Chapter Text
The sunlight in New York City hits differently in late May. It’s not that oppressive, humid heat of July yet; it’s that golden, deceptive glow that makes you think you can handle a walk to campus without a jacket, right before the wind off the East River reminds you that you’re still recovering from a seasonal cold.
Will Byers woke up feeling like a functional human being. This was a miracle, considering he’d spent the last forty-eight hours trapped in an apartment that was 90% Mike’s germs and 10% Mike’s dramatics. He’d been playing full-time nurse while Mike sounded like a broken accordion, yet somehow, Will had come out the other side unscathed. Beside him, Mike Wheeler was losing the war against his own biology.
It was 2026, they were twenty-four, and they had been officially Will-and-Mike —no space, no separation— for three years. You’d think by now Mike’s immune system would have learned something from Will’s. Will hit the gym twice a week with Lucas—who had gone full "fitness influencer" in college—and they’d even managed to drag Dustin along, mostly so he could complain about the lactic acid buildup in his legs. Will didn't want to be a four-door closet of a man; he liked being lean, but he liked being able to carry groceries up four flights of stairs without seeing stars.
Mike, on the other hand? Mike was still Mike. Lanky, pale, and prone to dramatic physical collapses the moment a germ entered the room.
Will rolled onto his side, the sheets whispering against his skin. Mike was already looking at him, his eyes half-lidded and rimmed with that tell-tale "I have a fever" pink.
"Morning," Mike rasped. His voice sounded like it had been put through a paper shredder.
"You sound like a frog," Will murmured, reaching out to brush a stray curl off Mike’s forehead. He felt the heat radiating off him. "A very sickly, miserable frog."
"I'm a prince then," Mike countered, though it ended in a wet cough. He immediately lunged forward, invading Will’s personal space to tuck his face into the crook of Will’s neck. This was their routine. It didn't matter if the world was ending, or if they were late for a 9:00 AM class—the morning was for cuddles.
Will hummed, his hands finding the familiar dip of Mike’s waist. Despite the fever, Mike was active. He started trailing lazy, dry kisses along Will’s jawline, his hands wandering under Will’s shirt. It started sweet, then it started getting that high-tension, "we’ve been together three years and I still want to devour you" energy.
Mike leaned in for a real kiss, his lips searching for Will’s in that desperate, silly way he always did when he was trying to distract Will from the fact that he was sick.
Will laughed, a low sound in his chest, and at the last second, he brought his palm up, pressing it firmly against Mike’s lips.
"Mmmph!" Mike complained against Will’s hand.
"Absolutely not," Will said, his eyes crinkling. "You are a biohazard, Michael. You’re going to give me this virus, and I actually have to finish this semester with my GPA intact."
Mike pulled Will’s hand away, gripping his wrist. "Sharing is caring, Will. Don't be selfish." He tried to lung again, a goofy, lopsided grin on his face. This was what Will loved most—how Mike could be miserable, congested, and running a 100-degree fever, yet still be the silliest person in New York City just to hear Will laugh.
"Just go back to sleep," Will said, his voice softening as he rubbed his thumb over Mike’s cheekbone. "Seriously, Mike. You look like you’re going to faint if you stand up too fast."
"Stay with me," Mike pleaded, pulling the duvet higher. "We could watch those disgustingly romantic movies. The ones where the guy runs through the airport? We can stay in bed. I'll touch you everywhere that isn't my germ-filled face. Please."
Will felt the internal struggle. It was Friday. The finish line of the week. Every fiber of his being wanted to cancel his life, crawl under those covers, and spend the day being Mike’s personal pillow.
"I can't," Will sighed, and he truly felt the weight of his own stubbornness. "I have the project meeting. It’s the final push, Mike. If I’ve suffered through this entire week of classes, I’m not skipping the last day."
"You’re so mid-westernly disciplined," Mike groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. "It’s disgusting. It’s hot, but it’s disgusting."
The next hour was a blur of domesticity. Will moved through the apartment with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly where the honey was hidden. He made a pot of herbal tea, adding a generous amount of honey and lemon—the Byers Special.
He dressed in layers, grabbed his bag, and walked back into the bedroom. Mike was a pathetic pile of blankets, eyes tracking Will’s every move.
"Tea is here on the nightstand," Will said, leaning over the bed. "Drink it. All of it. Don't just let it get cold and then complain it tastes like dirt."
"I hate it here," Mike muttered, but his eyes were soft.
Will leaned down and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to Mike’s forehead. It was safe. It was sweet. It was a "see you later" in physical form.
But as Will started to pull away, Mike’s hand shot out from the cocoon of blankets. He grabbed Will’s wrists with surprising strength, his long fingers wrapping entirely around them.
"Not good enough," Mike whispered.
He pulled.
Will, caught off guard, stumbled forward, bracing himself with his elbows on either side of Mike’s head. Mike didn't hesitate. He hooked his hand behind Will’s neck and pulled him down into a real kiss. It wasn't a sick person kiss; it was deep, demanding, and tasted like mint toothpaste and impending fever.
Will melted. He always did. He let out a muffled laugh against Mike’s lips, trying to pull back, but Mike just caught him again. Another kiss. Short. Another one. Lingering.
"You're... going to... make me late," Will managed to say between the third and fourth kiss.
"Worth it," Mike smiled, finally letting go of Will’s wrists. He looked smug, even with a stuffy nose.
Will shook his head, breathless and grinning like an idiot. He adjusted his jacket, took one last look at the man who had been his entire world since they were kids, and headed for the door.
"I'm leaving for real now!" Will called out from the hallway.
"I love you!" Mike shouted back, followed immediately by a massive sneeze.
Will hit the New York pavement with a smile that felt a little too big for his face. He had a project to finish, but he already knew exactly what he was doing the second he got back: crawling into bed and letting Mike Wheeler be as silly and sick as he wanted to be.
——
If there was one thing Will Byers had learned by the age of twenty-four, it was that college was 10% learning and 90% sheer, unadulterated audacity.
Case in point: Will was currently standing in the university’s overcrowded athletic center, watching Dustin Henderson try to bench press a weight that was clearly personal enemies with his pectoral muscles.
“Focus, Dustin! Breathe through the existential dread!” Lucas shouted, looking far too much like a Nike commercial in his moisture-wicking gear.
Will leaned against a squat rack, his arms crossed. He had survived his project meeting, but his brain was still half-stuck in his apartment, wondering if Mike had remembered to eat something that wasn't just a handful of dry cereal.
“I’m breathing!” Dustin wheezed, finally racking the bar with a clang that resonated through Will’s teeth. He sat up, face the color of a ripened tomato. “I’m doing this for Suzie. She’s coming in a month. I need to be… sturdy. Robust. I want her to hug me and feel like she’s hugging a sequoia, not a sentient bag of marshmallows.”
Will snorted. “I think Suzie likes the marshmallows, Dustin. That’s kind of your whole brand.”
“My brand is evolving,” Dustin insisted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Unlike Mike’s immune system. How’s the Victorian orphan doing?”
Will sighed, the image of Mike’s pale, sweaty face flashing through his mind. “He sounds like a steam pipe about to explode. I don’t know what to do for him—he refuses to just sleep. He wants to be entertained. He wants to be perceived. He wants me to sit there and watch romantic movies while he hacks up a lung.”
Lucas started doing casual bicep curls like it was as easy as blinking. “I told you both. I literally told you. ‘Don't go swimming in the rain,’ I said. ‘The reservoir is technically illegal and probably full of runoff,’ I said. But no. You two had to be ‘poetic’ or whatever.”
“It was romantic!” Will defended, though his voice lacked conviction. It had been romantic—the rain hitting the water, Mike’s hair plastered to his forehead, the adrenaline of trespassing. It was very The Perks of Being a Wallflower until the congestion set in twenty-four hours later. “And we didn’t get caught.”
“Yeah, well, Mike caught a virus instead of a criminal record,” Lucas countered. “But honestly, Will, if he’s still running a fever, you gotta help him sweat it out.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “He’s under three blankets, Lucas. He’s sweating plenty.”
Lucas paused, giving Will a look that was way too knowing. “No, man. I mean… really sweat it out. That’s what Max does for me. You know? To break the fever. It’s like a biological reset button…”
There was a beat of silence.
Dustin’s face went from tomato red to a sort of sickly grey. Will felt his soul try to leave his body through the top of his head.
“Lucas,” Will said, his voice dropping an octave. “Please. For the love of everything we went through in middle school. Do not finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying! Physical exertion! Increased heart rate! It clears the sinuses!” Lucas said, completely undeterred by the aura of disgust radiating from his friends. “We’re adults, Will. We’ve been dating our partners for years. Max says it’s the only reason I survived covid.”
“I am going to pass out,” Dustin announced, staring at the ceiling. “I’m going to have a stroke right here on the blue mat and it’ll be because Lucas Sinclair told me how he treats his influenza.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Will practically yelled, putting his hands over his ears. “I do not want to hear about my two best friends’ ‘fever-breaking’ tactics. I don’t want to know how you guys… do that. It’s illegal. It should be illegal.”
Lucas looked genuinely offended, dropping the dumbbells. “Oh, please! You two? You and Mike? You guys are the worst offenders! We had to watch you two pine for a literal decade. Ten years of ‘Does Mike like me?’ and ‘Is Will mad at me?’ and ‘Oh look, we’re holding hands but only in the dark because we’re repressed!’”
Lucas stepped closer, pointing a finger at Will’s chest. “Now that you’re together, you’re worse. You’re inseparable. You’re disgustingly in love. We have to see it every. Freaking. Day. The way he looks at you like you invented the sun? The way you feed him fries when he’s not even looking? Don’t act like you’re the ‘innocent’ one here.”
Will opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He felt a weird mix of being deeply offended and strangely proud. Yeah, Mike did look at him like that. And yeah, Will would probably catch every disease known to man if it meant he got to keep feeding Mike fries.
“Whatever,” Will muttered, his face heating up. “I’m not taking medical advice from your sex life.”
Later, while Lucas was busy trying to convince Dustin that he has to do at least eighty pushups every day, Will’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Then it buzzed again. And again.
He pulled it out, fully expecting a frantic email from his professor. Instead, he got the "Mike Wheeler: Sick Edition" photo dump.
The first photo was a masterpiece of self-pity. Mike was buried under four different blankets, his curls looking like a literal bird’s nest—frizzy, tangled, and sticking out at gravity-defying angles. His cheeks were a flushed, feverish red, and his eyes were glassy and teary, looking directly into the lens with the expression of a kicked puppy.
Mikey [1:14 PM]: i am fading, will. the light is dimming. come home and perceive me.
Will bit back a smile, his heart doing that annoying little flip it always did when Mike was being a drama queen. Before he could even type a response, another photo popped up. It was the empty Byers Special mug on the nightstand.
Mikey [1:15 PM]: drank the tea. it tasted like love and lemons. but mostly lemons.
Mikey [1:16 PM]: [Photo attached: A blurry, close-up shot of Mike’s face half-buried in Will’s pillow]
Mikey [1:16 PM]: miss my baby. the bed is too big. i’m lonely and shivering. can’t wait to have you under the covers again so i can steal your body heat like a lizard.
Will was halfway through typing a soft 'I'm coming home soon, hang in there' when a tiny microphone icon appeared in the chat. An audio message.
Will pressed it to his ear, ignoring Dustin’s heavy breathing as he attempted a set of lunges nearby.
"Will..." Mike’s voice came through the speaker, and God, it was a disaster. It was deep, scratchy, and had that gravelly, raspy edge that sounded like he’d been swallowing thumbtacks. "Will, if you love me... if you ever loved me... bring me those spicy chips. And ice cream. Specifically the mint chip one. I’m craving it. My throat feels like a desert and I need the cold. Please. I'll pay you in kisses. Very contagious kisses."
Will’s thumb hovered over the screen, his face transitioning from doting boyfriend to completely fed up parent in three seconds flat.
"Is he okay?" Lucas asked, pausing his bicep curls.
"He’s a maniac," Will muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a vengeance.
Will [1:18 PM]: Are you actually insane?? Mike, your throat is literally swollen shut. You can’t even speak! You sound like a broken pipe on high pressure and you want SPICY CHIPS AND ICE CREAM?
Will [1:19 PM]: Absolutely not. Hell nah. You are going to aggravate your cough and then I’m going to have to listen to you wheeze all night.
Will [1:20 PM]: Put the phone down. Close your eyes and go to sleep. I am NOT bringing you ice cream.
It was honestly ridiculous. Usually, Will was the one who leaned into the childish side of the relationship—he liked the cuddles, the soft words, the being taken care of. But the second Mike Wheeler got a temperature above 98.6, his dominant boyfriend energy went on a literal sabbatical. He became a six-foot-tall toddler who thought he could bargain for junk food while actively dying.
"What did he do now?" Dustin asked, leaning over Will's shoulder.
"He’s asking for dairy and capsaicin while he has a fever," Will sighed, pocketing the phone. "He’s lost his mind. He thinks because his voice sounds like a 40-year-old heavy smoker that he can boss me around."
"To be fair," Lucas chimed in, "The raspy voice is a vibe. Max likes it when I sound like a grizzly bear."
Will felt a blush creep up his neck. He wouldn't admit it out loud—God forbid, he'd never give Mike the satisfaction—but the raspy voice was kind of hot. It was a problem. It was a conflict of interest. He was supposed to be the responsible one, but here he was, finding his boyfriend’s biological failure attractive.
To make matters worse, the universe decided to humble him and his friends further. When they went to the locker rooms to rinse off the gym-grime, a janitor was standing out front with a ‘CLOSED’ sign.
“Pipe burst,” the guy said, looking bored. “No showers until tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dustin moaned.
So, there they were: supposedly in the prime of their lives, forced to pull their jeans and shirts back on over skin that was tacky with sweat and gym-floor dust. It was a sensory nightmare. Will felt like a piece of human velcro.
By the time they trudged out to the main entrance of the building, Will was in a foul mood. He was sticky, he was worried about his dying boyfriend, and he was mentally scarred by Lucas’s fever-sweating theory.
Waiting by the glass doors were Max and Jane. They looked like a breath of fresh air—Max in an oversized flannel and El in a floral sundress that felt very ‘New York Spring.’ They were holding a tray of five coffees.
“You guys look like you crawled out of a sewer,” Max said cheerfully, handing a cup to Dustin and Lucas.
“The showers are broken,” Will grumbled, taking his coffee like it was a lifeline. “And Lucas is a freak.”
“I’m a visionary!” Lucas corrected. He leaned in, his face glowing with sweaty affection, and tried to plant a kiss on Max’s cheek.
Max didn't even flinch; she just pivoted her head with the grace of a professional athlete and shoved a hand against his chest. “Don’t you dare. Do not touch me. You smell like a locker room’s basement, Sinclair. Stay at least three feet away until you’ve been hosed down.”
“See?” Dustin pointed. “True love.”
Jane stepped over to Will, her eyes soft. “How is Mike? Is he… dying?”
“He thinks he is,” Will said, leaning down to let her sister kiss his cheek—she was the only one who didn't care about the sweat. “He’s being very Mike about it. Dramatics, sighs, the whole thing.”
“He misses you,” Jane said simply. “He texted me three times today asking if I knew when your meeting ended. He said the bed feels too big and cold.”
Will felt that familiar tug in his chest. That stupid, wonderful ache that only Mike Wheeler could provoke.
“I gotta go,” Will said, checking his watch. “I need to go home, give my man his medicine, and apparently—according to Lucas—help him sweat it out.”
“Will!” Dustin and Max shouted in unison.
Will just laughed, already heading for the subway. He was sweaty, he was tired, and he was probably going to be sick by Monday, but he couldn't wait to get back to their messy, cramped apartment.
After all, he had a boyfriend to take care of, and maybe—just maybe—he’d let Mike pick the disgustingly romantic movie.
Will trudged away from the group, his skin still feeling sticky and gross under his clothes, his mind racing. He stopped at a bodega three blocks from their apartment.
He stood in the frozen food aisle for five full minutes, staring at the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
"I'm a pushover," Will whispered to the ice cream. "I am a literal, spineless pushover."
He grabbed the ice cream. And the chips.
The walk up the four flights of stairs to their apartment felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the extra weight of the bag—heavy with the ice cream Will had sworn he wouldn’t buy—or maybe it was just the psychological toll of being covered in a thin film of Lucas Sinclair’s gym motivation.
As soon as Will turned the key in the lock, the sound hit him. It wasn't just the muffled dialogue of some movie; it was the rhythmic, wet sound of a cough that sounded like it belonged in a coal mine.
"Mikey! I’m home!" Will called out, dropping his keys and the forbidden snacks on the kitchen counter.
"Still... in the same... spot..." a voice croaked back. It was weak, strained, and lacked any of Mike’s usual voice. "Come... witness my... death..."
Will shook his head, a fond, tired smile tugging at his lips. He walked into the bedroom, and for a second, he just stood in the doorway, taking in the sheer scale of the catastrophe. The bed was less of a sleeping surface and more of a nest. Tissues were everywhere—balled up on the nightstand, overflowing from the trash can, clinging to the duvet like white carnations at a very sad funeral. In the center of the chaos was Mike, looking like he’d been through a centrifuge.
Will felt the parental mode trigger in his brain—the urge to scold Mike about the tissues, the screen time, and the general state of the room—but he suppressed it. You can't be mad at a man who looks that much like a drowned labradoodle.
"Aw, baby," Will murmured, crossing the room and navigating the minefield of crumpled tissues. "Are you still feeling that sick?"
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. Before Mike could even respond with more than a pathetic whine, Will reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Mike’s forehead.
He hissed. "Mike, you’re burning up. You’re literally radiating heat."
Mike leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "It’s the... internal fire of... my genius..."
"It's a 102-degree fever, you idiot," Will corrected gently, though his heart was squeezing in his chest. "Did you take the medicine I left out? The blue capsules?"
Mike’s eyes cracked open, looking guilty and glassy. "Oops?"
"Oops? Mike, it was right there next to the lamp!" Will sighed, running his hand through Mike’s sweat-damp curls. "Okay, fine. Did you at least eat something? I left that soup in the fridge."
"I thought about it," Mike rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly territory again. "But the fridge... was so far away. Like... miles. Beyond the horizon."
Will rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. "It’s ten feet from the door, Mike."
"See? Miles away," Mike insisted. He reached out with a shaky hand, grabbing the hem of Will’s sweaty gym shirt and tugging. "Stop being a nurse. Get in. I need... body heat. Or a sacrifice. Preferably you."
Will let out a short, bark-like laugh and stayed firmly planted on the edge of the bed. "Absolutely not. Mike, I am gross. I hit the gym with Lucas and Dustin, the showers were broken. I’m sticky and I smell like a locker room. I’m honestly afraid you’d fall out of love with me if I got under those covers right now."
Mike snorted, which immediately turned into a small coughing fit. When he recovered, he looked up at Will with an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion. "Will. Please. I saw you eat a three-day-old slice of pizza off the floor because you were too tired to cook and I’ve seen you in your bowlcut phase. If I haven't left yet, a little gym sweat isn't going to do it."
"You're gross," Will whispered, leaning down to bump his forehead against Mike's. "But you’re also right."
Will stood up, ignoring Mike’s groan of protest. He had a plan, and it definitely didn't involve Lucas’s "sweat it out" sex-advice. "You need a bath. Not a hot one—that’ll just make your fever spike. A lukewarm one to bring your temperature down."
Mike gave him a look of pure betrayal. "A bath? Like a toddler? Will, I’m dying. I don't have the core strength for a bath."
"I’ll help you," Will said, already walking toward the bathroom.
"Only if you join me," Mike called out, his voice cracking on the last word. Even at death’s door, the man was a relentless flirt.
Will paused at the bathroom door, looking back over his shoulder. He saw Mike pining from the bed, looking small amidst the pillows. Will felt that familiar rush of "Oh god, I love him so much it hurts" that had been a constant in his life since he was twelve.
"Fine," Will said, rolling his eyes for the sake of his dignity. "But only because I need a wash too."
He spent the next ten minutes prepping the bathroom. He kept the lights low, just the amber glow of the hallway light spilling in, and ran the water until it was just slightly warmer than room temperature. He went back to the bedroom and helped Mike up.
It was a slow process. Mike was shivering, his long limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. Will helped him peel off his sweat-soaked t-shirt and boxers, trying not to notice how Mike’s skin was pale and goosebump-covered. He guided him into the tub, Mike sighing as the water hit his skin.
Then, Will stripped off his own sticky gym clothes—feeling an immense sense of relief to be out of them—and stepped into the tub behind Mike.
The tub was a standard New York apartment size, which is to say: tiny. They were a tangle of long legs and elbows, but they made it work. Will sat with his back against the sloped end of the tub, and Mike settled in front of him, leaning his heavy, hot head back against Will’s chest.
"See?" Mike murmured, his eyes closed as the water swirled around them. "Better than... medicine."
"It is medicine, Mike. It’s hydrotherapy," Will teased, grabbing the bottle of expensive shampoo Jane had bought them.
Will started to work the soap into Mike’s dark curls. His movements were slow and deliberate. He used his fingertips to massage Mike’s scalp, feeling the tension bleed out of the older boy’s shoulders. Mike let out a low, vibrating hum of contentment, a sound that sat right in Will’s ribcage.
"You're being... very sweet," Mike rasped. "What’s the catch? Are you... going to make me eat kale later?"
"No kale," Will laughed softly, rinsing the suds away with a plastic cup. "Just some rest. And maybe that ice cream you were screaming for."
Mike’s eyes flew open. "You bought it?"
"Yes, Mike. I bought it. I can't say no to you when you use that raspy voice."
Mike turned his head as much as he could, looking up at Will with a smug, sickly grin. "I knew it. My voice is... my greatest weapon."
"It's a biological anomaly," Will corrected, leaning down to kiss the top of Mike's wet head. "But it's mine."
They sat there for a long time, the only sound being the drip of the faucet and their synchronized breathing. Will washed Mike’s back, his hands lingering over the familiar landscape of Mike’s skin—the moles he knew by heart, the way his spine curved. He felt a profound sense of peace. This was it. This was the best years of their lives they’d always talked about.
Not the parties, not the college milestones, but this: being in a cramped bathroom, taking care of the person who had been his North Star through every suffer and every heartache.
"Will?" Mike whispered, his voice almost gone.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming home."
Will tightened his arms around Mike’s waist, pulling him closer against his chest. "I’m always coming home, Mike, I’m living here. Now shut up and let me wash your ears."
Later, Will had Mike wrapped in their fluffiest towel—the one Mike usually complained was "too much fabric"—and guided him back to the nest.
Will, now clean and feeling a thousand percent more like a human being, quickly changed into a pair of soft grey sweatpants and an old t-shirt that had been washed so many times it felt like a second skin. He helped Mike to get dressed into some loose flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and ushered him under the fresh sheets he’d managed to throw on while Mike was drying off.
“Okay, Prince of Heartache,” Will said, appearing at the bedside with a tray. “It’s time for the main event.”
Mike looked at the tray and let out a dramatic, gravelly groan. There it was: a bowl of lukewarm soup, a glass of water, the dreaded blue capsules, and—sitting like a trophy at the back—the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
“Medicine first,” Will said, his voice firm but his eyes dancing with affection. “I’m not a fool. If I give you the sugar now, you’ll ‘forget’ the pills again.”
Mike pouted, his bottom lip sticking out in a way that was far too effective for a twenty-four-year-old man. He took the pills, washed them down with a grimace, and then looked at Will expectantly.
“Talk to me while I eat,” Mike rasped, leaning his head back against the headboard. “Tell me about the gym. Tell me about the boys. I’ve been stuck in this room for a week now. I’m starving for reality.”
Will sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, picking up a spoon and beginning to feed Mike the soup. It was a slow process, punctuated by Mike’s quiet hums of appreciation.
“Dustin is... well, he’s Dustin,” Will started, a soft laugh escaping him. “He’s convinced that if he lifts enough weights, Suzie will mistake him for a professional athlete when she visits next month. Lucas, of course, is encouraging it because he loves being a drill sergeant. He spent twenty minutes shouting about 'lactic acid' while Dustin looked like he was about to see God.”
Mike chuckled, which immediately triggered a small cough. Will waited, his hand hovering near Mike’s shoulder until it passed.
“And Lucas... he gave me some advice,” Will continued, his face heating up as he thought about the ‘sweat it out’ conversation. “Apparently, he and Max have a very... active... way of breaking a fever. He was very descriptive. Too descriptive. I think I need to bleach my brain.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up, a mischievous glint returning to his glassy eyes. “Oh? Is that why you were so insistent on the bath? You were afraid if we stayed in bed, I’d try to... utilize the Sinclair Method?”
“Mike, you can barely breathe,” Will deadpended, shoving another spoonful of soup into Mike’s mouth to silence him. “The only method you’re capable of right now is the pass out while watching a movie method. Besides, I told him we’ve been together for three years, I’m not that innocent but I still don't want to hear about his bedroom antics. It’s like hearing your siblings talk. It’s a crime against nature.”
Mike swallowed the soup, his expression softening as he looked at Will. “Three years. Sometimes it feels like three days. Other times it feels like my whole life.”
Will paused, the spoon hovering over the bowl. He reached out with his free hand, tracing the line of Mike’s jaw. The fever was still there, but Mike felt more grounded now. “I know what you mean. I was thinking about it at the gym. How everyone thinks we’re ‘disgustingly in love.’ Lucas said he’s had to watch us push and pull for a decade.”
“A decade?” Mike rasped, leaning into Will’s hand. “That’s an understatement. I think I was pining for you before I even knew what the word meant. I was just this... loud, curly-haired kid who didn't understand why his best friend was the only person who made the world feel quiet.”
Will felt that familiar ache in his chest—the good kind. “You weren't quiet. You were the loudest part of my day. You still are.”
Will set the empty soup bowl aside and finally reached for the ice cream. He popped the lid, the cool scent of mint filling the space between them. He took a small spoonful and held it out. Mike’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.
“There,” Will whispered as Mike took the bite, a small sigh of relief escaping his red, swollen throat. “Better?”
“So much better,” Mike breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound. “You’re the best, Will. Seriously. I know I’m a nightmare when I’m sick. I’m clingy, I’m demanding, I ask for spicy chips when my throat is on fire...”
“You are a nightmare,” Will agreed, feeding him another spoonful. “But you’re my nightmare. And honestly? I kind of like it when you’re clingy. It’s the only time you actually stay still long enough for me to keep track of you. You’re always running to class, to the library, to some internship. When you’re sick, you’re just... Mike. My Mike.”
Mike reached out, his long fingers tangling with Will’s on the duvet. “I’m always your Mike, Will. Even when I’m healthy. Even when I’m ninety and still complaining about my knees.”
They sat in the quiet of the apartment for a long time, sharing the pint of ice cream. Will did most of the talking, recounting the mundane details of his day—the weird guy on the subway, the coffee Jane brought him, the way the light hit the brick buildings on his walk home. He talked until Mike’s eyes started to droop, the medicine finally winning the battle against his stubbornness.
Will put the half-finished ice cream on the nightstand and crawled under the covers, settling in next to Mike. Immediately, Mike gravitated toward him, tucking his face into the crook of Will’s neck and draping a heavy arm across Will’s waist.
“Will?” Mike whispered, his breath warm and minty against Will’s skin.
“Yeah, Mikey?”
“Don't let Lucas know... but the bath worked better than the sweating.”
Will laughed, a quiet, vibrating sound in the dark room. He kissed the top of Mike’s head, breathing in the scent of the shampoo and the lingering heat of the fever.
“I won’t tell him,” Will promised, closing his eyes. “Sleep, Mike. I’ve got you.”
Will was tucked against Mike’s chest, the heat radiating off Mike’s skin feeling like a literal furnace. The bath had helped for an hour, but Mike’s biology was stubborn. He was still burning, his skin slightly tacky, his breath coming in short, raspy puffs.
Mike shifted closer, his large frame molding against Will’s back until there wasn't a single inch of space between them. He buried his face into the crook of Will’s neck, his nose hot against Will’s skin, and began to trail slow, lingering kisses along the back of his neck. His arm tightened around Will’s waist, a heavy, possessive anchor pulling him backward.
"Will?" Mike’s voice was a mere vibration, a deep, gravelly rasp that sent a traitorous shiver down Will’s spine as the heat of Mike's lips hit his sensitive skin.
"Go to sleep, Mike. You need to rest."
"I was thinking," Mike murmured, his grip firming as he pressed another dry, feverish kiss just below Will’s ear. "About what Lucas said. The... Sinclair Method."
Will let out a huff of disbelief, trying to ignore the way Mike’s hips gave a lazy, suggestive tilt forward. "You have got to be kidding me. Mike. You’re shivering and burning up at the same time. You can’t breathe through your nose. If we do that, you’re going to pass out, and I’m going to have to explain to everyone why I killed their best friend with a fever-breaking orgasm."
Mike let out a low, congested chuckle, his lips brushing the skin he had just been kissing. "What a way to go, though. Think about the subtext, Will. The drama. The tragic ending of the pining lovers."
"We aren't pining anymore, you idiot. We’ve been together for three years," Will reminded him, though his own breath was hitching. He knew every inch of Mike. He knew the exact pressure Mike liked, the way his back arched, the way he whispered Will’s name like a prayer when things got intense. But seeing Mike this vulnerable usually triggered Will’s protective instincts, not his libido.
"Exactly," Mike rasped, his hand sliding beneath Will’s shirt, his palm hot against Will’s stomach. "Three years. You know exactly what I need. And right now... I feel like my heart rate is already up. My blood is pumping. Why not just... push it over the edge? For medical science."
Will turned in Mike’s arms, facing him. Mike’s eyes were glassy, rimmed with red, but the look in them was anything but sick. It was that dark, focused intensity that Mike only ever had for Will. It was the look that reminded Will that even if Mike looked like a Victorian orphan, he was still a grown man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted.
"You’re serious," Will whispered, his hand coming up to cup Mike’s flushed face. "You actually want to do this? Mike, what if you choke? Or have a heart attack?"
Will pulled back just an inch, his fingers still tangled in Mike’s messy curls. "Wait, wait. If we're actually doing this... if we're following this stupid Sinclair Method, there are ground rules. You are a biological disaster area, Mike. You can’t be lunging around like you’re trying to win a track meet."
Mike let out a huff, his chest heaving against Will’s. The raspy sound of his breathing was getting deeper, more intentional. "I know. I’m... aware of my limitations."
"Are you?" Will raised an eyebrow, his protective streak fighting a losing battle against the way Mike was looking at him. "Because you usually have the self-preservation of a lemming."
Mike’s hands slid down from Will’s waist, his long fingers hooking into the waistband of Will’s sweatpants. He leaned in, his nose brushing against Will’s, his glassy eyes searching. "That's why... you’re going to help me. You take the lead. Get on top, Will. Just... ride it out. I’ll just lie here and be the grateful recipient of your medical expertise."
Will froze, a blush that had nothing to do with a cold blooming across his cheeks. He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Oh, I see. You’re too sick to do the work, so you’re assigning me the manual labor? You want me to do all the heavy lifting while you just enjoy the view?"
"Exactly," Mike croaked, a ghost of a smug smile touching his lips. "It’s for my health, Will. I need to keep my heart rate steady. If I move too much, I’ll cough. You wouldn't want me to cough, would you?"
"You are unbelievable," Will muttered, though he was already moving, his knees settling on either side of Mike’s hips. He felt the heat of Mike’s thighs beneath him, the contrast of the cool air in the room and the furnace-like temperature of his boyfriend. "You’ve been together with me for years, and you still find ways to be the most manipulative person in New York."
"Not manipulative," Mike corrected, his voice dropping into that chest-vibrating growl as his hands traveled up Will’s thighs. "Just... strategically incapacitated."
Will looked down at him, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Mike looked so vulnerable yet so predatory, his pale skin flushed red, his dark curls stuck to his forehead. It was a mess. It was a disaster. It was exactly what Will wanted.
"Fine," Will whispered, leaning down to capture Mike’s mouth, his hands flat against Mike’s chest to keep him pinned to the mattress. "But don't you dare complain that I’m taking too long. You wanted me in charge, Wheeler. You get what you get, and the second you feel like you’re going to faint, we stop. Deal?"
"Deal," Mike whispered, a smug, delirious grin spreading across his face. "Now... come here and help me sweat."
Will hovered over Mike, his elbows braced on either side of Mike’s shoulders. The heat rolling off Mike’s skin was intense, a dry, feverish radiator that made the air between them shimmer. Will looked down at him, his heart aching with a familiar, fierce devotion. Mike’s face was flushed a deep, sunset red, his dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, his eyes glassy but locked onto Will’s with a hunger that the fever couldn't dampen.
Will leaned down, pressing a slow, searingly soft kiss to Mike’s lips. It tasted of peppermint tea, ice cream and heat. Mike groaned into the kiss, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbled from his chest and echoed in Will’s own throat.
"Will..." Mike rasped, his voice a ruined, gravelly mess. He pulled back just an inch, his hot breath puffing against Will's mouth. "Suck me... suck me off first? Just for a bit? I want to be... slick for you. Make it easier for you to take me."
Will let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, his forehead resting against Mike’s. "Mike, we have lube for that exact reason."
Mike didn't argue. Instead, he did the one thing he knew Will couldn't resist. He softened his gaze, his watery, fever-bright eyes widening into a classic, pathetic lost-puppy-dog look. He looked so vulnerable, so utterly wrecked by the cold and yet so desperate for Will’s touch.
"I see what you're doing," Will whispered, his voice fond but firm. "You just want to be taken care of. You want the full nursing experience, don't you, Wheeler?"
"Maybe," Mike croaked, a ghost of a smug, sickly smile touching his lips. "Is it working?"
"Yes," Will sighed, relenting. "It always works."
Will moved slowly, shifting his weight. He stayed low, his belly sliding against Mike's heated torso as he traveled down. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at the waistband of Mike’s flannel pajama bottoms. With steady hands, he hooked his thumbs into the fabric and peeled them down, along with Mike’s boxers, exposing him to the cool air of the room.
Mike was, as Will had noted, "surprisingly" ready—his pulse point jumping in his neck as he looked at Will with those fever-bright eyes.
Mike hissed as the air hit his feverish skin, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. Will didn't go straight for the main event. Instead, he leaned down, pressing tiny, lingering, wet kisses to the inside of Mike’s thighs, moving closer and closer to his lap.
"Your skin is so hot, Mike," Will murmured against his skin, his voice dropping into a low, sexy register.
Mike let out a strangled, congested moan, his fingers tangling in Will’s hair. "Will... god, Will. Please."
Will shifted, finally hovering over Mike’s length. He took a second to just look—Mike was already fully hard, a testament to how much he’d been pining even through the illness. Will leaned down and swirled his tongue around the head, capturing a bead of saltiness, before slowly, agonizingly taking Mike into his mouth.
The heat was staggering. It was like taking a coal into his mouth, but it was a heat Will wanted to drown in. He worked slowly, mindful of Mike’s shallow, raspy breathing. He used his tongue to tease the underside, his hand wrapping around the base to provide a steady, rhythmic friction.
"Oh... fuck," Mike choked out, his head tossing back against the pillows. His voice was a wreck, a series of deep, scratchy clicks and moans. "Will... you're... you're incredible. My hero. My sweet, perfect hero."
Will looked up through his lashes, his mouth full, watching Mike’s face contort with a mix of feverish delirium and pure, unadulterated pleasure. He sucked harder, pulling Mike deeper into his throat, his tongue working the sensitive ridge with a practiced ease. He wanted Mike to feel cherished; he wanted Mike to feel like every inch of him was worth worshipping, even when he was a snotty, coughing mess.
Mike’s grip on Will’s hair tightened, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. "Don't stop... please... don't stop..."
Will continued for several long minutes, the sound of Mike’s ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic sounds of the blowjob filling the quiet, dimly lit room. He only stopped when Mike’s hips began to buck frantically, his breath coming in sharp, wet gasps.
"Wait, wait," Mike rasped, his hands moving to Will's shoulders to pull him back up. "I'm gonna finish, Will. I want to be inside you when the fever breaks."
Will crawled back up, his face flushed, his lips swollen and shiny. He looked down at Mike, seeing the sweat now beads on Mike’s upper lip and forehead.
"You're ready," Will whispered. "Let's get this fever to break, Michael."
"I love you," Mike muttered, his voice almost entirely gone, his eyes full of that worshiping light.
"I love you too," Will replied, his hands shaking slightly as he prepared to take the lead. "Now, stay still. Let me take care of you."
Will shifted, the sheets rustling beneath him as he crawled over Mike’s long, restless legs. He moved with a cautious, feline grace, straddling Mike’s lap while being painfully mindful of how Mike’s breath was still coming in those shallow, ragged hitches. Up close, Mike looked utterly wrecked. His dark curls were a bird’s nest of frizz against the pillows, and his skin was flushed a deep, sunset red, but his eyes—glassy and bright with fever—were fixed on Will with a terrifyingly focused intensity.
"Softly, okay?" Will whispered, his voice barely audible over the low hum of the city traffic outside. He reached out, his cool palms cupping Mike’s burning face. "We are going at a turtle’s pace, Michael. I mean it. If you start hacking up a lung or feeling like you’re going to faint, the party is over. I'm not losing you to a head cold."
"Shut up and kiss me," Mike rasped. His voice was a delicious, ruined mess of a sound—gravelly, deep, and vibrating with a desperation that made Will’s stomach do a slow, heavy roll.
Will leaned down, capturing Mike’s mouth in a kiss that was slow and syrupy. It wasn't about hunger yet; it was about grounding him. Mike’s lips were dry and hot, nearly parched, but he kissed back with a frantic, devoted kind of hunger. His hands, usually so steady when he was drawing or typing, wandered up to grip Will’s waist with a surprising, bruising strength. When Mike tried to tug at the hem of Will’s shirt, his fingers fumbling with the soft cotton, Will caught his wrists, pinning them gently against the mattress for a second.
"No," Will murmured against his lips, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe. "The shirts stay on. You’re shivering every five minutes, Mike. I’m not letting you get a chill on top of everything else. You’re staying bundled."
Mike let out a pathetic, needy whine—a sound that was half-congested and entirely adorable, the kind of sound only a very sick, very pampered Mike Wheeler could make. "Will... please... I’m boiling. I feel like I'm in a furnace."
"It’s the fever, not the room," Will reminded him softly, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Mike's red, irritated nose. "Sit up. Come on. Lean back against the headboard. If you’re flat on your back, you’re going to feel like you’re suffocating, and I don't want to perform CPR tonight."
With a lot of uncoordinated grunting and a few more wet, rattling coughs, Mike managed to hoist himself up, propping his back against a mountain of pillows Will had scavenged. Will settled back onto him, his knees hugging Mike’s outer thighs. They stayed under the heavy duvet, creating a little private tent of warmth and shared breath.
Will reached for the nightstand, his fingers finding the familiar bottle of lube.
"Can I..." Mike paused, a raspy cough interrupting him. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "Can I help? Let me... let me prep you."
Will felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the weather. "Please," he breathed, his heart hammering.
Will squeezed a dollop of lube onto Mike’s long, pale fingers. Mike’s hand was shaking slightly from the fever, but as he reached down, his touch was steady and purposeful. Will leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of Mike’s neck, breathing in the scent of peppermint tea and the saltiness of Mike’s skin.
As Mike’s first finger pushed inside, Will let out a long, shaky moan that vibrated against Mike’s collarbone.
"You're so good, Will," Mike whispered, his voice cracking painfully but full of a raw, aching love. "So soft for me. You okay? Tell me if it hurts."
"It's perfect," Will choked out, his forehead resting heavily against Mike’s shoulder. "Just... don't stop. Mike, don't stop."
Mike added a second finger, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against Will's hip bone. He kept up a steady stream of praise, his voice a low, gravelly hum in Will’s ear that seemed to bypass his brain and go straight to his soul.
"Such a good boy," Mike murmured, his breath ghosting over Will's ear. "Look at you. Doing all this work for me. I love you so much, you know that? Even when I’m a walking plague, you’re still here. You’re always here."
"I’m an idiot," Will teased, though his voice was thick with emotion, his eyes stinging. "I should've left you with your romantic movies and your tissues."
"You couldn't," Mike chuckled wetly, his fingers moving inside Will with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. "You’re stuck with me, Byers. Forever. You ready for me? I need to be inside you."
"Yeah," Will whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and nerves. "Yeah, Mike. Please."
When Will felt ready, he reached down to guide Mike. He applied more lube, his fingers slick as he coated Mike’s length. He positioned himself carefully, his hands shaking just as much as Mike’s now. He looked Mike in the eye—the dark, intense gaze of a man who looked like he was seeing his entire future in Will’s face.
Will lowered himself down. One inch.
He stopped, a sharp gasp escaping him as he felt the stretch. He leaned his forehead against Mike’s, their noses brushing, their shared breath hot and humid.
"Breathe, baby," Mike whispered, his hands sliding under Will’s shirt to stroke his spine, his fingers tracing every vertebra. "Just breathe. We have all night. I’ve got you. I've always got you."
"God, Mike," Will gasped, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt the staggering fullness of him. "You're so... you're so big. Every time, it's like..."
"Just take it," Mike urged softly, his voice a low, chest-vibrating rumble. "One inch at a time. I'm not going anywhere, Will. I'm right here."
Another inch. Will’s fingers dug into Mike’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. Mike’s touch was constant, his palms flat against Will’s back, rubbing soothing, grounding circles.
"You okay?" Mike asked, his voice strained with his own effort to stay still and not just thrust upward. "Talk to me, Will. Tell me what you're thinking. Keep your brain on me."
"I'm thinking... I'm thinking about how much I'm going to regret this when I'm sneezing my head off tomorrow," Will managed to say, a small, breathless laugh escaping him as he tried to relax his muscles.
"Worth it," Mike said, his eyes fixed on Will's face with absolute devotion. "Tell me something else. Something normal. Distract me before I lose my mind."
"I... I forgot to tell you," Will panted, lowering himself another fraction, feeling Mike fill him completely. "The landlord called. He's finally fixing the leak in the kitchen on Monday."
"Finally," Mike groaned, though the sound was mostly one of pure, unadulterated pleasure as Will took the last of him. "I thought... I thought we were going to have to start an indoor pond. Maybe keep some ducks."
"I'll put... I'll put goldfish in it if you don't stay still," Will threatened weakly, his head falling forward to rest on Mike's chest.
When Mike was finally, fully inside, they stayed perfectly still. It was the dick-warming phase, as Mike jokingly called it. Will felt stretched and incredibly full, his heart thudding a frantic tempo against Mike’s ribs. He felt anchored.
"You're amazing," Mike breathed, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he just felt the connection. "God, Will. You feel... like heaven. Like home."
"You feel like a space heater," Will joked weakly, though he was already starting to move, his hips beginning to swirl in a slow, circular motion.
The friction made Mike let out a strangled, raspy groan that sounded like it came from the bottom of his lungs. Will pushed up an inch, then sank back down, finding a rhythm that was more about the intimate slide of skin than any kind of speed. He was being so careful, so mindful of Mike’s breathing.
"Will... god, Will," Mike moaned, his hands tightening on Will's back, pulling him closer. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
"I'm trying... to be careful," Will gasped, his own pleasure building into a white-hot roar in his ears. "Are you breathing okay? Mike? Talk to me."
"I'm fine," Mike rasped, though he sounded half-delirious. "Keep going. Please. I need this. I need you."
Will leaned his back toward Mike’s thighs, his spine arching into a beautiful, vulnerable curve. The change in angle made him gasp, his eyes flying open to see Mike looking at him with pure worship. Mike’s hand traveled down, his fingers finding Will’s own length, which had been neglected until now.
The second Mike’s hand closed around him, Will let out a loud, echoing moan.
"Shh," Mike whispered, a tired but triumphant grin on his face. "The neighbors, Will. They'll be lining up at the door."
"Shut up, Mike!" Will cried out softly, his hips moving faster now, the slow circling turning into a steady, rhythmic grind. "Oh god, that feels... that feels too good. You're going to... I'm going to..."
"Does it?" Mike asked, his thumb stroking the head of Will's dick in perfect sync with their movements. "Tell me how good it feels. I want to hear it. I want to hear your voice."
"It feels... like everything," Will moaned, his head falling back. "It feels like I'm melting."
The pace picked up. Will was the one doing the work, his thighs burning with the effort, but he didn't care. He looked down and saw the sweat now pouring off Mike’s forehead—the hot, productive sweat Lucas had promised.
"You're sweating," Will noted, his voice thick and honeyed with arousal. "It's working. Lucas... Lucas was actually right."
Mike let out a low, breathy laugh that ended in a tiny, sharp cough. "Will," he panted, his eyes narrowing playfully even through the fever. "Don't... don't say Lucas’s name during sex. Please. It sounds so stupid. It’s a total mood killer."
Will let out a startled, breathless giggle, the absurdity of the moment hitting him. He stopped moving for a split second, looking at Mike. "I'm sorry! I just... I'm just impressed his crazy theory worked!"
Mike started to laugh too, a genuine, joyful sound that quickly turned into a real, hacking cough. Will’s smile vanished instantly, and he stopped all movement, his hands gripping Mike's shoulders.
"Mike! Are you okay? Stop, stop—breathe," Will commanded, his eyes wide with worry.
Mike coughed a few more times, his face turning a darker shade of red, before he finally took a deep, shaky breath and cleared his throat. He looked up at Will, eyes watery but determined. "I'm okay. I'm okay! Don't stop. Just... fewer names of our best friends, more of mine."
"You're a maniac," Will whispered, leaning down to kiss him deeply, a slow, tongue-tangled kiss that tasted of fever and peppermint.
"Just... stay with me," Mike panted, his hips beginning to thrust up to meet Will's now. "Will. Look at me."
Will looked down, meeting Mike's intense gaze. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Will... Will, I'm..." Mike’s voice broke into a high-pitched, desperate whine, his head tossing back against the headboard. "I'm close, Will. I'm so close."
"I know, me too," Will gasped, his own climax building until it was a physical weight in his chest. He leaned forward again, their mouths meeting in a messy, desperate kiss, sharing the same air, their moans vibrating into each other’s throats.
"I love you," Mike muttered into the kiss, the words slurred and sweet. "Love you so much. My Will."
"I love you too," Will whispered back, his movements becoming frantic, his hips slamming home one last time.
They went over the edge together, a synchronized collapse of heat and friction that felt like a biological reset. Will slumped against Mike’s chest, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps of relief. Mike’s arms wrapped around him instantly, holding him tight, even as Mike began to cough again—this time a deep, chest-clearing sound that felt like it was dislodging the last of the sickness.
"You okay?" Will asked immediately, pulling back to look at him, wiping sweat from Mike's brow.
Mike was drenched, his curls plastered to his skull, but his eyes... they were clear. Truly clear. The glassiness had vanished. He looked exhausted, but he looked awake.
"I think..." Mike rasped, a genuine, healthy smile breaking across his face. "I think the Sinclair Method deserves a peer-reviewed study. I can... I can actually breathe through my nose, Will."
"You're a dork," Will laughed, a tired, happy sound, and buried his face in Mike’s neck. "A gross, sweaty dork."
"I feel better," Mike said, his voice stronger. "The pressure in my head is gone. It's like you drained it out of me."
"Good," Will murmured. "Because I think I just used up my entire year's worth of energy. I’m going to sleep for a week."
“Just stay here for a minute. Let me just... hold you. My miracle worker." Mike whispered, kissing the top of Will’s head.
"Okay," Will agreed, closing his eyes and letting the silence of the apartment wrap around them.
Three days later on a Tuesday morning in Brooklyn arrived with a sky the color of a bruised plum and the insistent, rhythmic drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink that the landlord had, predictably, not fixed on Monday.
Mike Wheeler was a new man. He was practically vibrating with health. He still had a stuffy nose though, but he had spent the last forty-eight hours being the world’s most energetic roommate—cleaning the kitchen, finally taking the overflowing trash out. The Sinclair Method hadn't just broken his fever; it had seemingly reset his entire cellular structure.
He hummed a tuneless song as he flipped a pancake in their tiny kitchen, the smell of butter and maple syrup filling the air. He felt great. He felt powerful. He felt like he could tackle a thousand-page thesis.
"Will! Breakfast is ready!" Mike called out, his voice clear and bright. "Get up, sunshine! We have a 9:00 AM class and I actually want to be on time for once!"
Silence.
Usually, Will was the one dragging Mike out of bed. Usually, Will was already dressed and nursing a cup of coffee, looking effortlessly put-together while Mike struggled to find matching socks.
Mike frowned, setting the spatula down. "Baby?"
He walked into the bedroom. The curtains were still drawn, the room bathed in a dim, dusty twilight. The bed was a mountain of duvets, and at the very top of the pile, a shock of brown hair was visible.
Mike softened, leaning against the doorframe. "Hey, lazy. Come on. I made the pancakes with the blueberries you like. The ones that cost like six dollars for a tiny carton."
A sound came from the bed. It wasn't a word. It was a low, vibrating, miserable groan that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting.
Mike’s heart sank into his stomach. "Oh... oh no."
He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. As he got closer, he heard it: the unmistakable, wet huff of a nose that was completely out of commission. He reached out and gently peeled back the covers.
Will looked like a tragic masterpiece. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, his skin was the color of parchment, and his nose was a bright, angry pink from a dozen frantic wipes with a rough paper towel. He looked up at Mike with an expression of pure, unadulterated betrayal.
"Mike," Will tried to say.
What actually came out was: "Mighk."
It was deep. It was raspy. It was a perfect, distorted mirror of the voice Mike had been sporting all weekend.
Mike winced, a wave of immense guilt washing over him. He reached out, his cool hand—now blissfully fever-free—landing on Will’s forehead. It was like touching a stovetop.
"You’re burning up," Mike whispered, his voice full of sympathy. "Will... I’m so sorry. I think I... I think the transfer was a little too successful."
Will closed his eyes, leaning his hot face into Mike’s palm. "I hate you," he croaked, the words coming out as a series of wet, congested clicks. "I literally... hate you. Lucas is a liar. The method... is a trap."
Mike couldn't help it; a small, stifled laugh escaped him. It was just so ironic. Last week, Will was the stoic nurse, the one rolling his eyes at Mike’s dramatics. Now, Will was the one buried in the nest of tissues, sounding like a broken clarinet.
"I know, I know," Mike said, leaning down to kiss the only part of Will’s face that didn't look contagious—his temple. "But hey, on the bright side... I'm a pro at this now. I know exactly where the extra blankets are. I know the perfect temperature for peppermint tea and—"
Will opened one watery eye, glaring at him. "Don't you... dare... suggest... the method."
"God, no," Mike laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "You can barely breathe, Will. If we tried that now, I’d actually have to call an ambulance. No, you’re getting the treatment. Soup, movies, and me sitting here perceiving you."
Will let out a long, shaky sigh, his body relaxing into the mattress. He reached out a trembling hand, grabbing the hem of Mike’s clean, fresh t-shirt.
"Stay here," Will commanded, his voice breaking.
"I'm not going anywhere," Mike promised. He climbed onto the bed, staying on top of the covers this time, and pulled Will’s head into his lap. He started to run his fingers through Will’s hair, the same way Will had done for him.
They sat there for a moment in the quiet of the morning. Mike looked down at his boyfriend—the man who had survived the winter, currently defeated by a common virus in May.
"Will?" Mike whispered.
"What?"
"We're never swimming in the rain again, are we?"
Will let out a wet, miserable snort that might have been a laugh. "Ne-ver. If you even... look at a rain cloud... I'm breaking up with you."
"Fair enough," Mike smiled, leaning down to kiss the top of Will’s head. "Fair enough, baby."