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If Mike were to be questioned about what happened earlier, he would say that he didn’t mean for it to happen at all.
And, like, yeah, he’s not lying or anything. He really wasn’t planning on kissing his best friend straight on the mouth in a valiant attempt to shut him up, but saying that he didn’t mean for it to happen implies that it was a mistake, accidental, unthinking, even; and that’s–well–that’s not strictly true, either.
It’s not like it’s that weird anyway, right? Friends kiss sometimes. It was, heat-of-the-moment, or whatever. It’s totally normal. He’s totally normal.
Sure, yeah, he’s thought about kissing his best friend almost every minute of every hour of every day since he realised he had free will, and technically he totally could kiss him silly, but that’s not that bad. Will is, like, pretty or whatever, and he’s really emotional and cries during movies and he has these big, doe eyes and soft features and pretty, pink lips, and he could maybe be confused for a girl, so that’s probably why.
Mike is probably just confusing him for a girl, or something.
Oh, who is he kidding; Will hasn’t looked like anything remotely close to a girl since he got back from California.
Sure, he’s artistic or whatever (or whatever, Mike mentally scoffs. As if Mike doesn’t adore every single piece of art he makes. As if he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life watching Will create art), and he’s a bit soft spoken and gentle, and he does still cry during movies (not that Mike is looking–he doesn’t wanna embarrass him over something so silly, like the way his eyes glitter and shine and his cheeks flush, or how his nose goes red at the tip, or the way his lips look fuller when he pouts or how his skin wrinkles when the corners of his mouth turn downwards or–), however, he’s also kind of manly now.
Mike isn’t looking, he swears, but it’s kind of hard not to notice when your best friend, who you’ve known since you first gained the ability to make memories, gets taller, and broader.
Mike is still taller than him, but he’s still lanky, and kind of awkward in his movements, always tripping over his one hundred feet of thin limbs, whereas Will grew into his body. Where Will’s clothes never used to fit right, always too big and slipping down his shoulders, exposing slivers of his chest and collarbones, very clearly Jonathan’s hand-me-downs that Mrs. Byers had reused. Now, they fit snugly around his arms and chest, showing off each curve of muscle. Where his legs used to be thin, shorts fitting loosely around his legs and waist, they’re now stronger, bigger, somehow firmer, all of his pants hugging his thighs just a bit too tightly. Not– not that Mike’s looking. Obviously.
Anyway, the point is, Mike’s not fooling anyone, except maybe himself. The small, nagging, part of him that knows exactly what this is that he’s been ruthlessly trying to strangle and bury eight hundred feet underground. That part seems to be the most stubborn one, always eagerly pointing out how lovely Will looks in the evening light, empathetically sulking when Will starts complaining about needing new clothes. That part, that feeling Mike has when he gets that strange, manic urge to just grab Will’s face and kiss him until they’re breathless, keep kissing him, and kiss him some more–
…What was he talking about again?
Oh, right. What happened earlier today.
The thing is–the thing is, Mike is just… kind of a loser.
He wants so badly to write it off as nerves or something of the sort. To be able to say that it’s just anxiety from their life-altering Upside down adventures, or that he’s just being awkward because he hasn’t spoken to Will for nearly a year when he was in California (not for lack of trying, Mike will add, the phone’s busy tone is genuinely engraved into his ear drums at this point), but he knows damn well it’s not any of that. They beat Vecna, El closed the gate for the final time, and in the years since, it hasn’t stirred.
That doesn’t mean they don’t get scared, still. He has half the mind to chastise himself for being childish, but he knows it’s a perfectly rational fear to have, a fear they all share. The way they all simultaneously catch their breath when the lights flicker never quite went away. The instant, overwhelming concern and furrowed, anxious brows when someone got a headache or a nosebleed. The empty stares and slow, sluggish movements on cloudy days during the time in which the sun has nearly set and the sky was painted in hues of blue and gray.
For months after Vecna’s defeat, Will and his family still lingered in the Wheeler household, which had still and will always welcome them with open arms.
Mike remembers it like it was yesterday. The victory was bitter in how ephemeral it felt; they couldn’t stop worrying, looking over their shoulders. Nights spent sleeping in a puppy pile in the basement, the whole party and their families crammed into the small space, laying basically atop one another. They couldn’t let each other out of their sights, couldn’t bear it. No one slept, in those times, not really–they just tossed and turned until their bodies couldn’t keep them awake anymore, only to be jolted awake from terrible nightmares.
It was easier then, in a way. When everyone gathered the courage to sleep apart and go back home, the nightmares almost got worse. Mike has spent too many nights weeping into his pillow because whenever he closed his eyes, he would hear the screaming, he could smell the smoke and demogorgon breath so close to his face, images of bones snapping and men dropping dead flashing behind his eyelids like a cruel movie projection.
The point is, Mike knows it’s not that. He knows, because that’s an entirely different kind of fear, soaked into the lower chambers of his heart, webbed between his ribs. It’s the kind of fear that’s sticky in the fissures of his lungs. He knows, because he knows that fear well.
So, yeah. It’s not the Upside down. Mike knows it’s not just distance either, because Will and him have been closer than ever since their victory. No, this anxiety leaves his skin itchy, desperate for contact, it has him tripping over his words and his face burning bright red, scolding himself for his complete and utter lack of chill. It has him laughing just a bit too often, a bit too loud at almost everything Will says, almost hysterical in nature. It has him wanting to be close to Will at any given time, keeping him all to himself, finding any excuse to look and to touch, almost frantic in his efforts to be near Will.
He knows, realistically, what this is. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not entirely stupid. He knows what this disgusting, horrible, creepy affection is. He knows he’s completely, irrevocably in love with Will Byers.
And you know what? That might even be okay. He might be able to deal with that. Will is the literal embodiment of sunshine, flowers, and all things nice in this world, the absolute epitome of everything good. If Mike were going to fall in love with anyone, Will Byers was a very good pick. And, yeah, it’s a bit weird and creepy of him to be taking advantage of Will like this, but what Will doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
He might even be able to deal with the fact that Will is a boy. Eddie liked boys, and Mike liked Eddie. It’s okay, he thinks, to be gay or whatever. He’s not thirteen anymore, when he desperately tried to cling onto his non-existent heterosexuality.
No, what he can’t deal with is that Mike is just such a massive loser about it.
That’s how he got into this situation in the first place.
• ───────────────── •
Will had planned to come over to the Wheeler’s to study for an upcoming math exam. Mike had always been better at math between the two of them (which isn’t saying much), so he promised to help. That’s all it was, helping a friend. Totally selfless, really. Nothing at all to do with the fact that to study, he would have to be pressed close to Will, leaning over him and speaking in his ear, stealing glances at his face…
No, yeah, selfless. Obviously.
The day had been going by impossibly slowly. Mike figured he should have paid more attention to his classes, what with it being his senior year and all, but Will was in absolutely none of his classes, save for lunch and a study hall period (along with the entire party), and he was coming over later to study, so he seriously couldn’t be blamed for not really paying attention to History of all things.
But the time passed anyway, and he soon found himself sprinting off into the cafeteria.
Will had already been sitting at a table with Lucas and Dustin, listening to the duo talk and laughing along with them. Mike had taken a moment to stare at him (like a weirdo), because, as we’ve established, he has free will and all.
Will had looked downright angelic, as he always does, with his hair sort of adorably tousled and the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. He’d looked relaxed, shoulders less tensed than usual, and the slope of his neck was visible because of the way his sweater was slightly too big around the collar, the familiar blue wool that–
That…
That is Mike’s sweater that Will is wearing.
That’s so chill. Seriously, he’s gonna be so cool about this. Mike is totally super cool and normal about this.
Will finally noticed him staring and waved him over, smiling.
Mike is going to fucking pass out.
He didn’t pass out, and actually managed to cross the space to sit next to Will, leaving approximately no space between their bodies at all. Will rested his head in his hand, propped up on his elbow and leaned into Mike, just a bit, just enough that he felt his heart go haywire.
“You seem out of it,” Will said with a soft frown. “Classes were bad?” He looked genuinely concerned, or maybe interested, and it made him look goddamn adorable and Mike could not fucking breathe, not with Will leaning in so close that he can see the tiny clogged pores on his nose, and he’s wearing Mike’s sweater for Christ’s sake!.
Mike shrugged in response as his eyes flickered down to look at his sweater on Will’s body. He felt his face go red; he wanted to mention it, wanted to tell him how good it looks on him, how Will should actually just steal all of his clothes, really, that’d be, like, super cool–
Seconds pass, and Mike is still staring. Will raises his eyebrow in question. God, Mike needs to get it together.
“Uh, yeah,” Mike blurts out. “They kinda sucked…” He said, trailing off, and then, because he couldn’t help himself: “Is that my sweater?”
Will had looked down at what he was wearing, and his face flushed scarlet. Mike wanted to press his own face against his, just to feel the heat on his cheeks.
“Oh! Uh, sorry,” Will said, looking away with a sheepish smile. “I think you forgot it at my place the other day, and I was kind of rushing this morning, so I just picked up the first sweater I saw…” He explained, but Mike knew this, because Mike is a weirdo and he left that sweater there on purpose so that Will might, one day, wear it.
Will says, “I’ll give it back later, yeah?”
“No!” Mike almost shouted, entirely too quickly, and his voice kind of cracked, which is, like, kind of humiliating, so he cleared his throat to try again. “No, it’s fine. Really, it–uh, it looks good on you.” He says, mentally patting himself on the back. He’s being so normal about this.
Will smiled wide, and the tips of his ears went pink, “Thanks, Mike,” he said with a nice lilt to his voice, and Mike thinks his name has never sounded better.
“Of course, dude,” Mike mirrored Will’s smile. “You should, like, keep it, or something.”
Goddamnit. He was being so normal about this. Unfortunately, that terrible, possessive part wanted Will dressed in his clothes, so that maybe then everyone would know they’re a package deal.
Internally, he cringed; he sounds like a fucking dog, marking his territory or something. Jesus.
Will opened his mouth to speak, presumably refuse the offer, but Max slammed her tray down on the table, El following her to take a seat.
“Hey losers,” Max said a bit too loud, leaving Will wincing beside him. “What are we talking about?”
“Mike and Will are ignoring us again,” Lucas teased, jabbing his thumb in their direction.
“Wh– that’s– well–” Mike stammered, and he could see Will curling in on himself in embarrassment out of the corner of his eye. “That’s just not true! We– we were just– talking, you could have just, like, interrupted us, or whatever–!”
“Uh–we did, dude, twice,” said Dustin, raising one eyebrow with an amused smile playing at his lips. “You didn’t even hear us.”
“Well–!” Mike said, raising his voice an octave, and it worked about as well as you can imagine, but Will had gotten over his embarrassment and launched into diffusing the situation, because he’s always been Mike’s better half.
“Sorry, guys,” Will said, actually sounding sorry. “We must have gotten really distracted. You can always tap one of us on the shoulder, if you need to!” He offered, and Mike did not like the look on Lucas’ face as he opened his mouth to, presumably, tease them further, but thankfully Max came to their rescue and smacked her hands on the table just loud enough to get everyone’s attention.
“Whatever!” Max sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know why you guys find this surprising anyway, those two are always making everyone else their third wheel.”
Nevermind what Mike thought about Max rescuing them, because, yes, he loves her and would die for her and everything, but he’s also presently fantasizing about jumping across the table and strangling her.
He glared at her, and she just blew him a kiss and turned back to the group. “So, arcade this weekend?”
And that at least got the conversation moving, the earlier situation forgotten, so Mike dared to settle in his seat and eat his lunch, listening to his friends talk.
He stole a glance at Will (because of course he did), and Will met his gaze, giving him a small smile.
He thinks his food tasted just a bit better for the rest of the lunch period.
• ────── •
Because Mike can never have nice things, lunch period ended all too soon after.
He walked Will to his locker (he protested, of course, that Mike would be late to his own class, as if Mike ever cared more for any of his classes than he did for the precious boy next to him), but he unfortunately (and very reluctantly) had to part ways with him and attend the rest of his classes.
He dragged himself sluggishly from room to room, doing his best not to explode out of his skin while he sat through his classes, and doing absolutely fuck all.
How he got through them, he doesn’t know. Honestly, don’t ask him anything regarding what was talked about. All he remembers is hazy daydreams and images of Will in Mike’s sweater.
By the end of his last class, he was practically vibrating. He sprung out of his chair right as the bell rang and nearly sprinted to his car.
Will was, predictably, nowhere to be seen. He leaned against the car, assuming a very cool guy pose (it did not land), and tried to pretend he wasn’t desperately searching the crowds of people billowing out of the building.
Will did, eventually, emerge out of the building, spotting Mike immediately and waving his arms to get his attention, as if he didn’t spot him the moment he came into view, and Mike gave him a horribly uncool wave that he scolded himself over as he piled into the driver’s seat.
Soon enough, the car door opened, and his best friend climbed into the passenger seat with a warm greeting. He’d have pointed it out, how excited Will seemed to be over studying math, if his own heart hadn’t been doing extremely pathetic somersaults in his chest. He started the car and gripped his steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Oh, about the study session,” Will started, and instantly Mike shrunk into his seat slightly, already bracing himself for a, ‘Hey, let’s reschedule’, which is actually pitiful since they hang out almost every day anyway, but Will continued.
“Do you wanna come over to my house this time instead? My mom made those really good cookies you love,” Will offered, and, okay, Mike knows he’s a loser, but this was a new low. He thinks if he were a dog his tail would have been wagging at the prospect of Will remembering he loves the cookies and inviting him over because of them, and that’s such a weird thought to have that he mentally shakes himself back into his senses.
It doesn’t work. His voice pitifully cracked when he said, “Yeah, sure, sounds great!” Mike grinned it off and turned on some music from the radio at a low volume, despite internally cringing at himself.
Whatever happened to ‘be cool, be normal, it’s just Will’?
Mike just had to go and get a truly pathetic loser crush on him, that’s what.
“How were your classes?” Mike asked, if to distract Will so he wouldn’t notice how his face is burning a bright red, and thankfully, it worked; Will launched into an angry rant about how his government teacher gave them an assignment on something genuinely ridiculous, and Mike allowed himself to melt a little bit, letting the sound of Will’s voice wash over him as he drives.
Will was talking about another new painting he’d been working on when they walked through the front door. Running purely off of muscle memory, they undressed their layers from the cool autumn day, took off their shoes, and put their bags down as Will dropped his keys onto the hook by the door, a jingling sound following the movement of metal on metal.
Neither Joyce nor Hopper would be home for another few hours, giving them some precious alone time together. To study math, sure, but to study math alone, like, together.
They stood in the entryway for a moment, Will talking about something regarding paint mixing, and how colors dry into a darker shade or what-have-you, (Mike was listening; he was just also focused on how wildly Will was gesturing in his hands, on the bright look gracing his features, on the sweater he was wearing, the sweater that belonged to Mike), when suddenly El rounded the corner.
Or, well, that’s not right. She did round the corner at some point, but they hadn’t noticed until Will saw her standing there and watching them (Mike hadn’t noticed until another several moments, when he realised Will was no longer talking).
“You’re here,” El said, directed at Mike. She was giving them an odd look.
“So are you,” Will said, looking at her, too, and wow, they might not be siblings by blood but he and his sister were now giving each other the exact same look, and Mike thought that were he a stranger, he’d think they’re twins.
“You’re meant to be at Mike’s,” El said, squinting her eyes slightly.
“Change of plans,” Will explained. “You’re meant to be at Max’s.” Mirroring both El’s accusing tone and the squint to her eyes.
“I was just going to have some tea and head out,” El tilted her head in the way Will often does, and Mike spared a single thought to how the two of them spend far too much time together.
They stood, staring at each other for a second longer.
Finally, after what must have been ten or fifteen seconds, Will asked, “Can you make me a coffee?”
El scrunched up her nose. “Ugh, yuck, of course,” she said, pattering away into the kitchen. “Do you also want coffee, Mike?”
Before Mike could shake himself out of his reverie (because what even was that), Will responded for him, calling after her, “He’ll have a hot chocolate! Do we still have the marshmallows?”
Mike kind of wanted to bang his head on a wall, or start chewing off his own fingers or something, from the sheer adulation he feels for this boy. He genuinely kind of felt like he was melting into the floor, his head wiped clean of anything except Will remembered! He remembered I prefer hot chocolate to coffee! He remembered!, and he’s fighting extremely hard to keep an embarrassingly wide grin off his face.
“He can put those in himself!” El said back, clear annoyance in her tone. Will gave Mike a shrug mixed with a look that said: ’Well, I tried’. Mike can’t help the giggle that clawed its way out of his throat.
Finally, they took their bags and walked into the kitchen to grab their mugs. Mike felt a swell of affection for El when he saw that his cocoa did actually have marshmallows in them. Truly, he couldn’t ask for better friends.
More so, he couldn’t be more thankful that El and him were such great friends after their breakup a few years back. Surprisingly, it was quite the mutual decision, both agreeing to go their own ways and find themselves outside of each other. Of course, internally, Mike’s motivations for breaking up with El were sexuality-based, although he never got El’s side of the whole scenario.
The boys thanked El for the drinks, Will walked over to where she was sitting at the table with her own mug and a book, and hugged her shoulders from behind. El pressed up into the embrace with a small smile. When Will released her, he ruffled her hair (much to her dismay and frantic fixing) and set off to go to his room, not checking whether Mike was following him.
Mike was, of course. He would always follow Will. Mike would always follow him.
They threw their bags on Will’s bed, Will kicking his door closed (a completely natural action that Mike would, like, totally overanalyze later) while Mike got comfortable on said bed. He settled against the headboard, dragging his own bag closer to himself so he could pull out his math notebook.
Now, usually what would happen is they’d dig through their bags and fish out their study materials. Will would tidy up his table to make space for them while Mike would look over the topic of study, and then they’d both move to the table.
Yeah, you can probably guess that that’s not what happened. Instead of moving to the table to tidy it up, Will flopped onto the foot of the bed and actually crawled towards Mike, laying his head just next to Mike’s thigh and looking up at him with a smile.
Mike felt his stomach twist into a Windsor knot.
Okay. No, yeah, okay, he can be cool about this. He was going to be so normal and chill about this, like, seriously, you’ve never seen a more normal and chill guy than Mike in the next few minutes.
“I–” Mike said, voice strained. He could feel the blood boiling in his face. It should have seriously been illegal for Will to look that good looking up at him.
“I don’t feel like tidying the table…” Will said, scrunching his face in that adorable way of his that makes Mike want to rip out his teeth “I have some art supplies there and there’s a piece I’m working on so–let’s just study here, yeah?”
Mike was, like, so down for that.
He nodded his head, a bit frantic, and eventually choked out: “Yeah, sure”, that sounded exactly as frazzled as he felt. Will giggled a little bit, which single-handedly wiped Mike’s memory of anything math related, and sat up next to Mike, pressing their bodies top to toe. Mike’s skin tingled with the contact.
He was so not going to survive this.
“So, now you just have to divide the whole equation with this number, six, and you get the value for X,” Mike taps his pen twice against the paper, looking over at Will, who has settled his head against Mike’s shoulder over the course of the study session.
Mike was actually thankful, for once, that Will was the one with mind powers between them, because he nearly snapped his pen in half when he felt the weight on his shoulder and the hair tickling his neck; he’s not sure the walls wouldn’t have crumbled in on them if he had them. Mike noticed then, Will vaguely looked like he was about to cry.
“I fucking hate math,” Will just said, shaking his head, and the swear word genuinely caught Mike off-guard. Instinctively, his eyes widened in shock, and when Will looked at him and saw, he let out an exasperated laugh. Mike laughed along with him.
To his despair, Will moved off the bed, peeling his body away from Mike’s. Mike had to ball his hands up into fists so that he wouldn’t pull him back.
“Let’s take a break,” Will urged, grabbing a mixtape from his dresser and plopping it into the tape player. “I’ll play some music.”
“Sure,” Mike replied with a small smile, putting his notebook away, “As long as it’s not that new wave…” He teased, earning an eye-roll from Will.
Mike had actually grown to enjoy Will’s slightly eccentric taste of music. It was nowhere near as heavy as the metal Eddie used to go on, and on about, but the gothic elements and synth-pop electronica was something Mike could see himself listening to.
Music filled the room as his best friend pressed play. Then a song came on Mike recognized, but couldn’t name. He thinks it might have been Bowie.
Will sat down on the bed, leaning back on his arms and tilting his head back to look at Mike, who was sitting criss-cross and facing him. A sly grin spread across his face.
This, Mike thinks, is the moment where it all went to shit.
“You could sing for me,” Will teased.
It’s not, like, the most embarrassing thing Will could have said, but because Mike is a total loser, he instantly thought of serenading him with some corny love song, guitar and all, and maybe it’s the sheer force of how hard he cringed at himself that made him act out.
“Wh–” Mike sputtered. “I don’t– I don’t sing!”
So, that’s just, like, a lie. Will looks at him with an incredulous expression.
“You don’t sing.” Will repeated, sarcastically, with a disbelieving smile, his eyebrows raised.
“Nope.” Mike held his ground.
“Right.” Will says, dragging the vowel. He nods his head slowly, mockingly, egging Mike on further.
“I never sing.” Mike says, unwavering.
“Uh-huh.” Will now kind of sounded like he was biting back a laugh.
“I’ve never even sung anything in my entire life.” Mike knows he sounds ridiculous, dragging this joke on, he needs to stop fucking talking, Jesus Christ.
Will does actually laugh at that, letting his head drop. He looked breathtaking like that, Mike thinks; laughing lightly, the dim lights in the room accentuating the curves of his features, the music playing faintly in the background.
Mike registered the word heroes right as Will looked up at him through his eyelashes, and Mike’s heart stumbled in its quickening pace. Hazel eyes took on a soft brown tone, features softened, lips parted and their corners quirked upwards.
Mike wished, not for the first time, that he had a camera or something. He wanted this image burned into his retinas.
“I think El might disagree with that,” Will said.
Mike blinked and snapped out of his minute trance. Nevermind, Mike hates this guy.
See, Mike’s a chronic overthinker, and when his brain isn’t torturing him with traumatic memories, (The Upside down, Demogorgons charging at him, jumping off a cliff, Will’s body being pulled out of the quarry, Will possessed, Will being burned, Will getting hurt–), it loves to torture him with embarrassing things he’s done.
Stopping a make-out session to sing, grabbing El’s arms and shaking her around, and actually sticking out his goddamn tongue is definitely up there in Mike’s overthinking hall of fame. Hopper should’ve arrested thirteen-year-old-him when he had the chance.
Heat rushed to his face at the memory of him and his ex-girlfriend, and he felt his features twist into something between cringe and distress as he groaned and hid his face in his palms.
Will was laughing, and as much as the sound is music to his ears, he couldn’t hear anything over the overwhelming urge to throw up and hide out of humiliation.
To his chagrin, Will then starts singing, and all Mike can do is groan louder, a dragged out ’Nooooo!’ and pushed at him with his arms weakly.
It doesn’t deter Will, of course, he just starts singing louder, laughing through it, and Mike can’t help but laugh too. No amount of shaking or pushing will get Will to stop and put Mike out of his misery.
Now, a normal person would just wait for him to stop, laugh along, or even just try to put their hand over the other’s mouth.
Maybe it was the memory of El trying to kiss him to shut him up, maybe it was the overall closeness of the situation, or maybe it was just Mike’s absolute lack of rationale when it came to anything Will related that made him do what a normal person would never do.
Because, in order to shut him up, Mike kissed him.
He kissed Will.
Mike Wheeler kissed Will Byers. Like, fully grabbed his shirt and smashed his mouth against Will’s.
Not a quick peck, either. Lips against lips. Hearts beating rapidly, blush rushing to cheeks, palms becoming sweaty. Holding their lips together there for a moment, the music seemed to stop, the world seemed to just…stop.
Right, what the fuck is wrong with him?
Mike came to his senses, the kiss remained all of one and a half seconds before Mike pulled away (however long he spent there pressed against Will’s lips, seconds, minutes, years; it was long enough to permanently rewire his brain chemistry and ruin his life), mortification overtaking him.
Mike could hear his heart thump in his eardrums, wanting to escape his chest. He felt his cheeks sting with red heat, he could almost smell his own flesh burning at the sensation. He began to sweat, anxiously, all over.
What had he done?
Will was…just staring at him. Motionless. He was silent, just staring at Mike in shock, expressionless, but eyes slightly widened.
Seconds felt like hours, decades. Mike still had his hands fisted in Will’s shirt, staring right back. He was frozen on the spot; shame had suddenly poured over him like icy water, and he’s vaguely sure he turned a rather unappealing shade of green.
Mike swallowed, breathed deeply to calm himself. He didn’t actually want to hurl because that would be entirely more mortifying.
“Uh,” Mike said, intelligently, finally releasing Will’s shirt and leaning back. Will did not move. Mike swears he hadn’t even blinked. “I–” Mike tried again, but he couldn’t really find his voice.
Will was still staring at him. Mike felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away.
“I’m– I’m gonna– sorry, I'm just– I’ll go–” Mike stuttered and stammered, hoping that eventually he’d stumble his way into an actual sentence, as he frantically gathered his things.
Will was still frozen on the spot.
The house was still empty; he was only there for about two hours. He threw the door open and rushed out.
That got Will moving, though. He sprung up from his space on the bed, shouting Mike’s name, pleading for him to ’Wait, stop, Mike, please, just– slow down!,’ but Mike couldn’t hear him over his own blood rushing through his ears. Mike practically ran out of the house, piling into his car, not even buckling his seatbelt in his haste.
He could see Will running after him, but fortunately, Mike was faster. He was out of the driveway before Will even reached the car.
He couldn’t deal with Will being angry, or upset, or whatever emotion Mike was about to be smacked in the face with right then (or ever, really).
• ───────────────── •
When Mike got home, he bolted up the stairs and locked himself in his room, much to the confusion of his mother calling out his name. He barely took the time to take off his jacket and put down his bag before he jumped into bed and buried his head in the pillow.
So, that’s where he is right now. In bed. Wallowing.
He doesn’t really have any tears left in him; he must have cried for hours when he got back.
He ruined everything. Will had been his best friend for, like, thirteen years, and he just ruined it all because he’s a loser and a freak and just absolutely awful and his best friend probably, like, hates him now because he’s a queer and he totally took advantage of him and when their friends find out they’re probably gonna hate him too–
Mike knows how Hawkins treats people like him. He knows it’s half the reason why everyone had celebrated when Eddie died. He’s heard the insults being tossed around in the school hallways, the nasty notes left in lockers, the taunting outside of bathroom stalls. Mike knows if anyone had ever found out what had happened today, they wouldn’t spare him.
They wouldn’t care if his sister was Nancy Wheeler, editor-in-chief of the school’s newspaper, her status had never trickled down to him, anyway. They would treat him just as he saw people like him treated in the news. They would call him sick, diseased, an abomination. Mike curls himself into his bed, he just can’t bear it.
Yeah, he’s been spiraling a bit. You can’t really blame him though, can you? He just kissed his best friend who he’s in love with, his life may as well be over.
They have school tomorrow. He can’t face Will, not yet. Not when he knows Will probably hates him, not when he knows he’s completely ruined everything, not when he knows what Will’s lips feel like pressed against his own.
He can’t skip, though. His unexcused absences have already earned him multiple detentions and multiple calls to his mom. Any more and he won’t be allowed to graduate. He’ll have to avoid everyone. The good thing is, though, that tomorrow is a Friday, which means his day ends early, and that Will is in none of his classes. He never thought that’d be something he’d be happy about.
Eventually, he drifts off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of hazel eyes and soft lips.
• ───────────────── •
Unfortunately, he wakes up the next morning.
The day is cold and gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds. Mike peels his eyes open, and the memories of yesterday slam into him. He groans, rubs his hands over his face and lets them fall on the bed, next to the sides of his head. He takes a few moments to stare at the ceiling, preparing himself for the day, before getting up.
He quickly brushes his teeth, scrubbing lazily, the bare minimum, he doesn’t have the energy for anything more. Instead of showering, he opts to drown himself in deodorant and body spray. He doesn’t care if he went to bed without a shower the night before, he just wants this day to be over.
This day will be a nightmare, he thinks. All he wants to do is rot in his bed. He feels like everyone will know. Everyone will know that Mike Wheeler kissed a boy last night. That he kissed Wil Byers last night. He feels like everyone can smell it on him.
Regardless, he drags himself to the car sluggishly and starts the engine. The drive is only 15 minutes, and it does nothing to help clear his head.
Mike looks at himself in the rearview mirror; he looks terrible. His hair is a mess of tangled curls, and there’s bags under his red-rimmed eyes. He notices his sweater is on backwards, but he can’t be bothered to turn it properly, not caring if the tag is chaffing his chest.
As he pulls into the parking lot, he can see people gathering at the school entrances. He spots Will near the doors, looking around, waiting. He can’t see Mike’s car from where he’s standing, it seems, most of the vehicle being hidden in the sea of others, but Mike can see him, at least partially.
He doesn’t look like he’s in a much better state than Mike himself; his clothes, which are the same from yesterday, are rumpled, and he looks as tired as Mike feels. Eventually, the warning bell rings (or so he assumes; he can’t hear it from where he’s sat, but he sees Will turn his head towards the school) and Will scans the parking lot one more time before visibly sighing, running a hand over his face and trudging into the school.
Mike sits in the car, waiting until he’s most definitely going to be late, and only then does he get out and walk into school.
His classes drag along, somehow moving impossibly slowly and ending entirely too fast at the same time. He moves through them on autopilot: first Calculus in room 304, walk up the stairs, turn left, ’Sorry, car troubles,’ as he walks into the room, taking his seat, then English in room 315, walk out the class and down the hallway, dip into the classroom, take a seat and pretend to read the assigned book, then Physics in room 108, run out the classroom, through the hall to the stairwell, down two flights of stairs and into the room, attempt to take notes.
It’s a routine, and it does make him feel somewhat better. It’s familiar. His life might be over, his friends might hate him now, the only person in the world who really matters to him definitely hates him, and he’ll have to learn to live with that, but at least this he knows. This, if nothing else, didn’t change.
He spends his lunch period hiding in a bathroom stall, and suddenly he feels like he’s nine years old again and his best friend is home sick with the flu. He stares at the filthy tiled wall behind the toilet, and tears rush into his eyes. He didn’t bring food, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not hungry.
In the counterfeit privacy of the bathroom stall, he allows himself to cry. No one is around to hear him, no one is around to care. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, as if to push the feelings back inside, back into the jar his soul is trapped in, swimming deep inside a lake, and he chokes on a sob.
This is what he deserves, he thinks. Sitting on a dirty floor, alone, crying. He feels as though he’ll spend the rest of his life in that stall.
But alas, the time passes anyway. The bell rings, and he reluctantly gathers himself to attend his remaining classes.
His eyes burn and his chest feels tight, and several people give him odd looks. The feeling comes back, of them being able to smell it on him.
The routine isn’t so comforting anymore.
He keeps his head down as he walks to his car, backpack slung over his shoulder. He barely spares a glance at the vehicle as he moves to it, but when he does, he does a double take, and then once more.
He stops dead in his tracks.
Will is standing in front of the car.
He looks kind of angry, Mike’s heart drops. Mike knew he would be, of course. They stare at each other, and Mike has to resist the urge to do something dumb, like, he doesn’t know, run away, or start crying, or push him against the car and kiss him stupid.
He feels his cheeks heat up as Will stares at him. He braces himself for Will to start shouting, or tell him how disgusting Mike is or something. His eyes close forcefully, almost of their own accord, and he stops breathing.
“You’re coming over.”
Well, that’s not really what he was expecting. Will sounds angry, vaguely, but not hateful. His tone leaves no room for argument, it’s stern and determined.
Then again, Mike is only barely restraining himself as is, hands twitching at his sides. He kind of wants to fall to his knees and beg Will to forgive him, right here in the parking lot. He can’t imagine what he’ll do if he’s left alone with Will.
“I– actually, I have to…” Mike trails off. “I have to help my mom with… stuff…” The excuse sounds weak, meager, a complete lie and Mike knows Will will be able to call him out on it.
“Mike,” he dares to look at Will right then, and he’s got that steely look in his eyes. The same look Will gets when his mind is set on something. “You’re coming over, and we’re gonna drink a fucking coffee or something and talk about this.”
Again, the swear word catches him off guard. Will doesn’t swear often. He must be really angry.
His tone is demanding, almost. He’s not asking, or even informing, really. He’s, well, demanding. It’s kind of hot.
Mike needs to be put in jail. His best friend is angry with him, most likely hates him because of how awful Mike is being, and he’s still thinking thoughts like that.
Well, he’s not about to say no to Will, anyway. He’s never been good at that.
Will turns and gets in the car, and mindlessly, Mike follows. He’d always follow him.
It’s immediately awkward inside Mike’s car. The air feels tense, static, and neither of them speaks. It’s suffocating. Mike wishes, more than anything, just for a moment, for things to go back to the way they were. He wants to be able to laugh, joke, and just fucking talk to Will like they did just a day ago. But alas, Mike instead simply turns on the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, glancing over at Will; he’s leaning against the window and staring out.
Mike actually cannot take it. It’s so uncomfortable, so wrong, being so out of sorts with his favourite person.
“I’m sor–” he begins to say, but Will cuts him off.
“Don’t.” he says sternly. The unwelcome thoughts come back, and Mike has to fight a blush off his face. Will sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Look,” Will begins. “I’m mad at you, but I don’t want an apology. Right now, I don't want you to say anything at all. ”
Mike shrinks in on himself, and Will notices, of course, “I want you to just…drive us home, and I want to talk to you about it when it’s safe to look you in the eye.” He finishes with an empty laugh.
Mike can’t help himself, can’t stop the pathetic little flutter his heart does at the words ‘I want you to drive us home.’ He shifts in his seat slightly and nods his head.
Quietly, he mutters, “Okay,” and sets his sight on the familiar road in front of him.
Will doesn’t say anything when he gets out of the car, just walks towards the door without checking to see if Mike is behind him.
He is, obviously. It’s been well established that Mike would always follow him, at this point.
(He thinks it's a bit pitiful, how he follows him around like a dog.)
Mike rushes to catch up to him, but Will is a bit ahead. By the time he reaches the front door to close it, he can hear Will clattering in the kitchen. He took a bit longer than usual to undress and made his way to the kitchen.
True to his word, he found Will standing at the counter pouring hot water into two mugs, topping both off with milk. Mike watches him from the doorway, shoulders slumped; he feels like a kid about to be scolded by his mom.
Will reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a bag of small marshmallows, plopping a handful in Mike’s cup. His heart swells–even when he’s angry, he still goes the extra mile for Mike. Mike doesn’t deserve him.
Will takes both cups and walks out of the kitchen, into his bedroom. He doesn’t look back. It doesn’t need to be said.
Mike walks into the room, standing awkwardly in the middle of it, not sure what to do with himself. He watches as Will sets down the cups and turns around to face him, looking a bit confused, a bit annoyed at Mike just standing there.
“Jesus–Mike, just sit,” Will waves his arm towards the bed. “You look like a kicked puppy. You’re still welcome here, obviously.” He says, like it really is obvious, like Mike is ridiculous for thinking otherwise.
Mike obediently sits down on the bed. Will stands in front of him. Mike’s hands burn and twitch with the urge to reach out and touch; he sits on them to restrain himself.
Will stares at him for a second, looking him up and down. Mike wonders, feverishly, if he likes what he sees.
“You’re an idiot.” Is what Will says, finally, and it does a good job at making Mike snap back to his senses.
“I know,” Mike whispers, looking down. “I’m sorry.”
Will doesn’t acknowledge him. “I mean, seriously, you kiss me, give me no time to recover, and then just…run away?” He says, and he doesn’t sound angry. Worse, he sounds hurt. “What, you–you regretted it? Hated it? Or–” Will isn’t finished speaking, but Mike’s gaze is already snapping upwards, a crinkle in his eyebrows, a frantic shake of his head.
“No–” he tries, but Will is still talking.
“–what, ‘cause I don't get it! You kissed me, and then you just run away and avoid me–”
“–Will, no, I’m sorry–”
“–and I mean, what am I meant to think? What am I meant to think, Mike?”
“–It’s not like that, please–”
“Then what is it like, Mike?” Will shouts, tears pooling around his eyes. Mike’s mouth clamps itself shut. He feels the burn of his own tears, but he swallows them down. It’s not his place.
“You’re probably just mocking me, taunting me, because I mean, you know how I feel about you,” Will says, and he sounds wrecked, and it’s because of Mike, and Mike should just, like, die or something, because he did that, he made Will cry. “–And I thought, I don’t know, maybe you felt the same, but then you just…ran away.”
He wipes at his eyes with his hand, and Mike just stares at him. He’s a terribly pretty crier, Mike thinks.
Then the words catch up to him.
“What?” Is all he can say, and it sounds almost panicked, foreign to his own ears. Will looks at him with a frown, but it smooths itself slightly when he sees whatever expression is displayed on Mike’s face.
“You…” Will begins again, but trails off. He tilts his head away, eyes not leaving Mike, in an almost defensive gesture.
“What do you mean ‘I know how you feel’?” Mike says, his breaths coming up short. At some point, his hands dislodged themselves from where they were trapped underneath his thighs, and they’re currently balled up tightly atop his legs.
“You…” Will begins again with a disbelieving laugh, “You have to. You have to know, I’ve been so obvious.” His voice comes out as a sort of croak. It sounds weak and defeated, all the fight having left him.
“Will…” Mike breathes, and he’s pretty sure he’s crying now too, but he feels strangely disconnected from his body, so who really knows, “I–I kissed you because I wanted to.”
Will inhales sharply, but Mike keeps going. He has to, before he loses his nerve.
“I wanted to kiss you, Will, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long now,” his voice cracks on a sob. “And I’m sorry, but I do. I’m, like, completely obsessed with you. I ran away because I thought I ruined everything, I thought, surely you must hate me now, and I couldn’t bear to see you hate me, I just couldn’t.”
Mike breaks off into a wet laugh, he can feel it now, his face drenched in his own tears, “I didn’t mean to kiss you right then, but I wanted to. I kissed you because I couldn't stop myself in time, and…” He takes a deep breath, “And I’m sorry. I’m–”
God, he’s gonna say it, isn’t he?
He shuts his eyes tightly and tilts his head downwards.
“I’m in love with you.
I’m sorry.”
Silence. Or, rather, silence from Will’s end. Mike’s soft sobs echo off the yellow walls like a crude oxymoron.
His fingernails are digging moon-shaped wounds into the palms of his hands, and he’s staring at the skin turning white from pressure. Vaguely, he hears shuffling, the sound of his own name, but he can’t look up. He can’t bear to look at Will right now.
However, Will doesn’t agree. He grabs Mike’s chin between his index finger and his thumb and tips his head up to look at him, and Mike is fairly sure he looks downright pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care when Will is looking at him like that.
“You’re an idiot,” is all Will says before moving forward and kissing him.
If he thought that sad excuse for a kiss yesterday was good, he was sorely mistaken–because this time, Will is kissing him back.
Will’s lips are slightly chapped, and the angle is a bit awkward, but none of that matters, because Will is kissing Mike and it’s good, so good, it’s all he’s ever wanted.
Will pulls back to look at him, and instinctively, Mike follows him, lingering on his lips. He thinks he might have protested, but the only thing he’s aware of is Will.
Will, who is still holding his head in place. He looks at him, his eyes half lidded, and again Mike is sure he looks pitiful, but Will doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him forward; before Mike can register what’s going on, Will is kissing him again, hungrier this time, more desperate.
His hand leaves his chin and slides down, reaching towards the nape of his neck and tangling itself in the hair there. Mike sighs into the other’s mouth, and Will’s hand in his hair tightens and pulls, which results in Mike making an incredibly undignified sound. In doing so, he opens his mouth slightly, and Will jumps at the chance, tentatively licking into his mouth.
Mike’s hands fly up from where they were still balled up into fists on his thighs, coming up to pull Will closer by his neck. One hand slides upwards into his hair, mimicking Will’s actions, and tightens, just a little; just enough for Will to feel it. He groans into the kiss, and Mike swallows the sound, instantly thinking of ways to make him make that sound again, without going too fast for either of their likings.
Will begins pushing at Mike, pushing him further on the bed, and whatever brain cells Mike managed to keep in the past… however long have officially been wiped out, because before he can even fully register what’s going on Will is sitting in his fucking lap, oh god, oh, Jesus–
Mike breaks away to breathe, just for a second, trying to calm himself down. Will is staring down at him.
Scratch whatever he said yesterday about Will looking beautiful sitting next to him and laughing, this image of Will is going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Fading daylight catches in his hair, he’s breathing heavy and his lips are red and raw and he’s pink all over, a blush creeping down beyond the collar of Mike’s sweater, Jesus Christ.
“How–” Mike begins, but his voice cracks. “How are you so–good at this?” He asks, breathless.
Will laughs, and Mike thinks he might be having a religious experience.
“I’m not. I’ve just been in love with you for, like, six years, Mike,” Will says with a smile. “I’ve had more than enough time to imagine this.”
The words ring in Mike’s head, and for a second, he can do nothing except stare. ‘I’ve been in love with you for, like, six years,’ he said, and then, ‘I’ve had more than enough time to imagine this,’ because this is something that he’s pictured, something that he’s wanted, because he’s loved Mike for, like, six years, and what can he do with that information if not kiss him again?
He drags Will closer to him, kissing him again because this is something he can do now, this is something he can have. It’s a flurry of mouths and lips and tongues, of hands roaming over one another's bodies, burying themselves in their hair, and Will slips his hands underneath Mike’s shirt and Mike thinks, obscurely, that he can hear angels singing in the distance.
Will’s hands trail up his chest, and Mike has to break away again to breathe, tipping his head back and exposing the line of his throat. Will latches onto it, kissing down the narrow column and Mike is pretty sure he’s panting like a damn dog at this point, but he doesn’t care. It feels good, better than anything he’s ever felt, and this can’t be wrong, not when it feels like this, like God himself is gracing him. He’s not even religious.
Will finds a sensitive point in Mike’s neck and begins leaving open mouthed kisses on it, something soft and endearingly affectionate, yet hungry and aching for more.
At the action, Mike makes a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and, embarrassingly, a whimper. Will’s hands scratch lightly at his chest and he starts sucking a bruise into it, and Mike is pretty sure he’s lost his mind.
It goes on like that for, probably, far too long. Wandering hands, panting breaths, desperate kisses. They’re completely unaware of the world around them, just them two, locked in their own bubble.
They should have been paying closer attention, though. Maybe then they would have heard the car pulling into the driveway, or the front door opening, the teaspoons clinking in their abandoned cups, or even the heavy footsteps leading towards the door.
They don’t hear any of that.
Not until Hopper, of all people, clears his throat from where he stands in the doorway.
The two of them fly apart with such force it might have opened a wormhole. The boys sit on Will’s bed, eyes wide, chests heaving, hearts racing.
“Wheeler.” Hopper says, completely and utterly unimpressed.
“Hah-Hopper!” Mike croaks back, exacerbated, just for the sake of it.
Hopper sighs loudly, running his hands over his face.
“Can you please,” he begins, muffled by his palms, “stop dating my children?!” He says, and Mike doesn’t respond. Hopper stands there for another few seconds before letting his hands fall, one hand on the doorknob, and turning around to leave.
“Three. Inches.” Is all he says before he leaves, leaving the door slightly ajar. The warning is threat enough to stop their behavior, maybe go pretend to read a comic book or what-have-you.
Mike looks at Will, who’s already looking at him right back. They stay silent for a few seconds before bursting into nervous laughter.
“Well,” Will begins. “That could’ve gone worse.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mike’s brows furrow, but he’s still smiling. “I think he’s ready to kill me.”
“I think he’s been ready to kill you for years now,” Will says, chuckling at Mike’s misfortune.
They laugh together again, and it’s lovely; it’s beautiful, it’s angelic. It’s them.
When the laughter trails off, Mike moves to grab Will’s hand (because he can do that now, he can have that now), and speaks up:
“So…” he starts, but he’s not sure where to go with this, his face is still burning and his lips are still raw. “You’ve loved me for six years?”
“Real smooth,” Will laughs, abashed, and looks down. “Yeah, I mean,” he mutters. “How could I not?”
Mike’s stomach does so many flips, just then. Will says it so earnestly, as if Mike is worth loving. It leaves an ache in his bones.
“I think I’ve loved you since before I knew what it meant,” Mike said, suddenly. “I just didn’t want to admit it. I think…I think I realized it right before you moved to California.”
Will squeezes his hand, and when Mike looks at him, his eyes are glistening in that gorgeous way they do right before he starts crying.
Mike leans over and peppers kisses all over Will’s face, because he can. He kisses away small tears, and Will is laughing into it, and it’s his favourite sound. God, he loves this man.
“We should go on a date,” Will says after a moment. “Like, a proper one. Like real boyfriends do.”
Mike’s face breaks into a wide grin. Boyfriends, he had said. That’s what they are. They’re boyfriends. He’s never been happier to be something before.
“Yeah,” he says, laughing, giddy with it all, “Yeah, we should. Wherever you want.”
Suddenly, here in this moment, holding Will’s hand, Mike isn’t afraid anymore. He doesn’t care what anyone in Hawkins is going to think. He wants to show the world that Will Byers is his boyfriend. Their relationship, their love, is worth everything.
And if he could, Mike would give the world to Will.
Will nods, “I have the perfect place in mind.” He doesn’t tell Mike.
Mike doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t need to be said.