Chapter Text
It’s the first real summer after graduation, and Will is staying at the Wheelers’ house.
Karen and Ted are away on holiday, which they felt they deserved after their second child finished high school amidst the horrors of alternate dimensions. This somehow turned into Jonathan and Nancy coming back from the city, Mike staying home to help with Holly, and Will being invited along with a gentle, you’re responsible enough, please stay from Karen that he couldn’t quite refuse.
Will doesn’t mind being here.
Actually, he likes it.
The house feels familiar in a way that doesn’t ask anything of him. Holly still sits at the breakfast table with her pencils spread everywhere, asking Will to draw with her. Nancy is always around, checking in with a smile, making sure he feels included without making a fuss. And Mike… Mike is still Mike. Comfortable. Constant. Too important.
Will sleeps in the basement.
Karen had insisted on making it feel less like a basement and more like a room before she left, fresh sheets on the couch, a mattress tucked against the wall, a lamp with a warm bulb instead of the harsh overhead light. Jonathan took one look at the mattress that was supposed to be his bed and laughed, immediately claiming Nancy’s room instead. Will didn’t mind. He’s used to the quiet.
He likes the privacy. The way the basement lets him exist without being watched.
Most nights, he stays up late with his sketchbook open on the desk, the rest of the house settling into sleep above him. He doesn’t have to worry about someone asking him to turn the lights off or accidentally glancing at what he’s drawing. He can take his time. He can let his thoughts wander.
Since graduation, his art has changed.
He still draws the party sometimes, familiar silhouettes… But lately, his hand keeps returning to Mike. Not all at once. Never all at once. Just pieces. A curl of dark hair. The slope of his collarbone. The soft line of his mouth when he’s concentrating.
Will only ever draws fragments.
He has one sketchbook. One. And the thought of Jonathan, or worse, Mike, flipping through it makes his stomach twist. So, he’s careful. He clips pages together. He hides the obvious things. He tells himself it’s just practice.
Because wanting more than that, wanting Mike like that, is something he’s learned to live with quietly. And the basement is very good at keeping secrets.
Will hears the basement door open.
“Hey, you ready for breakfast?” Mike asks, walking down the stairs heading towards Will who is sitting at the desk, now shifting in his seat.
Will startles, his chair scraping softly as he shifts closer to the desk. “Yeah- one second.”
He lunges to cover his sketchbook with his arm, far too late. The page crinkles under his elbow.
Mike comes up behind him.
Shit.
“What you drawing?” Mike asks, voice low and easy.
Will freezes. Mike’s hands land on either side of the desk, palms flat, caging him in. The space between them disappears all at once, like the room has folded inward. Will’s shoulders go tight, breath catching halfway in.
Will’s breath hitches. “It’s nothing- It’s just um, it’s just practice…”
He leans closer, peering over Will’s shoulder. Will can feel the heat of him now, his chest at Will’s back, his face so close it’s almost touching. If Will turned his head even a little, their noses would brush. Their mouths would-
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Are those lips?”
“Yes- well,” Will stammers, staring very hard at the desk, “it’s a work in progress. I just started it this morning. I’m feeling anxious waiting to hear whether I got into that art school or not, so I thought I’d… get some practice in.”
Practice drawing you, apparently.
“Cool.”
Mike tilts his head, studying the page. Will feels it like a weight, the attention, gentle but unbearable. His face burns. He hopes Mike can’t tell what those lips are supposed to be. He hopes the outline is vague enough to pass as anyone.
Then Mike straightens and steps back.
The sudden lack of him is almost worse.
Will exhales slowly through his nose, quiet, like the sound might give him away. He tells himself he’s relieved. He tells himself he doesn’t miss the closeness.
He tells himself a lot of things that aren’t true.
Mike’s gaze drifts to the neatly made mattress on the floor.
“So,” he says lightly, “Jonathan hasn’t spent a night here, has he?”
Will follows his eyes. The mattress looks untouched, just like it did when Karen made it. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Are we surprised, though?”
Mike laughs.
Will relaxes a little. This, he can do. This is safe.
Mike steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I hear them every single night. It’s torture.”
Will chokes on a breath. That was… unexpected.
“Seriously, Mike?” he laughs, a little too sharp. “Gross.”
Mike laughs too, louder now, back in his normal voice. “Will, it’s a nightmare. My room’s right next to Nancy’s. I have to shove my pillow over my ears just to fall asleep!”
Will shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “Even though I’m sleeping on a couch, I’d still rather be here than up there.”
Mike’s smile lingers, then falters. He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.
“Speaking of…” He hesitates. “Do you think I could, uh- invade your space down here and sleep on Jonathan’s mattress tonight?”
Will’s stomach drops.
“I mean,” Mike adds quickly, “you can totally say no. It’s just… having an actual good night’s sleep would be nice.”
Will nods, heart thudding too hard, too fast. This shouldn’t matter. They’ve had sleepovers forever. It’s normal. It’s fine.
Except it isn’t.
“And, uh,” Mike says, rubbing the back of his neck now, eyes flicking anywhere but Will’s, “since we’re on the topic of practice… maybe I could help you. With your art. Like- a reference or something.”
Oh.
A hollow opens in Will’s chest, sharp and aching all at once. He tells himself Mike means nothing by it. He tells himself Mike is just being Mike. He tells himself this is exactly what best friends do.
“I mean, it’s a stupid idea,” Mike rushes on. “If you don’t want to, that’s-”
“No!” Will blurts, louder than he means to. He swallows. “I mean, of course. It’s your house. You don’t have to ask. And, um… yeah. You can help me with my art later.”
He smiles, hoping it looks normal. Hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
Mike’s shoulders loosen. “Cool.”
“Cool,” Will echoes.
And he tells himself, again, that this doesn’t mean anything at all.
“Boys! Come on breakfast is ready!” Nancy shouts from the kitchen.
“Coming!” Mike shouts back. Then, quieter, almost just for Will, “Come on.”
Will follows Mike upstairs, the warmth and noise of the Wheeler kitchen settling over him like something he’s known forever. Everyone is already there, Nancy humming as she flips pancakes, Jonathan leaning against the counter teasing Holly as she fusses with her syrup. Two empty chairs are waiting.
“Will!” Holly calls brightly, waving him over. “Come sit next to me, I wanna show you my drawing.” She pats the seat insistently.
Will smiles and slides in. He never says no to Holly. “Let’s see it,” he says.
Holly digs through her meticulously organized bag, papers sliding everywhere as Jonathan pours syrup onto his pancakes. Will reaches for Holly’s plate automatically, scooping pancakes and eggs onto it while she digs for the right sheet.
He glances across the table and catches Mike’s eye. Mike’s already watching him, a small, subtle smile tugging at his mouth. A quick nod as a silent thank you and Will ducks his head, smiling back before sliding the full plate in front of Holly.
“Mike,” Holly says sharply, finally retrieving her drawing, “you’re not allowed to see this one. It’s just for me and Will.”
Mike’s gaze lingers on Will a moment longer than necessary, then he rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to see it anyway,” he mutters.
Will settles back in his chair as Holly passes him the drawing. It’s careful, soft lines of herself standing next to a boy, smiling. It reminds him uncomfortably of his own sketchbook.
“This is amazing, Holly,” he whispers. “Who’s this standing next to you?”
She leans in close, now whispering. “My boyfriend.”
Will lets out a quiet giggle. “I’ll keep your secret. Promise.”
Then Holly straightens.
“So, Will, you’ve never had a girlfriend before.”
The words land too loudly, like a dropped plate. Will feels everyone at the table suddenly present, the space around him thinning.
“Holly!” Nancy calls, sharper than usual, “Eat your food and let Will eat his.”
Will’s chest tightens. He lifts his eyes and immediately finds Mike’s. Mike’s looking at him openly now, something dark and unreadable in his expression. A beat passes before Mike looks down, stabbing at his food a little too hard.
Well. That’s great.
“It’s fine, Nancy,” Will says quickly, forcing a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
The fork in his hand feels heavier.
Holly tilts her head. “When you get a girlfriend one day… would you want her to be blonde or brunette?”
Will’s appetite disappears completely. He pokes at his eggs, buying himself a second. He can’t refuse to answer. That would be weird. Suspicious, even.
“Hmm…” he hums. “Probably… brunette?”
He doesn’t mean to look at Mike. It just happens.
Mike’s eyes snap up instantly, jaw tight, brows drawn together like Will’s said something wrong. Something he was supposed to know better than to say. The look is gone almost as soon as Will registers it. Did he register it? Or did he imagine it?
Will drops his gaze and keeps eating, even though his throat has closed around the food.
It’s one thing to invent a hypothetical ‘dream’ girl. It’s another to do it while the person you actually want sits across from you, silent.
“Well,” Holly says cheerfully, “I hope you find your brunette, Will.”
She goes back to her breakfast, satisfied. No more questions.
Thank God.
Will keeps his eyes on his plate, counting bites, pretending everything is normal.
Breakfast winds down, the plates cleared, the chatter fading into the morning. Will and Mike grab their bikes from the garage, the sun already warm on the street. Today, like every weekday this summer, they’re heading in the same direction.
Will pedals toward the coffee shop, tucked into the corner of the main street. He works there part-time as a barista, mostly mornings, but his favorite part of the shift is after noon. By twelve, the rush slows, the customers thin out, and he can pull out his smaller sketchpad, drawing in between refills and orders.
The quiet gives him two full hours to himself before his shift ends at two. He can almost taste the calm, already imagining the worn wood counter and the soft clatter of cups, the way the sunlight spills across the tables.
Mike rides just a few buildings down the same street, toward the old brick building where he’s taking his summer writing course. Will still remembers the excitement in Mike’s voice when he told him he’d been accepted. Mike had applied before graduation, submitting a short story he’d never let Will read, one of only ten students to get in. Prestigious, competitive, a place so difficult to get into that everyone doubted Mike, but not Will. Never Will.
They fall into the rhythm of the ride, pedals turning, tires humming against the road. And… silence.
The kind of silence that feels heavy.
Will’s mind spins. Why did breakfast feel so… weird? Was it something he said? Did Mike notice Holly’s questions? Did he say the wrong thing about a hypothetical girlfriend?
He steals a glance at Mike, but his eyes are glued straight ahead, jaw tight, posture stiff. Will turns back to the road, heart thudding, trying to shake the thought, but the ache in his chest doesn’t go away.
They pass the corner where Will’s coffee shop peeks out behind a small row of storefronts. Just a couple blocks left. His stomach tightens. He imagines parking his bike, running inside to the smell of roasted beans and warm pastries, but then the image of Mike next to him, riding silently, overrides everything.
Finally, they reach the coffee shop. Will slows, glancing over at Mike, who pulls up beside him, one hand on the handlebar. He gives a small, almost forced half-smile, a tiny nod, before turning sharply onto the street toward his building. Just a few buildings down, but already it feels like miles between them.
Will watches him go, chest tightening, shoulders slumping. Acknowledged, technically, but barely. He’s left with the weight of that silence, the memory of Mike’s stiff posture and clipped goodbye.
The door jingles as he pushes inside, the familiar smells wrapping around him like a tiny island of calm. But even here, the memory of Mike’s half-smile follows him, a small cut through the morning, sharp and lingering.
Will locks the door to the coffee shop behind him, the familiar hum of the espresso machine and clatter of cups fading behind him. Normally, this place is his refuge, orders to make, drinks to pull, quiet moments to sketch, but today it feels like a stage he can’t escape from. His chest is tight, hands restless, and every move behind the counter feels too loud.
Max, Lucas, Dustin, and El trickle in for their usual orders. They joke, nudge each other, and laugh, but Will only half-listens. He makes their drinks automatically, heart hammering, mind elsewhere.
Mike asked him to stay in the basement tonight. Asked to be his muse. To let Will draw him. And now, while he’s serving latte after latte, that thought presses down harder than any rush hour crowd ever could. Will’s stomach knots, his fingers tighten around the steaming cup. What if he’s too obvious? What if Mike notices the way he’s already thinking about him?
“You’re too good at this, Will,” Dustin laughs, grinning. “You’ve turned me into a serious coffee addict.”
Will chuckles softly, nodding, but his mind isn’t in the room. He’s listening, technically, but he’s not hearing. He’s thinking about Mike, the way he kept his eyes averted this morning, the tense ride beside him. Every word from his friends slides past him like water over glass.
El nudges him gently. “Will, you okay? You’re spacing out.”
“Yeah,” he mutters quickly, placing her cup on the counter. “I’m fine. Your mocha’s ready,” Will says, voice a little too sharp, snapping himself back. He watches El take it, chatting briefly, but he’s not really present.
He’s wondering if he should have said yes, if he’ll be awkward, if tonight will be one of those nights where he freezes in front of Mike.
Time drifts forward. Orders come and go. By two, he wipes down the counter one last time, tucks his pen into his bag, and steps outside. Normally, he waits for Mike, hoping for a familiar nod or a shared joke on the ride home. Today, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look for him. He swings his leg over his bike, and pedals toward the WSQK, toward Robin, toward anyone who can keep his mind from spinning completely.
The wind stings his cheeks, the wheels hum beneath him, but it does little to soothe the knot in his stomach.
By the time he reaches the WSQK, he’s gripping the handlebars like he’s holding onto sanity itself. He steps inside, and the familiar smell of old records and paper in Robin’s corner of chaos hits him. Relief comes in small waves, but the tight coil in his chest hasn’t loosened. He needs someone to remind him that he’s not overthinking everything, at least, not completely.
“Byers!” Robin lights up the second she sees him. “What are you doing here?”
She pulls him into a hug before he can answer. Will clings to her for half a second longer than usual.
“Mini Byers,” Steve says giving him a nod.
Will hesitates. His chest feels tight, words piling up too fast.
“Hi, Steve. I- uh… I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but I really need to speak to Robin… Alone.”
“No problem, man,” Steve says immediately, like it’s nothing. He pats Will’s shoulder on the way past, casual and kind, and disappears into the back room.
Will watches him go. He still isn’t used to how easy Steve makes it, how safe. After everything Robin told Will about Steve being so accepting of her, it matters more than Steve probably realizes.
Robin turns back to him, concern snapping into place. “Okay. What happened?”
“I’m going to die,” Will says, dropping into the chair. “I’m actually going to die.”
“Oh, dramatic. So this is bad-bad?” Robin says, crouching in front of him.
“It’s Mike,” Will says, dragging his hands down his face. “He asked me to draw him. And he wants to stay in the basement tonight. And then-” He breaks off, frustration spilling over. “Then he ignored me all morning. Like I wasn’t even there.”
Robin leans back against her desk, lips quirking. “Does he know you already draw him?”
Will groans. “Robin.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
He exhales sharply. “I can’t do this. He’s going to see right through me. I’m trying to get over him, and this is just going to make everything worse. He’s not like me- like us. He’s str-”
“Straight,” Robin echoes. “Yes. You’ve mentioned. Repeatedly.”
Will glares at her weakly.
“Look,” she says, softening, “this could be good! You remember what we talked about right? This could be an opportunity for you to try see through him.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to observe anything while I’m actively trying not to combust,” Will mutters.
Robin shrugs, “Look, nobody comes out as straight. Vickie had a boyfriend before we started dating. Mike used to be with El. If he has no evidence to suggest otherwise, for all you know he could think you’re straight.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Okay, and where is this going?”
“I’m saying,” Robin continues brightly, “You don’t have to back out. You get to paint your crush. That should be fun! Ask him to take his shirt off or something. Be bold! You’re going to be studying advanced arts, right? Very professional stuff that needs very professional, detailed practice.”
Will’s chest tightens painfully. “First of all, it’s not just a crush. And second, absolutely not! If I come on too strong and he doesn’t feel the same, it could ruin everything. I’d rather be miserable quietly than lose him.”
“I understand that, but right now you’re closing the door without locking it. If you want to really get over Mike, you need to commit to it. If you don’t, what’s the point in pining over him and not even trying to get a sense of how he might feel? What’s the worst that can come out of you just analyzing his behavior a bit more?” Robin says softening her voice.
Will hates that she’s right.
He rubs his tired eyes. “I’ll… try. I’ll look closer tonight I guess.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” Robin says gently.
He stands and pulls her into a hug. She hugs him back without hesitation, solid and sure. His breathing slows against her shoulder.
For a long time, Will thought he was alone in this. That this part of him had to stay buried and quiet forever. Robin changed that.
He doesn’t know how he managed before her.
Will bikes back to the Wheelers just as the sky starts to soften toward evening.
When he steps inside, Nancy and Jonathan are already in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Can I help you set the table?” Will asks Nancy, already reaching for the cutlery drawer.
Nancy smiles. “Thank you, Will,” she says, squeezing his hand as she passes.
He counts carefully, five knives, five forks, placemats straightened, corners aligned. It’s something to focus on. Something he can do right.
When he finishes, Will lingers against the kitchen wall. Jonathan drifts in beside him, easy and familiar, and rests a hand on his shoulder like it belongs there.
“Hey,” Jonathan says softly. “You okay?”
Will nods, automatically.
“Mike said you didn’t wait up after your shift,” Jonathan continues. “Where’d you go?”
“Oh. I went to see Robin,” Will says.
Jonathan hums, accepting the answer without probing. He never pushes.
There’s a lot Jonathan doesn’t say. There always has been. But Will feels it anyway, in the way Jonathan looks at him, like he’s paying attention to things no one else notices. Like he knows there’s something Will hasn’t said yet and won’t rush him to.
Sometimes Will thinks Jonathan already knows. Sometimes he thinks he’s always known.
Dinner is ready soon after. Mike is the last one to sit down. He keeps his shoulders tense, gaze fixed on his plate, fork moving without purpose. He doesn’t look at Will. Not once.
The conversation flows around them anyway. Holly asks Jonathan when he’ll be dropping her off at her friend’s house tomorrow, and Jonathan laughs, teasing her about trying to escape them too early. Will barely hears it.
Every scrape of Mike’s fork makes his chest tighten. Every second of silence between them feels deliberate, heavy. Will replays the day over and over, searching for the moment he messed up.
Did I say something wrong?
Is he upset I didn’t wait for him?
Did he figure it out?
Mike eats quickly, like he’s bracing himself for something. When he stands, he doesn’t say a word, just carries his plate to the sink and disappears upstairs.
Will watches him go, stomach hollowing out.
Despite sitting right across from him, it feels like Mike might as well have been in another room all night.
Will helps clear the table, stacking dishes carefully, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Nancy thanks him again and gently shoos him away when he offers to wash up.
“Go get a shower before Holly decides she’s next,” she says with a smile.
The water is too hot. Will lets it run anyway.
He presses his forehead to the cold tile and lets the day replay itself until his fingers wrinkle and his thoughts tangle into nothing useful.
By the time he goes back down to the basement, his hair is still damp, water dripping cold against his neck.
Now he just has to wait.
Will turns back to the desk and clips the pages he’s drawn together, fingers fumbling with the metal clasp. He can’t risk Mike flipping through his sketchbook, can’t risk him seeing familiar lines staring back from every third page.
He glances at the stairs. Nothing.
Will drags a hand through his hair and moves to the mirror instead. It’s half-dry, curling in the wrong places. He tries flattening it, then pushing it up, but eventually gives up entirely.
Why isn’t Mike here yet?
Time stretches. Will doodles spirals and swirls in the margins of a blank page until the graphite smudges beneath his palm. He paces, sits, then stands again. He bites the skin next to his nails.
He replays the morning. Mike’s silent bike ride beside him, the subtle nod goodbye when he reached the coffee shop, that small, almost-forced half-smile. Every glance, every pause, every silence, he searches for the exact moment he might have ruined everything.
This is stupid, he tells himself. Mike doesn’t owe him anything. This isn’t a date. He shouldn’t feel like he’s waiting to be chosen, or worse, evaluated.
Another look at the stairs.
Nothing.
The basement feels impossibly quiet. The hum of the soft wind outside, the soft creak of the floorboards that Will’s pacing creates echoing in the space where he imagines Mike should appear.
Eventually, exhaustion settles in, heavy and dull. Will swallows and decides, finally, that Mike isn’t coming. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’s still mad.
Will doesn’t have the energy to guess anymore.
He takes off the shirt that he’s in and slips into his sleeping shirt.
Will and Robin slightly cropped their favorite band shirts one day at the WSQK. The Cure logo is faded, the bottom hem resting just above his bellybutton. It’s soft and familiar and safe. It reminds him that no matter what, he has Robin, and tonight he needs it more than ever.
He peels off his sweatpants, left in boxers and the cropped shirt. It’s what he wears when it’s just him, alone. No one is supposed to see him like this.
Will exhales shakily and pads toward the stairs, hand lifting toward the light switch-
The basement door creaks open.
Will freezes.
“Jonathan?” he starts-
It’s Mike. Standing there with a pillow tucked under his arm, hair damp, eyes already on Will.
Embarrassment hits him like a wave, hot and immediate. His skin prickles everywhere the air touches him. He suddenly becomes painfully aware of his bare legs, his waist, the strip of stomach exposed beneath the hem of his shirt.
“Oh,” Will says nervously. “Hi.”
Mike doesn’t move at first. His eyes stay fixed on Will’s shirt. On the way it rides up when Will breathes.
“I’ve never…” Mike says quietly, stepping down the stairs slowly. “I’ve never seen you wear that before.”
Shit.
“It’s- uh- it’s old,” Will lies. “I just sleep in it.”
He retreats to the desk chair turning it to face the room, perching on the edge and tugging uselessly at the hem, trying, and failing, to make it cover more than it does. Mike settles on the couch instead, still watching him.
“I like it,” Mike blurts. “I mean- I like The Cure. So… It’s a cool shirt.”
The words land awkwardly, earnest.
What’s the worst that can come out of you just analyzing his behavior a bit more?
Will thinks back to what Robin said. Will tries. He really does. No. Mike likes The Cure, that’s it, that’s not some hidden signal.
“Thanks,” Will says softly, eyes dropping to his knees. He feels exposed, like Mike can see too much just by looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” Mike says suddenly, looking down, breaking the silence that was increasing between them before he spoke.
Will looks up.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you today.”
“It’s fine,” Will says quickly. “Really.”
“No,” Mike insists. He finally meets Will’s eyes. His brows pull together, mouth tight, eyes glossy. “It’s not fine. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Will’s chest softens despite himself.
“It didn’t seem like you were having a bad day until after breakfast,” Will says carefully. “What happened?”
Mike shifts, shoulders hunching in on himself. His gaze drops to the floor.
The tension from dinner slips back into place, heavy and unresolved.
Will’s heart starts to race. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Maybe this is where everything goes wrong.
“Hey,” Will says quickly, reaching for his sketchpad instead. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
He holds the clipped pages down with his thumb, grounding himself.
“Why don’t we start with the drawing,” Will adds gently, forcing a small smile. “Before you get too tired.”
Mike nods, relief flickering across his face.
And the air between them tightens, not easing, just shifting into something quieter. Closer. Dangerous.
“How do you want me?” Mike says, and his smile is small but real as he pushes himself up from the couch. He drifts closer, slow, like he’s not entirely sure where he’s meant to stop.
Will swallows. The room feels suddenly smaller, warmer, like the air has shifted around them. He keeps his eyes on Mike’s face on purpose, anchors himself there.
“Just- like that’s fine,” he says, a little too fast. “You can sit on the armrest, or stand. Whatever’s… comfortable.”
Mike hums softly, like he’s thinking it over, then steps back and perches against the arm of the couch, half-sitting, half-leaning. Casual. Except nothing about it feels casual to Will. The way Mike’s shoulders slope, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, the way he looks entirely unaware of how much space he’s taking up just by being there.
Will drops his gaze to the page before he can stare too long.
Will’s fingers curl tighter around his pencil. Mike looks… impossibly handsome. The low light softens him, shadows settling into the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. His curls fall loose around his forehead, and Will has the sudden, overwhelming thought that he could draw him forever and still never get it right.
He lowers his eyes to the page and starts.
He starts with the lines he knows best. The curve of Mike’s jaw. The familiar tilt of his nose. His eyes take longer. They always do. Will slows his breathing, lets his hand move the way it wants to, soft graphite strokes building shape and shadow. He’s drawn Mike so many times before, but it feels different when Mike is right there, when every glance up confirms the shape under his pencil.
“You always do that thing,” Mike says quietly.
Will looks up. “What thing?”
“That face.” Mike gestures vaguely toward his own eyes. “Like you’re… figuring me out.”
Will huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just trying to get it right.”
“You always do,” Mike says, without thinking.
The words settle between them, heavier than they should be. Will looks back down before his red ears can give him away.
They fall into a rhythm after that. Pencil moving. Occasional glances. The basement hums quietly around them.
“So,” Mike says, breaking the silence. “Class today was… actually really cool.”
Will’s pencil pauses. He glances up. “Oh? What did you do?”
Mike’s eyes light up in a way that makes Will’s chest ache. “We did a character-building exercise. Everyone had to take a mundane, everyday situation, like waiting for the bus, or making breakfast, and turn it into a short story that revealed something deep about the character. And then we read them out loud in pairs, analyzed tone, voice, pacing… I didn’t realize you could learn that much from someone just making toast.”
Will smiles faintly, feeling proud of Mike. “You’re really good at this, huh?”
Mike shrugs, almost bashful, tucking a curl behind his ear. “I guess. I like it. It’s… fun to push myself. See what I can do.” He pauses, then tilts his head toward Will. “I wish you could see some of it. Maybe one day.”
Will’s hand freezes on his sketchpad. “Really?” he asks, hopeful.
Mike bites his lip, shifting his weight, uncomfortable but honest. “Maybe.”
Will looks down, he lets his pencil move again, tracing the faint outline of Mike’s shoulder, trying to focus, trying not to read too much into the word. Maybe
For a moment, neither of them says anything, the quiet of the basement pressing in. But it’s not tense, not exactly. It’s that soft, hovering space that always seems to stretch between them, heavy with unsaid things.
Will hums, adjusting the page. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says softly, almost as if he’s afraid his words might shatter the moment.
Mike just smiles, a little crooked, his thumb brushing against the arm of the couch absentmindedly. “Yeah. It’s good to have something that’s mine. You know?”
Will nods, pencil moving again, feeling the weight of wanting to be close to Mike but not wanting to intrude.
Will’s pencil hovers for a heartbeat before it glides over the contours of Mike’s chest. He remembers Robin’s advice. For the first time tonight, he feels almost confident, almost ready. He decides to act on it before the feeling escapes him.
“Hey… um,” Will starts, voice catching, “could you… take your shirt off? Just so I can- do your body. Practice, I mean.”
Mike shifts, tugging at the hem of his shirt, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… yeah, okay.” His hands fumble with the bottom of the shirt, tugging it over his head and letting it fall in a soft heap at his feet.
Will gulps. The air between them suddenly feels too thick. Mike’s skin is warm in the soft basement light, his shoulders taut but relaxed, chest rising and falling at a rhythm that Will can’t stop noticing. The faint trail of dark hair from Mike’s navel down into the waistband of his low-rise sweatpants makes Will’s stomach flip in ways he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
Mike notices Will’s stiff posture, the way his fingers clutch the pencil like a lifeline, and grins faintly. It’s playful, teasing, but restrained. Will doesn’t look up. He can’t. Not yet. Not while the heat in his ears is spreading like wildfire. He’s pretending to concentrate on the paper, focusing on lines and shadows, the gentle curve of Mike’s shoulder, the dip beneath his collarbone.
The basement is quiet except for the scratch of pencil against paper and Mike’s soft breathing. Will traces the edges of his chest, the subtle slope of his ribs, memorizing every detail, and the world shrinks to the space between pencil and page.
“How’s it looking?” Mike asks, voice careful, almost shy.
Will freezes for a fraction of a second before stammering, “Y-you look… great- I mean, the drawing looks great.” His voice is tight, ears burning crimson.
Mike shifts his weight, a blush blooming over his cheeks. He isn’t used to praise, especially like this, but the warmth of Will’s gaze, the way the pencil hovers over him as though worshipping every line, makes him feel exposed and… seen.
Will’s hand moves down, careful, hesitant. The happy trail, so obvious, so intimate, is in front of him. He draws it lightly, barely a whisper on the page. Not too much, just enough to capture the form without overstepping invisible lines. His breath catches as he reaches the waistband of Mike’s sweatpants. The paper is suddenly heavier, every motion a question, a confession, a promise he doesn’t have the words for.
He glances up, drawn by the weight of Mike’s eyes. Mike is watching him, silently measuring, analyzing, but not judging. Just… observing. Will swallows, heart hammering, and finally allows his gaze to drift down to his waistband again, just for a moment longer. The boldness shocks him, the way his body reacts, the rapid, shallow breaths that betray him. He knows Mike sees some of it. He can feel the awareness, the pull, like a magnetic force neither of them is ready to name.
For the first time, Will notices the slight curl of Mike’s lips, the way his pulse jumps visibly at the hollow of his wrist resting on the couch arm. Mike is tense, yes, but it’s the kind of tension that invites attention, that leans into the danger of being seen, being wanted.
Will’s pencil moves again, slower now, deliberate, almost reverent. Every line is a brush of memory, a tracing of admiration and desire he can’t yet put into words.
Heat pooled low in his stomach. Pressure. His boxers, which had felt comfortable a minute ago, now pinched and tightened in the wrong places.
Shit.
Will shifted in his seat, heart hammering, breath shallow. He could feel exactly what was happening, and the panic came almost immediately. He knew it was visible. He knew Mike could notice if he looked.
Instinctively, he dragged the sketchpad closer to his knees, angling it just so, trying to shield the subtle boner in his pants. His thighs pressed together, which only made it worse. His ears burned. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. Not now. Please not now.
He risked a glance at Mike.
Mike wasn’t looking at Will’s face. His eyes lingered just below Will’s cropped shirt, then away, then back again. Curious. Uncertain. Like he was trying to figure something out without fully realizing what it was he was looking for.
Will’s stomach twisted violently. Mike didn’t look disgusted, or uncomfortable, or even surprised. He looked… interested. Like the curiosity he carried wasn’t judgment, it wasn’t criticism, it was observation, and that made Will’s heart slam painfully in his chest.
He looked back down at the sketchpad. Focus. But the pencil trembled in his hand. Will managed to calm himself down, focusing hard enough to get rid of the slight tenting in his boxers.
Mike’s voice broke the silence. “Can I see it?”
Will froze. “No-” Too fast. Too loud.
Mike rose from the couch and moved closer, his steps quiet but deliberate. He reached for the sketchpad, and Will reacted instinctively, twisting back, pulling it away. Mike laughs softly, breath warm against Will’s shoulder as he tried to pry it from his grip. Will held on tightly, fingers clenched around the metal pin, terrified it would pop loose and reveal everything. Their bodies were closer than they had any right to be. Knees brushing. Mike’s arm hooked around Will’s wrist.
“Okay, okay,” Will said, blurting out, breathless, “I just- I might need to touch it up in the morning.”
Slowly, carefully, he tore the page out and handed it over, like it might burn him if he let go too fast.
Mike went quiet, and for a moment, the world shrank to the heat radiating between them. He studied the drawing in silence, eyes softening as they traced every line. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.
“Wow,” he finally whispered. “You… always make me look really good.”
Will’s chest tightened painfully. That sounded too much like you see me the way I want to be seen, like Mike might be seeing him right back.
“I just draw what’s there,” Will said quickly, packing his sketchpad away, hands shaking.
The tension didn’t leave the room, but it softened, turned warm, familiar. Will climbed into the couch bed, pulling the blanket up to his chest like armor. Mike settled onto the mattress on the floor, lying on his back for a moment before speaking.
“This has been nice,” Mike said quietly. “We should spend more time here. Hanging out.” He paused. “It’s way better than listening to Jonathan and Nancy all night.”
Will huffed a small laugh. “It’s nice not being down here alone with my thoughts.”
Mike turned his head slightly. “Are you still having nightmares? About what happened with Vecna?”
“Not so much,” Will admitted. “But when I overthink, when it’s too cold, it feels like he’s… still here. Still here.” Will emphasizes, tapping his head gently.
There was a pause. Then, softer, “You have me here, Will, always. Vecna is gone. If I’m here, I can distract you.”
Will had nightmares for an entire year after they defeated Vecna. All the trauma he went through was trapped in his body. He was able to talk to Mike about it, he was one of the only people who really understood. The nightmares sometimes come back, but Will is able to manage them now, and with Mike sleeping on the floor next to him, he’s certain he won’t have any tonight.
Will swallowed, “Thanks, Mike.”
They shifted slightly, blankets rustling. Exhaustion tugged at them, but neither could sleep right away. The silence wasn’t empty. It hummed, charged, intimate. Heavy and safe all at once.
“Night, Will.”
“Night, Mike.”
And finally, the dark of the basement wrapped them in quiet, holding every unspoken thought, every glance, every line of tension between them.