Archive of Our Own ^beta

"And at last, she knew what the agony had been for." 

- Taylor Swift, The Manuscript

At 9:00 AM one cold morning in March 1990, Mike returns home after dropping off Holly at school. Like every day for the last year, he gets home, toes off his shoes, hangs up his coat, and then checks his watch. He’s due to go into work at 10:00, but it’s early still. He might have a bit of time to write before heading to the magazine.

            Ugh, the magazine. Roane Daily Times. It’s a small publication consisting mostly of advertisements for local businesses and events. But it has a couple of decent columns. Advice, interviews, that kind of thing. Mike took a job writing copy for them about two months ago. It’s soulless work…but it’s an income, and one that lets him write for a living, so it’s not the worst. Plus, Mr. Rowell, one of the big-wigs over there, has a friend who works in Weird Tales, the magazine that publishes science fiction and horror stories. Mr. Rowell has already offered to bring some of Mike’s original works to his friend…but Mike is still working up his nerve to go through with it. The “P” word. Publication.

“Mike, is that you?” his mom calls from the living room, where she’s tidying up. It’s a Tuesday – book club day for Karen and her friends.

            “Yeah, Mom.”

            “The mailman dropped off a postcard for you. It’s on the kitchen counter,” she calls back.

            Rubbing his red, chapped hands for warmth (it’s mid-March, but still damn cold outside!) Mike walks to the kitchen. He sees the post card on the counter. Greetings from Purdue University, the big stylish lettering splashed against an orange backdrop. A sketch of the campus, a cartoon of a boy with a megaphone.

            He picks it up and flips it over.

            The first thing to catch his eye is the drawing. It’s small, nestled neatly in the lower right-hand corner, but highly detailed. Mike recognizes the artist immediately, of course. And he smiles, an image jumping immediately to mind of the boy who drew it.

            He would have done it at the post office, bent over the counter with a borrowed pen, near  a window, so the lighting would be good. His hair would have hung in his face—he always complained about hair in his face while he sketched—but he would have been smiling. It’s a happy picture, after all. Four heroes, small yet utterly recognizable. The ranger, the bard, the paladin, and the sorcerer. A doodle, he’d call it. He always was too modest. “It’s not very good. Just a doodle.” Mike rolls his eyes fondly.

            To: Mike Wheeler, 2535 Maple Street, Hawkins, Indiana

            Coming home for Spring Break. College making me crazy. Need to get off campus and escape into fantasy. You game? - Will

Mike laughs. When he lifts his eyes from Will’s tight, neat handwriting, the kitchen seems brighter.

+++

Ten minutes later, Karen Wheeler goes into her kitchen to make up a snack plate for her book club ladies. They’re reading Pride and Prejudice, so she’s had the idea of doing a Victorian-era theme. Is Pride and Prejudice Victorian? She wonders, a bit late. Edwardian? Oh, who will know the difference? She drapes lace over the pretty blue plate and arranges the finger sandwiches and the store-bought cookies just so.

            “Mike?” she calls. “If book club runs late, could you take Holly to band practice?”

            A pause. No response.

            Karen lifts her head, listening to the silent house. “Mike?”

+++

In the Hawkins post office, Mike leans on the counter with a pen. He can’t draw, doesn’t even try. Instead, he writes two words—just two—then takes the post card over to the mailbox and drops it in. As it falls, he swears he feels his stomach fall too. A little drop that feels like a surge of adrenaline and makes his insides buzz. As he walks back outside, he’s not cold anymore. He’s warm all over.

            “You’re on.”

+++

Four days later, it’s March 14^th, and Mike is waiting in the arm chair by the front window. He’s got a Rubix Cube in his hands, and he’s turning it mindlessly, looking out at the street.

            “Mike!” Holly says, sounding annoyed.

            He looks over at her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, using the coffee table to paint a mini of her D&D character, Holly the Heroic. She’s frowning deeply at him with a smear of blue paint on her cheek. “What?”

            “Please, stop jiggling your leg! You’re making it impossible to get the small details!”

            Mike hadn’t realized he was jiggling his leg, but he stops and turns back toward the window. He sits there another short eternity, restlessly turning the Rubix Cube, before a car—a cheap looking station wagon with wood paneling—pulls into the driveway.

            Mike sits up straighter, and when the door opens and a familiar head of brown hair appears from the driver’s side door, he jumps up and runs past Holly toward the front door.

            “Hey!” she complains. “Jesus, Mike! You’re shaking the whole goddamn floor!”

            “Language!” Ted says dully from the next room.

            Mike throws open the front door and stops, smiling hugely as Will bends over to get his bag out of the back seat. It’s 10:00, another chilly morning, but the sky is clear, and the sun is in his hair. He’s wearing jeans and a yellow Purdue sweater. When Will turns and sees Mike, his smile unfurls like a flag. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

            “Will!” Mike leaps over the row of short hedges and runs to him.

            “Mike!” Will opens his arms wide, like a cheer, and Mike plows into him at almost full-force. Will makes an oof! sound, surprised by the impact, but laughs loudly anyway as Mike envelops him in a crushing hug. 

A moment later, Will is hugging back. Mike lets out a deep breath and leans into it. Into him. He’s warm from the car heater, and he smells like himself. Like the same detergent Mrs. Byers always used. Mike isn’t sure why that surprises him, or pleases him so much. Maybe he thought Will going off to college would…change everything. It changed other people. Nancy, during her brief stint at school, was a different person. Distant, distracted, always tired. Dustin, too. He’s always busy, or going on adventures with Steve. But Will feels the same in his arms as he ever did. Solid and warm and familiar. Mike finds himself imagining it, Will at Purdue, grocery shopping at some corner store in the city, picking up a detergent that looks familiar. Thinking of home. Of his mom, of Hawkins. The next breath he takes feels like the first one he’s taken in months.

            Will.

+++

Mike takes Will’s bag and carries it in for him. It’s surprisingly heavy. Full of D&D stuff and art books, knowing him. Mike finds himself shaking his head and feeling absurdly fond. His cheeks are beginning to hurt from smiling, and Will has only just gotten here.

            He sets the bag on the floor and turns to say something, but before he can--

            “Oh, Will, it’s so good to see you.” Karen comes around the corner, smiling warmly. She hugs Will. “How was the drive?”

            “Not too bad,” Will answers. “Most Spring Break traffic is heading east, toward the beaches, or to the airports. Not many people on the road to Hawkins.”

            Karen nods, looking a little world weary. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. We’re not exactly a holiday destination.”

            “Unless you’re into horrifying mysteries and monsters,” Will says. Then shrugs. “But still, it’s home.”

            Mike isn’t sure why he feels so warm inside, hearing him say that. Home.

            Just then, Holly bursts through the basement door, along with her gaggle of friends. “Will the Wise!” they cry out. And just like that, Will is being swarmed by his fan club. The lost children, stolen by Vecna, surrounding their hero. The Sorcerer who helped to rescue them and kill the monster. Everyone did their part, of course, but the kids are most acutely aware of Will. He was in the hive mind with them. The first of their kind, and the last. Destroyer of Evil.

            “Hey, guys,” Will says.

            Holly runs over and hugs him. So does Derek.

            “Are you done with college now?” one kid asks.

            “Haha, no, sorry. I’ve got a few years left.”

            “How long are you staying in Hawkins?”

            “About a week. I’m just here for Spring Br—”

            “Will you move back to Hawkins when you’re done with school, or are you going to stay in the city?”

            Will opens his mouth to answer, but before he can—

            “Dummy, Will is studying to be an artist! Artists don’t live in Hawkins or Indianapolis. They live in big cities like New York or—or Paris!”

            Mike glances at Will when she says that, but his expression is hard to read. He just looks a little overwhelmed right now. Too many questions, too many kids.

            “I know he’s going to be an artist, Holly! But there are, like, a billion different kinds of artists! My uncle is the cartoonist for the Hawkins Post, and he lives right here in town!”

            Derek gives an ugly snort and says, “The comics in the Post suck major buttholes. No wonder your uncle lives in town…”

            “Shut up, Derek!”

            “Okay, kids, why don’t you get back to your game and let Will relax? He just drove a really long way, and I’m sure he’s tired,” Karen says.

            As the kids begin to head back down to the basement, Mike seizes the opportunity for escape. He grabs Will’s hand and whispers, in his best imitation of The Terminator, “Come with me if you want to live.”

            Will grins, and they take off running down the hall. They barely slow down when they get to the stairs, clambering up at full-speed, taking the steps two at a time. Mike’s mom calls after them, “Slow down! Honestly! They’re grown men, but put them together, and they’re like little kids again.”

+++

Mike drops Will’s bag inside room and shuts the door. He thinks about locking it, just to keep the gremlins out… In the end, he decides against it. They’re in the middle of a campaign Holly has been working on for a while, so they probably won’t come upstairs again until dinner time.

            When Mike turns back around, Will is standing in the middle of the room, looking at the painting on the wall. The three-headed dragon rearing back on its hind legs, Mike as the Paladin with the flaming heart crest. “You hung it up,” he says.

            “Yeah, of course.” Mike goes over to stand next to him. “It’s my favorite one.”

            Will smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So,” he says, moving on. “What’s the plan?”

            Mike is still thinking about his weird smile, so it takes him a second to understand the question. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, so, bad news…” Mike slips his hands into his pockets. “I called Dustin and Lucas, but they can’t make it. Dustin didn’t know you’d be home, and he and Steve are on a camping trip in Arizona. And Lucas’s cousin is getting married tomorrow, so he and Max are in Georgia for the wedding.”

            Will looks disappointed. “Ah, man,” he says.

            “But that’s okay,” Mike says, trying to brighten the mood. “I mean, you and I can still hang out. I was thinking we could go see Back to the Future Part 2, and I got Holly an NES for Christmas, but we could totally steal it and play Mega Man. And I know you’ll want to spend some time with your mom too, but if you have time, we could, like…sleep over in the basement, and watch scary movies, and gorge ourselves on pizza and junk food, like we used to. What do you think?”

            Will’s expression lifts as Mike talks, until his eyes are sparkling. “Honestly?” he says. “That sounds amazing.”

            Mike thinks so too. It sounds like exactly what he’s needed for a long time. It sounds perfect. “Cool,” he says.

            “Cool,” Will parrots, looking happy, and healthy, and stable, and just…good.

He looks good.

+++

They decide to take their bikes into town, for old time’s sake. And also because Will’s car isn’t exactly a luxury vehicle…and gas costs a lot of money. Like, a lot.

            “I love school,” Will says as they drag the bikes out of the garage. “But it’s expensive. And let’s face it, art school isn’t exactly the safest pathway into a reliable income…”

            “You won’t be a starving artist,” Mike says, putting up his kickstand. “You’re too talented. No, you’re going to be one of those rich, famous artists living in Paris, like Holly’s friends said.”

            Will looks down modestly. “I don’t know about that…”

            “Well, I do,” Mike says. When Will doesn’t look at him, he reaches out and gives him a playful shove. It’s almost sun down. The sky is orange and full of pink and purple clouds. They’re walking to the end of the driveway with their bikes, and Will stumbles, not expecting it. He raises his eyebrows in surprise at Mike, who says, “I mean it. Whatever you choose to do…you’ll be fantastic at it. I know it.”

            “Thanks,” Will says, quiet and still bashful. Still modest. Then, shaking it off, he throws his leg over the side of the bike and begins to pedal. “Until then, at least I’ll stay in good shape, biking everywhere!”

            Mike laughs and follows him, pedaling down the street as the sun sinks under the horizon. “And hey! If the art thing really doesn’t work out, you can live in my basement, and we’ll just watch movies and play Nintendo forever!”

            “You got a deal!” Will says loudly, over the whizzing of their tires on the asphalt. Ahead of them, the lights of downtown glow like stars.

+++

They spend hours out, seeing Back to the Future, eating a cheap, greasy dinner at the diner, then over to the arcade, where Mike totally wipes the floor with Will at Karate Champ.

            After his last, and most crushing loss, Will throws his hands up in aggravation and howls in defeat. “Argh! Come on, dude! How the hell are you so good at this?”

            Mike turns to him smugly, the lights from the arcade cabinet flashing between them. “While you were off studying at school, I was honing my skills.”

            Will fights to suppress his amusement. “Well, Mr. Karate Master, you could let me win once in a while!”

            Mike shakes his head. Tsk, tsk, tsk. “William,” he says disapprovingly. “That wouldn’t be an honorable victory.”

            Will just rolls his eyes hugely and walks away from the cabinet. Mike chuckles and trots after him, grinning from ear to ear. He’s high on the nostalgia, arcade lights, and the greasy ball of food in his gut. And Will. He’s high on Will too.

God, he feels like a kid again.

            “What now?” Mike asks, falling into step next to Will.

            “Well…” Will checks his watch and frowns. “It’s getting pretty late. I should probably get home to Mom.”

            Late? Mike blinks and checks his watch. Only then does he realize, Will is right. It’s nearly ten PM. Somehow, the whole day has gone already! He tries not to be disappointed and remind himself that this was only night one of Will’s week-long break. They’ve got six more days. “All right,” he says. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

            As they’re walking out the door of the arcade and into the chilly night, Will says, “Tomorrow, I should probably spend some time with Mom. It’s been hard on her, me and Jonathan being gone…”

            They stop near the bike rack, and Will folds his arms tightly over his chest, looking concerned. “I worry about her,” he admits. “I mean, I know she’s got Hopper, so it’s not like she’s alone, but…I don’t know, she always sounds kind of sad when I talk to her on the phone. You should have heard her when I told her I was coming home for a week. She was practically bouncing off the walls. She has all these plans.”

            “Yeah, I get that,” Mike says. He’s bummed, but he does understand. He’s seen a lot more of Mrs. Byers than Will has over the last several months, and his estimate of her mood isn’t far off.

She’s happy with Hopper, yes, but it’s painfully clear that she misses her kids. Jonathan, Will…El. She has stopped by the Wheeler house on more than one occasion just to ask Mike questions about her computer (easy things that he knows she could have done herself.) In reality, he suspects she was just there to see him. Her son’s best friend, the closest thing in the world there is to Will. His mom has invited her and Hopper to dinner many times. Hopper doesn’t always show, but Mrs. Byers has. Every single time.

            If you think about it, she missed so much of their lives. First, it was the stress of Lonnie, then the divorce. Afterward, she was working so much, just to keep food on the table and the lights on. Then, of course, it was Vecna and the Upside Down… Mike can’t blame her for wanting to make up for it now.

            “Hey, why don’t you come to dinner with us tomorrow night?” Will says. “We’re going out to that new place that opened on Randolph. I’m sure Mom and Hop would love it if you came.”

            “Your Mom might, but Hopper will spend the whole evening trying to explode my head with his mind,” Mike says.

            Will laughs. “He doesn’t hate you.”

            “He does.” This is an argument they’ve had before. Will is of the opinion that Hopper has found a soft spot in his heart for Mike, especially since El’s passing…or disappearance. Mike is convinced Hopper would hunt him for sport, given the opportunity. Still, the idea of going to dinner with the Byers isn’t entirely unappealing. Even if Hopper kills him with a spaghetti fork, Mike will still have had a few more hours with Will…and surprising the old man might be funny.

            “Say you’ll go anyway!” Will pleads, with the blue and yellow lights of the arcade reflecting in his eyes, and the cold winter night turning his cheeks pink. He leans on his handlebars and smiles in a way that makes Mike’s stomach flip. Must be the pizza and fries, he tells himself.

            Mike shrugs. “I mean, yeah, I’ll go. As long as you tell your new step-dad to let me leave with the same number of limbs I walked in with.”

            Will shakes his head, amused, and lifts his bike off the rack. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

+++

That night, Mike sits at his desk and positions his hands over the keys of the typewriter. Before him, the lights of the neighborhood twinkle in the dark. And the last few words of his manuscript, his first ever novel, stare him in the face. The same words he’s been looking at for three months.

            His stomach hasn’t felt the same since he watched Will bike away tonight. When he got home, he paced around the basement for an hour, not really thinking anything but feeling utterly restless. Anxious and on-edge, for apparently no reason.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Holly asked without looking up from the miniature dragon she was painting. “Did you and Will have a fight or something?”

            Mike stopped dead in his tracks, horrified. “What? No! We had a great night!”

            “Then why do you look like you’re going to cry or throw up?” she asked, annoyed.

            Mike stiffened. He didn’t like knowing that his nerves were so obviously noticeable, and to a twelve-year-old! “Probably getting sick,” he grumbled, then marched into the bathroom to grab the bottle of Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet. Screwing off the lid, he took a gulp and washed it down with some water from the spigot.

            “Well, if you’re getting sick, get out of the basement!” Holly called to him. “I’m running D&D tomorrow, and if you get all my friends sick, I’m going to kill you!”

            “Whatever, Holly,” he groused, heading for the stairs. As he hurried up them, he said, “Go to bed! It’s like way past your bedtime!”

            He went up to his room after that and locked the door. Since then, he’s been sitting at his desk, in front of the typewriter with his hands out as if getting ready to type…yet, he hasn’t punched a single key.

            And the same words as always stare back at him.

            “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

            It’s the end of the book, literally the last page. His main characters, Noah and Finn, along with their friends, defeated the big evil monster, and they’ve finally gotten to return to their village. It’s the happy ending they’ve worked so hard for, and everyone’s storylines have wrapped themselves up so neatly, it’s like Mike didn’t even have to write them. Sadie and Caleb have settled down on a farm, the evil wizards have all been thrown in the dungeon, and the beautiful mage escaped with her life, free for the first time. Everyone is safe and happy.

Except for Noah and Finn.

            Mike has them standing in a flower field on a breezy summer morning, a few days after the war. They’re still bruised, the memories still fresh in their minds, and they’re looking at each other and wondering—both of them are wondering—where they stand with each other now. So much has happened between them. What’s in their future? And will they face it separately or… Together?

            To be honest, Mike isn’t sure what made him begin this scene. The story could have ended five pages ago, with the heroes all celebrating together in the tavern.

            It just felt right, he supposes. The story began with Noah and Finn. It should end with them too. The only problem is, he’s tried a thousand different endings for them, but none of them have felt like their ending. They’ve just been through so much together, and grown so much, and they care for each other more than anyone in the world, and Mike has no idea how to do it. To end their story in a way that feels right, feels earned.

            Well, that isn’t true. He had one idea, once. It was the first idea, really. After hours of tapping his fingers on the desk, he gave up and went to bed. And when he laid in the dark, trying to sleep, he allowed himself—only for a moment—to imagine it. Their ending. The perfect one. The right one.

            Finn, standing in the field of flowers, gazing at his best friend, his partner in the war, the one person in the world he could always rely on. He’s gazing at Noah, and his chest feels so full, like it could burst. And out here, under the cool blue sky, with no one around them but the flowers and the trees, he opens his mouth and says it. The words he’s always needed to say.

            “Noah, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

            Mike’s hands are on the keys, and the words are in his throat like bile. He feels sick, and over-hot. Suddenly overcome with frustration, he jumps up and jacks open the window, sticking his head out into the cold winter night. His cheek sting, and his heart pounds in his temples. When he can breathe again, he ducks back into the room and sits again in front of the typewriter.

            Excuses fly through Mike’s head like dust in a storm. If he did it, typed the words, he could never publish the book. If he did try to send it out, he’d have to use a pen name, keep his real identity a secret, for his own safety. Even then, it would never sell. It would be banned. Labeled as “unnatural,” “immoral.”

            His own father could never know. Never, never.

            A memory, like a shard of glass, cuts him. Ted Wheeler, seated in front of the TV, shaking his head at something on the news. An assault outside a bar in Indianapolis, the culprits conveniently never found, the victim hospitalized for weeks. “That’s what you get,” he commented in his lazy, humdrum way. No real malice in his voice, just a dull statement of fact. “For being a faggot.”

            But maybe Mike really is getting sick. He’s so hot, and his throat has constricted. His eyes sting and blur.

            As if in a fever, he types. He writes like he hasn’t in months, finally letting it spill out. It feels like falling.

            He types.

            And types.

            And types.

+++

The next evening, he takes his car to the Byers house and, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, hops out to knock on the door.

            Joyce answers. At once, her face lights up. “Mike, hi!” She hugs him warmly, then steps back with her eyebrows raised and a teasing smile on her face. “My, my, you certainly clean up nicely.”

            “Thanks, Mrs. Byers,” he says, wiping self-consciously at the front of his shirt. The new place downtown is supposed to be nice, kind of a fancy Italian spot, so he dressed up. Nothing crazy, just a pair of clean pants and a blue button-down shirt with a blazer. “You look great too.”

            Joyce looks down at herself and makes a modest sound. She’s wearing a dress Mike hasn’t seen before, deep-maroon velvet with long sleeves. Since getting married to Hopper, her finances haven’t been as tight, but she is still frugal. Old habits die hard, Mike supposes. This must have been a splurge for her. “Really? You think so?” she whispers, as if Mike is the person to go to for fashion advice (which he’s not.)

            But still, he nods insistently. “Yeah, you look beautiful.”

            Joyce makes another sound in her throat and, smiling bashfully, waves him in. “Will is still getting ready,” she tells him. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

            “He better be or we’re gonna be late,” Hopper grunts, stepping out of their bedroom in a collared shirt and slacks. He’s fiddling with his tie and hasn’t noticed Mike yet. “Who was at the door?”

            Mike answers by clearing his throat.

            Hopper’s head jerks, and for a moment, his mouth hangs open in absolute astonishment. As if Mike is a three-headed troll standing in his living room, rather than a skinny twenty-year-old.

Mike just grins and says, “Hey, Chief.”

“Wheeler,” Hopper says, in the same tone a different person might have said, a rat! “What are you doing here?”

“Hop!” Joyce scolds lowly.

He turns to her, eyes wide and confused, with just the thinnest veneer of annoyance beginning to shine through. “No—not ‘what are you doing here’ in a bad way, just…you know, what are you doing here?”

Joyce puts a hand on Mike’s arm and gives Hop a warning look. “Mike is joining us for dinner tonight,” she says pleasantly. “Will told us last night? Remember?”

“Oh,” Hopper says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah.”

            He definitely doesn’t remember, Mike thinks, fighting the urge to grin.

            Just then, the door to Will’s room opens, and he steps out, dressed in dark jeans and a dress shirt a few shades lighter than his mom’s dress. He’s fiddling with his own tie, sighing in frustration. “Hey, Hopper? I don’t know how to do this. Can you—"

            “Sure, let me see, kid.” Hop steps forward, and as he starts to undo and redo Will’s tie, Will glances over and sees Mike. His expression brightens immediately.

            “Oh, hey, I didn’t hear you come in.”

            “I just got here,” Mike says.

            Will looks at the backpack strap on his shoulder and smiles curiously. “What’s that?”

            A wave of heat floods Mike’s body. “This? Oh, uh…nothing. Just—you know, the pockets in these pants are, like, super small, so I brought my backpack to, uh, keep my keys and wallet in and stuff.”

            “Oh,” Will says, accepting the lie. “Okay.”

            “There you are,” Hopper says, stepping back. “Looking good, kiddo.”

            “Thanks, Hop,” Will says, smoothing down his tie.

            Only then does Mike realize he’s the only man here not wearing one. He furrows his brow. “This isn’t a tie kind of place, is it? Because I didn’t bring one…”

            Hopper rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like of course, you didn’t. Then Joyce elbows him.

            Will just chuckles and says, “It’s okay. I have an extra one. Come on.” So, Mike hustles to follow him into his bedroom.

+++

Will goes to the closet and begins to sort through a bin of odds and ends – scarves, gloves, belts. While he’s looking, Mike wanders over to the desk. On it is a sketch pad. It lies open to a page in the middle of the book, and Mike’s eyes widen at the drawings on the page.

            “Holy shit,” he says. Will turns quickly and, seeing Mike hovering over the sketch pad, his face floods with color. Mike swivels to stare at him. “Did you—are these yours?”

            “Well…yeah,” Will says self-consciously. “But they’re not done. They’re not good yet.”

            “Not good?!” Mike looks back down at the page, utterly amazed at the realism of the drawings. They’re sketches or “studies” as Will would call them. Depicting random items around the room. A floor plant, a mirror, a stack of science fiction novels. But goddamn, they look like they could be picked up right off the page. They look fucking real. “Jesus Christ,” Mike breathes. “You’re this good after one year at college?”

            Will is blushing brightly, but he’s smiling now too. “I’m not that good,” he says, as annoyingly modest as ever. “You should see some of the stuff my classmates do. It’s incredible. I mean, it’s one thing to just capture what an object looks like in real life. It’s another thing entirely to create something new. To invoke feeling in a person, just by looking at your art.”

            Mike shakes his head, still in awe. “Feelings schmeelings, this is amazing, dude. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

            Mike’s hand drifts to the edge of the book, pinching the page to turn it—

            But before he can, Will jumps forward and slaps his palm down on the page. It startles Mike, who draws his hand back and whips his head to the side to stare at him. Their faces are close. Will had to almost jump on top of him to get to the book in time. For a moment the length of a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Although it’s only a second or two, it feels longer.

            “Sorry,” Will says, near enough that Mike feels his breath on his lips when he speaks. He picks up the sketchbook and holds it to his chest, and takes a step back. “There’s just… You know, some drawings in there that I don’t like people seeing. They’re…personal.”

            Mike is feeling strangely dizzy, all of a sudden, but he has enough awareness to respond. “Personal?”

            Will gives him a withering look. “Not like that. Honestly, why do people think artists spend all their time drawing naked people?”

            Mike wasn’t insinuating anything. His brain short-circuited the moment Will jumped on him; honestly, he can’t even recall what he said a second ago. What was personal? And what did he say? Naked people?

            “They’re just, you know, private.”

            Mike nods slowly, his brain still static as Will places the book down on the bed, and then goes back to searching for the tie.

            “Speaking of private, um…”

            Will looks over his shoulder to see Mike standing awkwardly in the middle of his room, gripping the strap of his bag. He hadn’t planned to speak. The words had just come out.

            But what the hell?

            Mike slips the bag off his shoulder and crouches down to unzip it. Will watches, visibly curious. From inside, Mike takes out a shoebox. A dusty, red Nikes box. But he doesn’t give it to Will yet. He’s incredibly nervous, just holds it for a moment, with his heart thumping in his ribs.

            “What’s that?” Will asks, stepping away from the closet.

            Slowly, Mike stands. He holds the box out to Will, who looks at him for a moment before taking it. He brings it over to the bed, sits down, and opens the lid. Right away, his eyes widen.

            Mike lingers where he was, a scorching heat radiating up the back of his neck, his palms sweaty.

            “Oh my god,” Will says. He carefully reaches in and lifts out the stack of papers inside. “Is this the story you’ve been working on?”

            Mike nods mutely, literally too scared to speak.

            “But it’s so thick. Is this a…book?” Will sounds amazed. His mouth lifts at the corners, and his voice raises into a gleeful sound. “Did you write a book?!”

            “Uh…” Mike rubs his arm. “Yeah.”

            “Holy shit!” Will puts the manuscript aside and jumps up. He grabs Mike’s hands like he’s going to start jumping up and down. “Mike! Holy shit! You wrote a whole book?!”

            Seeing Will’s glee, Mike starts to loosen up. He manages a smile, a breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, it’s not done. The story’s done, I think, but it needs polish. You know, editing…”

            Will looks so happy, like he might scream. Then, suddenly, his arms are around Mike, crushing him in a warm hug. “That’s amazing!”

            After an initial jolt of shock, Mike leans into it, admittedly a little surprised at how strong his reaction was. He knew Will would be happy for him, but he’s practically about to burst into song. It feels good, though. It feels really, really good to have someone this happy for him. This proud of his accomplishment.

            Will steps back but leaves his hands on Mike’s shoulders. “How long did it take?” he asks.

            “Um, a long time. Like seven or eight months. I don’t think it would have taken quite so long, but I was also working at the magazine, and ferrying Holly around, and everything…”

            Will looks astounded. “And why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

            “I didn’t tell anyone,” Mike admits, lowering his voice. “You’re the only one who knows.”

            “Wait, really?”

            “Yeah.”

            “You didn’t tell anyone? Not even Nancy? Or Dustin? Or Lucas?”

            “No…you’re the first.”

            The corner of Will’s mouth picks up at the same time his brow creases. He’s confused. “Why?”

            “Because…” Mike shrugs, trying to play it off. To keep it light. “You’re my best friend. I wanted you to know first.”

            Will glows a little, hearing that. “Well…I’m honored. But I meant, why didn’t you tell anyone you were writing a book? I mean, that’s awesome, Mike. It’s so much work, and I’m sure your mom would have given you a break with driving Holly around if she’d known…”

            “I didn’t want her to know,” Mike says quickly. “I still don’t. I don’t want anyone to know…except for you.”

            “Oh.” Now, Will’s brows pull together. He doesn’t understand. How could he?

            So, Mike has to try to make him understand. “I was hoping you’d read it,” he says, almost whispering now. “I mean, I know it’s a big favor to ask. You’re on break, and you probably do so much reading for school… I’m sure this is, like, the last thing you want to do right now, but…”

            “Mike,” Will jumps in. His gaze is soft and searching. One of his hands is still on Mike’s shoulder, and he squeezes it lightly. “I’d love to read it.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes, are you kidding me?” Will gives him a playful shove, as if the idea of him not wanting to read Mike’s book is absurd. Laughable.

            Something in Mike’s chest loosens a bit. He exhales, and it almost doesn’t tremble. “I just think you’re the best person to read it first,” he says, just as quietly as before. “You’re a great storyteller, and you know me better than anyone, and I really respect your opinion, so I know if you think anything should change, or like, if it totally sucks, I can trust your judgment.”

            Will laughs. “It’s not gonna suck,” he says.

            Mike looks down at the floor, shy but smiling widely now. “Well, I hope not…”

            Will squeezes his shoulder again, and it sends little bolts of electricity down Mike’s arm. “It won’t,” he says. Then, “Can I know what it’s about?”

            “Magic, monsters, heroes,” Mike says. “What else? It’s actually inspired by some of our adventures in D&D.”

            Will grins. “Now, I know it’ll be good!”

+++

The restaurant is really nice. Dark mood lighting, a pianist, candles, wine, the whole nine-yards. They get seated at a table near the center of the main dining room, close to the lobster tank. The poor suckers inside shuffle around with their claws rubber-banded shut, looking lost and befuddled. Mike thinks he knows a little how they feel, as he sits in a chair beside Chief Hopper, and tugs at his borrowed neck tie. Which Hopper tied a little too tightly for comfort.

            Joyce is all smiles, though. “This is so nice. Isn’t this nice?”

            Will looks happy too. “It is,” he says, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “I like college, but…I’ll admit, I was pretty homesick.” When Joyce goes aww and lays a hand on top of his, he says, “I missed you. All of you.” His eyes drift over to Mike, whose chest warms.

            “We missed you too, kiddo,” Hopper says, reaching across the table to muss up Will’s hair, inciting protests both from him and his mother. Will complains and then slumps down in his chair and starts raking his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it back down again using his water glass for a mirror.

            “Hop,” Joyce says, exasperated – yet incredibly fond. “It took me an hour to get his hair just right.”

            Mike thinks that’s odd, but he doesn’t know why until Hop asks the same question he was wondering. “Oh, come on, it’s just us. Who do you need to impress here, huh?” He chuckles deeply, clueless as he reaches for a breadstick.

            Joyce just rolls her eyes, muttering, Geez Louise! And takes a sip of her wine.

            But Will freezes at his question, as if caught doing something wrong. His eyes cut over to Mike, then startles when he realizes Mike is already watching him. Visibly embarrassed, he jerks his gaze away and stops messing with his hair.        

            Before Mike can wonder about it, their waiter arrives.

+++

By the end of the appetizer course, the vibe is much more relaxed. Will tells them all about art school – his professors, his classmates, their projects. He seems to be lit from within as he talks about it all, as if there is a fire burning inside him. Mike loves to see it. Loves to see Will happy, and passionate, and being creative. It suits him.

            Hopper and Joyce both get some wine into them and start acting a little silly. They’re not drunk, just merry and content. This is the most Mike has heard Joyce laugh in ages. She really love her son, and Hop really loves her. You can see it on his face. The way he looks at her, it’s like she’s the only source of light in the room.

            Eventually, Joyce excuses herself to go to the restroom.

            “Yeah, I could use a smoke,” Hop grunts, getting up too.

            As soon as they’re both gone, Mike and Will meet each other’s eyes and, seeing their own mischievous idea reflected in the other’s face, they both lunge at exactly the same time for Joyce and Hop’s wine glasses. Being not quite twenty-one yet, they couldn’t order their own. And it’s very, very good wine.

            When the waiter passes by, Mike flags him down. “They wanted a refill,” he says, smiling innocently.

            Will covers his mouth with his hand to hide his laughter.

            When the waiter has gone again, Will moves his hand. “You know if he doesn’t get back before they do, we’re dead meat.”

            “Oh come on, you’re going to be twenty-one next week, and my birthday is just a few weeks away,” Mike says. “Besides, what are they going to do? Call the cops on us?”

            Will starts laughing. And when Hopper and his mom return before the waiter, he laughs even harder, struggling to hide it behind his hands. Mike can’t help but join in. Soon, they’re both sunken down in their chairs, shaking and covering their faces.

            Neither Joyce nor Hop understand what’s so funny. They haven’t noticed their empty glasses yet.

            “Will?”

            Mike looks up to see a stranger standing beside their table. He’s tall, with dark curly hair, and a handsome face. When Will sees him, he sits bolt upright in his chair, his laughter dying instantly.

            “Carlton?” he says, bewildered.

            Carlton? Who’s this tool? Mike wonders.

            Joyce’s mouth drops open. “This is Carlton?”

            Will stares at the stranger—Carlton—then clumsily gets up from his seat. He moves mechanically, pushing his chair back, and getting to his feet. “What… What are you doing here? I thought you had so many projects and tests.” He’s so stunned, it’s like he’s been slapped across the face.

            Carlton just snickers. “Well, I got them all done.”

            Will still looks stupefied. “What?”

            Joyce gets up too. She envelops Carlton in a hug and says, “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much!”

            The dark-haired stranger hugs her back. “You too, Mrs. Byers. Or, wait, is it Mrs. Hopper now?”

            Hopper stands up, looking less cheery than Joyce but less shell-shocked than Will. He holds out his hand. “It’s Byers,” he says. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jim Hopper, Will’s step-dad.”

            Carlton shakes his hand firmly. “Chief,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

            When Hopper sits back down, Will—still looking a bit pale—takes Carlton’s elbow. “I’m confused,” he whispers, yet Mike still hears him.

            Carlton just flashes a white-toothed smile at him and says, “I wanted to surprise you.”

            Mike watches, frozen and unable to stop it, as this total stranger loops an arm around Will’s waist and gives him a squeeze that feels utterly obscene, especially in a crowded restaurant. And Will – he just lets it happen. Stares at the weirdo’s face with this expression like half of his face is realizing it should be smiling, and the other half is just totally confused.

            In the midst of the drama, their waiter returned. Hopper watches him refill their glasses of wine with a confused wrinkle in his brow. He opens his mouth as if to ask what happened to their drinks, but before he can say anything, Joyce turns to the waiter and says, “Can we get another chair, please?”

            “Of course, ma’am.”

            Then Carlton turns to Mike, who is still fused to his chair. “Hey, man,” he says, so casually it’s as if they’re friends, or something. But it’s also a question. Who are you?

Mike wrinkles his nose. Who the hell are you?

            “Oh, Mike, this is…” Will hesitates, looking uneasily over his shoulder at the other tables. “This is Carlton. My, um, my good friend from college.”

            Good friend? Huh?

            Carlton’s head swivels toward Will, then back to Mike. His eyes have bugged out, like a person seeing a celebrity for the first time. “This is Mike? You’re Mike?”

            “Guilty as charged,” Mike mutters, still eyeing him closely.

            Will’s “good friend” says, “The famous Mike Wheeler! Jesus, how are you man? Sorry for the weird reaction, but I’ve heard so much about you from Will. I feel like I know you!” He sticks his hand out, and Mike shakes it. Not because he wants to but because it’d be strange if he didn’t.

            “I wish I could say the same,” Mike says under his breath. It’s not loud enough for Carlton to hear, but Hopper does, and he kicks Mike’s ankle under the table as if to say shut up! Don’t be rude!

            Across the table, Will is staring at his plate of half-eaten salad, looking mortified. What the hell is going on?

            The waiter brings over their extra chair, and everyone scoots over to make room. Carlton sits himself beside Will, so close their elbows touch, and an extra plate and glass are set before him, along with a menu.

            “Sorry for showing up so last-minute,” he says. “I hope I’m not crashing the party.”

            “Not at all,” Joyce assures him. “It’s a wonderful surprise. Order whatever you’d like. It’s on us.”

            Carlton tries to argue, but Joyce wins out. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she reaches across the table to touch Carlton’s hand, and says, “Anything for my baby’s boyfriend.”

            Boyfriend?

            Abruptly, it all makes sense. And Mike stomach drops out of his body and straight through the floor. His hands and feet go cold.

When his chair screeches on the floor, Will’s head snaps back up. “Mike? Where are you going?”

            “I just…need to use the bathroom,” he says, leaving the table as quickly as he can, short of actually sprinting away.

+++

Mike splashes water on his face and leans, dripping, over the sink. His neck burns with a stinging heat, and he’s shaky all over. A feel pulses through him. A hot, sticky feeling he has no name for. But it burns inside him. Makes him want to scream, want to throw something.

He stands at the fancy counter in the fancy restaurant bathroom and looks at himself in the fancy-ass, stupid fucking mirror, and thinks, What the hell am I doing here?

He looks ridiculous, all done up in a dress shirt and tie like some kind of miniature version of his dad; and it may have taken Will an hour to do his hair this morning, but it took Mike just as long to even pick a fucking pair of pants.

            Jesus Christ, what was he thinking?

            “Mike?” Will’s voice comes through the door, soft and concerned. He knocks, even though it’s not a private bathroom.

            Shit! Mike moves fast, yanking some paper towels out of the dispenser and drying his face. By the time the door opens and Will steps in, Mike looks almost normal. Almost.

            “Hey,” he says, casual as anything. As though that awful, gluey feeling isn’t still gumming up his insides and making it difficult to swallow.

            Will pauses inside the door, letting it swing gently shut behind himself. He looks worried, his big green eyes flicking back and forth between Mike’s. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You ran off kind of quickly…I thought you might be sick or something.”

            “I’m fine,” Mike says. “I just needed some air.”

            Will slowly looks around at the tiled walls and floor. “So you came to the…bathroom?”

            Mike presses his lips together. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s too cold outside, so I came to get some…you know…bathroom air.”

            “Bathroom air,” Will repeats.

            An awkward silence falls between them. Mike sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to think of something to say. Anything to make the burning feeling in his chest go away.

            But Will speaks first. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Carlton was coming. I didn’t even know myself,” he says. “The last time I talked to him before leaving campus, he said he was totally swamped with essays and projects.”

            Mike nods. Will’s surprise seemed genuine. He never thought it was an ambush or anything…but it does make him uneasy that Will suspects Carlton is the reason he stormed off. Then again, it was probably pretty obvious. Shit.

“So, he’s your…” Mike gulps instead of saying the word. The bathroom is empty, every stall door hanging open an inch or two. No one else is listening…but he still can’t say it.

            “My, um, my boyfriend. Yeah,” Will says, avoiding Mike’s eyes.

            “Cool. Cool. That’s really cool.”

            “Yeah… But…”

            Mike lifts his head.

            “I kind of thought we were…broken up?”

            A jolt of surprise goes through Mike. “What?”

            “Or…were going to break up? I don’t know…” Will looks confused again. “We had a fight. A big one. I mean, neither of us actually said we were done, but I just assumed. I mean, we haven’t spoken to each other in a week.”

            Mike curls his lip. “And then he just shows up here? Out of the blue?”

            Will latches onto his words like a lifeline. He steps forward, whispering conspiratorially. “I know, that’s weird, right?”

            Mike nods fervently, relief finally beginning to unfurl within him. So, Will didn’t even want this guy here. He thought they were done! “So weird.”

            Will throws his hands in the air. “Thank you! I thought I was going crazy!”

            “You’re not,” Mike assures him. Then, taking Will’s elbow and speaking lower, “Hey, if you don’t want him here, like if he’s making you uncomfortable at all, we can get rid of him.”

            Will raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Get rid of him as in…?”

            Mike realizes how it sounds and corrects himself. “Kick him out of the restaurant.”

            Will nods. “Okay, given our history, I figured I should double-check. I mean, it was a big fight, but it wasn’t that big.”

            Mike is snickering. “Nah, I mean, the guy seems like a total tool, but we probably can’t kill him for that.”

            “Well, he’s not a total tool,” Will says. “He’s kind of cool, actually. A really talented artist, and he plays guitar, and he likes all the same books we do. And he did drive all the way down here to see me.”

Mike realizes his mistake then.

            “Oh, right. I mean, yeah, I don’t even know him. I’m just saying…”

            “Yeah, right—no, I know. I know what you meant.”

            After a moment of strained silence, Mike realizes he’s still got his hand on Will’s arm. He drops it, probably too abruptly. Which just makes the silence feel worse.

            “Thank you,” Will says, out of the terrible quiet.

            “Huh? For what?”

            “For…” He looks down shyly. “Offering. For looking out for me.”

            “Oh.” Mike starts to reach for him again, then thinks better of it. “Always. You know that.”

            Will’s cheeks go pink and bobs his head up and down, still looking away bashfully. “Yeah, but… I appreciate it.”

            “And the offer stands,” Mike says, trying to lighten the mood.

            It works. Will opens his mouth, scandalized, but it’s a smile too. “The offer to kill my boyfriend still stands?”

            “If he does anything uncool, you know,” Mike clarifies, smirking. “We do have, like, a ton of murder experience. And your step-dad is the Chief of Police, so it wouldn’t even be hard to cover it up. Plus, his boyfriend status is still pending.”

            Will rubs a hand over his face, as if to hide how ridiculously huge his smile is right now, but doesn’t quite manage. “I’m going back to eat. Are you coming?”

            “Yeah.” Mike wipes his hands on his pants and follows him out. He still feels kind of bad inside, nervous and weird, but it’s not as terrible as before. He can make it through one dinner with Will’s shitty maybe-but-probably-not-even-boyfriend.

            He can make it.

+++

Later, they’re back at the table. The pianist has taken a break, so classical music is being pumped in through a speaker. Their main courses arrive – steaks, and fish, and pasta. Mike and Will order the same thing. Carlton gets some kind of fancy meal Mike can’t even pronounce. When it arrives, it just looks like a regular steak with some green stuff and lemon on the side.

“Mm, this is great wine,” he says. Apparently, he can drink legally because he’s thirty-two years old.

            Mike choked on his Coke when he found that out.

            “Mike, you okay?” Will asked.

            “Yeah…” Mike wiped at his mouth and coughed. “Just—thirty-two?” He threw a look at Joyce to see her reaction, but if she was uncomfortable at all with the knowledge that her son was dating someone twelve years older than him, she didn’t show it. “I thought you were a student.”

            “I am,” Carlton said, perfectly cheery, with his perfect white teeth flashing. “I’m working towards my PhD in Art History.”

            “So, how’d you meet Will? You can’t have shared any classes together.”

            “Actually, we did meet in class,” Will said, giving Carlton an annoyingly fond smile, as if sharing a happy memory with him. Gag.

            “I was a TA in his Intro to Art course,” Carlton said.

            “TA,” Hopper grunted, peering up from his steak to give Will a teasing look. “Will, you datin’ the teacher?”

            Will blushed deeply.

            “Hop,” Joyce said.

            “Oh, I’m just teasing him. That’s what dads do, and I’m sure it’s all fine and innocent.” Hopper cleared his throat and took a drink of wine. Then he set his glass down and leveled Carlton with a flat, Chief of Police stare. “Still, twelve years is quite the age-gap, don’t you think?”

            In that moment, Mike could have kissed Hopper. Excited, he looked immediately at Carlton’s expression. But it was irritatingly devoid of anxiety.

            “Well,” the tool said, calmly dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “My dad is actually twelve years older than my mom, and they’ve been happily married for thirty years. They have a genuinely great relationship. I know some people feel differently, but in my opinion, if you like the other person, and you’re both consenting adults, then what’s the difference?”

            Hopper didn’t seem to have an answer to that. Or he knew better than to argue any further.

            Mike, however, answered without thinking. “I mean, the difference is, when you turned into an adult at eighteen, Will was six years old and still sleeping with a Star Trek night light.”

            A hard kick against his shin made Mike jump in his seat. He thought it was Hopper until he saw the murderous look on Will’s face. He looked seriously embarrassed, and when Mike blinked in surprise, he silently mouthed, Shut up, dude!

            After that, Mike closed his mouth.

            It’s been about ten minutes since then. It feels like it’s been two hours.

            “So, this is the famous Hawkins,” Carlton says. “I drove around a little before coming by. It’s a nice town. Seems quiet. Really different from where I grew up.”

            “It has its moments,” Hop says, chewing a fat piece of steak.

            “Where did you grow up?” Joyce asks politely.

            “Chicago.”

            “Mm,” Hop grunts. “Good pizza. Bad crime.”

            “Yeah, well…it’s no Hawkins. I can’t imagine they keep you very busy, Hopper.”

            “You’d be surprised…”

            “Oh, really? Well, I guess there was all that stuff that happened a couple of years ago. The murders and the earthquake.”

            “It was a…scary time,” Joyce says. Discreetly, she covers Will’s hand with her own. He gives her a small smile.

            “I can imagine,” Carlton says. “Will doesn’t even like to talk about it.”

            “Not with you, maybe,” Mike mutters under his breath. And he doesn’t get any kicks, so no one must have heard it.

            No one willing to kick him, that is.

            “Sorry,” Carlton says, turning to him. “Did you say something, Mike?”

            “Nope,” Mike says, skewering a meatball on his fork.

            But Carlton just goes on looking directly at him, his smile like a shark’s smile. All teeth. “Are you sure? I thought I heard you say something under your breath.”

            Mike lifts his head at the other man’s tone. It’s nothing too overt, but there’s something there. A challenge.

The others must hear it too because at once, everyone’s eyes are on Mike’s face. Joyce has stopped eating mid-chew, and Hop has that wary look on his face he gets when he’s almost expecting a fight to break out. And Will…

Will just looks tense, glancing back and forth between them.

            “I didn’t say anything,” Mike repeats dully, trying to keep the peace.

            After a beat of tense silence, Carlton accepts that. He sits back in his chair and shrugs. “All right then. I just didn’t want you to feel excluded.”

            Right. Mike suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

            “Where are you going?” Will asks when Carlton suddenly pushes his chair back and gets up, setting his napkin on the table.

            “I’m just going to take a quick puff,” the tool says, producing a box of cigarettes from his pants pocket. He turns, all charms and sparkling teeth, to Joyce, then Hopper. “Any other smokers feel like braving the cold?”

            “No,” Joyce says. “Thank you.”

            “Trying to quit,” Hopper mutters.

            Then Carlton walks away, and Mike is able to exhale. He is opening his mouth to say something, but Hopper talks first.

            “Hey,” he says, in a low and disapproving voice, leaning toward Will. “Thirty-two? And your teacher? Are you serious?”

            Will’s eyes go big, and he stammers. “Well, it’s true what he said. His parents really are twelve years apart, and they have a great relationship. I’ve met them. They’re really nice people—”

            “I’m not talking about his parents; I’m talking about you. Jesus, Will, I mean—if you were thirty and he was forty-two, it’d still be weird, but at least it’d be two adults with life experiences. But you’re still a kid, and he’s a grown ass man, who should know better.”

            Will frowns and leans forward too. “I’m not a kid, Hopper. I’m twenty years old.”

            “Oh god,” Hopper says. “Twenty. You think you know fuckin’ everything at twenty. But in reality, you don’t know shit, and you’re just a kid in bigger clothes.”

            “Mom…” Will turns helplessly to his mom, and Joyce looks torn.

            “I don’t know, Hop…” she begins weakly. “I mean, Lonnie was quite a bit older than I was… Not twelve years, but…”

            “Oh, and that worked out so well, didn’t it?” Hop says, earning a disapproving glare from Joyce and Will.

            “I’m just saying, if Carlton makes Will happy, and if he treats him well…” Joyce trails off, and it’s so obvious that she doesn’t like it either. But whether she’s just afraid to come off as unsupportive of her son’s first boyfriend, or if she’s just trying to show Will that she trusts his judgment, Mike can’t tell.

            “All right, listen. I never held back from telling El the truth, and I’m not going to handle you with kid gloves either. The fact of the matter is this,” Hopper says, pointing his form at Will. “I’ve been a cop, and an adult, long enough to know the difference. In every way that matters, you’re still a child, Will. So is Mike. So are all your other friends. But Carlton is a grown man. More than that, he’s in a position of power over you. He’s your teacher. I’d just hate to see you get manipulated and hurt by someone like that…again.”

            During Hopper’s lecture, Will has sat stoically, looking angry and embarrassed – but as soon as Hopper says, person of power and manipulated again, all the color drains from his face. The way it does when he thinks about Lonnie. When he thinks about Vecna.

            It’s awful. It’s so awful.

            “I—I think what Hopper is saying…” Mike jumps in, desperate to stop this before it spirals out of control. “Is just that…you and Carlton are at really different points in your life. That’s all.”

            “Yeah,” Will says, eyes hard and damp as they look into Mike’s. It’s a penetrating look, as if he’s seen through Mike’s lies and knows the real reason he’s been acting so bitchy all night. Mike freezes, feeling horribly vulnerable, like everyone in the whole restaurant is staring at him. Will’s voice is thin and brittle. “I get it.”

            “Woah, where are you going?” Hopper demands as Will shoves his seat back and gets up.

            “Outside to get some fresh air,” Will snaps.

            “Will, baby…” Joyce starts to get up too – to stop him or follow him. But before she can, he whirls around levels them all with a wounded, near-tearful look.

            “I know, okay? I get it. Henry manipulated me for…for years, and I couldn’t stop him. I fell for his lies over and over again. And when Lonnie left…” He swallows thickly, fighting not to burst into tears. “I was the only one who didn’t see how…how terrible he was. I was the only one stupid enough to want him back.”

            “Honey, no, you were a child,” Joyce says gently. “And he was your father.”

            “Kid…” Hopper rubs his forehead. “You’re not stupid. That’s not what I was—”

            “You’re right,” Will interrupts him, the only one standing at the table. Mike looks around, nervous, and sees a few other diners glancing their way. He wonders if Will remembers they’re in a busy restaurant, and other people can hear him talking. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to make the same mistakes I did with Henry. Trust me, I know what it feels like to be manipulated. This is…this is not that.”

            “Okay,” Hopper says. “I’m sorry. Just sit down.”

            Will shakes his head, still looking feverish and upset. “No, I really am going to get some air,” he says, then turns and walks away.

            When he’s gone, Hopper rubs his temples. “Jesus, what a trainwreck. I mean, was it me? Was I out of line?”

            Joyce, too, looks stressed. “No…I didn’t like it either. I just…I didn’t know what to say. I don’t want him to think I’m not supportive, or that I’m trying too hard to protect him again, but…”

            “I’m gonna go check on him,” Mike says, standing up.

            “No,” Hopper says, his hand shooting out to grab Mike’s arm. “Give him a minute. Let him cool down.”

            Mike pulls away from him though and hurries toward the front door.

            Behind him, he hears Hopper’s frustrated voice. “Jesus Christ, these kids!”

+++

Mike weaves through tables, and waiters, and foot traffic, saying excuse me, sorry, excuse me. His heart is in his throat, and he feels awful. Awful for Will, awful for how shitty the night has turned out. When he gets to the front door, he pushes through with both hands and steps out into the frozen winter air. It’s pitch black out, aside from the light of the windows, and he can’t see Will anywhere. Or Carlton, for that matter.

            But he hears something, voices in the distance.

            “…don’t understand why they don’t trust me.” It’s Will’s voice. Mike frowns and starts to, very quietly, walk toward it. It’s coming from the side of the restaurant, around the corner from where he is now.

            “Hey, it’s all right. We can leave, if you want. We could reach campus before midnight. You could stay over at my place? We could sleep in late, have breakfast in bed…” Carlton’s voice is sweetly persuasive, as seductive as a siren on the rocks.

            “No, I shouldn’t just run away,” Will says, sounding miserable. “I just don’t get why they think I can’t take care of myself.”

            “It’s because they don’t see you like I do.”

            After that, Mike doesn’t hear any more. He keeps creeping along the wall until he reaches the corner… And then he carefully peeks his head around…and what he sees makes his eyes go wide.

            Carlton has Will pressed against the wall. They’re smiling at each other and laughing quietly. Will’s hands are on Carlton’s shoulders, and Carlton’s hands are on Will’s waist, and their faces are so close together. Their bodies are so close together. Carlton whispers something in his ear, and Will glows for him. His eyes are dark and hooded. He bites his lip. Then Carlton leans in and presses their mouths together. And Mike’s world fractures like a broken mirror. He watches, frozen in place, as Carlton’s hands slip under Will’s shirt, as they squeeze his hips, as Will leans his head back against the wall for Carlton—his boyfriend, his real, actual, not-maybe boyfriend—to kiss down his neck.

            Mike’s breath leaves his body, and he stumbles back. When he does, he steps on something. A piece of trash or something, and it makes a loud crunching sound.

            Carlton is so involved in what he’s doing that he doesn’t hear it. But Will does. He goes stiff, and his eyes flash over to where Mike is standing.

            When their eyes meet, Will’s go huge, and Mike panics. He doesn’t know what to do, so he turns and runs.

            Not back into the restaurant, not to the car. He just runs. As far and as fast as he can.

+++

Mike doesn’t see Will for the next three days. He stays in his room with the curtains shut and tells his family he’s sick.

He calls off work and lays in bed. He doesn’t write.

In fact, the only thing he does during those three days is destroy his manuscript.

He does it in a fit fury – not at Will, but at himself. So stupid, he thinks, seething. He rips down all the notes off the corkboard and throws them in the trash can. He gathers up every draft he has, stored in desk drawers and on closet shelves, and rips them into pieces before stuffing them into the can, as well. He doesn’t want to see it anymore. Doesn’t want to think about it ever again.

God, he’s so stupid. What was the point of it, anyway? All those fantasies… He could never have published it. His family could never had read it – god forbid!

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

When he’s done, Mike stands panting in the center of his room, tears burning his eyes, stomach on fire. Choking on an emotion he can barely name. The best he can do is give it a shape in his mind and try to find a place to hide it. Some hidden, dusty corner of his brain he can stuff it, where he’ll never see it again.

But it’s hard. It’s such a huge, awful feeling. And the corners of his mind are already so full of other hidden things. His hiding places are all full to bursting…

The next evening, three days after the restaurant, Mike is lying in bed, mindlessly twisting his Rubix Cube and thinking about nothing. His brain is a comfortable, numbed static. The only coherent thing touching his mind is the rain. It’s been pouring all day, and the thrumming against his window is pleasant enough.

The sound of a knock on his door jolts him uncomfortably back into reality.

“Go away, Holly! I already told you, you can play with my Sega, but you’re going to have figure out how to use it on your own! I’m not in the mood.”

Instead of going away, however, the person at the door twists the handle and pushes it open a crack. “It’s not Holly.”

Mike jerks up onto his elbows.

Will is standing in the doorway of his room, with his hand still on the doorknob. “Hey,” he says.

Mike just sits there for a moment, too surprised to speak. When he does get his throat to work, it feels thick and tight. “Oh. Hey.” Slowly, he sits up.

“Sorry for stopping by without calling first,” Will says. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and his jacket - the blue, red, and tan bomber jacket Mike gifted him for his birthday a couple of years ago. It’s damp from the rain; as is his hair.

The last time he saw Will…

“No, it’s okay…” Mike says, shaking the images from his brain.

“I just…” Will hesitates. He looks over his shoulder, then steps into the room and closes the door. Mike is so tense, his limbs might as well be metal rods. “I haven’t seen you…and I’m going back to college in a couple of days.”

There’s a question in his voice, along with a lot of hurt. And he looks so sad. It’s like he doesn’t understand why Mike would be avoiding him. But he has to know why. He was there. Mike knows he saw him. No matter how hard he tries to keep them out, the images shove back into his mind—hands, lips, hips. Will’s head tipped back against the brick wall.

“I know,” he says, struggling to keep his tone light. “Sorry. I haven’t been feeling well.”

“Yeah, your mom said.” Will sounds sympathetic, yet Mike is sure he doesn’t believe his phony story about being sick. They both know why Mike has been staying in his room, and it’s not some crummy virus. “I just wanted to…return this.” Taking off his backpack, Will unzips it and produces the red Nike shoebox.

And Mike wishes he could sink through the floor. “Oh,” he says. Oh god. “Thanks.”

Will hands it to him, and Mike just holds it in his lap, like it’s a dangerous animal. A Mimic disguising itself as a shoebox containing all his heart’s outpourings in disguise as a fantasy novel. Hey, at least if he gets eaten by a Mimic, he won’t have to face…whatever this is.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t spring to life and bite his head off. It just sits there in his lap. Harmless, dusty. He doesn’t know what to do with it, or what to do with himself.

It’s intensely awkward. Will bobs his head and says, “Sure.” Then, in the quiet that follows, he looks around the room. Like before, his eyes settle on the painting, and he gets that look again. That faraway, thoughtful look.

Mike wishes he knew what Will was thinking.

He wishes he knew when things got so damn complicated between them.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I thought of it?”

Mike stares at the side of Will’s head. “You… Wait, you read it?”

Will turns and give him a look. “Yeah, that’s why you gave it to me, right? To read?”

But… “In three days?”

For the first time since stepping into Mike’s room, Will smiles. “I’m a fast reader.”

“It’s five-hundred pages.” He’s going to have a lot of cutting to do when he gets to the editing phase. If he gets to the editing phase. If he doesn’t decide to throw this last surviving copy of the manuscript through a woodchipper, along with all the rest.

Will just shrugs. “At least you know you’ve a page-turner on your hands.”

Mike laughs. It sounds weird, strained, but it’s real. The knot of razor wire he’s been calling a stomach begins to unwind, ever so slightly.

“It really is.” Will says, leaning back on his desk. “I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend, and also because you have the power to kill Will the Wise in your next campaign.”

Mike laughs again, and it doesn’t sound so bad this time. “Hey, it’s not me. It’s the dice. They tell a story.”

Will chuckles because they both know that’s only partially true. Then again, you’re not really a good DM if you’re not torturing your players. That’s part of the fun. “It’s a good book,” he says, doubling down. “I mean it.”

“Thanks.” Mike’s cheeks tingle with warmth. He’s pleased, and embarrassed, but mostly pleased.

“Just…” Will scuffs his shoe on the floor, visibly uncomfortable. “The, um, the ending.”

And just like that, the embarrassment takes the lead back. “Yeah…” he says, eyes down again. He feels crazy. He was crazy to write it.

A love confession? That’s how he chose to end his epic fantasy novel full of horror, and gore, and killer monsters? Even if the general audience for hardcore fantasy were willing to accept such a sugary, romantic ending… A love confession between two men?

He was crazy, possessed by temporary insanity. That’s the only explanation. And to have shown it to someone… Jesus Christ.

Will is gay, and even he looks alarmed by it.

A manic sort of hysteria bubbles up from Mike’s stomach. The way he sees it, he has two choices: drop the manuscript in the trash can right now and set it on fire so no one else knows his sins…or embrace the crazy, for a few seconds longer. Call it morbid curiosity.

“What, you didn’t like it?” he jokes, sort of enjoying (in a masochistic way) how Will leans away from him, as if thinking, Oh my god, he’s serious. But asking feels bold, feels reckless and dangerous. A heady sensation, like swallowing fireworks and letting them zap around inside his head.

“No, no, I did,” Will says gently, searching Mike’s face like it’s a puzzle missing half its pieces. Or like he’s just noticing the edges of the mask Mike’s worn all week…maybe all his life, and wondering, What’s underneath?  “I loved it. I cried so much,” he admits, and Mike surprises himself by laughing. “It was…”

Will stands there a moment, reaching for the right words. Mike watches him closely, while he does. His eyebrows are doing a weird thing. Pushing together, then relaxing. His fingers are squeezing the back of his desk chair.

“I’ve never…read a book about someone like…me before,” he says, so quietly, as if in confession. “It was…surprising.”

Surprising. That’s one word for it.

“It was amazing.” This time, when Will looks at him, he’s got moisture in his eyes. “I mean, seriously, amazing. You don’t know how much it meant to…to…” He swallows thickly, and Mike can see how hard he’s fighting not to dissolve into full-blown tears.

Now, that is a surprise. Mike had expected a big reaction…but not this one. Not appreciation. Not joy, because that’s what he sees gleaming in Will’s wobbly, emotional smile.

Still, tears are tears, and they’re beginning to stream freely down his best friend’s face. Mike swings his legs off the side of the bed and goes to him. “Will,” he says.

He grabs his shoulders and pulls him in, holding him tightly. And Will folds against him like he was meant to fit there. Like he was made to be held by Mike’s arms.

Will buries his face in Mike’s shoulder and, crying, hugs him back. And he’s so warm, and so sweet, and his. In this moment, nothing else matters. There is no Carlton, no restaurant, no society to hate them. Nothing but Mike and Will, these four walls, and the teetering sensation in Mike’s gut, like he’s standing high up on the top of a skyscraper. At the bottom, there might be a safety net to catch him…or there might not be. But there’s only one way to find out. And staying at the top is killing him.

“They’re based on us,” Mike whispers, taking the leap.

Will’s breath hitches. Mike feels him go still in his arms. Then he draws back, and his eyes are so damp, and so green, and so lovely. “What?”

“Noah and Finn. I based them on you…and me. So, it felt like the only ending that made sense. The only one I wanted to write…”

Will stares, speechless. Breathless. Mike watches a thousand emotions whirl across his face. “I don’t understand.” Another tear drips down his cheek.

Mike fixes his mouth into a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yes, you do.”

Will exhales as if the breath was alive and fought its way out.

“It’s you,” Mike says, heart pounding in his ribs and temples. “Will. It was always you. I just didn’t know how t…” He squeezes his eyes shut as they start to burn. “I had El, and I thought…you know…’this is what I’m supposed to do.’ And I did love her. I loved her so much.”

When he dares a look at Will’s face, he finds him nodding and crying even harder. He loved El too. She was his sister. His savior. His friend.

“But I wasn’t in love with her. I couldn’t even say it to her.”

Will sniffles. He wipes at his eyes and looks again at the painting. This time his expression is different. With a huge gulp, he says, “El didn’t commission it.”

Mike was expecting a different reaction, one based on everything he’s said, it doesn’t compute right away what Will said. When it does, he says, “What?”

“I lied. I’m sorry. She didn’t even know it existed.”

“What do you mean? El didn’t ask you to draw it? Then why…why did you say she did?”

Will bites his lip. “Because I was…embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Mike is so confused. This seems to have come out of nowhere, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. Will lied? The painting didn’t come from El? The one he has looked at every day since she left, missing her, thinking of her? It wasn’t even from her?

“Embarrassed to give it to you. Embarrassed by what it meant. I wasn’t while I was painting it. I was so sure…but when I finally gave it to you, I chickened out. I got scared.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do,” Will says meaningfully. Mike’s words.

It’s like the floor falls out from under them. Like the lighting in the room suddenly changes, even though it doesn’t. Like a window somewhere opens, and a gust of fresh air shoots straight down Mike’s lungs. For the first time in days, he can breathe. He takes a stuttering breath, and his eyes blur again.

Will hasn’t stopped crying.

“Will,” Mike says. “Are you saying…”

Will laughs. A wet, ridiculous, near-hysterical laugh. He’s still sobbing, but he looks happy. So happy. “It wasn’t just a crush,” he says. “You’re not just my Tammy.”

Something in the air splits. Like lightning.

“Will,” Mike says desperately.

“Mike.”

Then, they’re in each other’s arms. Squeezing each other so hard and laughing in tearful, delirious, disbelieving peels of joy and relief and years of pain. And the relief of pain.

“I still don’t know who Tammy is!” Mike babbles, his fingers gripping the back of Will’s jacket for dear life.

Will laughs even harder. “Never mind,” he gasps. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Mike pulls back just enough to be able to look into his face. Will is smiling so huge, and his cheeks are fever-red and streaked with tears, and he’s shaking ever so slightly.

When Mike opens his mouth to say the words to him, they come so easily. “I love you.”

Will’s voice trembles. “I love you.” His face shatters then, and the tears come harder, in gulping, heaving sobs of relief. “God, I love you.”

Mike wraps around him again and feels everything in himself, all the knots, and razors, and bruises fade away. He holds him until he stops crying, and then—a little afraid again—he says, “What about Carlton?”

He feels Will shake his head against his shoulder. “I broke up with him.”

Mike yanks back. “What? When?”

Will gives him a bleary-eyed look, and an eyebrow. “Three days ago,” he says. “Right after the restaurant.”

“Why?” Mike asks, furrowing his brow.

“Because…Hop was right. We have nothing in common, nothing real, I mean. Sure, we like the same books, but what does that even mean? I was just with him to…not be alone, I guess. And besides…” Will tugs shyly at Mike’s shirt and coyly lowers his eyes. “I was still pretty hung up on this guy I liked back home…”

Mike grins. “Oh yeah?”

Will tilts his head, eyebrow still raised. “Yeah. And you’d know that if you hadn’t avoided me for three days.”

Mike’s ears go hot. “Right… Sorry.”

Will is kind enough to let him off the hook, after that final little jab. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can make it up to me.”

The heat spreads from Mike’s ears to the rest of his body. It’s not an unpleasant heat, though. He leans forward and, riding the high of his earlier boldness, experimentally sets his hands on Will’s hips. Will’s lips part delightfully in surprise. They’re pink and soft-looking, and now (although against his will) Mike knows just how Will looks when he’s being kissed.

“How…” Mike swallows. “…can I do that?”

Will shivers and looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes in a way that makes Mike’s heart skip about ten beats. “You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

They lean into each other then, and Mike bends his head down as Will cranes up.

The only other person Mike has ever kissed was El…and as much as he cared for her, he didn’t like kissing her. He did it because he was supposed to. Story of my life.

He doesn’t know if this is a good kiss. It’s so different than it was with El.

Will’s mouth fits differently against his than hers did. His lips are thinner and not quite as soft, not quite as yielding. Because he’s a boy, Mike thinks, and he doesn’t let himself panic about that. Later, he can. But not now.

He doesn’t know if it’s good. They’re both weepy, and he can’t really breathe because his nose is stuffy from all the crying, and his whole body is shaking like a leaf, but…

But he likes it.

He likes Will, and this feels so good.

So right.

+++

Two days later, Mike is lounging on Will’s bed with an X-Men comic balanced on his knee. He’s pretending to read, but he’s been staring at the same panel for the last twenty minutes.

            They’re going to do it today. They’re going to tell Joyce and Hopper about their relationship.

            Will had said they didn’t need to. If you’re not ready… he said, holding Mike’s hand. But Mike had said no. No, he was tired of pretending. It was killing him.

            It’s not like I’m going to tell the whole world. It’s just your mom and Hopper.

            Besides, Will is going back to college tomorrow, and Mike won’t get to see him again until May. If he doesn’t get to at least discuss the fact that they’re in love, with someone, he will go crazy. Like totally, completely insane.

Still, as much as he feigned nonchalance…he is terrified.

            Just then, Will turns away from his closet and holds up two different shirts. “Which one?”

            Mike lowers his comic and squints. “The green one.”

            They’re planning to invite Joyce and Hop to dinner, since Mike sort of ran out on the last one (leaving them with his bill. Oops.) On his pitiful copywriter’s salary, he can’t quite afford the Italian place, but there are other decent places in Hawkins. They’ll hit one of those. It’ll be nice.

            It’ll be fine.

            Will looks at the green shirt, and nods. “Okay.” Turning back, he strips off his t-shirt and begins to put on the nicer one.

            Mike watches over the top of the comic, quietly admiring the smooth length of rosy skin leading from his neck down, to the dip of his back, down to waistband, down…

            “You know I can see you,” Will says.

            Mike jumps so hard his teeth clack together. He snaps his eyes up and sees Will watching him through the mirror in his closet. Mike’s face burns. “Sorry.”

            Will turns to face him and smirks. With his shirt still unbuttoned, he walks over to the bed. “It’s okay. We’re dating. You’re allowed to check me out.”

            Mike relaxes and gives a breathy laugh. “Oh.”

            Will sits on the edge of the bed and draws one knee up so he’s facing Mike. He’s smiling with lights dancing in his eyes. He slowly, carefully, reaches out and brushes some dark hair out of Mike’s face. “You know, I still can’t believe it.”

            “Neither can I,” Mike admits, smiling as a swell of giddiness surges through him. He’s been going back and forth between spiraling panic and heroin-level highs for the last two days. It gave him whiplash at first, but he’s getting used to it now.

            Just have to get through tonight, he thinks. Once I tell one person, it’ll be easier to live with. And Joyce will be cool with it. I know she will be.

            God, I hope she will be.

            Will’s hand travels down his check to his neck. It slips behind his head and into his hair. His eyes are lowered to Mike’s mouth.

            They’ve done a lot of kissing over the last two days, and the jury is officially in: Will Byers is an excellent kisser, and Mike Wheeler really, really enjoys kissing. He just needed the right partner.

As the air between them grow warmer, Mike reciprocates by slipping his hands into the open folds of Will’s shirt and taking him by the waist.

He feels Will’s answering gasp against his lips, just before they press their mouths together.

“I’m not going to be able to wait until summer to do this again,” Mike says between kisses.

“Then don’t,” Will breathes. “Come visit me.”

Mike bobs his head, kissing him again and again until he’s panting. “Okay.”

“And I…” Will kisses him back. His fingers twist in Mike’s hair. “…I’ll try to come home on the weekends. As much as I can.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Hey, Mike?”

“Mm?” Mike is quickly losing the ability to speak and think. His whole world is narrowing down to one set of lips, one pair of hands.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Will whispers. “With Mom and Hop. Really, it is.”

Tinges of anxiety try to ruin Mike’s euphoria, but he doesn’t let them. “I know,” he says, shifting his head a bit to kiss Will at a new angle. Will makes a happy sound, as a result, and leans deeper into it.

“Knock, knock, kiddo. Your mom wanted to know—JESUS CHRIST!” As the door swings open, Hopper shouts in surprise, and the boys freeze in abject horror.

“HOPPER! WHAT THE HELL?!” Will shrieks. He and Mike jerk away from each other so fast Mike’s head spins.

Hopper is standing in the doorway, covering his eyes and rambling a string of apologies and cuss words. “I’m sorry, your Mom sent me to ask you—I didn’t know there was anyone in there! I thought it was just you!”

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE KNOCKED?!” Will screeches. “I could have been getting dressed! I was getting dressed!”

“I’m sorry! El always locked the door when she was getting dressed! I wasn’t thinking!”

“Mike, I’m so sorry—” Will says, turning to him in a panic, as if afraid he’ll run away.

Honestly, Mike is so startled, he’s thinking about it. Of all the people to walk in on them… The first person to know!

“Wait—Mike?” Hopper drops his hands suddenly, and his mortified horror turns into a different kind of horror. “You,” he says.

“What the hell is going on in here? Why is everyone yelling?” Joyce demands, hurrying over – and then she sees too. Her son, bare-chested and flushed, on the bed with Mike Wheeler. Because why not? Why wouldn’t Mike’s life go this way?

At least Joyce is polite enough to let out her startled peep and then instantly turn away.

“Wheeler,” Hop says dangerously, not as kind as his wife. “What is this?”

“Hopper, please—” Will tries, only to be silenced by a sharp “Will!” from the chief.

Hopper narrows his eyes at Mike, who sits, trapped like a rat, on the bed. “All right, out with it. What is this? Hm? You trying to mess with me? Is that it? You think this is funny, you smug sonofabitch?”

Helpless and annoyed, Mike says, “What are you talking about?! How is this about you?!”

Hop holds up one finger. “First, you date my daughter. Actually, let me rephrase, you torture me daily by dating my daughter.” Then a second finger. “Now, you’re kissing my step-son. Are you doing this to me on purpose, or is this some kind of sick cosmic joke?”

“What?!” Mike cries shrilly. “I like Will, that’s all!”

“Hopper,” Joyce says, reaching blindly for his arm, since she is still turned the other way, desperate not to invade their privacy anymore than she already has. “Leave them alone, for god’s sake!”

Joyce manages to grab him and drag him away, but before Hopper goes, he shouts, “Keep it open! The door! Keep it open three inches—"

+++

That could have gone better.

“Well, on the bright side, I don’t think Hopper actually cared that I’m gay. He just hates me as a person,” Mike says dully, staring at the ceiling.

            Will is sitting with his back to the door, which is firmly shut. His head is in his hands. “I’m gonna kill him,” he says.

            “I guess it could have gone worse. He didn’t have his gun on him, so he couldn’t shoot me. Although, you might need to go out there and take it away from him before I’m able to leave the room…”

            “I’m gonna kill him. I am going to kill him.”

“Maybe this was a mistake.”

            Out of the corner of his eye, Mike sees Will’s frightened expression, and he sits up on his elbows. “Not us,” he clarifies. “Not you and me. But…telling people.”

            Will’s fear dissipates, and he just looks sad.

            A knock on the door makes them both jump. “Will? Mike?” It’s Joyce’s voice.

            Will’s mouth twists down into a frown again. “What?” he calls out, refusing to move away from the door.

            “Can we come in, please? We’d like to talk.”

            “No,” Will answers. “Go away.”

            “Hey, kid…” This time, it’s Hopper. “Come on, open up.” A sharp sigh. “I want to apologize.”

            Will looks at Mike, as if to say, What do you think?

            Mike just shrugs, so Will reluctantly gets up and unlocks the door. Then he comes over and sits on the bed next to Mike, his back straight, his face in a frown. Mike sits up too, but his posture is worse. Slouched, like he might be able to hide behind the wrinkles in the bedspread.

            The door opens.

            Joyce is first inside. She smiles warmly. “Thank you,” she says in her soft, kind voice.

            Hopper follows her in. He is not smiling. Rather, he looks like a big child who just got into a fight on the playground is being forced by the teacher to make nice. He doesn’t say anything, at first, instead just standing there with an irritated sulk on his face.

            Then Joyce elbows him, and he sighs.

            “Joyce has informed me that my reaction earlier may have been inappropriate. If you were at all intimidated, I apologize. That was not my intention.” Hopper doesn’t sound especially sorry; he just sounds bored. “My reaction was an emotional one, based on some…uh…”

            Mike watches, his brow wrinkled in confusion, as Hopper not-so-discreetly pulls something out of his pocket. A small square of paper. From where he’s sitting, he can see writing scrawled on it. You’ve got to be kidding me.

            “Based on some unresolved frustration from when you dated El,” he reads.

            Beside him, Joyce nods along like she’s listening to a song she’s heard before (or in this case, wrote.)

            “But you’re not kids anymore,” Hopper says. “And I shouldn’t have treated you like you were. You’ve always been good to Will, Mike. And…” For a moment, Hopper pauses in such a way that makes Joyce look a little nervous. But the next time he speaks, he almost sounds sincere. “And you were pretty good with El, too. You know, for the most part. Once you grew up a little…”

            Joyce nudges him with her elbow.

            Hopper pauses…then Mike sees him crumple up his piece of paper and stick it back in his pocket.

            “My point is,” he grunts. “You’re not kids anymore. You’re grown men now, and there’s something you need to know.”

            He looks at the two of them like—perhaps, for the first time—he’s realizing that himself. The kids of Hawkins aren’t kids anymore. It has a strange effect of him.

Mike wonders if he’s thinking about El, if maybe Hopper’s perception of all the kids stopped aging with her…until now.

            “People are always going to try to tell you how to live your life. Loud, angry people – people like me. It’s gonna feel tempting to let them win just ‘cause they’re big mouths with too many damn opinions… But the only person who can tell you how to live your life is you. If you’re happy, then screw all the rest of ‘em. And I’ll tell you this too—if you two can find even a little of the happiness we have, you’re gonna be all right.”

            He squeezes Joyce’s hand, and she quickly reaches up to wipe her eye.

            “And I think you will,” Hop says. “’Cause you got one real good thing going for you. You started off as friends. Speaking from experience, that’s the best place you can start.”

+++

The next day, Mike helps Will pack his car. He’s leaving in a few minutes, going back to school. Mike carries his suitcases - and a lead ball in his heart.

            “Hey, it won’t be so bad,” Will says, once the car is loaded and they’re both leaning against it, drinking Coke in the mid-morning sun. “Summer is going to come so fast.”

            Mike doesn’t think it’ll go fast. He thinks it’ll be excruciatingly slow, but he nods anyway. “And I’m going to come visit you up there so often, you’ll be sick of me.”

            Will laughs and leans his head on Mike’s shoulder. “I’ll never get sick of you,” he says softly. So softly that Mike’s heart squeezes. It makes the lead ball feel bigger…but it’s okay. El once told him something he’ll never forget – something Hopper said to her, if you can believe it. Something about pain just meaning you’re not in the cave anymore.

            Well, when Mike looks up, he doesn’t see the roof of a cave anymore. Or the roof of his bedroom. Above him, there’s nothing but pale blue sky, and Will Byers is next to him.

            And he’s never needed anything else.