Work Text:
10:15 am
"Max," Will sighs.
Currently, the tips of his fingers press and drag down on his dark under-eye circles in an effort to peer at the bloodshot quality of his eyeballs. The dressing-room bulbs throw an unforgiving yellow over his face, bringing up more concerns for his skin than all else. He looks hideous. It's his wedding day, his big moment, and he looks hideous.
His gaze shifts to one of his best friends in the mirror. Max—behind him—has been pacing so violently that the hem of her baby pink silk dress has developed a life of its own, swishing around her pale ankles as she marches from one end of the room to the other.
The clip of her heels on the flagstone—as well as the catch of them in the uneven grooves—is driving insidiously into Will's pounding skull, so he really wishes she would quit it. Most especially because the lingering scent of hairspray has already worked tirelessly to exacerbate it.
Alongside this, despite brushing his teeth thrice this morning, they still feel fuzzy, and there's a sour taste in his mouth.
Whose bright idea was it to have the bachelor party—read: drink copious amounts of alcohol—the night before the wedding anyway? He's far too old to be doing any kind of drinking these days, let alone twenty-four hours before he makes his vows in front of family and friends.
The culmination of this is that he's particularly snarky when he states, "You've been doing a decent impression of Mike for like—the last ten minutes; you're making me queasy. Just spit it out already."
Max spins around—her heels clicking once more before finally going still—and stops dead in front of Will.
Her face twists at the mention of Mike, but then she shakes both hands out as if she's trying to fling nerves from her fingers. They continue to tremble, even after she's ceased the frantic movement. She takes in a grossly dramatic big breath, which makes Will raise his eyebrow.
Straightening, he releases his dry skin and turns away from the reflection to look at the real thing.
"I'm serious. Get it out."
She grimaces, her face darkening to a dull pink that eclipses her dress. "Will… you have to stop the wedding!"
Over Max's shoulder in the other wall-mounted mirror, El winces. She watches them in the reflection as her fingers move deftly across her long hair. In an almost hypnotising fashion, she lifts and loops, and does all sorts of complicated witchcraft to keep it held together.
Between her pinched, white lips perches a bobby pin, which garbles her speech when she admonishes, "We said we would do it gently."
Max closes her eyes, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep breath. "Right." Her eyes flutter open, pinning him with their intense green. "Stop the wedding… please?
Will baulks, leaning back and bracing his hands behind him on the dressing table. "Are you crazy?"
"Me?!" Max throws her hands up, rolling her eyes to the heavens. "You're the one marrying Carlton!"
Gaping, Will squawks, "Hey! That's my future husband! And he's not that bad!"
Flapping her hands, Max's voice turns shrill. "He's boring, Will!"
"He's not boring!" Will flaps his hands back, distressed by her panic and his own headache. "He's—he's nice!"
Max wrinkles her nose, smudging her makeup with creases along the bridge. "Nice is boring."
"That's not how adjectives work."
She changes tactics, pacing again. "He made you move to the bumfuck of nowhere on the edge of New York! New York, Will!"
"That was for work!" Will defends. "Because of that job, I get to be flivorous as fuck! You got Louboutins for Christmas because of that job, Maxine!"
Stopping in front of him, Max clasps her hands together like a begging urchin and shakes them as she pleads, "And I love the Louboutins, Will, really, I fucking do. El, how much do I love the Louboutins?"
"Too much," El confirms, continuing to work on her hair.
Max looks back at Will again, waving her hand at El in a see?! gesture. "But I love you more!" Will softens for half a second, shoulders dropping. That is, until she points a finger at him, capped with a viciously sharp nail. "Carlton is killing your whimsy!"
"And he is not Mike," El adds unhelpfully.
His head snaps toward her, aghast, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. His sister merely shrugs, still avidly working at her hair. Max has always had a terrible influence on her, and years upon years of friendship haven't helped.
"Mike is straight," Will tells her firmly, anyway.
It's the same thing he's been saying for nigh on two decades. He looks back at Max pointedly, waving his hand in an encompassing you heard me motion.
Max's jaw unhinges, gloss-slick lips peeling apart. "I don't care what he labels himself as, Will! Mike is grossly in love with you, you absolute idiot!"
"Oh, yeah?" He folds his arms—ignoring the way his stomach swoops—and scrunches his face. "Evidence, please, juror?"
"Oh, I don't know." Max plants her hands on her hips, cocking one with apparent disapproval. "Just like… you know, the last twenty-plus years of our lives."
"We've been friends!" Will argues, resisting the urge to petulantly stamp his foot. "Just friends! No, not even friends—best friends!"
Max makes a strangled noise and then actually claws her hands and strangles air. "Just friends don't behave like you, and Mike do, Byers!"
He turns away, muttering under his breath as he reaches for the cufflink sitting on the dressing table. The room around him is a disaster—makeup scattered across every available surface, El's shoes underneath a chair, and Max's clutch hanging from the lamp for some inexplicable reason. Bobby pins are fucking everywhere.
Outside the window—when he glances there—the view is aggressively unremarkable. Nothing more than a gas station and a scattering of trees. He stares out—while fixing his cufflink—at the six lanes of traffic crawling past in both directions. Sunlight glares off the passing cars, distant horns and honks reaching him muffled through the glass.
Somewhere beyond it all is Roosevelt Field, apparently the closest thing Garden City has to a personality. This is essentially what happens when you move to the bumfuck of nowhere on the edge of New York—a shitty view from a shitty venue.
Okay, yeah, it's not exactly what Will wanted for his wedding day. But hey, just a couple of years ago, he couldn't even get married. When the laws passed last year, he had loads of friends who rushed off to get hitched just because they could—regardless of how long they'd actually been together, and how stable the whole thing was.
He should be grateful that he even has the opportunity, that he has a fiancée who wants to marry him. He's forty-one now—there's not much time left to find the one, and Will has tried. He's really, really tried.
No one compares to Mike. How could they ever? It's not a fair comparison—someone he's known since he was five years old. Someone who has been his best friend through all the best and worst moments of his life. Mike is the moon to his sun. The only problem is, Will thinks the sun and moon are lovers, and Mike thinks they're siblings.
No, no one was ever going to compare to Mike Wheeler, one of the best people he knows. One of the most beautiful, stunning souls he orbits. No one could come near, so Will had to settle. He's always known this would be the case, always been aware that to not love Mike the way he does would be to perform surgery on his soul.
Therefore, the next best thing was all he could do. Carlton is the next best thing. He's kind, and he's thoughtful, and he doesn't make Will feel like shit for having the occasional nightmare at his old age. Yeah, okay, so he might be a little boring. It's true. But he's safe, and he loves Will—that has to be enough.
Breaking out of his head, he turns back to face Max, who awaits him with hands on her hips still. He fusses with his shirt collar, trying to soften its stiffness.
"What're you even trying to say, Max?"
"That—Mike! He loves you, Will! Even to this day—you should see him when you guys hug, I mean… he lingers!" She gestures helplessly at the apparent disbelief twisting his features. "Don't make me explain! He just—he lingers!"
Will scoffs, despite knowing exactly what she means. Mike's arms have been wrapping around him lower and lower over the years. There's been countless times Will has turned bright red from Mike cradling him practically at the waist. Mike never pulls away first, either, and when Will eventually does, Mike doesn't immediately let go.
He does, in fact, linger.
Regardless, Will drags on his thick cloak of protection in the form of sarcasm. "I'll just go tell Carlton that then, shall I?" He adopts a falsely solemn expression. "Hey, babe, why don't we go ahead and stop the wedding? Why? Thanks for asking! Basically 'cause Max is sure Mike—you know the guy you're not aware I'm in love with—loves me. How does she know, you say? The way he hugs me—he lingers."
Max's eye twitches. "Will, for God's sake, Carlton drains the life out of you! Take Mike away, and you're still better off away from Carl!"
"And…" El inputs, tying off the complicated braid she's been relentlessly doing throughout the commotion. "You do light up with Mike. You always have."
"Yeah, that'll be the three decades' worth of loving him," Will answers, deadpan. "We've known this. You've teased me enough over the years. I'm hopelessly in love with him; it's not going a—"
There's a sharp clatter, and someone promptly falls through the door, rattling it on its hinges.
The three of them freeze, and there's a brief, horrible silence. Will slowly turns. Dustin half-lies on the floor between the doorway and their room. One leg is in the hall, his arm sprawled out in front of him. He slowly raises his eyes to look up at them and smiles wryly.
"Erm… whoops?"
El's eyes widen. "Dustin! Were you eavesdropping?"
"Me?" He looks genuinely offended, even sprawled out on the floor. "Nope. No. Not at all." He finally scrambles upright, clearing his throat and brushing down his tuxedo jacket. "I just—gotta—erm—" He gestures vaguely. "I'll just—"
"Stop!" Max hollers, running and tackling him.
Dustin yelps as she clings to his back, spinning around so Max's legs stick straight out and become deadly weapons.
"Max!" El and Will call in unison.
The pair of them—Max and Dustin, turned Tasmanian devil whirlwind—crash into the wall, rattling the whole room. Will winces, dreading to think about their security deposit.
El gasps, hands flying to cover her wide-open mouth. "Max! Watch your dress! It is silk!"
"Fuck the dress!" Max pins Dustin against the wall now, chest heaving. "We have to stop Henderson before he goes blabbing his big mouth!"
"I'm not blabbing!" Dustin squeaks. "What's there to blab about?! I heard nothing!"
"Liar!" Max screeches. "El, use your powers! Do something!"
"Max, calm down!" Will cries.
"I am calm!"
Dustin—whose face is currently pressed against the wall—wheezes, "You're a vicious woman."
Max narrows her eyes. "You can't go telling Wheeler anything."
"You were just trying to convince me to stop the wedding," Will says.
"Yeah, but for you!" Max throws him a sour look, her forearm pressing against Dustin's shoulders to keep him pinned. "Not for Mike, Christ. You deserve to be the one who tells him after all these years, Will."
"Erm, could you let up maybe?" Dustin gasps. "I think I'm losing vision in my left eye."
Rolling her eyes, Max releases him. "Stay right there and don't even think about going anywhere."
Dustin rubs his shoulders, glaring at her, his tuxedo rumpled. "You're insane."
"We have known this," El proclaims.
Max folds her arms and jerks her chin to the right. "Sit."
Blinking at her with perplexity, Dustin asks, "What? Why?"
"Because I don't trust you."
Dustin looks slightly wounded, mouth opening and closing. "After everything we've been through, Maxine?"
Instead of answering, she points to the nearest seat—a velvet footstool—and with a sigh, Dustin obediently plops down on it. It's so tiny compared to him that he looks like an adult man being sent to time out in kindergarten. It's completely ridiculous, and Will may still be drunk, or just delirious, because he nearly bursts out into a fit of giggles.
"Happy?" Dustin grouses.
"Ecstatic," Max tells him, baring her teeth—there's a lipstick stain on them.
Will has to bite down on his bottom lip as the giggles threaten to cleave apart the seams of his lips.
Dustin glances between them all, fixing his ruffled hair. "How long am I supposed to sit here?"
"Until the wedding," Max states, glancing at her watch. "Which is in… thirty-four minutes." She glances up, smirking—something entirely shark-like and reminiscent of her youth. "Congratulations, Henderson, you've just officially switched groups."
˚♡₊🔔🤵🏻🥂🤵🏻₊🔔♡˚
9: 33am—fifty-three minutes earlier
"You should just stop the wedding," Lucas says.
It's said so casually that for a moment, Mike thinks he must have misheard him. He looks at himself in the mirror—currently in a duel to the death with his tie—and then at one of his oldest friends over his shoulder.
Lucas leans with his upper body braced against the wall, and his one knee bent, foot propped. He isn't even looking at Mike, instead picking at a piece of something Mike can't see on his sleeve. Insultingly, his entire frame is relaxed, as if Mike isn't currently experiencing a personal catastrophe three feet away.
Mike surveys the hotel room around them next, which currently looks exactly how it is—like three grown men have been left unsupervised in it for too long. Two suit jackets—his and Dustin's—are slung over the backs of chairs, and on the desk sits a bag of pretzels and a half-empty bottle of water from last night.
Mike then looks back at himself—washed in the unflattering grey-blue light of morning—finding a forty-one-year-old man who looks like he's going to his own funeral. His shirt is crisp, but his hair is a fucking disaster, and his stupid fucking tie is still crooked.
"What?" He asks weakly as he yanks at the knot. The collar pinches the back of his neck, and he hisses, "fuck."
"You should stop the wedding," Lucas repeats.
Huh. So Mike did hear him right the first time. While processing this, he digs a finger underneath the collar currently trying to end his life, attempting to pry it from his flesh and loosen the thing without ruining it completely.
"Don't be—fuck sake!" He yanks harder, and finally frees it. "Ridiculous, Lucas!"
"I'm not being ridiculous," Lucas denies with his continued nonchalance. "You've seen Shrek. We could pull up like Shrek, Donkey and Dragon." Lucas pitches this with such complete sincerity that Mike almost buys into it on the spot. "You, of course, are Shrek in this scenario."
"I hate you," Mike mutters.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dustin fiddles with the cuff of his shirt, one socked foot bouncing against the carpet. He looks considerably more put together than any of them have any right to after last night. His curls are neat, and his glasses are the sleek frames Mike envies.
He clears his throat, garnering their attention and offers, "I mean, we could just tell Will for you if you're scared. You know—put out some feelers on how he'd take it and give you the go-ahead."
Halting the fight with his tie, Mike slowly turns around. "Oh right." He gives them both an overeager look. "What the hell, sure! Great idea!"
Dustin perks up, face brightening. "See!" He looks at Lucas with a beaming smile. "Told you he'd go for it!"
"How would that go?"
Mike spreads his hands and puts on a falsely cheerful voice, smiling so big and bright that Dustin instantly looks suspicious.
"Oh hey, Will! Congrats on the big day! Super stoked for you! By the way—just a casual side note with no particular relevance—Mike is like crazy for Cocoa Puffs over you, and you should, like, actually just call off the wedding."
Scowling, Dustin deflates. "I've told you to save the theatrics for DMing, Michael. Honestly." He gives Mike a long, unimpressed once-over, taking in the crooked tie and increasingly deranged hair. "You're crazy dramatic way too many days out of the week to be comfortable. You're a forty-one-year-old virgin; act like it—humble yourself."
Mike squawks indignantly. "I told you that in confidence!"
Before Dustin can answer, Lucas interrupts, "They say it makes you crazy, though." Lucas stares when Mike looks over at him with a glare. His friend frowns, clarifying, "Love." He waves his hand, emphasising at empty air. "You know? Love mak—"
"I'll actually kill you," Mike declares.
Lucas nods, taking this in stride. "Yep. Okay, fair. You told me that in confidence too."
Sighing, Mike returns to his frazzled reflection. His tie is still crooked and his hair—despite several attempts to style it—is more birds' nest than silky curls. The bags under his eyes are no joke—the skin having gone a faint, unhealthy purple. All in all, he looks like shit.
Will doesn't deserve having to put up with looking at Mike in the front row on his big day like this. The thought of it being Will's big day turns Mike's stomach so sharply that he has to swallow against the sudden sourness in his throat.
Carlton's not a bad guy by any stretch—Mike fucking hates his guts—and he takes care of Will—Mike could do it better—and they have a good life together—his and Will's would be cooler but whatever—and he wants Will to be happy, ultimately.
Admittedly, he thought the chance that it might be with him would crop up somewhere along the years. It just never did. Maybe because there was never any lack in their friendship that demanded Mike declare his love. They spent every day together—especially when they shared an apartment in their twenties.
When they moved out to their own places in their thirties—Will's idea; Mike would never suggest such horrors—they called every day. Even having a boyfriend didn't deter Will from honouring their Friday night pizza and movies, either. Some of his fondest memories are those nights—Will sprawled across his sofa, grinning.
Truth is, Mike has a pretty solid almost-relationship with Will, and has done so for decades. Will was never really serious about anyone until Carlton, and Mike hasn't been serious about anyone like ever—El absolutely doesn't count.
The pathetic little progress of Mike's life has been: he knew he was gay by the time he was nineteen. He knew he was in love with Will not even six months after that. He knew he didn't have the balls to tell Will and potentially lose him about twenty-four hours later.
He just kind of failed to realise that he'd have to watch the other half of his heart get married.
"Look," Dustin speaks suddenly, and Mike jolts hard enough that his shoulder knocks against the mirror. "You love Will—"
"—Will loves you," Lucas interjects.
"You suppose," Mike disagrees weakly, rubbing at his smarting limb.
"I've been supposing since the eighties, man."
"Hear, hear!" Dustin cheers.
"You're not helping," Mike grumbles. "Neither of you. You're trying to get me to destroy my best friend's wedding on a feeling."
"Not a feeling," Lucas rebukes. "A universal truth literally everyone else seems to know but you two idiots."
Mike scoffs. "Brilliant. Really compelling argument. Never mind that Will is choosing to get married. Not even relevant."
"Be serious." Lucas pushes away from the wall and stands before him, clapping his hands down on Mike's shoulders, warm and solid. He winces, his knees buckling slightly. "You think Will doesn't love you. Or, well—isn't in love with you."
Mike grimaces. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he's marrying another man!"
Lucas shakes his head in apparent disgust. "That's your evidence?"
"Yes."
"Mike."
"What?!"
Lucas starts to shake him, jerking Mike's body around with some truly undignified noises from Mike as a result. He does it hard enough that Mike's head bobs uselessly between his shoulders. His tie swings sideways and his hair springs about, destroying whatever styling it was clinging to.
"He's marrying another man because you never told him you love him, you idiot!"
"Alright, alright!" Mike smacks wildly at him with flappy hands, fighting off the shake-attack.
"Will isn't choosing Carlton!" Lucas grunts, reaching grabby hands out to shake Mike again. Mike has to start karate-chopping them away. "He just doesn't know you're an option!"
"Okay!" Dustin shoots up and pushes them apart. "Can you stop! You're making my head hurt!"
Dustin wedges himself right between them, panting as though he's the one who's just been assaulted. Mike would actually kind of like it if Dustin were to pick him up, perch Mike on his hip, and save him from any future, impending attacks. Instead, he makes the dignifying decision to cling to Dustin's arm and peer at Lucas over his head with a glare.
Lucas points his finger over Dustin's shoulder. "You're not asking yourself the important question, as usual."
"Oh, do enlighten me," Mike deadpans, reaching one hand to fix his ruffled hair.
"What's worse?" Lucas spreads his hands like a pair of scales, solemnly weighing one imaginary option against the other—because apparently Mike needs visual aids. "Stopping the wedding or sitting there and watching him marry someone else?"
Mike's stomach drops. Every beer he consumed last night at the bachelor party threatens to come up, burning the back of his throat. He swallows desperately, fighting it all back down. Sweat prickles beneath his collar, and suddenly the hotel room feels far too warm, despite the aggressive noise of the air conditioner.
He briefly closes his eyes and opens them again, staring back at Lucas' penetrating gaze. Voice low, rougher than he expects, he answers, "Of course, it's watching him get married. Watching him smile, beautiful and happy, knowing I've spent decades loving him in silence, and now I have to fucking clap while Carlton gets to spend the rest of his life holding Will's hand. Of course that's worse. But—" He sighs. "It's his wedding. I can't just show up and tell him not to marry someone else. I can't do a Shrek, Lucas."
"Quick question," Dustin says with a casual sweep of his arm and a pout of his lips. "Um, why not?"
"Cause it's fucking insane!" Mike cries.
He shakes his head, running both hands through his hair and making the already disastrous mess considerably worse.
"No. I'm not doing that to him—I refuse."
Dustin watches him carefully. "Even if you love him?"
Mike laughs bitterly. "Especially because I love him."
He looks down at his hands, ashamed. They're trembling slightly, and he curls them into fists to hide it.
"I've had ample time to tell him." His voice catches slightly. "I don't get to wait until the morning of his wedding and decide that his life should change because I finally decided to be brave." He exhales deeply into the ensuing silence. "If Will wants to marry Carlton, then he gets to marry Carlton."
Lucas' expression twists. "But—"
"No."
He turns once again—fruitlessly at this point—to the mirror. His reflection looks back at him: crooked tie and wrecked hair. He straightens the knot anyway.
"I'll be there—I'll smile, clap, and tell him he's an idiot for making me wear a suit. I'll probably cry like a fucking loser during the vows, and then I'll get really, really drunk at the dinner."
Dustin snorts. "Sounds totally healthy, can't wait to see it." He frames Mike between his hands and spreads them out in the air like he's unveiling a particularly tragic Broadway production. "The ultimate Michael James Wheeler performance."
Lucas sighs but nods. "Okay. Sure, yeah. Best Man mode it is."
Sitting back on the bed, Dustin rubs at the bridge of his nose. "So just to confirm, we're not going full Shrek? No stopping the wedding? I won't be involved in your public emotional breakdown?"
"I sincerely hate you." Mike groans and viciously scrubs at his eyes. Dropping his hands, he turns to face them both again. "Thanks for being with me."
"Anytime, buddy," Dustin answers sincerely.
Smiling weakly, Mike checks his watch and curses. "We better go; it's still gonna take twenty minutes to get there."
Lucas glances at his own watch and rolls his eyes. "Wedding's at eleven, Mike. Even when we get there at ten-oh-five, we'll have fifty-five minutes."
Mike grimaces. "The more time I have to break down before sitting in the front row, the better."
˚♡₊🔔🤵🏻🥂🤵🏻₊🔔♡˚
10:35 am—50 minutes later
"You might bump into Carlton! You will jinx it!" El disputes.
"He won't be in the room by now, I'm sure!" Will responds, shimmying out of the crack in the door. "I just want the shoe shiner; it'll be fine!"
Will hurries down the corridor to Carlton's room, the heels of his shoes clicking too loudly against the polished floor. The venue is somehow even more aggressively beige from this side of the building—cream walls, framed photographs of weddings, identical brass sconces throwing pools of yellow light over cream carpet.
Carlton's room is at the very end of the corridor, beside a little plaque that reads Groom's Suite—of course, Will ended up in the accompanying Bride one. A slight insult—Carlton had presumed. He pushes the door open with a grumble at the reminder, and finds it painfully tidy.
Immediately, he rifles through his own bags and just as soon sighs in frustration when there's no shoe polish to be found. He hustles to Carlton's instead, digging past his socks, underwear, and pack of antacids. That's when his hand brushes against the leather-bound, red journal that is one of Carlton's prized possessions.
He pauses in surprise, though he's not sure why—it's pretty obvious that notorious thought-jotter Carlton would journal through their wedding.
Will knows he shouldn't—really shouldn't. Yet before he's actively decided it, he's sitting down on the neatly made bed, and the journal is falling open in his hands.
Even here, he hesitates. Journals are the one place people are supposed to be allowed to say whatever the hell they want. Will absolutely should not breach this sacred universal law. But then his unfocused gaze spots—and homes in on—his own name.
…. just two days away and yet im still scared that marrying will is a terrible idea.
Will's stomach promptly drops to his toes. He looks around the empty room, skin heating as he surveys the closed door, the neat side tables, and then back to the ink-scrawled page. He knows he should close it, should do so right now, in fact. He takes a deep breath and does a countdown to prepare himself to do the right thing.
Three, two, one—
His traitorous eyes skip down, snagged by:
hes so lovely, but thats kinda the problem. i keep waiting for him to get excited about me, but he dont.
Swallowing, Will's eyes move down the page, skipping and vibrating in his haste.
he gets excited about everything else—painting, his family, the goddamn new bakery, his friends. ESPECIALLY FUCKING MIKE.
Will expels a whoosh of air as if he's been struck in the solar plexus. The journal rests spread in his shaking hand, his heart beating fast. He glances briefly to the ceiling, trying to summon the strength to close the thing. Instead, his head tips back down, eyes refocusing.
i dont think will even realises how obvious he is, which is worse. mike simply gets mentioned and his whole face changes; its insane.
Guilt rips into his stomach, trying to encourage him to close these private thoughts and leave them where they should be.
His eyes keep moving despite himself.
ive spent
threefour years trying not to resent a manwhosewhos done pretty much nothin wrong. i mean, mike kinda toes the line sometimes, but otherwise hes just wills best friend—same as joes been mine since high school. mikes never tried to take will or anything, but then again, mike dont even seem to realise that he has him. in fact, neither of them seem to have a clue how painfully in love they are with the other. mike doesnt even identify as gay! ive known the man a handful of years, and he's never had a girlfriend, never commented that a woman was beautiful or pretty or hot, and yet he looks at will like hes the sun mikes supposed to orbit.
Will's breath catches. He snaps the journal closed, fighting the temptation to read the rest. His heart thunders in his chest. It's one thing to hear it from Max and El, but his future husband? And Carlton has never, ever given any hint that he felt this way—that he observed anything like that between Mike and Will.
So what does that say? What does that mean? His hands shake as he continues to hold the journal, hesitating. His stomach is churning unpleasantly. He's getting married in less than thirty minutes. He's about to walk down the aisle where Carlton waits at the end.
Will has been making his peace with that, with the fact that it would never be Mike. But, maybe—
Despite himself, he pulls the journal open again. The one he just read was from earlier in the week, and so he flips to one from two days ago when they first arrived at the venue. They came alone initially, to enjoy the time before their friends and family would join them—to wander around the place where they'd proclaim their vows.
As soon as Will reads, he remembers the exact moment that Carlton is referring to.
i asked will today if he was happy, and he said
yeahyes. then I asked him if he was excited about the wedding, and he said yeah again. i asked him why—what exsited him the most? being together forever? the beautiful venue? the fact that, as two gay men, we can finally marry? you know what he said to me? 'because youre happy.' thats when i knew for sure—he dont wanna marry me; he just wants to be the kinda person who wants to marry me.
Grimacing, Will recalls the look on Carlton's face in the moment he's describing—the tiny pause before he smiled. Shaken, Will moves on to an entry from last night when they were both having their bachelor party. This must have been before or after it, when they were alone.
tomorrow is the wedding, and im still scared. i dont think will is gonna call it off or anything, but i think maybe in like a year or something he'll realise how much mike loves him back, and he'll leave me an itll all be a mess. but the tables are set, and the guests are gonna be waiting, so i guess this is it, an i just have to have faith in my fiancé.
For several minutes, Will sits staring into space, warning signs flashing wildly. His wedding suit suddenly feels unbearably constricting. The collar of his shirt is tight around his throat, damp beneath his arms, and every seam of his suit feels too close against his skin.
The room is too warm, and the air seems thick with the faint scent of Carl's cologne. He looks back at the journal in disbelief, vision swimming. Carlton knows, and he's still willing to marry Will anyway—he really is so unbelievably kind.
He puts the journal away exactly as he found it and paces, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. Sweat builds uncomfortably across his forehead, clinging to his styled hair, and the backs of his knees, sticking the fabric of his pants to him. It's so overstimulating that he wants to strip.
He fights it by pacing faster, making circuits of the room—four tight, heel-to-toe steps to the window.
"Shit," he mutters to himself.
Turn from the window and takes six tight, heel-to-toe steps to the wardrobe. He relents on the abuse against his eyeballs and grasps his sweat-damp hair instead.
"Shit, shit, shit."
A knock sounds at the door, jolting him mid-turn. He stutters to a stop in the middle of the room, clutching his hair like a madman. Max pops her head in, eyes surveying the room in suspicion. She looks irritatingly composed—silk dress immaculate despite earlier activities, and hair still perfectly pinned.
She raises her eyebrow when her gaze finally lands on him—taking in what must be a crimson, sweaty state of a person.
"You… okay?"
Will swallows, dropping his hands and relinquishing his hair. He thinks about Mike—about decades of friendship and memories, about lingering hugs and looks, about Friday night rituals, and Max saying Mike's in love with you, you absolute idiot.
"I don't know," he answers honestly.
"Well, that's ominous."
Will lets out a shaky laugh. "Max, I—I don't know if I should be getting married."
Max's entire face changes—for half a second, she looks like she's won the lottery. Then she seems to remember that this is, technically, a crisis, and hurries to school her expression.
"…oh?"
"You look delighted," Will tells her, deadpan.
She gasps, overdramatic and not at all believable. "I'm not!"
"You look really fucking delighted, actually."
Max presses her lips together. "Okay." She steps fully into the room and closes the door behind her. "What happened?"
Will hesitates, glancing briefly towards Carlton's bag and the now-buried journal.
"Have you ever…" He swallows. "Have you ever thought maybe Carlton knows?"
Max's brow furrows. "About what? The stock market?"
"Oh my God, please focus! About Mike, Max! He knows I'm in love with Mike!"
"Well…" She grimaces. "I've been trying to tell you that everyone kinda knows, Will. But how do you know Carlton does?"
He waves towards the bag. "I found his journal. He's been lamenting in there about us—about me not realising that Mike loves me, and Mike not knowing I love him."
Max raises her eyebrow. "A journal? Carlton fucking journals?"
"Please don't get distracted right now."
She sighs. "Okay, Carlton knows. Everyone knows, and this changes everything, even though I was literally telling you this like twenty minutes ago? Does my word mean nothing anymore?"
Will groans. "Sorry, the time crunch is getting to me! There's guests and cake and a photographer, my family, approximately eight thousand dollars' worth of tiny fucking candles and a man downstairs waiting to marry me! Forgive me for starting to freak out with the added knowledge that he knows I'm in love with my best friend!"
Max stares at him for a moment, jaw churning to say something. She spreads her hands out, lips peeling apart.
Will jumps in, "Do not tell me to stop the wedding. I need practical advice right now, not life-altering or shattering."
Max groans theatrically. "Why not?"
"It's not that simple!" He groans back, scrubbing at his face. "Mike's straight! You're all seeing something that's not there—even Carl apparently! Reality is I—I have a mortgage; a home! A whole life!"
"Yeah," Max scoffs, "and doesn't that tell you everything, Will? He's watched you and Mike for just four years compared to the Party, and he still came to the same conclusion." Max's voice softens now, stepping forward and clasping Will by the upper arms. "Will. There are so many signs—why do you refuse to see them?"
Will's eyes blur, and he blinks rapidly. "Because I did, once. I thought every bump of the elbow was a fucking sign, Max. I—I can't do all that again. I can't throw my life away on hope—I can't start believing something that isn't true. If I let myself think—"
His voice closes around the words. He looks away quickly, blinking hard, but it's too late. One tear slips free, then another races behind, followed by insistent runner-ups, all of them hot tracks down his cheeks.
"If I'm wrong," he croaks, "then it'll destroy me, Max."
When he's brave enough to look at his friend again, he sees it all—the years of this same subject, the multiple times he's been silly and foolish, and hoped beyond hope. Max releases his upper arms and clasps his hands between her warm palms.
"Will." She squeezes his hand, gentle fingers closing in a quick pulse of touch. "Take the Wheeler of it all away for a second. Don't you think it's pretty insane that you're marrying a man you know you're settling with? Isn't there just a tiny little voice in your head screaming 'no, don't'? You don't have to waste your life like this, Will. You really, really don't."
He scrunches his eyes closed, cheeks wet, and then rapidly blinks. His eyes skip over to the clock.
"Fuck."
Max follows his gaze and grimaces: 10.46 am.
Looking back at him, she declares, "Down to the wire, Will. What's it gonna be? Are we stopping this wedding or not?"
˚♡₊🔔🤵🏻🥂🤵🏻₊🔔♡˚
10.43 am — three minutes earlier
"But Max told you not to leave!" El protests, nerves tightening her face. "She's barely been gone t—"
Dustin cuts in, "Come on, El, the wedding starts in—" He glances down at his watch. "Like seventeen minutes. We have to go down now, or we won't be there for the vows!"
Sighing, she gathers the skirt of her dress and nods. "You are right. Will must be heading down soon."
He grins at her, offering his arm. "You look beautiful, by the way."
The word isn't good enough for her, but he's a little scrambled by her beauty currently, and it's the best he can come up with. The dress clings to her enticingly, the silk catching the light every time she moves. Her hair is done in an intricate braid that tugs at her temples, smoothing the creases that have begun to form around her eyes.
As she is—in the lift of her mouth and the brightness of her eyes—he catches a glimpse of the girl she was long ago, before a bad marriage and the years of looking tired had settled into her face. Dustin really fucking hates that guy for dimming her spark, and he'll do anything to get it back.
"Thank you." She blushes softly as her fingers curl around his elbow, warm through the fabric of his jacket. Their shoulders bump together, and Dustin's insides promptly light on fire, painfully aware of himself. "You look handsome too."
They exit the room, and the corridor is considerably louder than it had been when he arrived with Lucas and Mike—late, due to traffic, at ten minutes past ten—earlier. Voices drift from downstairs, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clatter of something being hurried into place.
He avidly trains his eyes on the floor so El won't turn an ankle in her frighteningly high heels. His heart is racing, his stomach a tangle of nerves as he plans his immediate steps upon getting to the ground floor.
Descending the thick carpeted stairs now, the marble foyer below begins to open, bright with the morning light pouring through the tall front windows. Guests are beginning to gather below, little clusters of suits and dresses moving between the floral arrangements. The formidable front doors stand open, letting in a blast of cool air and muffled traffic.
Clearing his throat, he tentatively asks, "So… um, how's the divorce coming along?"
El laughs softly. "It is good. I have a good lawyer."
He nods, swallowing tightly. "Good. That's really good."
Masterful, Henderson, he hears in his head—sounds like Eddie, still, even all these years later—truly poetic. Way to get the girl.
He waits until they've cleared the stairs and El's safely on the marble foyer before turning to face her. She stares at him inquisitively as he hovers in silence, big brown eyes beautiful and lined with a soft pink at the waterline.
"Hey, so…" He smiles wryly, tucking his hands in his trouser pockets and worrying at the fabric lining the inside. "Er, all this stuff with Mike and Will…"
She tilts her head endearingly, gloss-slick lips parting, looking at him beneath her lashes. Dustin's heart stumbles in his chest, words vacating his head with a speed in which they haven't since he was a teen.
"With Mike and Will…?" El prompts.
He clears his throat again, face hot. "You know, Will being in love with Mike—"
He doesn't tell Mike's truth, just like he didn't back in the room—it's Will's truth he wants to relay to Mike, in the hopes that it'll prompt his old friend to get his head out of his ass, finally. Max might kill him for it, and maybe Will does deserve to be the one to say it. But after watching this dance from a boy, Dustin's willing to start intervening.
"Well, um," he powers on, thinking of his own heart currently, "you ever think about how we—"
"There you are!" El cries, spotting someone over his shoulder.
Dustin sighs, glancing and finding Max coming down the mirroring staircase. One hand is gathered in her silk skirt, and the other grips the bannister.
El glances around, brow twisting. "Where is Will?"
Max grimaces, eyes sweeping the room. "He's trying to find—"
"Psst! Dustin!" Lucas' head suddenly emerges from the open front doors. "Come here a sec, would you?"
His heart jumps as he remembers his prior mission, and he scuttles toward Lucas. He slips through the front doors, and Dustin follows. He finds Mike leaning against the outer wall, one shoulder pressed into the stone. He looks less like a Best Man and more like a man contemplating fleeing the country. Pale and sickly, as well as—
"Are you smoking?" Dustin gasps. "You quit nearly a decade ago; what're you doing?!"
Mike puffs out a gust of grey smoke, his hand openly shaking when he pulls the cigarette away from his mouth. The ash capping the end trembles, threatening to spill and then just as promptly does so. Dustin grimaces at both the sharp, stale smell of smoke and the yellow nicotine stain clinging to Mike's bottom lip.
"Can't a man be stressed?" Mike laments. "I need something. I think I'm gonna pass out before Will even says I do."
Dustin draws in a long breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. He looks at Mike, then Lucas, then over his shoulder—back towards the doors for the deadly machine that is Maxine Mayfield-Sinclair.
Finally, he pins his eyes to Mike. "I don't know if this makes me a bad friend or not… but I have something to tell you. Scrub your lip while I talk; you're making me nauseous."
"Make it quick," Lucas says, glancing at his watch. "It's ten fifty. Wedding's literally in ten minutes."
˚♡₊🔔🤵🏻🥂🤵🏻₊🔔♡˚
10.50 am—elsewhere…
"Hey honey!" His mom calls, beaming.
Will curses internally at being caught mid-frenzy. He halts mid-step and rocks back on his heel to a stop. He glances over and spots her standing with Jonathan and Hop—both suited and booted, his mom's dress a pretty lavender he doesn't usually see her in. He closes the space between them, trying to smile without showing his building stress.
"Congrats again, kid," Hop grunts.
"We're just going to our seats!" His mom gushes, flowing in the ebb of the crowd. "Isn't it so exciting?"
"Yep, super exciting," Will agrees, unable to resist looking around wildly.
The foyer seems to have filled in the few minutes he's been gone searching elsewhere. Suits and silk and dark flashes of polished shoes move around him in a blur, voices overlapping and pitched with excitement beneath the high ceiling.
Sunlight pours through the front windows, catching on the marble floor and turning the floral arrangements into hazy splashes of colour against the cream and brass. His stomach twists tighter, and he turns back to his family, attempting to tame the frantic beat of his heart.
"You haven't seen Carl, have you?"
"He was talking to his friend, erm—John?" His mom answers, looking to his brother. "Is it John? Or James?"
"Joe," Will and Jonathan answer simultaneously. Will continues, "Where?"
"Why?" Jonathan counters, his brow furrowing. "Is something wrong?"
"Er… no—no. Just—go grab your seats. I'll see you soon!"
"Will? Sweetheart, what's going on?" His mom calls, but he's already turning away.
He grabs various friends and family as they head to their seats, clasping shoulders and forcing smiles that feel painfully stiff across his face, asking after his fiancée.
Eventually, one of Carlton's aunts answers, "Well, he's probably waiting at the aisle by now! It's eight minutes until showtime, dear!"
Will spins back to face the room he'll be getting married in, his heart sinking. Fuck, he's going to have to do this in front of everyone. This is his own fault, really. Why did it take him right until now to decide? He should have been snooping sooner—should have got hold of Carlton's diary in the last two days.
Well, there's nothing else for it. Taking in a deep breath, he heads to the entrance of the hall. Through the doors, he can see how aggressively beige it is, just like the rest of the place. Cream walls, more brass sconces throwing warm pools of yellow light across the room.
Rows of chairs dressed in pale fabric stretch toward the front. The rolled-out carpet runs straight down the centre, pristine and impossibly white beneath the chandelier light. Flowers everywhere, gorgeous but nauseating him now with their overwhelming scent, even through the closed doors.
There's people everywhere—his people. His family and friends, all waiting to watch him marry Carlton. He spies Carlton waiting at the altar and tries not to grimace openly. He looks exactly as he should—immaculate and clearly nervous, fidgeting on his feet.
Will had decided he would go down the aisle alone during his wedding planning, and he's grateful for the decision now. Standing beyond the doors, sweaty and sickly, is much more tolerable without someone to witness it. He wipes his damp palms against the sides of his trousers and takes one last breath.
He glances at his watch: 10.54 am.
Six minutes. He can't wait six whole minutes knowing what he's going to do. He knows someone will pull the doors open dead on eleven, if he waits. He just simply can't. Breathing deeply, he shoves the doors open. There's a sharp cut of noise, the room changing instantly.
Hasty music begins to play, slightly staggered and out of tune before it finds its rhythm. The last ebbs of conversation die, and all the guests jerk out of their seats, turning to face him in unison—hundreds of eyes on him at once, every face startled. For one horrible second, Will feels as though he's standing naked in the doorway.
The music swells around him, finding its flow now—soft and romantic, and completely fucking inappropriate for the way his stomach is trying to crawl into his throat. Swallowing tightly, he forgoes the slow trot he's been practising for months.
Carlton's brow creases as Will speed-walks down the rolled-out carpet, coming towards him far faster than any groom is supposed to walk down the aisle. He doesn't know how to fix his face, so Will leaves it blank. His shoes strike the carpet in quick, muffled steps. His palms are damp, his throat tight, and his stomach rolls and tugs, threatening bile.
Don't throw up, don't cry, don't make a scene, he chants to himself.
Then he's there, right at the altar.
Close enough now to see the tiny details—the faint flush high on Carlton's cheeks, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the sheen of sweat at his dark hairline.
"Carl," he gasps, trembling all over. "Can I talk to y—"
"STOP THE WEDDING!"
There's a ripple of gasps in the crowd, followed by a silence so complete that Will can hear the faint hum of the air conditioning overhead. He spins around in disbelief.
His heart hammers at the sight of Mike standing at the top of the rolled carpet, framed by the open doors. His chest heaves beneath his suit jacket, his tie is crooked, and his hair is a fucking disaster. His face is pale and sickly, like he ran all the way here without stopping to breathe.
Bizarrely, Dustin and Lucas appear behind him and then both baulk at the attention on them. The pair of them stick to the wall and scuttle around it, dragging half the room's attention with them, until they make their seats in the front row.
Will glances from the corner of his eye, but mostly watches Mike, his heart slamming against his ribs, and his ears ringing. For a moment, with their gazes locked, everything else disappears—the cream walls, the brass sconces, the flowers, the guests, the music still fading in from somewhere.
There's only Mike—his best friend, the love of his life, the moon to his sun—staring at him with an intensity Will's so rarely seen in his lifetime.
It's the look of his Paladin.
Carlton looks between them both, his face turning red. "Is this some kind of joke? What the hell is going on?"
Will opens his mouth, but nothing more than a strangled squeak seems capable of escaping. He looks back at Mike helplessly. As soon as Will's eyes are on him, Mike takes one shaky breath, his chest rising beneath the black of his suit jacket. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn't quite know what to do with them now that he's here.
Will finally finds his voice, face burning under the onslaught of eyes on him. "We're too old for this, Mike!" He laughs shakily. "This is a bad joke."
"A poorly timed joke," Carlton adds scathingly.
Mike shakes his head, face crumpling with something between a laugh and a wince. "Not a joke, just me being an idiot!"
A few people in the audience exchange bewildered looks when Will looks frantically over the sea of faces. Mike doesn't pay them any mind, tugging Will's attention back when he takes a step forward down the aisle.
"I've left it decades." His voice cracks slightly on the last word, but he doesn't stop. "But that's because I thought I'd missed my chance, but—" He swallows. "But maybe I haven't."
Will's heart gives one violent, painful thud. His vision turns opaque and hazy at the edges, bringing Mike front and centre in blistering clarity.
Beside him, Carlton mutters, "I'd say you have!"
"Shh," Max tells him from the front row.
Carlton turns and gapes at her, scandalised. "It's my wedding, too, you know!"
Will barely hears them, because Mike is still staring at him with that look. That fucking look that he always wears when he morphs into the leader, the Paladin, the heart. Mike might as well be standing before him in a full suit of armour rather than fabric. The way the sun falls over him, he could have a glinting sword clasped between his hands.
"Will," Mike calls again, still approaching down the carpet.
Something in his voice makes Will stop breathing, and his eyes—God, his eyes are so beautiful and vulnerable.
"Will," he breathes again, quieter, his voice carrying directly to Will's ears. "You're my best friend, my first friend, and I—" He visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The guests' eyes ping-pong between them, the entire room hushed. "I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember."
A strangled noise escapes Will, and his hand flies to his mouth, trying to cram it back down to its depths.
Mike's face turns red, but he goes on. "And I think you're in love with me too. I think I've just been too blind to see it."
Will's pulse beats frantically, painfully aware of Carlton's stare on the side of his face. Even still, he can't pull his eyes from Mike, who reaches into his trouser pocket and just as quickly retracts his hand. He presents it, opening wide and showcasing that on the flat of his palm sits a D20.
Will stares, and then a small, helpless—delirious—laugh escapes him. "Mike…" He mutters between his fingers.
"I rolled this seconds before I burst in here." He holds the die up, thumb rubbing against the edge. Will smiles despite himself, fingers trembling against his lips. "I said if it's meant to be, give me a number significant to me." Mike's eyes flicker over Will's face, and he grins—young and boyish and devastatingly handsome. "I was kinda cheating 'cause I could make any number significant—birthdays and all that shit."
A ripple of confused laughter moves through the guests. Will shakes his head, still floundering under all the attention and Mike's constant approach down the aisle as he talks. Will drops his hand from his mouth, struggling to pull in even breaths.
Mike comes to a stop right before the altar, tilting his neck up at Will. "You know what number it gave me?"
Will rolls his eyes, despite how they're already starting to sting. "Nat twenty?"
Mike's grin breaks wider. "It was a seven."
Will gasps, arms falling limp at his sides. The D20 gleams beneath the chandelier light, its little white numbers stark against the dark red plastic. Around them, the crowd looks around and murmurs in confusion, clearly trying to understand what the hell they're witnessing.
Will can't tear his eyes away from Mike, his head slowly tilting. "The demogorgon—it got you."
And suddenly, he's laughing—the same hysterical giggles that he's had to fight at various points of the morning.
Turning to Carlton, Will looks at his stricken face full of hurt, but even amongst it, Will can see the glimpses of resignation, and something unbearably gentle. His heart clenches, aching in his chest.
"I'm sorry."
Before Carl can answer, Will steps forward and presses a quick kiss to his cheek.
Turning to the room, he repeats, "I really am sorry to waste your time, everybody. Please, enjoy the food and alcohol. Have a party!"
Then to Mike, he grins wide. Mike's entire face lights up.
"Run!"
"Will—"
He's unsure who calls for him, because Will's already moving. He makes it to Mike and seizes the front of his jacket in one hand, yanking him in a sprint down the aisle.
Mike laughs—a bright, startled sound—and bolts alongside him, their shoes skidding slightly against the carpet. Mike snatches his hand, dragging Will along where his long legs have an advantage.
"Will!" His mom's voice rings out behind him.
"Wait for us!" Dustin screams.
The room erupts as he and Mike clear the doors—chairs scrape against the floor, and guests shout, clambering to talk over each other. The music cuts out completely, leaving only the sudden chaos. Will couldn't care less. He tightens his hand on Mike's, glancing over his shoulder and laughing.
Behind them comes the unmistakable cacophony of their Party—Max, El, Dustin, and Lucas scramble after him, laughing and screeching. Max squawks at people to move, and Lucas shouts something about having the car keys, grinning bigger than Will's seen in decades.
Further back, Jonathan and Hop stand on chairs, hands around their mouths and whooping. Nancy stands beside Jonathan, palm pressed to her face in mortification but grinning big and wide all the same. His mom stares after him, shaking her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
The Party catches up to them at the exact moment they burst out of the building into the blinding morning sunlight. They pause only momentarily before they spring off again. Will is laughing so hard that his lungs ache, Mike's hand locked around his, their shoes hammering against the pavement as they tear across the venue's drive.
"Where are we going?!" Will shouts to anyone willing to answer.
"You'll know when you see it!" Dustin hollers.
They round the corner of the building and come to a screeching stop. Parked at the curb is a ridiculous old cream-coloured convertible, the top already down. It's absurdly long, stretched out with three rows of seats—two to a row—because apparently Lucas has somehow acquired a fucking parade car.
Lucas appears seconds behind them and releases Max's hand to bend double and wheeze, "Get in!"
Will points at the car. "That thing?! Where the hell did you get it?!"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes!" Will answers as Mike says, "No!"
Dustin barrels past them, hand in hand with El, nearly taking out a rose bush on the way. "GO! GO! GO! Before someone calls the cops!"
They all pick up the pace again, and Max calls, "What do you think is happening here?! You don't call the cops 'cause someone left their wedding!"
"You don't know that!"
Lucas snatches her hand. "JUST GET IN THE CAR."
Will's helpless laugh transitions into a squeak as Mike tugs him to a stop. The sudden movement makes Will stumble backwards. He turns, getting a split-second view of Mike's flushed face and bright eyes. Then he lurches forward, cupping Will's jaw, and kisses him.
It's a kiss loaded with decades' worth of need. Will makes a tiny, startled noise against his mouth before his entire body seems to melt. His hands fist in the front of Mike's jacket, pulling him closer, and Mike laughs into the kiss—startingly intimate, their teeth knocking like that—before kissing Will again, and even deeper, at that.
The Party cheers raucously—all standing up in the car and probably ruining the seats— when Will breaks away and looks over, breathless and grinning so hard his face hurts.
Mike's forehead drops against his, staring intently and pulling Will's focus. "Forgive my tardiness, my Cleric. Allow me to spend a lifetime loving you as repentance."
Will wraps his arms around Mike's neck, words mangled by his grin. "I forgive you, my Paladin. I accept your proposal, and your oath. I want a lifetime of loving you too."
They lean in to kiss again, Will's stomach a nest of butterflies. There's a sudden burst of wedding bells that wrenches Will's heart through his guts. He yanks away from Mike, startled, looking around wildly as heavy drums and background sirens come in behind them.
"I'm soo rushed off my feet! Ah—ah! Lookin' for Go-ordon Street! So mu-uch I need to say, I'm sorry that it's on her wedding day!"
Mike cracks up laughing, staring at Dustin as he grins manically, turning the volume dial up inside the car.
Looking extremely delighted, he seizes Will's hand again. "Come on. We have a getaway car awaiting us, my liege."
They sprint the last little bit and dive into the back as the song continues at ear-splitting volume—'cause she's mine! And I'm glad I crashed the wedding!
"Everybody in?" Lucas shouts from the driver's seat.
"Yes!" El confirms. "Lucas, drive!"
Lucas instantly starts the car and the engine roars. Will twists around as they peel out of the lot. He watches the venue disappear from view with amusement curling his lip. This is fucking absurd, and they all know it. Literally all of their things are back there, their cars too.
But Will's more than happy to get swept up in the drama of it all. To have a big, dramatic getaway, even though really, no one's chasing them, and they have to return—with their tails between their legs—at some point.
For now, he turns to Mike, finding his grinning face. He reaches for Will's hand, mouthing along to the music pulsating through the car—I'd stole my girl away from everybody gathered the-ere that day. He head-bangs as he sings, looking for all the world like Johnny when he sings to Baby: and I owe it all to you.
Will can't wipe the face-aching grin from his lips, because Mike glows opposite, the sun drenching him and accentuating his beauty. He squeezes their clasped hands, stomach flipping at the notion that he's doing it to Mike.
"So… I'm meant to be going on my honeymoon tonight."
Mike raises his eyebrow, smirking. "You are."
Will smirks back. "How'd you feel about Venice?"
Just in ti-ime! And I'm glad I crashed the wedding!