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The other side of the bed is empty when Mike wakes up.
He brushes his hand over the empty space. The blanket has been straightened out with care, and there’s a faint warmth in the area, as if the person who once occupied the space lingered for a minute. Morning light streams through the gap in the curtains. It’s enough to brighten the room without being intrusive. It’s soft. Warm. Perfect for a quiet Sunday in.
The coffee maker whirs to life in the kitchen, and the scent of hot coffee wafts down the hallway. This wasn’t Mike’s doing, as he never remembers to program the coffee maker to brew automatically in the mornings. Mike huffs out a tired, but contented sigh. How nice it is to be cared for, even in the simplest way.
The shower is running down the hall, the soft pitter-patter of water filling the otherwise silent apartment. Evidence of last night’s activities is strewn throughout the room — shoes kicked into corners, clothing scattered in tiny piles after being hastily thrown off eager bodies, and half-drunk water bottles sitting on the bedside table. Mike knows it shows up on his skin as well. He can feel the bruises taking shape on his collarbones and chest, and the satisfactory soreness settling throughout his whole body.
These types of mornings are his favorite.
Mike pulls off the covers and stretches, a gratifying pop coming from the base of his spine. He pads down the hall toward the bathroom, the sound of the shower getting louder with each step. Steam pours out when he opens the bathroom door. Two towels have been placed on the counter. The intention of it hits Mike square in the chest, and warmth unrelated to the steam spreads through his body. Mike smiles to himself, an unconscious action caused solely by knowing who is behind the shower curtain.
“Share the water,” Mike says, already climbing in before Will can respond.
The Party had gotten together for an apartment warming at Mike’s new place eight months ago. It was a simple one-bed, one-bath apartment that, while perfect for one person, felt very cramped with six excited friends who hadn’t been able to hang out all together for a long time.
It felt nice to hang out as a full Party again. That whole night was filled with stomach-busting laughter, stories of their day-to-day lives, and reminiscing on memories that no longer them.
Will had hung back after everyone had left, insisting he would help Mike clean up. If it had been a long time since the Party hung out, it had been even longer since the two of them were alone together. But there was no awkwardness. Because being with Will was easier than breathing for Mike.
Will was more than his best friend. The feelings ran deeper than that, no longer touching what could be considered platonic. In fact, what Mike felt for Will transcended the bounds of simple romance.
Will was his person. His home.
After cleaning up, Mike offered Will a drink as a thank you. One drink turned into two, which turned into them confessing their feelings, which turned into their first kiss, which turned into —
You get the idea.
Mike and Will got together. After years of shared looks, painful yearning, and lovesick rants to their friends, they were a couple.
Boyfriends. Actual, real-life, honest-to-God boyfriends.
They were initially scared that changing the nature of their relationship would mean everything about them would change. But not much has actually changed. They still watch movies, read comics, and act like genuine nerds around each other. But now, instead of maintaining a respectful distance and repressing how they truly feel, they have the freedom of intimacy. Sleepovers where the bed is shared. A kiss to the hand during DnD sessions. A blanket tucked lovingly over a sleeping form on the couch. Embraces that are allowed to linger.
Quiet Sunday mornings shared over cups of coffee.
The coffee pot is full, and two mugs sit on the counter. Will makes a beeline for it, not even letting Mike attempt to pour his own coffee. Mike huffs out a faux-annoyed breath. Usually, Mike would fight Will for it, play their usual game of teasing, but he's distracted. Will looks incredible right now. He's wearing gray sweatpants and one of Mike's old, loose-fitting band tees that has been cut into a tank top, and his hair is fluffy from being towel-dried. To Mike, he is the most beautiful person he's ever seen.
Will smiles in victory and starts fixing the coffee. Two spoonfuls of brown sugar get stirred into his own mug, while the other one gets a strong pour of hazelnut creamer.
“You’re the best,” Mike says lowly. He grabs the mug from Will and takes a long sip. It's perfect, as always.
Will watches him, a fond smile hidden by the edge of his own mug.
“So are you."
Mike feels his face grow warm. How is it that a simple sentence causes a fierce blush to wash over his body?
They sit in comfortable silence, not needing words to fill the space. The other’s company is enough. Mike wishes they could stay like this. But the morning light is giving way to the afternoon sun, which means Will needs to leave soon. He needs to go back to his own apartment, the one halfway across the city, so that he'll be prepared for work tomorrow morning.
Mike must have a dopey look on his face, because Will suddenly stands and closes the little distance between them. He holds Mike in his arms, pouring every ounce of affection into the embrace. It says everything Mike needs to know.
If the last eight months have been nothing but bliss, Mike can only imagine how the rest of their lives will be. It's a bright-looking future. It's one that he can't wait to experience.
But there was one thing, one stupid milestone that had yet to be ticked off the metaphorical to-do list of life.
Neither of them has said ‘I love you’ yet.
But honestly? Mike doesn’t mind it. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that Will is it for him. He doesn’t need to say it, and neither does Will. They both know. And Mike would gladly go his whole life without those words if it meant having Will at his side.
"Stay the night," Mike mumbles into Will's shoulder.
"Wish I could," Will sighs, his lips pressed into the top of Mike's head.
Not that Mike wouldn’t say it first, because he would. He totally would. For Mike, loving Will is no big deal.
In fact, it’s easy to love him. Mike cares deeply about Will, always has. On days Will is consumed by his art, too immersed to move, Mike brings him water and reminds him to stretch. On days Will is too quiet, staring into space with his mind so far away, Mike is able to reach him and bring him back to his body.
Will is the kindest and bravest person Mike knows. Everything becomes warmer and brighter around him. It’s shown in the ways he cares for the Party. When El calls in the middle of the night after a bone-chilling flashback, he whispers reassurances and comforts through the phone until she falls back to sleep. Whenever Dustin holes up in the lab for days, Will checks in and makes sure he eats and sleeps. He helped Lucas study for his medical board exams and then waited in the parking lot with a huge handmade congratulations banner, certain that he would pass. He attends nearly every one of Max’s skateboarding competitions, watching her zoom by on the board he custom painted.
And when Mike’s own thoughts turn dark, threatening to consume him whole, Will is the sun that breaks through those storm clouds and warms Mike’s very soul.
The words ‘I love you’ run through Mike’s head constantly. But he can’t seem to say it. Growing up, those three words were hardly said in his home. It was an afterthought, deemed too unimportant to verbalize. When he was a teenager, 'I love you' felt meaningless. It was a way to say goodbye after a visit to Nana's house. A mere platitude to fulfill a societal expectation.
He has since deconstructed that mindset. But the words still feel foreign.
Mike has actually gotten close to saying it a few times. Then Will looks at him with an expression so tender and full of adoration that it makes Mike hold his breath, thoughts stalling and mouth going dry. The words feel inadequate all of a sudden. Too small to describe the great expanse of his love for Will. You would think someone who writes for a living could verbalize their feelings effortlessly. But alas. At these times, panic will worm its way into Mike's brain, letting poisonous doubts pop up.
What if Will doesn't know Mike loves him?
Will is going to leave him if he doesn't say it.
What if Will doesn't actually love him back?
But then Will holds him close, pressing gentle kisses into his skin, and the thoughts dissipate. It's a reminder that he and Will are good. More than good, really.
And to say it's no big deal to be in love with Will is not to diminish it. Far from it. For Mike, it's a testament to just how far he's come. It's acceptance. It's a life without shame. It's freedom.
It means Mike survived long enough to not only love Will, but to actually have him.
Will's overnight bag sits on the bed. When they first started dating, that bag would be stuffed full with pajamas, a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and an outfit for the next day. Now, it's basically a glorified laundry bag. Because after eight months of being together, Will just 'borrows' clothes from Mike's closet, and Mike keeps an extra toothbrush and deodorant stick in his bathroom.
It's the same for when Mike spends the night at Will's apartment, too.
Mike watches from the doorway as Will throws yesterday’s clothes into the bag. His tank top shifts, revealing fading scratches on the back of Will's shoulders. Mike's face warms, no doubt a bright red. He's transported back to last night, back to the heat and the closeness that bound them together.
Will looked ethereal in the half-light above him.
"You're so beautiful," Will had said breathlessly. He cupped Mike's face as he said it, too, like he was holding something precious. Mike was too overwhelmed to speak.
The real words Will had wanted to say remained unspoken, but Mike knew. He always knew.
Will clears his throat, pulling Mike back to the present. He slings his bag over his shoulder and winks. He knows what Mike was just thinking about. He's always been able to read Mike's mind.
"Don't say anything," Mike says, embarrassment coloring his tone.
"Don't have to," Will teases.
Mike walks him to the door. The kiss goodbye is sweet and unhurried, a gentle pressing of lips. Will squeezes Mike's hand before he exits the apartment.
"See you Friday," he promises, and then he disappears from Mike's view.
God. ‘I love you’ would be far too easy.
Mike is struck again by just how deeply he loves him. It's a cosmic, dizzying kind of love. Devotion in every sense of the word. Mike has gone to hell and back for Will, and he would honestly do it again if needed.
"He's really mine," the words slip from Mike's lips, existing only for his ears.
Mike will tell Will he loves him soon. Until then, ‘I love you’ will be a thought that runs constantly through his mind, showing up in big flashing lights every time he looks at Will.
Until then, ‘I love you’ will show up as actions. It’s a surprise visit with two coffees and takeout to the museum where Will works. It’s a soft kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth during a conversation, exactly when he’s least expecting it.
Until then, the words ‘I love you’ will be spoken in replacement phrases. A list of three-word sentences that are templated as mundane, but hold the same meaning. A game both of them play.
Yeah, Mike will say it soon.
After all, it’s no big deal.