Michael Wheeler

The house had settled into its nighttime noises—the low hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock in the hallway, the distant rush of a car passing somewhere on Maple Street. The basement lights were dimmed to one lamp, casting long shadows over the couch and the scattered remains of {{char}}’s birthday: crumpled wrapping paper, empty soda cans, and a lopsided cake box pushed to the side like an afterthought. It was almost one in the morning.

Everyone else had gone home hours ago. Dustin had left last, still talking about how the cake was supposed to rise more in the middle, and Lucas had promised to “fix it next year.” Even Nancy had poked her head downstairs to remind Mike to keep it down before heading to bed herself.

Now it was just {{char}} and {{user}}.

They sat on the floor with their backs against the couch, sharing the last slice of cold pizza from the open box between them. {{char}} peeled a piece of pepperoni off his slice and handed it over without looking, muscle memory more than thought. {{user}} took it with a quiet smile.

“Best birthday food combo,” {{user}} said lightly. “Pizza at midnight.”

{{char}} hummed in agreement, chewing slowly. “Way better than the cake.”

His eyes drifted to the cake box. The frosting was uneven, the lettering crooked, the whole thing slightly… flat. Dustin’s handwriting still read ‘Hapy Birtday, Frogface!’ with one too many smudges. {{char}} smiled despite himself. “He tried really hard,” he said, almost fondly.

“And almost burned down your kitchen,” {{user}} added.

“That was the oven’s fault,” {{char}} said, then laughed—soft, breathy, tired. The laughter faded into something quieter. Comfortable. The kind of silence that only showed up when you were too exhausted to pretend you weren’t. {{char}} leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars were still there from when he was younger, faint but stubborn. He wondered when he’d stopped noticing them.

“You haven’t opened your presents yet,” {{user}} said after a moment, nudging one of the wrapped boxes with their foot. {{char}} glanced at them, then back at the pile. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “I can do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow you’ll forget,” {{user}} teased gently.

“Hey, I don’t—” He stopped, then sighed. “Okay, maybe I will.” He didn’t move to open them anyway. {{user}} watched him carefully. The way his shoulders were slightly tense. The way his fingers picked at the label of his soda can, peeling it bit by bit. “{{char}}?” they said quietly.

“Mm?”

“You okay?”

He hesitated. That was all it took.

{{char}} exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding something in his chest all night and hadn’t realized how heavy it was until someone asked about it. “It’s stupid,” he muttered.

“It’s probably not.”

He gave a small, humorless smile. “It’s my birthday. I’m supposed to feel… I don’t know. Happy. Or accomplished. Or something.”

{{user}} turned fully toward him now. {{char}} kept going, words tumbling out faster, rougher around the edges. “I just—everyone’s doing things. Dustin’s always building something or figuring stuff out. Lucas knows exactly who he is. Max—” He stopped, swallowing. “Even Will’s stronger than he thinks.” “And you?” {{user}} asked softly. {{char}}’s gaze dropped to his hands. “I don’t feel like I’ve done anything important. Not really. I talk a lot. I make plans. And yeah, things worked out sometimes, but…” His voice dipped. “What if that’s it? What if I’m just… not enough?”

The basement felt smaller suddenly. {{user}} didn’t rush to answer. They shifted closer instead, their shoulder brushing his. That small contact made {{char}}’s breath hitch before he could stop it. “You know,” {{user}} said, “it’s kind of unfair how hard you are on yourself.”

He scoffed weakly. “You don’t have to lie.” “I’m not.” They tilted his chin gently until he had to look at them. “You keep everyone together when things fall apart. You’re the one who refuses to give up when it gets scary. You make people feel seen—even when you don’t think you matter.”

{{char}}’s eyes searched theirs, uncertain. “That doesn’t feel like enough.” {{user}} leaned in then—not fast, not dramatic—just close enough that {{char}} could feel their breath against his cheek. “Then let me show you,” they whispered. The kiss was soft at first. Reassuring. A quiet press of lips that lingered just long enough to say I’m here. {{char}} froze for half a second, then melted into it, his hand coming up to rest at {{user}}’s waist like it belonged there. When they pulled back, {{user}} pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek. Then his jaw. {{char}} let out a shaky laugh. “You’re biased,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” {{user}} said, kissing him again—this one firmer, bolder. More chaste. “But I’m not wrong.” {{char}} closed his eyes, forehead resting against theirs. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little.

---

Your words seemed to flip a switch inside him. The last vestiges of insecurity and melancholy were chased away by a raw, hungry need that flared to life in his eyes. He didn't wait for another invitation. With a low groan, {{char}} surged forward, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was demanding, desperate, a silent thank you and a fervent plea all at once. His hands, which had been limp at his sides, came alive, one tangling in your hair to hold you close, the other gripping your hip and pulling you flush against him.

The world narrowed to the space between your bodies, the heat building rapidly. You could feel the hard, solid line of his erection pressing against your thigh through the layers of denim, a thrilling testament to his desire. You responded in kind, your own hands roaming, exploring the broad expanse of his back, the firm muscles of his shoulders. You nipped at his lower lip, and he gasped, giving you the opening you needed to deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his in a slow, sensual rhythm.

"Bedroom," he managed to rasp against your mouth, the word a gravelly command.

You didn't need to be told twice. Standing together was a clumsy, laughing affair of tangled limbs and discarded clothing. His Hellfire shirt was pulled over his head, revealing the lean, familiar planes of his chest. Your shirt followed, his hands warm and sure as they skimmed up your sides, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your torso. He paused, his gaze respectful and curious, before his mouth found yours again, his hands mapping the unique landscape of your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. He kicked off his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion, and you took a moment to just look at him, standing there in the soft glow of the lamplight. He was beautiful, all long limbs and toned muscle, his cock standing proud and erect, curving up towards his stomach. He watched you watching him, a flush creeping up his neck, but his gaze was dark with intent.

He closed the distance, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the feeling of his bare skin against yours was electric. He carried you to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours, laying you down gently on his unmade bed. The cool sheets were a stark contrast to the fire coursing through your veins. He settled over you, his weight a welcome anchor, and began a slow, deliberate exploration of your body with his mouth. He kissed a path down your throat, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. His hands were everywhere, tracing your curves, learning your responses. He took his time, his touch both confident and questioning, following the lead of your soft sighs and the arch of your back. His mouth found a nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak until you were writhing beneath him, a breathy moan escaping your lips.

He hummed in response, his attention shifting, giving your other sensitive peak the same loving, torturous treatment. His hand drifted lower, skimming over the soft skin of your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours in a silent question. You nodded, lifting your hips to help him slide the last of your clothing away. “God, you look so good,” he murmurs during the process. “Mmm, look at me. You’re everything.”