Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mike has always been loud.

He never cared much about what people thought of him. He did whatever he wanted as long as he was having fun with his friends—he’d always been like that. At least, he was a few months ago.

Now he’s quieter than usual. Too quiet.

Everyone notices—his friends, his family—but it’s not something Mike knows how to control. Or even explain.

Lately, everything inside him feels wrong.

His mind is constantly loud, chaotic, but his mouth stays silent. Nothing comes out. No thought manages to turn into words. His head feels foggy, heavy. It’s always been like this, to some extent—but now it’s worse. Stronger. Impossible to ignore.

There’s a pressure in his chest that never goes away.

His chest hurts. His heart hurts so badly he wants to cry, but he can’t.

He knows exactly why.

He’s in love with Will. Deeply, painfully in love with him. And lately, it feels like his heart can’t take it anymore. He wants to scream it, to confess everything—but he can’t. Will is his friend. And Will has been seeing people lately. Boys Mike refuses to get to know, because he knows it would destroy him.

Every time Will casually talks about a date—this guy, that guy—Mike feels his heart shrink. The thought of Will with someone else makes it hard to breathe.

Today, he walks to college alone.

He usually walks with Will, but he can’t handle it today. He can’t look at him. Can’t talk to him. Not today. With his headphones on and the music blasting so loud it makes his head ache, he heads to campus, secretly hoping—stupidly—that Will won’t be there.

That he won’t be waiting for him like always.

With that warm smile that makes Mike feel weak.

But of course, Will is there.

Waiting. Smiling. Waving at him from across the room.

“Hey!” Will says cheerfully.

Mike barely manages to wave back. His eyes betray him immediately, scanning Will without permission—his hair falling perfectly over his forehead, his bright skin, his beautiful eyes. He can even smell his cologne from where he stands. It makes him dizzy. Almost drunk.

“Hey…” Mike replies, forcing his voice to sound normal. Like his life isn’t falling apart. Like he didn’t dread seeing Will today—which isn’t true. He always wants to see him.

“Hey—are you okay, Michael?” Will asks.

Mike fails miserably at hiding it. Will has always known when something’s wrong, and today is no exception. He places a hand on Mike’s shoulder, gentle and familiar.

Mike shivers.

“Oh—yeah. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night,” Mike lies. “I’m kinda dizzy. Heavy.”

He forces a small smile, hoping it’ll be enough. Hoping Will won’t ask again.

“Mhm. You could go sleep in the library,” Will says softly. “This class isn’t that important. I can take notes for you.”

Always kind. Always melting him.

Mike knows Will would say the same to Dustin or Lucas—but hearing it from him feels different. Deeper. Dangerous.

“Oh—no, it’s okay. Don’t worry.”

The class starts without either of them noticing. As minutes pass, Mike silently begs for time to move faster.

His mind won’t shut up. Anxiety coils in his stomach, tightening until breathing hurts. His hands grow damp. So do his armpits. He feels disgusting. Overwhelmed. On the edge of breaking.

Still, he pretends everything is fine.

He doesn’t dare look at Will. He’s terrified Will will notice—his shaking hands, his racing heart, the way his thoughts spiral out of control.

Thankfully, the class ends.

Mike exhales sharply, stuffing his notebook into his bag and standing up—only to feel a hand on his shoulder again.

“Hey, Mike. Wanna go outside?” Will asks. “I really don’t want to sit through the next class.”

His hand slides from Mike’s shoulder down to his arm. There’s nothing strange about it. It’s normal. They’ve been friends for years.

Mike tells himself to ignore how it feels.

“I mean… yeah. Where?”

“I know a spot,” Will says, smiling.

And Mike follows him.

Behind the building, there’s an old bench surrounded by trees. Quiet. Shaded. Hidden, even though it’s still on campus.

“Oh,” Mike murmurs. “I’ve seen this place before.”

Will looks at him and says something that makes his heart drop.

“I came here with the guy I told you about. A few days ago,” Will says casually. “It’s quiet. Kinda lonely. Surprising, honestly.”

He sits on the grass and looks up at Mike.

“Wanna sit?”

“Yeah.”

Mike’s mouth goes dry. His stomach twists violently. Why would Will bring him here—this place?

Still, he sits.

The sick feeling grows.

To distract himself, Mike pulls out his notebook—the red one. The one meant only for writing. Will hums softly while tracing shapes into the dirt, looking so painfully precious it almost hurts to look at him.

Mike starts writing. Anything. Something to keep himself together.

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” Will says suddenly. “But the guy I mentioned—Markus?”

Mike nods.

“We don’t talk anymore,” Will adds flatly.

“What? Why?” Mike blurts out. “I thought you liked him. Like… a lot.”

“I did. But I didn’t feel like myself around him,” Will says, staring at the ground. “He wasn’t bad. I just… couldn’t be me.”

“Why would you be embarrassed to tell me?” Mike asks softly.

“I don’t know. I was so excited when I told you about him, and now it’s just… nothing. I thought maybe you’d make fun of me.”

Mike freezes.

“I would never,” he says quietly. “And… I think it’s good you don’t talk anymore. You deserve someone who makes you feel safe being yourself.”

His eyes stay on Will’s, silently begging him to understand.

Someone like me.

But Will doesn’t notice. He just smiles and changes the subject.

The feeling eases—just a little.

When the hour ends, Mike lies again. Says his mom needs help. That he has to go home.

Will nods, smiling, eyes soft.

“Yeah. I got you.”

Mike watches him walk away until his vision blurs.

At home, the house is empty.

He changes, grabs his notebook, and writes:

Do you have any idea what you do to me?
Do you notice how nervous I get around you?
I can’t take this anymore.
I’m glad you don’t talk to him anymore, and I hate myself for it.

He closes the notebook.

Lying on his bed, eyes shut, he almost prays:

God, please take this feeling away while I sleep.
Please let me feel okay again.

Chapter Text

Mike wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing right beside his ear. He nearly jumps out of bed, startled, heart racing. Groggily, he turns his head and squints at the clock on the wall.

Six in the fucking morning.

“How the fuck…?” he mutters, rubbing his temples as a familiar dizziness settles in.

From downstairs, he can hear his mom moving around the kitchen—the clatter of dishes mixing with his sister’s voice as she excitedly talks about a dream she had the night before. With a sigh, Mike forces himself out of bed. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday before falling asleep, so he heads downstairs, at least to try and drink some water.

“Hi, Mom,” he says quietly as he walks down the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

His mom is busy making breakfast, listening attentively to his sister while flipping something on the stove. Mike makes his way to the kitchen, still half-asleep, and grabs a glass.

“Good morning, baby,” his mom says, glancing at him. “You slept a lot yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry,” Mike replies. “I was feeling kinda sick. Really tired.”

He fills the glass with water and drinks deeply before speaking again.

“Need help?”

“No,” she says, holding out a plate toward him. “Just eat something and take a shower so you get ready for college.”

Mike shakes his head quickly.

“No, Mom. I’ll eat later, don’t worry.”

He notices the worried look in her eyes and immediately softens his tone.

“I just feel a little nauseous. I’ll eat later, promise.”

He gives her a small smile, hoping it looks convincing.

She nods, though her gaze lingers on him a little too long. Mike knows what she’s thinking. His body looks thinner than it used to—almost skeletal. He notices the weight loss too, of course, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

Still half-asleep, he goes back upstairs to pick out some clothes, then heads to the bathroom.

He strips and steps into the shower, turning the handle. The water is cold at first, making him flinch and step back. When it finally warms up, he moves under the stream, letting the heat sink into his skin. His muscles slowly loosen, the fog in his head lifting just a bit.

After scrubbing his body thoroughly—he feels sticky, uncomfortable—he heads back to his room to get dressed. Something simple: a white shirt, a blue hoodie, jeans. Black Converse. Good enough.

He grabs his backpack, hoping today will be better than yesterday.

After saying goodbye to his mom, he closes the front door and starts walking toward college. He puts his headphones on and blasts the music as loud as he can, desperate to drown out his thoughts—at least for the few minutes it takes to get there.

From a distance, he spots a familiar figure.

His heart skips. His palms begin to sweat. His stomach twists.

Will notices him at the same time and immediately starts running toward him.

“Hey, Mike!” he calls, bright and cheerful as always.

Before Mike can react, Will reaches up and slips one side of the headphones off his ear.

“What are we listening to today?” Will asks, lifting them closer to his own ear, genuinely curious.

Mike feels helpless.

It’s dramatic, he knows, but something about Will standing there with his headphones—smiling, relaxed, beautiful—makes his chest ache. When Will takes them, his fingers brush against Mike’s hair, just barely. Mike’s face heats up instantly, his breath stuttering for a second.

“Hey, Will,” Mike says, sounding slightly annoyed on purpose—the only way he can hide how badly he’s falling apart inside. “Give those back.”

He takes the headphones and forces a small smile.

Will looks up at him, and suddenly Mike feels unbearably fond. Will is shorter, and Mike has to look down at him. He has to fight the urge to run his fingers through his hair. To kiss his cheek.

“What were you listening to?” Will asks again as they continue walking toward the university.

Mike tells him about a new band he discovered a few days ago and how much he loves their music. He notices the way Will listens so attentively, and it makes him nervous. Why should it matter what he thinks about a band almost no one knows? He pushes the thought aside.

They reach campus and head to their classroom together, sitting next to each other like always.

Mike glances at Will briefly—his hair almost covering his eyes from not having cut it, the light yellow sweater he’s wearing, which looks like the only thing he bothered to throw on. His chest tightens, and he quickly turns forward before he looks suspicious for staring too long.

He checks his schedule. Philosophy. Fucking class.

He pulls out his notebook just as class is about to start. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Will drawing in a small sketchbook. He can’t quite tell what it is yet, but he catches the focused look on his face.

Okay, he looks really cute today. I think I’m going to die.

The classroom falls silent as the professor arrives.

“Today you’re going to work in your activity book, pages ten through fourteen,” he says. “I need to catch up on a few things, so do that for now.”

He puts on his glasses, sits at his desk, opens his laptop, and starts typing—God knows what.

Fucking class, Mike thinks.

He tries to focus on the activity book, but his mind refuses to cooperate. The words blur together, meaningless. Out of the corner of his eye, he keeps noticing Will—his head tilted down, completely absorbed in his sketchbook.

A soft tap against his arm pulls Mike out of his thoughts.

“Hey, Mike. Look at this,” Will whispers.

Mike turns toward him, and for the first time really sees the drawing.

“What do you think?”

It’s a small sketch, but it’s clearly been done by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. A boy in armor, holding a shield, facing a creature that looks like a dragon—maybe with three heads. The lines are clean, confident. Detailed.

“Oh,” Mike says, surprised. “It’s really good. But… what is it?”

He takes the notebook to look closer. The boy has long, curly hair. Like his.

Curious.

“It’s a little project I have in mind,” Will explains quietly, careful not to draw attention. “I want to make it bigger, but I wanted to know what you think before finishing it.”

He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“It looks good, right?”

A wide smile spreads across Will’s face when Mike nods.

“Yeah. I like the idea,” Mike says gently. “It looks like something from a children’s story.”

He hands the notebook back. Their fingers brush, just barely.

Mike’s chest tightens at the contact, aching in a way that feels ridiculous. It’s such a normal thing—friends touch all the time—but it still hits him too hard.

He looks away quickly, pretending to focus on the activity book.

He has no idea what the questions are asking or how to answer them, but he starts writing anyway—anything to keep his mind occupied. His grip on the pencil slips slightly; his palms are damp with sweat.

He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment.

Calm down.

Something bumps against his knee.

Mike freezes, then looks down to see Will’s knee pressed lightly against his under the desk. His heart spikes.

It’s normal, he tells himself. We’re friends. This is normal.

The hour drags on painfully slow. By the time class finally ends, Mike feels like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

As soon as they stand up, Will leans toward him again.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Do you wanna go to that place from yesterday?”

Mike nods. If he speaks, he’s pretty sure his voice will shake.

They head outside, behind one of the campus buildings.

They head back to that familiar place—the bench surrounded by trees and plants, where the air always feels calmer somehow, especially with the cool weather of those days. This time, Mike chooses to sit on the bench. It’s a little dirty, sure, but still sturdy enough, so he doesn’t really care.
He watches as Will sits on the grass again, pulling out his sketchbook and arranging his pencils before quietly starting to draw.

Not wanting the silence to stretch too long, Mike puts on some music. He chooses songs Will likes, hoping they’ll inspire him—or at least help him relax while he draws. At the same time, Mike can’t help but watch him.
Every time Will gets distracted, Mike takes the chance to really look at him—to study his face, the way his hair falls, his eyes, his long eyelashes, and his lips. They’re slightly chapped, yet still painfully kissable.

A sigh almost escapes him. It slips out softly, unnoticed, and before he can overthink it, he speaks.

“Hey… and the guy you told me about before—has he talked to you again?”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Even the idea of them talking again—despite Will saying they weren’t—fills him with a sharp, intoxicating jealousy.

“Nope,” Will replies, not looking up from his sketchbook. “And honestly, I hope he doesn’t.”

Mike watches his hand move across the page. Whatever Will is drawing now is different from what he showed him earlier—probably just something to pass the time.

“Not because anything bad happened,” Will continues. “It’s just… I don’t know. I think he wants to try again or something. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. And I really don’t want to be part of that again.”

He stops drawing.

Then he looks straight at Mike.

“Actually… I’ve been thinking that I really like someone. Like—really like him.”

His voice drops at the last part, and Mike feels his nerves ignite all at once.

Why is he looking at me like that?
The thought repeats in his head, louder each time, as his mind spirals and his body refuses to move.

“Oh…” is all he manages to say.

Questions pile up instantly.
Who is it?
Is he older than us?
Does he go here?

His breathing turns uneven, but he forces himself to sound calm.

“And… who is it?” he asks, trying to seem genuinely interested—trying not to sound like his insides are tearing themselves apart.

Will’s expression shifts, something almost teasing crossing his face as his eyes narrow slightly.

Why is he looking at me like that?

“I’ll tell you later,” Will says. “I need to know if he likes me back first. I don’t want to end up looking like an idiot.”

He closes his notebook, slips it into his backpack, then stands up from the grass and sits beside Mike on the bench.

Without warning, he lifts a hand to Mike’s curls, gently tucking a loose strand behind his ear.

“Your hair’s gotten pretty long…”

His gaze lingers, and somehow that makes Mike even more nervous. Will’s voice is calm—too calm—and it confuses him.

“It suits you.”

He holds Mike’s eyes for a second longer before pulling his hand away. Then, just like that, he starts talking about something his brother did, as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, Mike’s heart is lodged firmly in his throat. His face burns, and he knows he’s blushing—his pale skin always gives him away.
He reaches up, touching his hair where Will’s fingers had just been, staring at him without really hearing a word he’s saying. His thoughts are too loud.

Soon after, it’s time for their next class, and they walk to the classroom together. Mike has no idea how he’s supposed to survive the rest of the day if Will does something like that again.

For the remainder of the day, Mike feels… distant. He answers with quiet mhms whenever Will talks to him, changing his tone just enough to sound convincing. By the end of the day, still feeling weak, he manages to say goodbye.

“Can I come over later?” Will asks, putting on those damn sad puppy eyes—completely impossible to resist.

“Will, we’ve literally been together all day,” Mike says, sighing softly.

“But I wanna be with you all afternoon too…”

“Ugh—okay. Fine. You can come over later,” Mike gives in. “I think I’ll have the house to myself anyway.”

He reaches out, threading his fingers through Will’s hair for just a moment as he smiles in agreement. Excited, Will finally says goodbye so he can rest at home before heading over. They live only a few houses apart—well, not exactly, but close enough.

When Mike gets home, the house is quiet. Too quiet.
His stomach growls, reminding him he hasn’t eaten all day, but the thought of food makes him nauseous. He’s pretty sure he’d throw up if he tried.

He drops his backpack by the couch, pulls off his sweater, and immediately feels warmer. His eyes drift down to his arms, and a shiver runs through him.

His pale skin contrasts harshly with the pink scars scattered across it.

The urge hits him suddenly—sharp and unwelcome. It’s been months since he last hurt himself. He should be proud of that. He shouldn’t be missing it every time he looks at his healed arms.

He goes to his room and changes into a thin, long-sleeved shirt. Will doesn’t know about that broken part of him, and Mike isn’t ready for him to—not yet.

Grateful it’s winter, he cracks the windows open, letting cool air flow through the house. The black long-sleeve shirt is thin, almost see-through when held to the light. He wears these in summer too, hiding his arms from his friends. His family already knows—it’s different with them. With friends, it feels heavier.

What would they think if they saw this?
He’s not ready to find out.

Now all that’s left is to wait.

He works on some unfinished assignments, videos playing softly in the background so the house doesn’t feel empty. Suddenly, his phone vibrates, and the anxiety in his stomach rushes back. He already knows who it is.

Mikeee, I’ll be there in like 10 minutes okayy??
I kinda wanna watch a movie with you, maybe a horror one or something. You in?

He smiles despite himself and replies with a simple okay. His hands are shaking too much to type anything else.

Uninvited, his mind paints an image of them on the couch, sharing a blanket against the cold. Will sitting close—close enough that every jump scare would make him tense beside Mike.
He imagines holding him. Cuddling.
Just as friends.
Best friends.

He waits anxiously for the sound of the doorbell.

Chapter Text

Ten minutes pass before someone knocks on the front door.

Mike jumps up almost instantly, excitement bubbling in his chest before he can stop it. He doesn’t even understand why—he and Will saw each other barely an hour ago at college—but still, he rushes to the door.

When he opens it, there’s Will.

Shorter than him.
Red shirt.
Tight black shorts.

Okay.
Wow.

Will looks too good, and Mike knows—knows—there’s no way he’s hiding his reaction this time.

“H-hey… uh—” Mike says awkwardly, stepping aside and looking away almost immediately. “You look… good.”

“Thanks!” Will smiles. “I changed ’cause I got hot. Aren’t you hot too?”

Mike closes the door behind them. As Will steps closer, Mike notices the way he looks him up and down—not judgmental, just curious. It’s not unusual. Mike always wears long sleeves, even in summer.

“Nope,” Mike replies lightly. “I feel very fresh.”

They move into the living room, and Mike drops onto the couch, gesturing for Will to sit with him.

“Okay,” Will says, pulling out his phone. “I wanna watch this movie—The Turning.”

He shows him the screen: the synopsis, the trailer thumbnail.

“I don’t really know what it’s about,” Will adds casually. “But I think it’s horror or something.”

Mike barely glances at the phone before his attention drifts back to Will.

“Mhm,” he hums. “You wanna watch it now? We could… do something else first.”

Of course he wants to watch the movie—wants Will curled up beside him—but he also wants time. A different kind of time.

So he leads Will upstairs, to his bedroom.
Thank God he cleaned it yesterday.

He opens the door, lets Will walk in first, then follows and closes it behind them.

For a moment, Will just… looks around.

The walls.
The bed.
The desk.
The guitar resting in the corner.

Like it’s the first time he’s ever been there.

“What are you staring at?” Mike asks.

“Nothing,” Will says softly. “It’s just… I haven’t been here in a while. Your room’s different now. It’s more… you.”

He’s right. They usually hang out at Will’s place—he’s the one who’s home alone most of the time. Mike’s taken advantage of that lately: band posters, shelves filled with records and cassettes, drawings Will made for him pinned to the wall. Even the guitar, which used to live in the living room.

“Thanks…” Mike mutters, suddenly unsure of himself. “I could show you a song I’m learning. Or we could play something. Or—uh—we could even sleep, if you’re tired.”

He has no idea what he’s doing anymore. It used to be easier, before his feelings got so heavy, so tangled.

“Oh my God,” Will lights up immediately. “Show me the song. I haven’t heard you play in forever. I wanna see if you’ve gotten better—or if you still suck.”

He sits on the bed, laughing.

“Very funny, William,” Mike deadpans as he grabs his guitar. “I’m learning Nirvana’s cover of The Man Who Sold the World. Still working on the chords.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, facing Will, adjusting the guitar until it feels right.

His fingers tremble.

Not because he’s bad—he knows he isn’t—but because it’s Will. He wants to get it right. He wants to impress him.

He starts playing, stumbling slightly over the newer chords. He avoids Will’s eyes completely, staring at the strings, the sheets, anything but his face. He knows if he looks, he’ll mess it up.

Will sitting on his bed.
Mike playing just for him.

It’s nothing new. It’s been like this for years.

But today feels different.

Tighter.
Like the air is pressing against his lungs.

When the song ends, Mike sets the guitar aside and exhales, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He finally looks up.

“So… what do you think?” he asks with a nervous laugh. “I still need practice, but—yeah.”

Will is quiet, staring at the wall.

Mike’s stomach twists.

“Will?”

“I think you played really well,” Will says slowly. “Sometimes I forget how talented you are with your fingers— I mean! The guitar.”

He panics, correcting himself too fast.

“And… you look really good when you play.”

His gaze drops to Mike’s hands.
Then back to his eyes.

Mike has no idea if Will realizes what he’s doing—if he even knows—but the way he says it makes Mike dizzy.

“Yeah?” Mike grins nervously, running a hand through his hair in an exaggerated, ridiculously sexy motion. “You think I look handsome playing guitar?”

He strikes a dramatic pose. Will laughs.

“Yeah,” Will says. “I really do.”

And he sounds sincere.

Mike has no idea what to do with that.

He starts rambling—about bands, about nothing—anything to keep the moment moving. Without noticing, he scoots closer, sitting beside Will. He doesn’t break eye contact, even though his chest hurts and his stomach churns.

Then Will glances toward the desk.

A mischievous smile spreads across his face.

“Mike,” he says. “That red notebook—what is it?”

Mike stiffens.

“What notebook?”

“That one,” Will points. “You take it everywhere. I always see you writing in it. What do you write?”

He leans closer. Curious. Interested.

“Oh, uh—” Mike swallows. “Nothing important.”

But Will suddenly stands and walks toward the desk.

Mike moves so fast he almost blacks out.

He grabs the notebook and hides it behind his back.

Will stares at him, confused.

“What’s in there that you don’t want me to see?”

Then realization dawns.

“Oh my God,” Will grins. “Is it love letters? For the girl you like?”

Mike freezes.

A girl?

In what universe does Will think that?

But instead of correcting him, Mike nods.

“Yeah,” he lies. “It’s embarrassing.”

He hides the notebook out of sight.

“Oh.”

Will’s voice is quiet. Too quiet.
Disappointed. Almost… hurt.

Mike freezes.

Why would he sound like that? He was the one who brought it up. The confusion hits all at once, tight and uncomfortable in his chest.

The silence stretches.

It doesn’t even cross Mike’s mind that it could mean anything else. He assumes it’s normal jealousy—the kind friends feel when they think they’re being replaced. Nothing more.

“Yeah…” Mike murmurs after a moment.

“Wanna watch the movie?” he asks finally.

They move back to the living room together, not saying much. The silence is thick—not uncomfortable, just heavy. Mike grabs a blanket on the way, almost absentmindedly, though part of him knows exactly why.

Will focuses on finding the movie, scrolling with a small frown, completely determined. Mike spreads the blanket beside him and sits down close.

Too close.

He feels Will’s warmth immediately, the heat seeping through his clothes, sending a shiver down his spine. Will’s brow is furrowed in concentration, as if that’ll help him find the movie faster. Mike watches from the corner of his eye—the way his lips press together, the curve of his jaw lit by the glow of the screen.

When Will finally finds it, he looks up and gestures toward the blanket.

“Can you pass it to me?” he asks quietly. “I’m cold.”

Mike nods, lifting the blanket and letting it fall over both of them as the movie starts.

The blanket is big enough, but Will shifts almost immediately, moving closer until he’s practically lying on top of Mike. His head rests against Mike’s chest, fitting there so naturally it feels unreal—like something Mike imagined too many times and somehow brought to life.

Mike’s hands hover uselessly at first. He’s acutely aware of how close they are, of Will’s breathing warm against his neck. His mind refuses to focus on the movie.

He shifts slightly.

Will misunderstands and starts to move away.

“No—don’t move!” Mike blurts out, panic flaring as he grabs Will by the waist. “I’m just adjusting. You’re fine. You don’t bother me.”

The words come out too fast. Too honest.

Will settles back down. Only then does Mike realize where his hands are—wrapped around Will’s waist. Warm. Solid. Real. He thinks he sees a faint blush on Will’s cheeks, though the room is dark.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he slides his hands higher, resting them against Will’s stomach. He feels the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of bare skin where Will’s shirt has lifted just enough.

This is too much.
And still not enough.

Will seems relaxed, half-focused on the movie. Mike, on the other hand, is painfully still, terrified that moving even an inch will shatter the moment.

“Mike,” Will murmurs after a while, his voice sleepy.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really get this movie.”

Mike lets out a small laugh.

“Me neither.”

Will shifts again, turning so they’re chest to chest. Mike’s hands slide to Will’s lower back without thinking, his breath hitching as their faces end up closer.

Too close.

Mike lifts one hand, gently threading his fingers through Will’s curls—slow, careful, testing the line.

Will lets out a soft sound.

“If you keep doing that,” Will murmurs, “I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“That’s okay,” Mike whispers. “You can sleep.”

He keeps stroking his hair, tracing lazy shapes along his back. The thought creeps in—soft and dangerous—that he wants to kiss him. Somewhere safe. His forehead. Just once.

He’s just made up his mind when Will suddenly pulls away, sitting up.

“I think I should go,” Will says quickly.

Mike blinks, disoriented.

“What? But—you just got here. The movie’s not even over.”

“It’s okay,” Will insists, already standing. “I forgot I had something to do.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door closes.
The room feels instantly colder.

Mike stays there for a long moment, the blanket still wrapped around him. His body remembers warmth that’s no longer there. His chest aches.

Did I do something wrong?
Did I make him uncomfortable?

He goes to his room, grabs the red notebook, hands shaking as he writes—trying to make sense of the mess inside him.

The warmth of your skin calms me.
Your breathing makes me feel safe.
I’m sorry if touching you made you uncomfortable.
But holding you was beautiful.
You looked beautiful lying on me.

He stares at the words, then snaps the notebook shut and throws it across the room without caring where it lands. He collapses onto his bed, curling in on himself beneath the blanket.

He wants to scream, but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s not worth it.

This is his fault.
He misread things.
He shouldn’t have touched him.

Resigned, he closes his eyes, guilt settling heavy in his chest—

and yet, he can’t help but adore the memory of that warmth.

Chapter Text

Several days pass after that night.

They still see each other at university. They still talk.
But Will keeps his distance now—noticeable, intentional—and with every day that passes, Mike feels guilt settle heavier in his chest.

He doesn’t understand it.

Will was the one who lay down first. But maybe the touches—the way Mike held him, stroked his hair—made him uncomfortable. Maybe that crossed a line. He has no way of knowing. His thoughts spin endlessly, looping until they blur together. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and the anxiety sitting in his stomach is so strong that he almost throws up every time he sees Will.

Every interaction since then has been painfully awkward.

Will barely says hello. He avoids eye contact. He does everything he can to make sure there’s no accidental brush of skin, no shared space. He sticks close to his other friends and always has an excuse ready to avoid being alone with Mike. If they run into each other on the way to university, Will walks faster.

It’s absurd.

Mike has tried to get closer, but Will keeps pulling away—sometimes with excuses so stupid they almost hurt more. And it drives Mike insane. It’s not like they kissed. Or had sex.

They just cuddled on the couch.

Still, the situation is eating him alive, and he can’t take it anymore.

Now he’s at home. It’s the middle of the night, and sleep refuses to come—obviously—because every thought circles back to Will. What to say. When to say it. How to fix this before it breaks completely.

Being away from him makes his chest ache. The idea that he might’ve hurt Will or made him uncomfortable is unbearable. The nails on his fingers are nearly gone, bitten down to nothing. His hair is split at the ends from pulling at it too much.

And there are new cuts on his arms.

He tried pouring everything into the red notebook, his safe place, but it wasn’t enough. Not like cutting again.

The guilt makes him sick.

He considers writing Will a letter. An apology. A plea. An explanation—anything that might help him understand why everything changed so suddenly. But he doesn’t know what to say. His mind is foggy, crowded with useless ideas and unrelated worries that only make him feel more overwhelmed.

His chest tightens.

He knows he’s overthinking. That he’s suffering just to suffer. That it should be easy to just talk to Will.

But the fear that their friendship might end freezes him in place.

What if apologizing only makes Will decide he doesn’t want to be friends anymore?
What if Mike says the wrong thing and hurts him even more without meaning to?
Worse—what could he say that would hurt him at all?

He doesn’t fully understand how Will thinks or reacts. So he doesn’t know how to act either.

Eventually, he gets out of bed—the sheets a complete mess—and grabs the red notebook. He tears out a page and starts writing.

Hi Will…
No.

Dear Will…
No. Too romantic.

Will…
Too dry.

He grips his head, breathes shakily, trying to ground himself before collapsing again.

Okay.
Let’s try this.

Hi Will, can we talk, please? This situation is really confusing for me, and honestly, the way you’ve been acting toward me hurts. Please tell me if I did something that made you uncomfortable or upset—I can fix it. You know I never meant to hurt you. I just want to protect you and be by your side. Please, let’s fix this.

—Mike.

He stares at the page.

Simple. Desperate—just like him. Perfect.

Now all he has to do is wait until he runs into Will and give him the letter. That’s it. Everything will work out.

He sighs and presses his hands to his chest, only to realize even his own touch hurts. His lungs feel like they won’t fully fill with air, but he forces himself to slow his breathing.

Since sleep is impossible, he decides to shower and leave for university earlier than usual.

He strips and steps under the hot water, waiting a few seconds before fully moving beneath it. Almost immediately, his body feels heavier—more exhausted. Maybe the heat was a bad idea. His eyes burn, not from sleepiness, but from how much he cried during the night.

Afterward, he chooses comfortable clothes. He doesn’t plan on staying at university today—just giving Will the letter. And if everything goes well—because God clearly loves him—maybe they’ll talk afterward.

He pulls on a black long-sleeve shirt, a simple black hoodie, jeans, and his Converse. Then he waits twenty minutes so he won’t arrive ridiculously early.

He hears movement in his mother’s room and knocks softly.

“Mom, I’m leaving early. I’ve got something important to do at university, okay?”

A sleepy “mhm” answers him. He closes the door and leaves.

His legs feel weak. His chest still aches. His stomach is a mess. His nose burns from the cold, his eyes sting from crying—but at least that might spare him questions. If Will even cares.

When he arrives at the university, it’s almost empty. He goes to the bench—their bench—and sits down, nerves spiraling. Despite having just showered, his skin feels dirty, restless.

Waiting.

“Hi.”

The voice pulls him out of his thoughts instantly.

He turns. Of course it’s Will.

His heart spikes—he hadn’t even considered that Will might speak first.

“Hi—!” he blurts, then winces. “Hi, Will,” he tries again, calmer.

Will looks serious, but not angry. If anything, he looks… guilty.

“Hey, Mike,” Will says, sitting beside him and staring at the ground. “I wanted to talk to you about the past few days.”

He avoids eye contact, but sits close enough that Mike can feel his warmth.

“Uh—Will, I actually have something for you,” Mike says quickly. He reaches into his backpack, hands shaking as he pulls out the letter. “I didn’t think you’d talk to me first, so… I wrote an apology.”

Will takes the letter, studying it like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He sighs, tension thick between them.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, finally looking at Mike. “I’m sorry. I know my behavior hasn’t been fair. I don’t really have an excuse. I just… hope you can forgive me. I want things to go back to how they were.”

“It’s okay,” Mike blurts. “But—you should read the letter.”

He reaches for it, but Will pulls it closer to himself.

“I will. Later,” he says softly. “I just want you to know—you didn’t do anything wrong. The situation just… scared me a little.”

“Scared you how?” Mike asks.

Will hesitates.

“Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to feel that way with you,” he says slowly. “Small. Vulnerable. Protected… and loved.”

The words come out like they burn.

Mike looks down, throat tight. His body refuses to let him speak at first. But if Will can be that honest, he owes him the same.

“You can be yourself with me,” Mike says quietly. “You’re allowed to feel that way. I won’t judge you. I just want you to feel comfortable with me.”

His voice shakes. He keeps his eyes closed—it makes it easier.

Will responds by wrapping his arms around him, letting out a relieved sigh. They stay like that for a few seconds, warmth building between them—warmth that’s painful to lose when it fades.

When they pull apart, Mike lets out a small, unconscious sound of protest at the sudden cold.

“Should we go to class?” he asks softly, touching Will’s arm.

Will smiles and nods.

Mike’s heart races.

That smile—the one he missed. Warm. Familiar. Beautiful.

They walk toward the building together, shoulders brushing, hands grazing. This time, neither of them pulls away.

Still, Mike wonders what scared Will so much. The closeness? The intimacy? Probably the intimacy. Even if nothing happened, it was something private. Safe.

And maybe that safety was terrifying.

But for now, he’s relieved.

Will apologized. He gave him the letter. They’re moving forward.

And for the first time in days, Mike can finally breathe.

For the rest of the morning, things feel… different.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just careful.

They sit together in class like they always have, but now every movement feels deliberate. Will sits close enough that their knees brush occasionally, and every time it happens, neither of them pulls away. Mike keeps catching himself glancing at Will from the corner of his eye, just to make sure he’s still there. That he didn’t imagine the smile. The hug. The words.

Small. Vulnerable. Protected… and loved.

The sentence replays in his head over and over, soft and overwhelming all at once.

Will doesn’t talk much during class, but when he does, he leans in slightly, his voice low, meant only for Mike. Sometimes their shoulders touch. Sometimes Will’s arm presses against his. Each time, Mike’s heart stutters, like it hasn’t quite learned how to beat normally again.

When class ends, they walk out together.

“So,” Will says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rocking slightly on his heels. “Do you… wanna get coffee or something? Before the next class.”

Mike blinks, surprised—then smiles before he can stop himself.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “I’d like that.”

They go to a small café near campus, the kind that’s always a little too warm and smells like burnt coffee and sugar. They sit across from each other at a tiny table, knees bumping underneath without effort.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Will exhales.

“I really did miss you,” he admits quietly, eyes fixed on the table. “Even when I was… being stupid.”

Mike shakes his head.

“You weren’t stupid,” he says. “You were scared. That’s not the same thing.”

Will looks up at him then. Really looks at him.

“You’re not mad?”

“I was worried,” Mike answers honestly. “And guilty. And exhausted. But not mad.”

Something in Will’s shoulders relaxes at that.

They talk after that—about normal things. Classes. Music. A movie Will wants to watch. It’s almost surreal how easily the conversation flows again, like slipping into an old hoodie that still fits perfectly.

And yet, underneath it all, something has shifted.

When Will laughs, it lingers longer in Mike’s chest.
When their fingers brush reaching for sugar packets, neither of them flinches.
When Will leans forward, elbows on the table, Mike feels it everywhere.

Later, when they part ways for their next class, Will hesitates.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah?”

Will fidgets, then says softly, “Thank you. For waiting. And… for writing the letter.”

Mike swallows.

“Anytime,” he replies. “I mean it.”

Will smiles again—that same smile—and this time, before walking away, he squeezes Mike’s hand. Just once. Quick. Real.

Mike stands there for a moment after Will leaves, his heart racing, his fingers still tingling where Will touched them.

For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosens.

He knows things aren’t magically fixed.
He knows fear doesn’t disappear overnight.
But this—this is something.

Something gentle.
Something growing.

And as he heads to class, shoulders lighter than they’ve been in a long time, one thought settles quietly in his mind:

Maybe whatever scared Will…
was the same thing Mike has been feeling all along.

And maybe—just maybe—that means they’re standing on the same side of the fear.

Chapter Text

Will is in his room now, lying on his bed with his back pressed into the mattress, the letter resting loosely in his hand. His fingers have gone numb from holding it for so long. He hasn’t opened it yet. He hasn’t even looked at it properly. His thumb keeps rubbing over the folded edge of the paper, over and over, as if that alone might prepare him for what’s written inside.

The guilt won’t let him rest.

When he arrived at the university earlier that day, he noticed it immediately—Mike’s swollen eyes, his red nose, the puffiness in his face. The way he kept blinking, like he was still fighting tears. Will’s chest had tightened painfully at the sight. It was obvious Mike had been crying, and Will knows—deep down—that it was his fault.

From a distance, he’d watched him carefully. How Mike’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing when he sat down. How he chewed at his nails until his fingers looked sore. How he kept running a hand through his hair, messy and restless. He looked exhausted. Pale. Worn thin.

And still, Mike had been the one to speak first.

Even now, alone in his room, Will can’t shake the memory of that. How Mike had gathered the courage to approach him despite everything. How unfair that feels.

Will shifts on the bed, turning onto his side, curling slightly inward.

He knows his reaction had been exaggerated.

That moment—when he’d been lying on top of Mike—the memory hits him all at once. Mike’s hands, warm and steady, moving slowly along his back, fingers threading gently through his hair. The blanket draped over them, trapping their warmth together. The way their bodies fit so naturally, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

It had felt too intimate.

Too good.

Too safe.

And that’s what scared him the most.

The safety. The comfort. The quiet certainty of wanting more without even thinking about it. His body had responded before his mind could catch up, and the realization had sent panic straight through him.

That’s why his reaction had been so abrupt.

He regrets it now—God, he regrets it.

On his way home, he’d already found himself craving it again. The weight of Mike beneath him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. Those hands—always so gentle—on his back, in his hair. His fingers curl slightly now, as if remembering the sensation on his skin.

But fear had won this time.

Will exhales sharply through his nose, presses his lips together, and finally forces himself to sit up. Since he’s already wallowed long enough, he decides it’s time.

He opens the letter.

He holds it carefully, both hands gripping the paper like it might slip away from him, and reads slowly, deliberately, as if reading too fast might hurt more.

His eyes stop on one specific line.

“This situation is very confusing for me, and honestly it hurts the way you’re acting toward me.”

His breath stutters.

He reads it once.
Twice.
Three times.

Each time, his chest tightens further, like something heavy is being placed on it. His shoulders hunch forward without him realizing, his head dipping slightly. He feels small. Cornered by his own behavior.

Another line catches his eye.

“What I want is to protect you and be by your side. Please, let’s fix this.”

His grip on the letter tightens.

Will could swear he can hear Mike’s voice as he reads it—soft, tired, sincere. The guilt lingers, but something warmer seeps in beneath it, spreading slowly through his chest.

What I want is to protect you.

Mike has always done that.

The memories come easily. Too easily. Mike stepping between him and cruel words. Mike snapping back when people crossed the line. Mike getting into trouble once—years ago—for throwing a punch at a kid who’d said something vile about Will.

His throat tightens, and he swallows hard.

He’s so grateful it almost hurts. Grateful that Mike loves him despite everything. That he’s willing to forgive him even after he’s been selfish, confusing, unfair. The idea of distancing himself feels ridiculous now—almost laughable.

How could he ever push him away?

Carefully, he folds the letter again, smoothing it with his palm as if apologizing to it. He places it inside a drawer and pushes it all the way to the back, making sure it’s hidden, safe.

His hands linger there for a moment before pulling away.

Should I write a letter to Mike?
What would I even say?

The questions bounce around in his head relentlessly. He wants to write back. He wants to explain himself. But putting his feelings into words has always been hard—his thoughts tangle, his emotions trip over each other. He needs time. Rehearsal. Space to figure it out.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things deeply.

It just means he struggles to show them the way Mike does.

He loves that about him.

The thought softens his expression. He loves how easily Mike talks to him. How open he is. How honest. Even listening to him ramble about nothing makes Will feel warm and grounded. The way Mike’s voice drops when he talks softly. The way his lips move. The way he looks at him.

A small smile escapes before he can stop it.

Whenever he thinks about Mike, his body reacts first.

The apology he gave earlier hadn’t been perfect. He knows that. His shoulders tense slightly at the memory. But it had been real. He’d meant every word.

Those days apart—miserable as they were—only made one thing clearer.

He misses Mike’s touch.

Badly.

A hand on his shoulder. A brush of fingers. Even that is enough to send a rush of emotion through him, sharp and immediate. That’s what scared him. Liking it that much. Needing it.

He didn’t want to misunderstand things.

They’re friends.
Best friends.

Ever since the day they curled up together in the living room, all Will wants is to be close to him. To hug him. To sit pressed against his side. To sleep next to him. To walk so close their shoulders knock together, their hands brushing accidentally—and not pull away.

He wants to lie on top of him again.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

He wants to feel Mike’s hands moving slowly along his back. He wants to fall asleep with his weight anchoring him, wake up with that warmth still there. He wants it so badly it makes his skin feel tight, overheated, like something inside him is trying to claw its way out.

His mind doesn’t help. The images come uninvited, vivid and relentless. The feeling in his stomach—sharp, buzzing, almost like excitement—won’t go away.

But it’s fine.

It has to be.

He wants all of this in the way good friends do. That’s all it is. Comfort. Trust. Familiar affection. There’s nothing strange about wanting closeness like that… right?

His shoulders loosen slightly as he convinces himself.

It’s platonic.
It’s safe.
There’s no problem.

Will exhales slowly and lets himself sink back onto the bed, eyes closing.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of unfinished assignments and half-focused work. His leg bounces under the desk, his thoughts already drifting ahead.

Tomorrow.

He’ll see Mike again.

Maybe he’ll invite him over. Maybe they’ll finish that movie this time—or pick another one and barely watch it. Or maybe they’ll just sit close again, knees touching, shoulders pressed together.

Any excuse will do.

Chapter Text

Will wakes up with a strange sense of relief, his body feeling as light as a feather. For some reason, he wakes up happy—excited, even—to go to university. He wants to see Mike. Now that he knows things between them are okay, the thought of seeing him again fills him with warmth.

He gets ready without rushing: showers, brushes his teeth, puts on comfortable clothes. He leaves his house earlier than usual, secretly hoping to run into Mike on the way so they can walk together. The idea alone makes him smile.

As he walks toward campus, his eyes are fixed on the ground. He carefully avoids stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk, watches the plants along the path. He isn’t really present, so he doesn’t notice how many people are around him. That’s why he accidentally bumps into someone’s back, the impact pulling him abruptly out of his bubble.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he says automatically.

When he looks up, he freezes. It’s Mike.

Of course it is. Typical romantic cliché.

Mike’s hair is still damp, and he smells like cologne and mint—probably toothpaste. He’s smiling, almost as if he already knew Will would crash into him and not a stranger.

“Hey, Will,” Mike says, casually wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a brief side hug. “What were you thinking about that you didn’t see me? I mean, it’s not like I’m short enough to be invisible.”

Will lets out a small laugh. It’s true—Mike is noticeably taller than him. He feels the weight of Mike’s arm on his shoulders and finds himself smiling again. He’s oddly cheerful today.

“Nothing, really. I was counting the lines on the sidewalk and trying not to step on them,” Will explains, pointing at a few visible cracks. He hears a soft “oh…” leave Mike’s mouth, and the closeness makes him almost feel the vibration in Mike’s throat. His heart speeds up.

“Hey, we’ve still got a while before we get there. Want to listen to music with me?” Mike offers, holding out one of his earbuds.

His hand is shaking—barely noticeable, but it’s there.

“Okay,” Will says. “Show me something good.”

Mike laughs and queues up songs he thinks Will will like: some from bands he’s mentioned before, others they both enjoy. It’s easy to share music when their tastes overlap so naturally.

The rest of the walk is quiet. Just the sound of leaves moving in the wind, passing cars, distant voices—and the music in their ears. Neither of them feels the need to talk. The silence is comfortable.

They walk close enough that Mike notices how his hand brushes against Will’s a few times. Will doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tense up. That feels… good. Very good.

When they arrive on campus, they separate briefly. Will gets pulled into a conversation with friends from another class about a group project, so Mike heads to their classroom alone, carrying both backpacks—his on his shoulders, Will’s in his hand.

He sits down and places Will’s backpack on the seat near the window. Will always likes sitting there. He loves looking outside. Mike has noticed how Will’s notebooks are often filled with drawings of trees, birds that stay still long enough to be captured in detail, or just the sky—like all the answers he’s searching for might be up there.

The classroom is unusually full today. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe Mike just decided to actually look around for once.

His gaze shifts to the door just in time to see Will walk in. Mike smiles and points at the seat beside him. Will comes over as the professor enters the room.

“It’s weird how everyone’s already here, right?” Mike whispers.

“They always are, Mike.”

The tone of Will’s voice catches him off guard. It’s soft. Too soft. The way he says his name almost sounds affectionate.

“I need to stop seeing things that aren’t there,” Mike tells himself.

They settle in, notebooks out. The class begins.

Will, meanwhile, feels his face heat up. Did Mike notice the way he said his name? He pretends everything is fine and opens his sketchbook instead of his notes.

Something outside the window grabs his attention—a sudden movement in a nearby tree. A blue jay lands sharply on a branch. Beside it sits a mourning dove, calm and unmoving. The contrast is striking.

Without thinking, Will starts sketching. The tree. The branches. The leaves. And finally, the birds.

The blue jay is vivid, electric—lavender-blue along its back, black stripes on its wings, bright white markings. The mourning dove, by contrast, is soft and muted: warm beige, almost peach-toned. When sunlight hits its neck just right, faint pink hues shimmer.

He finds it amusing—this loud, arrogant bird beside one so gentle and quiet.

His sketch is quick, unfinished. He’ll add details later.

He doesn’t notice that his leg is pressed against Mike’s until much later. Mike doesn’t move away. He’s focused on the lecture—or pretending to be. Will doesn’t really care what the professor is talking about.

He glances at Mike’s profile, tracing the sharp lines of his face with his eyes. Strong features. Confident. Attractive—though Mike seems completely unaware of it. Will thinks, not for the first time, that Mike could be a model if he wanted to.

The thought makes him smile to himself.

He closes his sketchbook and pretends to pay attention, though his mind keeps drifting back to Mike. He wants to draw him. Really draw him. Maybe he could ask him to model for an art project… if he hadn’t already started one.

The clock on the wall shows five minutes left. Will starts packing up, notices Mike doing the same. One by one, everyone follows.

“I swear that class was endless,” Mike groans dramatically, resting his face in his hands.

“I know.”

“You didn’t even pay attention,” Mike accuses lightly. “You were drawing!”

That throws Will off a little. How did Mike notice? Their desks aren’t that close, and Will hadn’t seen Mike look away from the professor.

“How does that affect you?” Will teases, lightly punching Mike’s arm. “Just give me your notes.”

He always notices.

They leave the classroom and head straight to their usual spot—the bench under the massive tree that casts cool, beautiful shade. They always spend their free hour there. It feels different somehow. Quieter. More intimate.

“Hey, Mike… about the letter—”

“No. Don’t,” Mike interrupts quickly. “It’s fine. I forgive you. I don’t want to talk about it right now. We’re good. Let’s just… stay like this.”

Will nods. “Okay.”

They sit on the grass instead of the bench.

After a moment, Mike speaks again. “I was thinking… maybe we could have a sleepover this weekend. At your place or mine. We don’t really have much work anyway.”

Will’s face lights up. “I was thinking the same thing! I was going to ask you what we could do to pass the time.”

“Whatever you want to do with me is fine,” Mike says.

Silence follows—heavy, charged, but not uncomfortable. Mike means to give Will freedom, space, reassurance that he won’t push boundaries again.

Mike tries filling up the silence with talking, rambling about a show he found recently. Hearing Mike’s voice calms him, and Will finds himself staring, barely processing what’s being said. It’s rude, he knows—but he can’t help it, he can’t stop staring at him.

Mike feels Will’s gaze on him, intense, almost consuming. He keeps talking, rambling about a show he discovered recently, hoping Will will watch it too. Will doesn’t look away once. Mike feels small under that stare—like prey under a predator’s focus.

Slowly, he shifts closer. Just a little. He gestures with his hands as he talks, trying to make it seem natural, accidental. If his hand ends up close to Will’s, it won’t look weird. Just coincidence.

Eventually, his hand brushes Will’s.

Electric. It feels like an electric shock runs through his entire body. His heart races. His first instinct is to pull away, especially since his hand ends up resting very obviously on top of Will’s. But he forces himself to stay still. If Will moves away, he’ll stop. He won’t try again.

He wants to respect his boundaries, but he also wants to know how close he can get.

His heart slams against his ribs. He wants to pull away—but he doesn’t.

Will doesn’t either.

Instead, he looks down at their hands. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens. Mike realizes he’s stopped talking entirely. They sit there in silence, eyes locked.

Carefully, Mike adjusts his hand, covering Will’s completely. Will still doesn’t pull away.

A smile threatens to break free on Mike’s lips. He stares at their hands, unsure whether to say something—or if saying anything would ruin it. Is this normal between best friends?

“Will…” Mike says softly, without knowing what he wants to say—only that he needs to break the tension somehow.

“Don’t move your hand, please…” Will says quietly, squeezing Mike’s hand in return. “I’m not going to pull away this time.”

“Okay… yeah. That’s—that’s okay,” Mike replies, failing miserably at sounding calm. His heart is pounding at an absurd speed, but this time, it feels good. For the first time, touching Will doesn’t feel like a mistake.

They stay like that, silent, afraid that even the smallest word could shatter the moment.

Neither of them wants to move. They don’t want it to end. Their hands stay where they are, even as warmth and sweat build between their palms. It should be uncomfortable. It isn’t.

“I think we should head to our next class,” Mike finally says, checking the time with his free hand. Three minutes. Slowly, he pulls away, stands up, and brushes grass and dirt off his jeans.

Will stays seated, watching him.

“You okay?” Mike asks, even though the answer feels obvious.

“Yeah.” (no)

What Mike doesn’t know is that Will is fighting the overwhelming urge to jump up and kiss him. He’s never felt this before. He doesn’t know how to react—but he knows what he wants.

Still, this is supposed to be platonic. Just a sweet moment between best friends. Holding hands doesn’t belong only to couples, right?

So he pushes the thought away and stands up.

“Come on.” Will grabs the sleeve of Mike’s hoodie, dangerously close to his hand, and tugs him toward the classroom. If he were braver, he’d take his hand—but he doesn’t want to misunderstand things.

Mike feels like he might collapse. Like he might die right here. This can’t be platonic… right?

Or maybe he’s overthinking, like always. Best friends can have intimate moments. That’s normal. Right?

Still, the smile on his face won’t fade—if anything, it grows when he notices Will holding onto his sleeve, leading him forward.

It’s strange. But he doesn’t say anything. If he doesn’t mention it, there’s no problem. And if there’s no problem, everything stays the same—and he gets to keep moments like this with Will.

He can’t ignore the sudden shift in Will’s behavior—from avoiding him completely to almost forcing him to keep his hand there. It’s strange. But today, he doesn’t want to think about it.

He just wants to enjoy this.

And he can’t stop looking forward to the weekend—to the sleepover, to being close again. Maybe he’ll get to run his fingers through Will’s hair, trace his back. Only if Will wants it, of course.

Still, that stupid smile won’t leave his face.

I hope you want to be close to me as much as I want to be close to you.

Chapter Text

Saturday arrives before Mike even notices it. He wakes up early, excited, with a soft but constant anxiety about going to Will’s house later. He’s just gotten out of the shower; his hair is still a little damp, and with sleep clinging to his body, he heads down to the kitchen looking for some water… and maybe something small to eat.

On the first floor, he finds his mother and sister having breakfast together. He greets them briefly and walks over to the kitchen counter. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it in one go. His mouth feels dry.

His gaze settles on a bowl of already cut fruit.

“Can I eat this, or is it someone’s?” he asks, pointing at it.

“It was mine, but you can have it,” his sister replies.

Perfect. It’s not much fruit, but it’s enough to convince himself that he did eat something today. Besides, he needs the energy to get through the day with Will. Holding the bowl, he heads up to his room on the second floor.

The room is dark; the curtain on the window is half open, letting in only a few faint rays of light. The day is cloudy, so not much brightness gets in. He leaves the bowl on his nightstand and walks over to his desk, where his red notebook waits for him. He hasn’t written in it for days. Now that everything seems to be going well, he’s scared—and somehow feels like this is the right moment to do it.

“These days with Will have been incredible.
We’ve had a lot of physical contact, and he doesn’t seem uncomfortable.
It excites me, but I don’t want to misinterpret things.
Even though everything is fine, my anxiety has gotten worse, and my urges to hurt myself are stronger. I know everything is okay, but I can’t stop sabotaging myself and relapsing. The idea of being perfect for Will overwhelms me and makes me feel weak.
I’m scared he’ll see this sick part of me.”

The sigh he lets out feels like it fills all four walls of the room. He closes the notebook without much enthusiasm and lets himself fall onto the bed. He eats the fruit absentmindedly while thinking about what to wear to Will’s house. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even know what they’re going to do.

Play games? Watch movies? Again?

He doesn’t worry too much about it. He knows that once he’s there, ideas will come on their own… or maybe they won’t be necessary. Maybe they can just exist together, quietly.

He chooses something comfortable to wear. It isn’t hard—most of his clothes are black and long-sleeved. He grabs the first thing he sees and checks the time on his phone. It’s still early. He decides to text Will.

“Hi, Wille! Can I come over already? I have nothing to do and I want to see you. hehe”

After sending the message, he feels his nerves spike again, his hands starting to sweat. There’s nothing wrong with missing his best friend. It’s normal. Still, it embarrasses him to show it.

Just as he’s about to leave his phone on the nightstand, a reply comes in. Will answered quickly—that surprises him.

“Mike, Mike!”
“Yeah, you can come over already. I miss you toooo and I’ve got the house to myself today :))”

A stupid smile spreads across his face. He can hear Will’s voice in his head saying every word, and it fills him with a tenderness that tightens his chest. The fact that Will has the house to himself makes his stomach flip.

“Okk, I’m on my way. :)”

He sends the message and locks his phone. The excitement buzzing through his body makes him tremble slightly. He already wants to be lying in Will’s bed next to him, feeling the warmth of his body while they spend time together.

He goes downstairs to tell his mom he’s leaving, his cheeks aching from smiling so much. He barely listens to whatever she says as he opens the door and steps outside.

He hops on his bike, headphones already on like always, music filling his ears as he heads toward Will’s house.

It’s not the first time they’ve had a sleepover—of course not—but for some reason, today he feels especially excited to see him. Knowing Will has the house to himself makes him giddy. He doesn’t have anything interesting planned, but the thought of not being bothered all day, of being able to stay close to Will as much as he wants (as much as Will allows), makes his heart race.

Fifteen minutes later, he arrives. With cold hands, he knocks on the front door, rocking slightly from side to side as he waits. When he hears footsteps approaching, he straightens up, a small smile on his face.

“Hi!” Will looks him up and down and laughs softly. “Are you okay?” He steps aside to let Mike in.

“Yeah, yeah. Why?” Mike stumbles over the words.

“You looked cute standing there all stiff, waiting for me.” Will closes the door behind them and rubs Mike’s back in greeting, meeting his eyes.

“Oh… hehe.” Mike tries to laugh it off, but the warmth of Will’s hand on his back distracts him.

“So, what do you wanna do? I’ve got a whole list of movies we can watch! Or we can play board games—you know I’ve got tons.” He steps away as he talks, his hands moving with his words.

“I’m going to die.”
Is the only thing going through Mike’s head.

“Whatever you want to do is fine,” Mike says. His voice comes out soft, with a playful edge he doesn’t even try to exaggerate. His eyes look just as gentle as they meet Will’s.

Will’s throat suddenly feels dry. Mike’s voice is so soft that he has to focus completely to catch the words. The way Mike looks at him—slightly downward, with that crooked smile—makes him feel like he’s about to drown.

“Uh…” He clears his throat. “Well, let’s go to my room and figure it out, yeah?” He scratches the back of his neck and points upstairs.

“Okay.”

As they walk up the stairs, Will doesn’t understand why he reacted like that. There was something about Mike’s voice that made him nervous, but he can’t pinpoint what it was. The thought fades, but the feeling doesn’t. They reach the room, and Will opens the door, stepping aside so Mike can enter.

“Ohhh! What’s this?” Mike points at a wooden easel covered with a white sheet.

“It’s the project I told you about.”

“Can I see it?” Mike steps toward it, but Will’s hand on his chest stops him.

“No!” He relaxes immediately. “I mean—it’s not finished yet, and I wanna show you when it is… okay?”

Mike nods and steps back, not upset—just worried he crossed a line. He looks around the room instead. There are new drawings, new posters, and music records neatly arranged on the furniture.

“Will…”

“Huh?”

“Teach me how to draw.”

“Oh! YES, YES.” Will’s voice lifts as he grabs notebooks and pencils, excited. He takes Mike by the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him toward the bed, sitting close together.

“I’m so glad you asked—I’ve been waiting YEARS to teach you how to draw!” He opens a notebook and places a pencil in Mike’s hand, so focused and eager that he doesn’t even give him time to respond.

“What do you wanna draw?” Will asks, turning to him and freezing when he meets Mike’s steady gaze and soft smile. It makes him smile too.

“I’d say I wanna draw you, but I should probably learn to draw anyone first.” He plays with the pencil. “If I learn, you’ll be my first official piece.”

What.
WHAT.

“What? Why me?” Will asks, nervous, his hands going to the back of his neck again, smiling to hide how overwhelmed he feels.

“Because your features are really pretty. I want to draw you.” Mike holds his gaze the entire time, his expression serious, his voice soft—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh…” Will doesn’t know what to say, so he lets it go.

He prefers to let it go.

Mike, on the other hand, feels like he’s about to pass out. The touches on his back, Will pulling him by the sleeve to sit beside him, how close they are—too close, and neither of them moves away.

It’s true, though. He really does want to draw Will. He thinks he’s beautiful. No matter how he looks—tired, sweaty, messy—Will always looks good doing everything and nothing at all.

Mike pretends to focus on what Will is saying, but one of Will’s hands rests on his back while the other guides his own, adjusting how he holds the pencil, the angle of his hand. What is happening to Will?

He’s overheating, probably from the nerves that keep building in his thin body. He doesn’t have a short-sleeved shirt underneath—nothing to help—so he just has to endure the warmth, his own and Will’s.

“Like this?” Mike asks. He turns his head to the right and finds Will’s face right there. They’re so close he can feel his breath. Neither of them moves.

“Yeah.” Will’s eyes stay locked on his. He even leans in a little, the tiny space between them feeling suffocating. He doesn’t understand why his body won’t listen to him.

Finally, Will turns his head away. The seconds felt like hours. Mike keeps doing what he’s told, his hand damp with sweat, trembling. He wipes it on his pants again and again, afraid of smudging Will’s sketchbook—or of Will being disgusted by his sweaty hands.

He shifts on the bed, his knee bumping into Will’s. He pretends not to notice, terrified that acknowledging it might make the contact stop. He stays quiet, keeping everything to himself.

At least an hour passes. Mike hears Will’s excited tone more than the words themselves. On purpose, he messes things up so Will has to guide his hand again, show him the “right way.” Their bodies never move far enough apart to cool down—always brushing, always too aware. They meet each other’s eyes, then look away with shy smiles.

Mike is on the edge of collapse.

What he doesn’t know is that Will is there too—just better at pretending. Pretending Mike’s gaze doesn’t linger on his lips when he talks. Pretending that holding his hand, that touching his back, is casual.

“Wow…” Will finally breaks the silence. “You’re really bad.” He says it lightly, tapping Mike’s back before pulling away to turn on the TV.

“Okay?! Sorry for not being Mr. Perfect like you,” Mike shoots back, closing the notebook and setting the pencil aside with exaggerated offense.

“Come on. Let’s lie down.” Mike flops onto the bed beside him, earning a laugh.

“Do you wanna… finish the movie?” Mike asks.

“Mm, honestly? No. I didn’t understand it.” Will scrolls until they settle on something easy.

They pick Ghostbusters. Just something to have on.

Mike settles beside Will. Their hands brush, then stay that way. Will rests his head against Mike’s shoulder.

At some point, Mike realizes he hasn’t been following the movie at all. Will’s head is still there—warm, familiar—and now his left hand is gently playing with Mike’s fingers, absentminded, unguarded.

Mike doesn’t move.

He lets the moment exist exactly as it is.

The movie keeps going. The room grows quiet. Somewhere between the glow of the screen and the steady rise and fall of Will’s breathing, sleep finds them like that—too close, tangled, unspoken.

Mike closes his eyes, heart racing.

Nothing happens.

But it feels like everything already has.

Chapter Text

A small ray of light wakes Mike. He tries to sit up, but there’s a weight on top of him that won’t let him move. When he turns his head, he finds Will’s soft hair resting against his chest.

He gently moves the strands covering Will’s face, careful not to shift too much, careful not to wake him.

He takes advantage of the moment to really look at him—at his peaceful expression, his relaxed features—and brushes his cheek lightly. Will looks so calm, so beautiful, that Mike’s chest fills with warmth.

“Will…” he shakes him gently.

“Will,” he says louder, making him open his eyes slowly.

“Mmm…” something incomprehensible.

“Wake up, Willie.” He strokes his hair, only getting meaningless murmurs in response.

“No… go back to sleep, Michael…” The hand already resting on his chest presses against him, making it clear he doesn’t want to get up.

“Baby… I’m hungry.” Will lifts his head. Mike caresses his jaw.

“You’re hungry? I can make you something to eat.” Apparently, the idea of feeding Mike sounds very appealing to Will, because he sits up suddenly and rubs his tired eyes.

“I like that idea.” He smiles weakly.

“Baby?..” Will whispers, just loud enough for Mike to hear.

“Ah… sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” Mike scratches his cheek lightly.

Will doesn’t answer.

“Will…” He doesn’t finish the word. Will interrupts him.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Will interrupts him quickly. “I think I have some fruit. I can cut some for you if you want.” His words come out rushed, uneven.

Mike sits on the bed, rubs his eyes, and takes a deep breath. His stomach feels strange. Heavy. He’s not sure how to describe it, only that it’s unpleasant—like something bad is about to happen.

“I can help you…”

“No, I’ll do it.” He sighs. “Do you want fruit?”

Mike just nods. He couldn’t look at Will.

Why did he call him baby? Hadn’t he learned anything from last time? Surely now Will would want to disappear, kick him out of the house, lock himself away—anything to avoid him forever. The worst part is that it felt natural. He didn’t even question the nickname—much less the position they’d been sleeping in, tangled together.

Will leaves the room. And while he prepares breakfast, Mike can’t calm his racing heart. Now that he’s fully awake, fully aware of what he’s done, his chest tightens and his mouth feels dry.

He collapses back onto the bed, grabs a pillow, and presses his face into it, screaming into the fabric to muffle the sound.

His stomach churns. The anxiety grows so intense he feels like he might actually throw up. He needs to calm down. Needs to do something—anything—to ground himself.

His skin itches.
His arms itch.
His face itches.

He scratches.

Eventually, Mike decides to go downstairs. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, his steps slow and careful, quiet enough not to scare Will—or draw his attention.

“What’s wrong?” The moment he notices him on the first floor, he turns to look at him.

“Nothing! I just came to see if you needed help or… something.” He scratches his arm, his eyes looking everywhere except at Will.

“Don’t worry, here.” He hands him a plate of fruit.

“Thanks…”

“Eat something, okay? I haven’t seen you eat.”

That last comment is what finally breaks him.

He barely makes it to the bathroom in time, vomiting into the toilet. His eyes water uncontrollably, his body weak as he braces himself against the cold tile, afraid he’ll collapse completely. His stomach gives out and he has to throw up. The anxiety hits him all at once, his body unable to take it.

Why does he treat him like this but care about him at the same time?
Why?

“Mike?! Are you okay? What happened?” Will’s voice sounds distant.

He kneels in front of Mike, cupping his face in his hands, his eyes scanning him frantically.

“Are you okay? What do you need?” His voice grows more desperate. He can’t stop touching him, looking at him. He can’t.

“Will…” Mike shakes his head.

Everything hits him at once. The exhaustion. The fear. The shame.

“Do you want water? I’ll get water.” He starts to stand up, but Mike’s hand stops him.

“Will, I’m sorry—”

“Huh? Why? Let me get you water—”

“Wait!”

He stops halfway, letting himself fall beside Mike.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for calling you that, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable, I’m sorry for touching you like that, forgive me for—” His eyes fill with tears again, his breathing uneven, his words tripping over each other as he spirals further.

“Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike!”

Silence.

“It’s okay.” Will places his hands on Mike’s shoulders. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t say anything else.

He isn’t ready either. Mike’s reaction has left him completely disoriented. He doesn’t know what to say—only that he needs Mike to know everything is okay.

“Why… why do you change?” And before he can stop it, a tear slips from Mike’s eye.

“What? uh—” He shakes his head. “I’m going to get you water, wait.” He stands up immediately.

Mike leans back against the wall. There’s no point hiding it anymore. No point pretending he’s fine after causing such a scene.

He cries silently. Hard. Without sound.

“Mike…” Will hands him the glass of water.

“Why do you change?..” he asks again, this time looking at him.

Will feels his chest tighten. The urge to cry overwhelms him, but he can’t. He shouldn’t. He tries to breathe.

Will’s chest tightens. The urge to cry hits him hard, but he forces it down. This isn’t about him.

He breathes in.
Breathes out.

“Mike. I need you to calm down, okay? Just… calm down first.” He takes the empty glass, his gaze drifting to Mike’s clothes. “You should shower. You’ve got… vomit on you.”

Mike only cries harder, his hands covering his face, sobbing in a way Will has never seen before.

His face is red, eyes swollen, lips cracked and slightly bloody from biting them too hard.

Will doesn’t move away—not for a second. He stays seated in front of him, close but not close enough to touch. Afraid of doing the wrong thing. Afraid of making it worse.

When Mike’s breathing finally starts to slow, when it’s no longer erratic, Will quietly places a glass of water beside him. Then another.

Still silent.

Mike sniffles, wipes his remaining tears with his sleeve, and finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Will is confused.
Sorry for what?

Mike is apologizing for everything.
The looks. The touches. The words. Even his own feelings—the ones that brought him here, collapsed on the bathroom floor of the boy he’s in love with.

“Mike, listen to me.” Will’s voice is gentle. “Everything is okay. I’m not mad. I’m not uncomfortable. You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

He pauses, needing a moment to breathe.

“I’m the one who should apologize. The nickname caught me off guard—and I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Everything’s okay.”

He wipes the remaining tear tracks from Mike’s face, carefully moving his damp hair aside.

“I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry for making you feel like this.”

His voice is raw. Real. Completely vulnerable.

He’s terrified he’s hurt his friend irreversibly—his best friend, the person he’s shared his life with for years.

A tear slips out, but he wipes it away immediately. This isn’t about him.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know why… I don’t know,” Mike murmurs, his gaze distant. He’s dissociating now, eyes closing from exhaustion, head resting against the wall.

“I’m going to get you some clothes, okay? Take a shower.”

Will closes the door behind him, leans against it, and breathes deeply.

He doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t know anything.

He grabs clothes from his room—a long-sleeve shirt meant for Mike, and a pair of shorts—moving on autopilot, his mind full of questions and guilt.

“I’m coming in, okay! I’ll leave them close to you.”

A weak “okay” answers him.

Mike leans against the shower wall, warm water hitting his body, making him drowsy. He wants to sleep.

Or go back in time. Undo this. Hide this vulnerable part of himself from Will.

He doesn’t have the energy to cry anymore. Throwing up on an empty stomach and letting everything spill out has drained him completely. He scrubs his skin harshly, leaving it red.

After washing his hair, he cracks the shower door open to grab the clothes and a towel. He dries off, gets dressed, wrings out his hair as best he can, and takes a steadying breath before stepping out.

“Will, I’m out.”

His eyes stay on the floor as he walks toward the kitchen.

“Mike…” Will stands immediately, brushing the wet hair from his face. “Do you feel better?”

Mike looks even paler. Fresh scratches mark his legs. His eyes are unfocused. Will’s chest tightens painfully.

“Mike, please forgive me. I’m sorry for changing my attitude so suddenly and causing all of this.” His voice breaks as he strokes Mike’s arms, repeating I’m sorry over and over, shaking his head in denial.

The guilt consumes him. He knows Mike well enough to know this is his fault.

“Will… it’s okay…”

“No! Mike, fuck. Of course it’s not okay. In the letter you wrote me, you told me how badly I made you feel—and I still did it again.” He breathes. “You don’t bother me. You don’t make me uncomfortable. I just don’t want to misinterpret your actions as something more.”

His voice trembles as he finally says it.

The words make Mike’s world collapse all over again. Even if Will doesn’t know what he feels, he’s still rejecting him—still choosing friendship.

Mike’s breathing turns uneven. He’s about to respond, but Will speaks first.

“I don’t want to stop being this close to you. I like how you make me feel. But if you decide to pull away, I’ll understand.” Their eyes meet.

Again, silence.

“I don’t want to stop being this close either.”

“Do you want to go home? Are you hungry? Tell me what you need.” Will guides him to the couch, and they sit together.

“I don’t really want to leave… and I’m not hungry,” Mike says quietly, scratching the back of his neck. “Can I stay?”

Will exhales slowly, then smiles and nods.

He’s relieved—relieved that Mike doesn’t hate him. At least not yet.

Being close to Will had never stopped hurting. It just hurt differently now.

Mike can still stay close.
Even if the rejection is indirect.

Chapter Text

After the chaos, Mike fell asleep on the couch without even realizing it. In that time, Will took the chance to wash his clothes and make him something small to eat. He stayed sitting on the floor beside the couch, not wanting Mike to wake up and see him—afraid it might make him feel bad all over again. He put on a series to pass the time, waiting for Mike to wake up.

“Mmm.”

A murmur catches his attention. Will turns his head and sees his friend with half-open eyes, rubbing his face, confusion written all over his expression.

“Did I fall asleep?”
His voice is deep and rough from just waking up, sending a shiver down Will’s spine.

“Yeah. A while ago,” he answers softly.

“Shit…”

Mike rubs his eyes and sits up abruptly. His long, curly hair is a complete mess, sticking out in every direction, making him look almost funny.

“It’s okay! I’d rather know you got some rest. I made you some food, brought you water, and washed your clothes—I mean, if you want to change into them, of course,” Will adds, scratching the back of his neck, a little nervous. He realizes he might sound a bit too enthusiastic.

“Oh! Thanks, Will!”

Mike is infinitely grateful—not just for everything Will did for him, but for the way he treats him normally, like any other day. Even though tension and awkwardness still linger in the air, they aren’t unbearable.

He sits back on the couch, stretching carefully. His head hurts, his body aches, and his eyes burn. His mouth is dry too, so the food and the glass of water Will brought him are more than welcome. They’re sitting on the small table in front of him: a blue plate and a clear glass filled with water. He reaches for the glass first, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in his throat.

Will stays seated on the floor, now looking at the TV. He seems to be watching a series he’s already seen a thousand times and never gets tired of. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his head resting against them.

Mike decides to sit beside him—not too close, not enough to make him uncomfortable, but close enough to know that they’re okay. He grabs the food and finally eats something after hours. Sometimes he forgets how wonderful it is to eat—to taste flavors, feel textures, to feel full. It’s such an incredible sensation that he almost fears being allergic to it.

It’s simple food, but his body needed it, whether he wants to admit it or not. They sit in silence, surrounded only by the voices from the TV and the sounds of the street outside.

It isn’t an uncomfortable silence. Despite everything that happened earlier, it doesn’t feel that way—at least not to Mike. And that makes him feel happy. Relieved.

Before falling asleep on the couch, he remembers asking God for help, asking Him not to let Will drift away from him. He isn’t religious, but sometimes—when he feels desperate—he turns to God anyway.

A few hours ago, he was desperate. The panic of Will leaving him was so overwhelming he felt like he might throw up again or completely collapse. But instead, he woke up to Will treating him with the same warmth he’s known for years. And for that, he’s grateful.

Now, calm at last, he can finally breathe.

He finishes his food and his water. He’s afraid to speak—afraid his voice might come out too loud, or strange, afraid of ruining the comfortable silence they’ve created. So he stays quiet and leans back against the couch. If he relaxes his body, maybe Will will relax too. Maybe the tension will fade. That’s his logic.

He glances to his left and notices his clothes neatly folded on a small chair in front of him. He stands up with the intention of changing. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable wearing Will’s clothes—quite the opposite—but he doesn’t want to take advantage of his kindness.

“Everything okay?”

Will’s worried voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Mike turns immediately.

“Ah! Yeah, yeah. I’m just going to change,” he smiles, trying to reassure him. He bends down slightly to grab his clothes and looks at Will’s face, watching the concern fade almost instantly. Then he heads to the bathroom.

Stepping inside makes his skin prickle. Unwanted images of him collapsing and vomiting flash through his mind. He shakes his head quickly, trying to push them away, forcing himself to think about something else—anything. Like how cold the bathroom floor is. How small the room feels. How he just wants to put his clothes on.

As he changes, he notices the marks left on his skin from how rough everything was earlier. He ignores them for now. This isn’t the moment to feel miserable. He just needs to breathe for a second.

He leaves the clothes Will lent him in the laundry basket and heads back to the living room. When he realizes Will isn’t there, confusion creeps in.

Calm down.
There’s nothing negative about Will’s behavior. He even asked him to stay. He needs to relax.

“Will?”

He sits on the couch, scanning the house, looking for any sign of him.

“Oh! Mike, come upstairs!”

Will’s voice sounds distant, coming from his bedroom.

Mike goes up without thinking too much—though nerves still buzz through his system, as usual.

When he opens the bedroom door, he finds Will standing behind the easel, the canvas now uncovered. The room smells strongly of paint, cool air flowing in through the open window. Will looks serious, completely focused on his work.

“What are you doing?” Mike asks with a smile. He’s always found it endearing to watch Will concentrate on something he loves.

“I’m adding the final details to this painting!”
His voice sounds excited now.
“While you were asleep, I made a looot of progress, and I want to show you.”

He stands there, staring at the canvas, wondering if it needs anything else. His right hand rests against his jaw, his left on his hip. From Mike’s perspective, he looks both adorable and ridiculous—especially with that serious expression and narrowed eyes as he analyzes his own work.

“Oh, so you’re finally going to let me see it?”

Mike sits on Will’s desk, pulling the chair closer so they’re not too far apart.

“Yep.”

He goes quiet for a moment.

They both fall silent. Mike feels the suspense settle in his chest.

“Okay! Close your eyes. I’m going to show you,” Will says, gesturing toward him. He grabs the canvas and waits for Mike to cover his eyes before turning it around.

When Mike finally opens them—only after hearing Will say “Okay!”—he freezes.

He knows Will is talented. Intelligent. Good at almost everything he does—sometimes so good it makes Mike a little jealous. But this painting… this one is one of the best he’s ever seen.

“Oh, wow…”
His eyes widen, his smile slightly open-mouthed in awe.
“Shit, it’s—”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no, no! The opposite! It’s really good. I think it’s one of the best ones you’ve ever shown me—no offense!” he rushes to add.

Will laughs softly and brings the canvas closer so Mike can see the details, not letting him touch it—probably because the paint hasn’t dried yet.

“I have a question…”

Mike taps a finger against his lips, squinting one eye.
“Why does this guy look like me?”

He points at one of the three figures in the painting—the one standing at the front.

When Will first showed him the sketch, Mike noticed the resemblance but thought he imagined it. Now, with the finished piece, the similarity is undeniable.

“Oh…”

Will’s cheeks turn slightly pink.

“It’s you.”

He lifts the canvas again, like a little kid proudly showing off his masterpiece.

Mike tilts his head. Him? Why him?

Will notices the confusion on his face and speaks again.

“I made it thinking about you,” he admits, taking a deep breath.
“Whenever I paint, I think about you. And I thought making you a painting would be a good idea.”

He hides his now completely flushed face behind the canvas.

“Really?.. But why?”

Mike doesn’t know what to say.

“Well… it’s not the first time I’ve drawn you, if I’m being honest…”
He pauses, clearly struggling to continue.
“You’re… someone with really beautiful features. I think they’re worth putting on paper. That’s why I wanted to do this properly.”

His words come out a little rushed, still hiding behind the canvas.

“Oh…”

Now it’s Mike’s cheeks that burn pink. His chest feels tight—but not in a bad way. More like excitement. A warm, positive feeling.

“If you don’t like it, we can pretend this never happened,” Will jokes softly, trying to ease the moment, to calm his nerves. He lets out a small, nervous laugh.

Mike laughs too, shaking his head as he gently lowers the canvas from Will’s face.

“Thank you. I love it.”
He smiles.

It’s sincere. Wide. Beautiful.
It makes Will feel good—really good. It stirs something in his stomach he doesn’t recognize as bad or uncomfortable. He doesn’t mind Mike smiling at him like that. In fact, he hopes it happens more often.

Will places the canvas back on the easel, near the window so it can dry faster, then lies down on the bed. Mike follows, lying beside him. Without meaning to, their arms brush. Mike freezes, afraid of rejection—but he doesn’t move, afraid of being misunderstood. His mind spirals, unsure of what to do.

But Will, contrary to what he expects, shifts just a little closer, their hands lightly brushing. Mike glances at him and sees that Will is focused on his phone, as if nothing happened.

Mike closes his eyes, inhales deeply, exhales—and silently thanks God. Moments like this make him think God might have mercy after all.

After that, they stay quiet, scrolling on their phones, showing each other videos that make them laugh. They comment occasionally, but silence always returns.

And Mike loves the silence.
The silence with Will.

And Will loves the silence with Mike—even if he doesn’t fully know it yet.

Chapter Text

The weeks went by, finals came and went, and their final grades finally gave them permission to rest. With winter break starting, they could go out more often and spend more time together without the constant pressure of finishing a final project or studying for another exam.

The last few weeks at college had been really nice—at least, that’s what Mike thought. Will had been slowly getting closer to him, allowing small, gentle touches, always asking for permission with a look before doing so. Usually, Mike was the one who initiated things, but lately, Will had been doing it more often. It made Mike happier than he wanted to admit.

On the other hand, Mike had decided to start therapy. The breakdown he’d had in front of Will had finally made him realize—at last—that the way he reacted to things wasn’t normal, much less the way he let his emotions explode. Unfortunately, he’d relapsed a few times, but it wasn’t like before. He wrote more often in his red notebook—his journal—to avoid bottling everything up and to release his emotions in a healthier way.

He hadn’t told Will about that. It embarrassed him a little, even though he knew Will wouldn’t judge him. He didn’t want to look weaker than he already had the last time.

Now, he was leaving the Hawkins public library, his journal tucked under his arm and his headphones on. He’d gone in hoping to find some inspiration—he wanted to finish a story he’d been working on for months, one he hadn’t been able to complete because of creative blocks. So he’d gone looking for inspiration in other people’s books.

The story was something personal, just for himself. He didn’t plan on publishing it anywhere or showing it to anyone—maybe only his friends, once it was finished.

As he walked toward a nearby bench, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and smiled when he saw a notification from Will.

There were several messages from him, asking—more like insisting—that they go to the mall later, asking if Mike had time. What caught Mike’s attention, though, was the nickname Will used.

Mikey.

It was funny. Strange. It wasn’t the first time Will had called him that, but he was the only person who ever did. Still, it felt… different.

He replied:

I’ll be free in an hour, okay?

Okay! <3

He turned off his phone and headed home on his bike, headphones on, his stomach full of butterflies and his chest feeling tight. The excitement of seeing his friend—who he’d already seen just a few days ago—grew with every minute.

When he got home, he greeted his mom and told her he was going out again, this time with Will. He went up to his room and left his journal on his desk. He sighed. His chest still felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe properly.

He tried not to think about it—not to focus on the way his body felt—and instead turned his attention to what he was going to wear. He stood in front of his closet, staring.

“Maybe I should just go naked,” he muttered, frustrated, scratching his head.

He didn’t have extravagant clothes. He wasn’t particularly attractive, and he definitely didn’t have a great body. Still, he felt this need to look good—to look presentable, to feel okay with himself when he was with Will. Not like he looked wrong. Like some kind of offense.

He stood there, staring at his clothes, thinking about the thousand basic options he had. He sighed again. Even though he felt like he couldn’t breathe, it also felt like his chest was full of too much air.

In the end, he chose a soft gray sweater, black pants, and his black Converse. Simple, but he hoped—really hoped—it looked good on him. He went to take a shower; his hair was a mess, and he needed to wash and fix it.

As he stepped into the shower and waited for the water to heat up, he closed his eyes.

Calm down. It’s just a normal hangout with your best friend.

He thought it over and over, trying to relax, trying to quiet his thoughts. When the water finally turned warm, he stepped under it, soaped himself thoroughly—he couldn’t shower without scrubbing his skin or he’d feel dirty. He washed his hair three times, because otherwise he felt like it smelled bad.

He brushed his teeth twice, just in case.

He left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, dried himself as best as he could, put on his underwear and then his clothes. He grabbed his hair products, styled his curls, and waited for them to dry a bit before leaving. Before they fully dried, he fixed them one last time.

Then, finally, he left the house.

Before getting on his bike, he texted Will.

On my way!

Less than five seconds later, he got a reply.

Okokokokokok!!! I’m going too!

He rode toward the mall with his headphones on, music blasting at full volume, completely lost in his own world.

When he arrived, he texted Will to ask where he was. Will replied that he was sitting on the benches near the entrance.

“Hii,” Mike said, dragging out the word as he smiled and hugged him.

“Mhm, hi Mikey,” Will said softly, hugging him back.

The nickname again. It threw Mike off, but he didn’t want to think too much about it—just a cute nickname from his friend. Nothing more.

“What do you wanna do?” Mike asked as he sat next to him on the bench. Their bodies were close, and timidly, Mike moved his hand closer to Will’s—without touching it yet—looking into his eyes.

“I wanna look at some art stuff. Maybe buy something,” Will said, tilting his head slightly as he looked at Mike. His body was turned toward him, his voice soft, a gentle smile on his face.

“Oh! Okay. Can we go to the music store after?” Mike asked.

“Sure.”

They stood up and headed toward the stores. Both were on the second floor, so they made their way to the escalators.

Will stepped forward but didn’t watch his footing and stumbled. Mike’s hand shot out instinctively, stopping him from falling.

“Jesus, be careful—you almost died,” Mike joked, making Will laugh.

“Sorry, hehe,” Will said as he stepped onto the escalator behind him, one step lower. From there, he had to look up to meet Mike’s gaze.

Without thinking—pure impulse—Mike couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching Will’s hair. From that angle, with Will below him, looking up, eyes wide, hair soft… his stomach twisted violently. He brushed his fingers gently through Will’s hair, down to his jaw.

“You look really cute today,” he said.

Before Will could respond, they reached the second floor and stepped off the escalator.

Will’s face was pink now. His hands fidgeted nervously, his body tense, trembling slightly—but once again, he tried to hide it.

“Th—Thanks?..” His voice betrayed him, shaky and unsure.

“Ah—sorry if I crossed a line. You just… looked really cute,” Mike said quickly, now the nervous one, biting the inside of his cheek and rubbing his face.

I shouldn’t have done that. I acted on impulse. What’s wrong with me?

“It’s okay! Don’t worry,” Will said. Before Mike could reply, Will reached for his hand—not fully, just enough to ask for permission. “It didn’t bother me.”

He smiled. That same beautiful smile—one that could melt Mike in seconds.

When Mike realized Will was holding his hand, he turned to say something, but Will cut him off.

“There’s a lot of people, and I—I don’t wanna get lost, y’know? But if it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to—” His words tumbled out fast, his eyes everywhere except on Mike.

It had been a while since Mike had seen Will this nervous—or at least, this openly nervous.

“It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind,” Mike said, squeezing his hand gently. “Let’s go.”

They walked together toward the store Will wanted to visit.

As they walked, Mike noticed people staring at them—their hands, the fact that they were two guys. He saw faces twist into disgust. Honestly, he didn’t care. What worried him was whether Will was comfortable, whether he’d even noticed.

Parents glared at them. Couples whispered and laughed, not bothering to hide it. Mike kept walking.

When they finally arrived, they still hadn’t let go of each other’s hands. Neither of them wanted to. It felt too intimate, too precious to give up.

Will only let go when something caught his attention. His excitement was obvious as he wandered through the store, Mike following close behind with a soft smile.

Mike listened as Will talked about the tools he wished he had, how they could help improve his art.

“You know… someday we could come back and buy you whatever you need,” Mike said, resting his hands on Will’s shoulders. His voice was warm, gentle.

Will turned to look at him, glowing.

“That would be nice! But I don’t really have the money for that,” he admitted, embarrassed but not sad.

“I do,” Mike said, daring to say it aloud, reaching up to touch Will’s hair again.

Will didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all—just stared at Mike.

He was looking at his freckles, his smooth skin, his pink lips, his dark eyes so expressive they made Will weak every time.

“Let’s go to the music store,” Will said suddenly.

He didn’t take Mike’s hand again. He didn’t look angry—just overwhelmed. Not ready. Not yet.

As they walked, Will noticed the worry on Mike’s face. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to make it worse. It wasn’t that the touch had bothered him—far from it. It had just been… too much. Enough to make him feel like he might cry.

So he reached out and gently rubbed Mike’s arm—a silent it’s okay.

When their eyes met, Will nodded. Mike’s breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxed.

They reached the music store. Now it was Mike’s turn to light up.

“Wow—look at all the records! And—and the vinyls! And the cassettes!” He pointed everywhere at once, excited, not knowing where to start.

He wandered through the store, looking at records, vinyls, cassettes—there were even some 8-tracks. Headphones, record players, all kinds of things.

Then he saw them.

At the back of the store, guitars lined the wall—electric and acoustic. A soft gasp escaped him as he walked toward them.

“Will! Look!” He carefully picked up an electric guitar, eyes wide, smiling like nothing else existed.

“Oh, it’s pretty. But don’t you already have one?” Will asked innocently.

“Yeah, but this—” Mike froze, his gaze locked onto something else.

He carefully put the guitar back and walked toward it.

“Mike, what—?”

“Will, holy shit, look. This is a fucking Rickenbacker.”

He held it up, breath caught in his throat, completely absorbed.

“Okay…? I don’t really get it,” Will laughed.

“The bands I listen to use these. And I feel like… it would help me express things I can’t say out loud,” Mike said, looking straight at him.

“There are guitars made to be loud. And others made to be heard. This one’s the second kind.”

The red-orange color reflected off his face and hands. Will watched quietly.

“Then it would suit you,” Will said softly.

Mike smiled at him, put the guitar back, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe someday. When I have the money.”

He glanced at the price tag.

$1200.

Not even close to possible.

Will understood then—this guitar wasn’t just an object. It meant something.

“Hey… wanna get ice cream? That I can afford,” Mike said, smiling, though the disappointment was obvious.

“Oh! Yeah, sure.”

They left the store, walking slowly, bodies close, no rush at all.

Mike glanced at their hands—so close they were almost touching. He wanted to hold Will’s hand. He didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

Will noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I just—nothing,” Mike said, embarrassed.

“Do you wanna hold my hand?” Will asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mike nodded.

Will took his hand gently. Both were careful, afraid of gripping too tight, afraid of ruining it.

They were sure that if the mall had gone silent, they would’ve been able to hear their own hearts pounding.

They spotted the ice cream stand in the distance. Will ordered vanilla—simple.

Mike paid before Will could.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” he insisted, making the worker laugh.

They sat on a bench. The mall was quieter now, but still full—kids laughing, parents scolding, couples chatting, friends being loud.

“Mike, do you want some?” Will asked, holding out his ice cream.

“Uh…”

“You can have a little,” Will said, bringing it closer, voice low.

Mike swallowed. His face burned. He leaned in and licked the ice cream, their eyes meeting.

Will’s face flushed. A smile threatened to form.

“You look cute,” Will said suddenly.

“What?”

“You look cute. I don’t know why you got like that, but you do.”

Mike was dying.

“I think I should go… it’s getting late,” he said quickly, standing up.

“What? It’s still early,” Will said, checking the time.

“My mom’s calling me,” Mike lied. “We can hang out another day!”

Will pouted but nodded.

“Okay. Text me when you get home.”

“Yeah.”

They hugged. Will stayed on the bench as Mike walked away, legs shaky, breath uneven, body overheated despite the cold air.

He just wanted to get home. To sleep. To write. To stop thinking.

Mike couldn’t stop thinking about the way Will had said his name.

Mikey.

It echoed in his head over and over again, soft and familiar, and he hated how much it stayed with him. He kept wondering if it meant something—or if it was just that, a sweet word said by someone who had no idea what it did to him.

By the time he got home, exhaustion hit him all at once. He let himself fall onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his chest tight and his heart still beating too fast.

He wanted to sleep.

But more than anything, he wanted to understand what was growing between them… before it started to hurt even more.

Chapter Text

Will had always enjoyed going to the forest near his house, disappearing there for a while. He had done it since he was a child, and now that he was in college, he went even more often. It was a place where he felt comfortable—safe enough to be vulnerable.

One morning, after coming back from vacation, he decided to go there. Hidden in the forest was a fort he had built with the help of his brother, still standing. There had been setbacks—times when it had been destroyed—but he always managed to rebuild it, better than before.

It was cold. He wore a jacket with a long-sleeve shirt underneath, but his body still felt frozen, trembling slightly. When he reached his safe space, he grabbed a blanket he kept hidden away so it wouldn’t get too dirty.

Finally, he put on his headphones and took out his sketchbook. Lately, he had been thinking a lot.

Too much.

Mike and he were better now. Much better than before. There was more physical contact, more closeness, more intimacy. At first, it scared him—still did, a little—but he was starting to get used to it. Nothing inappropriate had happened, if it could even be called that. The last uncomfortable moment was when they tried to watch a movie together, and Will had to leave because of the strange sensations his body started to feel.

After that—after the apologies, after fixing things and slowly growing close again—Mike began asking before doing anything that might be too much. Touching his face. Running his fingers through his hair for too long.

But recently, when they went to the mall, there was a tension that was impossible to ignore. Mike touched his hair and his face without asking this time.

And it didn’t bother him.

On the contrary.

He liked it.

They held hands as if they were a couple, and Will couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Like a couple.

The idea of being perceived as Mike’s boyfriend didn’t bother him at all, and that scared him a little. To release all those thoughts and feelings, he had started drawing Mike. It was contradictory, maybe, but it helped.

The painting he had given Mike—he knew Mike had it hanging in his room—made his chest feel warm every time he thought about it. Now, his sketchbook was filled with Mike’s face, his hands, his profile, his hair, his eyes, his lips. Any part of him.

Whenever he remembered their trip to the mall, embarrassment washed over him, especially when he thought about offering Mike his ice cream. Mike’s flushed face, how nervous he looked, how he glanced around like he didn’t know what to do—and the way Will leaned closer to him. His stomach had flipped. He tried not to smile, but he doubted he’d been very subtle.

Now, once again, he decided to draw Mike’s profile. Drawing Mike was something he genuinely enjoyed, something that distracted him. He loved focusing on the sharp lines of his features, sketching his freckles, his slightly full lips, his slender, defined face. He really was a very attractive guy.

As he drew and listened to music, he thought about Mike’s actions, his gestures, how nervous he got, and found himself wondering—

Why did he react that way?

At the beginning of their friendship, it hadn’t been like this. Or maybe it had, and Will just hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t noticed how nervous Mike got when he stood close, how his face flushed whenever Will smiled at him or said something to reassure him. The closeness they shared wasn’t something Will saw in his other friends, even with their own best friends.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he was the one who felt that way first, and now seeing Mike act the same way unsettled him.

He supposed it was normal to cuddle with your friend while watching a movie. Normal to hold hands at the mall.

Right?

He was almost done with the drawing now, and the more he thought about those moments—the touches, the brushes of skin, the words, Mike’s face—the more ridiculous it felt to pretend he didn’t know what was happening. Everything replayed in his mind like a movie moving too fast to fully understand.

He had tried dating other guys, but it never worked. And now that he thought about it, most of them looked physically similar to Mike.

What was the point of denying the obvious?

What was the point of denying his feelings?

Will might be stupid sometimes, but not stupid enough to ignore what he felt. He just didn’t want to accept it. He didn’t want to accept that he had been in love with his best friend for a long time, and that he had tried to get rid of those feelings by dating other people.

But none of them were like Mike. None of them understood him the way Mike did. None of them made him feel as safe as Mike did. He could be vulnerable with him in any way, knowing Mike wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t abandon him.

So what was the point of continuing to deny it?

He could never get the image of him and Mike dating out of his head whenever he went out with other guys. It made him feel guilty. But it wasn’t something he could control.

Did Mike feel the same?

He couldn’t know for sure—couldn’t even begin to assume it—not unless Mike told him directly.

He finished the drawing and stared at it. The music played softly in the background, the wind moving the leaves above him, the only other sound around. His eyes stayed fixed on the image on the page.

His chest felt tight, but as he finished the drawing, he felt a weight lift off him, leaving him lighter.

“Fuck… I like Mike.”

Saying it out loud was more embarrassing than admitting it in his head. He ran his hands over his face and sighed. There was nothing he could do.

He had tried everything. Everything possible.

He couldn’t stop feeling this way about Mike. He couldn’t. They had been friends for years, and he believed he had been in love with him for as long as he could remember.

He set his sketchbook aside, lay back, and closed his eyes. Thinking about the same thing over and over made him feel sick.

Accepting how he felt made him feel sick.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should tell him, keep pretending nothing was happening, or do nothing at all.

God, why are you doing this to me?

Chapter Text

After that great realization—one that wasn’t really all that great—Will decides to leave the woods and head to Mike’s house. Not because he has a plan, but because he wants to face his feelings now that he’s “accepted” them. A kind of emotional shock therapy, in the good sense.

He gets on his bike and starts pedaling, his hands sweaty, his chest tight, his heart threatening to leap out of his body. He’s trembling.

On any other day, going to Mike’s house wouldn’t affect him this much physically. But now that he’s finally accepted that he’s been in love with his best friend for as long as he can remember, he can’t exactly call himself calm.

When he arrives, he knocks on the door, afraid they’ll open it—afraid to face the situation—but also desperate to see Mike.

“Oh—hey, Will. Everything okay?”
Mike looks surprised by his sudden appearance, trying to hide behind the door.

He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

Fuck.

“Yeah—uh… can I come in?” Will tries to see why Mike is hiding, raising an eyebrow, curious.

Mike has no real way to hide anymore. The only thing he can do is pretend nothing’s wrong, so he lets Will in.

He steps aside, his movements stiff, almost robotic.

“Is anyone else here?” Will asks as he walks in, then carefully turns—and sees him.

His eyes fix on Mike’s arms. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes widen, his words stuck in his throat. Mike doesn’t know what to do.

“No—no, it’s just me,” Mike replies, his voice shaky, heavy with embarrassment, still trying to pretend he doesn’t understand why Will looks like that.

Inside, Will feels his heart drop into his stomach. His mouth goes dry, an unbearable shame washing over him.

How did he not notice before?

“Mike…” Will tries to say something, but Mike cuts him off immediately, talking over him.

“We don’t have to talk about this. Just pretend you didn’t see it, okay?” he says defensively, irritation slipping into his voice as he heads upstairs to grab a long-sleeved shirt.

“But—”

“Will—no. Okay? Just...Stop”
He turns to look at him, his voice louder than he meant it to be, his face flushed—not just with embarrassment now, but anger. His eyes are wide, overwhelmed by everything he’s feeling.

The shame. The anger. The urge to cry.
More than anything, the anger at having been seen.

He shuts himself in his room with a loud slam. Will doesn’t move. He just stands there.

Standing, trying to figure out what to say or do.

He doesn’t want to pressure Mike into talking—he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to—but he also doesn’t want to ignore it. He doesn’t want Mike to think he doesn’t care, or that the way he sees him has changed.

His breathing is shallow, his body hot with tension. Eventually, it all leads him to the couch, where he drops down without thinking. He covers his face with his hands, resting his forehead against them, and lets out a long, heavy sigh.

He hears footsteps approaching and doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to lift his head and see Mike’s face. Showing up like this, unannounced, made him discover a part of Mike he never imagined existed.

“Will…”
Mike nudges his foot gently against Will’s, trying to get his attention.

Silence.

“Will, please…” His voice is pleading—begging him to look up, to not leave him alone in the silence.

Will looks up at him. His eyes are red and watery, his nose flushed. It doesn’t look like he’s been crying—more like he’s been holding it back.

“Please… I don’t want this to push us apart or anything—”

“Mike.”

They look at each other.

“I don’t see you any differently,” Will says softly. “I know I’m no one, and you don’t owe me anything, but I wish you’d been able to tell me… that you didn’t have to go through this alone.”
His gaze drops to the floor.

Mike doesn’t know what to say. His face is still burning with shame, his throat incapable of making a sound.

“I don’t know why this happens. I don’t understand it either. But I want you to know this doesn’t change anything between us,” Will continues. “I just want you to trust me enough to tell me things like this.”
Once again, his eyes find Mike’s—his look gentle, full of love and certainty.

Without realizing it, Mike is crying. Just a little.

They sit in silence. Mike doesn’t move, and Will shifts on the couch, wanting to touch him but afraid of scaring him.

Mike’s face is serious, but the tears keep falling. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t react—just lets them fall.

Will waits until Mike calms down. Carefully, he brings his hands to Mike’s thighs, slowly rubbing them. Mike doesn’t seem uncomfortable, so he doesn’t stop.

Even so, it feels like it burns. Touching Mike’s body in such a vulnerable moment makes Will feel sick. Uneasy.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Will finally says, his voice low and gentle, afraid of breaking the moment. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

He looks up at Mike, only to see him wipe his tears and nod. Then Mike sits beside him and rests his head on Will’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a long time. The only sounds are their breathing, the cars outside, dogs barking in the distance. Neither of them moves.

Mike wants to take Will’s hand. He moves his hand closer, and when Will notices, he grabs it without hesitation, holding it firmly.

“Thank you…”

“Hm?”

“Thank you—for not leaving.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be” Will says, giving his hand a few gentle squeezes to mean it.

Later, when the tension eases and Mike calms down, he leans against Will. They put on a movie—anything on TV, just to distract themselves.

Even then, Will still wants to talk about it. To understand why, how.
But he can’t force an answer—he decides to wait, until Mike is ready to bring it up himself.

Chapter Text

After Will saw that vulnerable side of him, Mike wrote in his journal.

He couldn’t sleep peacefully without waking up with a knot in his stomach, his head crowded with thousands of possible scenarios where Will pulls away from him.

His head hurts. His body feels heavy. His stomach feels off. His face is red from how much he’s been scratching at it.

After the incident, Will didn’t do anything. He didn’t comment on it either—he ignored the situation just like Mike did. Mike knows he does it because he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s grateful for that.

They spent most of the time in silence, watching TV or scrolling through their phones. Will never moved away from him—not once. He stayed close, gently running his fingers through Mike’s hair, grounding him, offering quiet comfort.

Now Mike is in his room, dark, with only a little light coming through the windows, barely illuminating his surroundings. He’s sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling, no rational or coherent thoughts in his head. Nothing makes sense. It feels stupid that something that caused him so much embarrassment ended up making him relapse like this. That same day, he also noticed he was thinner than before.

Sometimes Mike forgets that loving so much consumes him to the point of making him sick.

It’s not Will’s fault. Of course it isn’t. It’s not Will’s fault that Mike is in love with him, that he wants him, desires him in every possible way—and that those feelings are slowly destroying him. Of course it’s not.

He wishes he had the courage to confess already—not with the hope of being loved back, but with the hope of finally feeling a little better. Just getting it out of his chest.

He turns his head to the right, his eyes landing on the painting Will gave him. The painting Will made while thinking about him.

“Ughhh, fuck my life,” he mutters, frustrated, rubbing his eyes.

He’s already written so much in his journal. There’s nothing left to get out—though he doesn’t even know what it is he needs to let out anymore.

Should he just say it already? Confess once and for all?

Maybe that would make his life easier. Maybe then he could move on, maybe even fall in love with someone else. Right?

But Mike doesn’t want to. He wants Will. He wants it to be Will. No one else.

He can’t imagine a future with anyone else. He can’t. He’s incapable of it. If he tries, he’d rather imagine himself dead. (Yes, that dramatic.)

“I’ll write him a letter…”
Finally, a light bulb goes off in his head.

He gets up, grabs his notebook and a pen, and decides to write a letter where he confesses. He doesn’t want to send it—he has no intention of doing so—but he thinks it might be freeing.

Hi Will.

I—
Uh—
I have to—

He tries starting the letter several times, unable to figure out how. He lets out frustrated noises, scratching at his head.

Will, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. I’m sorry I’m doing this now, but honestly, there’s no more space in my chest to keep it hidden.

I’ve been in love with you for years. A lot. “In love” doesn’t even come close to what I feel for you. I’m not telling you this because I expect you to feel the same—I just need to get it out, because I truly can’t take it anymore. I can’t stand listening to you talk about other guys (even if you haven’t lately), seeing you with them, imagining you being romantic with someone who isn’t me.

Do you know what I would give for you?
What I would give to have you?

I think about you all the time. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before falling asleep—and you’re what I dream about too. I’d give anything just to experience being your boyfriend for one hour. Or less. Whatever. I just want to be with you.

I want to be yours.
I want you to be mine.

Why aren’t you mine?

Why did God have to punish me like this? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve asked Him to take these feelings away? These thoughts? How many nights I’ve cried and begged Him to help me get over you?

It’s impossible. I can’t move on. I can’t get over you. To do that, I think I’d have to change countries or… something.

But I can’t. I can’t say that I love you—it doesn’t even compare to what I feel. I can’t say I adore you or that I care about you either. There’s no word that truly expresses what I feel for you, and that’s what fucks me up the most.

I’m sorry, Will.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Love, Mike.

He folds the paper, slips it between the pages of a book, and lets his shoulders relax. He feels a little better now that he’s written it.

Lately, he’s also taken the time to tell his mom about Will—about the things he does, the moments they’ve shared. She noticed Mike had been stressed. When she responded, it surprised him.

It’s very likely that he likes you.

She said it with such certainty that it made Mike think she might be right. There were moments when he’d thought the same, but he always assumed it was just his own delusion—his love twisting simple kindness into something more.

But when he actually thinks about it, there are things that don’t feel normal. Cuddling while watching a movie can be normal—but this was… too much.

Whenever they’re close, they’re close. Too close. Almost close enough to kiss. Their bodies always gravitate toward each other, and Will is always touching him—stroking his hair, holding his hand, hugging him, or simply resting his hands on him.

Maybe he’s overthinking it.

“Ugh, okay, stop. Enough,” he mutters, lightly hitting his head, trying to stop spiraling.

He tosses and turns in bed, unable to fall asleep, unable to let time pass. He gives it about ten minutes before giving up and sitting up, wondering what to do.

Then he remembers his guitar, and his eyes light up a little.

But the moment he picks it up, he remembers the time he played a song for Will.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, sitting down hard on the bed, gripping the guitar so tightly he feels like he might break it.

To distract himself, he starts strumming random chords, hoping to remember a song he already knows so he can practice.

The guitar he saw at the mall with Will still won’t leave his mind. He wants it badly—but he doesn’t feel skilled enough yet to deserve something like that. A guitar like that.

He plays a few songs he remembers, quietly. Some halfway through, others all the way to the end. He doesn’t get frustrated—no one’s watching him mess up, and that comforts him.

His body feels different now. Every time he plays, a part of him comes back to life when he’s at his lowest. Playing guitar is something he loves deeply—more than anything else (except Will). He feels like he can express himself through chords, songs, lyrics.

He’s been working on a small album for a few years now. He doesn’t plan on releasing it—just keeping it for himself, feeling like he created something, like it mattered. He doesn’t think he’s worth exposing himself like that.

After spending a long time being miserable (again), he finally comes to a conclusion: it’s time to tell Will something. At least give him a hint of how he feels.

There’s no point in staying like this—miserable, sad, abandoned, with a constant ache in his chest—waiting for the person he loves to magically love him back.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it.
He doesn’t know when.

But he will.

Chapter Text

Will shows up at Mike’s house without warning, like always.
Mike is ready this time—ready for anything, really—so he doesn’t think much of it.

“Mike, we need to go out,” is the first thing Will says when he opens the door.

“What? Where?” Mike says, glancing at him and noticing the height difference between them. “There’s nothing interesting around here.”

“We can walk. We can do anything.” Will grabs his arm and pulls him outside. “I just want to be with you. Mikey, come on.”

“You’re… happier than usual,” Mike says, smiling as he closes the door behind them.

Will doesn’t reply. He just takes Mike’s hand.

They walk without a destination, letting the afternoon stretch out in front of them. Just being together feels like enough.

“These songs remind me of you,” Will says, holding out his phone. “Wanna listen?”

Will doesn’t answer. He just takes Mike’s hand, and they walk.
They walk with no destination in mind—just spending time together.

“Look, these songs remind me of you. Wanna listen?”
Will shows him his phone and offers him the headphones.

Mike nods, and they listen as they walk.

He can’t stop thinking about the fact that they’re holding hands, so he jokes, mostly to ease his own nerves.

“We look like a couple,” he says, letting out a nervous laugh at the end, trying to sound casual.

“Oh! You’re right!” Will says, turning to look at him. “If I had a boyfriend, I’d want him to be like you.”

They stop on the sidewalk.
Mike is stunned, and Will waits for him to say something—anything—to stop making that face.

Mike blinks, completely caught off guard. Will waits, clearly realizing he said something dangerous.

“Like… me?” Mike asks quietly.

“Well, yeah. Like you.” Will gently fixes Mike’s hair. “Come on.”
He pulls him toward a small park nearby.

They sit on the grass, and Will starts talking—about his paintings, how hard it’s been to keep painting lately, the fights with his brother.
Anything to avoid what he just said.

Mike notices the faint pink on Will’s cheeks. Just enough to make his heart flip.

His face. His clothes. The way he moves without thinking.

“Ugh… I really need a haircut,” Mike says, trying to fix his curls as they fall into his face. He can barely see. It’s been a while since his last haircut—he really needs a change.

“Oh! I can cut it!” Will says excitedly, practically climbing onto Mike’s lap.

“You’re gonna ruin it!” Mike laughs, grabbing his head protectively and leaning away.

“Impossible,” Will says, sitting back down on the grass and turning his attention to some kids playing nearby.

None of Will’s comments are new, really—but so many in one day? That is new.

Mike watches him in silence now.
His face. His clothes. His body. His hair.

It makes him nervous. Of course it does.
But he’s almost sure that’s what Will wants—to make him nervous. And Mike thinks Will enjoys it.

When they’re like this—quiet, close—the thought of confessing fades away.

Maybe he could live like this.

Carrying the love in his chest. Watching Will grow, meet people, build a life—while Mike does the same.

They’re okay like this.

Why ruin it?

“We could go to my house,” Will says suddenly. “I’ll cut your hair. My mom’s not home, my brother’s gone, and I actually know how to do it.”

“You?” Mike teases. “Is that why you’ve had the same bowl cut since kindergarten?”

Will gasps dramatically, placing a hand on his chest.
“What is wrong with you?” He lightly hits Mike’s shoulder. “The bowl cut doesn’t look bad… right?”

His doubt is genuine now.

Mike softens immediately.

“You look good. You look… cute. I guess.”

“I guess?!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!”

They laugh, their voices getting louder without noticing.
They’re in their own bubble, ignoring the people passing by, the sounds of the world around them.

They stay there for a while—sometimes talking on the swings, sometimes lying in the grass. Music plays softly in the background, filling the silences when neither of them speaks.

“Do you wanna… go to your house?” Mike asks, unsure why his heart suddenly races.

“Already? Okay.”
Will stands and offers his hand.

Mike takes it. Will pulls him up too fast, and Mike stumbles—ending up far too close.

They laugh. Nervous, breathless.

The walk to Will’s house feels short. The park is nearby, and talking and listening to music with the person you like makes time disappear.

When they arrive, Mike notices how clean the house is.
Not that the Byers’ place is messy—but everything looks extra tidy today.

They go up to Will’s room. Several canvases are scattered across the floor—some unfinished, some barely started. Another sits on the easel, almost blank.

“You’ve been painting a lot,” Mike says.

“Ah—yeah,” Will says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.”
He goes to his desk and pulls out a pair of scissors.

“Riiight.”

“Right,” Will says, holding them up.They’re big and sharp—kind of intimidating in contrast with him. "Okay, sit here.”
He pulls out the desk chair.

Mike obeys, nerves settling as Will carefully starts trimming, section by section. They’re face to face.

Will’s focused expression is painfully endearing. His brow is furrowed, measuring every cut.

“It’ll be curlier now,” Will murmurs.

“Mm,” Mike hums.

He closes his eyes, letting Will work.
Will’s hands brush his face by accident now and then, and he laughs quietly every time it happens.

“You look really cute like this,” Will says suddenly.

Mike opens his eyes and looks up at him, heart racing.

“Like what?”

“Like… under me.”

What.

“What—”

“I mean! I just mean you’re always the one looking at me from that angle, and now I get to do it, and it’s like—wow. You’re really cute,” Will rambles, hands resting on Mike’s shoulders as his face turns bright pink.

Mike lowers his head again, smiling despite himself.
“Okay.....”

The silence afterward isn’t awkward—just heavy. Charged.

He’s a teenager. Of course he misinterprets it.
Of course he imagines things.

Better to stay quiet, face burning, heart pounding, than ruin the moment.

“Okaaay—done!” Will steps back. “Look!”

Mike checks the mirror. It’s subtle, but good.

“Looks almost the same,” he teases.

“Hey! I just trimmed it a bit,” Will says, fixing his hair with his hands.

“Thanks. You’re always so good at everything,” Mike says sarcastically, setting the mirror aside.

Will laughs at him.

They spend the rest of the time lying next to each other on Will’s bed—Will almost on top of him, of course—talking about anything and everything.

It starts getting dark. Colder.

A sign that Mike has to go home.

“Okay, sweetheart. I should head out,” Mike says suddenly, standing up too fast.
The nickname slips out without thinking.

He expects confusion. Awkwardness.

Instead, Will lets out a small, shy laugh.

“Can we… paint something together? Another day,” Will says, standing close to him.

Mike nods, places his hands on Will’s shoulders, and presses a soft kiss to his hair before pulling away.

The walk home without his bike feels endless.
He puts his headphones on, that warm feeling in his chest refusing to fade.

He can’t stop smiling.

Today was a good day.
No awkward moments. Everything went right.

Will was closer than usual—and that alone gave him the courage to kiss his head and see him close his eyes.

 "uuuhggIlovehim,” Mike mutters out loud.

Still, he thinks… this is fine.

This closeness, this trust—it’s enough to survive.

God, please help me.

Chapter Text

Will is desperate.

Mike has called him “sweetheart,” “baby,” and even kissed the top of his head. It’s driving him insane.

His failed attempts to repress his feelings for his best friend—and his attempts to go out with other guys just to stop thinking about him (guys who all look like Mike)—have only made things worse. These past few months, being around Mike has become harder, especially when Will can’t stop imagining grabbing him by surprise and kissing him.

Sometimes he feels like the impulse is going to win, and that’s why he chooses to step away or leave the room, even when he doesn’t want to. He’s terrified of ruining their friendship.

More than anything, he wants the privilege of touching Mike like this without feeling guilty. He doesn’t have to say anything about it if Mike doesn’t either. He’s scared that a confession would only make things awkward.

He’s also insecure.

The few times he accidentally stayed over at Mike’s house, he caught a glimpse of a few lines from Mike’s journal. There was no name, just the mention of having feelings for someone. Will doesn’t know who it is—and he doesn’t want to know.

Still, the doubt lingers. Why hasn’t Mike told him? They tell each other everything, before anyone else. So why not this? Will would never stop being his friend, no matter who Mike likes.

His suspicions fall on a girl he’s seen Mike interact with quite a lot.

Will notices how Mike’s body relaxes around her, how genuine his smile is, how he sometimes blushes when he talks to her. Thinking that Mike might be that in love with her makes Will feel like his heart is breaking into pieces.

Now, summer vacation is almost over, and one thing they always do is have a sleepover before classes start again—no matter how many they’ve already had. It’s tradition. Sleeping together, watching movies, playing games… and now, cuddling.

Before, they used to lie down barely touching. Now, Will is resting against Mike’s chest while Mike absentmindedly strokes his hair or his back. They don’t speak.

And if they do talk, it’s in low voices, as if they want only the two of them to hear—despite being completely alone. It’s such an intimate thing that it makes Will’s stomach twist every time.

Mike’s face is close to his. Will can feel his breathing, his warm breath. His low voice vibrates against Will’s chest and. He can feel it.

He can also feel the hesitation in Mike’s hands when he wants to touch him—as if he’s asking for permission without words. His touch is soft, slow, gentle.

Will has never been this eager to see Mike. He wants to be close to him, to feel the warmth of his body, to hear him talk about anything—or nothing at all. Just to look at him. To study his face, every imperfection, every detail, every freckle.

The weather isn’t that cold, so he chooses to wear shorts, though he still puts on a sweater. He doesn’t know why, but somehow he picked that outfit thinking about Mike.

He likes to imagine that Mike might feel nervous seeing him like this, in such short, tight shorts.

Ugh, I’m hallucinating. I’m crazy. He won’t even notice, he thinks, running a frustrated hand through his hair and sighing.

He told Mike he’d come over today, that he’d bring some art supplies like he mentioned a few days ago, that he really wanted to see him.

Mike’s reply made him melt.

“I want to see you too, sweetheart! I miss you.”

Will loves when Mike uses pet names. Lately, he’s been doing it more often (probably after noticing that Will isn’t uncomfortable), and Will genuinely adores it. It makes him feel loved.

On the way to Mike’s house, Will can feel his legs growing weak the closer he gets. His breathing is uneven, like something won’t let him breathe properly.

When he arrives, he knocks twice and waits, staring at the floor, nervously fidgeting with his hands.

“Hey!” he hears Mike greet him, and he lifts his head.

“Hey!” Will steps inside immediately, eager to be close to him.

Now he’s even more nervous. For some reason, Mike looks more attractive than usual—short sleeves, black pants, Converse, all black. The shirt is a little oversized, but it suits him. Somehow, it only makes him look better.

Without meaning to, Will’s gaze drifts to the scars on Mike’s arm. Mike notices and tries to cover them, uncomfortable.

“Uh… I can change—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before Will interrupts him.

“It doesn’t bother me. We don’t have to talk about it either, okay? Everything’s fine.” His voice is slow, soft, meant to calm him.

“I want to talk about it…” Will watches Mike rub his face and bounce his leg restlessly.

“Okay, but we don’t have to, alright?” he reminds him one last time. He doesn’t want Mike to feel pressured—or judged.

Will doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know the reason or the action, but he doesn’t have the right to judge him. Only to understand him.

Mike leads him to his room. They sit down, and Mike starts to talk. He keeps it surface-level, no unnecessary details.

“I don’t expect you to understand… or to not judge me—” He trails off, unsure how to continue.

“I don’t understand. But I don’t judge you. I’m not uncomfortable. You don’t disgust me. Thank you for telling me.” Will gathers the courage to take Mike’s hands, his voice just as soft and low as before.

He notices Mike’s eyes grow red and glassy, but he holds it together, nodding with a small smile before pulling away from the touch. He still looks restless, but calmer than before. His breathing is steadier now.

His face is flushed from holding back tears. He moves away only to stop the touching—not to fully distance himself.

“So… what do you want to do? I brought my drawing stuff. We could do that, if you want.”
Will speaks gently, trying to give him the same sense of safety Mike always gives him. He opens his backpack, waiting for an answer.

“Are you going to make fun of me?”

“I can’t promise anything.” Will dares to kiss the back of Mike’s hand, just to comfort him.

“Ughhh…”

Will smiles, a bit teasing, a bit nervous. He pulls out a sketchbook and a pencil, planning to draw Mike—to draw him now, with this new side he’s shown him.

“Can I draw you?” His eyes flick to the scars, and Mike understands. He nods.

Will brightens, pointing to where Mike should sit so he has a better view. They get settled, and Will starts to draw.

The silence doesn’t feel heavy. It feels intimate, calm, warm. Will hums one of his favorite songs under his breath. Mike can see the concentration on his face, the slight frown when something doesn’t come out right.

As Will studies Mike more closely—maybe it’s the sunlight coming in through the window, falling directly on him—he starts noticing things he hadn’t before. The way Mike’s jaw tightens when he tries not to move, how his shoulders curl in slightly when he feels observed, how some scars stand out more than others.

Will doesn’t just want to kiss Mike anymore. He wants to be with him. To take care of him. To cherish him until Mike gets tired of how clingy he is.

He can’t help but notice how the atmosphere between them has changed. It’s lighter now. There’s more connection. Even in silence, they understand each other. They know what the other needs.

Mike shifts occasionally, trembling involuntarily from anxiety, forcing Will to gently adjust his posture—his arms, his hair, brushing it back into place.

All without a word.

Will keeps drawing, calm. He doesn’t feel the desperation or frustration he usually does when drawing Mike. This time, it’s different. This time, it feels peaceful.

“No… Mike.” Will’s deeper voice pulls him from his thoughts—Mike had moved again.

“Oh—sorry.” He tries to return to his previous position, but either he can’t remember it, or Will doesn’t like it. So he helps, gently taking his arms and lightly guiding his face.

“Like this?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Will finishes the drawing, studies it for a few seconds before showing it to the nervous Mike in front of him.
“I still need to improve. I can’t capture how beautiful you are on paper.”

Mike looks at the drawing—the strokes in his hair, the way the curls are shaped, how the scars on his arm are drawn without exaggeration. With respect.

“You draw me like I’m really handsome,” he tries to joke, feeling less uncomfortable and nervous than a few minutes ago now that Will has finished drawing him.

The drawing style has improved a lot. Everything about it has—especially now that they’re in college and Will joined the art workshop.

“You are very handsome, Mike.” His voice comes out serious—not annoyed, but with the intention of making him understand, once and for all, how beautiful he really is. “Really.”

They look at each other again. The eye contact only lasts longer every time it happens—each of them observing the other carefully, affectionately.

“I don’t think anyone thinks that.”

“Exactly. I’m not anyone. I’m Will.”

The answer is so silly it makes him laugh. He didn’t expect it—especially not said with that seriousness.

“You’re really handsome too, Will. I don’t think I tell you that often,” he says, lowering his head just a little. He can still see him, but his vision is partly hidden by his hair. His voice comes out shy.

“Alright. Do you want to draw something? That’s why I brought this.” He hands him the supplies, inviting him to paint.

“Sure, so you can make fun of me again for being bad at it,” he says jokingly as he takes them.

“You’d do the same if I tried to play the guitar!” Will defends himself, pointing at him playfully.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t say anything even if you were the worst at it,” Mike says. He stands up from where he was sitting, walks over to Will, and gives him a small kiss on the head. Again.

When he pulls away, the tension between them becomes unbearable. Mike’s breathing turns uneven. Will’s eyes open a little wider than usual as he looks up at him.

“Uh… Will—”

“Mhm?”

“Uh, I have something to say…” It slips out without thinking. It’s not the moment and he knows it, but he can’t stop himself.

He doesn’t want to confess. He can’t confess right now. It’s not the moment. He needs something—some kind of confirmation from the other boy to know he won’t be rejected in the worst way possible.

“Tell me.” Will’s hands caress Mike’s arms, never breaking eye contact. He doesn’t want to pressure him.

“Uhm…” He looks away, can’t stop moving, doesn’t know what to say, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you want to watch a movie? Or… I can show you some songs I’ve finished,” he says quickly, tripping over his words, trying to distract from how stupid he’s acting.

Will looks confused but doesn’t say anything. Noticing how nervous Mike is, he decides it’s better not to push him.

Even though, for a moment, he had gotten his hopes up. He had been excited.

“Let’s watch a movie. Then we can paint?” He tilts his head slightly to the side, his eyes drifting between Mike’s eyes and lips.

“Sure. Whatever you want.” He pulls him toward the bed so they can get comfortable. Mike lies down, waiting for Will to join him.

From the bed, he watches him—how funny he looks standing there. His eyes trace his body until they land on the shorts he’s wearing today. Without thinking, he asks:

“Aren’t you cold?”
His eyes never leave Will’s legs.

“Huh? Nope! I’m actually really comfortable.” He climbs onto the bed and crawls over to Mike, resting on his chest like they’re already used to doing. Mike can’t stop looking at his legs. Can’t stop thinking about how good he looks.

His face feels hot. He tries to stop thinking about it.

“We can watch whatever you want, okay?”

“I know what to put on!” He watches Will put on a movie called Maurice, explaining briefly what it’s about just to make sure Mike wants to watch it.

Will starts it. At first, they both pay attention. It starts slow—every gesture matters more than the words. On screen, two men sit side by side. They don’t touch, but they don’t stop looking at each other, ignoring everything around them.

Mike can’t handle his own discomfort. His chest feels tight, his hands restless on the bed and on Will’s back. He can’t take it anymore—the words slip out.

“Will…”

“Mhm?” He turns to look at him, pausing the movie to give him his full attention.

The silence only adds more pressure, more fear. But he doesn’t want to keep hiding how he feels—not if it hurts this much.

“Have you ever been in love like that?”

“Mhm... Why?”

“I have…” He pauses. Will feels his chest tighten.

“And honestly… I don’t want to keep pretending that—”
He said it. Finally said it. He doesn’t want to look at him, but he can’t fully confess, so he looks into Will’s eyes, his hands still caressing his back, hoping Will understands what he means.

He’s scared. After a few seconds, he looks away. He can’t look at Will—and he doesn’t want to see if his face turns into a look of disgust.

“Mike.” Will sits up on the bed. “Mike, please look at me…” His desperation grows. He gently takes Mike’s face, guiding him so they look at each other again. He rests their foreheads together softly—he doesn’t want to scare him.

“I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry,” Mike repeats, apologizing for feeling this way, for confessing, covering his face in shame.

“Mike.” Will removes his hands from his flushed face. “I don’t want to keep pretending either…” He caresses Mike’s freckled cheeks carefully, lovingly. His gaze softens, though there’s still insecurity—afraid he might be misreading everything.

Mike doesn’t know what to say. His eyes widen in surprise, and before he can respond, Will speaks first:

“I love you.”

Silence again. Their eyes locked. Will keeps glancing at Mike’s lips. He can’t wait for an answer.

He leans in, waits a few seconds to see if Mike doesn’t want this—if he wants him to pull away. But instead, Mike reaches for him, holding his face with both hands and giving him a small, short kiss.

Will’s hands move to Mike’s chest. Mike grabs Will’s waist and pulls him into his lap. Will can feel Mike’s heart racing under his hands—beating so fast and hard it almost hurts. Mike is flushed, breathing heavily. He pulls away, not knowing what to do, wanting to speak but unable to find the words.

Will leans in again, kissing him longer this time. It’s not a kiss with other intentions—just trying to share the love they feel. Without words, asking permission to touch. Mike holds Will’s waist, caressing it, while Will’s hands rest on his shoulders and sometimes in his hair.

When they separate, Will can’t look Mike in the eyes. He hides in the space between Mike’s neck and shoulder, lets out a nervous laugh, his voice low and trembling with anxiety.

“I’m sorry… I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
He’s afraid Mike will hate him for kissing him without asking. Even if he didn’t pull away, that doesn’t necessarily mean he was okay with it.

“Will, it’s okay…” Mike starts stroking his hair, gently, tenderly. His voice is low and deep. His nerves are killing him—he swears he’s about to throw up—but he doesn’t want to ruin this.

He feels his throat tighten, his eyes burn, and the urge to cry takes over. It’s nothing negative. On the contrary—he’s crying relieved, happy because of Will’s response. Without meaning to, he starts sobbing softly. It’s not exaggerated crying—just releasing years of tension his body has carried.

Will notices. He pulls back to look at him, takes his face, and wipes away the tears. He smiles and kisses his forehead, then his nose, his cheeks, and finally his mouth again. Small kisses—soft and calm—trying to make Mike feel okay, to show him everything is fine.

Mike laughs when he feels the kisses on his face. The tears keep falling, but he’s calmer now. There’s a smile on his face.

“Everything’s okay, alright?” Will gives him one last kiss on the mouth—longer than the previous one.

“I love you” Mike says without thinking.

Mike runs his hands through Will’s hair, over his face, shoulders, chest—touching him as carefully as if he could break in his hands. He has no other intentions than simply appreciating the person he loves.

“I love you. I love you so much, really… I adore you.” He hugs him tightly, telling him all of it—how much he loves him, how anxious he was, how scared he felt, everything he’s feeling in that moment.

He can feel Will’s hands stroking his hair and face. Will speaks so softly it’s hard to hear him unless everything is quiet. Mike wants to kiss him again, touch him, stay like this forever and never separate—but he doesn’t want to act impulsively. Maybe Will doesn’t want more.

He keeps processing what just happened—that he confessed out of nowhere to his best friend, that he said he was in love between kisses, and that Will said it back. Instead of anxiety tightening his chest, now it feels tight from warmth—from the situation, from the body resting on his.

“What took you so long?” Will asks, his voice slow—not judgmental, just genuinely curious.

“Uhm…” Mike closes his eyes and inhales. He opens them to look at Will. “You always talked about boys you liked. You went out with them, and I saw them as very different from me. I didn’t think you could see me that way, so I just endured it… but I couldn’t anymore.” He laughs softly and scratches his face, nervous to admit everything he’s felt all this time.

“All the boys I liked looked like you.” Will doesn’t stop touching him—tracing his body with his hands, kissing his face, neck, sometimes his shoulder as he listens. “It wasn’t that I didn’t like you. I thought you liked someone else…”

“What? Who?”

“Mm… Jane?”

Mike can’t help laughing—not mocking Will, just surprised that he thought, to begin with, that Mike liked women.

“Jane? She’s my friend! Why would you think that?”

“Ugh, because you always looked so happy talking to her! Laughing, blushing every time you were with her!” He squeezes Mike’s arms a little harder, annoyed by the teasing.

“Will… I always talked about you.” His right hand moves to Will’s face, brushing his messy hair aside. “And she always teased me about you. I think that’s what you mean.” He smiles, caressing Will’s flushed face.

Will doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. His face only getting redder by the second—until he kisses Mike again.

He can’t help it. He doesn’t want to stop. He’s waited so long to finally kiss Mike—to feel his lips, see them wet with both their saliva, pink from kissing for so long—that he can’t control the urge to kiss him, touch him, feel the heat between them grow.

Mike doesn’t complain at all. On the contrary—he holds Will’s waist tighter, pulls him closer (if that’s even possible), deepening the kiss. He doesn’t want to separate. He’s out of breath, but he’s afraid Will might pull away, regret it, and he wants to take advantage of every second.

They stay like that for minutes. Sometimes Will bites Mike’s lower lip, pulling a small sound from him—he laughs. Without meaning to, Will’s hips start moving on Mike’s lap. The heat between them grows.

The kisses become messier, more desperate. Their hands cling to each other’s bodies, hips moving in search of friction. When they pull apart, Mike hears Will’s soft breaths, sees his flushed face, swollen lips, teary eyes—probably from everything they’re feeling.

“I’m sorry…” Will suddenly says, confusing Mike.

“Why?”

“I’m on top of you, I’m rubbing against you, and I don’t even know if you want to go further or if you want to stop or—”

“Will, it’s okay. It doesn’t bother me, but I wasn’t planning on going further than this…” He admits it, embarrassed, ashamed of disappointing him. He’s scared Will will see his body, scared he won’t know what to do. He’d rather stay like this.

“That’s okay,  love. We can stop if you want.” Will moves off his lap, strokes his hair again, and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you…”

Will smiles, settles into bed, already sleepy after all the kissing. It’s late anyway, and he’s not in a rush—knowing he’ll wake up next to Mike.

Next to the boy he’s been in love with for as long as he can remember. The one he didn’t want to accept until a few weeks ago. He’s grateful he finally did—that he noticed the looks, the touches, the closeness that were never platonic—and finally let himself feel it.

They settle in, hug each other, and close their eyes. The movie keeps playing in the background—Will turned it on before lying down, just to have something while they fall asleep.

Mike feels overwhelmingly happy. He can’t handle the feeling. He’s so grateful, so emotional, that he can’t help but thank God—for this chance, for this moment, for meeting Will.

Chapter Text

The sound of people moving around the house is what wakes Will up—voices, cutlery clinking, the smell of food sneaking its way into Mike’s room. His eyes feel heavy, his body warm beneath the blanket and the weight of Mike’s body wrapped around him.

He sits up and stretches, then turns to look at Mike—and immediately feels his face heat up.
The messy curls falling over Mike’s face, his lips slightly parted, made him look painfully soft.

Will’s heart feels like it’s about to jump out of his chest, lodged somewhere in his throat. Images from the night before rush back into his mind without permission—their kisses, Mike’s lips pressed to his, his hands resting gently on Will’s waist. Just remembering it sends shivers down his spine.

It hits him then: yes, they confessed—but they aren’t boyfriends.
Mike never officially asked him, so technically, they’re not anything.
Still… Will doesn’t think he’s allowed to complain. Not yet.

“Mike…” he shakes him gently. “Mike!”
He raises his voice and shakes him harder, but Mike only mumbles something unintelligible and pulls Will’s hand off his body before rolling over.

“Let me sleep, William…”
His words come out slow and slurred.

“Uh?! William?” Will pretends to be offended. “We’ve gone from sweetheart to William? You hate me now?”
He pokes at him, tickling him just to annoy him awake.

“Ugh… come here.”

Without fully opening his eyes, Mike grabs both of Will’s hands and pulls him back into the bed, wrapping his arms around him completely.

“Sleep…”
He runs his fingers through Will’s hair, and Will laughs softly, his face buried in Mike’s chest.

“Mike… wake up…”
He tries one last time, lifting his head to look at him.

“Baby. My love. My sweetheart. Quiet…”

Will’s heart stops for a few seconds.
Mike’s deep, raspy morning voice, the way he said those words so naturally, made something twist in his stomach. He doesn’t protest. He just hugs him back and waits for him to wake up on his own.

They stay like that for a while, their breathing slowly syncing without meaning to. Mike’s warm breath against Will’s hair tickles, his hands holding Will tightly, like he might slip away if he lets go.

Will can’t stop thinking about the night before—what they said, what they kissed, what they touched. His body doesn’t think it can handle remembering all of it at once.

He feels happy, but fragile too. A little embarrassed. And a little afraid that Mike might wake up and regret everything.

“You know…” Mike murmurs, his voice low and still rough. “I’ve been awake for a while. I just didn’t want to move away from you.”

He chuckles softly, squeezing Will one last time before pulling back to look at him.

“Mm, don’t talk,” Will says, covering his mouth. “Your breath smells.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
He leans in, cups Will’s face, and blows air at him.

“No! Mike! Stop!”
Will laughs, trying to cover his nose and mouth while pushing him away.

Mike grabs his wrist, presses a kiss to his forehead, then sits up and stretches, cracking his neck and hands.

“I’m going to the bathroom…”

Will follows him—he has a toothbrush there, specifically for nights he stays over. When they’re both at the sink, Mike glances up at him in the mirror and can’t help but laugh.

Will’s hair is a mess, his face still puffy with sleep. He looks ridiculous.
And unbearably cute.

“Hurry up.”

“Yeah, yeah, boss,” Mike replies, immediately obeying—as always.

Afterward, Mike heads back to the bed and rubs his eyes, still feeling tired. He tries to ignore the anxiety twisting in his stomach about last night. Confessing like that—so suddenly, so stupidly—still makes him cringe.

He’s scared things might change between them. Even though Will’s been acting normal since they woke up, there’s still that fear of something going wrong.

They confessed, yes… but they’re not boyfriends. Right?

He doesn’t remember asking. And he doesn’t remember Will asking either.
And that makes his chest tighten.

What if Will regrets it?
What if asking ruins everything?

He knows those thoughts don’t make sense. Will didn’t reject him last night. There’s no real reason to believe he would.
Still, his intrusive thoughts won’t shut up.

“Mike…”

Hands on his back make him flinch. He turns around, and Will’s hands move up to his face.

“Sorry if I’m being… too much,” Will says quietly. “I’ve wanted to be like this with you for a long time.”

His hands linger, not fully committing, ready to pull away if Mike wants him to.

“It’s okay. Me too.”

Mike places his hands over Will’s and inhales.

“About last night…”
He hesitates, meeting Will’s eyes. “Sorry if it was too sudden.”

He wants to bring up the fact that they’re not officially anything—but he doesn’t know how without sounding desperate.

“It’s okay,” Will says softly, brushing his hair back.

“So… are we… something now?”
Mike’s voice comes out low, unsteady.

“Do you want that?” Will asks. “Do you want us to be something?”

“There’s nothing I want more than that.”

“Then we can be something.”

Something.
Not boyfriends. Not a couple.
Just… something.

Mike imagines dates, holding hands, kissing freely.
Will imagines staying like this—just the two of them—without anyone else knowing.

Before either of them can say more, his mom’s voice calls from the other side of the door, saying breakfast has been ready for a while.

“Are you hungry?” Mike asks, choosing to dodge the unfinished question.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Mike kisses Will’s forehead before they leave the room. Their fingers find each other naturally as they walk toward the kitchen, hands fitting together without either of them really thinking about it.

It feels easy. Right.

But the moment they step into the kitchen and see the Wheeler family already there—his mom moving around, his sister talking, his dad sitting at the table—their hands separate automatically.

Too fast. Too practiced.

They tense, both pretending everything is normal.

Mike knows—at least, he thinks he knows—that his mom wouldn’t have a problem with this. Or maybe that’s just what he tells himself. Either way, today isn’t the day to find out. Not when he’s barely holding onto something he’s wanted for so long.

They sit side by side at the table. Mike’s mom has already served them breakfast, plates waiting as if this were just another ordinary morning.

Everything is fine.
Until—

“Please eat,” his mom says.

Her tone isn’t annoyed. It’s worried.

Mike freezes for half a second. His jaw tightens, his eyes widening just slightly, caught off guard by how direct it is—by the fact that she said it in front of Will.

“Oh— uh… yeah,” he answers quickly, fumbling over his words.

He doesn’t miss the way Will looks at him, curious and concerned. It’s not that Will hasn’t noticed his strange relationship with food before—but hearing it pointed out like that, by his mom, makes his chest feel tight.

Will doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes Mike’s shoulder gently, grounding him.

They eat. Slowly.
The sounds of the house fill the space—his sister talking about something neither of them is really listening to, his mom cleaning up, his dad just… being there.

“Mike,” Will murmurs softly, leaning closer so only he can hear. “I don’t want to pressure you, but… please eat something.”

There’s concern in his voice, but it’s gentle. Careful. He’s not pushing—because he knows pushing doesn’t help.

“Yeah,” Mike says, without looking at him.
Still, he eats a little more.

Time passes. The tension eases just enough. After a while, they excuse themselves and head back to Mike’s room together.

They go straight to the bed.

Mike hums quietly to himself, some song he doesn’t even recognize. Will lies beside him with his eyes closed—not asleep, just quiet.

It isn’t awkward.
It’s intimate.

Like it’s always been.

Then Mike remembers the letter.

The miserable, messy letter he wrote for himself. The one he never planned on giving to Will.

He sits up suddenly. “I have something for you,” he says, almost too fast. “It’s… a letter. I wasn’t going to give it to you, but after everything that happened, I think— I think it might help you understand how I feel.”

His hands shake slightly as he looks for it. He’s nervous—scared that Will might think it’s too much, too intense.

Mike doesn’t really know how to feel things halfway.

He finds the letter and hands it to Will.

Will sits up against the headboard, watching every movement. He takes the paper carefully, not because he’s afraid of what it says—but because he knows it will be intense. And he isn’t sure he can give back the same intensity in words.

Mike keeps humming softly, restless, while Will starts reading.

The letter is long.
The handwriting is inconsistent—too big in some places, too small in others. There are crossed-out lines, smudges, stains. It was never meant to be sent. It was meant to survive a feeling.

And now Will is holding it.

He can picture Mike writing it. Can feel the weight of what he must have been feeling in that moment. Guilt creeps in before he can stop it—guilt for not noticing sooner, or maybe for noticing and doing nothing.

That was never his intention.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Will finally admits. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to,” Mike interrupts, his voice firm but not harsh. There’s insecurity there, buried beneath it. “I just wanted you to know.”

He steps closer, watching Will carefully, waiting—maybe bracing himself.

Will doesn’t know how to respond with words. He never has, not when Mike feels things this deeply. It’s never bothered him—but it frustrates him that he can’t express himself the same way.

So instead, he reaches out.

He grabs the front of Mike’s shirt and pulls him down into a short, clumsy kiss. It’s unplanned, unpolished—honest.

It’s his way of saying I see you.
I’m here.
You’re not alone.

Mike freezes for a second, surprised, his hands hovering uselessly before settling on Will’s shoulders.

“I don’t know what to say,” Will whispers when they pull apart, their foreheads still touching. “But I know I love you.”

Mike smiles—soft, sad, completely in love. He looks at Will sitting there on his bed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, the letter still clutched in his hand.

For a moment, he has the urge to take it back.

Instead, he just pulls Will into a hug.

They stay like that, quiet.

And the question hangs between them, unspoken but heavy:

What are we?

Neither of them knows the answer.

And for now… neither of them wants to rush it.

Chapter Text

The short break had come to an end, and now that they were back at university, they barely saw each other anymore. Only in the few general courses they shared—two, maybe three—did they get the chance to be together.

Mike was frustrated. His schedule didn’t line up with Will’s at all, aside from those shared classes, and more than once he’d been tempted to walk out of a lecture just to see him. To hug him. To cling to him shamelessly.

They were both far more affectionate now that they knew what they meant to each other. And yet, whenever they were surrounded by people they didn’t know—or even by friends—they avoided touching entirely. Before they’d confessed, physical closeness had come easily. Now it carried a different weight. A more obvious one. One they didn’t want others to notice.

Mike was heading to the classroom he finally shared with Will that day, excited to see him, to sit beside him like always.

But the moment he stepped inside, his smile dropped.

Will was talking to another guy. Both of them laughing, standing close—too close, at least from Mike’s perspective. His chest tightened painfully at the sight.

He told himself he had no right to feel this way. It didn’t make sense. Will wasn’t his.

And yet, he remembered what Will had once told him about Jane. Was this how Will had felt every time he saw Mike talking to her?

He didn’t want to keep feeling like this.

So he walked over, his voice coming out colder than he intended.

“Hey.”

Will turned toward him immediately, beaming. He waved enthusiastically and replied with a cheerful, “Hi!”

The guy beside him echoed the greeting with the same flat tone Mike had used. Mike tried not to care.

“Uh… that’s my seat,” Mike said, pointing to the chair next to Will, subtly implying the guy should move so he could sit with his friend. Like always.

“Oh! Mike, I was actually going to ask if it’d be okay for him to sit with me today!” Will said innocently, almost excited. He waited eagerly for Mike’s answer.

Mike tried. He really did. He tried not to scowl, not to look like he wanted to murder the guy standing next to Will. He took a breath.

“It’s fine,” he said, smiling at Will despite the dryness in his voice. He didn’t want him to feel bad—or to realize he was upset, even though he knew Will probably already had.

The other guy was still standing there, and Mike couldn’t help but notice things against his will. He was taller than him. His hair was curly—maybe wavy—and a little long. He didn’t care. He hadn’t even paid attention when the guy introduced himself earlier.

Mike was grateful Jane was also in that class. With intention and a bit of spite, he went to sit beside her. He didn’t greet her—just dropped into the seat and let out a long sigh.

“Well?” Jane asked. She knew exactly what was going on and took a bit too much pleasure in teasing him.

“Please shut up. I’m about to lose it,” he muttered. His tone wasn’t harsh, just tired. He didn’t want to let his jealousy consume him—but it was winning.

Jane laughed softly and patted his back, probably trying to comfort him.

Class finally began, but Mike couldn’t focus. He could hear Will murmuring to his friend, laughing with him. Just knowing Will was talking to another guy—one who wasn’t him—felt like poison spreading through his chest.

Another thing to bring up in therapy. Great.

He huffed out a quiet laugh at the thought and remembered the red notebook he always carried—the one he wrote in whenever his emotions overwhelmed him. Like now. He decided he’d either write in it once the class ended or sneak off to the bathroom.

He chose the latter.

He raised his hand and asked for permission to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Will turn to look at him—suspicious.

Will knew something was wrong. He knew Mike was upset. But he said nothing.

A few minutes later, Will asked to leave as well. He hated that they had to ask permission like middle schoolers, but this professor was particular.

He headed straight for the bathroom at the back of the building—the one Mike always chose. It was almost always empty, surprisingly spacious, and oddly comfortable. Will never understood why no one used it.

When he arrived, he found Mike standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, touching his own face. The red notebook rested on the sink. When Mike heard footsteps, he startled.

“Hey, Mikey,” Will said, dragging out the last syllables teasingly.

“Hey, William.”

“William again?” Will stepped closer, hands behind his back, tilting his head down slightly. “Are you that mad at me?”

“I’m not mad” Mike replied, still refusing to look at him. He was lying.

“I can see how red your face is” Will said softly, lifting a hand to cup Mike’s cheek. It was warm beneath his fingers. Mike flinched at the sudden touch, then finally turned to face him.

“Who is he?” Mike asked quietly. There was embarrassment in his voice—he hated that he was acting like this, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“My friend,” Will answered. “Why?”

“How long have you known him?”

Will laughed, taking in Mike’s furrowed brow and the frustration radiating off him.

“Since I started sharing four classes with him” he said, like it was obvious.

Mike clicked his tongue, his gaze flickering away before returning—this time lingering on Will’s lips.

“Jealous?” Will asked again, both hands now framing Mike’s face. He leaned closer, voice dropping. He looked up at him deliberately.

“Yes..”

Mike grabbed one of Will’s wrists, holding it firmly, staring straight into his eyes. His grip was steady. His gaze intense.

Will laughed softly—just a little—and, gathering all the courage he’d been carrying since he walked into the bathroom, rose onto his toes and pressed a quick kiss to Mike’s lips.

When he pulled back and saw that Mike still looked annoyed, he did it again.

And again.

Short kisses—on his lips, his cheeks, his nose—until he finally managed to pull a laugh out of him.

“Stop” Mike said, smiling despite himself. “I want to kiss you properly, and I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Will replied simply. Not rushing him. Just honest.

Mike hesitated. Will saw the exact moment he decided—and then Mike kissed him.

It wasn’t rough. It was gentle, full of affection and quiet possession. Mike’s hands tightened around Will’s waist, pulling him closer, while Will’s hands tangled in his hair, touching him without quite knowing where to settle.

They only kissed for a short while—careful not to be seen, careful not to want more.

“Don’t be upset…” Will murmured, hands back on Mike’s cheeks, lips pouting slightly. He wanted to comfort him. And tease him a little.

“Ugh, shut up,” Mike said, smiling faintly. He couldn’t handle Will’s wide eyes—especially not with that pout.

They stepped apart when they heard footsteps down the hall. Their hearts raced, faces flushed with embarrassment. Whoever it was passed by the bathroom, but they didn’t dare get close again.

They wanted to.

They just felt like they shouldn’t.

“We have a class together anyway,” Will added lightly. “And now you know how I felt every time you went off with Jane.”

It wasn’t accusatory—just playful.

Mike didn’t reply. His face burned as he looked down at the floor. He felt attacked. Because he was.

They left separately. Mike returned to his seat beside Jane, who watched him with an amused expression. She knew exactly where he’d gone—even if it hadn’t been his original plan.

“So,” she whispered, “how’d it go with your boyfriend?”

“Please shut up.”

He tried to focus on class, but only managed for five minutes. He couldn’t stop replaying the bathroom. Couldn’t stop thinking about how they were pretending to be boyfriends without actually being one.

He didn’t want to admit how jealous he felt—of anyone who got close to Will. Boys. Girls. Anyone.

Sometimes he thought that if he’d been born a girl, everything would be easier. Confessing. Being together. Holding hands without judgment.

Class eventually ended. Mike hugged Jane goodbye, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He wanted to talk to Will—was terrified that Will might regret everything and run away. That he didn’t love him enough to risk something official.

A relationship.

The upside was that Mike felt alive again. Louder. Happier. At least when he was with Will. He felt like himself—knowing his feelings were returned.

Maybe it wasn’t healthy to have faded so much for someone else. But Will had been his entire world. Mike used to think that if something went wrong, he’d die of heartbreak.

He knew that wasn’t okay. He knew it was obsessive, co-dependent. He was working on it.

“Mike!”

His thoughts vanished the moment he heard Will’s voice.

“Hm?”

“Are you free? Do you want to come with me to the café?”

No. He wasn’t free.

But for Will, he always was.

“No,” he said softly. “But I want to go.”

He ruffled Will’s hair like he was a puppy.

“Come on,” Will said, tugging on Mike’s sleeve. He wanted to hold his hand—but stopped himself. A sleeve was less suspicious.

They sat in a quiet corner of the café. It wasn’t empty, but it was discreet enough to feel safe. They ordered coffee and something small to eat—the weather was chilly, and a hot drink felt right.

Mike talked first, animated, rambling happily just to make Will smile. Will watched him closely, a small smile playing on his lips, his eyes softening as Mike spoke excitedly about music and his days.

“Hmm” Will hummed.

“What?” Mike asked.

“Nothing. You just seem happier lately. And that makes me happy.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t realized it was that obvious. But then again—it was Will. He noticed everything.

They talked until it was time to return to class. When they said goodbye, making sure no one was watching, Mike pressed a kiss to Will’s head and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you more.” Will replied.

They walked the same way home, but Will had to stop by his mom’s workplace, so Mike continued alone.

Music blasted through his headphones as he walked. Loud enough to drown out the world. It made him feel safer. Braver.

When he got home, his little sister was at the table with their mom, doing homework. His dad wasn’t home. His older sister was out of town.

Mike greeted them briefly and went straight to his room, closing the door behind him. He leaned against it and let out a long breath, realizing he’d been holding it in the entire walk home.

He grabbed his journal.

He wrote and wrote. Spilled everything—his feelings, his fears, his confusion about Will. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should do anything. He didn’t want to seem clingy or overwhelming.

Usually, Will was the one who communicated his feelings openly. Mike tried—but it was harder for him.

That’s why it hurt that Will didn’t bring this up. Didn’t seem curious. Didn’t seem worried.

Mike sighed again, closed his eyes, then turned to his homework.

And all he could think was:

God… what am I supposed to do?