Chapter Text
March 22nd, 1992
The sheets were still warm and tangled around their legs, the small bedroom lit only by the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. Will lay on his side, breathing slowly as Mike pressed up behind him, chest to back, one arm draped heavily over his waist. The air smelled like the faint trace of Mike’s cologne, the kind Will had bought him last Christmas. For a moment, everything felt almost peaceful.
“You’re so perfect like this,” Mike whispered against the nape of his neck, voice low and rough from earlier. His lips brushed the skin there, soft and lingering. “I could stay right here forever. Just you and me. No one else in the world matters.”
Will tried to focus on the words, on the warmth of Mike’s body curled around him.
It should have felt romantic. Safe. But his heart was already racing for the wrong reasons. He kept his breathing even, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling he’d memorized months ago. His eyes drifted down to the fresh white bandage wrapped tightly around Mike’s left wrist, stark against his skin. He didn’t let himself think about it. Not right now.
Mike’s hand slid up, fingers tracing slow circles over Will’s stomach, gentle but possessive. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? Anything at all.” The words were sweet, almost tender, but there was something underneath them, something that made Will’s skin prickle.
He swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”
Mike shifted closer, pressing a kiss just below Will’s ear. “Good. Because today’s your birthday. Twenty two. I wanted it to be perfect for you. Only you.” His voice dropped even lower. “I quit my job at the comic store this morning. I hate late shifts and distractions, now I can be here for you all the time. Every single day.”
Will’s breath caught. The words hung in the air, casual as if Mike had just mentioned picking up milk from the corner store. He felt Mike smile against his neck, like it was the most natural, loving thing in the world.
“I told them I needed to focus on what really matters,” Mike continued, still tracing those lazy circles. “You. Only you. The rest of the world can wait.”
Will’s mind spun. He tried to keep his body relaxed, but his pulse hammered in his ears. This wasn’t the Mike he’d known for years, the awkward, dorky guy who rambled about books and got flustered over nothing.
Something had shifted. Something deep and irreversible. He could feel it in the way Mike held him, like he was afraid Will might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
Mike pressed another kiss to his shoulder, slow and deliberate. “Happy birthday, Will. I love you more than anything. More than anyone.”
The words should have warmed him. Instead, they settled cold in his chest. Will closed his eyes, forcing a small sound of agreement, but his thoughts were already racing ahead, trying to piece together how they had gotten here. How the boy he had loved since they were kids had become this.
Mike’s arm tightened around him, almost imperceptibly. “We don’t need anyone else. Not anymore.”
The rain tapped against the window outside, steady and unrelenting. Will lay there in the dark, listening to Mike’s breathing even out into sleep, and wondered how much longer he could pretend everything was still okay.
______________
Late October, 1991
The apartment smelled like cheap pasta sauce and the faint musty odor of old books that always lingered no matter how many times they aired the place out or sprayed the cheap air freshener Will had bought on sale.
The sauce was bubbling gently on the stove, the wooden spoon scraping softly against the bottom of the pot as Will stirred it in slow, steady circles. Steam rose in lazy curls, fogging the small window above the sink just enough to blur the view of the fire escape outside. Their third year at NYU had been a relentless grind so far, the kind that left them both exhausted by the end of most days. Mike had endless papers and seminars for his Literature major, while Will spent long hours in the art studios facing critiques that often left him doubting every line he drew. But nights like this made it all feel bearable. They had fallen into an easy rhythm over the years, two best friends from Hawkins sharing space like it was the most natural thing in the world, the companionship that didn’t need constant conversation to feel right. It was comfortable. Familiar. Safe.
“Pass the salt?” Will asked, not looking up from the pot. His voice was casual, almost automatic after so many shared meals in this tiny kitchen.
Mike handed it over without missing a beat, his shoulder brushing Will’s in the narrow space between the counter and the fridge. The contact was brief and warm. “You always put too much in,” Mike said, his tone teasing but fond. “It’s gonna taste like the ocean again. Remember last time? I had to drink three glasses of water just to get the taste out.”
Will elbowed him lightly in the ribs, careful not to spill anything from the pot. “Says the guy who burned toast three times last week. I still have the smoke alarm trauma from that. The neighbors probably thought we were trying to burn the building down.”
Mike laughed, that familiar dorky sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole face light up in that boyish way Will had known since they were kids. It was the same laugh that could cut through any bad mood, the one that made the long days at college feel a little less heavy. “That was one time. And you still ate it. With extra butter, if I remember right. You’re not exactly a gourmet chef yourself, Mr. ‘I forgot the pasta in the water for twenty minutes.’”
Will grinned despite himself, shaking his head as he sprinkled the salt in with a generous pinch. The sauce hissed softly as the seasoning hit it. They moved around each other in the tiny kitchen with practiced ease, bumping hips when they reached for the same drawer at the same time, trading small jabs about whose turn it was to take out the trash or who had left the milk out on the counter again last night. It was comfortable. Domestic in a way that felt safe, like slipping into an old sweater that still fit perfectly even after all these years. After dinner they did the dishes together, Mike washing while Will dried, the radio playing low in the background with some soft rock station neither of them particularly loved but never bothered to change. The clink of plates and the running water filled the quiet spaces between their words, the occasional splash of soap suds landing on the counter. It felt good to Will, to get reminded why sharing this apartment with Mike felt like home.
It had been two weeks since Mike came back from Pittsburgh. The visit to see El had ended sooner than expected. Will still remembered the night clearly, every detail etched into his memory like one of his own sketches: Mike had walked through the door late one night, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy from the train ride and the rain that had started falling on his way from the station.
He had pulled Will into a tight hug right there in the doorway, arms wrapping around him with a kind of quiet desperation that Will hadn’t expected. “El broke up with me,” he had said quietly, almost matter-of-fact, his chin resting on Will’s shoulder for a long moment before he pulled back. The reason was never fully clear to Will, something about her needing to focus on her own life at the orphanage center, her own path forward. She had apparently decided the long-distance thing was weighing her down, that she needed space to figure things out without the pull of their history.
Will had braced himself for the fallout. Mike and El had been together since they were twelve, a constant in their lives for so long that it felt like part of the foundation of who they were. He expected tears, anger, long nights of Mike staring at the ceiling or pacing the apartment, replaying every letter and phone call they had shared. He had prepared himself to be the supportive best friend, staying up late, making bad coffee, listening without judgment, offering quiet reassurances that things would get better.
But none of it came. Mike seemed strangely fine. Almost unchanged. He went to his Literature classes the next day like clockwork, helped with chores around the apartment without being asked, cracked the same awkward jokes about his professors and their impossible reading lists. He didn’t mope. He didn’t withdraw. He didn’t spend hours staring at old photos or rereading her letters. It was like nothing had happened at all. Will watched him carefully those first few days, waiting for the crack, the moment when the reality would hit him and the sadness would finally break through. But it never appeared. Mike was still Mike, dorky, passionate about his books, a little clumsy in the kitchen when he tried to help cook, quick with a sarcastic comment when Will complained about a bad critique in studio. The breakup might as well have been a footnote in some other story.
Will secretly loved it. For the first time in years, there was no El hovering in the background. No long phone calls stretching late into the night where Mike would excuse himself to the other room, voice softening in that particular way. No letters arriving in the mail with her messy handwriting on the envelope, no quiet moments where Mike would sit at the table writing back with that focused expression. Just the two of them, navigating their days and nights together without that third presence pulling Mike’s attention away.
Will tried not to feel guilty about how happy it made him. He told himself he was being a good friend, supporting Mike through what should have been a difficult time. That was what mattered. He wasn’t being selfish. He wasn’t hoping for something more. He was just… there. Like always. The good friend. The reliable one. The one who smiled and listened and never asked for too much.
They finished the dishes and moved to the living room, collapsing onto the sagging couch with their plates of pasta balanced on their laps. Mike stretched his long legs out, propping his feet on the coffee table, while Will curled up at the other end with his sketchbook balanced on his knee. The radio continued playing softly, some old song neither of them knew the words to but hummed along with anyway. Mike talked about a paper he was working on for his American Lit class, something about themes of isolation in Fitzgerald, his hands gesturing animatedly as he explained his thesis. Will listened, nodding along, occasionally offering a comment or a question that made Mike’s eyes light up with that passionate spark he got when he was really into something. It all felt so easy and comfortable, the nights like this they had shared hundreds of times before made the grind of college feel a little less overwhelming.
Later, after they had cleared the plates and Mike had helped Will organize his latest batch of sketches for an upcoming critique, they settled in for a movie. Mike picked something old and noir, the type of movie with sharp dialogue and shadowy cinematography that he loved dissecting afterward. Will didn’t mind. He liked the way Mike’s face lit up when he pointed out symbolism or clever camera work, the way he would pause the tape to explain a particular shot or line.
They sat close on the couch, shoulders touching, sharing a bowl of popcorn that Mike had burned slightly but insisted was “artistically crispy.” Will laughed at his defense.
In the quiet moments between scenes, when the room was dark except for the flickering television glow, Will sometimes caught Mike glancing at him. There was something in his eyes, a hesitation, like he was on the verge of saying something important, something that had been building for a while, but then Mike would shrug it off with a shy smile and say, “It’s nothing. Just thinking about the plot.”
Will never pushed. He told himself it was nothing. He was being a good friend. He was happy with things the way they were. He had Mike all to himself, and that was enough. It had to be enough.
But deep down, in the quiet parts of himself he tried not to examine too closely, he knew the truth. He loved having Mike all to himself. No distractions. No El. Just the two of them, building a life together in this tiny apartment, sharing routines and inside jokes and embracing the closeness that felt like home. He tried not to feel guilty about how much he cherished it. He was a good friend. That was what mattered. Good friends didn’t want more than they deserved. Good friends didn’t hope their best friend’s heartbreak would last just a little longer so they could keep this closeness.
He was a good friend. That was what mattered.
_____________
When Will thought about the moment everything went wrong, it always came back to that rainy night in late November.
He had come home from a late studio session, paint still smudged across his jeans and a streak of charcoal on his cheek from where he had absentmindedly wiped his face with the back of his hand. The rain had soaked through his jacket, leaving him chilled and damp, but he was excited anyway. Their weekly cinema “date” was one of the highlights of his week, cheap tickets to whatever was playing at the old theater a few blocks away, then arguing about the plot over greasy diner food afterward. It was simple. It was theirs. He pushed open the apartment door, shaking water from his hair, a small smile already forming on his lips as he called out.
“Mike? You ready? The movie starts in forty minutes, and I swear if we miss the previews again I’m making you buy the popcorn this time.”
But the words died in his throat.
Mike was in the living room, kneeling by the couch with his duffel bag open on the floor. Clothes were folded neatly inside, toiletries already tucked into the side pocket. The sight hit Will like a punch to the gut, freezing him in the doorway with rain still dripping from his jacket onto the worn linoleum.
“Mike?” Will’s voice came out smaller than he wanted. “What are you doing?”
Mike looked up, zipping the duffel with a quick, efficient motion. His expression was calm, almost casual, like they were talking about what to have for dinner. “I’m going to Pittsburgh. Just for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Will’s stomach twisted sharply, a cold knot forming deep in his chest. The rain pounded harder against the window, mirroring the sudden rush of panic in his veins. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him a little too hard. “To El?”
“Yeah…” Mike stood up, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. The way things ended was really bad. I feel guilty. I mean I tried calling her but she’s not picking up for… obvious reasons.”
“Guilty?” Will’s voice came out sharper than he meant, echoing slightly in the small apartment. He took another step forward, fists clenching at his sides without him realizing it. “Guilty for what? She broke up with you, Mike. She made it very clear she doesn’t need you anymore. Why would you feel guilty about that?”
Mike paused, frowning slightly as he adjusted the strap of the bag. “Will… are you okay? Why are you acting like this? It’s just a quick trip. Its not like i'm moving out or anything.”
Will forced a laugh, but it came out sharp and ugly, nothing like his usual easy chuckle. He tried to play it off, to be the good friend again, the supportive one who always put Mike first. “I’m just trying to protect you. You’ve been doing fine without her. Really fine. We’ve been doing fine. If you go back, she’s just going to hurt you again. She made her choice, Mike. So please… don’t go? Just stay here. We can still make the movie. It’ll be fun. Like always.”
Mike sighed, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was thinking through something complicated. His shoulders were tense, but his voice stayed even. “I’m sorry, Will. It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t tell you everything last time, but I promise I will when I get back. And I promise I’m not trying to win her back. This isn’t about that.”
Will’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He took another step closer, his wet sneakers squeaking on the floor. “Then what is it about? Tell me. Right now. Because it sure as hell looks like you’re running back to her the second she might give you the time of day. You’ve been okay, Mike. Better than okay. You haven’t been sad. You haven’t been moping. Why ruin that? Why go back to someone who dumped you?”
Mike’s frown deepened. He set the duffel bag down for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will, you’re acting like... I’m betraying you. It’s just an apology. I just feel bad about how it ended. That’s all. I need to say it in person. It’s the right thing to do.”
“The right thing?” Will’s voice rose, frantic now. He gestured wildly with one hand, the other clenched at his side. “The right thing is not chasing after someone who told you they don’t need you! She broke up with you, Mike. She said she had her own life. Why can’t you just accept that and move on? You don’t need to go crawling back just because you feel some stupid guilt. Stay here. With me. Please.”
Mike rubbed his neck again, looking uncomfortable. “Will, calm down. You’re blowing this way out of proportion. It’s one night. I’ll be back tomorrow evening at the latest. We can do the movie then. Or the night after. Look... It’s not a big deal.”
Will’s laugh was borderline hysterical. He took another step forward, close enough to see the rain still clinging to Mike’s hair from earlier. “It is a big deal! You’re choosing her again. After everything. After you finally had some peace. After we finally had… this. Us. Without her in the middle. And now you’re just going to go back and let her pull you in again. I know how this ends, Mike. You’ll talk, you’ll remember all the good times, and you’ll get back together. And I’ll be here alone again, waiting for you to come home like some pathetic sidekick.”
Mike’s eyes widened slightly. “Will, that’s not fair. This isn’t about choosing anyone. It’s about closing a chapter. I feel bad. That’s it. You’re my best friend. You know that.”
“Best friend,” Will repeated, the words tasting bitter. His voice cracked with frustration. “Yeah. Best friend. That’s all I am. That’s all I’ll ever be. So go ahead. Go to Pittsburgh. Go apologize. Go get her back... seems like you're gonna play stubborn like you always did!”
Mike took a step closer, his expression softening. “Will, come on. I'm not being stubborn... El was my girlfriend for seven years and I guess I’m just… fixing something I feel bad about. I promise. One night. That’s all.”
Will’s hands were shaking. He could feel the tears burning at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. “One night turns into two. Two turns into phone calls again. Phone calls turn into visits. And then I’m back to being the guy who waits. The guy who smiles and says ‘I’m happy for you’. I can’t do it anymore, Mike. So if you’re going, just go, but don’t lie to me and say it’s nothing.”
Mike stood there for a long moment, the rain still pattering against the window. He looked torn, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he picked up the duffel bag again. “I’m sorry, Will. I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll talk then. I promise.”
Will watched him walk to the door, every step feeling like a punch. He wanted to grab Mike’s arm, to pull him back, to yell until he understood. But he didn’t. He just stood there, frozen, as Mike opened the door and stepped out into the rain.
The apartment door clicked shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Will sank onto the couch, pulling his knees to his chest. The rain tapped against the window, steady and cold, like it was trying to match the rhythm of his breaking heart. Tears burned in his eyes and spilled over before he could stop them. He cried quietly at first, small, choked sounds that he tried to swallow down, but then they built into harder, uglier sobs that shook his whole frame. His shoulders heaved with each one, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans until his knuckles turned white. The apartment felt too big and too small at the same time, the silence pressing in on him from all sides now that Mike was gone.
Why can’t you love me?
Why can’t you see that I’m dying for you to look at me the way you used to look at her?
Why can’t you see that I would do anything for you? That I’m more than just your best friend?
The thought looped in his head, over and over, like a broken record he couldn’t turn off.
He was so tired of being good. So tired of pretending it didn’t hurt every single time Mike chose her. So tired of smiling through the ache and telling himself it was enough. He had spent years doing that, being the supportive one, the reliable one, the friend who never asked for too much. And for what? For Mike to walk out the door again, chasing after the girl who had already told him she didn’t need him?
Will rocked slightly on the couch, his forehead pressed to his knees. The rain kept falling, harder now, drumming against the glass like it was trying to drown out his thoughts. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.
He felt like he was thirteen again.
The memory hit him hard, pulling him back to that rainy summer night in Hawkins. He had been alone in the woods near the destroyed castle byers, the one that he destroyes with his own hands, though he tried not to think about that part anymore. The rain had been pouring down just like tonight, soaking through his clothes, turning the ground into mud that sucked at his sneakers. He had run there after a fight with Mike, one of those stupid, sharp arguments that started over nothing and ended with everything. Mike had been spending more and more time with El, canceling plans with the Party, forgetting to show up for their bike rides or D&D sessions. Will had finally snapped, yelling at him in the Wheeler's garage that El was taking him away, that he never had time for his friends anymore, for him anymore. Mike had gotten defensive, saying Will didn’t understand, that things were different now. And the part that stinged the most ' Will was acting childish'. The fight had ended with Mike storming off, and Will biking to the woods, alone and shaking with anger and hurt.
He had sat there for hours under a half-collapsed tree, the ruins of the old wooden castle visible through the trees like a ghost. The rain had mixed with his tears as he pulled out the photo from his pocket, the one from the previous Halloween, before El had shown up again and ruined everything. It was a picture of the Party, all of them smiling in their costumes, but Will had focused on Mike, the way he looked so happy standing next to him. In his anger, he had ripped it in half, tearing Mike’s side away from his own, the paper shredding with a sound that felt like it tore something inside him too. He had cried harder then, clutching the ruined pieces, whispering to the empty woods why Mike couldn’t see him, why El had to come and take him away, why he wasn’t enough.
It felt the same now. Thirteen or twenty, the pain was the same. The fear of losing Mike was the same. The desperate, ugly want was the same.
Will lifted his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His eyes landed on the small box sitting on the coffee table. The One Wish Willow.
The memory of the shop came back to Will in fragments as he stared at the small beige and red box on the coffee table.
It had been a few days earlier, during one of their usual weekend explorations around the city. They had spent the afternoon wandering through the Village, dodging puddles from an earlier drizzle, stopping at used bookstores for Mike and art supply stores for Will. The occult shop had caught their eye because of the handwritten sign in the window, “Curiosities & Oddities”, and Mike, always up for anything that could spark an idea for one of his literature papers, had dragged Will inside with a grin.
The place was small and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and old paper. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with crystals, tarot decks, dried herbs, and strange little trinkets that looked like they belonged in a horror movie prop department. A bell above the door had tinkled softly when they entered, and the old owner behind the counter had barely looked up from his newspaper, muttering something about browsing at their own risk.
Mike had immediately gone into full dramatic mode, picking up items and reading the labels out loud in an exaggerated voice. “Look at this, Will, ‘Love Potion Number Nine. Results may vary. Side effects include bad decisions and regret.’ Classic.” He had laughed, that bright, dorky sound that always made Will’s chest feel a little lighter.
Will had wandered over to a shelf near the back, smiling despite himself. They had been doing this their freshman year, exploring weird corners of the city together, turning ordinary afternoons into little adventures. It was one of his favorite things about living with Mike. No pressure or expectations. Just the two of them, being idiots together.
Then Mike had spotted the One Wish Willow box on a lower shelf. He had picked it up with both hands, holding it up like it was a priceless artifact. The packaging was retro, beige with bold red accents, the kind of design that looked like it belonged in the 70s or early 80s. Across the top in big, playful letters it read “Amaze Your Friends!” Below that was a cheesy illustration of a glowing willow branch.
“Oh man, this is perfect,” Mike had said, grinning widely. He had opened the box right there in the aisle, pulling out the dried willow branch with a flourish. a tinkling music box melody had started playing from inside the box itself, a haunting little tune that sounded like something from an old children’s music box, wistful and a bit eerie at the same time. “Listen to that. It’s like a horror movie prop. ‘Snap the branch and make one wish.’ You should get this, Will. Wish for me to finally finish my thesis on time. Orrr... wish for better grades in your studio critiques. Or wish for me to stop burning the toast.”
Will had laughed, the sound genuine and easy. “Or wish for you to stop stealing my socks every time you do laundry.”
Mike had clutched the box to his chest dramatically. “Never. Those are community property now. But seriously, this is gold. Imagine if it actually worked. We could wish for a bigger apartment. Or for our professors to cancel all finals. Or for infinite instant noodles”
They had spent a good ten minutes in the aisle, joking back and forth, Mike reading the warning labels in increasingly ridiculous voices. The owner had finally glanced over with a bored expression, but hadn’t said anything. In the end, Will had bought it on a whim, paying the few dollars with a shrug. “Fine. It’s your joke gift. I’ll give it to you later when you least expect it.”
Mike had carried the box out of the shop like a trophy, still laughing as they walked back toward the subway. “This is going to be the best prank ever. I can already see the look on your face when I pretend it worked and tell you I wished for you to do all the dishes for a month.”
Will had rolled his eyes, bumping Mike’s shoulder as they walked. “You wish.”
They had never talked about it again. Will had tucked the box away in the living room, intending to spring it on Mike at some point as a silly surprise. But he never did. And now, sitting on the couch with tears still drying on his face, the box felt like the only thing left in the world that might listen.
He reached for it with trembling hands, the cardboard slightly worn at the edges from being moved around the apartment. The beige and red colors looked cheap under the apartment’s dim lighting, the “Amaze Your Friends!” text almost mocking him now. He opened the lid slowly. Inside, nestled in red tissue paper, was the simple dried willow branch. When he pulled it out, the tinkling music box melody started playing again. It filled the quiet apartment for a few seconds before he set the box down.
He held the branch tightly, the dry wood rough against his palm. The tears were still falling, but his voice was steady when he whispered the words.
“I wish Mike would love me the same way I love him.”
He snapped the willow in half.
For a few long seconds, nothing happened. Honestly, what the fuck was he expecting?Will stared at the broken pieces in his lap, feeling ridiculous and small and pathetic. “Stupid,” he whispered, wiping his face again. “So fucking stupid.”
The rain kept falling outside. The apartment stayed empty. And Will stayed alone, curled on the couch, waiting for a miracle he knew would never come.
_____________
Will wasn't sure how long had passed since he sat down on the couch or for how long he was crying. Time had lost all meaning in the quiet of the apartment, the rain outside becoming a constant, dull roar that blended with the pounding in his head. His head rested against the back of the couch, eyes staring blankly at the window like a paralyzed man, not moving, his whole body ached and felt stiff from the tension he had been holding for what felt like hours. His legs were numb from being curled up so tightly, his arms heavy where they wrapped around his knees, and his heart felt like a lead weight in his chest, each beat painful and slow. The box and the broken branch lay scattered next to him on the cushion, the triangular beige and red packaging slightly crumpled from when he had gripped it too hard. He wanted to sit there and wait until Mike came back. He wanted to stay frozen in this spot forever if that was what it took, just so he wouldn’t have to face the emptiness of the apartment without him.
Was he having a depressive episode? He couldn't remember when was the last time he had one, not like this. He knew he was slightly fucked up in the head, it was clinically diagnosed when he hadn't even entered puberty, the kind of thing that came with waves of numbness and overwhelming sadness that made everything feel pointless. But he was having the worst one he had in a while, when his thoughts looped in cruel circles, showing him every moment he had failed, every time he had smiled through the pain of watching Mike drifting away from him. When his body felt too heavy to move, when even breathing took effort. He had thought he was past this. He had thought the move to New York, the new life with Mike as his roommate, had fixed something inside him. But here he was, twenty one years old, curled up like a child, waiting for the boy he loved to come back from chasing after someone who didn’t want him.
The rain kept falling, steady and cold against the glass. Will’s eyes burned from crying, but the tears had slowed to a trickle now, leaving salty tracks down his cheeks.
He thought about calling Mike. He could pick up the phone right now, dial the number for the payphone near the train station, and make up some desperate lie. “I hurt myself,” he could say, voice shaking just enough to sound believable. “I tripped in the kitchen and cut my hand pretty bad on a knife. It’s bleeding a lot. Can you come back?” Mike would come. He always did when Will needed him. He’d drop everything and run back, that worried look on his face, the one that made Will feel seen for just a moment. Or maybe he could actually do it. Grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and make a real cut, not deep enough to be dangerous, but enough to scare Mike into staying. Enough to make him choose Will, even if it was out of guilt. Or fuck it, cut it deep enough so you can faint, he gets really scared when you faint.
The thought lingered for a terrifying second, his brain working out of his control at that point, calculating how much pressure he’d need, where to cut so it looked accidental but serious. He could picture Mike bursting through the door, eyes wide with fear, dropping to his knees beside him on the floor. “Will, what happened? I’m here. I’m here.” He wouldn’t go to Pittsburgh then. He’d stay. He’d hold Will’s hand the whole way to the hospital if he had to. He’d choose him.
Will’s breath hitched. He realized how crazy and pathetic that was, how twisted the thought had become. He was sitting here, thinking about hurting himself just to keep his best friend from leaving for one night. What kind of person did that make him? He buried his face deeper into his knees, shame burning through the sadness like acid. He wasn’t that person. He couldn’t be. He was a good friend. He had always been the good one.
But then another voice whispered in the back of his mind, quieter but insistent. If he did that, he wouldn’t regret it. Not really. Not if it worked. Not if it brought Mike back to him, even for a little while. The thought lingered, dangerous and tempting, before he shoved it away with a fresh wave of tears.
Then came a knock on the door.
Will stood slowly, heart pounding, every muscle protesting from how long he had been curled up on the couch. His legs felt unsteady as he crossed the small living room, the floor creaking under his feet like it was trying to warn him. The rain was still falling outside, a steady drumming against the window that had become the only sound in the apartment for what felt like hours. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to pull himself together, but his eyes were still red and swollen, his cheeks damp. He reached for the doorknob, hesitating for a second, wondering if he was imagining things, if the knock had been nothing but his desperate mind playing tricks on him.
He opened the door.
Mike stood there, soaked from the rain, panting like he had run the whole way back from the subway. Rain dripped from his hair onto the floor, his jacket dark and heavy with water, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had sprinted through the storm. His eyes were wide, almost wild, but there was something else in them, something raw and urgent that Will had never seen before.
“Mike? What are you doing here… did you forget some—”
Mike stepped forward without a word, grabbed Will’s face with both cold, wet hands, and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, rain-slick and trembling, like Mike had been holding it in for years. His fingers pressed into Will’s cheeks, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep him there, as if he was afraid Will might pull away. The kiss tasted like rain and salt from Will’s earlier tears, warm despite the cold water still dripping from Mike’s hair onto both of them. Will’s mind went blank. For one perfect moment, everything else disappeared, the guilt, the fear, the wish. The wish. the horrible thoughts that had been looping in his head for hours. There was only Mike’s mouth on his, urgent and real, and the frantic beat of his own heart echoing in his ears.
Will’s hands came up instinctively, gripping the wet fabric of Mike’s jacket, pulling him closer without thinking. The kiss deepened, Mike tilting his head slightly, a small sound escaping his throat that sounded like relief and hunger all at once. The rain continued to fall behind them, but the world outside the doorway might as well have stopped existing. Will felt dizzy, lips tingling, his body responding before his brain could catch up. This was everything he had wanted for so long, everything he had cried over just minutes ago, and now it was happening. Mike was kissing him. Mike was here.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Will was dizzy, lips tingling, eyes wide with shock and fragile joy. He stared at Mike, searching his face for any sign that this was a mistake, that he was going to pull away and apologize. But Mike just looked back at him, eyes dark and intense, rain still dripping from his lashes.
Mike stared at him, breathing hard. Then he let out a shaky, slightly manic laugh. “Holy shit. What the fuck did I just do?”
Will blinked, still dazed, his hands still clutching Mike’s wet jacket. “You… you just kissed me.”
Mike laughed again, louder this time, running a hand through his wet hair and pushing it back from his forehead. Water droplets flew from his fingers. “Fuck yeah… I mean, yeah I did!” His voice was breathless, almost giddy, the kind of laugh that came from pure adrenaline and disbelief. He looked at Will like he was seeing him for the first time, really seeing him, and the intensity in his eyes made Will’s stomach flip.
The bubble of bliss popped almost immediately. Will felt his chest tighten again, the reality of the situation crashing back in. He looked down, voice small and uncertain. “Mike… I... I have no idea why you did that but… we can forget about it if you regret it.” pulling all his remaining stregth to continue. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t want to ruin anything between us.”
Mike’s expression changed instantly. The laughter faded from his face, replaced by something serious, almost intense. He stepped closer, closing the small distance between them, his wet shoes squeaking on the floor. “I don’t regret it.”
Will swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Okay. Um… so what are you gonna do now?”
Mike’s smile returned, slow and certain, the smile that made Will’s knees feel weak. He reached up and brushed a tear from Will’s cheek with his thumb, the touch gentle but possessive. “I want to kiss you again. And again… and again until I run out of breath.” He leaned in, forehead resting against Will’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. “And then I want to tell you that I love you.”
Before Will could fully register the words, before he could even begin to process what they meant, Mike’s mouth was on his again, deeper this time, slower, like a promise. His hands slid from Will’s face to his waist, pulling him closer, holding him like he was afraid to let go. Will melted into it, his own hands coming up to grip Mike’s shoulders, the wet fabric of his jacket cool under his fingers. The kiss tasted like rain and desperation and something deeper. Mike kissed him like he had been starving for it, like every moment leading up to this had been leading here.
When they finally broke apart again, both of them breathing hard, Mike rested his forehead against Will’s once more. “I love you, Will,” he whispered, the words raw and certain. “I’ve loved you for so, so long.”
Will’s eyes filled with fresh tears, but this time they weren’t from sadness. For the first time in years, he let himself believe something good might finally be his.