Archive of Our Own

Mike does not dream when he sleeps.

At least, not usually.

He settles uneasily into the comfort of his bed, pulling up the blankets around him. His retinas still sting with the sharp afterimage of the lights in his bathroom. Even though it’s honestly far too late for him to still be awake, he’s slipped out of his room more than once to get Tylenols and tissues.

Mike shifts again, trying to get comfortable, rolling on his back to stare at the empty ceiling. His head is still absolutely pounding — why? He’s sure this can’t possibly be normal. It feels like he’s going to break apart at the seams if this keeps going, and no, he swears he’s not trying to be over dramatic.

At least the spontaneous nose bleeding has stopped by now. Just like the intensive migraines, he doesn’t usually have nosebleeds either. 

Even if it took him a seriously excessive amount of time and very nearly filling his trash can to the brim with bloodied tissues, whatever, at least that’s one less thing he has to worry about.

Mike tries to ease his breathing now, closing his eyes. He thinks he hates this the most — the minutes that tick by in the narrow space when he’s exhausted and tired but still can’t quite slip into the realm of unconsciousness. 

Mike hates it the most because he’s forced to sit down and think. The last few days have been a relentless onslaught, never time to sit down and contemplate, always having to move and move and run — ever since the second the first shot rang out in the Byers’ house, the instant window shattered, they’ve all been running. (Mike especially, in more ways that he will ever admit willingly to himself.) 

First it was running on a mission to save El, to break her out of the bunker and Brenner’s control once and for all. Then the entire quest was to kill Vecna before he killed them — even if that was ultimately a failure in the end. Even if his body was destroyed, Mike knows Vecna is still utterly, inexplicably alive, against all the odds.

Mike rapidly clamps down on that thought, shoving it to the deeper recesses of his mind. He doesn’t want to follow that train of thought, because it’ll inevitably lead to thinking about the last conversation he had with Will. And by no means does he want to think about Will right now. It’s exactly what he’s avoiding.

Mike flips over again, tossing and turning. He hates this. He hates all of this. Will is sleeping in the Wheelers’ basement right now — he had avoided and sidestepped the option of staying in Mike’s room, and honestly, Mike doesn’t blame him for it — so is he tossing and turning the same way Mike is? Or is he sleeping restfully, fitfully, peacefully? 

Somehow, Mike highly doubts that. If anything, Will is almost certainly more tormented than he is. (He wonders how the nightmares have been. If they’ve gotten any better.)   

Part of that is Mike’s fault, he knows it. As much as he wants to ignore it, he can’t, because even if they fixed up their relationship in California — he’s almost certainly ruined it. Broken things, maybe even irreparably, with a few chance words, specifically— my life started that day that—

No. No.

Mike sits up abruptly, nearly hitting himself on the headboard as he forcibly rips himself out of his thoughts. 

He can’t afford to allow himself to think about anything that’s happened since California. He can’t allow himself the luxury of thinking about Will. (How did it come to this? How did they come to this?)

And yet — how many nights has he spent just like this one? Sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, thinking, dreaming of him.

Dreaming of everything about him — the low tone of his voice when he speaks nowadays, the angles and contours of his face, his slender fingers with the nails bitten down to the beds out of anxiety. Mike holds all of his memories of Will close to his chest, close to his heart, cradling them like they’re a treasure stolen. Like someday, somebody is going to take all of them, take back what’s never been and never will be rightfully Mike’s.

It’s a guilty pleasure at best and a grievous sin at worst. Mike knows that. That whatever this is isn’t normal — he is the abnormal, the anomaly, the too-arrogant imperfection trying to mimic flawlessness.

Because the thing about Will, the thing that Mike tries oh-so-valiantly to hide, to shove down and repress as if it never happened, is that he feels for him so deeply that he doesn’t even know where to begin. How can he even start to catalog something as vast and limitless and inescapable and all consuming?

Mike does not know what love is — despite what everyone else thinks. (And even still, even if he doesn’t know quite what it is, he knows that he doesn’t have it with El. Intrinsically. He knows that no matter how much he tries to hide it.)

But this? Isn’t this the closest thing to love that exists? It has to be. That unmistakable pull, that urge, that need, fierce and passionate and desperate — it is the closest thing to love he has ever felt. It is the closest he has ever been to holiness despite how utterly sinful it is. 

But Mike is nothing if not terrified. It is overwhelming and intense beyond anything else he’s ever felt; and that’s exactly why he can’t have it. He refuses to let himself have this. He plays ignorant, plays the fool, buries it six feet below the surface and tries to ignore it even though it’s not truly ever dead. He pretends as if it’s never mattered in the first place. (As if it isn’t the only thing that’s ever mattered.)

Mike sinks back down onto the pillow, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He’s so tired. Far more than just physically.

It feels bitterly asinine to complain when almost everybody around him has been through a hell ten times worse. But he feels it. It’s almost like a weight pulling him down, pulling him back so he’s forced to fight twice as hard for every step forward.

He chalks it up to general exhaustion and anxiety — who wouldn’t be bone-deep tired with the apocalypse caving in around them? But it’s more than that, and he knows it. His worries and fears are like cracks in the surface of his skin that he tries to hide.

(Because — is this going to be the way he dies? With the weight of unspoken words on his chest? Regrets like the taste of toxic bile in his throat? If the apocalypse is coming — will he die without anybody, not even himself, knowing who he even is? The mere thought of leaving dying with nobody knowing who he is makes him taste ash in his throat, fear and frustration running through his veins.

Mike is not particularly a vain person, and he hasn’t ever been consumed with thoughts of lasting legacy or expansive fame. But he cannot help but fear what people will remember when he’s gone. It could be any day now with all the supernatural threats approaching on the horizon — it’s like he’s one step closer, every single day, to the ending finale. 

And when that happens — what will all their lasting memories of him be? Will his parents write speeches and paragraphs when he’s gone about him but talk about a person he doesn’t even recognize? A shell of somebody with his name but none of his personality or flaws or dreams or desires or anything that makes him who he is?)

Mike pulls the covers up again, grasping for some thin kind of comfort. Following this train of thought is useless, he ends up determining. It certainly has made him miserable if not anything else.

He doesn’t want to keep thinking about it. It’s so much more draining than he would have thought, too — enough for his eyes to finally slide shut. 

(As he starts to fall asleep into a deep dream, the thought chain of all his fears still lurks at the edges of his consciousness, not quite gone. Unbeknownst to Mike, a certain someone takes advantage of it.)

—

When he comes to, he’s standing in a field.

Everything is hazy and disorienting at first. Mike blinks once or twice, trying to register the environment in front of him as it takes shape. 

Immediately, he notices something is off, even as his brain is weighed down by heavy sleep fog.

The world doesn’t quite feel… solid, almost. The edges and outlines almost feel blurry — when he looks around too fast, everything takes a second to settle, and the corners of his vision are oddly fluid. It’s almost like a watercolor painting running into itself, losing all of its borders and definition.

It occurs to Mike that this… can’t be right. It’s too dreamlike, too unreal. His mind grasps onto that — this cannot possibly be real. It has to be a dream or some sort, even if it’s so out of the ordinary.

Mike tries to hold onto that sentiment — but it slips from his mind even as he tries to hold on, like he’s trying to hold onto flowing water as it slips through his fingers.

It’s almost like he’s waking up from a dream and forgetting everything that happened — he forgets within less than a minute that he ever had any concern whatsoever about the difference between reality and dreams; something, or rather, someone refusing to let him hold on to the truth.

It’s not even the only unusual thing about this place. As he looks around, there’s an eerie sense of familiarity that he can’t quite put his finger on.

The field he’s standing in is dotted with blossoming flowers in arrays of pastel shades — they’re shockingly pretty, flourishing and blooming at his feet. He turns around, and at his back the field slopes into a hill, with a backdrop of a gorgeous blue sky. 

It should be perfect. It very nearly is. But as Mike turns back around to face front, the landscape shifts drastically, like it’s another world entirely.

The flowers dotting the ground are rotting instead of blooming, the vast majority of them long gone and dead. The sky booms with thunder, clouds shot through with veins of red hovering ominously in the sky. Smoke billows up from the buildings far in the distance, their fires still burning fiercely. 

And still — neither of those things are what Mike’s attention is focused on. Rather, his eyes are fixed on a certain point, unable to look away. The thing that fascinates him the most are the cracks.

Red, gaping cracks glowing like molten lava are gouged deep into the ground, splitting the terrain apart. It’s oddly reminiscent of a faint memory that Mike has, and he’s momentarily distracted by recalling it.

When Mike was a child, he had a glass paperweight from his father’s business office. It was a pretty thing, some glazed glass delight with spiraling colors; deep blues, sunshine yellows, and vivid greens all contained within the tiny clear glass sphere. Mike cannot for the life of him remember why anyone gave it to him, or how he got it in the first place — no, that’s not true. Actually, he’s almost sure he stole it from his father‘s office when he shouldn’t have.

Well. In any case, it doesn’t matter now. The thing he remembers in crystal clear detail is the precise moment that it broke.

It started as a hairline fracture. A spiderweb of crystalline fractures expanding all over the globe. The details are fuzzy — did he drop it? Did someone else crack it? He doesn’t even remember. But even now, Mike clearly remembers trying to ignore the cracks for as long as possible. He didn’t want to tell anyone for fear of getting in trouble, or punishment; so he didn’t, as simple as that.

Really, Mike was extremely lucky to have not been personally injured when it eventually broke. 

It was a long time coming — the fractures only ever spread and spread, their webs wrapping and consuming all over the entire sphere until it finally reached the brink. Staring at the glass shards on the floor, all too colorful and too beautiful for something broken — from that day on, Mike learned an important lesson, to say the least. It’s an inescapable law that if something has fractures, and they are not repaired, those fractures will break and shatter it until it is an unrecognizable object. Everything has a breaking point. 

Mike’s reminded of that glass paperweight now, staring at the gouges in the earth’s surface. How deep do they go? How many of them are there — is this just here, or everywhere else too? And how long before they spread, just like the cracks in the glass, until the world itself caves under the pressure and splits apart?

And where the hell even is here, anyways? That same underlying sense of familiarity comes back at full force, and the reason why is right on the tip of Mike’s tongue. He frustratedly racks his brain for what it could possibly be causing it — and all once, it hits him.

It’s the same field and same hill that he stood on when he first came back to Hawkins — god, that feels like an eternity ago from now. 

Why is he back here? Mike blinks, swiveling around to look again, as if there could be possibly anything that he’s missed.

All of it is so specifically strange; there are about a million different questions swimming around in Mike’s mind, and he doubts he will find the answers to any of them soon.

But even despite all of it — all of the strangeness, all of the anomalies, Mike doesn’t feel… scared. Far from it, actually.

If he’s being fully honest, he feels an emotion he doesn’t know how to name. It’s unfamiliar, so different, so drastic, that he can’t even describe it at first.

But as he thinks about it, it occurs to him — this feels right. So strongly, steadily right. By all logical means, he should be scared or disturbed or uncomfortable or something, but if anything he feels like the polar opposite of that. Being here feels like the puzzle pieces have all clicked into place, like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

It’s so unfamiliar because — all his life he’s never felt quite exactly like he’s belonged. Not fully. Always an intruder, a pretender, an impersonator — so this feeling? It’s like nothing else, so startling and sharp to feel for the first time it’s almost unsettling in itself. He’s never felt like this before after hungering for it for so long.

He’s not even surprised when he hears footsteps behind him, stepping quietly, the only sound being the soft crushing of leaves underfoot. He recognizes those footsteps; how could he not? As if he hasn’t memorized every feature of this person, like a steadfast oath, the clearest thing Mike has ever stood by?

It feels right, like what happens next is simply what’s destined to happen — easy as that. (Mike marvels at how goddamn easy it is. He imagines if everything else was like this — a clear cut line between right and wrong, with no guilt or confusion or terror or anything. Just this powerful, intense certainty, the knowledge that he is exactly where he’s supposed to be in the world.)

Mike whirls around before Will can speak first, hands coming up to clutch at his shirt like he’s scared Will isn’t something solid, like he could vanish and disappear at any moment if Mike doesn’t have the fucking strength to hold on to him for once in his life. He’s sure it looks desperate, but he doesn’t even have the capacity to care. 

“Mike,” Will says softly, slowly, and Mike savors it; the sound of his name in Will’s mouth. He doubts there’s been a single moment in his life when he hasn’t been entranced by his voice — fascinated by the dips and divots in his tone, the sonorous melody of it.

It’s precisely because he’s paid so much attention to Will’s voice that he can tell that something’s… distinctly… different. Wrong — Mike flinches away from using that word. In any case, before he can think about it more — he can’t. Mike’s mind refuses to let him dwell on it, letting it slide from his mind like ice melting in the summer sun. How can it be possibly wrong when it feels so right?

Mike’s too distracted with looking Will in the eyes to take in the rest of him. Surprisingly, Will is the only thing clearly defined in this world — not blurry and fluid like the backdrop, but instead defined, like the centerpiece of the painting.

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his face, Mike drops his gaze to scan him over and —

“Oh my god,” He breathes, shock coloring his voice. 

Will’s dressed differently than usual; instead of the lighter shades he usually wears, his jeans are so dark they’re bordering on black, and the shirt he wears is a deep brown that almost looks red to Mike in this lighting. 

On the same note but even more strange, the first thing Mike noticed when he saw him was that his eyes were darker than usual, in the same fashion as his clothes. Instead of the flecked hazel-green that Mike is used to, that he knows, his eyes look almost brown. Or — on second thought, red.

And yet, Mike doesn’t dwell on either of those things. His attention is firmly fixed on Will’s back. Or rather, the things blooming from it.

The best thing he can describe it as is similar to Vecna. He’s only ever seen illustrations of him and his monster form, but it’s… ridiculously similar.

From Will’s back blooms tentacles, almost like vines, black at their bases and fading into deep scarlet red at the tips. Their patterns are spiraling and intricate, beautiful even if horrifying. 

Right now, they’re fanning out around him at his sides, almost ostentatious, like they’re on display. (Mike thinks that in a way, they look like wings — as if they aren’t a product of the underworld of Hell itself.) 

They must have been folded or angled down when Mike first saw him — how did he not see them before? Mike’s head spins under the weight of all of it, his confusion and shock all mingling into one.

“Wh— you can’t be Will,” he chokes out, stuttering. “You— have to be One controlling his body or something,” Mike says, his voice rising and gradually getting more hysterical. His hands drop from Will’s chest to clutch at his wrists, gripping so hard he thinks it might hurt.

Mike doesn’t have any idea what to expect from this Will now — but he certainly doesn’t expect him to laugh.

Will laughs and smiles thinly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Mike falters, losing his resolve; it feels… almost humiliating. Like Mike’s borderline hysteria isn’t anything to be taken seriously, is something to laugh at. He feels oddly scolded, in a way that makes him duck his head, feeling the sting of embarrassment.

“I can assure you I’m not One.” Will says, sliding his wrists out of Mike’s grip so he can switch their positions and hold Mike’s wrists instead. Mike sucks in a breath as Will mindlessly rubs spiral patterns into his skin as he speaks — a nervous tic, one that he’s seen Will do countless times before.

“When One lost his physical body —“ Will pauses, clearly debating what to say, how exactly to word what he means. “He split his consciousness into vessels. Those vessels weren’t controlled by him and didn’t have his thoughts, but they were given the same powers as him.”

Mike expects him to say more, but when he realizes he’s done speaking, he quickly looks up to meet Will’s eyes.

“…that can’t be true.” Mike says slowly, still trying to process the information. He doesn’t even think about filtering his words — because he’s right, isn’t he? There’s just — there’s no way that’s true. There can’t be.

“What would I get out of lying to you?” Will says evenly, still seemingly undisturbed, not breaking his composure. “Think about it. All the gates are open. One doesn’t need to kill anyone else again with nightmares. Why in the world would One take the time to visit you?”

“Then why did you take the time to visit me either?” Mike cuts in, gaining back a little bit of his resolve and fire.

“Are you really asking that?” Will sighs. 

He steps even closer to Mike, nearly closing all the distance between them, and Mike’s heartbeat skips for a second.

This scares him. Mike swallows dryly, his mind overcome with tens of different thoughts and fantasies. 

He’s not even scared of Will himself, or anything that he could do — rather, Mike’s scared of what he himself could do (would do) if Will stepped a little closer. What he’ll do if Will lifts a hand to cup his cheek or finally fully closes all of the physical distance between them.

(This is humiliating , Mike thinks distinctly. He doesn’t know how all of his self control has been shredded so deeply and so thoroughly that he’s going to kiss Will if he moves closer to him now.)

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

Will does it before Mike can — he swiftly moves forward, closing the gap between them so they’re chest to chest. Mike barely has any time to process before Will’s kissing him, actually so, like every one of his dreams come to life. What could he ever do but kiss back?

Mike scrambles to savor it, learning the curves and seams of Will’s mouth in the so-little seconds they have before parting. Mike knows achingly that this is almost certainly going to be the first and last kiss that they both get to have together — he’ll be damned if he’s not going to make the most of it.

It’s everything he’s wanted — isn’t it so stupid to say that?

And yet, just like that, it’s over. Will pulls away, leaving Mike to run his tongue over his teeth just to remember the taste of him, the feel of him.

(It’s probably for the best this way, Mike thinks, licking his lips. He’s already done more than he should have, already indulged more and filled himself full. The omnipresent sense of shame and guilt is familiar, and Mike lets himself sink back into it.)

Will exhales. At first, Mike didn’t think that the kiss made an effect on Will like it did with Mike, but this is honestly the first time he’s seen Will not… completely composed. His lips are red and kiss-swollen, his hair messy, and his eyes are — different.

His eyes look hazy, but not distant or unfocused. In fact, it’s the opposite, because he’s fixed on Mike, his pupils wide. His gaze is heavy, heady with roaring intensity, so much so that it’s almost scary. The intensity is centered around an emotion Mike can’t name at first, but then it clicks — Will is looking at him with desire.

Desire is an unfitting word for what it describes, just like the word love. (Which is particularly fitting because they go hand in hand. Love and desire are things that cannot exist without the other; twin flames that serve to make each other burn higher, hotter, ever-brighter.)

Mike is a writer, and so he often wonders how can a single word possibly define something so large, bigger than anything humans could ever create or imagine, something so powerful that there’s nothing else in the world like it. Seeing the look in Will’s eyes tells him the answer to his question in one fell swoop — because the answer is that it simply doesn’t.

A single word like desire is physically impossible of encompassing the meaning of it — it’s beyond words, the way that Will is looking at him now. Like he wants to devour him whole, like he wants to break him apart and piece the shards back together by his own singular design.

Before Mike can tell entirely what’s happening, in one sinuous motion, Will plants his palms on Mike’s chest and pushes him back. Mike startles and makes a shout of surprise, but it doesn’t stop him from falling backwards.

Mike lands on his back in the field, his hair flaring out around him, his arms laid out askew. The drop didn’t hurt, not really; the flowers below him clearly bracketed the fall.

He can’t help but let out a tiny gasp as Will drops down to the ground too, albeit more elegantly, kneeling on the ground next to Mike.

“I came to visit you here because I wanted you,” Will rasps in a low voice, and Mike closes his eyes, screws them shut tightly. 

“You can’t.” Mike chokes out, like the words cause him immense physical pain to say out loud. Maybe it does.

There’s a million things he means by just those two words, and he knows Will understands that. Just one of those things is that this electric chemistry and near-romance (if he can even call it that, which he absolutely shouldn’t) between them is wrong by every rule of society that they’ve ever known.

But it’s more than that, too. Because another one of those things is that Will can’t possibly want him.

Mike is and has been consciously aware that Will is not the same as him. Even if he never talks about it, he’s sure that Will has the same desires as Lucas and Dustin, the desire for a girlfriend and eventually a wife and everything that Mike should be wanting now.

(Even if maybe — when they talked in the van — Mike had the beginnings of a thought, the start of wondering if — maybe, just maybe… he isn’t talking about who he thinks he is. Maybe.

But in what world could that happen? Mike had viciously berated himself for it, for hoping even if for a brief second. He doesn’t want to face the reality that he’s alone in his desires, and he always, always will be.)

In a sudden moment of clarity, Mike remembers what he thought when he first saw this Will — that he wasn’t real. That has to be true, doesn’t it?    

Because the real Will, the one he grew up with and grew apart from, the one who he can’t ever stop viciously hurting over and over again, doesn’t want Mike. He probably doesn’t even want to talk to Mike, much less kiss him, touch him, hold him like lovers do.  

Mike opens his eyes and clambers for a hold on the ground as he tries to sit up. He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s doing, but he can’t let this happen. 

He’s just gotten a grip and is about to stand up when Will tilts his head — and without even moving so much as a finger, pins him to the ground, faded scarlet tentacles stretching out from his back and wrapping around Mike’s wrists and ankles.

Alarm spikes through Mike’s veins, and he immediately twists and thrashes against the vine-like chains, panic fueling his movements.

“Will, stop. Let go of me.” He gasps, still straining, leaning his head back to look him in the eyes.

“I can’t do that.” Will sighs, lifting his hand and reaching forward. Mike recoils at first, but Will’s fingertips only come to rest calmly on his clothed chest.

It only makes Mike’s wrists struggle harder at the tentacles bounding him — and not because the feeling is bad.

He needs to get out of these bounds and get away from Will not because he doesn’t want him, but because he feels too good. The sensation of Will’s fingers grazing his skin, even over his clothes, makes a sinful feeling rise in his stomach. He’s all too aware of his cheeks growing red, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Mike wants — no — needs more of it. How good would it feel to have Will’s hands on his chest unclothed this time? To have his hands roaming everywhere — Mike would freely give all that he has under Will’s touch, give him everything and everything and more even still.

How ashamed would everyone else be of him if they saw him like this? Right now when he’s restrained to the ground but not even protesting harshly, not even fully controlling that he’s canting his hips up to unconsciously allow Will more access, near euphoric at just the brief touch of fingertips over his skin?

Mike shivers at the thought, thinking of El, his parents, his friends — how disgusting is it that he wants this? Why is he horrifying enough to let this happen?

The thought renews his inner drive, gives him a bit more energy to try to struggle out of the restraints, bucking his body to halfheartedly try to get Will to stop touching him.

“Are we really still doing this?” Will hums, laying his fingers down.    

“You know, all of this is just you being too scared.” He says, not cruelly, almost conversationally. Mike’s momentarily too lost for words to say a single thing in protest.

“You’re too scared to do anything but what other people want.” Will says like he’s laying out plain facts and nothing else. 

“It’s almost fascinating, you know?” He continues. 

“You’re so firmly entrenched in wondering what people think of you.” He begins to run his fingers down from Mike’s collarbone to his navel lazily, teasingly, applying the slightest pressure. Mike’s entire body unwillingly shudders at it.

“What they’d think if they saw you like this, what they’d think if they knew what‘s going on in your mind everytime you look at me.” 

Mike lurches forward, sitting up, cutting Will off, words tearing out of his throat. “Stop reading my mind, or— whatever the hell you’re doing now—! ”

The fear is painfully obvious in his voice, but he doesn’t have the power to stop it. He needs to keep Will from talking, to stop him from rapidly approaching this precipice that they both know they’re on, to stop him from fully tearing down all of Mike’s careful walls and barriers to a point where they can’t ever be repaired again.

Will settles his hand and increases the pressure, slamming Mike back onto the ground. Mike jerks in pain — god, that absolutely hurt so much more than the first time he fell to the ground.

(Even still, a thrill runs through his blood at it, one that he tries to tamp down. It’s not… entirely unpleasant; part of him likes Will throwing him around like he’s nothing. Mike’s mind aches from it, rapidly approaching overload at all the contradicting and mixed feelings going through his mind. He can’t do it, he doesn’t know how to contain any of it.)

“I’m not reading your mind. I couldn’t do that if I tried.” Will says calmly, continuing as if nothing’s even happened. 

“I just know you better than you know yourself.” He exhales simply. “Which isn’t hard, by the way — because you don’t want to know yourself. You keep every real feeling you have locked down so much that I doubt you even know yourself who you are.”

Mike feels like all the breath has been knocked out of him, making him unable to know not what to say or do. Because hasn’t this been what he’s wanted?

For so long, Mike has carried with him the steady belief that nobody would understand him. Even if he was to open up to his family and friends about his inner turmoil — and even if they were kind to him instead of instantly cutting him off — none of them would ever truly understand, no matter how hard they tried.

And now? The opportunity is right in front of him. The opportunity to be with someone who understands him, and still wants him in spite of it. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

“So, let me ask you, Mike,” Will sighs, words as slow and smooth as honey. “What do you want?”

Mike’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, desperately avoiding Will’s gaze. He half wonders if he can avoid his question by acting like he’s not there. But he dismisses it — he doesn’t have a choice but to lift his gaze back to Will, to listen to what he’s saying. 

“What do you want?” Will repeats, refusing to back down.

Mike trembles, furiously wrestling with his conflicting ideals and feelings. “I want…” he struggles to get the words out.

“I want you to go.” He mumbles, so quiet it’s barely audible. He can’t even say the word stop. He doesn’t mean it and Will knows it.

Will laughs again, that condescending and dismissing laugh that feels so unfamiliar and normal at the same time.

“So you want me to leave, then? I don’t think so.” He leans closer to him, and Mike couldn’t move away if he even tried. (Even if the restraints weren’t there, he doesn’t think he would be able to move then either.)

“If you want me to leave, tell me to stop.” He breathes, as if it could ever possibly be that simple. “Tell me what you want one more time. Tell me to stop.”

Mike ducks down, uncontrollably tearing up, clenching his fists in a futile motion.

He can’t tell him to leave. He tries and the words die in his mouth, rotting away like the dead flowers in the field, falling to ashes in his throat. He can’t, he just can’t.

And Will knows it.

He laughs again, pressing his face into Mike’s neck. He knows the absence of him talking provides the answer to his question in itself.

“Told you so.” He whispers triumphantly with his lips against the side of Mike’s throat — and still tenderly, maybe like the tone of a partner during something so much more obscene than this already is.

When Will eventually starts to pull away, his fingers come up to cup Mike’s cheek.

“Oh, are you crying?” He murmurs softly, brushing his thumb under Mike’s eye — and Mike can’t help it, he really can’t. He closes his eyes as he feels his cheeks dampen. He’s still trembling, fully crying from the weight of what he’s let go, confirming that Will knows all of his deepest fears. 

Will brushes and kisses his tears away soothingly, unbearably sweet and dangerously attentive. “It’s okay,” he hums, still with a touch of condescension. “I’ve got you, okay?”

(Despite everything, Mike believes him. He really, truly does.)

So Will starts slowly, at first. He pulls away and drops down to Mike’s legs — slowly begins by wrapping a hand around his ankle, letting the tentacle restraining it recede. He threads his fingers through the laces of his shoe and undoes them, pulling his shoe and sock off and throwing it to god knows where. Mike certainly doesn’t care.

Mike’s breath speeds up at how contradictory all of this is. How Will can practically throw him around and manhandle him one second with seemingly zero fear of hurting him, but treat him like this the next second, so carefully, so slowly, almost like worship. It’s more addicting than any drug could ever be.

Will repeats the same process with the other leg, not yet looking up at Mike. They’re really doing this, aren’t they—? Mike wonders in a heavy haze. He lets himself go pliant under uis touch as Will pulls up to deftly finger the zipper of his pants.

Suddenly, Will stops moving, his hands stilling as he peers up at Mike through his eyelashes. Mike bites his lip so hard he tastes blood — he’s imagined many a look like this on Will’s face before.

Will reaches down and discards Mike’s pants, just as the tentacles fall away from Mike’s wrists as well. Mike flushes at how fast it is, how quick they’re moving — shouldn’t he slow them down, at the very least? 

He thinks over the question in his mind for a second, turns it over. All that he finds that he doesn’t… particularly want them to slow down. Not at all. 

He wants all of it, right here, right now; the brief touches that he’s gotten so far aren’t enough. Will’s fingers skimming over his ankle, his lips brushing against his neck, his breath warm and heavy against his skin — all of it serves to show him more, just more of what he could possibly have.

His fears still hold him back, yes; they’re still present, like always. But they scatter like birds from his mind, at least momentarily, when Will runs his hands up his thighs, thumbing at the edges of his boxers.

(To be honest — it feels like he’s losing a lot of things. The weight and burdens off his chest, sure, but it’s more than that. He feels… confused, almost. He can’t quite remember where he is anymore, or what led up to all of this, but he supposes it doesn’t matter anymore anyways.)

He doesn’t want to beg. Or, rather, he shouldn’t want to beg. It’s humiliating, and he holds himself back, but — for a split second, in a rare moment of horrible weakness — he thinks that he would drop to his knees to plead for this. He wants to beg for Will’s touch everywhere he can possibly bear. He’s going fast but still not fast enough, and he needs this, needs him.

Just as quickly as it came, Mike banishes the thought. He’s not ever going to do something as shameful as begging. Especially not when he doesn’t even have to now.

Fluidly, Will moves to slide in between Mike’s legs, slotting himself there like he perfectly belongs. He’s still fully clothed, and Mike’s fingers twitch with the power it takes to restrain him from reaching forward and yanking off his shirt in one motion.

Will pulls off Mike’s boxers and discards them too, and he lets him, arching his back and hips to help him get it off. He feels a whine build in his throat at being exposed to the air like this, as well as Will’s gaze. 

He’s hard to an almost pathetic extent — he has been since Will leaned towards him, when they kissed for the first time. For once, Will decides to be merciful and reaches out to take him in hand.

He wraps his fingers over the crown of his cock, and, holy shit, Mike thinks his eyes roll back at the first slow stroke down. He resists every urge in his body to start thrusting up into Will’s hand like some kind of fucking animal, and prays for his hips to stay still and on the ground this time.

“You’re so worked up,” Will breathes, sounding almost elated about it. “Nobody’s touched you, even like this?”

Mike lets a groan slip out of his lips, his eyelids fluttering. “No,” he shudders, but pauses briefly, before adding an amendment. “Well— kind of.”

Will raises his eyebrows, slowing his strokes ever so slightly. (As if he wasn’t going slow enough already.)

“Yeah?” He asks, prompting Mike to tell him more. There’s an underlying current to his words, one that Mike can’t quite make out.

Another spike of pleasure melts in Mike’s veins, and he tries to get a hold on his breathing to speak. “Yeah,” he gasps, recalling the event.

It was barely anything. Hell, it’s something Mike almost forgot — something he wants to forget. 

It was something lazy last summer — a half hearted attempt at doing more than making out with El, one that neither of them really had a desire to do; all of it was just a sense of obligation more than anything. Mike nearly cringes at remembering how he was so utterly soft that he slipped out of El’s hand multiple times when they tried to do something like this. 

It doesn’t even compare to now. It really, really doesn’t. It’s why he hadn’t even brought it up at first — it doesn’t compare, isn’t anywhere near the same category as the pleasure he’s feeling now.    

“Me and El tried to do something once,” Mike breathes half heartedly. “I didn’t— oh —“ he lets out a too-loud moan as his hips buck up uncontrollably, all because of Will running his fingers over the sensitive slit at the tip. 

He did that intentionally, didn’t he—? Mike thinks in a daze, coming down from the sharpness of the pure pleasure shock. There’s something glinting in Will’s eyes, the same as before — Mike still can’t tell what.

“I didn’t even come,” he hurriedly continues, trying to rush out the rest of the words before Will does something like that again and pulls a surprise on him. “It wasn’t— good. I didn’t feel anything good. It wasn’t like any of this.”

Abruptly, Will lets his hand fall away, leaving Mike with nothing. Mike thinks he might genuinely tear up again for it as he lets his head fall back. The pain of being denied something he so obviously needs ricochets through his veins — is this punishment , he thinks deliriously? For saying something that Will apparently didn’t like?

Mike yelps when Will’s hands come back down on him, this time seizing his hips, digging his fingernails into them so hard Mike’s sure it’ll leave bruises.

“Really? Just once with her?” He says in that damned matter-of-fact voice.

“Because I think you’re desperate enough to have tried sleeping around before.” He says smoothly, and Mike’s mouth drops open.

“What— ?” He gasps incredulously. 

“I wouldn’t, really, I wouldn’t,” Mike babbles erratically, not knowing why he’s trying so damn hard to defend himself in front of Will, “I just— got off by myself. That’s all. Really.”

“Yeah? And what did you do by yourself?” Will hums as he spreads Mike’s legs fully apart so casually, exposing him almost uncaringly. The switch has flipped again; one second Will treats him so delicately and the next second he’s pushing him around every which way. 

And not only that — it feels like the way Will is touching him now is motivated, in a different way than before. Driven, almost, ever since Mike first brought up El. The underlying current that showed up before in his words, in his eyes — it’s almost like it’s… jealousy. 

As much as Mike desperately wants him to, Will doesn’t go back to wrapping his fingers around his dick. Instead, he opts to curl his hands around Mike’s inner thighs, spreading them even wider still.

Before Mike can speak to reply, Will continues, answering his question himself. “Did you have a habit of curling a hand over yourself and getting off that way? Or rutting against the sheets uselessly until you make a complete mess?”

“That’s —“ Mike tries to interrupt, but Will just speaks over him. 

“See, I don’t think you usually do either of those.” Will’s stare slides from meeting Mike’s eyes to down further and further still, past his swollen hardness still leaking precome, past the milky skin of his thighs, to—

“You probably got really used to using your fingers on yourself, right?” A smile twitches at Will’s lips, knowing he’s hit the bullseye. 

“How much did you do that at night, huh?” He reaches out, knocking Mike’s thighs apart as he self consciously tries to close them. He lazily circles a finger over his entrance, teasingly, visibly delighting in the ripple and shudder that Mike’s body goes through for it.

“Did you think of me again there too? Stretching yourself out, trying to take as much and as many fingers as you possibly could, preparing yourself like you wanted this to happen?” He pulls his fingers away, fully smiling as Mike automatically shifts his hips to try to chase the touch.

“I don’t even need to prepare you myself, do I?” Will says deliberately, almost pridefully, like he’s boasting about an accomplishment of his own. “You’re ready enough for me already.”

“That’s so— fuck , all of that is so obscene, you’re perverse—!” Mike shouts out to cut Will off, sitting up with a start. 

His words have a fairly decent amount of bite to them; even as Will doesn’t flinch in the slightest. (Belatedly, he realizes he’s fallen right into Will’s trap, yet again. Into this strange dance of theirs; where Will goads and taunts him on until Mike finally snaps at him — to no avail, anyways. All it does is give Will more confidence. He leads and controls Mike’s every single movement with just a few carefully chosen words, and Mike is powerless to every one of his whims and desires. Just like he always has been.)

Will finally tears his gaze and hands away, his mission fulfilled. “You love it anyways, don’t you?” He murmurs as he pulls up Mike’s leg, starting to hook it over one shoulder as he starts to discard his pants and boxers with the other hand. 

Mike doesn’t even bother to answer. Even though this is objectively too fast and too soon and too horrifyingly immoral, everything in his body sings for him and how he needs to be as close as possible to Will right this second.

Mike hears the blissful sound of a belt buckle dropping to the ground — and Will really is fulfilling what he said, isn’t he? He’s not even going to prep him and use his own fingers, not even going to attempt to get him minutely accommodated to the stretch before he has to take it all. He stares blankly as he watches Will slick up his own palm, presumably to use on himself as lube, and Mike instantly realizes that’s the only preparation he’s going to get.

He shakes — Will wasn’t wrong before. Not at all, actually. He’s taken a… lot of his fingers before and isn’t totally unused to the feeling. Even still; it’s still not enough, not enough for it to not still hurt. When did he last do it; yesterday night, maybe? 

He has vague memories of hurriedly locking himself in a bathroom stall. Although — it’s strange, because he swears they used to be clearer. All he remembers is having little time, knowing people (which people, again?) were waiting for him so they could get back to the car (what car? why were they on the road?); but still having that ugly need to sate his arousal. 

(Time still feels frighteningly out of shape. For the matter of fact, what exactly was he doing last night, even? Or the day before? Mike’s met with a confusing… blankness. A silence. He doesn’t remember. For a second, it causes a shock of panic — confusing fragments of thoughts drift into his mind, such as: what happened in the last few days / where am i / why am i here / who would have — and then, nothing. There is no place but here, with Will. Nothing else exists but him.)

Surprisingly enough — even with all the fear and apprehension and certainty that he isn’t ready, Mike isn’t resisting. Not at all. Mike is more or less aware that he’s not… thinking fully clearly at all, but he doesn’t have the awareness to even care. So what if it hurts? He wants to take all of it regardless, wants to feel all of the sensations that ripple through him when Will gets to bottom out inside him like he’s fantasized so many times. 

(And to be honest, a little deliriously — Mike remembers when Will threw him against the ground or held him down. Specifically, he remembers how his cheeks flushed and his pants grew a little tighter every time. Part of him… likes the feeling of Will hurting him, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. It’s something he wants.)

Will doesn’t allow him much more time to contemplate or get stuck ruminating on his own thoughts. He disposes of his clothes quickly, not giving Mike any time to think before lifting up his legs and proceeding to position himself just the right way.

Mike’s heart beats faster and faster, unconsciously holding his breath out of anticipation. Will rapidly notices as he pulls their bodies flush together. 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs into Mike’s ear, sliding a hand into his hair in what’s supposed to be a reassuring motion. All it does is make Mike let out a humiliating whimper; fiercely wanting Will to pull and yank on his hair, wanting to be controlled and used until he’s raw and twitching and finally left full. (He doesn’t voice it. He never does.) 

Luckily, Will, ever so gracious, finally grants his wish. 

He doesn’t ask Mike if he’s ready or okay for this right now. He just does what Mike has never been able to do — and simply takes what he wants for himself.

Mike digs his nails into Will’s back, clenching his fists as Will slides the head in. He squeezes his eyes shut, entire body going tense and rigid; he can feel himself desperately trying to adjust to the foreign intrusion, fluttering around the width and girth of it. He can’t even speak any coherent words; shallow, high-pitched whines are all that leak out of his mouth.

It hurts. It’s intertwined with sharp euphoria unlike anything he’s ever felt, but it hurts so bad simultaneously. The tip is coated thoroughly in precome and saliva, but it’s still so much. For a few seconds, Mike wonders how if this is only the beginning — how can he possibly ever take the entirety? How is he supposed to? How can Will even expect him to?

Mike’s sure Will can feel his pulse lying under him, the fast tempo of it akin to the rapid heartbeat of a trapped, vulnerable piece of prey. To his credit, Will goes slower, still stroking through Mike’s hair to placate him. He’s still pushing into Mike, and Mike just quavers — wondering how long this will take, how much he has to take, because right now it feels never ending. 

 “Sorry, Mike,” Will pants out, noticing how Mike is clearly overwhelmed. 

“But you feel too good to slow down now,” He groans, and the grip of his hands tightens; so much so that Mike thinks the hand holding his hip is going to leave bruises. 

Despite it all, Mike feels a rush of pride — that he’s the one clenching around Will and making him feel like this, making him sound all blissed out and out of control, so different from his usual composed voice. He’s the one that Will chose to take like this, and nobody else. 

Still struggling to speak, Mike makes an answering moan to Will’s words — for a split second, he barely even registers that it came from his mouth with how loud it is. Will hikes Mike’s leg up, allowing himself to get deeper and deeper as much as he possibly can. Mike takes it and rides out the stimulation for all its worth; all of the pleasure and the pain taken in equal measure.

After what feels like an eternity — for better or for worse — Will finally bottoms out with a slow slide inward. Mike cranes his head back and mouths curses to the skies above, his toes curling instantly at how utterly full he is now. At how he’s stuffed to the brim more than he could ever dream of with his fingers and can’t even do anything about it.

(It hurts and is completely perfect all at the same time — Mike knows his body is practically sending off flares and alarm bells signaling him to stop rushing things, or rather, just plain stop. Regardless, all Mike wants is the exact opposite.)

Will cups his face in his hands and slowly skims his thumb across his cheek; just as affectionate as it is possessive.

“Doesn’t this feel right?” Will breathes, rocking his hips slightly, feeling out the space he’s carved out for himself inside Mike. 

“We belong together. You belong with me.”

The words sear into Mike’s mind, and he mindlessly can’t stop thinking and tracing them over and over again. The thought that he belongs with Will, that they belong to each other, that Mike belongs to him.

He knows these words and this line of thought is dangerous. It’s like playing with fire.

The idea of belonging is dangerous enough as it is, but possessive and uncontrollable like this ? Mike has no idea what he’s about to set free, and it’s terrifying.

“I know you think so too.” Will says as he slots his fingers below Mike’s chin, gently tilting him so they’re staring right at each other. “Don’t you?”

Mike’s gaze darts away, not being able to look at Will. He doesn’t want to speak, and it takes him a significant amount of strength to even do so. 

“Yes.” He whispers, praying he doesn’t have to say any more. 

Will smiles slightly, kindly considering his answer sufficient. But before moving; he wraps the tentacles around Mike’s legs and arms again, pinning him down. Mike jolts in surprise, looking up at Will with a wounded expression on his face. 

Why? It’s not as if he’s going to run now, Mike thinks. 

Will’s smile just grows even slightly wider at it. “I like seeing you restrained the best.’’ He says, and – oh. Oh.

Mike wonders faintly what picture he paints for Will below him like this – it must be pretty, right? The velvet red tentacles must contrast sharply against his skin like a painting.

But it’s more about the connotations. The implications and ideas that come with the fact that Will loves to see him tied up.

Will plants his palms on either side of Mike’s head, simultaneously balancing himself while caging Mike in. He doesn’t even look to see Mike’s expression for confirmation before drawing his hips back – Mike buries his head in the juncture of Will’s neck, preparing to muffle his noises and hide his face for this.

Will pulls back and presses back in, setting a brutal pace quite quickly, and Mike actually genuinely melts under him. The sting and pain is still there, but it just makes all of it more acute, more dimensional, almost more tangible.

It’s completely different from getting off – that was a concentrated kind of pleasure; one that felt good on the surface of his dick especially. But it only ever sent shocks at the most through his body when it was strongest, faint things that only lasted a few seconds. 

This is completely different. He feels it resonating and shaking through his entire being, wracking his body with spasms, the ecstasy heavy and deep set, sinking and coursing through his veins. (He doesn’t know if there are any sweeter pleasures than this.)

Mike moans mindlessly into Will’s skin. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed by how loud they’re being, especially with the sound of skin on skin. All he can do is bask in it, letting himself go. What else can he possibly do other than lie there and take it? Anything other than squeeze his eyes shut and let himself go for the ride?

He risks pulling away slightly – he still doesn’t want to be too loud and still wants to muffle himself, but he wants to see Will now. When he does, he knows it’s worth it.

Mike realizes that he was wrong before — when he thought even for a single second that Will had lost his composure and was out of control. Because he’s anything but not in control now – it’s perfect.

Mike stares shamelessly watching him – at the slight flush of his pale cheeks from exertion, one of the few signs of humanity Mike has gotten to see from him. His hands sink into the grass below him as he stays continuously stable, unshakeable, his hips and thrusts perfectly controlled and timed. 

Mike’s thinking about Will’s range of control when it occurs to him that something is a phase off. Just a singular wrong shade; like a misplaced color just a little bit off, not entirely right. Will’s thrusts are fully controlled – but – he’s holding something back still.

He’s not hitting the precise spot. Mike’s felt it before; once on accident with his fingers, and then every time after that was a chase to make a replica of that, just to feel that brilliance yet again. Mike’s head swims wondering why, and before he can stop himself, he opens his mouth.

“Will– lower–“ He gasps, meaning to ask him to go lower, to angle his hips just right. Mike falls just a little short of getting there, though, his words coming out stilted and broken off from how the overstimulation is affecting him.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, abruptly Mike sees the shift in Will’s eyes. Nearly imperceptible but not quite, his eyes darken to something considerably more sinister than anything before.

Will lifts his hand up and slides it into Mike’s hair. Mike thinks it’s going to be gentle for a split second before he clenches his fist, snagging the soft curls in a cruel grip. 

“Why are you trying to order me around?” He asks in a dangerously temperate voice, his lip curling.

“No— no, no, I didn’t mean it like that-–” Mike stumbles over his words, still struggling to speak and keep it together as Will doesn’t stop his thrusts. But he needs to get this out, needs to make Will know he would never be as stubborn and arrogant enough to try to order him around. He’s only just gotten a taste of what it’s like to be loved like this. He can’t lose it now by breaking the careful dance they’ve set for themselves. 

“Prove it.” Will says, the intensity in his eyes still fixed on Mike. The crushing relief that comes with it is almost overwhelming; Mike thanks his lucky stars that Will has a chance to forgive him.

“ How ?” Mike gasps, eager and desperate to please and make up for it.

“I want you to beg,” Will says bluntly. Mike’s almost sure he must have misheard something.  

“Wh— wait, what?” Mike blinks, in a daze.

Will tightens his grip as a warning. Mike shudders viscerally, horror spiking through his veins. “I— I’m sorry, sorry– I can’t—” Desperation courses through his voice. 

He can’t beg. He shudders at the thought of being forced to debase and humiliate himself like that — it’s horrifying. It’s not an option.

“You can.” Will talks over him emotionlessly. At the same time, while keeping up the pace of his hips, his other hand glides down to Mike’s dick, before settling lightly around the base. His fingertips graze across it — not enough to stimulate. Not anywhere near it. It’s purely to frustrate Mike, to spur him on, to make him cry and weep with the need for Will to do this properly.

“I can’t— I—” Mike babbles messily, getting choked up, his wrists jerking at the restraints.

“Don’t make me ask again.” Will says coolly, keeping up the feather-light touches and thrusts. Mike’s breathing has long since gone choppy and panicked, loudly cutting through the brief silence between their words. 

It’s like Will’s set on overstimulating Mike while asking more and more of him. Like he’s dead set on taking everything and more even still until Mike doesn’t have anything left to give.

“I–” Mike feels the all-too familiar pinprick of tears at the corners of his eyes. He breathes harshly, in and out, trying not to cry. “Please.” He pleads under his breath. 

He wants to buckle under the weight of it. How humiliating. How shameful. How horrifying. How disgusting, and yet —

“That’s not enough.” And, oh, at that — Mike feels a few tears drip down his face, at laying himself exposed and raw, begging only to be deemed unworthy, not enough. It’s what he’s feared his entire life, isn’t it?

“Please—!” His voice rises in pitch and cracks unsatisfactorily at the end. Mike knows he sounds pathetic and worthless begging like this, and it only serves to fuel his stress. Will simply shakes his head at his display, not even deigning to give him a verbal response this time.

“Please, I need this,” Mike sobs, tasting salt on his lips, blinking rapidly through the foggy film of his tears, trying to disperse them so he can keep seeing Will. His legs convulse as Will runs his fingers over the tip of his cock, and he lets out a cry as Will does it repeatedly, his already spread-open legs twitching with reckless abandon.

“Still not enough.” Vaguely, Mike feels like he’s breaking. The fractures only spread and crack even further at every turn he’s denied.

“I need this, Will, please, I need you—“ What more can he possibly say and show ? Mike wants to scream.

“Try again.” Will sighs, like he’s bored with it all already. Another fracture splits.

“I want you— I want you to—” 

“Again.” Another break cracks open like a gaping wound.

“I want you to— “

“You’re not doing good enough.” Will cruelly cuts him off, spits it at him like he’s sick and tired of waiting for Mike to do it himself. It breaks something inside of Mike, to be honest. The strongest emotion he’s seen from Will and it’s vitriolic towards him.

The words tear out of some deeper place inside of him, in an ugly, ragged voice he didn’t know he had. 

“ I need this. I need you , I need you to make me yours right now—!“

There’s barely a change in Will’s expression – and yet, Mike knows he’s succeeded by the glint in his eyes, the gleam of the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I can’t do that when you’re already mine.”

He wraps his hand around his cock, and leverages his hips the right way this time, and the other hand grabs Mike’s waist to pull him closer and closer. Mike thinks he sees stars behind his eyes, and inexplicably, when he comes to his inevitable end, almost instantaneously – he thinks of a glass sculpture. Or, rather, a paperweight.

He thinks of colorful shards scattered across the floor. He thinks of the fact that everything with cracks is destined to break. 

In the end, he shatters just like glass under Will’s hands.

—

Mike jerks awake, a cry splitting from his mouth.

He thrashes and kicks his sheets and blankets away from him in a frenzy, scrambling to sit up, his heart racing miles per minute. He lets out another hoarse, dry sob as he looks around the dark room, looking for a foothold on reality, his eyes stinging in pain as confusion thoroughly muddles all his senses. 

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping the pressure will calm him down and give him something to focus on. He inhales harshly, sucking in breaths raggedly while trying to bring his breath down from fully hyperventilating.

His thoughts are scattered, and when he tries to remember what happened, he comes up slightly short — like he’s looking at his dreams (or real memories?) through a fogged up lens, not able to see the full picture.

Mike rubs his eyes after a few minutes, when his breathing has gotten slightly more even after meticulous attempts. He sniffles, dragging his hands down his face — and only becomes even more unnerved when he realizes his face is smooth and untouched.

Mike knows for a fact he remembers crying, remembers the fat tears that tracked down and made a complete mess of his face. It shouldn’t be clean and dry at all now.

In the same vein, when he shifts, he realizes that his hips don’t sting with the feeling of bruises anymore, and his boxers are uselessly dry and clinging to his skin.

He can’t pinpoint why it unnerves him so much. Why are these the details that stick out to him? He tries to recall the exact details of what just happened.

The last thing he remembers is the sensation of falling. He’s woken up from more than one nightmare like that, but it’s never been so real like it just was. His heartbeat is still out of control even though he knows he’s been sitting here for minutes trying to calm down.

But if he looks back even more — digs deeper — tries to rewind even further to see —

He remembers flashes of things. The gleam of glossy skin. Heat all around him, so heavy and close he thinks he might have drowned in it. And most notable of all, the strange crimson colored flash of eyes, clashing against the backdrop of an all too familiar face—

Mike’s breath and heart rate rockets again as he swings his legs over the bed. A blade of clarity cuts through the haze of confusion cluttering his mind — he needs to see Will as soon as possible. Urgent panic hurtles through his body as he thinks of him. Does he remember the same things that Mike does? Or was that just his dream? Because if it’s real—

Mike stumbles out of his bed and clumsily pushes the door open, rushing into the dark hallway. He’s vacantly sure that someone might hear the sound of his horrendously loud footsteps in the dead of night now, but he doesn’t care to stop, too fueled by panic and fear to think clearly. 

He  opts to save time by skipping and jumping down the last two stair steps. He ignores the mild pain that bursts in the pads of his feet — distantly, he thinks that Will would scold him for doing that, just like he did whenever they were kids fooling around in school, and it only urges on Mike’s need to see him right now , to make sure he’s okay and not—

He winds his way around the table and comes to an abrupt stop, kneeling right in front of the couch where Will is curled up. 

“Will. Will.” Mike whispers urgently, voice cracking at the end. He reaches out to graze his hands against Will’s shoulders, gentle even though his hands are shaking violently. 

He barely has to say or do anything more before Will twists awake with a sharp breath, eyes flying up to meet Mike’s as he sits up, knocking his hands off his shoulders.

“…Mike?” Will whispers, rubbing his eyes like he’s not even sure if he’s dreaming or not. 

And, oh, Mike could cry (again) at the sound of his voice, even hoarse and ragged from disuse and sleep — he feels like something is complete hearing it. Like something’s right. 

He remembers feeling something like this in his dream — because it was a dream, now, wasn’t it? He feels sure of it now that he’s seen Will in reality now, like everything’s been clarified for him. 

But it wasn’t the same in the dream — that kind of right felt unfamiliar, almost forced, so much so that he wasn’t allowed to think about anything else. Hearing Will’s voice makes him feel different; it feels right because it’s familiar, like home, something he knows by heart and only something Will gives to him. 

But before Mike can think to say anything about it, guilt spears through his chest, creating an ache. 

Will seems genuinely exhausted; Mike regrets waking him up at all, especially for something so insignificant as his own troubles. 

“…sorry. I— had a nightmare.” Mike admits hoarsely, cringing at how utterly juvenile it sounds.

“I…” He wants to say why he came down here to Will for this. He wants to say that — I wanted to hear your voice. It’s the truth, after all.

But he doesn’t. That seems like… too much, he figures. Mike tells himself he’s lucky enough that Will is even speaking to him now. He doesn’t want to fracture that. He doesn’t want to break this fragile relationship they have now, down in the dark of night. So he lets the words go unsaid and unspoken between them.

“I’m really sorry. I— I shouldn’t have woken you up.” He says defeatedly, looking back up to the stairs.

Will is quiet for a second, and looks down. Mike rapidly takes it as cue to leave and turns around before Will can see the expression on his face.

He doesn’t look up when he starts to speak. “You don’t, um, have to leave. You know.” The words come out awkward stilted. Like Will isn’t even sure if he wants to actually say them.

Mike schools his expression into neutrality and turns back, nervously casting his gaze on him. They’re both silent for a beat, contemplating what to do.

Mike doesn’t know what makes him cave in. Ultimately, he knows he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

“…okay.”

Will hesitates before pulling back the blanket, moving over to make room. Mike hovers for a second, his mind at war. He bites his lip before sitting down, cautiously curling up on the opposite side of the couch from Will.

Oddly enough, he’s reminded of their time in the van like this. They’re not as physically close as they were then — back in the van, their shoulders were practically constantly pressed together with the amount of space they had. Now the only physical contact they share is their legs overlapping occasionally.

Still, even the small touch is almost overwhelming to Mike. He risks a furtive look at Will and finds that he’s looking at the wall away from Mike, not letting him see his face or expressions.

Mike looks away, feeling already like he’s intruding, like he’s been given so much more than he deserves. He lets out a low, long breath, feeling himself calm down with Will’s presence beside him.

Even though Mike’s calming down, he still feels oddly paranoid, that same undercurrent of fear remaining. He’s grateful that Will didn’t ask him what the nightmare — not just because he didn’t want to tell Will what he dreamed about, but also because he can’t… he can’t quite remember a single thing from it now.

It’s on the tip of his tongue, he’s sure. But he doesn’t want to search for it; the prospect already feels exhausting.

For now, he’ll take what he can get. He glances at Will again, feeling his warmth next to him, trying to carve this moment in his mind to treat it as treasure. 

It’s the last thought he has before he falls back into a deep, undisturbed sleep. Dreamless this time.