Archive of Our Own

The alarm clock rings deafeningly loudly, tearing him from the embrace of a sweet sleep, full of warmth, happiness, and connection that now seems more distant than ever.

Will reluctantly opens his drooping eyes and immediately squints at the bright light pouring through the window, right into his face, as if mocking him. Merciless, untouchable.

A sharp slap of his hand stops the alarm clock's crackling, which is deafening, but it's the only sound that wakes him up these days. After everything that's happened, he should be a light sleeper, flinching at every sound, but instead, he can remain motionless for over ten hours, inaccessible to the world.

His mother's worried gaze awakens the scorpions in his stomach, which sting him mercilessly, igniting a feeling of guilt that burns his insides to dust until nothing remains but the desire to beg for forgiveness. And Will knows what his mother will say. She'll hug him tightly, holding him tightly until he can't breathe, and whisper softly in his ear, her voice broken by suppressed tears, that it's not his fault. And it never will be. But Will knows better. There has to be a reason why no one writes or calls him, right? What's the matter if it's not him?

And this jealousy, terrible, spiteful, and incredibly prickly, the kind that makes him want to bite his nails and sob into his pillow, then punch the walls until his bones break. This jealousy is constantly present. When he looks out the window and sees happy, completely free, pure, and unbroken schoolchildren, whose smiles are toothless or snow-white, wide or tiny, but they're all so good. When he sits surrounded by his classmates, but all he feels is a relentless chill that penetrates to his bones, no matter how many layers he wears, even on the hottest day. When he feels those judgmental, sometimes fearful and apprehensive glances burning into his back, haunting him constantly, day after day, wherever he goes.

They've even moved cities, and yet it seems like everyone around him always knows what happened to him, to little Byler, to the "faggot," to the "gay," to the "zombie boy."

And Will wants to scream from their whispers. To shriek, to smash everything around him to pieces.

And to look into their ugly eyes, always hungry for gossip, and shout in their faces: "Are you happy now?! How did you like that show?"

But his hands shake, they always shake after what happened, even more often than before, and his voice is even quieter, so that even his mother sometimes has to ask him to repeat what he said. And Will only clenches tighter and holds back tears of disappointment at not being able to be just normal.

Even Jane, who prefers to be called Eleven, seems more normal than he is! And he's happy, truly happy, incredibly happy, there are simply no words, but jealousy, that damn jealousy, rears its ugly head again, full of poison, and tries to devour him whole.

Why her and not me?

And Will eats himself up over such thoughts, clenching his skin until it hurts, biting his lip until it bleeds, just to keep from saying the wrong thing, and locks himself in his room until the feeling passes. And it never does. And Will swallows the ashes and shards of glass that have lodged themselves in his throat, tearing his skin to shreds, and forces himself to smile as he leaves the room and sits at the dinner table, ignoring the worried glances of his mother and sister, the painful absence of his brother, who is drowning in his own guilt.

"Nobody called?" he asks invariably, to maintain their strange, pathetic daily routine, pretending their guilty expressions don't sting.

He knows it's not their fault that Mike has stopped paying attention to him.

He remembers what now seems like centuries ago. When the sun shone brighter, the grass was greener, and his soul bore no burden.

When no one walked around him as if on thin ice, ready to crack with one false step. When they looked into his eyes without fear and saw only his eyes, full of happiness, not frightened ones, burning with panic and an immense terror that could not be shaken.

He and his friends gathered, as usual, in Mike's basement, which had become their second home. Then they faced an incredibly intense campaign, promising to uncover many secrets that had remained hidden for endless hours, new enemies that had lurked in the darkness and the whispers of NPCs. Lucas leaned on his shoulder as he rolled the dice, and Will felt his tremors as if they were his own. Their hearts pounded in the same frantic rhythm, impossible to slow. Then they were lucky, and the dice showed twelve. They exhaled in unison, and even Mike smiled, though he loved to challenge them.

But the further they progressed, the more difficult it became, and even Dustin stopped joking, only frowning tensely and muttering his plan, which inevitably failed with each roll of the dice.

It seemed they were all going to die. Even Mike began to look worried for them. And that was saying a lot!

Will felt his hands tremble slightly as he listened to Mike's quiet, yet confident voice, which seemed to glow in the basement light, and his breath caught in his chest. He could always chalk it up to the stress of the campaign, rather than complete admiration for his friend.

But the truth was, Mike seemed like a hero. Even at his lowest point, when they were bullied at school, when they silently cried and cursed everything, when he sent them enemy after enemy, he seemed incredible. Will dreamed of being even a little like him, but he knew he was far from it.

He shook his head and listened to Mike's voice, taking in his words. The enemy had appeared before them. The army of troglodytes had relaxed them, but it couldn't be that simple. Not with the game they'd spent two weeks painstakingly planning.

Demogorgon.

Will the Wise, trembling with anxiety, looked into Mike's eyes as he described the scene around him and the creature's terrifying appearance.

Breathless and almost unable to think from the shrieks of his friends around him, Will the Wise summoned a fireball.

He leaned forward in anticipation and sensed, without even looking, that the others were doing the same. His hands trembled as he shook the dice inside the castle.

He rolled the dice and didn't dare breathe, waiting for it to stop.

But the force of his throw was too great, and the dice, before they could stop, rolled off the table, lost in the clutter of the basement.

The four of them jumped up, rushing around, searching for the result of their action, but all was in vain. It was then that Mrs. Wheeler called for them to stop.

The seven that rolled proved a bad omen.

Will remembers that day with a trembling fondness and a painful knowledge of what happened next.

He misses the former carefree state.

"Will!" Eleven moans from behind the door when he doesn't leave the room.

Again.

Will sits on the windowsill, barely fitting, and looks out onto the street. Quiet, motionless, barely breathing. He watches people stroll leisurely past, vaguely recognizing the neighbor across the street and the neighbor's dog, who has escaped its leash again. Their happy faces oppress him; even their calm seems unfair.

His hands clench into fists, but this sensation sends an icy shudder of memory through his body. He quickly relaxes his hands and looks at them, barely recognizing them.

His breathing catches, panic creeps closer, and the shadows around him seem to thicken. His ears pop until only a squeak remains.

"Will!" El calls again, louder this time.

It feels like his body isn't even his own. He couldn't protect himself. That's why they called him "fag," right? Because he was soft.

He hasn't been like that in a long time.

His eyes are burning, and he presses his palms into them, hands he can barely feel.

He forces himself to breathe more slowly until he calms down enough for his body to feel like his own again. It doesn't help much.

"Will!" El knocks sharply on the door, causing Will to flinch and look up, expecting his sister to enter the room.

But his space remains his own. Inaccessible to anyone else.

"Will! Mike's on the phone!" she calls, worried or irritated; he doesn't try to understand, and he doesn't want to.

He doesn't have the strength to understand other people's emotions. He needs to understand his own.

"I'm coming," he replies, and instantly realizes he won't be heard.

His voice is barely above a whisper, and he lacks both the desire and the strength to raise it.

He slowly climbs down from the windowsill and leaves the room. His feet shuffle across the floor, but the sound is almost soothing. He used to try to be as quiet as a mouse, but now everyone in the house tries to make as much noise as possible. Unless they're talking behind his back. Then they're quieter than they've ever been.

It's funny how he doesn't try to speed up, even knowing Mike has finally called. Before, he'd have broken bones just to get to his friend faster.

Those days are long gone. Now everything is distant.

El looks at him... somehow. Will ignores her and keeps walking.

"Have you talked yet?" he asks, leveling up with her to be heard.

She nods. Of course, Mike called her first, and then asked Will.

The phone hangs by the cord, seemingly forgotten. It brings back unpleasant memories.

"Hello," he says stupidly, as soon as he picks it up.

He wants to turn around and go back to the room; he has no business being here.

It's time for Mike to move on, too. He's already trying, but Will is dragging him down like a dead weight.

Let him take El's arm and they walk off into the light. Will is doing just fine here. He'll happily look at their backs and won't even be too jealous.

"Will, hi!" he hears Mike's excited, impatient voice. "How are you?"

"Good," Will whispers slowly, unsure what an honest answer is. "And yours?"

"Great, great! I'm doing great too! I'm thinking about a new campaign, you know... when will you come back so we can play..."

"Mike."

His voice is very quiet. Will only hopes it sounds gentler than he feels. No need to stress Mike out.

"Well, yeah, I understand you're not planning on coming back. El told me, of course, but maybe for a week? Okay, what's it about me, a couple of days..." Mike sounds completely insane; Will even wants to laugh.

A pleasant feeling.

It fades quickly.

"Mike, they'll finish me off if I come back."

Will hears his voice as if underwater, detached in a way it never has been, even though his heart is pounding so hard it hurts his chest. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

The brochures and booklets lying on the coffee table, which his mother hadn't had time to put away, catch his eye.

How to deal with trauma?

PTSD—what is it?

Childhood trauma.

How to help a loved one survive traumatic events?

Your child won't talk? Read the tips in the article!

"They won't finish me off! It's just... um, they're just rumors, but we know it's all nonsense! So everything will be fine, you'll just stay at my place, no one will understand."

"I don't want to. I have no business there."

"Will..."

"Thanks for calling," he forces himself to say, even if he can't soften his tone, "Do you want El back?"

"Uh... yes, please. Will, I'll call you again, okay?" Mike sounds sad and worried.

Will unconsciously recognizes his friend's tone, all too familiar. Mike's concern has always warmed him, and even now, somewhere, he feels the same pleasant feeling he used to.

"When? In ten years?" Will grins so maliciously that he surprises himself.

He doesn't think it's him. But lately, he doesn't even remember himself. Only him.

"Will..." Mike, his best friend, sounds pleading, but Will feels nothing now.

Except for the pain in his chest that engulfs him completely.

He hasn't cried since it all happened, right after he told the police, but...

He wouldn't mind bursting into tears now, but his body doesn't feel the same.

"Bye, Mike. El will be here soon."

He ignores the answer and leaves the phone hanging.

It would have been better if he hadn't called, he thinks, and then feels instantly disgusted with himself.

He asks every day if Mike called, and then remains dissatisfied. Hypocrite.

He sees El peeking around the corner and nods at her phone. He doesn't look back as he passes.

He knows his mother is probably waiting for his reaction to those idiotic brochures; she couldn't have forgotten to put them away, but she won't get it.

Will locks himself in his room, lies down on the icy bed, and closes his eyes.

And dreams, hoping to see happy memories.

Will knows the day will be good when he wakes up and feels nothing but light. Even his lips can form a smile that feels alien, yet more pleasant than usual.

He gets up, not even two hours spent lying and slowly decomposing in bed, and stretches with sweet pleasure.

He sees surprise and understanding in his mother and sister's eyes as he leaves the room, looking better than a walking corpse.

"Pancakes?" his mother suggests softly and very carefully, looking at him with infinite love.

She's always cautious at the beginning of the day, and it makes Will feel disgusting. The urge to peel off his skin and never talk to anyone ever again is overwhelming, but he can't help it: his tongue, spewing venom, always moves faster than his thoughts.

"Of course," Will replies kindly and sits down next to El, touching her shoulder, enjoying her warmth.

His sister is having a good day too, leaning back against him and humming contentedly. Will loves them all.

The pancake batter is soft and melts on his tongue, making him want to immerse himself in the depths of sensations brought by something as simple as a perfectly prepared breakfast his mother spent an hour or two preparing. With every bite, he feels an all-consuming love and tenderness that knows no bounds, filling every cell of his wounded, ugly body and leaving behind a scorching, yet so pleasant, warmth.

Will catches his mother's eye and sees tears glistening in her eyes. It's his fault, he knows; the pain echoes throughout his body, and all he can do is smile softly and shrug, biting into another tender pancake.

"Mike said he wants to come next month," El tells him quietly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

Will knows why they're so cautious, but it's a nice day, and the warmth in his soul is too strong to vanish so quickly.

"Really? What about school?" he asks amiably, almost laughing at his family's surprise.

"He says Mom said it was an exception, because he's been whining for weeks," El continues, much more relaxed, enjoying his own waffles, which he eats much less often now, but still enjoys indulging in them occasionally.

"Well, what do you think?" he asks his mother and sister.

"I'm always up for it, obviously," El rolls her eyes.

"We can't turn him down," Mom laughs, pouring syrup over her pancake. "You've known each other since kindergarten, we're sure he's welcome here, like one of our own."

"What about Jonathan?" Will isn't surprised to see the tension on their faces and shakes his head in disappointment. "Is he still mad?"

"Yeah, he's still mad," his brother grumbles, irritated, as he always does when Mike is mentioned lately, entering the room.

"Wow, you look awful," Will winces.

And indeed, Jonathan is all rumpled, as if he hasn't slept at all, and his eyes are so red they're starting to hurt Will's own. He's been smoking again.

He glances at his mother and sees her staring at Jonathan intently, but she doesn't say anything, though her face turns pale.

"Well, thanks, little brother," Jonathan frowns and swallows his pancake, barely chewing.

He immediately groans with pleasure.

Will swallows awkwardly, looking away. He hates seeing his brother high, but he has no right to judge him, not with how he acts.

"So what are you so mad about? It's not Mike's fault," he says quieter, almost inaudible again.

He ignores the concerned looks from his mother and sister and watches as another pancake disappears. The hunger vanishes as suddenly as it appeared.

"Because Mike is being a fu... idiot," Jonathan barks, clearly wanting to leave but unable to do so because he just arrived.

"Jonathan," his mother hisses, glaring at him, "stop it."

"Oh, sure, so we'll just ignore the fact that he didn't call or write at all, even though that's how El got letters, and Will, his best friend, was actually okay, and Will was..."

"Jonathan!" their mother cries sharply, rising to her feet, and her brother falls silent.

They glance at Will, who has hunched over and turned white, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes glued to the wood of the table. He feels disgusted under their gazes and just by the topic. He feels even more disgusted because he can't even cope with the mere mention of the past.

Distantly, he notices Jonathan turning pale and inhaling sharply, but his good mood is gone.

Will rises from the table as carefully as he can, not wanting to ruin the mood for the others.

"Will, oh God," Jonathan jumps up after him, but Will jerks away from him so hard he hits a chair.

So much for his attempt at precision.

He didn't say a word, but his face twisted in pain and horror, so tightly entwined.

"I'm sorry, Will, really, I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot," Jonathan whispers, raising his hands to show he's not a threat.

Will shrugs and walks away.

No one stops him.

Sometimes he remembers what Mike looked like when they first pulled him out of the stinking, disgusting van, which was about to fall apart, its interior full of trash and nail marks on the doors.

The sight was imprinted on his retinas, even if Will couldn't comprehend it at the time, barely alive but desperately fighting death. Sometimes he regretted winning that battle.

Mike stood in a crowd of people, their eyes wide and filled with a terror Will himself was too weak to experience. The silence was incredible, but lasted only a moment, until the roar of voices became deafening. The police officers were closest to him, and their voices, calm and firm, desperately trying to hide their own despair and panic, gently lulled him. Their hands were scalding hot, but for the first time in a long time, Will welcomed the touch. He remembered the feeling of tears rolling down his dust-stained cheeks. The relief spreading throughout his body, finally allowing itself to surrender.

His eyes were closing, but he stubbornly fought against losing consciousness, not because the adults begged him to, unsure if he would wake up again, but because he wanted to look at Mike, the one he dreamed of in the cold room filled with his screams.

Mike stood there, trembling, though perhaps it was Will himself who was trembling, while Mike remained motionless. Someone else stood next to him, Nancy or Mrs. Wheeler, but that someone nudged him... or tried to restrain him, but Mike jerked, as if waking up, and tried to rush forward. His voice was deafening and so, so sweet, that Will only cried harder. He looked at his friend, who had been prevented from getting any closer, desperately running toward him, and felt himself smile for the first time in long, painful days.

"Are you holding up? With all this mess?" Jonathan asks, gently squeezing his shoulder.

Will awkwardly pulls him back and wants to slap himself for the pained look on his brother's face.

He tries to smile, but knows it's impossible, the muscles of his face stretching painfully. Will exhales tiredly and hates himself just a little more.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he whispers, trying to at least sound convinced.

"You don't look okay," Jonathan says, his face full of doubt, looking him over with concern.

Will knows he looks awful, but today hasn't been a good day either. The only bright spot is that Jonathan isn't as stoned as usual.

He considers how low the bar has fallen. He wants to laugh to keep from crying.

"Really, everything's okay," he forces a smile through his dry lips, and he can almost feel it reflected in his eyes.

Jonathan wouldn't have bought it before, but lately he's been painfully distant. Will wants to blame him, but he can't. Not with how relaxed his brother looks compared to before. It's worth even the disgusting, vomit-inducing smell.

"Okay then," his brother mutters, reaching out to ruffle his hair but stopping just in time. "If anything happens, come to me, okay? I'll punch him in the face."

"Mike?" Will grins a little maliciously, but the sound makes Jonathan tan.

"I beat up Harrington, and I'll beat up Mike, too, just say the word."

"What will Nancy think?" Will watches Jonathan's face twist in tension, but he just shrugs.

Will doesn't ask any further questions. Apparently, things are bad for both of them. The only difference is that Jonathan, at least for a moment, got what he wanted.

Will hadn't even considered that possibility.

He winces at how vile he is.

The day Mike arrives starts off badly. Worse than ever. One of the worst days in a long time. Will takes it as a sign, but knows there's nothing he can do about it.

He woke before sunrise to the sound of his own muffled scream, which caught in his throat and made him cough so hard that tears welled up in his eyes.

His pajamas were soaked with sweat, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest, triggering a headache so intense that he could only pray for mercy to the gods he no longer believed in.

The sound of breathing is deafeningly loud in his room, as if it should be audible throughout the house and the neighbors, but no one comes, so it must be just his imagination. The echo of sleep clings to him, and his skin crawls with terror as he freezes in place, barely able to move a muscle.

He struggles to do so when a painfully familiar scene flashes before his eyes, forcing him to run to the toilet and forfeit the meager dinner he managed to shove down the night before.

Needless to say, he couldn't sleep after that?

It would be fine, Will thinks, if he could just stay in his room until this miserable day ends with the sunset, but he's forced to go meet Mike because he won't allow himself to ruin something good that's finally happening to him.

But before that, he faces the ordeal of breakfast and the trip to the airport with his family.

El is clearly beaming with happiness. Her hair is neatly styled, and she's clearly tried to create some semblance of a hairstyle, but it hasn't worked out very well. Will sees his mother's gaze on her daughter's hair, so he knows they'll fix it later. Even her dress is her favorite, colorful and comfortable.

Will doesn't look at himself, but he knows what he'll see: a wrinkled shirt with holes, unevenly rolled-up pant legs, and long hair that he won't let anyone touch.

Beauty and the Beast, he's with his sister. Why does he even need to see Mike?

But his mind flashes back to their rare conversations with his friend, and how he desperately extended his hand, an olive branch, and his voice is so soft and gentle that Will always wanted to hang up the phone and cry until all the dirt, all the accumulated poison, was washed out of him.

Why does he have to be like this?

Why, surrounded by the brightest people possible, is he the embodiment of every sin known to man?

Will swallows the lump in his throat and ignores his family's stares.

The food tastes like ash on his tongue, but he forces himself to bite down, at least a little, so his mother won't feel so guilty about looking away from him.

"Will, darling..." she whispers, almost afraid, "are you going to go like this?"

He lowers his eyes awkwardly, but forces himself to shake his head.

"No," his voice croaks, and he has to clear his throat before continuing even quieter, "of course not."

"Do you... need help?"

"Mom."

"Just a thought! I was just suggesting..."

"I can handle it myself, thank you."

El gives him a look he doesn't bother to decipher, and turns back to her plate without saying a word.

Will is afraid to find out if she means to ask him not to come.

The meeting with Mike turns out to be both better and worse than he expected. Largely because Will expected nothing, barely registering his friend's arrival. The anticipation flickered within him until it simply vanished, and then Will felt a burning regret settle deep in his chest, washing away all other emotions.

He looks at El and tries to mirror her emotions, but it's all in vain. He forces himself to smile when his sister glances at him, shrugs when she catches Jonathan's eye, but nothing more.

Will distantly watches the people passing by, half expecting to see him among them, or Mike from that day, or the police officers who saved him, or Hopper, or... he blinks when his mother stands before him.

"Everything okay?" she asks, gently brushing a strand of hair from his face.

So gently that Will doesn't flinch. He smiles at her.

"Yeah, just lost in thought," he whispers, knowing his mother is forced to read his lips.

They've all gotten better at this in recent months. Shame burns through him like a hot flame, but Will knows it's not technically his fault.

The feeling doesn't go away.

When El suddenly leaps to her feet, Will knows it's time. He steps away from his mother and looks around for Mike. Somehow, he notices that Mike has grown taller again. And his outfit...

The strongest emotion he's felt in a long time, and it has to be disgust. Will winces, unable to be distracted even by Mike's usual magnificence.

"Guys!" Mike waves at them, finally approaching.

He hugs El tightly and lifts her off the ground to spin her around, eliciting a laugh from her. He nods to Jonathan, says hello to his mom, and finally turns to Will, approaching cautiously.

"Hey," he whispers suddenly, quieter than before, and carefully opens his arms.

Like a wild animal, Will sighs, but obediently embraces his friend, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Good to see you, Will," Mike murmurs into his ear, tender and full of love.

"Same goes for you," Will croaks, squeezing him tighter for a moment before pulling away. He deliberately avoids looking back at his family, whose contact he still sometimes finds difficult.

He's sure that with Mike, too, this is just a temporary act of mercy on the part of his own mind.

"What's with your outfit, honestly?" Will can't help but wince, but all he gets in response from Mike is a loud laugh.

El smiles at them both and grabs Mike's hand. She freezes and looks at Will. His heart skips a beat, seeing them together so close, so familiar. Jealousy coils around his neck like a snake, almost wanting to spill its venom through his words, because of course Mike will never look at him even remotely the way he wants. God, Mike isn't a faggot. Will is so disgusting, why can't he just be like everyone else, why does he have to ruin everything? Oh God, what the fuck is wrong with you...

With a heavy sigh, Will extends his hand to El and swallows down his self-loathing. He almost wants to pull it back, afraid of passing on his infection to his sister, but he knows that this one movement would hurt her more than anything else.

El laughs and pulls them both forward, oblivious to Will's inner madness. No one notices, and that's for the best.

This might not be as bad a day as it could have been.

As soon as Will stops thinking about Mike so disgustingly.

They go to the roller rink, because, why not, of course.

Will sits with Mike and El and, he must admit, even enjoys their company, barely thinking about the world around him. It's nice, just immersing himself in a connection with the people he cares about. Will has missed this.

Even though he barely speaks, he nods happily every time Mike or El, if not just the two of them, turn to look at him, and smiles, pleasantly surprised by how genuine his smiles are.

"So, what about you, Will?" Mike asks, his voice warming.

Next to him, El shakes her head but looks at Will with the same anticipation.

"Okay," he replies shortly, seeing the disappointment on their faces, quickly mirrored by the shame in his own chest.

Oh, God, he's screwed up again, honestly, can't he just not ruin at least one day? It can't be that hard, right?!

Will looks at them, his gaze darting awkwardly until it hits the table and stays there. The silence is deafening as they wait for his answer, or look at each other, debating whether to abandon him or drag him along a little longer out of pity.

His chest tightens and his breathing becomes a little heavier the more Will thinks about it, and the harder it is to look up, because it's obvious, right? They can't possibly want to spend such a wonderful day after being separated from him, of all people, right? He wasn't the most interesting person before, and after what happened, he's even worse, God... fuck...

He looks up with an effort he's never experienced before, and an apology is already on the tip of his tongue, ready to fly out along with the justification that will make him leave, but the words die, unheard.

Mike looks at him patiently and so softly, which would normally have caused a wave of anger and irritation in Will, but since it's Mike, all the venom has naturally evaporated. After all, Mike's eyes are so all-consuming, so captivating, and they conceal an entire universe in which Will would happily drown, never returning to the real world. His lips look so soft, and they curve into a gentle smile as soon as he notices Will's gaze directed at him. And he continues to stare at those lips, unable to contain the flashes of desire that arise in his head, thoughts, body, and heart. How he could awkwardly touch Mike's hand and intertwine their fingers, feel the warmth of his body, how his other hand would gently touch Mike's neck and he would... he would tug him toward himself with a little force, unable to tear his gaze away from those piercing eyes, just a little force, because Mike, in his mind, in his sick, twisted heart, would move toward him willingly, and his face wouldn't twist into a grimace of disgust.

Will is forced to look away when he feels like he's about to become too obvious, too close to ruining the friendship he's nurtured for years in the deepest corner of his heart. And he's about to ruin it all because of something as stupid as... fuck... his disgusting behavior.

He looks at El, trying not to puke his breakfast, and sees the same gentle patience, boundless concern, and cautious concern in her eyes. She, who had become his sister, even if not by blood, had always been patient and unusually gentle. Her former cruel environment hadn't knocked that out of her, no matter how hard it tried, and El had always remained a good person.

This only made things worse for Will. He knew he and Mike weren't dating anymore, but that little "but," that cruel "what if," was always lurking in the back of his mind.

What if they got back together and didn't tell him?

What if they were dragging him along out of pity, just looking for a chance to dump him quickly?

What if they'd known everything about him for a long time and were just waiting to sever all ties with him?

His leg twitched slightly at the touch. Will saw Mike's lips stretch into a wide smile and his eyes narrowed suspiciously at him. The thrust came again, stronger and more confident.

"Idiot," he whispers under his breath, and hears Mike laugh, and Eleven's shoulders sag in relief.

He loves them and is immensely grateful for their patience with him.

He'll take what he can get. While he can.

They return home, happy and tired. Will can barely keep his eyes open; his head rests carefully on Mike's shoulder, afraid to move even a little, lest they realize he's conscious and purposely lying on a man's shoulder! All of Hawkins would laugh at him for this, but now this is just his family, and he can be himself in front of them, even if his heart is pounding wildly and he wants to jump up in front of them and scream that this isn't what it seems, not what they think, that he's not a faggot!

But Will doesn't move and forces himself to breathe more slowly, ignoring the panic lurking at the edge of his consciousness, a feeling that won't come now, but will surely overtake him later, when he locks himself in his room and lowers the walls that protect him from the world and the world from him.

They enter the house, and Will's emotions explode at the sharp cry of "Happy Birthday!"

He barely suppresses his own squeal, but he can't hide the smile spreading across his face, no matter how small.

He thought they'd forgotten.

It's never been so nice to be wrong.

Will accepts hugs and congratulations, holds back tears of happiness, and feels the day getting better and better.

His mother hands him professional pencils, the perfect hardness, which Will has been staring at for months. He didn't even know it was noticeable.

Jonathan gives him a scrapbook with sturdy paper that won't tear under too much pressure, and Will doesn't think he can handle two more gifts, but he can't wait.

El gives him a whole set of drawings that combine to form the story of how they met and became a family. Will hugs her so tightly that she gasps for breath, but doesn't try to pull away and holds on just as tightly.

Mike fidgets behind him, but when it's his turn, he decisively lifts his head and hands Will a mixtape with the tender inscription, "For the best wizard♥," which he covers with his hand so the others won't see. He blushes, causing Will to burst into laughter. They hug awkwardly for a long time, but no one mentions it.

Later, when dinner is eaten and the cake is shared with gusto, the family goes to their rooms, and Mike stays with Will. Letting him into his abode seemed especially intimate given that no one had entered it for a long time—an impenetrable fortress for Will alone. He was offered the chance to remain alone; Mike could sleep with Jonathan, on the floor in any of the rooms, or, at worst, on the couch, but something deep inside, which usually spat venom and built impenetrable walls around its heart, melted at the thought of Mike in his room.

Will knew it was his idiotic crush talking, but just once did he allow himself to consider whether it was really that bad? He carefully touched his chest, where that tender feeling simmered, ready to scream for all to hear, and smiled. He let Mike in and didn't feel trapped.

"Will, I wanted... um..." Mike broke the calm silence, suddenly looking very uncomfortable, though Will should have been the one feeling that way.

"What's wrong?" Will asked cautiously, but surprisingly patiently, looking back at his friend.

He stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot.

"First of all, um... I want to apologize! Because I've been acting like a jerk for a very, very long time, even though I knew what you needed most was support and presence!"

"Mike..." Will tried to interrupt him, awkwardly, almost timidly, but was abruptly stopped.

It was a miracle he kept himself from flinching.

"No! Let me talk! Please…" Only after Will nodded hesitantly did Mike continue, calmer this time, "I know you'll say everything's fine, but you always say that, and more often than not, everything isn't fine! It's not your fault, not at all, it's just… You don't have to lie… Not to me."

Mike carefully walks over to him and sits down next to him on the bed. They're not touching, but they might as well be hugging until their bodies ache, such tension and… vulnerability between them.

"I just want to say that after everything that happened, the last thing you needed was loneliness, but I… I thought it would be better if I gave you space, and then you… you didn't write anything, you didn't say anything, and you barely reached out to me… um… to us, I mean, yeah… and I…"

Mike sighs and shakes his head. He looks both terrified and determined as he reaches forward and grabs Will's hand, squeezing it tightly. They lock eyes, breathing loudly and hoarsely in the sudden silence.

Will hopes the deafening pounding of his heart isn't as audible as he thinks, or this will be very awkward. He's sure he's blushing—his face is so hot.

"What... what are you talking about?" he asks cautiously, whispering.

"I should have offered you my hand, but I got scared when you didn't, and for that, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry, Will."

"That's it..." He catches himself at Mike's glance and smiles awkwardly. "I forgive you."

"Don't think I haven't been thinking about you, okay? Every day, every hour, my thoughts returned to you and to writing to you or calling you... But you know, your mom's constantly on the phone now; try to find a free moment to call you and..."

Mike closes his eyes and swallows hard. He removes his hand, and Will immediately mourns the loss, but doesn't allow himself to be greedy. He's already received more than he could have dreamed of.

Mike rummages through his clothes and pulls a stack of letters from his belt.

"Where did you get them?" Will asks, surprised, unable to concentrate on the letters, because if this is what he thinks, he...

"I... before I came in, I took them out of my backpack and hid them... But yes, I never sent them, but that doesn't mean I didn't write them. I think for every one I wrote to El, I wrote at least three to you, Will." Mike's eyes are piercing, so deep and... beautiful that Will wants to drown in them. His gaze doesn't know where to rest, and his body doesn't know what to do, while his heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost deafening. Mike takes his hands and places the letters in them.

"That's not all. It's just that I wouldn't take them all... I'll show them later, if you want, of course..."

His voice trails off, uncertain and awkward. Will can't let him think he's dissatisfied. He places the letters on the table so carefully, watching Mike's face fall and twist before he forces himself to hide it, but Will rushes to him and embraces him, squeezing him tightly. He feels his eyes burning with tears, and his throat is raw.

"Thank you... thank you."

Mike hugs him, perhaps trembling. Maybe it's Will who's shaking. Or maybe they both are.

"You don't have to thank me for this," Mike whispers softly, and they remain like that for long minutes.

Mike begins to make himself a place on the floor, and that's fine, but Will can't shake the anxiety at the thought. He can't even look at him, only hears the rustling, while a lump forms in his throat as he tries to speak.

Gathering all his pitiful strength, Will calls out to Mike and hears a pause in his movements, a turn of his head, and a questioning hum.

It's too late to back out.

"You know... you can sleep here. It's not like this is our first time, right?" His voice is very quiet, but Will hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.

"Really? You don't have to force yourself, it's okay," Mike states confidently, but there seems to be a hint of hope in his voice, languid and cautious.

Will nods and deliberately moves further away from the center of the bed. Unable to look away any longer, he looks at Mike, as he always did. After all, it was impossible not to look at him. He gasps at the soft gaze already directed at him. Mike smiles at him and slowly climbs onto the bed. His body radiates heat. Although perhaps Will is only imagining it. He feels his face flush and wants to kill himself, but instead he forces himself to smile and lies down on the pillow, never taking his eyes off Mike.

He thinks it probably looks stupid and so, so obvious, that he should look away right then and there and never look back, but he can't bring himself to do it. Mike smiles at him, and the feeling smolders in his chest, spreading like caramel over muscles that will be impossible to tear off without pain and injury, and Will doesn't want to. If it hurts, then it's worth it.

"I missed you," Mike whispers almost inaudibly, moving closer to him.

A little more and they will touch. It's terrifying and anticipatory.

"Really?" Will asks sarcastically, hating himself for his lack of restraint.

"It doesn't seem like it, does it?" Mike laughs, untouched, and touches his shoulder. "Hawkins isn't the same without you... without you."

"It's better without me, don't lie," Will rolls his eyes, but leans his head closer.

He sees Mike mimic his movement, and something in his stomach tightens, both pleasant and painful. He's terrified and doesn't want it to stop.

"It'll never be better without you, not even a little bit," Mike vows, squeezing him tighter and pulling him closer.

With a stifled chuckle, Will complies and carefully grabs his shirt, not allowing himself to take more. Their gazes lock, and maybe he's imagining things and just fantasizing, but oh God, he swears Mike looked at his lips for a split second.

Please be true.

No, never incarnate.

"Are you sure?" he whispers, desperately wanting to ruin such an intimate moment, yet praying for it to be preserved.

"Always," Mike smiles and touches his forehead to his.

Thank God, because now his lips are further apart, even if it's a miserable distance, Will won't be so tempted.

A crash and Jonathan's cursing echo outside the door, joined by his mother's voice.

They don't break away, but they shudder sharply.

"Goodnight," Will whispers, but can't break free of Mike's grip.

"Yes... sweet dreams," he laughs awkwardly and closes his eyes.

Neither of them moves.

Will suppresses a laugh, hysterical and almost timid.

"Mike, in this position, we'll be surprised if we don't get numb."

"Exactly! Exactly," he laughs again, and finally they break apart, "exactly. Now, definitely sweet dreams."

Will can't help but grin briefly. He sees Mike's eyes glow and regrets that he'll have to sleep without seeing them.

Let them haunt his dreams, no matter how terrible they are.

He falls asleep under a watchful gaze, full of love and tenderness.

Sweat soaks his clothes while the ropes chafe his skin, and his head throbs with a tearing pain that hasn't stopped for days.

It's cold. And although his tears have long since dried up, and his senses have dulled, just to protect himself a little, it's something as insignificant as the biting cold that makes Will want to cry harder than anything he's felt in a long time.

He trembles, but it's connected to a terror that never ceases, a raging flame that flares every time he hears rustling and knocking sounds, even if they're caused by his own movements. His breathing is too heavy, too terrifying for his tired body, but he refuses to relax, never, not even to close his eyes—an unattainable privilege.

Will coughs and shudders after him. He glances warily at the stairs and feels his heart stop as everything around him falls silent and he prays as he's never prayed to anyone. To all the gods, demons, angels, and possible beings ever imagined and described.

Prayers haven't worked before, and they don't work now.

At his lowest ebb, he forgets everything except the one person he believes in for salvation.

Mike.

He closes his eyes, imagining his gentle face, distorted by protective rage, and imagines him bursting into the icy basement and grabbing Will, dragging him to freedom.

He arrives, and Will continues to pray. Tears stream through his closed eyes, barely conscious pleas escape his lips, but he continues to pray, pray, pray.

"Will!"

He jumps up abruptly, the scream in his throat dying, replaced by a weak sob.

Will jerks back when he feels someone touch his skin, his heart pounding, his head splitting with incessant pain, and he wants to cry, something he hasn't done in a long, long time.

"Hush... hush," Mike whispers, as he knows a moment later, "it's okay. It's okay now. You're safe."

And Will believes him. Always has.

He finally came.

Even if he was late.

He curls up into a ball, wanting to become as small as possible, to not be seen, heard, or touched. To hide in a cocoon of safety, where the outside world will be inaccessible. Where there won't be a "faggot" Will, a "queer" Will, a "gay" Will. Where he will be, without any labels, with his friends and family.

He hears Mike's breathing next to him, loud and calm. For him, he understands distantly, and matches the rhythm of his breathing.

They breathe in unison and say nothing.

Their hands don't touch, but they lie close. Will knows that if he needs help, Mike will never refuse him.

Slowly, paralyzed by the fear of the nightmare and the dawning horror of his own actions, he reaches for Mike's hand and hovers above it.

His friend, bright and pure, turns his palm upward and smiles. Their fingers intertwine, and the horror burns ever more intensely, but a cautious tremor grips his heart.

Tears stream down Will's cheeks, and he welcomes them.

"You're safe," Mike whispers again, almost afraid of Will's tears.

"I know," he laughs softly, "who would get through you?"

"Exactly. I won't let anyone through."

They smile at each other, but Will winces from the pain still piercing his head. The tears certainly haven't made the situation better, although it's nice to feel emotion, even such sad ones. He missed them.

"Shit... painkillers? Water?" Mike whispers fearfully, jumping up.

He doesn't let go of their hands.

"Shut up?" he tries to joke, looking at Will.

He doesn't let go of their hands.

Will looks up at him and breathes slowly, almost paralyzed with terror. He knows he's going to do this and won't be able to stop himself. Not now, he won't be able to. He wants to throw himself out the window, force himself to pass out, never look at Mike again, never speak, but Will does none of that.

Mike, now sitting on the bed, looks at him in the darkness, breathing fearfully, determined to fulfill any request.

Is this one too?

Will moves forward with a rustling sound and lays his head on Mike's lap, nearly driven mad by his own impudence, but unable to stop himself.

Mike's breathing hitches, and their hands are no longer intertwined, which is both better and worse. Will doesn't know what he would do with so many points of contact.

He's about to make things worse, almost craving the rejection that never comes.

When will Mike understand how disgusting he is?

"Massage," he whispers in the darkness, closing his eyes so as not to see the disgust and anger that must appear on his best friend's face.

They can't help but appear.

"You think this will be better than a pill?" Mike whispers hoarsely.

"I think you must have magic hands, so yes. Only your massage will help." His numb tongue moves against his will.

God, fuck, what am I saying?

Never stop. Stop. Before it gets worse. Make me regret it. Never reject me. Keep my heart whole. Break my heart, finally.

Will lies in Mike's lap and wants to cry. He exhales quietly, dissolving in the moment, and doesn't pray to any gods, demons, angels, or possible beings ever imagined or described.

He prays to Mike, as he prayed then, and his greedy, desperate heart hopes for an answer that won't shatter him into a hundred pieces.

A moment later, as if hesitantly, Mike runs his fingers through his hair, disheveled and dirty, but he doesn't hesitate for a second. Will swallows loudly in the silence between them and forces himself not to hum with pleasure. He doesn't know what this action means, but as long as his face doesn't hurt from the punches, he's ready to accept it.

He'll take whatever he can get—the greedy, vile creature.

"Sorry," he hears Mike's voice, so quiet, almost inaudible.

He doesn't know what this apology is about, but if Mike wants forgiveness, he'll get it.

It would be hard to find anything Will wouldn't try to give him right now.

Want a letter? Take it!

Forgiveness? It's all yours!

Never play D&D again? Consider it already done!

Throw myself at his feet and beg for forgiveness? Will can already feel the pain in his knees!

Heart? I'll rip it right out of your chest, just give it a minute to break through the bones and tissue, and it'll all be yours!

"It's okay," Will interrupts him abruptly, ignoring the needles digging into his heart and the feeling of his insides being turned inside out.

Will needs to be perfect, but everything is falling apart the longer he feels this gentle, soft touch, and his head still throbs, but how good this pain is.

He wish it would never stop, so he could have an excuse to lie here.

"Are you sure?" his wonderful, gentle friend, whom Will will never fucking deserve, asks him carefully.

"Of course, Mike," Will smiles with dry, numb lips and pushes the ashes of the lie deeper into his throat, "it's all in the past."

Slowly, almost fearfully, he touches Mike's hand, pats it twice, and immediately pulls it back to his stomach. He desperately ignores the guilt, the horror, the shame, the shame, the shame, the shame, the shame, the shame, the shame...

He won't guess, right? God, what the fuck was I thinking?

But no. Thank God, no. Mike, as oblivious as ever, looks at him with stunned, tender eyes and smiles so, so softly that Will wants to break free from his arms and run away, puking up his own filth, his own disgusting being.

If Mike knew what he felt, how he thought…

He would never come back.

Will closes his eyes and ignores their burning.

"Do you want to tell me what you dreamed about?" Mike whispers nervously, his hands slowly rubbing Will's temples.

The pain gradually fades, and he wants to sob even more. He shakes his head and enjoys how it makes him touch Mike's hands harder.

"It's okay," Mike whispers understandingly.

Will will never deserve him.

"Just rest," his voice is so gentle, the same as it always seemed to be with Will.

Against his will, he feels himself calming down, his body slowly drifting off to sleep. Will struggles. He wants to stay here, in this moment, just a little longer. Please.

"Thank you," he mumbles tearfully into the quiet between them, calm and soft, "and I'm sorry you have to coddle me like this."

"Will, what's wrong?" Mike chuckles softly and lightly smacks him on the forehead, more a touch than a scolding. "I'm not coddling you. I'm caring. You're my best friend, I'm not a burden, really."

"Sorry..."

He hears a heavy sigh above him and knows he's ruined everything again, but he can't find the strength to be surprised.

He's still stunned, speechless, when Mike gently kisses his head and lingers there.

"I wish you could just once see yourself the way I see you," he whispers, broken and so... caring.

"I dread to think what I'd see," Will tries to joke, but his voice sounds strangled and strained.

"Only beauty, I assure you."

The squeak that Will can't suppress will haunt him for the rest of his life and keep him awake at night, but he can't help it.

You can't say that to Mike, the same guy who spent his whole life looking at girls and being the most natural straight man!

Will is almost certain that gayness isn't airborne, but maybe he should look for some magazines on the subject.

"What are you saying?" he whispers, stunned, pushing Mike away, but basely wanting to stay like that.

He can't bring himself to move, and he wants Mike to want the same. He wants him to be stubborn and cling to him as much as Will desperately craves, but he holds back day after day, allowing himself only to watch from the sidelines.

More than that, he wants to cling tighter, until there's no space left between them. So that their legs are entwined with an awkward intimacy, so that their hearts feel and echo each other's beat, so that their eyes discern every spark, every shade in the other's iris, so that their breath mingles and their lips touch.

He wants... he wants and dreams. He hates himself for it to the point of madness, and yet he can't stop torturing himself.

"It's true," Mike shrugs, looking at him seriously.

Will is surprised he doesn't cringe in horror. He himself can only dream of such courage.

Mike speaks so seriously that Will expects it to be a joke, which his friend is holding back from laughing. And he knows, he knows perfectly well, that this isn't Mike's style, but what else is he supposed to think? That he's sincerely calling Will... what, "beautiful"?

That even sounds funny!

"Whatever you say," Will rolls his eyes, desperately trying not to show his own vulnerability.

"Will."

He closes his eyes. He can't stand this. He can't.

The worst part is, Mike's hands are still tangled in Will's hair, continuing to gently stroke it. Why is he torturing him like this?

"Leave me alone, Mike."

"Will, please."

Will doesn't answer and hears a heavy sigh above him.

"Have you read my letters?" Mike asks cautiously, and even his hands freeze.

Will feels like he's shaking.

"No."

"Read them, please."

He looks at Mike, awkwardly turning onto his back. The position is utterly shameless, and that's why Will feels incredibly uncomfortable lying like this, but he forces himself to stay.

Take what they give him while you can.

"Now?"

"Yes."

Well, he's taken all he can.

Will stands and goes to the table where he's set the letters Mike gave him until he feels ready.

But life keeps going, always has, and nothing and no one will wait for him to be ready, so he truly can't bring himself to be surprised.

With a sharp movement, he turns on the desk lamp and carefully unfolds the first letter. None of them are wrapped, so Will can't even find something to do with his hands.

He hears Mike shifting behind him, getting comfortable, but his breathing sounds labored.

Will turns around and frowns worriedly.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

"It's just..." Mike shakes his head and ruffles his hair once, twice, three times, "there's a reason I didn't send them to you..."

"I don't have to read them," Will can't contain his irritation.

"No! No, that's not why I'm saying this," Mike covers his face with his hands and groans softly, "just read them already."

Will stares at him for a few more seconds and reluctantly turns away. His hands suddenly feel too sweaty.

He carefully releases the sheet of paper and leans over to read it. His heart skips a beat.

Beloved

Dearest

Will the Wise

Will,

Words can't describe how much I miss you. It's almost embarrassing!

I hope you come back soon you've arrived safely and settled in. It's really sad here without you. I can't stop thinking about you. Lucas broke up with Max again. She's having a hard time right now. I keep thinking about you and want to help her, but I don't think she'd accept help even from Lucas. Did you feel the same way? Trapped, unable to talk to anyone?

Dustin's been whispering to Steve more and more often and won't stop talking about his Susie. I know we know she's real now and all, but even that's too much.

I miss you so much, I feel physically ill. I hope you're feeling better.

Please write to me more often.

With love,

With care,

Sincerely yours,

Concerned,

Mike

Will swallows, unable to breathe from his own uncertainty and all-consuming shock. He's not sure what he's read, and he's desperately afraid to ask the author.

The author who called him beautiful. Who let him lie on his lap. Who kissed his head. Who wrote this.

"Mike..."

"Keep reading. Don't say anything."

Will turns around, unable to stop himself. Mike is already looking at him and groans when their gazes meet. Will can't help but let out a pathetic laugh.

"Turn around! Stop shaming me!"

"I didn't do anything!" Will tries to laugh quietly.

"You're looking at me like that!"

"How?"

"I don't know! Like that!"

"Mike!"

"Will! Turn around already!"

Laughing, relieved, Will turns away. His hands do not tremble, but they come close to it as he carefully puts the letter he has read aside and takes the next one.

Will,

I hate all those bastards. If I had my way, I'd break their noses, make them even bigger jerks than they already are. A bunch of hypocritical, vile, and utterly stupid idiots who will never amount to anything in life and will remain in this vile town to rot for the rest of their worthless lives.

Do they really think they have the right to spread these vile rumors about you? While they themselves are the embodiment of horror, depravity, and every human vice? They're just idiots.

They make a point of laughing when we pass by. They always talk about you as if they have the right. The only reason I didn't kill them all is because Lucas still has the instinct for self-preservation that the rest of us lack. Thank him later.

I hate them. I hate them so much that it never ceases to amaze me. And I hate them even more because they make me remember that I couldn't help you when you needed me most. I don't know if the day will ever come when I can look at my face in the mirror and not remember the way you looked at me. I'm truly sorry, Will. I don't think I can ever make it up to you. I know you probably don't even blame me. But don't worry.

I blame myself for both of us.

I'm truly sorry for all the pain I caused you. Please don't hate me.

Sincerely,

Mike

Will is going to fucking cry. He forces himself to relax his arms so the letter won't be damaged, and hugs himself, closing his eyes. He breathes slowly, carefully arranging what he's read in the recesses of his mind. He wants to turn and throw himself at Mike, hug him tightly, and maybe, just maybe, kiss him until neither of them has any air left in their lungs.

Instead, Will hugs himself and relaxes. Slowly but surely, until he can turn to look at Mike, his heart sinking.

"Is it that bad?" Mike whispers cautiously, smiling at him cautiously.

"On the contrary. Mike…"

"Will, stop."

Will shakes his head and stands.

"No, no, wait! Wait," Mike raises his hands and shakes his head. "One more thing. Please."

"Why?"

"The very last one. It's at the very bottom. Just it, please, Will."

"Don't beg me," Will breathes through the pain, love and trepidation, horror and caution, hope and sadness that are vying for supremacy in his chest, tearing his already suffering heart into tiny pieces.

He hears Mike's faint gratitude and forces himself not to cry.

He puts the letter he's read next to the one before, takes another from the very bottom of the stack, and puts the rest away for later. Mike's handwriting is sprawling and more illegible here, and the paper is stained with tear stains. Will thinks he's going to add his own. His heart aches, but his eyes are already darting to the curlicues of the text.

Will,

My dear Will,

I have no words to describe the feelings that tear me apart inside, like the sharpest rapier, like a hundred Demogorgon bites, but even they can't come close to the pain I feel when I think of you. And I beg you: don't think badly. This pain is tearing me apart, but never before have I felt such pleasure.

I hid this for so long. So much so that I didn't even notice the obvious, and I'm afraid I've unwittingly caused you even more pain. I can only hope that you'll find the strength to forgive me for what I'm about to say next.

My eyes have finally opened, and the world has never seemed more beautiful, Will. And it's all thanks to you. I have always protected you and always will. There's no world where a paladin doesn't protect his wizard. Not when it comes to us.

I don't know when it happened. It seems like it's always been this way, and it's become almost mundane if not for the delusions that surround us. I remember looking at your hands and thinking they must be soft. I knew they were soft, and yet at that moment it seemed almost like a dream, the thought of holding you like something precious. I looked at your hair, that stupid bowl cut, and thought you were the only person it could look so good on, it took my breath away. I thought it was funny, and I never questioned why.

I looked at your eyes and thought I never wanted to look away, because why should I look away when the whole universe is contained within your eyes? There's space and new emotions there, deep, indescribable. There's the whole life I want to live there. I looked into your eyes and always felt my heart pounding impossibly fast when you looked back at me. When you smiled at me, the sun seemed to shine brighter. But it wasn't the sun. It was you. Always you, Will.

I looked at your cheeks and wished they were red with blush. You sometimes blush when you look at me, did you know that? I never understood why, and I hope one day you'll tell me the reason. And I hope it matches mine. I looked at your cheeks and wished they hurt from smiling when you looked at me.

Remember how you danced with that girl at the Snow Ball? It seems like it was hundreds of years ago, and I've already forgotten who she was. But I'll never forget how she called you "zombie boy" and then dared to ask you to dance. I remember watching the two of you walk away and not understanding why I was so angry. I understand now, and I want to laugh.

Do you understand what I'm getting at, Will? I'll give you one last hint, if you haven't.

I looked at your lips and wished they were red from the number of kisses I'd given you. My kisses, Will. I looked at your lips and didn't notice the moment when I started dreaming of kissing them every time. I looked at them and thought I was about to make a move, and then you'd probably be terrified. I would have ruined our friendship, but sometimes I thought that if I could taste your lips, all the subsequent pain would be worth that moment of pure pleasure. You came to me in my dreams, Will. I remember how awkward it was to wake up and look into your eyes, knowing what my thoughts were occupied with. I was so ashamed I wanted to sink into the ground, but even more than that, I wanted you to reciprocate my feelings.

I had so many speeches written, you should know! I wrote and wrote until I ran out of options, until I exhausted all my imagination. What could I do to make you see me in the same light? I dreamed and daydreamed, Will. You are the sweetest dream and the cruelest torture, but I savored and savor every moment.

I hope that one day this letter will fall into your hands for sentencing.

Don't be afraid to refuse me, Will. Never be afraid, because I will accept any answer you give and will be grateful.

I only hope that hatred towards me won't be born in your heart. I can't bear that.

Thank you for listening to my confession.

Love,

Mike

His mouth is dry as a desert, and his heart is pounding so hard it echoes throughout his body, deafening. Will sees his hands shaking, and carefully, so carefully, he places the letter on the table. He turns to look at Mike and sees him already sitting, looking at him, filled with worry and anxiety.

Neither of them said anything for long moments: Will in shock from what he'd read, Mike in horror at what was happening.

Overcoming the stiffness in his body, Will forces himself to get up and walk over to Mike, sitting next to him, but not touching him. He doesn't think he can handle it right now, but gradually he realizes he might have to overcome it, because Mike looks paler with each passing second.

"Did you really mean all that?" Will whispers, almost dreading the answer.

"Of course," Mike answers even more quietly, stubbornly not breaking eye contact, "there was a reason I didn't send them."

"If you had, I would have come back to you on the next flight."

Will can't believe his own audacity, but hope has settled deep in his chest, so much so that he's almost itching to test the limits. If not now, then when?

"Yes?" Mike sounds inspired and leans closer.

Will, barely aware of it, mirrors Mike's movement. The distance between them grows smaller, the tension grows, and it seems as if everything will be decided now. They will either never speak again, or... become something more. Please, let it be the latter.

"Yes. We haven't had a heart-to-heart talk in so long, and what if I were to read such a revelation... such a 'confession,'" Will's voice cracks and drops a tone as he recalls the contents of the confession.

Mike's breath catches as his eyes dart, never leaving Will's face.

"What are you thinking?" he whispers so quietly that Will is forced to lip-read.

"About what?"

"Don't make me say it."

Will smiles, and Mike mirrors him.

"What did you think about what was written there? About the 'confession'?" His voice trembles.

Will, consumed by a thrilling mixture of horror, shame, hope, and anticipation consuming him from within, touches Mike's hand. Surprising himself, he moves his hand up, all the way to his shoulder, until it rests on the hot skin of Mike's neck.

Their eyes never leave each other, and their breathing is deafeningly loud in the sudden silence. Will notices, can't help but notice, how Mike's gaze darts to his lips for a fleeting moment, so fleeting that you could blink and miss it. But Will didn't blink, and his heart skipped a beat before it started pounding again.

"I thought that was beautiful," he whispers. "I thought you made your position very clear."

"And what do you think about that position?" Mike grabs his elbow for support.

"Mike," Will's voice is gentle as he squeezes his hand.

"What?"

"It takes you so long to realize," Will whispers, laughing, and with his other hand touches Mike's cheek, even hotter from the bright blush. "How much more obvious should I be?"

"Who the hell knows!" Mike mutters breathlessly, clasping his arms around his shoulders. "What if this is your last hug before you tell me to go to hell?"

"Mike," Will shakes his head, "even though all the rumors circulating about me are incredibly stupid, there's some truth to them."

He says this, torn by the horror of the confession, yet burning with an all-consuming relief. He's told someone what he's been holding onto for long, painful years, suffering alone.

"You..."

"I'm gay, Mike, good morning," Will laughs, desperately trying to hide his horror.

"Cool! Cool... um... so... me too... yeah... I mean... I guess? Not that I've looked at anyone but you... But um... I think. I guess! I guess me too! This!"

"Cool," Will repeats, completely stunned.

He never imagined Mike's arrival would go like this, but he can't complain. Not with the way his friend clings to him tenderly (is he still a friend? Is there any future for them, or is he getting too far ahead of himself?), the way he clings to him, unconsciously stroking his thumb over Mike's cheek.

"So... you liked the letter, huh?" "Mike asks hopefully, moving closer to him without taking his hands off him.

He looks desperate.

He looks hungry.

"I liked it," Will nods, barely able to form words from his racing thoughts.

He looks at Mike and can't speak coherently, can't even think.

"Then... then, would you mind if I..."

"Kiss?" His voice is very quiet, timid and so hopeful.

"Yes. Yes! Can I kiss you, please?" Mike looks at him and licks his lips.

Will freezes, watching this action, and feels a pleasant twist in his stomach and a fire flaring throughout his body.

Before Mike can think anything negative about his reaction, Will nods. Vigorously, almost to the point of pain in his neck.

"Yes. I don't mind, I don't mind at all," his voice sounds desperate and pleading, but he doesn't care at all, not now, when the dreams that have haunted him for who knows how long could come true, "please."

Mike laughs and leans toward Will. They collide in the middle, thirsty and filled with an anxiety they can't shake.

Mike's lips are slightly chapped and just a little wet, but so soft and gentle against his own that Will wants to stay here forever, kissing him, and never think of anything else.

They cling awkwardly, laughing as they do. Will breaks away for a moment, his heart fluttering as Mike unconsciously follows. He doesn't resist.

Mike's lips cover his lightly and quickly, once, twice, three times, until Will feels himself falling backward from the pressure.

Mike collapses on top of him, but doesn't stop kissing. Will feels the gentle pressure on his lips and stifles a moan. His hands grip Mike's shoulders tightly as he opens up to his gentle but persistent touch.

They breathe heavily, not daring to stop touching. Mike grips his hair, completely disheveled, and Will discovers something new within himself as the tug makes him twitch with pleasure.

Mike laughs against his lips and does it again.

Will wraps his arms around his neck, caresses his back, and pulls him closer, closer, until they're one, finally, finally.

They only pull away when they're out of breath, and even then, they don't stray too far. Mike kisses his cheek, rises, and kisses his eyelids, his brow, and his forehead. He nibbles his ear, and Will pushes him away, flushed from head to toe.

"You're crazy," he whispers breathily.

"We're going crazy together, remember?" Mike replies, his eyes shining with boundless pleasure. "You have no idea how long I've dreamed of this."

"No, you have no idea how long I've dreamed of this," Will laughs and pulls him toward him.

Their lips touch again, harder, faster. Filled with passion, they barely break away for air. Inspired, Will pushes off abruptly and pushes Mike onto his back, climbing on top. He muffles a surprised yelp with another kiss and hums contentedly when he feels Mike's hand on his hips.

Will holds Mike's cheeks as if he were about to escape, but gradually lowers them. He runs his nails down his neck and feels a shudder run through the body beneath him, feeling Mike's scorching warmth. He squeezes his shoulders, runs his hands over his chest, and returns.

Below him, Mike breathes heavily, his eyes squeezed shut, and his grip on his hips is strong. Will breaks away from him and allows himself to gasp greedily.

Their foreheads touch, and their lips stretch into identical smiles.

They don't say what they feel, but Will knows it won't take long.

He wakes up the next morning, refreshed and tired, joyful and sad, active and sluggish. But most importantly, he wakes up loving and loved.

Will opens his eyes and meets Mike's gaze. Before a hundred terrifying thoughts can fill his head, Mike rushes forward and captures his lips in a searing kiss.

Will helplessly accepts it, trying to respond as passionately as he can. He wishes he could never leave this moment.

But the day must go on, and the world doesn't slow down, when a sharp intake of breath interrupts them at the door.

I thought no one ever came in here.

He and Mike turn sharply, bouncing away from each other like lepers. His heart sinks when he sees Jonathan peering cautiously inside.

"I wanted to check if you were asleep, but I think I've got my answer. Glad to see you've sorted out everything... that happened between you."

And with that, he leaves, slamming the door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Will quickly jumps to his feet, trying to run after his brother, ignoring Mike's terrified cry.

He can't ignore his friend (or is it his friend?) when he grabs his arm and stops him forcefully.

"What?!" Will barks.

"Whoa, quiet," Mike whispers softly. "Where are you rushing to?"

"He... he saw! What do you mean, where am I rushing to?!"

"What are you going to tell him? That it's not what it seems?" Mike laughs and pulls him toward him.

Will resists.

"I don't know! But I have to say something!" He croaks desperately, trying to break free again.

"Will. There's nothing to say now."

"Aren't you afraid? What's wrong with you?!" Will screams and hits Mike in the chest with his free hand.

He shakes his head and moves closer, hugging Will tightly.

"I'm terrified, Will," Mike whispers carefully in his ear, "but this is Jonathan. He always protected you from Lonnie and was kind to me... most of the time. Do you think he'll do anything?"

"I don't know!"

"Then it can wait. At least until we brush our teeth, okay?"

Will nods weakly and earns a sweet kiss for it.

He still doesn't know what they are to each other, but he'll take what he can. While he can.

Breakfast... awkward.

Will never wants to make eye contact with anyone in his wonderful, incredible family, or Jonathan. But his brother firmly kicks him under the table, barely reeking of weed, which makes the situation several times worse, because a sober Jonathan is a sensible Jonathan. One who would like to talk.

Will feels his cheeks burn, but he doesn't look up from his plate. Mike's knee touches him under the table, gently, tenderly. Will presses back and suppresses a smile with great effort.

"What are your plans for today?" Mom asks, smiling, twirling spaghetti on her fork.

"I think Will and Mike want some alone time," Jonathan laughs under their disapproving glances. "After all, they haven't seen each other in so long!"

El looks up from her own plate and frowns at them, trying to understand the reason for the argument.

"Exactly, you're right!" Mom nods decisively, smiling at the boys across from her. "Are you staying home or going out?"

"I was going to see Kate," El notes, focused on pouring syrup onto a waffle in a specific shape. "She wanted to work on a project for a class at the library and the deadline is tight."

"Because someone always procrastinates," Will teases, trying not to think about Jonathan's piercing gaze.

Mike's laughter beside him warms him from head to toe. Thankfully, he doesn't blush. Because he couldn't blush any more.

"Who?" El asks innocently, making it immediately clear she knows exactly who she's talking about. "Aren't you the one who keeps putting off your painting?"

"That's not it!" Will barks irritably.

"What painting?" Mike asks, surprised, next to him.

"Oh, you didn't tell Mike?" Jonathan smiles, then turns to Wheeler. "You'll like it!"

"Jonathan, shut up!"

"Jonathan, go on!" El laughs.

"What painting?" Mike grumbles.

Mom looks at them and laughs.

"I'm working today, but I'll try not to disturb you," she apologizes tenderly.

"It's fine," Will grumbles, glaring at Jonathan.

Then he remembers who started the conversation about the painting and looks at El. The brat just laughs at him.

Before Jonathan inevitably leaves for Argyle's, Will catches him at the door and awkwardly squeezes his shirt sleeve.

Mike stands nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, but ready to defend him if necessary.

"What's the matter?" his brother asks softly, ruffling Will's hair, making him grumble and wave his hands away.

"What you saw..."

"It was exactly what it seemed," Mike barks firmly, though Will sees the burning horror in his eyes.

"Okay?" Jonathan smiles and leans his back against the door, his hands in his pockets.

He's probably feeling for the doorframe.

"Well?" Will asks, Mike echoing.

"What?" Jonathan frowns, looking at them in turn. "Are you expecting a specific reaction from me? Use protection, my children."

"Jonathan!" Will squeals.

"Oh, my God!" Mike echoes, blushing to his ears.

Will knows he looks no better.

"What?" Jonathan laughs. "I was telling the truth. I'm happy for you."

"That's it?" Will whispers, still feeling the warmth on his face.

"Yeah," Jonathan chuckles, pulling him into a hug with one arm. "Honestly, Wheeler, come here."

He gives them both a squeeze and pats them on the back a couple of times.

"But we're both boys," Mike mutters into Jonathan's shirt.

"Cool. So you definitely know what you like about each other."

"Ugh."

"You're so gross," Mike grumbles, but doesn't move.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. It's normal to like boys," Jonathan whispers softly and tenderly, "no matter what anyone says. I'm happy for you. And Mom and El will be happy when you tell them."

"Cool.”

Jonathan steps back and smiles as he sees them wiping away tears.

"Don't be bored, little ones," he laughs, looking at their disgruntled faces.

Jonathan ruffles their hair, ignoring their protests, and waves goodbye. The door slams behind him.

Will meets Mike's gaze and smiles weakly, tremblingly. Their little fingers intertwine, and the warmth of tenderness warms their bodies.

Mike looks at him, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat. Will watches with bated breath as Mike takes a shaky step toward him. His eyes drop to Will's lips. His tongue licks his lips, and his chest twists with anticipation.

He almost wants to give in, but his quick glance darts past Mike, where his mother and sister are still sitting in the kitchen.

"We're right outside the front door," Will whispers breathlessly, placing his hand on Mike's chest.

He feels his heartbeat pounding beneath his hand. His gaze darts up and meets Mike's languid gaze.

"Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything," Wheeler smiles, stepping forward. "I am now."

"You're an idiot," Will lowers his voice. "Mom and El are still home."

Mike laughs quietly and intertwines their hands. Will can't bring himself to break away.

"Come on, they're not here."

"Mike!" Will hisses, but gives in and quickly kisses him.

Mike laughs and leans in for another kiss. Joy mingles with fear in a seething mixture that makes you want to keep going.

But neither of them is ready to take that risk. They pull away, smiling timidly, their hands still clasped.

"Do you think Mom and El will really be happy?" Will whispers, glancing nervously back.

Mike squeezes his hand and looks just as nervous, but he nods resolutely. Will feels himself involuntarily absorbing someone else's strength.

"We won't know until we check," Mike whispers breathlessly, smiling, trembling and oh-so-carefully.

Will takes a deep breath and pulls him along.

"Now?" he asks, shifting from foot to foot, suddenly changing his mind.

"Yes," Mike grins, now leading them, "we'll deal with your whole family at once, so you don't have to worry."

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, trying to burst out, but it doesn't. His palms sweat, and anxiety twists his insides, completely unlike the warm feelings of anticipation of a sweet kiss.

They enter the kitchen and, after a few attempts to break the tight grip of their hands, decide to leave them intertwined, looking awkwardly at each other.

"Go ahead," Will mouths.

"Your family, you go ahead," Mike replies, causing Will to laugh quietly, frantic with worry.

"Please," Will whispers.

Mike shakes his head sharply.

"They don't like me that much!"

"Mike!"

"What are you whispering about?" Mom laughs at them, accompanied by El's curious gaze.

Mike and Will exchange glances and realize they have no choice but to retreat. Especially now that their mother and sister's gaze is fixed on their intertwined hands.

"Surprise," Will whispers, his voice trembling with nerves, realizing a moment later that he can't be heard.

Mike looks at him and sighs deeply. He squeezes Will's hand and lifts his head resolutely, looking Joyce in the eyes.

"Mrs. Byers... El, we wanted to tell you something important," he says firmly, confidently, though Will can feel his trembling and his hand sweating.

Will would love to help, but he can't get the words out, as if he's suddenly lost in the world. He hates it, but he forces himself to lean against Mike's shoulder, to at least support him.

It's a shame, but he can't offer more.

"We... um... I! We... like each other, yeah. Like boys. I mean... um."

Will can't help but chuckle quietly, as nervous as Mike. Mike glances back at him and blinks in surprise when Will releases him and steps forward to get close enough to his mother and sister to be heard.

"Darling?" Mom asks patiently.

El says nothing and looks at him questioningly, occasionally glancing back at Mike.

"I like boys," Will whispers breathlessly, looking at his mother's cheek, just to avoid her eyes. "I always have. And I've never liked girls. I'm gay, Mom. El..."

"Is that why you've never dated anyone?" his sister asks, surprised, tilting her head to the side.

Her voice is calm, filled with gentle curiosity without a hint of harshness. Some of the panic that had been making it hard to breathe recedes. Will nods quickly and sharply.

"That too. And because gays are apparently hard to find in Hawkins, in the middle of nowhere, in the epicenter of homophobia," he answers awkwardly, shrugging.

"And Mike?" El continues, looking back at her ex-boyfriend.

"I like boys and girls. And Will," Mike smiled wryly, awkwardly looking away, "I liked you too, of course..."

"But do you love Will?" El asked with particular understanding.

"Yeah."

Mom, who had been silent until now, causing Will to start to worry again, steps forward and hugs him so tightly it's hard to breathe.

"I'm so proud of you, my boy," she whispers, her voice trembling with tears. "You're so brave. I'm happy for you. For both of you."

Reluctantly, she lets go of Will and goes over to hug Mike.

El watches them closely and smiles as soon as she meets Will's gaze.

"You have such good taste," she wrinkles her nose, so much like Max at that moment.

"And you should spend less time with Max," he remarks cheerfully.

"Mmm," Eleven pretends to consider his proposal, "how about 'no'?"

Will laughs.

A bright fire of love and acceptance burns in his chest, making any problem seem insignificant. His family accepts him, loves him, and won't abandon him.

What could be better?

Much later, she and Mike are sitting in his room, content with their acceptance and happy with each other. Will is hunched over a painting, the existence of which Mike now knows and is desperately awaiting its completion. Wheeler, meanwhile, sits at the table, frowning as he scribbles the plot of a new campaign. Will glances at him periodically, forced to suppress a wide smile from the love that overwhelms him.

"Are you going to torment us?" he asks tenderly, working on Dustin's face.

"Naturally," Mike laughs in response, looking back at him slyly, "although Will the Wise might gain some advantage."

"And what must Will the Wise do to achieve such an achievement?"

"A seduction roll," Mike grins.

"Just a roll?" Will plays along, disappointed.

"A roll and a follow-up!"

Will laughs and, carefully setting his brush aside, approaches Mike.

"Then I can only hope that luck is on my side."

To the sound of Mike's loud laughter and the sweet sensation of his kisses, Will thinks the bad days won't disappear from his life.

The past can't be erased, and it has definitely left its mark on him, but Will is confident that with support, the good days will be many more, and they will be easier to bear.