Archive of Our Own

There was a noise of all kinds of medical machines around him, but the sterile smell of antiseptic hit Will before he could register anything else. It was a sharp scent that clung to the back of his throat, completely stripped of the familiar damp-earth smell of a town he grew up in. 

His first thought was wondering whether he was in Hawkins, Montauk, or the sun-baked Lenora Hills.

When he finally managed to pry his eyelids open, the fluorescent lighting above hummed with a low buzz that made his skin crawl. His body felt heavy, locked in a throbbing ache that radiated from his ribs down to his shins. Bandages were wrapped tight around his torso and a rhythmic beep signaled his pulse from a monitor hooked to his wrist.

As his vision swung into focus, three figures materialized at the foot of the bed.

An older woman in a worn floral cardigan was doubled over in a chair, clutching a wooden rosary, her shoulders shaking with desperate wails. Standing beside her was a young man in his early twenties; his face blotched red, eyes glistening as a fragile, tearful smile broke across his face the moment Will’s eyelids fluttered open; like a blooming hope.

Will blinked, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't know them. Their faces were foreign and their smiles were haunting like they needed something from Will. The room was full of strangers, the air thick with grief and he couldn't trace the origin of it.

Then his eyes drifted to the left.

Standing closest to the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a dark jacket, was a face that pulled Will back from the brink of absolute terror. Dark, unruly hair falling into his eyes, sharp cheekbones and eyes wide with naked worry. Blood-shot eyes like they've been crying for hours, swollen on the bottom where they met his eyeline.

"Mike..." Will’s voice was a dry rasps, barely a whisper against the hum of the room and the noise of the machines.

Mike looked over at him in an instant and froze, like he wasn’t expecting Will to call out to him or maybe he was too immersed in his whole mind to know when Will opened his eyes. 

“Will…” A little whisper left his mouth in disbelief and then reality clouded back to him. “Wait. I’ll be back, okay?”

Will looked at him with squinting eyes, yet still he could read his face like a book. The tension snapped in Mike’s shoulders and without a second thought, he darted out the door, calling down the tiled hallway for a doctor or a nurse or any paramedic who could take a look. The moment Mike left, the older lady sank to her knees by the side of the mattress, pressing her forehead against the stiff white sheets, praying aloud in broken, hurried whispers while the young man placed a steady hand on her back.

Seconds later, the room’s door pushed open again. An attending physician stepped in, clipboard in hand, motioning calmly for the family to step outside.

"I need everyone out for a few moments, please," the doctor said in a low tone.

"I'm staying," Mike said instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument. He didn't move an inch from the bedside. The doctor glanced at Mike’s firm expression, sighed and pulled a penlight from his pocket.

The examination was a blur of shining lights into Will's pupils, checking reflexes and pressing gently on bruised ribs. Will barely felt any of it. His mind was racing, trying to anchor itself to something or anything that made sense.

"Who were those people?" Will finally managed to ask, his voice hoarse, trembling as he looked past the doctor to the closed door.

Mike stood still at the edge of the bed. "Will..."

Will’s chest tightened, a wave of panic crashing over him as he scanned the cold, unfamiliar room. "Where's… mom? I want mom, Mike. Where is she?"

Mike’s expression completely locked up because whatever he expected for Will to say, it was not this. The blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving him deathly pale. He looked up at the doctor, who offered a somber nod, giving him permission, or perhaps silently instructing him to answer.

If Mike is right about what is currently happening to Will then it’s going to be a shocker of a lifetime. 

Mike swallowed hard, taking a slow step closer. He reached out with a shaking hand as he took Will's cold fingers into his. "Will... J-Joyce is... she's dead."

The words didn't make sense to Will. They sounded like a foreign language, wrong and twisted. Weightless and factually incorrect. 

Dead? That can’t be true. Joyce cannot be dead. Will remembered calling her last week and telling her about the brutal break up that he had with a guy from his college. She talked to him until he slept with the phone cord twisted on his arm. 

A harsh sob tore from Will's throat. It was pain and the inability of recollection and the unbelievable amount of loss that sat in his heart like a hole. He squeezed his eyes shut as hot tears spilled down his temples, soaking into the thin hospital pillow. His eyes burned with pain and head was spinning. 

Mike immediately leaned down, wrapping his arms around Will's shoulders, holding him tight while Will wept into his chest, clutching at Mike’s shirt like it was the only real thing left in the world.

After the storm of tears quieted into shallow and exhausting breaths, the doctor pulled a chair up to the bed. He explained it clearly, though the words felt distant to Will, like she was white noise. 

The trauma from the crash and the severe concussion had caused extensive retrograde amnesia.

Will lost an entire decade of memories. Ten years. Gone in a single instant.

He had no memory of the years that followed the quiet rebuilding of his life after he moved to Chicago to be near the whole party. He doesn’t remember anyone else who came after his shitty relationship with a guy named Carl. He didn't remember the bitter winter Joyce finally lost her battle with a lingering illness, or how Hopper, hollowed out by the loss, passed away quietly in his sleep only two months later. He didn't remember the sunny afternoon where Max stood under an arch of hydrangeas to marry Lucas. He had no recollection of Dustin’s name appearing on the spine of scientific journals, or Jonathan packing up a life's worth of camera gear to take an editorial assignment in Tokyo, where he now lived permanently. He couldn't recall his own hard-won accreditation as a lead gallery illustrator, or the night Mike held up a finished manuscript with his name printed on the cover as a published novelist.

To Will, all of that was a ghost story. His life had ended somewhere in his late twenties and he had woken up in a body and a world he didn't recognize. He was almost 40 and lost in a time that didn’t exist anymore. He was a stranger in his own body.

Mike took his time telling him all about what he had gained andlost over the decades. Leaving out some details that might’ve shocked him to the core. He filled him in on all details and Will cried through it all.

By the next morning, the gray light of dawn filtered through the blinds. A nurse moved quietly around the room, adjusting the IV drip and wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Will’s arm.

"Your vitals are looking much more stable today, Mr. Wheeler…Byers?" she said with a questioning look looking at the updated name on his patient chart, but she still had a kind and professional smile. "I think you should tell your husband to go home and rest for a while."

Will froze instantly and hs face dropped. The cuff tightened around his bicep, but the real pressure was building in his chest. The moment the hyphenated name left her lips, Will’sbreath hitched in his throat, chest seizing as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. 

The two names sat side by side, tied together on paper, completely upending everything he thought he knew about himself. He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions yet, but his eyes still widened, gaze dropping instantly to the pale clip-board resting in the nurse’s hands. 

His jaw slackened slightly, mind racing to process the weight of those letters strung together. He looked up at her, his expression a chaotic mix of raw shock, confusion and a sharp spike of panic. His fingers twitched against the hospital blanket, tightening into fists as a hot, prickling warmth climbed up his neck.

Seeing the bewilderment written across his face and the way his eyes darted from the chart to his own bandaged hands as if he’d been handed someone else’s life; the nurse’s smile softened into something deeply sympathetic.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear," she said quickly, her tone instantly softening as she realized her mistake. She gently tilted the chart back toward herself, tapping the fresh label. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you. Your patient chart was listed as 'Mr. Byers' yesterday when you were brought into the ICU."

She offered him a reassuring nod, her eyes warm with understanding. "Your husband had the admin update it first thing this morning. I... I didn't realize you were having to learn everything bit by bit."

Will stared at her, his pulse thumping loudly in his ears. The room felt entirely too quiet around them. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, his lower lip trembling just a fraction before he managed to press his mouth into a tight line. 

"My... what?" Will whispered faintly, but it echoed. His voice questioned the reality like the words he heard might be just an illusion or an aftereffect of medications.

"I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to startle you. I know you’re getting there slowly."

Will stared at her as she finished her checks and collected all her files before she prepared to step out.

He lifted his left hand and found the skin pale at the base of his ring finger. There was a distinct, smoothed-down indentation; a clear band where a ring had rested for maybe years against his skin. He realized it must’ve been removed only for the emergency treatment. There was a faint scar of something sharp on his wrist too that he didn't have any memory of.

His mind reeled into questions again. He had a husband?

The last thing he could recall about romance was a painful, clumsy breakup with a boy from art school nearly nine years ago. It was a quiet and secret relationship that dissolved in tears in a dorm parking lot. He remembered believing back then that he was destined to end up alone, hiding who he was forever. The party was there for him. His mom and Mike was too. Even Jonathan was.

He looked down at his bare hand, his mind spinning with a thousand frantic questions again because what he herald form Mike yesterday was certainly not enough. He needed answers and he needed them from the only anchor he remembers.

"Excuse me," Will called out softly to the nurse who was about to walk into the hallway. "Can you... can you send in my friend? M-Mike?"

"Of course," she replied and smiled at him.

A few minutes passed before the door clicked open. Mike stepped into the room, moving slowly, as if carrying an invisible and crushing weight on his shoulders. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his jaw tight. He looked entirely devastated, yet as he approached the bed, he forced his posture to straighten.

He pulled up the vinyl chair and sat down close to Will.

Before Will could even open his mouth, Mike reached out, his long fingers trembling slightly as he folded his hand tightly over Will’s cold ones. 

He managed a faint, breathy "Hi." 

The word cracked under the weight in his throat. Looking into Will's wide, questioning eyes, Mike knew instantly what was coming, he knew the exact wave of questions about to spill out and the unbearable truth he was going to have to deliver piece by devastating piece. It was tearing him apart from the inside out, hollow and agonizing, but he held on tightly, bracing himself to bear the whole weight of it for both of them.

"Will..." Mike started, his voice thick, eyes searching Will's face. "Do you... do you remember anything about R-Ryan?"

Will stared back, shifting slightly on the stiff mattress. "Who's Ryan?"

Mike closed his eyes for a long moment as he took a shuddering breath through his nose, holding it until his shoulders dropped. When he opened his eyes again, the nervous trembling in his hands had stopped. He reached out again and wrapped his fingers firmly around Will’s. Entwining them together like weaving beads into threads.

"He was... he was our friend," Mike said quietly. "And he... he died in the crash."

Will’s eyes widened and something flashed in his eyes. He didn’t know what to think as fresh sting of tears built at the corners of his eyes. The weight of it settled heavily in his stomach; he lost a friend, someone who was apparently vital to his life and he couldn't even summon a single memory of his voice, his face, or his laugh. He wondered what they had been talking about in the car right before everything went to hell.

Was Ryan laughing? Were they listening to the radio? What were they talking about before the crash?

"The... the old lady and the boy..." Will whispered, his mind putting the pieces together.

"They were… Ryan's family," Mike explained gently. "His mother and his younger brother. He was in emergency surgery when you first woke up, but... he didn't make it."

A knot twisted tight in Will’s stomach. Someone who was apparently a vital piece of his daily life, someone he must’ve spent years laughing with, sharing meals with, living alongside has died and Will couldn't bring up a single trace of him. It felt like a profound, ghost-like loss, grieving someone who felt like an absolute stranger in his own mind.

His eyes burned again, blurring the harsh hospital lights above. It was agonizing to realize that a whole person could vanish from your life and you wouldn't even have a memory left to hold onto as a goodbye.

Will looked down at their joined hands and his mind drifted for a moment. Mike’s long fingers were interlaced tightly with his own, thumb tracing warm, gentle circles over Will's knuckles. The gesture was so instinctive, so naturally affectionate, that it made another question bubble up in Will’s throat; one that made his pulse flutter frantically against his ribcage.

"The nurse..." Will hesitated, biting his dry lip. "She mentioned something about my-my husband. I don't... I don't remember any of it. Who is it, Mike?"

Mike stopped tracing patterns on Will's hand. His breathing hitched, the color draining from his face in a split second. His fingers tightened around Will’s hand so suddenly it was almost painful, his entire body going rigid.

For aagonizing moment, panic flared in Mike’s eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes searching Will’s face with a desperate vulnerability; as if he were terrified that saying it out loud might break whatever fragile spell was keeping Will here with him. His shoulders tensed, a quiet flutter of fear pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He took a deep breath through his nose, forcing the tension to bleed out of his spine.

Gradually, the panic smoothed over into some kind of warmth. A soft smile broke through the grief on his face, lighting up his eyes. Without letting go, Mike raised Will’s hand up between them, bringing Will's knuckles up to his lips and pressing a tender kiss right over the place where his wedding band used to sit.

"It's me, silly," Mike whispered, his voice warm and steady. "I'm your husband. Who else would it be?"

The words hung in the medicinial air between them, suspended like something fragile and unreal.

Will’s breath hitched, caught completely in the back of his throat. His heart thudded wildly against his ribs, an erratic rhythm that made the monitor beside the bed pulse a fraction faster. He stared at Mike, his eyes wide and unblinking, searching every familiar line of Mike’s face for a trace of a joke, a misunderstanding, or a cruel twist of his own disoriented mind.

There was none. Only Mike, looking down at him with a tenderness so deep and quiet it made Will’s chest ache.

A burning heat bloomed at the base of Will’s neck, rushing upward until his cheeks were flushed dark red. His mind stalled, tumbling backward through a dizzying maze of old memories; the confessions of a fifteen-year-old left unsaid, quiet longing on the basement stairs and the agonizingcertainty he carried for years that loving Mike Wheeler was a secret he would take to his grave.

He spent his youth convincing himself that a life with Mike was an impossible dream, but now, Mike was sitting right here, holding his hand, kissing his knuckles and saying it like it was the most natural truth in the world.

Will’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first. His jaw trembled slightly as his gaze dropped down to their intertwined fingers, then back up to Mike’s expectant eyes.

Husband.

"Y-You...?" Will choked out, his voice barely a breath, thick with disbelief and a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. "We're... we're married? Since when?" Will breathed out, his heart hammering wildly.

"Seven years dating," Mike said, his smile widening slightly as his free hand reached up, fingers gently brushing through Will's tangled hair. "Five years married."

Mike leaned in, his touch impossibly gentle as he cupped Will's cheek. He pressed a warm kiss against Will’s forehead, right near the bandage on his temple. Mike stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting gently against Will’s, letting the quiet rhythm of their breathing sync up in the white room. The clinical hum of the hospital monitors seemed to recede into the background, replaced by the grounding warmth of Mike’s palm against his face.

When Mike finally pulled back just a fraction, his thumb softly smoothed over the high ridge of Will’s cheekbone. His eyes were soft, swimming with a bittersweet tenderness that made Will’s chest ache.

"I know you have a million questions, Will," Mike said quietly, his voice low and steady. "I know your head is spinning and you're trying to put together a puzzle where half the pieces are missing. I promise you... I’ll answer every single one of them. Every detail, every year, every story. We have all the time in the world, okay?"

He offereda reassuring smile, his fingers lightly curling into the hair at the nape of Will's neck.

"But first," Mike whispered, "we’re going home tonight. They signed off on your discharge as long as you promise not to strain yourself. I'm going to run back to our house first, to get everything warm and clean for you. I gotta water your plants and make dinner, before I come back to pick you up."

Their house. It sounded so distant, like a backdrop from a story Will never read. He couldn't picture the front porch, couldn't picture the kitchen, couldn't picture the life they had built in a quiet house framed by plants, far away from the shadows and horror of their childhood. Yet, hearing Mike talk about it with such comfortable, lived-in familiarity made a strange hope bloom in the middle of Will's chest.

"Our home?" 

“Our home.” Mike repeated softly, pressing one last tender kiss to Will's knuckles before stepping back. "I'll be back before you know it. Just rest, okay?"

Will smiled as he saw Mike get up and leave. He repeated teh words under his breath and they felt huge, almost impossible to comprehend. They had a home. Together. They were married. They were a couple and apparently lived together. Will hated that he doens’t remember anything.

He laid back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling tiles as the quiet settled over the room again. A million questions bounced around in his head, pulling him in every direction.

Who was the man he had grown into over the last ten years? How had they finally bridged the impossible gap between them? And how was he supposed to step into a life he had built, loved and lived; when he couldn't remember a single second of it?

The drive out from the city center was quiet, the rhythmic thum of the tires over asphalt acting as a steady pulse against the hum of the car’s heater. Outside the passenger window, Chicago’s sharp skyline slowly bled into the sprawling, tree-lined neighborhoods of the outer suburbs. It was late autumn; golden-brown oak leaves danced across the road in small gusts of wind, brushing past quiet brick homes with wide front porches and warm lights glowing in the windows.

Mike drove with one hand firm on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, his fingers loosely hooked over Will’s. He didn't force conversation on him just yet. Every few miles, he’d glance over, his eyes checking on Will with anwatchful concern that felt both unfamiliar and deeply rooted.

When the car finally pulled up a long gravel driveway, a house came into view.

It was a sturdy, two-story Craftsman home tucked right at the edge where the manicured suburban lawns gave way to a dense, quiet forest. The woods stretched out behind the property like a dark green cloak, the tall pines rustling softly in the evening breeze. The front porch was wooden, painted a muted slate blue, with blue and yellow rocking chairs set beside a low table holding a pot of potted chrysanthemums.

"Here we are," Mike said softly, turning off the ignition of the car.

Will stepped out into the crisp air, the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke and fallen pine needles filling his lungs. It felt grounded and so real that he got overwhelmed for a moment.

Mike moved quickly around the car, resting a supportive palm right between Will’s shoulder blades as they walked up the low porch steps. 

"Take it slow. Your balance might be off for a day or two."

The front door unlocked with a click and when Mike pushed it open and guided Will inside, the immediate warmth of the house hit him like a loving embrace.

The house smelled of cedar, sketching papers, Earl Grey tea, ink and a sharp undertone of oil and turpentine. It was unmistakably lived-in. In the foyer, two pairs of boots sat neatly side by side on a woven mat; one pair scuffed and sturdy, the other slightly smaller, stained with faint splatters of dried oil paint.

Will’s eyes drifted toward the living room, a soft gasp slipping from his lips.

Plants were everywhere. Leaves spilled over the edges of tall terracotta pots in the corners; ivy trailed down from high oak bookshelves, catching the soft light of the lamps Mike turned on earlier. Suspended near the wide bay window were terracotta hanging baskets holding lush ferns that needed careful watering, steady sun and patience. Something Will was too fond of.

Mine, Will thought, a strange warmth settling in his chest. 

His eyes wandered like a child filled with wonder and looking at his expression, Mike took the cue again.

"You brought most of these home from the local nursery," Mike murmured, his hand gently settling on the side of Will’s shoulder to steady him as he took an uncertain step forward. 

“I did…?”

"Yes and you swore before leaving home that you were just gonna get one and then you came back home with six."

Will smiled, a small thing that made his cheeks ache softly. "I... I don't remember buying them, but I know I love them."

"You do," Mike said, his voice dropping into a tender register. "You talk to them when you water them, by the way."

As Will moved deeper into the room, his gaze caught the walls. Canvas after canvas hung in dark wood frames. Broad and sweeping strokes of deep indigo, forest green and soft ochre; intricate ink sketches of quiet forest trails, riverbanks and architectural studies of the city. His hand rose instinctively, fingers hovering an inch above a large oil painting hanging over the fireplace. It was a quiet meadow bathed in dawn light, painted with such delicate care it felt like a breathing thing.

He didn't need to check for a signature to know who must’ve painted this. He knew the drag of those brushstrokes and the way the light fell. These paintings belonged to him. He spent years refining this craft, but sadly the most recent development were the ones he doesn't remember learning.

"You're an accredited illustrator," Mike whispered, leaning in slightly, his shoulder brushing Will’s arm. "Your last gallery exhibition in town sold out in three days."

Will swallowed hard, turning slowly toward the hallway before meeting Mike’s eyes in quiet wonder.

The gallery wall stretched down the main corridor, lined with dozens of framed photographs in varying sizes. It look just like Mike’s basement walls. Will remembers those walls quiet vividly and this, right here, was their own version of the basement. This was a visual timeline of a decade he lost, a mosaic of a life built piece by piece.

He stepped closer, playing a quiet, overwhelming game with himself; cataloging what belonged to his memory and what had been stolen by the accident.

His eyes caught a large black-and-white print near the center. It felt too good to be true, but Will knew it was real.

It was a wedding photograph.

Mike and Will stood dressed in sharp and impeccably tailored suits in the middle. Mike was in classic black, Will in a soft off-white jacket. They were caught mid-laugh under a canopy of string lights, outdoor trees framing the background. Mike had one arm thrown around Will’s waist, holding him close, while Will held a crystal champagne flute aloft, his head tilted back in joy.

Will’s breath hitched. "That’s..."

"October fourth," Mike supplied gently, his arm wrapping around Will’s back to support his weight as Will leaned in slightly, dizzy from the intensity of it all. "An abandoned botanic garden just outside the city.” 

“Wow..” It was almost a whisper that left his lungs in disbelief.

“You spent three months designing the invitations by hand." Mike smiled and his head landed on Will’s shoulder.

Will stared at his own laughing face in the photograph. He looked so happy and so open. None of the guarded, terrified weight he remembered carrying as a teenager was present in those eyes. It was like a new person was staring back at him.

"I don't remember this…" Will whispered, an ache blooming behind his ribs that threatened his eyes with waterworks.

"That's okay," Mike murmured, his chin resting lightly against the top of Will's head for a fraction of a second. "I remember everything. I'll tell you whenever you want and we can recreate this and relive it."

The rest of Mike’s sentence seemed to linger in the air, echoing with anincredible weight that made the rest of the world fad e out completely.

Will’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. A breathless knot formed in his throat, making it almost impossible to swallow. He pulled back just enough to look at Mike, his eyes wide and trembling, searching every line of Mike’s face.

The thought of losing ten years had felt like a crushing theft. It was a decade of love, quiet mornings, cozy nights and hard-won joy stolen away in a split second of metal and shattering glass, but hearing Mike say those words with such effortless devotion made something inside Will give way.

Mike was grieving what they’d lost too, but he was also ready to rebuild it, piece by piece. All for Will.

A shuddering breath escaped Will’s lips, a tear finally slipping past his lash line and trailing warm down his cheek. He reached up, his hand shaky as his fingers brushed against the front of Mike’s jacket, clinging to the fabric like a lifeline.

"You... you’d really do that?" Will whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "You’d do everything? All over again?"

There was a glimpse of something that Will never saw before in Mke’s eyes. Something that he searched for years and years and somehow it all became futile and he remembered trying to walk in the opposite direction because he thought he’d never get it. 

It was love and it wasn’t the kind that bloomed from the foundations of a friendship, it was something bordering on devotion and obsession. Will couldn’t believe it was real. 

A watery smile broke across Mike’s face, his hand gently cupping the back of Will’s neck, his thumb wiping away the tear before it could reach his jaw.

"A hundred times over if I have to," Mike murmured softly, his voice steady and full of warmth. "As many times as you want to."

Will let out a choked laugh, pressing his forehead into the crook of Mike’s neck as another wave of relief washed over him. He still couldn't remember the music playing, the taste of the cake, or the words they had promised each other under that canopy of lights, but hiding his face against Mike’s shoulder, holding onto the boy he had loved for as long as he could remember, Will knew he didn't need a memory to feel the reality of it.

He was loved completely, entirely and without reservation. That is something to hold on to. He kissed the side of Mike’s face and with uncertain steps, started to move down the line, his fingers lightly trailing along the bottom edges of the frames.

There was a picture of Joyce and Hopper, taken on a sunny porch somewhere surrounded by trees. Joyce was laughing, her hands wrapped around a mug, while Hopper had an arm thrown over her chair, a smile on his face.

Will’s heart clenched. He remembered his mother's warm hugs, the smell of her floral perfume, Hopper's gruff and protective presence, but he didn't remember their last visit here. He didn't remember the last meal they shared or the conversation they had.

"They loved this house," Mike said softly, noticing where Will’s eyes had lingered. "When I bought it, we weren’t dating, but Joyce came down to help me with alot of stuff since… my parents aren’t around anymore.” This was yet another question that sat at Will’s tongue, but he chose to ignore it for the time being. “The whole party spent the weekend helping me paint the kitchen cabinets and arrange furniture. You painted yellow on whatever you saw. She said the house needed more light and I agreed with her so we had massive fixtures laid out."

Will blinked away a sudden blur of tears, nodding slowly. "She was probably right. What did Hop say?"

“He was grumpy because I won’t let him fix tha garage.”

Will croaked out a laugh and it settled in Mike’s chest. Something melted in his nerves. There were good times too and Will is glad to have them, even though he couldn’t remember.

Next to it was a photograph from an outdoor summer garden. Max was sitting in a chair decorated with white roses. A simple lace veil pinned into her red hair. Lucas was kneeling beside her in a crisp white suit, holding her hands, both of them beaming at the camera.

Then, right beside it, a smaller candid shot: Will sitting in a large armchair right here in this living room, looking down at a tiny bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket.

Will froze, his eyes widening. "Is that...?"

"That’s Nia," Mike smiled. "Lucas and Max’s daughter. She’s five now. You’re her godfather.” 

Will laughed in amazement as he stared at his own hands in the picture, holding a newborn child with such effortless affection. 

"I'm a godfather?"

"The best one," Mike said softly, hugging Will sideways. "She loves you. You painted a mural on her nursery wall before she was born and she still adores it."

A surprised laugh escaped Will’s throat. It was thick with emotion as he shifted to the next frame.

It was a bustling room filled with gleaming brass equipment, high ceilings and glass displays. Dustin was standing on a raised platform under a banner that read The Henderson Center for Interactive Science, looking impossibly proud in a stupid jacket. Standing right beside him in the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, were Mike and Will, clapping enthusiastically.

"Dustin got a whole wing of the Chicago Science Museum named after his research foundation," Mike explained, his hand gently rubbing Will’s arm to keep him grounded. "We were there for four hours of speeches. Bored out of our minds and you took about fifty sketches of the architecture while I drowned myself in whiskey."

Will stood there, taking it all in. The lost years, the milestones, the beautiful tapestry of a group of kids from Hawkins who had somehow survived the dark and grown into happy, accomplished adults.

He had missed the weddings. He had missed the births. He had missed the quiet Sunday mornings in this very hallway, the smell of coffee lingering in the air while he painted. He missed kisses form his husband. He missed their first confessions and lingering touches that eh waited for all his teenage years.

A sudden wave of exhaustion and lightheadedness washed over him, his knees buckling just a fraction.

Instantly, Mike’s grip tightened, his arm sliding firmly around Will’s waist, taking most of his weight without a second thought. 

"Whoa, okay. Easy. You're getting dizzy."

"I'm sorry," Will breathed, leaning his head against Mike's shoulder, resting his hand against Mike’s chest to steady himself. "It's just... it's a lot, Mike. It's so much."

"Don't apologize," Mike said softly, turning his head to press a kiss against the side of Will's hair. "You don't have to absorb ten years in ten minutes, Will. We have time."

He gently guided Will down the hall toward the master bedroom, where a wide bed was laid out with soft, worn quilts and crisp white sheets. Sunlight from the setting sun filtered through the sheer curtains, painting the room in deep shades of rose and gold.

Mike helped Will sit on the edge of the mattress, kneeling down to carefully unlace his shoes and slip them off.

As Mike knelt on the soft rug in front of him, carefully pulling off Will’s shoes one at a time, a strange, overwhelming realization settled over Will.

Here was a man who knew every inch of his soul, who had held his hand through the dark, who shared his home and his life and yet, sitting on the edge of this bed, Will felt the exact flutter in his chest that he used to get when they were sixteen. The heat in his face, the sudden dryness in his throat, the nervous knot in his stomach; it was all there, completely untouched by time. He felt like a teenage boy sitting too close to his best friend in the basement, paralyzed by a secret he was terrified to spill.

Except it wasn't a secret anymore. They were married. Mike was his husband.

His eyes tracked the gentle motion of Mike’s long fingers as he neatly aligned the shoes by the side of the nightstand. A thought drifted into Will's mind, making his breath hitch in his chest.

He didn't remember their first kiss. 

Will didn't know where they were, who reached out first, or if it happened in a hurry or after months of agonizing silence. A blooming warmth spread through his chest at the mere thought of it, sending a soft blush straight to the tips of his ears. 

He wondered how it must’ve felt the very first time Mike’s lips pressed against his? Was it gentle? Was it frantic? Did Mike hold his face the way he did in the hospital? Did it feel the same way he used to imagine?

The desire to know, to pull that single, precious memory out of the dark, ached like a physical weight behind his ribs.

He should ask him, shouldn't he? He had every right to. Mike was his husband, sitting right in front of him, offering to give him back every piece of the past decade. It shouldn't feel scary, but the sheer intimacy of the question made Will’s throat lock up. How did you look the love of your life in the eye and ask, 'When did you first kiss me?' 

Mike stood up, brushing his hands over his jeans, his eyes meeting Will’s with that same attentive concern.

Will swallowed hard, his fingers tightening in the soft quilt beneath him as he tried to gather the courage to speak, his heart thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird.

His mind tried to wander again with a hundred more things blooming in the form of questions, but he ignored them right now. Will looked at Mike’s sharp jawline that he knew so well, the dark hair that was slightly longer now than it used to be and at the steady devotion in his eyes as he pulled a soft blanket over Will’s lap.

"Mike?" Will asked softly.

Mike looked up from where he was smoothing the blanket. "Yeah?"

"Did... did I seem happy here?" Will asked, his voice fragile and searching.

Mike’s expression softened into something so breathtakingly tender that Will felt the breath leave his lungs. Mike stood up, sitting carefully beside Will on the edge of the bed, reaching out to cup Will’s cheek in his hand, his thumb resting gently against his skin.

"Will," Mike whispered, his voice thick with concern. "You were. We were happy. We built a life here. We did it together." Mike smiled in a hopeful curve of his lips. "And we're going to get you back there, okay? One day at a time."

Will closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth of Mike’s palm, letting the steady beat of his heart fill the quiet room. He didn't remember anything yet, but as Mike’s fingers gently brushed the hair from his forehead, Will knew, with certainty, that he was home.

Home, for Will, was always where Mike was. It was like an unspoken rule, a scripture from higher above, a carve upon a stone. It was embedded in the folds of his soul for as long as he remembers and now it was a reality. Will didn’t know what to do with all this happiness, but he was sure he could find a pocket to place all these feelings in and then he’ll deal with them one by one. 

The Chicago winter settled in quietly, draping the suburban neighborhood in soft, heavy layers of snow. Outside their bedroom window, the dense forest behind the house turned into a quiet world of frost and dark pine boughs, the branches dipping low under the weight of white drifts.

Inside, time slowed down to the steady pulse of healing.

The first few weeks were a hazy blur of soft blankets, hot tea and the quiet sound of snow sliding off the roof. Will’s body was bruised and exhausted, but his mind felt far more fragile, fractured by the quiet grief of forgotten years. Whenever the weight of it became too much or whenever a sudden wave of panic or helplessness crashed over him, Mike was instantly there.

There were tear-soaked evenings where Will would sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the simple act of trying to remember where he kept his own clothes and Mike would simply wrap his arms around him from behind, pulling Will flush against his chest, resting his chin on Will’s shoulder and holding him tight until the sobbing quieted into soft breaths.

"I've got you, baby," Mike would whisper into the cool air of the room, his voice became an unbreakable anchor. "I'm right here."

In the bath, when the steam filled the tiled room with the warm scent of lavender and cedar, Mike would sit on the floor beside the tub. With painstaking care, he’d use a soft washcloth to gently clean around the fading bruises on Will’s back, his long fingers mindful of every sore spot, rinsing Will’s hair with warm water and softly drying him off afterward in a plush towel.

When Will felt strong enough to move around the house, Mike walked him through every room like a quiet tour guide of Will’s own soul.

"Your art supplies are in the sunroom," Mike said one afternoon, holding Will’s hand as they stepped into the bright, glass-walled room at the back of the house. Sunlight bounced off the snow outside, filling the space with clean, brilliant light. "You keep your sable brushes in the ceramic mug. Jonathan brought you this from Kyoto and the cold-press watercolor pads are always on the bottom shelf."

Will looked at the neatly organized shelves, then looked up at Mike with a small, conspiratorial smile. "I don't think I like them on the bottom shelf anymore."

Mike let out a soft laugh that sent a burst of warmth straight through Will's chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Will murmured, reaching for a stack of heavy paper. "I think they belong up here, near the light."

"Then up here they go," Mike said smoothly, stepping in to lift the heavy pads up to the higher oak shelf without a second thought, adjusting to Will’s new rhythms as effortlessly as breathing.

Since none of their friends had made it back to Chicago yet after chaos in several matters of personal incidents, Will softly asked Mike to keep the full extent of his memory loss quiet for just a little longer. Until Will feels a bit like himself again.

"I... I just want a little time, Mike," Will had admitted one night while they sat on the couch wrapped in a heavy knit blanket, his fingers tracing the hem of Mike’s sweater. "I don't want them looking at me like a puzzle. I want to feel like me first."

Mike didn't argue because he planned to do the same. He simply leaned down, his eyes soft in the ambient glow of the fireplace and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Will’s head. "Whatever you need."

Then Mike tilted Will’s chin up with two warm fingers.

It was the first real kiss they shared since coming home. It was less like a reassuring press or a quick touch and more like the real thing. A warm and lingering kiss on the lips.

It was breathtakingly soft. Mike reached out, his long palm sliding gently up the side of Will’s neck, his thumb resting right over the fluttering pulse in Will’s jaw. When Mike’s lips met his, there was a profound tenderness that made Will’s breath catch in his throat. Mike parted his lips softly, tasting of cinnamon and warm tea, pressing into the kiss with a slow, reverence that felt like a quiet promise.

Will thought it must be what their first kiss felt like, or maybe it was more like the kiss they shared at their wedding. 

His eyes fluttered shut, his hand rising instinctively to clutch at the front of Mike’s shirt. The world narrowed down to the warmth of Mike’s mouth, the subtle scent of cedar clinging to his skin and the undeniable truth that even if Will’s mind couldn't remember this feeling, his body melted into it intimately. It was safe. It was home.

Their tongues danced in a rythm that felt too familiar and breaths mingled like pisces of puzzles falling into their places. It was hot and passionate and unlike anything either of them felt before. For Will, it was like the very first coat on a new canvas of life. 

When Mike finally pulled back a fraction of an inch, their brows touching, Will let out a small sigh, his cheeks flushed dark red.

"See?" Mike whispered, a beautiful smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Magical."

In the weeks that followed, those kisses became their quiet sanctuary. Whenever the fog in Will’s mind grew too thick, or whenever a doctor’s appointment left him feeling small and uncertain, Will didn't have to explain himself. He would simply look at Mike with his eyes wide and searching. Mike would move closer, cupping his face, kissing the lingering tears off his eyelashes and pressing warm, grounding kisses to his lips until the anxiety melted away into the quiet air of the house.

"He doesn't need to be there!"

The late afternoon light filtered through the frosted glass of the sunroom a few weeks later. The light casted long shadows across the floorboards. Outside, a bitter wind rattled the glass, stripping the last clinging leaves from the woods behind the house. Inside, the house was wrapped in the quiet warmth of radiator heat and the subtle, lingering scent of drying oil paint and fresh chamomile tea.

Will walked softly down the hallway, his thick wool socks muffling every step. He was trying to balance an empty tea mug with a tray. Tryin to regain his strength for accomplishing mundane tasks as he headed back toward the kitchen. His posture was relaxed, mind drifting peacefully in the routine they had built over the last several weeks.

As he neared the cracked door of Mike’s home office, the rhythmic clacking of the typewriter was conspicuously absent. Instead, a guarded voice drifted out into the hallway.

Will paused, his fingers tightening slightly around the warm ceramic of his mug on top of the tray.

“That makes total sense to me Cam. I don’t know about you,” Mike was saying, his tone firm and uncompromising. He was standing by the mahogany desk, back turned to the door, the phone receiver pressed tight against his ear. "He has no memory of him, so it's just going to hurt more. His medical condition isn't stable yet and I don't want him to be overwhelmed."

A quiet chill settled over the hallway. Will stood frozen in the shadows, his breath hitching in his chest.

Before Will could piece the fragments together, Mike’s shoulders rigidified under his sweater, his knuckles turning white where he gripped the plastic receiver. He let out a slow exhale that sounded far more like a warning than an apology.

"I know it's his funeral," Mike continued, his voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk and cold as winter ice. "But Will cannot travel to Missouri. He can't leave the city until his doctor approves. I cannot risk it."

A beat of suffocating silence filled the room as the person on the other end of the line pleaded or argued or maybe shouted at Mike. Will couldn’t really make out what he was saying through the cracking voice of the broken receiver. Mike didn't move an inch. He ust stared out the office window toward the snow-covered pines, his jaw set in a terrifying line.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mike said quietly, cutting off whatever was being said.

Without waiting for a response, he clicked the phone back onto its cradle, ending the call with a definitive snap. Will didn’t question Mike, but he had an inkling who the call might be about.

He kept alot of questions to himself. He saw alot of things that didn’t make sensee to him. Will saw Mike crying in the depths of the dark one night when he thought Will was asleep and his heart broke in realization that just like Will, Mike was dishevaeled by everything too. Will didn’t have any answers for Mike, especially when it came down to: When will this end? He knew just how broken Mike was about what happened. 

There were other things too. Will lay on his side, his breath slow and shallow, staring at the silhouette of Mike’s face beside him on the pillow.

Every night was the same. Mike would hold him closely and protectively, almost unyieldingly; wrapping an arm around Will’s waist and tucking Will’s back securely against his chest. His touch was always steeped in a reverence so deep it felt holy. He would press lingering kisses to the crown of Will’s head, to his pulse point, to the tender scar at his temple, murmur sweet promises until Will’s breathing evened out into sleep.

Yet, beneath the overwhelming sweetness of it all, Will lay awake in the quiet some nights, his skin humming with a restless ache.

Sometimes Will could swear that Mike wanted to reach out for more than just a kiss. Th elingering touches and wandering hands which slowly crept back, leaving Will empty.

He felt it in the small moments when they were tangled in the sheets; the way Mike’s hand would rest on the bare skin of Will’s hip, fingers warm and heavy, before slowly, hesitantly creeping lower. He often felt a sudden hitch in Mike’s breath, the way his entire frame would go rigid with a restraint and then, just as the air between them grew thick, Mike’s hand would pull back. Slowly and painfully, retreating to safe and familiar ground, leaving Will’s skin feeling empty.

It left a burning frustration coiled deep in Will’s stomach that gave birth to more questions. He didn't understand it. They were married; or so Mike had told him, so the ring indent on his finger proved, so the framed photographs on the gallery wall declared. They had lived together in this house for years. They shared a bed every single night. Yet whenever the mood shifted from comfort into something deeper, something raw and undisguised, Mike built an invisible wall between them.

It made him think Mike was fighting an internal battle that he was unable to piece in.

Was Mike afraid of hurting him? Was he treating Will like a fragile patient who might break under the weight of passion? Or was there some invisible boundary Mike was terrified to cross while Will was still piecing his lost life back together?

Will shifted slightly under the quilt, his eyes tracing the line of Mike’s sharp jaw in the dim firelight. He wanted to reach out, take Mike’s hand and pull it back to his skin, to tell him that he wasn't made of glass. He wanted to feel the terrifying weight of the devotion he saw burning in Mike’s eyes every single day.

Instead, he lay still in the dark, watching his husband sleep, consumed by a hunger he didn't know how to ask for and filled with questions that died in his throat.

Still, they built a new daily rhythm together. Every morning, Mike made sure Will had a warm breakfast with whatever he wanted. It was mostly scrambled eggs, thick slices of toasted sourdough, fresh fruit and a small glass of water alongside his daily physical therapy meds and brain supplements right at eight o'clock.

"Time for your horse pills," Mike would tease softly, leaning over the kitchen counter to hand them over.

"Bossy," Will would reply with a faint smile, swallowing them down anyway, although he hated the aftertaste.

"I'm your husband," Mike countered smoothly, taking the empty glass and pressing a quick kiss to the tip of Will's nose. "It's in the job description."

In the afternoons, while Mike sat at the big desk in his home office working through revisions on his upcoming novel, with the clacky sound of his typewriter keys echoing down the hall, Will would set up an easel in the sunroom. His hands, driven by years of muscle memory that his brain forgot, slowly began to paint again. He painted the snow-covered pine trees behind the house. He painted the way the golden hour light caught the corner of the kitchen table. He painted Mike’s profile when he didn't realize he was being watched and painted.

In the evenings, Mike would supervise the physiotherapy sessions, recommended by doctors for Will’s arms and legs. He would drag an ottoman into the center of the room, sitting right across from Will as he went through the repetitive mobility exercises. His eyes would remain fix on Will’s limbs; watching every slight strain in his calves, the hesitant flex of his ankles and the way his fingers curled into the resistance bands.

"Don't push through the sharp pain, Will. Just to the ache."

When Will’s muscles began to tremble with exhaustion, Mike would move in close, sliding onto the floor between Will’s knees and would work his thumbs deep into the knotting muscles of Will’s calves and wrists, kneading away the stiffness with painstaking care.

They consulted top neurologists at Northwestern Memorial in the city a few weeks later. The doctor looked over the updated MRI scans, sighed softly and gently explained that while Will’s physical recovery was nearly complete, the specific decade of lost memories might never fully return. The neural pathways had been severely disrupted by the trauma and shock of the accident.

Driving home that afternoon through the snowy streets, the car was unusually quiet, but their hands stayed intertwined.

Will stared out at the passing trees, his other hand resting in his lap. 

Mike pulled the car to a stop at a red light on 5th Street. He reached over, wrapping his hand tightly around Will’s, lacing their fingers together until their rings clinked softly against each other.

“Do you wanna get married again?” He asked softly. 

Will looked over at Mike with an expression that could never be deciphered in words. The heavy winter sky hung low over the city, bruised and violet as dusk settled into the snowy grid. The streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting amber beams across the slush-covered asphalt and the frost-crusted windows of closed storefronts.

Inside, time felt utterly suspended.

Will stared at Mike, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The red glow of the traffic light washed over the sharp angles of Mike’s face, catching the fierce tender light in his eyes. It was a look so intense, so brimming with an almost unbearable kind of love, that it made Will’s pulse hammer erratically against his ribs.

"Like-like... a vow renewal?" Will breathed out softly, his voice trembling, barely audible over the low murmur of the car engine. 

Mike’s thumb rubbed a slow circle over the back of Will’s knuckles. His smile didn't fade, but his jaw set with a quiet resolve.

"If you wanna call it that," Mike murmured, his voice was warm. "But no... I mean a full wedding, Will. A real one. We'll get new suits—whatever colors you want. We'll pick out new rings.Just the two of us, standing under the trees or by the fireplace at home, with an officiant and saying our vows to each other."

A sharp sting burned behind Will’s eyelids. The visual painted itself in his mind with breathtaking beauty, standing in front of Mike in a suit, exchanging rings, swearing a lifetime to the only person who held his entire world together. It was everything he had dreamed of during those long, lonely childhood nights in Hawkins, everything he thought he had somehow lost to a black void of forgotten years.

"What about... what about the legal things?" Will choked out, a tear spilling over his eyelashes and tracking down his cheek. He swallowed down a knot in his throat, his mind trying to navigate the confusing adult world he couldn't quite remember mastering. "The official records? Won't doing another one... mess all of that up?"

Mike’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second. It was a micro-shift so subtle that it coukd easily be taken as an illusion. It was completely invisible beneath the layer of unyielding affection on his face. He didn't blink or even hesitated, not for a single moment. He simply squeezed Will’s hand tighter, his ring clinking softly against the pale band on Will’s finger.

"Don't worry about any of that, baby," Mike whispered. "I have a lawyer who will handle every single detail. You don't have to stress about this. All you have to do is say yes to me again."

A choked sob broke from Will’s chest. The sheer weight of the love, the relief, the overwhelming certainty that Mike would protect him from every confusing, terrifying gap in his mind, overflowed all at once.

"Oh, baby..." Mike breathed softly.

Without another word, Mike unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching across the center console to gather Will into his arms. He pulled Will flush against his chest, tucking Will’s face securely into the crook of his neck. 

Will clung to the fabric of Mike’s coat, burying his nose into the familiar warmth of his colonge and the cold air, weeping quietly into his shoulder as Mike held him with an iron grip.

A dusting of fresh snow glittered along the windowsill, bathed in the soft, honeyed light of a random, quiet Tuesday morning.

In the sunroom, fabric swatches and sketchbooks covered the low tea table. The air smelled of freshly brewed Earl Grey and crisp paper that held a list of preparations.

Will sat with his legs tucked under him on the sofa, running his fingers over a swatch of slate-blue linen. Across from him, Mike leaned over the table, a pen resting loosely between his fingers as he marked off dates on a small desk calendar.

"Three weeks from Saturday," Mike said, his voice almost reverent as he looked up. "That's three days after your final medicine dosage ends. Doctor said once the meds taper off, your vitals will be back to normal."

Will looked at the circled date on the paper. November sixth. It was a date that he never liked and never wanted to remember, but it felt almost poetic that he was having a wedding on the same date. Maybe replacing the significance would erase the haunting narrative that was still stuck in his head. 

"And… he said I can travel, right?" Will asked with a small, hopeful smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Yep, wherever you want," Mike said smoothly, reaching across the swatches to catch Will's wrist, his thumb gently smoothing over the warm skin. "Which means as soon as we say our vows, I'm taking you away for a week."

“Where?”

“There’s a cabin in the hills. Beautiful scenery and away from all the bustle of the city.”

A flush warmed Will's cheeks, as he tilted his head, looking at the dark blue fabric in his lap, then up into Mike's unwavering eyes.

"Like a honeymoon?" Will whispered, the word tasting sweet and surreal on his tongue.

"A honeymoon," Mike agreed softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to Will's cheek.

Will couldn’t believe this was his life now. He was loved, completely and endlessly, in a routine they were rebuilding together, piece by piece. He just wished he would remember the foundation of it all. Maybe one day, he can ask Mike about how they got together.

Nearly two months bled away since the hospital room vanished behind them, replaced by the sanctuary of their house and its warmth. Outside, the Chicago winter had deepened into a snowbound world. The pines behind the sunroom stood thick with heavy white drifts, their lowest boughs arching down toward the frozen ground like cathedral vaults, insulating the house from the rest of the world.

Inside, Will remained tucked away from the lives they had left behind. He didn't call Max, Lucas, or Dustin, or even Jonathan. Whenever the phone rang, Mike would answer it on the second ring, keeping his voice quiet and light. He told everyone the same story: Will was buried deep in a new series of gallery commissions, locked away painting from dawn until dusk, completely absorbed in his work. He was too busy until the end of winter so he asked Mike to fill everyone in.

They believed him, because it sounded like Will.

Yet, beneath the quiet routines, a persistent knot sat heavy in the pit of Will’s stomach.

Ryan.

The name still carried no face, no voice, no memory, but over the last few weeks, the sparse facts of the police report had quietly settled in Will’s mind like a physical weight. Will was the one behind the wheel. Ryan, whoever he had been to him, whatever bond they had shared, was in the passenger seat. When the ice on the backroad gave way and the car skidded into the oak tree, the driver's side airbag had deployed, but the passenger side failed.

Will survived because of a twist of metal and nylon. Ryan didn't due to lack of it.

More than once, sitting in the sunroom while the snow drifted against the glass, Will whispered to Mike that he wanted to reach out to Ryan’s mother and brother; the wailing woman with the rosary and the red-eyed young man from the hospital room. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to say something, even if his mind held no trace of the son and brother they had lost.

"It's not the right time, Will," Mike had told him gently, his hands settling firm on Will’s shoulders, his eyes solemn and protective. "They're grieving and you're still healing. Seeing you right now... it won't give them peace and it'll only tear you apart further. Trust me. Please."

Will conceded, because deep down he knew Mike was right. He couldn't bring himself to face them anyway. He couldn't look into the eyes of a mother whose child had died in a car he had been driving. The guilt gnawed at him, a dull ache that lingered even during the sweetest moments of his recovery.

One late afternoon, just a week before their second-wedding, the winter sky outside turned a bruised violet. The fire in the living room hearth crackled softly, throwing warm, dancing orange light across the floors.

Will was lying in the middle of their wide bed, exhausted after an hour of physical therapy exercises. His ribs still throbbed when the temperature plunged outside, but the room was thick with heat.

Mike leaned over the mattress, his thumb smoothing carefully over the pulse point at Will’s wrist before pressing the back of his hand gently to Will’s forehead. Checking Will’s temperature was a quiet and obsessive ritual Mike carried out three times a day like clockwork.

"No fever," Mike murmured softly, his jaw relaxing.

Will looked up at him with wide eyes. In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the sharp angle of Mike’s cheekbones looked softer, dusted with exhaustion of a man who had carried the world on his shoulders for months. Will felt a wave of love bloom in his chest. It was a feeling so intense and pure it made his throat feel tight. He knew this feeling. He had known it his whole life.

Noticing the look, Mike offered a faint smile. He leaned down slowly, brushing the tip of his nose against Will’s in a nuzzle before pressing a tender kiss to the center of Will's lips.

"Stay right here," Mike whispered against his cheek, pulling the thick down quilt up over Will’s shoulders and tucking the edges in tightly. "I'll bring you tea, okay?"

Will nodded, sinking deeper into the warmth of the pillows, a faint blush warming his cheeks as Mike smoothed a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

Then, the quiet of the house shattered with three sharp knocks.

The sound echoed through the front hallway; heavy, sharp and unannounced. It wasn't polite and that irked Mike deep in his chest. It wasn’t even a hesitant tap of a neighbor or a delivery driver or a passerby. It was hard fists rattling the door.

Mike froze instantly beside the bed.

The tender look on his face evaporated in a fraction of a second, replaced by a rigid kind of tension that made his shoulders lock up. His eyes darted toward the bedroom doorway, his brow furrowing into an incredulous scowl. Anger flared hot in his expression, laced with a jagged spike of nervousness that he tried desperately to swallow down his throat.

"Mike?" Will asked softly, pushing himself up on one elbow, the quilt sliding down his chest. "Who is that?"

"Stay here. Must be a delivery driver," Mike said instantly, his tone sharper than intended. He caught himself, softening his voice just a fraction as he placed a firm hand on Will's arm. "Just stay in bed, Will. Don't get up. I'll take care of it."

Mike turned and walked out of the bedroom, his stride long and hurried, his teeth gritting as he crossed the hardwood of the hallway. No one was supposed to be here. No one was expected to come. He had explicitly locked the outer gates. No one was supposed to pass by them easily and end up on their wooden door.

He reached the foyer and leaned slightly to the side, peering out through the narrow side-window beside the front door.

The moment his eyes caught the figures standing on the snowy front porch, the blood drained from Mike’s face. His heart dropped like a stone, plummeting straight into his stomach, then rebounding into a frantic beat against his ribs.

Standing in the porch light, bundled in a winter coat, were Max and Lucas.

She was leaning against the wooden porch railing, her face red from the biting cold and twisted in furious agitation. Through the thick glass, Mike saw her narrow her eyes straight at the window where he was standing.

She had caught him looking and he ducked, but it wasn’t fast enough.

"Mike!" her voice cut through the door, muffled but unmistakable, loud and sharp enough to echo into the dark trees in the backyard. "Open the damn door, Mike! We know you're in there!"

Mike’s heart strudded wildly in his throat. He looked over his shoulder down the dimly lit hallway leading back to the master bedroom. His mind was only reeling with the fact that Will is going to hear her if she doesn’t shut the hell up.

A cold sweat broke out at the back of Mike’s neck. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth aching, his hands shaking slightly as he reached down, unlatched the deadbolt and pulled the door open just a few inches, intending to step outside into the freezing air to force them back down the steps.

"Max, what the hell are you—" Mike started, his voice a tight whisper.

He never finished the sentence because before he could step onto the porch, a broad palm slammed flat against the center of the door, shoving it backward with an unyielding force. Mike was thrown off balance, stumbling back two paces into the warm entryway as the door swung wide open.

A gust of icy winter air roared into the foyer, sweeping in snow dust and the biting cold.

Lucas stepped over the threshold first, his boots hitting the rug with a sound that must’ve echoed off the rafters. His coat was dusted with snow, face set in a hard and dangerous line that Mike had never seen on him before. Right behind him was Max, her eyes burning wit unbridled rage.

The icy wind blew past them into the foyer, bringing the sharp smell of pine and frozen earth into the warm and scented hallway. The front door slammed shut behind Max with a sharp crack, locking the three of them in the dim light of the entryway.

Mike stumbled back from the force of Lucas’s push, his socked feet sliding across the polished hardwood before he caught his balance against the console table. A glass vase rattled dangerously against the wood.

Rattled to the core, Mike tried to straighten instantly, his tall frame going rigid. Before looking at them, his eyes darted once down the shadowed hallway leading back to the master bedroom. The door at the end was still cracked open, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the floorboards.

His heart hammered in his throat, a frantic pulse. Slowly, Mike turned back to face them, raising both hands in front of his chest, palms open; a gesture that was half-defensive, half-pleading.

The air between them was poisonous. Lucas stood squarely in the middle of the foyer, on the woven rug, his shoulders broad and square. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his neck strained, his eyes fixed on Mike with a look so scorching, so utterly filled with disgust, that it felt like a bullet. Lucas’s fists were balled hard at his sides, trembling with an energy that looked like it was a second away from swinging.

"What the fuck did you do, Mike?" Max spat.

Mike’s throat worked as he swallowed down a wave of pure panic. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't play fucking dumb, Mike!" Lucas almost shouted, taking an aggressive step forward.

The moment the volume rose, something inside Mike snapped. The panic in his eyes flared into a ferocious protective instinct. He took a sharp step right back into Lucas’s space, his own face contorting, voice dropping into a fierce whisper that cut through the room like a blade.

"Do not raise your voice in my house," Mike hissed, his eyes burning. "My husband needs rest."

Lucas let out a harsh and bitter scoff, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe the words coming out of Mike's mouth.

"We're here to get him out of this house, you sicko," Lucas said, his voice laced with venom. "How could you do this to him?"

"I didn't do anything, Lucas!" Mike insisted, his hands shaking as he kept them raised, trying to block the path toward the hallway.

"Don't fucking lie!" Lucas shoved Mike’s shoulder again, not as hard this time, but with a visceral disgust. "We know everything, Mike! Ryan died and you saw an opportunity to do the craziest shit imaginable and you took it!” 

“Lucas–”

“You didn't even care that his husband was killed! You didn't care that he lost his memory! You just jumped into his bed the second that man was in the ground, you sick fuck!"

The quiet hallway seemed to freeze. The wall of framed photographs with the black-and-white wedding print, the autumn afternoons, the golden light memories built in this very house, seemed to warp and twist in silence.

Mike stood paralyzed, his arms slowly dropping to his sides. His face was deathly pale under the dim ceiling lights, the blood completely drained from his lips. He looked at Lucas, then at Max, his eyes went wide and hollow, like a man watching a dam break wide open right in front of him, from the shadow of the hallway leading to the bedroom, a faint floorboard creaked, but none of the people in the entrance noticed it.

The silence shifted into something dark, thick and ugly, but Mike didn't flinch. It felt like he was made of hard rock. The panic that flooded his eyes only seconds ago seemed to burn away, replaced by mean demeanor that settled into the sharp lines of his face. His shoulders dropped, posture straightening until he was looking down at Lucas with a menacing kind of calm.

"So what if I did?" Mike said, his voice stripped of any trace of warmth.

Max’s face twisted in revulsion. Her knuckles turned white where she gripped her coat sleeve.

"Ryan never deserved him," Mike continued, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper that vibrated through the hallway. "You knew that. Everyone hated him and he deserved exactly what happened to him. Should've never laid his hands on my Will. His end would've been nastier if I did it my own hands."

The room seemed to lose all air. Lucas’s jaw flexed so hard a muscle twitched violently under his skin. His hands coiled into tight and bloodless fists at his sides as he fought back an absolute snarl of rage. He took a slow step closer, his eyes locked onto Mike's empty expression, asking a question that felt horrifyingly honest and reasonable in the dark of that foyer.

"Did you... did you kill him, Mike?"

Mike dragged a hand over his face, his palm rasping against the faint stubble on his jaw. He cracked his neck, the sharp click echoing in the foyer and opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do that a faint creak of floorboards echoed from the hallway behind him.

His heartbeat froze instantly. The dangerous mask shattered into a million pieces as his blood rushed violently in his body, breath coming in short and panicked gasps as his eyes widened in terror.

No. No. No. No. 

His mind screamed in a silent loop as Will stepped out of the shadows.

He looked small, wrapped in an oversized beige cardigan over a loose t-shirt, his hair ruffled into a messy sleep halo from resting on the pillows. He was wearing soft fuzzy socks that made no sound against the wood floor unless a board creaked under his weight. One of his hands rested lightly against the wall to steady himself. His face was pale, eyes wide and confused, filled with a fragile kind of emotion.

"Mike?" Will asked softly, his voice barely a breath, delicate as spun glass. "What's going on?"

The moment the words left Will's lips, Max broke. She dropped whatever tension she was carrying in her body, that was thick enough to choke on, as she rushed past Lucas and Mike, her boots thudding against the hardwood. She reached Will, engulfing him in a trembling hug. She held him so tight Will let out a surprised gasp, her face buried into his shoulder as her eyelashes dripped and tears soaked into his shirt.

When she finally pulled back, her hands remained firm on Will's arms, her blue eyes scanning his pale face, his temple which still had traces of a scar and the quiet confusion in his posture.

"Are you okay?" Max asked, her voice cracking with worry. "Are you hurt, Will? Tell me."

Will looked down at her, a small smile touching his lips. It was the same soft, trusting smile he had carried as a boy. 

"I... I was hurt, but… Mike helped me. He's been taking care of me. I'm... I'm okay."

Max closed her eyes for a split second, a shudder running through her before she looked back at Mike over her shoulder with an expression of disgust. When she turned back to Will, her voice dropped, firm and dead serious.

"Will... we need to talk. Right now."

Before Will could even digest her tone, Mike’s voice cut through the room, loud and desperate.

"You two need to leave my house right now!" Mike shouted, taking a sharp step forward.

Lucas moved like lightning again. He stepped directly into Mike’s path, slamming a hand against Mike’s chest and shoving him hard against the foyer wall. The oak frame of a picture jittered against the plaster. Mike stumbled back against the paneling, his breath catching, but his eyes never left Will.

Will stood frozen, his heart racing violently as he watched the scene unfold in terrifying bewilderment. He looked from Lucas’s furious stance to Max’s desperate, tear-streaked face and then to Mike, whose hands were shaking and eyes were filled with a wild panic he had never seen before.

"Will, don't listen to them, baby!" Mike begged, his voice cracking, unconcerned with Lucas holding him against the wall. He stared past Lucas’s arm, his eyes pleading directly with Will. "I'll tell you whatever you want, please! You have to trust me! Please, Will!"

Inside Will’s chest, a war broke out. The world seemed to split down the middle. 

On one side stood Mike; the boy from the swingset, the man who had held him through night terrors for most of is childhood, the same man who bathed him and craed for him, stitched his bruises, fed him and kissed his tears away. The same one who promised to recreate everything he lost. The anchor that had kept him from drowning in the terrifying void of another dimension.

On the other side stood Lucas and Max; his oldest friends, the people who had fought monsters alongside him, whose faces were pinned to the gallery wall in pictures of laughter, weddings and newborn babies. They were looking at Mike like he was a monster and at Will like he was a victim trapped in a nightmare.

Weight of panic threatened to buckle Will's knees. His mind spun, suffocated by the conflicting truths crashing into each other, hazing his vision. He looked at Mike’s pleading eye, and for a second, Will wanted nothing more than to run to him, to hide against his chest and let Mike kiss the terrifying world away, but beneath that desperate desire for comfort; there was a sharp instinct of the boy who used to sense the shadows before anyone else. It told him he couldn't hide anymore. He had to know and to tell.

Will let out a long, shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping as he made his choice.

He looked at Lucas and Max, his voice remarkably steady despite the tremble in his hands. 

"Come in here." He pointed to the guest bedroom just off the main hallway, a few steps away from where they stood. Then, he turned his gaze to Mike. The look in Will’s eyes was soft but entirely firm.

"Mike... stay here. Please."

Mike looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His jaw trembled, his breath hitching as Lucas finally released his grip on Mike's shirt. 

"Will—"

"Just stay here, Mike," Will repeated gently, his heart breaking at the desperate look on Mike's face, but keeping his stance steady. “Please.”

Lucas offered Mike one final glare before following Max and Will into the bedroom. Will pushed the heavy wooden door all the way shut, leaving only a sliver of darkness between the room and the hallway.

Outside, Mike stood alone in the dim light. The front door was still opened wide, letting in the bitter chill of the Chicago winter.

The wooden door cut off the sharp draft from the foyer and wrapping the small guest bedroom in a shadowy stillness. 

Lucas and Max turned to face Will, silence hanging between them thick with grief, hesitation and a profound, aching sorrow. For a long moment, neither of them could speak. Lucas’s jaw flexed as he stared at Will’s pale skin, messy hair and the fading line of a scar at his temple. 

Beside him, Max pressed her trembling lips together, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her coat. They looked at him as if he were made of fragile, spun glass that a single harsh word might shatter into pieces.

Max took a breath, her blue eyes shiny with unshed tears. 

"Will... I don't—I don't even know where to start," she whispered, her voice cracking softly. "He lied to you. From the second you opened your eyes in hospital, he’s been… spinning a fantasy. He took advantage of the crash... of the memory loss... of everything."

"He let you believe you were married to him, Will," Lucas added, his tone gravelly and brimming with pain. 

“You have–had a husband. His name was Ryan and—he was with you when you had your accident.”

"Mike–he was a wreck when you married Ryan, but I-I had no idea he culd feed you a total lie like this. It's twisted, man. It’s sick."

Will listened in total silence. His head stayed lowered, his eyes fixed on the grain of the floorboards. With every word they spoke, the air in the room felt heavier, pressing down on his chest like a physical weight. His heart sank deeper and deeper with a weary exhaustion at the messy, tangled reality of the life he was trapped in.

“We only found out because Ryan’s brother called Max and told him how Mike iced him out when he told him about the funeral. Then we rushed back to Chicago and went to hospital, saw the records and your… your name on it and we figured what might’ve happened.”

Will let out a long sigh that sounded far older than his years, stepping backward until the back of his knees brushed the edge of the guest mattress. He sat down.

“He-he iced out eveyrone and overnight all your stuff was moved. Your old home was stripped of everything. We don’t even know how he did it so quickly, but he removed every trace of you from there and—”

“ —when we walked in here, evetythung that belonged to you, just sat there.” Lucas interrupted. “Your plants and paintings and pictures and… I don’t even know what else.”

Seeing him sink down in the mattress like that, looking so small against the wide quilt, Max and Lucas both instinctively moved closer. The anger in their posture melted into a comforting haze. They dropped to his height on the rug beside him, looking up into his face with concern.

"Where here to do anything you want, Will," Lucas said softly, reaching out to place a steady hand on Will’s knee. "Just say the word and you’ll be out of here."

Max leaned in close, her eyes searching his. "You can come live with us for as long as you need, or you can stay at Dustin’s place for a little while until he’s done with his research. Please... just get out of this house. Come with us—"

"Max," Will interrupted gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

Max caught her breath, stopping mid-sentence. Will looked between the two of them, his expression shifting. The confusion that had lingered on his face all evening slowly smoothed away, replaced by a stern composure that sat rigid and immovable across his features.

"I need you two to do me a favor," Will said quietly. 

Both of them leaned closer and nodded fervently. A composure locking into their face that spoke of an unyielding oath of concern.

“Yes. Whatever you want, Will.” Lucas said again.

Will took in a depe breath and closed his eyes for a moment before blinking again.

"I need you… to forget everything. Okay?"

A freezing silence dropped over the room. Lucas froze, his hand remaining motionless on Will’s knee, his eyebrows pulling together in bewilderment. Beside him, Max’s lips parted slightly, her eyes widening as the breath hitched in her throat. She stared at Will as if he had spoken a foreign language, her mind trying to bridge the gap between the victim she thought she was rescuing and the calm man sitting before her.

"What... what does that even mean?" Lucas asked, his voice flat with disbelief.

Will blinked slowly, letting out another quiet sigh. He looked down at his own hands resting in his lap. "Do you know how abusive Ryan was?"

Max’s eyes went impossibly wide. "Oh... so... you know who he is?" she asked, her voice hushed, breathless.

"I didn't at first," Will admitted softly, his gaze remaining steady. "Not when I woke up in the hospital. Not until weeks after we got... here. Then I did. I remembered everything."

"Oh my god," Max gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she rocked back slightly on her heels. "Will... I don't believe this."

"Well, you should, Max," Will said, a heavy pause stretching between them as the winter wind rustled the pine branches outside. "Ryan was... not a good husband. He cheated. He was violent, physically abusive sometimes and Mike knew all about it. He saw the marks. He saw the alcoholic version of him who wanted to leach off fame of an accredited illustrator just so he could gain a place in the comic industry and then... a week before the crash, Ryan almost... he almost killed me. It was a knife attack in our kitchen. He was drunk again and I-I barely survived it."

Silence descended on the bedroom like a heavy curtain. Lucas and Max stared at him with an intense focus, their faces pale, utterly frozen by the visceral nightmare Will was casually laying out before them. They had inkling about Ryan’s addiction, but nothing about the abusive nature or te attacks.

"I just..." Will swallowed, his jaw tightening just a fraction. "I just couldn't do what Mike had the guts to do."

Lucas’s brow furrowed sharply, a sudden dread pooling in his stomach. "What guts, Will? What did he do?"

Will looked down at his socked feet for a moment, taking a shuddering breath before looking back up into Lucas’s eyes. 

"He killed him. Okay? He... he messed with the brakes on Ryan's car to make it look like an accident, but… my own car had a flat tire that morning and I didn't know, so... I ended up driving Ryan’s car to drop him off at his office and—"

"You could've died too, Will!" Lucas blurted out, his voice horrified, rising in volume despite himself. "Do you not understand that?! You almost died in that crash!"

"I know, Lucas! I know!" Will snapped back, his eyes flashing with a fiery intensity. "I know I could have! And Mike knows it too! I see it on his face every single day, okay? The guilt and the terror of what almost happened. It eats him alive every time he looks at me and I... I can't even say anything to him about it, because I know why he didn't tell me his plan. He knew my conscience would've killed me before hisplan would kill Ryan. So he carried it alone."

Lucas stared at him, completely lost, shaking his head slowly as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. "How long... how long have you been pretending?"

Will went quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the mattress seam.

"I told you," he murmured, taking a slow, steadying breath. "Some-some weeks ago, when we were coming home from a check-up. I started feeling fragments and ove the days I remeebred a lot of things.” 

“And you did what? Kept pretending, Will?” Max asked.

“Look… what he did... pretending to be my husband... I didn't know about it at first, but once my memory came back… I-I took a few days to see why he did it and… I-I don’t knwo it just… it was everything I ever wanted, Max and he… he always had a place in my heart and it's not like I was unaware all this time, okay? I was gonna confront him next week it’s just… a lot."

Will went silent for a long time like he was contemplating his choices, but eveythting eventually narrowed down to a single turth: Mike was the only one he could never forget because he was embedded in his soul. He was not a temporary part of his ife, he was the whole essence of it. He doesn't remember a time where Mke wasn't present in his heart or around him. 

There were alot of other factors that contributed to such a deep forgiveness. Mike knew him better than his own husband ever did. Mike knew every scar he had on his heart and his soul. Mike stopped him from marrying Ryan, but Will wanted to be happy and live peacefully that he ended up settling for less when all his love was laid out in front of him. 

Remembering the lost fragments of his mind made him hyper-aware of the fact that Mike was more attentive than anyone ever was to him. His plants, his paintings, his photos and all trinkets, that Will forgot he ever bought, were present around him and it was because of that one person who refuses to do anything wrong when it comes to him. He even knew the details of Will's wedding to another man. He knew all about the intensity Will put in the things he did, the emotions he put on the canvas, the love he poured in relationships.

Mike knew everything that Will is and everything that Will used to be. What Mike didn't know, was that all of those versions of Will repeatedly fell in love with the same person.

The mark on Will's ring finger belonged to Ryan. That was a fact. What his dear husband, RIP, never knew before he died, was that the indentation on Will's soul always belonged to Mike.

"I think this is sick," Lucas said, his voice laced with disgust.

"And twisted," Max added, her voice trembling as she backed Lucas up, her eyes pleading with Will. "Mike could have done anything to you, Will! While you were forgetful and vulnerable—"

"—but he didn't," Will interjected firmly, his tone cutting off her words like iron. "He didn't and... that's what matters to me the most."

"There are ways to put abusive assholes away, Will!" Lucas argued, leaning forward, his fists clenching on his thighs. "You could have told us! We would've helped you. I would’ve beaten him with an inch of his life and then handed his ass to the police, thrown him in jail and you could have gotten a divorce. This would've been cleaner."

"Nothing about my life is clean, Lucas."

Max started, her voice rising to try to reason with him. "I think you're still und—".

"I think… you two should leave," Will interrupted, his voice dropping into anabsolute quiet that cut through all the noise in the room.

The bedroom went entirely dead silent and Max froze as Lucas looked up at her, his jaw slackening slightly, wounded by the sudden, sharp boundary Will had drawn between them.

Will sat up straight, his posture rigid, a solemn mask settling over his face as he looked down at them both. 

"After all... I'm a widower and I need some privacy to grieve my dead husband." The words left his mouth in a sharp manner. “And prepare for my next wedding that’s apparently next week.”

Lucas scoffed, a disbelieving sound escaping his throat. "Oh my god." His hands met his head and eyes went wide. Without waiting for another word, Max stood up quickly, turning around and pulling the bedroom door open before she could hear another sentence coming out of Will’s mouth.

The second the door swung wide into the dimly lit hallway, they stopped dead in their tracks.

Mike was standing right outside in the center of the floorboards, holding himself like a wall. His face was stern, eyes cool and one eyebrow was slightly crooked; a look that made it glaringly obvious he had been standing right there, anticipating every word, listening to the entire conversation without an ounce of shame.

Max refused to make eye contact as she pushed past him into the foyer, her head down and boots heavy against the rug. Lucas followed a second behind her, giving Mike one last glare before stepping out into the biting winter air. The front door shut with a click.

Inside, the house fell into a deep, velvety kind of quiet that echoed off the rafters in the cieleing.

Will stood up from the bed, his socks making no sound as he walked out into the hallway. He stopped a foot away from Mike, who hadn't moved an inch, standing like a silhouette against the warm glow of the living room lights, merging into shadows.

Mike looked down at him. The guarded look on his face melted away in an instant, eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth, and an overwhelming devotion that bordered on pure obsession, built on years of quiet love that had finally broken all its chains of guilt, shame and unrequitedness.

Will looked up at him, a tiny smirk touching his lips as he scrunched his nose up. "You're not even gonna pretend that you weren't eavesdropping?"

"No," Mike said smoothly, shaking his head with a smile breaking across his face.

“You’re so shameless.”

The air between them pulsed with something so consuming; the instinctual need of two hearts that crossed through dark and unhinged territory just to claim each other completely. 

There were no secrets left between them now. No lies, or constructed fantasies, or hidden guilt, just raw truth of what they were willing to forgive and what they were willing to do, to stay together after all these years of being incomplete. 

Mike reached out with his long, warm hands wrapping firmly around Will’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest with a confdence that he lacked in te morning. It was like all the walls shifted and crumbled, making way for them to be what they wanted to be, but never got to be. Lovers (fuck u duffers)

"I'm gonna marry the hell out of you," Mike whispered softly, leaning down to brush the tip of his nose affectionately against Will's

A breathless laugh escaped Will's throat. He closed his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Mike's nose. "And I can't wait for that."

Mike captured Will's lips in a deep and desperate kiss without waiting. It was completely stripped of the delicate touches he’d been forcing himself to practice for the sake of Will’s heart and health. For weeks, Mike touched him like fragile glass, terrified that a single wrong move would expose the lie, or break something sacred, or tear his own self instead because his conscience always screamed at him whenever it came to Will, but now, he didn't have to hold back. He didn't have to be so gentle and ridden with guilt and Will wasn't a fragile, memory-less patient. Will, with all his senses, all his memories and all his choices intact, looked at Mike's dangerous and deviant mind and chose it anyway.

Mike smiled right into the kiss, his hands sliding down to grip Will firmly by the thighs, effortlessly lifting him up off the floor.

Will let out a startled gasp, his head swimming with a dizzying rush as he instinctively threw his arms around Mike's broad shoulders to steady himself. He let out a bright, beautiful laugh that echoed softly down the hallway and out of the crooked door.

Mike looked up at him with his eyes wide and shining as if he were looking directly at the sun that he adored for the warmth.

"I love you," Mike confessed, his voice thick and rough at the edges like these words scraped themselves out of his throat after struggling for so long.

Will leaned down, framing Mike's face with both hands, his smile warm and brilliant. "I thought you'd never say it," Will whispered, before pulling Mike right back into another kiss.