Work Text:
December 3rd.
Again. Will stood by the window on the third floor, his forehead pressed against the cold glass. The snow fell quietly, gently, as if afraid to disturb what was happening below. And there, on the snow-covered path, Mike was kissing El. And she was wearing that same gray sweater—soft, large, with a high neck, smelling of home and Mike. Will knew that sweater better than his own hands. All the years they had been friends, he had come to Mike's house in winter—and every time he was cold, even though he tried not to show it. Every time, Mike would throw him that sweater with a laugh:
“Here, you cold-blooded creature. Put it on, it's your sweater now, I'll give it to you someday, seriously,” he said, his eyes shining as if it were not a joking promise, but something much more. Will put it on. And felt at home. And believed. He warmed himself in it next to Mike on the couch while they watched silly movies, falling asleep in it on his shoulder. He kept it at his place overnight — “because I forgot to give it back,” Will said and smiled that crooked, warm smile of his. Will waited.
He waited for the joke to stop being a joke. He waited for Mike to finally say, “Here you go. It's officially yours now. As of December 3. Just like I promised.” But now that sweater is hugging her. Her cheeks, her neck, her lips—the ones Mike is kissing right now. Will feels tears rolling down his cheeks in hot, salty tracks and freezing on his chin. He doesn't wipe them away. Will watches and doesn't breathe. He would run downstairs right now.
I would run out and shout through my tears, through the snow, through everything:
"You promised! You laughed and repeated it every time I was cold!
You promised you'd give it to me! I was the one freezing at night, waiting for you to finally pluck up the courage. I was the one waiting for you — every day, every year, every damn December 3rd. I was the one who loved you so much that I still breathe you, even though you belong entirely to her!
But he doesn't scream. He stands there. And watches as Mike kisses her on the collar — the same collar where Will used to hide.
Snow falls on his cheeks, mixing with his tears. He whispers to the glass, barely audibly, as if afraid that the wind will carry his words away:
“How can I hate her? She's such an angel, but you like her more. December 3, Mike.”