Chapter Text
The basement had always been their sanctuary, but tonight it felt like a pressure cooker. The single box fan in the corner rattled desperately, shoving hot, stagnant air around the room without actually cooling anything. It was late June, not even ten o’clock, and the Indiana night pressed down like a damp blanket. Cicadas screamed outside the cracked windows. The faint smell of old pizza crust, graphite dust, and Will’s cheap art-store fixative hung thick in the air.
Mike lay sideways on the sagging couch, one long leg dangling off the edge, pretending to read the same page of his comic for the fifth time. His eyes kept drifting instead to the boy sitting cross-legged on the threadbare carpet.
Will looked… tired. Not just physically, though the dark smudges under his eyes were getting harder to ignore, but like something deeper was wearing at him. His hair had grown out again, curling damply at the nape of his neck from the humidity. Graphite streaked his fingers and one cheek. Sketchbooks and crumpled paper surrounded him like fallen soldiers.
He hadn’t spoken in almost twenty minutes. Just the soft scratch of pencil, occasional sighs, and the rustle of pages being flipped and then discarded.
Mike’s fingers tightened around the spine of his comic, bending it slightly before he forced them to relax. This summer was supposed to be easy. Just the two of them, like old times. But lately every quiet moment seemed to stretch too long, like it was waiting for one of them to say something neither of them knew how to start.
“You’ve been glaring at that page for a while,” Mike said finally, voice low so it wouldn’t carry upstairs. “It looks solid to me, Will. Better than anything I could ever draw.”
Will let out a quiet, frustrated breath and set the sketch aside. He rubbed both hands over his face, leaving another faint gray smear across his cheekbone. “It’s not solid. That’s the problem. It’s all… surface level.”
Mike pushed himself up onto one elbow, the old couch creaking beneath him. “Talk to me. What’s it supposed to be about?”
Will was quiet for a long time. He picked at a loose thread on his shorts, eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, almost hesitant.
“The portfolio review wants a series on identity. On hidden things. On the parts people usually keep to themselves.” He gestured vaguely at the drawings scattered around him - shadowed figures standing near each other but never quite touching, hands hovering just out of reach, faces turned away. “But everything I draw feels fake. Like I’m guessing at emotions I’ve never actually experienced. Like I’m faking something I don’t fully understand.”
Mike’s stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.
He pushed himself up a little, like he was about to say something, then stopped.
He didn’t trust his voice right now. Will rarely opened up like this anymore. Not about the important stuff.
Will continued, softer now, like he was testing the waters. “I’ve been doing some research. Real research. I went to the library a couple days ago…” He swallowed, eyes still fixed on the carpet. “There were these old photos. People standing close, but not too close. Like even the way they looked at each other had to be… careful. And this artwork where everything meant something else, because it had to.”
He rubbed his thumb against the side of his sketchbook, smudging graphite into the paper without looking. “My brain just went there. To queerness. I don’t know why exactly. It just felt… honest. Like that was the center of it. But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to actually make it about that.” His voice dropped. “What if someone sees it and figures me out?”
The words landed heavily in the humid air.
They didn’t talk about this. Not really. Mike knew Will had liked someone once, “his Tammy,” as he had described it as when he came out. They had never dug into it. Mike had always felt something uncomfortable twist in his gut whenever it came up. A strange, heavy sadness he couldn’t explain. Or maybe didn’t want to.
Will seemed to sense the shift in Mike’s silence. He shrank in on himself a little, shoulders curling.
“I’m not even sure I’m going to make it explicitly about queerness,” he added quickly. “That feels too dangerous. Too obvious. But I’ve been looking into it anyway. For the art. Because if I’m going to draw longing, secrecy, the ache of wanting something you’re scared to name… I can’t keep faking it. I’ve never actually had any of it. Not kissing. Not… anything.”
He laughed once, small and self-conscious, and the sound made Mike’s chest hurt.
The fan kept rattling. The cicadas kept screaming.
Mike swallowed hard, the words I could help you hovering at the back of his throat, feeling heavier than they had any right to.
Will kept picking at that loose thread on his shorts like it was the most important thing in the room.
“I’ve been thinking about…” Will started, then stopped. He took a shaky breath and tried again. “I even thought about maybe… finding someone. Just to figure some of it out. Not anything serious. Just… someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. Someone I could trust enough to-” He cut himself off, ears burning red. “God, that sounds insane when I say it out loud.”
Mike’s stomach dropped like a stone.
The image hit him hard: Will in some dimly lit corner of Indianapolis, letting some random guy put hands on him. Kiss him. Some stranger being Will’s first everything. Mike’s grip tightened on the edge of the couch before he even realized it.
“You can’t do that,” Mike said before he could stop himself. His voice came out rougher than intended.
Will looked up, startled. “What?”
“I mean-” Mike ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering. “It’s dangerous. You said it yourself. And… you don’t know who you’d be dealing with. What if they don’t care? What if they hurt you? Or talk?” He was rambling now, the words spilling out too fast. “You shouldn’t have to do something that big with some random person who doesn’t even know you.”
Will stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Then what am I supposed to do, Mike? Keep drawing things I don’t understand? Keep pretending?”
Mike’s mouth felt dry. His pulse was too loud in his ears. The words came out almost against his will.
“I could help you.”
Will blinked. “Help me… how?”
Mike forced himself to hold his gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away. “With the research. I mean-like, the physical part. The… closeness.”
He swallowed. “Kissing. Stuff like that. If you need it.” His face burned. “It would just be practice. For the project. We trust each other, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything. We could stop whenever you want.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Will’s eyes were wide, almost disbelieving. “You’re serious.”
Mike nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I’m serious.”
Will looked down at his hands again. His fingers were trembling slightly. “You’d… kiss me? For reference?”
Mike’s heart stuttered. “If that’s what you need. Yeah.”
“And it wouldn’t be weird?” Will asked, voice barely above a whisper. “For you?”
Mike let out a shaky laugh. “It would probably be weird. But… it’s for your art. And I’d rather it be me than some stranger who might not even care if it’s good for you or not.” The last part sounded a bit much. He tried to swallow it back.
Will was quiet for what felt like forever. The cicadas outside seemed louder now. Finally he spoke, so softly Mike almost missed it.
“I’ve never kissed anyone. Not really. Not like that.”
“Me neither,” Mike admitted. Then, after a second, “Not like this.”
“This doesn’t change anything,” Will said quickly, like he needed to hear it out loud. “It’s just for the project.”
Mike nodded.
Another long pause. Will shifted a little closer on his knees, until he was right between Mike’s dangling legs. They were both awkward now, unsure where hands were supposed to go, breathing too carefully.
“So…” Will swallowed. “If we did this… how would we even start?”
Mike leaned forward slowly, giving Will every chance to pull away. Their knees bumped. Will’s breath hitched. Mike’s hand hovered, then gently settled on Will’s shoulder. The fabric of his t-shirt was warm and slightly damp from the heat.
“We could start slow,” Mike whispered. “Just… see what it feels like.”
Will nodded, barely. His eyes flicked down to Mike’s mouth, then back up. “Okay.”
Mike tilted his head. Their noses brushed first - awkward, clumsy. Will let out a tiny, nervous huff of laughter that ghosted across Mike’s lips. Mike’s other hand came up to cup the side of Will’s neck, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse under his thumb.
Their first kiss was barely a kiss at all. Just a soft, tentative press of closed lips. Hesitant. Careful. Like they were both terrified of doing it wrong. Will’s mouth was warm. A little chapped from the dry summer air. After a few seconds Mike shifted the angle slightly and Will pressed back, just a fraction more.
When they pulled apart, they stayed close. Foreheads almost touching. Both breathing harder than the simple kiss should have warranted.
“Was that… okay?” Mike asked, voice rough.
Will nodded, eyes dark and wide. “Yeah. That was… good. For reference.”
Mike’s thumb stroked once along the line of Will’s jaw without permission. He wanted more. He wanted so much more it scared him.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Mike didn’t take his hand away.
Neither of them moved. Mike became acutely aware of how close Will was now, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off him.
“We should probably do it again,” Mike murmured. “Just to make sure you get all the details right.”
Will’s smile was small, shy, and utterly devastating.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “For the project.”
Mike kissed him again, less careful this time.