Archive of Our Own

This is so stupid.

This is so stupid.

This is so, so fucking stupid, Mike thinks, and it’s all he’s been thinking since he’s started walking, curling and uncurling his fists, and he must look insane, just like all the rumors surrounding the Hellfire club, which is also fucking stupid, because they’re just a D&D club, but he can’t find it in him to care too much, because at least it has people leaving him alone. 

He must look insane, with his messy hair and bloodshot eyes, and he must look insane, chains on his jeans and a somewhat alarming sense of fashion, and he must look insane, seemingly ready to start fist-fighting the first person he sees and hands trembling in tightly coiled fists. 

It’s late, just a little after sunset, and usually, his parents wouldn’t let him out of the house, and especially during the end of the world, but he’s been in an especially bitter mood, hot-tempered and ready to bark out a fight, and Nancy had glared at him and said, “Go take a walk.”

The only reason it had worked, of course, is because Mike cannot bear the idea of being in that godforsaken house for a second longer, and the thought of disappearing in the woods and maybe drowning himself in Lover’s Lake sounds incredibly appealing. 

His fingers press tightly against his palms, and the pressure of his hands turned into fists hurt against the two rings he’s recently inherited, the silver metal harsh and blunt against the bony figure of his fingers, and he keeps squeezing his fists, despite the sharp pain ebbing into his palms. 

This is so goddamn stupid, he thinks again, and he hates it, hates everything about this goddamn town, this goddamn world, and he wants to set it all on fire or maybe set himself on fire or maybe lie down on the sidewalk and sob for a long time. 

He keeps walking. 

He knows, vaguely, where he’s headed – in the direction of the junkyard, where he’d, hopefully, be far away enough to scream and yell and shout and maybe be a little bit of a danger to himself, and then he could go home and sleep until he wakes up the next morning, angry at the world all over again. 

He’s been so angry recently. 

He hates it. He hates everything, he wants to – to – 

The junkyard is entirely empty of anyone else, because no sane person cares for hanging out at an abandoned junkyard while Hawkins is split into four, and he’s thankful for it when he keeps walking, surrounded by scraps of rusty metal and broken cars. 

His mind is carefully blank as he keeps walking, nearly marching as he makes his way to an old car, almost entirely intact, if not for the dirt that covers it, dried raindrops-stains and grime settled over its exterior. 

He picks up a metal bar, one tucked underneath the car, and rolls it over in his hands. It’s heavy.

The thing is, he knows why he’s angry. 

He knows this bomb of burning rage that fuels his every move, this fire behind every bitter remark and the constant scowl and glare on his face. He knows why it’s there. Knowing does nothing to rid him of his irritation. 

Grief, his mother had said, talking to his father when Mike had overheard them, sneaking out of his room to get a glass of water. “He’s grieving, Ted.” 

“He shouldn’t be,” his father had replied, and Mike had nearly stormed into the living room and thrown the coffee table at him, “that man –” 

“– was his friend,” his mother finishes. There’s a pause. “Let him mourn that.”

Mike hates how predictable he is.

He hates how his parents look at him with pity, like it’s so typical of him to be so angry, because what else would he be, after what he’s lost? That’s how he’d been with Will – angry, determined, ready to go looking for his best friend in the rain in the slightest chance he’s still alive. 

There’s no chance Eddie is alive.

He swings, and the car window shatters. 

It breaks into tiny little pieces, and it keeps breaking as he keeps hitting, unrelenting as he brings the metal bar onto the car, stabbing it through the windshield, the loud fracture of it echoing in the air as he swings down on the hood with no mercy. 

He’s so angry, and it boils in his blood, hot and hurtful, magma-like when it spills over him and burns everything he touches. He is an echo of a human, and he hates it. He hates everything.

He hates how angry he is, and he hates how normal everyone else is. Sure, the rest of those who had known Eddie were torn up, but no one else is so – angry, so full of hate like this. He doesn’t understand it, because they should be angry. 

Angry that the Upside Down is back again. Angry that nothing is going as planned. Angry that it’s always up to them. Angry that Eddie, of all people, had to get mixed up in this. 

Eddie, who was supposed to hightail it out of here and make them proud. Eddie, the freak and the Dungeon Master, who had endless amounts of ridiculous, surprisingly helpful advice. Eddie, who had swept him, Dustin, and Lucas up and claimed them as his. Eddie, who had stupidly sacrificed himself. Eddie. Eddie Munson. 

The bar drops out of his hands, and he starts punching. 

It hurts, the metal against his fists, and it’s barely making a difference, but it’s better than the empty thing that’s slowly swallowing him whole, as the anger ebbs away and there’s this big, gaping blackhole in him, sucking in light and all emotion and the anger is gone, and he keeps punching. He wants to tear the sky in half with his bare hands. 

Stupid fucking Eddie, who had to go and get himself killed. He wasn’t supposed to get involved in this – none of them, but especially not Eddie. He had nothing to do with this. 

What’s even dumber, actually, is the fact that Mike had been in fucking California during it all, and he had no clue! He had absolutely no idea what was going in Hawkins, and he hadn’t even – he hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye – 

Jeez, Wheeler, a voice sounds in his head, get a hold of yourself.

Mike squeezes his eyes shut, and collapses to the ground. 

He’s sobbing, he vaguely realizes, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he bites down on his lip, and he’s kneeling on the ground, amidst dirt and broken glass, and he presses his forehead against the bent metal of the car and tries to make his shoulders stop shaking. 

He can’t help it, though, he can’t help it at all when he cries the loudest he’s ever cried, sobbing in the middle of some stupid junkyard while it rains teardrops on the ground below him, and he makes no effort to wipe them away. He’s all alone, anyway. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, here, all alone. 

He presses his fists against the cold metal of the car, unflinching when it's hurtful against his somewhat-bloody and scraped up hands, and he keeps pressing until he can't stand it anymore. His hands hurt. Everything hurts. 

He hiccups in a breath, and it’s so terribly pathetic. His breath keeps catching in his throat, and the tears won’t stop coming, and it’s so stupid and dumb and unfair and it’s not fair and it’s terrible, terrible, terrible, and Mike can’t stop crying. 

At least he isn’t so angry now. 

When he trails back home, Nancy is at the front door, silhouette illuminated by light of the front porchlight. 

Her face is drawn sharp, eyebrows furrowed, and her mouth turned downward, and she's crossing her arms while she waits for Mike to approach. She looks like the epitome of an angry mother, and Mike sets his jaw. He’s in no mood for a lecture. 

Nancy takes a long look at his flushed cheeks, his teary eyes and hunched up figure, bruised fists. He knows he looks like shit, overly defensive and ready for another fight, but if she starts scolding him, his anger might start up again. 

Nancy stares at him, before pulling him into a hug. 

It’s a little awkward, because they never hug, but Mike bites down on his lip and tries to drown in the smell of Nancy’s perfume and ignores the itching behind his closed eyes, ignores the growing, aching gape in him. 

Neither of them say anything. 

They’ve never been good with words, anyway. Not for things like this. 

The thing no one talks about the end of the world is the very unsettling fact of how fucking boring it is. 

After the dust settles and they return to the drawing board, Mike finds himself scrambling for things to do; with a lack of school or entertainment, most of his time is spent at the help center or offering to help fix up Hopper’s old cabin, or even help around the house with his mother, much to both of their surprise. 

His own home is a little crowded, with a limited amount of space in Hopper’s place, and although it houses both Hopper and Will’s mother, as well as El in her own, old room, it leaves an obvious lack of room for Jonathan, Will, or Argyle, who is still, strangely, here. Then again, he supposes Jonathan is Argyle’s best friend. Mike would also stay in a completely different state while the world ends if Will needed him to. Or anyone else in the Party. Obviously. 

Jonathan and Argyle both stay in the Wheeler’s guest bedroom. Will sleeps in the basement.

It’s a pretty good arrangement. Nancy is lighter with Jonathan around. Jonathan and Argyle assist with making meals, which Mike’s mother is very happy about, and they all chip in on keeping the house tidier than ever, and whether it be out of politeness or guilt, Mike would bet on both. Will keeps to himself, but smiles at the right times and doesn’t push Mike away. He doesn’t pull him in, either, but still. It doesn’t bother Mike. It doesn’t. 

Will also accompanies Mike from time to time, when they both head down to the cabin on the same days, with the mixed motivation to both see the people it holds and to help out on fixing it up. It’s a slow repair, but it’s steady, and with Hopper still healing, it’s going well. 

Will’s company does not join him this time around, however, when Mike decides to pay El an overdue visit, sun shining and Mike’s insides brimming with anxiety. 

The thing is – this has been a long time coming. 

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected a grand love confession to fix their problems; really, if anything, it’s made it worse. Maybe it’s because El is more observant than people give her credit for, or maybe Mike is a shitty liar. Maybe because everyone could see through his speech. 

Maybe it’s just the fact it didn’t mean much, saying I love you while El is on the brink of death, and being unable to say it any other time. Maybe Mike is the worst boyfriend in the world.

Well, probably not the worst, but he was pretty high up there on the World’s Shittiest Boyfriends list. Definitely in the top one hundred for making his girlfriend cry because she thought he didn’t love her anymore, which is its own problem for another day. 

Mike loves El. He does, there’s no question about it, it’s just that – the idea of telling her, Hey, El, I love you., it just makes him a little skittish, and maybe also makes him want to vomit and crawl out of his own skin because it feels wrong in a way he can’t explain. He loves El, but in a different way from what it sounds like when he says it aloud. 

 Jesus, he doesn’t know what his problem is. 

And, anyway, it’s not like Mike has been feeling the best in their relationship, either, which is a real fucked-up thing to admit, but in the security of his mind, he can confess that he’s always felt a little bit useless in their relationship. 

It’s just that – when he isn’t protecting her, or offering her something, then, well, what was the point of him? To be her measly, twiggy teenage boyfriend while she’s off saving the goddamn world with her super cool mind powers? Yeah, right.

God. He sounds like a loser. 

Anyway. So, it’s been a long time coming. 

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling when he’s standing in front of El’s cracked-open bedroom door. It isn’t exactly sadness, nor is it unacceptance; he accepted it a long time ago – maybe when she’d thrown his own words back at his face, maybe on the long ride back to Hawkins, maybe before all of that. 

Chin up, Wheeler, a voice tells him, all the way in the back of his head, but loud enough to echo through to the front of his skull. Come on, you got this, man! Knock ‘em dead!

He knocks. 

Either way, Mike isn’t – crying, or anything. That’s good. Or a very, very bad sign, depending on how one looks at it. 

“Come in,” a soft voice says, and Mike slowly pushes the door open. 

El sits on her bed, a cloth tied over her eyes and a half-eaten bowl of fruit on her nightstand. There’s a lack of radio static or the sound of white noise. She doesn’t need it anymore, he remembers, and it’s a bit of knowledge that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

Mike isn’t sure where to go when he lingers at the doorway, and fiddles with his fingers. El tugs off the white cloth from her eyes. She looks at him, face considering but welcoming. She offers the slightest of smiles. “Hi.” 

Mike returns it, although he’d bet it looks more like a grimace. “Hey,” he says, tentative, “can we – uh, can we talk?” 

He’s more nervous than anything, he realizes. He’s never broken up with anyone before. He doesn’t know how these things go.

El nods, scooting back on her bed and patting the space beside her. Mike steps over a Wonder Woman comic on the floor and joins her on the bed, flowery sheets wrinkling underneath him. They’re a respectable distance away, and El swipes at her nose. Her sleeve is already stained with dried blood. 

He motions to it. “What, um, what were you up to?”

“Looking for Max,” she answers. “She is,” El pauses, frowning as she looks for the right word, before settling on, “lost.” 

“Lost?” Mike prods. Any information about Max makes him curious, always desperate to help. Max would never let him live that down if she knew that.

“Far,” El elaborates, even if that confuses him further. “She is far.” She looks sullen at the words, eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes look down at the sheets underneath her. His mouth turns downward into a frown. 

“You’ll find her,” Mike assures, certainty in his voice, because he knows it to be true. “I know it.” He falters, searching for the right words. He never really knows how to comfort people. “We all do.” 

El’s lips turn upward, just a little, but it’s enough, so Mike tags it as a victory. “Thank you.” She still holds the blindfold in her hands, and turns it over, before looking back up at Mike. He lets her eyes dissect him, for just a moment, and she asks, “What did you want to talk about?” 

“Well,” he begins, and this is where a flurry of anxiety hits him right in the chest, and he grips at his knees, “I just – wanted to check up on you, I guess. We haven’t really talked since we got back, which is – mostly my fault, I know,” he explains, and presses his lips together, and he carefully avoids El’s eyes as he continues, “but I’ve just – I guess I’ve been upset. Not – not at you, I mean, but I don’t –” 

“Mike,” El gently interrupts, cutting off his blabbering, and he’s thankful for it as he turns to look at her. Her eyes are wide and sweet. Everything about her is sweet, despite what she’s gone through. He feels like an idiot for not loving her right. “It’s okay.” 

Mike blinks. She doesn’t act at all how he expected her to, but he knows that’s his own fault for selling her so short. “It is?”

El nods, leaning close with her hands in her lap. “I have been upset, too,” she reveals. “I was upset with you in the beginning, but I understand now that you were scared.” She hesitates, before adding, “I was scared, too.” She looks up at him. “But we don’t have to be scared anymore.”

The way she speaks is always forward and blunt, and despite this, her words still make Mike feel like he’s looking at a puzzle of a sentence. Maybe he just can’t see himself for what he is. 

But it’s still true – he was scared. He still is, if he thinks about it too long, but for different reasons. He misses people that are no longer here and no longer the same. He wishes he were still a child. He wishes El had received better than she did, and especially from him. 

“El,” Mike says, “I’m –” 

She places her hand over Mike’s, and he cuts off, abruptly silent as she sits up a little straighter, meets him in the eye. 

“Mike,” El says steadily, “I do not want to be your girlfriend anymore.” 

Mike’s mouth parts open, then closed, and open again. “Okay.” His free hand curls a little deeper into his knee, fingers poking into the cloth and into his skin. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” Guilt settles deep in his bones, and he looks down at the floor, where a pink rug lays. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know. It is okay.” Her hand squeezes his a little tighter, and she leans close to meet his eye. “It is okay,” she emphasizes when Mike won’t look at her, and she tugs, just a little, until Mike finally catches her gaze. It mellows out the regret that tears him up inside. She leans back. “I am sorry I lied to you.” 

“I forgive you,” Mike returns easily. He had already forgiven her, he thinks. He understands why she had lied, if only to a slight degree, even if she had hurt him. 

Their hands stay entwined, and his chest doesn’t feel so heavy. He lifts his arm, turning to her, and El pulls him in for a hug. 

She smells like apples and like summer, familiar in her own way, and she is steady when she returns the embrace. He keeps her close, before letting go, but El keeps her hand in his. 

“It was an honor to be your first boyfriend,” Mike proclaims, a final acknowledgment, and it doesn’t feel bad. It lacks poignancy. It feels okay. Light. 

“My first boyfriend,” she muses. “I am glad it was you.” 

Mike’s heart is bashful at the thought, and he wants to hug her again. “Really?” He’d mention the fact he was a pretty shitty boyfriend, if they were going to be entirely honest with each other, but he doesn’t want to sound too much of a self-pitying moron. 

“Yes.” She nods, certain of herself. “I am happy you loved me.” 

Mike shakes his head. “I still love you,” he says, and it’s true.

El cracks a smile. “But not like that.” 

“But not like that,” he affirms, and El giggles, and Mike grins. His body feels looser around the edges, a weight he hadn’t even realized to be there disappearing, and he feels a bittersweet happiness. 

“I love you, too,” she says, smiling, and there’s another relief he hadn’t even realized, the unsettling fear that she might detest him for this, but hate has always been unnatural for El. She’s always been too kind. She mulls over her next words. “Can we,” El begins, her words slow and careful, “still be – friends?” 

“Of course, we can,” Mike is quick to answer, almost shocked at the idea of anything otherwise. He couldn’t imagine denying her such a thing. It had never even crossed his mind. “We’ll always be friends.” 

“Always,” El echoes. She squeezes his hands. “Promise?” 

He squeezes back. 

“Promise.” 

The end of the world is a drag.

Nancy arranges for them to keep planning their attack, with the help of El, Jonathan, Hopper, and Will’s mother. Max still resides in the hospital with Lucas at her side, although they all pay plenty of visits. Dustin spends too much time at the help center, probably overcompensating for something, and Mike still feels an anger in his bones, some sort of bitterness that disappears for fleeting moments, but never truly leaves. 

Will spends a lot of his time in Mike’s basement. 

Granted, outside of Hopper’s cabin or the hospital, or even the help center, there isn’t anywhere else for him to go, but he doesn’t even attempt to talk to Mike out of his own volition, and – that’s a stupid thing to complain about, because he never pushes Mike away when he ventures down to talk to him, and he says good morning whenever they both see each other in the kitchen for breakfast, but – 

It hurts, because Will looks so – lonely. 

And it shouldn’t hurt Mike, but it does, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, he doesn’t understand why Will won’t look at Mike and understand that he’s here, that he’s willing to do anything for him, and Mike wants to grab onto his shoulders and say, I’m right here. I’m right here, please, just look at me., like some desperate maniac. 

He doesn’t say any of this aloud, of course, because he isn’t a maniac, even if he is desperate, but he refuses to let himself be pushed astray while Will has some sort of sadness festering inside of him that Mike hates. 

Mike knows he’s being a little bit of a contradiction; both angry and bitter, as well a desperate sort of sad, his emotions don’t bode well in him, but even if his days are filled with the sort of pettiness that his mother deems to be sprouting from grief, there’s an aching sadness that fills him to the very brim. 

He doesn’t like it. He hates being sad, he hates crying, and he hates being desperate, even if all he feels, lately, is desperate, clawing at anything he can get. It’s easier to hide it behind the large curtain of anger. It’s easier. Cleaner. 

It’s hard to be angry around Will. He makes Mike feel the desperation he doesn’t want to have, but Will always makes him feel the kind of emotions that Mike needs to hide away. 

When Mike stumbles into the kitchen, in the mood for a snack, it’s to his surprise to find Will there as well, standing at the kitchen island with one sandwich in front of him, and another being made. It’s quiet in the house, with Holly at their grandparents’, and his mother in the living room. His father is at work.

“Oh,” Mike says, and Will glances up. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Will echoes back, somewhat surprised. Mike raises his eyebrows at the array of ingredients in front of him, and Will’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. Mike’s eyes linger on it for a second too long, before he forces his gaze back up. “Your mom mentioned being a little hungry, so I offered to make sandwiches for the both of us.” He swipes another streak of mayonnaise onto the bread. “Do you want one?” 

“Um,” Mike replies, trying to get over the sight of Will looking so comfortable in their kitchen, as if he belongs here, which – he does. Mike missed him, when he was away for so long. Sometimes, Mike feels like he still misses Will. “Yeah, sure. If you’re offering.” 

“I am,” Will tells him, smile a little wider, and Mike takes it as a sign that it wouldn’t be so bad if he joined in on keeping him company. He slides into a chair across from him. 

“Not going to lie,” Mike begins, and Will spares him a look as he begins to assemble a third sandwich, “seeing you in my house is still kind of surprising. I keep thinking you’re here, and then I remind myself you’re still in California, and then you pop up and it’s, like, a triple whammy.” 

Will lets out a light laugh, and it makes Mike grin. Something akin to pride blooms in his chest, as it always does whenever he’s successful at making Will smile or laugh or do anything remotely positive. 

“What, so me being here is just a constant jump-scare for you?” Will questions, raising an eyebrow, and it’s unfairly attractive. He wears a red t-shirt, one a little tight around the chest, because his clothes have clearly not caught up to his recent growth spurt. It’s a shirt from his own closet, one of the instances of Will not wearing Mike’s own clothing, for the few weeks where Will did not have any clothing of his own. Those days had put his heart in risky territory. 

Mike keeps all of this in his head, of course, and instead shrugs. “I mean, kind of.” 

“Well, that must suck for you.” Will carefully places ham onto the bread, as well as cucumber. Always so careful. Gentle, with his artist hands, with nicely shaped wrists and visible tendons and thick fingers. Mike doesn’t stare at them any longer than a normal, sane person should, and tries not to care too much when Will leaves tomatoes out for him, just like he used to when they were kids. “You were a total wimp when we watched Jaws.” 

Mike’s jaw falls open. “I was not!” He denies, affronted. “It – how do you even remember that?” 

“Because you spent most of it holding onto me and moving me around so much that I could barely watch it for myself,” Will snips back, but he’s bright and smiley when he says it, and Mike can only plaster faux offense onto his face. 

“You can’t blame me,” he tries, feeling warm all over, because he does, very clearly, remember hiding into Will’s side almost the entire time, with Dustin and Lucas almost just as bad. Alas, Dustin and Lucas were not here to be thrown under the bus, and Mike is stuck fending for himself. “When that head popped up out of nowhere? Nightmare fuel,” he insists, “I have no idea how you didn’t jump.” 

“You’re just a wuss,” Will decides, and laughs when Mike makes an indignant noise. “Don’t worry, it was funny.” 

Mike huffs, leaning back into his chair from where he’d been tilting forward, as if he was unconsciously trying his best to be as close to Will as possible. “Glad you find my misery funny.” 

“Very funny,” Will agrees, and Mike can’t even pretend to be mad. 

“We could rewatch it, if you want,” he offers without overthinking it, and Will pauses in his movement. Mike resists the urge to bang his head against the island – were they even in that stage yet? Which – that’s stupid to think, they’re best friends, but sometimes he isn’t so sure, and – he’s being an idiot. He’s been silent for too long. “I mean, we still have Jaws on tape somewhere, and popcorn, so if you aren’t busy or anything,” he rambles, gesturing ambiguously. 

Will looks entirely amused, so maybe Mike didn’t fuck up too badly, and he still hasn’t stopped smiling when he asks, “Why in the world would I be busy? I’ve spent the last, like, three weeks in your basement.” 

“I don’t know,” Mike brings his hands up in a full-arm shrug, “I just – I didn’t want to assume.” 

“When have you ever cared about assuming?” Will questions, and, well. He’s got Mike there, and he seems to know that. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike mutters. He tries to keep his hopes down when he asks, again, “So, are you up for it?” 

Will nods easily. “Yeah.” He places the bread onto the lettuce and pushes the plate forward. “Here’s yours. I’m going to go give this to your mom.” 

“Thanks,” Mike bids, and Will shrugs. He picks up the other plate and heads off into the living room, and Mike steals a second to take a deep breath. 

He doesn’t know why he feels so – jittery, almost excited, even. It’s like he’s finally getting back what he’d lost, back in 1983, and now it’s coming back to him and giving his mother a handmade sandwich. 

Will had seemed happy to be near Mike, which is very embarrassing of him to note, but sue him, he wants Will happy with him all the time, and he wasn’t even sure if Will wanted to talk to him just a few moments before, so the confirmation that Will wants to watch a movie with him is doing wonders for his mood. He doesn’t feel so pent-up, now, as if just talking to Will had eased out some of the bitterness. 

He taps his fingers on his knees and presses his lips together. God, he’s embarrassing. He needs to calm down. 

Will steps back into the kitchen a moment later, and his gaze falters at the sight of Mike’s untouched sandwich. “What? Is something wrong with it?” 

“What?” Mike blinks out of his thoughts and looks down at his plate. “Oh, no. I was just waiting for you to come back.” 

“Oh.” Will stills across from him, and he seems strangely surprised. “Okay. That – was nice of you. Thanks.” 

Mike tries not to pay too much attention to the bloom of warmth in his chest at Will’s words, even if that’s very hard when Will is eating in front of him and looking kind of – really cute, the slightest bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth. 

Mike stares for a long, long second, before mentally slapping himself across the face. Eating, right. 

He instead focuses on making his way through the sandwich, and finds it made just the way he likes it. 

Not that he had any doubt about it, at least. Not when it comes to Will. 

It’s late when he knocks on Max’s hospital door. 

He waits a full second, before he opens the door and steps in, bag bumping against his leg as he walks. Dusk has fallen, and the room is lowly lit, a stark difference from the bright fluorescent lights in the hallway. There’s not too many people milling about, save for nurses and doctors who hurry around for patients and problems. 

Lucas occupies the chair next to Max’s bed, slouched forward and partially asleep on the bed, head close to her arm. A book sits open and crushed under his jaw, and he’d definitely been reading before he dozed off. The sight makes him grin, just a little. 

It’s predictable, as always, for Lucas to be in here, even when it’s late and he shouldn’t be. No one can blame him, of course, but Mike would take the bet that all of the Party members have separately berated him for disregarding his own well-being to keep Max company, as well as reminding him that Max herself would kick his ass into next week if she were able. 

Mike quietly steps forward, and is careful when he shakes Lucas awake. He doesn’t budge.

“Lucas,” he starts, low in the room, “dude, come on. You’ve got to sleep at home.” 

He would guess the other boy to have been asleep for a while, as he seems fully unconscious, and it takes more than a few tries to wake him up, until his eyes slowly blink open and he gradually picks his head up from the book, looking around frantically until his eyes catch sight of Mike leaning over him. 

“What?” He rasps, voice worn out, and he clears his throat. The water bottle on the table beside him is empty. 

“Hey,” Mike greets. “It’s about time for you to go home.” 

“What? No, no,” Lucas is quick to begin rubbing out the sleep from his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m – I’m fine, just took a little nap. I’m good.” 

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Lucas, you look like shit.” 

“Thanks,” he dryly replies. Mike gives him a look. 

“You know what I mean. You need some sleep, and in an actual bed.” He is firm but gentle, because he knows it’s been difficult for Lucas – much more difficult than he can really think about, or else it has him in tears, but Lucas does not know how to take care of himself sometimes, and especially when it comes to Max. “Seriously.” 

Lucas keeps shaking his head. “No, I’ve – she needs company.”

Mike gestures to himself. “Great. I’m here.” Lucas opens his mouth to protest, but Mike cuts him to the chase. “She’ll be okay. Nothing’s going to happen, and if anything does, I’ll give you a call immediately, alright?” 

He knows the feeling of needing to stay close; he’d been the same with Will, having to pull endless sleepovers and sneaking out to see him in the middle of the night, and even with El, for some time, after she’d been gone for a year. Even so, he had known his own limits, from time to time. 

They both stare at each other, before Lucas frowns and slowly begins to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He inhales sharply, before getting up from the chair, groaning as he stretches, and Mike takes a step back. They’re close to being the same height now, although Mike isn’t sure if it counts, because Lucas’ hair accounts for a few inches. 

It’s a silent affair as Lucas bookmarks the page of the book, and tucks Max’s blanket around her, smooths any stray hairs out of her face. Mike looks away as Lucas leans in to quickly give her a kiss on the forehead, and moves away to grab his jacket. 

“You’ll call me,” Lucas reiterates, and Mike rolls his eyes, practically shoving him out the door. 

“Yeah, I will. You can go get some sleep,” Mike replies, and Lucas is rearing up for an answer, before Mike quickly turns around and shuts the door. 

It’s for his own good, after all. He’d somehow find an excuse to stay a little longer. 

“Jesus,” he breathes out, stepping back closer to Max. “He can be more stubborn than you, sometimes.” 

Max doesn’t respond, but Mike can practically hear her reply anyway. You’re one to talk, she’d say, with her raised eyebrows and know-it-all face, and Mike wouldn’t have any argument. 

The way he misses her is a weird thing; it feels odd to miss her when she’s right there, breathing and heart beating, but she hasn’t opened her eyes to call him out on his dumbassery yet, and she still won’t lean over and whack him on the arm, so she’s not really there at all. 

He doesn’t really like thinking of Max as anything but asleep. Far, El had described her, and she may be far, but Mike visits her and has to think of her as just asleep for his own sake. Maybe Lucas does the same, too, maybe they all do, but he wasn’t going to ask. 

It’s not anger that sprouts up in him when he looks at Max. Perhaps it's a morphed shade of disappointment, at himself, for not being able to push her away hard enough, so many years ago. With Dart, with the Mind Flayer. Maybe he should’ve been meaner. Then she wouldn’t be here, in this stupid bed. 

He takes a seat in the chair, scooting maybe a little further away from the bed, just to give both of them some space. It’s so quiet in here. He should bring in some music, next time, which reminds him. 

“I got you another book, by the way,” Mike says, peering into his bag. He pulls out a thick book and places it onto the table beside her bed. The heart monitor beeps steadily. “It’s called It, by, uh, Stephen King. It’s horror. Lucas mentioned wanting to read it a while back, and, I don’t know, I think you’d like it.” He fiddles with the bag, before setting it down. “It’s got this freaky clown.” 

Seriously? A clown? Her voice floats back to him, snippy and a little sarcastic like always. What are you, five?

“It’s not, like – he’s not really a clown. He’s supposed to be this alien from another planet and he, like, eats kids and stuff. It’s really fucked up.” He taps his fingers on the arm of the chair. It’s a little cold here. He’ll ask them to raise the temperature in here, later, before he leaves. “I think you’ll like it. I’d say me and Lucas can take turns reading, but he would always get pissy whenever we watched shows together and I’d watch an episode before him.” 

He imagines her laughter, bright and a little annoying, because he had always found her annoying, but he thinks he’d do anything to hear it again. It makes his insides twist terribly. He can’t wait for her to wake up. 

“El and I broke up,” he mentions after a second, silence settling in, but it isn’t too pressuring. It’s open, like anything could be thrown into the air and caught. “She probably already told you, but – yeah.” He fiddles with his ring, loose around his ring finger, and turns it over in rounds of three. “You’re probably having a field day right now.” 

You bet your ass I am, he can hear her saying. This is the best day of my fucking life.

“You always said we were kind of terrible together,” Mike muses after a second, tilting the chair back as he leans into it. “I guess you were right. I don’t know. I think we’re happier. As friends, I mean. El seems happier.” 

There’s a pause. 

“She’d be even happier if you woke up.” 

Another pause.

Nothing. 

He stays a little longer, before leaving. He asks them to turn up the thermostat on his way out. 

It’s a strange feeling, being fifteen. Getting older. 

His birthday had come and gone, and his mother had tried her best for it to be special, but Mike couldn’t quite find it in him to care for it when the world around them was crumbling. It had been nice of his friends to try and throw a quick party, a small cake after dinner and an equally small get-together, consisting of enough people to occupy the entirety of his living room, and it had all been swell and kind, yet something in Mike had felt like it was rotting, and he had wanted to lay down and sob the entire time. 

He hadn’t been fantasizing about his birthday or anything, of course, but – he had imagined it differently, maybe. He hadn’t expected this growing hole inside of him to get worse. Every small thing had made him want to cry right then and there. 

Mike continues walking, feet dragging along the dirty ground and head heavy. He’d wanted to clear his mind, or maybe just get out of the house, just for the fact that it had felt so suffocating. 

The sky is slowly shading itself an odd mixture of pinks, yellows, and reds, and Mike wouldn’t be able to figure out which parts to be the sunset and which parts to be the Upside Down even if he tried. It probably isn’t the safest idea, walking deeper into the woods with the Upside Down quite literally merging with Hawkins, but he can’t find it in him to be rational. 

If he had stayed in that house any longer, he'd go insane, and it’s not like he was doing anything particularly dangerous, going out for a walk and heading to Lake Tippecanoe, as Lover’s Lake was currently being ripped into a different dimension. He’d feel a little weird, anyway, taking a trip to Lover’s Lake, all alone. 

Lucas and Dustin had both got him gifts they’d been preparing before spring break – new, exclusive comics and a signed band poster, respectively, and Nancy had given him the t-shirt of another band he’s been listening to a lot recently. 

Will had given him a quick sketch of Mike eating a slice of cake, later, an image of a lopsided party hat that Holly insisted he wear on his head and fork halfway to his mouth, and he’d nearly looked charming in it, as if his clumsy existence had looked intentional. Will has always drawn Mike’s paladin-persona to be brave and strong, but the rare times he draws Mike are something else entirely. He draws Mike someone sure and certain, someone steady. Someone Mike is not, and has to believe Will to see him as. 

He’d given it to him a little after everyone else had gone home, already rambling an apology for not already having a gift ready, but Mike had shaken it off and said, “Seriously, Will, this is great. I love it. Thanks.” He hadn’t expected anything from him, and especially not when he’s been such a terrible friend, recently, but Will had turned pink at his words and mumbled off a quiet, “No problem.”

Mike had watched the warm light of the Wheelers’ kitchen hit Will just right, lower lip stained slightly blue from icing and blush high on his cheeks, and Mike had thought about Will’s mouth for a moment too long, just like he always does. He had thought about Will much longer than anyone should, going upstairs, brushing his teeth, climbing into bed, and staring up at the ceiling, Will’s hazel eyes shining in his mind. 

He’s been thinking a lot about Will. 

Which – it makes it sound like he hasn’t always inhibited some large majority of his mind, but it’s different, now, when they’re both different. Will is different. 

He had been more resigned in California, a little more subdued, and it had hurt to play along with it, because they hadn’t felt like best friends anymore. Mike still regrets the summer before, his cruel words, how he’d bended to be just like everyone else who had ever hurt Will. He still hasn’t apologized. Will doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, but it still keeps Mike awake at night. 

Mike stumbles to a stop when the lake comes to view, waters stretching far, and the edge of the end is close enough to see. There’s no one else here, and of course, there wouldn’t be, with the end of the world and all. 

The waters are pink and pretty when he walks closer, kneeling at the shore, and his reflection glances back up at him. He makes a face. 

Will had looked different, too, and it feels a little weird to acknowledge it, but Mike can’t even deny it; with a broader chest and a more filled out frame, it’s so obvious that Will is so much more grown up than he had been in Hawkins, a new California tan to match and hair a little shorter, to show his sharp jaw and shiny eyes. 

Mike couldn’t stop staring at him when they’d been in Lenora. He’d been embarrassing, he knows, but he couldn’t help it. Will had looked so different, and in a good way. Mike couldn’t prove himself to be any different from a year ago; he’s still sharp around the edges, no soft sides to counter the harshness of it all, and he might’ve grown taller, might’ve grown out his hair, but he’ll always feel like a stupid child on the inside. Bumbling around, just a little too loud all the time. He hates it. 

Mike stares down at his reflection, the pinkish sky slowly dimming, and frowns at himself. His ink-spill of hair is an unruly mess, and sometimes he wants to lean into the urge to chop it all off, look like every other guy his age, but even that wouldn’t work. He’d always stick out like a sore thumb. 

Eddie had made him feel better about it, before. His self-owned title of freak had been worn around like a badge of honor, and he’d grabbed Mike by the shoulders and told him it was okay to not fit in, to be a little off. Will would’ve liked him. 

Mike bites his cheek, and succumbs to the crippling feeling in him. He wants to talk to Will. He’d make Mike feel less – terrible. Less alone. He’d understand. 

Despite the distance between them, despite the changes, Mike thinks that might be the only thing that will never change between them. Time could try his best, but Will always knows what to say or do to make Mike feel better; he’s always been good at it, always been the only one to know how to calm Mike down or make him stop crying or snap out of his tantrums. He’s still the only one. 

Mike always feels a little awkward with himself, but it’s easier with Will, like his bones settle a little better in his body, like he can relax and let himself unfurl, and Will wouldn’t flinch in the slightest, would accept all his harsh lines and long limbs. Mike knows Will, knows him like a second heartbeat, knows him in his DNA. 

Mike knows Will, despite the time and turbulence, despite his own fuck ups, despite everything. Despite it all, Mike knows Will – maybe better than anyone that wasn’t family, and maybe even then. He’s accustomed a section of himself to Will, traits that only come out for the other, some that he’s never realized for himself; a softer voice, maybe a little touchier than he should be, a little too protective, always quick to apologize. 

He knows that he’s somewhat (very) soft on Will, but he can’t help it. Mike is always harsh, sharp and prickly to the touch, and he knows he’s a little – intense, his friends never fail to mention it, but Will deserves better. He deserves better, so Mike tries his best to be better, and Will – makes him feel like he’s better. 

Something about Will makes Mike want to be someone Will always wants to be around, and something about Will makes Mike feel wanted. Seen, as if Will knows Mike for who he is, and wants him around anyway. 

Mike knows he’s still childish in some ways, in most ways, but this thing in him, the leech that latches onto Will and constantly seeks him out in crowds and empty rooms, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it – and how hard he’s tried to outgrow it. He’s tried to ignore it and feed it poison. He knows Will. He knows this won’t go away. 

Maybe he’s sick for it, but he can’t find it in him to care anymore. Hawkins is falling. Maybe the rest of the world is, too, and it’s up to a ragtag team of teenagers and a handful of adults who have no idea what they’re doing to save it. A bunch of people are dead. 

Maybe Mike Wheeler will always be a little obsessed with Will, and maybe he’ll always chase after him and apologize first and stare at his mouth a little too long and think about kissing his forehead and want to spend the rest of his life playing stupid games in his basement with Will. Maybe Mike is in love with Will. 

Maybe Mike is in love with Will. 

He swallows down the panic crawling out of his throat, and looks up at the sky. Jesus. 

He digs his fingers into the dirt, weeds curling under the weight of his palms, and takes a deep breath. Maybe he’s absolutely positive he’s in love with Will, because everything else is going wrong and so is his brain, now, too, apparently, and yet he can’t find it in him to give a single shit. Loving Will has never felt wrong. It’s always felt natural, and maybe that’s the problem. 

Maybe Mike doesn’t care. 

Maybe he’s tired of pretending. Maybe he’s tired of being someone he isn’t, always messing up and loving a girl the wrong way, being a little miserable all the time. Maybe he’s tired of it all. Maybe he’s just tired. 

He stares at his reflection. The reflection stares back, and he thinks, I’m in love with Will Byers., and absolutely nothing changes. His face doesn’t melt off, and he doesn’t go up in flames. The world is ending, and Mike is tired of pretending. 

He leans back and pushes his palms into his eyes, watching bursts of stars behind his eyelids and feels his tongue get heavy in his mouth. I’m in love with Will, his mind supplies again, and he forces a breath into his chest. 

He pushes away the panic and the rotting and the quiet chant of freak freak freak and gets up from the lake. Maybe he should try and drown these thoughts, the odd beat of his heart, the gleam of Will’s teeth when he smiles, but he can’t bring himself to. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He’s never known what’s good for him. 

He turns on his heel, and trudges home.

“Are you okay?” 

Evidently, Mike is some sort of sucker for pain, because after his long-time coming epiphany in the woods, he still finds himself irresistibly drawn to Will, and he has never been able to fully deny himself of Will, no matter how hard he has tried, and it shows, even now, where he sits on the couch in the basement, with Will right next to him. 

Will blinks, as if he’s been interrupted back into his body, and turns away from the television, from whatever movie they’ve already watched playing on the screen. He’s pretty in the low light of the basement. “Yeah, I – I’m fine, just – a little tired.” 

The bluff is obvious, and Mike raises his eyebrows. Will had seemed close to falling asleep the entire time, which would be nothing to be concerned about, except that he looks pale and sick around the edges, worn out like he used to be, before he moved away. Hawkins has already begun digging its claws into Will, and Mike hates it, hates the hold this hellhole of a town still has on him. 

“Will,” Mike says, and watches Will look away, “come on. You don’t need to – you can tell me. Whatever it is.” He can’t help the worry that swirls in his stomach as Will won’t meet his eye, and he wants to reach over, pull him into his arms. “A team, right?” 

Will glances back at him, offering a slight smile. It’s a small reassurance, and Mike returns it easily. “Yeah.” 

Mike tries to conceal the constant concern he has, because he knows better than to force Will under it, pressure him to say whatever’s on his mind, because that has never worked, and Will deserves better. He’s always attempted to be a beacon of freedom from the suffocating care that comes from everyone else, and he can only hope he’s still that, even now. 

“Is,” he begins carefully, “it because of him?” 

A few seconds pass, before Will gives a slow nod, eyes back on the television, but unseeing. “Yeah. It’s just – a little hard, being back. I can always,” he frowns, and his hands stutter, as if to move, “feel him, his thoughts, what he’s planning, and it’s – it’s a lot.” He huffs out a shaky breath and shrugs. “I’m used to it.” 

I wish you weren’t, he wants to say, but it would be no good, and Mike only frowns as he keeps his eyes on Will. They’re barely a few inches apart, but it still feels too far, and Mike is unrelenting in his stare. 

As if on cue, Will stiffens, if only slightly, like he does just before he reaches for the back of his neck, and Mike would have missed it, if he were anyone else. As it is, he knows the common sight of Will’s shoulders tensing, the goosebumps rising on the skin of his neck, the way his hand twitches to reach for it. 

Cold, Will had described it, on one of the times Mike had asked him about it. Like I’m waiting for something bad to happen, but nothing’s happening. Yet.

Mike doesn’t think twice about it when he leans over and covers the nape of Will’s neck with a warm palm. 

Will stills next to him, and they both freeze. 

Mike almost pulls away immediately, panicking at his own actions and beginning to internally cuss himself out for his own idiocy while Will is entirely unmoving beside him, and there’s a full second of silence where neither of them do or say anything, and Mike is about to remove his hand, just as Will relaxes and leans the littlest bit into Mike’s hold. 

This does not deter from Mike’s own panic, and he tries not to shake where he sits. “Sorry, I didn’t –” 

“No,” Will interrupts, quiet and carefully calm, “no, it’s – thanks.” He looks at Mike, who doesn’t look away. “It helps.” 

Mike’s throat is awfully dry. “Okay.” He squeezes his thigh under his other hand and tries to remember to breathe. “Okay, good.” 

The movie continues, and all Mike can focus on is his hand on Will’s neck.

Will is always warm, but he supposes it’s different, being warm and feeling warm, and he had hoped having someone else being warm would help, pressing Mike’s own hand against the same part of Will that always haunts him, against the prickling behind his neck that frightens him and makes Mike want to roll him up in a blanket and keep him safe. 

The stray hairs at the end of his neck brush against Mike’s hand, and Mike brushes his thumb against the skin, forces himself not to think about it too much when Will lets out a little sigh and his shoulders deflate, and Mike tries his absolute hardest not to commit it all to memory. 

Neither of them move much for the rest of the movie, partially because Mike is terrified of breaking Will out of his relaxed state, and maybe also because he wants to stay like this forever, close next to Will and knees knocking together, content under the warm, dim lighting of Mike’s basement. 

Still, the movie progresses until it ends, and the credits begin to roll. Mike would guess this is where he lets his hand drop, although he doesn’t really want to, and especially if it helps Will. Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to be weird, and regretfully moves his hand away. 

“Was – was that okay?” Mike asks, after a second, when the credits keep rolling and neither of them say anything. 

Will bites his lip, and offers a singular nod. “Yeah.” 

Mike lets out a breath, and nods to himself. He gets up and takes the tape out of the player, shutting the television off. It’s quiet. 

“If you,” he starts, somewhat terrified, “want me to – do that again, if it helps, then you can say.” He places the tape back on the table and risks a look at Will, who isn’t looking at him. 

It’s an uncontrollable thing, an innate need to keep Will from any and all danger, like it’d hurt Mike just as much, and – it would, is the thing. Maybe that’s the sick part, to care so badly about another boy like this, but Mike can’t help it. It’s always been this way, and it can’t be helped, and Mike isn’t trying to help it. Mike needs Will safe. Mike needs Will safe and happy and – and close. Always close. 

“Seriously,” he stresses, and Will looks up from the basement floor, eyes shining in the low-lit lamps, “if – if you need anything, just let me know.” 

Will looks half-amused, half-distressed when he gives a slight shake of his head. “I can take care of myself, Mike.” He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt, almost anxious, and it’d be so easy to grab his hand and ease his worries. Mike’s fingers curl into his palms. “You don’t have to do that. You – you can go.” 

And what’s stupid is that Will could obviously manage himself; he’s survived the Upside Down all on his own, and he’s gotten through being possessed and tied up, and even now, with his connection to One, he’s still trying. Through it all, Will had come out injured but alive. Alive, and he hadn’t needed Mike. Not really, anyway. 

And what’s even more stupid is the fact that, despite it all, Mike wants to – protect him, or something, like Will even needs his protecting. Will hasn’t, in a long while, but it doesn’t stop the fizzling, constant want to do anything in his power to keep Will well, to go to the ends of the earth, just to make him happy. He’d do anything to make Will happy. 

Maybe it’s because, even if Will doesn’t – need him, Mike feels so helpful around him, like Will wants him around anyway, like his attempts at keeping Will safe still mean something, and it makes Mike’s heart feel like it’s being strangled alive. 

It almost makes him angry, the way Will had said it, like Mike doesn’t want to take care of him, like Mike wouldn’t do anything to make Will as comfortable as possible, like Will couldn’t ask Mike to cut off his own arm for him and Mike would say Oh, yeah, sure, great idea, Will., and slice his right arm clean off. 

He’s being dramatic, maybe, but it’s – Will has to know, right? Will has to know. Mike has always been so obvious about his care for Will, it couldn’t have gone unnoticed. It couldn’t have. 

Will is already glancing away again, seemingly resigned to the silence that has slowly lapsed over them, and Mike frowns. 

“No.” 

Will’s fidgeting freezes, and he looks up, as if he couldn’t have expected this. “What?” 

Mike doesn’t waver. “No,” he repeats, still frowning. “What? No. I don’t – you can’t just say that and expect me to – to – to be okay with it.” It feels like a strange thing to admit, but the words come out easy to Mike. They always do, with Will. “I don’t have to do anything, but I –”

He catches himself on his words, and huffs out a breath. His eyes avert, for just a second, just to grasp at a second to breathe, before he looks back to Will. 

And Will looks – wide open, he looks entirely bare, like he’d accept anything Mike says, in this moment. It makes him feel brave, as if he could blurt out the words that haunt him at night, the ones he should’ve drowned in the lake and the ones he wants to scream in the woods. Will has never shut him out. He’s always accepted Mike, whenever he comes crawling back.

“I – I want to,” Mike says, a little loud and lopsided, like it isn’t the vulnerable confession that it is. He feels stripped open, his pulsating heart and quickened lungs out for the world to see. For Will to see. He rolls over his tongue in his mouth, and swallows. “I want to.” 

Will’s lips part, and Mike watches them twitch in the motion of speaking, just on the brink of a reply, and Mike doesn’t want to know what lies on the other side. He can’t deal with anything more on top of the flood of humiliation filling his blood and bones. 

“Mike,” Will says, and it turns Mike inside out. 

And, like the coward he is, Mike does not wait to listen. 

He turns on his heel and hurries up the stairs, the same steps that creak and groan while he doesn’t spare a second for Will, who still remains in the basement. The door shuts somewhat loudly when Mike pushes it closed behind him, and he wastes no time to escape to his room, ignoring the loud beating of his heart, as if it’s trying to run out of his chest. 

Smooth, Wheeler. He nearly slams the door behind him. Real smooth.

Mike stumbles into bed, shoves his face into his pillow, and screams.

It’s to some miracle that the next morning isn’t painfully awkward. 

Breakfast is slow and nearly drowsy, like it always is, and Will takes the same seat he always does, right next to Mike, and it makes Mike feel like maybe he isn’t the most embarrassing person alive. Will asks him to pass the maple syrup, and everything seems as okay as it can be. 

Still, he doesn’t ask if Will wants to join him in visiting El, and leaves the house alone, bidding goodbye to Holly and his mother in the kitchen while he shoves on his shoes and hurries out the front door. 

The sky is a tad bit cloudy, and it’s gloomy, and Mike should probably stay home, but the idea of staying anywhere near Will with the memory of his own humiliation so fresh in his mind is something unbearable, and he instead heads to Hopper’s cabin, pedaling on the same bike he’s had for so many years. 

The streets are usually quiet, but especially so today, and Mike can find himself somewhat grateful for it. Cool wind brushes against his face, and he takes turns on muscle memory, mind miles away as he lets himself get lost in his thoughts. 

He’s helping Dustin out tomorrow, with the help center, and then visiting Max together afterwards. He vaguely misses Lucas, when both of them have been occupied in their own ways, and he wonders if the other would be up to hanging out with Will soon. He wonders what Will is up to. He’s in love with Will. 

He frowns at himself and keeps pedaling. 

It’s as if, after admitting it to himself a week ago, it’s a new revelation that he’s never entertained, even if everything seems to point at it, a constant thrum under his skin. It’s stupid, because it’s always been there, no matter how much he’s tried pushing it down and killing it. It’s still there. It feels weird to put a name to it. 

Now, his mind is a safe chamber, some quiet place he can think I love you when he sees Will in the morning, and when he goes home and thinks of him, and when he’s biking to see El, thinking, I love Will Byers. It always feels natural in his mind. He’d die if anyone ever found out, in more ways than one. 

He knocks once, twice, before the door swings open and Hopper looks down at him. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you two break up?” 

Mike’s mouth drops open. “We’re still friends,” he huffs, affronted.

“Right,” Hopper replies, the word drawn out, and he opens the door just a little wider to let him in. Mike slips past him and makes his way towards El’s room. “Three inches, Wheeler!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike mutters, and El’s bedroom door is already wide open, where El sits on the floor. “Oh. Hey.” 

“Hi, Mike,” El says, looking up from her nails. Half her nails are painted red, and there’s an unopened bottle of yellow next to her, brush dotted with red polish as she holds it in the air. 

He waves. “Am I interrupting?” 

“No,” she answers, sitting up from where she had been leaned over. “I am painting my nails.” 

“Cool,” he replies. “Can I see?” 

She nods, and Mike steps further into the room, taking a seat across from her, bottles of nail polish between them. The familiar smell of it fills the air, the same that would be in Nancy’s room after she and Barb spent all afternoon painting each other’s nails. 

He crouches to look at them, and they look pretty nice, despite the slight smudges of nail polish on her fingertips. “They look good,” he comments, leaning back, and El beams. 

“I am getting better,” she tells him. “Do you want to do the yellow?” She lifts the bottle at the words, and he glances between the bottle and her, raising his eyebrows. 

“I’ll mess it up,” Mike warns, a little wary, but El shakes her head. 

“That will be okay.” She sounds firm in this, and brings the bottle closer to him. “Try.” 

“I – okay,” he relents, because it doesn’t seem like he’s got much of a choice, and he accepts the bottle. He slowly unscrews it, as if he’d break it just on contact, and takes out the brush by the top. “So, do I just –” 

It seems easy, but he needs to give every woman in his life with painted nails some more credit, because it is so much harder than he assumed. His motor skills, evidently, aren’t the greatest, his hands shaking just slightly as he paints El’s index finger a bright yellow, and sometimes his fingers jerk in the wrong direction and the brush goes awry, staining the corners of her fingertips instead of her nails. 

El doesn’t seem to mind, however, going on to converse about whatever topics she deems worthy to be mentioned; Lenora, of course, math, for another, how Hopper and Mrs. Byers are definitely into each other, the time she and Will pranked Jonathan by putting salt in his coffee, some actor she saw that is very cute – her words, not his – and her recent interests in arts and crafts. 

“Will has been helping me,” she mentions, after they’ve finished painting her nails, and they wait for them to dry. Mike’s own hands are yellow in some places, polish dried onto his skin. “He showed me how to draw dogs.” 

“You’ll have to show me.” He looks around her room as they talk; it’s been getting progressively cleaner and fuller, with different decorations hung up, ever since they’d been slowly moving their things from Lenora to Hawkins, again. “Will always tried to teach me how to draw, but I was so bad, he usually gave up, like, halfway through.” 

El tries to stifle a smile, but it doesn’t work. “Wow.” 

“Listen, I was, like, eight,” he complains, even though he had, somewhat willingly, subjected himself to the teasing. “And art is Will’s thing, alright, I was just – I’m better at writing, and stuff.” 

It’s true, after all. Will has always been the artist of the group, which Mike has been more than happy to encourage, because, as far as Mike was concerned, Will is the best artist in the world – a completely unbiased fact, of course. Mike himself was utterly untalented in visual arts, no matter how hard Will had tried to implement some skills into him when they were younger. 

El being into art is pretty unsurprising to him, and especially when she and Will are already pretty similar, and she’s always been drawn to things like that, he thinks, where, even now, she has a few paintings hung up, done by either her or Will, which – reminds him.

“Did you ever want the painting back, by the way?” He questions, looking away from a portrait of the Byers-Hopper family, hung up next to her dresser. “I wasn’t really sure, since it was, like, a gift, which – I didn’t even thank you for, so thank you, I love it, but if –” 

“What painting?” 

Mike pauses mid-sentence and turns to her. “How – the painting? The one you asked Will to make?” 

El frowns, and she looks deep in thought, before slowly shaking her head. “I did not ask him to make any paintings. He – sometimes, he asks what he should make, but I do not tell him what to make if he does not ask.”

There’s something uncomfortable sliding out of place in his chest, and he furrows his eyebrows, pushing past it. “You asked him to make a painting,” he says, with conviction in his tone, but doubt is slowly bleeding in, “with the Party? The – the dragon?” 

El seems gradually more confused with each word, and she shakes her head once more. “I did not ask him to paint anything.” There’s a moment where she considers her words, eyebrows pinched close together, and she continues, “Sometimes, he was quiet in Lenora. He would not tell me what he was painting, or come out of his room. It was,” she considers carefully, “weird.” 

Mike stares at her, mouth full of empty words, and he feels like his heart is sinking in. 

“But,” he says, and ends up with nothing else. He swallows, frown settling in, and he – well, maybe he should’ve expected this, with El never having cared for anything D&D related, and some bits of Will’s explanation had been inaccurate with El’s own actions, but – 

But Will wouldn’t lie to him. Not Will. Will wouldn’t do that. 

“He wouldn’t – but,” Mike stutters out, and El looks onto him, concern in her eyes. “He said you asked him to –” 

“Talk to him,” El says. She makes it sound so easy. 

Mike blinks, once, twice. 

“Right,” he says, and he sounds far away, even to himself. 

He goes back to that stupid lake. 

Mike has nowhere else to hide, and he doesn’t want to go home; he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he walks in and sees Will. Maybe argue and ask for an explanation. Maybe yell. Maybe cry. 

He’s never liked yelling, for all that he is loud and obnoxious. Sometimes it feels like no one can see him until he’s shouting and pouring out his insides for everyone to see. He doesn’t want to cry, not in front of Will – he wouldn’t even make Mike feel bad about it, too, which makes it all the worse. Mike can’t cry, or else everything will come bursting out, and it’s a mess he doesn’t want to deal with. 

He hates this feeling in his chest, his heart squeezing, squeezing, until it feels like all the blood has gushed out and his body feels so heavy, his chest so empty. Mike – he can’t wrap his mind around it. He’s never been the brightest. 

He should have seen this coming, probably. He should have, but he didn’t want to think about it too hard, he hadn’t wanted to see any inconsistencies, lest it led him to something he didn’t want to know about. 

El doesn’t care for D&D. El would never call him the heart. El didn’t commission any sort of painting. 

It doesn’t make sense, though, because Will – he had been so convincing, had seemed so sincere, insistent on Mike being the heart, had been so thorough in making Mike see himself how El supposedly sees him – like a leader, like someone that’s needed, like someone that matters. 

And all of that had been bullshit, so where does that leave him? 

He doesn’t look at himself in the lake. He doesn’t want to see his own reflection, because he might cry if he does. His body feels like a million splinters are cracking through his bones. The sun is setting. 

Will lied to him. Will, one of the only people, if not the only one, who Mike could trust to always be honest with him. Will, who, even now, he’s in love with. Will, who’s breaking his heart, even when Mike is all alone. 

Mike – 

Mike doesn’t know what to think. 

“Friends don’t lie.” 

That was the rule – established long before Lucas or Dustin had joined, it had been a party of just him and Will. Or, at least, it feels that way, even if they hadn’t gotten into D&D until after Lucas’ joining. 

It was such a long-ordained thing, Mike couldn’t exactly recall who had properly coined it to be the rule. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was Will. Does it really matter? 

It was a rule of honesty, a rule to banish any doubt or mistrust amongst each other. It was a rule of loyalty, of friendship, of – of love, even. Friends love each other, so they don’t lie to each other. That’s the rule. That’s the rule. 

Will pauses in folding the blanket and looks over at him. 

“What?” 

The basement is cleaner than it had been when Mike had last come down here. There are two bags at the bottom of the couch, and a stark lack of any of Will’s belongings; all of his books are gone, and his sketchbook and art supplies no longer sit on the coffee table. 

It’s Sunday, and Mike had gotten approximately a day and a half to collect his thoughts before he broke. Will is, evidently, packing up to leave and stay at Hopper’s cabin. It’s reasonable. It makes sense. Maybe it’s even fate for him to leave just as Mike puts the pieces together. 

Of course, he’s leaving again. Will is leaving again, and – why wouldn’t he be? This isn’t his home – at least, not anymore. Not anymore, so now Will is lying to him. 

“Friends don’t lie, Will,” Mike bites out, placing the painting on the coffee table. Will’s eyes follow it with rapt attention. “Friends don’t lie.” 

The heart on his shield is red, matching the deepness of the dragon’s scales, bright like fresh blood. Will quickly looks both lost and panicked, eyes wide and tense at the shoulders, and he leans just barely towards the staircase, as if he’s ready to bolt. It takes everything in Mike not to fall apart. 

 It’s difficult to describe what Will makes him feel. 

It’s difficult to describe the simultaneous mixture of comfort and panic he feels when they’re both just a little too close, a little too easy with each other, and he can’t even begin to get across how disorderly he feels whenever Will says something especially sweet. Mike has no idea how to explain how much Will means to him, and it’s never really mattered, because they never needed words. Not with each other. 

And now, Will is ready to leave again.

It’s suffocating, what he feels every time Will leaves him. 

Maybe because he has so much experience with it – the cruel constancy of abandonment, Mike is always left behind. He knows too much of the same cycle of Will leaving him, intentional or not, and even now, he’s leaving again. Will is leaving again. 

It feels like everyone keeps leaving him. He feels so selfish, but why won’t anyone ever – stay for him? Is he that hard to love? What does he keep doing wrong? 

“Mike?” 

Will’s careful voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and Mike hates it, hates how soft it is, as if any louder of a volume, and Mike would break. He hates how he could. How he might. He keeps his eyes on the ground, and clenches his jaw. 

“Mike,” Will tries again, and Mike wishes he’d stop saying his name, because he can feel himself crumbling on the inside, his pillars eroding with the homeliness of his name in Will’s mouth. 

He shouldn’t be so soft like this, weak, because he used to be a leader. He used to be confident and hard to break through and – strong, he used to be strong. Then again, he might’ve been strong for Will, but he’s never been strong against him. He’s always been soft with Will. Even now, he can’t help it. 

His voice sounds brittle to his own ears when he asks, “Was – was it some sort of joke?” 

“What?” Will looks taken back when his eyebrows furrow, and he leans back. “No, of course not, I –” 

“Then, what? Did – did you think it’d be funny or something, to – to lie to me like that, so I could, I don’t know, make a fool out of myself for El?” Mike bites his cheek, and hot lava courses through his skin. He tastes blood. “Was it supposed to be funny? Or did you just say all that just to be an asshole?” 

Will steps back like he’s been hit. “I didn’t –” 

“What was all that about her – her needing me?” Mike feels sharp all over, dangerous to talk to, to look at, but he can’t help the venom he keeps spilling over with, always impulsive in the worst way. “Or her not – her not feeling like a mistake? Was all of that bullshit, too? Was all of it bullshit?” 

Will frowns, looking more upset than he should. “Mike, I –” 

“No! No, no,” he shakes his head, and his heart is slowly shattering. “You weren’t – you’re the only one who – you lied to me. You lied to me,” Mike emphasizes, and his throat itches uncomfortably, in that way it would begin whenever his parents would yell at him as a child, when he’d accidentally hurt himself or things wouldn’t go his way. “You – you weren’t supposed to –” 

His voice cuts off, and he bites his tongue, hard and harsh, and it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as he wants it to.

He doesn’t like being angry, much to popular belief; he hates it, but it’s better than the other choice he has. He doesn’t like that one even more, and now he stands in front of Will, attacking and antagonizing, because that’s what he always is. Even when he’s begging for a reason, for an answer, he feels terrible for making Will look so stricken. He hates it. He bites his tongue a little harder. 

“I didn’t want to lie to you.” Will’s voice is quiet and breakable, so different from the defensive, factual tone it should be. He should be meaner. Harsher. Crueler. “I just – I didn’t think it’d matter.” 

It feels like Mike’s entire body trembles, shakes like it’s about to burst. “You didn’t think it’d matter if you lied to me?” He hisses, and his voice cracks, just the littlest bit. 

Will is so far away when he swallows, jaw set and curling in on himself. “I didn’t think it’d matter if it came from me.” He looks at the ground. “I didn’t think you’d want it to be.” 

He says it so resignedly, so carefully neutral, as if he knows it’s a truth and is already coming to terms with it, and it makes Mike break. It makes him so angry. It makes him so sad. 

“Clearly,” Mike forces out, “you don’t know what I want.” 

And what do you want? He imagines Will asking, as if this were the movies, and Mike would reply, immediately, even now, You, you, you. Always you. 

This isn’t the movies. Will says, “I’m sorry.” 

He sounds like he means it, and he probably does. Then again, he had also sounded like he’d meant what he said about the painting. That’s a bitter thing to think, but Mike is bitter. 

He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, canines poking in. “Right.”

He watches Will blink quickly, eyebrows furrowed and the tell-tale screw of his lips. His hands curl and uncurl from being a fist, a nervous habit of his, and Mike hates it, how, even now, he is so overly aware of Will’s tells.

Will presses his lips together. “Mike, I –” 

“You know, I guess I just don’t understand,” Mike finally snaps, because if Will keeps talking, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Forgive him, maybe, like he always does, but he needs to hold onto this anger, or else he’ll do something even worse, like – like cry. Jesus. 

He holds onto the anger, clinging onto it with his nails sinking into it, but sadness is washing over him anyway. He rolls his tongue over in his mouth. 

“I just don’t get it.” Will is still staring at him, a foot or so away, but he feels miles far. “We never lie to each other, and then – you tell me all this shit about how she needs me, how I’m – I’m the heart, how I matter, and – what, it was all bullshit?” 

Will’s mouth is shut the entire time, face guarded and closed-off and it hurts in some wretched way, because Will is never this shut off until Mike touches a nerve, but Mike doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand, and Will is standing there like Mike is some terrible villain, even if he doesn’t mean to be, and it hurts. It hurts. 

“Friends don’t lie, Will. Friends don’t lie; that was the rule.” He searches for something, anything, in Will’s eyes, and Mike tries to ignore the flood building in him, how the conflagration is slowly dying out and all he feels is heavy and tired, lead in his bones and his body dragging him down. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” He heaves out a breath, and his voice wavers, no matter how hard he tries. It comes out too quiet when he asks, “Don’t – don’t I mean anything to you?” 

Will breaks, and he looks as if Mike has said something blasphemous. “Of course, you do.” His voice is too soft. 

“Then,” Mike says, and he can’t find it in him to be angry, and there’s that rushing feeling of sadness, the insecurity he tries so hard to push down, and it’s rearing its horrible head and making itself entirely too obvious, “why – why would you –” 

His voice gives out, and he can’t even clear his throat, the mortification crawling up from his ribcage. He feels so bare, skin peeled open and visible to the very bone, and his eyes begin to water in that familiar way. He bites his cheek. 

“You lied to me,” he whispers, although it’s meant to come out much harsher, much more venomous, accusing, but all it sounds is vulnerable. He presses his lips together and tries to ignore the tear that escapes his eye, running down his cheek, and it’d be impossible not to notice it. Will’s face softens, and Mike shakes his head. “You lied to me. You lied to me. You –” 

He shakes his head again, and looks away, sucking in his cheeks. He can’t do this right now. He needs to leave.

He turns around, biting his cheeks so hard he tastes blood, and makes for the stairs, shaking in his bones. His eyes are burning, and he tries to blink the tears away, and it’s a bad move, because a few more roll down his face, and he can’t raise a hand to wipe them away. 

He can hear Will hurrying to follow after him, and the stairs creak like they always do when he steps onto them. 

“Mike,” Will tries, and he sounds so strangely desperate, and it’s weird, because he shouldn’t. “Mike, I’m sorry, I just – Mike, please let –” 

A hand softly tugs at his wrist, and Mike whirls around. 

“What,” Mike snaps, sharp and poisonous, but it doesn’t mean much when it’s so terribly obvious that he’s crying. He feels like a child. “What do you want?” 

Will doesn’t budge, hand still on Mike’s wrist, and Mike can’t even bring himself to pull it out of his grasp. “Just let me explain,” he pleads, “I didn’t – just let me explain.” He chews on his lip, eyes big and teary, and Mike has never really been able to say no to him. “Please.”

Mike sets his jaw, and folds his arms, unmoving from where he stands. He ignores the cold of his warm tears drying. “Then explain.” 

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” Will repeats, and he doesn’t let go of Mike’s wrist, as if he’s still scared of him leaving. Will should know better by now. “I just – I just wanted to help. All break, you were so,” he gestures with his free hand, “upset about El, and you were so down on yourself, and I just wanted to help make you feel better, and – and I couldn’t do that.” He looks down at the ground, at the space between them. “Not with myself. Not without – not without it being El.” 

Mike stares at him. “So, you lied.” 

“So, I lied,” Will echoes back, voice oddly bitter. “Yeah.” 

Mike can feel anger festering back up inside of him, if only for the fact that Will had thought so little of him; who does he think Mike is? Does he think Mike would have brushed it all off if it came from him? Did he forget about the past ten years of their friendship? Does he think that little of Mike?

But when Mike looks at him, Will looks near petrified, still standing at the bottom of the steps, looking like he’s ready to accept whatever judgment Mike passes onto him, as if Mike would bite back, say something cruel and shove him away. 

What’s worst of all, of course, is that it would be so predictable of Mike to do so; he has been doing exactly that for the past two years, with his meanness, his avoidance, his anger. He had ignored Will for a year, had pushed him away when he’d gotten El back, had spent all break so focused on El, despite apologizing for it, just to go back to doing it like an old habit. 

And, despite it all, despite Mike’s fuckups, Will has always accepted him back in open arms. 

So maybe – maybe it makes sense, for Will to forget who Mike is. Maybe Mike has forgotten, too, so now he stands in front of his best friend, teary-eyed and close to falling apart. Maybe it makes sense, but it hurts anyway, Will looking like he expects some sort of punishment from him. 

Silence passes, and Will’s gentle hold on Mike’s wrist loosens even more, until his fingers are slipping off, and Mike doesn’t let him break away when he grabs Will’s hands, just by the fingertips, just by a brink of distance. Will blinks in surprise. 

He keeps his hold on Will’s hand as he steps down from the stairs, until they’re both on the same ground, the carpeted floor of Mike’s basement underneath both their feet. Will doesn’t feel so far away now. Mike lets the sadness in him blossom. 

"I thought," Mike says, voice breaking, "I thought I mattered more to you than for you to –" 

He's never been able to control his tears, not when the anger is gone, and he can't bring himself to say anything else while Will stands in front of him, and he's so revealed, so see-through. Will used to be able to tell what he needed just by a glance, just by being there, and Mike wants him back. 

Read my mind again, he thinks. Like you did before.

Will’s eyes flicker across his face, and he's so close, and it feels all too much at once, and Mike trembles where he stands. 

Will takes a step closer, and Mike can't help it when he falls apart.

His face screws up as his shoulders shake with a sob, and he bites down on his lip, which does nothing to hold back the tears falling down his face. He does nothing to swipe them away. 

Mike can feel himself curling in, hunching over to be smaller, and he shakes where he is, vision blurring and hot in the face, and humiliation runs its never-ending course through his blood while he stands there and lets it happen, lets Will keep him where he is. 

"Mike," Will nearly coos, gentle and soft, and Mike presses his eyes tightly shut, and he can't expect it when Will drops his hand in Mike’s, and he can't expect it when two warm hands cup his cheeks and swipe away his tears, and he can't expect it when Will pulls him closer and holds him into a hug. 

His arms are strong and firm around Mike’s body, and it’s some other grounding that his own legs don’t allow, pressing Mike’s face into the crook of his neck and his hands grasping at his back. Will smells so familiar yet so new, with the scent that always lingers in the Byers’ home, his cologne, and the smell of Mike’s body wash. 

Mike’s own arms raise to weakly return the hug, and it’s barely there, but Will’s hold on him tightens, and Mike can feel his tears staining Will’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, voice quiet, but he’s so close, closer than he’s ever been, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to say – I meant it for myself, okay?” Mike heaves in a breath, and he refuses to open his eyes as Will continues in his shaky, quiet voice. “I – I need you.” 

He shakes his head, rubbing his face against Will’s shoulder. “You don’t have to say that,” Mike croaks, and he’d be more embarrassed about it if he wasn’t skeptical that Will was also crying. 

“I know,” Will tells him, and he’s quieter when he adds, “but it’s true.” 

Mike lets out a deep, bone-rattling sigh, and when he opens his eyes, they’re still in his basement, and Will is still holding him, and there’s dots of tears on Will’s shoulder, but Will doesn’t seem to mind, running a hand over Mike’s back. 

When he slowly steps away, scrubbing at his face to get rid of the wetness on his face, and he’s probably red all over, Will doesn’t let him stray far, hand tangling itself in his, and Mike glances anywhere else, before looking back at Will. 

He’s still pretty, even when he’s cried, and there’s still the urge to wrap his limbs around Will and keep him away from the rest of the world. 

“You didn’t have to lie,” Mike says, voice hoarse. “It would have been enough for it to be you. You – you would have been enough.” 

You’ve always been enough, he wants to say, but he’s always been a coward. He keeps his mouth shut. 

“It didn’t feel like it,” Will says back, and something in Mike shatters. 

He holds onto Will’s hand, just a little tighter. “I’m sorry.” 

Will returns it with a slight squeeze, and it’s grounding. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” Mike shakes his head, and he bites his cheek. “It’s not.” 

Will gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Well. I’m sorry.” 

“I forgive you,” Mike answers easily. He’s always been easy to forgive Will, and he supposes this is no different. 

Will’s lips tilt into a frown. “You shouldn’t.” 

“You shouldn’t forgive me, either,” he points out, and watches Will shake his head, the corner of his mouth brought upward, just a little. 

“How about,” Will proposes, taking the slightest step closer, intertwining their orbits, “we just forgive each other?” 

Mike smiles despite himself, despite the dried tears on his face. I love you, he thinks, he knows. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Okay.” They’re still holding hands. 

“Okay.” Neither of them let go. 

Will stays an extra day in the Wheelers’ house, much to Mike’s insistence. 

Mike would guess he gets a special privilege in these sorts of things, when both Argyle and Jonathan head off to go to Hopper’s cabin, and no one really blinks when Mike drags Will back into the basement, pulling out an old sleeping bag, because he’s feeling nostalgic. 

“Sleep over,” he had said when Will gave him a single look, and he’d felt a little antsy, waiting for his reply, but Will had shrugged and said, “Okay.”

It’s not especially late, only a little past eleven, and Mike is still wide awake, staring up at his basement ceiling, ultra-aware of Will’s steady breathing on the couch beside him, the slightest view of his hair plastered against the pillowcase, barely visible from the tangle of blankets on him. 

I love you has been ringing through Mike’s brain the entire time, ever since they had gone upstairs to join the others in dinner, and Mike had sat next to him, elbows bumping, and thought I love you, and Mike had convinced Will’s mother to let him stay another night, Will sending him a small smile, and Mike had thought I love you, and Mike can’t sleep, imprinting the pattern of the ceiling into his brain, nothing but the sound of a singular lamp on in the corner and Will’s breathing, and Mike has been thinking, I love you. 

He’s been trying to hold it in, but Mike has the uncontrollable fear that Will is going to slip away at any given moment, as if a few hours ago, during their argument, had been the closest they’d been, and Will is only going to drift further away, until they’re strangers. 

He can’t do that. He can’t pretend to not want more, not when he’s so tired of pretending. Will has never let him pretend, anyway. Not when they were kids, not when Mike had tried to grow up so quickly, not in Lenora, not now. He’s always seen Mike for who he is. Maybe Mike had been doomed from the very start. 

The sound of rustling breaks him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Will turning on his side, to face outward onto the room. 

“Mike?” 

Mike’s hands curl into the fabric of his sleeves. “Yeah?” 

There’s more shuffling, until Will’s face pokes out a little more, leaning close to the edge of the couch, and Mike looks back up at him. He grins, and Will tries to bite away a smile. It’s sweet. Mike wants to kiss him. 

“Can’t sleep?” Will questions, soft in the night. 

Mike shrugs in his sleeping bag. Will had insisted he take the couch, but Mike had shoved the idea out the window. It was his idea to join Will in the basement, anyway. “I guess, yeah.” 

“Any reason in particular?” He asks, light in his prodding, and Mike aches at the familiarity. Ever so gentle, Will is always the last to be pressuring, always considerate. Mike loves him for it. 

“Not really. Just – thinking.” 

There’s a pause. “About what?” 

“I don’t know,” Mike says, even if he definitely does know, because anything else would expose his constant train of I love you I love you I love you running through his brain. “Lots of things.” Will is silent as Mike contemplates his next words, and he wonders if it’s visible on his face, the fight to hold in what he really wants to say. “Will?” 

“Yeah?”

“Did you,” he begins, feeling static buzz under his skin, “mean it? Before?” It’s vague, he knows, so he specifies, “When, um, when you said you – need me?”

“Yeah,” Will’s answer comes unreluctantly. “I did.” A pause. “I do.” 

“Okay,” Mike replies, even if a thousand questions are flitting through his head. 

In what way? What way could you need me? Do you want me? 

He bites his lip. 

I love you, Mike wants to say. 

He goes for the next best thing. “You’re my best friend.” 

Any movement from the couch above him halts, and Mike waits an earth-shattering few seconds as Will is silent, unmoving. Mike would regret the words, but he doesn’t. How could he, with them being an unchanging truth? 

Will’s voice is a little quiet when he finally says, “Really?” It’s stupid to question it when it’s always been this way, but Will sounds surprised anyway, like he had expected anything different, like he had expected it to change. 

“Yeah.” Mike’s cheeks are warm. He’s probably blushing. Jesus. “‘Course. Always.” 

“Oh.” 

Mike chews on his lip, nervousness racking through him, and if he thought he was going to get any sleep before this, he was sorely mistaken, because now it feels as though he had downed several cups of caffeine, eyes wide open and heart beating fast. 

He risks a look to Will, whose cheeks are pink and smushed against the pillow, eyes big when they stare back at Mike. He always looks so kind. Mike tries to calm down where he lies down on the ground, a thin layer of the sleeping bag barely protecting him from the hard surface of the floor. 

“You’re my best friend, too,” Will returns after a second. He adds, “Always.” 

“I love you,” Mike says, and they both freeze. 

There’s a very long silence.

“What?”

“What,” Mike says, and tries not to roll over and suffocate himself to death. “I mean.” 

He, for the life of him, cannot bring himself to look at Will. He doesn’t want to know what the other looks like right now, not when this is the second time in the past week or so that he’s embarrassed himself in front of Will, and especially now, when there’s no escape. It’d be too much, wrangling himself out of his sleeping bag and heading back upstairs to his room. 

Even so, it’s a tempting idea, because the silence is stretching, and Will has yet to say anything, and – he didn’t even mean to say it out loud, is the thing, because he had been thinking it, but he hadn’t meant for it to slip past his lips like that, so effortlessly, so obvious that he’s been thinking it, so clear that he means it. 

Will still hasn’t said anything. 

“I,” Mike begins, mouth dry. “Um. Sorry.” 

Neither of them quite move until Will is getting up from where he had been laying down, blankets being pushed away, and Mike can’t bring himself to look over to where Will is sitting up, because this is maybe the most terrified he’s felt in so long. He’d take fighting a Demodog to this. He’d take Vecna to this. 

“Why did you,” Will says faintly, “why did you say that?” 

“Um,” Mike replies. “I don’t know.” He definitely does know. “I – I was thinking it.” He needs to tape his mouth shut. Sometimes, he thinks he might be the dumbest person alive. 

“You were thinking it,” Will repeats, sounding a little far away. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Mike echoes, because he has not even the slightest clue what else to say. 

It’s not dark enough in here to hide the sincerity in his voice, nor the blush on his face, or the terror that’s definitely in his eyes, and he’s frozen in his sleeping bag. His brain-to-mouth filter, clearly, has never been great, and even now, it’ll be the death of him. 

He can only hope for Will’s continuous kindness to come through now, too, although Mike shouldn’t expect it. Not now, at least. 

“Mike,” Will says after what feels like a million years, “can you – can you come up here?” 

“Yeah,” he answers immediately, against the fact that this couldn’t end well for him, “sure.” 

He pushes himself out of the sleeping bag, shivering when the cool air of the basement hits him, and he braves past it to get on his feet, stumbling just a little. Mike stands in front of the couch, and Will looks up at him, patting the space next to him, blankets shoved against the back of the couch. 

He is slow when he sits next to Will, just in case the latter changes his mind and asks him to leave him alone, or something of the sort, which – he wouldn’t do, but there’s a fear haunting him now. He sits on the couch. Will doesn’t say anything. 

Mike, because he is a fool, starts talking again. 

“I’m sorry I made it weird.” He places his hands on his knees, fingers pressing against the soft cloth of his plaid pajamas. “I didn’t – I mean, I meant it.” He, clearly, does not know when to stop talking. “Obviously, I meant it, but I didn’t mean to make it weird or –” 

“I love you, too,” Will interrupts, and everything in Mike comes to a screeching halt. 

And what’s weird, really, is the fact that Mike isn’t sure what to make of it, because he had meant it in a way that definitely did not mean best friends, and maybe Will is saying it just to make him feel better, or maybe he even means it, just in a different, more platonic way than Mike. 

“Okay,” Mike forces out. “That – that’s good.” 

“Mike,” Will starts, and he sounds like he’s choosing his words very carefully, and Mike turns to look at him. Will is already staring at him, which makes him feel a little revealed, a little obvious. “I – I love you, too, but I need to – I need to know what you –” 

And here’s his chance to escape, the leeway that Will always offers him, will always offer him, and he’s giving it to Mike now, but – Mike has already done enough damage. He’s already fucked up multiple times today, and Will can already see right through him, and it would have been no use lying. He’s never been a good liar, not with Will.

“I’m in love with you,” Mike blurts out, and his hands shake. He swallows down a gulp of poison. “I wasn’t trying to – I mean, I’m sorry but –”

A hand slips into his, and he pauses. 

His entire body feels on fire, warm to his core, and he looks down to where Will’s fingers slot through his, the touch feather-light, as if it could escape at any given chance, and Mike doesn’t think about it when he grabs onto it, just a little tighter. 

“Me too,” Will says, blushing pretty, “I’m also – I –” 

“Oh,” Mike breathes out, and the crushing weight on his chest lessens, lessens until it’s gone, “oh, you –” 

“Yeah,” Will replies, pink in the face, pink in the neck and pink on his ears and Mike wants to kiss him so badly. “I do.” 

Mike holds on to his hand a little tighter, flourishes in it when Will returns it, and they’re so close together, knees touching and hands entwined and if Mike tilted right, their arms would be pressed together, too, but instead he’s turning another way to face Will, who’s already turned to him, and he can’t help it when he looks at Will’s mouth. 

“Really?” Mike asks, just to double check, and it’s worth it when Will lets out a light laugh. 

He always looks good, smiling. It’s a sweet thing on him, a contagious sight. “Yes, really.” 

Mike can’t help it when he grins, feeling some sort of hazy fog come over him in the best way, and he tries to bite down the smile widening on his face. It has some other effect when he watches Will’s eyes glance downward, quick and nearly unnoticeable, if not for the fact that they’re sitting so close. 

Mike takes a leap of faith, and he feels entirely embarrassing when he asks, nervous, “Can – is it okay if I –”

And maybe it doesn’t matter that he’s so clumsy with his words, not really asking or finishing a single sentence, but it doesn’t matter because they’ve never needed words, and it doesn’t matter, because Will is already nodding, leaning in when he answers, “Yes, yeah, of course –”

And both of them shut up at the same time when Mike lets go of Will’s hand to cup Will’s face with both hands, and Will holds onto his wrists, as if to ground both of them, and it feels like everything falls into place when they meet in a kiss. 

The stiffness that always haunts him seems to fall away when Will kisses him, their mouths meeting halfway, and he’s probably the more experienced one out of both of them, but it’s as if every coherent thought leaves his mind when Will’s mouth is on his, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.

Will presses against his lips gently, as gentle as his hold on Mike’s wrists, and Mike presses his fingers a little firmer against Will’s cheeks and tilts his head to the right, kissing him sweetly and softly, like he always is. 

It’s slow, and maybe that’s because it’s close to midnight, and maybe it’s because the nervousness has worn off and the tiredness is beginning to hit, and maybe it’s because it’s Will, and Mike wants to keep every second of this for as long as possible, and maybe because he loves Will down to his very bones. 

When Will leans away, it’s only for a second, and Mike presses a kiss to his bottom lip, once, twice, before breaking away to kiss high on his cheek, underneath his eye, and Will can’t hold back a smile. 

“Good?” Mike whispers, when it feels like anything louder would break the moment they have. 

Will wets his lip, a nervous tick, and Mike runs a hand through Will’s hair, watching him redden under it. Mike’s hands rest at the back of Will’s neck, and Will leans into it, steady and lovely. Mike wants to kiss him again. 

“Good,” Will affirms, and Mike presses his fingers into the junction between Will’s shoulders and neck. 

I love you, Mike thinks, and he says, “Kiss me again?” 

Will knows Mike, though, through and through, and maybe this secret of Mike’s, this constant chant of I love you, I love you, I love you marching through him is something Will already knows, because he’s already leaning in, pressing their foreheads together, and he mumbles, lips brushing, “Yeah, yeah, okay.” 

I love you, Mike thinks, eyes closed, bitterness gone, and when Will smiles into the kiss, warm and sweet, it says, I love you, too.