#anyway happy bday to my boi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-yearnings · 12 days ago

Text

Absume. (Yandere!Best Friend x GN!Reader)

feat. sui's ai

♡ oneshot, approx. 1k words

♡ post-specific warnings: melancholy (?), angst (??), angst w/o happy ending (???)

♡ a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE LOML SUIIIIIII❤️ i did not have as much time on this as i would've liked but no matter, i wasn't gonna exist on suiday w/o a suiday celebration dar style. i present to you ai angst❗❗(it was meant to be fluff but i'm a fucking dumbass who can't write lmao) ai belongs to @suiana and is from her stellar, absolutely fantastic game, Anything Will Do. sui i want you to know you make everything worth it and i wouldn't still be here on tumblr if it weren't for you. all my love to you mwah mwah <333 unedited, not proofread.

♡♡♡

This life was strange to you.

Sometimes it went by so fast, you’d wake up with no recollection of the days passed; staring at the ceiling with open eyes. It’s the same crack in the paint that had always been there, long and thin and unnoticeable if it weren’t for the fact you sought it out unconsciously. You remembered it, even if you didn’t remember crawling into bed that night, or having dinner at the table, and what exactly it was that your mother fussed over.

There was a growing emptiness since you first noticed. No matter what you did, or how many people you were surrounded by, inside of you something was caving in. You didn’t know who you were. You didn’t know your place in this world without landmarking it by your achievements — and yet, when you looked back, there were none. How had you gone on so long? What had you been doing all this time?

Perhaps you lived in your head a little too much. Everything could be a little lighter if only you’d let it be. Sweeping every thought aside, you rolled, trapped your arm under your own weight and looked at your reflection in your mirrored bedside table. You were as you had always been. This was you, and this — whatever it was — was yours.

Lukewarm air, no temperature gradient, it should’ve made it easier for you to leave your bed, but you stayed there some long minutes before moving. Your clock was broken. Not conventionally. It only moved by the hour. Time was yours and you could waste it. There was security in the feeling that you had a choice to not start your day.

Morning, mundane as always, slathered you in its hues. Washed browns jittery under your feet, like there was no ground beneath you from wood to tile. The bathroom mirror had your fingerprints. You’d touched it many a time. Left a mark. This too, belonged to you. You could no longer believe this wasn’t real. Maybe it was that you were sensationless at your soles, treading carefully over loosely carpeted steps, trying to feel the tickle of those familiar fibres. When had you lost it all?

Your mother was in the kitchen, you don’t remember a time when she wasn't. It’s as if she can’t leave this lower floor, like she cannot rest, like her duties do not end. The door to her room never opens or closes, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her without that plaid apron. She never notices you unless you speak to her. She never says anything different.

At the table it’s fruit, and it tastes like nothing. No texture, nothing to chew. It feels like you’re eating air. Play-pretend at a plastic table with a plastic knife and fork. You’re young again and your sister ropes you into her fake kitchen. You don’t have a sister. Not here, at least.

There’s a knock at your front door. It’s light, like the person on the other side is afraid to be heard, but wants your attention still. When you open it, there he stands — the only thing in this world that you can reach out and touch, that thrummed beneath your fingertips, as alive as you were desperate to feel.

Ai takes your hand, and the breeze picks up just like that. Ever so easy. You watch your feet and every step they take to the pavement, nothing skips; you can commit it to memory. He’s speaking to you but you can’t hear the words just yet, there is only wind and the rustle of leaves. His hair billows, bleeds out heavy cyprus that blends into the backdrop of trees. He has always given you these beautiful bits of him, and you had let yourself go blind.

Letting go was something you should’ve done long, long ago, but you guessed he was your comfort. Solace. A shelter you could run to. Leaving never felt right, not when you knew he’d stay waiting. Ai told you once, he loved you beyond all of this. Outside the street lights would flicker, and in the flashes it was his face illuminated, tucking you in after a dreary day. You could never hold onto those scenes, in your mind they were fragmented, and you forgot about them as quick as they came. If you asked him why, you knew he’d tell you that this was the price, whether either of you could pay it, whether either of you could even endure it anymore.

On a deep inhale, you finally resolved that it was no fairer to him as you found it was to you, that now was the only right time. Now would be the only time you’d have him by your side like this again. This moment alone, he was real and he would not slip through your fingers.

You had set out for school, but with your textbooks weighing what your heart could not, you had no intention of going there with him. Instead these empty streets faded, and quickly noon set over the park you ended up at. The swings did not creak, but they were old. You wondered how they could carry the two of you — you and Ai, and everything you’d both been piling up inside.

Back and forth you went, here and in your head, trying to find the words to say you don’t think you could do this anymore. If you said sorry, would it make him mad? His due returns weren’t meant to be apologies. You were meant to fill him up just as he had done for you, you were meant to make everything worth it, every sacrifice, every stilted interaction from the day you understood that you were losing him. It was meant to get better. All this was meant to pass. Your mind was blank, and you were waiting for something but your clock was still broken, so nothing would ever come. You wanted to say I love you. You wanted those to at least be your final words — you just didn’t know how.

Ai was kind to you. He had always been. So he took your head in his hands, didn’t cry a single tear though it should’ve gone with that smile, and made the cut clean.

He said: “anything will do.”

78 notes · View notes

parkitaco · 2 years ago

Text

Mike has always been the sort of person who likes lazy birthdays. When he was younger, he rarely got them - his mother always had something planned, some party or event or special breakfast or something. Which- okay, is super nice of her when he thinks about it, and he probably shouldn’t be complaining, but- Mike needs his sleep, okay? It’s stressful enough to deal with becoming one whole year older. Being awoken at seven a.m. by an overly excited and well-meaning parent, plus his sisters if they were in the mood, was never a great way to start off a day like that.

And he’d assumed, now that he’s in college, he’d be mercifully free of the cursory birthday celebrations. Not that he doesn’t like his birthday, or celebrations, or having fun or anything like that, because saying he doesn’t like those things makes him sound like a cartoon villain or something, but- Wheeler birthdays are a lot. He’s never been good at them.

So, on the morning of Mike’s nineteenth birthday, he’s expecting to have a nice, languid morning, sleeping in until at least noon before making himself the only breakfast he knows how to make - slightly charred scrambled eggs and toast - and watching TV, or something. He knows the Party is supposed to come over later, because his roommate and best friend is a terrible secret keeper and Mike had found the plans for his surprise party on his desk weeks ago now (which, okay, he might have been snooping a little, but whatever). But that’s not until seven p.m., so his plans for the day had mainly consisted of television, junk food, and maybe going to go bother Will. If he’s in the mood.

That is not what happens.

Instead, he’s awakened at approximately nine in the morning by his door flying open so violently that it hits the wall and bounces back. Light pours into the room from the hallway, shining directly into Mike’s eyes, and he stirs with a groan, rubbing his eyes and wincing.

“Happy birthday,” Will says, pleased with himself as he stands in the doorway with his hands on his hips, as though he has not entirely disrupted Mike’s beauty rest - or, rather, that he knows he has, and isn’t at all sorry about it. “Wake up, old man.”

“Go away,” Mike groans, slumping back against his pillows and throwing an arm over his eyes. “I want to sleep.”

Will huffs, unimpressed, and Mike’s vaguely aware of his feet pattering across the floor before the mattress creaks and dips, and suddenly Will is right there, and Mike can feel his presence hovering over him even as he steadfastly refuses to open his eyes. “You’re not going to thank me?” Will questions, warm and teasing and right in Mike’s ear, and Mike dares to peek over the sleeve of his sweatshirt just enough to see Will, who is, sure enough, hovering right in Mike’s face. His hands are planted on either side of Mike’s head, a smirk plastered on his dumb, smug face, and- listen, Mike’s not necessarily pleased about being woken up this way, but if Will stays this close to him, he could probably get on board.

“Why would I thank you,” he grumbles anyway, removing his arm from his face so as to glare at Will properly. “You’re being a nuisance.”

Will rolls his eyes, which is probably fair, because he has never and will never be anything but a glowing, entirely positive presence in Mike’s life and they both know it, but- principles. “I said happy birthday,” he points out, “and you didn’t thank me.”

“Well, you also called me an old man, so I’d say we’re even,” Mike mutters, and evidently Will is satisfied by this response, because he sits back on his heels, grinning like an idiot and patting Mike’s chest gently.

Mike might not be fully awake yet, but he’s pretty sure that Will shouldn’t move so far away, and that preferably he’d come back and get in Mike’s face like that again. He just barely resists the urge to grab Will’s wrist and tug him back in, fingers twitching where they rest over the duvet as he tries not to think about how the only other thing nicer than going back to sleep right now was if Will stayed here and slept beside him.

Okay, so Mike is definitely not fully awake yet.

“You should get up,” Will is saying, and he’s still stupidly far away but he hasn’t moved farther, either, seemingly content to sit halfway on top of Mike like this while Mike curls further under the covers. He’s already dressed, Mike notices, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt for some band Mike’s never heard of, and he has Mike’s sweatshirt thrown over, some blue, oversized thing that he stole from Mike a couple weeks ago and Mike still hasn’t gotten the courage to confront him about. Mostly because he’s afraid Will might stop wearing it, if he asked about it.

“I want to sleep,” Mike reiterates, yanking his blanket over his head so that he’s forced to stop looking at the stupid sweatshirt, and Will immediately yanks the blanket back, peering over the edge and smirking down at him. “Go away. I hate you.”

These entirely false statements only serve to egg Will on, if the delighted look on his face is any indication. “No you don’t,” he says evenly, and he’s a little bit infuriating with it, sometimes, with this weird push-and-pull thing they’ve had going on since sometime around their junior year of high school. It’s one thing when Will is teasing with it, the maybe-flirting, because then Mike can at least pretend it’s a joke, but when he says things like this - no you don’t - so plainly, like it’s a fact, it has a tendency to make Mike feel a little bit too exposed. The closet’s made of glass, or whatever it was Will had said to him when they came out to each other a million years ago.

Today, Mike opts not to react to it, because it is his birthday, and therefore he deserves a little leniency - though, not from Will, apparently. “Go away,” he says again, and still means the opposite.

Will smiles, tapping a fingertip against his nose and letting it linger there a beat longer than strictly necessary. “Come on,” he says quietly, like he means it this time, “I got you breakfast.”

At this, Mike’s whole train of thought - which had mostly been centered around Will’s finger pressed to his face and what it might feel like to lean into that touch - grinds to a screeching halt. “You- what?” he asks, frowning, and Will’s smile widens.

“Breakfast,” he repeats, and there’s another creaking of springs as he launches himself off the bed and heads for the door, pausing to quirk an eyebrow at Mike as he sits up, still frowning in confusion. “Come on, Mike, God. Have to wait on you for everything.”

Mike scowls, kicking the covers off and padding after Will into the kitchen where, sure enough, there are two plates set out with breakfast burritos from Mike’s favorite café, plus two mugs - coffee for Will, tea for Mike - neatly lined up beside them at the table.

It’s- a lot. Mike’s still not really awake.

“Will,” he says, still frowning as Will gestures for him to sit down and grabs two paper napkins from the roll on the counter, “What is this?”

Will pauses where he’s placing the napkins in front of them, giving him a mildly incredulous look. “I told you,” he huffs, “Breakfast.”

“I- no, I get that,” Mike says, staring at his burrito like it’s somehow dangerous as he sits down at the table, “But- um. Why?”

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Will says, no bite to it, as he sits down across from him, “It’s your birthday, remember?”

Mike takes a sip of tea, hoping the caffeine will jump-start his system a little. No dice. He does note, however, that Will’s made the tea exactly how he likes it - English Breakfast, with oat milk and an ungodly amount of honey.

“I remember,” he says slowly, watching Will take a bite of his own burrito, “I just. Sorry, nevermind.”

It’s not like it’s that special, he tells himself, because he and Will have breakfast together all the time, whenever they both have mornings off from classes and work and whatever else. And it’s not like walking the two blocks to the cafe to buy him breakfast is even that much of a feat - a very large part of the reason Mike loves the restaurant so much is because it’s cheap and close to their apartment. And- it’s good. Good food. But still, it’s not like Will has gone that much out of his way or anything, and it’s not like Mike’s never been awoken to a special birthday breakfast before, but it’s- it’s just different, now. He’s an adult, and his birthday breakfasts up until this point had been entirely provided by his mother, which is nice and all, but it had all felt very cursory. He’d kind of expected to fend for himself a little this year, now that he’s independent and adult or whatever, had expected to dictate his day and spend it mostly alone, doing whatever he felt like.

So it’s just nice, he supposes. That someone else notices, besides himself.

Will arches an eyebrow at him, chewing slowly as he watches the gears in Mike’s head turn. “You okay?” he asks around a mouthful of burrito, which should be gross but is more endearing than anything else.

Mike nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he takes a bite of his food - the food that Will went out and got for him, just because - and kicks his foot gently against Will’s ankle under the table.

Will watches him for another few seconds, bemused and endeared, before humming and returning to his breakfast. They eat in relative silence, Mike still sipping at his tea and trying to cajole his brain into a slightly less mushy, lovesick state. He’s going to embarrass himself very quickly, if he’s not careful, which isn’t to say that he doesn’t constantly embarrass himself in front of Will, but. Principles.

When they’re done eating, Will clears Mike’s plate and mug before Mike can ask him to or make a move to do it himself, dumping them both in the sink and turning to face Mike, a small smile on his face. “What’s on the agenda today, old man?” he asks, and Mike is awake enough now that the old man comment makes him scowl a little.

“You’re older than me,” he says, just to be petty, and Will lifts a shoulder in a shrug, unperturbed, “And- I mean, I was planning on still being asleep right about now, so you tell me.”

Will fixes him with an unimpressed look, walking back over to the table where he’s sitting and leaning against the edge, and he’s- he’s doing it again, the getting-in-Mike’s-space thing, and it’s scrambling Mike’s brain. “I let you sleep until nine,” he points out calmly, which is true and fair, except that that’s only two hours later than Mike would sleep on a school day, and one of the great benefits to his first birthday as a functioning, real adult is that it happens to fall on a Saturday, and Mike’s made it his personal mission since he was fifteen to never bear witness to anything that happens on a Saturday before noon unless strictly necessary, so.

It’s kind of ridiculous how many of his principles he’ll compromise for Will, without Will even having to ask.

“You’re an evil dictator,” he tells Will, whose face splits into a wide smile, which, of course, was exactly what Mike was hoping would happen. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

“You love me,” Will says, and brushes past him into the living room, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table and settling himself onto the couch. Mike watches him a little dazedly, still standing dumbly in the kitchen area and wondering what response could he possibly have to that statement that’s not entirely incriminating.

When he doesn’t immediately follow him to the couch, Will arches an eyebrow, glancing over at him with the remote lifted halfway into the air. “I assume you wanted to spend all day watching your dumb sitcoms,” he says, and Mike can see that he’s already got an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine pulled up, and half-considers protesting that it’s not dumb, and that it’s not his fault that Will’s taste in media consists entirely of thriller movies, “But we don’t have to.”

We, Mike thinks, a little deliriously, and jerks his head in a maybe-nod that Will smirks at. He takes up the seat beside Will on the couch, feeling a little dizzy and overwhelmed and kind of like his entire body is out of sync. Which is sort of annoying, because he’d thought by now he’d have grown into himself a little, but he’s a year older and he’s still clunky and awkward and stupidly in love with Will Byers, and it doesn’t look like any of those things are going to change anytime soon.

Well. There’s only so much a guy can do.

Will leans into his side, and Mike decides it’s going to be a good birthday after all.

---

“I can’t believe we’re celebrating your dumb birthday twice,” Max informs Mike later that evening, after the obligatory surprise reveal of the party they all knew Mike already knew about, while they all sit on the floor of the living room and pass around a cake box. Will and Mike never really got around to buying enough dishware for more than two people, so they’re passing the box back and forth with a singular fork, which at least one of the Party members would probably be protesting if not for the presence of the (slightly illegal) bottle of wine that Lucas had brought.

“It’s not my fault,” Mike tells Max, snatching the fork out of her hand and stealing a bite of cake - his cake, thank you very much- “I didn’t plan the surprise party.”

Max rolls her eyes. “I know that,” she says, like he’s the one being difficult, “But we celebrated your in-between birthday with Will literally last week, so I kind of figured we were done, but then he called us all and begged us to stay in New York for a few extra days so we could do this too.”

In all his snooping about the surprise party, Mike had failed to discover that detail. He glances at Will, eyes wide, and Will coughs, blushing a little and glancing away. “You were gonna spend your whole birthday sitting at home watching TV by yourself,” he says, which Mike had never strictly told him, but he supposes it makes sense that Will would know anyway, “That’s super depressing. I had to at least make sure you weren’t alone for it.”

You care about me, Mike thinks gleefully but doesn’t say aloud, instead opting for the coward’s way out; “What if I wanted to watch TV by myself all day?”

“You didn’t,” Will says plainly, and Mike falters where he’s halfway toward initiating a fake-argument. “You thought you did, but you didn’t.”

Max’s eyebrows lift halfway toward her hairline, and she lets out a low whistle. “That’s presumptuous,” she mutters, and El whacks her shoulder, reproachful.

“I think it’s sweet, Will,” she says, and Mike’s too dumbfounded, too shaken by Will’s painfully accurate reading of him, to be as delighted as usual by the smattering of pink that appears across the bridge of Will’s nose at the words.

“Yeah, I don’t know why we’re complaining,” Dustin agrees, snatching the cake box right out of Mike’s hands, which is maybe a blessing in disguise because his whole body has kind of gone slack as he stares at Will, and he’d been seconds away from dropping it anyway, “This means we get two cakes. And twice the booze.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way,” Lucas says, and Dustin rolls his eyes at him.

They launch into an argument, and Will glances up, shyer than usual as he meets Mike’s eyes. You care about me, Mike thinks again, a little more reverently this time, and Will smiles softly at him, and it feels like an of course I do.

But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Will’s foot nudges Mike’s knee, just firmly enough for Mike to know it’s not an accident, and Mike offers him a smile of his own, fully aware that he’s probably blushing the same shade as Max’s hair. He glances away, clearing his throat and joining whatever conversation the rest of the Party has dissolved into, but he can feel Will’s smile down to his bones for the rest of the night anyway.

---

“You care about me,” Mike says aloud, the second the door closes behind El, after the wine bottle has been entirely decimated and the cake is long gone and he and Will are alone in the apartment again.

Will glances up from where he’s shoving the now-empty cake box into their slightly-overflowing trash can, a small smirk on his face. “Excellent observation skills, Mike,” he says wryly, straightening up and wiping his palms on his jeans. He’s still wearing Mike’s hoodie. Mike, suddenly, wants to confront him about it after all.

“You really planned all that for me?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the counter as he watches Will wipe down the granite surface with a wet rag.

“Did you or did you not go snooping through my room for my notes about it?” Will asks, not looking up from where he’s scrubbing at a sticky spot on the counter, and Mike flushes a little. He’d known Will knew, of course, because Will rarely keeps secrets from him, and they’re rarely of such a trivial variety, but it’s just slightly embarrassing to be called out on it so bluntly.

“Your fault for not using the notes app like a normal person,” Mike replies, and then, before Will can launch into his standard rant about needing to feel the pen in his hand, or whatever, which doesn’t make sense in any way whatsoever, and Mike should know, being the writer-person out of the two of them- “I- thank you.”

At this, Will pauses, the rag falling slack in his hand as he glances up at Mike, faintly surprised. “What, for the party?”

Mike swallows. “Yeah,” he manages, through the fog that tends to cloud his brain when Will looks at him like that - so open and honest and sincere, like Mike matters- “And for the rest of it, too, because I didn’t say it when you woke me up this morning but that was really nice too, and it’s nice when you sit and watch my dumb sitcoms with me and when you drive me to class on mornings when you’re free, and I just- it’s just, like.”

Will lifts an eyebrow. “Nice?”

Maybe Mike’s not a writer-person after all. “I just,” he tries again, mildly frustrated with himself, and a little bit with Will too, because how is he supposed to focus on words when Will’s looking at him like that and moving closer, edging along the counter toward him, “I guess I’m just saying thanks for, uh. Being here. In my life.”

He winces. That’s terribly corny, he’s sure, and also probably very incriminating, and he still doesn’t have the capacity to process it because Will’s still moving closer, coming to stand in front of Mike and smiling expectantly up at him.

Will opens his mouth to speak, but before he can Mike blurts; “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

Will falters a little, glancing down and nodding when he sees his hands, covered by the too-big fabric of Mike’s hoodie, like he hadn’t noticed. You’re full of shit, Mike thinks, and is more endeared by the feigned innocence than he has any right to be. “So I am,” Will agrees, glancing up and meeting his eyes again. “Is that a problem?”

Mike shakes his head quickly, not wanting Will to be, like, offended or something, and then immediately realizes that Will is still messing with him, a little, and scowls. “No,” he says anyway, just in case, “But- you’re so annoying, did you know that?”

“You love me,” Will says, in that same infuriatingly calm tone, and this time Mike doesn’t want to brush it off.

He meets Will’s eyes directly, swallows, and despite the fact that his heart rate is currently averaging about 150 beats per minute his voice is calm and low and serious when he responds, “Yeah.”

Will blinks. “Oh.”

Mike is the one smirking now, feeling a little giddy and dizzy but put at ease by the slip in Will’s poker face. “You didn’t know that?”

“I don’t,” Will starts, and then seems to lose his nerve, falling silent and shaking his head, and Mike’s not sure if he means that he doesn’t have a response, or that he didn’t know, or something else that Mike’s not yet aware of.

They’re standing awfully close together. Mike swallows. “How did you know?”

Will frowns. “That you love me?”

“No,” Mike says, though it sends a little bit of a thrill through his stomach, hearing it said aloud like that, “About- that I didn’t want to be alone, today.”

“Oh,” Will says, and his face splits into an easy smile, shoulders relaxing a little. “Oh, I just- that’s just because I know you, dummy. You think you’re this loner type who wants to be left alone and have chill birthdays and be all detached and whatever, but you’re secretly still just the same kid that likes presents and parties and cake and- and being with the people you love, so.”

Mike swallows hard, caught between hysterical laughter and breaking into sobs, and already halfway toward kissing Will in his stupid perfect face. “You know,” he manages, through the lump in his throat, “If I were anyone else you’d sound so condescending right now.”

Will’s expression does not change. “Good thing you’re you, then,” he says quietly, and there’s barely any space between them now. If Mike tilted his face up just a little-

-their noses would brush, and he would see Will’s eyes flutter shut, maybe, and then-

“Mike,” Will says, sounding mildly embarrassed, and his voice cuts through Mike’s hazy, lovesick thoughts, “If you want to kiss me, can you please just do it already?”

Mike’s eyes fly open - they’d been half-shut, he now realizes - and he releases a garbled sort of sound of confusion. “What-”

“Mike,” Will says again, and there’s an urgency to it that makes something swoop in Mike’s stomach.

And- well, he can’t really argue when Will says his name like that, can he?

“Okay,” he whispers, and catches Will in a kiss.

Will tastes like frosting and cheap wine, and he’s warm, soft and pliant under Mike’s hands as he reaches up to cup his face in his hands. It feels- cozy, almost, melting into Will, letting him wrap his arms around Mike’s waist and pull him in closer. It feels like sitcom marathons and warm laughter and the gentle weight of Will hovering over him this morning. It feels comfortable, and safe, and like everything Mike never thought he’d be lucky enough to have, so he can’t be blamed for it, really, when he presses in closer, pulling Will against him and tangling a hand in his hair.

“Mike,” Will sighs against his mouth, and it sounds entirely different this time, different from any way he’s ever said his name before. Like it slipped out of his mouth unbidden, a thought voiced into existence entirely by accident. It sends a shiver down Mike’s spine, and he places a hand over Will’s waist, tucked under the fabric of his sweatshirt - Mike’s sweatshirt - and pulls him in, leaning back against the counter and relishing the gentle caress of Will’s hands against his sides, trailing over his ribcage.

He pulls back, if only to see the pink glow slowly overtaking Will’s face, the flutter of his eyelids as he blinks at Mike, mouth twisting into a pout at being interrupted. It’s a beautiful sight, leaving Will so flustered and sweet under his palms, and Mike drinks it in, a giddy smile stretching across his features.

Will whines faintly, tugging at the collar of his shirt until Mike’s lips meet his own again, a gentle press that still manages to send a shudder through Mike’s body. The counter is digging into his back, and it’s uncomfortable if he really thinks about it, but it’s sort of hard to think about anything but Will as he holds him close, runs his hands over Will’s arms, threads his fingers through his hair, traces his tongue over Will’s lower lip.

When they finally part, it’s only by a few centimeters, Will pressing his forehead gently against Mike’s.

“Stay?” Mike asks quietly, even though Will’s made no move to go anywhere else, and it’s not like he’d go far anyway, but he doesn’t know how else to communicate the deep-set feeling in his gut telling him to keep Will close. Like if Will moves away, even if it’s just to stumble off to his room to go to sleep, it will be too much distance.

Will’s mouth ticks upward, and he darts forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of Mike’s lips. “‘Course,” he murmurs, like it’s not a totally nonsensical request, and Mike wonders how it is that Will always knows everything there is to know about him. But then he adds, “Idiot,” and Mike remembers that Will is also just super annoying, all the time, so it all evens out in the end.

“You love me,” he murmurs, and it feels like more of a confession than a confirmation. He’s never said it like that before, even though he knows it’s true. He’s never felt confident or brave enough, but he feels like now, in this quiet little world that exists in the space between his and Will’s lips, he doesn’t need confidence or bravery to know things that are true.

Will smiles. “Yeah,” he confirms, and his hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, ‘course I do. Happy birthday, Mike.”

Happy birthday indeed, Mike thinks, and catches Will in another kiss.

#happy (late) bday to the boy <33 #i know i just wrote a ton of bday content in my fake dating fic but yk what. we need more of it in our lives ok #desperately wanted to get this out while it was still his bday but alas #:((#anyway #byler fic #mike wheeler #will byers #st fic #ok bye goodnight #byler ficlet

244 notes · View notes