Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler had never considered milk a life-altering substance.
It was milk.
It went in coffee. It went in cereal. It went bad with suspicious speed considering how much rent they were paying for a refrigerator that allegedly had advanced temperature regulation. It was not supposed to cause an identity crisis at 11:43 on a Thursday night.
And yet..
MIKE: i’m too lazy. can you go check if we have milk?
He sent the message from his bedroom without looking up from his laptop.
Their apartment was tiny in the very specific way New York apartments were tiny while still costing enough money to make Mike’s mother audibly sigh every time he mentioned rent. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that was basically part of the living room, and one window with an absolutely breathtaking view of a brick wall.
Mike loved it.
Mostly because Will lived there.
Not that that was the only reason.
Obviously.
They’d been best friends forever. Living together had simply made sense when they’d both gotten into NYU.
Mike was studying dramatic writing at Tisch, which Will liked to describe as “paying tuition to lie professionally.” Most of Mike’s classes revolved around screenwriting, storytelling, and building characters from nothing, which suited him almost embarrassingly well. He’d traded sprawling D&D campaigns for half-finished movie scripts now, usually fantasy or action or some unnecessarily complicated combination of the two. Occasionally there was romance involved, too, although Mike became suspiciously defensive whenever Will pointed that out.
Will was in NYU’s studio art program, which meant his coursework was a little bit of everything: drawing, painting, digital illustration, design, photography, and enough art history to make him complain whenever Mike called something “just an old painting.” He’d gravitated mostly toward illustration and digital art, which was also how he’d met Carlton. They’d had a couple studio classes together freshman year, started staying late after critiques to work on projects, and somewhere along the way Carlton had gone from that curly-haired guy from Will’s class to Will’s boyfriend. Whatever. Will was still his roommate.
And It worked. They had a routine.
Will drew and Mike wrote. Mike forgot to eat and Will shoved food he cooked down his throat. (And surprisingly he was really good at cooking considering the amount of questionable dishes he got to eat as a kid that Mrs. Byers cooked. Apparently cooking wasn’t a skill inherited genetically) Will forgot his keys and Mike reminded him. Mike stayed awake all night working on assignments and woke up to find Will put a blanket over him. Will left smudges of paint and clay on the furniture and Mike smiled at the sight of them. They argued over who gets to shower first and Mike gave in every time letting Will go first. They pulled all nighters doing movie marathons on fridays knowing they didn’t have any lectures the next day. Mike left mugs everywhere. Will complained about the mugs and then washed them anyway. Will smelled like vanilla shampoo and sometimes so did Mike because he would run out of his own faster than Will did. And it worked. They made it work.
Perfect ecosystem.
There was only one problem.
Carlton.
Mike hated Carlton.
Not hated hated him.
Carlton had never actually done anything deserving of hatred.
Which was, frankly, one of his most annoying qualities.
He was nice.
He was funny.
He was an obscenely talented illustrator. He had stupid dark curls and stupid brown eyes (and jokes on him so did Mike) and stupid rings on practically every finger. He remembered people’s coffee orders. He carried gum. He once helped an old woman drag a suitcase up the subway stairs without even making a big deal about it afterward.
Asshole.
Will had met him during freshman year in an introductory design course. They’d become friends. Then they’d become friends who worked on projects together and went for coffee. Then friends who held hands. Then, approximately six months ago, Will had walked into the apartment looking pink in the cheeks and announced that Carlton had kissed him.
Mike had responded:
“Oh.”
Then he’d gone into his bedroom and stared at the ceiling for forty-five minutes.
This, he’d decided, was because he was very protective over Will.
Will was the most important person in Mike’s life. Mike didn’t want some random guy dating him. Will was supposed to go out with an extraordinary guy that actually deserved him.
Completely normal best-friend concern.
So normal, in fact, that Mike had spent six months noticing every single irritating thing Carlton did.
His hand on Will’s waist.
His arm around Will’s shoulders.
His stupid little “you cold?” before giving Will his jacket.
The way Will smiled at his phone.
The fact that Carlton called him pretty.
Mike especially hated that one.
Will wasn’t pretty.
Well.
He was.
Will was very pretty. But not just pretty. Will was stunning with his enchanting green eyes and innocent little smile signed with a cute little beauty mark above his lip.
But that wasn’t the point.
Mike’s phone buzzed.
WILL: yeah one sec
Mike returned to the document on his laptop.
His workshop submission was due at midnight tomorrow, and he’d written precisely 1,842 words of what was supposed to be a 5,000-word short story.
He had, however, reorganized his Spotify playlists. So.. Productive evening.
His phone buzzed again. Mike reached for it.
He expected a picture of the inside of the fridge.
Technically, he did get a picture.
It just wasn’t of the contents of their fridge.
It was more like the contents of his best friend’s underwear..
Mike stopped breathing. His entire body went perfectly, impossibly still. For approximately three seconds, his brain couldn’t generate a single thought whatsoever. But only for three seconds.
Then only one single thought:
Will.
WILL.
The photograph clearly hadn’t been meant for him.
That much was immediately obvious.
Will was sitting on the floor in front of the mirror in his bedroom, phone partially obscuring his face, a pale yellow t-shirt on him. But not exactly fully on him. It was folded up and Will was biting on the hem to keep it held up that way. Mike could see Will’s entire bare torso. He was lean. His eyes went lower and lower. Will’s legs were spread in a very suggestive position and Mike could see everything. The trail of faint, light hair starting from right under his belly button to his very erect.. He could just see everything.
Mike swallowed.
He knew Will was attractive.
Obviously.
Objectively.
He had eyes.
He’d seen Will shirtless before. Beaches. Pools. Changing after gym class. The apartment in August when their AC broke and they’d spent four days existing in various stages of heatstroke.
This was different. Very different.
There was a notable difference in amount of missing clothes.
And Will was very pretty down there too..
This wasn’t casual.
This was a picture Will had intentionally taken.
For someone.
Mike’s stomach dropped.
Carlton.
It was for Carlton.
The realization made him immediately close the image.
But after a couple seconds, his thumb betrayed every moral principle he’d ever possessed and tapped it again.
Full screen.
Jesus Christ.
He could feel all the blood in his system rushing south.
Will had changed since high school.
Mike knew that.
Apparently Mike had not sufficiently processed that.
His shoulders were broader now. His waist was narrow. The line of hair going towards his.. Mike swallowed again, more blood rushing south. He absolutely did not look at that one more time. Will looked hot here. Not a trace of that innocent boy ,that was too shy to introduce himself to the class in kindergarten, in this photo.
He looked at it.
Then looked away.
Then looked back.
His heartbeat had migrated into his throat.
“What the fuck?”
His eyes betrayed him and looked down one more time.
“What the fuck?”
Mike Wheeler, acclaimed future novelist and screenwriter, apparently possessed the vocabulary of a teenager that just learned how to cuss.
His thumbs moved before his brain caught up.
MIKE: holy shit, Will
Send.
Silence.
Mike stared at the message. Then he heard a muffled voice from the next room.
“Oh, no.”
Across the apartment, something hit the floor.
Then:
“NO.”
Another thump.
“NO, NO, NO, NO.”
Mike slapped a hand over his mouth as if suppressing his nervous breathing would make him silent enough to actually disappear.
His phone buzzed.
WILL: MIKE
Mike stared.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
WILL: DELETE THAT
MIKE: I DID
Lie.
WILL: OH MY GOD
MIKE: I DIDNT MEAN TO OPEN IT
WILL: HOW DO YOU OPEN A PIC UNINTENTIONALLY
MIKE: IDK I JUST CLICKED ON IT
WILL: WHY DID YOU SAY HOLY SHIT
Mike’s soul left his body.
He stared at the question.
There was an obvious logical response to this.
I was very surprised.
Instead his brain supplied:
Because you’re hot.
Mike threw his phone onto the couch.
Absolutely not.
From Will’s bedroom came another muffled sound of despair.
Mike stood.
Sat.
Stood again.
Maybe he should pack his bags and leave.
Could he move in a day?
Could people transfer leases overnight?
His phone buzzed again.
He didn’t touch it.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Finally he picked it up.
WILL: you were supposed to get the pic of the fridge
Mike snorted despite himself.
MIKE: I figured
WILL: Carlton got the fridge
Mike stared at that.
Then he started laughing.
Not a chuckle.
Not a polite little exhale.
Full-body laughter.
“Oh my God.”
His phone buzzed.
WILL: I CAN HEAR YOU LAUGHING ITS NOT FUNNY
MIKE: extremely funny actually
WILL: he asked why i sent him a picture of our fridge
MIKE: tell him it’s seductive
WILL: i’m going to kill you
MIKE: before or after you buy milk
There was a pause. Then Will’s bedroom door opened.
Mike stopped laughing.
Will stood in the doorway. He had put on a hoodie.
A very large hoodie.
Mike’s hoodie, actually.
That detail landed somewhere inside Mike’s already catastrophically overloaded brain and detonated.
Will’s face was scarlet.
Not pink.
Not flushed.
Red.
Mike had known him since they were children and had never seen him look this embarrassed.
And he wasn’t the only one. Mike covered his face with his hands. Maybe if he couldn’t see Will, Will wouldn’t see him either?
“Mike.”
Okay, maybe not. Mike uncovered his face.
“Give me your phone.”
Mike instinctively pulled it against his chest.
Will narrowed his eyes.
“Mike.”
“I deleted it.”
“Give me your phone.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“You opened it twice.”
Mike froze.
Will went still.
The apartment went silent.
Mike slowly lowered the phone.
“…How do you know that?”
“Mike.. I can see in the chat that you replayed the photo.”
“..It was an accident..”
“How do you accidentally open something twice?”
Mike stood up. “I don’t know!”
Will stared at him.
Mike stared back.
Something shifted.
Very small.
Very sudden.
Will’s embarrassment didn’t disappear, exactly, but something else slipped underneath it.
Awareness.
Because Mike had opened it twice.
And Mike had said holy shit.
And now Mike was standing in their living room able to look everywhere except Will’s face because looking at him felt dangerous.
Mike finally looked at him.
Will swallowed.
Mike watched him do it.
Bad idea.
“So,” Will said slowly.
Mike’s voice cracked.
“So.”
Neither moved.
Then Will’s phone buzzed.
Both of them looked down.
CARLTON ❤️
The name illuminated the screen.
Whatever had been hanging between them snapped.
Mike looked away.
Will murmured. “It’s Carlton.”
Of course it was. Mike opened his laptop again. His story blurred in front of him.
“Mike?”
“What?”
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Will studied him for another second.
Then his phone buzzed again.
A tiny smile pulled at the corner of Will’s mouth as he read whatever Carlton had sent.
Mike hated that smile.
No.
That wasn’t right.
He loved the smile.
He hated that someone else had caused it.
Something cold and ugly twisted in his stomach.
Mike looked back at his laptop.
Protective.
He was just very protective.
That was all..