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Sorcerer powers don’t stop Will from getting hurt, and being dragged on the ground, face-down and clawing at every bit of concrete and rubble under his hands guarantees a scrape or two. What Will hasn’t anticipated is getting a cut so long and deep it needed loads of rubbing alcohol, some stitching and for him to bite onto a wooden plank to muffle his whimpers and keep his tongue intact.
He’s left to rest in the Squawk’s hidden basement; Mike volunteers to keep watch over him while others recharge and nap, even if Will protests and shoos him away to catch a few hours of sleep. He should’ve known Mike’s stubbornness is insistent when it concerns none other than Will.
The wound on his right forearm is rather nasty, skin stitched back together with black thread. It should be disgusting too look at, but Will’s dizziness must contribute to his neutral expression and indifference; what he does care about is how unflinching Mike is in the face of such an ugly injury ripping through his reddened flesh, stitches a hideous contrast and curving jaggedly over the inner side of his arm.
Mike silently wraps him in bandages, touch feather-light and so achingly gentle that the unlikeliness of it grounds Will in reality, his focus becoming razor-sharp. He watches Mike pull his arm onto his knee, fingers fidgeting over the gauze and ready to tape it securely as a spot of red suddenly blooms in the middle of it and more smaller stains begin to pop up, their edges irregular and morphing into one another. The cut seems to bleed even through the tight stitches Vickie put into his flesh. Will sighs tiredly, but Mike seems to be transfixed, his grip on Will’s wrist tightening. He ponders his dripping arm for a long second, looks up at Will and decides something wordlessly, nodding to himself.
“It’s alright,” Will finds himself saying, “Vickie said it might bleed a little. If I move too much.”
“Then don’t move,” Mike murmurs from his place by Will’s feet, “let me… just let me check.”
“Mike—”
But it’s a failed attempt to stop him when he’s already unwrapping his arm, bandages now heavier and stickier with the running blood. Will watches Mike with bated breath; he’s never seen this look on his face, though the familiar sparkle of fierce protectiveness shines through whatever unnamed expression is plastered across his sharpened features. The dim yellowish lighting of the basement is weirdly magical, Will notes, because the shadows on Mike’s cheekbones are warm, the orange glow in his messy curls almost a halo, a fiery shine. He’s too mesmerised by the sight before him to pay attention to what Mike’s hands are doing, what words his mouth must be forming. Will idly wonders how one can be both distant and present, notice the most minuscule details and yet remain unaware of everything else. The freckles on Mike’s nose matter more than the wound in his arm; the wavy fringe over Mike’s brow matters more than the sting under his stitches; the eyes looking up at him—always looking up at him and not the other way around—matter significantly more than the blood loss he’s surely experiencing.
The press of Mike’s shoulders between his knees is soft, the warmth seeping through layers of their dirty clothing. He’s quite distracting yet still has a calming presence about him, and Will allows himself a little bit of harmless watching. He can always justify his lingering, pensive gaze with lightheadedness and slow reaction—and his thought process is a little too convoluted to really think of any excuses now, when he can stare at Mike’s prettiest face unabashedly and have him this close.
Will believes he should be surprised at the indescribable hunger, the familiar ache in Mike’s eyes; after all, he catches himself on bearing the same expression whenever his love for Mike and the urge to act on it overwhelm and override his senses.
The exhaustion must be taking its toll on Will if he seriously believes that Mike’s eyes, however beautiful and intense, could mirror his own emotion.
That is, until Mike lowers his face to Will’s forearm, not breaking the eye contact, and catches a trickle of blood with his tongue. Then again, and again, and again—until he has to close his eyes, humming contentedly and panting hotly all over Will’s prickling flesh. Mike shifts on his knees and bends forward to reach every bit of blood, lick a wet wide stripe up to the crook of his elbow where the stitches start.
Will doesn’t think he takes but a single breath in as he watches Mike’s pink tongue: how it glides smoothly and gently over his arm, avoiding the raised edges of the stitched skin; how it laps up every new dribble of red from his wound; how it washes it all away with saliva, doesn’t waste a drop, smearing spit all over Will—and, against his better judgment or sanity, making his heart beat faster in misplaced elation.
Mike’s eyes are delirious, lips stained red; Will wishes they were red from kissing instead. He hopes his bleeding stops soon and yet doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t want Mike’s mouth to abandon its mission. Will can only sit there, obediently motionless and with the newfound knowledge of how Mike’s full lips and chin feel dragging down the slope of his forearm, his hot breaths searing the wet path his tongue has left in its wake.
He barely registers as Mike moves onto kissing his arm and cradling his wrist, fingers curling tenderly over it. Will almost misses the shift in his touch for how tender and caring it is, fluttering over the heated skin.
“Mike?” he asks, voice suddenly hoarse.
“Will,” Mike whispers in reply, leaning his cheek onto Will’s slack palm.
He cups it, unthinking, and doesn’t feel the fear he’s always expected to blossom at such an intimate press of their skin. Mike glances up, eyes heavy-lidded and brimming with unswerving intensity Will is foolishly proud to share. He still waits for a response, an explanation, something other than his softly spoken name—but Mike chooses to stare at him wordlessly, another hand moving from his injured arm onto his knee. The quiet around them doesn’t feel as suffocating as Will thinks it should have.
“Won’t you say anything?” he asks softly, thumb rubbing Mike’s cheekbone mindlessly.
“I,” he swallows, “should apologise?”
There’s a blood stain on his lip and a smudge of it in the corner of his mouth.
“Should you?” Will wonders aloud, not knowing the answer himself.
Mike sighs, eyes downcast.
“I acted on impulse. Are you uncomfortable?” Will stares at him, mouth open. “Will,” Mike rushes to say, setting both hands on his thighs and looking up, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I—did a very stupid, weird as fuck thing. I’ve never felt more—hn. I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“Don’t,” Will reaches jerkily toward his retreating shoulders, “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Are we… miraculously over it then?” Mike wonders, somewhat hopeful.
“No. But I need a little honesty right now.”
“A little… honesty?” he seems unsure, biting his lip. His lip, that has just kissed Will’s wounded arm all over, glided over trails of blood and stained in its attempt to lap up the bleeding and soothe the pain; his lip, that Will knows the feel of now, and is determined to feel again and again.
“Honesty,” he says carefully, “about—”
“I’m sorry. Really. It was a—”
“Mike,” Will interrupts in turn and sighs in exasperation, “I’m too lightheaded to think fast. Give me a minute.”
“Are you hurting again? Should I find Vickie?” he perks up, alarmed. “Nausea? Headache? I think you should eat some chocolate. I hid some for you, wait here—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Will mutters, dragging a hand over his face, “are you coddling me right now? Or distracting?”
“I—” Mike huffs. “I care about you! You need water, and something to eat, and something sweet, and I’ll be damned if I can’t get you a fucking Gatorade, Will.”
He really needs more time to process reality, and Mike takes his silence as acquiescence he hasn’t meant to give. Will reaches his healthy hand out toward Mike and he suddenly stills in his movement, eyes widening and gazing back at him in wonder. Will doesn’t register anything amiss, only lets his hand fall back onto his thigh and throws his head over the back of the couch.
“Mike,” he repeats, “stay there. You’re warm. And I don’t want to be alone.”
Mike doesn’t answer and stays rooted to the spot. Will shoots him a glance with a quirked eyebrow, as if asking what’s his deal now, but Mike only wets his—dreadfully sinful—lips and gulps.
“I can’t move,” he says, and Will stares at him blankly.
“You… can. Or—are you, you’re hurt?”
“No, I just can’t move my legs,” he stares somewhere at Will’s knees and shoots him a loaded look, “literally. I’m not joking.”
“I…” Will blinks at him, then at his own left hand and sees it clenched in a loose fist. “What?”
“Your hand,” Mike says eloquently, nodding at him, “I think you’re doing it with your hand. Residual powers.”
Will splays out his fingers and watches Mike stumble forward, uncoordinated. He feels a trickle under his nose and doesn’t bother to wipe it off, staring at Mike and his tentative steps. He lowers himself again at his feet, fits between Will’s spread knees and looks up, ever innocent and beguiling. There’s something cautious in his eyes as he presses down on Will’s thighs to lift himself, arching up. He’s so close Will could count all his lashes, and the thought is as dizzying as all that’s led them to this moment; Will sits there, holding his breath, and waits for something wondrous to come, Mike’s proximity all-encompassing in the very best sense.
His breathing is shallow and way too hot; Will can’t focus on anything else but the puffs of air hitting his chin and mouth. Mike gulps, takes a steadying breath and mutters into the space between their lips,
“Stop me, freeze me,” his gaze falls somewhere to his philtrum, “if it’s not what you want.”
The tip of Mike’s tongue licks off the trail of blood over Will’s upper lip hesitantly, eyes closing in fear of seeing Will’s disgust, reaction possibly delayed; it didn’t stop him from laving at his arm earlier, ready to suck every drip down his throat—but his mind is clearer now, less clouded and more frantic the longer he doesn’t feel the push, as much as he expects it to come. Will is motionless against him, his breaths surprisingly even. Mike can’t help but tongue at the skin a little more, desperately trying to avoid Will’s lips. He can’t—he can’t kiss him like this, doesn’t want to bear the memory of this evening with regret for the rest of his life. He’s done enough, Mike thinks, he’s done more than enough and he should back away.
Will doesn’t let him with a hand on his nape, fingers tangling in his curls. Mike still doesn’t dare open his eyes, panting into Will’s parted mouth. He fears he can’t form a single coherent thought.
“Tell me why,” Will rasps, “tell me why you did this.”
“I wanted to,” Mike whispers in response, sounding scared.
“Wanted… my blood?”
“Wanted to touch you,” he shakes his head sharply, “to take it all away.”
“Just now?” Will clarifies, heart beating in his throat.
“All the time,” Mike’s voice breaks, “every time you get hurt.”
Will doesn’t know what to ask next, and so he remains quiet, mind racing and thoughts clashing. It’s all too much, and he knows Mike can move away—and he doesn’t. He stays kneeling between his spread thighs with Will’s hand clutched onto his hair, with Will’s blood in his stomach, on his lips, in his mouth—and waits. For the final verdict, a rejection, for Will’s reason to kick back in and push him away with revulsion.
Will scratches his scalp instead.
“Why?”
“Because it’s you,” Mike laughs breathlessly, “and because I’m me.”
“Mike,” he pleads, “tell me. I swear you can tell me.”
“You’ll hate me.”
“There isn’t a single universe in which I’d hate you,” he swallows, voice softening, “my Paladin.”
Mike stills completely. Will waits for him patiently, knows that the last step, however cruel it might be, is on Mike. He can’t risk it himself when Mike’s the one who’s started it all.
“I,” he clears his throat, “Will, I don’t think you understand—”
Will’s injured arm moves on its own, cups the side of Mike’s face and lets his thumb run lightly over the quivering lower lip.
“Try me,” he hums, “try me, Mike. When have I ever not understood you? Sometimes I feel we share the same mind. Or the same... heart.”
You’re holding mine hostage, Will thinks, so I think it hardly differs.
Mike whimpers.
“I want you,” he rasps at last, avoiding looking at Will, “beyond common sense. I want you, Will, I—I... I love you, I want you forever in my line of sight. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Will feels unwanted tears well behind his eyes.
“Look at me,” he asks quietly, but Mike keeps his head bowed, gripping Will’s knees, “what did you say back there, at MAC-Z? Eyes on me?”
Mike huffs humourlessly.
“Please.”
Will’s pleading makes him snap his gaze back up, concern etched into the frowning line of his eyebrows. He swallows, trying to hold the eye contact and not cry—or worse, get up and flee.
“I’ve been in love with you my whole life,” Will lets out softly, a small smile gracing his lips—reassuring as much as it can be as he lays himself bare in front of the only boy he’d entrust a place inside his narrow ribcage, the boy who can pave the way to his heart with nothing more than a smile.
Mike ponders him in a silent surprise, mouth open and eyes wide. His hands move to lay cautiously on Will’s face and rub along the apples of his cheeks. His focus wavers and drops from Will’s blush onto his own fingers, suspiciously wet with more blood. His ears must have bled too, Mike thinks distractedly as he puts his stained finger into his mouth, sucking the blood off. Will’s breathing hitches, eyes darting between Mike’s lips and his eyes. His throat bobs, catching Mike’s attention.
“Would you kiss me then?” Mike wonders. “Would you like this—with me?”
“God,” Will shudders, voice trembling, “yes. Yes, Mike, I—kiss me. Kiss me.”
Mike won’t ever forget the wet feel of Will’s tongue against his—and he doesn’t plan to when Will’s moans are so soft and sweet from the smallest of touches, from the very tip of the iceberg he’s planning to show and explore in its entirety with him.
Will doesn’t find the copper taste in Mike’s mouth repulsing and frantically, distantly thinks that he might have been doomed from the very beginning, from the moment Mike knelt before him or, perhaps, before he really knew what love or kissing or wanting was. Mike’s lips are slick with blood and Will’s tears that he only notices when Mike breaks the kiss and coos to him in soothing tone, lips catching the end points of wet salty tracks on his chin and the corners of his mouth.
The second kiss they ease into is slower, somehow more innocent than the feverish first, and Will makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat as he squeezes Mike’s hair and his sweater, tugging him closer. The cut on his arm pulls, and he hisses into his mouth, sigh bordering on a moan. He doesn’t expect Mike to lick over his lip and back away, gaze soft yet deep and blackened.
“I told you not to move,” he chastises and brings Will’s arm from his firm grip in his hair to his lips, lapping up the stray drops of blood, “you’ve bled too much.”
“You,” Will breathes irregularly, “you’re here, aren’t you? To make it better. To make it all go away.”
Mike looks up for the hundredth time this evening, but the action feels as novel as if it were the first one. They lock gazes as Mike’s lips drag over the smooth skin of Will’s inner forearm, tongue tracing bloody streaks.
“As long as you wish,” he agrees quietly, “as long as I can stay by your side.”
“Promise we’ll talk,” Will asks fervently, clutching his jacket, “promise we’ll talk properly in the morning. You’ll stay. Mike, stay—”
“I—” he interrupts, hands achingly gentle on Will’s body, “I wouldn’t do it any other way. I’m not leaving, Will—I’m never leaving. I’ll follow anywhere. Take me and I swear I’ll follow you anywhere.”
Will bites his lip and sobs, tears running uncontrollably, met with Mike’s thumbs wiping them all away.
“Promise?” he asks one last time, close to hiccuping.
“Promise.”
Mike seals it with the kiss on Will’s mouth, steady and certain in a single truth of his life: they would never and could never part—least of all now, holding onto each other for dear life with their entire souls and bodies entwined.