Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’re up too late on Wednesday night, Mike eating Pringles and finishing a draft for Screenwriting and Will cutting up more magazines for Mixed Media, his Snoopy mug beside him. Despite both of them having 8 AMs the next morning, it’ll be a while yet before they’ll be able to go to bed. They’ve settled in for the foreseeable future, tucked into their own zones of the living room -- Mike at the desk under the window and Will on the floor by the coffee table.

It’s going on two o’clock. Mike leans back in his chair and stretches dramatically, groaning with the effort.

“Will,” he says, rubbing his fists over his eyes. “If I ever again try to convince you to play video games with me all afternoon instead of getting my shit done, I need you to tell me ‘no.’”

“I did tell you ‘no.’”

“I need you to tell me ‘no’ and then not give in.”

“I gave in because you wouldn’t leave me alone. It was either that or listen to you beg for another hour.”

Mike flutters his lips. “That’s a mean way of saying you gave in because you love playing video games with me.”

“Is that what I said?”

“It’s what you implied.”

Will picks up his Snoopy mug and stands. He saunters over to the desk and leans against the edge of it, a foot from where Mike is sitting. “How’s the script coming?”

“Okay. Not great.”

His final exam for the class will be to turn in a completed 60-minute screenplay. Draft deadlines are spread periodically throughout the semester, and Mike’s currently working on his third submission of a coming of age script about a group of teenagers who save their town from a supernatural disaster.

On the nose? Sure. But he’s not a huge fan of the screenplay format, and if he can use his own personal trauma as a cheat code to get through this class, why not?

Will leans over and squints at the typewriter. He reads aloud what’s written, affecting a different voice for each character:

JOSHUA: If I die in there, I’m coming back to haunt you.

TIMMY: Why?

JOSHUA: Because you’re the son-of-a-bitch who dragged me into this mess.

TIMMY: Fuck you, Josh. Stop being a chicken.

JOSHUA: Eat me.

Will saying “Eat me” makes Mike laugh. Or maybe it’s just two AM and he’s slowly losing his sanity.

“Wow,” Will says. “This is…something.”

“How bad is it?”

“I feel like you’ve had this exact conversation with Dustin, so like, negative points on the originality.”

“Eat me.”

Will smirks. Mike looks up at him -- takes in the twist of his mouth, how he’s wearing nothing but a giant gray sweatshirt and the plaid boxers he often wears around the apartment like normal shorts.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. “So how’s the cutting?”

“Fine. Almost done.”

“Lucky you.”

Will’s Mixed Media final will be a 20 x 30 self-portrait incorporating at least eight mediums. He’s spent the past three weeks working on his magazine collage elements and has to bring them to class the next day for conferencing.

“Do you think you’re sleeping tonight?” Will asks. He drinks his coffee.

As if on cue, Mike yawns. He nods. “Yeah. I’m not too far off. It’s just a draft, anyway. Something for Dr. Griffin to rip apart.”

“Got it.”

Will continues perching on the edge of the desk, sipping away at his coffee. Mike wants to ask him if he needs anything, but that feels awkward. Instead, he waits him out. He flips through his stapled copy of his previous draft, scanning over his professor’s comments in red pen.

“So, hey.”

There we go. Mike meets Will’s eyes -- or tries to. Will doesn’t make it easy on him.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask you something. Give you notice, I guess, if it’s something we–” He huffs. “If it’s something we decide to do. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and…” Will turns his coffee mug in his hands.

“Okay. What is it?”

“How interested would you be in…” He smiles down into his mug. Clears his throat and tries again. “Do you think you’d maybe wanna go all the way on Friday?”

Mike’s elbow bumps the typewriter keyboard and adds an errant space to his document.

“You mean, like–”

“Like, full...y’know.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the caffeine and junk food, maybe it’s the buzzing in his ears from what Will’s just suggested, but Mike’s approximately five seconds away from dropping dead at the young age of twenty.

“Um. Totally,” he says, and it isn’t very cool of him, isn’t very composed.

Will laughs. Ridiculously, he sounds a little relieved.

“Okay. Cool. So, we’ll…do that.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll cover all the stuff, so you won’t need to do anything.”

Mike doesn’t know what he means.

He does have one immediate question, the answer of which will determine the next few days of his life:

“So, in this scenario… Who needs to do the…pooping and all that?”

Will almost chokes on his coffee.

Mike waves his hands around. “You know what I mean.”

“Mike.”

“What?”

“That is truly the least sexy phrasing you could have possibly used.”

“I didn’t know we were being sexy.”

“Believe me: we’re not.”

“Well?” Mike raises his brows at him. “Who needs to…y’know?”

“That’s sorta what I meant by stuff. I mean–” Will talks to the ceiling again, that awkward smile working its way onto his mouth. “Tell me if that’s not how you wanna do it, but I thought maybe you’d be the one to…pitch.”

“Baseball. Nice.”

“Yes.” Will huffs an exhausted, breathy laugh and rubs his face. “So is that…something you’d be interested in doing? Pitching?”

“Totally. I mean– I don’t really know how because I’m assuming you don’t just…throw the ball any which way, but yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay. We’re gonna drop the metaphor.” Will outstretches his leg and lightly kicks Mike’s foot. “It’s pretty easy. I’ll do all the prep and stuff, and all you’ve gotta do is…”

“Stick it in.”

“Mike.”

“You said you wanted to drop the metaphor.”

Will gives a tired smile. “It’s too late at night for this.” He pushes away from the desk and starts making his way back to his pile of magazines on the floor. “Good talk.”

Mike laughs, equally tired. “Condoms?”

“Yeah. I have some.”

Mike wishes he hadn’t asked that, honestly.

He isn’t an idiot. He’s fully aware that Will has been doing things requiring condoms with the Guys he hangs out with. It’s just that it isn’t an altogether nice thing to think about, Will getting that kind of intimate with other people. Letting them do that to him.

Maybe Mike’s an asshole. Sex isn’t necessarily precious, Will deserves to feel good, and if that’s one way he likes to feel good, he’s happy for him. Obviously.

Mike turns in his chair to watch Will stretch back out on the floor, his legs spread in a V and a pile of chopped up magazines between. He holds a pair of scissors and idly works them open and shut as he turns the pages, searching for something else to cut out for his collage.

“Can’t wait,” Mike says, just throwing it out there. He bites his lip after, nervous.

Will looks over at him. Smiles. “Cool. Me neither.”

“Cool.”

Mike takes a deep breath and turns back to his script. His fingers rest against the typewriter keys.

JOSHUA: If I die in there, I’m coming back to haunt you.

TIMMY: Why?

JOSHUA: Because you’re the son-of-a-bitch who dragged me into this mess.

TIMMY: Fuck you, Josh. Stop being a chicken.

JOSHUA: Eat me.

ISAAC: You’re both idiots.

TIMMY turns to him, affronted. ISAAC gives him a wide smile.

ISAAC: Especially you, Tim.

TIMMY: Rude.

ISAAC shoves TIMMY, his hand resting against his chest for just shy of too long, and walks away. TIMMY smiles, a secret smile, and follows after him.

–

Thursday is a slow day behind the circulation desk. It’s been a slog all week. Since it’s just after midterms, all the intense studying and research is taking a break for a few more days. There are virtually no students needing help with the card catalog. No new books are in, so nothing needs to be labeled or laminated. Mike has primarily spent the week organizing, reading, and doing his schoolwork.

But now he has something else to do. Namely: a bit of top secret gay research.

The good thing about a college library is that it has a little bit of everything, content be damned. Mike is able to find a handful of promising books. Some are purely scientific, which isn’t exactly what he’s going for, but others are wonderfully instructional.

There’s one in particular that he sneaks off the shelf, cracking it open across his lap as he sits behind the circulation desk and flipping through it out of view of anyone who might walk by.

He knows Will told him he didn’t need to do anything -- basically, that he could just show up with his showered self and no worries. But that’s not how Mike Wheeler rolls. He likes to be prepared.

The book in his lap covers a whole slew of topics, from preparation to safety to positions. Mike skims through the preparation section and blanches at what’s suggested. He wonders how the hell a gay person’s supposed to have spontaneous sex when they have to spend what looks like an hour getting ready for it.

It makes sense. He gets the whys behind it all, the book doing its best to explain what could happen if proper procedures aren’t followed, all of which are either gross or painful. But come on. Surely there are exceptions.

He tells this to Will when he stops by to bring Mike coffee. Will sets down the cup on the circulation desk and rubs both hands over his face.

He cringes. “Mike, can we talk about this later? I have studio in like, five minutes.”

With a sigh, Mike nods and lets him go, then sets in to read about the actual process of doing it.

Once the particulars are sorted, it doesn’t seem too different from how a person would do it with a girl -- not that he’s ever done that, either. It’s just conceptually familiar to him, boy life being what it is and exposure to porn and dirty movies basically a rite of passage.

Stick it in, thrust, orgasm. Easy peasy.

Something valuable he does learn are the various positions. He skips over the ones that wouldn’t be comfortable for Will -- anything from behind, anything requiring the bottom to be pinned or flattened against the bed -- and learns where everybody’s limbs go when you do it face-to-face. There’s discussion of missionary and riding. They can do it on their sides, the bottom’s leg up on the top’s hip like they’d done a couple weeks ago when they’d rubbed themselves together.

And the thing is, the more Mike reads, the less he understands how anybody could have a problem with being with Will in this way. It sounds awesome to be able to watch his face during, to be able to kiss him and smile at him and swipe his disheveled hair off his forehead.

He can’t wait to love him that way.

What a thought.

It’s a bad one, probably. Wrong of him. There’s likely something inherently fucked up about doing it with someone you’re in love with when they don’t feel the same way, like you’re pouring something into them they don’t necessarily want.

Mike is fucked up, though. That’s already been established. He’s a jealous, possessive loser who fashioned their arrangement for the soul purpose of sleeping with the person he’s in love with.

So, wrong or not, screw it. If he’s going to drive himself insane by putting himself in this position, go ahead and get the straightjacket ready.

He’ll do a whole hell of a lot to get to take care of Will Byers.

–

Will’s at the studio late that night, so he picks up dinner on his way in: deli sandwiches with pickles and fries. He and Mike eat them at the coffee table while watching their usual Thursday night television line-up.

“It’s later,” Mike says randomly. He drags a fry through the mound of ketchup they’re sharing.

Will chuckles. “Come on, Mike. You don’t wanna talk about this right now. We’re eating.”

“I have a stomach of steel.”

“I don’t.”

Mike sighs. He shoves the french fry in his mouth and washes it down with the beer he’s been nursing. Whatever. He forges ahead anyway:

“All-the-way sex. You always have to go through that whole process beforehand?”

Will sighs. “You don’t have to, but–” He scrunches up his face.

“So if we– So if two people were on the couch and just decided to…y’know…the catcher would have to go to the bathroom for an hour first?”

“An hour’s an exaggeration.”

“Still.”

Will shrugs. “Like I said: you wouldn’t have to. If you’re in a comfortable relationship, maybe, and you’re…regular, and you’re pretty sure you’re okay down there.”

“Sounds unreasonable.”

Will chuckles. “There’s a bunch of ways to do it that are better for spontaneity.”

Mike takes a bite of his sandwich and hums. “I guess. “

They’re quiet for long enough for it to get awkward in a way it wouldn’t be if they’d been talking about literally anything else. Will chomps on his kosher pickle.

After he finishes, he says, “You read a book on it.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I’m doing, so…”

Will smiles, soft and almost shy. “That’s really good of you, Mike.”

“Me trying not to make a fool of myself?”

“You trying to learn. Which you don’t have to do, by the way.”

“I wanna make sure I do okay.” Mike quirks his mouth. “Feels kinda…major.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I dunno. I’ll be inside you.”

Will exhales a big breath into his Slice can, making a loud, tinny sound. Mike probably needs to shut up. Instead, he says:

“Sorry. That was maybe awkward to say. But that whole thing seems intense, and I guess I don’t wanna screw it up or…hurt you or do it badly like the blowjob.”

“The blowjob wasn’t bad!”

“You rated it a five and a half. That’s barely fifty percent. An F.”

Will laughs. “We were on the floor at my mom’s house. It was your first time.”

“Ugh.”

“What?”

“Embarrassing.” Mike shoves in the last bite of sandwich. With his mouth full, he continues: “Maybe I’m just bad at sex.”

“Mike.”

“What? Maybe I am.”

Will grins, looking delighted for some reason. “You’re not.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We do know that.” He puts his hands over his face for a second, rubbing at it, then drops them to his lap. “When we did the…thing in my room a couple weeks ago? So great.”

“Really?”

“Duh.”

Mike smiles. “Well, maybe I’m bad at blowjobs.”

“Maybe.”

“Hey!”

Will laughs, this giggle that turns quickly to sweet, boyish gasping. He flops down on his back on the couch, and as Mike watches him, all he can think is:

This is when I’d kiss him.

That shit hurts.

Will is beautiful, and if Mike had even an ounce of actual bravery, he’d tell him. As it stands, he just laughs along with him and flips him off.

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Will says with a breathy huff, turning on his side.

“Sure you are.”

“I am. Promise.”

Mike rolls his eyes but smiles, closed-mouthed and soft. “I can try again.”

Will’s eyes widen, and his lips part. He blinks rapidly, and even over the TV, Mike hears a rush of breath escape him.

“Y’know, one day,” Mike adds quickly, panicking. Scared to death he’s stepped out of turn.

Will continues to stare, but something on his face falls and his cheeks become impossibly red. Abruptly, he rolls over onto his back and chuckles up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I’ll let you.”

Mike smirks, snatches up his beer, and leans back in the recliner. They watch TV for a while, the silence uncomfortable but growing less so.

They’re partway through a rerun of The Simpsons when Mike finishes his beer. He sets the can down and pulls his legs up into the recliner. He turns to Will:

“Joking aside, was the blowjob actually that bad?”

He knows they’re being lighthearted about it. He knows it probably did truly suck. But honestly: a five and a half? Isn’t it supposed to be one of those things where even bad pizza is good pizza?

Will smiles at the TV, not looking at him. “I had a lot of fun with you that night.”

So basically: yes, but Will’s sweet.

“So that’s a yes, huh?”

Will’s eyes finally meet his, and his smile grows just a tick wider. He looks away again.

“No. I loved it.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Seriously?”

“I mean–” Will looks back at him. “Your technique was a little…” He makes an eh face, nose scrunching. It’s impossibly fucking cute, and Mike melts inside. He studies him for a moment.

“It was okay, though?”

Will nods at him, serious now. “Probably my favorite one.”

“How?”

It actually makes Mike laugh a little, and at least part of it is with relief that apparently the guys Will’s been with are shitty lays.

Will chuckles back. And what he says shatters Mike’s sense of jealous superiority and instead makes him want to go a bit postal on every single one of them:

“I trust you, and you were nice to me during it.”

Mike huffs a furious breath. He waits a moment, though, because the last thing he wants to do is turn this into a thing. Will wouldn’t want that.

“The other guys you’ve been with,” he says. “They weren’t nice to you?”

Depending on Will’s answer, Mike might catch a charge. How the hell do you have the privilege of taking him to bed and end up treating him with anything but kindness?

“Most of them were.” Will gives him a look, suggesting Mike is, once again, doing a shitty job of hiding his anger. “They were, Mike. I don’t make a habit of going out with jerks.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I dunno.” Will scratches the back of his neck. “I guess that I was able to trust that you weren’t expecting me to…do it back. And I could relax and–” He huffs, an embarrassment flush working its way onto his face.

Mike quirks his brow. “And what?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

Will groans. “Mike.”

“What?”

“It’s…awkward.”

“So?” Mike smiles. “Come on.”

Will turns over on his belly on the couch and pillows his head on his arms. He sighs. “Sometimes, with other guys, y’know, I can’t…”

Mike waits him out. It takes a moment, but finally, Will gives a self-deprecating smile.

“Sometimes I can’t…finish...during blowjobs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You did with me.”

Mike doesn’t really mean to say it. It sounds a little haughty and stupid. Will, however, just nods.

“I did.”

“That’s really good.” Mike smiles at him, slow and easy.

Will returns it. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“Will you tell me? If I ever do anything that makes you feel sick or…worried?”

“Yeah. I will.” Will nods, and maybe it’s the light, the TV reflecting back on him in a way it hadn’t before, but it looks almost like his eyes get teary.

Mike gives him a lopsided smile. “I mean– Getting off’s kinda the whole point, and I wanna make sure you do.”

A beat. Will exhales.

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks, Mike.”

Something complicated happens to his face -- his brow wrinkles, then his mouth. He sits up on the couch. Stretches.

It’s barely eight. They would normally hang out in the living room for at least another hour before migrating to their own spaces, busying themselves with schoolwork or showering or listening to their Walkmans while drawing or reading.

Will stands and picks up his trash from the coffee table.

Mike thinks he’s just going to go throw it away and return. But when he starts making his way toward the kitchen, he tosses a “Hey” behind him.

“Yeah?”

“It’s been a long day for me, so I think I’m gonna go take a shower, chill for a while, and go to bed early.”

“Oh.” Mike nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

Will smiles. He stands there in his blue long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, his hair rumpled from lying on the couch, and he looks so beautiful. Beautiful and sad, sort of, and Mike is confused as hell.

Did he say something? He rewinds furiously back through the last two minutes, and try as he might, he can’t think of anything. He’d been kind, even, wanting Will to know he could trust Mike to treat him well in bed. He’d wanted him to know that it was important to him that he came because he wanted him to feel good.

He considers asking. Opens his mouth to do it, in fact. But Will is already making his way back toward his bedroom.

“Night, Mike,” he says, voice cheery despite the look on his face just moments ago.

“Night, Will.”

Maybe that was the thing. Maybe he’d said too much, let too many of his feelings show. Proposing another blowjob. Telling him he wanted to make sure that he got off, that he felt good, his love for him probably seeping out his pores. Fuck, and proudly calling attention to the fact that Will was able to finish from Mike’s blowjob -- as if Mike’s special.

He cringes. He’s an idiot. A total embarrassing, lovesick loser.

He pushes his hand back through his hair and goes to get another beer.

–

Thankfully, Will’s seemingly forgotten whatever it was by morning. At work, he brings Mike his half-eaten pastry and a small coffee with one creamer. Mike jokes with him about being his caffeine dealer and sugar supplier, and Will playfully shushes him when they spot a member of campus security.

“What time will you be home?” Mike asks as Will turns to start heading to class.

Will pauses and turns back around. With a flushed face, he speaks to Mike’s coffee cup: “Four, probably.”

“Cool. Want me to pick up dinner?”

“You can.” Will clears his throat. “But we should probably…y’know...before we eat.”

“Oh. Yeah. Totally.”

They’ve had sex three times now, and Will’s done it likely a bunch before. Still, he seems more nervous this time than he has been in the past, his breath quick when he makes plans with Mike.

That nervousness makes Mike more nervous. When Will leaves, he sneaks back over to the shelf where he’d found the gay sex book, finds it again, and brings it back to the desk.

He isn’t sure what he could possibly learn from a second perusal, as the information certainly hasn’t changed. The inexplicit, educational drawings depicting intercourse positions are exactly the same. The anatomical diagrams of the internal parts, the prostate highlighted as a source of heightened pleasure, are what they were yesterday.

Still, Mike skims through the book again, thinking about being inside Will. Holy shit. He’s going to come in two-point-five seconds. He won’t even have a chance to thrust against Will’s prostate because he’ll be done and dusted in the time it takes to slide in.

He probably needs to masturbate once, maybe twice, before then, though he doubts that’ll help. It hasn’t up to this point, and if he’s honest, he’s always been quick to cross the finish line even on his own, so he’s pretty sure Will’s simply in for more disappointment.

Which sucks.

He wants to bring him to ecstasy like the leading man in the gross romance novels his mom reads -- wants to ride in on his white horse, sweep him off his feet, take him to a lush, green meadow and make him moan. Full-on dirty fairytale stuff.

Too bad he’s basically cursed to be bad at sex until he’s more experienced.

The book sure as hell isn’t going to help him. From it, he knows he can prop up Will’s hips with a pillow to make the angle easier. He knows the approximate location of the prostate. He knows he should jerk Will off during because, while possible, orgasms from anal sex alone aren’t always achievable. But ultimately, he wants to laugh when he thinks about what he’s actually going to do when he has Will under him.

He shuts the book and sneaks it back to its shelf. Realistically, he should probably skip class to go home and bring himself to orgasm as many times as his body will allow in the period before Will gets home. The thought of that, however, makes him feel like a massive, embarrassing pervert.

Instead, he goes to Beat Writing and listens to Archie tell him about his and Frank’s romantic spring break trip to the Poconos when they’re supposed to be sharing their Spontaneous Prose assignments with each other. Mike waits for him to finish and wants so badly to tell him he’s about to go do anal with his roommate.

He doesn’t, of course. He politely tells Archie the trip sounds like it was fun and then asks if he wants to read his piece first.

–

The problem is that he can only get a quick shower jerk off in because Will’s home when he arrives. Mike had stopped by their favorite sushi place, and he shoves his way in the door with a bag of tuna rolls and two containers of miso soup.

Will’s in his bedroom with the door open, and Mike puts the food away for now and goes to poke his head in.

“Hey,” he says, knocking on the door jamb.

Will is lying on his stomach across the bed, playing Super Mario Land on his Game Boy. He pauses the game and looks up.

“Hey.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re here.” Will smiles, this slow, sweet thing that makes Mike’s stomach hurt with the so much of it all.

Mike swallows. “I’m gonna go grab a shower.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“I brought sushi.”

“Nice. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stare at each other awkwardly, and come on: sex simply cannot be like this with normal people. There is no way in hell that regular people get ready to do it like they’re preparing for a scheduled work meeting. One moment, please, while I grab my notes. Would you like coffee? Have a seat. Get comfortable.

Mike knows they’re acting completely weird about this whole thing. The book had several pages on foreplay. He’s pretty sure the start of sex is supposed to involve touching, cuddling, kissing in places other than just the mouth and neck.

But, well, maybe this is how this kind of sex starts. As much as Mike wants this to be love, the reality of the situation is that it’s getting off together so Will doesn’t have to sleep around with guys who don’t understand him. Basically it is a work meeting. This is business.

It breaks Mike’s heart a little, but he doesn’t let it show.

“So…after?” he says, feigning composure.

Will smiles. “Yeah.”

“Okay. See you…in a minute.” He cringes.

Shower, definitely. Drowning, perhaps.

–

He tries to get off twice in the shower, but the mood isn’t there past the first, and he doesn’t have time to wait around for the ten or so more minutes it’ll take for him to fully recover enough to want it again.

After, he shaves, brushes his teeth, and pulls on pajamas that are just going to come back off.

Will comes in on his way out. Brushes his own teeth. Gargles. Mike goes to walk aimlessly around his bedroom after Will closes the door to do who knows what else.

Whatever it is, it isn’t the whole process Mike read about in the book. It takes about fifteen minutes, and Will leaves the bathroom and goes straight to his own room for five more before returning to stand awkwardly in Mike’s doorway.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft. His face is red and his lips seem bitten like he’s flushed and well-kissed already. Mike sits on the end of his bed and inhales deeply.

“Where?”

“My room. I have all the stuff there.”

“Okay.”

Mike gets up and follows him there. Indeed, there’s a little collection of stuff on his nightstand: a condom, a bottle of store-brand personal lubricant, and tissues. There’s a towel on the bed, spread out as if to cover the sheets.

Will catches Mike eyeing it.

“So we don’t get lube everywhere,” he says. “It’s a little…messy.”

Mike swallows. “Okay.”

He waits. Will walks over to the bed and smooths out the towel, then turns to face him.

And then he smiles. And just like that, it’s them. Mike and Will.

“We actually have to get fully naked this time,” Will says. He crosses his arms over his chest like that’s the last thing he’s about to do.

Mike drops open his mouth, breaths too heavy for his nose alone to handle. “Can I do it to you?”

Will huffs, surprised for some reason. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. If you want.”

Even after that’s settled, they do nothing, simply continuing to stare at each other.

“Sorry,” Will says suddenly. He takes two big steps forward until he’s close enough for Mike to reach out and touch.

“For what?”

“I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” Mike chuffs. “I’m the one with all the pressure.”

“What kind of pressure?”

“Making it good for you.”

“Oh.’

Mike blows out a breath, blood simmering beneath his skin. He steps forward once, then twice, until Will’s just inches from him, his body radiating warmth that Mike can feel.

“And I’m pretty sure this is gonna be over in fifty-five seconds -- at least for me -- and that’s not really conducive to making it good.”

“You never know.”

“I do know. That’s the problem.”

Will smiles, eyes locking on Mike’s and gleaming like he’s happy. Which is amazing. Mike places his hands on his shoulders. Will’s hands touch Mike’s waist, tentatively at first and then with more confidence.

“It’s the thought that counts.”

Mike snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

They watch each other for a moment, simply breathing. Then, gathering as much bravery as he can muster, Mike slides his hands down from Will’s shoulders, along the front of his shirt, until he meets his waist.

“Can I?”

Will nods. Mike takes his shirt by the bottom hem and pulls it up and over his head.

When his arms are up, Mike sees his armpit hair. From this close, he can examine the way his nipples are starting to tighten from the cold of the room. He cups him around the jaw, then slides his fingers down along the sides of his neck and back.

Will drops open his own mouth like he can’t breathe out his nose now, and Mike presses in and in and kisses him.

It isn’t fair how much I want you, he thinks, tilting his head to the side and sucking softly at Will’s mouth, then straightening and tasting his lips individually.

It really isn’t. It’s electricity inside him, magic shooting through his veins. Kissing Will is like touching his tongue to a nine-volt battery, is like the sizzle of static. It’s a zippy, jolting tingle that’s never allowed to shock -- an unkept promise. Kissing and sex without the resulting passionate love story.

He’s getting sad, and it’s stupid -- so stupid. Will is beautiful and shirtless and kissing him, and Mike should just tell his brain to shut the fuck up so he can enjoy it while it lasts.

Will laughs against his lips, breathy and sweet, and his hands slide up under the back of Mike’s shirt.

“Off, off, off,” he whispers, and Mike smiles back and reaches down to grab at the hem of it. Their mouths separate just long enough for him to tug the T-shirt off over his head, and then they’re going in again. Will’s hands touch against his stomach and thin chest, and Mike’s climb up Will’s back, landing at his shoulder blades and holding. Tugging. He pulls him in more tightly, their kisses turning both harder and softer -- hard, pressing mouths and soft tongues.

He takes the chance while he’s feeling brave, arousal starting to simmer low in his belly, and slips his fingers into the waistband of Will’s pajama pants and boxers.

It makes Will laugh, Mike ever-so-slowly working both articles of clothing down his hips, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world to experience, rhythmic puffs of air against his nose and this high, chuckling sound escaping Will’s mouth between kisses.

Mike slides the pants and underwear down until gravity pulls them to his ankles, then brings a hand up to touch at Will’s chin, tilting his face up so as to better kiss him.

It’s so good. It’s incredible. Will pushes Mike’s own bottoms down, and then they’re kicking them off their ankles and trying not to trip as they make their way to the bed.

Will climbs on first and lies flat on his back on the towel. Mike places a knee on the bed and pauses for a moment, taking in the fully nude stretch of him.

It’s enough to make Mike blush, his face and ears going hot.

He’s seen Will shirtless, and he’s seen him with his boxers pulled down to his thighs. Something about his entirely naked body is different.

It’s like a painting. His skin is smooth and soft. His hair -- the fluff of his armpits, the barely-there dusting in the center of his chest, the wispy trail beneath his navel leading to the thicker thatch below -- is deep brown. His body is thin, but he’s still somehow soft, a tiny curve to his stomach and upper thighs. It’s quite literally due to no exercise, his lean physique a product of genes and calorie intake and not muscle, but it’s perfect. Mike wants to taste every inch of him, wants to drag his mouth along his chest and stomach and lower.

He wants to engage in foreplay like the book suggested -- all those things that’re supposed to get you ready for the main event. The body-kissing, the licking, the caressing. The partial blowjob. Whispering and tickling and laughing. Wrestling and being stupid until they’re both fully hard and Will’s playfully begging him to get inside.

What would Will do if he tried it? If he ran his hands over him and told him how beautiful he is?

He looks over at him. If Mike tried it, he’d be embarrassing himself. He’d be doing too much and showing the too much he feels, and it would make things the kind of awkward they’d feared at the beginning -- much more awkward than those brief moments after the deed, when they’re watching TV and trying to slowly regain normalcy.

So, yes, he wants to put his mouth all over Will. He wants to tickle his armpits and blow on his stomach and suck his dick just a little.

Instead, he hovers over him and kisses his mouth again -- safe -- and Will puts his hands in his hair.

Mike drops his hips, and once more, they’re partial-boner to partial-boner. He laughs at the sensation, then sighs, and Will drags his hands down from his hair to his lower back and pulls.

Safe, again. They’ve done this before.

It’s an awkward bit of movement -- Mike thrusts against him, but they’re dry, and it’s difficult to get an angle that’s just right. Even so, it feels amazing. He exhales into Will’s mouth and then slides down, kissing him along his jaw, then the side of his warm, soft neck, his hips thrusting and heat pooling between his legs as he fully hardens.

Will gently drags his nails against the skin of Mike’s lower back -- like he’s scratching an itch, not nearly enough to break skin or leave a mark. It’s rhythmic, nice and slow, and Mike matches his pace to it. He kisses Will’s neck and up behind his ear, and Will sighs.

It’s intense and perfect. Mike feels him hard beneath him, feels his tickling hair and the soft-lean warmth of his stomach and chest. He kisses his mouth again, gentle, then deep. Places a loud, squeaking kiss to his chin, which makes Will scrunch up his face and makes Mike exhale against him with…attraction...like a dramatic, lovelorn loser.

The thrusting and kissing goes on for long enough that Mike has to stop himself for fear of escalating the proceedings more than he’d like at this stage of the game. His belly is starting to tremble. Arms are starting to shake.

He smiles down at Will with an open, panting mouth and quits the shifting, wiggling motion. Will looks up at him, his cheeks pink and mouth red from his own teeth. Mike presses a peck of a kiss there.

“What do I do?” he asks, glancing over at the supplies on the nightstand.

Obviously, he knows the basics. He reaches over and grabs the condom packet.

Will clears his throat. “I already did what I needed to do, so…” He huffs, clearly feeling awkward. “Put on the condom, use some lube, and just…”

Mike gulps. “Okay.”

He does as he’s told. He’s never put on a condom before, so it takes him a second, but he knows the gist of it from sex ed. He rolls it on, doing his best to make sure it isn’t inside-out. Pinches the tip.

His penis covered in latex embarrasses him for some reason, even more so than when it’s bare, and adding lube to it makes it even worse. He squirts probably too much in his palm and strokes himself just enough to coat it. And then there he is: shiny and straining and undeniably ready to roll.

Mike cleans his hands with the tissues and then sits back on his heels, almost wanting to cover himself. He waits quietly while Will moves around, getting comfortable.

“Do you want a pillow?” he asks, reaching for one.

Will stares at him for a moment, then smiles. “Uh, yeah. We can– We can use it.” A beat. Then, wryly, “The book?”

“Shut up.” Mike bites the insides of his cheeks and takes the pillow, gripping it in both hands while Will holds his hips up. He slides it under, tucking it beneath the towel to keep it clean.

There’s more wiggling and shifting. And suddenly, Will’s on his back with his legs slightly open.

It’s the most bizarre and amazing experience of Mike’s life to slide his hips between his legs. Will looks up at him, eyes wide and lip bitten, and Mike can’t help but lean down and press a soft kiss to his forehead, then cheek. He sits back again. Takes himself in hand.

“I just stick it in?”

“Mike.”

“Well.”

Will chuckles. “Yeah, I guess that’s as good a description as any. Go easy.”

Mike swallows heavily and, lungs tight and oxygen limited, uses his hand to drag himself along between Will’s legs, searching. When he finds what he's looking for, he pauses.

“Are you sure?”

“More than sure.”

Mike pushes in. He nearly crumples with it, his body bowing and mouth open in a silent scream. Just from this. Holy fuck.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, holding absolutely, positively still.

The thing about it is that it’s much more than a person would think it would be. It’s tight, for one, and warm, for another. And then there’s whatever the hell Will’s doing -- clenching and unclenching as he tries to relax -- and it feels like Mike’s being gripped by a heated, squeezing fist but more than that because he’s entirely aware that it’s Will’s body he’s inside.

He blows out a breath and shuts his eyes, trying to steady himself.

“Are you okay?”

“No. Don’t talk.”

The squeezing around him from Will’s laughter certainly doesn’t help. Mike’s about to start needing to think about Murray Bauman in lingerie. He stops that thought before it manifests, though, deeply afraid something fucked up will happen that’ll develop within him some sort of complex.

“Relax,” Will encourages. Mike opens his eyes to find him peering up at him with this soft, sincere look on his face.

“I’m gonna ruin it, Will.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m only in you like, two inches.” Mike swallows. “Does it hurt?”

“You’re only in me like, two inches, so no.”

“Will.”

Will laughs again. “Go deeper.”

And, well, holy fuck. He’s all giggly and sweet when he says it, but that’s something people say in porno novels. Mike sighs. His skin feels like it’ll catch on fire, and there has to be steam shooting from his ears.

He manages to push, though, just a little. Then a little more. Maybe the awkward embarrassment is his saving grace, as he actually gets deep enough that Will holds up a hand to stop him.

“Okay. Wait, wait, wait.”

Mike read all about this, so he keeps quiet, waiting until Will adjusts to the stretch. He tries to lean down to kiss him through it, but Will presses his palm against his chest, holding him back.

“Kinda–” Will gives a shivery, breathy sound. “Kinda go in and out a little, but don’t go deeper just yet.”

Mike nods. And God help him, he tries his best.

He grips Will around the waist and inches back, then slowly, slowly, slowly slides in again, then repeats.

Will makes a soft sound with every inward thrust, and Mike thinks he’ll lose it. To distract himself, he speaks:

“This okay?”

“Yeah. Really, really okay.”

“Okay.”

Will smirks up at him. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Shut up.”

Mike grins. “Still hurt?”

“Better. You can go a little more.”

“Really?”

Will nods, his top teeth coming out to bite at his bottom lip. He closes his eyes.

“What if I blow my load?” Mike inches in further, and it’s so much he thinks he’ll die. He closes his own eyes again and waits.

Will snorts. “Then you,” implied air quotes, “‘blow your load.’ Ugh. I hate the way that sounds.”

“Me blowing my load?”

“The phrase.’

“Oh.”

Mike opens his eyes. Will is looking up at him with the widest smile on his face. He thinks he’ll blow his load.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, bowing forward as much as he can. “I don’t know how long this is gonna last.”

In response, Will bites the insides of his cheeks as if thinking. Then, in a move that basically catapults Mike to some sort of euphoric oblivion, he pulls his legs up, wrapping them one at a time around Mike’s back.

The position sends him as deep as he can go -- bottoming out, basically -- and it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever experienced, the heat of him, Will’s legs around his lower back and his arms coming up to wrap around his neck, tugging him down into a kiss.

“Oh my God,” Mike murmurs against Will’s mouth. “Holy shit, Will.”

And suddenly, Mike’s body knows exactly what to do. It’s biology. Science in action. Mike’s never had intercourse before, but he knows precisely that the thing to do is to thrust his hips, is to kiss Will’s mouth, is to press their foreheads together and make these embarrassing, barely-voiced moaning sounds right into his face. Even better, Will’s doing the same thing back, their faces growing damp and hot with condensation from their shared, breathy moans.

“Oh my God. Will.”

“Good?”

“So good.” He presses in. Kisses him again. “You?”

“Really great.”

“That’s good.”

“Stop talking.” Will grins, and Mike accidentally kisses his teeth.

I’m so in love with you, he thinks, moving to kiss his cheek, then his nose, then his forehead. He brushes back his hair, then pushes up on his elbows so he can watch his face.

He hears the rising of an angel choir in his ears. Light floods the bedroom. Hallelujah.

“Oh fuck,” Will whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, and Mike’s about to ascend into the heavens.

Will said fuck. Mike made him say fuck.

Incredible.

It’s as good a time as any to rest his weight on one elbow and slide his other down between them. He finds Will wet, which is…something. Mike makes an embarrassing sound at it, at the drag of the sticky tip over his wrist when he takes his length in hand.

Will chuckles. “Mike.”

“Hm?”

“Not too much.”

Mike grins. “Really?”

“I mean– Yeah? Unless you want me to–”

“Blow your load.”

“Ugh.”

It’s so good. And yes, he wants him to blow his load, thank you. He wants to make him come as many times as physically possible -- until he’s shaking with it, his teeth chattering together with pleasure.

He wants to tell Will this. He doesn’t.

Instead, he strokes him in time with his thrusts, just a little, and he kisses his jaw and rubs their noses together and wonders if he’s hitting Will’s prostate and how the hell he’s supposed to know that unless Will tells him.

He pauses. Shifts his hips a little, doing the thing the book told him about -- pulling back and aiming upward in pushes.

Maybe the way Will tells him is by getting his arm back up around his neck, his hand sliding into his hair.

“Holy…holy…” he whispers.

Mike kisses his mouth and strokes at him with his hand. Will murmurs, “Fuck, Mike,” and tilts his head back, and Mike imagines himself bowled over, literally, rolling down a hill, picking up speed with every turn.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he says in the middle of it, groaning, hips moving faster and faster.

He doesn’t mean to -- at all -- and his complete mortification is only eased by the sound Will makes, like all the air has left his body, like he liked it.

Will bats Mike’s hand away and replaces it with his own, tucking his arm down between them and jerking himself off as Mike starts on the last series of thrusts that will send them careening off a cliff.

Both hands now free, he places one on either side of Will’s upper body and pushes up, watching the flushed, sweaty, writhing body below him as he thrusts. Will’s hand moves furiously on himself, and he tilts his head back again, chin to the ceiling.

Mike hasn’t even come yet, and already, he wants to do it again. He doesn’t understand how the hell people do anything else.

Maybe it’s the hormones and the endorphins and all the fun pair-bonding chemicals starting to overload his system. But try as he might, he can’t think of a single reason not to say the thing he says next, which is:

“Holy fucking shit, Will, I wanna watch you come. I wanna come in you.”

Okay: it’s fine. It’s probably a sexy thing to say in the moment. But it’s bolder than Mike’s been so far, and it throws him off, his breath picking up and anxiety spiking.

It’s all for nought, though, apparently. Because if Mike had to imagine what Will Byers would look like when being driven wild, it’s this:

His eyes are nothing but scrunches, and his mouth is open, and he’s breathing in great gasps that occasionally exhale as ah sounds that make Mike insane. Will’s back arches up off the bed, and he throws his free arm over his face, his heels digging almost painfully into Mike’s back.

It’s so deeply, entirely sexy that all Mike can do is say:

“You’re amazing. Oh my God, this is the best thing ever. It’s like–”

And he can’t even complete his simile because Will makes a great laughing sound and shakes, and then Mike feels him come.

He hadn’t thought about it before -- how obviously, orgasms involve muscles and contractions and it only makes sense that you can feel it from the inside -- and because of it, when he feels it, he bends his head and freezes his hips and literally drools. Which is embarrassing. But in the moment, he can’t even imagine feeling that way. All he can see is Will pulsing out onto his belly, a wild, errant streak of it even shooting up to his collarbone, and well, fuck, Mike’s a dead man.

“Whoa,” he says. “Jesus.” And then he comes so hard he blacks out.

–

There’s ringing in his ears when he comes back to life, and he feels Will’s warm palm rubbing against his back. He’s lying on him now, and he doesn’t even remember collapsing. He’s mostly inside him, too, and he’s still kind of hard, the blood just starting to reroute itself. It’s only been a second, then.

Mike lifts his head and props himself up on his elbow. There’s the vague stickiness between them where Mike has Will’s cum all over his stomach now, too, and damn. Actually kill him. Going back to his normal, everyday life isn’t worth it once he’s had this.

Will’s studying his face. Mike studies him right back. His brow is smoothed out. He’s breathing in soft, slowing breaths. He looks pleased and happy, and it’s the most beautiful thing Mike’s ever seen.

Maybe he’ll tell him one day.

For now, he merely asks:

“So, how’d I do?”

Will laughs. So beautiful.

“A-plus.”

“Wait. Actually?”

“Uh huh.”

“Plus? So is that a nine and a half out of ten? Ten out of ten?”

“Something like that.”

Mike smiles, a broad, closed-mouthed one that crawls up his cheeks. “Cool.”

“Totally.”

Will’s still rubbing at his back. Mike isn’t sure he knows he’s doing it. Probably not.

He wants to kiss him. Wants to gather him up and pull the covers over them and whisper all kinds of warm, nice things in his ear while he pets his hair.

It’s love, but it’s his biology again, too. Oxytocin. The evolutionary drive to bond. It’s a goddamn double-whammy. Two bonks to the head with a hammer.

Mike takes a deep breath, pulls all the way out, and rolls off Will.

The condom is gross, slimy on the outside with lube and on the inside with…him...and wrinkly where his dick has deflated. Still, he ignores it for a minute, lying there stretched out on his back, all his goods to the world.

He smiles up at the ceiling.

“You said ‘fuck.’”

Will snorts. “So?”

“Just saying. You don’t swear a lot.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

“Should I shut the fuck up?”

“Yes. Please.”

Mike rolls his head to the side and watches Will, who’s looking back at him. They smile and turn away.

“So I’m officially not a virgin,” Mike comments, scratching and cringing at the drying wetness on his stomach. “By anybody’s standards.”

“Congratulations. Pretty sure you haven’t been one in weeks, but what do I know?”

Mike shrugs. He doesn’t know how all that works, and it doesn’t seem to mean much, anyway, other than something you can say to people.

“How many times have you done…that?”

“What we just did?”

“Yeah.”

Will clears his throat. “Uhh, like– I dunno. With four people now?”

“Four times.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I mean–” Will does his embarrassed, ceiling smile. “I did it twice with one of them and like, four times with another.”

“Four.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously?”

“Tucker. The guy I,” air quotes, “‘disappeared with,’ according to you.”

“Oh.” Mike huffs. “The plagiarist snitch with the bad movie collection.”

“Yep.”

“You said it wasn’t very good.”

Will hums.

Mike turns on his side and props his head up on his hand, elbow to the pillow. “Why’d you do it four times?”

“The same reason people do anything.” Will shrugs. He bites his lip for a moment and looks thoughtful. “The experience. Getting…off.”

“Oh.”

Mike should be happy that Will’s two-day fling with Tucker was nothing more than that. Instead, something in his chest sinks.

Getting off. It’s kinda the whole point, he’d said.

Mike hadn’t meant it in the way it sounds now, coming from Will’s mouth. It sounds physical and distant -- imperative rather than desire.

“Okay,” he says, dropping down onto his back once more.

Will hums once more. Mike watches the ceiling for two minutes and then sits up.

“Think I’m gonna shower again,” he says, pulling off the condom and frowning at it. He looks down. He’s actually disgusting.

“Me too.” Will yawns. “You can go first.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Mike slides off the bed, awkwardly holding the condom pinched between his index finger and thumb. He snatches up his shirt, pants, and underwear on the way out, and as he’s about to open the door, Will says:

“Hey. Thanks, by the way.”

Mike turns to him. “For what?”

“I dunno. It’s just–” Will sighs. “That was…awesome.”

“Totally. Yeah.” Mike nods and shifts awkwardly. “Glad I could be of service.”

“Mike.”

Mike smirks, opens the door, and leaves.

It hurts a little. It shouldn’t. In theory, he should be smarter than this, but the fact remains that he isn’t. He’s an idiot, actually, and he’s in love with Will Byers, and there’s a high likelihood that for Will, this is all just fun. Just getting off.

He goes to the bathroom and climbs immediately into the shower without waiting for the water to get warm.

It’s a shock, and then it’s nice, and he rubs his hands over his face, hoping the spray will disguise his stupid, frustrated tears.

–

They spend Saturday running errands, picking up groceries, and going on an aimless walk around downtown. They go to a bookstore, and Mike buys some used Beat Generation stuff because he actually really likes it: The Dharma Bums, Kaddish and Other Poems, Junky. They go to Will’s favorite art store and pick up brushes that cost way too much for what they are. They get pizza and walk to the river and back, stopping to listen to a guitarist on the street who plays an acoustic version of “Enter Sandman”.

They return home later that afternoon and play video games. Read. Draw. Will takes a long, indulgent nap on the couch, curled up with a blanket over him in the sort of way that always makes Mike want to climb in and join.

They finish off the day with a double-feature of some of their favorite childhood movies -- The Goonies, E.T. -- while taking down almost an entire boxed lasagna.

All in all, it’s a good day. Normal. Mike Wheeler and his best friend Will Byers, taking on the world.

–

Sunday is Will’s twenty-first birthday.

Birthdays aren’t always a big event for them, both preferring to keep things lowkey and relatively boring. As young children, they were fun and exciting, filled with cake and friends and the Lego sets they’d been begging for since Christmas. Now, maybe due to survivor’s guilt, maybe due to age, they’re normal days with smaller bits of fun sprinkled throughout.

First bit of fun: Mike tries to make Will pancakes. Tries being the operative word. For someone who’s always been naturally good at science, he’s surprisingly bad at cooking, the ingredients and measurements correct but the execution almost always off.

Case in point: some of the pancakes are a little overbrowned on the edges, verging on burnt. Others are crumbly messes, Mike having tried to flip them too early.

Nevertheless, he covers them in whipped cream, bananas, and syrup, and brings them to Will on the couch.

Maybe they’re shitty, maybe they’re ugly, and maybe they taste just shy of mediocre, but Will grins happily, his face going tomato red, and eats them without complaint while they watch MTV’s Morning Music.

Second bit of fun: Mike sits still for long enough for Will to draw him. Okay, to be fair, this is less of a kind gesture of Mike’s and more of Will holding his own birthday over Mike’s head when he starts to complain.

“Mike. Whose birthday is it?”

“Shut up, Will.”

Will grins. “Also, I’m now your elder. You have to do what I say.”

Mike flips him off but ultimately relents. He sits backward in his desk chair and holds relatively still for twenty minutes while Will sketches him.

They have a Bowie record on -- Ziggy Stardust -- and Will stops the movement of his pencil periodically to chastise Mike for animatedly and dramatically gesturing while singing “Starman,” then “Star,” then “Suffragette City.”

Finally, he’s done. “Rock and Roll Suicide” plays when he turns his sketchbook around, and yeah, okay. It’s totally worth it. Will’s drawn him in his pose, but he’s added a beret, a black turtleneck, and a pair of tiny sunglasses.

“I literally hate you,” Mike says, fighting a smile.

In return, Will snaps his fingers at him. “Dig it, hep cat.”

It’s another moment in which Mike would kiss him. He’d scoot the chair forward two feet and take him by the face, playfully smooshing his cheeks in his hands and planting one on him.

He looks away instead, rolling his eyes. “Can you please not shatter my fragile, artistic aura?”

Will scrunches up his face and tears out the drawing. “For you, Daddy-O.”

“Right on, man.”

He’s blushing harder than he thinks he ever has in his life when he takes Will’s drawing.

They’re joking. He doesn’t need to make things weird.

The record hits the run-out groove. Will’s drawing clutched lovingly in his hand, Mike gets up and goes to switch out Ziggy for Hunky Dory.

–

Third bit of fun: At five, Mike knock-knocks on Will’s door jamb. Will is doing homework for Dadaism, reading from a textbook titled, Chance and Chaos. He looks up.

Mike nods toward him. “Get ready.”

Will lowers his brows. “For what?”

“We’re going to dinner. Obviously.”

“I have homework.”

“So? Me too.”

Will sets his book down and gives Mike a stern look that he clearly tries desperately to hold on to, though ultimately failing.

“Really? Dinner?”

“Yeah. Somewhere…nice.”

“Come on.”

“Okay, not suit-and-tie nice, but– Y’know.” He gestures toward Will’s ancient, oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “Shirt and jeans nice.”

Mike hadn’t not planned this. He’d been thinking about it all week. It’s the obvious thing to do, taking his best friend out for his birthday. Plus, he wanted to do it. He loves Will in all the ways you can love a person, friendship being a massive part of that, and he wants to celebrate him. It’s only right.

That, unfortunately, is sort of where the planning ended.

But that’s fine. They’ve done this many times before, escaping the apartment to see where the night takes them.

Will huffs a laugh. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, though he climbs off the bed and makes his way over to his dresser. “We can just chill for the night, or–”

“It’s your birthday. We’re required to go out for dinner. There’s some law about it, I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh. Is that it?” Will pulls a burnt orange polo from his drawer. “Guess we can’t break the law.”

He smiles to himself, and Mike mirrors it. Will’s happy.

“I’ll pick you up in ten?”

Will snorts. “Yeah. Just honk the horn.”

Lamely, Mike does make a beep sound when he approaches the bathroom door several minutes later. He leans against the frame and watches Will spritz water on his hair and comb it.

This is another moment in which he’d kiss him. He’d come up behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, and smack a loud kiss to the side of his neck. Maybe he’d pretend to bite him like a vampire. He’d do the Straud voice. Will would love it.

“Ready?” Will breaks him out of his fantasy.

With a slightly embarrassed chuckle, Mike nods.

–

They take the subway further downtown and wander around Lower Manhattan until they find a mid-priced steak and chicken place that a) isn’t fancy, b) doesn’t require reservations, and c) won’t bankrupt their already hungry bank accounts.

After a twenty minute wait, they’re seated in a small booth and given free bread and honey butter, which they devour like starving animals.

The waitress brings their drinks and takes their orders, and then they drink their sodas and talk about everything and nothing while they wait for their food.

It’s nice.

And that’s the thing about Mike’s love of Will: they’re best friends. Their conversations are easy. They enjoy each other’s company. Even when they’re silent, focused on their food or on the TV or their homework, there isn’t anything awkward about it, the two of them comfortably existing in each other’s spaces like they belong there.

Tonight, Mike laughs across the table at Will, who tells a story about his first time getting drunk in college and how it made him realize how much he hates alcohol.

“You’re twenty-one now,” Mike says. “Don’t you wanna order a drink just to say you did?”

“I’ll order you one.”

“I won’t say ‘no.’”

When the waitress brings their food ten minutes later, Will flashes his ID and orders some fruity pink drink with an umbrella, and Mike gives him a death stare.

“Come on. You could’ve gotten me a beer.”

“I thought the Flamingo Fizz sounded more like you.”

“Dick.”

Will grins.

The drink comes. Mike watches while Will takes the first sip himself, gagging at the bitter taste before sliding it over.

“I truly hate this,” he says, making a blech sound. “I think every person who says they like alcohol is lying.”

Mike takes a drink. It’s strong and vodka-heavy, pink lemonade notes barely working their way through in a way that is slightly unpleasant. He obviously can’t let it show.

He shrugs. “It’s good.”

“Liar.”

“For a pink cocktail. Beer’s better.”

“Don’t look now, but your pants are on fire.”

Mike smirks. He takes one more sip of the awful drink and sets it down between them. They dig into their food.

–

“Thanks for this,” Will says as they’re winding down, their meat and mashed potatoes nothing but formless bits and pieces on their plate. “You didn’t have to do it.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“Still nice of you.”

Mike grins. “Now, my birthday’s in two weeks, so get to planning.”

“What’s your favorite…alcohol?”

It’s cute as hell that Will literally doesn’t give a single solitary fuck about drinking or even pretending that he knows anything about it. There’s something actually sexy about it, his total confidence and lack of embarrassment over not being into something most people their age try way too hard to engage in for the sake of looking cool.

Mike tosses back the last of the Flamingo Fizz. “Anything but this shit.”

“Noted.”

“I don’t wanna get drunk, though.”

Will hums. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll be hanging out with you, instead.”

“Oh.”

“One or two respectable drinks and a monster movie.”

“Is that what you want?” Will rubs his fingers over his mouth as if to smother the soft smile that’s been forming for the past minute.

“Yeah. Sounds perfect.”

“Okay. We can do that.”

They shake on it. Mike quirks his mouth afterward as Will’s warm palm slips from his hand.

–

Full disclosure: Though he hadn’t planned the restaurant, there was a reason he’d chosen Lower Manhattan. There’s an interactive art pop-up exhibit not far from the restaurant in SoHo, and he makes a point to swing them by it on their way back to the subway.

“You wanna?” he asks, gesturing toward it.

Surprise is evident on Will’s face. “Wait. Really?”

“Totally. C’mon.”

They go inside.

In Mike’s opinion, it’s expensive for what it is, but it’s completely worth it for the amount of fun they have. It’s a Sunday evening not long before closing, so there aren’t many other patrons. Mike and Will have pretty much free reign of the space, taking as much time as they want playing with balloons, projecting their shadows onto a wall, drawing on a collaborative mural, and acting like children in a bubble room with rainbow lighting and psychedelic music that makes them both feel like they’re tripping on acid.

Mike doesn’t really get what’s art about it, and he asks Will when they’re on their way out forty minutes later, their clothes superficially damp from popped bubbles and paint and marker stains on their hands.

“The joining together of play and creation. What isn’t art about it?”

“The ball pit, for one.”

“The balls had messages written on them from like, a thousand people.”

“Again: the ball pit, for one.”

Will huffs in playful frustration. “You’re as creative as me. You know that, right? Just in a different way.”

“Maybe. I just like stuff to make sense, I guess.”

“It did make sense. Every bit of it.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

Will bumps him with his elbow and hops down the stairs to the subway.

–

It’s after nine by the time they’re back home. They take turns showering. Will finishes his homework in his bedroom and then, upon being called, joins Mike in the living room.

Another thing he’d planned: He’d picked up a mini chocolate cake from the market on Friday and had hidden it in a bag in the fridge crisper drawer.

Okay, maybe he’d planned more than he thought.

Now, he has two slices sitting on the coffee table, a lit candle in one of them.

“Mike.” Will grins. “Really?”

Mike gives him a warm, slow smile. “Make a wish.”

Will scurries over and drops down on the couch beside Mike. He closes his eyes and, for the longest time, appears for all intents and purposes to truly be making a wish.

When he’s done, he opens his eyes, gives Mike a quick, lopsided smile, scrunched nose and all, and blows out the candle.

Mike claps for him. “What’d you wish for?”

“I can’t tell, or it won’t come true. Duh.”

“Okay, okay.” He sticks out his tongue and hands him a fork. “Happy birthday, Will.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

They eat their cake and watch Seinfeld reruns. When their plates are empty, they grab drinks from the kitchen -- a Coke for Mike and a Slice for Will -- and settle in for the night.

It’s getting warmer outside, the bitter cold of winter replaced with the slightly less bitter chill of spring. Because of this, the apartment is finally comfortable, the radiator actually able to tackle the cold, leaving Mike and Will warm and toasty in just their T-shirts and pajama pants. Mike outstretches his legs and props his bare feet up on the coffee table. Will does the same, purposely tapping their feet together once, then twice.

They lean against the couch back, shoulders inches apart.

It’s so nice, the closeness. Mike smells Will’s skin, the sweet warmth of him mixed with Irish Spring and Speed Stick and the chocolatey cake icing on his breath.

He loves the sounds of his swallows as he drinks his soda. The breathy laughs he gives when George Costanza does something stupid. The little sigh of his breath when he stretches during commercial breaks.

Mike would kiss him now, if he could. It’d be the perfect moment for it. He’d press him down on the couch and hover over him. He’d place his thumb on his chin, angling his face to make it soft and slow and deep.

He wonders if love has ever killed anyone. Really and truly. Has it ever actually led to death from the bigness of it all, from the grief of wanting and not having, no secondary factors involved?

Here’s the thing: There is a very real possibility that this is it for Mike. He knows he’s only soon-to-be twenty-one. He knows he has another sixty or so years left in him. There’s a whole hell of a lot of life left to live.

But when he thinks sincerely about a future without Will Byers in it, he can’t imagine himself anything but alone, living a shitty existence in a shitty New York apartment with rent he struggles to pay with his fantasy writing.

He could find a girl. Marry her. Have kids. He’d manage it, even if there was no real love there. He’d have to, if his future isn’t full of Will and he doesn’t want to be alone.

He’s attracted to men. He wants sex with men. Even men that aren’t Will he can get off to when he thinks about them in bed with his hand down his boxers. River Phoenix. Keanu Reeves. Westley in The Princess Bride.

Still. Mike Wheeler will never fall in love with another man. He’ll never go on dates with them or sleep around with them or play with them at an interactive art exhibit on their birthday. His world feels closed off in that way.

Maybe he’s being dramatic. Maybe none of that is true and one day, when he’s like, thirty, he’ll fall in love with a guy at his job and spend the next fifty years with him. Maybe he just has depression and growing pains and fear like every other twenty-year-old queer person.

Maybe it’s all just this:

Maybe he wants Will Byers to be it for him.

He knows, logically, that Will doesn’t feel the same. Will’s his best friend. Will loves him that way and only that way. Will trusts him and enjoys him and likes sleeping with him because he’s safe and familiar.

Mike gets it. He isn’t an idiot where that’s concerned.

He’s just an idiot where it concerns hope and desire.

He’s an idiot in other ways, too:

“Hey,” he says, rolling his head to the side to watch Will, who raises his brows at him.

“Yeah?”

“Would you maybe wanna–” He laughs outright, drunken-sounding though he barely got so much as warm from the Flamingo Fizz.

Will turns to look at him, a question in his eyes. “Huh?”

“I know it’s not Friday. But it’s your birthday, y’know. Do you want me to try to beat my score?”

“What score?”

He knows. He has to know, but he’s cruel like that, making Mike spell it out.

Mike scratches the back of his neck. “Can I give you another blowjob?”

“What?”

“A blowjob?”

“Yeah, but–” Will laughs in disbelief. “Mike.”

“What?”

“You don’t want that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Will sighs like Mike’s being particularly frustrating. “Because– I dunno. You’re not getting anything out of it, and–”

“I told you. Sex isn’t a trade. You don’t have to worry about me expecting you to return the favor.”

“But it isn’t Friday.”

“I know.”

They wait. Mike bites his lip and watches Will’s face -- sees the confusion written all over it.

“Will,” he says. “Let me give you this. Birthday present, okay?” A beat. “Unless you don’t want it.” Fear suddenly floods his system, his breath growing heavy with it. “In that case, just tell me, and I’ll–”

“I want it.” Will clears his throat. “You can– I mean, if you’re really okay with it.”

Mike smiles at him. “Totally.”

“Okay. Well.” Will sighs. He starts looking around him, like he’s planning to collect their trash and dump it before retreating to the bedroom.

But Mike? Well, Mike’s not remotely that patient. He slides to the floor.

“Mike.”

“What?”

“Are you–” Will laughs.

Mike places his hands on Will’s knees and slowly pulls them apart, walking on his own knees to get in between.

“Is this okay?” He makes eye-contact with Will, who looks like he’s about to die of embarrassment, a righteous, red flush working its way up from his neck.

“Um. Yeah. Really, really okay.”

Without thinking too much about it -- that being his problem nearly 100% of the time -- Mike hooks his fingers in the waistband of Will’s pajama pants and tugs. Will lifts his hips, and Mike pulls them down to his knees.

“FYI: my bare butt’s on the couch,” Will comments, and it’s truly so stupid and sexy that Mike can’t help but lift his shirt and place his mouth on his stomach, kissing him there.

I literally fucking love you, he thinks, licking at him, sucking at his skin, before dragging his mouth down and doing the same at his thighs.

“Why are you doing this?” Will asks, hands going to Mike’s head. He runs his fingers through his long strands, pushing the shaggy bit of it back in the front where it’s hanging in his face.

“It’s your birthday.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” Mike places one more sucking kiss to Will’s thigh, then again to his stomach. And then, taking a deep breath, he grasps hold of his length, which is just starting to plump up from the kissing, and strokes it, a slow up and down, up and down.

He looks up at Will, who’s watching, his lips parted and eyes heavy. “Tell me whenever it’s not a ten out of ten, and I’ll fix it.”

“Really?”

“Totally. I’m here to learn.”

“Mike.”

Mike smirks. “What?”

Will presses his lips together hard, like he’s suppressing something. He shakes his head. “Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Here we go. Mike strokes Will for a minute more, bringing him to full hardness, and then slides his mouth over him.

His teeth get him at first; he knows they do. It’s the angle. Will makes a gaspy noise and pulls Mike’s hair, and he takes it for what it is and readjusts. Softens his mouth. Draws in his lips.

It’s imperfect. He’s still getting used to the feel of it, this warm, throbbing bit of flesh, the shape awkward and his mouth seemingly not large enough to accommodate it. But he does what he can. He covers with his hand the bit he can’t take, dragging it up and down along with the movement of his head, the rhythmic rise and fall of it.

Where he can, he rubs his tongue on him, sucks gently on him, pulls back and leaves open-mouthed kisses along the head and just under, where he remembers Will was extra sensitive during the handjob weeks ago.

“That’s–” Will breathes hard. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mike goes in again.

He tries to take him deeper, but it just isn’t happening for him: he’s unpracticed, he has a strong gag reflex, bringing him to the point that the head is against his tonsils makes him fear he’s going to puke on him, his stomach full with dinner and cake. He pulls back. Focuses on the head. Works his hands, both now, up and down, his own drool slickening the slide.

Will puts hands in Mike’s hair again, gripping but not pulling, holding it back out of his face.

“Still okay?” Mike wipes his hand over his chin, clearing away the worst of the drool.

“Amazing.”

“Really? Ten out of ten?”

And in a move that surprises him and turns him on in equal measure, Will presses on his head. Mike laughs. Nice. He goes back in.

This time, it’s clear Will’s getting somewhere. His breaths are loud and verging on moans, just the littlest bit of voice in each heavy exhale. What’s more, his taste changes.

There’s a general saltyish taste during the whole thing, but now it’s stronger. Mike knows it’s the clear fluid seeping out. It’s in his mouth, and he’s swallowing it. He works his fist faster, tongues harder at the tip of him, then runs it over that sensitive spot.

“Mike.”

Mike kisses down the length of him. Takes him back in his mouth.

“Mike.”

He pulls off. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna– In a minute.”

“Okay.”

He goes down on him again. The taste grows stronger and stronger. Will starts to shake, his thighs squeezing together, knees digging into Mike’s chest.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Will’s voice is urgent. He tugs on Mike’s hair as if to warn him.

Mike has a decision to make.

He’s terrified. He’s worried it might taste bad, or he might puke somehow, or he might choke or do any number of embarrassing things when his best friend comes in his mouth.

But come on now: this is Mike. He has Will’s dick in his mouth, and given the option to stay or go, there’s no way in hell he’s going.

“Mike, I’m gonna come in your mouth if you don’t–”

And, well. Yeah. If that was supposed to be discouragement, Will needs to change his tactic.

Mike strokes him faster with one hand, and with the other, he slides his hand around Will’s lower back, pulling him in, holding on to him.

“Mike, I’m serious, I’m–” He exhales all the air in his body. “Oh fuck.”

Enter Handel’s Messiah.

Will jerks, his hips inadvertently thrusting upward and his dick pushing just once against Mike’s tonsils, and it takes all that’s in him to keep from gagging. But that’s it. It was only the once. Mike pulls back and holds the head of him in his mouth, snug up against his tongue, and strokes him through it.

He feels the pulsing under his palm. He hears Will making a noise that sounds almost like a sob. And then suddenly, his mouth is flooded.

It can’t actually be that much, but it feels like it. It feels like too much, actually, and Mike holds it in and panics for just a second.

And then he thinks, It’s literally fine. Stop being a wuss., and swallows.

It…isn’t great. Actually, it’s slightly gross, the texture more so than the taste. But it’s gone. It’s fine. Mike pulls up the neck of his shirt and wipes his mouth. He sits back on his heels.

Will is looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

He smiles politely. “You okay, Will?”

Will grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in.

His mouth still tastes like cum, but if it bothers Will, he doesn’t mention it. He kisses Mike hard, like the world’s ending, and Mike takes him by the face and kisses him right back. Through it, he does his best to say:

Thank you and you’re incredible and will you let me murder in cold blood every Guy who has ever made you feel bad for wanting something you can’t return?

Mike truly wasn’t expecting to get his rocks off, too. He’s fine. This was for Will, and he would’ve gladly taken himself to the bathroom after to finish the job. No problem.

So he’s surprised when Will murmurs, “Get up here,” against his mouth and tugs on him.

Mike sits down on the couch beside him, and Will immediately shoves his hand down his pants.

He grasps hold of him and strokes fast, forehead pressed to his shoulder, and it takes Mike literally twenty seconds.

On the TV, a commercial begins and hasn’t even yet ended by the time Mike comes, panting and shaking.

It’s so fast that Will laughs, sweet, pulling his hand from Mike’s pants and sliding the clean one up to the back of his neck. He tugs him in one more time. Kisses him, smiling.

“Shit,” Mike says against his mouth.

“You don’t waste time.”

“Shut up.”

Mike wants to kiss him again. Desperately. Will sits there with his right hand held out to the side, Mike’s cum all over it, and he’s red-faced and beautiful and perfect.

The moment’s over. Mike clears his throat and reaches for a napkin on the coffee table. He gives it to Will, who sits back and uses it to clean up.

“So,” he says. “What’s my grade?”

Will hums. “Nine and a half.”

“Come on.”

“Mike. That’s an A.”

“What’d I do wrong?”

“You almost bit it off at the start of it.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mike chuckles. “That’s fair, I guess. A half-point deduction for teeth.”

“More than fair.”

“Be nice.”

Will smiles. There’s a long, silent pause. “So…”

“So.”

“It isn’t Friday.”

“Nope.”

“We didn’t turn to stone.”

Mike quirks his mouth. “We did not.” He pops his lips.

Will clears his throat. “Thoughts?”

“On…”

“Opening up our…arrangement to other days of the week.”

“Whenever we feel like it?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Will swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Mike studies him, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. This is going to ruin his life, isn’t it? It’s going to destroy him when it all ends.

He holds out his hand. They shake on it.

Whatever. Fuck it. No sense in holding back now.

If Mike Wheeler’s a dead man, at least he’ll die loving Will Byers.