#thats a ficlet tag now ig uess .

[wiseatom]

perhaps Mike has a migraine and Will is comforting him? (I have a migraine today🥲 and I would like to be vicariously comforted through characters dhejdjedi). Thank you!!💕

hi anon!!! thank you for the prompt <3 sorry that this is late, but i hope you are feeling better!!

The apartment is dark when Will gets home. 

He frowns as he steps inside; Mike should definitely be home by now. Will usually stays late at the studio on Fridays, trying to create as little work as possible for himself on Saturday so that he can actually have a weekend the next two days, but Mike is usually off early on Friday. He should be here.

He flips the entryway light on and lets his messenger bag fall from his shoulder to one of the dining room chairs as he passes by, peeking his head around the wall that blocks his view into the kitchen. The window above the sink lets in the last of the evening light, illuminating the room in a blueish glow, but there's no Mike in sight.

“Mike?” he calls out, stepping further into the apartment and flipping switches as he goes. Dining room, living room, hallway – but by the time he reaches their bedroom door, he’s pretty sure he’s figured out what’s going on. He cracks open the door to their bedroom as quietly as possible, letting in only enough light to confirm that, yes, the lump under the covers is distinctly boyfriend-shaped. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice nearly a whisper as he slips inside the room. He’s careful with shutting the door behind him, holding onto the knob so that the latch doesn’t click, and then rounds the bed. He approaches the blanket lump and sits gingerly right by where he guesses Mike’s head is, if the tuft of hair poking out from the covers is anything to go by. “Migraine?”

(They’re less common than they used to be, Mike’s migraines, but Will’s been around for nearly all of them. He never used to get them, but that was before the nasty blow to the head that happened sometime during the interdimensional fight for their lives at just sixteen years old. All throughout the rest of high school and most of college, the resulting migraines became a frequent visitor, their visits frequently bad, and Will frequently powerless to do anything but sit by and watch Mike suffer. 

It’s been years, but Will doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to it.)

At the question, Mike makes a muffled noise of assent, then pulls the covers back far enough to squint up at Will in the lowlight of the room. Will frowns again, letting out a sympathetic little hum, and threads his fingers into Mike’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp along the way. Mike closes his eyes, clearly pleased, and presses his head into Will’s thigh. 

“Did you take anything?” Will asks quietly.

“At school,” Mike answers. His voice is hoarse, tired, and Will’s heart clenches in his chest. “It hit second period, so I popped three ibuprofen and found a sub by fourth. Drive home was brutal.”

Will grimaces, hoping traffic wasn’t as brutal as the afternoon sun. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, running his fingers through Mike’s hair again. “Anything I can do?”

Mike hums. “That,” he says, letting out a content sigh. “‘S almost gone, anyway. Just need more sleep.” 

“I’ll stay until you fall back asleep, then,” Will promises. He leans back to check the glow of numbers from the alarm clock on his side of the bed. “If you’re up before eight, I’ll make you dinner.” 

The corner of Mike’s mouth twitches, as much of a smile as he can manage. “What time is it now?” he asks. 

“Quarter past six,” Will answers, eyes flicking to the numbers again. 

“Should be gone by then,” Mike mumbles. “I accept your bargain, Byers.” 

Will lets out a little laugh, making sure to keep it quiet. “Sleep,” he commands gently, and it’s a testament to how truly tired Mike is that he doesn’t even attempt to argue it. Instead, he just pulls the blanket back up over his eyes and shifts so that his head is pressing more insistently into Will’s thigh, like the external pressure is helping banish the one happening internally. 

“Thank you,” Mike says quietly, voice muffled from under the covers again. “Love you.”

“Always,” Will replies easily. “Love you, too.” 

Mike lets out another happy sigh, and Will sits there in the dark with him for another ten minutes, absentmindedly carding his fingers through his hair and waiting for his breaths to even out with sleep. When they finally do, Will carefully extracts himself from his sleeping boyfriend, stilling and wincing at the creak of the mattress, and then letting out a sigh of relief when there’s no movement from Mike afterwards. He makes quick work of stumbling through the dark to find a change of clothes, opening and closing drawers as silently as possible, and once he’s in a pair of sweats and a crewneck he’s pretty sure don’t belong to him, he quietly exits the room into the hallway. 

With Mike out of commission for the next two some-odd hours, it’s probably the perfect time to dig back into his messenger bag and look over those character concept design sheets that are due tomorrow, but his eyes already hurt at the thought of even spending a single minute looking at the same stupid drawings again. If he’s going to give himself eyestrain, it’s going to be with the Nintendo. 

Eyestrain is exactly where he’s approaching an hour and a half later, when Mike emerges from the bedroom looking sleep-rumpled and soft, one leg of his sweatpants higher than the other. Will immediately pauses his game and lifts one arm up, and Mike doesn’t need a verbal cue to crawl right up into the space Will has made for him. He settles against Will’s side easily, resting his head on Will’s shoulder. The light from the screen instantly creates a glare off his glasses, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Ocarina?” he asks. 

“Mhmm,” Will replies. He runs his fingernails along the point of Mike’s shoulder. Mike preens at the touch. “Trying to get through the stupid Water Temple, still.” 

Mike barks out a quiet laugh. “Good luck,” he says, “my kids have been going on about that for months. I have absolutely zero tips for you.” 

“What good are you to me if you can’t even get me gaming tips from resident high schoolers?” Will scoffs, which earns another quiet laugh from Mike. Will smiles, pleased, and turns his head, kissing Mike’s temple. “How’s that big brain of yours doing?” 

“Not completely gone, but manageable now, at least,” Mike answers. 

Will hums. “Think you can manage some soup?” 

Mike pulls back to give him a look. “Do you think you can manage some soup?” 

“That was one time,” Will hisses, after letting out the quietest indignant squawk a person has ever indignantly squawked. Mike is lucky that Will is such a considerate boyfriend -- Will wishes he could say the same. 

“Just because we painted over the scorch marks doesn’t mean they’re not still there,” Mike points out. Before Will can protest further, Mike is pushing himself up and pressing their lips together, the most effective method of silencing Will known to man (scientifically proven). “I’ll make it. Chicken noodle okay?” 

Will watches as he starts to head towards the kitchen, shifting so that the arm that was just holding Mike is draped over the back of the couch. “Are you sure you’re up for it?” he asks, loud enough so that Mike can hear him, but quietly enough so that he doesn’t disturb him. 

“Soup is easy,” Mike answers, grabbing a pot and turning on the hood light. He reaches into the cupboard to the left of the stove and grabs the familiar red and white can, and then looks back over his shoulder at Will with a shit-eating grin. “At least, it’s easy for most of us.” 

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Will asks with a frown. 

“Not in this lifetime,” Mike says easily, pouring the soup into the pot he retrieved and moving it to the back of the stove. Once he’s flicked the burner on, he turns back towards Will and leans against the counter, still wearing that stupid, smug grin. 

Will sticks his tongue out at him. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, asshole.” 

“Much better,” Mike says. He casts a glance over his shoulder at the soup on the burner, then pushes off the counter and strides back over to the couch, leaning down and capturing Will’s lips in another kiss. His lips are dry and warm, and he’s annoying, and he doesn’t deserve to be attacked by his own head twice a month, and Will loves him so, so much. He pulls back, and Will just stares up at him, because when the only light is coming from a single lightbulb in the kitchen and the glow of the television, Mike is the brightest thing in the room. “Much, much better,” Mike says again, his lips brushing Will’s with every word, and then dives back in for another kiss. 

(There is not another soup incident, but it’s a close call.)