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Holy hell, this sleeping bag is a goddamn trap. Will figured that out… probably about forty minutes ago. He’s lying here on Mike’s basement floor like someone with a sadistic sense of humor arranged him as a still life titled “Boy Dying of Mortification.”
And yet, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything sensible. Like, he could fake a sudden bout of nausea and call his mom. He should call his mom. But he’s not going to call his mom.
It started the way all such things start—with teeth-grinding innocence and almost insulting normalcy. Mike’s parents are out on a date—some fancy-pants restaurant where, as Joyce would put it, they give you a tiny fork and you don’t even know what for.
Holly’s at a friend’s overnight. Nancy’s at Jonathan’s. And the house is filled with that particular oppressive quiet, like someone’s holding their breath. They’ve done this a hundred times—sleeping bag on the floor, Mike on the couch, a bowl of popcorn with more butter than kernels.
They’ve been practicing since they were eleven, when this basement was campaign headquarters and everything felt like a matter of life and death. Back then, the stakes of the night were whether Mike would let Will play a different character, or make him roll dice for the cleric again. Now they’re eighteen. The stakes are different.
Will understands this with that special, agonizing clarity he gets about things—not all at once, not like a thunderclap, but like a tide. Millimeter by millimeter, and by the time you realize your feet are wet, half your life has passed.
He started being aware of Mike’s mouth at approximately 2:47 PM. That’s not new information, no. He’s been aware of Mike’s mouth, Mike’s hands, that particular laugh Mike does when something catches him off guard—a snort first, then the laugh, then the embarrassed desire to hide the laugh.
For a long time. For years, if he’s honest. Before they started dating. Before Will even had the words for what that awareness was.
But they’ve been together eight months now, and that awareness has morphed from something you could theoretically run from into something that’s taken up residence in his chest and does calisthenics there at the most inopportune moments. Mike is dating him. Mike is his.
They’ve kissed maybe nine thousand times—Will hasn’t actually counted, that would be insane, though honestly, of course he’s counted. And now Mike’s hands in Will’s hair just feel like a fact of the world, something as real and fundamental as gravity.
They’ve fallen asleep together down here maybe ten times since August, if not more. Held each other, had two-in-the-morning conversations that flipped Will’s understanding of what closeness is. Conversations where Mike said things quietly in the dark he’d never say in the light. And Will caught every word like it was made of crystal.
They haven’t done anything else.
Which is fine, which has always been fine. Which Will has never pushed for, because… well, that’s where it gets complicated and requires a flowchart. Will, by nature, doesn’t elbow his way forward, doesn’t push and doesn’t demand more. It’s not even nobility; it’s just how he’s built.
That part of him that survived by trying to be small, unnoticeable, and quiet has a background process running called ‘Don’t Ask For More Than You’re Given.’ And that process does its job very, very well.
But he’s eighteen now. And something has shifted—he’s not sure exactly when the shift happened. Probably not one moment. More like it built up, pressure growing in a sealed vessel.
Mike’s thumb absently tracing his jawline last Tuesday while they watched some crap neither of them was actually watching. And the way Mike looked at him afterward, like he’d been caught, like he’d done something he hadn’t decided to do yet. And Mike’s cheeks flooded with that particular blush Will will remember and take to his grave.
That moment in the backseat of Jonathan’s car last weekend, shoulders touching, Mike turned his head and his breath scorched Will’s neck. Will had to have a serious talk with his entire circulatory system.
Shift, yeah.
It’s so hard because Will spent so much time trying to manage the fact of his own wanting. Suppressing it, hiding it, being the responsible custodian of this huge feeling he couldn’t even name before. But now—to want this, something specific and physical, something with direction and aim and deadlines—that’s new. It makes it hard to breathe properly in this godforsaken sleeping bag.
He wants Mike.
Wants Mike, who is currently sitting on the couch a little over a meter away, one leg tucked under him, the other foot on the floor, wearing sweatpants and that ratty t-shirt so old it’s practically see-through. Eating popcorn with an air of profound indifference, clicking through channels with the remote and muttering commentary under his breath—too loud, too dumb, seen it, that’s for old people, what even is that…
“There’s gotta be something,” Mike says. To the universe, more than to Will.
“You could just pick something.”
“I’m not just gonna pick something, Will, that’s how we end up watching infomercials for vacuum cleaners.”
“One time.”
“We watched a guy sell a ladder for forty-five minutes.”
Mike looks down at him. The look is fond, irritated, and warm all at once—the kind Mike gives without seeming to realize he’s giving it. And Will’s chest does a finale. Will looks back at the ceiling. Yeah, great. Everything’s fine.
The problem with the remote is that Mike’s dad has cable with some ungodly number of channels—like twelve thousand, probably. Most of them are home shopping networks and local news. And after twenty minutes of flipping, you start to feel like you’re losing your mind.
That’s a fact. That’s always been true. What is not a fact, what is essentially a cosmic setup, is channel 487. Will hears it before he sees it. He hears Mike stop clicking. The clicks cut off abruptly, and then a sound comes from the speakers.
It takes Will a second to process it because his brain engages some protective function, like, no, that can’t be right, that’s a mistake. But it is—unmistakable. That particular, specific sound of two people who are very clearly not selling ladders.
Will sits up.
Mike didn’t change the channel. On the screen—(Will’s brain carefully compiles a list, because if he lets himself react before he understands what he’s seeing, he’ll do something stupid)—is a movie. A movie of a very definite category, with parental warnings and usually kept behind a curtain at the video store.
A movie featuring two men who are currently very actively on a bed doing the thing Will has thought about in the broadest terms. Well, okay, honestly, of course he’s thought about it. He’s eighteen, he’s human, and he’s been in a relationship for lot of months.
His brain goes there constantly. But he’s never seen it like this, in, say, high definition and with full audio.
He sits up. Mike still hasn’t changed the channel. The remote is in Mike’s hand, his thumb on the button, but he’s not pressing it. Will sees him in profile. Notices this particular quality of stillness in Mike.
This isn’t the freeze of someone surprised who’s about to snap out of it. No. This is the stillness of someone looking at something they’re not ready to look away from yet. Three seconds. Four. Five. Every cell in Will’s body has decided to become a radiator.
“Mike,” he says.
Mike’s thumb twitches. Doesn’t press the button.
“Yeah.”
The word comes out maybe a quarter-tone lower than usual. Maybe. Will notes this with the part of his brain that notes everything about Mike—a dedicated processor that can’t be switched off.
A processor that’s been logging every micro-expression, every vocal shift, the particular weight of his hand when he’s nervous or when he’s happy, for eight months. Mike’s voice is tight right now. His voice is doing something else.
“You…”
“I just—” Mike starts and cuts himself off. Something happens with his jaw. “I’ll change it.”
But he doesn’t. Another two seconds.
Will is sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag. And on the screen are two men. That’s the thing. Two men having sex. And one of them is taller, dark-haired, with a particular earnestness in his eyes even in this context. The other is shorter, brunette.
And Will’s brain, which it turns out he has zero control over, does something unforgivable—it maps them. Mechanically places the tall one onto Mike. Does it without Will’s permission.
Will’s face is on fire. Something entirely involuntary is happening to him, and he is infinitely grateful Mike is still looking at the screen and not at him.
“They’re kinda…” Will starts and stops, because he was about to say something idiotic.
“Yeah!” Mike says quickly.
So Mike sees it too. Will doesn’t know why that makes it worse. No, not worse, just—it’s a concrete, specific thing that warps the air in the basement. Will breathes through it. It’s all according to plan. He’s handling it.
“I’m changing it,” Mike says. And this time there’s a firmness in his voice, like a reminder to himself of why he’s here.
He leans forward on the couch. Doesn’t change it.
“Okay,” Will says, calmly.
At least, he thinks it sounds calm.
Mike turns his head and looks at him. And there it is, that look, the one Will has archived and lost sleep over. It’s the look Mike gives him when he’s trying to figure out if something is permissible. If Will is thinking the same thing he is.
If either of them is going to be insane enough to step over that invisible line between them. Will has seen this look before—he’s learned it and internalized what it means. But here, in this basement, with this specific crap happening on the TV three meters away, that look is doing something catastrophic to his composure.
Will holds Mike’s gaze. Doesn’t look away.
“Will,” Mike says.
Just his name.
“Yeah,” Will says.
And neither of them moves.
No one changes the channel.
Will’s internal monologue, which up until this point had been clear and coherent, suddenly began to disintegrate. Yes, that was the word. He felt as if the threads of his thoughts were starting to fray because his body was transmitting information his brain could barely process. His brain’s attempts to piece it all together were becoming more and more insistent.
The TV was on. Mike put the remote on the cushion beside him. Will noticed that. His entire consciousness registered that moment. It meant Mike had consciously decided not to use the remote to alter what was happening. A dozen possible explanations for that decision flitted through Will’s head, but his brain latched onto one in particular, and the thought lodged itself firmly.
“Come here,” Mike said quietly.
His voice got like that sometimes when he was serious. He lowered it instead of raising it, as if he was only going to say it once and he wanted Will to hear it, wanted Will to make a choice.
Will’s body reacted faster than his brain could think it through. He got up from the sleeping bag and sat on the couch next to Mike. Normally, this was nothing—they’d sat on this couch a thousand times. Only now, something was off.
The familiar shoulder-to-shoulder alignment had shifted—now Mike’s arm was around his back, and Will’s knee was turned toward Mike’s. There was very little space left between them.
The TV wasn’t turned off. Will decided not to look at it. He stared at his hands in his lap—that was the safest place for them. He looked at his hands and pretended to be calm. His heart started doing something that probably required medical intervention.
“Is this weird?” Mike asked.
“What part?”
“That I don’t want to change the channel.”
There it was. Will turned his head and looked at Mike. First at his profile—the familiar line of his jaw, the nose he used to be self-conscious about. Will never understood that self-consciousness. He liked Mike’s nose. Mike turned and looked back at him. They were sitting very close together on this couch in the basement. Will felt every single cell in his body.
“No. Not weird,” Will said.
“Really?”
“Well, I mean…” He swallowed. Something strange was happening to his throat. “A little weird.”
“Right.”
“But not…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Not weird in a bad way. Not weird in a wrong way. Weird in a way that was the precursor to something else, something that had been brewing for months and had now found an external stimulus and was beginning to manifest. “Not other weird.”
Mike’s hand moved. His fingertips brushed Will’s shoulder, barely there, but Will’s shoulder felt it all. It sent an urgent message to his brain about fingertip contact.
“I think about it,” Mike said, looking at the empty space in front of him. This was how Mike Wheeler told the truth, without making eye contact. “Y’know. About us. About… that.” He stopped. His ears were turning red. Will could see them from here. They were red, no question. “I think about it a lot, honestly.”
“Yeah,” Will said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Will’s voice sounded strange, alas, he couldn’t control it. “Me too.”
A particular silence fell—not empty, not awkward—because it had weight and warmth to it. It held a feeling that had gone unnamed for a long time and now had a name and was trying to figure out what to do with itself.
Something rustled on the TV. Mike’s hand squeezed Will’s shoulder slightly. The consciousness that had been analyzing everything since 2:47 PM receded, revealing something very simple deep inside—yes. Yes. This is him.
His Mike.
Will turned toward Mike. It was a small movement, but in the current situation, even the smallest movements mattered. What mattered was that Mike was doing the same slow, mutual rotation, as inevitable as gravity. If he started thinking about it, he’d break, so he didn’t think. And now they were looking at each other, and the distance between them was not great.
Mike kissed him, or Will kissed Mike, or they did it simultaneously—it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it happened, and it wasn’t like their usual kisses. The kisses were good, amazing even, Will remembered them with pinpoint accuracy. But this kiss was different, as if it had been held back for a long time and was now breaking free.
Mike’s hand moved from Will’s shoulder to his cheek, cupped it, and his thumb traced the line of his jaw. Will already knew Mike knew that line—had studied it in minute detail on Tuesday, on all the Tuesdays before, and Will’s brain tried to produce something coherent but instead produced white noise.
He thought—oh. He thought—oh, okay. Here it is. Then—don’t freak out, don’t freak out, you can do this, you’ve got this… Mike pulled back an inch. His forehead rested against Will’s. They were both breathing a little too deliberately, reminding themselves they had lungs.
“Hey,” Mike said.
Apparently a complete sentence.
“Hey,” Will said.
“This is…”
“Yeah,” Will interrupted.
Mike’s exhale was warm on Will’s face.
“I didn’t even finish…”
“Yeah anyway.” Will could feel his heart beating somewhere it shouldn’t be audible. “Whatever you were gonna say. It’s ‘yeah.’”
Will tried to memorize Mike’s expression. He memorized Mike Wheeler’s face in that moment—how open it was, how rarely he allowed it, how the usual armor of pretense and wit had melted over the last three minutes, revealing something young and real, looking at Will as if Will were something definite in a world that never had enough definites.
Will knew that look. He’d seen it sometimes when Mike didn’t know he was being watched—usually when they were talking about something important, when Mike said something honest and waited for Will to react carefully or to ruin everything. Will was always careful. He would be careful now, too.
“We don’t have to,” Will began.
“I know.” Mike’s thumb was still on his cheek. “I want to.”
“Okay.” A sigh. “Me too.”
“Really?”
Yes. Yes. Definitely, without a doubt, with every part of his being that was currently conscious, yes. He wanted this. He wanted this and had restrained himself and been sensible about it for so long, and now, in this basement, with this broken cable box, with Mike’s burning ears and his thumb on Will’s cheek, Will allowed himself to want it without apology and without the usual controls. And it was terrifying.
It was also the most real thing he’d felt in a long time.
“Yeah,” he said.
And then the carefully constructed plans gave way to something less verbal—Mike’s hand moved to the back of Will’s neck, and Will’s hands found the fabric of Mike’s old t-shirt, and they kissed again, still careful—but the carefulness was different now, like they were doing something new and they were paying attention to every detail.
Mike kissed with intention—Will knew that, remembered that. Mike did nothing by halves, and that quality was more noticeable now than usual. Will moaned involuntarily. He heard the sound, his brain sent up an alarm, and he pulled back, his face burning as if he’d become the quiet kid of few years again.
“Don’t,” Mike said immediately, as if he’d anticipated it. His eyes were darker than usual, or maybe it was just the light in the basement. “Don’t do that.”
“I didn’t…”
“You were about to apologize for something like that.”
Will closed his mouth. Mike was right.
“I was gonna…” He stopped. Tried again. “It just slipped out.”
“I know.” Mike’s hand on his neck, a thumb stroking his skin gently. “Let it slip. I like it.”
And Will’s brain, which ran complex processes about propriety and control, which wondered what people would think if they heard those sounds, slowly lost the battle to the rest of him. He stopped apologizing. The body, with its wants, won.
The TV was still on—at some point it had stopped being an awkward accident and became something else—not quite pornography anymore, or not only pornography, but like a mirror into which neither of them thought they were looking. Will didn’t look at the screen directly. He was aware of it like a fireplace in a room—you don’t stare at it, but you feel the heat.
Mike glanced at the screen once—Will noticed by the shift of his eyes. He saw Mike’s throat work and understood that Mike’s reaction was doing something to Will he wasn’t entirely prepared for. It made it all more real. Mike wanted this—that news wasn’t surprising, it had been confirmed in a thousand different ways over the last eight months. But there was a vast difference between knowing and seeing.
Will saw the wanting, and seeing it rearranged something inside him. Some internal structure he’d built over a very long time—a structure that said you should control your desires, not stick out, not ask for too much. And he discarded a piece of that structure.
Just a small piece.
There was no gap between them now, no slightest hesitation. Mike moved first, as if diving into uncharted water, closing the final centimeter that separated him from Will. But Will wasn’t waiting—he surged forward like a drowning boy reaching for a life preserver.
This kiss was a world away from tentative pecks and uncertain touches of past encounters—it was an explosion, a collision woven from eight months of restraint, from years of longing, from the strange, accidental permission granted by two guys on a screen. All of it tangled into one frantic, hungry kiss.
Will’s hands fisted in Mike’s hair, and he let out another sound, not the stifled one from before, but a proper moan. These “sounds” kept escaping him involuntarily—short, ragged half-sighs, half-whimpers. With each one, Mike’s grip tightened. His hand clutched the fabric of Will’s shirt at the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer. There was no air left between their chests—just the furious thudding of two hearts hammering in sync.
“Mike,” Will whispered, the word getting lost in the kiss, coming out wet and broken. “Mike, I can’t… I can’t think when you…” He trailed off as Mike’s lips slid from his mouth down his jaw to his neck, found a sensitive spot there, and nipped gently. “Ohh. Oh, okay, that’s… that’s new. Something’s happening.”
Mike chuckled softly against his neck, and the vibration traveled through Will’s bones like an electric shock.
“You talk too much,” Mike murmured.
“I know,” Will gasped, tilting his head back to give Mike more access. “Sorry. My brain is just… short-circuiting. It’s just… noise. But good noise? Happy noise. Like all the thoughts I’ve ever had about you are rushing out at once and I can’t stop them. And you’re here, touching me, your mouth on my neck, and I…”
He was talking fast and disjointedly, but Mike licked a stripe up his throat, and Will’s hips bucked forward involuntarily, seeking friction. He didn’t care how incoherent he sounded.
“Don’t stop,” Mike said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. His gaze was dark, pupils blown wide with want. “And don’t you dare stop.”
That was the permission Will had needed without realizing he needed it.
“Okay,” Will breathed out, and kissed Mike again, rough and deep. One hand slid from his hair down to the hem of his old t-shirt. He slipped his palm underneath the fabric, feeling the heat and firmness of Mike’s torso. The skin under his hand was soft, damp with a light sweat. “God. You’re so warm. I knew you’d be warm. I think about that constantly. Is that weird? Probably weird. But it’s true. I’ve thought about what you’d feel like. Not just your hands, which I know, obviously, I know what they feel like—they’re the best. But like… all of you. The other parts of you. The places I haven’t touched yet. And now I am. I’m touching you. Your skin right here under my hand. And it’s… the best.”
Mike’s chuckle broke off into a sharp inhale as Will’s hand crept slowly up his torso. A thumb brushed lightly over a nipple. Mike shuddered, a full-body tremor, and Will felt it in every cell.
“Will,” Mike gritted out, his own hands scrambling for the hem of Will’s shirt. “Take this off. I want… I need it gone.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Will agreed, clumsily pulling the fabric over his head.
The cool basement air hit his heated skin, and then Mike’s hands were on his chest, palms flat over his heart. Will thought he might die from it—it was too good.
Too right.
“Your turn now,” Will whispered, his voice trembling as he reached for Mike’s shirt.
Mike let him pull it off—and then they were both sitting shirtless in the dim basement light, the flickering glow from the old TV painting their skin in strange shadows. Will couldn’t look away. He’d seen Mike without a shirt before—at the pool, in locker rooms—but this was different.
This wasn’t incidental; this was for him. Those sharp collarbones, the soft curve of his stomach, the scatter of moles and freckles across his shoulders that Will wanted to connect into constellations—all of it was for him.
“You’re just… staring,” Mike said, his voice wavering slightly.
“Yeah,” Will whispered, reaching out and tracing a finger along the line of Mike’s chest. “Memorizing it. For later. So I don’t forget anything. I don’t want to forget any of this. Don’t want to forget how you look right now. Don’t want to forget this little mole,” he touched it carefully, “or how your breathing changes when I touch you here. Or how your eyes get darker, like a switch flipped. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, Mike. You always have been, even when you were being an idiot. Still hot. Annoying, but hot.”
Mike caught his wandering hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the palm. It was so tender, so reverent, it made Will’s heart clench.
“You’re insane,” Mike said, but he was smiling.
“Completely,” Will agreed, surging forward to kiss him again. “Absolutely, completely insane over you.”
The kisses grew deeper, wetter, more desperate. Hands wandered, mapping new territory, learning curves and planes. Will’s lips found the shell of Mike’s ear, and he bit the lobe gently.
“I want to do everything,” he whispered, the words an intimate breath. “I want to do everything with you. Everything they show in the movies. And the stuff they don’t show. The stuff we have to figure out ourselves. I want to figure it out with you. I want to be so deep inside you, Mike. Is that okay? Can I say that? Though, what the hell, I just did. I just… I want it so much…”
Mike let out a choked groan, his hips jerking forward against Will’s.
“God, Will. Yes. Fuck, yes.”
“Okay,” Will exhaled, a wave of dizzying relief and arousal crashing over him at the same time. “Okay.” He shifted, pressing his knee between Mike’s thighs, and Mike instinctively parted his legs to make room. The rough denim was a maddening friction. “Too many clothes,” Will muttered, fumbling with the buckle of Mike’s belt. His fingers shook.
“Let me,” Mike said, moving Will’s hands aside and undoing the buckle himself—his movements were more sure and quicker.
He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one motion, kicking them to the floor. And then he was sitting completely naked on the couch, and Will’s brain went offline for about ten seconds. He just stared again, but now at the long, lean lines of him, at the hard, flushed length of him lying against his stomach.
“Your turn, Byers,” Mike said, his voice dropping into a low, teasing register. “Or are you just gonna stare all night?”
“Maybe,” Will shot back, but his hands were already at his own fly.
A few seconds later, he was naked. Then he hovered over Mike’s body, feeling skin to skin and warmth to warmth. It was too much. Better than he could have imagined.
“Will,” Mike whispered as the weight of Will’s body settled onto him and their lengths slid against each other, already slick with pre-cum. “Oh, fuck. Will.”
“Yeah,” Will groaned, burying his face in Mike’s neck. “I know. I know.” He began to move his hips, first cautiously, then more boldly. The intense friction sent a wave of electricity through his entire body. “I could… I could come right now just from this. It feels so good. You feel so good. How can you feel this good?”
Mike’s hands gripped his ass, squeezing and pulling him closer, encouraging him to move.
“Just not yet,” he exhaled heavily, “I want… I want more.”
“More,” Will echoed, like a prayer. Propping himself up on his hands, he looked down at Mike’s flushed face, his swollen lips, his eyes filled with passionate desire. “What do you want? Tell me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
Mike swallowed hard.
“Your fingers. I want your fingers. Inside me.”
“Okay,” Will replied, feeling his heart hammer wildly.
Okay. Yes. God, yes. He’d never done this before, but instinct was strong. Leaning over, he fumbled on the floor for his jeans and pulled his wallet from the back pocket. Inside, he found a small bottle of lube, bought weeks earlier; a secret, hopeful thing he’d stashed away, not believing he’d ever get to use it.
“You came prepared?” Mike asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Shut up,” Will muttered, burning with embarrassment. “A guy can hope, can’t he?” He squeezed some lube onto his fingers—the liquid felt cold on his skin. “Tell me if it’s… bad.”
“It’ll be good,” Mike said softly, confidently. “It’s you.”
Will knelt between Mike’s spread legs. He looked at him in all his openness and trust, and the wave of emotion that washed over him was so strong it stole his breath. He loved him, loved him so much it hurt.
“Hey,” Mike said quietly, reaching out to touch his face. “I’m here.”
“Yeah,” Will whispered, turning to kiss his palm. “You’re here.”
Taking a deep breath, he gathered his courage and touched his fingers to Mike’s entrance. Mike shuddered but didn’t pull away, silently inviting him in. Slowly, very slowly, Will pushed a finger inside. The tight heat enveloped him; it was unlike anything he’d ever felt.
“Fuck,” Mike breathed out, letting his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Will.”
“Is… is it okay?” Will whispered.
“Yeah,” Mike moaned. “Yeah, very. Give me more.”
Will added a second finger, carefully stretching him. He watched Mike’s face, the way his brows drew together and his lips parted—Mike was so beautiful and so vulnerable. Crooking his fingers, Will brushed against the right spot, and Mike’s body jolted.
“There,” Mike gasped. “Fuck, right there. Again.”
Will obeyed. He crooked his fingers again and again, and Mike trembled all over.
“Oh, God, Will. I… I’m close. Please.”
“Wait,” Will said, carefully withdrawing his fingers. “Okay.”
He slicked himself up with lube, his hand shaking. He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against the opening. He looked at Mike, asking one last silent question. Mike met his gaze and gave one sharp nod.
Will entered slowly—which was both agonizing and exquisite. The tight heat of another body opening, accepting him—it was the most incredible feeling of his life. Stopping halfway, he breathed heavily, his forehead pressed to Mike’s damp temple.
“Don’t stop,” Mike begged, his fingers digging into Will’s shoulders. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m trying,” Will gritted out, losing control. “You… You’re incredible. So good, so tight… I can’t…”
“You can,” Mike said firmly. “You can. Just… move. Please, Will. Start moving.”
He moved with a thrust, plunging in like diving into deep water, all the way to the hilt, and they both groaned in unison at that absolutely right sensation. They froze, trying to catch their breath, letting their bodies adjust, letting their minds comprehend what was happening between them. He was inside Mike, truly and completely.
“Okay,” Mike exhaled, his voice strained. “Okay, I… I’m fine. You can keep going.”
Will began to move carefully at first, slowly, barely perceptibly, as if testing the ground, savoring every touch. He didn’t take his eyes off Mike, watching as his eyes closed, as his mouth fell open in a silent moan each time Will’s hips pushed forward, deepening the penetration.
“Look at me,” Will whispered, and his voice suddenly turned hoarse.
Mike immediately opened his eyes, finding his gaze.
“Will,” Mike gasped, his fingers clawing at Will’s back, leaving scratches on his skin. “Oh, fuck, Will, harder. Please… harder!”
Will obeyed, picking up the pace, making his thrusts deeper, more confident and more purposeful. He hit that sweet spot inside Mike again and again, and Mike writhed beneath him, emitting broken moans mixed with pleas. The sound of skin slapping together, wet and slippery sounds, their ragged and desperate breaths—all of it merged into a single, insane melody in which Will felt like both composer and performer.
He had never felt so powerful, so completely in control—and yet so utterly lost and overwhelmed by his own sensuality.
“You’re so beautiful right now,” suddenly burst from Will, the words escaping against his will. “So open for me, taking me so well. It’s like you were made for this, huh? Made for me. God, Mike, those sounds… I want to hear them forever, want to record them and listen on a loop. Want to wake up to your moan when all you can do is whimper because it feels so good… Do you want that? To be on my cock every day? Because you take it so fucking perfectly.”
In response, Mike only let out a choked sob, his whole body shuddering with an oncoming orgasm. He came between them, splattering his chest and stomach with pearly drops, his entire body wracked with fine tremors. Will, stunned by the sight, feeling Mike clench around him, couldn’t hold back.
He gave one more powerful and driving thrust—and came himself in a blinding fireworks display of sensation that emptied him to the core, turning him into a formless, trembling mass. He collapsed onto Mike, burying his face in his neck, feeling his heart hammer wildly.
For a while, the only sounds in the room were their heavy, ragged breathing. The TV, still on, was now just meaningless, unnecessary noise. Will felt the sticky wetness between them and sensed the faint, residual tremors still running through Mike’s body. He should pull away. He knew that, but he couldn’t—he was pinned to the spot, held by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction he had never felt before.
“Wow,” Mike finally whispered, his voice low and content.
“Yeah,” Will agreed, speaking muffled into Mike’s skin. “Wow.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at Mike. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his hair disheveled. He had never seen him more beautiful.
“Was that… was that okay?”
Mike laughed softly, reaching up to brush a sweat-damp strand of hair from Will’s forehead.
“Okay? Will, that was… That was… I don’t even have words.”
“Good,” Will exhaled, feeling a wave of pride and relief wash over him. “Good. I’m glad. Because I… I have a lot of words left. And I think I’m gonna need a few more rounds to say them all.”
Mike’s smile turned sly.
“Is that a promise, Byers?”
“Oh, that’s a guarantee, Wheeler,” Will replied, leaning down to kiss him lightly, tenderly. “Now turn over. I wanna see what you look like from behind.”
Mike’s laughter rumbled through Will’s chest where their bodies still touched. It was a tired sound, but also full of happiness, and it made something bloom in Will’s chest like a flower from sheer, satisfied importance. He did that—he made Mike Wheeler laugh like that.
“A guarantee, huh?” Mike rasped, and his hips shifted slightly forward, drawing a gasp from both of them at the electric jolt of pleasure-pain that shot between them. “You’re awfully cocky for a guy who short-circuited ten minutes ago.”
“That was a system reboot,” Will murmured, rising up to gently kiss the corner of Mike’s mouth. “Now I’m running much better and I’m way more talkative.” He grinned, feeling crazy, powerful, and hopelessly in love. “Now turn over. I need to take detailed notes… on your back.”
Mike’s eyes widened slightly, and a vague smile touched his lips. He looked pleased, beautiful, and absolutely, unshakably his.
“You’re just the worst.”
“You love it,” Will countered, but he was already moving, slowly, carefully pulling away.
The instantaneous loss of contact was deafening, and he had to fight the urge to press back into Mike. He watched as Mike, with a groan of pure contentment, complied with his request. He rolled over on the couch, settling on his stomach, his head turned to the side on a pillow, his back a long, pale canvas in the half-light.
Will’s breath caught.
This wasn’t just a back—it was a whole landscape. The smooth planes of his shoulder blades, the graceful curve of his spine, the dip of his lower back leading into the perfect hemispheres of his ass, seemingly made for Will’s palms. A light sheen of sweat covered his skin, reflecting the blue light from the TV, making him look like a classical statue come to life.
A very, very indecent classical statue.
“Oh, wow,” Will breathed out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. “Okay. Okay, I get it. This is fine art. This is a masterpiece. I need a minute, maybe I even need to sketch it. Do you have a pencil? I could use the cum on your stomach as graphite. Does that sound weird? Probably weird. But I am dead serious.”
Mike chuckled muffled into the pillow.
“Will, for fuck’s sake, shut up and just touch me.”
“See? You love it,” Will parried, but he was already moving, lowering himself to kneel over Mike’s hips.
First, he touched him without using his hands. He leaned down and kissed the nape of his neck. Then again, a little lower. He traced a path down Mike’s spine with his lips, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses that made Mike shiver beneath him.
“Mmm… Will…” Mike moaned, his hands gripping the couch cushions.
“I’m making a map,” Will whispered, speaking against his skin between kisses. “And I’m gonna memorize it. I’ll be able to navigate you in pitch darkness. Though I’m not planning on leaving you in the dark. Ever. I want to see everything, always. The way your muscles twitch, just like that,” he said, gently nipping at the back of Mike’s neck with his teeth. Mike arched, letting out a sharp moan. “Oh, yeah. That’s my favorite. I’m gonna do that again.”
He did it again and again, gradually working his way down Mike’s back until he reached the curve of his ass. He paused for a moment, his hands hovering over the skin, just admiring the view.
“You have,” Will said, his voice dropping to a serious, quiet tone, “the best ass in the history of human asses. I’ve done research. I’ve seen asses in world art history books. None compare. Michelangelo’s David? Pfft, nothing, you are simply incomparable. It’s… it’s symmetrical, and it fits in my palms like it was made for them. Which, obviously, it was. It’s fate.”
Mike laughed again, this time a broken, trembling sound more like a moan.
“You are the worst.”
“I’m the best,” Will corrected, finally touching Mike’s ass, squeezing the firm muscle. “And you know it.”
He spread him apart, and the sight of Mike’s hole, still wet and pink from their previous session, made Will’s cock, which was already showing renewed interest, throb with fresh, urgent insistence.
“Oh, look at you. Look how pretty you are, all pink and wet for me. Are you still open for me, Mike? Do you want me?”
“Y-yeah,” Mike mumbled, his face buried in the pillow. He pushed his hips back, making the invitation so obvious it made Will’s head spin. “Yeah, Will, please…”
“Please what?” Will teased, leaning down to run his tongue over Mike’s opening.
The squeal Mike let out was high and shattered.
“Ah! God damn it! Please, please…”
Will smirked against his skin. He liked this. He liked reducing Mike Wheeler, who always had something to say, into a begging, incoherent mess. He licked again, slow and deliberate, and Mike’s whole body shuddered.
“You taste like me,” Will noted, his voice a low and dirty tenor. “And you. It’s the best combination I’ve ever tasted. I could do this for hours, could just stay here and eat you out until you forget your own name. Would you like that? To get fucked by just my tongue until you’re a sobbing wreck?”
In response, Mike just whimpered, which Will took as more than satisfactory encouragement. He didn’t need anything else. He set to work with enthusiasm, licking and exploring, using his tongue to stretch and prepare Mike again, reveling in the sounds he drew from him. Whimpers, moans, choked gasps. It was a song, and Will was the conductor. He pushed his tongue inside, and Mike jerked back against him, a strangled “Will!” tearing from his throat.
“Yeah, like that,” Will murmured, pulling back for a moment to catch his breath before diving back in. “Let me hear you. Let everyone hear how good you feel. The people on TV are nothing compared to us. Nothing.”
He kept going until Mike was pushing back against him, his movements becoming frantic, and the sounds became a litany of insane satisfaction. Will realized Mike was close again, almost there. The power of it made his head spin. He pulled away, ignoring Mike’s pitiful protest, and quickly grabbed the lube, slicking himself up. His cock throbbed, so hard it was almost painful.
“You ready for me again?” Will asked.
He dropped the teasing. His own control was hanging by a thread.
“God, yes,” Mike panted, turning his head to look at Will, his eyes red-rimmed and glazed, drowning in pleasure. “Fuck me, Will. Now.”
Will didn’t need to be told twice. He positioned himself and pushed in with one sure stroke, sinking fully into Mike’s tight, ready and warm body. Both of them groaned long and low.
“Oh, fuck,” Will exhaled, his hands gripping Mike’s hips tightly. “Oh, fuck, Mike. This is even better. I can see… I can see myself disappearing inside you. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re taking all of me, you just love being filled by me.”
“Yeah,” Mike moaned, pushing back. “Yeah, Will, I do. Move. Please, move.”
Will began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. The angle was different now, hitting new spots inside Mike, and the sounds Mike made were different too—higher, more broken. Every thrust punched a new moan out of him. Will leaned forward, pressing Mike’s back against his chest, his mouth finding Mike’s ear.
“You’re so good,” he whispered, his hips working in a steady, relentless rhythm. “You feel so fucking good around my cock. I could stay like this forever, just being inside you and making you mine. You are mine, right, Mike? This ass is mine, these sounds are mine. You’re all mine.”
“Yours,” Mike said, his hands gripping the side of the couch. “All yours, Will, just… faster… please, harder…”
Will obeyed, rising up again, his grip on Mike’s hips so tight it would probably leave bruises. He drove into him harder, and the sound of slapping skin echoed in the basement’s quiet, mixing with the TV’s static and their own ragged breaths. The couch creaked in protest with every thrust. Will felt another wave of pleasure building within him, forming a hot, tight knot in his gut.
He reached around, taking Mike’s cock in hand, which was hard and wet with pre-cum against his stomach. He finally began to stroke him in time with his thrusts.
“Come for me,” Will growled, and it sounded like an order. “Come for me again, Mike. I wanna feel you clench around me, wanna feel you come from my hand while I’m fucking you. Come on.”
That was more than enough. With a cry that was half Will’s name, pleasure tore through Mike. His back arched, his body clenched around Will’s cock as he spilled over Will’s fingers and onto the couch cushion beneath him.
Seeing him, feeling it, hearing his satisfaction—that’s what sent Will over the edge a second time. He thrust into Mike one last time, as deep as he could go, and came with a hoarse cry, spilling into Mike with a force that made him break out in a sweat.
He collapsed, this time trying to fall to the side, pulling Mike with him so they ended up lying face-to-face on the too-small couch, tangled and sweaty. Their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in the small space between them.
The TV was still on, now playing some terrible music, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the feeling of Mike’s body against his and the wild beating of their hearts. Will broke the silence, realizing his voice was hoarse from pleasure.
“Okay,” he said, and a wide, stupid grin stretched across his face. “New hypothesis. This is probably my favorite thing in the world. All my research points to yes. We should repeat it in the name of science, and also because I think my soul left my body and was reborn inside you, and I don't think I want it back."
Mike groaned, but the sound was one of bliss. He hid his face in Will's neck and kissed his sweat-damp skin.
"You're an idiot," Mike mumbled.
"Your idiot," Will corrected, wrapping his arms around Mike and pulling him even closer. "Now shut up. A scientist needs to carefully observe his subject in a post-coital state. It's very important for science."
The residual vibrations are still coursing through their bodies when several truths seem to illuminate Will at once.
First—they are a complete mess. A sweaty, sticky, semen-smeared heap collapsed on the couch like the result of some overly inspired abstract expressionist project. The cushions are probably unsalvageable. Mike’s dad is going to kill them.
Second—he is still inside Mike. Not fully, not deeply, but some connection remains, and every tiny movement sends a lazy jolt of arousal through them both. It feels fucking amazing. And he doesn’t want to move anywhere.
Third—Mike is breathing evenly, and his hand is tracing absent-minded circles on Will’s back, right between his shoulder blades. And it is the most soothing, gentlest touch Will has ever felt in his life. Something tightens in Will’s chest again, but not as painfully this time.
He really should pull out of Mike. Logically, he knows that would be the sensible thing to do. But that would be admitting it was over, and Will isn’t ready for that—not now, when everything is so new, fragile, and perfect.
"Hey," Mike mumbles, and his voice rumbles against Will’s collarbone. He hasn’t even opened his eyes. "You okay?"
Will blinks. That’s so like Mike—to ask that, even now, when he himself was just pressed into the couch cushions.
"Yeah. More than. You?"
"Mmm," Mike’s hand stills for a second, stopping its circular motion, and simply presses his palm flat against Will’s skin. "Yeah. That was… yeah."
Will snorts softly.
"Eloquent as ever."
"Shut up," Mike replies, but there’s no heat in his voice. He cracks one eye open slightly and looks at him. His pupils are still dilated, his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen from kissing. He looks like he was carefully taken apart and then put back together slightly crooked. And Will fucking loves that crookedness. "You didn’t shut up for a single second."
"I was providing commentary for atmosphere," Will says, trying to sound as serious as possible. "It’s important. Sets the tone."
Mike snorts.
"The tone was set a long time ago. Trust me."
For a minute, they just lie there in silence, only their breathing audible. Will finally gathers his courage and slowly, very carefully, pulls out of the hot interior. Mike winces slightly and lets out a soft groan. Will kisses his forehead.
"Sorry. I’ll be gentle. Just lie still."
"And where would I go?" Mike mutters, but he doesn’t move.
Good.
Will extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, stands up on shaky legs, and looks around. The basement floor is littered with discarded clothes—jeans, t-shirts, boxers. The air smells of sex, popcorn, and the faint, musty age of the old couch. The TV is showing some dreary program again, the porn channel long forgotten. Will grabs the remote that fell on the floor and finally mutes the sound. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the hum of the furnace upstairs and their breathing.
He walks over to the mini-fridge in the corner—a treasure trove of beer for later—and grabs two bottles of water. The cold condensation on the glass feels pleasantly cool against his burning palms. He fishes a clean t-shirt from his backpack, shakes it out, and wets it with water. An improvised washcloth. It’ll do.
When he turns around, Mike is lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, watching him sleepily. There’s a bruise blooming on his thigh—right where Will’s fingers dug in. Something twists inside Will—part guilt, part a strange sense of possessiveness.
"Here," Will says, handing over the water and sitting on the edge of the couch.
Mike takes the bottle, sits up a bit, and takes a big gulp. Water drips down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, casual and unselfconscious. Will watches the way his throat works. He’s still beautiful. Maybe even more so now, all rumpled and real.
"Thanks," Mike says, handing back the half-empty bottle. "You… take care of me."
Will freezes, the damp t-shirt clenched in his hand.
"Yeah. Is that… weird?"
Mike shakes his head, quick and emphatic.
"No. It’s good. It’s nice." He hesitates for a moment, then adds more quietly. "I like it. When you take charge."
Will’s hand stills as he carefully wipes Mike’s stomach. He looks up and meets his gaze. Mike’s eyes are serious now, all the post-orgasmic haze gone.
"Yeah?" Will asks.
"Yeah," Mike replies, shifting a little. "I mean… You just… took over, like it was a given that you… you know. That you’d be the one to… initiate, to be top. You didn’t even ask."
Will’s face flushes. He hadn’t thought about that—it just felt right on some animal level. Like his body knew before his brain did.
"Shit. Sorry. I should have—"
"No," Mike interrupts, grabbing Will’s wrist. His grip is strong and sure. "Don’t apologize, I’m not… complaining. It was hot. You were hot. All that… talking and how you just… did it." He ducks his head, blushing to the tips of his ears. "I liked it a lot."
Will lets out a noisy breath.
"Okay. Good. Because, uh… I kinda liked it too. A lot." He resumes his task, gently wiping his stomach and chest. The t-shirt grows warm from his skin. "I just… don’t know. I’ve never really had much control over anything. You know? My whole life… people just told me what to do. Or worse… things just happened to me. But with you… I wanted to be the one in charge. For once. Just with you."
Mike watches him very intently, and understanding is clear in his gaze. Of course he understands.
"Yeah. I get that. And it’s okay. More than okay. It’s…" He searches for the word and shrugs. "Different in a good way."
"You’ve always been the leader," Will says, moving lower to carefully wipe between his thighs. Mike spreads his legs a little to give him better access. "The campaign master, always deciding what and how to do things—I love that about you. A lot. And yet…"
"And yet?" Mike prompts.
Will sets the t-shirt aside, picks up his own water bottle, and takes a sip.
"And yet it’s good when you… just let go and let someone take care of you. You don’t do that often. Yeah, I bossed you around a bit, but you liked it."
Mike smiles, but it’s a brief, slightly embarrassed smile.
"God… yeah. ‘Liked it’ is putting it mildly. You have no idea. The way you were narrating everything, like you were reading your own porno script. It was embarrassingly and awesomely hot at the same time."
"Embarrassing?" Will raises an eyebrow and leans in to kiss Mike’s shoulder.
"Well, yeah," Mike rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "I’m just not used to… being the one who just… takes it. Usually, I come up with the plan and give the orders. And I like that. I like being in charge, but this… You, giving the orders? Telling me what to do? It was… freeing, like I could just… exist and feel it."
Will nods, mentally filing that away. Important information.
"So you like being led?"
Mike laughs.
"What? No. God."
"Don’t interrupt." Will smirks and settles more comfortably, tangling his legs with Mike’s under the blanket. "It’s just that you give orders differently. Even lying on your stomach, ass in the air, you’re still like—harder, faster, don’t stop! But you let me execute the plan, and that’s awesome. It’s all just fucking awesome."
"Jesus, Will," Mike hides his face in Will’s neck, but Will can feel him smiling. "You’re gonna be the death of me."
"A good way to go," Will replies and kisses his hair. It smells like cheap shampoo and sweat. Perfect. "Seriously, though. Was everything okay? No regrets? No… I don’t know, pain I should be worried about?"
Mike lifts his head and looks at him. His gaze is open and honest.
"Absolutely zero regrets. Pain? Yeah, a little, but the good kind. Like… I can feel you inside me right now. And I’ll probably feel it tomorrow. And I want that. It’s a reminder that this happened."
Will’s throat tightens. He swallows hard.
"Yeah. I can feel it too."
They fall silent again, but it’s a good silence. Mike’s hand resumes tracing circles on his back, and Will’s fingers play with his damp hair. Will grabs the blanket and pulls it up higher. The basement is getting cooler, and goosebumps rise on their arms.
"We should clean up," Will says. "And shower. Before your parents get back."
Mike groans and nuzzles closer.
"Five more minutes."
"Ten," Will agrees.
"Deal."
Silence again. Then Mike breaks it, mumbling still into Will’s neck.
"You’re really good at this. I mean, the aftercare. Taking care of me."
Warmth spreads through Will’s chest.
"Well, had to learn somewhere. They don’t cover it in comic books."
Mike chuckles.
"We should write a guide. Like, a D&D supplement. A partner’s handbook."
"Chapter one," Will begins in a mock-serious voice. "Always keep lube handy. And water. And damp t-shirts."
"Chapter two. Will talks way too much when he’s turned on."
"Hey!"
"But it’s cute."
Will pinches him lightly. Mike jerks, then starts laughing. It’s the best sound in the world.
They lie there cuddled up, exchanging soft kisses and silly jokes until the water runs out and the goosebumps return. Eventually, Will coaxes him up, helps him into his boxers, and, holding hands, they stumble upstairs to the bathroom.
The shower is quick but thorough—hot water washing away the remnants of the evening, Mike’s head resting on Will’s shoulder under the spray. Clean, dry, and dressed in fresh sweatpants, they return to the basement. The sleeping bag is still waiting on the floor. Mike flops onto the couch and pulls Will down with him.
"Sleep?" Will asks, yawning.
"Yeah," Mike replies, already half-asleep. "Stay?"
"Always," Will whispers, curling into him.
The house falls quiet around them. For the first time in a long time, Will feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. He closes his eyes to the steady beat of Mike’s heart against his ear and lets sleep take him.