Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All Will wanted was to not draw the short end of the stick.

He'd crossed his fingers for this, and if nothing else, that should've shown how much he needed this. Will was quite literally praying to God, Jesus, the devil, anyone— hell, he'd pray to Mike fucking Wheeler, if it could get him out of this— and in his opinion, the world at large was lucky he'd done nothing more than pray. If it would make these stupid slips of paper disappear entirely, he would've started practicing black magic.

All he wanted was one consolation prize to make this shitty apocalypse pass a bit smoother. Okay? Was that really too much to hope for?

In the cup Robin held out to him, there were four slips of paper, all penned with four names. One-in-four chances; the odds were in his favor. He pulled a slip, wincing, hoping to God for Jonathan instead of him, and— shit.

"Fuck, Steve, are you kidding me? I wanted Will."

Robin leaned over Will's shoulder, reading the name in a split second while Will struggled to decipher the scraggly handwriting under The Squawk's dim glow. Someone needed to replace those dying bulbs, but Will couldn't have focused on that if he tried, because the little slip of paper infuriatingly labeled Harrington was taking up all of his attention. Apparently, one good thing was too much to hope for, and the odds had never been in his favor.

Screw this. Will was going back to the black magic plan.

As to why they were all drawing sticks from a cup, and why these sticks decided the fate of the Party— well. Everything seemed to be Mike's fault, as of recent.

The adults— as in the Party's parents and Hopper, technically a parent to none but an intimidating father figure to everyone, now that all their lives were going to Hell in a handbasket— had decided that each member of the Party needed someone to supervise them. And maybe everyone was blaming this on Mike, since he'd decided to sneak out to the woods for no apparent reason and nearly become food for a Demogorgon, and maybe everyone was blaming the subsequent drawing of straws on Mike, too— because Nancy and Steve both wanted Dustin, and Robin and Jonathan both wanted Will, and everyone wanted Lucas but no one, and Will meant no one, wanted Mike— but Will had decided everything was fine.

He was not at his wits' end. He was not about to lose it over being paired up with Steve Douchebag Harrington, and everything was going to be fine. He was fine.

Will glanced up from his paper and tried to steel his face into an unbothered expression, no, I don't think Steve peaked in highschool, what do you mean? It wasn't that he hated Steve; Will wasn't the type of person to hate anyone, save for the psychotic interdimensional monster currently making their life hell. Maybe he disliked people, maybe he held grudges towards a few particular people, but he didn't hate people. No one deserved to be despised so heavily, and hatred wasn't something Will liked to feel, anyway.

So he didn't hate Steve. Did he like Steve?

At the moment, Steve was staring at Will like he was a strange, potentially-venomous spider that had been shoved into his hands; not scared, not exactly, but floundering and out of his depth in the way one would be if they weren't the weird kid on the playground who'd taken a deep interest in bugs. "You can have him," he hissed— by the tight strain in his voice, he might've been a little concerned that said spider was a biter— leaning off the couch and whispering in Robin's ear.

Will, also being right next to Robin's ear, heard every word. Steve noticed far too late, halfway into his next sentence of "I mean, no offense, but the kid really creeps me— oh." He turned to Will with wide eyes, going a little pale. "Sorry, Byers."

Will never liked being called by his last name. Byers always brought with it an air of his father— stale beer, rough words— and that, Will thought, made it obvious as to how much he liked Steve.

He met Steve's eye, shrugged, and crumpled the paper in his fingers. "Isn't it Lucas's turn?"

At his name, Lucas looked up from his spot on the couch, legs crossed and ankles dangling onto Dustin's shoulders. Despite Dustin swatting at his calves and hissing for Lucas to get off, you fucker, Lucas seemed only mildly interested in what was going on. "You took one for the team, Will," he said, as Robin passed him the cup. "I have all the good options."

Steve spluttered out a retort that seemed to start with your mom. Juvenile and a douche.

Instead of stooping to his level, Lucas raised his eyebrow in Steve's general direction. Thoroughly cowed— Lucas could level some fearsome are-you-a-fucking-idiot looks— Steve went quiet, watching Lucas fish out a paper slip with deep concentration. Will should've closed his eyes and furrowed his brow when he drew a slip, too. Maybe his luck wouldn't have been quite so abysmal.

The slip wavered in Lucas's hands when it caught the breeze of The Squawk's box fan (no air conditioning for a broken-down warehouse). He squinted, reading the spidery handwriting Will could recognize from miles away, eerily similar to his own.

"Jonathan," he said, slowly. His tense look collapsed into a small, relieved smile.

Lucky him. In the back of his mind, Will wondered what he could bribe Lucas with for them to switch slips.

Shuffling through a box of cassettes was Jonathan himself, insisting under his breath with Robin that no, he wasn't going to steal her tapes, even if she did have a live recording from The Smiths circa 1983. He glanced up, shoulders going stiff as they flicked to Mike before relaxing when he caught sight of Lucas's paper. "Oh, thank— I mean, uh," he stalled, sending a surreptitious glance towards Mike again— who, currently, was staring Jonathan down with an affronted look of what the fuck did I do— "Lucas. What's up, man?"

"Sinclair's great," Steve agreed, nodding his head. "You got lucky, big Byers."

Scowling was a look that graced his brother's face quite often, but not even Will was sure he had seen Jonathan's annoyance turn into that sharp of a glare. "Really."

Disdain of Steve ran in the family. It wasn't like they didn't have a reason; the Byers had been placed dead last in the social hierarchy of Hawkins since day one, while the Harringtons (more like Harrington, single, since the senior Harringtons did nothing but sit around and count their money) floated peacefully on top, uncaring and undisturbed.

Sitting up top must've been boring, Will thought. Why else would Steve decide to take a job as resident popular douche?

Time and time again, Steve had seemed to delight in slighting Will's brother and the Byers as a whole. From smashing the camera Jonathan had spent months saving up to buy— yes, what his brother did with that camera was undeniably wrong, but two wrongs wouldn't made a right— to attempting to beat Jonathan bloody (attempt was an overstatement, in Will's opinion) and calling his family a bunch of screw-ups, Will was starting to think this bullying had swung past the point of hatred and wrapped around to an obsession. It made Steve look like more of an idiot than Jonathan could ever be.

Maybe being so fulfilled was what made him such an asshole. Maybe he was unhappy with his basket of friends and opportunities to pick and choose from, and maybe Steve decided to take out that unhappiness of having everything he could ever want on someone who had nothing at all. Maybe his perfect life made him look down on anyone less than him, and maybe that was what led him down that alleyway, watching his friends spray-paint SLUT in big red letters on the brick wall and goading Jonathan into a punch. I'm not even surprised what happened to your brother. I mean, your family is a disgrace to the entire—

Will took a breath, steering his brain from that alleyway.

Steve was an ex-asshole. People changed. When Will saw him, all he heard was Jonathan's broken voice, murmuring to his mom; fucking asshole, said he wasn't surprised what happened to Will, and I'm the one who got arrested. Steve fucking Harrington. He remembered Jonathan stretching his vowels, covering up the way his voice had started to shake.

People changed, but Will wasn't the type to forget. He was getting tired of forgiving, too.

"Don't call him big Byers, dickwad. Jesus." Dustin shuffled from his spot by the couch to elbow Steve in the side. Somehow, Lucas's ankles were still on his shoulders. "Throw me a slip, Robin!"

A crumpled piece of paper landed past Dustin's face and onto Lucas's lap. Robin only looked vaguely sorry as Lucas read another paper, sighing in relief at the pristine, looping print. "You got Nancy," he said, tossing the slip into the garbage can in the corner without looking up. Steve gave an appreciative whistle while Dustin pumped his fists.

"Not Mike," breathed Nancy, clasping her hands like she'd been praying for this. Will couldn't blame her. She dealt with more than enough of her brother by living with him.

"What the hell?" Mike threw his hands in the air. "Seriously, what did I do?"

Will could've answered that a million times over. The rest of the group saved him by exchanging a pointed look, passed around their haphazard circle and landing on Mike's affronted expression. From his spot on the couch, far too close to Will for comfort, Mike slunk down into the cushions, crossing his arms and deepening his scowl.

One of Mike's hands brushed against Will's arm. With great effort, Will kept himself from flinching away.

With one slip left in the cup, Robin attempted to toss it to the garbage; instead, it flew past Jonathan's head, landing in a box of tapes. Instead of at least trying to look sorry, she ignored the cup and circled the couch Mike and Will were sitting on until she stood right in front of them, then stopped to face Mike with a growing, shark-toothed grin. It wasn't like Will knew Robin very well, but even he'd been around enough to know that her resting face always screamed mischief.

"Michael," she said, simply.

Mike shook his head. "Okay, no," he said, voice rising. "Nope. No way." His eyes were wide and panicked, like the thought of having Robin next to him every time he went outside was equivalent to lethal injection. Will felt similarly about Steve, so he couldn't judge.

"I hope you remember that this buddy system," she said, drawing out the word buddy to make Mike scowl, "is your fault in every single way. Remember that when you're cursing my name."

"I'm cursing it right now," Mike muttered, sinking further into the couch. Will watched, vaguely amused— Mike's eyes went all wide and pouty when he was annoyed, and Will's traitorous heart fluttered at the sight— until his eyes accidentally caught Steve's, and all that amusement went away.

He watched, stomach churning, as Steve swallowed so thickly Will could see it in his throat. Steve's eyes stayed on Will for one fraction of a second, face contorted into a grimace like he'd never been more uncomfortable than he was now, looking at Will. After that fraction, Steve glanced away, hands coming to fidget with the hem of his ironed polo as his gaze darted around the room.

"So," drawled Robin, clapping her hands, "is everyone ready to be buddies?"

The group gave a collective groan. Will crossed his fingers again and hoped the end of the world would hurry up.

The first time Hopper had suggested the buddy system, every teen in the room had immediately shot it down (some with violent head-shakes, some with expletives). Either way, it had been pushed aside; the Party was too old to be babysat, and the teens nearing their twenties had better things to do than babysit, no matter how many times Joyce and Hopper tried to explain how it wasn't babysitting. Apparently.

The second time Hopper suggested the buddy system had garnered more agreement, probably because he'd said it while pressing a rag to Mike's torn-up thigh.

No one could wring an explanation out of Mike that night, nor in the subdued days that followed. He'd said he left something important, then refused to elaborate on where he'd gone or what said important thing was, facing the concerned wrath of even his own mother with nothing more than a quiet voice and sullen shrugs.

That was another strange behavior in Mike that had appeared recently; the risk-taking, the volunteering for every patrol of the woods and every trip to the thankfully (or not, Will couldn't really decide) closed rifts, the sitting out on the Wheeler's front porch late into the night with nothing more than a pocket knife for company. Mike was becoming a little too eager to throw himself off a cliff, and now that Mike had gotten his leg shredded, Will was starting to fear a repeat incident of the time Mike had literally jumped off a cliff. It was something he'd laughed off the first time he'd heard it, spurred on by Dustin's casual tone— Mike jumped off a cliff for my teeth, Will, he's got some crazy guts. He was finding it harder to laugh now.

He would've told Mike this, but there was something else nagging at Will, something making it hard for him to even look Mike in the eye. He would've come to Mike with his concerns long before he'd had to fend off a Demodog all alone, would've done something to talk Mike down from the edge, anything to calm him down in the face of their oncoming doom. He would've talked to Mike, really, if not for the first strange behavior.

This risk-taking, this protectiveness and self-disregard? All of it seemed to center around Will.

No matter how it sounded, he wasn't being egotistical. Will had gotten used to Mike disregarding him, slighting him (an empty mailbox for Will, an armful of letters for El) and hurting him (it's not my fault you don't like girls!) so Mike suddenly trying to protect him? Mike offering to go on every single patrol Will was assigned to, trailing Will everywhere he went from the relief center to his own basement because he wanted to hang out? That was out of the ordinary.

Will wasn't saying Mike's world revolved around him. Before this, hoping to take up an inch of space in Mike's mind only happened on a good day. Now, however, he was having. . . thoughts. Thoughts that were absolutely not productive, or helpful, or even possible, but Mike's sudden onslaught of attention was doing anything but making these thoughts go away.

(Mike, brushing his shoulder against Will's as they walked home from the elementary playground— it had become their place of refuge, standing on swings and climbing ladders they were too large for to feel like kids again— and Will, stupid, hopeful Will, dreaming of taking Mike's hand the next time they brushed together, basking in the sparks that flew from their touch, ignoring the pit of guilt sitting thick in his stomach like a coiled vine.

Mike, lingering in the basement until the clock began to tick towards morning, and Will, watching him recline on the couch and biting back the plea of sleep here, please, this couch can have room for two if we try. Mike, nodding off on Will's shoulder before flinching up with a start, face red in the dim light, and selfish, selfish Will, wondering what else he could do to make Mike flush so prettily.

Mike, spending time with Will like a friend was supposed to. Mike, trying to rekindle their friendship, and Will, staring at the sparks and wishing for something more.)

And there he went again, distracted by his daydreams of Mike knowing what Will was and still wanting to look him in the eye. Right now, Will had a much more pressing problem to handle— the evening patrol he was scheduled for with Steve Douche— sorry, Steve Decent Guy Harrington.

The patrol itself wasn't Will's problem. If not for the events of last night, Will would've hopped on his bike and cycled around the woods himself, considering that the most dangerous thing anyone had found on these patrols Hopper insisted were necessary was a slug-sized Demodog. Even taking the events of last night into account, Will still would've gone by himself; the woods held some less-than-pleasant memories, sure, but he'd prefer going alone than letting Steve lag behind him.

Hopper's words, however, were still ringing in Will's ears from the night before. Any of you run off, he'd said, glowering, and I swear to god, I'll sip my coffee and watch through the window when a Demodog tries to maul you.

The image of Hopper smiling around the rim of his mug while Will died a gruesome death at his cabin window was one that came to mind quite easily, and besides, incurring the wrath of his soon-to-be stepdad (at least, that was what El insisted he'd be) wasn't exactly something Will wanted to do. So Steve it was.

Last night, when they'd left the radio station, all the Party had decided to pile into Steve's shiny BMW. Will had sat stiff on the edge of the leather seats, worried his sheer presence would leave a stain while the rest of the Party bickered and squabbled, much to Steve's chagrin. If you scratch those seats, you're paying for upholstery repair, he'd muttered, sending off Lucas and Dustin in quick succession, before stopping Will— and Mike, by extension, with them both living at the Wheelers— with a quick Byers! as he gingerly climbed out of the car.

He'd turned around slowly, possibly more tense than he'd been in Steve's car. He meant to say something, but all his words rolled together in a thick lump when he met Steve's eye. The last thing Will wanted to do was talk to him.

I'll radio you at six tomorrow, he'd said, trying for a smile that quickly faded when Will continued to say nothing. Capiche? At Will's prolonged silence, he faltered. Uh, capiche? Like, do you understand, you know— and at Will's raised eyebrow, he sighed, clearly giving up— okay. See you at six for the patrol. Bring a weapon.

So here Will was, fiddling with the knob of his walkie in one hand, holding the handle of a shotgun tight in the other. Periodically, he checked the gun to make sure the safety was still on, or glanced to the clock as it ticked past six-ten. He would've radioed Steve himself, but Steve had made no mention of what channel he'd call in on. Will flicked between all seven and hoped for the best, the best being Steve not showing up at all.

Channel two. His and Mike's private channel; Will heard a rush of static, a noise that sounded like a wet cough, and a sudden, harsh silence. Channel three, the Party's general channel, yielded more static. Channel four—

"Byers? Hello-o, Byers? God damnit, need to get Dustin on this broken piece of shit—"

A loud crack of static ripped through the room as Steve, presumably, banged his walkie talkie on something solid. Unwilling to hear the abuse towards the walkie any longer, Will bit the bullet and attempted to get out a normal sentence instead of an irritated groan. "No one talks on channel four," he said, doing his best to steel his voice into sounding normal. It worked, mostly.

Look. Will wasn't going to let his disdain show. He'd make a decent, unassuming impression on fallen-King Steve, play as nothing more than his shadow for the next few months, then fade away when they either won the battle against Vecna or died in a blaze of fiery torture. His feelings weren't a problem unless he made them one.

"I don't understand why you all use these things," Steve muttered. His mouth was way too close to the speaker; Will could hear his breathing, deep and heavy. Jesus. "Seriously, what happened to talking through a telephone?"

"Do you have a phone that can fit in your backpack?" Will was going to have to get his expressions under control, or else he'd keep giving Steve a deadpan stare that would never pass as unassuming.

A sigh crackled over the radio. ". . . Fair. I'm outside your house, by the way."

The best, the possibility of Steve never speaking to him again, had flown right out the window. Will bit back a sigh of his own, checked to make sure his gun was loaded for the fourth time, and trudged up the basement stairs, clicking off his walkie before giving Steve a response. He held onto his mantra, repeating it under his breath; my feelings aren't a problem until I make them one.

It had worked for most of his life. Hopefully, my feelings don't matter applied to handling peppy jocks, too.

"These patrols are pointless." Steve kicked a rock with his shoes— Adidas, pristine and new, way out of the Byers' budget— as he peeked into the woods, nail bat trailing the ground with a harsh scraping sound. "Like, hello, any interdimensional monsters here? No? Okay, thanks!"

Will wanted to agree with him. In his opinion, these weekly 'patrols' were glorified walks around the woods, existing for the sole purpose of making everyone feel better about the way Hawkins was slowly crumbling to pieces. At least the forest isn't swarming with Demogorgons, they'd sigh, soothed, as another shop on Main Street shuttered its doors and another For Sale sign blew off a lawn and into the street.

This town was already dying. No one needed to see a Demodog to prove it.

The gun in Steve's left hand was hanging limp, dangling off his fingers. Will decided not to agree with him and clenched the handle of his own weapon tighter. How could anyone even dual-wield a bat and a gun?

"You hate this too, right?" Steve turned to Will, head tilted and bat-clenching hand up like Steve was trying to pull an answer from him. "It's not just me?" He raised his hand further, almost to his head like he was about to run it through his hair— even with the world falling apart around them, Steve still earned his title of The Hair— then dropped it abruptly when he realized his fingers were full. Will wasn't going to say the mere action of Steve trying to run a hand through his hair pissed him off, but— well.

Steve had everything going for him, down to his trust fund and perfectly-coiffed hair. Even standing in the presence of his good looks (objectively, Will insisted to himself, though he couldn't help but admit that Steve wasn't not nice to look at) was enough to remind Will of what he'd never have, like pressing on a bruise that refused to go away.

He didn't hate Steve for it. Steve was born into his place in life, and Will was born into his. That didn't mean seeing Steve take everything down to his styled hair for granted didn't irk Will, or depress him. Maybe a bit of both.

"Not just you," Will agreed, keeping his eyes on the footpath. They were traveling down a little dirt path that ran near the woods, closer to the Byers' old house than the main part of town. Surprisingly, Steve seemed comfortable on the dirt, kicking up dust with his shoes like he couldn't care less if they got dirty. Probably because he'd always have money for the laundromat.

Stop, he thought to himself, guilt settling thickly in his stomach. Steve had never even done anything to him, and if he kept thinking this way, all this disdain he was hiding would bubble up into anger and he'd up doing something he'd regret. Like bashing something to bits with Steve's stupid nail bat, or being a snippy asshole with him until the tables turned and Steve had a reason to hate him. According to Dustin, Steve wasn't even a jerk anymore. Even if his constant refusal to use Will's first name was making him think otherwise, Will would give Steve the benefit of the doubt. He had to, or he'd lose it.

Will was good at bottling himself up, okay? Sure, it inevitably exploded— think Will yelling and what about us? to a room full of people or saying, starry-eyed and stupid, we could play Nintendo in your basement for the rest of our lives— but for the most part, he was damn good at hiding. He had to stop letting the disdain simmer before it boiled over, and that meant no more thinking about Steve's ironed polos and spat-out insults to his brother. No more.

Tepid silence trickled between them. Will could've put his hand in it and watched his fingers come away wet and sticky, lukewarm and uncomfortable. The quiet continued, interrupted only by the occasional call of a cicada, until Steve's radio started to blare.

"The Police!" Steve grinned, pulling the walkie from his back pocket to turn up the volume. "Man, Robin's on her game. I love this song. Every little thing she does is ma-agic. . ."

Will had nothing against The Police. Some of their songs were great, but this one, with its poppy beat and repetitive lyrics, was irritating. To put it lightly.

Steve hummed the next few bars. Somehow, he managed to make the song worse. "You, uh—" and he paused, voice faltering as he glanced to Will— "you like this song?"

"It's fine," said Will, running the smooth handle of the gun under his thumb as a distraction. Steve's eyes flickered to Will's hand, momentarily. "Every Breath You Take is better."

"Really? You— jeez, Byers, loosen up on that gun." Reluctantly, Will stopped fidgeting with the handle. Being near the woods still set Will on edge, even with the clear lack of danger; it helped, a bit, to know he'd come more prepared than when he'd crashed his bike back on Mirkwood. "I, uh— anyway. I think that one's kind of creepy. Sounds like the singer's stalking you."

They turned a corner, following the path as it veered deeper into the woods. The light dimmed under the tree cover, and Will tensed. "Yeah, well, this one's annoying." Immediately after he snapped, Will's stomach started to churn and his mind whirled— stupid, can't even handle one hour with him, what the hell has he ever done to you? "Sorry," he murmured, staring off into the trees.

At first, Will thought Steve didn't seem phased. He just shrugged, spinning his bat around a little in one hand as they marched on. "Hey, no, I get it. Guy sings the same line over and over again, it gets kind of tiring, you know?" Then, Will dared to glance over and look at his face. Bad move.

Steve was practically studying him. His eyes were roaming over Will like he was trying to see inside him, get into his brain and see how it worked, but not in a way that looked like he was succeeding. Will knew many people with that searching stare— standing in front of Mike's sister made Will feel like she'd stripped his brain raw, and looking his mom in the eye made him want to open up his brain for her— but Steve?

The guy had no clue on how to open Will up. Will could see the confusion in Steve's eyes as they looked over the stiff tension of his shoulders; the guy was completely and utterly lost, but Will couldn't understand why Steve was trying to figure him out in the first place. That made two lost people, then.

His suspicions were confirmed when Steve spoke again, loud voice echoing in the silence. Will tried not to wince, but based on Steve's vaguely-wounded frown, he failed. "You know," he said, starting slowly, hands twitching like they wanted to soften Will's tense posture, "you're a little unnerving, Byers. I can't get an angle on you."

"Why do you want one?" Will had been called a lot of things, but unnerving was a new one. It was a nicer word than he'd expected Steve to use (though thinking Steve was an ass who would just call him a freak made Will feel like an ass, because Steve hadn't even done anything to him) and Will even liked it, somewhat. He could've used the ability to push people away by being unsettling when kids like Steve (again, there came the guilt) were trying to make him cry on the playground. Unnerving was leagues better than girly.

"Well," said Steve, "I've got one idea. You still think I'm a total douchebag."

There was no accusation in his tone, but Will flinched back like he'd been hit. Steve had the only angle that mattered, and Will had been found out. "You— what? I don't think that," and it came out so strangled, Will considered disappearing into the woods and lying down in the dirt until a Demodog came to maul him.

"Hey, it's no big," he said, waving Will off with a short swing of his nail bat. His tone was light, casual, like they were discussing the weather. Yeah, you think I'm a total fucking asshole. Sure is sunny out. "I mean, we've never even talked to each other before. And I know this is, uh, a little weird for the both of us, so—"

"You could get out of it," Will said, before immediately regretting it.

Steve tilted his head. "What?"

Will was trying to shove that resentment down. That didn't mean it was working.

Look. There was a reason he'd been called a queer, and it wasn't just for his hand-me-down plaids and crayon boxes; Will was emotional. His heart was always threatening to burst with feeling, and no matter how hard he tried, a bit of that emotion always snuck through the cracks. Right now, that feeling was burning resentment, guilt-ridden and sickening. And what made the resentment burn— no matter how much Will wished it wouldn't, how much he wished he didn't care— was the way Steve coasted through life while Will had crashed and burned since he was born.

Steve didn't know what it was like to be scorned by an entire town. Steve watched it happen, stopped to stare, laughed a little when someone whispered zombie boy and moved on. Steve didn't know what it was like to be hated for something that Will hadn't even had a name for while King Steve ruled over Hawkins High. Steve had watched, silently encouraging, as the town assumed he'd been kidnapped by a queer like Will.

At best, Steve was complicit, and at worst, he spearheaded the hatred. Will wouldn't be surprised if someone like Troy used to look up to him.

"You know you could leave," said Will, tiredly. "You know how to use that boatload of Harrington cash and charm, right? If I'm such a freak, use it to get out of being stuck with me."

All his friends saw Steve as a protector, a brave, upstanding guy who chose to hang out with a bunch of scraggly teenagers because he liked them. Dustin told Will once that Steve was awesome— a complete dork, he'd said, grinning, but awesome— and Lucas had said he's genuinely a good guy, you know? I mean, he doesn't look it, but he's good. Even goes to all my games. And sure, Mike had nothing to offer in support of Steve, but Will's dislike was seperate from Mike's disdain towards, as he put it, insufferable jocks. Even Robin was best friends with him, and Robin was anything but the sort of person who would hang out with someone who got called a king back in highschool.

A nagging part of him couldn't look past how Steve used to be when he hadn't heard so much as a hint of an apology. Part of him looked at Steve and tensed, waiting for the insult Will was sure would fly out of his mouth, and part of him couldn't listen to Steve's words when he only heard Jonathan. He called me a queer, said it wasn't a surprise what happened to Will, hell, wish I could beat him to shit again. Entitled jackass— cue Jonathan's hoarse breathing and Joyce's murmured comforts, and cue Will's strangled gasp as he stumbled back to his room. No one in this town wanted me back, he'd thought, twelve and terrified. The way the townsfolk talked about him only made Will sure that he'd been taken to Hell because he belonged there.

"Oh." Steve's face fell a little, frowning for a fraction of a second. "So that's what you're—" and he stopped himself, shaking his head and swallowing his words— "Okay. I get it."

You don't. You can't. Will stayed quiet, letting Steve talk on, letting guilt and resentment eat away at his stomach.

"For the record, I don't have charm," Steve continued, laughing slightly, "not anymore." It fell flat when he noticed how Will was looking at him, resigned and waiting like he knew Steve would turn on him. No matter how hard Will tried to push that face away, it wouldn't budge. "Can't deny the cash, though. And— you know I don't think you're a freak, right?" He had his hands up in defense, like he was genuinely offended Will saw him that way. Seriously? "You're a, uh— you're a good kid. I wouldn't be here if you weren't."

Steve sounded like he thought Will was supposed to fear being a freak. Like he hadn't gotten used to it after being different all his life, like straying from the norm was something he had to hate.

Yeah, Will couldn't help himself then. He laughed, dry and humorless, before catching himself and swallowing it down. "You say it like it's such a bad thing."

That got Will something. He wasn't trying for it, but he still managed to make Steve flounder. His eyes went wide and he blinked hard; once, twice, then for a third time as Will's sentence seemed to reverberate around in his brain. Will could almost hear it hitting the sides of his skull. Was Dustin's sheer existence not enough to convince Steve that some people didn't mind being out of place?

"It's just Steve, you know," he said, finally. "Not Harrington."

"Don't call me Byers, then."

Silence thickened in the air. Will took a breath, trying to calm himself. It would've worked, too, if the bushes hadn't started to rustle.

Steve didn't seem to notice. He was still staring at Will, head tilted listlessly, whereas Will had been on high alert since the age of six. It took the tiniest of noises to put him on edge, and shaking foliage was more than enough; instantly, his eyes darted to the trees, gripping the handle of his gun tight as their leaves quivered, squaring his shoulders and clicking off the safety—

A snarl ripped through the forest, low and heavy. The leaves stopped rustling.

That got Steve's attention. He stepped in front of Will near instantly, white-knuckling his nail bat as the snarls drifted closer. Pounding footsteps echoed through the trees. "Stay behind me," said Steve, teeth grit. "Stay behind—"

When the Demodog sprang from the bushes, Will realized Steve wouldn't be calling anyone by their last name anymore, not if he didn't act fast. The monster was rushing straight towards him, mouth extending wide and claws splayed out to pierce perfectly through Steve's thin polo. He'd be a shield for Will, fall over and knock Will down flat, and leave them both ready to become dog food. They were close to that already, too; Steve was firing wildly with one hand, swinging with the other, blinded by fear as his hands shook around his weapons. A few shells bounced off the distant trees, hitting the trunks with a grim click.

They were going to die if Will didn't do something, but he was frozen. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe; he was frozen, and Steve was going to die, and he was going to die. He'd spent the last few minutes of his life resenting the person he was going to die with, and fuck, Steve's handgun had run out of ammo. Will could hear the sad, pathetic chink as he fumbled with the gun, how Steve himself made a frustrated noise as the Demodog stalked closer to the both of them. The sound practically reverberated in Will's chest— he couldn't die here, not like this, he couldn't let Steve die here—

Will blinked, and he was standing in front of Steve, aiming round after round into the Demodog's open maw. Eyes on your target, he heard his father murmur, align your sights, square your shoulders. Get the fucker in the brain, right under its eye. He wasn't shooting a rabbit, but the advice worked as much as it made his stomach churn.

"Shit," he heard Steve murmur from behind him. The Demodog paused mid-spring, mouth glistening from a good five rounds to the throat. It fell to the ground and twitched feebly, dying, but Will kept going— what do you mean, you don't want it to die? Don't be a pansy, come on, take a look at its head. See if your aim was off. His father was hours away and still snarling in his ear.

A distinct click alerted Will that he'd exhausted his bullets. He kept his hands tight on the gun, grip shaking as he pointed it to the now-still monster, eyes blurry and dim. We're gonna do that again, next weekend. Make you into less of a god damn coward.

"Byers!" A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Will flinched hard, shaking it off as he kept his gun trained on the Demodog. It could still get up. He had to stay focused, vigilant, his father reminded him, you never know when a fucker's gonna steal your kill. "Fucking hell, dude, it's dead. It's been dead."

The hand came back to his shoulder, and Lonnie's voice blinked out from his mind, putting Will back in his body. His shaking, sweating, sour-mouthed body, seeming awfully small compared to the gun in his hand. For a moment, he felt like a child again, holding a rifle too large for him to defend against a threat even larger.

Slowly, Will lowered his gun. He kept his hand on the trigger, twitching as he watched the Demodog's still body. "It's just Will," he said, shakily.

"Okay," said Steve. He took a deep breath, swallowing thickly at the sight of a bloodied corpse. Will couldn't blame him. "Okay, Will. We need to work on your form."

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler was far too dignified to be scared of Robin.

In fact, Mike had too much dignity to consider being intimidated by Robin. Mike was not daunted by Robin, or irritated by Robin, or even perplexed by Robin. Mike Wheeler felt absolutely neutral towards Robin, even as her voice rang off the walls of The Squawk's cramped headquarters and gave him the headache of a lifetime.

"Sit down, Wheeler!" Robin was fiddling with her mic, twisting the base in quick, dizzying circles. If she kept it up, that thing was going to break. "Keep icing that leg, okay?"

Oh, who was he kidding? Robin totally irritated him.

In the few hours he'd spent alone with her, Mike was pretty sure Robn had gleaned every one of his secrets and deciphered them like Russian code. She had an uncanny knack of predicting his every move— he had been thinking about getting up from the couch, to be fair— and a hard, knowing look in her eyes, like she was seeing into his brain at all times. Thus, Mike had decided to both avoid looking her in the eye and speaking to her, in case eyes really were a window to the soul. If they were, Robin had already seen his in all its black, rotting glory.

Mike had a lot of secrets. He'd take any measure to keep them safe, even if it meant staring at a wall so Robin wouldn't see into his soul.

"I'm serious about the ice," she added, spinning around in her desk chair to check the time. "Can't have you getting an infection on my watch." Her eyes studied the clock on the wall, ticking close to six. It was almost time for Rockin' Robin's evening report!

In his mind, the phrase came out in Robin's voice. Mike resisted the urge to scream. "I am icing it," he hissed. "I never stopped icing it."

"You were thinking about it," she said, pointedly. He was thinking about it. He was also thinking about leaping up and strangling her. "Oh, shit—" and Robin spun back to her desk, eyes wide as the tape that had been playing stopped and a big red light blinked to life below the ON AIR sign. She'd scavenged it from the ruins of The Squawk, once an abandoned storage warehouse they'd raided for supplies; Robin had delighted in decorating the place with the sign and a collection of Russian nesting dolls, much to Mike's horror.

"Good eve-ning, Hawkins! We've got a fifty-percent chance of storms this fine evening, one-hundred percent chance of hostile government takeover— oh, wait, that already happened. My bad!"

As Robin continued her spiel, Mike attempted to tune her out so he could focus on his Geometry homework. School in the apocalypse was a special sort of torture, and adding math with sentences on top of it made Mike want to walk into a government building with his arms out wide until a bullet pierced his heart.

While he floundered on his fourth problem, Robin drew her speech to a close and set her cassette deck to play. A catchy song played out tinnily into the room; The Police, Mike realized, a few bars in. If nothing else, Robin had good taste in music. Sort of like Will.

(A positive thought about Robin? Comparing her to Will, a literal angel even when not put next to her?

Jesus. Geometry really was messing with his head.)

A squeaking sound drew Mike's head from his homework; Robin was spinning back and forth in her chair, twisting her ankle at an angle that looked painful. Not that she seemed to mind, with the grin stretching across her face. Under her stare, Mike shifted uncomfortably.

"You know," she said, attempting to look Mike in the eye— which Mike was staunchly avoiding, staring holes into his papers— "if I'm going to be looking after you for, like, the far foreseeable future, I think I should know more about you."

"I don't need to be looked after," Mike said automatically, bristling. "I'm not five."

Robin raised an eyebrow. "Well," she muttered, mouth twitching, "you sure act like it."

Silence thickened between them, tense and awkward. Robin tapped her feet, all antsy-looking as her eyes darted across the room. That tense quiet seemed to make her as uncomfortable as it did Mike— okay, no, he did not want to notice any similarities between him and Robin. No thanks.

"Okay, I can't do this." Robin broke the silence with an aggrieved noise, standing up and beginning to pace. They both hated stillness, despised inactivity— no! Stop! He was not like Robin! "Look, tell me something, okay? Anything."

In response, Mike scowled, glaring daggers at his homework. What the fuck was a proof, and why did it involve multiple sentences? Math was for numbers.

"Come on," she murmured, "how do I get a closed-off, snarky fifteen year old to talk. . ." She tapped her chin thoughtfully, still pacing. Mike wasn't looking at her, and she was still making him dizzy. "Oh! You like games, right?"

Mike rolled his eyes. His scowl deepened. "I'm not ten, either."

He loved games. They all reminded him of Will, from D&D in his basement to tag on the playground, something he'd still managed to convince Will to go along with even when they were too big to fit through the slides. He tried to hide that stupid bit of childhood he kept clinging to, but Robin, of course, had noticed it instantly. "Steve told me you all gather in your basement and toss dice for ten hours like some cult ritual. Which, cult ritual or not, I want in, but— okay." She paused, tilting her head like she was plotting something. "A game that'll make you talk. Let me think."

"Please don't," Mike said. By the way Robin's eyes lit up, he was too late.

"We're playing two truths and a lie," she said, grinning. "You're going first, by the way."

Mike Wheeler and telling the truth mixed like oil and water. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been fully honest, and Robin expected him to be honest with her? "I'm good."

"I know," she said, empathically, "I know. You're fifteen, and you're all grown up, and it sucks. But you know you can still have fun, right?"

She hopped onto her chair as another song by The Police started to play— this one sang about how everything some nondescript she did was magic, but Mike's mind didn't go to a girl— and sat on the back of Mike's couch, head turned at an awkward angle to face him. "The best part about games like these," she continued, "is that there's no room to lie. Everyone's always speaking in half-truths, you know? All those little white lies and exaggerations, adding up until you can't tell who they really are."

Robin scowled, glancing away. "I hate it. Don't you?"

Mike existed in nothing but half-truths. Everything he said meant something else, wrapped up in lies darker than dirt. He craved honesty, and Robin was offering it to him on a silver platter.

"I— yeah." Mike averted his gaze, somehow still managing to catch Robin's eye. She gave him a smile and a hurry-up sort of gesture, and Mike resisted the urge to scowl again.

Instead, he wracked his brain for anything true about him that wouldn't make Robin leave the room. "I guess, uh— fine, I'll start. My eyes are green." Great lie, Wheeler.

"You're really good at this game," said Robin, deadpan.

"I'm not done." What else? Anything true about him was usually awful. "I used to have a birthmark over my eye, and. Uhm."

He tried to think of a good truth, but all that came up was I'm in love with my best friend and I don't know how to tell him. That wouldn't work. "I play guitar," he said, finally, without thinking his words through.

Okay. Maybe that was worse, because Robin was laughing again, chest convulsing with the effort it took for her to not double over cackling. "I— you," was all Robin got out, in between breaths, "guitar? Mike Wheeler, musician?"

"Do you really think my eyes are green?"

Mike shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about his hobbies to strangers, and his acoustic guitar was his best kept-secret, tucked far away in his closet. The only people who knew were Nancy and his mom; according to his sister, he sung loud enough for the whole house to hear.

She'd also said he sounded good. You should start a band, she'd said, before grimacing and walking away like talking to him any longer would make her ill. Mike felt the same way, so he couldn't complain.

"Sorry," she said, taking a deep breath. "That was shitty of me to laugh. It's just— when I first saw you, I thought you looked like some raggedy teenaged rockstar. That dark, rats-nest hair—" and Mike made an offended squawk, but she kept going— "and your beat-up Converse? The ripped jeans? You're, like, Joan Jett's angsty loser twin."

"Who's Joan Jett?" The second the words came out of his mouth, Mike knew they were the wrong thing to say.

Robin gaped. "Oh my God." She ran to a box of tapes, snatched something up, and set it in the cassette player before Mike had time to feel confused. A harsh guitar riff echoed through the room, and a woman's raspy voice sang out; saw him dancing there, by the record machine. . .

"While you listen to this," she said, giving Mike a pointed glare— hello, what did he do wrong— "it's my turn."

"One," she continued, as Joan Jett sang about a cherry bomb, "I totally don't want to know why you went to the woods in the middle of the night. Two, my favorite color is lavender. Three, hm. . . well, when I was your age, I once rear-ended the most popular guy in school, right in the Hawkins High parking lot."

The similarities between him and Robin were starting to rack up. They both had a tendency to ramble; he'd found this out when Robin had gone on both an angry rant about her lackluster radio equipment and an overexcited tirade on an apparently one-of-a-kind Blondie CD she'd found in the discount bins of Hawkins soon-to-be-closed record store. Mike had almost returned her rant with something along the lines of my friend is a huge music snob, do you think he'd like Blondie? but shut his mouth halfway through. He wasn't that stupid.

In addition, Robin was fucking witty. No, Mike didn't admire her for it, but maybe he was a little envious, okay? Sure, Mike always had a retort on him like Robin, but hers always seemed to one-up his. It wasn't that she always knew what to say— Mike didn't either, so that was another thing they had in common— but she was snappy, funny, smart. Mike might've been good with words, too, but all that disappeared the moment he had to get them out of his mouth instead of putting them on paper.

So maybe Robin reminded Mike of himself, sometimes. Maybe that was why she irritated him. He wasn't going to analyze that any further, because right now, he had a bigger problem; figuring out which one of Robin's statements was a lie. Or, more accurately, figuring out how to dodge the statement that he knew was a lie.

"Uh," he said, eloquent as ever. "The rear-ending one?"

Another cackled laugh echoed through the room. "Hah! Sure, little Wheeler. Steve's cronies totally weren't calling me ass-hitter for a week." At Mike's vacant stare, she clarified; "You know, like rear-end, ass. . . okay, nevermind."

"No, I got that. It's just— aren't you and Steve, like, attached at the hip?" Mike had accidentally looked her in the eye. Shit.

"Not until we worked minimum wage and almost died together," she responded, grinning. "That shit bonds you for life. Anyways," and she swung her legs up on the back of the couch, perched precariously like a bird on a branch, "you wanna answer my lie? Why, exactly, did you get that killer injury?"

Great. Robin's searching stare was hypnotizing; something in it made Mike unable to look away, like the warmth of Ms. Byers' eyes and the kindness in Will's. She looked like she cared, almost, like she wanted to listen to Mike's troubles and dole out advice like she was giving boy advice to Nancy. Or whatever those two did together. Something told Mike that boys were probably the last thing they talked about.

Technically, Mike's troubles were boy troubles. Robin didn't need to know that. "Killer as in I get an infection and die? I mean, if it gets me out of here," he muttered, yanking his gaze away and setting it back on his math homework.

"Oh, come on," said Robin, nudging his shoulder. "You love it here. Now tell me," and she nudged Mike again, Jesus Christ, "what exactly was so important for you to risk your life for?"

Mike's idea of what was important to him was skewed, to put it lightly. He'd never been good at explaining what he cared about in real, spoken words— as embarrassing as it was, poetry and songwriting were where he figured out his feelings— so the things that were important to him usually sounded a bit blunt, a bit selfish. Probably because they were.

In no particular order, the list went like this; the Party, my guitar, the mixtape Will gave me in seventh grade, my family, Will, Will's drawings, Will, Will, Will.

Will. When it came to what was important to him, Will was always there.

After the Byers left, Mike had started to live in the woods behind their home. Maye not live, exactly, but he'd spent enough time in the ruins of Castle Byers for it to feel like his second home. He'd wanted to fix it so badly— badly enough for it to burn, for Mike to choke back tears the first time he saw it crumpled on the forest floor, shocked at the physical proof of how badly he'd lost Will— but he never had the strength, never had the money. Never had the courage, really.

So he'd sat in its ruins and pretended, sometimes, that Will was really there. He'd placed a few stray logs on the roof and walls to push it back upright, brought his cassette player and his binder of Will's old drawings; then, he'd close his eyes and wonder what would happen if Will was there with him, resting his chin on Mike's shoulder as they flipped through the pages of Will's elementary drawings, tracing his fingers up and down the inside of Mike's forearm and making him shudder. That one's awful, he'd hear Will say, laughing, jumping at the opportunity to criticize himself. Look, his arms are longer than his legs!

How could they be awful if they're yours, Mike would dream of murmuring, and the he'd turn to hold Will's chin and lean in, closer and closer, smiling against Will's lips.

That wasn't how it went every time. Sometimes, Mike would press play on Will's mixtape— titled simply for Mike with an illustrated cover of the Party's characters, something that still made him swoon— and flip through Will's drawings until his eyes got misty and his throat felt thick. Sometimes, he'd run his hands over the waterlogged, torn photos and leftover drawings, tracing the lines of paint smearing the paper like rainbow tears. Sometimes, he'd leave a few wet spots of his own.

They blended in with the warped paper. No one had to know.

"I told you guys," he said. "I left something important, and I had to go get it."

"If you give me something better, I'll help you with your Geometry homework," responded Robin, giving Mike's half-empty paper a pointed look.

Fuck. She had him there.

He'd messed up, okay? That wasn't surprising to anyone, he knew how often he fucked up, but this had been a mistake he had to fix, no matter the consequences. His stupid, selfish, scatterbrained self had been trying to fix his idea of importance before his flight to California— think about El, he remembered drilling into himself, think about what she wants, how to impress her, how to be needed by her— and instead of remembering to grab Will's mixtape and binder before flying to Lenora, he'd picked flowers from the field by the Chief's cabin to give to El in the airport.

It had been an unseasonably warm spring, before the dark clouds of the apocalypse had swept in and left Hawkins a dreary, chilly ghost town. No rain had fallen while Mike had been gone, and no rain had fallen since then because the clouds were entirely made of toxic spores, but that didn't ease his worries for Will's belongings one bit. And no, he couldn't have asked someone to come with him to get his things, because they'd ask questions. Questions Mike was too afraid to answer.

For months, Mike had agonized over the last few things he had of Will's, given back in a time where Mike could look at him and know every last emotion inside his head. He'd nearly resigned himself to never hearing that one dreary song by The Smiths off Will's mixtape again, until a sleeping house from a few nights ago gave Mike the choice to make an impulsive decision.

He'd made it. Obviously. Who was Mike without impulsive stupidity?

"Fine," he sighed, handing over his papers to Robin's outstretched hands. "Make sense of this for me, please. I don't understand why there's sentences in math."

"Please," murmured Robin, smiling. "Didn't know you could be polite." Mike stammered out something, but she didn't seem to notice; Robin was entirely focused on Mike's math, scratching his pencil across the paper with a dizzying speed. He hated to admit it, but she was a genius. Maybe she wasn't grades-smart like Dustin, or social-skills-smart like— well, no one Mike knew, really— but when it came to practical intelligence? Problem-solving, teasing answers out of a puzzle, from Russian codes to geometry? Robin had that down pat.

Mike watched her speed through the problems, eyebrows raising further with each answer she pencilled down. He couldn't check her for accuracy, considering he didn't understand shit, but he was a little impressed. Maybe.

Just before the last problem, Robin set down her pencil. "Gonna need some answers before I finish this, Wheeler," she said, turning to him with a pointed stare, "and I'm explaining how this works to you afterwards. I think I'd be failing in my baby-sitting— sorry, buddy system duties— if I let you cheat for free."

Fuck, she was merciless. "Fine," he groaned, covered his face with his hand. "It's just— I left some stuff. In this place. In the woods." At Robin's pointed a-hem, he elaborated. Very reluctantly.

"The whole Party built it," he continued, quietly, "but it was sort of a special place for me and, uh," shit, he couldn't expose himself this bad, "one other person. We hung out in there alone more than anyone else."

"Yeah?" Robin's voice was a little softer, now. If Mike didn't know any better, he'd say it even held some sympathy. "Did whatever you were looking for in there belong to him?"

See? She was perceptive. Strangely, it didn't unnerve Mike as much as it normally did. "Yeah," he admitted, after a long pause. "I was gifted it a while ago," and at Robin's impatient hand-waving, he clarified again. "A mixtape and some drawings. I left them in that— that place. It was really important to us."

"Was?" She was too perceptive. God.

Shakily, Mike let out another sigh. He'd never know for sure that a storm hadn't coincidentally put baseball bat-shaped dents in the logs and sheet metal, but he wasn't completely stupid, either. Mike knew the ruins of Castle Byers were his fault alone. "The place is ruined, now," he mumbled. "Sometimes, I think he—"

"So it is a he!" Robin clapped her hands together.

Mike raised an eyebrow. "You said that yourself."

"Yeah, well," she said, smiling, "just wanted to make sure. Who is this mysterious, artsy he?"

The way Robin's smile turned to a smirk made Mike think she already knew. Thankfully, before he was forced to answer, the last song in her cassette player faded out and plunged the room into buzzing silence. "Shit," she muttered, hopping off the couch to get to her mic. "Gotta sign off. I made some notes for you on how to solve those problems, by the way."

While Robin closed down The Squawk for the night— she played soft classical music once it got late, and it was already sending him to sleep— Mike read over her notes, eyes narrowed as he took the information in. Infuriatingly, her explanations really did make sense.

Halfway through her explanations, Robin herself clasped a hand down on his shoulder. Mike glanced up with a scowl, but made no effort to shrug Robin off. Why he was tolerating this, Mike had no idea. "So," she said, "ready to go home?"

"In what?" Robin was swinging around a set of keys in her spare hand like they were juggling balls. A sinking dread settled in Mike's stomach.

"The Squawk's van," she replied cheerily. Mike looked at her like she'd sentenced him to death by Demogorgon maw. "I haven't rear-ended anyone in five— okay, two years! You'll be fine!"

He'd never been in control of his facial expressions, but Mike considered himself lucky that he had an incredulous stare good enough to make almost anyone back down. He didn't have much luck anywhere else in the looks department, though. "Do you even have a license?"

"Yes," she insisted. "Somewhere," she added, at Mike's continued disbelieving stare. "It exists, okay? Just not in my wallet."

Oh, God.

Mike was praying to make it out of Robin's car in one piece from the moment he buckled his seat belt. Robin, meanwhile, made idle conversation while her eyes drifted away from the windshield, took turns so sharp Mike could've cut himself on them, and sped through every single driving law like it was her mission to break each and every one. She had her radio up on top volume, and that song by The Police played twice, somehow, boring the lyrics into Mike's brain. With Robin distracted on a rant about someone who had called The Squawk to complain— who doesn't like Madonna, she'd bemoaned, honestly, that guy's life must be depressing as shit— Mike figured it was safe to hum under his breath.

That song would not leave his mind. Every little thing he does is magic. . . Jesus. Maybe if he murmured the lyrics, he could get The Police out of his brain.

Robin didn't seem to notice, not until she turned down the radio in front of the Wheeler's house to bid Mike goodbye. "Hey, Mike?"

"Yeah?" When had Robin ever called him by his

"You've got a good voice," she said, smirking. Fuck. "It's every little thing she does, by the way. Not he."

Mike couldn't make it out of the van fast enough.

The next day, Mike made a plan; this afternoon was supposed to be about him and Will. Just him and Will.

All he'd wanted from today was for things to feel how they used to, how it felt to be Mike-and-Will, alone on the playground swings, when their entire worlds consisted of nothing but eachother. His heart fluttered at the thought of hearing Will's laugh as he pushed himself into the air, holding onto Will's wrist and feeling his heartbeat race while they sprinted through the playground, looking at Will's face lit up by the afternoon sun, looking at Will. . .

"Did you seriously fall already? Damn, Harrington, what happened to those arm muscles?"

Steve and Robin, currently, were hanging off the monkey bars like five year olds. Mike couldn't have shit.

"They're tired!" From his heap in the mulch, Steve glared up at Robin as she swung across the bars with ease. "One of us has actually been working out, you know."

So maybe having a contest with Will on who could swing higher was also a childish, five year old-like thing to do. Whatever. It was still more sophisticated than monkey bars.

They were taking a break for now, after Mike had nearly done a three-sixty on the swings and fallen ass-first on the mulch. And yes, Will had unashamedly laughed at him, but with Will, even being laughed at by him made Mike's heart flutter. Mostly because he had a nice laugh, all deep and soft in a way that sent butterflies straight to Mike's gut, but it didn't hurt to see Will towering over him with a hand held out to help him up, either. Usually, Mike was the taller one (okay, by three inches, but it was an important three inches) but having that role reversed on him made his knees a little weak.

He didn't mind. It meant he got to hold onto Will's hand for a little while longer.

"You know we could've snuck off alone, right?" Will glanced over to him with a raised eyebrow, pulling Mike away from Robin and Steve's bickering; currently, Robin was yelling something about Steve's scary muscles totally being enough to frighten a Demogorgon to death. Mike wanted to laugh, but he really didn't want Robin to know he was laughing.

Mike snorted. "Yeah, and if a Demodog got me again, Hopper would end up dancing over my grave."

A strange look flashed over Will's face. Maybe saying again was the wrong move. "How's your leg?"

Throbbing. If Mike messed up and pushed himself on the swings with his left leg instead of his right, he'd have to bite his lip to stop from making an embarrassing, pained noise. Not like he was telling Will that. "It's— uh, it's okay. Don't worry about it."

Will opened his mouth to respond, but Steve's resounding yell drowned out whatever he was about to say. Mike had never been thankful for Steve Harrington before, but he guessed there was a first time for everything.

"Your arms are stick-sized, Buckley!" Steve was lying on the mulch like it was a blanket, while Robin had managed to perch herself on top of the monkey bars like an actual bird. Again; five year olds. "You'll have guns when Hell freezes over!"

"I hurt Steve's ego," Robin called out, glancing to Mike with a grin. "Remind me not to tell him it takes more than arm muscles to impress the ladies." She waggled her eyebrows at him, made a weird, absolutely not subtle glance towards Will, then hopped off the monkey bars and landed centimeters away from Steve's prone body. Will, watching with just as much interest as Mike, nearly went as pale as Steve himself at the sight of Robin nearly caving his ribcage in with her Doc Martens.

Robin and Steve's friendship made perfect sense and none at all at the same time. Something about them was weird, Mike thought, but he couldn't put a finger on it. "You know," he whispered to Will, as their babysitters— ahem, buddies— continued bickering, "do you think Steve and Robin are kind of— different?"

Will cocked his head. His top teeth worried his bottom lip, sort of like a bunny— okay, now was not the time. "How so?"

His voice seemed guarded, strangely. Like he knew something Mike didn't. It made Mike bristle a bit; had Will been hanging out with Robin without him? What secrets did he know about her?

"Well," said Mike, "they're not dating, for one."

Will flinched. Immediately, Mike bit his tongue.

Okay. Look. Mike knew boys could be friends with girls. He was friends with Max, on the rare occasion they weren't jumping at each other's throats, and he was friends with El, now that they weren't dating. He knew, after trying so hard to make things work with El, that the only relationship he'd ever have with a girl was a friendship.

But Steve was a ladies man. He was a lady killer, a charmer, a smooth-talker— whatever phrase had to do with getting women hanging off a guy's biceps, Steve was it. Maybe his high school glory days were over, and maybe hanging out with a bunch of nerdy fifteen year olds killed a bit of his cool factor, but it wasn't like his looks had faded, even if thinking about Steve's looks or lady-killer personality made Mike want to vomit. Not that Mike wanted to even consider having a type. If he did, though, Steve would be about the furthest he could get from soft hair and kind smiles, or little moles, or long, sturdy artist hands, or—

So he was describing Will. Sue him.

His point was this; Steve, as far as Mike knew, was not the type of guy to simply be friends with a girl, and Robin wasn't the type of girl to hang off Steve's biceps unless she was digging her nails in them to piss him off. Logically, they should've repelled each other like alike poles, but somehow, they stuck together like north and south.

How could he say this to Will without making him nervous again? What did he say in the first place to make Will startle like a cornered animal?

"I mean," Mike continued, making his voice a bit softer, "they're so friendly, you know? And Steve's, like, this ladies-man." At Will's raised eyebrow, Mike relented. "Okay, maybe not anymore, but he still tries to be. But he's always insisting that him and Robin are, like, platonic with a capital P or whatever—"

"Hey, that's my catchphrase!"

No longer was Steve sprawled out on the playground mulch. Now, he was sticking his head out of the bottom of a tube slide, looking Mike and Will up and down with a confused stare. Somehow, Mike felt nearly as exposed as he did when Robin stared into his soul, even though Steve didn't really seem to be seeing anything. "What do you two know about platonic, anyway— oof!"'

In their tangle of limbs, it took Mike a moment to recognize the body that had sent Steve flying through the mulch again as Robin. She'd come out right behind him on the same slide, hitting her head square on his back and sending them both flying out of the slide at a speed Mike found alarming. "Jeez, Buckley. Your head's a fucking rock."

"Yeah, and your spine is a god damn steel beam," she shot back, bringing a hand to rub at her forehead. "That hurt, asshole."

"I think you reshaped it," he muttered. Steve plucked mulch from Robin's hair, making no attempt to actually get up. "Brought back my scoliosis."

Mike gaped. "Brought back?" Next to him, Will was sporting a similar expression. He didn't look completely shocked, just a little stunned, like the thought of Steve walking around his elementary school with a back brace was impossible to envision. It was for Mike, too— the idea of Steve ever not looking like the pinnacle of jock athleticism was hard to wrap his head around.

"King Steve wasn't always such a king," said Robin, sitting up and effectively trapping Steve's legs under hers. He made a disgruntled noise, but did nothing more. "I can show you the pictures of him with glasses and gap teeth, if you want." She sounded like a mom, gleeful to embarrass her children with old photos. Something was seriously wrong with those two.

Another aggrieved noise came from Steve as he attempted to sit up. Little pieces of mulch dangled from his hair; Robin, now mulch-free, picked a few from Steve's disheveled hair and tossed them over her shoulder. "Robin, I swear to God—"

"Wanna know what the rod in his spine is called?"

Next to Mike, Will was nodding enthusiastically. His eyebrows were raised high enough to reach the sun. "What?"

"Robin, don't—"

"A Harrington rod," she said with glee. "His scoliosis was fate."

Behind her, Steve was holding his face in his hands. Mike could see his ears turning red, sticking out from his hair now that it had been misshaped into a puffy, disheveled cloud, almost like he'd been struck by lightning. He stood up, marching over towards the swingset and swearing he wore contacts, okay, I don't even own a pair of glasses— and, surprisingly, Will met him halfway, hopping off his own swing with a tentative smile.

Now Mike was truly shocked. Steve's allegedly S-shaped spine had nothing on Will going to talk to Steve of his free will. "What— where are you going?"

"Sorry," said Will, turning back to Mike with a small smile. He looked a little nervous, strangely, but his mouth was tight in a determined line. "I have to hear more about these glasses. Think the gap in his teeth was as big as yours?"

"Wheeler had gap teeth?" In a blink, Robin was in Mike's face, standing on the swing where Will had been sitting with a gleeful grin. "Do tell."

Mike scowled. "He's exaggerating," he muttered, though Will had an overbite before he got braces in the sixth grade, and that had made a younger Mike blush without even knowing what he was feeling, so who was to say Will—

By the time Mike pulled himself out from his thoughts about Will (that endless loop of what if never left him, yes, he knew he was hopeless) the guy was already gone, sitting ramrod-straight on the edge of the steps like he was tensed to bolt while Steve started some sort of conversation. What they could actually talk about, Mike had no idea.

A slow silence drifted between them, save for the slow creak as Robin tilted forwards and backwards on the swing. They stayed quiet as Steve and Will's conversation drifted over to them; Mike couldn't hear everything, but with Steve's exaggerated hand-waving and Will's giggling laughter, Will must've riled him up. Good.

"You look happy," said Robin. "You like looking at him, don't you?"

"What?" Mike could feel his face warming, hotter than the late-summer sun.

His tone must've betrayed something; maybe the fear of being caught with hearts in his eyes, maybe the anger he used to shield himself, that same tone he'd taken with Will in the rain. Either way, Robin raised an eyebrow, giving him a look of terrifying intensity. Mike could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes.

Maybe shielding himself didn't work around everyone. Mike knew he was obvious, anyways. Too many chinks in his armor.

"I'm just saying," she continued, smiling a little, "you don't look at anyone else like that. Never even seen little Holly make your eyes shine—" come on, did she really have to poke fun because she'd seen him read Holly a bedtime story once— "or any of your other friends, for that matter."

His shoulders tensed. "Will's just—" kind, beautiful, perfect, better than I could ever be ever be— "different, okay? He's different."

"I can tell," said Robin, with a little hum. "He's the artist of your group, right? Did all those cool drawings in your basement?"

She was tapping on her denim-covered thigh in an arrythmic beat with one hand, tugging on a hangnail with the other. Mike's favorite nervous tics.

"He did," Mike confirmed, softly. "He's got, like, the hands for it, you know? Artist hands."

A little gleam shone in Robin's eye. Her smile softened, eyes crinkling kindly. The last time he'd seen that look grace her face, she'd been petting a stray puppy. "Yeah? Does he have good music taste too?"

"Yeah," he said. "He likes all these bands I've hardly heard of, and— oh. Oh. You—"

God, Robin played him like a fiddle. She just knew he wouldn't be able to resist talking about Will, exposing exactly who his male friend was in an instant. Fuck.

"Don't look at me like that," said Robin. Mike's scowl deepened. "Come on! You were obvious!" Her hands came to tap at her thigh again, a little shakily. "I'm not totally off base though, am I? Because if I am, shit, you can totally yell at me. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain and I—"

Mike cut her off. "Can't shut up," he completed, with a little smile. "Yeah, me too."

"You get it?" Robin tilted her head like an owl.

"If I didn't, Will would probably be talking to me instead of Steve." He cast his scowl over to the jock, who was rambling on as Will listened intently. He made a strange jerking motion with his arms, almost like he was loading a gun, before gesturing for Will to do the same. Weird.

The thought of Will loading a gun, though, sleeves rolled up and arms tensed—

"Please," Robin said. "If I put a steel wall between you and Will, he'd try to climb it. Don't underestimate yourself, Wheeler."

The flush that had been steadily creeping up Mike's face faded away. Robin's words felt like a plunge into cold water. "Not after—" okay, there went his mouth getting ahead of his head— "whatever. It's like— I keep pushing him, you know? And sometimes I think I pushed him too far ages ago, and there's no point in trying anymore."

So his mouth still got ahead of his brain. At least he didn't end his first sentence with what I said to him, because Robin never would've let that go.

"Pushed him how?" Robin's head tilted further. Maybe she was named after the wrong bird.

"Sometimes I was an asshole," Mike said, shrugging, trying not to let the word eat at him more than it already did. "Sometimes I'm too much. You know? We used to be able to just get close to each other, like you and Steve do. Like friends. Now I can't even tell if he wants to be near me."

One of Robin's legs was sliding precariously close to the edge of the swing seat. She didn't seem to notice. "Well, the difference between you and little Byers is that Steve and I are—"

"Platonic with a capital P, I know," he interrupted, before her irritating smirk made what she was trying to insinuate sink in. "I— we're platonic, too. Obviously."

Robin raised an eyebrow. "With a capital P?"

Mike swallowed. "Uhm."

Gears were turning in Mike's head too, albeit maybe a bit slower than Robin's. Her rapid-fire questions, her strange insinuations and eyebrow-waggles, the way she said he seemed happy looking at Will so softly— maybe Robin was someone safe. Maybe her insistence on Steve being just a friend meant something, too.

Thankfully, Robin didn't make Mike answer her question. "I'm just saying," she said, looking out at Will, "that boy sees the world in you."

Mike glanced over to Will, and found Will's eyes already on him. Steve was still talking, unaware of Will's drifting attention, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. Mike gave Will a small smile; in response, he blinked hard, that deer-in-headlights stare facing Mike down like he didn't even realize Mike had been looking at him.

Will turned away without a smile. Mike tried not to let his heart sink, but it was already gone.

"I don't think he knows what you see in him, though." Robin's voice brought him back to reality, but Mike couldn't tear his eyes away from Will, how his small smile from talking to Steve had disappeared, how he nodded listlessly as his eyes drifted to the ground. He wasn't sure about Will seeing so much in him— Mike was less the world, and moreso the dirt under his shoe— but Mike could be happy only seeing the world through the reflection in Will's eyes, as long as Mike could still see him.

There was a time, a time so close Mike could still remember the way it looked and smelled, when he'd wanted anything but Will knowing what Mike saw in him. It had smelled like wet earth and a cool, dark basement, like dust and field flowers and the sharpness of pen ink on paper. It looked like crumpled letters, Love, Mike written and scratched out over and over again, crayon drawings and old faded photographs, Will's D20's he couldn't bring himself to toss. It sounded like a promise to never join another party, and the clean break of Mike tossing away that promise over and over again.

Now, however, the incoming threat of death had dulled that fear. It still ate ate him, of course, but the thought of Will eclipsed everything.

"I want him to," Mike said, softly. "I really do."

"I think I can make that happen," she said. "You have your boy's mixtape, right?"

Mike's brain was misfiring at Robin calling Will his boy, so it took him a second to process that question. "Why? You can't have it."

"I don't want it," said Robin, "but you'll want good music while you're manning The Squawk tomorrow. Right?" A grin spread over Robin's face, and right then and there, Mike discovered the meaning of true fear.

He was in for it.

Chapter Text

If Steve tried to jostle him around one more time, Will was going to use this gun on himself.

Okay. Maybe that was dramatic. Maybe he wouldn't actually put the handgun in his mouth, or his temple, or any other place that would get Will out of shooting lessons with Steve Harrington, but God, did it sound tempting.

"Tilt yourself a little," Steve said, far too loudly for seven in the morning. "No, not that way—" and Will bit back a sigh, because how was he supposed to know— "to your left. No, your other left."

Apparently Will's other left was the wrong left as well, because Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and angled him sideways, in a direction that was absolutely, one-hundred-percent right. At seven in the morning, Will was too tired to argue.

"Your legs are all messed up again. Space them out— no, oh my God, not that wide. Jesus." Steve's hands kept twitching. Will must've been getting on his nerves, and while that was a change from the Steve who could hardly stand next to him, it wasn't a particularly nice change. Now Steve was getting on Will's nerves, and Will was getting on Steve's nerves even though they didn't need to do this at all, because Will could shoot perfectly fine without all this bullshit about stance.

Will could shoot perfectly fine. This, as he'd realized, was a bonding activity.

In his opinion, he'd bonded with Steve enough yesterday. Sure, said bonding consisted of a five-minute conversation about Steve's scoliosis brace and high-prescription glasses, but that was enough for Will. There was no need to flaunt his humiliating lack of manliness as he struggled to stand like a divorced dad who spent his paychecks at the army surplus store, or whoever else liked to shoot for fun.

"No, stay still!" Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing through his teeth. Will bit back a sigh.

He stood still as Steve adjusted him, messing with the tilt of his shoulders and making weird gestures that probably came from those hundred-dollar lessons rich parents bought their kids on shooting ranges. Will shuffled around awkwardly, and wondered how Dustin could stand him.

Eventually, Steve stepped away, looking him up and down; one more shove to his shoulder, and in Steve's eyes, he was perfect. Apparently. Will had no idea how he was supposed to stand. "Hell yeah, Byers— I, uh. Will. Looks great, dude."

He walked over to the hood of the car, fiddling with his radio. "I'm, uh, gonna keep the volume on this down so you can focus, alright?" Then, awkwardly— like Steve didn't know where to put his hands when he walked, and left them to dangle stiff at his sides— he shuffled back to Will with a small smile and put a hand out again to hover over Will's shoulder, close enough to set all his nerves on edge. "Now aim for the can, okay? Shoot it off the stump."

Tensely, Will nodded. He clicked off the safety, set his finger over the trigger, ignored the hiss in his ear that wanted his hands to stop shaking, don't be a fucking pansy, do you hear me? Do you—

The can clattered to the ground. Through the roaring in his ears, Will couldn't remember pulling the trigger at all.

"Right in the heart," Steve said, nodding. The hand he'd hung over Will's shoulder clamped down.

He flinched, hard. Base instinct.

He shook himself before Steve could ask what was wrong. "Sorry," he murmured. Then, he aimed his gun towards the next can, and fired again. The bullet clipped the side of a can, sending shrapnel flying through the grass.

Steve hissed behind him. "Your shoulders, man. Relaxing's not gonna kill you." Will had hiked his shoulders up to his ears again, unconsciously curling in on himself. The instinct to take up less space had been buried in Will since he was small; when the world got too loud and the bottles started shattering too close to his head, what better way to hide than to shrink until he didn't exist at all?

This time, Steve kept his hands off Will. Maybe last time had taught him a lesson.

How did this constitute as bonding? Maybe this was another one of those facts about life he would never get— how holding a gun made a man, and anything free of sweat and grit made a queer or a girl— but Will couldn't see how flinching at every hint of gunfire and wearing stupid safety goggles somehow made him more deserving of being a man. Not that he'd ever deserve it, really, but his point still stood.

(It wouldn't. Not to someone like Steve, not to someone who was born and raised on one definition of a man. Not when a man was someone who always got his way, someone who was unerringly right, someone beat into that chiseled shape of a boy through basketball practice and shooting lessons and giving flowers to a girl. Not when Will had been the wrong sort of boy from birth.

While Steve was raised to be strong, Will was born and raised hiding. He shied away from the man who had once been just like every other right young boy by curling in on himself, by wiping away tears with the cuff of his flannel, by coloring in pages until he'd escaped to another world entirely. Nothing he said would stand against Steve when only one of them was a man.)

"Dude!" Will startled, but he kept his eyes on the cans. Two more stood on some nearby stumps, and if he shot them down, maybe he could go home. Or maybe he could hijack Steve's car and wrap it around a tree. "Will," he said again, setting a hand on Will's shoulder because he apparently hadn't learned his lesson, "chill out, okay? We, uh— we don't have to do this if you don't want to. I mean, you'll probably never run into another Demodog anyway, and if you do, I, uh, don't think anyone's lucky enough to survive twice."

This time, Will shook him off instead of flinching like a girl. "I'm fine," he muttered, without looking back. In his haste, he'd forgotten to click on the safety, so he pulled the gun up and fired, one bullet after another. Three shells hit the final can, sending it crashing against a nearby tree.

"Did someone teach you how to shoot?" Apparently, shooting practice as a bonding activity also included talking. Will would've preferred silence. "Before this, I mean."

The question didn't register in his mind like it should've. Instead of an answer, a series of disjointed thoughts flashes in his mind, with nothing tethering them together but the view of his house as they'd driven to the clearing and Steve's raised eyebrow as he studied the marks Will had made in the cans.

One; telling Steve that Lonnie had jostled him almost like Steve did probably wasn't a good idea, even if the words were trying to crawl out of his throat.

Two; yesterday, Will had made an impulsive decision. Mike's sheer presence had made Will feel like a string pulled taut, quivering and restless, so he'd slipped off to Steve. He'd wanted to release that tense energy somewhere, but Steve had laughed and thrown his hands up when Will prodded him about his back brace and glasses, and he even learned how Steve and Robin both had electric blue braces in middle school. Will had pushed him, but instead of shoving back, Steve bent for him. Steve had extended an olive branch.

Three; under the weight of this gun, that olive branch was snapping. Because behind them, nestled just in front of the woods—

"I went missing here," said Will, quietly. "In that shed, behind the trees."

His next line was supped to have been oh, my dad taught me, and when Steve said I don't remember him, Will was supposed to say he left. The perfect play in three lines, and he'd thrown the whole thing in less than one.

It would've fallen apart with Steve. Everyone remembered Lonnie.

"You— what?" Steve blinked at him, like he'd had a script memorized in his head, too. Probably something about making Will a real man, because why would a real man ever apologize? Why would Will deserve an apology when what Steve had said to Jonathan was true? "Why didn't you tell me, man? I would've—"

"That was the last time I picked up a gun," he said. As much as Will hated to admit it, no one could bottle their feelings forever; when his broke out, nothing could stop the rush until he was empty. "The police found scattered shells all over the shed. I never got to pull the trigger."

He wanted to stop. More than anything, Will wanted to go quiet, bite his tongue until it bled, but everything was pouring out now and it was too much, too much to see Steve standing there, to see Steve so shocked when he'd seen what Lonnie had done to his family and had nothing to say for it but that whole family is a bunch of screw-ups. I mean, just look at your mom.

"But you know," said Will. "You weren't even surprised. Remember?"

Steve's face was dully shocked, eyes dim and blinking, jaw loose as his mouth opened and closed. Had anybody ever confronted him like this? Was Will the first person to tell him how he'd hurt someone?

"I didn't know you knew," he said, finally. "About— what I said. That was—"

Here came the apology, all those empty excuses Will would hate to hear. "Don't," he said, shaking his head. "You asked who taught me to shoot. Lonnie did."

A flash of confusion passed over Steve's face before settling back into that strange look of shock. It made Will wonder whether he was seconds from getting socked in the face, or watching Steve pull away in his car to avoid knowing what a jerk he really was. Will would understand if he did; no one liked a confrontation, him least of all.

"Your dad," he said. His face softened a little, falling into a frown. Will hated it; the frown wasn't pity, but something kinder, something Will never knew Steve had in him. It made him want to squirm, to look away.

"I got— sorry. I didn't mean to say that," said Will. "We can keep shooting." He was halfway through the logistics of stealing Steve's keys and fleeing the scene when Steve reached out a hand to his own, slowly inching towards the gun.

Instinctively, Will's hand clenched around the handle. Steve held his palm up, waiting. "Can I see that?" Something was different with his voice; it had gone a little deeper, a little more gentle. For the first time, Will thought Steve sounded vulnerable.

His fingers loosened, and Steve took the gun. "You know what I'd do," he said, "if I ever saw your dad again?"

Good question. If Will saw him again, he'd probably freeze up until Lonnie mistook him for a tree. Steve, on the other hand, had only seen Will's dad in flashes; in the stands of a baseball game, pacing with a gun at the edge of the woods, an angry, smoke-clouded smudge of cigarettes and pills, in the deep purple bruises that once decorated Jonathan's cheek. He'd seen those flashes and closed his eyes, blind to the hurt standing right in front of him.

He had the chance to be braver, now. Will, despite everything, hoped Steve would take it.

Halfway through Will's what?, Steve breathed out a laugh and said rhetorical question, dude, before firing a hole right through the closest tree. And Will had always disliked the popular kids, never one to fawn over their perfect football throws or baseball hits, but something about the way Steve swung the gun out with such precise composure— like making the memories of Will's father disappear really was as simple as holding up one hand and firing a bullet through them— made Will understand why all his friends had nothing but good things to say about him.

"I know that doesn't mean shit." Steve was still staring off at the tree. A bit of smoke blew off the tip of his gun as he lowered it down. "I could punch a hole through his face, and it wouldn't change a thing."

In the moment, Will was still a little starry-eyed. He was half-expecting Steve to bring the gun up to his face and blow the smoke away, like they were playing parts in an old Western. "I don't—" and he paused, words lumping up in his throat— "You want to?"

Steve nodded. "He deserves it. You do, too."

That sent a shockwave through Will, rendering him silent. He stood there, tongue thick and useless, because no one who had hated him had ever afforded him even the smallest of apologies. Steve didn't hate him, but he'd served as the idol for the people who did, and that had only given him and his family even more hell. Steve knew nothing about him except in rumors, as zombie boy and Lonnie's kid, you know, the queer one— but the fact that Steve had changed enough to want to fight for him, even when Steve still knew nothing about him?

"Why?"

Nothing Steve said or did would change a thing. Nothing could take back what Steve had said about Will's family except for a time machine. Will was tired of forgiving, tired of shoving down his emotions to make room for other people's wrongdoings. Then again, he was tired of remembering, too.

He was tired of shrinking in on himself as he walked outside because he was a disgrace to the entire town. He was tired of tensing every time he walked through Hawkins High, expecting a shove to the shoulder or a whisper of fag in his ear. He was tired of trying to make himself small for the world around him when no one in this town would be happy until he disappeared entirely.

"This whole town put you through hell," said Steve, glancing away. "I was a part of it, and all that bullying and prejudice, or whatever— it made me a fucking asshole. I was a jerk. A grade-A, top-of-the-line dick, like— the kind of douche who stole lollipops from babies, man. I sucked."

"You wouldn't do that," said Will. Steve raised an eyebrow, and Will relented, a little. "You, like, pinned people up against lockers. Stole their lunch money."

Steve snorted. "I made Tommy H. bully Eleanor Gillepsie into giving him her lunch money once. Felt like a god damn cartoon villain."

A warm silence formed between them. Until now, Will had never stood in silence with Steve without wanting to bolt, but now, Will almost found him companionable. As strange as it was, finding a friend in Steve was a nice feeling.

"I want to make up for it," Steve said, quietly. "I'm not saying you should ignore what I said because I'm only, like, half the asshole I used to be. And I'm not really good at being normal, either— I still live in a three story house, for God's sake, and I don't really know who I am without a date on my arm every other week— but I guess I want to try. "

Without that layer of douchebag popularity, it was easy for Will to fall into Steve's earnest charm. He wanted to be skeptical, to stiffen up and tune out Steve's words, but as he kept talking, Will was faltering, reaching out for that olive branch.

"You don't have to forgive me, or whatever. Me saying sorry's not gonna do shit, even though I am sorry. I'd build a fucking time machine to stop sixteen year old King Steve—" and he punctuated this with a dry laugh, rolling his eyes at the title— "from acting the way he did, but that's not my point."

He paused, finally turning to Will. A small frown tugged at his mouth, tugging Will's heart in turn, "You didn't deserve it, man. What I said, the way your dad was, the way this shithole of a town treated you. None of it. Not when you're the kindest fucking kid this place has ever seen."

The forest was remarkably silent for the break of dawn. Except for the intermittent hiss of the radio, Will was plunged into an echo chamber of Steve calling him kind, blindsighted by the thought of Steve seeing that in him at all. "You really think that?"

"Really," Steve confirmed, nodding. "The way you treat people, it's— man. I wish I was like that."

Kindness wasn't something Will thought of as inherently special. To him, anyone decent was kind; to Steve, Will's kindness seemed to be something he revered. "I have to physically stop myself from groaning when Lucas needs me to drive him to his third practice in a week," he said, "and you offer to take him before he even mentions it. And remember that time El fell asleep on your shoulder on that couch in the Squawk?"

"I was letting her sleep," said Will. "Anyone would've."

"For six hours?" Steve laughed, stunned. "I would've started complaining thirty minutes in. You're a good person, you know."

That got Will to smile. He grinned for a moment, ducking his head as his face started to turn hot, going quiet when the earnesty of Steve's words hit him right in the chest. There were still some parts of Will that could change Steve's mind, but he could be selfish, just this once. Just this once, maybe Will could smile at the acknowledgment of the one thing he did right, and ignore the part of Steve's speech to Jonathan where he'd said I'd always took you for a queer, but I guess you're just a little screw-up like your father.

Will was everything Steve was supposed to hate, but Will was just as tired of hiding as he was of forgiving. If Steve could look past Will on a surface level— past his soft demeanor and all the rumors, past the way his disappearance was framed as a shame, but you know what happens— then maybe, just maybe, Steve could look him head-on and still value him for who he was, for being a good person and having an affinity for dark-haired, lanky, idiot boys. Maybe Steve would tell him to loosen up, man, and maybe his fears wouldn't end up being that big of a deal.

If he didn't, Will could go back to thinking of Steve as a cautionary tale of peaking in highschool in peace. He'd set up a win-win scenario.

When the silence stretched on a little too long, Steve reached for the radio he'd set on the hood of his car earlier. "I'll drop you back home, okay?" He fiddled with the walkie with one hand, searching for his keys with the other.

Steve's key-search stopped when his walkie started to yell.

At first, static screeched from the speaker, slowly forming into the voice of a disgruntled. . . someone. "—what the hell, Robin, I'm not going to start speaking—"

"Jesus, Wheeler, can you do anything with your mouth but be a dick?" In comparison to Mike, Robin's voice was quiet, faraway. Mike sounded like he had his mouth on the microphone.

Slowly, Will turned to look at Steve. They faced each other with the same wide-eyed stare, mouths gaping in tandem.

"No fucking way," he breathed. "The Squawk's, like, Robin's god damn baby. She doesn't even let me touch the mic—"

Robin's voice blasted through the radio. Steve put his head in his hands, making a noise that was a mix between a groan and a choked-out laugh. "And we're on air," she said, cheerily. "This is Rockin' Robin with The Squawk, 94.5 FM. . ."

She went on with her spiel as Mike's protests grew increasingly desperate, from staticky curses to wheedling begging, the likes of which Will had never heard from Mike's mouth before. "I know my music taste can get a little repetitive at times— yes, I can hear you all crying out, no more Blondie!— but I think my co-host behind me can help with that!"

A crackly, shuffling noise sputtered over the radio; Will liked to think it came from Robin physically shoving Mike up to the microphone. "Care to introduce yourself?"

"I hate you," Mike muttered, "so much."

"Bo-ring," said Robin, stretching her vowels. "Get more creative with your insults— and tell them your name, dickwad!"

A resounding groan broke through the radio. Next to Will, Steve was nearly choking on laughter; as for Will himself, everything was going too fast for him to truly process anything. His face had been frozen on what the fuck for five minutes now.

After a few more moments of silence (interspersed with more complaints, of course) Mike's voice crackled through the radio once again. "This is Mike Wheeler," he said, "unpaid, overworked, forcibly employed co-host of The Squawk. Now— Robin, what does this say, you write in fucking hieroglyphics—"

More arguing filtered through the radio, but Will had tuned it all out. He shared a look with Steve, took a moment to stare into each other's equally slack-jawed faces; then, Steve launched himself over the hood of his car to raise its antenna.

Technically, Will could not prove that Mike was playing his eighth-grade mixtape. Technically, Will could not remember the exact order he had set each song in, and technically, it was plain weird to remember what songs he'd put on a mixtape from three years ago.

Will remembered everything about Mike. He remembered their Halloween costumes from second grade, their biology class seating arrangement in eighth that allowed Will to pass drawings to him under the table— and, most importantly, that Love My Way by The Psychedelic Furs was the first song on that mixtape, while A Night Like This by The Cure was the last.

So, ignoring all technicalities and facing down the cold hard facts— that Love My Way was the first song Mike had played, and all the other songs by The Cure he'd put on that tape were slowly playing through— The Squawk was definitely, one-hundred-percent playing the mixtape he had made for Mike. These technicalities were ignored on the basis of Will's eighth-grade self being an idiot, because back then, he had hope. He had filled a cassette tape full of love songs, wrapped it with a ribbon, and handed it to Mike for his thirteenth birthday in the hopes that it would mean something to him.

Since Mike was playing this entire mixtape on a public radio, it obviously didn't mean much.

"I can't believe her," Steve groaned, from his spot in the driver's seat. Will was leaning against the hood of the car, holding it close to its antenna for better service. Honestly, Will was surprised Steve was letting him touch his shiny new paint job, but maybe the guy wasn't that materialistic after all. Even if Will got nervous just looking at the clean paint. "It took me a week to convince her to play Tears for Fears, and now Mike gets to play all your favorite songs after knowing her for— what? A day?"

Apparently, it wasn't enough for Mike to just play Will's mixtape. He had to announce it, too.

Will could clearly visualize Steve's raw shock when Mike had made his. . . adjustments to Robin's usual spiel. He'd gone on about the weather, complaints over Hawkins High's lack of football games— we're all on lockdown, idiots, no one wants to play ball with a Demogorgon— before turning to music. Will's music.

"I'm, uh, sort of a Top 40's guy," he'd said, mumbling into the radio. He'd gotten a bit less awkward, over time; Will felt sort of proud of him, in a way. "But I, uh, I have this friend, and he's got great taste in music. Likes all those artsy band's no one's ever heard of, you know?"

In Will's mind, everyone had heard of New Order and The Cure, but he wasn't going to dwell on the semantics. Something about Mike's voice going soft when he talked about Will made his heart flutter, and despite himself, he'd started to smile.

"So, uh, this morning's music is for him. And if you don't like it," and Mike's mouth must've been forming a curse word, because Will heard a faint shout from Robin of no swearing on air!— "okay, apparently I can't tell you to kill your—"

Another faint yell interrupted Mike's threat. "Anyways. This song is for my friend," he'd said, softly. "My best friend. I hope you're listening."

The slow tune of The Psychedelic Furs had started to pour through the radio, then— there's an army on the dance floor, it's a fashion with a gun, my love— and Mike's voice faded away. Meanwhile, Will was starting to lose his mind.

Truly, Will wasn't being egotistical when he'd said everything Mike did seemed to center around him. He hated to believe it, hated to even give himself a chance to believe Mike cared, but he wasn't blind, either. From snapping at Nancy and turning around to smile softly at Will in the same second to sneaking his way into every patrol Will was put on, Mike was obviously, factually placing some strange sort of importance on him. There were no technicalities to see here; clearly, Mike was up to something.

What this something was wasn't what Will wanted to think about; he'd grown used to the cycle of hope and disappointment, of thinking Mike might at least care about him before having his hopes shot down, but that never made it sting any less. The song crackling from the radio now— all the love that you long for eludes you, crooned Morrissey, and people are rude and cruel to you— wasn't helping matters, either.

"Do you listen to anything normal?"

There was no malice in Steve's voice. After the initial bout of pissed-off anger from Mike Wheeler being allowed to touch Robin's equipment over him, Steve had fallen into a quiet pensiveness, listening to the songs trickle through the radio and occasionally bobbing his head along to the faster beats. If his head-bobbing said anything, he seemed to like New Order.

"What counts as normal?" Will turned to Steve, tilting his head while The Smiths continued to play, telling him how you just haven't earned it yet, baby. "Kenny Rogers?"

"God, no," said Steve, lip curled in disgust. "Like, uh, Tears for Fears? The Police? Hall and Oates?"

Maybe Will was a bit of a music snob (Jonathan's fault, blame him) but Steve's taste wasn't too bad. It was better than Mike's; he'd turn on the radio to the top hits station and let Cyndi Lauper play before switching the channel. "They're okay," he said, shrugging. Steve probably liked Cyndi Lauper, too. Not like there was anything wrong with Cyndi Lauper, because Will knew all the words to Time After Time, but—

"I never thanked you for saving me," said Steve, sending Will's train of thought to a crashing halt.

"What?"

His words came out raspy, like Steve's statement had physically hit him. The thought of being thanked for the way he'd shakily fumbled that gun hadn't even crossed Will's mind before.

Unconsciously, he'd started to stiffen, going tense as Steve looked him up and down. After a moment, Steve stepped out of the car, leaning on the hood next to Will to get a better look at him. "For once in your life, dude," he said, "relax. I'm just saying I'd be dog food without you."

Reluctantly, Will tried to calm himself, but only succeeded in crossing his arms around his chest to tug at his shirtsleeve. Nervous tic; when Mike got wound-up, he pulled at the threads in his clothes, too.

"I was— anyone would've," said Will, weakly. "You—

"Can you stop saying that?" Lightly, Steve swatted at his shoulder. This time, Will didn't flinch, but he did consider taking a leaf out of Dustin's book and giving Steve the middle finger. "Anyone else who barely knew me would've used me as a human shield. And anyone else would've left if some idiot took them out to shoot next to where they went missing, too. You put up with too much shit, Will."

Putting up with shit summarized Will's entire life. He was tired of it, just like everything else, but who would he be if he tried to bite back? "What makes you think that?"

"You let Mike Wheeler blab on about you without chucking my radio into a tree, for one," said Steve, giving him a look. Will stiffened for a moment— what if Steve had watched him close enough to see the way Will blushed, the way his had mouth twitched into a smile when Mike called him his best friend, what if he knew— but, looking back, every look Steve had given him was one of sheer confusion.

Will was obvious, but people like Steve viewed the world through conformist blinders. Good people couldn't be queers, could they?

"And— man, the fact that you let me take you shooting without even mentioning your dad?" Steve scoffed out a laugh, dry and humorless. "There's got to be other shit you're holding out on. You don't have to, though."

Steve was starting to look a little less unnerved every time he glanced at Will, like each piece that made him up was falling into place in Steve's mind, one by one. And there were certain parts of Will Steve wouldn't like, not unless Steve's change of heart was more dramatic than Will had thought— but God, he was tired of tearing himself apart for the sake of someone else. If Steve put him together and didn't like the picture he made, so be it.

"Okay," said Will, slowly. "I, uh— yeah."

There was something he was holding out on, something he wanted that might change the way he looked at Steve for good. Will wasn't the type of person to give himself what he wanted, but this wasn't solely about him.

He took a deep breath. "I want you to apologize to my brother."

All Steve's apologies had lifted a weight off Will's chest. Even if nothing he said could undo the words that had haunted Will for years, being told he didn't deserve them shaved their sharp edges, just a bit. Jonathan was the one who had heard those words firsthand, the one who had bruised his knuckles bloody just to make Steve stop speaking. He deserved that apology more than anyone.

The second Will had said my brother, Steve's face had started to pale. He swallowed thickly, like even the mention of Jonathan's name set him on edge. A small, smug part of Will found that seeing Steve nervous gave him a little bit of joy. "You— okay," Steve said, faintly. His voice cracked a little, making it high and squeaky. "Your brother. Jonathan. I can do that. Definitely."

"Let him punch you again," said Will, laughing a little. "Might even make him like you." Steve nodded slowly, like he wasn't sure whether Will was joking.

It was a little cathartic, seeing Steve sweat over talking to his brother. Maybe Steve thought Jonathan would punch harder this time, maybe he was intimidated, but it wasn't Will's place to say. Jonathan was the one who needed this, and though the incessant, ever-guilty part of Will hated to stand up for himself like this, he wasn't just standing up for himself. Jonathan had stood up for him; now that Will had the opportunity, it was time for him to do the same.

And maybe a small part of him enjoyed making Steve squirm. Maybe he had a bit of a petty streak. So what? Will was tired of not letting himself get angry at anything, even over something small. Though Steve chipping his brother's tooth wasn't exactly small.

They got in Steve's car, eventually. Eventually, Steve drove him home, listening to Mike play song after song off Will's mixtape; by the time Steve pulled up to the Wheeler's house, A Night Like This was fading out. Will moved to get out of the car, but before his hand could reach the door, Mike's voice crackled through the radio.

"Robin— no, I'm not calling you Rockin' Robin— says I played too many songs before stopping for an ad break, but I think my friend would kill me if I cut this tape off before that song by The Cure. It's, uh, it's one of his favorites. I mean, I liked Just Like Heaven, but—"

Will was so lost in Mike saying his favorite song off Will's mixtape was the one with lyrics like why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you, he almost missed the thunk that came through the radio— like Robin had chucked something heavy at Mike— and her hissed whisper for him to get on with it, Wheeler! By the time he'd zoned back into focus, Mike was on another topic entirely.

"—and I mean, he's just the coolest," said Mike, enthusiastically. "He's made all these amazing paintings, and he's got this insane CD collection, and he even cut his own hair—"

"Michael," Robin interrupted, "you are going to make me say things I cannot under any circumstance say on air. I swear to God."

Throughout Mike's rambling, Will had felt his face steadily turn red, flushing hot right up to the tips of his ears. What he hadn't noticed until now was the way Steve was looking at him; head tilted, eyes narrowed, flitting from his face to his hair like he hadn't noticed a difference in Will's bowl-shaped cut until now.

(It wasn't too different, really; all Will did was make an impulsive snip with some scissors until his hair looked a bit less like the family popcorn bowl. He remembered Mike commenting on it, but the fact that Mike remembered walking in on Will cutting his own hair in the dead of night nearly three months down the line was throwing him for a loop.)

The way Mike talked about him was giving Will hope. He was just as tired of resigning himself to a life of loneliness as he was getting his hopes crushed, but there was a difference between trying to let himself feel angry for once in his life and deluding himself into thinking Mike's words meant something. One involved being kind to himself, as foreign as the concept was, and the other was setting himself up for misery.

"Never took Wheeler for such a sap," said Steve, as Mike reluctantly pivoted to informing The Squawk's listeners about the toxic ash floating down near downtown Hawkins. "He really cares about you, doesn't he?"

When Will turned to Steve, he felt like a deer in headlights, trapped under the shine of Steve's curious stare. He didn't seem to know, not yet— and how could he, when Mike only talked about Will like a friend would, like someone who would hate to be looked at the way Will saw him— but regardless, the feeling that Steve was searching for something in him made Will stiffen.

"I don't know," he responded, shrugging, like it didn't matter. Like he couldn't care less whether Mike cared about him, when Will cared for him so much it made his entire body ache with the weight of loving him. "I guess so," and even that admittance felt like a lie. Will would never let himself think Mike cared, because it would hurt too much when he turned out to be wrong.

At that, Steve barked out a startled laugh, running a hand through his hair. "You guess? You—" and another song started to play, interrupting Steve with the soft lyrics of talk to me, don't lie to me, save your breath. . .

"Thanks for driving me home," said Will. He hated how calling the Wheeler house his home felt so right on his tongue. "And for— listening to me." Before Steve could protest, Will opened the car door and slipped away. Behind him, So In Love faded out, telling him don't say your prayers, don't build up your hopes, just walk away.

He couldn't build up his hopes. He had to walk away.

"You really thought I wouldn't keep it?"

Walking away had led Will right to Mike's bedroom. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself, Will's traitorous heart always dragged his feet back to him.

"You don't even like that kind of music," said Will. Mike had pulled out the cassette tape before Will had even mentioned it; he'd only asked what mix Mike had played, and even when his tone had come off more accusative than he'd intended, Mike had pulled out Will's old mixtape like it wasn't a big deal. He'd known the tape didn't matter to Mike since he'd played it for all of Hawkins to hear, but seeing him set the tape so gently in Will's hand only made the gut punch hit harder.

"It's from you, though," said Mike, running his thumb over the hand-drawn cover. His fingers skimmed Will's wrist, nails scratching at his pulse point. "You gave it to me for my birthday. Why wouldn't I?"

The cover Will had drawn had Mike the Brave with his back to Will the Wise, shielding him with one hand and swinging his sword with the other. He'd been an idiot to draw their characters so close together, hands touching; back then, barely thirteen, Will had been terrified of his feelings and enamored by them at the same time, too young and blindly hopeful to be wary of brushing his fingers against Mike's hand. At the same time, Mike kept tracing the heart on his shield with a small smile, so maybe Will hadn't done everything wrong.

"I just— I don't know." Will shrugged, wrenching his hand away before Mike could feel his racing pulse. "Thought you'd lose it, or something."

A dark frown passed over Mike's face like a stormcloud. "Actually, I—" and he swallowed thickly, cutting himself off— "I do like the music, you know. It reminds me of you."

His voice softened, sending butterflies flitting through Will's stomach. Mike was smiling, eyes crinkled and shiny as he looked at Will like being reminded of him was the best feeling in the world, like Mike wanted to be reminded of him. Had he smiled like this when he'd listened to the mixtape, too? Did he mouth along to Just Like Heaven and think of Will when Robert Smith sang you, soft and lonely?

No, Will couldn't think like that. He'd dared to hope before, and all it led to was a crushing disappointment; the thirteen year old Will in him wouldn't let him forget when he'd dared to try and bring his friends together like they were before, how he'd started the day with Mike and Lucas's listless rolls of dice and ended it by breaking apart the last place he had that still felt like home. Sometimes, Will could still see his younger self's face in his mind, rain-soaked and red-eyed; it always served as a reminder to crush his hopes by himself before he ended up like that again, sobbing and shaking with anger, playing the naive, idiot fool.

"And that's why you played it for all of Hawkins to hear?" Will raised an eyebrow.

Strangely, Mike's face started to flush. He ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. "I'm just saying," he said, "everyone deserves to know how cool you are."

He turned away, busying himself by taking the tape from Will's hands and setting it in his cassette player. Mike set the player on his bed, continuing to smile as it started to play in the middle of a song— Drive by The Cars, Will realized, as the slow notes drifted through the room. So Mike did smile all softly when he listened to Will's mixtape, then.

The music filled the room, bringing their conversation to a soft stop. Will bobbed his head to the music, looking out Mike's window into the hot, late-summer sun. As the chorus began,, Will glanced back to Mike, and found Mike's eyes already on him. His eyes widened, but he didn't look away; instead, he tilted his head a little, and gave Will another soft smile as his gaze drifted down, to Will's unbuttoned shirt collar. You can't go on, crooned The Cars, thinking nothing's wrong.

Will was going to go on. Screw The Cars; nothing was wrong.

As the chorus faded out, Mike broke their silence. "You, uh," and he paused, worrying at his lower lip, "okay, this might sound stupid, but—"

"Whatever it is, you've probably said worse," said Will. The flush on Mike's face was steadily darkening, but Will was doing his best not to read into it. "Spit it out. Come on."

Mike laid back on his bed, letting his head dangle off the edge. "Robin made me play a game, yesterday." His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, leaving Will's gaze free to roam over the way Mike's flushed collarbones peeked out from his collar. When the guilt of wanting to run his fingers across them overtook the buttterflies, he looked away. "Two truths and a lie. You, uh, wanna play?"

Parts of Mike were changing, shifting back to the way he used to be. The Mike of three years ago wouldn't have been caught dead asking Will to play a game for twelve year olds at birthday parties. The Mike of five years ago played twenty-one questions with Will to pass the time, even when they already knew everything about each other.

The Mike of today was asking Will to play two truths and a lie with a sheepish grin, because— "I want to test my memory," said Mike, sitting up to look at Will. "Sometimes, I— it's like I don't know you as much as I used to, you know?"

"Yeah," said Will. That was Will's intention, making sure Mike knew less about him. The less he knew, the less likely he'd be to realize what Will saw in him. "You want me to go first?"

Any of their other friends might've rolled their eyes and said what are you, ten? But he and Mike had always had that in common, that love for childish things and playground games. It was why they escaped to the playground when the world felt too dark, why they still dreamed up ideas for campaigns together that they'd never have time to play.

They'd both tried to call those things stupid, attempted to grow out of being a kid. At the end of the day, though, Mike and Will would always be those same kindergarteners on the swingset, digging up worms and playing wizards. They could be themselves with each other.

Mike nodded, just as Will was scheming up his first lie. "Okay. One; I've been helping El hide a pet rabbit in Hop's cabin for the past month. Two; I don't understand why you talked so much about me on The Squawk that Robin had to shut you up, and, uh, three; I think Steve is a total douchebag."

To Will, any of them could've been lies. He thought he'd set himself up well with this one, but Mike narrowed his eyes and saw through Will instantly. "You're too nice to think Steve's a dick. If you did, you wouldn't tell me."

And Mike was right. If he really hated Steve, that deep-set feeling that reached the marrow of his bones like it did when he thought of himself, he wouldn't have told anyone. He'd never told anyone how knowing he was deserving of nothing sunk into his body like lead weights, either; if he couldn't get over that hurdle, why would he ever tell anyone that Steve pissed him off?

(He didn't, not anymore. In spite of his instincts telling him to run purely based off Steve's starched polos and his place on the basketball team, Will was, unfortunately, beginning to like him.)

"You caught me," said Will, glancing away. Maybe Mike wouldn't question his truths. "Your turn."

Again, Mike nodded, pausing for a moment to think. "Well, uh— first, I need to see El's pet rabbit, like, now. Second; sometimes, when I talk about you, my mouth gets ahead of my brain and I can't shut up, and I think I could, like, talk about you for a really long time—" and he paused, blushing deeper, if that was possible— "okay, I guess I just proved that. Three; I don't think Steve Harrington is a total dick."

"Why?" Will felt like he and Mike were on the verge of something, tipping over a cliff's edge without a visible landing. The air felt thick between them, heavy with tension, a rubber band pulled taut. From the radio, a man's voice droned on; you know I hate to ask, he sang, but are 'friends' electric?

The air between them was electric. If Will were to reach out and touch Mike, sparks would fly.

"You're my best friend," said Mike, softly. His gaze was trained on Will. "I like talking about you."

The radio sang on. Meanwhile, Will's heart was sinking, tipping over that cliff into a neverending free-fall.

Were they really electric? Would Will let himself hope, just this once? A large part of him wanted to shy away, hide behind Mike calling him his best friend and assure himself there was no meaning behind those words, no thought behind the soft crinkle of his eyes. He'd never get what he wanted out of a risk, anyway.

Now, Will was only wondering whether he deserved this. Whether Mike deserved this, whether Will should condemn him to a life like his by brushing their hands together.

"My turn." Will reached out two fingers, brushing them against the inside of Mike's wrist. He could almost feel Mike's pulse flutter, how his heart rose up to greet him.

He was tired of having to deserve something to want it.

The next few hours passed simply, just like this. They passed truths and lies back and forth, though they were all much more tame than the first two— the most revealing secret he got from Mike was that he was, in fact, the kid who hid a pair of earthworms inside their third grade teacher's desk— before switching to companionable silence. Mike flipped through Will's cassette collection and hummed along to the songs while Will leaned back and took in the view of him, dragging his pencil across paper to capture the wild lines of Mike's ever-growing hair.

Looking at Mike without forcing himself to feel shame gave Will a floaty feeling he could hardly compare to anything, except for the times he brushed a finger against Mike's hand and let it linger. There was a quiet bliss in existing with him, skin against skin.

Halfway through another tape, Will's walkie started to crackle. When Robin's voice came through the speaker, Will felt a strange sense of deja vu.

"Wheeler!" Mike's head whipped around to the walkie with a glare. Will fought back a giggle. "Are you and your little friends free tomorrow?"

"Little friends—" Mike spluttered, affronted. "Whatever. Why do you want to know? And you're supposed to say over when you're done talking, I told you—"

Robin cut Mike off before he had the chance to call over. "Well, I was going to invite you for a little party, but seeing as you're being so rude to me. . ." Will could almost feel Mike's annoyance growing as Robin trailed off, until she said "Over," with a laugh and, presumably, a shit-eating grin.

"A party?" Mike stared at the walkie like he could transmit his incredulous scowl through the airwaves. "Where the hell would we have a—" and realization dawned on him, widening his eyes— "oh, no. No fucking way."

Parties weren't exactly Will's thing, but seeing as Steve's status had drastically declined, he assumed this party would be comprised almost entirely of teenagers. Plus his brother and Nancy, for the weed and relationship drama respectively. Maybe Steve's lake-sized pool would melt all his apocalyptic-slash-romantic worries away.

"You don't want to abuse Steve's generosity?" Will nudged Mike in the side, just barely. Each bold move sent a thrill down his spine, a head-rush he'd probably never get over.

In response, Mike leaned against Will's arm, giving the walkie his best glare all the while. "Okay, when you put it like that—"

"So you're down!" Through the radio, Will heard the staticky echo of Robin clapping her hands together. "Is that Will I hear?"

"Does Steve clean his house?" he asked, in lieu of an answer. Will had his priorities, okay?

A barked-out laugh came through the speaker. "You'll find out tomorrow. Oh, and Steve said something about it being your turn to pick the bonding activity? I don't know what's wrong with him, but—" and a shout cracked though the radio, a deep voice yelling about trying to be kind, Robin, is it so strange for me to be nice to a child— "yes, Steve, it is strange. Now—"

A loud bang cut her off. Will couldn't tell whether Robin had thrown something at Steve, Steve had thrown something at Robin, or their location had become the victim of an asteroid strike. At this point, any were possible. "Bring a good movie. Maybe you'll finally get him to watch horror."

"Does this get me out of playing radio host?" Mike leaned into the speaker, bringing his nose close enough to brush Will's neck. He'd never allowed himself to feel this dizzy around Mike before, but now, Will was willing to let himself swoon. A little.

Robin laughed again. "In your dreams, Wheeler. Oh, and Will?"

Whatever came out of Robin's mouth next could not possibly be good. "Yeah?"

"Ask Mike to sing for you sometime," she said, slyly. "I've heard he's got a good voice." Beside him, Mike spluttered violently; he practically leapt for the walkie, reaching for the dials to change the channel. Before he could silence her, Robin called over and out, filling the room with static and leaving Mike to choke on air.

Chapter Text

If anyone asked Mike whether he could sing five minutes ago, he would've responded with a disgusted, scowling answer of ew, no. If anyone asked him whether he could play guitar, he would've said no a little more frantically, and if this nondescript anyone asked him why there was a guitar in his closet, he would've run out of the room.

Now, with the entire Party and their babysitters— oops, buddies— circled around Steve's bonfire, Mike was seconds away from answering that question with a yes.

"You picked truth," said Lucas, shrugging. "You did this to yourself, dude."

The only reason he was about to say yeah, I play guitar, and I sing love songs and think about Will like a smitten idiot was that he didn't want Nancy answering for him. If he lied, Nancy would definitely call him out; she'd heard him strumming his guitar through the walls a hundred times before, and caught him singing to himself almost as often.

She also liked to humiliate him, as most older sisters tended to do. Maybe that made Robin his secret, long lost sibling. "Robin is a liar," he said, shooting her a glare. "I don't sing."

Okay, maybe he needed to back up a bit. Without context, Mike being sat at Steve's massive rich-people bonfire, made of carved stone and fake coals— which, jeez, not even Mike's family had that much cash to blow— made no sense at all. He wasn't a fan of getting within fifty feet of Steve; any closer, and Mike could see the sheen of his gel-lathered hair.

Will had dragged Mike to Steve's so-called party, and by so-called, Mike meant Steve hadn't even known a party was going on at his place. Robin had knocked on Steve's door, Mike and Will in tow, asked Steve you busy? No? Great, we're stealing your house— and shoved her way inside with a gleeful laugh. Surprisingly, Steve didn't seem that annoyed; he'd stood in the doorway, made a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, and stopped Will to make sure he wouldn't let Robin shatter any more china, again.

The fact that Will had returned Steve's request with an actual laugh and a genuine smile as he said no promises sort of made Mike's blood boil. It wasn't that Will couldn't be friends with other people, that was fine, but Steve? Really?

Whatever. It was fine, completely and utterly fine, and Mike wasn't annoyed in the slightest. Or jealous. God forbid.

They'd surveyed Steve's house (the first floor, at least, because this monster had three flights of stairs with carved oak railings and a basement with a bar, for God-knows what reason), rolling their eyes at the stunning amount of useless glass-block windows and the garish seashell-print wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom, shining like it was flecked with real gold. And maybe Mike couldn't judge— he did have the same crystal china cabinets in his house that Steve did, after all— but this level of opulence wasn't something Mike thought existed in Hawkins. The fact that the Harringtons had enough wealth to paper three stories of walls while the Byers had saved up for three months to paint Will's room daffodil yellow made Mike's stomach turn.

By the time the Party and company had arrived, the sky was already beginning to dim. Nancy had suggested using Steve's bonfire instead of swimming in his pool, and Steve had hastily agreed, bringing a can of gasoline from the garage as big as Mike's upstairs floor because the thing apparently didn't need a match to turn into a roaring flame. He'd made sputtering bonfires in the woods with the Party before, because setting shit on fire was always a quick pick-me-up in the apocalypse, but turning a fire on with a click of a switch couldn't hold a candle to that fun. Steve was missing out, and if Will looked a little impressed by his stupid fancy bonfire, that was unimportant. He knew what real fun was, and it wasn't anything that involved Steve.

"You don't sing," said Nancy, drily. Mike was starting to sweat, and he was the furthest from the bonfire. "Really."

Robin was a genius. An evil, conniving genius, but a genius all the same. As much as Mike was currently cursing her name, he had to admit it; she knew exactly how to get the Party and their buddies talking.

They might've all been different ages, with different personalities and temperaments, but they were all outcasts to some degree. Every freak had an attachment to something that made them feel like a kid again, back when being strange was a little more okay, and bad party games spurred from boredom after a movie night— the kind that led to the spilling of deep secrets or dumb dares, the kind that somehow brought everyone closer together— were something almost everyone could reminisce on.

The party would've been lame without them, anyways. Steve wouldn't even let them drink.

"Nope," said Mike, popping the p. He shot Nancy a pleading look, but even he knew truth or dare was boring without an embarrassing secret or two. Someone could've at least asked Lucas what was under his bed.

"You know what happens if you won't answer a truth, Mike," said Robin, smugly. "Are you really willing to—"

Mike shook his head rapidly. "No!"

The details of the punishment for skipping a truth or dare were unimportant. If it came from Robin, it was automatically awful.

"Come on, Mike!" Dustin jabbed Lucas in the elbow until he joined in. Before Mike knew it, nearly everyone was yelling some variation of tell us, Mike! Tell us!

He was taking back the genius part. Robin was plain evil.

"Fine," he muttered, throwing his head back against the back of his chair with a groan. He got a pretty good view of everyone around the bonfire that way; Robin sat on a pool chair alongside Steve, legs draped over his; Nancy and Jonathan were sitting in chairs that were far too close together for Mike's liking, ew; Lucas laid in a pool chair next to Dustin, sat in a too-small lawn chair he did not look happy about, and Will was draped over a pool chair of his own, casting Mike a lazy smile as he waited for Mike's answer.

His face felt hot. Maybe he should move further away from the fire. "I— I have a guitar, okay? I know a few songs, and I sing to the chords sometimes so I can play better. That's it."

Will raised an eyebrow. "You never told me you played guitar."

It happened while Will was gone. Will had been gone for a long while, really, gone since Mike had yelled him away in the rain, but he'd picked up a guitar when Will was really gone, when he existed in nothing more than the letters Mike couldn't stand to send. He'd missed Will, and he missed his laugh and the way he'd close his eyes and smile when a song he liked started to play, and foolishly, Mike thought he could get a little of that back by playing the songs Will liked with his own hand.

Sometimes, strumming the chords to Just Like Heaven made Mike feel like he was really touching Will. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, playing his guitar felt like running his fingers through Will's hair, and sometimes, the weight of the body of his guitar felt like Will's head on his lap, humming along to the song Mike was playing and sending soft vibrations through his whole body. He'd fallen in love with his guitar because it felt like Will, and he'd hidden it away in his closet because it felt like Will.

"I started when you were in Lenora," said Mike, glancing away before he could see Will's smile fade. He still felt it, a tug on his heart that reminded him of all the ways he'd failed Will. "Just— didn't see a reason to tell anyone, I guess. It's stupid."

"It's not." Nancy's voice surprised him. "What? It's a guitar, Mike. It's not that big of a deal."

It was a big deal because he'd never told Will. The most important things in his life usually revolved around Will, and when they did, Will never knew about them. "Whatever," he muttered. "Is it my turn now?"

Robin gave him a thumbs up. Mike's eyes locked on the can in Steve's hand, and crossed his fingers for Steve to choose dare.

One hour and two cans of beer later, Mike and Will were sprawled across Steve's couch, watching The Evil Dead with a clammy, terrified Steve Harrington and a far-too-enthusiastic Robin.

Look. Mike knew when to seize an opportunity, and the six-packs in Steve's fridge were probably the best he'd get for the foreseeable future. It wasn't like he'd never drank before; there was the too much champagne at his mom's New Year's Eve party, once, when Will hadn't been able to fly in for Christmas and the empty space next to Mike on the couch was making his heart feel just as vacant, along with his excursion with the Party once the apocalyptic lull had truly begun. They'd drank shitty beer from Mike's fridge that had sat around for months after Ted had packed up and ran, and he hadn't hated it, but maybe he'd cherry-picked the best parts of the buzz those beers gave him, too.

He liked the way alcohol made him braver, or stupider. Sometimes, Mike couldn't see a difference between the two, but he could see the difference between sober him and a-little-tipsy-off-a-pathetic-amount-of-beer him easily.

Tipsy Mike crowded Will's space, tugged at his shirt collar, slipped an arm around his waist and laughed into his shoulder. Tipsy Mike liked to reminisce even more than sober Mike; remember that time we rolled down that hill in the woods, how we spent an hour scrubbing grass stains out of your flannel so your mom wouldn't get mad? Remember when Dustin and I found a giant spider in the woods and hid it in Lucas's bed? Remember those sappy letters I sent you?

Nevermind. Alcohol definitely made him stupider. Mike tipped the last of his second can in his mouth, feeling glad Steve had sworn not to give anyone in the Party another one.

"You said this movie wasn't scary," said Steve, voice cracking. Mike glanced over to Will, and when their eyes met, they both had to bite their tongues to stifle their laughter. "Jonathan, I swear to God, if you lied—"

"It's not that bad." Jonathan caught Will's eye, and they smirked in tandem.

Their eye contact was broken. Mike tried not to sulk. "Yeah, Steve," said Will, turning to him— come on, why did he want to look at Steve? "Maybe you're a wimp."

"I am not a— shit!"

On the television, a woman whipped her head around with an eerie scream. Steve scrambled back, chest heaving. Will popped a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

He offered the bowl to Mike. "Want some?"

If he brought his hand to the bowl, it would shake. It wasn't that Mike disliked horror movies— he loved them, loved the thrill of being scared, loved predicting the plot and watching Will's eyes light up at a jumpscare— but he wasn't immune to a surprise scare, especially if his eyes had been on someone else instead of the screen.

What he really wanted was to shove the bowl aside and set his hand on Will's. Since Mike still had some of his wits about him, he grabbed a handful of popcorn and brushed his pinkie with Will's above the bowl.

"This is scary, you fuck," Steve said, whirling on Jonathan. Mike didn't detect any malice in his voice, but he'd only been good at reading Will, so he couldn't be sure.

"This is a bonding activity," said Will, simply. "Want some popcorn?"

Reluctantly, Steve accepted the popcorn peace offering. He kept his eyes on the screen all the while, so he must not have hated the movie that much.

As established, a tipsy Mike was a stupid Mike. A tipsy Robin was a Robin who could not sit for five seconds without fidgeting or talking, which was about ten times more irritating than her usual ten seconds. A tipsy Dustin was an asleep Dustin, and a tipsy Lucas was— a surprisingly level-headed Lucas, actually.

No one else had touched a can. Will hadn't so much as spared a glance at one.

A tipsy Mike was a stupid Mike, and a stupid Mike was always a smitten Mike. Since Mike was always smitten, he was always stupid, but that didn't mean he was always tipsy. It was a syllogism, or whatever. Geometry had taught him one thing.

"Hey." He nudged Will on the shoulder, conveniently forgetting to move his hand away. "We've watched this movie a million times, you know."

"And?" Under Mike's hand, Will was stiff. He stroked his thumb under Will's shoulder blade, hoping to release some tension, anything that would let Will melt into his hand how he used to.

He scooted closer to Will, and somehow, Will tensed further. "And I'm bored," he said, plainly. "Truth or dare?"

Will entertained him. He looked off in the distance, thinking, before turning back to Mike with a definitive "Truth."

In the short silence between Will's answer and Mike's response, Will relaxed into Mike's touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and the small smile on his lips messed up Mike's brain, leaving it fuzzy and useless, turning his tongue thick as he formed a question.

He'd never had anything in mind, because like most everything he did, this was an excuse to talk to Will. Unfortunately, talking to Will usually included screwing things up with Will, and tipsy Mike was could fuck things up better than sober Mike could ever dream of.

"Why do you think Steve's not drinking?"

Will startled. He flinched off Mike's hand, turning fully to face him. "He gave you beer," he said. "Why do you care?"

With the help of Dustin's dare, Steve had given the Party— excluding Will— exactly two cans of beer. Ask me one more time, he'd said, and I'll let Robin make me do whatever evil thing she's planning if I decline a dare. No one really wanted to see that happen, so they'd let up. No one wanted Steve to dunk them in the pool if they got too drunk, either, something he'd threatened to do along with telling their parents if anyone threw up. I'm trying to be a responsible adult here, he'd groaned, and you are all making it so hard.

"It's weird," said Mike, shrugging. "King-of-keg-stands Steve won't drink a single beer?"

"He's different, now," said Will. He wasn't meeting Mike's eye. "Kind of a dork, actually."

Steve whirled around, scowling. "I heard that!"

There wasn't much better than laughing with Will, Mike thought, giggling so close together that their foreheads were practically knocking together. When Robin whipped around to shush them, they tried to stop laughing; one look at Will, mouth twitching into a smile Mike wanted to feel on his lips, and he started to laugh again.

"Okay," said Will, breathily, still struggling not to giggle, "my turn. Truth or dare?"

"Dare." When Will laughed, Mike couldn't help but stare. His eyes crinkled and shone, bright and sparkling, always so full of life in a way Mike hadn't seen in a long time. His two front teeth poked out from his lips when he smiled, too, and his mole curved up with his lips like it was begging Mike to kiss it. Mike's whole body itched with the urge to press his lips on the corner of Will's mouth and trace Will's smile with his thumb.

It took a great effort for Mike to resist leaning in and kissing Will senseless, even when he dared Mike to throw popcorn at Dustin until he woke up. If anything, that made Mike want to kiss him more.

"Dare?" Mike gave Will a hopeful, puppy-dog-eyed stare.

At his pleading face, Will smiled, rolling his eyes fondly. The thought of Will being fond of him made Mike's heart want to burst, and he didn't quite believe it, but there was no other way to describe the way Will was looking at him. "No way," he said. "You'll make me, like," and he shifted closer to Mike, so close Mike could feel Will's hair brush against his chin, "pour soda on Steve, or something."

"I was going to make you ask Robin who Joan Jett was," said Mike, sighing. "It would've been beautiful."

Will snorted. "She wouldn't have bought that. Truth?"

Tipsy Mike was a stupid Mike. A stupid Mike was a Mike who thought things between him and Will could go back to how they used to be— when Will had been honest with him, and when Mike had known how to be honest, and when there wasn't a year-long gap in their lives where they only existed in each other's memories— and a stupid Mike loved to reminisce, because sometimes he wasn't sure there was any other way for him to talk to Will without spilling his soul.

"Do you remember that time we slept over in Castle Byers?"

"That's not a truth," said Will. His lips quirked into a small smile. "What about it?" He wasn't cagey yet, but Mike knew he was walking a thin line between Will's wistful smile and a stone-cold, shut-down stare, a look that said you know what happened, you know what I am, don't make me go through this again. Mike had been on the receiving end of that look far too many times, but he could never understand why Will acted like breaking Castle Byers was equivalent to burying a body.

Mike shifted closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You remember when we woke up at dawn? It had rained," he said, "and our clothes were damp, and I was complaining like an idiot, but you slapped a hand over my mouth and told me to shut up and look at the sun."

"We sat there, in all the rain and mud," said Will, softly, "until the sky around the sun wasn't pink anymore." He wasn't smiling anymore. Maybe it was because of the rain. "I remember. When we came home all wet, your mom was pissed."

"It was a bad storm."

Mike was veering into a conversation he couldn't back down from. He knew that. He also knew he couldn't stop himself if he tried.

Instead of sounding soft, Will's voice was barely a breath, quiet and faraway like his lungs were full of rainwater. "Yeah."

Maybe Will was drowning at the mention of that storm. Maybe Mike was going too far, and maybe Mike was the one holding him under, plunging into the rain until neither of them could breathe, forcing them both to relive the time they'd drowned in open air. All Mike thought of when it stormed was Will, how his hair had clung to his skin, how his eyes had a sheen to them that Mike thought only came from struggling underwater, how it felt to swim for the surface until all the air came from the lungs in one small whoosh, how it felt to watch the life bubble from your mouth when you realized it was time to stop fighting. Did Will feel that way in the rain, too?

When Mike saw clouds, he thought of Will. When it rained, he thought of how he could describe the feeling of drowning perfectly, because he'd watched it happen to Will. He'd never truly lost his breath in a lake, neither had Will, but one of them knew how it felt to drown, and the other knew how it felt to hold someone underwater.

"Castle Byers made it out fine, then," said Mike. "We walked home and had to jump over a fallen tree, but the fort didn't have a scratch."

"It didn't," Will agreed. He sounded choked. Mike was holding him under again, but he had to know if he was right, and the alcohol was getting to his head, and there was no excuse, really. He just liked to push.

What Mike wanted was for Will to yell. He wanted Will to tell him exactly how this was his fault, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, loud enough to condemn him as the awful friend he was. He wanted Will to hold him under, this time. "Castle Byers survived all the storms," he said, "until it went up against you."

Beyond them, the movie was still playing. In Mike's eyes, the world had narrowed down to him and Will.

To Mike, Will was a storm. He was dark clouds, shifting and angry, holding back all that rainwater until it burst out in a deluge of choked-out words— he'd never heard Will swear before, not before that faint call of fuck! that came from the woods— and whips of a baseball bat like lashes of rain. Will was the only storm Castle Byers couldn't weather, because no one knew how to destroy a home better than its creator.

"What?" Under Will's face, Mike could see those dark clouds, shifting and waiting. He wanted nothing more than for the rain to break.

"You had to put all that anger somewhere." He and Will were curled close together like two parentheses, in stark contrast to the conversation they were having. "I— it's okay, Will. I understand. I just wish you would've told me," he finished, quietly. His voice was breaking, choked and breathy like the last gasps of someone struggling underwater.

The storm was breaking, slowly. Mike could see it in the way Will's mouth twitched, in the way his shoulders stiffened, in the way he tried to back away and hit the couch cushions. "You're drunk," he said. "You don't— what are you talking about?"

"Tipsy," Mike corrected. "Do you remember how we always felt safe there? No matter how bad the bullying got, we could go to Castle Byers, and nothing would hurt as bad anymore. I miss that," and his voice was faltering, and Will's face was hardening, and Mike could see the thick swallow in Will's throat, like he was still trying to surpress that storm.

"It's gone, Mike," said Will. "It's gone. That safety doesn't exist anymore."

Mike tilted his head. Come on, he thought, yell at me. I want your words to hit me like that baseball bat. "I ruined it. I know. I'm not safe for you anymore, and—" his voice broke, and his eyes were watery, and he was drowning without Will even having to push him in the water.

"It's my fault," he said. "Tell me it's my fault."

Will's voice was weak. "It's not."

"Come on," Mike said again, taunting. Laughing, almost. "Louder. Say it like you mean it."

"It's not your fault." Will's voice was getting louder, but not enough for it to hurt. "It's not—"

"It is!" He always had to have the last word, didn't he? He couldn't let Will end a conversation; no, Mike had to push and push until they were both screaming, until he backed up, tail between his legs, pushing an apology until Will gave in. He was always pushing, always seeing how much Will could take, wondering why there never seemed to be a limit. "I made you so angry," he said, trying to look Will in the eye. Will wouldn't turn to face him. "You never get angry, unless you're with me."

Someone was looking at them. Mike could feel a hard stare on his neck, watching their whispers, but he still felt like he and Will were the only ones in the room. "Yeah, well," said Will— and there was the anger, in that little scoff after the well, an emotion only Mike could draw out of him— "everything's easy with you." He didn't phrase it like a compliment.

"Why?" Mike didn't get it. "Why am I so good at hurting you?"

Will pushed himself back against the couch. His eyes reflected the glow of the television. "Because you know me," he said. "You— come on, Mike. You know why."

"I don't." When Will spoke, he sounded resigned, quietly defeated. Mike was wheedling, whinily loud, like a child's repetitive question of why, why, why?

The answer was there, shining in Will's eyes. When Mike tried to grab onto it, the piece slipped away like a fish, swept downstream.

It was then that Will turned to him, eyes dull, so wet that Mike could almost see himself reflected in the sheen. He didn't notice the way the room went silent, how the movie had been put on mute, how everyone's eyes were boring holes into them, watching, waiting, bated breath, still like the way the world froze during the first fall of snow. Everyone was waiting for the storm to break.

"Don't make me say it," said Will. His voice was broken. "Please."

"Why did you destroy Castle Byers?" Will's face was twisted in pain, and Mike couldn't stop hurting him. Maybe he hurt Will so easily because he wanted so much from Will, not because he knew him so well. "Really? Why'd you do it?"

Will shook his head. Worried his lip between his teeth, glanced away again, swallowed thickly. "You know why."

Mike had no idea. He should've known— and he did know, somewhere deep inside him— but the pieces just weren't clicking. Everything was supposed to add up here, all Will's strange, timid behaviors and the way their friendship was always measured in extremes, how they always seemed to be on each other's minds, how Will sometimes shied away when Mike got close to him and sometimes leaned in closer, how there was never a middle ground where Will did nothing at all. Everything about Will was supposed to add up, but Mike couldn't read him anymore.

"I don't," he said. "I don't get it, Will."

"You do!" Will slammed his hand on the couch. Mike didn't flinch. "Is this a joke? Do you want to hear me say it just to— fuck, to laugh at me?"

That was the second time he'd heard Will swear. When the word passed his lips, furious and choked, Mike flinched, hard. "I thought you were better than that. I thought—" and he paused, laughing wetly— "God. I don't know what I thought."

He stood up with a shove, leaving Mike alone on the couch. "You're drunk," he said, "and I'm done talking to you."

In any form, drunk or sober, Mike was stupid. He was stupid when he dared Steve to give the Party a beer, come on, just one, it's the end of the world, and he was stupid when Will took a can and left it unopened, and he was stupid when Steve noticed Will's untouched can and stopped drinking, and he was stupid when he dared Steve again and managed to get another. He would've been stupid without the alcohol, but maybe he would've said whatever, forget it when Will stopped looking at him, instead of pushing to get Will looking him in the eye one more time.

He was stupid when he sat there, watching Will go. He was a dark silhouette against the television screen, hair backlit like an angel's halo, slipping away into another room like a trick of the light, and all Mike did was watch him disappear. He was stupid when he started to shake, and when his tongue started to taste like salt because he couldn't cry, he couldn't, not in front of everyone—

"Mike?"

A soft hand wiped at his cheek. Too late for holding back tears, then. "Come on," said Nancy, using her free hand to grab his wrist. "Let's go outside and cool off, okay?"

"I can't believe we gave them alcohol," Robin groaned, from somewhere far away. Mike was underwater, drowning. He should've grabbed Will's wrist like Nancy had held onto him. "Nothing good could've come from this—"

"You're coming, too." Nancy shot Robin a look, pointed and chilling. Robin shut her mouth.

Mike's stupidity had a limit, and he'd reached it long ago. So, instead of arguing, he let Nancy lead him out back, head hanging, tail between his legs like a dog scorned. He could feel the stares of all his friends on him, the narrowed eyes of Jonathan and the confused look of Dustin, Steve's blindsided stare and Lucas's knowing glare.

He kept his head down. Mike couldn't stand to look at anyone.

In winter, condensation drifted off Steve's pool in little white plumes, floating above the water like wispy clouds. Mike had been the sort of kid who'd been far too fascinated with the way his breath came out in clouds in the cold— he'd breathe heavy in the snow, sticking his tongue out to see the air roll off it, while Will laughed and said he looked like a frog— and he'd been fascinated by the clouds if he ended up by Steve's pool, too, how the condensation covered the house in a thin white haze and made the place look a little more eerie, a little more unreal.

Will's favorite season was spring. He liked mild temperatures, wildflowers in full bloom, the soft green brush of new leaves. He liked the way it felt like a beginning, how nothing really matters when it's spring, because whatever dies will grow back again, right? Mike preferred winter; he liked the cold, how the biting chill felt like a punishment, the way everything went quiet when it started to snow. Nothing silenced his mind like the fresh fall of snowflakes, like watching his breath rise in the air.

Now, it was stiflingly hot outside, dark and muggy on a late summer's night. What brought Mike's mind to winter wasn't the heat, or the cloudless surface of Steve's pool; it was the quiet, how everyone's silence felt soft, like the gentle gray of the sky before snow started to fall. Christmas in July.

"There's no cicadas," said Robin, slowly. Her voice didn't crash through the silence like it usually did; it came out gently, the first snowflake drifting down into the air.

When Mike biked along the sidewalks, insect shells crunched under his tires. Hawkins wasn't exactly animal-friendly anymore, not with all the supernatural smog. "No birds, either," said Nancy. "I miss the cardinals."

He'd found a little bird body, once, on a patrol with Lucas and Dustin. All he could think then was that Will would've hated to see the thing— a turtle dove, he learned, after leafing through his mom's birdwatching book— all small and vulnerable, stiff in Mike's hands, wings askew. He buried it in the forest dirt, and had to hold back tears when he couldn't see its feathers anymore.

"Everything's changing." Mike sat on the edge of the pool, dangling his legs into the water. His socks were soaked, and the cuffs of his jeans kept clinging to his skin. He deserved it. "It sucks."

"It does," Robin agreed. "You, uh— feeling any better? More clear-headed?"

A glass of ice water trembled in his hand, half empty. Nancy had shoved it in his hands and told him to sober up. "I wasn't drunk," he snapped. Immediately, he shrunk back, biting his tongue.

Robin shifted from her seat on a pool chair, coming to swing her legs into the pool alongside him. "Didn't say that. Alcohol's not the only thing that makes you act stupid, you know."

"I got told something like that, once," said Nancy. She sat beside Mike, electing to cross her legs above the pool instead of splashing them in the water. Her knee brushed against his, and for once, Mike didn't feel the urge to scowl and squirm away. "Only love makes you that stupid," she murmured, faintly.

In winter, this was the moment when all the snowflakes started to fall. Nancy turning to him with that knowing look, brows upturned and furrowed, soft and certain— that was the moment where one flurry turned into a gentle, constant rain, the kind where Mike would stick out his hand to see snowflakes collect on his palm. It was the moment when everything drifted into place, slowly yet surely.

"It's not— you—" how'd they figure him out so quick?— "I know," he finished, dully. He knew better than anyone.

"Things have changed between you and Will, too." When Mike stared at Robin, unblinking, she shrugged and said; "What? I know I'm right."

She kept speaking. "I bet you feel tense and strained around him," and her hands gestured frantically, pent-up with energy, "all fuzzy and on edge like a live wire. You want to hang out with him all day, but at the same time, just looking at him makes you nervous. Nauseous, even. There's that electricity," she said, fixing Mike with a look so intense he froze completely, "you know?"

He knew. "I— how— what?" Nancy looked like she was searching him. Robin, on the other hand— well, she looked a little self-satisfied, sure, but her mouth still tilted in a sympathetic frown, an expression that made her look both like she cared and like she had won a bet with a hefty payout.

Mike wasn't sure which one made him more nervous. "How did you know?"

"Because I've been there," she said. Her voice cracked with emotion. "I know how it feels to watch a friendship change, to watch everything you used to have slip away. To know it's all your fault, to think there's nothing you can do about it because this is just the way you are. Right?"

This was the way Mike was. He hurt people, and he pushed them away, and he snarled with all his teeth out like a caged animal because biting and snapping felt better than being vulnerable. He held his best friend underwater so he could face the life fleeing from his eyes instead of staring down the truth.

This was the way Mike was. What could he do about it?

"You think it all leads back to you," said Robin. "You're the common denominator, and you don't know why, and you know things weren't always like that," and at that she stopped, swallowing thickly, "but you know you can't go back, either. So you think about the past until it makes you sick, mention it to other people in the hopes they'll see what you really mean because you don't know how to say it."

Mike set his head in his hands. He choked back a weak sob, focused on his legs in the pool, focused on how the denim clung to his skin instead of the tightness in his throat.

"It's always me," he said, dully. "No one fucks things up like I do, and I don't— God." Mike laughed into his hands, raspy and dry. "I can't stop."

Nothing he said came out right. The words got lost from his brain to his tongue, falling out thick and useless, leaving him floundering to explain himself when the things he wanted to say got lost in translation. Every word he spoke was wrong, and it hurt, and he knew it hurt other people more when he fucked up his words but it gutted him too, empty and aching like a frozen carcass found in the dead of winter, hollow and stiff.

"Come on," Robin said, scoffing, not unkindly. "If I brought you out here for a pity party, I would've shoved you into the pool and let you doggy-paddle."

She shoved him a little, knuckles catching on his shoulder. Robin's words had that short, sudden burst to them like they always did, but Mike didn't feel attacked by them; everything she said sounded like it belonged, like she wasn't spitting things out without thinking. She was wild and unruly, and she always spoke with an intense, sudden passion, but she was always purposeful.

Mike didn't get it. How had she managed to still be herself and end up so likeable?

(If the Mike from three days ago had thought that, he'd probably think he was suffering from some sort of mind-altering poison. Maybe the Upside Down spores had finally got to his head.)

"I can swim," he muttered. "I just— I don't get it. How do you say whatever you want and not fuck up all the time?"

"I had to save him from drowning in the community pool when he was three," said Nancy.

Robin snorted. "He was eleven," she said. "You said he was three so he wouldn't shove you in the pool." He'd been twelve, but no one needed to know that.

In response, Nancy breathed out a laugh, glancing out across the lawn. Mike peeked out from behind his hands, hoping no one could see the redness of his eyes in the night; Steve's pool was lit from below, and if Mike could see the dampness of Robin's eyes, he didn't want to take any chances with his own.

"People forgive, Mike," said Nancy, quietly. "You can mess up. It's okay. He'll forgive you." She wrapped a hand around his wrist, waiting for Mike to relax, for his hands to fall away on their own.

Slowly, Mike lifted a hand from his eye, giving her a weak smile. She smiled back, rubbing circles on his wrist, letting their hands dangle between each other, lit up like small stars from the bottom of the pool.

"You'll keep fucking up," Robin added. She gave him a soft, knowing look, peering through the one hand Mike still had over his face. He felt stupid just holding it there, so he pulled his hand away. "It's never gonna stop, really. You'll always say the wrong thing, and act stupid, and feel like the misplaced idiot God accidentally let onto Earth—" and she laughed at her own joke, throwing her head back until the harsh pool light caught on the column of her throat— "but you wanna know a secret?"

Mike nodded, tentatively. Robin smiled.

"You don't have to care," and she said it with such earnest happiness that Mike nearly believed her, right then and there, "Not in the way you do now. Not that agonizing over every mistake, not that angsty I'm-fifteen-and-I'm-irredeemable self pity. You don't have to care in a way that hurts you."

She set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "You just have to try again, you know? There's going to be time. I'll fistfight Vecna for you to have time to try again."

At that, Mike breathed out a laugh, but— "I don't make mistakes," he said, frowning. "I ruin things."

She smiled further. Robin was strange, no doubt about it, but no one would want her any other way— and maybe, if he tried, people might feel that way about him, too. "And you can build them back again."

Robin hadn't even finished her sentence when she locked eyes with Nancy. They stared at each other for a moment, gazes intense enough for Mike to wonder whether they'd forgotten where they were, faces twisting and heads tilting like they were communicating in their own secret code. Mike wouldn't put it past them.

"I have plywood," said Nancy, nodding. What?

"Would you work with the glittery pink hammers my mom bought me when I asked for a tool kit?"

Nancy scowled. "God, no. I've got my own, and a drill, but we need nails, and— oh! And paint!"

Paint? Hammers? Hello? Why was Mike being excluded from this conversation?

"I think so," said Robin, tilting her head. "We'll need, like, sheet metal and stuff, right? I mean, we'll have to ask Jonathan about the radio—" huh?— "and ask Mike about—"

"Ask me what?"

Robin and Nancy both turned to him with matching smiles. Maybe Robin's looked a little more malicious, whereas Nancy just seemed happy to make Mike feel an emotion that wasn't pounding self-hatred, but they both shared that soft edge to their faces just the same.

Nancy's eyes were sparkling. Maybe there was something in the pool water, or maybe Mike had managed to make everyone a little teary. He didn't want to consider the second option; that meant people actually felt for him, and that wasn't something Mike had thought to be true since the seventh grade. Maybe, though, if his sister had chosen to sit by him and tell him things would be okay— maybe he was worth feeling for after all.

"Mike," she said, "do you know how Will built Castle Byers?"

He realized, then, why Will preferred spring. Mike liked the idea of a new beginning, too.

Chapter Text

Mike's leg had almost healed by now, but Will had learned throughout this prolonged-end-of-the-world situation that when one injury faded, another one typically came to take its place.

This wasn't exactly why Steve was nursing a bruised jaw, but the pattern fit nonetheless.

"I didn't want him to actually punch you," Will groaned, head in his hands.

"I deserved it," said Steve, shrugging. He pressed an icepack against his nose, now steadily turning purple. Behind him, Jonathan sat on the Wheeler's porch swing, looking not exactly smug but not quite guilty, either; he ran a hand over his knuckles, blooming red from the rush of socking Steve in the jaw.

Will had braced himself for the worst when Steve had knocked on the Wheeler's front door, asking for Jonathan with a crack in his voice and a nervous swallow. He didn't want Steve to get defensive and refuse to apologize, and he didn't want Jonathan to get all cold and walk out on Steve before he could get a chance to speak, but he'd seen that as a best case scenario. Will had prepared himself for anything, from an awkward fist-bump to a front porch bloodbath.

He'd been prepared when he walked out and saw Steve reeling from Jonathan's swing. He had not been prepared when Jonathan told him Steve asked for it.

"There's something seriously wrong with him," said Jonathan, leaning over to talk to Will. "Like, man, I said no— multiple times, seriously— but he just kept asking. It was weird."

Will shrugged, sitting down on the porch swing. "He's making up for being a douche," he said. "In his, uh, own way."

At that, Steve's eared perked up; he walked over to the porch swing, sitting close enough to Jonathan to brush his elbow. "Did it work?"

"Give me another swing, and we'll see," and Steve actually took the ice pack off his face, and Jonathan panicked, backtracking— "shit, man, I'm joking. We're, uh— good. We're good."

"Good," said Steve. They lapsed into silence, not exacly uncomfortable but not quite normal, either. To be fair, this whole morning had felt like a fever dream, so normal wasn't really on Will's mind right now.

He'd woken up late, which already made the day feel unreal when he usually got up at dawn. Afternoon sun streamed through the basement door, shining on a Will covered in blankets (he'd scrounged them up in an attempt at comfort, like the previous night would disappear if he buried it in enought weight) and puffy-eyed from tears he didn't really want to admit to. After remembering that he was, in fact, living in Mike Wheeler's house, Will buried himself further in his blankets until Jonathan had shook him awake— Will? Will, hey, wake up, we can talk over breakfast— and bribed him with pancakes in an attempt at getting him to talk. The house was empty, Wheeler-free (no Mike, surprisingly, when he typically slept in until noon), and filled with the tense, strange silence that came from inhabiting someone else's barren home.

Steve actually doing what Will asked made the morning even stranger. Seeing him and Jonathan together made Will feel weird, like some fundamental law of the universe had been broken. Maybe he felt that way because he'd never lived in a world where two-car-garage rich deigned to hang out with broken-down-Pinto poor, but Steve wasn't the type to flaunt his leather car seats anymore, so maybe there were exceptions to the rule.

They could be friends, he thought. Opposites attract, or whatever.

The silence was broken by the creaking of the porch swing; Jonathan had gotten up, heading for the door. "I made pancakes," he said, turning to Steve. "There's leftovers. Want some?"

He and Steve stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Steve blinked hard, almost stunned. "I— uh," he started, "you— okay. Sure."

"It's just pancakes," said Jonathan. "Chill." His mouth quriked into a small smile as he turned away, slipping into the Wheeler house and shutting the door behind him.

A pancake peace offering. Jonathan had always been the cook of his family— Will was the baby, shuffled away from the stove, and their mom could burn water given a pot and a flame— and he usually resolved arguments over breakfast. It might've worked with Steve, but Will's stomach was churning too hard to eat.

Last night sat in his stomach like a stone. He'd been close to figuring Mike out— close to letting himself want Mike, just for the sake of letting himself feel— and then Mike had trampled over the worst of his emotions like dirt under his feet. Remember Castle Byers? Remember how I told you everything we'd built together was stupid, because we're all grown up and you can't be grown up and happy, too? Remember how you always felt safe there? Remember how I destroyed that safety with nothing more than a word?

Every word made Will feel like he was drowning. He'd been brought right back to that night, its black sky and relentless rain, the way rainwater had pooled in his eyes and snuck its way into his mouth, mixing with the salt of his tears and the blood that came from biting his tongue. He'd choked on rainwater and spit and all those unsaid words, then, holding back that retort of it is your fault by worrying his tongue between his teeth until he'd made a callus on the skin.

For weeks afterward, he'd run his teeth over his tongue to bring back that snap of pain. It was a reminder of the moment Mike's words had slammed into his chest, how it felt to have all the breath knocked from his lungs like Mike had held him underwater.

The wound from this time was fresh, raw, a split open scar. Will was tired of biting his tongue, but at least the hurt was familiar.

"You're chewing on your cheek," said Steve. "Jonathan would cook the whole fridge for you if you're hungry, man."

Will shook himself. "I— sorry. Didn't sleep well," he murmured, turning away. Looking Steve in the eye sounded fine, until he remembered those tentative words of he really cares about you, doesn't he?

"Yeah." Steve's voice was all tentative again, careful and slow. He turned away, glancing out to the sun-warmed lawn, where Will and Mike used to flip through comics until the sky went dark. "I wouldn't, either."

He understood why Mike wanted to bring Castle Byers back. The world was ending, however slowly, and wouldn't anyone want a comfort to cling to before they died? He understood why a drunk Mike would reminisce about it, because back then— before Will had grown up and gained those wild, untameable feelings instead of a brain, before Mike had grown up and gained everything Will hadn't— all the good things were easy with them.

Now, when it came to him and Mike, everything was easy. It was easy for him to get lost in Mike, and it was easy for Mike to get lost in figuring Will out, twisting them back to the way they were before with grit teeth and force, wondering why they couldn't be kids again when he was the one who grew up.

Will understood, but Castle Byers was gone. Nothing could twist them back to the way they were before.

A deep breath from Steve startled Will out of his thoughts. Will looked him over, watching the way Steve's mouth twitched into a frown.

"Mike's a real jerk," he said. Each word came out slow and deliberate, like he'd thought this sentence over many times before. Will had, too, and it usually came out fast and choked, shaky with tears instead of careful consideration.

The statement felt like a hit to the chest. He knew people had thought it before— Jonathan, especially, after all he'd seen Mike put his brother through— but no one had ever said it out loud, not to him. As sudden and breath-taking as it felt, those words were a weight off his shoulders, too; hearing someone acknowledge it made Will feel like he wasn't a horrible person for thinking it, too. "Takes one to know one," said Will. There was no malice in his voice, and Steve knew.

He snorted. "Yeah." They lapsed into silence again. The only noise in the air was the creaking of the porch swing as a humid breeze pushed it back and forth. A storm was coming; Will could feel it in the air.

"I, uh— you know," said Steve, all slow and deliberate again, "there's something I could tell you that might make you feel better. If you want to hear it."

The sky was still blue, but dark clouds were creeping in, dulling the day. Will traced the shapes of the clouds with his eyes, answering Steve as an afterthought. "I— sure, I guess."

One of the clouds looked like a heart. "Well," Steve said, "I, uh— I have this friend, right? Kind of like Mike, actually."

"Who?" Will knew all of Steve's friends, because they were his friends. And at least three years Steve's junior.

"I can't say," said Steve, smiling a little. Whoever this friend was, he looked fond of them, and that already narrowed it down to Robin or Dustin. "They, uh— they really like someone. And, well—"

Oh. Will didn't like where this was going.

"They'd be perfect for her," he continued. Will tensed in his seat. "But they can't get the words out, you know? Every time they try, they mess up, or freeze and stop speaking entirely, or start rambling until they've dug themselves into a hole."

Slowly, Will edged off the porch swing. He wanted to trust Steve, but a part of him would always tense when things like this came up, twitchy like a rabbit at the first sign of danger. Part of him would always want to run. "Like Mike?"

"Like Mike," Steve affirmed. "Mike's dug himself into a deeper hole than Rob—" and he choked, face going scarlet— "my friend ever has, though. He's really fucked himself. Like, ten-foot deep grave sort of fucked." He laughed, drily. Will went along, his own laugh clipped and humorless.

It wouldn't matter how deep Mike dug his grave, because Will would always pull him out. Will was weak, and he was stupid, and he would always be vulnerable enough to forgive Mike until he fell into that hole with him. "Yeah."

"I don't know what Castle Byers is," said Steve. "I don't know what it meant to you, or to him, but I think I know what he means to you. Am I, uh— getting this right?"

Two options laid in front of Will. He could run, or he could stand up and face the fear. He could let his pounding, twisting heart win and flee to the Wheeler's basement, where his drawings were strung up on the walls and traces of Mike existed in every crevice, or he could tell Steve that no one had ever said these things out loud to him before. He could run into an entirely different fear, the one where he forever felt like he was drowning at the mention of Mike, or he could get a bit of air and say—

"Yeah." Will laid his hand on the porch swing, holding the wood in a tight grip. He wasn't going anywhere. "How'd you know?"

"I have a very smart friend," said Steve, smiling. "She taught me the signs. Prolonged, sad looks, the way Mike spoke to you in that soft voice, how you fight like nothing matters but the two of you— it's textbook, man. Not to mention the electricity."

Will tilted his head. "Electricity?"

"Electricity," he confirmed. "Like how it feels before a storm, you know? The air's all charged and— heavy. That's when you know it's time to make your move, except you two have probably had that electricity for years, and you've done nothing."

How it feels before a storm. He and Mike were always on the verge of a deluge, it seemed. "It's different," he said, "with us. Making a move isn't something I can do. I can't—" and he swallowed back a choked noise, hand tightening on the swing, "I can't say anything to anyone. I can't do anything."

"You already are." Steve set a hand on his shoulder, gently. He kept it there as Will turned to look at him, giving him a sturdy pat. It made him feel reassured, strangely. "You, uh— you're really brave, dude. For— telling me. Especially since you thought I was a rich douchebag three days ago."

The first person Will had come out to was Steve Harrington. On the list of things Will had considered possible, this was right below Vecna disappearing and letting their lives all go back to normal.

His heart felt a little lighter, now. He'd always have to live with the weight of being this way, how he could never be himself in front of the world, but at least there was someone to share that weight with him. Even if that person was, again, Steve Harrington.

"Still rich," said Will. He smiled, slowly, and Steve smiled with him.

"For what it's worth," Steve said, giving Will another encouraging pat on the back, "I think that Wheeler kid is head over heels for you. Textbook smitten. I bet that Tears for Fears song plays in his head when he looks at you."

Will raised an eyebrow. "And you know textbook smitten how?"

A storm was encroaching on the horizon, but for now, the air felt light, filled with Steve's affronted spluttering and Will's barely-restrained laugh. "Fuck off," said Steve, shoving him lightly. "I have game, okay? It's just been— put on hold," he finished, trailing off with a weak sigh.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. "Steve has game," said Jonathan, drily. "Are we talking about the real world, or some new alternate dimension?"

"What the fuck, man," he said, throwing his hands up in protest. He didn't seem very offended, actually.

"We ran out of syrup." A plate of pancakes balanced in Jonathan's right hand, a radio in his left. Steve took the plate from his eagerly, nearly picking the pancakes up with his hands until he noticed their accompanying fork. "You two are talking? Really?"

At that, Steve shook his fork at Jonathan, talking through a mouthful of pancake. "Hey! We're not completely incompatible, you know. We, uh— we have things in common."

"Fifteen year old friends, yes," said Jonathan, nodding. "Game, well. . ."

Another offended noise squawked from Steve's mouth, still half-full of pancakes. "It's not my fault that Wheelers stick to Byers like magnets," he muttered, muffled around his next bite. Will's face went hot; if he'd looked in a mirror, he would've found himself going red up to his ears.

The magnetic pull that drew Byers to Wheelers was no news to Jonathan. All he did was raise an eyebrow, glancing between Steve and Will as if to incredulously say you told him?

Will shrugged helplessly, glancing away before he could flush any further. Jonathan shook his head in what Will hoped was mock-disappointment— it wasn't like his brother didn't know about his and Mike's, uh, magnetism, but acknowledging it around Steve before his own brother sure was a choice— and set his radio on the porch table, turning the dial to search for a station. Secretly, Will hoped he found The Squawk, so he could hear Mike's voice without actually having to see him.

"Robin was acting weird last night," said Steve, eyeing the radio. "Promised an extra-special broadcast."

"Something makes me think it'll include three hours of Blondie," Jonathan snorted. But his eyes were strangely focused, like he was searching for something specific instead of flicking through static for just any station.

He narrowed his gaze at the little numbers around the dial, flicking a switch on the radio and turning far past 94.5 FM. Will watched him turn up the frequency, edging closer and closer to the number designated for the Party's channel, pushing past that number and ticking to—

"One-o-clock," said a voice, strained and shaky. "You think he's listening?"

Jonathan's mouth twitched into a thin line. To Will, the voice was too distant to recognize— like whoever was speaking was faced away from the mic— but his brother seemed to dislike the person on principle.

"Yeah, I do." That was Robin; Will could recognize her voice from a mile away. "I really do."

"Okay," and the person took a deep, trembling breath, tremors that made their way through the radio, "okay."

Shuffling noises came through the receiver. Will glanced to Steve, and found his face just as confused as Will's own. When he glanced to Jonathan, his mouth was set in a small frown, but his eyes were happy, Will thought. Wide and crinkled, almost like he was smiling.

The radio crackled, sharp static echoing through the receiver. "Sorry," Mike said, because who else could it have been, whose voice would've dipped and trembled on you think he's listening? exactly like Mike's voice went when he talked to Will, "tripped too close to the mic. I've been told I have the limbs of a baby deer."

Will's heart was alreeady racing. He could feel it pounding against his sternum, steady and hard, like his pulse was trying to escape and run through the radio to reach Mike. All he'd heard was Mike's voice, Mike's soft, shaky voice, and that was enough to have Will just as nervous as Mike sounded now. "Mike?"

"It's a radio broadcast, Will," said Jonathan, squeezing his shoulder. "He can't hear you."

Steve whistled. "A whole broadcast just for you," he said. "Man. What a sap."

A thought came to Will's mind unbidden, of teenage rom-com movies and their love interests carrying a boombox over one shoulder, playing music outside their lover's window to confess their love through whatever song was at the top of the charts. He wouldn't put it past Mike to do that, stupid shutter-glasses and all, but this— whatever this was, a plain apology or a sorry, I can't be friends with someone so in love with me or a sorry, I love you— felt much more intimate, much closer to home.

They'd lived through their private radio channel when they were kids, sharing secrets and stories kept between them and the airwaves. Whatever Mike was about to say, it only made sense to circle back to their beginnings, back to what they grew up on.

"This is Mike Wheeler with The Squawk," he asid, and Will's heart warmed at how brave he sounded, how his voice stopped shaking when he slipped into this reporter persona, "94.5 FM. It's, uh, a little past one, Hawkins is expecting a storm, and my best friend's name is Will Byers."

Will sat alone on the porch. With shared looks, Steve and Jonathan had disappeared into the house together, leaving Will alone. But the air was humid, electricity on the airwaves, and that gentle tension transmitted through the receiver made Will feel anything but alone.

"When we were kids," said Mike, "Will and I played games all the time. It was stupid stuff, you know? Pretending to be knights and dragons, or fighting with sticks on the playground. Playing pretend."

A specific moment stuck out to Will, one of the first times he'd looked at Mike and felt something that made his heart stir; playing swords with sticks on the outskirts of the woods, Mike pushing him down and holding his stick to Will's heart until he surrendered, Will's wild thought of I'd let him run me clean through. A part of him had known how willing he was to let Mike do anything to him since the day they'd met, but he'd only fully realized it on the ground, palms scraping the dirt and eyes wide as he looked onto Mike's wild smile.

"I know this isn't really The Squawk," he said. "I know this is our private channel, and I know it's pretty stupid to talk like it isn't, but— I don't know, I think Will's willing to pretend with me."

He laughed, ringing out quiet but clear. Will smiled, tentatively. "It's easier to get the words out when you're not really saying them. Will knows that. We always spoke to each other in glances, in dumb metaphors and references to Dungeons and Dragons, and— well, we don't do that much anymore. I miss that. I think he does, too."

"It's weird," he continued, "but if I'm not really talking to him, these things feel easier to say. And part of me wants everyone to know, wants to scream these insane feelings from the roof of The Squawk with a fucking megaphone, but I know it's not safe. Not for us."

Will was tired of denial. He was done with pushing away the idea of being loved, done with settling for a life where he couldn't believe something good could happen to him because he was good. He was finished with shoving down those hopeful flickers of what if, what if that stirred in his stomach when Mike's fingers ghosted his skin, or when Mike said something as obvious as it's not safe for us.

It wasn't safe for Mike to love Will (let him be presumptuous, just this once) openly, but Will was willing to hope for a world that would make space for them, one day. One day, Will wanted to think the world would welcome them.

"So I'll pretend," Mike said. "I'll pretend there's an audience out there, waiting with bated breath, sitting around the radio and yelling at me to just spit it out already."

A quiet thump echoed through the radio. Will caught the noise of a chair being dragged, and under that, the twang of a poorly plucked guitar string. "They'll be a little disappointed, though. I, uh— I've got something else in mind," he said. Will could only imagine Mike's face, the soft furrow of his brow and the shadow of his smile. Will wanted to smooth the lines in Mike's brow with his thumb. "Robin helped me a lot, with figuring this out. If I don't credit her, she says she'll dock my pay, which doesn't exist, but— whatever."

A few more chords came through the radio, slow and disjointed. The image of Mike holding his guitar flashed in Will's mind, then, how his mouth would tense in concentration and how his eyelids would flutter closed to the music, and Will wondered how he managed to find new parts of Mike to love with every passing day.

"I did something stupid, a few nights ago." The image of Mike's scarred leg flashed in Will's mind. He swallowed thickly. "Ran into the woods and nearly got myself mauled for a mixtape."

A flash of heat passed through Will, and a small, surprised noise came from his throat. Mike really risked that much for him?

Nervously, Mike laughed, taking in a shuddering breath Will could hear through the radio. "It was worth it, though. Maybe it's stupid, but I'd probably get mauled a million times over for him."

All that risk-taking really was for him. Will glanced to the ground, flushed and smiling.

"Robin told me how music can say things we can't," Mike continued. "Maybe that's why this mixtape Will gave me was full of love songs, and— I don't know, maybe he was trying to say something that wouldn't come out. Maybe I didn't get it. I'm really good at not getting things."

He laughed, drily. "I, uh— I get it now, though. I hope so." Another few chords played through the radio, forming the beginning to a song Will had played enough to wear out the tape. "God. I really hope so."

The chords had stopped, now. The air around Will was still, waiting, holding out until the lyrics came and the storm decided to break. All was silent, save for the shaky breaths coming from the radio and the quiet creak of the porch swing.

"This song," he continued, slowly, "is about being safe in who you are. Who you— you love," he breathed, and Will's heart fluttered wildly, frantic at the way Mike's voice went soft on love. "I think so, at least. It's what Robin told me."

The reason Love My Way had come first on Will's mixtape was because he'd been so desperate for Mike to get it, to understand what it was like to not feel safe in his own skin. He'd played the tape over and over again, rewinding the album to that song in the hopes that maybe its message would sink into his veins and make him a little more comfortable in his body.

It hadn't worked then, but with Mike holding the song in his hands, pinned under guitar strings, it might work now.

"Will and I used to feel safe together." Will's throat felt thick, heavy with emotion. He swallowed hard, balling his hands into fists before all that feeling could leak out of him. "We used to have a place where no one could hurt us. No one except for ourselves, and, uh— well, I'm good at that. Hurting him."

When Will heard that, his heart twisted. He'd forgive Mike forever, because Mike was trying, and in the end, Mike always came back to him. He'd disappeared on Will too many times to count, but Will wanted to be hopeful that he might stop leaving, now. "I think I'm good at making it up to him too, though."

The first few chords of Love My Way drifted through the radio again. "I think," said Mike, and Will could almost hear his smile through the radio, "if he wants to see how I'll make it up to him this time, he should come to Castle Byers." And with that, he took a breath and began to play.

Mike's playing was beautiful and slow, careful yet focused all the same. He played guitar as deliberately as he treated Will, and he sang as softly as he spoke to Will. There was a moment where Will froze at Mike's first line, how shakily he started out on there's an army on the dance floor. . . but by the time he got to my love, Mike's voice was deep and velvety, deliberate and assured. A second of possible insanity washed over Will— as in, the urge to keel over and die at the fact that Mike was singing for him, of all people— before he screwed his head on straight and processed the rest of Mike's words.

Will was on his bike before Mike got to the chorus.

Presumably, biking with one hand on a radio was the sort of thing that got a guy killed in his car. It was a good thing, then, that Will had never been behind the wheel.

The storm above him was about to break. It was that sort of weather where the sun was still shining, but the sky hung overcast, a dark and foreboding omen. Warm sunlight streamed down on Will's back as he shot down the backroad he took to the woods, but the clouds were churning, watching, waiting.

Will knew it would rain, but he thought this would be the sort of storm where the world glowed and glistened like sunlight refracting over water. The sort of storm where the world was still warm, the kind that reminded Will of running in the rain with Mike, hands interlocked and wet, laughing when they couldn't see through the bangs plastered to their skin.

He could only hope he'd make it to Castle Byers in time to shelter his radio. Right now, Mike was still singing, his low voice humming the lines and sending the vibrations of his tone straight to Will's heart. Maybe it was sappy, and maybe Will felt like he was in a scene straight out of a movie— the protagonist rushing to their lover's side after an argument, music crescendoing in the background, all that effort to apologize that always meant true love— but sappy was all Will had hoped for.

He wanted sappy. He wanted cheesy romance, love songs and profound confessions, low looks that meant I love you and forehead kisses and dates in sticky diner booths. He didn't want a movie romance, he wanted something real, but he knew Mike's earnestness would always make things feel a little bit like a movie. Mike loved dramatics, playing DM at all times with his fondness for sweeping hand gestures and the way he'd always try to set the scene like a campaign when he and Will were with, bringing them to some secluded corner and saying we're like stowaways on an orc ship, come on, you have to hide with me!

Of course Mike would want to make a statement. He wasn't over-the-top— and he couldn't be, not in the world they lived in— but he always carried a bit of those Dungon Master dramatics with him, that flair for making things purposeful. Of course Mike would play Will's favorite song, and of course he'd sing in that soft voice exactly how Will liked, and of course he'd rebuild Castle Byers, because he really would do anything for Will.

The dirt road ended abruptly, stopping at the edge of a cluster of pines. Two towering branches raised themselves over Will, arching high and making an entrance into Castle Byers' clearing. Those two pines were the reason Jonathan chose this place to build; they'd been wandering through the woods, adrift and aching after their father had driven off and left them nothing more than his spit on the ground, entirely lost until Will had stepped under the branches and murmured about how the trees looked like the gateway to another world. They'd built Castle Byers in a place that felt like an escape, like it belonged to another universe entirely.

Now, walking through those pines, Will expected to see ruin. He expected rotting boards and waterlogged photographs, dirty drawings and ragged blankets. He expected Mike, sitting in the ruins, looking forlorn and guilty as he strummed his guitar.

In no world, in no universe, did he expect Castle Byers to stand tall again.

His radio crackled with the hum of Mike's guitar. At the same time, low music drifted out of the new doorway to Castle Byers, covered by a worn blanket that fluttered in the breeze. Will turned off the radio and dismounted his bike, letting it fall from his hands as he walked to the door. The sight of Castle Byers standing again put him in a trance, turning him slow and slack-jawed as he drifted closer.

The closer he got, the more memories slammed into him in waves of deja vu. Castle Byers looked so similar, almost exactly like it used to, but little bits of Mike peeked through, shining through the gaps in its walls. It was the same shape, boxy and carefully built, if a little bigger, but there were all these touches that screamed Mike; the blue blanket covering the door, the way he'd reinforced the roof with sheet metal so rain could never leak through again, the little quilt with hearts he had haning from the flagpole instead of the American flag that used to fly there. It made sense for Mike's presence to fill Castle Byers like this; in the end, Will's safe space was always with him.

Guitar strings crescendoed at the end of the chorus, calming down as Mike slowed on the second verse. When the doorway fluttered open, Will saw him fully, and found he could do nothing but stand frozen in the doorway.

"Mike," he breathed, and for a moment, it didn't seem like Mike had heard him. He kept singing, humming the soft lyrics of so swallow all your tears, my love, and put on a new face. . . but on my love, Mike glanced up, meeting Will's eyes with a slow glance. His mouth fell open, and his singing ceased, but his hands kept listlessly strumming on his guitar.

"Will," answered Mike. Will liked how their names fit together so easily, how they belonged to each other. "You really came?"

Standing in front of the doorway, Will might've looked like an apparition, an illusion wavering in and out of focus as the blanket flew back and forth. He stepped inside, gingerly, like one wrong move would send the fort tumbling down.

"Robin was right," he said, in lieu of an answer. "You do have a nice voice."

At Will's words, Mike stood up, pushing away the stool he'd been seated on. Will's voice was trembling, but his words made Mike flush all the same. "You, uh— you didn't hate it?" He'd stopped strumming the guitar, now; all Will could hear was his heavy breathing and the distant sound of thunder. "I sounded kind of stupid," he murmured, glancing away.

There went another thing Will was tired of; Mike not seeing himself for who he really was. "You did it for me," he said. "That's not— God," and emotion was crescendoing in him, too, so loud he could hardly hear his own voice. "It was the best thing you could've done."

"I— wow," Mike breathed, glancing away. "You really think so?"

Will nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."

Silence filled the space around them, warm and buzzing. Will could feel electricity thick in the air, their own personal storm.

A soft noise from Mike broke the quiet. "I hate that I couldn't say it," he said, quietly. "I wish I could've done this years ago, or— I don't know, shown up to your house and told you, or something. I hate that I still can't say it." His voice wobbled, and he swallowed thickly, a choked sound coming from the back of his throat like he was about to cry.

"Really?" Will stepped closer, close enough to where Will could step on Mike's shoes and get on his tiptoes to kiss him. They were close enough for Will to see what Mike wanted to say in his eyes, and for Mike to see what Will wanted in his own.

He gave Mike a look, a tender glance that made Mike duck his head and smile. "I think, whatever it is," he said, slowly, "you've already said it. It's all— here, you know?"

Mike blinked, tilting his head. "What?"

How could he not get it? Love was all around them. Maybe Will was a sap, maybe he was an idiot romantic looking for things that weren't there, but he hoped what he saw was true. The way he'd rebuilt Castle Byers with so much care, how he'd tacked Will's drawings to the walls and set his binder of campaign plans on a cushion, how he'd done all this in a night because he wanted to apologize to Will— it was all filled with love, full to bursting. Will could've held the feeling in his hands, with the way it had dispersed itself into the air.

"You rebuilt Castle Byers for me in a night," he said. "You talked to Jonathan so he'd know to set the radio to our private channel. You're here, singing my favorite song, probably with a hangover—" and at that, Mike laughed, ears turning pink— "and— I don't know, I think that says more than anything you could really say."

"I tried to tell you," said Mike. His eyes were shiny, still, but Will couldn't see any tears threatening to fall. "Last night. I wanted you to know that I knew I messed up, and it all came out wrong. I wasn't— God, Will. I'm so sorry." His hands came up from his sides, trembling like they couldn't choose a place to stay. They hovered over Will's face, waiting. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."

Will was hopeful, hopeful enough to do something he'd never dared to. He raised one hand, wrapping his fingers around Mike's wrist, slowly placing Mike's trembling hand under the curve of his jaw. "I know," he said. "It's okay."

"It's not." Mike was still shaking. Up close, Will could see the tremor in his bottom lip clearly, even the shake of his eyelashes. "It's— I keep hurting you, Will. It's not okay."

At that, Will stepped a little closer. Suddenly, he really was standing on the edge of Mike's shoes, nearly bringing them to eye level. "Well," he said, "why don't you do something about it, then?"

He was being teasing. Will was standing on Mike's shoes, looking into his eyes, and letting his voice go deep and fluttery in places he hadn't known it could go, and where had the hopeless, desperately pining Will gone? Who was this boy on his tiptoes on Mike's shoes that had replaced him?

(He was just Will. He was a Will that was comfortable, happy, a Will who could let his guard down. Will was the person he always should have been.)

Mike ducked his head, laughing. "Was the personal love song not enough for you?" And him saying that four-letter word, the one Will had to coax and beg out out of him when someone was dying for it— maybe it wasn't directed right at him, but it made Will's heart swell nonetheless. He reveled a little in the way Mike's face flushed pink when he said love, like he'd done it completely on accident, like he couldn't control the words that came out around Will.

"You could do better," said Will, low, provoking. He batted his eyelashes, looking up at Mike with a smile stretching across his face, slow and languid. All that hope was getting to his head, making Will dizzy enough with want to tease Mike without thinking.

"I could," murmured Mike. His other hand came to cup Will's face, careful and deliberate, no longer shaking. "I really could," and he was leaning in, and Will could feel Mike's breath on his face, warm on his lips before they brushed together. That would've been good enough for Will, just feeling Mike's warmth on his face one last time, but Mike always had to have the last word in every conversation. If nothing else, he had to kiss Will for the satisfaction of one-upping him.

It was perfect, Will thought, kissing Mike for the first time in a place that had always been their own. It wasn't a movie kiss— their noses knocked together, and Will didn't really know what to do with his lips, and his hands kept hovering uselessly in the air because he wasn't sure where to put them— but it was still perfect, because it was Mike. There was nothing better than the way Mike's mouth felt so warm, how it had a solid weight to it that his lips never had in Will's dreams. There was nothing better than knowing this was real, and there was nothing better than the way Mike's nails dug into his jaw like Will would disappear if he let go.

In the movies, this would've been the moment where the music swelled, where the guitar glided into the chorus and the camera did a full-body spin. The way Mike smiled against his lips was music enough for Will, and the way he pulled away and choked out a strangled breath before diving back in with that same grin made Will's heart swell. He was smiling too, now, a tentative thing that quickly turned into a full-bodied grin, the kind that made his whole body shake and sent his chest aching with unbridled joy.

Eventually, he and Mike were smiling too much to push their lips together, and slowly, Will pulled away, finding his eyes blurry with tears when they opened. Mike was blinking hard in comparison, wide-eyed and shocked like he couldn't believe this was real. Will felt the same way.

"You're smiling," said Mike. He looked awed, almost, with his blown pupils and trembling mouth, like Will really was something to be cherished. "You look happy."

"So were you," Will said. "I felt it," and at that they were both laughing, quiet giggles that made their shoulders shake together. Will's hands were still in the air, but he couldn't help himself; he set a palm on Mike's side, letting his laughter trail off into a satisfied sigh when he felt Mike's solid weight under his fingers. He loved feeling Mike's warmth and knowing this was real.

Gently, careful as ever, Mike took one hand from Will's face and brought it down to interlace his fingers with Will's free hand. "I couldn't help it," he admitted, ducking his head with a bashful smile. "You're so— good to me, I guess. And I— shit, I don't know how you still want to be so— so sweet to me, after all the shit I've put you through, but," and he paused, taking in a ragged breath, "it makes me really happy. You make me happy."

At that, Will was sure he flushed down to his collarbones. A soft noise climbed its way up his throat, a little breath of shock at Mike really saying Will made him happy. "You haven't put me through that much," he said. "Just a few hundred sleepless nights, two broken paintbrushes after I got mad at myself for constantly drawing you, having my brother try to drag my feelings for you out of me for at least a year. . ."

"You have feelings—"

Before Mike could finish that insane statement (if Will didn't have feelings for him, he would've stopped talking to Mike three years ago), a burst of thunder shot through the air. He and Will jumped simultaneously, glancing out to the clearing with startled eyes; the sun was still shining, relentlesss and warm, but the sky had darkened to a gray so deep it was almost blue. They stared out for a moment together, watching the clouds churn, until a metallic pattering noise made them glance upwards.

Rain had started to fall in gentle sheets from the sky, pinging off the sheet metal roof like the beat of a drum. The constant drizzle turned the world blurry, setting the scenery in a golden haze of sun and soft rain, and it was perfect, Will thought, to fall in love with Mike again in the rain like he'd fallen the first time.

"Come on," said Mike, squeezing Will's hand and gesturing out to the rain. With an eager laugh, Will followed him, shoving past the doorway and running into the open until they were both laughing again, shoes squelching under the dewy grass and fingers sliding together as they turned slick in the rain.

The last time he'd been here, Will's knees had given out and hit the muddy floor, skidding in the dirt until his skin went raw. This time, Will still felt dizzy enough to fall, but it came with the reassurance that Mike would catch him. "It's pretty," Will murmured, glancing to Mike as they stilled in the middle of the clearing. "I've always liked the clouds."

"I like the rain," Mike said, and then he was grinning again, bright as the sun. "Brings out your eyes," and they were kissing again, and Mike's mouth tasted wet like the grass as he ran his tongue along Will's lip, and Will was sure there was no better apology he could've received, because this kiss said it all. Will used to know what Mike was thinking as well as he knew himself, and though he'd lost that ability a long time ago, it came back on Mike's lips with an unsaid I love you.

Mike didn't have to say it. Will knew.

Rain fell in sheets around them, sticking Will's clothes to his skin and washing down his collarbones in warm rivulets. He reached up, running a hand through Mike's already wet hair; it felt as soft as he'd always dreamed of, even soaking. Will would've been content to stay like this forever, kissing Mike until the storm stopped and a rainbow broke through the clouds, but—

"Oh my God! Wheeler!"

Rustling in the bushes— and, more importantly, the loud, excited screech of Mike's name— broke him and Will apart. They whirled around, searching for the noise, and promptly found the source when Robin barreled into Mike with an enthusiastic yell.

"What the hell," he whined, muffled under Robin's arms. Looking at Robin, Will noticed they were the same height; her head fit snug into Mike's shoulder like Will's did, and seeing that filled his body with a fuzzy warmth. Even if Mike was squirming a little in her arms, face plastered with a confused, almost affronted stare.

"I'm so proud," she said, laughing into his wet sleeve. The rain was starting to slick her uneven bangs, like choppy waves plastered to her forehead. "I mean, maybe I'm a little disappointed in Will for not stringing you along some more—" and she glanced up from Mike's shoulder to throw him a look, to which Will responded with a sheepish smile— "but you did it. Knew you could," she murmured, turning back to Mike to squeeze him tighter.

Slowly, Mike untensed, melting into the hug. "You were right," he said, quietly, "about having to try again, or whatever. Shit. I can't believe I'm saying that."

"I'm always right," she said, grinning. Robin gave him one last squeeze before pulling away, turning to Will. "Look, I know you're, like, pathetically in love with him—" at that, both Mike and Will made an offended noise, but Robin kept on going— "but you couldn't have messed with Wheeler a little? Biked a little slower, left him soaking in the rain?"

"He wouldn't," said a voice, low and raspy. What the hell, was everyone hiding in the bushes? "I mean, I agree, but Will's too good for that."

At the edge of the clearing, Jonathan stood alongside Nancy, with Steve trailing behind them. Jonathan had a face that looked like he'd seen a puppy and bit into a lemon at the same time, like he hated to smile but couldn't really help himself, rapidly twitching between that proud-brother smile when he glanced to Will and a put-off scowl when Mike encroached into his view. Next to him, Nancy surveyed the scene with a face that almost seemed impressed, one eyebrow raised like she couldn't believe her brother had actually done something good for once. Will was inclined to agree.

"Too good," snorted Steve. When he met Will's eye, Steve gave him a small smile, and Will returned it with one of his own. "Should've jerked Wheeler around a little, Will. That's how you make that electricity."

If this were a movie, crickets would've chirped in the air at the awkward silence that followed. Nancy gave him a weird look. Jonathan blinked, presumably wondering why he ever let Steve apologize him, and Robin just sighed, loud. "You ruined it, man."

Steve scoffed, crossing his arms and sulking. Maybe he was still a little immature, but he wasn't a total douchebag anymore. Not to Will.

"How long were you—" okay, if Will says watching us in the woods, it'll make them all out to be stalkers—

"You were watching us," said Mike, going back to scowling as realization dawned on him. "What the hell?"

Jonathan grimaced, glancing away. "Blame Robin."

And, really, Will didn't mind being watched. It gave Mike that audience he talked about, how he said he'd wanted the whole world to know how he felt. If he thought about it, their whole world really did consist of the few people standing in front of them, because nothing else mattered when their world was crumbling down around them.

"You looked happy, though," Jonathan continued, slowly. "Are you?"

He sent Mike a stern stare, looking him up and down as Mike refused to meet his eye. It sent a message better than any shovel talk could've, but Will's mind was somewhere else right now.

Mike had made him happy since the day they'd met. In their worst moments, when Will waited by the phone and called out to static, or when he trailed behind Mike and El and barely got up the nerve to ask well, what about us?— Will could always remember when they'd been good together, and the worst wouldn't hurt quite as much. If he looked onto Mike, all grown-up and tall and avoiding him like a teenager was supposed to, and saw the gap-toothed ten-year-old who played sticks with him in the woods, then none of their fights seemed so bad anymore.

An I love you would come out naturally. They'd be sitting on the swings one day, laying on Mike's bed or walking through the woods, and Mike would say it without thinking, because it really was as simple as breathing.

They already knew what they meant to each other. Will could see that feeling in Mike's eyes, how they shone and crinkled, how that dopey, uncontrolled smile came onto his face every time he looked at Will. Presumably, Mike could see what Will felt in his eyes, too. That feeling had been there for years, and now, they could look at each other and understand what they were feeling.

Will wasn't waiting for that four letter word. He already had it in the way Mike looked at him.

"Yeah," he said, softly. He glanced over to Mike for a silent confirmation before taking his hand, slow and deliberate. "I am." His friends were soaked with rain, but the air around them was golden, hopeful. Maybe he'd gotten one good thing out of the apocalypse, after all.

Every cloud had a silver lining. Will found his in Mike.