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Mike feels disgusting.
His room is too warm—by at least ten degrees—and the air sits heavy on his skin, thick with sweat and old grime. It clings to him. He doesn’t remember the last time he showered. Time doesn’t feel like something that belongs to him anymore.
It’s been long enough, though. Long enough for the bruises and scrapes and shallow cuts to fade into dull yellow ghosts along his arms. They should tell him how many days it’s been since everything ended, but he doesn’t care enough to count.
He rolls onto his back and immediately regrets it. Pain pulses behind his eyes, sharp and insistent, like his head is punishing him for the movement. He groans and stills, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room.
He might be hungry. He isn’t sure. Hunger feels abstract, like a concept he read about once in a class he always slept through. He knows he ate an apple at some point—sometime in the last twelve hours, maybe. Before that, he managed half a bowl of chicken and rice his mom left outside his door. He remembers feeling vaguely grateful. Mostly relieved when she stopped attempting to come in or to get him out.
It’s filthy in here.
Empty water bottles tipped on their sides, dirty clothes in piles, tissues and crinkled wrappers all littering the dusty surfaces and carpeted floor.
There’s a few plates of spoiled food on his dresser, omitting a sour smell every once and a while when he gets close enough to smell them.
It’s disgusting.
He’s disgusting.
A hot tear slips sideways into his hairline. Then another. He blinks hard, trying to stop them, but his eyes are so dry it just makes them burn worse. God, he’s pathetic.
Everyone else is getting better. At least, that’s what his mom says in her careful voice when she thinks he’s listening. Even the Byers—who lost a sister, a daughter—are managing to sit at their dinner table.
And Mike can’t even get out of bed for more than a few minutes.
He wonders what El would say if she saw him like this.
Would she say anything at all? Or would she just kneel down and begin to pick things up, hands gentle. She was like Will, in that way. Like caring for someone came as natural as a deep breath.
He’ll never see her again.
Bile rises in his throat despite the pit of emptiness in his stomach. Mike turns his head to the side and tries to breath through the nausea, fingers worming their way into his sweat-soaked sheets.
After a few moments, the nausea fades. It doesn’t leave him feeling better—just hotter, more aware of the stale air pressing in around him.
Mike sits up slowly and peels his T-shirt off, the fabric sticking as it goes. He lets it drop somewhere near the bed and waits for the cool air that never really comes. His skin still feels wrong. Everything does.
There are voices in the hallway. Muted, distant. Laughter, maybe. Someone talking about something normal. It’s another reminder that the world is still moving, that people are getting better.
And he isn’t.
He misses his mom. He misses his friends. He misses his Will.
He misses El.
The thought makes his stomach pitch again. For a second he considers the bathroom, the sink, the cold tile—but the idea of standing up, of walking that far, feels impossible. So he lets himself fall back against the sheets instead, staring blindly at the ceiling.
He wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this.
He hasn’t showered in days. He knows he smells—stale sweat and old air and something sour underneath it all. His room probably reeks too, spoiled food and damp clothes and rot setting in where it shouldn’t be. The thought twists something ugly in his chest.
He hates himself for it. Hates that he let it get this bad.
El wouldn’t want this.
He can picture it too clearly: her hand on his shoulder, warm and steady, her eyes serious in that way that meant she cared. You have to get up, she’d say. You have to live.
He’s so sick. She did nothing but care for him, and he couldn’t love her in the way it mattered.
His vision blurs. He’s surprised there’s anything left in him to cry.
Footsteps sound outside his room.
Mike stiffens, heart kicking painfully against his ribs. It’s probably his mom, he thinks distantly. Another plate of food set down right outside the door like he’s a caged animal.
The steps stop right outside his door.
There’s a soft, hesitant knock.
He doesn’t answer. There’s no point—she can’t come in anyway. He locked the door hours ago, after the bathroom. He remembers the click. He’s sure of it.
Then a voice slips through the door, warm and melting.
“Mike?”
It wasn’t his mom, or Nancy, or even his dad.
It’s Will.
Wet, hot shame pours over him in buckets, pooling in his stomach like a neglected pothole.
Will can’t see him like this. He can’t. The last time they saw each other—just a week ago—things hadn’t been nearly this bad.
“Go away, Will,” he says, his voice cracked and rough from disuse. It doesn’t sound like him at all. He hates that too.
He needs Will to leave. To just put the food down, or say whatever he came to say, and go.
Mike is sick, he’s so gross, he’s—
“Mike,” Will says quietly, “I’m going to come in, okay?”
Panic snaps through him like a rubberband. Mike jerks upright, heart pounding. “No! The door is locked. I don’t want to—”
The door creaks.
Light spills into the room, thin and blinding against the dark.
Mike’s breath catches in his chest.
He forgot to lock it.
Mike’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the thin light cutting into the room. Shapes sharpen slowly, painfully, until Will’s face comes into focus.
He looks tired. Paler than usual. The shadows under his eyes are darker than Mike remembers seeing in years, carved in deep enough to make something twist in his chest. Will’s been hurting too. Of course he has. That thought barely has time to properly form before another one crashes into it.
He’s going to see me. He’s going to be disgusted.
He should be disgusted.
Mike’s gaze drops instinctively, landing on the plate in Will’s hands. A casserole, maybe—cheese browned at the edges, steam curling up into the air like a quiet offering.
“Hey, Mike,” Will says gently, in the same tone you would use to talk to a scared animal. Maybe Mike’s not too far off.
Will steps fully into the room and closes the door behind him, slow and deliberate. The click sounds louder than it should. Mike’s jaw locks. His mouth fills with apologies and justifications, he wants to scream at Will. He wants to shout and tell him to leave before he can see what Mike has become. He wants to shake the other boy senseless. He wants to pull him into a hug and never let go ever again. He wants to crawl into Will’s ribcage and make a little home for himself right next to his beating heart.
He does nothing.
Will stands there for a moment, eyes drifting across the room. The clothes. The trash. The food that’s gone bad. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t comment. He just moves toward the bedside table and switches the lamp on.
Mike flinches before he can stop himself. The brightness feels exposing, every bad decision and every neglected day is suddenly visible. He almost wants Will to wrinkle his nose in disgust. He wants a reaction.
Will doesn’t do any of that.
If Will notices the smell, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he’s already smelled worse. Mike doesn’t have the energy to untangle that thought.
Will sits on the edge of the bed carefully, like he’s testing whether the moment will hold. He balances the plate in his hands, fingers worrying at the edge.
“Your mom says you haven’t been eating,” he says quietly. “She asked me to see if I could get you to eat at least a little.”
Heat flares in Mike’s chest. He feels like a scolded toddler. Will holds the plate out to him.
Mike takes it without looking up.
This is fucking humiliating, he thinks. Like he can’t be trusted with his own body. Like he’s sick.
“Are you going to eat it?” Will asks, still gentle. Always gentle.
Mike doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything he’s done.
“I won’t force you,” Will adds, a little breathless. “You know that. Everyone’s just… worried. Especially your mom.” He hesitates, then tries for a small smile. “I think her hair might actually be starting to go grey from the stress.”
The joke lands and slides off him without leaving a mark. Mike stares down at the casserole, the fork resting neatly on the side of the plate. He can’t bring himself to lift it.
“They shouldn’t be worried,” he says finally. “I’m fine.”
The lie feels like chewing glass in his mouth.
Mike knows how this looks. He knows it’s obvious. A blind baby could tell something’s wrong with him.
Mike reaches for the fork. The metal is cold against his fingers, a sharp contrast to how overheated he feels everywhere else. He lifts it slowly, half-expecting his hand to shake, and brings it to his mouth.
He takes a hesitant bite.
Will’s eyes bore into him. The food tastes good, he supposes. It’s warm. Comforting to a degree. But it also feels distant, like he’s eating a memory instead of a meal.
Still, he keeps eating it, mostly because Will’s eyes are burning holes into the side of his head, and not because he’s actually hungry.
The knot in his stomach loosens just enough to remind him how hungry he actually is, how long he’s been pretending he wasn’t. He can see Will relax out of the corner of his eye, shoulders dropping, something unclenching in his face.
Mike wants to say thank you. Wants to laugh weakly and make a joke about it, or lean forward and wrap his arms around Will’s neck and cry into his shoulder until there’s nothing left in him.
But he probably smells like roadkill and old socks, so he doesn’t. He can’t imagine inflicting that on someone else—on Will, especially.
When the plate is empty, Mike sets it carefully on the bed beside him. Will’s hazel eyes track the movement, like he’s afraid it might vanish if he blinks.
Will inhales, then exhales. When he speaks, his voice is warm and soft, blanketing itself around Mike’s shoulders.
“Mike,” he says, “I want to help you.” He pauses, eyes searching Mike’s face. “Will you let me help you?”
His eyes are big and pleading, and Mike wants nothing more than to dive into them.
Mike swallows and stares down at his hands, fingers curled tightly into the sheets.
“I’m sorry I’m so disgusting,” he whispers.
Will’s eyes widen immediately. “No—Mike, that’s not what I—” He shakes his head, words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think you’re disgusting. I don’t.”
Mike squeezes his eyes shut.
You would if you knew what I am, he thinks. He doesn’t know how Will isn’t entirely repulsed by him.
He nods slowly.
“Okay,” he says, voice barely about a whisper. “I want you to help me.”
Relief spills onto Will’s face, and his eyes look a little glassy.
It makes Mike feel wanted, cared for.
He knows he’s being selfish. He knows that leaning on Will—who is grieving too, who is barely holding himself together—isn’t fair. One day, he’ll probably pay for that. One day, the guilt will catch up to him and sink its teeth in deep.
But today is not that day.
Will stands from the bed and reaches down tentatively, hand hovering for a moment before settling gently over Mike’s. His hands are soft.
Mike hesitates, then lets himself be guided, limbs heavy, feet dragging slightly against the carpet.
Will leads him to the bathroom, and Mike sinks onto the cold tile floor, the chill biting through his sticky, half-dried sweat. He’s so gross. But Will doesn’t seem to notice, or rather, doesn’t seem to care. One steady hand presses to his shoulder, grounding him as the sound of hot water running into the tub fills the room. Will’s hands are very soft.
Mike stares at the tiles, unseeing, imagining patterns and faces in the porcelain.
Will sinks down beside him, close enough that their knees brush. Slowly, he rests his head against Mike’s bony shoulder. Mike tenses at first, he can’t imagine it’s comfortable, but Will melts into the touch like Mike is made of velvet, and for a moment, everything feels alive again.
Steam curls from the bathtub as Will slides upright to turn off the water. Mike watches, heart lurching, as Will pads toward the door. A sudden spike of panic hits, hot and desperate. He reaches instinctively for the bottom of Will’s pants, clutching them.
“Wait,” he pleads, voice low and ragged, more pathetic than he thought possible. “Please don’t go. I—”
His face flushes. He glances up at Will, who’s watching him, concerned and a little nervous.
Mike swallows thickly. “Can you… um… help me?”
Will blinks. Just for a moment. His cheeks shade pink. Then he nods.
“Y-yeah, yeah I can do that.”
Mike stands slowly, ignoring the lightheaded spin that hits him as soon as he’s upright.
“I’ll just—uh—” Will starts, voice tight and uneven.
Will turns away, giving him space, shoulders hunched slightly, as if protecting him from his own eyes. “So… you can take your clothes off,” he says softly, voice careful.
Mike wonders, not for the first time, if he’s past the point of embarrassment. He strips off his dirty pants and boxers, placing them in a small, messy pile by the sink.
He eases himself into the warm water, sinking slowly, letting it hold him. The heat presses against his skin, settling over him and dissolving the grime that has been coating his skin for days. He lets out a soft, almost guilty sigh, knees drawn up tightly to his chest.
He is, decidedly, not past the point of embarrassment in having his best friend see him fully naked.
“You can turn around now,” Mike says, voice muffled by his knees.
Will turns around slowly, clearly trying to avoid looking at Mike for any longer than a second.
Mike hugs himself tighter. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Will shakes his head, face still flushed with a very pretty shade of pink. “No. No, it’s my fault. I’m making it weird.”
Mike wants to laugh at that, wants the absurdity of it to break through the fatigue, but he’s too tired. His voice comes out as a small, dry chuckle. “Well… I’m the naked one, so if anything, I’m the one making it awkward.”
Will snorts, a short, affectionate sound. “Yeah. I guess so.” A smile ghosts across his lips, brief and small, before he reaches for the cup sitting on the side of the tub.
He fills it with the warm water and brings it up to Mike’s greasy, matted hair. “Tilt your head back,” he whispers. If he were half in his right mind, he would’ve thought that was almost sexy, the way Will said it.
But his right mind fucked off probably 3 weeks ago now, not that Mike can really keep track.
Mike obeys and tilts his head back just enough so the warm water won’t pour onto his face. He flutters his eyes shut. The warm water pours over him, soaking through the tangles, and he can feel the grime loosening, slipping out, leaving something softer, lighter beneath. For the first time in days, he exhales, just a little, letting it out into the steam and the heat and Will’s careful presence.
Will dips his hands into the cup again, scooping the water over Mike’s scalp. The first splash makes him flinch instinctively, but Will’s touch is so gentle that he finds himself melting into it anyway.
“Just relax,” Will murmurs, hands gentle as he works through the tangles. His fingers press against Mike’s scalp, warm and careful, and Mike feels his muscles soften, even though his chest still aches with self-disgust.
He can’t help but think about how pathetic this must look. Naked, greasy, trembling a little in the warm water, letting someone else touch him. He wants to apologize, wants to curl inward even tighter, but the water and Will’s presence hold him still.
The smell of soap rises, floral and clean, clashing with the metallic tang of sweat and neglect. Mike inhales it, breath catching, feeling absurdly exposed and… almost alive. It’s humiliating, yes, but there’s something so tender about being cared for like this. Like having your fresh bandaids kissed better.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, voice muffled against his knees. “I’m… I’m so gross, Will. I don’t deserve this.” He sounds like a little kid. He feels like a little kid.
Will pauses, fingers stilling for a heartbeat, then keeps going. “Mike, you’re not gross. We're all dealing with it in our own ways,” he lets out a sigh, and Mike can feel his hands tremble against his roots. “I mean, you loved her. I’m surprised you’re not worse-off.”
Loved her.
Mike chokes down a sob. Huh, I didn’t even realize I was crying.
“Will, I—” The knot in his throat tightens, and he wonders if Will can see it too. “I d-didn’t— I couldn’t say it, Will.” Will’s hands freeze in his hair again.
The water runs over his shoulders, over the collarbones that feel sharper than they should, over the thin frame he’s let weaken too much. The heat feels cruel in contrast to the icy guilt curling in his stomach. He can feel the faint heat from Will’s hands lingering even after he pulls back, like a promise he doesn’t trust he deserves.
“You couldn’t say what, Mike?”
“I couldn’t t-tell her I loved h-her because—” Mike sobs, fully now, his head falling forwards and the still slightly soapy water falling onto his forehead and cheeks. “—because I didn’t love her right, Will.”
Will says nothing, instead reaching for Mike’s face to tilt his head back once more. The tears mix with the soap on his face.
Will’s hands find themselves in Mike’s hair again, bringing water up to rinse away the left-over suds.
Mike shudders as the water drips down his face, trailing over the slope of his nose and onto his lips. The sobs catch in his chest, hiccupping against the tight coil of shame and heartbreak. He tastes the soap on his tongue and lets out a choked laugh that quickly turns back into quiet gasps.
Once Will is sure all of the soap is out of Mike’s hair, he grabs a washcloth and lets it absorb the warm water. He gently grabs onto Mike's face, swiping away at the sweat and grime and shampoo that had built itself up on the skin.
It takes everything in Mike not to start crying again with how much care Will has packed into his expression, brows knitted together in quiet concentration as he wipes gently along Mike’s cheeks and jaw. The washcloth is warm, almost hot, and it leaves clean paths in its wake.
Will’s eyes are trained on Mike’s face, and he feels a bit like he’s being studied.
He wipes at the dried salt near Mike’s eyes, careful not to tug at the skin there, then along his forehead, his temples. Mike squeezes his eyes shut, hands tightening almost painfully around his knees.
“There,” Will murmurs, so quietly Mike almost misses it. When he blinks his eyes open again, Will is staring at him as if Mike himself hung the stars in the sky.
Mike swallows. His throat feels raw, scraped hollow by crying. “I didn’t love her the way she deserved,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Will’s free hand rests on Mike’s jaw, rubbing circles into it as Mike continues to talk. “I tried. I really did. But every time I said it, it felt like I was lying. And I thought—” His voice cracks.
Will dips the washcloth back into the water, and reaches for some fruit scented soap that Mike recognized as Nancy’s. He hopes she doesn’t mind. Mike speaks up again as Will begins lathering the soap onto his shoulders. “I thought that if I s-said it enough, it would make it true but it just—” He hangs his head as another sob breaks through his body.
“It didn’t work like that?” Will finishes. Mike nods, solemnly. Stupid. So, so stupid.
After a moment, Will speaks again. “We all know that you cared about her, even if it wasn’t the way you thought you did.”
Mike doesn’t respond, although he’s not sure he could even if he wanted to.
“Can you turn around for me?” Will asks, pouring a bit more soap onto the washcloth. Mike nods, and shuffles, albeit ungracefully, so his back is facing Will. The boy rubs the cloth slowly across his back, as if memorizing the shape of it. Mike leans into the touch, always taking more than he’s given.
“I’m scared,” he admits, staring at the water. “That she died thinking I was someone else.”
He feels more hot water pour over his back, and a warm hand sliding along it.
“She wouldn’t want you to be scared.” Will says, simply.
Mike’s chest tightens at that. He presses his forehead briefly against his knees again, breathing through the ache. “I know.”
Will’s hand settles on Mike’s shoulder, warm and steady. “Can I… get your front?” he asks quietly. Then, faltering, “Or do you want to—”
“It’s okay,” Mike cuts in, heat blooming across his face before he can stop it. His voice comes out softer than he intends. “You can. I mean—only if you want to.”
He shifts, lowering his knees just enough to give Will room, water sloshing gently around him as he turns to face him. His arms hover awkwardly for a moment before he lets them rest at his sides, chest exposed and stomach twisting.
“Y-yeah,” Will says after a second, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to.”
He pours more of the fruit-scented soap onto the washcloth, the smell blooming warm and sweet between them. Then, carefully, he brings the cloth to Mike’s chest. The touch is tentative at first, like he’s asking permission all over again, before he begins to scrub gently along his collarbones and down the center of his chest.
Mike flinches when Will presses a little too hard into one of the many fading bruises littering his body.
“Oh—sorry,” Will breathes immediately, pulling back.
“It’s okay,” Mike says quickly, shaking his head. Droplets scatter from his hair, catching the light.
Will nods, chastened, and adjusts his grip, lighter now. His movements are careful, almost reverent, like Mike might fracture under too much pressure. The washcloth glides over his skin, tender and soothing, and Mike finds himself breathing a little easier despite the knot still lodged in his chest.
Will rinses the soap from Mike’s chest with slow, careful passes of warm water, the suds slipping away down his ribs and pooling into the murky water.
Mike keeps his eyes fixed on the surface of the bath, cheeks still warm, shoulders drawn in on themselves in an attempt to make himself smaller.
“All done,” Will murmurs, after a moment.
Mike nods, throat tight. He doesn’t quite trust his voice yet.
Will reaches past him to shut off the water, then hesitates. “I’ll—uh. I’ll grab you a towel.” His ears are pink when he says it, and he doesn’t wait for a response before standing and slipping out of the bathroom, the door clicking shut with a soft finality.
Mike exhales shakily and rubs at his arms, chilled now that the warmth is gone. When Will returns, he does it quickly, seemingly afraid of lingering—drops a towel into Mike’s hands without quite meeting his eyes.
“Here,” he says.
“Thank you,” Mike replies, voice rough but sincere.
Will nods once, too fast. “I’ll—yeah. I’ll give you space.” And then he’s gone again, leaving the bathroom empty except for the steam and the sound of Mike’s own breathing.
Mike dries off as fast as his tired hands will allow. His arms feel heavy and full of lead. When he looks up, he catches his reflection in the mirror by accident—and flinches.
He barely recognizes himself.
His skin looks washed-out, almost gray under the harsh bathroom light. His eyes are dark and bruised-looking, hollowed by sleepless nights and crying he keeps forgetting happens until it’s already over. He looks deathly ill.
If he were Will, he thinks distantly, he’d be worried too.
The thought sits uncomfortably in his chest as he wraps the towel tighter and shuffles down the hallway. Each step toward his bedroom feels harder than the one before it. He’s bracing himself for the mess, for the stale air, for the shame waiting exactly where he left it.
But when he pushes the door open, Will is already inside.
He’s kneeling on the floor, collecting strewn about papers and tossing his clothes into one neat pile. He looks up when Mike enters, freezing for just a second before color floods his face.
“I—uh,” Will stammers, standing abruptly. “I got you some pajamas. Clean ones.” He gestures quickly toward the bed, where a neatly folded shirt and a pair of shorts sit.
Affection worms its way into Mike’s ribs and settles against his heart.
“Thanks,” he says, barely above a whisper.
He crosses the room and picks them up, then pauses, realizing he’s dripping wet and only in a towel.
Will is staring without meaning to, eyes wide, and then the realization dawns on his face.
“Oh—! Sorry,” Will blurts, spinning toward the door. “Just—let me know when you’re dressed.”
The door shuts gently behind him.
Mike lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He pulls the clothes on as quickly as he can, movements sluggish, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. By the time he’s done, his arms feel like lead and his head is buzzing, but he’s dressed at least.
He stands there for a moment longer, listening to the quiet of the room, before finally murmuring, “Will?”
Will steps into the room carefully, like the floor might creak too loudly and scare Mike away. “I got a lot of the laundry into a pile,” he says softly, nodding toward the clothes gathered near the wall. “But I didn’t want to dig through your stuff too much.”
Mike nods, though the words barely register. Everything feels a second behind, like his brain is wading through syrup. His eyelids burn and his muscles ache.
“I’m really tired,” he blurts, the honesty tumbling out before he can dress it up.
Will’s face softens immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile so gentle it almost hurts to look at. It feels like the sun cresting a hill after a night that seemed like it would never end.
“Wanna just clean up in the morning?” Will asks, stepping a little closer, voice low and easy, as if there’s no pressure either way.
Mike’s fingers twist together in front of him, knuckles pale.
“I don’t want you to go, though,” he says, so quietly it barely feels like sound at all. His heart thumps hard, loud in his ears. “Can you… can you stay the night?”
He hopes it comes out pathetically convincing enough.
“Y-yeah,” Will says, “I can stay.”
Mike feels almost dizzy with relief. “Okay,” he murmurs.
Will shifts awkwardly, glancing toward the bed. “I didn’t bring any sleep clothes,” he whispers, looking up at Mike. “Can I borrow some?”
Mike nods, gesturing towards his dresser. He hurriedly turns around, face reddening as he hears the rustle of Will’s clothes.
Once Will is dressed and the lights are off, Mike pads over to his bed, and sits down carefully. Will stares at him, eyes searching.
“I can take the floor if you want. Or—” He stops, clearly overthinking it, then offers a small, hopeful smile. “We can just… sleep. You know. Like normal.”
Mike nods. He crawls under the covers, the sheets cool against his skin. He motions for Will to join him.
Will settles in beside him, mattress dipping under his weight.
They’re so far apart. Mike stares at the ceiling, counting cracks in the paint he can’t actually see in the dark, hyperaware of where Will isn’t. The absence presses at his ribs, an ache that feels stupid and needy and very, very loud.
He shifts slightly, testing the distance. The sheets whisper as he moves. He inches closer, heart pounding, and Will’s breathing stutters a little.
Mike freezes.
“Can I…?” he starts, the words trailing off uselessly. His throat feels tight again, like it’s always on the verge of closing up.
For a second, Will doesn’t speak. Then he nods, a small movement Mike can barely make out in the shadows of his room. “Yeah,” Will whispers. “You can.”
He shifts the rest of the way over, careful not to strain his body any further than he already has. His arm drapes across Will’s chest, tentative at first, then settling when Will doesn’t pull away. Mike’s head comes to rest near Will’s shoulder, his temple brushing warm fabric, hot skin beneath it.
Will exhales, long and shaky, and gently adjusts so Mike fits better against him. His shoulder is solid under Mike’s cheek. The feeling makes his eyes sting up with grief again.
Mike can feel Will’s heartbeat through his sleeve. He flutters his eyes shut, sleep raking its hands through his hair. Or maybe that’s just Will, he can’t really tell anymore.
“Hey, Will?” he says, voice clouded and scratchy with sleep.
“Yeah?” Mike can feel Will’s voice rumbling through his chest.
“I love you.”
Will pauses for a moment, shifting himself closer into Mike.
“I love you, too, Mike.”