket as a surprise for their one month anniversary. 

Mike’s not a sap, or anything. He’s really very normal about the fact that he’s been dating his best friend for a month now, a mere fraction of their time spent together and somehow it’s been one of the best months of his entire life.

He may or may not have bought a cake decorating kit just for him to draw, with shaky handwriting, I love you! on the top of the sheet cake. 

Will’s been out all day – on patrol, apparently, because he keeps texting Mike random pictures from places in the city that Mike has never seen and that look like they are a mile in the air – so Mike’s had time to get everything together for their picnic. Will told Jonathan that he was busy this afternoon, but that he’d be available in the evening to help around the city again if he was needed. When Will finally sat him down to talk to him – a day or two after they woke up together and Mike freaked the fuck out because Will had healed overnight – Jonathan was more upset that Mike is now dating his brother than the fact that he knows about his superpowers and secret identity. It had passed pretty quickly, and now when Mike sees him at work, Jonathan ruffles his hair and shoots him a grin. 

Jonathan would not be happy about the wine in their Irises tote bag, but he won’t have to know, and it’s not like even this full bottle of low-percentage alcohol would be a match for Will’s superpowers. When Mike learned that Will had gone out to fight after drinking with him, he was somewhere beyond concerned that bordered with pissed off, but then Will explained to him how his powers help him to metabolize everything easier and he was able to breathe a little easier. Will’s not doing that again; Mike is going to make sure of that, but he also knows that Will knows his body and his superpowers way better than Mike could ever hope to – Mike is determined to get to know his body, but maybe not in this specific way – so he lets him decide for himself what he’s comfortable with. 

Mike, for once, is happy to take the backseat. He still feels anxious whenever he knows Will is out patrolling – how could he not, when his first real experience with Will’s secret life was him stumbling home covered in bruises – but he knows without a doubt that Will can handle himself. He can do the stuff on the side to help, though; give Will kisses and have dinner ready for when he gets home, hold him close at night when Will is crying from delayed terror, massage his biceps when he gets sore from swinging. He loves caring for Will in this way, and he’s not sure if it's specifically because Will’s risking his life to help people as Spider-Man every day or if it’s because it’s Will, Mike’s best friend, and he’s always been a little protective, willing to sleep on Will’s floor for him or do literally anything for him, always. 

The general boyfriend stuff – kisses, cuddles, Will’s cold hands on Mike’s stomach or on his inner thigh – is definitely a plus, though. 

He fumbles with his bags when his phone buzzes like a heartbeat again, slipping both of them onto one arm so he can dig in his back pocket for his phone. He pulls it out and is met with his lock screen – a picture of Will, holding a bowl of ice cream curled up on the couch with his The Kiss socks buried under Mike’s thigh, grinning so widely at Mike behind the camera that his sparkling eyes are crinkling at the edges. The picture is so perfect that Mike looks at it for a brief second, smiling to himself, before he taps the notification at the bottom of the screen to see each individual one where they had bunched together.

will 💛🦸‍♂️: worlds sexiest man spotted in nyc

will 💛🦸‍♂️: [image attached]

Mike double taps on the notification with zero hesitation, only to find a picture of himself from way above, even with the tops of the buildings that Will is undoubtedly swinging on to meet him at the park. He double clicks the image to react with a heart, types out a quick text, and then looks up towards the sky and grins. 

mike: quit texting and swinging

will 💛🦸‍♂️: but ur so cute :( 

will 💛🦸‍♂️: [image attached]

This time, the picture is of Mike grinning, his eyes closed because of the sun. If he squints up towards the buildings, he can see where Will is sitting, his Converse hanging over the edge of the apartment building.

Mike can’t stop the flush that floods his cheeks, and he prays that Will doesn’t have a camera trained on him right now, because that would be triple as embarrassing as that time that Will sent him a picture of him laying facedown on the pavement after tripping and falling flat on his face. 

A potentially nefarious idea crosses his mind. He grins, then tries to school his features so the people around him don’t always remember him as that one guy who was grinning maniacally at his phone screen on the street, and types out a message. His phone buzzes immediately, and then he hears a whoop and watches in front of him as Will – Spider-Man, his boyfriend, Will – takes off towards the park, turning around mid-swing to give Mike his two finger salute. 

mike: at this rate i’ll beat u to the park

mike: last one there buys dinner?

will 💛🦸‍♂️: ur on

will 💛🦸‍♂️: beat u there 🙃

Mike’s not even the slightest bit worried about rushing. He waves towards where Will is disappearing in front of him, and then laughs. 

He’s so full of joy that he wonders, briefly, if it counts as his own superpower.