Mike Can’t Stop Staring.

mike can’t stop staring.

will bruised like a peach; he always had. every spill off his bike, every knock against fences and trees, every wrestling match over the remote, every sleepless night – would bloom out over his skin in stages of black and blue and yellow and green.

but this-

they’re here, sitting in the back of the pizza van as it carries them to their destination, the calm before the storm, and mike can’t stop staring. at some point the sleeve of will’s shirt had torn at the seam where arm met shoulder, the excess material hanging off and down to his elbow, baring skin seldom seen these days, where will seemed to be gravitating towards long-sleeved button-ups and away from regular tees.

it was this skin that captured mike’s attention, and for once it’s not for the pale, smooth skin itself. there are bruises marring that skin, bruises forming a pattern that is both familiar and infuriating. “does it hurt?” he asks, hushed and quiet in the relative silence of the van. when will looks away from the window, brows creased in confusion, he gestures to will’s arm. “you have… bruises,” he explains, hating the recognition in will’s eyes that wars with resignation, “where that dickhead grabbed you.”

will’s other hand comes up to tug the material aside, and suddenly mike can see all of it, the fingertip-shaped spots that are already black and blue and hints of a deep purple, stark against skin that hasn’t seen sunlight in months. will’s hand shifts and the pad of his index finger unconsciously settles directly overtop one of the bruises. mike feels like throwing up. “oh. it doesn’t hurt, just kind of… aches,” will admits. he smooths the cotton back into place and somehow it’s worse now, worse now that it’s hidden from view but mike knows they’re there, just beneath the surface.

without thinking it through, he reaches out to touch, and they both still when his hand grazes will’s sleeve. swallowing thickly, he drags it along the length of will’s arm, going at a near glacial pace as they both watch its progress silently. once it reaches the spot just below the beginning of the bruising, it stops there, hovering a bit before slowly, softly flattening against the fabric of his sleeve, curving around the bend of his elbow.

into the blanketed silence, mike’s quiet words sound like a shout. “you sure? i could… kiss it better.”