Chapter Text
Hawkins was freezing.
December was slowly exhaling its icy breath through the cracks in the world, pulling the town into a brittle, crystalline shell. Soft snowflakes drifted past the Wheeler house, settling soundlessly into fluffy drifts on their lawn, which remained improbably, almost offensively, neat even in winter.
Christmas lights hung on the house walls, blinking now and then in the winter dusk and casting colored light on the clean white snow.
Mike watched it all wearily from the living room window, hunched in an armchair, his cheek propped against his palm on the cold windowsill. The lights on the Christmas tree beside him flared in sync with the ones outside, illuminating his pale, thin face.
Around him, the living room was noisy with loud chatter, merry laughter, and the faint, brittle clinking of glass ornaments being hung around the room. The atmosphere was so unfamiliar for a house that usually seemed to drown in a state of apathetic, perfectly curated restraint. But ever since the Byers had moved in a couple of months ago, something in the air had shifted. It had become both lighter and heavier at the same time. More alive and, in some unspoken way, more melancholy.
Mike removed his palm from under his cheek and instead pressed it against the cold glass of the window, his eyes fixed on the dark reflection of the room behind him.
There Joyce was chattering animatedly, non-stop, to Karen as they unwound a fluffy, slightly ridiculous garland. Joyce climbed the stepladder with a fearless lack of ceremony, draping the garland over a hook. Karen offered a polite smile, though her eye gave a tiny, involuntary twitch every time Joyce carelessly rattled the ladder across the floor, leaving faint but undeniable scratches on the polished parquet. With each scrape, Ted entrenched in his armchair, pursed his lips tighter, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a demonstrative show of suffering and shooting withering looks at Karen. Finding no solidarity, he finally sighed a loud, tired sigh and turned up the volume on the television, staring intently at a commercial for new Coke.
On the floor nearby, Jonathan and Will sat tangled in a mess of Christmas lights, laughing and nudging each other with their elbows. They were trying to untangle a hopeless knot of wires, the bulbs clicking dangerously in their hands. Every faint clink made Ted’s fingers tense and flex on the armrest.
From another room, the cheerful chatter of Nancy and Holly drifted in as they decorated doorways with fragrant bundles of mistletoe, its sweet, piney scent beginning to permeate the entire house, mingling with the smell of baking.
Mike's gaze, almost against his will, settled and stuck on Will.
Will’s laughter was quieter than the others, a soft, genuine sound that seemed to cut through the noise without trying. The multicolored lights from the tree danced across his face, catching in his hair – finally grown out from his short bowl cut – and lighting a warm spark in his hazel eyes. He was wearing one of Jonathan’s old sweaters, a tan cable-knit that was slightly too big, the collar slipping to reveal a sliver of his collarbone.
For a fleeting second, he looked like the kid from years ago, before the Upside Down, before the Mind Flayer, before… everything. Like the kid Mike fiercely remembered.
Yet, a dull, nagging ache in his heart accompanied the thought: Will was not the same child from their past anymore. His eyes held a weight they hadn't before, a quiet knowing that sat beneath the mirth. The line of his jaw was sharper, the set of his shoulders more defined. He was both achingly familiar and a complete, terrifying stranger.
Mike’s breath hitched.
Will suddenly turned his head, as if sensing the weight of Mike’s gaze. His laughter softened into a gentle, questioning smile. "You okay?" he mouthed over Jonathan’s shoulder.
Mike jerked his head in a quick, unconvincing nod, tearing his eyes away to stare fixedly at a random, blinking bulb in the snowy branches outside. The colors from the lights bled across his vision—red, green, blue—mocking and bright.
"Alright, I think the house is decorated enough," Ted's voice boomed through the room, cutting through the cheerful chatter and bringing an abrupt quiet. "Unless, of course, we're planning to enter the 'Most Gaudy Living Room in Hawkins' contest, or something of the sort—"
"Ted, for heaven's sake—"
"For heaven's sake, nothing, Karen," he huffed, pushing himself up from his chair with a grunt. "It's time to call it a night. I plan on getting some sleep, and I suggest everyone else do the same." He jabbed the power button on the television with unnecessary force, the sudden silence that followed filled with a dissatisfied, disappointed murmur from everyone else.
"I'm so sorry, Joyce, Ted is just—"
"I know, I know, Karen," Joyce chirped with forced brightness, already scrambling to pack the decorations back into their boxes, tossing them in with careless speed. "We're guests here, after all, so…" She slammed a cardboard flap shut with more strength than usual, pressing down on the box. "I remember Lonnie never liked all this pre-Christmas fuss either. He always said it was dumb... well, before the divorce, of course." She let out a shaky laugh, hefted the box, and headed for the doorway. Karen watched her go with a pained expression, then shifted her gaze to Ted, who was straightening his sweater in disgust. She rolled her eyes, gathering discarded wrapping and ribbons into a crumpled pile.
"—and you, Michael. Don't stay up all night. I expect you in your room in thirty minutes, lights out. I'll come check if you're asleep. Understood?" Ted tried to inject his voice with stern authority, planting his hands on his hips and shooting a glare at the back of Mike's head, which hadn't moved from its spot by the window. Mike rolled his eyes, nearly a perfect mimic of his mother, and shrugged a shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Got it."
"And don't you roll your eyes at me, young man. You remember whose roof you're living under," Ted intoned, nostrils flaring, before making a slow exit from the room.
Karen and Mike exchanged a long-suffering, knowing look in the glass of the window.
"Boys, shall I wait, or will you manage cleaning this up yourselves?" Karen's tired eyes fell on the tangle of lights still on the floor, and she cast a hopeful glance toward the hallway.
Jonathan waved his hands quickly. "No, no, Mrs. Wheeler, we've got it. Don't worry about a thing."
"Yeah, it'll take five minutes. You go ahead," Will added, already nestling the Wheelers' fragile vintage glass ornaments back into their box with loud clinking. Karen's lips twisted into a tight line, watching him almost breaking one of the glass snowballs, but she took a deep, steadying breath, closed her eyes for a moment as if gathering strength, then tucked the large garbage bag under her arm and followed her husband out.
Jonathan and Will continued packing away the decorations in the sudden quiet of the room, their soft murmurs the only sounds. Through the dark glass of the window, Mike noticed how Will’s eyes would occasionally flick in his direction as he deliberately slowed his movements, tidying his decorations, but their eyes never met.
"I'm all set here. Need a hand?" Jonathan reached for the box in front of Will, but Will hastily pulled it back, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
"No, I've got it. You go ahead."
"Um, it'll take you like two minutes, I can wait—"
"Don't, Jonathan, I... I've got a few more things to sort. You go on." Will offered a strained smile, distractedly turning a blue sparkling star over in his hands.
Jonathan's eyebrows crept upward, but he pressed his lips together and simply nodded, turning toward the doorway. Will turned his back to him, slowly rearranging items that were already packed, unaware of the final, searching look Jonathan threw over his shoulder—a look that landed squarely on Mike, still motionless by the window.
Mike pressed his lips together, watching Jonathan leave before turning his gaze back to the dark trees outside. In the reflection, Will straightened up, now looking directly at him. And under that gaze, Mike felt something inside him shift uncomfortably.
Suddenly, it dawned on him: for the first time in all the months since the Byers had moved in, he and Will were completely alone in a room. No Joyce, no Karen, no Nancy, not even Jonathan.
Just the two of them.
The realization was acrid and heavy, burning through his lungs, but it didn't make the truth any less real.
For all these past few months, he had been subconsciously avoiding Will, making an effort never to be alone with him. He laughed with him at the same table, walked beside him through the school halls, looked him in the eye during their D&D sessions, but as soon as circumstances lined up in a way that would leave just the two of them together, he would shamefully run off, trying to ignore the painfully disappointed look on Will’s face. He felt disgusted with himself in those moments, but he could do nothing about it.
All this time, he’d been the one instinctively pushing Will away, holding space between them—a habit that started back in California. No matter how hard Mike tried to act carefree and neutral, he’d kept building this strange, invisible wall between them, even back here in Hawkins.
He’d first noticed that look from Will at the airport—a different look, nothing like the Will he thought he knew. Penetrating, deep, as if trying to see right through him. A look he’d seen in someone else’s eyes before, though he couldn’t place whose. A look that made Mike, who was usually so sure of himself, glance away in shame and take a step back. It made him awkwardly pat Will’s shoulder and pull his hand away when Will stood too close, persistently nudging him to the edges of their friendship—a relationship that, unlike his strengthening bond with Lucas and Dustin, was crumbling day by day like a house of cards.
And Mike couldn’t figure out what was happening to Will. To their friendship.
Or to himself.
Mike clicked his tongue, trying to snap himself out of the heavy thoughts, and shivered as a chill ran through him, raising goosebumps along his skin. He pressed his cheek harder against the cold glass, hoping the sharp sensation would bring some temporary relief.
“Getting cold, Mike? Should’ve helped us decorate—would’ve warmed you up,” Will’s voice behind him was deliberately cheerful, casual. But after all these years of knowing him, Mike caught the nervous edge hiding just beneath the surface.
Will hesitated behind him for a long moment, then, as if gathering his courage, slipped quietly between Mike’s legs tucked against the chair and the windowsill, carefully perching on the very edge. Mike’s heart clenched involuntarily as Will’s knee grazed his ankle—a feather-light, accidental touch. Will noticed it too and flinched, yanking his legs back and tucking them tightly beneath him as if burned.
In the window’s reflection, Mike saw the reaction, and a wave of self-disgust washed over him.
Disgust at his own childish, inexplicable behavior—the way he’d been pushing Will away all this time, for reasons he couldn’t even fully name.
Mike took a deep, ragged breath and, for the first time that evening, forced himself to turn toward Will, who wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was staring intently at the snow-blanketed scene outside, his fingers twisting and knotting anxiously in his lap and in the dim glow of the window, his features seemed sharper and more defined then usual. Mike couldn’t help but notice how his jawline had more distinct line, his nose was longer, more angular, and his eyes looked somehow larger, deeper, and tinged with a quiet, permanent sadness that made Mike’s chest ache. Shadows gathered in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the faint light traced the curve of his lower lip, making him look both fragile and intense.
Mike blinked, catching himself staring, mesmerized, at a face that was this close to his for the first time in what felt like years.
So close, and yet impossibly far.
For a fleeting moment, Mike thought that even if he reached out right now to touch Will’s shoulder, his hand would never bridge the invisible, widening chasm he himself had dug between them.
His heart gave another traitorous squeeze, and he looked away sharply, his gaze landing on the tangled strings of lights and bright decorations on the walls.
“It looks nice,” he said, surprising himself with how flat and lifeless his voice sounded in the quiet room.
Will flinched slightly, as if he hadn’t expected Mike to speak at all, and turned his head.
“Oh, yeah. It came out okay, I guess,” he murmured, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. “We wanted to put more by the bookshelf, but your dad—”
“—don’t mind him,” Mike cut in abruptly, swinging his legs down from the chair and digging his toe into the floor. He stared hard at the wooden grain of the parquet between them. “The most exciting thing in his life is reading the morning gas price column and watching "Wheel of Fortune" at night.”
Will laughed.
“Sounds pretty fun, actually.”
Mike snorted at that, still digging the toe into a seam in the floorboards.
An awkward silence settled between them again. Mike stole a glance.
Will was looking down at his own hands, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his sweater. The colored lights from the tree outside cast shifting patterns across his knuckles, turning them blue then yellow then blue again.
"Think it'll snow all night?" Will asked, his voice a little too casual as he nodded toward the window, finally breaking the silence. He kept his eyes fixed on the swirling flakes.
"Dunno. Weatherman said maybe six inches," Mike replied, following his gaze but not really seeing the snow. He tapped his fingers against his knee, a nervous rhythm. "School'll be a nightmare if the plows don't get to Hawkins by morning."
"Could be worse," Will offered, his voice gentle. "We could finally finish that campaign we started with Lucas and Dustin. The one with the... the Gelatinous Cube?"
"Yeah, maybe." Mike's reply was quick, automatic. He turned away from the window and kept his gaze fixed on a particular whorl in the wood grain. "Dustin said he figured out a new way to calculate splash damage from fireballs. He’s been going on about it for days."
Will let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sounds like him." He paused, and Mike could hear him shifting slightly on the windowsill.
Another silence.
Somewhere deep in the house, the sounds of footsteps, hushed conversations and Ted's booming cough echoed. The lights on the Christmas tree crackled faintly from a power surge.
"Your, uh... your sweater's new," Mike blurted out, desperately changing the subject. He gestured vaguely with his chin toward Will, still not looking at him. "I mean, not new. Jonathan's. But it's... it's not one I've seen before."
Will looked down, plucking at the thick cable-knit. "Oh. Yeah. It's itchy. But warm." He chanced a glance at Mike, a shy, fleeting thing. "You want to borrow it sometime?"
The question was so innocently kind, so utterly Will, that it made Mike's breath catch.
"Nah," Mike said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He forced a casual tone. "I'm good. Mom...bought a lot of stuf for me this week anyway. You know...for Christmas and shit."
Will's face fell, just for a second, before he smoothed his expression into a neutral mask.
"Right. Yeah, of course."
Mike swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach tightening.
The silence returned, heavier than before as they both stared out into the dark, snowy night.
"Hey, Mike." Will's voice was quiet, soft around the edges. "Want me to show you something?"
Mike tensed. He’d heard that phrase from Will before. And what came after had made everything between them even more complicated, more fractured than it already was.
He shot a wary glance at Will, who was rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, nervous gesture, his eyes fixed on his own knees.
"Depends what it is..."
"I just thought... It's so nice right now. The snow's coming down so gently, and it's not too late yet... Before any real storm kicks in or anything... We... could... I mean, I... I wanted to show you a place." Will threw a quick, almost frightened look at Mike, tucking his legs even tighter beneath him. "Only if you want."
Mike pressed his lips together, feeling his heart kick against his ribs. He curled his fingers into a fist until the knuckles cracked.
"Where is it? We could go tomorrow, or this weekend. Don't really feel like trekking somewhere in the dark and snow."
"No, no, no," Will tumbled over his words, instinctively leaning a little closer. "The point of the place is... you have to see it at a time like this."
Mike studied him again, skepticism warring with something else in his chest. He clicked his tongue, ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up even more. His heart hammered on, a traitorous drumbeat, and he fought to keep his face impassive.
"I don't know."
"Come on, Mike. You'll like it. Promise." Will's voice held a tinge of pleading, and something in Mike's chest twisted sharply. He finally lifted his gaze and found Will's face. Their eyes met.
Will’s eyes were wide in the dim light, the hazel almost swallowed by the dark of his pupils. The faint, multicolored reflections from outside danced in them like distant, captive stars. But it was the expression in them that held Mike—a fragile mix of hope, vulnerability, and a quiet, desperate sincerity that seemed to reach right into him and squeeze.
Everything inside Mike went cold for a second. On autopilot, he wanted to refuse. To plead tiredness, the late hour, anything.
But then—
A wave of warmth, sudden and liquid, flooded through him. Without his brain’s permission, the words tumbled out.
"Okay. Fine. Let's go."
Will’s face, tight with anxiety just a heartbeat before, lit up with a radiant smile. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners and making those star-like reflections sparkle. A sudden, sharp wave of fondness prickled through Mike’s fingertips. And for a moment, the boy looking back at him was just the boy he’d known forever.
"Cool."
Will scrambled off the windowsill just as Mike rose from his chair, and for a moment they collided—shoulders brushing, knees knocking. Mike’s heart stuttered, and he jerked back too quickly, throwing an arm out to let Will pass. Will dropped his gaze and practically bolted from the room. Then, as if catching himself, he slowed to an exaggerated, careful walk toward the hallway, trying not to let the floorboards creak in the now-silent house.
Mike lingered.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing again at the window. Everything inside him felt coiled tight, his head throbbed dully. But one thing was clear: today was not the day he’d planned on being alone with Will like this.
He closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breath.
Why was he so worked up?
It’s just Will.
His friend.
"Friend," the word slipped from his lips, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek at how bitter it tasted.
At least he hoped they still were.
With a sharp exhale, Mike opened his eyes and padded quietly after him.
By the time he reached the front hall, Will was already bundled up—puffy coat zipped, wool hat pulled low, meticulously winding a long scarf around his neck. Mike couldn’t hold back a faint smile.
"You look like you’re packing for the North Pole."
"Don’t want to freeze. You should layer up, too," Will said with a soft chuckle, watching as Mike shrugged on his own jacket, leaving his hat and scarf on the hook.
Mike just gave a noncommittal shrug in reply, zipping up and carefully turning the deadbolt as quietly as possible.
"I don’t get cold easy. And I really hope we’re not going far."
"We’re not, but—"
"Shhh, keep it down, or everyone’s gonna come running."
Mike pressed a finger to his lips, and Will fell silent, nodding obediently. Finally, the lock clicked softly, and they slipped out onto the snow-dusted front steps, lit by the multicolored Christmas lights and the stark white glow of the porch lamp.
Just as silently, Mike pulled the door shut behind them, turning the key in the lock with painstaking care. When the door finally groaned shut and locked, they hurried down the steps, their footprints sinking into the snow, and stepped out onto the dimly lit sidewalk.
Mike glanced back over his shoulder at the house windows, searching for any movement. But Nancy and Holly’s rooms were dark, and his parents’ bedroom curtains were drawn tight. A wave of relief washed over him, and he walked more freely toward Will, who was waiting for him at the edge of the driveway, a dark silhouette against the softly falling snow.
Will glanced back anxiously at the house they’d just left. “Didn’t your dad say he was going to check if you were asleep?”
Mike snorted dismissively, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “He always says that. Never does. Just says it to sound like he’s in charge.”
“Aren’t you going to tell anyone where you’re going?”
“Did YOU tell anyone where YOU'RE going?”
Mike shot a grin at Will and saw the familiar, flustered blush rise on his cheeks.
“No, but—”
“It’s not your first time sneaking out, is it? I’ve seen you a couple of times.” Mike kept his tone deliberately casual as he started walking down the quiet street, and Will fell into step beside him, kicking softly at snowdrifts.
“You go to this… place? Is it like a new Castle Byers or something?”
Mike tried to keep his voice light, but it still came out sounding a little too intense.
Will was quiet for a few steps.
“Not exactly.”
“So what is it, then? Something illegal? A secret hideout?” Mike tried to joke, nudging Will’s arm with his elbow, his heart sinking even as he did it because the words felt all wrong. “You running a black market operation?”
Will offered a faint smile but didn’t answer. He picked up his pace slightly until they were walking side by side down the snow-blanketed street, both hunched against the cold, hands buried in pockets.
Mike shivered, sneaking a quick glance at Will, waiting for a response that didn’t come. Will just walked on, a small, private smile playing on his lips as he continued kicking up little puffs of snow.
It occurred to Mike, distractedly, that he hadn’t even asked which way they were supposed to go. He’d just started walking blindly, and Will had followed.
He opened his mouth to finally ask for directions, but the words stuck in his throat. What came out instead was something small, pathetic, and utterly unnecessary—a thought that had been circling in his head for weeks:
“I thought maybe you had a girlfriend. That you were sneaking out to see her.”
Mike immediately flushed at his own words, the cold air doing nothing to cool the heat rushing to his face. It was a stupid thing to say—transparent and clumsy.
Will turned to look at Mike, his expression unreadable. The playful smile was gone.
“A girlfriend?” he repeated. “No. There’s no girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Mike managed, the single syllable hanging heavily between them. He didn’t know why he’d said it, or why the confirmation made his stomach do a slow, uneasy flip.
Will looked down, scuffing the toe of his boot in the snow. “Is that what you’ve been thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Mike mumbled. “Maybe. I just… noticed you were gone sometimes.”
"It's just," Will said softly, starting to walk a little slower now. "I needed to find somewhere to... think. Let my mind relax, get away from all the stress. Something like that... I know it sounds stupid..."
Mike clenched his fingers inside his pockets. The light winter wind now felt piercingly cold, slicing through the collar of his jacket and the thin fabric of his jeans.
"It doesn't sound stupid. Not at all."
He suddenly felt terrible. Like a bad friend, a bad housemate, a bad... person. He'd been so caught up in his own head, his own bizarre internal vigil, that he'd completely forgotten everything Will had been through, how hard it must have been for him all this time.
The weight of the thought pressed down on him, and he felt a desperate urge to say something comforting, even though Will wasn't asking for comfort.
Mike took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out in a large, visible cloud. He glanced sideways at Will's downcast profile and forced a bright, animated smile onto his face.
"Hey, look, Will. Watch this. Lucas taught me."
He stopped walking, planted his feet slightly apart in the fresh snow, and took an exaggeratedly deep breath. Then, with a comical puff of his cheeks, he blew out as hard as he could, trying to create the biggest, most impressive plume of vapor possible in the cold air. It billowed out in a great, amorphous cloud, hanging between them for a second before dissipating into the night.
"See?" Mike said, his voice a little too loud in the quiet street. "Master of the breath cloud. Dustin still can't do one this big. Says it's a lung capacity thing."
It was a silly, childish deflection. But for a moment, the tension broke. Will looked at him, and a genuine, bright smile touched his lips again.
"Show-off," he laughed.
"I pretend I didn't hear it" Mike snorted with the fake cheer in his voice. He started walking again, nudging Will with his shoulder. "So, lead the way, then. To this top-secret hideout. Is there a password? A secret knock?"
"You'll see... Oh, by the way, we go this way. To the left." Will abruptly turned onto a narrow path leading into the woods, and Mike followed with a skeptical glance. The trail was faint, trampled down but not enough to prevent the deep snow from swallowing their feet with each step, the cold seeping through their shoes.
The wind had died down, and the snowfall had lightened to almost nothing. The sky even seemed to be clearing a little, the heavy clouds parting to reveal patches of deep, star-dusted indigo.
Mike groaned dramatically. "How much further?"
"Not far. Just a couple more minutes, really."
"Hmm, we're heading toward the backyards of those big houses, right? Are you sure this is it?"
"Yeah."
"Starting to have my doubts..."
"Don't be— Oh, here it is!" Will's voice lifted with excitement as he waved an arm ahead.
They emerged from the tree line into a small, cleared space. It was nestled between the dense, snow-laden woods on one side and the tall, shadowy fences of large, unfamiliar houses on the other. In the center of the clearing lay a small ice rink. It was clearly made with care, the surface smooth and glassy, reflecting the ambient light. The snow had been meticulously shoveled from around its edges. Above it, strands of old-fashioned yellow fairy lights were strung between the trees, casting the entire little arena in a warm, golden glow.
Mike stopped in his tracks, his breath catching. "Whoa."
"Yeah," Will said a note of pride in his voice. "I know."
"How did you even find this place?" Mike asked, his eyes wide.
Will shrugged, shoving his hands back in his pockets. "I was just... walking around the neighborhood. Sometimes it gets too heavy, being inside all the time. I needed air. Stumbled upon it one afternoon." He nodded toward the largest house, whose gabled roof was just visible over the tall fence. "I think it belongs to them. I've seen their kids skating here during the day."
Mike walked slowly to the edge of the cleared ice, peering at its perfect surface. The yellow lights made the ice seem to glow from within.
"It's amazing," Mike murmured. "The town rink doesn't even compare, even though it's way bigger. This is just... more peaceful, you know? Like a—"
"—Like a scene from a snow globe, right?" Will's voice sounded right behind him, and Mike almost jumped, spinning around automatically. "Beautiful , private and impossibly peaceful. That's why this place stuck with me."
He was standing closer than Mike had expected, his face lit softly by the golden glow of the lights. His expression was open, hopeful, as if he'd just handed Mike a fragile piece of himself and was waiting to see if he'd hold it carefully or let it drop.
Mike swallowed, the words feeling thick in his throat. "Yeah. Exactly like that." He looked back at the rink, then at Will, a reluctant smile touching his lips. "So, what's the plan? Did you bring skates? Or are we just here to admire the... peacefulness?"
Will’s smile turned a little shy. "I didn't bring skates. I just... there are always some under the bench here. Someone’s... They're too big for me, probably the father's from that house... But it's something. I use them sometimes." Will hesitated, his cheeks flushing again, and Mike tried desperately to convince himself it was from the cold. "You can use them if you want. The ice tonight is probably even better than usual with this freeze, even with the little snow on top—"
"No, no, it's fine. I'll just walk around. You skate if you want," Mike blurted out too quickly, hunching deeper into his jacket and belatedly regretting not bringing a hat or a scarf, or at least a pair of gloves.
"Show-off," the echo of Will's voice from before sounded in his head.
He kept looking at him, and Mike squirmed uncomfortably under the persistent gaze. Finally, he shot Will a brief glance.
"What?"
Will blinked and offered a small smile. "I really wanted you to skate. I brought you here for that." A flicker of disappointment slid into his voice, but it was quickly replaced by a stubborn firmness that seemed uncharacteristic of him. He took a step closer, and Mike instinctively leaned back. "We've spent so little time together lately, and—" Will faltered, as if searching for the right words. "I was hoping this would be a fun outing. Like friends." The last word was spoken so quietly it was almost lost, and Mike’s heart clenched. He swallowed hard.
"It's just—"
Pause.
"I don't know how to skate, okay? That’s all..." Mike flushed deeply and kicked at a small, carefully shaped snowdrift in front of him, scattering the pristine pile.
Will blinked in surprise, his expression softening, the tension in his shoulders eased.
"Oh."
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the gentle hum of the distant streetlights. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across Will's face, warmer than the yellow lights above them. "That's okay. I could... I could show you? I'm not great, but I know the basics. It's easier than it looks."
He said it so simply, so kindly, without a trace of mockery, that it disarmed Mike completely. The offer hung in the cold air, an outstretched hand across the divide Mike had been so carefully maintaining. For a moment, Mike was torn between the old, familiar panic and a new, terrifying pull toward that warmth.
He looked from Will's hopeful face to the pair of worn, oversized skates now visible under the bench, their laces tucked neatly inside.
Mike took a shaky breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs. "...Yeah?" he heard himself say, his voice quieter than he intended. "You think?"
Will's smile widened, lighting up his whole face. "I know."
Then Will quickly retrieved the skates from under the bench and held them out to Mike, who was still standing frozen in indecision. "Here. You know how to rollerblade, right? It's almost the same."
Mike reached out, his fingers brushing the cold, stiff leather of the skates. A jolt went through him—not just from the biting cold of leather, but from the fact that Will’s hand was still holding the other end. Mike had taken them, but Will hadn’t let go. For a stretched, breathless second, they were connected through the rigid arch of the skate, their hands just inches apart on the frozen leather. It was an indirect touch, but it felt more intimate, more charged, than if they’d actually held hands. Mike could feel the faint tremor in Will’s grip, or maybe it was in his own.
Then, as if snapping back to reality, Will released his hold, the skate now fully in Mike's grasp. He adjusted his hat, pulling it down even though it was already low, a flustered gesture that didn't quite hide the pink tinge on his ears. He nodded toward the rink.
"Hope we don't wake the owners," he said, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat. "But... it's worth it. Come on. Sit here to put them on."
Mike stood there for another moment, before moving numbly to the bench. The cold of the skate in his hand was nothing compared to the strange, warm tumult now swirling in his chest. He sat down, the weight of the skates feeling heavy in his lap.
He hurriedly tugged off his boots, the cold air instantly attacking his socked feet, and began clumsily wrestling with the stiff, oversized skates. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Will watching his every fumbling move, and under that quiet scrutiny, his fingers—already numb from the cold—seemed to completely betray him, turning into useless, uncoordinated sticks.
"Need help?"
Before Mike could even form a refusal, Will was crouching down in front of him. He gently but firmly brushed Mike’s hands aside, taking hold of the laces with his gloved fingers. With a practiced, efficient motion—but one that carried an unfamiliar, decisive strength—he began tightening them, pulling each loop taut with a firm, steady tug.
Mike squirmed, a hot flush of embarrassment warring with the cold. "Really, Will, I got it—"
"It’s no trouble. Your hands are practically frozen anyway." Will’s voice was low, focused. He didn’t look up, his attention entirely on the task. Mike looked down at the top of Will’s head, at the way his hair curled out from under his hat, at the delicate shell of his ear, now bright red from the cold. Will’s breath formed little clouds in the space between them, so close to Mike’s knees.
This position—Will on his knees before him, hands on his feet—was unbearable. A gesture that crossed a line Mike had spent months fiercely policing.
A storm of contradictory emotions erupted inside him: panic at the proximity, shame at his own helplessness, a spike of gratitude for the care, and beneath it all, a treacherous thrill that spread from where Will’s knuckles occasionally brushed against the arch of his foot, right through the thick wool of his sock.
Will finished with the first skate, his hands moving to the second. His touch was sure, professional almost, and Mike held his breath, heart hammering against his ribs.
Finally, Will secured the last knot. He looked up, and from this angle, with his face lit gold by the fairy lights, he seemed both younger and older all at once. His hazel eyes were wide, sincere, and achingly close, a few snowflakes had caught in his lashes.
"There," Will said brightly. "Now you won't wobble." He didn’t move away immediately. He just stayed there, looking up, waiting for something, his hands still resting lightly on the tied laces of Mike’s skate.
Before Mike could even catch himself, scrambling for something—anything—to say or do, Will’s hands dropped away. He rose quickly, brushing the snow from his knees. The moment shattered, leaving Mike feeling strangely exposed and cold where Will’s hands had just been.
Then, Will stepped awkwardly onto the ice in his boots, his arms pinwheeling slightly as he fought for balance on the slick surface. He shuffled forward a few tentative inches, looking unsteady.
Watching him, an involuntary snort of laughter escaped Mike. In his puffy coat, with his careful, wobbly steps, soft facial features, and big eyes, Will looked like a baby deer on ice—a little clumsy, entirely endearing, even if he had started growing into the frame of a young man. The sight was so disarmingly adorable that it loosened the knot in Mike’s chest.
“Okay, Bambi,” Mike said, the teasing note in his voice coming easier now, covered by the relief of the shift in mood. “Show me how it’s done.”
"It's not so hard," Will said, his voice a little breathless as he managed to glide a few more feet without falling. "Just... take it slow." He turned to look back at Mike, a hopeful, encouraging smile on his face.
Mike pushed himself up from the bench, his body immediately swaying unsteadily on the unfamiliar blades. He took a cautious, shuffling step onto the thin layer of snow-dusted ice and instantly felt his balance betray him, his arms flailing before he caught himself. A wave of hot embarrassment washed over him, and he instantly regretted agreeing to this.
He tried again, attempting to mimic the rolling motion of rollerblading—a skill he’d never truly mastered either. He pushed off, but his feet slipped out from under him in opposite directions, and he landed hard on his side with a dull thump.
Irritation rose in his chest. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, pounding a fist against the unyielding ice. A blush of pure frustration and humiliation burned across his cheeks. He glanced sideways to see Will crouching down beside him, concern etched on his face.
The last thing Mike wanted was to look foolish and awkward in front of Will.
This thought hit him like a slap.
Why?
With Lucas or Dustin, they’d be howling with laughter right now, mercilessly roasting each other. But with Will… with Will, Mike wanted to feel… strong. Confident. Cool?
Mike’s eyes widened, his pulse suddenly throbbing in his temples. He shoved the confusing thought away, a sharp, defensive anger taking its place. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then, with a determined grunt, hauled himself back onto his feet, ignoring the wobble in his ankles.
Will reached out a steadying hand. “Here, let me—”
Mike jerked his arm back, avoiding the touch. "I got it," he said curtly, not meeting Will's eyes, his voice tight with a defensiveness he didn't fully understand.
He took a couple more stubborn, shuffling steps, holding his breath as if that would somehow steady him. He felt even more ridiculous in this bizarre, silent pocket of the winter woods, with Will gliding quietly behind him.
It had started snowing again. Sharp snowflakes needled his face and hair and slipped down the back of his collar with an icy touch. Mike swatted at the air around his neck, trying to hoist his collar up, but the movement cost him his hard-won focus. His arms windmilled helplessly, and he began to topple sideways.
Will’s hands shot out, gripping him firmly by the elbow and hauling him back to a shaky upright position. "Steady," Will's voice was calm, close to his ear.
Mike grunted in acknowledgement, too winded and flustered to form words.
"Okay," Will said, his tone shifting into something patient, instructive. "Watch me." He pushed off smoothly, demonstrating. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent a little. Don't look down at your feet—look ahead. It's about shifting your weight, not walking." He glided in a small circle, looking back at Mike. "Try it. Just push off with one foot. Gently."
Mike mimicked the stance, feeling utterly foolish. He gave a tentative push. His skate slid forward a few inches. He wobbled violently, his arms pinwheeling again. Will was instantly there, a solid presence at his side, a hand on his back.
"Again. You're fighting it. Let it glide."
Mike tried again, pushing off a little harder. This time, he managed a short, shaky glide before his legs betrayed him and he began to pitch forward. Will caught him around the shoulders, hauling him back to balance.
And then he laughed. It wasn't a mean, but a bright, genuine, joyful laugh. The sound ringing out clear and warm in the frozen quiet. The sound Mike hadn't heard in so long.
Suddenly, the embarrassment didn't matter. The cold didn't matter. All he wanted was to hear this laugh again.
And what's worse—he wanted to be the cause of that laughter.
Will suddenly reached out, gently ruffling Mike’s curly hair. “You’ve been trying so hard to seem all serious and grown-up lately. But right now, you just look cute.”
Mike flushed, averting his gaze. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not a puppy, I don’t need to be ‘cute’.” The weight of Will’s hands on his shoulders felt like it was burning straight through his layers. But this time, he didn’t push them away. “This just isn’t my thing. Let’s call it.”
“No, no, no,” Will laughed lightly. He finally let go of Mike’s shoulders, gliding backwards a few feet to face him. “I never thought watching you like this would be this entertaining.”
Mike took a deep, exaggerated breath and rolled his eyes, trying to toss his slightly damp hair back with what he hoped was convincing nonchalance. "Didn’t expect you to get such a kick out of my suffering.” He flung his arms out wide for theatrical effect, wobbling dangerously again.
Will snorted bitterly. “I think it’s the least painful kind of suffering a person can have."
Mike’s mouth fell open. He blinked, his mind scrambling for a retort. While he was still floundering, Will’s grin widened. He grabbed both of Mike’s hands firmly in his own and began skating backwards, pulling Mike along with him. “Let’s try it this way. This is how Jonathan taught me when I was little. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”
Mike didn’t even notice Will had taken off his own gloves until warm hands closed around his ice-cold fingers. On instinct, Mike tried to jerk his hands back, but the sudden movement made him pitch forward, and Will only tightened his grip, steadying him. Their palms pressed together, Will’s fingertips pressing awkwardly into Mike’s knuckles.
Mike dropped his gaze downward, staring sightlessly at the legs below: his own feet, clumsy and uncertain in the oversized skates, and Will’s confident boots gliding backwards with practiced ease, occasionally scraping over a rough patch in the ice.
Will’s voice seemed to reach him through a sudden muffling haze. He was telling a story from his childhood about falling flat on his stomach on the ice and nearly splitting his lip. But Mike’s blood was roaring in his ears, a hot, insistent pulse that drowned out the meaning of the words. He could hear the sounds—the gentle cadence of Will’s voice, the soft scrape of blades and boots on ice—but his brain refused to assemble them into coherent sentences. His thoughts were a tangled mess, focused entirely on the the warmth of Will’s hands seeping into his frozen skin.
A betraying flush burned across his face and down his neck.
"Are you okay, Mike?" Will's voice finally cut through the fog, and Mike’s eyes snapped up, meeting his gaze.
Will’s eyes, wide and concerned, were closer now than they had been in months—closer than Mike had allowed them to be. Mike swallowed hard and, on pure instinct, squeezed Will’s hands tighter, anchoring himself in their warmth.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just... just thinking."
"Oh, okay," Will replied, simple and unbothered. The flicker of worry in his eyes vanished, replaced by that familiar, gentle depth. He smiled, disarmingly open.
And Mike’s gaze drifted downward across his face—past the long eyelashes, past the melting flakes on his cheeks, past the scatter of moles.
To that smile.
To the fine, soft line of his lips, slightly upturned at the corners in the shy way.
Then—
A single snowflake landed on Will’s lower lip. It melted instantly into a tiny droplet of water, which traced a slow, almost invisible path down the curve of his lip toward the sharp point of his chin.
Suddenly, the icy chill at the nape of Mike’s neck vanished. In its place, a wave of heat surged through him, so intense he felt as if he’d been shoved into a furnace. His breath hitched. The roaring in his ears returned, louder than before, but now it wasn't panic—it was something else, something overwhelming, rushing in to fill the space where all his denials and excuses had been.
“You’re getting it,” Will said, his voice tinged with genuine surprise as he glanced down at their mismatched, shuffling feet. His tongue flicked out to catch the lingering droplet of water from his lower lip — an unconscious, automatic gesture. Mike’s heart stuttered as he tracked the movement, cursing himself internally for this sudden weakness.
Weakness?
What?
He blinked once. Twice.
Time seemed to suspend itself. The leisurely falling snow above them slowed to a dreamlike drift. The lights strung overhead flickered in a lazy, hypnotic rhythm, their yellow glow hanging suspended in the frosty air. And in that dim, warm light, the entire world around Mike suddenly dissolved, leaving only Will.
Will glided backward before him, face to face, moving with a slow, measured grace. His puffy jacket rustled softly with each shift, and the reflections of the lights and the pristine snowflakes danced in his eyes and across his features, making him look… captivating. Magnetic. It disarmed Mike completely, stripping away the last of his defensive walls.
It was as if the Will he had always known—the boy from childhood, sweet, a little naive, endlessly kind-hearted—had vanished into this intimate, nocturnal glow. In his place was this strangely grown version. The innocence in his eyes had been replaced by a depth that felt like a riptide, pulling Mike in with a force that was almost physical. His lips, slightly parted as concentrated, looked impossibly soft and captivating.
And his voice was low and resonant sound now that seemed to vibrate right down to the bone. And from the very first day Mike had seen him in California, that sound had twisted everything inside his stomach and sent a shiver down Mike’s spine that he had spent months terrified to acknowledge. A tremor he had never felt with anyone before. Not even with El. Not even during their most earnest kisses. This was different. This was a current running directly from his core, electrifying and terrifying.
Mike exhaled a ragged cloud of vapor, his entire body tensing like a drawn bowstring. Will, meeting his gaze, let out a soft breath of his own. Their mingled breaths met in the scant space between them, swirling together in the frosty air before dissolving, leaving nothing but locked stares.
Will didn’t look away. He only offered a shy, flustered smile, a pink blush now spreading beyond his cheeks to his neck and the tips of his ears peeking from under his hat.
And then, suddenly, Mike felt it again—that look. Yearning, a little mournful, almost resigned. Full of an admiration Mike knew, deep in his bones, he didn’t deserve. Especially not from Will.
It was then Mike realized how tightly he was gripping Will’s hands. He only noticed when he felt the ache in his own knuckles and tried, with difficulty, to flex them slightly. He didn’t want to pull away, he desperately wanted Will to be the one to let go, to break the unbearable tension.
But as if reading his thoughts, Will’s thumb slowly, almost tenderly traced a small, deliberate circle on the back of Mike’s hand, applying gentle pressure in the hollow beneath his thumb before sliding upward, just slightly, beneath the cuff of Mike’s jacket sleeve.
Everything inside Mike froze. He was motionless, yet he knew his feet were still moving on autopilot, gliding over the thin ice, guided entirely by Will’s experienced lead.
“You really are getting the hang of it,” Will’s voice was quiet, tinged with a strange, breathless excitement. His eyes never left Mike’s, holding a hope and a question that made Mike want to hide, to flee. He didn’t want to answer the question those big, sad eyes had been asking him since that day at the California airport.
The answer he had been avoiding with every fiber of his being. Even from himself.
And then, Will leaned in. Just slightly. His eyes grew hooded, his lips parted slightly, the blush on his cheeks deepened to a vivid rose, and a tremble passed through his fingers—a tremor Mike felt distinctly in his own hands. He watched as Will’s pupils dilated in the light, how his fingers tightened almost pleadingly.
Will began slowly, gently applying pressure, drawing them closer together.
A responsive shiver raced through Mike’s body.
And it horrified him to his core.
Will was close. Too close. His face was inches from Mike’s, and he tilted his head, stretching his neck slightly as if to better search Mike’s face, his gaze still holding that same, unanswered question.
Mike’s breath hitched in his chest, trapped.
Then—
His legs finally gave out. His knees buckled, and catching on an uneven crack in the rough ice, he stumbled and fell hard, sprawling onto his side on the cold surface.
Will gasped in surprise and tumbled down beside him.
"Shit, fuck," Mike hissed through gritted teeth, rubbing his throbbing elbow and palm where he'd landed. The jarring impact seemed to snap him back to reality. He sat on the cold ice, blinking rapidly, trying to steady his trembling hands and calm his hammering heart. Will sat opposite him, flexing his own stinging fingers.
"Sorry, Mike... I should've held on better... I just... got distracted."
Mike looked up and met Will's gaze—now guilty, filled with a kind of raw desperation. Will reached a hand out again, his voice tight. "Let's try again, okay? I swear, this time I'll be more careful and—"
Before Mike could shake his head in refusal, a light flicked on in the window of the nearest house. From deep inside, a dog began to bark.
"Shit," Will exhaled, scrambling to his feet and brushing snow from his pants. "Sounds like the owners heard us."
"Let's go," Mike cut in sharply, pushing himself up with a groan, still massaging his elbow. A wave of self-directed anger rose in his chest—anger at the stupid fall, at the unbearably intimate moment, at whatever fragile hope he might have given Will.
Was there even hope in his eyes?
Or did he just imagine it all?
Mike clenched his jaw until it ached and yanked his jacket straight, kicking the skates off his feet with a frustrated jerk. They landed in the snow with a dull thud.
Will hesitated, looking uneasily toward the house. "We should probably put them back... it feels wrong to just leave them in such an... awkward position."
A porch light snapped on, and the dog's barking grew louder, closer.
Mike clicked his tongue impatiently and grabbed Will firmly by the sleeve. "If we wait any longer, we are the ones who'll be in an awkward position. Come on, run."
Will threw one last, regretful glance at the abandoned skates before breaking into a sprint after Mike, who was already pulling him into the dark cover of the trees.
Just as they disappeared into the woods, the front door of the house swung open. A dog bounded out onto the lawn, barking frantically as its owner stepped out behind it, a silhouette against the bright doorway.
But Mike and Will didn't see any of it. They were running full-tilt through the shadowy forest, gulping down freezing air, snow stinging their faces. Only when they burst out onto the familiar, quiet street did they slow to a walk, bending over, hands on their knees, lungs burning as they fought to catch their breath. They kept moving forward, but slowly now, shoulders bumping lightly with each unsteady step.
"I... haven't run like that... since seventh grade," Mike managed between gasps, a sharp pain stabbing his side, his head spinning.
Will laughed breathlessly beside him, equally strained. "What a winter sprint. Really wakes you up. And you wanted to stay home tonight."
Mike rolled his eyes, but a crooked smile stretched his lips.
For a while, they walked in the heavy silence of the night, their feet sinking into deepening snowdrifts. The snow fell in thick, wet flakes now—sometimes drifting lazily from the dark sky, other times driven sideways by a bitter wind that sliced through their collars and stung their eyes.
Both of them walked hunched against the cold. Mike sniffled loudly, his nose red and running and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, stealing occasional glances at Will. Will was just as chilled, hurriedly pulling his wool gloves back on and blowing into them through the thick fabric, trying to summon some warmth.
Mike bit his lip.
"Thanks."
Will looked at him, surprised. "For what?"
"For getting me out. It was... cool." Mike's voice was hesitant, almost shy.
Hearing it, Will gave an encouraging, overly bright nod and nudged Mike's shoulder playfully, making him stumble a step. "I liked it too. Getting out with you. Like old times." A warm smile spread across his face, and Mike found himself smiling back, helplessly.
Like old times.
He wanted that more than anything.
And at the same time, he didn't want it at all.
"We could go again when there's less snow," Mike blurted out, running a hand through his hair to shake off the snow and tossing it back in what he hoped was a casually cool gesture. He glanced sideways at Will, waiting for a reaction to the move, but Will was no longer looking at him. A pang of disappointment twisted in Mike's gut.
He wanted Will to look at him.
"Yeah, that'd be cool," Will said, his gaze fixed ahead.
Up ahead, the familiar street and the path to their house came into view.
"Hope they didn't notice we were gone."
"Doubt it. Unless Jonathan did, and he's sharing basement with you, sooo..."
Will snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right, as if he's sleeping. He only comes back right before dawn from—" He cut himself off, shooting Mike a suspicious look, as if weighing whether to trust him with the secret.
Mike smirked. "From Nancy's? Like I haven't noticed him sneaking into her room. He looks at me everytime like I'm going to blab to everyone."
Will let out a relieved sigh and laughed awkwardly, adjusting his beanie. "Yeah... well, I think we're fine. I've never been caught coming back this late."
Finally, they stepped onto the walkway to the house, which had been clear when they left but was now blanketed in fresh snow. The windows were dark, the house asleep, and they both let out a simultaneous sigh of relief.
They stepped under the sheltered porch, into the dim glow of the flickering overhead light. The snow couldn’t reach them here, and for a moment they stood in a small, private haven from the wind and cold, the world hushed and still around them. The only sound was their own breathing, slowly calming, and the soft hiss of falling snow beyond the circle of light.
Will shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot, his eyes flickering toward Mike, who stood frozen before him, hands still buried deep in his pockets.
He had absolutely no idea that inside Mike, a storm raged, a turbulent mix of emotions threatening to breach the surface and spill out into the quiet space between them.
There was a piercing, aching fondness for this boy, but layered over that was a hot, confusing surge of another, less nameable emotion — not the simple, comfortable want of friendship, but something sharper, more physical, that tightened his chest and made his skin feel too tight. It was tangled with a thick, stubborn strand of fear—fear of what it meant, fear of losing everything, fear of the person he might become if he let this feeling breathe. And woven through it all was a desperate, guilty longing for things to be simple again, warring with the terrifying realization that he didn’t want to go back, not if it meant burying this.
"Well... shall we go in?" Will hesitated, making a vague gesture toward Mike's pocket. "You have the keys, right?"
Mike blinked as if snapping out of a trance, his fingers closing tightly around the cold metal ring in his jacket. "Yeah... It's just... Let's stay out here a minute longer. I want some more air."
Will looked up at him, surprise etching his features as he glanced at the swirling snow. "I don't think that's a good idea. It's getting really cold."
Mike's heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, trapped rhythm. A strange nausea clawed at his throat. He flexed his hand in his pocket, releasing the keys, and shook his wet hair again. Drops of melted snow fell between them onto the door mat.
"Just a little. Okay?"
His earlier reluctance to be alone with Will had completely inverted. Now, the thought of parting from him felt unbearable, like stepping away from a source of oxygen, even though Will's presence was what made it so hard to breathe steadily in the first place. It was a maddening contradiction: he was both the cause of the suffocation and the only possible relief from it.
In a panic, Mike’s eyes darted around, searching for anything to prolong the moment, to give him a reason to keep Will here under the flickering light.
"Nancy and Holly did the decorating today. It looks nice, right?" He jabbed a finger sharply toward the wreath on the door and the strings of lights along the porch eaves, his gesture abrupt and awkward.
Will blinked, startled, his gaze following the jerky movement of Mike’s hand before slowly returning to his face.
“Yeah,” Will agreed softly, his gaze following the lights. “It does look nice. Your mom always picks such… coordinated colors.” His voice was polite, a little distant.
They fell into a stilted conversation about the decorations, about which relative had sent which ornament, about the merits of tinsel versus garland. Mike heard himself talking, but the words felt hollow and absurd, a script performed by a stranger. The easy, flowing connection they’d had earlier was gone, replaced by this painfully awkward, formal exchange.
Then, Will’s eyes lifted, looking past Mike toward the porch ceiling.
Mike’s breath caught. The motion exposed the long line of Will’s throat, the vulnerable dip of his collarbone above his scarf. The golden porch light caressed his skin, and Mike’s mouth went completely dry. On pure, helpless instinct, his tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips.
He immediately cursed himself for the movement.
Will’s eyes, which had been looking upward, drifted back down and met Mike’s. A slow, deep blush spread across Will’s cheeks, staining them pink.
“Look.” Will murmured. “Mistletoe.”
Mike’s eyes flicked up.
The mistletoe hung there, a deceptively innocent sprig. Its waxy, dark green leaves formed a perfect, almost heart-shaped cluster, dotted with pearlescent white berries that looked like frozen droplets in the porch light.
He looked back at Will, and suddenly realised that he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, paralyzed. He had no strength to step away, no breath to form a word, no will to break the devastating tension that had just snapped taut in the space between them. He could only stand there, frozen, watching.
“Mistletoe,” Will repeated, his voice a little stronger now but threaded with a nervous energy. He looked up at it, then back at Mike, his gaze flitting away and back again. “It’s… it’s a parasitic plant, you know. It grows on trees and sucks the moisture right out of them.” He gave a shaky, almost apologetic little laugh. “Kind of morbid, when you think about it.” He was rambling, his words tumbling out in a rush. “But there’s this whole… tradition. About it. Maybe you know about it. That you’re supposed to, um. Kiss. If you’re standing under it.”
He said the last part in a hurried mumble, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a fiery crimson. He couldn’t hold Mike’s gaze anymore, looking down at his own snow-dusted boots instead. After a heavy pause, he added, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind, “They say… the first kiss you have under it is supposed to be… special. Really meaningful.”
Then, as if horrified by his own sincerity, he backtracked furiously, finally looking up with a strained, defensive smile. “But that’s… that’s just silly stories. For kids. Or for, like, hopeless romantics. Forget what I said.”
Mike just stared at him, his own mind a blank, roaring static. The words left his mouth without any permission from his brain, rough and blunt in the tender space Will had just carved out.
“Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
Will flinched as if struck. His hand flew up to fidget under his hat, mussing his hair, his face now scarlet.
“No, no...I… I mean, I… No.” He started shifting his weight from foot to foot, his focus locked on a knot in the wood of the doorframe, which he began rubbing with his thumb as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Everything inside Mike clenched into a single, painful knot. His lungs seized, making each breath a struggle.
The rest of the world dissolved—the sleeping house, the falling snow, the silent street. There was only Will, looking utterly vulnerable and beautiful in front of him and that goddamned sprig of mistletoe hanging over their heads like a curse.
“Not ever?” Mike’s voice was a strained, raspy thing, forced past the tightness in his throat.He took a step forward, moving as if through deep water.
Will shook his head, still not looking at him. His eyes had gone glassy. His fingers, still pressed against the doorframe, went completely still.
“No. Never."
“Do you… want to?”
Will blinked, slowly. “What?”
“Is there someone you want to kiss? Anyone in particular you're thinking of?"
The words hung in the frozen air.
And then, Will turned his head. He looked directly at Mike with a startling, unnerving directness. It was that look—the penetrating, unsettling gaze that sent a shiver through Mike’s body every single time for the last few months.
And suddenly, he understood.
He finally recognized what that look had always reminded him of.
It was the look of painful, aching longing.
It was the look of being in love.
He had seen that look before. It was the same one he'd seen in El's eyes during their brief, awkward, and ultimately doomed teenage romance—a look of tenderness, impossible to mistake.
And he saw it in Will's eyes.
Only now it was much stronger, more intense.
More honest.
Suddenly, his mind cleared. He blinked slowly, his eyelids feeling impossibly heavy. Will was looking at him. So close.
And Mike was captivated by him in a way he had never, ever been captivated by El.
“Yes.”
Will’s single word rang in Mike’s ears, bright and clear. A thick, muffling silence descended, swallowing all other sound.
Then —
Mike made a sharp, desperate lunge forward, closing the last of the distance.
He nearly bowled Will over, crashing their bodies together as his mouth found Will’s in a hot, frantic kiss. Their lips met with a force that stole the breath from both of them.
Both of Mike’s hands flew up to cradle Will’s face, his fingers digging into the short, soft hair at his temples, dislodging his hat. The world seemed to make a dizzying, whirling flip, as if yanked off its axis, only to slam back into place with a painful, breathtaking thud deep in the pit of Mike’s stomach.
There was only the shocking softness of Will’s lips against his, the faint, panicked sound catching in Will’s throat, and the terrifying, exhilarating rightness of it all.
Then Will gasped a sharp, shuddering inhale through his nose, his body trembling as he fought for air. The sound jolted Mike back to a sense of awareness. He eased the pressure of his lips, softening the kiss but not breaking it. He pulled back just a fraction, only to dive back in with a different kind of intensity—less frantic, more deliberate, savoring the taste of Will’s mouth.
Will breathed heavily against him, his own lips moving in awkward, unpracticed, but eager response, opening tentatively to meet Mike’s insistent pressure. They kissed, broke apart with ragged breaths only to crash together again, the air between them filled with the sounds of their struggle—sharp inhales, soft, wet noises, the rustle of fabric.
And then, a new, deeper ache bloomed behind Mike’s sternum. Heat flooded his veins, a fire spreading from his face down to the very tips of his toes. The kiss, the touch of their lips, their mingled breath—it wasn't enough. It felt like scratching the surface of a desperate, all-consuming want. He wanted more. More closeness. More pressure. More of Will.
Mike took a firm step forward, pressing Will back. Startled, Will stumbled awkwardly backwards, his boots scuffing on the porch floor until his back met the solid wall of the house with a dull, resonant thud. The impact trapped him, caged between the unyielding stone and the heat of Mike’s body.
Without breaking the kiss, Mike’s hands slid from Will’s face, frantic and demanding. They plunged downward, slipping under the short hem of Will’s jacket, shoving beneath the soft wool of his sweater beneath. His now-warm, seeking fingers found the strip of bare, heated skin at the small of Will’s back.
Will jolted against him, a full-body flinch of surprise, his back arching away from Mike. But in stark contrast, his mouth grew hungrier against Mike’s, his own hands clawing desperately at the fabric of Mike’s jacket on his back as if to pull him closer still.
Mike’s head spun.
His hand grew bolder, explorative, splaying possessively over the flat plane of Will’s stomach. He felt the muscles there clench tight, a startled, involuntary reaction. All the while, Mike continued to press desperate, hungry kisses to Will’s mouth, keenly aware of the eager, if awkward and untried, desire kissing him back.Then he dragged his palm up along the sensitive dip of Will’s waist, his thumb skating over the hipbone, then higher, tracing the delicate ladder of ribs.
And when his fingers, moving with agonizing slowness, traveled higher still—skimming up the knobs of Will’s spine along his back—Will’s body bowed into the touch. Mike felt the skin beneath his fingertips erupt in goosebumps. Will’s lips parted in a silent gasp against Mike’s mouth, and then, tentatively, pleadingly, the very tip of Will’s tongue touched Mike’s lower lip.
Mike jerked as if shocked, a bolt of electricity shooting straight through him.
Then—
A choked, desperate moan was torn from Will’s chest, vibrating directly into Mike’s mouth.
Mike’s eyes flew open in surprise, breaking the kiss completely. He pulled back just enough to stare at Will’s face, needing to see the expression that had produced that sound. His fingers stilled against the slight tremble of Will’s back, frozen in indecision—to move forward or to retreat.
Inside, he was a wildfire, desperate and all consuming,and he felt the betraying, insistent tightness of his jeans, a heat coiling low in his belly that mocked him, laying bare how base, how carnal his desires truly were. It exposed the real Mike beneath the mask of restrained propriety and his strained attempts to conform.
But before he could meet Will’s eyes, Will shoved him away.
With a strength that was startling, born of pure adrenaline. Mike stumbled backward, his feet slipping on the icy porch, and he almost flew into the snow below, catching his balance at the last second on trembling legs.
A wave of fear crashed over him even before he looked back at Will. He cursed himself—for his actions, for the stupid kiss, for the improper desire that followed, for the touches that should never have happened, for that intimate sound he’d heard and had no right to hear.
He’d convinced himself he’d seen something special in Will’s eyes, that his touch meant something, that it signified more than friendship. He’d made himself believe it, deceived himself, and nurtured this dangerous feeling.
Now it was clear. Will didn’t feel the same. And after this foolish act, Will would probably hate him.
Guilt washed over him in a drowning wave. Slowly, shamefully, he lifted his gaze, searching for Will’s eyes in the dim light.
When he found his face, his heart sank like a stone.
Will remained pressed against the wall, frozen in the same posture. His chest heaved, his face was a deep, furious crimson, his lips were glistening and swollen—so temptingly swollen that Mike’s traitorous mind instantly wanted to reclaim them. He bit his own lip, forcing the insane thought away.
When their eyes finally met, Will’s were glassy and wide, pupils blown even in the low light. They held a dazed, distant look, but beneath it simmered a strange anger that made them burn.
Mike opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, to say anything. But a dry, aching lump had formed in his throat, and his voice was a hoarse, trapped thing in his lungs.
As he’d feared. He’d drawn the line of no return. Nothing would ever be the same.
And then—
Will’s hand jerked away from the wall where it had been braced. It flew down in a frantic, ashamed tug at the front of his own jeans, as if adjusting them. Mike’s eyes followed the movement on pure, involuntary instinct. Only to see the distinct, tell-tale bulge at the front of Will’s jeans, just below the hem of his coat that Mike had shoved up—a coat Will was now frantically smoothing down with his other hand. Right where Mike’s legs had been pressed just seconds before.
Mike swallowed, his throat dry.
Suddenly, all his guilt-ridden thoughts evaporated.
Will did feel the same thing.
Even if he was desperately trying to hide it.
Mike lifted his eyes back to Will’s face, attempting a nervous, conciliatory smile, trying to inject a confidence into his voice that was utterly absent.
“Will, I—”
“Open the door.”
Mike blinked. Will had turned his back, his hand gripping the doorknob so tightly his knuckles were bone-white. His voice was low, but threaded through with an unfamiliar, furious tremor. A strange, cold anger Mike had never heard in his voice before. Especially not directed at him.
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head.
On legs that felt like wet cotton, Mike approached the door, not daring to look at Will. His trembling fingers fumbled in his pocket for the jingling keychain. He missed the lock once, twice then finally managed to turn the key. He stepped back, searching Will’s face for any trace of the warm, familiar boy he knew.
But Will’s face was a mask of icy detachment, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.
“Will—”
Without a glance, Will wrenched the door open and vanished into the darknrss of the house’s front hall, his footsteps quickly swallowed by the silence.
Mike remained standing on the porch. The wind now bit through his thin jacket, ruffling his already disheveled hair. Snow settled in a fine dusting on his shoulders and shoes.
But he didn’t see or feel any of it. His fingers remained curled around the key in the lock, frozen in place. His eyes were fixed on the empty space where Will’s back had just been.
Only when a deep, aching numbness seeped into his fingers from the cold metal, and the tips of his ears burned with frost, did he move as if in a trance. He pulled the key from the lock, shoved it mechanically into his pocket, and stepped into the silent house. It felt different now—the familiar warmth and color had drained away, leaving behind a hollow, gray shell.