until it spills over

by lauren_wtff

Summary:

college is full of small moments—shadows in lamplight, shared walks home, laughter spilling into quiet hours—moments Mike Wheeler begins to memorize without meaning to.
will notices the changes too, tucked between study sessions and sketchbook pages. neither of them speak it aloud.
not until the night they do.

OR: two boys accidentally fall in love and then accidentally admit it while drunk.

Chapter 1: the day starts to shift

By mid-October, the campus had settled into its annual state of mild collapse. Dead leaves clung to sneaker treads, midterm schedules pulsed like open wounds across every bulletin board, and the student body moved as one exhausted organism from building to building as if powered solely by caffeine and denial.

Mike Wheeler fit in seamlessly, though in his own, very specific way—irritable, sleep-deprived, and carrying an armful of film equipment like it had personally wronged him.

He crossed the quad with the expression of someone who had rewritten the same scene fourteen times and still hated it, muttering half-formed critiques under his breath as if they were prayers. A tripod jutted over his shoulder. His hoodie was halfway zipped. His hair looked like he’d run his hand through it roughly eight times since lunch.

He had that familiar, quiet edge to him—the one that suggested existential doom mixed with artistic ambition—but anyone who knew him (and the Party knew him too well) could tell he wasn’t brooding about midterms so much as… something adjacent. Something with softer contours.

A few steps behind him, Lucas and Dustin were locked in a conversation about whether Dustin’s robot could, in theory, operate a camera.

“It has gyroscopic stability,” Dustin insisted. “Better than you, dude.”

“It tripped over a recycling bin last week,” Lucas replied.

“That bin was placed illegally!”

Mike tuned them out. Selectively. Automatically. They were background noise in the same way a heartbeat is background noise: constant, necessary, occasionally annoying.

He wasn’t heading anywhere urgent—just the editing lab, because apparently Professor Barker believed rough cuts grew like moss on neglected footage. The building loomed ahead: harsh concrete, narrow windows, and the faint hum of overworked machinery inside.

What made the afternoon strange wasn’t the assignment, or the weather, or even the threat of upcoming exams.
It was the fact that Mike had been… restless.
Not in the twitchy, high-strung way Dustin got before tests.
Not in the laser-focused, “I must conquer this” way Lucas got before games.

No—Mike’s restlessness was quieter. Internal. A kind of unspoken awareness that something in the dynamic of the semester had shifted—not dramatically, but enough to unsettle his equilibrium.

The others felt it too, though only two of them were brave enough to say it out loud when Will wasn’t around. Especially Lucas, who was unreasonably perceptive sometimes.

“You notice he gets like this when Will has studio classes all day?” Lucas murmured now, low enough that only Dustin would hear.

“I’m not deaf,” Mike snapped, not turning around. “Stop narrating my life.”

Dustin grinned, delighted. “We’re providing emotional context! You should be thanking us.”

Mike walked faster.

Inside the editing building, fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Mike swiped into Lab B, moving as if drawn by muscle memory. It wasn’t full—just a few upper-level students hunched over monitors, cultivating eye strain.

He took his usual station near the back. The moment he sat, the room swallowed him whole: humming hard drives, bluish glow, the illusion of control that came from slicing footage frame by frame.

He dropped his bag, cracked his knuckles, and opened his project.

The timeline stared back, all jitter and jump cut and discontent.

Mike exhaled through his nose, leaned back, and let the chair creak under him. The story wasn’t working. It had the wrong texture. Too polished in some places, too muddled in others. He wanted it to feel honest, but instead it felt like someone trying too hard to be honest—a subtle but fatal difference.

He scanned the clips again. His actor delivered a line meant to sound vulnerable but instead sounded like a toothpaste commercial about self-esteem.

Mike pinched the bridge of his nose.

the kind of gesture that was half frustration, half prayer. The timeline refused to cooperate. The emotion of the scene felt thin, like it had been scraped too many times.

His phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

Twice.

He ignored it. The buzzing persisted—familiar, patient, not demanding. Will was the only person who texted like that: three evenly spaced vibrations, as if asking permission to exist on Mike’s screen.

Mike sighed and reached for the phone.

Will: hey
Will: long studio day
Will: u need coffee?

Mike stared at the question, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
He typed:

Mike: can’t. in the editing lab. drowning.

The dots appeared almost instantly.

Will: so that’s a yes

Mike felt his mouth twitch.
He typed:

Mike: that’s a “i’m busy”

A pause.

Will: busy people still need caffeine.
Will: i can bring it. im nearby.

Mike’s shoulders tightened—not in a bad way, just in the way someone might react to a surprise gust of warm air in cold weather.

He typed too fast:

Mike: no don’t worry abt it

Another pause.

Will: i want to

Mike’s thumb hovered again, suspended over a truth he refused to name.

He typed:

Mike: fine
Mike: lab b

No emojis. Emojis felt lethal.

He set the phone facedown as if it might explode.

He didn’t turn when the door opened a few minutes later. The lab was full of comings and goings; it could be anyone. Probably wasn’t anyone significant.

But the air shifted—the way sound softens when someone gentle walks into a room.

Mike’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.

Will approached with two coffees hooked neatly in one hand, sketchbook tucked under the other arm. He looked windblown, cheeks a little pink from outside, hair in soft disarray from the walk across campus.

The quiet that followed him wasn’t emptiness. It was… presence.

“Thought you might need rescue,” Will said.

Mike didn’t look up right away. He didn’t trust his face to behave.

“Did I ask to be rescued?” he muttered.

Will set the coffee beside him. “Your text said ‘drowning.’ I took initiative.”

A beat passed—Mike’s version of gratitude.

He finally looked at Will.

There it was again—the smile. Small, unguarded, the kind that settled around the edges rather than bursting across Will’s face. The kind that always landed softer than Mike expected and hit harder than he wanted.

“You’re a menace,” Mike said.

Will shrugged, pulling out the chair beside him. “A caffeinated menace.”

He cracked open his sketchbook. His pencil found a page with the ease of a reflex.

Mike tried—honestly tried—to focus on the timeline in front of him, but the rhythm of Will’s pencil strokes pulled his attention in like a tide.

“So… midterms,” Will said lightly, eyes on his sketch.

Mike groaned. “Let’s not.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Barker wants ‘emotional realism.’ I’m barely managing normal realism.”

Will’s mouth curved. “There’s realism in your project. You just don’t like admitting it.”

“There’s realism in yours too,” Mike shot back.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Will tapped his pencil against the page. “Mine’s intentional.”

Mike scoffed. “Wow. Okay. I see how it is.”

“You walked into that one.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

They exchanged a glance—brief, bright, familiar.
The kind of look people don’t notice unless they know what they’re looking for.

Mike broke it first, jaw tightening as if something had almost slipped.

Will returned to his sketch, but his voice gentled. “Want me to look at it? The rough cut?”

Mike hesitated.

He always hesitated.

Will watching his work was different from anyone else watching it—not critical, not patronizing. Just… attentive. Soft. Like his project mattered simply because it mattered to Mike.

Mike cleared his throat. “Sure. Just—don’t judge the pacing. It’s not finished.”

“I never judge pacing,” Will said. “Only character motivation.”

“That’s worse.”

“That’s the job.”

Mike hit the spacebar. The project played.
Onscreen, an actor sat in a dim hallway, delivering a line about loneliness that was meant to sound profound and instead sounded a little like a fortune cookie.

Will leaned closer. Not dramatically—just enough that their shoulders brushed when he shifted. The contact was fleeting, barely pressure at all, but Mike froze as if someone had placed a hand over his heartbeat.

He pretended to adjust the volume.

They watched in silence, the glow from the monitor washing both of them pale. Will’s expression was thoughtful, soft around the edges, like he was taking the scene seriously in a way Mike couldn’t manage for himself.

When the clip ended, Mike waited for the critique, something defensive building in him like a reflex.

Will didn’t offer critique.

He said, very simply:
“It feels real.”

Mike’s chest tensed. “Too real?”

“No. Just… like it means something. Even if the actor doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”

“That makes one of us.”

Will turned a page in his sketchbook. “You do realize it. You just don’t like the realization.”

Mike looked away quickly. “Pretentious.”

“A little,” Will agreed easily. “But not wrong.”

Mike clicked a random point in the timeline, too hard. The cursor jumped. The screen froze for half a second. His pulse did the same.

Will, still drawing, said quietly, “You’re allowed to make something honest, you know.”

Mike didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have one—because the correct answer lived in the same part of his chest where Will’s name lived, and that part felt too breakable to touch.

To break the tension, Will nudged Mike’s foot gently with his own.

“You okay?”

Mike scoffed, grateful for the pivot. “You’re asking me that? Art Boy who hasn’t slept since freshman year?”

“I sleep,” Will said.

“When? During critiques?”

“Says the guy who brings a neck pillow to film theory.”

“It’s a medical device,” Mike said. “For, uh, spinal reasons.”

Will laughed—quiet, involuntary.

And that laugh, like always, softened something in the room.

It softened Mike too, visibly, like a crease releasing from fabric.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Mike muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Will said. Then, lower: “You can always text me, you know. Even if you’re busy.”

Mike opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Found no safe words.

So he just said, “Yeah.”

And Will nodded like he understood the version of that word Mike didn’t say.

They left the editing lab when the sky outside had already given up on being evening and committed fully to night. The air hit them immediately—cold in that November-approaching way, the kind that settled on exposed skin like a reminder to wear more layers.

A breeze pushed at the fallen leaves along the walkway, making them scrape across the concrete. Will pulled his hood up; Mike tugged his sleeves over his hands. Neither mentioned how tired they looked. Neither needed to.

They walked side by side, past the long row of bike racks and the humanities building that always smelled faintly like printer ink. A few stray students drifted between buildings, clutching notebooks like shields.

Will rocked forward slightly on his toes with each step, as if the energy from studio classes hadn’t quite fully drained out of him. Mike, meanwhile, had the slightly hunched posture of someone who’d edited the same three seconds of footage too many times today.

“Your cut’s getting there,” Will said, nudging a tiny rock down the path with his shoe.

Mike snorted. “Yeah. In the same way an abandoned construction site is ‘getting there.’”

“You’re dramatic,” Will said lightly.

“Not dramatic. Realistic.”

“Dramatically realistic.”

Mike shoved him gently with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Will laughed quietly, breath fogging in the cold. It wasn’t a big sound—just warm enough to cut the edge of the wind.

Mike’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.

El: how was editing?
El: still alive?
El: hello michael

He rolled his eyes, typing back:

Mike: barely
Mike: leaving the lab now

Another bubble appeared almost instantly.

El: r u with will

Mike looked up from the screen, expression tightening for half a second.

They were walking under one of the campus lampposts now, its yellow glow washing over Will’s hair, catching faint bits of charcoal dust on his sleeve.

He typed:

Mike: yeah
Mike: why

El: :)
El: nothing
El: tell him hi

He grimaced, thumb moving fast.

Mike: he’s literally right next to me im not doing that

El: coward

Mike shoved the phone deep into his pocket, as if burying the conversation physically would make his face cool faster. He didn’t need Will seeing that. Not because it was embarrassing—okay, partly because it was embarrassing—but mostly because Will didn’t need to know how obvious things might look from the outside.

They cut across the little footbridge behind the library. Beneath them, the stream reflected the lamplight in thin, shaky ribbons. The metal railing felt icy when Mike brushed his hand along it.

“You good?” Will asked casually, not looking directly at him.

“Yeah. Just… El being El.”

“What, existential questions?”

“No. Worse. Small talk.”

Will smiled. “That is terrifying.”

Mike shrugged, trying to appear unfazed. “It’s fine. She just—checks in.”

“She’s sweet like that,” Will said.

“She’s also persistent.”

“That too.”

They walked another few steps. The cold settled deeper into their hands, their sleeves, their breath.

Then Will’s phone buzzed.

He looked down—reflexive, almost apologetic—and the faintest smile lifted at the corner of his mouth. Not a big grin. Just… recognition. Amusement. Something warm.

He typed a quick reply. Pocketed the phone again.

Mike’s ears went hot instantly, which was inconvenient because everything else about him was freezing. He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening by accident.

Will didn’t notice. Or he pretended not to.

“So,” Mike said, too casually, “studio run long today?”

“Mm,” Will hummed. “Critique day.”

“Bad?”

“Not really. Just long. People talking in circles.”

“Art-speak?”

“Oh, the worst kind,” Will said, smiling again. “Lots of ‘gesture of interiority’ and ‘emotional scaffolding.’”

“That sounds illegal.”

“It felt illegal.”

Mike huffed a laugh, stuffing his hands deeper into his hoodie. He didn’t want to think about the buzzing phone. About the smile. About the fact that Will smiled completely differently at him—soft, direct—than he did at whoever was texting.

Not that he was cataloguing smiles.

He wasn’t.

“You cold?” Will asked.

“No,” Mike lied, shivering slightly.

Will pretended not to notice. They passed a group of students carrying takeout boxes that smelled like questionable Chinese food. Someone skateboarded by too close, nearly clipping Mike’s elbow.

He glared. Will laughed under his breath.

By the time they reached the residence hall, the warm air blowing from the lobby felt like heaven. They stepped inside together, shaking off the cold like two people who’d always done it this way.

A cluster of students sat on the lounge couches, half-asleep under blankets, textbooks open like props. A microwave beeped from the communal kitchen.

They reached the stairwell.

“You heading up?” Mike asked, nodding toward the second floor.

“Yeah. Dustin probably rearranged the room again.”

Mike snorted. “What is it this time? ‘Optimized airflow’?”

“Last week he said he improved ‘the chi.’”

“That sounds like him.”

Will smiled—small, warm, meant only for the moment.

Another buzz vibrated from his pocket.

Will didn’t check this one. He thumbed the notification off without looking, as if deciding to stay in the moment instead.

Mike looked at the stairs, then at Will, then back at the stairs. “So… you finishing your piece tonight?”

“Probably,” Will said. “If Dustin sleeps early.”

“Right. Robot boy has an 8am.”

“He has an 8am every day.”

“Still won’t stop him from lecturing you on lighting at two in the morning.”

Will laughed. “He tries.”

“You let him.”

“He’s excited.”

Mike shook his head, trying not to smile. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” Will said lightly. “You’re too mean.”

“That’s what balances us.”

Will’s eyes flicked up—not lingering, just connecting for a second longer than necessary.

A beat passed. Not tense. Just… full.

Will shifted his weight. “So… night?”

Mike swallowed. “Yeah. Night.”

Will lifted two fingers in a small wave, turned toward his floor, and started down the hallway—hood up, sketchbook under one arm, phone buzzing again as he walked.

Mike watched him go for half a heartbeat longer than he meant to.

Then he headed for the stairs, hands shoved deep in his sleeves, ears still warm from something he’d never name out loud.

Not yet.

Mike pushed open the door to his room expecting either silence or Lucas doing push-ups because he can (and does more often than not).

Instead, Max was sprawled on Lucas’s bed like she owned it, a half-empty bag of chips balanced on her stomach, and El was curled in Mike’s desk chair turning a pen over in her hands as if she’d forgotten what pens were for.

Lucas sat at his desk, earbuds half-in, immediately pausing whatever he was watching.

All three looked up.

“Finally,” Max said, as if Mike had been gone for years. “We were about to send out a search party.”

Mike closed the door with his foot. “This is my room. Why do I feel like the intruder?”

“Because you have scary ‘I need to lie down for four days’ energy,” Lucas said.

“It precedes you,” Max added.

El gave him a tiny wave. “Hi, Mike.”

He lifted a hand in return, dropping his backpack by the door. “Why are you all here?”

“We’re studying,” Max said, though there wasn’t a single open textbook in sight.

“And this room has better heat than ours,” El added.

“Our room is fine,” Mike said.

“No,” Max said, sitting up. “Your heater doesn’t make that weird rattling noise like it’s going to explode.”

“That’s ambiance,” Lucas said.

Mike scrubbed a hand over his face. All he wanted was to fall onto his bed and let reality fade for a few minutes—just enough time to imagine an alternate timeline where he wasn’t a walking knot of feelings and Will wasn’t… Will.

He stared at his bed. His bed stared back. It looked perfect. Dangerous.

Max squinted at him. “You’re doing it.”

Mike blinked. “Doing what.”

“That thing where you zone out and start seeing visions,” Max said.

“I’m literally standing here.”

“Yeah, standing and thinking super hard,” she said. “It’s creepy.”

Lucas nodded. “You walked in looking like a Victorian ghost.”

Mike glared. “I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Lucas said. “This was a special kind of tired.”

El leaned forward, chin on her knee. “You look… floaty.”

Mike frowned. “Floaty isn’t a real description.”

“It is now,” Max said. “Tell us who you were daydreaming about.”

He nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh my god,” Max deadpanned. “The guilt face. That was immediate.”

Mike dropped onto his mattress, arms splaying out, staring at the ceiling. “You guys need hobbies.”

“We have hobbies,” Lucas said.

“Yeah,” Max added, “and one of them is bullying you.”

El nodded cheerfully. “It’s very fun.”

Mike groaned into his hands. “Why do I let any of you into my room?”

“Because you love us,” Max said.

“No.”

“Yes,” Lucas said.

El’s smile softened. “You just looked… spaced-out. Like you were thinking about something nice.”

That made Mike’s stomach tighten embarrassingly fast.

He mumbled, “Wasn’t.”

Max scoffed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Lucas threw a chip at her. She caught it in her mouth like she’d been training for it her whole life.

Mike closed his eyes. Just for a second. He pictured Will—hood still damp from the cold, phone buzzing in his pocket, that small smile he didn’t realize he had.

Warmth flared under Mike’s skin, traitorous and impossible to ignore.

Max’s voice broke through the thought. “You’re doing it again!”

Mike sat up too fast. “I’m not— I wasn’t— can you all stop diagnosing me with… whatever this is.”

“Crushing,” Max said.

“Hard,” Lucas added.

El covered her mouth, but her eyes were glinting. “It’s cute.”

Mike let himself fall back again, blanket half-draped across his chest like a defeated cape. “I hate all of you.”

“You don’t,” Max said.

“You really don’t,” Lucas echoed.

El’s tone softened. “We like when you’re happy.”

Mike cracked one eye open.

“I’m not—happy,” he muttered weakly.

Max smirked. “You will be.”

That shut him up immediately.

The room went quiet for a moment—warm, cluttered, lived-in.
Mike stared at the ceiling and pretended his heart wasn’t doing the stupid thing it always did now.

He wished the blanket would swallow him whole.

Or at least muffle how obvious he probably sounded.

The evening slouched forward in no particular direction, exactly the way nights in shared dorm rooms tend to do.

Max stayed sprawled across Lucas’s bed, stealing his pillow and refusing to apologize. El had migrated from Mike’s desk chair to the floor, legs folded neatly underneath her as she organized her flashcards with the precision of a surgeon.

Lucas eventually put music on—low, something with a soft beat—just enough to keep the room from feeling too quiet.

And somehow, despite the midterm chaos, despite the clutter and the fluorescent lighting and Mike’s lingering desire to disappear under his blankets, it all felt familiar. Comfortable. A little dumb in the best way.

Max tossed a chip into the air and caught it. “I should get an award for this.”

“That’s not skill,” Lucas said without looking up. “That’s luck.”

“No,” Max said. “Luck is dating you. Chip-catching is pure talent.”

Lucas, unfazed, threw a balled-up sock at her. She dodged it without moving her head.

El giggled softly.

Mike stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head, letting the ceiling blur a little. He wasn’t participating in the chaos, but he wasn’t not participating either. It was one of those moods where just existing among people you trusted was enough.

“You guys hungry?” Lucas asked eventually.

Max perked up instantly. “Always.”

“There are ramen packets in your drawer,” El said helpfully.

“That’s Mike’s drawer,” Lucas said. “He organizes his snacks.”

Mike frowned. “They’re not snacks. They’re emergency provisions.”

Max snorted. “You’d eat ramen as a last dying act.”

“Better than eating despair,” Mike said.

El nodded sagely. “Despair has no nutritional value.”

The room fell into quiet for a moment—not awkward, just… full. The kind of silence that comes from shared years and too many inside jokes to count.

At some point, Max checked her phone and groaned. “We should go. El, we still have to read that psych thing.”

El gathered her highlighters. “The chapter about attachment patterns?”

“That’s the one,” Max said, grabbing her backpack. “Spoiler: we all fail at them.”

El smiled, softening the joke. “Not all of us.”

Max glanced at Mike as she slung the strap over her shoulder. “Try not to dissolve into a puddle while we’re gone.”

Mike waved a lazy hand. “No promises.”

El paused by the door, giving him a little look—gentle, knowing, not pushy. Just a flicker of something like take care of yourself.

“Goodnight, Mike,” she said.

“Night,” he replied.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

And just like that, the room felt different—not empty, but quieter. Something unspoken settled in the space between the two beds.

Lucas tossed his phone aside and leaned back in his chair, eyeing Mike with the vague suspicion of someone who has facts but needs confirmation.

“So,” Lucas said.

Mike groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Lucas shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Lucas.”

“Mike.”

Mike dragged a pillow over his face. “Please. I can’t handle a motivational speech right now.”

Lucas snorted. “Do I look like the motivational speech type?”

“Yes,” Mike said, muffled. “Annoyingly so.”

A beat. Then:

“I’m not giving you a speech,” Lucas said, voice softer now, easy in that way he gets when he stops trying to be funny. “Just… checking in.”

Mike lowered the pillow, staring at the ceiling again. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said mildly. “You always say that right before you’re very not fine.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Mike let out a breath, more honest than he meant it to be. “It’s been a weird day.”

Lucas nodded slowly. “Yeah. Looked like it.”

Mike shot him a look. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Lucas said. “Just—you get this face.”

“My face is normal.”

“Your face is a billboard,” Lucas said, amused. “Like, the giant kind on a highway.”

Mike chose not to respond.

Lucas leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “For real though—whatever’s going on in your head? You don’t have to say anything about it. I’m just… here.”

Mike didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. Lucas wasn’t the type to fill silence with extra words.

Finally, Mike said quietly, “I know.”

Lucas nodded once. “Cool.”

Then, after a beat:

“Also, if you want ramen, you have to make it. I’m not doing it for you.”

Mike threw a pillow at him. Lucas dodged it with a laugh.

And just like that, the moment was over—neither heavy nor brushed aside, just absorbed back into the room the way old conversations were.

The dorm hummed around them. Far down the hall, someone laughed too loudly. A sink ran. A door slammed.

Mike lay back, staring at the ceiling, not quite ready to sleep, not quite ready to think too hard.

But for the first time all day, the tension in his chest loosened just a little.

Not because anything had changed.

Just because, for a moment, he didn’t feel alone inside it.

Chapter 2: in his wildest dreams

The campus library felt like a pressure cooker by mid-October, but on a Friday afternoon it somehow managed to be cozy and miserable at the same time. All the tables on the second floor were full of students hunched over laptops, notebooks, iced coffees, and an ever-growing sense of doom.

The Party had claimed a big table by the tall windows—one of the good ones, the kind with a real view and enough outlets for everyone’s electronics to live.

Dustin had spread out like he was preparing for battle. Three notebooks, a mysterious circuit board, and a bag of gummy worms he insisted were essential studying fuel. Lucas leaned back in his chair, knee bouncing, reading something on his tablet while trying to ignore Max, who was chewing her pencil like it owed her money. El had built a quiet fortress of highlighted notes around herself.

And Mike… well, Mike had essentially turned his half of the table into a mini-editing bay.

Laptop open. Headphones around his neck. Film timeline pulled up. Color grading panel lit like a cockpit.

Will sat beside him, sketchbook open but barely touched, eyes drifting toward the screen every so often.

The group was comparatively quiet, but the kind of quiet stitched together by familiarity rather than discipline.

Dustin broke first.

“These equations make no sense,” he muttered. “None. Zero. I’m convinced they’re pranking me.”

“You say that about everything,” Lucas said without looking up.

“Because everything is suspicious,” Dustin shot back.

Max stretched her legs across Lucas’s lap, tapping her foot against his shin. “You’re paranoid.”

“Max, you literally think half the campus is out to get you.”

“That’s different,” she said.

El added softly, “Max believes in patterns. Dustin believes in… chaos.”

Mike snorted, not looking up from his screen. “Accurate.”

“Excuse me,” Dustin said. “I am extremely structured.”

“You lost your water bottle yesterday,” Lucas said.

“That was government interference,” Dustin said, dead serious.

Mike rolled his eyes and zoomed in on a shadow in his footage. The greens were too harsh, the blues too cool, the skin tones a little off. He adjusted the lift, tweaked the saturation, squinted at the screen like it had personally offended him.

Will leaned over just slightly, enough to see without crowding. “Looks better than yesterday.”

“It still sucks,” Mike said.

“It doesn’t suck,” Will replied.

Mike didn’t answer, which technically counted as accepting the compliment.

Across the table, Max nudged El with her elbow. “Look at them. They’re like an old married couple who argue about lighting instead of children.”

El gave a tiny smile. “It’s sweet.”

Max nodded. “Yeah, sweet. And kind of pathetic.”

Lucas tossed a crumpled sticky note at her. “Can you two not narrate everything?”

“We’re providing commentary,” Max said.

“Unwanted commentary,” Mike muttered.

Will’s lips twitched like he was hiding a smile.

He returned to his sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. He tapped his pencil against it thoughtfully. “You know,” he said quietly to Mike, “if you’re submitting this to the short film showcase next week… you should let me design a poster.”

Mike stopped color correcting mid-click.

A beat.

“What?” he asked, too fast.

Will shrugged lightly. “I mean, if you want. The contest requires visual materials. And it’d be fun.”

Mike’s heart did something stupid and inconvenient. “You’d… make a poster for it?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” Will said, brushing hair from his forehead. “You don’t have a title yet, so you can think about that while I sketch.”

Dustin looked up immediately. “You’re submitting your film?”

Max perked. “I didn’t know you were doing that.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Mike said carefully, testing the words. “But, uh… maybe.”

El smiled warmly. “It’s a good idea.”

Lucas added, “Yeah, man. Go for it.”

Mike waved them off like it was nothing, but the tips of his ears had already turned faintly pink.

Will set his pencil to paper. “If you want, we can go somewhere quieter later and brainstorm ideas.”

Mike’s mouth went dry. “Quieter?”

“Yeah,” Will said simply. “Library lighting is terrible for sketching anyway.”

Dustin kicked Mike’s shin under the table.

Mike glared.

Dustin mouthed, say yes.

Mike cleared his throat. “Uh. Sure. Yeah. We can… do that.”

Will smiled—small, warm, familiar in a way that made Mike’s breath hitch for half a second.

Then Will looked back at his blank page and began sketching rough shapes, loose lines, composition ideas forming without effort.

Mike pretended to focus on his laptop, but every time Will shifted, the soft scratch of pencil against paper pulled at him.

Max leaned toward El, voice lowered but not low enough.

“Bet someone crashes before the weekend’s over,” she whispered.

El considered this, tapping her pencil. “Sooner,” she murmured.

Lucas, scrolling on his tablet, added, “Forty-eight hours tops.”

Dustin tore open another gummy worm. “Less, if certain people make certain choices.”

Mike didn’t look up from his laptop, but his jaw tensed. “You all know whispering only works if you’re actually quiet.”

Max arched a brow, not bothering to hide her grin. “Who says we’re whispering?”

El ducked her head, trying not to smile too widely. Lucas smirked at his screen. Dustin hummed an innocent little tune that fooled no one.

Will, still sketching beside Mike, didn’t react at all—clearly assuming they were talking about something unrelated, like Lucas and Max’s ongoing bet over which professor would snap first during midterms.

Mike flicked a pen cap at Dustin. “Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?” Dustin said, entirely too pleased with himself.

Will finally looked up, puzzled. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” the other three said in chaotic unison.

Mike sank an inch lower in his chair, ears warm, pretending very hard to focus on his color grading.

Will blinked, shrugged lightly, and went back to sketching.

Mike turned back to his footage, adjusting contrast, shadows, color temperature. A familiar hum settled into him—not quite calm, but close enough. The table around him buzzed with low conversation, shuffling papers, whirring laptops. The kind of group silence that was built not from obligation but from years of knowing each other’s rhythms.

He nudged his headphone off one ear. “Okay,” he murmured to Will. “Fine. If I submit it… you can do the poster.”

Will looked up, pencil paused. “Only if you want.”

Mike swallowed. “Yeah. I— want.”

Will’s smile this time was barely there, but it was enough to warm the air between them.

Max caught the moment and groaned. “Here we go. Round two of the longing stares.”

Lucas said under his breath, “This is why I study alone.”

El just beamed.

Mike ignored them all—mostly because he couldn’t come up with anything to say that didn’t sound incriminating.

Will quietly turned a page in his sketchbook and began outlining potential title placements.

The rest of the table fell into its version of peace—bickering, studying, snacking, shifting, but close-knit in the way only young adulthood allows.

Outside the library windows, the sky was bruising into evening again.

Inside, something small and important—something the rest of them pretended not to see—was beginning to take shape between two people who’d been orbiting each other for years.

By ten o’clock, the library had thinned out into that strange late-night quiet where everyone left was running on caffeine, fear, or both. The group finally broke apart with promises to “study tomorrow, maybe.” Max gave Mike one last pointed look he pretended not to see; Lucas told Will not to let Mike spiral; Dustin saluted them like they were heading into battle; El smiled softly and gathered her things.

Mike and Will slipped out of the second floor and made their way toward the older stairwell in the back—the one that smelled faintly like dust and the ghosts of librarians past.

“Did you actually reserve the room?” Will asked as they descended.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “The website yelled at me for taking the last ten o’clock slot, but it’s ours.”

“Good,” Will said. “My eyeballs were starting to vibrate upstairs.”

They reached the landing for the basement, and Mike pushed through the heavy door. This floor always felt… different. The carpet was older. The walls were more beige than walls should legally be allowed to be. The air hummed faintly with the AC unit that probably hadn’t been updated since the seventies.

“It always smells like… something down here,” Will said, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s the ‘historic charm,’” Mike said, quoting the sign that was taped crookedly near the elevator.

“Historic mold, maybe.”

They passed a vending machine on the right—one of the ancient kinds where the buttons squeaked and the card reader blinked red more than green.

Mike stopped. “We need supplies.”

Will looked at the options, unimpressed. “Healthy options?”

Mike pressed C7 without hesitation. “Queso Ruffles.”

Will huffed a laugh. “Very nutritious.”

“It’s ten at night,” Mike said, sliding his card and praying the machine didn’t steal it. “Nutrition laws don’t apply after nine.”

Will grabbed the bag as it dropped. “And drinks?”

Mike pointed to the Red Bull options. “Two of those. Before this machine changes its mind.”

Will pressed the button. “We are absolutely not sleeping tonight.”

“We weren’t sleeping anyway,” Mike shot back.

Beverages secured, they continued down the hall until they reached the small glass-windowed room with a Reserved sign taped inside. Mike opened the door for Will, who slipped in first and set his sketchbook down on the table.

The room had that familiar basement vibe—harsh lighting replaced by flickery warm lamps, a faint damp smell that wasn’t strong enough to be alarming but definitely wasn’t comforting either, and walls thin enough that you could hear someone typing aggressively in the next room over.

Mike tossed the chips onto the table and cracked his Red Bull. “Okay. Poster meeting.”

Will sipped his drink. “We should probably start with a title.”

Mike groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“You don’t have to have one yet,” Will said gently. “Some people don’t title their stuff until after they see the final cut.”

“Yeah, but a vague, untitled thing sounds pretentious.”

Will gave a soft smile. “You are pretentious.”

Mike threw a chip at him. Will dodged without looking.

“So,” Will continued, sketching a rough rectangle on the page, “what do you want the poster to feel like? Mood-wise, I mean.”

Mike leaned back in his chair, wheels creaking beneath him. “I don’t know. Not too polished. Not too vague. Something that feels like… the story. But without saying it.”

Will nodded slowly. “Minimalist? Or something textured?”

“Textured, maybe. Like it’s been lived in.”

“Yeah,” Will said, already shading the edge of the rectangle. “Something with a bit of grit.”

Mike watched the pencil move—soft, sure strokes. Will always drew like he knew exactly where the lines belonged. Mike always envied that about him.

“It still feels weird,” Mike said suddenly, “submitting something. Like I’m pretending to be a real filmmaker.”

Will looked up, eyes steady. “You are one.”

Mike opened his mouth, ready to argue—Will’s gaze softened just a fraction, and Mike couldn’t find the words.

Will looked back at the sketch. “I’ll mock up two concepts. You can pick.”

Mike nodded, swallowing the strange warmth that kept rising in his chest.

A beat of quiet passed—comfortable, not heavy.

Then Will nudged open the chips and said, “So… Dustin asked if we’re doing a pre-finals thing next week.”

Mike raised a brow. “Like… what kind of thing?”

“The usual,” Will said. “Snacks, bad TV, maybe a movie none of us pay attention to. Possibly alcohol.”

Mike snorted. “With Dustin? Definitely alcohol.”

Will smirked. “He said he’s bringing something his mom doesn’t know he took.”

“Oh god.”

“Oh yes.”

Mike rubbed his forehead. “When were you thinking?”

Will shrugged. “Tomorrow? Before we all disappear into exam hell.”

“Here?” Mike asked.

“Maybe in Dustin’s and my room,” Will said. “Or yours and Lucas’s if you don’t want Dustin’s cables everywhere.”

Mike grimaced. “Yeah, I saw your floor last week. I don’t want to die stepping on a resistor.”

Will laughed quietly—soft enough that it blended with the hum of the AC.

“So we’re doing it,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Will replied. “Feels like we should. One last night of not being completely miserable.”

Mike cracked another chip. “Tonight doesn’t count?”

“Tonight is work,” Will said. “Tomorrow will be fun.”

Mike let that sink in.
Fun.
With all of them.
With Will.
Probably with alcohol.
Dangerous combination.

But also—kind of nice.

He took a slow breath and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”

Will’s smile was small but bright enough to warm the whole basement room.

He bent back over his sketchbook. “I’ll make the poster good,” he said quietly.

Mike watched the pencil move again, soft and sure.

“I know you will,” he said.

Will didn’t look up, but Mike could see the way his smile deepened.

And in that damp, dim basement room, surrounded by fluorescent hum and questionable vending machine snacks, something between them shifted—slowly, softly, like a hinge finally loosening.

Time didn’t pass in the basement so much as slip by unnoticed. At some point, Mike’s Red Bull was empty, the Ruffles bag lay defeated in the corner, and Will's sketchbook had accumulated a whole page of poster concepts—messy lines, thumbnail shapes, handwritten notes that only he could decipher.

The library lights dimmed once, flickered once, and a recorded announcement mumbled something overhead about closing in twenty minutes.

Neither of them reacted.

They were too absorbed—Mike in tweaking color values, Will in shading a corner of a layout that he insisted “wasn’t final, but maybe.”

A janitor eventually rolled past the glass window of their study room with a floor polisher, staring at them like they were roaches caught under a cup. He knocked on the glass once, not even pretending to be polite.

“Closing in five,” he said through the door. “Let’s go, people.”

Mike jumped slightly. Will looked up like he was waking from a warm nap.

“Oh,” Will said, blinking at the clock on his phone. “It’s… almost midnight.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, rubbing at his eyes. “That would explain the sudden urge to die.”

They started packing up—Mike unplugging his laptop, Will sliding his pencils back into a small case. Chairs scraped softly. The air felt colder now, like the building itself was nudging them toward the exit.

Mike’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He checked it without thinking.

Lucas: u alive??
Lucas: tell me u didnt die in a basement with him
Lucas: also r we getting alcohol tomorrow or what

Mike rolled his eyes so hard his peripheral vision dimmed.

He typed back:

Mike: yes im alive
Mike: barely
Mike: try using ur indoor voice

A bubble appeared instantly.

Lucas: indoor voice???? its TEXT mike

Mike typed:

Mike: exactly

Another buzz.

Lucas: r u two still down there or did he drag u to elfhame or w/e

Mike snorted quietly through his nose.

Mike: library
Mike: closing
Mike: and shut up

Lucas replied with a single emoji: 🙄

Mike shoved his phone away like it had misbehaved.

Will looked over as he zipped his backpack. “Lucas?”

“Unfortunately,” Mike said. “He’s trying to figure out alcohol plans for tomorrow like we’re hosting the Olympics.”

Will laughed softly. “Sounds right.”

They stepped out into the hallway. The janitor stood at the end with his mop like a guard at a medieval gate, watching them with a look that said leave or I will physically escort you out.

“We’re going,” Mike muttered.

The heavy basement door shut behind them with a thud.

As they climbed the stairs, the air warmed slightly, the fluorescent buzz fading into the more familiar hum of the main floors. The building echoed with the last batch of students gathering their things, the shuffle of backpacks, the low murmur of tired voices.

Mike’s phone buzzed again.

Lucas: tell him i said hi
Lucas: actually dont
Lucas: actually do
Lucas: idk man do whatever

Mike rolled his eyes and typed back:

Mike: stop texting me like ur in a crisis
Mike: its pathetic
Mike: see you soon

Lucas responded with:

Lucas: love u too princess

Mike nearly tripped on the step.

Will glanced over, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mike said quickly. “Just—Lucas being Lucas.”

Will nodded, accepting that explanation without question. “He’s excited about tomorrow.”

“He’s excited about alcohol,” Mike corrected.

Will smiled, adjusting his backpack strap. “Same thing.”

They reached the first floor, stepping into the dim lobby where only emergency lights glowed. Outside, the night pressed against the windows—cold, quiet, the kind of stillness that made the world feel smaller than usual.

Will turned to him, soft-eyed in the half-light. “Thanks for… letting me work on this with you.”

Mike’s breath caught, stupid and unprepared.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

They headed toward the exit doors together, the weekend stretching open ahead of them in a way that felt heavier and lighter all at once.

The janitor locked the door behind them as they stepped out into the crisp night air.

Outside, the cold slapped them immediately. It wasn’t dramatic—just sharp enough to make Mike regret every life choice that led him to not owning better gloves.

Will zipped his jacket all the way up, breath puffing in small clouds. “We should’ve left earlier.”

“We should’ve stayed home all day,” Mike muttered.

They crossed the quad, shoulders tucked, heads down, bracing against the wind. The shuttle stop’s tiny glass shelter was fogged from whoever had been waiting there earlier. The schedule taped to the pole was useless, half the times crossed out in pen with angry notes scribbled next to them.

But then—blessedly—a pair of headlights swung around the corner.

Will blinked. “No way.”

Mike stared in disbelief. “It’s actually coming?”

The shuttle slowed, squeaking to a stop. The doors hissed open with the enthusiasm of a dying dragon.

They climbed in. Heat hit them instantly—dry, too hot, with the faint unmistakable aroma of old dining hall fries in the vents.

Mike groaned. “Heaven.”

“Smelly heaven,” Will said, sliding into the row of seats halfway down.

Mike dropped into the seat beside him, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll take smelly. I’ll take anything that isn’t hypothermia.”

The shuttle jolted forward so suddenly that both of them lurched.

Mike’s entire frame pitched sideways—the kind of awkward, gangly tilt that came from being six feet tall and all elbows. His hand shot out before he registered it, grabbing the nearest stable thing—

Will’s arm.

And before he could apologize or move or die on the spot, Will reacted reflexively—steady, smooth, almost bored—with one arm looping around Mike’s waist and yanking him back into place.

It lasted all of two seconds.

Three, if someone was counting in the worst possible way.

Will snorted under his breath. “You okay there?”

Mike stared at him, half-folded, half-upright, mind blank except for static.

“Yeah,” he managed, voice cracking like he’d swallowed gravel. “Fine. Totally. That turn was just… stupid.”

Will didn’t move his arm right away. Whether he forgot or simply didn’t feel the need to rush—Mike didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Wouldn’t dare ask.

But he felt it.
Warm through two layers of fabric.
Solid.
Close.
Too close.

Eventually, Will let go, settling back into his seat with a soft exhale, completely unfazed.

Mike remained exactly where he was for another beat, processing the fact that he still existed on planet earth.

He finally turned forward and forced his entire skeleton to behave normally. “They really shouldn’t let freshmen drive these things,” he mumbled, mostly to hide the fact his heart was doing cardio.

Will smiled to himself, looking out the window as the shuttle rumbled along. “Pretty sure this driver’s older than your dad.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s qualified.”

Will’s shoulder brushed Mike’s lightly with the next turn. “You’re dramatic.”

Mike felt the touch all the way down his spine like someone had plugged him into a low-voltage outlet.

He cleared his throat. “I’m realistic.”

“Mm-hm,” Will said, amusement threading through the sound.

Mike stared ahead, jaw tight, trying very hard—to a medically concerning degree—not to look directly at Will again.
Because now he wasn’t sure what he’d find.

Had that moment meant something?
Was it just instinct?
Was it nothing?
Was Will always like that?
Was he only like that with Mike?
Was Mike reading into this like a lunatic?

(Yes.)

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the back of the driver’s head. “Thanks… for, uh—yeah. For not letting me catapult across the shuttle.”

“Anytime,” Will said lightly.

Anytime.

The heater hummed on.
The smell of old fries clung to the air.
The campus lights blurred past the windows in streaks of gold.

And Mike decided—quietly, without permission—that this moment was going to live in his head for the rest of the weekend.

Maybe longer.

By the time Mike made it up the stairs and into their room, Lucas already had his hoodie off, his shoes kicked into the corner, and half his energy replenished at the mere mention of weekend plans.

“Okay,” Lucas said before the door fully closed, “I’ve been thinking—if tomorrow's our pre-finals thing, we need an actual plan. Cards Against Humanity? King’s Cup? Do we let Dustin bartend this time or are we trying to stay alive?”

Mike dropped his backpack with a dull thud. “Jesus, dude, let me breathe.”

“Nope. We’re on the clock.” Lucas pointed at him like a coach planning drills. “What shots are we taking?”

Mike peeled off his jacket. “Dustin’s bringing some mystery drink out of his closet that he claims is ‘historically important’ or some shit.”

Lucas groaned. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Which is why I’m picking up actual alcohol tomorrow. BuzzBalls. A few of those, couple bottles of something we won’t regret.”

Lucas nodded seriously. “Good. Responsible drinking.”

Mike opened his drawer to grab pajama pants. “Since when do you care about responsible drinking?”

“Since the last time Dustin made a concoction that almost blinded Max.”

“Fair,” Mike said, laughing quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the exhaustion settle in—and beneath it, a weird, flickering excitement.
He needed this weekend.
To not think about edits. Or deadlines. Or Barker’s bullshit.
Just a night where he could breathe without everything tightening in his chest.

Lucas flopped onto his bed, scrolling. “Also, Dustin’s already hyped. He texted me like eight times on the walk home.”

“That tracks.”

Mike’s phone buzzed in his hand.

He glanced down, expecting Lucas or maybe Max.

Instead—

Will: look what i found
Image attached

Mike tapped it.

It was Dustin.
From the last party.
Completely passed out on Will’s floor with an empty McDonald’s bag over his head like some kind of drunk raccoon king. His socks didn’t match. His shoelaces were tied together. It was art.

Mike barked a laugh—loud, surprised, real.

“That was the funniest shit,” Lucas said. “He kept saying the bag helped him ‘think better.’”

Mike shook his head, still staring at the image longer than necessary.

The lighting caught Will’s carpet.
The edge of Will’s bed.
Will’s foot was barely in frame—like he’d just stepped back to take the picture.

Mike felt his face soften.
Too visibly.

Lucas looked up slowly. “Dude.”

Mike’s cheeks warmed instantly. “What.”

“You’re smiling like an idiot.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You absolutely are.” Lucas sat up, eyes narrowing. “Is this a Will thing? It’s a Will thing, isn’t it?”

Mike opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

And it just… came out.

“Okay—okay, I just—” Mike rubbed his temples aggressively. “Something happened on the fucking shuttle.”

Lucas blinked. “The shuttle? The one that smells like grossness?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “That one.”

“What happened? Did a freshman puke? Did you almost die?”

“No, I—” Mike groaned into his hands. “He—Will—there was this sharp turn and I almost fell and he—Jesus Christ—he like grabbed me. Like, actually grabbed me.”

Lucas stared. “…Grabbed you how.”

“Like—around the waist,” Mike blurted, hands describing an invisible diagram of distress. “Just for a second. Just—he pulled me upright. And he laughed. And I swear to god I’m gonna think about it until I’m ninety.”

Lucas blinked. Once. Twice. Then:

“Okay, breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Mike said, pacing a little. “Functionally. Barely.”

Lucas held up both hands like he was calming a stray dog. “You’re spiraling.”

“I am processing.”

“You're spiraling,” Lucas repeated. “And also shaking?”

“I’m not shaking,” Mike snapped, absolutely shaking.

Lucas stood up and grabbed Mike’s shoulders. “Dude. It’s fine. It was a moment. A moment, not a marriage proposal.”

“It felt like a marriage proposal!”

“It wasn’t,” Lucas said firmly. “He just didn’t want you to crack your skull open.”

Mike stared, wide-eyed. “But he held me.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said. “To prevent death. People do that sometimes.”

Mike deflated, palms over his eyes. “I hate this.”

“You don’t,” Lucas said, patting Mike’s shoulder. “You’re just in deep.”

“I’m in hell.”

“You’re in like… romantic purgatory,” Lucas corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Mike paced again, running both hands through his hair. “He didn’t even realize anything. He just—kept talking like nothing happened. Which is worse. So much worse. Because it meant nothing to him.”

“Or,” Lucas said with a pointed look, “he’s normal and doesn’t overanalyze hand placements for three business days.”

Mike froze. “…Shut up.”

Lucas sat back on his bed. “Just enjoy the weekend. Enjoy tomorrow. Don't confess in a panic. Don’t drink yourself into bravery. And for the love of god, don’t fall on him again.”

Mike glared. “That wasn’t planned.”

“I know,” Lucas said. “That’s why it was funny.”

Mike groaned loudly and fell backward onto his bed like a corpse.

At the exact same moment, in the room above, Will Byers stared at his phone and wondered why Mike took so long to respond to that picture.

And downstairs, Mike wondered how he was supposed to survive the next twenty-four hours without combusting.

Mike brushed his teeth in the tiny dorm bathroom while staring at himself in the mirror like the reflection might give him emotional instructions.
It didn’t.
It never did.

His hair stuck up weirdly from the cold air outside and the heat blasting from the shuttle. His cheeks still looked slightly flushed. He blamed the heater. He blamed adrenaline. He blamed everything except the actual reason.

When he stepped back into the room, Lucas was exactly where Mike expected him: gaming headset on, hunched forward in his desk chair, eyes glued to the Minecraft world in front of him.

“Dustin—Dustin—DON’T TOUCH THAT—” Lucas yelled, pounding his keyboard. “You absolute goblin, you broke the whole spawner—”

Through the headphones, Dustin’s voice shrieked faintly, “I WAS TRYING TO ROTATE IT—”

Then El’s soft voice came through, but not soft at all—laughing.
Laughing maniacally.

Mike froze in the doorway, toothbrush still in his hand, marveling at the fact that his friends—these people—were the ones he ended up with.

Something about it hit him in the chest.
Warm.
Random.
Real.

Weird that a busted Minecraft mob spawner could do that. But whatever. Feelings didn’t come with explanations.

Mike tossed his toothbrush into its cup and climbed into his bed, pulling the blanket up and trying to ignore the jitter in his veins.

Red Bull. Definitely the Red Bull.

He glanced at his phone. No new messages.
He wondered if Will was awake, restless, staring at his ceiling too.
He wondered if Will’s arm still remembered the shape of him on the shuttle.
He wondered—

Lucas yelled again.

“EL, STOP ENCOURAGING HIM—”

El’s laugh crackled louder. Dustin whooped triumphantly.

Mike rolled onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling, letting the noise fade into a soft, distant hum.

Eventually, Lucas ended the call with a dramatic sigh and crawled into bed without turning on the light. Within minutes, he was out—deep, even breathing filling the room.

Mike wasn’t even close.

He lay still. Then stiller.
The room cooled as the heater shifted off.

His mind didn’t cool with it.

He thought about the weekend. The party. The games. The alcohol.
He thought about Will’s smile in the basement, soft under yellow light.
He thought about the way Will’s arm had wrapped around him—natural, instinctive, like it fit.

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere between exhaustion and caffeine, he slipped under.

It wasn’t a real party, because real parties weren’t this soft around the edges or this warm in the air.
This one felt hazy—like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

His room glowed in amber light. Music hummed in the background, low and thrumming—Deftones, drifting through fuzzy speakers. Max and Lucas and Dustin and El sat in a circle on the floor, dealing Cards Against Humanity, already arguing about who shuffled badly.

Mike was on his bed.

Will was beside him.

Very beside him.
Shoulder pressed to shoulder.
Warm, sinking, loose-limbed kind of drunk.

Will’s hand found his without ceremony. Fingers slid between his like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Mike didn’t breathe for a full second.

Nobody on the floor noticed. Or maybe they noticed and didn’t care.

Will leaned in—slow, sleepy—and dropped his head onto Mike’s shoulder. Then, impossibly closer, nuzzling into the curve of Mike’s neck, breath warm and smelling faintly like cherry seltzer.

“You smell good,” Will murmured, voice whiskey-warm.

Mike’s entire body flushed like someone had poured heat straight into his spine.

“I—” Mike tried, but his voice cracked into nothing.

Will shifted just enough for his nose to graze Mike’s skin again.
A tiny, involuntary sound escaped Mike’s throat.
He had no idea what to do with his hands. His brain. His entire life.

The moment tilted—something feverish, something electric—Will’s breath on his skin, Will’s fingers tightening around his, Will’s lips hovering dangerously near his jaw—

And then—

Mike jerked awake.

He lay in the dark, heart slamming, breath uneven, sweat cooling on his forehead. The blanket felt too heavy, too warm, too much.

For a moment he didn’t even know where he was.

Then the soft shape of Lucas’s form across the room came into focus—dead asleep, quiet, undisturbed.

Mike swallowed, pressing a hand over his chest like he could hide the frantic beating.

He replayed the dream.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

Every detail.
Every breath.
Every second of Will’s warmth pressed against him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark.

When he opened them again, the ceiling looked different somehow. Closer.

He lay there—wide awake, pulse tripping, sleep long gone—and wondered whether he’d ever get back to sleep after that.

Spoiler: he probably wouldn’t.

Notes:

thank you so much for reading! feel free to leave comments/thoughts/yelling, i love seeing them. i’ll try to update again as soon as i can :) hopefully i'll get a chapter count furhter along in the story, don't want it to be too long.

Chapter 3: to tonight

Mike woke up for the second time that morning with the kind of jolt that suggested his subconscious hated him.

For a second, he stared at the ceiling and tried to remember why his heart was already thudding in his chest.

 

Then the dream hit him.

 

Not all at once—more like a film reel flickering back to life.

 

Will on his bed.

Fingers laced.

Warm breath against his neck.

The soft, impossible murmur: you smell good.

 

Mike shut his eyes and groaned into his pillow.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to the mattress. “Kill me.”

 

Across the room, Lucas—already awake because he was a freak who treated Saturdays like weekdays—glanced over from his desk chair. He had Max on FaceTime propped against his laptop. Max was doing eyeliner at her desk, squinting like she was preparing for war.

 

“You alive?” Lucas asked, voice normal, like Mike wasn’t mid-crisis.

 

Mike didn’t move. “Define alive.”

 

Lucas snorted, looking back at his screen. Max waved absently at Mike once she realized he was conscious, then went right back to threatening Dustin through the camera for some reason.

 

The group chat buzzed from Mike’s nightstand.

 

Dustin: OK SO WHAT ARE WE DRINKING TONIGHT

Max: something that won’t make me puke this time

El: i can bring chips :)

Lucas: no more of dustin’s “secret family recipe”

Dustin: W0W

Will: music suggestions?

 

Mike’s stomach flipped at the sight of Will’s name—not dramatically, not enough to be cinematic, but enough to make him want to throw the phone across the room.

 

Instead he opened the protein bar Nancy had bought him before he moved in. The ones she called “clean energy” and he called “edible drywall.” Still, he peeled the wrapper and took a bite.

 

Not great.

Not terrible.

Exactly the kind of breakfast a man running from his own conscious mind deserved.

 

Lucas glanced at him again, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look like you fought God and lost?”

 

Mike swallowed cardboard-flavored protein. “I didn’t sleep well.”

 

“Nightmare?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Lucas exchanged a subtle look with Max on FaceTime. She raised her eyebrows pointedly, smirking like she already knew the story through osmosis.

 

Mike pretended not to see.

 

His phone buzzed again.

 

Will: what if we make a playlist together later? for tonight?

 

Mike’s breath stalled.

 

Across the screen, Dustin was still sending memes, Max was yelling about who had to bring mixers, Lucas was threatening to revoke Dustin’s playlist privileges, but Mike only saw the one message sitting quietly among the chaos.

 

A playlist.

Together.

Later.

 

Unreasonable warmth bloomed under Mike’s ribs.

 

Lucas saw the expression shift across his face and tried very hard not to smile.

Max didn’t try at all. She cackled through the phone speaker.

 

Mike shoved the protein bar into his mouth just to have something to do with his face.

 

He typed back, fingers embarrassingly quick:

 

Mike: yeah sure

Mike: sounds good

 

He deleted “great,” because it sounded too eager.

He deleted “yeah :)” because he wasn’t a psychopath.

He deleted about five drafts before settling on the safest possible option.

 

Will liked the message.

 

Mike stood up abruptly, as if staying still would cause spontaneous combustion.

 

“Shower,” he muttered to no one, grabbing clean clothes from his drawer.

 

Lucas paused his game. “You good?”

 

“No,” Mike said. “Yes. Maybe. Shut up.”

 

Max wheezed with laughter. El chimed in over the group chat with a gentle good morning!! that somehow felt like a pat on the head Mike didn’t deserve.

 

He ignored all of them and went straight for the communal bathroom down the hall, hoping cold water might short-circuit whatever was rewiring itself in his chest.

 

By the time he came back, hair damp and hoodie pulled over his head, the room smelled like Lucas’s coffee and sounded like Max threatening Dustin for the seventh time that morning.

 

Mike grabbed his keys and shoved them into his pocket.

 

Lucas looked up. “Where you going?”

 

“Liquor store,” Mike said. “Dustin’s the only other one who can actually buy anything, so he’s meeting me there.”

 

Lucas smirked. “Try not to think about Will the whole time you’re picking BuzzBalls.”

 

Mike threw a sock at him.

 

Lucas dodged easily. “That’s a yes.”

 

It absolutely was.

 

Mike ignored the heat creeping up his neck, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door.

 

Today was supposed to be simple.

Supplies, planning, a stupid little party.

 

But with Will’s message still glowing on his screen, with the dream lingering stubbornly like a handprint on cold glass—

 

Mike had a sinking suspicion nothing about today was going to be simple.

 

Not even close.

 

The campus liquor store wasn’t actually on campus—just close enough that everyone pretended the walk didn’t suck. Mike shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket to keep them warm as he crossed the street, muttering at passing cars that definitely weren’t close to hitting him but felt like personal attacks anyway.

 

Dustin was already outside, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting hours. He wore a bomber jacket that made him look like a tech start-up founder.

 

He spotted Mike and immediately saluted him with a bottle of Gatorade.

 

“Captain,” Dustin said. “You look awful.”

 

Mike stopped in front of him. “Thanks. You look like you haven’t slept since middle school.”

 

“I haven’t,” Dustin said cheerfully. “Knowledge never sleeps.”

 

Mike stared. “Why are you like this?”

 

“Trauma,” Dustin said, pushing open the liquor-store door.

 

A bell jingled overhead, the kind of jingle that suggested the store owners wanted you to feel watched. The place smelled like stale carpet and peach schnapps—unsettling, but familiar.

 

Dustin grabbed a basket like they were grocery shopping for a family of five. “Okay. First mission: get something Max won’t insult.”

 

“That doesn’t exist,” Mike said.

 

Dustin nodded solemnly. “True, but we must try.”

 

They walked down the first aisle, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Rows of cheap vodka glared back at them.

 

Dustin held up a bright blue bottle. “This looks like coolant.”

 

Mike shook his head. “Max would throw that at you.”

 

“She’s thrown worse,” Dustin said, putting it back.

 

Mike exhaled slowly, trying to focus, trying not to think about a dream that felt way too real, trying not to imagine Will reading his text from earlier and smiling—

 

“Dude,” Dustin said suddenly. “You good?”

 

Mike blinked. “Yeah. Why.”

 

“You’re staring at the tequila like it’s giving you war flashbacks.”

 

Mike shut his eyes. “I didn’t sleep great.”

 

“Same,” Dustin said. “I had one of those dreams where your teeth fall out and then you swallow them and then you apologize to them.”

 

Mike turned his head. “What the fuck.”

 

“I don’t control it,” Dustin said defensively.

 

Mike sighed, grabbing a 12-pack of something vaguely decent. “Let’s just get the basics. BuzzBalls, mixers, beer that doesn’t taste like piss—”

 

“You know what piss tastes like?,” Dustin said incredulously.

 

“Please stop.”

 

They turned into the ready-to-drink section. Dustin immediately grabbed four BuzzBalls, one in each color like he was assembling Infinity Stones.

 

“You do not need that many,” Mike said.

 

“These aren’t all for me,” Dustin replied, offended. “One’s for Lucas. One’s for Will. One’s for—”

 

Mike choked on air so violently he had to lean on the shelf.

 

Dustin paused. “…You okay?”

 

Mike coughed harder. “Fine. Went down wrong.”

 

“What did? There’s nothing in your mouth.”

 

“Air,” Mike snapped. “Air went down wrong.”

 

Dustin squinted. “You’re acting weird.”

 

“I’m always weird,” Mike said.

 

“Fair.”

 

They continued, Dustin tossing in mixers with the precision of someone who had never made a good drink in his life. Sprite, ginger ale, a questionable off-brand soda that promised “EXTREME CITRUS BLAST.”

 

Mike grabbed a bottle of something actually drinkable. “If Max hates everything, we can at least not hate ourselves.”

 

Dustin placed the last BuzzBall into the basket. “Honestly, I’m proud of us. Two responsible adults. Buying responsible alcohol. For a responsible night of responsible drinking.”

 

Mike looked at their basket: neon spheres of sugar, cheap vodka, and enough carbonation to kill a horse.

 

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Responsible.”

 

They made their way to the register. Dustin whispered conspiratorially,

 

“So… tonight’s gonna be fun.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike said, too quickly.

 

Dustin lifted an eyebrow. “Like… fun fun?”

 

Mike’s pulse spiked. “What does that mean.”

 

Dustin shrugged. “I don’t know. You look like someone who’s waiting for a meteor to hit.”

 

“That’s just my face,” Mike said.

 

“Your face is waiting for a meteor to hit?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay, goth Wheeler,” Dustin said, paying for his half of the haul.

 

Outside, the air was cold again—sharper, but grounding.

 

Dustin shoved his hands in his pockets, blowing out a breath. “You know… for real… we all need this. The group. A night without stress. Without school crap. Just a night to be idiots.”

 

Mike nodded, shoulders loosening just a little. “Yeah. It’ll be good.”

 

Dustin bumped him lightly with his elbow. “And hey… whatever’s making you stare at tequila like that… you don’t have to say it. But maybe just let yourself… I don’t know. Have a good night.”

 

Mike looked at him. Dustin wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. Just saying something honest in that Dustin way: direct, slightly awkward, surprisingly warm.

 

Mike swallowed. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

 

Dustin grinned. “Cool. Because I, personally, plan on getting so drunk I ascend.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“It’s too late. Ascension begins at 8pm.”

 

Mike snorted, shaking his head as they started walking back toward campus, arms full of alcohol and the unspoken pressure of the night ahead.

 

He hated how much he was looking forward to it.

 

Or… he knew exactly why he was looking forward to it.

 

And that was the problem.

 

The dining hall at four-thirty was in that weird in-between state—not quite dinner rush, not quite empty. The Party filled a round table in the corner, trays pushed together, drinks sweating in paper cups.

 

Mike slid into the seat beside Will.

Again, there were other seats.

Again, he ignored them.

 

Will instinctively moved closer to make space, their knees bumping under the table for half a second before Mike pretended it hadn’t happened.

 

The rest of the group talked over each other about sauce packets and whose fries tasted the least like cardboard, but Mike barely heard any of it.

 

Will opened a blank playlist on Mike’s phone. “Okay,” he said, turning slightly toward him, shoulders nearly brushing, “rules?”

 

Mike’s brain short-circuited at the proximity. “Uh… we should—yeah. Rules.”

 

Will smiled, soft at the edges. “That’s not a rule.”

 

“Okay, rule one,” Mike said quickly. “Nothing Dustin calls ‘genre-defying.’”

 

Dustin looked up from across the table. “That was ONE TIME—”

 

“No,” Max said.

 

“Never again,” Lucas agreed.

 

Will hid a laugh and turned back to Mike. “Okay. So—just add whatever feels right.”

 

Mike tried. Really. But every time Will leaned in to glance at the screen, Mike’s breath stalled like an idiot. His fingers felt clumsy typing in artists while Will was this close.

 

Will tapped the table lightly. “Go ahead, you start.”

 

Mike scrolled through his library. His hand brushed Will’s. His pulse spiked.

 

He added one song—safe, neutral, indie.

 

Will lit up. “Yes. Perfect. Add another.”

 

Mike cleared his throat. “You can add some too.”

 

“Okay,” Will murmured, taking the phone from him. His fingers skimmed Mike’s again—barely-there, accidental, devastating.

 

Mike pretended to eat a fry so he had something to do with his hands. He missed his mouth entirely and dropped it back on the tray.

 

Will noticed. Naturally.

 

“You good?” Will asked, eyes crinkling like he was trying not to laugh.

 

“I’m—fine,” Mike insisted, body language doing absolutely nothing to support this claim.

 

Max looked up from her laptop. “Put Deftones on there.”

 

Mike inhaled sharply and instantly choked on the fry he wasn’t even chewing.

 

Dustin jumped. “Jesus, dude!”

 

Mike coughed into his sleeve, face burning. “I just—went down wrong.”

 

Dustin said flatly, “Air again?”

 

Mike kicked him under the table.

Dustin winced but smirked.

 

El nodded earnestly at Max’s suggestion. “Deftones is good party energy.”

 

Will turned toward Mike with a teasing tilt to his head. “You do like Deftones.”

 

Mike froze. “What? Since when?”

 

Will gave him a look. “Mike. You added them to the freshman dorm playlist. The one you insisted was ‘curated.’”

 

“That was—” Mike stopped, flustered. “That was for… ambiance.”

 

“Sure,” Will said, smiling. “Ambiance.”

 

Mike grabbed another fry purely out of spite.

 

Will typed something into the playlist. “Here,” he said quietly, nudging the phone toward Mike. “I added a song.”

 

Mike looked. His stomach dropped pleasantly.

 

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, that’s—good.”

 

Will’s shoulder brushed his again—accidental, soft, familiar. “Add one back.”

 

Mike did.

Will hummed approval.

Mike immediately wanted to lie down on the table and perish.

 

The playlist grew slowly, mostly between the two of them—passing the phone back and forth, sharing earbud snippets, leaning closer than anyone strictly needed to lean.

 

Every now and then:

 

Max would call out, “Add that one song with the insane drum part!”

 

Dustin would yell, “Put something chaotic!”

 

Lucas would veto every chaotic idea.

 

El would quietly add, “Something pretty, too.”

 

But mostly it was:

 

Will smiling at Mike’s music taste.

Will teasing him for skipping a song too fast.

Will nudging him lightly and saying, “No, no, trust me—this one.”

 

And Mike feeling like his body understood something his brain definitely did not.

 

Finally, Will angled the screen toward him. “Okay. Final question—what do we call it?”

 

Mike swallowed, heartbeat annoyingly loud in his ears. “Uh—maybe just ‘tonight’? Since it’s… for tonight.”

 

Will’s smile softened into something warmer. “Yeah,” he said. “That fits.”

 

He hit save.

 

Mike stared at the phone for a moment longer than necessary, like the playlist might explode.

 

Will noticed.

 

Of course he noticed.

 

“So,” Will said gently, “you excited for tonight?”

 

Mike nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s—yeah.”

 

Will’s eyebrow lifted in amused disbelief. “You sure?”

 

Mike’s brain insisted he was playing it cool.

His body was sitting rigidly, pulse racing, ears hot, hands too still.

 

“Yeah,” Mike said again, quieter. “I’m sure.”

 

Will bumped his knee under the table—soft, intentional. “Good.”

 

Mike felt the warmth travel all the way to his throat.

 

He was so unbelievably doomed.

 

Mike, Lucas, and Dustin had successfully turned the dorm into a war zone under the guise of “setting up.”

 

Which meant:

•Mike was untangling wires like a hostage

•Lucas was rearranging chairs for the third time

•Dustin was micromanaging them like a tiny overcaffeinated dad

 

“Okay,” Dustin announced, clapping once. “Lighting decision. This is critical. This determines the entire emotional trajectory of the night.”

 

Lucas didn’t look up from the LED remote. “It’s literally just a color.”

 

Dustin gasped like Lucas had insulted his ancestors. “Lighting is ART.”

 

Mike rubbed at his eyes. “Purple?”

 

Lucas wrinkled his nose. “No. Blue.”

 

“Blue makes everyone look half-dead,” Dustin argued. “Unless that’s the vibe.”

 

Mike shrugged helplessly. “Warm pink?”

 

“Too romantic,” Lucas said immediately. “People will get ideas.”

 

Mike’s ears got hot for reasons he ignored. “Okay, then you pick something.”

 

Lucas cycled the LEDs through six migraine-inducing options. The room strobed red, then green, then electric white, then a suspicious shade of orange.

 

Dustin shielded his face. “Are you TRYING to summon demons?!”

 

“Dustin,” Lucas said, “you are five seconds away from going out the window.”

 

“You live on the second floor,” Dustin shot back. “I would survive.”

 

They kept bickering, voices rising, the LED remote changing colors like someone was testing emergency sirens.

 

Mike sighed. “Guys—just pick a color before I lose brain cells.”

 

And then—

 

A voice from the cracked doorway said:

 

“Your RA’s about to come yell at you.”

 

Three heads snapped toward the door.

 

There stood Will. Backpack still on, hair a little messed up from him running his hands through it probably, blinking like he had no idea why everyone was staring at him like he’d materialized from mist.

 

Mike’s entire body short-circuited.

Dustin burst into laughter so hard he folded onto Lucas’ bed.

Lucas slapped his knee. “Dude, Jesus—warn someone!”

 

Will frowned slightly. “I was literally walking by. The door was open. You’re shouting about colors like you’re summoning the apocalypse.”

 

“We were not shouting,” Dustin insisted.

 

“You absolutely were,” Will said.

 

Mike swallowed, hand still gripping a tangled cord. “How long were you—”

 

“Long enough to hear Dustin threaten to defy natural selection,” Will said dryly.

 

Dustin threw a pillow at him. “Traitor!”

 

Will caught it effortlessly, tossed it back, and then looked around the room. “Do you guys need help or…?”

 

“Yes,” Lucas said immediately. “Please, before Dustin turns this into an OSHA violation.”

 

Mike stepped aside as Will walked in—bringing that familiar quiet steadiness with him—and set his backpack down like he was clocking into work.

 

Without a word, Will gathered stray blankets, fluffed them, and started placing chairs around the small space in a way that actually looked intentional instead of chaotic.

 

“Wait,” Dustin said, pointing. “You’re—organizing.”

 

“I’m fixing whatever this is,” Will replied, gesturing vaguely at the entire room.

 

“That’s rude,” Mike said automatically.

 

“It’s accurate,” Will said.

 

Mike ignored the sting of being perceived and watched Will drag Lucas’ giant beanbag—Max’s Christmas gift—into a corner, then toss a knit blanket over it for aesthetic purposes.

 

Lucas blinked. “You’re like… nest-building.”

 

“I’m making sure no one has to sit on the floor,” Will corrected.

 

“He’s nest-building,” Dustin repeated, delighted.

 

Will rolled his eyes and continued working.

 

Mike didn’t realize he was staring until Lucas nudged him lightly.

“Hey. Mouth closed.”

 

Mike shoved him.

 

Will wandered over to Mike’s side, brushing past him lightly to reach the speaker. The contact was brief, barely-there, but enough to send Mike’s pulse into freefall.

 

“What’s left?” Will asked.

 

Mike cleared his throat. “Uh—just the lights.”

 

Will looked up at the glowing ceiling strip, cycling through colors like a mood ring having an identity crisis.

 

“I vote not-green,” Will said.

 

“That’s not helpful,” Mike said.

 

“But accurate,” Will replied with a tiny smile.

 

Dustin grinned. “Okay, lover boy, what color DO you want?”

 

Mike threw a sock at him so fast it was almost a reflex. “Stop talking.”

 

Will blinked. “Wait—what?”

 

“Nothing,” Mike and Lucas said in unison.

 

Will stared at them, deeply suspicious.

 

But then he shrugged, setting down a folded blanket. “Anyway. Whatever color you pick is fine. Just… don’t make it look like a hospital or a crime scene.”

 

“That still leaves too many options,” Mike muttered.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Will said gently.

 

And somehow—because it was Will saying it—Mike actually believed him.

 

Mike stood in the middle of the room with the LED remote in his hand like it was a detonator.

 

Will stood beside him, arms crossed loosely, head tipped as he watched the lights cycle through their obnoxious rainbow.

 

Behind them, Dustin and Lucas were already arguing about something completely unrelated.

 

“I’m telling you,” Dustin insisted, “I have a professional tolerance. I’m going to be the last one standing tonight.”

 

Lucas laughed so loudly it cracked. “Dude, you weigh like a bag of rice. Max could sneeze on you and you’d black out.”

 

“That’s slander,” Dustin said, offended.

 

“That’s a medical observation,” Lucas countered.

 

Mike didn’t even turn around. “You’re both going to throw up.”

 

Will snorted. “Bold confidence.”

 

Mike pressed a button and the LED strip flicked from blue to orange to red to something that looked like radioactive cotton candy.

 

Will winced. “Not that.”

 

“Okay, what about—this?” Mike clicked the remote again.

 

The room washed over in a soft gold. Warm. Low. Almost cozy.

 

Will’s expression softened instantly. “Yeah. That one.”

 

Mike glanced over at him, and for a second they just… held the look.

A tiny shared moment tucked inside the noise of Dustin and Lucas’ bickering.

It made something low in Mike’s stomach shift, warm and unsteady.

 

“Yeah,” Mike said quietly. “That’s good.”

 

As if summoned by the finished debate, the front door swung open.

 

Max and El walked in hand-in-hand. El’s hair was braided; Max had her usual confident smirk that only grew when she saw the state of the room.

 

“What’d we miss?” Max asked.

 

“Absolutely nothing of value,” Lucas said.

 

“El, he’s lying,” Dustin said. “They spent ten minutes arguing about colors.”

 

El clapped her hands, delighted. “Which one did you choose?”

 

Will gestured at the lights. “Warm gold.”

 

El nodded approvingly. “Good. Calming energy.”

 

Max snorted. “We’re taking shots in like three minutes.”

 

El shrugged. “Calm before chaos.”

 

Dustin shot finger guns. “That’s the spirit.”

 

Mike ducked under his desk and pulled out the shoebox he’d hidden earlier. Inside were the shot glasses Nancy gave him when she dropped him off for junior year—each one different, each one weirdly fitting for their little group.

 

He lined them up on the dresser:

 

A tiny alien head for Dustin.

A Chicago skyline glass for Lucas.

A purple ombré one for Max.

A dainty floral one El claimed weeks ago.

A navy-blue one Will had used before without complaint.

And Mike’s plain clear one—simple, clean, no fuss.

 

“Look at that,” Max said. “We’re professionals.”

 

“We’re idiots,” Lucas corrected.

 

“Professional idiots,” Dustin added proudly.

 

Mike filled each glass nearly to the brim. The smell hit immediately—cheap vodka, the kind that burned and regretted.

 

El wrinkled her nose. “That’s… potent.”

 

“It’s midterms season,” Mike said. “We deserve potent.”

 

They each grabbed their glass, forming a loose circle around the middle of the room—pillows on the floor, blankets everywhere, lights soft and golden.

 

Dustin raised his alien glass first. “To midterms!”

 

Everyone groaned.

 

Max lifted hers next. “To denying midterms exist.”

 

El lifted hers. “To surviving midterms.”

 

Lucas lifted his last. “To not letting Dustin mix anything ever again.”

 

Dustin rolled his eyes, offended but grinning. “You’re all cowards.”

 

Mike lifted his glass, glancing at Will—who was already watching him with that soft, small smile Mike pretended not to feel in his ribs.

 

“To tonight,” Mike said.

 

“To tonight,” they echoed.

 

They all knocked their shots back.

 

Will swallowed wrong.

 

He made a choking noise halfway between a cough and a strangled gasp.

 

Dustin barked out a laugh. “Bro, what is WRONG with you?”

 

Mike stepped in immediately, hand sliding around Will’s shoulder, gentle pressure grounding him. “Hey—are you good?”

 

Will coughed once more, then nodded, eyes watering just a little. “Yeah—god—that was terrible.”

 

Mike’s hand stayed right where it was. Warm. Solid. Too long.

 

Will didn’t move away.

He didn’t even seem to notice.

 

But Mike did.

 

Mike noticed everything.

 

He noticed the flush spreading across Will’s cheekbones—maybe from the alcohol, maybe from coughing, maybe from the warmth of Mike’s hand lingering behind his shoulder.

 

He noticed the way Will’s breath steadied under his palm.

 

He noticed the way Will looked up at him—just a flicker, just a second—before glancing away again, cheeks still pink.

 

Mike swallowed hard, dropping his hand like it had burned him.

 

“Okay,” Max said, clapping once. “Round two?”

 

Dustin whooped. Lucas groaned. El giggled into her sleeve.

 

Will wiped his eyes and smiled crookedly.

 

And Mike decided, privately, helplessly, that tonight was going to kill him.

 

In the best possible way.

 

Dustin went off the rails almost immediately.

 

Not in a dramatic way—just in a very Dustin way.

 

He tried to vault from the beanbag to Lucas’s bed like a gymnast.

His sock slipped.

He landed half on the bed, half on the floor, and let out a noise that could only be described as “defeat by gravity.”

 

Lucas didn’t even react, just said, “Called it,” while taking a sip of his drink.

 

Mike nearly spit out his own from laughing too hard.

Everything was warm already—the gold LEDs, the playlist humming low, the general heat radiating from six drunk bodies in one small dorm room.

 

They’d migrated into a loose circle of blankets and pillows on the floor. Cards Against Humanity was cracked open like it contained sacred texts.

 

Max was first Card Czar, dramatic as always.

 

“In the event of my untimely death,” she read, “I request to be buried with… blank.”

 

Dustin gasped. “Oh, I’ve got material for this.”

 

El giggled into her drink. Lucas shuffled his cards with way too much competitive intensity.

 

Mike picked one of his cards without overthinking—the alcohol was doing something pleasantly fuzzy to his decision-making.

 

Will slid his card forward with quiet confidence, which somehow made Mike’s skin buzz for no reason at all.

 

Max read the options, trying not to break character.

 

“Option one,” she said, “a tambourine filled with loose spaghetti.”

 

Lucas snorted. “What does that even mean?”

 

“Option two,” Max continued, “the world’s last remaining Blockbuster employee.”

 

“Honestly,” Dustin said, “respect.”

 

“Option three,” she read, “an emotional support rotisserie chicken.”

 

Mike choked on air. Not again.

 

Will coughed out a laugh beside him, shoulder brushing Mike’s just lightly enough to count.

 

“And option four,” Max finished, “a mildly haunted recliner.”

 

El whispered, “Oh no,” which made Lucas lose it.

 

Max held up one card dramatically. “The winner is… the emotional support rotisserie chicken.”

 

Will raised his hand in triumph. “That was me.”

 

Mike stared at him, amused warmth curling in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Thank you,” Will said simply, bumping Mike’s knee under the blanket.

 

Mike’s body reacted like someone had plugged him into a low-voltage outlet.

He tried to hide it by taking a drink.

The drink did not help.

 

They continued around the circle:

 

El’s round involved “things found in a cursed garage sale.”

Lucas’s round resulted in Max wheezing so hard she had to stop reading.

Dustin’s round was a disaster because he kept picking the card that made him laugh the loudest regardless of the actual prompt.

 

Through all of it, Will stayed close—too close—but casual enough that Mike convinced himself it was normal.

 

Their legs brushed under the blanket again.

It felt intentional.

Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking.

Or maybe that was Mike losing his mind.

 

The warm gold lighting made Will’s hair look darker, his smile softer.

Mike tried very hard not to notice this.

He failed immediately.

 

He also tried not to stare every time Will laughed.

He failed at that, too.

 

At one point, he leaned in just slightly to whisper something to Will about Dustin’s dramatic card readings, and Will smiled in that way that made Mike feel like the floor had tilted just a little.

 

Then Lucas called out, “Hello? You two in your own world or what? It’s your turn, Mike.”

 

Mike blinked, startled. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I’m here.”

 

Will hid a smile behind his cup.

Mike pretended not to see it.

 

The playlist rolled softly in the background, familiar songs they’d picked together earlier.

The room felt warmer by the minute, filled with laughter and cheap vodka and the kind of comfort that wrapped itself around the group like a blanket.

 

Mike felt… free. Actually free.

His brain quiet for once.

His body loose.

His guard lowered.

 

Will noticed—he always noticed—but didn’t comment. Just kept leaning in slightly, just kept smiling at him, just kept brushing their knees together under the blanket like it was nothing.

 

Mike kept telling himself it was nothing.

 

He didn’t believe himself.

 

But for now—tipsy, warm, surrounded by the people he trusted most—he didn’t need to figure it out.

 

Lucas shuffled the next round of cards loudly to get everyone’s attention.

 

“Okay,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s try this again and maybe we can all focus instead of this or—whatever is happening.”

 

Mike flushed, sputtering, “Literally nothing is happening.”

 

Will coughed into his drink again.

 

Dustin just smiled like a little demon.

 

Max folded her arms. “Uh-huh. Sure. Let’s play.”

 

Mike grabbed his cards and stared at them like they might provide emotional guidance.

 

They did not.

 

Time blurred after the tenth round of Cards Against Humanity.

 

Or maybe it was the fifth.

 

Or maybe Mike had stopped counting because Dustin was absolutely drunk despite insisting—loudly, repeatedly—that he “was built different.”

 

He was currently lying upside down off the beanbag, explaining to no one in particular that gravity was “a capitalist conspiracy.”

 

Max, El, and Lucas had migrated to the opposite side of the room where Lucas had pulled up karaoke tracks on his phone.

They were now belting something from a Disney movie—Hercules? Mulan? Frozen? Mike had no idea. Everything sounded like it was underwater.

 

El held the pretend microphone (a hairbrush) with surprising passion.

Max harmonized.

Lucas stood behind them like a proud, drunk dad.

 

The whole room felt like it was swaying—not in a bad way, just in the way a warm, safe bubble sways when you’re too buzzed to care.

 

Mike leaned back on his hands, grinning up at the ceiling like it might offer explanation.

 

It didn’t.

 

Will appeared beside him through the mild haze, tapping his shoulder lightly.

 

“You look like you’re trying to communicate with the light fixture,” Will said, lips tilted in amusement.

 

“Might answer me,” Mike said.

 

“It won’t,” Will replied gently. “Come on.”

 

Mike blinked. “Come on… where?”

 

Will nodded toward Mike’s bed—a lofted frame sitting obnoxiously high, because of course it was. “Up there. Quieter. Safer from Dustin’s… current state.”

 

As if on cue, Dustin fell off the beanbag again.

 

“See?” Will said softly.

 

Mike huffed a laugh and stood, swaying a little. “Okay, yeah. Bed sounds… good.”

 

He grabbed the edge of the mattress and attempted to climb.

 

Attempted.

 

He got one knee up before his foot slipped on the blanket and he slid back down like a wet noodle.

 

Will snorted—actually snorted—and stepped in behind him.

 

“Here,” Will murmured, fingers grazing Mike’s elbow, then his hip, then the back of his hoodie. “Use the frame.”

 

“I’m using the frame,” Mike said, trying to sound offended and failing miserably.

 

“You are not,” Will replied, entirely too fond.

 

Drunk Mike was useless; he let Will hoist him the rest of the way—hands at Mike’s waist, steady and warm. Mike flopped onto the mattress gracelessly, laughing into his sleeve.

 

Will climbed up after him with significantly more coordination and sat beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

 

From up here, the room looked fuzzier, brighter, softer.

Max and El were now dramatically dueting something from Tangled, Lucas conducting them with a stolen pen.

Dustin was trying to fold a blanket into a cape.

 

Will nudged Mike’s shoulder. “It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?”

 

“What, Dustin slowly losing consciousness?” Mike said.

 

“No,” Will laughed quietly. “All of them. This.”

 

Mike leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy, chest warm. “Yeah. It’s… good.”

 

Will sat close enough that their knees touched. Not dramatically. Just pleasantly, solidly.

It grounded Mike in a way he didn’t expect.

 

They sat like that for a minute or two—letting the chaos wash over them, not needing to fill the space, sharing small smiles or eye rolls whenever Dustin shouted something unhinged, or when Max tried (and failed) to hit a high note.

 

Then El turned around, still clutching the hairbrush, face glowing with excitement.

 

“I have an idea!” she announced.

 

Max sighed. “Oh no.”

 

Lucas winced preemptively. “Please not karaoke roulette again.”

 

El shook her head. “No. Truth or Dare.”

 

Dustin gasped. “CHAOS.”

 

Mike closed his eyes and let his head thump lightly against the wall.

Of course.

 

Will laughed under his breath. “We’re too old for this.”

 

“We are absolutely not,” Mike said—because being drunk made him honest.

 

Will nudged him again. “You’re already scared.”

 

“I’m not scared,” Mike insisted, face heating even as he said it.

 

“Uh-huh,” Will hummed, unconvinced but smiling.

 

El beamed at the room as if she had just proposed a structural government reform.

“Truth or dare,” she repeated proudly, and the whole room shifted toward that new gravitational pull.

 

Mike felt the air change slightly—lighter, buzzing, dangerous in the softest, most familiar way.

 

Beside him, Will sat a fraction closer.

 

And the night—already so warm, so easy, so full—tilted again.

 

But Mike wasn’t ready to notice that yet.

 

Not consciously, anyway.

 

His body, however… very much did.

 

El pointed the hairbrush at her first victim.

 

“Dustin,” she said. “Truth or dare.”

 

Dustin saluted from the floor. “Dare. Always dare. Forever dare.”

 

Lucas groaned. “You’re going to regret that.”

 

El pressed her lips together like she was scrolling through a mental list. Then her face lit up with an idea so pure, so perfectly El, Mike felt preemptive sympathy.

 

“I dare you,” she said carefully, “to text the fifth person in your contacts… that you have explosive diarrhea.”

 

The room erupted.

 

Lucas fell sideways laughing.

Max clapped.

Will put a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Mike wheezed into the blanket beside him.

 

Dustin blinked. “Okay. I accept my destiny.”

 

He unlocked his phone with dramatically shaky hands and scrolled. Mike couldn’t see the screen, but the chaos was obvious the moment Dustin’s face went pale.

 

“Oh no,” Dustin whispered. “This is sabotage.”

 

“Who is it?” Max demanded.

 

Dustin swallowed. “…My lab TA.”

 

Lucas howled. “DO IT.”

 

“A dare is a dare,” El said, suddenly very solemn.

 

Dustin typed with exaggerated care, then read it aloud before hitting send:

 

“hi. just wanted to let you know i might not be in lab one monday. explosive diarrhea. very sad :,(.”

 

Mike nearly fell off the bed laughing.

 

Two seconds later, Dustin’s phone buzzed.

 

Everyone froze.

 

Dustin read the reply.

 

“My god,” he breathed.

 

“WHAT?” Max shrieked.

 

He held up the screen.

 

TA: Please do not come to lab if you are contagious. Feel better. And please email me next time instead of texting.

 

Lucas slapped the floor. “YOU JUST SCARED YOUR TA INTO A PUBLIC HEALTH ALERT.”

 

Dustin threw his hands up. “EL STARTED THIS.”

 

El bowed. “Thank you.”

 

The circle dissolved into laughter again, drinks sloshing, cheeks flushed, music humming low behind them.

 

Dustin wiped his eyes. “Okay—okay. My turn.”

 

He spun dramatically, arm extended, finger stopping on—

 

Will.

 

Will blinked. “Why did I feel targeted?”

 

“Probably because you were,” Dustin said. “Truth or dare?”

 

Will leaned back, thoughtful, tipping his cup against his knee. “Truth.”

 

Max booed him. “Coward.”

 

“My brain is barely functioning,” Will said. “Truth is safest.”

 

Dustin grinned with wicked delight. “What’s the worst roommate habit I have?”

 

Will didn’t hesitate. “He sleep-talks about math.”

 

Dustin gasped and pointed at him. “BETRAYAL.”

 

“It’s terrifying,” Will added calmly. “Last week he whispered about polynomial regression for ten minutes.”

 

“Knowledge never sleeps,” Dustin said proudly.

 

“You should,” Will countered.

 

Mike snorted into his sleeve.

 

Will passed the hairbrush-microphone across the circle, eyes drifting until they landed squarely—of course—on Mike.

 

Mike’s stomach flipped.

 

“Your turn,” Will said softly. “Truth or dare?”

 

Mike could’ve said truth.

He probably should have said truth.

His brain was mushy enough that lying or dodging would’ve been easy.

 

But Will’s eyes were warm, the room glowy, and Mike felt braver than he was.

 

“Dare,” Mike said.

 

Will raised an eyebrow—surprised, amused, a little impressed.

It did devastating things to Mike’s pulse.

 

“Okay,” Will said slowly, thinking. “Nothing dangerous. Nothing embarrassing.”

 

“That’s a lie,” Max mumbled.

 

Will ignored her.

 

“Your dare,” Will said, eyes flicking to Mike’s mouth before darting away again so quickly Mike wasn’t sure he’d imagined it, “is to let me pick a song… and you have to dance.”

 

Mike blinked. “Dance?”

 

Will nodded. “One song. Doesn’t have to be good.”

 

Max clapped. “YES.”

 

“No,” Lucas groaned, “Mike dancing is like watching a baby deer learn physics.”

 

Mike glared at him. “Shut up.”

 

Will’s voice softened just a little. “Just a tiny dance. With me.”

 

Mike’s brain stopped. Actually stopped.

Whatever thought he’d had before evaporated like water on hot pavement.

 

“With—you?” he repeated, trying not to choke on air.

 

“Only if you want,” Will said quickly. “It’s a dare, but, you know… consensual dare.”

 

Dustin snorted. “We believe in ethical dares in this household.”

 

Mike swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of the warmth in his face, the alcohol in his blood, the way the room felt like it had shrunk around the two of them.

 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. Deal.”

 

Will smiled—small, shy, too soft for the lighting to handle.

 

And Mike had the distinct, dangerous sense that the night was about to tilt even further.

 

Will scrolled through the playlist with the concentration of a surgeon.

Mike stood in the middle of the room, already regretting every decision that led him here.

 

“Pick something normal,” Mike begged.

 

Will shook his head. “No promises.”

 

He tapped a song.

 

The opening notes blasted through the speaker—some bizarre early-2000s pop track that sounded like it belonged in a mall montage or a chaotic middle-school dance.

 

Max screamed-laughed.

El clapped immediately.

Lucas dropped his head in his hands. “God help us.”

 

Dustin yelled, “YESSSSS, BRING THE ENERGY.”

 

Mike stared at Will. “Dude.”

 

Will shrugged, smiling in a way that made Mike’s knees weaker than any alcohol ever had. “A dare’s a dare.”

 

And then—because Will Byers was secretly chaotic as hell—he started dancing first.

 

If one could call it dancing.

 

It was more like… interpretive flailing.

 

Drunken, off-beat, entirely unserious flailing.

 

Mike lost the ability to form objections.

 

“Come on,” Will laughed, reaching out for Mike’s hand.

 

And Mike—poor, doomed, lovesick Mike—took it.

 

They danced like absolute idiots.

Terrible. Joyful. Completely off rhythm.

 

Mike tripped over his own foot immediately.

Will tripped trying to help Mike not trip.

They nearly collided with Lucas, who shouted, “I AM NOT PART OF THIS COLLISION,” and ducked away.

 

El giggled so hard she fell into Max.

Max wiped tears from her eyes. “I’ve never seen Mike move like that.”

 

Dustin filmed everything, probably for blackmail.

 

But Mike barely registered any of it.

 

Because Will was laughing—really laughing—eyes squinted, cheeks flushed, head thrown back.

He looked alive.

He looked happy.

 

And Mike felt something somewhere in his chest unwind, loosen, bloom.

 

They danced until they were breathless, until the song dissolved into another, until the room was spinning in a soft, warm way and Mike’s face hurt from smiling.

 

When the track ended, Mike tried to sit back on the bed and missed by several inches.

 

Will snorted. “Okay—your turn,” he teased, tugging Mike up and guiding him toward the mattress.

 

Mike laughed through the fall, pulling Will with him for balance.

They landed in a heap—hands finding shoulders, arms bracing against hips, everything warm and too close and too easy.

 

Mike’s hand lingered on Will’s waist a second too long.

Will didn’t move away.

 

Both of them red-cheeked and breathless.

 

Mike knew he’d replay this moment a thousand times later, probably until he died.

 

But right now?

Right now he wasn’t thinking.

Right now he was just living.

 

Will sat beside him, still catching his breath. “Not bad for a man with two left feet.”

 

“That’s generous,” Mike said, grinning helplessly.

 

Max snapped her fingers. “Alright, Wheeler. Truth or dare privileges mean you pick the next victim.”

 

Mike wiped his face with both hands. “Okay. Max.”

 

She looked thrilled. “Dare.”

 

Mike didn’t think.

He didn’t filter.

 

“I dare you,” he said, “to take a shot of Dustin’s… thing.”

 

The room fell silent.

 

Dustin gasped. “THE CONCOCTION?”

 

Lucas whispered, horrified, “Mike, dude, she almost lost vision last time.”

 

Max’s face went completely blank—a hardened warrior accepting her fate. “Pour it.”

 

Dustin scrambled to his backpack and pulled out the tiny bottle of neon-colored liquid he had been hiding like contraband.

 

Mike poured it. It fizzed ominously.

 

Max lifted the glass. “If I die, someone text my mom.”

 

She downed it in one shot.

 

Everyone screamed.

 

Max’s eyes watered so aggressively she had to blink through the chemical burn. “It tastes like sadness and battery acid.”

 

Dustin beamed. “That means it’s working.”

 

Max coughed. “Working at WHAT?”

 

Then, because this group was stupid and loyal and a little drunk—

 

El held out her glass next. “In solidarity.”

 

Lucas sighed and followed. “I hate all of you.”

 

Dustin proudly poured his own.

 

Will nudged Mike gently. “You too, Wheeler.”

 

Mike groaned. “If this kills me, I’m haunting Dustin’s descendants.”

 

They all lifted their glasses.

 

Mike glanced at Will beside him.

 

Will raised his glass last, eyes soft. “To tonight.”

 

Mike swallowed hard, pulse doing something dangerous.

 

“To tonight,” he echoed.

 

They knocked back the shots.

 

They immediately regretted it.

 

Max gagged. Dustin coughed violently. Lucas choked on air. El made a tiny distressed noise. Mike thought his soul briefly left his body.

 

Will wheezed, “WHY WOULD ANYONE DRINK THIS?”

 

Dustin threw his arms up proudly. “TRADITION.”

 

Mike collapsed backward onto the mattress, laughing uncontrollably.

 

Will leaned over him, laughing too.

 

And the party raged on.

 

The party thinned out slowly, dissolving into warm laughter and sloppy goodbyes as the night deepened.

 

Max and El were the first to leave—they stood together near the door, swaying slightly, each gripping the other’s arms like a pair of giggly newborn giraffes trying to walk.

 

“We’re good,” Max insisted, while leaning entirely on El.

 

“You are not good,” Lucas said from the floor.

 

“We’re GREAT,” El corrected proudly, eyelids half-closed but smiling so wide Mike felt something in his chest pinch with fondness.

 

Max pushed up on her toes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Lucas’s mouth.

Lucas blinked, startled, then grinned stupidly.

 

Will immediately gasped like an overexcited parent. “AWWW—”

 

“Shut up,” Lucas said through a smile, throwing a pillow at him.

 

Max pointed sternly at Will. “Be nice to him.”

 

“I am nice to him,” Will argued.

 

“Shut up, Byers,” Lucas said again.

 

El helped Max pull her jacket on while trying not to fall over herself. “We love you,” she declared to the room, waving as they stumbled into the hallway.

 

The second the door shut, the dorm went still—except for Dustin’s snoring.

 

Loud snoring.

 

The kind of snoring that suggested his soul had temporarily left his body.

 

Lucas sighed, dragging himself off the floor and kneeling beside the beanbag. “Dustin. Dude. Wake up.”

 

Dustin did not wake up.

He just snored louder.

 

Lucas tried again. “Get UP. I will not deal with this alone.”

 

Dustin responded by mumbling something incoherent about “honor” and “fortnite.”

 

Mike covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

Will didn’t bother hiding his.

 

Lucas stared down at Dustin with defeated resignation.

“…Fine.”

 

He grabbed a marker from Mike’s desk drawer—God knows why one was there—uncapped it, and scribbled something on Dustin’s cheek.

 

Mike leaned over Will’s shoulder to see.

 

A tiny lopsided mustache.

Terrible, crooked, and majestic.

 

Mike snorted so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

Will clamped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

 

Lucas tossed the marker aside. “There. That’s what he gets.”

 

Then, exhausted, Lucas climbed onto his bed—if “climbed” meant “flopped sideways like a corpse.”

He ended up half-on, half-off the mattress, one sock missing and the other hanging halfway off his toes. Blanket nowhere near him.

 

Will took out his phone and snapped a picture.

 

“For blackmail,” he whispered.

 

Mike whispered back, “You’re evil.”

 

“Thank you,” Will said sweetly.

 

Then he turned the camera toward Dustin—snoring face-down on the beanbag with the crooked mustache—and took another photo.

 

“I have an album for these,” Will said, proud.

 

Mike’s voice cracked. “Of course you do.”

 

And then—

 

Silence.

 

For the first time all night.

 

No shouting.

No music.

No clinking shot glasses.

Just the low hum of the heater, Dustin’s snoring, and the faint ringing in Mike’s ears from the alcohol.

 

The room was dim, washed in the warm gold light that made shadows look soft instead of lonely.

 

Will sat beside him on the bed, knee brushing Mike’s as if drawn there subconsciously.

 

Mike felt it everywhere.

 

Will exhaled, slow and deep, then said quietly:

 

“Can I… sleep here tonight?”

 

Mike’s heart stalled.

 

Like fully stalled.

 

He forced his brain to reboot. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, of course. I was—I kind of expected that, honestly.”

 

Will’s shoulders sagged with relief he didn’t bother hiding. His voice was small, softer than any version Mike had heard tonight. “I just… don’t feel like being alone in my room.”

 

Something in Mike’s chest cracked open.

 

“Yeah,” Mike said again, gentler. “Yeah, I get that.”

 

Will nodded once, looking at his hands. “Thank you.”

 

And Mike—stupid, drunk, suddenly unsteady Mike—was hit by a flash of the dream again.

 

Will leaning into him.

Will’s breath warm on his neck.

Will’s fingers laced with his.

 

His throat tightened.

His stomach flipped.

 

He blinked hard, but the image didn’t go away.

 

Will noticed instantly—of course he did.

 

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for Mike to feel the heat of him. “Where’d you go just now?”

 

“I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Mike swallowed hard. “Just… thinking.”

 

“About?” Will asked, voice low in a way that made Mike’s pulse stumble.

 

“Stuff.”

 

Oh god.

Oh god, kill me, actually kill me.

 

Will didn’t push. He just nodded slowly, eyes kind in the dim light.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Stuff.”

 

Mike let out a shaky breath he hoped Will didn’t hear.

 

He heard it.

Mike could tell by the tiny crease of concern between his brows.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” Will asked softly.

 

Mike nodded. “Yeah. Just… buzzed. And tired.”

 

He was lying.

Or maybe not lying—just not telling the whole truth.

 

The truth was that the dream and the night and the alcohol and the warmth between them were forming something dangerous under his ribs.

 

But he wasn’t ready for that.

 

Not yet.

 

Will nudged his shoulder gently. “We can sleep soon.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Will yawned, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy cat.

 

Mike almost died on the spot.

 

They shifted on the bed, closer without meaning to, the silence settling again—comfortable, heavy, alive.

 

The first true quiet of the night.

 

And the kind that made everything feel louder inside Mike’s chest.

 

They didn’t even have to talk about it.

 

Mike lifted the blanket.

Will slid under like he’d been doing it his whole life.

 

Because this wasn’t the first time.

Not even close.

 

Last semester, after a party at one of Dustin’s engineering club friends’ apartments, Will had gotten sick around dawn, muttered something about not wanting to be alone, and meandered his way into Mike’s room and curled into his bed like a sleepy cat.

Mike had woken up to limbs tangled with his, Will’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, the soft weight of him breathing steadily through a hangover.

 

Mike had replayed it for months.

 

So yeah—this wasn’t new.

 

But that didn’t make it easy.

 

Not tonight.

Not with the dream still fresh in his skull like a bruise he couldn’t stop poking.

 

Mike lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, willing his heartbeat to chill out.

 

Will slid onto his side beside him, blanket rustling, knee bumping Mike’s thigh before settling close, closer, too close.

 

Then—

 

Without hesitation, without asking—

 

Will slipped one leg between Mike’s calves.

 

Mike nearly blacked out.

 

Stay calm. Stay calm. He’s drunk. This is normal. We have shared body heat before. You are not dying. You are not dying.

 

Then Will rested an arm over Mike’s stomach.

 

Light at first.

Then heavier.

Comfortable.

Possessive, in the innocently drunken way that felt like gravity instead of choice.

 

Mike’s breath hitched quietly—too quietly for anyone but Will this close to hear.

 

And Will… did hear.

 

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

He just settled in, cheek against Mike’s shoulder, breath warm and soft against Mike’s neck in a way that made every cell in Mike’s body light up like a fuse.

 

Will’s voice was barely above a mumble.

 

“You’re warm,” he said, like that was some profound discovery.

 

Mike swallowed hard. “You’re… drunk.”

 

“I know.” Will nuzzled closer—actually nuzzled, the bastard—and continued, “But you’re still warm.”

 

Mike’s pulse rocketed to Mars.

 

He wanted to close his eyes.

He wanted to stop breathing.

He wanted to climb out of his own skin.

 

Instead he forced himself to stay perfectly still while Will molded himself around him like a koala clinging to a tree.

 

“Comfy?” Will murmured, half-asleep already.

 

Mike choked on a dry laugh. “Sure. Yeah. Totally fine.”

 

Will hummed—a soft sound that vibrated right against Mike’s collarbone. His fingers curled slightly where they rested on Mike’s stomach, warm through the fabric of Mike’s shirt.

 

Mike bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Do not think about the dream. Do NOT think about the dream.

 

Naturally, he thought about the dream.

 

Will on top of him on this very bed.

Will’s breath on his neck.

Will whispering that he smelled good.

Will’s lips dangerously close—

 

Mike’s eyes flew open, pulse sprinting.

 

Will shifted again, rubbing his nose lightly against Mike’s jaw as if searching for a comfortable spot. “Mmmm. S’nice.”

 

Mike was absolutely going to die.

 

Will’s rambling drifted in and out, slurred at the edges, soft as cotton.

 

“You’re… good,” he murmured. “You’re… you take care of everyone. Even me.”

 

Mike forced a breath. “Yeah, well. Someone has to.”

 

Will’s fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of Mike’s shirt, like he was anchoring himself there. “I’m grateful for you,” he whispered.

 

The words landed in Mike’s chest like a match in a pile of dry leaves.

 

His throat closed.

His stomach flipped.

His whole body felt like it was burning under the blanket.

 

Will kept talking, voice fuzzy and unguarded in a way Mike had never heard sober.

 

“You always make things… feel better,” Will mumbled. “Even when I don’t tell you what’s wrong. You just—you just know.”

 

Mike stared at the ceiling, breath uneven, hands clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t do something stupid. Like hold Will. Or brush the hair off his forehead. Or bury his face into Will’s neck.

 

“I don’t—” Mike swallowed. “I don’t always know.”

 

“You do,” Will insisted, tightening his arm briefly around Mike’s stomach. “You just do.”

 

Mike pressed the back of his head into the pillow, overwhelmed.

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Will said softly.

 

Mike’s voice cracked. “Me too.”

 

Will hummed again, closer now, nose tucked against Mike’s throat, breath warm and maddening.

 

“This is nice,” Will whispered.

 

Mike wanted to scream.

 

Instead he whispered back, “Yeah. It is.”

 

The room around them was silent except for Dustin’s distant snoring and the faint hum of the heater.

 

Mike stared into the dark, wide awake, electricity buzzing under his skin.

 

Will drifted closer with every breath.

 

And Mike…

Mike lay there, fully aware, fully undone, and fully convinced that this night would haunt him for the rest of his life—in ways he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Notes:

this one is longgg and aye also a double post so hopefully i can keep this pace up!! please feel free to leave comments. i love to hear your guys feedback <3

Chapter 4: a date?

Mike wakes up before he’s supposed to.

 

Not the jolt of a hangover or the panic of a dream snapping shut—just the slow, inconvenient return to consciousness, like his body remembered something important before his brain did.

 

Warmth.

Weight.

Breath.

 

He doesn’t open his eyes right away.

 

Will is everywhere.

 

Sometime in the night, Will has fully given up on personal space. One leg is hooked over Mike’s thigh, knee tucked snug against his hip. The other is tangled somewhere under the blanket, calf pressed along Mike’s shin. Will’s arm is draped across Mike’s torso, heavy and trusting, hand curled loosely near Mike’s ribs like it belongs there.

 

Another arm is under Mike’s shoulder—probably numb by now—but Will hasn’t moved.

 

Mike’s chest rises carefully, afraid that if he breathes too deep he’ll wake him.

 

Will’s forehead is tucked under Mike’s jaw, nose brushing the side of his neck every time he exhales. His breath is warm and faintly sweet, smelling like Sprite and cheap vodka and Will. That particular clean, familiar scent that’s always clung to him—soap and laundry detergent and something that just is him.

 

Mike swallows.

 

His hoodie is twisted up a little, fabric bunched under Will’s cheek. There’s a faint sticky spot near the collar where Will must’ve spilled his drink earlier, dried now. Mike should probably be annoyed.

 

He isn’t.

 

Will shifts in his sleep, a soft hum vibrating against Mike’s throat. His fingers twitch once, then settle more firmly against Mike’s side, like he’s checking that Mike’s still there.

 

Mike’s heart stutters.

 

Is this comfortable for him? Mike wonders, absurdly. He’s gonna wake up with his spine wrecked.

 

Will presses closer, as if answering the question.

 

At some point—God knows when—Will has also wedged his foot between Mike’s ankles, effectively trapping him. Mike couldn’t escape if he wanted to. Not that he wants to.

 

He catalogues the details like they might disappear if he doesn’t:

 

• the weight of Will’s leg
• the way his hair tickles Mike’s jaw
• the steady rhythm of his breathing
• the faint warmth seeping through layers of fabric

 

 

It feels… domestic.

Dangerously so.

 

Mike lies there, staring at the inside of his eyelids, painfully aware of his own body—of how awake he is now, of how every nerve feels tuned too tight. He thinks of the dream, unbidden, the echo of it lingering in the space between them.

 

He thinks of how normal this feels.

 

And how not-normal it should.

 

Will murmurs something unintelligible, lips brushing Mike’s skin in the process. Mike freezes completely, muscles locking, pulse roaring in his ears.

 

Nothing follows.

Will stays asleep.

 

Mike lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stares up at the dim ceiling, the room still dark, still quiet, still theirs for a little while longer.

 

He should move.

He doesn’t.

 

Eventually, his eyes grow heavy again—not from peace exactly, but from surrender. From knowing this moment is temporary and choosing not to fight it.

 

Mike closes his eyes.

 

Just for a bit longer.

 

By the time Mike drifts back to consciousness again, the room has changed.

 

Not loud. Not chaotic. Just… awake.

 

Light spills in through the sliver of uncovered window, pale and thin, dust motes drifting lazily in it. The heater clicks off and on with a tired sigh. Someone shifts across the room.

 

Lucas is up.

 

Mike doesn’t open his eyes right away, but he hears it—the low rustle of drawers, the soft thump of someone pulling clothes free, the unmistakable sound of Lucas moving with purpose instead of drunken collapse.

 

Will is awake too.

 

Mike knows before he sees it.

 

Will is still there, still close. Not wrapped around him the way he was earlier, but not gone either. Their legs still touch along the calf. Will’s knee rests lightly against Mike’s thigh, warm through the blanket. One of Will’s arms is tucked between them now, bent at the elbow, phone balanced in his hand like he’d been scrolling for a while.

 

Mike’s heart does something stupid.

 

Will’s phone screen glows faintly as he scrolls—Instagram, from the look of it. Nothing urgent. Nothing important. Just the quiet, idle scrolling of someone killing time.

 

Which means—

 

Mike realizes it slowly, carefully, like it might spook the thought away.

 

Will stayed.

 

He stayed there beside him all morning. Didn’t move away. Didn’t slide off the bed when he woke up. Didn’t wake Mike. Just… stayed.

 

Mike’s brain scrambles for instructions it does not have.

 

He shifts slightly, the smallest movement, testing the waters.

 

Will notices immediately.

 

He turns his head and smiles up at him—sleepy, fond, unguarded. “Morning,” he murmurs. Then, teasing, “You know it’s almost noon, right?”

 

Mike squints up at him, still half-gone. “You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not,” Will says, grinning. “You slept through my entire productive phase.”

 

Mike huffs a quiet laugh, the sound getting caught somewhere in his chest. “You don’t have a productive phase.”

 

“Rude,” Will says, tapping his shin lightly with his phone. “I scrolled so much.”

 

Mike thinks, hazily, about how long Will must’ve been awake. How careful he must’ve been not to move too much. How he could’ve gotten up at any point and didn’t.

 

The thought lands heavier than it should.

 

Across the room, Dustin stirs on the bean bag, groaning like a man returning from war.

 

“Fuck my neck,” he mutters immediately, not even opening his eyes. “I slept on it wrong. I can feel God punishing me.”

 

Lucas laughs, not even trying to hide it as he pulls a clean shirt from his drawer. “You did that to yourself.”

 

Dustin rolls onto his back with a dramatic whine. “I’m never drinking again.”

 

“No you’re not,” Lucas says, grabbing his towel. “I’m showering before you all stink up the place again.”

 

He disappears into the hallway towards to the communal showers, door clicking shut behind him.

 

Will chuckles softly at Dustin’s misery, the sound low and warm—and Mike feels it, like the vibration travels straight through his side where Will is still touching him.

 

It makes something in Mike’s chest loosen.

 

He turns his head just enough to look at Will properly now. The light catches in his hair, messy from sleep, eyes still a little puffy. There’s a faint crease on his cheek where the pillow was.

 

Mike doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next.

 

So he does nothing.

 

Will doesn’t seem to mind.

 

Dustin groans again, rolling onto his side. “Why does it feel like I slept inside a shoe.”

 

Mike snorts despite himself.

 

Will’s smile widens. He doesn’t move away.

 

And for a moment—just a small, suspended moment—everything feels easy. Like they’re not on the edge of something terrifying and fragile. Like this closeness doesn’t demand an explanation yet.

 

Mike lets himself have that.

 

Just for now.

 

Eventually, reality does what it always does and intrudes.

 

Mike shifts, finally committing to being awake, and the movement seems to set everything else in motion. The room creaks around them—bedsprings, the heater, Dustin silently cursing to himself about ‘the damn beanbag’.

 

Dustin sits up on the bean bag with a groan that sounds like it came from somewhere deep in his soul.

 

“I need a chiropractor,” he mutters. “Or a new neck. Or both.”

 

Will laughs quietly and slides his leg away from Mike’s, untangling himself with reluctant little movements. Mike feels the absence immediately, like someone turned down the heat in the room.

 

Dustin squints at them both, then rubs his eyes. “Okay. I’m going back to our room before my spine permanently locks like this.”

 

“Good plan,” Will says. “Try not to die on the way.”

 

“No promises,” Dustin replies, dragging himself to his feet and grabbing his jacket. He pauses at the door, looking back at Mike. “Thanks for not letting me choke last night.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mike says. “I think.”

 

Dustin nods solemnly and disappears down the hall.

 

Will sits for a moment longer, phone slipping into his pocket, then slides off the bed in one smooth motion. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just… done. Like the night never happened. Like the morning hadn’t either.

 

Mike hates that a little.

 

Lucas is still showering so it’s just the two of them now, the room quieter than it’s been in hours.

 

Mike pushes himself upright and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his arms over his head. His body feels loose, rested in a way he hasn’t felt in weeks.

 

He registers that with mild surprise.

 

Huh, he thinks. Guess I needed that.

 

Definitely not because Will slept next to him.

Absolutely not.

That would be ridiculous.

 

Will pulls on his hoodie, gathering his things from the floor with the careful efficiency of someone who doesn’t want to forget anything. He pauses, checking his pockets, patting them once, twice.

 

“Did you see my sketchbook?” he asks.

 

Mike points to the desk. “There.”

 

Will grabs it, flips it open briefly like he’s checking it’s real, then closes it again. He slings his bag over his shoulder and turns back toward Mike.

 

For a second, he just… stands there.

 

Looking at him.

 

“Hey,” Will says.

 

Mike looks up. “Yeah?”

 

Will hesitates. It’s subtle, but Mike catches it—the tiny pause, the way Will shifts his weight like he’s deciding something.

 

“I, uh,” Will starts, then stops. He smiles a little, almost sheepish. “Thanks for last night.”

 

Mike’s stomach flips. “For… the party?”

 

“For everything,” Will says. “Letting me stay. Being… you.”

 

There it is.

 

That thing in Mike’s chest, pulling tight.

 

He laughs it off automatically. “Yeah, well. Someone had to supervise.”

 

Will smiles wider at that, eyes soft. “Still.”

 

Another pause. This one longer.

 

Then Will adds, quieter, “I always sleep better when you’re around.”

 

The words land harder than Mike expects. Hard enough that his brain stumbles.

 

Could he—

 

Mike cuts the thought off immediately, like slamming a door.

 

It’s just a Will thing.

Will says stuff like that.

Will is affectionate.

Will is… Will.

 

“Yeah,” Mike says, forcing a shrug. “I mean, I’m not that bad to sleep next to.”

 

Will laughs softly. “No. You’re not.”

 

For a split second, it feels like Will might say something else. Something more.

 

Instead, Lucas unlocks their door and its creaks open as it usually does.

 

The moment snaps.

 

Will steps back, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I’ll see you later?”

 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Later.”

 

Will nods, gives him one last look—one Mike can’t quite read—and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle.

 

“Oh,” he adds casually, like an afterthought. “Text me if you want to hang out or something.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike says again, too fast. “I will.”

 

Will smiles once more and leaves.

 

The door clicks shut.

 

Mike sits there on the edge of his bed, staring at the spot where Will had been standing, heart doing something annoyingly loud in his chest.

 

Best sleep he’s had in weeks, he thinks.

 

Definitely not because of Will.

 

Definitely not.

 

He rubs his face with both hands and exhales, already bracing himself for how long this is going to take to figure out.

 

Later that evening, the dorm has settled into its Sunday-night hush—the kind that feels heavier than actual silence. The hallway noise is gone, replaced by the occasional door slam somewhere down the floor and the distant whir of someone’s laundry cycle still going way too late.

 

Mike sits at his desk, laptop glowing, timeline stretched across the screen like a tightrope.

 

This is it. Final touches.

 

He nudges a cut by half a second. Watches it back. Undoes it. Watches again. Adjusts the audio just enough that it stops feeling sharp and starts feeling intentional. The kind of tweak no one would ever notice except him.

 

Tomorrow’s the deadline. Monday. No more “I’ll fix it later.” No more pretending he isn’t terrified to hit submit.

 

Across the room, Lucas lies sprawled on his bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like a man at peace with the universe.

 

“I’m telling you,” Lucas says casually, “I’m good. Like, good good. I could take those midterms right now.”

 

Mike snorts without looking away from the screen. “You say that every time.”

 

“And every time I’m right,” Lucas replies. There’s no bragging in it—just self-assured certainty.

 

Mike glances over despite himself.

 

Lucas really does look relaxed. Grounded. Like someone who trusts the work he’s already done. There’s something about that confidence Mike’s always admired—not loud, not performative. Just… steady. Different from Will’s softness, but just as reassuring in its own way.

 

Mike turns back to his laptop, jaw tightening.

 

The film plays again.

 

He thinks of Will’s sketchbook.

The way he’d already started blocking out ideas.

The offhand I’ll mock up two concepts like it wasn’t a big deal.

 

A thought settles in Mike’s chest and doesn’t leave.

 

He reaches for his phone before he can overthink it.

 

Mike: hey

Mike: are you busy tonight?

 

Three dots appear almost immediately.

 

Mike’s heart jumps. Annoying.

 

Will: not really

Will: what’s up?

 

Mike stares at the screen, thumb hovering.

 

He types.

 

Deletes.

 

Types again.

 

Mike: i was gonna head to the editing lab

Mike: need to finish up some stuff before tomorrow

Mike: but also

Mike: wanted to see how the poster’s coming along

Mike: if you wanted to come with

 

He winces. Too obvious. Too much.

 

Before he can spiral further, Will responds.

 

Will: yeah

Will: i’d like that

Will: let me grab my stuff

 

Mike exhales, slow and shaky, staring at the confirmation like it might disappear.

 

Lucas, of course, notices.

 

He sits up on his elbows, watching Mike with an expression that’s way too knowing for Mike’s comfort.

 

“You’re doing the thing,” Lucas says.

 

Mike doesn’t look up. “What thing.”

 

“The thing where you pretend you’re not thinking about one specific person while thinking about literally nothing else.”

 

Mike’s ears heat. “I’m thinking about my film.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“And you-know-who.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Lucas grins to himself and flops back onto the mattress. “Just saying. You get that look.”

 

“What look.”

 

“The one where you stop blinking like a normal human being. Kinda creepy dude.”

 

Mike flips him off without turning around.

 

Lucas laughs. “Have funnn.” He draws out the last bit of his sentence torture Mike that much more.

 

Mike doesn’t answer, but his phone buzzes again—Will sending a dumb picture of his half-packed bag—and suddenly, the rest of the night feels a little lighter.

 

He saves the project one more time.

 

Tomorrow looms.

 

Of course it’s colder than it has any right to be.

 

Mike realizes this about halfway to the building, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched like that might keep the cold from finding the soft spots. Will walks beside him, matching his pace without thinking about it. They’ve always been good at that—walking together without talking, without adjusting, like their bodies remember something their brains don’t bother with anymore.

 

Will’s cheeks are pink from the cold, the kind of flushed that makes him look alive and sharp and—annoyingly—very easy to stare at and stupidly kissable. Mike catches himself doing it twice and has to physically look away the second time, eyes locking onto the cracked sidewalk like it’s suddenly fascinating.

 

You are so fucked, he thinks, distantly.

 

Will notices anyway. He always does.

 

“What?” Will asks, amused, bumping Mike’s arm lightly with his elbow.

 

“Nothing,” Mike says, immediately defensive for no reason.

 

Will hums like he doesn’t believe him, but he lets it go, which somehow makes it worse.

 

They get into the building and down to Lab B without much conversation. The quiet feels earned, not strained. Mike likes it—likes that he doesn’t have to fill the space, likes that Will doesn’t seem to expect him to.

 

Lab B is empty, thank god. Mike feels his shoulders drop the second the door closes behind them. One overhead light near the front is on, leaving the back half of the room dim and shadowy. Cozy, if you ignore the faint chill that always lingers in here no matter the season.

 

They shrug out of their jackets, moving around each other without bumping, like they’ve done this exact routine a hundred times. Mike plugs in his hard drive. Will flips open his sketchbook, pencil already in hand.

 

“So,” Will says, glancing at the screen, “are you in the ‘I hate this’ phase or the ‘I hate this but I’m pretending I don’t’ phase?”

 

Mike snorts. “I’m in the ‘if I change one more thing I’m going to ruin it’ phase.”

 

“That’s my favorite one,” Will says. “Very productive.”

 

Mike clicks through the timeline, scrubbing back and forth. “Okay, look—this transition here. I don’t know if it’s too much.”

 

Will leans closer, chair scraping softly. “Play it again.”

 

Mike does. He watches Will watch it out of the corner of his eye—how focused he gets, how still. It’s comforting. Annoyingly so.

 

“I don’t think it’s too much,” Will says. “I think you’re just tired.”

 

“I am tired,” Mike admits. “I slept, like… weirdly well, though.”

 

Will smiles faintly. “Same.”

 

That makes Mike pause. He doesn’t comment on it. Just lets it sit there between them.

 

They work like that for a while—talking more than before, quieter than usual.

 

“That shot’s good,” Will says at one point.

“You say that about all of them.”

“Because they’re all good.”

“Liar.”

“Mike.”

“Will.”

 

At some point, Will flips his sketchbook around. “Okay, don’t laugh.”

 

Mike looks. It’s not the poster—just a rough little drawing in the margin. A stupid one. A dramatic knight holding a sword that’s very clearly snapped in half.

 

“…Is that Dustin?” Mike asks.

 

Will breaks immediately. “He told me once he’d be amazing in a medieval battle.”

 

Mike laughs, loud and surprised. “He’d trip over his own armor.”

 

“He’d argue with the horse,” Will says. “He’d invent something that gets him arrested.”

 

They’re both laughing now, shoulders shaking, the sound bouncing softly off the walls. Mike has to lean back in his chair, breathless.

 

“God,” he says. “We’re terrible.”

 

Will wipes at his eyes. “I regret nothing.”

 

The laughter fades, but the closeness doesn’t. Will stays leaned in. Mike stays where he is.

 

That’s when Mike notices it.

 

A faint charcoal smudge, just to the side of Will’s nose. Barely there. Easy to miss.

 

Mike doesn’t think.

 

He just reaches out.

 

“Hold on,” he murmurs.

 

His thumb brushes Will’s cheek.

 

Will freezes.

 

Not pulls away—just stills completely, like the world narrowed down to that single point of contact. Mike’s thumb moves slowly, careful, wiping the smudge away.

 

His hand stays there.

 

Will’s eyes flicker, then lift to meet Mike’s.

 

His mouth parts slightly. Not in surprise. In something else entirely.

 

Mike feels it like a crack in his chest.

 

Heat rushes through him, sudden and overwhelming. Something in him snaps—not loudly, not enough to make him move, but enough that he knows he’s standing at the edge of something dangerous.

 

Will leans into the touch.

 

Not much. Just enough that Mike feels the warmth of his skin more fully, the softness under his thumb. Will’s breath stutters—just once—and Mike’s brain short-circuits entirely.

 

Oh.

 

The lab feels impossibly quiet. The hum of the computers fades. The distance between them collapses into nothing.

 

Mike’s thumb presses a fraction harder, not wiping now—just resting there.

 

He wants—

He wants—

 

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought.

 

Will’s gaze drops to Mike’s mouth. Then back to his eyes.

 

For a long moment, neither of them moves.

 

Then Will seems to realize what he’s doing.

 

What they’re doing.

 

He blinks, breath catching, and gently—but decisively—leans back.

 

Mike’s hand falls away, fingers curling uselessly at his side.

 

Will clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Mike. “I—um. I should probably head back.”

 

The words feel too loud in the space.

 

“Oh,” Mike says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

 

Will nods, already reaching for his bag. “I’ll finish the poster stuff tomorrow. I’ll send it to you.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike says again. “That’s—yeah.”

 

Will hesitates, standing there like he might say something else. His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.

 

Then he smiles. Small. Unsteady. “Good luck with the submission.”

 

“Thanks,” Mike says. “For coming.”

 

Will nods once and turns for the door.

 

It closes softly behind him.

 

Mike stays where he is, heart pounding, skin still burning where his hand had been.

 

He stares at the empty chair beside him for a long moment.

 

Then he turns back to the screen, hands shaking just slightly, and forces himself to click submit—because if he doesn’t do something normal right now, he might do something very, very stupid instead.

 

The lab hums on.

 

And Mike sits there, absolutely wrecked, knowing—deep down—that whatever line they just brushed up against isn’t going to unblur itself.

 

Mike doesn’t sleep so much as he cycles.

 

Drift. Wake. Drift. Wake.

 

Every time he gets close to rest, his brain yanks him back by the collar and drops him straight into the same moment—Will’s cheek under his thumb, the way he leaned in without thinking, the heat of it.

 

Mike has always been good at this. Turning one second into a thousand. He’s his own worst enemy, and he knows it.

 

By the time morning actually sticks, he feels hollowed out.

 

He lies there staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, replaying everything like it might change if he looks at it from a new angle.

 

You made it weird.

No, he leaned in.

You should not have touched him.

He didn’t pull away.

 

Mike groans quietly and rolls onto his side, burying his face in his pillow like that might shut his brain up.

 

His phone buzzes.

 

The group chat.

 

Dustin: WHO DREW THE MUSTACHE

Dustin: this is a CRIME

Lucas: you slept through it

Max: it was beautiful

Dustin: I LOOKED LIKE A VICTORIAN ORPHAN

 

Mike squints at the screen, brain still lagging.

 

Mike: tat was s funy 

 

A pause.

 

Dustin: ?????

Lucas: mike wtf lmao

Max: that was not an answer

 

Mike blinks, rereads the messages, realizes he’s completely fucked that up.

 

Mike: sorry

Mike: yeah

Mike: justice for the mustache. fuck my phones keyboard

 

Dustin: I DEMAND NAMES

 

Mike’s thumb hovers. He scrolls up.

 

No Will.

No sarcastic comment.

No quiet “you deserved it.”

 

His chest tightens just a little.

 

He locks his phone and sits up, rubbing at his face with both hands. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. Will’s probably busy. Will’s probably sleeping in. Will doesn’t always text first.

 

Still.

 

The quiet feels pointed.

 

He gets dressed, barely registering what he pulls on, and makes it to class on autopilot. The lecture hall smells like coffee and wet jackets. He slides into his seat, drops his bag, opens his notebook to a page he doesn’t intend to use.

 

The professor starts talking about the final project almost immediately.

 

“Two months,” he says. “You’ll pitch next week. I want to see ambition. I want to see risk.”

 

Mike stares at the front of the room, pen tapping against the page.

 

Two months sounds unreal. Far away. Like a future version of himself will deal with it.

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

Private this time.

 

El: morning

 

Mike exhales.

 

Mike: hey

 

A beat.

 

El: you seem tired michael

 

He almost laughs at that.

 

Mike: didn’t sleep great

 

El: party brain or what?

 

Mike hesitates.

 

Mike: something like that

 

El doesn’t push. She never really does.

 

El: want to talk or just complain

 

Mike stares at the message longer than necessary.

 

Mike: i don’t even know what i’d say

 

El: that’s okay

 

The professor’s voice drifts over him—something about scope and pacing—but Mike’s attention keeps slipping back to his phone.

 

Mike: everything just feels… too much today

 

A pause.

 

El: yeah

El: that happens sometimes

 

That’s it. No explanation. No meaning assigned.

 

Mike’s shoulders loosen a little.

 

Mike: if i start spiraling later can i bother you

 

El: always

El: i might not fix it but i can listen

 

Mike smiles faintly at that, the tension in his jaw easing just enough that he realizes he’s been biting his nails again. He flattens his hand against the desk, grounding himself.

 

Mike: thanks

 

El: anytime

 

He pockets his phone and finally looks up at the board, forcing himself to write something down even if it doesn’t stick.

 

The day moves on.

 

The group chat keeps buzzing.

Will stays quiet.

 

And Mike sits there, exhausted and wired and trying not to read into that silence more than he already has.

 

Later that day, it’s not even a debate.

 

First day of midterms over means one thing, and everyone knows it.

 

“McDonald’s,” Max says, already veering toward the parking lot.

 

Mike follows without comment, keys clutched in his hand. His car waits where it always does, a little crooked in its space, paint dulled by time and winters it’s survived out of sheer stubbornness. It suits him—unflashy, reliable, a little rough around the edges.

 

Lucas hops into the passenger seat. Max claims the back, immediately kicking her feet up on the empty seat next to her like she lives there.

 

Mike pauses before getting in, phone already in his hand.

 

Will.

 

He opens the thread before he can talk himself out of it.

 

Mike: hey

Mike: we’re grabbing mcdonald’s

Mike: want anything?

 

He sends it, then stares at the screen like that might speed things up.

 

Nothing.

 

He slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, and exhales through his nose. The silence stretches just long enough to get uncomfortable.

 

“You okay?” Lucas asks casually, already buckling in.

 

“Yeah,” Mike says. Too fast.

 

Max leans forward, resting her arms on the back of Lucas’s seat. “You’re doing the thing.”

 

“Oh my god, I’m not doing a thing.”

 

“You haven’t started the car,” she points out.

 

Mike looks down. The keys are still in his hand.

 

“Right,” he mutters, shoving them into the ignition and then… stopping again.

 

“It’s been, like, two minutes,” Lucas says. “That’s not a sign. That’s just time passing.”

 

“I know that,” Mike says, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his phone. “I just—whatever. It’s stupid.”

 

Max’s voice softens. “It’s not stupid. You’re just wound tight. First day of midterms gets to the best of us.”

 

Lucas chuckles and nods. “Also, you’re allowed to be distracted. We just finished day one. Your brain is soup.”

 

Mike lets out a breath, shoulders dropping slightly. He finally turns the key. The engine complains, then catches, the familiar rumble grounding him.

 

“Okay,” Max says. “We might live after all. C’mon Mike, no texting a driving.”

 

“Maybe, maybe not.” Mike replies, practically throwing his phone in the cup holder and easing them out of the spot.

 

They pull onto the road, conversation drifting to test questions and dumb mistakes and whether the McFlurry machine is even worth hoping for. Mike keeps his eyes forward, trying not to check his phone again.

 

It buzzes anyway, rattling faintly in the cup holder.

 

He waits a second. Then looks.

 

Will: sorry just saw this

Will: yeah if you’re already there

Will: fries would be amazing with extra honey mustard pls

 

The tension in Mike’s chest loosens so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy.

 

Lucas glances over. “There it is.”

 

“What?” Mike asks, failing to sound neutral.

 

“Your shoulders,” Lucas says. “They dropped.”

 

Max grins. “Told you.”

 

Mike shakes his head, smiling despite himself as he signals toward the drive-thru. “Shut up. I’m getting fries.”

 

“Hero,” Max says.

 

The car hums along, imperfect but steady, and for the first time all day, Mike feels like he can breathe again.

 

The drive-thru line curls around the building like it always does, red and yellow lights reflecting off the windshield. Mike rolls the window down, the cold air cutting through the car just enough to wake him up a little more.

 

The speaker crackles.

 

“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get started for you?”

 

Mike leans forward. “Yeah, can I get—”

 

“—six Happy Meals,” Max cuts in from the back seat, her voice perfectly loud and unhelpful.

 

Mike closes his eyes. “Ignore her.”

 

Lucas doesn’t even look over. “You legally can’t. She’s in the car.”

 

Mike sighs and starts again. “Okay, uh, can I get two large fries, one medium fry—”

 

“Make one of them no salt,” Max says sweetly.

 

“No,” Mike says immediately. “Absolutely not.”

 

The speaker pauses. “So… no salt?”

 

“No salt for her,” Mike clarifies. “Salt for everyone else.”

 

Max gasps like she’s been personally betrayed. “This is why people leave you.”

 

Mike snorts despite himself. “You ate half my nuggets last time.”

 

“I was protecting you from yourself.”

 

Lucas adds, “She’s right. You would’ve eaten all of them and then complained.”

 

Mike continues ordering, voice steady but shoulders finally loosening. The absurdity of it—Max trying to sabotage him, Lucas providing his usual commentary, the drive-thru employee clearly rethinking their job—cuts through the fog in his head.

 

By the time he pulls forward, his mouth actually hurts from smiling.

 

He taps the steering wheel lightly as they wait, letting himself be here. Not replaying last night. Not checking his phone. Just… present.

 

Cool it, he tells himself.

You’re allowed to have a normal day.

 

Max sticks her head between the seats again. “You look less haunted.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “McDonald’s does that.”

 

Lucas nods solemnly. “Science.”

 

Mike laughs, real and unguarded, and thinks maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s let himself spiral enough for one weekend.

 

Plus—he glances at the glowing menu board ahead—

 

It’s hard to overthink things when fries are involved.

 

They end up back in Mike and Lucas’s room the way they always do—too many bodies, not enough space, bags and wrappers spreading like evidence of a crime.

 

McDonald’s fixes nothing and everything all at once.

 

Dustin is cross-legged on the floor with a mountain of fries, narrating his own eating experience like it’s a competitive sport. Lucas sits at his desk chair, balancing a burger on one knee while scrolling through something on his phone. Max and El share the bean bag, knees touching, quietly arguing about whether one of Max’s mid term project is “objectively evil” or just badly explained.

 

Mike sits on his bed.

 

Will doesn’t.

 

That’s the first thing Mike notices.

The second is how hard he’s trying not to notice it.

 

Will’s on the floor near El, back against the bedframe, fried and honey mustard in his hand, phone balanced on his thigh. Close—but not close. Not their usual easy lean, not shoulder to shoulder, not stealing fries off Mike’s plate like he owns them.

 

The room keeps moving. The conversation keeps flowing.

 

“And then he said the essay was only ten pages like that was supposed to help,” Dustin says, gesturing wildly with a nugget.

 

Mike nods at the right places. Laughs when he’s supposed to. Tries very hard not to catalog the inches of space like they’re a problem to solve.

 

You’re fine, he tells himself.

This is normal.

You’re being weird.

 

Still—his chest feels tight.

 

The group notices, of course. They always do. Max’s eyes flicker between them once or twice. Lucas goes suspiciously quiet. El glances at Will, then at Mike, then looks away like she’s politely pretending not to see something fragile.

 

No one says anything.

 

They don’t have to.

 

After a minute, Will wipes his hands on a napkin and stands. “Hey, Mike?”

 

Mike looks up too fast. “Yeah?”

 

“Can I—uh. Can I talk to you for a second?”

 

Mike almost chokes on his nugget.

 

“Yeah,” he says quickly, swallowing. “Yeah, sure.”

 

Will hesitates, then adds, “Maybe… downstairs?”

 

Downstairs.

 

Mike’s heart starts sprinting. “Okay.”

 

Lucas watches them go with a carefully neutral expression. Max raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Dustin is too busy arguing with his fries to notice.

 

Mike follows Will out into the hallway, pulse loud in his ears. They don’t speak as they take the stairs down. The further they go, the quieter it gets, until it’s just the low hum of the building and Mike’s thoughts getting steadily worse.

 

Will stops in front of his door and unlocks it.

 

Mike steps inside.

 

Will’s room smells like paper and laundry detergent and something faintly sweet. Perhaps from the candle burner that Johnathan got Will for Christmas last year. It’s neat in the way only Will’s spaces ever are, sketchbooks stacked carefully on his desk.

 

Will shuts the door behind them.

 

Mike turns around.

 

His heart is in his throat. His stomach is hollow. His brain is already bracing for… something.

 

Will rubs the back of his neck. He looks nervous. Genuinely nervous. Not flustered—uncertain.

 

“So,” Will says. “This is… kind of random.”

 

Mike nods, forcing himself to breathe. “Okay.”

 

Will takes a small step closer, then stops. “I, um. I have a date.”

 

The words land wrong.

 

Not loud. Not dramatic.

 

Well maybe.

 

But mostly… wrong.

 

Mike feels it immediately—like his body missed a step going downstairs and now everything is off balance.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

He doesn’t mean for it to come out flat, but it does.

 

“Yeah,” Will says, nodding quickly. “I mean—it’s nothing huge. Just… I’ve never really—” He laughs softly, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Mike’s appetite vanishes in a blink. The taste of grease and salt turns to nothing.

 

“A date,” he repeats, dumbly.

 

Will smiles, tentative. “Yeah.”

 

“With…?” Mike asks, already hating himself for asking.

 

Will hesitates just long enough for the answer to hurt more.

 

“Some guy from my studio class.”

 

Of course.

 

Mike thinks of the texts Will kept getting. The smile. The name he never asked about because he wasn’t supposed to care.

 

Jealousy flares hot and ugly in his chest.

 

He swallows it down.

 

“Oh,” Mike says again, this time steadier. “Right. Yeah. That’s—cool.”

 

Will watches his face closely. “I just… wanted your advice. You’re good at this stuff.”

 

Mike almost laughs. Almost says you have no idea how wrong that is.

 

Instead, he nods. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

 

He keeps his voice even. Casual. He’s very proud of how well he’s hiding the fact that his insides feel like they’re collapsing.

 

“Just—be yourself,” he says. The words feel automatic, hollow. “If they asked you out, they already like you. Don’t overthink it.”

 

Will’s shoulders relax a little. “That’s what El said too.”

 

Mike forces a smile. “Smart.”

 

Will smiles back, relieved, and for a split second Mike hates how easy it is for him to look happy.

 

“Thanks,” Will says. “I knew you’d get it.”

 

Mike nods. “Anytime.”

 

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

 

Mike realizes—too late—that he’s holding onto the edge of Will’s desk. He lets go.

 

“Well,” he says. “I should probably—go back upstairs. Before Dustin eats my fries.”

 

Will laughs softly. “Yeah.”

 

Mike reaches for the door.

 

Behind him, Will opens his mouth like he might say something else.

 

Mike doesn’t turn around.

 

The door closes behind him, and the hallway feels colder than it did a minute ago.

 

He stands there for a second too long, heart in his stomach, jealousy burning low and furious under his ribs—an uncomfortable lump starting to form in the pit of his throat.

 

And wonders how the hell he’s supposed to survive the rest of this.

Notes:

this chapter is definitely more on the filler side, but i promise there are little seeds being planted all over the place that will matter later. i really wanted this one to breathe and feel lived-in, especially after everything that happened, so i hope the flow felt good here and throughout the story so far.

thank you so much for all the hits and kudos, it genuinely means a lot to me. and please feel free to leave comments — i love reading them and hearing what you think!

Chapter 5: vincent the vampire

Mike closes the door behind him like the room might shatter if he doesn’t.

The lights are lower now. The party remnants sits untouched—crumpled napkins, empty cups, a half-open fry box on the desk. The air still smells faintly like grease and sugar and something citrusy someone spilled and never wiped up.

Max and El are gone. Their absence is quiet but noticeable, like when a room cools down after a heater shuts off.

Dustin is still on the floor, back against the bean bag, arms folded over his stomach like he’s bracing himself for tomorrow. Lucas is halfway through pulling his hoodie off when Mike walks in.

Lucas looks up.

And immediately stops moving.

Mike doesn’t look devastated. He looks… undone. Like someone loosened a screw behind his eyes and everything is just barely holding together out of habit.

“Hey,” Lucas says, softer than usual.

Mike nods once. He doesn’t say anything. He walks to his bed and sits down hard, elbows on his knees, hands hanging uselessly between them.

For a second, no one speaks.

Dustin’s eyes flick between Mike and Lucas, reading the room the way he always does when something shifts. “Max walked El back,” he offers quietly. “El said she’d text you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Mike says. His voice cracks on the word.

That’s when Lucas moves.

Not rushing. Just sitting down beside him, close enough that their knees bump. The joking, easy confidence Lucas usually wears is gone—replaced by something steadier, more careful.

“What happened,” he says. Not a question. An opening.

Mike stares at the floor. His chest feels tight in a way he doesn’t recognize right away. He opens his mouth, closes it, scrubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wake himself up.

“If I start talking,” he mutters, “I’m gonna lose it.”

Dustin shifts, already halfway onto the bed without even realizing he’s doing it. “Okay,” he says. “Then lose it. We’re here.”

Mike lets out a short, shaky breath. “He—” His voice gives out entirely this time.

He freezes, eyes wide, like he’s surprised by the sudden sting behind them.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit.”

The tears come fast after that—not dramatic, not loud. Just… there. Sliding down his face like his body decided before he did. He swipes at them angrily, embarrassed.

“This is stupid,” he says, voice thick. “I’m being stupid.”

Lucas immediately shakes his head. “Nope.”

Dustin is fully on the bed now, awkwardly leaning in, one arm hovering like he’s not sure where to put it before finally settling around Mike’s shoulders. “This isn’t stupid,” he says. “This is just… bad timing emotions.”

Mike huffs a weak, broken laugh that turns into another breathy sob before he can stop it. He presses his palms into his eyes, shoulders curling inward.

“He has a date,” he manages. “He asked me for advice. Like—real advice.”

Lucas swears under his breath.

“With some guy from his studio class,” Mike continues, words spilling now that the dam’s broken. “And I think it’s tonight. That’s why he was asking. And I—” He shakes his head helplessly. “I was nice. I was normal. I did everything right.”

Dustin squeezes his shoulder. “That’s the worst part.”

Mike laughs again, wet and incredulous. “Right? Like, why does doing the right thing feel so bad?”

Lucas sits closer, their shoulders pressed together now. “Because you didn’t get to be honest.”

Mike goes quiet at that.

His face twists, not in heartbreak exactly—more confusion. Like he’s holding something he doesn’t have the language for.

“I don’t even feel mad,” he says softly. “I just feel… gross. And hollow. Like I lost something that was never really mine.”

Dustin nods like that makes perfect sense. “That makes sense, Mike.”

“I didn’t expect it to hurt,” Mike admits. “I thought I could just—deal with it. Push it down. But the second he said it, it was like my body gave up trying.”

Lucas reaches out without thinking and pulls Mike into his side, firm and grounding. “Hey. You’re not broken for this.”

Mike leans into him instinctively, forehead dropping against Lucas’s shoulder. The contact makes his breath hitch again.

“I hate that I’m crying,” he whispers.

Dustin snorts gently. “Dude, if you weren’t crying, I’d be worried.”

That gets a real laugh out of Mike—short, watery, surprised.

They sit there like that for a while. No big speeches. No fixing. Just Lucas’s steady presence, Dustin’s arm warm around him, the room quiet except for Mike’s breathing slowly evening out.

Eventually, Mike wipes at his face and exhales shakily. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Lucas says immediately.

“Yeah,” Dustin adds. “We literally jumped on your bed. This is on us.”

Mike shakes his head, but a small, tired smile flickers there.

He still feels awful.

But not alone.

 

Mike says he’s going to take a nap, mostly because it sounds like a normal thing to say.

Lucas squints at him like he knows that’s only half true. Dustin opens his mouth like he’s about to ask something invasive, then thinks better of it.

“Okay,” Lucas says instead, grabbing his hoodie. “We’re gonna… do a thing.”

Dustin grins immediately. “A thing.”

Mike sniffs. “You’re definitely up to no good.”

“Absolutely,” Dustin says. “But not your no good.”

Lucas pauses at the door, glancing back. “You good here?”

Mike nods. It’s honest enough. “Yeah.”

They leave without another word, the door clicking shut behind them. The sound feels louder than it should.

The room settles.

It’s strange how quickly it changes—how a space full of people can feel wrong once they’re gone. The hum of the building feels more noticeable now. The air sits heavier. Even the bed feels bigger than it’s supposed to.

Mike lies back and stares at the ceiling.

He does like being alone, sometimes. He always has. There’s something comforting about not having to perform, not having to respond or react. But tonight it feels… uncanny. Like the room is missing something essential and keeps reminding him of it.

Will.

The thought slips in before he can stop it.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to shove it back down, but it’s stubborn. Will in his room earlier. Will’s voice. Will’s smile when he talked about the date, hopeful and nervous and real.

He’s with someone else, Mike thinks, and the words still sting.

He rolls onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. It smells faintly like detergent and something familiar—maybe Will from earlier, maybe his brain making things worse on purpose.

“Stop,” he mutters to no one.

His phone buzzes against the mattress.

El: hey
El: i know i said tomorrow but i didn’t want to wait

Mike exhales, rolling onto his back and picking it up.

Mike: it’s okay
Mike: i’m still awake

A beat.

El: how are you really

He stares at the screen for a moment. Considers lying. Decides he’s too tired to do it well.

Mike: not great
Mike: but not completely falling apart

El: that’s something

He huffs quietly. His chest feels tight again, but not in the sharp, panicky way from earlier. Just… sore.

Mike: i didn’t think it would hit me like this

El: yeah
El: i figured

Not judgmental. Just honest.

Mike: i feel stupid
Mike: like i missed something obvious

El takes longer to respond this time.

El: i don’t think you missed it
El: i think you weren’t ready to look at it yet

Mike swallows.

Mike: he seemed excited
Mike: about the date

El: he did
El: but that doesn’t mean you imagined everything else

Mike presses the phone to his chest for a second, grounding himself.

Mike: you gave him advice too

El: yeah

Mike: does that make me a bad person
Mike: for wishing he wouldn’t go

El’s reply comes almost immediately.

El: no
El: it makes you human

Mike lets his head sink back into the pillow, eyes stinging—not crying this time, just close.

Mike: i don’t know what to do with it

El: you don’t have to do anything right now
El: just feel it
El: and let it pass when it’s ready

He stares up at the ceiling again, the room still too quiet, still wrong—but a little less crushing now.

Mike: thank you for checking in

El: always
El: even if you don’t text first

A small smile tugs at his mouth.

Mike: i’m gonna try to take a nap

El: okay
El: i’ll be here when you wake up

Mike sets the phone down beside him and closes his eyes.

The room is still empty.
Will is still somewhere else.

 

Mike doesn’t remember falling asleep.

One second he’s staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks and trying not to think about anything too hard, and the next—

The door opens.

Not quietly.
Attempted quietly.

There’s a loud thump, followed by a hissed, “Dude—” and then an unmistakable crinkle.

Mike groans softly and rolls onto his side, rubbing at his eyes. He props himself up on one elbow, squinting toward the door just as—

“NO,” Lucas says, way too loud for someone allegedly sneaking. “Close your eyes.”

“What?” Mike mutters, voice thick with sleep. “Why are you yelling.”

“Eyes,” Lucas repeats, urgent now. “Close them. Don’t open them. Not yet.”

Dustin snickers somewhere near the desk. “He’s already awake, man.”

“I don’t care,” Lucas snaps. “Close them, Wheeler.”

Mike sighs, but he does it. Lets himself fall back against the pillows, eyes shut, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth.

“I knew you were up to no good,” he mumbles.

There’s more rustling—bags shifting, something being set down maybe a little too hard. Dustin’s laugh bubbles up again, unable to stay contained.

“This is stealth,” Dustin whispers, not stealthily at all.

“Shut up,” Lucas says. “Okay. Okay. You can look.”

Mike opens his eyes.

And blinks.

On his bed—his bed—sits a bright orange bag of Cheetos, the big kind, alongside a fresh pack of Thin Mint Oreos. His favorites. The ones he never buys because he convinces himself he doesn’t need them and then regrets it every time.

He looks up at them, then at Lucas and Dustin, who are both standing there pretending very hard like this isn’t a big deal.

“…Are you kidding me,” Mike says.

Dustin grins. “We are not.”

Lucas shrugs, suddenly very interested in the floor. “We were already out. Figured you might need something.”

Mike lets out a surprised laugh, rubbing at his face again—this time not to wipe tears away, just to ground himself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Dustin says, flopping onto the edge of the bed without asking. “You looked like a Victorian child with the flu earlier, so.”

Lucas adds, quieter, “We just… wanted you to have something.”

Something warm settles in Mike’s chest. 

He reaches out and pulls the snacks closer, fingers brushing the crinkly plastic like it might disappear if he doesn’t touch it. He laughs again, softer now.

“You guys are idiots,” he says fondly.

Dustin beams. “Correct.”

Lucas finally looks up at him, eyes steady. “You feeling any better?”

Mike considers it. The room doesn’t feel so hollow anymore. The silence doesn’t press in as hard. His chest still aches—but it’s bearable. Sharable.

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “A little.”

Lucas nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

Dustin grabs the bag of Cheetos without asking. “Cool, because I’m eating these.”

“Hey,” Mike protests, but there’s no real heat in it. He just shakes his head, smiling.

He leans back against the pillows, surrounded by crumbs and stupid laughter and friends who show up with snacks instead of speeches.

His heart warms in a way that surprises him.

 

By the time Mike settles into his second class of the day, he’s already worn thin.

The lecture hall is colder than it needs to be, rows of seats sloping downward toward a whiteboard already crowded with words that look important but refuse to stick. Philosophy. A gen ed he still resents a little—not because it’s hard, but because it insists on making him think in directions he doesn’t always want to go.

Today’s topic is something about desire and suffering. The professor is mid-sentence, pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back.

“…the idea that wanting something is not inherently bad,” he’s saying, “but that attachment—clinging—is what creates pain.”

Mike stares at the notebook in front of him, pen resting uselessly in the crease of the page.

That feels personal, he thinks, not for the first time.

His leg bounces. He checks the clock. Forty-three minutes left.

He’s counting them, even though he knows it won’t make them pass any faster. Counting down until late lunch. Until the dining hall. Until he sees Will again.

It’s strange how quickly his brain has shifted. Last night, everything felt raw and hollow, like he’d scraped himself down to something tender and didn’t know how to cover it back up. He cried—actually cried—in front of Lucas and Dustin, which still feels surreal in hindsight. Embarrassing, sure, but also… relieving in a way he hasn’t quite wrapped his head around.

This morning, though, the pain has settled into something quieter. Not gone. Just… rearranged.

Now there’s curiosity sitting alongside it.

How did the date go?

Mike doesn’t know why he cares so much about that specific detail. He tells himself it’s because he wants Will to be happy. That’s true—has always been true. Will’s happiness has been a north star for him for years, even when he didn’t fully understand why.

But he’s starting to suspect that’s also where the jealousy comes from.

Not from entitlement. Not from ownership.

From this deep, unshakeable belief that he knows Will in a way that’s hard to replicate. That he’s seen him at his quietest, his most unsure, his most open. That Will has told him—more than once—that Mike makes things feel steadier. Safer. That being around him feels like coming up for air.

Mike knows he’s capable of making Will happy.

That knowledge sits in his chest like a weight he doesn’t know where to put.

His phone buzzes softly against the desk.

The group chat.

Dustin: ok serious question
Dustin: is it socially acceptable to eat lunch at 3 pm or do i need to lie about it

Max: it’s a late lunch
Lucas: or an early dinner
Dustin: or a cry for help

Mike huffs quietly, a corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.

Mike: it’s food
Mike: eat it

Almost immediately, another message pops up.

Will: dustin you ate cereal at midnight last night you don’t get to have standards

Mike’s breath catches, just a little.

There he is.

Normal. Casual. Typing like everything’s fine.

His fingers hover over the screen before he responds.

Dustin: that was a STRATEGIC decision

Will: it was lucky charms

Max: okay but are we all free for dining hall later
Max: i’m starving and refusing to cook

Lucas: yeah i’m done around 2:30

Will: same
Will: meet there?

Mike stares at Will’s message longer than necessary. The words don’t give anything away. No hints. No undertones. Just logistics.

He types anyway.

Mike: yeah
Mike: works for me

He locks his phone and leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling for half a second before forcing his attention back to the front of the room.

The professor is talking about Aristotle now. About virtue being found in the middle ground—not excess, not deficiency, but balance.

Mike snorts quietly at that.

Balance feels like a myth.

Still, as class drags on, he finds himself grounding in the idea that whatever happens later—whatever Will says or doesn’t say—he’ll handle it. He’ll listen. He won’t push. He won’t make it about himself unless Will makes it about them.

He means that.

Because underneath everything—under the jealousy, the ache, the confusion—what he wants is simple.

He wants Will to be okay.

He gathers his things when class finally lets out, slinging his bag over his shoulder as students funnel toward the exits. Outside, the air is sharp and clean, the kind that wakes you up whether you want it to or not.

Late lunch is coming.

So is Will.

And Mike squares his shoulders, reminding himself that caring doesn’t have to mean clinging on.

 

The dining hall is louder than Mike expects.

Not chaotic—just full. Chairs scraping, trays clattering, overlapping conversations bouncing off the high ceiling. The smell of soy sauce and garlic hangs thick in the air, unmistakable and, for once, not unpleasant.

Stir-fry day.

Which is shocking, honestly, because it’s… good. Like, actually edible. Mike clocks this absently as he follows the group through the line, letting Dustin ramble about noodles while Lucas debates protein choices with Max like it’s a moral issue.

El isn’t there.

“She said she’s hanging out with a girl from her stats class,” Max explains, dumping broccoli into her bowl. “Something about study buddies or something like that.’”

“Statistics hurts my brain,” Dustin says solemnly.

Mike nods, even though the absence feels noticeable. El usually smooths things out. Without her, the table feels slightly off-kilter, like a chair leg that doesn’t quite touch the floor.

They find a spot anyway.

Mike sets his tray down and slides into his seat—

—and Will sits next to him.

Not across. Not diagonally. Next to.

Mike feels it immediately, a small, involuntary release in his chest. Comfort, first. Then—almost immediately—worry, sharp and quiet.

Okay. Normal. This is normal.

Will smells like clean laundry and cold air. His knee bumps Mike’s under the table, just barely, and doesn’t move away.

Conversation stutters for a beat.

Then Max, bless her complete lack of restraint, leans forward with both elbows on the table.

“So,” she says. “The date.”

Mike’s spine straightens without his permission.

Will freezes.

He stares down at his plate like it’s personally betrayed him. “Wow,” he says. “No easing into it, huh.”

“Nope,” Max says cheerfully. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

Dustin grins. “Same.”

Lucas adds, “I brought snacks for this.” He gestures vaguely to nothing.

Mike tells himself—very firmly—not to lean in.

He fails.

He’s halfway across the table before he catches himself, forearms braced like he’s about to be quizzed too. He forces himself to sit back, jaw tight, heart beating a little too fast.

Act normal. Don’t be weird. Don’t look eager.

Will clears his throat. “Okay. Fine.”

He glances around the table, then—just for a split second—his eyes flick to Mike. Something unreadable passes between them before Will looks away again.

“So. His name is Vincent.”

Mike blinks.

Of course it is.

“Sounds like a vampire,” Dustin says immediately.

“Thank you,” Mike mutters. He can’t help it.

Will snorts. “Right? I should’ve known.”

Max is already losing it. “Oh my god.”

“He picked me up,” Will continues, picking at his noodles. “Which was… nice. I guess. We went to the movies. They were doing a rerun of Back to the Future.”

“Okay,” Lucas says. “That’s solid.”

“It was fine,” Will says. “I was nervous at first, but I kind of settled in.”

Mike swallows.

Of course you did. You’re Will. People like you.

“And then,” Will adds, quieter, “he tried to hold my hand.”

Mike’s stomach dips.

Max leans closer. “And?”

“It was just… weird,” Will says, grimacing. “Not bad-weird. Just—awkward. Like he grabbed my hand instead of holding it. Too tight. No warning.”

Mike’s jaw clenches.

Too tight, his brain echoes stupidly. He thinks of Will’s hands—careful, warm, always a little hesitant.

“That threw me off,” Will admits. “And then he kind of… talked about himself and other things the rest of the movie.”

“Oh no,” Dustin says. “A monologuer.”

“He explained the plot,” Will adds flatly.

Max bursts into laughter, full-bodied and unrestrained, tears immediately springing to her eyes. “Not Back to the Future.”

“I KNOW,” Will says, half-laughing now. “Like I hadn’t seen it.”

“So,” Lucas says, “vampire and egocentric.”

“Exactly,” Will says. “When he dropped me off, I just—” He shrugs. “Left him on read.”

Max is wheezing. “I’m sorry, I can’t—this is incredible.”

Mike feels it then.

Relief.

Not subtle. Not dignified. A massive wave of it crashes through him, loosening something deep in his chest. His shoulders drop. His breath comes easier. He has to actively stop himself from smiling too hard.

Okay. Okay. He’s fine.

And then, because his mouth has never once been on his side, Mike opens it.

“I’m so sorry you had to experience that,” he says solemnly. “That sounds deeply traumatizing. Truly. Vincent will be hearing from my lawyer.”

The table erupts.

Will stares at him, eyes wide, incredulous. “Oh my god.”

Mike grins, helpless now. “You deserve compensation.”

Max slams her hand on the table. “I’m crying.”

Dustin points at Mike. “That was uncalled for.”

Will shakes his head, then—finally—breaks, laughter spilling out of him, bright and real. “You’re such an asshole.”

Mike shrugs, warmth blooming in his chest at the sound. “For you? Always.”

Will’s laughter softens into a smile as he looks at Mike, something open and easy there. Mike feels it like a quiet click, something settling back into place.

For the first time since last night, the ache eases.

Not gone.

Just… quieter.

Mike leans back in his chair, stir-fry forgotten, and lets himself exist in the moment—surrounded by friends, by noise, by Will sitting close..

He tells himself—again—that he wants Will to be happy.

And right now?

Will looks okay. And that is enough.

 

Will’s dorm room is dim in that late-afternoon way—blinds half-tilted, the last of the daylight leaking in like it’s tired of trying. Someone’s desk lamp is on for no real reason. The air smells faintly sharp, probably having to do with Dustins' experiments for class.

They’re all sprawled out in different states of comfort and disagreement.

Lucas has claimed the chair, leaning forward with the remote like it’s a weapon. Dustin is on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out and already vibrating with impatience. Mike’s cross-legged nearby, pretending he’s invested in the YouTube home screen even though his attention keeps drifting sideways.

Will is on his bed.

On FaceTime.

“El, you’re not listening,” Will says, phone propped against a pillow, one knee drawn up. “It wasn’t bad bad, it was just—”

“—boring bad,” El supplies through the speaker.

“Yes,” Will says, relieved. “Exactly.”

Meanwhile—

“Why would we watch a twenty-minute video essay,” Dustin complains, jabbing a finger at the screen, “when we could watch people fall off things?”

“Because I want something with a point,” Lucas argues. “Also that channel is actually good.”

Mike nods automatically. “Yeah, it’s—”

Dustin whips around. “You’re not even paying attention.”

Mike blinks. “I am.”

“You haven’t blinked in thirty seconds,” Dustin says. “You’re dissociating.”

Mike opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He forces his eyes back to the TV, to the endless scroll of thumbnails. He tells himself to focus. To be present.

And yet—

Will laughs softly at something El says, head tipping back just slightly, curls falling into his eyes. Mike catches maybe half the sentence.

“…and then he tried to explain why Marty was actually the villain—”

Mike’s head snaps over before he can stop himself.

Again with Vincent.

Dustin groans. “Oh my god, can we PLEASE pick something?”

“El,” Will says into the phone, smiling apologetically, “hold on, they’re being—”

“HEY,” El’s voice suddenly booms through the speaker, loud enough to make all three guys flinch. “SHUT. THE HELL. UP.”

Dead silence.

Lucas freezes mid-reach. Dustin’s mouth hangs open. Mike’s heart jumps like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“So I can finish my sentence,” El continues calmly, “before I teleport through the phone and end you all.”

A beat.

Dustin slowly raises both hands. “Respectfully—terrifying.”

Lucas sets the remote down. “Okay. Okay. Talking privileges revoked.”

Mike nods solemnly. “We’ve learned our lesson.”

Will laughs, genuinely this time, cheeks warm as he glances down at his screen. “Sorry about them.”

El grins. “I love them. But they’re the worst.”

Will shifts, adjusting the phone, and for a second his eyes meet Mike’s.

There’s something soft there. Familiar. A shared look that says this is a mess and it’s kind of funny all at once.

Mike smiles back without thinking.

Will shakes his head lightly, still smiling. “Sorry,” he says again, gesturing vaguely at the room. “It’s chaos in here.”

Mike shrugs. “We thrive in it of course,” speaking loud enough for El to hear.

Will laughs, turning his attention back to El, and the guys gradually ease back into their spots—Dustin muttering, Lucas scrolling again, the TV still paused on indecision.

Mike leans back on his hands, eyes drifting between the screen and Will, the sound of El’s voice filling the room.

He tells himself—again—that he’s paying attention.

He’s not.

Not really.

 

Lucas leaves first, doing that thing where he pretends he’s not making it a thing even though it very much is.

“Max just finished her last midterm,” he says, already halfway into his jacket. “So. Uh. We’re gonna go… exist.”

Dustin, sprawled on his bed, lifts his head just enough to squint at him. “Exist safely. Use protection.”

Lucas rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Go to hell.”

The door shuts behind him, laughter echoing faintly down the hall.

Mike watches the door for a second longer than necessary. He thinks, distantly, that Max and Lucas are good together. Solid. Comfortable. The kind of couple that doesn’t feel like it’s performing for anyone.

I’d like that, he thinks, a little painfully.

And yeah. He knows exactly with who.

Dustin doesn’t last long after that. He mumbles something incoherent about autoplay ruining society, rolls onto his side, and promptly passes out. A compilation of random YouTube videos plays quietly on his laptop—someone screaming on a roller coaster, a cat knocking a glass off a counter. Dustin snores, soft and rhythmic, completely gone.

And then—

It’s just Mike and Will.

The room feels different when it’s only the two of them. Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged in a way Mike doesn’t have a word for yet.

Will shifts on his bed, glancing toward Dustin like he wants to be sure he’s really asleep. Then he reaches for his sketchbook and tablet, pulling them into his lap.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the screen. “I was gonna wait until tomorrow, but I don’t think I can.”

Mike sits up a little straighter. “What’s up?”

Will hesitates for half a second—long enough that Mike notices. Then he taps the screen and turns it toward him.

“I finished it.”

Mike’s brain shuts off.

The poster hits him all at once—not flashy, not loud, but devastatingly right. The composition pulls inward, leading the eye exactly where it’s supposed to go. Cool blues layered with warm, golden highlights, like late evening bleeding into night. There’s texture in it, subtle grain, something that makes it feel lived-in rather than polished to death.

It feels like his film feels.

Mike leans closer without realizing he’s moved. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

Will watches his face carefully. “Is that… good holy shit or—”

“This is—” Mike swallows hard. “Will, this is fucking incredible.”

Will exhales, shoulders loosening. “Okay. Good.”

“When did you even have time to do this?” Mike asks, eyes scanning every detail. “I know what your schedule looks like. You didn’t—like—sleep, did you?”

Will shrugs, a little sheepish. “I mean. Not a lot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mike mutters. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” Will says, smiling. “But I knew the submission deadline was tomorrow, and I didn’t want you scrambling last minute.”

Mike’s chest tightens.

“You stayed up,” he says quietly. “For me.”

Will ducks his head, ears going pink. “I didn’t realize how important this was to you at first,” he says, joking softly. “You probably should’ve warned me before I emotionally invested.”

Mike laughs, but it comes out rough. “I already submitted the film,” he says, words tumbling out now. “I just—now I can upload this with it. Like it actually exists in the world the way it’s supposed to. This—” He gestures helplessly at the screen. “This is fucking beautiful.”

He stops.

Because he just said that out loud.

Will looks at him, eyes bright, something open and pleased flickering across his face. “I’m really glad,” he says. “I wanted it to feel like… you.”

Mike’s brain short-circuits.

Before he can think—before he can stop himself—he reaches out and pulls Will into a hug.

Not tentative. Not polite.

Tight.

Will’s body stiffens for the briefest second, surprise flickering through him, and Mike almost panics—

Then Will melts into it.

His head slots into the crook of Mike’s neck like it’s muscle memory. Like he belongs there. Mike feels the weight of him settle against his chest, warm and real, and his arms tighten instinctively.

Fuck.

Mike becomes hyper-aware of everything.

The way Will exhales when he relaxes.
The way his hands hover for a second before gripping the back of Mike’s hoodie.
The way his body leans in, not away.

This isn’t like before.

This isn’t a casual, half-drunk hug or a shoulder bump or a shared blanket. Will is present. Mike can feel it—the slight hesitation, the choice, the way Will commits to the closeness after that first second.

Mike’s heart is pounding so loud he’s convinced Will can feel it.

He closes his eyes.

Will smells clean and familiar, something citrusy and warm underneath it. Mike breathes him in before he can stop himself.

“Thank you,” Mike murmurs into Will’s hair, voice low. “Seriously. This means a lot to me.”

Will’s voice is quiet against his collarbone. “I’m really glad I could do it.”

Mike holds on longer than he should.

He knows it. He feels it.

He doesn’t let go anyway.

For a moment, the world narrows to this—warmth, weight, the steady proof that Will is here, real, choosing to stay pressed against him.

Then Mike realizes—very suddenly—that if this goes on any longer, he’s going to do something he can’t take back.

So he forces himself to loosen his grip.

Slowly. Carefully.

Will pulls back too, just enough to look at him. His eyes are a little wide, cheeks flushed, breath not quite steady. The soft lamplight catches in them and makes them shine in a way that nearly wrecks Mike on the spot.

“Oh,” Will says softly, like he’s just realizing where he is.

“Yeah,” Mike says, because he has no idea what else to say.

The silence stretches—not awkward, just loaded.

Mike swallows. Shakes his head like he’s clearing fog. “I—uh. I should probably shower before bed.”

Will nods, still smiling faintly. “Yeah. Probably.”

Mike backs toward the door, grabbing his hoodie like it’s a lifeline. “I’ll—yeah. Night.”

“Night,” Will says.

Mike quickly and awkwardly slips into the hallway and shuts the door behind him.

Only then does he stop.

He presses his hand flat to his chest, breathing hard, heart slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to get out.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

The poster.
The hug.
The way Will held him back.

Mike drags a hand through his hair and forces himself to move, knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:

This isn’t just tension anymore.

It’s a momentum.

And he has no idea how to stop it. Or if he even can.

Notes:

this chapter ended up a little shorter, but the tension is starting to rise, which felt more important than stretching things out just yet. some things are shifting, quietly, and i wanted to let that breathe. i’m also thinking ahead to a halloween chapter soon — whether or not that’s where things tip into something more remains to be seen!! thank you so much for reading, and for all the hits and kudos. and as always, feel free to leave comments — i truly love reading them!