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assaily · 2 years

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Been a while since I’ve posted anything fic related, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever talked about this fic before.

The basic premise is the Handler/Commission put some kind of kill switch in Five that would slowly destroy his body planned obsolescence style in the event that he ever successfully defected. It’s essentially a sickfic and another one of those no sparrow, no season 3 au’s bc i wrote this a year and a half ago and the season wasn’t even out yet. I found it again this morning bc I finally had some thoughts for it after all this time.

Anyway, here is some gratuitous angst and Diego cuddling Five. CW for mild suicidal ideation.

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Five looked miserable. Pale and shivering, he looked so frail and small, so old and young at the same time. Diego wasn’t a fan, he didn’t want to be in the room any longer than he had to. The space heater next to the bed was blasting like a Mojave wind, and still Five shivered quietly on his bed.

Five didn’t complain, not even to inform them he was cold. He hadn’t complained this whole time, and maybe that’s what was getting to Diego. Five was miserable, it was obvious he was hurting, it was obvious he was struggling just to stay conscious enough to mechanically munch on his peanut butter crackers. But he didn’t say a thing.

A cracker was left half-eaten between two fingers, his head drooped and his eyes slipped shut. He slumped into himself, still shivering. Diego frowned, slapping his knees as he stood from the armchair. “Alright.”

His voice startled Five, likely having forgotten he was there again. He flinched, head popping up, bloodshot eyes confused and darting before landing on Diego’s face. The relief was palpable, his shoulders slumping, something relaxing in the pinch of his expression.

“Diego,” he croaked.

“Yeah, just me bud.”

“Are you leaving?” He tried to make it sound like an innocent question, tried his damndest to keep his inflection flat, Diego could tell. But he could also hear the quiet fear burbling beneath it.

“No,” he lied, and almost sat back down again.

Five nodded and seemed to remember his cracker. He nibbled on the corner of it again, his arm shaking with that little effort. “It’s not stale,” he remarked, hardly above a whisper. It was the third time he’d said that about the cracker and every time it struck at something soft in Diego’s chest.

“Fresh crackers, just for you.”

“Fresh…” he rolled the word around in his mouth like he was tasting it. “Where’d you find them?”

“The store on fifth.”

Five nodded slowly, processing. The last two times that was the end of the conversation. Diego hoped it would be the end of this one too, but then Five looked over at him, a stark confusion breaking through the dead-eyed exhaustion. “Isn’t the roof…?” he made a fluttery motion with his hand, dropping crumbs into his lap.

“Roof is fine, Five.”

He shook his head, brow pinching. “No, I remember it collapsed.” He paused, Diego at a loss for how to answer. “There’s a pharmacy on tenth, it still has stuff. There might be medicine there.”

“We have medicine for you,” Diego said, gesturing at the table with the small battery of bottles atop it.

Five looked over at it, expression falling blank as he failed to process something. He stared for too long, unblinking and unmoving, that Diego figured he’d lost him again. Lights on, but no one was home.

“I hurt,” Five sighed at long last, breaking the silence and his stillness with another shiver.

Diego chuffed a surprised laugh. “I bet you do.”

“I’m done,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Diego swallowed down the lump that jumped into his throat. Five didn’t complain, not about the pain, the confusion, the exhaustion.

Five shivered again, cracker forgotten.

Diego couldn’t stand it anymore. “Okay, okay.” He needed to do something, anything to help. He couldn’t just stand there watching Five in misery, watching over him as he got worse and worse, as even the pills and syrups and whatever pain meds Mom tried to give him failed to do a goddamn thing.

“Are you still cold?”

Five looked up at the question, considering him for a solid ten seconds before nodding clumsily. “It’s winter,” he said as if that explained everything.

Diego didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the dead of August. “I’m cold too,” he said, reaching down to turn the heater off. Diego was sure Five didn’t even know what the damn thing was but his shivering took on a new ferocity the moment the coils darkened. He looked confused, lost and as Diego approached the bedside, suddenly defensive. His arms curled over his chest, jaw clenching, pulling himself back as if he could get away from Diego.

“You’re not--” he started, aborted with his mouth open, eyes darting around the room. “Wait, I don’t--”

Diego crouched at the bedside, realizing he was looming a little. “You’re okay, it’s just me.” He reached out, careful to keep his palm up and gesture slow. Five watched his hand, pulling back from him as he tried to touch his arm. “It’s just me,” he repeated.

Five didn’t complain, and he never talked about why he was so damn untrusting of them in his confused state. Diego didn’t want to think about who could have planted that mistrust and why. He knew why. He’d spent enough time with Lila. He’d met her mother. The first person Five interacted with in decades. Diego would have trust issues too.

“Diego,” Five said flatly, more an affirmation than anything else.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

He almost wanted to know where ‘here’ was for Five. Somewhere cold, somewhere beyond the end of the world, somewhere lost in his own past. “I’m here to save you.” It sounded stupid coming out of his mouth, feeling it burn in his eyes.

Five paused for half a second, something in his eyes growing sharper than it had in days. Then he laughed, a single mournful guffaw that threw his head back and nearly toppled him back into his pillows. “Save me?” he asked, incredulous. “How? You’re dead, remember?” He smiled wide, shoulders shaking with more than just cold. “You’re dead.” His mirth turned to grief in a second, his expression twisting into honest fury if he’d had the strength. “You can’t save me,” he spat. “I have to save you.”

Diego reached across the bed and put his hand over Five’s arm. His skin was cold as ice, his wrist sharp and bony under Diego’s palm. “You already saved us.”

Five’s anger was smothered by the touch on his arm, his entire attention drawn to it. He opened his mouth, but only a half-aborted burst of air made it out.

Diego didn’t waste time. With the heater off, Five had nothing keeping him warm and Diego didn’t dare let him go now. “I’m cold, too.” Diego said again, catching Five’s attention back to his face and voice.

“I’m cold,” Five said, and Diego couldn’t tell if he was saying a truth or just repeating the last thing he heard.

“Let me in there, then.”

“Huh?”

Diego didn’t wait for him to figure it out. He half-stood, slipping his shoes off and dragging back the covers in one move. He pulled himself under the blankets, one arm around Five’s shoulders, the other making sure his brother was still covered.

“What are you--” Five realized half-way through the sentence that Diego was warm. The question forgotten, Five pressed himself into Diego’s side, shivering fiercely. “Oh,” he sighed, hands finding warm places to shove themselves into.

“Yeah, thought you might like this better.” Even though the old man would never admit it in his entire life. Neither would Diego. No one was home to see this blatant display of affection, so Diego could deal. He was pretty sure Five wasn’t going to remember a thing about this later.

He flicked the half-cracker to the floor, got himself comfortable, Five slumping more and more of his weight against him. His shivering was easy to feel, his whole body so cold. This wasn’t normal, and it settled uncomfortably in Diego’s gut. He wrapped his tiny older brother in his arms, tucking him against his chest to lay on the pillows together.

It took a while for the shivering to subside, took even longer for Five’s breathing to ease and his body to relax. “Diego,” he whispered, so quietly Diego nearly missed it.

He hummed, letting it rumble in his chest so Five could hear it where his ear was pressed against him.

“Diego,” he said again, and that was all. Nothing else to it, but Diego understood this time. An affirmation of gratitude in a whispered little tone, hidden every time he said their names. He’d fought so hard for them, and now Diego couldn’t stop imagining him when he was actually thirteen, alone and starving and whispering their names, putting everything into surviving so he could see them again. So he could come home.

It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t even have that.

Diego held him a little tighter, frail and bony and so, so cold. “You’re gonna be alright.” He was going to get better.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Five said softly, still below that careful whisper.

A laugh burst from Diego, surprised and a little wet. He swallowed the burning lump in his throat and closed his eyes so the tears would roll away and get lost on the pillow. “Thanks.”

“Don’t cry over me.”

Diego couldn’t answer that, couldn’t hold him any tighter, he could already feel his bones creaking. “You’ll be okay.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I’ll wake up,” he promised.

Diego let out the breath he was holding like a balloon, eyes clouding. “Shut up and go to sleep.” It wasn’t even a fear, he refused to acknowledge it.

“I’m not worth… all this.”

“Shut up.” Diego gripped the back of his neck, too hard at first, making Five tense. He softened his hold, kneading his thumb into the muscle, feeling Five’s heart fluttering that awful off-rhythm beat against his fingertips. “Were we ever worth all that?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “You were.”

Diego shook his head, his chest aching, scratching gently into Five’s scalp. “You’re a part of this family, too.”

Five didn’t answer. He didn’t rebuke, didn’t affirm. Diego could feel him thinking about it, and hoped somewhere in that muddled little head of his that he’d at least internalize that. How could someone who loved so hard think he deserved so little in return. It wasn’t fair.

No more fair than how hard Five had to fight, only to die a few months after achieving it all. No, Diego refused. Five wasn’t going to die. Not yet, not this year or this decade. Five did everything in his power to protect them. It was time someone stepped up and did the same for him.

#in case it wasn't obvious i have a serious soft spot for Diego taking care of a semi-delirious Five #i mean Five being taken care in general but this specific flavor of it appears to be a favorite of mine lol #tua #the umbrella academy #fanfic #fic snips and bloopers #tua fanfic #tua fic #Five Hargreeves #my stuff #my fics #planned obsolescence #i considered saving this for masked author/artist coming up but i doubt this will be any condition for AO3 by may #and i feel like i'd get clocked so fast posting something like this #also i have a shit memory and i already had a planned obso tag so now im worried i;ve posted this before and have simply forgotten #if i did tumblr ate it #hope y'all enjoy :)

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astrobei · 2 years

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for @quinnick: kiss prompt #4 - lips barely touching

The car is out of gas. Will is about ten seconds away from maybe-dying (again). Mike Wheeler has been abnormally quiet today.

At least of late, one of those things is more abnormal than the others.

The car is always out of gas. Will doesn’t know when the last time they’d filled it up was, but he does know that it’s not his problem trying to figure it out. That’s Hopper’s deal. Or his mom’s, maybe. Or Nancy’s, or Jonathan’s, or–

Whatever! The point is that the car is out of gas, Mike and Will are stranded at the currently closed general store, and they’re probably about to die.

Again.

“Mike,” Will tries, for maybe the hundredth time. “It’s not your fault, okay, it could’ve happened to anyone–”

“Yeah,” Mike grumbles miserably, as they round the corner, from aisle four – cleaning supplies and household items – into aisle five – canned goods. Most of the shelves are empty, turned over. Mike picks up a can of pickled green beans, pulls a face, and puts it back on the shelf. “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to me.”

Will takes a long, deep breath in through his nose. God forbid Mike Wheeler ever let anything go. “You didn’t know,” he huffs anyway. “It’s not your fault.” The store is dark, which is great for being able to roll your eyes without Mike seeing. Will’s flashlight sputters, briefly, the bright circle of light flickering in and out of view. He smacks it against his palm once, twice, and it steadies. “Seriously,” Will adds, as Mike slows to a stop in front of him. “Stop beating yourself up. So we have to wait for a ride. Big deal.”

Mike turns around to face him. His expression is mostly unreadable in the dark, but Will’s flashlight catches the edge of it – worried, a little guilty. “Yeah,” Mike says softly. “Except there are things everywhere and waiting for a ride is just– we’re sitting ducks here, okay,” Mike frowns. “I don’t like it. It feels like tempting fate.”

“Well, the simple fact of my existence feels like tempting fate sometimes,” Will jokes. It works, for a split second – Mike’s furrowed brows smooth out into something halfway amused, and he makes a noise that might be a laugh.

“Not funny,” Mike says anyway. His lips twitch.

“You laughed!” Will insists, smiling. His voice carries down through the hallway in a vibrant echo. “I know you did!”

“Shut up,” Mike whispers, looking away. “Would it kill you to keep your voice down?”

It might. Somewhere in the back of Will’s mind, he’s vaguely aware that they’re not safe here, out in the open, and that the whole point of them coming inside instead of waiting in the parking lot was to hunker down until Jonathan and Nancy could get another car here to pick them up. And also, preferably, get some gas.

Somewhere significantly closer in Will’s mind, though, is the knowledge that this is the most Mike has said – and the closest he’s come to laughing – since the car had stalled on the way from the cabin to the general store ten minutes ago, and Mike had just barely had time to pull into the abandoned parking lot before it had stopped altogether. He knows Mike doesn’t like this – being caught off-guard, out in the open. Even minute changes in the plan – which you’d think they’d all be more prepared for, considering the way things have been going lately – get Mike a little keyed up.

And the sorry, borderline pathetic part is this: despite it all, despite the ever-present threat of danger, and the impending sense of doom that’s been hanging over their heads for what seems like forever, Will feels vaguely pleased with himself anyway, seeing Mike hold back a smile instead of forcing one on his face.

So yeah, it might kill him, if he kept his voice down. That’s okay. Will thinks it would be worth it, sometimes – the danger and the doom and everything else – to hear Mike laugh.

God, what’s wrong with him? That’s embarrassing. That’s so embarrassing.

He shakes the thought off. “Whatever,” Will says instead, praying the cover of darkness is hiding the blush that’s rapidly rising to his cheeks. He angles the flashlight away from them anyway, just in case, and Mike’s face falls back into silhouette. “You know I’m right. You’re doomed just by being here with me.”

Mike shakes his head. “You know I don’t think of you like that.”

Will frowns. “Like what?”

“Like– like a bad luck charm,” Mike waves his hands around. “Or whatever.”

“I didn’t say bad luck charm,” Will exclaims. “Ouch! Stop putting words into my mouth.”

Mike grins. “Would you rather have, uh,” he picks up the nearest can to him, something small and vaguely gray, “tinned sardines in your mouth? Tinned sardines in water? Oh, gross. Never mind, actually.”

“I would rather not,” Will decides, even though the shelves are so bare that they might have to suck it up and take home the tinned sardines in water after all. “Would you like some, uh. Tuna?”

“I guess we know why there’s so much fish,” Mike sighs, leaning heavily against an empty shelf. “Nobody wanted it.”

“You mean the ten people outside of our circle of friends that are still left in Hawkins? Yeah,” Will scoffs, then sets the can back down with a soft clink. “I guess not.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. It’s quiet in the store, the room dark and lit faintly by Will’s flashlight and the display in the corner. It lights Mike up a faint blue, catches the edges of his jaw and where his hair is curling softly over the hood of his jacket.

Will’s flashlight sputters again.

When it comes back on this time, it’s more faint than it was before. It’s dark in here, Will realizes, a bit belatedly. Like, really dark.

He takes a deep breath and shuffles closer to Mike, just a little, like the shape of his body all leaned against the empty shelves is a grounding force. Mike gives him a look that Will can’t quite decipher in the dark.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Will breathes out. The proximity is helping, a little. “Just– waiting for our ride.”

Mike leans in a bit closer too, places an arm under Will’s elbow. It’s a light touch, nothing forceful, but the semblance of support is there. “You sure? You look a little pale.”

Sometimes, Will hates how well Mike knows him. He doesn’t get antsy in the same way Mike does in situations like these, but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t affect him at all. It should be expected by now, the automatic fight or flight.

For some cruel reason, it still isn’t. “You can’t even see me,” he says, but lets himself lean into the touch anyway.

“I can see enough,” Mike says easily. “Do you want to sit down?”

Will shakes his head. The only thing worse than waiting out in the open is sitting out in the open. At least when you’re standing, you can run. “No. I’m fine.”

Will can’t see Mike either, but he’d be willing to bet real money – that he doesn’t have – that he can tell exactly what Mike’s expression looks like. The pause grows, swells and swells and swells, until Will is sure Mike is going to say something–

There’s a clattering outside.

Instantly, Mike’s hand tightens its grip on Will’s elbow. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” Will hisses, twisting around to try and see through the windows. “Of course I heard that, Mike.”

“Do you think that’s–”

“No idea,” Will whispers. With no small amount of reluctance, he tugs his arm out of Mike’s grip. He misses the warmth of it almost instantaneously, and the tugging in his stomach is only amplified by the way Mike automatically leans in behind him, places a hand on his back to replace the absent touch, like it was never gone at all. Will swallows, and flicks the flashlight off. “Now be quiet.”

“The windows are boarded up,” Mike says, decidedly not being quiet. Will wonders where the Mike Wheeler of fifteen minutes ago went – the one that was sulking and fidgeting in silence the whole way down the first aid aisle. “They’re boarded up, so nothing can get in. Right?”

“We got in,” Will points out, which Mike seems to realize at approximately the same second he does. It’s getting a little hard to think, with Mike so close to him.

Will really wishes Mike would pull his hand away.

“Right,” Mike whispers, breath ghosting gently over the back of Will’s neck. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s fine.”

Fine, Will thinks. That’s one word for it.

Another clattering. It’s closer this time.

Will freezes.

Jonathan and Nancy are probably about ten minutes out. Twenty if they had to go back to the Wheelers’ for the other car. So they’d probably be fine if they stuck it out here, because the chance of something happening across them now, in the brief period of time where they’re stuck without a ride, in a building equipped with close to nothing that could help, is small.

Small, but not nonexistent.

Will isn’t really feeling inclined to take that chance. “Come on,” he says, then spins on his heel, grabbing Mike’s hand and tugging him in the opposite direction. “Come with me.”

Mike follows easily, stumbling slightly with the sudden movement. “Wh– where are we going?”

“Just come on,” Will says, then tugs Mike around to the back of the store. He yanks open a door, and shoves him inside. “Get in.”

“Whoa,” Mike says, as Will tumbles in behind him. “Will, what–”

“Would it kill you to be quiet?”

“Sorry,” Mike says, then does, at last, fall silent.

Immediately, Will wishes he hadn’t said that. It’s dark in here – even darker than out in the front of the store – and the only noise is the faint hum of a generator, somewhere behind the walls. It’s grating and stilted. Will wonders when the last time it had been repaired was.

Plus, it’s really–

It’s really fucking dark in here.

Will lets out a long, slow exhale, and reaches out to feel for the wall beside him. His palm comes into contact with chipped paint and he follows the shape of it down, lowering himself onto the ground.

“Will?” Mike says, and Will is in half a mind to say that thing about being quiet again, but–

It’s dark. It’s really dark.

“Yeah,” he says, barely audible even to himself over the faint hum of the generator, and the louder hum – demanding, prominent, persistent – of his blood rushing through his ears. “I just– sitting. I’m sitting.”

There had at least been some light out in the front, but this storage closet might as well be a void. It smells vaguely of dust, something stale and unknown and probably untouched for who-knows-how-long. Will takes another deep breath in.

“Where?” Mike asks. “I don’t want to step on you.”

Will cracks a smile. “Here,” he says, and holds a hand up in the air. “Right here.”

There’s a quiet shuffling sound as Mike moves closer, and then Will feels fingertips brushing against his. Mike latches on immediately, gripping tighter onto his hand and sits down in front of him.

Will still can’t see anything – he can’t see anything – but he can feel Mike’s presence like it’s a tangible thing.

Mike could let go of Will’s hand now. Now that he’s found him.

He doesn’t, though.

“Hey,” Mike says, then there’s another faint shuffling noise. “Where are we?”

“Storage closet.”

“Huh. How did you know it was here?”

Will cracks another smile, despite himself. “My mom worked here, remember? For, like, years.”

“Right,” Mike laughs, and then he’s moving closer, knees bumping against knees in the dark. “I forgot. It doesn’t feel like the same place.”

“Tell me about it,” Will sighs. He’s probably breathing in dust and debris and soot and all sorts of gross stuff, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He presses his knees against Mike’s a little harder, just because he can.

“I remember,” Mike starts, readjusting his grip on Will’s hand – fingers interlocked, a firmer grip – “she’d give me free candy from the front counter. Whenever I came in with my parents, I mean. My mom was so confused about why I kept asking to tag along to Melvald’s with her.”

“That’s not fair,” Will laughs. “She never let me have any candy.”

“You were a menace all hopped up on sugar,” Mike points out. “I knew how to behave myself.”

That’s a damn lie, and they both know it. “Liar,” Will says quietly, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re such a liar.”

“Maybe so,” Mike hums. “But I’m still the one who got free candy, so–”

“Mike!” Will shoves lightly at his knee, and Mike’s answering laugh fills the small space instantaneously. It’s loud – too loud, because they’re supposed to be hiding, goddamnit – but the nagging little voice at the back of Will’s head is vanquished almost as quickly as it came. “Shut up.”

Mike, as always, ignores him. “Why don’t we turn on a light?”

“The fuse is probably blown,” Will responds. “If there’s even a light in this stupid closet.”

“I mean this, idiot,” Mike says, and then clicks the flashlight back on. The batteries must be dying, because it flickers to life weakly, steadying out into a dim yellow-white. “Obviously.”

“Don’t waste the batteries,” Will says at once, trying to grab for it. “Come on, Mike–”

“Jonathan and Nancy will be here any minute and then we can go put in new batteries,” Mike says, holding it easily out of reach. “No point sitting in the dark, right?”

“Mike,” Will tries to protest, but it’s useless. Mike’s made up his mind.

Slowly, and a little far away, Will realizes what Mike is trying to do. He’s not being subtle about it, but subtlety has never been Mike Wheeler’s strong suit. He’s always been exuberant, quick and spontaneous with his actions, and this is no different. Sitting up close, closer than would be strictly necessary in any other situation. Turning the light on, despite the dying batteries. Telling Will about coming here as a kid, all those years ago. Making him laugh. Diffusing the tension.

Jesus, and he’s still holding Will’s hand.

A wave of affection washes over him, sudden and overwhelming enough for Will to feel borderline nauseous.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Mike can’t just sit here and touch their knees together and hold Will’s hand, and–

“Look,” Mike is saying, and then he’s holding the flashlight under his chin and grinning. “Don’t I look freaky?”

In all honesty, Mike looks fucking hilarious. The direct light casts long shadows across the dips of his cheekbones, the shapes of his eyelashes distorting wildly as he blinks. “No,” Will snorts, rolling his eyes. “You look ridiculous.”

“Really?” Mike grins, in a way that means he knows just how ridiculous he looks. “Not even a little?” He waggles his eyebrows, and the resulting effect is so comical that Will can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, sharp and sudden and real.

“Mike,” he chides, for the millionth time. “You’re going to kill the battery.”

Mike looks way too pleased with himself. “Worth it,” he says anyway, as he sets the flashlight down. It evens out the sharp angles of his face, now that it’s farther away, lights his cheeks and nose and eyes up into something softer, more open.

Something about the steadiness of Mike’s expression is brighter than any source of light. Suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, it’s blinding.

God. He’s so screwed. “For what?”

“Getting you to laugh,” Mike says, simple and easy, like he’s reciting times tables instead of proceeding to turn Will’s entire world upside down on its pathetic little axis.

Will feels his lungs stutter on his next inhale. He looks away. “Don’t do that.”

The gleeful expression falters on Mike’s face. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t,” Will says, “don’t– you’re being so– so–”

Mike looks caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “So what?”

“So,” Will tries again, and then Mike moves closer, and the difficulty of articulating a halfway decent sentence immediately increases tenfold. “So.”

“So,” Mike echoes, shifting so the side of his thigh is pressed up against the side of Will’s. He’s being slowly backed into the corner, but the thought isn’t terrifying like it might have been five minutes ago. Suddenly, Will is overwhelmed in a completely new way. “So what?”

“Nice to me,” Will gets out. “Stop being so nice to me.”

Mike pauses, then says, incredulously and half-laughing– “What? Why?”

Bad choice of words. “You heard me,” Will says anyway, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “You’re being too nice.”

“I should hope so,” Mike says. “I mean, you’re my friend.”

Maybe Will is imagining it, but the sentence feels unfinished. Like there’s a second half to it that Mike is keeping for himself: You’re my friend – right?

The obvious answer here is that yes, Mike is his friend. But that answer feels unfinished too, like a lie by omission. Will tries to imagine it, doing these things with anyone else – what it would be like if Dustin was holding his hand, or if it were Lucas sitting next to him this close.

The conclusion he comes to, almost immediately, is that it would be weird.

It would be really fucking weird.

That feels like– something. An admission, maybe. Because the fact of the matter is that things with Mike have always been like this, and they’ve never been like this with anyone else, and Will doesn’t think they can be like this with anyone else without it being the most unsettling thing that’s ever happened to him.

The silence, he realizes, has gone on just a second too long.

“Yeah,” he blurts out at last. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Something settles over Mike’s face. “Will–”

“Forget I said anything,” Will backpedals, a little bit desperate. “Never mind. Be as nice to me as you want.”

Mike bites down on his lower lip. It looks like he’s holding back a smile. “As nice as I want?”

Oh, no.

“Sure,” Will tries. “Do your worst.”

Mike lets out a shaky exhale. He presses in further, leans in closer until their shoulders are almost touching. “How about this?”

“That’s not nice,” Will says weakly. “That’s just an invasion of personal space.”

“Seems pretty nice to me,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Will inhales sharply. “Mike.”

“What?”

“What are you– doing,” Will whispers, stumbling over his words, just slightly, as Mike places a hand on his arm.

Mike’s gaze does not waver. “Is this okay?”

Is it okay? Will thinks his brain might be halfway to leaking out through his ears. This is–

This is–

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Yeah. Great.”

“Okay,” Mike whispers. He’s so close now that Will could count all the freckles spattered across his nose, if he wanted to. He could, and the thought is dizzying, dizzying – suddenly, it’s not the claustrophobia that’s making him feel like this. It can’t be, because Mike is in front of him, and he’s so close that Will could just lean forward and–

He could just–

“Mike.” And maybe he’s a bit of a broken record, but he can’t come up with any words other than his name. He clutches at Mike’s knee and meets his gaze and prays – to whatever deity allowed him to get trapped in a storage closet with Mike Wheeler two inches away from his face – that Mike Wheeler will find the courage in him somewhere to close the fucking gap.

He doesn’t, though, which is a sign that the universe must be majorly fucking with him. Not yet, anyway. Not anywhere near as fast as Will needs it to be – if this is what he thinks it is, it’s nowhere near fast enough.

In actuality, what it is is excruciating – the way Will’s heart is beating so loud that he’s sure Mike can hear it, in the proximity. The slow circles Mike is tracing over his other hand – the hand that he’s still holding. He’s so close that Will can discern the warmth emanating off him, the familiar scent of soap, can feel Mike’s eyes trained steadily on his mouth, and yet–

Either Mike is actually moving at a speed of one nanosecond per minute, or time has slowed to a near-stop around them. Mike’s grip on his hand is agonizing, caustic in all the places where they’re touching, each slow circle of Mike’s thumb against his wrist driving him slowly and steadily out of his mind. Do it, Will thinks, like maybe if he thinks it loud enough, Mike will be able to hear him. Do it, do it, do it.

Mike’s lips touch his.

The world stops moving.

It must, anyway. Or maybe it’s just that Will doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore – he doesn’t know if he can find it in him to remember how. All he’s aware of is this: Mike’s hands on his arm, his wrist. Mike’s leg under his own palm, warm and steady and pressed up against him in a smooth, unyielding line. The pressure of the wall behind him, the strands of Mike’s hair brushing against his face, and Mike’s lips – gentle, gentle, gentle, and nowhere near enough.

It’s like Mike is waiting for something. Waiting for Will, maybe.

God, okay.

Fuck it, Will thinks, from somewhere far off in his own head. Fuck it. Fuck this.

“Will,” Mike whispers, pulling back a precious few millimeters, and that’s it. That’s all Will can take.

Will lifts his hand off Mike’s leg, raises it to his wrist and tugs. Mike topples into him with a small gasp, Will falls backwards into the wall, and then they’re kissing.

God. Okay.

Mike steadies himself quickly, braces a hand on the wall behind them and leans in, firm and enthusiastic. His hand, Will notices, faintly and with no small amount of affection, is shaking. Just slightly. Will’s trapped between them again – Mike and the wall – but this time he can’t find it in himself to care even the slightest bit. As if there’s anywhere he’d want to go that wasn’t here, as if he’d want to be somewhere without Mike’s hand carding through his hair, or without his lips moving softly against Will’s own, or the noise he makes when Will presses forward, too fast, too eager, too betrayed by his own fluttering pulse – something like a laugh, trapped deep in his chest.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s–

“Mike? Will?”

Shit.

In a flash, Mike pulls away, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked and breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

Shit.

“Yeah,” Mike calls, voice cracking just slightly on the syllable. “We’re in here!”

Shit.

“So,” Will says, aiming for nonchalance. He fails immediately. His voice cracks too. Great. “That–”

Don’t freak out, he thinks. Please don’t freak out.

Mike, to his credit, is not freaking out.

“Yeah,” Mike says, voice a little high-pitched but surprisingly even. He clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. You were–”

“Yeah,” Will finishes, rather lamely. He’s grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t even need to look at himself to tell. His expression is mirrored, perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, on Mike’s own face.

The closet door gets thrown open, and there’s a blinding, sudden light– “What the fuck,” Mike exclaims, squinting and throwing a hand up in front of his eyes. “Nancy?”

Jonathan peers around her shoulder. “What were you guys doing in here?”

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t–

Will can’t help it. He looks at Mike, and they immediately burst into laughter.

Shit.

#hiiii quin so sorry but tumblr ate ur og ask #i did immediately memorize it tho bc i read it and i was like Oh Yes #anyways ik u asked for maybe s5 too #and idk why this is where my mind went #there are a million other s5 scenarios that i could've written #but something about byler kissing in dark closets.... haha #yeah <3 #anyways i hope u like this !!#byler #mike wheeler #will byers #fun sized fics #also fun fact for anyone who reads my fics #this was rly close to my og concept for ive come home im so cold #like the third chapter #but that story got away from me so #this isn't the Same but its similar !! kind of.#ok bye

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