Fics like Melrose Street

Knock knock knock “Jesus Christ! Hold on,” he mumbles, floating down the steps. He flicks on the porch light and yanks the door open. “What the hell are you–” He freezes. For a moment, he really does believe he’s dreaming. You know, given that not a single fucking thing about this situation makes any goddamn sense. Because on the short trip from his bedroom to the front door, Mike made a list in his head of all of the people that could potentially be on the other side. It was a rather abbreviated list, to be fair: The cops. Nancy. His landlady, Freida. That one drunk guy he occasionally gives a cigarette to if he happens to be smoking on his porch when he walks by. But it’s not any of those people. It’s Will. A year older, soaking wet, shivering with a waterlogged duffel bag slung over his left shoulder. Yeah. He’s dreaming. Because he had spoken to Will on the phone not even ten hours ago. He was about to go on his three year anniversary date with his long term boyfriend in New York City. OR: Will needs some space from his boyfriend, James, and for whatever reason, he decides to take that space at Mike's townhouse in Boston. Mike is going to be so normal about it.

Fics like Melrose Street

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