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"Do you remember when we made up our own morse code?" Mike's voice cracked halfway through the sentence, like it still hadn't decided if he was seventeen or eight.
He was sitting on his bed, comic book in hand, but he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
Will was sprawled on the floor, sketching something in that half-focused way he did when he wasn't really paying attention to the paper.
His pencil stopped mid-stroke. "What are you talking about?" Will asked, voice flat. Mike's knee bounced.
"You know, before you could talk right. After your dad—" He bit down on the rest. Will's pencil snapped.
Not dramatically. Just a quiet, final sort of snap, like a bone giving way under pressure. The graphite rolled under Mike's dresser.
"I could always talk, I just didn't want to," Will said, staring at the broken pencil as if it held answers.
Outside, a car backfired two streets over—the exact same sound Will had flinched at back when his hands would dart up to cover his ears before he could stop them.
"So you do remember?" Mike straightened, comic forgotten in his lap."Vaguely." Will lied, rubbing his thumb over the jagged edge of the pencil stump.
"Well, I remember everything," Mike said, too fast, too loud, like he'd been holding it in his throat for years.
His fingers twitched toward his own wrist—a habit left over from when he'd tap out messages against his skin during class.
Will's eyes flicked to the movement, then away just as quick. "Specifically, the day we made it," Mike pushed, leaning forward until the bedsprings creaked.
Summer of '79, Will was staying for a sleepover for the first time at Mike's house.
The Wheeler's attic had creaky floorboards and smelled like cedar and the kind of dust that only exists in places kids aren't supposed to go.
Will was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt while Mike sprawled beside him, chattering about aliens—until he noticed Will hadn't made a sound in forty-three minutes.
Not even the hum he'd sometimes do when he was thinking. Mike sat up suddenly, knees knocking against Will's.
"Okay, new rule," he announced, grabbing Will's wrist before he could pull away.
"If you don't want to talk, you gotta talk to me another way." He tapped three times against Will's pulse point—hard, then soft, then hard again.
"That means yes."
Will tilted his head, staring at Mike's fingers still pressed against his wrist. The attic fan rattled above them, stirring the dust into lazy spirals.
Three taps—his skin remembered the pattern even if his brain pretended not to.
Mike's thumbnail had been bitten raw that summer, edges ragged like the forts they'd built out of couch cushions.
"This one's no," Mike had said, dragging Will's finger in a slow circle over his own palm.
The sensation had prickled oddly, like TV static against his skin. Will remembered thinking it was odd.
Because he could just shake his head yes—or no, or whatever—but Mike had insisted. "This way is cooler,"
Mike had declared, grinning wide enough to show the gap where his front tooth had been. "Like spies."
Mike didn't mind that Will didn't speak back then—what bothered him was the silence between them. So, he'd invented rules.
A tap on the elbow meant look at this, two tugs on the sleeve meant I'm bored, and pressing their pinkies together meant secret.
"And this one..." Mike had whispered that day in the basement, their knees bumping under the card table where they'd built a fort out of blankets.
He'd grabbed Will's hand and pressed their palms together—skin still sticky from popsicles—then slowly slid his fingers between Will's.
"This is best friends," he announced, squeezing tight. Will's fingers had twitched, then curled hesitantly around Mike's.
Will smiled, just a little, but Mike saw it—the way his cheeks dimpled and his shoulders relaxed—and that was enough.
"See? Better than talking," Mike had said, grinning back.
"Okay, okay. I remember a little," Will admitted now, tossing the broken pencil aside, getting up to move onto the edge of the bed.
He flexed his fingers, suddenly hyperaware of the phantom press of Mike's childhood palm against his.
Mike grinned, the same gap-toothed expression flashing behind his adult teeth for half a second.
"Yeah? Then what's this?" He grabbed Will's wrist and traced a slow circle on his pulse point with one finger—the old no signal—
But his touch lingered too long, thumb brushing the delicate bones of Will's inner wrist.
"I don't know," Will lied, tugging his arm back. His skin burned where Mike had touched him.
"Oh, come on, Will." Mike's voice dropped into something softer, almost pleading, as he scooted to the edge of the bed.
His sneaker knocked against the broken pencil under the dresser, sending it skittering further into the dust.
"You used to know all of them. Every single one."
His fingers flexed like he wanted to reach out again, but he curled them into his palm instead.
The afternoon light through the curtains turned his knuckles translucent, the way it had when they were kids and he'd hold his hand up to flashlights, pretending it was an x-ray.
"That was years ago," Will said, rubbing his wrist where the ghost of Mike's touch still lingered.
"Okay, then let me refresh your memory," Mike shot back, sudden and bright.
"What about that one day," Mike pressed, scooting forward until his knees nearly touched Will's shoulder. "In Joyce's kitchen,"
—and suddenly they were back in 1979, in the Byers' kitchen where Joyce was wiping her hands on a dish towel, the frayed edges catching on her wedding ring.
"Will, honey," she'd said, softer than usual, like she was afraid the wrong tone might startle him into complete silence again.
The fridge hummed unevenly behind her, drowning out the scrape of Will's sneakers against the linoleum.
She crouched until they were eye-level, the smell of her drugstore shampoo cutting through the lingering scent of burnt toast.
"What do you want for dinner?" Her fingers hovered near his shoulder—not touching, just hovering, the way people did around him back then, like he was made of something that might shatter.
His fingers twitched at his sides—not the nervous flutter of before, but something more deliberate, taps against his own thigh.
Joyce blinked, then glanced at Mike hovering in the doorway, clutching a half-melted popsicle.
Mike grinned, juice staining his teeth red. "He wants mac and cheese," Mike translated, bouncing on his toes.
"With the shells, not the elbows. And extra cheese on top."
"Mike, honey is that what you what?" Joyce asked with that careful smile adults did when they didn't quite believe you.
Will's fingers tapped again—harder this time—against the seam of his corduroy pants.
Mike looked offended, popsicle dripping onto the linoleum. "No! That's what he wants, he just said it," he insisted, pointing at Will's leg like the twitch of his fingers was as clear as shouting.
Joyce's eyes darted between them, dish towel twisting in her hands. She huffed a laugh, ruffling Will's hair.
"Well alright then. Shells it is."
"I feel like you don't believe me," Mike had said, chin jutting out with that particular brand of childhood indignation that made adults either laugh or sigh.
The popsicle juice had dried in sticky streaks down his wrist by then, the wooden stick gnawed into splinters between his teeth.
"No, no. I believe you, sweetheart," Joyce said, but her voice had that wobble adults got when they were lying to kids
—the kind that made Mike frown harder. "That's fine. Only me and Will need to understand it anyway," Mike muttered.
He kicked at the linoleum where his popsicle had left a pink smudge.
Will's fingers were still pressed against his thigh, curled just enough that Joyce couldn't see the leftover taps.
She hesitated, then turned back to the stove, the metal spoon clinking against the pot as she stirred.
"Are you really going to sit here and recount every memory?" Will asked, voice low.
He leaned back against the bed frame; his fingers twitched against his knee—old habits resurrected by Mike's relentless digging.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the Wheeler's old storm window in its frame,
—the same one Mike had insisted was Morse code from aliens when they were nine.
"Yes, I am. Because you're lying," Mike said, getting up to move back to Will's side, their knees knocking together again,
—just like the basement, just like the kitchen. His breath smelled faintly of the cherry cough drops he'd been sucking on all winter.
"You used to tap your fingers against your teeth when you were thinking—three times for yes, once for no. You'd hum when you were happy, but only when you thought no one was listening."
Mike's voice was softer now, the edges worn down by years of holding onto this like a secret.
Will stared at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars from their childhood had long since faded but still left faint outlines in the plaster.
His face felt like it was burning—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of Mike remembering everything.
Every hum, every tap, every silent signal he'd convinced himself no one had noticed.
Truth was, he did remember—he just hadn't realized Mike still did. But, he was too embarrassed to admit that he did.
"Seriously?" Will muttered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until colors bloomed behind his eyelids. "You kept track of all that?"
"Of course I kept track," Mike said, voice cracking.
His fingers twitched against his knee—an unconscious echo of Will's own nervous habit.
The afternoon light caught the dust motes swirling between them, turning the air golden where their shoulders almost touched.
"I made them up for you. How could I forget?" He added, grabbing Will's arms and pulling them away from his eyes, forcing him to look at him.
Will's face flushed, not just from the sudden movement but from the way Mike's fingers lingered on his wrists, thumbs pressing into the delicate bones there.
"It's embarrassing," Will muttered, but he didn't pull away. His pulse jumped under Mike's fingertips, betraying him.
"What, that you didn't talk?" Mike's grin was lopsided, too knowing. "Or that I remember every single thing you ever did?"
"That—that I didn't talk," Will stammered, but the way his eyes flicked anywhere but Mike's eyes gave him away.
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening just enough to make Will's breath hitch.
The room smelled like old paper and the peppermint gum Mike always chewed when he was nervous, the scent so familiar it made Will's chest ache.
"It's not embarrassing," Mike murmured, thumb tracing the blue vein on Will's wrist. "It was just you. It is you."
"What does that even mean." Will's voice came out strangled, fingers flexing under Mike's grip,—not pulling away, but not leaning in either.
The afternoon sun slanted across Mike's face. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, like he'd practiced this moment in his head a hundred times.
"It means," he started, then stopped, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. His thumb stilled against Will's wrist.
"It means I liked knowing things about you that no one else did."
"Everyone knew I didn't talk, Mike." Will's voice was barely above a whisper now; eyes fixed on where Mike's thumb rested against his racing pulse.
The storm window rattled again—louder this time—Mike's fingers tightened around his wrist. "Yeah, but they didn't know the way you did talk,"
Mike countered, leaning in so close Will could count the freckles dusting his nose—three on the left side, two on the right, some on the nose.
"They didn't know you'd press your thumb into your palm when you were lying, or that you'd tap your pinky against your knee when you wanted to leave but didn't know how to say it."
"You're ridiculous," Will breathed, but his fingers curled reflexively around Mike's wrist.
The afternoon sun painted Mike's eyelashes gold where they cast shadows on his cheeks.
And for a dizzying moment, Will felt eight years old again, pressed knee-to-knee in a blanket fort with their palm's sticky from shared popsicles.
"And you're a liar," Mike shot back, but his voice was fond, thumb tracing idle circles over Will's pulse
—like he was still waiting for a response in their old language, even now. The air between them crackled with something oddly Nostalgic.
"Remind me some more," Will said softly, testing the words on his tongue like they might burn him.
—because admitting he remembered everything felt like handing Mike a piece of himself he'd buried years ago.
Mike grinned softly. "Suddenly I only remember ’vaguely’," Mike teased, finally releasing Will’s wrist.
"Mike," Will groaned, shoving at his shoulder—but Mike caught his hand midair, lacing their fingers together with the same practiced ease as when they were kids.
"This one," Mike murmured, squeezing once, twice, "still means best friends." Mike's thumb brushed over Will's knuckles.
Will swallowed hard. His fingers twitched against Mike's palm—three taps: hard, soft, hard. Yes
Mike exhaled sharply, eyes darting to where their hands were tangled together.
"Yeah?" he whispered, voice cracking on the syllable. Will's throat tightened. This was too much.
Here they were, Mike’s fingers tangled with his, and Mike’s eyes staring into his own, waiting for an answer.
Will couldn't take it anymore. He pulled his hand away, shaking his head—but not fast enough to miss the way Mike's expression flickered, like a lightbulb burning out.
Mike leaned back against the bed frame, suddenly very interested in peeling the label off his cough drop wrapper.
The silence stretched, thick as the dust motes swirling in the sunlight between them.
Will slid back until the floor, suddenly needing the distance—needing to not feel the heat of Mike's thigh pressed against his own.
It was safer that way.
The broken pencil under Mike's dresser caught his eye again, graphite snapped clean in two.
He opened his pencil case, his mom had packed him extra pencils
—not just any pencils, but the soft-leaded kind that didn't squeak against paper—because Joyce remembered things too, and she saved up to buy them.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he slotted a new one between them.
Mike cleared his throat—too loud, too forced—and chucked the crumpled cough drop wrapper at the wastebasket. It hit the rim and bounced onto the floor.
Neither of them moved to pick it up.
Will focused on the pencil's weight in his hand, the way the wood grain caught the light like tiny rivers under his fingertips.
"You know," Mike started, then stopped, rubbing his palms against his jeans.
"When you talked to Lucas first, I was actually—" His voice cracked, and he coughed into his elbow. "Kinda pissed."
Will's pencil stilled mid-twirl. "What?"
’80s, the year they met Lucas—well, Lucas was always Mike's next-door neighbor, but this was the first summer Will also got invited to play in Lucas’s backyard.
The Sinclair’s had a sprinkler, the kind that whirled in slow, lazy arcs.
Will was laying in the grass, drawing something that was fuzzy in his memory—maybe a robot—when Lucas ran past him, kicking up water droplets.
His laughter was loud and bright, and Mike was right behind him, skidding to a stop just before he crashed into Will’s sprawled-out limbs.
Mike’s shadow fell over Will’s paper, blocking the sun—then he crouched, toes curling in wet grass, squinting at Will’s sketch.
“You forgot the antenna,” Mike said, plucking a blade of grass and pressing it onto the page like he was fixing something.
Will blinked up at him, water droplets catching in his eyelashes. Lucas walked back over, dripping everywhere—he leaned over Will’s other shoulder, grinning.
"You're good at drawing," he said, and Will remembered smiling.
He hadn't expected to talk to Lucas—or anyone—but he ended up opening his mouth, surprising himself by saying, "Thank you," quiet, very quiet.
Mike looked at him like he'd just grown a second head. Lucas just grinned wider.
"So, you can talk," Lucas teased, flicking water from his hair onto Will's sketchbook. The droplets smudged the graphite—but Will didn't mind.
Not when Mike was still staring, mouth slightly open, grass blade forgotten between his fingers.
Will remembered the sudden rush of warmth to his cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the way Mike's eyes lit up, like he'd just uncovered some secret treasure.
"You talked," Mike blurted, louder than necessary, as if Will hadn't been perfectly aware of what he'd just done.
Lucas laughed, shaking his head like this was the most stupid thing in the world—but Mike's knee knocked against Will's shoulder, insistent.
"Say something else," Mike demanded, grinning so wide his missing tooth showed.
"Not to him to me," Mike added, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab Will's wrist—just like he always did when he was impatient.
Will swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the grass tickling his ankles and the way Lucas was watching them both with amused curiosity.
"Um," Will said—to Mike, just to Mike—and watched as Mike's whole face softened, like he'd been given a gift no one else got to see.
Mike's voice snapped Will back to the present—to the Wheeler's bedroom floor, to the pencil trembling in his hand, to Mike now right back next to him.
"You talked to him first," Mike muttered, picking at a loose thread on his sock.
His tone was carefully casual, but his shoulders were hunched, like he was bracing for impact. Will blinked. "You—you were jealous?"
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Mike scoffed, but his ears turned pink. "No. Yes. I don't know," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"I just—you didn't talk to me, not first." His voice cracked on the last word, raw and childish in a way that made Will's chest ache.
"Seriously? It's not that serious," Will chuckled awkwardly, but his fingers tightened around the pencil—he remembered that day too clearly.
The way Mike had practically vibrated beside him in the grass afterward, whispering, ‘Say my name. Just—say it. Please?’
Until Will had mumbled ’Mike’ so quietly Lucas didn't even hear it, and Mike had grinned like he'd won the lottery.
"It was that serious," Mike countered, his sock thread unraveling further under his nervous picking. "You wouldn't get it."
"Try me." Will's knee knocked against Mike's—gentle, testing.
The afternoon light caught the dust floating between them, turning the moment golden and fragile. Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers stilling.
"Fine. You—you were mine first," he blurted, then immediately looked horrified at his own words. Will's pencil snapped between his fingers.
"My—my best friend," he clarified. Although, he should've just started with that. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But you talked to Lucas like it was nothing. Like it didn't mean anything." Will's throat tightened.
The graphite dust clung to his fingertips like ash. "Because It didn't," he shrugged, watching Mike's face crumple in real time.
The storm window rattled—once, twice—before Mike took a deep breath.
"Maybe not to you," he muttered, picking up the broken pencil halves. His thumb brushed over the jagged edge where Will had snapped it.
"But I waited months for you to talk to me. Then Lucas gets one afternoon and—" Mike's voice cracked.
He pressed the graphite pieces into Will's palm, their fingers brushing just long enough for Will to feel how warm Mike's hands always ran.
Will hadn't realized Mike had been waiting.
He remembered Mike's endless chatter filling the silence between them, how he'd never seemed to mind Will's quiet—or so Will thought.
Will just wanted to stop feeling like a broken record everyone had to tip-toe around. Lucas hadn't treated him like glass, so it was easy. Simple.
"I'm sorry," Will whispered, curling his fingers around the broken pencil.
The apology tasted strange—too big for the moment, too small for nine years of misunderstanding.
Mike's sock thread snapped under his restless fingers. "You were special to me," Will continued, voice scraping against his throat.
"That's why it was harder." The confession hovered between them, fragile as the dust motes catching afternoon light.
Mike's breath hitched—just once—before he schooled his expression into careful neutrality.
"With Lucas—it didn't matter if I messed up." Will pressed the graphite shards into his palm until they left tiny crescents in his skin.
"With you... everything mattered."
Mike's knee knocked against Will's again—harder this time, deliberate. His sneaker squeaked against the floorboards as he twisted to face Will fully.
"I was special?" The hitch in his voice betrayed the careful nonchalance of the question.
Will could feel the phantom press of Mike's thumb tracing circles on his wrist again, the memory buzzing under his skin like static.
Outside, the storm window gave one final shudder before falling still. "That's what you got from that?" Will muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
He uncurled his fingers, letting the broken pencil pieces roll onto the floor between them.
"You still are," he whispered, quieter than he'd intended—but Mike heard it. Of course he did. Mike always heard him, even when Will wasn't speaking.
"I didn't hear that," Mike lied, leaning in closer. "Can you say it again?" His grin was all teeth.
Will exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his palms flat against his thighs to stop himself from—what, exactly? Reaching out? Shoving Mike away? Both?
The afternoon light caught the dust clinging to Mike's sweater, turning him golden at the edges. Will's pulse thudded in his throat.
"Don't push it," he warned, but there was no heat behind it.
"You're still special," he repeated anyway—louder this time, just to watch Mike's eyelashes flutter.
The admission hung between them, raw and exposed like the graphite smudging Will's fingertips.
Mike's grin softened into something unbearably tender. "Yeah?" he breathed, looking down at Will's lips again, but this time he didn't look away.
Will noticed—of course he noticed—but he didn't pull back.
The air between them crackled with unsaid things, thick as the dust motes suspended in golden light.
"Yeah," Will confirmed, voice barely above a whisper. "You always will be."
Mike's fingers twitched toward Will's waist—hesitant, questioning—before curling into the fabric of his own sweater instead.
The afternoon light painted stripes across his face where he'd leaned in too close.
"You have no idea," he murmured, words catching on something rough in his throat. "How special you are to me," he finished, so quiet it was barely audible.
"You don't act like it," Will blurted, immediately regretting it—but Mike didn't flinch away like Will expected.
Instead, his breath stuttered out in a laugh, warm against Will's cheek.
"Because I'm an idiot," Mike admitted, pressing his forehead to Will's shoulder. His curls tickled Will's jaw. "A complete idiot."
Will could feel the heat radiating off Mike's skin, could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo mixed with the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
"You are," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him, lifting of their own accord to hover uncertainly near Mike's shoulders
—close enough to feel the warmth, not quite touching.
Mike exhaled shakily, his breath damp through Will's t-shirt. "I'm an idiot for not realizing how special you were," he murmured.
The words muffled against Will's collarbone. His fingers crept forward, brushing the fabric of Will's sleeve like he was testing the waters.
"Because admitting it meant admitting other things too."
Will's breath caught. The broken pencil pieces dug into his thigh through the denim, a sharp counterpoint to the softness of Mike's confession.
Outside, a car door slammed—Mrs. Wheeler returning from the store—but neither of them moved.
"What other things?" Will asked, though his pulse was rabbiting so fast he wasn't sure he could handle the answer.
Mike lifted his head just enough to meet Will's gaze, his eyelashes casting spiderwebs shadows across his cheekbones.
"Things like this," he murmured, and then—hesitantly, giving Will every chance to pull away—he pressed his lips to Will's hand.
Not his knuckles, not his fingers, but the tender skin of his wrist where the veins showed blue beneath the surface.
Then up to his wrist, then his palm, each kiss deliberate—testing, questioning—moving steadily higher.
His arm, his shoulder, the hollow of his throat where Will's pulse jumped visibly under his lips.
Mike hesitated there, breathing warm against Will's skin, his hands hovering uncertainly at Will's waist.
Will could feel the tremble in Mike's fingers where they ghosted over his ribs—could hear the way Mike's breath hitched when Will didn't pull away.
Mike lifted his head, his lips hovering just above Will's jawline. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "Can I—" he started, voice cracking.
Will could feel the shape of Mike's next words against his skin before Mike swallowed them back down.
Will's hands—still hovering—finally settled on Mike's shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater.
Mike exhaled sharply, his forehead bumping against Will's temple. Then Will, he tapped—once, twice—three times. Hard, soft, hard.
Against Mike's shoulders, right where his collarbones met. Mike froze, realizing the meaning. Three taps for yes. Always yes.
"Use your words," Mike whispered, though his own voice was wrecked. "Please."
Will's fingers twitched against Mike's sweater. The dust motes floated between them like tiny stars. "Yes," he breathed—barely audible—but Mike heard it.
His hands tightened reflexively on Will's waist, pulling him closer until their knees knocked together.
His breath hitched when Will's fingers slid up to cup his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones.
"Yeah?" Mike whispered again, leaning in until their noses bumped. Will could taste the cough drop on Mike's breath—menthol and sugar—could feel the way Mike's pulse jumped under his fingertips.
"Yeah," Will confirmed, and then Mike's lips were on his—soft at first, hesitant—like he was afraid Will would disappear.
Will didn't disappear. He leaned into it, fingers tangling in Mike's curls, pulling him closer until Mike made a noise low in his throat and deepened the kiss.
Mike tasted like cherry cough drops and the cheap toothpaste he always used—sharp, bright, familiar.
Will's chest ached with how right it felt—Mike's hands slid up Will's back, fingers pressing into the spaces between his ribs like he was relearning him—remapping every inch Will had tried to hide.
The storm window rattled again, but neither of them pulled away—not when Mike's teeth caught Will's lower lip, not when Will's back hit the bedframe with a soft thud, not when Mike's knee slotted between his thighs like it belonged there.
Mike's hands trialed down Will's sides, mapping his thighs, his hips—The kiss deepened—less hesitant now, more desperate—and Will arched into Mike's touch, chasing the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
Mike exhaled sharply against his lips, fingers digging into Will's waistband, Will pulled away, quick.
"Mike," he gasped, eyes searching Mike's face— "Sorry, too much?" Mike whispered, already withdrawing—
but Will grabbed his wrists, shaking his head, "No, just," His throat worked around the words, fingers tightening—"Just slow down."
Mike nodded quickly, but his hands trembled against Will’s hips, like he was afraid stillness would break the moment.
Will swallowed, guiding Mike's palms back up to his ribs—slower this time—letting Mike feel the stutter of his breath beneath his fingertips.
Mike exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to Will’s shoulder again. "I don’t know what I’m doing," he admitted, lips brushing the cotton of Will’s shirt.
"Me neither," Will whispered back, but his fingers carded through Mike’s curls anyway, grounding them both. "We'll figure it out."
The storm window groaned under a sudden gust, rattling the loose change on Mike’s dresser. Neither of them flinched.
Mike’s thumbs traced slow circles over Will’s ribs, his touch feather-light now—testing, relearning.
Will shivered when Mike’s nose nudged the hollow behind his ear. "We should make a new sign," Mike murmured against his pulse.
"For this." He gestured vaguely between their tangled limbs, the movement making Will’s sweater ride up where Mike’s fingers had slipped underneath.
Mike interlinked their fingers—palm to palm—squeezing twice. "That's not new," Will breathed, recognizing their old best friends tap.
Mike nodded, "Yeah. But new meaning," he said. "Boyfriends," he added, quieter, like the word might dissolve if he said it too loud.