Chapter Text
One month later
Will’s hand is sweaty in Mom’s. His collar is too tight, and his pants are too pressed, and he feels like if he makes one wrong move, he’ll undo all of her hard work, all of her ironing and starching and hanging out to dry.
Unfortunately, right now, it feels like all of his moves are wrong.
“Yeah, you got it! See?” Mom encourages, smiling big and wide.
The scar on Will’s side pulls taut, twinging uncomfortably. He forces down the feeling, choosing to focus instead on his really bad dance moves. This is horrible, honestly. No one’s gonna want to dance with him at this rate.
Not like they would, anyway. Not like anyone’s lining up to dance with Zombie Boy.
“Mooooom,” he groans, ducking his head. He looks at his shuffling feet, at his overly-big dress shoes with little scuffs on the toes.
Jingle Bell Rock plays on the radio, merry and bright and all that jazz, and Mom’s laugh lights it all up, taking front and center stage among the crooning notes. “Wow! Look at that!”
Like Will’s doing something impressive, rather than just awkwardly moving his feet and trying not to trip.
He tries to put a little more pep into it, even though he mostly feels embarrassed and sweaty and why is Jonathan still filming?
“Do you have to always be filming everything?” Will mumbles, darting a look at his brother. He attempts to imagine what he looks like on the recording: uncomfortable and unsure of himself. A bad dancer. Lame.
Jonathan peeks around the lens to grin at him. “No, no. Just the good stuff,” he assures him.
Will rolls his eyes, mood lifting a little bit as he looks back to Mom. “Are you sure people still dance like this?” he asks, because he’s honestly not too convinced. The dances that were around when Mom was his age are probably way different than dances now. Will can’t picture Troy or Jennifer Hayes dancing like this.
Will can’t picture Troy dancing at all, but that’s a different story. And honestly, the attempt to imagine it just makes him want to laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling up.
“Yeah!” Mom says, laughing a little, like she doesn’t fully believe what she’s telling him. “It’s just… what’s happening.”
Oh, god. Embarrassing. But in a good way this time, in a familiar and cozy Mom type of way. A way that makes him think of all his drawings hung up on the fridge and at Melvald’s, of her smiling face front and center at the third grade talent show, when he did magic tricks with the Party, and of her warm, wonderful voice, singing him lullabies and telling him bad jokes.
He shoots a conspiratorial look at Jonathan, who looks like he’s holding back giggles of his own. “Is it what’s happening?” Will asks skeptically, and Jonathan snorts with amusement. Something proud and giddy bubbles up in Will’s chest.
“Yeah, yeah! It’s what’s happening,” Jonathan manages, through bouts of laughter.
For a second, he forgets. He forgets the pain on his side, forgets the way that Mike hasn’t really been talking about anyone except Eleven recently, even though she’s holed up in Hopper’s cabin, forgets the nightmares and the way he’s always either too hot or too cold, the way he never feels right in his own skin anymore.
He forgets the voices. Come home. Come home. Join us.
He even forgets the red hellscape of the Upside Down, of his mind void. He forgets the carvings in the floorboards of Castle Byers. Forgets every Bad Thing that’s ever haunted him.
Jingle Bell Rock plays on the radio, and Chester barks, and Will twirls Mom into a spin.
Just for tonight, it’s okay.
He can pretend.
***
This suit makes Mike feel itchy. He hates dressing up. He hates dancing.
And he especially hates taking pictures.
He blinks away the flare in his retinas from the camera flash, trying to suppress the scowl on his face. “Okay, that’s enough,” he grumbles.
Mom fiddles with her camera, nails clacking against the lens. “One more, okay? Just one more,” she promises, holding up a finger.
“Why?” Mike groans. He knows how this works—she says one more, and then one turns into two, and two turns into three, and three turns into four, and before Mike knows it, he’s been roped into his worst nightmare: a never-ending photoshoot.
Besides, he doesn’t see why she needs all these pictures, anyway. They’re just pictures of him, by himself, like a total weirdo. The Party’s not even here, because they’re all getting ready separately.
And El’s not here, either.
Mike gets it. He understands the need for protection, the need to hide her away and keep her out of reach from the Bad Men. Hell, half the time, he wants to wrap her up in bubble wrap and never let her out of his sight ever again.
So he knows where Hopper’s coming from.
But at the same time, it just makes him feel like even more of an outcast. Lucas and Max aren’t officially going together, but everyone knows it’s just a matter of time, because they have that whole will-they-won’t-they thing going on. God knows someone’s gonna have their eye on Will, because girls are all over him lately, ever since he’s come back from his possession a little tougher around the edges, with that whole mysterious loner thing going on. Mike swears that half the girls in their grade have approached him to ask: Hey, what’s the deal with your friend?
To which he’s replied, every time: He’s not looking for anything right now.
Because he’s not, okay? Will’s been through a lot in the past year. Sure, he’ll get a girlfriend at some point, but she has to go through Mike first. He has a very intense vetting process all prepared. She has to like D&D. She has to be artsy. She has to listen to Will and not talk over him and not call him quiet or mysterious or, god forbid, damaged, because he’s not any of those things.
So a girl will come along. Eventually. But just for now, Mike’s gonna hold onto Will a little tighter. Until he’s ready. Until someone comes along that deserves him, that understands what he’s gone through.
And Dustin’s just Dustin. Not much else to say about that.
“You look so handsome,” Mom croons, her blushed cheeks rounding as she smiles.
Embarrassing.
“Mom!” Mike yelps. His cheeks turn a little rosy, too. It’s really warm in here.
She ignores his pleas for help. She smiles, and she squints into the camera, and she takes another picture.
Worst day ever.
***
“Okay,” Jonathan says, eyes narrowed as he parks the car. “Snow Ball time.”
“Jonathannn,” Will groans, head bonking back against his headrest.
“What?” Jonathan teases. With practiced ease, he switches gears into park, then turns to look at Will. “You’re not excited? You look all… spiffy,” he mimics, a clear reference to Mom’s parting words from earlier as she ruffled Will’s hair and fixed his collar for the umpteenth time.
“Stop it!” Will laughs as Jonathan reaches over to do just that. “I’m gonna look like a disaster by the time I get in there.”
Jonathan blinks in surprise, then wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Oh? Someone you trying to impress?”
Suddenly, the reality of the situation washes back over Will. It’s not like… Well, it’s not like he can dance with the person he actually wants to dance with. He doesn’t have a date, and he’s got no prospects.
He’s all alone.
“No,” Will stammers quickly, flustered heat rising to his cheeks. “No, there’s—there’s no one.”
Unbidden, he thinks of Mike. Mike, with his wide smile and chipped front tooth. Mike, with his freckles and pale skin and jet-black hair. Mike, with his soft voice and gentle hands and ridged nose, the perfect shape to sketch out. Mike, Mike, Mike.
No one.
Jonathan doesn’t seem convinced, but he also looks like he knows not to push it. “If you say so,” he says, a little calmer now, and unbuckles his seatbelt. Before Will can do the same, though, Jonathan stops him, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”
Will blinks at him, fingers paused by his buckle. “Yeah?”
His brother’s stare is intense. Steady. “Anyone would be lucky to dance with you, okay? Anyone.”
Will swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he lies, like he actually believes the claim. “Yeah, okay.”
And with that slightly uncomfortable exchange out of the way, Will unbuckles, slides out of the passenger seat, and follows Jonathan inside. He’s working the photo booth, so he doesn’t stick around for long, departing with a simple squeeze of Will’s shoulder and a little thumbs-up before heading over to set up his camera.
Will takes a second to look around.
The gym looks bigger like this. There’s blue and silver streamers everywhere, and some randomly-placed Christmas decorations to set the mood. A lot of people are already dancing, because they’d left kind of late.
Mike, Lucas, and Max are already here. And none of them look very entertained.
“Hey, guys!” Will greets, a little nervous. Mike’s mouth curls up after spotting him, and that’s—oh. Oh.
Mike looks good. Like, really good.
Well. He’s got a stiff new suit on, and his hair’s all flat and wrangled-down, both of which are clear signs of Karen Wheeler’s influence. Like a beauty-school hurricane, that lady. And Will knows Mike must hate it, must be super uncomfortable, but it’s almost… cute. Endearing. He looks fidgety and restless, awkward in his own skin. Just like Will is.
He relaxes a bit.
“Hi, Will,” Mike says, standing from his chair. “Um.”
His cheeks are a little pink, like he’s warm, and the other Party members are looking at him like he’s crazy. Mike looks at Will, then at his chair, like he can’t remember why he stood up in the first place. “Um,” he repeats, then gestures to the empty chair. “Here. Saved you a spot.”
Lucas raises an eyebrow, which is fair. There’s about five empty chairs at their table that Will could have sat down at.
Still, something inside him jolts sideways at the gesture, a pleased rush of adrenaline. Mike saved him a chair. No one else.
Well, presumably. Maybe he saved everyone a chair, and Will’s just being stupid.
That’s probably it.
“Thanks, Mike,” he says hesitantly, taking the offered chair as Mike moves to sit down next to him. The seat is warm. Will tries not to think about it.
“Mhm,” Mike manages, sounding a little strangled. “Yeah, anytime.”
The conversation dies off after that, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts and their own private worries. Lucas keeps glancing over at Max. Max keeps glancing back every time his head is turned away. Will kind of wants to scream.
Instead, he people-watches, because if he doesn’t find something to do, he’ll end up just staring at Mike for the next hour, and that is… not okay. Not at all.
A lot of kids are paired up already, even though it’s not a slow dance. Suzie Q and Reggie Walters. Jennifer Hayes and Zachary Brown.
Groups of girls are gathered in little cliques across the dance floor, dancing self-consciously and sneaking looks at the boys they like.
Will doesn’t see anyone like him. Not a single person.
Not like they’d be allowed to—
God. He’s being stupid.
A lump’s forming in his throat, so he clears it. Runs his hands down his slightly-wrinkled dress pants. Then, when there’s absolutely nothing left to do, he looks at Mike. Just for a second.
He seems bored. Or—no, not bored. Nervous. Worried. Self-conscious, just like those girls on the dance floor.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, Will thinks about saying something. Something like: Hey, do you wanna get out of here? Get some air?
Maybe Jonathan or Nancy could drive them back to Mike’s. Maybe they could plan the rest of their campaign and eat chips and stay up late into the night, talking and laughing and joking. They haven’t done that in a while.
Will’s just loosened his jaw, just started opening his mouth, when Dustin shows up.
And then he throws the whole idea out the window, because it was silly anyway. They bought tickets to this thing, and they got all dressed up, and they’re here. Will should try to enjoy himself.
If anything’s gonna brighten his mood, it’s the sight of Dustin’s new hairdo, all poofed-up and ridiculous-looking. As he sticks his tongue out and spins in a dramatic circle, curls bouncing stiffly, Will tries to hold back a giggle.
Mike, however, isn’t so reserved. “Holy shit, what happened to you?” he asks incredulously, standing from his seat again. This time, the rest of the Party follows, because of course they do. Mike’s the leader. What he says goes.
Dustin’s face falls, eyes lighting with the first signs of nerves. “Wh—what do you mean what happened?”
“What?” Mike laughs, face going all crinkly and amused. Will’s own mouth ticks up, watching him. He’s happy that Mike’s happy. Even if it is at poor Dustin’s expense, who’s looking more and more distressed by the second.
“Dude,” Lucas says.
Max snorts. “Your hair.”
Lucas reaches forward, poking at the hard edges of Dustin’s hairdo. “Is there a bird nesting in there?” he says, half-joke and half-genuine.
Dustin bats him away, full-on scowling now. “There’s no bird nesting in here, asshole.” Gingerly, he pats his hair back into place, looking wounded. “I worked hard.”
Will softens a little, still smiling. “It looks great, Dustin,” he offers.
Dustin squints at him, like he can’t decide if the compliment is genuine or not.
But just as he opens his mouth to retort, the speaker clicks, and the music doubles in volume. The familiar notes of Time After Time filter in through the gym, echoing off the concrete walls, and Will has a thick sense of deja-vu, remembering Mom’s loud, off-key singing as she made lasagna in the kitchen. She loves this song.
It’s romantic, she always says. It’s a love song.
Meaning that it’s time for a slow dance. Already.
Crap. Crap, Will’s not ready. They’re all gonna sit this one out, right? That’s what they’d agreed on, a few weeks ago. True, it was less of a promise and more of an offhand statement of Mike’s at a Party sleepover, but still. Will’s been clinging onto that statement with everything he’s got. No slow dances.
The rest of the gym didn’t seem to have gotten the memo. All around the room, boys and girls pair up, hands draped over shoulders and tentatively gripping waists. Will’s eyes widen with panic as he watches them. Is he supposed to be doing that? Is it weird that he’s not? Who would he even…
Mike’s presence at his side feels like something hot and tangible, simmering away in the center of Will’s chest. At his side, where the fire poker pierced his skin.
For just a second, Will lets himself imagine. Himself in a parallel universe, one where he would be braver and cooler, one where there’s nothing wrong with two boys dancing together.
One where Mike likes him back.
Maybe Will would ask, like Lucas is now, turning to Max and saying: “You wanna, um… You wanna, like… You know? Like, just you and me?”
And maybe Mike would say something back. Not something sarcastic and grudgingly fond, like Max is, but something more genuine. Tender. I’d love to. I’ve always wanted to—
Then Will blinks, and the vision is gone, and Max is dragging Lucas off onto the dance floor.
Good for them.
…Good for them. Yeah.
He barely has time to process it, though, barely has time to feel happy for them or jealous of them or anything at all, because there’s a girl walking up to him.
To him.
“Hey, Zombie Boy!”
Will tenses reflexively, waiting for the insults to follow. A mean-spirited joke, maybe. What’s a dead boy’s favorite dance?
But none of that happens. The girl is smiling. Hopeful, kind. He vaguely remembers her from science last year—Brooke or Bella or Brittany. He doesn’t remember which one’s correct, or if any of them are. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
“Do you want to dance?”
And Will can’t help it—he looks at Mike.
He always will.
***
Lucas and Max are already breaking Party rules. Mike had very clearly said that there would be no slow-dancing at the Snow Ball. And there they are, blatant and unashamed in the middle of the gym floor. Dancing. Slowly.
Assholes.
At least Mike has Will, right? And maybe they can make little jokes together, or duck out of the gym and go talk in the courtyard, or just ditch this place altogether and go back to Mike’s basement. They could even finish up their campaign.
Then Brooke Walters saunters on up, and all Mike’s dreams are dashed in an instant.
In the seconds before Will looks at him, Mike goes through an intensely panicked, intensely vigorous train of thought. Pros and cons. Cost-analysis.
Pros: Will wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t feel left out. All that stuff people say about him would be proven wrong, in one easy move. No one would call him… well. He’d get to dance with a girl, with a nice girl, who Mike can’t recall a single offensive thing about. She likes to paint. She always has long, thoughtful answers in English, but doesn’t say them in a bragging or teacher’s-pet sort of way.
And she likes Will. She wants to dance with him.
Cons: Mike would be alone. Or alone with Dustin, at least, which isn’t much of a consolation. Maybe the fumes from his hair would knock Mike unconscious, and then he wouldn’t have to witness any of this bullshit. That goes in the pros list.
Another con: whatever weird thing is happening in Mike’s chest right now, twisty and uncomfortable and heavy, squishing down his lungs and making it harder to breathe.
In that analysis, he realizes something.
He’s being selfish.
All of his cons are selfish, and those aren’t things a good friend would think, and Will deserves so much better. He deserves something nice. Something normal, after all the decided abnormality of the last two years.
Mike needs to let him go.
So, Will looks over, like he needs Mike’s permission, like he needs him to make the decision for him. Because—and Mike’s known this for a while, but he can admit it now—Will’s the only one who still views him as the Party’s leader. He’s the only one who still respects his authority. If Mike says no right now, Will won’t hesitate to turn Brooke down. Nicely, sure. But he’ll do it.
Will blinks rapidly, stuttering worse than Mike’s ever seen. “Um. I–I don’t. I don’t—I—”
He widens his eyes at Mike. Help me.
And Mike makes his choice. The only possible choice, really. The selfless choice. The one that’s best for Will.
He nods his head, widening his eyes as well. What are you waiting for? Go on.
Will’s face falls a little, with something that looks suspiciously like disappointment, but that doesn’t make sense. Is it guilt, then? Does he feel bad for going against Mike’s original instructions, his petulant slow dance ban?
It’s fine, he tries to communicate through his expression, jerking his head towards Brooke. It’s fine, come on, I’m not mad. Go with her.
Finally, Will gets the message, and he straightens his shoulders in resolve, turning to face the dance floor, and his prospective partner. “I mean, yeah!” he blurts, still looking vaguely terrified. “Yeah, sure.”
“Cool,” Brooke says, smile widening with relieved triumph.
Will goes to join her, and they pair up a few feet away, arms held stiffly and uncertainly, cheeks bright red.
Mike’s regretting it before Will’s hands are even on Brooke’s waist. He’s regretting it, because the feeling in his chest is only getting worse, intensifying and thickening and weighing him down, and yeah, maybe that’s selfish, but it’s true. It’s true, and it hurts, and Mike needs Will to come back immediately and save him from the perfume cloud wafting off of Dustin’s curls.
It’s just him and Dustin now. Cool. So, so cool.
At least Will looks happy, relaxing enough to the point where he’s smiling, putting a little pep into his movements. He’s not the best dancer, but Brooke doesn’t seem to care. And Mike can see why she doesn’t; it’s endearing. Clunky and awkward in a way that Brooke probably loves.
Maybe—Jesus. Maybe they’ll get together after this. Maybe Will likes her.
Something squeezes tight around Mike’s lungs. He can’t breathe.
Dustin pops his collar, then lets out a long breath. “Wish me luck, Mike,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed on a group of girls across the room. Mike turns to look at him, ready to ask what the hell he’s talking about, and Dustin winks back. “I’m going in.”
Oh.
Oh, okay. So now it’s just Mike.
That’s nice.
It’s like he’s watching through a depressing mist as Dustin struts across the room, approaching Stacey Whiteside with all the faux confidence of a mini-Steve-Harrington.
He doesn’t bother watching the rest. Instead, he plops down into his chair from earlier— Will’s chair, technically, and jeez, hadn’t that been the dumbest thing ever, Mike doesn’t even know why he did that—and sulks. Mike’s good at sulking. He has a lot of experience with it.
It feels like the whole world’s against him. And that’s just another part of his selfishness, because things are good. Will’s safe, El’s back, everyone’s okay, and the gate’s closed. Relatively, things are better than they’ve been in a very long time.
But Mike is still annoyed. Will’s with Brooke, and El’s locked away with Hopper, and Lucas is with Max, and Dustin’s with—
Half-interested, Mike squints across the dance floor to see if Dustin ended up dancing with one of those bratty girls from Mr. Clarke’s class. If his ridiculous hairdo actually worked.
Then Mike blinks in bewildered shock, because Dustin is very clearly, right in the middle of the floor, dancing with Nancy.
Okay. That’s… a thing. That’s happening. Mike has no idea why, but it is.
But in the passing seconds, Mike notices some things: Nancy’s look of fond sympathy as she loops her hands around Dustin’s neck, the open-mouthed gaggle of girls staring from the bleachers, the shiny remnants of tears in Dustin’s eyes.
And maybe he does understand.
Mike thinks, not for the first time, that his sister is a lot cooler than he gives her credit for.
Not that he has any intention of telling her that.
The song changes to something more upbeat, but still an obvious slow song— Every Breath You Take.
Mike’s always kind of thought that this song is a little creepy. Weird. Like, why is this guy so obsessed with watching people? Is he some kind of stalker?
Mom always insists that it’s sweet, Michael, and that you’ll understand when you’re older.
He doesn’t think he will, actually.
Quickly, he darts a glance back at Will. He’s still dancing with Brooke. Still smiling, still clumsy and bumbling and—
Mike goes back to sulking. This blows.
At the gym entrance, the door opens. Mike’s eye is drawn to it, if only because it’s over an hour into the dance, and it would be really weird for someone to be coming in this late.
Except that thought gets dashed not a second later, because it’s—fuck. It’s El.
A million thoughts run through Mike’s head, mostly how and what and wow, she looks fancy.
She does. And she looks nice, all dolled up in a denim shade of blue and pinned-back curls. Her eyes are huge and dark as she scans the room, and Mike stumbles to his feet so she can spot him easier.
Because—well, she’s looking for him, right? That’s why she’s here?
Mike remembers that night, almost exactly a year ago now: We can go to the Snow Ball.
And now they’re here, and it smells like sweaty gym socks and Christmas cookies, and Mike’s collar is too tight, and he’s feeling very warm and stiff and heavy, like he has too many feelings all at once, and his body is breaking down.
It’s not at all like he’d expected. It’s real.
It’s more and less, all at once. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.
So, in true Mike Wheeler fashion, he decides to not feel. El’s here, somehow, and she looks pretty, and she came to see him. To dance with him, maybe. And she’s been gone for a year, and he’s missed her so much, and he needs to take advantage of this rare, shining moment while he still can. Before Hopper busts in with an axe and threatens to call Mike’s mom or something.
Finally, El catches his eye, and lights up with a nervous-excited catch of breath, shadowed eyes widening under the harsh gym lights. She steps towards him, and he unsticks his feet from the glossy wood planks of the basketball court and moves forward to meet her.
Once they’re close enough to see and hear each other properly, Mike racks his brain for something to say. His fingers fidget restlessly with the overlong hem of his ugly brown suit jacket.
“You look beautiful,” he says hesitantly, because she does, and because he thinks girls like to hear that sort of stuff. Hopefully he’s doing an okay job.
El doesn’t reply, but her flushed cheeks and ducked head and bashful smile all seem like good signs. The ball of nerves in Mike’s chest eases a little bit. He looks out at the floor, at all the paired-up couples, then back at her. “Do you wanna dance?” he hazards.
She follows his gaze, eyes tracking over the bustle of movement, looking a little overwhelmed. “I… don’t know how,” she admits, and that makes sense. Mike doubts there was much dancing in her fucked-up childhood.
Not that he has much experience, though, so it’s okay. “I don’t either,” he tells her, lip curling up in a smile. “Do you wanna figure it out?”
Almost immediately, she nods, expression breaking out into something sunny, fond and relieved and friendly. Score.
Mike holds his hand out, and it feels natural when she slips her fingers into his, thumb gentle against his speeding pulse. It feels like a rekindled connection. Like growing back a lost limb.
He scans over the dance floor, zeroing in on an empty spot, then leads El over to help him fill it. It’s a little awkward as they turn to each other, and Mike’s movements stutter a little when he tries to arrange her hands, and this never seemed so difficult in the movies. The ones that Mike definitely doesn’t watch, and has never watched, and has no interest in watching. Definitely.
Clumsily, he maneuvers her hands around his shoulders. “Like this—yeah. Like that.”
Maybe his awkwardness doesn’t matter that much, though, because El still smiles at him as he tentatively grips her waist, fingers ghosting over the ribbon of her dress. He figures that if inexperience was endearing on Will, maybe it’ll do the same for Mike. Even though that doesn’t seem very likely.
For a few minutes, everything is good. Great, even. Mike and El stumble along to the rhythm, and they’re not really dancing as much as swaying, but it’s okay. Mike’s having fun. They’re smiling, and El’s hands are soft and warm and sure around his shoulders, and maybe this song isn’t so bad after all.
And then he looks past El’s head, just for a second.
Lucas and Max are kissing.
They’re kissing, Max hoisted up on her tiptoes and Lucas grinning from ear-to-ear, like he’s just won the lottery. It’s sweet, and easy-looking, and when they break away, Max wraps Lucas in a tight, vice-like hug. Lucas seems dazed and happy, and he catches Mike’s eye from across the room, darts a look at El, and sends Mike a huge thumbs up.
Oh. Okay.
Mike thinks back to his last kiss with El, the night she’d left them. The way it had been a little awkward and weird and uncomfortable, and Mike didn’t really see the big deal about it. He thought, maybe, that people were just being dramatic when they said kissing was great and cool and special. That they were pretending.
But Lucas and Max didn’t look like they were pretending. They’d looked thrilled. Comfortable. Giddy to their bones.
He tries not to look for Will. He tries not to wonder if he’s kissing someone, too.
It’s been a year. Mike’s thirteen now, he’s not a little kid anymore, and maybe it’ll be different now. Maybe he’s older and wiser and has more life experience, and maybe the first time was just a fluke.
When he looks back at El, she’s not looking back. Instead, her gaze is fixed on Lucas and Max, looking wistful and sad and maybe even a little jealous.
Mike has to fix it.
God, he’s such a bad—is he her boyfriend? Her friend-that-she-kissed-that-one-time? What are they to each other? What is Mike?
Whatever he’s supposed to be, he’s not doing a good job at it. He knows that much.
So when El turns back to him, that look of longing still written all over her face, he’s already made up his mind. He needs to man up. To grow up. To be more like Lucas. To be a good boyfriend, a good friend, a good kisser. Good. Normal.
He leans in.
El seems to already know what he’s doing, like she’s been waiting for it since the moment she walked in the door. Her hands tighten around his neck, pulling him in, sure and steady, and their lips meet.
It’s—well.
It’s not as awkward as the first time, that’s for sure. There’s still no feeling to it, not like Mike would expect, but her lips taste like strawberries and they’re soft and smooth, and there’s a lightness in his chest. He’s happy that she’s back. Happy that she’s safe, and alive, and here with him. Smiling, dancing, kissing him.
Maybe that’s all he needs. Maybe it doesn’t have to be anything dramatic, because romance is probably a girly thing to wish for, anyway. Mike’s happy. He is.
And kissing—it’ll get better, he thinks. With practice, with time. This one was already miles better than the last.
It’s short and sweet, and when El pulls away, she’s grinning. There’s something complicated in her eyes, like maybe her mind is a bit distracted, a bit scattered, but her lips are pulling up, and she’s resting her forehead against Mike’s, and she’s safe.
This is all he needs.
It’s enough.
***
Will’s finally starting to loosen up a little. He’s still dancing with Brittany-Bella-Brooke, because he doesn’t know how to stop dancing without it being awkward, but he can tell that she’s not really expecting much from him. There’s a healthy amount of space between their bodies, and they’re dancing in more of a friendly way than a romantic way. Will can tell, because it’s the same way he’d danced with his mom.
They’re smiling. Having fun. It’s, surprisingly, pretty nice. There’s no pressure.
(He really has to learn her name somehow.)
Will trips over his feet, and they both laugh, feeling a little silly and ridiculous, and his partner gives him a consoling pat on the shoulder. She’s not a girl of many words, he’s learned. But neither is he, so that’s okay.
And that’s when Eleven walks in.
Will can’t help it—his face falls. And that’s mean, and awful, but he just. He didn’t think she was coming, that’s all. He’d just met her that one time, in the dying heat of the moment, and then she’d gone back to being locked away in Hopper’s cabin. Like a ghost story. Someone he hears about in passing, but never sees.
She looks beautiful.
Really, she does. He’s only seen her twice, once when she had a buzz cut and was fading in and out of view, and again when she was bloody and spent, exhausted in the aftermath of saving the whole town.
There’s no danger anymore. Eleven is wearing makeup and a dress, and her hair is carefully pinned up. Will wonders if his mom drove over to help her get ready.
He’s not even sure how she’s here, really. Maybe a middle-school dance warranted possible exposure. Maybe she just wanted to dance with Mike that badly, that she was willing to risk it all.
Will can relate. By half, at least. Clearly she’s a lot braver than he is.
More successful, too, because she’s doing it, taking Mike’s hand and walking to the middle of the dance floor.
Will’s never seen Mike look at anyone that way. Not ever.
And he’s not stupid, okay? He knows stuff went down last year. Stuff Mike didn’t want to tell him, for whatever reason. He knows Mike likes her. It’s obvious: in the softening of his expression, the nervous fidgeting of his hands, the way he grips her waist like she might vanish if he lets go.
Will just didn’t—well. He knew it would hurt this much. It would be a lie to say otherwise. But he just wasn’t ready. That’s all.
Maybe-Brittany follows his eyeline, slowing to a halt automatically. “Who’s that?” she asks curiously.
Will shrugs, cheeks heating up a little at the sudden attention. He turns his gaze to the floor, feet shuffling uncomfortably against the ground, and tries not to bolt out of the room.
She keeps looking, brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Huh,” she says, after a long moment. “I didn’t know Mike had a girlfriend. She’s pretty.”
“Girlf—” Will starts, bewildered, head whipping back up to look again. The second he sees Eleven, his blood runs cold.
They’re kissing. Eleven and Mike.
Okay, that’s. That’s.
The thing is. It doesn’t look like it’s their first time. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, and they’re both smiling as they pull away. It’s a practiced motion. The kind of kiss boyfriends and girlfriends do.
Head spinning, Will looks away, only to see Lucas and Max coupled up and snuggling just a few feet from Mike and Eleven.
His chest burns. His side. His heart. His head. Everything, actually. He feels like he might faint, like he might vomit all over his hand-me-down dress shoes, and this is so dramatic and selfish and horrible of him, and he can’t breathe—
“Will.”
Dark, concerned eyes bore into his. Will tries to focus on them, instead of anything else. “Yeah?” he chokes, voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle of the word.
“Are you alright?” Maybe-Bella asks.
Will squeezes his eyes shut, letting go of her waist to rub at his forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m okay,” he manages thickly. “Just—not feeling too good, I think.”
“Okay,” she says kindly. “You want me to grab you some punch?”
Unwittingly, Will’s eyes flicker back to Mike and Eleven, whose foreheads are resting together sweetly as they sway back and forth, intertwined with all the ease in the world. Like they’re in love. Like they’re boyfriend and girlfriend.
God. Why didn’t Mike tell him?
Will feels like an idiot. He feels like the odd one out, like a sore thumb, like the black sheep of the Party. Everyone probably knew except for him, he realizes. Because he’d been gone when Eleven arrived. Because he’s always out of commission, out of the loop.
He thought he’d have more time.
He didn’t realize he’d lose Mike so early. They’re still kids.
Will blinks back tears, feeling childish and selfish and stupid. He wants—god, he wants to go home. If he cries in this gym, he’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be just another offense in his long list of wrongdoings. Just another thing to get graffitied on the bathroom stalls. Crybaby.
Mom’s probably already outside. Jonathan has to stay late to clean up—he’s already started, out in the hall—so she’d volunteered to come pick up Will, because he doesn’t exactly want to sit around in an empty gym doing nothing after everyone’s gone home. And he knew she’d want to come inside, want to escort him back to the car, like he’s five years old, so he’d asked her, as politely as possible, to wait in the parking lot.
He checks his watch. The one Mike got him, a million years ago. The one that’s twin rests solidly on Mike’s own wrist. A matching set.
Except now, Mike has someone else to match with. Maybe he’ll give her a watch, too. Except instead of a friendship watch, it’ll be a relationship watch. An anniversary gift. A just-because gift.
God. Will’s so stupid.
“I think—I think I’m gonna head home, actually,” he tells the girl. “I, um. This was—”
“Fun,” she finishes for him, smiling lightly. “It was fun.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, relief sinking in his chest. She doesn’t want anything more. She’s not expecting anything. “Um, I… I’m so sorry, but I never caught your name,” he admits, feeling a little horrible.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem too offended. “Brooke,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I’ll see you around, Zombie Boy.”
Despite himself, Will laughs, and if it comes out a little watery, she doesn’t comment on it. “Bye, Brooke,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’ll see you around.”
She waves him off with a grin and a call of feel better, and Will hot-foots it across the gym, absently listening to the final decrescendo of Every Breath You Take.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, pulse racing, wondering if anyone (Mike) will notice him leave. Wondering if anyone (Mike) will try to stop him, or ask if he’s okay.
When he pushes out into the cool night air, he’s alone. He waits a second, then another, heart pounding in his own ears. Surely someone—surely Mike—
But there’s nothing. No one. Just the sting of oncoming tears and the damning tightness between his ribs.
Just the smoke curling out into the wind. Just the laughter of Mom and Hopper as they chat idly by the car.
Will forces his feet to move, walking forward until they notice him, and Mom hurries to put out her cigarette. “Hey, baby!” she greets, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. “Are you done already? I thought it went until ten.”
Will shrugs, trying not to let his tears spill over. “I wasn’t feeling too good,” he mumbles. He knows the words are like catnip to his mom, knows she’ll be all over him in a second, but maybe he’s more selfish than he thought, because he kind of wants to be smothered right now. At least someone cares.
Sure enough, she makes a beeline for him, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand, carefully prodding around his side. “Is it a fever? Your scar? Are you hurting?” she asks rapidly.
Will doesn’t know how to tell her the truth. It’s none of those things. It’s his heart. The weakest, worst part of him. The part that he wishes he could carve out and throw away.
Maybe that way, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
“I’m just—” His words choke off, and he shrugs, leaning into her side as she wraps an arm around him. “I’m not feeling good,” he repeats, voice strangled with tears. “M’sorry.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom coos, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.” She shares a worried glance with Hopper, then looks back down at him. “You know what? We’ll go home, and we’ll load up some movies, and I’ll make us some hot chocolate. How’s that sound?”
Will smiles tightly. “Good,” he says, voice small. He lifts a hand to rub at his wet eyes. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Mom crowds him into the car, and they wave goodbye to Hopper, who bids them off with a gruffly fond: Feel better, kid.
He’ll try.
Mom starts up the car, and Little Drummer Boy filters in through the beat-up radio, and Will leans his head against the passenger-side window, trying not to sob.
It’ll be okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. Mike’s still his friend, and just because he has El doesn’t mean he’ll suddenly just forget about Will. He said they’d go crazy together. He said being Will’s friend was the best thing he’d ever done.
Almost subconsciously, Will’s fingers tap against his pants. H-E-R-E.
He’s here. He’s alone in his head. He’s safe, he’s healing, he’s okay.
The night rushes by.
Will is thirteen. This is what he knows.
Monsters are real. They’re real, and they feel like heat and blood and fire, like a stretched-out scar on his side. They sound like a whispering voice in his head. A beckoning call. They look like red smoke and dark, winding tunnels.
There are people that will save Will from the monsters. People that love him. People that will protect him. Mom and Hopper and Lucas and Dustin and Mike.
Mike is his best friend. He’s a really bad dancer. He has a girlfriend now.
And Will is in love with him.
That’s all there is to it. Will was made wrong. He was made wrong, and the wrongness is what singles him out, what makes him different, what makes him weak.
You’re one of us.
Maybe he belongs to the Upside-Down. To the realm of monsters and evil, the place of shadows and cold. Maybe that’s the only place he belongs.
Because it’s not here. Not in the Hawkins Middle School gym, not surrounded by boyfriend-girlfriend couples, smiling and laughing and touching and kissing.
Not at home. Not in Indiana. Not anywhere.
He’s a mistake.
A tear slips down his face, hot and wet, but he knows how to cry without making a sound. Mom needs to focus on the road. He can’t distract her.
He closes his eyes, and the image of Mike and Eleven kissing burns brightly in the crimson darkness. Like it’s mocking him. The perfect image of everything he’ll never have.
They belong together. They deserve each other.
Will’s gotten what he deserves. Maybe he hasn’t gotten enough of it.
More will come. He knows that. It’s just the truth. He feels it: in his head, his heart, his blood.
The monsters aren’t done with him yet.
Mom hums along to the radio, and drums echo loudly through the speakers, and Will’s skull rattles against the window.
At the back of his neck, something prickles.
Come home. Come home. Come home.
And maybe—just maybe—he will.