#mikeandwill

the boys barrel into each other like starving dogs; two beasts thrown into the same frantic, shivering arena.

there was no slow approach, no polite space between them; just a sudden rush of mouths, lips, teeth. marrow clashing, noses bumping, hands clutching and fisting into fabric as if letting go would undo it all.

they’re reduced to a collision of bodies, hearts hammering against sternums like wood on mylar, twin drums pounding to the same beat. lips smashing together with a force that kidnaps breath and sense alike. fingers claw at shoulders, hair, collars; anything to anchor themselves to the reality of each other.

will’s voice breaks against mike’s slack jaw, “i… i didn’t know…”

mike captures the smaller boy’s chin between his fingertips, pulling him in, teeth grazing his mouth. “you didn’t know?”

the air burns, thick with wanton, every almost-touch, every season of restraint pressing into that one desperate, trembling kiss. heat, friction, longing, and the wild, unstoppable pull of years unspent finally erupting between them.

will’s hands fist in mike’s shirt, “why?” he croaks, “why didn’t you say anything?”

mike’s lips press to will’s neck, voice low and trembling against the gooseflesh. "i didn’t think… i didn’t know if you felt the same. i’ve been so scared to say it. but i can’t anymore.”

will racks his brain for explanations he knows won’t come; but this time, the thoughts don’t stay in his head; they tumble out of him in a shaking rush as his fingers clutch at mike’s shoulders, knuckles whitening.

“why now?” he breathes, voice breaking. “god, mike, why not sooner? do you know how long i’ve… how long i’ve been furious and lonely and so damn sure you didn’t feel anything? i was angry at you, and at myself, and at everything because i thought… i thought you’d never…”

will’s grip tightens as he presses closer, his legs trembling beneath him.

“all this time you’ve been right here, and now you want me. now, after everything. after all the nights i tried to convince myself to tell you, and then backed out because i didn’t want to ruin the goddamned friendship.”

will grits his teeth, mouth twisting like he’s chewing on his cheek, “and now?” his voice breaks, “look what’s become of this friendship i tried tooth and fucking nail to keep sacred.” his hands slide down mike’s chest, tears streaming down his flushed face as he leans heavily into the taller boy. despite the pain in his chest, he knows his legs would fail him and he'd hit the asphalt hard if it weren’t for mike’s weight holding him up.

“i spent years thinking it was one-sided,” he whispers, almost choking on it. “thinking i was just… wishing too hard.” will blabbers quietly, a pathetic stream of consciousness halted only by mike’s lips on his once more. 

mike kisses him again, only this time, it’s nothing like the frantic, terrified press from before, it’s slow. a slow, trembling apology shaped like mike wheeler’s lips.

will goes rigid for a moment, a soft, broken sound catching in his throat. his hands, still resting on mike’s chest, curl into fists, gripping the fabric there like it’s the only steady thing he has left in the world.

when mike finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead falls against will’s. their noses brush. will’s tears wet both their cheeks.

mike’s voice is barely a whisper. “i know,” he says, and he sounds wrecked. “i know what i did to you. i didn’t mean to. i was scared. i…god, will, i was so scared.”

will huffs out something like a laugh, something like a sob. “you think i wasn’t?” he whispers. “you think i didn’t—every time you smiled at me, every time you pulled away from me—i thought it was because i was wrong. because i was reading everything wrong.”

mike’s breath shudders. his hands come up, hovering like he’s afraid to touch, like he’s afraid he’s already used up his right to.

will doesn’t let him hesitate. he grabs mike’s wrists and guides them to his own waist, holding them there. holding him there.

“you don’t get to be scared now,” will whispers, voice cracking. “not after everything. if you’re here… then be here. don’t… don’t disappear on me again.”

mike’s mouth falls open like he wants to explain, or apologize, or fall apart entirely, but no words make it out. he just pulls will in tighter, arms cinching around him with something close to desperation.

will buries his face in the warm space beneath mike’s jaw, breath shaking. “i can’t do that again,” he murmurs into his skin. “i can’t go back to pretending.”

mike’s arms tremble around him. “then don’t,” he whispers. “don’t pretend. not with me. not anymore.”

will’s eyes squeeze shut. the pain loosens, just enough to let a sliver of something else in...

hope. 

mike’s arms tighten around him, as if will might slip through his fingers again. will clings back just as fiercely, the ache in his chest slowly blooming into something hotter, sharper, unbearably alive.

the apology in mike’s breath becomes something else—need, fear, longing, years of it—sparking between them like flint.

will lifts his head first. his face is blotchy, tear-streaked, but there’s something else there, too; something raw and unguarded. mike looks at him like he’s seeing a face he never thought he deserved.

and that is all the space they allow themselves before gravity wins.

they crash together again.

their hands roam frantically, like they’re memorizing things untouched, the contours of things sacred and dangerous; things they’ve been starving to touch—shoulders, jawlines, the tense curves of arms pulling each other closer. swallowed breaths and half-formed confessions press against the edges of every frantic kiss. they kiss like the night would swallow them whole if they stopped, like all the time lost might collapse back into their hands if they only held tight enough.

mike tears his mouth away just long enough to gasp, “i thought you’d never want this. i thought…”

“shut up,” will whispers against his lips, voice shaking. “just…don’t stop.”

mike’s smile shows in the kiss itself; feral, desperate, trembling with something close to relief. desperation bubbles behind adam's apples, curling up their throats, nipping through tangled tongues and every sound they fail to push down, until the world collapses into teeth, lips, and skin fused impossibly close.

mike’s hands move with feverish certainty, one gripping will’s waist, the other threading into his hair and guiding him nearer. the press of their bodies is insistent, almost frantic, mike’s warmth burning through will’s trembling frame until he’s breathless and unsteady.

will clings to him, fingers curling into mike’s shirt, sliding along arms that feel commanding and steady. every kiss, every flick of tongue, is sharp, raw, and urgent; boiling over with unspoken claims and years of held-back longing. will gasps into mike’s mouth, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, dizzy with the ferocity of it all.

“god, mike,” he manages, voice breaking. “i waited so long. i hated myself for it.”

mike’s teeth graze the corner of Will’s mouth in something like a startled, hungry kiss, not quite gentle, not quite careful, just honest. will jerks at the spark of it, sliding his hands down mike’s shoulders and back; gripping, pulling, holding fast.

“you never had to,” mike breathes against his cheek. “i wanted you every damn day.”

heat flares through will, mixing with the shock of realization…mike wants him… wanted him all this time. the thought makes will respond with equal fervor, pressing harder into mike, letting his body echo the intensity of the taller boy’s friction.

their breathing stutters and tangles, ragged bursts and shared gasps between kisses, the rhythm wild and messy. their hands roam, finding anything they can grasp; holding, squeezing, claiming… as if fear and need are indistinguishable in the dark.

will pulls back just far enough to see mike’s face; flushed, desperate, eyes wide like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he blinks.

“mike,” he whispers, breath trembling against his chin, “i don’t… i don’t want this to be something we pretend didn’t happen.”

mike’s hands tighten at will’s waist, not rough, just certain. “i won’t pretend. not after this. not after you.” mike's voice is steady, reassuring. "don't even question it, will."

will’s chest caves with something sharp and tender, an ache that feels like years collapsing at his feet. he leans in again, slower this time, but no less desperate, hands sliding up to cradle mike’s jaw, like he needs to feel the shape of the truth under his palms.

their foreheads press together, breaths mingling, the night humming around them like it’s holding its own inhale.

will’s voice breaks, small but sure. “then… stay. just stay with me.”

mike closes his eyes and nods, a soft exhale brushing will’s lips. "i've been trying to,” he murmurs. “i just didn’t know if I was allowed.”

the tenderness of it knocks something loose in will. he presses close, arms winding around mike’s shoulders, pulling him in until there’s no space left between them.

“you are,” he breathes, grounding himself in the warmth, “you always were.”

and there, in the charged quiet after the rush of it all, in the lingering heat of their breaths, the faint tremble in mike’s hands, the way will fits against him like something finally found.

will collapses into the curve of mike’s body as if he were made for it. his forehead tucks instinctively beneath mike’s jaw, breath warming the hollow of his throat. mike’s arms wrap around him without thought—one crossing will’s back, the other anchoring low at his side—locking him into a hold so natural it feels pre-written into the shape of him.

will’s cheek finds the space just above mike’s collarbone, the place where his scent is warmest, where mike can rest his chin in will’s hair and feel him breathe. it fits too easily, too tenderly; will’s body molding into the lines of mike’s like he’d been leaning into him his whole life without knowing it.

mike feels the exact moment will settles, the moment his shaking quiets, the moment he lets himself belong. and mike’s hold tightens, almost unconsciously, as if to say yes, here, this is where you fit.

will’s breath catches, soft and disbelieving, against mike’s throat. mike closes his eyes, turning his face just enough that his cheek brushes will’s hair. the gentlest, most instinctual touch, like he’s finally allowed to hold what he’s been aching for.

their bodies align in a way that feels impossibly right, and together, they feel like something that had been waiting to click into place for years finally had...

a truth they can no longer outrun.

"Are you okay? Like seriously? You seem off." Will asked genuinely concerned. "Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actuallly!" Mike glanced down at the pillow, wishing his erection would disapear. Will followed Mike's glace. Will furrowed his brows in confusion. "Okay..?" Will shrugged the confusion away.

"I'm so tired, I stayed up late last night doing the paper." Will yawned and leaned his head agaisnt Mike's shoulder. "What paper?" Mike let out a shaky breath. "The science paper." "Oh, I forgot about that." Will rolled his eyes.

"Are you hungry?" Mike nodded his head and hummed. "What do you want?" "Pizza?" "But we literally just had that yesterday." Will whined again, adding to Mike's already throbbing erection. Mike bit his lip, containing a moan. "Then, why'd you ask?" "I figured you'd have a sensible answer. What about burgers?" Will asked.

Will lifted his head off Mike's shoulder and repositioned himself so his head laid on Mike's lap, applying pressure to his erection. He subconsciously let out a quiet moan. The two boys stayed still. Neither of them knowing how to react.

"Sorry." Will spoke first, quickly removing his head from Mike's lap. "I didn't realize.." Will trailed off. "Sorry." Mike apologized. There was an awkward tension in the room. "So pizza?" Will asked, laughing awkwardly. "I thought you said-" "I don't care." Mike nodded and Will stood up from the couch and walked toward the landline.

Mike tuned Will's voice out and focused on his aching erection. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to think about anything else. "Mike!" Wills voice brought Mike out of mind. He opened his eyes, focusing on him. "Sorry, what?" Mike cleared his throat. "Do you want pepperoni?" "Yeah, sure." Will sighed and continued ordering. "Yeah. Thank you." Will hung up the phone. "15 minutes." Mike nodded as Will sat back down.

The room was silent, less awkward than before but still uncomfortable. "I'm really sorry." Mike broke the silence. "It's fine. It's normal." Will bit his lip. Mike nodded and awkward silence filled the room again. Only the sounds of Mike's family on the floor above could be heard.

"So, um.." Will started, looking at Mike. "The science paper was really hard-" "Can you please help me?" Mike cut Will off, looking down at the floor. "What..?" Will questions, unsure if he heard his best friend right. "Can you help me?" "Help you? With your.." Will trailed off but gestered to Mike's crotch with his head. "Please." Mike pleaded, still looking at the ground. "Mike.. I.." Will started.

"Sorry. Nevermind. I shouldn't have asked. That was really-" Mike was cut off from the pillow being removed from his lap and Will in front of him, on his knees. He quickly undid Mike's belt and pulling down his pants to his mid thigh, exposing his erection. "Why aren't you wearing underwear?" Will asked taking Mike's dick in his hand, pumping it slowly.

"Fuck. I don't...I don't know." Mike stuttered, breathing heavily. Will laughed and licked the pre cum off his tip. "Oh god." Mike moaned out, bucking his hips upward. Will took the tip in his mouth slowly, teasing him. "You're killin' me, Will." Mike sighed out. Will smiled and lowered his mouth onto Mike's entire length. "Oh my god. Fuck, Will." Mike closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch.

Will slowly bobbed his head up and down. "Just like that. Fuck!" Mike moaned and grabbed Will's hair, tugging on it slightly. Will sped up his pace, enjoying the sounds the man above him made. "Fuck, Will. Why are you so.. holy fuck, good at this?"

Mike bucked his hips up, gagging Will in the process. "Sorry." Mike apologized, though he didn't really mean it. Will continued bobbing his head up and down, keeping a steady pace. "Will, m'gonna cum." Mike squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Will fastened his pace, drawing Mike closer to the edge.

"Oh my god! Will! Holy fuck! Will!" Mike cried out as he came. Will pulled his head off Mike's sensitive cock, swallowing Mike's cum. "You didn't have to swallow." Mike panted out while Will wiped is mouth. "I know." Will got up from his knees and sat back down on the couch. Mike pulled his jeans back up as he calmed down from his high.

Following the incident that essentially cleaved Hawkins in two, the Byers had taken up residence at the Wheelers’, tiptoeing over boundaries, sidestepping narrow halls, biting their tongues, and skimming along the wallpaper. The arrangement was strained at best, but it worked. For now.  

The air in the house had gone stale, carrying that burnt-dust scent from the vents when the heat’s switched on for the first time; caught somewhere between too many bodies in too little space and late summer quietly giving way to early fall. That same in-between feeling seemed to set everything else in motion. 

The house vibrated with its familiar disorder, a hum of life threading through the walls. Music leaked from bedrooms, conversations collided and overlapped, all while the kitchen radio battled to make itself heard over the din. Plates rattled against counters, toast browned a shade too far, syrup bottles wobbled dangerously on the crowded table. And through it all, Will’s gaze kept drifting toward Mike, drawn like iron filings to a quietly insistent magnet, a pull he had long ceased to deny.

Nancy sits quietly at the table, absently poking at the scrambled eggs on her plate, eyes half on the conversation and half elsewhere.  “Jonathan coughed up a lung earlier,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Failed to inform anyone.” She sighs, setting her silverware down with a soft clink. “I’ll be in and out of the basement to check on him.”

Will and his older brother, Jonathan, had set up camp in the Wheelers’ basement since the so-called “move.” The space was stuffy, the temperature a mutinous thing, rising and falling despite Jonathan's late-night fiddling with the thermostat. It’s no wonder he’d gotten sick.

“Will,” Nancy began again, her voice was soft, but carried with it a subtle insistence.  “I don’t want you getting sick—we can’t have you sick. Especially not now.” She scrubs a hand across her face, then shifts her gaze from her plate to him, “Why don’t you stay upstairs tonight?”

Will freezes mid-chew, fork suspended in the air as his stomach gives an unpredictable flip. “Where… upstairs?” his voice cracks, betraying the nervous thrum he’d been trying so hard to conceal. 

Nancy's gaze softens, “Mike’s room. He has the bigger one, and… I just don’t want you getting sick down there. You need a proper bed, some space… a little peace, even if it’s just for one night.”

Will’s pulse leaps. Upstairs. Mike’s room. Alone with him. Heat prickles at the nape of his neck, and his gaze darts to the cluttered table as if it held all the answers. “Alone… with Mike?” he croaks. 

Nancy shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You’ll survive. Maybe even enjoy it.”

Will’s eyes flicker across the table, landing on Mike. He's calm, infuriatingly so. It's the kind of calm that makes Will’s thoughts scatter.

“It’s not like we’ve never had a sleepover before,” Mike says casually, freckled grin in place. “We’ve basically been friends since we were in diapers.”

Will’s stomach churns again. 

No, not diapers. Kindergarten.

He’d been…aware of Mike for as long as he could remember; back when the world was innocent, when they’d shared snacks, traded stickers, and chased each other across playgrounds. Back then, it had been small and easy, something he could manage. Now, that shy seed of a crush had unfurled into a full-throated rose, sprouted big and riddled with thorns. Now, the thought of sharing a room—sharing a bed—with Mike Wheeler made Will's chest tight, his pulse erratic, and his thoughts betray him entirely.

“I… yeah,” Will mutters, forcing a semblance of steadiness into his voice, “I know. It’s just… It’s been a while, you know?”

Mike’s smirk flashes, a hint of amusement settling there. “Yeah… it has,” he says, leaning forward on the table. “But nothing’s changed. Same old sleepover rules. Don’t take up the whole bed, and try not to hog the blankets…”

Will nods, fingers thrumming nervously against his plate as the clatter of breakfast slides into a muted hum. All that remained was the way Mike’s presence pounded heavily on his chest, like wood on mylar, a gifted drummer staking his claim. 

Mike catches the subtle shift, the tiny tilt of Will’s fork. His voice softens, just low enough to thread through the chaos: “Relax, Will. It’s just a room. Just me. You’re making it way scarier than it is.”

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

The house had quieted, though not entirely. Upstairs, the dull hum of the refrigerator mingled with distant laughter and the occasional creak of floorboards. Shadows pooled in the corners of the hall as Will moved carefully, like he was balancing on a wire strung tight over a pit of nerves.

His backpack hung off one shoulder, suddenly impossibly heavy despite being nearly empty. Every creak of the floorboards made his pulse spike, sharp and stupid. Mike’s room. Just a room. Just Mike. Will huffs out a scoff, shaking his head at himself. How could something so incredibly innocuous turn his legs to jelly and send his heartbeat into open rebellion?

He stops outside the door, hand hovering over the knob. His fingers tremble despite himself. The hallway was empty, silent, save for the faint sound of Jonathan coughing downstairs and the muted ticking of a wall clock.

Mike’s voice floats from the slightly ajar door before he could knock. “You’re here,” he says. “Thought you might chicken out.”

Will swallows hard. “I didn’t… I mean… yeah. I’m here.”

Mike steps aside, letting him in. The room was dim, the soft glow of a bedside lamp painting everything in amber. Posters lined the walls, comic books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, and the bed—Mike’s bed—looked far too inviting, far too close.

“Nancy says I snore,” Mike says lightly, tossing Will's bag onto the floor, “but I don’t think so.” He gives a small shrug, settling onto the edge of the bed with casual ease. 

Will’s heart hammers in his chest. “I’ll… manage,” he mutters, stepping inside. Every nerve felt alive, taut with anticipation. He focused on the floor, the wall, anything to keep from noticing the way Mike’s presence made the air between them feel.

Mike’s eyes follow him, amused, as he leans back, propping himself on one elbow. “Relax, Will,” he says, “It’s just me.”

And yet, it felt like everything.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

By the time they spread the board game across the carpet, the last lick of sunlight had finally dipped below the trees, and the room was now bathed only in the glow of the lamp on Mike's nightstand. Will sits cross-legged, fingers brushing the game pieces more than necessary.

Mike leans back on his hands, relaxed, easy—but Will could feel it: the subtle charge in the air, the way every glance or careless smile only made his stubborn heart beat faster. “I swear, you’re trying to psych me out,” Mike says, eyes darting towards Will, just once, before moving his piece with exaggerated care.

“I’m not…” Will's voice trails off. His hands tremble slightly as he sets his piece down, painfully aware of how close Mike’s knee was to his own.

“You know,” Mike says, “you always overthink everything. Even board games.”

Will's throat goes dry. “Maybe I just… like winning?” he mutters, though his attention had long since drifted from the game. He could feel the warmth radiating off Mike, the faint scent of soap and something else—something uniquely Mike—filling the small space.

Mike smirks, leaning a little closer. “Right… ‘like winning,’ sure. That’s what you call it.” His knee brushes Will’s again, a barely-there graze; accidental… or, maybe not. He tries to focus on the board, but it feels utterly impossible now.

The dice clatter across the board, echoing softly in the quiet room. 

Will exhales sharply, trying to anchor himself to the game, but his hands betray him, fidgeting with a piece as if it could somehow absorb the pressure.

“Hey, careful,” Mike says suddenly, nudging Will's elbow lightly with his own. “You’re blocking my path.”

“I’m not—” Will snaps, too quickly, his words coming out sharper than intended. He immediately regrets it, cheeks heating.

Mike raises an amused eyebrow, leaning back just enough to grin down at Will. “Sure you’re not,” he teases, “Watch out, or I’ll move your piece for you.”

Will's hands shoot up defensively, but Mike’s faster, pushing the piece back with a playful shove. “Hey!” Will protests, the word coming out in a strangled laugh.

“Relax,” Mike says, smiling, “I’m just making the game interesting.”

Will jabs lightly at Mike’s shoulder in retaliation, but Mike catches his wrist, holding it between them. “Oh, come on,” Mike says, “you’re supposed to be the competitor. Don’t tell me you’re scared of losing to me.”

“I’m not scared!” Will protests.

“Sure,” Mike says softly, “Not scared at all.

Will’s heart skips a beat. He wanted to argue, wanted to shove Mike away—or maybe closer—but before he could do either, Mike nudges him again. It's playful, but frustrating all the same. Will's hands instinctively reach out to steady himself, colliding with Mike’s in the process.

The boys freeze, eyes locking, breaths hitching, the game forgotten between them. For a long moment, neither of them moves.

“Why are you so scared, Will?” Mike’s voice is low, insistent, but not gentle. It cuts through the cold space between them like a hot blade.

And there, Will's carefully constructed shield cracks.

“I’m not scared!” Will shoots back, louder than he meant to, heat flooding his face. His hands shook as he shoved at Mike—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. “I’m not scared of you!”

Mike’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Then why are you always so… anxious? Always overthinking, always flinching at everything I do?” His push is sharper this time, more frustrated, and Will stumbles back against the carpet.

“I’m not anxious!” Will yelps, “Maybe I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do around you!”

Mike’s expression falters for just a second, then hardens again. “Well, maybe stop acting like every little thing is some huge deal! You can’t just… sit there, tense, and expect me to—”

“Expect you to what?!” Will snaps, shoving again, frustration and something heavier—something he couldn’t name—pushing through him. “Maybe I just don’t know how to deal with you!”

The room seemed smaller, the lamplight warmer, heavier, pressing down on the tension pulled taut between them, threatening to snap. Their shoves became tangled, half playful, half angry, hands brushing, knees bumping. Every jab carried with it something more than irritation; it carried feelings dying on tongues, truths neither of them could muster up the courage to admit.

“You make everything so complicated! And I’m tired of it!” Mike hisses.

“I’m not the one making this complicated!” Will shoots back. He rakes his fingers through his hair, chest heaving, “Maybe if you didn’t—didn’t—” He trails off, words failing him as Mike’s gaze pins him in place.

And just like that, the anger, the frustration, the heat—it all collided. Their hands met, brushing, gripping, shoving, faltering between hitting and holding. 

Neither of them knew what to do next, but neither could stop.

Will shoves again, harder this time, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “I—” His words die in his throat as Mike lunges forward slightly, their torsos colliding, hands tangling. Heat flares between them; sharp, undeniable.

Mike’s eyes widen for a split second, then, before Will can step back or protest, he leans in, cutting him off by pressing his lips to Will’s.

Will freezes, heart threatening to leap from his chest. His hands lift instinctively, brushing against Mike’s shoulders, gripping just enough to steady himself so he doesn't tumble backwards from the force—but the motion only presses them closer.

Mike’s lips are warm, firm, and for a moment, everything else—the shoves, the suppression, the resentment—collapses into this one consuming instant. Years of misdirected energy finally find their release. The boys barrel into each other like starving dogs, two beasts thrown into the same frantic, shivering arena.

There’s no slow approach, no polite space between them, just a sudden rush of mouths, lips, and teeth; marrow clashing, noses bumping, hands clutching and fisting into fabric as if letting go would undo it all.

They’re reduced to a collision of bodies, hearts hammering against sternums like mallets on skin; twin drums pounding to the same beat. It's that very rhythm that drives them together, lips crashing with a force that steals breath and sense alike.

Fingers claw at shoulders, at hair, at collars, anything to anchor themselves to the reality of each other.

Mike’s hands find Will’s sides, grabbing for purchase on the steady shoulders before him. His chest presses against Will’s, harsh and soft all at once. The kiss is messy, flustered, urgent—not gentle, not practiced—but it carries everything they’ve been bottling up: frustration, longing, confusion, the heat of emotions neither could name.

Will’s mind reels. Part of him wants to push away, to scream, to remind himself of boundaries—but another part, a part he’s been trying to ignore for years, melts into the contact, leaning in despite the molten heat of guilt pooling in his gut.

When they finally pull back, even just a breath apart, their foreheads brush, and both of them gasp, wide-eyed.

Will's chest heaves, hands trembling slightly as he attempts to catch his breath against Mike’s slack jaw. It takes him a moment to collect himself, realizing just how close they are; far too close to call it innocent. Mike’s smirk had softened into something vulnerable, something almost manageable. His expression was provocative and tender all at the same time, a face only Mike could pull off. 

The board game lay forgotten, dice scattered across the carpet. 

Will's hands fly to his face like he could shield himself from the chaos of his own pulse, reverberating through his flesh like fists on hollow doors.

“I—" the dryness of Will's mouth makes the noise come out hoarse and choked. Embarrassed, he clears his throat, and this time, the sound escapes with more clarity, "I didn’t—” he tries again, but the words catch on his tongue, swallowed by the pounding in his ears.

Mike blinks, just once, hands still hovering near Will as if letting go too quickly would break him. “Yeah… wow, uh,” he mutters.

Will exhales through his nose, heat burning his cheeks, spreading down his neck, into his chest. He wanted to shove, to argue, to deny it all—but the memory of Mike’s lips, the weight of Mike’s body against his, lingered hot in every nerve. “I—It’s not—”

“It’s fine,” Mike interrupts, hands finally dropping to his sides, though his eyes stay locked on Will’s. “It’s just… I didn’t expect it. Didn’t mean to—” His words falter, voice softening, catching on itself.

Will's chest heaves, trying to catch air that feels too thin. “Yeah. Me neither,” he admits finally. He wanted to step away, but his legs felt rooted to the carpet, and something in him refused to move.

Mike’s lips twitch into a small smile—still playful, but gentler, careful now. 

Will's hand itched to push Mike, to shove him away, but all he could do was stare, mouth dry, pulse racing. “We’re… not… supposed to…,” he squeaks, fumbling over the words.

Mike’s smirk dissipates, replaced by a flicker of something softer, something almost hesitant. His eyes drop to Will's lips for a heartbeat, then back to his eyes, searching. “Yeah… I know,” he murmurs, “But I… can’t stop thinking about it.”

Before Will could process, before he could step back or argue, Mike leans in again.

Except this time, there's no hesitation.

The urgency of the touch makes Will's stomach swoop downward, like the wild lurch of a coaster dropping off its peak. His hands fly up, bracing against Mike’s shoulders, but it's impossible to resist. The heat radiating off Mike feels electric, crawling across his skin, sparking along his spine, igniting something raw and dizzying inside him.

Will's body shivers against the pressure.

He wants so badly to slip into Mike's lap, press his palm to bare, freckled flesh, and count the rhythm of the heart that beats there; just to know he's real.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Is this real?

Mike nudges forward, pressing his tongue into Will’s mouth. The suddenness steals Will’s breath, a jolt of shock that leaves him momentarily rigid. It’s daring, unexpected, and somehow exactly what he needed. Will swallows hard, the last trace of stiffness in his body easing with a timid gulp.

And there, it clicks.

Will tilts his head, answering Mike boldly, matching the motion with a hungry flick of his own tongue. Heat ripples through him, a heady mix of disbelief at his own boldness and the insatiable need to answer the demands of Mike Wheeler's lips. The lick of courage leaves him grasping at the taller boy's shoulders, leaning fully into the kiss despite every suppressed instinct screaming to flee.

Mike’s hands find Will's sides, blunt fingertips digging in lightly—not harshly, just enough to keep him there.

Will’s knees nearly buckle, his chest pressing into Mike’s, caught in the pull of something fierce. He tries to pull back, tries to argue silently with himself, but the world has already narrowed to the point where nothing exists outside the press of their mouths.

Mike’s lips are warm and firm, fitting against Will’s like they have been waiting for this exact moment, like muscle memory finally catching up to desire. Will exhales into it, a shaky sound he doesn't mean to make, and Mike answers it instinctively, tilting his head just enough to deepen the contact.

The taller boy runs a hand along the underside of Will’s jaw, the pad of his thumb rubbing Will’s jawbone in slow, tentative circles. The contact is careful, almost unsure, carrying with it the thought that’s been weighing on them both: isn’t this touch meant to be forbidden?

It coaxes Will’s chin upwards by a few degrees, a quiet invitation that swallows him whole,  each movement of Mike’s thumb flooding his system with a low, spreading warmth.

Their breaths tangle, uneven and too close. Will feels every small movement, the faint drag of lips, teeth catching lightly, breaths hitching and colliding. There is nothing practiced about it. It is messy and real and full of restraint that is already fraying. 

Mike’s mouth lingers like he needs more; as if he’s trying to pour all the years of hesitation, all the years of saying nothing and doing even less, into this single kiss. It stings with intent, with hunger held carefully in check, as if he’s memorizing it; as if pulling away would mean admitting that this could slip from his hands all over again.

Will's pulse rings out so loudly he thinks Mike might feel it through the press of their bodies. 

Mike breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, lips brushing in a shaky exhale. “Will…” he murmurs, “I… I can’t—”

Will's chest heaves against his, words lost to the heat and the press of skin. He swallows hard and tilts his head back into the kiss, refusing to break it, refusing to admit just how much he wanted this.

Their breaths mingle; the tension of the day, the push and shove, the anger, the longing of it all—boiling over in that messy, careless kiss. Their hands drift over arms, backs, brushing everywhere all at once, and yet nowhere too boldly.

Will’s grip tightens once, and then it’s gone.

The panic hits fast, hits hot. It's too much closeness, too much want, too real.

He pulls back abruptly, eyes wide like he’s just woken up somewhere unfamiliar. “I—” he starts, but the word falls flat. His chest feels tight, not crushing, but crowded, like there isn’t enough room for everything he’s got inside.

Before Mike can finish whatever he was trying to say, Will slips free.

He turns and bolts for the bathroom, socked feet sinking into the carpet as he goes, the plush drag beneath him oddly unreal, like moving through something thick and slow. He shoves the door shut behind him with more force than he means to and twists the lock. The click sounds too loud in the sudden quiet.

Will braces his hands on the sink, head bowed. His reflection stares back at him, flushed, eyes bright and a little wild. He drags in a shaky breath, then another, waiting for the familiar spiral to hit.

Except, it doesn’t.

Will’s had panic attacks before, obviously, if you can even call them that. As a kid, mostly. Back when fear came without warning and stayed too long, back when his neck became riddled with goosebumps and his body learned to brace for things his mind couldn’t name yet. Those were sharp and suffocating, all static and terror, like he was trapped inside himself.

This feels different.

This feels heavy and electric and painfully alive. His heart’s racing, yes, but not with dread; it’s something thicker, something worse for reasons he can’t explain. It’s want, it’s the terrifying realization that he almost had everything he’s been pretending he didn’t need.

He splashes cold water on his face, the shock tearing a sharp breath from his chest. Droplets cling to his lashes and track down his cheeks, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His hands still tremble as he grips the edge of the counter, his fingers digging futilely into the porcelain, knuckles growing white as the skin is pulled taut, as if he could somehow embed this part of himself in the countertop, as if it could absolve him of this entirely.

Except, the feeling doesn’t spiral. It just sits there, heavily, before ebbing into something else entirely; something aching.

On the other side of the door, there’s a pause.

However, it’s not the kind of pause that feels like abandonment, or like Lonnie rearing back for a swing; it's the kind that feels patient, like Mike is choosing his next move carefully.

Then his voice comes through the door, it’s low and gentle, entirely stripped of its usual edge.

“Will?”

There's a certain lilt in Mike’s tone that exists solely for Will; an inflection reserved for him alone. It’s different from the way he speaks to anyone else. With other people, Mike’s voice runs sharp and quick, all dry humor and easy deflection. He teases, he snaps, his tongue is sharp. Mike keeps things light by keeping them at arm’s length. But with Will, the sharpness always softens, like something held back on purpose, and it’s been that way since they sat on swingsets.

This voice is quieter; warmer, almost… delicate. Like he's afraid of pushing too hard, afraid of shattering something fragile. Something like Will.

“I’m right here, William,” Mike adds, just as softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound of his full name makes his throat tighten, makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have words for.

Will closes his eyes, forehead resting against the cool mirror. The chill seeps into his skin, a small, steady contrast to the heat still buzzing through his body. He focuses on that sensation, on the solidness of it, as if it might hold him together for just a moment longer.

He doesn’t answer right away; not because he doesn’t want to, but because he needs a second to believe he won’t fall apart when he does. His throat tightens, uninvited emotions pressing there.

He takes a slow breath through his nose, then another, counting them without meaning to. He needs a second. Just one. A second to make sure the words will come out steady. A second to believe that if he opens his mouth, he won’t unravel completely.

The quiet stretches, filled only by the sound of Will’s breathing and the faint rush of water still dripping into the sink.

“I just need a minute,” he says finally, voice muffled through the door.

Another beat of silence.

“Okay,” Mike answers. Simple, steady, there. Just as he always had been.

Will exhales and lets his head drop forward.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

He wanted this.

God, he wanted this. 

And that's exactly why it terrified him.