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It's blustery and rainy outside, that kind of Indiana autumn that turns everything sodden and gray.
But inside Mike Wheeler's apartment, the rest of Bloomington bleeds away as he curls up in his creaky chair, shuffling through his notes from his latest campaign. Erica had been visiting Lucas and Max, eager to play instead of DMing like she'd started doing back in Hawkins. So, naturally, Mike had sidelined his Russian lit assignment and planned a one-shot for the occasion.
He chews absentmindedly at the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, tucking his legs up to his chest as he recalls the satisfying end to the campaign—it had been an afternoon of adventures, his carefully-crafted story coming together in a perfect storm of action. He's only slightly rueful that Max made it out of his traps alive—she'd slammed the dice down on the table with a victorious go fuck yourself, Wheeler! that sent Lucas, Erica, and Dustin into raucous cheers.
Beneath the warmth of affection for his friends, though, there's an ache: the Party isn't complete. It can't be—not without Will.
Mike sighs, closing his binder and tracing a finger down the familiar shape of the calligraphic M on the cover. Will had drawn that years ago, making identical binders for each of them.
And he knows he'll see Will soon enough over winter break, but that is weeks away. He wants to call him and babble on about the cave dwelling of the doppelganger and the return of Strahd—he knows his vampire voice is Will's favorite—and how Will the Wise would have complemented Erica's Lady Applejack perfectly.
Fighting off the creep of loneliness, he stacks his binder on top of a growing pile of textbooks and reaches for his steaming cup of coffee. It's going to be a long Saturday night of catching up on deadlines before Monday rears its ugly head.
As he stands and the chair creaks underneath him, Mike wonders if Will ever misses deadlines—probably not, because he's not a total mess—or if he pulls all-nighters fueled by some fancy coffee from a cafe in Brooklyn. Walking into the small living room, he resolves that he'll ask him next time he calls. His eyes catch on the stack of letters on the coffee table, his own personal Will Byers Bible.
Sinking down on the couch and pulling out his book and a highlighter, he sets to work, his mind only slightly wandering back to his best friend. The hollowness in his chest echoes more than usual tonight, the way it always does when he thinks of Will. It's selfish, really, because as far as he knows Will is happy and free in New York City, finally severed from the town that sucked the life out of him.
But he's also severed from Mike.
"Get it together," he mutters, and goes back to his highlighting, the caffeine finally tickling his neurons and coaxing him into understanding why The Double is quintessential Dostoyevsky.
He settles into what has become his usual weekend routine: holed up with some book on the moth-eaten couch, coffee-addled brain misfiring and daydreaming about anything other than work. Thoughts fizzling from Russian literature to fantasy stories to a pair of green eyes… it always happens this way, late at night, when the realization hits him like a gust of cold wind that he's hopelessly gone for his best friend.
Mike groans, running a hand over his face, and is desperately trying to focus when he hears a thump from beyond his bedroom door.
He tenses, craning his neck to peer at the door. A sliver of warm light pours from the entrance.
Another thump.
Mike tosses Dostoyevsky aside and slowly rises from the couch, swiping a garish, bronze candlestick from the coffee table and clutching it in his fist. He grimaces, but it'll have to do.
"Hello?" He calls out, creeping towards his bedroom door.
Another thump and a muttered, muffled curse.
Mike pushes open his bedroom door, turning towards the closet. The door is rattling, something heavy railing against it repeatedly.
Not a Demogorgon, not Vecna. Mike soothes himself. Maybe just home invasion.
Or maybe he's finally lost it.
Silent and tentative, Mike turns the knob of his closet door and opens it wide in one broad, sweeping motion, dancing just out of the way as a figure tumbles out of the closet with a loud, brash CLANK.
Mike is frozen to the spot, woefully aware that he's clad in nothing but a hoodie and a pair of faded, Snoopy-print boxers.
The candlestick won't help at all, either, because there's a metallic monster in front of him, some bizarre automaton—
Armor. Oh. It's armor. Mike nearly breathes, but the oxygen catches in his throat as the man stands with inhuman speed, drawing a long, steel blade…
…and pointing it straight at Mike's throat. It pricks the pale, vulnerable skin, drawing just a drop of blood—nothing more than a paper cut. But that's a sword and there's a strange man in his house—
Mike lets out a strangled scream, stumbling backwards and hitting the wall with a muffled thump. He finally gets a good look at the guy as he prowls closer. There's, inexplicably, a dusting of snow in his hair, which is tied back in a long braid, a halo of fuzzy curls encircling his pale face.
He stops a few paces short of Mike, the blade now aimed at his sternum.
"Who are you?" He demands.
Mike blinks. "The owner of this apartment," he says numbly. "Who—who the fuck are you? Why are you in here? How did you get in my closet?"
The man tilts his head. Mike notices his aquiline nose, his freckled skin. The swirls of ink that creep up out of his armor and onto his neck.
He lowers his sword, and Mike sighs in relief, sagging against the wall. The man sheathes his sword, and regards Mike with a curious look.
"This is not my home dimension," he mutters, and the voice is grating and familiar. Familiar, because…
Because…
Mike goes perfectly still, his blood running cold. He takes in the armor. The sword, with its pommel inlaid with a ruby heart. The same heart emblazoned on his cuirass.
"What's your name?" Mike asks, his voice trembling.
"Michael the Brave, paladin and sworn protector of—"
"Oh my God," Mike says weakly, his whole body shaking. "This cannot be happening."
Michael blinks, and then his face is alight with recognition. His eyes widen, and he takes another hesitant step towards Mike, who pushes off the wall and comes face-to-face with his doppelganger.
"How are you here?" Mike whispers.
He offers an unhelpful shrug, steel clinking against steel as his armor scrapes against itself. "I was in the village inn, on a journey, and stepped out into the snow to relieve myself… the rest is a fuzzy memory, I must admit, but… I found myself here," he finishes with quiet acceptance. "In…"
"Bloomington. Indiana. 1991. I'm Mike. Not Michael." Mike says, short and stunned.
"Ah. Indee-anna. Was she a queen?"
Mike sighs, worrying at his lower lip. This isn't the strangest thing that's happened to him—not in the slightest. But it's somehow more disconcerting than interdimensional bullshit, because this time, it's something even more frightening.
Another Mike Wheeler.
He stares at his counterpart. He looks older, heartier. There's a flush to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks alive.
"You look…"
"…just like me," Michael says, his eyes round and searching. "Although," he says, his words drawn out with amusement, "I think I prefer my hair."
Mike scowls. "Mine used to be long," he mutters. "Back in high school."
Michael reaches up with a gentle hand, carding his fingers through Mike's tousled curls. He flinches at the touch, and Michael draws back.
"Hmm," he hums. "Fascinating."
Mike blinks, and finds that his knees have gone wobbly. He's not sure why. Michael fixes him with a curious gaze, and then takes a step forward, his armor clink-clinking in the quiet of his apartment.
"Your eyes are the same," he murmurs. "And your nose."
"Well, yeah," Mike croaks. "Because you're—"
"—you." Michael nods, and then reaches forward again, his slender fingers sliding along the line of Mike's jaw. He shivers under the touch and fights the bizzare urge to lean into the warmth of his palm. It's been so long since someone has touched him like that.
Okay, weird. He frowns. You're literally touching yourself.
His face goes boiling hot at that lovely thought.
"Your mouth differs," Michael muses, narrowing his eyes. A few stray wisps of hair fall from his loose braid, framing his face.
"Uh. Why?"
A smile tugs at Michael's lips—which are, Mike notices, a little different. They're darker. Plumper somehow.
"You have not sworn an oath, have you, Mike?" He asks.
Mike scowls. "No. What does that even mean? What does that have to do with your mouth?"
Michael's features turn soft, his eyebrows twitching and eyes going liquid. "To swear an oath is to… devote oneself. To lay yourself at the feet of your beloved, offering yourself up. It is a promise to protect," he says, voice low and serious, "and to cherish."
Mike wants to think that this sounds like a crock of bullshit, but he's gone strangely breathless at the paladin's words. It's romantic. It's… vital. Something straight out of the letters he's afraid to write. He realizes that Michael's fingers are still tracing his jawline, a slow and rhythmic touch that makes his stomach go warm.
"Who," Mike says, his voice cracking. He licks his lips, swallows, and continues. "Who have you… sworn to?"
A pink flush bleeds across Michael's face, and his smile turns honey-sweet. "My Cleric," he breathes. "William."
Mike makes a strangled noise from somewhere in the back of his throat. "What?" He asks.
Michael dips his head. "William the Wise."
At that, Mike pulls back, his heart hammering, an intoxicating mix of delight, shock, and fear. His gaze searches the room, wildly, and his eyes settle upon a Polaroid pinned to his corkboard. He stumbles over to the photo, pulling it from the wall, and points to a sunny-smiling Will.
"Does he look like this?" Mike demands.
Michael's lips part, and he lets out a surprised huff. "Yes," he whispers. "Oh, yes. This is wonderful news," Michael says.
"What do you mean?"
"In every universe, he and I are intertwined."
The words hit Mike with the weight of a million years. He draws in a deep, shaky breath, and stares down at the photo in his hand. He remembers taking it in the basement, weeks before they left for college. Just testing the camera, making sure it still worked.
Will had been the perfect model.
"We're best friends," Mike murmurs, tracing his thumb over Will's face.
"Friends?"
"Yeah," Mike says. "For a long time."
Michael reaches up to grab Mike's wrist, and Mike looks up to stare at him, confused. "What?"
"You are just friends?"
Mike swallows, his eyes flicking down to where Michael's fingers are wrapped loosely around his wrist. Raised veins snake up into his armor alongside more dark ink. He's never looked at his own hands like this.
"You hesitate," Michael says, not accusingly. "Why?"
He looks at Michael incredulously, like he can communicate I'm not going to have this conversation with one look.
"Because," Mike crows. "I—alright, I'm not going to talk about this with you."
Michael narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Mike's wrist. "You must. If William and I are out of balance in this universe…" his eyebrows tent in concern, "it could have dire consequences."
"Oh, come on," Mike scoffs, trying to tug his hand out of Michael's grip. But his fingers are steel, and he steps closer, caging Mike in against the edge of his desk.
"Why have you sworn no oath to William?" He demands. There's a fire behind his eyes—one that Mike has never seen reflected in his own.
"We don't do that kind of stuff," Mike counters, voice hoarse. His thighs press into the sharp edge of the desk as Michael leans in closer, his other hand closing around Mike's other wrist.
"But you want to," Michael hisses, tilting his head. "Don't you, Mike?"
The sharpness in his voice—dripping with condescension and spite—is painfully familiar. It's a mirror, a vivid echo of Mike's own mind. His own anger.
Mike swallows, eyes flicking back down to Michael's mouth. Bitten, he thinks, the word coming to him unbidden. They look bitten.
"Where were you before you… came out of my closet?" Mike murmurs, his eyes still fixated on Michael's lips. He's so close, and he smells like woodsmoke and iron and sweat.
"With William, of course," Michael breathes. "Who else?"
Who else?
The way he asks that question is singular. It's inevitable. It's like breathing. Of course any version of Mike would be with Will.
In every universe, he and I are intertwined.
"And what were you doing with him?" Mike asks, his breathing spaced out into short, frantic puffs.
Michael smirks, his eyes going dark and intense—another look that Mike has never seen on himself. He shudders, his fingers curling around the wood-grain of the desk, his pulse fluttering under Michael's fingers.
"You know," Michael purrs.
Mike shakes his head. "I'm not sure I do," he chokes out.
Michael manages to lean in further, the metallic chill of his armor pressing up against Mike's hips.
"I was doing what you could be doing," he whispers, "if only you were brave enough."
This has to be some kind of nightmare-wet dream-torture psychosis. Mike squirms in Michael's grip, tossing his head back and bucking his hips forward, trying to push him out of his space.
"You're just some douche from the Middle Ages," he spits out, "and I don't want to talk to you about my best friend, who I might be in love with!"
Michael draws back slightly at the words, and Mike freezes.
His blood runs cold. Why the fuck did he say that?
"I didn't mean—"
A slow, lazy smile spreads across Michael's face. "You forget, Mike," he drawls, conversational, "that I am you, and you are me."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Mike protests. Michael leans in again.
"We share the same thoughts. We can spill secrets between each other, share everything. Share William—" he says, his fingers rubbing small circles into Mike's pale skin, "and each other."
Mike's eyes widen. "What do you—"
"You have to swear an oath," Michael demands, his voice dropping into a commanding timbre. "It is critical. Not just for your Will, but for mine. We must keep the balance."
"This is bullshit—"
Michael tilts his head, butting further into Mike's space. Their noses almost touch. His lips are parted, eyebrows drawn up in mock concern.
"You find me to be trifling with you, Mike?" He asks, his breath ghosting over Mike's lips. "I told you," he says, baring his teeth and digging his nails into Mike's wrists, "there will be consequences."
Mike hisses in pain at the touch, and slumps under Michael's grip. "Fine," he huffs. "What do you want me to do?"
"Swear an oath," Michael says. "Can you do that?"
"He's not here," Mike mumbles. "He doesn't live here."
"Then go to him."
"And say what? Do—do what? He's out there in New York living, Michael. He kisses boys in bars and probably does more than that… I—I can't do that for him," he whispers, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. "I'm not like him."
Michael frowns, a deep expression that feels like staring at Mike's own reflection. There's no anger, no disappointment. Just a steady, sad knowingness. He can't hide from the amorphous, overwhelming feelings in his chest—because Michael already knows them. Already shares them.
"You are like him in every way that matters, even if you have not yet accepted it," he murmurs. "But you lack skill. Bravery."
Mike heaves a shaky sigh, looking up at Michael through his wet lashes. "Then how—"
"Like I said," Michael says evenly, "we are the same. I can show you."
Mike's heart pitter-patters faster in his chest. "Show me what?"
"How to love him," Michael says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. Once again, just an inevitable truth. He releases Mike, taking a step back and reaching for the straps that hold his cuirass and rerebraces in place.
"How to be devout," he continues, unbuckling his armor and lifting it from his body. More hair falls from his long braid. Mike watches in silence, glued to the spot.
He sets it on the ground with a clink, the metal plates joining the notebooks and takeout containers scattered on the worn carpet.
"How to please," he murmurs, reaching down and removing the tassetts around his waist.
"How to worship," he breathes, and the rest of the suit of armor goes to the floor, leaving Michael in tight buckskins and a loose, cotton doublet.
"You're suggesting…" Mike trails off as Michael steps forward again, prowling towards him. His eyes are fixed on Mike like he is the destination—the endpoint, the solution.
"I will teach you how to take him," Michael murmurs, and the words send a jolt of heat down Mike's spine, "and how to be taken."
Mike swallows, bracing against the edge of his desk again. "You mean—"
Michael closes the space between them with one final, long step, pressing flush against Mike and reaching up to cup his cheek with a warm, calloused hand.
"I will fuck you," he says, leaving no more room for interpretation.
Singular. Inevitable. Like breathing.
"This is fucked up," Mike says weakly, knees buckling as Michael slides his other arm around Mike's waist.
Michael shakes his head. "We share everything," he responds. "You are not the first Mike I will have, nor the last."
"What do you mean?"
"It seems this is my quest," Michael says with a smile. "To ensure that all of me…" his hand splays against the small of Mike's back, and Mike goes rigid, "…ends up with all of William."
Mike lets out a shaky, breathless sound. He nods, and his eyes flick up, searching Michael's face. He finds his eyes searching back, asking a silent question. Mike opens his mouth.
"I haven't—"
"I know."
"Go slow?"
"At first."
Mike's heart is beating out of his chest, thundering in his ears, as Michael leans in, closing the distance between them.
The kiss is strange.
Michael draws Mike's bottom lip into his mouth, slow and silent, sucking gently.
Then he pulls back.
There's a frost-thin strand of saliva between them now, hanging in the air, trembling with each breath they both take. Mike looks at it, feeling light-headed. Feeling like none of this can be real, yet…
The kiss. It felt almost natural. And he supposes it is, because it's just him. It's a reflection of Mike, a muscled duplicate that just wants to help. Because in every universe, he just wants to serve.
It's unbearably hot, suddenly. Like someone has flipped the switch on a furnace, flooding the room with maddening warmth. He's painfully aware of himself, every nerve ending on edge. Every fiber reminding him how pent-up and starved he's been for something. Anything. This is his surrender.
Mike is the one to lean back in, pressing hard into Michael's mouth. He makes a low, satisfied sound and kisses Mike, tongue running along the seam of his lips. Mike opens with a little gasp, a little shiver, and Michael's hand goes from his jaw to his neck, fingers fluttering against the shallow cut from his sword.
It's a good kiss. A good type of pain, too, when Michael bites down on his bottom lip and pulls, drawing out a whine from deep in Mike's throat.
"Like this," Michael murmurs against his mouth. "Explore, Mike."
Heeding the command, Mike raises his arms and loops them around Michael's neck, arching into him and deepening the kiss. He licks at the back of Michael's teeth, tasting salt and warmth and the familiar taste of his own mouth. It's surreal. It's hazy and liquid, and Mike could get drunk off of the feeling of his tongue lapping and twisting against Michael's.
"Good," Michael purrs, pushing his knee between Mike's legs. He opens them, willingly, and when that knee brushes against his hardness, they both stall.
Michael pulls back, both hands going to rest on Mike's thighs. His gaze flicks down, Mike's length pressing against the taut fabric of his boxers.
"I don't know why I'm into this," Mike admits, his voice rough and gravely. His face burns, until he looks down and notices that Michael is hard, too, his erection clearly outlined against the smooth suede of his breeches.
Michael squeezes his thighs, fingers pressing into the lean muscle there. "It's you, Mike. We are one and the same."
So I'm… fucking myself? He wants to ask, but already knows the answer, so he thinks better of it and draws Michael back in, reconnecting their lips.
It's addicting.
Past escapades at college parties or in the dim light of someone's dorm—those were tepid, limp kisses. Fumbling attempts at connection that pale in comparison to this.
It lights him up.
And the thought that this is all for Will, all to guide him and prepare him for having Will—
Mike moans in earnest, mouth dropping open against Michael, who presses flush against him and—oh.
Michael drags his hips up against Mike's dick, and it's… God, it's good. Mike tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut, and Michael hums against his neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat. Mike digs his fingers into the soft muslin cloth of his doublet, groaning and rolling his hips to meet Michael's.
They strike against each other like steel-wrought blades, and Mike finds his mouth again, panting and gasping. It's so much. His own body, capable of eliciting this molten, searing pleasure that zips up his spine and gathers in his core.
"Your bed," Michael huffs, pulling Mike off the edge of the desk and spinning them, walking Mike backwards until he hits the mattress.
Michael pushes him backwards, standing above him as he sheds his doublet and peels off his breeches.
There's nothing underneath. Medieval bastard.
"Holy shit," Mike crows, taking in the sight of himself. He never realized, really, how big he was. Has never really seen it from this kind of angle.
Michael is covered in translucent, nearly-glowing scars that criss-cross his chest and his hips. The tattoos, no longer hidden, scroll their way up both of his arms, wrought with vines and stars and familiar symbols—a heart-emblazoned shield, a silver blade.
"Did—did William do that?" Mike asks, propping himself up on his elbows and letting his eyes wander his body.
"Yes. Your William is an artist too?" Michael asks, sinking down and leaning over Mike. He tugs at the worn fabric of Mike's hoodie. "Take this off," he murmurs, then adds, "such strange clothes," as he casts a dubious look at the Snoopy boxers.
Mike isn't about to argue with himself about the cultural relevancy of Peanuts. He just fights an eyeroll.
"Yes, he's an artist." Mike answers, and practically rips off his hoodie. "He's an amazing painter," he gushes, and then hisses as Michael's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down.
Michael smirks, staring down at Mike's cock, flushed and leaking and twitching with anticipation. "And we are identical here, too," he says quietly, and then dips down to press a soft kiss against the velveteen skin.
"Fuck," Mike chokes out, collapsing back against his tangled blankets and sheets. Michael runs his tongue up the length of him, taking the tip into his mouth and suckling with a satisfied moan.
Mike whines.
"Beautiful," Michael whispers, and Mike can't help the way his hips jerk up of their own accord, seeking a warmth and pleasure that can only be found in the hot depth of Michael's mouth.
He starts to apologize, but Michael is already meeting him there, mouth working dedicated and slow, taking in all of him.
Michael hums encouragingly, bobbing his head, and Mike looks down to watch, nearly falling apart at the sight. His lips stretched wide over his dick, slick and pink. A dick that, somewhere in the hazy future, could be someone else's.
Could be Will's. Mike can't think. Can't breathe beyond shallow, shaking gasps.
Michael's hair falls further from its braid, soft curls spilling over Mike's thighs and stomach. He reaches down and tugs, untangling the rest of the plait, running his hands through the silken strands with a sort of reverence and whining as that pleasure coils up within him again—closer now, just this side of snapping.
"I'm—oh, shit—" Mike moans, his thighs starting to tremble.
Michael pulls off suddenly with a wet pop and braces himself with his hands, breathing hard. "Good?" He asks.
Mike squirms at the loss of contact. "Why did you stop," he gasps, watching as Michael brings his hand up to Mike's mouth.
"Suck," he commands, and Mike opens his mouth, taking two of his fingers deep into his mouth, lapping his tongue against the calloused, rough skin.
"Eager. That's good, Mike," Michael coos, withdrawing his fingers. Mike whimpers at the praise, which is… new. He's too far gone to think himself pathetic. In fact, he's preening, staring up at Michael with starry eyes.
Michael looks down at his hand, seemingly satisfied. They're shining with spit now, and Mike has an inkling of where this is going as Michael shifts again, placing a hand on the inside of Mike's knee.
"Have you done this before?" He asks, tossing his hair over his shoulder and fixing Mike with a dark, searching look.
"To—to myself. Once," Mike confesses, feeling far too vulnerable in the lamplight. "It was weird."
Michael grins, laughing breathlessly. "I once felt the same—before I realized the full extent of carnal, deep pleasure. I will teach you how," he says softly, "for your own knowledge now, and for the future."
In a way, Mike wants to fight it—Michael is haughty and brash, a tangible manifestation of all the things Mike dislikes about himself. But on the paladin, it's attractive. It's steady and confident.
As Mike lets his legs fall to the sides and Michael runs a hand up his inner thigh, he lets out a shaky sigh. Maybe this tattooed, ornery, lofty version of himself has always been dwelling within him. It's just been dormant, muffled by insecurity and years of doubt.
"Relax," Michael coaxes, and he circles the pad of his finger around Mike's rim.
Mike does the exact opposite, gritting his teeth, sweat beading at his brow. Michael continues his movements, unhurried, but fixes Mike with a glare. "I told you to relax, not go rigid," Michael grumbles.
"I'm trying," Mike bites out. And then he grabs Michael by the hair, yanking him forward. His composure crumbles, and he lets out a groan as Mike pulls him into a searing kiss. A welcome distraction from the slow, steady press of Michael's finger.
"Better this way," Mike mumbles, licking up into Michael's mouth. He smiles against Mike, a low, dark chuckle spilling out of him.
"Good," Michael murmurs. "You do know how to take control."
"Of course I do," Mike counters, nipping at Michael's supple lower lip. "You just had to give it to me—fuck," he hisses, the last of his thoughts eddying from his brain as Michael pushes his finger in up to the second knuckle, a slow, burning slide that aches and leaves his muscles fluttering and his dick twitching.
"And just like that," Michael murmurs, "I can take it back."
He crooks his finger, and Mike practically shouts, bucking his hips once and gasping at the sensation, his walls clamping down around the intrusion.
It's not… bad. Just full, and strange, and a surreal kind of wonderful that builds to something like pleasure as Michael works him open, patient and slow, all the while kissing from Mike's lips to his neck to his shoulder to his chest.
"Another?" He asks, lips brushing against Mike's nipple.
"Yeah," Mike grunts, biting down on his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. "Just—slow, Michael."
"I know, Mike," he whines, and Mike realizes that he's getting something out of this too—greedy bastard. Their position is such that he registers the feeling of Michael rutting lazily against his leg, seeking friction. It fills Mike with a different sort of satisfaction.
It's just as good to give as it is to take.
The second finger slips in with ease, and Michael starts to move faster, setting a rhythm that Mike can't help but fuck up against, his hips rolling in time with Michael's hand.
"So tight," Michael groans, and Mike lets out a choked sob as the fullness bleeds into sharp, overwhelming pleasure. "How does it feel, Mike?"
"Good," Mike rasps. "So fucking good."
Michael raises his head, craning his neck to whisper into Mike's ear. He shudders at the sensation. "You'll do it just like this," he mutters, fingers scissoring and thrusting at a punishing pace, "when you pleasure your Will."
"Oh, fuck," Mike breathes, stomach tensing as a wave of pleasure crashes into him at the words—the reminder. The drag of his fingers, deft and quick and ruthless, is electric.
"And then you'll do this," Michael hisses, breath hot and heavy, as he curls his fingers and hits Mike's prostate with frightening accuracy.
Mike sees stars. White-hot neon light.
"Holy fuck," he groans, punched-out and breathless, raising his hips for more, more, more, pleading and babbling as tears gather at the corners of his eyes. "Please, please—can you touch me, please," he begs, his neglected cock resting heavy and hard and wet against his stomach.
Michael says nothing, just draws back to watch him, a smirk spreading across his face. Mike bucks his hips, fucking himself on his fingers, losing himself in the sheer, raw obscenity of the act. Unsatisfied by Michael's denial, Mike reaches down to wrap a hand around himself.
Michael's hand shoots out, pushing him away and interlacing their fingers. Tight.
"No," he says simply. "No touching. Feel it, Mike. This can be enough," he says with a chuckle. Mike whines in frustration at himself. It's so—so self-satisfying, so stupid—so—
"Ohmygod," Mike gasps, and his orgasm hits him like a fucking lightning strike.
He spills hot and forceful across his stomach and chest, the pleasure so overwhelming that he sees black at the edges of his vision. His dick pulses, and he squirms, and Michael is totally milking this, his fingers still stroking diligently against the bundle of nerves as the aftershocks of his climax buzz through him in electric jolts of pleasure.
"Too much," Mike gasps, "Michael,"
Michael grins, easing his fingers out, and Mike regrets it immediately—he twitches around the emptiness, letting out a mournful whine.
"Calm down," Michael mutters, and then he's swiping his fingers through the pool of cum on Mike's stomach, dipping into it like expensive, pearlescent paint.
Mike watches, lips parted and chest heaving, as Michael shifts between Mike's legs, rising up on his knees and slicking himself up with Mike's cum.
"He likes it this way," Michael purrs. "When I use his, or mine, or… both."
Holy shit. Mike goes light-headed at the thought.
He meets Mike's gaze with lidded, blown eyes, stroking himself slowly as he stares Mike down—it's almost a challenge, the way his eyes bore into Mike's.
"I can take it," Mike says.
"I know," Michael replies simply.
He sinks down between Mike's legs, lining up at his entrance, prodding gently and gauging Mike's reaction. His breath comes shorter again, hardly recovered after his first orgasm, and his dick twitches with interest, a slightly-painful rush of blood going straight to his groin.
"Fuck," Michael sighs as he lowers himself further, sinking in past the rim. It's smoother this time, eased by the slip of the cum and the stretch from Michael's fingers.
Mike moans, the sound echoing in the hush of his room, and he arches his back, taking him deeper, that delicious fullness returning. It's a relief to be filled, to be satisfied, to be speared on himself like this.
Michael stalls, bracing himself against the mattress and panting. "Tight," he breathes, and Mike reaches up to tuck his long hair behind his ears.
"It's okay," Mike mumbles, blinking up at him through thick, black lashes and practically thrumming with the thrill of knowing that this time, he's making Michael come undone. "You can take it," he whispers, setting his jaw.
And then he swings his leg over Michael's body, pulling him in close in one sudden movement that has him bottoming out and letting out a base, guttural moan.
Mike breathes through it, rocking his hips and adjusting to the sheer size of him, and Michael huffs and starts to thrust, slowly at first, and then faster, the friction and the fullness sending Mike into a fucked-out, glorious daze.
"Oh my God, oh my God—Michael, fuck, this—you're so good," he keens, hiking up his other leg and using the weight to pull him down even further, so that Michael is caged in, thrusting low and deep and exactly where Mike wants him.
The head of Michael's cock brushes against Mike's prostate, and it's even better than his fingers—devastating, all-consuming pleasure that makes him let out a pitched-up, punched-out cry. Tears, salty and plenty, run down his face, Michael cooing and murmuring at his ear, and for the first time tonight he's not thinking about Will—he's thinking about himself.
He's thinking about the pleasure that he can give, but even moreso, what he can take. His rightful satisfaction, something that he didn't realize he deserved until now. Mike has spent so long thinking that he can't have it. That there's something wrong with the maelstrom of desire in his chest, hungry and insatiable.
And now…
Mike wraps a hand around himself, shuddering at the overwhelm of Michael's thrusts combined with the pump of his own fist, silken with the warmth of his precum. His eyes roll back, and he's gone to the world, his focus honed in on how good this is.
As his pleasure starts to crest again, building low and hot in his stomach, Mike's eyes snap open. Michael is there with him, twin sets of brown eyes gazing into each other. Their breath mixes as they gasp against each other's mouths, and an enlightening, incredible thought materializes in Mike's brain. Some deus ex machina from beyond the bounds of his imagination. He wants more.
"Pull out," Mike rasps, still staring into Michael's black eyes.
"What?" He hisses.
"You heard me," Mike replies. "Pull out. And—all-fours. Get on all-fours." The words are already making him light-headed, his dick throbbing and ready.
A slow, knowing, proud smile crosses Michael's face, and he dips his head, pulling out slowly and carefully as Mike braces for the emptiness once again.
It isn't as bad this time—Mike's mind is already racing with anticipation.
Michael shifts on the mattress, lithe body dropping to all fours. Mike scrambles up, a little less gracefully, behind him and presses down on his lower back, marveling at the rippling, lean muscle that gleams from his shoulder blades to his ass.
"Down," he commands, and Michael obeys, arching as much as he's able, humming at the stretch.
Mike tries, and fails, not to think about the way his own ass feels in his hands, lean and muscular. He spreads Michael's ass cheeks wide, staring with wide eyes at the puckered, pink skin. It practically winks at him. He's never seen this part of himself before.
"You're staring," Michael says, his voice slightly muffled from the bedsheets.
"Yeah," Mike mutters, his fingers ghosting over his entrance, hesitant.
"Scared?" Michael taunts, turning his head to look up at Mike with a smirk.
Mike glares. "No. Fuck off," he snaps, and Michael laughs.
And up until this point, Mike was just going to fuck him. But now…
He stares back down at the flushed skin and the pale curve of his ass.
Michael is still chuckling as Mike leans down and buries his face in his ass.
Michael yelps, a glorious sound that sends a new rush of blood straight to Mike's cock.
He doesn't know if he's doing it right, licking up the cleft between his ass cheeks and nosing at his entrance, but he does know that Michael is squirming beneath him, face pressed into the sheets, hands fisted in the blankets.
Taking this as encouragement, Mike continues, spreading him further, pushing his tongue into Michael's warm, musky heat.
It's a strange sensation, and Mike imagines himself getting lost in a moment like this with Will, that lean muscle replaced with soft, supple fat—he'd gladly suffocate for the chance to taste him like this. To suck red-purple marks into his skin, claiming him.
Spurred on by Michael's mewls and tremors, Mike reaches around and wraps an eager hand around Michael's cock.
That earns him a tense groan.
"Mike," Michael huffs. "Gentle."
He pauses, raising his head. "Sorry," he says, voice wrecked. "Are—are you okay? Is it good?"
Michael hums agreeably, and Mike strokes him slow and sweet. "I need an answer."
"Yes," Michael chokes out, and Mike goes back to eating him out while he pumps his cock, and the paladin descends into senseless, delirious babbling.
Mike comes up for air just to instruct him, quickening his hand. "Come on my fist," he demands. "Finish for me."
Michael groans, a long and drawn-out sound of relief, and Mike tongues at his hole again, delighting in the surreal way it clenches and puckers as Michael's orgasm crashes over him. With a low, breathless grunt, he gushes hot and sudden over Mike's hand, whole body tensing and wracking with aftershocks.
Mike runs his hand down the length of Michael's half-hard cock and then rears back, panting.
"I'm not done," he gasps. "Stay like that."
He gathers the cum in his palm, staring at the way it webs across his fingers and wishing, desperately, that it was Will's.
Then he pulls back, a steady hand on Michael's hip, and presses a finger against the tight ring of muscle.
"Wait," Michael says, breathing hard. He rolls onto his back, and Mike stares down at his red, blotchy face. His eyes are glassy and bright, like chips of obsidian in the dim light.
"He likes to be kissed through it," Michael murmurs, and Mike nods, crawling forward and reconnecting their mouths in a slow, steady kiss. His heart aches, because of course Will would want it like this. All sweetness and honey-soft touches and kisses.
"That okay?" Mike asks.
"More than. Go on," he hums, shifting underneath Mike to allow better access.
Mike slips his hand between Michael's legs, pushing gently at first with his middle finger, and then sliding in. He watches, mesmerized, at Michael's face—the way his brows tent in concentration, his lips parted and huffing short breaths punctuated with little whines. It's a strange feeling against his skin—the way his finger is sucked in by working, writhing muscle. He drags the pad of his finger against his walls and revels in the sensation.
Then Mike leans down again, kissing him, suckling his tongue and taking his time. He's so eager to please, his dick still a constant weight of desire between his legs that twitches each time Michael moans.
"Too slow," Michael chokes out, grinding against the single finger. "Faster, and add another," he snaps.
Out of spite of being ordered around, Mike slows down even more. "Be nice," he warns, nipping at Michael's lips and pulling a desperate groan from deep within his chest.
When he starts to squirm, Mike pushes in another finger, and it's tight. He shudders at the feeling, the thought of opening up someone in such an intimate, base way. It's the inner sanctum of the body, and he's worshipping there now.
He continues his ministrations on Michael's mouth, kissing him through the flex of his fingers, drawing more wonderful sounds from his mouth. Part of it is sheer curiosity— what is his body capable of producing? Where is the brink, the limit, for the paladin?
And part of it is the deep, thrumming need that runs under his skin: to be good. To do this right. To act with honesty and sweetness.
Without asking, eagerness spurring him on, Mike adds another finger.
Michael arches against him, head tipping back as he moans. "William is right," he gasps, "my fingers feel—ah," he grunts, as Mike scissors them apart, stretching him, undoing him from the inside out.
He's been searching for the past few minutes, but can't find exactly what he's looking for. He doesn't want to ask, but—
"Mike," Michael drawls, locking eyes with him. "Do you need help?"
Mike goes red, pursing his lips. "Yes,"
"The answer is simple," he murmurs, sliding a hand up into Mike's curls and tugging him closer. He lets out a little sigh, surprised.
"Deeper."
His dick throbs at the word. It's impossibly attractive—being told what to do. Simple orders.
Mike nods, and he obeys, thrusting his fingers deeper into the hot, muscled channel. Michael's eyes roll back, and he nods through a groan, gritting his teeth.
"Keep going," Michael urges, and Mike nods, reaching further, up to his third knuckle. He huffs in frustration, still searching.
Michael's hand slides to his cheek. "Mike," he says softly, "relax."
"I'm trying—" he grunts, and Michael presses a thumb against his lips.
"I know. You're almost there," he breathes, arching his back to change the angle.
Mike reaches, and the tips of his fingers brush against a smooth bundle of nerves. Michael tenses, inhaling sharply, and wraps his hand around Mike's throat, pulling him back down into a kiss.
"Good," he purrs, "So—oh, Mike—so good…"
Mike moans at the praise, the sounds swallowed by Michael's mouth. He pants against Mike's lips, keening and groaning as Mike hits the spot again and again and again. His fingers ache and he's dripping sweat, but he carries on, bringing Michael to the edge.
The paladin leans back into the mattress, breathing hard. "Stop," he wheezes, and Mike stills.
"Yeah?" He asks, fingers still twitching.
Michael looks up at him, his long hair a dark river across the sheets.
"Do you want to fuck me?"
"Yes," Mike moans, every fiber of his being already buzzing.
Michael nods, and Mike withdraws his fingers slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort.
"Back on your hands and knees," he says.
"Demanding," Michael mutters, rolling onto his stomach and then pushing up on all fours.
Mike shakes his head, incredulous, and grins. He runs his hands up Michael's arms, pale fingers dancing over the inked skin and lean muscle.
"You're—I'm? Handsome." Mike stammers.
"Thank you," Michael murmurs, turning to place a kiss on his nose. His eyes crinkle in a smile that looks far more Mike Wheeler than Michael the Brave.
"You would be, too, with a proper suit of armor," he says, and Mike scowls.
"Say something nice before I decide not to fuck you," he says, mock-irritated.
"Fine," Michael breathes, leaning in and kissing his jawline, "your fingers are perfect, and you are perfect at following orders."
Mike huffs a satisfied sigh, and pulls away, shifting behind him and rising up on his knees.
Michael is red and glistening, already open and ready for him. I did that, Mike realizes, a surge of pride rising in his chest.
He places a hand on Michael's ass, and with a shaky sigh, Mike lines up, guiding his cock to Michael's entrance and angling his hips forward, pushing into the tight, hot ring of muscle.
Michael moans. It's a deeper, reverberating echo of Mike's own voice. Mike takes this as a sign to keep going, sliding in a few more inches, thrusting gently and leaning forward until he's nearly to the hilt. He takes another deep breath, bracing himself, and—
Michael arches further, fucking himself against Mike, and it's just a single roll of the hips and he's bottoming out with a long, drawn-out wail.
"Oh—mm, fuck!" Mike gasps, the sudden heat overwhelming and earth-shatteringly good.
He's dreamed about what this would feel like. But nothing—no description, no visual, no fantasy—amounts to this. His cock, sheathed in a pulsing, molten heat, one errant thought away from spilling deep inside his doppelganger.
"Take what you want, Mike," Michael snaps, wriggling his hips impatiently.
Mike heeds the command and pulls back, tipping his head back and groaning at the searing friction, the perfect slide of skin against skin.
And then he thrusts back in, burying himself to the hilt, a shudder of pleasure racing up his spine. He moves faster, curling his fingers around Michael's slender hips, holding him in place as he pounds into him, the room filled with a symphony of ragged gasps and the smack of skin against skin. He's moving on instinct, single-minded and ravenous.
It's obscene and debauched: the animalistic growls that spill out of Mike as he rams into Michael, his hips snapping forward with each thrust. The paladin is trembling beneath him, letting out soft whines and sweet, keening moans. Sounds that Mike has never heard from his own mouth—until tonight.
He reaches down beneath them, taking Michael in his hand and stroking him in time to his thrusts. It's an easy motion—one he's repeated countless times. It's his own body, responding to the quick twist of his hand and the pressure of his fist.
Mike is high off the rush, the knowledge that he can take someone apart like this. Fuck them senseless, until they're slick with sweat and singing his praises. To see his own bravery and stubborn nature reduced to a string of good and don't stop and take me there.
And to think—to hope, to pray—that the next time he does this, it will be Will.
Inevitable. Like breathing.
With a sound like a battle-cry, Mike comes, spilling deep within Michael and jerking his hips through the tremors. Michael is close behind, gushing scalding and forceful over Mike's fist.
Mike works him through it, pressing sloppy kisses to his sweat-drenched nape and then collapsing on top of him.
They're a heaving, breathless pile of limbs, and Mike should be grossed out by the way they stick together, bound by sweat and salt. But he isn't. He lays there on top of Michael, brushing his hand over his now-damp curls, kissing his warm skin and basking in the glow of the moment.
Eventually, after some indistinguishable amount of time, they end up side by side, Mike's head on Michael's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"You have proved yourself worthy of the oath," Michael murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Mike's brow. He stares up at him.
"I want to be good for him," Mike whispers. "For Will."
Michael's arms wrap around him, pulling him close. "You are good, Mike. In more ways than just this. You are brave, and outspoken—gods, you are loud—and exactly what he needs. I know this to be true."
"I hope so," Mike says, voice small. "I'll have to go to New York," he continues. "Soon."
"Do you require a steed? I can—"
A ridiculous laugh bubbles up from Mike's chest, and he grins at Michael, shaking his head. "No. We have… cars. Like carriages, without the horse."
"Strange world," Michael mutters. "One of the lesser dimensions I have visited."
Mike thinks back to the gloom of the Upside Down. "I've seen worse," he quips.
That sets Michael off, and they dwindle into bickering again—about interdimensional monsters and grand adventures, Mike's on paper and Michael's atop a horse named Rory. The late hours pass like this, two halves of the same whole exchanging stories and sharing between them the one vital thing that unites their two worlds.
Love.
The next morning, in the pink light of dawn, Mike sits cross-legged on the bed, Michael sat in front of him.
"He has a mole, just above his lip," Michael says. "Does yours?"
"Yes," Mike mutters, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration as he braids Michael's hair.
"And do his teeth resemble a rabbit?"
Mike laughs, a warm and resonant sound in the quiet of the bedroom. "Yes," he whispers. "Like a bunny."
"So they are one and the same, then," Michael sighs, satisfied. Mike peers over his shoulder, checking on the progress Michael has made with a Rubiks cube.
"You're good at that," Mike says, impressed. He continues his braiding with deft fingers, and considers a future where he grows his hair long.
"Because you're good at it," Michael quips.
Mike smiles to himself and fastens off the braid with a piece of twine. Michael turns around to face him, running his hands up his arms and looping his arms around his neck.
It's different in the morning light. It's not a quest, no end goal in sight. It isn't about their love for Will anymore, though that still burns brightly in their hearts. It's just affection for the sake of it, dedicated to reminding each other that yes, they are brave. They are worthy.
Michael leans in and kisses him gently, fingers tangling in his curls. Mike hums against his lips and draws back, the beginning of an ache forming in his chest.
"I don't want to forget you," Mike murmurs. "I—can I do something?"
Michael nods, raising his eyebrows. Mike tumbles off the bed, walking—still shaky from the night's activities—over to his desk and grabbing his Polaroid camera.
"This makes a picture. Like—like a little painting of the moment," he explains.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Come here," Mike says, and slings an arm around Michael's shoulder. He raises the camera. "Smile," he mutters. "Don't look stupid."
"I don't look stupid," Michael says from behind a grin. Mike clicks the shutter.
The photo prints and Mike sets it face-down on the bed, then stands up again.
"Taking a Polaroid back with you would totally fuck up the multiverse or something," Mike says, "but I can give you this."
He rustles through a stack of drawings on his desk from the Party's last campaign with Will, settling on a chest-up portrait of Mike the Brave. It does bear a shocking resemblance to Michael.
He hands him the picture, and Michael stares down at it with a soft smile.
"William's work," he says, voice dripping with fondness.
"Yeah."
"You see, Mike?" Michael asks, looking up at him with shining eyes. "I have always been with you."
And it's true. Mike the Brave, Mike Wheeler, they're all the same at the end of the day. Because if Will sees it, in drawings and in countless dimensions, then… it must be true.
Inevitable. Like breathing.
Mike flips the Polaroid over, and there's the surreal image of the two of them: smiling into the camera, mirror images. Both brave, both scarred.
Both devoted.
"You look like a ghost," Michael comments wryly, "so pale."
"Shut up. It's not done developing." Mike grumbles, shoving his shoulder.
Michael attacks back, flipping him onto his back and wrestling him into the mattress.
"One for the road?" He asks, eyes glinting.
"Greedy," Mike says, but his stomach swoops at the proposition. "Won't you just… disappear into my closet and end up back in William's arms?"
Michael tilts his head, quirking a brow. "Yes," he says slowly, "but I have more to show you."
"Of course you do," he mutters. "Know-it-all,"
"Smart-ass," Michael responds, and captures his mouth in a kiss, effectively silencing him.
They pass the rest of the morning like this, their bodies wound around each other once more in a slow, thorough affair. And when the golden light of evening cuts through the dim blue of Mike's room, Michael presses a final, tender kiss to Mike's hand and, unbeknownst to Mike, slips the Rubiks cube into his traveling pack along with the drawing.
And then everything feels a bit blurry and dream-like. He's gone, in a gust of snowy wind, leaving Mike both hollow and impossibly full—of love, and of bravery. He can hardly breathe as the reality of it swells in his chest.
He stands in the quiet solitude of his room, everything cast in a different light, and pins the Polaroid to the corkboard.
Then he fumbles in his desk drawer for a stack of quarters, swaddles himself in a coat and scarf, and walks out of his apartment and down to the corner.
He slips the coins into the pay phone, holding it up to his ear in anticipation.
Will picks up on the second ring.
"I'm coming to New York," Mike says without preamble, "and I want to see you."
Inevitable. Like breathing.