Work Text:
we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces
- Richard Siken
The frustrating thing about inspiration is that it never strikes when you want it to.
Mike likes writing. Loves it, even. But sometimes it makes him want to bang his head repeatedly against a wall. This is a normal experience for writers, he’s sure. His creative writing lecturer had once read them a quote from a famous author. Mike had thought it was corny, at first. He’s now realizing that it is horribly, painfully true.
The muse whispers to you when she chooses, and you can't tell her to come back later, she’d said, because you quickly learn in this business that she might not come back at all.
Which is exactly how Mike finds himself hunched over his wobbly wooden desk at three in the morning, typing furiously on his shitty, almost-broken laptop. The words bloom in front of him, jagged and stilted, with lots of hammering on the backspace key. Poems aren’t usually his forte. Too many metaphors, too much gesturing towards the thing rather than naming it outright. All of that love, love, love and so on. God knows Mike has enough love inside of him. But it’s usually spilling out the wrong way, getting everything messy.
We were standing together on the train platform when I started to cry, Mike writes. Or maybe I was laughing. And maybe we were on the beach, miles away from our childhood homes. And you were looking at me, saying nothing. Actually, you were saying: What are you thinking about?
He should have been asleep hours ago. Really, he should have retired to bed when Will did, at around 10pm, all sleep-soft and warm from his shower. But the muse had whispered to Mike sometime after dinner that evening, and he is certainly not in the position to tell her to come back later. He has a poem due for his Intro to Creative Writing class, so a sudden strike of inspiration is something he quite literally can’t afford to ignore. No matter how cute Will looked as he climbed into their bed wearing an oversized old shirt of Mikes and flannel pajama pants, cuffed at the ankles.
I do nothing but think of you. Mike’s fingers clack against the keyboard. But I didn’t say that, of course. Instead, I said: The trains are running late. The trains are always running late. And the waves were crashing against the shore, and you were beautiful. Standing there, under the orange sun.
Every fiber of Mike’s body urges him to go to Will, grab him around the waist so he does that surprised giggle that Mike loves so much, pepper his face with kisses. But Mike was the idiot who put off his assignment until the last minute, so doting on his boyfriend sadly has to wait.
Besides, Mike had already gotten his fix of that earlier. It has been one of those rare days where Will had class and Mike didn’t, which usually involves Mike moping around the apartment until Will returns. But Mike had woken that morning in a great mood, with sunlight streaming through their bedroom windows and his boyfriend curled around his body like an adorable limpet on a rock.
It had been wonderful weather that morning, and it continued like that for the rest of the day. It was bright and sunny when Mike dragged himself out of bed, switching on their beaten-up coffee machine. He stumbled around their tiny kitchen, sleepily banging into cupboards. He'd made Will the Mike Wheeler special—fried eggs and buttered toast—and sent him off to class with a comically loud smoooooch on Will’s forehead, which made him laugh and flush bright pink.
The rest of the day saw Mike tackling various chores around the apartment that he and Will had been putting off. He wiped down the kitchen benchtops, took out the trash, stripped and remade their bed with fresh sheets. Vacuumed twice, because their old vacuum never picks everything up on the first go around. He even wiped down the window sills, because he knows how much Will hates the layer of dust that accumulates on them.
By the time Will arrived home that evening, Mike had showered, begun preparing their dinner—he even lit a candle. He’s not sure what's gotten into him. Call him a sap, but there is something particularly motivating about knowing every chore he does is going to make Will’s life just a little bit better. If Mike didn’t have Will as his boyfriend, he’d probably be living in filth.
Mike greeted Will at the door as he entered and dropped his backpack to the floor, accepting the kiss that Mike planted on his cheek. Then the one on his forehead. Then the one, two, three pressed to his lips in quick succession. Then the fourth, on his lips again, which Will tried to deepen before Mike pulled away, shooing him towards their bedroom.
“Go get into comfortable clothes,” Mike said.
“These are comfortable,” Will retorted, gesturing to his outfit. Plain blue jeans, a white shirt overlaid with a brown flannel button-up.
“And how long have you been wearing your binder for?” Mike said.
Will averted his eyes. “Just, like…twelve hours?”
Mike gave Will a very stern look.
“Okay, okay!” Will relented. “Geez, you’re no fun.”
“Sorry not wanting my boyfriend's ribs to snap,” Mike said, but pressed a kiss to Will’s hairline as he passed all the same.
“You know that’s not how that works,” Will called as he made his way into their bedroom.
Mike listened to the sounds of Will rifling through their wardrobe for some comfortable clothes to wear, silently praying that Will would choose something of Mike’s. He loves it when Will wears his clothes. Loves it when Will does anything, really.
Maybe it was Mike’s good mood that caused the sudden surge of artistic inspiration that night. Maybe it was the simple pleasure of having a clean apartment. Or maybe he was just due for one. Whatever it was, it hooked itself around Mike’s ribcage shortly after they’d finished their stir fry that evening and knocked Mike’s nightly routine entirely off balance.
We walk through the train platform, saltwater soaking the cuffs of our jeans. Mike writes. You look at me, gaze piercing me right through the stomach. So I trail behind you, hand pressed against my gut. All my love spilling out behind us.
Presently, he drags his eyes away from his laptop screen to look at Will, curled up in their bed. Peaceful Will. Beautiful Will. Just a lump under their blankets, the fabric rising and falling almost imperceptibly as he breathes. In the dim light of their bedroom, illuminated only by the desk lamp, Mike can just make out the top of Will’s head peeking out of the covers, his hair messy and sleep-rumpled.
As he watches, the rise and fall of Will’s breathing seems to get more pronounced. Faster, heavier. Mike pushes himself up out of his chair instantly, making his way over to their bed. He squints his eyes, trying to make out the shape of Will in the dark. That’s when Mike hears it. The small, punched out whimper. He knows what it means. He’s not just Will’s boyfriend. He’s his best friend. He’s seen Will excited, and anxious, and giddy. Seen him miserable and ecstatic.
He’s seen him have nightmares.
They’re less common, now. Mike can’t remember the last time Will had one. But it’s unmistakable, all the same. The hitch of Will’s breath, the furrow of his brows. The heartbreaking little noises he makes, like he’s in pain. Mike is at his side in a fraction of a second, sliding onto the bed, scootching right up to the headboard so he can cup Will’s cheek with a gentle hand.
“Will?” Mike whispers.
No response. He trails his hand from Will’s cheek to his shoulder, shaking it gently.
“Will,” Mike repeats, a little louder. “Will, c’mon, wake up.”
Will doesn’t react to his words. He just lets out another pained noise. This close up, Mike can see it clearly: the way Will’s eyebrows furrow, the quiver of his lip. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his hairline. Another tiny, terrified sound slips out of him. It’s heartbreaking. Mike feels sick.
“Will, baby,” Mike tries, jostling Will’s shoulder with a bit more force. “Open your eyes for me.”
“No,” Will gasps, and for one very confusing moment, Mike thinks he’s talking to him. But then he continues. “No, please. Don’t—please. Make it stop.”
The lump that has been steadily forming in Mike’s throat suddenly becomes impossible to choke down. He can feel prickling in the corners of his eyes, feel the tears welling up.
“Sweetheart,” Mike shakes Will again, hot tears spilling down his own face. “Please, wake up. It’s okay, it’s not real.”
One final firm squeeze to Will’s shoulder is all it takes before he’s gasping, shooting upright in bed so suddenly Mike has to lean back a little to avoid being headbutted.
“There we go,” Mike coos, hands coming to stroke up and down Will’s arms. “There you are. It’s okay.”
But Mike’s words aren’t registering to Will. He can tell from the way Will’s eyes are distant and a little glossed over. Can tell from the way Will doesn’t respond, doesn’t lean into Mike’s touch. He can definitely tell from the way Will jerks away from him, shuffling until his back is flush against the headboard. His eyes are blown wide, pupils so dilated his iris looks almost entirely black. He looks terrified. That’s the part that gets to Mike. Will is looking at him with fear in his eyes, so pure and intense that Mike swears he can feel his heart shatter.
“Will,” Mike breathes softly, his voice breaking on the single word.
There is a moment of silence, thick and suffocating. Will’s eyes flicker over Mike’s face rapidly. Mike stays very still, like he’s trying not to startle a small animal. Then, Will’s eyes widen. Something like recognition spreads over his face.
“Mike?” Will says, voice thick and wobbly.
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Mike.”
Will launches himself at Mike, hands scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt as he clutches at him desperately. Mike brings his arms up to circle Will, to cradle him, and Will crumples against him. Mike can feel the way he goes boneless in his arms, the small sob that he lets out against Mike’s collarbone.
“Oh, my baby,” Mike whispers, tears stinging his own eyes. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Will just curls into Mike, hands fisting into the back of his shirt. Mike can feel a damp spot forming on his collarbone where Will sobs out little hitching breaths. Mike holds him through it, stroking a gentle hand through his hair, down his back.
“You’re okay,” Mike soothes. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Will lets out a miserable noise and Mike can feel his heart break in two. He rubs small circles on Will’s back. With his other hand, he gathers Will even closer to his body, pressing them together like they can meld into one. Will is practically on his lap now, but it still isn’t close enough for Mike. He readjusts his own legs into a V-shape, maneuvering Will so that he is bracketed by Mike entirely, slotted against him like a puzzle piece.
They sit like that for a while, Mike continuing to rub circles on Will’s back and whisper quiet reassurances as the shaking subsides. Eventually, once Will’s breathing has slowed, Mike places a gentle palm against Will’s cheek. He tilts his head back gently so he can see his face, bathed in the dull orange glow of the desk lamp.
He’s so beautiful, Mike thinks. Even like this, with his face bright pink and blotchy. With tears clinging to his eyelashes, clumping them together at the ends. With big, sad eyes and shuddering breaths. He’s heartbreaking. He’s everything.
“Baby,” Mike breathes, like a prayer. He swipes a gentle thumb under Will’s eye, brushing away a stray tear.
“Mike,” Will murmurs, leaning into the touch.
It’s magical, seeing him react like this. He’d been on high alert just moments ago, wide-eyed and panicking, frantic. But here he is, melting in Mike’s arms, soft under his touch. Will is safe. Will knows that he’s safe. Mike can tell from the way his breathing evens out, the way his eyes flutter closed. It hits Mike square in the chest. Will feels comfortable enough, now, to let his guard down. To close his eyes and know that there’s nothing to fear. Because Mike is there. Mike will protect him.
“C’mon, sweet boy,” Mike says, pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead. “Let’s lay down.”
He adjusts them slightly, slipping properly under the covers with Will. He guides the two of them, sliding down the bed until Mike is flat against the mattress, Will laying on top of him. Will’s head is pillowed on Mike’s chest, their legs tangled together. He can feel Will’s socked feet press against his calves. One of Will’s hands comes up, searching for Mike’s in the dark. He takes it, interlacing their fingers. Will’s palm is warm where it is pressed against his own. With his free hand, Mike strokes Will’s side absent-mindedly, whispering sweet nothings into his hair.
“My angel,” Mike murmurs. “My baby. I’ve got you.”
And looks, Mike knows, okay? He knows he’s sappy. Knows that he maybe overdoes it a little with the soft, syrupy names. But Will is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Mike doesn’t know how not to love him like this: loudly and over-the-top, all sweetness and gentle hands in the dark.
Will certainly doesn’t seem to be complaining. He relaxes against Mike with a sigh, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Mike’s shirt like a cat. Sometimes, Mike doesn’t know how he doesn’t just explode from the sheer affection for Will that bubbles up inside of him.
The desk lamp is still on, casting a faint glow over the room, but Mike would rather get hit by a semi-truck than get up and turn it off. He’s not going anywhere. Not when Will is soft and pliant against him, letting out soft puffs of breath against his collarbone. No, Mike is staying right where he is.
And he does. Will drifts off after a while, letting out one tiny, adorable snore before falling silent, his breathing steady. Mike lays awake for a while longer, rubbing gentle circles into Will’s side. Even on nights like these, the ones filled with tears and shaking, filled with terrible memories of even more terrible childhoods, Mike can’t help but think about how lucky he is. He’s so, so lucky. That he gets to be the person Will turns to. That he gets to be anything to Will at all. That they found each other.
Will shivers slightly in his sleep. Nothing frantic, nothing unsettled. Just a little bunny twitch, a wrinkle of the nose. Mike soothes him anyway, pressing a kiss to his temple, whispering softly. It’s okay. You’re okay. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
The twitching stops. Will exhales deeply from his nose, burrows down further in the blankets, curling up against Mike’s side. Safe and warm. It’s the way Mike likes Will the best.
Soon enough, Mike can feel his own eyelids start to droop. He wants to stay awake, to make sure that Will is okay, that he doesn’t have anymore nightmares. But Will is so soft and warm against him, and Mike is only human. He closes his eyes, reassured by the fact that if Will does have another nightmare, Mike will surely be able to tell. With the way Will is laying half on top of him, Mike will certainly be able to feel it, at the very least.
So Mike allows himself to be pulled under, his own breathing slowing. His grip on Will’s hand slackens slightly, but never separates. They stay that way for the rest of the night, intertwined under the dim orange light.
When Mike wakes, it is to another bright and sunny day. More light spilling in through the windows. And Will, still pressed against him, awake and blinking in the sun.
“Morning,” Mike murmurs and Will grins, tilting his head up to press a kiss to Mike’s jaw.
“Morning,” Will says. “Sleep well?”
“Perfect,” Mike tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear. “What about you? No more nightmares?”
“‘Course not,” Will purses his lips in the way he does when he’s fighting a smile. “How could I? You were there to protect me.”
Mike’s heart could burst. He curls his arms around Will, flipping them over so that Will is the one laying against the mattress, Mike hovering over him. He props himself up on one elbow, leaning down to pepper Will’s face with kisses. He makes a mwah sound with each one, causing Will to giggle and bat at his shoulder.
“Mike,” Will whines, his face pink. “You’re so weird.”
“Gimme a kiss,” Mike says, chasing Will’s lips with his own.
“No!” Will giggles, trying to cover Mike’s mouth with his palm. “You have morning breath!”
“So do you,” Mike pouts. “And I love you anyway.”
Will softens a little at that. He reaches up, tucks a curl behind Mike’s ear.
“I love you, too,” Will says quietly.
God, Mike will never get tired of hearing that.
“Enough to kiss me?” Mike asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Will laughs, loud and bright. He’s glowing beneath Mike, illuminated by the morning sun. His hair is splayed out on the pillow beneath him like a halo, his nose scrunched up as he fights a laugh. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, Mike thinks.
“I don’t know,” Will says teasingly. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Before Mike can get out another word, Will is leaning up, pulling Mike down by his shirt collar to meet him halfway. He presses a kiss to Mike’s mouth, morning breath and all. It’s chaste and a little off-center. It’s perfect. Will is perfect. Mike feels something surge up inside him. An itchy feeling in his bones to capture the moment forever, to frame it, or write it down, or—Oh.
So that’s where it comes from, Mike thinks. Inspiration. Here he is now, face-to-face with it. This whole time, it’s just been love in a slightly different light.