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Mike didn't start feeling the pain in his joints, his bones, until he was 16 years old. At first, it was sporadic, explained away by movement and physical activity, which he wasn't often inclined to do.
But then, it got worse. It became more frequent, more painful, to the point that sometimes he thought he'd rather just chop off his own limbs than feel the deep hours-long aches that plague him.
He hasn't told a doctor, doesn’t have pain medicine or anything to help him. He thinks it'll make him seem weak. And anyway, he's probably being ridiculous. What 19 year old genuinely hurts like he does? Maybe it's all in his head.
Maybe it's a punishment from God, for feeling the way he does about Will.
If it is, it's not a very good one, because Mike would sooner douse himself in gasoline and walk into blue hellfire himself, than ever leave Will.
These are the things Mike muses on as he lays in bed one Thursday morning. If he doesn’t get up in the next ten minutes he's going to be late to creative writing. It’s his favorite class, but the dull ache in his elbows and knees promises to be a distraction from just the lecture, let alone whatever writing exercise his professor has in mind for today.
And it's college. He can just… not go. It's not like he’ll get in trouble, the class doesn't even have participation points.
Yeah, that’s a good idea. Not going. Vanessa, his deskmate, will print off a copy of the notes for him anyway, angel that she is.
So Mike doesn’t get up, and he doesn’t go to class.
In fact he doesn't do anything at all but force himself back to sleep for three hours, because he can’t actually find a valid reason in his head to get up and do something, even though he knows he needs to eat, and probably shower (maybe a warm bath would help?), and definitely brush his teeth. It’ll be fine, he can always do those things later. Later, the descriptor of a time where he’s no longer hurting. God knows when that’ll be.
Mike is woken up by a flutter of feather light kisses to his face, to the soft voice of his lover in his ear.
He hums in light laughter as he stirs to consciousness. “Hi,” he whispers, eyes blinking open and vision landing on Will, his Will, lit up in stripes by the early afternoon sun shining through the blinds.
“Hi, puppy,” Will whispers back, gentle fingers stained with charcoal and stray bits of clay brushing Mike’s hair behind his ears. “Didn't go to class?”
“No.”
“Feel like going now?”
Mike thinks on this for a moment, taking catalogue of how his body feels.
The verdict? Not great.
“No,” he says, closing his eyes again.
Will hums. “Are you hungry?”
Mike has to think about that, too. He often forgets, and it’s like his body doesn't tell him he's hungry until he's ravenous, and then he’s mean as a result, snappish. Will started writing reminders on Mike’s writing hand in dark blue semi-permanent ink, and Mike feels much better now that he eats regularly.
“Yeah.”
“Feel like coming to the kitchen?”
Now this one is a bit more difficult. Because Mike doesn’t really want to get up. Not because movement makes him hurt worse, but because it’s just nice to sit and do nothing when he is hurting. But then, if he did stay in bed, Will would have to leave his side. And Mike never wants Will to leave his side. If he could, he'd live fused to Will, one body, one mind, one soul.
Mike doesn’t answer, just pushes himself up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold, the tile sending a shock through his system where his bare feet make contact.
Will hovers near him, concerned, brows furrowed as his hands stay poised to help Mike should he need it.
He won't need it. He never does. It's nice that Will is willing to help him, though. Always so kind, so thoughtful, his Will. The line of thought brings a soft smile to his face, the emotion bubbling up in his chest like a shaken soda, making him take Will’s face in his hands and kiss him.
Will melts into it instantly, arms coming up around Mike’s shoulders, hands curling into Mike’s hair.
Mike kisses him sweetly, fingers drumming into his cheekbones to make him giggle.
When he pulls back, Will is grinning. “What was that for?”
“Nothing, I just love you,” Mike says, shifting his hands to pull Will along, down the hallway to the kitchen. He takes a seat at the island in the kitchen, settling in to stare at Will as he goes about his task.
It sounds like Will says he loves Mike too, but Mike’s head is being far too loud with honey colored thoughts of willwillwill to hear anything externally.
“Tea?” Will asks, already opening the cupboard and pulling out a box of various loose leaf teas. Mike hums in affirmation as Will rifles through it.
“Black or herbal?”
“Herbal.”
“Hibiscus?”
“I want chamomile.”
“I love you, but the chamomile is mine.”
“Will, I'm aching. How could you deny me chamomile?”
“You drank all that was in the box last time, and, like over half from this one! There's only enough left for one more cup! This last one is mine.”
“Fine. Do we have honey?”
“Yes,” Will says, filling the kettle with water, “I bought more last week. It's fancy honey.”
“How is it fancy,” Mike asks, squinting at Will from across the counter.
“It’s blackberry honey.”
“What? Do you just buy anything remotely interesting looking in that weird fancy grocery store?”
“Yeah. The government gave us all this money, might as well use it,” Will states, measuring out their loose tea into cups with a spoon from the incredibly detailed engraved spoon set Will insisted they buy, specifically for tea.
“On weird fancy foods we won’t eat?”
“When have we ever not eaten it?” Will asks haughtily, movements becoming ever so slightly more jerky. Not that anyone but Mike would ever notice that in a million years. God, he’s obsessed.
“That weird cheese you insisted on a couple months ago. It was disgusting.”
“Okay. One example. Name five more.”
Mike, wisely, goes quiet, amused and chuckling lightly to himself when Will clicks his tongue in a way that means he knows he’s won.
“Food?” Mike asks, eyeing the burner the kettle is sitting on. It gets too hot sometimes, has a tendency of blackening the bottoms of their pans. Will always forgets which one it is, which makes him upset because he’s stained another pot bottom black. Mike doesn’t know why the hell he cares, but who is he to question anything Will does, really?
Will hums, opening the fridge and staring into it like it has the answers to the universe in the drawers. “Charcuterie board,” he says decisively, immediately busying himself with grabbing an assortment of things from their fridge.
While he does that, Mike leans backwards in his stool in a way Will would scold him for if he was looking, in order to see the clock in the living room.
11:34. That means Will has a little less than an hour until his next class. Upsetting for Mike, who most certainly won't be attending anymore classes, but exciting for Will, because it’s Thursday, which means he has his class on oil painting. Will loves this class, and frequently tells Mike he's working on something big, but won't tell him what it is, and refuses to give Mike any hints, regardless of how much he begs. (And beg he does, every Thursday and Tuesday, when Will comes home looking tired but proud of himself, skin and clothes stained a variety of colors.)
He sighs as he leans forward so the chair can snap back onto the floor, and unfortunately for him, Will turns back around at that exact moment.
“Michael Wheeler.”
Good god, here they go.
“Yes, my darling sunshine honey baby pop?”
That stuns Will into silence, for just a few seconds. “Your… what?” He asks, confusion saturating his tone.
Mike can't exactly remember which words he used, because they spilled out of him in an attempt to distract Will. So- “You heard me.”
“Okay.” Will says, rolling his eyes while Mike grins. Scolding successfully avoided.
The tea kettle whistles, high pitched and loud and unexpected, causing Mike's skin to crawl with the uncomfortable feeling seeping into his already aching bones, to roll his shoulders back and blink the feeling away. Will gets the kettle off the stovetop as fast as possible.
Mike hates the fucking kettle.
Because Mike hates the kettle so, and he really is in lots of pain, he decides he needs a treat. So obviously, he reaches forward and snatches a handful of grapes and strawberry halves, ignoring Will when he shouts that he’s just about to eat lunch.
Will hands him his teacup, the tea inside perfectly sweetened to the way he likes it, before going about cutting the cheese into cubes and arranging everything on their very special fish shaped wooden plate very meticulously. (Jane had made it for them, with Hopper's help, during that one month she was quite passionate about woodworking. It’s quite nice, actually, and she had carved their initials into the bottom of it. It’s a prized possession of theirs.)
Mike carries the cups to their bedroom, his half empty and Will’s full, while Will trails behind him carrying the charcuterie board and informing Mike all about how his classes had gone that morning.
Mike is very grateful when they finally sit down and he doesn’t have to stand on his legs anymore. His knees are honestly killing him.
Mike rubs his knees futilely, knowing it won't make it stop, but unable to stop himself from trying anyway.
Will notices, because of course he does. Will notices everything about Mike, just like Mike notices everything about Will, even when they would rather the other one not catch on.
“Want me to run you a bath after we eat?” Will murmurs, setting his teacup down and running one hand through Mike’s curls.
“No. You have class.”
“I'm not going.”
Mike splutters. “What do you mean you're not going?”
“I mean I'm not going. I'm going to stay here, with you.”
“Will you cannot skip your classes just because I'm in pain. It’s manageable, I'm literally fine.”
“You didn't even go to class today,” Will says, deadpan, hand now scratching lightly at Mike’s scalp because he knows Mike likes it, and he knows Mike is more likely to give up the argument quicker if he's doing it.
“Says more about my laziness than anything else.”
“My heart,” Will starts gently, his free hand going to Mike’s jaw and turning it towards him, “I am not going to go to class while you're at home, in pain. I'd just be worried about you the rest of the day anyway. Let me take care of you? Please?”
And who is Mike, to deny such a request? Who is Mike, to tell his beloved Will no , when the word please sounds like a soft symphony falling from his lips to Mike’s ears? And anyway, it's nice, to be taken care of. Sometimes, Mike has a hard time believing Will could actually love him, which has nothing to do with Will and everything to do with Mike’s own insecurities, but regardless, it helps him realize that Will does, in fact, love him, when he says things like that. When he wants to make sure Mike is okay, just like Mike is always doing to him.
So he relents. “Okay,” He says, and turns his body more into Will’s pressing up against his side. It’s a little difficult to, like, move properly, and eat like this, but Mike doesn’t really care. Because Will is warm and firm next to him, and his touch is soothing.
When they finish eating, Will takes their teacups and the fish board to the kitchen. Mike would have offered to go with him, but the ache has gotten worse in his hips, which means he’d honestly rather die than walk all the way down the hallway and back.
But Will is gone much longer than the time it takes to drop off dishes to the sink, or even to wash them and return, so despite his protesting bones, Mike forces himself up and out of the room.
Halfway down the hallway he’s greeted by the soft whoosh of water from their bathroom, and when he opens the door Will is seated on the floor in front of the tub, squinting at several packages on the floor. He looks up when Mike enters with a soft smile.
“Do you want eucalyptus or lavender oil?”
Mike scrunches his nose at the thought of lavender. Ew.
“Eucalyptus.”
Will hums and measures out a few drops into a small cup of coconut oil and pours it into the bath, and then retrieves a small wooden spoon and very precisely measures out epsom salt from the large bag he had purchased a couple months prior.
Mike feels his eyes start to sting. “Is this… for me?”
“Of course. I can’t have my boy in pain like this,” Will states, and then pauses and looks back at him, amused. “Why would I run myself a bath right now?”
Mike shrugs helplessly, and Will lets out a quiet laugh as he stands up and crowd Mike’s space. He cups his face and presses a gentle kiss to Mike’s lips.
“You’re silly,” he says against Mike's lips, and Mike can't really do anything but kiss him again, hands coming up to Will’s waist and resting there.
Will pulls back, smiling. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Will pulls away and turns back to the bath to turn the faucet off and instructs Mike to undress and get in, which of course, he does with no protest.
Mike sinks into the warm bath and within seconds lets out a sigh of relief as the pain starts to lessen- just slightly, but a noticeable difference.
“Helping?” Will asks, and he's on the floor again, leaning against the side of the tub and running his fingers through Mike’s hair.
Mike hums in affirmation, eyes closing at the soothing sensations.
Mike is very nearly asleep when the warmth of Will’s hands leaves his scalp, which almost (keyword almost. Not quite.) draws a whine out of him. But he does not whine, because unlike Max says, and despite Will’s nickname for him, he is not Will’s dog, and is instead a real human person.
And then water is being poured over his head, and so he's forced to snap open his eyes and see what, exactly, Will is doing.
“Uhm… What are you doing?” Mike asks, blinking up at Will, whose brows have furrowed in concentration while he dips the cup he procured from god knows where back into the water.
“Washing your hair,” Will informs him, very matter of factly, and Mike splutters.
“Washing my- I'm not two!” he exclaims indignantly.
“I know how old you are.”
Mike scoffs. “Then why-”
Will cuts him off with a huff. “Because I want to. I think you deserve it. Okay?”
All the fight drains out of Mike’s body in an instant.
“Yeah, okay. Go ahead,” and he closes his eyes again to enjoy the feeling of Will’s fingers massaging his scalp, the feeling of Will taking care of him so lovingly.
He sighs when Will’s fingers touch his scalp, sits still very obediently and lets Will wash his hair, and then his body, because Will had murmured the question into his ear whilst already lathering up a washrag.
Will has provided Mike his favorite and most comfortable pair of pajamas, which means he has to lean down and kiss Will silly for a few minutes.
When they finally make it back to the bedroom, Will has yet another question. Because of course he does.
“Can I practice braiding on your hair?”
“...Why do you need to know how to braid?”
“Max and Jane. Oh- and Holly, too. Last time we visited home and you were asleep she wanted me to do her hair but I couldn't.”
Mike squints. “My hair is not nearly long enough.”
“Oh yes it is,” Will replies, turning around to retrieve several brightly colored hair ties with small charms on them and a hairbrush Mike was unaware they owned. “Your hair is to your shoulders, Mike. It’s the perfect length.”
Mike ignores his words entirely. “Where the hell did those come from?”
“The store.”
“Which store? When? What the hell?” Mike asks in rapid succession, blinking at the items Will has dropped on the bed in front of him, apparently aware it's only a matter of time until Mike acquiesces to him, as he always does.
“No seriously,” Mike says, picking up a light blue hair tie with a small clay daisy clipped on, “where the hell did you buy these? And when ?”
“A couple weeks ago. You're going to be so cute if you let me do this, please?” Will says, on his knees in front of Mike doing a stupid pleading gesture with his hands.
Mike rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. Have at it. Do not pull my hair.”
“Baby,” Will mutters under his breath, crawling around Mike and positioning them so Mike is settled in between Will's legs, his hands on Will’s knees.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Mike scoffs but wisely stays silent, deciding instead to snatch his heated blanket from beside them and lay it over his hips.
It takes Will thirty minutes to deem the twin braids on Mike’s hair good enough, but once he's finished he kisses the tip of Mike’s nose and hands him a mirror.
“Huh. I do look cute. Look at that, you were right.”
“I'm always right,” Will states, matter-of-factly, taking the mirror and putting it away, along with the hairbrush.
“Now, I’m thinking chinese for dinner, but that’ll be a few hours, so I thought we could watch a movie until then.”
“Okay. Star Wars.”
“Mike, puppy, please no.”
“What do you mean ‘please no,’” Mike asks, affronted, voice going up an octave to mock Will. “You love Star Wars. We love Star Wars.”
“Okay, but we just watched all of them last weekend.”
Mike thinks on this. “Okay. Nightmare on Elm Street?”
Will’s eyes light up and he claps his hands together. “Yes!”
Mike sighs a little. Figures. You can get Will to agree to any horror movie on the planet in seconds.
Will retrieves the tape with a bounce in his step, informing Mike they both need to dress up as Freddy for Halloween this year.
“No way,” Mike deadpans, staring at Will like he’s lost his mind.
“Why would I want to dress up as Freddy fucking Kruger?”
“Uhm, because he looks cool,” Will says, hopping on the mattress with a grin and a packet of m&ms he pulled out of thin air.
“I'm not doing that.”
Will begs. Mike says no. This goes on for ten minutes before Will lets out a loud sigh and shushes Mike, saying they'll figure it out later.
Will massages Mike’s aching limbs while the movies (movies, plural, because Will had had several lined up to waste time until dinner,) played, lulling him into a not quite asleep- but not quite awake, either, state of being.
It was then he got Mike to agree to being Freddy Kruger for Halloween. Tricky little thing, Will.
They spend the rest of the night like that- soft touches and gentle kisses and honeyed words, eating on their bed and falling asleep tangled together.
And when Mike falls asleep, his pain significantly lessened, but not completely gone, though he’s sure it won't be there when he wakes up, it's with a smile on his face and a messy kiss to the side of Will’s temple.
And he dreams of nothing, because everything he's ever wanted is right there, in his arms.