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Will’s been waiting to “get Vecna’d,” as the gang charmingly nicknamed it, since he stepped foot in Hawkins. Max explained the prerequisites for an attack: insecurity, guilt, and a shitload of trauma. Will’s three for three. Hell, he could practically be the poster child.
So he’s been taking precautions. “Boys Don’t Cry” has been playing in his headphones all day and all night for seventy-two hours straight. Every word is ingrained into the grooves of his brain. Every harmonic dip and peak is etched into his skull. Take that, Vecna. Boys don’t cry. (Even though Will does. A lot. Constantly.)
Well, he will say one thing, and that’s that he’s been crying less since Mike and El officially broke up. It makes him feel like a total asshole, because his sister and his best friend ending their relationship shouldn’t make Will happy. It doesn’t matter that neither El or Mike seem too upset about it, doesn’t matter that they insisted they talked it over and they’re better off as friends.
What matters is Will’s feelings, the way his heart leapt with joy at the announcement, the small flicker of hope that lit in his chest and wouldn’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tried.
The fact that Mike is single now isn’t relevant. It can’t be relevant. Another girl will come along, and it won’t be Will because he doesn’t have the right parts. Wasn’t born the right way, the way that Mike would have preferred. It’s fine, except for the fact that it’s not fine at all, except for the fact that it’s so not fine that Will’s life is in imminent danger due to how fucked up he is over it.
But boys don’t cry, according to The Cure, so Will won’t either. He’s trying to take it to heart.
It’s just hard, when Mike’s constantly around. There’s not many of them in Hawkins, just the original party, and Dustin’s focused on Steve, and Lucas is focused on Max. El’s gone off with Owens to train up, and also, Will suspects, to get some distance from Mike. Which is fair.
But that means that Mike is wholly and completely focused on Will, just like he used to be when they were kids. It’s thrilling. It’s mortifyingly horrible. Since Mike being around all the time was what led to Will’s super-sized crush in the first place, it’s like he’s been thrown right back into that state of mind. He feels like he’s twelve again, trying to solve the mystery of his racing heart and sweaty palms. Except this time, there’s no mystery—just a terrible, sinking knowledge. Will’s grown up. He knows exactly what’s wrong with him.
Knowing doesn’t help, though, not when Mike is constantly leaning into his space and nudging his shoulder and just being there, all the time. For the last year, Will’s wanted nothing more than to see Mike again. Now, he wants nothing more than to see him less. For his own sanity, if nothing else.
He’s not hiding. That’s not what’s happening. He just needs some time to himself. Privacy, so he can paint and listen to “Boys Don’t Cry” for the millionth time and try not to feel like the entire world is falling apart beyond his headphones.
Like he said. It’s fine.
Will feels like an idiot, sitting here and painting while everything in Hawkins is going to hell in a handbasket, but apparently that’s all he’s good for anymore. He’s under strict instructions to keep his mind free of worry and his music playing, no matter the circumstances. It’s like no one even sees him as a person, someone who can defend themselves in their own right—no, he’s just someone who needs to be protected. Fragile. Weak. Like the second he steps out from the shadow of his friends, from the protective power of music, he’s dead.
Maybe they’re right. After all, Will’s been targeted more times than anyone else. There must be a reason.
(Will knows the explanation: he’s the weak link. The chink in the party’s armor. He’s always known.)
He brushes that thought away with a heavy stroke of his pallet knife. Back and forth, back and forth. Grab a brush. Switch colors. Back and forth, back and forth.
The tape clicks, and there’s a few, harrowing seconds of silence where Will’s mind is bare and unprotected, before the song restarts. He slumps in relief.
I would say I’m sorry
if I thought that it would change your mind.
Will’s hand presses a little too hard on the wooden handle of his brush, sending a streak of green paint through the sky. He cringes, then sets to work on fixing it.
He’s not painting anything too revealing, or embarrassing. Anything that anyone could walk by, catch a glimpse of, and suspect. Nothing that will lead people to any conclusions, about his preferences or his feelings or anything else.
It’s just a landscape. Green and blue. Trees. Clouds. Hills. Yellow sun.
He is, though, thinking about painting a tiny swingset in the distance. Something that a casual observer would have to squint, and know exactly what they’re looking for, to make out. Because Will is overly sentimental and silly and always so ridiculous, wearing his heart on his sleeve as if its contents are in any way acceptable. As if it won’t get him killed.
But the swingset, even in his mind, feels like a small fuck you to the universe. The only way his feelings can be put on paper, manifested into the world, without repercussions. A secret that only he’ll know, every time he passes the canvas.
He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do with the painting. He’ll probably just throw it away, because he’s already overthinking the swing and he hasn’t even painted it yet.
Will sighs heavily and sets down his brush, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He needs to stop. He just—he needs to stop. Take a break. Take a breath. Turn his brain off.
I tried to laugh about it,
cover it all up with lies.
The Cure floats around in his head, poppy beat and piercing lyrics searing into his soul. Only Will would pick something so on-the-nose as his favorite song. He wonders if anyone listened to the lyrics, wondered what they meant to him. If anyone even cared enough to do that.
Probably not. He doubts they had time, anyway, what with the end of the world and everything. God, he’s so self centered. He can’t believe himself sometimes.
Will wanders over to the bed in the center of the guest bedroom, sparsely made and heavily rumpled. He flops down on the side, then lays down horizontally, rumpling the sheets even more. He stares sideways at his painting until his eyes burn. Stupid. He’s so stupid.
Why does he put so much of himself into everything he does? Will feels like he can see his longing in every brushstroke, sense the pain in every imperfection. Everybody clearly knows there’s something wrong with him, too, what with the way they hustled to get him protected from Vecna. Because obviously he’s the easiest target. It’s like he’s walking around with a neon sign on his forehead: chock full of trauma! Come on in!
There’s a knock on the door. Will bolts upwards to a sitting position, braces his hands on his knees, then wipes hurriedly at his eyes. “Yeah, come in,” he calls, shifting one side of his headphones off his ear.
Mike peeks his head around the edge of the door, all big brown eyes and freckles and wispy, soft hair. He looks so touchable. Will’s going insane.
“Hey,” Mike greets, smiling a little. “Thought I lost ya. Why’re you holed up in here?” He nudges in through the door, coming to sit down on the bed next to Will. Their thighs are nearly touching.
Will reminds himself to breathe. “I dunno,” he says. “Just painting and stuff.”
Mike’s head swivels around, hunting for the canvas. When he sees it, his eyes brighten. “Will! That’s so good!”
Will’s face goes hot. “Thanks.”
“Boys Don’t Cry” continues to play in his left ear.
I would tell you that I loved you
if I thought that you would stay.
But I know that it’s no use
and you’ve already gone away.
For a second, the only sound in the room is the quiet music from Will’s headphones. The flush on his cheeks grows. The lyrics are clearly audible in the silence between them.
“So,” Mike says, a little awkwardly. He gestures to Will’s headphones. “The Cure.”
Will fiddles with his fingers, shifting them so that he’s holding his own hand. Glances, very quickly, at Mike’s hands, splayed wide over his thighs. Imagines that the hand in his isn’t his own, but Mike’s.
He untangles his fingers and sits on his hands. No. Bad Will. Stop it.
“Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” he says. “They’re, um. My favorite band right now.”
Mike smiles, a little lopsided thing that makes Will’s heart pound in his chest. “Well, they’re keeping you safe,” he says. “So now they’re my favorite band, too.”
How does he just say stuff like that? Does he really not see how that sounds?
Will’s trying to get over him. He really, really is. But Mike’s making it so hard.
Will messes with the headphone jack on his Walkman, thumb catching on the metal edge. “You wanna listen together?” he offers tentatively. He’s half convinced that Mike will scoff, say hell no, and storm out of the room. The other half is a childlike, dangerous hope that barely fits between his ribs, trying its hardest to crawl out.
Mike eyes the movement of Will’s fingers. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, okay.”
Will freezes. He didn’t think he’d make it this far. For a second, he’s absolutely paralyzed, forgetting everything beyond the tilt of Mike’s smile and the happy crinkles by his eyes.
Then Will gets with the program and removes the jack, fingers clumsy and trembling. The cord falls somewhere on the sheets, and music spills gently into the room.
Now I would do most anything
to get you back by my side.
But I just keep on laughing,
hiding the tears in my eyes.
“It’s a good song,” Mike offers, after a few long moments.
Will exhales shakily. “Yeah. Try listening to it five hundred times, though.”
Mike laughs, and Will feels a pleased burst of warmth low in his stomach. Even after everything, he can still make Mike laugh. He’s prouder of that than he reasonably should be.
“You’re a trooper,” Mike says fondly.
Will blushes, and stares down at his lap so that he doesn’t have to look at Mike. “Thanks.” He pauses, searching desperately for something else to say. Like the world’s worst icebreaker round, except instead of being between strangers, it’s between two people who used to know each other better than anyone else in their lives. He settles for a slightly awkward: “So. What would your song be? Um, if you had to pick.”
Mike purses his lips and rests his chin on his palm, seeming to give the question some actual thought. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Maybe something by Michael Jackson? Ooh, or ABBA. Or Metallica. Or—”
Will grins at him. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Mike says defensively.
“Glad to see you’re giving all music an equal chance,” Will teases. It’s just so Mike. He doesn’t know how to explain it any other way.
Mike’s cheeks go pink, and he shoves Will lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up, man. It’s a hard choice, okay?” He seems to think some more, before saying, more quietly, “I mean, I think I know. But it’s kind of stupid.”
Will has the sudden, intense need to know. He wants to know everything about Mike, all the things he missed while they were separated. He wants to learn who freshman-year Mike is, more than anything. “What? No,” he says. “Tell me.”
Mike’s cheeks flush even more. “You promise not to laugh?” he says warily.
Will’s curiosity increases tenfold. “Promise,” he replies gravely, scooting a little closer to Mike. He holds out his pinky. “Wanna swear on it?”
Mike rolls his eyes, but locks his pinky with Will’s. They shake, once, the promise burning hot, before letting go. Will’s pinky tingles all over, like it’s still touching Mike’s. He’s extremely aware of everything in the room: his body, Mike’s body, Mike’s body, Mike’s…
The floor, the tables, the posters, his canvas. The bed. Very interesting sheets. They must have a good…thread count. Is that the right term?
“Alright,” Mike says, long-suffering. Will’s head snaps back up to look at him, putting a pause on his blanket examination. “It’s Time after Time? By that Cyndi Lauper chick?” He glances nervously at Will, then away. “I mean, my mom has it playing on the radio sometimes, it’s not even—”
“Mike,” Will says, cutting him off. “That’s a great song. I like it too.”
Mike’s shoulders slump in relief. “Oh. Oh, cool.”
Will offers him a small smile. “Want to listen to it?”
He starts to dig around in his backpack for the tape. He hadn’t been kidding—he really does love that song. Romantic and hopeful, with a nice melody. What more could you want?
When he straightens back up, Mike’s running an anxious hand through his hair. Will raises an eyebrow in question, and he says, “Shouldn’t you keep playing your music? You know, just in case.”
Will snorts. “I don’t think Vecna’s gonna beam over here in the three minutes it takes us to listen to this song,” he says.
“Fair point,” Mike concedes. “Alright, start her up.”
He’s trying. But his fingers are shaking too bad, and he keeps missing the insertion slot for the tape. “Stupid—” he mutters, getting increasingly frustrated at both the aborted attempts and his own nerves.
“Here,” Mike says, and long fingers settle over his. “Let me help.”
Will’s hands still. Mike, seemingly completely fine and normal, guides the tape into the Walkman. “There we go,” he murmurs. He runs a thumb over the back of Will’s hand. “Geez, you’re shaking. You cold?”
“Mhm,” Will says tightly. He’s not sure his brain is functioning anymore.
Mike finally seems to recognize their proximity, then, and drops Will’s hands with a quick flurry of movement. “Oh. Um, sorry,” he says. “Do you—do you want my jacket or something?”
Will experiences a fierce onset of decision paralysis, instantaneously playing each choice through in his mind.
Option A: He takes the jacket. Relishes the opportunity to be close to Mike, like a total weirdo. Maybe “forgets” to give it back, just so he can hold onto that little piece of Mike for a few extra days. Also like a total weirdo. Option B: Don’t take the jacket. Suffer. Be normal.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice odd and strangled. Good one, Will. Real convincing.
“Take it,” Mike insists, and shrugs out of his dark-wash denim, exposing pale, freckled forearms. They have more definition this close up, like Mike’s been working out or something.
Will tears his gaze away. Stares at the sheets again. His hand on the sheets. His hand that had just been touching Mike’s hand.
He wants to fucking scream.
Instead, he lets Mike help him with the jacket, even though he could definitely put it on himself. Mike’s hand smooths over the expanse of his back, fingers curled and gentle. “There,” he says, once Will’s arms are through. The sleeves are too long on him, and his fingers barely poke out the ends, knobbly and paint-stained. “Perfect.”
The jacket smells like Mike, even though Will knows that’s a weird thing to notice. But it’s true—cedar and sweat and the slightly rubbery smell of the Wheeler’s basement. Will tugs the lapel closer, subtly breathing it in. “Thanks,” he says.
“Of course.” Mike hesitates, then looks down at his knees, seemingly a little nervous. “You hate the cold.”
Will blinks in surprise. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I—I didn’t know you remembered.”
Mike’s head snaps up. “Of course I do,” he says fiercely. “Of course.”
There’s an awkward silence. Will panics and starts the tape. His fingers, if anything, are only shaking more now. He hopes Mike doesn’t notice.
Lying in my bed,
I hear the clock tick, and think of you.
Caught up in circles,
confusion is nothing new.
“Great song,” Will murmurs, closing his eyes for a second. He lets the music wash over him, and allows it to calm his frayed edges. He’s okay. He’s with Mike, and this is normal, and they’re friends. Nothing will happen.
“Yeah,” Mike says, sounding far-off and distracted. When Will opens his eyes, a little curious at the tone, Mike’s looking right at him, an unreadable expression on his face.
Their eyes lock. Neither of them break the silence. Mike’s gaze flickers down, then back up.
Wait. …What? What?
Will’s heart rate accelerates. That didn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Wishful thinking. He’s just looking. Normally.
Right. Normal. This is so normal. They act like this all the time.
Will lets out a shaky breath. “Um.”
“Hm?” Mike answers, still sounding distracted. His eyes are very dark.
Will digs around for something to say. Anything. God, he’s begging at this point.
“I. Um.”
Mike’s eyes flicker up (from where, had he been looking at—) to meet Will’s own. “Yeah?” he says, more attentively. “What is it?”
“I need to tell you something,” Will says.
Fuck. Not that. That’s not what he meant.
The words are forced from his mouth without warning, rote and entirely too honest, and he can only watch as Mike’s eyes widen with… some sort of emotion. Curiosity? Understanding? Anticipation?
Will doesn’t know why he said that. He’s not ready for this conversation. He doesn’t even know what this conversation is, what it entails—if he just wants to talk about the general part of his truth, or the specifics. The more painful part. The scariest part.
He doesn’t want to talk about it at all. He wants to talk about it so bad that it’s tearing him in half. He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to poof out of existence so he doesn’t have to live through whatever comes next.
But the words are out, and there’s no going back, and they’ll need to have this conversation at some point if they’re going to stay friends, so it might as well be now. Will’s already set it in motion.
Mike nods encouragingly. “Alright,” he says, achingly gentle. “I’m listening.”
If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me,
time after time.
If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting,
time after time.
“Do you remember,” Will says, slowly working out what he wants to say, “when we fought? And you said—” he cuts off, taking a sharp breath. “When you said it wasn’t your fault. That I. That I, um.”
“Didn’t like girls,” Mike finishes, very quietly. Even though his tone is nothing short of a whisper, Will still flinches, like he’s been slapped.
“Yep,” he says, strangled. “That.”
“I remember,” Mike says immediately. “Of course I do. Jesus, Will, I’m so sor—”
“No,” Will interrupts. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize right now. Just… just listen, okay?”
Mike shuts up, folding his hands in his lap and giving Will the full brunt of his undivided attention. It’s a heady, powerful feeling, and Will has to take a second to calm himself and power through it. “Well, you weren’t… wrong, exactly.” He chances a nervous glance at Mike, but his expression is still patient and attentive, giving nothing away. Will sucks in a breath and stares at the wall. “And I don’t know how much you’ve… known, or suspected, over the years—”
He can feel the tears beginning to sting behind his eyes. It’s humiliating. Boys don’t cry. They don’t.
So what sort of boy is Will Byers? He’s not sure he’s much of one at all. Not how he’s supposed to be.
“Will,” Mike says, a lifetime of affectionate friendship held in that one syllable. “It doesn’t matter what I suspect. What anyone suspects. I don’t know anything, not for sure, unless you tell me. And whatever you tell me, okay, I’m here for you. Always.”
The veneer over the true subject of this conversation is so thin it might as well be transparent. Will blinks away tears, but they fall anyway, tracking hot down his cheeks and leaving salty kisses on his lips. “I do want to tell you,” he chokes. “It’s just—shit, this is so hard,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
One of Mike’s hands lifts hesitantly from his lap, hovering over Will’s back. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly.
Will nods, miserable and embarrassed, and Mike rubs soothingly over his back, over the denim of his own jacket. “It’s alright,” he says, while Will presses a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. “Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”
That last sentence, those three words, break Will messily along the seams, bulldoze his walls right on down. He sobs into his palms, bringing both of them to cover his face, and the next thing he knows he’s tilting sideways as Mike enfolds him in a tight hug. “Will,” he says, still smoothing over his back. “Will, it’s okay.”
Mike guides Will’s face to his shoulder, and Will presses his forehead to Mike’s shirt, trying his best to breathe. The smell of cedar is so much stronger now, nearly overwhelming. This is too much. Will can’t process any of it, not at all, but he has to keep going, because there’s no other option. Other than passing out, maybe, but Will doesn’t think he can do that on command. If only El was here, maybe she’d be kind enough to knock him out.
But Will’s alive, he’s awake, and he’s here, getting snot all over Mike’s soft blue shirt, so he has to explain himself. Has to power through this conversation, and face the unknown of after.
Secrets stolen from deep inside,
the drum beats out of time.
He straightens up. Scoots, painstakingly, away from Mike. In the very likely (and understandable) case that he wants space after…
“I’m queer,” Will says, not looking at Mike. “I… like boys.”
Mike stares at him, eyes wide but not surprised. After a second, he nods. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, serious and measured. Like he’s been rehearsing it in his head. Will thinks he might throw up.
“You don’t have to say you’re okay with it if you’re—if you’re not,” Will says, heart cracking all the while. But he has to do this. He has to give Mike an out. “I’d get it, really. If you’re uncomfortable.”
“Will,” Mike says, mouth parting slightly in shock. “I’m not. I swear I’m not, not at all. I could never be uncomfortable around you. You’re my—”
“Best friend,” Will finishes, voice breaking in between the two words. “Yeah.”
Mike pauses, eyes flitting all over Will. Up, down, up, down. Like he’s trying to figure something out.
Will’s pulse ticks madly in his wrist. At the back of his neck. Danger, it says, as it always does. Run.
“I mean,” Mike tries after a minute, forcing a joking smile, a casual tone, “it’s not like you— it’s not like you have a thing for—” He’s already beginning to gesture at himself, self-deprecation clear in the lax muscles of his hands, in the loose hold of his fingers.
“Mike,” Will says, tensing all over. “Stop. Just—stop.”
Mike’s hands drop at once, understanding dawning over his whole face. “I—”
“So like I said,” Will makes himself repeat, teeth gritted and jaw clenched in an effort to hold back even more tears, “if you’re uncomfortable, or not okay with… any of this—”
He waits for a second, but there’s only silence. Mike’s eyes are huge. Vast pools of indiscernible emotion. Will doesn’t realize until then that he’d been waiting for Mike to stop him. To contradict him.
Will swallows over the lump in his throat and tries to keep going. “If you’re—if you don’t want to be friends anymore,” he says, breath hitching on a gasp, “I get it. I understand, really, I do—” His chest heaves, and he looks everywhere but Mike’s face. “And I’ll try to get it under control, I’ve been trying, but if you ever need me to back off, or if you need space, or if you need me to—I don’t know, to stop looking at you, or something, I—”
Finally, the interruption to his wrecked ramble comes. But not in the form that Will expects.
Lips are on his, hard and sure, and a hand around his neck, a thumb in the divot between his collarbones, rubbing just barely at his skin. Will’s so startled that he doesn’t reciprocate, just sits there, lips still parted, tears still wet on his face and in his mouth. In Mike’s mouth.
Because Mike is kissing him.
As soon as it begins, it’s over, Mike pulling so far away that he almost falls off the bed. “I’m sorry!” he yelps, face bright red. “I’m so sorry, I just—it hurt so bad to hear you say those things, I can’t believe you’d ever think that, and I just…”
He keeps going, but Will’s not listening anymore. Because he knows what this is.
Max told him all about her first real vision from Vecna, how it had started sweet, how her mom had been perfect—almost too perfect, suspiciously perfect—but she’d never been there at all. How the whole thing had been a trick.
That’s not Mike.
Not Mike, sitting across from him, shirt rumpled at the shoulder, fingers trembling in his lap. Not Mike, with his kiss-bitten lips and shocked eyes, his flushed skin, his constellation-scattering of freckles. Not Mike. Not at all.
God, he can’t believe he’s been so stupid. How long has it been since he switched the tape? Since the protection of The Cure went up into smoke, leaving his brain up for the taking?
Did he honestly think Mike would say any of that? Give him his jacket? His attention? Tell him it’s okay, he’s not uncomfortable, he’s always there for Will? Did he really believe that Mike would… Would…
Will lifts a finger to his bottom lip, running over it. Remembering, just for a second, before he flips into fight-or-flight mode. Old survival instincts that aren’t so old at all because he always ends up needing them.
“And I know that I should have asked, and you’re totally okay to take all the time you need, and I’m so sorry—” Mike’s saying, when Will tunes back in.
No. Not Mike.
“I know who you are,” Will says, tone even and pierced.
Mike stops talking immediately, brows furrowing together as he looks up at Will. “I—what?”
“You can’t trick me,” Will says, shaking his head. He blinks hard, forcing his eyes to stay dry. “You might look like him, but you don’t know him like I do. Mike would never say those things. And even if he did, he wouldn’t try and—” Will flushes. “He wouldn’t—” He cuts himself off in frustration, then pushes himself as far away from the illusion as he can get. “Just stay away from me, okay? We can… we can talk about this. What do you want?”
Mike stares at Will. “Will, do you think that I’m—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Will snaps, getting agitated now. “I caught you, alright? The jig is up. Sorry you couldn’t play out the rest of your…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Little script, or whatever.”
“Will, listen to me.”
Now they’re getting somewhere.
“Alright, I’ll listen,” Will says, a plan forming in his mind. “But first, you’ll listen.”
“I—”
“First of all,” Will starts, “I know you want me. That you need me for whatever reason, okay, that much is obvious. But you’re only getting me if you leave my friends out of this.” He pauses, ticking them off on his fingers. “Mike, El, Lucas, Dustin, Max, Jonathan, everyone. And then… you can have me. You can kill me, use me, keep me down there forever, I don’t know. But they’re off limits. That’s the only way I’m going with you.”
Will’s not actually going to play nice with Vecna. Obviously. He’s got a gun in his spare backpack, and explosives downstairs, and a superpowered sister that’s only one phone-call away. But Vecna doesn’t need to know that. Will just wants to see if there’s any chance that his friends could be safe. That Will could do that much for them, at least.
Fake-Mike continues to stare at him. His mouth opens, then closes. Opens again. “Will, I’m not Vecna,” he says, in a strained tone of voice. “What… What the fuck? Why would you think that? And you were just going to sacrifice yourself, without saying anything, without, I don’t know, talking it over with us? Having a group meeting, maybe?”
Will squints at him. Vecna’s doing…a weirdly convincing job. Taking a strange route. But he’d been prepared for that.
“Just tell me if you’ll take the deal,” he says. “Stop wasting my time. Reveal yourself.”
Mike reaches both hands out, putting them heavily on his shoulders. He stares straight into Will’s eyes, not backing down in the slightest. “Will. I don’t know how else to convince you, but it’s me. Mike. I… we met on the swings when we were little. We played D&D in my basement every weekend after. You paint the coolest shit, and you’re so creative, and I don’t know why you picked a loser like me to be friends with, okay, but I’m so glad you did. I wouldn’t trade you for the world, Will Byers.”
Will tracks over his freckles. His sharp, angled nose. The mole by his chin. He takes a deep breath. “Vecna could know all that,” he says weakly.
“Yeah, I guess,” Mike reponds, nose scrunching up. “But he probably wouldn’t be fucking things up this bad.”
And that’s when Will realizes. There’s no ticking clock, no red smoke, no smell of rot and decay. Mike’s skin is just skin, healthy and flushed and normal, and his eyes are just eyes, and his lips are just lips. No sign of the Upside Down. No sign of Vecna. No sign of anything other than Will being a paranoid idiot that ruins every good thing in his life.
Will coughs out a laugh that’s a little bit of a sob, too. “Mike?” he says in disbelief.
“Yeah,” Mike says softly. The corner of his mouth ticks up. “It’s me.”
Will’s eyes sting. “But you… but you kissed me,” he protests.
Mike laughs, watery and sad. “You thought Vecna kissing you was the more likely option?”
“Yes!” Will exclaims, throwing his hands up. But it’s all clicking now, his brain finally sorting out the logical sequence of the last ten minutes. Oh, god. He’s an idiot. He wants to crawl into the Upside Down and never come back.
Mike pulls Will in by the shoulders, bringing him in for a firm hug. His arms lock behind Will’s neck, and he breathes into his collarbone. “Will, you’re, like… I don’t know how to say it. But. Me too.”
“What?” Will says breathlessly, one hand on Mike’s back and the other ghosting over his waist.
Come on, his brain yells. Catch up. You can have this. He’s telling you it’s okay.
But Will still can’t bring himself to believe it. Not when this thing with Mike has never been safe, not even in his own head. Not when Lonnie was around, flinging queer and fag at his seven year old son like punches, then throwing literal punches. Not when Will was growing up and realizing at every turn that he was wrong, that he was different, that he was hunted by everyone, including himself.
Mike is dangerous. Will doesn’t want him to be. But even with the threat of Vecna removed, the danger remains. It lives inside Will. Inside both of them, apparently.
“I… feel that way,” Mike says nervously. “About you.”
“You do?” Will asks. “Are you—about me? Are you sure?”
Mike, to his surprise, snorts in mild amusement. “Am I sure,” he repeats. “Considering how many hours of sleep I’ve lost thinking about you, and how many fucking—letters I wrote, then threw away, and how often I—” he stops himself, blushing a pretty shade of pink. “Yeah. I’m sure.” He looks up at Will through his lashes. “Are…are you?”
Will laughs incredulously. “I’ve been sure since we were twelve,” he says. “God, Mike, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Sure that this will ruin him. Sure that he’s broken, that he’s wrong, that he’s defective, in more ways than one. A traitor to his friends, to his gender, to his family, to the world. But the way that Mike’s looking at him…
It makes him feel like he’s not any of those things. Not at all. It makes him feel special, safe, held. Whole.
Mike strokes a thumb over his cheekbone. “Good,” he says, whispery and disbelieving. “Good.”
Will’s eyes flicker down to Mike’s lips, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t have to look away this time. That Mike knows he’s looking, and that’s alright, because Mike is looking back. Because this thing between them is fragile, but in a good way, in the way that births butterflies in his stomach and roses on his cheeks.
“Can I…” Mike takes a slow, calming breath that shakes on the way out. “Can I kiss you? Again?”
There’s still so many things Will doesn’t understand. Like Mike’s feelings towards El, or his attitude in Lenora, or why “Time After Time” has been off for nearly ten minutes now, plunging them both into silence, and Vecna still hasn’t come for him.
But he doesn’t need all the answers right now. He has all he needs in the curve of Mike’s lips, the slant of his jaw, the glint in his eyes. It’s enough. It’s so much more than enough, so much more than Will ever thought he would get to have. And even if it doesn’t last—even if Mike realizes, after this kiss, that he’s made a horrible mistake and he doesn’t like Will at all, because who would blame him—Will will still have this moment. This picture in his mind. He commits it to memory, so he can do the shade of Mike’s irises justice when he paints it later on.
He nods, a slight dip of his chin, and Mike leans in.
Their kiss this time is softer. Mutual, and slow. Testing. Will’s first real kiss, first real anything.
It’s somehow both more and less than he expected. It’s exhilarating, yes, and Will’s heart is pumping so hard he’s honestly a little concerned, but. At the same time, Mike’s lips are just lips, just skin, and not electricity or lightning or trailing sparks. There’s no music swelling, just faint rustling from the comforter as they adjust their positions on the bed, and the click of the radiator in the Wheeler’s guest bedroom as it restarts for another cycle.
It’s the best moment of Will’s life. Because it’s Mike’s lips, Mike’s skin, Mike’s hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer like he can’t get enough. Mike and cedar and sweat and rubber. The boy he’s loved since the swingset, since before he learned to be afraid of his own heart.
Will’s lips part, a silent gasp, and Mike grabs the opportunity, licking into his mouth, behind the ridge of his teeth, along the side of his tongue. It kind of seems like Mike wants to kiss him forever. Like he has no other plans for the rest of his life, which—hey, Will’s not complaining.
Almost like he read Will’s mind, and grew self-conscious from it, Mike pulls back, but stays close. His lips ghost over Will’s cupid’s bow, the tip of his nose, the space between his brows. He kisses away the tear tracks on Will’s cheeks, gentle little apologies for ever having hurt him at all.
Will huffs out an unsteady breath. Watches Mike as he continues his ardent exploration of Will’s upper body. It’s like the flood gates have been opened, like Mike’s acting on every physical thought he’s ever had about Will and held back from carrying out. Carefully, he lifts Will’s arm and pushes his jacket sleeve up so he can kiss a yellow paint stain on the side of Will’s wrist. He holds Will’s hand close to his face and, eyes still closed, whispers, “You’re so beautiful.”
“Mike,” Will breathes out, eyes wide. Mike flushes red, but stays exactly where he is. His lashes flutter, heavy and dark, as he looks up at Will.
“That was…” Will says, trying and failing to find words. “Wow.”
“Wow yourself,” Mike murmurs, pressing a sideways kiss into the meat of Will’s palm. “I feel so lucky right now,” he confesses quietly.
“Are you kidding?” Will says, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, you—and then—and I—“
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Mike says evenly, but he’s unable to hide the way his mouth ticks up. Will rolls his eyes. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he looks like a mess right now. That he’s bright red and sweating, with messy hair and a too-big jacket.
But Mike called him beautiful. So maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe everything’s okay.
Mike straightens up, taking Will’s hand in his own and tracing along his heart line. “We should probably put your song back on,” he says, eyeing the Walkman.
“Probably,” Will agrees, a little embarrassed at the reminder of Vecna.
Mike leans over the side of the bed and fiddles with the tapes. While he’s still hunched over, he says, “I can’t believe you would let Vecna take you.” He sits back up, looking pained. “I mean, don’t you know how much you mean to me? How much you mean to everyone? Even before this,” he says, gesturing at their linked hands.
Will sighs. “I wasn’t actually going to,” he says defensively. “It was just a bargaining tactic. I have a shotgun in my bag. And I’m a good shot. I could take him.”
Mike’s fingers twitch against his own. “What?”
“I’m not dumb, Mike. Or suicidal. I was buying time, telling him what he wanted to hear.”
“No, I got that part,” Mike says, waving him off. “That’s—good. I’m glad. But you said you have a…”
Will raises an eyebrow. “A gun? Of course I do. You really think I was gonna go back to Hawkins unprotected?”
“l guess I—I just didn’t think—” Mike stammers, skin rapidly turning scarlet.
Something about the tone of his voice causes Will to narrow his eyes. He squeezes Mike’s hand. “You good?”
“Mhm,” Mike says, not meeting his eye. “Do you think… you think you could show me sometime?”
“Show you what?”
Mike’s gaze flickers to Will’s bag, over in the corner of the room. “How you shoot,” he says, barely audible. “I—I want to see.”
“Oh,” Will says, surprised. “Sure. We can go later today.”
“Cool,” Mike squeaks. God, he’s so cute. And Will can actually think that now. He’s allowed.
“Cool,” he echoes.
Mike finally turns the Walkman over in his hands, clicking the start button, and music filters into the space between them.
I would say that I’m sorry
if I thought that it would change your mind.
“It’s a little bit of a sad song, isn’t it,” Mike says, after a considering beat. “It’s hard to tell at first, because of how happy it sounds.” He looks over at Will. “This is really your favorite song?”
Will nods. “Yeah. And, well—I’m a little bit of a sad person. So it fits.” He hesitates. “I’ve listened to this… a lot. Over the past year.”
I would break down at your feet
and beg forgiveness, plead with you.
But I know that it’s too late
and now there’s nothing I can do.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Will,” Mike says, with absolute conviction. “Okay? Nothing.”
Will’s mouth thins into a tight line and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to tamp down on his immediate, emotional response to that statement. “Are you sure?” he says. “Because, like—I know you think that, but you don’t know—” He breathes sharply, looking away. “I mean, I was thinking this stuff about you for so long, when you were still with El, and I just. You didn’t deserve that. She especially didn’t deserve that.”
“You can’t help who you fall for, Will,” Mike says softly. “No one blames you for anything. I know that El wouldn’t think any less of you, okay? And as for me…” He laughs humorlessly, running his free hand through his hair. “Let’s just say that you weren’t the only one thinking like that. The only difference is that you were still a good person, still selfless, in spite of all of that inside you, and I’m just—” He clicks his tongue. “I was an asshole. I let that fear, that terror, turn me into someone horrible. And you didn’t deserve that, either. Neither of you did.”
Will chokes on a laugh. “God. What a pair, right?”
“Crazy together,” Mike says, without skipping a beat.
Will scrubs at his eyes. “Fuck, Mike.”
“Yeah,” Mike replies, holding Will’s hand tighter. “Yeah, I know.”
He’s beautiful. He’s everything. He’s the other half of Will’s heart, the paladin to his cleric, the yin to his yang, all that other cheesy stuff they say in the romance novels his mom reads that Will may or may not steal from her room every once in a while.
“Crazy together,” Will says finally, leaning into Mike’s side. But in the air between them, it lingers: Boys don’t cry. Crazy together. If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me.
A common thread beats through all of them, interwoven in shades of blue and yellow, snaking along paint-dappled skin and freckles and between two racing hearts.
Love. Love, love, love. So much that Will’s bursting with it. That maybe, just maybe, Mike is too.
Mike grins widely at him. And to Will, it looks like I love you.
Will smiles back, ducking his head shyly. I love you too, he thinks. I love you so fucking much.
His other thought, when he looks off to the side of his room, is that maybe he’ll paint that swingset after all. But not hidden away in the background, not as a blink-and-you-miss-it detail.
Front and center. Just like it should be.