Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler was seven years old the first time he kissed Will Byers.

It happened in the basement, behind the old couch where the carpet smelled like dust and spilled juice no matter how many times Karen vacuumed it. The others were upstairs because Dustin had dropped a bowl of pretzels and Lucas had yelled loud enough for Mrs. Wheeler to come down, which meant for one strange, impossible minute, the basement belonged only to Mike and Will.

Will was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, his character sheet balanced against his legs, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pencil. He had been trying to decide whether his cleric would use a healing spell on Mike’s paladin or save it for later, even though Mike had already told him three times that paladins could take damage better than everybody else.

“You should save it,” Mike said.

Will frowned at him. “But then you might die.”

“I won’t die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m the paladin.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t die.”

Mike rolled his eyes like Will was being impossible, even though secretly he liked that Will cared so much. He liked it in a way that made his stomach feel buzzy and warm, like when the microwave light stayed on after the popcorn started popping.

Will looked down at the paper again, his pencil hovering over the little box where he kept track of spells, and Mike watched him instead of the game. Watched the way Will’s hair fell into his eyes. Watched the tiny crease between his eyebrows when he concentrated. Watched the careful line of his mouth.

Then, before he could think too much about it, Mike leaned forward and kissed him.

It was quick. Barely anything. Just his mouth pressed clumsily against Will’s for half a second before he pulled back so fast his shoulder knocked into the couch.

Will stared at him.

Mike stared back.

Upstairs, somebody laughed. A cabinet opened. Mrs. Wheeler said something about not running in the kitchen.

Neither of them moved.

Mike’s face went hot all at once, so hot it felt like he had swallowed a sparkler. “Sorry,” he blurted.

Will blinked. “Why?”

Mike didn’t know how to answer that.

Because boys weren’t supposed to kiss other boys, maybe. Because he had never kissed anyone before and didn’t know if he had done it wrong. Because Will was his best friend, and best friends were supposed to share comics and secrets and sleeping bags, not whatever strange thing had just jumped out of Mike’s chest before he could stop it.

But Will didn’t look mad. He looked surprised. Then he looked down at his character sheet, and his ears turned pink. “You can have the healing spell,” he said quietly.

Mike frowned. “What?”

Will shrugged one shoulder, still not looking at him. “For your paladin.”

Mike’s heart kicked hard. “Oh,” he said.

Then Will glanced up at him through his bangs, shy and serious and trying very hard not to smile. Mike smiled first.

After that, it became a thing.

Not a thing they talked about. Not really. Mike and Will were good at building entire worlds without naming them out loud. They had been doing it since kindergarten, since the swings, since Mike had asked him if he wanted to be friends and Will had looked at him like nobody had ever asked him anything that important before.

So they didn’t call it kissing. They didn’t call it anything.

They just did it.

Behind the basement couch when the others were upstairs. In the shadowy corner of Castle Byers with rain tapping softly on the roof. Under blankets during sleepovers, where their hands found each other in the dark and stayed there until one of them heard footsteps in the hall.

Sometimes Mike kissed Will’s cheek because it was easier. Sometimes Will pressed a fast, nervous kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth and then immediately pretended to be very interested in his dice.

Once, when they were eight, Mike held Will’s hand all the way through a movie in the basement. Dustin sat on the floor in front of them, laughing with his whole body. Lucas kept throwing popcorn at the screen whenever something dumb happened. Nobody noticed the way Mike and Will’s fingers were tangled together beneath the blanket.

Or maybe nobody looked.

That was the first thing Mike learned about loving Will Byers: it was easiest in the dark.

Will learned it too.

He learned that Mike’s hand was always warm, even in winter. He learned that Mike got embarrassed after kissing but not before, like bravery only lasted until the second it was done. He learned that if he called Mike “my paladin” in a whisper, Mike would go quiet in a way that felt like winning.

“You’re my cleric,” Mike told him once, very seriously, while they were lying side by side on the basement floor after everyone else had fallen asleep.

Will turned his head on the pillow. “Why?”

“Because you always save me.”

Will looked at him for a long time.

Then he whispered, “You save me too.”

Mike didn’t know what to do with that, so he kissed him.

That was usually what they did when words got too big.

They kissed and held hands and promised things with the solemn certainty of children who still believed forever was something you could make just by saying it enough times.

Then one day, they stopped.

No fight. No decision. No last kiss either of them understood as a last kiss.

They were eleven, maybe. Or almost twelve. Old enough that the world had started pressing in at the edges. Old enough that people looked longer when Mike stood too close to Will. Old enough that Troy at school had learned new words and used them like rocks. Old enough that Will started flinching at things he hadn’t flinched at before.

The last time Mike remembered kissing Will as kids, they were in Castle Byers after a campaign that had gone late. The rain had made everything smell green and muddy, and Will’s flashlight was dying between them, throwing weak yellow light over their knees.

Mike had won the fight against some monster he’d made up two hours earlier, mostly because Will had insisted his cleric would heal him even when Mike said he didn’t have to.

“You always do that,” Mike said.

Will smiled faintly. “Do what?”

“Save me.”

Will’s smile softened.

Mike leaned in because he always leaned in. Because this was Will. Because it had always been safe. But this time, Will hesitated. Only a little. Barely enough to count. Mike still noticed.

The kiss landed too carefully. Their mouths touched, soft and scared, and then Will pulled back first. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Will looked toward the open flap of Castle Byers like he had heard something. “I should go inside,” he said.

Mike swallowed. “Yeah.”

Will crawled out first. Mike followed a second later, brushing mud off his jeans, pretending the strange drop in his stomach was nothing.

The next week, Dustin slept over too. The week after that, Lucas did. Then the basement was always full of voices. Always full of dice and comics and sleeping bags and people who would notice if two boys disappeared behind the couch for too long.

Mike kept waiting for the next time. So did Will. Neither of them made it happen.

And after a while, the waiting became its own kind of answer.

By the time they were fifteen, whatever Mike and Will had been as kids had settled into something quieter. Not gone. Never gone. Just buried carefully beneath years of growing up and pretending not to notice things.

They were still inseparable. That was the problem. Because nobody questioned Mike and Will being close. Nobody questioned the way Will automatically sat beside Mike in every room they entered or how Mike looked for Will first in crowded places without even realizing he was doing it. It had always been like that. Since kindergarten. Since bicycles and scraped knees and the basement floor.

People got used to devotion if they saw it long enough.

Mike dated Eleven eventually. That happened naturally too, or at least naturally enough that nobody blinked twice at it. El was beautiful and brave and loved Mike fiercely in the uncomplicated way he thought he was supposed to be loved.

Mike loved her too. Just differently. He didn’t have words for that difference, so he ignored it.

Will ignored things too. He ignored the way his chest tightened whenever Mike absentmindedly touched his waist to squeeze past him in the kitchen. He ignored how hard it was to look away from Mike during movie nights when the glow from the television painted his face soft blue in the dark. He ignored the fact that every drawing of a paladin somehow still ended up looking a little like Mike Wheeler no matter how many times he tried to change the nose or jawline.

It was easier not to think too hard about any of it. Most days, they managed.

Then there were the almosts.

There were so many almosts.

The first happened during sophomore year after a thunderstorm knocked the power out across Hawkins.

The Wheeler basement sat in darkness except for the battery lantern balanced on the coffee table. Rain hammered softly against the tiny windows near the ceiling while Dustin and Lucas argued upstairs over which frozen pizza Karen should make first.

Will sat cross-legged on the couch sketching in one of his notebooks while Mike sprawled beside him with a comic book open against his chest.

“You’re doing it again,” Mike said eventually.

Will didn’t look up. “Doing what?”

“Drawing me.”

Will’s pencil stopped. “I’m not.”

Mike leaned closer anyway, shoulder pressing against Will’s. “That literally has my hair.”

“It does not.”

“It literally does.”

Will tried to pull the sketchbook away, but Mike grabbed it first, laughing quietly as Will made an offended noise beside him.

The drawing stared back at him from the page. A paladin in heavy armor. Sword lowered. Looking exhausted and soft and heartbreakingly familiar.

Mike’s laughter faded. “Oh,” he said quietly.

Will reached for the notebook again. “Give it back.”

“Wait.”

“Mike—”

“This is from the campaign we played in middle school.”

Will went still. Mike remembered it suddenly. Every detail. The cleric and paladin standing together at the end of the world while everyone else escaped through the gate behind them.

“You kept drawing them?” Mike asked.

Will shrugged too quickly. “I draw everything.”

But his voice sounded tight.

Mike looked at the page again. At the care in every line. At the way the paladin was staring at someone just outside the frame like losing them would destroy him.

Slowly, Mike lifted his eyes. Will was already looking at him.

The basement suddenly felt too small. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Upstairs, Lucas shouted something unintelligible.

Neither of them moved.

Mike became abruptly aware of everything all at once: Will’s knee against his thigh, the warmth of his shoulder, the way Will’s mouth parted slightly when he got nervous.

For one impossible second, Mike thought: Oh. Not a new realization exactly. More like something old returning.

Will’s eyes flicked downward. To Mike’s mouth. Then immediately away again.

Mike’s heartbeat stumbled hard enough to hurt. He could do it. That was the terrifying thing. He could lean forward right now and kiss him, and somewhere deep inside himself he knew with awful certainty that Will would kiss him back.

The knowledge passed between them silently. Huge. Trembling. Alive.

Then Dustin thundered down the basement stairs yelling about pepperoni pizza, and the moment shattered so fast it almost felt imagined.

Will snatched the sketchbook back immediately. Mike leaned away just as quickly. Neither of them spoke about it.

They never spoke about any of it.

Another almost happened a year later after one of El’s movie nights.

Everyone else had fallen asleep scattered around the Wheeler basement in blankets and pillows while some horror movie played unwatched on low volume. Rain flickered against the windows in silver streaks.

Mike woke sometime after two in the morning to find Will still awake beside him. Will sat with his back against the couch, knees pulled up slightly, staring at the television without really watching it.

“You okay?” Mike whispered sleepily.

Will glanced over. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

A tiny shrug. Mike pushed himself upright, blanket sliding into his lap. In the dim television light, Will looked unbearably beautiful. Soft shadows beneath his eyes. Hair falling over his forehead. His mouth pink from biting it too much.

Mike’s chest tightened painfully. Will looked at him for a second too long.

“You should go back to sleep,” Will murmured.

Mike didn’t move. Neither did Will. The room felt suspended somehow. Everyone else asleep around them. The storm outside muting the entire world.

Will’s voice dropped quieter. “Mike…”

Mike didn’t know what that tone meant. Only that it made his stomach twist. He looked at Will’s mouth before he could stop himself. Will noticed. Mike knew he noticed because Will inhaled sharply.

And then—Will leaned in first. Barely. Just enough for Mike to realize it was happening. His heart slammed violently against his ribs. He moved too.

Instinct. Memory. Want.

Their faces hovered impossibly close together. Mike could feel Will’s breath against his mouth. Feel the hesitation trembling between them.

Then upstairs, a door slammed. Both of them jerked apart instantly. Mike’s pulse roared in his ears. Will stared at the floor. After a second he stood abruptly, grabbing an abandoned soda can from the coffee table just to have something to do with his hands.

“I’m gonna get water,” he said. His voice sounded strained.

Mike watched him disappear upstairs and sat there shaking long after he was gone.

Neither mentioned it the next morning.

A few weeks later, everyone ended up at the Wheeler basement again.

Lucas and Dustin were arguing loudly over some new campaign mechanic while Max threw popcorn at both of them from the couch. A movie played half-forgotten on the television, flickering blue light across the room while rain tapped steadily against the windows outside.

Will sat at the end of the couch with his sketchbook balanced against one knee, only half listening to the conversation around him. Mike sat on the floor beside El, leaning back against the couch cushions near Will’s legs.

It should’ve felt normal. It usually did. That was the dangerous part.

Mike laughed at something Dustin said, head tipping back slightly, and Will’s eyes lifted before he could stop them. The sight hit him strangely every single time now — Mike taller than he used to be, shoulders broader, curls falling into his eyes in that careless way that made Will’s stomach twist for reasons he tried very hard not to examine.

Then El touched Mike’s arm. Small. Casual. Mike looked at her immediately and softened.

Will looked back down at his sketchbook before the feeling in his chest could fully form into something uglier.

Across the room, Lucas groaned dramatically. “I’m getting more soda.”

“Bring me one,” Max called.

“Get your own.”

“You love me.”

“That’s unfortunately true.”

Dustin followed Lucas upstairs still arguing while Max trailed after them yelling something about popcorn theft, leaving the basement suddenly quieter.

Just Mike. El. Will.

The television hummed softly. Rain tapped against the windows.

Will focused on drawing meaningless lines across the corner of the page.

Beside him, Mike said something too quiet for Will to hear. El smiled faintly. Then Mike kissed her. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft, ordinary kiss. Familiar. Comfortable. Mike’s hand resting lightly against her wrist while El leaned closer into him.

Like this was easy. Like this was natural.

Will’s pencil snapped clean in half. The sound cracked through the basement sharply. Mike pulled away immediately. Will stared at the broken pencil in his hands, pulse suddenly roaring in his ears.

“Oh,” Mike said quickly. “Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Will muttered. His voice sounded wrong. Too tight.

He bent down automatically to pick up the broken piece before Mike could move, staring hard at the carpet because looking up felt impossible suddenly.

Because this was ridiculous. Mike was allowed to kiss his girlfriend. Nothing about this should hurt. And yet the pain arrived anyway—immediate and humiliating and sharp enough to make his chest ache. Will swallowed hard.

“You okay?” Mike asked quietly.

Will nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

El looked between them, her expression unreadable in the flickering television light. For one terrible second, Will thought she knew.

Then Mike stood suddenly. “I can get you another pencil.”

“You don’t have to.”

But Mike was already crossing the basement toward the old art supplies bin Karen kept shoved beneath the shelves. Will watched him kneel beside it, rifling distractedly through markers and dried-out pens.

The thing was, Mike always noticed when Will broke something. A pencil. A paintbrush. A silence. Mike noticed all of it. That was the problem too.

Mike came back a second later holding out a new pencil toward him. Will reached for it automatically. Their fingers brushed. Both of them froze.

Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still—Mike’s eyes lifted immediately. Will forgot how to breathe for a second.

The basement suddenly felt too warm. Too close. Mike crouched beside him still holding the pencil between them, staring at Will with an expression that made something dangerous flicker low in Will’s stomach.

Like concern. Like memory. Like almost.

Will’s pulse stumbled hard. He wondered suddenly—wildly, horribly—if Mike remembered it too sometimes.

The basement couch. Castle Byers. Hands beneath blankets. The soft, secret shape of childhood love.

Mike’s mouth parted slightly like he was about to say something. Then footsteps thundered loudly overhead. Both of them pulled apart instantly.

Lucas shoved open the basement door carrying sodas while Dustin argued behind him about hit points.

And just like that, the moment disappeared beneath noise again.

Will took the pencil carefully from Mike’s hand. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Mike sat back down beside El afterward. A few minutes later, El leaned into him again, and this time Mike kissed her without hesitation. Will looked down at his sketchbook and pretended not to notice.

And that was sort of how it always went.

Almost.

Then silence.

Almost.

Then pretending.

They became experts at pretending.

Experts at acting normal when Mike threw an arm around Will’s shoulders and felt Will go subtly still beneath him. Experts at surviving lingering eye contact across crowded rooms. Experts at swallowing entire feelings before they could ever fully reach the surface.

Sometimes Mike thought Will had forgotten everything from when they were kids. 

Sometimes Will thought Mike had.

That was what hurt most. Not rejection. Not impossibility. Just the quiet, aching belief that maybe it had only mattered to him.

College was supposed to fix it. At least, that was what Mike told himself the entire summer before freshman year.

Distance would help. New people would help. Different campuses, different schedules, different lives. Eventually whatever strange gravity had always existed between him and Will Byers would loosen naturally.

That was what happened to childhood friendships. People grew up. People moved on. People stopped orbiting each other so completely.

Mike repeated those thoughts so often they almost started sounding true.

Almost.

The problem was that even after everything—after the almost-kisses and years of silence and the careful pretending—Will was still the first person Mike wanted to tell things to. The acceptance letter. The terrible roommate assignment. The fact that he’d gotten published in the literary magazine over the summer.

Every good thing still turned instinctively toward Will. And Will still answered every call on the second ring.

At first, college felt temporary. Like an extended sleepover they would eventually come back from.

Mike visited Will’s dorm during the first month because his own campus was only forty minutes away. Will showed him around the art building with paint smeared absentmindedly across the sleeve of his sweater while Mike carried two coffees neither of them really wanted.

“You look pretentious now,” Mike informed him while staring at a massive abstract sculpture made entirely of hanging wire.

Will snorted softly. “You write poetry now.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“It was one short story.”

“The main character died from yearning.”

Mike nearly choked on his coffee. “That is not what happened.”

Will’s smile widened faintly.

God.

Mike had forgotten how dangerous it was seeing Will every day again.

College looked good on him. Softer somehow. His hair longer. His shoulders broader beneath oversized sweaters. He carried himself differently now—quieter but more certain too, like he was slowly becoming someone Mike didn’t entirely know anymore.

The thought made something twist low in Mike’s chest. They still fit together too easily though. That was the problem.

Mike still ended up sprawled across Will’s dorm bed while Will sketched at his desk. They still shared fries at late-night diners off campus. Still bumped shoulders walking across sidewalks glowing gold beneath streetlights.

People assumed things sometimes.

A girl in one of Will’s art classes once glanced between them and asked casually, “So how long have you guys been together?”

Will laughed immediately. Too quickly. Mike answered at the exact same time. “We’re not—” Then both of them stopped awkwardly.

The girl blinked. “Oh.”

Will looked down at his sketchbook. Mike stared very hard at the diner menu. Something uncomfortable settled between them afterward. Not huge. Just enough.

That night, Mike stayed too late at Will’s dorm again. Rain pressed softly against the windows while some old movie played muted on Will’s tiny television. Mike sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through one of Will’s sketchbooks while Will brushed paint across a canvas balanced on his desk.

Most of the sketches were normal. Buildings. Hands. Portrait studies. Then Mike turned a page and froze. A drawing of him stared back. Older than the others. Recent. Mike sitting at a diner table laughing at something outside the frame.

The detail stole the air from his lungs.

“You’re still drawing me,” Mike said quietly. Behind him, Will’s brush stopped moving. Mike looked down at the page again. Not just one drawing.

Several.

Mike sleeping with his head against the dorm wall. Mike reading. Mike mid-laugh. Mike staring out a rainy window.

Each one looked painfully careful. Like Will had memorized him.

Mike’s heartbeat became suddenly uneven. “Will.”

“It’s not weird,” Will said quickly.

Mike turned around slowly. Will still sat at the desk, shoulders tense now, paintbrush clenched too tightly between his fingers.

“I didn’t say it was weird.”

Will looked at him finally. The room felt too small all over again. Rain against the windows. Muted television light. The old terrifying gravity returning between them inch by inch.

Mike swallowed hard.

Because the truth was—if he stood up right now and crossed the room, he knew exactly what would happen.

He knew Will would let him kiss him. Maybe Will had always let him. The realization hit so hard it almost scared him.

Will’s eyes flicked briefly toward Mike’s mouth before catching themselves. Mike noticed. Of course he noticed.

Neither moved. The silence stretched.

Alive. Fragile. Waiting.

Then Will looked away first. “Carlton says my perspective drawings are getting better,” he said quietly, like he was forcing the conversation sideways before it could become something else.

Mike stared at him for another second. Then slowly closed the sketchbook. “Yeah?” he asked softly. And just like that, the moment disappeared again.

That was freshman year. Almost.

Always almost.

Until eventually even the almosts started becoming harder to survive.

Their schedules stopped lining up as perfectly. Mike got busier writing for the campus paper. Will disappeared into studio hours that lasted until two in the morning. Calls became shorter. Visits became less frequent.

Neither fought for it properly.

That was the tragedy. Both of them kept waiting for the other to say something first. And neither ever did.

By spring semester, sometimes days passed without talking. Then weeks. The silence grew gradually enough that neither knew exactly when it became permanent.

Only that one day Mike realized he hadn’t heard Will’s voice in almost a month. And somehow that hurt even worse than the almost-kisses ever had.

At first, Mike told himself it was temporary. Will was busy. He was busy. That was college. People changed. That was normal too.

Still, every time his phone lit up, some stupid hopeful part of him expected Will’s name. Most nights, it wasn’t.

Sometimes Mike typed messages anyway.

Saw this thing that reminded me of you.
You’d like this movie.
Do you still draw in those giant sketchbooks?

He deleted all of them before sending.

After a while, even that started feeling pathetic. So Mike threw himself into writing instead.

It started small. Late nights at the campus library with cold coffee beside his laptop and half-finished documents scattered across the screen. Fantasy stories mostly. Short pieces at first. Fragments of worlds. Characters he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Always the same two at the center of it somehow.

A paladin.

A cleric.

Mike told himself it wasn’t intentional. That was the funniest part. Because every time he tried writing something else, the story bent back toward them anyway.

Toward loyalty. Toward yearning. Toward two people loving each other so much it ruined them.

One rainy night near the end of freshman year, Mike sat alone in his dorm room long after his roommate had fallen asleep. The room glowed dimly blue from the desk lamp. Rain streaked softly against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed too loudly before a door slammed shut again.

Mike stared at the blank document open on his laptop. Cursor blinking. Waiting.

He had tried calling Will three nights earlier. It went to voicemail. He still didn’t know why that hurt so badly.

Mike rubbed a tired hand over his face before looking back at the screen. Then slowly, almost without thinking, he started typing.

The paladin met the cleric when they were children.

Mike stopped breathing for a second. The sentence sat there quietly beneath the glow of the screen. Simple. Dangerous.

Real.

Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky. Mike stared at the words. Then kept going. He wrote about two boys who built kingdoms together in basements and forests and dying worlds. Two boys who learned how to love each other before they understood why the world might punish them for it. Two boys who kept almost choosing each other long after they stopped knowing how.

Every sentence felt like reopening something buried alive. Still, he couldn’t stop. Hours passed unnoticed. Rain. Typing. Silence.

At some point after two in the morning, Mike finally leaned back in his chair, exhausted. The document was already several pages long. The paladin stood at the edge of a ruined kingdom. The cleric beside him. Close enough to touch. Too afraid to do it.

Mike swallowed hard. Then, before he could overthink it, he typed one final line beneath the chapter draft:

The paladin loved the cleric so much he mistook silence for mercy.

Mike stared at the sentence for a long time. Like maybe it had come from somewhere outside himself. Then finally, very quietly, he whispered into the empty room: “I remember.”

And for the first time in months, he let himself cry.

𓂃✍︎

2 years later

Two years later, Mike Wheeler published his second novel.

The first one had done well enough to surprise everyone, including Mike himself. A small fantasy release from an unknown author that somehow found an audience anyway. Reviewers called his writing intimate. Devastating. Quietly romantic in ways that lingered after the final page.

Mike hated reading reviews. Mostly because too many of them felt accurate.

The second book was worse. Or better. Depending on who you asked. His editor called it “emotionally catastrophic” during revisions, which Mike had laughed at for exactly three seconds before realizing she meant it sincerely.

The book followed a paladin and cleric across years of war and separation and almost-confessions. It was quieter than most fantasy stories. Less interested in battles than in longing. Entire chapters built around conversations neither character finished properly.

Readers adored it. Mike felt vaguely sick every time someone said that. Because the truth was, he hadn’t really written a fantasy novel at all.

He had written two hundred thousand words about loving Will Byers and losing him slowly.

Nobody else knew that. At least Mike didn’t think they did.

He tried not to think about Will much anymore. Or rather—he failed constantly.

The worst part about losing Will wasn’t dramatic heartbreak. It wasn’t screaming fights or betrayal or some huge catastrophic ending. It was absence. The awful, ordinary shape of it.

Seeing something funny and still instinctively reaching for his phone before remembering there was nobody to send it to anymore. Passing art supply stores and thinking: Will would like that. Hearing songs that made his chest ache for reasons he couldn’t explain aloud.

Mike had tried in the beginning. That was the embarrassing part.

The calls started during sophomore year. At first Will answered sometimes. Their conversations felt strange. Careful. Like both of them were trying not to step on something fragile between them.

“How’s school?” Mike would ask.

“Good.”

“Still painting?”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

“Writing mostly.”

“That’s cool.”

Long pauses followed almost every sentence. Neither knew how to get back to what they used to be.

Then eventually Will stopped answering altogether. Mike still remembered the exact night he realized it was intentional.

Rain hammered against his apartment windows while he paced barefoot across the kitchen holding his phone to his ear.

The call rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. Again. Mike hung up. Tried once more immediately. Voicemail.

He stood there staring at the screen afterward, chest tight in a way that felt humiliatingly close to panic. Then finally, after several seconds, his phone buzzed. For one stupid hopeful second, Mike thought Will had called back. Instead, it was a text. 

Will: sorry. busy lately.

Mike stared at the message. At the period. At how carefully neutral it sounded. Something inside him folded quietly inward.

After that, he stopped calling as much. Then eventually, altogether. Still, some part of him kept waiting. 

Birthdays passed. Holidays. The release of Mike’s first book. Nothing from Will. Mike told himself he was over it now. That was the lie he got best at repeating.

Then his second book released. And suddenly Will Byers was everywhere again. Not literally. Just in the book. In every page.

Every lingering glance between the paladin and cleric. Every unfinished sentence. Every moment where love sat trembling beneath silence so heavily it became unbearable.

Mike knew what he was doing while writing it. That was the worst part. Especially the dedication. His editor had asked him three separate times if he was sure he wanted to keep it.

“Yes,” Mike said every time.

Even though it made his stomach twist violently just thinking about it. Especially because he knew there was almost no chance Will would ever see it.

Still.

Mike kept it anyway. Because some small, pathetic part of him wanted proof somewhere in the world that he remembered. That it had mattered.

Even if only to him.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Will Byers did not think about Mike Wheeler anymore.

That was the lie he told himself most often. It existed in small places mostly. Tiny rehearsed thoughts he repeated automatically whenever Mike threatened to return to the surface of his mind.

That was years ago. People grow apart. You were kids. It didn’t mean what you thought it meant.

Some days, the lies even worked. Other days, Will caught himself staring too long at boys with dark curls in coffee shops or instinctively reaching for his phone whenever something funny happened before remembering there was nobody to send it to.

Those days hurt worse.

Carlton noticed sometimes. Not everything. Just enough.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Carlton said one rainy Thursday evening from where he sat cross-legged on Will’s apartment floor assembling a shelf neither of them fully understood the instructions for.

Will looked up from his sketchbook. “What thing?”

“The staring into space like you’re trapped in a Victorian novel.”

Will snorted quietly. “That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while music played low from Carlton’s speakers. The entire room smelled faintly like paint and takeout noodles.

Will looked back down at the sketchbook resting against his knees.

Carlton’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Oh my god,” he said.

Will frowned. “What?”

“You’re drawing him again.”

Heat climbed instantly up Will’s neck. “I’m not.”

Carlton stood up without warning and crossed the room before Will could close the sketchbook fast enough. 

There he was.

Mike.

Or something painfully close to him. Not exact. Never exact. Will had gotten good at hiding him inside other faces over the years.

Carlton looked at the page for a second before glancing back at Will knowingly. “You realize every man you draw looks vaguely devastated and in love with you, right?”

Will groaned. “Please shut up.”

Carlton smiled faintly but didn’t push further. That was one of the reasons Will loved him. Carlton never forced open wounds Will clearly wanted hidden. He just sat beside them quietly. Sometimes that felt even worse.

Will met Carlton during freshman year after switching into an advanced figure drawing class. Carlton was easy to be around in the way Mike had once been easy to be around—warm, observant, patient with silences.

Will hadn’t meant to fall into something with him. It just happened slowly. Shared coffees became dinners. Dinners became nights spent together in Carlton’s apartment tangled beneath warm blankets while old movies played softly in the background.

Carlton kissed him carefully the first time. Like Will might disappear if touched too suddenly. Will kissed him back. And for a little while, he thought maybe this was what moving on finally felt like.

Carlton knew about Mike vaguely. Best friend from home. Fell out of touch. Complicated history.

Will never explained further than that. Mostly because he didn’t know how.

How do you explain mourning something that technically never happened? How do you explain that the person who ruined you never actually touched you enough to justify it?

Will had tried forgetting. Really. But Mike still existed in strange unreachable corners of him. In fantasy novels left open face-down on coffee tables. In the smell of old basements after rainstorms. In every cleric character Will painted without realizing why until halfway through.

Sometimes late at night, Will still remembered things so vividly it physically hurt.

Mike whispering my cleric into the dark. Mike’s hand finding his automatically beneath blankets. The terrible almost-kiss during freshman year when Will had leaned in first and genuinely thought—for one impossible second—that Mike might finally choose him back.

Will had stopped answering Mike’s calls after that year because every conversation felt like bleeding slowly to death.

Mike sounded normal. That was the unbearable part. Like he genuinely believed they could keep orbiting each other forever without ever acknowledging the thing sitting silently between them.

Will couldn’t survive that anymore. So he pulled away first. Then farther. Then completely. Some nights he still hated himself for it.

Rain rattled softly against the windows harder now.

Carlton sat beside him again on the floor, shoulder bumping lightly against Will’s. “You wanna know something annoying?” Carlton asked.

Will glanced sideways. “Always.”

“I think you’ve been in love before.” Will went completely still. Carlton kept his eyes on the half-built shelf instead of looking directly at him. “Most people who haven’t,” he said quietly, “don’t draw people like they’re trying to preserve them.”

Will’s throat tightened painfully. For a second, neither spoke. Then Will laughed softly under his breath. Small. Broken around the edges.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Carlton nodded once like he already knew.

A week later, Barnes & Noble smelled like coffee and paper and rain-damp jackets.

Will followed Carlton through the fantasy section half-listening while Carlton talked about some documentary they’d started the night before and immediately fallen asleep during.

“You cannot keep pretending you watched movies with me,” Carlton was saying. “You’re asleep within twenty minutes every time.”

“I was awake for most of it.”

“You literally started snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

Carlton looked over at him flatly. “You absolutely do.”

Will smiled faintly despite himself, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket while they wandered between shelves. Outside, rain streaked softly against the bookstore windows in silver lines. 

It should’ve been an ordinary afternoon. That was the terrifying thing about life-changing moments sometimes. They arrived quietly.

Carlton slowed suddenly near one of the front display tables. “Wait.”

Will barely looked up. “What?”

“Didn’t you used to know a Mike Wheeler?”

The world stopped. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough for Will to feel it.

His eyes lifted automatically toward the table Carlton was standing beside. Then froze.

Mike.

Not really. Just his face on the back of a hardcover novel. Still, it hit like seeing a ghost.

The author photo was small, black-and-white, tucked beside a short biography. Mike looked older. Sharper around the jaw. Hair slightly longer than Will remembered. But it was him. Completely, utterly, him.Will forgot how to breathe for a second.

 “Oh my god,” Carlton murmured quietly beside him.

Because the display was huge. Stacks and stacks of the same dark blue hardcover arranged beneath a sign that read STAFF RECOMMENDED.

Will stared numbly at the title. Then at Mike’s name beneath it. Then reached for the book before he could stop himself. His fingers shook immediately. Carlton went quiet beside him.

The cover art showed a knight standing beside another figure wrapped in pale robes beneath a dying constellation. A paladin. A cleric.

Will’s stomach dropped violently.

No. No. No. No.

Slowly, he turned the book over. The summary blurred slightly at first because suddenly his vision wasn’t working properly. He blinked hard and tried again.

Bound together since childhood, a paladin and cleric spend years fighting side by side while circling a love neither knows how to name.

Through ruined kingdoms, unfinished wars, and devastating silences, they remain inseparable—until fear finally drives them apart.

But some people do not stop belonging to each other simply because they let go first.

Will made a small sound in the back of his throat. Carlton looked at him immediately. “Will?”

But Will barely heard him. Because this wasn’t inspiration. This wasn’t coincidence. This was… The basement couch. Castle Byers. The almost-kiss during freshman year. Years of looking at each other too long and saying nothing anyway.

His hands started trembling harder. “No way,” he whispered.

He opened the cover blindly. Past the title page. Past publishing information. Then—the dedication. Will stopped breathing entirely.

to my cleric — i remember, and it was real to me.

The bookstore disappeared. Sound vanished. 

Will stared at the words while something inside him cracked wide open all at once. Not imagined. Not one-sided. Not childhood confusion only he had carried like a wound for years.

Real. It had been real to Mike too.

A sharp broken breath escaped him before he could stop it. Then suddenly he was crying. Not quietly either. Tears hit the page almost immediately while Will pressed a shaking hand hard against his mouth like he could physically contain the grief spilling out of him.

“Hey,” Carlton said softly, alarmed now. “Hey, what happened?”

Will couldn’t answer. Because every lost year hit him simultaneously. All the calls he never answered. Every almost. Every silence. Every moment he convinced himself Mike had forgotten.

And all along—Mike remembered.

“Oh my god,” Will choked out again.

Carlton gently guided him toward one of the chairs near the café without taking the book away from him. Will sat down hard, still staring at the dedication through blurred vision.

Carlton crouched in front of him carefully. “Will.”

Will laughed once. The sound came out shattered. “He remembered,” he whispered.

Carlton frowned slightly. “What?”

Will looked up finally, tears still sliding helplessly down his face. And for the first time in years, he told someone the truth.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak at all. He just sat there clutching the book against his chest while rain streaked softly down the bookstore windows behind him. People moved around them in blurred shapes. Coffee machines hissed somewhere near the café counter.

The entire world kept going somehow. Carlton stayed crouched in front of him patiently. Waiting.

Will wiped at his face once with the sleeve of his sweater, but more tears came immediately after. “It’s stupid,” he said hoarsely.

Carlton shook his head softly. “I don’t think it is.”

Will looked back down at the dedication. i remember. His chest hurt so badly it almost felt impossible to breathe around it.

“We used to…” He stopped. Started over. “When we were kids, we used to kiss.”

Carlton blinked once in surprise but stayed quiet.

Will laughed weakly under his breath, embarrassed instantly. “God, that sounds insane saying it out loud.”

“It doesn’t.”

“We were little,” Will whispered. “Like—really little. And then one day we just stopped talking about it.” His throat tightened again. “But we never really stopped feeling it.”

Carlton’s expression softened almost painfully.

Will stared at the book in his lap while years of memory rose all at once. Mike smiling against his mouth behind the basement couch. Hands tangled together beneath blankets. The terrible aching almosts as teenagers. The silence afterward.

“We almost kissed so many times,” Will admitted quietly. “And every single time one of us got scared.”

Carlton sat beside him now instead of across from him, shoulder warm against Will’s.

“I thought he forgot,” Will said. The words came out broken. “Seriously, I convinced myself eventually that maybe I imagined how important it was.” He laughed shakily again. “Which sounds ridiculous because obviously I didn’t imagine it, but when nobody talks about something long enough…” He swallowed hard. “You start wondering if it only mattered to you.”

Carlton looked down at the dedication page. Then very gently asked, “Did you love him?”

Will’s eyes burned instantly. “Yes,” he whispered. No hesitation this time. No fear either. Just truth. “I think I always did.”

Silence settled softly between them. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Carlton exhaled slowly through his nose before leaning back in the café chair beside him. “Well,” he said quietly, “that’s horribly romantic.” Will let out an actual startled laugh through the tears. Carlton smiled faintly. Then after a second, the smile faded into something sadder around the edges. “You still love him.” It wasn’t a question.

Will looked down at the book again because he couldn’t survive looking directly at Carlton while answering. “…yeah.”

Rain tapped softly against the windows. A chair scraped somewhere nearby. Carlton nodded once like he already knew that too. For a second guilt twisted sharply through Will’s chest.

Because he did love Carlton. Maybe not in the catastrophic, soul-deep way he loved Mike Wheeler, but genuinely. Carlton was kind and steady and deserved someone whose heart wasn’t still haunted by a boy from Indiana.

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered.

Carlton looked genuinely confused. “For what?”

Will gestured helplessly toward the book. Toward himself. Toward the entire impossible situation.

Carlton was quiet for a moment. Then finally he said, very softly, “If you love him, go get him.”

Will stared at him. “What?”

Carlton shrugged one shoulder, though his eyes looked a little glassy now too. “I’m serious.” He looked down at the dedication page again. “Will, this guy literally published three hundred pages about being in love with you.”

Will laughed wetly. “It’s not three hundred—”

“Don’t defend him right now.”

That pulled another shaky laugh out of Will before he covered his face briefly with one hand.

Carlton watched him for another second before speaking again, quieter this time. “You looked more alive reading that dedication than you’ve looked in two years.” Will’s chest tightened painfully. Carlton smiled sadly. “And honestly?” he admitted, “I think some part of me always knew there was somebody else living in your ribs.”

Will looked at him helplessly. “Carlton—”

“No, hey.” Carlton shook his head gently. “I’m sad, yeah. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not.” He swallowed once. “But I love you enough to know when someone else already got there first.”

That nearly broke Will all over again. Because Carlton was good. Too good.

Will wiped at his eyes roughly before laughing under his breath. “You’re being insanely mature about this.”

“I know,” Carlton muttered. “It’s honestly irritating.”

Will smiled despite everything. Then looked back down at the dedication one more time.

i remember.

His heartbeat stumbled hard. Because suddenly the years between them didn’t feel impossible anymore. Just unfinished.

The drive to Mike’s apartment felt unreal.

Will barely remembered leaving Barnes & Noble. One second he was standing frozen beside the fantasy display clutching Mike’s book to his chest like it might disappear if he loosened his grip. The next, he and Carlton were outside beneath cold gray rain while traffic hissed softly across wet streets.

Neither of them spoke much during the drive back to Carlton’s apartment. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Full of ending things carefully.

Will sat in the passenger seat staring out rain-streaked windows while the book rested in his lap open to the dedication page again.

i remember.

Every time he looked at it, his chest tightened differently. Like relief. Like grief. Like being found after years of thinking nobody was searching anymore.

Carlton parked outside his building and turned off the engine. For a second neither moved. Rain tapped steadily against the windshield.

Then Carlton looked over quietly. “You already know you’re gonna go to him, don’t you?”

Will swallowed. “Yeah.” The honesty of it made guilt flare instantly afterward.

Carlton smiled anyway. Small. Sad around the edges. “Then go.”

Will looked down at his hands. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say.”

“Probably not hey sorry I accidentally emotionally abandoned you for two years.”

Will groaned weakly, covering his face. “Oh my god.”

“I’m kidding,” Carlton said gently. “Mostly.”

Will laughed despite himself. Then the laughter disappeared just as quickly. “What if he doesn’t want me there?”

Carlton’s eyebrows lifted immediately. “Will. He dedicated an entire book to you.”

“That doesn’t mean he still—”

“Yes, it does.”

Will looked back down at the book helplessly. Carlton reached over then and squeezed his shoulder once. “Go get your paladin,” he said softly.

That nearly destroyed Will all over again. Because Mike had always been that. Even now. Even after years apart. Even after silence and distance and all the terrible almosts that never became anything more.

Still Mike.

Still his.

Will blinked hard before nodding once. Then finally climbed out of the car. The rain had mostly stopped by the time he reached Mike’s apartment building. Everything looked too normal. A flickering hallway light. A bike chained near the stairs. Music playing faintly somewhere through thin walls.

Will stood outside Mike’s apartment door for nearly a full minute without knocking. His pulse thundered violently in his throat. What if Mike opened the door and looked at him blankly? What if the book was closure instead of hope? What if Will was too late?

The thought made him feel physically sick. Before he could lose his nerve completely, he lifted his hand and knocked. Once. Then silence. Will’s heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Footsteps moved faintly inside the apartment. Then Mike’s voice drifted through the door: “One second!”

Will stopped breathing. Because even after two years, he knew that voice instantly.

The footsteps got closer. Locks clicked. The door opened. And there he was.

Mike.

Older. Sharper somehow. Taller maybe. His curls slightly longer than before, glasses slipping low on his nose like he’d been reading. But still so painfully familiar that Will’s chest ached on sight alone. 

Mike froze immediately. Complete disbelief flooded his face.

For several seconds neither of them spoke. Will suddenly became horribly aware of everything all at once—the rainwater still clinging cold to his jacket, the book shaking slightly in his hands, Mike staring at him like he’d seen a ghost standing on his doorstep.

“Will?” His voice came out quiet. Almost fragile.

Will opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Mike still hadn’t moved. Neither had Will.

Thirty seconds passed like that probably. Maybe longer. Then finally, because the silence was becoming unbearable, Will managed softly: “Can I come in?”

Mike blinked hard like the question itself snapped him back into his body. “Yeah,” he said immediately. “Yeah, of course.” He stepped aside quickly. Will walked into the apartment on trembling legs.

The place smelled faintly like coffee and old paper. Books covered almost every surface. A sweater hung abandoned over the couch arm. The windows glowed dimly blue from the storm outside.

Will recognized pieces of Mike everywhere instantly. That hurt too.

Mike closed the door behind him slowly. Neither knew where to stand. Finally Will sat carefully at one end of the couch while Mike lowered himself into the chair across from him like he still couldn’t fully believe any of this was happening.

The book rested heavy in Will’s hands. Silence stretched between them again. Not empty, terrified.

Mike looked at the hardcover finally. Understanding flickered across his face immediately. “Oh,” he breathed.

Will’s throat tightened. He traced his thumb shakily across the edge of the dedication page before looking up. “I remember,” he said quietly.

Mike frowned slightly like he’d stopped understanding language altogether. “What?”

Will laughed softly under his breath, already embarrassed suddenly, but it came out shaky around the edges. “Mike,” he whispered, “I remember all of it.” The basement. Castle Byers. Hands beneath blankets. Almost-kisses.

All of it.

Mike stared at him motionless. Will’s eyes burned again. “My paladin,” he said before he could stop himself.

Mike inhaled sharply. And suddenly the room felt much too small. For a second, neither of them moved.

Mike Wheeler just sat there staring at Will Byers like the world had tilted sideways beneath him.

Will could actually see it happening in real time—disbelief giving way to recognition, recognition giving way to something softer and infinitely more dangerous. Hope. It terrified him instantly.

Because what if he had misunderstood this entire thing? What if the book had been grief instead of longing? What if Mike had already moved on and Will had just shown up two years too late carrying old ghosts into his apartment?

The panic arrived all at once. Too sharp. Too sudden. Will stood abruptly before he could think better of it.

Mike blinked hard. “Will—”

“This was stupid,” Will said immediately. His voice sounded breathless. Wrong. He laughed once under his breath like he was trying to soften the humiliation of it before it could fully land. “I don’t know why I came here.”

“Hey—”

“I just saw the book and the dedication and I thought…” Will swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Mike stood too now. Slowly. Carefully.

Like approaching something frightened.

Will’s pulse thundered violently in his throat. “It’s late,” he said quickly. “I should go.”

He turned before Mike could see how badly his hands were shaking. Then—

“Will.”

The way Mike said his name stopped him instantly. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just wrecked.

Will turned back halfway. Mike stood only a few feet away now, chest rising unevenly beneath an old gray sweatshirt. His glasses were gone suddenly—Will hadn’t even noticed him taking them off—and his eyes looked unbearably bright.

“You came here because you remembered,” Mike said quietly. Will’s throat tightened. “And because it mattered to you too.”

Silence.

Will looked down helplessly at the book still clutched against his chest. “It always mattered to me,” he whispered.

Mike made this tiny broken sound like the sentence physically hurt him. Then suddenly he crossed the space between them. Fast enough that Will barely had time to inhale. Mike grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him. Not hesitant. Not almost.

A real kiss.

Years of silence crashed apart instantly.

Will stumbled slightly in shock, the book slipping from his hands onto the couch cushions beside them as Mike kissed him like he’d been starving for it. One hand twisted desperately into the fabric of Will’s sleeve while the other found the side of his face, warm and shaking.

Will kissed him back immediately. Instinct. Memory. Relief. Mike still tasted the same. That thought nearly destroyed him on impact.

All those years apart and somehow Will’s body still knew him instantly. The shape of his mouth. The sharp inhale Mike made whenever Will kissed him harder. The way his fingers trembled slightly against Will’s jaw like he still couldn’t fully believe this was real.

The kiss turned desperate almost immediately. Not messy, just overwhelmed. Too many lost years pressing into it at once.

Will grabbed fistfuls of Mike’s sweatshirt without realizing it while Mike kissed him deeper, breath catching hard between them like he’d been holding this in for years.

Maybe he had.

Finally they broke apart only because breathing became necessary. Both of them stayed close anyway. Foreheads nearly touching. Mike’s hands still cradling Will’s face carefully like something precious.

For several seconds neither spoke. They just breathed. Will’s heart pounded so violently he thought Mike had to feel it. 

Mike looked wrecked. Completely wrecked. His eyes searched Will’s face desperately like he was trying to make up for two years of absence all at once. Then very quietly: “Stay.”

The word shattered something soft inside Will immediately. He stared at Mike. At the fear hidden beneath the hope in his expression. Like some part of Mike still believed Will might disappear again if he moved wrong.

Will reached up carefully and covered Mike’s hand with his own. “Of course,” he whispered.

And for the first time in years, neither of them pulled away.

The first hour after Mike kissed Will felt strangely fragile. Like if either of them moved too quickly, the whole thing might disappear.

They stayed close anyway.

Sitting side by side now on Mike’s couch with the abandoned book between them and rain whispering softly against the apartment windows. Sometimes their knees touched. Sometimes Mike’s hand found Will’s absentmindedly like it had been searching for it for years.

Maybe it had. Neither really knew how to start.

How do you talk after losing this much time?

Eventually, Mike laughed quietly under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “I genuinely thought I hallucinated you for a second when I opened the door.”

Will smiled faintly. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

Mike looked over at him then. Really looked. Like he still couldn’t fully believe Will was actually here. “You read it?”

Will glanced down at the hardcover resting between them. “In the bookstore mostly.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“No, because—” Mike covered his eyes briefly with one hand. “Will, that’s objectively the worst possible place that could’ve happened.”

Will laughed softly. “Yeah, probably.”

Mike groaned. “Did you at least make it somewhere private before the emotional breakdown?”

“…not exactly.”

“Oh my god.”

The embarrassment in Mike’s voice pulled another laugh out of Will, softer this time. Then the laughter faded. Silence settled between them again. Gentler now.

Mike’s thumb brushed unconsciously across Will’s knuckles before he spoke again, quieter this time. “You really remembered?”

Will looked at him immediately. “Mike.”

“I know, I just…” Mike swallowed hard. “I spent years convincing myself maybe I made the whole thing bigger in my head than it actually was.”

Will’s chest tightened painfully. “No,” he whispered instantly. “No, never.”

Mike looked down at their hands. “When we stopped…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought maybe you got older and realized it was stupid.”

Will stared at him in disbelief. “You thought I thought that?”

Mike laughed weakly. “Well, yeah.”

“Mike, I was literally in love with you.”

The words slipped out naturally. No panic or fear this time. Just truth.

Mike went completely still.

Will felt heat rise instantly into his face afterward anyway. “Sorry, that sounded—”

“No.” Mike’s voice cracked slightly. “Don’t apologize for that.”

Silence again. Heavy this time. Tender.

Mike looked wrecked all over again. “You know what’s insane?” he admitted quietly. “I don’t even remember deciding to kiss you when we were kids. I just remember wanting to constantly.”

Will laughed softly through the sudden sting in his eyes.

“The basement couch,” Mike said immediately.

Will groaned. “Oh my god.”

“You remember it!”

“Obviously I remember it!”

Mike was smiling now. Actually smiling. Bright and disbelieving and a little watery around the edges.

“You kissed me first,” Will accused quietly.

Mike pointed at him immediately. “Okay, but you kissed me back.”

“After like ten full seconds of staring.”

“I was under a lot of pressure.”

Will laughed harder. The sound filled the apartment warmly. Mike stared at him for a second afterward like hearing Will laugh again after all this time physically hurt him a little.

Then softer: “I missed that.”

Will’s chest nearly collapsed inward. Because he had missed this too. Not just Mike. This version of them. Easy. Warm. Honest.

Mike leaned back against the couch cushions eventually, still holding Will’s hand loosely between both of his.

“You know what the worst part was?” he asked quietly. Will looked over. “I kept trying to write around you.”

Will frowned slightly. “What?”

“In my books.” Mike laughed under his breath. “I’d start stories thinking okay, this one’s different. Different characters. Different relationships.” Will already knew where this was going. “And then somehow,” Mike said softly, “every single time there was still a boy looking at another boy like losing him would end the world.”

Will looked down quickly because his eyes burned again. “Mike…”

Mike shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

For a second neither spoke. Then quietly, almost shyly, Will asked: “Did you really almost remove the dedication?”

Mike blinked. “How did you know that?”

“You seem like the type.”

Mike groaned softly. “My editor told me it was ‘emotionally reckless.’”

Will laughed. “She was right.”

“Yeah, well.” Mike looked over at him carefully. “I think some part of me hoped you’d see it anyway.”

Will’s throat tightened hard enough to hurt. “I almost didn’t,” he admitted quietly. Mike went pale instantly. “I know,” Will said quickly. “But I did.”

And somehow that felt enormous. Like fate. Like mercy. Like finally arriving somewhere after years of getting lost.

The rain outside softened gradually into silence.

Sometime after midnight, Mike looked over carefully and asked, “Do you wanna stay?”

Will smiled faintly. “You already asked me that.”

“Yeah, but now I mean literally.”

Will laughed softly through the warmth blooming low in his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”

Mike’s apartment only had one bed. That realization hit both of them at roughly the same time once they reached the bedroom. Then immediately became awkward. Not bad awkward. Just deeply human.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“What? No.”

“Will, you literally drove here having an emotional crisis in a Barnes & Noble.”

“That feels unrelated.”

Mike snorted. Then after a second he asked more quietly, “Are you okay sharing the bed?”

Will looked at him. At the carefulness in his expression. The nervous hope still lingering underneath everything.

“Yeah,” Will whispered.

The room stayed dim except for rain-muted city light spilling softly through the curtains. They changed quietly. Avoiding staring too much. Failing occasionally. Then finally climbed into bed.

For several seconds both of them stayed stiffly on opposite sides of the mattress staring at the ceiling.

Mike laughed first. “This is so stupid.”

“A little.”

“We literally kissed like an hour ago.”

“And now we’re acting like Victorian women.”

Mike turned toward him smiling helplessly. Will smiled back automatically. Then slowly—cautiously, like approaching something sacred—Mike reached one hand across the blankets between them. Will took it immediately. Something in Mike’s expression softened almost painfully after that. 

The distance between them disappeared gradually afterward. A shift closer. Then another. Until eventually Will ended up tucked against Mike’s chest with Mike’s arms wrapped carefully around him like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold him again.

Will could hear Mike’s heartbeat. Fast. Steady. Real.

For a long time neither spoke. Then quietly into Will’s hair, Mike whispered: “You stayed.”

Will closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured sleepily. “I did.”

Mike held him tighter after that. Like he was afraid letting go might wake him up.

The next morning, pale sunlight spilled softly across the bedroom through half-closed curtains.

Mike woke slowly. Warmth pressed against his chest. For one disoriented second, he thought he was dreaming again.

Then Will shifted slightly beside him with a sleepy little breath, curls falling across Mike’s shoulder.

Mike stopped breathing. Because Will was still here. Actually here. Not a memory. Not a book character. Not another almost.

Real.

Will blinked awake a second later and looked up at him blearily. Mike stared back. Then suddenly laughed quietly under his breath, overwhelmed all over again. 

“What?” Will whispered sleepily.

Mike shook his head once, smiling helplessly.

“You stayed.”