Work Text:
The night starts off innocent enough. As regular as could be.
Will, in the basement. Jonathan, making his way up to Nancy's room.
He's surprised when he hears someone coming down the steps. Careful, slow. An undeniably familiar sound.
Mike hasn't come down here in a while. At least, not after dark.
Staying at the Wheelers' house has been everything and nothing like Will expected. For one, none of them can seem to relax.
The Byers have experience in living with dignity in squalor; but this, this is something else entirely. It's embarrassing, to have to rely on other people for shelter, for safety. It has them all on edge, too afraid of doing the wrong thing, asking for too much. Wondering where the limit lies, when an inconvenience becomes an overstep.
To be fair, the Wheelers had always been accommodating to Mike's friends during sleepovers. But there's accommodating, and then there's this— sharing the kitchen, sharing the bathroom. Sharing groceries, sharing everything. There's very little privacy, and even less space.
They're all on their best behavior, and Will yearns to relax.
He'd never thought too much about the comfort of having your own space, in your own home, but now it's all he can think of. He misses his room in Lenora, more than he misses his childhood home. It was his space entirely, a blank canvas for him to fill in all by himself. Unmarred by the memory of Lonnie Byers, a fresh start for all of them.
He misses his bed, his paints. The artworks he'd put up, the plushies he'd taken with him to Lenora. Memories he'd chosen to hold onto, a decade and a half of presents he'd packed up and moved with. All the new clothes he'd bought for himself, the sense of style he'd finally started to workshop.
Will tries not to think about it too often, to feel grateful for what he has now. Half from Mike's closet, half from donation boxes around town. He keeps his melancholy to himself.
There's a lot Will keeps to himself, these days. He's not sure when his life became about staying quiet and keeping things close to his chest. Maybe it'd always been that way, and he'd noticed it late.
Will's still thinking about this as Mike makes his way down. He pushes himself up to a seated position on the mattress on the floor, right as Mike shuffles up to him.
In the dark, Will feels free to drink in the sight of Mike walking up to him. His wild, loose curls, his tall, lithe frame. Will feels a sharp pang of want, low in his stomach. It's easy to dismiss, as it always is.
"Hi?" Will whispers, hesitant.
"Hi," Mike whispers back.
They look at each other. Mike curls his hands into fists, lets them go.
"Are you—" Will starts, then stops.
Mike nods, moving to sit next to Will on his mattress on the floor.
"Hi," he repeats, and it's softer this time.
Will's not sure what's wrong. There's an intensity to Mike that Will's never seen before. He's tense, shoulders tight and jaw clenched.
It never used to be like this, Will thinks to himself, sadly.
The thought makes him feel small. Always reminiscing for days long past, for a childhood he's not allowed to have anymore. It transports him to the first time he'd felt this way, in this same basement, because of this same boy.
What did you think, really? That we were never gonna get girlfriends? He'd asked, and Will had realised, with horrifying clarity, that he was in love.
He's pulled out of his thoughts by Mike's hand on his shoulder.
"Will," Mike's eyes are wide, vulnerable. "I just- I wanted to see how you were doing."
Oh.
"I'm okay," he says, immediately. Will has had enough of people hovering over him. Enough to last a lifetime. "I'm fine, Mike."
Mike swallows. Will's eyes snag on the movement.
"No, I know you are, I just…"
Will's starting to feel like Mike's speaking without an actual goal in sight.
"I keep thinking the house is too full. It's overwhelming."
Will's system floods with guilt. Here he's been, thinking about how much he misses his space, without even considering how much he's invading Mike's.
"O-oh," he stutters. "I- you're right. I'm sorry, Mike." Will shuffles away from Mike a bit, as if physical space between the two would do anything to change their circumstances. "It must be weird having us here all the time."
Mike's hand is still on his shoulder. Will wonders if he's noticed.
"What? No, that's not what I meant. I like having you here! I just—"
He swallows again.
Will thinks back to his decade's worth of knowledge on Mike Wheeler. He's seen Mike like this before— struggling to find the right words, stumbling over himself, jittery with the effort to get something out.
He places a hand atop Mike's, where it's still on his shoulder.
"Mike," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "You're fine."
Mike looks at him with a kind of helplessness Will doesn't know what to do with. He has always turned to Mike for answers; had never considered one day Mike would be looking at him for the same. The first time he'd done it had been the worst day of Will's life. I feel like my life started that day we found you in the woods. He brushes the thought away.
"I just worry," Mike admits, shakily. As if it's a weighty confession, as if he's signing his death sentence. Will doesn't understand the intensity at all, but nods like he does.
"We all do," he offers. "It's awful, not knowing what's going on. Where Vecna is, what he's up to. But once we start the crawls, we'll know."
Mike shakes his head. "No, not that. I worry about you," he clarifies, and Will's stumped again.
"About me? I'm fine, Mike."
Mike's eyebrows scrunch together, pained. Will continues.
"I haven't been feeling anything like that first day back in Hawkins. Really, I'm fine."
"That's- that's not what I'm worried about."
Will gives up.
"Then what is it?"
Mike shrugs. "You- there's just- not a lot of privacy, right? And- and you're tense."
Where is Mike going with this?
Will's curious, so he bites.
"I guess I am a little tense."
Mike's shoulders relax a bit. He still looks pained, but there's something in his eyes, now. As if Will's the remedy.
Wishful thinking, Will thinks, telling himself to relax. Will's not— Will's nothing, to Mike. A friend, on some days. Another person in his house, on most days.
Mike swallows dryly. His hand twitches, like it does when he's holding himself back. Will notices, and then reminds himself not to. He needs to work on this; on forgetting all the little things he knows about Mike Wheeler. It doesn't help anyone, this extensive catalogue in his mind. Especially not Will himself.
Loving Mike Wheeler comes easily, comes naturally. Knowing him is a curse.
"I-I could help," Mike mumbles, not meeting Will's eyes.
Will blinks.
Help?
"With what?" He asks, curiously. Absolutely nothing makes sense, in this moment.
Mike waves his hands around, the way he does when he's searching for the right words. It's endearing, as always. Will softens. Whatever this is, he knows he'll probably give in. Anything to be around him longer.
"With- so you can be less tense," Mike says, changing gears halfway. Still not looking at Will, for some reason.
Will shrugs. He wants to make this easier for Mike.
"Okay," he says, simply. "You can help."
Mike's eyes finally flit to Will's, wide with shock. Will's more curious than he is nervous, now, because what does Mike have in mind?
"Oh," Mike's gaze is intense, and maybe Will's imagining it, but he seems closer than before. "I thought— I-"
Will tilts his head, and Mike's cheeks turn red. He flutters his eyelashes, without meaning to. It's just the sight of Mike Wheeler in front of him, seemingly flustered— it feels impossible. It feels illogical. And yet, there he is. Struggling to get his words out, after offering to help.
"Okay. Okay." Mike swallows again. Will tries not to track the movement, not to stare at Mike for too long. He fails, spectacularily. He fails, because it's late, and he's tired. He fails, because Mike won't stop staring at Will, either.
"Lie down," Mike says, watching Will closely. Will hesitates, just for a second.
It's enough to make Mike unsure.
"You don't have to—" he starts, so Will lies down. Settles himself on his pillow, tilting his head to gaze up at Mike.
Mike stares down at him. Clenches his jaw. "Are— I-"
"Mike," Will whispers, trying to sound soothing. "I trust you."
The words seem to have the intended effect. Mike trembles, closes his eyes. Breathes slowly, deeply. Nods, without opening his eyes.
"Okay. Okay."
Mike still hasn't said what it is he wants. Will feels foolish, but the curiosity is stronger than the shame. He wants to see this through.
"I- I want to help you," Mike says, his eyes still closed. "Help you feel good."
Thrill zips up Will's spine. The words are straight out of a fantasy, out of a dream he's certain he's had about Mike, before.
His hands grip the sheets under him. Mike must've meant it in a different way. Might've used his words wrong. He's a writer, but he's rash with his words. Not as purposeful, as clear with his intentions as people usually are. Will's reading into this, like he always does.
"Have you ever…" And here, Mike's hesitation makes him meet Will's eyes again. Will's breath catches at the sight. His pupils are blown out, his breath uneven. He looks hungry.
"Have you ever touched yourself, Will?"
There's no misreading that.
"What?" Will asks, hoarsely. Disbelievingly.
He wonders, for a second, if this is a vision. If Henry's messing with him, the way he messed with Max. He stalks his victims, doesn't he? Sees into their minds, their deepest desires, their worst fears?
But this doesn't feel related to the Upside Down. There's no awful, terrible feeling building in Will's stomach. No prickling sensation at the back of his neck. No nausea, no fear. Just a hint of confusion, a lick of anticipation.
Mike doesn't seem like he wants to repeat himself. "Have you?" He asks, looking a little desperate. Will doesn't know how to read him at all, now. He's never seen Mike like this before.
Hesitantly, Will shakes his head. He hasn't found the time, the energy, the space to. Not since they came back to Hawkins. Not since they started living with the Wheelers. It feels different, wrong— dirtier. To think about Mike when he's just a few steps away, to touch himself under the same roof he'd grown up in. Surrounded by vestiges of a childhood he'd been forced to cut short, fucking up into his fist and trying to stay quiet. No, it wouldn't feel right.
Mike groans. A real life, honest-to-god groan. It's immediately the hottest thing Will's ever heard. His hand comes up to clutch at Will's, where he's still clenching the bedsheets. "God, Will. I-"
He seems to think better of it, clenching his jaw again. Closing his eyes, cutting off their connection. Will almost whines at the loss. Almost.
"I can help," he repeats, like he's saying it for his own benefit. "Let me help, Will."
Will doesn't know where this is going. He has an inkling; a hope. An endless, boundless ocean of want. For Mike, always for Mike. He takes Mike's hand in his, fingers tangling with Mike's. He tugs, just a bit. Just enough to get Mike to look at him again.
When he meets Will's eyes again, it feels like he's been cornered. But this is Mike, and Mike has always meant safety. Will bites his lip, heart skipping a beat as Mike follows the movement. This can't be real. This can't be happening. But it is, and Will would be an idiot for letting this moment slip out of his hands. He nods once, twice, thrice.
"You can—" he tries, but Mike's eyes fall to his lips again, and Will's so, so weak. "You can do anything you want, Mike."
Mike trembles at the sound of his name. It's ridiculous. All of this is so ridiculous. Will needs to see it through.
"I want—" Mike looks pained, again. Like the words are being wrenched out of him, dripping with blood between them. "I want to teach you."
Okay, Will thinks. Okay, sure, whatever that means.
There's something funny, something endearing, about how innocent Mike seems to think Will is. They're both teenagers, only a few weeks apart in age. Does he truly think Will's never touched himself?
He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he nods again. "Cool. You can teach me."
Mike nods back. His jaw is tight, and he shuffles a bit closer. Will's hand still in his. He steels himself, bracing for something. Will does, too.
"Close your eyes," Mike starts. Will follows, prepared for anything Mike wants to do. Anything he says.
There's something to be said, here. About blind trust, about obedience. Will won't be the one to say it.
"Take your hand," Mike continues. Will scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. "Touch your lips. Picture- picture what it would be like, to have someone kissing them."
He follows, obediently. This isn't what he'd expected— then again, he hadn't expected anything at all.
Will thinks about Mike, leaning down to claim his lips. He's never kissed someone before, but he's thought about it enough. Seen it in movies, awkwardly avoided eye-contact with his friends as the couples on screen tried to devour each other. He pictures Mike, kissing him with the same reverence, the same fervour.
"Good," Mike says, his voice a bit rougher now. His presence is making everything feel heightened. Will's already getting hard; has been, since Mike put his hand on Will's. He's still holding onto Mike, clutching him so tight like he's afraid he'll disappear. And he is afraid. He's so, so afraid.
"Move your hand down, lightly. Use your nails to scratch your skin, just a bit. Like someone's kissing their way down to your neck. Using their teeth on you."
Will's breath quickens, and he feels a shameful thrill as he grazes his neck. Mike's being so careful, talking about an imaginary third person in the room. Trying to help Will picture someone else. He doesn't know that there's no one else Will would ever think of. He doesn't know that Will's thinking of Mike.
Will's eyes are still closed. He doesn't know if it's for his benefit, or for Mike's. If Mike asked him to help him visualise, or if Mike doesn't want Will looking at him. Either way, Mike hasn't told him to open them, yet. So he won't.
Will wonders, just for a second, if Mike knows how much power he has right now. How wholly and entirely Will has surrendered himself to Mike. If the knowledge would scare him away.
If it would draw him closer.
"Good," Mike murmurs, and he sounds closer than before. Like he's hovering over Will. Wishful thinking. His hand's still holding onto Will, tighter than before. "So good, Will."
Will squirms a bit, digging his nails into his neck a little harder, without realising.
"Can you do something for me?" Mike asks, as if Will's not been following his commands this entire time. Will nods, eyes still closed. "Can you… can you take your shirt off?"
Will opens his eyes to frown at Mike.
He's definitely closer than before.
His lips are redder than before, as if he's been chewing on them. There's something wild, dazed about the way he's looking at Will. It's undeniable, then.
Mike's enjoying this.
And, well. If Mike's enjoying this too, who is Will to say no?
Will slips his hand out of Mike's to pull his shirt off. Mike's eyebrows twitch as he moves. Will wonders what he looks like, through Mike's eyes. Flushed, probably. His hair must look a mess. He wonders if it's attractive, if the sight's doing anything for him. Immediately shuts down that line of thinking. There's no point in wondering.
Mike said it himself, he just wants to help. This is coming from a twisted sense of duty, of friendship, loyalty. This is another one of those baffling things Mike does, to show he cares.
"Lie back down," Mike says, his voice softer, gentler now. His eyes track Will's body as he moves, as if he's drinking Will in. Will hopes beyond hope.
"You look so—" He cuts himself off. Will tries not to let his disappointment show. He fixes his gaze onto Mike, and waits for further instruction. Mike, in return, licks his lips.
"Bring your hand back to your neck. Graze your collarbones. Use your nails again. Like they're- they're trying to leave a mark."
They're trying to leave a mark. This mysterious third person again. Will wonders if this is how Mike touches himself. With the same attentiveness, the same care. Does he take his time, unravelling himself the same way? Or does he think about all the things he wants to do? Who does he picture, when he's touching himself? Will forces himself to concentrate.
He digs his nails into his skin, wincing a bit at the pain. It feels good, though, and Will hates that Mike knows this. That Mike has experienced this, that he's thought about it before. Hates it even more, that Mike knows Will has never felt anything like this.
"Drag your nails down, Will," Mike murmurs, even closer, now. Will realises he's closed his eyes again. "Lower, down your chest. Until you reach your nipples."
Will whimpers. Your chest, your nipples. He hadn't thought about it, entirely. How it would feel to hear Mike say things like this. To hear filthy things like this from his mouth. And if he's right about this— if he's right about what Mike's trying to do here —it's only about to get worse.
He follows the instructions, scratching lightly at himself as he does. Will squirms a bit, not used to giving himself this much attention when he's alone. He's never this attentive, this careful. Will wonders, if this is how Mike would be. He gasps as he reaches his nipples, whining when Mike tells him to stop.
"Shh, shh," Mike croons, infuriatingly. "You trust me, don't you, Will?"
Will nods, biting his lip to stop himself from whining again. He's hyperaware, suddenly, of how he's straining under his shorts, of the wet patch at the front of them. He wants, and he wants, and he wants.
Mike reaches over and takes Will's hand again. Guides it, slowly, to Will's mouth. Will looks at him, confused. Mike's face is smooth, not betraying a single emotion. But his breath gives him away. The flush of his cheeks, the way his hands tremble and twitch even as they guide Will— it all gives him away.
Mike presses his fingers against Will's. "Open your mouth," he says, lightly, so Will opens his mouth. Keeps his eyes fixed on Mike as he slips Will's fingers inside. "Lick."
Nodding, Will licks his fingers. He doesn't look away from Mike, not for a second. He wants Mike to watch, to track all of Mike's reactions, to see if this is getting to him the way Will thinks it is. He thinks he knows what Mike's trying to help him do, so he takes three of his own fingers in his mouth, and sucks on them. Gets them wet, the way he thinks Mike would like it.
Sure enough, Mike trembles. Exhales loudly, like Will's punched him in the stomach. Maybe he has. He gets the same pained look on this face, and it makes Will wonder. What more could he bring out, if he just keeps going?
"Good, so good," Mike mumbles, his eyes fixed on Will's mouth. It's exhilirating, it's everything Will's ever wanted. No more wondering if Mike meant to glance at his lips, if he'd meant to focus on them or if he'd just zoned out. This is intentional, purposeful, even if Mike doesn't realise. There's a want in his eyes. Undeniable.
Will lets go of his fingers with a pop!
He grins at Mike, feeling a little light-headed. Mike smiles back at him, his face a little pinched.
"Now what, Mike?" Will asks, hoarsely. Mike's eyes darken at the sound of his name. Immediately, the tension in the room grows heavy, tangible. All of a sudden, they're on even playing fields. Mike's pulling the strings, but Will's tugging right back on them.
"Back to your chest," Mike says, lowly. "So it feels like there's a mouth on you. Licking, sucking. Making you feel good."
There could be, Will thinks. You're right here. Pushes the thought down. Mike just wants to help. Wants to teach him how to touch himself, but doesn't want to touch him. That would be crossing a line, and Will knows it. This is a gray area, and Mike thrives in the gray.
Will moves his hand down again. Listens carefully, twisting and pulling and pinching right as Mike tells him to. He feels raw and wired when Mike finally tells him to stop. There's tears in his eyes from oversensitivity, and Mike's still looking at him like Will's something he wants to chew on. Something he wants to taste.
Will wishes he would. But his head's all fuzzy, spinning with how carefully Mike's pulling him apart, just with his words.
He doesn't touch himself like this; it's usually a short, simple affair. A tug, a pull, a twist. Think of Mike's lips, the glimpses of his bare chest before gym class. His long hands twirling a pencil, the long expanse of his neck. Bite down on a pillow, muffle every sound.
This, this is different. This is systematic. Intentional. This, perhaps, is what it's like to be touched by Mike Wheeler. This, perhaps, is what it's like to be worshipped.
If Mike's intention here was to ruin Will, he has. If Mike's intention was to burn the memory of this into Will's mind, he has. Another scar, marring Will's skin for the rest of his sorry, pathetic life.
"Move your hands lower," Mike murmurs, following the movement with his eyes. "Scratch at your stomach, just a bit. Dig your nails in, like bite marks. The way I— how someone would, if they were touching you." Mike licks his lips. "Tasting you."
Will barely registers the slip up. He follows, blindly. His cheeks feel wet, and his vision's a little blurry. The most he's aware of is the fact that he's crying, oversensitive, and his cock's leaking under his shorts. That he's a mess, and Mike has done this to him, without ever even touching him. And that in itself is so arousing, it makes Will whine, dragging his hands lower and lower— closer to his hips.
"You're doing so good, Will," Mike whispers, inching forward to lean over Will, to run his hands through Will's hair. A sob wrenches its way out of Will's chest, completely unbidden. He wants, so terribly, so strongly. It'll consume him, consume them, if he's not careful.
"Just a bit longer, okay? You trust me, don't you?"
Will doesn't know why Mike's torturing him like this. He knows, surely he knows what Will wants, what he needs right now. His whole body's taut and high-strung with it. He's shaking, trembling, almost weeping for it. He whines again, and Mike coos at him, cupping his cheek.
"It's okay, Will, I know, I know," he says, thumb moving to wipe a stray tear off of Will's cheek. "You can pull your shorts down, go ahead, it's okay."
Will almost cries out in thanks.
"Use your hand, Will," Mike murmurs, his hands shifting back into Will's hair. "Go slow, okay?" His nose brushes against Will's, and Will's aching in a million different ways, and Mike's offering him an out for only one of them.
He's close enough for Will to count his freckles. Will used to do that, sometimes, when they were kids. Mike would wriggle, too full of restless energy to sit still. He'd still try, because Will asked, and he would've done anything for Will, back then. He hasn't been this close to Will in years.
As Will finally wraps a hand around his aching cock, a whimper slips out his mouth, directly into Mike's from where he's hovering over Will.
"Mike," Will whines, closing his eyes."Please."
He doesn't know what he's asking for. Or— he does, but it's not something he should be.
It's too much; it's not enough. This is a new kind of torture; delicious and painful in ways Will hadn't realised. Unexpected, too. To be tortured by Mike Wheeler, like this, of all things.
Mike shushes him as he lets out another whimper, rubbing his nose against Will's cheek. "Go slow, Will. Like I would. Twist your hand a bit on the upstroke, okay?"
Will nods without thinking, letting every other thought slide away. He zeroes in on Mike's voice, Mike's commands. Drags his hand over himself, a slow, jerking motion. The slide's made smooth with how wet Will is, how desperate he's been all along. It's ridiculous, the way Mike is pulling him apart. If he'd known this was what he was signing up for—
He still would've done it. Would've given in, would've begged for Mike to teach him sooner.
Mike drags it out. Murmurs gentle words into Will's hair, promises he'd be loath to keep. He tells Will to keep his pace slow, so Will does. He tells Will to stop, so Will does. He tells Will to keep going, so Will does.
All the while, he's weeping. The tears pour out helplessly, and he feels lightheaded with it, this delicious mix of torture and pleasure, of patience and pain. Vaguely, he registers that he's trembling, that Mike's holding onto him now, burying his face into Will's neck, his arm flung haphazardly over Will's waist.
Will aches to feel Mike's skin on his, for Mike to touch him the way he's tormenting Will; for anything at all. Mike's grip on him is loose, comfortable, as if he's done this his whole life. As if pressing himself up to Will, murmuring commands into his skin is just another thing that they do.
The third time Mike tells him to stop, Will doesn't listen. He tries— but his body doesn't compute, his hips rising to fuck up into his fist, and Mike—
Mike presses his hand flat to Will's stomach, and pushes him down. Forces him to stop. Will looks at him, dazed, confused. Mike lifts his head to meet Will's eyes, and the crazed look in his eyes almost makes Will moan out loud.
"Not yet," Mike whispers, and Will finds himself nodding without meaning to. "Not yet," he repeats, an affectation he's had since he was a child. Always repeating himself when it isn't needed, refusing to say more when it matters.
Will whines as Mike lets go, sniffles as Mike cups his cheek, and outright sobs as Mike wipes a stray tear away. "Start again," Mike murmurs, and Will feels his lips against Will's cheek. He shudders, closing his eyes with Mike's permission to resume his torture.
Something in Will recognises, in that moment, that he's never going to be able to touch himself and feel like this again. Not without Mike. Trying to recreate this on his own would be a devastating thing, and besides, half the fun is how unpredictable it is, to put your pleasure in the hands of another. In the hands of Mike Wheeler.
Mike is fully corrupting him, then. It seems to be a goal of his, at this point. And sure, Will had thought it was sweet, for Mike to want to help him in this way, but he hadn't known. He hadn't realised how much danger he'd actually opened himself up to. Want, it seems, is not a beast to be sated once fed.
Then again, could this even count as consuming? He's getting the illusion of something. A shadow of the real thing.
"You're doing so good," Mike's lips brush against Will's ear, grounding him for a moment, and he feels something hard against his leg.
Mike.
So he is enjoying this, then. On some level, he's liking this. Watching his best friend fall apart, being the reason for it. Will's grip on himself tightens. He doesn't open his eyes.
Mike begins to move his hips against the side of Will's thigh. Humping him. Will feels delirious.
"Just a bit longer, Will. I want to make this good for you, you deserve to feel good, I wish I could—"
But Will doesn't get to find out what Mike wishes. He cuts Mike off with a whine, without meaning to.
"M-Mike, I'm so— I'm-"
"Slow down for me again, Will," Mike says, slowing his own pace, too. Will shakes his head, sobbing profusely now. "Last time, I promise."
Will doesn't believe him.
"Please, Mike. Please, please, please, please."
It's like his mind's completely slipped away. He has no words left— all he knows is that he wants, and he's wanted for so long. This is all he's ever learned to want, and Mike not giving it to him is cruel, so cruel, and it aches. So he begs, and he hopes, and he prays.
Mike tilts Will's head to his direction. "Look at me," he says, ignoring Will's pleas.
Will shakes his head.
"Mike," he says, warningly, instead. It falls flat, because Mike's holding the reins, and he knows it.
"Look at me, Will." There's an edge of desperation to Mike's voice, so naturally, Will listens.
When Will meets Mike's eyes, he whines again. Mike's hips stutter, then continue at a faster rate. Will's pace on himself quickens without waiting for any instruction, but Mike doesn't seem to mind. They keep their eyes locked on each other, and Mike's eyes flicker between Will's, as if he can't decide where to look.
There's an unspoken acknowledgement in the air, of what Mike is doing, of what Will is letting him do.
"If I was touching you," Mike says, matter-of-factly, "I'd want to look right into your eyes." Will's breath hitches at the very concept. At the reality of what they're doing here. At the complete lack of shame in Mike's eyes. Heat pools in his gut, and he knows he's close.
Is this crossing a boundary? Or has Mike stayed within the lines just enough? Will can't bring himself to care.
"I'd want to look at you," Mike repeats, his eyes flicking down to smirk at Will's relentless pace. "To watch you come."
Will moans, and the tension finally snaps. His orgasm hits him like a freight train— Will feels it in every inch of his body, pleasure coursing through his veins so strongly he feels he could levitate with it.
It lasts longer than he'd ever thought he could, just by jerking himself off. Will cries throughout all of it, the loudest he's ever been. Mike groans into his ear as he comes, too, and it sends a zip of excitement up Will's spine, even as he's started to regain control over his breathing. He faintly remembers to be thankful for the soundproofing the Wheelers had installed a few years ago, when they'd grown sick of the party and their loud sleepovers in the basement.
Will feels completely out of it. Boneless, mindless, and blissful. Mike had been right; Will had been tense, too tense. He never would've realised, had Mike not helped him. He feels ridiculous for being so grateful, when Mike hadn't really done anything. And yet.
Mike's hand falls from Will's cheek, and he flops his arm around Will's waist again. Will stays quiet, watching as Mike squeezes him closer, as he kisses Will's cheek and tells him how good, how sweet, how perfect he's been for Mike. He doesn't have it in himself to ache, the fuzzy feeling still lingering, rendering him silent.
He watches instead, as Mike pushes himself off of the floor, as Mike brings a damp, warm washcloth, as Mike cleans Will up. He lets Mike dress him, holding his arms up to help Mike tug a hoodie onto him. He's quiet, as Mike runs a hand through Will's hair, as he tucks him under the blanket, as he murmurs good night, Will.
He leaves, then. And even as Will falls asleep, he doesn't have it in himself to ache. Maybe, one day, they'll talk about it.
Will knows better than to hope, though.