Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Old habits die hard, especially the ones you don’t notice until you’re already tasting blood.

Mike pulls his hand away from his mouth and his absent gaze from the wall to inspect the damage, pressing on the side of his nailbed with his thumb. He watches in a detached sort of way as the split in his cuticle slowly wells up with red. Then presses harder, until he feels the sting.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, finally realizing what he's done. He raises his voice so it carries over the music and past the door. “Do you have bandaids?” 

The bathroom door opens. 

“What?” Will says around the toothbrush in his mouth.

Mike holds up his left hand to show the blood now dripping down his finger. 

Will’s brow tenses momentarily. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he only turns to spit, then pulls a small pouch from the drawer. He uses it to wave Mike over, wordlessly placing it down on the counter before he turns on the faucet. 

“Rinse it first.” 

Mike runs his finger under the cool, soothing stream, briefly transfixed by the way the now pinkish water swirls down the drain. He glances up at the mirror and catches Will watching him as they take turns using the sink.

Will drops his toothbrush into the cup with a plink and takes a clean washcloth from the stack, applying pressure to Mike’s finger for a second before handing the duty over so he can search the pouch. 

“Batman or sharks?” Will asks, then looks more closely at the wrapper. “No– sorry. Batman or Batman.”

A small smile tugs at Mike's mouth. “Uh… think I gotta go with Batman.”

He watches as Will gently wraps the adhesive around his finger, careful not to pull it too tight.

“Nervous?” Will asks, though it’s obvious. He knows that when Mike gets like this – so zoned out he doesn’t realize he’s gone too far – it means he’s anxious. Will looks up, meeting Mike's eyes with a small smile that says you don't have to answer.

"You're healed," he says a moment later, once he's finished bandaging. He gives Mike's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go, and shuffles past him in the tight space.

Mike follows without thinking, leaning in the doorway of Will’s bedroom while he changes into yet another shirt. For some people, this might be read as a nervous habit, but Mike knows it’s just Will being Will. He likes to look good when he goes out.

“What was wrong with what you were already wearing?” Mike aims to keep the frustration out of his voice, but misses the mark judging by the annoyed look shot back at him.

Will doesn't dignify the question with a response – he just keeps changing, humming along to the music as he pulls a sweater from the closet. Mike groans under his breath.

He shuts his eyes, trying to focus on the music rather than his persistent, illogical nerves. You'd think that meeting up with their friends to go barhopping was akin to medieval torture the way his body is acting.

They’ve been listening to the same song on repeat – one of Will’s quirks that Mike usually doesn’t mind; he gets obsessed and can’t listen to anything else. Today it’s a single from a new band in England that Jonathan found last month. He sent over a cassette, post haste, insisting Will give it a listen.

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world

Mike zones out again easily, not realizing that he’s been lightly knocking his head against the doorjamb in time with the beat until Will’s kicking his shoe, trying to move him out of the way.

“Oh my God, you’re making me nervous now. Go do a shot or something.” Will says, closing the door in his face.

Mike drops his head against the wooden barrier and shouts over the music. “You’re mean!”

Will turns up the volume in reply.

–the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here

Mike drags himself to the kitchen, planning to follow Will’s advice (demand) because honestly, taking the edge off sounds like exactly what he needs right now. A little headstart can only help, he thinks as he pours himself a shot of Fireball and knocks it back, blinking hard once after swallowing. It burns on the way down, but it's kind of nice, he can already feel the way it singes his synapses, sealing off the frayed ends of him.

By the time he opens his eyes, Will’s walking toward him. Mike lifts his brows, tilting the empty shot glass in a silent offer, and Will nods. He’s settled on a simple black sweater with a white tee underneath, which Mike can’t deny looks really good on him. All the trial and error was worth it in the end, but he knows better than to admit that to Will. It’d only earn him a smug told-ya-so grin.

“So, we’re starting at The Edge?” Mike asks as Will tips his head back.

He answers with a nod, managing an mhm as he swallows and clears his throat. They both shrug on their jackets before heading out.

The bar where they’re meeting everyone is just around the corner from Will and Jonathan’s apartment. It’s less than a ten-minute walk, one of the main reasons Will decided to answer the Help Wanted call back in July. He needed the money, he needed a distraction, and there sat The Edge, just waiting for him to roll up his sleeves. 

Mike was surprised at first when he shared the little life update. He thought Will hated bars. But the place is small enough that it’s usually quiet, and quiet enough that Mike even holes up in the corner sometimes, doing schoolwork while Will's behind the bar.

Will's really good at it, too. He's mostly outgrown his shyness and has become something of a social butterfly in the last two years. Still the same soft-spoken, kind-hearted Will, but he’s got a charm about him that people notice immediately. And he’s not afraid to be firm when patrons get rowdy.

It’s been fun for Mike to watch him evolve into this expanded version of himself. Even if Will complains sometimes – and who doesn't complain about their job? – he really seems to like it.

The sun has set by the time they get outside, but some light lingers, caught on the tops of buildings and the thin clouds moving in. It casts everything in that hazy twilight glow. It’s been a mild October so far – the days are still warm enough for short sleeves, but the evening air has that first real bite to it, crisp and cool, carrying the smell of fallen leaves. This time of year always makes Mike nostalgic.

"Any new leads on the Mystery of the Missing Soy Milk?" Will asks, after about a minute of walking in silence.

Mike laughs under his breath at the random question, glancing over at his best friend. He knows what Will's doing, of course – trying to distract him as they get closer, prevent him from further winding himself into a tight ball of anti-social anxiety. Don't get him wrong, he loves hanging out with his friends. But in this particular setting, and on this particular night of the week? Not so much.

Plus, it's been a little while since any of them have seen Dustin or Jane, and that means there will be the dreaded small talk to endure. Which is why Mike is deeply grateful to Will for bringing up the World's Dumbest Debacle.

"Right," Mike nods once. "So, remind me – where did I leave off in this saga?"

"Last I heard, there was a ruler getting involved."

"Yes, and a marker. He's started drawing little lines on the outside of the carton and dating them."

'He' being a freshman who lives on Mike's floor – the guy will probably remain forever nameless, since it's been almost two months of having the displeasure of making his acquaintance, and Mike still can't remember anything other than his name sounds stupid and yuppie-ish, and maybe starts with a C.

He continues to fill Will in on all the inane bullshit that he has to put up with as an RA at Columbia. It's a great source of entertainment for Will – so even as he’s suffering through it in the moment, Mike can smile, knowing he’ll be making Will laugh soon enough. The same goes for Will, with the stories he collects from the bar – although they don't always make Mike laugh. Sometimes he thinks if he was there in the moment, he'd catch a felony charge.

Before he knows it, they've reached their destination, already pushing through the front door and scanning the room. Will spots them first – all four sitting in a booth just beyond the main room, next to the pool tables, smiling and chatting over their drinks. Just seeing them together like that makes something in Mike ease, though the low hum of his anxiety remains his constant companion.

The place is completely packed and loud. Crowded, even for a Friday night. There are people at every table in the front room and several leaning against the bar, huddled around the two small TVs. 

He must’ve followed Will on autopilot, because one second he’s at the entrance, taking in the chaos, and the next he’s across the room, standing in front of their friends as they file out of the booth.

They become a tangle of tight hugs and bright smiles – holding each other at arms' length to get a "good look" like they're suddenly that great aunt who you only see once a year at Thanksgiving. 

It's moments like this that really strike Mike with the reality that they're actually adults now – all living their separate lives in a way that requires semi-regular plans to meet and catch up. Even living in the same city as Lucas and Max, Mike has to remind himself to check in with them every now and again.

This year is a turning point for everyone, with the exception of Jane, who opted out of higher education. They’re a little over a month into their final year of undergrad, facing the choice between another four years and the daunting real world.

It’s a can Mike’s been kicking, and he’s quickly running out of road. The thought of talking about it tonight kind of sets his teeth on edge.

Getting the six of them into one booth is a tight fit, but they manage it. Mike ends up squeezed between Lucas, who’s pinned against the wall, and Will on the end. Their thighs have to overlap a bit because there’s literally nowhere else for Will’s leg to go as he tries not to slide off the edge of the seat. Across the table, the situation is the same. Dustin takes the wall, Jane takes the middle, and Max winds up practically in her lap.

“This is cozy.” Jane smiles, briefly resting her head against Dustin’s shoulder. She wraps an arm around Max and plays with her hair. “I’ve missed you guys.”

Mike thinks, not for the first time, how lucky he is to have such a tight-knit friend group. They write stories and make movies and sing songs about this type of connection. That last thought, he keeps to himself. He’s definitely not drunk enough for this level of mushiness to fly with Max, but he’s pretty sure he sees the feeling reflected back at him around the table. 

Even Dustin and Jane, who’ve never been especially close on their own, are being all buddy-buddy now. It’s sweet. They’ve spent so much time together lately – it had to have brought them closer.

“So, tell us about the trip!” Lucas says. “You guys went off-grid for a while there.”

Jane releases Max and leans against the table, diving right into a recap of the past month – which, by the sound of it, has been so jam-packed it makes Mike tired just listening. 

There were all kinds of antics at MIT, to start – Dustin swears she almost got him kicked out in the first week of her visit. It was supposed to be just that one week, but she was able to convince Dustin, as she’s convinced Will and Max in summers past, to take an impromptu road trip.

How she’s lived like this since graduation, Mike doesn’t understand. Of course, logically, he gets it – she’s been a caged bird for most of her life – but he could never do it. The idea of living out of a car for months at a time, picking up odd jobs, never settling into any kind of routine – it makes Mike shudder. He’s realized, with age, that he’s more of a hobbit type. Probably a Baggins or a Took, though – he’s not completely averse to adventure.

“We had to sneak her across the border,” Dustin is saying through a laugh.

They’re all captivated by the story of how they pulled it off, all for an Iron Maiden concert. Something about Jane in the trunk, using her powers to jam it so the border guard could only see through a narrow gap, completely oblivious to her hidden under a blanket behind some luggage.

“I was prepared to slam it on his arm if he reached inside,” she says, dead serious.

There’s a look of determination on her face that’s sort of adorable, and honestly reminds him so much of Will. He forgets sometimes that they’re not biologically related.

The conversation splinters after a while. Mike’s caught between Dustin educating him and Lucas about quark-gluon plasma and Max, Will, and Jane making plans to go out dancing while she’s in town. He struggles to stay fully engaged in either.

It all starts stacking then – so many voices, the music, the TVs, every noise in the room – until it collapses into just static, a constant hum that whites out his mind. Mike realizes he’s been picking at the bandage on his finger, causing the edge to start lifting and sticking to his thumbnail.

He stares blankly at the table, feeling the tacky underside with the pad of his thumb, then flattening it back down. He repeats the process a few times before suddenly noticing the drinks in front of everyone but him and Will.

“I’m gonna grab us something,” Mike says, leaning to his right.

Will turns to his voice automatically, and since they're already so close, the movement causes his hair to brush Mike's cheek. He can smell his shampoo, something citrusy and refreshing that lights up his brain for a moment. 

Will pulls back when he realizes how close they are, apologizing quickly under his breath. It takes him a second to register what Mike said. 

"Oh. Okay, thanks.” He slides out of the booth so Mike can get out. “Vod–"

"I know." Mike laughs, waving him off before he can finish. As if he needs reminding. Will smiles, then sits again, returning to the conversation with Max and Jane.

Mike makes his way to the main room, and the shift alone – being up and moving, having an objective to focus on – soothes him a bit. He leans his forearms against the edge of the bar, drumming his fingers as he peers past a cluster of guys nursing beers, all watching whatever game’s on, until he spots her.

Carrie’s a pretty woman with sandy-blonde hair, kind eyes, and the sort of lived-in presence that makes Mike think she's got at least two decades of outlandish stories that he couldn't even begin to guess at. 

She notices him through the crowd and nods once, breaking into an easy grin even as she juggles orders. There are a few people ahead of him, but after a couple of minutes she makes her way over.

“Mike! What can I get for you, handsome?”

“Hey, Carrie. Uh–" he always gets a little shy when she calls him handsome. "Just the usual. Rum and coke for me, vodka cran for Will.”

She tilts her head down once she reaches the spot directly across from him, not quite catching the second part. Mike leans in a fraction to repeat it, and she nods, already reaching for a glass.

Then she pauses. “Wait– Will’s here?” She glances past him, searching.

“Yeah?” Mike hitches a thumb over his shoulder, shifting just enough to give her a line of sight.

Since when has he ever been in here without Will? They're either out for drinks together, or Mike's parked at the bar bugging him during his shift.

"Oh, thank God. Can you get him for me?"

"Sure…"

Mike walks partway back to the table, waving Will over when he catches his eye.

"What's up?" Will asks once he's beside him.

"Carrie's asking for you."

Will looks confused, but follows Mike anyway. He plants his hands on the opposite edge of the bar and folds himself forward, heels lifting just off the floor. “Yes?” he says, playfully drawn out.

Something about it makes Mike smile.

Carrie's face lights up when she sees him. She hands off a drink and thanks the customer in front of her before turning her full attention to Will. "How would you like to become my favorite person in the whole entire world?"

Will drops his feet back to the ground and groans, throwing his head back dramatically.

"It's my night off!"

"I know."

"My sister's in town. I haven't seen her in months."

"Will, please! I'm begging you," she says. "The new girl never showed and the bar across the street flooded. Tonight's the first game of the World Series. We're slammed." Her eyes flick over his face like she's weighing how much more it would take to convince him.

“You only have to stay until reinforcements arrive,” she promises. 

Then, when he still doesn’t budge, she adds, “And I’ll let you keep all the tips.”

Mike watches it happen. Will's too generous to leave her hanging – he was already softening to her appeal even before the promise of cash – but his expression changes at the offer. He's also smart enough to let her keep talking though, giving her every chance to sweeten the deal.

It's a classic Will move.

"And… I'll take your Halloween shift."

That does it. Will rolls his eyes, but Mike notices the way the corners of his mouth tug into a smirk. Another groan for good measure. Then– 

“Fine," he relents, climbing up. He tugs off his sweater and tosses it to Mike, leaving him in just his white undershirt as he pivots and jumps down behind the bar.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." She passes Mike's partially-made drink to Will who tops it off with the soda gun.

"It's on the house," Will says darkly, sliding it to him. He turns to stick his tongue out at Carrie who only smiles at the gesture, a testament to their comfortable employee-employer relationship.

"Thanks," Mike says.

He hesitates to leave, but Will’s already being pulled under by a new wave of customers pouring through the entrance. He feels bad abandoning him, but what can he do? He throws Will's sweater over his shoulder, turns, and heads back to the table.

"We lost our cleric," he announces to the group, settling into the empty spot next to Lucas.

Everyone follows Mike’s gaze to Will, busy taking and filling orders.

"Oh no!" cries Jane. "Was he supposed to work tonight?"

Mike shakes his head and explains the situation. "So we might just need to spend the first hour or two here," he finishes.

No one minds. They’re a little bummed, of course, to have temporarily lost Will – but the mood holds, buoyed by all of them being in the same place for the first time in months. It's gotta be at least since Max's twenty-first, now that he thinks about it. 

Mike sips his drink, listening to the conversation more than participating in it. Talk does eventually turn to grad school plans, as expected, but even then he’s able to avoid direct questioning. Until– 

“No Amy tonight?” Dustin asks out of nowhere.

Mike’s stomach drops. If there’s any topic worse than imminent future plans, it’s his relationship status.

“Uh– no. We broke up a little while ago,” Mike answers. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to, but he adds, “She broke up with me.”

“Oh.” Dustin’s face falls, like he regrets bringing it up. “Sorry, dude.” 

Mike shrugs.

“Yeah,” Jane says. “That’s…sad.”

He catches the look she exchanges with Max, not quite sure what it’s about, but still resenting it a bit. They weren’t exactly welcoming to Amy. Never openly cruel, or anything like that. But the Party as a whole only got to hang out with her a handful of times, and things never warmed up enough for her to meld with the group. 

Whatever. At least it wasn’t just her they seemed to take issue with; no one genuinely liked Will’s boyfriend either. He stuck around for over a year, though.

Mike definitely can't speak for Will, but for his part, the past few relationship-less months have been a relief. Amy was nice and all, but the role of boyfriend has proven to be…taxing. He's recently realized this about himself – he just might not be a relationship guy. 

It's honestly freeing to let go of the expectation that he should have someone. Not that he plans to be one of those lifelong bachelors, but at least for now, he's done dating.

His gaze drifts to the front room. The steady stream of customers has finally slowed to a trickle – just a few people asking for refills. He’s dimly aware of talk around the table, someone cheerfully suggesting they play a round of pool, probably to shake off Mike’s mood-dampening life update.

“You guys go ahead. I’ll play next round,” Mike says. “I’m gonna go check on Will.”

Mike sees him as he rounds the corner, tucked away at the far end of the bar near the kitchen, where the overhead lights barely reach. His head is down while he collects tips and empty glasses. 

“Oi, tavern wench!” Mike calls as he approaches.

It's obviously aimed at Will, standing only a couple feet in front of him, but to his horror, both bartenders and a few nearby patrons look up. Carrie cocks an eyebrow, and Mike's blood runs cold.

"No, Carrie." He squeaks quickly, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. "I would never dare call you that." When the look on her face doesn't immediately relax, he adds. "I’m scared of you.”

She pauses, then barks a laugh, nodding as if to say you should be.

They both watch as she turns back to her work – Will smiling, Mike dropping his forehead to the bar in shame. 

A finger pokes the back of his head. “Does that mean I don’t scare you?” Will asks.

Mike looks up and leans against the bar on folded arms. His eyes flick over Will's familiar face before he smirks. “Not in the slightest.”

Will bites back a smile, humming and nodding at the answer, like he’s taking it as a challenge.

“So what can I get for you, weary traveler?”

Mike chews at his bottom lip, thinking for a second. He could just get a refill, but then he notices the small plastic sign right next to his hand that advertises Today's Special: Hurricane Shots. He pinches the top and flips it around in one smooth motion.

“Can I get one of these?”

Will has to go ask Carrie what it even is – he makes a funny face at her as she explains it. Maybe it's really disgusting?

When Will returns, he just shakes his head and says, “Not your thing.”

“How do you know it’s not my thing?”

“Because I know you, and I know you wouldn’t like it.”

Mike squints at him, Will scrunches his nose back.

He almost wants to push the matter, order whatever this concoction is just to prove him wrong, but he trusts Will's judgment. So he just nods, and watches as he makes him another of the same, sliding the glass back to his hand as Mike takes a seat.

"You're staying here for a bit then?" Will asks.

"Yeah, if you don't mind?"

"'Course not." Will smiles – maybe a little too brightly. He disappears into the kitchen, reappearing seconds later with a big crate of glassware, which he sets in front of Mike.

“I am gonna put you to work though," he says, tossing a rag at Mike while he's mid-sip. He somehow manages to catch it, but the surprise almost has him snorting rum and coke through his nose.

Will looks briefly apologetic, but mostly he's just laughing at him. Mike shakes his head, smiling as he sets down his drink and gets started. They work in companionable silence – Mike dries, Will stacks – while they watch their friends play another round. Looks like it's now boys vs. girls: Lucas and Dustin teamed up against Max and Jane.

"It's slowed down a lot," Mike notes after a few minutes of this. "Think you'll be set free soon?"

"Hope so." Will doesn't look at him when he answers, he’s distracted by the game. "Do they seem…?"

Mike furrows his brow, turning to follow Will's gaze. “What?”

“Just watch.”

They're still playing pool – it looks like Dustin’s turn. Lucas is bent over the table, pointing out which ball he should go for and which angle he should come at, pissing Dustin off so much that he straightens up and points his cue at him threateningly. The girls are huddled together, laughing; Max whispers something in Jane's ear. 

Nothing out of the ordinary–

Wait… 

Just as Dustin takes his shot, Mike notices Jane's head give an almost imperceptible jerk to the left, followed by her hand coming up to wipe her nose.

Oh.

"She's cheating!" Mike whisper-shouts, glancing back at Will, pleased with himself for catching on.

"No, not that," Will says, nudging his shoulder to get him to look again. "Watch her and Dustin."

Mike turns in his seat again. What is he watching for?

The guys definitely seem to have noticed the cheating now, too. Dustin squints suspiciously at Jane as he walks toward her. He cups her face in his hands – which okay, yeah, that’s a little weird…but it’s not like he’s gonna kiss her…is he?

No. He’s just tilting her head back at a slight angle, presumably inspecting her nose. He probably notices the bit of blood there and realizes what she’s done.

“Oh, you’re unbelievable,” he says, but there’s no real anger in it. 

She smirks, like she’s asking him what are you gonna do about it? 

Then suddenly he pulls her in, shifting their weight as he spins her slightly off balance, and brings a hand to the top of her head to give her a noogie. They’re laughing, and so are Lucas and Max as they watch on. The entire thing could totally be considered platonic…if it weren’t for the way he’s still holding her, or the way she’s gripping his arms, or the small kiss he places on the top of her head. 

It’s so quick, like a game of pinball – shared looks bounce between the six of them. Lucas to Max, then to Dustin. Max to Jane. Jane to Will, briefly to Mike, then away. 

He turns to Will, who’s smiling, eyebrows lifted at Mike like he’s waiting to see if he finally gets it.

They’re together?

***

The next hour is a blur. Will got busy again shortly after…whatever that was, and Mike had to give up his spot at the bar. He’s been sitting in the booth – smiling when smiled at, politely declining invitations to play pool, sipping a watered-down version of his drink. 

No one’s actually said anything. No one’s actually said the words. 

Even though it’s subtle, there’s still a noticeable change in the way everyone is acting now. Especially Dustin and Jane, and especially around Mike. Which makes sense, since he’s definitely being weird despite his best efforts. He’s been anxious all night, but now he’s gone quiet. It’s not like he’s brooding, he’s just taking it all in.

It would be great if he could understand exactly what it is that he’s feeling, and why. Then he could talk himself out of it, move on, and stop making his friends uncomfortable. As it is, there’s just a pit in his stomach – a cauldron where all the self-knowledge that eludes him goes to die.

He catches Will looking over at him every once in a while, vaguely concerned, but then he’s gone again, pulled away by another thirsty bargoer. It seems he’s never getting out of here. 

Maybe another twenty minutes passes when Max slides into the booth across from him, both of them facing out toward the room. They watch as Dustin and Lucas bicker about who knows what – Mike’s been tuning them out – and, out of earshot, Jane leans over the bar to chat with Will. He’s laughing at something she said. 

"You're being weird,” Max says, matter-of-fact.

Wow, Max. Thanks so much for noticing.

Mike turns his head to look at her. “I’m not being weird.” 

She squints at him in that unnerving way – always able to see straight through him, just like Will does, only somehow worse. Then she snatches his glasses and puts them on. “Jesus Christ, you’re blind.” 

He’s tired, it’s been a long night. So he doesn’t laugh or play along, and it’s immediately obvious that she’s annoyed by that.

Normally, this is when Max would start to push, meeting him with equal and opposite force. It's one of the only things that can budge him when he gets like this – Mayfield’s Law of Being a Pain in His Ass, or something like that. But the look on his face must tip her off that he’s not just being difficult for the sake of it, because she goes easy on him. Not enough to drop it, obviously. It’s Max.

“So what are you being if not weird? Because you sure as hell aren’t being normal.”

Mike lets out an exasperated breath. “I’m being…contemplative.”

“Ah, I see.” She tucks her fingers behind her ears, wiggling the glasses up and down the bridge of her nose. Another attempt at humor. “What are we contemplating?” 

Mike snatches his glasses, looking away from her as he slides them back on. He considers not being a jackass, but his frustration wins out. “I don’t know, Max. The meaning of life. I’m not really in the mood to talk.” 

She fixes him with that look that silently says I’m not playing games, tell me what’s up, and he knows it’s no use. Hell, maybe she can help him figure out what it is that's really bothering him. Their brains do work in strangely similar mysterious ways. 

Mike’s about to open up to her, but out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jane walking back toward them and looks away again. He hears Max huff just as he raises his eyebrows at Jane, who rejoins the group looking ready to make an announcement.

"Will told us to go on without him," she says with a small frown. "It doesn't look like he will be done any time soon."

Mike's about to protest, but Max takes the words right out of his mouth. "No way."

"That's what I told him," Jane agrees. "I said we should just try again tomorrow. I am kind of tired after the long drive anyway, aren't you?"

She looks at Dustin who shrugs, then nods.

"We should just host something at our place tomorr–  Oh…" Lucas starts to offer, cutting himself off when he catches Max's eye, too late. "I mean…Max, how would you feel about us hosting something at our place tomorrow?"

Mike peers over at Max with a barely-held-back grin. She hates last-minute changes, she hates when Lucas makes plans without first consulting her, and she really hates hosting.

"Sure, honey," she gets out through gritted teeth. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

Jane wraps her arms around Dustin's shoulders, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Yay! Party sleepover. Just like old times."

Max lets out an exasperated groan, leaning her head against the back of the booth, and Mike reaches across to give her a solid pat on the back. "Buck up, soldier. It'll be fun."

He’s being genuine, too. Just the thought of hanging out somewhere with zero strangers, nearly equal access to alcohol, and one hundred percent more access to video games is enough to heal his overstimulated soul. 

Plus, maybe by tomorrow he’ll have figured himself out.

Max tosses his hand away and points at him. "Pizza. Put it on the Ted Card."

He gives her a quick salute. If Ted's good for anything, it's fielding late night pizza charges.

Max lets out a long breath, and pushes herself out of the booth. “Okay, we should say goodbye to Will before we go. Hurricane shots for the road?”

Everyone chuckles except for Mike and Jane. He watches her turn to Dustin, whispering a question in his ear and looking at him with wide eyes as he explains.

“What are they?” Mike asks, unable to suppress his own curiosity anymore. “I tried to order one, but Will said they’re gross.”

Max’s eyes light up.

Dustin's in the middle of answering, “I wouldn’t say gross so much as shock–” when she cuts him off.

“Mike, you’ve never had a hurricane shot?”

Lucas says Max's name low enough that it's barely audible over the noise of the place, but Mike still hears the warning in it.

Max ignores him and presses on as soon as she sees Mike slowly shaking his head.

“Oh, it’s a rite of passage. You’ve gotta try one. Here–" She collects a few dollars from everyone, plucking a ten-dollar bill out of Lucas' wallet with a grin, and places the money in Mike's hand. "Go give Will a big, fat tip from all of us, tell him the plan, and order one.”

Mike can tell she’s goading him into something – he's not an idiot – but he doesn’t shy away from a challenge, especially when she's looking at him like that.

So smug. I dare you, Wheeler.

He handled the Cement Mixer she forced on him this past July – citing her reigning authority as Birthday Girl – so he's pretty sure he can handle whatever this is.

"Fine," he says resolutely. He can feel the group following behind him like a wake as he drifts toward the bar. Will is just finishing pouring a draft, tilting the glass upright when he notices Mike.

“Hey.” Will moves down the bar toward him. His smile is warm, but it fades somewhat when he spots the rest of them behind Mike. “You guys heading out?”

"Yeah, but we're thinking do-over tomorrow. You don't work, right?"

"No, and I'm never showing up here on my day off again–" he says that part loud enough for Carrie, who smiles apologetically over the tap handle. "So let's start somewhere closer to Max and Lucas' place this time."

"How about…Max and Lucas' place?" Mike folds his arms on the bar and leans slightly over them. "They offered."

Will's warm smile returns, looking behind Mike at the group. "Thanks guys. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

They all crowd around Mike, taking turns leaning across the bar to either hug or fist bump Will goodbye for the night. Max taps the hand that holds Will's tip.

"Oh." Mike tucks the money under a mostly empty glass and Will smiles gratefully. Then Max impatiently shoves Mike from behind just as he's reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"I'm doing it. Relax," he says over his shoulder to Max, then to Will, "One hurricane shot please."

Will's face falls. "What? No, I told you–"

Carrie appears behind Will, hands on both of his shoulders. "Alright, Mike! Our first of the night!"

She pulls a shot glass from below the bar, setting it down in front of Will with a dull clink, then turns around to hit the play button on the boombox against the wall. The room immediately fills with drums and electric guitar.

Here I am
Rock you like a hurricane

Mike furrows his brow – he can't help but laugh at the theatrics of it all. He's never had a drink that came with a whole production like this. Nearly everyone in the room turns to watch whatever is going on. When he meets Will's eyes again he looks hesitant – no, more than that – he looks almost scared.

"Mike, are you sure?"

"Totally!" Mike laughs again. "Will, it seriously can't be that bad. Come on, hit me." He brings his hand down on the bar for emphasis.

Will's eyes go wide. "Okay…"

Mike leans in, eager to see what’s in this thing. He watches as Will dips out of sight, hands disappearing below the bar to grab whatever he needs, but a sudden burst of noise from a group in the corner – something about the game – pulls Mike's attention for just a second.

When he looks back, Will’s already sliding the shot glass into his hand.

The liquid inside is completely clear – vodka or tequila? – which is odd since these gimmicky drinks are always mixed with something or other.

Whatever.

Mike knocks it back. He lowers his head, already smiling, eyes opening as he starts to ask Will what the hell all the fuss was about– 

Cold water in his face, making him gasp and sputter, and then a sharp sting across his cheek. His head whips to the side from the unexpected impact, his glasses nearly flying off, saved only by his big nose.

What the fuck?

His surroundings cut out just for a moment, but then he's suddenly very, very aware of everything all at once. Loud whooping and laughter, someone letting out a low whistle, his hand on his own cheek, the sting fading to numbness then glowing to life again.

He blinks hard and a few tears slide out.

Involuntary tears! It's just the sudden surprise of it all…he's not crying!

Then Will is right there, gently cupping his face, searching for his eyes – and oh God, if anything could make him cry, it’s this. He looks beside himself, fixing Mike’s glasses with careful hands as he apologizes over and over.

"Mike, I'm so sorry! I thought– I'm sorry. I thought you knew!"

Max's laugh rings out above the rest, and Will's gaze flies to her, piecing together what happened.

"What?" She asks, feigning innocence, then dropping it immediately. "Oh, come on. You can't tell me that wasn't a little cathartic."

He doesn't look amused. The middle finger he flips in her direction confirms it.

"Will!" Jane says, scandalized. The rest of the Party looks varying degrees of entertained and shocked.

Mike reaches up, covering Will's hand that still rests against his cheek. He waits until his eyes are back on him.

“Hey,” he says in that soft voice he always uses when Will's upset. “I’m okay.”

It’s funny – Mike comforting Will, when he’s the one who just slapped him across the face so hard his ears are still ringing – but he can’t stand seeing that look in his eyes.

"You're okay…" Will drops his hand to the bar. "Promise?"

"Yes," Mike laughs. "Promise."

Will’s gaze lingers on him, but then someone’s trying to get his attention, asking for a beer, and the moment breaks. By the time Mike turns, the others are already waiting for him at the door, holding it open.

The music starts again as he walks through – Here I am! – someone else must’ve ordered another shot. He looks back, but the door swings shut before he can see.

Mike blinks and gives his head a small shake as he adjusts to the stark change in his surroundings – it's suddenly quiet and dark, and with the sun fully below the horizon, the air is chillier now. Certainly compared to the stifling air of the crowded place he just escaped.

“Hey,” Max says, stepping in front of him a little, searching his face. “You're actually okay, right?”

Mike huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine." 

He really is – maybe even better than fine – but his friends don’t look convinced, so he adds, "It was just a shock to the system, that’s all. Honestly, I feel kinda great. Probably the adrenaline. I could run all the way home.”

That gets a laugh, a flicker of relief. 

There’s a short, awkward pause, where all four of them are on one side of the entrance, while Mike stands a little apart. They’re heading in opposite directions – Jane and Dustin crashing with Max and Lucas for the next few weeks.

Jane steps in first and pulls him into a hug. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

“Yeah,” Mike says, squeezing her back. “See you.”

The rest of them follow with quick hugs and overlapping goodnights. 

Maybe it’s the relief of not being bombarded by the noise inside. Maybe Will somehow physically knocked sense into him. Either way, Mike’s mind feels clearer now, his shoulders a little lighter.

He smiles as he watches four of his best friends in the world walk away.

***

It could just be the chilly night air, but he really does feel very awake as he walks the empty streets. He feels alive.

He’s aware of his body in a way he usually isn’t – feeling each of his fingers as they flex against the lining of his jacket pockets. How his legs carry him forward in long, easy strides. He feels his lungs pull in the cool air and watches each exhale drift out in a soft, nearly-visible burst – there and gone, a brief glow under the streetlamps.

Mike’s about to walk past Will's apartment, heading for the subway entrance, when he thinks maybe he should just stay here tonight. It was already the plan anyway, and he's got a key. He opens the heavy front door, and takes the stairs two at a time.

When he gets inside the apartment, he looks at the couch and considers sleep, but he's just too wired.

Instead, he changes into pajamas and is about to brush his teeth when his stomach grumbles. It's been over six hours since he had dinner, and he's not going to sleep any time soon – what the hell, he decides to make himself something to eat.

He takes out a pan, butters four slices of bread, grabs cheddar from the fridge and makes two grilled cheeses – one for him now, one for Will in case he's hungry when he gets home.

He eats, leaning against the counter, staring at the digital numbers on the microwave as they morph into each other. It's like a little game, anticipating which lines will disappear and which will reappear to create the next number.

11:52. That vertical line on the bottom left will flip to the right. 11:53.

He starts doing the dishes before he's even finished chewing his last bite, then grabs a glass of water, and sits on the couch.

There's contemplation of turning on the TV, but his head is still recovering from the cacophony of sounds at the bar – all the yelling and laughing, the pool balls clacking together, the clinking glasses, the music, and the game playing on multiple TVs. Just the memory of it all has him chewing on his thumbnail.  

For a while he just sits there, listening to the blissful nothingness, sipping his water. Then he leans over the arm of the couch to rummage around in his bag for his book.

Frankenstein.

He’s read it before, but he needs to read it again for an assignment. They're to spend this entire month "reckoning with the text", as his professor said. More like reckon with the fact that an eighteen-year-old wrote this, and half the class can barely string together a coherent thought about it.

He opens to chapter five and starts reading.

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony– 

Ha. Relatable.

–I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.

In the movie, Dr. Frankenstein animates the creature using electricity – he forgot that the novel never specifies how he 'infuses a spark of being'. Mike imagines the instruments of life to be a shot of tequila and a swift smack to the face, smiling as he tucks away the thought to share with Will later.

He keeps reading, letting himself become immersed in a scene that feels strangely close to his own surroundings.

It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes... I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

The door slams open, and Mike jolts so hard he almost falls off the couch. His book tumbles from his hands. Will laughs when he sees, turning back to lock the door.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

It's not his fault – is there a door in this city that doesn't require you to throw your entire body weight against it to get inside? – usually there's at least some warning though. Keys jangling, the creaky turn of the knob. He must have missed the signs completely.

“Jesus Christ.” Mike presses a hand to his chest, laughing under his breath as his heart rate comes down.

He picks up his book from the floor and watches Will, head ducked slightly as he toes off his shoes. He's smiling, but he looks tired. His hair is damp, curling faintly at the ends.

Damn it, Mike thinks, wishing he’d realized sooner it was raining. He could’ve brought an umbrella, walked Will home.

Will lets out a sigh as he shrugs off his jacket.

"Please warn me if you're about to turn into a gremlin," Mike says, trying to make him laugh.

It halfway works. Will looks at him with a confused smile.

"What?"

"You got wet. It's after midnight."

The confusion lingers for a second – then, “Oh.” Will nods, smile widening slightly as it clicks. “No, you’re safe. Water makes them multiply. It’s feeding me after midnight you need to worry about.”

“Oops,” Mike says, pointing behind him at the foil-wrapped grilled cheese still sitting on the counter.

Even bigger smile. “You’re the best.”

Will disappears into his bedroom and comes back in pajamas a minute later, saying he's too tired to shower and will just do it in the morning.

He drifts into the kitchen like he’s running on fumes, then lifts himself up onto the counter, shoulders drooping with exhaustion. Mike follows to refill his glass of water at the sink. He leans against the island while Will eats.

The apartment settles into a quiet that feels even softer than before, when he was alone.

When Will finally finishes, he exhales loudly and holds the empty plate out. Mike takes it automatically, setting it in the sink.

“Tonight sucked,” Will says, leaning back on his hands. “I need a drink. You want one?”

"Sure."

Will scoots across the counter, rising onto his knees as he reaches past the box of Fruity Pebbles for the bottle on top of the fridge, and Mike pulls two glasses from the cupboard.

He settles into the deep kitchen window while Will pours, mesmerized by the raindrops snaking across the glass. The way they chase and merge with each other in slow, uneven patterns.

This is Will's spot, where he sips his morning coffee while he watches the city wake up. It’s got a nice view – rare for a building like this. It looks out over a small cemetery with a big cherry tree, all pink in the spring, green through the summer, and now heavy with rich orange leaves.

In the dark, he can’t see the color, but he can still make out the soft movement of the branches – and something else, low to the ground, given away only by the brief flash of eyes.

“Will, look.” Mike points to where a black cat weaves in and out of headstones, probably hunting for a midnight snack.

Will hums curiously, handing Mike a glass as he leans in from behind. He rests his drink lightly against Mike’s shoulder and his chin on the top of Mike’s head so he can see out the window.

It’s nothing new. It’s not even something they ever think about. They’ve pretty much always been comfortable with physical closeness – a byproduct of growing right next to each other, shoulders bumping the whole way up.

But it’s weird…there’s a faint, restless buzzing under the surface everywhere they touch now. A sharpened awareness as Will lingers there, and Mike can feel the funny way his jaw moves on the top of his head when he speaks without lifting his chin.

“Cute,” Will says. “I think I’d like to be a cat in a graveyard. Seems like a simple life.”

He finally straightens, and Mike really feels the loss, immediately missing the weight of him stacked on top. But it’s quickly replaced by Will raking his fingers through the hair at the top of Mike’s head, probably to fix where it was flattened, and that sensation is something else entirely.

It’s like there’s electricity in his fingertips, sending warm shivers from the top of Mike’s skull, down his neck, until the current short-circuits in his throat. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

When Will backs away, Mike feels that too – feels the space opening up between them, creating a strange pull that Mike can’t help but follow until they’re both standing in the living room, hesitating in front of the couch.

“Did you want to go to sleep soon?” Will asks out of courtesy, since he’s currently hovering by Mike’s “bed”. Mike shakes his head slightly as he finishes a sip, and they settle onto opposite ends, stretching out but not fully – just enough bend at the knee that their legs don’t quite overlap.

Will takes a sip of his drink, and peers at him over the glass with that knowing look.

He wants to talk about it – ugh.

Mike tries to avoid his eyes, letting his gaze drift around the room. He searches for another conversation starter, but comes up empty-headed. Even if he started talking about the weather or grad school or soy milk, Mike knows Will would redirect them anyway. 

The rain is coming down harder now. The silence between them stretches. Will is waiting him out. 

After about another minute, Mike can’t take it anymore.

“What?”

Will breathes out a quiet laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can feel you staring directly into my soul.”

Will takes another sip, and chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Well…" He watches Mike carefully before continuing, like he’s some skittish animal.  “What do you think about it all?”

Mike’s already managed to stuff “it all” into a box labeled: Feelings That Make No Sense – Stop Feeling Them. So he’s not terribly interested in opening it up and sorting through the mess. 

But Will's eyes are soft now – knowing, but without the sharp edge. He’s not just seeking information, this isn’t gossip, he’s offering a safe place to talk it out. Still, Mike doesn't want to kick off the conversation.

"I don’t know…” He punts the question back to Will. “What do you think about it?"

Will lets out a small sigh, he knows Mike has an opinion, but he can probably also tell that he’s not willing to voice it until he gets a read on his feelings.

So Will humors him, and answers first. “They seem happy.” He shrugs.

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, and he really does. 

They seem happy. 

And those three little words, strung together so simply, finally cut through the noise inside of him. Mike's sick to discover that maybe that’s what he’s been upset about. His heart beats a little faster in his chest, like his body’s just received the fight or flight signal, but there’s no external threat, only an imminent battle to be waged within. 

Why should he be upset that his friends are happy? That makes no sense. Mike loves his friends. He wants them to be happy. He stares at the rain sliding down the window, feeling every bit of tension in his face, knowing it's probably making him appear miserable, but he's not. He's just thinking.

“You’re not still in love with her, are you?”

Mike’s dragged out of his thoughts by the unexpected question. “What?” 

“I don’t know,” Will says, looking a little taken aback by Mike’s taken-aback-ness. “That’s not crazy to assume, is it? You were in love with her for a long time. Are you jealous?”

It’s a fair assumption, he guesses, despite knowing in his chest that it's completely wrong.

From an outside perspective, it seems like an open-shut case:

1. Boy dates Girl     

     a. for their entire adolescence, without incident
          i. other than the constant threat of the End of the World looming over their heads, but that’s neither here nor there

2. Girl breaks up with Boy

     a. the day after their high school graduation
          i. for unknown reasons, but Boy is surprisingly okay about it

3. Girl dates Boy’s friend*

     a. three years later 
          i. *shared friend, it should be noted

4. Boy finds out and is jealous

That’s not what this is, though, and Will’s not really an outside perspective given that he's been in the middle of things since the get-go. Which is why the question surprises him a bit. Plus, the implication that this is all about Mike being territorial over a girl…it kind of rubs him the wrong way.

Mike's not really hardwired like that. He’s been called possessive, sure. Overly intense about what he considers to be his, sure. But this isn't like he's angry over someone else taking his toy – a version of him Will's all too familiar with, having played witness to Mike's many middle-child tantrums. 

He realizes this isn't actually about Dustin and Jane at all, and says as much out loud.

“I’m not jealous of Dustin. It’s not like I want Jane back. She and I work so much better as friends. It’s just–” Mike sits up a little more, leaning sideways to set his drink on the coffee table. His hands are wet from the condensation on the outside of the glass, so he dries them on his pajama pants, leaving his arms to rest on his knees.

“I don't know. It was kind of a gut punch to see them like that. They just looked so easy together. Like the way Lucas and Max are, you know?”

Will just nods, letting Mike continue his train of thought.

“She already seems way happier with him than we ever were. Made me realize I haven’t felt like that in any of my relationships, so– yeah. Clearly the common denominator is me.”

There it is, the destination – Mike realizes how it sounds as soon as it leaves his mouth. Welcome to Self-Pitying Idiot Central. From here, you can make all your usual connections: woe is me, I’m a failure, something’s wrong with me, me-me-me-me-me.

He expects Will to call him out, but instead is met with compassion, which is somehow worse.

“That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.” Will sits up now too, setting his drink on the table next to Mike’s. “You just haven’t met your person yet.”

Ah, yes. His proverbial person. 

Maybe it’s true that there’s someone for everyone. A perfect match. He’s seen plenty of examples in his own life – Lucas and Max, Jonathan and Nancy, and now it seems, Dustin and Jane, too. It’s possible that person exists, but what’s harder for Mike to believe is that he could be that for anyone else. 

That thought’s one stop too far on the Self-Effacing Express, so he decides to keep it inside, and tries to shift gears. 

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out.” 

He gets up from the couch and walks to the kitchen, reaching on top of the fridge for the bottle. 

“Not much left.” He says, shaking it back and forth. The amber liquid inside sloshes around. “Should we just finish it?”

Will tilts his head back over the couch, looking at Mike upside-down. “Might as well.”

 ***

Somewhere during the last hour, their legs got all tangled up. Their flannel pajama pants keep rubbing together in a sticky drag that lifts the fabric every time one of them moves. Will shifts again, sending a small burst of cold skimming across Mike’s calf.

“How’s your face?” he hears Will ask from the other end of the couch.

“Fine. Can’t feel it anymore.” Mike sits halfway up, leaning on his elbows to look at him. “How’s your hand?”

Will raises it in the air and waves, giving a thumbs up. “So good.”

Mike huffs a laugh. “Good.”

He smiles and lays back down. He feels awesome right now, so comfortable and easy, his mind quiet in a way it rarely is. There’s still something though – a pinprick in the back of his mind that warns don’t get too comfortable, don’t speak without thinking.

“C’ I tell you something?” His mouth betrays him anyway.

Will hums.

“I liked it,” Mike says to the ceiling with a big dopey grin.

He feels Will shift on the other end, sitting up. “Wha– getting slapped?”

“Yeah. Made me feel…more real r'something.” He wonders if that’s a strange thing to feel, let alone admit out loud. “Is that weird?”

There’s a quiet laugh from Will, quiet enough that it was probably only meant for himself, but Mike still hears it. He sits up to look at him, frowning without meaning to.

“No!” Will says quickly when he notices the look on Mike’s face. 

Then suddenly he’s climbing toward him across the couch. His movements are so fast – or maybe Mike’s brain is just too slow to track them – and he doesn’t realize what's happening until Will’s hands are already on the sides of his face, squishing his cheeks, shaking his head back and forth.

“No. Mike. Not. Weird.” He says a word with each shake, putting on a silly serious voice, and then he giggles.

Mike can’t help laughing too. “You’re so drunk.”

He loves when Will gets like this – all goofy and carefree, like when they were kids, before they understood that they weren't actually the same person. Before they realized there were things you could do, or say, that would make the other person pull away, even if just for a second.

It's something they've lost and earned back multiple times over the years – this ease between them. The past few months have been good like this though.

“You’re more–" Will hiccups. “Drunker. Can’t feel your face.”

Will hasn't let go. His hands stay, warm against Mike’s cheeks. The rest of Mike’s body feels distant by comparison, numb except for a dull tingling spreading outward.

They’re close enough that he can see the way Will’s eyes are trying to focus on him – so dark but still unmistakably green, a little glassy. His lashes cast a subtle shadow across his flushed cheeks, soft and pink. Mike wants to touch– 

He suddenly feels a little dizzy – not sure if it's the alcohol, or the lingering buzz of adrenaline from earlier. Probably a combination.

He presses outward into Will’s grip, stretching his face into a crooked, exaggerated grimace.

“Scary.” Will shudders, then smiles, pulling his hands away as he sits back down, staying close.

Mike rolls his head sideways on the back of the couch, watching him.

“Promise though,” Will says, quieter this time, sounding slightly more sober. “You’re not weird. Bunch of people lined up after you left.”

Mike huffs a relieved breath through a smile and a slow blink. “Okay, cool.”

It's quiet for a moment. He watches Will pick at a loose thread in the fabric, intent and careful.

"Did you know you liked that kind of stuff?" Will asks, letting his head loll back onto the couch. He moves too fast for how loose he is, and knocks the wood frame with a dull thud.

Mike winces automatically, reaching up to rub the back of his head for him – except Will barely reacts, like he didn’t even feel it, already drifting back into the conversation before Mike can answer.

“Maybe that’s why you pick and bite yourself?” Will muses.

“Yeah. Maybe." Mike shifts slightly on the couch, letting his arm drop down the back. "That’s more mindless though. Doesn't feel the same.”

The room is blurry around the edges, everything’s a second too slow, laggy.

“But some pain… feels good to you?”

Will's eyes are sleepy, but still bright with curiosity, fixed a little too directly on Mike for how heavy his body looks.

“Think so, yeah.”

There’s a mischievous glint in Will’s eyes that Mike recognizes – one that used to mean trouble when they were kids – but he’s too slow to register it before Will reaches out.

“Like that?”

Mike looks down hazily at where his arm got pinched. It takes him a second to even follow his own gaze.

He laughs. “No, not like that.”

Will doesn’t hesitate. He punches him in the arm.

“Uh– ow?” Mike says, more automatic than real.

He swings back at him, but it’s slow and half-hearted, barely connecting. Still, Will immediately goes limp, collapsing backward. His eyes shut, and his tongue lolls out of the corner of his mouth.

Mike leans in and pokes him.

No movement. He’s dead.

“Oh my God,” Mike whispers, dragging a hand through his hair. “What have I done!”

He buries his face in his hands and weeps. 

“Will,” he says his name miserably, over and over again, like it might bring him back.

Then suddenly– 

He’s being attacked, knocked backward, fooled and betrayed by his so-called friend. He tries to fight back, pushing with all his upper-body strength against Will’s shoulders, but it doesn’t matter. He ends up pinned anyway. 

He never wins wrestling matches against Will, especially when it feels like all his connective tissue’s been dissolved by copious amounts of alcohol. Mike lets his head sink into the couch cushion, accepting his fate.

“Ha.” Will smirks, pressing his palm against Mike’s forehead – stay down.

So Mike does. He lays there while Will sits back up, now practically in his lap.

“I really can’t feel my face,” he says, like it’s a scientific update, poking his own cheek. “Crazy.”

Will pokes his cheek too, like it’ll prove it to him. He hums curiously. “I could smack you again. Bet you’d feel your face then.”

Something about the offer, even though he’s pretty sure it’s a joke, makes Mike perk up. He rises halfway onto his elbows and doesn’t even realize he’s nodding until he feels his brains begin to scramble. 

“Yeah, do it.” 

“What?” Will laughs. “I was kidding!”

“No, no. You should do it. I wanna know what it feels like like this.”

Will studies him, looking at him like he’s a strange creature from another planet, but he’s holding back a smile too. Mike grabs Will's wrist, bringing the hand to his cheek, and nearly pulls Will on top of him in the process.

“You’re crazy,” Will says.

Mike replies by winding him up for the pitch, and it makes Will laugh under his breath. He narrows his eyes at Mike, slipping out of his grasp before landing a quick smack.

It's almost nothing at all – snuffing out Mike's buzz before it can even build.

“Will,” Mike huffs. “That was so pathetic. Like you mean it, please.”

Will tilts his head a fraction, like he can't tell if he's actually serious. He searches Mike's face for a moment before something in his expression settles. There's a quick dangerous glint in his eyes, an almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine.”

"Really?"

Mike sounds a little eager to his own ears, but he can't be bothered to feel embarrassment. It's probably not even possible for him right now – the same way water doesn't mix with oil, Mike Wheeler's shame cannot coexist with alcohol in his system.

They have to shift their positions to get a better angle – Mike sits up a bit more, bracing himself against the arm of the couch, while Will moves forward, practically straddling him with one foot on the ground and one knee getting swallowed up by the backside of the couch.

“You’re sure?”

Mike nods, lips parting slightly as the buzz creeps back up. Anticipation ratchets in his chest as his gaze flicks between Will's eyes. He knows he'll do it for real this time. 

He’s confused at first when both hands come up to his face, but it clicks as his glasses slide off. Will sets them carefully on the coffee table.

Mike's too preoccupied by the partial weight of Will in his lap, by how he rests a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, by the way his tongue is poking out from the side of his mouth – he misses the wind up entirely.

The smack lands hard across his face, comically loud in the early morning quiet of the room. His head turns slightly with the impact and he stays there for a moment, letting the rest of him catch up.

Stars burst to life behind his eyes, and his whole body follows, coming into tune. It’s like when you have to shake the static from the TV – yeah, that’s what it feels like – and the picture sharpens into focus.

He feels so here. So now.

“Whoa,” Mike breathes, realizing distantly that he’s smiling.

“You really like that?” Will asks, more a wondering statement than an actual question.

Mike slowly opens his eyes, nodding. “You should do the other side.”

“Mike…”

“Just to even it out.”

Will settles more of his weight onto Mike’s thighs, breathing out slowly through his nose. “Is this one of those things where I accidentally step on your foot, and then you have to stomp on the other one because it feels wrong?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Mike smiles faintly, amused by how well Will knows him. Somehow comforted by it, too. He realizes, just then, how good it feels – to be known like that. To be seen and acknowledged, the details of him tucked away somewhere safe. He blinks slowly as the feeling settles over him.

Will brings a hand back to Mike's face, to the same side, but he only runs his fingertips lightly over the spot. It’s strange – the same hands that felt so warm before now feel cool against his cheek, a contrast to the heat rising under his skin.

“It's all red now,” Will says.

Mike watches him. Watches the way his expression softens with concern. It makes something in his chest twist a little.

Will’s the gentlest person he knows. Maybe he doesn’t like this. He probably doesn’t.

“You don’t have to,” Mike says quietly.

“No, I’ll do it." Will meets his eyes. “If you really want me to.”

Mike does. There’s no good reason for it – nothing he can point to or explain – but he really, really wants him to.

He can’t say that out loud.

So he just nods, his gaze flicking between Will’s eyes.

There’s something very intimate about this. About wanting something and asking for it. About being willing to give it.

“Okay,” Will says, switching hands. He rubs his palm against his cheek, like he’s lining up the shot.

This time, Mike’s heart is pounding as he watches Will's every move, every expression. His breath catches in his chest, and the sudden lack of it only makes the pounding even louder in his ears. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he just reaches out in front, stopping when he hits Will's thighs.

Will watches as he places his hands, then meets Mike's eyes. There’s a small smile there now, almost like a final warning. His eyebrows lift – you sure?

Mike answers with a quick wink, before he can think about it anymore – go on.

He shuts his eyes at the last second, stomach dropping like he’s on a rollercoaster as the smack lands, and a low groan drags out of him before he can stop it. His chest rises and falls heavily as he breathes slowly through his nose, trying to steady his racing heart.

When he opens his eyes, Will looks shocked.

For a second, Mike thinks something’s wrong – like maybe he hit him too hard, maybe he actually hurt him somehow? But he feels fine. He feels amazing, actually.

Then Will shifts slightly in his lap, and Mike feels it immediately – the way the fabric of his pajama pants pulls a little more taut.

Will’s eyes flick down. Then quickly back up.

Oh.

Mike’s eyes go wide.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Will looks down again.

He barely hears it – Will saying his name – but what he definitely does notice is the way Will’s breathing has changed too.

Mike hasn't moved his hands from Will's thighs. If anything, his grip has tightened, like it might stop him from spiraling.

Because, right now, his head is absolutely spinning.

Nothing makes sense – not the way Will’s hand is sliding down his neck, not the light press of his thumb just over his wild pulse. Not the way he can feel his heartbeat everywhere, or the low ringing in his ears layered under Will’s shallow breathing.

“It’s okay,” Will is saying. “You’re okay. It… um, it makes sense.”

His hand moves again, coming to rest over Mike’s chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to steady it. Will finally meets his eyes again, looking like he’s waiting for something.

Mike just blinks at him.

Did he ask him a question?

He has no idea. Everything feels muffled and delayed.

Will shifts, like he might try to move off– 

Then he stills, and Mike looks down, only just realizing what he’s doing – his hands seem to have moved on their own, gripping, not letting Will go. And with his gaze lowered, Mike notices something else.

Will is hard too.

His breath stutters. Their eyes meet, holding for the briefest moment before breaking.

Mike watches himself pull Will closer – one arm wrapping around his waist, the other sliding up to the back of his neck as he shifts himself upward. And that’s either the dumbest or best thing he’s ever done, because he’s suddenly electrified by the friction between them, leaving only static in his mind.

A breath slips out of Mike at the same time Will makes a small, unsteady sound.

He can’t pull his eyes from the space between them – where they’re so close now, neither of them shying away, too obvious to be accidental anymore.

When he looks up again, Will is already watching him. He leans in until their foreheads touch, bracing both hands on the arm of the couch behind Mike.

The shift lifts some of Will’s weight off his lap for a moment – but only briefly – before he settles, pressing against him on purpose this time, and then, just slightly, dragging his hips forward.

Mike hears himself let out a low groan. His eyes lose focus, fluttering shut.

“Do that again,” he says, voice rougher than he expects. He opens his eyes to find Will's. "Please."

Will's breath is hot against his face.

"Okay," he says quietly, and rolls his hips down again, using more pressure.

Their groans overlap.

Mike's heart is about to explode. He notices that both hands are on Will's waist now, and that the fabric has been catching again as they rubbed against each other, pulling Will's pants down little by little.

His thumbs hook under the hem of Will’s shirt, lifting it just enough to get it out of the way, just enough to see more of him – warm skin, the line of his stomach, his bellybutton and the hair that trails down from there. He's transfixed by the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the way his core tightens a second before he moves against him.

“Ohh– fuck.”

Mike arches his back slightly without meaning to, hips lifting off the couch just enough to meet Will's again, chasing the contact. He uses the grip he has on Will's waist as leverage, grinding up against him as his head falls back.

What is hap– We shou– I–

Thoughts try and fail to land, but any words that manage to take a stand are knocked over by the sheer momentum of what his body wants right now.

Mike drops back fully into the couch, and Will follows, toppling forward until their chests come flush together. His face settles into the crook of Mike’s neck, tickling him with his humid breath.

Everything turns chaotic at once. Their hips bump together in an uneven rhythm, out of sync, both of them hot and breathless, making sounds they've never heard from each other before.

He slides his hands up Will’s back, under his shirt, crossing them at his spine to pull him closer.

"Will," he gasps into his hair. "You feel so good."

Mike feels more than hears the moan against his neck, vibrating into his throat like he could swallow it. Will lifts his head as much as he can, given how tight Mike is holding him. His eyes are so dark and heavy-lidded, it makes Mike’s heart hammer in his chest.

His hands drift down, down, until they stop at Will's ass, and holy shit – it feels perfect in his hands, they wouldn’t move any lower even if they could. He pulls him closer again.

"Mike–" 

Will's eyes flutter shut as he says his name, sounding so desperate. He lets out another moan – louder now out in the open. It goes straight through Mike, ringing in his mind like a bell. Everything in him narrows to a single focus, he has to hear that sound again.

More more more.

Mike's mouth falls open. He uses his grip on Will to drive his hips upward, over and over, getting what he wants. Will starts making the most amazing noises – little huffs of air punctuated by some quiet and some not-so-quiet moans. He drops his head down, like it's suddenly too heavy to hold up anymore, his face turned toward Mike's as it settles there.

They're basically cheek to cheek, mouths slightly offset, only a breath apart. Mike can feel drool somewhere near his chin and has no idea whose it is. He twists his face down just enough, trying to find Will's eyes, but they're up too close.

The movement brings the corners of their mouths together, and a faint electric pull sparks where they touch, setting off a new desire. He wants to follow it, let his lips and tongue do what they will, but then he’s overwhelmed again, rushing back into the rest of his body. 

“Oh God–” Mike’s head jerks back, away from Will’s face. He lifts his right hand without thinking, tangling in Will's hair, holding him there in the crook of his neck, while the other hand grips tighter, keeping their hips together. His body continues to chase friction, grinding against Will at an increasingly frantic pace. 

The sounds coming from Will are insane, and Mike’s sure he’s going to go insane from hearing them. They get more and more desperate, spaced out less and less, stealing the air from his lungs each time. He's dizzy from it – not getting a chance to catch his breath.

Suddenly Will’s hips stutter, then go still. He cries out, but the sound is muffled when he bites down on Mike’s neck.

Holy fuck.

Mike lets out a loud groan. His eyes roll back as he feels the sharp, localized sting mix with the intense full-body pleasure that builds and builds, until it all crashes over him at once. He buries his face in Will's hair, cursing as he comes so hard, he sees stars.

For a while, all he can do is breathe.

Will’s weight is warm and heavy on top of him, and he’s dimly aware of the extra effort it takes to fill and empty his lungs like this – but he doesn’t mind.

There's a calm all throughout him that he's not used to. The rest of his body hums pleasantly, feeling sort of distant, like it’s being remotely operated. He doesn’t even notice his fingers moving through the hair at the back of Will’s head until he lifts it up.

Their eyes meet, and it's like a spark. 

Thoughts flicker at the edges of his recently emptied mind, bouncing around the space frantically and too fast to be grasped yet.

At first, Will just looks dazed, but then his eyes go wide. 

He rolls off of Mike, and the loss of his weight makes Mike feel suddenly exposed. It's way too easy to breathe now, his lungs drag in the room's cold, sobering air.

More oxygen to his brain. More thoughts flaring to life.

Oh, God.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Will lands on the floor, bracing a hand against the coffee table as he pulls himself up to sit. Mike stays exactly where he is.

He stares at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying desperately to maintain the emptiness in his head, but it's like clinging to air. Thoughts ricochet off the walls of his mind, colliding with each other into a tangle of anxiety.

What-did-you-just-do-what-is-happening-why-did-you-do-that-what's-gonna-happen-now?

It’s too fucking quiet. One of them needs to say something, but it won’t be Mike. He can’t even look at Will, terrified of whatever's written on his face.

"Uh… think I'll take my shower now," Will says quietly.

Mike hears him crawl away – which, in any other situation, would totally make him laugh – then the quiet shift as he stands, the sound of his bare feet padding softly toward the bathroom.

It's like he's under the Paralyzed condition. He can't move until he knows for sure that Will is out of range – until he hears the screech of the shower curtain and the complaint of the pipes before they finally spit out water.

Mike finally stops trying to shut his mind down. He still keeps it contained though, focusing only on the small, immediate things.

The first thing he notices is how gross he feels. He’s sticky with sweat all over, but the worst of it is obviously in his pants. Thankfully, he brought a change of clothes. He pulls the clean pair of boxers out of his bag, and walks into the kitchen.

Will just got into the shower, so it’s unlikely he’ll catch him doing this out in the open. Mike moves quickly anyway. It’s not ideal, but he doesn’t have many options – he wets a paper towel at the sink and drops his pants. 

It’s kind of the worst feeling in the world – his stomach twists as he rolls up his dirty clothes and tosses the paper towel. His throat is weirdly tight. All he wants is to lay down, get warm under the covers as soon as possible. So he does.

The room feels foreign to him now. The sound of the shower running is proof that there’s someone else in the apartment, but as he lays on the couch, staring through the dark at the blank ceiling, it starts to sound like it could just be static, and he starts to feel like he could be alone.

They should definitely talk about this, right? Will’s gonna get out of the shower, put on new pajamas, and walk out here. He’s gonna sit on the opposite end of the couch, and they’re gonna talk about what just happened. Then he can sleep.

Mike yawns. His eyes close before he can stop them.

Static. 

Nothing.