His alarm clock says it’s nearing midnight, and Will’s still wide awake. He’s had an exhausting day, and his eyes are burning with tiredness, but he can’t quite get his brain to shut down and just sleep. A part of his is still reeling with disbelief.
Mike has feelings for him. For him.
A few months ago, this would have been the highlight of his life. An absolute dream come true. Now, it feels bittersweet.
Will tells himself it wouldn’t work anyways, because Mike is all the way in Hawkins, and he’s here in California. That kind of distance for all four years of high school is bound to create some strain on a relationship, no matter how much someone wants it to work. But in the end, none of it matters anyway, because now, he has Boris. Boris, who makes him happier than he ever could have dreamed. Boris, who treats him like someone precious every day. Boris, who is right here in front of him, where he can touch him and see him anytime he wants.
Without realizing it, he’s starting to drift off to thoughts of Boris—the memory of his hands running down his shoulders, the sight of his crooked grin, the way shadows cast on the inside of his wrists. He’s almost fully peacefully asleep when he hears it, a tapping at his window.
A persistent, melodic tap, tap, tap, tap.
It’s so gentle it doesn’t even frighten him, just eases him out of his pre-slumber with a whisper of confusion. His addled mind conjures up the image of a bird pecking at the glass, but the logical side of his brain knows that can’t be right.
Will sits up in bed, and his heart stops when he’s greeted with the shadow of a person instead. In the darkness, the looming figure looks larger than life—dangerous and oppressive, and he can’t help but think of every murder news article that’s ran in the paper in the last six months.
Slowly, so slowly, he creeps out of bed and over to his light switch, barely daring to breathe, a scream for Jonathan on the tip of his tongue. Light floods his room with the flick of a finger, illuminating like the sun, and relief floods him instantly. Because it’s Boris.
Of course it’s Boris.
Will slaps a hand to his forehead and sighs, a long drawn out thing, before padding over to his window and tugging it open.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and it sounds like a demand. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”
Boris’s grin is bright. He chucks his backpack through the window as Will takes a step back before hauling himself inside.
“Didn’t know murderers knocked,” he replies.
Will splutters, and Boris laughs, far too loud for the quiet of the night.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” Will asks again, softer this time. “Is everything okay?”
He reaches his arms out towards Boris in concern, thinking immediately of his father, and his eyes track over his face in search of bruises or sign of a struggle.
“Everything is fine, William. Said I would come through your window, yes?”
Will lets out a disbelieving sound.
“Only if it’s been too long. It hasn’t even been a day, Boris.”
“So?” Boris walks into Will’s open arms, and Will immediately tightens his grip around his waist. “Maybe that is too long.”
Will stares into his eyes, taking in their dark color, the warmth of them, the seriousness of Boris’s words hidden beneath a slightly joking façade.
“You’re so…” he trails off, overcome by emotion, unsure of what word he’s even looking for. Ridiculous perhaps, because that’s what he always says. Perfect, maybe, because it sometimes really feels like he is.
