Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 15th, 1988

Sick.

Will is sick.

Well, maybe not quite physically. However, he probably was going to be that too, soon. He felt his back shudder as he pressed it against the door, clutching his hands into white-knuckling fists at his side, trying to calm down his breathing. There was a feeling in his gut, so apprehensive and greedy, tearing at his insides, twisting and turning, making him nauseous.

He could hear hard footsteps smashing against the wooden floor, stumbling around aimlessly, knocking things over every now and again with loud bangs that made Will’s whole body tense and flinch involuntarily as he closed his eyes shut. Below, through the tiny gap between the floor and the door, locked tight, he heard mumbled swears endlessly roll on into his room, making the air only further dense. Will’s heart felt like it was pounding in his throat, begging for any other sign of life other than its inconsistent beating and pumping. The boy, however, no matter how scared, couldn’t move. He was frozen.

Will listened carefully, holding his breath, as his father broke another glass of some heavy alcohol, and judging by the very familiar sound, he smashed this one against the east wall of the living room. Will might just throw up. Thick silence hangs in the air like syrup, dripping from every smeared and ripped wallpaper in the house to the very last room; it was inescapable.

Will tilted his head back, raising his chin in an act of refusal to let the tears escape and glide down his cheek. He pressed his lips into a tight-straight line, forcing himself to take slower breaths through the nose. He spared a tiny glance, once he believed his eyes to be dry, down at the watch on his wrist. 5:15. There was a salty drop of water, which splashed recklessly on the glass of the watch, blurring the top numbers. He was wrong.

His hand tentatively reached for the key and turned it, less than eagerly, grabbing for the knob and twisting it with a quiet and slow push. Any minute now, he thought as he walked in what he hoped passed as a normal pace up to the phone near the hallway. He kept his gaze low on the shiny tip of his black loafers, but he saw his father’s shadow dancing in the corner of his eye to his right. That is not something you can ignore, but rather pretend. Just like Will’s life was none of his business, Will pretended just the same way and he learned that the more distance he put, the more likely he was to avoid situations.

Not like you’re not used to them, he scoffed inaudibly, inside his stormy mind.

The fridge door swung open with a loud creak and the hinges almost broke under the amount of force Lonnie put in the violent pull. His eyes were bloodshot and dark, terrifyingly scanning the almost completely empty glass shelves. Couldn’t they have picked a worse time for a call, Will thinks to himself as he pulls the receiver to his ear, sparing one last cautious gaze to the kitchen. But what do Dustin and Lucas know what it’s like? They have no idea.

His finger pulled the telephone wire with a weak tug and he twisted it nervously around. He wasn’t going to speak first.

“Will? Will, you there?”

Will let out a sigh and tried to block out the noises, of not just tonight, but this haunted, damned house on relatively any other night. As long as Lonnie had the intention to show up home, he would and none of the Byers brothers slept that whole night.

Will realized he’d gone silent for a moment too long and rushed to cough quickly: “Yeah, yeah—I’m here.”

“Sweet,” Dustin happily replied, clicking his tongue after some shuffling, which was probably just the boy switching the receiver from one shoulder to the other. Will’s finger dug into the plastic of the bright yellow microphone. There was a short silence.

“So… we were thinking Friday night, Star Wars marathon,” Lucas posed, cutting to the chase, “What do you say, Will? Dustin’s place.”

Lonnie shouted his name, freezing him to the bone, a chill running down his spine like a long-legged spider. It felt muffled, but even so, Will could tell it was angry, soaked in nothing but pure malice and disgusted. As if the name were poison on his lips.

“Yeah, sure,” Will replied automatically, without even processing what Lucas had said. When the two of his best friends fell into silence, Will blinked a few times and let out a shaky breath, turning his head away from the microphone for a second, “Star Wars again, huh? What is this, the hundredth time?”

The wave of relief that washed over Will as he heard the two of them laugh over the three-way line completely blocked another loud scream of his full name, coming from the living room, a bit closer, yet still distant.

“Maybe,” Dustin said jocularly, the humor heavy in his accent and exaggerated lisp. Will could basically hear Lucas’ grin over the phone as he added, 7 o’clock, precisely on Friday. Will let his fingers press into the sides of the bridge of his nose as he shut his eyes. What day is it today? Wednesday?

“We really haven’t had a good movie night, you know, just the three of us, in a while,” Dustin said sentimentally.

“I guess, no, we haven’t, no,” Will added, his voice coming out more quietly and squeakier than he’d intended it to be.

“Well, let’s bring back the good old times!” Lucas exclaimed, followed by Dustin cheering in a high-pitched wail, and a small tired, but pleased smile crept on Will’s lips. He undid the wire wrapped around his finger and he immediately felt it. He knew the moment he straightened his neck and pulled his head from the ridiculously colored phone box, he was in for trouble. A lot of trouble...

After a bit of silence, Lucas’ voice, suddenly a lot softer, slowly croaked: “Will? All’s good?”

Will hated how worried he sounded. He hated the thought that, whenever they’d speak to him, it was somewhere in the back of their subconscious mind, always, reminding them how fragile Will is. Dustin and Lucas were the most respectful friends Will could have ever asked for. It was not on them. Will just hated how his family life defined him. Always stuck to him, like some permanently attached part of him, sown to his hip and the little, most self-loathing part of his brain.

“Yeah, man, everything’s good,” he replied, with a convincing lie.

“Okay…” Lucas added, skepticism heavily laced in his tone, which made Will cringe involuntarily, “You know you can always t—“

“See you tomorrow at school,” Will cut him off, and dropped the phone in its place hurriedly, hanging up, letting his head hang low for another moment. They knew him so well, yet they knew nothing at the same time. Will loved them, of course, how could he not? Just in these moments, it felt hard to love anyone.

Will turned his back down the hallway, raising a foot to step on the dirty, old carpet and make his way to the second door, his room. Just pay no attention to him. Just ignore him. He’ll leave you alone, his brain was telling him. Will somehow knew those were all lies. His heart was in his throat again, but not because he was scared. But because he knew it was coming, and that made him excited more than anything else. What is there to be cared of?

Just because it is something wrong doesn’t mean I should be afraid.

He let out an exhale, beginning to walk off, cutting his train of thought by the images of movie night and finally some peace and quiet in a friend’s house where he was more welcome and home than in his own.

What? It’s just a fist.

“Tell your mother I need that goddamn money.”

Lonnie’s voice rang at the same time, crushing Will from both sides like an avalanche coming down a steep mountain. He felt his jaw clench as his teeth ground together in a frantic dance. The muscles in his face tensed up, his whole body stiffening and straightening as a wooden plank, before he dared to let out a breath, just as quick as he held the next one trapped in his lungs. It felt like he was endlessly falling through the brisk air, with no ground in sight.

He could feel his father’s burning gaze penetrating holes in the back of his head as he took another step forward, pretending the issue was not behind.

“Tell your mother, I need the fucking money she owes me!” Lonnie repeated more menacingly, gritting out through his teeth before the second part of the sentence, which, after a dramatic pause, he shouted so that Will had to stop in his tracks.

The anger started to bubble in Will’s chest, and slowly rise like the sea level underneath the heating sun, eating up more of the shore with time passing. He felt his ears turn red as he was grasping for control over himself and his voice.

“If you need it so bad, why don’t you tell her that yourself,” he said calmly, trying to make his voice as flat and expressionless as he could muster. He was so sick of airing Lonnie’s dirty laundry.

“What did you just say?” Lonnie asked in a high pitch, clearly indicating he heard him well, and Will couldn’t help the crinkling of the skin on the bridge of his nose in disdain at his stained and ripped wife-beater and black shorts, which were tight in all areas and wetted by some hard beverage that had an almost bleaching effect near the seams.

He knows he shouldn’t talk back. He should swallow this in silence, go to his room, play some music to sit it down and wait for the cycle to repeat in a few days. He knows he shouldn’t poke the bear, intoxicated one at that, but his pride makes his jaw shift quickly. Quicker than fear. Be quicker than fear. That was a motto to live by or die while practicing, Will thought.

“I said,” he accented slightly, shifting to meet his father’s dark, sunken eyes, ”if you need—“

Will was floating.

His feet brushed on the wooden planks on the floor, the tip of his black loafers no longer shiny and clear, as they got scratched by the old material. He was dangling only slightly, still reassuring his weight pressed as hard as he could direct it into his father’s arms, which tightly gripped the collar of his yellow button-up. He felt the two hands twist his shirt, the soft fabric at his collar balling up inside Lonnie’s fists, and yank it toward the man so their noses were only an inch or so apart. Unclipped, dirty fingernails left marks in his neck as his father gave Will a good shake, huffing sticky, alcohol-scented and hot pants of frustration into his face, which remained unreadable and put together. Will had a firm look locked onto his features as he willed all his power to keep gazing wildly into Lonnie’s bloodshot and terrific eyes.

“Listen here, you little bastard,” Lonnie’s voice dropped to a threatening whisper, as the old muscles in his arms flexed at the tension of still choking Will’s collar, never loosening the grip, “don’t you ever talk back to me again, okay? I did not ask for your personal input. Do you hear me?” Will did not flinch.

The panicked part of him wanted to pry the pale hand away from his neck. The seasoned part of Will remembered what happened last time he tried to do that.

“Don’t give me any of your shit. I’m asking one simple thing and I expect you to do it without any attitude. Do you understand?” The relaxed leisure in his tone made Will more uncomfortable than all the shouting he’d done over the years. “I said, do you fucking understand!?” Now he yelled, basically barked so close in proximity to Will’s snub little nose and slammed Will into the wall, his fingers unfolding themselves from his shirt.

His shoulder blades hit the unfinished wallpaper hard, the hurt in this vicious shove enough to send chills of pain down Will’s upper arms. He reels back up, quicker, bearing for another hit on instinct. Luckily for Will, his flickering gaze was met with several seconds of lengthy, unimpressed staring, as his pulse rapidly sped up, beating at the side of a squared jaw.

Just because it is something wrong doesn’t mean I should be afraid.

Will, of course, didn’t even try to offer an answer, because he knew his father didn’t want one. It was all his twisted and sick game. A test. A mockery. Of his own son. He found himself staring everywhere but the madman’s eyes, since he could no longer bear such a task that required him to think of all the times his brother, Joyce, his loving sweet mother, had to look at those same, wild and unhinged, getting off after attacking. He could not think of the pain that surged through his shoulder without thinking about the same reddening skin and convulsing muscles that were the victim of Lonnie, belonged to his family. He focused on the broken and crooked nose bridge, ugly on his father’s face with a long scar running down the side of it, his high cheekbones, the tiny hole in his chin or the chipped tooth he saw peaking beneath his lips, mouth hanging half-open.

He’s not angry with me, Will thinks, and in a saddened way, that brings him some sort of relief. He’s not at all angry. Disrespected. Annoyed. Maybe a little bit irritated. But not angry. Will has seen angry. It’s much uglier than this, and he knows it.

Lonnie stepped back. Will knew how drunk he was, he could smell it, see it in the wild fire in his eyes, he could feel it in the sheer burning temperature of his skin, he could sense it, yet his father did not stumble over his step at all, as he glided past his son and calmly resumed his perfected walk back to his bedroom door. Why would he stumble after all? He is experienced. In fact, drunk Lonnie was even more tolerable than the sober, more violent version of him, because just as he’d predicted, Will heard his father's heavy limbs drop into the bed with a loud squeak coming from the weak matters, and then thick silence once again.

Will stood there for what seemed like a century, shaking, before he reached up and finally straightened the crumbled part od his yellow, plaid button-up with trembling fingers. He hates himself, for a moment, for several reasons, but the most significant being his lack of adjustment.

He wants to get used to this, and part of him is. A big part of him, that no longer notices when he calls himself a slur, that no longer flinches when someone raises a hand, that no longer tries at all, is used to it. But some part of him doesn’t seem to cooperate; some part of him, buried deep down, stuck on the chandelier in his friend’s house, on the pages of some kindergarten graphic novel, behind the screen of a Christmas family movie, knows it’s not right.

In one hideous thought, Will thinks himself lucky. Lucky because he didn’t get hit.

Will is lucky.

Lucky.

November 16th, 1988

The sky was about to come down, the world is ending, Will is sure of it.

That’s how badly it pours in Hawkins. Late falls have always been torrential, before the whole town would get covered in snow and the same branded, colorful Christmas lights, but this was not something Will had seen in a relatively long time.

He lay in his bed, not asleep but not truly awake either, listening to the calming sound of the raindrops rapping against the window above his head, tapping in a rhythmically inconsistent pattern, splashing on the frame in angry sheets. The winds of the storm, in combination with the sound of water dancing to his sides and on the roof above, just perched on the ceiling he was aimlessly staring at, were so loud that they blocked out anything else, filtering through Will’s messy thoughts, which he was infinitely grateful for. His chemistry book lay abandoned on his table, completely vanishing from sight, vanishing from mind as he closed his eyes and gave himself in to the sound of the raging storm.

God, he feels like he is drowning.

Is it the air that’s making it difficult to breathe all of a sudden?

It’s probably the closet, Will thinks lavishly. He sometimes forgets that, too. His head is filled with plans of leaving this place, turning his back on it, moving away, with nothing but a few changes of clothing and just enough savings from his job a the Video Buff, that he sometimes forgets he’s at least a year and a coming out away from that.

He promised himself he would. But just the thought of speaking that aloud makes him utterly ashamed and terrified, but this closet air surely can’t be good for his lungs anymore, can’t it?

Just a little more is what Will Byers kept telling himself. Just a little bit more. But now, in the eye of this rain shower, he felt like he was at his breaking point, as if the tip of the blade was against his throat and the very first drop of blood had begun to trickle down his neck. His head was filled with only the most hopeless thoughts, losing the will to carry on, as he felt that at every corner he would turn, he’d be met with despair. There were so many things going on, yet time seemed to have stopped completely. Will was doing nothing, yet he felt overwhelmed like never before, which even he had to laugh at the absurdity of that and how it made zero sense to his already spinning brain.

Life will be better, but not here.

So get out.

Will drew his gaze away from the ceiling and rolled over in bed, groaning unthankfully.
Get out. Get out.

His mind was practically screaming, itching with desire that he couldn’t seem to relieve, to do just that, simple as it sounds. Will raised his hand to his face, but quickly remembered his watch was now broken, the glass shattered like a white dove, completely not functional. He sighed in frustration and gave up on guessing the time, it can’t be much past eight; it’s not like it mattered.

Will wasn’t exactly the most presentable. He was in the same yellow button-up from yesterday, all wrinkled and worn. His hair was disheveled and uneven, his round bangs probably lopsided, but Will couldn’t care. He grabbed a letterman jacket, pulled his vans from beneath the bed and was ready to just get out in a matter of seconds. The yellow and red letterman jacket didn’t have a hood, Will didn’t have a plan, but he couldn’t bother. Each passing second was another breath he didn’t get to breathe properly.

With a sketchbook stuffed in the inside of the jacket, he climbed out of the window. It was smooth and soundless, done in one swift jump and swoop across the wet frame, mastered legs landing at the conveniently placed large rocks below.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he was indeed going somewhere. And he was out, with the freedom to breathe at least somewhat more believable, out in the empty streets surrounded by the evening sky, the whole world drenched in rain. Just the world and Will.

The muddy, soaked road beneath his feet began to slip and wind away quicker and quicker, his pace picking up imperceptibly, before he even knew it, Will was basically on the verge of a run, speeding down into the night. Rain poured on him endlessly, seeping through his light clothes and into his skin, drenching him and crashing against his hunched-over shoulders. The air wrapped around him like vines, twisting around the bare skin of his ankles and fingers, biting them and making his lips quiver. His blood was hot, boiling, fumed by rage and pure devastation and the world, when no one else would, seemed to listen to Will and give the force in return. Will didn’t seek shelter, a destination, or a friend. He sought out a place to let out a guttural scream. And just as he’d passed Mirkwood, off the road where no sane soul wondered in this whether, he yelped a visceral and exhausted grunt, leaning on a tree trunk, placing a palm to his wet face. He knew he was crying. He doesn’t know when exactly the tears began to flow, since it was pretty hard to tell what were his tears and what was the raging rain on his cheeks, but they were long-awaited. He cried. There might not have been a single reason other than that Will was human. It was the most human sign of life his heart long needed to hear. And with the world keeping him company, he let himself breathe and exhale, cry, until, still unsure what was the rain and what were his tears, he figured he had calmed down and calmly resumed his walk.

Now Will was thinking more clearly. He was headed in the direction of the town. His head still felt light on his shoulder, his mind still a bit absent, his problems still very real, if not even more so, but the rain had, at some point, when Will had lost track of time, begun to slow down until it was only seeping. Will’s grip on his sketchbook never relaxed. His step was now slow and it could be classified that he was roaming around aimlessly.

The rain had stopped. It was late; the night was drawing its curtain over the horizon. He doesn’t want to go home. He can’t go home. Not yet. Anywhere. So he kept walking. He took his headphones, finally dry, perched the cassette on his belt and placed them cautiously on his head. The indie sound of The Cure eased Will’s posture noticeably, and soothed his ears still ringing if he were to shake his head sternly. Now that he had music and a road leading to nowhere, Will finally felt home.

The coin made a weird sound as Will’s frozen fingers dropped it in the payphone. He’d barely hit the right angle to fit the money in; that’s how stiff his slightly blue fingers felt. He leaned into the receiver, reeling his shoulder into the glass box and resting on one leg. He drove the phone closer to his face, closing his eyes, listening to it ring for a long time.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dustin, it’s—“

“Will?” The voice that came from the other end of the phone didn’t sound surprised or shocked, not at all, maybe even the opposite—a little too expecting and a little too knowing. It just sounded worried and sympathetic, already making Will feel bad about it, having to stop himself from counting for what time this exact thing had happened in just this month.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry I’m calling from a payphone… somewhere—I’m somewhere in town,” Will frowned, shifting his weight on the other leg and freeing his shoulder from the wall, “I-I’m not sure where exactly… doesn’t matter.”

“Okay, yeah, I figured it was you.”

There was a silence that followed, where Will was expected to say something, but was simply too tired to do so. Will just hummed into the phone absently.

“Do you know how late it is?” Dustin asked. It wasn’t mad or accusatory; Will knew that. He also knew that he had no idea what time it was.

“No,” he said truthfully, opening his eyes slowly.

“It’s 9:30, Will.”

Has he really been out for that long? He didn’t even realize. He bit the inside of his cheek lightly, waiting for Dustin to add something, but there was no real need for any other comment.

“Do you need me to come pick you up?” Dustin offered, his voice suddenly growing soft and quiet, almost whispering into the line. Will’s gaze flickered on the street outside, the moonless sky and dark cars zooming past the payphone.

“Yeah. Please,” croaked Will in a hoarse voice, nudging his foot into a crack in the pavement where he stood.

Dustin’s reply was instant, because there was no debate in his mind at all, “Okay, Mugly. I’ll be there in like 20ish minutes. You know, I’m not supposed to be out too; I have to wait for Mom to knock out. Wait for me, okay?”

“M-okay,” Will replied. It was routine. Waiting for Dustin and his blue Audi at Mugly. It’s a nice little café that Will knew couldn’t be far away from where he was located right now. Just as Will opened his mouth to thank Dustin for being understanding and an amazing friend, like he always is, Dustin spoke first.

“You didn’t get soaked, did ya?” He asked, not really joking, but with a funny intonation. Will knew he was serious, and he would worry, silently, but in his own way that felt all too personal to Will.

Will thought about it for a second: “No.”

“Good, okay, grab a coffee or something, get warm. I’ll be coming in a minute,” Dustin said, in a strict voice just before Will heard him scrambling on for shoes and tripping sounds around his room over the line, cursing softly under his breath. Will couldn’t help the smile curving at the tips of his lips.

“Hey Dustin,” he called after he felt like the boy had gone away from the receiver.

“Hm?”

“Thank you,” he said meekly, playing with a loose string peeking from underneath the jacket, all yellow and long. Dustin seemed pleased. Anytime, he had replied tenderly. No problem at all. Will liked to believe that. So dry as he would get tonight, he exited the glass box and turned his heel west, uptown, heading to Mugly.

The bright lights of the neon sign came into view before the rest of the pink building did. Will’s socks were still wet by the time he stepped inside the warm café. The walk wasn’t long, yet it felt longer than all the trekking he’d done for the past almost two hours. Will hung the headphones easily around his neck and paused the Journey song that had been playing way too loudly when he fully entered inside. The warmth felt comforting on his cold-bitten cheeks and frozen eyelashes. Mugly was almost completely empty at this hour, there were just a few people scattered in booths on the furthest parts of the relatively big interior, so that nice quietness engulfed Will fully. He sat in one lonely booth near the window he could look out of, placed his sketchbook on the grey marble table, setting his pencil on top of it and letting his shoulder ease into the red velvet cushion behind him.

He suddenly felt really morose. His eyelids took longer to open with each blink, until he could fully see the pitch-black darkness every time he would do so. The café’s lights spun in and out of focus, blikering with Will’s consistent, prolonged blinking.

“Hey, Will!”

Drawing his gaze up, he was able to spot a very familiar barista, standing by him, leaning on his table with a one-sided casual smirk. Her unruly dirty blonde hair was cut by her neck, one side clearly accidentally longer than the other, slightly curly and messy. Her freckled face had a pleasant expression, with only a slight frown in between her neatly plucked, finely shaped light eyebrows, posing a friendly question at his appearance so late on a school night.

Will could recognize her by her red converse only, drawn and written on in black sharpie, the laces the color of Will’s soaked, dirty vans right now. Robin. Robin Buckley was her name. She was older than him, a few years ahead. She went to Hawkins High, however, the year Will had been a freshman, she’d graduated then. She worked here for a long time.

“Um… hello,” he’d closed his sketchbook as she approached, filled with doodles of the slightly crooked tree outside this window, and the marble tables and red chairs, booths from differing perspectives.

“Late-night coffee again? Espresso with milk, no sugar in a small cup?” she flipped her notepad closed, realizing she didn’t need it. “The usual?”

The usual.

Will hoped he remained expressionless at that. The need to contort his face at that comment and the thought that he came in so often like this, late at night all sullen and in need of caffeine, that the worker memorized and knew him and his order, like some regular, eventually won and he concluded that by the way Robin’s expression shifted. He tried not to think too hard about this being a routine of his. He won’t let it be.

“Yeah,” the tired boy made his best attempt to chuckle and straighten out his bangs and make them into the round swoop around his head they usually were best at. “That’s all, thanks.”

He saw Robin lock eyes with his temple and top of the right cheek and he immediately dropped his gaze to his hands, neatly tucked into his lap, staring intensely at his nails. Robin hesitated for a bit before returning her voice to a happy jingle.

“Of course, coming right up in just a minute,” she replied happily and let herself stare into the flushed boy's eyes, with a hint of earthly green near the brown iris, “I like your shirt, by the way,” and with that she turned around without waiting for a reply and Will watched her disappear behind the counter.

He let out a sigh, bringing a tentative hand to the right side of his face. With a soft rub, he inhaled sharply and then let his hand drop lower to hold his chin in place, perching an elbow on the cold table, resting his head in his palm. He put on his headphones and began to absent-mindedly doodle on the smudged, but successfully dry page again.

Someone barged into Mugly. The jutting of the door made Will’s head bob upwards from his doodles. He watched the figure in a black leather jacket, slick and dripping with old rain, stop and examine the terrain, scanning with two hooded eyes around the café. When the boy turned in his direction, Will’s breath hitched stupidly. The boy was so ridiculously handsome and easy-going, so absurdly relaxed, hands in pockets, the silver chain on his ripped jeans nonchalantly swinging, that Will couldn’t help but stare. His grin, which seemed permanently imprinted on his pretty face, screamed that this confident-looking boy owned the world, held it at the tips of his fingers and toyed with it when he wanted to. That was Will’s first impression in those very quick fleeting moments he skimmed over the newcomer’s appearance. The second, more alarming observation came unbidden and struck like a mad, quick flash of lightning.

Damn he is good-looking.

The boy looked around Will’s age, maybe just a bit older, not much than eighteen. His hair was unruly and the color of a squid’s heart, the color of the midnight sky with no stars, the color of Will’s leather-bound sketchbook and his own smooth biker jacket. It was long, the curls twisting around and down his neck in half-dry arches, bouncing above his relaxed shoulders. His bangs were still wet, pressed straight onto his pale forehead. Dark eyes, as mysterious as two coffee beans, flew over each table magically. His freckled face had a certain expression, vague on his sharp features and bone structure. The cheekbones carrying all those star-like soft freckles were placed high on his face and sucked in his cheeks to nonexistence. The boy’s sharp jaw was turned to Will’s as his neck cracked to the side once again. Will was breathless and he was unapologetically staring, soaking in his messy and rugged beauty, mouth hanging softly agape, pencil stuck abandoned between his fingers.

Will found it hard to pull his gaze away when he realized how unsettling this blatant gawking must look like. He caught himself thinking nonsense, how this boy must be so photogenic, how nice it would be if he were half like his brother, to just be able to take a camera and slyly photograph him from afar.

He bit his tongue sharply when his brain, on instinct, called himself a slur. He shouldn’t think things like that, one part of him would say defensively. But he also shouldn’t think things like that about a boy; that’s not normal, another part of him, he was so desperately trying to kill, would jump in just at the right time. He forced his jaw to close tight when, in the midst of having this eternal panic, he realized the strange boy who’d just burst into this café this late at night, was staring right back at him, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he performed a bare-toothed grin for Will.

The sketchbook, Will thinks. Just stare at the sketchbook. He pulls a line, all too shaky, but he realizes it does not make any sense to the beginning of the framework of the ice-cream machine in the corner he had begun sketching, and lets out an exhausted breath. His brain feels like mush and he suddenly can’t remember how to draw, only to think of the way his ears and nose must be bright red.

Someone slips into his booth easily, right across from him, before Will can even dare to look up. He is very skinny, is the first thing Will thinks in a split second before he can remember to panic. Then he, naturally, panics.

To call his frame slim would be an understatement. He was very tall; his limbs were awkwardly long and skinny. Will thought he could wrap an arm easily around the perimeter of his waist, all squished and sunken at the sides. Will doesn’t want to look up. Unsure of himself, he slowly paused his music and brought down the headphones from his ears, as he felt it in the thick air that the boy wanted to speak. Taking one good last look at his wrinkled yellow shirt he flickered his gaze up to the stranger now sitting across from him, leaning on the booth as if it were his own.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, completely unfazed.

Will already regretted ever acknowledging this dark-haired, mysterious person, who invited himself to Will’s depressive late-night coffee. He frowned at his bizarre question, placing two hands in front of him, splayed out on the table.

The boy’s grin was hideously charming, “You were staring, so I assumed—“

“No, no, no, there’s nothing on your face,” Will mumbled, embarrassed, eyes wavering across his features. God, was it that obvious? The boy seemed pleased. Will watched as he swiftly removed his leather jacket and neatly placed it next to him, revealing a deep blue button-up with thin and tiny, tasteful yellow stripes running down his torso and a pin stuck to his chest. Will focused on reading what the black text said, as to avoid his dark, glooming eyes. ‘Jesus loves u’.

“Oh, good,” the smile on his face didn’t hesitate, as he seemed lost in thought for a second before snapping back to reality, serious all of a sudden, “You don’t mind if I sit here, no?”

Will didn’t know how he should reply, but neither did he want to be rude to this complete unknown that did nothing wrong, no harm at all and was, maybe too passively, but alas just trying to be friendly. So he shook his head quickly: “No, it’s fine.”

The boy nodded to himself, his curls jumping happily with the merry bobbing of his head. He closed his eyes for a minute, and Will was staring again, drawn in to this outcast visitor of his, curious in his intentions. It didn’t look like he wanted to mess with Will, so why? Why is he even here?

“Mike Wheeler,” the black haired, cute boy with small dimples, seated across from Will, offered out a skinny and pale hand. Long, cold fingers locked with Will’s hand in a firm shake, and Will saw he wasn’t letting go. Their hands hung in the air over the table between them.

“Will… Will Byers,” he replied tiredly, both of them finally drawing their hands back to themselves. Mike just hummed absently in response. There was a moment when none of them spoke a thing, letting the silence of the café bear on them too. Mike was the first one to begin, looking weirdly over his shoulder. “So… Will—“

“Excuse me,” Robin accented loudly as she approached the table with Will’s usual in her hand, slipping it quietly on the table. “Espresso with milk, no sugar, and a small cup for mister Will.”

Her eyes found their way to the flamboyant Mike Wheeler, comfortably lounging in the booth, smiling back at her warmly and a little bit awkwardly, but keeping Will in his peripheral vision at all times. Robin smacked her lips and pouted them, turning back to Will.

“Anything I could get for your friend here?”

“You don’t happen to sell milkshakes, do you?” Mike asked, leaning forward, so close now Will could count the sprinkled dots on his face and smell the cheap cologne of his, equally wrinkled as Will’s, blue, collared shirt.

Robin flashed her pearly white teeth, “All day and night, sir.”

“Great. I’ll take a vanilla, thank you,” he blinked at her in a friendly manner and Robin scurried off with his order, vanishing somewhere behind the counter once again. Will followed her light step and deeply stained red converse as long as he could, just to avoid looking back at Mike.

By the time he had glanced back, Mike was now the one staring at him, his expression suddenly serious and slightly worrisome. Just the little frown you’d make if you noticed the sky was nesting some greyish clouds while you were still outside. Some minor inconvenience.

But Mike wasn’t looking Will in the eyes. He was examining Will’s right cheek.

“Hey, what’s that?” his voice was so different from the kind of annoying tenor it had been just a minute ago, immediately dropping to a softer tonality.

Will’s stomach made an uncomfortable shift, making him wiggle in his seat. He was brutally aware of the ugly, nasty purple bruise spreading from his temple over his cheekbone, like some sort of colorful wrapping paper. It still hurt and made his vision blurry in the very right corners, if he were to recede his eyes in said direction, and it was still cold and stung sharply to the touch. There were red dots sprinkled, like a rash breaking out over the plum-like top layer of his skin. He knew it was hidden, but it was there. It was always there. Will coughed to cover the thick slime of a lie forming in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, no, it’s nothing, I just—“

The cold sensations of Mike’s fingers on his bruised skin was way less startling than the fact that they were there. Mike, who was still leaned over the table, perched on his elbows on his knees on the red leather seat, took the close proximity to Will to his advantage and seized up to his cheek. It was just a little brush of the strawberry-like, frozen tips of Mike’s fingers, just a mere, tender touch, still respectful but nonetheless horrifyingly sudden for Will.

He was frozen. A lot like when his father would swing, except this time for the complete opposite reasons. Because of how soft Mike’s hand felt, how reassuring and genuine his little burrow came off as. Will stayed speechless, eyes locked onto Mike as he watched the black-haired boy suck in a sympathetic breath and murmur an ouch, as he examined the nasty bruise.

—didn’t get so lucky today.

Will swallowed hard, nipping on the inside of his bottom lip.

“That looks bad. You okay? Does it still hurt?” Mike asked, snapping Will out of his reverie.

“Yeah, I am. It’s okay, it’s fine now,” he said, thankful it wasn’t a full lie, because he wasn’t sure he could muster a convincing charade right now. Mike had pulled his hand back, but remained seated on his knees, like some impatient child at the family gathering.

“What happened?”

Will knew he wasn’t being disrespectful or pushy, just a bit oblivious and clueless, a bit fast-mouthed. He meant the best, but Will knew you couldn’t just step from rags to riches. Not from a pig’s pen to a royal bed. You don’t wish for the best when you have what Will did. So he didn’t even try to settle for a good lie.

“I fell,” he retorted shortly, resting his gaze low to where he saw Mike pull on the long, soft sleeve, navy and deep as the sea. Mike watched intensely, not offering a response at that, just nodding his head too slowly for it to pass by Will. He was just glad he didn’t pry too much into this sore spot on Will’s cheek, both physically and figuratively.

The moment this mess of a conversation passed and Will let his fingers wrap around the warm cup of coffee protectively, letting it burn his hand in a sense of comfort, he realized how dense he felt speaking to a stranger at a café, waiting for Dustin to show up and pick him up. The silence was so evident, like a witness to Will’s wounds, that it was basically tangible. Will tasted it in the top of his mouth with the hot beverage sliding down his tongue, burning it fully, sticking to him stubbornly. The both boys felt something die between them.

“No sleep tonight, huh?” Mike tried with a weak smile and a pleasant chuckle, trying to get Will’s attention, though he saw him look curiously at his sketchbook.

“What?” Will’s confusion was genuine. He bit harder into his lip and ran a lonely finger on the ceramic, white plate where his cup rested.

“The coffee,” Mike’s hand gestured broadly in the air toward Will’s cup.

“Yeah… yeah…” Will shook his head easily, much like Mike’s silver chain, shrugging while trying to subconsciously imitate the nonchalance he saw on Mike’s figure as he watched it enter Mugly. He knew he was still probably stiff and tight; Mike probably thought he had a stick up his ass. He glanced at his coffee. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway.

“What are you drawing?” He really didn’t want to let this conversation die, didn’t he? Will just had to wonder why, though. This all felt odd. Marching in, sitting with him in the booth, asking him all these empty, fake but seemingly friendly questions. What was going on? Will’s eyes felt too tired to try to analyze Mike’s pretty but punchable face and figure this out. Whatever it was, he was going to have to play along.

“Just doodling… you know, things around. Nothing big,” he stuttered over.

“Cool.”

Will looked around the almost empty Mugly once again, and there was no part of him that didn’t hope that Dustin would swing open that door right then and there and wave for Will to come in the car, take him home, reassure him in silence the drive back and leave him on his own. He let out a sigh again.

“Listen, Mike, I don’t know what—“

“One vanilla milkshake for Will’s friend—“ Robin’s perfect timing struck again, as he handed him the sugary dessert in the huge glass straight into his seeking hands.

“Mike.”

“Mike, nice to see you around,” Robin placed her hands on her hips, black-polished nails a stark contrast to the white apron she probably had to wear. “Well, have a nice evening, gentlemen,” She saluted and then her cool, older-sister presence ceased with her once again.

Will pinched his nose bridge and began again, “As I said, Mike, I don’t know what you want from me… or-or what are your intentions, but can you just get it over with, because this is just weird.”

“Weird?” Will hated how honestly hurt he looked, “weird, what do you mean 'weird'?”

“What you just barge into… into some kid’s booth to what, mess with him on a random Thursday night at Mugly. I don’t get it,” Will said truthfully, matter-of-fact.

“I don’t have any intentions or anything like that, relax. I don’t want to mess with you. I just…see, I need—“

A loud bang finally drew Will’s gaze away from Mike’s rabbit-like eyes, and he realized that was the door opening. If that’s Dustin, that was sure quick. Even though he knew the unlikeliness of it, he still hoped it was his friend coming to get him. Will’s eyes, however, narrowed with disappointment quickly as he watched the person over the curly boy’s shoulder come closer and closer to their booth. It was a girl, short and fit, with big hair, and her pace was quick and mad. Will could hear it in the way her heel clanked on the floor, snapping off like hornets, and it was soon his suspicions were confirmed by the smug, angry expression on her face that came into view. Will just had a really bad feeling about this.

Mike never once looked at her, instead, dropping back down to sit normally, he whispered under his breath: “Act casual.” Instead, his fingers naturally scooped up Will’s small coffee cup, and his face winced only slightly at the burning hot ceramic touch, and drove it across the marble stone to the very farthest end of it, as long as his arm stretched out to the window. Will’s face mirrored his confusion as Mike pulled his hands back into his lap and gave him a charming smile.

Lisa. That was her name. Lisa Montgomery. Will knew her from school, and she came into his mind with all the worst associations he could think of. Her puffy hair, curly and jumping as she trotted angrily, was just a symbol of status. The bigger the hair, the bigger the income, it seemed like. She was the daughter of some rich investor in Hawkins, and the face of the cheerleading squad, the perfect tigress and the name that haunted the halls and children like Will, Dustin and Lucas were. She was bigger than everything, over the clouds, god-sent pretty eyes and a ridiculous fashion sense that seemed to rely on stacking as many accessories as her body could carry, layer after layer only getting more hideous, but just like everything Lisa, and the likes of her, seemed to own it easily. Will had a really horrible premonition stuck to the back of his neck, rising with his hairs as she stepped in front of them, completely ignoring Will and turning her fuming, bright-red, flushed face to Mike.

Mike didn’t flinch once in her direction. Instead, he kept a dreamy smile at Will. “So you got that jacket at Hot Topic, you said?”

Will opened his mouth, as if to say something, though he really didn’t know what, then he closed it quickly. He opened it again, but before he could muster to say something, Lisa’s hand banged on the table, her red, long, threatening fingernails sprawling menacingly.

“Michael, darling,” her voice was like venom, sickly-sweet and thin as needles in the face. One hand on her hip, she was dangerously hovering over the boy, shooting daggers with her long, manicured eyelashes.

Darling. Well, that makes a lot of sense, Will thought, and felt his lips curl in disdain, wishing he could just dissipate into thin air and get out of there.

Mike finally brought his gaze up to her, and Will saw the helpless thin line in his cheek suck even further inside of his mouth, until he looked like some child getting scolded by his parents. Will heard, just barely, Mike clicking his tongue as he eyed Lisa up and down, disinterest heavy in his slow manner.

“Listen, Lisa, let’s just—“ Mike said, his voice passive and cold, so unlike what Will had heard a minute or so ago, offering some sort of mutual understanding. Or at least beginning to, since Lisa was quick to snap back, startling Mike, who was growing more subtly tense by the second. It was a tiny movement, so unnoticeable, if you weren’t staring so closely at his face and the small see-through part of his bangs, where you could see his thin eyebrow, you wouldn’t have been able to notice. Of course, Will was.

“No, you listen! You are not breaking up with me. You know why, Michael?”

It took Will a second to realize Lisa was waiting for a response. Mike rolled his eyes visibly to Will.

“No, enlighten me—“ he said, poking the bear, who on closer inspection might have been intoxicated too. Will’s eyes jutted between the two, like watching a fast-paced tennis match.

Will was more startled than Mike when Lisa’s hand flashed and jutted out before his eyes to slap the black-haired boy with a serious hit. His eye had gone wide as Mike’s head and whole body spun in the other direction, layered hair swaying over his face, hiding his expression so that Will couldn’t read what he was thinking. Will felt a wave of shock pass him, as Lisa seemed to show no remorse for hitting her, seemingly ex-boyfriend, right across the left cheek. Mike straightened up, eyes completely unfazed and showing no sort of reaction at all. He pressed one hand to his cheek, which was already growing red by the sharp impact. His hand tentatively cupped the injured spot as he sank back into the booth, like nothing happened. Except it did. And his cheek was already a nasty color.

“Because that doesn’t happen. I don’t get broken up with. Just because you, you—you nobody—a loser like you wants to. You suddenly wake up one day, thinking you have the right, to call me and—“ her disbelief seemed so plausible, she couldn’t even finish her first statement, jumping from one insult to the other, “You were the joke. I took you from that cult club whatever and now you call me… saying nonsense that you--you’re some qu—“

Will’s heart dropped and he held his breath at that, like Lisa Montgomery suddenly had a leash wrapped tightly around his neck, his attention fully hers. This all felt so ridiculous, like middle-school drama. Will was uncomfortable on a deeply new level. The louder Lisa got, the harder he found it to listen to her without feeling his temples burn with soft pain.

Mike’s face had contorted at that, opening his mouth to ease Lisa’s anger and hopefully fix this mess, because he better, Will thought. To his very worst nightmare and complete misfortune, the worst case scenario laughing and mocking Will in his petrified, stunned-looking face, Lisa, stopped by something in her rant, turned to Will and he realized that something was in fact, he.

Her piercing blue eyes looked mad, that drunken flame, which Will was quick to skillfully catch, was roaring at Will. His posture tensed up, wrapping an arm around his torso in a protective manner as if a shield could block words. This was about to be really bad and Will could feel it. He was suddenly glad his left cheek was closest to her, and not his right.

“You,” she hissed with the amount of hatred that would make most people feel disturbed and attacked. Will just looked at her in pure, honest confusion, not yet catching up on what she was implying. He has heard worse.

“You-you-you,” Lisa stuttered over her tongue, searching in Will’s tired eyes for the best insult or slur she could find, but of course she found none. Will has heard worse than whatever she had in mind.

So instead she gave up on words, since they so often failed people like Lisa Montgomery, and she reached for the vanilla milkshake and dumped its contents on Will.

The cold made Will gasp, more than the shock from her actions themselves. The sticky milkshake was quick to seep through his yellow button-up and reach his prickling skin. His mouth still hung open as he watched the shake drip from his body onto the red leather. The freezing sensation sent chills down Will’s whole body, as if ants were running up and down his torso and all over his neck. He hated the feeling of the wetness and the sheer thickness of this dairy product he was now completely drenched in.

Will waited for Mike to say something witty back, to do something, but just like when he’d gotten slapped, he’d watched calmly as Lisa suppressed a shudder as if she were the one attacked and drenched in a frozen milkshake.

“Fuck you, Wheeler. You make me so sick, Michael. So sick,” she basically whispered and turned on her heel, storming out of Mugly, just like she’d entered too.

He couldn’t believe it. Will just couldn’t. This is insanity. He bit on his lip to stop the tears that were announcing it was their time to shine yet again. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t dried his canals fully today, but he was beyond grateful for the fact that he was able to stop them from leaking, here in the middle of Mugly, in front of Mike.

It took him a minute to realize Mike was offering him tissues that were on the table, since he was staring, unmoving, at his vans, unsure of how to proceed with anything. He snatched them from his hands and murmured a frustrated ‘thank you’, and started erratically wiping his shirt. There was not much he could do to help the situation, but he really loved this button-up and wasn’t planning on letting it stain so easily, but he had a bad feeling it would. His skin was still alert, his fingers now getting dirty and sticky as well, as he let huffs of exhaustion leave his lips instead of curses thrown at whomever he could think of, but mostly him own self.

“Better than burning hot coffee, yeah?” after a long, long silence, Mike finally said, breaking the ice half-joking, half-serious, tilting his head toward the cup on the other end of the table.

Will’s gears turned quicker than his mouth and he thought for himself bitterly: how smart of you. Should I thank you?

Worst part was, he probably should. He wasn’t planning on getting burned tonight. Mike Wheeler knew what was going to happen. Will did too probably, the minute her big head of hair found herself in Mugly. The milkshake just hurt.

Will avoided his gaze and ran furiously through more tissues, until he reached the breaking point of his effort and anger and now saddened, dropped back into a dry area of the booth. Mike watched him the entire time, hand still plastered to his cheek.

“It shouldn’t stain,” he said, in that weird soft voice again, “It’s vanilla, it shouldn’t stain.”

Will was too caught up in finally understanding what Lisa had implied, what she thought and what she now thinks she knows, and what that meant for poor Will, to hear him properly. Did she really say that? Did Mike really say that? It all felt like some sick joke; both of them were in, planned to mock a closeted and scared gay kid in high school in today’s cruel world. Will looked at Mike’s sincere black eyes and for some reason, those hot coffee grains gazing back at him looked so honest and lovely, he chose to believe otherwise. He, for some reason insensible and unknown to him, he chose to think Mike had nothing to do with this.

The smoke from the coffee cup had long vanished and grown cold. Will let himself close his eyes.

“I really like that shirt, you know? I’m sorry,” he said, leaving Will without a reply once more.

I really like that cheek, I’m sorry. There was no mockery in Mike’s tone, however friendly he was being, Will just wanted him gone. He just wanted him to shut up, lose his pretty face and cool slick leather jacket and let him be alone in peace with the vanilla milkshake drying to his shirt, which gathered two compliments today funnily enough.

“Yours too,” Will added nonsensically, staring at that odd pin and blue fabric once more.

Mike reached for his sketchbook, determined, and either Will was too slow or too tired to react, he just let him snatch it away from him, wiggling the pen in his fingers. He opened carefully the last page and scribbled something on it in quick succession, closed it with a smack and returned the little book back to Will, with a warm smile. The skin crinkled in the corners of his eyes and he cleared his throat, picking up the leather jacket from his seat.

“As much as I would hate for you to think I’m a jerk… and as much as I would really love to stay, I have to go,” it seemed like Mike didn’t know how to lie, because while the wording was awful, the statement itself sounded insecure and honest to Will, who just sat there moonstruck, still crumbling the used tissues in his hand.

Mike slipped the leather jacket on, reached into its pocket and retreated it with wrinkled money he placed on the table near the coffee. It looked more than enough for the milkshake, about how much the coffee would have cost, too. With that, his back was already to Will.

“I’ll make it up to you, Byers.”

The whole ride home, Dustin and Will were silent. That’s why Will would always call him, not Lucas. Lucas would ask and insist on talking with Will and he knew he couldn’t and didn’t need to in these moments. Lucas meant the best, but Dustin knew. He did, and he didn’t push Will whatsoever. In those car rides, Will felt infinitely thankful for a friend like him in his life.

He’d asked about the shirt, his nose crinkling at the intense smell of the sugary shake; Will had said it was an accident—someone tripped. He wasn’t up for rehearsing what happened inside that café mere minutes ago.

They fell into quietness and Will watched the road zoom past him, headlight’s blinding him as they approached. There really was nothing to say. He gripped the sketchbook to his side; he didn’t yet dare to open it. He just had to get into the house, into his bed and force his mind to shut down so he could forget about all of this. About everything. About how stupidly and embarrassingly queer he felt looking at Mike and how even still, after everything, he found himself with the urge to draw that face, the picture before everything went down still engraved in his mind.

He was insecure and ashamed of the feelings that filled his mind when Michael Wheeler entered the room. And he got a milkshake splashed onto him for it. Dad would be happy to know that, he thinks.

When he finally gets home, thanks Dustin and crawls in through the window, he lets his body hit the bed, not minding how dirt the sheets are going to be. He can worry about that later. Instead, he opened the sketchbook to the very last page and there he saw, in very messy and ugly handwriting, a phone number, which looked legit and:

I’ll make it up to you, Byers, if you let me.
-M

Chapter Text

November 17th, 1988

“So…hey, Will, is everything okay?”

Will knew that Lucas was going to bring it up as soon as the credits rolled. He wasn’t surprised and it didn’t really bother him either that Dustin had brought it up at school that day, in the most casual reply as to why both of them were so sleepy the whole time.

Even this questioning didn’t bother him. It bothered him that he still couldn’t will himself to say or explain it to anyone, since he knew that trying to get someone to understand a storm inside your head would only call back the clouds once again. He just wasn’t in the mood for it. What is there to explain?

I hate my house and my dad and myself because I’m a— Will promised himself no slurs. So he shook his head lightly, scrambling to catch the DVD exiting out of Dustin’s old TV, the Star Wars design scratched and bitten, by Mews most likely. They’ve been through a lot, least to say.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just wanted some fresh air, you know, clear my head a bit… take a walk. Didn’t expect the rain and ended up getting stuck in the town, that’s all,” Will really didn’t want them to worry. He didn’t want anyone worrying about him. Good thing the bruise had begun to mollify, and it wasn’t so obvious that was no accident.

Lucas shot an eyebrow up, watching Will with a keen eye. He made that unhopeful face, as if he had given up explaining something to a child.

“’Kay… but everything is good now? You know you don’t have to, but if you want to talk about it, you always can,” Lucas flashed an honest smile, his white teeth sticking out against his deep dark skin, some worry still remaining in his eyes.

“I know yeah, and I’m thankful, I just really can’t—I mean, there’s nothing to even talk about in the first place. I promise I’m good.”

“It’s not… getting bad again?”

Will flinched at the wording, as if he himself didn’t know there was no better, more polite way to ask that. He glanced between Dustin and Lucas and shook his head negatively, “No, I promise. I haven’t had an… episode… or anything like that,” he added quickly, “in months—in a really long time.”

“Good! We’re glad, Will,” Dustin’s upper lip got caught in his colorful braces, so he’s smile looked as if he laughed after splitting his lips, “And hey, with your SATs you’ll get into that fancy art college in Cali a hundred percent. We just have a little more and you’re out of here. What’s one senior year anyway?”

In school—nothing, at home—hell.

Will cocked his head to the side playfully and pointed to his mouth, signaling to Dustin’s trapped lip, and upon noticing it, Lucas rolled off his lazy bag laughing.

“What?” Dustin said, tearing his skin apart gently from the metal brackets, “I was anyways thinking of piercing my lips,” though he tried very hard to keep a serious face, he failed miserably, and said through a shit-eating grin, “what’s funny? Do you think snake bites would suit me?”

He puckered his mouth, bringing two fingers to his lower lip and Will could hear wheezing from the floor where Lucas, holding onto his stomach for dear life, kept rolling around uncontrollably. And suddenly all three of them were barking airy laughter into the room, giggling like children for no reason until tears of joy stung their eyes.

“Yeah, I think so, totally. Maybe try dying your hair jet black too?” Will added, raking a hand through Dustin’s small, clustered bronze curls.

“No, no I was thinking flaming red. You know, Bowie style,” he replied, whipping a tear with his sleeve, still chuckling loudly.

“Ah, Dusty, you mean like a true tiger. You should join the cheerleading squad!” Lucas barked, head still on the floor, legs perched up above him on the wall underneath a Marvel poster.

Then everyone was losing it again, over the image of Dustin in a little miniskirt, cheerleading with the team Lisa at his side, hair a fiery ginger tone and two black snake bites on his lower lip. The night went on long after the movie had finished, in waves of laughter, random comments, analysis on the last test Mr. Clarke gave and Will was able to forget. Everything for a good while; he felt great. No more Lonnie, no more broken watches and bruises and cute boys with big mouths and mad ex-girlfriends. Just them, his two best friends who cared for him, a tad bit too much, but they let him breathe for once. Will was able to breathe home.

And Dustin was right. He had a point. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to hope for an acceptance letter after he applies to Stanford; he’s been saving money, working, and he felt that just maybe a life was ahead of his somewhere, somewhere far out of this town. Just a bit more. What’s one senior year anyway?

November 25th, 1988

Will Byers was about to call Mike Wheeler.

This was probably a horrible idea, and he knew it, but he did not just spend the last hour debating whether he should, going over all the possibilities, all the little version of the events unfolding, all the reasons he should or should not—he also did not spend the last week thinking about it regularly—for him to give up now.

His fingers ran over the page mystically, like in some sort of trance, tracing along the lines of the written phone number, smudged in thick graphite. He gripped the notebook hard, staring at the little, cursive M at the corner, bracing himself for the stupidity he was about to do. Involving himself with this Michael Wheeler guy cannot be good, yet Will was curious, intrigued, and honest be attracted to this weird guy, who stuck out like a sore thumb.

Jonathan was at school; Lonnie was god knows where, not at home at least; the house was dead quiet. There was one thing left to do. Before swinging the receiver to his ear and slamming the pages shut, the thing that Will thinks is:

Damn, this guy’s got horrible handwriting

And then the ringing started slowly. It echoed exactly five times before someone picked the phone up.

“Wheelers’ residence, how can I help you?” It was a young woman’s voice. So familiar, it made Will’s blood turn cold.

It can’t be, there’s just no way. Maybe it’s all getting to his head, this period of happiness, this little plateau had worn off, and his brain is imagining the worst again. Just minutes ago, if you were to ask him, he could swear he’d recognize that voice immediately, under no circumstances would he flatter, yet know that the possibility of actually hearing it hangs in front of Will he freezes. It’s just not.

Even if it is, you have to say something, he desperately thinks, still stuck on that soothing yet annoyed voice that had spoken on the line. He guessed it was foolish thinking Mike was going to pick up, especially after a week of radio silence.

“Uh, is—um, is Mike home?” He croaked in a hoarse voice, stepping on one foot with the other, that way focusing on keeping balance, not on how much of a fool he was making of himself.

“Yes. Sorry, who’s calling?”

“I’m W-Will… Mike’s friend from school,” he stuttered over his name idiotically, bouncing back as he tripped over his own intertwined feet. The young woman was silent for a bit over the phone, but then he heard her hum ironically through the nose.

“Oh okay...didn't know he had those,” she said, seemingly for herself but loudly and clearly into the phone so that Will could catch it. He didn’t know if he should be insulted by that comment, but his brain was still stuck on the woman’s voice, like a broken record. “Wait a minute, please,” she said to him this time.

Shuffling could be heard as the phone got covered with something and pushed away from the person’s face. Some muffled talking and calling Will couldn’t hear, no matter how hard he pressed the receiver into his cheek, came from a bit more distance. Arguing, bickering, and fighting over the phone all happened in the span of a few seconds, and before Will could be even more haunted by the speaking woman, apparently Mike’s sister, he heard a much more calming voice.

“Hello,” he dragged the word over his tongue like honey, “You have Michael on your service.”

It felt good to hear him. It really did. His squeaky, yet annoyingly pretty voice that hummed quietly through the phone. Will was glad, for reasons far too strange for him, but he was. He closed his eyes, pushed the toes of his right foot into the sock of his left, stretching the fabric as much as he could.

“Hey Mike, it’s—it’s Will… Will Byers. You know, from—“

“Byers, how could I forget,” he announced, suddenly way louder than when he’d just gotten hold of the phone, “I’m glad you called, buddy.”

There it was. That sweet tone. It hit him just as he’d lost hold of the sock with his foot and the rainbow colored sock smacked against his shin gently. Maybe this wasn’t such a stupid idea after all.

“Sorry about my sister and all. If she said anything mean. She’s like that you know,” Mike clicked his tongue disapprovingly, which Will barely heard over the line.
Just like that, the voice was gone.

“Oh, no it’s fine,” Will chose to believe it wasn’t so obvious he was startled by that for a second. He was bringing his cool back into place, his shoulders eased a bit into the wall of unfinished wallpaper.

“Well… what made you want to call now?” he’d asked, manner completely serious, awaiting a reply.

Will shrugged at the empty room, “I don’t know… just remembered it, I guess.”

“Ah, I see,” Mike’s tone was now playful, almost teasing, “good choice, Byers, I’ll tell you that.”

For some reason, some strange, delightful reason, that coaxed a chuckle out of Will even though it was nothing really that funny in the first place. Will just thought so fondly of Mike’s nerdy cockiness and confidence, it made him smile a lot.

“Yeah?”

“A hundred percent.”

The line went quiet for a second, and Will let his eyes wander around the empty wall of the hallway and the visible parts of the living room. He wondered what Mike’s eyes were seeing. Perhaps a nice, big, decorated and well-off living room with dozens of family pictures and childhood art projects. All of which the Byers did not have in a single inch of this house. Not an ounce of love.

“So are you doing anything, like now?” Mike’s voice broke Will’s gazing adventure posing a simple question. It felt hard to answer for Will, however.

“I’m talking to you,” he said blatantly and was surprised when he heard Mike laugh, not even intending on making a joke. The sound was so delightful and sweet on the ears; Will immediately wanted to hear him crackle like that, to relive that short-lived spark of amusement.

“Yeah, dummy,” he said in an affectionate way that made Will stomach flip without his strict permission, “I mean like, what are you doing… let’s say, in the next few hours?”

“In the next few hours,” Will repeated and, without thinking, because there was no need or space for such, no doubt and second thoughts that might ruin all of this, he said “Nothing.” It was a Saturday after all.

“Do you think you could meet me at the theater at Cornwall Street in an hour?”

“Yeah,” Will smiled, pressing his forehead to the wall as if that would help push his curving lips down, “I think I could.”

“Cool. See you then, Will Byers,” if Will wasn’t so sickly dumb-founded by this whole short conversation, maybe he would have caught onto the sheer, subtle excitement Mike couldn’t hide bursting out of his mouth.

“See you soon.”

Will pulled the phone away from his hand, about the hang up slowly when he heard, just barely, Mike speaking up again.

“And hey—bring a blanket.”

Cornwall Street was around the corner, already pulling into the view, signaling it was too late to go back now by the time Will started to be nervous and the longing urge to turn on his heel kicked in. The gray building that rounded on the corner was towering over Will and he knew that he just had to find whatever it was in him that gave him the silly idea of calling Michael Wheeler and the bravery to execute it. He still wasn’t sure what it was, but he had got to put it to use while he still felt its presence lurking in his stomach, which was still slightly in knots.

The rains have finally calmed down in Hawkins. Will reckoned it was going to start snowing heavily in a few days, but there was finally a period of dry peace. The weather was cold and bone-eating, the sky was drenched in a greyness that didn’t seem to go away with the stormy clouds. But at least, with Jonathan’s green jacket he got handed down last year, he wasn’t too cold and at last he was fully dry.

Hands in his pockets, backpack with an old blanket he didn’t care much for and a wallet slung over his shoulders tightly, he made his way around the corner, eye’s deliberately searching for Mike. He saw him before the black-haired, freckled boy’s head was even up.

He was not at all dressed for the outside today. He was way underdressed, just in a mud green grandpa sweater, which dripped off of him like raindrops, visibly too big for him. Underneath, peeking from the neckline, he wore just a regular white shirt with what looked to be a guitar pick necklace, and paired everything with some black pants, which looked like they hadn’t seen an iron in a really long time. He had a small, denim bag too, and upon closer look Will saw load of pins like the one he wore in Mugly, each one with some stupid, bold black text, like God’s favorite, I’m sorry I’m late I didn’t want to be here, I dig graves for a living and so many others with probably even stupider stuff.

Mike’s hair was messily disheveled by the wind; the curls were less intense today, little waves swaying about. He looked even paler in the natural light, and his skinny figure rested on the wall, one leg drawn up on the bricks, arms crossed. His eyes shot up with joy when he saw Will approach and he instantly took a step away from the wall he was leaning on.

“Byers!” He waved his hand from the shoulder, pointing it above his head. Will was filled with happiness the moment he saw him. He looked even more beautiful today, and he confused Will utterly. His whole presence did.

“Hello, Mike,” he said, waving shyly, hand on hip level.

“Glad you made it,” Mike said, throwing a fist in Will’s direction, “You brought that blanket?”

Will nodded in response, turning slightly so that Mike would be able to see his backpack, but Mike wasn’t looking in his direction; instead, his head was already turned up the sky, eyes scanning the building.

“Sweet,” Mike exclaimed softly, smacking his lips and then he looked at Will with fire in those black mirrors, “Are you ready?”

With that he swung one leg on the metal ladder coming down the wall and gripped the sides with both of his hands before Will could even realize what was going on. He was already a foot up above the ground, where Will stayed unmoving, before he asked:

“What are you doing?”

Mike looked over his shoulder down at him. “Making it up to you, like I promised.”

He resumed climbing, one hand calling Will to follow. This is insanity, Will thought for the second time since meeting this strange boy. He couldn’t even see the edge of the building since the setting sun cast its rays over the rim so all Will could see looked as if Mike was climbing up into endless yellow gloom. With a deep breath, a shudder not prepared for heights, Will decided that there was no turning back, gripped the cold metal hard in his sweaty palms and began to climb.

By the time he reached the top, his stomach was sick. Mike had professionally landed on both of his feet, easily shrugging the climb off. Will however, landed on all fours, catching for a hard surface under him and his lost breath. It felt like he climbed a skyscraper and not three stories. Not like three stories weren’t more than enough.

They were up on the roof, city below them, rooftops facing them openly. The chill breeze up high wrapped around Will and moved his hair out of his eyes, nipping on his lips. The flat area stretched underneath their feet, bordered by a low railing, black and the paint almost fully scratched off. Mike demanded he blanket, and Will got the memo and sat it down on the concrete, watching the boy throw himself into a cross-legged sitting position down on the left side, leaving space for his companion. Will sat down too, still keeping his gaze over the railing.

The rustling made his head turn, concluding Mike must be going through his denim bag. He watched the roots of his head and the wavy ends of his hair drop before he threw his shoulders back and took out two beers. Will froze. He recognized the label perfectly. How many times did he have to sweep up shattered glass off the floor with the same red logo? Yes, he knew them perfectly. When in class, in elementary school, he was given an assignment to draw: something that reminds you of your friends, he’d draw the D&D dice, or the sign for the arcade; something that reminds you of yourself, he’d leave that one blank; something that reminds you of your family, he would draw just these logos, from memory without a single mistake. He watched the bottles, uncomfortable by the sight of Mike’s hand leisurely holding onto them by their necks. He was staring, deeply, fighting with his brain and reasoning how stupid and dangerous it would be to take them from this boy’s hands and swing them over the roof.

Great. As if trespassing wasn’t enough.

“What’s wrong, Byers?”

Will shrugged nonchalantly, because at least this was true: “Nothing, you got shitty taste in beer.”

Mike laughed again, and Will felt his cheeks flush a daily pink. What an easy sound. What an easy thing for Mike to do. Will would kill for the freedom of laughter coming so often and so freely as it did to Michael Wheeler.

Will tentatively took the beer, but did not yet take a sip and rested his eyes on the sky again. The sun was about to set. It would be a really pretty sight, sitting here watching it fully dip behind the horizon. After drinking a thirsty amount, Mike made a pleased sound and set it aside, diving into the bag again. Will watched with a curious eye.

“Here, Byers, I got you something.”

Will frowned at that, gawking at Mike’s open hand, in disbelief, convinced he must have heard him wrong. In Mike’s palm rested a little non-traditional watch, brand new and polished.

Seeing his confusion, Mike sprung out an awkward smile and a sentence that didn’t really make sense: “At the café, I saw that—I mean your watch was broken, so I wanted to—I got you, us, these watches,” he turned his other hand around, pushing it out next to the other one, a twin watch to this one strapped to his wrist, “Now we match.”

When Will didn’t move, Mike took Will’s wrist, cradled in between his hands and turning it around, he began to assemble the watch onto his hand. His hands were cold, and his finger quick and precise, he pulled the plastic band, not too tightly but just right. Will didn’t know how to thank him, since this was so unnecessary. He’d never gotten gift like this, if it wasn’t an occasion, like his birthday. No one was ever this nice to him, just because they could be.

He stuttered over his tongue, opening and closing his mind, as Mike’s eyes like a rabbit awaiting any sort of reaction: “I—Mike,” he said breathily, “You didn’t have to—I mean really, why—“

“No, no, no, I wanted to. You need a watch, I need redemption—so we’re good. Really, Byers, I wanted to and you better accept this.”

Will couldn’t even smile at that; he was too busy looking longingly at the little black square watch, identical to the one Mike was wearing. “Thank you, a lot. I really like it.

He didn’t know how to fully show his gratitude, but Mike seemed very pleased with himself and that look really suited him. Will watched his face from the profile, as he swung another sip from the bottle, the pretty curvature of his bones and his long, curved and thin nose, crooked yet still beautiful. He slowly raised his bottle, one eye still on the new watch, and when the bitter taste entered his mouth, he couldn’t stop himself from wincing. The taste was sour, the feeling woozy and the appeal minimal. He closed his eyes. What’s one senior year anyway?

“Is it even legal?” Will asked stupidly, before he managed to bite back his tongue, bringing back the question in his mind from before.

“The roof? I mean technically no, that’s—“

“I mean this—“ he shook his beer glass left and right lightly, avoiding Mike’s gaze and the topic of trespassing on this roof to watch the sun set with a boy he barely even met before.

“Well what’s—wait how old are you, Byers?” Mike asked, suddenly very amused.

“S-seventeen,” Will said, ashamed by nothing in particular but his sole existence.

“Hah, so you’re a baby.”

Will’s face grew bright red at the joking comment, burring his face in the beer he’d barely taken any gulps from. He twisted the elastic band of the watch, regretting ever asking in the first place. The sky was growing orange by each passing second, the sun less visible as they spoke. Time was slipping by in the sweet silence that followed and Will watched the streetlights below them turn on.

“Do you even have a driver’s license?” Mike asked.

“Yes, yes I do,” Will retorted, slightly defensive and offended by the comment, but not really taking it to heart. Mike was twisting the peaking seams of Will’s old blanket absently.

“Well I thought since you are a baby—“

“Oh shut up!” Will knocked a fist lightly into his shoulder, and Mike fell over onto his side exaggeratedly, mimicking as if he were shot by Will.

When he didn’t get up, Will also rested himself on his back, lying parallel to Mike, whose back was now to him, clutching his shoulder, making Will giggle at his determination to play the part.

“Sorry I shot you, man.”

“I would prefer mister or sir, from you,” Mike said, through a hoarse breath as if he were dying. Will rolled his eyes, ignoring him.

“How old even are you?” he asked, suddenly curious, since Mike really did have a really young face, but Will never recalled seeing him around school or anything like that. His innocent face turned over, with a wide, entertained grin, eyes smirking at Will.

“Oh me?” he charmingly smiled even wider, “Seventeen.”

How can such a handsome boy be such a dork?

The sun had set down behind the world, which the two boys on the rooftops were able to see. Lights of the town eliminated the brightness below them, as both of them progressively got more relaxed on that old blanket, lying on it next to each other, talking endlessly. It was still cold, the night was dark and starless, the air thick all around. It was quiet, cars zooming past only now and again. Everything was dipped in a sort of serenity that was beautifully comforting for Will. He hadn’t finished his beer, so Mike had the pleasure of chugging one and a half down with no complaints. His eyes were shiny and delighted and he seemed engaged in the moment to the fullest.

They talked for hours, and Will found it so easy to speak to him. It was nothing deep or serious. Far from it, actually. Mike felt like the completely wrong person for any opening up, let alone the first time they had gotten to properly talk, without getting soaked in milkshakes, that is. But something about the lightweight of their easy-going conversation that blended smoothly from one topic to the other, for one mutual interest (which they had a lot) to the other, was very reassuring for Will. Ghostbusters, similar music tastes, even D&D, they went on and on, and Will hadn’t enjoyed talking and crackling with someone so much in a long time. He genuinely liked this Mike guy. Dorky and funny the way he so naturally was. He was drawn to his green sweater, in which he surely must be freezing, and his sweet dimples. Will hadn’t made a friend, let alone such an affectionate one in a while. Their matching watches danced around as their hands moved around while debating why Star Wars one was better than the second one. It was nice.

And Mike seemed to really enjoy Will’s company too. He would look at him, focused, his gaze still sometimes wandering to his right cheek, smiling absently.

“I’m telling you, you have to listen to it, it’s Bowie’s best work,” Will’s tone was convincing, recalling silently for himself what he was listening to when they met.

“What was it called, Heroes? The album?” Mike’ eyes searched for confirmation, “Okay… I will.”

“Yes, I tell you, you’ll love it.”

Mike seemed to be thinking over a question in his mind; thus, the silence was tangible to Will as he waited for the boy to make up his mind over something. The world was still, a grey contrast to Will’s pink cheeks, as he breathed deeply.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Byers?”

It was a very normal question, yet it felt like an arrow to the chest for Will. He was sure he was making a sour face at the irony of posing such a thing to Will. He remembered the events that took place at Mugly, what Lisa had thought and how unaffected by it Mike had seemed. He remembered his own embarrassment swirling in his stomach.

“No,” he simply said, not looking at Mike.

“Okay, do you have a boyfriend then?” Mike’s eyes were trained on Will, “I don’t judge, you know.”

Will felt his heart sink into his heels. Was it really so obvious? The images and words of Troy, his childhood bully, and the likes of him flashed before him, rang in his ears, echoing the worst thing over and over again. Was it his outfit? Was is the stripes of color on his grey polo shirt; was it too tight? Mike’s comment just made him more depressed and insecure. He looked at the boy, and a thought came unbidden: but that wasn’t homophobic. Immediately, his mind raced back to the option of all of that from a week ago being some sick, cruel, homophobic joke both of them were in on, that he dismissed do quickly. Once again, he found himself staring into Mike’s black eyes, searching for better judgment, bracing himself for whatever strange conversation this strange boy was going to lead them into. He was not going to lie. If there was even a slight chance that Mike might be… different, different like him, he didn’t plan on throwing it away.

“Why—I, no… no I don’t,” Will replied, hoping he sounded casual and not at all stressed about talking so openly about queerness for the first time in his life. It had always been a quiet, bad thought in the back of his brain, something only he was allowed to ever examine. Yet here he was, eyes locked on Mike, playing it cool.

Mike nodded, humming affirmatively in response. Then once again, Will saw his mind searching for the right way to word whatever was jumping at his throat, then as casually as ever, as if Will, him too, probably, wasn’t taught all his life that that was a sin, he asked: “You want to kiss boys?”

Will didn’t know should he be offended. The words boy kisser was a synonym for sinner in his mind and nothing about that felt prideful. He didn’t think he could even say the words out loud, even if he was sure he wanted to, so as best as he could at being playful in this moment, he dodged the question, shooting it right back. “Do you?”

“Of course,” Mike said right off the bat, nonchalantly inspecting his hand, like stating some routine, like it’s so ridiculous that Will even asked. That answer startled him with honest, unknowing confusion.

“But—but Lisa…” he said, posing it as more of a question than a statement.

“What about her?” Mike’s arched one eyebrow comically.

“I—“

“I kiss whoever I want to kiss, Byers. You can kiss anybody as long as they want to kiss you back.”

Will felt dumb. He blinked repeatedly as if that would somehow make the answer appear in front of him in more clarity, spelled out in the sky just for him and his slow-moving gears. He turned on the side since his neck had begun to hurt from the angle he had to bend it to see Mike’s completely serious face. Will’s mind was spinning with what ease he was talking about this. You can kiss anybody as long as they want to kiss you back. Was it really that simple? It sounded so, coming with such confidence from Mike, as if it should be treated with such normality, no difference if you love a person. Well shouldn’t it be? Will didn’t even know that was an option, honest be. Mike still lay down, eyes on him when Will asked quietly as if someone were on the roof:

“So what does—what are you, then?

Mike closed his eyes and grinned sweetly: “A very good kisser.”

And that was that. A mutual understanding stood between them softly, without Will ever having to say anything. You can kiss anybody as long as they want to kiss you back. Will didn’t want to kiss girls, that much he knew, and something about Mike’s manner told him so did he. He braced himself, a little like when he expected another swing of the backhand, but nothing happened. The two boys, different yet so alike to one another, understood something words and labels didn’t and never will.

And Will found another one of who was like him, in a way. Another boy kisser—whoever kisser—whatever it was that Mike was, beyond Will’s knowledge. He smiled.

The longer silence that followed was broken by Mike standing up from the blanket. Will was confused, and he propped himself up on his elbows, sitting in an upright position, watching Mike as he slowly walked and paced on the flat concrete roof. Will cocked his head to the side upon Mike reaching the railing. His back was facing Will, his hair draped over his shoulders loosely. He looked so lost for a moment, fully quiet, standing in a haze-like manner next to the metal bar, head lowered toward the town beneath.

“What do you think would happen if I jump?”

“W-what?”

Mike was quiet for a moment, thinking, his back still to Will: “You think I’d surely die from the fall?”

If Will wasn’t struck by fear to the bone, cold sweat breaking out from the first sudden ridiculous question, he sure was now. Petrified, he crumbled on to stand up as quickly as he could. His knees were weak and trembled slightly when Will leaned his weight on his legs, pushing the first steps forward. He didn’t know whether to run up to Mike, or stay back as if he were some wild animal that needed to be slowly approached with caution and distance. What is this nonsense? And for the third time since meeting this strange boy, he thought: this is insanity.

Mike turned over his shoulder at Will, something weird sparkling in his eyes, a look that spoke in some ancient tongues Will didn’t know how to decipher. They stayed like that, feet, but what felt like, miles apart, both stunned by each other’s actions. After a while, Mike smiled.

He turned back, except this time he leaned over the railing, gripping it in his hands at his hips, swinging his torso out into the sky, feet barely still touching the roof. Will’s blood rushed to his head and froze in place, causing an instant migraine of fear.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen… and others; citizens of Hawkins and alike!” Mike began yelling loudly, in a mock announcer voice, looking down on the street, “Are you prepared for the best, most thrilling show of your lives? Do you sit at home worrying about work and bills? Are you tired of your boring, monotone life? Worry not, my friends! Tonight we will all be free! Free as birds! You just have to fly!”

His hair was in his face, tangling with his long black eyelashes. His voice never once wavered; it was almost manic, overflowing with unreasonable happiness and twisted joy, as if with each word he had to hold back barks of laughter. It was terrifying. He was terrifying. Leaning over the roof like that, as if he was getting ready to push himself off and fly into the deep navy blue sky like drunk Peter Pan, dangling his life on a thin thread, head full of dreams of flying or falling down, both with equal grace.

And then he started to laugh. Will’s eyes grew wide with horror. He had fully stopped functioning. Everything about this was wrong, purely horrifying. As Mike was making his speech, chills trickled down Will’s back and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, goose bumps all over his forearm. He was chained to listening, his jaw jittering because of the cold evening air and shock that engulfed his body whole. He wouldn’t jump, he wouldn’t; he is just joking, making some sick, twisted joke, none of this is serious.

Yet Will’s jaw couldn’t stop shaking, as Mike leaned further out, letting go of the railing to spread both hands out. He stood like crucified, like a child riding his bike without holding the handle for the first time, face lighting up as he yelled, “Oh beautiful Hawkins, go to hell, you cursed, haunted town—“

Will yanked him back as hard as he could, grabbing him by his wrinkled black pants. Will toppled down and Mike followed over, falling hard next to him on the grey concrete. He was struggling to catch his breath, too caught up in the adrenaline to even be angry.

“What are you doing?” Will whispered aggressively, then paused when he realized Mike wasn’t hurt—he was giggling hysterically, “You scared the living shit out of me!”

Mike was sprawled out on the floor, crying tears of joy, pointing a finger at Will.

“You should have seen your face,” he ran a hand through his hair, then when he managed to calm down, touched a finger to his knee, “Damn you pull hard.”

And then when their eyes met, they both just exploded and began laughing like there is no tomorrow. Laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Laughing at the very real aspect of it buried behind the acting. Laughing at Hawkins. Laughing at themselves. Will wasn’t quite sure why, but suddenly everything was so hilarious. What a strange boy, who does even stranger things. Will thought.

“Can you get drunk on one beer?” Will snorted through laughter.

“No, I don’t think so, Byers. If you’re feeling fuzzy, it’s probably because of me, not that shitty beer,” Mike suggested through a grin that made Will smile more than the joke itself, that he didn’t even try to reiterate that he is not worried about himself.

After what seemed like forever, and both of them managed to hold it together and take deep synchronized breaths until they calmed down, Mike was the one to stand up first again. Will’s knees were drawn up to his chest, wrapping his hands around his ankles, perking his ears curiously as Mike started to hum something that sounded like an intro to a song he did not recognize. He still couldn’t place a finger on what it was, though it sounded very familiar.

Mike hopped swiftly on the railing and sat on top of it. He was turned to Will, his legs swinging cheerfully like a kid on the swings, hands on the sides of him, holding on to the metal bar. Mike’s wrists were turned toward Will as well, on eye level for the sitting, freezing boy, and he was able to see beneath the long-sleeved, green woolen jumper what looked like a pack of black bracelets. On one of his hands, like some sort of leather-like tracks running along his wrist, on the other, the thick plastic, black band of the watch. The manic smile never faded from Michael Wheeler’s stupid, pretty face.

“Come here, Will.”

Will stood up with great effort, gazing into Mike’s strange expression. Will. It sounded weird coming from him, especially in that specific, odd voice again. It was as if he ordered it, but said the command in the sweetest poisonous tone he’s ever heard. It made Will want to kiss him and punch all his teeth out of his head, somehow at the same time. Mike’s eyes were glassy, as he never once broke the contact they were maintaining. Will stood in front Mike, setting a hand on his knee, still afraid he would fall.

He only thought about how that may seem when Mike’s eyes broke the fourth wall and glanced toward the place of contact. Will’s mouth, ears reddening with each second, opened and then closed. This time, upon trying again, Mike stopped him.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” Will heard him, of course.

“Can I kiss you?” Will heard him the first and the second time well—really well. His voice was soft and so relaxed, no shame, no worry about Will’s answer, nothing, just bare, naked honesty.

You really can’t get drunk on one beer, can you?

No way, Will thought. He knew what a drunk looked like. That wasn’t Mike. If anything, Mike looked beautiful. His cheeks were stained with a bright pink color, like a shimmer over his face. The crooked bridge of his nose was so close to Will he saw his nostrils flutter calmly as Mike took deep breaths of the cool night air. His expression was serene, reminded him of the depths of the ocean, unmoving, no winds, no boats, just pure nature stern and exquisite. His sharp jaw hung loosely waiting for Will’s response and looking at him, it seemed like he was sleeping, eyes open, sitting upright; he looked peacefully asleep. Mike’s hair was now loose and almost fully flattened out, his bangs all up in his eyes, with a gaping, messy hole in the side, shoved open by rolling on the roof’s surface just moments ago. He looked like a painting, staring right back at a breathless Will.

Will was flustered by the question. Just like before, he had to be joking. He is still in his manic delirium, saying nonsense, playing with Will and his feelings. Maybe indirectly coming out to him was a mistake, but then again, he was just making Will’s expressed wishes come true. Mike’s too, presumably. But he was Mike Wheeler, and he is just Will Byers and they met a week ago at a coffee shop. What was going on is his brain, Will would kill to know...

He pushed down the part of him that wanted to, strangely say yes.

Will smiled in order to bring back the teasing atmosphere they had a minute ago, before Mike’s angelic face grew serious and his puppy eyes seemed to grow in size.

“You’re crazy, Mike.”

“We’ll go crazy together, right?”

And he swung himself back, over the metal bar.

Will let out a small scream, maybe he shouted his name, and maybe it was just a weird animalistic plea. He couldn’t hear it anyway, because it felt like someone shoved his head under water, like a wave pulled him under, clogged his throat and ears, blocking out sound and air coming to him and registering in his brain. Mike disappeared from his sight, he tumbled backwards and Will felt the pressure burst inside his eyes and his heart ceased and stopped for what felt like an eternity, turned to cold stone.

Then, something burst the bubble and forcibly dragged him out of the water, pulling him on the shore with strong hands that called him. Mike’s laughter. It echoed in his ears sweetly, like a memory lost in time, a message in a bottle over the sea traveling on the lonely waves. Except it wasn’t a memory.

Will’s left hand was steaming hot, and he looked down to see it was clutching Mike’s leg for dear life, nails dug into his pants, almost ripping the fabric. Quicker than fear—on instinct, his other hand grabbed Mike’s left leg, so he was sturdily holding the dangling, upside-down boy in place. He pressed himself as close as he could, Mike’s knees digging into his stomach. His heart was pounding, apprehensively, as he stretched his neck out to see Mike, because he wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t see his face.

There he was, knees buckled underneath the railing, squishing the metal bar, back straight against the brick wall. His hair was dangling and swaying with the laughter as he let his arms extend down, as if he were reaching for the city—just a little more he could grab it into his palms. The green sweater had crinkled down, revealing his bare, flat stomach shivering in the cold breeze. Will’s blood pounded inside his ears.

“Get back up, you idiot! You’re insane! Stop and—“

Two skinny pale hands grabbed Will’s unzipped jacket on each side, at the very top near his collar, gripping hard. For a second, a split horrifying second, Will thought the hands were going to pull him down, over the railing and into certain doom. Instead, Mike only used Will’s stone-cold frame as support to yank himself up, drawing Will nearer with the force it took for him to be able to swing his body back up. Mike’s legs rest on either side of Will now, so the floored boy stands between his thighs, stuck in place, as Mike finds his stability on the railing again in the second it takes him to yank Will closer, not wasting the momentum. Still grabbing his collar, head a little dizzy, he kisses Will’s half-open lips.

Will’s mind emptied. He swore the hard, dry press of Mike’s lips was just a sprout of his imagination, just the moment of insanity, making up for the dead body of the boy, broken on the street below when Will failed to catch him. He swore Mike’s ghost was around him, holding his collar and the nape of his neck close to his chilly, nonexistent body. But something about the warm breath that pressed against his face, and the taste of alcohol he suddenly felt in the back of his throat, told him it was very real. He panics. The lips on his without any invitation scream like inflamed. His mind fills up.

Michael Wheeler, the whoever kisser, the strange weirdo without any friends, kissed Will Byers, the boy kisser, the outcast painter repressed because he is different.

Mike let go of Will, throwing his head back to laugh, his pronoun Adam’s apple jumping up and down merrily.

“I-“ Will began to say something, eyes trained on his hands, still on either side of him, atop of Mike’s knees that brushed his hips. He felt like he was suffocating in this position, this close to Mike and this close to that old familiar, exciting, lovely feeling in his stomach. That queer feeling. That sinful feeling.

No—. Will closed his eyes shut, because he wasn’t sure he could look at Mike right now.

Then, before he even opened his mouth again, both of them turned startled by the loud banging on the door that led to the roof, away from them on the other side of the roof. Will was confused, not sure why Mike suddenly leaped off the metal bar and ran to their bags and blanket. He packed the empty beer bottles awkwardly and abandoned the blanket, swinging both of their backpack over his shoulder.

Then it hit Will. Police.

One could not tell they were about to be arrested, judging by Mike’s grin.

“Run, Byers, run!”

And then both of them were hurling toward the ladder, tripping over their feet rhythmically with the sound of the pounding on the door. Will’s breath never came so fast, his legs straining as he climbed down quickly, trying to block out fear and let the adrenaline from before take over.

When his feet clumsily hit the street, he couldn’t move anymore. Mike was already ahead of him. Then the boy, who just kissed him, turned around and grabbed Will’s hand, yanking him to reality, running with soft steps. Their joined hands were the ones with their matching watches, close now, twins reunited as they broke out in an intertwined sprint.

“You are insane!”

“I would prefer genius,” even Mike was panting, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Will’s hand is on his chest, trying to calm his pulse down. They’ve been running for what felt like forever, not looking back, twisting and turning in the most random routes. The dopamine surging through Will’s brain made his vision blurry. He was exhausted.

“My apologies, sir,” Will shot him a look, getting out in between loud pants. Even breathless as he was, Mike laughed wearily.

Neither of them didn’t even realize how late it was. It was fully dark outside, the streets almost empty, the starless night above them. Will trained his eyes on the ground beneath him, feeling a vein pulsing in his temple. That was a workout. He couldn’t believe he almost got arrested, all because of Mike’s little ‘making it up’ to him.

But he couldn’t deny that he did—he did make it up to him. Will’s eyes still wandered over the watch perfectly strapped around his wrist. He crept himself out when he thought: this was fun. For the first time since, well, since exactly one year six months and 19 days, Will felt alive. So alive in fact he wanted to scream. Scream and scream and scream until his lungs went blue.

“I should head back home, now…” Will finally said, after both of them could no longer hear each other’s rapid breathing, “Thank you again. For the watch and everything, I mean, not getting the cops on our tail.”

“A baby’s first, what can I say,” he said, in a mock baby voice, raking his fingers through one side of loose waves, “Hey, no problem Byers…so, when are we doing this again?”

“This?” Will snorted a short laugh, “Never.”

“Okay, message received, how about Mugly, on Monday, six? No mad exes and no cops?” Mike batted his eyelashes, propping a hand on his hip.

Will was pleased with himself, maybe too much. “Sure. Bye, Mike.”

He had begun to turn away when he heard Mike’s voice call after him.

“Did it stain? The shirt?”

“What… oh, no.”

Mike’s dark eyes shot up with joy: “Good.”

“I was out with a friend,” Will explained upon entering the house to a questioning Jonathan. Lonnie was still not back, thankfully enough, “A new friend.”

Jonathan’s brotherly gaze bore into Will’s skull, and the amused curvature of his lips flickered at him.

“And this new friend’s got you smiling like that?” Jonathan raised a skeptical eyebrow up, posing a question without an allowed answer.

“Like what?” Will asked, offended. Did he really have a smile still plastered on his moonstruck face? Did he really look that foolish that Jonathan had to point it out?

“Nothing, nothing. What’s his name?” His voice was oddly soft, even more than usual. Will really loved his brother. And his brother loved him. It was something so simple in the world of complex relationships.

“His name is Mike,” Will was too busy covering up his grin to notice how Jonathan went ahead to assume it was a boy who got Will smiling ‘like that’. Maybe he would have noticed, if he weren’t too busy thinking about the fact that this strange boy, who does even stranger things, and has an even bigger mouth, knows his secret that no one else, not even his loving brother does.

“’Kay, you seem happy, that’s all,” Jonathan shrugged, peeling open a bag of some unhealthy snack, “I’m glad you met him.”

Will chuckled at this, smiling at Jonathan and his warm, caring brown eyes, “I’m still not sure about that.”

Maybe this wasn’t such a stupid idea after all.

Chapter Text

November 29th, 1988

Will had stopped debating whether it was stupid and just accepted the fact that he enjoyed Michael Wheeler’s company more than he ever had anyone else’s.

Since their little adventure on the roof, they’ve hung out multiple more times. At Mugly on Monday, sharing a pleasant chat with Robin, who seemed nervous about a date with someone she was dead set on not naming. Mike kept teasing her about Steve Harrington, whose name was only vaguely familiar to Will from the time he was a freshman, but she would make a gagging face at that, making the two boys crackle. After sticking her tongue out for the third time, Will really had an interesting picture of the guy in his head.

“He dated my sister,” Mike added, more like a mental note to him own self.

“Your sister, you say?” Robin’s voice cracked happily as she waved some impatient customers to wait.

“Yeah, Nancy had a period where she dated only jocks like him.”

So it was Nancy Wheeler. So she was his sister. Will hadn’t broken his vow after all; he had not mistaken or imagined that voice. The clear image of her made him shudder, like it still sometimes did, pulling a string that reminded him of crashing, consequential events. It was weird to think he was her little brother. Nancy Wheeler, how could he ever forget? Like always, upon thinking of her and everything that came along with her name, linked by one horrible mutual afternoon, he was a little sick.

Mike talked about her, for which he wasn't all that glad. Will learned a lot about Mike himself through the way he spoke of the very few people he could call dear in his life. He constantly talked about Edward Munson, or as he would affectionately call him, Eddie. That was another name Will could recall. He was their Dungeon Master, the best Dungeon Master out there, in the whole of America, as he would excitedly say, “oh you would love him, Will, you would!” and so on, about how he saved them all with that little Hellfire club. Saved them all from the town that hated him, for no reason, and so easily Mike would slip into blasphemous talk, before stopping himself to awkwardly smile at Will.

He also learned he was one of the very few people he could call dear in his life.

They hung out another time, near the woods of Mirkwood, since Will had learned Mike didn’t live very far from him. Except, of course, he lived in the area where the big houses, well off with real pavements, and not dirty, walked on roads, led to precious white doors, always freshly painted. So they talked again, about Eddie’s cool guitar, about their new campaign, about how Mike had just listened to Hateful of hollow by The Smiths, very little and briefly about college, Will mentioning his art—Mike begging to see it. He was so laid-back, without a care in the world, always laughing at something, or so it seemed. Will was growing more drawn to him each minute they spent together, teasing each other playfully, Mike’s big mouth running quicker than his brain. Mike was also a giant nerd. Will had assumed, based on multiple justifiable reasons the complete opposite. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. His sense of fashion was all tough acting, but it screamed loser upon further inspection. And Will was quick to notice the way his eyes would light up and his speech would pick up when they would get around to talking about Star Wars or comic books. He was very intelligent and could talk just about anything.

One thing they never talked about was the kiss. Mike was back to his just as flirty self. It seemed like he gave it no thought, whereas Will felt like he was losing sleep over this bizarre, unaddressed action from not even a week ago.

And no matter what, Will always wore his watch. And so it seemed, Mike did too.

“Where are you going?”

Sober Lonnie. Will’s biggest fear. Much more than drunk Lonnie. He knew drunk Lonnie way too well, he learned the simplistic way that man thought under the influence. He was prepared. Sober Lonnie did all sorts of weird things, like trying to hug him and Jonathan on a random Tuesday, and to Will, that was even more terrifying than beer bottles flying in his direction.

He didn’t phrase it foully, but he didn’t say it like he was genuinely interested either or had anything good to comment on Will’s response—if he was even planning on hearing it out, which Will doubted.

“Out with a friend,” Will mumbled, stepping outside and turning to close the front door, but Lonnie held it with a stern, hairy arm. He just wanted to get out before anything uncomfortable happened, but his father’s leg stood in the way of the door and its hinges.

“Where are you going?”

“Since when do you care?” Will bit back.

He genuinely didn’t know. Both since when his father cared—raising an eyebrow, he eyes his dad discreetly—and he also didn’t know where they were going. Mike said he’d pick him up and Will could see the old, rusty car parked in the yard, engine still on. Shit, how late was he? Was Mike waiting long for me? God.

“What?” Now, Lonnie shouted so loud, Will was sure Mike could hear it from the inside of his car. He flinched; his shoulders tensed up to his ears and shook back down unsteadily. He hated loud noises. Always had. Since he was young. They made him want to shrivel down into dust and perish, get taken away with the wind. At least his father wasn’t slurring words now. Will knew better than to answer. He kept thinking about how Mike can see them, staring at them through the dark windshield, watching intently, picking up on the unsettling tones of the scene. He hates that he has to see this.

“I asked you where you are going. Answer me.” Lonnie gritted out the last part through clenched teeth, still louder than Will could take it so easily.

“I—“ he swallowed hard, “I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“You don’t know where you’re going?” His father barked in response, sneering with eagle-like eyes down at his short son, hovering over him.

“No—no, he—“

His father scoffed, clicking his tongue, “Of course it’s a boy.” The slur that followed came out of nowhere. It came out of nowhere, completely invited and expected. It was only natural. Like a vampire. It needs to be specifically invited to enter, but when it does, it sinks its poisonous fangs into Will’s neck and breaks him. Not that he’s not used to the bite.

“Don’t let me tell your mother you’re doing drugs around with some other faggot and whatnot? So don’t piss me off,” he raised his voice again, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder a little too roughly, gripping him forward forcefully. “Understood?”

He didn’t drink. Will could smell sobriety in his hot breath, heavy on his face, nothing much—just bad hygiene and junk food. He closed his eyes at the yell, waited for it to pass, before nodding along. Mike can see all of it. He hates himself. He hates everything about this. When his father slammed the door in front of his nose, he stayed like that for a long moment. It had begun raining and Will didn’t even notice it. He was still on the porch, unmoving, watching the door, back facing the deserted yard, not ready to meet Mike. His head was spinning through all the angles of what this must’ve looked like. His head was spinning through all the unexplained bruises he didn’t have a way of hiding. His head was spinning through all the ways he looked pathetic like this. Will Byers was sick.

He turned around when he felt his body go stiff and, completely not being in a state clear enough to care, stepped out in the rain in nothing but a sweater with no hood. The drops were familiar on his skin and welcomed themselves into his clothing easily. He stared at the car with narrowed eyes, trying to make out Mike’s silhouette in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t see anything through the thick sheets of rain in front of him, beating down on the muddy ground. He took long, cold breaths that stung his nose as he moved like detached from his body, swinging like he was drunk this time in this exchange with his, for once, sober father. It’s all relative anyway. By now, he had become too numb to care.

So when he reached the door to the passenger side, he was more shaken up by the seeing eyes of Michael Wheeler than the slam of the door grazing his big, lying nose. The dark-haired boy was watching him closely. Will lowered himself into the car, biting his lip to stop it from trembling and pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. No one said a word. Will begged silently for him to just begin speaking. Instead, the broken radio hushed quietly and the two boys, eyes never having met, sat with their heads leaning on the leather seats. Just don’t cry. Boys don’t cry.

“So, where are we going?” Mike asked, unfazed after having evaluated the situation.

Will turned to face him, now watching him with equal curiosity Mike had for him a second ago. And he realized it a bit slower than he should have, but god, Michael Wheeler was a saint, because the last thing that Will wanted was to talk about this now.

“Anywhere. Drive us anywhere.”

“Got it, sir.” Mike nodded and pushed the car into drive in a swift movement and started pulling out of that damned backyard as the rain rapped on the roof above them, making shallow sounds and hitting like little grenades. They must be pretty big drops. It’s been raining a lot lately. Cold showers over Hawkins for days never seemed to recede.

Will was infinitely relieved that he was finally with Mike again. And even more so, how understanding the boy was. The mind must be pretty easy to read, for everyone but Will, it seemed like. He smirked to himself, watching the road wind out of the window. Mike’s hair was so pretty that day. All curled from the rain, naturally falling all over in an intentionally messy way.

“So Byers, I finally listened to Heroes,” he said, fingers tapping on the wheel rhythmically.

“Oh. And?”

“I admit it. You were right. It’s great. Like really, really good.”

“Is this real,” Will giggled lightly, “Did Mike Wheeler just say I was right and he wasn’t for once?”

The boy’s shoulders were easy to brush it off as he grinned. “You got me there. You really do know your music.”

That might have been the best compliment Will ever received. No, it surely was. Music has always been a way for him to deal with everything, shut the world out, control his spinning mind and let something consume him fully. It was a friend he always had, even when he was friendless. The most beautiful thing, Will was sure.

“Thank you,” he couldn’t even joke about it and just thanked him genuinely. He wasn’t in the mood all that much.

“No, I’m serious. I don’t know why I just singled Bowie's later stuff out like that. It was cruel of me, right? The singing is amazing. I mean, I really loved listening to all of it. Here in the car. I would play some now, but…” he signaled to the broken radio and winked at Will. How is he like this? Eased Will so quickly. Severed his mind from the pain. Made him forget all of what had just happened.

“It’s fine. It’s not like I don’t know the whole album by heart,” he said, finally trying his best to crack an honest smile at the boy driving them who knows where. Mike laughed like the wind and the pouring rain, flooding Will and welcoming itself into his clothing and space like the plague.

“You know, title track, yeah?” Will nodded, and Mike drew his eyes to the road, “The song really reminds me of you.”

Well, that’s something. It was the sappiest, most romantic and dramatic song on the album. Will knew that. His face flushed a bit and he thought about it for a second before concluding; it’s just Mike. Why should he be scared of Mike? He decides to take the compliment, cupping his hands in his lap to try and warm up his seeping body.

“Thanks, I guess…” he said, unsure. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Of course. Eddie would love it too.”

“I bet,” Will said. He would. Who wouldn’t really? Only Mike’s stubborn prejudice, evidently.

Mike smiled, tilting his head to the side, not having looked at Will, he said dreamily, “I want to play for you.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah,” he said with that nonchalance that seemed to make everything he says so weightless. “You never heard me play. I’m a real rocker, Byers.”

Will’s face grew red again, without any control. “Yeah, I guess I haven’t.”

“Oh, I’m irresistible on the guitar. Just you wait. That’s how I pulled Lisa Monogamy, you know?” he said jocularly, sticking his tongue out like a child and Will couldn’t help the burst of laughter that escaped his lungs like the sun slips away from the moon, and he just couldn’t stop.

“What?” Mike said, in mock-defensiveness. “I’m serious. What’s so funny?”

“God, you’re really proud of that, aren’t you?”

His teeth flashed when the passing fast block of light from the street lamp outside hit his wide grin. “The proudest.”

“And she dumped you, I assume, when she heard you speak?” Will nudged his side gently, cautious of his driving ability when he was acting his cocky little part, having to be sure Will was crackling like a child by the time they stopped driving.

“Rude!” he said. A pause. “Yes.”

Mike Wheeler made Will forget everything. Not just what had happened, but he shut the world out completely, cleared his spinning head, severed the pain off. A friend like music. A melody like the sappiest, most romantic, dramatic song on an album. And his laughter was music. He was music.

They were parked in the dark, the humming radio had gone completely dead and they were resting, legs perched on the dashboard and watching the rain continue to shower. Will didn’t know where they were. Still. He had an idea; but he couldn't get back if he had to on his own. But that wasn’t a worry anymore. He had Mike. He would drive him back every time. A comfortable silence sat between them, after they had finished another one of their pleasant surface talks, laughing over something incredulous that Mike would narrate with the most immersive experience. The quiet was broken by Mike after a while, his voice announcing the shift in the thick, dim air of the low-lit car.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The wind answered aggressively instead of Will. The needle dropping rang in Will’s ears. His stomach flipped. He felt vague, long-buried anger shifting in its grave. The cemetery was cold even though Will had dried fully in Mike’s car and the close proximity to the boy.

Mike’s hand was hanging out of the window, holding a cigarette; Will was pretty sure he hadn’t seen him take a single drag, though. He gazed at the raindrops popping and jumping on Mike’s forearm, the sleeve of his rugged fleece for some reason not rolled up, but soaking in the light rain. The sound of the fire being put out sizzled quietly. Will sighed.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said lamely.

“’Course there isn’t. Your dad’s an asshole.” Mike replied bluntly, pulling his arm back inside and flicking the wet cigarette over the dashboard, somewhere for him to find in a few days, forgotten and soaked.

“Yeah…. he is,” Will agreed quickly, desperate for a topic change.

“I just need you to know that that’s not your fault. You know that, right?”

Will didn’t answer, just gazed at the darkness outside, knowing if he were to turn, Mike’s pretty eyes would be waiting for him softly. He was not sure he could take it.

“You are way stronger than that sorry ass of a man.”

Will snorted through his nose, not being able to hold back fast enough. “That’s not a high bargain.”

Now Mike was the one to laugh in the same odd manner, lips drawn apart heavily on one side as he snuggled lower in the seat, back completely bent in an atrocious position. “It takes a strong man to ruin a life. Even more so when it’s his own.”

“Yeah… I guess. I just hate being at home most of the time.” Will said. It was detached from all emotion and anything personal, but it was only the truth. And while Will had gotten terribly good at lying as of late, it felt easier to state the grey somehow, meet the two sides of his oversharing in the middle.

“I know. I understand you. Home life sucks. Some parents really shouldn’t have kids.”

“Hey,” recognizing some plain projecting in the meery jingle of Mike's earnest voice, Will mustered up to add, “then you wouldn’t have been born.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

Huh?

“I’m joking, Byers.”

You didn’t laugh.

Will bit his lip. Before he could think any better, he whispered hoarsely: “I know that. I can take it, I mean. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.”

He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it was too late to take it back now. Maybe he was dying to say it to someone, out loud, make his dreads real by wording them in one shaking sentence all along. But he felt safe with Mike, for some warm reason. There was no denying what they both saw, knew. Words matter the least. Simple conformations, formalities, unnecessary. When you know, you know. Sentences are only there to confirm a gut feeling, to validate a fear, a yearn, but they will never be the cause. What is, is.

Suddenly, Mike dropped the part, crumbled the paper with his lines and a furrow gently creased in between his eyebrows; the curtains drew, lights out. He sat up straighter in his seat, letting his legs fall off the dashboard dramatically. He shot up from his seat, one eye still trained on Will as he grabbed the broken radio in his hands quickly and fumbled for the door. He was holding the broken plastic box, with all the wires poking and ripped out, relentlessly, swinging it like it was a torch in a pitch-black cave. Will watched him curiously, confused with no given explanation, already regretting what he’d said, because Mike was leaving out of the car.

He swung the door open and, without a care in the world, stepped out into the prickling rain. His bangs immediately glued down to his forehead. He was turned over to Will, leaning so he was still eye-to-eye, holding the radio box to his chest.

“I’m sick of this useless thing. One day it doesn’t work and then it does out of nowhere once in like forever and it’s just there, taking space in my trusty car and I mean, what good is it?” he began explaining calmly, like what he was doing was perfectly normal.

“Mike, what are you doing?”

“Getting rid of things that don’t need to be there,” he looked at Will like he was the insane one. “I’m stronger than this radio box right. You say, I could just swing it over this fence over there?”

“What? Mike, just stop acting ridiculous—“

Before Will could even say anything, Mike was up and his back was turned to Will. He stood up and started spinning in the rain. His converse were getting ruined in the mud, brown and stained, the shoelaces wet all the way. He turned his head up to the sky, dark and twisted, as a thick blanket in an endless lack of any stars tonight. There was no moon visible. His pale skin was a drastic contrast against the dark canvas and Will had a strong urge to paint this scene. Mike, head up, neck exposed out to the cold breeze and sharp rain, jumping around, yawping like he’d won a lottery ticket, with the broken radio box.

Will couldn’t help but begin to laugh. Out of confusion and misery and joy and the absurdity of being here. Mike could not hear him calling his name. It was like he came to life by the touch of Mother Nature on him, by the insanity that roamed over his whole body as he lived like grace. Out there. In the rain.

He stopped so suddenly, Will worried he had hurt himself somehow. But he just turned to the car, and even though Will could not see his face clearly in the dim night air separating them, he was pretty sure Mike was smiling at him.

“We all hurt. Make it monumental. Make it epic.”

And then he turned around and wildly swung the radio box into the air as hard as he could, letting it fly over the black background, fading away with the faint whistling sound of the wind hollowing in the night, alongside Mike’s heavy pants and the lingering presence of his words.

When Will got home, he had the same lyrics stuck in his head, spinning and turning around the gears of his overthinking brain. He closed his eye and listened, as the sleepless night stretched on, thinking if he focused hard enough, he could still hear the whistling of the wind and the radio box still hurling in the air.

'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact,
Yes, we're lovers, and that is that,
Though nothing, will keep us together,
We could steal time, just for one day,
We can be heroes, for ever and ever.*

Chapter Text

November 30th, 1988

“Arcade tonight? Remember bringing back good old times for the seniors?” Dustin placed his wonky cap on the top of his head, loudly announcing, walking in front of Lucas and Will. Will hadn’t even realized just how much he’d grown until about now, watching over Dustin’s head easily down the hallway. He seldom saw Mike around here, but his eyes always searched for someone else in this damned school.

“Sure, it’s been way too long,” Will agreed, picking his pace up to fall into step with Dustin, who was hurrying somewhere.

“Do you still think that ginger girl has the highest score on Space Invaders?” wondered Lucas out loud, what everyone was thinking.

“I guess we’ll find out tonight,” Dustin smirked, eyes flying between his best friends at his sides.

Will realized where they were speeding to so urgently. The AV club. Mr. Clarke wanted to talk with them about setting up special lights for prom and to see if they were interested, because they would have to start preparing early next semester. The lockers zoomed past them, people headed about their own business, slowly, taking advantage of the longer break, while the three freaks power walked through the white hallways.

“Where were you yesterday? Jonathan picked up, said you were out with someone?”

Dustin gasped exaggeratedly, making a shocked face and wailing like an owl at Lucas’ question: “Will! Is there someone we don’t know about? What girl have you been skipping off with?”

At this teasing, he rolled his eyes, masking the panic inside his chest. Of course, they would expect him to see a girl around now, that’s only normal. Only Will wasn’t. It’s not like Mike is his date either; that kiss was just a joke, as much as everything Mike did on that railing, surely must be.

Lucas wooed, cupping his mouth with both of his hands, waiting for Will to kick him in the shin, which the boy respectfully did.

“It’s just a friend. I met him at Mugly; it’s a funny story. Just by accident, but he’s really funny and we hung out for a bit, and yeah.”

Dustin nodded, waiting for a name or anything else and Will shifted his school bag around.

“His name is Mike,” he said, after a bit of hesitation.

“Mike—“

“Wheeler.” Why did that feel so bad to say?

Lucas stopped dead in his tracks, grabbing Dustin by the shoulder, even though they were about to reach the AV club, the door visible over the heads of passing students. His frown concerned Will, probably far more than it should have.

“Wheeler? Nancy Wheeler’s brother Wheeler? That Wheeler?” he asked, suddenly dropping his voice, turning Dustin’s petite figure around with one basketball-strong arm.

Will’s hand found its way to his neck, licking his lips nervously: “Yeah, I guess.”

“Doesn’t he go with Dustin in Science two? Mrs. Rose’s class?”

It took Dustin a second before his face twisted with a notion, “Yeah, yeah, that quiet, friendless guy with the black hair in his face? Nerdy looking, ripped jeans, always glaring at people? Misses like half of the classes?”

Will nodded, face souring at that weirdly accurate description.

“He kind of always looks like he’s on the run from the police, honestly.”

“Well, he almost did get us arrested.”

“What!” Lucas exclaimed, his shock plausible.

“Excuse you! Talk, Will, I need to hear this shit, this is gold,” Dustin rubbed his hands together.

“No, no after we talk to Mr. Clarke,” Will replied, hurrying past them, “I swear, but it’s a long story.”

When they had talked with Mr. Clarke, they had spent the whole break between the second period doing so Will waited till the third to talk over what happened on Saturday. His best friends seemed overeager to hear something that felt so strongly out of character for Will and to learn more about this strange guy that befriended their Will. He went over everything, not including parts like the kiss and anything more intimate about their conversations, except the general synopsis and what happened when the cops came. He’d said they were talking loudly, nothing about Mike’s horrifying desire to grow wings and fly, and that’s why cops came banging on the door and they broke out running for half a mile without stopping.

Lucas and Dustin listened, engaged, wide eyes stuck on Will. William Byers, scared of touch, people, head full of the past, struggling to have fun and live normally anymore, was giggling in front of their eyes about running from the police with a stranger.

“Damn, what a guy. Splashes you with a freezing milkshake and then makes you run a marathon. Those are some low friend standards, Will. Have we really gotten that boring?” Dustin’s voice was humorous, and he did succeed in making Will and Lucas chuckle and join in, but Will could feel something personal behind it.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be ridiculous, of course not, he’s just… I don’t know. He’s great, he’s very fun to be around. I like talking to him… and—and I think you guys would too.”

“He sounds like hellfire,” it was Dustin who let out a long breath, saying this is insane even for him, as if that bar was high at all.

“We gotta meet him sometime, he’s piqued my interest, I must say,” Lucas played his skeptical part well, crossing two arms over his chest.

“As long as he doesn’t steal our good Will Byers from us, right Willy?” Dustin elbowed Will in the side, winking. Will was glad to conclude his friends were really happy for him after all. This was progress for him. A year ago, he’d never imagined he’d ever be able to speak to anyone new ever again, let alone kiss that person and not retch.

“I promise, he won’t,” he made a pause to look both of his friends in their entertained eyes, “Arcade still on tonight?”

Man, they really haven’t done this in a long time.

Will was standing behind the seat, next to Lucas, who gripped the other shoulder of some black linen hard in anticipation. Dustin was currently sitting in it, playing Space Invaders while shouting all sorts of curses out loud. Will’s eyes followed the flashing game with a smirk. He always likes watching other play more than doing so himself. A wave of nostalgia surged through him. He was a bit tired and the need to cave into his room and be alone was getting stronger, indicating he was at his limit. But the Palace’s surroundings allowed him to relax, ease the tension in his shoulders, and be present with half a mind, as his fiends fought over the tickets.

Time was always somehow faster in Hawkins. Will concluded that, looking back on these times as an adult. It seemed like the town was actively trying to push everyone out of itself, as far away, turn them into sullen, half depressed adults and chase them into bigger cities. Will fell victim to that, too. Time flew. Sunsets, nights at the Palace, senior years, all of that would pass and it passed. All of it would end.

If anyone knew memories and flashbacks, it was Will.

And he remembers this very night clearly for a reason that probably makes sense to only Will Byers and perhaps the party that made it unforgettable itself, Michael Wheeler.

“Hey, Will! Can you please go buy me some more tickets? I need to beat MADMAX; I’m so goddamn close!” Dustin asked at some point, not snapping his eyes away from the machine’s screen.

“Sure. How many do you want?”

“Uh… like the sixteen pack.”

“Right, be right back,” Will took Dustin’s money, just enough for that sixteen deal and headed through the wave of running children back to the counter.

The smell of the Palace and the feel of stepping on the colorfully patterned carpet made him calm. The sound of lasers mixed with loud, cheerful voices, while overwhelming, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t trapped in the bubble of his own head after all. He held onto the feeling of the child, innocently in him still, beginning Will to come back to simpler times; to the Palace, to Mirkwood, to dreamless nights, to the Should I Stay or Should I Go cassette he abandoned. It made him warm, like the lingering flames of a fireplace, burning softly.

No one was at the counter as Will approached, Dustin’s money curled in his hand. He glanced one more time at the heads of his friends peeking somewhere between the machines and slots, still fully immersed in the game. Will placed two hands on the black, smooth countertop, waiting for an employee to notice him. He heard some shuffling coming from below, saw some commotion underneath the surface, someone in a uniform bent over so Will couldn’t see them at all.

“In a second—ow!” The person yelped childishly, as they hit their head, trying to wiggle out from the hollow area below the counter. Will knew that voice. He knew it well.

“Mike?” he laughed, astonished.

The pleasant surprise coming from Will was met with jarring confusion striking Mike’s face for a moment. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, before all color rushed quickly to his cheeks.

“Byers? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here with some friends. You know, Dustin and Lucas,” he gestured broadly behind him, “we used to—wait you work here? How come I’ve never seen you before?”

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” Mike inquired, a grin easily curling his lips.

“I—yeah, I don’t know, we used to come here all the time, but I guess it’s been a minute, maybe—wait, how long have you been working here?”

Mike frowned, leaning on the counter as his eyes raked over the ceiling. “A little less than a year and a half.”

Ah, that makes sense then.

“Man, it has been long,” is what he says instead, pulling his mind away from the time he’d spent locked in his room for days, unable to leave and face the world. He forced an airy chuckle, dropping his eyes to Mike’s hands.

He was wearing their matching watches, just like Will was, still wrapped to his wrist. On his other hand, those bracelets and black leather straps remained still, densely unmoving. It made Will smile, lowering his gaze even more until he met the floor, just to make sure he still had his footing. For a second, it felt like he was beginning to lift off the ground.

“You need tickets?”

“Yeah, yeah… I need to get the—the,” he cut himself off. He really couldn’t remember what Dustin had just said. He bit his lower lip hard, pressing a thumb to the side of his other wrist, snapping himself out of being a horrible friend. It was as if he heard it, but his brain had not been able to register it. In fact, he had no idea what they were even talking about. And what game had they been playing before Space Invaders? Why did it all seem so foggy? Suddenly, Will was tired again; not physically per se, but mentally, his mind felt like it couldn’t keep going. It was time to shut off, lock himself alone in his room with his headphones, block out reality fully, since Will really sensed that living would be too much more to do right now, memory all messed up and mind hazy.

“I-I think he said—what are you doing?”

A pack of fifty tickets plopped down in front of Will on the counter with a shallow sound. Mike had no expression on his face that would give away any hint of a joke or even a god-complex driven gesture. He calmly slid the bag across the black plastic.

“On the house, just for you, Byers.”

“Hey, no, you don’t have to—I mean, I don’t have that much with me right now—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike’s neck bent to the side, like he was confused by Will’s reasonable reactions.

“But—but that costs, like, —“

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike repeated, having refused Will’s second attempt at a protest once again, face completely serious, lacking in any smile or cockiness whatsoever. And sure, Will paid for their drinks at Mugly on Monday, the second time they went there, only after fighting with Mike for ten minutes, but that was still nowhere near enough to repay for how much he spent of his own money on the watches. Now this?

As if reading Will’s thoughts, Mike added to reassure him lightly, this time around smiling warmly: “It’s not my money anyway.”

“I—thank you. Dustin will appreciate it. He’s been at it for hours,” Will took the bag in unsure hands, trying not to worry about Mike getting in trouble because of him.

“Yeah, good luck beating MADMAX,” he scoffed, running a hand over his bangs, making Will awkwardly aware of their height difference. Today, his hair was even curlier than usual, all clustered and puffy. It looked untamed, however.

Will only snorted at that comment, following Mike’s eyes after his eyebrows invited him to do so, rising high. He was looking over at another girl who worked here with red hair, the color of a ripe grapefruit, talking loudly to a smaller, shorter brunette girl with a bob. She had a pretty nose and a daring profile, all freckled and mysterious. She stood out, long hair popping like fireworks on the 4th of July, and Will’s first impression of her reminded him of what he thought when he first saw Mike. Just way less… extreme.

“Yeah…well, I guess I’ll see you around, Mike—“

“Wait, I—we’ll take a, like a smoke break or something in like five minutes. Would you join us, just outside? For a few minutes, I won’t take much of your time.”

Will let the smile on his face hang around for too long. He is here with Dustin and Lucas, but if it is just a few minutes, he’d love to spend it with Mike. Just a chat, there’s no harm. Mike’s as dear to Will as both of them were, though he wouldn’t have wanted to admit it then and there.

“Okay, I’ll join you. Just a few minutes.”

Will is freezing, but he somehow gets even colder when he sees Mike, severely underdressed yet again, leaning on the bench with a cigarette between his fingers. He had no jacket to throw over his work vest uniform. The sleeves of the long, tight, lacy shirt underneath were rolled down, so his forearms weren't bare against the chilling air, but still Will could only imagine how stiff he was feeling in those black converse with the shoelaces that seemed like Mike tied them with his eyes closed. The redhead girl was sitting on the bench, her friend close to her, talking something with Mike, facing in the other direction.

He felt anxiety boiling inside his stomach as he approached them. He didn’t feel prepared, nor ready for this; part of him wanted to go back into the Palace, tell Dustin and Lucas he couldn’t find them outside and cuddle close to the chair and warmth of familiar people. His nose crinkled at the smell of smoke as he stepped up near the bench, waiting to be noticed once again.

“There you are. Was starting to think your friends wouldn’t let you out,” Mike spoke up first, pushing himself away from the back of the wooden bench where he rested to greet him, but reclining once again easily after Will stood before them. He took a drag and let it out quickly.

They were just outside the Palace, right in front, to the point Will could swear he heard Dustin exclaim with joy all the way from there.

“So, this is the Will we’ve been hearing about so much,” the ginger girl threw her head back, swinging loose waves over her back, as the other girl giggled.

“I’m Maxine,” she didn’t offer a hand or anything like that, just nodded her head slightly as she scrambled for Mike’s cigarette. Her nails were polished a haunting black. She didn’t wear any makeup; nevertheless, she was very pretty to the point that even Will could acknowledge it. Her blue eyes were piercing and cold; they were trained on her skateboard, where she rested her legs, rolling it back and forth. She was dressed in a black hoodie, unzipped to reveal a striped, oversized shirt.

A redhead with a skateboard, his age, blue eyes, a masculine sense of style. Something about this description was familiar to Will. His gears turned quickly over all his classes, with or without Dustin and Lucas.

“Maxine… Maxine…” he murmured to himself, watching the girl closely, “Mayfield, right?”

Her eyebrows shot upwards, eyeing him up and down, as she flicked the shared cigarette in her hand like a magic wand: “Oh, and where do I know you from, Will…”

“Byers,” Will hurried, “Will Byers. We were in music together in junior year… last year; Ms. Jennie’s class.”

It took Maxine a good second to recall Will at all, eyes trained on the brunette girl as if the answer lay in her doe brown eyes. She let out a long smoke, twisting it out, before handing the cigarette back into Mike’s mouth.

“Ah, yes. I remember now,” her eye was keen, “You used to doodle a lot, right? Yeah, I remember, your drawings were always so amazing, dude. Nice to finally meet you, Will. You can call me Max.”

Will smiled, trying to hide the tiredness seeping out of his body. Then his eyes glided across to the smaller girl, waiting for an introduction, not knowing how he would start, since his name was already known. The girl, dressed in a pretty one-piece, linen with a black base and colorful shapes, stood up, stretching her arms. Her brown hair bobbed merrily as she cracked her neck and batted her eyelids, stained with a soft pink shade.

“Jane Hopper,” she extended a friendly hand and Will was pleasantly surprised by how comforted he felt, shaking it lightly, palm warm and her nails painted the colors of the rainbow, in perfect order. It was very calming—the colorful nails and loads of bracelets she wore. She had one earring, a big, round, pink triangle, hanging from her right lobe. The first thing Will noticed about her, completely randomly, was her cute nose. She looked very bright, especially in comparison to Maxine.

“She’s the daughter of the Chief, so you better watch your ass,” Maxine said with a smirk, a lot like one of Mike’s, as Jane let go of Will’s hand. Will didn’t know if it would be rude to say he could see the resemblance, so he didn’t, but he really could see it. And he remembered Jim Hopper’s face very, very well too. He suddenly wondered how much about his work does he ever mention to Jane, wishing deeply it were rather closer to none at all. She didn’t look at him weirdly, though…

“You better watch your ass anyway, daddy’s girl or not—this one bites,” Mike said, arms still crossed, eyeing them from the side. He discarded the cigarette quickly, stubbing it out on the side of the trash can, but remained in the same, relaxed position.

“Don’t listen to them,” Jane laughed, smiling happily. She was much shorter than Will, but that difference didn’t feel too real. Will felt he was somehow seeing eye-to-eye with this girl.

He chuckled awkwardly and not knowing what to do with his hands, he shoved them into his pockets. Mike was standing beside him now.

“I like your jacket. It’s very… you.”

What a strange compliment that was, which Jane had just given him, directed at his multi-colored, mostly yellow letterman jacket. He frowned, but thanked her politely, nervously tugging at a loose string, pulling it around his pinky finger. What an odd combination of three coworkers, who got together as friends, linked by a thread Will could also find himself on, he would soon be made aware of.

“The one from Hot Topic, huh?” he heard Mike’s voice laced with irony to his right, turning around to face the boy.

“What?”

“Remember, in Mugly, I asked if it was from Hot—you know what, never mind.”

Maybe Will would have remembered some other time, on some other day, under some better circumstances, but not now, not today, not like this. He felt like he was searching for something in the darkness that didn’t even exist, crawling on the floor and feeling around for it, but he just couldn’t remember what Mike was referencing. As if that day had been blocked out of his memory fully. Will tried to smile at Mike, but he was sure it came off as more of a look of distain than anything else, so he settled on averting his head, facing the other way off the parking lot. As if he had anything to look for there.

“I have to go back inside, guys, I’m freezing. I don’t know how you do it. If I were you, I’d quit just because of these damn winters in Hawkins,” Jane announced, patting a friendly hand on Will’s shoulder and shifting her weight.

“Wait, just a minute, J,” Maxine grabbed Jane’s hand, her many bracelets jittering to a stop. She pulled her back with an easy tug, since it was clear that Jane voluntarily spun back down onto the bench, overdoing the sarcastic eye roll, not hiding the grim smile on her face.

“I don’t want to go back into the closet,” Max said to her in a mock cry-baby voice, and Will couldn’t help but notice that their hands were still linked together, fingers laced like braided coils of thick hair. Her long, red eyelashes blinked sadly at Jane, puppy eyes bright as the blue sky, “Will you make me?”

Will didn’t want to stare, so he looked at Mike, searching for anything, for a reassuring nod, an explanation, a comment on the behavior of the two girls. But Mike’s expression was glazed and happily lost somewhere, looking like a pleased single mother, proud of her children, watching Jane bop Max’s nose.

“Only if you let me freeze to death here!”

“Here,” Maxine pressed the unfinished cigarette between her lips and took off her hoodie, placing it over Jane’s jacket, secured around her shoulders. Her voice immediately softened, nothing like how she sounded when she talked to Will, entering a completely new and softer tonality. Jane’s smile was so sweet and genuine, Will couldn’t help but wonder how he had ever thought this was broken? How could he ever have thought that this was what needed fixing and not this cruel world?

“But now, you’re going to be cold!” Jane flicked her head, her pink triangle swinging left and right, still somehow always pointing to Maxine.

In that moment, Mike looked so proud as Will watched him from the side. There was something about the way he kept his hands in his pockets, probably strikingly cold, and the way his eyes sparkled happily that made all of this even better. Max and Jane were in their own little bubble, eyes glued to one another, bickering over nothing as Max seemed adamant that she would be fine, and that they’d head back inside in a minute.

Will was staring. This is not broken. There are no cracks in this picture, no burns on their skin, there is nothing fake or unreal, no plastic or ripping of the seams, no sinfulness, nothing whatsoever. Their smiles are not forced, there is no hate—nothing but love stronger than Will could even see now; there is no bruise, no mistake in the code, in the wiring of their brains. In fact, nothing has ever felt more natural and consensual than this. This? This is not ‘broken’.

They are outside; the sun is shining on their forbidden love, because the sun always listens. It’s good at keeping secrets, it is accepting more than any human ever was to Will. What does it judge? It’s still bright. Just as bright as it would have been any other day, over any other two heads. Nature wraps around them like vines, because love could never be broken, unless the people involved in it are. And there is nothing broken with boys who kiss boys and girls who kiss girls. So what is there to be afraid of? What is this feeling in Will’s stomach; if all the strings in his mind, easily like a golden spindle, why is that feeling still there? Why was his stomach still in knots, thinking about all the lives he could have had, but didn’t. About the things he could have had, but didn’t, because there was a label on his pride and freedom. Why was it in knots when someone kept showing him how normal it could be—how normal it was? Maybe that feeling had nothing to do with the two girls in love in front of him. Maybe it had something to do with the boy standing next to him, elbows brushing slightly. Maybe Will never learned what it was exactly, but he remembers. And maybe he remembers so much, because this was Will first taste of pure happiness of what could be right. What should be right.

He suddenly understood why Mike felt so proud. He was trying his best to be proud, too. He wasn’t quite there; there was still bitterness in his mouth, coating the areas so unused to this, so taught to resent it, brought up with hatred in a systematically homophobic world surrounded by heteronormativity, slurs, fairytales of princes and princesses, all fake, horror stories of queer kids stabbed to death in a forest by a Ted with a wife and three kids, all true. He wasn’t quite there, but maybe he could be one day. A step at a time. You don’t go from rags to riches.

“What’s wrong, Willy?” He heard Maxine’s regular, sharp voice as she cupped her arms in her lap to keep from the cold that wanted to bite angrily.

“Nothing, nothing,” he mumbled humbly, “you guys are…together?”

He asked, which was stupid. Of course they were. And of course they were in love, Will knew what that felt like, knew it was real, but they weren’t repressing it. Not in the slightest. He was confused, which was stupid. But it felt like that conversation with Mike on the roof all over again. Jane giggled and Max let out a sigh, finally flicking the cigarette in the trash can at the side of the bench.

“Do we really look that straight?” she said, making Jane chuckle even more.

“No—I mean, that’s not what I meant—“

“It’s alright, Byers, no need to get so flustered,” Max’s temper was so relaxed and unbothered by Will’s stuttering and tripping over his own tongue.

“We figured, since you hang around Mike a lot, you were, you know, cool with it,” Jane offered, visibly shifting a little away from Max, as if that was not the opposite of what Will deep down wanted. So Mike didn’t out him. The gratefulness that Will felt made him even fonder of Michael Wheeler in this very moment and for many more to come.

“It’s not hard to tell he’s the biggest fag around.” Will only slightly flinched at the use of that word again. It didn’t sound harmful or ill-intended coming from Maxine. In fact, it sounded teasing, friendly, natural even, as if that never even was a bad thing one could say. Mike only further proved that point when he beamed with joy as if that was the nicest compliment anyone had ever given him, shining pearly whites at Will.

“Hey, I do what I’m best at,” he shrugged happily, “Right, Will?”

“Huh? I mean—yeah, yeah, totally… that and getting dumped by Lisa Montgomery. The very best.”

Mike’s laugh startled Will, reminding him of just how beautiful that sound was, carried in the wind like a bird with an impressive wingspan, cutting its way through the cotton clouds. His high cheekbones hid his eyes as the smile stayed on his face.

“We handled that like kings.”

Will scoffed at that, letting chilly air course through his nose, his breath visible in front of his face due to the low temperatures. Nothing about their first meeting felt royal. The cold milkshake that he barely got out of the his flax, yellow shirt also felt very far from pristine, after all, vanilla is the worst flavor and Will was sure Mike knew that, but it somehow felt weirdly satisfying to say he got splashed with it, as if that meant he made a certain achievement in life—one that would help him deal with Lisa Montgomery and the likes of her for many years to come.

“You sure did, because if that was me, I would have punched her straight in the face. People like her deserve to get their teeth knocked out of their heads in order to make space for some common sense to get in,” Maxine said so casually, as if violence was her second nature, dead serious without a smirk, scanning Will meaningfully for what his next reaction might be.

“Lucky you for being a girl. I don’t punch girls, Mayfield.”

“Like you would have if she were a boy,” covering her mouth as she giggled, Jane pointed out, crossing her legs delicately. Max’s polished fingers rapped on her chin, like black tiles of the piano jutting up and down. Will tried to picture Mike punching someone, helplessly trying to follow along to this conversation, and he may have managed to succeed if he had never befriended this boy, only had his picture and the memory of his first impression from the café’s low lights, but since that was not the case, imagining such a scenario was near an impossible task for Will. He could only think of Mike stopping to pet a stray dog, naming him Chester, giving him his food that he’d brought from home to Mirkwood with him, and playing catch with the animal for the whole evening. Will knew his face was brighter than it should have been, talking about something so serious, but he couldn’t let go of Mike’s glowing smile and disheveled black hair tangling with Chester’s dirty white fur.

“Fair enough, but I guess we’ll never really know,” how Michael Wheeler managed to sound like more of a dork with each passing day was beyond Will. He caught on to Max’s not-so-discreet eye roll, as she stood up, pushing herself on her knees, straightening out her tight black jeans. She shuddered, whether it was from the cold or the pleasure of actively imagining punching Lisa Montgomery in the face was up to everyone’s free interpretation. With fuming rage, the color of her bright hair, as clear to everyone as her mad eyes, she ranted passionately:

“I can’t stand people like her. I mean, it’s so useless and stupid. We are normal. We don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong about our love and us. It’s so insane how people can’t understand some things and lack basic human…empathy. I love Jane more than anything in this world and people take it to heart as if me kissing the person I love means I’m setting fire to their little ancient book. With all due respect, that’s bullshit.”

She spat the words with a hurried breath, making Will struggle to catch on to everything she was saying. She was almost mumbling, as if she wasn’t fully convinced in her own speech, but Will knew that wasn’t the case. He saw it in the way she gripped her skateboard she’d just bent to pick up off the ground, in the way her eyes sped back and forth between all three of them, speaking volumes her—or anyone’s voice—could ever dream to generate. Will didn’t know where all the air in his lungs went, but when he tried to exhale the breath he thought he was holding, he came to learn they were empty, all the oxygen stolen away. Jane was now standing beside Max, and she took her hand in hers, twisting her arm under the crook of Max’s. Her eyes were, however, intensely trained on Will. When she spoke, it felt like there was only the two of them, and Mike’s heart beating in sync to Will’s, right to his side.

“All that Max said…I just think it’s a little funny, how out of all the things we can fear in life, we chose love.”

So what is there to be afraid of?

Will knew it was his turn to say something, add a casually supportive voice of alliance he was playing at having in this conversation, but it was like his throat box was ripped out, cut and aggressively pulled out of his system like some poor doll falling victim to a hyperactive, unsupervised child. His brain was turning to nonsense. It’s such a strange feeling of notion, that is. How so easily everything Will thought he knew, understood, how easily his opinion got contradicted, sending his mind reeling against a wall. How easily everything, the whole façade, was able to fall apart, shake him by the shoulders, make him rethink every brick in there, placed so carefully from his childhood. Because they were so right. And Will was so wrong—he was right to keep living.

His tongue was nearly useless, looking at Maxine and Jane, three years of happiness that started with a friendship after Max had convinced Jane to break up with a boyfriend with whom she had nothing more than an obsession, not love, and took her shopping for a change of clothes and a new hairstyle. That—that was love. Not keeping the door open three inches so her dad wouldn’t freak out since her little closeted daughter was making out with some smug-son-of-a-bitch. Definitely not that.

They were so right. Will immediately looked at Mike’s, a sudden wave pulled him back into that moment on the railing, how for a second, everything felt like some sort of lucid, but happy dream when Mike’s lips locked with his. A nice dream. He fought the urge to take of his letterman jacket and give it to Mike, who was surely playing way more cool than he must have been in this weather.

“Yeah… I get that,” he choked out, “I mean—I don’t get it, but I get what you said. You’re right.”

One step at a time.

“We’re glad, more people like you would make the world a nicer place.” Maxine was now slowly walking past Will, so when he followed her step with his eyes, he saw her giving him a haunting look, one of major significance, not even Will could ignore. There was a flame burning in her challenging stance, before, back already to Mike and Will she added to Jane, who was now catching up to her: “For our third year anniversary, how about you and I pour burning hot coffee on Lisa Montgomery? What do you say?”

“Please do,” Mike sighed as Max and Jane spared another glance in their direction.

“Make sure her new boyfriend doesn’t move the cup away this time,” Will’s head was so full, on the verge of fainting, probably, judging by his weak knees, he wasn’t even sure if he said that out loud or not, let alone what he’d suggested if he did. That attributed to his confusion when Mike’s breath hitched as he tried to nonchalantly wave at Max and Jane. Maybe he didn’t even say it, because the next thing Will was aware of was the two girls walking off, back into the Palace, saying they had to go back to work.

“We’ll stay for a bit. I’m coming soon, don’t worry,” Mike called after them.

“Do you remember what happened on the roof?”

It felt like Will had blacked out standing up as was, for a minute or so, because when he blinked and opened his eyes again, Max and Jane were nowhere to be seen, already inside the building. The two boys were standing by each other, facing the parking lot so the wind was able to move the hair out of their eyes. The cold zephyr had died down as the setting sun picked its pace up and let the navy blue rise from the east, eating up more of the sky, the pumpkin orange slowly disappearing in front of their eyes. It hadn’t been more than five minutes since Will had stepped outside the Palace, yet he felt like he had aged and changed a thousand different lives in a span of short-lived moments that were now escaping his grasp. Everything was, almost disturbingly quiet, and Will’s whole being didn’t really feel present. It was already running, rain pouring, sketchbook in hand, headphones soaking wet, but it was still running, somewhere, nowhere—it’s not like it mattered. Get out. Get out. Nails dug into the edges of its cell, making loud screeching noises, beginning, screaming to be released. Everything was over Will’s head.

Mike’s tone made him snap to some sort of consciousness. He was more serious than he’d ever heard him be; in fact, Will wasn’t so sure Mike knew how to be serious. Even so, Will sensed sadness in his tone, something so new for him when it came to this strange boy, who does even stranger things, with an even bigger mouth. He sounded hurt, signifying the importance of this question and even more so—of Will’s next answer. He was careful when he spoke, shifting slightly to see him.

“How could I forget? Seriously! You were insane up there!”

Another slick dodge, another case of keeping it weirdly vague. If Mike wanted to play a game, then he was going to let him play it.

Mike had a distant frown. It was something Will had never seen, either. It was only for a second, before it was completely gone, slipping away with the soft gusts of wind that hit his curls. His stomach flipped at the image, as if someone had taken a painting and thrown eggs at it, taken a knife to a work of art and slashed a gaping hole across it all. His sharp face grew tender as one side was highlighted in a pretty yellow gloom and the other in the blue, fake lights from the Palace. He was so pretty, it hurt Will that only did his beauty shine most when distress took him over whole. His ears were a fresh shade of red, peaking from underneath the easy curves of his hair, and his lips were dry and cracked before he licked them quickly, a casual smirk returning to his face.

“I know, it was just a joke, don’t worry.”

More than anything, Will didn’t even know the smirk he thought was imprinted on his lips could ever fade. And never did he plan on discovering the heartbreaking way he looked without it. Even if it was just a second, a slip-up that at this tiring moment might’ve been Will’s and might’ve been Mike’s, it was still there, stuck in Will’s mind right next to what he went on to repeat again, in a calming, soothing voice:

“It was a joke.”

What was the joke, Mike?

Will wanted to ask this badly—badly enough it made him sick. His head was spinning with uncertainty. Was it all a joke? Everything? It must be. That makes sense. It was all a joke. It was just Mike being Mike, getting drunk on one (and a half) beer, scaring the living hell out of Will and dangling on the edge because he could, because he knew that life was too scared of Michael Wheeler to let him die so easily. There was nothing more to any of it, and while technically speaking Will didn’t know what exactly he was referencing, his mind hurled to the simplest explanation, the one he thought he himself needed to hear. So why did it sting a little?

“Yeah, yeah, a joke.”

Not enough strength was in him to create more enthusiasm out of nowhere. He should go back to his house, head back inside at least, duck his head away from where Mike can see him from the counter and go ponder over everything he thought there was to know about people like him and about this cruel, joking world.

“What?” he felt an elbow hit his arm, lightly knocking into him, “Am I that bad at giving speeches or am I that bad at kissing?”

Even so out of it as he was, Mike still managed to make Will smile. When his lips curled up, it felt like his skin was suddenly made out of metal, heavy and stiff, and when the grin just grew, it was as if his skin was tearing and ripping at the movement. It was the first time any of them had actually called whatever that was, for what it was. A kiss. Why couldn’t Will look at Mike when he had said that? He stayed silent. There was too much he could have said that may have prevented everything, but he remembers exactly why he remained quiet. Because the one Will Byers was able to come up with was: you were brilliant at both.

“Seriously, it’s nothing serious. I was fooling around.”

On the list of things Will had seen for the first time today, yet another item was added: a nervous Michael Wheeler. He was rubbing a finger with his other hand, tapping his foot as the only sound breaking through to Will.

Fooling around with your life or with my feelings?

After what felt like way too long of finding something to mimic, finding a joke somebody said today, a manner to repeat from someone who would know what to do in this situation, he shrugged lamely: “You do what you’re best at.”

Vague. That’s exactly how Will felt when he got home.

Now he’s pressing a tissue, already dripping with blood, to his aching forearm. He was in the way.

Quicker than fear. He had failed to be quicker than fear. He was just frozen Will. Frozen, defenseless, unable to move or do anything, stand up, fight back, even if fighting back meant turning away—he couldn’t. He felt pathetic, weak, a rag for hitting and stepping on.

A joke.

That’s what Will Byers was. To everyone, it seemed like. A fucking joke.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, as he couldn’t stop the river of undeniable facts crashing down through its canal. He pressed his jaw tight, as if that would stop the wish to die, and make his breath circulate normally once again. He wasn’t thinking clearly and he knew that; Will never thought death would be much nicer to him. He held the belief that he had to make this life be better, and it would be. Out of here. Like a broken record, that's what Will was repeating to himself, sucking in quick gasps as the throbbing pain came in aches through his left hand. There was something out there for him, there was a star with his name written on it, waiting for him to wish upon it, make it come true, swing all his hope down with trust in faith… or simply that a boy that had done nothing wrong, but had everything wrong be done to him deserved some peace.

Just because it is something wrong doesn’t mean I should be afraid.

He was in the way. It’s an old excuse, but Lonnie never makes better ones when he is angry. The bottle scraped his skin, only a small piece shattering when it hit Will’s arm. Lucky.

The tissue is red. The sheets are as wet as Will’s cheeks. Everything is black. The whole day, every minute of it, dark as night and bitter enough to make his face wince hard. Raw sobs shook his whole body, escaping his chest with violent shudders, his ribcage tightening as he tried his best at pressing loud cries down back inside his cavity.

We are normal. We don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong about our love and us.

So what is there to be afraid of?

Will is normal. He doesn’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong about his love and him.

I am normal. I don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong about my love and me.

So what is there to be afraid of?

He pressed harder on his bruised, left knuckles. He was struggling for air, but his shoulders calmed down a little bit. His body leaned into the thought. His whole being leaned into the beauty of something finally so normal. For once, he could swear he could touch how crystal, beautiful and normal the feeling grew in him, rooted its seeds, slowly taking over all the trauma that had been living in him for the past year, six months and 24 days. Will was floating. He was losing his footing, lifting of the ground, his spirit was running, in the pouring rain, sketchbook in hand, headphones soaking wet, still running somewhere, nowhere—toward peace of mind.

Will was exhausted. Will needs to breathe. Will needs to learn. So many things he had to learn. So many roads to walk. So many talks to have. So many lives to live, he couldn’t. So many things to do, he couldn’t. So many wounds to heal. So many new places to injure. But before all of that, Will needs to breathe.

If it’s just life, then there’s nothing to be afraid of.

He cried out of curiosity, out of pity for himself, until the blood stopped fully. It was not as much as Will’s brain made it seem. Maybe nothing was this whole day. But before he even breathed, Will felt. So what if his memory is flawed? If it’s not flawed, then it’s not human.

This was the end of the beginning.

What exactly came next was not known to Will. He didn’t even know he could take it. But if we don’t struggle, did we even try? And maybe Will didn’t know it yet, but he would try. Because maybe someday, someone would look at him, mimic him, just like he was trying his best to right now, and learn that maybe they themselves are just enough.

There was a knock on the door. He doesn’t usually come for a round two after he is done. Will immediately stiffened up in his bed, his whole body covering itself in tiny goose bumps. He held his breath and the door creaked shyly, a tiny line of light peeking through and throwing a yellow glow onto Will’s sheets, which he just noticed had turned a sickly red too.

It was Jonathan. He spoke his name quietly, his expression painful and full of sympathy. His right eye was almost invisible due to an old black eye healing, still leaving a dark circle around his soft eye socket. Worry was plastered on his forehead, in between the smooth creases of the wrinkled skin. He walked slowly over to the bed, not saying anything—not needing to. He understood.

He sat next to Will and, without a word, wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, lowering his brother’s head into him, letting Will bury his hair and face in his chest. Jonathan’s whole body tensed as he realized just how much Will was shaking, gripping him strongly back, hands digging into his back.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered compassionately against Will's hair, fondling his head into his hands, hugging him like they hadn’t in a really long time, since they were scared little kids. But right now, both of them felt no difference—they were just like scared little kids. “I know everything sucks right now. It really does, I won’t lie. But I’m here, Will. I’m always here. I feel like we don’t talk like we used to… I feel like you’ve been pushing yourself away from me. But I just—I want you to know, I’m still here. And I love you—no matter what. You’re my brother, okay? We’ll be fine, I promise.”

Will let his body sink into his brother’s. He let himself be held. He let himself cry out once more, because everything was getting too heavy. But the comforting smell of weed, cheap cologne, and the lavender refresher stuck to Jonathan’s clothing eased Will, and his words felt like a flood inside his ears, cleaning out everything negative he’s ever heard. And Jonathan was real. He felt his hands and chest rise and fall with his calm breathing, guiding Will to do the same, follow his movements, reminding him that he was not a sprout of the imagination.

Before he even felt, Will hoped. Someone loved him. Someone was there. And he’d seen it in just a week. Everything was possible. Happiness, sun over forbidden love, hanging upside down from a building, death refusing you to your face, gold-old times. Just a little bit more. Will had seen it. And maybe the same would come to him, his star would finally fall out of the sky, sprinkle just a little bit of magic in his eyes. Because the first step to getting your star into your palms is to hope.

…

It was a joke.

What was a joke, Mike?

It’s funny how, of all the feelings Will went through, when Jonathan reluctantly but finally left his room, that was the thing that disallowed Will to sleep that night.

Will needed to know. He was not going to be a joke anymore. He was not going to be vague anymore:

What was the joke?

Did Michael Wheeler want to kiss him, and more importantly, did Michael Wheeler really want to jump all in the same twisted little stunt?

Chapter Text

December 1st, 1988

“So he bought you that watch? And gave you those tickets?”

“Hey, they were technically for you, big guy,” Lucas knocked a fist into Dustin’s bag, stating in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Yeah, so?” Will crossed his arms over his chest defensively, a little concerned about the direction this conversation was headed.

“Picks you up and drove you to school a few times,” Dustin really was listing on with a hazy voice, eyes stuck on Will as he skipped down the hallway.

“Where is this going?”

“I don’t know, seems a bit…” he hesitated for a long moment, trying to find the right words, as if he himself was disgusted by what he was about to say, “you know… queer of him.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, sunken in and taken aback by what Dustin had so quietly and carefully said. It wasn’t exactly hateful, but you could sense it in his tone, deeply rooted disdain, etched in beliefs so ordinary they became the default, that it wasn’t the most welcoming idea he had. He didn’t say it accusatory—he said it more as some sort of warning to Will, as if he was expected to react by cutting all ties with Mike and drawing away. Dustin stated it as if it were alien and unimaginable, something out of this world. Wrong. Broken. Will was sure he winced. He winced because those were all the things he’d be in Dustin’s eyes, Lucas’ eyes, his Dad’s—in everyone’s eyes—alien, unimaginable, wrong, broken.

Dustin was calm, but his voice had cracked and he took it upon himself to loudly clear his throat, eyes still trained on his friend. Will, curious more than anything, looked over to Lucas just to see what his reaction to the simple word, queer, was. He didn’t know why exactly he was disappointed because it wasn’t at all surprising to him when he couldn’t catch Lucas’ gaze, which was uncomfortable and fixed on the floor.

Will was endlessly thankful that this awful conversation was cut short by a crowd forming in the middle of the hallway, people pressed into each other, whispers blowing all around. He opened his mouth to reply something in Mike’s, or his, maybe, defense, but he realized Dustin and Lucas no longer spared any attention to him. They were judging the crowd, scanning for any clues as to what the occurrence that acquired such a commotion could be. They pushed through the school backpacks slung over one shoulder, hanging and swaying to the sides as Lucas and Dustin pushed around, making Will follow them to the center, where they could hopefully get a clear view of what was going on. Will really didn’t want to go. There were too many shoulders and hands slamming into him, his skin brushed upon skin too many times, in too many places at once, too many overlapping voices would cave in his ear and there was way too little space.

As if Will’s thoughts and eternal panic were suddenly broadcasted to everyone in the hallway, every kid fell dead silent, and made way for the three boys. The crowd surge receded back, pushing itself out of the way, and Will felt everyone’s eyes bore into the back of his skull. This time, he wasn’t imagining it, because he slammed into Lucas as both of his friends froze dead in their tracks and let out a little, involuntary ‘shit’. Dozens of stares were set on Will, after the eye of the storm, the quiet vanished from the hallway like the spring breeze and little bursts of laughter and giggles erupted around him quickly.

Inside him, there was nothing but sudden and pure horror. His heart grew tight in his chest, shrunk and shriveled up until Will could barely be sure it was beating. Terrific apprehension made the hairs on his neck rise, the blood rush to his head, ticking away in his stomach like a bomb. He hated every second of this, and just like that, disappearing again didn’t seem so bad anymore.

But that was one fatal flaw of Will’s. None of the hate and anger went anywhere, but stayed directed right at himself.

“Guys, what—“ his sentence trailed off, because he finally managed to shove his way past Lucas and Dustin and stand next to them. He realized soon why they were unmoving, blocking his way and view. He realized why they murmured confused, quiet curses under their breaths and then stood there, worry tensing their shoulders. It took Will less than the tiniest duration our human brains can imagine and consider a moment, the shortest span we are able to grasp as something within our reality and capabilities. It took him just that, because truth doesn’t travel far.

All over the walls, lockers, the news board, everywhere in a multiple feet radius, posters were plastered with some awful old picture of Will from freshman year, colorfully decorated in all tones and shades, a Frankenstein rainbow, with slurs, all kinds of slurs, old ones, new ones, slurs Will had never heard of until today, slurs Will considered his second name, written in black sharpie.

There was no doubt in his mind that this wasn’t another nightmare, episode, or flashback. No doubt that this wasn’t just his own mind sabotaging him. He could feel the moment stretch on and the reality of it all setting deep into his skin. He felt the devastation rise and escalate until there was no chance he wouldn’t awaken by now due to the sick feeling making his insides swirl around and drop completely. His eyes flew over the posters, rainbow and all, most lazily done. There was something so sickly beautiful about truth. There was something so ironic. Because it was true. Still, nonetheless, it was used as an insult, and one that stung deep every single time like it was the first. Because it was true. That’s why it hurt so much, why Will’s eyes were welling up now, frozen, mind spiraling. Because it was true. He was all those nasty things. All of them. He is a mistake.

No one could know that, of course. But Will knew it. Because it was true.

When Will was seven, he’d first heard it; he heard his father shout it. He didn’t know what it meant, but he was really scared. Will didn’t know it.

When Will was nine, and the three of them were having a sleepover, all cozied up and thinking bigger of themselves than they actually were, tucked in Dustin’s basement, the two boys went around asking each other a ridiculous game that little Will could not understand, something about celebrity crushes. When Will’s turn came, he could not think of any girl really; his mind was so blank and bored, the only thing he could come up with was Queen Elizabeth of all. Will didn’t know it.

When Will was eleven, he learned what that bad word meant. Two bullies chased him into the forest, shouting it as loud as they could. Will didn’t know it.

When Will was twelve, the Winter Ball of 1983 was held at his middle school. They were all dressed to their best, Dustin even did his hair with some technique he’d sworn to not reveal and Will was honest when he’d said it looked amazing. Will didn’t really like those sorts of occasions, but this was special and even just getting ready got him all jittery, and for some reason, he adored all the suits and the decorations. That winter, for some reason, everything just seemed to make him so happy—all the little things. Will was having an amazing time, couldn’t be better in fact, there with his friends, when a girl came up and asked him for a dance. Why his face turned sour was beyond him. Why he didn’t find any wish to at all was beyond him. He didn’t dance. And he didn’t know it.

When Will was fourteen, a girl, all blonde and pretty, fancied Will a lot, which was beyond him. She came from a nice family, she had nice posture and always hung around nice people with nice ribbons in their hair. She had freckles. Will thought he was supposed to think she was cute. But she was nice. And she had a nice pink ribbon in her hair when she’d very nicely told Will she liked him. Will turned down a nice girl—cute too, which was beyond him. He didn’t want to go out with a girl. He could just stay in Dustin’s basement all day and the three of them could play Nintendo and D&D for the rest of their lives. And he didn’t know it.

When Will was fifteen, a girl, all dark and pretty, fancied Will a lot, which was beyond him. He didn’t know much about her, other than she was the most beautiful in the high school he’d just started, with round brown lips and pearly white teeth; she’d smile at him in the hallways. That made him uncomfortable, but not in the way he was supposed to be, if there is a way a human can be neutrally uncomfortable. One day, she’d played footsie with him in class, slipped her pretty little pink shoe under the hem of Will’s trousers, and he got scared and pulled it away quickly, never sparing a glance in her direction. He didn’t want to go out with a girl. Why lead her on? Because Will knew it.

When Will was sixteen, he was sick of all the people getting girlfriends. Being normal. Why can’t he be normal? He was sick of everyone expecting him to do the same, because he wasn’t going to. He’d stay alone forever, like the freak and mistake he is, unlovable, always doomed to unreciprocated love. Loving someone who will never be able to love you back, disgusted by what you feel. Will knew it.

When Will was seventeen, he was sick of all the people getting dumped by their girlfriends. And so, being sick of such, he managed to meet a soul, maybe just out of spite of being annoyed with this. And souls don’t meet by accident. He’d met Mike Wheeler. And just like his curls, Will’s mind wound itself up into knots and little happy messes he was unable to clean up. Will wanted to be near this boy, go wherever he headed, to the end of the world. He wanted to love, like all people should be allowed to. And he had Mike Wheeler. Because Will knew it. He knew that it was true.

No one else could know that, of course, except Mike and…

“What’s the matter, little boy?”

Lisa’s voice was as cold as the memory of the feeling of the cold milkshake on his chest and torso, soaked into his yellow shirt.

Humiliation flooded Will’s cheeks, burning the tongue and the inside of his mouth like venom. The crowd around them formed a vicious half-circle and was now watching in full awe as two figures stepped out into the clearing before Dustin, Lucas and Will. There was nothing our little boy wanted more than to disappear, blend back in, be unknown, invisible. All he really wanted was to be left alone. The eyes he felt burn patches in his skin, like big white suns on his back and arms, lingered no matter how disconnected he felt. He wondered where Mike was. He wasn’t in school the day before and it seemed like not today either. He wanted him to be here, next to him. Someone needed to be here, hold his hand, tell him it’s okay, because Will’s nightmares just came to life. However, when one dreams, one always wakes up at the end, but when that is not the case, there is no dream state to run from, there is no better reality—because this is real.

And next to Lisa Montgomery stood shoulders wide and pride immeasurable, Rowan. Rowan Fleetwood. None other than the one that, very well could be, but didn’t even deserve the posters to be marked with his name in black sharpie over the rainbow. He deserved much, much worse. Yet he was the one standing in front of Will like some the wiser. Rowan Fleetwood. Will’s assaulter.

Will didn’t like to call him that. Because it was true.

“What? You think I wouldn’t tell anyone?” Lisa mocked loudly, crossing her arms over her chest, “About you and precious little Wheeler!”

At the sound of his name, Will flinched. He flinched and died a little. A little out of shame. A little out of being scared for what’s about to come. A little out of just hearing his name. He died just a little more and loved him just a little more in that moment when he felt his heart erupt inside his body, splashing blood and red love all over his insides and clogging up his throat, thick and dense.

Lisa’s nails were long and a daring hot pink color, crumbling one of those posters in her fist, poking fresh holes in it. Rowan stood next to her, a smug grin that was pure evil sat on his contorted face. His lips were curled in disdain, arms crossed over his stupid Hawkins sweater, chest proudly puffed out. The chill December breeze blew his immaculate shag out of the way and he looked straight out of some advertisement, gawking menacingly at the three boys with his alluring blue eyes. Will’s whole body screamed, every hair on him shot up and he felt heat pulling at his skin, wishing to burst out and burn him alive. He wondered for just a split second, when his mind seemed to forget terror, he rationally thought an irrational thought. Quicker than fear, he was able to think, how? How can this boy stand in front of me right now, sneer and put himself higher, mock me for this? How can he ever look at me and live with himself and his little lie?

It was no surprise. Projection is an old skill. Take it all out on poor little, weak and scrawny elfin Will, a boy whose secret is as much of a secret as it was Rowan’s. Since there is no better way to keep your secret shame safe than by making it half someone else’s.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up. The star has arrived,” Rowan spread his arms out, the arms that held Will down as he cried and cried, searching for the crowd’s approval, but everyone was deadly quiet, spilling into some space uncomfortable for everyone involved. Not the whispers. Whispers never die—the ghosts will always speak. And in present moments like these, of pure silence, the past spoke volumes.

Will couldn’t say anything if he tried. He knew it the moment he heard Rowan’s voice. It was just like then, the first time this had happened. When he’d tried to argue and scream, when things escalated quicker than Will was able to feel fear before it was too late, he hadn’t been able to let out a sound. Drought came out of his seething lungs, and all his ghosts shut up and watched, mourned, unable to whisper.

“Shut the fuck up, Rowan.”

Lucas’ voice was closer to Will than he thought it would be coming from—not that he expected to hear it at all. He seized the chance to dip into reality ever so slightly again and it took him a moment too long to realize Dustin’s hand was on his shoulder and his two best friends were right beside him, to the point he could hear Lucas’ rapid, angry breathing as he cursed out a string of bad sentences that made no sense all said at once.

“U, Sinclair! What’s with the foul words, friend? Jumping to defend your faggot little friend, I see.”

That word again. That godforsaken, sinfully true word again. Will’s eyes were prickling with hot tears, salty and burning against his waterline. His nightmare wasn’t going away. He just wouldn’t wake up.

“You got a thing for Will, is it, Sinclair?” Rowan was practically shouting like some announcer at a football game, cheeks bright red, eyes burning with an intense fire Will knew all too well. With the same fire Will saw in his ceiling, when he closed his eyes, in the worst of his nightmares, looming over him, those eyes seeping into everything he did, every smile he cracked, every mirror he looked at. “I must say you have horrible taste!”

Will was on the ground. It was cold and brutal and he was sure he ripped his skin upon the impact and was bleeding at the elbows he was trying to steady his weight on. His legs felt useless, completely weak and frail. Someone pinched his neck and forced his torso upwards, a hand digging viciously into his tissues and skin. Before his head could spin back into its place, relocate its balance on his shoulders, someone’s mouth was on his. Before he could make sense of how to push the figure off, before he could begin to protest and fight back, before he could even wipe away the blood on his lips and temple, someone’s hands were ripping him apart. His clothes, his limbs, his skin. Every bit of his soul, shred by shred, biting it away like a mad dog.

There was nothing Will could do but silently cry, beg and whine, fight for words, knowing no one was there to hear him, save him. There was nothing Will could do but try to stop the sobs because every recoil, every tear, every second of hesitation to the orders he was brutally given, would earn him another shove, another slap, another hit and tug, another bite. Everywhere. There was nothing he could do but suffer. There was nothing he could do but fear, for he failed to be quick. For he failed to fight. For he failed to steady his mouth and now he wasn’t on his knees anymore—he was on the ground with a hand on his chest, demanding. There was nothing he could do, knowing this is what happens to boys like him.

His mouth felt disgusting, his hands felt disgusting, his body felt disgusting. He smelled like sin. He remembers everything, every single moment, every single movement in the room, every single tiny act of violence within the act of violation. He remembers the feel that wrapped around him like a cocoon, choked him, blinded him, made the hairs rise on his neck. The feeling bubbling inside his stomach, down his throat, never-ending. He felt it everywhere. Everywhere.

He can feel it now. He can still feel him. He is alive. In front of him. The two visions Will is experiencing, two nightmares, but one that’s now and one that was, overlap like layers, like a jigsaw that falls perfectly into place. Will is at two places at once. He can’t stop thinking about it. He was so cold. He said he likes it cold. His grey shirt was soaked with frozen sweat until it was just his bare skin slick with moisture. He was so cold. Will was so cold. He felt it everywhere. Everywhere.

How he wishes his mom were here.

Will is so cold. He is in a thick black jacket, but he feels like he’s naked in front of someone’s ill-intended eyes once again. It’s December after all, and he can’t stop shivering. His arms are trembling, he can feel his closed fists shaking in his pockets, his knees bumbling up and down like he was some sort of wounded deer with crossed legs, lost in the forest all alone and cold. He just suddenly wants to hug his mom. He hasn’t seen her since the summer break. He wants to hug her.

He is watching Rowan, and that other version of him, his assaulter, won’t stop leaking in the present picture he is trying to hard to understand. There is Lisa, still gripping one of the colorful posters, laughing with Rowan, who’s sneering at Lucas as if he didn’t smell of sin. As if Will couldn’t still smell it, the exact same old scent, reaching to him, making his vision weak. Sin. Dustin’s hand is still on his shoulder and Will forces all his might to focus on the warmth of it reaching his skin through the jacket. He studied the weight, the only thing that really feels real right now, reminding him he is not stuck on that night one year, six months and 25 days ago. He focuses on the savior of the footsteps that came, not the humiliation. He focuses on his breathing, the pulse still pumping in his veins.

“Hey, what’s your problem, man. What can you say about tastes?”

There he is again. Everywhere.

Dustin told him right, however, striking two at once, with both Lisa’s and Rowan’s eyebrows shooting up.

“Who asked you anything, Henderson?” Everything sounded so wrong coming out of the blonde’s mouth. Will flexed his fingers in the pockets of his jacket, just to convince himself he could move. The people still watched and Will let his eyes fly over them. He felt a paralyzing crawl up his back. This was hell. Another nightmare he never seemed to wake up from. Maybe this was all one big nightmare. Maybe his whole life was.

“I don’t remember speaking to you, Lisa,” Dustin spat her name, more from disgust than from his lisp, hissing it in the wind, getting Lucas to back him up.

“Yeah, go fuck off, you idiots. Get something better to do than picking on random people who did nothing wrong. Get a life. Rats.” Will had never heard Lucas sound so angry. Though he couldn’t really feel much, he knew he was numb all over and couldn’t speak; he was able to warm up by the amount of gratefulness he felt toward his best friends. The love made him even weaker. They were standing up for him, by him, with him.

“Defending your boyfriend, Sinclair,” Rowan took a few steps forward, marching through the silence before he was too close to Will for comfort. “What’s wrong with him? Kitty’s got your tongue?”

Will shivered at the memory of his bleeding, split tongue, foreign teeth sunken into his pink, live flesh, words gone from him. He took everything. Everything.

He tried to look everywhere but at his eyes, avoiding his face. His breathing got harder to circulate and with the vanishing of it, so did his humiliation. Now suddenly, he felt anger flicker beneath the surface, like a weak but growing flame inside him. He was mad. His eyes jittered around. He felt like he was going to suffocate, with sweaty hands and a sick stomach. He kept drawing his gaze away.

“The bird has decided not to speak, has he? Didn’t know queers had such an issue with a friendly little conversation…”

Just want to have a little conversation with you, that’s all, was what he said. That’s what he had said.

Will is not sure how much more he can take. But he needs to calm down. He knows it. He needs to will himself to calm down. It will pass. Real or not, a nightmare is a moment, and every moment passes. Every dream, every day, every scream passes and fades. Will just needs to keep breathing. Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him. Think of Mike. Don’t think of him.

Think of Mike.

It made sense to his brain, before it did to Will. It made so much sense. The difference left Will’s head in a jumbled mess. Between the two boys… how Mike had kissed him. Was that sinful? Never did he think could another boy kiss him and for him to like it so much. Will liked it. He will not let Rowan stand in the way of this either. He took deep breaths through his mouth, drew his gaze to his assaulter’s face and he thought of Mike. Will liked it. Will liked him.

Will liked Mike.

“Fleetwood, seriously—“

“No, no, don’t be so quick, Lucas. I’m sorry to inform you, but your little faggot boyfriend is, I’m afraid, taken.”

Will saw in the corner of his eyes Lucas and Dustin glance at him skeptically, with confusion that was quick to wither away, striking their faces. They had the right to be. The two boys were, however, unaffected for long and didn’t seem to care or buy whatever bullshit the duo of bullies was spitting at them.

Lisa’s eyes shone so bright, Will could swear he knew what was about to come. He could also swear he was going to hate this part most. All nightmares have a least favorite part. And for this one, Will didn’t even need flashbacks to know this was going to take that spot right away. “Of course. Will Byers and his boyfriend, Michael Wheeler.”

Rowan was wildly entertained by this and followed Lisa, stepping even closer to Will. “Oh yeah, that loser nerd, who goes around thinking he can fuck anyone he wants because of his stupid hair. I feel sorry for him, honestly, but you two sure make a good pair. I just didn’t know that slut was a fa—“

So much for calmness. So much for keeping it together. So much for being weak. Not anymore. No. Will Byers can’t anymore.

He thought he was fine. He has heard most of this thousands of times. From Rowan, from Lisa, from Troy, from nameless kids and faceless faces, from his dad… He has agreed with most of this thousands of times. He could take it. He could swallow the bullets down, shame himself, hang himself up for display for a while, for everyone to laugh and then forget in a day. He only felt smaller and smaller until there was nothing at all left to make fun of. He’d never gotten angry before, let alone so much. But the desperation suddenly shifted and transformed into something unrecognizable, took space in Will’s stomach he thought was hollow and abandoned. He was so mad.

And the eruption exploded in full bloom when Rowan Fleetwood started making fun of Mike. That’s when something snapped. That’s when Will couldn’t tolerate it anymore. That’s when all the anger inside him burst like a red balloon flying into space, the little plastic shredding into bits and disappearing completely, sending in different directions. That’s when he felt the urge, animalistic and strange in the back of his mind—the electrical feel surging through his forearms so unfamiliar to him, suddenly buzzed to a climax and he felt like he would lift out of his shoes. That was it. He needed Rowan to shut up. He needed to let it all out. He can’t listen to it anymore. He can’t let him finish.

Quicker than fear. Be quicker than fear. That was a motto to live by or die while practicing. So be it. Will was, for once, going to live how he wants to and he is going to die while doing it. Whether that was being quicker than fear, or loving the person he loves—he wasn’t sure. Maybe that was the same. Maybe all of this is some stupid allegory for being queer, but Will never really liked to make it complicated. So he took his hands out of his pockets. His left was still bruised and hurt from yesterday. Okay, right it is. He knew he was going to live. He knew he was sick and tired of these people—he was sick and tired of that repressed part of himself carrying useless religious guilt, he was sick of hiding, he was sick of self-loathing. In that moment, he knew he was going to make it. He knew he was someone. He knew he was more than a gay boy.

He took one last good look at Rowan, summoning everything inside him he could, thinking of Max and Jane holding hands, being close to each other, of the smell of love so close to the thin line of sin, yet so powerful it made Will dizzy. He thought of what he promised himself last night. People like her deserve to get their teeth knocked out of their heads in order to make space for some common sense to get in.

Normal.

What is there to be afraid of?

Be quicker than fear.

We all hurt. Make it monumental. Make it epic.

His clenched right fist hit Rowan Fleetwood straight across the mouth hard. He saw through narrowed eyes Rowan reeling back, pushed by the unexpected impact, hunched over with a hand pressed to his shocked lips. Will’s own hand ached so badly he thought he was going to throw up. His fingers were red when he looked down. That’s when he realized that he’d grazed Rowan’s teeth with his inexperienced but strong mid-sentence punch. Each one of his fingers felt like it was snapped in half, with daggers sticking out of his knuckles. He bit his lips hard to suppress the need to cry and bit back the awful pain. What has he done? It all happened so fast, in a moment of mania and stark simplicity—it was gone in a second, leaving only pain behind.

He drew his gaze again from his swollen, throbbing hand to Rowan. Both of his hands were plastered over his reddening face. He was on his knees on the ground, muffling loud sobs and hisses. Their little school audience made an audible gasp in sync, at the same time Will had realized it, and Lisa screamed. On the ground, next to Rowan lay two bloody teeth, covered in saliva and pain.

Chapter Text

December 2nd, 1988

Will hates hospitals. He always has. Bad memories don’t exactly help. Sometimes he didn’t even need to find a reason. He just really hates hospitals.

The smell is too strong, like he remembers, but now it hits him worse; lands an arrow straight through his system, making him cease to function properly—the only thing moving in the room was Will’s unsteady breathing hitching his chest up and down. His brain and thoughts have halted to a screeching stop. He kept his eyes closed. There was nothing to see. White walls, sterile and starkly bright, all too uncomfortable to look at, were around him. His bed was low; he felt so small, as if he were a mouse reclining on the ground in a heavenly cage made of light. The sheets felt moth-eaten and dusty, but were as comfortable as Will could have asked for. The door felt like it was miles away, stretching on further and further away, like his mind was running through a hallway that just kept expanding beneath his feet, pushing the exit down away from him. A nightstand of sorts was on his right with a glass of water drained to the last drop and some leftover painkillers.

Painkillers are a handy thing. He swore that every cell in his body felt easy. Maybe that’s also why he was so light-headed ever since he woke up. Well, waking up is not putting it the best way, since he didn’t really sleep at all that night. He didn’t feel his hand. Sure, it was there, he could touch the cast with his left hand, he could move the hand at the elbow and shoulder, hover it over the face, analyzing the bruising peeking out from beneath the white bandage, stare at the blood they couldn’t clean still stained under his fingernails. But he didn’t really feel it. He couldn’t judge how bad the pain was because of the medication, but he knew the last time, before the nurse came to sedate him nicely again, in those brief moments where he had feel over his body, it was unbearable. The pain was so sharp and excruciating, it felt like someone was snapping his fingers and bending them at every angle and in all directions, squeezing the life out of them. Then the meds came and his head hit the pillow for a dreamless nap, slipping in and out of consciousness, his mind heavy. Will wouldn’t know it, but he imagined that’s what being drunk feels like. And suddenly, he hated his father even more.

The night was bad. Will tossed and turned the whole time, waking up a lot and sleeping in short, disturbed intervals. The white room, dark all of a sudden, felt wrong, engulfed in black and the very subtle sound of some monitor beeping a few rooms away that Will was able to catch on with all his other senses being useless. Except for smell and that goddamn scent he could not get out of his nose. He really hated it, that’s for sure. Needless to say, he was tired even in the early morning hours. He was sure there were black circles below his eyes and that his eyelids were all puffy and red, because he was pretty sure he cried into the pillow at some point. His memory got all jumbled up. He just wanted to be out of here, but he was stuck, bored, with nothing to do, in silence, staring at the wall, mind blank.

Jonathan had stayed with him for as long as Will let him, though both of them had come to some silent, mutual compromise that he’d explain to Jonathan everything some other time. His brother didn’t push it. They were quiet the whole time, with Jonathan seated in the chair a nurse had brought into the room, hand on Will’s right shoulder to remind his little brother that he was there, just like he’d promised. No one said much, and Will knew, because that was the first and practically only thing Jonathan said when he came to drive him to the hospital, that he was not mad. Not at all. Just worried sick. So he stayed by Will’s bedside for a while, until Will could calm down his breathing and until Jonathan got kicked out for taking so much of the patient's time. With one last look, a frown between his eyebrows as he glanced down to Will’s new cast, Jonathan left, promising him a visit first thing tomorrow morning, but even then, he didn’t have to speak. He would bring him his mix tape.

It was 7:15. Will shifted in the bed, feeling his muscles had gone completely loose by the lack of movement and the pose, where he rested on the bed frame, half upright, so the circulation to his legs was cut off at his waist. He didn’t know why, but he just couldn’t bring himself to speak at all yesterday. It wasn’t like he didn’t just want to, which, fair enough, he’d definitely keep a lot of things out when speaking to Jonathan, but even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. His throat felt useless. He tried to strain it, opened his mouth, formed the words in his stomach, felt them rise up to his neck, but when he had to transform them into sound and push them out, he simply couldn’t. The back of his throat would fill with air, but it was as if his vocal cords had been ripped out; however, that wasn’t entirely true either. He could make a sound, he could cry, make a squeal, get out simple ‘yes’ and ‘no’s. It was his mind that was limiting. In that moment, so overwhelmed as he was, forming words, saying coherent sentences and speaking, being part of a conversation became a much too troubling task. So he gave up. Opened his mouth only to drink and swallow pills.

What could he say anyway? He can’t tell him the full truth. He doesn’t have a defense. Not a good reason either. Not one that he can say. Not anything to be proud of. He had nothing but broken pride and fingers and a lot of anger that had evaporated with Rowan’s teeth and now, just like his mouth, left him hollow. The trauma had him by the throat and he still felt the injuries fresh on his neck from the chokehold. When he did sleep, he dreamt. When he didn’t sleep, he saw. On the walls, in the shadows on the room, in the back of his mind. The flashbacks—they were faint, but there. Present. It was far from the screaming episodes he had had a mere year ago, unreality coming to life in the corner of reality, but he hated them nonetheless. He hated himself for living through that. But that memory was a part of him. That hour and a half was a part of him. He needed to live with that.

But when that all faded, he thought about Mike.

He thought about his pretty loose curls, each one unique and different from the other, wound up like tiny springs jumping up and down with the wind, tickling his shoulders, curving against his neck. He thought about the way he wanted to bury his hand in it, run his fingers through each curl, memorize each shape in which they come, twirl a strand and tug at it like it’s the most precious material in the world. He thought about that feeling and let it sink in him, let it drown him, overtake his busy mind with the warmth of that simple want and fill him with pure joy. He thought about his lively eyes, and their perfect oval shape, carrying a warm pool the color of coffee grains, with a glint of gold reflecting when the sun hit them, shining a true ember when they’d watched the sunset together for the first time. He thought about how he wanted to count the freckles on his face, each and every one, even though they were barely visible; Will wanted to find where each one hid and kiss it. He thought about how mesmerized he was by the way his nose sat on his face, so proportioned and immaculate, like every piece of him was molded by a godly hand, perfected, smoothed over and sculpted to a version so angelic it was stupid. This is stupid, Will thinks, before he realizes he is thinking about smoothing the bridge of his crooked, curvy nose himself. But not to reshape and mold him—just to remember him. He thought about his lips—his thin, finely shaped and small, childishly pink lips and the way they kissed him. So easily. So freely. So beautifully chaotic. All of the things Michael Wheeler was—in one simple kiss.

He thought about how the dry, awkward press of Mike’s mouth against his, for just that quick moment before he pulled away and made room for doubt and hate to come in—it didn’t feel wrong. He didn’t think of Rowan Fleetwood or that night; he didn’t want to retch because of the touch or the skin-to-skin contact, he didn’t feel alarmed or on fire, his mind didn’t spiral for just a second. It all felt calm. For a moment, it felt right. Easy. Free. Beautiful even. Beautifully chaotic.

Normal.

For a second, for the first time in his whole life, Will Byers felt normal. And it was all because of Mike Wheeler.

Then again, every other time he felt normal was when he was with Mike. The only times he felt normal—when they were together. With Jane and Maxine. With people like him. Like them.

And that is when, here in this hospital with broken fingers and no self-esteem, and no one but himself to hide the truth from, he decided he won’t anymore. So that is when, here in this hospital with broken fingers, Will realized he was in love with Michael Wheeler and he wanted to be with him every day for the rest of time and he was nothing more than the most human being ever for wishing that. For wishing for love; for wishing for the freedom to hold the hand of the person he loves. Thinking about it made so much sense now, dazed and high on painkillers and medications, all hazy but still thinking more clearly than ever: of course, he was in love with Mike. That is the most natural thing he can think of. Hell, it might be the most natural thing ever.

He is definitely high. Is that wall melting? It kind of looks like it is. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably everything.

He did just punch out the teeth of his assaulter. It feels amazing and since it seemed to him he was on a spree of admitting things to himself he thought were bad, might as well throw this in there. It felt good. He was not rested enough to tackle the huge moral debate on whether he deserved it, or did anyone deserve it and how maybe the teeth were going over the top, because he just felt relieved he did it, and maybe later he could find it in him to regret it. Not now. Not today.

Right now, he is thinking about Mike. And that’s more than enough to make him happy, forget the pain—it worked better than the painkillers.

I am normal. I don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong about my love and me.

There was a knock and a nurse opened the door, letting someone enter Will’s little white room. It was Jonathan. He looked like he was dressed for work, in a striped light brown shirt with a big, chunky red tie that was messily put. Will didn’t know how to put on a tie. No one ever taught him to. Jonathan barely. He was wearing some hideous suspenders, patterned like Scottish plaid, digging into his shoulders way too tightly. Will actually liked them in fact.

“I like your suspenders… It’s very you,” he said upon his brother entering, more just to let him know he’s doing better and can speak, and is willing to too.

“Thank you. It’s just for work, you know.”

Jonathan’s step was tentative when he slowly began crossing the room with a chair in his hold. He sat it down beside Will’s bed and sat down in it, letting the silence ease Will as he took his time to clear his throat and smile at his brother warmly.

“How are you today? Did you sleep at all? Your hand?”

“I’m fine,” it takes him a second to lie next, “I slept well. My hand’s better. I’m still on those meds, so it doesn’t hurt at all. They say I’ll be out today.”

“You holding on?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s really not that bad,” which wasn’t a complete lie.

“Good. Did you eat anything?”

“Last night, yeah, a little bit.”

Jonathan had a smug smirk as he watched his brother happily: “Was it like really bad or… edible?”

Will snorted a quiet laugh, remembering the old peas he barely touched last night. They tasted fine, though. “It was okay, I guess.”

Jonathan nodded his head, pleased, genuinely glad his brother was doing better. He asked to see the cast and Will lazily brought his hand up, let it linger for Jonathan for a second or two and brought it back down. He didn’t really like looking at it—and what it reminded him of.

“So, if you’re out today, just tell the nurse or something to give me a call and I’ll pick you up, okay? I’m so sorry about that, Will,” he said, gesturing broadly across the room and to his bed, where he still reclined covered in the moth-eaten blankets in his old clothes. Some blue polo shirt from god knows where. He nodded.

“It’s fine, Jonathan—I punched him.”

“I figured that much.”

Will made an attempt to chuckle with Jonathan, but it was not so easy. He kept thinking of those staring eyes, all on him, how hard it was to breathe and keep from fainting. He kept going back to that moment where the anger burst out and something in him snapped and took over him, driven by some animalistic, mad instinct. No matter how good it felt to have stood up for himself and come to peace with who he was, or the first major step there, he felt bad. He could feel the sadness in the hollow part of his chest.

He heard Jonathan sigh and shift, but he kept his eyes somewhere straight ahead, through the small window in front of him. “You know you can tell me when you want to, right? Whenever. I just—Will? Can you tell me just this, please?”

When Will didn’t answer his brother, just finally snapped his gaze, watching him curiously. Jonathan steadied and continued: “Did he deserve it?”

That was not what Will had expected to be asked, but he felt relief washing over him because at least that was easy to answer in this moment.

“Yes.”

Jonathan studied him for a long moment; something unfamiliar in his face Will didn’t know how to read. He was choosing what to say, rolling the words over silently, gaze stern and serious locked onto him.

“In that case, I’m proud of you, Will.”

Jonathan turned over something in his hand, gliding four fingers over the top of something black and smooth, blocked from Will’s view. He tried to get a better look, but he couldn’t stretch his neck out enough. Adjusting his tie with his free hand, Jonathan offered his hand out, that thing in his palm lying before Will now. It was the cassette with the old headphones wrapped around it. Will’s favorite. The opening track was Should I Stay or Should I Go, and the closing was Boys Don’t Cry, and the runtime was a little over two and a half hours. His heart fluttered with appreciation as he took the cassette with his good hand and placed it in his lap.

“I know you’re getting out today, but still, it must be pretty boring here, so I just—“

“Thank you, Jonathan, really. It means a lot,” he finally said, with none much of grace but a lopsided smile and tears in the back of his eyes he held closed away. Everything was daring to spill out again. Not in front of Jonathan. He didn’t want him to worry more than he already is.

Will stared at the cassette, twiddling around with it with his left hand, trying to recall the exact order of the songs on the mix tape, thinking back to all the times he ran out of the window with it, walked for the two and a half hours just listening, staring at his shoes, being everywhere and nowhere all at once. He was fairly sure he could recite all the songs in order if he was given about five minutes. The bruise on his left hand didn’t go unnoticed by the doctors, but Will was persistent in convincing them it was old and from an accident while playing catch with his dog, Chester. It was clear something had ripped his skin and made him bleed, but the medical professionals had bigger things to worry about, which Will was endlessly thankful for. It was purple.

Friendly silence fell over them, Jonathan feeling the moment as too precious to ruin and leaving Will to absently hold the cassette to him. Will's mind was going in all sorts of directions, everywhere, nowhere, somewhere… some roads were winding, some dark, some light, some were straight, some were twisting—and they all led to Mike. It was just a joke.

There was a sudden urge to spill it all out. The truth, the confession, the tears, the guts… everything… He felt Jonathan's eyes waiting for an explanation, hoping for Will to say something. And his heart stared right back, screaming in his ribcage, wanting to be heard. He felt fear rise up in him, as another half-truth bubbled under his tongue.

“He called me a slur,” Will said very suddenly, cutting through the quiet hospital air in the room between Jonathan and him. It hurt him that he knew Jonathan was not going to buy it. Jonathan knew he got called that every other day. Why throw a deadly punch now?

Jonathan’s eyes were filled with understanding, calm, almost expecting a scenario like this: “And you punched him because of that?”

The way he said it wasn’t disbelieving or accusatory. He was just posing a simple, normal question. Just a simple, normal question Will wouldn’t have even been asked if he’d told the full truth.

“He started…” Will’s mouth felt so dry as he struggled with the phrasing of such a complex matter he didn’t even fully understand, “…talking shit about Mike too and I just… I don’t know, I couldn’t stand that—that he was dragged in it too, I mean, and everything, so I just—I just lost it.”

Jonathan was silent for a really long time, like he was fully absorbing the words, the gears shifting in his head, running over the words like soft fur of an animal in his mind. Will’s brother was always really intelligent and knew him well. Two things Will didn’t really like to think about, especially in moments like these.

“And Mike, he means a lot to you… so that’s where you drew the line?” Jonathan finally spoke slowly, dragging each word out.

It wasn’t really a question and Will knew it. He nodded his head wearily. That was at least something he was sure of. And that his brother was not stupid.

“Mike. He’s a special friend, right?” He didn’t say it, trying to imply that he wouldn’t have punched the teeth of the popular kid out for Dustin and Lucas, but it was clear that they were stuck somewhere in the awkward space between those lines. His brother was not stupid, and that meant he would never push Will to do anything. Will could just close his eyes and not say another thing and Jonathan would respectfully leave after a bit, understanding and calm. But Will wanted to. So much. His heart yearned. It hurt, but he forced himself to dive into this conversation with eyes trained on Jonathan’s funky suspenders.

“Yeah… yeah, I guess,” Will’s chest soared with pain he swore wasn’t just in his head, as he pushed the words out of his dead throat box, “you could say so, yes. I mean, he’s—he’s…” why is it so hard to describe that boy? It felt impossible. Like he could never even begin to explain and grasp onto the workings of Michael Wheeler and the way he made Will feel. He gave away a deep sigh, “He’s Mike.”

A soft hum came in response from his brother, who looked deep in thought. Will felt the words flooding the dam, daring to spill out all at once, completely nonsensically. He felt the suffocation dry him out, getting too heavy and too much to hold down. He could not sit it down anymore and he knew it. Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes, in response to this horrible decision he was feeling around in his mind. At the end, however, Will knew he would have no control. Will knew he could not run from the truth. He had been, all his life, ignoring it, turning his back on it, averting his eyes, turning the other cheek to this cruel life. Not yesterday. Not anymore. He finally faced the truth, let it be known, because it was what it was. It was just Will, his fist and his right. He already punched Rowan. He was already one step closer to self-love, having freed himself from the figurative cage by knocking the teeth out of his assaulter’s head. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to, for once, be proud.

One step at a time.

Will opened his mouth and took a breath, bracing himself. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t look away from Jonathan’s eyes and perked ears. He had been waiting all this time, silently blending into the background static, letting Will be on this dusty hospital bed. The warm tones of his eyes felt like they could turn to stone any second, and that made Will recoil, fall back into the sheets and close his heavy eyes. This is horrible. This is exhausting. He wanted to believe, with the fullest of his heart, that his brother would love and accept him, wouldn’t mind something so alien in the world they were living in was a part of his brother, but it was not so nonsensical and irrational to fear the opposite. Jonathan was the only stable pillar in his life, the support he was always able to lean on, trust and turn to when the bullying would get really bad, and the thought of losing that and his brother, whom he loved more than anything, abandoning him or thinking less of him made him sick. That’s why he never ever came close to telling such a thing to Jonathan. The knowledge could ruin everything. Yet, this was Jonathan. In a sickly sweet thought that makes the tears even harder to keep from spilling, Will shudders. He is not Lonnie.

He grabbed the back of his neck with his left hand, almost on instinct. How does he even say this? How and where does he even begin? How do you ease someone into a matter of so many layers and complexities and varying moral debates, almost all against the very thing you are trying to explain, when you don’t even fully understand it? Will doesn’t want to choke anymore and he knew that, too.

“And you…” Jonathan spoke first, it was so careful and soft, slowly waiting for Will’s reaction on whether he should stop or keep going. When Will gave away none, with an unsteady voice, he continued, “You’re glad you did that for Mike?”

Before he could second-doubt it, Will followed the heart. He nodded his head slightly.

“Then, I’m glad too. That was very… beautiful of you, you know?”

Will loved his brother a lot more than he thought. Instead of answering, with this newfound knowledge, still blindly and dangerously following the heart, he said, so quietly it was barely audible: “I would do anything for him.”

It was as close to a confession as Will could get right now. It was all he could say; it was all the thoughts he was having in his head, about Mike and himself and this damned world that he could form and say out loud, bring over his lips. It was all he could say, but it was enough. He gave a look to Jonathan, one he wasn’t aware just how broken and poetically sad it was, with a single tear dragging its way lazily across his left cheek. There were thousands of things that the two brothers understood, thousands of things they said to each other in that second, in that quick moment of realization, before a strange peace Will didn’t know he could feel engulfed the whole room.

Will’s body was yanked up, smashing against Jonathan’s soft chest, pulled into the tightest hug he had ever received. He let his chin sink into his brother’s shoulder and his good hand gripped those silly suspenders as relief left him sweetly hollow, and with a stupid grin on his face he couldn’t seem to shake. The feeling that came over him was so addictive, if he could bottle it, he would get drunk on it every night, drink it clean until he could feel nothing but the loveliness of this. Unspoken acceptance.

“You’re gay?” Although it was posed as a question, Jonathan didn’t intonate it like that. For the first time in his life, Will didn’t feel offended by this whatsoever.

“Yes,” it was still a little hard to say, but when he set on to finish the sentence, it was as if he was lifting out of the bed, happier than ever, “Jonathan, I’m gay.”

Will was shocked when, after too many seconds it took him to realize this, he came to conclude that the quiet and soft sobs weren’t coming from him and he wasn’t the one crying. Jonathan was. The hug didn’t break and Will let it linger as long as it wanted to—as long as it felt right. He tugged affectionately on his brother’s suspenders in an effort to calm him down, failing to understand why he was the one producing way more tears than Will was. He was a bit confused, his chest a bit tight and uncertain. He didn’t really know how to read this situation. It was beyond him. Was this bad?

“You’re…and you’re not mad… or disgusted or—“ he ducked his chin out, trying to get to sound safely to Jonathan, voice still shaky.

“Will—God no, Will. No! Never.”

Jonathan sniffled and finally pulled away, still leaving his hand on his shoulder, nails digging into his blue polo shirt protectively. “Will, there is nothing wrong with you. And I’m—I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t tell me that, or that I wouldn’t accept you—accept and love you. Because I always will. No matter what, and this—this doesn’t change anything, okay. No, it’s not disgusting. It’s so cool.”

“Cool?” Will said meekly, completely breathless.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Jonathan’s smirk was one genuine in a world where Will forgot what one looked like. In a world where people somehow found it so hard to spare humanity for the one thing it was meant for—humans. Will wiped his face clean, not quite sure if this was real—but knowing if it was a dream, he’d never want to wake up. Once again, Will Byers felt free.

Clearing his throat, he added, “I stand by what I said. Mike deserves…. a boyfriend like you.”

Will didn’t really know what to say to that. The ecstasy had tied his tongue around itself. Someone else accepted him. He said those words. Jonathan said it was cool. Once again, there was nothing in this world that felt more natural than admitting it all. The tears that wouldn’t stop felt like the children of nature, his shaking, broken hands like a symbol of love, the broken fingers like the purest sacrifice he was willing to take with his whole heart and soul. Everything went right. In a lavishly beautiful thought, Will thinks himself lucky. He is so lucky.

“I—I mean, I guess, I don’t know…” he couldn’t look at his brother in the eyes, out of shame. Shame to be in a room with such a person as he was. He didn’t know how to thank him and express his gratitude. He fidgeted with the cast impatiently. If only it weren’t a joke to Mike. The kiss, or life, or both… If only Mike knew how to talk about feeling without making a show out of it. A show Will didn’t know how to interpret.

“Hey, everything is going to be alright.”

Will smiled warmly at his brother and his words. He was pleasantly surprised at how nice it was to hear and believe that. So he let himself. It felt like the least foolish thing he’d ever done. Just be a little bit hopeful for once.

“Jonathan. I love you and—and thank you, for everything.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Jonathan was up, hands on his hips, “freaks stick together. You deserve it, Will. So much.”

It was a joke.

Listening to his favorite cassette, eyes closed, reclining in the hospital bed, Will wondered how he could be in love with such a dumbass. Images of Mike’s lanky body swinging over the metal bar, hanging upside down, and leaning over the edge keep replaying in Will's head. He keeps going back to what he’d initially said, those first two out-of-character questions he’d posed almost like accidentally, when he had that look in his eyes that left bloody trails in Will’s memory. He feels it too—that moment where everything hangs on a thin thread, that adrenaline that surges through your veins as you play with fire, close your eyes and throw your body down, draw the sword out. He’d felt it when talking to Jonathan. He was still feeling it now.

Do you remember what happened on the roof?

How could he ever forget? He still gets chills when he remembers the sensation of the pure horror that blinded his vision. He still gets chills when he remembers the sensation of the pure kiss that Mike planted on his lips. He thinks about it. Way more than he should, probably. He should probably take Mike’s words, but he can’t. Both of these things were not something Will thought he could be cool with just never talking about. Every joke stands on a base of some bit of truth.

That makes him freeze. But why would Mike ever want to kiss you? And why would Mike want to jump off the roof? He would never.

It was just a joke after all.

But Will Byers—he can’t stop looming over those thoughts, buried in the bed with his music—he can’t stop. It’s driving him insane. This hospital is driving him insane. This stupid cast is driving him insane. The smell is driving him insane. Michael Wheeler is driving him insane. Everything.

Most of all, however, it drives him insane that he wishes so badly that that little manic kiss wasn’t just a joke to Mike. Will stares at the window. The window stares back at Will. It’s so unclear. The window, I mean. It’s smudged and smoke-dimmed. There are endless possibilities on what time of day it is outside, which Will cannot accurately guess. He lets himself hope.

What if it wasn’t a joke?

You never know. Everything is possible, it seemed like these days.

Mike’s voice echoes in his head, overlapping with his, cutting like a sharp knife.

What if what wasn’t a joke, Will?

Chapter Text

“There’s a visitor for you, honey. Do you think you could—“

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” It’s probably just Dustin and Lucas. Though school wouldn’t be out by now, Will thinks sheepishly with a blurred mind. Maybe they skipped class. He is not exactly okay. In fact, he wants to get out of here, climb a roof and scream at this whole damned city and everyone in it, but the nurse is very nice—the one who takes care of Will—and he was half curious to see who decided to bring him company after almost rendering a kid unconscious.

The brunette smiled warmly and closed the door carefully as she went back to pick up Will’s unexpected visitor. The boy on the hospital bed hung the headphones he had not taken off this whole morning around his neck, smoothed his wrinkled blue collar, and released a deep sigh. It took a good while before the door slowly opened again, and allowed in by the kind nurse, Mike Wheeler stepped inside.

The first thought, and the only coherent one Will was able to produce before his brain short-circuited, was that Mike looked horrible. Horrible, but still nonetheless beautiful. His eyes were swollen and sunken deep into his eye sockets—it seemed like he hadn’t slept in days. His gaze was tired and weak, something so sad revealing itself in those big, expressive eyes. He looked so frail, it made Will want to scream. He was paler than even what was the usual for him. His skin matched the color of the walls like an artist would. Mike looked sick and sleepless. Maybe Will was just imagining things under this bright light, but he looked skinnier too, and his face immediately frowned lovingly upon setting his eyes on the boy in the hospital bed with the cassette fondly pressed to his stomach.

Softness graced Mike, his movements and presence akin to some ancient porcelain doll. Will’s whole body melted into the bed, leaked on the floor like spilled milk, as both of them found themselves alone in the room, sitting across from each other, not knowing what to say. The way Mike looked, Will finally put a finger on it, reminded him of the way he did when the two of them were outside the Palace, alone, for that split second. Except this time, it didn’t go away when Will blinked. Mike was still like an angel whose wings have been cut off, sullenly smiling at Will, as close to the bedside as his chair would go. God, he looks like shattered glass on the highest point of some romantic church, through which holy light shone bright. Even now, the rays breaking through in patches between the smudges on the window threw themselves gracefully on top of Mike’s shoulders, surrounded him in light, bathed his yellow woolen sweater in gold.

God, he’s majestic. And so painfully sad…

Will’s guts felt twisted and stabbed as he just watched, waiting for Mike to say something. But the black-haired boy’s eyes were trained on his hand, resting in his lap, holding the mix tape. They were watching intently. He finally, empathetic and full as the moon, drew his eyes to Will’s face and immediately smiled raw.

“Hi, Will,” he said softly, almost like a whisper, like the breeze of the fall wind.

“Hi, Mike,” fluttering his eyes open, Will replied simply. He didn’t even have time to think about how glad he was that Mike showed up so quickly and was sitting here next to him.

“How are you?” That voice, that weirdly sweet and tender voice again, that Will wanted to inject in his veins like some sort of addictive drug to his system. He swears he hears it. He swears Mike knows it.

It’s such a stupid question, but Will still felt his cheeks flush. “Ah, you know… I’m okay. It’s a little boring here, though.”

He waited for Mike to crack a joke about it being a million times better now that he is here, with his ordinary sarcastic voice, and Will would roll his eyes and say how annoying he was while silently agreeing with the joke, silently thinking—knowing it was right. But Mike gave away no reaction. His stance and tense posture didn’t ease. He remained still.

“How’s your arm? Does it hurt a lot?”

“No,” Will was taken aback by this seriousness. Not that Mike couldn’t be serious; it’s not like they never talked about anything substantial—this was just different… it wasn’t like Mike. Something was wrong and Will could sense it. “The medication really works, and it’s definitely getting better anyway.”

Silences are an odd thing. Will thinks about right now how hard it is to define the quiet. It’s a very sensitive topic to approach. We bend this occurrence to our needs and our satisfaction with it always shifts, like the surface of the sea. Sometimes they can be the most comforting, pleasant moments and other times they can cause the most unsettling, nerve-racking moments. The quiet always depends on context; by itself, it really means nothing. By itself—it is nothing. Silence. No sound. And this particular silence, whose context Will didn’t understand, really bothered him—not being able to judge this one in the slightest. Because just about right now, Will realized he didn’t understand Mike Wheeler at all.

Mike bit his bottom lip hard, as if to keep from falling apart, searching for a voice before asking: “What did you do?”

So he doesn’t know.

“Uh…”

Nothing. I just knocked Rowan Fleetwood’s, the richest and most popular kid’s front teeth out with my bare fist but not really because he was mocking me, bullying me, committing hate crimes towards me and indirectly himself too, not because he assaulted me, not necessarily, no, because this had been going on for a really long time and I had it together just fine before he called you a loser so I had to.

Now, how does that sound? Ridiculous. Because it was true.

“I punched a kid… in the mouth, so I—I broke some fingers,” Mike’s eyes were glued to him, doe and wide, waiting patiently. Will averted his gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Will…” Mike breathed and Will felt his whole body shiver.

“It’s nothing…just high school bullshit,” he tried his best to brush it off, sound as nonchalant as he could.

“We don’t have to talk about it… it’s okay. I—“ Mike squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply, “I was just worried sick, okay…”

Will stuttered to say something, opened his mouth, but the words were gone from his mind and the air was snatched away from his lungs. Mike didn’t dare look him in the eyes, his gaze was still on Will’s hand, somewhere on the bed at least; Will couldn’t really tell because his bangs and hair were in his face and clearly overgrown, falling into his eyes, covering both of their views.

“I’m sorry—“

“No, I’m sorry,” Mike’s voice cut him off, and when they locked eyes, Will could swear electricity flashed between them, “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about, Mike—“ Will shifted in his bed, setting the cassette aside so that he was even closer to his visitor and could hopefully get on eye level with him so Mike wouldn’t have to look up at him like that, like a puppy who was pleading with him. Maybe try to see what those eyes hid.

It was as if Mike wasn’t even listening, because he stopped himself mid-way with another train of thought, smacking his hands together. “I’m just glad you’re fine.”

Will decided not to push it. “Thanks…I really am. And thank you for coming to visit.”

Mike didn’t smile: “Of course I did. I wanted to see you.”

Warmth spread through Will’s face at that. He felt a little at ease hearing those words come from Mike, as if it was some confirmation on the validity of his existence in the boy’s life. He let the shudder escape from his shoulders, run away into the thick air, and took deep breaths, taking in the smell of Mike being there; the fact that he was at his bedside. The one with the answers… but Will couldn’t shake the fact that something was bothering him. His long, pale fingers were tapping anxiously on the metal frame of the bed; he was hunched over, his eyes bloodshot—he was sad. Will was so taken aback by that he fought the urge to climb over the bed and hug him, squeeze him tight, comfort him, make him smile again.

Mike’s face was still so tight when he tried to say something, when he tried to seem normal again. He was looking at Will with that same intensity he had when he was shouting over the railing on the roof. He had the same odd shine in that soft stare he did when he’d asked Will to come closer. It burned. The look burned. “I’m just sorry, I—“

“Hey, hey, Mike…” before Will could think over what he was doing, he placed his left bruised hand on top of Mike’s fidgeting one, softening his voice and steadying Mike’s fingers, caging them under his. “Mike, what’s wrong?” Every heartbeat soared and burned inside Will’s chest as he waited for Mike to move and say something. But he didn’t.

The boy’s hair, messy and tangled, the curls undefined and rough, fell even more across his face as he urgently shook his head. Will could see his eyes were slammed tightly shut and it didn’t look like he was saying no; the sight looked more like Mike was trying to awake from a nightmare, shut himself out of a bad dream. He looked like he was in physical pain, and Will swore the hand under his, unmoving and light, turned freezing cold. That’s when he realized there were tears, salty, barely noticeable tears prickling in the corners of Mike’s closed eyes. His heart sank into his stomach. He felt hot panic rise in his chest.

“Mike, it’s okay…. talk to me, I—“

“No, Will, no,” the both of them looked equally confused, or at least Will thought so. He didn’t know that Mike felt as determined as ever, as he ever will be again. Mike let out a loud sigh, as if the words much more meaningful he wanted to say turned to ash and he could only release them again, before he returned to chanting his old mantra. “I’m sorry, Will, I—“

Will felt the cold hand under his begin to move. He thought Mike was going to pull away, even though he really didn’t want him to, but instead, the hand just shifted. It turned around fully so their hands were now palm to palm. Mike’s palm was drenched in cold sweat, hollow and chilly as it pressed against Will’s. Their hands aligned perfectly, like shooting stars in the sky, like missing earrings. Mike’s fingers wiggled a bit further out; Will was only scared for a second, because they quickly hooked themselves around Will’s hand. They were so gentle and light that, despite the nasty bruising, Will didn’t feel any pain. It took him a second too long to realize what the boy was doing.

His warm hand was resting against Mike’s cold mouth.

Mike had raised Will's hand, slowly and deliberately, sinking his back and face even lower until they met halfway, pressing and colliding together like a car crash you can’t look away from. Will felt Mike’s cracked and tiny, but delicate lips on his knuckles, dried blood still on them, Mike’s mouth on his old wounds. He planted a soft, small kiss on four of his knuckles, as if that way he could heal. As if that way he could say. Say all he couldn’t say. All that Will could not understand. As if that would erase what had happened. Will’s breath hitched at the sight, Mike’s long hair tickling his fingers. The boy wasn’t letting go; his warm breath was still atop Will’s hand.

When he finally drew away, still clutching Will’s hand but meeting his eyes honestly, he said the thing Will had both been dying to hear and dying to never ever hear leave his lips. Mike’s lips were sore, bright red and his mouth was bloodied when he spoke slowly:

“It wasn’t a joke, Will.”

And then Mike Wheeler vanished.

Dustin and Lucas came to visit him that late afternoon, after school and a bit before Will was supposed to be out. They didn’t ask him about it, they didn’t push it—if they were wondering, they did it to themselves, which made it easier for Will to express his gratitude to them. For everything they did. No worries, they had said, always Will. You are our best friend.

For the rest of the time they were there, Will was out of it. They talked about something Will was not sure he was following. Everyone at school was talking about him, saying he’s a… badass? How crazy it was that he’d punched Fleetwood’s teeth out. Will was definitely not following. They switched topics quickly, however, evidently because Will was visibly not too keen about this conversation. There’s a new machine at the Palace. We’re going to spend all senior year on it. Maybe we have a chance at the high score before MADMAX sets it.

Will was glad they were here. He really was. But he couldn’t get that moment out of his head. Mike’s mouth on his hand, it wasn’t a joke, that odd look… What’s even stranger is that Mike had just stood up and left. He said nothing, didn’t even look back and Will himself was too stunned to speak—making that the last words they had spoken to each other. He stood up and hurried out, silently ripping and tearing apart Will’s heart in the process. The quiet really is hard to define… but in that moment, Will was sure he’d call it a cousin to death.

He isn’t in the present. He is stuck back there, trapped, mind scrambled. The replay button must be dead by now, considering the number of times Will had aggressively pressed it, rewound the mental tape and watched it again and again. Dustin and Lucas are saying something. He was joining in, but in a matter of minutes after they left, he forgot he had even been in the conversation, let alone what he said.

It wasn’t a joke.

What wasn’t the joke?

He felt the inside of his skin burn like ash, hot to the touch. He could hear the sizzling if he just focused enough in the quiet of the hospital room. The sound of him being eaten alive. Slowly. Agonizingly. From the inside. He can even muster up to think that this is insanity. This—whatever this was—has left the realm of what that word describes by far.

Will’s head is spinning. He felt utterly powerless. His eyes were glued to Mike’s mouth, cold and haunting like a cemetery, pressed tenderly to his hand, and there was no chance Will would be able to do anything. He wasn’t able to stop him as he stepped out. So now, he was left with yet another puzzle, the same problem, but much more chilling. Yet another question, but much more difficult to answer... The tides inside him crashed, smashing against each other, balling up like fists. But behind all of that, Will felt fear. Simple fear that wrapped around him tighter than the cast, caged him more than this white room and froze him efficiently to a comatose state. He was afraid. So afraid, the confusion got drowned out by a piercing, head-splitting headache, a sharp pain clicking in his temple.

But Mike looked so sad. He looked exhausted. He looked as if the tide had just thrown him ashore, wasted him up on the beach, the waves draining the life out of him in the long journey. He looked like a sick puppy sheltering from the rain, stuck in mud, unable to keep running. In his eyes, it looked like stars had died and their lights were fainting, giving one last trip right to Will’s eyes, face. Lips. He tried his best to smile, to warm up his cheek, but maybe if Will listened hard enough, he could have also heard sizzling. Something eating Mike alive, slowly, agonizingly, from the inside…

It was scary to think that. He prolonged actually forming the thought in his mind for as long as he could. It felt like crossing the danger line—as though saying it would make it all that much realer. But it had eventually popped up in his mind, and now Will wanted to scream and knock someone’s teeth out again, maybe a couple more this time.

Was Mike serious when he kissed me, or when he wanted to…

He can’t. He really can’t finish that sentence. His mind felt like an exhilarating car that crashed into a wall at full speed, dead in its tracks, as the thought went on. Will’s heart sank into his stomach. He relishes the fact, the possibility that Michael Wheeler may have wanted to kiss him, on the lips and did so, in a way that only Michael Wheeler can. Could it be that Mike thinks of Will the same way, reciprocates his confusing but undeniable feelings? Will’s heart flutters for a second, like a dead fly trying to flinch one last time, trying to find leverage to start beating again. But Will just can’t believe it, that Mike would want to—

Oh dear God, Mike wanted to jump.

Mike’s body falling, slipping from Will’s grasp, his knees failing to buckle him, swinging down and down into the pit of nothingness. Into the dark, cold pit of choice… Will’s whole body shudders, as his mind won’t stop going way too fast in all directions, violently swinging, making the boy nauseous. What if? What if? What if? Each option feels worse than the last, and Will is folding combinations together, trying to get a full picture, but nothing makes sense, nothing is for sure. How could he ever be for sure about anything when Mike’s life was on a thin thread, and there’s a choice that line, that thin thread, might have been ever thinner than Will originally thought.

Why couldn’t he have just been clearer?

Will wants to scream. Maybe he did a little. Who’s to say? The world is a blur. Their words to each other are a blur, unsure are both thinking of the same thing. Will is horrified. And he won’t stop repeating in his mind, over and over again. Will begged in his mind, pleaded to know, cried silently, wishing he could understand.

It wasn’t a joke.

What wasn’t a joke, Mike?

Will would never know. Because Michael Wheeler vanished.