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Prologue
Mike and Will meant so many things to each other.
Or at least, Will thought they did, right up until he threw out every ounce of his self-respect just to salvage the wreckage of their friendship.
They shared a lot of firsts.
The first time Will felt completely seen by someone who wasn't supposed to look his way.
The first time navigating the quiet intimacy of a shared dorm room, learning the exact rhythm of another person’s breathing.
The first time staying perfectly, painfully still just because the other boy had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
The first time sharing hoodies, grabbing each other's coffee cups without asking, and leaning into casual touches that felt entirely too heavy to just be casual.
The first time realizing that what he felt wasn't just a fleeting crush. It was a heavy, terrifying, all-consuming love.
Will remembered that. He remembered it perfectly.
Because that was the moment he realized how entirely different they were.
Different, because Mike would never have to feel the burning pain in Will's soul every time he looked at him.
And then came the darker firsts.
The first time feeling the hollow ache of being left behind.
The first time sitting in silence for months, watching the person you love make connections with everyone else.
The first time realizing that the attention he used to get so effortlessly was now being rationed out.
Will had waited.
Against his friends' advice, he stayed. He had kept himself available just so Mike wouldn't feel alone, doing the very thing Mike was never strong enough to do for him.
He had believed the words. He had believed in him.
But Mike was never strong enough to change.
So, Will gave up.
He forced himself to learn how to be okay. He let the anger curdle into exhaustion. He found happiness with his own friends, finally pulling himself out of the shadow Mike had cast over him. He accepted that they were close once, and now they weren't. Simple as that. There was nothing left to forgive, nothing left to fix.
He was ready to forget.
But Mike was never good at letting things go.
After all those months of sitting alone, after all the times Will was never given the chance to speak because Mike took up all the air in the room explaining himself... now Michael wanted to talk. Now that Will was finally happy, Michael was asking for him.
He didn't have the right. He didn't get to demand the attention he was never willing to give.
For four days, Will went completely dark, ignoring him entirely. He thought that would be it. He thought Michael would finally walk away.
But as Will sat in his dorm room, still staring at a message he already regretted sending from four days ago, the worst realization of all settled heavy in his chest. He hated Mike for his weakness. He hated him for the lies. But he hated himself even more.
Because beneath the anger, beneath the bitter, unspoken "forget me", Will knew the pathetic truth.
He would never be able to stop forgiving him.
The knock came at 5:37 PM—three sharp raps that vibrated through the cheap plywood door. Will didn't need to check his phone to know who it was. He'd been ignoring Mike for over four days now and he just sent him a message he knew he was going to regret.
"I know you're in there."
Mike’s voice was muffled but unmistakable, frayed at the edges in a way that made Will’s fingers tighten around his phone. He didn't move. The desk lamp flickered.
Another knock, harder this time. "Open the fucking door or I'll-"
A pause. The doorknob twisted. Locked.
Then, softer, wrecked: "Will.” a pause, a beat, another flicker of the desk lamp. “Please.”
Something in that last word hooked under Will’s ribs. He shouldn't do this. He should let him walk away. But his body moved before his brain caught up, the door clicking open with a sound like a guillotine dropping.
The dorm room was too small for this. That was the first thought that flickered through Will’s mind. The air smelled of cheap laundry detergent and the faint, lingering trace of Mike’s cologne—something woodsy, something familiar, something that made Will’s chest ache. The overhead light was too bright, casting harsh shadows across Mike’s face, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the way his lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.
“It hurts, doesn't it?" Will’s voice was too calm, too measured. "Being ignored."
Will’s words landed like stones in the stillness between them. He watched Mike’s fingers twitch, the way his shoulders tensed—like he was bracing for a fight. Or maybe bracing to run.
Mike blinked. This wasn't the confrontation he thought of. Will's eyes were glassy, his hands clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself together.
The door slammed behind him with finality.
Mike crossed his arms. "What the fuck are y–"
"Your feelings and emotions being reduced to a sarcastic ‘sorry I'm not giving you attention again’." Will let out a hollow laugh, and Mike froze from being cut off.
Mike now remembered typing that exact phrase all those weeks ago.
"Are you seriously—”
“It hurt the first time” Will cut in again, his voice cracking, “and it hurt the last time all the same.”
A part of Will wanted to stop. To swallow the words back down, to pretend none of this was happening. But another part—the part that had spent four months choking on silence—couldn’t.
The desk lamp buzzed, flickering. In the unstable light, Mike noticed the dark circles under Will's eyes, the way his hoodie hung loose around his frame.
When had he gotten so thin?
Mike looked away, jaw tight. "You're being dramatic."
Will stepped closer. The scent of his shampoo hit Mike—citrus and something warm, familiar. It was the same smell that lingered on his pillows after Will crashed at his dorm one time, the same one he'd catch on his own clothes days later and try not to inhale too deeply.
"I keep waiting and waiting," Will said, "because I made a promise."
The promise had been stupid. A sudden, desperate thing whispered after one of their fights, back when Will desperately thought they could fix this. Back when he still thought Mike wasn’t afraid to fix it.
Mike forced a smirk. "Yeah? And what's that?"
Will didn't flinch. "That I'd stay and wait for you to be better—for this to be better”
Mike still wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the wall just past Will’s shoulder, like if he focused hard enough, he could disappear into it.
Coward, Will thought, and then immediately hated himself for it.
“I let you ignore me for weeks on end just because there’s a chance we might hang out again—that I might get to be with you again.”
The admission burned his throat. God, he was pathetic.
Mike finally turned, his expression unreadable.
"I didn’t ask you to do that." was all that Mike said.
The words tasted like ash. Liar Mike’s mind hissed. He had asked, in every way that mattered—in the way he’d let Will buy him coffee after late-night study sessions, in the way he’d grab Will’s tumbler for a sip without asking, in the way he’d borrow Will’s things without ever thinking, in the way he’d barge in Will’s room without knocking, in the way he wore Will’s clothes without care and in the way he’d leaned into casual touches until they weren’t casual at all.
The words landed flat on Will’s ears, deliberate. Like Mike had practiced them.
Will flinched.
Of course you didn’t, he wanted to say. “You never had to ask. I just gave it to you, because I’m an idiot. Because I thought you cared.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this”. Mike waited—dreaded a response from Will.
Instead Will laughed—a hollow, broken sound.
"And yet when I start putting in less effort, you start acting like this." His voice cracked. "The minute I give someone else my attention, you act like I don’t care for you anymore."
Mike’s jaw tightened.
Because you don’t, he wanted to scream. You care about some version of me that doesn’t fucking exist.
The version that wasn’t afraid of what he feels for Will.
"That’s not—" was all that came out of his mouth.
"Isn’t it?" Will cut him off, stepping closer. The space between them felt charged, like the air before a lightning strike. "Four months, Mike. Four months of you pulling away, of you pretending like I’m some fucking afterthought—"
"I’ve been busy!” Mike snapped, finally looking at him, finally seeing him. His eyes were dark, furious.
Busy.
The word echoed in Will’s skull.
Busy with Jane. Busy with classes. Busy with anything that wasn’t me. He thought.
"I know" Will said quietly. "But busy doesn’t mean you forget how to text back. Busy doesn’t mean you stop hanging out with me. Busy doesn’t mean you treat Jane like she’s the only person who matters."
Mike’s expression twisted.
"She’s my girlfriend, Will.”
The word girlfriend was a blade. Mike knew it. He wanted it to hurt.
Will swallowed. The title was armor. It had to be. He thought.
"And what about me?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Mike stared at him with confusion in his eyes.
"We’re friends."
A pause. A breath. A lie.
The cruelty was deliberate. Necessary. If Will hated him, maybe this would hurt less.
"We.”
“Are.”
“Friends.”
Will wanted to scream.
Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t linger in doorways, don’t touch like it’s the only thing keeping them grounded. Friends don’t fucking break each other’s hearts and call it a day.
But he didn’t say any of that.
Instead, he laughed—bitter, broken.
"We used to be best friends, Mike."
The words hung in the stale air of the dorm room, pathetic and small.
Mike let out a long, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down his face. When he looked back at Will, his eyes were flat, completely devoid of the warmth he usually saved just for him.
"We are friends, Will," Mike said, his voice heavy with the kind of forced patience you use on a stubborn child. "But what do you want from me? Did you seriously expect me to just pause my entire life? To sit around in this room and give you my attention twenty-four-seven? I have classes. I’m in the student council. I have Jane."
Will flinched. The name felt like a physical strike. "This isn't about Jane!" he snapped, his voice trembling as the exhaustion of the last four days—the last four months—finally began to crack his ribs open. "It's about how you treat me! You don't treat me like a friend, Mike. You treat me like..."
He cut himself off, his throat seizing. The air in the room suddenly felt entirely too thin.
"Like what?" Mike challenged. He didn't back down. He stepped closer, the faint, familiar scent of his woodsy cologne invading Will’s space, suffocating him. "Say it, Will. How do I treat you?"
"Like I'm yours!"
Will shouted it, the words tearing out of his throat, raw and desperate.
The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the faint, erratic buzzing of Will’s desk lamp.
Will froze. His own eyes widened in horror as the echo of what he’d just said bounced off the cheap plywood walls. No. He took a stumbling step back, his spine hitting the edge of his desk. Shit. "I didn't... I just meant..."
But Mike didn’t let it go. He didn't offer an out.
Instead, Mike’s posture went terrifyingly still. The defensive annoyance on his face melted away, replaced by something sharper. Something calculating. "Like you're mine?" Mike repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, demanding quiet. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Will stammered, his gaze dropping to the floor. His hands were shaking so hard he had to grip the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. "Forget it. Just... leave."
"No." Mike closed the rest of the distance between them. He was so close Will could feel the heat radiating off him. "Look at me."
Will couldn't. If he looked at him, he would shatter completely.
"I said look at me, Will. What exactly did you think was happening here?"
Will slowly raised his head. His vision was swimming with unshed tears. He was trapped. There was no walking this back, no hiding behind the safe, comfortable shield of 'best friend' anymore. The dam was breaking, and he didn't have the strength to hold the water back.
"I thought it meant something," Will choked out, his voice barely more than a ragged whisper. "The way you look at me. The way you touch me when no one else is around. Friends don't do that, Mike. You acted like there was something between us because... because I..."
He squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear slipped free, tracking hot and humiliating down his cheek. He had sworn to himself he would take this to the grave.
"Because I like you, okay?" His voice was completely stripped bare, a fragile, broken surrender. "I like you. I have for months."
The confession hung in the space between them, terrifying and irreversible. Will waited for the pity. He waited for the gentle letdown.
Instead, Mike laughed.
It wasn't the laugh Will loved—the bright, careless one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was a short, breathy scoff.
Sharp. Mocking. Cruel.
"You're kidding," Mike smirked, shaking his head slowly as he looked Will up and down. "This whole tantrum... the silent treatment, the dramatic texts... all because you have a crush on me?"
The word crush reduced months of agonizing, soul-crushing love into something childish. It landed like a kick to the stomach.
Will couldn't breathe. "Are you fucking serious?" he gasped, his chest heaving. "I just ripped my heart out for you, and you..."
Mike’s smile died. His eyes went ice-cold. “Are you fucking kidding me?" he shot back, his tone hardening into stone. "I’ve been dealt enough shit lately, Willl. I don’t have the time or the energy for this"
Will swayed on his feet. The cruelty was so casual, so effortless, it made him dizzy.
"And for the record," Mike added, his voice dropping into a flat, devastating monotone that sliced right through Will's chest. "I already knew."
Will’s lungs stopped working.
You knew.
The words echoed in his skull. You knew. You knew, and you let me buy your coffee. You knew, and you wore my clothes. You knew, and you leaned into my space, and you let me orbit around you like I was entirely made of gravity. You knew it was killing me, and you still took every piece of me you could get.
"You knew?" Will whispered. His voice sounded like it belonged to a ghost. "You knew that I liked you... and you still treated me like that?"
Mike shrugged. A careless, indifferent roll of his shoulders, like Will’s absolute ruin was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "So what? You should be thankful I didn't get creeped out and leave you sooner."
The words were a brutal, physical slap.
And just like that, the paralyzing, suffocating hurt ignited. It burned away the tears, leaving nothing but blinding, reckless fury. God damn him.
Will pushed off the desk, stepping directly into Mike's space. His voice shook with a sudden, venomous hatred. "I loved you, you piece of shit. But I am not just some pathetic toy you get to string along whenever you need an ego boost."
Mike’s expression darkened instantly, the mocking amusement vanishing. "Fuck you." He turned his back on Will, reaching for the doorknob. "We’re fucking done.”
Will let out a jagged, broken laugh. It clawed its way up his throat, tasting like blood. "What?" he taunted, unable to stop the venom from pouring out. "You’re willing to end this right now just so you can go play pretend and swap spit with Jane?"
Mike froze. Then, he whirled back around, slamming his hand against the door so hard the plywood groaned. He stepped right into Will’s space, towering over him, close enough that Will could see the flicker of pure, unrestrained violence in his dark eyes.
"You’re a fag, you know that?" Mike hissed, the slur dripping with pure poison, meant to degrade, meant to destroy. "A stupid, fucking fag."
Will didn’t back down. He didn't flinch. If everything was going to burn, he was going to make sure Mike caught fire, too. Because if love was friendship on fire, he’ll let it all burn.
"You know what else is funny?" Will’s voice was shaking violently, but he pushed forward, his eyes wild and reckless. "You keep telling everyone you’re not ready to go further with Jane. You play the good guy. But you know what I think?"
Mike stepped closer, his jaw locked, forcing Will back until his shoulder blades hit the wall hard.
Will smirked up at him, bitter and completely unhinged. "She sees how much of a fucked-up person you are. She knows you're empty. And she knows you probably don’t even know what the fuck to do in bed."
A pause. A final, devastating blow aimed right at the fragile masculinity Mike hid behind.
“And you probably don’t even love her.”
Mike didn't think. He just moved.
His hands slammed into Will's chest, shoving him viciously against the drywall. The impact knocked the wind out of Will, the back of his head cracking against the plaster. Mike had him pinned, their chests heaving, their breaths mingling—too fast, too hot, a twisted, violent parody of the intimacy Will had spent months begging for.
And Will, staring up into the furious, broken eyes of the boy he loved, just laughed.
Wild, breathless, and completely unhinged.
The laughter scraped the back of Will’s throat, sounding more like a sob than anything else. He looked up at Mike, at the furious, panicked storm in his dark eyes, and he pushed. He pushed as hard as he could.
"What?" Will gasped out, his smile twisting into something jagged and ugly. "Are you gonna fucking hit me now?"
Mike’s jaw locked so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. He didn't answer with words. He answered with another shove, violently harder this time, the impact rattling Will’s teeth against his skull.
The physical pain was nothing compared to the rotting ache in Will's chest. It felt like a relief. He wanted more of it. He wanted the outside to match the absolute devastation on the inside.
"Do it!" Will screamed, his voice tearing at the seams, bouncing off the cramped walls of the dorm room. He thrashed against Mike's hold. "Don’t be a fucking pussy, Mike! Hit me!"
Mike snapped. He let go of Will's chest only to seize the thick fabric of his hoodie collar, twisting it violently in his fists. He slammed Will back against the drywall with enough force to knock the remaining oxygen from his lungs.
Mike leaned in, caging him completely. There was nowhere to look, nowhere to run. Their chests heaved flush against each other, Mike’s breath hot and ragged, ghosting across Will’s cheek.
When Mike finally spoke, the screaming was gone. It was replaced by a whisper—venomous, desperate, and terrifyingly intimate.
"You keep saying all this shit," Mike breathed, his dark eyes burning into Will's, searching frantically for something. "But I know you. I know you’d come crawling back. You always do."
The words hung in the suffocating sliver of air between them.
It was a whisper. A cruel, degrading promise meant to put Will in his place. But beneath the venom, beneath the desperate need for control, it was something else entirely. It was an anchor. It was a confession of something Mike didn't even know he wanted. He needed Will to crawl back.
The manic energy suddenly drained out of Will, leaving behind a cold, absolute clarity. The wildness faded from his expression, and his smile shifted. It became sharp. Piercing. Utterly broken.
He stopped fighting against the hands twisting his collar. He just looked at the boy who had ruined him.
"And you want me to," Will whispered back. His voice didn't shake. "You want me to crawl back to you."
Mike's breath hitched. His knuckles turned white against Will's collar, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.
"Because you’re as much of a fag as I am."
A pause.
A suffocating, world-ending silence. The truth, finally dragged out into the harsh, flickering light of the desk lamp, bleeding out on the floor between them. Mike's eyes widened, a flicker of pure terror finally breaking through the anger.
Will tilted his chin up, exposing his throat, his gaze piercing straight through Mike's crumbling facade.
"At least I don’t fucking hide it.”
The words were still hanging in the air, defiant and absolute, when the world fractured.
The punch came out of nowhere. No wind-up, no warning. Just a blinding, sudden burst of violence born entirely of terror.
The wet, heavy crack of bone against bone echoed in the small room. Will’s head snapped violently to the side, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from his lips.
But he didn’t stumble. He didn’t fall.
He just took it. He took it like he always did, like he’d been waiting for it, his shoulders braced against the drywall.
When Will finally turned his head back, his cheek was already blooming an angry, bruising red. But his eyes... his eyes were bright. Feverish. Almost giddy with something so wretched and wanting it made Mike’s blood run cold.
Will could feel the heat radiating from Mike in waves. He could feel the dangerous, erratic tremor in the fist that had just collided with his face, still hovering inches away. Every rational instinct inside Will was screaming at him to push Mike away, to run, to protect himself. But he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot, held captive by the sheer, desperate intensity of Mike's gaze.
The silence stretched between them, taut and suffocating.
"I can take it.”
Will’s voice was barely audible, a soft, breathless confession.
Mike heard it, and his breath caught. His stomach dropped out from under him.
Will’s voice was wrecked. It was shaking. But beneath the tremor, beneath the split lip and the bruising skin, there was something infinitely worse: relief. He sounded like a man who had been holding his breath underwater for years, and had finally, finally been allowed to exhale.
"I swear," Will whispered, staring up at him like a zealot looking at a god. "I can take it."
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Will was supposed to hit him back. He was supposed to scream, to shove him away, to walk out that door and hate him forever. He wasn't supposed to stand there, trembling and flushed, treating Mike's violence like it was some kind of fucked-up gift.
And Gods, Mike hated him for it.
He hated the way Will looked at him—like he was something holy, something worth ruining himself over. He hated the way his own knuckles burned from the contact, like he’d permanently branded Will just by touching him.
But most of all, Mike hated the way his own chest ached. He hated the way something deep inside his ribs was screaming at him to reach out again. To fix it. To—
Mike.
The memory hit Mike so hard it blurred his vision.
It was after Will’s birthday party. They were drunk. Not the sloppy, stumbling kind—the golden, hazy kind, where the edges of the world felt soft, and where Will's quiet laughter was a melody Mike wanted to memorize.
They were sitting on Will's bed, their shoulders pressed firmly together, pretending to play a videogame.
And then, Will had turned to him. His eyes were dark, heavy with something unspoken, his lips red and wet from the cheap wine.
"Mike," he had murmured.
Just his name. Just that.
Mike's breath had caught then, too. He knew. He knew exactly what Will wanted in that moment. And for one terrifying, exhilarating second... Mike had wanted it, too.
He was violently snapped back to the present.
“I might even like the way it stings," Will breathed, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of Mike's face. "So long as it’s your hand that leaves the mark.”
The words were a rusted knife, shoved between Mike's ribs and twisted deep.
Mike’s vision blurred again, a sickening wave of guilt crashing over him. Because this was what he had done. This was what he had made Will into. He had starved him out so thoroughly that Will would rather be beaten than ignored.
Mike's hand—the same hand he had just used as a weapon—began to tremble violently. Slowly, agonizingly, he opened his fist. He pressed his shaking palm gently against Will's cheek, trying to soothe the exact spot he had just struck. The skin was alarmingly hot beneath his fingers.
And then—Will leaned into it.
He closed his eyes, let out a shuddering sigh, and pressed his burning cheek fully into Mike's palm.
Just slightly. Just enough.
That was it. The last remaining thread inside Mike snapped.
His breath stopped completely. Because this was worse than the punch. This absolute softness, this total, devastating surrender... it was unbearable.
Mike’s vision whited out once more, flashing back to the last time he had dared to let his hand linger on Will.
It was raining. Mike didn't remember why they were outside, or what they had even been talking about. All he remembered was Will shivering violently next to him, his jacket soaked straight through, his lips tinted blue from the biting cold.
Without thinking—without guarding himself—Mike had reached out and grabbed his wrist.
"You're freezing," he had muttered, pulling Will roughly under the awning, out of the downpour.
Will had just stared up at him, his eyes impossibly wide. And for one endless, gravity-defying moment, Mike held on. He let his thumb brush over Will's pulse. He let himself feel it.
And then the terror had set in. "Mom's waiting for me," he had lied, dropping Will's hand like it was burning him alive.
Mike was pulled back to the cramped dorm room, the heat of Will's pulse still echoing against his palm.
Fuck.
Fuck him.
Fuck this
Will was looking up at him now, a broken, beautiful smile on his face, hot tears streaking down his bruised cheeks, pooling against Mike's fingers.
And Mike—terrified and entirely consumed—just wanted to destroy him.
Wanted to kill him.
Wanted to—
The air between them was electric, thick with the scent of sweat and blood and something familiar, something that made Mike’s throat tighten. Will’s breath hitched, his lips split, and Mike knew—
He knew what Will wanted.
And God help him, he wanted it too.
So he gave in.
In a single—breathless moment.
Mike’s eyes dropped, and then, without a word—without a moment for Will to react.
As if time itself had shattered, suspending every shard of that moment.
His lips crashed against Will’s.
They kissed like the sun was rising, like it was the dawn of something beautiful instead of the dusk of something that never had the chance to be.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was desperate.
Will gasped against Mike’s mouth, hands flying up to clutch at Mike’s shirt, pulling him closer like he was afraid he’d vanish. And Mike—
Mike let him.
For one fractured, breathless second, he let himself have this. Let himself taste the salt of Will’s tears, the copper of his split lip, the warmth of him, alive and shaking and his.
And then—
Reality crashed back in.
He wrenched away, chest heavying, Will’s breath still hot on his lips.
Will stared at him, dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide with hope—ache.
And Mike—
Mike shattered.
"This doesn’t change anything" he snarled, voice raw.
Will flinched.
Mike is shaking, he cracked… he finally cracked
"It doesn’t mean anything.” Mike whispered.
A lie. A fucking lie.
But Will just nodded, slow, like he’d expected it. Like he’d known Mike would do this.
And then, quietly—
"okay" Will whispered.
The word was a bullet.
Mike turned on his heel and left.
He didn’t look back.
If he had, he would’ve seen Will sink to the floor, hands pressed to his mouth, choking on a sob.
He would’ve seen the way Will shook, the way his fingers traced his own lips, like he could still feel Mike there.
He would’ve seen the blood on his cheeks, the mark he’d left behind.
He would’ve seen everything.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t
The door slammed shut behind Mike, the sound final, deafening.
Will was alone.
The dorm room was too quiet now, too still, like the air itself was holding its breath.
His cheek ached.
His lips burned.
And his heart—
His heart was shattered.
He sat on the floor, his back against the door as he pressed his forehead to his knees, fingers curling into fists, and screamed.
It wasn’t fair.
None of this was fair.
Mike had hit him.
Mike had kissed him.
Mike had left him.
And Will—
Will would let him do it all over again.