Archive of Our Own ^beta

Night One

Will is exhausted. 

It’s different from the kind of exhaustion he’s been carrying for the past three years – it’s the sort of tiredness that sprouts from a lack of sleep, wearing himself out, chasing something that’s running away from him. It’s sluggish and glutinous, hard to escape. 

He’s sleepy. 

And, then again, he supposes that the weariness is a little bit of a given, as a consequence of traveling through half the country while the world is ending around them, and Will hasn’t gotten a good night’s rest since the beginning of spring break. If anything, it’s a miracle any of them are still awake and functioning.

Even so, the exhaustion hits him like a truck when they’ve gotten a second to breathe, in the aftermath of defeat while they sit around the Wheelers’ living room, trying to figure out where everyone can stay for the time being. It’s more of a mess than it should be, with the need to rely on the Wheeler’s for a place to sleep, and there’s the fleeting fear that he might have to share a room with Mike. 

But that’s something stupid to think, something too hopeful and naive for their circumstances, as if Mike would offer his room to stay in, as if Mike wants him around. He isn’t overly caring to Will like that anymore, and Will should know better by now. 

He leans further into the arm of the couch, bones heavy and half-asleep, and it wouldn’t be the most convenient place to sleep, seeing as there’s still several people surrounding him, and it’d probably be embarrassing to fall asleep right now, but he can’t help it. 

The material of the sofa is softer than that of the van, and unconsciousness is pulling him down deeper, and maybe he’s shoving himself into the sofa to try and get some space between him and Mike, who sits next to him and seems to be inching closer to Will with every bit Will scoots away. 

Not that he’s avoiding Mike, or anything. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. 

Mrs. Wheeler and Nancy are planning something out, and he hears more than watches as his mother insists on staying in the cabin, which is more or less inhabitable and is probably home to a few raccoons. Her perverse self is unbudging, and it’d win over almost anyone else. 

Unfortunately, Joyce Byers and Karen Wheeler are similar to an immovable object and an unstoppable force.

“Karen, I really couldn’t, I don’t want to –” 

“Joyce, I insist you stay with –” 

Nonetheless, it’s all gibberish that he barely makes the details out of, but, after much persuasion, Mrs. Wheeler somehow wrangles Joyce Byers, the most stubborn woman in the world, to stay in their guest bedroom. She would be rooming with El, until the cabin is in better shape for her and Hopper to stay in, and the basement would be left for both Jonathan and Argyle to sleep in. 

They’re probably planning something out properly for Hopper, but it all feels muffled and far away, and his eyelids are heavy while he tries to keep them open, but Will has never been the strongest, so he lets the tiredness wash over him, and falls further into his hand cupping his face. His eyes slide shut. 

He can’t find it in him to care about where he sleeps; at this rate, he’d be fine with sleeping in the van, paired with maybe a blanket and a pillow. Maybe it’d be even better, because then he’d be out of the house, and there’d be less risk of having to spend any alone time with Mike. 

It sounds terrible when he says it like that, but sue him if he’s a little reluctant to spend time with Mike after the catastrophe of a week they’ve had. The awkward, bloated tension between the two of them is almost palpable, and it nearly chokes Will alive. He’d rather not deal with it right now. 

Will is almost sure he’s heard his name passed over, but the syrupy, sweet feeling of slipping away into slumber surges over him, and he can’t bring himself to care, even if he’s the discussion of the topic. He’s pretty sure they don’t have any place for him to stay, which is just fine, because he’s alright with sleeping on the floor, or staying in the van, or even – 

“Will can stay with me,” Mike says, and Will’s eyes blink open.

He hopes his shock isn’t too obvious when he looks over to his left, where Mike isn’t looking at him, and Will would almost wonder if he was imagining things, except Mike is staring very intently at his mother, who seems to have no problem with it, nodding, “We can get a little thing set up in your room, I’m sure we’ve got –” 

And, suddenly, it feels like all the exhaustion has been stripped off of Will, as if he’s shot caffeine straight into his bloodstream, because he fidgets where he sits next to Mike, trying to settle down the flurry of nerves striking up in his heart, and – that’s stupid, because he and Mike have known each other for nearly ten years, and yet. 

And yet, they’re barely speaking, and they’re barely best friends, barely friends, barely acquaintances, barely anything, and Will doesn’t even want to be near Mike right now, and yet. 

And yet. 

And yet, Mike wants Will to sleep in the same room as him. 

Will turns the thought over in his head, at the implications, before quickly brushing it off. Will may be stupid, but he isn’t an idiot. There’s nothing to read into. 

Mike is just being a good friend, after all. He’s offering his floor up to Will because that’s what a good friend would do, even if Mike has barely been a friend – but still. That’s a bitter thought to have. Will is trying to be better. 

The conversation continues without a second thought, and even through the exhaustion ebbing through him, his mind jolts at the fact he’d have to spend an unknown amount of nights with Mike. He wonders if Mike knows what he signed them up for, with the awkward silences, the night terrors, the turmoil. Maybe he feels bad. Maybe it’s a reconciliation. Maybe Will is being stupid.

Mike is trying to go back to normal, and Will can pretend to be that. Normal. He can pretend. 

He can pretend. 

With the willpower of a million men, Will finds it in him to have the energy to shower. 

He doesn’t remember dinner, but he’s sure he’d been occupied with the mere effort of not flopping into the casserole Mrs. Wheeler had made, and stumbled upstairs, clean clothes shoved in his arms and turning the water up to boiling hot. 

Will spends a good thirty minutes scrubbing off any dirt and grime accumulated on his body, burning off the germs with scalding hot water that has his skin pink. The smell of the soap is relieving for the first few minutes, until the steam and scent get to his head and has him feeling dizzy. Even then, he can’t find it in him to care, desperate for cleanliness. 

When he stumbles out of the shower, he tugs on clothes Mike was so kind to lend, clad in a white shirt that’s a little too tight around the shoulders and longer than it should be, and a pair of pants that are in the same state of too-tight-too-long. Nonetheless, he’s grateful for clothes that he hasn’t been wearing for three days, and the soft fabric against his warm skin is comfortable. 

The clothes smell like Mike. He doesn’t think too hard about that. 

He’s tentative when he steps into Mike’s room, and he knocks once, twice, before entering. The door doesn’t squeak when he swings it open, peering in to make sure it’s empty, and then he walks in, feeling awkward all over. 

There’s a makeshift bed on the floor, a sleeping bag with two extra pillows and a blanket, and it’s more than enough for him to fall asleep in. There is an obvious lack of Mike in the room, which Will tries his best not to linger on. It feels weird, being in here, all alone. It feels like an intrusion. 

Mike’s room doesn’t look too different from how he remembers it, if not for more clutter, more papers, more trinkets. There are a few more edgier posters and street signs on the walls, stacks of worn books on his desk, a leather jacket on his chair, and a rhinestone belt on his dresser, and Will doesn’t think too much about it all, doesn’t imagine Mike with his long hair and leather jacket, doesn’t imagine the coldness he carries, recently, how it’d fit so well with the sharper, clunkier clothes. He doesn’t think about it. 

The floor is, miraculously, pretty tidy, most likely because of Mrs. Wheeler than Mike, seemingly freshly vacuumed, but, outside a lack of dirty laundry and actual garbage, everything is in the same, chaotic mess that is expected for Mike’s room. 

The walls are still the deep blue they used to be, and it still smells like the rudimentary scent of Mike, the one that always follows him – not quite his body wash, not quite his cologne or detergent, but only Mike. It smells familiar. It used to smell like home. He doesn’t want to admit that it still does. 

Despite it all, however, the thing Will is stuck on the most is the art hung up on the walls. 

And – it’s his art, is the thing, there’s no mistaking it, he couldn’t fool himself even if he tried, because that’s Will’s art, his art, the art he hasn’t seen in months, maybe even years, pieces built up over the span of a friendship, and it’s his art, several papers with Will’s scribbled lines pinned to the walls, hanging over Mike’s alarm clock, stuck next to his bed, on his pinboard, near his dresser. Everywhere. Everywhere.

He stares at it, head swerving around to look at all the ones he can spot, and he lingers on the ones near Mike’s bed, the ones of him and Mike as their characters, paladin and cleric, and he squints at them and sets his jaw and pretends there isn’t a warm, sizzling feeling pooling in his stomach, itching at his palms. 

He stares and stares and stares, and he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what any of it means. 

Will doesn’t know what it means. 

He doesn’t know if he should read into it – if he’s allowed to, if it means anything more than Mike being an art enthusiast, a kind friend, if it’s just the forgetfulness of them being there for so long, if it’s an accident, if Will has accidentally grown in like mold, like a mistake. Will doesn’t know what it means. 

Some part of him wants to storm around and tear them down, rip them to shreds, and toss them in the trash. Another part of him wants to wait for Mike to arrive and interrogate him, ask him question after question about why he still has them, why they’re hung up everywhere, why he seemingly cares, why he never called. A bigger part wants to turn around and sleep on the streets instead. 

Will doesn’t do any of that, and, instead, steps over to the sleeping bag, and slips inside. 

He falls asleep before Mike ever walks in.

Night Two

Dinner is a strange arrangement, when there’s so many of them and not enough chairs. 

The dinner table only houses seven seats, and with that being deemed the “adult’s table”, seating both Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, as well as Hopper, Joyce, Jonathan, Nancy, and Argyle, it leads to the kids being banished elsewhere. 

Consequently, Holly, Mike, El, and Will have all been booted to eating around the coffee table in the living room, and – it’s not awkward. Not too awkward, anyway. At least it would save the catastrophe of seeing Argyle and Ted Wheeler interact. 

El levitates her tomatoes over to Will’s plate, like she’d done with a spoon back in Lenora, and Will dumps peas onto hers. Mike watches them with raised eyebrows, and looks at Holly beside him. 

“How’d spring break go, Hols?” 

Holly chews through her food, and she’s far more polite than Mike had ever been as a child, swallowing before she answers, “Good. Mom got me more markers.” 

She’d always been artsy, as a child, and Will tilts his head. “Really?” He prompts, interest piqued, and Holly nods eagerly. 

“Yeah, you don’t have to press hard to make the colors show anymore, and they’re pointy,” she explains, eyes wide when she looks at him. It makes him grin, the enthusiasm of it all. “And they smell like candy!”

“That’s really cool,” Will agrees, and Holly beams. “You’ll have to show me some of your art.” 

She grows pink at this, shy when she pokes at her food, and says, “Okay.” 

El asks, “The markers smell – like candy?” 

Holly nods again, delving into various scents and colors, and El nods along, entirely invested. It makes him grin, and he returns back to his food, feeling warm around the edges. 

It feels a little strange, when he had been a younger brother all his life, and now he has El. Holly, in a way, feels like family, too, having known her so long, and even with the year apart, he’s glad she still seems to remember him, the urge to indulge her in conversation and the interest in her life never having fully gone away. 

He stares at his plate, considering it all, and then risks a look at Mike, who is already staring back. They both freeze, before Mike visibly reddens, and turns away, stabbing his fork into a tomato.

He’s been doing that a lot, recently. Staring. Will doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t even know if there’s anything to make of, if he’s going crazy or if this is normal, and he’s overthinking everything because of his own fantasies. 

The thought makes him frown, and he sets his jaw. He’s not going to be stupid about this. Not this time. 

Will makes up his mind, and slowly returns to his food. 

He can’t be blamed if he’s in a little bit of a hurry to be asleep before Mike comes back. 

Will has already brushed his teeth, feeling minty and close enough to drowsy to possibly fall asleep soon, and he’s sufficiently warm in Mike’s t-shirt and sweatpants. He can hear the rush of the shower, where Mike currently is, and stares at the wall across from him, right beside the shut door. It’s blue. He imagines painting a yellow sun on it. 

Today had been weird, with Mike offering to go to Hopper’s cabin with him, even though El would still be at the Wheelers’. Then again, Will knows they had broken up, but still. Some part of him questions if it’ll stay permanent, despite the comradery that’s arrived between them that had never been there when they had been dating. 

In spite of his own doubts, however, added along to the lurch in his heart and the swooping sensation at the thought of spending any alone time with Mike, Will had agreed. He’s never been able to refuse Mike. Not when it really matters, anyway. 

The twenty minutes getting to the cabin had been strange. It had been sunny, even with the cloudy remnants of the Upside Down, and the air had been crawling close to the warmth of summer. There had been polite conversation, although it’s more his fault than Mike’s for his own dryness, for being so compliant with falling into silence and ignoring Mike’s prying eyes. 

“Are you – okay?”

Will looks up from the woodsy ground, sparing a precarious glance at Mike, who’s staring at him with a thin line of concern between his brows. 

“What?” Will blinks, and slowly shakes his head. “Oh, yeah, no, yeah, I’m fine,” he shrugs off, hurriedly looking away. 

He doesn’t catch Mike’s frown. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” he avers. “I’m – it’s fine. We should hurry,” he bids, and quickens his pace.

He’s stopped running over their words like a worry stone, until he’s smoothed them over so terribly, they’d turn to be something fit for just his hopes and thoughts after midnight. 

He knows better, now. Mike talks and promises things without thinking about it all too often, and it isn’t his fault. Will is a fool for succumbing into his words, headfirst into a failing trust fall.

Still, Will hadn’t been able to stop his own questions running through his head, thinking too much about why Mike was so insistent on talking to him again. On staring at him. On being around him. On sharing a room with him.

He doesn’t want to think about it too hard. He’ll start coming up with conclusions that don’t exist, again. 

He crawls into his sleeping bag, a thin cushion against the floor of Mike’s bedroom, and he’s always feeling cold, lately, but it isn’t so bad. The blank ceiling greets him, and he stares back. He thinks about his art supplies, left in Lenora and untouched. His fingers itch to paint. Draw. Anything.

When there’s the squeak of the shower handles turning, and an abrupt loss of rushing water, Will freezes, before turning over, facing the wall. He shuts his eyes, and hopes that, for once, the universe would grant him a favor and suddenly strike him asleep. 

Alas, he is still painfully, incredibly awake, the anxiety of speaking to Mike again hitting through him like a laced arrow, and he refuses to open his eyes. The fuzzy static behind his eyes gets worse, and his ears strain to hear footsteps. 

They approach quietly, like they usually do, and there’s two knocks, and a long pause, before the door swings open. 

Silence. 

“Will?” 

Will holds a bated breath, and tries to relax into the floor, tries to even out the pace of his breathing, and hopes that his heart isn’t beating too loudly. He’d always been good at pretending to be asleep when he was younger. Although, he isn’t a child anymore. He still feels like one. 

The silence carries on, and Will can feel Mike’s eyes on him, and it’s always heavy, always has been, a weighted blanket, comforting. Nearly suffocating, at times like these. He holds back an exhale. 

Mike shifts next to the door, before he moves again, puttering around the room for a minute or so. Will’s curiosity begs to open his eyes, yet he stays where he is, how he is, facing the wall and away from Mike. 

There’s the click of the light switch, followed by that of a smaller lamp, despite Will already being supposedly asleep, and then the creek of the mattress. Mike’s presence is always so obvious, Will could pinpoint him blind, and even now, he can feel the buzz of Mike on the bed above him. Will wonders, if he rolled over, if he’d be met with a view of Mike. 

He keeps his eyes shut, and there’s a long moment of silence. Will doesn’t know what he’s holding out for. 

It carries on for long, and there’s no rustling of sheets or huffing sighs. Mike seems to be frozen, too, or maybe he’s all too aware of Will’s presence like Will is of his. It almost makes him sad, for the comfortability that has been stripped away between them. 

The clock keeps ticking, and Will entertains the idea that, maybe, Mike has already fallen asleep, even if he’s never been a quick sleeper. Sleepovers with each other had never ended after lights were out. 

It’s almost plausible, until there is a quiet, near silent, “Goodnight.” 

It’s too soft and careful, as if Mike had been holding out the chance that Will is actually awake, and Will feels a tide of guilt suffocate him from the inside. Even so, he stays unmoving, and carefully swallows. 

He’s so stupid, sometimes. 

Will squeezes his eyes shut, and pretends to be asleep, until he is. 

Night Three

Sometimes, there is a rush of anger that haunts Will. 

It’s not something he can help, in the midst of the apocalypse and his misfit body and the monster lurking on his back, and it’s reasonable for him to be angry, bitter, with a testy temperament to match. It makes sense that he’s angry. 

Angry that he’s back. Angry that he never seems to actually leave Hawkins behind. Angry that El is suffering, that his friends and family are wrapped up in this. Angry that his anger might get the best of him. Angry that he’s angry. 

But, for all that he is angry, Will is terrified of his own anger. 

He can't bear to be all that he knows, because then he'd turn into the monsters lurking in the corners of his closet, clawing at the edges of his bed, and he can't do that to his mother, his brother, his sister, his friends. Himself. He can't do that. 

Sometimes, though, there's something ugly festering inside him. It's an effort to keep away the anger, and Will wonders if that makes him a terrible person, if he's a horrible man for having to forcefully push away the cruel part of him that wants to be bitter and harsh. He wonders if he's more of a monster than a mistake. 

Maybe that's the part of him that leaves his cold, makeshift bed on the floor and goes down to the kitchen, where it's dark and empty and he's allowed to be alone. He gets himself a glass of warm water. 

Growing up, he'd accustomed himself to hearing out for footsteps; Dustin moves around like he isn't aware he has a body, and he can hear Lucas walking outside his door easily. Max is softer, usually shuffling around, unless she's at school. 

Mike is quieter, although he'd been louder when he was a child, and some selfish part of him wants to believe it's just for him. His mother used to float around, as if she'd been terrified of being too loud, until some determined part of her had taken control, and now she lets herself make a clatter and lets the floorboards creak when she steps over them.

Jonathan is a ghost. Will never hears him coming.

"Will." 

He nearly spills the water over himself, and he turns around to see El at the doorway, eyes shining in the dark night light. She's too quiet, too, tiptoeing around as though she's scared of being caught, and Will is always a little startled when she appears out of seemingly nowhere. 

"Oh," he says, blinking in surprise, and he puts the glass down. "Hey." 

"Hi," she replies, and walks over close to where he is, sliding into one of the seats at the table. She seems to be waiting for something when she stares at him, and El is a little bit of a puzzle, when Will tries to pinpoint the best words to unlock her thoughts. 

He takes the seat diagonal from her, just close enough for conversation. Will offers a small smile. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Yes," El answers, "I have been thinking." She pauses, seemingly going over her words, before slowly beginning, “I – am worried.” 

They speak quietly enough for their voices to stay in the kitchen, in fear of their words to travel out to the living room, where Hopper snoozes lightly. He leans in a little closer to get a good hold of her voice, and especially when she’s always been soft spoken. 

“What about?” He asks, gentle in his prodding, and her eyebrows furrow when she looks down at the table. 

El considers her words. “Hawkins,” she finally says. “I am worried that – he was right. That I will fail. That I am not ready. That,” she pauses, voice a little more fragile, “I will not be able to fly.” 

Will frowns, something cold and sad curling in his chest, and he shakes his head. “That’s not true,” he says, firm and sure. “One – whatever he’s planning, we’ll be able to take him down, alright? Whatever he throws at us. I know it.” 

When El doesn’t respond, head dipped low and staring hard at the table, he carefully reaches out, hand on her arm, and she raises her head, not looking at him. 

“Hey,” he tries, quiet, and she gives a small shake of her head. 

He forgets how young she is. How young they both are. 

“It’s okay,” he tries again, stomach twisting, and she meets his eye. “It’s okay, we’ll figure it out. I promise.” 

El shakes her head again. “Will,” she says, a little too quiet, and he frowns. “I am – scared.” 

He bites his cheek, and pulls her in close for a hug, one she falls into, one that is just for them, no prying eyes when they hold each other, for a fleeting moment amongst chaos. They’ve always understood each other better than anyone.

“Me too,” he replies, and lets himself feel the fear unfurling at him, at the looming shadow on his neck, the constant chill that haunts him. The darkness in the kitchen doesn’t help, but El’s fingers press against his back, and her hair tickles against his cheek and neck. 

“I do not know what to do,” she admits, and he finally pulls away to look her in the eye. “About One. About anything.” 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Will tells her. “Not by yourself. You have me.” It’s a slight reassurance when she nods, and he offers a small smile. “You don’t need to do this alone. Don’t forget that, okay?” 

“Okay,” she replies, and she straightens, seemingly more solid, certain. El returns his smile, sweet, and leans in close. “You are not alone, also. You will always have me.” Will slowly nods, heart turning over in its place. “Okay?” She asks, making sure. 

“Okay,” he agrees, and she beams. 

When he stumbles back into Mike’s room, trying to be as quiet as possible as he steps over to his sleeping bag, there is Mike, rolled over to the right side of the bed, arm hanging off the ledge to the side where Will sleeps. 

He nearly tiptoes, trying to get back into the sleeping bag without much hassle, but, despite his efforts, it doesn’t work when Mike mumbles, “Will?” 

Will freezes, lifting the cover, and he looks up to where Mike lays, except his face is still squished into the pillow, and he seems barely awake, eyes close to completely closed when they squint at Will. 

“Yeah,” he replies, soft in the night, and tries to relax where he’s on the floor. 

Mike makes an unsettled noise. “Where’d you go?” 

Will bites his lip, before giving a minute shake of his head, looking down at the sleep bag. “Nowhere,” he murmurs, “I was just – thirsty.” He slips under the cover, and, despite it, he still feels chilly. “I’m – I’m here.” 

There’s a pause, and Mike shifts, head turning deeper into the pillow. His hand still hovers near, fingers curling into the air. 

“Good,” he mutters, muffled. “Got worried.” 

Will stares at his hand, before turning away. It’s an effort to fall asleep. 

Night Four

Will knows he’s stalling. 

He spends three full minutes brushing his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror while he tries to find any other reason to avoid leaving the room and facing Mike’s room. He tugs at his hair, and it’s getting longer than usual, dragging at his eyes and brushing the back of his neck. His lips are bitten red from his restlessness. He sucks in his cheeks, and glares at himself. 

He’s being ridiculous. Mike is his friend. 

Will shouldn’t be feeling this way. 

Rolling his tongue over his teeth, he dries his hands and turns open the door. He steps out into the hallway. He avoids the portion of wood that squeaks under his weight. Mike’s bedroom door is closed shut. 

He knocks once, twice, and waits. A quiet Come in! follows, and he presses his fingers into his palm, before slowly turning the knob. 

Mike is sitting up in bed when Will walks in. 

There’s a silent beat, before Will gestures to the light switch. “Do you want me to –” 

“If you can,” Mike replies, like Will’s hand isn’t inches away from the switch. He moves to turn on the little lamp in the corner, bed moving under him. “Um, I can turn on the –” 

“It’s fine,” Will quickly waves off, stomach flipping, and Mike pauses. It feels weird, being awake and acknowledging this slight inconvenience of his. He knows Mike has the ability to sleep in any conditions, rain or shine, but the scrap of dignity Will has left begs to survive, just by this. Just by the refusal of a night light. 

The room is dark, darker than Will has ever liked, but he sucks it up and makes his way to his sleeping bag. He’s almost restless, an obstacle when he’s half-hoping that he’d miraculously pass out in the next thirty seconds and save them both the trouble of conversation.

Alas, nothing has ever gone the way Will Byers has ever wanted, and he suffers in the too-obvious silence, every rustle and every move echoing in the room. He almost wants to get up and leave, forcing Jonathan and Argyle to make room in the basement. He’d rather suffocate on the weed smoke than this silence. 

He turns over in his sleeping bag once more, and he couldn’t fool being asleep even if he tried. Unluckily for Will, he has no other escape from Mike’s pressing nature. If Mike Wheeler is anything, he is insistent. 

“Will?” Mike asks, quiet and soft and almost vulnerable. 

And – he’s wide awake. Will is wide awake, and he knows that, and Mike definitely knows that. Will would be a villain to pretend unconsciousness. 

He signs his own suicide note and says, “Yeah?” 

A silence follows, and it feels like all the blood has halted in his body, something cold and frozen and still waiting in the air, and he doesn’t know what to do with it while he waits. He knows Mike gets like this, needs a moment to collect his thoughts, and Will has been silent in the preface of many conversations, maybe for his own sake, getting ready to shove aside his own wants and words for whatever Mike needs to hear. 

He knows how this will go – it’s always the same, ever since Mike had arrived in California; get Mike to open up, and it will lead to El, like it always does, and Will will camouflage himself for Mike’s sake and strip himself away, bit by bit. 

He knows this routine. Maybe he’s been wearing himself thin, and now he’s pretending to be asleep and stalling in the bathroom. Maybe he’s getting a little impatient, too used to the cycle, because he never likes to press, but he asks, “Mike?” 

There’s movement in the bed above, and Mike says, “Sorry, it’s – it’s nothing. I’m just – it’s stupid. I’m being stupid.” 

That strikes a chord, strangely, and Will tenses where he is on the floor, eyebrows pinched in offense. “Don’t – you’re not being stupid,” he states, sure and truthful. “Whatever it is, it isn’t – it’s not stupid.” He presses his tongue against his teeth, and keeps looking up. “You can tell me.” 

Except – maybe he’s a terrible friend for half expecting what Mike is about to bring up, whether that be El, or his own lack of self-worth, but Will would bend backwards to reassure him out of any shortcomings. Even so, he’s getting near sick of this practiced conversation. Will wishes it were different. Wishes he mattered outside of relationship advice. 

The night drags on, stars wheeling over the sky, and Will can hear the slow tick of the clock on the other side of the room. He chews on his cheek. 

“Are you,” Mike begins, voice too quiet, and Will stills, “mad at me?” 

He frowns at the ceiling. This isn’t El, or an insecurity. This is out of bounds. This is unknown territory. 

“What? No.” Mike doesn’t respond, and Will clenches his fists, curling and uncurling them. “No, of course, not. Why would – why do you think that?” 

Maybe that’s unfair to ask. There’s a lot of reasons why; Will’s been avoiding him, he knows Mike knows that, if even in the slightest. Perhaps it’s also in the lack of prompted conversation from him, but he can’t be blamed for such a thing when it feels like he’s only interesting as El’s brother. 

The anticipation is killing him. 

“Mike?” 

The darkness is suffocating. 

"I think – I feel like you – you used to – like me," Mike finally says into the night, and something shadowy and cloudy around the edges chokes Will by the throat. "And – and recently, it feels like you can barely stand to look at me." 

And it's almost true. Will used to like Mike – or maybe that isn't true at all. Maybe Will has always loved Mike. Maybe he's only just noticed. Maybe that’s his fault. Maybe Will should get better at acting. Maybe it hurts to look at Mike, having to feel that innate ache that takes over him. Maybe it’s hard to pretend, around Mike. 

But, even if Will has never known the difference between suicide and sacrifice, he can tell when is too far, so he doesn't say any of this. 

"I still like you," Will says back, voice empty and scratchy and a little raw. "We're still – friends." The lack of best in front of the term is a little too obvious for his liking, but neither of them comment on it. 

"It doesn't feel like it." Mike moves in his bed, and Will's eyes stay firmly on the ceiling. "I feel like we barely know each other anymore." 

And Will can't argue with that, so he replies, "What do you want to know?" 

That’s probably dangerous. Will knows that. 

There’s a long lapse of silence, and then – 

“Can you come up here?” 

If Will were any wiser or braver, he would have firmly said no and moved on with their night. Maybe he’d be smart. Maybe he’d even be a bad friend. 

As it is, Will has never been able to refuse Mike, and so he says, “I – yeah. Yeah, sure.” 

His limbs feel terribly awkward when slowly climbs out of his cocoon, cringing at his own disgrace while he gets up, and Mike scoots over from where he’d been laying on the side close to Will, flopping over to the other pillow and a sufficient amount of room for Will. 

Will stands there, for just a second too long, and Mike’s shining eyes in the night meet him, and there’s a firm pat on the space next to him. Will bites the bullet, and crawls beside Mike. 

“Sorry,” Mike whispers, he hasn’t stopped whispering, as Will slots himself underneath the blanket, “I just wanted –” 

“No,” Will croaks back, “it’s – it’s fine. It’s okay.” 

“Okay,” Mike says, still too soft, and Will carefully swallows. 

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, too terrified to look anywhere else, lest he look over and Mike sees him for what he is, remembers who they are and shoves him out of the bed. Maybe he’s a bad person for wanting this. 

Neither of them are touching. Their limbs stay firmly away from each other, and Will places his hands on top of his stomach, feeling the rise and release of his own breathing. He can almost feel Mike’s own warmth, the brush of his body against his, just a whisper away. Will doesn’t know what he was thinking. 

Mike shifts next to him, and their arms bump, for just a second. Will tries not to jump. 

“How d– how was Lenora?” Mike finally asks, and it sounds stilted, in the night. 

Will presses his fingers into his stomach, through the thin fabric of Mike’s shirt. “It was okay. Way different than Hawkins.” 

Mike hums. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Will nods, just the rub of his hair against Mike’s pillowcase, in Mike’s bed, wearing Mike’s shirt, probably smelling like Mike’s body wash. Will doesn’t think about it. He refuses to. “It was really sunny, like, all the time, it always felt like summer. And there was so much to do.” 

There’s a beat, and Mike says, “That sounds – nice. Did you – do you want to go back?” Will furrows his eyebrows, and tries to relax where he lays. “Like, to stay, I mean. Stay back in – to stay in Lenora.” 

“I couldn’t,” he replies, thinking back. “El hated it.” 

Mike doesn’t respond for a moment, until he asks, “What about you? If – if you didn’t have to, like, deal with that. If you could do whatever you wanted to.” 

If I could do whatever I wanted to, Will ponders, and there’s so much that runs through his mind. Or maybe not so much, maybe just one idea, twisted into hundreds of different lives that he’d never be able to live. At least he could have an echo of it, lying next to him right now. 

Will considers it, before slowly answering, “Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Mike echoes, except he sounds – strange. The urge to look over, just to see his reaction nearly takes over Will, but he firmly keeps looking up. 

Will shrugs, even if it probably goes unseen. “I don’t know. I liked it better than Hawkins, because at least there I was, like, no one. No one really knew me except as the guy who did art sometimes.” He chews on his lip, and winces when he tastes copper. “I mean, I was kind of lonely, ‘cause I didn’t want to make any friends or anything, but it was nice. It was really nice.” 

“Oh,” Mike says, and there’s a moment where Will wonders if he’s spoken too much. “That’s – so you would stay there?” 

“Maybe,” Will repeats. “If I could, like, bring someone with me. To stay there, I mean.” 

“Someone?” Mike questions, and he’s moving again, blanket shifting over them, a turbulent wave. “Like who?” 

You, he thinks, except that’s too much. He’s too much. 

“I don’t know,” Will replies, feeling like he’s said it too much tonight. “Dustin would’ve been a pretty good lab partner in biology.” 

He feels it when Mike snorts next to him, unabashed, and Will grins. “Such honorable reasons,” he teases, and Will huffs back a laugh. He’s pretty sure it’s the first time they’ve laughed together since they’ve arrived back in Hawkins. It’s a warm thing, blossoming in him like this. 

The comfort of it settles between them, and it feels like something old, something rediscovered in the rubble. He lets himself imagine this is just a sleepover, one of those they’d have all the time when they were younger, sharing Mike’s bed when it was just the two of them. 

Their elbows knock together when Mike shifts again, and they stay touching as Mike doesn’t move away. Will isn’t sure what to do with his own body. He’s all too aware of the buzz from just the singular touch. 

“So, you’d go back?” Mike mentions once more, and Will can’t find it in him to be annoyed, if not a little lost by the persistence of it all. 

“If I wasn’t alone this time,” Will says, “then, yeah.” 

He thinks of the distance, the silence. The sunny skies and the perpetual brightness of it all, the opportunities being led out of the city, the availability of something better. It had been lonely, but it had been good. Hawkins still holds a competition to Lenora, because Hawkins might be a black hole, but it has Mike. 

Mike. God, the enigma that he is. He feels so far away, sometimes. 

If I wasn’t alone.

“Yeah,” Will repeats, more certain, “I would.” 

Night Five

When he wakes up, Mike is already gone. 

And it wouldn’t be too remarkable, if not for the fact that Will had fallen asleep in Mike’s bed, and it’s ticking close to nine a.m., and Mike has never been known for waking up before eleven, even now. Or, not without an alarm, and anything of that sort would have definitely woken Will up as well. 

He doesn’t know what the swirling, gut feeling in him is, or what it particularly means, but it doesn’t budge, as he brushes his teeth, stares in the mirror, grimaces as he pulls at his own skin. 

Of course, Mike would escape from Will’s overbearing self with the first chance he got. Will doesn’t blame him, even if a heads-up would have been nice, a polite This was a weird idea, this is weird, don’t look at me anymore., just before Will had slipped off to slumber and messed everything up. 

It feels like the end of the world when he’s tugging on his jeans, thinking all too much about the consequences of his own stupidity while he tries hard not to think about it. It’s an endless cycle of doom, whenever it comes to Mike. 

Mike, the enigma. Mike, the schemer, the detective, the leader. Mike, who had invited Will into his bed and hadn’t been there this morning. Mike, who had kept asking, Would you go back? Would you, would you?

Mike, who is sitting at the kitchen table and eating breakfast. 

Will stumbles when he spots him, feeling awkward and too aware of his own body all at once, and his throat is so dry. 

Mike looks up from his bowl, zoned out amidst milk and cereal, and his eyes widen at the sight of Will. Maybe he should have spent more time contemplating his existence in bed. 

“Hey,” he says, spoon dipping, like everything is casual and Will doesn’t want to die right on the Wheelers’ kitchen floor, “good morning.” 

“Morning,” Will returns carefully, fishing out his own bowl and spoon, and the clink of ceramic fills the air. 

So, maybe Mike wasn’t plotting out Will’s demise, or avoiding him, or sensing the awkwardness filling Will up to the very brim. Maybe it’s all in Will’s head, except Will doesn’t know how everything is meant to be fine and dandy when they’d shared a bed last night, after an entire year of radio silence. 

He tries his best not to be noticeable, not to look up and glance at Mike, and this is an attempt made a challenge when he can feel Mike’s eyes on him, watching his every move as he pours his milk and carefully steps over to the kitchen table, sitting on the opposite side. 

He shovels a spoonful into his mouth, and tries to ignore the stare on the side of his face. 

It’s only when Mike finally finishes his cereal and gets up to wash his bowl, that Will gets any reprieve, relaxing where he sits and staring down at the pool of milk, colorful loops bobbing in the bowl. He frowns, and scoops them up with his spoon. 

The exchange is silent, as Mike scrubs and Will chews, and Will wonders if this is it, if this is the closest they’ll ever be, if they’d go back to breakable silence, until they save the world again and they’d become strangers. Will’s spoon clinks against the side of the bowl.

“Do you,” Mike starts, and Will looks up from his bowl, “have any plans for today?” 

This isn’t silence, nor is it doom or exile. Will stares at him, and slowly replies, “No.” 

Mike seemingly nods to himself, shaking his hands off of excess water, and turning to fully face Will where he’s standing. “Cool,” he says. “I was, um,” he points a finger behind him, in no particular direction, “going to visit Max at the hospital, later. Do you – uh, do you want to come with?” 

And maybe Will’s mind is playing tricks on him, because it doesn’t seem like an invitation out of politeness, and Mike is still standing there, hands wet and next to the sink, as he waits for Will’s answer, eyes boring into him. If anything, he almost seems nervous, and Will wishes he could read his mind. 

“I – yeah,” Will says, without his own permission, “yeah, sure.” 

Mike smiles, and – the impending doom doesn’t feel so endless, suddenly. 

Ever since 1983, Will has been a perpetual light sleeper. 

It’s hard to let himself fall so deeply into sleep, and he barely touches the deep end of unconsciousness, tracing his fingertips on the sea ground, but it’s enough to get by, and that’s all that has ever mattered. 

This being said, when there’s the rattling inhale of a gasp in the bed next to him, Will groggily sits up to look over to where Mike sleeps. 

Or, rather, he should be sleeping, because he’s sitting up and looking panicked, eyes wide and paler than he usually is, shoulders rising with each heaving breath. His hair is swept every way, and the sight makes Will’s heart squeeze in its place. 

“Mike?” Will speaks, loud enough for Mike’s head to turn to him. “What’s wrong?” 

“There,” Mike croaks, and he sounds raspy, as if he’d been screaming, “was – nightmare. It was – I couldn’t –” 

He sucks in a breath, and Will feels a little useless, sitting there on the floor and staring up while Mike struggles to catch onto his own words, and his hands twitch where they are. He bites his cheek, resisting his own wants, and Mike wipes at his eyes. 

“Up here,” Mike says, slowly turning pink in the face, “you – can you please –” 

“Yeah,” Will answers before he really thinks about it, because Mike sounds too breakable, and he’d rather dig his own grave than contribute to it. 

He hurries up and Mike scoots over, and his hands are shaking in his lap. The room is dark, silent, except for the quick breathing of Mike’s, and the shuffling of sheets as Will takes a seat next to him.

The covers pool around Mike’s waist, his legs bent into an almost-crossed position, and he slouches in that permanent poor posture of his. Neither of them move, but Mike trembles where he sits, and Will wants to reach out and ground him, hold him close and pace his breathing steady, except he’s always been a coward, so he sits there and aches, aches, aches. 

Will watches the way Mike seems to realize he’s there, moving the tiniest bit to press his thigh against Will’s knee, and it makes Will feel so greedy. Maybe it’s hopeful wishing when he thinks that Mike wants to touch him, but then Mike’s hands move and stray close to Will’s, and Will doesn’t think twice when he reaches out and latches onto his hand. 

He doesn’t have any time for self-doubt when Mike turns his hand over in Will’s grasp, until their hands are properly entwined, knitting their fingers together, and Will stares at it for a second too long, until he looks up at Mike, whose eyes are already on him. 

“Do you want water?” Will quietly suggests, and Mike’s eyes are shiny and wide when they look at him. 

He quickly shakes his head, and his grip on Will’s hand tightens, just barely. “Don’t leave me,” he says, nearly whispers, and something pangs in Will’s chest. 

“I won’t,” he’s fast to reassure, “I’m not leaving.” 

This seemingly soothes Mike, as he relaxes and nods to himself, still staring at Will, who tries to offer a small, steady smile, that Mike catches onto, eyes sticking to it, and Will resists the urge to turn away, the stare heavy and intense. 

“Do you,” Will tries again, and he can’t tell if Mike is still staring at his mouth, if it’s his sleep-spelled brain wishing for things, “want to talk about it?” 

That’s when Mike looks up to meet his eyes, giving a small shrug. “It was just a nightmare,” he replies, except his voice is scratchy and raw, so he clears his throat. “I just – we couldn’t find you.” 

He bites his cheek. “Sorry.”

Mike frowns. “It’s not your fault.” 

Will shrugs. “Still,” he responds, looking at the space of the bed between them, and Mike’s frown deepens. 

He usually knows what to say, just to make Mike feel lighter, except his hand is in Mike’s and Will’s thoughts keep escaping him. His sleep-ridden brain is still leeching onto every point of contact between them, and he’s probably messing this up, his role of the supportive friend, but he can’t help himself. Maybe he can’t afford to be so greedy right now, but he’s tired, and Mike is holding onto his hand so tightly. 

“That was the worst week of my life,” Mike suddenly says, and Will’s neck nearly strains at the speed he turns to look at him. “I couldn’t – it was the worst, but it was never your fault that it took you, so don’t – don’t apologize.” 

Will doesn’t know what to do with his own body, so he weakly replies, “Okay.” 

Mike exhales, deep and deflating when his whole body seems to relax, and he slouches back into the headboard, until he’s slinking back into his pillows, still gripping Will’s hand. Will sits beside him as Mike settles down again, laying on his bed. 

Silence washes over them, and Mike’s breathing is no longer hurried pants. He looks calmer, seemingly about to fall asleep again, and Will wonders if this is where he’s supposed to leave and crawl back on the floor, there for the next time Mike needs him. 

He shifts, ready to get off the bed, and it’s not a second later that Mike pulls him back, Will’s hand against his chest, and he’s frowning, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Stop – leaving me,” he huffs, and Will’s throat is awfully dry. A silence lapses over them, and Mike's other hand finds itself holding onto Will’s wrist, fingers wrapped in a gentle grasp. “Please.” 

He sounds too genuine and too sincere and too open. Will doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“I’m just,” Will gestures to the floor below, and Mike’s frown turns into a scowl. “It’s not – I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right below you.” 

Mike shakes his head. “Why can’t you just stay here?” 

And Will wants to say something like, you don’t want me to, don’t be stupid, we aren’t kids anymore, except he’s always been childish, he thinks, even now, and he’s always been a little stupid, and Mike wouldn’t be so insistent all the time if he didn’t wish to be. 

Will’s ribcage feels too full for its own good. “I –” 

“Please,” Mike repeats, some kind of neediness in him, and Will feels himself break. 

“Okay,” Will mumbles, and slowly moves to lay down. 

Mike doesn’t let go of his hand as Will carefully moves underneath the blanket, a shared warmth when Mike shifts closer, close enough for Will to hear the intake of breath, nearly feel the rise of the blanket over him with each inhale, the buzz of body warmth so close. 

He’d face away from Mike, except it isn’t so possible, with his arm still outstretched towards him, so he lays facing him, and Mike doesn’t turn away when he does, seemingly undeterred by their close proximity. They share the same air, and Will is trying so hard not to overthink it all.

It proves itself a feat, however, when Mike keeps coming closer, until he’s raising a hand to Will’s side, faint and barely there, yet it’s enough for Will’s heartbeat to jackrabbit. 

He watches when Mike swallows, the shaky inhale of a breath, and then, “Is it okay if I –” 

“Yes,” Will answers, almost embarrassingly quick when he lifts his arm, but Mike doesn’t seem to notice, if not for his own lightning motion of letting go of Will’s hand to tuck himself against Will, against his chest, against his heart. 

Will is sure the rapid rate of his heart is pretty obvious, from where Mike’s face is nearly shoved into his chest, ear against the cage of the steady thump, thump, thump, in Will’s body, yet Mike doesn’t seem bothered, doesn’t leap away and call him out for what he is.

Instead, his arm tightens around where it’s wrapped itself around Will’s side, a partial hug and a partial pull closer, and Will lets it happen, lets his body get pushed into Mike’s, until his chin barely bumps against the top of Mike’s head, and he slowly moves his arm to throw over Mike, to slot his hand against the nape of Mike’s neck and run through his hair. 

Mike shivers under the touch when Will’s fingers brush against his scalp, and his nose is cold, where it pokes against the bare skin of Will’s collar, but he can’t find it in himself to mind. Everything else is warm, and Mike keeps pushing against Will, as if to try and get closer, dig himself into Will’s chest, and Will doesn’t know what that means, what he’s supposed to do with all of it, with Mike in his arms and their legs tangled together. 

His mind is sluggish, and the exhaustion of so many restless nights catches up to him, in the body heat of Mike’s and the safety of his body wrapped around Will’s. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to sleep without this for the rest of his life. 

Will, for the sake of his own wellbeing, doesn’t think about it. 

He feels it when Mike’s warm breath fans against his chest, and his eyes fall shut. 

Night Six 

“Absolutely not.” 

“It tastes good!” 

“You also thought eggs and maple syrup would taste good together.” 

“You like it, too!” 

“Yeah, but you were the one who came up with it.” 

“Like a genius.” 

“Like a weirdo,” Will says, and watches Mike try to hide a smile away, biting his lip and looking away. It’s unfairly attractive, even in the darkness of the kitchen. 

Their words are whispered and hushed, in fear of waking anyone up, and it’s a little bit of a struggle, trying to be quiet while making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the middle of the night, forcing away laughter. 

He doesn’t remember whose idea the sandwiches had been, but he does remember laying together on Mike’s bed in careful silence, until Mike’s stomach had growled unnaturally loudly, and Will had choked out a startled laugh, and now he finds himself making sandwiches for the both of them. 

He’s careful in the delicate art of smearing peanut butter onto bread, and Mike watches from where he sits on the counter, head tilted close and the whites of his eyes shining in the midnight light. Will tries not to stare, tries to keep his peering eyes at the pieces of bread in front of him, but he’s never been particularly strong. 

They’ve been tossing questions between them in an attempt to catch up for the past year, some strange area of familiarity and unfamiliarity. Will feels like he knows so much, yet not enough. 

He pushes a sandwich towards Mike, who pounces on it easily, swiping it off the plate and biting into it with the vigor of a starving man. Will raises an eyebrow, and Mike shrugs, offering a cheesy grin in return. 

“Okay,” Mike starts, through a mouthful of jam and bread, and Will gives him an unimpressed look. “What about,” he purses his lips in thought, “favorite memory since you moved?” 

Will frowns as he thinks, and Mike chews as he watches Will. It’s a little hard to come up with anything under Mike’s stare, and he wonders how he survived like this, trying to live under Mike’s constant watch. He doesn’t know how to live under it. He can’t imagine living without it. 

“We went to the beach,” Will recalls. “It was, like, an hour away, and when we got there, it was super crowded, but we got this one spot pretty close to the shore, and El never built a sandcastle before, so I got to teach her how to do that.” Mike hums in response, lips upturned, and Will adds, “And we got to bury Jonathan in a bunch of sand, which was pretty fun.” 

Mike sighs, leaning back. “Nancy would never let me and Holly get away with that.” 

“Yeah, but Jonathan is, like, nice to us.” Will takes a bite of his sandwich, tilting his head, and he thinks about Nancy’s presence in their younger years of friendship. “Remember when you broke Nancy’s lipstick?” 

Mike cringes at the thought, and Will grins. “Oh my God, yeah,” he groans, “she was so mad.” 

“I’d be mad, too,” Will says. “She complained about how expensive it was.” 

“In my defense,” Mike attempts, “it was way more fun to draw with than, like, crayons.” 

He’d like oil pastels, Will decides, swallowing around a smile. “That argument didn’t work that day,” he reminds him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike waves off with a hand, and he has a bit of jam in the corner of his lips. “Whatever.” 

They chew in silence, and it’s nice, it’s the first time the silence doesn’t beg for something more, and Will thinks that maybe the comfortability had been dormant, had been asking for the leap over the cliff, and now, he sits in the kitchen, eating sandwiches in the dark. Maybe things aren’t too terribly different. 

They finish their sandwiches, and collectively wash away peanut butter and jelly stains off their fingers, chugging glasses of cold water before they return upstairs. Mike leads them back to his room, and Will follows him, like he usually does.

Mike tosses himself onto his bed, and turns to look at Will expectantly. Will tries not to blush something vicious when he slowly makes his way to the empty side of the bed, and Mike sends him a small, pleased smile. Will tries not to linger on it. 

When he lays down, Mike rolls over to face him, and he wonders if he should turn over, too, except the idea feels too intimidating, even now. The thought of being so close to Mike again, inches away from each other’s face and sharing the same space is too much. 

“You never answered your own question,” Will remembers, still on his back, and Mike makes an inquiring noise. “About your favorite memory, I mean. After we left.”

Mike wriggles where he is, before there is the brush of his hand against Will’s, and Will tries not to react when Mike slots their fingers together, as if they do this all the time, as if this isn’t the closest they’ve been since last summer, maybe before that. 

“I don’t know,” Mike finally answers, “I don’t really have one.” 

Will raises his eyebrows, and unthinkingly turns to look at him, surprised. “Really?” 

Mike is just a little lower on his pillow, and he peers up at Will, unabashed and unrelenting in his stare. Will would be more self-conscious about what he looks like right now if he wasn’t so focused on the linking of their fingers. 

“Yeah,” he says back, voice low, and Will carefully presses his lips together. “I spent the first three months just, like, moping in my basement all the time, and high school has been fucking miserable, so I didn’t really have any time to make any good memories.” 

“Oh,” Will whispers, and Mike shrugs next to him. 

“No big deal,” he replies. “It’s – better, now.” 

He doesn’t know if he’s going insane when he swears he feels Mike tighten his fingers around Will’s, just the subtle shift of him under the blanket following, and he looks too casual for the situation. 

Will wonders if he’s losing his mind. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Mike nods, and Will offers a slight smile. Mike returns it easily. 

It had been difficult to live in Lenora without the quiet company that Mike offered before, the silent companionship that he lets Will sink into every time there was no more conversation to go through, and the silences in Lenora had always been thundering, covered up with quiet music and humming. 

Now, in the dead of night, he thinks that maybe Mike isn’t so far away, letting them replicate who they used to be so long ago. Will doesn’t feel like a criminal, lying next to him, and Mike doesn’t feel like a stranger in familiar clothing. 

“It’s your turn,” Mike suddenly brings up, and it takes a second for Will to remember what he’s talking about, their ping-pong game of questions.

“I have one,” he says, albeit reluctantly, and Mike raises an eyebrow. “It’s just kind of – I mean, you don’t have to answer it, but –” 

“Will,” Mike cuts him off, and he’s smiling. “It’s okay. Just spit it out.”

Will nods, assuring himself, because it’s not even a bad question, it’s just a little strange, a little bit greedy, a little invasive, even if the reason for it has been shoved in his face every time he steps into this room, every time he opens his eyes and looks around, first thing in the morning. 

He doesn’t know what he expects when he asks, “Why do you still have my drawings still up?” 

He can feel it when Mike freezes beside him. “What?” 

And – he can take this several different ways, he knows, except Mike sounds strangely terrified, almost anxious for whatever Will is about to throw at him, as if there’s some wild accusation about to be stuck onto him, so he shrugs, avoiding Mike’s unrelenting gaze. “I just thought you’d take them down, or something.” 

He doesn’t have to look up to know Mike is frowning. “Do you – want me to?” 

Something flushed and warm blooms in Will’s cheeks, and he shakes his head. He hopes he doesn’t seem too eager. “No, that’s not – I was just wondering why you still had them up.” Mike is silent when Will tries to gather his thoughts, too aware of Mike’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I wasn’t even sure if you,” Will says, abruptly pausing, and he looks away from Mike’s eyes, his gaze boring into Will, as if he’s stripping away the layers to look directly into Will’s worst thoughts. 

“If I what?” He prompts softly, with the furrow of his brow and the slightest quirk of a frown on his lips, and Will shrugs. 

“If you forgot about me,” he finishes, but it’s quiet, and Mike doesn’t reply. “It sounds stupid, but –” 

“Of course, I didn’t,” Mike interrupts, sounding appalled at even the suggestion of it. “Of course not. I couldn’t forget you even if I tried, Will.” 

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s obvious, like Will should already know this, but Will’s throat goes dry, and he can’t clear his throat without seeming strange. He wants to squirm away, wants to roll over and fall onto the abandoned pillows below. 

Mike pulls on their hands, just barely, just to bring it close to his chest, and Will doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to look at him, because he doesn’t know what comes after. Mike is always too open, too barefaced and bold, sometimes, and it appears that it only gets worse during the dark. 

“Of course not,” he murmurs, and Will doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Oh,” he whispers, and Mike is scooting even closer, trying to catch his eye, and Will finally looks back. 

He’s so close. He’s closer than he should be, closer than anyone should ever be, but Will doesn’t know if he should move away, doesn’t want to move away, lets Mike get away with it when he wets his lower lip and keeps staring at Will, so close. Too close. 

“Mike,” he whispers, and he knows he isn’t imagining it when Mike’s stare drops to his mouth. He’s too wide awake, and Mike’s eyes linger low on Will’s face, and he doesn’t know what to think. He’s too warm all over. 

“Yeah?” Mike breathes out, and Will swallows. 

“We need – sleep. We need to sleep,” he mentions, except his voice is more breathless than he wants it to be, and Mike is still staring at his lips, and he wants to stop thinking and lean in close and – 

“Right,” Mike says, and he’s slow to drag his eyes back up, flickering across Will’s face, before sticking to his eyes. “Yeah.” 

Will scoots away, just the barest bit, or else he might do something irrevocably stupid, and turns back to the ceiling. The emotionless ceiling, subjected to all his turmoil and terrors. He presses his lips together into a thin line, and Mike rustles next to him. 

“Goodnight,” Mike mumbles, still sounding so close, but Will doesn’t look over to check. He’s half-sure Mike is still staring at him. 

“Goodnight,” he returns. 

It’s only when he slips off to slumber that he remembers Mike hadn’t answered him. 

The morning shines brightly through the thin curtains of Mike’s bedroom window, and Will blearily blinks through the painful light of it. 

He’s – warm. Unnaturally warm. 

Will rubs a hand against his eye, soundlessly yawning, and he’s sure it’s only a little past eight, just like he usually wakes up, except this time, he is so undeniably warm, he’s close to sweating. 

And then he shifts, just a little, and there’s a protesting noise against his back, and he stops. 

He looks down at himself. 

Mike’s arm is thrown over his middle, pressing through the fabric of Will’s shirt, heavy and holding him close, and Mike’s leg is slotted through his, as if trying to get as crammed against Will as possible, head pressed against Will’s back.

He can feel the jut of Mike’s nose pushing into the dip of Will’s back, right over his spine, and the puffs of warm breath, and the weight of his leg over Will’s, scrambled together in such tight proximity, and Will’s cheeks are slowly growing red. 

Mike is asleep and very visibly clinging onto him, and Will is awake and doesn’t know what to do. 

Getting up seems reasonable, even if they have no real plans for the day, other than Will’s own intentions of going to the help center later, but he’d like to brush his teeth and maybe not be around when Mike wakes up and inevitably shoves him away, affronted and embarrassed. 

When Will moves to get out of bed, though, slow and very shaky, trying to lift his own weight by just his arms and carefully remove himself from Mike, it turns to be a futile effort, because Mike groans in response and tightens his hold around Will, other hand gripping the back of Will’s shirt, and – Will is stuck. 

He presses his lips together, contemplating his options, before settling back into bed, and Mike burrows back against him, breathing evenly and unbothered. Will couldn’t even call it spooning of some sort, because Mike is more leeching onto him than anything, a tight grip on his body and keeping Will in place. 

He stares at the wall across from him, and there’s another drawing he’d done, at least two years ago, a messy portrait of Mike’s D&D character, clad in armor, with a shield and sword. It stares back at him mockingly. He glares. 

Mike doesn’t budge next to him. 

And, granted, he doesn’t have to get up until much later, it’s just the fact that he’s never been good at staying asleep, and trying to go back to bed is usually useless, although, this time around, it doesn’t seem like a choice. Not when Mike has decided to cling onto him like an overgrown koala. 

Despite himself, though, Will can admit that the warmth of it all is nice. The initial alarm of Mike’s limbs clutching onto him has worn off, and now the sleepiness slowly seeps its way back into him, and – he doesn’t have to get up. Not yet, at least. Not until much later. 

Mike’s paladin persona watches him as Will huffs out a long breath, before he shoves his face back into his pillow and resigns himself to another hour of sleep. 

And, later, when they both wake up, groggy and still tangled up with each other, neither of them have the courage to mention it. 

Night Seven

Will doesn’t know what to expect anymore. 

Or, rather, he doesn’t know what to expect when he walks into Mike’s bedroom, although he does, in some extent, know exactly how the first few seconds will go; the light will either be on or off, and, after turning it off, Mike will eventually be in bed, and, like yesterday, and the day before that, Mike will pat the space next to him, and Will will walk over without thinking about it.

If he thinks about it, he’ll psyche himself out and stumble back from the bed, and then Mike will give him that hurt look he gets sometimes, a little too honest and open, and that desperate Stop leaving me! echoes through his head, and he doesn’t think he could ever refuse Mike.

It’s a little impressive, for the fact that, in the span of only three days, they have already established some sort of routine, a predictability in almost every variable except for the one that frightens Will the most. 

He’s terrified for whatever new thing Mike feels Will is privy to. He doesn’t know what to do with all of it. With what new secret Mike lets Will in on. With Mike. With himself. 

So, when Will steps into the room, holding a blue raspberry-scented marker, courtesy of Holly, a sheet of lined notebook paper, and a hardcover children’s book as a makeshift desk, also courtesy of Holly, Mike is already laying down on his side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling, seemingly dazed.

The small lamp is on, but it’s dim in the room. Mike turns to look at him when he enters, and he stretches out an arm against the sheets, as if to beckon Will close. 

Will raises his small collection of items in his hands. “Is it okay if I draw?”

Mike slowly blinks. “Yeah,” he says, “‘course. You don’t need to ask.”

Will shrugs, gingerly making his way over, and he sits at the end of the bed, one leg stretched out, another brought up for him to draw against. The air is peaceful enough, if not for the startling silence from Mike, who has been peering up at the ceiling with his eyes wide open, appearing in deep thought. 

Will sketches a foggy memory of the rugged landscapes they’d passed just a week or so ago, in the many hours of staring out the window, and he scribbles along the rough edges of large rocks and flat lands and an ongoing horizon. It’s all in a deep, dark cobalt, thick lines bleeding out of the blue raspberry marker, and bleeding over the thin lines of the paper. 

He doodles a bird, because he’s been trying to get more practice with animals, and he draws out different expressions with eyes and eyebrows, and he finds himself mirroring the furrow of eyebrows when he’s sketching them in. 

“Will?” 

He pauses in the arch of an eyelash. “Yeah?” 

“Yesterday,” Mike says, and Will looks over at him, “when you said you thought I – I forgot about you.” 

Will blinks. “Um.” 

“I was thinking about it again,” he continues, as if he hadn’t heard Will at all. “About your question, I mean. I couldn’t – I’m sorry I made you think I forgot about you. I didn’t.” 

“Mike,” he tries, guilt settling in, “it was a stupid question, I didn’t mean to make you –” 

"I called,” Mike blurts. 

Will stops talking mid-word, marker hanging between his fingers and mouth slightly agape, and he swears his body has frozen in motion. Mike is still staring up at the ceiling, but his fingers are digging into his shirt, placed over his stomach. 

Will doesn’t know what to do, and his tongue feels so heavy. 

“I,” Will begins, feeling like an idiot. "What?" 

“I called,” Mike repeats, except he sounds quieter this time, and it makes Will’s heart ache. “Like, a bunch, but your line was always busy, and I figured that if you wanted to talk to me, you’d – I mean, I thought we left on a good note, so I assumed you’d call me when you could, except you never did, so I just – I don’t know. Yeah.”

His voice cracks awkwardly on the last word, and he’s chewing on his lower lip as Will watches him. 

And Will thinks his head might explode from the amount of questions running through his head, all of which fail to leave him when he keeps staring at Mike, because it doesn’t feel like it matters so much, the months of silence and miles of distance, when Mike is still staring up the ceiling and looking close to petrified. 

He wishes he were braver, just to be able to string Mike closer, chest to chest, and tell him it’s fine, tell him it doesn’t matter anymore, because they’re in the same bed and Will is more than fine being friends, best friends with him, if this is all they will ever be. 

There’s that guilt, too, running its course through his body, the remorse and regret and shame, because he tries so hard to stop his own selfishness, yet that’s all he’d been in the past several months. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me,” Will confesses. “I didn’t know. I – I’m sorry.” 

"Don't say sorry," Mike tells him, and his voice is still shaky, but he’s firm in his words. "It isn't your fault." Will frowns, but he doesn’t apologize again, even if it’s on the tip of his tongue. He watches Mike’s teeth poke into his lip, and his voice is close to breaking when he says, "I – I missed you." 

"I missed you, too," Will returns immediately, quick to soothe, but he means it. "You know I did."

“Yeah,” Mike faintly replies, and the acknowledgement is enough. “Could – can you come here?”

Will nods, even if it goes unseen, and he caps the marker and pushes away the book and paper to move up on the bed, bending his legs away to sit next to Mike, who slowly sits up, leaning back on his arms and his eyes attentive. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles when Will is close, gaze brushing over him, and Will tries not to flush. “I just – wanted you to close.” 

“It’s okay,” Will says back, a little hushed, because the moment feels strangely intimate. “You don’t have to say sorry.” 

The corner of Mike’s lips quirks upward. “That’s my line.” 

Will huffs a laugh, and neither of them make any move to continue talking, the mess of a conversation fading away. Instead, Mike takes the time to slowly raise a hand, fingers wrapping around Will’s wrist. His touch is warm and gentle, light enough to wrench his arm out of, but Will can’t imagine wanting to. 

Mike’s eyes are low lidded, and they’re already in overly close proximity, except it feels like not enough, like Mike is leaning even closer, like Will doesn’t know what to do with himself when they’re this crowded against each other. Mike doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Will,” he whispers, and Will spares a single look to his mouth, the way it barely moves to say his name so softly, and it’s a smear of a gentle pink on his face. He feels a little evil, and quickly glances away.

His voice comes out a little too worn when he replies, “Yeah?” 

Mike has a look Will can’t figure out, softness with some sort of firmness in his eyes, mouth twitching before he says, just barely breathless, “You can’t keep – doing that.” 

Will jerks from where he sits, mortification bleeding in, and he stumbles over himself to apologize, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to –”

Mike grabs him by the arm and tugs him back, except he pulls with a little more force than expected, and Will gets strewn over Mike, a quiet yelp when he lands on top of him. Will narrowly avoids falling right on top of him, arms on either side of Mike and a knee between his legs carefully holding Will up, and even then, they’re only a breath away from each other. 

“Sorry,” Mike says again, eyes wide, and he’s still whispering. His eyes can’t seem to settle on any one place on Will’s face. “You just – you keep leaving.”

Will doesn’t know what to do with the implication that Mike wants him to stay. “I thought you wanted me to,” he says, and Mike shakes his head. 

“No,” he affirms, like it’ll never change. “Never.” 

Will bites his lower lip, a nervous habit, and Mike’s eyes fall to it. Will’s fingers clutch onto the sheets a little tighter. “Okay.” 

Mike looks like he doesn’t mind the lack of space between them, pink on the apples of his cheeks and eyes low. He shifts, if only barely, and then his hand places itself on the dip of Will’s back, pressing him down. Will’s arms shake. 

“Mike,” Will mutters, feeling wound up and weirdly unsteady all over. 

“Will,” Mike counters, a small smile on his face, and his hand creeps under Will’s shirt, where it hangs off his body, and he shivers when Mike’s fingers press against his side. Mike seems to be reveling in it, until he slowly asks, “I’m – am I reading this wrong?” 

Will doesn’t trust himself to speak. He gives a quick shake of his head. 

Mike relaxes under him. “Okay,” he mumbles, scooting against the headboard of the bed. He leans against it, fingers tangling into the soft, close-cut hair at the end of Will’s neck. “Okay.” 

Will isn’t sure what to do but stay still, trembling and trying his best not to crash right into Mike, who is no help, as he slowly runs his hands all over Will, goosebumps in his wake. Will adjusts himself, just enough to sit over Mike’s legs and stop his arms from shaking so much. Mike doesn’t complain, leaning even closer. 

"Tell me I'm reading this wrong,” Mike whispers, when they’re close enough for their lips to brush, except Will thinks he’d rather walk into the gate of Lover’s Lake than tell Mike to stop. “Will, I need you –” 

Will kisses him before he stops talking, snagging him on you, and there’s the startled hitch of a breath, and, for a slow second, he’s terrified he’s fallen for some terrible trick. 

He’s only about to pull away when Mike makes some sort of noise against his lips, and then he’s being pushed down, hands firm and insistent where they dig into Will’s back, warm palm against his bare skin and grasping at his hair, and it’s soft yet demanding, just like Mike. Will can’t help but fall into Mike, chests colliding, and he’d apologize if it didn’t seem like that was Mike’s goal all along. 

He’s never kissed anyone before, but he tilts his head to the right like he’s seen people to do in movies, and he opens his mouth and licks at Mike’s mouth, and it seems to be the right move when Mike lets out an appreciative hum, one that Will feels in his chest and against his mouth and somehow everywhere, and he brings up a hand to cradle against Mike’s jaw. 

Mike’s mouth is cool, with the taste of spearmint toothpaste and cleanliness, and he’s warm with his hands, with his lips, just slightly chapped, and his breath is hot when Will places a hand in his hair and Mike huffs out a sigh. Will’s entire body feels like jelly. He’s sure he’s shaking to his very core. 

When Mike pulls away to breathe in, blinking to focus on Will, he feels himself flush deep red, still partially sitting on top of Mike and hands all over him. He probably looks like a kissed-dumb idiot. 

Mike stares at him for a few seconds, before urgently pulling him to peck him on the lips once, twice, thrice. Will doesn’t know what to do with the buzzing feeling taking over him, and when he leans back to look at Mike’s mussed hair and pressed-red lips, something giddy floods him from the inside.

“Hi,” Mike says, a little uselessly, after both of them keep staring. 

Will tries to press down a smile. “Hi,” he returns, almost nervous. If this is a dream, he needs to wake up immediately. “We should sleep.” 

“We should,” Mike agrees, and Will doesn't get a second to prepare when he’s suddenly tilted over, pressed to the bed when Mike rolls over and on top of him. It takes a little more wriggling to properly get onto the pillow, but Mike is no help, barely budging where his arms are looped around Will’s middle and trying to get as close as possible. 

“Mike,” he huffs, except it’s more fond than exasperated, and Mike sends him a bright smile as he swoops in to kiss him again, straying to kiss his cheek, his jaw, until he tucks himself against Will’s neck to press a firm kiss there. Will shudders, and feels it when Mike smiles into his neck.

“Sleep,” Mike proposes, and he’s wrapping half his body around Will, who can do nothing to stop it. He lifts an arm to throw over Mike, who pushes their bodies together. It’s as if Mike is trying to dig himself a place into Will’s chest, even if he’s already made a home in Will’s ribcage. 

Still, even amidst the touching and the mouth on his neck, there’s the flurry of worry at it all. “Mike,” he says into the air, “I –” 

“Tomorrow,” Mike interrupts, “we can talk.” His free hand clutches at Will’s t-shirt, as if to root him to his spot, and Will offers a slight nod. “Right now, I just –”

He cuts himself off, and turns his face deeper into Will’s neck, nosing against the skin, and Will tries not to burst into flames. 

“Okay,” he croaks, and feels Mike grin. 

“Okay,” he echoes, and the night washes over them.