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Mike loves Will.
He really does. Even if it took thirteen years of knowing Will (and four years of pushing him away, of fighting his feelings, of hurting him) to realize Mike had actually been in love with him the whole time — had been destined to love him since the moment Will said 'yes' to being friends their first day of kindergarten, all wide smiles and doe eyes.
Which is why he wants this, right?
Just the two of them alone in the shared bedroom of the shabby apartment they just barely managed to afford together while they're going to college in Chicago — Mike's hair still damp from the shower he just took, pressed into the lumpy pillow under the weight of Will's lips as he kisses him with a heated fervor, legs straddled over his hips and pinning him down, fingers gentle as they trace the jut of Mike's hipbone above the line of his boxers.
He focuses on that — on the weight of Will on top of him, on the feel of his hand touching bare skin. This feels good, he reminds himself, because Mike loves Will. He really does.
Will pulls away only to catch his breath, panting hot and heavy above Mike. "Is… this alright?" Will murmurs. The overhead flickers slightly, still faulty even though they had called to ask the landlord about it two days ago. When the brightness settles, Mike can see Will anew. His eyes travel from wet and full lips, to the dark mole above them, to the wonderful shade of red overtaking his tan cheeks. With the overhead light haloing his face, catching and accentuating the edges of his features — the line of his jaw, the ends of his soft brown hair, all highlighted by a pale yellow — he is nothing short of angelic. "I'm sorry, you just look so beautiful right now."
That's exactly what Will said when Mike had come back from his shower. While he was getting dressed, he had accidentally dropped his shirt on the wet bathroom tiles, so when he had walked into the room, it was only in his boxers with a towel thrown over his bare shoulders under still damp hair and stray water droplets dripping down his spine.
"Beautiful," Will had whispered from where he was sitting on their bed, clad in his boxers and Mike's too long sleep shirt. His eyes had trailed over the pale planes of Mike's body, mesmerized as he seemed to soak in every detail. Mike had frozen right where he was, only a little past the door. Will had looked at him in many ways in the past — like he trusted him, like he cared for him, like he loved him. Never like he wanted Mike, not like this.
"Beautiful," Will had whispered as he crossed the room in three hurried steps. His hands had wrapped behind Mike, one tracing constellations between the freckles that dotted his skin and the other coming up to discard the towel somewhere on the nearest surface. Mike had chuckled, the sound high and breathy, flustered under Will's attention. He had made to reply, opening his mouth to ask something along the lines of 'what brought this on?' or maybe to make a quip about how 'he should drop his clothes more often.'
"Beautiful," Will had whispered after he had stolen Mike's words right from his mouth with a kiss. His lips had been soft and tasted sweet, just like every other time, but they had moved in tandem with his tongue in a different rhythm, for a different purpose — insistent and hot and wet. Before Mike could recover, he was being pulled to the bed, collapsing under the weight of Will and his desire.
"Do you" —Will had licked his lips, confidence faltering slightly— "want to do this?" he had asked, filled out arms bracketing his body underneath. He had held himself slightly above Mike, leaving just enough room to breathe.
And Mike had said yes. Mike had said yes.
"Mike?" Will questions, rubbing small circles into his waist that pull him back to the present. Mike knows he's being asked because he hasn't responded at all. His hands lay limply at his sides, exactly where they fell when he had been pushed into the bed. He's been staring up wide-eyed at Will the whole time, too stunned to do much else.
"Yeah, this is alright," Mike murmurs, small and breathless. He wants this. "More than alright." One hand comes up to slot into the small of Will's back, the other finds its way into the strands of his hair. Each touch is featherlight. Who wouldn't want the love of their life pushing them into bed, kissing them senseless, hands caressing like each dip of their body was something to be mapped and explored? Mike tilts up to press a chaste peck to Will's upper lip, right where he can find the mole without looking, without even thinking. A soft giggle reaches his ears, breathy and lilting, coming from the other above him.
He should want this.
Mike had been scared to initiate first. While any small compliment from Will could set his stomach aflutter, Mike felt nothing when their kisses had begun to deepen in intensity. Sure, a kiss with Will is still a kiss with Will, so he savors them — the feeling of being so connected to Will, knowing that only he knows how his lips taste (sweet, a faint touch of cinnamon), being able to load all his overflowing emotion into action instead of ill-fitting words — but that's about it. No racing heart in his chest, no molten lava at the base of his core, no rush of blood to his head. He thought it was supposed to be all-consuming, the want for intimacy with someone you love.
It's not. He can't feel it at all. Like there's a gaping hole in his heart where his desire should lie — and Will keeps on giving and giving, pouring all of his want into it, and Mike can't catch any of it. Everything just falls right through.
The feeling, or rather the lack of it, is painfully recognizable. It was just like this with Jane. He had never felt that desire, became acquainted with the shape and ache of its absence, because he didn't love her like that. Mike knows that now, has spent years coming to terms with the fact. But why can't he feel it with Will? He loves Will, of nothing else he can be more certain. So what is the problem? What is he missing?
"Just… first-time nerves," Mike says, pulling a crooked smirk. Maybe, once they get into it, everything will finally click and he'll feel everything he's supposed to feel.
Will huffs a small laugh, a giddy little smile spreading on his lips. "It's okay," he reassures him, "I'm nervous too."
Then everything happens too fast. Will kisses him again, hands tenderly clutching his waist and pressing him down into the mattress. It's hot and fast and a tad too messy to be gentle, fueled by a heat Mike still hasn't quite grasped. Will's hips shift atop his and a shaky groan makes Mike's lips quiver — Will's, voice saccharine like Mike has never heard before. His hands grasp onto the thin fabric of Will's shirt, the softness of his hair, trying to anchor himself here in the moment, in the sensation.
He can feel Will's heart thudding in his chest, pressed so close together. They're close enough he can imagine it as his own instead. Mike can feel it, how Will has been waiting for years for this. Has pined and suffered and hoped. Will deserves everything, deserves to be wanted back the same way he wants so, so fiercely. Mike wants to give that to him, wants to give himself to Will, but then Will's hand starts palming him through his boxers and— Mike can feel it, the pressure, the warmth, the friction, but nothing else. He registers the touch and feels nothing.
He doesn't want this. Mike doesn't want this and something is wrong with him.
Some kind of sound escapes him — he doesn't know what, doesn't know how loud, only that it was ripped from the back of his throat and that it was the wrong sound — and suddenly Will is gone. His hands jerk away as he sits back on his heels. Mike's arms that had been wrapped around Will fall heavy onto the mattress, fingers clenching the sheets, as cold air rushes to fill the empty space he left behind. He gasps, loud and sharp. For just a moment, neither of them move. The only sound in the room is their breath, Will panting with the residue of desire and Mike's chest heaving from something else entirely.
"Mike?" Will asks, tone so gentle and so concerned. His face is flushed, pupils blown, and he's still worried about Mike, even in this state. "Too much?"
"I—" Mike tries to reply, but he can feel his heart pound against his ribs, a weight settle at the bottom of his stomach, blood rush in his ears. But it's wrong, all wrong, because he doesn't feel excited. He feels like his skin is too small, like all the air is being sucked out of his lungs. His eyes are starting to water and he desperately blinks the tears away. He wants this, wants Will so bad. Why doesn't he want this?
"Hey, hey, Mike," Will coos, carding his fingers gently through his curls. "It's alright," he whispers, trying to soothe. Green eyes flit over his face, searching.
Mike closes his eyes and tries to imagine that he's curled up in Will's arms as they both fall asleep together, his hand petting Mike's hair just the way he likes, the way he's learned without Mike ever needing to say anything. He imagines he's safe and held instead of… here. Wherever here is.
That's wrong, he tells himself. He's safe and held here too. There shouldn't be any difference. In fact, here, he's wanted. Isn't that even better? He should want that. He wants to be here. He wants, he wants, he wants—
"I-I'm sorry," Mike stammers, the words small and shaking. The sheets beneath him are damp, from sweat and fading remnants of his shower, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He pushes into a sitting position, working to get oxygen in his lungs. "I just—" His breath hitches. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.
Will frowns, seeing the clear distress and pulling his hand back carefully. "Mike, it's okay if you're not ready," he assures him, shifting his legs again, this time to give Mike more space. His gaze is soft, warm with misplaced concern.
"No, Will, you don't get it," Mike mutters. He pushes himself out from under the other, back until his shoulders bump against the headboard. He pulls his freed legs up, curling into himself. The next thing he says is less a sentence and more a breath. Like maybe if he says it quietly enough, it won't have to be true. "I don't think I'll ever be ready."
Silence. Heavy silence. For what could've been years but was maybe only a minute, there's silence.
Then, Will's hand falls to the mattress with a dull thump. His expression is blank, wiped clean of desire and concern and love. Only the faint twitch of his lips shows that he's holding back, holding something back, though Mike can't tell what. "You…" He swallows a lump in his throat. "You don't want to… with me?"
Mike catches his eyes. There's still a spark in them, a glimmer of light that tells Mike that Will is still holding out for the possibility this is all a misunderstanding. Always so hopeful, so forgiving, even when the world has afforded him too little kindness time and time again. Mike is horrible for having to snuff that hope out, writing another chapter in the ways Will Byers has been wronged. He slowly shakes his head. "No, I don't want this with you."
His eyes drop away. He doesn't want to see Will's face, doesn't want to watch that blankness crumple into righteous anger. Running like a coward.
Mike hurt Will again, led him on by pretending he was good and fine and whole. To Jane, he was a bad boyfriend not only because he didn't love her, but because he's just a bad boyfriend, full-stop. Every argument, every tear that trailed down her cheeks, all of it was because she had seen it, had seen Mike for what he is — a person that doesn't love enough. This time, he had even fooled himself. Had actually believed he had it figured out, that maybe this time he would finally be doing something right. He should've known better. Should've known that, to be able to mess up so many times, there must have been something fundamentally broken about him in the first place.
And now — now Will sees it too.
Mike hugs his legs closer to himself, buries his face in his knees. This is it. He's gone and ruined the best thing in his life, for good. No tears come, no sorrow threatens to submerge him whole — the only thing he can feel for certain is how his fingers are digging into his calves. Numb. He's numb. He hates it. Wants desperately to feel the pain he should be feeling for hurting Will, had wanted desperately to feel the pleasure he was supposed to at Will's touch. It's like that gaping hole just keeps expanding and swallowing his insides, leaving nothing but void.
He feels the mattress move underneath him, hears Will shift slightly in front of him. A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. "So," Will starts, voice eerily calm, "you don't love me?"
At that, Mike's head snaps up. "No— God no, Will, I do love you," he blurts out. It isn't enough. Will isn't looking at him, head turned down as he addresses the sheets. Mike unfurls to reach out a hand, stopping just short of the other's knee. He knows the ugly truth that should follow: he just doesn't love Will enough, not as much as Will deserves — but Mike can't make the sounds form no matter how long he works his jaw. "That's not what I meant."
Liar, he hears in his head. Dragging this out, too cowardly to admit it.
A breath escapes Will, too sharp for a sigh but too soft for a scoff. "You're right," he mutters bitterly. "I don't get it, Mike."
Slowly, he raises his head. Will's brow is furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, straight line. "You love me, but you don't want to have sex with me because… because what?" The words are slow, enunciated as though he were speaking to a child. Mike's entire body tenses, as though bracing for impact. "Because I'm unattractive? Is that it? You just feel too bad to say it to my face?"
Halfway through, Mike had already started shaking his head, hand pulling back. Will is more than attractive, he's breathtaking. It's all Mike, all on him. Mike is the one who can see perfection — can understand the way it takes form in gentle green eyes, in sun-kissed skin, in a mole on an upper lip — and yet still be aloof, a crucial part of him unstirred. "No, no, Will—"
"Then, because this is where you draw the line?" Will barrels on. His hands tremble where they dig into the sheets, shoulders tensed, spine rigid. His voice is sharp, uncontrolled. "Cuddling and kissing is fine, but you can't have sex with a man because that would be—?"
"Will, stop!" Mike is yelling now, appalled and defensive. Those words are pointed, aimed right where Will knew it would hurt — and it does, it does hurt. His heart is thundering in his chest, fingers clenching too tight, short nails digging into the line of his palm. Mike has gotten past this, has learned to accept his identity as gay, he has to believe he did. He knows being gay isn't wrong, how could Will ever be something wrong? No, the thing that's wrong is Mike. Will just isn't hearing him. "That's not what I'm saying at all!"
"Then what are you saying? Stop toying with my feelings and just tell me already!" Will snaps back, throwing up his hands in frustration. His eyes are wet, but he stubbornly lets no tears fall when he yells, "What is it about me that's so undesirable?!"
"NOTHING!" Mike slams a fist into the headboard behind him, hard. The wood grain stings. The thud echoes. His breath is ragged, chest heaving with the effort it takes to hold himself taut. He can't let Will think that, can't let him think anything of this. He needs to make Will understand. "Nothing about you is undesirable!"
"Then—!" Will's words get stuck in his throat, cut off by a dangerous hitch. He tries, really tries, to keep his face stern and his shoulders squared, clinging onto his anger. Then, a single tear escapes and traces down his cheek, the hard lines of his expression slowly crumble. "Then… then what is it?" His whole body sags, and the anger gives way to grief, a grief so profound Mike can almost feel it himself. The tension begins to bleed out — of his body, of the room. "Did I do something wrong?" Will asks under his trembling breath.
A long, shaky exhale leaves Mike. "No," he murmurs, hand sliding down to lay limply at his side. "Never."
Will gives a small shake of his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I… I don't understand—"
"It's my fault," Mike cuts in, voice hard. He can't look at Will anymore, gaze drifting off to the side. "It's me," —a sharp inhale, his next words come out in a broken whisper— "there's something wrong with me."
In his periphery, Will physically jolts, as if the very idea is offensive. "Mike, no, I'm sorry." The mattress shifts again as he shuffles over, hands coming up to cup Mike's cheeks. He turns his head in order to make their eyes meet, faces now inches apart.
This — Mike can lean into. The comfort of Will's soft hands on his face, how the warmth grounds him, how he holds him with such care. Fresh tears fill his already wet eyes, threatening to overflow, and his eyes flicker down. He still doesn't understand the difference. How can this feel so easy while the other feels so impossible?
"I saw how upset you were getting, back when I tried to take it further." Will's voice continues — gentle, repentant. Mike shudders at the memory regardless. "There's something going on. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that." His breath is warm against Mike's lips.
"Don't apologize," he replies quickly. "You're right to be angry. I messed everything up." He squeezes his eyes shut. Mike is the one who ruined Will's first time. Mike is messed up.
"There is nothing wrong with you," Will states, tone firm, like he could hear Mike's thoughts. His fingers are rubbing comforting circles on his cheekbones. Will believes this, believes it completely and utterly. Mike could sob.
"There is," Mike retorts, quiet but certain, eyes fluttering open not to meet Will's but to trace the lines of his tan arm. He places one hand over Will's, memorizes the shape of his knuckles under his palm. "And it has been wrong for a long time."
The statement sits there, hanging in the air for a moment. Will doesn't stop the soothing motion. The silence this time isn't sharp, just… quiet.
Eventually, with a soft sigh, Will relents. "Even if there's something 'wrong' with you," he says slowly, probably realizing there's no arguing on this point, "I still love you. All of you." Will's hands slip down, instead finding and intertwining with his. Mike tracks the motion and feels his heart stutter in his chest, swayed just for a moment as the weight of the words land on him. Even though they've been dating for months, each time he says it still feels like the first time. "Just talk to me," Will whispers.
Mike gives a small, dazed nod. Somehow, despite ruining what should have been one of the happiest moments of Will's life, he can still hold him like this, speak to him like this, love him like this. The least Mike could do is explain, but still, it's hard. He shifts his legs slightly, just to give himself something to do, and he focuses on the faint rustle of sheets, the softness of Will's hands as he mumbles downwards, "It… doesn't make sense."
"That's okay," Will replies, one thumb rubbing up and down the side of Mike's hand. "I'll still listen."
Mike's eyes finally, finally trail up, catching the other's gaze. He sees the comfortable green and, so close now, the delicate ring of golden brown surrounding his pupil like sunlight breaking through a forest canopy. Pretty. Mike had always thought Will was the prettiest boy he'd ever seen. He amends his statement. How could he not give everything to the boy in front of him? "I don't make sense," he whispers.
A soft huff that's almost a laugh escapes Will, and those pretty eyes crinkle at the edges. "That's okay too," he says, closing the distance and touching foreheads. "I'm used to it."
Mike lets out a wry chuckle. "Fair," he grants with a small shrug of his shoulders. The space between them is warm, and Mike takes a deep breath, soaking in the scent of closeness — fresh drawing pads and earthy shampoo. Everything feels a little lighter, being here with Will.
He gingerly pulls back, only enough to sit up straighter. Will remains close, leaned into Mike without crowding him. "When you touch me," Mike starts but then pauses, searching for the word. It's not every touch, it's… "When you touch me intimately," he distinguishes, and Will nods attentively. "I… it feels…"
A long beat passes before Will offers, "Bad?" His tone is thoughtful, not accusing, fingers gently squeezing to encourage him — remind him that he's still here.
"No, not bad," Mike says, voice steady even though he isn't exactly sure of himself. He keeps trying to come up with the right way to say it, but it's like trying to grab onto water, each word slipping through his fingers. "I mean, I can feel it. It's warm and—and it's nice?" He accidentally pitches his voice up like it's a question. The feeling is not… not-nice, but it's still strange to say. "I just… don't feel everything else I'm supposed to. I don't want it like I'm supposed to."
It's hard to explain exactly what it is he's not feeling since, well, he doesn't feel it. Mike looks to Will, hoping he got something out of that even though it wasn't very articulate. The other's brow is pinched, lips pursed in concentration. He's really trying to help, and Mike doesn't hide the fond smile that settles on his face. Eventually, Will nods to himself. "So, you don't get turned on?" he ventures.
"Uh," Mike blurts out. Right, that's what it's called, and now that he mentions it… "No, I don't," he murmurs, eyes trailing away to look just beyond Will and to the wall behind him, a standard cream with an uneven surface after being painted and re-painted over the too many years this building has been around, some sections still managing to peel somehow. Probably part of the reason the rent is affordable for the two of them though, so Mike could never complain about that.
Another squeeze from Will draws him back. As much as Mike would rather list each and every flaw in this crummy apartment, that's not the conversation they're having right now. He sighs, closing his eyes and sinking back into the headboard even as the top edge digs into the base of his neck. The wood is cool to the touch. The phrase is deceptively simple — as if everything he was missing could be packed in a box and wrapped up with a little bow labeled 'getting turned on'. Or, maybe, it's not deceptive at all and it really is just that simple and Mike is the one out of the loop, on the outside looking in through a thick pane of glass. Maybe, that's all there is to it for Will, for everyone else.
Something fuzzy and light falls over Mike's front and his eyes slide open. Will is tenderly draping a section of the blanket off his shoulders, movement smooth and gentle. Their gazes catch just for a moment before Will turns his attention back down to his task. "Probably a little cold without a shirt," he states simply. Mike didn't even realize before he mentioned it, the hum of the AC and how the cool air prickled his bare skin without the warmth of the other's body to envelope it.
"Thanks," he murmurs, reaching up to wrap it around behind him instead, bringing the ends together in the front. Will hums in response, setting his hands on his own knees now. Mike takes a breath, letting the weight of the blanket, of Will's eyes settle over him. "I don't think you're unattractive," he reiterates, just to make sure he knows. "You're everything, Will. My best friend, the love of my life," —their gazes meet and Mike sees sunlight through leaves— "the prettiest boy in the world." The words slip out hushed, a precious truth given form.
Will's cheeks flush a soft red and a small, almost shy smile pulls at his lips. "Mike," he scolds without heat, a fond huff escaping him as he tilts his head.
"It's true," he whispers, mirroring that smile, leaning closer to commit this expression to memory. "Pretty — like all of your paintings, each stroke of color perfectly placed in the way only an artist can."
Will smirks. "But, still not enough to turn you on?" he jokes lightly, shrugging one shoulder.
Mike, tone dry as he raises an eyebrow, quips back, "Do you wanna have sex with paintings?"
"Wha— Mike! Gross!" Will sputters out indignantly, jerking away and lightly smacking Mike's chest back with a full-bodied laugh. His shoulders are shaking, rocking with the force, and Mike can't help but be dragged in too, flat expression breaking as he laughs so hard his cheeks begin to ache.
For a moment, Mike doesn't wonder what's wrong with him, doesn't think about the years of hollowness, because all he cares about is the sight in front of him now. Will laughing — expression lit up in joy, absolutely glowing, wearing Mike's rumpled shirt, doing that thing where he scrunches up his nose because he's trying not to snort, eyes squinted but sparkling all the same — all because of some dumb joke he made.
If Mike could do nothing else right, at least he can make Will Byers laugh.
So, he laughs too. Laughs and laughs until the sounds coming out of his throat are hiccups and he feels wetness on his cheeks and all of a sudden Mike is crying instead. He sniffles, tries to keep his nose from running, and drops his head to hide behind the curtain of his bangs. It's no use. Will scoops him into a hug anyway, one arm strong around his middle and the other used to guide Mike, a hand in his hair that brings them closer until Mike's head is in the nook of Will's neck and their chests pressed together. Cocooned by the warmth of Will — his arms, his comfort — Mike practically melts into the embrace.
His hands come up to clutch the fabric of his shirt, and he's glad that Will is wearing his shirt for another reason: Mike is getting snot and tears all over this one. He doesn't sob, doesn't need to gasp for air, the tears just flow sort of out of him — a gentle release. Will strokes his hair tenderly, murmuring kind reassurances in his ear. "It's okay, Mike. I've got you." It's the timbre of it, low and full and soothing in the way only Will's voice could be. Then, there's a soft kiss to his jawline, careful and sweet.
Mike is so, so blessed.
When the tears slow to a stop, he stays there just a minute more, is held just a bit longer as the tracks begin to dry. The moment feels so fragile — like his thoughts, the world, everything was put on pause — and he doesn't want it to end. Eventually though, Mike manages to pull away, scrubbing at his sticky face with the heel of his palm. The other waits patiently as Mike gathers himself, rubbing circles into his shoulder. "You alright?" Will eventually whispers.
Mike gives a small nod in response. "Yeah," he breathes out, fussing with a loose thread on the blanket hem. "I'm just…" It's weird. He doesn't even know how he feels. Why was he crying? "Just… relieved, I think. Like I let go of a weight I didn't know I was carrying," he admits, catching the other's eyes. Green, unchanging and soothing.
And it's because of that — because of the care that bleeds from Will's gaze, how he's still here, always here — the guilt crashes back in a rush. The whole night catches up to Mike. He doesn't quite remember when it slipped away in the first place, but now all he can think about is how much Will had wanted him, how he had set that aside, how Mike messed everything up. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. He can't believe he's here talking about how relieved he is that he ruined Will's first time, probably ruined the rest of their relationship. If he were Will, he would've walked out on himself long, long ago. "I know you really wanted to do this, Will. I wish I wanted to, really, I just — I can't—"
"Mike," Will cuts in, though it's not sharp. The reassuring tone grounds Mike as much as it seems to ground Will, who takes a controlled breath to steady himself. "I won't say that I'm not… disappointed." Even with his kind delivery, Mike winces regardless. Will's hands swipe through the air as if to physically push away whatever Mike is thinking as he rushes to continue, "But! But, I'm glad that you told me about this, that we got to talk about it." He places his hands on Mike's knees, voice turning quiet and tender. Mike watches his face, captivated momentarily by that mole, how those lips shape around the next words. "I wouldn't want to be intimate if you don't want it as well."
Mike shakes his head, a frown setting in. "That's not fair to you," he whispers weakly, placing his fingers over Will's hands. "You deserve to have someone who wants that with you as well." Not Mike, he hasn't loved anyone right.
A sigh falls from Will's lips, sitting in the quiet of the room. "Well," he says slowly, eyes moving up to trace the lines of his face. "I don't care what I deserve. I want you." The conviction giving his voice an unwavering steadiness knocks the air clean out of Mike's lungs. "And that means I want you to be comfortable, to be happy."
Mike can't do anything but stare at Will in wonder, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. The solid line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the brightness in his eyes under the dimming yellow of their faulty overhead. He looks best like this: determined and impossible to disagree with.
A huff leaves Mike, soft and resigned, as his eyes drop away. "You're too nice to me," he argues in a halfhearted mutter.
Will leans down to peek at his averted gaze, something akin to mirth dancing in eyes. "I'm only as nice as you 'deserve,' Mike," he replies with a small smirk.
"You're impossible," Mike retorts, rolling his eyes as he fights his own smile.
Will has no such qualms, a full grin lifting his cheeks upwards. "Good." He rises, lips hovering in front of Mike's, and he pauses. Eyes hooded, breath mingling with his, Will waits. Then, so quiet it's almost lost in the air, he asks, "Is this okay?" Open and offering.
Mike reaches up, one hand on the back of Will's neck as he closes the distance. This is okay, his lips reply, gentle on the other's. It lasts only a second, a sweet and full kiss, before Will pulls away. Mike's eyes flutter open to find the other's gaze on him, soft and attentive, face dusted a soft pink. The taste of his lips linger, warmth blossoming from the point of connection.
"I love you." Mike doesn't know who says it — maybe they both do — but the quiet words settle in the space between their lips like it belongs, weighty and true.
Will raises one hand to cup his cheek, the pad of his thumb soft on the line of his cheekbone. "And that's enough," he whispers.
Mike loves Will.
Will loves Mike.
And that's enough.