Archive of Our Own

If Will hadn't spent so much time in the Upside Down, the smell of solvents might have bothered him. Instead, it had become more familiar than fresh air.

Oil paint was his latest obsession, smeared across the canvas in loose strokes, and it required certain sacrifices. One of them turned out to be Mike, who, as it happened, handled harsh chemical smells terribly. That was the reason Will was currently in the spacious studio instead of their cozy apartment.

The lighting here was almost clinical, cold, whereas their apartment was filled with warm yellow tones that gave every painting an echo of that artificial sun. There was something appealing about the sterile blue light, that suited his new work much better.

Will slowly mixed the colors, trying to achieve the right shade of red. Something between capillary blood and cherries. Dark, rich, all-consuming. This painting demanded to be finished properly. An outside observer would only make out the vague shape of a flower, chaotic dense strokes applied with a wide brush, but anyone who had seen one before would immediately recognize the silhouette, the kind that once seen could never be forgotten. Lately, he's been having strange dreams and was trying to capture this feeling.

He lifted the brush, drew his hand back slightly as he tried to figure out the best placement, when the music suddenly cut off.

Will flinched a little at the abrupt ringtone. He had turned off all notifications and had not checked his phone for several hours. Quickly wiping his dirty hands, he set aside his headphones and carefully pulled the phone from the pocket of his apron.

Incoming call:

Mike 🩵

He sighed and for the first time in a long while noticed the suffocating heavy smell in the studio and the pain in his feet, as if a thousand needles had been driven into them.

After a few seconds of disorientation, Will accepted the call, his eyes searching for a chair with a backrest.

"Yeah?"

His voice was rough from not speaking for so long and possibly from not drinking any water. There was a bottle Mike had tucked into his backpack, but his project had demanded far more attention than his thirst.

"Will." Mike let out a relieved breath directly into his ear. "You took so long to answer my text, I thought maybe something happened."

"Everything's fine. I just got carried away again, as usual," Will replied, finally reaching his backpack and dropping into a chair by the wall. "You know how it is."

He unscrewed the cap and took several quick gulps, nearly choking, while Mike continued speaking.

"Just wanted to make sure. Did you drink your water? Have you had dinner? I bought tacos from that new place, you know, the one they spent forever renovating, and god, Will, they're awful." His friend grimaced, the slight crease between his eyebrows almost a permanent expression. "I think they're just laundering money."

At that, Will snorted a laugh and almost choked on the remaining water. Even though the water has been sitting in the backpack almost all day, it’s still cool, with a slightly sour taste – Mike had started adding some kind of supplement powder to it lately, that helped with his energy levels.

"I don't think there's much point laundering money in our neighborhood." He smiled faintly, turning the bottle cap between his fingers. "It's basically all students and grandmas around here. Wouldn't it make more sense to pick some rich neighborhood and charge ridiculous prices or something?"

"I didn't know you were an expert on money laundering on top of stealing from hospitals," Mike teased. "Hey!" Will weakly protested. "But I'm sure that's what they're doing. The waitress looked at me like I had two heads when I actually walked in and ordered something."

"Maybe it's because of your hair." Will smiled into the bottle. Before Mike could say anything, added, "So... no special tenth time?" Mike had this thing about round numbers. Ten, twenty, thirty. Every milestone deserved something special. Will finds it amusing.

"Definitely, no. And what's wrong with my hair?" Mike huffs in mock offense. "Dustin says it looks cool and makes me look like a serious adult."

"Especially with your grandpa glasses," Will keeps teasing him. "Mister Mike Wheeler."

Mike swallows loudly and falls silent for a couple of seconds.

"Yeah, so what about your painting? Still don't wanna show it to me?"

Will is thrown off by the sudden change of subject. He stares at the huge canvas in front of him, a mixture of dark colors and equally dark memories. Mike doesn't need a reminder of that, but he wants to know, and his curiosity knows no limits.

"It's kind of gloomy and..." Will bites his lip, trying to think of a way to delay the moment. "Personal."

Not that a trivial word like personal would ever stop his best friend. Mike always found his way into everything eventually. Nothing escapes his close inspection.

"And? At least send me a picture, Will. I can't wait until you finish it."

Of course, that doesn't affect Mike in the slightest, just as expected. He isn't asking. Will sighs loudly and puts the bottle back into his backpack.

"I'll try to clean it up today and take a picture for you," he answers quietly, hoping that will be enough.

"That's a promise," Mike declares firmly. "By the way, I bought some scented candles today, kind of like the ones Suzie had. Well, not exactly those church ones. They would've smelled way too strong. The guy at the store said these have some kind of calming, sleep-inducing effect, and they smell sort of woodsy too. Juniper, maybe? Or pine. I don't–"

Will leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and listens to Mike's soothing voice. He doesn't need any candles to fall asleep. Every nightmare and every anxiety can be driven away by one reliable remedy: Mike's presence, his voice, and his touch. Will has no intention of asking for any of that.

He breathes in the heavy smell of the studio and wistfully remembers the scent of Suzie's apartment, rich with incense. It had a completely unexpected effect on him when he fell asleep right there on the couch. Will thought smells no longer affected him. He barely noticed the cloyingly sweet scent of the incense sticks in El and Dustin's apartment. He couldn't smell Lucas's overpowering men's deodorant that always made Max wrinkle her nose in amusement. He couldn't even smell Mike's expensive cologne, despite how much care he put into that particular aspect of his appearance.

For the first time in years, Will didn't just smell something. He felt its effect. He spent the entire walk back to the car hanging off Mike's broad shoulder, intoxicated by a single stick of scented wax.

Unfortunately, the effect didn't last long. After ten minutes in the fresh air from the open car window, Will felt himself settling back into his usual state. Mike, meanwhile, kept sneaking odd glances at him from behind the wheel, his attention drifting from the road far more often than it normally would.

It was probably just another thing Mike was determined to figure out.

Will pushed himself up, his feet numb, put Mike on speakerphone, and went back to painting. He couldn't afford to put it off. The end of the semester was getting closer, and he had fewer and fewer free days left.

Mike's voice replaced the music, but now that Will was focused on his words, everything hit him at once. The gnawing hunger, the pain in his feet, and the oil stains on his hands irritated him and distracted him from the complete immersion he craved.

That was another reason he tried not to work on serious projects in the apartment. The silence never lasted long with Mike around. And it always pulled Will out of his thoughts.

Mike's long fingers were always threatening to brush against the sensitive spot at the back of his neck. His attentive gaze seemed to burn against his skin. The absentminded compliments he tossed out made Will press his legs together more tightly. It was unbearable, but Will knew Mike didn't do it on purpose.

He slowly packed up his supplies while his friend talked about a new campaign he wanted to run tomorrow. At those words, Will stumbled slightly and nearly dropped his clean brushes. He already had plans for tomorrow, a meeting, or maybe even a date. Another small secret; another piece of information he was keeping to himself, along with the painting.

It's personal, Will thought. But personal things didn't really matter when you'd been through hell and your best friend was Mike Wheeler. The lingering looks. The intrusive questions. He tried not to think about the way his breathing always sped up during moments like that.

"Uh, I..." He swallowed, preparing to lie. "I'm meeting up with some girls from my program tomorrow." Hurriedly, his voice rising slightly, God, Mike was going to know he was lying, Will added, "To buy, um..." He glanced around the studio, searching desperately for an excuse. "Sculpting clay. We have new classes, and they said the professor requires a specific brand, which is really stupid, right? Anyway, we're going to buy clay and hang out for a bit."

"New classes at the end of the semester?" Mike asked suspiciously.

"Yeah," Will squeaked back, grabbing his backpack and slipping out of the studio.

He finally took a full breath of the cool night air. Mike fell silent, and Will could feel the tension building inside him. He's shifting his weight from one foot to another.

A sudden hand on his shoulder startled him, and he instinctively swung with his free arm. The dark figure caught his wrist before Will could even process what was happening.

"Hey, hey, it's just me. Sorry for scaring you."

Mike squeezed his wrist, soothingly running his thumb over the protruding bone. He smiled, his dark eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement in the glow of the streetlights.

"Jesus, don't do that again." Will shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed Mike away. "I almost used my powers."

At that, Mike licked his lips and smiled even wider, like it amused him. He had always been strange about certain things. Especially about Will's powers.

"But you didn't."

"You're lucky that I'm too tired," mumbled Will mostly to himself. "And what are you even doing here?"

"I knew you'd be done around now," Mike said.

Will frowned. He didn't remember mentioning how long he planned to stay.

It was probably too much to expect that his friend wouldn’t show up for him, especially at this hour. Any time after eight was considered late, according to both his mom and Mike.

Will slips off his sneakers and immediately presses his thumbs into his heels, trying to ease the lingering ache. Lately, his legs had been tiring much faster, and he couldn't figure out why. After only a couple of hours on his feet, it felt like he was walking on hot coals. Is this what growing up feels like? Sometimes he'd even find bruises on his knees or hips and blame it on bumping into furniture in the studio.

Mike is still fiddling with the locks, three bolts in total, glancing down at him between movements. Assessing the task ahead.

He had already laid out his plan on the way here – while Will would take a shower to wash off the chemical smell and paint stains from his skin, Mike would prepare dinner and set up his room. For the massage. Everyone in the party knew how to give massages, poorly or well, thanks to Hopper’s brutal training sessions, after which their muscles would tighten into hard knots.

Although Will had never been on the receiving end – physical training always left him too exhausted to willingly step into Hopper’s domain. Much more often, he preferred the moments afterward, when Mike, grumbling about yet another stupid training session, let Will rub the knots out of his back and neck. His hands were much weaker than Lucas’s or Dustin’s, but as his best friend, he had special privileges. Making him feel less useless.

And now he intended to repay Will for those favors, which was completely ridiculous. As if those moments, when he touched Mike, hadn’t given him far more pleasure in return. His hands always trembled by the end, his cheeks flushed, and his breathing grew uneven, as Mike assumed was simply exhaustion. He didn’t need to know that Will used to slip away to the Wheeler house bathroom afterward and, with the sound of running water to cover him, desperately take care of the tension that lingered. Or that on especially good nights, when the basement was completely his, he would hump the pillow, recalling Mike’s strong back, which he had been sitting against just a couple of hours earlier. His thighs clenched around the soft, yielding pillow; Mike’s back had been broader and firmer.

Just the memory was enough to bring color back to his face as he grabbed a T-shirt and his pajama pants. If he stayed in the bathroom too long, Mike might get suspicious. Will never showers more than ten minutes after a studio day; too exhausted for anything longer. And what he actually needed would take far more than ten minutes.

By the time Will emerged from the bathroom, the smell of food had already spread through the apartment.

They eat dinner while watching some film review on YouTube. The remains of Mike's failed taco experiment abandoned in the trash. He complained about the review for most of dinner. It’s Will’s turn to wash the dishes, but he’s practically collapsing.

Mike’s room is surprisingly tidy, almost neat. On the bedside table stand two thick candles, bottle of water and a small jar with a pink label. Will can’t quite make out what it is from a distance. Cream? Maybe oil? They only ever used something like that in rare cases, borrowing something vanilla sweet-scented from Karen. Mike hates vanilla, so maybe it’s cherry. Or bubblegum. He can’t think of anything else remotely close to pink, and even the cherry option feels uncertain.

“Are you going to wear shorts?” Mike asks, not looking away from his phone. He's chosing music.

Will is taken aback. He had expected Mike to simply rub his feet with some thick, sticky ointment that would leave greasy stains on the sheets, or at most loosen his shoulders a little.

“It’ll be more comfortable for me,” Mike says softly. It’s hard to argue with a request like that, especially since Mike has seen Will in shorts plenty of times. He used to. Now he only wears them in the darkness of his own room. All his shorts, after a particularly bold shopping trip with Max, had turned into much more revealing versions of what he used to wear.

“Okay,” Will nods, heading back to his room to change. It’s noticeably colder here than in Mike’s room, since Mike moved the heater to his own.

Will rummages through the mess in his closet, searching for something more appropriate. His eyes land on red shorts with white stripes along the hem. They fully cover him and sit tight against his thighs. Maybe if he doesn’t move, if he just lies still, they will preserve whatever dignity he has left. To compensate for the sudden exposure and tightness below, he grabs an oversized T-shirt at random, one that covers him almost as much as the shorts do. His longest, loosest pair. God, he shouldn’t have listened to Max.

From the hallway, Will can already hear music; something soft and melodic, meant to calm him. When he opens the door, he is hit by the scent. A heavy woody aroma with hints of something almost syrupy. Mike is sitting on the bed with a jar that looks almost miniature in his large hands. Will tries not to think about where those hands will be soon, though his heart still picks up its pace.

“How should I lie down?” he asks, studying the space on Mike’s queen-sized bed.

“There’s no real difference, it’s not a professional massage table,” Mike waves a hand toward the sheets. He has already removed the blanket. “But I’ll start with your legs, so maybe lie on your back?”

Start with your legs feels like an odd phrasing. Does Mike actually intend to go up to his back and neck too? Will knows he’s been hunched over like a shrimp at the table. He isn’t sure he could handle Mike’s hands there. He will have to find a way to refuse once they get there and Mike, as always, would pick up on his discomfort.

“Okay. Just no tickling.” Will drops onto the mattress, not for the first time struck by how soft and familiar it is. The bed dips slightly beneath him, enough to make Mike shift as well.

The sheets are soft, and the scent is especially strong here. He glances at the burning candles, at the smoke curling upward in slow, twisting patterns.

He flinches at the sudden touch of cold, oil-coated fingers. Mike has settled at his feet and is now moving his hands slowly up and down from ankles to knees. He should stop getting distracted like this.

“No tickling,” Mike agrees, smiling faintly at the corners of his mouth. He is unusually quiet, trying to maintain the calm atmosphere that now fills the room like a soft haze.

His rough palms move across Will’s skin in slow, deliberate motions. First, Will remembers, you have to warm the area. Mike is barely applying any pressure, considering what his hands are capable of. They have held more weapons than most people could name. Those fingers have pulled triggers, fired guns. A thought unsettling for most people – thrilling for Will.

Mike continued moving in silence, and Will relaxed beneath his gentle touches, finally settling fully onto his back and easing his tense shoulders. Absentmindedly, he traced spiral patterns over the sheets, mirroring the ones Mike drew across his skin. His tired gaze drifted between the lightbulb and the yellowish stain on the ceiling.

Will exhales softly when he suddenly feels Mike begin to roll over the muscles of his calves, paying special attention to the points where the muscles connect. He doesn’t have as much practice as Will, so he must have read something online. Or maybe he has a map of all of Will’s muscles, nerves, and bones in his head.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but by the moment Mike asks a question, Will is already so relaxed that he has almost stopped moving his fingers.

“I'm going to work on your feet now, okay? Then I'll move back up” Mike looks at him, and Will nods a moment too late.

Have his eyes always been that dark?

And even though Mike warns him, pulling him out of his thoughts, Will still lets out a small sound when he first touches his foot and instinctively jerks it back.

A firm grip pulls it back. Mike starts again with warming strokes and rubbing motions, slowly pouring liquid from a pink bottle. Will still hasn't figured out what it is. He can't catch the scent, his nostrils clogged with wood and the sweet, syrupy smell hanging in the air. Bubblegum and what else? He can't remember.

Mike carefully works over the area, the heels of his palms moving in circles, gently shifting the skin, and Will winces at the growing pressure that keeps distracting him.

When his friend moves to the middle of the heel, where the most sensitive spots are, it feels like electricity shoots through Will. He yelps and jerks his leg again, trying to escape the intensity of the sensation. The lamp flickers faintly as if responding to Will's sudden embarrassment. He would have tried to be quieter and more restrained if he weren't so unbearably sleepy. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and relax, but the part of his brain trained to stay alert refuses to let him.

Mike doesn't react to Will's embarrassed cry and continues methodically and surprisingly silently working on his heel. The pads of his thumbs press into the center, moving in figure eights along the outside and inside of the foot, applying pressure simultaneously. It feels good.

Will hopes his quickened breathing isn't too loud. The rhythmic music drowns it out for him, but the speaker sits much farther away from Mike. What reaches him more clearly: the sound of heavy breathing or the hum of the music? Which does Mike choose to listen to and which does he ignore? His expression remains unreadable, but several times he tears his attentive gaze away from Will's feet and lets it linger on his face for a brief moment.

By the time he moves on to Will's toes, the twitching and trembling have already faded. His hands feel like they belong there. Slick and warm from constant contact with overheated skin, they feel like an extension of Will's own body.

Mike massages each toe with particular care. Almost excessive care. He starts at the base and moves upward with a gentle pull, softly twisting and pressing beneath the pad. There is no pressure here, no ticklish sensation. The light slowly blurs before Will's eyes, and he leaves them closed more and more often. Nothing distracts him. The room is filled with the strong aroma that somehow seems to have no effect on Mike at all. Usually, he wrinkled his nose at far less.

He probably would have fallen asleep right there, lulled by gentle touches and quiet music, if Mike hadn't suddenly lifted his leg, bent it at the knee, and held it there. There is almost no resistance left in Will's body, and he doesn't immediately understand what's happening.

He opens his eyes and tries to see through the haze. Will can't tell whether it's smoke from the candles or his own clouded vision, but he can't make out exactly what Mike is doing.

As if responding to the unspoken question, Mike answers.

"Getting rid of the remaining tension." He gently shakes the heel bone without any sudden movements.

That means it's almost over, and Will should thank Mike, pull himself together, and go back to his room. And take the space heater, he thinks belatedly. It's so warm here, so soft, so good. His room is cold. Maybe Mike will let him spend the night here among the soft sheets and the lingering scent. All of it feels impossibly complicated and distant.

While Will tries to gather his thoughts and force himself to decide on anything at all, Mike wraps his hand around his foot and rotates it smoothly at the ankle, alternating directions. His pace gradually slows and the pressure becomes minimal. Now. He needs to get up. Will tries to push himself upright, searching for support with his hands. His fingers find the wrinkled sheets beneath him, but when he puts effort into lifting his head and upper body, he falls back with a surprised little sound.

"You okay?" Mike watches him closely. A bead of sweat slowly trails down his temple. It's so hot in here.

"Yeah." His tongue feels foreign, stiff inside his mouth. Will wants to pull it out and pant like a dog. He can't get enough air. He wonders if he could taste the smoke drifting through the room.

By the time he remembered he had meant to sit up, Mike had already moved on.

"Relax, Will," Mike instructs gently. Suddenly he's so close, almost right in front of Will's face.

His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the dark brown of his irises. Will wouldn't have been able to see it if he hadn't been staring so carefully, so intently. If Mike hadn't been so close. Why is he so close?

Only after several seconds of silence does Will realize Mike is studying him too. Will barely has control over his limbs, he's breathing through his open mouth, when did that happen, and he's staring numbly at his best friend. At the one who can read his thoughts from a single glance, from the slightest touch.

But whatever Mike sees on Will's face, instead of pulling away, blowing out the candles, and letting Will sleep wherever he wants, Mike smiles. Much wider than Will is used to. There is something unfamiliar in his eyes, something sharp, almost hungry.

Mike is no longer trying to figure him out.

Will breathes faster, his breath mixing with the drifting smoke, and how has Mike not suffocated in all of this yet? He has always been so sensitive to smells.

"Now I'm going to massage your back," Mike continues just as softly, his eyes never leaving Will's. "Turn over."

He had reasons. A plan. A reason why Mike shouldn't touch his back or his neck or him at all. Will can't remember any of them. He stays silent. Instead of words, the all-consuming scent coats his tongue, and it tastes like syrup. Sweet.

"C'mon, turn over for me," Mike says, nudging Will's side with one hand while the other traces circles over his hip bone, absentmindedly rubbing at the fading bruise. It hurts, but Will can't quite focus on this.

Maybe he could lie here a little longer. He didn't have to think too much. Mike would simply tell him what to do next. Why worry about it at all?

Will turns onto his stomach with some help from Mike. His body knew exactly how to arrange itself beneath his hands. With some effort, Will lifts his arms and folds them beneath his head to make himself a pillow and the room feels strangely familiar from this angle.

"Good," Mike murmurs.

He shifts lower, removing his hands from Will for a moment, and Will has the sudden urge to ask him to stay. Without warning, he slips one hand between the mattress and Will's stomach, and Will instinctively squirms upward, trying to avoid the contact. Before he can gather his thoughts, Mike is already tugging his T-shirt all the way up to his shoulders.

Will parts his lips with a startled little, "Oh," and at the same moment a new scent hits him.

Something familiar, mixed with the smell of trees. Cold, with bitter undertones. Mike's smell, soaked into the pillow and sheets. Will wants to lick them, to taste that scent. Some stubborn part of his mind keeps him from doing it. He takes several quick breaths instead while Mike fusses with his shirt. The places where Mike had touched his stomach cool beneath the traces of warmed oil.

The sound of a lid unscrewing breaks the silence, followed by a rustle, and then Will feels Mike's damp palms against his back. He starts with gentle strokes. They slowly shift into circular movements along Will's spine, gradually warming the muscles beneath. At the first touch with any real pressure, Will flinches again – he can't help it – but with every pass of Mike's large hands on either side of his spine, he relaxes a little more.

His lungs fill with the blend of scents: wood and Mike. He can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

Will melts beneath the touches, firm enough to ground him yet still impossibly gentle. Mike's hands are so big, so broad, they almost cover the entirety of his back. This is exactly how Will imagines them: long pale fingers gliding over his skin at an unhurried pace. Mike works as though they have all the time in the world. Will wants that to be true. He wants this moment to stretch into eternity, one where he lies beneath the capable hands of his best friend.

When he opens his eyes again, Will doesn't remember closing them. The music has faded into the background. The candles still flicker with orange flames.

Only then does he notice the weight. Not the exhaustion that had been pressing down on his entire body all evening, but a new heaviness resting against his hips. Will tries to move his legs and immediately stills when he feels warm breath against the back of his neck.

"Don't move," Mike whispers directly into his hair. "It's easier this way." Shivers goes down to his spine.

His hands continue stroking Will's back, drifting lower than before. His thumbs settle in the dimples of Will's lower back while his fingers leave slick traces across his stomach once more, as though trying to hold him in place. Will gasps. Mike only adjusts his grip.

"Do you feel good?"

"Very," Will whispers back. He lies with his head turned to the side, facing the nightstand with the candles. The words come slowly, especially after his brief nap. How much time has passed? "I feel.. drunk."

Mike hums in apparent satisfaction, pressing more firmly as he slides his hands upward. They never leave Will's body, only travel in one smooth motion up and down. It feels more like affection than massage. Will doesn't notice the difference.

"You don't drink," Mike reminds him, his breath warm against Will's neck once again.

"Don't like it," Will mumbles thickly. "It just makes me sick."

Alcohol always makes him sick. Cocktails, hard liquor – it doesn't matter. The only high he ever reaches is the brief moment before he's bent over a toilet, and the few seconds afterward. Mike knows that. He's always the one holding Will steady through it all, never taking his eyes off him.

"And weed doesn't affect you either," Mike continues in an odd tone. Will doesn't understand where this is going. Does it matter right now?

"Yeah. Rea... really sad," he mutters. He doesn't know what else to say. He just wants Mike to keep touching him. Or let him go. The air around his face feels hotter somehow, and his T-shirt is bunched awkwardly beneath his chest.

"And you're an incredibly light sleeper," Mike says, his voice so close that each word brushes the back of Will's neck.

Will shifts uneasily, trying to force himself to move. Forward or backward, doesn't matter. Just move.

"When you fell asleep at Suzie's house, I was surprised," Mike continues. "You never fall asleep around other people."

It would be hard to blame Will for his distrust. He wants to say that. What escapes instead is a muffled sound, when Mike starts moving again. His hands squeeze, almost engulf, the tense muscles beneath his palms. Will continues letting out soft breaths.

"You wake up whenever I walk close to your room." Mike pauses, tracing lazy circles across Will's back before continuing with renewed pressure. "That night..." Another pause. "You were drooling all over my shoulder."

Will doesn't remember that. Not just now. He doesn't remember anything after leaving Suzie's apartment. Not the drive home. Not a single conversation afterward.

He has been forgetting a lot of things lately. It's the stress of exams.

"'m sry," he mumbles into the pillow, several letters swallowed by the fabric. He's too embarrassed to lift his head. Only after Mike's words does he notice the dampness gathering at the corners of his mouth. Did he get the pillowcase wet? Had he gotten Mike's shoulder wet like that?

“Everything’s fine,” Mike says softly. “I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you this calm, this defenseless.” His fingers press harder beneath Will’s shoulder blades, and Will cries out, hips jerking upward. He can’t push Mike off – he’s too heavy, too big.

“I wanted you to feel this good again,” he continues, and as if in apology, slows his movements.

Will only mumbles in response. Something between “so good” and “thanks.” The candle keeps burning, wax dripping down in thick drops. So much of it. How much time has passed?

He closes his eyes for a second longer, and this time he doesn’t wake up from movement or sound.

Mike is still silently working over his back muscles, but Will feels something strange. His whole body has turned into one single nerve, and he can’t immediately tell where it comes from.

He blinks slowly and tries to move his arms. They are still heavy, but with effort he manages to shift them and turn toward Mike.

Mike hasn’t realized he’s awake yet and continues his work without stopping. Always attentive, always caring, good Mike. His good hands. His good hair falling over his face. His good hips, now pressing down with extra weight against Will’s ass. The weight against him has changed. He’s harder. When the sensation fully registers in Will’s mind, he lets out an uncontrollable sound, spreading his legs a little wider.

Mike immediately looks up. His eyes scan Will’s face, searching for discomfort,Will thinks. But Mike doesn’t stop.

“Mike…” His throat is dry, and all Will can feel is the scent stuck on the tip of his tongue.

The movements continue. Up and down, press, knead, release.

Will tries again. “Mike, you need to…” He searches for the right word. Something appropriate. "Take care of your-yourself.”

“I wanna take care of you first, it doesn’t matter,” Mike replies distantly. “You need to relax, Will.”

If not for the rising feeling that something is wrong, Will might actually fall asleep again at his request. He suddenly becomes acutely aware of the touch of Mike's pants fabric against his own bare skin. Is this why Mike is having trouble?

“No… no, no,” he mumbles, trying to push himself up. Back to his room. Let Mike take care of himself. If he weren’t so exhausted, Will would have taken care of his own growing arousal too.

The moment he lifts himself slightly off the bed, barely a couple centimeters, Mike presses him back down into the mattress with a firm hand. Will whimpers from the pressure between his shoulder blades and blindly tries to push forward. But that's useless too – Mike immediately grabs his waist and pulls him back down toward himself, creating friction between them.

Will lets out a sound, openly, with his mouth parted.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Mike says. He’s always been the kind of person who finishes what he starts. His fingers gently stroking Will’s back. Will’s head spins more and more from the contrast between roughness and softness.

He needs to pull himself together; he aware of every inch of his body. The dampness on his face, the wrinkled sheets under his fingers, the length of Mike pressed right between his cheeks. The adrenaline and rising sensation snap him briefly into clarity.

“Mike, you're... not comfortable,” he whines. His fingers search for something but only slide over the folds of fabric.

“I’m fine,” Mike says, catching one of his hands. He squeezes it twice, and just like that, Will’s breathing slows. It’s just Mike – Mike who always puts Will first.

“Lucas says it hurts,” Will mumbles, squeezing his hand back. He doesn't remember when they'd started doing that, but it's so sweet, so nice, so calming.

Mike sighs, but Will can’t see his expression. He’s sure his own face is red, and if he lifts his head, Mike will notice. His erection can be explained away, but Will's arousal is shameful.

“To be honest, it’s a little uncomfortable,” Mike admits, thumb moving over his knuckles. “But if I start taking care of myself, I’ll just waste almost an hour.”

“An hour?” Will squeaks.

Lately, taking care of himself had started taking longer than it used to. The relief never lasted quite as long either, leaving him with a strange sense that something was missing. More and more often, his own touch no longer seemed enough.

“Yeah, an hour,” Mike exhales tiredly, leaning closer. “I don’t want to leave you alone that long. Especially when you’re like this.”

“Don't,” Will almost cries out, hastily intertwining their fingers. “No, don't leave me.”

In this state, Will doesn’t even notice the contradiction in his words. He finally works up the courage to lift his head and sees that Mike is staring at him with his mouth open, with an expression somewhere between surprise and admiration. Will likes that look. Mike has to stay here. He can’t leave for a whole hour.

Will blinks slowly, trying to memorize him, hoping he’ll remember at least something after this. At least the hardness against his ass. Sometimes he had dreams like this, vivid enough to leave him waking with phantom touches lingering on his skin, an ache in his chest, and a hollow feeling low in his stomach as though something inside him was waiting to be filled; no amount of taking care of himself ever seemed to fix it.

Mike is the first to break eye contact, moving his gaze downward, from Will’s back to his thighs. And though he barely moved, their brief scuffle caused his thin shorts to ride up, exposing the soft skin of his buttocks. Will feels the touch of the fabric there and barely breathes.

“You could help,” Mike whispers. “Give me a massage.”

Will isn’t sure he can even move his hands in a coordinated way, let alone give a massage. That’s what he’s trying to say when Mike cuts him off.

“I don’t think–”

“You won’t have to move,” the hands release him completely, and Will whimpers at the loss of contact. Mike watches him spellbound, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll just take care of myself with your help.”

He hears the words. He hears the suggestion. It makes no sense.

“Okay, Will?”

Will nods frantically, not understanding what Mike asking him to do. He just wants Mike’s warm hands back. He wants to fall asleep again. And, of course, he wants to help Mike.

He is turned onto his back, and after a dizzying few seconds, Will can finally make out what's happening around him. The light above his head is flickering, not fully off, every few seconds in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat. The yellowish stain evokes a strange sense of déjà vu, like everything’s back at the very beginning, only now the smell is denser, the sticky, bitter taste on his tongue and in his throat intensifies. The music has completely died down; now he hears only his own breath and notices Mike's unusual silence. His knees are spread to the sides, his hands supporting him in the air. Probably earlier he wasn’t pressing his full weight on Will's thighs. If he had, Will would be crushed. Mike leans in, eyes tracking every fluctuation of Will’s face as if he doesn’t want to miss a single one. Or maybe he’s waiting for something. Did he ask something? Has Will already answered? The flickering light continues to blink right behind Mike’s head.

“You look pale,” he suddenly says. “Don’t want some water?”

“Yes,” Will replies, “please,” he adds. Mike smiles with the corners of his mouth.

He reaches for the bottle, unscrews the cap, takes a couple of quick sips himself, and only after the affirmative “fine,” does he bring it to Will’s lips. He’s so caring and attentive, that's exactly why Will loves him so much. The water is surprisingly cool and, as always, slightly sour. But because his throat is dry, he swallows too hastily and splutters, water catching in his throat. He doubles over with a cough, struggling to catch his breath. While he coughs and turns his head to the side, Mike finally touches him again. His hands stroke Will’s collarbone, where his crumpled T-shirt has gathered.

“Take it slow,” Mike softly reminds him.

Will drinks more slowly, each gulp refreshing his parched throat and washing away the intense woody flavor.

“You’re also sweaty,” he comments, wiping a drop of sweat that gathered in the hollow of Will’s collarbone, “let’s take off your T-shirt.” Mike puts the bottle down and, without waiting for an answer, half-sits Will on the bed. It’s too quick, and Will’s head falls onto Mike’s solid shoulder. He obediently waits for Mike to remove the shirt. It's really choking him; it’s too hot in it. Mike always understands everything without words.

When he's laid back down, Will already feels the effects of the water and the removed shirt. It’s much easier to breathe, and the trembling under his skin finally disappears.

“Are u not hot?” Will asks impulsively, though it’s true. The room is so hot, and only now, having shed all the layers he once cherished, does he realize Mike, who’s still moving actively and used to the coolness of his own room, must be feeling even worse.

“I’m used to it,” he replies easily. “Spread your legs. I need to get closer.” It sounds like a question and a command at the same time.

Will doesn’t think too much about it, he’s just going to help Mike. His legs move slowly, but after several long, stretched-out seconds, during which Mike strokes his knee, he finally finds the right position. He has to slightly straighten his legs, shift his feet lower. Supporting them bent at the knee is too difficult.

That’s when he notices a small wet spot on his panties. The new position twists something in his stomach, and he gasps at the feeling of openness. But it doesn’t last long. Mike almost immediately settles into the space freed up. He slightly spreads Will’s legs even further, his hands sliding up along Will’s thighs, reaching his shorts. Will hopes they are dry.

Mike moves closer, much closer than ever before. The fabric of his pants brushes against Will’s bare skin; his fingers creep higher until they come to rest right between the waistband of his shorts and his skin. The tips of his thumbs glide over the cotton fabric, while his other fingers slip underneath it. They’re still a little sticky, damp. Will wants them higher.

Before he has time to fully process the thought, a hard cock presses against Will’s pussy, and strong hands spread his legs obscenely wide.

“Mike?” Will cries out, “Wha–, ah, what are you doing?” He breathes heavier, squeezing his eyes shut as if all of this were just one of his dreams.

Mike seems to be enjoying himself now. His breathing becomes quick and uneven. His fingers clench right above the bruise on Will’s left thigh, his hips moving forward chaotically.

“Mike,” Will says again. He isn’t sure what he wants to say. Stop? Faster? Harder? He wants it all.

“I'm just helping you relax, Will,” Mike whispers, leaning close to his face. “You promised me a massage, remember?”

Will doesn't remember promising anything. He opens his eyes. The movements below him and the calm face above him make it impossible for him to focus on anything.

“This isn’t a mass–,” he tries to say.

“It is a massage. You’re just so weak right now, I’m sure your hands are useless. How could you possibly help me with them?” Mike says matter-of-factly. There’s so much confidence and logic in his voice that Will agrees with him. Only the growing tension in his stomach and the pleasant friction make him try to lift his arm. Instead, he merely twitches his fingers weakly. Will lets out a frustrated groan. He can’t just lie there, can’t let Mike continue. For Mike, it’s just a massage, but Will is so aroused. He’s a bad friend.

“I'm s'rry, sorry,” he whispers. If only he could lift his hands to cover his flushed face, pull his shorts down lower, and hide the damp mess below.

“It’s okay,” Mike replies in a low voice. His movements slow, as if in response to Will’s uncertainty. “You just need to relax. I’ll take care of us.”

Mike intertwines their hands again, squeezing his once, twice. As if on cue, Will relaxes. His best friend will take care of everything. Will has no secrets from him. Almost none, he thinks vaguely.

Will nods slowly, closing his eyes again, hoping to escape the strange sensations. It’s just a massage.

His attempts prove futile, because Mike’s hips almost immediately pick up a relentless rhythm, driving the headboard into the wall. Between them are layers of clothing that prevent them from fully feeling everything, and perhaps it is precisely the sensation of touch that Mike is chasing at such a pace. Will suppresses the sounds that are bursting out and simply breathes with his mouth open. Small sounds escape him anyway. The taste, washed away by water, settles on his tongue again; he seems to swallow it and drifts further and further. Will opens his eyes, unable to take it anymore, and though his heart is racing so hard it’s almost choking him, the light bulb is no longer flickering.

Mike looks at his open mouth. Suddenly he lets out a frustrated groan and Will wants to apologize. He doesn’t know what he did.

“I can't do this,” Mike growls, stopping. His large hands almost completely encircle Will's thighs.

“Did I do something wrong?” The words come out thin and uneven. His breathing still hasn't returned to normal, and even though Mike isn't moving anymore, he feels pressure on his crotch.

“No, but,” his gaze drops down between them, and his right hand follows. When it touches the skin of Will’s navel and rests there, Mike’s fingertips almost reach his private area.

Will desperately wants his body to move upward, closer. His clit twitches in anticipation. Mike isn't moving again.

“But?” Will prompts softly.

“But there's too much fabric between us – it hurts,” and as if to prove his point, Mike runs his hand along the hem of Will's shorts.

“Take them off,” he says without thinking. It doesn’t matter anymore. Mike has seen so much of Will’s skin, what’s the difference?

The sweet taste on his tongue intoxicates him even more. He wants this tension to go away, wants to feel relaxed. He wants Mike to feel good too. Mike, who has taken such good care of him all evening. Will could be a good friend. That thought spurs him on. “Take off my shorts and your pants, I–” He sounded pleading, probably looked like it too, all red and breathless. “I want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Mike leans toward him, kissing him lightly on the temple – and it feels so tender. They’ve never done this before, but to Will, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

This time, Will feels Mike’s skin. He wraps his arms around Will’s legs and slowly spreads them on either side of his waist, holding them there. In this position, he’s completely exposed. His shorts and Mike’s pants are lying somewhere near the bed.

Will lets out a sound deep in his throat, remembering why Mike wasn’t supposed to see his panties. He’s wet. Soaked right through the fabric. Embarrassed, he buries his face in the pillow, vaguely glad that he can move his head. And that he’s wearing nice underwear. He wasn’t getting ready for anything, but this morning, as he was getting ready for the studio, he couldn’t shake the itch under his skin until he picked out something pretty. It’s a new pair, white panties with ruffles that he doesn’t remember buying.

“They’re new,” Mike says, as if reading his mind. He sounds so pleased, and Will wants to cross his legs, knowing exactly where Mike is looking. Even if he could move, Mike wouldn’t let him. His grip on his thighs is so tight it could leave new bruises. Will’s skin has always been sensitive. “Do you like them?” he continues.

Will feels Mike's gaze burning into him but refuses to lift his head. The pillow smells so strongly of Mike.

“H–how do you know they’re new?” he mutters.

Mike starts lazily tracing circles around his legs again, only this time it’s definitely not a massage. Just a caress. He pauses to think, and only after a moment does he answer.

“I do the laundry,” Will feels hot breath on his neck, sending shivers down his spine. “And I know for sure you’ve never had any like this before. I’d remember.”

Mike’s fingers slide down, tracing the delicate lace on the sides of the panties. Will moans at the touch and wants to squeeze his legs together again, so that Mike’s hand is trapped between his thighs, touching him.

“So? Do you like them, Will?” Mike whispers teasingly right against his skin. Maybe if Will answers, he’ll keep going? The anticipation becomes unbearable. Mike’s chest in his T-shirt almost touches his bare sensitive nipples.

“Yeah, love them so much,” he turns his head toward Mike, “please.”

His best friend gets it. Of course he gets it; Will doesn’t even need to explain what he’s asking for, as Mike is already moving his hips right over Will’s pussy. His hard cock slides over the wet center, and Will screams at the sensation.

Mike leaves a wet trail on his neck, as if he can’t hold back, craving it, and lifts his head again. He looks down at Will with a dark gaze. His curls are matted on his forehead, sweat trickling down his collarbone and temple.

Unlike at the start, he moves slowly. Painfully slowly, sliding his clothed cock up and down. Even so, Will can tell it’s big. It would really fill the emptiness inside.

Will doesn’t know how long they’ve been moving like this – seconds, minutes, hours – he’s lost in the mounting pleasure, in the warmth that’s beginning to swirl deep in his stomach. There’s no air in his lungs, only the scent, and despite having drunk nearly half a bottle of water, Will feels an overwhelming weakness and thirst. Mike hasn’t stopped; he doesn’t break the agonizing rhythm or look away. He worries Mike is overworking himself.

When Will opens his eyes once more and tries to focus, to catch up with that sensation, he whimpers, moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. His eyelashes are stuck together with tears.

“Mike, Mike,” he can’t say anything coherent, only plead indistinctly and tearfully.

Warm breath fills his ear, a nose caresses his cheek.

“Yes, baby?” That only makes Will whimper harder. The soft touches, Mike’s smell, the tender words, and the slow pace are driving him crazy.

“Do something,” he begs. His hands yearn to wrap around Mike, to pull him closer. The burning knot in his stomach grows stronger and stronger, unable to reach its peak. Nothing else makes sense anymore.

“Answer my question,” Mike says sternly, “but be honest.”

Will nods helplessly once. Anything, just so he can relax again, drift away to that peaceful place. He feels his back, damp with sweat, the sheets sticking to him, the saliva dripping from his mouth – he can’t close it, can’t stop chasing that sweet, tangy taste.

“Who were you going to meet tomorrow?” he asks. His dark eyes press Will even further into the bed.

Was he going to meet someone tomorrow? Will doesn’t remember. He whimpers, hoping Mike will be satisfied with a broken “dunno.”

Mike lets go of his thighs, and without those warm, supportive hands, they slowly slide down. No, no, no. Will needs to remember.

“Some guy,” he tries again. This time the words are clearer but punctuated by his ragged breathing, a whimpering moan.

“Is that why you dressed like this? Did you want him to take your virginity?” Mike says. His eyebrows are furrowed in his usual frown of displeasure, a drop of sweat on the familiar crease of his forehead. What did he say? Virginity? Will doesn’t want anyone.

“No, don’t want him,” he tries again to raise his numb hands, and Mike notices. He says nothing, and Will realizes with growing anxiety that his answer isn’t enough. “I want you to take care of me,” he said, having already overcome any sense of shame or embarrassment. “Please, Mike. Only you.” He looks for Mike's expression, trying to understand whether he's doing well.

Will feels his cheeks start to get wet. He wasn’t sure if his heart was even beating. Why couldn’t Mike just go ahead and do it? He wishes he could help more.

Mike finally relents. He presses his lips to Will’s neck, kissing it wetly and wildly. The sensation of wetness on his neck, legs, stomach, and between his thighs reminds Will of something familiar. That elusive sensation of touch that had haunted him in the mornings.

“Don’t lie to me anymore,” Mike whispers, pulling away from his skin for a moment.

“Never,” Will promises quietly.

And just when it seems like everything is okay, when Mike is moaning contentedly against his skin, when Will hopes he’ll feel good again, Mike pulls away. His warm, large body, which had completely covered Will, disappears, leaving behind drying, sticky traces. Tears flow even faster, the candle’s light blurs into red spots in the corners of his eyes.

Mike takes off his boxers and returns before Will has a chance to gather his strength for more words. Some part of him thinks he knows what comes next, but the sight of it still catches him off guard.

At the sight of his cock, long, thick, and just as wet as Will is, he moans and, surprising even himself, lifts his hips into the air.

“Impatient,” Mike smiles affectionately, intertwining their hands again. What a habit.

He doesn’t look embarrassed, disgusted, or even surprised. Which is what Will feared most.

In his hands is a new package, not that pink oil, the scent of which is still undetectable, but something in a long tube. He squeezes a white, viscous liquid out of it, right onto Will’s pussy. Unlike the oil, it’s cold, but before it has a chance to cause discomfort, Mike runs his warm cock up and down, smearing it further across his panties.

From this angle, because of the tears and smoke, Will can’t see much. His thighs are spread apart again in Mike’s hands, as if that’s where they belong. The hand not intertwined with him holds the cock at the base and guides it. He didn't know that would feel so nice.

He sees the head of Mike’s cock peeking out – pink, plump, perfect for putting in his mouth. There’s a drop of lube on it, gathered from his movements. When he shifts his position slightly, he brushes against Will's clit, stroking it with slow movements, and Will moans, almost lifting his back off the bed. His fingers clench around Mike’s hand, unable to do anything more.

Noticing this, Mike presses harder against that spot, rubbing his cock against that spot again with extra pressure through the thin layer of underwear.

The slurping sounds of lube and his own fluids reach Will. His pleasure builds faster than he ever expected, a tremor running from his thighs down to his very feet. Could he come like this?

“Mike!” Will moans in a high-pitched voice. He’s too loud, too explicit, but all he cares about is the sensation of the wet, clinging fabric and Mike’s cock sliding right over his pussy.

Mike lets go of his hand, his long fingers drop onto Will’s left nipple and twist it with unexpectedly brutal force, like he knows it will take him over the edge. And if Will thought he was loud before, now it’s worse. He takes one last look at the Mike, his face a mask of open admiration, before his eyes roll back as the sensations overwhelm him. It’s too much. His legs are shaking; he’s almost certain his toes have curled even in this state. His stomach tightens and relaxes a second later as the peak passes.

He closes his eyes while Mike continues to rub his pussy and moves his whole palm across Will's chest. Waves of pleasure keep racing through his body, and from the overstimulation, he wants to pull away, to run, but it’s impossible. So he lies there and, as promised, takes care of Mike, whose pace deliberately slows even more as he intently plays with Will’s peeking nipples.

"Good, sweetheart, you're doing so good,” Mike whispers tenderly. His face is over Will's again, and this time he kisses the corners of his eyes, licking away the accumulated tears with his rough tongue. The light bulb, almost like a halo above his head, bathes dark curls in fiery red hues. His pace becomes even more demanding, slurping sounds filling the room with an indecent intensity. His hands slide all over Will’s body, grabbing and squeezing his sides, his thighs, rising to his sensitive nipples.

“I can't, can't, more,” Will whimpers, hoping Mike will understand. He always does.

Will's body is one solid, raw nerve that flares up more intensely with every cruel movement of Mike's cock against his clit. He can't take it anymore.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Mike reassures him, “Close your eyes, Will.” When he obediently closes his eyes, Mike kisses both closed eyelids with a light, almost ghostly touch of his lips. He smells delicious, and at such close range, his scent almost completely overpowers the wood. Why didn’t Will realize before how nice his cologne was?

Awareness returns in fragments. It’s wet, Will thinks as he opens his eyes. He’s all wet, slippery, and hot. The warm lump in his stomach, which had already spread throughout his body once, is gathering strength again.

He feels like he’s melting into the bed and doesn’t immediately realize where Mike is. Is he still touching him?

Will struggles to keep his eyes open and exhales when he sees him. Mike is already shirtless – his defined muscles and bare skin beckon to be touched, and Will realizes with belated disappointment that he still can’t lift his arm. Can't do anything besides crying and begging to be touched, to feel relief again. He moans intermittently, wishing that Mike would at least take his hand again. He wants Mike to feel good too.

“M-Mike,” Will breathes out hoarsely. His voice is so raspy and rough that it feels as if he’s been asleep for hours, and yet, at the same time, as if he’d only closed his eyes for a moment. How long
has this been going on?

Will’s gaze lingers on Mike’s wet chin, which glistens in the candlelight.

Mike moves upward, as if he’d been expecting Will to wake up soon.

“Kiss me,” the words escape Will, unconscious and tearful. He wants to wipe the wetness from Mike’s chin with his finger, wants to lick and kiss him until he’s dizzy. He feels as if he’s asleep, floating in this endless cycle of arousal.

Mike immediately grants his request. Always so obliging. His fingernail slides across Will’s thigh, sending a new wave of shivers; their hands intertwine and clench twice. The familiar squeeze of Mike's hand settles the panic Will hadn't realized was building. The movement of his hips stops, isn’t he tired?

He kisses Will with insistent passion, entwining their tongues, and it feels so natural, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before. But this is their first time, Will’s first kiss, which he shares with Mike. His nose brushes Mike's jaw as he searches for closeness. If only he could raise his hands, run them through Mike’s hair, and pull him even closer, letting Mike consume him completely. All he can manage is to clench his hand helplessly in response. He hopes Mike isn’t bothered by Will’s sweaty palms.

He knows exactly when Mike is going to deepen the kiss. The realization passes through him without leaving enough room for questions.

His slippery, wet chin chills the skin on Will’s face. All he can manage are stifled moans, which Mike immediately swallows. From the lack of air, from the warm, heavy weight of Mike on top of him, and from the pressure on that sensitive spot, Will feels like he’s about to black out again. But he clings to it with his last ounce of strength, desperately returning the kiss, tasting the strange flavor in Mike’s mouth.

Just before he closes his eyes again, Mike lets go of him, his hands sliding down Will’s cheeks to wipe away the tears. For some reason, they’re wet again. Why is he crying? It’s his first kiss. His first kiss with Mike, the love of his life. Maybe he’s just too happy.

He mumbles something, pressing himself against Mike’s warm, safe hands, while Mike moves his kisses lower, moving from his neck to tender caresses on his chest. His hands move lower too, completely covering Will’s neck. His thumbs meet in the center while the rest of his fingers glide over him. And even though they aren’t squeezing or choking Will, he feels as if he’s being deprived of air. The fingers begin to close, increasing the pressure on his neck. Goosebumps run from the back of his neck, where the tips of the Mike's fingers touch, down to his legs, which are trying to curl up. The room tilts and Will's thoughts blur at the edges.

His head lurches from side to side as he moans loudly and takes in as much air as possible through his open mouth. He feels the smoke descend down his throat, flowing into his lungs, how it settles in a thick layer on his tongue. Mike doesn't let go immediately. Only after Will is nearly suffocating in that scent, losing himself even further, does Mike release his throat.

“Good, baby?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

Will can’t speak. It's harder to hold on to what Mike had just said, after so much smoke being inhaled.

Mike doesn’t expect an answer, as if a single glance at his wet, tear-streaked face is enough.

"I've got you," his tongue circles around Will’s nipple; Will feels the touch of teeth, almost a bite, but Mike leaves no marks. He just keeps moving lower, and his hands slide down with him. Will presses his cheek deeper into the pillow.

He rubs his nose right between the fabric of Will’s panties, his curls tickling the skin of his lower stomach, and his hot breath sending shivers down his spine. Just to lift his hips or arms a little so he can press Mike closer to his yearning flesh – that’s what Will dreams of. He has no coherent thoughts left, only a relentless pursuit of pleasure. He’s so close. Will's thumb brushes weakly against Mike's knuckles.

His hole tightens around the emptiness, and just as he’s Mike watches him for a long moment and, with one sharp movement, lowers himself down. Will's toes flex uselessly against the sheets. His nose glides over Will’s clit, along its wet folds, right through his underwear. Mike doesn’t lick it, instead he sucks on the sensitive bundle of nerves, and his upper teeth teasingly run along the top. That turns out to be enough. Will blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyes.

His moans sound like indistinct pleas, because Mike won’t let go of that spot. Will’s thighs try to close with his last ounce of strength, but they only press Mike’s head tighter against his pussy. His legs tremble from the force of the orgasm, and he’s sure he’s soaked through now; the white fabric sticks unpleasantly to his inner thighs. He feels the wetness smearing across Mike’s face, who just moans contentedly, trapped between Will’s thighs.

“You're so delicious, I want to eat you forever,” he mumbles, not taking his mouth off Will's pussy.

It’s too much. The sensation of endless throbbing throughout his body won’t let him go.

He doesn’t know how much longer Mike is down there, but he feels like he can’t take it anymore – yet he endures. Mike’s fingertips leave trails of heat over his bruises, and did he really leave new ones? Will doesn’t remember how it happened. He tries to steady his breathing, but his jaw trembles with every exhale.

Mike’s mouth leaves wet kisses on his thighs, and finally he lifts his head.

“Three orgasms,” he whispers, mesmerized, studying Will’s face. Three? He doesn’t remember three.

All thoughts fly out the window when Mike’s lips are on Will’s again, and though he can’t feel his legs moving, they’re too numb, he just hears the rustle of the sheets and senses Mike’s body moving. He settles between Will’s thighs, wraps his limp legs around his waist, and pulls away with one last loud, wet, messy kiss. Will tries to reach for him, to prolong the moment, but Mike just smiles at his desperation.

“Now it’s my turn,” he says imperiously.

His naked cock rubs against Will’s puffy folds, this time deliberately avoiding the sensitive spot. Every breath he takes feels too warm. Mike wraps his hand around his length, makes a couple of quick strokes with a firm grip, and a drop of pre-cum drips from the tip of his cock straight down onto Will’s pussy. Will wishes he didn’t feel it, but he’s too wet from Mike’s lube and saliva. He whimpers even louder, his tears soaking the pillow. He had no idea he had so much fluid inside him.

Mike can’t take his eyes off the spot where their bodies meet, as if trying to memorize every moment. Will is drifting.

The next thing he feels is the sudden disappearance of the familiar stickiness of his panties. Mike’s fingers push the panties aside, and before Will has time to fully realize it, his cock touches Will’s defenseless lips. He ignores the muffled “Mike, Mike” and rubs the spongy head of his cock right around Will’s clit.

Will can’t breathe, can’t move, and it feels like he’s about to die from the intensity of the sensations. It’s impossible. He spent hours bringing himself to an unsatisfying orgasm, and now his body is coming from the slightest contact with Mike. As if it were meant to belong to him, to his hands, his tongue, and his cock.

Mike’s hands glide over his nipples, gently pinching them, his nails scratch the sensitive skin, and his lips rob Will of the last of his breath. They kiss for what feels like an eternity, time ceases to matter. Will’s body responds to every touch, he reaches out to Mike and falls apart. His cock moves relentlessly in a teasing rhythm; and has Mike really not come yet? Has an hour already passed? Is Will not trying hard enough?

He doesn't realize he's crying until Mike wipes his cheeks. At this tender gesture, Will finally breaks down.

“Am I bad?” His voice cracks, his anxiety prevents him from focusing on how Mike slides over his pussy again and again.

“You're good for me, baby,” Mike doesn't hesitate for a second with his answer, and Will almost believes him. But he hasn't come yet.

“You didn't finish,” his jaw trembles, his fingers twitching uselessly on the soft sheets.

“You’re always so kind,” soft lips kiss him with renewed passion, a tongue licks the roof of his mouth, searching for his teeth, but Will can’t relax. He bites Mike’s tongue, begging him to stop, and Mike, of course, understands.

“Do you want me to cum on your pussy, Will?” And though it’s not what Will expected, it’s enough to make him moan, to make everything down there twitch at the mere possibility, “Do you want me to get you even dirtier? Maybe I should cum inside you, baby?”

Mike seems to be pressing buttons Will didn’t even know existed. He repeats Mike’s name because nothing else comes.

“I can’t fuck you yet,” and at those words, Will whines, gasping “why” and “please,” trying to raise his hands, to convince Mike. He wants to be filled so badly.

“I know, I know, baby, you really want it,” Mike whispers into the wet skin on his neck. All Will can do is tilt his head, the only way he can help. “But this is a special thing.”

The pink tip continues to tease him, and he hears every wet sound as it glides over his wet pussy. Mike could slide into him in one smooth motion, filling Will to the brim. His fingers move across the sheets, unconsciously, automatically. As if something should be there.

“Please, I'm ready, please give it to me,” Will begs, that's all he wants.

Mike's fingers are down below, the tip of his index finger tracing the edge of his hole. He lets out a surprised gasp when, instead of one, three long fingers enter him at once. With them comes a slight burning sensation and relief. It’s as if Will’s body has finally gotten what it’s been craving for so long. Mike doesn’t stop talking.

“You’re stretched out,” the wet, slurping sounds are now much louder, Will’s moans mingling with them in the hot, smoky air. Are the candles still burning? “Who else was here, Will?”

He doesn’t understand the question and barely catches the threat in Mike’s voice. The fingers suddenly stop, the pressure on the bundle of nerves disappears, and Will moans in disappointment.

“I’m asking, who else was here?” Mike repeats emphatically.

“Nobody, nobody, Mike,” Will wants to take Mike’s hand to prove he’s not lying, “just my fingers,” he adds hastily. No more secrets.

At those words, Mike relaxes; his gaze softens. His fingers begin to move inside, stretching Will with slow, deliberate strokes. He’s getting him ready for more.

“Of course no one, you’re so prude, so innocent,” Will can’t quite make out Mike’s tone. His rough, hoarse voice sounds familiar, though he’s never dared to speak to Will like this before. Mike has never done much of what he’s doing today. “I wonder if you’ll stay the same once I take your virginity?” His fingers press against the upper wall of Will’s vagina, entering as far as his knuckles. He’s already so stretched, so full. Will cries, no longer understanding what Mike keeps saying to him. His cock rubs against his clit, and strong hands press Will down onto the bed.

The light bulb blurs before his eyes, which roll back uncontrollably, while Mike continues to whisper hoarsely into his ear. His whole body trembles, the strength that had been dormant beneath his skin tries to break free in a desperate, belated attempt to acknowledge his own helplessness.

But his legs wrap around Mike, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His body belongs to Mike.

He feels the cum splatter on him and fingers slide out of his pussy along with a new stream of fluid.

Mike plants kisses all over Will’s face, licking away the fresh tears with particular tenderness, and squeezes his limp hand twice.

“There you go, you took care of me, see, Will?” Mike guides his hand down to where it’s unbearably hot and wet. He coats Will’s fingers with his own cum and, with a quick, sharp thrust, pushes them back inside along with his own.

Will screams, jerking away from the bed. It’s almost painful, too much. But now Mike’s cum is inside him, and he feels it touching his walls, feels their fingers smearing it deeper.

All he can do is close his eyes and let Mike take care of the rest.

His whole body aches and sticks to the sheets. The room blurs before his eyes, and only after a few seconds does Will realize the smoke is gone. He glances at the nightstand where the blown-out candles lie.

Mike wipes Will down with careful, rhythmic movements. He’s back at Will’s feet, lovingly touching every muscle.

“Mike?” Will calls out in a voice hoarse from screaming. He’s not sure he’ll be able to walk tomorrow.

Mike immediately looks up at him, grabs his phone, and after a couple of seconds replies.

“You're quick,” his fingers trace up Will's calves, and if it weren't for the pleasant, tugging ache below, Will might have thought he'd simply fallen asleep at the start of the massage.

“What time is it?” he mumbles. His own phone isn't in sight. Did he even bring it?

“Don’t worry, baby,” Mike says lightly, continuing his work, “I’ll wash you up and carry you to your room.”

“I want to stay with you,” he doesn’t say please, but his tone makes it clear enough.

Mike smiles widely, as if remembering a joke. He doesn’t answer.

“I,” Will tries again. The words still come out with difficulty, but without the constant smoke and thanks to the fresh air from the window, he’s already feeling better. “It matters to me. I can’t just forget this,” he stumbles slightly, gathering the courage to continue, “and move on. I need you, Mike.” The relaxation from the orgasm and the lingering smoke help him finish the sentence. But his heart still races with anxiety, his stomach tightens with anticipation. Mike looked and sounded interested. This can’t be a coincidence.

Mike laughs softly, lets go of his leg, and kisses him again. Will’s heart swells with hope, his hand slowly rising to grab him, to deepen the kiss. But before he can do anything, Mike pulls away from his lips and looks at him, licking his lips.

“Don’t make false promises. You’ll forget,” he says, still smiling. Will doesn’t understand what he means.

Lately, he’s had small memory lapses – forgotten meals, missed pills, sometimes entire evenings slipping his mind. Exam stress. But no amount of stress will make Will forget this. Their closeness, Mike’s warmth and care. Their first kiss.

“No, no, I’ll never forget this,” his weak hands reach for Mike’s hair. They’re still slightly damp with sweat, soft beneath Will’s fingers.

“This is our eighth time, baby. You always forget,” Mike whispers, kissing his temple.

Will replays it in his head over and over. Eighth. He doesn’t get it. The lingering smoke is doing strange things to his mind, that’s all, he thinks.

“What?” he asks, his voice muffled.

“I didn’t plan anything special for today,” Mike says in an even tone. He runs his hands over Will’s body again. “But for some reason, you decided you needed to hide something from me. The painting, that guy.” When he lifts his head, his lips are pressed into a thin line. The crease between his eyebrows makes his face look rough and cruel. “Although I was very pleased when I saw you wearing those panties. Even though you weren’t behaving very well, your body remembered. And chose my gift.” Mike’s hands rest on his hips, running a damp towel over them, lifting and turning them to suit his needs.

Will doesn’t understand.

“I don’t understand,” he feels moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes again. Can he still cry?

Mike sighs wearily. “Too bad they got ruined. Actually, I wanted to save them for our special thing. White is a very symbolic color,” he doesn’t answer Will’s question, and as if talking to himself, continues, “It’s hard to hold back when I’m with you.”

Mike has always talked a lot. Will knows this for a fact. It’s impossible to concentrate in their apartment when he’s around. His voice drowns out any music and the noise from the TV. Or maybe Will just always prefers to hear him.

For the first time in his life, Will wishes he couldn’t hear Mike.

The realization has already hit him, but he pushes it away, resists it, just as he apparently had to resist Mike. Because it doesn’t make any sense.

“Did you d-drug me?” He tries to sit up, running his hands over the damp sheets. He feels sick from how wet everything around him is with oil and... He doesn’t want to follow that thought through. No, no, no.

Mike frowns as if Will has insulted him and immediately rushes to lay him back down amid Will’s protests: “No, get away, let me go.”

“Calm down, Will, it's just me.” He grabs Will by the chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. His other hand squeezes Will's twice. They've never done this before. Not in any moments Will could remember. But his body reacts to the touch before his mind does, and he relaxes immediately. The tears flow harder, he gasps for air. The pain in his chest intensifies with every breath.

All he can do is stare into Mike’s dark eyes as he presses him down onto the bed. It’s Mike. It’s his black eyebrows, soft hair, and dark eyes. Mike, who has always taken care of Will, ever since childhood. Mike, who always put Will first. His pulse slows beneath Mike's touch.

Why? Will thinks numbly, trying to make out the answer in Mike’s eyes.

“Because I love you,” Mike answers the unspoken question and kisses Will. The kiss is slow and gentle. Mike isn’t exploring, studying, or trying to devour Will. He kisses him as if he truly loves him.

The kiss can’t drown out Will’s sobs.

“I know you’re worried,” Mike says, pulling away, “but you don’t have to worry about anything. Will, have I ever let you down?”

Looking into his honest, open eyes, Will can’t lie. He shakes his head no, his own damp strands sticking to his forehead and the pillowcase.

“Have I ever dumped you? Hurt you?” he continues in a sincere tone.

Mike had dumped him, hurt him, but he always apologized, always came back. It was all so long ago. Will can’t hold a grudge against him.

He slowly shakes his head again, trying to piece everything together. Maybe he really is overreacting. He’s always been too emotional, fragile, and sensitive. Maybe he should just trust Mike?

“So trust me.”

He knows what Will is thinking because they’re best friends. Or is it because Will has already said it out loud?

The room feels so small and stifling, and Will wants to run away from here. Mike was right when he said he needed to go lie down in his own room.

“I found these candles just for you,” Mike says matter-of-factly. No secrets, Will remembers. “I tried different kinds until I found the right one. They work really well with your pills,” their intertwined fingers slide up the sheets toward Will’s head. “I even stole something from Owens’ lab. So your powers don’t get in our way,” he lifts their clasped hands, kissing each of Will’s fingers in turn. “I love them, but the first time you almost blew the apartment to pieces.” Mike’s lips curve into a smile, as if he’s remembering something funny. “And I know you don’t like how sour they are, you’re always grimacing when you drink water, but there’s no other way.”

Water. The very same water that Mike always carefully packs into Will’s backpack, making sure there’s at least one bottle in every room.

Will feels a chill run down his spine and tries to pull his hand away. Why is Mike saying all this?

“It's all honest, Will,” he looks at him pleadingly, reluctantly letting go of his hand.

As soon as their hands part and Mike steps back, Will feels the sharp chill of the room. The damp sheets have grown cold, the marks on his skin have set, and not a single muscle can move properly.

He wants to get up, go to his room, and cry like a child. He can’t. Every instinct tells him to move, but his body refuses to cooperate. His desperate attempts only cause the pain that had been soothed by Mike’s gentle touches to spread throughout his body. The new bruises on his thighs start to ache, and his throat feels scratchy.

Why did everything hurt more when Mike wasn't touching him?

“Mike,” he calls out, crying. Mike will take care of him.

Mike is instantly by his side, takes Will’s hand, and wipes away his tears.

“Yeah, baby?” The ache in his muscles eases the moment Mike touches him again.

“Take care of me, please,” Will whispers. He squeezes Mike's hand twice without meaning to.

It sounds like defeat. Like the beginning of a new cycle.