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He’s in a van with a beautiful boy, and he’s in love with him.
The setting sun catches on Will’s hair as he turns, smiling, and Mike feels caught in the draw of his gaze, his eyes bright and beautiful, flecks of green and gold shimmering in the sunlight. Mike’s breath stutters in his chest, the weight of his emotions indescribable and inescapable, filling him up with such lightness and warmth that he wonders if he might just float away.
He’s in a van with a beautiful boy, and he’s trying not to tell him that he loves him, but he loves him.
The painting is beautiful. Mike’s eyes burn; he chokes back the feeling as he’s so used to doing, hands and cheeks tingling as Will leans over to point out Mike’s Paladin’s shield, as the smell and warmth and proximity of him makes Mike’s head go a little fuzzy, a little distant from the rest of the world. It’s just the two of them, in the back of that van. Just the two of them, and Mike wishes the moment would never end.
He’s in a van with a beautiful boy, and he feels like he’s done something terrible.
Will is talking about El, and Mike can’t stop looking at him. He shouldn’t be— he should be thinking about something— anything else: The situation they’re in, on the run from the military who want them dead. Hawkins and the endless questions he has about their home— is everyone okay? Is the military there too? Has something happened with the Upside Down? Or— ..his girlfriend, perhaps, who’s in danger and alone and needs their help.
His girlfriend, who he’s spent so long convincing himself he needs to love, convincing himself that it’s right, that he should be with her and that their relationship is the best thing that’s ever happened to him—
—but that’s not true. Because Mike’s in a van with a beautiful boy, and all he can think about is him, his smile and his laughter and his eyes welling up with emotion as he tries to convince Mike that El needs him, that they’re what they both want.
like you’ve swallowed pills, or robbed a liquor store, or shoveled a grave in the dirt.
Mike doesn’t have the heart to tell him he can’t— doesn’t— maybe never has loved her the way that she wants him to. The way that he should, if not for the fact that his heart already belongs to someone else. If not for the fact that it probably always has, if he’s being honest with himself.
He hasn’t really been honest with himself in years.
He feels like he’s done something terrible, a lie of omission if not an outright mistruth, and he drags his gaze away from where it’s been lingering on Will’s lips to focus on the painting, the effort forced and herculean for all that he wants to look right back, brush away his tears and kiss him and kiss him until neither of them have any breath left for talking.
and you’re tired,
He wishes he were braver. That he weren’t a coward, that he hasn’t been hiding from himself and his feelings and the truth about what he is for so long. Guilt twists up inside of him, an ugly and terrible thing, and Mike feels like a stain that’s been poured over the canvas of their lives, black and pungent and rotting.
but he reaches out and he touches you
Will’s glancing touch to Mike’s arm almost makes him jump, eyes locking onto the other’s as a surge of affection rises within him, swallowing up the ache in a tidal wave of longing. Will’s always exceeded at that— at pulling him out of his own head, at keeping him calm and focused and present. How could he not be, when it’s him?
like a prayer for which no words exist
Will’s hand on Mike’s arm feels like a burn, like a brand, a mark Mike would wear with pride if it meant a part of Will would always be with him. It almost feels like absolution, like kindness. Like hope.
and you feel your heart taking root in your body
Mike wets his lips, throat dry and parched with the sudden intensity, and he watches as Will’s eyes dip down to follow the movement of his tongue. A thrill kicks up in his stomach, wild and needy, coiling around his spine and rising through his chest, heat suffusing his cheeks.
like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.
Will’s expression, when he looks back up, is more open than he’s seen from him in a long, long time. Will’s breath catches in his throat, shaky, and Mike searches his face for recognition, for understanding. Please. Please don’t look away. Tell me you know. Tell me that it’s okay.
Will. Will. Will. I love you I love you I love you I love you—
“Thank you,” is what Mike whispers, the silence between them shaken, fragile. “for the painting.”
It’s not what he wants to say. It’s not even close, but Will’s lips turn up like he knows what Mike means anyways, like he can read between the spaces and silences and lines that Mike doesn’t write, like he’s been able to all along.
“You’re welcome.” Will whispers back, just as soft, and somehow, Mike knows exactly what he means to say and never will.
I love you too. I love you too. I love you. I love you. I love you.