Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

“I’m just saying,” Mike huffs, spinning around in his desk chair and clicking his pen open and shut anxiously, “if Debbie’s going to cut my word count down to nonexistent for all my articles, I just really don’t think there’s any point in me writing them.”

From the other side of the desk, Max makes a vague sort of humming noise, which could maybe be agreement or maybe just a way out of the conversation. Her eyes are glued to her laptop, and she’s typing away furiously, studiously ignoring both Mike and her phone, which has been lighting up with texts periodically for the past twenty minutes. Mike’s ADHD could never.

Max types something, scowls, hits backspace a couple times, then types something else. “It’s not like she’s cutting everything ,” she says, approximately two minutes past the appropriate time to respond, but hey, at least she’s kind of listening, maybe. “She just cuts out all your fancy words and leaves the good stuff.”

Mike rolls his eyes, spinning around again in his chair. “Yeah, but after her edits my articles are only ever, like, four paragraphs long, and then she has to go to the designers and rearrange everything so that my tiny article fits at the top of a whole different spread. It’s humiliating.”

Max hums again, fingers still taptaptapping away at her keyboard. It’s honestly impressive how much noise she’s making with her furious typing. Mike wants to throw something at her. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, man,” she says, sounding aggressively bored. “You’re a new writer here. It’s going to take a while to climb your way up the ladder. Especially if you keep writing newspaper articles in the style of a nineteenth-century novelist.”

Mike sighs. He knows she’s right; he’s been working at The New York Journal for a little over six months, and his job is still very much entry-level. He’s always getting assigned short fluff pieces, which his editor then spends days rewriting and yelling at him for anyway, and all around it’s just sort of humiliating. He hadn’t minded at first - journalism’s never really been his favorite type of writing, but he’d thought it would be a good stepping stone toward a different writing career, like he could make connections or whatever his high school guidance counselor was always going on about.

Apparently, though, his high school guidance counselor was wrong, because the only connections he’s made at this godforsaken office are with Debbie, his incredibly harsh editor, and Max, his incredibly irritating deskmate. It pays decently, though, and the idiotic part of him is still holding out hope that it’ll work out one way or the other, so here he sits.

Max’s phone lights up again on the desk, and Mike stops spinning to glare at her. “You gonna get that anytime soon?” he asks, nodding to it.

“Hmm? Oh,” she says, pausing typing for a second and glancing down at it, mouth ticking up into a small smile. “No, it’s just my boyfriend, I’ll get it later.”

“Your boyfriend sounds clingy,” Mike says haughtily, and starts spinning again.

“He’s not,” Max replies, “he’s just bored at work and texting me. And speaking of being bored at work, you’re making me really dizzy right now, would you care to stop anytime soon?”

“It’s almost lunch time,” Mike says, spinning faster just to irritate her. “You know I get spinny before lunch.”

Max sighs heavily and glances at the clock. “Okay, fair. You want to come across the street with me? I want a sandwich.”

Fact: Max is annoying. Also fact: she is kind of Mike’s only friend at the moment. “Yeah, sure,” he sighs, and stops spinning.

Andy’s Sandy’s is an absolutely ridiculous name for a restaurant, Mike thinks as he settles next to Max on the bench outside and unwraps his sandwich, but it’s also the best and cheapest food in a five-block radius. Max has already wolfed down half her meal, which seems categorically impossible to Mike, because she’s been sitting here staring down at her phone the whole time and Mike has witnessed her taking maybe three bites. She’s typing something, chewing idly and smiling to herself a little, and Mike sighs, leaning back on the bench and staring up at the looming office building.

“How’s your boyfriend?” he asks after a minute, because the silence feels slightly unbearable and he’s just now realizing that he left his own phone back in his desk drawer, because unlike some people, he is not the sort of person that can handle the distraction of such things while he’s trying to work.

“Good,” Max says through a mouthful, spraying crumbs everywhere, and Mike grimaces, brushing them away. “Why, you jealous?”

Maybe a little is the true answer - not so much of Max or her boyfriend individually, but of a relationship like that. Mike’s been a little lonely, lately, and it’s been a while since he’s gone on a date, but feeling mopey about it is too pathetic even for him, so he does not say so. “No. I’m making conversation.”

Max tears her eyes away from her phone to give him a look. “What ever happened to that guy you were seeing? The one with the annoying face?”

Mike snorts. “Warren?”

“Yeah.”

“He dumped me for his roommate,” Mike says, making a face. To be fair, Warren’s roommate was objectively better than Mike - better-looking, smarter, funnier, less abrasive - but the principle of the thing irks him a little, especially after Warren had explicitly told him that you don’t need to worry about me and David, there’s nothing there . Mike has since realized that maybe being told something like that unprompted, and in such an intense manner at that, usually means you do need to worry.

Max whistles. “Ouch.”

Mike shrugs, avoiding eye contact and taking a bite of his sandwich. “S’ fine,” he says, swallowing and wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t like him that much anyway.”

“That’s what you say every time someone dumps you,” Max says primly, which, okay, is not a lie , but Mike would still prefer not to hear it.

“Fuck you,” he says moodily, taking another aggressive bite, and Max grins. “People don’t dump me that often.”

“No,” Max says, not sounding like she believes it, “of course not.”

Mike sighs. He’s not lying - in his woefully limited dating life, he’s only been the dumpee a handful of times. The rest had been mutual, and once he’d even been the dumper. It’s fine, though - none of it was ever very serious, and it’s not like he’s exactly made his love life a goal of any kind. It’s just a facet of his existence that occasionally causes him strife.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Max still eating steadily and Mike picking halfheartedly at his own food, before Max stands, sighing and switching her phone off. “Let’s go back inside,” she says bossily, tossing her sandwich wrapper in the trash. “I’m freezing.”

She has a point - Andy’s very much does not have heating, or if it does it’s reserved for the workers in the back and not the customers at the tables out in the front, and it’s the time of year where it’s not unbearably cold, but it’s threatening to be, like the weather’s giving you a heads up that it can, actually, get worse. Even so, Mike doesn’t want to go back in and face his mountain of work that needs to be done just yet. “Do we have to?” he whines, even as he stands up and wraps the remaining half of his sandwich back up. 

“My toes are going numb,” Max says flatly. She kicks him in the shin, like that’s supposed to prove something.

“Fine, just let me grab some napkins,” Mike grumbles, jumping out of the way as she tries to kick him again. She trails after him inside, where Mike grabs a handful of napkins from a dispenser on the table, shoving them into his jacket pocket along with the half of his sandwich. Max has gone back to texting.

The bell on the door jingles, and Mike half-glances up just in time to see a familiar, brown-haired man step up to the counter, smiling pleasantly at the server.

Instantly, Mike’s blood runs cold. “Oh, shit,” he hisses, grabbing Max by the shoulders and swinging her around, crouching down a little to hide behind her. 

Max squawks indignantly, wriggling in his grip. “What the hell ,” she hisses, smacking at his hands, “unhand me, you little-”

“Max,” Mike whispers furiously, still gripping her shoulders, “my ex just walked in, you have to hide me.”

This gets Max to pause for a minute. “Which ex?” she asks over her shoulder, as Mike hides behind her hair and peers through the copper strands, trying to see if he’s been spotted yet.

“I dated him a couple years ago,” he whispers to Max, who is now folding her arms and tapping her foot but reluctantly allowing him to continue using her as a human shield. “We broke up because he moved to California, but apparently -”

The man steps away from the counter, and Mike watches with horror as a pair of warm brown eyes land on him.

“Mike?”

Well, shit.

Mike peeks out over Max’s shoulder, cheeks flaming. “Um. Hi, Will.”

Will is, unfortunately, still just as attractive as he was the last time Mike saw him, all warm tan skin and freckles and tousled hair. Mike hates that this is the first thing he notices, but to be fair, that’s probably a fairly normal thing to notice about your ex. Probably. Will smiles, a little confusedly, and takes a hesitant step closer. “Are you hiding from me?” he asks.

“No,” Mike huffs, at the same time Max goes “yes”, and Mike scowls, releasing her shoulders and stepping around her. “You make a terrible wingwoman,” he tells her, and she shrugs, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Mike clears his throat and turns back to Will, trying desperately to cling to his last remaining shred of dignity. “Um- I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Yeah,” Will says, still squinting at him. “I got a job here, so.”

“Oh,” Mike squeaks. “Oh, that’s- cool. Um- it’s good to see you,” he adds, wincing a little.

“You too,” Will replies, more warmly as Mike might have expected, even as he casts a scrutinizing look in Max’s direction.

“Oh!” Mike turns to Max, who is standing with her arms folded, glancing back and forth between them with a glint in her eyes that Mike absolutely does not like. “Oh, right, sorry- this is Max.”

Will’s lips thin just barely. “Nice to meet you,” he says stiffly to Max, “how do you know Mike?”

“We work together,” Max replies, which Mike personally feels a little reductive - the time they went out for drinks after work and Max ended up vomiting all over Mike’s shoes in the street at least constitutes casual friendship.

Will’s expression relaxes immediately, and he smiles. “Oh. Cool.” He glances back at Mike, tipping his head to the side. “You look good,” he says softly, expression unreadable. Mike isn’t sure if he’s hitting on him or being passive aggressive. He’s even less sure which one he wants it to be.

“Thanks,” he says anyway, chewing on the inside of his lip as he tries to decide what to say. “You too.”

There’s a beat of horrible, interminable silence, wherein Max opens her mouth with the undoubted intention of saying something stupid and Mike stomps on her foot to stop her, and Will’s eyes dart between them scrutinizingly. 

Then the server calls out Will’s name, and the moment breaks. “Oh,” Will says vaguely, glancing over his shoulder at the counter, “I should go.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, feeling a little strangled, and watches helplessly as Will turns and retrieves his takeout container of soup from the counter, then shuffles toward the door, sending Mike another awkward glance as he does. “I’ll, uh. It was nice to see you,” Mike says, for lack of anything better to say.

Will bobs his head, smiling faintly. “You too,” he says, and gives him a little two-fingered wave before pushing his way out the door and disappearing down the street.

Max gives it one, two, three beats, then whirls around and whacks Mike on the shoulder. “Dude. That sucked royally.”

“I know,” Mike groans, collapsing onto the nearest chair and burying his face in his hands. “I honestly never thought I’d see him again.”

“What happened?” Max asks, grinning wide as she sits down next to him and leans in, widening her eyes at him and getting right in his face.

Mike scowls and shoves her head away with a palm against her forehead. “Go away, you gremlin,” he complains, and Max shrugs, settling back on her chair and blinking at him expectantly. Mike sighs. “We went to the same college,” he explains in a mumble. “And we dated for a few months our sophomore year, but then he transferred to this fancy art program in California and we broke up.”

Max hums sympathetically. “He dumped you, then?”

“No ,” Mike hisses, glaring at her, “for the last time, I don’t get dumped that often, and- no! It was just a casual thing, really, so it didn’t make sense to try long-distance. It was mutual .”

“Bullshit,” Max replies, perfectly calm, “you’ve never been casual about anything in your life.”

Mike lifts his head up, wrinkling his nose at her. “Untrue.”

“Very true,” Max corrects. “You spend all day ranting at me about Debbie’s edits or whatever abysmal date you’ve most recently gone on or some mildly irritating comment your sister made on the phone. It’s very hard to get work done.” She nudges his leg, lifting an eyebrow. “So what really happened?”

“Nothing!” Mike insists, folding his arms, “it’s like I said. He moved away. None of it was all that serious, it was literally just a fling.”

“A fling,” Max says, disbelieving. “Sure.”

“It was! I’m sure he’d say the same.”

Max snorts. “Please. Did you not see how jealous he just got over me?”

Mike blinks. “Did I see- what?”

“He was looking at me all weird,” Max says, like it’s obvious, “and then when I said we were coworkers he totally relaxed.”

Mike frowns. He had noticed that, but- “You think he thought- that he thought we were-”

Max rolls her eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself. And yes, he one hundred percent did, which is kind of concerning, because when he walked in you were literally manhandling me-”

“I was not ,” Mike huffs, then pauses and adds, “you really think he was jealous?”

Max’s eyes widen, and she points at him, grinning. “Oh my God, you do care! You want him to be jealous!”

“I do not!” Mike shrieks, shying away from her finger as she waggles it in his face. “I just- I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he grumbles. He pushes himself off of his chair and gestures at the New York Journal building.  “We’re gonna be late.”

“This conversation is not over,” Max huffs, but she stands up too and follows him back across the street.

“Sure, whatever,” Mike says, rolling his eyes as he holds the lobby door open for her. He’s about ninety percent sure she’ll forget about it by the end of the week. “I’ll probably never even see him again, so it doesn’t matter.”

“New York is not that geographically large,” Max points out, as they wait for the elevator. “You could definitely see him again.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Mike bites back, and refuses to talk about it for the rest of the day.

2.

So the thing is, is that Mike was definitely not lying about the Will Thing. It was a casual relationship, mostly consisting of coffee dates and going to parties together and late nights in Mike’s dorm room. And Mike’s not going to lie and say that he never thought it might turn into something more serious, or that he didn’t like Will, or that he wasn't bummed when it ended. But ultimately, they were college kids having some fun, and any thought of a future they might have had was fleeting and foolish.

He hadn’t been surprised, either, when the conversation of I’m moving to California turned to I think we should break up , because really, who wants to turn a couple months of vague relationship with someone they barely know into perpetual missed calls and awkward text messages? Especially because at the time, Will hadn’t been sure he’d ever come back from California, and Mike wasn't about to move across the country for someone he’d just met. Even he has more dignity than that. Will had been funny and cute and sweet, and Mike had been charmed by him, but not for long enough that it caused either of them any real damage.

He is also not delusional enough to believe that Will being back in New York changes any of that. Their relationship ended over two years ago, and for all he knows Will is dating someone else, and they barely know each other . Plus, their conversation at Andy’s was awkward enough that Mike is perfectly happy to never see Will again, just on account of avoiding further humiliation.

Still. Will had been his boyfriend, for a short period of time there, and it had been nice. Mike can count on one hand the amount of relationships he’s had that have even gone that far, and he finds himself thinking about it - relationships, that is, and specifically his and Will’s - in the weeks after the encounter.

It’s fine. It’s natural, probably, to reminisce about someone you dated when they just magically pop back into your life like that with zero warning. It’s not like Mike’s thinking about it a lot . It’s not like he’s obsessing over it.

Max, however, does not do him the favor of forgetting about the whole thing like Mike had hoped she would, and she pesters him about it constantly, which only adds to the baseline amount of time that Mike spends thinking about it. Which, like he said, is not a lot , but it’s not insignificant either.

“Do you still have his number?” she asks, one week after the Andy’s incident, peering curiously at him over the top of her laptop.

Mike frowns. “Yes,” he says, and immediately regrets it when she grins, pleased. “But- he could have changed it or something. It’s been almost three years.”

“People don’t change their numbers that often,” Max replies evenly, like it’s a fact. “Do you follow him on Instagram or anything? I bet I could find him pretty easily. What’s his last name again? Byers?”

“Please don’t,” Mike begs, clicking his pen anxiously. He hadn’t blocked Will anywhere after they’d broken up, but he had unfollowed him, just for the sake of a clean break, because he’s the sort of person that clings to things, and he wasn't about to get all mopey and pathetic about one of his more amicable breakups. And- well, if Mike has occasionally checked Will’s accounts once or twice over the past couple years, when he’s maybe a little tipsy and feeling nostalgic and curious and masochistic, that’s his business alone.

“Too late,” Max says, tapping away at her phone, and Mike spends the rest of the day fending off her attempts to show him Will’s latest posts.

All of which is to say, when he finally does run into Will again, nearly three weeks later, he’s significantly less surprised about it than he maybe should be. It kind of just feels inevitable.

He’s at a coffee shop, sitting in the corner reading his book and picking at an incredibly dry scone, when the doorbell jingles. He automatically glances up, stomach swooping when he sees a head of tousled brown hair appear and bob toward the counter.

(To be fair, he’s felt similarly about every brown-haired man of Will’s approximate height and build for the past three weeks, always feeling a jolt of something red-hot before ultimately realizing it isn’t him and feeling something horribly close to disappointment.

Again, solely his business. He’s not obsessing , or anything.)

This time, though, he’s sure, and even more so when Will’s voice rings out across the small coffee shop. Mike can see his profile, the easy smile on his face, the mole under his eye, a pleasant flush in his cheeks from the chilly autumn air.

Mike doesn’t have time to process fast enough to form a plan of action before Will is stepping away from the counter and turning around, eyes landing directly on Mike. Mike watches his eyes widen, mouth part in a quiet oh , before his expression smooths out and he offers a hesitant wave and sidles over to him.

“Hey,” Mike says, wondering if it would be too much trouble for the ceiling to collapse right onto his head and put him out of his misery. “Um. Hi. Again.”

“Hi again,” Will says, faintly amused. “You stalking me or something?”

Mike’s face immediately turns a vibrant crimson. “Why would I- no ,” he huffs, far too defensively judging by Will’s answering smirk. “No, and I lived here first, actually, so if anything you’re stalking me .”

Will rolls his eyes. “I forgot how technical you are about everything.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Rude.”

Will smiles a little. “Sorry.”

The smile- Mike remembers that, now, recognizes the butterflies that are currently racking up in his ribcage. It’s what had drawn him to Will in the first place - a mumbled joke or sarcastic quip in one of their shared classes validated by a quiet snort and a smirk playing at the corners of Will’s mouth for the rest of the lecture. They’d had a quiet sort of comradery that had gone on for a good while until one day Will had turned to him after class and asked, easy smile on his face and dimples poking through, if Mike wanted to study for the upcoming exam with him.

Mike had said yes, because of course he had, and then at the end, as he walked with Will out of the library doors, he’d grabbed Will by the wrist and pulled him into a kiss.

Will had kissed him back, sweet and enthusiastic for all of the five seconds before Mike jerked back and uttered a panicked sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have assumed you meant for this to be-

Mike, Will had said, laughing a little and placing a warm hand on Mike’s chest. Please feel free to assume whatever you want .

Mike had grinned and kissed him again, and-

And, he does not need to be thinking about this right now.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asks, because he’s a polite and kind person, and those fucking dimples are going to be the death of him one way or another so he might as well get to look at them a little longer before the darkness claims him.

Something flickers in Will’s expression, and he glances over his shoulder at the counter, where there’s a coffee cup waiting with his name scrawled across it. “Um- actually, I have to go,” he says, and sounds legitimately regretful about it, if only in a very vague sort of way, “I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”

“Oh,” Mike says, stomach twisting, because- of course. Of course Will is seeing someone, because he’s likable and attractive and sweet, and people go for that sort of thing. Mike would know. Just because every relationship he’s ever had bottoms out around the three month mark doesn’t mean other people’s do. “Oh, yeah, sorry, I’ll let you- get to that,” he says awkwardly, already snapping his book shut and shoving it haphazardly into his bag.

Will frowns. “What are you doing? You were here first,” he says, which is true, but Mike is in panic mode, so reality does not particularly matter to him.

“I, uh, have to go too,” Mike lies on the spot. Will’s brow furrows, which Mike is now remembering is a habit of his. Sometimes, when they dated, Mike liked to reach out and smooth over the crease with a fingertip. “I have a- meeting. For my job! I have a job. I mean, obviously I do, you met my coworker. Anyway, I should-”

“Liar,” Will interrupts smoothly, folding his arms. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” Mike squeaks, which would have been a patent untruth even if he were not currently the shade of a tomato and still trying to cram his book into his bag. “Nothing, I really have to leave.”

Something shutters in Will’s expression, and his mouth thins. “Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, I can just-”

“That’s not- no,” Mike says, though it’s probably undercut by the fact that he is still in motion, slinging his bag over his shoulder and grabbing his plate off of the table, scone still crumbling and unfinished. He dumps it in the bus bin, Will standing frozen by his abandoned table watching him with lips parted and a frown creasing his brow. “I’m just- I have to leave, I’m- leaving, goodbye.”

“Okay,” Will says slowly, and offers a half-wave before seeming to think better of it and dropping his hand back to his side. “Um- bye, I guess?”

Mike makes a garbled sound, and is out the door so fast that he nearly walks right into traffic.

3.

“You ran away?” Max asks, looking like she’s holding in a laugh. 

Mike glares at her over the rim of his glass. They’re at a bar a few streets down from the office, and Tipsy Mike (not to be confused with Sober Mike, who has a shred of dignity left, or Drunk Mike, who never had any dignity in the first place) had made the mistake of telling her about seeing Will at the cafe the other day. “I didn’t run away ,” he huffs, even though that is sort of exactly what he did.

“You just said that you got up and left as soon as you found out he was on a date.”

Mike gives her a look. “Like you wouldn't have?”

“Well, I would have been smoother about it, that’s for sure.” She shrugs, sipping her drink innocently. Mike scowls and flips her off across the table, which she does not react to in any way whatsoever. “Look, I’m sorry it was awkward, but couldn’t you just text him and ask him out if you wanted to?”

Mike chokes on his drink. “Ask him- why would I ask him out,” he splutters, as Max sends him an unimpressed look and wordlessly passes him a napkin. “It was bad enough just talking to him for five minutes. Plus, after the way I left, I think it’s highly likely that he hates me.”

“Only because you got jealous and self-sabotaged,” Max points out primly.

“That is not what happened,” Mike huffs.

“Ooh, who got jealous and self-sabotaged?” a voice asks, and Max grins as a smiling man in a University of Boston sweatshirt slides into the booth next to her.

“Mike, you remember Lucas, yeah?” Max asks, leaning into his side a little and blushing a little as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Mike does remember Lucas, despite having met him one single solitary time in his life, two months ago when he came by the office to take Max to lunch. Mike remembers that day very clearly, because without Max to accompany him on their daily trek across the street to Andy’s for lunch, he’d been forced to go alone, and had sat in a corner booth inside feeling particularly pathetic. “Hey, man,” he greets, nodding at Lucas, who sends him a warm smile and steals a sip of Max’s drink. “And- nobody got jealous and self-sabotaged,” he adds tersely in Max’s direction.

“We’re talking about this guy he’s in love with,” Max explains to Lucas. Mike scowls harder and kicks her in the shin. 

“I am not ,” he grumbles. Lucas raises an eyebrow at him across the table, and Mike rolls his eyes. “He’s my ex, who I dated for, like, a month .”

Max squints. “I feel like every time we talk about this the amount of time you allegedly dated for gets smaller.”

Mike ignores her. “He’s back in the city and I keep running into him,” he explains to Lucas, who grimaces in sympathy.

“It’s happened twice,” Max supplies helpfully.

Lucas laughs and nudges her arm, in what Mike hopes is a subtle cue for her to shut up immediately. “Well, was it at least an amicable breakup?” he asks.

“Yes!” Mike insists, waving a hand around in agitation, “It was fine , and I thought we were cool, but both times I’ve seen him it’s been so awkward.”

Lucas shrugs. “Maybe he’s just nervous.”

“Or maybe you’re just an awkward person,” Max adds, tapping away at her phone until finding what she’s looking for. “Look, this is him,” she says to Lucas.

Lucas takes the phone, eyes widening a little. “Oh, shit,” he says, sounding impressed, and Mike briefly considers throwing himself out the nearest window before remembering they’re on the ground floor. “He’s cute.”

“Okay, stop,” Mike huffs, making a swipe for the phone, but Lucas easily lifts it out of his reach. “It doesn’t even matter, I don’t- it’s whatever. It was just embarrassing, is all.”

Lucas is still staring at the phone. “I don’t know, man,” he says, chewing on his lip. “Maybe you should try to get back with him.”

Max wrinkles her nose. “That’s enough,” she decides, snatching her phone back and closing out of Will’s Instagram page. “He’s for Mike, not you.” Lucas grins and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“He’s not for anyone,” Mike counters, glaring. “I told you, he was on a date.”

“Maybe,” Max allows, waving a hand around vaguely. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t still try!”

“I don’t want to,” Mike insists. “It was a long time ago. It’s just been- weird, seeing him again.”

“Weird or not,” Max says, shrugging one shoulder and leaning further into Lucas’s side, “this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk about one partner before.”

4.

“Is it working yet?” Mike groans, rubbing his eyes under his glasses as Dustin The Tech Guy mumbles something to himself and clicks away at the computer. The Wi-Fi has been on the fritz all morning, and now Mike’s work computer is short-circuiting, and all around he is really wishing he’d gone with his instincts this morning and called in sick. It would barely even have been a lie - he can feel the beginnings of a stress migraine pounding at his temples.

“Give it a minute , Mike,” Dustin huffs, which is what he’d said twenty minutes ago. “It’s loading.”

Mike groans, leaning forward and banging his forehead against the table. Max makes a sympathetic noise and pats the top of his head absently, not looking up from her own stupid, perfectly functional computer. “I hate this job,” he grumbles. “Where is Debbie, anyway? She was supposed to give me my edits today.”

“She’s talking to the new hire,” Dustin says, clicking a series of keys on Mike’s computer and growling when, apparently, it does not result in the desired effect. “I saw her showing him around earlier. Some designer guy. I think they’re in her office now.” He clicks another string of keys, then gasps. “Oh, shit, it’s working!”

Mike perks up, lifting his head from the desk and rolling his chair back into place as Dustin moves back to make room for him. “Hey, thanks,” he says, relieved, as his Word document rematerializes on the screen.

Max ignores all of this, glancing up from her computer with her brow furrowed. “Since when is there a new hire?”

Dustin shrugs. “I don’t know. Debbie has been saying we’re short staffed, and this is some artsy guy from L.A. that she found.”

Max quirks an eyebrow at him. “Since when do you talk to Debbie so much?”

“I don’t,” Dustin says, grinning. “But when you work in tech support, you tend to find stuff out.”

“Wait, an- artsy guy from L.A.,” Mike repeats, frowning, “as in-”

Down the hall, the door to Debbie’s office swings open, and Mike’s mouth drops open. “Oh,” he groans, “you have got to be kidding me.”

Will does not look any more pleased to see him than Mike is. “Oh,” he says stiffly, as Debbie’s office door clicks shut behind him. “You again.”

“Nice to see you too,” Mike replies, and Will’s face drops into a scowl. “You work here now?”

“Yes,” Will replies, folding his arms and coming up to hover beside Mike’s desk while the others look on in poorly concealed glee (Max) and confusion (Dustin). “I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me where you were working,” Mike huffs, indignant.

Will snorts. “My mistake, sorry. I must have forgotten to mention it before you ran away from me.”

“I did not run away!” Mike yelps, blushing crimson. “You were the one who was meeting someone .”

“It’s hardly my fault you got so jealous you just decided to vanish into thin air,” Will sniffs, and Mike’s mouth drops open in offense.

“I wasn't jealous!” he defends.

“You were,” Will says flatly, “You ran away so fast I’m surprised you didn’t leave a plume of dust behind you, Bugs Bunny-style.”

“You guys argue weird,” Max says, grinning wide and leaning back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her head.

Mike shoots her a look, and her grin widens. “How did you even get a job here, anyway?” he asks Will, choosing to ignore his last comment.

Will rolls his eyes. “This may be shocking to you, but you’re not the only one capable of landing an entry-level job at a medium-level newspaper,” he says dryly, which was not the point that Mike was trying to make, but alright. “Debbie hired me as a designer.”

In another life, Mike might have been impressed by this - Debbie is very selective with her staff, even the entry-level ones, and Will’s always had good art skills, so it makes sense that he’d be good as a page designer. However, Mike is not about to be caught gushing over someone who is actively insulting him. “I thought you were all about L.A.,” he snarks instead, and it sounds slightly more bitter than he intends. Will’s eyebrows raise.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he replies in a huff, shoe tapping incessantly against the floor, “but the only reason I ever went to L.A. was because of the art program. Someone there connected me with Debbie, and she gave me a job, and now I’m here. Is that going to be a problem?”

“You tell me,” Mike says, glaring at him. 

“I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” Will says with an eye roll, and Mike watches in horror as he sets his bag down on the desk directly across from his. “You’re the one who’s being a brat.”

Max snorts audibly, and Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. Mike glares at them both. “I am not,” he sniffs. “You’re just, like. Impeding on my life.”

Will makes a face, taking a seat and turning on his computer. “Sorry. I’ll do my best to pretend I’m not here. Or you could do it, and save me the trouble.”

“I don’t have a good enough imagination for that,” Mike says sourly.

Will hums, tapping at something on his screen. “That’s a good quality in a writer,” he replies dryly. “Hey, can you help me get this set up?” he asks Dustin, before Mike can launch himself out of his chair and attack him.

Dustin shoots Mike a look that says he desperately needs to know the backstory of the situation, and Mike grimaces, turning away and glaring firmly at his computer. 

Max kicks him under the table, and Mike looks up at her, brow crinkled.

She grins. “This is going to be fun.”

5.

It is decidedly not fun.

On the Thursday of the first week, Mike is twenty minutes late to work because of the stupid bus schedule, and Debbie gives him a verbal lashing about it in front of everyone, her main point being that the new guy’s on time, look at the new guy, he was here ten minutes early, he’s already gotten a design mocked up for page five, blah blah blah. Which- well, Mike might be paraphrasing, but the sentiment is the same. And plus also, Will spends the entire lecture sitting across from him looking wholly pleased with himself, which only compounds on Mike’s misery. 

The next week, Will’s keyboard breaks and Debbie tells him to borrow Mike’s, and Mike has to finish editing his article on his laptop, which is not so much the worst thing that’s ever happened, but is incredibly annoying. On Thursday, Max spends their lunch break chatting with Will, which means that Mike has to go across the street to Andy’s by himself, periodically texting her about how she’s a giant traitor while he waits for his food, and still buys her an extra sandwich anyway because he is a pushover who very much desperately needs to keep her around, and will resort to bribery if necessary.

On the Friday of the third week, Will stomps over to his desk and drops a folder on it, already looking irritated. This pleases Mike immensely - it’s not often that he gets to annoy Will without even speaking to him. “Here.”

Mike glances up from his computer, blinking at him. “What’s this?”

“The mock-up for page eight,” Will says, as if that explains everything. When Mike continues to stare blankly at him, he sighs, exasperated, like Mike is the one giving mixed signals here. “That’s the page you’re writing for, right?” he says slowly, the way one might remind a child to double check that they have their shoes on the right feet.

Mike blinks again. “How the hell have you only worked here three weeks and you’re already getting assigned full pages?”

Will shrugs. “I’m just that good.”

“He had to have Robin help him with almost all of it,” Max says from the other side of the desk, and Will glares at her over the top of Mike’s computer. “What? You did!”

Mike bites down a smile, flipping the folder open. His face immediately drops into a scowl when he sees the design. “What is this? You cut my article down by like half!”

“Debbie told me to,” Will says, shrugging again. It’s frankly inhuman, his ability to be so unbothered by everything. Mike kind of wants to bop him over the head. “She said you knew about it.”

“I didn’t know about it,” Mike says flatly, “are you sure you didn’t misunderstand?”

“Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand?” Will snarks back, which isn’t even the fifth best comeback he could have said, but Mike doesn’t know how to point that out to him without giving him more ammunition.

Mike stares at him for one, two, three seconds, then jumps up out of his chair, grabs the file off the desk, and bolts for Debbie’s office. 

“What the- Mike,” Will yelps, and scrambles to follow him, grabbing his sleeve in an attempt to drag him backward as they both go careening down the hall.

“Let go!” Mike shrieks, trying to shake him off, and Will knocks his shoulder hard against him, trying to manhandle him out of the way.

“You are so immature,” Will gripes, shoving at him, and Mike tries three times at the door handle until it mercifully opens and they both tumble into Debbie’s office.

Debbie looks up from her desk, brow drawn, and looks them both up and down with no small amount of disdain. Both of them are panting, Will still gripping Mike’s sleeve, the file crumpled in Mike’s other hand.

Mike takes a beat to collect himself, then straightens up, shoves Will aside, and calmly walks over to place the crinkled mock-up on Debbie’s desk. “Did you tell Will to cut my word count?” he asks, in his best look how polite and professional I am voice.

“Yes,” Debbie replies, and Will lets out a triumphant ha! from behind him. Mike, very bravely, does not turn around and punch him in the face.

“Why?” Mike whines, plopping down into the chair across from her. Debbie raises an eyebrow. “This happens every time. Also, the article is about public libraries. There’s no way we need five pictures of some random stacks of books.”

“As I recall, you used to be very fond of libraries,” Will murmurs from behind him, making the hair on the back of Mike’s neck stand upright. “Specifically, the back corner of the one at school where we used to go to-”

“Enough,” Mike hisses at him, finally twisting around to shoot him a glare even as his cheeks flame red. Will does his infuriating little shrug thing again, faintly amused, and Mike clenches his hands into fists as he clears his throat and turns back to Debbie. “Um. I have nothing against libraries, obviously, my point was just that we don’t need that many pictures of one. It makes way more sense to fill the space with the writing that I’ve already finished .”

“If you were more inclined to take my edits, Michael, I would be more inclined to meet you halfway,” Debbie says calmly, hands folded neatly over the desk. “You and Mr. Byers are just going to have to work it out.”

“Nice going, Mike,” Will mutters, and Debbie’s mouth twitches into a half-smile that she quickly hides with a cough.

Mike grits his teeth. “Fine. I’ll fix the article,” he says tightly, and stands, shoving the chair backward. “And- why is he ‘Mr. Byers’ and I’m just Michael?”

Debbie purses her lips. “He’s new.”

“She likes me better,” Will whispers helpfully in Mike’s ear.

“She does not,” Mike hisses back, and stalks past him back out into the hallway. Will follows him, a few paces behind, and even without looking at him Mike can sense the smug grin he’s undoubtedly wearing. “You’re a menace, you know that?” he complains, pushing his way into the break room and grabbing a tragically stale scone off of the table in the corner. 

Will stays infuriatingly close, hovering over his shoulder as Mike pours coffee into a ceramic mug. “Takes one to know one,” he replies smoothly, “it’s not my fault I’m likable.”

“You are not likable,” Mike huffs, turning to face him and gripping his mug so tightly it threatens to break. “Case in point; I don’t like you.”

Will blinks, momentarily taken aback, but recovers quickly. This, somehow, annoys Mike even more. “You used to like me,” he says, smirking a little, “you used to really -“

“Okay,” Mike grits out, gaze darting around to check that no one heard. He doesn’t need any more people to be aware of his and Will’s history. It’ll only complicate things. Besides, he doesn’t want to be permanently associated with this menace of a person. “That was three years ago. People change.”

“Clearly,” Will says derisively, giving him a once over. “Well, I would love to leave you alone, trust me, but we’re gonna have to at least pretend to be civil if we’re gonna work together.”

“Right,” Mike agrees, wrinkling his nose, “or you could just quit and save us the trouble.”

Will rolls his eyes. “I’m not quitting,” he says, and reaches over to neatly swipe the scone right out of Mike’s hand. He takes a bite, widening his eyes innocently, and Mike just stands there like an idiot and lets him . “I wouldn’t be opposed to you quitting, though.”

“I was here first,” Mike whines, a little too petulantly, as Will hands his scone back, a large chunk now missing. “I’m not leaving.”

“Okay, then it’s settled,” Will says calmly, patting his arm commiseratingly, “you’ll just have to get over yourself.”

Mike’s mouth falls open in offense, and Will turns on his heel, stalking gracefully away and back in the direction of their desks. 

“I-!” Mike manages, springing into motion and scrambling to follow him, “You get over yourself, you-! Will-“

6.

Because Debbie is evil and fucked up and a terrible boss, she continues putting Will and Mike together on projects for weeks on end. Which, of course, means that Will basically gets to dictate whatever Mike writes, because he designs the pages and gets to pick things like word count and important content and whatever , and Mike has to listen to him, for the most part. In theory, if Will were being super unreasonable about it, or causing problems in their working relationship , Mike could technically go over his head and file a complaint to Debbie, or something, and maybe get Will moved to a different department or at the very least to somewhere where Mike would not have to deal with him. But the annoying thing about Will is that he’s just annoying enough , without specifically doing anything wrong, so if Mike complains he looks like the asshole.

He explains this to Max at least three times, and then, when he fails to get the appropriate amount of outrage from her, he explains it to Dustin, and Dustin nods sympathetically and creases his brow and offers up solutions like maybe try talking to him about it , or maybe offer up a compromise, or maybe just hear out his ideas next time , all of which is very true and real and valid, except that the problem isn’t so much that Mike doesn’t understand where Will’s coming from or that he doesn’t think they could be good at working together, but more just that he’s stubborn and Will is annoying and he’s not really willing to change that.

“It’s just such a bummer,” he sighs, the week before Thanksgiving, spinning his chair around in circles and pretending not to notice Will and Max both glaring at him. “No one is willing to listen to me complain anymore.”

“Every other word out of your mouth is a complaint,” Will points out, throwing a pencil at him. “Stop spinning, asshole. You’re causing a disruption in the workplace.”

“You’re a disruption in the workplace,” Mike snarks back, nose wrinkled. Will’s pencil clatters to the floor and rapidly disappears beneath the wheels of Mike’s chair. 

“Case in point,” Max mutters.

“Shut up,” Mike tells her. 

Will sighs, turning his face firmly away from him and looking instead at Max. “Are you doing anything for the holidays, Max?” he asks in a sickly sweet tone, somehow managing to be passive aggressive toward Mike without looking at him or saying his name or mentioning him in any way. Mike would be impressed, if he wasn't also very offended, and sort of starting to get dizzy from all of the spinning.

“Not for Thanksgiving,” she says, mouth twitching in amusement, no doubt pleased at finally having someone to scheme and plot against Mike with. “But I’m going with Lucas to visit his family for Christmas in a few weeks.”

“Sounds fun,” Will says, smiling. Mike stops spinning, because suffering from nausea-induced vomiting would definitely put a damper on the fun of needling Will, and glances over at him, watching the way his smile stretches out his cheeks and crinkles up his eyes. Will smiles with his whole body. 

It’s annoying. 

When he tunes back in, having momentarily been overcome by a wave of dizziness that is still, probably, chair-related, and not at all tied to the pleasant flush in Will’s cheeks and the way his hair flutters across his forehead as he leans forward to talk to Max, Will is saying something about going home for the Thanksgiving, as Max nods along interestedly. “-haven’t seen her since, like, June,” Will is saying, a little sheepishly, “She’s been traveling.”

“Who, El?” Mike asks absently, as he scoots his chair back over his desk and contemplates what it might be like to actually get some work done today. He doesn’t register that Max and Will are both staring at him until a beat too late.

“Yeah,” Will says slowly, and Mike’s cheeks heat with the intensity of his stare. “You remember?”

Mike winces. “Um, I remember you talking about her, yeah. Your sister, right?”

Will nods, still staring at him with something like- wonderment , maybe, like he’s shocked Mike would ever notice or remember anything about him. Which is stupid, honestly, because they used to date, and Mike had had an astronomically large crush on him for a while before they dated - not that he will be caught dead telling anyone that - and they’re coworkers now and Will is annoying , but- it’s not like Mike would just not remember something like that. He’s not a complete asshole .

Max’s eyes flick between them, brows drawn together, before she clears her throat, clearly aware of the strange tension in the room. Mike has the unfortunate sense that he’s going to get shit for this later. “What about you, Mike?” she asks, in a far more chipper tone than Mike has ever heard her use. “Any holiday plans coming up?”

“No,” Mike says, quickly tearing his eyes away from Will and trying very hard not to notice that Will is still looking at him. “Not really. I might go to my sister’s for, like, Christmas Day, but I’m not going home this year.”

“Why not?” Max asks. Will is still noticeably and annoyingly silent.

“I don’t want to see my parents,” Mike replies with a shrug, “they’ll just complain about my wasted potential and make weird and problematic digs about my love life, so, like, what’s the point?”

“What about your other sister, though?” Will asks, voice scratchy. Mike glances over at him, raising an eyebrow, and Will makes a face back, like, see, I remember stuff too . It makes Mike feel strangely warm. He looks away again.

“My parents never want to leave me alone with her,” he says, choosing not to take Will’s bait, “they think I’m a bad influence.”

Max snorts. “Bold of them to assume you’re any kind of influence.”

Mike’s mouth falls open in offense. “Rude!” 

She shrugs. “It’s not, like, a bad thing. You’re just not the mysterious rebel guy that you and, apparently, your parents, think that you are.”

“She’s right,” Will says thoughtfully, apparently having moved on from whatever weirdness he was experiencing a minute ago in favor of bullying Mike. He turns back to his computer, clicking at the mock-up page pulled up on it. “You’re not, like, a bad boy or anything, you’re just a bitch.”

Max chokes on her coffee, spraying half the desk as she coughs and reaches for a tissue. Mike scowls at her, then swivels his chair to scowl at Will too, which probably doesn’t help his case very much. “Thanks for that,” he says tersely. “You’re the one who asked, by the way.”

Will is unaffected by this information, simply shrugging and smiling faintly even as his eyes stay firmly trained on his screen. “I’m just saying.”

“Say it somewhere else,” Mike huffs, plucking a crumpled-up piece of paper from his desk and tossing it in Will’s direction. He misses by about two feet, but he at least gets Will to look up at him, wrinkling his nose.

“You are such an ass,” he huffs.

“Takes one to know one,” Mike replies, which, to be fair, is not his best, but definitely is not bad enough to warrant the second pencil of the day being hurled at his head. 

Max coughs and stands, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m gonna go take my lunch break before this gets violent.”

“Consider yourself lucky you get a break from it,” Mike huffs, tossing the pencil back at Will. Because Will is absurd and annoying and the worst, he catches it and places it neatly back in his pencil cup without batting an eye.

“You could get a break too if you’d just quit it ,” she replies, and disappears down the hallway before he can argue.

Mike opts to pretend she did not say anything at all, and locates a roll of masking tape on his desk. He tosses it at Will’s head, and it bounces satisfyingly off the top of his skull before rolling away across the floor. 

Will yelps, rubbing his scalp dramatically and turning to Mike with a scowl. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You started it,” Mike says, which he’s not actually sure is factually correct, because it’s been getting kind of hard lately to track where his and Will’s arguments start and stop - mainly due to the fact that they don’t really stop, and their disagreement status is best described as perpetual . 

“Did I?” Will asks absently, which does make Mike feel slightly better. “Well, I have to get some actual work done now, so can we drop it?”

“Only if the work you’re doing doesn’t involve cutting my word count within an inch of its life,” Mike offers.

Will side-eyes him, fingers flying across his keyboard at record speed. “No promises.”

Mike scowls. “Fuck you.” He glances at his desk again, but unfortunately it seems that he’s run out of things to throw at Will that wouldn't cause lasting damage. “I’m going to, like, fill all your desk drawers with shaving cream or something.”

Will sighs. “I don’t even keep anything in my desk drawers, Mike.”

“Bull,” Mike insists, “you have art supplies and rulers and shit. I’ve seen.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Will replies loftily, and smacks his hand over the nearest drawer before Mike gets a chance to reach over and yank it open. “Don’t you dare .”

“What’s with all the secrecy?” Mike goads, scooting his chair over and trying to pry Will’s fingers off of the edge of the drawer, to no avail. Will has always been deceptively strong. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” Will huffs, reaching over with his free hand and attempting to bat Mike’s hand away. “I just don’t want you to pour shaving cream all over my stuff.”

“Well, I don’t have it on me,” Mike points out, in his most irritating know-it-all tone, and Will gives him a look , “and I knew you kept stuff in there!”

“Yes, I utilize my desk space, big freaking deal,” Will says. Mike’s hand closes around his wrist, still trying to yank it away from the drawer, and Will sighs heavily, staring up at him with a vaguely defeated look. “Mike, please .”

Mike arches a brow. “I want to see what’s in the drawer of secrets.”

“Please,” Will tries again, and leans down to rest his cheek on his desk as he gives Mike a wounded look. He blinks up at him, looking like a kicked puppy with his wide eyes and petulant expression, and Mike groans.

“Oh, stop doing that,” he complains, holding up a hand to block Will’s face and forcibly turning his face away. “You can’t win arguments like that.”

“Sure I can,” Will replies, and uses Mike’s temporary lapse in focus to wrench his arm out of his grasp and, in one fell swoop, kick Mike’s wheeled chair back in the direction of his own desk using the toe of his shoe. Mike squawks indignantly and flails wildly as his chair knocks into the corner of his desk.

“Rude!” he shrieks, loud enough that the door to Debbie’s office creaks open from down the hall and she pokes her head out, frowning.

“Michael, are you causing problems?” she asks, squinting at him. She’s wearing her glasses today, and they’re perched on her nose at the perfect angle for her to look over them disapprovingly at him.

“No!” Mike says, “it was- Will started it!”

She raises her eyebrows, and Will coughs unsubtly at him, shaking his head.

“I mean,” Mike tries again, wincing, “No, ma’am, no issue here, my sincerest apologies.”

Debbie grins, satisfied, and vanishes back into her office. 

“Suck-up,” Will accuses quietly, snorting and going back to work.

“You-!” Mike squeaks, careful to keep his voice lower this time so that Debbie doesn’t yell at him again. “I hate you.”

“Mhm,” Will agrees vaguely. “I’m going to take my lunch break now.”

“I hope you slip on the ice and die,” Mike replies - it snowed for the first time this year this morning, which is maybe possibly a large part of the reason why he’s being extra mean today. It’s just- it’s hard to have goodwill and festive spirit and whatnot when your shoes are soaked through with gross New York slush water.

Will stands, sending him a scathing look that doesn’t quite hide his faint amusement. “You should drink some coffee,” he suggests, not unkindly, but then he pats the top of Mike’s head condescendingly on the way past him, and Mike wrinkles his nose, reaching up to scrub at the part of his head that Will touched as though he can rid himself of the phantom feel of it.

“Do your work!” Will calls as he disappears down the hall. Mike flips him off, even though he can’t see. Will returns the gesture without turning to look at him, though, like he knows , which is somehow more infuriating.

“Dude,” Dustin says, appearing from around the corner with a coffee in one hand and a pencil tucked into a tuft of curls beside his right ear. “You guys are really committed to this rivalry thing, huh?”

Mike lifts his head to glare at him. “Do you by chance feel like letting me have the rest of that coffee?” he asks hopefully, nodding to the paper cup.

Dustin laughs, and takes another sip as though to spite Mike specifically. If Will or Max did such a thing, Mike would kill them on sight, but Dustin is far easier to deal with, relatively speaking, so he doesn’t. “Not particularly,” he replies, though he has the decency to look slightly apologetic about it. 

Mike grunts noncommittally. “Fair enough.”

“Only thirty-one point five hours until the weekend,” Dustin sighs, clapping Mike’s shoulder and wandering away across the office. 

“But who’s counting?” Mike grumbles, and opens up the draft of his stupid article.

7.

“What do you mean it’s declined?” Mike groans, trying futilely to swipe his card for a third time as the grocery store cashier stares at him, unimpressed.

“The chip reader isn’t working,” she says, sounding incredibly bored for someone actively ruining Mike’s life. To be fair, this sort of thing probably happens a lot, and to be fair, she’s probably finishing an eight hour shift, and it’s probably Mike’s fault for forgetting to transfer more money into his checking account before using his debit card, but still. “Do you have another card you could try?”

“No,” Mike grits out, glaring, because he is not the sort of person who just carries multiple credit cards around. “Are you sure there’s not a problem on your end?”

The cashier just stares at him, not dignifying that with a response. Mike sighs and begins turning out his pockets, searching for any loose cash he might have helpfully stored in his jacket for moments like these, where he has a grocery bag full of all his necessities for the next couple weeks and, apparently, no way to pay for it.

Just as he’s giving up hope, an arm brushes his side, and he looks up to see a smiling face and a hand extended in the direction of the cashier, several twenties clutched in it. “Here,” Will says, as Mike officially decides that his life is the worst, “I got it.”

The cashier takes the cash and rings Mike up before he can protest, and Will offers him a small smirk, tilting his head in the direction of the grocery bag. “You need any help with that?” he offers sweetly.

Mike comes unfrozen, mouth dropping open and a growl escaping him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he huffs, as Will neatly sets his own groceries - a carton of strawberries and a singular loaf of bread - on the conveyor belt, ignoring Mike’s obvious offense. “How do you keep showing up everywhere?”

“Magic,” Will replies seamlessly, as the cashier checks him out and he hands over another twenty. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Mike grits out, because he has to, “but I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Will gives him a look. “You didn’t have to.”

Mike returns it. “Yeah, and now I have to feel guilty for being so mean to you all the time."

“You should feel guilty for that,” Will points out, bagging his own groceries and slinging the it over one arm. “I’m a very nice person.”

“No you’re not,” Mike huffs. “You’re evil. This is all part of your evil plan to defeat me. I can sense it."

Will blinks serenely. “Sure,” he says placidly. “Do you want help carrying stuff?”

“No,” Mike snaps, snatching his bag off of the counter and giving the cashier a cursory nod before marching out the door. Because Will is Will, he follows close behind, like they’re supposed to be leaving together, like they’re friends or something. Mike hates it, hates being so aware of him.

“You seriously didn’t have to,” Mike adds, because Will’s stupid evil plan worked and he does feel a little guilty. He tugs his scarf up further over his face with his free hand as he walks, so Will can’t read his expressions as easily. “That was like sixty bucks’ worth of shopping.”

“Not my fault you leave all your shopping until the last minute,” Will says haughtily. “Some of us outgrew those habits after college."

"Yes, yes, Will, we get it, you're an incredibly well-functioning adult, thanks," Mike grumbles, breath making puffs of condensation appear in the air before them. "You can stop lording it over the rest of us."

Will shrugs, keeping up infuriatingly well with Mike's intentionally fast pace. "Wasn't lording. I was- observing."

Mike finally turns to look at him again, scowling over the edge of his scarf. "Go observe someone else."

"You're welcome," Will says again, more pointedly this time, and Mike sighs, scuffing his shoe along the sidewalk and dutifully slowing his pace to let Will keep up more easily, even as every bone in his body screams at him not to.

"Thank you," he mumbles, "again."

Will hums, satisfied, and knocks their shoulders together. "You could stand to mean it. Maybe you should buy me dinner in reparation."

“Not happening,” Mike gripes, turning the corner down his street. Will continues following him, much to his annoyance. “You’re scheming against me.”

“Yeah, or maybe I’m just not a heartless monster,” Will offers, shrugging and bumping their shoulders together again. Mike grits his teeth and fists his hands, resisting the urge to shove him away in a similar manner.

"Unlikely," he huffs, peering over at him again. He glances up - they're a couple blocks away from his apartment now, and Will is still walking in time with him with seemingly no intention of stopping. "Stop following me, weirdo.”

“I’m not following you,” Will says calmly. “I live here.” He stops and points upward to where, now that he mentions it, there’s an apartment complex looming over them. “Not everything’s about you, Wheeler," he adds with an eyebrow raise, which, to be fair, Mike didn't say it was, but okay.

“Oh,” he says dumbly, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk, and now he's the one hovering around Will. Great. “Oh, well.” He coughs, summoning his most snarky expression, which, judging by Will’s answering smirk, is more amusing than devastating. “Goodbye , then. See you never, hopefully.”

Will snorts. “You’re ridiculous. I'll see you tomorrow morning, jackass."

Mike scowls. “I was hoping one of us would die before then,” he replies sourly, as Will walks backward until his back meets the lobby doors, grinning at him all the while. “Fuck off.”

“Gladly,” Will says. “I live in apartment 223 if you ever feel like repaying me for the groceries!”

“Absolutely not!” Mike calls, face heating rapidly. He glances around to see if anyone heard - several people must have, because this is a relatively busy street, but it’s also New York, so none of them care. Will laughs and pushes the doors open, blowing him a kiss before vanishing into the building. Mike scowls and flips him the finger, and Will’s laughter rings out all the way up until the doors close behind him.

8.

“He’s not that bad,” Max says thoughtfully a few weeks later, as she and Mike sit in the corner of Andy’s on their lunch break. “He’s just good at his job.”

“He’s been working here six weeks and Debbie is already giving him special privileges,” Mike whines, scowling at a mustard stain on the knee of his jeans. “Damn it, these are new,” he mutters to himself, and Max gives him an unimpressed look. “He walked into her office when she was on the phone the other day and she didn’t even yell at him. Remember the last time I did that? She threw a roll of tape at my head.”

Max sighs, picking an onion out of her sandwich and dropping it onto Mike’s plate. “Have you considered that maybe she likes him because he’s nice to people and gets his work done on time?”

“Well, sure,” Mike allows, because it’s annoyingly true - Will is bitchy around Mike, sure, but he possesses an incredible ability to bite his tongue and smile through things that Mike is honestly in envy of. “But it’s not fair. She sought him out specifically and she’s moving him up this quickly on purpose.”

“He networked his way in,” Max says, as another onion lands next to Mike’s sandwich. “That’s not against the rules.”

“No, but it’s annoying. And even if it wasn’t, he’s annoying. He’s plotting against me, ” Mike huffs, and a third onion joins the first two. He scowls at it. “Max, if you don’t like the onions, why don’t you just order something without onions?”

“I forgot to ask,” Max says, shrugging. “You’ll eat them. Anyway, I really don’t think that paying for your groceries is as egregious a crime as you’re making it out to be. Besides, I didn’t hear you whining about how annoying Will is when you were checking him out yesterday.”

Mike drops his sandwich, just barely catching it in his lap. One of Max’s onions falls on the ground. “I was not!” he yelps, flushing red.

Max looks unmoved. “Yes you were. I saw.”

“I wasn't,” Mike huffs. “I was just- marveling at how someone could wear a shirt that tight and thin in New York in December and not freeze to death.”

“He had a jacket,” Max points out. “He just took it off.”

“Okay, well,” Mike starts, and then, finding no suitable end to his sentence, sighs and sinks lower on the bench. “Fuck off. Why would you notice that, anyway?”

“I didn’t notice. I noticed you notice,” Max says. “And by the way, I can appreciate objective beauty, and you denying that he’s attractive is way more incriminating than if you just admitted it.”

Mike flushes. “I never denied it,” he mumbles. 

Max brightens. “So you agree,” she chirps, “you think he’s hot.”

“No one said hot,” Mike says, scowling, very aware that this does nothing to help his case, “and- I mean, of course I don’t think he’s bad looking. I did date him once.”

Max hums, like he’s said something particularly revealing even though he really hasn’t. “Well, for the record, I’ve also seen him check you out. So you’re both in the same boat, here.”

“He did not,” Mike hisses, folding his arms, sandwich officially abandoned. “He was probably just glaring at me like usual.”

“Maybe,” she allows, balling up her napkin and sandwich wrapper and tossing them into the nearest trash can. Because she is incredibly annoying, she makes the throw on the first try. “It was definitely a lust-filled glare, though.”

Mike grinds his teeth, and takes another aggressive bite of sandwich before he can do something stupid like ask for details.

When Mike shows up to work the next morning, Will is faceplanted into his desk, apparently asleep. 

“I can’t believe you’re Debbie’s favorite,” Mike says derisively, slamming his bag down onto his desk with enough force that Will jolts halfway upward with the sound.

“Fuck off, I’m tired,” he replies, scowling at Mike and going back to resting his cheek on his desk. “At least I’m here on time. Unlike some people.”

“I’m only two minutes late,” Mike defends, cheeks heating. He sits down and turns on his computer, clicking idly at the mouse while he waits for it to load. “What’s wrong? Late night?” he asks, side-eyeing Will, whose eyes have drifted shut again.

“None of your business,” Will murmurs, not moving one singular inch. 

This is probably true, but being a nosy nuisance is one of the few things Mike is consistently good at, so he presses on anyway: “Hot date? Drunken escapades? Burning the midnight oil?”

Will cracks one eye open. “My sister was in the hospital,” he says flatly.

Mike’s stomach drops. “Seriously?”

Will stares at him for a minute, then opens his other eye and sits up, stretching his arms over his head. “No. But that could have been true, so stop being an ass.”

Mike scowls. “Mean. What were you actually doing?”

“Still none of your business,” Will points out. He’s still stretching his arms, and it’s making his shirt ride up. Mike is not staring, obviously, but if he were, he would be wondering how a person could still be that tan in December, especially under two layers of sweaters. Hypothetically, he’d be wondering that. Obviously. “But if you must know, I was up late finishing a painting.”

“You still paint?” Mike says unthinkingly, far too softly if the weird look Will sends him is anything to go by. He clears his throat. “Um, I mean, geez, that’s lame. Drunken escapades would have been better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I want to stay up until two a.m.,” Will says, sounding like he’s holding back a laugh. “Although last time I got drunk I called my ex, so maybe not.” He must see the face Mike makes, because he turns to look at him again, giving him a look. “Not you. I’ve dated other people.”

“I know,” Mike gripes, but truthfully, he’d sort of forgotten that Will has exes besides him. It makes his insides twist uncomfortably, but he bravely ignores it and soldiers on; “Like the guy you were meeting at the coffee house that day?”

Will rolls his eyes. “No. That was a one time thing. He was mean to the waitress. I hate people who are mean to waitstaff.”

Mike bites down hard on the inside of his lip, fighting the urge to smile. Will’s so- so funny , is the only way he can think to describe it that doesn’t make him feel weird and floaty and dizzy - so resolute about it, so attached to his morals. It’s admirable, at the very least. Mike can give him that. “You are so specific,” he murmurs, shaking his head and turning back to his computer.

“Fuck off,” Will says again, and Mike watches his nose wrinkle with dissatisfaction in his peripheral vision.

He wasn't actually trying to insult him this time, honestly, but if Will takes it that way it’s probably a safer inference anyway. “Sorry,” he says compulsively, and then frowns. Why is he apologizing? “I mean, no I’m not.”

Will glances over at him, eyebrows pinched together and mouth ticking upward. Mike wonders if he’s fighting a smile too, and then immediately wonders why on earth he’d think something like that. His brain must be on the fritz. Maybe Max put something in his beer when they went for drinks after work last night. “You’re being weird today.”

“I’m not being weird,” Mike says in a very weird tone, kind of high and squeaky and scratchy. He clears his throat. “You’re just- you keep looking at me like that.”

Will continues looking at him, expression perfectly blank. Maybe Mike is losing his mind. “Like what?”

“Like-” Mike cuts himself off, growling in frustration. Like I matter , is what he’d been about to say, but that’s far too weird of a statement for nine in the morning. It’s true, though- even when they’re arguing Will has a way of giving Mike his undivided attention, which isn’t always a good thing, but at least makes Mike feel better than being ignored, which is what basically everyone else does. “Never mind,” he says, shaking his head. “Where’s Max?”

Will smirks. “She’s not here yet. Am I that awful to talk to?”

“Yes,” Mike says, and then frowns, wondering if that was too mean. Probably not; Will set himself up for it. He wonders why he wasn’t overthinking this so much last week, when Will quite literally swooped in and rescued him from financial doom and Mike had no problem being mean to him after. Maybe he should apologize for that, too.

Wait, no he shouldn’t. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

Damn it, Max.

Will’s eyebrows lift. “Okay,” he says, in an unreadable tone that makes Mike incredibly nervous. “I’ll leave you alone, then,” he says, faux-casually, shrugging and turning back to his desk.

Wait, Mike thinks desperately, illogically. That wasn't what he wanted. Was it? “You’re not going to annoy me more?” he demands, spinning his desk chair more in Will’s direction. Not his best, admittedly, but he can’t not say something. Not when Will is just sitting there, looking all annoying and reserved and- and not attractive, is the bottom line. Mike is not noticing the way his fingers dart across his keyboard as he drags and drops an image. He’s not thinking about the red bloom of his lower lip as he bites down on it and releases it again. He’s not watching Will’s eyes, waiting for them to land on him again. He’s not above admitting that Will is objectively attractive, or whatever Max was trying to say before, but he’s not fixated on it or anything. He’s very much perfectly normal about Will’s average-to-above-average level of attractiveness.

Whatever .

“I’m doing my job,” Will responds evenly after a beat, eyes firmly planted on the screen. “Unlike some people.”

“I’m doing stuff!” Mike defends, tearing his eyes away and glancing over at his computer screen. He has yet to actually turn the computer on, he notices, so he figures he should probably get on that. He absolutely does not steal glances at Will out of the corner of his eye while he waits for it to boot up.

“I see you staring,” Will says, which- okay, so maybe Mike stole a couple glances, but that’s perfectly normal. Their desks are less than five feet apart. It’s pretty hard to just forget that Will’s there. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”

“Nothing!” Mike yelps, flushing red and turning his head firmly in the direction of his computer this time. “Nothing, I’m just, uh.” He flails for a minute, trying to decide what, exactly, he is just , before giving up and shaking his head. “Never mind. Sorry.”

Will side-eyes him, undoubtedly spooked by Mike’s multiple apologies throughout this conversation. “Oh-kay,” he says dubiously, and stands, smoothing out his sweater where it’s creased at the hem, which Mike was absolutely not noticing earlier, and was absolutely not imagining smoothing over with his own hand. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Have fun,” Mike replies faintly, and works very very hard to not look at Will again as he disappears down the hallway.

The elevator doors ding open, and Max finally emerges, bag slung over her shoulder and hair turned crusty with snow at the ends. “Man, it’s really coming down out there,” she huffs, marching across the room to her desk and dropping her stuff unceremoniously on the floor. Mike glances out the window; it’s started snowing again since he got here, big fat flakes drifting steadily down outside. He hadn’t noticed, what with all of the not-staring at Will. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says vaguely, as Max plops down into her chair, cocking her head at him inquisitively. 

“You look well,” she chirps, sounding like she means the opposite.

Mike’s brain kicks into gear, and he scowls at her. “Yeah, yeah, look who once again has showed up exactly three minutes too late,” he deadpans.

Max’s eyebrows raise, amused. “Did loverboy hurt your feelings again?”

“I object to literally every part of that sentence,” Mike replies sourly. 

Max blinks, unaffected. “Did he, though?”

“No,” Mike huffs. He folds his arms, leans back in his chair, unfolds his arms again. “We were just talking. He was asleep at his desk.”

Max makes a face like she doubts that, and confirms it when she replies, “I doubt that. Why are you freaking out, then?”

“Because,” Mike says tightly, “he’s just- he just gets on my nerves, that’s all.”

“Does he really,” Max hums, turning to her desk and starting up her computer. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Mike blinks. “What are you talking about?”

She gives him a look like he should already automatically know what she means. She gives him this look a lot; Mike wonders if he’s actually significantly less smart than her or if she’s just a bitch. Probably the latter, based on context. “You’ve never actually said anything mean to him,” she points out, “or if you do, you always back off right away. If you actually hated him you wouldn't do that.”

“I don’t hate him,” Mike says, which, judging by the satisfied glint in her eye, is exactly what Max wanted him to say. “I mean- well, I don’t like him all that much either, he’s just- he gets on my nerves!”

“Uh huh,” she replies, unimpressed, “you mean that your feelings for him get on your nerves.”

“I don’t,” Mike says weakly, throat going very dry all of a sudden. He glances over at Will’s empty desk, grits his teeth, then looks back at Max. “Who said I had feelings for him?”

“Everyone. Here, watch,” Max says, and to Mike’s horror, turns around to wave over Dustin, who’s passing by with a mug of coffee in one hand and a crumbling breakroom scone in the other. “Dustin, don’t you think Mike’s in love?” she calls, far too loudly even considering that Will is well out of hearing range.

“What, with Will?” Dustin asks, brows drawing together as he makes his way over to them. “Yeah, totally. Was that supposed to be news?”

Mike groans in response, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against his desk. “Yes, by all means, Max,” he grumbles, “let’s get more people involved.”

“I’m just proving a point,” she insists. “If Dustin notices, it’s definitely obvious.”

“That’s true,” Dustin agrees, bobbing his head. “It took me two years to notice that Robin and Vickie from the press team were dating.”

“Okay, well,” Mike huffs, and then promptly fails to think of any adequate end to his sentence. “You’re wrong,” he settles on, which is true , even if it comes out sounding kind of whiny and petulant. “I don’t even like him.”

“You’re a big fat liar,” Max replies primly, just as Will reappears from around the corner.

“Who’s a big fat liar?” he asks pleasantly, looking faintly amused as he settles back into his chair. Mike growls something indecipherable and slinks low in his chair, arms folded as he glowers across the table at Max and Dustin.

“Mike,” Dustin supplies helpfully. Mike tries to kick him under the table, ends up hitting Max instead, and receives a sharp kick to his own kneecap in response. “He’s ignoring our romantic advice.”

“That’s because your advice sucks,” Mike spits. Max gives him a dirty look.

Will’s spine stiffens, just slightly, and his eyes flick from Dustin to Mike to Dustin again. “Oh? What advice?”

“Nothing,” Mike says immediately. “They just, uh. Dustin was asking me if I was interested in anyone and I said no, and he doesn’t believe me.”

Will’s shoulders relax a little. “Oh. Well, are you lying?”

“No!” Mike yelps, “no, I’m not, and actually, I think everyone needs to get back to work , so-”

“Defensive,” Dustin mutters, and Mike very nearly throws a stapler at him.

9.

Mike is not a big fat liar, he decides, in the several work days that follow. He doesn’t want to date Will, because Will is annoying, and even if he weren’t there’s not enough basis for a relationship between them now. They broke up three years ago, and they’ve both moved on, clearly, so even, hypothetically, if Mike wanted to date him, there’s absolutely no reason for Will to feel the same. Mike’s definitely killed any hypothetical chances he might have had by now, anyway.

Who cares, really, if Will has big, pretty eyes, and toned arms and an easy smile that makes Mike feel warm all over? Not Mike, that’s for sure. It doesn’t matter that Will’s talented and genuine and makes Mike laugh even when Mike tries very hard not to, and it doesn’t matter that Will has a freckle under his eye that Mike used to kiss sometimes, and it doesn’t matter that Will dumped him and moved across the country, because Mike doesn’t want to date him anyway.

Needless to say, he’s in a horrible mood for the next couple days, what with all the not matter-ing. Which would be bad enough, except for that then Thursday happens, and everything gets weird.

The issue begins, as if often does, with Max.

“I swear to God,” Mike whines at her for the third time, the afternoon of the aforementioned Thursday, as he slumps over on his desk and picking at the remains of his lunch. “Stop texting your boyfriend.” The office has been quiet and dreary since this morning, and Mike is about twenty conversation-less minutes away from jumping out the nearest window. If picking a fight means ending his ceaseless boredom, so be it.

“No. Get your own boyfriend,” Max huffs, very predictably, and Mike tenses up, incredibly aware that Will is only one desk away from him.

Not that- not that he wants Will to be his boyfriend, obviously, and not that it would matter if he did want that. But it’s just a sensitive subject, to talk about with your ex sitting three feet from you.

“Shut up,” he mutters to Max, cheeks burning, hoping she’ll take the hint.

As always, she very clearly sees the hint, and visibly decides to ignore it. “It’s not my fault people keep dumping you.”

“They do not ,” Mike huffs. “Dustin, tell her that’s not true.”

Dustin frowns, considering. “I don’t know,” he muses, “Remember Jennifer? She dumped you up real nice.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Okay , well, we only dated for a few weeks anyway, and she was boring, so.”

Max hums pointedly, and her gaze slides over to Will. Mike narrows his eyes at her; yes, Will is not boring, point taken, whatever . 

But his traitorous eyes follow her gaze anyway, upon further inspection, it appears Will is listening, head cocked to one side even as his expression remains placid, eyes locked on the computer in front of him a little bit too intently. 

Which, of course, doesn’t change anything. But it’s interesting, at the very least. 

Mike clears his throat. “I didn’t really like her,” he confesses, loud enough so that Will could hear, possibly. If he wanted. “I think I just liked that she liked me, really.”

Max makes a face. “That's presumptuous.”

“No, like-“ Mike waves a desperate hand around in the air, trying to summon the words to explain. “Like- I’m not usually really people’s first choice, or whatever, so. When I am it’s kind of a shock.”

From the desk opposite Mike’s, Will makes a faint little noise, vaguely strangled. 

Mike frowns, glancing over at him. “Problem?”

Will flushes a deep red, shaking his head. “No.”

Dustin grins. “What about you, Byers? You need our romance wisdom?”

“I wouldn't call what Max is doing wisdom so much as verbal abuse ,” Mike gripes under his breath. She kicks his leg, and he intends to return it, he really does, except that Will is now opening his mouth and Mike is, unfortunately, rather invested in his answer.

“No,” Will says dryly. His eyes keep darting to Mike and away again, and it’s making him very unnerved. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You sure? There aren’t any, uh-” Dustin glances at Max, raises an eyebrow, and she gives a small nod- “guys?”

Will smiles a little, clearly having noticed the mini-exchange. “Not particularly,” he says idly. This time, his gaze doesn’t flick to Mike at all. Mike wonders if that’s a calculated choice or if Will’s telling the truth.

Wait- no. Mike wants Will to be telling the truth. Obviously . He doesn’t want Will to still be into him, and of course he doesn’t want Will to be into someone else, so-

Wait.

God damn it, Max.

“Not particularly,” the evil wench in question echoes, smirking. “What does that mean?”

Will’s eyes narrow, and he shrugs, a jerky motion like he’s trying to shake something off. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable. “I’m just- not really seeing anyone right now.”

She leans forward, eyes glinting dangerously. “Would you?”

Will stares back for a beat, then laughs, turning back to his desk and shaking his head. “Thought you were taken, Maxine.”

“Not me, dorkus,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “Someone else.”

Will hums absently. “Anyone you have in mind?”

Max and Dustin both swivel to fix Mike with identical looks of barely concealed glee. Mike shakes his head at them, scowling and making a slicing motion across his throat that he prays Will won’t see in his peripheral vision. Max crinkles her nose, but Dustin takes pity on him, nudging her and shaking his head minutely.

“Not really,” he answers before Max can, “but we’ll look for someone for you.”

“Yeah, Byers," Max agrees, reaching across the table and stealing a mini candy cane out of the jar on Mike’s desk, “it’ll be a Christmas miracle.”

The real weirdness doesn’t happen until later. Mike ends up having to stay late, finishing up an article that he would have gotten done on time if not for Max and Dustin’s insistence on attempting to end his life via embarrassing conversation earlier. It’s dark in the office as he finally shuts down his work computer and stands, wrapping his coat around himself and gathering up his things. 

He’s slinging his bag over his shoulder and wondering how long the subway could possibly be delayed for this time when there’s a soft cough from behind him. He startles, whipping around and flushing red when he sees Will standing in the shadowed corner, similarly bundled up and ready to leave.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathlessly, forgetting to add the venom to his tone until it’s too late. He coughs and tries again. “What are you still doing here? I thought you left.”

“I had a meeting,” Will says, voice equally soft. 

Mike blinks at him. “Oh.” He glances back down at his desk; all his stuff is already packed up, but it seems awkward to just leave, especially since he and Will have to walk in the same direction anyway. He grabs a notebook at random and begins shoving it in his bag, just for something to do with his hands. Will doesn’t move.

“Mike,” he says stiltedly after a beat, biting his lip as he watches Mike collect his things. His cheeks are suspiciously pink, considering they haven’t even made it outside into the snow yet. 

“Hmm?” Mike hums distractedly, not really in the mood for whatever shit Will’s trying to pull. He just wants to go home and binge some cheesy sitcom and eat junk food for, ideally, eight or twelve hours.

“I just- wanted to say,” Will continues awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels and tipping his head into Mike’s line of sight until Mike has to look up and make eye contact with him. “That- um. God, sorry, this is awkward, but you were saying all that stuff earlier about not being anyone’s first choice, or whatever, and how people don’t just like you automatically, and I thought you should know that- that even if we hate each other now or whatever this is, back in college, I…” his blush deepens, and it looks like he has to psyche himself up a little before he can continue; “I liked you. Automatically. And I know it’s hypocritical coming from me since I’m such a bitch to you all the time, but I really think you’re too hard on yourself. So.” He blows out a breath, wincing again. “Sorry.”

Mike stares at him for a minute, open mouthed, searching for anything he could possibly say. Thank you? That doesn’t seem to cover it. I liked you too? No, that’s incriminating, and it’s not like it’s still true, really, or that it would matter if it was.

“I,” he says, after the silence has gone on too long to be socially acceptable. “I- that’s nice of you, Will.”

Will looks like he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole, but he nods anyway, smiling weakly. “Yeah. Um- I’ll see you Monday.”

“Okay,” Mike says dumbly, and Will gives him a little wave as he disappears toward the stairwell.

Well, Mike thinks, shit.

10.

The office Christmas tree is crooked, Mike decides, after a full sixty minutes of staring at it while everyone else busies themselves with general merriment and tidings of comfort and joy or whatever the fuck this season is supposed to be about. It’s their last day of work before Christmas, and Debbie, in a fit of unusual goodwill, had thrown together an allegedly non-denominational holiday party after hours. Allegedly, because the only thing that makes it non-denominational is the fact that they’re calling it a holiday party instead of a Christmas party, and that the Secret Santa that several of his coworkers had arranged has been renamed to a Secret Snowflake.

It’s all bull, in Mike’s opinion. But no one asked for Mike’s opinion, which is why he’s been standing in the corner by himself this whole time.

He’s not even sure why he bothered to stick around for the festivities, anyway. Work hasn’t been ideal lately, with Debbie continuing to put him and Will together on projects and Will being terribly smug about it, and Max and her insistence that there’s something there , or whatever, and also it’s freezing all the time because Debbie’s boss won’t spring for a better heating plan, and- just in general, November through February tends to be when Mike is at his worst. But Max had wanted him to stay for the party, and Dustin had agreed up until he’d left at lunch with the stomach flu, so here Mike is, staring at a stupidly crooked fake Christmas tree and wishing he’d picked a slightly less scratchy sweater to wear this morning.

“You look like you’re plotting to steal Christmas,” says a voice to his left, and Mike’s stomach does a complicated set of twisting motions at the familiar cadence.

He feigns a sigh, allowing Will one cursory glance before turning back to glare at the tree. “What?”

Will blinks serenely in his peripheral vision, wide-eyed as he looks at him. He looks at him like that infuriatingly often. “I’m calling you a Grinch,” he supplies helpfully. “You know, with the dog and the reindeer and the heart that’s three sizes too small-”

“I got it,” Mike interrupts, scowling. The tree is made out of wire and plastic. Someone could easily bend it back into proper position. Is he really the only one that’s noticed this? “And it’s only two sizes too small, actually.”

“Yours or his?” Will asks, amused.

“I thought you said I was him,” Mike replies, gracing him with another irritated look.

Will shrugs, unaffected. “Maybe. Anyway, I brought you this,” he continues, like it’s a perfect segue, and holds out a glass of champagne.

Mike stares. “What’s this?”

“A drink,” Will says flatly, taking a sip of his own as if to demonstrate. “I saw you finished yours.”

Mike takes it from him slowly, frowning. “How do I know you didn’t poison it?”

Will snorts. “I didn’t poison it, Mike, God.”

“That’s exactly what you would say if you did poison it and wanted to throw me off your scent.”

Will groans, exasperated. “Here, look,” he says, and snatches the flute right back out of Mike’s hand, lifting it to his lips and taking a small sip. He swallows and hands it back, bugging his eyes out like see? “You don’t have to drink it,” he says, “but in my experience these sorts of things are way less fun when sober.”

“Fine,” Mike grumbles, taking a small sip, and Will smiles, just barely. Suddenly, Mike is incredibly aware of the fact that his lips are touching the same spot that Will’s lips just touched. He scowls and rotates the glass so that he’s drinking from the other side. Will watches him do it, and his eyebrows raise just slightly. Mike flushes. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Will says quietly after a minute, still watching him with a weird look on his face. “I know you were my Secret Santa.”

“Secret Snowflake,” Mike corrects, pointedly not looking at Will and shuffling his feet. He had agonized for weeks over Will’s gift, and had finally settled on a nice sketchbook and a set of watercolor brushes that, conveniently, had equaled about the same price as the groceries Will had paid for last month. He might not like Will, at all, no matter what Max says, but he’s not a jackass. He’s a good gift giver, even if the receiver is an insufferable prick. “And you can’t prove anything.”

Will smiles. “No,” he agrees breezily, “but no one else knows I paint, so.”

“Max does,” Mike retorts, just to be annoying. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want credit for the gift, only that it’s making his face heat up to an uncomfortable degree. “And someone could have guessed.”

“Okay, Mike,” Will says quietly, sounding like he’s holding in a laugh. “Sure.”

Mike scowls. “Go away,” he huffs. “Where’s Max?”

“Kissing her boyfriend under the mistletoe,” Will replies easily, evidently willing to forget about the gift for now, which makes Mike’s shoulders relax a little. “Big mistake to put that up in the workplace, I think. And also to allow people to bring their partners.”

Mike snorts. “True.” He glances down at the champagne flute, then back at Will, and takes another sip, suddenly feeling strangely jittery. “Sorry,” he says compulsively, and Will smirks a little. “You don’t have to go away.”

“I wasn't going to,” Will says idly. He holds out a hand for Mike’s drink, and Mike frowns, peering over at Will’s own glass, which is decidedly empty.

“When did you even drink that?” he asks, even as he passes his own over and watches Will take another sip. 

Will shrugs. “Life finds a way,” he says, and hands Mike’s glass back.

Mike rolls his eyes, and this time when he lifts the glass to his lips, he doesn’t bother checking where Will’s lips last touched it. He stares resolutely out at the room, scanning the crowd for anyone whose company he prefers to Will’s, anything more interesting he could do, just so he doesn’t seem like such a loser, standing here with his ex - whom he doesn’t even like - and drinking from their shared glass. Unfortunately, he comes up short. Dustin’s already gone, and Max is still otherwise occupied , and all his other coworkers are tragically less interesting than Will, not that Mike would ever admit that out loud.

“The tree’s crooked,” he says after a beat, for lack of anything better to say.

Will smiles. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s driving you crazy, huh?”

“What? No,” Mike defends, snapping his head around to glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Will shrugs innocently, reaching for the glass again. Mike hands it over without thinking, and immediately hates himself for doing so. “Nothing. You’re just very detail-oriented.”

Mike squints. “That feels like a fancy way of saying I’m obsessive.”

“I’m not responsible for your inferences,” Will replies calmly, and a little too quickly too, like he’d known Mike would call him out on the passive aggression.

Mike snatches his glass back. “Simmer down, it’s a holiday,” he gripes, and Will laughs, far too lightly for the levels of annoyance he is producing in Mike. Mike hates him. Or- he almost hates him. He- well, he almost wants to hate him, at the very least.

“You left in the spring,” he says bluntly after a beat, and Will glances at him, brow furrowed in faintly amused confusion. Mike half-glances back, meeting his eyes for a split second before thinking better of it. He clears his throat. “Sorry, I just meant, um. I haven’t spent a winter with you before.” He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, handing his champagne glass back to Will. “Ugh, please take this away from me. And maybe duct tape my mouth shut while you’re at it.”

Will laughs, dutifully reclaiming the glass and taking a sip. “You’re fine. For the record, though, you’re also wrong.”

Mike scowls on instinct. “How so?”

“We were in the same class all of sophomore year of college, remember?” Will says, arching an eyebrow. “We sat next to each other. That’s how I asked you out.”

“Obviously I remember,” Mike scoffs, tapping his foot against the floor in agitation. “But we weren’t-” he flicks a hand between them, and Will’s eyebrows raise mockingly.

“Sure,” he allows, “but we knew each other.”

Mike makes a face. “Barely.”

Will blows out a breath. “You’ve mentioned,” he murmurs softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mike demands, breaking their unspoken rule and turning to face him full-on. Will does not comply, staring firmly over Mike’s shoulder as he takes another sip of his champagne.

Will’s eyes flick to him, then flick away again. Mike wants to put his hands on either side of his face and force him to look at him for real, wants to cup his cheeks and lean in just enough to-

Okay, he definitely should not drink any more tonight. 

Will purses his lips, sighing almost imperceptibly. “Nothing, sorry,” he says, sounding defeated, still looking through Mike, like he’s talking to a memory. His eyes, very mercifully, land on Mike again, and he smiles a little. “Just- I noticed you before that, you know. Before we dated.”

“Oh.” Mike is not blushing. “I- well, yeah. I noticed you too. Obviously.”

“Right,” Will says, smile growing a little. “So, there you go. Not the first winter.”

Mike, mustering all the resistance in his body, does not probe further about exactly when Will started noticing him, nor does he point out that Will had asked him out well into spring, several months after the supposed winter they had, meaning that Will had wanted to ask him out for longer than they actually ended up dating. It’s great material, of course, that he intends on giving Will shit for later, but Will’s being civil right now and it feels wrong to stoop lower. Besides, the whole thing feels sadder than usual tonight, thinking about Will noticing for months on end and saying nothing, how they could have had much longer if Mike had made a move then, how maybe instead of the static silence that followed Will’s move to California they could have-

Anyway. None of that is productive to say aloud, so instead, Mike steels himself, rocking back on his heels and smirking lazily at him. “You’re being less mean than usual,” he observes in his most grating tone, wondering if he can goad Will into stepping closer, getting all up in his personal space like he sometimes does when he’s trying to get the upper hand.

Will doesn’t take the bait, though. He just shrugs, taking another sip of Mike’s champagne. “It’s Christmas,” he replies, hiding a cheeky smile behind the glass.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Bah humbug,” he says, and tries very hard not to feel any type of way about it when Will’s laughter rings out across the room.

Max is not right. She is not right about Will being attractive, nor is she right about Mike liking him, or whatever, and she’s not right about Will liking him back, and she’s not right about much of anything else, either, while he’s at it. This becomes Mike’s mantra, over the course of the evening. Max isn’t right when Will drags him over to get food from the table at the other end of the room and makes fun of Mike’s aversion to deviled eggs and Mike doesn’t bother to fight back at all, and she isn’t right when Will recognizes a song that’s playing over the speakers and hums along absently and Mike catches himself staring, and she isn’t right when Mike breaks his no more drinking rule and accepts the next glass that Will offers him.

“You’re not right,” he says to Max for good measure, the next time she tears herself away from Lucas and bothers to come check on him. Will excused himself to go to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and Mike has been standing sullenly in the corner ever since, repeating his mantra.

Max arches an eyebrow. “That’s not usually true.”

“Fuck you,” Mike responds, around a mouthful of deviled egg (Will definitively won that argument, but to be fair, Mike let him). “You’re not right about Will.”

“Oh, about you liking him?” Max asks, grinning and waving a hand dismissively. “Yes I am.”

“Stop saying like like that,” Mike hisses. “It’s annoying.”

“True things can be annoying sometimes,” Max says sagely, and Mike reaches over to swat her arm. “Ow . You’re mean when you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m mean when people like you push my buttons.”

Max rolls her eyes. “People like me and Will, you mean.”

“What about me?” Will asks, reappearing at Mike’s other side, and Mike jumps about two feet in the air. Max snickers.

“Nothing,” Mike says quickly, glaring at her. “Max is just being a brat.”

“About me?” Will asks, arching a brow at her.

“No,” Max huffs, swiftly crossing in front of Mike and linking her arm through his. “I was telling Mike about your cool design idea for page eight, and he hates it when people are good at things, so he’s throwing a fit.”

Will snorts, clearly not believing her but going along with it. “Sure, okay. Want to play ping-pong?”

“No,” Mike says, a little too sharply, because Max isn’t right , and Will glances up at him, confused. He suppresses a wince and soldiers on; “I mean- I have to go talk to Debbie. Maybe she’s in a good enough mood for me to convince her to give me page four on the next issue.”

Will snorts again. “Unlikely.”

Mike scowls. “Fuck you,” he replies, again a little too harsh with it, and something shutters in Will’s expression, something being extinguished.

“Alright,” he says tightly, not even bothering to sting back even though they both know he could. “Max and I will have fun without you.”

“Damn right,” Max agrees, sending Mike a what the fuck look over her shoulder as Will leads her away by the arm. Mike wrinkles his nose at her; this is all her fault, really. She’s the one who won’t stop insinuating that he’s into Will, so forgive him if he’s a little extra bitchy toward him to disprove her point.

Mike does go try to talk to Debbie, if only so that his excuse holds up, but she’s a little too drunk to be properly swindled, and all he ends up getting out of the exchange is the affirmation that you and Byers make a good team, I want you to keep working with him , which is really just a fancy way of saying I’m never going to promote you ever and also I am going to knowingly continue to invoke misery upon you , but Mike allows it on the grounds that it’s sort of resembling praise, and he’ll take what he can get from her in that department.

He winds up chatting with Lucas for a while, which is by far the least irritating part of his evening, until Lucas asks about you and Byers and Mike has to spend ten minutes begging him to forget everything Max has said to him about it while Lucas laughs at him unabashedly. Eventually, Max reemerges from the break room and declares that she needs to go home and get out of her high heels immediately, and then Mike is alone again, save for an overeager intern who sidles over to him and attempts to flirt for about fifteen seconds before realizing that he is a mopey mess of a human being and going in search of someone significantly more infected with Christmas cheer.

“You’re still here,” Will comments, sometime around eleven-thirty when everything is starting to wind down, Debbie calling out a plea for everyone to dispose of their garbage before they leave that falls on deaf ears as people steadily file out the door.

“So are you,” Mike replies, and immediately regrets it, if only because it makes it sound like the two facts are related - him staying because Will is staying. Max is not right . “Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

Will frowns. “What’s wrong with you? You got all shitty out of nowhere.”

“I’m always shitty,” Mike says flatly, resolutely taking a sip of his drink. He didn’t even stick to his no more drinking rule for a full half hour, he’s pretty sure. “You of all people should know that.”

Will rolls his eyes. “You’re not shitty,” he insists, “you’re maybe a little petty sometimes, but that’s not it. What happened?”

“Someone keeps bothering me,” Mike answers pointedly, and Will’s expression darkens. “I have to go get my stuff,” he continues after a beat, when Will has no answer except a dangerous glint in his eyes. He brushes past him, swallowing down his apprehension, and heads for his desk, all too aware of Will scrambling to follow him, close enough that Mike can feel his body heat radiating off of him. 

“Look, I don’t get why you always act like this is a me problem,” Will huffs, as Mike grabs his messenger bag from where it rests on his desk chair and yanks open a drawer, rifling through it for his latest draft that Debbie told him to put on her desk before he left. “You’re the one who freaked out on me that day in the cafe, and you’re the one who assumes I’m trying to kill you or whatever, and-”

“First of all,” Mike cuts in, finding the page he’s looking for and slamming his desk drawer shut a little too hard, “if you are trying to kill me, I would really just prefer you get it over with. Second of all, I didn’t freak out at you, I just got out of your way, which I actually think is very considerate of me. Third, you’re the one who’s always cutting my word count down to next to nonexistent, and Debbie likes you better and Max likes you better and-” he pauses, taking a breath. “Whatever. Any problems I have are justified, is my point.”

“That’s a stretch,” Will insists, trailing after Mike as he heads down the hall for Debbie’s office. Everyone else has pretty much cleared out at this point - the janitor, Emma, has showed up at some point in the last ten minutes and is steadily working her way around the cubicles with a vacuum. “And for the record, I know this isn’t just about work for you, so don’t tell me that your only problem is that I’m unprofessional.”

“You are unprofessional,” Mike says, turning the corner into Debbie’s office and pausing in front of her desk, surveying it for the best place to put his draft so that she’ll see it bright and early when she gets back on Tuesday. “At least with me. And I never said it was just about work. It’s just mostly about work.”

“Bull,” Will says flatly. He’s standing in the doorway, hands on his hips while Mike, deciding that there’s not a sufficiently obvious spot to place his draft, starts rearranging things on Debbie’s desk to clear a spot. “I wouldn't fuck up Debbie’s desk too much if I were you, by the way.”

“Good thing you’re not me, then,” Mike responds, stacking a set of files on the edge of the desk and neatly smoothing his typed-up article over the empty spot. “Listen, I’m just saying that it’s all mutual, right? Just because you’re small and polite and have big eyes like a fucking baby deer or some shit does not make you devoid of blame.”

“I didn’t say I was,” Will says, blinking said baby deer eyes at him as Mike finally straightens up and looks at him properly again. “And I am not small!”

“That actually wasn't the part of the sentence that was meant to be an insult, but yes, you are,” Mike replies, faintly amused at Will’s indignation despite himself. He steps over to him, proving his point when Will has to tilt his chin up a little to look him in the eye. “You’re shorter than me.”

“That’s not saying much,” Will says defiantly, jutting out his chin less for eye contact purposes now and mainly just as a defense. It brings their faces a little closer together, and somewhere in the back of his mind Mike notes that Will smells like peppermint. “I’m five-eight! And I’m broader than you!”

“That’s not saying much,” Mike parrots, inching closer to make the height difference more obvious. Will scowls and tilts his face up further. “Go on, try to be intimidating right now.”

“Fuck you,” Will breathes, nostrils flaring, and Mike arches an amused eyebrow, edging as close as he can get without physically pressing himself against Will’s body. Will growls low in his throat and cranes his neck to look up at him, Mike relishing the heat of his glare until-

“Oh,” Will says, glancing upward, and his cheeks turn pink. “Um.”

Instantly, all of Mike’s glee at winning the argument evaporates. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Will replies, a little breathlessly, shaking his head minutely. “Just- it’s stupid. Mistletoe.”

Mike follows his gaze upward, and his heart rate quickens as he sees, sure enough, a small bundle of mistletoe in the doorway above them. “Jesus Christ ,” he hisses through his teeth. “Perfect.”

Will swallows. “Don’t worry about it,” he says shakily, “It’s- it’s just a stupid tradition.”

“I know that,” Mike huffs, and kisses him.

It’s not like- well, Mike definitely means to do it, but it’s certainly not like he’d planned on doing it beforehand. But there’s alcohol fizzing in his veins and Will’s just been standing there, all night, looking very pink and cozy in his green knit sweater, and then there’s mistletoe and all of those things added up means that the time between Mike thinking I should kiss him and the moment that their lips meet is approximately two seconds.

Because of this, it’s only in the painful few seconds after their lips meet that Mike considers the fact that this is maybe not such a good idea. Will makes a startled noise, stumbling back a little against the doorframe, and Mike thinks for a second that he’s misread something, but then Will’s hand drops to his waist and he sighs, decidedly less startled, into Mike’s mouth. Less than one second after that happens, Mike decides that this is actually probably the best idea he’s ever had, and disregards his previous theory. 

He leans in eagerly, pressing Will more firmly back against the doorframe and drinking him in. His lips sting of alcohol, Mike notes, though not overwhelmingly so and probably not any more than Mike himself does at this point. Beneath that, too, there’s a faint taste of the peppermint he’d smelled earlier, and then some underlying sense of Will , something Mike had forgotten since the last time he’d kissed him, a few days before their breakup maybe. Something he hadn’t even known he missed until this moment, along with several other things; the soft sounds Will makes as Mike readjusts, noses brushing, the way he grips at the front of Mike’s shirt and sways a little, the way that, even caught off guard, he still kisses like he means it. It’s all achingly familiar, all flooding back at once, and with every gentle brush of Will’s lips against his own Mike remembers how nice it was to kiss him like this, for those few sweet months when he got to.

Maybe he was a little upset at having to ever give this up, after all.

After a minute, Will pulls back, still pink in the face and breathing hard. “Um,” he says, voice hoarse, “cool. Great- great upholding of the- of the tradition.”

“Really great,” Mike breathes, and pulls him in again. 

The second kiss is decidedly different. The first had been fumbling, unsure, a little soft and maybe more chaste than Mike would have preferred, but Will is ready this time - he’s leaning into Mike’s grip almost immediately, hands tugging at his button-down, threatening to pull it from where Mike had painstakingly tucked it into the waistband of his pants earlier. His tongue slips into Mike’s mouth, and his back presses hard against the doorframe, and Mike is twenty again, and the three years between then and now does not seem like such a stretch anymore. He’s twenty and he’s at a school that he loves and he’s kissing a boy that he maybe could have loved too, if he’d had enough time to get there, and not much else matters. They’re alone in Mike’s dorm again and Will is giggling into his mouth and running his hands all over him and Mike is thinking that he really likes this person, and it’s all bleeding into the present where they’re kissing - okay, maybe by now making out is a better term - after a party at their very professional workplace and- and maybe Mike still really likes this person, if he thinks about it.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice comes from behind them, and Mike jumps, turning around to see Janitor Emma glaring at them with a vacuum in hand. “Get a room.” 

She disappears behind a cubicle, and the vacuum turns on. Mike turns back to Will - Will with his hair mussed and his cheeks pink and expression dazed, Will with his hands still caught in Mike’s shirt, Will with his wide eyes and green sweater and status as Mike’s ex and kind-of work rival who Mike just kissed very well and thoroughly. “Um,” Mike says, voice embarrassingly wrecked. Bad idea , his brain warns very, very faintly, but the words that come out of his mouth are; “Should we?”

Will nods, a little desperately, looking as out of it as Mike feels. “Yes,” he breathes, and his fingers tighten in Mike’s shirt again. “Yes, yeah, let’s go.”

Mike forces down an embarrassingly wide smile, and tugs him out from under the mistletoe.

11.

Mike wakes up alone.

This is unexpected, because while he hadn’t been entirely sober last night, he wasn't drunk enough to forget that he certainly didn’t start out the night alone. He’s in his apartment, in his own bed, though today there’s a distinct emptiness on the left side of it, where usually Mike would be starfished out in the middle of the mattress, not having to worry about accommodating anyone else’s personal space.

He hadn’t really minded accommodating for Will’s personal space last night, though, although Will hadn’t seemed to need much of it - Mike specifically remembers Will falling asleep on his chest, and also specifically remembers him telling Mike to stop being a little bitch about it when Mike tried to politely scoot away, the heavy weight of Will pressed against him in such a domestic, cuddly sort of way making his stomach feel all funny and twisty. It had taken Mike ages to fall asleep, laying on his back in the darkness listening to Will’s breathing, feeling a little mesmerized by it. Which is ridiculous, because breathing is something that literally everyone does, but Will made it interesting anyway, with the warm rise and fall of his chest pressed against Mike’s and his breath warm where he’d tucked his face into the crook of his neck. Will makes lots of normal things seem intoxicating, actually. It’s wholly infuriating.

Will is decidedly not cuddling with him now, though, and once he’s blinked himself fully awake, a spike of panic shoots through Mike at the rumpled sheets on the empty side of the bed. Surely Will wouldn't just leave, right? If they’re going to be awkward about this, better to be awkward about it in the safety of Mike’s kitchen where there is coffee and food instead of the next time they have to deal with each other at the office.

He stumbles out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt and sweatpants over his boxers and grabbing his phone off the nightstand, doing a cursory check of his messages just in case Will texted him. There’s nothing there, just a couple goading texts from Max about how chummy he and Will had looked at the party last night, and he’s still frowning at the screen as he rounds the corner to the kitchen and runs directly into a wall of human.

“Oof,” Will says eloquently, as Mike yelps and jumps back, clutching his phone to his chest and glaring at him, mainly on base instinct. He’s dressed, though not in the same clothes as last night - he has a pair of gray sweatpants on that are a bit too loose around the ankles and too tight in the thighs and a t-shirt that stretches awkwardly over his broad shoulders. Mike’s stomach does a very complicated series of motions when he realizes; Will is wearing Mike’s clothes.

“Um,” he manages, feeling a little dizzy. “Sorry. I thought you left.”

Will arches an eyebrow, lifting the glass of water that Mike is only just now noticing he’s holding up to his mouth. “Why would I leave?”

Mike blinks. “I don’t know. You were gone when I woke up.”

“I went to get water,” Will says calmly, holding up the glass as proof. 

“And to steal my clothes?” Mike asks, not as sharply as he’d been aiming for. He sounds a little strangled. He could probably stand a glass of water of his own, when he thinks about it.

Will flushes at this, to Mike’s immense satisfaction. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I didn’t want to wear my clothes from yesterday again.”

Mike presses his lips together. Will being nice to him is unusual, at least recently, and it makes something flutter in his stomach, something almost like hope. It reminds him of the sweet, charming guy who used to bring coffee to his dorm when Mike was up late studying, or who’d make a game out of tracing Mike’s freckles with a fingernail, or who’d sometimes interrupt makeout sessions to stand up, tugging Mike up with him, and dance with him to a song he liked that had come on the radio. 

It’s similar to how he’d felt last night, that familiarity that terrified him almost as much as it relieved him. It was so easy , kissing Will, whispering back and forth and giggling in the darkness, keys discarded on the counter and jackets tossed on the floor. Mike should have felt some sort of angst over it, maybe, some sort of strife over the inevitable awkwardness or unnecessary complications, but he hadn’t. It had felt, nauseatingly and horrifyingly, like coming home.

“It’s okay,” he croaks, a little belatedly, as Will continues to watch him with that blank, deer-in-headlights stare. He’s cute like this, hair mussed with sleep and from where Mike had spent a solid chunk of time running his hands through it, dressed in comfortable if ill-fitting clothes, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. Mike wants to kiss him, desperately and embarrassingly so, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. He’s not good in these situations, where the rules aren’t immediately evident to him. “Um. Did you, uh, sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Will says, tone unreadable. He lifts the water glass to his lips again and takes a long sip, never once breaking eye contact. It’s incredibly unnerving.

“Good,” Mike winces, feeling a little dizzy. He doesn’t know how to ask what this is, what they’re doing, without sounding incredibly pathetic. “Do you- are you hungry or anything? We could go get food, or there’s stuff in the fridge, or, uh-”

“I’m good,” Will cuts in mercifully, but he’s still looking at Mike like that, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle but is missing a piece.

Mike tries not to take it too personally; maybe Will’s not hungry. Maybe Will’s waiting for the first opportunity to get out of here. Maybe Will also wants to kiss him in the face, but that one seems like a little bit of a long shot given that he hasn’t moved since Mike bumped into him.

“Okay,” he says, throat dry, trying desperately to think of a way out of this that doesn’t end in humiliation for himself. 

There’s a beat of silence, Will still watching him and Mike trying to figure out what it is exactly that he’s waiting for him to say, before he sighs, downing the last of his water and turning abruptly back into the kitchen. Mike watches for a second before his brain kicks into gear and he trails after Will as he goes to place his empty cup in the sink. “I should go,” Will says over his shoulder, as Mike hovers awkwardly by the fridge like a total creep. “I’m supposed to be meeting my sister.”

Mike glances at the clock; it’s only eight-thirty a.m., and on the Saturday before Christmas at that. Either Will’s sister is a psychotic sort of morning person (Mike knows from when they dated the first time that Will is definitely not ) or Will is making it up. Mike swallows back the sting of rejection at the thought and nods jerkily as Will turns back to face him.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, waving a hand around awkwardly. “Don’t let me keep you,” he adds, for lack of anything better to say, and is unable to keep the note of bitterness from his voice. He doesn’t know what he expected, really - Max is still not right, about him and his lingering feelings or whatever. Kissing Will under the mistletoe last night hadn’t been a plea to get back together, nor had anything that followed, and neither of them has the time or energy for a coworkers-with-benefits situation, so a one time thing is probably the natural conclusion. Mike’s not sure why it feels like such a slap in the face, honestly. He should be glad for it; maybe he got all of it out of his system, this obsession over Will, the unbidden fantasies of tugging him into empty offices to make out with him for hours and hours or taking him home to his apartment in the evening after they’ve both been working late. Maybe now his brain will catch up, and he can go back to treating Will as he is; an irritating coworker whom he happens to have dated.

At his words, Will’s brow crinkles just barely, lips tugging downward in a faint frown - not that Mike’s looking, of course - but it smooths out quickly. “Right,” he agrees tentatively, and reaches around the counter to where, now that Mike’s looking, his clothes from last night are neatly folded on a chair. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you Monday, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you,” Mike replies dumbly. “And- um. You’re welcome, by the way. For the- for the Secret Santa gift.”

Will pauses in front of the door, cocking his head to the side and smiling a little. “Knew it,” he murmurs, vaguely pleased, and Mike’s nerves settle just slightly. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” Mike replies tightly, and Will shoots him a faint, quick smile before backing out of the apartment, the door shutting with a definitive click behind him.

Mike lets out a breath, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, tangled from where Will’s hands had been wrapped in it not very long ago. “Shit,” he mutters. Max is going to have a field day with this one.

12.

Will doesn’t talk to him for three days.

Well, technically this isn’t true - they talk at work, about strictly work things, such as mock-ups and word counts and content, but it’s all incredibly clipped and said in as few words as possible, and more often or not Will conveniently has a meeting or is taking a lunch break or a smoke break or a bathroom break every time Mike sits down at his desk. Mike tries not to be offended by this, but is, of course, quite offended anyway. Max sends him knowing looks, and every time Dustin crosses through their area of the office he looks from Will’s desk to Mike’s desk, makes a quizzical face like he’s trying to figure something out, then gives Mike a sympathetic shoulder pat as he disappears back down the hall.

It’s not ideal.

What’s even more frustrating, though, is that Mike isn’t even sure what he did wrong this time. He’d kissed Will first, sure, but Will had kissed him back just as eagerly, and sure, the conversation in the kitchen the next morning had been awkward , but only because Will wouldn't let Mike say anything about it. Mike’s almost worried that he’s pushed Will away from their constant-but-surface-level rivalry into something much deeper, like an actual genuine hatred. Though, again, he can’t manage to come up with an inciting incident to explain it. Hooking up with someone doesn’t generally indicate that they can’t stand to look in your direction.

Maybe his angst over the whole thing is what drives him to return to the coffee shop where he saw Will, that time when Will was on a date and Mike tripped over his own feet to avoid him and basically permanently ruined everything forever. Maybe if he could have just talked to Will like a normal person, he wouldn't be in this situation.

And yeah , okay, so maybe Max had said something along those lines right at the very beginning, but Mike’s not going to be informing her of that. She’s leaving for her stupid holiday trip with Lucas’s family tomorrow anyway.

He’s leaning up against the back counter, people-watching sullenly and sipping at his very poorly made cup of coffee when Will walks in.

Much like those first couple times Mike saw him, he is somehow less surprised to run into him than he maybe should be. The universe hates him, clearly. It’s the only explanation for all of this.

Will gets all the way through ordering and receiving his drink before he spots Mike, who is still standing dumbly in the back corner, staring him down like a complete creep. Mike watches with dull satisfaction as his whole face pinkens, right down to where the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned. Why is his collar unbuttoned, anyway? It’s the middle of December. He’s probably freezing. Mike resolutely does not imagine warming him up.

“Hey,” Will says, walking over to him with the uneven gait of a skittish animal and shifting awkwardly. He’s wearing an earring, Mike notices, a small stud in his left ear that isn’t usually there at work. He must take it out for the sake of professionalism, or something dumb and endearing like that, which doesn’t even make sense because no one really gives a shit about piercings anymore, especially not anyone at The New York Journal . It’s endearing anyway, which makes even less sense, and also makes Mike want to throw something. “It’s- um,” Will says, nodding at him jerkily and making the piercing glint in the light. “What are you doing here?”

Mike blinks, glancing around. “Getting coffee,” he replies, a little blankly. The earring wasn't there in college, he thinks a little absently. He wonders when Will got it, and why, and also, unrelatedly, if anything else notable has happened to him in the past three years that Mike didn’t bother asking about because he was so busy arguing with him. He wonders if it’s too late to ask now.

“Right, right,” Will says sheepishly, looking like he kind of wishes he’d just die on the spot. Mike shares his sentiments. “I guess I meant, um, it’s good to see you?”

It comes out sounding like a question, and Will winces like he hears it too. Mike frowns at him. “You see me every day at work,” he points out, just to be annoying, and maybe because he’s a little offended, actually, by how far Will’s gone out of his way not to see him at work as of late.

Will’s flush deepens, clearly picking up on Mike’s subtexts, and he huffs out an annoyed breath as he glances away. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, and doesn’t elaborate.

Not good enough. Mike doubles down. “I’m just saying, like, if it’s so good to see me then I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me so hard.”

Will’s gaze snaps back to him, something flashing in his eyes. “I’m not avoiding you,” he says, which is maybe the most blatant lie he’s ever said to Mike’s face. “You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not,” Mike retorts hotly, fingers tightening enough around his to-go cup that the lid threatens to pop off. “You started it,” he adds, a little childishly, and Will wrinkles his nose at him.

“Okay, well, since you hate me so much I don’t know why it would matter,” he huffs, eyes darting away again.

“No one said I hated you!” Mike yelps, a little too quickly, and immediately regrets it when Will’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. “I mean- especially since we-”

Will rolls his eyes, brushing past Mike in the direction of the door. Mike makes an offended noise and trails after him out onto the snow-covered sidewalk, more on principle than anything else. “That wasn't anything,” Will replies, not even looking over his shoulder to check if Mike’s following him, seeming to automatically know that he is, like an anti-Orpheus or something. Mike also resents this fact on principle, but it’s hard to demonstrate how morally offended he is when Will isn’t looking at him. “It was a mistake, clearly.”

Mike disagrees, at the very least, with the first half of that sentiment, because it had certainly been something , even if he’s not sure what. Hookups aren’t really his thing, because, unfortunately, the thing that Max said those few months ago, the first time they ran into Will at Andy’s, was entirely correct; he’s never been casual about anything in his life. Throw in the exes dynamic, and Mike is basically doomed.

So yeah, maybe calling it a mistake isn’t entirely off base. Unfortunately, this fact has not stopped Mike from wanting, maybe, to do it again.

“Okay,” he grits out, trying very hard to stay indignant while also concentrating on not slipping in the snow and also, more importantly, not thinking about the way Will’s lips had felt when he first kissed them that night, how soft and sweet and addicting. “Well, for the record, I don’t hate you, but even if I did, I would probably be justified, given that you were the one who broke up with me and moved across the country.”

Will stops short, so abruptly that Mike nearly careens into him, coffee sloshing perilously through the hole in the top of his cup. Will doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t feel like apologizing, because when he slowly turns back to face him, he’s blinking rapidly and looking genuinely confused. “I didn’t break up with you.”

Mike pauses with the next half of his nonsensical tirade still lodged in the back of his throat. “Yes you did,” he says slowly. “You said you were moving to California, and-”

“Yes, and then you said, ‘oh, okay, I guess it’s over then’,” Will replies, in a pretty decent imitation of Mike’s voice, waving his own to-go cup around for emphasis. His face is impassive, but Mike can detect a hint of bitterness in the crinkle between his eyebrows, the irritated twitch of his nose.

Mike stares at him, slowly turning the memory over in his brain. He doesn’t remember much of the conversation that had led to their breakup, in all honesty. He just remembers Will, sitting on the end of Mike’s bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, the takeout coffees he’d brought over slowly going cold in their drink carrier. He’d been wearing a soft blue sweatshirt that might have been Mike’s at one point, and oddly, the first thing Mike remembers thinking when Will had haltingly broken the news that he was transferring was he should keep the sweatshirt . He remembers feeling the sharp sting as the realization hit him that there would be no more of Will, sitting in his room, texting him between classes, wearing his clothes and kissing him under streetlights and in cafes and in quiet dorm rooms. The next thing he remembers after that is trying very hard to convince both himself and Will that he was fine with it.

It’s only now occurring to him that in doing so, he might have hurt Will’s feelings as much as he’d hurt his own.

He takes a breath, folding his arms and avoiding Will’s gaze. “Okay, well, whatever. You wanted to break up too.”

Will is still staring at him, features almost entirely still except for the odd twitching thing happening at the corners of his mouth. “No I didn’t,” he says after a beat, voice solid and unyielding, but his mouth is still twisted to the side, like he’s biting something back.

Mike blinks at him. “You didn’t- what?”

“I didn’t want to break up,” Will repeats, and this time his voice quivers. “When I- I mean, I knew it might be a problem, me moving, and it’s not like I didn’t consider the possibility that you’d want to end it, but I would have done long-distance if you asked.” He takes a breath, staring down at his feet and scuffing the toe of his shoe along the sidewalk. “I- fuck, Mike, I wouldn't have even moved in the first place if you’d asked me not to go.”

Mike huffs a short, gasping breath, feeling like the air has been punched out of his lungs. “Oh, come on,” he says quietly, aiming for teasing but sounding more uncomfortable than anything else. “We’d only been going out for a couple months.”

Will’s gaze snaps back up to him, eyes sparking with fire. “That may be true,” he says, voice strangled, “and maybe you’re just better at compartmentalizing than me or something, but I at the very least knew you well enough to know that I wanted you for longer than ten weeks.”

Mike is going to bash his head into a wall. “Well- what about last week, though?” he asks, voice tight with the urge to- cry, maybe. Scream. Kiss Will again, right in the middle of the street. “After we- you acted like it was nothing. You just said it wasn't anything.”

“Yeah, well, unlike some people, I know when to quit,” Will huffs, hitching his messenger bag higher on his shoulder. He starts to turn away, to head off down the street, but the tightness in Mike’s chest claws its way up his throat and he grabs his arm. It’s icy on the sidewalk, and Will slips a little, Mike’s grip knocking him off balance, and they both curse as Mike quickly reaches out to steady him, sloshing more coffee over the edge of his cup and darkening the snow underfoot.

“Sorry,” he says, as Will frowns at him, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grip without slipping on the ice. “Shit, sorry, I- Will, stop squirming .”

Will glares at him, but stops anyway. “Let go,” he says coldly, swatting at Mike’s gloved hand, and Mike dutifully releases him, holding his hands up in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice cracks embarrassingly in the middle. “For- everything. I didn’t think- I guess I didn’t really think you cared that much. I’m not used to- people usually get bored of me so I assumed you would too.”

Will softens a little, glancing away and tucking his chin into his scarf. “Yeah, well. It’s cool. I’ve been told I’m bad at voicing that sort of thing, you know- asking for what I want. So it’s probably my fault too.” He glances back up at Mike, smiling hesitantly. “We’re good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, throat dry. “Yeah, ‘course.”

Will nods, satisfied. “I’ll see you around, Mike,” he says gently, and hesitates for a fraction of a second before leaning forward and pressing a featherlight kiss to Mike’s cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

“See you,” Mike agrees faintly, and watches Will turn and walk away down the block, feeling vaguely like he’s made some horrible mistake.

13.

“You still haven’t asked him out?” Dustin asks curiously, a few days later as he and Mike sit in a booth at a bar down the street from the office a few days later. Max left for Indiana with Lucas a couple days ago, and Mike has had to find other options to confide in before he loses his goddamned mind. Solution: Dustin.

Mike grimaces and shakes his head, fiddling with his napkin. “No. I don’t think I’m going to, honestly.”

“What?” Dustin yelps far too loudly, brow crinkling in offense. “Why not? You have to!”

Mike gives him a look, flicking a straw wrapper in his direction. “I do not,” he grumbles, as Dustin shakes his head at him. “It’s- look, we talked, and it was fine, and at least now we’re civil , so I don’t want to push it.”

“Mike, I seriously don’t know how to explain this to you,” Dustin says, still shaking his head and tsk ing in disapproval, “but that guy is obsessed with you.”

“He is not,” Mike says on reflex, then frowns. “Why do you think that?”

“Well,” Dustin says matter-of-factly, scooting forward and leaning his elbows on the upsettingly sticky table, “for one thing, you guys are always looking at each other, with these weird looks on your faces. For another, he just explained to you that he has trouble asking for what he wants, which connotes the implication that he’s afraid to ask for what he wants now , with what he wants being, you know. You.” He shrugs, leaning back and taking a sip of his beer. “Scientifically, it just makes sense. He’s telling you to make a move.”

“I did make a move,” Mike points out, “I kissed him first, and then-”

“Mistletoe is a non-starter,” Dustin interrupts, waving his hands around emphatically. “He told you he didn’t want to break up with you. That means he likes you.”

“No, it means he liked me,” Mike insists. “Past tense. Doesn’t connote anything now.”

“Sure it does,” Dustin says reasonably. “He wouldn’t be telling you all that if he didn’t want you to do something about it.”

Mike shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t know. He probably just wants to clear the air.”

“Flimsy,” Dustin dismisses, waving his hands around emphatically. He may be a lot nicer than Max, but he does have a very similar zero tolerance policy for Mike’s bullshit, which is annoying. “People don’t dredge up the past for no reason. He wants to see if how he felt then changes things now. Trust me,” he concludes, bobbing his head firmly, “the logic checks out.”

“There could be other factors, though,” Mike insists, verging on pleading at this point. He doesn’t like the thought of existing in a world where he hurt Will’s feelings, but he likes the idea that he’s continuing to hurt them even less.

Dustin sighs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re really difficult to give advice to?”

“Yes,” Mike sighs. “Max. But to be fair, her advice is usually unsolicited, which doesn’t yield the best results.”

Dustin hums in agreement, tapping at the rim of his bottle thoughtfully. “Well, is she usually right in retrospect?”

Mike stares at him for a beat, thumb pressed hard into the water stain on his napkin. Then he clears his throat, takes a careful sip of beer, and says, “Let’s talk about something else.”

Dustin just laughs.

Work, somehow, manages to get weirder.

Since the day at the cafe, Will has been perfectly cordial to him, chatting about surface-level things and occasionally offering a comment or lighthearted jab in response to Mike’s incessant complaining. It makes Mike feel all warm and fuzzy and gross, like he’s regained something, almost, except for the moments when he catches Will looking at him with a contemplative, melancholic expression, the times when they aren’t talking when the silence is unbearable, the few times Mike tries to goad him into a friendly argument and is met with a strained smile and a soft “get back to work, Mike.”

It’s better than when Will was avoiding him- or, not avoiding him, apparently, whatever - but it’s worse than when they were arguing all the time, if only because Will is visibly holding himself back now where he wasn't before. Mike doesn’t know what to do or how to fix it, and it’s driving him up the wall.

Will takes a personal day off of work the Thursday before New Years’, and Max, freshly back from Christmas with the Sinclairs, pointedly puts her Airpods in the second Mike tries to bring him up. Which is probably a good thing, actually, because Mike is kind of getting to the point where he’s just talking himself in circles over the whole thing, and when he gets like this it’s usually better to just quietly stew in angst for a while.

That’s exactly what he’s doing, three hours later when he makes his way out to the front of the building for a smoke break, having snagged a cigarette from the stash he keeps in his desk on the very rare occasion that he wants one. He’s not a smoker by any means, but this is New York and lots of people smoke here, so it’s easy to succumb to peer pressure, and sometimes it’s nice to sit in silence and quietly burn something and poison yourself just a little. 

So- basically, the issue, he’s decided, is that he maybe really likes Will, again or still or somewhere in between. And he’d been coming to this conclusion, gradually, around the time of the Christmas party, or maybe a little before that, so it’s not like it’s news , but he does think he possibly did everything in the wrong order. He should have made sure Will didn’t hate him first , then told him how he felt, then tried to kiss him, and so on and so forth. He should have just never broken up with him, really. Everything would probably be better right now if he hadn’t.

In his defense, it’s not like he meant to break up with Will. He’d just assumed, based on context and experience, that Will would want to end things. People- not just romantic prospects, but people in general- leave Mike over much less at a pretty consistent rate. So maybe he was an asshole for breaking up with him like that, but maybe he’s slightly absolved by the fact that it wasn't his intention.

Either way, Mike is getting the growing suspicion that it actually doesn’t matter what his reasoning was, not even a little.

The office doors bang open.

“Okay,” Max says, stepping out onto the stoop beside him and folding her arms. “What’s wrong?”

Mike blows smoke into the air, scowling at her. “Nothing’s wrong.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know you think smoking makes you look cool or whatever, but it seriously just makes me worried about you, dude. You only do that when you’re stressed.”

“I do not,” Mike defends, entirely too quickly. Max rolls her eyes again and sits down on the steps beside him, knocking her knee against his.

“Is it because Will’s out today?” she asks. “He’ll be back tomorrow, you know.”

Mike scowls. “I know that.”

Max stares at him solemnly. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Mike shifts uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze, eyes darting away as he takes another drag. “I know that,” he repeats, less certainly this time.

Max watches him for a minute, chewing on her lip. Mike exhales smoke, watching it mingle with the condensation his breath makes in the frigid air, and thinks about the first time he ever smoked, in sophomore year of college when Will offered him half of his cigarette. Mike had coughed violently, and Will had laughed at him, but in a way that made Mike feel like he was in on the joke, less of something to be mocked. Here , he’d said softly, once Mike recovered, grasping Mike’s chin as he took another drag before exhaling it into Mike’s mouth. Mike had recovered much quicker that time, and pulled him in for a kiss.

So maybe Mike thinks about Will every time he smokes now. Maybe he thinks about Will a lot of the time. Maybe, possibly, he thinks about Will all of the time.

Whatever .

“Have you ever been in love, Mike?” Max asks, startling Mike out of his stupor. Her voice is softer than normal, laced with genuine curiosity as she watches him.

Mike frowns at her, tapping ash off of the end of his cigarette. He considers telling her to fuck off, but her expression is sincere, for once in her goddamn life, and something makes him pause to think about it. “Maybe,” he answers after a beat. “I thought maybe I could have been, when I was with- well, whatever. I’m not really sure how to tell, to be honest. Have you?”

“Just the once,” Max says, still weirdly serious as she watches him. “With Lucas. It’s pretty nice. Would recommend.”

Mike snorts. “Great. Next time I see Lucas I’ll be sure to tell him I love him.”

Max shakes her head at him, smiling a little. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, and she sounds almost fond. “Have you ever told an actual partner you loved them? Even if you weren’t sure?”

“Nope,” Mike replies, watching his cigarette slowly simmer down to a stub between his fingers. “My relationships usually end too soon for that.”

Max hums. “Do they ever say it to you?”

Mike frowns, shaking his head slowly. “No. I thought- there was one time I almost thought Will was going to, actually, but then he ended up telling me he was moving instead, so I guess I misread that one.”

Max shrugs. “Maybe you didn’t. Maybe he was going to say it but you dumped him before he could.”

“I didn’t mean to dump him,” Mike says quietly, flicking more ash off of the cigarette. Max holds out a hand for it, clicking her fingers at him when he doesn’t immediately comply.

“Does he know that?” she asks, as Mike warily places the cigarette between her waiting fingers. She takes a drag, watching him like a hawk as he debates his answer.

“Probably not,” he admits after a beat. “But- I don’t know. Isn’t it weird, to want to stay somewhere for someone after only a couple months? Or to tell them you love them, or anything?”

Max shakes her head slowly. “You’re really caught on that,” she muses, taking another drag and blowing the smoke directly in his face. “I think the second you start putting rules on when and how you’re allowed to love someone the whole thing falls apart.”

“You’re a true romantic for someone who’s so mean all the time,” Mike retorts, scowling. He makes a swipe for the cigarette, but she easily holds it out of his reach.

“I think deep down you are too,” she says, which is infuriatingly and undeniably true. “I think you’ve been trying to talk yourself out of being in love with Will since you were twenty.”

Mike exhales softly, staring out at the street, the flickering open sign in the window of Andy’s, the snow falling lazily from the sky like the clouds haven’t quite decided whether they want to precipitate today or not. Everything always feels so undecided this time of year, like any moment your feet could slip out from under you on the slick ground, like you could learn to be different than you’ve always been, like maybe this will be the time your New Year’s resolutions won’t fall apart by January second. 

It’s mostly bullshit, that feeling. But maybe people need it anyway. Maybe other people aren’t stupid for believing in change, and maybe Mike isn’t superior for refusing to let light in.

“Fuck,” he mutters emphatically after a minute, glancing over at Max. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Her eyebrows raise, and she smiles a little around the cigarette. “Better get used to it, Wheeler.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pushing himself up off the step and straightening his scarf. “I have to go.”

“You- wait, what?” Max asks, twisting around to look at him as he dusts off his jeans and pulls the door open. “Where are you going?”

“I’m getting my stuff and then I’m leaving,” Mike says, propping the door open with one foot. “You have to cover for me.”

“Wait, what?” Max asks again, significantly more shrilly this time. “Mike, I can’t cover for you, this is a newspaper, I can’t just-“

“Just tell Debbie I had a family emergency,” Mike asks, already halfway inside the door. “I’ll owe you one, I swear.”

“But where are you going?” she tries again, clambering to her feet and flicking ash off of the end of her cigarette. 

“I’ll tell you later when it blows up in my face,” Mike promises, and dashes upstairs before she can argue.

He grabs his bag off his desk and slides down the hallway before scrambling back down the stairs, passing Max again on the way out. “Okaythankyouloveyoubye!” he wheezes in her direction, leaning in to kiss her cheek before she can protest and dashing away down the block.

“You’re insane!” she calls after him, but she’s laughing a little as she brings his cigarette back up to her lips.

“I know!” Mike calls back, and narrowly avoids slipping off of the sidewalk directly into oncoming traffic.

It’s snowing softly when Mike gets to Will’s apartment, collecting in his hair and on the shoulders of his jacket. He chooses to take this as a good sign, because it’s romantic, probably, even if he will inevitably look ridiculous by the time Will lays eyes on him. The yellow roses he’d bought on the way over are already crusted over with frost at the edges, and his hands are freezing despite the gloves he’s wearing, but it’s fine. He doesn’t have much to lose at this point (except maybe his job - Max had better be doing her part at covering for him).

Will’s apartment complex requires guests to be buzzed in, and it feels awkward to ask to be let in in order to make a grand romantic gesture, so Mike spends a few seconds staring up at the building before accepting his fate, crouching to where an abandoned flower pot sits by the front stoop, and scooping up a handful of pebbles.

It takes five pebbles thrown at Will’s apartment window (and two that accidentally hit his neighbor’s window) before it opens and Will steps out onto the tiny balcony.

Mike’s breath catches at the sight of him. Will’s dressed in gray sweatpants and a cream knit  sweater, arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to block the chill as he squints down at Mike, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and he looks - sweet, maybe. Softened around the edges, flushed pink from the cold, pliant and confused at Mike’s appearance at his doorstep, but not looking like he’s particularly considering throwing something at his head, which is a significant improvement from how they’d started out this whole overdramatic mess.

Mike grins sheepishly. “Hi,” he calls, waving a gloved hand, because he is an idiot.

Will stares at him blankly. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks bluntly, brows drawn together.

Okay, not a great start. Will’s only on the second floor, but Mike still has to crane his neck to look up at him, feeling rather pathetic as he does so. It reminds him of the night at the holiday party, Will jutting out his chin to glare up at him in the moments right before Mike planted one on him, and- that has to count for something, right? That Will kissed back, that he let Mike hail them a cab and bring him back to his apartment, that he at least stayed the night even if he booked it out as soon as possible the next morning.

“Um,” Mike says, still adding up all of those factors in his brain and wondering if it equals anything other than a drunken mistake, and then, brightening, fumbles with his gloves for a minute before yanking one off and grabbing his phone out of his pocket. “Here,” he says, tapping at the screen for a minute before music comes pouring out of his speakers. He grins, holding it up so Will can hear it more easily, and Will’s brow crinkles harder as he strains to hear it.

When he recognizes the song, his mouth ticks up into a faint smile, and he steps over to lean his elbows on the balcony, tilting his head at him. “Are you Say Anything- ing me right now? Mike, we haven’t even had a falling out! And this isn’t the right song!”

“I know,” Mike says, wincing a little, “but this song is way better than In Your Eyes anyway, and I know you like it, don’t try to act like you don’t, and- uh, well, I guess- I’ve spent a really long time trying to feel, like, neutral-ish about you? And this is pretty not-neutral, so I figured it was making a statement?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You call racing me to Debbie’s office every day for a month neutral?”

“I- shut up!” Mike squeaks, cheeks pinkening, and then immediately realizes that telling the target of his romantic gesture to shut up is not a great idea, and turns a shade redder. “I just- fuck , I knew I should have written this down.”

Will laughs, leaning harder on the balcony railing. He looks significantly less scrutinizing now, eyes shining with something like- hope, maybe. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “What’s up?” he asks, plucking one of the pebbles Mike threw at the window up off of the balcony and flicking it back down at him.

Mike yelps and dodges it, trying to summon any hint of the stinging annoyance he’s felt toward Will these past couple months. Unfortunately, all he can manage to feel is a rush of nauseating affection. “I just,” he tries, and then clears his throat, commanding his brain to work with him at least a little , here. “I wanted to ask you about what you said the other day.”

Will flicks a chunk of snow down at him, pursing his lips interestedly. “Which part?”

Mike swallows. “The- the part about how you wanted to, uh, know me better. And that you’d have stayed if I asked, and all that. And also, um, that you have trouble asking for what you want?”

“What about it?” Will asks carefully. An icicle shatters next to Mike’s foot.

Mike scoots to the left of where it landed, glaring. “That could have killed me,” he calls, barely avoiding dropping his phone, which is still playing music faintly, right on the sidewalk. “I could have been impaled.”

Will smiles, pushing himself off of the railing and folding his arms again, leaning back. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very much sorry at all.

Mike takes it in stride - or, at least he doesn’t take it completely personally. In stride is a bit of a stretch, but to be fair, no one can really stride right now anyway, seeing as the sidewalk is so slick they’d fall and die. “Anyway,” he continues through gritted teeth, as Will takes some snow in his very bare hands and begins clumping it into a snowball, evidently not concerned about frostbite if it means torturing Mike. “I thought since you don’t want to ask for what you want, I might give it a shot, and I was hoping that what you want might be me , and since you said before that you’d have stayed if I asked-” he takes a breath, nerves jangled. “I wanted to know if I should ask you to stay now. If it’s not too late.”

Will stares down at him for a beat, impassive. “Do you want to ask me to stay?” he asks after a minute, voice very carefully calm. He flexes his fingers, though, like a nervous tic, though to be fair it could just be for the purpose of regaining blood circulation in them. He’s still holding the snowball, rolling it thoughtfully over in his palm.

Mike huffs a breath, watching it condensate in the air in front of him. “Would it kill you to give me a straight answer for once?”

“It might,” Will replies, tipping his head to the side and smirking a little. “Besides, you’re being so eloquent right now, I’d hate to mess that up.”

“You’re impossible,” Mike bites out, the sliver of annoyance reemerging just like he’d hoped it would, though now he’s not so much thinking of it as annoyance so much as desperation . The song playing from his phone ends, then starts again. He doesn’t have it in him to select a more specific playlist, or really do much of anything that would require taking his gloves off or, more importantly, taking his eyes off of Will. “I- look, okay, here it is,” Mike announces, clutching the flowers tighter in one hand and gripping his phone with the other. “Will Byers, I am standing here pulling out all of the cheesiest romantic tropes I can possibly think of, trying to tell you that I want you to stay so badly that it’s genuinely affecting my ability to function as a human being, as you can probably tell. I want you to stay here, in New York, at the paper, and with me , for as long as possible, and I want you to make fun of me in whatever ways you want, and buy bad sandwiches from Andy’s with me, and dance with me whenever you hear a song you like, and- and kiss me, a lot, because I liked it when that happened, and- and anything and everything else.” He stares imploringly up at Will, whose face has long since lost it’s triumphant smirk and has slackened into something softer, more genuine. Shock, probably, if the way his mouth is hanging open is any indication. He’s dropped the snowball, too, and it’s disappeared into the mountain of slush at the edge of his balcony. “I want you,” Mike adds quietly, voice gentle, heart beating hard enough that he’s worried it’ll escape from his chest and stain the sidewalk red. “I want you back.”

Will’s mouth closes, then opens again, then closes. “Mike,” he says, a little helplessly, a crazed look in his eyes. Mike might throw up. Mike might start crying. Mike might need to break into the apartment complex and kiss Will on the lips if he doesn’t get an answer in the next ten seconds.

The screen door of the apartment directly beside Will’s bangs open, and a woman who appears to be in her late seventies pokes her head out, scowling. “Who’s out here making all this racket?” she demands, squinting first in Will’s direction before following his gaze to Mike, still standing pathetically on the sidewalk below. “Oh, sweet Lord Jesus,” she gripes. “Byers, does that strange little woman belong to you?”

“That’s a man, Mrs. Howard,” Will replies blankly, still staring at Mike with wide eyes. Mike decides, completely unrelatedly, that maybe it’s time to cut his hair again.

“Oh.” Mrs. Howard frowns down at him, squinting harder. “Why are you yelling in the street? Are you mentally unwell?”

“Maybe,” Mike supplies, shrugging.

She makes a noise like hghsksh and puts a hand on her hip. “You’re causing a ruckus,” she tells him plainly.

“That’s sort of the point,” Mike says, sending a nervous smile in Will’s direction. Will’s mouth twitches violently, though Mike can’t tell if it’s a smile or a grimace or something in between.

“Go back inside, Mrs. Howard,” Will bites out, turning to face her now. His fingers are still clenching and unclenching nervously.

She scowls at him. “Tell your strange man to stop yelling at my window!”

“I think it’s sweet,” says a voice from above, and Mike suppresses a groan as all three of them glance up to find a young girl crouching on the balcony of the apartment above Mrs. Howard’s. “Are you gonna take him back?” she asks Will.

Will makes a strangled noise, and with zero warning at all, he vanishes into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him.

Mike blinks, staring at the now-closed door for a bit before glancing up at the girl. “Think that’s a good sign?” he asks.

She purses her lips, considering. “He looked like he was going to say yes a minute ago, so maybe? It’s either that or he’s running away.”

Mike snorts. “Thanks.”

“I have a bone to pick with you, Lucy,” Mrs. Howard announces, leaning over her balcony and twisting to glare up at the girl. “You’ve been stomping all over my ceiling.”

“I told you, Mrs. Howard, I’m just living life out loud,” Lucy replies serenely, and Mrs. Howard immediately launches into a vaguely problematic rant about youths and their inconsiderate tendencies. Mike tunes them out, lowering the hand that was holding up his phone as his song starts over again.

The front doors of the apartment bang open, and Will comes scrambling out, narrowly avoiding slipping on the icy street as he makes his way over to Mike. “Sorry,” he pants, breathing hard and reaching out to grab his arm for balance. “The elevator’s not working, I had to run down the stairs.”

“That’s okay,” Mike says breathlessly, gripping his arm tightly, steadying them both as best he can. “That’s okay. What’s- um. What are you-”

“There’s mistletoe,” Will breathes, and kisses him.

You’d think that Mike would have had time to prepare for such a thing, given the time he’s had to consider it between when he made his confession and when Will came bursting out of the lobby, but the reality of the situation is that Mike is entirely unaccustomed to people liking him, especially after they’ve listened to him speak for as long as he just did, so it completely takes him by surprise. He slips on the ice, making a faint noise against Will’s very, very soft lips and grabbing the front of his sweater for balance. Will huffs a sound that could be a laugh or could be annoyance, catching him around the waist and hauling him back upright. Mike smiles back and settles into him, fumbling a little with the flowers and his phone, which is still blaring jangly guitar music, before landing on wrapping both his arms around Will’s neck and squeezing tight. Will’s hands are warm at his back, slipping under his jacket as his lips move carefully across Mike’s own, like he’s not quite sure Mike is real. Mike leans in further so he knows he is , cold noses digging into flushed cheeks, Will’s breath uneven and stilted every time their lips part and reconnect.

Mike has to come up for air eventually, if only because the cold air is steadily slowing his heart rate and he doesn’t want to pass out. Will whines softly when he pulls away, chasing his lips for a moment before leaning back, blinking dazedly and pouting a little as Mike takes a shaky breath, smiling.

Mike stares at him for a minute, processing, before glancing up and arching an eyebrow. “There’s no mistletoe,” he observes casually.

“No, there’s not,” Will agrees, and kisses him again.

Mike grins wide against Will’s lips, pleased with himself, their teeth clacking with it. Will huffs again, definitively annoyed this time, and pinches his side through the sweater he’s wearing beneath his jacket. Mike squeaks, breaking into giggles, and he can feel Will’s reluctant smile against his own.

“Shh,” he mumbles, squeezing Mike’s waist. “You’re ruining it.”

“Sorry,” Mike whispers, still giggling. “I think I’m going delirious from the cold.”

“Mmph,” Will agrees eloquently, and then, after another bruising kiss, “are you playing Taylor Swift right now?”

Mike grins against his mouth. “Maybe. It’s working, though, so.”

“Shut up,” Will says definitively, and swallows the laugh Mike utters almost immediately. He wraps his arms around Mike’s waist and tugs him in sharply, connecting their lips again. Mike’s laughter fades as Will lines them up, squirming closer until Mike’s unzipped jacket halfway covers them both and nudging Mike’s mouth open. He bites down on his lower lip, then runs his tongue over the sting, rubbing gentle circles into Mike’s hip. Mike makes an embarrassingly breathy sort of sighing sound and narrowly avoids dropping the frost-crusted flowers. The chorus starts up, as Will dips him backward in his eagerness and holds him tighter;

Drop everything now, meet me in the pouring rain-

They come up for air again, and Mike nudges his nose against Will’s, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, then the spot directly beside his nose, enjoying the warmth radiating off of him. “Your neighbors are still watching us,” he murmurs.

Will groans, tilting his head up to glare at them. “Go back inside, Mrs. Howard!” he shouts, and Mike hears a vague response about them causing a scene before the slamming of her screen door. “You’re fine, Lucy,” Will adds, after a beat of consideration.

Lucy grins. “I’ll give you privacy,” she allows gracefully, “though I will say you’re sort of asking for an audience, making out in the middle of the sidewalk like that.”

“Alright,” Will gripes, and her laughter rings out until the slamming of her screen door cuts it off. Will sighs, turning back to Mike, and Mike dutifully returns to pressing slow, firm kisses to his face. “I’m moving,” Will mumbles.

“I don’t know,” Mike murmurs, kissing the mole under Will’s eye, “Lucy’s cute.”

Will pulls away, glaring at him. “Please stop.”

Mike shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

“You ruin everything.”

“Mm.” Mike kisses the tip of his nose. “Something about it must work for you, though.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Regrettably, yes.” 

Mike smiles hesitantly, brushing his thumb over the back of Will’s neck where his arms are still locked around him. “Does that mean you’ll stay, then? With me, like I said?”

“Yeah,” Will says, laughing a little. He leans in and kisses him softly, warm breath ghosting over Mike’s chilled face. “Yeah, I want all that too.” He steps back, arching an eyebrow and glancing over his shoulder at the flowers still loosely clasped in Mike’s hands. “Besides, how could I say no after you pulled out literally every Hallmark trope in existence?”

Mike flushes red. “Figured I should have as many safety nets as possible,” he mumbles. 

Will laughs. “You didn’t need any. I would have said yes either way.”

Mike scrunches his nose at him. “You would have made it incredibly difficult for me first, though.”

“Well, obviously,” Will replies with a grin. “Are you gonna give me the flowers?”

“Oh! Right,” Mike confirms sheepishly, detangling himself from Will and holding the bouquet out. “They’re for sure going to be dead within twenty-four hours, though. Turns out New York in winter doesn’t make for ideal rose-growing conditions.”

“You don’t say,” Will chuckles, but he’s blushing furiously as he accepts them, running a finger over one of the petals. “Thank you,” he adds quietly, meeting Mike’s eyes.

Mike’s heart clenches. “You’re welcome,” he squeaks.

“You can also turn off the music, by the way,” Will adds, equally quietly.

“Oh,” Mike says again, and scrambles to shut off the third repetition of Sparks Fly. “Sorry. Did you like the song choice, at least?”

“Yes,” Will laughs, reaching up to cup his cheek with a freezing hand, and Mike considers it at least sort of a win that Will’s not trying to deny liking it. “Although I feel compelled to tell you that it’s snowing , not raining,” he adds, as the chorus starts up again.

“Alright,” Mike huffs, waving him off. “Nitpicky. But you did kiss me on the sidewalk, so, you know, I think it evens out. Would you rather me have gone with How You Get The Girl? Because I’m going to be honest, that was a close contender-”

“Okay,” Will laughs, waving him off, “I get it, yes, Mike, you’re very romantic, don’t make me regret this.”

Mike grins, squeezing his waist. He can definitively tell that Will doesn’t mean it, which is a huge improvement over the last couple months, and it’s making him kind of giddy. “Are you going to invite me inside anytime soon, by the way?” he asks, tipping his head to the side and blinking innocently at him. “I’m getting concerned about frostbite.”

Will snorts. “Presumptuous,” he accuses. “But- actually, do you want to get coffee? I was getting ready to head out when you got here.”

“Sure,” Mike says, reaching up to brush Will’s snow-filled hair out of his eyes. “You should wear a jacket, though.”

“You’re not gonna offer me yours?” Will asks, arching an eyebrow.

Mike scowls. “Hell no. Your apartment’s right upstairs and I’m freezing .”

“Such a gentleman,” Will teases. “Fine, let’s go upstairs. I want to put these in a vase anyway,” he adds, gesturing to the flowers.

“Dead within the day,” Mike reminds him, as Will shuffles away from him and leads the way into the blessedly warm lobby.

“Mike, stop ruining it ,” Will chides. 

Mike grins. “Sorry.”

They climb the stairs up to Will’s apartment in record time, Will tugging Mike along behind him by the sleeve. When they get up to the second floor, Will glances up at the clock on the wall in the hallway, then glances back at Mike, frowning.

“Did you leave work early to come throw rocks at my window?”

“Shhh,” Mike says, shaking his head minutely. 

“Oh my God,” Will snorts, reaching for his keys and unlocking his door. “You do realize there was no reason for you to do that, right? You could have just stopped by after. Or tomorrow. Or-whenever, really. I still would have said yes.”

“Shut up ,” Mike insists, waving a hand at him and ignoring the flush in his cheeks at that last part. The door swings open, and he darts after Will into the apartment. 

“I will not,” Will retorts, finally turning around and smirking at him, “Was it really that urgent that you had to-”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, I get it. Why don’t you come over here and kiss me about it instead?”

Will shuts up pretty quick after that.

14.

“We are going to be late,” Will states plainly, watching with mournful eyes as Mike tries and fails to pour his rapidly cooling tea into a to-go mug without spilling any. 

Mike looks up, glaring at him over the apple that he’d shoved in his mouth back when he thought he’d have time to eat breakfast. “I know that,” he replies, but it comes out sounding more like “I ooh ack”.

Will holds out a palm, and Mike grins sheepishly as he releases the apple, dropping it into Will's hand like a puppy caught with a slipper. “That's better,” Will says, eyebrows raised, “now tell me again?”

“I know that,” Mike repeats, hitching his bag onto his shoulder as Will takes a bite of apple from the side that doesn’t have Mike's slobber all over it. “Give me three seconds, Jesus. You’re the one who practically followed me home after work yesterday.”

“And I didn’t hear you complain,” Will replies, smiling easily and tossing the apple back to him. Mike catches it, just barely.

He grins. “I know that too.” He takes another bite, glancing at the clock and wincing before crossing around the kitchen island to grab his messenger bag. They probably will be late - they’ve been late on a pretty consistent basis ever since Will kissed him in the street in front of all of New York three months ago, but never by more than a few minutes, or the length of a couple extra stolen kisses, give or take. Mike has made his peace with it. Will has too, despite his protests to the contrary. If he hadn’t, he wouldn't have forcibly yanked Mike back into bed this morning when his alarm went off, begging for five more minutes of sleep.

“Come on,” Will whines, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet as Mike pats himself down in search of his keys. “If I have to hear Max make fun of us for being late one more time I might have to quit the paper altogether. Or throw something at her. Or both.”

“She’d deserve it,” Mike says absently, finally locating his keys on the hook by the door. “If you’re really that worried, though, you can leave without me. I’ll catch the next bus.”

“That would be mean,” Will protests immediately, frowning and blinking at him petulantly.

“Because you’re never mean?” Mike teases, turning around and tucking his apartment keys into his jacket pocket.

Instead of responding, Will twists his mouth into a deeper pout, eyes wide and innocent as he leans one hip against the counter, angling his body toward Mike. It’s incredibly annoying, of course, that Will is able to effectively win arguments this way, but to be fair, it’s only because Mike lets him. 

He grins, swooping in to press a firm kiss to Will’s bottom lip, knowing he’s played exactly into Will’s hands when his pout instantly morphs into a smile against Mike’s mouth. Two can play at that game, though, so Mike deepens the kiss, one hand curling at the back of Will’s head and the other cupping his cheek as he very carefully runs his tongue over the seam of Will’s lips.

Will makes a faint noise, and his lips part under Mike’s insistence, and Mike chooses this exact moment to pull away, grinning smugly. “Okay, I’m ready,” he declares, stepping away entirely, and Will makes another strangled noise, expression gone a bit hazy.

“Actually, I’ve decided I don’t mind being late,” he croaks, as Mike hands him his jacket and opens the door leading the way out into the frigid air, “we can- wait, Mike, I changed my mind, we can be late-“

“Nope, we wouldn’t want to get fired!” Mike calls over his shoulder, as Will scrambles to make it into the mercifully working elevator beside him before the doors close. 

“We probably wouldn't get fired,” Will mutters, scuffing his shoe along the linoleum floor. “I’m Debbie’s favorite. I’m above the rules.”

Mike eyes him, amused. “Sure, babe.”

“Fuck off.”

“So grumpy,” Mike tsks, shaking his head as the elevator doors ding open. He holds out a hand, and Will takes it, even as he continues scowling and refusing to look at him and generally being a bummer.

“Maybe because my boyfriend is a tease,” Will complains, as Mike waves to the daytime security guard and tugs Will out the door.

Mike snorts, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk with no warning and whirling around, catching Will by the waist and lifting him up a couple inches off the ground, tucking his face into his neck and pressing a flurry of kisses there. Will yelps, squirming in his grip, but Mike lifts him up higher, carrying him down the sidewalk toward the bus stop.

“Mike!” Will shrieks, fingers digging painfully into Mike’s arms, “Stop, you’re gonna kill us both!”

“Am not,” Mike says, but his back is starting to hurt, so he puts Will down, keeping his arms locked around his waist and swinging him back and forth. “See? You’re fine. No one’s dead.”

“When I do die I’m going to haunt you so hard,” Will whines, still wriggling furiously in a feigned attempt to escape. They both know he could break free if he wanted, but Will is nothing if not committed to the bit, especially when the bit includes being as bitchy as possible in any given scenario.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Mike replies, smacking an obnoxious kiss to Will’s cheek before finally releasing him. Will wrinkles his nose at him, hooking his arm through Mike’s and making a show out of smoothing out his jacket.

“You almost made me slip on the ice, asshole,” he grumbles, leaning against him as they continue walking.

“I would have caught you,” Mike promises, pressing another kiss to the top of Will’s head. He’d showered this morning, very hypocritically making them more late than they already were, and the cold air is already starting to turn the ends of his hair icy. “Promise.”

Will hums appreciatively, glancing up at him with a small smile. “Romantic of you,” he muses, curling his fingers around the edge of Mike’s sleeve, because he is an idiot who forgets his gloves every single time he stays over at Mike’s, and Mike is an idiot who always ends up giving him one of his own anyway. “Asshole,” Will adds, after a moment of thought.

Mike huffs a laugh, breath making clouds in the cold air. “Alright,” he agrees, patting Will’s arm commiseratingly. 

They reach the bus stop, and Mike leans against the cold metal side of the shelter, Will huddling closer to him for warmth. “Sorry,” he says after a minute of consideration, tucking his chin into the soft fleece of Mike’s collar. “You’re not an asshole.”

Mike laughs. “I know.” He kisses Will’s temple, rubbing a gloved hand over Will’s bare ones in an effort to keep him warm. “Do you want one of my gloves?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to bitch about me forgetting mine?”

“Not today,” Mike says, tugging one of his gloves off and helping Will slip it on his hand. He takes Will’s other hand in his remaining gloved one, aiming for eventual equilibrium. 

“Why not?” Will asks skeptically, threading his fingers through Mike’s. His eyes go wide and he leans back, squinting at him. “Oh, God, what did you do? Why are you trying to butter me up? Did you break something? Did you cheat on me? Was it with Max? Was it with Lucas? ”

“Oh my God, I’m not trying to butter you up,” Mike laughs, tugging him back in. “I’m just being nice. Also, I would never date Max. Or cheat on you, obviously. But specifically not with Max.”

Will’s frown deepens. “Why are you being so nice, then?”

Mike eyes him. “I hope you’re not going around telling people that I’m mean to you,” he says dubiously, one hand still tangled in Will’s as he reaches in his pocket for his phone with the other. “Is it just me or is the bus late?”

“It’s always late,” Will sighs as Mike winces and shows him the time displayed on his lockscreen. “And no, I would never say that.” He pauses, glancing over at him again. “You’re still being weird, though.”

Mike rolls his eyes, smiling. “I’m just happy, you dork. Is that not allowed?”

“It is, but you’re never happy at eight o’clock in the morning,” Will points out. “What’s up?”

Mike sighs, brushing his thumb back and forth over the back of Will’s hand. “Okay, well, I wasn't going to make a thing out of it, but.” He blushes, kicking his toe into the sidewalk. “As of today we’ve officially been together longer than we were the first time.”

“Oh.” Will’s cheeks pinken, and he smiles softly, peering up at him through icy lashes. “That’s sweet, Mike. You really counted?”

“Yeah,” Mike mumbles, shifting in embarrassment, “I’m obsessive, remember?”

“Detail-oriented,” Will corrects, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Do you want to go to dinner tonight to celebrate?”

“Sure,” Mike squeaks, “if you want. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, really.”

“‘Course it is,” Will insists firmly, squeezing his hand. “You haven’t freaked out and accidentally dumped me yet.”

“I-!” Mike yelps, flinching away and glaring down at him. “I didn’t,” he defends petulantly, already knowing this is an argument he’ll lose, now and for the rest of time. He’s more okay with that than he probably should be. All things considered, he probably has a higher tolerance for being teased by Will Byers than most.

Will grins. “You’re adorable.”

Mike blows out a breath, relaxing back into his grip. “You’re lucky I love you,” he murmurs, barely registering the words until Will tenses beside him, fingers tightening around his own.

“I’m lucky you-” he repeats in a whisper, swallowing hard and staring blankly out at the street, “you- what?”

“Um,” Mike says, voice about three octaves higher than normal. He peers down at Will, whose gaze darts to him, wide-eyed and hopeful. Mike’s breath catches, and warmth fills his chest as he repeats, voice soft, “I- I love you, Will.” He winces. “Sorry, I was going to make it more special than this.”

Will’s smile is more bright and blinding than the freshly fallen snow on the front stoop. “That’s okay,” he whispers, laughing a little. “That’s okay, baby. I love you too.”

Mike grins, fighting back a manic giggle as he leans down to kiss the tip of Will’s nose, reddened from the cold. “Oh yeah?” he teases, suddenly not feeling the winter chill at all anymore. “Since when? Have you been obsessing over me, Byers?”

Will huffs a laugh. “Constantly,” he replies, and pulls him in for a kiss just as the bus finally pulls to a stop in front of them.

(They’re a little late for work, in the end, but neither of them bother complaining.)