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all at once, it’s november again — november, when the white-hot blurs of summer have bled into a windbitten fall, bronzed leaves sinking into the dust of the road, their curled edges crushed by the soles of worn sneakers and the steady roll of bike wheels.
tomorrow, the cold will sting his ankles where his socks have slipped just an inch below his shoes, and he'll clench stiff fingers tighter around the cool metal of the handlebars. safer there, he will think, foolishly. of course, they will flex still, restless, and he’ll look ahead to where mike’s scarf hangs tilted, the burnt orange-crossed plaid looped loose around his neck, swinging as he tramples the dying leaves beneath his feet. (will’s own carry him closer, eyes fastened to mike’s face, blotted apple-red, his tossed black hair, his lips parted just— he’s saying something, will must listen—)
he'll listen, instead, to the slow creak of the swing set from above, feel the ice of the chains heavy in his palms as his legs push him off the ground, gliding long lines through the air. (he'll catch mike's lazy grin, and for a moment, deep down, it'll feel like flying.) and joyce will call them inside after the sun dips low, shoulders jostling, two steaming mugs of cider waiting for them on the marbled counter — he can already feel the spiced liquid sliding like smooth fire down his throat, the sugary bitter warmth settling deep and low there in his belly, and he’ll —
he’ll watch mike, he can’t help it, watch how his hands stretch, curving around the wide cup, and he’ll smile at the smear of whipped cream resting just above mike’s upper lip (he can’t help that, either— why mike likes his cider like that, will’s never understood.) he wants to reach out again, to wipe it off, but his fingers move so slowly—
he’ll laugh instead, with a dark blush creeping over his cheeks, and find the rim of his mug again, there where it’s safe. and mike will look at him and laugh harder — at least will hopes he would — reaching out a finger to brush gently against will’s lip, an easy motion of silence.
mike’s hands smell of cinnamon, eyes large and shining fever-bright, and eventually, will’s do the same.