Chapter Text
Will wholeheartedly believes that the only constant in his life is Mike Wheeler’s shrill, nasally voice.
He knows it like the back of his hand. Every quirk, every warble, every stutter, every crack, every wheeze, every rasp. He could pick it out in the biggest crowds, tell it apart from any sorry impersonator.
Will supposes that’s a side effect of growing up with someone and then spending every spare moment thinking about that someone. It’s not his fault Mike made him fall in desperate, unrequited love. It is his fault that, no matter what, he can’t seem to fall out of it.
“Wiiilll.” Mike’s whine pierces right through the splintered bathroom door and the weak drizzle of the shower head. “C’mon, man, you’ve been in there for, like, a gazillion years.”
Will pretends not to hear him. He keeps his eyes shut and continues scrubbing the suds off his body with only a tiny bit more urgency.
“We have to go before Lucas starts blowing up my phone,” Mike continues. “Or I swear I’m gonna get my ass kicked, Will.”
That manages to scrape out a laugh, despite Will’s best efforts. He can practically see his stupidly handsome, dark-haired best friend straighten up and puff his chest at having elicited a reaction.
“But you wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?” The words drift into Will’s ears like poetry, all honey-sweet and soft. “You’ll hurry up, right? Just for me?”
Will absolutely pretends not to hear that. His cock can’t quite manage the same feat, but he slams the temperature to freezing and hastens through the rest of his shower. Only because Mike asked so nicely.
When Will really thinks about it, he can’t recall the last time he didn’t fold like a fucking lawn chair because of Mike’s voice. It’s so pathetic. He should be over this by now, shouldn’t he? Why is it so hard to say no? To say anything but okay, whatever you want?
He walks out of the bathroom five minutes later with just his towel tied at his hips. It’s purple with yellow stars and definitely over a decade old, which must be why Mike has stopped pacing the length of the living room to stand and stare at him.
Will stares right back. “What is it?”
Mike’s eyes stay locked on the towel and then Will’s pink-splotched, still-wet torso. His lips are slightly parted and his fists are clenched by his sides.
“Mike!” That seems to snap him out of it. His face totally reboots: rapid blinks, raised brows, a gentle tremor in his mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing!” Mike swivels around and pads over to the open-plan kitchen. He yanks a glass out of the rightmost top cabinet and shoves it under the tap in the sink. “I’m just hot. Thirsty. Y’know?”
Will stands there for a few more seconds, watching Mike’s back work, and then he trudges to his room to get dressed for movie night.
It’s Lucas and Dustin’s turn to host, which means they’re in for something scary, something nerdy, something old, or something that straddles all three at the same time. Honestly, Will is pretty amped. If it were at Max and Jane’s apartment, he’d have to listen to Mike grumble and groan through another chick-flick and probably their entire journey back home. Not that he’d mind—clearly, he enjoys listening.
Mike makes another sound, carrying over from their entryway. It’s a half-whine, half-scold, and it’s telling Will he needs to get moving.
So, Will tries to multitask pulling on a pair of green and white striped socks and mussing his hair into something presentable and stumbles out of his room looking more disheveled than anything else. His eyes snap to his best friend like they’re going home.
Mike has one hand on the handle to the front door. The other is holding Will’s favorite spring jacket Jonathan got him a few birthdays ago, deep brown and perfectly oversized.
Will tries to swallow down the butterflies. The slap slap slap of Mike’s impatient foot-tapping finds its way into his body and riles them up anyway.
“If you don’t start moving in one second I’m telling Max it’s actually your fault that we’re always the last—”
“Okay, okay!” Will ambles over to his personal siren and slips on a loose and giddy smile. “She wouldn’t believe you, anyway.”
Will closes in on the jacket and keeps his gaze locked on Mike’s as he gently pries it out of his fingers. Mike is looking at him the way he has been for months now. It’s definitely not unwelcome, and it’s nowhere near bad. It’s just heavy, like it carries a physical weight. And it’s really fucking confusing.
What does it mean when you keep catching your straight best friend staring at your nose and your cheeks and your lips and your chest and your ass like he’s in a trance? What does it mean when he only starts doing it after he walks in on you having sex with a random guy at a party?
“Yeah, whatever,” Mike eventually murmurs, turning to open the door with a sort of hesitance that Will doesn’t know how to comprehend.
The whole walk over, Will deploys a strategic rhythm of elbow bumps and breathy chuckles. At opportune moments, he tries a soft shove, maybe even a light slap on the shoulder as they exchange jokes and comfortable banter. He keeps his eye twinkle at a consistent 55 to 70% power level because he’s learned what guys like and at the end of the day, Mike is just a guy.
What does it mean when your maybe-straight best friend’s staring has you teasing him and humoring him and touching him in ways you haven’t since you came out to him in high school?
What does it mean when a part of you thinks he might actually like it?
🎤︎︎
“So help me god, Mike, we are not watching Lord of the fucking Rings again!” Max sneers, pointing an accusatory finger at the title screen on the TV from her spot on the couch. Frodo’s glittering blue eyes take up the better part of the thirty-inch Dustin found at a yard sale, and they’ve never looked more immobilizing.
Mike throws on the signature Wheeler scowl that scrunches his face up at every hollow and every curve. He’s standing, practically towering over the coffee table with the remote held tightly in his right hand. “Fuck you! Why do you get to decide—”
“Dude!” Lucas snaps, throwing a protective arm across Max’s body. “Do not say ‘fuck you’ to my girlfriend.”
Dustin and Jane, sitting side-by-side on the floor by the armchair Will’s curled up in, exchange meaningful looks. Jane is working on a new set of friendship bracelets inspired by each of their favorite albums. At the start of the year, she discovered a seller on Etsy that does customized charms and has been running her commissions earnings dry ever since.
It looks like she’s working on Max’s. He can see a flash of purple and a smidge of white glitter snaking through her fingers.
Dustin heaves a melodramatic groan that cuts through the petty argument. “Guys, can we just pick something? We’ve already scrolled through like every single streaming service twice.”
“I wanna watch Clueless.” Jane mumbles offhandedly.
Mike lets out a screech and everyone winces, bracing for impact. “Clueless? Again? You’re killing me, seriously, I mean, Lord of the Rings has actual rewatchability.” He throws his hands up. Tangent begins in three, two—“How many times can you guys sit through ninety minutes of an ugly, oblivious guy not realizing the main girl’s pretty or thinking she’s dumb until she has to prove him wrong or have a makeover or–or maybe he chooses wrong, or maybe he’s in denial. I don’t know, it’s always the same shit, and it’s just so—fucking vapid, I can’t believe—”
“Jesus Christ, Mike, do you ever shut up?” Max cuts in with enough venom for Will’s hair to stand on end. Mike stops moving, mouth agape.
“Wh—” Mike sputters. Redness blossoms at the apples of his cheeks and Will watches as it spreads. Mike rarely looks this disarmed, if ever. It’s a little fun to see him so shell-shocked. “What the hell, Max?”
Dustin chuckles softly. “Don’t look so surprised. You talk, like, constantly.”
Mike schools his expression into something haughty and irritated. “No I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.” Lucas chimes in. “I honestly don’t know how you always have so much to say.”
“Remember when you had to take stats to qualify for that linguistics class last spring?” Dustin recalls the memory with amusement, but those were a dark few weeks for Will. He couldn’t touch Mike with a ten-foot pole unless he wanted to trigger a tsunami wave of complaints. “Or when you got fired?”
Mike scoffs, waving his hands around and talking to the ceiling like that’ll help his case. “Just because I showed up late for a couple shifts doesn’t give the school librarian any grounds to—”
“It’s true,” Jane says through a little smile. “I think you talked about eighty percent of the time when we dated.”
When Jane and Mike broke up in senior year of high school, amicably putting their six-year relationship behind them, Jane started poking fun at it almost immediately. Mike was a little more reserved for a while but, eventually, it became the butt of many of his jokes, too.
Will had to pretend he didn’t have whiplash. He had spent so long wishing to trade places with his step-sister, carefully tamping down his envy when they cuddled and kissed and giggled and ignored him, only for it all to completely unravel a few months before graduation. It was too late, though. He’d already decided he needed to give Mike space if he ever wanted to get over his feelings for him.
And give Mike space, he had. Despite them both going to NYU, Will trawled through several forums and Facebook groups before deciding to room with some guy named Carlton in freshman year. Mike seemed surprised but not entirely disappointed when he found out, and he went random, too.
Will hated it, but he maintained his distance. He ignored Mike’s calls, kept his texts unread for days, ducked out of every invitation to hang out one on one. He didn’t want to hear about the girls Mike was hooking up with. He didn’t want to keep being verbally relegated to best friend status, over and over and over again.
But, eventually, Mike wore him down. He had heard about what an awful roommate Carlton was from their friends. He found an apartment equidistant from Max and Jane’s and Lucas and Dustin’s. He innocently floated the idea of moving in together at the start of the summer between freshman and sophomore year, and by the end of it, Will begrudgingly agreed.
They signed a two-year lease. That lease is ending in September. Will’s not sure if he wants to renew it.
He traces the circle of his protruding wrist bone absentmindedly, eyes wandering around the herringbone floors but snapping to attention when Mike says his name.
“Do you agree?” Mike asks, eyes round and full of hope.
Will swallows thickly and smiles. “I dunno. I think out of all of us, you probably do talk the most.”
Mike’s face crumples and he rolls his eyes quickly, as if to hide it. “Whatever. Fuck all of you.”
“You know what?” Lucas leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He smiles this evil, crooked thing and Will knows exactly what it means—a challenge. “I bet a hundred bucks you can’t go a week without speaking.”
Dustin snorts so loud it echoes around the tiny living room. “A hundred? That’s pocket change for our Michael.”
“Ugh, don’t call me that,” Mike grumbles, but he doesn’t disagree. An ugly warmth settles in Will’s chest. A hundred bucks would mean being able to call out of his shifts at the cafe for the rest of the week. It would mean he could finish paying Mike back for covering his half of the rent last month, even though he said not to worry about it.
“Alright, fine.” Lucas purses his lips and takes a second to think. “Five hundred.”
Mike laughs shortly, casting a momentary sidelong glance at Will before sliding his gaze over the rest of their friends. “Not happening.”
And, of course, Lucas doesn’t relent. “How about a thousand?”
The air stills. Jane catches Will’s eye, face full of alarm. Will is sure his expression isn’t all that different.
“A thousand?” Mike repeats slowly, like he’s giving Lucas a chance to take it back. “One grand?”
“Holy shitballs,” Dustin breathes. Jane smacks his arm.
“Why not?” Lucas croons, leaning back and settling into the couch cushions. He throws one arm around Max’s shoulders and tugs her into his side. “S’not like you’re gonna be able to do it, anyway.”
Now, Will only ever had a tiny, very short-lived crush on Lucas when Mike first let him join their duo at age seven, but he can’t help the way his heart flutters a little because that was pretty hot.
Mike raises his brows and smirks, confidence and competitiveness practically oozing out of his skin. He tilts his head up slightly, eyes going half-lidded. “Oh, you’re on, Sinclair. You’re fucked.”
It’s like he knew Will had been swayed for a second, because all thoughts of Lucas are quickly replaced with a perfect fantasy: Mike bending Will over their kitchen counter and working him open with four fingers, leaning over until his chest is pressed against Will’s back and saying, gotta get you ready for me, baby. You’re too fucking tight for my cock, aren’t you? Don’t complain, I just wanna take care of you. I just wanna make sure you—
“—feel good?” Will blinks and all of a sudden, Mike is crouched on the floor in front of him, peering through the curtain of dark curls hanging over his forehead. “Will? Hey, where’d you go?”
Will shakes his head stiffly and thanks every divine power above that he’s not hard just yet. “Sorry. Spaced out for a sec.”
Their friends have migrated to the kitchen across the hall. When Mike and Will walk in, Max immediately shoves a pen and paper into Will’s hands. Jane and Dustin and Lucas are hunched over the kitchen island with a laptop in front of them, intently studying whatever’s on the screen.
“You have the best handwriting,” Max starts, guiding Will to stand across from the others, “so you have to write down the rules.”
“The rules?” Will echoes. Mike sidles up next to him and it takes real effort not to dive back into his imagination. “What, for the bet?”
“Yeah,” Max chirps. She throws open the fridge and starts rummaging around its meagre contents. “If we’re putting a thousand dollars on the line, we have to do this professionally.”
“Right,” Will hums. He uncaps the pen and smooths a hand over the blank sheet and searches for Mike’s eyes. They’re already on him. It seems they always are, at this point. “So, this is actually happening? You’re really not gonna talk for a whole week?”
Mike shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so hard, does it?”
Will flutters his lips. “Well, not to me. But, I mean, you—”
Mike angles himself a bit closer and Will promptly shuts up. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive.”
“Okay!” Jane claps her hands once to beckon the group’s attention. “I think we have what we need. Mike, this is gonna be a seven-day vow of silence. Obviously, rule number one: no talking.”
She pauses and looks at Will. After a second of silence, Will realizes what she’s waiting for and hastily jots it down.
“Rule number two,” she continues. “No writing things down or texting.”
“What?” Mike hisses. “Wait, then, how’m I supposed to—”
“That’s what yoga journal dot com says,” Jane supplies, tone blunt and impenetrable. “You can’t argue with yoga journal dot com.”
“Hold on, can we negotiate a little?” Mike scrubs a hand over his face and raises his arms in an open offer. “Please?”
Jane purses her lips and looks at Lucas.
Lucas tilts his head to one side. “What do you have in mind?”
Mike presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, seemingly turning the thought over in his head. “I can write or text twenty words a day.”
“No way!” Lucas croaks. “That’s way too many!”
“Fifteen?”
“Five.”
“Twelve.”
“No.”
“Ten?” Mike tries. “C’mon, ten’s okay, right?”
He glances around for some support and Will has to look away to hide the adoration he’s sure is written all over him.
Lucas twists his lips in consideration and blows out a breath. “Fine. Ten words a day. Written and texts combined.”
“How about emojis?” Dustin asks. “Maybe he can send, like, just the faces?”
“I fucking hate emojis.” Mike grimaces. “I don’t even use them.”
“But texting yes or no would count towards your ten words a day.” Jane argues. “What if you could just use the thumbs up and the thumbs down?”
“Can’t I just write it out?” Mike requests. “And I can use those whenever?”
Lucas shrugs. “Works for me. As long as you don’t abuse ’em.”
Will thinks his friends are being awfully lenient. If it were his money, Mike would probably need to stay fused to their living room couch to even have a chance at winning.
“Okay, rule three.” Jane taps a purple fingernail on the laptop screen. “This one’s important. No charades. Minor gestures like nodding or shaking of the head are allowed, but cannot be overused.”
Mike doesn’t try to barter his way out of that one.
The rules go on. Involuntary sounds are allowed but, again, can’t be abused. Will has to keep a careful eye on him at home and report any infractions immediately—he is the most honest, and he doesn’t really have anything to gain by letting Mike win.
Mike also has to be with at least one member of the party at all times to ensure he doesn’t break any of the rules, which means when Will has a shift, someone has to come over or Mike has to go find someone to hang out with. No one’s particularly thrilled about that, but—
“It’s spring break so, at least we don’t have to babysit him during his classes,” Jane offers. Glass half full, Will supposes.
Will finishes scribbling down the final rule and holds up the paper, showcasing it like he’s trying to sell the morning paper. Lucas gives his approval and Max snaps a picture and sends it to their group chat.
MIKE'S 7-DAY VOW OF SILENCE
➀ No talking
➁ No writing / texting
⤷ 10 words a day allowed
⤷ Texting "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" allowed; unlimited➂ No big gestures / charades
⤷ Nodding and shaking head allowed
⤷ Don't abuse➃ Involuntary sounds allowed (don't abuse)
EXTRA:
✳︎ Will must keep watch at home
✳︎ Mike must be with a member of the party at all times
Will passes the sheet to Mike, who carefully folds and pockets it. The high of coordinating the bet seems to have worn the group out, so Will and Mike gather their things and get ready to go home. Max and Jane are staying the night, obviously.
Jane says she’s going to crash on the couch but Will isn’t sure who she thinks she’s fooling. Mike gave Dustin’s courtship his blessing several months ago.
“Day one starts at midnight,” Lucas says pointedly as Mike tugs his jacket on. “That means you have,” he glances at his phone, “an hour and fourteen minutes to talk Will’s ear off.”
Will laughs and Mike gives Lucas a flat look and says, “Will loves it when I rant so, joke’s on you, asshole.”
And Mike is absolutely right, but for some reason, the walk home is eerily quiet. Will tries to initiate some discussion—do you think we were gonna watch Clueless or could you have convinced the girls?—but Mike doesn’t bite. Will ends up letting the symphony of New York City traffic and the dialogue of passersby take up the gap Mike isn’t willing to fill.
The silence follows them all the way back into their apartment. Will hones in on the jingle of Mike’s keys hitting the entryway table, his surprisingly heavy footsteps scurrying into the kitchen. The clanking of their old radiator, turned up to three because spring nights are still too cold for them both. The hum of the fridge, and the muffled car honks that manage to climb to the fourth floor.
Mike has until midnight. So why isn’t he talking?
Will walks down the hall and pauses just before the narrow corridor opens to the expanse of their living room and kitchen. Mike is glugging down water from the same glass he used before and didn’t bother to wash.
Will gathers his courage. He’s gotten a lot braver since the New Year’s Eve party, but it still takes him a while to turn the charm on.
He slowly pads to the cabinet and takes out a glass. Then he shuffles over until he and Mike are side-by-side but not quite touching. Another deep, quiet breath. He lifts his hand and his fingertips graze Mike’s bicep.
Mike freezes. Will taps his glass against Mike’s chest, just once. “Pour some for me, too?”
Mike doesn’t speak. He keeps his focus on the sink when he grabs the cup out of Will’s hand, yanks the tap on, fills it until it spills over, and hands it back.
“Thank you,” Will murmurs. He presses the edge of the cup to his lips and bores holes into the side of Mike’s head until he finally turns and looks at him. Only then does he start to drink. He takes small sips that turn into swallows that turn into gulps. Water trickles out of the sides of his mouth, dribbles down his chin, and he maintains eye contact until he drains it.
Mike watches, breaths heavy, bottom lip clamped between his teeth. Will places the cup on the counter, swiping his hand over the wetness on his skin in a half-hearted attempt to clean himself up.
He smiles and presses the side of his face against Mike’s shoulder briefly, breathing in the heady aroma of their shared detergent and his oceanic cologne and the slight warmth of his sweat, and then he straightens up, turns around, and heads to his room.
When he’s tucked into bed and staring at the ceiling, his mind takes him back to that party.
The clock struck twelve and Will rang in the new year with some random frat guy’s tongue down his throat. Horniness let said guy guide him to an upstairs bedroom and he was on his back with a five-inch cock buried to the hilt inside of him when the door swung open and Mike walked in.
He stopped so suddenly it was like he had been put on pause. His eyes flitted between Will—totally fucking naked—and the guy hovering over him, still thrusting in and out and panting a steady stream of ah, ah, ahs because he didn’t know they had been so rudely interrupted.
Mike just stood there. Will looked at him and irritation slammed through him harder than the frat guy, forcing his face into an ugly scowl. He reared his upper lip back, ready to tell him to get the fuck out, but Mike turned and left before he could say a word.
Will sheepishly apologized the next day, shoulders hunched with morning-after humiliation, but Mike was the most nonchalant he’d ever been. He waved his hand around, smiling clumsily, and said it was totally fine. That he was proud. That he hoped Will got the guy’s number ’cause he looked like he was having a good time.
Will was relieved, knowing things would go back to normal. But then Mike started staring. And the force and ever-presence of it made Will feel like Mike could see beneath his skin, could see all the filthy fantasies he had ever had of Mike and of the two of them ravaging each other like men starved. It was mortifying because it filled him with hope.
Since the staring began, Will decided he needed to quash his delusions with tangible reminders that Mike wasn’t gay and definitely didn’t want him. So, he touched. He teased, just shy of flirting. He did it both for the thrill and because Mike got flustered but didn’t ever do anything about it, so, really, what was the harm? It wasn’t like Mike had ever told him to stop, and truth be told, it was kind of fun.
Will closes his eyes and thinks back to the exact moment Mike walked in to that frat guy’s room. He holds Mike there, suspended in his consciousness, while he trails his right hand down his own chest and fiddles with the drawstring of his pajama pants. His fingers slip under the waistband, then into his boxers, and he doesn’t bother muffling the moan that pries out of him when they wrap around his dick and begin pumping.
He pictures Mike walking over, grabbing the frat guy by the back of his neck, and pulling him off of Will. He crafts that jealous, furious expression with the detail of an artist, complete with red cheeks and dark eyes and a clenched jaw. The fantasy kicks to life: Mike shoving the guy out of the room, slamming the door shut and locking it. Standing there for a beat. Will whispering, what are you… and the words dying in his throat when Mike turns around, undoes his belt buckle with one hand, and stalks over to him like a predator cornering its prey.
Will groans roughly, quickening his pace. He’s leaking like a faucet and his hand is all sticky and wet and it’s purely in anticipation for what he’s about to make happen.
Mike standing at the edge of the bed, eyes raking over Will so thoroughly it makes him squirm. Lifting one knee and pressing it into the mattress, giving him the leverage he needs to lean over Will, arms braced on either side of his head. Lips brushing Will’s ear, muttering, I didn’t know you were such a slut, Will. Letting a stranger fuck you like that? When you could’ve just asked me?
Will shoves his left hand into his boxers and swirls his fingers around the pre-cum gathering at the tip. When he’s satisfied, he snakes his hand around the back of his thigh and brushes the pad of his thumb against his hole.
You were thinking of me, weren’t you? But, come on, his dick was so fucking small. Bet I could make you feel better with just my fingers.
He circles the puckered, sensitive skin once before pressing down until his thumb slips past the rim. He releases a strangled gasp at the intrusion, giving himself a second to relax. Then he pulls out and slams his middle finger all the way in.
Oh? Baby, why’re you tearing up? Are you really that desperate for me? God, you look so fucking pretty like this. Makes me wanna give you a real reason to cry.
Sweat trickles down the side of Will’s head, thin rivulets pooling into his pillow as starts stroking his cock in time with the relentless thrusting and scissoring of two, three, four of his fingers. He’s so close, and imaginary Mike hasn’t even done anything to him.
You’re so fucking pathetic, Will. Can’t even tell me what you want. You know what I want? I wanna fold you in half and fuck you until you’re begging me to let you come. Don’t worry, I’ll let you. And then I’ll fuck you again and again and again, wringing you dry. You’ll be so fucking drunk on my cock you won’t even be able to talk, Will.
“Fuck, please, yes,” Will whimpers, skin prickling with the heat and the depravity of the kinds of things he wants Mike to say.
Yeah? You want that, too? Wanna get stupid for me?
“I do,” Will spits through clenched teeth. His vision swims and his hands are cramping and his bed springs are squeaking in a very loud, very incriminating rhythm of eek, eek, eeks, but he manages to speed up anyway. “I want—I want that so fucking bad, Mike.”
Come for me, baby. I know you want to. I wanna feel it, wanna taste it, please, Will. You’re doing so good, taking it so well. Just a little more. Yes, yes, fuck, please, I need it, I need you, I need you to—
Will’s orgasm tears through him like lightning, forcing his back into an arch so heinous his stomach practically touches the ceiling. Hot spurts of cum spill over his hand and ruin the insides of his boxers and he couldn’t care less. His brain is totally blank, save for one niggling thought.
Mike’s voice is the only thing that’s been able to make him come since they moved in together, and he’s about to have to go a week without it.
Will glances at the clock on his bedside table. 00:01.
Mike probably just heard every single second of Will getting himself off. He probably heard Will say his name. That fact should fill Will with panic, or at least a surge of embarrassment.
But who cares? It’s not like Mike can say anything about it, anyway.