Chapter Text
Will wakes up to a bang.
“MIKE?”
He blinks just in time to watch Mike’s dark eyes flutter open. A hard gust of wind slams against the house, shrieking through the siding. The window rattles in its frame, like something’s trying to come inside.
Mike’s warm breath ghosts over Will’s face.
Their legs are tangled – Will’s thigh wedged between Mike’s, skin against skin. Mike’s hand rests on the side of his neck, fingers buried in the fine hairs there.
Will stares at the faint freckles scattered across Mike’s cheeks and nose, a pattern he’d need the tiniest brush to recreate.
Mike’s wide, sleepy eyes flick over Will’s face.
They’re too close.
The words from last night come back to him in a flash, bright and stinging. They’ve burned inside his mind all night, hours and hours of struggling to fall asleep.
But there’s someone, right?
Will searches Mike’s eyes for any sign of recognition, or discomfort or even disgust. Anything that might reveal what Mike knows, if he knows, and what he thinks of it.
Will has imagined confessing to Mike so many times, and he always pictured everything breaking apart:
Their friendship would be spoiled by this unwanted, restless longing that would tint every conversation, every touch, making Mike uncomfortable. Will always thought Mike would probably need some time and space before accepting him back into his life.
But now Mike’s hand is steady on his neck, his dark eyes calm, observing, like nothing changed at all.
Maybe he doesn’t know.
Mike was oblivious last spring. Maybe he’s oblivious now.
Will wants to ask so badly. He wants to release the question from his tongue so it can stop choking him, so he can put a stop to this endless loop inside his head.
Another bang.
“MIKE?”
So he didn’t dream it – Nancy’s voice is right outside the bedroom door, followed by her fist pounding the wood, the sound impatient, like she’ll give it a few more tries before entering. They didn’t lock the door.
“Wait here,” Mike whispers. He untangles himself from Will, the covers lifting and letting in a rush of cold air. Will pulls the blanket up to his chin, already missing the touch even though he knows he shouldn’t.
Mike scoops his clothes from the floor and pulls them on fast. He opens the door just enough to slip out into the hallway before shutting it behind him.
Will holds his breath, listening. Rain sprays against the window, forming irregular dots on the glass. The tree outside groans in the wind.
“What’s up?” Mike’s muffled voice.
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Nancy says. “I wanted to make sure you’re not dead.”
Two in the afternoon? If Mike slept this long, did he lie awake half the night too?
“He’s gone.” Jonathan’s voice echoes up the stairs, rushed and thin. Footsteps follow. “He’s not in the basement, Nancy.”
“Maybe he left for Hop’s cabin?”
Will’s already out of bed, heart pounding as he grabs his clothes from the floor. The room is cold as he tries to find his second sock, almost tripping over his feet pulling up his sweatpants.
“He would’ve left a note.” Jonathan sounds breathless. “He wouldn’t just leave.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Let’s call your mom before we start worrying. Mike, can I borrow your walkie –”
“He’s gone, Nancy, he’s –“
“Um …” Mike starts.
Before he can say anything, Will steps into the hallway behind him, tugging his sweater into place. His cheeks are warm against the cold air.
“I’m here,” he says, a little out of breath.
He exchanges a quick look with Mike – who so obviously just stumbled out of bed, his hair a mess and the pattern of the pillow still visible on his cheek. Will probably looks the same.
Jonathan stares at him, disbelief all over his face. He looks a little pale. “Oh my god.” He steps forward and grips Will’s shoulders. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
The relief in Jonathan’s eyes quickly turns to confusion and his head spins to Mike, frowning. “Why didn’t you say something? You were just standing there!”
“Um.” Mike straightens, looking embarrassed and defensive all at once. “I was going to.”
“Have you been sleeping up here all week?” This question is directed toward Will.
It shouldn’t be hard to admit. But those nights in Mike’s bedroom feel fragile, almost sacred, something that lived quietly between them in the dark – kept to themselves without ever really thinking or talking about it.
They’re not for anyone else to know about, or look at, or form an opinion on.
“Um, yeah,” Will admits because it’s no use lying now.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Both Jonathan and Nancy stare at them, brows furrowed in confusion.
And Will realizes this is weird.
Not that Mike and him are sleeping in the same room, but that they’ve been hiding it, whispering in hallways, tiptoeing around doors, acting like they were scared to get caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do.
“I, uh …”
And honestly, Will can’t explain it. It shouldn’t be a secret for two friends to share a room during a power outage. He looks at Mike, who seems equally at a loss for words.
“We just,” Will mumbles. “I mean, I didn’t want Mr. Wheeler finding out. He doesn’t want me sleeping up here and it’s – I thought he might kick me out of the house.”
It’s not a lie but doesn’t feel like the whole truth either.
“Why would he kick you out?” Jonathan asks, his frown deepening.
“Cause he’s …” He thinks I’m gay and doesn’t want me near his only son.
“Cause he’s an idiot,” Nancy states like it’s obvious. Something like understanding crosses her face. “He’s had this rule forever. No boys allowed in my or Mike’s bedroom.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Nancy sighs, looking from Will to Mike. “Look, you two shouldn’t listen to anything he says. He likes to repeat the shit he hears on the news or at church. It’s all just noise. You know that, Mike.”
“Yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “I know.”
“And you could’ve told us,” Jonathan insists, looking directly at Will, like Will’s hurt him personally.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
They head downstairs. The wood creaks beneath their feet. Will and Mike walk close behind their siblings, arms brushing every few steps. Mike keeps his gaze locked on the back of Nancy’s sweater, his face unreadable.
Will wants to reach out – grab him by the wrist and drag him right back into that bedroom, to get a sign from him. Anything to let him know what he’s thinking. Just a minute alone with him, to talk.
But even then Will wouldn’t know what to say, because he can’t bring it up without exposing himself.
His stomach knots, twisting tighter with every breath. He curls his hand into a fist. He needs answers – but he can’t ask.
In the kitchen, they pour their cereal. The radio buzzes with static and the warped voice of a news broadcast. Mr. Wheeler stands by the counter, coffee mug steaming in his hand.
“– still no new information about the cause of the power outage,” the radio crackles. “Roane County Water and Electric are checking the lines one by one.”
“Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?” Mr. Wheeler asks, peering over his glasses, and Will hopes it’s not too obvious that they’ve just stumbled out of bed.
Mike doesn’t answer. He slumps into the chair beside Holly, who’s hunched over a drawing, tongue sticking out in concentration.
Will slips into the seat on her other side. He’s distracted enough that Holly has to bump him in the arm to get his attention.
“What?”
She pushes her drawing toward him without a word, eyebrows raised in expectation. He drops his spoon and takes the crayon. When he draws a massive snail beside her horse, she leans in until her nose is nearly on the page, paying a ridiculous amount of attention – like just watching him would make her learn his skills.
“Mike, you can add one thing too, but only one,” she explains, scooting the paper over the table. Mike looks up, blinking, like he wasn’t paying attention.
“Sure.” He grabs the yellow crayon and draws what might be a hay bale. “How’s that?”
Holly wrinkles her nose. “Not your best.”
Will snorts into his cereal.
Mike lifts his eyebrows.
“Okay, then I’ll have to try again.” And then he’s all over the paper, adding random things in the sky, drawing stripes onto the horse, until Holly’s protests become loud enough for their dad to shush them.
Across the room, Will catches Jonathan’s eyes, smiling at him as if to say I’m glad you two are okay now.
And maybe yesterday, Will would’ve smiled back. But right now, he isn’t sure anymore.
He doesn’t know where they stand.
He doesn’t know anything.
Except that he’s finally, utterly, and completely going insane.
He watches Mike, trying to search his face for a sign. His shoulders look a little tense, and his eyes clouded. Even as he’s speaking to Holly, it seems like he’s not fully there.
Then he glances up. Their eyes meet. Will’s breath stutters.
Do you know?
The question presses heavy against his teeth. He wants to spill it out, right here at the breakfast table.
Do you know that I’m in love with you?
But Mike just gives him a small smile, like nothing’s wrong at all, like this is just another morning, and maybe he doesn’t know, maybe the idea of Will being in love with him is so ridiculous, it wouldn’t even cross his mind.
And maybe that’s good.
Will takes a slow deep breath. Be normal, he tells himself. It’s fine.
He smiles back.
“You’d never do that to Will’s paintings,” Holly mutters, inspecting her artwork, but despite the fact Mike clearly ruined it, she’s giggling at the mess.
“Yeah, because Will’s paintings are actually good.”
“Hey!” Holly protests and they burst into laughter.
Will takes the crayon from Mike’s cold fingers. Their skin brushes, sending a wave of electricity through his body that he ignores, and he proceeds to try to fix Holly’s drawing.
He can feel Mike watching him but keeps his eyes on the sheet.
After breakfast, Will and Mike get ready to head to Dustin’s.
As they drag their bikes out of the garage, the clouds are dark and heavy, looming over the sky, like they’re holding something back.
On the road, the wind shoves against them hard enough to make Will’s eyes water. Soft needles of rain prick his cheeks and the branches rattle above them as they pedal past the trees. He stares at the back of Mike’s head as if he could read his thoughts if he just looked hard enough.
By the time they reach Dustin’s place, the wind has crept under Will’s jacket, the cold settling on his spine. They throw their bikes on the Henderson lawn and ring the doorbell.
Will stares at the door as they wait. Mike shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
The silence hangs between them and Will listens, as if the absence of sound might give him an answer.
He glances at Mike.
Mike’s already looking back.
Will wants to say something. Anything.
Like how confused he is right now. Or how stupidly handsome Mike looks with his hair wet from the rain. Or how sorry he is for being in love with him.
The door swings open.
“There they are – reunited at last!” Dustin beams so wide his eyes nearly disappear. Will hasn’t seen him this happy in over a year. “The Cleric and Paladin rise from the ashes!”
“Shut up,” Mike says, but he’s smiling, already pushing past Dustin to kick off his shoes.
“Yeah,” Will says, grinning to himself. “Shut up.”
“I still can’t believe it’s real!” Lucas appears in the hallway like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. He raises his arms, already coming in for the hug. “The couple’s finally back on speaking terms.”
Will ignores the comment, feeling heat rush up his neck.
“GROUP HUG, IDIOTS,” Dustin shouts and suddenly they’re smashed together in a tangle of jackets and limbs and the smell of wet polyester.
“I missed you guys,” Lucas says, sighing dramatically.
“Yeah,” Mike says, voice muffled by somebody’s head.
“It’s been too long, man.” Dustin squeezes Will’s shoulder.
“Totally,” Will agrees, a little breathless.
Dustin herds them inside, nudging shoes against the wall. “Mom tried baking a cake in the fireplace – yeah, don’t even ask. We’re eating it. Follow me, sirs.”
The living room is warmed by the fireplace, smelling like smoke and burnt sugar. They crowd around the table, filling their plates.
And then it’s just normal. More normal than it has been in over a year. Like just the four of them sitting here has cracked something open.
“Pass the fork – no, that’s a spoon, Dustin.”
“It’s multifunctional – hey, are you growing a beard?”
Lucas shrugs, fingers brushing his chin. “So what if I am? You jealous?”
Still, underneath the chatter, Will sees the shadows – Lucas’s tired eyes, the tight line of Dustin’s smile from months of grief and waiting.
“How’s Max?” Mike asks, slicing his cake with careful concentration.
“I just finished reading her The Two Towers and we might start the third book tomorrow.” Lucas scoots the burned part of the cake to the edge of the plate.
“You skipped the songs, didn’t you?” The crunch of Dustin’s teeth suggests he doesn’t care which part of the cake he’s eating.
“No one reads the songs.”
“You know what,” Mike says. “I think you should sing them to her. I’m sure that’d help.”
“Maybe I will.” Lucas seems unimpressed. “She better remember it when she wakes up, or I’m making her read it all over again.”
“You make it sound like a threat,” Will notes.
“It is.” Lucas looks between Mike and Will and then his eyes start glinting and he looks a little crazy with the way he’s grinning. “Anyway. YOU TWO. What have you been up to? How did –“ he gestures wildly between them. “this happen?”
Will and Mike exchange a glance, both opening their mouths at the same time.
“Uh.”
How did this happen?
“We, um.” Will pokes his fork into the cake. “I guess with no school and stuff we just had a lot of time to talk.”
“Yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “We were stuck inside the house, so we just kinda …” He trails off.
Dustin’s eyes narrow. “So you resolved … whatever the mystery problem was?”
The answer should be simple. Yes, they’ve resolved … something in all those long nights of talking. But last night was confusing, and Will isn’t sure whether they’ve really solved things or just pulled a bunch of stuff to the surface without actually facing it.
And now he’s left with ambiguous words, fragments of a confession, and endless uncertainty to spiral through.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “We talked.”
They could explain this a lot better. They could tell them about how they’re sharing Mike’s room because of the cold, how they’ve stayed up late every night to talk.
But something about this past week feels too personal, and Will feels like no matter how he’d tell the story, words could never describe the little space they’ve carved out for each other in the darkness of Mike’s bedroom.
“Wow. Truly illuminating,” Dustin says with a mouthful of cake.
“Be mysterious about it. Whatever.” Lucas rolls his eyes. “I’m glad either way. It’s about time.”
“Yeah,” Dustin agrees. “It was getting annoying.”
When Dustin’s mom walks in with laundry, it’s their cue to relocate to the bedroom. The room is chilly without heating, so Dustin hands out some blankets as they settle on the floor.
Will thought it would be awkward – four boys who used to practically breathe the same air for years, now trying to remember how – but it feels natural, like muscle memory.
Lucas, wrapped in a blanket like a cape, rants about a plot hole he found in The Two Towers and that gets a rageful conversation going.
“What?” Mike dives in easily, sitting cross-legged with his back against the bedframe. “That’s not a plot hole. That’s literally strategy.”
“Then it’s a bad strategy.”
Will watches Mike – the way he effortlessly joins into the conversation, laughing, arguing, like this is just a normal day. And maybe it is.
Maybe it’s pointless. To look for answers in the way Mike is speaking or the way he’s holding himself. To overanalyze the amount of times Mike looks in his direction, if he’s sitting too close or too far away.
If Mike can be normal, so can Will.
“I’m with Lucas,” he says. “If it’s a strategy, it’s shit.”
“What?” Mike snaps his head toward him, betrayed. “Will!”
“Oh no. Please don’t fight again,” Dustin says, brows raised in fake concern. “Have I told you about my camping trip? Does anyone wanna hear about that?”
While Dustin speaks, Will feels something cold brush his thigh. He looks down at the blanket he and Mike share, draped over both their legs. Mike’s hand has disappeared beneath it, cold fingers grazing Will’s thigh before finding his hand.
Will looks up. Mike is already looking at him, his mouth forming the word cold, before he laces their fingers together – hidden beneath the blanket. He turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.
Will stares at him, confused all over again, his heart pounding in his chest. Mike’s cold fingers rest between his, his thumb lightly brushing the back of Will’s hand.
If Mike really knew the truth, he wouldn’t be doing this.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know.
And that’s good. That means Will can relax. He can be normal.
At least as normal as it is to hold your best friend’s hand under a blanket, hidden from sight.
It feels secretive, not meant for anyone’s eyes. And Will is afraid he’s losing his mind.
He squeezes Mike’s hand back anyway.
“Will.”
Will jolts his gaze to Dustin. “Yeah?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Listening.”
“You’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
“Your existential dread face.”
“That’s just my face.” Will rolls his eyes, trying to look casual. “So who did you go camping with?”
“Steve – I said that, right?”
“You went camping with Steve?” Mike blurts, eyebrows shooting up. He sounds utterly invested, as if their hands aren’t intertwined under the blanket. As if his thumb isn’t gently brushing over Will’s index finger up to his knuckle. As if Will isn't holding himself back with every ounce of restraint.
“Yeah man, I thought I said that already.”
“This friendship makes less sense every day,” Lucas mutters. “But I’m not gonna question it anymore.”
“You literally just did. Anyway, what I was saying – what the fuck?”
A burst of static crackles through the room, startling all four of them.
The walkie on Dustin’s bed buzzes.
“Jesus,” Lucas sighs. “That almost gave me a heart attack.”
“–anyone there …. hello ….”
“Yeah, yeah, hold up,” Dustin shouts as if the walkie can hear him. He gets up and grabs it, extending the antenna. “Henderson speaking. Over.”
“Hopper-Byers speaking,” El says in a perfect imitation of him. “Can you get everyone on the line? And I’m not saying ‘over’.”
“Everyone’s already here.” Dustin looks around the room, holding the walkie out. “Say hi to the weirdo.”
He presses the button and Will, Mike and Lucas yell their hellos. Mike’s thumb draws little circles on the back of Will’s hand.
“You’re hanging out again,” El states, unfazed, like this isn’t relevant to her priorities. “Good. I have news.”
Mike slips his hand from Will’s as they all crowd in, gathering around the walkie. Will’s palm instantly feels cold.
Someone murmurs to El in the background. “Yeah, I know, Hop. I’m on the walkie. Okay guys, is everybody listening?”
“Spit it out already,” Lucas groans.
“So, I spied on the workers again today and they found something – a busted line, they say. Not … you know. I thought we would get new information about the Upside Down, but it seems to be just normal damage.”
Relief floods through Will, and he takes a deep breath, finally releasing the looming feeling he’s been carrying over the past week – that something supernatural is causing the power to shut down.
“They say they can’t fix it right now because there’s a storm approaching. But power should be back by morning.”
A beat. Then the room explodes with excitement. Laughter, cheers, and relieved shouts fill the air. Will watches the joy spark on his friend’s faces.
“Hallelujah,” Lucas moans. “The damn coffee machine at the hospital has been calling me.”
“Movie night is back, baby!” Dustin cheers and almost bumps his fist against the leg of the table.
The grin on El’s face practically crackles through the walkie. “Thought you’d be happy! Okay, gotta run – Will, love you! And bye, everyone else!”
“Oh my god, I can’t wait for a hot shower!”
“This is big!”
Amid the chaos, Will’s eyes meet Mike’s – and there it is, the same feeling mirrored back to him, hitting him full force. A twist in his stomach. A silent, sharp ache.
He doesn’t want it to end.
He’d live in the dark forever if it meant staying close to Mike.
“Speaking of the storm,” Lucas says as the excitement dies down. They follow his gaze to the window. The rain has picked up, tapping harder against the glass. “It looks pretty bad.”
“Shit.” Will straightens. “The streetlights are still out.”
“Yeah, we should go.” Mike is the first one standing, moving with a certain urgency, the blanket slipping off his legs.
They say their goodbyes on the porch. There’s barely enough light left to see the swollen clouds overhead. The wind is loud, whistling around the house. Will climbs onto his bike just as the rain thickens.
“Oh my god,” Lucas groans. “We’re gonna be drenched.”
They take off, sticking close, their bike lights cutting thin slices through the dark. Rain slaps their faces, soaks their jeans, chills their hands until they sting. By the time Lucas turns into his street, yelling “Sleep well, losers!” it’s pouring, water splashing beneath their wheels.
“Shit,” Mike shouts over the roaring rain. “Let’s hurry.”
Will follows Mike’s light through the darkness. Rain drips from his fringe, making it hard to see, hair sticking to his forehead.
There, the house rises out of the black, windows glowing with soft candlelight.
“Oh my god,” Mike mutters, soaked and visibly shivering.
They throw their bikes onto the lawn, hurrying to get inside, leaving damp footprints across the floorboards. Rain drips from their coats as they peel them off, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering in the dark hallway. The house is quiet except for the low murmur of the radio in the living room and the constant hammer of rain against the roof.
“I’ll get these to the fireplace,” Mike says, taking both their coats and shoes.
Will steps up the stairs to get ready for bed. He flicks on the flashlight hanging near the bathroom door. His jeans cling to his skin and he peels them off, shivering. While he brushes his teeth he tries to rub some warmth into his thighs. The floorboards creak in the hallway.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Mike sits on the edge of the bathtub as he brushes his teeth, pulling off his wet socks, then his jeans. Rain drips from his curls over his shoulders. Will slips off his sweater and drapes it over the dead heater. Their shivers fill the bathroom, accompanied by the sound of rain pouring against the small window.
Mike stands, spitting and rinsing, water sliding down his soaked hair. Will stands beside him, a towel pressed to his head. As Mike stands straight, their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror.
The flashlight casts a pale glow across their faces.
It’s quiet.
This is their last night.
Mike turns to Will and it looks like he wants to say something, his mouth twitching. But he stays silent. His gaze lingers on Will, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at him, drenched and trembling, that makes Will’s chest ache.
Tomorrow morning, the power will be back.
And he might not lose Mike – but it won’t be the same.
They won’t sleep in the same bed. They won’t brush their teeth together. They won’t whisper until the early morning hours.
Tonight is their last chance to –
To do what?
There’s an age-old longing clawing at Will, eating at him, raw and insistent, because they’ve opened up so much this week – and now only one last secret hangs between them, half-ripped to the surface. A part of him wants to spill it all out, to end the week with a bang and finally be free of the shameful weight of it all.
But he can’t ruin it now. He’s just gotten Mike back.
This is their last night.
Will rises on his tiptoes, bracing a hand on Mike’s shoulder, feeling the dampness of his sweater beneath his cold fingers. He drags the towel over Mike’s curls, gathering the wet strands with careful motions. Mike leans down just enough for Will to reach, eyes tracing every line of his face with a complicated expression.
Will searches his eyes for something like discomfort. There is none.
He doesn’t know.
He tries to memorize this – Mike’s full attention on him, the way the flashlight catches the side of his face, his damp hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks.
He doesn’t know.
It’s like a mantra, something to calm him down. They can spend one last night together and then forget about it. Will can move back to the basement and they can be best friends again, just like Will always hoped for. This is good. It’s the best possible outcome.
Will’s fingers twitch, itching to run through Mike’s soaked curls, just to feel how wet they still are.
Instead, he leans back.
“Thanks,” Mike whispers. His eyes linger on Will’s face. He’s shivering, a tremble in his bottom lip. Will forces himself to look away and steps back to hang the towel over the bathtub.
In the bedroom, Mike lights a few candles, their soft glow casting over the blue walls. They strip down to their underwear, draping their wet clothes over the chair.
Mike pulls two fresh shirts from his drawer, tossing one toward Will.
The cold air bites at his still damp skin, making him shiver as he pulls on Mike’s shirt, his fingers numb.
And there it is again – silence settling over them.
The wind presses against the closed window, rattling the glass, making the candlelight flicker.
Will feels a little sick.
He slips into bed. Mike follows, but stays on his side of the mattress. They stare at the ceiling, teeth chattering. It’s too cold. Normally, they would’ve scooted together by now.
Why isn’t Mike moving closer?
Will closes his eyes, mind racing, heart thumping, and he wishes he could say something, anything to make more sense of this situation, because there’s a constant loop of the same thought going over and over and over in his head.
This is the last night. This is the last night. This is the last night.
Do you know that I love you?
The coldness from Mike’s hand jerks Will back to reality.
“Shit,” he gasps and Mike’s laugh smells of toothpaste. His cold hand presses against Will’s side.
“You think that’s cold?” he asks, teasing and it’s good, it’s playful, it’s safe – like they’re kids again, playing a game of making the other freeze, unable to stop giggling.
“Yes, Mike, that’s –”
Will is interrupted by his own sharp intake of breath when Mike’s cold fingers slide up under his shirt, over his stomach, stopping at his ribs. Mike shifts closer, icy feet brushing Will’s bare shins.
“– cold,” Will finishes, holding his breath.
“Warm me up, then.”
It’s like the night before, like nothing has changed at all. When their bodies meet in the middle, it feels like Will can finally breathe again. He’s waited for this all day, and if he really thinks about it, he’s waited for this way longer.
Maybe this is the one thing he’s always been waiting for.
They shiver together, teeth chattering. Mike starts rubbing Will’s arms and back, and Will does the same, tracing damp skin. They warm each other up, hands moving under shirts and over limbs, damp hair leaving spots on the pillows. Everywhere Mike’s fingers touch, it sends little shocks through Will’s chest.
It’s just warming up. But then Mike’s hands are moving too slow, lingering on Will’s spine or his biceps.
Will holds his breath. It’s all too much to make sense of. But maybe he doesn’t have to, because it’s gonna be over tomorrow anyway. This is the last time he will be this close to Mike and he won’t question it.
Will allows his hands to slow too, mirroring Mike’s movements. His fingers draw over the skin of Mike’s stomach, exploring under the shirt, then his back, feeling Mike’s skin and soft muscle.
Mike’s doing it too – so it should be fine, even though it feels anything but.
This is their last night.
He will remember every detail: Mike’s warm skin. The smell of rain in his hair. The touch of fingertips on his waist. The sensation of hairs brushing on their legs. Mike’s cold feet slipping between his. The candlelight glinting in his dark eyes.
He doesn’t want them to stop being like this.
And it’s selfish, because this isn’t who they are. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. They were never meant to share a bed. Will knew this from the beginning – there’s no reason to grieve it now.
Things will go back to normal and that’s good. That’s good.
Eventually, warmth spreads and their trembling slows. Mike drapes an arm lazily over Will’s side, hand resting on his back.
They look at each other.
They’ve talked so much during this past week. But still, now, looking into Mike’s eyes, there are a million confessions lying heavy on Will’s tongue, weighing the air between them. He swallows them down. He can’t ruin this. Not now.
Mike’s eyes are black in the dim light, pupils swallowed by shadow, reflections of candle flames dancing across them. Will is aware that he’s staring, but Mike isn’t looking away either. In fact, his gaze drifts over Will’s face, like he’s searching for something.
But then again, it’s so dark, it could just be a trick of the light.
“I can’t see you,” Mike whispers in the small space between them.
“What?”
There’s a small furrow between Mike’s brows and his eyes roam restlessly.
“The light … it’s behind you. I can barely see your face.”
“Oh.”
A beat. Will doesn’t know what to say.
“I can’t tell where you’re looking.”
Mike’s voice is soft and quiet. But there’s something there, wavering beneath it, that makes the hairs on the back of Will’s neck rise.
“I’m looking at you.”
The words feel like a confession. Maybe Will shouldn’t have said it. But it only feels fair, because he can see Mike’s eyes.
Mike’s hand slips out of his shirt, sliding up his arm and toward his neck. He stops at Will’s jaw.
Will holds his breath.
Then Mike props himself on an elbow, tilting Will’s face to the ceiling, so the candlelight illuminates his features. Mike is close, his fingers on Will’s jaw, thumb on his cheek. He’s looking at him.
Will looks back.
“Do you see me now?” he whispers.
Mike’s gaze roams over Will’s features, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.”
Will can’t breathe. His chest feels too tight. It takes him everything not to avert his eyes.
With Mike propped up next to him, their thighs brush, shins press together – the sensation of skin, hair, and heat making it all too real.
Mike’s thumb drags over his cheek.
Somewhere in the back of his throat, Will’s breath hitches.
“Your hair’s still wet.” Mike’s fingers move up, sweeping a strand of hair just above Will’s ear, brushing his damp fringe from his forehead.
Will doesn’t know what to do. His hands feel frozen on Mike’s back.
Mike’s hair falls over his face, and Will knows he shouldn’t do it, but he aches for it. He reaches out and threads his fingers through his curls, brushing them across his forehead. “So is yours,” he whispers.
Mike swallows, staring at him.
And then it’s all too much and Will can’t maintain the eye contact for a second longer. His gaze falters, and he doesn’t know where to look, but Mike’s mouth is right there and so very distracting.
He could draw it from memory, so he knows what to expect – the curve of the cupid’s bow, the fullness of his lower lip. But there’s something at the corners of his mouth that feels different now – like they’ve lost the hint of irony that’s usually sitting right there. Instead, there’s a restlessness, like there’s something caught behind those lips, that desperately needs to be said.
Will realizes he’s been staring at Mike’s mouth for a solid ten seconds.
When he looks up, he meets Mike’s eyes. He must’ve seen it.
Does he know?
Heat rushes up Will’s stomach, his chest, right into his face. This is not going according to plan. He was supposed to savor this last night with Mike – not make it worse.
But Mike isn’t saying anything. He’s just looking, more and more, like he’s studying him.
Until he finally releases him.
The air comes back into Will’s lungs, as Mike leans back, hand slipping from Will’s hair. He clears his throat and lays back on the pillow.
Silence stretches. Just the sound of their breathing. Rain drums against the window. The smell of wet fabric and melting wax sits between them.
Will tries to think of something to say, but the loop continues, over and over in his head.
He knows he knows he knows he knows.
Maybe he should just rip off the bandage and say it, so they can talk about it and finally move on.
At some point Will must’ve slipped into sleep, because when he wakes, the room is pitch black. The candle’s burned out.
Rain thrums against the window in a steady rhythm, drops loud and heavy. Wind pushes at the glass. There was thunder, he remembers. That’s what must’ve pulled him out of sleep.
He blinks a few times, but nothing changes. Eyes open or closed, it’s all the same darkness pressed to his face.
“Will?”
He can’t see him, but Mike sounds close. Their bodies aren’t touching, but the warmth radiating from them fills the small space between them.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
Is he okay? Will blinks into the darkness. “Yes, why?”
“The thunder.”
Will used to be scared of thunderstorms. Sometimes, as kids, he’d slip into Mike’s bed and make Mike tell him a story, mouth close to his ear to drown out the sound of the storm.
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want me to light another candle?” Mike’s voice is soft, barely a whisper.
“No. That’s okay.”
The silence that follows is fragile, heavy, like somebody is already toying with the thought of breaking it. Despite only seeing black, Will has his eyes open, staring into the dark as if something might take shape there.
Mike’s fingers twitch. Only then does Will realize Mike’s hand is wrapped around his biceps, slipped under the sleeve of his shirt. He isn’t gripping, but holding with a certain firmness.
Mike’s breath brushes Will’s cheek, a little shaky. He’s closer than Will thought.
“Are you still cold?” Will whispers.
“No.”
More silence.
Will’s side aches, so he shifts, brushing Mike’s knee with his own. Mike does the same, adjusting his position. He drapes his leg over Will’s, pressing them closer, his shin hooked behind Will’s.
It’s too dark to coordinate their bodies, to tell where one ends and the other begins.
So when Mike’s nose grazes Will’s cheek, it catches him by surprise.
It’s an accidental brush, both unaware of where the other is in the dark.
Except, Mike doesn’t pull away.
Will’s throat tightens. He goes completely still, holding his breath.
Did Mike fall asleep again? Is he aware of how close they are?
He stays still, waiting, feeling his pulse loud in his ears.
Mike’s breath is short, brushing over Will’s cheek. He doesn’t sound asleep. His fingers twitch around Will’s arm, squeezing slightly.
But if he’s awake, then this isn’t some accidental brush. Then Mike is right there with him, half of his face brushing against Will’s, his now-dry curls tickling Will’s forehead.
A million thoughts race through his head at once, tripping over themselves. It’s impossible to wrap his mind around the situation he’s in.
Because he’s so good at reading things wrong – seeing signs where there are none.
When he was younger, he liked to interpret Mike’s behavior as something romantic – his protectiveness, his gentleness. He’d treasure it and let it feed his delusions, pretending it could mean that Mike liked him just as much as Will wanted him to.
And here he is again, reading it all wrong.
This past week has made it too easy to start dreaming again.
But that’s all it ever was: a dream.
He stays still, so he doesn’t do anything stupid. He can’t ruin this over some misreading of the situation.
He waits for Mike to realize how close they are, to pull back. Then they can go back to normal, and Will can spend the rest of his life trying to forget this ever happened.
Mike turns his head. Just barely – enough for his nose to slide across Will’s cheek, drifting toward his. Mike’s hair brushes Will’s forehead. His face feels hot.
Mike’s breath washes over Will’s mouth, trembling, and he can feel the warmth radiating from his lips.
Will can’t help it – his breath catches, and the sound is loud in the quiet. Mike must’ve heard.
He doesn’t move.
The tips of his fingers tighten on Will’s arm.
A force grows inside Will, a hunger so old, it’s unbearable, pulling him toward Mike. He clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself, his other hand rests against Mike’s side, on the sliver of exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up – heat against heat.
He wants to move so badly, he feels sick from it – too hot and dizzy, his body electrified and his chest aching from the way he’s holding his breath.
Mike’s upper lip brushes the space beneath Will’s nose – the softest touch, barely there, almost accidental. But Will feels it everywhere.
He would just have to speak, and their lips would touch.
He’s never kept so still in his life. His lungs protest, and he forces himself to take a shallow breath through his nose – the sound unnatural in the quiet.
Mike must know Will’s awake. He must feel the nervousness in Will’s breath – just as Will feels it in his.
And Mike is awake too, it’s obvious. His breathing gives him away, his fingers digging into Will’s skin.
Mike isn’t pulling away from this.
Will isn’t either.
Mike inches closer.
It’s the faintest brush of lips – rough from the cold, shivering with nerves, a little off-center, against the corner of Will’s mouth.
Mike takes a sharp breath. His fingers press into Will’s arm, almost painful.
Then the sheets rustle. Heat leaves Will’s face. Mike retreats, leaving cold air in his place. The hand slips from Will’s arm, leaving a little sting.
Silence.
Will’s lips burn against the cold air, stinging in the absence of Mike’s mouth.
In the darkness of the room, there are no witnesses. It’s hard to tell what’s real or not. There’s no proof – nothing to see.
But Will felt it.
“Mike?”
His voice sounds raw and shaky.
Mike doesn’t answer.
And suddenly, it’s over ten years of friendship sitting between them – a reminder of what could be lost, if either of them made just one wrong move.
But it can’t end this way. Will can’t be stuck here forever, wondering what just happened. He can’t fall asleep, not tonight, not for the rest of his life, if he lets this go.
“Mike.”
He reaches out, his hand finding the front of Mike’s shirt. He grabs the fabric, and pulls him close, bringing their foreheads together. There’s a soft gasp coming from Mike’s throat.
Mike is trembling. His breath comes out quick and uneven.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Will listens into the silence between them, the sounds of their breaths, searching for explanations, any sign that he’s reading this wrong. But nothing makes sense.
Neither of them pushes closer. But neither of them pulls away either. Where his hand is pressed into the fabric of Mike’s shirt, Will can feel Mike’s chest moving with quick breaths.
Will hesitates. He needs to know. He can’t just linger here forever.
His hand slowly moves along Mike’s jaw, feeling out the parts of his face he can’t see in the dark. His fingers brush along his neck, thumb on his cheek.
Mike’s skin feels hot under his touch.
Will is not going to move. Not any further than this.
But something about the touch seems to switch something in Mike. His fingers ghost up his neck, cupping his cheek. Then, as if mapping his face by touch, he traces the shape of his eyebrows and the curve of his nose. Lightly, Mike’s finger draws over Will’s eyelashes, as if checking his eyes are closed. His thumb hovers over Will’s mouth – and then, slowly, drags over his bottom lip.
Will is very still. He can hear Mike swallow. His fingers slip from his face, but Will doesn’t have time to miss the touch, because then Mike lets out a long shuddery breath and inches closer again.
Will meets him in the middle.
In the dark, it’s hard to tell how close they are. So when Will’s upper lip brushes against Mike’s bottom one, they both stop, breaths hitching, like it’s startled them both.
This time, Mike doesn’t pull away.
Will stills as he feels Mike’s lips brush lightly over his, the faint hint of a touch. His eyes flutter shut, despite the darkness and he realizes he’s trembling, scared to make the wrong move.
He’s never kissed anyone before.
He doesn’t know how.
But this barely counts as kissing – it’s just lips brushing against lips, like they just happen to be there.
Until Mike makes a sound – low, from the back of his throat – and his hand slips to the back of Will’s neck, fingers burying inside his hair, like he’s giving in to something buried deep inside him.
And suddenly it’s something completely different.
Holding him by the back of his neck, Mike pulls Will closer, pressing his lips to his in a way that’s anything but accidental.
Will’s body goes hot and weightless and every thought he’s had before is now replaced by a bright buzzing. The sensation almost makes him sick. For a moment he can’t move at all, unable to comprehend that this is happening.
He has to do something.
So he presses back, a tiny, unsure pressure, like he’s just trying it out – and Mike responds instantly. Their lips move against each other, slow and searching, adjusting to the feeling.
The hot air between their mouths feels charged with the weight of what this means, what it could mean for both of them.
But it’s too late now. There’s no way to undo this. And it’s scary, but it’s also a relief, and Will can’t make sense of it. He won't even attempt to.
Instead, he gives in – fingers sliding into Mike’s curls the way he’s always wanted to. He’s touched his hair before, but always restraining himself, never allowing what he truly wanted: to tug on a strand of hair, gently scratch his scalp, pull him closer, his fingers buried in the soft curls at the back of Mike’s head.
Mike gasps into his mouth – a quiet sound, not meant for anyone else – and Will didn’t know how badly he needed to hear it.
Suddenly, there’s no restraining.
Will might not know how to kiss, but he knows what he wants, what he’s wanted for so many years.
He knows how to want Mike, how to love Mike, and now that he can take him, he feels dizzy with the power.
He pushes close. Mike rolls onto his back, and Will follows, leaning over him, kissing him with more confidence. Mike’s lips part under his and his fingers hold him close by the neck.
Their stomachs brush – bare skin against bare skin where their shirts have ridden up – and it’s too much, too hot. Mike’s knee slips between Will’s.
The sound of their mouths is loud in the room, louder than the rain hammering the window. Thunder growls somewhere in the distance.
Will’s hand braces beside Mike’s head, the other holds his jaw, thumb brushing his hot cheek.
He opens his mouth against Mike’s, hot, shaky breaths filling the air between them. There’s something desperate about the way their lips move together – open-mouthed and breathless.
Will has no thoughts left, just white noise, a loud buzz, growing only louder when Mike’s hand moves through his hair. His other hand slips under his shirt at his waist, sliding up into the warmth.
Will’s body feels electrified with how badly he wants to be touched. He pulls him closer, making their bodies collide. Will hears a noise and realizes it’s coming out of his own throat, a gasp from deep within.
Will knew about kissing, but he didn’t know what it meant to have his face smashed against somebody else’s – cheeks and noses and teeth and chins bumping.
And more than anything, he wishes he could see Mike, so he wouldn’t have to rely on the noises coming from his mouth to know this is really happening.
More thunder roars. Closer this time.
Mike takes Will’s bottom lip between his, and Will might as well be losing his mind. His mouth is wet, warm, insistent – making Will ache in ways even years of dreaming never could have prepared him for.
He's never felt anything like this.
He’s never felt Mike like this.
He’s known him for so long, but he’s never known the way his breath hitches when his hair is pulled, or the taste of his mouth, or the feel of his fingers digging into the skin of Will’s waist.
Everything is falling out of place – like a crack in time, reshaping what they are, what they were, what they will be.
More thunder. And then, just as Mike breaks the kiss, catching his breath, and Will presses their foreheads together, gasping for air, a flash of lightning bursts through the room.
For a second, it’s bright.
One second to see Mike beneath him, eyes wide, lips red and wet.
One second for Mike to see him.
One second to realize what’s happening.
Because suddenly, it’s not just their faces and bodies, but the context of them. It’s Will and Mike in the apocalypse, best friends since the day they met. It's two young boys on a playground, saying yes to a friendship that would shape them forever.
The reality hits them like a lightning strike.
There's so much to lose.
In the darkness, Mike’s breath stutters. His fingers fall away. Will rolls off him.
Their breathing fills the dark room, loud and uneven. Will’s heart pounds against his ribs.
Neither of them says a word, as they catch their breaths.
Will has spent over half his life convincing himself that this will never happen, but now his mouth is still hot and wet from Mike’s lips and he can still taste him on his tongue.
He’s never gonna be able to go back from this.
The rain is loud against the window. More thunder roars.
This whole week, they spent carving their way back into each other’s lives. But they dug too deep, forgot to stop, and now they’ve reached something too close to undo – Will has no idea where to go from here.
He can’t think of anything to say. Just one word would make this real, and they would have to face the consequences of what just happened.
So they don’t talk. They don’t touch.
They just lie there, catching their breaths, a gap between their bodies, waiting for morning, as if it holds the answer to what’s become of them – with this old friendship sitting open between them, pulled at the seams.