Chapter Text
The worn leather chair creaks as Mike leans back and adjusts his headphones. He hastily brushes away the lingering neon-orange dust that coats the desk and rolls his eyes.
How many times does he have to tell Bobby to eat his fucking cheese puffs off-air?
The afternoon crew always leaves some sort of mess for the night shift, which consists of exactly two people: Mike and Suzie. Mainly because no other students were willing to sacrifice their Friday nights to a lonely radio booth.
Though they certainly weren’t above tuning in.
Their show has the highest listener count the station has seen to date, and it all happened by accident. A few dry, witty pieces of advice dropped by freshman sound engineer Mike while their regular host disappeared for an emergency bathroom break, and suddenly listeners were calling in for him instead. By the time the host graduated, the show was Mike’s.
He didn’t think he was in any position to give advice when he could never seem to take his own, but that didn’t stop the phone from ringing off the hook every Friday. So he took a chance and hoped to god he didn’t accidentally change the trajectory of someone’s life for the worse with his off-the-cuff musings.
Nervous anticipation crackles down his spine in the familiar way it always does before he goes live. Through the glass window separating the studio from the control room, he watches Suzie’s hands fly across the blinking soundboard.
One bulky headphone covers her left ear, while a marker and pen are tucked behind the other. She presses a legal pad to the glass that reads: Get Ready.
The final ten seconds of “Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode come to a close, and Mike wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Across the room, Suzie tosses her long braid over her shoulder and holds up three fingers.
Two.
One.
Mike’s pulse jumps as the red ON AIR sign flickers to life. Suzie points at Mike and mouths, “You’re live.”
He rolls his shoulders once and pulls the microphone closer.
“Good evening, Huskies. Today’s scorcher has finally bled into a balmy seventy-five-degree night, and I’ve got it on good authority from our resident astronomy nerd, Suzie, that if you turn your attention to southern skies, you might catch a glimpse of the Spring Triangle.”
Suzie punches a button, and a chorus of children's cheering erupts.
“That’s right, ladies, gentlemen, and stargazers alike,” Mike drawls. “Free dating advice before we’ve even had a single caller. Grab your girl or guy, a blanket, maybe some bubbly, and if you’re not sure which way south is, might I suggest that you: a. Grow up or b. Invest in a compass immediately.”
A canned drum effect plays. Ba-dum-tss.
“For anyone just tuning in, I’m Mike, host of Mic’d Up. And this is our Friday night advice show, where students and, let’s face it, probably some faculty, call in to share what ails them,” Mike says dramatically.
He spins lazily in the chair, his voice slipping into the smooth cadence it does when the nerves finally burn off.
“Whether it’s grades, dating, or any other questionable decision you’ve made, I listen with my imaginary degree and my uniquely impressive qualification of being Just Some Guy to offer you mediocre advice you could probably find on the inside of a Dove chocolate wrapper.”
Suzie lets a laugh track rip, right on cue.
“Thank you, Suzie,” Mike says. “She’s the only woman on campus who finds me funny, and she’s tragically dating my best friend. Dustin, if you’re listening, the depth of your greed is sickening.”
She scribbles furiously on the legal pad and slaps it against the glass: Wrap it up, Wheeler.
“Sorry. I’m being scolded.” Mike chuckles and claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s open up the lines.”
The board in front of him immediately blinks to life with calls waiting. Mike punches the green line. “Talk to me, caller number one.”
There’s a pause, then a nervous girl’s voice cuts through. “So, I messed up. Badly.”
“Husky Radio does not currently offer assistance with burying bodies—”
Though it wouldn’t be my first time doing that.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” she blurts. “I slept with this guy over Spring Break. And it was good. Great even, but then… well, I found out that he’s the son of my mom’s new husband.”
Mike’s jaw drops, and he slowly turns to the glass.
Suzie purses her lips and, without breaking eye contact with him, clicks a button. A crowd’s worth of horrified gasps fills the room.
“Did you know this beforehand?”
“Obviously not.”
“Just to be clear,” Mike says carefully, leaning forward. “You slept with your stepbrother?”
“Oh my god—he is not my stepbrother.”
“Right. Just your mom’s husband’s son.”
“Yes.”
“Got it.” Mike nods. “So, your brother.”
“NO—”
“Look, I don’t make the rules when it comes to crossing roots on the family tree.”
Suzie’s shoulders shake, the legal pad covering her grin as she laughs.
The caller groans. “This isn’t helping. I have to, like, see him at family events and stuff now. What do I do?”
Mike exhales and locks in. “Alright, real advice time. Avoid any situations with closed doors, dim lighting, or alcohol.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Alcohol makes people do stupid things. It’s truth serum. And if it was as good as you said it was… you two might want to do it again.”
A laugh bursts through. “Trust me, I will not be doing it again.”
“Then I say pretend it never happened. Seriously.”
The caller sighs. “You’re probably right.”
“Of course I am. Claim amnesia if you have to, but never, under any circumstances, tell anyone. Take that secret to the grave with your brother.”
There’s a choked noise over the line. “He is not my—”
“The family Christmas photos are going to be fantastic this year.” Mike laughs. “Thanks for calling!”
He cuts the line just as movement in the control room catches his eye. Dustin and Will quietly slip inside with several cups of coffee and a box of some sort of mouth-watering pastries.
Suzie handles the production interruption in stride, pointing toward the couch behind her. Dustin decides that now is the perfect time for a kiss, though he only makes it about halfway before Suzie shoots him a look that is, truthfully, terrifying. She jabs an aggressive finger toward the couch again, and Dustin drops into the cushions like a dog reprimanded.
Mike bites back a laugh, but it’s short-lived when his gaze meets Will’s. His finger hovers over the button to take the next caller, momentarily forgetting what he’s supposed to be doing.
Then Will’s face splits into a warm grin, and he lifts a small, almost shy wave. Mike’s heart flops against the confines of his ribs.
He gives Will a quick nod, presses the button, and drags his attention back to the mic.
“Caller number two,” Mike says. “You’re on air.”
“Hi, Mike,” a man’s voice comes through. “My roommate games until like three in the morning, which would be fine if it weren’t for all of the screaming. Once he starts, he gets totally lost in it. How do I get him to shut the hell up so that I can go to sleep?”
“Have you tried asking nicely?”
“No.” The caller’s sarcasm drips like honey.
“Right, just checking. Have you tried ear plugs?”
“Not strong enough.”
“Have you tried snipping all the cords to his gaming system with a pair of scissors while he sleeps?”
“I—”
“Kidding. Don’t do that—but, if you do, Husky Radio cannot be held legally responsible for your actions.”
The caller laughs. “Come on, man. I know you’ve got something.”
Mike taps his chin with his index finger. “Okay, next time he wakes you, return the favor. Nothing that’ll, like, start a war or anything, but vacuum. Make a milkshake. Hell, take up the drums. Just make sure it’s enough to remind him that roommate-induced insomnia can be a two-way street.”
“That’s… actually not a bad idea.”
“I know, I have my moments.” Mike cuts the line and immediately jumps into the next call. “Caller number three. What’s on your mind?”
“Hey, uh… god, this is so stupid.” The caller lets out a nervous laugh. “I probably shouldn’t have called.”
“Stupidity is my specialty. Just ask my father,” Mike quips. “Lay it on me.”
Suzie presses the note she keeps on standby at all times to the glass: Dial the cheese down. He lifts one brow and nods.
“Okay.” The caller takes a deep breath. “So, I sort of have these feelings for my best friend. We grew up together—our parents are friends. And now we live together, which… I already knew was going to end up being a bad idea.”
A beat of silence passes, and Mike suddenly wishes someone else were here to answer for him.
“Bad idea, why?” he asks.
“Well, now I can’t escape the feelings. They literally have nowhere to go,” she continues. “If I say something, I risk blowing up everything. And if I don’t, I risk going insane. I just… don’t know what to do.”
Mike hesitates, tapping his fingers once on the table. He spares a glance at Will through the glass divider. He’s perched on the couch, one elbow resting against his knee, eyes fixed on the soundboard as he listens.
“That is a tough spot,” Mike says. “Look—don’t make any drastic decisions yet. No dramatic declarations of love in the rain or boomboxes outside windows or anything like that. You’ve got to test the waters first.”
“Test them, how?”
“Carefully,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “You know, find excuses to be alone together outside of the usual time spent. Or little things like… sitting closer or any sort of subtle physical contact. See how they respond—if they pull away… or don’t.”
“And if I’m wrong, and it ruins everything?”
His gaze drifts back to the glass without meaning to. Will is looking at him now. Mike tugs at the collar of his shirt, then lets his hand fall back to the desk.
“Well… if they’re really your friend, telling the truth won’t destroy that. It might change things, but different doesn’t always mean worse.”
Will drops his eyes to his cup, taking a long sip. When he lifts his head again, it’s to answer something Dustin whispers in his ear.
Mike focuses on the metal grates in his mic.
The caller sighs. “Okay. I’ll try. Thanks, Mike.”
“You’re welcome.”
The line goes dead.
“On that note, it’s time for a music break.” Mike huffs a weak laugh. “This is ‘Save a Prayer’ by Duran Duran. I’m Mike with Mic’d Up, and you’re listening to WHSK: The Howl.”
Suzie gives a thumbs-up, then rolls the outro effect. A pack of wolves howls before the sound bleeds into the song's dreamy opening synth.
Mike pulls off his headphones and heads into the control room. He beelines for the pastry box, snooping inside. Cinnamon sugar wafts into his face.
“What’s all this?”
“Sustenance,” Dustin says.
Mike pulls out a massive cinnamon roll and takes a bite, his words garbled between chews. “You guys are the best friends. Ever.”
Will snorts and hands him a coffee.
“Thanks, roomie,” Mike says, taking a sip.
It’s made just how he likes it. Cream, no sugar. He turns the cup over and catches Will’s handwriting, scrawled in marker on the side: “Have a good show, Mike the Brave!”
Mike’s brushes his thumb over the words. Would it be weird to save a paper cup?
He peeks over the lid at Will and smiles. Pink rises to Will’s cheeks as he smiles back. And, well, Mike’s pulse skyrockets, god dammit. He’s such a loser. A smile? Really? That’s all it takes?
Someone put him out of his misery.
“Did you guys catch the call about the brother fucker?” Mike blurts crudely, instead.
“Language!” Suzie scolds.
Dustin chokes on his coffee—deep, heaving coughs as Will pats his back in alarm. When he finally catches his breath, he raises a brow. “Tell me everything.”
Suzie steps in, hands on her hips. “Mike, you’re back on air in under a minute. You can socialize when the show is over.”
“Suz–” Mike protests.
She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear any arguments.”
“Yeesh. My Suzie Poo sure runs a tight ship.” Dustin makes a suggestive growl that needs to be wiped from Mike’s memory immediately.
Will ducks his head in a sheepish grin. “We’ll get out of your hair. Right, Dustin?”
“But I wanted to—”
He’s cut off when Will drags him to his feet by the elbow and steers him toward the door.
“Rude,” Dustin mumbles. “Jesus, you’re strong, Will. When did you get so—”
“Goodbye, Dusty Bun,” Suzie drawls. “Thank you, Will.”
Will shoots Mike one last smile before disappearing through the door. Mike watches it swing shut, a goofy grin tugging at his mouth. For a few seconds, he stares at the open space Will left behind. Then fingers appear in Mike’s line of vision, snapping impatiently to drag him back down to earth.
“Wheeler.” Suzie plucks the pastry from Mike’s hand and sets it on a napkin. “Showtime. Twenty seconds. Go.”
Mike nods, scrambling back toward the studio. He reaches for his headphones, sets the coffee cup next to his microphone with Will’s words facing him, and looks toward the glass as Suzie counts him down. Three… two… one.
“And we’re back. Caller number four,” Mike drawls. “You’re on air.”
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
A shiver runs down Mike’s spine as he rolls his hips into a warm, wet mouth.
He groans as soft lips wrap around the head of his cock and suck hard. A skilled tongue laps at the slit before dragging down the sensitive underside. Slender fingers curl around the base, creating a steady pressure that makes his stomach tighten.
Mike reaches down, the pads of his fingers grazing a sharp jaw dusted with stubble. He slides them into tousled hair and tugs gently. A moan follows, the vibration of it traveling through him as a throat tightens around his cock, pushing him closer to the edge.
“God,” he gasps.
He glances down and finds himself staring into a pair of tear-filled hazel eyes.
Will.
The name cuts through the haze of pleasure like a bolt of lightning. The dream collapses around him, Will’s image slipping through his grasp as Mike is yanked violently awake.
He shoots upright in bed, heart pounding and breath coming fast. His shirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat. Across the room, he glances toward Will’s bed and immediately slumps with relief when he finds it perfectly made.
Will must've already left for the studio. He’d taken up ceramics recently, which had him stumbling out of the dorm at ungodly hours (at least for a Saturday) while Mike was still crawling his way back to consciousness after another graveyard radio shift.
Mike throws off the blanket and glares down at his tented shorts. God, he aches.
His fingers trail across his lap, and a shudder runs through him. He really shouldn’t. It’s wrong. Mike can’t keep doing this in the room he shares with Will. It feels like crossing a line only he knows exists. It’s unfair. It’s—It’s…
Mike groans and slips a hand into his pants. Guilt can try to stop him another day.
He’s not sure when the urge to kiss Will started. Looking back, he thinks it may have been there for as long as he can remember. He’d always craved Will’s touch in a way he assumed every best friend did. He just hadn’t known it was desire then.
If there was a moment he’d finally recognized it, though, it was probably freshman year. One second, he was ducking outside a party for a smoke. The next, he was stumbling upon Will pressing his lips to someone else. A tall blond guy had his hands on Will’s waist, digging into his soft skin and pinning his hips against rough brick.
And Mike’s only thought was: I would have been gentler.
The realization hit like a thousand-pound boulder, splitting straight through Mike’s ribcage and flattening his heart. He’d left without saying goodbye and cried in the safety of his shower, instead. Big, ugly, snotty tears that left his eyes swollen for days, something he conveniently blamed on allergies.
Or at least that’s the first time he remembered it hurting. The unfamiliar anguish of realizing that Will wouldn’t always belong to just him scared the fuck out of Mike.
Ever since then, he’s had to endure the same crushing feeling whenever Will decided to entertain someone new. Had to grit his teeth and look the other way whenever a sock hung from their dorm room door. Had to comfort Will whenever the same losers who’d been lucky enough to touch him inevitably disappointed him.
It all sent Mike into a deep spiral. There were a few destructive, alcohol-fueled weeks where he slept with a handful of girls in search of answers. What he found was nothing. The whole thing was an empty pursuit that left him with an aching, hollow pit in his chest. A void he foolishly believed he could fill.
Then, one night, he kissed a guy in a dark, forgotten corner of a party.
It was painfully obvious why he let it happen. The boy had bright green eyes and dark hair, and he stood a few inches shorter than Mike. He’d stared up at him with a curious expression that reminded Mike of someone very special if he squinted hard enough. His overactive imagination filled in the rest, and suddenly warm lips were moving against his.
And though kissing a guy felt infinitely better than kissing a girl, it wasn’t entirely right, because it still wasn’t Will.
That was when the last of his excuses finally ran out. Clarity was a harsh, blinding light cast into the closet. Mike was gay. And if that wasn’t confusing enough, he was also hopelessly in love with his best friend.
Now the fantasies have escalated into full-blown wet dreams that leave him with a raging hard-on and no choice but to take care of himself before he can get on with his day. Like now.
Mike tugs his shorts down, freeing himself from the fabric. Cool air brushes against his skin, and he shivers. He spits into his hand and grips himself, sighing in relief from the pressure.
His gaze drifts to Will’s hamper, landing on the shirt that hangs haphazardly over the side. For several seconds, Mike seriously considers fishing it out and draping it over his face. Suffocating in Will’s scent while he works himself into a panting mess. It’s within arm’s reach… he could just grab it.
Have some decorum, Michael. You’re already jerking off to a dream about him blowing you.
Mike groans, his self-control hanging by a thread.
Oh, fuck it. He snatches the shirt and quickly presses it to his face. Lavender, the faint trace of sweat, and that indefinable scent that’s simply Will. He inhales like he’s taking a hit of a dangerous drug, a concentrated dose of Will in its purest form. Then he tosses the shirt right back into the hamper, guilt already trickling through his veins.
It’s enough to send him careening toward the edge, though.
Precum beads at the tip as his mind bursts with flashes of pink lips, woodsy irises, and sleepy bedhead. He thinks of the dimples at the small of Will’s back, the ones he stares at whenever he wanders around their room with that godforsaken towel wrapped around his hips.
He pictures furrowed brows, a soft, crooked smile, and a laugh that could probably cure an entire nation of its ailments. Lingers on the memory of the sliver of creamy skin that appears above his belt whenever he stretches. Clings to the needy sounds Will makes in his dreams, and wonders helplessly if he sounds like that in real life.
A low moan tumbles from Mike’s lips, and he tips his head back. The pressure coiled tight in his gut finally snaps, and he begins to pulse into his hand. The release hits so suddenly, he barely registers the sounds of the door swinging open until—
“Oh my god!”
“Will—” The name is a strangled, horrified half-groan as Mike finishes.
Will screams.
Mike screams back.
The door clicks shut.
Time seems to slow down as embarrassment floods Mike’s limbs, zapping every ounce of pleasure from his body in record time. Will’s wide-eyed stare drops to Mike’s exposed lap, to the evidence dripping from his fingers, before he slams both palms to his eyes.
“Oh, shit—I’m sorry,” Will blurts through his hands.
Mike scrambles to yank the blanket over him, dragging his wet hand through the fabric in the process. Then he slaps both hands over his own burning face and wishes for death.
“Jesus Christ, Will.”
“God—why didn’t you put a sock on the door?!”
“You were gone!”
“And I came back! That’s what the sock is for.”
“Please, just go, Will,” Mike groans pathetically. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Mike, I forgot my studio key,” Will says, eyes still squeezed shut. He blindly pats at the nearest surface. “I can’t get in. Can I just—I’ll be quick.”
Fuck his fucking life.
“Shit. Okay. Just—just get it. It’s fine.”
Mike’s heart beats erratically against his chest, his fingers tingling like TV static. Is he going to have a panic attack? Maybe.
Fuck.
Will just caught him, dick out, mouth hanging open in god damn ecstasy. In the two years they’ve lived together, they’d somehow managed to avoid this exact nightmare.
Until today.
Will cautiously cracks one eye open. His face is so red Mike might consider it medically concerning if he didn’t know precisely what caused it. He crosses the room to his side and quickly digs through his drawer, shoving the key into his pocket.
Mike watches through the gaps between his fingers. That’s why he notices immediately when Will’s shoulders begin to shake. An unmistakable snort leaves him, followed by a gasping breath.
“Are you fucking laughing?” Mike asks.
“No.”
“You are.”
“Okay,” Will wheezes. “A little. I’m still in shock—I’m sorry.”
“Will.” Mike drops his hands from his face and stares at the ceiling. “Do me a favor and suffocate me with a pillow before you leave.”
This only makes Will laugh harder. He doubles over against his desk, clutching his stomach. Mike’s lips twitch, fighting a grin despite the utter mortification seizing his limbs.
“I’m transferring schools. You can kiss me goodbye—” Mike winces, because, what? “Or—not kiss me goodbye. I didn’t mean that—fuck. Holy shit.”
Will spins around, trying desperately to get a hold of himself. “Mike, come on. You’re fine.”
The second their eyes meet, Mike makes a strangled noise and yanks the blanket up to his neck.
“Sorry—” Will immediately closes his eyes again. “I’m going now.”
He turns toward the door and promptly walks straight into it. It’s Mike’s turn to laugh now. A hysterical, high-pitched noise, propelled by nerves and disbelief, escapes him.
Will’s hand pauses on the doorknob, and hot tears collect in Mike’s eyes. He’s about to beg him to walk out the door and spare him from enduring another second of agony when Will’s soft, sympathetic voice fills the room.
“Listen, you don’t have to be embarrassed, Mike. It’s normal. We all do it—”
Mike scoffs. “Will, can we not do this when I’m literally still covered in my—”
“Yep. Leaving,” Will cuts him off, his blush reaching the back of his neck. “See you later. Avoid any tall roofs.”
“Can’t make any promises,” Mike calls.
The door shuts again, and nauseating silence settles in. Then Mike rolls over, buries his face into the pillow, and screams until his lungs ache.
He is so fucked.