Archive of Our Own

It takes another year and a half before Mike feels healed enough to want to live again, catch up with his best friends— meet them where they're at, instead of the way they kept coming to him, reaching out patiently and with far too much grace for the way he's been acting. Everyone's moving on in their own way and Mike doesn't want to miss any more of it.

He doesn't need to think too hard about where he's going.

Future Doctor Lucas Sinclair is at John Hopkins, Max tagging alongside him to get a degree in social work at the University of Maryland, and Dustin had been accepted into MIT. Nancy's still doing her investigative journalism at the Boston Herald.

Mike likes that New York is kind of in between everyone; an equidistant train ride away, where it's not too inconvenient to see each other, no work to have to call off three weeks in advance, no vacation time to waste on Mike, sequestered away in Bumfuck, Indiana.

New York is full of opportunities for his prospective career path, full of big name publishing houses and indie companies ready for the stories Mike has been dying to tell. NYU has a fantastic writing program and from the things Nancy says that Jonathan says, their arts department is well-funded.

And more importantly, it's full of Will.

When he finally breaks the news to him over the phone, he thinks Will blows out the receiver with how loudly he shouts in surprise, excitement overwhelming their connection, static crackling with every other word he yells. He says he'll kick out his roommate for Mike and Mike is selfish enough to not talk him out of it. Sympathy is hard to muster up. Will never really liked his roommate anyway; said he never did the dishes. Mike can't believe the gall of the guy to have the privilege to share a place with Will and leave all the dishes in the sink for his artist hands to get all pruney and dry over.

The day after he moves in, Mike makes sure Will doesn't wake up to a dirty kitchen.

Once Mike is fully settled, boxes unpacked, address changed, toothbrush settled in the bathroom on the counter next to Will's, they have a housewarming party— inviting all their family and friends. They're stuffed like sardines in their tiny two bedroom apartment but its warmth suffuses the raging winter storm outside and when Mike thinks of El, it doesn't hurt to his core like it might've before and when he catches Will's eye, smile wide as he basks in the glow of the most important people in his life around him, something settles underneath his sternum, placated and quieted.

Everything is great.

It's great spending mornings together when their schedules match up and shoehorning in dinner plans where they don't. They're both eager to catch up, to mend the tear in the knit of their friendship, chunky yarn soft and comforting.

It's great that when he misses Will, he doesn't have to settle for a bad connection, for Will missing his calls when he was too busy to be in his apartment; he can just walk down the hall and knock on his door where Will almost always answers. When he feels that grief rear its head, when it threatens to pull him out to the dark of it, he can seek Will's gentle comfort. When Will is stressed, Mike doesn't feel powerless and pathetic, he can do something about it— carry his big bulky canvases and art supplies for him so he can make a test, run more errands, relax for a minute.

It's so great to see Will feel truly comfortable in his skin— his hair is parted stylishly, he's got his ear pierced, and he dresses like he knows how to coordinate more than flannels and corduroy, although those were still his favorites, cozy and familiar.

It's all really great!

Until Mike remembers that Will likes men and that means he dates them which in turn means he brings them around sometimes.

The first time Will brings some guy around after Mike moves in, Mike thinks he's just doing someone a favor— being a good Samaritan bringing a drunk out from the cold or maybe it's some other art student stranded or something, but no.

Boris is Will's boyfriend and he smells like cigarettes and is always slightly high-strung and hanging over Will like he can't walk by himself. Mike knows that look in his eyes. He's in a creative writing course— half of the English majors are snorting coke trying to be the next Stephen King. Mike doesn't like that he doesn't respect Will enough to not be high off his ass, frenetic energy something he can see that grates on Will's fine-tuned patience.

But Will is a saint, an angel, and he has a never ending well of grace that he pours over this burnout's head over and over again, constantly making excuses for him when he drags Will out to party after party, never too far away from that third sheet in the wind, Russian accent dulled, making his deep voice slur as he gropes Will on their sofa. Mike tries not to watch but its hard especially when Will has to sit on fuckin' Boris' lap so the other man can cling and seemingly calm down. As if Will was his security blanket.

As if, Mike scoffs.

He doesn't want to admit that he sometimes thinks about it. About Will sitting on him, about Mike in Boris' place. How it might feel, to be close like that. To have Will in his arms, to hold him tight. They're just dreams, just little intrusive thoughts that everyone has about their best friend. Mike's pretty sure he's had a weird dream about everyone in the party at some point or another— he can't readily think up any instances at the moment but he's sure he has.

But Boris— the guy just gives off such a weird air. Like he engaged in illicit activities. In fact Mike is totally sure of this, overhearing a conversation Boris had been having on their kitchen telephone, about a painting going missing from a museum and something about getting the best price. He's always flashing around a money-fold as fat as his fist, waving it around and never letting Will touch his wallet. He's not special. Mike's never let Will pay when they go out either. But he's not rolling in the dough like this wannabe mob boss criminal from the underworld.

Mike thinks the guy is over dependent on Will, a terrible influence, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. When he talks to Lucas about it, his voice crackling over the phone static, the other boy sounds tired and only a little concerned but not to the extent that Mike is. "I mean, that's kind of unsettling for sure, but I think Will can handle himself, he's dealt with a lot more harrowing things than a thief."

He rolls his eyes and changes the subject before he and Lucas can argue about it, Will evidently Mike's favorite topic as of late, or so Lucas has complained. Whenever Max is around and overhears, she plays at being annoyed at how they're a bunch of old lady gossips before she inevitably ends up joining in.

It isn't until Boris starts showing up to the apartment unannounced, drunk half of the time and in the dead of night and apologizing for someone named Theo and a nebulous wife figure that Will finally lets him go. He's really sad about it for some reason that Mike cannot fathom for the life of him and he cracks a joke that isn't received well and Will doesn't talk to him for, like, three whole days. When they finally catch each other, Mike on the way out and Will just getting home, he apologizes for being rude and unsympathetic to the plights of all of the tortured starving Boris' across New York and, like, fourteen other synonyms until Will softens, hazel eyes more green and a smile he can't suppress brightening his entire face.

Mike thinks he'll have some breathing room, that they'll have more time for each other like when Mike first moved in, more than usual anyway, but his expectations are fully dropped off of the Empire State building when in walks another tortured starving artist type trying to take Will Byers for himself.

He's some lame-o Bowie wannabe without the neon orange faux-hawk or the sick spandex. Ziggy has long hair that sort of reminds Mike of the way he wore his freshman year of high school, who wears the same beanie around all the time and constantly lugs around his guitar like he's about to break out into song or busk on the subway for money. Will looks up at him like he hung the moon and stars for him, genuinely fucking besotted and Mike's annoyed all over again.

Okay, so he's not as annoying as Boris—who Will still talks about fondly enough to call him Borya— this one actually has manners and boundaries and is never drunk or high but doesn't ever seem to give Will much else in terms of respect. He's reserved and slightly stand-offish when they first meet, already souring Mike's very well-respected opinion about him and he's constantly talking about 'making it'.

Ziggy doesn't seem to care about much else. Mike's overheard their conversations— Will is so passionate about civil rights and the things going on in his community and Ziggy gives him absolutely zero percent in return, answers blase and vague, their conversation petering out to silence more often than not, the other man eager to hear Will's verdict on which major chord will really do it for his latest mediocre monstrosity.

Mike can see that Ziggy's not even really that into Will which is complete and utter fucking bullshit when Will's got so much love to give, to waste on this ungrateful loser whose music is complete shit anyway.

He's heard the guitar through the wall that separates his room and Will's, a low-crooning voice, off-key of course, and totally not Will's style at all— more of a Robert Hazard than a Robert Smith. Will is such a good boyfriend that he even goes to all of his little folk indie shows to support him and, once, he extends the invite to Mike too.

He goes to one show and refuses to ever waste money on another, leaving early and arguing with Will that if he had stayed a second longer, he'd be billing Ziggy Katz for the cab fare it took to get all the way downtown, something Will doesn't even chide him for, cringing in agreement he was too nice to vocalize.

Will's sitting on the sofa when Mike walks in, a surprise at his back, but he nearly stops short at Ziggy stuck to his side reading a music sheet or whatever, guitar a third person taking up Will's legroom on the sofa. Dustin makes a sound behind him and Will turns, perking up at the sight of him.

When Will sees Mike, his eyes do that soft melty thing Mike has been trying to put into words in one of his novels but still hasn't quite managed yet before they widen at the halo of curls peeking out from behind his shoulder. "Dustin!" He leaps up and Mike can't suppress the grin at the way Ziggy falls to the side, his marker swiping a dark streak across his paper as he does so.

That's what he gets for not paying attention to the fact that Will likes to splay out across the sofa, especially on Thursdays— his life drawing class had him on his feet for hours. Usually on those days, when he'd get home, he'd collapse onto the sofa and Mike would ferry him drinks and food and whatever he wanted to keep him from having to get back up again. He'd even offered to carry Will to his room once but Will had told him he didn't think he was able to without breaking something.

If Mike started secretly going to the gym once a week then it was just in case there was ever a fire and he needed to carry Will out and save his life or something. Carry more of Will's canvases to random studios across New York, or balance most of the bags of groceries while also opening doors for Will, so, like, no real special specific reason or whatever.

Mike turns to watch their reunion and sees when Dustin catches sight of the guy in their living room and blinks like he's just been told Mike is changing his name to Walbert and moving to the Dominican Republic. He looks to Mike and then back at Ziggy who's packing his stuff away and slinging the guitar onto his back. Mike thinks Dustin might say something but then the moment is lost when Ziggy shoulders his way between them to grab at Will's waist, kiss him, and whisper something in his ear on the way out the door.

Mike remembers the analytical look in his eyes, computer scientist brain cataloguing data and storing it away in that big database under the curly mullet he still favors, even after all these years.

Ziggy leaves as quickly as he had arrived but it takes a long time for Will to stop sighing in front of windows, staring into space, and listening to acoustic folk vinyls that Mike knows he doesn't even like.

In the meantime, they get to spend even more time together, so much more that Mike realizes, in the middle of a dark, crowded movie theater, something that changes everything but actually changes nothing at all.

It's like stepping back from an abstract art piece, seeing the whole picture, the way Will had taught him how to— to see the way the swirls of paint come together with the harsh slashes of paint on a spatula, peaky and textured. It's like reading a line from a book and having the pieces slowly fall into place, when a confusing plot suddenly starts making sense, when a throwaway, out of place line suddenly shoots it's bullet, a sentence revealed as Chekhov's gun.

The shapes and the words and the way Mike never liked any of Will's boyfriends fit like a puzzle he hadn't known he had needed to put together.

Mike loves Will.

And it sounds right.

There's no doubt when he thinks it, there's no hesitation when he looks at Will's profile in the dim movie theater and feels his heart swell in his chest.

It sounds like it had always been meant to be written down, almost poetic in the angles of their first letters, the way they reflect each other, the way they play off of each other, one leading to the other from the very first line of pen to paper. Said aloud, it's brought to life in the spaces between his lips and teeth and tongue and it rings in his ears like Will's favorite song that changes with the season.

He realizes this in the dark of the movie theater and the next morning Will doesn't read into the hand Mike puts on his waist as he passes him in the kitchen, when he reaches above him for a coffee cup in the cupboard. He doesn't look like he's overthinking it when Mike starts taking liberties and starts touching him for no reason— a hand on his back as he passes close, fingers in his hair as he walks by the sofa where Will is relaxing. He already likes doing things for Will but he steps it up even further; keeps his pace quick so he can beat Will to the door and open it for him every single time, keeps his cash out of his wallet and in his front pocket so he can pay for their food, for Will's things before Will can even think to grab his own. Fuck you, Boris, he thinks spitefully each time he swipes his ATM card, money leaving his bank account so frequently, he had to go in person to explain his spending habits.

He's basically grown up with Will so it's not a surprise that he knows Joyce and Jonathan's birthdays but he makes sure to remember to send them gifts, handwritten cards that he knows they mention when Will's on the phone and he says, "Oh, he did?" and turns to Mike with that sweet smile, cheeks pink.

It's to the point that the friends Mike makes in his classes start treating him like he isn't single— dissuading potential flirts with talk of Mike being so incredibly whipped for his girlfriend that they best not even try. Mike doesn't let himself think of the way that settles hot in his gut. Feels a little possessive when they try to wheedle details out of Mike, selfish when he keeps the litany of adjectives, the invocation, of Will's very being to himself. No one's deserving enough to imagine him, to have Mike waste breath on simple letters, that don't even come close to describing Will.

Mike's a writer but the words never come out right, let alone at all.

Will continues to treat him like he always has and Mike keeps up the boyfriend act, too nervous to cross the boundary line he's not sure he made up in the first place. He cares about Will and his happiness so much that he doesn't want to fuck things up, make him uncomfortable, make him think differently of Mike.

He's taking it slow, trying to hint at things delicately, leave crumbs for Will to follow if he's hungry enough to follow after them.

Then, in waltzes some douchebag named Richie Tozier that Will dates for the longest time for some fucking reason Mike can't comprehend. He literally cannot wrap his mind around what they even have in common besides the fact that they can't keep their hands off of each other. Will had met him at some college campus get-together or something— the guy's trying to be a fucking comedian of all things.

Mike is not amused.

He comforts himself with the fact that he can tell Will doesn't think he's all that funny either. Will's not a prude and he can be crass and gross and sarcastic too but Richie's humor is straight from the sewers, making Will turn his nose up behind a polite hand that he pretends is hiding a smile instead. It's all bottom of the barrel Will deserves top shelf quality at the very fucking least.

Mike doesn't understand what Will even likes about the guy. At least Mike knows his jokes land with Will, nerdy as they are. He knows what Will likes, where to draw the line, when to quit while he's ahead. Most of the time. Sometimes Mike can't help himself, the way Will's laugh electrifies his brain, makes him keep trying to pull more out of him, keep that wide smile on his face for longer, brighten those eyes into something arresting and so, so green.

They act like they can't stand each other, constant bickering turning into real arguments that Mike feels awkward about overhearing, like when his parents would start sniping at each other when Lucas or Dustin were over. Will and Richie tend to have loud make-up sex after, like their fighting was some kind of all-encompassing foreplay that makes them forget that Mike also happens to fucking live there too.

Mike really doesn't want to talk about how thin their walls are, the way Will sounds when he's— It's those little intrusive thoughts again. What if that was Mike in there? With Will? Making him— Mike is sure he's thought this about, like, Lucas for sure. Probably. Maybe. When? Well, nothing comes to mind, really. He's just really distracted whenever it happens. And he doesn't want to make Will feel weird about his sexuality by bringing it up whenever he sees him in the morning. Mike's not a complete asshole. Not to Will.

He just doesn't understand why Will is still with the guy when he's seemingly always on the verge of fed-up with him. When Richie likes to snipe back, say shit under his breath that he knows Will is going to get annoyed with.

Mike thinks it's gotta be a weird sort of foreplay. On the other end of his thoughts, the static crackles with Lucas' long-suffering sigh. "I really wish I hadn't started my no-alcohol journey this year."

Will really can't stand Richie and the same could be said of the other man but unfortunately, they also couldn't stand not keeping their hands off of each other. Like Mike said, it was a thing.

He's at a party Will was invited to, by some guy he knows who's bisexual and out about it, and he's totally miserable. He doesn't know why he accepted the invitation, doubly so when the doorbell buzzes and Richie's irritating cadence crepitates over the speaker, ready to tag along with them. He should've stayed home.

The crowd is sparse enough that he catches constant glimpses of Will standing entirely too close to Richie— a hand on his forearm, laughing into the space between them, when he turns to talk to someone and he presses his back to the other man's chest. Ugh, Mike thinks, beer roiling the street vendor tacos they had gotten on their way to the loft unpleasantly, looking at the label of his beer bottle, he hates IPAs.

He wants to pretend that he can't see when Will gets a little more tipsy with each drink he takes, face pretty and aglow and all but pushing his way into Richie's space more earnestly. Wants to pretend he doesn't see the way the other man teases him, stepping back and forcing Will to chase after him, where he allows him to press close.

And he wants to pretend he's not interested in how Will looks when Will finally gets what he's been wanting all night— the way he curls his arms over Richie's shoulders, lithe artist fingers fiddling with the back of his stupid shirt collar, standing on his tip-toes, shoelaces floppy, as he tilts his head back and finally gets kissed.

Mike feels pathetic as he sits and watches, jaw tight.

His beer has gone warm in his hand and he's not paying attention to whatever the girl who had sat besides him has been saying because Will starts getting really sloppy, mouth open and pink tongue flashing as Richie leans down further, Will's hands in his hair and Will's breath in someone else's lungs, his hands on the dip of Will's back— that little space that Mike loved to think only his palm fit, like it was made for him.

He's an English major but for a very long moment envy and jealousy aren't two different definitions— they coexist in the space between where Mike sits alone with a beer in his palm and Richie stands with Will in his.

They're definitely going to fuck after this and Mike doesn't want to hear it, hopes they go stay at Richie's place but Mike doesn't like to lie to himself anymore. That isn't what he really wants— he prays they come back to their apartment so Mike can hear it, so he can sit there hard as fuck, and not do anything about it. He's aware that he sounds like the biggest fucking loser in the world. He supposes loving Will Byers just does that to a guy, so down for him that it turns your whole world upside down.

He wants every part of Will, even the parts that are supposed to belong to other people. He wants to hear every sound that Will makes and bury them deep inside himself where only he can hear them, a playback loop. Mike wants to pretend its him making Will cry out in pleasure, wants to feel the burning sting of his nails across the skin of his back, wants to bite at Will's shoulder, replace the bruises he can see on the back of his neck with the shape of his own teeth.

He wants to steal it all away for himself even when it's not meant for him, greedy and covetous.

Richie lasts entirely too long but their break-up is a knock-out drag-down fight that brings neighbors complaining to their door, where Richie says some crazy hurtful shit that Will returns with a face like an angel, complete with the weeping tears and fiery sword of vengeance and Mike feels like a terrible fucking person, a shitty friend, when he's comforting him after the fact, wiping away tears and nodding at every disparaging remark Will makes— that all he can think about is just how pretty Will looks when he's crying.

Mike thinks, this is it.

This is his chance.

He's not going to waste any time. He'll give Will some space to get over Richie fucking Tozier, then he'll make his own move. Mike will tell him that he loves him. That it's for real. Mike wants to tell him that he doesn't think he's overthinking the way Will looks at him sometimes, like he wants but can't have; an expensive art set in the front window display of Melvald's that Mike had surprised him with at Christmas when they were seventeen. That he'll never make Will cry ever again, that he knows what he has now and he'll never waste a single moment making it up to Will— that he'll worship the ground he walks on, love him 'til the end of time, go crazy together—

And then Will surprises him at the speed of his need for a rebound, this sketchy ass dude Miles worming his way under Will's skin like a tick, parasitic and ugly and sucking all the life and light from Will and— Mike is being dramatic. Will looks fine. More than fine. Still pretty as can be, handsome and hale and gorgeous and way too nice, the way he gives this total freak of the week the time of day.

"Freak of the week?" Dustin laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. Like he was back at one of Tozier's shows again with Will laughing alongside him, not because the jokes were good but because Dustin's laugh was infectious as all hell. "Isn't that a little harsh? We were called freaks too and look at us— We turned out alright!"

The phone cord in Mike's fingers tangle more as he hisses back, frustrated and creeped out, "I'm reclaiming it. We weren't actual fucking freaks." He peers over his shoulder at the dark of the hallway. He thinks he can see a figure at the very end of the hall, where Will's room is, shadow bleary and as dark as a void, Miles likely being a mondo fucking freak, like he's been telling everyone. He shivers, lowers his voice to a whisper, trying to keep the guy in his peripherals. "Man, I'm telling you he's a genuine freak. Like, Buffalo Bill or something. He's gonna steal Will's hair and do some crazy shit with it."

Dustin's next laugh is less humorous and more flabbergasted. "You don't think you're, like, totally buggin' out on some rando because he's dating Will and you're not?"

"I'm not even gonna ask how you know that when I've barely had the epiphany myself two months ago."

"Let me ask you this," Dustin gets slightly monotone, like when he's hashing something out in his head, the code to fix the bug in his supercomputer, "how does he look?"

Mike lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in, not wanting to admit he had been scared of what Dustin had been about to ask, "What? That's it? How's he look? I don't know, ugly and not worth Will's attention, I guess."

"Wow, harsh."

"And so what?" At Dustin's non-verbal sound of frustration, Mike relents, "Okay, so like, I don't know. He's got dark curly hair that he never brushes; he's tall and lanky and built like he can't lift anything for Will; he's pale like he spends all his time indoors at his parents mansion on fifth avenue; and worst of all, he's got these fucking Manson lamps. He doesn't even blink. I think whenever he sleeps over, he stays standing like a horse just watching Will."

There's a silence when he finishes speaking, where he thinks he's lost Dustin on this, his one true compatriot in all things anti-Will-Byers-boyfriends. Even Max thinks Mike is losing it, but that's nothing new.

The static fizzes, light and still connected as Dustin exhales on the other line.

"Hello? Dustin?"

"Mike, he sounds like you."

And that's actually quite offensive considering Dustin has never met the actual microorganism and all of his strange ass idiosyncrasies but Mike is going to be the bigger person— he's not going to take this to heart, he's a grown adult who—

"I've genuinely never been so fucking offended in my life. I hope some ditzy freshman trips over your mess of wires that you, no doubt, are never going to organize and spills their coffee all over your super-integrated circuits and your MIT scholarship gets lost in a fire that you cause and Suzie finally wakes up from the walking coma that she's gotta be in and realizes she's actually a lesbian and you've been a total waste of her life and she becomes president of the United States and bans you from ever speaking to me again on the basis that it's a crime against humanity."

A pause so pregnant, it's gotta be in it's third trimester.

"Are you done?"

"And then we send you to space."

"You know what? I'll just say this: it takes one to know one, buddy."

Okay, so maybe Mike went a little too far there, but seriously. He was nothing like Miles Fairchild.

Miles is there in a way that the others weren't. He's always shooting looks at Mike, so much more aware of his presence than Will's other exes, the way they had accepted the best friend thing without a second thought. Mike can't even stand in the same vicinity as Will without Miles clawing a hand into Will's side, a finger crooked into his belt loop, dark eyes laser-focused onto Will like Miles will stop breathing if he doesn't get his fill of the sight of him, like if anyone but him looks at those pretty green eyes, he'll do something permanent. As if Will'll disappear if he looks away.

And, like, fuck him. Mike was here first. He knows better than anyone out there how that feels— Miles is not special for knowing just how amazing Will was and he can shut that guard dog shit down, like, yesterday.

Mike's still talking about it during one of the Party's monthly meet ups.

Will's running late so Mike takes the chance to disparage yet another one of Will's boyfriends over his afternoon mimosa. It's heavy on the champagne and makes his tongue light enough to really get into it. Max has sighed about twenty times already and if she had her cane with her, she'd have already given Mike's shin twice as many bruises. Lucas is on his third mocktail, looking at Dustin's half-empty screwdriver with yearning brown eyes.

When Mike pauses to take a drink to moisten the dry of his mouth, Dustin cuts in, "Not that your complaints are entirely un-riveting—"

"—Genuinely not the definition for this context—" Mike starts.

"—but I've just been dying to tell everyone my observations on our good friend Will Byers." Dustin pauses as the waiter arrives with the rest of their drink orders. Mike grabs at the appletini he ordered for Will, something he recalls Will mentioning last weekend when they'd gone out to that new Italian place his friend from his American Lit. had suggested to him as a date spot. Will had gotten all pretty and pink around the edges when he'd seen the interior, candlelit and moody and romantic. They hadn't said anything about it but when their knees knocked underneath the table, neither of them had moved away.

Dustin sounds like he's at work, like he had a folder of paper in front of him, data spreadsheets printing out from a computer like a heraldic banner and a pen perched behind his ear like a sheathed sword. He's talking like it too, using his fancy-schmancy science words. Mike was a nerd once too, now he's just a nerd about words. Ha. He should write that down. Maybe he should stop drinking.

Lucas gives him a skeptical look. "I don't think I actually want to know."

"That's only because you've never seen them." Dustin places a very severe emphasis on the last word, attempting to instill a meaningful sense of gravitas over the tabletop. It's sort of like a D&D campaign, only it involved their cleric, Mike's sorcerer, and his merry band of admirers and the paladin, always too late to take a knee, to make his oath. Mike kinda hates the thought of that. Hates the reality of it even more. He takes another drink out of spite, vodka watered down by the melted ice and orange juice more tang than sweet like he usually likes it.

He doesn't know why he let himself be talked into ordering fucking mimosas. He hopes Max is happy. If she knew how much he hated them, she likely would be.

Lucas scoffs but the last dredges of Mike's watery mimosa brings a moment of clarity— Them, Dustin says. Is he talking about Will's exes? What about them? He sits up straighter in his seat, tuned back in. Had Dustin noticed the same things too? Put together everything Mike had been telling them with what he sees on his visits?

He turns towards Max who is sporting a frown, cloudy blue eyes directed towards where Dustin is seated to her left. "Is this about Will's flings?" She asks. Mike is inordinately overwhelmed with a wave of kinship with her despite her horrible taste in brunch beverages— she never called them Will's boyfriends, well, except for Richie, but still. He knew he could count on her! Complain she might, but she gossiped just as much as Lucas and Mike and he knows she talks to Will about them too. She's an insider, a double-agent. He moves her miniature to his and Dustin's side in his mind.

"Yes!" Dustin shouts, "I've taken many things into consideration regarding the data they share and my running hypothesis is that Will Byers definitely has a type." Dustin's looking at him really weirdly right now. He lifts a hand to mess with his hair. What if he looks ugly? He's gotta fix it before Will gets here. Mike tries to make out his reflection in the clear glass of his nearly-finished drink.

Max leans forwards in her wheelchair, intrigued. "Oh?" Something about her tone annoys Mike. But when doesn't it? "A type?"

Lucas sighs, tone tired like he's talked about this too much already and is nowhere near tipsy enough for it, "Just because they all look like Mike—"

Like he already knows, Lucas leans to his right, so that when Max flings out a hand to swat at him, it makes perfect contact on his bicep where she grabs a hold of him, brows furrowed. "And why, exactly, hasn't this come up before?! I need to know shit like this, Lucas!"

"Because it's weird!"

"Hey! That's my process observation analysis you're degrading!" Dustin defends himself with an exaggerated hand motion.

"I'm saying Will being so hung up over Mike even after all this time is weird considering—"

"Is this not you being petty because of your teenie weenie crush on Will in the first grade?" Max laughs and Dustin sputters, new data overloading his circuits.

"I told you that in confidence!" Lucas cries.

All of it comes through muffled like the cacophony of sound through a tunnel, echoing and discordant.

Mike is having another epiphany— this time in the bright light of the afternoon and on the outdoor patio of a Mediterranean restaurant Max liked to eat at whenever she was in the city. The air smells like the pollute of the cars that idle in the slow-moving traffic on the street, like grilled chicken, like the stink of the air that flies up from the subway grates.

All of Will's little boyfriends looked like Mike.

Will Byers has a type.

At the thought, he breaks out into goosebumps, a thrill tingling sharp down his spine.

Mike straightens in his seat and uses his height to his advantage to snatch Dustin's drink right out of his hands and downs it. He immediately regrets it as the Screwdriver burns a line through his throat and down his chest but its better than the other thing he wanted to do; intercede Will where he's likely on his way and getting off of the A train and fall to his knees at Will's feet to confess his undying love to him right on the filthy fucking subway floor.

The alcohol that muddies his brain swirls in agreement with that plan. It's a good one. Will would probably think it was hella romantic.

"Is it shit-on-Dustin-day today or what?!" He flags down a waiter with a raised hand, sitting there with it suspended over his head like he was back in high school again and asking for permission to use the restroom. "First Lucas disparages my very well thought out and carefully researched theory and now you steal my goddamn well-deserved drink? You know what I take it back. Will's type isn't Wheeler-adjacent. He's probably really into John Lennon or some shit."

It's undo-able, what Dustin's implied, what Lucas has said out loud. They can't take it back. Nothing they say will ruin this for him. They're probably trying to be buzzkills right now but Mike can't hear them over the sound of his heart racing in his ears.

Mike's blood feels like fire in his veins, like wasted potential as he sits here, no Will in his hands, no Will at his mouth, no Will to adore like he's been wanting to. "Don't let him hear you say that." Mike doesn't feel the words fully form before they're out, like he wants to cement the hierarchy here, that he knows Will best, good enough to be his type.

It's as heady as the alcohol simmering under his skin, the thought that he was the reference point for the men Will has been dating and kissing. Fucking. His ego is fit to burst and his lips keep twitching into smirks that he has to repress, cover with a hand, Lucas sending him disturbed looks from his seat. He feels like a narcissistic freak or something— Patrick Bateman, eat your heart out.

He feels sort of like a god, but one that folded under the weight of devotion instead of the other way around, Will in the cup of his palms, and Mike supplicant and reverential. For every man that Will looks at and sees Mike in his stead, it's a prayer, a sign, a sigil. He wants to kiss covenants into the beauty marks on his face, press the benediction of his desire into him, worship the very ground he walks on, so that his soles are never befouled.

Mike's too high off of the thought that Will looks through the frame of Mike for his romantic escapades to wonder if what Dustin's saying is even true. It's gotta be. Mike's already writing the ending in his head. He wonders what Will thinks about marriage.

"I know he's a music snob now—"

"He only likes that Rubber Soul album from them." Max cuts in. "You should have heard him when I tried playing Madonna's new stuff."

"Okay, for once, I stand with Will and his elitist opinions—" Lucas tries.

"— Don't even start. When I put on Crazy for You who picked me up and started slow dancing in the kitchen while singing along with every word?"

Lucas is blustering out an excuse when Will sweeps in, hair fetchingly strewn about from the wind and pink cheeked and pretty and looking cozy and cute in a brown corduroy jacket, cream-colored turtleneck making him look that much more glow-y and soft and— Okay, maybe Mike's just too far gone on him. He's not exactly complaining. He hopes he doesn't have a stupid look on his face, "Hey, Will."

Will heaves out a sigh as he sits, grins at Dustin in greeting then turns to look at Mike only to do a double-take. "What the— What'd you guys let him drink?"

Dustin, the traitor, stabs an accusing finger in Mike's direction. "That filthy alcoholic stole my drink straight outta my hand!"

Mike kicks at Dustin under the table and Lucas yelps. OOPS. "Take that back! I did not steal your drink!"

"Notice how he didn't defend against the filthy alcoholic accusation," Max laughs, directing a sweet smile to Will. "Hey, Byers."

"How's it hangin', Mayfield," Will smiles back, a thousand times sweeter, so sweet Mike thinks he's just developed cavities in every single tooth by pure osmosis alone. A doctor would take one look at Mike and diagnose him with an enlarged heart, the way it swells at Will's presence. He's not even fake fighting with Dustin anymore, suddenly dragged into Will's gravity. The screech of his metal chair is abrupt but drowned out under the sounds of traffic on the street behind them, a cabbie laying on his horn at a bicyclist cutting him off, probably. Mike doesn't know. His eyes haven't left Will's face. His shoe bumps into Will's, their knees touch, but besides a small glance at him, Will doesn't do anything. Doesn't move away. Mike can't find it in himself to turn and join in on the conversation— he's Basil Hallward, he's enamoured, he's writing sonnets in his head that disappear and renew with every blink of Will's long eyelashes.

Mike is senselessly jealous of the way they kiss the crests of his cheeks.

If Mike could paint, there'd be no color he could mix that'd compare to the hazel-green of Will's eyes as the sun slants across them, as he blinks, languid and enchanting, meeting Mike's adoring gaze with a shy quirk of his eyebrows.

"Is this for me?" Will points at the drink and before he can grab it himself, Mike hurries to hand it over to him. He lets his fingers linger over Will's as he grabs the delicate flute and feels nearly sick at the way the butterflies in his gut multiply when the wind-chafe pink of Will's cheeks deepen to a charming red. Will brushes a lock of hair behind his ear, little golden earring winking at Mike. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Mike breathes.

"How's your clinical rotation going, Doctor Sinclair?" Will teases Lucas, lips pressing against the rim of his martini glass. Mike has never wished to be an object more. Except that one time he had wanted to be the chair in the kitchen, how earnestly he had wanted to press close to Will, offer him a break from the way he was sighing, weary and tired from his busy day. Or that time he had wanted to be the dirty runner in front of their door, underneath the tread of Will's shoes, where the floor could never sully the soft of his soles.

There was the time with the towel and the way that it hung over Will's waist, Mike desperate to feel the damp, heat of his skin, wrap around his waist with both arms, enamored and pining.

To be the pillow beneath Will's head, the ache to pull him into Mike's own dreams, where he could guard against the nightmares that slipped through, that still plagued Will.

Shit, Mike blearily glares at Dustin's empty glass where he brings it up to his face, as if to inspect the contents. It was mostly melted ice now anyway. This was strong. Mike's not drunk, exactly, but he knows he's not entirely sober either. And if Will bats his eyes at him or touches him or, like, talks to him again, Mike's not liable for whatever stupid, prose he's going to monologue until someone puts him out of his misery and pushes him into traffic to make him stop.

"Oh, you know," Lucas shrugs, self-conscious. Hearing his tone, Max scoffs, but the look on her face is anything but irritated, instead soft around the edges and adoring. Mike wonders if that's how he looks when he talks about Will. He hopes not. She looks stupid.

"He's doing peds right now. They love him. You should see the way the nurses talk about Lucas— it's like he's the second coming of Christ, the way the kids all flock to him when he does his rounds."

Lucas is incandescent, his dark brown skin flushing with a wash of red, like the crush of berries under their fingers, traversing the forests when they were kids, innocent and nostalgic. Lucas doesn't tend to fluster, not like this, and Mike appreciates Max for being the sole cause of it nine times out of ten. "No, no. You're— She's totally exaggerating, guys. They tolerate me at best."

Will grins, chin in his hands as he leans in, "That's so cute, Lucas, stop saying Max is lying. We know you've got a soft spot for kids." Mike wonders if Will wants kids. He'd be a great dad. Mike kinda wants to see how that'd look— Will with a kid on his hip. Will playing with a kid who's got his eyes and Mike's dark curling hair. Sheesh, he waves a hand to fan his face. It's getting hot outside.

"You should totally make your own little horde of D&D kiddos." Dustin snickers. "I don't think you're jumping the shark on declaring pediatrics, like, at all, man. We can totally see how much it means to you."

Mike agrees, although it's slightly slurred, "Doesn't even matter that you haven't done the whole shebang. Fuck med-surge. You found your calling, for sure."

Lucas sits a little straighter at their compliments, Max grinning to herself at the way she can feel his posture steel itself into something confident, steadfast.

Under the table, Will's foot taps once against Mike's and when he returns it, he doesn't pretend that he misses the glance Will shoots him out of the corner of his eye, meets it head-on. Will tilts his head, an indiscernible expression on his face before he turns to talk to Dustin, knee pressed against Mikes.

Mike can't be imagining the live wire that begins to buzz in the scant space that separates them as they walk to the subway, elbows bumping, Mike pressing a hand to Will's lower back when the crowd gets thick, keeps it there as they wait to enter the subway car. The whole time, Will's cheeks and ears stay a steady pink-red color.

He doesn't know what brought it on— if it was the half-drank appletini Will never finished, his lack of appetite and the food he barely picked at, if it was the good mood that always lingered after the Party got together, or if it was the way Mike kept his eyes on Will and didn't shy away when their eyes met. Maybe it was the culmination of all of these things, but when he stands close in the subway car, tall and easily holding onto the railing above him, when he floats an arm behind Will's back to make sure the unsteady rocking of the subway doesn't send him into the people sitting down, Will doesn't move away.

The trek back to their apartment, the walk in the frigid air, sobers Mike up enough that he knows he's going to tear down the tension with his bare hands the second Will gives any sort of sign that he's feeling the same way. God, Mike desperately hopes he is.

Will doesn't talk about his day or about how Max looks happier now that she's gained more mobility than before, about how Dustin had started asking Will his opinions on rings, or how when Lucas talked about Erica, more often than not, Tina was not far behind. Will doesn't say anything like he usually might, goad Mike into conversation, or get the day's stresses off of his chest. He's in his head, bumping into Mike as he stumbles, reddens when he apologizes and Mike doesn't move away after catching him.

Mike's hand is firm on Will's lower back when they walk into their building and Will is strung tight like a guitar string about to snap. He hasn't lost the pink flush to his cheeks and Mike wants to take credit for it, wants to fight the wind for doing something Mike's been aching to do for months now. When he increases his pace to get the door for him, Will breathes in like he's gearing up for something, shooting Mike another one of those indiscernible looks as he dips underneath his arm.

So he's laying it on real fucking thick right now, but in Mike's defense, he's been doing this.

Maybe Will's just finally noticing.

As soon as their apartment door is shut behind them, Mike reaching out to blindly hit the switch in the dark, Will's pushing him against the door and getting all in his face and he's wondering when he's fallen asleep— this is a recurring dream he's been having and if it's his usual, Will's gonna get on his knees soon. Maybe he's passed out on the table at brunch and embarrassing his friends as they try and drag him out to a cab.

Will's hands fist in the lapels of his jacket and the slight tug brings him back to reality.

Holy shit, this is actually happening.

Mike nearly ruins it all when he blinks down at him, trying to play dumb for some reason. "Uh, hey?"

Will frowns, chin tilted up, just begging for the furrows between his brows to be kissed away. "What are you doing?"

"Well, currently, I'm being shoved up against the door—"

"Mike." Will pleads, firm facade crumbling with a slow blink of pretty eyes and a flutter of mesmerizing eyelashes. Mike wants to kiss them. "I mean, seriously. What are you doing? All the— the touching and the staring and the hating my boyfriends. What is it that— Am I reading into this?" There's a tremble to Will's voice that Mike hates himself for putting there and he reaches up to grasp at Will's hands, gentling the firm hold he has, replacing his jacket with his fingers as they intertwine with Will's. He can feel the calluses on their fingers catching, the mark from the hold of their pencil and paintbrush, sword and staff, the rough and soft of it as Mike holds him tightly, takes his frustration and subdues it with a brush of his fingers over his knuckles.

"I don't hate your exes."

Will raises his eyebrows, but the admonishing look he's attempting is ruined by the way he's pursing his lips, a moue of badly suppressed humor. "You told Trevor to his face that it was a mark of a truly nescient psyche that he believes in ghosts."

"Because it is!"

"We fought Demogorgons and Vecna and the Mind Flayer—"

"All of them very much not apparitions or the result of an as of yet undiscovered case of carbon monoxide poisoning—"

"Mike." Will says, in that slightly whiny way he doesn't like to be but it makes Mike stop his teasing, eager to answer the pleas he hears in the phonetics of his name. "I'm gonna ask you this only once: What are you doing? With me? Are we— Am I overthinking this and embarrassing myself or what?"

Mike shakes his head, "No! No, you're not reading into things." That ugly curl of insecurity has him walking it back, "Not if you like it, I mean. If you hate it, then that's fine. I didn't like your exes for really good reasons that have nothing to do with—"

Will groans, frustration making his voice slightly reedy, hands trying to slip away from Mike's hold, feet shifting. "I want an actual answer. Don't put this all on me so you can wake up the next day and pretend it never happened—"

And there was no way Mike was letting that happen. It had to be now. It had to be all or nothing— the way he usually handled Will.

Mike interrupts Will's next words with his tongue, swallowing down the noise Will makes with a shudder. He allows their hold to break so that he can slip fingers through the soft of Will's hair, so he can grab a handful and move Will's head the way he wants, fixes the angle better, so he can kiss him the way he's been dreaming about.

Will grabs him back, just as desperately, hand clawed up under the back of his jacket and scratching at his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His hand is hot on the side of Mike's neck and the thought of Will leaving a brand on him, where everyone can see it, can see that Mike is Will's and Will is Mike's is so heady that he nearly bowls Will over as he licks into his mouth, teeth nipping at his lips. Mike's finally got the curve of his lower back fit snugly into his palm and all is right with the world— Will is made for Mike and its obvious with how perfectly he fits, how Will knows he can lean back and Mike will take his weight, keep him from slipping to the ground.

He walks him back where Will nearly goes horizontal over the back of the sofa, Mike's knuckles crushed against the hard wood of the frame, the sharp pain sweet as he'll ever suffer. It's sloppy the way Will likes, spit slick and chins wet, and Mike can't stop licking into his mouth, curling his tongue around Will's and sucking, flat over the ridges of his teeth, pressing close, like he's trying to crawl into his chest and wind his way around Will's heart, the worst sort of curse.

"Mm—Mike— Wait—"

Mike disagrees. Now that he's got Will, now that Will knows, Mike's not waiting for anything. The world could be ending right now and he'd gladly die in Will's arms. He doesn't give a fuck if Will's cheating on his little creep of a boyfriend either. It doesn't make Will a bad person— it was all Miles' fault. Shoulda barked at passing cars less and rolled over at Will's feet more. In fact, Mike hopes Miles walks in right now so he can see how the right sort of behavior gets rewarded.

It kind of stokes the embers, tugs at his gut intense and all-consuming, the thought of Will cheating on his boyfriend with Mike. He doesn't realize he's grinning until Will bites at his lips, coaxes a moan out of him, hand sweeping alongside the dip in Will's side, where his waist cinches. Mike can wrap one arm around him and it's heady. It's fucking hot.

Will's hand comes up to push at Mike's jaw, pushing him away. Mike concedes with a dip of his head and a lav of his tongue to the column of his throat, lips sucking a bruise into the tender skin, teeth stinging and making Will stutter out a whine. The skin under Mike's nose smells clean and warm, the cologne his mom got him for his birthday two years ago that he loves so much he doesn't want to use it ever. He smells sultry and like home and Mike wants to live under his skin. "Mike— Really, wait a second—"

Mike wants what Will wants, even if it takes him a breath to stop, to pull back.

He straightens, raises his eyebrows at Will who looks debauched and is nearly out of breath himself, only slightly frustrated. "Dude, what?"

Below him, Will flusters a little, fingers twiddling with the neckline of his shirt, "W-Were you even going to ask about Miles?" Then he frowns, nails digging in at his collarbone. "Don't call me dude when you've just had your tongue down my throat, seriously?"

Mike rolls his eyes, reaching to readjust Will where he holds him over the sofa, pulling him up to hold close, palms pressing rough as they slide down, following the curve of his waist, that addicting dip of his spine at his lower back. He nearly loses his train of thought at the feeling of Will in his hands, ass weighty under the bend of his fingers. Mike isn't religious but he can understand why people pray, why they'll bruise their knees to look up at something greater than themselves. "I don't really care about your stupid, ugly boyfriends." Mike tries to kiss him again and pouts when Will turns away.

"C'mon! Will, I like you." Mike doesn't mean to say it now. He's supposed to get a bouquet and light candles in the apartment and hopefully not burn it down and lose their security deposit and then they're supposed to go out to dinner and it's meant to be romantic and sappy and so full of the love Will's deserved all his life. It's not supposed to be said right now, with Mike's hard dick digging into Will's hip, with his hands palming his ass. "I seriously, actually, really, really like you." If he wasn't worried about coming off as a zealot, he'd tell him he loved him too. "I want you so bad."

Will swallows, eyes skipping down to his lips before he shakes his head, voice a little timid. "I— I broke up with him."

Mike wonders if it'd kill the vibe if he jumped in the air and clicked his heels together. If he shouldered their sixth floor window open and yelled to the entirety of ninth street that Will is single and completely Mike's for the taking. If he fell to his knees and begged Will to date him, a litany of pretty please's spoken into the soft of Will's stomach.

He wonders why they broke up. Miles was a skeevy son of a bitch but Will did like him for whatever reason. But on further reflection, actually, he doesn't even really care why. Good riddance. Mike hopes he drowns in the Hudson River and gets saved by a bad Samaritan who steals his social security card and then ends up with, like, actual amoebas in his lungs from the polluted water. He can't say this out loud or else Will probably won't let him kiss on him anymore. "When did that happen?"

"Like three days ago. I never told him my schedule but he kept showing up to my night classes." Will straightens in his hold but Mike doesn't let him go very far, hands on Will's elbows. Will pauses and lets himself sink back into Mike's chest. He hopes he can't hear the frantic beat of his heart where his ear is pressed to his chest.

"Since when does he go to NYU?"

"He doesn't."

Drowning in the Hudson River is entirely too tame for Miles Fairchild. He needs to be eaten alive by a million spiders. Mike needs to run him over with his bike and get his spindly little limbs all tangled in the spokes of his wheels. Dustin should make a machine that sends the period cramps of every uterus in the galaxy direct to Miles' skeevy little nerve endings. He hopes he never gets out of jury duty. He hopes Miles dies for creeping Will out like that, stalking him like he was fucking Vecna Junior or some shit.

Mike doesn't say any of this, trying to reign in the way his mind is getting a little unstable, put a leash on the way he feels like he'd do literally anything to protect Will. "What a creep." He says instead, simple and empathetic. He hugs Will to himself more forcefully, wanting to keep him safe in his arms, protected.

"Yeah," Will agrees, looking up at him, pretty eyes glittering.

Then something about the look on Mike's face or his tone or something must read as off to him because he frowns, hands slipping down to Mike's chest as if he was readying himself to push Mike away. "You're not, like, turned off because I'm not actually cheating on Miles, are you?"

Mike pretends to gag. "Don't say his true name. We finally got rid of the demon."

"Mike." Will wants to laugh but he wants to hear Mike's answer more, reaching up to clasp his hands around the back of Mike's neck, giving him a gentle tug, biting at his lip in a very distracting way, eyebrows flat and expression as serious as he can be whilst looking like he'd just been devoured, hair in disarray and cheeks still stained pink. "Do you actually want me or is it only good when I'm with someone else?"

Hearing Will say it aloud is like a drug, the way it instantly goes to his head. "No, I want you, I do. I want you anyway I can have you, even if some other asshole is dating you but, ya know, I want you as, preferably, just mine."

It's a good enough answer for Will who doesn't hesitate, leaping back into making out with Mike like they hadn't stopped, hands up his shirt and nails digging into his sides, fingers in his belt loops tugging, leading him where he's stepping back, towards the hall, their rooms, "Let's go—"

"Yeah," Mike agrees, can barely part from Will enough to not walk into walls, as they stumble to his room, hears the clatter of something falling over, Mike's door slamming open under the force of their bodies and swinging into the wall behind it.

Will falls to his back on Mike's bed and he lets himself take in the sight, shirt rucked up, stomach bare and inviting and all too bereft of marks that Mike is willing to make, would beg to color in with the press of his teeth, his tongue. Will's legs are spread wide and Mike can't keep the distance any longer, falling into him with a laugh, Will grinning into the kiss.

They shed their clothes without a second thought, no self-conscious hesitation. They've known each others bodies in every way but this, deer-like legs and knobby knees and bird-like chests maturing into muscle and confidence and, in Will's case, handfuls that fit perfectly in the wide span of his palms. Mike reaches into his bedside drawer to pull out a condom, checking with Will, asking without opening his mouth, a simple raise of an eyebrow that Will bites his lip at, nodding with this sort of shy, beguiling look that Mike is suddenly terribly jealous of every other man that might've seen it. He hates Richie and Ziggy. He majorly hates Miles. He hates Boris and Trevor and Tyler and Billy and Chris and every single other asshole who thought he could have what was Mike's this entire time.

Will pulls him down for a sweet kiss, a tender press of their mouths before it gets hot and heavy, before Mike can't stand not tasting him again, the slight sour apple dulling as he takes and takes, until it starts tasting like Mike and Will instead of the tang of vodka and fruit. It makes him so hard it hurts, pressing himself against Will who's already leaking and wet, dick shorter than Mike's and so, so cute.

With a careful hand, he spreads the fat of Will's ass out of the way so he can see where he's clenching, Will's knee twitching as if he couldn't help the reflex, the way he wanted to hide. "Will, you're so—" He groans, his gut pulling, band tight around his hips, dick jumping. Will is gorgeous, he's hot, he's so fucking adorable with how much he wants Mike to fuck him but he's still hiding his face in his hands, peeking out at him through the spaces between his fingers, like he can't help himself.

"I like you, Will." Mike says again, wants to make sure Will knows that this is for real, that this is forever. "Can I—" he licks his lips. "Can I fuck you? Like, for real?"

Will's fingers curl down in front of his face, revealing the full depth of the provocation in his eyes, green and flirty and looking so in love with Mike that he wants to beg him for the chance to put a ring on it, lock him down, be his ball and chain, grow old with him. His eyebrows arch up as he reaches for Mike, pulls him down to kiss a sweet promise into the part of his lips, gentle and so all-encompassing, and Mike thinks he could stay here for the rest of the night and never tire. It's gratifying. It feels forgiving as Will's tongue touches his, as his hand curves around the edge of his jaw, fingertips slightly rough as they brush across the sensitive skin behind his ears.

"Yeah, yeah, you can. You can. Do you know how—"

Mike nods and Will makes this complicated expression, nose scrunched and lips pursed. Mike kisses it away until he's back to that satisfied, blissed out expression, brows no longer furrowed and lips preoccupied with the point of Mike's teeth.

The lube warms quickly, slicking wet between his fingers and he breathes his words against Will's mouth, "Let me get you ready for me, Will, okay, I got you." Mike thinks he could play with the plush silk of Will's hole forever, teasing his finger around it but never going further, the way Will actually wants, hips canting as he gasps into Mike's mouth. But Mike is desperate to fuck too, wants to bury his dick inside Will and make every late-night wet-dream come true. He slips a finger in and groans in time with Will. He's hot inside and the lube makes it so wet. Mike has to reach down and take a hold of himself, choke out the orgasm that's threatening to wring him dry— he won't. Not until Will does. Will's pleasure takes precedence.

At Will's urgent insistence, he crooks another finger inside, Will's rim stretching obscenely as Mike hooks his fingers and stretches it with a light pull. Below him, Will's breath stutters. "Yeah," he encourages, voice a cadence lighter than his usual tenor, airy with pleasure, "like that. God, you can give me more, Mike, I won't break."

Mike's watching, eyes lidded as he obeys, Will's hands reaching down to hold his own legs open where they keep twitching to close. As much as Mike wants to see it, it's kind of sexy that he doesn't touch himself, that he defers to Mike, expects his fealty to turn the burn of the stretch into the white-hot bolt of indulgence that'll have his eyes rolling and his muscles shaking. The sound of his fingers fucking in and out of Will is obscene and hot and loud as their panting.

"Is this enough? You're good to go, yeah? Can fit me in here with ease, I swear." Mike presses close-mouthed kisses, hard and soft, up Will's chest, licking at a nipple, Will's hand clawing at his scalp as he latches on, tonguing the pert nub as he clenches hard around the way his hand is speared inside of him.

Will can barely talk, "Y-Yeah— Fuck, Mike— Yeah, please, you can fuck me now. I'm ready, I can take you."

Mike groans into the dip between Will's pecs. His sweat is slightly salty and he feels like a little bit of a freak with how much he wants to lick at every part of Will, drive himself crazy with the smell of him, clean and warm and sultry, nosing at his neck, biting at his shoulder, at his neck, the soft curve of his jaw. "Mm? Is that right? You can take me? Let's see."

He pulls his hand out despite Will's body trying to keep his fingers deep inside and Will makes a little noise, like he was hurting.

Mike's got a handful of Will's thick thighs in his palm, digging into the fat and muscle of it where it's spilling out between the spaces of his fingers. He's pressing it, grip bruising, against his hip, plush against the sharp jut of his hip bone. "Keep your leg here." Mike wants to feel crushed between his plush thighs, wants Will to hold him tight between them as he fucks him. Mike's other hand is settled around himself where he's steadily, slowly teasing the thick of his dick inside, towards where Will is waiting, wet and hot and ready for him, where Mike can see him clench around nothing, skin glistening.

Mike is overcome, leaning down to press his mouth to Will's, hard and open-mouthed and rough. Will's lips part under the kiss, tries to kiss back but he's doing little more than just breathing heavily back into Mike's mouth, pretty green eyes lowered where he's trying to crane his neck down, trying to see, catch a glimpse of Mike's dick where it's slipping inside. His thick eyelashes flutter as the head of Mike's dick presses against the slip of his rim, lubricant making it almost too easy as he parts for him, spreads soft and hot around his girth.

This has been a long time coming and Mike's never wanted more than to just press inside with a single thrust. He wants to give in, give Will everything he's ever wanted and more. He's kissing him still, messy and overeager the way Will likes it. Mike wants to push himself inside until there's no space left between their bodies, wants to bite him everywhere, leave his mark on Will, pretty and bruised with the indents of Mike's teeth, where Will can press his fingers to later and feel the ridges in between the minutiae of his fingertips and remember. Remember just who it was who left it there.

But he also wants Will to ask for it, beg for it in that impatient, sweet whining way only he can balance— a mix of coy and real brattiness he never lets himself indulge in. Mike wants to tease, make him whine a little. Mike wants to prolong it, make it last forever.

He doesn't realize he's paused until a hand presses against his cheek, warm and soft, slightly damp with sweat. "Mike?" Will's green eyes are bright and his eyelashes are darker with unshed tears clumping them together. He's a fucking vision. He's so pretty and Mike is, at once, really upset with himself for not saying so more often. Well, now that the wannabes are out of the way and Mike's being allowed the privilege of fucking Will Byers, he thinks he can say whatever he wants, whenever he wants now.

"You're so pretty, Will."

The blood rushes to Will's face in real time, spreading charmingly to the apples of his cheeks, a little to his forehead where his bangs stick to the sweat, and it spills down his throat and to his chest, highlighting the round of his pecs as they shimmer with sweat, light reflecting off with every gasping breath he takes. Mike's canines itch. He wants to bite.

"Mike, can you—" Will's eyes flick down, his hand moving from his cheek down to where Mike is barely sitting inside Will, weighty and hot. The tentative touch of his fingers, shy as they round the girth of his dick and presses past himself with a stuttered whine makes Mike break, shoulders bowing in supplication, leaning down to pepper open mouthed kisses to Will's brow, the corner of his pretty eyes where his eyelashes tickle his lips, the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. God, he fucking loves Will. He hopes he can feel it, in the way his hips jerk once, in the way he holds back.

"Can I what? Gotta use your words." He continues his journey, lips against his chin, the corner of Will's mouth, but when the other man opens it to talk, maybe ask for what he wants like Mike told him to do, obedient and eager to please, Mike takes it as an invitation, interrupts the roll of his tongue against his teeth with his own, swallowing the complaint Will makes with a hungry noise. Mike lets his hand slip down to where they're connected, guiding Will's hand with a firm grip to wrap around the length of him, where he's still not settled fully inside, encouraging. The feel of Will's hands, knowing that it's Will touching him is fucking insane.

Will's grip is gentle but adjusting, as he feels the girth of Mike's dick with his hands, tries to envision the size as he slides it down, jacks him off a little as he does so, the ring that his grip makes too loose to feel just good enough. The look on his face is wondering and hungry as he touches, Mike hissing, jaw tight as he clenches his teeth, dips back down to brush their noses together.

"You want it, yeah?" He rasps into Will's mouth, lips brushing against each other, the sting of their chafed skin, bitten and rubbed raw, barely a breath of space left between them.

Will's eyes had been shut, indulging himself in the kiss, in the feel of the stretch of his rim around Mike's heavy dick, the feel of the soft, hot silk of Mike at the tips of his fingers but at the slow slide of Mike's dick inside him, they fly open, brows arched as he gasps, high and needy. Mike loves the way he's trying to keep quiet, only because he's so bad at it— he lets these little sounds slip out like he thinks they're inaudible, as if he's feeling so good he can barely hear himself.

The question has Will nodding, brows furrowed, his other hand up over his head, bicep thick and fingers clenching into the pillow. Mike wants to lick at the hair at his underarm, bury his face in every crevice Will has, breathe him in where he's the most Will, erotic and alluring.

"Yeah, yeah, please, c'mon, Mikey," Will pleads and the syllables curl around Mike like a spell, rare nickname like a shot to his heart, an arrow right to the soft marrow that spills out as Will gasps, "Please, just fuck me already."

Mike grips Will's fingers and moves them away from where he's sliding even deeper inside, holding tight when Will's forearm muscles go taut with tension, like he had to be dragged away from beckoning in Mike further with the rough callus of his artist's fingers. "Wha—"

"I want you to keep your eyes on me, just on me." Mike whispers, "Can you do that for me? Please?"

Will shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to adjust himself, angle his lower body down towards Mike. He slips further inside for a hot, blissful second before he bites his lip, and pulls out completely. "Ah!" Will moans, half in pleasure, half in despair, "Mike! C'mon!" He cries out, a small tear caressing down the curve of his cheek and into his hair.

It's kind of fun, the way Will is so desperate for it.

So is Mike, but it's like he's being possessed by some sort of higher power, the way he's not blowing his load immediately at the feel of Will fucking Byers wrapped around his dick. The way Will is nearly crying to be fucked, to be touched is heady. Mike feels a crazy rush of elation that feeds his ego, stirring up that self-same feeling of intoxication from the brunch earlier.

Will wants him so bad. It makes Mike grin, wide and uncontrolled. Because Mike wants him back just as badly.

"Baby," Mike wheedles, on the verge of whining. If Will does has a type, he definitely likes them a little pathetic, a little too-far gone on him, hungry for him in a way that makes them stupid. Mike had noticed this about most of Will's exes, always a touch too eager, too desperate to make Will like them. "Let me see you, hm?" He doesn't wait for a response, hand sliding up Will's throat, pressure light as his fingers envelop that taut line of his jaw, pressing into his cheeks to tilt Will's face towards him, noses brushing in a tender kiss, can't resist the pull of his lips, pressing something sweet and careful and all for Will there.

Mike kisses him again, right on the swell of his bottom lip, bitten red and soft. Will's hands claw into his hair, pulling and eager as he licks messy at Mike's chin and into his mouth and it has him rock-hard and pulsing, can feel the bead of pre-cum spill out where it's jutting into Will's, a moan escaping them both as Will presses up into Mike, his pecs muscled but doughy as their sweat slick skin slips. Will's nipples are hard peaks that Mike is drooling over but he's way too enamoured with kissing him to do anything about it right now.

He fully lays in between Will's legs now, chests touching, the wet slide of their dicks pressing into their stomachs, pre-cum a mess as they grind against each other. Will rakes a hand down Mike's back, nails a sharp sting of pain that has him hissing into his mouth, pulling back and keeping a hand on his throat to keep Will in place, keep him from following. Will's eyes are locked on Mike's now.

Mike's not being mean despite the way that teary eyes are blinking up at him, face flushed prettily as Mike's grip spasms. "You wanna be mine?" Will nods, eyes fluttering as he tries to look away, but Mike doesn't let him.

He sits back, hand circled around himself and thrusting into the loose grip as he repositions himself, sees the splay of Will's legs around his hips, the way he's spread open for him, all for him. Mike groans, "Keep your eyes on me, Will."

Will's got a hand clenched around his wrist, Mike's delicate bones aching slightly in protest as he tries to pull him closer, pull him inside where the spongy head of his dick keeps kissing, wet and promising. Will nods, "Okay, okay, I promise. Can you— Can we— Please, just fuck me, Mikey, I'll look at you, I'll keep my eyes on you, yeah?"

Mike wants to record it, memorialize Will's voice on vinyl, where Mike can run his tongue over the grooves and play it over and over again.

He didn't think he'd still have any restraint left after the way Will begs for it, but he manages to slow the slide of his dick so that Will makes this breathy, punched out moan, bleating something that sounds like Mike's name, his hand in an iron-grip in Mike's hair and breathing harsh into his mouth. He's squinting up at him, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly black, green a thin ring as he tries to keep his eyes open, just like he promised.

Mike loves him so much.

Will is all hot velvet and wet, tight heat around his dick and Mike can't stop staring at where they're connected, where Will's fat ass is parted around the obscene girth of his dick. When Mike pulls out, the lube makes a slick sound that he wishes was his cum instead, fucking Will raw, skin on skin. Will clenches as he thrusts in, shallow, rough— he can't fuck Will like he wants to. He's genuinely about to come already, but he can't be a quick shot, not with Will.

"Will, baby, I'm sorry I gotta—" Another slow thrust, Will keening underneath him at the rough, drawn out roll of his hips, "—We gotta go slow, okay? It'll be good for you, I swear, I swear."

Those thick thighs are squeezing at his hips now, ankles crossed at his back and heels slipping from the sweat on Mike's ass. Will's canting his hips with this blissed-out look on his face, eyes still slightly open, like he's trying to take the pleasure from Mike who's too much of a minute-man to really go to town, undulating on his dick and Mike's just watching, "Go ahead, take it. Feel good. Do you feel good, Will? Is it good?"

"It's good, it's so fucking good." He gasps, hand clenching around Mike's bicep, "But I can't— C'mon and fuck me, for real, Mike, like you said, huh?"

And he's real sorry about it, he'll make it up to Will later, but he can't hold back anymore, snapping his hips forwards, the loud smack of skin almost drowning out the moan that punches out of Will, dull rhythmic thumping of his headboard to the wall. It's fast, it's messy, it's uncoordinated but Will seems to like it, voice increasing in volume like he can't help himself. "God, you're—" Mike can barely speak. With each thrust, he gets closer and closer, that tight band tugs heavier and heavier where he's connected to Will, ensconced in the heat of him.

"Mike, can I— It's so—" Mike doesn't know what he's trying to ask, but he's crying now, green eyes bright as he keeps them open, keeps them on Mike, just like he asked him to. They keep rolling back as Mike fucks him, but they never close, not fully, languid blinks turning into his eyelashes fluttering, squeezed shut as he gasps and, well, Mike and Will never really needed to speak to each other to be understood. He gets what Will's asking for as he repositions himself, straightens from caging Will against the bed to straighten his spine, gain better leverage. The view before was just as nice but now? Staring down at the way Will is splayed across the bed, legs long and supple looking, slightly tanned skin damp in the warm light of his room, the way his chest is heaving, pecs pushing up into the air like they were begging to be bitten and spoiled. Mike's agnostic but Will's gotta be a miracle, an angel, one sent just for Mike to tempt, to press the skin of an apple against those pretty pink lips and bite.

Will's begging, just a little, small words almost unintelligible between the moans that ring sweet past the filthy sounds of their skin meeting, Mike's hips to the muscle of Will's fat ass, the heft of his thighs in the crook of Mike's elbows where he uses them to better fuck Will. "Yeah, yeah, alright," Mike groans, head tilted back for a moment as he just feels. Mike's had flings here and there but they never came close to this. Every person he's fucked before were all a prerequisite to this moment right here; necessary evils so that he won't let Will down for the nth time, so that he can do him right, do him good. "You can close your eyes, Will, baby, do whatever you want. You can come if you want. You wanna come? Are you close?"

Below him, Will tosses his head from side to side, hand covering his mouth and the other above his head, hand splayed out flat to the headboard of Mike's bed where he's trying to keep himself in place, keep himself from being slid up towards the hard wood of it with every grind of Mike's dick inside him, every thrust. "No, no, I wanna do it with you."

Mike's moan peters off into a breathless laugh. God, Will is just perfect.

He doesn't want to sing his own praises, Will's doing plenty of that on his own, but Mike's so fucking glad Will called him out for being a typical English major— built like a string-bean with the bad eyesight to boot. If Will hadn't joked around, Mike from a year ago might not have been able to fuck like this. No endurance to speak of, no stamina to keep at it, to bring Will over the edge. Will might've had to ride him into the mattress and while that certainly was something, he wanted to take care of Will; make sure he never had to lift a goddamn fucking finger for anything.

"Okay, c'mon then," Mike's sweating and they're probably going to get, like, twenty noise complaints because he's only driving his hips deeper, each thrust leaving himself inside just that much longer, the headboard banging against the wall and Will moving the hand off of his mouth to reach for Mike, trying to hold onto any part of him he can reach as he squeezes his eyes shut, tears glittering down the sides of his face, kiss-bitten lips red and parted charmingly, as he calls out Mike's name on repeat. "C'mon, Will," Mike teases, half-gone himself, spine melted and drooling hot into his dick, into Will, "Don't you wanna come with me? With your Paladin?"

At that, Will cries out, "Mike!" a sound Mike's gonna keep at the back of his teeth for later, as he clenches down around his dick like a vice, raking a hand down his own thigh where he didn't manage to reach Mike's arm. Mike's not far behind, dropping Will's legs to curve his body over Will's, hips stuttering, discordant, their hands bumping as they reach for each other, to kiss open mouthed and dirty— his vision hazes white as he comes, gut pulling him down into Will, blood pumping electric under his skin and buzzing down his spine. He doesn't realize he's saying anything until he comes back to himself, hand soft and adoring around Will's throat, nose shoved into Will's hair and mouth at his ear: "I fucking love you, Will, I love you, you're so good, you're mine, all mine."

He's fully collapsed on top of Will, barely able to get a good breath in with how their abdomens are pushing into one another, fighting to get air. Will is sniffling, breath hiccuping and Mike's brain goes a little haywire— Will is second to none, fatigue from a seriously good fuck taking the backseat as he perks up, pressing soft butterfly kisses to every part of Will he can reach. "You're okay, Will, I got you." He shushes him, hand gentling at his side, light caresses he lets himself indulge in, Will's skin silk and twitching under his fingertips. Will's breath shudders out as he turns to nudge their noses together, eyes still closed as he shivers. "Cold? Gimme a sec, I'll get up—"

"Stay," Will rasps, hand at Mike's bicep, where his fingers dig in, "Don't—Don't go. Please."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Mike is quick to reassure him, "Let me just—" He readjusts them and realizes he's still seated inside Will, spent and soft. When he makes to pull out, Will makes another noise of complaint. "Okay, okay, I won't." He wants to clean Will off, though, so that the come drying on his stomach doesn't make him feel gross later, so he won't wake up with tacky sweat-dried skin, irritating and itchy. He manages to snag his shirt from where it nearly made it off the bed and gives Will as best of a wipe-down as he can with it.

When he's done, he wiggles an arm behind Will's shoulder who fights him the entire time, groaning at the jostling, "Ugh, what are you even—" Mike wraps his other arm around his waist and turns, so that he's the one on his back now and Will is strewn across him, body warm and comforting. At the feel of Mike's palms on his skin— one rubbing circles on his back and the other sweeping tender and feather-soft across the curve of his ass— Will lets out a gutsy sigh, all but melting into Mike, where he curls his arms into his own chest, fingers pressed into Mike skin where they toy with the dip of his collarbone.

"'M cold." His voice is a low murmur, breathed into the skin under Mike's jaw and he's quick to reach for the corner of his comforter and bunch it up around Will's shoulder.

"Better?"

"Mmm."

Mike lays in the post-coital peace of the moment, where he can feel the way their hearts are beating in answer to one another at the solid press of their sternums. Will is taken care of. Will is in his arms and safe and warm and Mike starts nodding off when Will mumbles something that has Mike twitching inside of him.

"Hm? What'd you say?"

"I said, I love you too."

Right.

Mike wonders how Will would feel if they fucked half-asleep because the way his heart is hard-wired to his dick is embarrassing, already perking up and making Will shift on top of him, Mike's fingers splayed over the curve of one ass-cheek holding him in place.

"I sure hope ya do." He slurs, fatigue winning as Mike squeezes once, just 'cos he can, like a reminder, a promise, "I'm totally your type, right?"

Will's lips presses gentle into the soft of the skin under his jaw, voice serene and tired as he murmurs. "Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"As you wish."