Archive of Our Own

“MIKE!”

Will flinches so hard his shoulders jerk up toward his ears. 

Max's voice rings through the living room like a fire alarm, almost loud enough to make the windows shake.

“Oh, he’s not here,” Dustin says around a mouthful of crackers.

The apartment living room is crowded in the comfortable way it always seems to be—half-finished drinks on every available surface, the television muttering quietly in the background, Dustin's collection of snacks scattered across the coffee table. Evening sunlight spills through the windows in streaks of gold and orange, catching dust motes in the air.

Max is flopped dramatically across the armchair and points a finger toward the empty space on the couch.

“Okay, well, where is he?”

Lucas snorts from where he’s lounging back on the couch, flipping through the television channels. “Question of the year.”

“Working?” Will offers.

Max rolls her eyes. “Please. The guy’s become a complete recluse.”

Dustin nods as he shovels another handful of crackers into his mouth, eyes trained on the television. “It’s been like this for three months,” he says without looking up. “But he’s gotten way more moody the last week.” 

“A little longer,” Will says quietly before he can stop himself.

Max catches it immediately and leans forward, eyes squinting. “So you noticed. What’s going on with him?”

Will frowns. “Why would I know?”

"You live with him," Max says.

"So does Dustin."

Dustin points at himself. "I barely know what's happening in my own life."

“He started his new job three months ago," Will says. "Maybe he's just tired.”

As if summoned, the apartment door opens. Mike steps inside, shrugging off his jacket, dark curls wildly tousled from the wind outside.

"Who's tired?"

Lucas immediately points. "You. Allegedly."

A chorus of agreement follows.

Mike looks unimpressed. He crosses the room and, without thinking about it, drops onto the couch beside Will. The motion seems automatic, years of habit guiding him.

Will feels warmth bloom somewhere beneath his ribs.

Mike settles deeper into the corner cushions, throwing one arm along the back of the couch behind Will's shoulders.

Their eyes meet. For a brief second, Mike's mouth twitches upward into a small smile. Private. The kind Will always notices. Will smiles back before either of them looks away.

The moment vanishes when Mike turns toward Max.

Will doesn't. Instead, he finds himself watching—because Max isn't entirely wrong.

Will has been building an archive of small changes. 

Three months ago, something shifted. It was subtle at first, easy enough to miss if you weren't paying attention. Mike started carrying himself differently. His shoulders no longer curled inward quite so often. He took up space without seeming to realize it, settling into his own body in a way he’s never quite seemed able to before. His laugh came easier on good days, less guarded. There were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when he looked comfortable in his own skin.

Like he was finally becoming someone he felt at ease with.

But there was something else, too. The late nights. The weekends swallowed whole by work. Saturdays spent disappearing before sunrise and returning long after midnight. The exhaustion that settles into the corners of him and never quite leaves.

And lately—the last two weeks especially—something has dimmed.

The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened. His smiles fade quicker. His gaze drifts more often, snagging on places far beyond the room. He speaks less and withdraws sooner. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking, sadness slips across his face so nakedly that it makes something twist painfully in Will's chest.

Will notices all of it. The details simply find him and stay. They settle somewhere deep inside him, tucked away alongside colors and textures and half-forgotten expressions. He collects them the way other people collect photographs, without meaning to, without effort. It’s simply the way his mind works.

Evidence, though he isn't sure what it's evidence of. The way Mike somehow seems more himself than ever before, and yet farther away at the same time.

The familiar scent of Mike's shampoo drifts toward him, clean and faintly sweet, carrying the trace of apples and something unmistakably him. Close enough that it catches in the back of Will's throat. Close enough that he has to resist the urge to move away. Or worse—move closer.

His gaze wanders before he can stop it, tracking along the stretch of Mike’s body. The pale line of Mike's throat disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The sharp cut of his jaw. The elegant sweep of his cheekbones. Freckles scattered carelessly across skin that winter never seems capable of erasing. The soft downturn of his mouth, as though sadness has learned the shape of it. The faint flush lingering high on his cheeks.

Mike blinks slowly, lashes lowering and lifting in an unhurried rhythm. His curls have fallen into complete disarray, dark strands spilling over his forehead. For the first time since walking into the room, the tension between his brows has eased, leaving his face softer.

Every feature etched so deeply into Will's memory that he could probably reconstruct him from darkness alone. And still, after all these years, the sight of him has the power to knock the air from Will's lungs.

His attention catches on the movement of Mike's throat when he swallows. Heat unfurls low in his stomach, slow and unwelcome.

Their thighs are still touching, pressed firmly into each other with the ease of comfort and familiarity. A sliver of contact so insignificant no one else would notice it. Yet Will is aware of it with excruciating clarity. The warmth of Mike's leg beside his own. The subtle shifts whenever he moves. The quiet expansion of his chest with every breath. The faint vibration of a laugh carried through shared space.

Tiny, meaningless things. The kind of details most people would miss. But Will has never been most people. And when it comes to Mike, he has never been able to look away.

"Why are we discussing my sleep schedule?" Mike sighs.

"Because," Max says, "you've been a shut-in the last few weeks. It's not good for your complexion, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Dustin and Will both say you've been moody and brooding."

Will blinks. "I didn't—"

"You implied it."

"I absolutely didn’t."

Max ignores him. "And that doesn't have anything to do with a certain new friend of Will's, does it?" Her eyebrows waggle dramatically.

Will’s eyes widen. "What? Benji?"

The change is immediate. Something flickers behind Mike's eyes and his smile fades. The warmth drains from his expression like sunlight slipping behind a cloud. "What are you even talking about?"

"Oh, don't act clueless," Max says. "You aren't a little jealous of Benji sweeping Will off his feet and stealing away all your nerdy, best-friend quality time?"

"That would require me to think about Benji." Mike glares pointedly at Max. "Which I don't."

"Are you coming out with us tonight?" Will asks, his voice lighting with hope.

Mike looks over and immediately softens. The hardness leaves Mike's face. The guarded look in his eyes loosens. Their dark, nearly black intensity softens into something warmer, richer—deep brown earth after rain.

Will has always loved watching that transformation.

Mike lets out a quiet breath. A sad smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s Saturday. I have work tonight.” He almost sounds regretful.

Will tries not to let his disappointment show. Before he can think of a response, Max's voice cuts through the moment.

"Hmm. Another excuse to avoid meeting Will's new suitor."

"He's not my suitor," Will says quickly, scoffing. "Or my anything. He's just a friend."

Max's eyebrows climb higher.

Lucas cuts in. "What even is your job?"

Mike sighs. "I've told you a hundred times."

"Not in English," Dustin says.

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose. "I work in a cross-functional role centered around live experiential storytelling optimization and participatory entertainment implementation."

A long beat of silence settles over the room.

Dustin looks vaguely horrified.

Lucas looks like he stopped listening after ‘cross-functional.’

Max's expression darkens with every additional syllable.

“Dude,” Lucas says finally. “What does any of that mean?” 

Mike offers a smile so sweet it borders on threatening. "It means I'm employed and it's good for my résumé.” His face softens into something more genuine, shy eagerness blooming across his features. “It’s actually really good for filmmaking experience, my friend from class—"

"Okay, whatever," Max interrupts him. "Will, why don't you want to date Benji?"

Before Will can answer—

"What is with the dating-life interrogation?" Mike snaps. The edge in his voice surprises everyone. "The man said they're just friends," his voice climbs in register with each word, cracking on the last word. 

Max points dramatically. "See? This is what I'm talking about."

Mike groans exasperatedly. "Now what?"

"Just because you're becoming some isolated recluse who feeds off the blood of everyone's suffering doesn't mean Will has to. He deserves to be happy and you're not making it any easier by being insufferable all the time."

"How is Will's disinterest in dating my fault?"

"We've lived in this city for two years." Max counts on her fingers. "Between you, Will, and Dustin, you've all gone on what? Four and a half dates?"

"Hey," Dustin protests. "That girl from Calculus counts as a whole one."

"It lasted twenty minutes."

"There is no official definition for how long a date needs to be."

"The girl ditched you after twenty minutes, Dustin."

"All I did was correct her on Euler's Identity." Dustin looks offended. "It's not my fault she couldn't take constructive criticism."

Max rolls her eyes.

"I wouldn't want to date a woman who doesn't understand basic mathematical theory anyway," Dustin grumbles under his breath.

"Dustin."

"What?" he squawks, crumbs spraying out of his mouth.

Max turns back toward Mike. "How is it even possible you're getting weirder?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm just..." Mike hesitates. "...considering all my options."

Max looks unimpressed. "Options?"

Mike looks trapped. "Yeah." He considers his words for a moment. "Maybe I just don't want to date...people…right now."

Max blinks."People? As opposed to…?"

Mike sighs. "It's really none of your business, is what I'm getting at." Then he looks directly at Will. "If Will wanted to date this guy, he'd say so."

Will's stomach flips.

"Will." Mike's eyes hold his. "Do you want to date Benji?"

For one impossible second, Will can't think. Can't answer. Because all he can hear is:

Considering all my options.

Options.

The idea lodges somewhere painful beneath his ribs. The thought of Mike dating. Someone—anyone. His heart sinks impossibly lower.

"We're friends," Will says quickly.

"So...no?" Max prods.

Will shakes his head, heat blooming in his cheeks. "I don't know. Maybe."

Max visibly brightens.

Mike's jaw clenches.

"Speaking of which," Max announces, standing. "We need to get going."

Lucas immediately rises.

"We're gonna pop across the hall and grab our stuff." She points toward the door. "We'll all meet in the stairwell in five." The tone makes it clear this isn't a request.

Will nods.

Dustin grunts.

Max and Lucas disappear around the corner, the sound of the front door slamming shut behind them punctuating their departure.

Dustin stands, brushing cracker crumbs all over himself and the floor. He tosses the empty bag toward the trash can and misses by at least three feet.

He stares at it for a second and then leaves anyway. The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence settles over the apartment. The television flickers softly in the corner. A sitcom laugh track echoes through the room.

Mike stares ahead, his elbow resting on the arm of the couch, chin propped against his hand.

He's looking toward the television, but Will is almost certain he isn't seeing it. The flickering light washes over his face without drawing so much as a blink. His eyes remain fixed on some distant point, unfocused and far away, as though he's listening to something only he can hear.

Will leans in just enough for his thigh to press a little more firmly against Mike's. A quiet reminder.

I'm here.

Mike blinks. The distant look in his eyes softens as he turns toward him. Their gazes meet.

Will offers a small smile. "You'll come next time though, right?"

For a second, Mike simply looks at him. His eyes travel across Will's face with an attentiveness that makes something tighten unexpectedly in Will's chest. There is no teasing in it. No distraction. Just a quiet, searching sort of focus that feels strangely intimate.

The corner of Mike's mouth lifts. "Yeah," he says. His voice is low, like it’s only meant for Will’s ears. "I'll try."

Will wishes he had said yes.

Not I'll try. Just yes.

Still, he nods. "Okay." He rises from the couch, smoothing his hands over his jeans. "See you later."

“See you,” Mike says.

Will ducks his head, turns toward the door, and follows after Dustin. When the apartment door closes behind him, Mike is still sitting exactly where he left him.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The moment they step through the diner's glass doors, Will is met by a whirlwind of golden hair and irrepressible energy.

“Will! Hi!”

Benji's voice cuts through the low hum of conversation and clinking dishes. Before Will can even offer a greeting, Benji is already there, throwing his arms around him in a warm, effortless embrace.

Will can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. A faint flush creeps into his cheeks as he returns the hug, lingering for only a second before stepping back.

Benji towers a few inches above him. Sun-bright waves of blond hair spill across his forehead, catching the glow of the overhead lights. His blue eyes practically sparkle with mischief, warmth, and an enthusiasm that never seems to run dry. Lean and athletic, he carries himself with an easy confidence—broad shoulders relaxed, posture open, as though the world has never given him a reason to shrink from it.

“Hey, Benji. Sorry we're late,” Will says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Benji dismisses the apology with an airy wave of his hand. “Don't worry about it.” His attention immediately shifts to the rest of the group, his grin widening. “Hey, guys. It's so nice to hang out with all of you again. I love getting to know Will's friends.”

Max's smile turns positively wicked. “And we love getting to know Will's new friend.” The emphasis drips with implication.

Will shoots her a murderous glare over Benji's shoulder and mouths, Stop.

Max only looks more pleased with herself.

Benji glances back at him. Instantly, Will wipes the glare from his face and replaces it with an innocent smile so sweet it nearly hurts. The second Benji turns away again, Will resumes glaring at Max, who seems one comment away from laughing outright.

They crowd deeper into the diner. The place is cramped, worn, and objectively terrible.

Which is exactly why they love it. 

The vinyl booths are cracked from decades of use. Every table bears a stubborn film of grime that somehow only smears when someone tries to clean it. The burgers arrive glistening with slightly too much grease, threatening to soak through their wrappers before anyone takes a bite. The coffee is dark, bitter, and faintly burnt, requiring at least four packets of sugar before it becomes remotely drinkable.

The diner sits in that magical sweet spot between charmingly run-down and a probable health code violation, which means it's almost never crowded. Most nights, the staff barely bats an eye when the group occupies the same booth for hours.

They've spent countless evenings here, textbooks spread across sticky tabletops, fries disappearing one by one from communal baskets. Study sessions inevitably dissolving into laughter. Conversations stretching long past sunset. Empty mugs piling up beside unfinished homework while stories, sleepless confessions, and inside jokes bounce back and forth across the table.

For the past two years, this place has felt less like a diner and more like a second home.

They pile into the booth, filling the worn seats until knees bump beneath the table and elbows poking into sides whenever someone shifts. Conversation meanders without direction, hopping from one topic to the next.

Will glances around the table, taking stock without meaning to. Dustin is tucked into his usual corner by the window. Lucas occupies the middle seat, exactly where he always does, leaning forward whenever he talks. Max lounges at the end of the booth, one arm slung across the backrest like she owns the place.

Everything is almost where it should be.

Will's gaze drifts around the table. Without thinking, he's searching for a familiar head of dark curls. For someone who isn't there.

He can picture it so clearly it almost feels real—Mike sliding into the seat beside him with a muttered complaint about traffic or homework. Long fingers reaching across the table to hand over the dessert menu before Will can ask for it. A knowing look paired with a barely concealed smile because Mike already knows exactly what Will is going to do.

Try some bizarre new milkshake combination that has no business existing.

The memory settles over him with startling clarity, built from hundreds of tiny moments so familiar he'd stopped noticing them.

Will shifts in his seat. When he looks to his right, it's Benji beside him instead. Benji's arm brushes his as he talks, animated as ever, hands moving wildly while he recounts the latest disaster-turned-masterpiece from his design class. His laugh rings out across the booth, bright and infectious, drawing smiles from everyone around the table.

Will smiles too. But a tug of unease in his chest remains, steady and heavy. The moment doesn’t stop Will in his tracks or steal his breath away. It’s just another fleeting flicker of taking in the world around him and realizing it’s a picture with one color missing. Like a song that's somehow lost a note.

Dinner arrives in a steady procession of greasy baskets and steaming mugs, and before long the conversation turns toward Benji.

More specifically, toward how Benji and Will met.

“Oh, Will never told you? This is a good story,” Benji says, grinning as he leans forward on his elbows. “You guys would not believe how intimidating Will was the first time I saw him.”

A chorus of disbelief circles the table.

Will groans immediately. “Please don't.”

Benji ignores him.

“It was about two weeks ago. I'd just transferred to NYU and was completely lost. I was wandering around campus trying to figure out where everything was, and somehow I stumbled into an Art Club meeting.”

He laughs at the memory.

“To be honest, I wasn't even looking for a club. I just saw Art Club on a flyer and thought, Graphic Design Major. That will look good on a résumé. Why not?”

Dustin and Lucas snort into their drinks.

“So I walk in expecting paint, sketchbooks, maybe a couple people arguing about the color chartreuse.”

He spreads his hands open dramatically.

“Instead, I find myself sitting in a room full of art students staring at Will like he's delivering a presidential address.”

The table erupts into laughter.

Will drops his face into one hand. “Benji.”

“No, seriously,” Benji insists. “Nobody was talking. Nobody was zoning out. Every single person in that room was laser-focused on him.”

His grin softens slightly as he looks at Will.

“And there he was at the front of the room, talking about budgets and scheduling and community partnerships like his life depended on it.”

Will feels heat creep into his cheeks. In fairness, it had felt a little like that.

The outreach project had consumed nearly every spare moment of his life for the better part of five months. What had begun as a simple idea had slowly transformed into something enormous. Five months spent walking through surrounding neighborhoods with a camera slung over his shoulder. Five months of knocking on doors, interviewing residents, listening to stories, handing out flyers, speaking at community centers, recruiting volunteers, and persuading skeptical administrators that the project was worth funding.

He'd photographed hundreds of people by then—families. Artists. Shop owners. Children. Retirees. People who had spent their entire lives in the city and people who had only just arrived.

The exhibition would bring all of it together—a collection of paintings, photography, sculpture, digital art, and mixed-media pieces, each contributing to a larger portrait of the community itself.

It was beautiful.

It was ambitious.

And it was an organizational nightmare.

Every day seemed to introduce three new problems. Vendors needed permits. Donations needed tracking. Budgets needed approval. Participating programs needed coordination.

By the time Benji had wandered into that meeting, Will had been surviving almost entirely on caffeine, determination, and sheer panic.

“It was a really stressful time,” Will admits with a sheepish laugh, eyes dropping to his plate.

“Oh, trust me. I could tell.”

The table laughs again.

Benji's voice grows warmer. “You were so serious. So focused. Like if someone moved just one of your notecards out of place, the whole world might collapse.”

Will groans while everyone else chuckles.

“But that's the thing,” Benji continues. His gaze settles on Will, and for a moment the noise of the diner seems to fade around them. “Underneath all that stress, you cared so much.”

The smile on his face is smaller now, softer.

“You weren't talking about the project because it looked good on an application. You genuinely wanted people to feel seen.”

Will's chest tightens unexpectedly.

Benji reaches over and wraps a hand around his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“And honestly?” he says. A mischievous glimmer returns to his eyes. “I took one look at you and knew I had to introduce myself.”

Will nearly chokes on his drink. “Benji—”

“No, I'm serious.” His thumb brushes lightly against Will's skin. “You were adorable.”

The entire table immediately erupts in oh’s and aw’s. Will buries his face in his hands as Dustin cackles loud enough to turn heads from neighboring booths.

“And passionate,” Benji adds, entirely unapologetic. “Very passionate.”

“I'm leaving,” Will mutters through his fingers.

“See?” Max says. “Adorable.”

The table dissolves into laughter as color floods Will's face. 

"Okay, that's enough," he mutters without heat, dropping his gaze to his milkshake.

Benji only laughs harder. "And then," he continues, unabashed, "I basically annoyed my way into Will's life."

"That's unfortunately true," Will admits.

Benji presses a hand dramatically to his chest.

The group chuckles.

"But really," Benji says, his voice softening again, "Will's been incredible. Moving here was a huge adjustment. New city, new school, new people. I didn't know anyone." He glances at Will. "He's been such a good friend while I've been figuring everything out."

As he speaks, his hand slips from Will's arm, but somehow the distance between them shrinks anyway. Their shoulders remain lightly pressed together, Benji's knee brushing Will's beneath the table whenever either of them shifts.

Will notices Max's eyes immediately sharpen at the word friend. A spark of amusement flickers there. Thankfully, she keeps her mouth shut. For once. The conversation drifts onward before she can do any damage.

"So," Max says, leaning forward, "how is the project going?"

The question is all it takes. Will brightens instantly. The exhaustion, nerves, and embarrassment fall away beneath a rush of enthusiasm. He launches into an explanation before he can stop himself.

The exhibition is next weekend and everything is finally coming together. The participating artists have nearly finished their pieces. The space has been secured. Vendors have confirmed attendance. The final fundraising numbers came in last week. There are still a thousand tiny details left to manage, but for the first time in months the finish line feels visible.

As he talks, his hands begin to move unconsciously, sketching ideas into the air. His eyes shine. The words come faster. The entire table listens as he describes installation plans, community turnout, portrait selections, and the collaborative displays that will weave dozens of individual stories into a single portrait of the neighborhood.

Benji watches him with a smile that never quite leaves his face.

Will only notices several minutes later that everyone is looking at him. Immediately, he flushes.

"Anyway," he says quickly, trying to redirect the spotlight, "that's enough about me."

Outside, the city slowly transitions from gold to indigo.

Sunlight fades from the diner's windows until the glass reflects only the interior now—pale yellow light spilling across tabletops crowded with empty plates and half-finished drinks. The neon signs outside flicker to life, painting the darkness in streaks of red and blue.

Eventually, Lucas claps his hands together. The sharp sound cuts through the conversation.

"Alright," he declares, rubbing his palms together. "What do we do next? Because I am absolutely not ready to call it a night."

Dustin perks up immediately. "The new Batman movie came ou—"

Max doesn't even let him finish. "No, Dustin."

Dustin deflates dramatically. "But—"

"No."

He sinks back into the booth with a wounded expression, staring mournfully out the window as though no one in the world understands him.

A sudden gasp snaps everyone's attention elsewhere.

Benji. His eyes are enormous. "Oh my God."

Every head turns toward him.

"We could go to the Rocky Horror play."

The words tumble out so quickly they nearly trip over one another.

"What?" Max straightens immediately. "There's a showing tonight?"

"Yes!" Benji practically shouts. "I've wanted to go since I got here! There's a production in Hell's Kitchen!"

Lucas raises an eyebrow. "Wait. Isn't it just a play? Like the movie?"

The look Benji gives him is one of genuine horror. "Lucas." He grips the edge of the table. "No."

The single word is delivered with profound seriousness.

"It is so much more than that."

His enthusiasm builds with every sentence.

"It's a shadow cast performance. There’s a full cast that acts and sings it out with bits of the movie sprinkled in throughout. They sing, they dance, they improvise. The audience shouts at the narrator. Everyone comes in costume. It's complete chaos."

His grin widens.

"And if it's your first time, they just might drag you onstage for a virgin sacrifice."

The table erupts. 

Will laughs so hard he nearly snorts. "Costumes?" he asks. "Where exactly are we supposed to get costumes? Do we even have time?"

Benji physically bounces in his seat. A squeal escapes him before he can stop it. "Oh my God." His hands come up to frame his own face. "Are we actually doing this?" His eyes widen even further. "And you're all virgins?"

The word hangs in the air.

Benji looks moments away from ascending into another plane of existence. "This is amazing."

He clears his throat with visible effort.

"I have costumes."

The entire table blinks.

"You what?" Lucas asks.

"I have costumes," Benji repeats proudly.

"I used to go all the time back home in California. Like—religiously. I've collected stuff for years." The grin returns. "The show's at midnight. We have exactly enough time to go to my apartment, get everyone dressed, and make it there before it starts."

The group exchanges glances. The idea is ridiculous. Entirely unlike what they'd planned for the evening. Which makes it strangely perfect.

Dustin shrugs first. "Hey. I'll do anything once."

"Honestly?" Lucas says, laughing. "That sounds kind of fun."

Max claps her hands together. "Oh, it is fun. I went years ago." A nostalgic smile spreads across her face. "I can't believe there's a production here and nobody told me."

Benji beams. The excitement radiating from him is impossible to resist. 

And just like that, the night shifts course. They all quickly file out of the diner after that, Benji leading the way through the streets towards his apartment building, chattering endlessly about his favorite moments of attending shows and how horrifyingly sexy it is. 

The night air hums around them. Storefronts glow against the darkness. Traffic murmurs through distant intersections while neon signs paint splashes of color across rain-dark pavement. 

"The audience participation is the best part."

"No, wait—the costumes."

"No, actually, the callbacks."

"Okay, but seriously, some of the Frank-n-Furters I've seen could probably start wars."

The group laughs.

"I'm serious!" Benji insists. "The amount of collective bisexual panic that role has caused should be studied by scientists."

By the time they reach his apartment building, his excitement has become contagious.

Benji ushers them upstairs and into his studio.

The apartment is small but inviting, tucked beneath pools of warm amber light that soften the edges of the room. A record player sits beside a bookshelf overflowing with art books and sketchpads. Plants occupy every available windowsill. The space smells faintly of coffee, laundry detergent, and a light air freshener. It feels unmistakably like Benji.

The second the door closes behind them, he's already moving. He practically dives for the closet.

A moment later he emerges dragging a large tote and drops it triumphantly into the center of the room.

The contents spill outward in a riot of textures and colors.

Benji continues his string of thought as he rummages through the mess, pulling corsets, fishnets, and tiny lace pieces of cloth out in fistfulls.

"And I've heard the Frank-n-Furter at the Hell's Kitchen production is absolutely unreal," Benji continues, barely pausing for breath as he rummages through the pile. "Like, devastatingly attractive. Like get-down-on-your-knees-and-beg-for-it attractive."

He lifts a feather boa into the air for emphasis.

Will can't help laughing. The casual ease with which Benji talks about finding men attractive still catches him off guard sometimes. Not because it bothers him, but because of how natural it seems. How unafraid and free it is. There's something comforting about it. Something warm.

Max grins devilishly. “Oh, I absolutely cannot wait.”

Lucas looks between them suspiciously. “Should I be worried that Frank-n-furter is going to steal my girlfriend?” he asks, not quite reaching amusement for it to come across as joking. 

Benji laughs, a sound that spills easily and fills the room. “Honestly, I would be a little. Max is hot. Frank-n-furter likes hot people. But if you’re worried, maybe she shouldn’t dress up as Janet. Or Brad. Or Rocky.”

“Oh, I’m a Magenta girl through and through,” she says easily, pulling out the short black dress with an apron and striped tights.

“Okayyy,” He drags the word out thoughtfully.  “Now. Lucas.”

The room falls silent. He turns to look at Lucas and tilts his head, hand coming to his chin as he looks him up and down. Max joins him. 

Together, they examine Lucas with the intense focus of art critics evaluating a museum exhibit.

Lucas visibly stiffens. "What?"

Neither answers. Benji folds his arms. Max mirrors him. Their eyes travel from his broad shoulders to his chest to the strong lines of his arms.

Lucas crosses his arms defensively. Unfortunately, the motion only emphasizes the muscles they're already staring at.

The grin that spreads across Max's face is instantaneous. Benji catches it.

Their eyes meet, recognition flashing between them.

A shared vision.

A terrible, terrible idea.

“Max, I love the way you think,” Benji giggles from behind his hand as Max bends over and plucks a pair of shining metallic gold shorts. 

Will watches in amusement as Lucas’ eyes land on the shorts and dart between Max’s pointed smirk and the tiny garment in her hand. Slow realization settles over his face.

“Do I have a choice?” Lucas asks dejectedly.

Max shakes her head as she passes the shorts to him and tilts her head towards the bathroom door. 

Lucas sighs and disappears into the bathroom. Max turns back to the tote.

Dustin stands, hands on hips, cataloguing the bin. “Ohhh, do you have any Riff Raff stuff? That’s the one with the hunch back and balding hair line right?”

Benji huffs in laughter. “Yeah, arguably the least sexy character. I have enough for a costume but the only wig I have is David Bowie’s from Labyrinth.” He holds up a tangled mess of blonde hair, the top in disarray. 

Dustin laughs in delight, snatching it out of Benji’s hands and jamming it on his head. “Perfect.”

The resulting look is undeniably not good.

Dustin beams.

“Who do you want to be, Benji?” Max kneels onto the ground next to the bin. 

Benji shrugs, “I’ll just take whatever’s left after you guys. It’s not my first time, I’m just excited to go.” 

Max gasps. A dangerous expression crosses her face as reaches into the bin. 

Will braces, “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she looks to Will.

She holds up a lace tank top that’s maybe six inches wide. 

“Max.”

Her grin widens. “I have an idea.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know enough.”

She ignores him. “You can be Janet.”

Will groans.

“And Benji can go as Brad. That would be so cute!” Max looks at Will like it’s the best idea anyone’s ever had. 

Will stammers, unable to form a response.

"Also," Max continues, examining him critically, "you would absolutely pull off lingerie."

Will nearly chokes.

Across the room, Dustin nods solemnly from where he’s adjusting his wig in the mirror. "She's right."

"What is happening?" Will demands.

Benji, meanwhile, simply shrugs. "I'm down if you are."

Will shakes his head, “I can’t go in that. That’s like—nothing.” He rips the shirt out of Max’s hand and holds it up, shaking it. It practically disappears between his fingers.

“This isn’t a shirt.”

“It is,” Max protests.

“No,” he holds it up higher. “There are more holes than fabric.”

The lace sways dramatically.

“It’s actually the absence of a shirt!”

“Well, Will, you wouldn’t just be wearing that,” Max leans over and pulls out another small piece of white fabric, stretching it out by the waist band to display it. “You’d also be in these tiny little shorts!” 

Will makes a strangled sound. 

"I’m still on Max’s side," Dustin says thoughtfully. "Your butt would look great in those."

Will stares at him. Then at the shorts. Then at the shirt.

"Again, what is happening right now?" he asks helplessly.

But even as he says it, he finds himself looking at the costume more closely. He looks between the two garments, his brain trying to rationalize the idea. 

Maybe he does need to loosen up. Maybe he does need to put himself out there and lean into whatever this connection with Benji is. 

His heart stutters and races at the thought of it. A nervous, exhilarating, terrifying rush of emotion. Beneath the doubt and the nerves, it also sounds…exciting. Like the moment before stepping into something you know will change a part of you. Possibly even change the way you walk in this world. 

It makes him smile.

Then Max lets out a triumphant shriek. "YES! Will!"

Will immediately feels heat rush to his face. "Okay, okay!" he laughs, trying and failing to look embarrassed rather than secretly pleased.

Max pumps both fists into the air like she'd just won a championship. "I knew you'd cave."

"I didn't cave."

"You absolutely caved."

Will rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. Across the room, he catches Benji's gaze. Benji's grin is warm and bright, something fond flickering behind it. Will finds himself smiling back before he can stop himself.

Then the bathroom door swings open. Every head turns. Silence descends upon the apartment as Lucas steps out. The tiny gold shorts gleam beneath the apartment lights.

For one long moment, nobody says a word.

Will watches Max freeze.

Lucas plants his hands on his hips and breaks into a grin.

"What?" he asks, flexing. "I look good, right?" The grin only widens as several people immediately avert their eyes.

Will glances towards Max. He has to fight the laugh bubbling in the back of his throat.

Her face is crimson. The woman who had spent the last hour terrorizing everyone else has apparently forgotten how language works.

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out.

Lucas' grin turns positively smug.

Finally, Max clears her throat. "Yeah," she says, voice several octaves higher than usual. "Not bad."

Will nearly chokes trying to suppress his laughter.

Lucas looks insufferably pleased with himself.

Max immediately pivots before anyone can comment on her reaction. Her eyes lock onto Will.

"Oh no." Will clutches the lace top to his chest as if trying to hide behind it.

"Oh yes." Before he can protest, she grabs his shoulders and physically steers him toward the bathroom. "Your turn."

Will chuckles as the bathroom door is pulled shut behind him and he’s left standing on the white linoleum, holding two pieces of clothing that shouldn’t even be categorized as clothing. 

He holds them up and studies them.

"I'm really doing this," he mutters to himself.

The realization settles over him in equal parts horror and delight.

Outside the door, he can hear his friends laughing, arguing, and digging through costume pieces. Benji's voice rises above the others for a moment, bright and animated.

He looks back down at the outfit.

Then toward the mirror.

Then back at the outfit.

A laugh escapes him.

"Well," he says to the empty bathroom, "there's no backing out now."

He quickly dresses, only glancing back at the mirror once he’s fully in the costume. He makes a strangled noise at the sight and immediately averts his eyes. 

Maybe, ignorance is bliss in this scenario, he thinks.

He steps out of the bathroom before he can give himself the chance to reconsider. If he pauses for even another second, he'll talk himself out of it.

The door swings open.

Immediately, he has to resist the overwhelming urge to fold his arms across his chest or cover the shorts. Or simply retreat back into the bathroom and lock the door.

The outfit leaves embarrassingly little to the imagination. The lace top clings in all the wrong—or perhaps all the right—places, its thin fabric not concealing anything. The shorts are somehow even worse, scandalously brief and requiring him to abandon any hope of modesty altogether. Every movement feels exposed. Every step makes him acutely aware of his own body in a way he's never experienced before. Heat crawls steadily up his neck.

The apartment greets him in various stages of chaos.

Lucas has apparently embraced his fate completely. He's sprawled across the couch in the tiny gold shorts like a Roman emperor at the height of his reign, one arm draped over the back cushions and an expression of supreme confidence plastered across his face.

Dustin, meanwhile, seems to have decided privacy was optional. At some point he'd simply changed in the middle of the room. The black tailcoat hangs slightly crooked over a billowing white shirt, while the tangled blond wig perched atop his head has somehow deteriorated even further since ten minutes ago. In front of the mirror, Will spots dark makeup circling his eyes and cheek bones as he enthusiastically practices increasingly dramatic hunches.

"No," Dustin mutters to his reflection. "More goblin." He hunches deeper. "Perfect."

Benji is perhaps the worst of them all. He’s currently standing in nothing but a pair of striped boxers and a long matching robe hanging loosely from his shoulders. The garment remains stubbornly open, exposing the entirety of his chest and stomach beneath the warm apartment lighting. Will immediately looks away.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind him. The sound draws everyone's attention. One by one, heads turn and conversation dies.

Will freezes.

Max's jaw physically drops. For a moment, she simply stares. Then her entire face lights up in delight.

"Will."

"Oh, God," Will says immediately. His laugh comes out nervous and breathless. "Is it bad?"

"Bad?" She sounds personally offended by the suggestion.

Across the room, Benji's eyebrows climb higher slowly and appreciatively. The look alone nearly sends Will back into the bathroom.

"Are you kidding?" Max scoffs. "You look incredible."

Will blinks. "What?"

"You heard me." She gestures vaguely at his entire existence. "You look hot."

Will nearly trips over his own feet. "Max."

"No, seriously." She points again. "Like, ridiculously hot."

His face burns. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm absolutely not."

Lucas sits forward on the couch. "She's actually right."

Will turns toward him.

Lucas shrugs. "I mean, I'm straight." He pauses. "But objectively? You're pulling this off."

Dustin nods solemnly from across the room. "The shorts are working."

"What does that even mean?" Will demands.

"No idea," Dustin admits. "But they're working."

Will buries his face in his hands. His embarrassment should probably be overwhelming. Instead, something else flutters beneath it. The nervous excitement hasn't left him since stepping into the costume.

His gaze drifts across the room and finds Benji's. He’s still looking at him.

Max chooses that moment to sweep dramatically toward the bathroom. "My turn." She nudges past him with an armful of black lace and striped stockings. The door shuts behind her.

Will exhales. The room settles back into its previous chaos. Lucas resumes lounging. Dustin continues his increasingly concerning transformation into a goblin.

Will takes another step into the apartment. Movement catches his attention. Benji crosses the room casually, weaving around discarded costume pieces and feather boas until he's standing close enough that Will can smell his cologne beneath the scent of laundry detergent and dusty  fabric.

Benji leans down slightly. "Hey."

The word is soft enough that only Will hears it. Will looks up.

Benji's smile turns gentler. "You do look really good."

The compliment lands with devastating precision. It’s simple. Earnest. Undeniably sincere.

By now Will is fairly certain his face has surpassed red and entered an entirely new category of color. He can practically feel the heat radiating from his skin.

For a moment, he doesn't know what to say. Or maybe he does. Maybe the problem is that the response that comes naturally isn't the one he wants anymore.

For too long, he's existed in the shadow of feelings that never seemed to go anywhere. Feelings he'd nurtured and protected and carried around for so long they'd begun to feel permanent. Like a room he'd locked himself inside without ever noticing the door wasn't actually closed.

Max’s words from earlier in the night ring in his head.

He deserves to be happy.

For the first time, he asks himself, Am I happy? Don’t I deserve to find happiness?

To stop measuring every new person against an impossible standard.

To stop looking backward.

To stop waiting for something that may never happen.

Maybe that's why he'd agreed to dinner. Why he'd said yes when Benji asked to spend time together. Why he'd put on shorts that barely qualified as clothing to follow his friends into this ridiculous, impulsive night.

Because part of him is tired. Tired of standing still. Tired of treating every possibility like a betrayal of the past.

Benji is here.

Benji is kind.

Funny.

Warm.

The sort of person who reaches for life with both hands and somehow convinces everyone around him to do the same.

And Will likes him. At least, he thinks he does. Maybe not in the all-consuming, heart-aching way he's grown accustomed to. Maybe not yet.

But maybe that isn't the point. Maybe the point is allowing himself to try. The realization settles quietly inside him.

Not a leap—just a step. A small one. The first one.

So when Benji continues looking at him expectantly, Will resists the urge to look away. Resists the instinct to hide behind a joke or dismiss the compliment before it can mean anything.

Instead, he lets himself accept it.

He smiles. The expression feels unfamiliar at first, something he has to consciously choose. But it becomes easier the longer it stays.

"Thanks," he says softly.

Benji's face brightens almost immediately. Something pleased flickers across his features.

Something hopeful.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

See the party's costumes below:

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

By the time they arrive at the theater, the city has fully surrendered to night.

The old marquee glows against the darkness, its bulbs casting warm gold light across the sidewalk. Beneath it, a line of patrons stretches nearly the length of the block—a kaleidoscope of fishnets, corsets, sequins, leather, and glitter. Laughter spills into the street. Someone farther up the line is already singing along to the soundtrack blasting faintly through the theater doors.

The entire place feels alive. Like a secret society gathering beneath the cover of midnight.

Will finds himself smiling despite the nervous flutter in his stomach.

Fifteen minutes later, the line carries them through the theater's front doors. The lobby looks as though it hasn't changed in decades. Velvet curtains frame faded movie posters. Crystal chandeliers drip warm light over red carpet, worn smooth by generations of theatergoers. The air smells faintly of popcorn, dust, and old wood.

A woman in a corset and towering heels stands at the ticket table. Her makeup is theatrical—powdered skin, razor-sharp brows, and lips painted the exact shade of fresh blood.

"Well, hello." Her eyes immediately land on Lucas. A slow grin spreads across her face. "Look at you, Rocky."

Lucas straightens instinctively. Max beams beside him, silver glitter sparkling across her eyelids every time she moves beneath the lobby lights.

"I know, right?" she says proudly, linking her arm through his.

The woman laughs. "IDs?"

Max is already digging through her purse.

"These are ours," she says, handing them over. Then she gestures behind her. "And those two back there."

The woman's gaze follows. She spots Will and lights up.

"Oh." The single syllable somehow sounds dangerous. "Please tell me you're a virgin."

Will nearly chokes on his own tongue.

Beside him, Benji doubles over laughing. "These three are," he says gleefully, pointing at Will, Lucas, and Dustin.

The woman practically purrs. "Oh, Frank is going to love you."

Her eyes travel from Lucas to Will with the focused interest of someone selecting desserts from a menu.

Will suddenly becomes very aware of the amount of skin he's showing.

"Would you boys like to be our virgin sacrifices tonight?"

"YES." The answer erupts simultaneously from Max and Benji.

The woman laughs.

Lucas shrugs.

Will hesitates. He glances at Benji, who looks delighted. Like this entire night is Christmas morning. The sight is infectious, so he nods.

The woman's grin sharpens. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

She produces a tube of lipstick from seemingly nowhere and turns toward Lucas. "Where would you like to be marked, sweet cheeks?"

Lucas blinks. "Uh." His eyes dart around helplessly. "Wherever, I guess?"

The woman raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Wherever?"

Lucas immediately looks horrified.

The woman bursts into laughter then leans forward and draws a bright red V across the upper right side of his chest. She turns to Will.

"And you, Janet?" The wink she gives him is absolutely criminal.

Will laughs nervously. "You're the expert."

"Smart answer." She reaches up and gently draws the lipstick across his cheek. The cool wax drags against his skin. "There."

Will catches a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. The crimson V looks ridiculous. He kind of loves it.

Dustin, meanwhile, proudly requests his on his forehead. The woman doesn't even question it. When she's finished, she hands over their tickets before looking back at Lucas and Will. Her expression softens slightly. Beneath all the theatrics, there's something sincere there.

"Alright, sacrifices. Quick consent talk." The noise of the lobby seems to dim around them. "You're in for a great night." She folds her arms. "Frank is a generous lover, and the cast will take good care of you."

Will immediately regrets every decision that led him here.

The woman continues. "They may flirt. They may tease. They may interact with you. They'll touch you as much or as little as you want."

Her gaze sharpens.

"And if you don't want something, you say so. Immediately." The joking tone has vanished entirely. "You're consenting to antics, shenanigans, cheeky smooches, playful flirting, and general nonsense."

Lucas visibly short-circuits at the word smooches.

Will feels his stomach flutter with the dizzy uncertainty of stepping into unfamiliar territory. The thought of strangers flirting with him should make him want to run.

“Everyone okay with that?”

Will reminds himself he’s trying new things. So he squares his shoulders and doesn’t protest.

The woman nods approvingly. "Excellent." Then her grin returns in full force. "Give yourself over to absolute pleasure."

Her voice drops theatrically.

"Swim the warm waters of the sins of the flesh..."

The words follow them like a curse—or a blessing—as they move deeper into the theater. Darkness swallows them. The auditorium buzzes with anticipation. Audience members call jokes across rows. Music plays through hidden speakers. Glitter catches in the dim light like scattered stars.

Their group settles into seats near the aisle in the second row, close enough to be in the middle of everything.

Benji is practically vibrating beside him. "Oh my God," he whispers for perhaps the twentieth time. "This is going to be amazing."

Max keeps laughing to herself. Not explaining the joke, just laughing. Lucas leans toward her.

"What exactly does she mean by smooching?"

Max's shoulders shake with renewed laughter. 

"Max."

She laughs harder.

"Max."

"Nope."

"Max."

Will sinks into his seat, unable to stop smiling. The house lights dim. A ripple of excitement sweeps through the audience.

Conversations taper off into whispers. Anticipation crackles through the theater like static electricity. Around Will, people shift forward in their seats, already grinning as if they're about to reunite with old friends.

Then the first guitar chords ring out. The curtain rises. A giant screen fills with crimson lips, impossibly glamorous against a backdrop of darkness. They sing into the theater, voice rich and theatrical, drawing the audience into the story before it has even begun. Will watches, entranced.

The song ends. The screen fades to black.

A moment later, stage lights flare to life. A man and woman appear in a car. The woman turns toward her companion.

"Oh, Brad, wasn't that wonderful? I can't believe it! Just an hour ago she was plain Betty Munro and now she's Mrs. Ralph Hapshat..." she says reverently.

"HAPSHIT!" the audience roars.

Will physically jumps. Laughter erupts around him. His eyes widen as he whips toward Benji.

Benji is already struggling not to laugh.

"They just yell at the actors?" Will whispers.

Benji nods enthusiastically. "Yep."

The audience immediately proves his point by shouting something else incomprehensible at the stage.

"All night?" Will asks.

Benji's grin somehow grows wider. "Allllll night."

Will stares at him. Then back at the stage. The entire theater appears collectively possessed. For some reason, he finds it delightful.

The show continues. Brad begins to sing, Janet dueting as the song progresses. The audience occasionally sings along, occasionally heckles. Sometimes does both simultaneously.

Will spends the first few minutes trying to determine whether there are any rules governing what is happening. Eventually, he concludes there are not. The realization is strangely liberating.

The story unfolds through songs and exaggerated romance. Brad and Janet dance. They marry. They drive into the night.

The lights dim once more.

Then a spotlight cuts through the darkness. A man emerges from backstage carrying a large, open book. He wears a tuxedo. His silver hair gleams beneath the lights. He looks every bit the image of a distinguished storyteller stepping from the pages of an old novel.

The audience explodes into cheers.

He waits patiently, smiling graciously. Only when the noise settles does he inhale dramatically. His voice rolls through the theater like thunder wrapped in velvet.

"I would like, if I may—"

"YOU MAY!" the audience shouts.

The narrator doesn't miss a beat.

"—to take you—"

"TAKE ME!" someone bellows from the front row.

"And me!" another voice calls from somewhere behind them.

The theater dissolves into laughter.

The narrator smiles. "Perhaps later."

More laughter.

Then he resumes. "On a strange journey..."

"HOW STRANGE?" the crowd chants in unison.

The narrator chuckles darkly. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

The audience claps.

"It seemed a fairly ordinary night, when Brad Majors—"

"ASSHOLE!" the crowd shouts.

The narrator pauses. "Hmm." His eyebrow lifts. "You've met."

The audience loses its mind. Will laughs despite himself. The timing is too perfect.

The narrator continues. "And his fiancée, Janet Weiss—"

"SLUT!" The response comes instantly. The entire theater seems to know every line. Every cue. Every joke, as if they're participating in a ritual they've performed a hundred times before.

The narrator shakes his head with long-suffering amusement before pressing onward. "They were determined not to let a storm ruin their evening. A night out..."

The audience grows quieter. He pauses dramatically.

"...they were to remember for a very, very long time."

Thunder crashes through the speakers on the last word. The stage flashes with lightning. The narrator disappears into the darkness.

The story resumes.

Riff Raff makes his appearance as he greets Brad and Janet and Dustin screams, “YES, that’s my boy!”

Riff Raff gestures to Brand and Janet, “I think, perhaps, you’d better both—”

“FUCK OFF!” the audience roars.

“---come inside?” Riff Raff side eyes the crowd, earning laughter rippling through the crowd.

Brad and Janet are ushered inside and the lights dim again. 

The narrator steps out. “It seemed that fortune had smiled on Brad and Janet and that they had found the assistance they required…there was certainly something about this castle to which a flat tire and a wet night had brought them. That it made them both feel…” he trails off in thought.

“HORNY!” the crowd supplies.

The narrator looks down at the book in his hands. “No, that’s not what it says here,” he says, shaking his head and looking up. “Apprehensive and uneasy…”

Will catches Max's eye. For a moment, neither of them says anything. They simply exchange a look before breaking into the same helpless laugh, swept along by the infectious absurdity of it all.

The entire theater appears to exist on a wavelength Will has never encountered before—half performance, half party, half collective fever dream. The audience knows every line before it's spoken, every joke before it's made. They heckle lovingly, cheer shamelessly, and sing without a trace of embarrassment.

And somehow, impossibly, it works.

The story pushes onward. The castle emerges from the storm.

New characters sweep onto the stage in flashes of sequins, fishnets, and theatrical grandeur. Magenta and Columbia arrive in a whirlwind of energy, their costumes glittering beneath the colored stage lights.

Will finds himself unexpectedly captivated.

Part of it is the performance. Part of it is the spectacle. But another part of him can't help appreciating the craftsmanship behind it all.

The shifting washes of colored light transform the stage from eerie to seductive to ridiculous within seconds. Shadows stretch across painted walls. Spotlights isolate moments of drama before dissolving into bursts of color. Every costume seems carefully designed to communicate something before a character even speaks.

As an artist, he can't stop noticing it. The intentionality. The visual storytelling. The way every element works together to create a mood larger than the sum of its parts.

Then the opening notes of "Time Warp" begin. A collective cheer rolls through the theater. People leap from their seats before the first verse is even finished. Hands begin clapping in rhythm. Rows of strangers suddenly move as one, already preparing for the choreography.

Will barely has time to process what's happening before Max grabs one of his hands. Benji grabs the other. A moment later he's being hauled to his feet. The rest of the group follows.

The music swells. The crowd sings every word. A hundred hands clap in unison. The entire theater pulses with movement.

Will misses the first gesture. He raises his hands a second too late, steps left when everyone else steps right. Nobody cares—nobody even notices.

Max is singing at the top of her lungs, completely off-key. Benji is somehow even worse. Their enthusiasm far outweighs their musical ability.

Will laughs so hard he nearly misses the next step.

The saxophone bursts through the melody, bright and jubilant, filling the room with an energy that feels impossible to resist.

Around him, people dance in the aisles. Strangers spin each other around. The theater has transformed into something alive—a single beating pulse.

And gradually, without realizing it, Will stops worrying about whether he's doing the dance correctly. He stops wondering how ridiculous he looks. Stops thinking about who might be watching. His body simply follows the music. He sways. Claps. Jumps when everyone else jumps. Laughs when Benji nearly collides with him attempting a turn.

The self-consciousness that had clung to him all evening begins slipping away piece by piece.

The music surges.

The audience shouts the chorus one last time, the saxophones reaching a crescendo as the dancers on stage stick their last pose, the audience cheering and clapping as the stage resets. 

Will finds himself applauding with everyone else, laughing breathlessly as the cast bows and the lights shift for the next scene.

For nearly half a minute, the theater exists in a state of joyous chaos. Then the applause begins to fade.

The stage darkens.

“Say something,” Janet whispers to Brad.

“Say! One of you guys know how to Madison?” Brad asks the room.

Janet sighs in defeat.

Riff Raff, Colombia, and Magenta all tilt their heads. 

“Um, oh, please, Brad, let's get out of here.”

A drumbeat starts to echo through the auditorium.

Bum.

The sound reverberates through the floorboards.

Through the seats.

Through Will's ribs.

The audience immediately stills.

The drum answers.

Bum.

Bum.

"It's just a party, Janet," Brad replies.

Something changes in the room.

Will can feel it.

A current moving through the crowd.

People shift where they stand.

Whispers ripple through the rows.

Anticipation spreads like a held breath.

The couple begins backing toward the enormous castle doors, looming at the center of the stage.

"But I want to go!" Janet protests.

The drum continues.

Bum.

Bum.

Bum.

The audience squirms.

Someone behind Will lets out a tiny excited squeak.

The energy in the theater tightens.

Onstage, Brad smiles through gritted teeth. "Well, we can't go anywhere until I get to a phone."

Bum.

Bum.

Bum.

The beat grows louder.

Faster.

The heartbeat of the entire theater.

Will glances sideways.

Benji is practically vibrating. His hands are clasped beneath his chin. His eyes are enormous. When Will catches him, Benji turns and mouths a silent scream. The excitement radiating off him is almost comical.

But Will can feel it too—that strange electricity. The sense that everyone in the room is waiting for the exact same moment, holding their breath together.

"I’m just plain scared," Janet cries. "I want to go."

Bum.

Bum.

Bum.

Bum.

The drum accelerates.

The audience begins reacting before anything has even happened.

People lean forward.

Grins spread.

A few viewers clap their hands over their mouths.

Benji grabs Will's forearm. Will doesn't think he even realizes he's doing it.

The beat becomes frantic.

BumBumBumBumBum.

Janet seizes Brad's hand and they run, straight for the doors.

The audience collectively inhales.

The castle doors fly open.

And suddenly—

Everything explodes. A guitar screams through the theater in a dazzling cascade of notes, reverberating off the walls. Lights burst across the stage. Gasps erupt from the audience. Cheers follow immediately after.

The figure standing in the doorway is impossible to ignore.

Tall.

Motionless.

Wrapped in black.

A cloak drapes from his shoulders like liquid darkness, swallowing the light around him. His silhouette fills the entrance completely, commanding attention before he’s spoken a single word.

Will's breath catches. Even from the second row, he can feel the gravity of him.

Dark hair.

Powder-pale skin.

Sharp cheekbones carved deeper by dramatic contouring.

Eyes ringed in black.

Lips painted a decadent crimson.

The makeup is theatrical and exaggerated, and yet somehow only serves to make him more striking. More dangerous. More beautiful.

The audience loses its collective mind. People scream and whistle, shouting his name.

Benji's grip on Will's arm tightens. "Oh my God," he breathes.

The figure lets the noise wash over him. He lets the audience worship.

Then slowly—

Deliberately—

He steps forward.

A pouting smirk curls across painted lips. 

His voice pours into the theater like velvet laced with sin.

He drifts forward another step. Every movement seems calculated. Every glance purposeful, like a predator already certain of the outcome.

Somewhere beside Will, Benji makes a sound that can only be described as prayer.

Will laughs despite himself, but he actually kind of understands. Because even from where he's sitting, with the lights painting the stage in crimson and gold, the entire room leaning toward that single magnetic figure—

He can feel it.

The impossible charisma. The danger. The invitation.

The reason an entire theater full of people had been waiting breathlessly for this exact moment.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter has arrived. And the room belongs to him now.

See Mike as Dr. Frank-N-Furter below:

The music swells around him.

A pulsing bass line threads beneath the melody, each beat landing with confidence as Frank-N-Furter begins prowling across the stage.

The closer he moves toward the audience, the louder the cheers become.

There's something hypnotic about him. The way he occupies space as though the entire theater exists solely for his amusement. The crowd hangs on every step of his heels, every draw of breath, every teasing glance tossed over his shoulder.

And the closer he gets, the more something unsettles inside Will. A small click, like a puzzle piece shifting–a memory trying to surface.

Underneath the dramatic contouring and powdered skin, beneath the exaggerated expressions and theatrical swagger, something feels familiar. A tilt of the head. The shape of a smile. The cadence of a gesture.

Will narrows his eyes.

But every time he thinks he's about to place it, the performer turns away again, swallowed by flashing lights and movement. The feeling lingers, just out of reach.

Onstage, the song builds toward its climax. Frank reaches the edge of the stage and pauses. The entire theater seems to hold its breath.

The spotlight narrows. The music tightens.

Then—

With a flourish, he tears the cloak from his shoulders.

The audience detonates. Cheers shake the room. Someone several rows back screams loud enough to rival the sound system.

"I'm just a sweet transvestite!"

The words ring through the theater, loud and triumphant.

"From Transsexual—"

His voice drips through the syllables.

"Transylvaniaaaa!"

The final word stretches like silk.

A black corset hugs his torso, sculpting every line of his body before narrowing into a sharp V at his waist. A silver chain necklace hugs sharp collarbones. Fishnets cling to impossibly long legs. Heavy black heels strike the stage with confident, rhythmic force. Dark curls bounce around his shoulders as he moves.

And on his right bicep, newly revealed beneath the stage lights, is a tattoo—a heart pierced clean through by a sword. The ink curves with the flex of muscle as he lifts an arm, stark and beautiful against pale skin.

Will's eyes catch on it immediately.

The look should be ridiculous. Instead, it’s devastating.

The crowd certainly thinks so.

Will hears at least three separate people yell marriage proposals.

He barely registers it. He can't seem to look away.

Every rational thought tells him he should be laughing along with everyone else. The whole production is campy and outrageous and gloriously over-the-top.

Instead, he finds himself staring. The lean lines of him. The narrow waist. The broad shoulders softened by the slope of the corset and fishnets clinging to lean legs. The confidence. The deliberate femininity woven through undeniable strength of character. Every movement seems designed to draw the eye, not through force but through invitation.

And Will follows willingly.

Frank doesn't simply walk across the stage. He prowls. He glides. His body curves through the music as though he's another instrument woven into the score. Every turn reveals a new line to admire—the slope of his neck, the sweep of his back, the flex of his thighs beneath fishnets.

Will's gaze tracks each one helplessly.

The man moves like he knows exactly where every eye in the room is and exactly how to command it. Maybe that's what makes him so impossible to ignore. Or maybe it's the smile.

Frank plants his hands on his hips and grins. Not the practiced smile of a performer playing to a crowd, but the smile of someone fully aware of the effect they're having and enjoying every second of it.

The expression sends an unexpected pulse of heat through Will's core.

Then he moves again.

One foot drops onto the stairs. Then another.

The descent feels predatory. A slow, deliberate approach into the audience. Into his kingdom.

The music follows him.

The crowd hangs on his every move. And he eats up every second of attention.

Frank spots a Janet near the front row. A red lipstick V marks her shoulder. The audience immediately begins screaming.

With theatrical flourish, Frank takes her hand and spins her, pulling her in close. The woman is laughing before she's even fully turned. Then suddenly she's dipped backward, hair nearly brushing the floor as Frank leans over her.

The audience loses its collective mind.

Will catches only fragments of the interaction. The people in front of him are constantly shifting, craning their necks, bouncing to the beat. Heads and arms repeatedly block his view.

One second he catches the curve of Frank's grin.

The next, only flashes of fishnets and dark curls.

A glimpse of pale skin.

A glimpse of a laughing audience member.

A flash of red lips.

The performer continues down the aisle, still singing.

Still commanding every eye in the room.

Still frustratingly familiar.

Will leans slightly, trying to get a better look. Trying to pin down the feeling scratching at the back of his mind.

Beside him, Max suddenly stiffens. "Huh."

Will glances over.

She's squinting.

"What?" he asks.

Max keeps watching Frank move through the crowd. Her brow furrows. "He seems familiar."

"I haven't gotten a good look," Will admits.

But now he knows he isn't imagining it.

Will turns back toward the aisle.

Frank mounts the stairs at the right side of the stage with effortless confidence, stepping into the spotlight as though it belongs to him. Brad and Janet rush toward him, pleading for a telephone, their desperation almost comical against his languid indifference. He greets them with a finger pressed to each of their chests, pushing them backward as if they weigh nothing at all.

He barely acknowledges their requests. Instead, he answers in song.

Turning sharply on one heel, Frank strides toward center stage, where a throne has appeared beneath the shifting lights. He drapes himself across it like a king grown bored of ruling, all loose-limbed elegance. Lean muscles tighten beneath glittering fabric as he hooks one knee over the armrest, claiming every inch of the space with effortless authority.

The music climbs.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he unfolds himself from the throne. Rising to his full height, he rolls his arms in smooth circles, elbows tucked close as he carries the chorus toward its climax. 

Then he begins his return to the doorway. His boots strike the stage in time with the building rhythm. At the threshold, he pivots sharply, catching himself against the frame with both hands. Shadows gather around him while the spotlight burns across his grin.

"So."

His voice curls through the theater like smoke.

"Come up to the lab."

A beat.

"See what's on the slab."

The audience is already screaming, but he drags the next line out anyway, savoring every second of it.

"I see you shiver...with antici..."

He pauses.

The words dangle over a ledge, the crowd leaning towards it.

"...pation."

A dark chuckle escapes him, rich with amusement and promise. Then, with one final flourish of music and a sweep of shadows, Frank disappears into the darkness beyond the doorway, leaving only the echo of the song and the audience's fevered applause behind.

Magenta and Columbia circle Brad and Janet like mischievous predators, deft fingers peeling away layers of innocence as the crowd whoops and hollers around them. The stage pulses with movement. Sets slide aside, lights shift, and in a dizzying rush the world transforms, carrying them all toward the laboratory.

Then Frank appears.

He sweeps onto the stage in an army green lab coat, every inch the grand showman. His voice unfurls in a slow, theatrical drawl, rich with self-indulgent drama, every syllable dripping with performance. The audience greets him like an old friend, shouting lines before he can deliver them, trading familiar quips and improvised banter as naturally as breathing. Frank basks in it, feeding on their energy as he unveils Rocky to thunderous cheers.

The show rolls onward in a blur of music, laughter, and carefully orchestrated chaos. Frank drapes himself across Rocky with possessive ease, hands lingering as he croons about making him a man. The chemistry is exaggerated, shameless, and utterly magnetic.

Later, as the number nears its climax, the cast pulls a volunteer from the audience onto the stage—a nervous virgin dressed as Rocky. The crowd erupts. Frank prowls around him, drawing out every second for maximum effect. His hand slides slowly across the man's chest before he tucks himself against his side. He leans closer and closer, until barely a breath separates them, their noses almost touching.

Will feels the heat inside him tighten and coil.

There is something intoxicating about watching it unfold so openly. The flirtation, the confidence, the unabashed sensuality of it all. The atmosphere seems charged with electricity, and he feels almost dizzy from it, carried along by the same feverish energy that has seized the entire theater.

Just as Frank seems poised to close the final inch between them, the lights snap out.

The song crashes to its end.

A collective groan and cheer rolls through the audience. Frank only laughs, catching Rocky's hand and spinning him dramatically beneath the spotlight as applause thunders through the room. The dancers sweep in to escort the volunteer offstage. He returns to his seat wearing the dazed, delighted smile of someone who has just survived a dream, while the show surges onward without missing a beat.

The same dancers who had escorted Rocky to his seat suddenly break away and make a beeline straight for Will. One of them catches his eye and beckons urgently.

Will’s eyes widen. His heart gives a violent thud against his ribs.

Benji, of course, doesn't hesitate for even a second. "Yes—oh my god, Will, go, go, go!" He shoves Will forward with both hands.

The world seems to tilt. Will lets the momentum carry him, barely processing what's happening before a dancer grabs his hand and pulls him along. They weave through the outskirts of the audience, slipping behind a curtain hidden beside the stage.

Suddenly he's backstage. The air feels different here—warmer, charged with motion. Performers and crew move around him in a practiced frenzy, voices murmuring, costumes flashing past, props shifting from one place to another with astonishing speed.

He barely has time to take it in before he's hurried up a short flight of stairs.

The dancer stops just at the edge of the stage, concealed behind a thick pillar and a pocket of shadows.

She turns to him with an excited grin. "You know the next scene, Janet?"

Will's throat goes dry. Because yes. He knows exactly what the next scene is. He swallows and nods.

"Okay. We're going to put you on the bed. The audience will only see silhouettes." She gestures toward the stage. "Dr. Frank-N-Furter is going to sneak in after you. Then he seduces Janet."

Her grin grows.

"Some kissing. Some grinding. Flirting. Nothing crazy. You good with that?"

The words hit him one after another, but reality struggles to catch up. Everything is moving so fast. The lights. The people. The noise. The fact that somehow this is actually happening.

Will nods again.

Around them, stagehands are already transforming the set with astonishing efficiency. Walls slide into place. Furniture appears as if by magic.

"You don't have to do anything," she assures him, giggling. "Just be seduced, okay?"

Will wants to laugh.

Or scream.

Or ask approximately twenty questions.

Instead, he nods for a third time.

She takes his hand again and guides him deeper backstage, threading him through narrow passageways behind the scenery. At the center of the set, hidden from the audience's view, is a small door built directly into one of the walls.

She opens it and ushers him through.

Darkness swallows him.

The stage beyond is drenched in shadow, but he can still make out the looming shape of the prop bed at its center, enclosed by heavy curtains.

It looks strangely imposing. Almost intimate.

The dancer parts the curtains and nudges him inside. "Here." A gentle push sends him backward onto the mattress.

The curtains fall shut around him. From inside, he can see almost nothing. The fabric surrounding the bed is thick and opaque, turning the world beyond into vague shapes and shifting patches of light.

Then the dancer is gone and suddenly he's alone. Will's pulse leaps into his throat.

Is he really about to do this?

The thought crashes into him all at once.

Be seduced onstage?

In front of a hundred people?

Let a complete stranger touch him while everyone watches?

He gulps.

The mattress creaks softly beneath him.

Maybe that's the wrong way to think about it.

It's a performance. A scene. A bit. For the next few minutes, he's not Will. He's Janet—an actor in a show.

That explanation feels flimsy, but he clings to it anyway.

Outside, the transition music fades. The audience noise swells. Then the stage lights ignite beyond the curtains.

The crowd buzzes instantly, recognizing the iconic bedroom setup. A fresh wave of cheers rolls through the theater.

Will hears a door creak open.

Then close.

Heavy footsteps, approaching where he lays.

His stomach flips.

The curtains rustle. The mattress shifts. Then it dips—someone is climbing onto the bed.

Over the speakers, Janet's voice fills the theater—the actress backstage delivering Will's lines for him.

"Oh, Brad, come in!"

Will can see only shadows. Can only see the dim outline of a figure. A silhouette moving through darkness.

A narrow frame.

The unmistakable shape of wild curls.

The figure crawls across the bed with predatory confidence, unhurried and teasing.

Will feels his approach and he subconsciously makes room, allowing for Frank to slide his knees in between his parted legs. Before Will has a chance to overthink any of it, Frank is there, hovering above him. Both of his hands brace on the bed next to Will’s shoulders, trapping him between Frank’s arms.

The space between them closes even more as Frank lowers his head and buries his face against Will's neck.

A pleased, almost decadent groan vibrates through him. The sound echoes through the theater speakers.

For a disoriented moment, Will wonders how it's carrying so clearly before realizing, distantly, that Frank must be wearing a microphone.

The realization barely registers. Not when he can feel the heat of another body covering his own. Not when his heartbeat is hammering so loudly he's certain the audience must be able to hear it too.

“It’s alright, Janet, everything is going to be alright,” Brad’s voice blares over them. 

Janet: “Oh, I hope so, my darling.”

Frank trails his lips down Will’s collarbone, down to his chest. Goosebumps rise in his wake, sending a shiver coursing down Will’s spine.

A pause. And then Janet is gasping in horror. “Oh! It’s you!”

Frank pulls back suddenly, sitting up at arms length away. 

“I’m afraid so, Janet.” Frank’s smooth drawling voice fills the space between their bodies and across the theater. “But isn’t it nice?”

A low, mischievous laugh follows.

The audience erupts with delighted noise beyond the curtains.

Frank quickly resumes kissing down Will’s chest, his laugh still vibrating through his chest and into Will’s skin. 

Will feels breathless, the whiplash of the scene hitting him with full force. The sound of Frank’s voice so close, the feeling of his fishnet tights sliding across Will’s thighs. The hard leather of his black briefs brushing against the softness of Will’s lingerie shorts. 

Janet's horrified protests continue overhead. “Oh, you beast!” She cries over his laughter.

In response, Frank shifts position and gently takes Will's hand, guiding him up onto his elbows. The gesture is subtle and professional, helping him sit up enough for the audience to catch the changing silhouette. 

“What have you done with Brad?” Janet demands.

Frank's shoulders rise in an exaggerated shrug.

"Well...nothing." Even through the darkness, Will can sense the playful expression that accompanies the line. "Why? Do you think I should?" he asks conspiratorily.

Laughter ripples through the crowd. 

Janet's voice breaks into distressed sobs. “You tricked me! I wouldn’t have! I never ever…” 

Frank softens instantly. The transformation is remarkable. One moment playful, the next almost tender. His hand brushes Will's cheek as he delivers the next lines, every movement carefully choreographed yet somehow feeling spontaneous.

“Yes, yes, I know.” His voice lowers. “But it isn’t all bad, is it?” 

He moves closer again, maintaining the illusion for the audience beyond the curtains. He crawls back over Will as he speaks, pressing Will into the bed again.

“I think you really find it,” he kisses Will’s neck, “all quite…” another kiss on his jaw. Then his lips hover over Will’s. Frank lingers there, suspended on the edge of the unfinished sentence.

Every instinct tells Will to breathe, yet he finds himself holding perfectly still instead. Frank’s lips graze the edge of Will’s as he savors the next line. “...pleasurable.”

Janet makes gasping moaning sounds in the background. “Oh, please…”

Frank shifts and plants kisses down Will’s chest, trailing down to his stomach. He makes exaggerated moaning sounds with each one and Will feels heat building in his core. He’s never been kissed like this. He’s never felt such fire, such sensuality lighting him up so intensely. 

Right above the waistband of Will’s thin excuse for shorts, Will feels Frank’s lips part and suck on the skin there. The sensation of it surprises him so suddenly, nerves lighting up in sparks as his body reacts to it. His back arches off the bed and he lets out a gasp. He feels Frank’s hand on his thigh, right at the hem of where the shorts have ridden up, just under his hip.

His skin singes where Frank’s fingers trail over it. Through the haze of pleasure sweeping through him, he’s vaguely aware of the blood rushing towards his center. He can feel himself reacting to this touch and he feels helpless to stop it. 

Janet continues, quickly unraveling, “Oh, Brad!” she cries.

Frank’s head pops up from Will’s waist and Will’s body unclenches from the tension he was holding in at Frank’s presence so close to where the fire is erupting in his veins. His hand shoots up in the darkness and his finger brushes Will’s lips. 

“Shhhh,” he hushes. 

His finger lingers for a second before falling away, catching on Will’s bottom lip as it does. Will misses the contact as soon as it’s gone. He almost chases after it. 

“Brad’s ought to be asleep by now,” Frank purrs. “Do you really want him to see you—”

Frank’s hands wrap around Will’s knees and tug upwards, pulling them around his waist. Will’s insides melt, his thoughts scattering at the feeling of being wrapped around this man’s frame so intimately. He feels his blood pulse harder, pounding in his ears, throbbing at his center. He aches to be touched there.

“—like this!”

Janet screams again.

Frank catches Will's hand again and guides it to his chest, seamlessly shaping the scene so it appears Janet is trying to push him away.

Will's palm settles against the rigid structure of the corset. Beneath it, he can feel the warmth of another person, the rise and fall of measured breaths. His fingertips brush the strip of exposed skin above the corset's edge.

Then Frank gives his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. The gesture is small, almost imperceptible. Yet it startles Will more than anything else.

For a fleeting second, the illusion fractures. The scene, the costumes, the dialogue echoing through the theater—all of it falls away beneath the simple reality of that touch.

Not Dr. Frank-N-Furter—but an actor. Just a person.

A quiet, wordless cue meant to guide him through the scene. The absurdity of the situation crashes back over him all at once. A few minutes ago he'd been sitting in the audience. Now he’s lying in the middle of the stage with a hundred onlookers as he gets ravished.

His pulse stumbles.

Will follows the silent direction anyway, keeping his hand braced against Frank's chest as Janet's next line rings out overhead.

"I was saving myself!"

Frank drifts closer, invading the fragile space between them until Will can feel the subtle displacement of air with every movement. A whisper of breath brushes across his skin, light as silk, gone almost as soon as it arrives. It carries the crisp scent of mint, fresh and cool, as though he'd chewed gum moments before stepping into the spotlight.

A few loose curls fall forward, grazing Will's brow in fleeting, feather-soft touches.

And beneath the sharpness of mint, another scent lingers—fainter, harder to place. Sweet and clean. Apples, Will realizes after a moment, the note surfacing through the haze of adrenaline and stage lights like a half-remembered thought.

Of all the things happening around him—the audience, the lights, the impossible dream-like quality of the moment—that is what his brain chooses to focus on.

Mint. Apples. Warm breath. And eyes he can barely make out in the darkness, fixed entirely on him.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not spent. Yet.” Frank says, leaning in so their noses brush. 

Will sucks in a breath, his heart pounding. 

He’s distantly aware of Janet speaking. “Promise you won’t tell Brad?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Frank says reverently and his body presses into Will’s even more.

The hard lines of his corset settle against Will’s bare skin. Will lets himself be guided backwards again, falling into the bed. His hands wrap around Frank’s waist as he does, his fingers sliding down the hard plane of the corset to find the skin just above his briefs. 

He thinks he hears a hitch of breath, or maybe feels it against his lips. 

He’s not sure who initiates it first, but suddenly their hips are pressing into each other. Will’s fingers tighten around Frank’s waist.

The hard leather of his briefs slide over Will’s hard length, dragging the soft material of the shorts along it. Will sucks in a sharp intake of breath, the feeling of it so good and not enough at the same time. 

Janet giggles somewhere in the distance.

Frank grinds his hips into Will’s, the movement sharp and measured. Will lets out a strangled gasping sound that blends into the onslaught of Janet’s moans overhead. 

Frank sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and groans with the movement. Will’s heart stutters in his chest when he realizes he’s not just feeling hard leather rubbing against him—he feels the unmistakable shape of Frank’s own arousal. This realization breaks open something inside Will. 

He wants more. 

The relentless push and pull of the scene, the charged touches, the lingering closeness—all of it gathers into a single, reckless impulse. 

The space between their mouths vanishes.

Drawn forward by adrenaline, by curiosity, by the dizzy unreality of the performance itself, he abandons hesitation and simply follows the feeling.

For a heartbeat, time seems to stall. Frank lets out a soft, surprised sound, and the atmosphere between them changes instantly. 

His lips part and he kisses Will back. A hand finds the back of Will’s knee and hitches it higher. Will gives in easily, his legs spreading wider to wrap around Frank’s waist, pulling him tighter against him as Frank rolls his hips again. 

Will’s breath catches with the movement and releases a second later against Frank’s lips. Frank seems to drink it in, his lips finding Will’s with urgency, tongue darting out to brush against his bottom lip. 

His hand slides down the length of Will’s thigh, agonizingly slow. Long fingers inching further down, until—finally—they grip onto his waist, thumb brushing over Will’s hip bone with such softness it almost makes Will moan again. 

He breaks away from the kiss, gasping for air. His breath hitches as Frank presses into him again, their erections rubbing together through layers of thin fabric. 

Frank’s lips brush against the corner of Will’s, his own gasp puffing against Will’s skin. Will feels him shift, his lips drifting upwards. Frank presses his lips into Will’s skin, a gentle brush that lands on the small freckle that lives just below his nose. 

Applause crashes through the theater like a breaking wave.

Beyond the curtain, hands come together in thunderous approval, whistles piercing through the roar, voices hollering and cheering as the stage lights dim and finally surrender to black. The world that had existed beneath the spotlight vanishes in an instant, swallowed by darkness and the deafening sound of adoration.

Frank pulls away the moment the ovation erupts.

The loss of him is instantaneous. One second, his body is pressed against Will's, warmth seeping into his skin, anchoring him there in the dark. The next, that heat is gone, evaporating as though it had never existed at all.

Frank rolls away with practiced ease, disappearing from the bed in a fluid movement. A sliver of light cuts through the curtain as he parts it and slips beyond.

Will lies motionless. Breathless. Stunned. Frozen. For a fleeting, painful moment, a thought rises unbidden.

Is that it?

Is it over already?

The question barely has time to form before a hand appears through the curtain. Strong fingers wrap around his wrist. Then he's being yanked upright. The sheets tangle around his legs as he's hauled from the bed and onto the darkened stage.

Frank doesn't slow down. His arm remains outstretched behind him, hand locked around Will's, pulling him forward with relentless momentum. Together they dart through the narrow doorway at the rear of the stage, slipping into the hidden arteries of the theater.

Gone are the spotlights and painted illusions. Here, everything exists in fragments—shadow and movement, darkness interrupted by brief flashes of working light. Will stumbles after Frank through the cramped passageways between walls and backstage crawlspaces.

Occasionally a shaft of light catches on Frank. The curve of the tattoo winding around his bicep. A glimpse of fishnet stretched across his calf. The dark sweep of his hair. Then he's swallowed by shadow again.

Will assumes he’s being guided back toward his seat in the audience, the scene completed, and Will’s part in it over.

Instead, they emerge backstage.

The theater is still alive with hushed energy. Actors rush past in half-finished costumes. Stagehands weave through the chaos carrying props and set pieces. Somewhere nearby, someone calls for a costume change. The muffled dialogue of the play continues beyond the walls, drifting through speakers and hidden gaps in the scenery.

Frank finally pauses when someone carrying a clipboard intercepts him. The person says something Will can't hear. Frank bends slightly to listen. In the dim light, only his mouth is visible. The rest of his face remains obscured beneath shadow.

A few words escape him, his voice low and difficult to hear.

"...understudy..."

"...next part..."

"...intermission..."

"...be back..."

Fragments. Pieces without context. Will catches them like scraps of paper caught in the wind, unable to assemble them into anything meaningful.

He waits for someone to step in. To escort him away from this strange hidden place that exists behind the curtain—a world of performance and transformation, of painted smiles and quick changes and impossible magic.

No one does.

Instead, Frank's grip tightens.

Then they're moving again, deeper—farther from the noise.

The bustling backstage fades behind them as they disappear down a long corridor lit by tired yellow bulbs. Doors line both sides of the hallway, each bearing worn nameplates and fading stickers. Their footsteps thump softly against the floor.

They turn.

Then turn again.

Another hallway.

Another corner.

Until Frank abruptly stops before a door and pushes it open. He pulls Will inside. The door shuts quickly behind them.

The silence feels startling after so much noise.

Frank remains standing there with his back to the room, facing the closed door as though making certain it will stay that way. His head is bowed slightly. The elegant slope of his neck is fully exposed. So are the sharp lines of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Will lets his gaze drift around the room.

A dressing room—small, intimate, and lived-in.

To the right, a vanity glows beneath a frame of warm bulbs, casting hazy honey-colored light across the space. An oversized velvet armchair sits before it, rich and luxurious, as though waiting patiently for its owner to return. Makeup brushes, powder compacts, and scattered pieces of jewelry clutter the tabletop in beautiful disarray. Photographs are tucked into the edges of the mirror's frame—smiling faces frozen in time, though the light is too dim for Will to make out who they belong to.

Along the far wall hangs a rack of costumes.

Dark corsets drape from hangers. Feather boas spill in cascades of black and crimson. Lingerie studded with sequins and rhinestones glitters beneath the vanity lights, scattering flecks of gold and silver across the room like captive stars.

For a moment, Will lets himself look. He takes in the traces of lives lived beneath stage lights. At the evidence of transformation hanging neatly in rows. The glamour. The artifice. The magic waiting to be slipped on and shed again.

Then his gaze lands on Frank again.

He hasn't moved.

He's still standing by the door exactly as he was when they entered, broad shoulders outlined by the warm glow spilling from the vanity. One hand rests lightly against the wood, his head still bowed.

The sight makes something tighten in Will's chest.

Only now does he realize how hard his heart has been pounding. The adrenaline that carried him through the performance, through the applause, through the twisting backstage corridors and hidden doors, is beginning to fade. In its place comes awareness. Embarrassment. Rational thought creeping back into the edges of his mind where it had been conspicuously absent for the last several minutes.

The silence suddenly feels enormous.

Will swallows. His mouth has gone dry. If he doesn't say something now, he thinks he may never manage it.

"I—um..." His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat and tries again. "Sorry if I got carried away out there." A nervous laugh escapes him, thin and breathless.

His gaze drops briefly to the floor.

"I don't know what happened," he says, the words shaking slightly as they leave him. "I just..."

The sentence dissolves before he can finish it.

Frank doesn't respond.

The silence stretches.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head.

The movement is small, but it seems to shift something in the room.

His shoulders straighten and settle—as though he's arrived at a decision.

His hands fall away from the door where they've been resting, fingers loosening at his sides. A soft sigh leaves him, barely audible in the stillness.

The sound feels heavier than words.

Will watches as Frank remains facing the door for another moment, tension gathering in the line of his shoulders before slowly releasing.

Then he turns.

His gaze stays lowered, fixed somewhere on the floor between them.

At first, Will only notices the things he's already seen—they're simply closer now.

Dark eyeshadow swept across heavy lids. Brows sculpted into sharp, dramatic arches. Lips painted a deep red. Pale skin illuminated by the vanity lights, cheekbones carved into striking clarity by contoured powder.

Pieces of details. His mind registers them one by one without understanding.

Then something shifts—like gears finally catching after spinning uselessly in place.

Will's eyes move across Frank's face again. And then again.

Each pass reveals something new beneath the makeup.

The familiar angle of a jaw.

The shape of a nose he's seen a thousand times.

The subtle curve of a mouth.

Features that have been obscured, transformed, hidden beneath costume and character.

His brow furrows. Confusion blooms, sharp and sudden.

No.

His mouth parts slightly. The pieces continue sliding together whether he wants them to or not.

No, that can't—

Then Frank lifts his eyes and looks directly at him.

Everything stops.

The world narrows to those eyes.

Dark.

Endless.

Smooth pools of brown so deep they seem black at first glance.

But Will knows those eyes.

God, he knows them.

He’s spent years looking into them across crowded hallways, over late night gaming sessions, across shared couch cushions. He has memorized every shade hidden within them—the caramel caught in sunlight, the warm chestnut beneath fluorescent lights, the near-black they become in shadow.

He knows them.

A sharp breath tears from his chest. His heart stumbles. The room seems to tilt beneath him as realization crashes through every carefully constructed assumption in his head.

The makeup.

The costume.

The voice.

The stage.

Everything rearranges itself at once, snapping into a shape he somehow never saw coming. His mind races desperately to reconcile the person standing before him with what happened only moments ago.

With the body pressed against his.

The hands caressing his skin.

The kiss.

Frank.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter is—

"Mike?"

The name escapes him before he can stop it. Astonishment and confusion twist across his face as he stares at him.

And suddenly, he's not sure which revelation is more shocking—that Dr. Frank-N-Furter is Mike, or that he somehow failed to recognize him until now. 

Mike swallows, then nods. A small, hesitant movement. His eyes are impossibly wide, caught somewhere between apprehension and acceptance.

Will blinks.

His brain scrambles to rearrange everything he thought he knew.

How did he miss this?

Now that he sees it, it feels absurd. Painfully obvious.

Every dramatic flourish. Every smirk. Every sarcastic tilt of the mouth. Every confident stride across the stage.

It's Mike.

It's all so Mike. 

The way he carried himself.

The way he looked at people.

Even the smile—especially the smile.

Now that Will sees it, he can't stop seeing it.

The pieces overlap and blur together until the larger picture comes into focus. The man standing before him melts seamlessly into the Mike he knows—the one sprawled across a chair at game night, elbow hooked over the backrest as he spins some elaborate story. The one sitting around a table with the rest of the party, slipping effortlessly between accents and voices. The one who transforms himself with nothing but a shift in posture, a change in expression, a crooked grin, until he's no longer Mike but some creature, villain, or hero he's brought to life.

Will has watched him do it countless times. Has watched him disappear into characters and emerge as someone else entirely. And somehow, when Mike steps onto a stage and does the exact same thing, only bigger and brighter and wrapped in sequins and spotlight, Will doesn't recognize him at all.

The realization is equal parts astonishing and humiliating. Will stares at him, horror creeping steadily across his face as he comes to terms with the sheer magnitude of his own obliviousness.

Then the rest of reality catches up. It hits him all at once like a freight train.

Heat floods his face.

His stomach drops.

His soul attempts to evacuate his body.

Because it wasn't just some actor. It wasn't some stranger inhabiting a character.

It was Mike.

Mike.

The same Mike he knows.

The same Mike he sees every day.

The same Mike he'd just—

"Oh no." The words slip out before he can stop them.

Memory after memory flashes through his mind with merciless clarity:

Pulling Mike into a kiss.

His hands flexing around Mike’s hip.

His legs wrapped around Mike's waist.

The sounds he'd made into Mike's mouth.

The fact that he'd clearly enjoyed every second of it.

"Oh my God." Will squeezes his eyes shut. A groan tears from him. His hand smacks against his forehead with enough force to sting. "Oh my God."

The room suddenly feels much too small and much too warm.

Mike is still standing there, watching him—which somehow makes everything infinitely worse.

Every survival instinct Will possesses converges on a single conclusion—run. Immediately.

Without another word, he strides toward the door. His heart is hammering so hard it feels painful. He takes two hurried steps, intent on fleeing this dressing room, this theater, this city, possibly this entire state—anything to escape the mortifying reality currently unfolding around him. 

He brushes past Mike, careful not to look directly at him, and reaches for the doorknob. His fingers close around the cool metal.

Freedom.

He twists. Pulls.

A soft thud sounds beside his head.

The door doesn't budge.

Will freezes. For a moment, he stares at the unmoving handle in confusion before his eyes drift upward.

Mike's hand is planted flat against the door, holding it shut. His arm stretches over Will's shoulder, braced against the wood.

Will's gaze follows the line of it automatically. Up the length of his forearm. Past the taut muscle of his bicep. To the sharp line of his shoulder.

And finally—

To his face.

Will’s mouth opens, a protest rising automatically to his tongue. The words never make it out. 

Mike is only inches away. Will becomes acutely aware of the point where Mike's chest brushes lightly against his shoulder. The contact is barely there, just a whisper of pressure, and yet heat sparks through him instantly, racing down his spine before he can stop it.

His pulse stutters. Slowly, carefully, he draws in a breath, the clean and sweet smell of Mike hitting him immediately. Will wishes he hadn't noticed.

"What are you doing?" he asks. The words come out slower and quieter than intended.

Mike's eyelashes flutter. For a moment, he says nothing. His lips press into a thin line. Then he shifts, just enough to step closer, to invade what little space remains between them.

It forces Will to turn fully toward him, leaving them face-to-face. Will instinctively presses his back against the door, seeking distance that no longer exists. The wood meets his shoulders and there’s nowhere else to go.

Mike’s expression is unreadable in the soft glow of the vanity lights. Will searches his face anyway.

For annoyance.

For amusement.

For confusion.

Anything that might explain why Mike is standing so close, why his hand is still braced against the door, why neither of them seems capable of walking away.

The silence stretches.

Beyond the walls, the theater continues to breathe. Faint voices drift through distant corridors. Somewhere, a door closes. Somewhere else, applause rises and falls like a wave.

But inside the dressing room, the world has narrowed to the space between them.

“Did you like what we did—out there?” Mike asks instead. 

Will's eyes immediately dart away. For a moment he squeezes his eyes shut, as though darkness might somehow help him organize the riot of thoughts crashing through his head.

It doesn't.

When he opens them again, Mike is still there. Still watching him. Waiting.

“I think you liked it,” Mike says softly. 

Will lets his head fall back against the door. The wood knocks softly against his skull. A long breath leaves him through his nose. 

"That—that was before I knew it was you." His voice sounds strained to his own ears. "Mike, I..."

The words tangle together and refuse to cooperate.

Mike tilts his head slightly. The movement is small, thoughtful.

“Does that change anything?” Mike asks.

There's no challenge in the question. No edge. If anything, he sounds genuinely curious. Like he's trying to understand something.

Will stares at him. "It's different," he finally stammers. "You don't—I mean..." Heat floods his face. "I like guys," he says weakly. "And you don't."

For a moment, Mike says nothing. His gaze drops briefly between them. Then the hand hanging loosely at his side moves. His fingers brush Will’s and gently curl around his hand.

“What if I said I liked it, too? Does that change anything?”

Will stares at Mike, mouth hanging open uselessly.

Mike leans closer, his lips pressing faintly into the hollow between his neck and collarbone. Will trembles from the effort of holding still, the ache to pull Mike in rising inside him. 

Mike ghosts his lips up Will’s neck, landing at his ear. 

“What if I said I knew it was you, on that bed, waiting for me,” he whispers into Will’s ear. 

It sends a shiver down his spine and his breath catches from the force of it.

“Would that change anything for you?” 

The question feels rhetorical now and Will doesn’t even try to answer. 

Mike’s fingers detangle from Will’s and trail up his arm, feather light, until they hit the strap of Will’s lace top. His finger snags on it, tracing the length of it. Mike kisses the spot directly under Will’s ear, light and teasing. 

“I saw you, in the crowd, and it just hit me,” Mike starts, murmuring the words into Will’s skin. “I knew I couldn’t pretend. Not anymore.” His voice is husky, rough with some emotion Will can’t place. 

“Looking like this. And seeing you with someone else.” Will feels goosebumps in every spot Mike’s lips brush and his finger strokes absentmindedly. 

“I tried, Will,” Mike says and Will thinks he feels his lip tremble where it’s pressed against his neck. “I really tried,” he whispers again, more to himself than to Will. “But I can’t anymore.”

Will isn’t sure he’s understanding everything, his thoughts are so befuddled with sensation and new information. The feeling of Mike’s body sliding along his own—his caress—is so much more than distracting. He feels like he’s caught between a dream and reality. 

“So tell me now, Will,” Mike murmurs. Will feels a brush of his tongue over the sensitive spot below his ear. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” 

Will squeezes his eyes shut, his pulse thundering against his ribs.

Every muscle in his body feels taut, straining beneath the weight of everything he's trying not to say, not to do, not to feel. He can feel the tension humming through him, barely contained, as though one wrong word might shatter whatever fragile control he has left.

Surely Mike can sense it—the effort it takes to stand still. The effort it takes to keep breathing normally. The effort it takes to hold this moment at arm's length when every part of him wants to let it in.

Because beneath the confusion and shock, beneath the fear of what any of this might mean, something much deeper is pressing against the walls he's built around himself.

Something that has been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. And it feels dangerously close to breaking free.

Mike parts his lips around the same spot and sucks gently. 

Will sucks in a sharp breath. 

Mike sucks harder.

Will’s chest heaves as he takes another breath, deeper now. But Mike doesn’t let up, he only presses closer, his mouth sucking harder. Will feels heat pooling low again, nerves lighting up with pleasure at the sensation of Mike’s lips. 

A small whimper escapes Will’s throat. 

It only encourages Mike more. He moves to a spot lower and repeats it, starting slow with just a press of his lips, then turning messier, sucking at the skin until Will gives in to the sounds bubbling up inside him. 

“I—,” Will tries but Mike sucks another kiss lower on his neck. The words get lost on an exhale. 

“Yeah, Will?” Mike asks quietly.

Will swallows as Mike continues placing slow, lazy kisses at the base of his throat. 

“I—um, I want—”

Mike’s finger suddenly trails lower, his hand opening to slide down Will’s chest. He grazes over the rough lace covering Will’s nipple and it sends a shock of pleasure shooting through him. Will bites his lip. Mike’s hand comes to a stop at Will’s hip, holding gently there—a firm pressure that doesn’t make Will feel cornered, just grounded. 

“Tell me, Will,” Mike continues whispering. “Tell me to stop and we’ll put it away forever.” 

Will’s heart seizes around the words, around the terrible finality hidden inside them. The thought alone sends a sharp ache through his chest. For a fleeting second, his eyes burn, his vision threatening to blur as emotion rises too quickly to contain. His throat tightens painfully, as though something has lodged there. He forces himself to swallow around it.

A shaky breath leaves him. Then another.

He exhales slowly, trying to breathe out the fear coursing through him—the fear that's been building for years, vibrating beneath his skin, rattling through every nerve.

“I want you to say it,” Will whispers. 

The words barely carry beyond Mike’s shoulder. They drift into the dim quiet of the room, fragile enough that he almost wishes he could take them back.

Mike stills instantly.

The warmth of his lips lingers against Will’s shoulder for a heartbeat before he pulls back just enough to stop. Will feels the small shift, the tilt of his head, the silent expectation.

“Say what?” Mike asks after a moment, his voice low and careful.

Will wets his suddenly dry lips. The answer sits heavy on his tongue.

“I want you to say…” His voice falters. He hates how vulnerable it sounds, how naked. “That you want me.”

The confession hangs between them. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“That you want…” He struggles through the knot in his throat. “This.”

The last word comes out softer than a breath, laden with every fear he can't quite voice—that he's misunderstood everything, that this isn't real, that Mike might pull away.

Mike draws back enough to look at him. Their eyes meet. For a second, neither of them says anything. Then Mike’s expression shifts, disbelief flashing across his face as though he can't fathom what he's hearing.

“Will.” His voice is firm, warm, edged with something almost wounded. As if the very idea that Will could doubt him is impossible to understand.

Mike’s hand slips from Will’s hip and rises to his face, fingers curling gently around his jaw. His thumb brushes across the soft line of Will’s cheekbone, catching the trail of moisture there. Only then does Will realize a tear has escaped.

Mike’s other hand leaves the door and comes to mirror the first, cupping Will’s face between warm, steady palms as though he’s holding something precious.

Will can only stare.

His gaze roams helplessly across Mike’s face, searching, lingering, collecting every tiny shift in expression as though each one is something sacred. The faint crease between his brows. The flash of pain. The helplessness. The longing that seems to live just beneath his skin.

Will drinks it all in greedily, starving for proof, for certainty, for anything that might quiet the fear still clawing at his ribs.

Mike’s eyes never leave his. His voice drops into that familiar register—low and intimate, threaded with affection, reserved for moments when the rest of the world falls away. A voice no one else ever seems to hear. A voice that belongs only to Will.

“I want you.” 

Mike’s hand slides lower on Will’s jaw until his thumb settles against the curve of Will’s bottom lip. 

“God, I want you,” Mike repeats. The words emerge rougher this time, weighted with feeling.

His gaze drops, following the path of his thumb as it traces the soft edge of Will’s mouth. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at him, as though he’s afraid to miss a single thing.

The air between them feels impossibly thin.

Mike steps closer, closing the small space between them.

Will feels the warmth radiating from him, feels every uneven breath they share. Mike’s eyes lift again, finding his, and this time they don’t waver. They hold Will completely—steady, open, aching with everything he’s trying to say.

Mike presses in until their legs slot together. His thigh presses into Will where heat is quickly gathering. Will feels Mike’s own hard length pressing into his hip. 

Will’s lips part from the feeling of it, a shaky breath escaping between them. His lip brushes against Mike’s thumb with the movement. 

Mike drops his forehead onto Will’s with a groan, his hips shifting in the smallest movement, grinding the tiniest bit. 

Mike gasps and Will lets out a small sound in the back of his throat. 

“Can’t you feel how much I want this?” Mike says. He tilts his head, nudging his nose along Will’s. 

Will feels himself tilting his head, chasing after the feeling of Mike’s breath against his lips, nudging his nose into Mike’s. 

He feels dizzy with it, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Intoxicated by Mike’s hands, his thumb dragging along Will’s lip now. His erection grinding into Will’s hip again. 

Only an inch separates their mouths, lips parted, panting into each other as they both seek friction against the other. 

Will can't bear the distance—not for another second.

It's barely anything—a breath of space between them—but it feels unbearable all the same. Every nerve in his body seems acutely aware of it, aching with the absence of contact.

His pulse stutters wildly.

Heat floods through him, leaving him flustered and dizzy, his thoughts unraveling with gaining speed. The room, the door at his back, every lingering fear and uncertainty—all of it begins to blur at the edges.

His world narrows—until there's only Mike.

Only the warmth of his hands cradling Will's face. The steady pressure of his thumb on his mouth. The soft sound of shared breaths in the quiet.

And beneath that, waves of desire, cresting and mounting just below the surface. A deep, relentless ache that has lived inside him for so long he hardly knows where it ends and he begins. It pulses through him now, insistent and impossible to ignore, drowning out everything else.

All he can think is that he wants Mike closer.

Closer than this.

“Mike,” Will breathes. His name slips out like a confession, soft and trembling.

Mike's breath catches. Will feels it as much as he hears it—the slight hitch between them, the sudden tension that flickers through Mike's frame. His eyes darken, fixed unwaveringly on Will's face.

“Yeah?” he answers.

The single word comes out rough around the edges. Breathless, as though speaking has suddenly become difficult. As if hearing his name in Will's voice has knocked the air from his lungs.

The space between the word and the silence that follows feels charged, humming with anticipation. Mike doesn't look away. Doesn't move.

He just waits.

Open, attentive.

Ready for whatever Will is about to ask for.

Will looks up at him, eyes steady despite the frantic rhythm of his heart. “Kiss me.” 

Mike’s eyes narrow slightly—not in confusion or surprise, but with the look of someone who has been standing at the edge of a precipice, waiting for permission to jump. Waiting for a signal. Waiting for Will to give it.

His gaze flickers over Will's face, drinking him in one last time, then he moves.

Without hesitation.

Without doubt.

Mike closes the last inch of distance and captures Will's lips with his own.

The kiss isn't rushed or desperate. It's certain—firm and steady and heartbreakingly deliberate. His hands remain cradling Will's face, thumbs brushing lightly against his skin as his lips move against Will's with quiet purpose. Every touch feels intentional. Every second feels treasured.

Like he's been carrying this want inside him for years.

Will’s hands fly up to Mike’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter. 

Mike rubs their bodies together again, never breaking the kiss, and the friction of it paired with the feeling of Mike’s lips moving with his is so deliciously good, Will moans into the kiss. 

His hands slide down to Mike’s waist, pulling him in to grind harder. 

Mike lets out a broken sigh.

Will presses closer, driving Mike backwards. They stumble in a tangled retreat until the backs of Mike’s thighs collide with the vanity. The armchair gets caught in their path and scrapes loudly across the floor as it’s knocked away, the harsh drag of its legs shooting through the room. The vanity shudders from the impact, rattling against the wall, and several items teeter before tumbling from its surface, clattering onto the floor. 

Will’s hands wander higher, one splaying open across the arch of Mike’s back, the other tracing beneath the corset’s edge. There’s a quiet urgency in the gesture, a yearning to bridge every space between them, his touch reverent and lingering as it follows the lines of warmth and movement beneath his hands. 

Mike still has a hold of Will’s face, deepening the kiss in response. His tongue slips between his lips and Will meets it with his own, grazing in a fleeting, playful touch before slotting their lips together again. 

Then, in one swift motion, Mike pivots them around. The room seems to tilt with the sudden shift, and Will’s legs meets the edge of the vanity as Mike pins him there with his hips.

His mouth breaks away from Will’s but it’s only a second before his lips are moving again—sloppy, sucking kisses trailing down inch by inch. Down his neck, his shoulder, stopping at where his nipple peeks out under the lace.  Mike’s tongue darts out to lightly circle around it, then he’s resuming his path. 

Will’s chest heaves, his heart racing with a mixture of awe and exhilaration, a telltale flush spreading across his cheeks. As Mike continues his descent, Will’s hands drift into his hair, threading through the unruly curls. 

Mike bends and sits on his knees in front of Will, his kisses growing softer and slower as they reach the waistband of his shorts. His hands settle firmly at Will’s hips, anchoring him in place. He pauses there for a moment before brushing a lingering kiss against the freckle above Will’s right hip, the touch gentle and unhurried. Then he turns his face inward, resting it against the warmth of Will’s lower stomach. His eyes fall shut as he breathes deeply, as though savoring the simple comfort of being close. 

A moment later, Mike tilts his head back, peering up at Will, his adam’s apple bobbing as he takes in the sight above him. 

Will looks back, his fingers brushing a curl away from Mike’s forehead. 

“You look so fucking incredible, Will,” Mike says. His eyes travel over Will’s chest and stomach. One of his hands snakes up Will’s side and wraps around his ribs. “You have no idea…” he trails off. 

Will’s lips curl in a smile. “No idea of what?”

Mike’s eyes meet Will’s again. “Of how much I want you. Of the things I want to do to you.”

Will’s pulse spikes, his erection twitching under the delicate material. “Y-yeah?” he manages. 

Mike’s gaze drops to the front of Will’s shorts, where his arousal sits, impossible to ignore. He nods, licking his lips. 

“Yeah.” He leans forward until his mouth drags across Will’s length. 

Will’s fingers tighten in his hair, a surprised gasp filling the silence. 

Mike opens his lips and mouths at the fabric stretching over Will’s erection. “Fuck, you’re so hard, Will,” he groans into the fabric. 

“Mike—” Will whimpers. 

Mike’s eyes tilt up to him again. “Can I, Will?” 

The hand at his hip curls into the waistband of Will’s shorts, tugging gently in question. 

“Let me take care of you,” Mike begs. 

Will’s breath stutters. He nods before he can find the words, the answer written plainly across his face. Want settles deep in his chest—fierce and undeniable.

Mike pulls at the shorts and they give away easily, the soft material stretching over his hips until they fall to his ankles in a whisper. His cock bobs in front of Mike’s face, glistening and swollen. 

“Fuck, you’re already leaking for me,” Mike praises. His hand moves from Will’s hip to slide to the base of his erection. “Tell me what you want, Will,” he whispers. 

Will scrambles for words, thought momentarily cut off at the sight of Mike Wheeler kneeling in front of him, begging to suck him off. 

He thinks of all the times he’s turned this over in his mind—dreamed it, reshaped it, worn it down with repetition until there was nothing new left to imagine. And yet none of those versions ever came close. None of them looked like this, felt like this, sounded like this. 

“Your tongue—along the tip,” Will instructs, quiet and breathless. 

Mike complies immediately, his lips parting to allow for his tongue to rest on his bottom lip. He sits forward and uses the hand wrapped around the base to set the tip on his tongue. He slowly licks along the head, lapping in one smooth motion. 

Will lets out a helpless groan. 

Mike moves the head around his tongue in circles, the flat surface of it leaving a trail of spit in its wake. He licks at the slit and pulls his tongue back into his mouth, tasting the leaking precum that’s collected there. He glances back up to Will.

“Like that?” he asks, his voice low and steady, all intent and quiet seriousness. 

Will swallows and nods, “Yeah, that was…perfect,” he admits. “Now, the underside.”

Mike tilts his head and drags his tongue along the underside of Will, from base to tip. He doubles back, licking up and down, saliva gathering around his lips.

“N-now,” Will gasps when Mike’s tongue circles the tip again, “s-suck—just the head.”

Mike listens, his lips immediately wrapping around the tip. 

Will moans from it, the feeling of Mike’s lips wrapped around him, hot and wet—his tongue savoring every part of Will inside his mouth. One of Will’s hands leaves Mike’s head and grips onto Mike’s hand where it’s splayed over his stomach. 

Their fingers lock together, Will’s clasped over Mike’s, their hands shuddering with every breath that tears through Will’s clenched abdomen. 

“Uhh—yes,” Will breathes. “More—oh—take m-more—as much as you can take,” Will instructs.

Mike sinks deeper, his mouth swallowing over Will inch by inch. 

Will watches as Mike takes it all, deeper and deeper until he reaches the base. His jaw drops open, his eyelashes fluttering as he feels himself hit the back of Mike’s throat, and then the feeling of sucking as Mike pulls back slowly. His cheeks hollow out around him, sliding back in a wet sound. 

“Uh,” Will gasps, “how—?” he doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence as Mike chases after his gasp, bobbing all the way and back again. And again. And again.

Until Will is panting between grunts. 

Mike pulls back then, his face shining and wet, lips swollen and smeared with dark red lipstick. He peers up at Will, a little breathless.

“Is that good?” he implores eagerly. 

Will gapes at him, equally breathless. “Mike—yes. It’s—it’s…more than good. It’s amazing. How are you so fucking good at that?” 

Mike smirks slightly and raises his eyebrows, “No gag reflex,” he admits. He swallows, his face turning serious again, hesitating a fraction before hardening with resolve

“Will…” Mike swallows, his eyes shining with need. “I want you to fuck me.”

Will’s eyes widen.

“Fuck my face until you finish. Please.” 

“Are you—sure?” Will asks.. 

Mike nods immediately. “Yeah, Will,” he smiles slightly and whispers, “you have no idea all the things I want you to do to me.”

Will bites his lip, his own smile tugging upwards. He thinks he can probably relate more than Mike realizes. 

“Okay…”

Mike dips his head down again and pauses. “And Will?”

Will raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t hold back. I want it all—everything you’ll give me.” His fingers tighten around Will’s where their hands remain interlocked. “I can take it.” 

Will stands frozen for a beat after Mike speaks, staring at him as if the words haven’t quite caught up to reality yet. He doesn’t think Mike realizes what those words do to him—how deeply they land, how they echo far beyond this moment. It isn’t just what’s been said in the room, but everything it brushes against, everything it means without being spoken.

Something swells in Will’s chest, too vast to name easily. It presses outward, expanding until it feels like it can’t possibly stay contained. The feeling that has lived inside him for as long as he can remember grows, immense and overwhelming, reshaped by the simple certainty in Mike’s voice.

Mike continues on, taking Will into his mouth, like he didn’t just unearth everything Will has carefully buried and tilt it toward the light.  As if he hasn’t just put his hand to the locked door of Will’s heart, only to find that it was never really closed at all. 

Mike sinks onto him slowly, his eyes meeting Will’s and holding as his mouth works him. 

Will’s grip tightens in Mike’s hair, quick and involuntary, the heat of Mike’s mouth enveloping him. 

Mike hums around him, his lashes fluttering for an instant. 

Will feels the vibration everywhere, rippling through him. He shudders from the sensation of it and tugs a little harder, eliciting another wave of moans from Mike. 

He uses his grip on Mike’s hair to steady himself, and then he’s moving. He drags his cock out of Mike’s mouth slowly, pulling back until it’s just the tip. Then, he pushes forward, slow and testing, careful not to go too fast too quickly. 

He buries himself inside Mike’s mouth with a choked noise. 

Mike takes it easily, his eyes locked onto Will’s as he starts thrusting in slow dragging motions. 

Will feels himself winding tighter, the heat coiling closer and closer. His hips start to stutter in uncontrollable bursts, gasping moans spilling out of him in increasing volume. 

Through it all, Mike's hand remains laced with Will's, steady and certain.His gaze never wavers. 

It holds Will there—tethered to this moment and to him.

Mike is looking back at him with a kind of openness that steals the air from his lungs. The deep blue hues of his eyeshadow only makes his eyes seem darker, more luminous, more impossible to escape. Will traces every familiar detail as if seeing it for the first time. The elegant line of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the constellation of freckles beginning to emerge beneath the fading layer of powder and stage makeup. 

This is what sparks his unraveling—not the touch. Not the dizzying rush of sensation.

Just this—Mike, beneath the costume and paint. Mike, looking at him as though there is nowhere else he'd rather be.

For years, Will has loved him through every version of himself—through longing and distance, through heartbreak, through every earnest attempt to let him go and move on. He'd spent so long imagining what it might feel like to finally reach the end of that ache, only to discover that it had never been leading away from Mike at all.

It had been leading here. To this moment. To these eyes. To Mike, wrapped around and through him.

And as the realization settles over him, warm and overwhelming, Will knows with startling certainty that if he were given the choice, he would walk every mile of that road again. Every longing. Every mistake. Every impossible second.

Just to find his way back to this.

His climax crests so suddenly he doesn’t have time to warn Mike. It rips through him and he gasps, his head tilting back as it crashes through him.

Desperate cries are wrenched from him, raw and ragged, ripped from somewhere deep within him where longing and need have tangled together for years. 

Mike takes it all, his throat bobbing as he swallows it down. After it’s dissipated, he slips free with a wet sound and climbs to his feet, licking his way up Will’s stomach and chest, until he’s towering over Will, pressing soft kisses in his neck.

Will pants, catching his breath and peering at Mike through half lidded eyes. 

Mike's makeup is a mess, smeared around his mouth where spit and cum have turned the crimson pigment into blurred streaks. The theatrical perfection is gone. 

He looks ruined by the moment and remade by it, just as much as Will feels.

Flushed and breathless, his hair damp at the temples, he wears the aftermath openly. He looks like someone who has crossed a finish line after running for miles and found exactly what he was searching for waiting on the other side. 

“Will, you’re so fucking perfect,” he rasps, bending to press another kiss against the curve of his neck.

The words are rough with awe.

“I’m never going to get enough.” He says it like a revelation. Like the realization arrives only as the words leave his mouth, unfolding between them in real time. Not a complaint or a confession, just a simple truth—one that catches him by surprise even as he speaks it.

Will feels the truth of it the moment the words leave Mike's mouth. It sears his skin like a brand, hot and permanent, kindling an ache that spreads warm and bright through every hungry, hopeful part of him. The desire for more flares instantly, fierce and vast and impossible to satisfy.

Will's hands skim over the rigid lines of the corset, searching instinctively for bare skin beneath the layers of fabric and lacing. The garment doesn't give an inch.

Mike lifts his head just enough to laugh, the sound warm and breathless against the curve of Will's throat.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he murmurs. “This thing's a nightmare. It takes, like, three people to get me in and out of it.”

Will lets out a sound of frustration, his fingers tracing the stubborn seams. His head tilts back at a shock of pleasure from Mike’s mouth on his skin and his hands pause their mission. 

He gathers himself after a moment, breath still uneven, before abandoning the rigid lines of the corset and letting his hands drift lower instead. He shoves at the leather briefs, until they slip past Mike’s sharp hip bones, exposing his leaking cock. 

It presses into Will’s stomach, twitching at the contact. Will doesn’t waste time, hunger pulsing through him as he wraps his hand around it and squeezes.

Mike lets out a low, filthy moan into Will’s neck. His hands slide down Will’s sides and grab his thighs, hoisting him up smoothly to sit on the vanity. The wood legs scrape violently against the floor as the entire structure jolts and shudders under their combined weight.

Makeup trays slam and skid across the surface, spilling color and metal in chaotic streaks. Brushes scatter off the edge. Jewelry stands tip and crash, clattering against glass and wood. A mannequin head with a wig is knocked clean off the vanity and hits the floor with a heavy, hollow thud.

Mike’s forehead falls to Will’s shoulder as Will pulls and tugs at his erection, slicking his hand with the precum and sliding it along its length. 

“Oh, fuck, Will,” Mike curses. “You’re already getting hard for me again.” He aligns them better, hips rolling to slide his cock along Will’s.

Will hitches his legs higher, wrapping them around Mike. He moves his hand to slot their shafts together and rolls his hips in time with Mike, creating an exquisite drag of sensitive skin on skin. 

He wants more. The feeling only sharpens his hunger, leaving him chasing something more intense, more consuming. 

“Mike—I need you,” Will pleads. 

Mike turns his head, kissing along Will’s jaw. “I’m right here,” he pants, low and hushed. 

“No, I need you.” Will emphasizes his words with a roll of his hips. 

Mike curses under his breath. “Tell me what you need, I’ll do anything,” Mike begs helplessly. 

“Y-you,” Will whines, “I want you. All of you.” 

Mike's relentless trail of kisses along Will's jaw comes to a halt. He pulls back just far enough to meet Will's eyes. 

“You mean—”

Will nods before Mike can finish the question. His throat works around a swallow.

“Yes,” he whispers.

The word is barely audible, but there is no hesitation in it. He meets Mike's gaze head-on, eyes wide and unguarded, offering himself fully, the last pieces of his years-long cracked heart quivering, waiting to be mended by Mike’s answer.

Mike stares back, eyes wide, his breath stuttering in his chest. He surges forward without hesitation, cupping Will's face as he kisses him. The kiss lands with the force of an answer, carrying relief and longing and a thousand unsaid things. 

It tells Will everything.

When Mike pulls back his face falls. “Shit,” he declares loudly. “I don’t have any lube.”

Will bites his lip, his thoughts turning and he smiles, languid and sweet. “We don’t need it.”

Mike’s brow furrows in confusion, creasing further when Will grabs onto his hand and lifts it between them.

He parts his lips and wraps them around Mike’s pointer and index finger, sucking them in to the knuckle. His cheeks hollow around them and he watches Mike’s face as he drags them back out.

Mike’s jaw goes slack, his eyes tracking every movement. “Will, god, your mouth,” he breathes.

“Finger me, Mike. I want you inside me,” Will answers.

Mike snaps out of his daze enough to obey. His glistening finger disappears between them and Will feels them prod at his entrance before slipping inside of him. 

Will lets out a high pitched sound at the sensation. The tissue stretches, the feeling of finally being filled satiated for a brief moment at the feeling of Mike inside him. He’s craved it for so long, imagined it in so many ways. His body clenches around him and his hips stutter slightly, seeking more.

“Jesus, Will, you’re already so fucking stretched for me. I already have two fingers in,” Mike marvels.

Will bites his lip around a smile. “I—uhhh—masturbated. This morning,” he grounds out between Mike’s stroking fingers.

Mike’s fingers pause for just a second as he registers Will’s words, then resume their pulsing. 

“Oh yeah?” He says, low and dangerous. “What did you think about?”

His fingers continue in rhythmic strokes, working him open, as he grabs their cocks in his other hand and starts to pump them together. 

“You,” Will breathes. 

Mike leans in and nuzzles his nose into Will’s, their foreheads coming to rest on each other. “Yeah? You thought of me? Stretching you open like this?”

Will nods, his mouth slack. “Yeah—yes,” he says around gasps, eyelids heavy. 

“What else?” Mike groans as his thumb sweeps Will’s leaking precum over his own tip. “What else did you think about while you fingered yourself as I sat on the other side of the wall?”

His fingers twist and brush against the sensitive spot inside.

Will’s back arches and he cries out. 

“This. Us. You and me,” Will says, “Just like this.”

Mike whimpers. “God, Will. If I had just known…” He trails off and takes a shaky breath. “I’m going to make it up to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up…for everything…” he says with conviction. 

Will can feel the wave of pleasure gaining speed quickly, washing over him more and more. He still feels too empty, there’s not enough, he needs more—craves it so badly he aches. 

“Mmmmhh, Mike, I need more—I need you inside me. Now,” Will urges softly.

Mike slips his fingers out and lines his tip up with Will’s entrance, the barest pressure pushing into Will’s stretched muscle. 

“Wait,” Will pants. 

Mike’s other hand rests gently around Will’s hip and his stomach flexes with the effort of holding back. He looks at Will, patiently waiting.

“Spit on it,” Will commands. 

Mike’s eyes darken. He sucks on his bottom lip as he gathers his saliva in his mouth. His cheeks move, sucking in before relaxing again. He looks down at his cock and purses his lips, a thin ribbon of saliva slipping past until he spits out the last bit with a soft sound. It splatters between them.

Will licks his own hand, coating it generously before wrapping it around Mike and spreading their shared saliva over the shaft. 

The wet slap of Will’s hand sounds in the inches of space between them. He presses Mike into him, lining him up once more. He takes a shuddering breath, a shiver running along his spine at the contact. Glancing up, he’s hit with reality for a brief moment.

A laugh escapes him in a soft huff. A smile blooms across his face, and the harder he tries to suppress it, the more it dissolves into helpless giggles. 

Mike just stares at him. Wonder softens his features as a slow smile begins to unfold across his face, lingering at the corners of his mouth before growing into something brighter.

“What?” he asks quietly, almost breathless.

Will has to fight through another fit of laughter before he can get the words out. For a moment, all he can do is shake his head, his shoulders trembling with barely contained giggles.

“I never thought I'd lose my virginity to you,” he manages at last. His gaze flicks over Mike's costume, and another laugh escapes him. “Especially looking like this.”

The absurdity of hearing it aloud only makes it funnier. The words sound ridiculous, somehow even more unbelievable than the reality sitting right in front of him.

Mike glances down at himself, suddenly self-conscious, a shy laugh breaking through the tension.

“W-well…we can wait if you want,” he says, quieter now. “Do it when I don’t look like a sexy clown.”

Will’s laughter fades, slowly giving way to something softer. Fondness creeps in around the edges of his smile, gentling it rather than erasing it. His gaze settles on Mike, warm and steady.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just you,” he adds, voice soft and low. “I only see you.”

Mike leans in, kissing Will’s forehead. “It’s my first time, too, you know…”

He pushes closer, his cock sliding past the initial ring of muscle. 

Will’s breath hitches.

Mike’s hand braces against the vanity table, the other snaking around to hold between Will’s shoulder blades.

“I never wanted to…not with anyone else,” Mike continues.

He pulls Will onto him, slipping inside just another inch.

Will gasps at the sensation, his thoughts narrowing even further. It’s just a continuous stream of Mike—hovering over him, touching him, sliding inside him, his words filling the space around them.

“It’s only ever been you,” Mike breathes, lips hovering over Will’s. “Always, only you.”

Will leans in and kisses Mike softly, steadying himself with one hand on the vanity and the other in Mike’s hair. His legs tighten their hold around Mike’s waist, pulling Mike into him even more.

It’s agonizingly slow—Mike’s hips closing the distance between their bodies in the smallest of increments, making sure Will feels every single inch of him.

They both break from the kiss at the same time, foreheads resting together, eyes cast downward to watch as they both work at closing the remaining space. Mike pushes forward and Will meets him, sinking down further onto him as he links his ankles around Mike’s waist. 

Mike’s hold on his back tightens as he buries himself inside, their bodies joined together fully. 

Will pants at the feeling—stretched more than he’s ever been before, fuller than he’s ever felt. The sting of it fades away quickly, melting into a deep, resonating throb that burns through him like the edges of paper held to flame. In its wake, burns something far more consuming—the profound relief of longing, answered at last. 

The feeling pulses through every vein, searing him all the way through. It’s rich and overwhelming, it’s the quiet satisfaction of a need finally being met fully. Desire for more and aching relief blur together until they become impossible to distinguish, coalescing into a deep, undeniable sense of rightness. It settles over him, heavy and warm, threading itself through his limbs and sinking into his bones. 

Mike groans. “Fuck, you’re so tight around me, Will,” he grounds out. “You feel so good, so perfect.”

His chest heaves with the effort of holding still. 

“Just the sight of being inside you could make me come,” Mike whimpers. “It’s like I was made to sit, right here—inside you,” he says breathlessly.

Will nods, the very sight and knowledge of holding Mike inside him sends shocks of pleasure through him. He shifts his hips incrementally, lifting off the table surface to align their hips even more. 

“Ohhhh,” he moans softly as the movement changes the angle—the tip of Mike’s cock hitting the spot inside harder and more fully than he’s ever felt before. 

“Gahh, fuck,” Mike reacts. “You feel so good around me, I can’t hold back for much longer,” he admits. 

“So don’t hold back,” Will huffs. “Not anymore.”

It’s all the permission Mike needs—his hips pull back just a centimeter before snapping forward, hitting Will’s nerves again. 

“Will,” Mike gasps. 

Will arches his back, chasing after the sensation. When Mike pushes in again, it hits even harder. 

“Mike!” Will cries softly. “Don’t stop!”

Mike doesn’t stop.

He pulls back even more, all the way to the tip and thrusts in one smooth motion, filling Will over and over. The silver chain around Mike’s neck sways between them with each rock of his hips. 

“Oh god, yes, Will, Will,” Mike’s words tumble out of him. “Need you to come, please, please, fuck, Will I need it so bad.” Each word is punctuated by the motion of his hips.

Will can’t think, he’s reduced to only pleasure and sensation, everything around him narrowing to just MikeMikeMike—all around him and inside him.

“Come inside me, Mike,” he stammers. “Want to feel it inside me.”

“Will,” Mike whimpers. His hand leaves the table and cradles Will’s head as he captures Will’s mouth in a panting, wet kiss. Mike’s tongue presses in insistently, like he’s trying to taste every corner inside. 

Will moans into it, letting himself be devoured, kissing back with equal intensity. “Mike, please,” Will begs. 

He pinches his eyes shut, the feelings overwhelming, overriding his ability to talk. 

“Will, look at me,” Mike breathes. “I wanna see you.”

Will blinks his eyes open, locking onto Mike’s. Their noses brush with every movement. Will feels release building inside him, his legs quivering from the force of it.

He lets himself sink into Mike’s gaze, into the steady warmth that has patiently stitched him back together piece by piece. The fractured places within him no longer ache beneath the weight of what he feels. Instead, his love unfurls there, taking root in the healed seams of his heart and blooming outward. He stops hiding it. He lets it shine through his eyes, raw and unguarded, trusting that Mike will see it. 

And Mike does.

His brows lift, his face softening with startled understanding. For a heartbeat, he simply stares, as though the truth of it has stolen the air from his lungs. Then Will sees it—the answering crack in Mike's carefully built composure. Years of caution, of hiding, of wanting and never daring to reach, rise to the surface all at once. The same love shines back at him, raw and undeniable, reflected in Mike's eyes like a light finding its twin. 

He buries himself in Will with another snap of his hips and his jaw slacks open as a low, desperate noise escapes him. 

Will feels him pulsing inside him and he follows him over the edge an instant later, his own release spraying over his stomach and chest. 

Will slumps back against the vanity, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The tension drains from his legs, leaving them loose and heavy as they fall to dangle over the edge.

Mike stays buried inside, spent and breathing hard. His hand falls from Will’s back to the vanity for support. The other rises to cradle Will’s cheek, sweeping lightly across damp skin and catching tears before they can fall any further. 

Will smiles sheepishly, leaning into Mike’s touch.

Mike answers by pressing a feather-light kiss to his cheek, then following the path the tears had left behind, kissing each one away with quiet devotion.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The tenderness in his voice undoes something in Will all over again, and the tears come harder, everything that’s been broken open in the last few moments spilling out without restraint—too much feeling to hold, too much truth to contain.

“Mike…” Will starts, his voice thick with everything they’ve just said without words, everything that still hangs between them.

Mike seems to understand immediately. His breath catches, his own voice turning rough at the edges. “Will, I—”

A sharp pounding knock sounds at the dressing room door.

“Mike!” A muffled voice calls through the door. “Second act is in five minutes!”

Mike curses under his breath and looks to Will. “I can cancel, tell them I’m sick—”

Will shakes his head, smiling softly again. “No, it’s okay. We…have time. We can talk after.”

Mike’s face softens and he nods before calling over his shoulder.

“COMING!”

He turns back to Will and looks down to where they’re still connected, slowly drawing his hips back to slip out of Will.

Will sucks in a breath at the aching loss of feeling full. He takes in the mess covering his stomach and tank top.

Mike has already pulled his briefs back up and is scanning the room like he’s on a mission. His eyes land on the only non-corset, non-fishnet option in sight—a feather boa hanging off the end of a rack. He snatches it up and holds it up with an apologetic little smile.

Will lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Mike huffs a quiet laugh in return and gently brushes the feathers over Will’s chest, trying to clean away what he can from the delicate lace, then sweeping down over his stomach to catch the rest.

Will gingerly slides off the vanity, Mike’s hand steadying him at his back. Mike helps Will slip each leg back into the shorts, pulling them up and tucking Will into them with careful fingers. As Will turns, his gaze catches the mirror and he freezes, a sharp breath breaking from him as his hand flies to his mouth.

They look utterly undone.

Will’s hair sticks out in wild, uneven directions, lipstick smeared from Mike’s kisses, scattered across his lips, his neck, even down to his stomach. The red V painted on his cheek has blurred almost beyond recognition, reduced to a faint, fading smudge. 

Mike doesn’t look much better. His curls are in disarray, more unruly than usual, and his pale stage makeup has worn thin in places, revealing skin beneath. Streaks of eyeshadow have bled from heat and exertion. HIs mouth is a mess of dried fluids and smudged crimson. 

Will stares at Mike in abject horror.

Mike only smiles back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Will’s gaze darts wildly around the room until it lands on a packet of makeup wipes lying crumpled on the floor beside the vanity, a casualty of earlier. He lunges for them, snatching them up with desperate urgency. Pulling out several wipes at once, he scrubs furiously at his neck, as though sheer force can erase the evidence of the last thirty minutes.

Beside him, Mike is infuriatingly calm. He takes a single wipe and methodically cleans the smudged lipstick from around his mouth. Once the worst of it is gone, he reaches for the scattered cosmetics and begins repairing the damage, blending foundation back over his skin with practiced strokes. It's annoyingly efficient.

Will, meanwhile, looks like he's trying to sand his own skin off. Eventually, the makeup disappears from his skin, leaving his neck and cheeks flushed from the friction. Relief lasts all of three seconds.

His hand flies to his neck.

Just beneath his ear, a red mark is beginning to bloom across his skin.

"No. No, no, no..."

He leans closer to the mirror.

The universe, apparently, isn't finished punishing him. A streak of dark eyeshadow smears across the front of his shorts. Beside it, a vivid stain of red lipstick stands out like a crime scene.

Will lets out a strangled groan.

"How am I supposed to explain this?" he demands. His voice cracks sharply on the last word.

Then his expression freezes. A second later, all the color drains from his face.

"Oh God." His hand shoots back over his mouth.

Mike glances at him from the mirror, one eyebrow arching in silent question. He's carefully tracing a fresh line of lipstick over his lips, looking far too composed for someone who has caused this disaster.

Will swallows. "Benji," he whispers. The name comes out like a death sentence.

Mike rolls his eyes.

Will barely notices. His thoughts are moving too fast, tripping over each other in a dizzying spiral.

"Benji is out there," he says, staring blankly at the floor. "And he likes me."

The realization seems to hit him all over again. He drops heavily into the armchair, shoulders slumping as if he's awaiting judgment from a higher power.

"Benji is out there," he repeats. "Right now."

Mike leans against the vanity. "So tell him I took you on a tour of the facilities." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Will doesn't even react. "Benji is nice," he says miserably. "He's kind."

A muscle jumps in Mike's jaw. "I'm nice."

"He's funny."

"I'm funny." The words come out muttered and deeply offended.

Will keeps going anyway. "And he's like—literal sunshine."

Mike's expression darkens.

"Oh God." Will buries his face in his hands. "He doesn’t deserve this. I completely led him on." His voice rises another octave. 

Mike watches him unravel for another few seconds. Then, with a sigh, he pushes away from the vanity.

Will doesn't notice until Mike drops into a crouch between his knees. Warm hands settle against the sides of his neck, thumbs resting lightly against the frantic pulse fluttering beneath his skin. The touch pulls Will from his spiral immediately. His head jerks up.

Mike's eyes are fixed on him. "Will." 

The single word lands like an anchor. Will swallows.

Mike's gaze flickers for a moment before returning to his face. "I don't give a flying fuck about Benji."

The words come out sharp. Then his expression softens. "But you do." His thumbs trace small, absent circles against Will's skin. "So I guess I do, too."

Will blinks.

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Mike tilts his head. "You said he's literal sunshine?"

Will nods miserably, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

A small smile pulls at the corner of Mike's mouth—soft, fond, a little sad. "Then you're not right for each other anyway."

Will frowns. "What?"

Mike's hands tighten slightly on his shoulders. "Because you're literal sunshine, Will,” he says quietly.

Will stares.

"You shine on everything you touch." His eyes drop briefly before returning to Will's face. "You walk into a room and somehow everything is just—warmer."

Will opens his mouth to protest.

Mike keeps going. "You make every day brighter." His laugh is soft and self-conscious. "Every stupid, annoying thing about life is better when you're there."

He blurts out, "I fucking hate grocery shopping."

Will blinks. "What?"

"I hate it." Mike's face scrunches with genuine disgust. "I hate the carts. I hate the fluorescent lights. I hate the horrible music that plays overhead. I hate wandering around looking for Dustin’s ridiculously specific ingredients."

Despite himself, Will lets out a small laugh.

"But when you're there..." His voice drops. "When you're there, suddenly I don't mind it. Suddenly, I could spend all day wandering around a grocery store with you."

Will's breath catches.

Mike looks away for a moment before forcing himself to continue. "You both can't be the sun." His thumbs brush against Will's pulse again. "You deserve somebody who likes standing in your light."

The words come out barely above a whisper.

"Somebody who doesn't look away when things get dark. Somebody who stays."

Then Mike exhales sharply and leans back.

"And Benji deserves that too," he adds reluctantly, like the admission physically pains him. "Probably."

Will laughs through the tightness in his chest. The words settle somewhere deep in his chest, warm and aching all at once. He doesn't know what to do with them. What he's supposed to say to that.

Mike, thankfully, seems equally not ready to unpack the emotional bomb he's just dropped. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet and offers Will a hand.

"Come on."

With a long, suffering sigh, he takes Mike's hand. "Fine."

Mike's mouth twitches. "Fine?"

Will allows himself to be hauled upright. "I've accepted my fate."

"Which is?"

"Public humiliation."

Mike snorts. "A little dramatic."

"I have a hickey."

"Technically."

"I have lipstick on my shorts."

"Can’t be proven."

Will groans.

Together they leave the dressing room. The corridor beyond feels different now.

Quieter, now—the adrenaline has begun to drain from Will's system, leaving him strangely floaty.

Rows of doors stretch ahead of them beneath warm backstage lighting. Faint music vibrates through the walls, accompanied by bursts of laughter and applause from somewhere beyond.

The show is still going.

Mike leads him through the winding corridors, their fingers interlocked. 

They emerge into the dim backstage area, where actors linger in small clusters, speaking in hushed tones as they wait for their cues.

From beyond the curtains, Janet’s voice rings out clear and confident, carrying effortlessly across the stage as she delivers her lines to Rocky. The familiar dialogue drifts through the darkness.

Will follows a step behind Mike, content simply to be near him, until they reach the heavy curtain that separates the hidden world backstage from the sea of waiting faces beyond.

There, Mike stops. He turns to face him, and for a moment everything else seems to fade into the background. The bustle of the crew, the voices from the stage, the nervous excitement hanging in the air—all of it dissolves beneath the weight of that look.

Their eyes meet. The corners of their mouths lift in the same quiet, conspiratorial smile they've shared for years, a smile that feels like a secret language spoken only between them. Warmth blooms in Will's chest, delicate and dizzying. Butterflies erupt beneath his ribs, and he bites the inside of his cheek in a futile attempt to keep his grin from growing wider.

Mike takes a small step closer. His hand rises, fingers brushing gently against Will's jaw before settling beneath his chin. He tilts his face upward with a tenderness that makes Will's heart stumble.

Then he leans down and kisses him, slow and sweet—less like a goodbye and more like a promise.

Will melts into it immediately, every thought slipping away beneath the warmth of Mike's lips. The world narrows to the steady beat of his heart and the familiar comfort of Mike standing close.

Far too soon, the kiss breaks. But Mike doesn't pull away completely.

"See you after?" he whispers.

Will nods before he can trust himself to speak. His breath catches somewhere in his throat.

"Break a leg," he murmurs softly.

A quiet laugh escapes Mike. The sound is warm and fond, and Will watches a faint blush creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks. It only makes him more beautiful.

Reluctantly, Mike lets his hand fall from Will's face and steps back. He reaches for the curtain, drawing it aside just enough to create a narrow opening.

Will squeezes his hand one last time as he slips past him.

And then he's back in the theater.

The sudden shift is almost jarring. His heart hasn't quite settled yet.

Keeping his head down, Will slips along the edges of the auditorium, hugging the walls as he navigates around clusters of people. The performance continues onstage, drawing most eyes forward, which is the only reason he manages to make it halfway back to his seat without being noticed.

But then Max spots him. Her head snaps in his direction so quickly he nearly startles. Even from several rows away, Will can see her eyes widen.

She looks him over once. A flicker of shock flashes across her face before it melts into something far more knowing. And far more pleased.

Will immediately looks away. By the time he reaches their row, his stomach is twisting itself into knots. He shuffles sideways, sliding into the empty space beside Benji, carefully angling his body and keeping his head turned so the mark beneath his ear stays hidden in shadow.

"Will!" Benji hisses, far too loudly for someone attempting to whisper. "Holy shit."

Will winces.

"Where did you go? What happened? Was that you on the bed? How was it?" The questions tumble out so quickly they blur together into one long breathless sentence.

Will's brain completely stalls. "Uh..."

"Yeah, Will," Max adds sweetly, which somehow makes it worse. "Where were you?"

Will forces a smile. "Um—backstage!" he squeaks. His voice cracks. “They gave me a tour."

Nobody says anything.

Will clears his throat. "Of the facilities?" he tries. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question.

Max arches an eyebrow. "A tour?" Her gaze drifts meaningfully toward the dark bruise peeking out beneath his ear.

Will nearly chokes.

Dustin leans forward from the two seats over. "For thirty minutes?" he asks flatly.

Will wishes the floor would open beneath him.

Benji, meanwhile, is completely undistracted by any of this.

He grabs Will's arm, eyes practically glowing with excitement. "What happened up there, Will?" he demands. "Seriously."

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His face feels approximately one thousand degrees. A long, painful second passes. Then, with the desperation of a man fleeing a burning building, he turns toward Max and nods at the empty seat beside her.

"Where's Lucas?" Will asks quickly.

Dustin immediately lights up. "Oh, dude—" He's cut off as music suddenly rises from the stage.

The opening notes roll through the theater, rich and dramatic, drawing everyone's attention forward.

Onstage, Janet begins to sing. Her voice is sweet and sultry, drifting through the auditorium as the melody builds.

Max's eyes snap toward the stage. A second later, her jaw drops and she lets out a startled bark of laughter.

Will follows her gaze. The moment he sees what's happening, he has to clap a hand over his mouth to contain his own laugh.

There, illuminated beneath the stage lights in all his golden-shorts glory, stands Lucas. Janet is wrapped around him like a vine, her arms draped over his shoulders as she sings directly into his face.

Meanwhile, Lucas looks as though he's just realized he's wandered into a life-threatening situation.

His eyes dart frantically around the theater.

"I'll put up no resistance, I want to stay the distance..." Janet croons.

Lucas swallows visibly.

"I've got an itch to scratch, I need assistance!" She pulls herself closer. Janet throws her head back, hair flying dramatically as she launches into the chorus.

"Touch-a, touch-a, touch me! I wanna be dirrrrr-tyyyyyy!"

Lucas immediately takes a subconscious step backward. His hands fly awkwardly into the air, hovering uselessly at his sides as though he's forgotten what human beings normally do with their arms.

Janet follows without missing a beat, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

Will can barely breathe from laughing.

"Then if anything grows..." Janet pauses long enough for a playful giggle. "While you pose..." She circles him.

Lucas turns slowly with her.

"I'll oil you up and rub you down!"

The audience howls.

By now Lucas looks as though he's left his body entirely, each word of the song making him look more and more dazed.

Then Janet grabs both of his wrists. She flashes a wicked grin. And just before the chorus explodes again, she plants Lucas's hands squarely against her chest.

"TOUCH-A, TOUCH-A, TOUCH ME!"

Lucas's eyebrows launch so high they're practically in his hairline. His entire body freezes. He immediately stares at anything except the woman directly in front of him.

Laughter crashes through the audience in waves.

People are cheering, clapping, whistling.

Max is laughing so hard she's doubled over in her seat.

Beside her, Benji is nearly as bad, tears gathering in his eyes.

Even Will can't stop grinning.

Lucas, meanwhile, appears to have forgotten how to breathe.

At last the chorus ends.

Janet finally takes pity on him. With a dazzling smile and a conspiratorial wink, she gives him a playful shove toward the wings.

Lucas doesn't need to be told twice.

The moment Janet releases him, he practically flees. He stumbles, disappearing backstage just as the actor playing Rocky strides smoothly back into the scene and the song carries on.

The story resumes.

Lucas slides into their row a few minutes later. The second he sits back into his seat, Max loses whatever composure she'd managed to regain.

Her eyes land on him. She immediately starts laughing.

Lucas sits rigidly upright, staring straight ahead at the stage. Shell-shocked. Traumatized. A changed man. His expression is the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen things.

"Wow," Dustin says under his breath.

Lucas slowly turns toward them. "They told me what was going to happen," he says, sounding genuinely bewildered. "And I still think I would've rather been ‘smooched’."

That sends Max into another fit of laughter.

Lucas points accusingly at her. "You let me dress as Rocky."

Max wheezes.

"You knew this would happen."

"I did," she manages between gasps.

"You set me up." Lucas shakes his head solemnly, the picture of betrayal. Then he places a hand dramatically against his chest.

"Am I just a body to you?"

Will’s grin breaks into laughter, Max’s wheezing next to him infecting him further.

Lucas presses on. "Just muscles and perfect skin?"

Max nearly falls into Will's lap. "Oh my God," she gasps.

"Is that all I am?" Lucas asks mournfully. "A handsome piece of meat?"

By now Max's face is bright red, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as laughter steals whatever breath she has left.

Will isn't doing much better. His cheeks ache. Every time he looks at Lucas's deeply offended expression, he starts laughing all over again.

Dustin reaches over and claps Lucas firmly on the back.

"Good job, man."

Lucas narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Dustin grins. "You finally made it to second base."

The whole party erupts with renewed laughter, all of them quickly devolving into soundless laughs and red faces.

Lucas shoves Dustin's shoulder. "Shut up." The grin breaking through his wounded dignity ruins the effect.

Dustin only laughs harder.

For the next several minutes, none of them can fully recover. Every time the laughter begins to fade, someone glances at Lucas. Then somebody snorts. Then somebody else starts giggling. And suddenly they're all right back where they started.

Meanwhile, the show rolls onward.

Mike sings and dances across the stage, bathed in colored lights and thunderous applause.

The audience sees Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

Will only sees Mike.

He watches the tilt of his smile, the confidence in every step, the way he commands the room. The corset, the makeup, the glittering stage persona—they all blur at the edges. Beneath it all is the boy who had just held his face so tenderly backstage, who had kissed him like he meant it.

Memories don’t just flicker through Will’s mind—they burst there, bright and flashing—sparks caught behind his eyes. He can’t stop the smile that takes over his face, wide and helpless, as if his body has decided for him what his mind is still trying to comprehend.

He feels light. Unmoored. Like gravity has loosened its grasp on him and left him floating somewhere just above himself.

The dressing room replays in him in a loop he doesn’t want to end—the closeness, the heat, the way everything narrowed down to breath and touch and the overwhelming awareness of Mike being right there. The press of him, the honesty of it, the way the moment felt suspended—untouched by time or dragged down by anything else.

It felt like the universe had already decided this long before they ever understood it, threading them together with an inevitability they could feel but couldn’t resist. Fate itself had finally spoken, and Will and Mike were only now realizing they’d been answering it all along. 

Every shared look comes back sharper now, charged with meaning he can’t unsee. Every inhale, every pause between words. And he can’t stop feeling it all in his whole body. Like he’s still there. Like something in him has been opened and is still humming, still glowing, still trying to settle into the shape of what just happened.

Hope seeps into every crack inside him—bright and dizzying and overwhelming. It leaves him giddy, breathless, barely anchored to the ground. 

Onstage, the story reaches its final, strange conclusion.

Dr. Frank-N-Furter drifts face-down in the shallow pool at center stage, motionless. Around him, the remaining characters stand amidst the wreckage left behind as the castle vanishes into the stars on the screen overhead.

The final notes of the song drift through the theater, melancholy and triumphant all at once, lingering in the air long after the cast has gone still.

Then the narrator delivers the story's last lines, his voice echoing through the silence.

The lights cut out. Darkness sweeps across the stage as the music fades away. 

The audience rises in waves.

Applause crashes through the theater, loud enough to rattle the walls, joined by whistles and cheers that roll through the crowd like thunder. It goes on and on, stretching far longer than Will expects, the energy refusing to die down.

Then the curtain lifts again.

A line of actors emerges from behind it, hand in hand, blinking into the bright stage lights. The crowd grows even louder.

Mike stands at the center. His grin is dazzling, broad enough to split his face in two. His hair hangs soaked against his forehead, dark curls plastered to flushed skin. Black makeup streaks down his cheeks and neck in uneven trails, washed loose by the pool of water from the finale. Even from halfway across the auditorium, Will can see him clearly.

The makeup isn’t hiding him. Not anymore.

He tears his eyes away long enough to glance at his friends, waiting for them to realize.

Beside him, Max freezes. Her hands stop clapping mid-motion. The color drains from her face in one sweep.

"Oh my God," she breathes.

Lucas and Dustin continue applauding, blissfully unaware.

Above them, a booming voice echoes through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it one more time for tonight's cast!"

The applause increases.

The announcer begins reading names, one by one. Each time, the actor steps to front of stage and bows.

"Julie Windsor—as Janet!"

The crowd claps.

"Neil Bateman—as Brad!"

Another burst of cheers follows.

Will can barely pay attention. His eyes remain fixed on Mike, watching the amusement already gathering at the corners of his mouth.

The announcer pauses dramatically.

"And finally—Mike Wheeler—as Dr. Frank-N-Furter!"

The theater explodes.

Mike steps forward. He sweeps into an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed theatrically to his chest. When he straightens, he's already looking directly at them.

A wicked smirk curls across his face. It's the exact expression he gets before dropping a catastrophic plot twist into a D&D campaign. The one that means he's been sitting on a secret for weeks and has enjoyed every second of it.

Lucas's jaw falls open.

Dustin's follows a second later.

For a moment neither of them moves. Then Lucas throws both hands onto his head like he's physically trying to keep his brain from escaping.

"No way."

Max makes a strangled noise. She still looks horrified, but now it's the horrified expression of someone whose worst suspicion has just been confirmed beyond all doubt.

Lucas remains frozen in disbelief, staring at the stage as though Mike has personally shattered reality.

Dustin, meanwhile, lets out a sharp, high-pitched cackle, sounding slightly unhinged. He practically bounces in place.

"THAT'S MIKE?"

His finger jerks wildly between the stage and the group.

"THAT'S—"

Another laugh cuts him off. He doubles over, then straightens again, pointing helplessly.

"THAT'S MIKE?!"

Onstage, Mike's grin grows wider. The bastard looks delighted.

He steps back into line beside the rest of the cast. They clasp hands and bow together, a united front bathed in stage lights and thunderous applause.

The sound follows them as the curtain begins its descent. The second the cast disappears from view, chaos ignites.

"Mike?" Lucas says.

A pause.

"Mike?"

Another pause.

"Mike?"

Each repetition somehow sounds more baffled than the last, as though saying the name repeatedly might eventually make the situation make sense.

"I cannot believe him," Max hisses. "The absolute audacity. The nerve. To take a sacred, beautiful work of art and defile it with his presence—"

"Max—"

"And not tell anyone!" Her voice climbs higher. "For months!"

Dustin has dissolved entirely. He's bent double in his seat, wheezing with laughter so intense he can barely breathe.

"I knew he looked familiar," he gasps between cackles. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Lucas is still staring blankly at the closed curtain.

"Mike," he says again, like he's testing the word.

Beside them, Benji watches the exchange unfold with increasing confusion. His eyes flick between each member of the party.

Finally, Will leans closer. "Mike is our friend," he explains quietly.

Understanding dawns instantly. "Oh." Benji settles back into his seat. "That explains...all of this." He gestures vaguely at the disaster currently unfolding.

Dustin snorts.

Lucas continues staring into the middle distance.

Max whirls at the sound of Will’s voice, eyes narrowed. 

"And you," she points.

Will freezes.

"You knew." The accusation lands with terrifying certainty.

Immediately, every head swivels toward him. The laughter stops. Lucas finally abandons his existential crisis. Even Benji looks interested now.

Will's stomach drops. "I—" His voice cracks. "I mean—"

Every pair of eyes remains fixed on him.

"I didn't really know."

Max's expression doesn't change.

Will winces. "Okay, I knew a medium amount.”

"Will."

He rushes to continue, "but not, like, all of it! Not really! I mean, technically yes, but also no—"

He cuts himself off before he can dig the hole any deeper. Then, in a desperate attempt to redirect the conversation, he jumps to his feet.

"Let's go find him!" The words come out entirely too fast. "Maybe he can explain!"

"Explain what?" Max demands.

"Everything!"

Without waiting for further objections—Will spins toward the aisle and starts walking. He reaches the curtain leading backstage and breathes in relief when he sees they’re right behind him. 

They spill into backstage in a noisy cluster, still talking over one another.

And there he is, as if he'd been waiting.

Mike stands on the fringes of the bustling energy of the backstage with a towel draped around his shoulders. His hair is damp and tousled from a hasty attempt at drying it, curls sticking up in every direction. Most of the makeup is gone now, though faint smudges of dark eyeshadow and white foundation still cling stubbornly to the edges of his jaw and hairline. He drags the towel over his neck, chasing away the last beads of water still trailing down there.

The second Max spots him, she marches forward.

Smack.

Her palm lands lightly against his arm.

"What the hell, Wheeler?"

Mike snorts. "Hello, Max. Good to see you too." The smile curling across his face is pure sarcasm.

Max looks moments away from strangling him.

"I can't even process this right now," she says. "You've been hiding this from us the entire time?"

Mike raises his eyebrows. Then, infuriatingly, lifts a finger.

"No, no, no." He wags it once. "I never hid anything."

"You absolutely—"

"I never lied."

Max opens her mouth but stops when Mike's grin widens.

"Think about it." His tone turns maddeningly smug. "Go ahead. Every conversation we've had about my job."

Will watches Max's eyes narrow, then widen. Then narrow again. Color floods her face.

Because Mike is right.

Every vague answer. Every technical truth. Every suspiciously careful choice of words.

He'd never actually lied—not once.

"You are the worst," Max says flatly.

Mike beams. "I know."

She points accusingly at him. "This was one of my favorite movies."

"It is?"

"Was."

Mike places a hand over his heart. "Ouch."

"You ruined it."

"Actually, it's one of my favorites too." The smirk returns. "Look at that. We have so much in common, isn’t that nice?"

Max stares at him with visible disgust. 

Behind her, Lucas finally reaches Mike.

"Dude." He grabs Mike's shoulder. "Dude."

Mike laughs.

Lucas shakes his head. "I still can't believe that was you."

Neither can Dustin, judging by the expression on his face.

"That was insane," Lucas continues. "Like, genuinely insane." He gestures wildly toward the theater. "This has gotta be one of the coolest things any of us have ever seen."

Mike's grin softens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, like, in the top ten best nights of our lives."

Something shifts in Mike's expression. His eyes find Will immediately.

"Yeah," Mike says quietly. A small smile tugs at his mouth. "I agree."

Before he can stop himself, Will smiles back.

Mike's eyes crinkle at the corners.

Will has to look away before the smile on his own face gets any bigger. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Max watching them.

Her expression changes. The irritation is still there, but it's melting fast, replaced by something softer. Something suspiciously knowing.

Then Dustin barrels forward. "GET OVER HERE."

Mike barely has time to react before Dustin wraps both arms around him. The hug nearly knocks him backward.

"Dustin—"

"You were AMAZING."

"I'm aware."

"You were insane."

"I've been told."

"You’re wearing fishnets!"

Mike laughs, his cheeks warming with color.

The conversation carries on around them, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in waves, but beneath it all something else pulses to life.

Mike's attention keeps drifting.

Will watches Lucas or Dustin one second, then glances at Mike, only to find him already staring back.

It happens so naturally that neither of them seems to mean for it to. As though their eyes have developed their own gravity. No matter where either of them looks, they keep ending up back at each other.

And every time they do, Mike's mouth softens into that crooked little smile.

It makes Will's stomach flip.

The worst part is that Will doesn't even realize he's smiling back until it's already happened. Until he catches the ache in his cheeks. Until he notices the way Mike's expression brightens in response.

Heat blooms beneath his skin. He drops his gaze immediately, focusing on the scuffed floor, on the nervous shuffle of his shoes, on literally anything else.

It doesn't help.

The smile stays. And when he inevitably looks up again, Mike is still looking, or maybe looking again—the same smile waiting for him.

Like he'd known Will would come back. Like he'd been waiting.

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

"Alright!" Max's voice slices through the overlapping conversations and lingering excitement. "We should probably go."

She gestures vaguely at Mike.

"Let the superstar get cleaned up and do...whatever mysterious theater-person things he does back here."

Goodbyes follow naturally after that. Dustin squeezes Mike into one last hug. Lucas claps him on the shoulder. Even Max manages a reluctant wave before turning toward the exit.

The group begins filtering back toward the theater doors. Will falls into step behind them.

He looks back.

Mike is already looking at him, curving into the smile again.

See you later? he mouths.

Will’s heart stumbles, a smile threatening immediately. He bites down on it, nodding once and ducking his head before he does something catastrophically embarrassing—like running back across the hallway and throwing himself into Mike's arms.

When he glances back one final time, Mike is still smiling.

The cool night air greets them instantly. After the warmth of the theater, it feels sharp against Will's skin. The city glows around them in soft halos of gold and white, streetlights reflecting off dark pavement.

The group spills onto the sidewalk. Almost immediately, Max hooks her arm through Will's.

"So."

Will groans internally. The others continue ahead, oblivious. He tucks his hands beneath his arms against the cold.

"So?"

Max turns slowly. The look she gives him is deadly.

Will raises his eyebrows.

Max lets out a long, suffering sigh. "Soooo." She stops walking. "Are you going to tell me why your shorts are covered in makeup?"

Will freezes.

"Or why the little V on your cheek mysteriously vanished?"

Heat begins creeping up his neck.

Max narrows her eyes. "Or why there is currently a hickey on your throat visible from space?"

Will nearly chokes. His face burns and he stares determinedly at the sidewalk.

"Okayyyyy." Max draws the word out. "So guessing it is."

"Max—"

"Hmmm." She taps her chin. "Could this possibly have something to do with a certain man who spent the evening in fishnets and red lipstick?"

Will groans.

Max smiles sweetly. "The same man you've been in love with since approximately—"

Will slaps a hand over her mouth.

Her eyes light up instantly.

"Okay." He glances desperately toward the others. "Okay. Please. Shut up."

Max's laughter vibrates against his palm. He removes it immediately.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks quietly.

The teasing leaves her face so quickly it catches him off guard. 

"I want you to tell me you're happy."

Will blinks.

Max squeezes his arm gently. "That's all." Her voice is quiet now. "I want to know this is what you want."

Will looks away.

"And that he's treating you the way you deserve."

For a moment, he can't speak, because the answer comes too easily. Because every time he closes his eyes he can still see Mike looking at him. The certainty of it settles warm inside his chest.

He bites his lip, then nods. "I am. Happy."

The words come out barely above a whisper. Happy doesn't feel like a big enough word. Not for this.

"I really am."

Max watches him carefully. "And Mike?"

Will smiles before he can stop himself. "He did—treat me well."

His voice softens. "He does." Then, quieter, "I think he will."

Something in Max's expression eases. She nods once, then very pointedly looks ahead.

Will follows her gaze.

Benji, walking a few paces in front of everyone else.

Max lets go of his arm. "Then it sounds like you have something you need to do."

Before he can argue, she's already jogging ahead to rejoin the others.

Will watches her go before quickening his pace until he's walking beside Benji.

For a few moments, neither of them says anything. The rest of the group continues ahead, their laughter carrying faintly through the cool night air..

Benji glances over. Will offers him a small smile that feels strained around the edges.

"Hey."

Benji's expression softens immediately. "Hey."

Will rubs the back of his neck. "Can we stop for a minute?"

Benji doesn't hesitate. He slows his pace and comes to a stop. The distance between them and the group grows until Lucas's voice becomes little more than a distant murmur.

Will stares at the pavement—at the cracks running through the concrete. At anything except Benji. His stomach twists.

"Benji, I—"

"It's that Mike guy, isn't it?" The words are quiet. There’s no anger in them, just a quiet knowing. 

Will's mouth remains open for a second. The apology dies before it can fully form. Slowly, helplessly, he nods.

"Yeah." His voice comes out rougher than intended. He sighs. "I'm sorry."

For a moment, Benji doesn't answer. His gaze drifts down the sidewalk toward the theater they'd just left. Toward the glowing marquee still lighting the night in shades of red and gold.

Then he shakes his head. "Don't be."

Will looks up.

Benji gives a small laugh. There's sadness in it, but no bitterness. "I could see it."

Will's chest tightens. "See what?"

Benji smiles faintly. "You two."

The wind catches his hair, ruffling it across his forehead.

"The way you looked at each other."

His eyes drop briefly to the ground, then lift again. "Honestly, it was kind of ridiculous."

Will lets out a startled laugh.

Benji laughs too. "You looked like you were the only two people in that room." His smile turns wistful. "The only two people in the world, if I'm being honest."

The words settle heavily in Will's chest, because they feel true. Because for large stretches of the night, that's exactly what it had felt like.

Benji shoves his hands into his pockets. "I could never compete with that."

Will's expression softens. "Honestly?" He shakes his head. "It wasn't a competition. It never has been."

Benji studies him for a moment, then he breaks into a soft laugh. "I know."

The tension of the moment bleeds away.

Benji nudges Will lightly with his shoulder. "I'm happy for you."

The sincerity catches Will completely off guard. His eyes sting instantly.

Benji smiles. "Really." A pause. "You were my friend before anything else." The streetlight above paints warm gold across his face. "And you deserve to be happy."

Will swallows hard. Emotion lodges stubbornly in his throat. "So do you."

Benji starts to wave him off.

Will shakes his head. "No." A smile tugs at his mouth. "I'm serious."

Benji looks back at him.

Will searches for the words—for the right way to explain it. Finally, he laughs softly.

"You're...kind of the sun."

Benji blinks. "What?"

Will smiles. "You are."

The answer feels obvious.

"You make people feel better just by being around."

The smile on Benji's face falters slightly, like the words landed somewhere he wasn't expecting.

Will continues, "You're warm." His smile widens. "And bright."

Benji ducks his head.

"You deserve somebody who compliments that."

The wind stirs between them.

Will's gaze softens.

"You deserve to find your moon."

For a moment, Benji just stares.

The expression that crosses his face is almost startled. Then his smile returns.

"Friends?"

Will doesn't hesitate. "Friends."

They clasp hands.

Benji sniffs against the cold wind and releases him. He glances back toward the theater. Slowly, realization spreads across his face.

"Oh my God. Will—as your friend...what the hell are you still doing here?"

Will’s brow furrows. 

"Seriously." He grins—bright and free and entirely himself. "Go get your man, Will."

This time, Will doesn’t fight the smile that breaks free.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

One Week Later

“Will you quit worrying?” Benji says, bumping his shoulder lightly as they move through the room. “Everything is perfect. Like, annoyingly perfect.”

He gestures broadly, as if the space itself is proof enough.

Will forces himself to look.

The large gallery is alive with movement and light, people drifting between displays in slow, reverent clusters. The far wall is lined with paintings—bold strokes, quiet portraits, bursts of color that seem to hum under the gallery lights. Opposite them, photographs stretch in a clean, deliberate rhythm across another wall. Candid faces, half-smiles caught mid-laughter, strangers turned briefly immortal.

Between them, the room breaks into smaller worlds. Staggered panels hold digital work that shifts and glows softly, charcoal sketches smudged with emotion and shadow, watercolor pieces bleeding gently into one another. On the left, tables are arranged with careful intention, holding sculptures—stone and metal and clay shaped into something that feels almost real.

It’s crowded, but not chaotic. It’s moving, breathing with life.

And everywhere Will looks, there are faces—the city, distilled.

The people he’s spent the last five months learning. People he’d followed through quiet conversations and fleeting moments, through bus stops and storefront reflections, through laughter and sometimes even tears.

Each photograph is paired with a small placard beside it, neatly printed, telling fragments of their lives. Stories he’d helped gather, organize, shape. The literature department’s work threaded carefully into each display, quiet narration beneath the images.

Volunteers weave through the space, some adjusting frames, others greeting guests. Artists linger near their work. And the faces on the walls—he recognizes so many of them milling around, taking in their neighbors, both on paper and beside them.

He lets himself breathe, releasing the tension from all the months of work and letting himself sit in this moment of success. 

He feels arms slide around him from behind. A chin settles against his shoulder, warm through the fabric of his shirt. Then, close to his ear, Mike’s voice low and whispering.

“Is this piece of art for sale?”

A smile breaks across Will’s face before he can stop it. Something warm unfurls in his chest immediately, soft and overwhelming in the way only Mike seems to manage. He tilts his head just enough to catch the edge of Mike’s face resting against his shoulder.

“Depends,” Will murmurs, voice light, “on what you’re willing to pay.”

Mike shifts, letting him turn fully in his arms. Their hands find each other without thinking, fingers slotting together like a reflex.

Mike beams at him—unguarded, open, glowing with it. “Anything,” he says immediately. “You name it.”

Will lifts an eyebrow. “Anything?”

Mike bites his lip, nodding like there’s no universe in which that answer could ever be anything but yes. His expression is almost blissful.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The noise of the gallery fades into something distant and unimportant. There’s only the space between them, the small breathless gravity of being this close and still somehow wanting closer.

Benji clears his throat somewhere behind them. Reality snaps back in gently.

Will exhales a laugh under his breath and squeezes Mike’s hand.

“I have something I wanted to show you,” Will says.

Mike’s expression shifts instantly—curiosity replacing everything else.

Will pulls him through the crowd. They weave between guests and artists and familiar faces until the noise thins, the bodies part, and the space opens at the back of the gallery.

A corner of wall stretches before them—an expanse of painted portraits. Light spills over each frame differently, catching textures, deepening shadows, pulling color forward.

Mike slows, gaze tracking across the painting at the center, first in confusion, then in recognition—

His lips part slightly. “Oh,” he breathes.

Will watches him instead of the paintings now, because this is the part he wasn’t sure he’d survive—the moment Mike understands.

Mike steps closer. His eyes move carefully, like he’s afraid of missing something if he looks too fast.

“Will—” His voice catches halfway through the name, thick with emotion.

Will’s nerves spike sharply, sudden and alive. He turns his gaze to the piece, doubt creeping in.

It’s Mike. 

Painted from memory, the image of him, looking at Will, tangled together in a dressing room. Hair slightly undone, expression unguarded in a way that feels almost private on canvas. Eyes overflowing with emotion and the realization of being seen—fully, unbearably seen. 

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Will asks, heart sinking. “I only had a week to work on it. And it’s all from memory, so—”

Mike turns to him, his eyes glassy. He shakes his head, swallowing. 

“Will, shut up,” he says softly.

Will closes his mouth.

“It’s…it’s everything.” He looks back at the painting. “It’s perfect.”

Mike keeps staring at the painting as if he’s afraid it might disappear without his attention. His lips move but Will can’t make out the sounds.

“Mike?” 

Mike doesn’t react. His brow furrows as his eyes sweep over the painting again. 

Will steps closer, “Hello? Mike?” 

He waits another moment and when Mike still doesn’t answer, he pokes at his shoulder.

Mike snaps his head towards him so suddenly Will jumps. 

“I need to say something—” he says suddenly, eyes wide, like a realization just swept over him.

“Okay…?” Will says, amusement and confusion lighting his face.

Mike nods resolutely, squaring his shoulders. “Yeah—” He puffs out in a breath. “I need to say it. Right now.”

He turns, winding back through the crowd in a rush.

Will follows, bewilderment and curiosity burning inside him, pushing his feet forward. He loses sight of Mike for several moments and he cranes his neck around the people, searching. His eyes snag on the familiar mop of dark hair—

Mike is standing at the front of the gallery, stepping onto an empty crate that was stashed under one of the tables. 

Will’s eyes widen as he realizes what Mike is about to do. He claps a hand over his mouth, concealing the disbelieving laugh bubbling out of him.

Mike gazes over the milling heads in the crowd, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to begin whatever he set out to do. He clears his throat and Will huffs in laughter when no one around him pays him any attention. 

Mike purses his lips, then flails his arms around, trying to catch the attention of the crowd. A few heads turn but otherwise, he’s largely ignored.

Will’s huff of amusement dissolves into full giggles and he grins at Mike’s efforts. 

Mike’s arms drop to his sides heavily, his shoulders sagging as he peers at the crowd unimpressed. Then, without warning—

“HEY!” he shouts shrilly.

The quiet hum of noise in the gallery cuts off so suddenly, Will is sure he could hear a pin drop if he tried. 

Mike’s cheeks visibly turn pink as the entire gallery turns their heads to where he stands a head taller than them.

He waves awkwardly and chuckles nervously.

“Hi, I’m Mike,” he begins, standing at the front of the room. “I’m a student in the Cinematic Arts department—”

A pause—just long enough for the faintest smirk to appear.

“Funnily enough, we were not invited to participate in this project. So I suppose the long-standing rivalry between Creative Arts and Cinema continues.”

A soft wave of laughter ripples through the crowd, easy and warm. It breaks the fragile tension of the sudden quiet that had fallen over the room at Mike’s shouting.

“No—but really,” he continues, voice softening, “I’m standing in front of everyone because of the head of NYU’s Art Club. The lead of this incredible project. The person behind all of this.”

A beat.

“My roommate.”

His smile widens.

“My best friend.”

His eyes lift slightly over the crowd.

“I think most of you just know him as—Will.”

Heads turning gently, searching—soft smiles when eyes land on Will standing among them.

Will blushes and smiles back.

“I’ve watched him work the past months,” Mike continues, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it now, “and I mean really work. Like sun up to sun down, spending an entire summer break carving a path into pavement. I think he’s single-handlely met every person who lives in this city.”

A few laughs break through the softness.

Mike smiles faintly with them.

“But the way he stayed up too late because he thought one more conversation might matter. The way he’d come back from meeting people like he was carrying them with him—like their stories didn’t end when the interview did.”

His voice lowers, gentler now, stripped of teasing.

“He didn’t just collect images for this project. He collected people. He saw them. Sometimes, I think, more clearly than they saw themselves.”

A pause.

“And he gave so much of himself to it,” Mike says, slower now, “that I don’t think anyone really stopped to ask who was seeing him.”

Soft laughter is gone now, replaced by something still and listening.

Mike’s breath catches once, almost imperceptibly. Then he continues.

“But I wanted to say something now. Here. In front of all of you.”

His voice softens with quiet emotion, shining in his eyes.

“In front of every person he brought together. Every story he carried. Every face he refused to let disappear into the background.”

Mike’s eyes find him in the crowd and the world narrows.

“Will Byers…”

Will’s name on Mike’s tongue sounds like a prayer being whispered.

“I see you.”

“You give everything you have without asking for anything back. You make things feel brighter just by being near them. You make people feel seen and, even, important, just by noticing them.”

“You are the bright, shining light to my dark, twisty shadow,” his eyes crinkle at the corners.

A few laughs sound around the room, but Will doesn’t notice them.

Mike’s hand lifts, resting briefly over his chest. “You are…the heart of this project.” He pats his chest, just once, a nod with it—a secret, shared between just the two of them.

Will’s eyes sting and he smiles a watery smile back, nodding once in understanding. 

“Thank you,” he says in finality. 

The crowd claps and a few people standing close to Will squeeze his arm and pat his back. 

Will’s eyes never leave Mike.

Across the room, Mike gazes back, just as burningly bright. 

Mike mouths, I love you.

Will doesn’t have to say it back. 

But he does.