Archive of Our Own

Mike is pacing in front of the door. He looks at his watch — 3:27 — and stuffs his hand back in his pocket.

He's supposed to be here at 3:30. He left his room at three to do the whole romantic, knock-on-the-door, super-suave thing, but is it good to be early? What if Will wasn't ready yet? What if Will got annoyed with Mike, and they started off on the wrong foot? What if he —

The door opens. Will, of course, is on the other side, effectively cutting Mike's spiral short.

His feet are half-shoved into shoes. He's got his wallet, inexplicably, clenched between his teeth. On his right, the cloth tongue of his well-worn Converse is bunched up at the toe of his shoe, and he curses softly around the leather. Will hops on one foot as he tries to simultaneously fix his shoe and — well, there goes his keys to the linoleum, so he's trying to bend and keep the door open with his backside, while his shoe is decidedly not cooperating.

He looks, like, ridiculously beautiful. Mike realizes suddenly that he's just standing here, being pretty useless.

He surges forward to push the door back, and Will stumbles slightly at the lost weight behind him. Mike catches Will's forearm in his other hand to steady him.

"Oh." Will's foot stomps on the floor, and he straightens. His tote bag hits the ground and he rips the wallet away. "Hey, thanks."

"No problem." Mike lets go of his arm a few seconds too late, distracted as he's been with — well. All this. The way the collar of Will's striped shirt hangs open enough to catch a glance of collarbone, and he's wearing a cologne that's sort of sweet, like he tried for this, and he's got on an undone button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Why is that so endearing? Like, Mike can picture him debating grabbing it in case he gets chilly.

He's prone to it, but Mike would never let him get cold. He actually brought a jacket he wouldn't need because he's prepared for such a situation. Alas, Will is prepared as well, because he's an adult who can take care of himself, and Mike knows this fact very well. It's just — cute. So cute. Why is it so cute to imagine Will getting dressed, gelling his hair, doing all this, to get ready for their date?

Their first date. Ever. Mike still can't believe he convinced Will to give him a shot.

He'd thought for a while that he was doomed to suffer in silence. But, well, it hurt. It hurt to tamper down his instinct to hold Will close. He could do it, if that's what it cost to be in proximity to the sun — but worse, he worried it was hurting their friendship. Which was, of course, exactly what he was trying to avoid. So, he figured he could confess his feelings*, take the rejection, and move on.

*Admittedly, he took it down a notch. Less lifelong oath of devotion, more no pressure, but I'm interested, if you happen to be, as well? Just to avoid scaring off his best friend for good.

Not to mention, knowing Will, he'd feel way worse about rejecting Mike if he knew how fucking far gone he was. And Mike did not want Will to feel obligated in any way. Not with this.

But then: the miracle to top all miracles. Mike told Will he likes him, and Will did not run away screaming. In fact, he did that thing he does where he gets all shy, but tense, like he's put a loose lid on some energy waiting to burst. He told Mike when they were kids that it felt like a soft, persistent buzzing under his skin, like he's excited, but not sure if it's okay to react. When something might be too good to be true, he bites his thumb between his front teeth and waits, anticipation bottled and buried, until he's sure.

So, it was good news. Mike pushed onward and asked Will to give him one chance to prove himself — he didn't say that in so many words, but Mike is well aware he's got something to prove.

He asked to take Will out, just the two of them, on a real date. And Will said yes.

(He said yes!!!!!!)

That brings them here, where Mike has, apparently, been staring like a lovesick lunatic. He's frozen with his arm over Will's head, staring at the space between his upper lip and septum ring. His cupid's bow is spread wide with his smile, and Mike feels his own lips fall into a relaxed 'o'.

"Hey," Mike says finally, swallowing hard. "Got your shoe on?"

"Yup." Will does a sort of stunted motion with his hands, half-clap, half-finger guns, like he couldn't decide what he was going for until he'd already done a bit of both. "All good. You're on time."

Mike flicks his wrist around to show his watch face: 3:31. "Surprised?"

Will leans back for his head to thunk against the wooden door. When he looks at Mike this way, his eyes appear darker, surrounded by thick, pretty lashes. Will's lips part for Mike to see a glimpse of teeth, and he, inexplicably, wants to both lick his mouth and bite his cheeks.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he teases.

Mike doesn't answer, because he doesn't know how to without kissing him silly. Instead, he gestures at the wallet in Will's hand. "What's that?"

Will blinks. "It's a new invention. They call it a wallet. The darnedest thing, really, you keep your money in it —"

Mike takes the wallet from his hand and throws it into the six inches of open door behind Will, then grabs ahold of the door handle and slams it shut.

"Mike!" Will exclaims, stumbling forward dramatically. "Key feature of wallets I neglected to mention" — here he sounds out wahhhhl-lets, such a witty little tease — "I keep it with me. All the time."

"Is that right?"

"That's right."

Their positions are switched now, with Will standing several paces away in the hallway, and Mike's still holding onto the door handle like an idiot.

He shakes it as if he'd just planned on making sure it's locked. It is.

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance he's absolutely not capable of. In fact, he's only pretty sure his heart's beating again. "You won't need it."

He pushes off the door to come to Will's side, gesturing forward to the elevator.

Will's face colors, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. "You don't have to pay for me, Mike."

Mike turns with him, hand to his chest for the added drama. "What do you take me for, dear William?"

"Ser Michael," Will says with mock-sternness that makes his face go pink, "are you attempting to seduce me?"

"No!" His entire body twitches at once. "No, Will, it's just — you know, I want to pay for you. Today. On our date."

"Mike, relax."

"I respect you," he says earnestly. He takes a half-step back to put more distance than usual between their bodies. "I would never."

"Never?" Will pouts. He presses the elevator button.

Best behavior, Mike reminds himself. His mouth is dry. He doesn't know how Will does it, but as soon as Mike feels any semblance of control, the tables turn, leaving him dazed and breathless.

"Do you have your water bottle?" he all-but wheezes. "Throat — dry."

He brings a hand to ruffle his hair, a nervous habit, but — fuck. Now he's messed up his hair. Urgh.

Will fishes his water bottle out right as the elevator dings. Mike spends the following three floors of descent guzzling, hoping it might do something to settle the butterflies in his stomach. They're not new, but they are ferocious.

"Thanks," Mike pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Was that gross? That was probably gross. They'd been sharing water bottles for well over a decade, but still, was that presumptuous of him?

Will's voice breaks him out of his daze.

"So," he says, "do I get to know where we're going now?"

This, Mike can do.

"Nope." He breezes past — at a respectable distance — and rushes to open the door ahead of Will. He pauses, then steps through with a quick thanks. "But we're only like, three metro stops away. We'll make the next train if we hurry."

They weave through the early-summer New York crowds, which gives Mike a chance to collect his thoughts of willwillwill into something more manageable.

The thrum in his veins: will, will, will.

His fingers lace (bravely, sure-as-ever) through Will's, he guides them to the correct line, and still something, everything inside him cries, it's Will! Here! with you!

Yes, Mike replies. Not gonna fuck it up.

He remembers the rules he scrawled down on the corner of his notebook in his morning seminar.

1. Be a gentleman.

2. Woo him.

3. Get a second date.

His usual bullshit isn't gonna cut it. They weren't going to be friends anymore — or, not just friends. He's going to take Will on dates, hold his hand in crowds like this, maybe even kiss him again. Just like last Friday.

Last Friday, when Mike finally got the guts to confess.

Last Friday, when Will surged forward to kiss him.

Last Friday, when they held each other tight, and cried a little, and talked until the sun filtered into their living room.

Mike had claimed Tuesday as their day to go out. He would've begged for it, but Will gave it freely. He seemed excited. Mike told him then he'd have a plan, but maybe Will hadn't realized he was serious. Like, flowers-and-reservation serious.

Well — wait. Fuck.

They reach up to take ahold of the swinging straphangers, and Mike rotates to face Will, back to the glass.

"I forgot your flowers," he says in a rush. He can feel his eyes doing the buggy-thing, imploring Will to understand. "I'm so sorry, ba– Will. I'll give them to you when we get home."

Will looks unbearably soft right now. His eyes go positively molten. "How did you sneak flowers into our apartment without me noticing?"

"I went and got them this morning," he rushes. "At the corner, the shop you always peek in."

Will gawks. The train pulls away, but neither of them move a muscle. "Mike, those are expensive."

"If you like them, I'll keep the vase full."

He internally tsks at himself. Presumptuous, again. Get it together, Wheeler.

"I — thank you, Mike. That's so nice of you."

At that, he perks up. Nice is awfully close to gentlemanly, so he'll take it.

"Can I finally know where we're going, then?"

Mike glances up. "We're one stop away. Does that narrow it down?"

"In New York City?" Will looks around in fake ponder. "Hmm. From a billion possibilities to roughly a million."

"Spoken like a math whiz."

Everyone had expected Will to study art in college, even Mike. Truthfully, even Will had expected to stick with art for their entire four years at NYU. But after their first semester, he'd surprised all of them by switching to mathematics.

"Math?" Max had shrieked.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Will Byers?" Lucas had sighed.

"Yeah, Mike, what'd you do with him?" Dustin had proclaimed. Mike remembers asking with offense, why do you think I did something?

"Because you always do something," Jane answered, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

Will told them all that he loves art still, but he didn't enjoy the constant critiques. There were only one or two classes he genuinely enjoyed, while the rest were filled with boring theories or droning technical lectures. He hadn't sketched, painted, or made anything just for himself in months.

Mike had noticed. He saw Will's stress and did everything he could to alleviate where he could — he'd done all their household chores until Will put his foot down about equal contributions, a frankly ridiculous notion — but Will still seemed overwhelmed.

He said he wanted to keep his love for art. He said he wanted school to be easy, with right/wrong answers that he usually got right. Mike didn't know anyone else who would say conceptual mathematics was easy, per se — not even Dustin — but that's Will Byers for you. Artistic genius gone math extraordinaire.

When they resurface above ground, Will asks again. "Not even a hint? Not one?"

Mike turns to look at him and, like a fucking tourist, nearly walks into incoming traffic. Will wraps his hand around Mike's wrist tight before they're both blasted by a honk that breaks the sound barrier.

They turn with identical scowls and, in unison, "Fuck off!"

Mike likes New York. He loves New York with Will, where they've learned all the same things. When it's acceptable to curse at passing cars — always, even when it's your fault — and when to choose the subway over a taxi — again, pretty much always. The city is quirky, and loud, and it's perfect for the two of them.

He grins down at Will, and Will smiles back, sunny as ever. In this shared look, they devolve into bent-over, body-wracking laughs that have them clutching at each other to stay upright. A passerby knocks into them with their bags, but Mike can't bring himself to care. The only reason they leave the sidewalk at all is because if they don't get moving, they'll miss their time slot.

"Here's your hint," Mike says as they approach the building. "Keeping passion intact."

He's quoting Will, actually, from months earlier when he told Mike he was switching his course of study. He watches Will realize this a split second before he reads the sign adorning the window in front of them: BETTE'S POTTERY WHEEL.

"Are we painting pottery?" Will gasps.

Mike nods, and suddenly, he's got his arms full of Will Byers. He hugs him close on instinct, then closer on purpose.

"I take it you're excited?" Mike hedges, if only to hear it confirmed aloud.

Will pulls back enough — not enough to lose his grip on Mike's biceps, but Mike can see his eyes sparkling. "This is going to be so fun. This was such a good idea, baby, thank you."

Mike thinks baby sounds so good coming from Will's mouth, he wants to taste it. But he's a goddamn gentleman, so he settles for a forehead kiss. Chaste and classy.

He feels a gust of breath on the hollow of his throat, right where Will's tilted up. Before he can chase it, he feels a peck on his cheek, right above his jaw.

"Really," Will says softly. "I love it."

Mike swallows, curling his hands into fists at his sides to contain himself. He wants to pinch his cheeks so badly. "Good. After you."

They spent ten minutes picking out their pieces, only to settle on the very first items they picked up: two rather oversized mugs, probably better-suited for soup than anything, but which they would probably use for coffee. They've both gotten pretty addicted since the beginning of the year, especially after Mike got his job as a barista and brought home endless coffee grounds for their shitty little drip machine.

For this reason also, Will teases him about looking so at home in the apron.

"I could say the same thing about you," Mike says, grinning widely. Just as Mike has picked up making coffee, Will has taken to baking since he started at the bakery around the corner. It's early mornings, sometimes the four in the morning type of early that Mike couldn't even fathom — well, unless he was getting his gorgeous date secret flowers — but Will loves it. He brings home bagels and muffins and once, memorably, his very first batch of chocolate chip cookies.

He accidentally wore the apron home one day, nearly giving one Mike Wheeler a conniption. If Mike then started waking up a little early to make it to the bakery in time to see Will elbow-deep in pastry, with his apron covered in flour and cheek smudged with chocolate, so what? Not Mike's fault that Will looked positively edible.

When Will brought home baked goods, Mike brewed coffee for them to dip into since they never seemed to have milk. It's become their thing. Even so, they only have one coffee mug in the apartment, and had to share on these sacred occasions. As much as Mike doesn't want to stop sharing, the thought of sipping from matching mugs is too tempting to pass up.

He loves that they have two of everything in the apartment. There's two towels on hooks in the bathroom, two pairs of shoes by the door, two pints of ice cream in the freezer (neapolitan and mint chip, of course). Two mugs would complement just fine.

It's actually not busy inside, which makes sense for a Tuesday afternoon. Mike is a bit embarrassed to have made a reservation given it seems unnecessary now, but he also doesn't mind Will knowing he's put in effort. Rule number two, and all.

Once they're settled, Mike asks, "Any idea what you want to paint?"

Will hums, turning his mug this way and that like he can visualize how it might turn out. "What if we did something for our characters? Your paladin, my cleric?"

"Your sorcerer," Mike corrects automatically, and Will scrunches his nose when he laughs.

"Sure, whatever," he says, pressing his lips together to regain composure. "I know we haven't had a campaign in a while, but I thought it would be nice. A reminder, you know?"

"Yeah," Mike breathes, struck by just how in-tune they were. "Yeah, let's do that."

He clears his throat and, afraid to say too much, he holds back his admiring comments on Will's creativity. He might actually die if he doesn't get to tell Will soon, that this is only part one.

Mike has a one-shot campaign waiting for them at home. He wishes he had time before to set it up, but he has his excuse planned: let Will shower first, and set it up while he's in the bathroom. He'll call for pizza delivery then, too. It'll be the perfect afternoon.

He's been worried that maybe Will wouldn't want to play. Like he said, between school and conflicting schedules for the Party, they haven't played in months. What if Will had outgrown it? What if he didn't want to do all the voices with Mike anymore? There's a part about twenty minutes in where Mike's planned for the cleric to flirt with an NPC to get information, just to hear his voice get low in the certain way that makes Mike tingle all over.

No one could prove that he purposefully plans campaigns around this voice, anyway. Just a coincidence.

Mike doesn't remember the last time he was this excited for something. He wants to tell Will all about it, knowing Will would be just as excited, but he stops himself. That's what a good date would do, right? Keep the element of surprise?

Boyfriend material, he repeats to himself, and a thrill runs through him at the thought.

Mike realizes he's been silent for some time when he looks up to see Will's already sketched half of his mug with stars of all shapes and sizes.

"That looks really good," he says, voice soft. He stops himself from reaching out and touching Will's hand to see better. That might be weird, right?

He doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't want to assume what's okay to do when they're trying to be… this.

He just wants Will to have a good time. Here, with him. Score a second date. Make Will fall in love with him. The basic stuff.

Without moving his head, trying to be subtle, Mike checks Will's expression — and he doesn't look as happy as he'd hoped.

"You alright?" he asks.

"Yeah, Mike," Will breathes. "This is perfect. But, you know, we could've done something you would enjoy more."

Will gestures vaguely at Mike's mug, which is nearly blank. He's erased his pathetic penciling of a paladin shield twice now, and it just looks smudged. He sighs.

He doesn't know how to tell Will he's having a great time already, and they haven't even done much. It feels too close to a full-on love confession, so he defers.

"Can you help me draw this?" he murmurs. Will complies, selfless and gorgeous as ever, and with his hands empty, Mike feels like he can finally talk.

But just as he's opened his mouth to ask how Will's day has been, there are footsteps behind them.

"Hey there, pals!"

The agitating, grating voice comes from over Mike's shoulder. He turns to find the jolliest looking lad he's possibly ever seen, who looks way too old to be wearing a high school varsity jacket.

"I'm here with my sweetums" — here he points over his shoulder, where an equally squeaky-looking boy sits, waving. Mike checks out for a second, missing their introductions, because how did two such people even cross paths? — "…and anyway, we were hoping you could show us where the paints were. Goodness me, I just get so confused!"

Mike blinks up at him, frowning. He opens his mouth to tell this extremely aggravating person to fuck off, can't he tell they're on a date?, but Will just points him to the wall of paint.

The wall to their right offers a bright, colorful, impossible-to-miss selection of art materials. It cannot be emphasized enough that the ginormous wall of paint is less than ten paces away.

What's-his-name (Carlos?) smacks his forehead.

"Le sigh," he breathes. "Thanks, guys. Don't know what I would do without you."

Will looks at Mike with a warning, as if he can read his mind. Don't, he mouths, though he looks very entertained.

"Hey, no problem." Mike nods in dismissal, figuring this was the end of their conversation —

But this fucking bozo does not take the hint. Actually, he sits in a chair on the opposite side of their table. Their two-person table. A table suitable for a date with two. People.

Connor talks for another ten minutes straight while Will sketches. Mike finally excuses himself to grab paints for them while Will nods along, clearly holding in laughter, and even when he gets back with enough paints to get them started on their two projects, Calvin continues talking for an agonizing seven minutes.

Even with his astounding patience, Will's amusement has worn off. Mike wants to tell Cartoon to fuck right off, can't he see they're kind of doing something right now? But he doesn't. He's showing Will how mature he can be. He's turning over a new leaf. Be a gentleman, right?

Right when Mike thinks he might snap a paintbrush, Will speaks up.

"Hey — hey, sorry to interrupt you," he says, smiling tightly. "I'm sure your high school basketball career was… riveting. But we're kind of in the middle of something. And don't you think your date is waiting for you?"

"Oh!" Claude chuckles. "Gee willickers, you might be right. I'd better go see about my guy. Hey, great talking to you both."

He stands and smacks Mike on the shoulder, hard. Mike forced himself not to stick his leg out and trip him on his way back to the boy who is, honestly, probably his soulmate. They look rather suitably boring together.

Mike tears his eyes away from where Chuck and Cheese are painting what appears to be an extra-whimsical toilet seat, and finds Will already looking back at him.

He quickly wipes the sour expression off his face, adopting something hopefully more pleasant. He does not say anything he's thinking, such as do you think it's their shared first day on earth? or, even better in his opinion, do you think he's gonna eat the paint?

Instead, "Did I, um, get colors you like?"

Will's smile falls, and he tilts his head like he's searching for something in Mike's eyes.

"I can get you more," Mike adds.

"No," he says finally. "I mean, yeah, you got good colors. I'm thinking purple and yellow, like my old robe. Do you remember that?"

"Yeah!" Mike's heart leaps. "Honestly, it's probably still in my basement somewhere. We'll break it out next time we're in Hawkins."

"Mike, there's no way it still fits," Will chuckles.

Mike opens and closes his mouth. He has nothing appropriate to say. Usually Will laughs at his stupid jokes, but he's not supposed to be like that anymore. He's supposed to be mature. There are rules.

He straightens up. "Can you pass me the red? Thank you again for sketching this. It looks great."

Will blinks several times, almost dumbfounded. But he nods, then passes Mike several paint colors for him to choose from.

Mike wrestles back some semblance of control, even as the sight of Will so focused on his art — tongue poking out just a little, eyes squinty and adorable — makes him feel weak.

"So." He clears his throat. "How was your day today? I know you had class."

"Yeah, yeah." Will swaps his brush for a thinner point. "I actually had my English intro this morning. Got an A on my paper, so thank you for helping me with that. Really, I'm only passing because of you."

"That's not true!" Mike protests. He leans over to get a better hold on the mug, and tries shaking his hair out of his eyes to trace the sketched line. "You're so creative all on your own. I just helped you write."

Really, it'd become one of Mike's favorite ways for them to spend time together. While Will spoke out loud about his ideas, Mike scribbled down bullet points. They worked together to write out the rest by divide-and-conquer. Mike stitched all their parts together on his typewriter while Will made them dinner, and they took turns flipping records.

It was Will's sweet smile, and the way he talked with his hands when he initially struggled to communicate his ideas, and the look of relief when Mike got it. It was butterflies that felt like a stampede, and it was perfect. It was everything Mike ever wanted, and more than he thought he could have, after everything in Hawkins.

That was nearly two weeks ago now. It was also when Mike realized — he couldn't keep his feelings to himself. Not when the then-seemingly-slim possibility of all this, and more, hung in the balance.

He took the first step, and it was the second best thing he's ever done. It was just the more that he didn't know how to earn.

He was trying now, though.

"No, Mike," Will insists, none-the-wiser to Mike's internal fawning. "You're so good at writing. Helping me say things the right way. It would've been trash without you making it into something readable, so really. I owe you."

Mike feels himself preening. He worries briefly about looking too desperate for Will's compliments, and tries to shake it off.

Will drops his brush and stands. "Here."

He walks behind Mike and — shit, oh God, he's carting his fingers through Mike's hair. On instinct, he presses back into the delicious sensation.

Mike loves having his hair played with. He only learned this after falling asleep on Will's bed once, and he woke up to the feeling of soft hands lightly petting his curls. He'd never felt so… held. Cared for. He remembers now how Will snatched his hand away and stuttered an apology when Mike blinked his eyes open, until Mike practically begged for him for more.

He complied, and ever since, on special occasions — failed exams, rude customers at the cafe — while Mike complained, waxing particularly scathing poems of expletives, Will would bring a hand to Mike's hair, massaging until Mike forgot about whatever ailed him.

Mike can usually see Will in front of him when he's playing with his hair, fond eyes trained on Mike while he rants. But now Will stands behind him, carting the top layer of Mike's hair into a fist.

"W– what?"

Mike feels a twisting, then gentle securing of a hair band. Will nudges the elastic in place and gently tugs on some strands, making sure it wasn't pulling uncomfortably on his scalp.

Will came back around to sit again, and shrugged. "It looked like your hair was bothering you."

"It was," Mike breathed.

"And, um." Will colors. "I like your hair like this."

"I like you like this," Mike blurts.

Will smiles bashfully. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He has more to say, so much more, but he's suddenly too self-conscious to elaborate. Was that too much?

"Um, will you help me? With — this?" Mike vaguely flaps his hand around his mug. "I can't get the lines straight."

"Yeah. Of course. I'm almost done anyway. Do you want to paint the inside of mine?"

They swap, and Will scoots his chair closer. Mike warms even though they're not touching anywhere.

This is easy. Mike can paint the inside of a cup. Will tells him to choose any color he likes, so he reaches for a yellow that reminds him of Will.

"For the record," Will says quietly, "I like you like this, too."

Mike nearly drops his paintbrush.

It's working! Oh thank God, it's working. He's successfully wooing Will Byers. He has to force himself not to punch the air in excitement — no. No way. He's got to play it cool.

"I, um." He sniffs in a bit of extra oxygen to collect himself. "Hope you're having a good time."

"I really am. This was so thoughtful." Will smiles down and expertly paints the last outline on the paladin shield. "Do you want to get something to eat after? I know it's kind of early for dinner, but I didn't have a chance to grab lunch before."

Mike's heart drops. Fuck. Not only should he have made sure Will ate before this, but now he has to figure out how avoid spoiling his plans. Sure, they could grab food somewhere else — he knows Will's favorite Thai spot isn't far — but he doesn't want Will to think that he didn't have anything else planned. That wouldn't be very 'boyfriend material' of him.

"Um." Fuck. Okay. He could do this. He just has to get them back to the apartment, and Will would understand. "How about we go home for a bit?"

Will blinks. "Oh. Yeah, sure."

They put finishing touches on the mugs and drop them at the front of the store, where Mike pays in exchange for the slip of paper detailing pick-up. He exchanges few words with the older lady, though she seems quite invested in their date.

"Will you be coming back together?" Bette asks innocently, punching buttons on the cash register.

"Um — yes, probably," Mike says tersely, hoping Will wasn't listening.

"Good, good," Bette hums. "Take good care of him. The artsy ones are worth keeping around." She winks at Will, who laughs openly.

"She means lock it down, Stretch! The good ones always get snatched up!" cried another older lady from the corner.

"Viola, stop. He's blushing."

Truthfully, Mike had probably never been so pink in his life.

I'm trying! he screams mentally. And you're not really helping!

And oh, good. Now he's sweating. He can't look Will in the eye, not yet. Not when he's all… flustered. He quite possibly looks gross, with paint on his hands and his face all warm. He doesn't pull it off like Will, he knows that.

What is wrong with him?

Pull yourself together, he thinks emphatically. These women are right — this is his moment to sweep Will off his feet, and he's choking. He's flubbing the ball, or whatever it is people say when they're fucking up their chance with something good.

He takes a shuddering breath, then pushes past to open the door for Will to walk through.

Will looks at him strangely, again, before following. As he passes, he asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Just want to get home!" Mike hears his own voice come squeaky, but he can't help it. Between trying to keep all his stupid thoughts inside, appear unaffected by Will's every captivating move, and keep the surprise a secret, he's so incredibly on edge. He's not used to being so… shy around Will, and he only hopes he's still half decent company.

God, following these rules is so hard. Worth it, though, to get that second date. Eye on the prize.

They forego the train this time in favor of the twenty minute walk, since the sun's intensity has waned. Mike tries to subtly wipe his palms on the front of his jeans before attempting to — while holding his breath, fuck, why is he so nervous — catch Will's hand in his.

At first their knuckles just brush, and Mike's heart leaps. He worries he looks foolish, or maybe Will doesn't want to hold his hand. But then, when their hands pass again, Will crooks his fingers to catch with Mike's just right. Will's arm is behind his, with Mike's thumb on the outside. Will begins walking closer for their hands to be more securely bound, which makes Mike quiver inside.

They're holding hands! Together! Mike and Will, holding hands for the hell of it. Not in a military-surveilled bathroom. Not with the excuse of, like, one of them guiding the other through a train station. Just holding hands, on purpose, in front of anyone.

Mike wonders what passing strangers think. He and Will play this guessing game sometimes and think up elaborate stories about the people of Washington Square Park. Are the people around them thinking they look good together? Do they look like a couple?

Does Mike appear as in love on the outside as he feels on the inside?

They make it back to the apartment, which means Mike can breathe a little easier. Now he just needs to convince Will to take a shower — which shouldn't be so hard, since he complained of sweating about six times during their walk — so he can order food and set up.

Then he would just need to stay on his best behavior until… Well. As long as Will would have him, he supposed.

His plans for the day had splintered between moments, but he thinks he pulled it off. However, once the door has closed behind them and Will turns to face him dead-on, Mike has the feeling his evening is about to shatter right in front of him.

"So," Will draws out. "There's something I've been trying to understand all evening."

Mike could probably hear a pin drop.

"W– what is it?"

Will tears off his Converse. "Come sit on the couch with me."

Mike follows suit, toeing off his shoes and stumbling behind Will in a flash. "Um. I thought you'd want to shower?"

"Sure." Will shrugs. He pats the space next to him on the couch as an invitation. "But I want to talk to you first."

Oh. Mike's heart drops.

Well, he must've done something wrong. Maybe he should've been nicer to Carmichael and Charmagne, or whatever their names were. Maybe Will didn't like having to help Mike with his mug. Maybe this isn't what he'd imagined at all when he agreed to go out with Mike, and he was going to let him down easy.

He sits on the couch cautiously, already jumpy.

"Mike," Will begins, and he braces himself.

"You know I like you, right?"

Mike crosses his legs and leans forward, without blinking. "Sure, Will. I know that."

"Okay." Will tucks his socked feet under himself, mirroring Mike's position for them to face each other on opposite cushions. "Well, then why are you acting all… weird?"

"Weird?" Mike now points to himself like a fucking imbecile. "Moi?"

Will points in a clear imitation, laughing softly. "Yes, you. Mike, you've hardly acted like yourself at all today! You have to tell me what's up, or I'm going to make assumptions."

"Assumptions," Mike echoes.

Will counts off on his fingers. "You were quiet at the pottery studio, even when Cedric wouldn't stop talking. And I know you were irritated. I tried flirting with you and couldn't read you at all, which was, like, a bit of a mindfuck. And when the owners of the studio joked about us being together, you looked like you saw a ghost.

"Either you're not into this," Will says, tilting his head in consideration — "or you're nervous."

"I told you!" Mike insists. He wants to surge forward and take Will's face in his palms to emphasize the point, but he resists the urge. The rule is to woo him, not scare him. "I'm so into you, Will. Like, really."

Terribly, horribly, irreversibly, beautifully… into you.

Will shakes his lead like this is the best news he's ever heard, and he can't quite believe it. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."

They just look at each other for a moment, quite stupidly.

Will fidgets. "So… why are you nervous?"

Mike swallows. He picks at his nail beds, trying to swallow the upset at how he's somehow communicated the exact opposite of what he wanted to. He wanted to come off confident, like a version of himself more capable of being a good boyfriend. Instead, he made Will doubt his feelings completely.

Admitting his feelings would be better than that any day.

Here goes nothing.

"Because I want you to like-like me," he says quietly.

Then, it's like a broken dam.

"I'm trying to be boyfriend material!" Mike exclaims. "I'm trying to show you that I can be — I don't know. Good for you. Good enough for you, you know? Not in a friend way. Not that anyone really deserves you, Will, but I want to. I want to become deserving."

Mike's feeling nervous, and a little sick, and also a tad bit hopeful. Mostly, it just feels right to finally tell Will all of this. Will is the person he can always be honest with, and he doesn't want that to change.

It's hard to even think it without feeling absolutely, hopelessly delusional, like the little version of himself that used to wish for this very same thing, before he could put a name to it —

He so desperately wants Will to love him back.

"I'm just trying to be different," he finishes, breath coming a little faster. "I'm trying to earn you. Show you that this… it could be really good, I think."

Blood pounds in his ears. Is it hot in here? Is he having a cardiac event?

Will opens and closes his mouth several times. But right when Mike's about ready to throw himself off the roof, his words ring out:

"Mike, have I not made it clear I like-like you?"

Will puts his hands on top of Mike's, appearing so earnest and open, it almost hurt something in his chest.

"You are so thoughtful," Will says wistfully, "but you forgot one thing."

"W– what's that?"

"Mike." Will says his name like he's being silly. Like he's missed something rather obvious.

"Things might change between us," Will says, voice shaky but careful. "For the better, I think. But you?" He chuckles, eyes glistening a bit, just like Mike's own. "I don't want you to change at all.

"I like when your hair's messy, and I like the way you smell. I like that you make me coffee without me asking. I like when you get that bitchy little look on your face when you feel territorial, and I like that once you focus on something, you can't be distracted until it's finished.

"Mike," he says again, voice so wonderfully fond, "I love you just the way you are."

And, well. There it is.

There's the more Mike's been looking for.

He's tried to not be loud or obnoxious. He's tried to be careful with his words, and he's tried very hard to surprise his best friend who, he very well knows after nearly two decades, doesn't like surprises. All because he thought that's what boyfriends were supposed to do.

Maybe they could decide that for themselves. Together. Because Will loves him.

(He loves him!!!!!!)

"Will." These next words come freely, without hesitation. It's what he's been trying to say all day, and held back. But his fear's gone, and the moment is here. "I love you. So much."

Will's looking at him with more wondrous shock than Mike would've ever anticipated. Of course he loves him. Of course.

"I love your eyes, and your smile." His fingers twitch with the urge to trace the edge of Will's cheek. "I've always loved your eyes. I dreamed of them as a kid, you know that?

"I love how brave you are, and how you're the best listener in the world. I love that you're a sarcastic shit. I really, really love that no matter how horrible the world has been to you, you're determined to make it a better place. I — Will, you make me better."

He has so much more to say. Mike's just opened his mouth to let the rest spill out, but instead, what comes out is a squeak as he's hauled into Will's lap. One second they're eye to eye, and the next, they're, all wrapped around each other.

Will laughs, open-mouthed and unabashed. "Sorry. I couldn't wait another second to get close to you, and you were taking too long."

It seems sort of silly now, but Mike didn't know they could, like, do it like this. He never considered sitting in someone's lap. But he didn't know it would be like… this. It's slightly awkward with how tall he is, but when Will surges up to meet him in the middle, lips mere inches apart, it's just right.

"You called me baby," Mike utters. He's finally, finally, grasping something between bliss and clarity, while Wills holds him and he holds Will.

Mike took too long to get close to him, Will said. Now, he won't wait any longer. He won't try to make it perfect — just raw, and honest, and right now.

"Be my boyfriend," Mike breathes. "Please. Be mine?"

He leans down for his view of Will to become just that much clearer. Not a single detail, his pretty moles or gorgeous eyelashes, should go unnoticed when Mike's committing this to memory.

"I've always been yours," Will exhales, and surges up to meet him in the middle.

If their first kiss was fireworks, then this has to be a fireplace during a long, cold winter. It's oh, there you are. It's like forgetting something can feel so warm, so right, until you're right back in it.

He still wonders if he should've reapplied his lip balm, or if he smells okay. There's still a voice in the back of his head yelling that he'd better get this right, or else. But he ignores it. He shuts out everything but the chant of willwillwill that he's never gone without.

The fireplace is warm and inviting. Then Mike licks down along the seam of Will's lips, and when he's granted entrance — yep. There are the fireworks again.

Their tongues tease in a slow roll, a back-and-forth that only makes him want more. More of this, more of Will.

"Bitchy little look?" he repeats between kisses.

Will nips at his bottom lip in a tantalizing drag. "Sarcastic shit?"

And they're back at it, with enough glide to make Mike's heart skip a beat. He can feel every caress of Will's hands up and down his sides, and the strain between them to make their lips meet, over and over, is delicious. It's addicting.

He moans Will's name when his fingertips dig into Mike's upper back, at once grounding and ascending. Will answers in turn as Mike peppers kisses across the bridge of his nose, unable to bear any distance between them.

Before Mike can make his way back to Will's mouth, which should really come with a warning label, he's pulled back by his hair. He does not whimper, he doesn't — but it's a near thing.

"I'm not a stranger," Will says. For someone with blown eyes and mussed hair, he looks quite serious. "Okay? I know you. I've loved you as long as I've known you. I don't need you to change a goddamn thing."

Mike is, embarrassingly but undeniably, dangerously close to blubbering. He sniffs and nods.

Inhaling deeply, he says something else true.

"I love you like breathing, Will Byers."

He tucks a piece of hair behind Will's ear, reverent in his attention. Just like that, any hesitation between them is gone — they're right back to getting as much of each other as they possibly can.

"I had more planned for us," Mike confesses between kisses.

Will laughs, then laughs harder still when Mike continues pecking over his front teeth. "Why didn't you just say that?"

"It's meant to be a surprise, baby."

Will pulls back. Mike's got Will's face clutched between his hands like precious treasure, while Will's holding him close by the back of his rucked-up shirt. His face looks like he's trying to pout, but the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth transforms it into something like a twitching grin. "You could have told me you had a surprise at home, silly."

Mike nods along, dazed, with his eyes solely focused on Will's lips. With Will similarly distracted, he seizes the opportunity to turn the tables — somewhat literally. He moves his hands to under Will's arms and pulls, hauling him up and over, until Mike's flat on his back with Will hovering on top of him.

"Oof!" Will grunts, the air temporarily knocked out of him. Mike fears for the integrity of his chest cavity, given how one of Will's knees wedged rather precisely between his third and fourth ribs on their horizontal journey.

They both burst into giggles. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," Will belly laughs. "This is perfect. Isn't it?"

It is. It is. Now Will's the one leaning down to kiss him, and oh, it's good this way, too. Being pressed together like this is just like heaven, and it's more than he ever thought he could have.

He didn't even know he could want something so electric, didn't know such a thing existed. Now that he knows how it feels to tangle his hands in Will's hair and feel his breath on his face, he couldn't go without this again.

He didn't know he was making these noses, keening hnnghs, until Will gasps for breath, and his senses come rushing back.

Will leans down to nuzzle into Mike's neck, and he reciprocates with kisses into Will's hair. They stay there until Will's stomach growls loud enough to break through their bubble.

"Pizza," Mike chokes out. "Surprise."

Will leans back on his forearms, enough to bring his face into full view. He's so beautiful, with his bright eyes and shiny lips, that Mike almost forgets why they've pulled apart.

Almost. But he does intend to follow through on his plans for the night.

"Go take a shower" — Mike trails a hand over the top of Will's spine, relishing his shiver — "and I'll order pizza for us. Then, I have one more surprise."

Flowers. D&D. A Golden Girls rerun, if he's lucky enough for Will to give into his whining pleas. (Will usually does, and they fall into slumber to the same-old comforting theme song. Maybe tonight, they'll fall asleep together.)

They both get up slowly, peeling away from each other with equal hesitation. Mike steadies Will when he stumbles, then pulls him into his chest. He can't resist.

Once they pull apart with a few more whispered sweet nothings, Mike goes to the phone in the hallway while Will pads off toward the bathroom. Mike has dialed seven digits before he feels Will at his back again. He turns just in time to clutch his boyfriend against his chest.

"Trying to sneak up on me?" he murmurs.

Will grins widely enough that his eyes are all scrunched up. "Me? Never."

Mike plants a solid kiss on his lips with a loud smack. "I bet you were coming for a tickle attack, huh?"

He punctuates this by digging his fingers into Will's abdomen, right where he's most ticklish. Sure enough, he jumps about a foot in the air.

"Mike!" he shrieks. By the time he gets his wits about him to push away, Mike's already ceased his ministrations and wrapped his arms back around his boyfriend.

Has he mentioned his boyfriend? The beautiful boy who's agreed to date him for the foreseeable future? Pretty eyes, perfect ass? Yep, that's the one.

"You are so annoying," Will breathes. He's got his cheek pressed to Mike's chest, gazing straight upward to nip and peck at his jaw.

Mike hums. "You love it."

Will hums. "I do."

The pizza delivery menu's crumpled on the floor, completely forgotten in their embrace. Once Will's scampered off to the shower for real this time, Mike spins to face the wall, palms pressed to hot cheeks. He's smiling so hard, it almost hurts.

This. This is the more.