Work Text:
The key turned in the lock at exactly eight-fifteen.
Will entered the apartment with the weight of an entire week on his shoulders. Deadline to deliver the illustrations. Endless meetings. The light table at the studio leaving his eyes tired, his fingers numb from holding the pencil for so long. He'd been a comic artist for five years, but this week seemed to be the cruelest since he'd stopped being an intern.
He kicked off his sneakers without even untying the laces, dropped his backpack by the door. But when he looked up, he stopped.
The apartment was different.
Candles lit on the kitchen table. A dish of pesto pasta — his favorite, the one Mike only made on special occasions — the scent hitting him from the entryway. Fresh salad, bread, and a bottle of wine. And Mike, with a small, anxious smile, waiting leaning against the counter.
"Mike…" Will started, his voice faltering. His eyes were burning, but it wasn't just the exhaustion.
"You've been working too much this week," Mike said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've been looking more and more tired these days, and tomorrow's your day off, so…"
Will laughed, weak. "You prepared all this just to take care of me?" he asked, his voice turning petulant.
"I did." Mike stepped closer, slid an arm around Will's waist and pulled him into a hug, his lips leaving kisses on his temple, his forehead, until they finally met in a kiss.
Will tangled his fingers in Mike's hair, deepening the contact, pulling Mike closer and closer, almost forgetting how exhausted he was. "Hm," Mike murmured against his lips. "You smell like bad coffee and exhaustion."
"Are you calling me stinky?" Will murmured against his shoulder, but his voice was amused.
"I said you smell like someone who needs a bath." Mike pressed a quick kiss to his temple. "Come on."
Mike guided him to the bathroom, and Will held his breath. The tub was full, steam rising from the water, foam scented with lavender oil. Candles on the windowsill; small, yellow ones that Mike had bought on a trip they'd taken together last year.
"Mike, I…" Will's voice came out softer than he intended, all the exhaustion suddenly settling back onto his shoulders. Will didn't exactly know what to say. Years of relationship, years of friendship, but he still felt like he wasn't used to this. After Hawkins, after years of feeling like a burden, after the way his childhood was—his mother stretching herself thin to be everything they needed, sometimes falling short in some aspects (don't get him wrong, Will loves her and knows she did 120% of what she could, but sometimes it was hard when he had to fend for himself almost alone at twelve years old)—being cared for like this still left him speechless.
But Mike seemed to understand his silence, as always. He didn't wait for an answer, just started unbuttoning Will's shirt with patience, piece by piece, until Will was undressed. He folded each piece of clothing carefully, placing them on the hamper.
"Get in," Mike said, placing one hand on the back of his neck and another on his lower back. "I'm going to take care of you, baby."
Will stepped into the tub and groaned as the hot water enveloped his sore muscles. His eyes closed on their own, and he heard Mike moving around before feeling Mike's hands on his shoulders. Legs beside his shoulders as Mike sat on the edge of the tub behind him.
"So tense," Mike murmured, his thumbs digging deep into the knots in Will's shoulders. "You need to stop working so much."
"I need to finish the edits by Friday…"
"You need to rest." Mike's voice was gentle but firm. "The deadline can wait. You're not going to deliver anything good if you're like this, anyway."
Will wanted to argue, but Mike's hands traveled down his back, undoing knots he didn't even know he had. The massage was slow, meticulous, as if Mike were learning every inch of his body over and over and over again.
"How was the meeting with the publisher?" Mike asked, keeping his tone light.
Will sighed. "They're stalling on the contract again. They want to change the cover colors."
"And did you let them?"
"I fought it. Managed to keep the original."
"That's my good boy." Mike whispered against the shell of Will's ear, his fingers still massaging his back. Will couldn't suppress a shiver, but managed to keep the moan to himself. He smiled with his eyes still closed.
"I'm not a dog."
"Brat," Mike laughed. "You're worse. You're a stubborn artist who forgets to eat."
Will laughed, the sound coming out rough. "You can't use that against me forever."
"Yes, I can." Mike slid his hands down Will's lower back, smoothing out the accumulated tension. "I'll use it as many times as I need to."
Slowly, Will's shoulders began to drop, his breath lengthening. The warm water, the scent of lavender, Mike's hands—everything conspired to make him finally relax. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so safe.
After a long while, Mike got up, letting Will finish bathing. About fifteen minutes later, he knelt beside the tub.
"Ready to get out?"
Will made a sound of protest. "I don't want to move."
"I'll help you, come on."
Mike helped him stand, and Will could barely keep his eyes open as Mike dried him with a warm towel, going over his arms, his back, his legs. Every touch was a caress, unhurried. Mike took extra time to dry his hair, running his fingers through the brown strands with a tenderness that made Will's chest ache.
When he was done, Mike wrapped the towel around him and lifted him in his arms.
"Mike," Will protested, weak. "I can walk."
"I know." Mike climbed the stairs with him in his arms, steady. "But I like carrying you."
Will buried his face in Mike's neck. His boyfriend was so silly. When Mike realized he couldn't carry him after his exhausting days of interning back in college, Mike had started working out. Well, Will couldn't say he didn't like that. There, wrapped in the warmth of the bath, in Mike's scent—woody, clean, so familiar—in the soft towel, he felt small. Not in a bad way, not like a child or something helpless, but like something precious, someone important.
Mike laid him on the bed, pulled the duvet over him, and lay down beside him.
"The food," Will remembered, weak.
"Wait until tomorrow. I'll make you pancakes and eggs with syrup for breakfast."
"So you made pasta for nothing…"
"I made it because I wanted you to know I was thinking about you. We can eat what I made for lunch." Mike pulled Will against his chest, fitting him there as if it were the most natural place in the world. "Now sleep."
Will was almost asleep when he murmured, "Thanks, love you."
Mike kissed his forehead. "Always, baby. I love you, too."
Will smiled against Mike's chest.