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It’s two weeks before graduation. Will thinks he’s probably lived a thousand lifetimes in just the four years of high school.
The rest of the party had long since headed home after a long night of movies and board games. The house is quieter now, the rest of the Wheelers long asleep. It’s the kind of quiet that settles in your bones and weighs you down. The TV is still on, muted, blue light flickering lazily across the walls. Will yawns.
Will stares at his legs stretched out on the carpet, fingers absently tracing the fibers. A bit of pale skin peeks out from beneath his shorts. The tan line is uneven, a little ridiculous. Mike had laughed about it once, poked at his knee, said, “Look, Will. You’ve got built in shorts.”
Will presses his lips together at the memory. He sighs and shifts his weight, the carpet scratching lightly against his palms as he watches the stairs, waiting for Mike to appear again.
A sudden rush of footsteps breaks up the silence.
Mike appears at the bottom of the stairs with a bottle of cheap wine clutched triumphantly in his hand, a grin already spreading across his face. His hair falls in soft curls over his forehead, slightly damp at the ends from a rushed shower. He lifts the bottle and gives it a little shake.
“Wanna play truth or dare?”
Will huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging his fingers over the carpet again just to have something to do with his hands. “It’s kinda hard to play truth or dare with only two people.”
Mike shrugs and crosses the room in a few long steps, lowering himself onto the floor beside Will. Their shoulders nearly touch. He leans back against the couch, one knee bent, socked foot sliding against the floor before settling.
It’s been three weeks since Will told Mike he looked like his dad with his hair done.
Three weeks since the gel disappeared from the bathroom counter. Since the stiff, careful style was replaced with loose curls that fall into his eyes when he laughs.
Will remembers Max laughing and asking him if someone finally told him he looked stupid. Mike just smiled sheepishly and told her to fuck off.
Will is not over Mike Wheeler. He thinks he probably never will be.
The thought makes him nauseous.
“So,” Mike nudges his elbow lightly against Will’s, warm through the thin cotton of his sleeve. Leave it to Mike to wear a long sleeve shirt in June. “You wanna play?”
Will nods before he can think too hard about it. He’d probably jump off a cliff if Mike asked him to.
Mike grins wider and twists the cap off the bottle. It makes a soft pop, and the faint smell of cheap wine drifts between them—sour and a little too sweet. He sets the cap carefully on the carpet.
“Should I go first, or do you want to?” Mike asks. His glasses slip down his nose a little as he looks over. Will’s fingers twitch with the instinct to push them back up.
“I can go first,” Will says quickly, clearing his throat. “Truth or dare?”
Mike hums, tilting his head back against the couch cushion. His throat moves as he swallows. Will tries not to stare. “Truth.”
Will leans back too, staring at the ceiling for a second before letting the question out. “What’s the real reason Jane broke up with you?” He tries to say it carefully, but it comes out clunky.
Mike goes still beside him and the air thickens.
Instead of answering, Mike reaches for the bottle.
Will immediately pushes himself upright. “C’mon, Mike. On the first question?”
Mike’s mouth curves into a stubborn little smile. “I’m not telling.”
He lifts the bottle and takes a long swallow. His face scrunches almost instantly. “God, that’s awful.” He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “And it’s been years. I thought everyone dropped it.”
Will shakes his head, sitting up fully now, legs crossing under him. “I’ve tried asking her a million times,” he admits. His voice is softer than he means it to be. “She never cracks. I figured maybe you would.”
He bumps his shoulder lightly against Mike’s, attempting a playful grin.
Mike just shrugs again, but there’s something thinner about it now. He shifts the bottle between his hands before setting it back onto the carpet. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
He shouldn’t even bother asking. Will never picks dare.
“Truth,” Will says, running a hand through his hair and trying to ignore how warm his face suddenly feels.
Mike mirrors him, running a hand through his own hair and pushing the curls back from his forehead. His fingers linger there for a second before dropping. He lets out another low hum and shifts so he’s turned toward Will fully now, one knee angled in his direction.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
Will raises an eyebrow. “Scared of what?”
“To graduate. I mean.” Mike’s voice is lighter than it was a second ago.
Will pauses, letting the question settle. The room feels warmer now, the air thick with the faint sour scent of wine. Outside, a car passes somewhere down the street, tires hissing briefly against pavement.
“A little, yeah,” Will admits. He rubs his thumb against his palm, thinking. “But I think that’s pretty normal, right? I mean, we’ll still have each other. And Max and Lucas’ll only be, what, an hour drive away?”
Mike’s eyes are searching his face. Not quick glances, but deliberate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize something. Will feels it and looks away first, gaze dropping to the carpet between them, face suddenly feeling hot.
“Yeah,” Mike says after a second. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Will tilts his head, studying him now. “Are you scared?”
Mike blinks like he’s been caught somewhere he didn’t mean to be. He reaches up and finally pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a second. Then he grins.
“I guess you’ll have to ask me for your question,” he says.
Will rolls his eyes, though he can’t quite hide his smile. “Truth or dare?”
Mike leans back against the couch again, shoulders pressing into the cushions. He stretches his legs out in front of him, ankle brushing against Will’s for half a second before he pulls it away. His skin stings from the contact.
“Dare.”
Will’s smile widens a little at that. He shifts closer without really meaning to. “Okay,” he says, pretending to think hard about it. “I dare you to take another drink.”
Mike stares at him. “Are you serious? That’s cheating.” Will wants to kiss away the little frown falling onto Mike’s lips.
“Cheating?” Will repeats, eyebrows lifting. He shrugs, letting his eyes flutter closed like he’s above the argument. “I don’t recall discussing any rules for this game.”
He can hear Mike’s exaggerated sigh. There’s the soft rustle of fabric, the small creak of the couch as he leans forward. When Will opens his eyes again, Mike is already lifting the bottle.
He takes a longer swallow this time.
The smell of the wine is stronger now. Mike coughs once under his breath and wipes his mouth again, blinking rapidly. “Happy?”
Will nods, satisfied and a little giddy that Mike actually did it. There’s something thrilling about winning, even in a game this small.
He isn’t much of a drinker. The Party has only been invited to two actual parties—ironic, considering the name—and his mom and Hopper would absolutely notice if any alcohol went missing at his house. So the only time he ever drinks is like this, in the Wheeler’s basement surrounded by the smell of dust and old paper and Mike.
The overhead light is dim, casting everything in a soft yellow haze. The air feels thicker the longer they sit there.
Will doesn’t mind drunk Mike.
He’s sweet and sappy and he laughs too loud at his own jokes. And he never raises his voice at Will, even if he snaps at someone else in the group. Usually Max.
“Truth or dare?” Mike asks, voice rougher now, a little slower around the edges.
“Truth.” Will answers automatically. He wonders again why Mike even bothers asking. Maybe he just likes saying it.
Mike nods, blinking slowly. His eyes look heavier already, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks.
Will resists the urge to run his fingers along Mike’s freckled cheeks.
“Okay, um.” He shifts where he’s sitting, bottle resting loosely between his knees. He glances up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. The basement hums softly — pipes in the walls, the house settling.
“How did you know you were…” He trails off, lips pressing together. His face tightens in a way Will can’t quite read. Mike swallows again.
“How did you know that you were gay?”
They sit for a moment, listening to another car pass outside, the low rush of tires fading into the distance. The only other sound is their breathing; uneven and slightly heavier than before.
Will feels his heartbeat in his throat.
He is far too sober to answer that.
So he reaches for the bottle and takes a quick swig. The wine hits his tongue sharp and bitter, burning all the way down. He nearly coughs but forces himself to swallow.
“God,” he mutters, wincing. “You’re right. That is terrible.”
Mike doesn’t laugh, just stares at him blankly.
“You really don’t want to answer?” Mike asks quietly. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think he almost sounded hurt.
Will blinks, shaking his head. “Oh, no. I just hadn’t gotten a drink yet.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the warmth already spreading low in his stomach. “I can tell you. If you really wanna know.”
Mike doesn’t look away.
Will leans back against the couch again, fingers sliding absently against the carpet. The fibers press into his skin.
“I think…” he starts, then stops. His mouth feels dry. “I think deep down, I always knew. At least a little bit.” He swallows.
“It was like people could smell it on me, you know?” His voice stays steady, but just barely. “My dad, Troy and his friends…” The words thin out on his tongue.
“But I knew for sure when we were thirteen.”
Will can hear Mike shifting beside him—the quiet drag of denim against carpet, the faint creak of the floor as he leans forward.
Will doesn’t look at him. He can’t bring himself to.
“Will, I’m so—”
“It’s fine, Mike,” Will says quickly, finally lifting his head.
Mike is closer than before. Close enough that Will can see the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. Close enough that their knees are almost touching.
“It’s not your fault.” Will realizes his bad wording as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth.
“Oh. No, I didn’t mean—”
Mike’s face crumples slightly, and Will wants to kiss him so badly. The wine certainly isn’t helping.
“Will, I’m sorry. I really am.” Mike’s voice is rough now, stripped of the teasing tone from earlier. “I didn’t– I had no idea. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have…” He trails off.
His fingers are twisting into the hem of his shirt, pulling the fabric tight, eyes dropping from Will’s face to somewhere near his shoulder. The basement suddenly feels too small.
Will reaches over slowly and places a gentle hand on Mike’s shoulder. He can feel the warmth of him even through the thin cotton of his shirt.
“Mike,” he says softly, “I promise. It’s okay.”
Mike nods, but the action is small and almost robotic.
Will doesn’t pull his hand away right away.
Up close like this, he can see everything—the faint crease between Mike’s brows, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.
Mike’s tongue darts out briefly to wet his lips.
Heat pools low in Will’s stomach.
He pulls his gaze away quickly, like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
“Truth or dare?” Will asks, voice low and a little breathless. His hand drops back to his own side.
Mike’s eyes flick up to his face. For a second, something unreadable passes through them, but it’s gone in an instant.
“Truth,” Mike whispers into the stale basement air.
“Why didn’t you go on that date with the girl from physics?” The question comes out a lot steadier than Will feels.
He almost feels bad asking things like this, but it’s not like he could ask Mike normally. He’d never answer. So he hides behind stupid games and cheap wine and the illusion of rules. It’s not like Mike doesn’t do the same thing.
Mike rolls his shoulders back.
“I didn’t like her,” he says simply.
Will tilts his head. “She really liked you, though. And you said she was pretty.” The word pretty tastes like cardboard in his mouth.
Mike nods once. “I mean, yeah. She did. And she is pretty.” He shrugs again, gaze drifting somewhere past Will’s shoulder. “I just didn’t like her. Not like that.”
Will hums softly.
For as long as he’s known Mike Wheeler, sometimes it feels like he understands him better than anyone else on the planet.
And other times, it feels like he doesn’t understand him at all.
They sit in silence for a while. The yellow lamplight in the corner throws everything in a warm haze, contrasting the blue of the flickering TV. Dust drifts lazily through the beam, rising and falling every time one of them shifts. If Will could, he would probably live in this moment forever.
Will reaches for the bottle again and takes a quick drink. The burn is easier this time.
Mike watches him, and Will pretends he doesn’t notice.
“Truth or dare?” Mike asks finally.
Will keeps his eyes on the floating dust. “Truth.”
Mike’s jaw tightens slightly before he speaks.
“Tammy,” he says. “Who was he?”
Will feels every muscle in his body go rigid, shame pouring through him so fast he feels a bit dizzy.
He grabs the bottle quickly and takes a long swallow, wincing only slightly this time. The warmth spreads faster now.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mike’s brows furrow.
“Oh, c’mon,” Mike says, frustration slipping through. “You made that guy such a big deal. I’m your best friend. I deserve to know about your romantic escapades!”
The word romantic makes something hot and frantic spark in Will’s chest.
He wants to grab Mike by the shoulders and shake him, he wants to yell. Wants to kiss him. Wants to slam his own head into the wall just to make it all stop.
“That’s the thing, Mike,” Will says carefully, fighting to keep his voice neutral. “It wasn’t romantic. That’s why he was Tammy.”
Mike tilts his head, confusion plain on his face. “His name wasn’t Tammy?”
Will lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No. His name wasn’t Tammy. You thought his name was Tammy?”
Mike lets out a nervous little chuckle. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think he was blushing.
“Yeah. I mean, I thought it was weird. But then I figured he was some guy from California, and maybe they name their kids weird over there.”
Despite everything, Will laughs again.
“No, no. His name was not Tammy.” Will huffs softly. “Tammy is more of a…”
He bites at his lip, searching for the right word. The alcohol buzzes faintly under his skin now, soft and warm at the edges of his thoughts. He’s always been a bit of a lightweight.
“Tammy is more of a concept,” he finishes. “The idea is that, like… Tammy is straight. And they can’t like you back. They’re the person who helps you figure yourself out.”
Mike nods slowly, eyes fixed on Will’s face like he’s trying to follow every word.
Will wonders if he’s drunk yet.
“Well,” Mike says after a second, voice firmer than before, “I think whoever your Tammy is is a mouth-breathing idiot.”
Will looks down at his hands, a small, helpless smile tugging at his mouth.
Yeah, he thinks. Yeah, he is.
“It’s not that guy’s fault he doesn’t like me like that,” Will says, a quiet laugh slipping out despite the tightness pressing against his ribs. “You can’t really help that sort of thing.”
Mike shakes his head immediately, curls shifting against his forehead.
“Well, he should’ve found a way,” he insists.
Will glances up at him.
“Because you’re amazing, Will,” Mike says, like it’s obvious. “And anyone would be lucky to date you.”
Will’s breath catches.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust himself to.
Mike continues on.
“I mean,” he says, leaning forward a little, hands gesturing loosely now, “what kind of idiot fumbles the Will Byers? If I knew who this Tammy guy was, I’d totally punch him in the face or– or something.”
He sounds indignant, protective even.
Will thinks he sounds drunk.
Will shakes his head, equal parts amused and undone.
Will just wants to move on.
“Truth or dare,” he says again, a little too quickly.
Mike blinks at him, like he’s trying to decide whether to push. Then something in his expression softens. He nods once.
“Truth.”
“Why do you care so much?” Will asks.
Mike shrugs, but there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck now, dusted pink across his cheeks. Mike Wheeler is beautiful. Will Byers is sick.
“Because I care about you,” he says simply.
Another car drives past outside, headlights briefly flashing across the basement window before disappearing. Will finds himself wondering where they’re going at nearly midnight on a Saturday. Anywhere but here, he guesses.
The silence stretches again.
“Truth or dare?” Mike asks.
“Truth,” Will answers.
Mike runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly in the curls before pushing them back. The movement is absentminded and it sends a swarm of butterflies loose in Will’s ribs.
“What’s your type?”
The question would almost be funny if it weren’t coming from the mouth of Mike Wheeler.
Will stares at him, fingers itching to grab the bottle again, but he doesn’t.
“Why?” he asks instead, keeping his voice steady.
Mike hums noncommittally, eyes dropping to the floor for a second before lifting again.
“You never talk about that kind of stuff with the Party,” he says. “I mean, we all know that you… you know.” He gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite bring himself to say the word again. “So I was just curious.”
Will watches Mike take another drink, his throat moving slowly as he swallows. When he lowers the bottle, he holds it out toward Will without looking at him. Will takes it gratefully.
He drinks again—longer this time—letting the warmth settle before he speaks.
“I like tall guys,” he starts, immediately feeling heat creep up his neck. It sounds stupid out loud. “And it seems a bit silly, but… I like when they’re nice to me.” He shrugs one shoulder, trying to play it off.
“Like when he does little things that show he cares. You know, remembers or notices things about me.”
Mike’s eyes are tracing all over Will’s face now; lingering at his mouth, flicking up to his eyes, down again.
Will wishes, just for a second, that he could read minds.
“Anything else?” Mike asks, voice low and a little rough.
Will swallows.
“I don’t really know,” he admits. “Dark hair, I guess.” He lets out a soft, nervous laugh and hopes it isn’t too obvious. “Oh, and nerdy, too. He’s gotta like the same stuff as me.”
Mike just nods.
Will finally turns fully toward him, their knees nearly brushing now. “What about you?”
Mike’s gaze drifts up to the ceiling again, like it holds all the answers. The lamplight catches in his glasses.
“I’ve never really thought about anything like that,” he says.
Will squints at him. “What? But you dated Jane. And you’ve talked about other crushes before.”
Mike reaches for the bottle again. Takes another drink. The house feels too quiet.
“I was lying,” he says flatly.
A pit opens in Will’s stomach so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy.
“Oh.” is all Will can manage.
Mike shifts beside him, drawing his knees up toward his chest, arms wrapping loosely around them.
“I never liked Jane like that,” he says, staring somewhere near the floor. “No– I mean, I thought I did. But I didn’t.” He swallows.
“That’s why we broke up. She knew. She’d known for a little while.” His mouth twists. “Those stupid letters were kind of the final nail in the coffin.”
He tugs at the sleeves around his wrists, pulling the fabric down over his hands, then pushing it back up again.
“And those crushes? They were made up.” He lets out a soft, humorless breath. “I didn’t want to lie, but I felt like a little kid when I didn’t like anyone. Like I was behind or something.”
Will doesn’t move.
“I’ve only had, like… one real crush.” Mike admits.
Will feels something tighten painfully in his chest, like a fist closing around his heart.
“I’m sorry you felt that way, Mike,” he says quietly.
He wants, more than anything, to pull him in. To wrap his arms around him and press his face into his shoulder and promise… something. It doesn’t really matter what.
But he stays where he is.
“It’s not your fault, Will,” Mike says quickly.
There’s something pointed about the way he says his name.
“It’s not like I didn’t have anyone to talk to.”
Will’s head tilts slightly.
“What?”
Mike fiddles with his hands for another moment, thumbs rubbing nervously over his knuckles.
“After you and Jane left for California, things were really weird for me,” he starts.
“And sure, Dustin and Lucas were great—they’re still my best friends—but things were different without you.”
Will’s chest tightens at that. He doesn’t interrupt.
“And after all the stuff that happened at Starcourt…” Mike trails off for a second, jaw tightening. Then he looks up at Will, dark eyes a little glassy in the yellow lamplight. “Max.”
Will waits, still not quite following.
“After Billy died, she really withdrew from everyone,” Mike continues. “Like, she and Lucas stayed broken up, and she’d avoid us in the halls and stuff. Wouldn’t look at anybody.”
He pauses, then huffs a small breath through his nose.
“And then she and I got paired for a stupid history project. So she couldn’t avoid me anymore.”
Will nods slowly.
Mike laughs under his breath. “I was probably the last person she wanted to work with. Which is why I think it was for the best.”
Will tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”
Mike shifts closer without seeming to notice he’s doing it. Their shoulders brush.
“Well,” Mike says, glancing down at their knees before looking back up, “because we already didn’t like each other, it made it easy to tell the other one stuff.” He shrugs.
“You know. I didn’t care what she thought of me, and she didn’t care what I thought of her. Honestly, it was kinda nice.”
Mike reaches for the now over half-empty bottle and takes another drink, tilting it higher this time. His throat works as he swallows.
He offers it to Will again, and Will takes it without breaking eye contact.
“What did you guys talk about?” Will hears himself ask.
Mike shifts slightly on the carpet, one hand flattening against the floor like he needs the balance.
“She talked about Billy,” he says. “And sometimes her dad. Sometimes she talked about Lucas.” He makes a face at that—something tight and pained flickering there before he smooths it over.
“And I talked about… you know.” He hesitates. “Sometimes I talked about Jane.”
He pauses.
“A lot of the time, I talked about, well… you, mostly.”
Will feels heat climb up his neck and settle hot in his cheeks. He keeps his face angled slightly away, hoping the dim light hides it.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” Mike breathes back.
Will leans into Mike’s arm without really thinking about it. The wine has softened the sharp corners of everything: made him braver, or maybe just less careful, he doesn’t really know. Their sleeves press together, he can feel the warmth of Mike through the thin fabric.
“Can I ask a question now?” Mike asks.
Will can feel the vibration of his voice through where their arms touch.
He nods silently.
“The guy from the record store,” Mike starts.
Will already knows where this is going. His stomach tightens anyway.
“He gave you his number, right?”
Will nods again.
“Are you gonna call him?”
Will’s mind flashes back to that afternoon, when he, Mike, and Jane all went out to try and find a birthday present for Jonathan. The guy at the register had been nice. A little shy. Cute, even. But Will hadn’t been able to see him as anything more than polite background noise.
Because the only man he’s ever wanted was standing twenty feet behind him, arguing passionately with his sister about vinyl versus cassette tapes, gesturing wildly with a plastic case in his hand.
“No,” Will says quietly. “No, I’m not gonna call him.”
Mike doesn’t say anything.
He just leans in closer, their shoulders pressing fully together now, knees touching. Will’s skin is on fire.
Will wishes he could bottle this feeling and keep it in his pocket forever.
They sit in silence again. The TV screen still flickers softly, blue light washing over them in uneven pulses, clashing gently with the yellow glow of the lamp in the corner.
“I think I need to tell you something,” Mike says.
Will feels him trembling slightly where they’re pressed together.
Will’s eyes flick up to Mike, whose eyes are trained straight ahead and jaw locked like he’s bracing for impact.
Will slides his arm around Mike’s shoulders, pulling him in carefully.
“You can tell me anything, Mike,” Will says quietly. “I mean it. You could tell me you killed someone and I’d help you hide the body.”
Mike lets out a small, shaky laugh against him.
“I mean… we’ve kind of already done both of those things.”
Will huffs out a laugh too, the sound warm and breathy between them.
Mike shifts closer and lets his head rest against Will’s shoulder, hair tickling at Will’s cheek. Will can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing now, feel the heat of him pressed along his side.
“You’re the most important person in my life, Will,” Mike says, words a little muddled.
Will looks down at him, but Mike’s face is half-hidden by his hair. All Will can see is the curve of his cheek and the way his lashes brush his skin when he blinks.
Mike’s body shakes with a quiet sob.
Will pulls him closer without thinking, fingers sliding up into his hair, carding gently through the curls. Mike melts into the touch.
“You too,” Will whispers.
He hopes Mike can hear everything he isn’t brave enough to say.
Mike doesn’t react; or maybe he does, and Will just can’t see it from this angle.
They stay like that for a long time, long enough that the tears have dried into Will’s shirt. Just long enough that the bottle in Will’s hand becomes lighter.
They pass it back and forth without looking at it, without counting.
By the time it’s nearly empty, Will feels loose and light, like he’s drifting just slightly above himself. He wonders if Mike feels the same.
Maybe it’s the floating feeling, or the warmth in his limbs. Whatever it is, Will finds himself saying things that sober-him would never even dare to think out loud.
But fuck sober-Will. He never gets anything.
“So if you don’t really, uh… think about what kind of girls you’re into,” Will starts, words slow and a little slurred together, “what do you, you know…”
Mike leans back further into the couch, head tipping against the cushions. Will watches as his curls fall away from his neck, exposing the line of his throat.
“What do I what?” Mike asks.
His words are just as clumsy, and the thought brings a pleasant warmth to Will’s stomach.
“What do you think about,” Will tries again, gesturing vaguely with his hands—hands that don’t feel entirely connected to the rest of him. “When you…” He trails off, face heating. He makes another gesture with his hands, one that he sees guys do in the hallways to gross each other out.
Mike’s mouth curves upward, slow and amused. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glassy in the lamplight.
“Jerk off?” he supplies, almost playfully.
Will drops his head back against the couch with a groan, mortified.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick. “That was weird.”
Mike shakes his head gently, fingers worrying at the ends of his sleeves again.
“It’s not weird,” he says, quieter now.
The teasing edge is gone from Mike’s voice.
“I don’t really jerk off that much.” he answers, honestly. “When I do, I just think about, you know, the standard stuff.”
Will almost laughs, but the room tilts in warning and he swallows it down.
“I’m gay, Mike,” he says instead, voice dry. “I don’t really know what the standard stuff is.”
Mike blinks at him slowly, pupils blown wide in the lamplight.
“Well,” he counters after a second, “what do you think about?”
And, oh, that is not what Will was expecting to come out of his mouth.
He looks down at his hands, picking at the skin around his thumb. His brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.
“I think about…” You, he wants to say. Obviously, he cannot say that. Robin’s voice floats up in his memory, truth serum, and Will wonders vaguely how much more he’d need to drink before the word just slipped out.
“I think about, you know,” he says instead, staring at a dark spot in the carpet. “Being touched. Or whatever. Like… being loved and stuff.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Mike snorts.
“You masturbate to the thought of being loved?”
The words are slurred together, amused and incredulous, and Will’s stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with the wine.
He huffs, shoving lightly at Mike’s shoulder. “Well when you say it like that, it makes me sound like a fucking loser.”
Mike grins, eyes bright. “Whoa. Will Byers swearing? You must really be drunk.”
Will rolls his eyes, heat crawling up his neck.
“I’m not making fun of you, dude,” Mike adds quickly, smile softening. “I swear.”
He leans a little closer, their knees knocking together.
“It’s kinda cute.”
Will stares at him.
“Thanks?” he says, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say to that.
Mike leans back, retreating out of Will’s space like he hadn’t just shifted the ground beneath him. “You’re welcome.”
The air feels too thick to breathe in properly.
Will can feel something inside him winding tighter and tighter, like a spring about to snap. If he doesn’t say something, he thinks he might actually explode.
“Hey, Mike?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle again just so his hands have something to do.
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you wanna know how I knew I was gay?”
A strong gust of wind rattles against the side of the house, sharp enough to make Will jump.
Mike glances at him, and for a second Will just looks.
Dark eyes. Dark hair. Freckles scattered across his cheeks like careless constellations. His glasses sit slightly crooked on his nose.
Will has to physically stop himself from reaching out to fix them.
Mike shrugs.
“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “I was just curious. That’s all.”
Will studies him for a second longer, waiting for more, but nothing else comes.
Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the exhaustion pressing behind his eyes.
He lets it go.
“Wanna keep playing truth or dare?” Mike asks, words still a little fuzzy.
Will’s gaze drops to the bottle between them. There’s barely a swallow left.
“We’re almost out of alcohol,” he says with a quiet laugh.
Mike hums, noncommittal. “So? You’ll just have to not back out.”
There’s a smile in his voice. Will doesn’t have to look to know it’s there.
It makes his chest ache.
“Fine,” Will says. “Why not.”
He leans back against the couch, head tipping into the cushion. The ceiling swims slightly above him.
“Truth or dare?” Mike asks.
Will yawns, blinking over at him.
“Dare.”
Mike’s eyes widen.
“Really?”
Will just nods. Heaven forbid a guy feel a little spontaneous off cheap wine in the love of his life’s basement.
Will watches Mike’s throat bob as he swallows, and suddenly the room feels ten degrees hotter.
Mike clears his throat.
“I, uh–” He drags a hand over the back of his neck. “I dare you to…”
He trails off, eyes flicking briefly to Will’s collarbone before snapping back up to his face.
“I dare you to take your shirt off.”
Oh.
Heat buzzes low in Will’s stomach, spreading fast and dizzying. He hopes the dim light hides whatever expression just crossed his face.
He squints at Mike. “What kind of dare is that?”
Mike shrugs, but his fingers are twisting into the cuffs of his sleeves again. “A normal one.”
It is not a normal one.
Will holds his gaze for a beat longer, and then shrugs it off.
“Okay.”
He hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the carpet beside them.
The cool air hits his skin immediately, and a small shiver travels up his spine.
When he looks back at Mike, his breath stutters.
Mike is staring.
His eyes drag slowly across Will’s shoulders, down his chest, like he doesn’t quite realize he’s doing it.
Will feels a bit self conscious about being studied like this, under the microscope that is Mike Wheeler's attention.
“Happy?” Will whispers into the air.
Mike swallows again.
“Y-yeah,” Mike says, voice thinner than he probably intended. His eyes are still stuck somewhere south of Will’s collarbone. “Your turn.”
Will waits a second, just long enough to make him look up.
“Truth or dare?” he asks, like his heart isn’t pounding hard enough to rattle his ribs.
“Dare.” It comes out almost like a whisper.
Sober-Will is going to be deeply, profoundly disappointed in drunk-Will. But in this present moment, drunk-Will wants nothing more than to stick his tongue down Mike’s throat.
“I dare you,” he says slowly, “to take your shirt off, too.”
Mike’s whole body stiffens for just a moment, before he seems to relax once more.
Will is buzzing with anticipation.
Mike nods once, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He tugs it over his head, but it catches awkwardly on his glasses.
“Hold on—”
The fabric snags, and when he finally pulls it free, his shirt comes off with his glasses tangled inside it.
They both blink.
“Mike,” Will says, gesturing vaguely. “Your glasses are gone.”
Mike squints at him. “Oh. Yeah, I guess they are.”
“Can you see without them?”
He nods, and a curl falls onto his forehead. “They’re mostly for reading and stuff. I just get headaches.”
Will hums, brain already moving on from the glasses and onto Mike’s body.
Mike is skinny, sure, but there's a tiny bit of muscle there that drives Will crazy every time the party goes to the lake. Will wonders if Mike thinks the same about him, and how much he's changed since they were kids. Will knows his shoulders are broader, and maybe he’s put on a bit of muscle too.
He wonders if Mike likes it.
You’re drunk, he reminds himself. Delusional, too.
Will’s gaze trails lower to Mike's stomach, and the dark patch of hair curling into the waistband of his sweat-shorts.
Will swallows and flicks his gaze back up to Mike's face. "I think it's your turn." he says, quickly, hands smoothing over the carpet again.
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s sure Mike can hear it.
“Truth or dare,” Mike slurs, grinning as his head tips slightly to the side.
Will watches another curl fall loose onto his forehead, joining the others already hanging there. Mike doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
“Dare,” Will whispers back. His tongue feels heavy, the word sticking slightly on the way out.
Mike’s eyes drift down Will again, and Will feels it everywhere the gaze lands like a hot brand. His skin feels too warm, hypersensitive, like he’s suddenly aware of every inch of himself.
“I dare you to scoot closer,” Mike says.
Will’s heart slams hard against his ribs.
For a second he thinks he might actually be sick. Heat rolls through his stomach in a wave, mixing with the cheap wine sitting uneasily inside him. The room feels like it could close in on him at any moment.
It’s such a small thing. Barely even a dare.
And yet Will hesitates, fingers pressing into the carpet like an anchor. He can hear the faint hum of the house around them; a vent rattling somewhere, the wind brushing against the siding outside, but all of it feels far away compared to the space between them.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice thinner than he intends.
He shifts, inching across the ancient carpet. The tufts drag softly under him.
Their knees are touching now, and it feels like fire.
“Truth or dare?” Will asks now, wishing, just a little bit, that they were even closer.
“Dare,” Mike answers immediately.
Will swallows. “I dare you to scoot closer.”
Mike’s gaze drops to the small stretch of carpet between them. He wets his lips, shoulders lifting with a slow breath. “How much closer?” he asks, pupils wide, unfocused without his glasses.
“As close as you want,” Will hears himself say, his mouth moving faster than his brain can catch up.
For a second Mike doesn’t move.
Then he shifts.
It’s hesitant at first, a small shuffle against the carpet, his shoulder brushing the side of the couch behind them, and then he closes the distance completely. Their thighs press together, arms sliding warm against each other where they lean back on the cushions.
Mike’s skin is softer and warmer than Will was expecting.
The contact sends a quiet rush through him, something nervous and electric all at once. Will becomes suddenly aware of everything: Mike’s uneven breathing, the faint smell of detergent and wine, the way their knees knock together every time one of them moves.
Will feels like he might die.
And no, he’s not being dramatic. Not in the slightest.
“My turn?” Mike asks into the thick air of the basement.
Will nods. “Yeah.” His voice comes out croaky, weaker than he intends. He wonders if everything he’s feeling is plastered all across his face like a billboard.
Beside him, Will hears Mike take a deep breath.
“I uh, dare you to sit on my lap.” His lips part slightly, like he’s about to take it back, but he doesn’t. He just waits, body tense beside Will’s, their bare skin still pressed together where their arms touch.
The basement spins a little at the edges of Will’s vision. His heart is a wild thing, hammering so loud he’s sure Mike can feel it through the thin space separating them.
Sober-Will is going to be very upset with him. But here they are, half-naked on the carpet, the empty bottle forgotten beside them, and drunk-Will can’t think of a single reason to say no.
Because he’s wanted this, wanted it for so long it aches. Mike has always been like a tender bruise.
“Okay,” Will whispers, the word barely audible over the idle hum of the house.
He shifts carefully, heart in his throat, and Mike spreads his legs just a fraction, making space. Will moves slowly, soaking in the moment just a little.
He swings one leg over Mike’s lap, settling down until he’s straddling him, knees bracketing Mike’s hips on the carpet. Their chests are close—too close—and Will can feel the heat radiating off Mike’s skin, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing matching Will’s own.
Mike’s hands hover uncertainly at his sides for a moment, then settle lightly on Will’s thighs, fingers warm and tentative. The touch sends a jolt through Will, straight to his core, and he has to bite back a gasp. He braces his hands on Mike’s shoulders to steady himself, feeling the lean muscle there, the faint tremor running through him.
They’re face-to-face now, noses inches apart. Mike’s curls are a mess, falling into his eyes, and Will can see every freckle, every detail he’s memorized a thousand times over.
“Is this… okay?” Will asks, voice barely above a whisper. His thumbs brush absently against Mike’s collarbones, tracing the warm skin there. He wants to lean down and kiss them.
Mike nods, swallowing hard. His adam’s apple bobs, and Will tracks the movement without meaning to.
“Yeah,” Mike breathes. “More than okay.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick and electric. Will’s mind is a haze—wine and want and years of unspoken things crashing together. He can feel Mike’s pulse racing under his palms, mirroring his own.
“Truth or dare?” Will asks softly, because if he doesn’t say something, he might do something stupid like close the distance between them.
Mike’s eyes flick to Will’s mouth, then back up. His hands tighten slightly on Will’s thighs, fingers pressing in just enough to make Will’s breath hitch. “Truth.”
Will hesitates, the question burning on his tongue. He’s not sure he wants the answer, but he needs it. “Why did you dare me to do this?”
Mike’s gaze doesn’t waver. His chest rises and falls faster now, and Will can feel it against his own.
“Because…” Mike starts, voice rough, like the words are stuck. He licks his lips, and Will’s eyes drop to follow the motion.
“Because I wanted to.”
Will’s thumbs pause on Mike’s collarbones. He can feel the rapid flutter beneath his fingertips, like Mike’s heart is trying to climb out and meet his own. He can feel his own dick twitching in interest. He might throw up.
“Wanted to,” Will echoes, voice soft, testing the words. “Just… wanted to have me sitting on your lap? Half-naked? In the middle of truth or dare?” Please say yes. Please say yes.
Mike lets out a shaky laugh that vibrates through both of them. His hands slide up Will’s thighs to settle at his hips, thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin just above the waistband of Will’s shorts. His fingers find the raised scar from the fire poker all those years ago.
“Yeah,” Mike says, quieter now. “Pretty much.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing again, and Will has to fight the urge to lean down and kiss it.
“Truth or dare?” Will asks, voice barely there.
Mike doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”
“I dare you to kiss me.”
Mike’s breath hitches. His grip tightens on Will’s hips, pulling him impossibly closer until their bare stomachs press together, skin on skin, heat bleeding between them. Will can feel every tremor running through Mike, every unsteady inhale.
Then Mike surges up.
The kiss is clumsy at first, desperate, all nose bumps and teeth and years of pent-up want crashing together. Mike’s hands slide up Will’s back, fingers splaying wide across bare skin, pulling him down until they’re chest-to-chest, mouths slotting together like they were always meant to. Will makes a small, broken sound into it, one hand fisting in Mike’s curls, the other cupping the back of his neck to hold him there.
Will can feel blood pooling in his lower stomach.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
Mike kisses like he’s starving, like he’s been holding his breath and he can finally exhale.
His tongue brushes tentative against Will’s, then bolder, tasting like cheap wine and popcorn.
Will melts into it, hips shifting forward instinctively, grinding down just enough to draw a choked groan from Mike’s throat.
Mike lets out a little breathy whimper as Will pulls away, panic dampening his arousal. “Fuck, Mike, I’m sorry I didn’t mean—”
“Truth or dare?” Mike interrupts, breathless and urgent.
Will pauses for a moment, entirely confused. “What?”
Mike shakes his head. “Just answer.” The words come out as more of a whine than a command.
Will swallows. “Dare.”
Mike breaks into a little smile, face flushed and hot. “Okay, I dare you to do that again.”
Will exhales a shaky laugh, relief flooding through him so fast it almost makes him dizzy. Mike’s smile—small, crooked, a little sheepish—is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Yeah?” Will breathes, already leaning back in.
“Yeah,” Mike says, voice rough and wrecked. His hands slide back down to Will’s hips, thumbs brushing over that old scar again. “Please.”
Will doesn’t make him beg twice.
He rolls his hips down slowly this time, deliberate, letting the friction build. Mike’s head tips back against the couch with a low, broken sound that shoots through Will’s dick like lightning.
Their bare chests slide together, skin slick with a thin sheen of sweat now, hearts hammering in tandem.
Will kisses him again, softer this time, slower. He licks into Mike’s mouth like he’s tasting something sacred, swallowing every little noise Mike makes. Mike’s fingers dig into Will’s hips, guiding the rhythm, encouraging him to rock harder, faster. The carpet scratches lightly at Will’s knees, but he barely notices.
Will pulls away just enough to breathe, lips hovering over Mike’s, swollen and slick. The sudden space between them makes Mike whine—low, needy, almost involuntary—and the sound goes straight to Will’s cock, making his hips twitch forward before he can stop them.
“Fuck,” Will whispers, voice wrecked. He cups Mike’s cheekbone with one trembling hand, thumb tracing the sharp line of it, the faint flush that’s spread all the way down his neck.
Mike looks ruined already—curls plastered to his forehead, eyes glassy and dark, mouth red and open like he’s forgotten how to close it.
Will’s jean shorts are painfully tight now, the denim biting into him with every shift. He can feel himself leaking against the seam, can feel the wet spot growing.
Mike’s gaze drops between them, slow and heavy, taking in the obvious bulge straining against Will’s shorts, then lower to where his own sweat-shorts are tented obscenely. His pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any brown left.
“Do you—” Mike starts, voice cracking. He licks his lips, tries again. “Do you wanna move up to the couch?”
Will nods so fast it makes his head spin. “Yeah. Yeah, please.”
He climbs off Mike’s lap carefully, knees aching from the carpet, thighs shaking. Mike makes a small, protesting sound at the loss of contact, but he’s already pushing himself up, clumsy and eager. Will offers a hand; Mike takes it, fingers lacing tight, and lets Will pull him to his feet.
They stumble the two steps to the couch together, breathing hard, hands still tangled. Mike drops back first, half-reclining against the armrest, legs falling open instinctively. The old plaid blanket bunches under him; the cushions sink with his weight. He looks up at Will like he’s the only thing in the room that matters, chest rising and falling fast, shorts riding low on his narrow hips.
Will stands there for a second, just looking—heart slamming against his ribs, dick throbbing in time with it.
Mike’s sprawled out, bare torso flushed and glistening faintly with sweat, legs spread wide enough for Will to fit between them. It’s everything he’s ever pictured and nothing like he imagined all at once.
“You should take your shorts off,” Will says, voice low and rough. His own hands are already moving to the button of his jeans, popping it open with fingers that won’t stop shaking.
Mike’s eyes flick to Will’s hands, then back up to his face. He nods quickly, almost frantically. “Yeah. Yeah, good idea.”
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweat-shorts and shoves them down in one awkward motion, kicking them off his ankles.
No underwear.
Fuck.
Mike is hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach, dark hair trailing down from his navel. Will’s mouth goes dry.
Mike swallows hard, looking suddenly shy despite everything. His hand twitches like he wants to cover himself, but he doesn’t.
Will shoves his own shorts and boxers down together, stepping out of them in a tangle of denim. The cool basement air hits his overheated skin and he shivers, cock bobbing free, already slick at the tip. Mike’s gaze drops immediately, lips parting on a soft, stunned breath.
“Jesus Christ, Will.”
Will laughs—shaky and disbelieving—and climbs onto the couch, settling between Mike’s spread thighs.
Their bare skin meets everywhere at once: chests, stomachs, thighs, cocks sliding together hot and slick. Will braces one hand beside Mike’s head, the other finding Mike’s hip, thumb brushing over bone.
Mike’s hands come up fast, sliding up Will’s sides, over his ribs, then around to his back, pulling him down until they’re pressed flush from chest to groin. The first real slide of cock against cock makes them both gasp, hips jerking forward at the same time.
“Fuck, Mike—”
“Yeah,” Mike breathes, head tipping back against the armrest.
Mike groans again, the sound low and ragged, vibrating through both of them where their bodies are pressed so tight. “W-Will– can I—” His voice fractures into another moan as Will drags the length of his cock slowly across Mike’s, slick heads catching and sliding together in a way that makes Mike’s whole body jerk.
“Can you what?” Will asks, breathless, hips rolling in a lazy, deliberate grind just to hear Mike make that sound again.
Mike’s fingers dig into Will’s back, nails leaving faint crescents.
“Can I fuck you?” The words come out in a rush, panting, almost desperate. His hips cant up instinctively, chasing more friction.
Will’s head tips back on a groan, eyes fluttering shut. The question hits him like a spark to dry tinder—sudden heat flooding low in his belly, making him feel dangerously close already. “Yes,” he manages, voice cracking. “Mike, yeah. Fuck, yes.”
Another slow grind, cocks sliding together, wet and hot. Will can feel Mike throbbing against him, can feel the way Mike’s thighs tremble under his own.
“Do you have lube or anything?” Will asks, trying to think through the haze, even as his hips keep moving in shallow, needy rolls.
Mike blinks up at him, eyes wide and glassy, pupils swallowing the brown.
Will wants to eat him, probably.
“Uh… n-no. I don’t.” Mike’s hips lift again, meeting Will’s in a slick glide that pulls another soft whimper from both of them.
“Does lotion work?” Mike asks, voice small and hopeful, like he’s afraid the answer will be no.
Will lets out a short, breathless puff of laughter against Mike’s mouth. “Yeah. Probably. It’ll be fine.”
He leans down, capturing Mike’s lips again. The kiss is slow this time, deep and filthy—tongues sliding together, tasting sweat and wine. Mike’s hands roam restlessly over Will’s back, down to his ass, squeezing like he can’t decide whether to pull him closer or hold him still.
Mike pulls away just enough to speak, lips brushing Will’s as he does. “But it’s all the way upstairs.”
Will grinds down harder in answer, swallowing Mike’s gasp. The friction is almost too much, almost perfect.
Mike’s voice comes again, quieter, a little bolder. “Would… spit work?”
Will literally moans at the words—raw and helpless, hips stuttering forward. The image flashes behind his eyes: Mike’s mouth, wet and open, slicking him up. “F-fuck, Mike…” He drops his forehead to Mike’s shoulder for a second, breathing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
Mike grins against his neck.
The shyness from earlier is still there, but it’s buried under something hotter, hungrier. He turns his head, catches Will’s earlobe between his teeth for a gentle tug, then whispers, “Then let me.”
Will shivers hard, cock twitching against Mike’s stomach. He nods, words failing him for a second. “Okay. Yeah. Do it.”
Mike’s hand slides between them—fingers wrapping loosely around both their cocks for one last slow stroke that makes Will groan, then he brings his hand up.
He spits into his palm, once, twice, the sound obscene in the quiet basement. Will watches, mesmerized, as Mike slicks himself up with quick, efficient strokes, eyes locked on Will’s face.
Mike’s hand moves to Will’s entrance, fingers circling. Spreading spit and precome in slow, teasing strokes. Will’s breath hitches, thighs shaking as he pushes back into the touch.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Mike murmurs, voice rough but gentle. One finger presses in, slow, careful, and Will’s head drops forward with a choked sound.
“It’s good,” he gasps. “Keep going.”
Mike works him open patiently, first one finger, then two. Mike curls them just right until Will’s hips jerk, a broken moan spilling out. He watches every reaction, eyes dark and focused.
When Will’s rocking back onto his fingers, needy and open, Mike pulls them out with a soft, wet sound. He spits into his palm again, slicks himself thoroughly, then lines up—head of his cock nudging against Will’s entrance.
Will braces his hands on Mike’s chest, thumbs brushing over nipples that are already peaked and sensitive. “Slow,” he whispers.
Mike nods and swallows hard. “Slow.”
He pushes in inch by inch; careful and trembling, both of them gasping at the stretch and the heat.
When he’s fully seated, hips flush against Will’s ass, they both still for a long moment, breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together.
“Fuck,” Mike breathes, “You feel so– God, Will.”
Will laughs shakily, clenching around him just to feel Mike shudder. “Move,” he says. “Please.”
And Mike does—slow rolls at first, testing, then deeper, steadier thrusts that make Will’s toes curl against the raggedy couch cushions.
They find a rhythm fast—hips meeting, skin slapping softly, breaths mingling in hot little pants. Mike’s hands grip Will’s hips, guiding him down onto every thrust, while Will braces himself and rocks back to meet him, chasing the angle that makes stars burst behind his eyes.
Mike’s mouth finds Will’s throat, sucking a mark there that’ll bruise tomorrow. Will’s fingers tangle in Mike’s curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan against his skin.
“Close,” Mike pants after a few more thrusts, voice strained. “Will– I’m—”
“Me too,” Will gasps, reaching between them to stroke himself in time with Mike’s hips. “Come inside me. Please.”
Mike’s rhythm stutters, hips slamming up hard once, twice—then he’s coming with a broken cry of Will’s name, pulsing deep inside him. The feel of it tips Will over the edge; he spills between them with a choked sob, clenching around Mike as aftershocks ripple through both of them.
They collapse together, sweaty and trembling, Mike still buried inside him. Mike’s arms wrap around Will’s back, holding him close, pressing soft, shaky kisses to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
They lay there like that for a long, suspended moment—sweaty limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in uneven sync, the basement air thick with the smell of sex.
Will’s head is tucked under Mike’s chin, ear pressed to the frantic thud of Mike’s heart. Mike’s fingers trace lazy, aimless patterns across Will’s bare back.
Then Mike shifts, just a little, and slides out of Will with a soft, wet sound. They both make small, involuntary noises: Mike a tiny whine in the back of his throat, Will a sharp inhale as the sudden emptiness hits him
Mike’s arms tighten around him for a second, reflexive, like he doesn’t want to let go even for this.
“God, Will,” Mike murmurs, voice soft. “That was so…”
He trails off, doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
The aftershocks are fading now, the haze of wine and want and orgasm slowly clearing. And with the clarity comes nerves spilling into Will’s lungs.
Because they just… they just did that. Mike is inside him, was inside him, and Mike isn’t—Mike can’t be—
They stay quiet for another beat. Mike lets out a long, contented sigh, the kind that usually comes after falling asleep during a movie marathon, not after—
“Maybe next time you could fuck me,” Mike says, casual, like he’s suggesting they try a new pizza place. “Or I could—”
Will sits up fast—too fast. His palms brace on Mike’s chest, heart slamming so hard he’s sure Mike can feel it. “Next time?”
Mike blinks up at him, brows knitting together in confusion. “Yeah? Next time.”
Will stares. Incredulous. Terrified. “Mike. You’re not gay.”
Mike’s frown deepens. He props himself up on his elbows, curls falling messily into his eyes. “I’m not?”
A drop of sweat beads on his nose, and Will wants to lick it off.
“I mean, you never—”
“Will.” Mike insists. He reaches up, cups Will’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.
“We just had sex. You’re a dude. I literally said I wanted you on my lap.” A small, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “I just said I wanted you to fuck me, so I don’t know where you’re getting that I’m not gay.”
Will blinks. The words don’t quite compute at first, rather they bounce around in his head like loose change.
“You—” His voice comes out small, cracked. “You mean that?”
Mike’s expression softens, the confusion melting into something tender and a little exasperated. “Yeah, I mean that.” He sits up fully now, pulling Will with him so they’re chest-to-chest again, knees knocking. Mike’s hands slide to the back of Will’s neck, fingers threading into his damp hair.
“I’ve been trying to tell you for, like, the last hour. I just suck at it.”
Will lets out a shaky laugh that’s half sob. “You’re terrible at it.”
“I know.” Mike’s smile is small, sheepish, and perfect. “But I’m trying now. I’m really trying.”
Will searches his face, dark eyes and the smattering of freckles across his cheeks. His lips, bitten red and swollen from kissing. From kissing Will.
Fourteen year old Will would have had an aneurism.
“Okay,” Will whispers.
Mike’s brows lift. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Will repeats, stronger this time. He leans in, presses his forehead to Mike’s.
Mike exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They kiss again, slow and sweet. Mike’s arms wrap around Will’s waist, pulling him down until they’re lying side by side on the narrow couch, legs tangled, faces inches apart.
Mike traces the line of Will’s jaw with one finger. “I love you,” he says, simple and sure. “I think I’ve loved you since we were ten.”
Will’s throat tightens. He swallows hard. “I love you too. Since, like, forever.”
Mike’s eyes go soft.
He presses a kiss to Will’s forehead, then his nose, then his mouth.
“Hey, Mike?” Will whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Was this the plan all along? Is that why you wanted to play truth or dare so bad?”
Mike’s face flushes a little, and his mouth quirks up into a smile. “Maybe.”
“God, you are such a dork.”
“Yeah, but you love me.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I do.”