Will has been having nightmares since his first encounter with the Demogorgon. Sometimes they’re the kind he can’t quite remember, the kind that wisps away like smoke in spring breeze come morning, but other times, they cling. On those nights, he sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning, often waking covered in a sheen of sweat, as though he’d biked the entirety of Hawkins as fast as he could in the middle of July.
Tonight, sleeping in a shared bed with Boris, still in his school clothes and with a loose arm wrapped around his waist, he doesn’t dream at all.
In fact, when he wakes, stomach growling with hunger, he’d bet money that it may have been the best sleep of his life.
Will shifts, careful not to disturb the other boy (his boyfriend, his mind usefully supplies), so that he can observe him in sleep. He decides that Boris looks younger while resting. The harsh angles of his face seem to smooth out some, making him look less world-weary and more youthful. And as his eyes dance behind his eyelids in a dream, Will is entranced by the length of his eyelashes, casting dark shadows on the height of his cheeks.
Boris calls him beautiful boy, but right now Will thinks that he’s perhaps never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. It scares him in some ways that he could fall for someone so intensely in such a short amount of time, but the other’s enigmatic air and indisputable knowledge, as well as his open mind, have made it impossible not to. He’s drawn to his entire existence, not just his appearance.
Boris chooses that moment to stretch, getting more comfortable in his sleep, clinging to Will tighter as his hair falls away from neck, revealing the long, pale line of it. The looks, Will can’t help but think, unable to look away, are simply a bonus to all that Boris is.
When Boris wakes, it is slowly, rather than all at once like Will does. He extends his legs, rubbing his feet along Will’s in a ticklish gesture. The arm around his waist tightens and releases twice before his hand smooths up along his ribcage. Then, he nuzzles closer, burrowing his nose into Will’s shoulder and muttering something thick and sweet sounding, eyes still closed.
“Good morning,” Will says. He’s been awake for what feels like hours at this point, just studying Boris, and thinking about life.
Boris hums deep in his throat and squeezes him harder, making Will’s heart soar.
With slight trepidation, almost like he’s not allowed, Will buries a hand in Boris’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and Boris leans into it like a cat.
“S’nice,” he mutters, voice gravely with sleep.
“Yeah?”
“I can hear you smiling.”
Will is indeed smiling, so hard and so wide the apples of his cheeks are starting to burn. He can’t help it, the happiness and affection inside of him so full to bursting he feels like he could drown in it.
“Sorry,” Will apologizes, though he doesn’t fully mean it.
“No. Never be sorry for such a thing.”
Boris leans back then, eyes finally opening to look at him, and they are heavy lidded and slightly hazy. Will stops scratching because it takes his breath away. Here, in this room of shrouded fabric, Boris could be a prince. Etheral, with his soft skin and dark irises, lips full and slumber pouty pink.
Will has never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life.
And as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking, Boris quirks a lively, animated brow and grins, slow and sharp and dangerous. The hand at his ribcage strokes up and down in a false soothing motion.
“What do you need?” Boris asks.
Will has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know if a kiss can be classified as a need, even if it feels like it. Even if he yearns for it like a man might yearn for water in the desert.
“I…I..” he falters.
“Come now,” the other boy tugs him closer with all of his limbs, legs tangling together, nose bumping his cheek. “Learn to take what is yours, yes?”
Then, they’re melting, all lips and tongue and teeth.
“Hungry?” Boris asks some time later. The question distracts Will from where he’s running his finger over the other boy’s kiss-swollen lower lip.
“Yeah,” he replies. And he is. Actually, he’s starving.
“I have bread. Sugar.”
The meager offering and odd combination gives Will pause.
“Um…” he trails off.
“What?” Boris questions, quirking his brow again. “Have you not had bread and sugar? Is very good! Like dessert. Come!”
He jumps up from where they’ve been lounging against the pillows, holding a hand out for Will to grab. Will stares at it for a moment before taking it. Boris helps him up off the mattress, but does not let go afterwards, simply continues to hold his hand as they make their way down the hall and into the kitchen, an action that has heat flooding to Will’s cheeks.
He holds his hand still as he digs through the cupboards, pulling out what looks to be the only plate in the entire house (a sad, white, cracked thing), a loaf of bread, and a bag of sugar before finally letting go. Will mourns the contact but is fascinated to watch Boris work. The bread Boris has isn’t sliced sandwich bread, but rather the kind you would get from a bakery. He tears it with his fingers, placing chunks on the plate before covering them with sprinkles of granulated sugar. Then, he holds a piece in front of Will’s face.
“Bite,” he demands with such resolve that Will’s afraid to say no.
So, he bites. And the other boy was right. It’s sweet.
That doesn’t mean it’s good. But it’s definitely sweet.
Will points to his own mouth, before saying between bites:
“I don’t think this is food, Boris.”
Boris looks shocked. Then huffs. Then makes a noise like a cat that’s been startled.
“You just don’t know what is good! Spoiled with your meatloaf! That’s what you are!”
Will can’t help it—he laughs. A full body laugh, bending at the waist, holding his stomach. And Boris, instead of being insulted, looks incredibly pleased.
