Archive of Our Own

They were heading back to the Wheelers’ house in a silence that was anything but quiet. It was heavy, charged with something Mike couldn’t put a name to. He sat in the backseat next to Lucas, trying not to look at Will beside him.

But of course, he looked.

Will’s clothes were streaked with dust, dirt, and dark stains—maybe blood. Maybe his own, the kind that had trickled from his nose when he’d used his powers. Powers no one knew he had. Powers that had let him take down Demogorgons with a single gesture.

Mike still saw it in his mind: Will raising his hands, screaming. Light pouring out of him like a wave. And the monsters just… died.

What the hell was happening to him?

But that wasn’t the right question, was it? The correct question was, why couldn’t Mike stop looking at him?

Will rested his head against the window, eyes closed. He looked exhausted. His hair was messy, a few strands falling across his face. Mike watched his chest rise and fall with deep, tired breaths. He saw pale fingers gripping the fabric of his pants. He saw…

“Mike?” Lucas leaned forward from the front. “You okay?”

Mike tore his gaze away from Will so abruptly he almost felt dizzy.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Everything… everything’s fine.”

Lucas didn’t look convinced, but thankfully he didn’t press.

They got to the Wheelers’ house ten minutes later. Will straightened up and opened his eyes, squinting against the afternoon sunlight.

“Thanks for the ride, Nance,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse. From screaming? From using his powers? Mike didn’t know.

“No problem. Go get some rest,” Nancy replied, giving a small smile.

They got out with Mike. Will lingered on the driveway a moment too long, staring at the house as if gathering the strength to go inside. Nancy drove on to take Lucas home.

“Hey.” Mike touched his shoulder. Lightly. Barely. And still, he felt the warmth of Will’s skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and something in his stomach twisted weirdly. “You… okay?”

Will turned to him, those big eyes—brown, tired, and full of something Mike couldn’t quite read—meeting his.

“I need to change,” he said instead of answering. “I’m… dirty.”

“Right. Come on.”

The Byers had been staying with the Wheelers for months. Will slept in the basement every night, just beneath Mike’s room, and Mike had gotten used to having him so close, used to seeing him every morning, used to the casual evening conversations, to…

Stop.

They went inside, and Will headed down to the basement without a word. Mike went to his room, shut the door, and lay down on his bed.

He stared at the ceiling, trying not to think.

Not think about how Will had looked today. How powerful. How terrifying. How his eyes had gone completely white. How, after it was all over, he had dropped to his knees, and Mike had been the first to run to him, catching him before his face hit the floor, holding him, and feeling Will tremble in his arms…

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to push the image of Will away, tried to shove aside all the emotions that had been bubbling inside him the moment he saw him. But he couldn’t. Not now.

He felt his heart racing, his hands trembling, every breath Will took—even in his imagination—making something inside him clench all over again. He knew he wouldn’t sleep peacefully tonight, not until Will was safe, not until he was sure nothing could hurt him.

It was just adrenaline. Just adrenaline that hadn’t worn off yet.

But that was a lie—and Mike knew it.

It wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself staring at Will a moment too long, noticing things he shouldn’t—how Will laughed, how he bit his bottom lip when he was concentrating, and how his hands looked when he was drawing.

It wasn’t the first time Mike had felt that strange tightness in his chest when Will was near.

But he had always ignored it. He pushed it deep into some dark corner of his mind and pretended it wasn’t there. Because if he didn’t think about it, it wasn’t real. If he didn’t put a name to it, it didn’t have to mean anything.

He got up and started pacing around the room, feeling something tightening in his stomach.

Will was down there, alone, after everything that had happened today. He was probably scared. Confused. Maybe even crying. And Mike was sitting here like an idiot instead of…

Instead of what?

Being there for him. Like always. Like a best friend should.

Friend.

Mike stopped in the middle of the room.

The word sounded strange in his head. Wrong. Like a piece of clothing that once fit perfectly but was now too tight.

He shook his head sharply.

Will was probably hungry. When had they even eaten last? Mike couldn’t remember. He should ask. Yeah, he would.

He left his room and carefully went down the stairs to the main floor. He stopped at the top of the stairs leading down to the basement.

He stepped quietly, opened his mouth to call out,

“Hey, Will, are you hungry?”

But his world suddenly stopped.

Will stood with his back to him by the old armchair, just taking off his shirt.

He raised his arms high above his head, elbows bent, the fabric halfway up, stuck somewhere over the top of his head. He muttered a quiet, “shit,” twisting and tugging, trying to get free of the shirt.

And Mike forgot how to breathe.

He stood on the stairs, completely frozen, watching.

It was just a back. Just skin. He’d seen it before—locker rooms, pools, sleepovers when they were younger. Nothing new. Nothing special.

So why couldn’t he move?

The afternoon light slanted through the small basement window, golden and soft. It fell across Will’s back, highlighting every line, every shadow. Mike saw everything.

The spine traced a delicate line under pale skin—from his nape down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Mike had never noticed how… elegant that line was. How natural. How beautiful.

His shoulder blades shifted as Will tugged at the shirt—sharp and defined, slightly protruding. Mike watched the muscles under the skin tense and relax with every movement. Subtle, barely there, but they were there. Suddenly, he imagined what it would be like to touch them, to feel that movement under his fingers…

Stop.

But he couldn’t.

Mike noticed the shirt snag on something, and Will tugged harder, frustration audible in his breath.

And then he saw the freckles.

He hadn’t known about the freckles.

Why hadn’t he known?

They were scattered across Will’s back like a constellation, like a star map Mike suddenly desperately wanted to memorize. Small, dark dots in all the right places, each one different, each one unique.

Three here, by the right shoulder blade, arranged in a small triangle—almost perfect, as if someone had planned it. Mike stared at them. He thought that if he had a pen, he could connect them, draw lines between them.

Two over there, on the left side of the spine, perfectly symmetrical, like they were mirrored. Mike wondered if Will even knew they were there. If he’d ever tried to see them in a mirror.

One alone, low, just above the waistband of his pants, almost hidden. Mike had to squint to see it, but it was there—a small, dark dot, and Mike thought…

He wondered if there were more. Lower. Under the clothes.

His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it all over—in his fingers, his temples, and his stomach. His breaths were shallow and ragged. It was hot. Why was it so damn hot? It was just a basement. Just Will. Just…

Will finally yanked the shirt over his head with a triumphant sigh of relief.

He tossed it onto the armchair, ran his hands through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and Mike saw everything now.

Not just a fragment. His entire back. From his nape down to his waistband. Every inch of pale skin.

Sweat gleamed on the back of Will’s neck. Mike saw the fine hairs there, darker than the rest, slightly curly. He saw the hairline, irregular and natural. He wanted…

He wanted to trace it with his fingers.

He saw Will’s shoulders—narrow, with subtle muscles that had developed over the past few months. Will wasn’t that little boy anymore. He had grown. He had changed. When had that happened? When had Mike stopped noticing?

No. He hadn’t stopped. He had just pretended not to notice.

Now he saw all the freckles at once and thought they looked like a constellation, like the Big Dipper or Orion, like something that meant something, something Mike could study, memorize, and be able to draw with his eyes closed.

And then—before he could stop the thought—it flashed through his mind:

I wonder if his skin is as soft as it looks.

It was simple. Innocent, almost. But the way he thought it wasn’t innocent.

Because suddenly Mike wanted to know. He wanted to place his hands on those shoulder blades and feel the warmth of his skin. He wanted to run his fingers along the line of his spine, count every vertebra. He wanted to touch those freckles, each one, one by one, as if that could… mean something.

He wanted to see if Will would shiver under his touch.

If his breath would quicken.

If he would turn and look at Mike with those eyes and…

What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?

Something in Mike’s chest tightened so hard it hurt. Physically hurt. It was like someone had clenched a fist around his heart.

This wasn’t normal. He shouldn’t be thinking about his best friend like this. He shouldn’t be looking at Will that way. He shouldn’t want…

But he did.

The truth hit him like a punch straight to the face.

He wanted.

Wanted… since when? Since exactly when? Mike didn’t know. Maybe always. Maybe since California, since the van, since Will’s monologue about being different. Maybe even earlier—since Snowball, since crazy together.

Maybe it had always been there, buried deep, ignored, pretending it didn’t exist.

But now it was here, on the surface, alive and pulsing, impossible to ignore.

Will finally turned.

Not toward Mike. Just to the side, reaching for a clean shirt lying on the back of the couch. But Mike saw his profile now. The line of his jaw. A glimpse of his neck. His collarbone…

And more freckles stretching forward, across his shoulders, across his chest.

Mike wanted to count them. All of them. Every single one.

Move. Turn around. Run before he sees you…

But Mike couldn’t.

His legs wouldn’t obey. His eyes wouldn’t look away. His whole body was frozen, trapped in this moment, and all he could do was stare, want, and be afraid.

He shifted slightly, and the soft creak of the stairs echoed through the basement like a gunshot.

And then Will turned.

“Mike?”

It hit him like a punch straight to the face.

Will stood there, shirtless, the clean fabric still in one hand, and Mike saw everything.

Not just his back. Now he saw the front.

His chest—narrow, with subtle muscles beneath the skin. Mike saw it rise and fall with every breath. A quick breath.

His collarbones—sharp, defined, stretching in a line from shoulder to neck. Mike had never thought collarbones could be… attractive. But these were. God, they were.

The line of his neck—pale, long, a pulsing vein just visible beneath the skin. Mike watched it. Saw every pulse.

And those damn freckles everywhere. Across his shoulders. Across his chest. One high, by the collarbone. Two lower. One lonely one at…

Mike jerked his gaze up, straight into Will’s eyes. A flush spread across his neck like wildfire.

From the collarbones up, flooding his neck, his cheeks, all the way to the tops of his ears. Mike had never seen anyone blush like that. It was… intense. Complete.

And something about the way Will had flushed, the speed of it, the depth of the color, made Mike understand.

It wasn’t just embarrassment. It wasn’t just the surprise of being seen shirtless.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

He felt it too.

Will tried to cover himself with the shirt, clumsily, uncertainly, as if his own hands wouldn’t obey. He held the fabric in front of him, but it didn’t matter—Mike had already seen, had already memorized every detail, and the tension between them was so thick Mike could feel it on his skin, in the air, everywhere…

“Mike?” Will repeated, his voice trembling. Quieter now. Almost a whisper.

But Mike couldn’t stop looking.

He couldn’t look away. Not now. Not when Will stood there so exposed, so close, so…

Beautiful.

The word finally broke through all the barriers Mike had built in his head.

Beautiful.

Will was beautiful.

He had always been.

Mike had just never let himself name it.

Now he saw every detail. The way Will’s breath quickened even more. How his fingers clutched the clean fabric tightly. How a small muscle twitched in his neck. How the flush deepened, impossibly deep.

He saw Will swallow hard, how his Adam’s apple moved, and Mike followed the motion with his eyes, and…

He wanted to touch.

The thought was sudden, sharp, and absolute.

He wanted to step closer. To place his hands on bare skin. To feel the warmth. To see if it was as soft as it looked, if those freckles were rough under his fingers, if Will would shiver if Mike touched him…

“I…” Mike finally found his voice, but it didn’t sound like his own. Too high. Too breathless. Too… needy. “I’m sorry… I just…”

He stepped back.

One step. He stumbled over the stair, grabbing the railing at the last second to keep from falling.

But he still looked.

He couldn’t stop. His eyes were glued to Will, as if someone had stitched them there. He saw Will take a small, uncertain step forward, confused, still flushed red as a beet, and…

Something in Will’s eyes. Something soft and scared, yet full of hope.

And Mike couldn’t.

He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t do what he wanted to do. He couldn’t name what he was feeling—not now, not like this, not when everything inside him was screaming to run, to hide, to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Upstairs!” It slipped out before he planned to say it. It just happened. “I’ll wait upstairs!”

He turned.

He ran.

He burst into his room. Slammed the door. Pressed his back against it.

His heart was hammering like crazy. His breaths were shallow and ragged. His hands shook.

What have I done? What did I just do?

He closed his eyes, but that was a mistake, because all he saw was that.

Will’s back. The freckles. The line of his spine. The way the light hit his skin. The blush spreading across his neck. That small step forward. That something in his eyes…

Hope.

Mike snapped his eyes open.

No. It was impossible. Will couldn’t—he couldn’t feel the same. It was impossible.

But what if he could?

Mike sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands.

Deep down, in that place Mike had ignored for months, for years, something told him he knew. That he had always known.

The way Will looked at him. In California. After the fight at the roller rink. In the van. The way Will’s voice broke during the “being different” monologue. The way he had always been there, always beside Mike, always waiting…

Waiting for what? For me? To notice?

Mike thought that if he ignored it hard enough, it would disappear. That if he called it friendship and nothing more, it would become true.

But it didn’t disappear.

It only grew. Bigger. Stronger.

And Mike was scared.

Scared of what it meant. Scared of what people—parents, friends—would think. He was scared that if he admitted it out loud, if he said it, it would become real forever, and there would be no turning back.

Scared of what it was making him.

Someone different.

Someone like Will.

Someone like what Lonnie called Will, like the boys at school whispered, like the world said he shouldn’t be.

But as Mike sat there in his room, still feeling the heat in his chest, still seeing Will in front of his eyes, he thought…

Maybe that’s exactly who he was.

Maybe he had always been.

And maybe… that was okay.

A minute passed.

Five.

Ten.

Mike lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.

Waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. For the creak of the basement door. For anything, that meant Will was coming upstairs.

Nothing.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Still silence.

Mike sat up abruptly.

Will was still down there. Alone. Mike had run. And Will was probably thinking…

What was he thinking? That Mike had rejected him? That he was… disgusted?

Mike felt sick at the thought.

He had to go back. But he couldn’t go back empty-handed. He needed… a pretext. A reason. Something normal.

He went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge, but there was almost nothing in it—almost an empty carton of milk and a few bottles of water. He closed it with a sigh. Opened a cupboard and took out some bread.

He made sandwiches.

Peanut butter and strawberry jam. Exactly the way Will liked it. Crusts removed. Mike always remembered to take the crusts off—because Will hated the texture.

Since when did he remember things like this?

Since always.

His hands trembled slightly as he sliced the bread. As he arranged it on a plate. He stood in the kitchen too long, staring at the prepared meal.

It was normal. Just sandwiches. For a friend.

But the word “friend” sounded false even in his own head.

He took a deep breath. Went down the stairs to the basement—slowly, quietly.

Will was sitting on the couch. Wearing a clean shirt—the blue plaid one, the one Mike secretly loved because it made his eyes look even darker.

When Mike stepped onto the last stair, he looked up. Their eyes met.

Mike froze for a second. Something in Will’s gaze—something steady, quiet, certain—made him forget how to breathe.

This wasn’t scared Will.

This wasn’t embarrassed Will.

This was Will who knew.

Knew that Mike had been staring.

And knew that because of it, Mike had run.

Something in his eyes said that Will had questions.

Mike stepped closer, a little uncertainly, and held out the plate.

“I made you sandwiches,” he said. His voice sounded strange, almost a half-step higher than usual. “Peanut butter and jam. No crusts.”

Will took the plate. His fingers brushed Mike’s hand—just a second, nothing more—but for Mike, it was like a jolt. Like lightning striking under his skin.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Mike sat down next to him.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Will was right there, within arm’s reach—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder but still at that safe distance Mike had set for himself.

He took a bite of the sandwich. Chewed slowly.

Mike stared at the wall, but he heard everything—every breath Will took, every swallow, the soft rustle of fabric with the slightest movement.

The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Dense. Electric. Charged with something that made the hairs on Mike’s arms stand on end and his heart race.

Like a question hanging in the air, waiting for someone to finally speak it.

The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Dense. Electric. Charged with something that made the hairs on Mike’s arms stand on end and his heart race.

Like a question hanging in the air, waiting for someone to finally speak it.

Mike glanced at Will. Quick. Sneaky. Will took another bite of his sandwich, and Mike saw his profile—the line of his jaw, the bit of neck above the collar. And suddenly, the earlier image flashed before his eyes: Will shirtless, that back, those freckles…

He looked away.

Stared at the ceiling.

Counted to ten.

Glanced again.

Will set the plate on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he turned and looked straight at Mike.

“Will you stop already?” he asked.

Mike froze.

“What?”

“Looking at me like that.” Will tilted his head slightly. There was no anger in his voice; it was more like something soft, something that sounded curious. “You keep glancing. You think I don’t notice?”

Mike felt his face heat up.

“I… I—”

“Mike.” Will said his name quietly but firmly. “I saw you looking at me earlier. When…” He flushed slightly, though he didn’t look away. “…when I took my shirt off.”

Mike couldn’t breathe.

“And it wasn’t…” He trailed off, letting his gaze move over Will’s face. “Disgust. Or revulsion. It was something else.”

“Will…”

“So what was it?” Will cut him off, shifting closer. An inch. Maybe two. But Mike felt every one of them. “Because you ran. And now you’re sitting here, still looking at me like you…”

“I want to touch you.”

The words slipped out of Mike’s mouth before he could stop them.

Silence.

Will stared at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. And Mike started to panic.

“I… I mean… not like that… it came out wrong—” he stammered, gesturing helplessly. “I didn’t mean… it’s not… fuck.”

He felt the ground fall out from under him. Everything in him was screaming to run, to hide, to shut himself off. And yet he couldn’t look away from Will.

“I mean…”

Will raised his hand, and Mike froze mid-sentence.

And then he did something Mike hadn’t even dared to imagine—slowly, without looking away from his face, he reached for the first button of his shirt.

And started unbuttoning it.

Mike stopped breathing. Literally. His lungs refused to cooperate. His heart pounded so hard he felt it in his whole body.

“What are you—” he whispered.

Will slowly unbuttoned the second. Then the third. His fingers were steady, calm, and controlled, though Mike noticed a faint blush on his cheeks.

“You said you wanted to touch me,” he said quietly, undoing the fourth button. The fifth. The shirt slowly parted, revealing his narrow chest. “So… touch me.”

Mike felt something inside him snap—all the boundaries he’d tried to keep. Every thought, every breath, every fiber of his body screamed to move, to touch, while simultaneously freezing him in place.

He sat still, like a statue, staring at Will—at his fingers undoing the last button, at the narrow strip of pale skin peeking out from under the fabric. The shirt now hung loosely on his shoulders, revealing the delicate line from neck to waist. Mike felt his heart hammering in his chest, every breath sounding too loud in his own head.

Will looked him straight in the eyes. Calm, certain, unwavering, waiting for Mike to make a move.

“Will…” Mike finally found his voice, shaky and high, though he tried to sound steady. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” Will answered softly. “I’m sure.”

Mike moved slowly, almost in a trance. He raised his hand—it trembled—and held it suspended in the space between them.

Will took his wrist. Gently. Guided Mike’s hand to his chest.

When skin met skin, Mike let out a soft, muffled sound.

Warm. Soft. There was something almost magnetic in it. Mike felt Will’s heart pounding under his hand, fast, almost as fast as his own, resonating through his entire body.

“Okay?” Will asked softly.

Mike nodded, not trusting his own voice.

He moved his hand higher, along the collarbone. Will let out a barely audible, soft sigh—and Mike felt every wave of breath, every subtle movement of his chest, as if they were part of him.

He slid the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric fell onto the couch.

Will sat there, shirtless, this time not trying to cover himself. Upright, looking at Mike, there was something in his eyes—something bold, something certain—that made Mike feel as if his entire body had tightened to the very edge of control.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

Will obeyed, and Mike saw his back in the full light of the basement. The freckles scattered like tiny stars were even clearer, and the line of his spine looked soft and natural.

He lifted his hand and pressed his fingertips to Will’s shoulder blades. He felt his body flinch slightly under the touch. Mike’s heart pounded harder, and a hot, strange tension spread through his head.

“Are you cold?” he asked, though there was a thrilling edge of fear in his own voice.

“No,” Will replied, low and steady. “Not at all.”

Mike noticed every tiny movement Will made: the way his muscles tensed lightly, how his shoulders lifted slightly, and how his breathing deepened and slowed. It was almost tangible, and Mike felt his own hands trembling. He wanted to stop time. He just wanted to stay here, in this moment, staring at Will for as long as possible.

He ran his fingers down the length of his spine, counting each vertebra, feeling the gentle contours of muscle beneath his fingertips. Will arched his back slightly under his touch, leaning toward him as if searching for a connection he couldn’t put into words.

Mike came across the first freckle. Lonely, low, just above the waistband of his pants. He traced it lightly with the tip of his finger, drawing a small circle, as if it were a secret waiting to be discovered.

“Have you ever seen it?” he asked quietly. “In a mirror?”

“No,” Will replied, his voice slightly surprised, breaking a little. “I didn’t… I didn’t know it was there.”

“It is.” Mike slid his finger higher, finding another freckle. “And here too. And here.” Another. “They’re like a constellation.”

Will shivered more. Mike could hear his breathing quicken.

“Mike…” he whispered, and in that one word there was something pleading, something needing.

Mike found the three freckles arranged in a triangle. He touched each one in turn. Then, barely moving his finger, he traced an invisible line connecting them, drawing a shape on Will’s skin.

Will let out a low, quiet sound—barely audible, but Mike felt something twist sharply in his stomach.

“You can…” Will started, trailing off.

“Can what?” Mike moved his hand higher, back to his shoulder blades, following every line, every inch.

“Use your whole hands,” he finished, his voice trembling slightly. “Not just your fingers.”

Will didn’t have to tell him twice. He moved. Placing his whole hand on his back, he felt everything—warmth, softness, the way the muscles tensed and relaxed under his touch.

It was like touching something electric. Every cell in his body suddenly came alive, aware of only one thing—Will. The warmth of his skin. The texture. The way he breathed.

He slid his hand upward, very slowly, as if mapping the terrain. Across the shoulder blades—he felt the sharp edges of bone, the subtle muscles. Across the shoulders—narrow, but stronger than they looked.

Will tilted his head forward, exposing his nape. Mike’s eyes traced the tiny hairs there, the pale skin, and the way the light hit it so he could see the pulse beneath the surface.

Without thinking—because if he thought, he would stop—he leaned down and kissed the back of Will’s neck.

Lightly. Barely a touch of lips on skin. He tried to be careful, gentle…

Will moaned.

It wasn’t a quiet sound. It was loud, clear, tearing from his throat before he could stop it. Low, rough, and full of something that made Mike feel his whole body tighten.

He froze, lips still at the back of Will’s neck, feeling the body beneath his hand shiver.

“Sorry,” Will breathed out. “I… that was…”

“No,” Mike cut him off, his voice rough, low, and unfamiliar. “Don’t apologize. Do it again.”

“What?”

He kissed the back of Will’s neck again, longer this time, with parted lips. He could taste him—salty from sweat, warm, only Will.

Will made the same sound again—a low moan—and his back arched, his whole body leaning into Mike’s touch like a plant reaching for the sun.

“That—” he whispered against Will’s skin. “Exactly that.”

“Mike…” Will murmured, indistinctly.

Mike moved his lips lower. Along the line of Will’s neck, where it met his shoulder. He found the first freckle. He kissed it. Will shivered.

The second freckle, a little lower. He kissed it. Will let out a quiet, muffled sound.

The third. This one was on his shoulder blade. Mike had to shift slightly to the side, but he reached it. He parted his lips wider and kissed it wetly.

“God.” Will breathed out. His hands clenched on his own knees, knuckles white. “Mike, I…”

“What?” Mike whispered, moving his lips back to the back of Will’s neck. “Tell me.”

“Don’t stop.” Will’s voice was desperate. Almost pleading. “Please, don’t stop.”

Mike had no intention of stopping.

He slid his hand back down, along Will’s spine. Will’s breathing quickened with every inch Mike’s hand traveled.

“Here?” Mike asked softly, pausing his fingers halfway down his back.

“Yes,” Will murmured. “There. Exactly there.”

Mike pressed lightly. Will arched more.

“Harder?” Mike asked.

“Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.”

Mike had never heard Will curse like that. Never heard his voice so muffled, so full of need. It did things to him.

He moved his hand lower. This time he didn’t stop at the waistband. His fingers traced the line there, just above the fabric, feeling the smoothness of skin, the warmth.

Will let out a muffled gasp, his hand shooting out to grab Mike’s wrist.

Mike froze completely.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Is that too far? I can stop, I can—”

“No.” Will squeezed his wrist so hard it almost hurt. But he didn’t pull away. Held him there, pressed him there. “Don’t stop. Please.”

His voice was broken and needy, and Mike felt something explode in his stomach.

He ran his fingers along that line again, slow and deliberate, pressing just a little. Will shivered all over and let out another moan—deeper this time, from the very center of his chest.

“You like this,” Mike whispered, more a statement than a question. He brought his lips back to the nape of Will’s neck, speaking straight to the skin. “You like it when I touch you.”

“Yes,” Will admitted, his voice trembling. “Yes. So much. For so damn long…”

Mike froze.

“What?”

Will shook his head, as if trying to shake it off.

“Nothing. I just…”

“Will.” Mike turned him slightly—not completely, just enough to see his profile. “What did you mean?”

Will was red. Completely red, from his neck to the tops of his ears.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, barely audible. “You. This. So damn long, Mike.”

Something inside Mike’s chest shattered. Without thinking, he slid his hand down to Will’s hip. He rested it there, feeling the bone beneath the skin, feeling that warm, intoxicating heat.

Will let out a low, throaty sound.

“Where else?” he asked, his voice low. “Where else do you want me to touch you?”

Will swallowed audibly. Mike caught the movement of his Adam’s apple, following it with his eyes.

“Everywhere,” he breathed out. “Fuck… everywhere.”

Mike slid his hand from Will’s hip to his waist, fingers tracing the line where skin met the fabric of his pants. Will shivered under his touch.

“Here?” Mike whispered.

“Yes,” Will moaned. “Yes, there, Mike… please…”

Mike didn’t go lower. Not yet. They weren’t ready for that. But he let his fingers linger along the edge of the waistband, from one side to the other, slow and deliberate.

Will arched sharply, and Mike felt it through every nerve in his body. He moved his mouth from the back of Will’s neck down along the shoulder blade. He found another freckle, kissed it lightly, and nipped it gently.

“God,” Will breathed, knuckles white as he gripped his knees. “What… what are you doing to me…”

“I’m touching you,” Mike replied, his voice low and rough. “The way I wanted. The way you wanted.”

He slid his hand up to Will’s shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. He could feel the tension, the way Will shivered under his touch.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

Will froze.

“What?”

“Turn around,” Mike repeated, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “I… I want to see you.”

Slowly, Will obeyed. And once again, Mike forgot how to breathe.

Will was sitting there, shirtless, breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark—the pupils so dilated they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. His lips parted, swollen from biting them.

His hair was a complete mess, sweat glistening on his collarbones. Mike could see every breath—the rise and fall of his chest, quick, uneven, too fast.

Will looked… as if his entire body were tense to the limit, exhausted and aflame at the same time. As if Mike had already unraveled him and pieced him back together.

And he had hardly done anything.

“Y–you’re…” Mike started, but his voice broke. He tried again. “You’re beautiful.”

“Mike, no…” Will whispered.

“No.” He shook his head. He moved his hand to Will’s face, brushing his cheek with his thumb. “You are. You’re so damn beautiful, I can’t… I can’t stop looking.”

Will looked at him, breath uneven, something dark and hot in his eyes. For a long, quiet moment, silence took over.

“Say it again,” he finally murmured.

“You’re beautiful,” Mike repeated, sliding his thumb down to Will’s jaw, tracing the line. “You always have been.”

“Mike—” Will whispered, his gaze lingering on Mike’s lips for a fraction of a second. “Can I…”

He trailed off, but Mike knew. He knew what Will wanted to ask.

“Yes,” he nodded. “God, yes.”

Will didn’t wait. He lunged forward, cupping Mike’s face in both hands and kissing him desperately.

It wasn’t like in the movies. There were no fireworks. No music.

But it was real.

Will tasted like peanut butter and jelly and something sweet that was just him. His lips were soft, warm, and moving confidently against Mike’s, as if they knew exactly what they wanted.

Mike let out a quiet sound—surprise, relief, something else—and Will took it, deepening the kiss, pressing closer.

Mike placed his hands on Will’s bare back, pulling him closer, and Will sank into his arms, warm and solid, right there.

They kissed desperately, awkwardly; teeth bumped, noses brushed, but it didn’t matter, because it was Will. Will, the one Mike had wanted for so long that he couldn’t even remember when it had started.

Will let out a low, throaty sound and pressed even closer, almost straddling Mike’s lap. He moaned into the kiss, and Mike felt the vibration of that sound against his own lips—the best, purest sound he had ever heard.

Finally, they pulled back because they needed to breathe, because their lungs were screaming for air. Foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in the space between them.

“Wow,” Will breathed out, laughing lightly, the sound breathless and happy.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, because he had no other words. None that could capture what had just happened. “Wow.”

Will looked at him, eyes shining, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen and fresh from the kiss, almost glistening.

“Don’t regret it?” he asked softly, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“No,” Mike answered firmly, leaving no room for doubt. He brushed his thumb across Will’s cheek. “Not at all. I just… I just wish I’d done this sooner. That I’d wasted so much time…”

“Hey.” Will grabbed Mike’s hand, holding it against his face. “We didn’t waste anything. We’re here now. This happened. This is…”

“Real,” Mike finished. “It’s real.”

“Yeah.” Will smiled, that wide, genuine smile Mike saw so rarely, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’s real.”

Will moved closer, pressing into Mike, resting his head on his shoulder. Mike automatically wrapped his arms around him, unable to resist a quick kiss on his forehead.

They sat like that in the quiet of the basement, sunlight spilling in through the small window.

Mike could feel Will breathing. Could feel the warmth of his skin. He could feel Will’s heart beating against his own—fast at first, then slowly settling into a normal rhythm.

“Hey,” Mike murmured after a few minutes. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

Will muttered something unintelligible.

“Will,” Mike repeated, softer this time. “You used your powers today. You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“I don’t want to,” Will whispered. “I don’t want this to end.”

“It’s not ending,” Mike assured him. He gently laid Will down on the couch and started searching for a blanket. “It’s just beginning.”

He found an old blanket draped over the back of the couch and spread it over Will.

Will grabbed his hand before he could pull away.

“Stay,” he whispered, eyes nearly closed. “Please. Stay with me.”

Mike couldn’t refuse, even if he had wanted to.

He sat down beside the couch, on the floor, and Will still held his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised softly. “I’m right here. I’m with you.”

Will smiled—a small, sleepy smile—and closed his eyes completely.

Within a minute, his breathing evened out and shallowed, and Mike knew he had fallen asleep.

He sat there, watching Will asleep on the couch—hair tousled, cheeks still faintly flushed, one hand still entwined with his.

And Mike thought:

It really happened.

It’s real. Will is here. I’m here. And it’s… okay.

More than okay.

It’s perfect.