Archive of Our Own ^beta

March 28, 1986

This is far from being an ideal situation, but then again nothing in Hawkins really is.

Still, from a more personal standpoint, Will isn't sure he's particularly fond of this arrangement and wishes he could just stay with El and Hop back at the cabin. The space might be lacking, but anything would be better than having to live under the same roof as Mike. He wonders what his eight year old self would have to say about that.

As he adjusts the matress on the floor, Jonathan gives him a look, the same concerned look he's been giving him since they got to Hawkins― maybe even since before leaving Lenora.

"I'm fine," he mumbles before the question is even posed, feeling it's the right thing to say.

But his brother doesn't seem to be too convinced, if at all. "I could persuade mom to let you stay at Hopper's," he proposes.

Will snorts. "Yeah, right. As if she would ever allow me to step outside her radar after all that's happened."

Jonathan sighs almost in exasperation. "Will―"

He's cut short when the basement door loudly creaks open, steps quickly coming down. Mike's face is almost dreadful to look at after everything that has gone down in the last couple of days: just the sight of his stupid, crooked half-smile has his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

"You guys settling alright?" he asks, panting as if he just ran a marathon. Will and Jonathan exchange a quick look before nodding. "Good, good. Uh, my mom says that dinner's almost ready. Also, do you need help with something? Anything?"

"We're good," Jonathan says maybe a little too quickly, almost snappy.

Thankfully, Mike doesn't seem to think anything of it. He tends not to, Will thinks with a bitterness he's not quite accustomed to. It's awful. And disgusting.

"Alright. Well, if you need anything, just let me know, okay? Or Nancy. Whoever. Also, Will?" His head shoots up at the mention of his name, one that always sounds so unfairly soft when coming out of Mike's lips. It makes his chest ache. "You do remember where the blankets are, right?"

Will nods, attempting a smile. It probably comes out miserable. "Yeah. Of course."

At his response, Mike's little grin widens. More sincerely, almost. "This isn't much of a change though, is it?"

He blinks in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Mike takes a few steps forward, shortening their distance. He's still smiling, his eyes on Will's. The idea of looking away is almost too tempting.

"You know," he starts, nodding towards the table, "you've spent a lot of time here. This basement is almost like your second home at this point, in my opinion."

He can't help an awkward laugh at that. "Sure, you could say that."

He can feel Jonathan boring holes into his skull. Maybe into Mike's too. It doesn't matter.

Mike gets closer until he's standing by his side, and points at a drawing right in the middle of the wall. Will's, of course. "I remember you drew this one during our first sleepover."

"Did I?" He frowns, digging his own mind for any sort of recollection. He finds nothing.

"Yeah. We were super excited about our next campaign and just, couldn't sleep," he says, looking at him just like he did back in California, full of something akin to tenderness. Confusing tenderness. "It's kinda crazy how good you were at art even as a kid."

He does his best not to fluster. He really does. He fails miserably, clearing his throat in what resembles a strangled dog, his face quickly heating up. "I guess I was an artsy kid."

"Always been," Mike corrects, turning to properly face him.

Will feels small: not because he's that much shorter, no, but because Mike's presence is overwhelming― which undeniably sucks, because that's his best friend and all he wishes is that things wouldn't be this way. They shouldn't be this way. And he's tried, tried to forgo any resemblance of non-platonic sentiments, tried not to dwell on the flutter of his stomach whenever he pops in his mind. All futile, of course. He can't just get rid of years worth of yearning.

"Always been," he echoes weakly, biting down a sigh.

"Hey, Will, by the way," Mike places a hand by his arm: it's barely a brush, but enough to have his heart racing ten times faster. "Are you sure you don't want to sleep in my room? I can make space, you know. I know it's a bit messy and all but, you know, I feel like you'd be more comfortable there."

Will almost wants to laugh at that. He doesn't because it isn't funny. As soon as Mrs. Wheeler agreed to have them for the time being, Mike told him he could stay in his bedroom― an offer Will immediatly turned down for reasons that need not to be said. He just couldn't handle it, handle that physical proximity with such a big, invisible gap still separating them.

So he nods, indiscreetly shying away from his touch. Mike's smile falters for a beat so short he fears he's just seeing things. "I'm good. Really. Don't worry."

Mike lets out a defeated sigh. "If you say so. But if you need anything, please let me know. Or if you change your mind."

Will manages a small smile. "Sure."

Mike hesitates for a split second before he jumps back, almost as if realizing how close they were standing just now. It stings, just a little. "Alright. Uh, well, I gotta help my mom. Get ready for dinner!"

His eyes regrettably can't help but follow his figure as he quickly scrambles back upstairs. Jonathan is, of course, still looking at him. He's standing awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "You okay?" he ultimately asks after a couple seconds of uncomfortable silence.

"This is going to suck," is all Will can answer, his shoulders slumping.

April 11, 1986

He's been holding up surprisingly alright.

As it turns out, living with the Wheelers isn't as much as an emotional torture as he thought it would be. It admittedly gets a bit boring, that with him not being able to really leave the house without his mother trailing right behind him and not having much to do indoors, either. And even if interacting with Mike sometimes feels like a dagger being stabbed right into his chest, it's usually not that bad.

Not thanks to anyone but the little Holly Wheeler, that is.

It had been a long while since he last saw her, let alone directly interacted with her, and he certainly wasn't expecting to do it now either. One day, though, she randomly decided to start joining them in their basement hangouts and Will couldn't have been more grateful, given how much her presence relieves the awkwardness. Plus, she's a good kid: she's ridiculously well-spoken for her age, far smarter than most children and, above everything else, kind. He made sure to tell Mike she was now by far the better Wheeler.

Because of that and because she's a really good artist, too.

He tilts his head, his eyes following the motion of her little hand. "What are you drawing, Holly?"

She smiles with the confidence of someone that knows what they're doing. "A princess."

He can't help a giggle as he supports his chin on his hand. "Does this princess have a name?"

The blonde pauses for a moment, briefly turning to look at him almost flustered. "You have to promise not to laugh."

"Of course I won't laugh," he says, frowning a little. "I'd never mock another artist. Promise."

To that she grins, nodding her head. "Alright. Well, it's― it's me. I mean, not really me. I guess it's more as if I was a princess. Princess Wheeler."

Will feels his chest warming up in a way it hasn't in a while. "Princess Wheeler? Noted. Does she have any magical pet? I'm pretty sure most princesses do," he hums.

She blinks up at him. "You don't think it's childish?"

He fails biting down a snort. Then, he hops off the couch to sit on the floor next to her. "Has your brother ever told you about Dungeons and Dragons?" he asks, turning to look at her. She shakes her head. "Well, I'm sure he will someday. And if he doesn't, I'll do it myself. But, in short, let's say it's a game where you can create characters. Such as her." And he points to the drawing, strokes clearly made by a child but nonetheless quite neat.

Her eyes go comically wide, as if he just revealed the secret of the universe. "And you guys used to play that?"

"All day, all night. Lucas, Dustin, your brother and I didn't leave this basement for hours," he replies, a laugh he cuts short escaping him. "Maybe that's why you don't remember us very well. I mean, you were so little too, but I think the fact that we were holed up in here all the time contributes to it."

She giggles, shaking her head. "But I do remember you."

Now it's his turn to be confused. "You do?"

"Of course! Mike has always talked about you so much."

He pauses.

What?

"What?"

Holly tilts her head. "You're his best friend. Right?"

He can't exactly explain a nine year old the really complicated, rocky status of their relationship, so he only clears his throat and nods. "Right. Yes. And― and what does he say?" His voice comes out embarrassingly desperate. Probably not enough for a kid to notice, though.

She rolls her eyes almost playfully. "Nothing bad, if that's what you're worried about." It certainly isn't. The opposite is a far scarier possibility. When he doesn't answer, she continues: "I mean, at least this past year he's been really pissy because of you not living here anymore."

Will swallows. Mike, the one who didn't bother to write him more than a couple letters? Who barely gave him a half-assed hug after months of not seeing him, his alleged best friend? That Mike?

He frowns. It doesn't exactly add up. "Did he say that?"

"Uh... no. But every day at breakfast he'd be super angry about not being able to call you. Were you... ignoring him on purpose?" Her expression is thoughtful, curious. Will only gapes, processing this big and definitely new information. Holly must interpret his silence as an answer, for she nods her head understandingly. "Well, it's okay. I won't tell him. When I'm mad at Mary I ignore her calls too."

He snaps out of whatever trance he was pulled into and shakes his head. "I didn't ignore him. I just― I never got those calls in the first place," he mutters to himself, voice small. She doesn't reply, her lips pressing together as if she's trying hard to understand the situation and give him a proper answer. Which is really sweet. Will doesn't bite down a smile. "It's okay, Holly. I can just ask him about it." He highly doubts he will, but he can't just say that to her.

Her face lights up again. "Yup. Nance always says that talking things out it's important."

"It is. So, uh, maybe don't ignore... Mary when you two fight. That's no good."

She sighs. "Yeah. You're probably right." She silently stares down at her drawing for a beat before flipping the page to an empty one, sliding the little sketchbook towards him. He only raises a brow. "Can you draw something, Will?"

Not really waiting for an answer, she hands him a pen. Will nods slowly, taking the sketchbook. Whatever helps him keep his mind away from the middle Wheeler. "Alright. Sure. What do you want me to draw?"

She supports her cheek on the table, brows furrowing a little. "I don't know... what pet do you think Princess Wheeler should have?"

At that he hums. "That's easy. What's your favorite animal?"

Holly raises her head a little, supporting her chin on her forearms. "Dogs. I love puppies."

"Alright. A puppy it is." Will quickly gets to work, feeling Holly's curious eyes following his movements and occasionally wandering up to his face. He smiles. "I'm assuming your brother told you I like to draw."

"Yeah. I mean... that's kind of why I wanted to be friends. He praises your art a lot," she says, toying with one of her pigtails.

His smile falters a little, his stomach doing a funny twist. So much for pushing Mike away from his thoughts. "Is that so?"

Holly nods. "He even showed me a folder full of your drawings. You're super talented."

He's surprised the pen doesn't snap in two, with how strongly he's holding it between his fingers. Before he can at least thank her, another voice joins their conversation: "What are we doing today?"

Both their heads snap up, Will considerably far more startled. He might've been too engrossed in his conversation with Holly to even hear Mike coming down the stairs. Or to remember this is his house in the first place and that he can't exactly avoid him.

"We're drawing. Will and I," Holly says helpfully, pointing at the sketchbook. "Can you draw, Mike?"

Will fails to hold back a laugh. Mike snorts too. "No. That's not really my thing. But it definitely is Will's," he replies, throwing himself into the couch. "What are you drawing?"

He's close. His face is peeking right above his shoulder, eyes scanning the sketch. Will bores holes into it in a lame attempt to ignore Mike's hot breath on his hair. "A dog," he answers plainly.

"Not just a dog," Holly interjects, sitting up properly to look at her brother. "Princess Wheeler's magical pet."

Will doesn't even need to be facing him to know he's probably doing that weird thing he always does with his brows when he's confused, something akin to a disgruntled grimace. "Princess who?"

"It's a character I made. Will said you guys used to do it too. Right, Will?"

He laughs a little awkward and nods. "That I did."

Mike only sighs, ruffling her hair. "Now that's a lot to unpack. Maybe when you're older I can tell you all about it."

She frowns at him. "I'm old enough."

"No, you're not. You're a baby and you wouldn't get it."

Will doesn't comment on the fact that they were far younger when they got into D&D and only smiles to himself, tracing lines for the dog's body.

"I am not a baby. You are," is Holly's retort.

"How am I a baby?"

"Duh. You're always... whining," she says slowly, careful not to trip on the word.

"You're just repeating what Nancy says. And you shouldn't."

"But she's my favorite."

He hears Mike audibly gasping. Will can't help a laugh.

It's not that bad.

April 26, 1986

Sometimes he'll sleep like a baby.

Having spent multiple days in the Upside Down, occasionally giving in to sleep despite his efforts to stay awake, the Wheelers' cold basement isn't something he can possibly complain about. But more often than not, something wakes him and forces him into a sleepless night of tossing and turning atop the mattress, blankets thrown and forgotten as he lies still and looks for invisible constellations in the ceiling.

Tonight might just be one of those. This time it was a dream, as per usual. And too as per usual, it's not clear. There's no familiar faces, no traumatizing scenes engraved deep in the crevices of his brain: it's an ominous and disturbing emptiness, a lifeless place that somehow feels alive. It's not a threat, but it feels like a warning. A premonition. A future he doesn't even want to imagine.

Will sits up, deciding that trying to sleep is futile; Jonathan is fast asleep, little snores that escape him being the only indicator that he's breathing at all. He quickly but quietly makes his way out of the basement, minding his steps as the wasted stairs creak beneath his feet. 

He can't quite suppress the feeling of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, not even as he walks into the kitchen and fills a glass with water. It's a persistent, prickling sensation on his neck, a reminder that he's not alone with his thoughts. That he might take a peek if he so wants to. That he might be doing it just now.

He brings a hand up to feel his neck on instinct, taking a deep breath. Nothing.

"Will?"

He almost drops the glass, catching it just in time. Will turns his body to face the familiar silhouette of Mike, barely distinguishable in the dark. He sighs. "Jesus. Don't just scare me like that."

Mike flips the lightswitch, an apologetic smile on his lip. "Sorry. You kinda scared me too," he says, grabbing a glass of his own. He looks contemplative. "I guess you couldn't sleep either."

Will nods. "It's hard these days."

Mike leans against the counter across him, taking a sip of water. "Nightmare?"

He shakes his head. "Not exactly. It's a recurrent dream, but it's so strange. It reminds me to the visions I used to have back then."

"Back when you were... possessed?" Mike asks carefully, his eyes squinting a little.

"Yeah. But it's not like before," he clarifies, gulping down his glass in one go. He collects his thoughts in the best way he can before speaking up again: "I haven't really felt him since the earthquake. And that― that worries me, because it means he's somehow being able to hide his presence from me while I'm unable to hide mine from him. That makes me useless for us and useful for him."

Mike's brows knit into a frown. "Don't say that, Will. We don't even know if that's really the case. But even if it was, it's not like you can help it."

"That's exactly the problem. I can't do anything about it. But it terrifies me to know that he can― that he'll try to use me again. He's stronger now, Mike. He has a purpose. If that were to happen, I might not be able to fight back, not this time." He sets the glass in the counter, running a hand through his hair. His breathing has become ragged, his pulse skyrocketing. "Mike. If it comes down to that, and the only alternative is to―"

"Don't," Mike cuts him, taking a step forward, closer. His whole face is tense and Will almost immediately regrets his honesty. "That's not going to happen."

Will shakes his head. "It may."

"No, it won't. Back then, we didn't exactly know much. But now we do, we know what we're going against. We know what to do, if the worst came to happen. And we won't let him hurt you. Not again."

His voice is soft, and so painfully tender in the way it used to be back when they were kids, back before their friendship got twisted into something less sincere because he couldn't keep his heart in check. He takes a shaky breath, the knot around his stomach tightening for reasons unrelated to interdimensional monsters. "You better be right," is all he manages, his gaze flickering all across Mike's features in selfish indulgence.

Mike's mouth twitches up in an infuriating know-it-all smile, one that Will has regrettably fallen for. "Of course I'm right." Then, much to Will's atonishment, he takes his hand into one of his own. It's clumsy and a little awkward, but the way Mike's fingers squeeze around his is comforting in a familiar but long forgotten way. His eyes linger on the motion for longer than possibly normal, and when he looks back up he's met with an uncertainty that feels almost foreign on Mike's face. "I can't make empty promises, and I won't. But what I can tell you is that whatever it is that's coming, we're facing it as a team. Together. Right?"

Will nods slowly, a little dizzy. "Together."

Mike's hand lingers, and Will wants nothing more than to squeeze back. It's so damn hard not to, but he knows he can't. He knows how wrong it is. How wrong it is that he's even thinking about it. Were he normal, the thought wouldn't even dare to cross his mind. Were he normal, he would be worrying about the important things— about Vecna, about the Upside Down. He wouldn't be worrying about the bags underneath Mike's eyes, about the still very much present crease between his brows, about his chapped lips that he must've bitten down on out of anxiety, an old bad habit of his. Shouldn't be worrying about the burning ache of his chest whenever Mike looks at him like this. 

So he retreats his hand. He tells himself Mike doesn't look dejected, even if just briefly, before he plays it off with a casual smile. Because Mike is normal. He is not. 

"No more thinking thoughts," Mike ultimately says, almost in a whisper. "Go to sleep, Will. You need to rest. And if it gets too lonely down there, or too cold, or whatever, my bedroom isn't locked. And I have a spare mattress, so— so don't really bother knocking. Okay?" 

Will urges himself to act normal and nods. "Okay. Sure. I might take you on that offer." He knows he won't.

Mike's grin is far more genuine this time, more sincere. "Good. And don't forget what we just talked about, yeah? I know it's hard. I mean, I'm not gonna pretend to understand what you went through. Or what you still go through. But, you know. Can't really kill us to hope that something will go right for us, can it?" 

He snorts, albeit humorless. "Yeah. It's all about the spirit." 

Mike laughs, low. It's a bliss for his ears and a pain for his heart. He hates the hold Mike has on him. He hates that he can't do anything about it. He hates that he doesn't really want to.

May 18, 1986

There's a dull, bottomless pain whenever he thinks about Mike and El's relationship too much. First and foremost, because Mike is his sister's boyfriend. Second, because Mike is his best friend. Third, because Mike is a man. No one that meets any of those requirements should be the object of his affections, but he couldn't ever help it— he believes his feelings bloomed way before he even grasped what any of those things mean and how wrong they were, and still are. 

So, whenever Mike makes it clear that he'll be gone for the day to potentially go make out with El, Will tells himself it doesn't hurt because it shouldn't and that it's fine because it is. He busies himself with sketching, goes to keep Lucas some company at the hospital, dedicates himself to make musical discoveries to later share with Jonathan, turns on the WSQK station to have as background noise to his thoughts or plays with Holly. 

Today he's decided to catch up on some comics.

His eyes skim across the pages tracing the outlines of every drawing, but he's not exactly reading it: focusing on intergalactic wars proves to be a near impossible task when he's going through some of his own, both in the Upside Down and emotional department. 

As if his plate isn't already full enough with Vecna and everything that entails. He wishes he could just shut his feelings down.

Like he has been doing for the past half hour, he reads the page again, and another time after that before flipping to the next one. He doesn't even understand what's going on anymore. But the artstyle is very nice.

The basement door opens and just as quickly —and loudly— it is slammed shut, pulling him out of his own contemplation. Will hurries to sit up properly, his sprawled out position on the couch far too embarrassing for anyone that isn't his brother to see, and feigns normalcy. He realizes he doesn't really have to do that when it is Mike who pops from the stairs, their eyes meeting halfway.

Will doesn't even have to bother checking the time to know it's early. Early for him to be home, at least. Which is weird. 

"Everything okay?" he asks, a frown tugging his brows together.

Mike has this look on his face —an odd mixture of defeat and calmness that doesn't exactly feel like resignation— as he drops his backpack on the floor, shoulders slumping. "I... yeah. Yeah, I think so."

His tone gives away that he is, in fact, not okay. Will closes the comic and tosses it into the coffee table, sitting up straight. "Doesn't sound like it. Did something happen? Is El okay?"

At that, a small smile makes its way to Mike's lips. He sits on the other end of the couch, body angled in a way he's facing Will. "She's fine. It's nothing... serious. We just," he says, and pauses. Then, he takes a deep breath, as if mentally preparing himself for the words about to leave his mouth— "We broke up."

Will blinks. He's sure that if it wasn't for all the muscles keeping it in place, his jaw would've hit the floor. "What?"

Mike lets out an awkward snort. "Why are you so surprised? You saw it crumbling down first hand."

"But you— I thought—" Will cuts himself short and shakes his head, deciding that his own reasonings are irrelevant, and sighs. "I'm so sorry, Mike. Are you okay?"

He seems a bit taken aback, almost as if he wasn't expecting a reaction out of Will. He shifts uncomfortably in place. "Yeah? I mean, I don't really know if I'm feeling like I should be feeling. Like, I don't know. It feels like the right thing, I guess?"

Will nods, slowly. "Was it a mutual agreement type of break up?"

"... Sort of. She kinda started it and brought up... things," he offers, a little cryptic. Will has the feeling that he doesn't want him to ask, so he doesn't and just listens. "I tried to argue, at first, but halfway through I realized she was kinda making a fair point. So. Yeah."

What the hell?

Will can't bite his tongue. "That... can't be it, can it?"

Fortunately, Mike seems to take no offense. "Well, no. We did have a long talk. And, I mean, it's not the first talk we've had about this. We tried. But, you know." He shrugs like everything should be obvious.

It very much is not. "I don't know," Will says.

Mike is clearly not eager to talk, and usually Will would be the last to push him into doing so. But he needs to know. For something he's been selfless about, he deserves to be selfish for once. At least that's what the voice in his head that sounds oddly like Jonathan tells him.

"I don't really understand it either," Mike ultimately says, sinking a little into the cushions. "But what we concluded is that we might as well just be better off as friends."

Will says nothing for a long, heavy minute. It's a lot to take in. He's not dumb: he's known that they haven't exactly been on the best terms since getting back to Hawkins —or maybe since earlier, before hell broke loose— even if Mike never explicitly said it. But even so, he can't help but feel incredulous. Maybe it's because despite everything, he always took their relationship for granted. Not because he wanted to, but because it's what he conditioned himself to accept, lest he ended up deluding himself somehow.

He might've been wrong about that. Which is, admittedly, a little uncanny.

But this isn't about him. He clears his throat. "If you two decided that's what's best, then I suppose it's... a good thing. I'm still sorry it didn't work out, though. I know it can't possibly be easy."

Mike purses his lips. "That's the thing. It's not easy, but it's not as hard as it should be— and I feel bad about that, because I do love her. I do. But I think I just don't love her like I'm supposed to."

The way his face twists into a pained grimace has Will's heart tugging uncomfortably inside his chest. "I don't think there's a manual for these things, Mike. There isn't a way in which you're supposed to love or feel about somebody. That's not something you can control," he mumbles, voice unwavering. He unfortunately knows about it all too well.

Mike lets out a long breath. "This sucks."

Will nods. That he can concede. "It sucks."

A silence follows. It's not uncomfortable, per se, but it is charged. Like there's a thousand of unspoken questions lingering in the air. Will tries not to dwell on that, because God knows that would push him further down a whirlpool he already has no way of escaping. And that's the last thing he needs right now.

Mike is the one to break the silence. An awkward smile pulls on his lips as he tears his gaze away from the spot he was boring holes into, instead looking at him. "But, thank you. I feel stupid having these emotional crises when we're basically facing the end of the world. We've got way bigger fish to fry, if you know what I mean."

Will can't help a giggle. "I do. But it's not stupid. To feel the way you do, I mean. It's not like we can halt our lives because of the whole Upside Down thing, right?"

His smile softens a bit. "Yeah. I suppose you're right. It just feels weird. But, uh, Will?"

An electrifying sensation runs down his entire back, the way it always does whenever Mike says his name as gently as now. Stupid. He swallows down a knot. "Yeah?"

"Can you keep this between us? Like, not tell the others. Please?"

He nods, maybe a little too fast. "Of course."

Mike lets out a sigh. "Okay. Cool. Thanks. It's just that, you know. What happened with Eddie still has a toll on Dustin. I mean, on everyone, but especially on him. And then there's Lucas with Max. This is... silly next to that. It's not like they need to know anyway. Not right now, at least."

"I get it. Don't worry."

Silence, again. It's not unfamiliar. But the way Mike is looking at him feels foreign: it's knowing and accusatory in a way that he doesn't want to think about, because out of all the things Mike could know —that he doesn't already— there's only a few that don't scare the shit out of him. 

"Can I ask you something?"

Will almost flinches at the question. He prays his voice doesn't bretray him when he says, "Sure."

Mike tears his eyes away, which is never a good sign. He opens his mouth to speak and closes it immediately, doubt written all over his face. After he repeats the motion three or four more times, he ultimately lets out a breathy laugh that is nothing if not nervous. "You know what, nevermind. It was stupid anyway."

Will feels like breathing again. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, alright."

Any other time, he might have at least prodded. Now, though, he has this strong feeling that he doesn't want to know the question, and that Mike would most definitely not like the answer.

Mike grabs one of the comics scattered on the table and with that the topic is mercifully settled. Will does the same, not even bothering to check the number of the issue.

June 12, 1986

There's only a few things that truly piss him off. Not because he doesn't have a temper, but because he's learned to have patience. Given all things, it's a trait that's proven to be useful all throughout his short life. Most of it, at least.

He's human, however, and he's bound to lose it sometimes. For example, when Jonathan forgets to clean the sink after shaving. When his mom keeps pestering and nagging him when he does as much as sneezing. When he runs out of paint. When his brushes get all stiff and ugly. When his walkman decides to randomly run out of battery when he needs it the most. When the store doesn't have the specific comic issue he needs. Bullies. Interdimensional monsters. His feelings for Mike. Mike himself, sometimes.

Artblocks.

Artblocks might be the worst.

And now it particularly sucks because with summer break officially upon them, Mike is home all day and sketching might as well be the only distraction he gets. So, yes.

Artblocks fucking suck.

He rips off yet another page, probably the tenth fail. From the other end of the table Mike eyes him curiously, as he has been doing for the past hour. Will doubts he's even paying attention to the book in his hand at all.

"No luck yet?" he asks, an amused tilt to his voice.

Will shakes his head. "I can't draw shit. I don't know what's wrong with me."

To that, Mike cracks a smile. A stupidly charming smile that suits his stupidly handsome face to a tee. "When I'm going through a block, it helps to write down my surroundings. Like, descriptively. Can't you try that?"

His shoulders slump with defeat. "I think I've sketched every single thing in this house by now, Mike."

Mike says nothing for a moment; but then he leans a bit closer, supporting his chin on his hand. His grin is almost mischievous. "Have you drawn me?"

Will blinks. Yes, of course he has. Since they're twelve, probably, or maybe before that. And to be fair he's drawn the whole party, but just with taking a quick look at his old sketchbooks one would be able to tell the obvious bias for Mike's face, his nose, his eyes, his lips, his freckles, his hands, his curls. "No," he lies instead.

"Then you haven't drawn everything in this house," is what Mike says, his tone suggestive.

Will sighs. "What are you implying?"

He shrugs. "You could draw me. Would that help? You know, as inspiration. Or something."

The idea sends a shiver down his spine. Because sure, he's drawn Mike many times before— but never while looking at him. Never with Mike looking at him. "I guess. Maybe." His tone is tentative, giving him an out in case he was only joking. But Mike says nothing, only blinking at him. He clears his throat and picks up the pen. "Okay. But, uh, if it's bad don't take offense."

Mike lets out a soft laugh, and Will feels his own lips twitching upwards at the sound alone. "I don't think you're capable of drawing something bad, but alright. None taken."

Will rolls his eyes, even if his cheeks burn hot at the praise. Drawing Mike is familiar in a way it probably shouldn't be: he always starts by outlining the crooked shape of his nose, which is not only his most prominent feature but also his favorite one. However that does feel unfair to his eyes, dark and round and all too easy to get lost in. Will has to remind himself of what he's doing when he looks up from the paper and meets them halfway, Mike's gaze not at all discreetly posed on him instead of the sketch like he was expecting.

The pen halts only for a split second as he takes in the sight of Mike's face —which is unfortunately really nice to look at—, but when he catches the nervous bob of his throat he urges himself to look away and resume the task at hand: he's surprised the tip doesn't break, with how much force he's pressing it against the paper. He wills his fingers to relax.

Stealing glances unsurprisingly proves to be a terrible idea when Mike is already staring at him with such intensity, so he decides not to. It's not like he needs to: he's engraved every one of his features in his memory since long before he even understood what it meant, and now he might as well know them better than his own.

So he glues his eyes to the sketch and makes sure to keep them there as he works, tracing with a ridiculous meticulousness the plump shape of his lips that he stares far more often than he'd like to admit, the mild crease of his brows that might as well be part of his face with how often he frowns, the sharp outline of his cheekbones and the scattered freckles that live rent free all across his skin. His favorite thing to draw, though, are his curls: he trails every curve and every twist with a tad of artistic freedom until filling the dark, messy mane that he's learned to love much despite himself.

He adds a couple more freckles for good measure. One or two extra curls as well.

He gently places the pen back on the table. Mike must understand, for he quickly asks: "Are you done?"

Will purses his lips. He's usually not at all shy with his art, much less with Mike, but he can't help feeling a bit coy about this one: not because it's bad, but precisely because it's too accurate. He wonders if it might give him away. "I think so."

When he doesn't immediatly hand it to him, Mike's brows go up a little. "Well? Can I see?"

Will sighs with resignation. It's not like he can exactly gatekeep it. "Hope you like it," he mumbles, pushing the sketchbook towards Mike, who eagerly picks it up.

The reaction is the same he's had ever since they were children: his lips part a little, almost in awe, and his eyes widen ever so slightly with a spark Will dares not to name; then, slowly, the corners of his mouth tilt upwards in a smile of amazement so sincere it makes his chest ache a bit. Will discovered how much he adores this sight when they were five and he gifted Mike a drawing for the very first time— and he's now learning that such adoration hasn't dimmed out one bit.

"Holy shit, Will," he finally says after a while, tracing with his eyes every stroke of the pen.

Pride blooms inside his chest dangerously. "I take it you like it?"

Mike stares at him, incredulity all over his features. "Like it? Will, I love it. It's better than all the pictures I have of me combined," he declares, his voice impossibly genuine. He lifts the sketchbook from the table and puts it next to his face, a stupid grin on his lips. "Am I really this handsome?"

Despite himself, Will lets out a snort. Then, without really thinking about it, he replies: "Maybe."

A dumb laugh escapes Mike, but Will doesn't miss the rosy color that quickly rises up his cheeks. It's so faint that for a moment he wonders if he's seeing things, but he knows his eyes don't deceive him like that.

Huh.

"Thanks, man. Can I keep it?" he says after a beat, his face still flushing red.

Will swallows. The sight of a flustered Mike is not something he ever dreamed of achieving himself, but it is nonetheless ridiculously satisfying. His heart jumps contently inside his ribcage in a way he's not used to. "Of course. Keep it safe, alright?"

Mike scoffs. "I've kept every single drawing of yours safe and sound since kindergarten. Who do you take me for?"

He can only roll his eyes, biting down a grin of his own.

July 4, 1986

Despite being a smalltown, Hawkins tends to go all out when it comes to holidays and special celebrations. The mayors don't shy away from hosting big and expensive carnivals for the people to enjoy, with a lot of games, fairs and even more food trucks to pick from.

Because of the lockdown and everything it entails, though, this year there hasn't exactly been a festive atmosphere for people to cling to, and the government and military dogs made it super clear that no one was allowed to exit or enter town, pretty much leaving everyone to their own devices.

Evidently, not the liveliest or most exciting Fourth of July that will go down in Hawkins' history. But at least they'll have the fireworks.

Mike drops down next to him, where he's sitting on the wet grass of the Wheelers' yard, and hands him a can of beer. Will frowns, an amused smile tugging his lips. "Since when do we drink beer?"

Mike shrugs. "Thought that, you know, we probably should try it in case the world ends or something," is what he offers in explanation, although he doesn't seem all that convinced himself. "Hope you don't mind sharing. It was the only one I could sneak out without my dad noticing."

"Does your dad ever notice anything?" he can't help but ask, laughing at his own question.

Mike rolls his eyes. "Trust me, for stupid shit like beer, he does."

"Well, it doesn't matter. I doubt I'll be too fond of this thing anyway," he mumbles, opening the can with a loud pop. He scrunches up his nose. "God. It stinks."

"Does it?" Before he has the chance to hand him the can, Mike is leaning on him— more exactly, on the open beer. He lingers for no more than a few seconds, but it's enough for his body to go absolutely still. He only dares to breathe when Mike finally sits back up, grimacing. "Yep. Stinks."

Will swallows nervously. "Told you."

"What matters is the taste, though. C'mon, try it."

He blinks. "Why do I have to go first, again?"

"Because guests go first, always. I'm just showing basic host courtesy," Mike replies, an amused smirk drawn on his lips.

Will absolutely hates how the sight makes his belly do a stupid, funny twist. Whatever. Whatever. "Better to get it over with, then," he grumbles. Then, without really bracing himself, he brings the can up to his mouth and takes a sip— and as soon as the liquid meets his tongue, he pulls back as if the can personally hurt him. "This shit is disgusting, Mike."

Of course, Mike only bursts into laughter. What exactly is so amusing to him, Will knows not, but he finds himself laughing too. He playfully bumps his shoulder, which Mike immediatly reciprocates. "Okay. My turn."

Will hands him the can, their fingers brushing as he does; the stubborn part of his brain immediately craves for more and he has to forcibly shut down the quick succession of stupid, dangerous thoughts that follow. And God, he feels so hopelessly pathetic. "All yours, for all I care," he mumbles, occupying his fingers with the hem of his hoodie lest they decide to wander off to someplace else. Like Mike's own, for example.

Mike tilts the can as he presses it against his mouth, and Will has to absolutely urge himself not to stare— but it's so, so hard for his eyes not to linger on his Adam's apple when he swallows, on the wetness of his flushed lips when he pulls back. And he knows that the warmth pooling on his stomach is wrong, that he can't exactly blame it on the distasteful beer, and yet again he can't help it. He can't ever help it.

He tears his gaze away before Mike can notice his slip up, instead posing it on the starry sky. No fireworks yet.

"It's not that bad," Mike mumbles, but his tone is nothing if not disgruntled.

Will doesn't dare to look at him, even if he feels his eyes on his face. "It's not like we have to drink it."

"But it'll be such a waste if we don't," he immediatly argues, and then he's pushing the can back towards him. "Sharing is caring."

He rolls his eyes even if Mike can't see it and reluctantly takes a sip: it tastes a little less bitter than the first, at least, and for a moment he wonders if it has to do with the fact that Mike's lips brushed the can. Which is a ridiculous thought he mentally slaps himself for. "What time is it anyway? Shouldn't the fireworks have started already?" 

Mike accepts the can back as he checks his watch. "Nine. Anytime, now."

Will nods. "Alright. Cool." He urgently needs a distraction from Mike, who hasn't really done anything to set him off his orbit other than exist. And as of late, that alone is enough to make him mad. It would've been awesome for the whole party to hang, but Lucas was going to stay by Max's side —naturally—, Dustin had already made plans with Steve and Robin and El, well, just not the biggest fireworks enthusiast.

Which left only the two of them. And it's not exactly awkward, but it does feel vastly different. Will doesn't want for a second to stop and ponder on what that difference means. 

He takes a longer sip almost in autopilot when the can is placed back on his hand. And he knows Mike is staring, but he can't bring himself to stare back. 

From the corner of his eye he sees Mike opening his mouth, potentially to say something, but he shuts it close when a loud firework erupts in the sky; Will almost drops the can, but is fast to catch it before it spills any beer on the grass. That is followed by two smaller and bright red fireworks; it, for a split second, reminds him to the Upside Down, to that scarlet storm that refuses to leave his mind. Of course, the moment it bursts into a star-shaped explosion he's brought back to the Rightside Up.

He takes a deep breath. It admittedly makes a nice spectacle. "They're pretty this year," he mumbles, if only to say something.

"They always are," Mike corrects after a brief pause.

But Will can still feel his eyes on him. Not on the fireworks, not on the sky, on him. He takes another deep breath, a little shakier this time. "You're going to miss them if you keep looking at me, though," he whispers. And for a moment he regrets it, because this isn't a girl he's talking to.

However, Mike laughs: it's soft, genuine and probably the best thing Will has ever heard. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

"Thinking," he repeats, slowly.

"Yeah. The first time I ever saw fireworks, I was with you," he explains, and Will can't help a stupid giggle at the memory that pops in his mind as clear as ever. Mike matches him with one of his own. "I used to be so afraid of them. Like, terrified. I remember Nancy had to turn the volume of the TV all the way up until they stopped. But that year I was with you. And you were so excited about it, I didn't have the heart to refuse."

Will shakes his head. "Served you to overcome that fear at least."

"Oh, definitely. You noticed right away, too. It was super embarrassing."

"I thought it was cute," he says.

"And what about now?"

Will blinks. Then in smooth deflection, he forces the can into Mike's hands. "Right now, I think you should finish what you started."

Mike snorts, rolling his eyes but gulping down what remains of beer anyway.

Will doesn't dare to say it out loud, but he still thinks Mike is cute. Very much so.

August 7, 1986

Despite the fact that summer break is meant for resting, they haven't exactly been doing much slacking off: if anything, the free time has only given them more time to ponder about Vecna and properly study the situation, gathering everything they have so far and attempting to connect dots that some argue aren't even there.

The big but has proven to be that neither has Will felt him nor has El been able to locate him. Which is unsettling, but more so discouraging.

That's when Nancy, the always cunning and upfront Nancy, suggested they go straight to pluck him out of his lair, given how every passive approach they tried was futile. Of course, everyone was a bit skeptical at first— but after some brainstorming they ultimately reached a consensus and devised a plan with very few holes. It just needed to be performed super meticulously, because any mistake could very well signify their deaths.

But that wasn't exactly new, so nobody really batted an eyelash at that and immediately got to work.

They've been preparing for this first crawl —that's how she decided to call it— for the past two months and even though they're taking every precaution available, the stakes are evidently high and so is the stress.

The Squawk is currently both lively and incredibly chaotic: given that it is Steve's current workplace, it was picked by default as the main base of operations. Dustin had stated such as a fact and Steve hadn't exactly protested, as he usually never does when it comes to his soft spot. The two of them already ran off outside to make sure everything is alright with the antena set in the van.

Meanwhile, El is talking to Hopper in what seems to be a pleading manner —he is not about to meddle, even if he deeply understands how she's feeling—, Nancy and Jonathan double-check the route, Mike and Lucas go over their task once again and his mother and Robin meddle with the frequencies.

Robin is the latest addition to their party. And that does feel unaccurate, provided that she's been around for over a year, but it's not like he's interacted with her much anyway. Still, he really likes her. In his eyes, at least, she's cool as fuck. And there's also a certain something about her vibe that makes his chest spark with fiery curiosity— and understanding, somehow.

His gaze must linger on her for longer than he realizes, for she looks up from the controller and meets him halfway. They only stare at each other for a beat far too long for his comfort until she awkwardly waves at him, an equally awkward smile on her lips. He waves back in typical Byers fashion: stiff and, of course, awkward.

God. He feels really fucking stupid right now.

Thankfully, he's not left to replay the interaction in his head as a way of self-inflicted death caused by embarrassment: the worn out couch sinks by his side, an all familiar warmth immediately overcoming his senses as he turns his head to meet Mike's face. He looks tired, and definitely anxious, which mercilessly tugs at his heart.

Nonetheless, he smiles at him. It's a strained, barely there smile, but enough to soothe his concern even if just a little bit. "Hey."

Will smiles back at him. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"Batshit scared," he admits, voice low, "but I know we'll pull through. We have to." Will only nods. He's not so sure he believes it himself, but voicing it out would just kill the morale even more. Mike shifts in place, fidgeting with his fingers. "And how are you feeling?"

He snorts, humorless. "As fine as someone who's not involved can be."

Mike sighs. "I know it can be frustrating, but your mom is kinda justified. Just give her more time." When Will only nods in response as Mike inches closer, their knees brushing together. There is that familiar tenderness in his voice when he speaks: "Will. There's no reason for you to put yourself in danger, not yet. Better safe than sorry."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just wish I could do something," he says, irritation slipping through despite his best efforts. "I feel like I'm just sitting on my ass and waiting for others to do the job."

Mike hums, amusement pulling his lips upwards. "When you put it like that, I kinda see it," he says, a teasing edge to his voice. Will can't help a snort as he playfully elbows his side, Mike only laughing in response. "Sorry, sorry. But, you know, I really don't think you should feel bad about it. You'll shine. I'm sure of it."

"And what makes you so sure about that?" 

"You always step up when we need you to. Like, remember back when you were possessed?" Will nods because yes, of course he remembers. "You were completely out of it. The Mind Flayer had you. And yet you still somehow found a way to communicate with us. Like, seriously, what kid is smart enough to mock an interdimensional monster through morse code?" 

He says it jokingly, but he looks very serious about it nonetheless. Will feels his cheek burn hot. "I mean— yes, maybe, but if it weren't because of you guys trying to pull me back then I don't know if I would've been able to."

Mike's eyes widen in disbelief. "Dude. Seriously. You have to cut that out." 

He blinks. "What?"

"The whole giving others more credits thing. Like, we helped, I guess. But you were the one that fought through," he says, leaning in a little closer. Will swallows with some difficulty. "And, like, do you remember those crazy drawings you made? The ones sprawled all over your house that somehow were all connected? Jesus. I still don't know how the fuck you achieved that. But I do know that some would not be here were it not for that," and at that, he pointedly nods in Hopper's direction.

Will takes a deep breath. The oxygen feels a little scarce with how close Mike is. "Okay. I see your point." 

"And I'm absolutely right," Mike says, maybe a little too smug. "All I'm saying is, you need to stop being so damn hard on yourself. What truly matters is that you step up when the situation needs it, and I know you will. Even if the odds are against us, I know you'll find a way." 

He lets out a sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "I guess I do have a knack for defying odds." 

Mike bumps his shoulder. "Sure you do." 

Before he can add something else, another voice cuts through— Dustin's, to be precise. "Everything set up and ready to go. Chief, ready when you are. Lucas, Mike?"

The two boys exchange a quick look and nod. "Ready," they say in unison. 

Mike turns to look at Will. He gives him an encouraging nod, and with that he's jumping off the couch.

But before he can go too far, Will grabs his wrist: he barely registers that he does, only doing so when his fingers are wrapped around him. Not that he can backtrack now. Mike does this thing with his eyebrows that never fails to drive him crazy. "What is it?"

His voice is impossibly soft. Will's heartbeat skyrockets in a way that's potentially dangerous. He clears his throat. "Be safe. You and Lucas, I mean. Don't get yourselves arrested." 

Mike snorts. "'Course not."

He reluctantly lets go of his hand, his eyes following his silhouette until he's out of sight— that is the sole reason he misses Robin's gaze on him, curious and oblivious all the same. 

September 18, 1986

With the lockdown and all the earth being split open by a mysterious force stuff going on, the authorities deemed it safer for the school year to start a bit later than usual. And Will couldn't have been more thankful, because he absolutely needed more time to adjust back to Hawkins before resuming the torture that is high school.

Still, the inevitable can only be prolonged so much.

Will opens his locker only to find yet another zombie boy poster stuck inside, third one this week. He only looks at it for a short moment before crumpling it down, shoving it with little care inside his pocket. Truth is, this isn't exactly surprising— the mocking didn't stop back in Lenora and he certainly wasn't expecting it to stop in Hawkins, because even if the world is ending, bullies will be bullies. And they don't get any more creative either, it would seem.

It's not that he's not bothered by it, but he's learned not to care as much as he used to. He's got way bigger problems anyhow.

He grabs the book he needs and shuts the locker closed only to meet an unfamiliar face already looking at him, propped against the lockers with a confidence that makes him want to throw up. Even if he does not —thankfully— know this guy, he does register he's from the basketball team. Which again doesn't faze him: the first thing Mike warned him about was this group of jocks that apparently have it as a life mission to terrorize them. Will guesses that must include him by proxy, because he barely knows their names.

"So. You're zombie boy," the guy says after a few seconds of only looking at him —intimidation tactic, he guesses—, a smirk plastered on his lips. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Pretty sure everyone in town has," he mutters. He immediately regrets it, because the guy's expression molds into something way less friendly. He swallows. "But, yeah. Is there anything I can help you with, uh...?"

"Chance. Name's Chance," he replies. Then, as if to compose himself, he takes a deep breath. "I'm just a little curious, zombie boy. Are you friends with the Hellfire losers?"

Will tilts his head. "Hellfire losers as in?"

Chance rolls his eyes in feigned amusement. "You know. Henderson, Sinclair..." He pauses, looking at him up and down in a scrutinizing way he doesn't like in the slightest. "Wheeler."

He doesn't miss the suggestive way in which he says that one last bit, but he wisely chooses to ignore it. He only nods and prays that his face doesn't give anything away. "Uh. Well, yes. Why?"

"You see, we noticed you and Wheeler always get here together. Like, same time and all," he says, giving him that same knowing stare people used to give him —and still do, frankly— when he was a kid. It makes him nauseous. "And please don't take this the wrong way, but we are just a little curious. Are you two like, queer or something?"

Of course, the way he poses the question is anything but curious: it's taunting and venomous in a way he's far too used to for it to come off as a shocker, but it's enough to force the air out of him like a punch to the gut. He sucks in a deep breath. "No, we're not."

He doesn't stop there. They never do. "Are you sure? Because I've seen you two. You don't act like normal friends do."

Will shakes his head. "I'm not sure I follow, but we are not."

"What, friends?"

He sighs. "Queer. We are not queer." He regrets the way his words come out his mouth like daggers pointed at no one but himself, but he's known for a while that it's something he can hardly help— among many other things he wishes didn't feel like they do.

Thankfully, Chance isn't smart enough to catch that. He finally stands up straight and steps closer, pretty much invading the little personal space he had in a way that makes him greatly uncomfortable. "I think you're lying, zombie boy."

Will does his best to keep his face schooled, not to show any kind of weakness. He knows he's probably failing miserably. "You can think that, but I'm not. Is there anything else? I need to get to class."

Chance clicks his tongue and opens his mouth, but whatever he was about to say is forcibly shoved back down his throat when he's pushed against the lockers with a loud thud. And Will is usually always relieved to see Mike, but he cannot think of a worst moment for him to show up.

Mike lets go of him like his stupid sports jacket is on fire and immediately turns to Will, concern all over his face. It makes him feel sick. "Are you okay?"

Will nods hurriedly, his eyes darting between the two. "Yeah. Yeah, we were just—"

"Talking, we were just talking," says Chance, now boring holes into Mike's face. "And talk about good timing. Tell me something, Wheeler, are you guys queer?"

Mike's expression hardens into a mixture of irritation and defensiveness. Will is not about to stop and think about what that could possibly mean. "Fuck off, Chance. Don't you have some balls to play with anyway?"

Will bites his tongue to stop a laugh that could very much earn him a black eye. Chance doesn't seem to think it's funny, for he straightens himself in a poor attempt at making himself bigger and takes a step closer to Mike. "You looking for a fight, freak?"

Mike rolls his eyes. "The earth split open, dude. I'm not afraid of you."

It's the wrong thing to say. Will can immediately tell by the shift in Chance's posture, and he realizes the guy might actually start throwing punches in the middle of the damn hallway like a mindless brute. However before he can say anything, someone else helpfully —and with no doubt accidentally— difuses the situation. "Practice, now! Hurry the fuck up, Chance!"

All three pair of eyes fly to Andy, who's waving his arms from the other end of the hallway. Chance curses something under his breath as he turns around, not before pointing an accusatory finger in Mike's direction. "You have it coming, Wheeler," he says in classic jock fashion.

Mike says nothing back, but his shoulders do noticeably slump in relaxation.

When Chance is finally out of earshot, Will lets out the breath he has been holding for the past five minutes. "Thanks for that. But I can defend myself, you know."

A tentative smile pulls Mike's lips upwards as his full attention is back on Will. Having his eyes staring down at him so intensely always makes his stomach feel funny. "I know. But that guy really pisses me off," is what he offers in explanation. Then, concern flickers all over his features. "Did he do anything to you?"

Will hurries to shake his head. "No, no— he was just, you know, being a dick. But that's hardly surprising." 

"You should've slammed his stupid face right into the damn locker," Mike says, only half-joking. 

Still, Will snorts. "I could try that next time. But, seriously, I'm fine. Good thing about being bullied your whole life is that you grow used to it, right?" 

Mike purses his lips. "Right. Doesn't mean it's okay for these assholes to walk all over people with no consequences whatsoever." 

"Well, no," is all Will can offer. Chance's words keep ringing in his ears— because despite the fact that he's dumb and a jerk and not the best reference, he might have made a fair point back there. Or so Will believes, at least, with raw dread unfurling inside his stomach the more he thinks about it. He swallows. "Do you think maybe we should take a different path to come to school? Like, both." When Mike only frowns in confusion, he chooses to elaborate: "I mean— they noticed. That we get here together. More people might notice and, you know, people talk." 

Mike huffs almost in annoyance. "People talk no matter what you do, Will." 

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm just saying, more as a safety measure. I don't want you to catch strays because of me," he admits, leaning his back against the cold metal. 

"Listen," Mike says, taking a deep breath. "While I see your point, I personally don't give a shit about what any of those idiots have to say about anything. They can say I eat worms for breakfast, for all I care." Will can't help a snort at that. Mike shifts almost nervously in place. "However— if that makes you more comfortable, then we can do it. But only if you truly feel like it." 

Will nods his head, slowly. "I mean, if you really don't mind it, then it's fine."

"I don't. I really don't," Mike reassures him, mustering a smile that probably mimics his own. "Cool?" 

Will nods again, because it's the only thing he manages: as he's learned across the years, his control over his body is pretty much rendered nonexistent when Mike speaks so gently.

"Cool," he echoes after a beat. 

October 31, 1986

It's nothing short of criminal that they have to submit english homework despite having a psychopathic interdimensional creature on the loose, but they can't exactly use that as an argument against the principal unless they want to be haunted down by the military and God knows what else. English homework due or not, however, there's one night per year that none is willing to compromise, no matter what.

Halloween night.

And Will has to admit he felt incredibly homesick this time around a year ago: they were barely settling in Lenora and knew nobody besides the friendly granny across the street, so going out was completely out of the question. He ended up just staying home with El, watching a lame horror movie that didn't at all faze them while looking back on his last Halloween— which wasn't great either, but being back in Hawkins amidst the naked trees and orange leaves scattered all over town definitely feels much warmer.

They wait awkwardly by the door as Mrs. Wheeler takes one last pic of Holly, who's dressed as Strawberry Shortcake. She turns to them with severe expression. "I want her home by nine. Got it, Michael?"

Mike rolls his eyes, reaching for his jacket. "Yes, mom, I got it."

"We'll keep her safe. Don't worry, Mrs. Wheeler," Will says, smiling when Holly all but snatches her little basket from her mother's hands.

The breeze outside is cold, urging him to tuck his hands inside his pockets as Holly gets ahead of them, skipping around happily. Mike sighs by his side, but he can tell it's a good one. "I'm getting a little nostalgic now."

Will hums, his gaze lingering on the sway of her pigtails: she occasionally turns around to make sure they're still following her and Will swears his heart is swelling. He wonders if this is how Jonathan felt when he was little. "Me too. I hadn't realized how much I missed Hawkins, despite everything."

Mike huffs out a laugh. "It's a fucked up town, but at least it's ours," he says, their elbows brushing as they walk along. "You know, this past Halloween sucked." Will finally dares to look at him— he seems to be deep in thought, almost. "I mean, not having you around felt so weird. I didn't even feel like going out. It was like— like it wasn't even Halloween. I don't know, does that make sense?" 

He nods, his chest warming up with that unique and familiar understanding he only feels when it comes to Mike. "It does. Mine sucked too, at least, so that makes the two of us." Mike's face lights up at that, smiling at him in that genuine manner that spins his world around. He swallows and tears his gaze away, kicking a rock out of the way. "But, yeah. I'm really glad to be back, all things considered. I just really missed you. All of you. And the weather." 

Mike says nothing, but bumps against him in a way that feels all too intentional for it to go unnoticed, and the brief contact has him craving for more, maybe greedily so. He can't dwell on it much, though, for Holly suddenly runs off to a house already well packed with children. They stop their tracks and stand just outside, making sure their eyes don't leave her silhouette.

"We should've dressed up or something," Mike mutters, folding his arms. "Seeing all these little kids with their cool little costumes has me feeling jealous."

Will lets out a laugh, which Mike seems delighted to hear. "I mean, not much we could've dressed up as anyway, right?"

Mike huffs in annoyance. "Right. Stupid military and their stupid rules." Will nods in agreement, said stupid rules being that no one was allowed to go out wearing masks, fake blood or too much make up. He guesses that it must only be so they don't mistake a random civilian with, who knows, a fucking demogorgon, which is an incredibly stupid reasoning in itself— but then again, it's not like those guys seem to know what they're doing in the first place.

Holly comes running back to them soon enough, waving around her basket. "Look! I got a bunch of candy!"

Mike glances down, his brows shooting up in surprise. "Great haul, Holly. Geez, since when is this hag so generous?"

Will elbows him, but giggles nonetheless. "Lower your voice."

"Yeah, but you do remember her, right?" Mike asks, nodding towards the house where an old —ancient— lady is still giving out candies.

He rolls his eyes. "One candy per kid. 'Course I remember her."

The rest of the night is spent in a similar motion, with Holly wandering from one house to another while they trail right behind her. And it's honestly nowhere near as boring as it probably should be: they get great entertainment from trying to guess people's costumes, smiling knowingly when they recognize a particularly specific reference and recalling embarrassing experiences simply because they can, like that one time they were the only ones to show up at school wearing costumes.

Will still feels his stomach recoiling whenever he remembers that, among other things.

The walk back home is uneventful: they wandered off a little farther than they intended, though he's sure Mrs. Wheeler will forgive them as soon as she sees how much candy Holly gathered. And Will personally thinks those extra steps were worth it, for she is beaming— her energy has died down a bit, that's for sure, but she's still smiling giddily as she tells them how there was another girl with her same costume. She trusted Mike with her basket —which she shouldn't have, given that he's been sneakily eating some— and is now walking right inbetween them, her hands stretched upwards to hold theirs. 

"There was also a kid dressed up as the green guy from that movie you like," she says, looking up at her brother. 

"That's Yoda from Star Wars to you. Must've been a cool kid," is Mike's response. 

Holly rolls her eyes. "Yeah, that one. But tonight was super fun. And I got lots of my favorite candy. I can share with you guys though." 

Will grins. "You know, I won't say no to some Reese's Pieces." 

Mike lets out a laugh, and Will immediately glances at him. His eyes are full of this fondness of sorts that he still can't quite place his finger on. "You still like those?" he asks, very much knowing the answer. 

He shrugs. "They're delicious. Sue me." 

Mike shakes his head, still smiling. "No, I guessed as much back when we were kids. I remember I sorted through my haul every Halloween so I could give you the Reese's. Charming, aren't I?" 

If Will didn't know better, he'd say Mike is blushing— but he assumes it's the cold doing its magic. "Very charming, yes. You've done this town a great service." 

"I've done you a great service, thank you very much." 

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, alright, don't let it get to your head, charmer."

Mike lets out another laugh, more hearty and open than the last. Will thinks he might as well be growing addicted to the sight of it. 

November 27, 1986

Will isn't used to big Tanksgiving celebrations: his family isn't large, per se, and their always scarce financial situation never really allows them to go all out when it comes to food. But what he always loves about it are the cozy vibes and solemnity and, of course, having his mother and Jonathan with him, which is all he truly cares about.

So now he can't help but feel incredibly out of place.

For starters, there's so much food: besides the turkey, Mrs. Wheeler decided to prepare some extra beef and chicken —in case the men were feeling extra hungry, she said—, salads of all kinds that surely combine all the vegetables in the kitchen and a not-so-modest amount of rice and potatoes that will definitely be eaten throughout the week as leftovers. Will thinks that might've been her plan since the very beggining, and he can't say it isn't smart.

There's also the fact that it feels so much livelier than it ever did back in their home. Of course, that can very much be attributed to there being eight people sitting at the table instead of the three he's used to— which isn't uncomfortable only thanks to the fact that he's known the Wheelers for longer than he hasn't, but it still feels strange, almost like he's intruding.

Then again they might be intruding, if the looks Mr. Wheeler has been shooting them all day are anything to go by.

He's pulled back to earth when a gentle hand he immediately recognizes as Mike's is placed on his shoulder. He's looking at him with a mild furrow of his brows. "You okay?"

The embarrassment quickly washes over him as he realizes he's probably been staring at the turkey for the past five minutes. He clears his throat. "Yeah. I was just wondering if we'll be able to eat all this food."

Mike lets out a snort. When he pulls his hand back, Will finds himself missing the warmth already. "Don't worry about that. There's plenty of mouths to feed this year."

Before he can reply, Nancy shushes everyone with that intense look of hers that never fails to intimidate him a little. "Quiet down, please. No eating yet, Holly," she says, pointedly glancing at her little sister.

Holly stops her fork mid-air, pouting. "But I'm hungry, Nance."

"That's fine, sweetheart. We just need to show our gratitude first," intervenes now Mrs. Wheeler, holding in her hand a glass of wine. "Anyone wants to go first?"

"If I go first do I get to eat first too?" Holly asks, folding her arms. Will can't help a giggle.

Mrs. Wheeler sighs. "No, Holly, we need to wait for everyone."

She groans. "Gosh, but that is gonna take forever."

"I can start," Nancy cuts in, taking a deep breath. "This year, I'm grateful for being alive. And I know it might be a no brainer, but all things considered I believe it's worth mentioning. I'm also grateful for the good health of my loved ones, and for having Jonathan with me another year," she says, softly. She and Jonathan exchange a tender smile which, fair, is adorable. He's long stopped thinking of love as something gross, anyhow.

"So am I." Now it's Jonathan's turn, who shifts awkwardly in his seat. Will bites down a smile. "After being away, right now I'm just grateful for having the people I care about the most with me— my partner, my mother and my baby brother. Because you're still just a baby to me, Will," he says, a teasing edge to his voice as he turns to look at him. Their mother laughs and he rolls his eyes.

"Can I go now?" Holly asks, grinning when Nancy nods. "Okay, so— this year I'm grateful for making new friends and meeting Mary. Also, I'm grateful for all the toys and crayons I got. And I'm grateful to Will for teaching me to color super good." She's rocking side to side in her chair, smiling at him. Will almost melts in the spot. He adores this kid. 

Mike sighs next to him. "She likes you more than me. You took my job, Byers."

Will very maturely sticks his tongue out, to which Mike only responds by rolling his eyes with a playful smile on his lips.

"How very sweet of you, honey," says his mother, already a bit teary eyed. She's soft like that. "I'm grateful to you, Karen, for allowing us have a roof and all this delicious food. I really can't than thank you enough for that. I'm grateful for all the pleasant surprises this year has given us, too, and for our children's well-being."

Mrs. Wheeler smiles as she places a hand on top of hers, squeezing lightly. "I second that. I'm grateful for my family, because we are all together and healthy. And I'm grateful for being able to have you here with us as well, Joyce."

Both he and Jonathan mildly bow their heads, whispering thank yous not for the first time today. Will takes a deep breath before speaking, God knows how anxious he gets whenever it's his turn. "Like Nancy said, I'm grateful for being alive and well. I'm grateful for my loved ones, and I'm especially grateful for being back in Hawkins, all things considered, with the people I grew up with."

Mike is smiling at him when he turns to face him, his eyes wrinkling around the edges in a way that makes him dizzy and warm all over. And he dares not to say it out loud, but above all he's grateful for having Mike back. Mike, his best friend. The boy he's hopelessly in love with, who efortlessly spins his world around. His stubborn, impossibly caring Mike.

Will sucks in a shaky breath when Mike's hand tentatively brushes against his thigh beneath the table, lingering far too long for it to not be intentional: in a manner that's nothing if not incriminating, he tears his gaze away and swallows visibly, his smile faltering as a blush spreads all the way up the tip of his ears.

He's glad he isn't eating, because he's sure he would've choked otherwise. Still, he doesn't pull away: he leans into the touch, bumping his knee against Mike's in a way he knows won't appear accidental. He says nothing, but he feels Mike relax by his side, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

Mrs. Wheeler bursts their nonexistent bubble. "Go on, Michael."

Mike stutters like he always does when he's caught doing something. Will wants nothing but to pinch his cheeks. "Uh— Well, I don't want to repeat what everyone has said. Though I share the sentiment. But, I mean, I'm personally grateful for all the time I've spent with my friends, the good and the ugly," he says, letting out a sigh. "And, of course, I'm grateful for having the Byers back."

Joyce pouts, placing a hand over her chest. Jonathan first looks at him and then at Mike, a sincere enough smile pulling his lips upwards. Will says nothing, because he knows he doesn't have to: he only bumps their knees together again, a message he hopes is clear enough— and it must be, for Mike bumps back.

No one exactly waits for Mr. Wheeler to speak up, since no one expects him to actually do so. As they grab some potatoes, he and Mike share a knowing smile.

December 9, 1986

They're sprawled on the couch, Will's legs posed atop Mike's lap as he leans against the armrest and darts his eyes all over the page. It's stupidly cold down here in the basement, but it is nonetheless the best place in the house to hang out without having Mr. Wheeler glaring at him— not to mention it always gives him a semblance of comfort that he can now only link to the best times of his childhood.

Mike wasn't wrong when he said this basement is basically a second home for him. Not really.

Small, fast steps follow the sound of the basement door being open wide. Will doesn't need to look up to know who it is.

Holly emerges from the stairs soon enough, shifting her weight from one foot to another the same way Mike used to when he was excited about something. She beams at them. "It's time to dress the tree! C'mon!"

She doesn't exactly wait for them to answer, running back upstairs as soon as her message is delivered. Will shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips as he exchanges a look with Mike. The latter only sighs as he stands up, gently pushing his legs aside. "You heard her," he says, stretching his back like an old man would. "Let's go dress that tree."

He nods and sets the comic book on the table, following Mike upstairs and into the living room, where Holly is already picking some ornaments from the box and hanging them in the lower branches. Mike crouches by her side, glancing inside the box. "What colors are we using this year, Holly?"

She tilts her head. "Can't we use them all?"

"We could use them all," Will says, bending down a little. "Or, we could each pick a color and stick to it. How does that sound?"

Holly blinks up at him, then down at the ornament in her hand. "Okay. I want the green ones."

Mike raises his brows up, eyes squinting a little as he picks up a random ornament. "Blue it is."

Will hums and grabs the bag with the golden ornaments, nodding approvingly. Mike hurries to gather the ones he needs so Holly can rummage through the box freely, as she quickly gets to work. Mike huffs out a laugh when she sneaks between them to hang a green sphere, her tongue sticking out in concentration.

"She's quite spirited," Mike says, twisting the branch at the tip so the ornament doesn't slip.

He scoffs, hanging one of his own near the top of the tree. "She behaves better than you, at least."

Mike looks almost offended for a split second, but then purses his lips thoughtfully. "I can't argue with that, no."

Will says nothing else, focusing instead on hanging the ornaments in the most harmonious way he can manage —sue him, he's a perfectionist to a fault— while Mike attempts to do the same, though he's way less precise and just places them in whatever empty space he sees. And stupidly enough Will can't help but feel a little bit more in love, as if he hasn't fallen way past salvation already.

He's so deep in his Mike related thoughts that he almost doesn't notice Holly tugging at his sweater, holding up an ornament with her other hand. "Can you put this one up there, please?" 

Of course, she's talking to Will. But Mike must not notice this, because his hand reaches down for the sphere at the same time Will does and their fingers brush in what feels like a burst of electricity, that same familiar spark whenever they just so happen to bump their hands together while walking side by side. It never fails to leave him wondering how warm his palm would feel against his, how well would their fingers slot together, and this time is no exception. 

So Will doesn't remove his hand, perhaps in self indulgence, but much to his surprise neither does Mike: they just stupidly stare at each other for what feels like several minutes, clueless and maybe even fearful, until Holly tugs at his sleeve again. "Hello?" 

Just like that, the moment is shattered. Will looks up, down, at Holly and then finally back at Mike, who's flushed in a way that would be cute were it not because he feels his own face burning. He swallows. "Right. Sorry, Holly, on it." 

As soon as Will takes the ornament Mike removes his hand, way too fast for it to seem casual. And even if he tries to hide it by looking down, Will catches his signature grimace, the one he does when he's beating himself up for something embarrassing. 

And though he's in no much better shape, Will musters enough courage to playfully elbow him. "You okay there?" 

Mike snaps his head up, his eyes glued to the green ornament Will just hung to avoid looking at him. "Totally. Yeah." He comes off awkward in a way he probably didn't intend, and Will can't say it isn't endearing. Then he clears his throat, followed by a deep breath. "So, uh, what do you think? Do we put some more?" 

Will tilts his head, scanning the entirety of the tree with his eyes: it looks beautiful, and it'll definitely look even prettier with the lights. "I think it's perfect. Adding more would be overkill, in my opinion." 

Mike nods. "I agree. It's great. What do you think, Holly?" 

She tilts her head the same way Will did, her eyes squinting. Then they go very wide with realization. "We're missing the star!"

"You are absolutely right," Mike says, already bending down by the box to pick up the tree topper, a beautiful and shiny golden star. He looks at it for a brief moment before turning to Holly, a gentle smile on his lips. "Do you wanna place it?"

Holly immediately lights up, a wide grin drawing itself on her face. "Obviously! Help me up!" 

"Alright, alright." Mike hands her the star, which she holds to her chest. They exchange a look, and Will feels himself smiling before Mike can even speak. "Help me out?"

He chuckles. "On three." They both crouch a little, carefully wrapping their arms around her legs. Then, after doing a shitty countdown with nothing but their locked eyes, they stand up straight while holding Holly, pushing her upwards.

She erups in giggles as they step closer to the tree, enough for her to reach the top and place the star. She gives it a little flick to make sure it's properly set and nods like an artist satisfied with their creation. "Now it's perfect," she says. 

Will can't help a laugh that shakes him as he looks at Mike, his face a little red from the effort. "Are you alright?"

Mike nods, a stupid grin on his face. "Better than ever."

December 24, 1986

Will loves christmas— loved it as a kid like every other child did and still loves it as a teenager opposed to a surprising big bunch of people his age. He loves to see the snowflakes falling through his window, for it always serves as a pretty landscape to paint, loves to see every house lit up in what only translates to liveliness, loves to see the tree dressed with the lights that once helped save his life. He loves presents, too, both to receive and to give them.

Because of the no small number of people now living in the Wheeler household, Nancy had posed the smart idea to play Secret Santa: that way, everyone would have to worry about one gift only instead of frying their brain for thinking too hard about what to get each person.

Will got Holly, which he couldn't have been more grateful for because he knew exactly what to get her. And he might or might not have spent a great amount of his savings, but he believes it was worth it: every artsy kid needs a proper sketchbook and big set of fifty different colored pencils. She's bound to love it, and that's enough for him.

Not as soon as they finish cleaning up the table, Holly tugs at her mother's sweater with a pleading look in her eyes. "Mom! Can we open the gifts now?" 

Mrs. Wheeler tilts her head. "But we always open those in the morning." 

She pouts. "Please, mom? I can't wait until tomorrow. My tummy hurts."

His mother giggles at that. Mrs. Wheeler just sighs. "Alright, sure. I suppose it can't hurt."

Holly jumps in excitement and gives her mom a half-hug before running off to the living room where the tree dressed by them just a few weeks ago stands bright, multicolored lights intertwining with every branch. Will and Mike exchange a look before following her, sitting on the couch. Holly decides to sit on the floor. 

She looks up at them, practically vibrating in place. "Who did you guys get? I got—"

"It's meant to be secret, Holly," interrupts a voice that belongs to her older sister, who takes a seat next to Jonathan on the couch across. 

Holly covers her mouth. "Right. Sorry. Where is everyone else?"

"Right here, sweetie," says a tired Mrs. Wheeler, a glass of wine in hand. Nancy scoots so she can sit by her side; his mother on the other hand is beaming as she sits next to him —she too loves christmas just as much as he does—, patting his shoulder excitedly; Mr. Wheeler looks borderline bored as he throws himself into his stupid armchair. Will wonders if there is anything this man is ever excited for at all. "Do you want to go first, Holly?" she asks.

Holly doesn't respond verbally, but she does nod excitedly and grabs a small bag from under the tree: it's a plain paper bag decorated with multiple childish scribbles and on it it's written with uneven handwriting "I LOVE YOU". She stands up and takes a few small steps towards Nancy, whose face immediately lights up. Will's probably does too, as everyone else's.

"For me?" Nancy asks, brows going up. 

Holly nods again. "Yes, for you. I hope you like it because I made if myself," she says, fidgeting with her pigtails when her sister carefully opens the bag. "Sorry I couldn't get you something... fancier." 

Nancy lets out a gentle laugh as she pulls out a colorful bracelet from inside the bag with small pearls that spell her name. "Oh, Holly, it's so pretty!" 

Holly gets on her tiptoes, grinning. "Really? So you like it?" 

"I love it," she says, sliding it on her wrist as if to make a point. "See? Beautiful. C'mon, give your big sister a hug." 

And she does, tightly wrapping her arms around Nancy. Jonathan looks at him and they exchange a smile. 

"Sucks to be the middle sibling," Mike mumbles, but there's no bite; if anything, he sounds fond.

Will can't bite down a snort as he bumps his shoulder against his. "Sucks to be you."

"Alright, alright, my turn," says Nancy after letting go of Holly. She grabs a box-shaped present and turns to her mother, who laughs into her hand.

"Oh, baby. Come here." 

After Mrs. Wheeler unpacks her brand new set of wine glasses —really pretty ones, Will has to admit— she grabs a big gift bag and gives Jonathan a tight hug before handing it to him. Inside there's two jackets that aren't exactly his style, but he thanks her with a big smile nonetheless.

Jonathan then picks up a small box and hands it to Mr. Wheeler, a strained smile on his lips. Will can imagine he isn't the dearest to him in the room. When Mr. Wheeler opens it and sees a mildly cheap watch inside, he pats his shoulder mildly affectionately and utters a Thanks, son that's barely audible for anyone that isn't Jonathan. It's really awkward and thankfully everyone decides to move on quick, including Mr. Wheeler.

He proceeds to give his mom a metal box of chocolates he didn't even bother wrapping, to which she only reacts with feigned surprise and a half-assed hug followed by a meek thank you. When she gets up from the couch to get her present she very indiscreetly gives Mike a side-eyed look, immediately giving herself away. Mike lets out a soft laugh and Will thinks he might as well just die on the spot.

Before giving him his present, she pulls him in for a hug. "Merry christmas, sweetie. I hope it's useful."

Mike is grinning when she lets go. "Merry christmas, Mrs. Byers. I'm sure I'll love it," he says, lowering himself into the couch with the present laying on his lap; he tears the wrapping paper carefully, trying and failing not to seem too excited (which Will thinks is adorable). His lips part in surprise as he pulls a book out of the box inside, and Will quickly reads the cover— The Ultimate Guide To Be a Dungeon Master: Everything You Didn't Know. "Oh my God. Mrs. Byers, this is awesome. Thank you so much."

He looks absolutely delighted in the particular way he does when he talks about something he's passionate about, and Will feels his heart tugging almost painfully inside his chest. One thing he's certain about is that he adores Mike more than he does D&D, one bold statement even for his standards.

He near shudders when Mike turns to him, smile bright. "Your mom knows her stuff, doesn't she?"

Will snorts. "Naturally. I've eaten her ear off about it since we're six."

Mike's whole expression softens into something more tender, something that always feels like it's reserved for his eyes only. The only reason he doesn't get lost in it is Mrs. Wheeler speaking up, startling them both: "Your turn, Michael." 

He immediately jumps off the couch and picks up a gift bag from underneath the tree, a yellow ribbon stuck on top but otherwise plain in terms of design. He fidgets with the handle a little before he extends it in Will's direction, clearing his throat. "For you. Merry christmas, Will."

Will hurries to take it from his hands, their fingers brushing as he does. He swallows. "Oh. Thank you."

Mike nods a little awkwardly before he sits again, the couch sinking by his side. He carefully opens the staple-sealed bag as to not accidentally rip it, and he feels his brows go up as he scans the content. Mike gets to talking right away: "I couldn't help but notice that your walkman was, you know, a little old and all. And I mean, you listen to music all day. So, yeah, I kinda figured you could use a new one. Hopefully it isn't silly or something."

He lifts his gaze from where it was glued to his gift, elated to see a very much prominent blush all over Mike's face; his breathing is a little uneven, too, and Will's only sane guess is that he's nervous. Which shouldn't by any means be as sweet as it is, but well. He is a man in love, spare him.

"It's perfect, Mike," he all but mutters, a smile he doesn't fight pulling his lips upwards. 

Mike lets out a sigh —of relief, Will knows— and nods. "Cool, cool. And, uh, there's something else," he mumbles. Will blinks at him before turning his eyes to the bag, and he quickly finds what Mike is talking about: right at the bottom lays a cassette. Once again, Mike speaks up before he can say anything: "I don't know if my music taste is superb, but it was worth a shot. I hope you like it. Feel free to give feedback and all."

He flips the cassette around, finding the words 'For Will'  written on it— such normally simple and empty words that now however feel charged, meaningful. Will almost feels like crying, but instead only takes a deep breath. "You made me a mixtape." It comes out like a statement, though he intended it as a question.

"I made you a mixtape," Mike echoes, sounding a little in disbelief himself. Something akin to panic flickers in his gaze. "It wasn't presumptuous, was it?"

Will can't help a chuckle that bubbles right from his chest. He shakes his head as he bites down on his lip, a poor attempt at hiding his amusement —nerves— and a motion that Mike shamelessly follows with his eyes. "No, it wasn't. It's incredibly thoughtful."

Mike mimics him with a laugh of his own, a little weaker. "Okay. Okay, cool."

Will feels stupid and stupidly in love. "Cool."

When he finally turns around to face the rest of the people, he's both embarrassed and relieved to meet Jonathan's gaze halfway, a knowing smile on his lips.

Before anyone can say anything, Holly thankfully takes the attention away from them. "So you got me," she says, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

"Guilty as charged," he replies, standing up from the couch to get her present: he tried to be as careful as possible with the appearance, putting the actual gift inside a small plastic box and wrapping said box in a pretty multicolored paper. "Merry christmas, Holly."

She giggles as she happily takes her gift, still sitting on the floor as she starts to rip off the paper not as carefully as Will was expecting, but well. He was the same as a kid, so he only shakes his head with a potentially stupid smile plastered on his face.

When she lifts the lid of the box her brows go up, her eyes comically wide. "No way!"

"Yes way," he says, not bothering to hold back a laugh.

Holly takes out the box of pencils and lifts it in the air like it's one big treasure. And for Will, at least, it is. "Look! There's like a hundred in here!"

Mrs. Wheeler gasps. "That is so nice, sweetheart! What do we say?"

She quickly stands up from the floor and quickly runs over to him, wrapping her short arms around him before he gets the chance to react. "Thank you, Will! You're the best!"

He sighs, patting her head affectionately. "I'm glad you liked it."

Holly steps back with a determined look on her face. "I'll draw something using them all, I think."

His mother leans her head against his shoulder at that, caressing his arm. Will smiles. "You better show it to me."

She nods furiously. "Obviously! You'll be the judge. And Mike can be the... audience."

Mike laughs next to him. Will does too, their elbows bumping against one another in a way that's not subtle for either.

January 1, 1987

Will zips up his jacket and hugs himself tightly, the winter breeze as unforgivingly cold as one could expect: he often gets anxious when the climate is like this, snow covering treetops and roofs alike and dark clouds threatening to spill freezing droplets anytime. He can't help but wonder if such low temperatures are a thing that works in favor for him the way fire works against, if it somehow makes him vulnerable, a perfect host. 

Such thoughts lead to nowhere, of course, because logically speaking if Henry wanted to take hold of him again he'd do it regardless of mundane factors like the weather. He only wishes he could entirely convince himself of it.

He absentmindedly checks his watch— one in the morning on the dot. The firework spectacle long dimmed out and he imagines that the alcohol must be starting to take effect for most, much like his mom and Mrs. Wheeler inside the house, while sobers either watch the shitshow or take it as an opportunity to flee and take much needed air, such as he's doing right now.

The thing about New Years is that it's supposed to be festive and intimate, both a time to celebrate to your heart's content the passing of another year and reminisce with your loved ones about it and give them a tight and warm hug while you're at it.

And despite that being whole thing about New Years, Mike still refused to hug him.

Well, no, perhaps refused isn't the exact word: more like avoided to do so. Just as Will began to walk towards him for an embrace, he practically scrambled upstairs claiming he needed to use the bathroom. He had stood in place for what felt like hours, feeling a bitter and dreadful sense of deja vu settling right in his stomach, but he got the message loud and clear nonetheless.

He walked out of there before anyone could question him, uttering a bullshit excuse about the house being too hot and needing some air— and now, staring up at the near pitch-black sky with his back pressed against the cold metal of the garage door, he's kind of regretting it solely because he's freezing. The idea of going back inside to prepare himself a hot cocoa is absolutely tempting, but just thinking about running into Mike makes him recoil.

Which is definitely a problem, because he can't exactly avoid him forever.

He sucks in a deep breath, his lungs filling with cold air in a way that's far from pleasant. He should go back, probably, before his mother gets hysterical. Or before he catches a nasty cold.

Not as soon as the thought crosses his mind, a branch creaks. "Will?"

He near flinches at Mike's voice, speak of the devil. He doesn't bother looking his way, instead fixing his eyes on the ground like it's the most interesting thing in the vicinity. "Mike."

Mike stays very still for a few seconds, but he's quickly walking up to him. He wishes he could see his expression, but doing so would involve looking at him. It doesn't exactly appeal him right now.

"Everything okay?" he finally asks, all but forcing himself into his line of sight. He refuses to look up, his feet toying with a rock. "It's like, really cold out here."

"It's not that bad," he lies, huffing out a shaky breath in silly contradiction. 

"It is that bad," Mike argues, because does he ever not?

Will sighs. "Then why don't you go back inside?"

A beat passes without him replying and Will hopefully thinks he might actually do just that. Of course, he doesn't, and instead takes a step closer. "I was looking for you, actually," he mumbles, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. "Though I would appreciate it if you looked at me while I'm talking."

A shiver runs all the way up his spine at his serious tone, one he isn't accustomed to. He straightens up and dares to meet his eyes, an indecipherable expression molding his features. "Okay. I'm looking." If his own tone comes out snarky, he doesn't really bother hiding it.

Mike opens his mouth just to not say anything. He only speaks when Will raises his eyebrows. "I just wanted to talk."

Will blinks. "Alright. Talk about what?"

"About this whole year. I mean, there's like a lot to talk about, right?" He slides his hands inside his pocket, wetting his lips. "So much shit has happened. It's kinda crazy that we're still alive, isn't it?"

His whole demeanor it's awkward, unnatural, and Will recognizes it all too well. Before he can fall further down this nonsense hole, Will decides to throw in a helping hand: "If you need to say something, just get to it."

Mike goes rigid, evidently caught. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Sorry. Bad habit." When Will says nothing, only staring at him pointedly, he takes a deep breath. "Can I hug you?"

He can't help but frown. "Excuse me?"

"Can I?"

Will feels his brows go up in disbelief. "Why didn't we just hug back there?"

Mike huffs out almost in exasperation. "It— it just didn't feel right. I mean, I've kinda been a jerk. You know, last year in Lenora, I was an asshole."

"Yes?" He blinks in confusion. "Didn't we already settle that?"

"We did, but that's not my point. What I'm trying to say is that, I don't know, I guess I want to make it up to you and a shitty New Years hug just didn't feel like the proper way to do it— does that make sense?" 

It doesn't, not really. Will wishes he could see right through him like he used to, but nowadays he only gets meek glimpses. What he does see this time is vulnerability, a protectiveness of some sorts that gives away the fact that he's lying and hiding behind a poorly made up excuse. 

But he's not about to make wild assumptions about the reason for it, he's not gonna allow himself to hope, much despite his brain supplying him with ideas that might or might not be coherent with his own fears.

He can't go down that path. Not now, not ever.

Mike is not like him.

He's not. 

So he nods, mercifully leaving Mike in the dark regarding his train of thought. "Yeah, sure. I guess that makes sense." 

Mike lets out a sigh. "Okay. Cool." 

He smiles weakly. "Cool." 

They stand stupidly for just a few seconds that very well feel like agonizing hours, staring into one another's gaze with nothing else to say. That is until Mike wraps his arms around him, tentatively at first as if to give him an out— but when Will doesn't pull away he all but melts into him, embracing him with a neediness of some sorts that feels foreign: his hands fumble all over his back like he doesn't know where to place them, and Will has never dreaded a jacket more than now. He wants nothing but to feel his touch, to have his fingertips brushing his skin the same way they're brushing the fabric now.

Mike ultimately stills his hands on his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer. It is only then that Will realizes he's been frozen in place like a damn statue— so before Mike even gets the chance to question what they're doing, he brings his hands up and tightly envelopes his waist with his arms. And the effect is immediate: Mike rests his cheek against the top of his head, letting out a sigh and humming softly into his scalp as his body finally relaxes against his. Will allows himself to take a deep breath, taking in the tame smell of his cologne that by now is more familiar than his own. 

Will can't help but think that it just feels right— that despite everything their bodies still fit as perfectly as they used to when they were two kids sharing a sleeping bag, that having their arms wrapped around one another gives him a semblance of safety and belonging so unique he can't fairly name it, that the winter cold feels suddenly insignificant compared to the warmth that fills every corner of his being. 

So they just hold each other, and Will doesn't bother to keep track of time. He can't. All he knows is that he's being held by Mike, so tightly it almost feels like he's afraid he might vanish into thin air. 

With his face pressed against the crook of his neck, Will feels a smile tugging the corners of his mouth upwards. "I can feel your pulse." 

Mike lets out a soft laugh that shakes them both. "And what does it tell you?" 

"For starters, that you are very much alive," he whispers, his lips brushing his skin as he talks. "And that your heart is beating fast." 

Mike visibly swallows. "Is it now?" 

Will nods in the best way he manages. "Yes. Very fast."

As the words leave his mouth, Mike shifts a little— he slightly pulls back, forcing Will to crane his neck up and properly look at him: his face is flushed in a way he can't attribute to the cold, his eyes brighter than he's ever seen them, and Will takes in the sight because Mike allows him.

A shaky breath escapes him when Mike presses two cold fingers against the side of his neck, so tenderly it makes him ache. After a beat passes he smiles, a mixture of tenderness and satisfaction on his lips. "Yours is racing."

The absurdity of the situation only allows him to laugh. "You're ridiculous." 

Mike's grin impossibly widens, a view he can't indulge in for long before he's embracing him again. "Happy New Years, Will." 

Will shakes his head, his forehead pressing against his shoulder. "Happy New Years, Mike."

January 19, 1987

Holly slides two branches into her snowman, smiling in self satisfaction as she claps her gloved hands together. "All done. What do you think?"

Will stands up from where he was crouching, tilting his head. He nods approvingly. "Looks fine to me. But it's missing something, don't you think?"

She scrunches up her nose. "What is?"

"It needs a scarf. What if it gets cold?"

"Snowmen don't get cold," she states as a fact.

He snorts. "Right, fair point. But maybe it would like to be fashionable."

"Fashionable," she echoes, contemplating her work. Then she sighs and nods, craning her neck up to look at him. "I'll go get something fashionable for it. Wait here, okay?"

He lets out a soft laugh. "Wasn't thinking of going anywhere."

When Holly runs off to go back inside, Will is about to sit down next to her snowman.

But then it starts.

A snowball hits him cold in the back and he straightens up in instinct. He quickly turns to catch the offender, but he needed not to do so to know who said offender is: standing a few feet away is Mike, a mischevious grin on his face as he pats a mildly bigger snowball resting on his hand. "You up for this?" 

Will lets out a scoff before he kneels down and picks up a chunk of snow, quickly shaping it into a neat ball. "Don't you complain later." 

And with that, it's on— a full on snowball war on the Wheelers' backyard.

The next snowball is thrown by Will, directly aimed at Mike's chest, and he immediately backs away in a poor attempt at dodging it. He is quickly bending down to pick up more snow, but before he can retaliate Will sends another ball his way, this one landing right atop his shoulder: it gets snow all over his face, and Will fails to bite down a giggle that is nonetheless cut short by a mass of snow —definitely not a ball— hitting him straight in the face.

Mike laughs openly at that, a sight so beautiful it makes his heart skip a beat. "Don't go letting your guard down, Byers."

He rolls his eyes. "Am not." And as if to make a point he quickly shapes up a snowball with his hands before he throws it in Mike's direction.

Mike runs off and Will trails right behind him, and suddenly it's like they're two kids chasing one another in the playground again: they halt their legs only to gather snow and throw it at the other in the form of poorly shaped snowballs that they either fail to dodge —causing them both to erupt in childish laughter— or aim miserably —which earns the shooter mocking taunts from the other—.

And it's familiar, like everything that involves Mike tends to be: it's familiar because silly snowball fights used to be a daily winter thing before the angsty and chaotic teen years hit them like a damn disease, it's familiar because they can predict and match each other's plays and energy in a way no one else would be able to, it's familiar because it's them. Such notion gives him a comfort that should probably not feel as right as it does.

At some point Mike bends down and supports his hands on his knees, taking in ragged breaths with his face flushed because of the exercise. And Will isn't in much better shape, his heart thumping fast inside his ribcage, but he takes Mike's lowered guard as one perfect opportunity nonetheless: before Mike can realize his misstep, Will hurries to make a small, proper snowball and throw it at him— and like a good decisive blow, it falls atop his head like a bullseye.

He tries and fails to stifle a laugh by covering his mouth. Mike slowly tilts his head up, a mixture of surprise and amusement flickering across his gaze. "You brought this upon yourself, Byers."

Will only realizes what's happening when Mike all but sprints in his direction like a tied up dog whose leash just snapped in two, and he has no time to react before he's being tackled to the ground, his back hitting the cold snow surprisingly gently. He huffs out a breathy laugh when both his hands are pinned atop his head: Mike's grip around his wrists is by no means strong and he could absolutely break free should he try. But he doesn't.

He can only chuckle softly —both amused by the situation and nervous about the proximity— as Mike shakes his head furiously, all the snow that was resting on his hair falling all over Will's face. He smirks down at him. "I win."

Will only blinks up at him, trying not to dwell too much on the heat spreading all over his body. "Snowball fights are meant to be won through snowballs, Mike. Tackling doesn't count."

Mike raises his brows. "Well, you attacked me while I was distracted. I don't think that counts either."

"You were the one that told me not to let my guard down."

"Wow. Using my own words against me?"

"And that's on you. Can't preach and not practice."

Mike licks his bottom lip, a motion that catches his eye like a magnet pulls a metal. "Is that so."

Will takes a slow, deep breath. "That is so."

He doesn't reply, and neither does Will say something else to fill the silence. By all means it should be awkward, to be pinned beneath him with their faces so close their noses could brush if Mike lowered his head a little, the heat radiating from his body mixing with his own, and yet it's not— it's once again nothing if not familiar, warm and intimate in a way he only knows through Mike: Mike, who is staring him down in ways he probably shouldn't.

His gaze wanders all over his face, trailing every one of his features as if he's trying to commit them to memory. Will stays very still, his own eyes searching Mike's expression to find a semblance of something, anything that could give away what's going through his head, but all he sees is uncertainty, like not even Mike himself knows what he's thinking; that is, until his eyes finally land on his lips. His breath catches so subtly that Will probably wouldn't have noticed were he not mere inches away, and it's only then that Will sees it— something that's looked back at him from the mirror more than once, something he knows well.

Fear.

And he knows what it means. He should know, at least, but in truth he doesn't: he doesn't because it could mean many things, he doesn't because because he knows for a fact that Mike isn't like him, he doesn't because he's long accepted it.

So why is he looking at him like this?

"Will, look what I found— hey, what are you guys doing!?"

Will has never been more grateful to hear Holly's voice.

Mike gets off him at light speed, wiping the snow off his clothes. His eyes dart nervously between him and Holly. "Oh, uh, nothing, Holly, we were just—"

"—wrestling," Will offers helpfully, standing up from the floor.

Mike nods enthusiastically. "Yes! Yes, we were wrestling."

Holly frowns a little, but ultimately shakes her head. "Whatever. Boys," she mumbles, though they both hear her very clearly. Then she lifts a piece of cloth into the air, some kerchief of sorts. "Is this fashionable, Will?"

Will lets out a laugh and with that, the tension leaves his body. "Very fashionable, Holly."

He turns to look at Mike only to find he was already looking his way, a conflicted expression on his face. And he's once again saved by Holly grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the snowman.

February 14, 1987

Valentine's Day is at best an insignificant date for him and at worst a painful reminder that he's not a normal teenager. It's usually the latter: seeing couples walking hand in hand, giggling stupidly and looking at one another like it's only them against the world never fails to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and much more deep down a feeling of longing something he knows he'll never get to have— because despite his best efforts, he'll never get to smile knowingly at his lover in public, much less hold them like normal people do.

He came to terms with it when he was very, very young and his friends started to develop crushes and think about girls the way he often found himself thinking about Mike. That longing only got worse when his friends became the couples he watched on the street, when Mike became the guy leaving sweet pecks on his girlfriend's cheek in a way he used to think as disgusting yet that he couldn't help but feel jealous of. But he came to terms with it as well, eventually.

But this year is different. This year is different because he's stuck in the Wheelers' house and because Mike is willingly hanging out with him instead of El like he has for the past few years every single day of the week. And Will had imagined he'd be a bit gloomy, maybe, but he doesn't seem all that affected in the slightest: if anything, it seems like just another day for him as well. Which, in a way, does help to lift his own spirits.

They are, for a change, in Mike's bedroom and while he's been absentmindedly sketching landscapes he has never seen, Mike's been in charge of the music. Sort of. 

When he saw the guitar leaned against the wall, he believed it was for show. It had to be: it wouldn't have been the first time he got an instrument just for it to remain untouched inside his closet for the rest of eternity. But he was wrong, and Mike himself proved it to him by playing a riff he didn't recognize away— which shouldn't have been as attractive as it was, but Will had long stopped questioning what exactly falls under the attractive category because on his marbles, he's learned that Mike as a whole fits the bill. Bad, bad news for his heart, yes. 

Now it seems like he's struggling to get something right, because he keeps playing the same chord over and over while letting out small frustrated sighs. At some point Will puts away his sketchbook, no longer able to focus, and stares down at Mike: he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, a sheet music laid in front of him.

Will tilts his head. "What song is that?" 

Mike startles a little, his head snapping up. When his eyes meet Will's there's something akin to nervousness in them, and he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "Oh, uhm. Should I Stay or Should I Go."

He blinks. It's a popular and one great fucking song, Will tells himself. It has nothing to do with the fact that it's his favorite song. Why would it? Just thinking about it makes him feel stupid.

"Is it... hard?" he asks after a moment.

"No, not at all. I mean, in theory. The chords aren't hard at least. But my fingers just aren't coordinating," Mike says, shaking his head.

Will bends down slightly to pick up the paper, scrunching up his nose just at the sight of it. "And you can read this?"

He lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah. It's actually not that bad once you understand what it all means." When Will only hums in response, he shifts in place and smiles up at him almost teasingly. "Have you ever played an instrument?"

"Apart from the flute we all played in music class? No. Back in Lenora I tried out the piano at school, but I quickly realized my fingers are meant for painting only," he replies with a snort, handing the sheet music back to him.

Mike purses his lips. "I could teach you, if you want. To play the guitar, I mean."

He's already getting up from the floor when Will answers: "There's no need for that. I don't even have a guitar."

"I could always lend you mine," he argues, sitting next to him on the bed. "Plus, you've always enjoyed music. Who's to say you won't like to play it as well?" Will reluctantly takes the guitar when Mike places it on his lap, with no doubt holding it wrong. "And maybe one day you can teach me how to paint as payment."

He scoffs. "Would you really be interested in that?"

"Absolutely. I could be the next Picasso."

"You don't mean that."

"Yeah, well, I definitely won't be the next Picasso. But I do mean it." Will only nods slowly in response, feeling a heat rushing all the way up his cheeks for no particular reason. Mike turns his body so they're properly facing each other, and he gestures with his hands as if he's holding some kind of invisible guitar. "You have to make sure it's upright— yeah, like that. And that little curve, you have to make sure to rest it atop your thigh."

Will does as told, frowning a little. "How am I supposed to see the strings?"

"You're not supposed to see them. You have to feel them." Mike brings his hand up, tentatively taking his index inbetween his fingers. "Can I?" he asks, softly. Will nods on instinct, because he isn't really listening. Mike then presses his fingertip against a thick string. "Okay. This one is the low E. Or the sixth string. It's the thickest one and the closest to you."

"So they're numbered backwards," he points out, a futile attempt at ignoring the warmth of Mike's hand pressed against his.

Mike snorts. "Yeah, you can think of it that way. Now, I want you to play that string with your thumb. A little flick will do." Will only registers that he does when a deep sound echoes in the bedroom, pulling him out of his reverie. "See? I want you to do that with every string. This one," he says, moving his finger slightly farther, "is the A string."

"The fifth one," Will offers, flicking said string with his thumb. He can see Mike smiling from the corner of his eye.

"Exactly. And this," his index is softly pressed against another string, "is the fourth one, D. You can tell the difference in thickness, right? That's how you tell them apart without having to look. It's tricky at first, but then you get used to it." Will nods slowly: he could move his finger on his own, but nonetheless allows Mike to do it for him. He wonders if he realizes how unnecessary it is, how close they are. "This is the G string. Play it."

Will does. He tries to play off his nervousness with a playful smile. "Doesn't seem too hard."

He bites down a laugh when Mike lightly pinches his hand. "That's because you're yet to see the chords, Will. Oh, the chords are the hard stuff."

Will drags his finger to the next string. Mike doesn't let go of it. "Second one," he mutters.

"The Byers string," Mike mumbles, nodding. When Will raises an eyebrow, he clears his throat. "Byers as in B string. Awful joke."

"Really awful, Michael," he agrees, biting down a stupid grin nonetheless. He flicks it with his thumb and quickly moves on to the last string, the thinnest one. It makes a high-pitched sound when he plays it. "First."

"High E. Always hurts my fingers," Mike says, shaking his head. He pulls his hand away —and Will embarrassingly enough feels disappointed— and points to one dot engraved on the neck of the guitar, right beneath the strings. "You see these little cages? They are called frets. And they're like, the base for reading musical scores. The simplest ones are tabs, and they display all six strings and the fret you're supposed to play them on."

Will raises both his eyebrows. "Uh, what?"

Mike wets his lower lip. "For example, if there's a number three written atop the A string," he takes hold of his index once more —which Will isn't about to complain about— and drags it all the way up to the third cage counting from the top, pressing his fingertip down on the fifth string, "then you're meant to play it like this. You got that?"

His lips part in understanding. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I understand."

"Cool. I started with tabs, mostly to get used to moving my fingers around the strings because that shit hurts. And like, you're super slow at first. Which is why finger mobility is important for this. Especially for the chords," he splutters, his eyes widening in the way they always do when he's explaining something. It's endearing to no end. "Do you wanna try to play a chord? You'll know what I mean."

"Sure. And what exactly is a chord?" he asks, rather needlessly because he knows what a chord is— but despite how stupid it is, he wants for Mike to keep talking his ear off like he used to do when they were kids. It's only now that the realizes how much he's missed his ramblings.

Mike gracefully takes the bait. "So simply put, it's a combination of notes. Which is, you play two or more strings in one go. The tricky part is that the finger placement is often... weird. Teachers recommend to do hand exercises and stretches because of that same reason— and believe me, your hand will cramp. There's still some chords I can't get right because they need you to basically bend all your fingers in inhumane ways. But I'm getting there, I think."

"That sounds frightening," Will points out, suddenly not feeling too eager.

"You get used to it. I promise," Mike says, almost pleading. "We'll start with the easiest one: E minor. You just need to play the fifth and fourth string, both on the second fret. But, uh, that's not the fixed fret. The fret in which you play a chord changes depending on the... sound, you want to achieve? Don't worry about that right now, though. That's just complicated music theory stuff and it will only confuse you more if I get deep. So let's stay on the second fret, alright?"

Will won't pretend to understand anything he just said, so he only nods his head. "Okay. Fifth and fourth string, second fret," he repeats, placing his index and middle finger in said spots. "Like this?"

Mike hums. "Try it with your middle and ring. It's less awkward that way. Also," he gently grabs his wrist, lifting his hand a little, "make sure not to accidentally press other strings. The sound will be off otherwise. Now, you play all six strings." He does just that and drags his thumb along the strings, a pleasant sound coming from it. Mike beams. "Voila. Now you know how to play an E minor."

He grimaces, his hand already straining a bit. "That's the easiest one?"

Mike huffs out a laugh. "What, you thought it was hard?"

"Well, yeah. How the hell are you switching inbetween chords so fast?"

He shrugs, a pretty pink quickly tainting his cheeks. "Just a lot of practice, is all. I mean, I've been learning for well over a year by now," he says, taking a brief pause as if debating whether to keep talking or shut up. He picks the former, thankfully, and takes a deep breath. "I actually bought it on impulse about a month after you guys left Hawkins. I just didn't know what to do with myself anymore. Everything felt so dull." He swallows, visibly nervous. "I really missed you."

Will almost drops the guitar, a shaky sigh escaping his lips before he can stop it. "You did?" he asks, almost in awe.

Mike snorts. "Of course. I did tell you, right? It just doesn't feel the same without you."

He leaves it at that, taking the guitar back from his hands. And Will wants to ask— he wants to ask why didn't he reach out more or, rather, why hasn't he told him he actually tried to do so, wants to ask why he treated him the way he did in Lenora.

But he doesn't, because maybe a part of him already knows why. A part of him he refuses to listen.

Mike sits back on the floor, guitar on his lap. Will resumes his sketching, and it's like nothing was said at all.

March 15, 1987

"This is fucking bullshit," Dustin says eloquently.

"Why the hell do we still have to take stupid exams? We have like, at least ten bigger things to worry about," Lucas offers helpfully.

"Don't see how fucking World History is going to help us save Hawkins," Mike mutters.

"It could be worse," Will tries.

Were she awake, Max would probably say something snarky to get them to shut up. 

Tomorrow is their last exam before spring break: an exam they've completely ignored up until now under the excuse of having more important things going on —which isn't exactly a lie, but still—. And as they've been doing for all their study sessions this past year, they are gathered at the hospital (hospital as in, Max's room). Will is pleasantly surprised with how lenient the nurses have been, but he guesses they take pity on the fact that they are visiting their young and regrettably comatose friend. 

Anyhow, they figured this was a good way to keep her company and, naturally, not leave her out of their academic grievances. Mike always personally makes sure to tell her about all the homework she's gonna have to catch up on once she wakes, earning lighthearted scolding from Lucas without a fail. 

Now, however, Mike can't even do that— which is enough to determine how dire the situation is. The truth is that they don't know shit about this subject because they haven't even bothered to read the chapters the teacher told them to read and, of course, they can't tell him to not fail them because they've been too busy searching for this evil, vengeful monster that wants to end their world to read his damn text. 

Simply put—

"We are fucked," Lucas says for him, shaking his head at the book laid over the quilt. 

"Really fucked," Mike corrects. 

"Thoroughly fucked," Dustin adds. 

"That we are." Will can't contradict them.

They say nothing for a long moment, the only noise coming from the machine next to Max's bed and Kate Bush's Running Up That Hill playing in the stereo.

Then Mike speaks: "We should cheat." 

Dustin blinks at him in confusion, but then his expression softens as if he's actually considering it. "Not the worst idea you've had." 

"If we get caught, we are even more fucked," Lucas says, his eyebrows going up. 

"I think it's worth a shot," Will says, supporting his cheek on the mattress.

Lucas feigns a gasp. "How scandalous, Byers. Didn't know you had it in you." 

Mike grins almost proud, placing a hand just inbetween his shoulder blades. Will prays his face doesn't give away his fluster. "I did. Nothing wrong with bending the rules a little, right?" 

"Right," interjects Dustin, shutting close his book in clear defeat. "But if we're doing this, we better make sure we don't get caught. Ideas?" 

Will is about to say something when Mike's fingers begin to caress his back with gentle, scratching motions. And he knows he isn't doing it consciously, if the way his face remains impassive is anything to go by, but it manages to make his heartbeat skyrocket altogether. Still, he makes no attempt of escaping his touch— rather, he only melts into it and hopes no one realizes. 

The thing is, Mike has been incredibly touchy as of late. Will initially attributed it to the fact that they were living together, under the same roof and sharing the same spaces because sure, casual and accidental brushes are normal and meant to happen sometimes. But then Mike started to willingly seek out his touch— whether by bumping their knees while eating breakfast, scooting closer on the couch until their thighs were practically glued, throwing a lazy arm around his shoulder when watching a movie or straight up brushing their hands together in a manner all too perfect for it to be accidental. 

Will knew it was wrong to allow himself to indulge in it because while for him it meant the world, for Mike it was probably nothing more than dudes being dudes. And being aware of it hurt, especially when he thought too much about it— but at the end of the day, he always choose to just let it happen. He allowed himself to have this one thing. 

However this is new. This is new because this is him simply being touching him, and it has nothing to do with subtle and seemingly unintentional brushes: this is him being affectionate.

He isn't sure he can deal with that, above everything else.

When Lucas speaks, he's incredibly grateful. "We are A-students. Top grades in most classes. It's not like he'll suspect us right away."

"Plus, he's old as fuck," Mike adds.

"Pretty sure he's short of sight too," Will says, lifting his face a little. "We just have to be really sneaky about it."

"Odds are in our favor, yes, but how exactly are we doing this? Cheat sheets?" Dustin asks.

"That might be our best bet," Mike replies, tapping his fingers against his back. It's relaxing.

"Yeah. We should split the pages," Will suggests.

"I'll take thirty to forty five," Lucas says, flipping through said pages.

"Got it. I'll do from there to... fifty eight," Dustin mutters, scanning his book.

"I'll do up to seventy then. Will, you take care of the remaining ten," Mike says in his stead.

But it works for him, so he nods. "On it."

He finally sits properly, Mike's hand regrettably leaving his back as he stretches himself. Lucas pulls out a notebook from his backpack, ripping off three sheets of paper and handing one to each of them. He sighs. "This time would be better invested studying."

"Definitely," Will agrees, getting his pencil case. "But I doubt we'll be able to focus anyway."

Dustin nods. "That's the thing. Now, how do we actually communicate in the exam?"

"Morse," Mike and Will say in unison. 

Lucas and Dustin exchange a look and let out a snort. "Sure. Morse it is. Just keep the answers short, guys," Lucas says.

"I mean, what chance is there that the old man speaks morse?" Mike scoffs.

Will elbows him. "Don't jinx it."

"It's a risk we have to take," is Dustin's final verdict.

With that, they get to work under ridiculous levels of concentration because they are not letting Vecna hinder with their grades above all. Will focus on writing down the most important stuff of his pages and occasionally looks to his side, where Mike's eyes are fixed on his own paper as he moves the pen swiftly over it, his neat handwriting a familiar sight; and Mike must feel his intense staring, because at some point his fingers halt and he turns his head. Will doesn't try to play it off, because he knows there's no point in it. 

He shoots him a crooked smile. "Guess things would be easier if we could defeat Vecna with stupid cheat sheets."

Will snorts. "Probably. But, hey, at least we can take down Mr. Moore with them," he says, nodding pointedly at his paper.

Mike shakes his head, scooting his chair a little closer until their knees are touching. Will does not shy away. "Don't jinx it," he whispers, mimicking his own words.

He rolls his eyes, playfully shoving his shoulder. Mike laughs softly.

"Can you guys work? This is serious," suddenly says Dustin, popping the bubble.

They exchange one last knowing smile before getting back to their paper sheets, their knees still brushing together.

April 5, 1987

Will is usually woken up by the annoying and loud alarm clock he and Jonathan set atop the coffee table; if that fails, or if for whatever reason both they forget to set it, then Holly's morning shout will do the trick just fine, followed by stupid bickering with Jonathan that finishes waking him up. Today, however, he is woken up by someone gently poking his arm and calling his name in soft whispers. 

"Will," the voice says, moving him a little. "Will, c'mon. Wake up."

He opens his eyes very slowly, not surprised to meet Mike's face as he does. "What time is it?" he asks, looking around.

Mike smiles at him. "Hey. Just a little past eight." Will frowns in confusion. First, because it's way earlier than what he usually wakes up on weekends; second, because Mike looks unfairly good, his eyes glowing and his hair tousled in all the right directions. No person should look this good so early into the day. "Sorry to wake you up," he offers, as if reading his thoughts. "I need help setting the easter eggs for Holly. I figured you'd like to help."

Will immediately feels a tad more awake at that, sitting up. "Easter is today?"

"Yup. Almost missed it, but thankfully my mom didn't forget." He stands up, offering a hand to Will. He takes it without much thought, his stomach doing a funny twist at the contact. "C'mon, let's go up before we wake up Jonathan."

Will drags his eyes over to where his brother is sprawled over the couch, mouth parted as little snores leave him. He shakes his head, snorting. "He won't, trust me."

"Don't wanna risk it," Mike says. Then, as they walk towards the stairs, he adds with a lower voice: "He hates me enough as it is."

His brows go up as he follows him upstairs. "What are you talking about?"

Mike sighs. "I've catched him glaring at me like he wants to explode me with his mind. Like, more than once." He sounds absolutely serious. When Will only stares at him in disbelief, he sighs again. "Okay, maybe he doesn't hate me, but he's definitely not my biggest fan, if you know what I mean. And I don't blame him— like, I get that he's protective of you, obviously, and I've been a total asshole to you, so I guess it checks out." 

As they walk into the kitchen, Will can't help a scoff. "He couldn't dislike you even if he wanted to, Mike. He knows you since we're five." 

"You sure about that?" 

Will bites down a laugh. While Jonathan does have mixed feelings about Mike —he's made sure to tell him as much whenever the topic comes up—, he knows for a fact he's still fond of him. "I'm sure, Mike." 

"If you say so. Sorry. I don't know why I brought that up," he says, scratching the back of his neck a little awkwardly. 

He waves him off. "It's fine. Don't worry. Let's just focus on the matter at hand." 

"Totally." Mike nods his head in that weird way he does whenever he wants to urgently change the topic and opens the fridge, pulling out two packages of chocolate eggs. He hands one to Will. "So, there's no plan. Just set them up wherever it's visible enough." 

He smiles. "Of course. You're sure she won't wake up?" 

"Yup. She's fast asleep, I checked. But let's hurry in case she does," Mike says, quickly running off upstairs. Will fails in fighting an ever bigger grin as he trails behind him, making sure to be quiet with his steps. 

Will used to love egg hunt when he was a kid— mostly because of the chocolate he ended up eating that same day, but also because he spent the big majority of them with Mike: they'd have a sleepover the night before and in the morning, they'd each wake up with a basket laying on their side, both their mothers waiting for them outside Mike's bedroom with a camera in hand. And those times were so much easier. Everything was so much easier when his feelings for Mike were yet to receive name, when he could still cluelessly think of him as nothing but his closest friend.

That is no longer the case. In fact, things haven't been easy since the whole upside down ordeal. But instances like this make it seem like things could maybe be easy again, like it doesn't always need to be complicated— like he can, for once, just let things be. 

He absentmindedly places a couple of eggs by the handrail, making sure they're on plain sight. Mike is leaving some right outside her door, and after scanning for any other potential locations, he goes right back downstairs. Will naturally follows him.

Once they're in the living room, well far enough as to be heard, he clears his throat. "It's good that you're doing this for her, you know. With all of this happening... letting her enjoy her childhood is crucial, I think," he says, softly, placing three eggs atop the fireplace next to one of her portraits. 

Mike hums in agreement. "Yeah. Even if she doesn't fully understand what is going on, she's smart. She knows something bad is happening, at the very least. And hopefully she'll never have to understand it, but if she does... then giving her good memories to cling to is the best thing we can do, for now." 

Will's chest warms up in a way that should probably concern him. It's so, so incredibly hard to let go of Mike when he's this unfairly sweet. 

He takes a deep breath. "I don't think I've ever seen you in this older brother mode before," he notes lightheartedly, carefully putting down an egg over the coffee table. Mike turns to look at him, his features impossible soft. "But it's endearing to watch, if I'm honest," he admits, letting out a short laugh. 

He swears Mike's face is flushing as he tears his eyes away, fidgeting with one of the eggs. "Thank you. I just, you know. Want her to be the one Wheeler sibling to have a chance at being normal." 

"I'd say you and Nancy turned out pretty alright despite everything," is the only thing Will says, reaching for an egg only to realize he already scattered them all. Oh well. 

Mike rolls his eyes, a little smile on his lips. "You're just biased. You're kinda obligated to say that about your sister in law and, well. I'm your best friend. You naturally like me." 

For his own good, Will chooses to ignore the implications of that. "Who said anything about me liking you?" 

With a cocky grin, Mike finally stands up from where he was crouching. "Right, You don't. Because you love me."

Oh, he does. He unfortunately does.

"I can barely stand you," he lies instead, biting down a smile of his own.

Mike raises his brows in feign hurt. "Your words deeply wound me. I hope you can live with that on your conscience." 

"Oh, I'll survive," he says, huffing out a laugh when Mike shakes his head. 

"You are evil, Byers. I'll deal with you later. But right now, let's go wake up Holly," he says. Then, lifts the now empty plastic package. "And let's throw these out, unless we wanna give away that the Easter Bunny actually buys his eggs in the local market." 

Will nods in agreement, doing his best to ignore the way their shoulders bump ever so slightly as they walk outside. He fails, like he always does whenever Mike is involved.

May 13, 1987

The thing with Will is that he rarely gets sick. Back when he was a kid he was way more fragile and it used to not take much for him to catch a cold; now, however, he has a considerably improved immune system. He's not sure if it's because after being in the Upside Down nothing really fazes his body anymore, but it's one thing he's not going to complain about. If anything, he's the designated caregiver in his house whenever his mother or Jonathan get sick, because he seems to always be immune to whatever ails them.

That comes with certain disadvantages, though. One of them being that when he does get sick, it's like all the times he didn't finally catch up to him and hit him like one big, heavy truck that renders him absolutely useless.

Such is his current predicament.

Since Jonathan went upstairs for breakfast a few minutes ago —only after asking him about a thousand times if he needed anything—, he's just been motionless laying on his mattress and staring at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. He knows he should probably get up, go wash himself, grab a bite, lay back down. But just the thought of moving drains the nonexistent energy out of him: he might as well stay like this all day, letting himself be spoon-fed by Jonathan like when he was a kid. He knows his brother would do it.

He's feeling feverish. Does he have a fever? That's probably a good thing. Keeps the monsters away, keeps the Mind Flayer away. He should try to get sick more often. Oh. Maybe that's why his immune system has improved. It wasn't his body adapting. It was just a little gift from the Mind Flayer to prevent him from keeping him away. Is the Mind Flayer a he, though? Technically, it's an it. Or maybe a she? No, it's definitely an it. Is it?

The basement door loudly creaks open, mercifully pulling him back to earth and out of whatever delirious train of thought was going through his head. He doesn't even attempt to sit up, only tilting his face slightly so he can see who's coming.

It's Mike, unsurprisingly. He looks almost distressed.

He must look miserable, if the way Mike's face contorts into a grimace once his eyes land on him is anything to go by. "Jesus, Will. Are you alright?"

"Totally," he manages, his voice impossibly rough. Mike's brows furrow somehow even more at the sound of it. "Don't get too close," he says when Mike takes a step in his direction.

"Fuck that. Let's go to my room," he argues immediately, crouching by his side.

Will shakes his head. That simple motion has him feeling dizzy. "No— I'm good here. Leave me."

Mike rolls his eyes, unimpressed, and forces him to sit by gently placing an arm beneath his back, pushing him upwards. "I am not letting you stay in this cold and uncomfortable basement when you're this sick." Based on his tone, he's not suggesting. So he reluctantly gets up, his knees aching as he leans against Mike for support. He allows him, carefully resting a hand on his waist to help him gain some balance— and for the first time in a while, he feels too wrecked to really pay much attention to his touch. 

Will looks at him suspiciously. "Did Jonathan send you?" 

Mike shakes his head as they climb up the stairs. Will wants nothing more than to just drop to the floor and sleep there. "He only said you were sick. Which I think it's a huge understatement." 

"But I am sick," he says, scrunching up his nose at the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. He usually revels in it, but now it's making him feel nauseous. 

"You look worse than just sick." 

"Possessed?" Will tries to joke, almost tripping on the last step. 

Mike only gives him a look. "Don't say that. Unless... you think this is Vecna-related?" 

He frowns. "What? No. No, It's just a cold, Mike. I won't die." 

"Well, yeah, you better not die. It'd be a real fucking shame if you are taken by a cold out of all things after everything we've survived."

"Real shame," he agrees, looking around. When his eyes fall on Mr. Wheeler, who's reading the newspaper at the table, he swallows. "Will your dad be okay with this?"

"I don't give a shit if he isn't," he says matter-of-factly as they reach the stairs, his limbs feeling increasingly heavy with every step he takes. Mike must take note of it, because he slows down. "You alright?" he asks, voice impossibly soft.

Will nods. "Yeah. Just feel like shit," he mutters in reply. Mike only purses his lips, saying nothing else. They slowly but surely make their way to Mike's room, the bed still undone and clothes scattered everywhere in classic Mike Wheeler fashion. Will can't help a smile. "Seems like you haven't changed all that much," he teases, lying down on the mattress when Mike gently lets go of him. His aching muscles immediately relax at the contact.

"Oh, shut up. I would've made it look more... presentable had I known this would happen," Mike huffs, his face flushing in pretty pink. He takes the blankets and carefully covers him with them, all the way up to his chin. Will can only stare. "Is this good? Are you feeling hot? You're a bit red."

"A little," Will answers, his head melting into the soft pillow. Just as comfortable as he remembers.

"Let me see." Without as much as a warning, Mike brings up a hand and gently places it atop his forehead, fingers brushing away some strands of hair. Will near shudders at the contact, and he knows it's not because of the fever. Mike's brows knit together in concern. "God, Will, you're burning up. You really catched a nasty one, didn't you?"

"I guess," he mumbles absentmindedly. All he can focus on is Mike's cold hand pressing against his own warm skin, really.

He retreats his hand, much to his dissatisfaction, and lets out a sigh. "Alright. This is what we'll do: you'll stay here, resting, and I'll go fetch some stuff to get you better. You'll be up and running by tomorrow, yeah?"

A smile tugs at his lips. "Hopefully."

Mike mimics him with a small smile of his own and walks out of the room, shutting the door close behind him. Mike's bedroom is as familiar as his own: he's spent here countless nights, the same ceiling he's now staring at being a witness of sleepovers with just the two of them, their small bodies tucked under the blankets as they read comics until well past midnight. In nothing if not indulgence, Will allows himself to turn his neck and just breathe, taking in the pleasant smell of Mike's signature shampoo spread on the pillow almost like a brand of sorts. He sighs and lets his eyes fall close, his body going limp. 

Under this very specific conditions, Will would even dare to say that being sick isn't so bad— but then again, the headache and heart palpitations are nothing if not absolutely awful, so maybe that'd just be the fever talking.

At some point while waiting for Mike to return he must fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes again he meets Mike's looking back at him, a certain something in his irises. 

He startles a bit when he notices him waking up, but smoothly plays it off with a playful smile. "Hi again." 

Will quickly blinks, the little light that filters through the courtain bothering his eyes. "How long did I sleep for?" 

"Just a few minutes, don't worry." Mike finally gets up from the bed and only then Will realizes that he had been laying next to him, and it's almost enough to distract him from the numbing pain he feels all over his joints. Mike walks over to his side, grabbing something from the nightstand. "So, this is for the fever. That's what my mom said. And this is for the... you know, overall discomfort, I guess." 

Will slowly sits up, his head throbbing, and accepts the two pills Mike hands over to him. "You sure this won't kill me?" he asks, raising a cautious brow. 

"I mean, I hope it doesn't. Should I call your mom?"

He grimaces. "Depends. Did Jonathan tell her I was sick?" Mike shakes his head. "Then no. I'll trust you. Anything happens, the blood is in your hands," Will says jokingly, throwing both pills into his mouth and swallowing them down quickly with the help of the water also handed to him by Mike. "Thank you." 

"Don't mention it," Mike says, waving him off. "I brought you breakfast too, in case you're hungry. It's okay if you're not. I mean, it's gone cold anyway. Didn't want to wake you up." 

Will smiles at him, shaking his head. "It's fine. I'm not too hungry, if I'm honest, but thank you." 

Mike sighs. "Stop thanking me. Now lay down, and try to get some more sleep, okay? By the time you wake up, you should be feeling much better."

"Are you gonna stay?" Will asks before he can stop himself, voice embarrassingly eager. 

Mike only blinks down at him. "Do you want me to?" 

"I mean— I wouldn't mind the company," he mumbles, shrugging.

"Oh. Of course. Let me shower first though, yeah?" 

Will nods because it's the only thing he can do, really. His eyes follow Mike until he leaves the room and his line of sight as he sinks back into the mattress: his whole body feels hot in the most unpleasant way possible, his every bone and muscle aches uncomfortably and his head hurts all over— so it's not exactly difficult for him to slip out of consciousness once more, his eyelids fluttering shut against his will and his breaths growing less ragged and more grounded as he drifts into sleep.

And this time, he's completely out of it: he doesn't wake up when Mike closes the door behind him with a loud click, he doesn't wake up when the mattress sinks by his side and the fresh aroma of Mike's hair fills his nostrils, he doesn't wake up when Mike loosely draps an arm around his waist and gently pulls him closer— closer to him, closer to his warmth. 

He doesn't wake up in time to catch Mike staring at him, his eyes mapping his relaxed features like a cartographer full of adoration. 

June 20, 1987

The sun stands tall in its full glory, no clouds preventing it from beaming its rays all over Hawkins— and just like one would expect, there's little to no breeze passing by, making the streets the worst place to be given just how insufferably hot it is.

They've been pedaling for only God knows how long, all the way from the Wheelers' house to wherever it is Mike is taking them. Will isn't entirely clueless, though: he knows this route. This is the route that he used to take sacredly, every day, when coming home after spending the afternoon holed up in Mike's basement, the same route he took that cursed night. It makes him incredibly anxious, and the fact that Mike is being so cryptic about the whole ordeal has him on the edge. 

"What exactly are we doing?" he asks for what may be the tenth time in the past twenty minutes, exasperation slipping through. 

Mike sighs, but he's smiling. "I already told you, it's a surprise." 

"I'm not a fan of surprises," he admits, his brows knitting together slightly. 

"I know. But I promise you will like this one. Just trust me, alright?" 

Will doesn't reply. His trust in Mike is implicit, anyway. 

They bike along the asphalt until at some point Mike turns and goes straight into the woods, Will naturally following him although unsure— for obvious reasons, the forest isn't a place he'd willingly go back to. At the very least, the natural light filters through the leaves and takes away most of the creepy vibe. 

Will tries again: "Why are we here, Mike?" 

Mike briefly turns to look at him, his expression gentle. "There's something I need to show you. We're almost there, actually," he says, softly. 

He feels increasingly suspicious, and a part of him maybe already knows what this is all about: this is close to his house. Well, at least the one that used to be before they moved to California. Still, he keeps his mouth shut and decides to go along with it, only because it's Mike. 

They bike past familiar trees he recognizes after years spent hanging out in the woods, both alone and in company of his brother and Chester, sometimes, when he decided to join them— and the more they pedal, the more familiar the trail gets. Will is suddenly very aware of where they are heading. 

And sure enough, Mike stops his bike just as they reach what should be the ruins of Castle Byers. Except— 

Except it's built. Rebuilt, rather. 

Will also stops his bike, blinking at the sight. 

Mike clears his throat before he can say anything. "So. Surprise! Do you like it?" His tone is anything but casual. Will can tell he's nervous. Shy, almost. 

He slowly turns to look at him, confusion overriding every other feeling blooming in his stomach. "Did you do this?" Mike only stares back for a beat before he nods, tearing his gaze away as he kicks a rock. Will swallows. "Why?" 

Again, Mike says nothing for a moment. He opens his mouth only to immediately close it right after, his brows coming together. He looks nothing if not conflicted, and just as Will is about to reiterate his question, he decides to answer: "I'm not sure." 

Woah. Truly enlightening.

Will finally gets off his bike, letting it fall to the ground. "You're not sure?" 

"No. I don't know." Will stays quiet, only looking at him patiently: he knows this is the moment where Mike finally starts to gather his thoughts and open up. He takes a deep breath. "Back then— before you moved to California— we fought. You remember, right?" Will only nods in response. Mike nods back. "I said such stupid things. Such stupid things that I still think about like you have no idea. And I know— I think I never properly apologized for that. And, God, Will, I am so sorry." 

He, for once, feels at a loss for words. He wishes he could say Mike's words don't taunt him on his bad days, he wishes he could say he no longer thinks about that summer and how miserable he felt whenever his friends ditched him, whenever Mike ditched him. But he can't, because lying to Mike is just one of the many things that haunt him even on his good days. 

So instead, he deflects— "Is that why you rebuilt it?" 

Mike smiles weakly at him. "Maybe. I guess— I guess I just wanted to do something nice for you. Like, if I fixed this, I could fix everything else too." 

Will pauses. "How... long ago was this?" 

"Like, the week after you left." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I just didn't know how you'd react. I was scared you would— I don't know, get mad or something." 

Will finally relaxes a little, letting out a soft laugh. "Why would I be mad?"

"Because it's not like I have the right to just come here and rebuilt something you had destroyed yourself," is Mike's explanation, a bit nonsensical and not all that sincere. Will decides to spare him, for now. "Anyways, I— I didn't just make you bike all across town just to show you this and have you pat me in the back. I brought some stuff." He lifts his backpack in the air as if to make a point. Then, he nods towards the entrance. The curtain hanged is definitely not the one he and Jonathan had put up— he wonders if Mike actually got a new one. "After you." 

Will shakes his head in amusement. "I don't think we fit in here anymore, Mike," he says, nonetheless bending a little to get inside. 

Mike follows right after, almost bumping his head against the logs. "It's a bit tight in here, yes. But I think we'll manage." 

They sit down on the ground, cross-legged as to optimize the very limited space of the very small shelter— despite their best efforts, though, their knees are pressed together in a way that's rather difficult to ignore. 

Will swallows. "It used to feel a lot more spacious," he says absentmindedly, doing his best to avoid Mike's gaze. That, too, proves to be rather hard with how little there is to look at.

Thankfully, Mike is too busy rumaging through his backpack to notice. "You know, that might be my fault. There were definitely leftovers logs when I finished, so I think I accidentally shrinked it," he jokes, a stupid and oblivious grin on his face. Will sighs. "Found them! Here, for you," he says as he offers Will an orange package, one he recognizes.

Will stares down at the Reese's Pieces before he gladly takes it into his hands, a smile of his own pulling his lips upwards. "If this is how you're gonna act whenever you screw up, then I might have to stop forgiving you so quickly." 

"Hey, I can do way better than this," Mike immediately argues. Then he pauses, as if realizing something, and clears his throat. "But, you know, let's hope I don't screw up again." 

Will lets out a soft giggle that turns into a sound laugh when Mike playfully shoves him. 

They remain silent for a long moment, Will eating his chocolate as Mike bites down on some cookies he brought for himself— and even if they are obviously avoiding each other's gaze, it's not awkward like it should probably be: it's comfortable in a way Will can definitely appreciate. At some point, though, they inevitably run out of stuff to distract themselves with. Mike gives him a small smile, and Will shoots one back. 

"So," Mike starts, tapping his fingers against his thighs. "Did you like it? You never answered." 

Will rolls his eyes. "Of course I did, Mike. This place means— so much to me. And you know that. So, thank you. Didn't think you had it in you." And that is a lie, because he's always known how sweet Mike can be. 

Mike lets out a relieved sigh. "Okay, okay. Cool. Cool." 

Will can't help another stupid and almost mesmerized laugh. "Cool." 

He might just have fallen a little deeper, a little harder. That's just how it seems to be.

July 19, 1987 

Summer in Hawkins tends to be rather unforgiving, the high temperature and ridiculous humidity being a lethal combination that causes clothes to stick uncomfortably to sweaty skin without much physical effort at all. And that is under normal conditions— now, though, the climate seems to be even more punishing. If that has anything to do with the fact that the gates to hell pretty much split the town open, Will knows not. All he knows is that he feels like he's roasting alive. 

Usually, they would borrow the Harrington's pool— that's what they did in the summer before he left, at least. But Steve's schedule on the Squawk has been less flexible than it was at the Scoops, and none of them felt particularly comfortable with the idea of being in his house without him present. So instead, Lucas posed another good option for them to not die of heatstroke—

Lovers Lake.

Which, okay, goes a bit against what the military has repeatedly said— that is, to stay away from all locations where a gate was opened. But then again, people bypass that rule all the time. And it's incredibly reckless, yes, but defying the authorities and doing reckless stuff is kinda what they do all the time. So it's not like they're doing anything new. 

They still had to practically sneak past the woods though. And, of course, his mother knows nothing about this. He only hopes she stays at Hop's until late in the evening. 

Lucas and Dustin already got into the lake, nothing but their shorts on. They don't exactly look like they're having a good time, which is only to be expected after such an intense year of grieving and constantly reliving said grief, and Will can't do anything but try to be as understanding as possible. He wishes things were simpler, that they could have water fights like they used to without a care in the world. But of course, things aren't ever so easy. 

He sucks in a deep breath just as Mike drops down by his side. They're sitting on a worn-out towel they placed on the shore, right beneath a tree. 

"You look thoughtful," Mike says, angling his body to face him. 

Will smiles weakly. "Yeah, I'm just— I'm just thinking. We haven't truly had a peaceful summer for a while, have we?"

Mike stays quiet for a moment, his eyes posed on where their two other friends are swimming around, talking about something they can't hear. "I don't think we've had a single peaceful day in forever," he finally mumbles, letting out a sigh. "But there's no point in beating ourselves up about it. We just— we just have to keep doing what we can and in the meantime, enjoy what we get for as long as we can. Right?" 

"Right," Will echoes, even if he doesn't really believe it himself. He's not exactly used to bottling up his concerns like Mike, after all. 

"Anyway, I don't know about you, but I feel like I'm burning alive. Should we go join them?" he asks, stretching his long legs. 

He can give Mike one point— that is, to enjoy what they get. So he nods, reaching for the bag he brought. "Sure. Sunscreen first, though." 

Mike scrunches up his nose. "Is it really necessary?" 

Will rolls his eyes, smiling a bit. "Did you already forget that one time we went to the beach?" 

Mike seems to physically recoil at the memory. He must be thinking about the same thing as Will: that day, Mike had refused sunscreen despite Mrs. Wheeler being rather insistent about it. It was early in the morning and the sun was particularly bright, but he did not care— of course, his stubbornness only lead him to severely painful burns that had his skin looking so red he almost resembled a lobster. 

He laughs nervously. "Point taken. Sunscreen first." 

With that settled, they both take off their shirts. Will urges his eyes to focus on literally anything else because the sight of his best friend's bare torso can't possibly be that interesting anyway— but, of course, his eyes, his treacherous eyes seem to have a will of their own when it comes to Mike. So they stare, and rather shamelessly at that: they trail his figure in the way only an artist can achieve, taking in every little detail of his body like it's the last time he'll ever get to see it, the freckles scattered all over his arms and his fairly skinny frame. 

And it's a beautiful, beautiful body. Will can only hope Mike himself can see that, because he can't be the one to say it. 

He prays Mike doesn't notice —or feel— his staring and that his attention is entirely on meticulously spreading sunscreen all over his skin. Will deems it wise to do the same. He tears his gaze away like just the sight of Mike is enough to set him ablaze even faster than the unforgiving sun above and uncaps his own bottle of sunscreen, one his mom had given him as soon as summer started, with the reminder to apply it every day. He hasn't exactly been doing that, but he might as well. 

After a while —seconds, minutes, Will doesn't bother keeping track—, Mike clears his throat and speaks up again. "Mind helping me with the back?" he asks, almost in a whisper. 

Will near drops the bottle when Mike hands it to him, turning his body away. He swallows. "Yeah. Sure," he replies, voice just as low.

He tells himself to keep it cool. He urges himself to keep it cool as he pours some product into his fingers, and he tells himself that this is just like fingerpainting when he presses against Mike's cold back. Mike shudders a little under his touch, and Will tells himself that it's only because it tickles; he knows Mike is ticklish. He gently spreads the cream across his upper back in gentle, circling motions, trying to do so as fast as possible— except he is not really trying at all, just allowing himself to caress his skin. He tells himself that it's because he needs to spread it evenly. 

He repeats the same process with his lower back and this time he does make sure to do it quick, mostly because Mike is particularly ticklish in there and keeps squirming around like a restless dog. And when he's finally done, Will swears he's sweating. His face must be flushing red, too, if the warmth he feels all over his cheeks is anything to go by. He just hopes Mike blames the sun. 

He gives him a tiny smile. "Thank you very much. Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, yeah? C'mon, let me help you out," he says, taking the bottle back from Will's hands. Will says nothing as he turns around, mercifully no longer having to face him. He isn't sure he could've dealt with it much longer. 

Mike quietly hums to himself as he applies the product on his back, spreading it all over his skin with the palm of his hand. Will looks around, doing everything humanly possible to keep himself distracted. He spots two birds on a tree, chirping together. Mike's fingers slide beneath his shoulder blades. Lucas playfully splashes Dustin. Mike's movements slow down slightly as his hand moves lower. Will can only hear the loud thump of his heart ringing in his ears. Mike's hands halt on his skin, but don't leave. 

"You have a lot of moles," he whispers, sounding a little breathless himself. 

Will swallows. He doesn't think he's ever felt like this. "That I do," he replies awkwardly. Silence, for a beat. Then he forces himself to speak: "Are you done?" he asks. 

Mike pulls his hand away immediately. Will almost regrets talking. "Yeah— Yeah, sorry. Uh, mind if I go ahead? I'm like, in urgent need of water right now," he mumbles, the words coming out fast in what betrays nervousness. Will isn't much better.

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll be right there," he answers, perhaps a little too quick. He doubts Mike notices, because he's already scrambling away towards the lake. 

Will lets out a deep breath he was well aware he was holding. He's not quite sure if the burning sensation all over his body is the sun's fault. 

August 8, 1987

Will loves being an artist. There's not many things he'd pick over art, and he believes he could count them with one hand. Every line drawn with the pencil and carefully traced brushstroke fills him with a satisfaction nothing else manages, and it might as well be the one thing that actually keeps his mind entirely distracted and all the uncomfortable, uninvited thoughts away. 

However, it does come with some annoying side-effects that he's learned to live with. That includes cramps all the way from his hands up to his shoulders, especially on days where he spends the whole afternoon working on something and gets too lost in the canvas as to stretch his limbs when they start to ache.

He clenches and unclenches his hand in a lame attempt at easing the pain, letting out a frustrated sigh when it does absolutely nothing. He can't draw like this, and the half-assed sketch looking back at him from the paper feels almost mocking. 

"You okay?" Mike asks, taking a sip of juice from here he's standing next to the fridge: they're on the kitchen, not exactly because they want to but because the basement is currently so damn hot it resembles a sauna. 

Will just sighs. "My hand hurts." He tentatively turns his wrist and grimaces. "Badly. Not the first time it happens, though." 

Mike purses his lips in thought. Then, he sits right across and places both his arms atop the table. "I could give you a massage." 

Will blinks. He searches his face to find anything that could give away the fact that he's joking, but there's nothing. "Do you even know how to do a massage?" he asks, a bit skeptical. 

"Duh. My mom asks me for massages all the time. Nancy too, occassionally. I'm pretty good at it," he says, a stupid smirk on his lips. Will holds back the urge to roll his eyes with amusement. Mike waves his fingers as if to get his attention, his brows going up. "So? Are you going to let me?" 

Will thinks about it for a very brief and almost nonexistent moment before he places his hand over Mike's, palm facing up. And the way Mike smiles at him like he just knew he was gonna say yes is enough to make him immediately regret his choice: he realizes he failed to consider the fact that massages involve physical contact and that the way his body reacts whenever Mike touches him is the very reason he avoids it— his pulse grows concerningly erratic, his whole body burns like he's literally on fire and his blood feels almost electrified. 

But it's too late to back down now: he only accepts his fate and tries to relax into the chair as Mike drags both his thumbs to the center of his palm, applying some pressure. "You'll thank me later," Mike mumbles, his eyes glued to their joint hands— and Will has personally never been more grateful of not being under the scrutiny of his gaze, because he can't take his own off his face. 

It's silly. He knows Mike's face. He knows he can very well draw it from memory. He knows the patterns of his freckles like he knows that of his curls, he knows the shape his eyes take when he's happy and when he's not, he knows what each different twitch of his eyebrows means, he knows the way his lips quirk upwards when he smiles, he knows how he scrunches up his nose when he's displeased. He knows everything there is to know, and yet he still can't help but stare like he's somehow going to make a new discovery.

He feels nauseous, and it unfortunately isn't because he has an upset stomach: no, that's just the sensation he's learned to associate to being hopelessly, sickly in love with his best friend, a realization he wishes he never had because at least he'd still be able to feign normalcy— such act gets increasingly harder with each day he's subjected to Mike's presence, one that's not his to keep.

Mike presses down particularly hard on a tense spot near his thumb and he hisses, being forcefully pulled out of his reverie. Mike looks up briefly and shoots him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. It's meant to hurt. But it'll feel better after." 

Will takes a deep breath. "And you're a hundred percent sure it works?" 

"Totally," Mike says, nodding his head. "It forces the muscle to relax, basically. I mean, kind of. Have you never gotten a massage before?" 

He shakes his head. "No. Have you?" 

Mike laughs. "No, me neither. I learned this from a magazine, one of those shitty ones you read when you're extra bored," he says, tracing the lines of his palm with his thumbs. "I figured it would be useful. I mean, my hand gets cramped all the time when I play the guitar for too long. Is it the same for you? With your art?" 

"Yes. But it sucks, because it hinders with my capacity to even draw something, much less paint. And since art is not a boat I'm ever going to leave, I guess I'm stuck with these... nuances for the rest of my life," he responds, pursing his lips. "Assuming I live a long life, that is," he adds a bit lower. 

Mike hears it, though. He shoots him a nasty look and pinches his hand. "Don't say that." 

Will rolls his eyes. "Sorry I'm not super confident about surviving our current situation," he says, half-joking half-serious.

Mike only stares at him for a moment before shaking his head, a smile making way on his mouth again. "Okay. You want to be pessimistic—" 

"Realistic," Will corrects.

"—so I'll be the optimistic one. However long your life is, I'm willing to give you massages whenever you need it," he continues, grinning like he's telling the funniest joke ever. Then, he looks up and leans in a little, his eyes going a little wide. "And for free," he whispers, sounding less like himself and more like a guy trying to promote his shady business. 

Will can't help a laugh. "I hope you know I will take you up on that offer." 

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" 

He fails biting down a smile. "Maybe." 

"Well, I don't feel too threatened," Mike replies, his thumbs stopping right as they reach his wrist. "In fact, I'm delighted about you choosing my services." 

Will rolls his eyes. He knows he should probably take the hint and retreat his hand now that Mike seems to be done, but he doesn't: instead, he slowly taps his finger against Mike's hand, their palms practically pressed together. "Maybe you could teach me," he says, carefully. "Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, right?" 

Mike looks a bit dumbfounded. He nods slowly, visibly swallowing. "Yeah. Right. I could— I could definitely teach you. Yeah." 

Will says nothing. Neither does Mike. The front door, however, loudly opens and Holly's fast steps quickly approaching the kitchen are the only cue they get to let go of each other, Will resuming his sketching in a lame attempt of looking composed while Mike takes his empty glass to the sink. 

The pen stops over the paper as he internally cringes, replaying the interaction over and over in his already tortured mind while the question What the fuck did I just do keeps echoing in his ears. Once again, the half-assed sketch looks back at him mockingly. He rips off the page. 

September 20, 1987

Music is something that has accompanied Will throughout all his life thanks to no one but Jonathan, the biggest music nerd he knows and the one to kindly introduce him to artists —such as Bowie— that have since been almost like a constant: music, among many other things, has the power to keep his mind grounded even in the most unlikely places (the Upside Down, for example) and it's precisely why he believes it to be a form of expression just as important as any other— such as the canvas in front of him supported on a vase at the lack of an easel. 

The Squawk has been blasting through his radio since morning, since he woke up with a bright spark of inspiration so rare he immediately knew had to make the most of it: so he got up, showered and left the house without even bothering with breakfast, biked to the nearest supply shop and bought two canvases and some paint with the spare money. And he didn't have much money to spare, per se, but whenever he has these bursts of inspiration he just can't help himself.

As Starship's Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now fills the silence, Will finally finishes the first layer of paint— he's not doing anything too detailed this time, instead settling with a landscape he has definitely never seen before.

There's a loud sigh, about the third one in the past few minutes. Will tries not to smile: Mike has been keeping him company all afternoon, reading quietly on the couch and not really saying much other than the occasional question or out-loud commentary about the plot of the book as to not disturb him —even though his voice is one of the things that could never possibly disturb him—. However, Mike does grow restless relatively fast. Will is actually surprised he's managed to be idle for so long. 

"You know," he starts, carefully placing his palette back down on the table, "you don't need to stay if you don't want to. I'll be fine on my own." 

Mike frowns a little. "What?" 

Will lets out a soft laugh. "I know you're bored, Mike."

"No!" Mike shakes his head furiously. "No, I'm not bored— I like watching you paint. It's kinda relaxing, actually," he says, fingers fidgeting almost nervously. "I just— I just want to spend time with you, that's all. Is that stupid? I mean, we spend literally every day together. Should I be getting tired of you?"

"Maybe," is all Will manages, taken aback. But sincere Mike is not one he gets to see often— if anything, he should try to make the most of it. After a brief pause he clears his throat, eyeing the canvas as an idea pops in his mind. "Do you really mean that?" he asks.

"Do I really mean what?"

"Wanting to hang out."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Yes. Obviously."

Will hums, nodding slowly. "Then maybe you could maybe help me out a little." 

Mike blinks at him and then at the canvas in a manner that resembles a lost dog all too much, understanding molding his features. "You mean... with the painting?" Will nods again. He looks borderline horrified. "Oh my God, absolutely not. I will just ruin it." 

"What? No, not at all," Will immediately argues.

"Art has never been my thing, you know that," Mike counter-argues, his brows going up dramatically.

Will shakes his head. "Well, you have to start somewhere. Plus, art isn't really about the final product— it's more about the process. At least to me. Every artist will probably say something different, though," he muses, smiling a bit when Mike says nothing in response. "So? I will be guiding you. Nothing to be worried about."

Mike still looks unsure, but gets up from the couch nevertheless. He lets out a sigh. "Don't hold it against me if I screw up."

"You won't," Will reassures him, excitement bubbling inside his chest. He hasn't been able to share his passion for art with anyone else, really— the other kids in art class back in Lenora were either unapproachable or straight up uninterested in talking to him. So to be able to do this with Mike, out of everyone, is an opportunity he's not letting slip away. He picks up his palette and takes a slightly smaller paintbrush than the one he was using, handing it to Mike. "Okay. All you need to be careful with is the pressure you apply with the tip."

Mike looks down at the brush and nods his head slowly. "Alright. That sounds simple enough. So what do I do, exactly?"

"Just paint over what's already there— that's just the first layer. You'll take care of the second, yes? You won't screw that up even if you try."

"Don't underestimate me," he mumbles in response, his eyes darting all over the palette. He scrunches up his nose. "Which blue did you use there? They all kind of look the same to me."

Will lets out a soft laugh, pointing to the correct shade. "That's exactly what a non-artist would say."

"So pretentious," Mike teases, carefully dipping the brush into the fresh paint. "Don't let me ruin your painting."

He lightly kicks him in the shin, earning a hiss from Mike. "Quit that. You're starting to piss me off."

"Can't believe I'm just starting to piss you off," he mutters: then, he finally presses the tip of the brush against the canvas, using the first layer as a guide just as Will told him. He hums, almost impressed. "Look at that. I'm you now." 

Will rolls his eyes, a smile quirking his lips upwards. "Told you. Now hold this." Mike turns briefly to take the palette Will extends in his direction. "Just take it easy and have fun with it. It's supposed to be relaxing." 

Mike purses his lips, dipping the brush again. "What about you? Won't you get bored?" 

He folds his arms, letting out a giggle. "Not at all. You're fun to watch." 

"Fun to watch? Am I buffoon to you?" 

"Totally. You're amusing." Mike gasps in feign offense. Will has the urge to shove him, but the fate of his painting depends on Mike's pulse so he doesn't. "Now focus. And be careful with the colors you pick," he says instead, leaning against the table. 

Mike just nods in response. And Will, like he said he would, only watches him: he watches the careful and slow movement of his hand as he drags the brush across the canvas, he watches his brows furrow mildly in concentration when he reaches an intersection with a different color, watches the way his eyes trace the painting in awe before he does so with the brush. His heart throbs in what he can only describe as painful adoration, the realization that what he feels for his best friend is not something he can come back from hitting him not for the first time.

The announcer's voice —not Robin's, so he doesn't pay much attention to what she says— is the only thing that pulls him out of his thoughts, Mike thankfully still focused on the painting as to notice his little slip up.

With the starting notes of Snowball by DEVO coming through the radio, Will notices Mike's rigid posture. He sighs. "You're too tense," he says, taking a step in his direction until he's standing right behind. Then, after a beat passes of neither saying anything, he brings both his hands up and gently places them atop Mike's shoulders. Mike stiffens impossibly more at the touch, and Will forces out a laugh. "Relax. Your posture can affect the result," he mumbles. He isn't sure if that's true.

But Mike takes a deep breath and his muscles go limp beneath his fingers nonetheless. "I have a bad posture by default," he mutters, moving the brush along considerably slower. "How am I doing?"

Will swallows. His hands softly press down on his shoulders before he finally lets go of him, returning to his spot by his side. "You're doing great. Not so hard, right?"

He huffs out a laugh, almost as if relieving some kind of tension. "Well, that's only because I know where I have to paint. But I couldn't do shit from scratch, if that's what you mean."

"With some practice and a good reference, I'm sure you could," he offers, shrugging a little.

Mike shoots him a dumbfounded look. "You think too high of me. I mean, I feel flattered, but you and I know that's not true."

He snorts. "Okay. Maybe. But at least we've both got our thing, right?"

Mike's face lights up, a wide smile on his lips. It makes his heart skip a beat. "You do the art and I the writing, remember?"

"I do the art and you the writing," Will echoes, mimicking him with a grin of his own.

"This is good for a change, though," Mike says. He tilts the palette in his hand a little and shoots him an apologetic smile. "Uh. Which green did you use, again?"

Will playfully rolls his eyes, once again pointing at the shade he's asking for. He tries to keep his eyes fixed on the painting rather than his face, this time.

October 16, 1987

Friday is the designated day for movie nights— it has been for the past year, at least. Sometimes Dustin and Lucas come along as well, sometimes the whole party sans Max goes to Hop's cabin so they can hang out with El too, and on very rare occasions Nancy and Jonathan will join them in the basement. But most of the time, it's just the tree of them: Mike, Will and Holly. At the very beggining, though, it was just Mike and Will— Holly only joined them as she grew more comfortable around Will, which didn't take long either. 

Tonight's movie is really bad.

It's corny, predictable, and the acting is an absolute mess. The only reason they don't change it is that Holly seems to be enjoying it, her eyes wide open and glued to the screen from where she's sitting cross-legged on the floor —despite Mike insisting she sat on the couch with them—, just occasionally turning around to say something or observe their reactions to the plot. And they try to indulge her as much as they possibly can, even though they are more focused on dissecting the movie.

They're sprawled on the couch, shoulders pressed against one another with how close they are. And there's no reason for them to be this close when they have the whole couch to themselves, but Mike keeps leaning towards him to whisper harsh criticisms in his ear so Holly hears none of it. And Will has to pat himself in the back, because he's doing a surprisingly good job at keeping it together even if he kinda feels like losing it when Mike's hot breath brushes his earlobe.

"See? I told you that would happen," Mike mumbles when the male lead says something distasteful to the female lead, apparently in an attempt to push her away. "That's my problem with drama movies. They're either super good or super predictable."

Will swallows hard when Mike doesn't back away, intensely looking at him as he waits for an answer. He keeps his eyes on the screen, because he knows that turning around would mean his immediate demise. "At least it's... entertaining," he tries.

"Barely," Mike scoffs, finally leaning back. And at last Will no longer feels like he's suffocating and takes a deep breath. "You have to admit the visuals are dogshit, though."

He bites down a laugh, shaking his head. "That they are."

As the plot unfolds, Mike keeps making little disgruntled noises and cursing under his breath when stupid stuff happens, shaking his head in utter displeasure. And it's endearing when it has no right to be. Will has always loved just how expressive Mike can be with his face: the way all his features contort when something irks him used to make him laugh as a kid and never fails to amuse him even now, and he naturally steals as many glances as he can.

At some point, Mike is leaning in again and their faces are practically brushing. Will has to fight the intense urge to just allow it to happen. "I'm calling it— now the guy is gonna apologize and she'll fold immediately," he whispers, annoyance all over his voice.

Will only raises his brows as the male lead follows the female lead into a closet and locks the door behind him, poorly acted desperation all over his face as he begs her to hear him out. And it's all ridiculously stupid because both are sobbing like they're supposed to be crying but no tears are falling down, and the male lead is totally over-acting while the female lead is under-acting. However, the plot does unfold in the exact same way Mike said it would— he's pouring his heart out saying how scared he is and how he cannot hide it any longer while she, for some reason, keeps pacing around dramatically as she shakes her head and denies his feelings.

"I knew I shouldn't have listened to fucking Steve's recommendations," Mike mumbles, letting out a sigh. "I bet they're going to keep dragging out the miscommunication trope and she's going to leave the room before he can finish explaining himself." 

Will, again, can only laugh. And of course, Mike is right, again, and he makes sure to boast about his great foreshadowing skills before he quickly starts predicting the next plot-point. And maybe it should be annoying, but Will just lets him be— lets him press their bodies together as he scoots closer to him, lets him blatantly distract him from everything else with his stupid jokes that aren't funny yet that he can't help but laugh at. 

Eventually, thankfully, the movie ends —a dramatic and equally predictable ending, yes—. As the credits start rolling, Holly gets up from the floor and turns to look at them with a grin. "It was super good! Did you guys like it?" 

They exchange a knowing smile. "Absolutely," Mike says, his gaze on Will. 

"Yeah. It was fun," Will offers, alternating his eyes between the two.

"Better than the horror movies," she says, folding her arms.

Mike lifts a hand as if to stop her. "Hey. That's too far."

Holly lets out a laugh. "Anyway. I'm tired, so I think I'll go to bed now. Do you guys need help cleaning up?" she asks, looking around at the mild mess of blankets, pillows and cans of soda.

Will shakes his head before Mike can reply. "Don't worry. We got it. Sleep well, Holly."

She nods, covering her mouth as she yawns. "Okay. Goodnight, guys."

"Night, Holly," Mike says as she runs off upstairs, waving her hand around.

As Holly closes the basement door on her way out, the overused song of the closing credits still playing, Mike angles his body slightly so he's properly facing him— and Will dares to turn his head a bit to look at him, even if they are too close for comfort and their knees are touching in a way that's difficult to ignore. Mike's resting his cheek on the headrest, his eyes heavy lidded as he meets his gaze with a small smile on his lips.

Being stared down like this by none other than Mike has his stomach doing funny flips. Will forces out a nervous laugh. "What?"

Mike matches him with a short laugh of his own, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just thinking."

He lifts a brow. "Thinking of what?"

"I don't know. It's just, I really like doing this. Breaking down movies and stuff. You think I should maybe try out writing scripts?" he asks, voice soft and low. It's a sincere question.

So Will gives him a sincere answer. "If that's something you're interested in then yes, absolutely."

Mike grins a bit wider, tilting his neck as he supports his head on his hand, elbow pressing against the couch; the poor lightning of the room coming from the TV only make his features look somehow even more unfairly handsome. Will urges himself to swallow when his mouth begins to feel disgustingly dry. "Think I'd be any good at it?" Mike finally says.

He rolls his eyes. "You've been writing our campaigns for years. Of course you'd be good at it."

"Is that so? Then tell me, what should my first script be about?"

"That's a hard question," he says, unable to pull his eyes away from Mike's. When Mike only raises both eyebrows as if to encourage him, he lets out an amused sigh. "I don't know. I guess it depends on what you want to do. Maybe you could try something based on all the Upside Down bullshit? You know, make something good out of it," he offers.

Mike shakes his head. "No, no. It has to come from here." He taps his forehead with his finger as if to make a point. 

Will nods. "Okay, fair. Then maybe make something... based on your feelings."

"Based on my feelings," Mike repeats, sounding confused.

"Yeah. I mean, at least the way I see it, art can also often come from here," he says, pressing a finger against Mike's chest. Mike briefly follows the movement of his hand before his eyes are back on his, some kind of understanding flickering in them. Will smiles weakly. "That way, you connect more easily with what you're working with and it makes the process feel more... natural, kind of. At least that's how it is for me."

Mike suddenly looks a tad more interested. "That— Your feelings, you use them for your art?"

Will swallows, suddenly aware of the dangerous territory he walked into himself without even realizing. "Sometimes," he replies, shrugging in what he hopes is a casual manner. 

"Oh," is all Mike utters, his lips parted. Will hates how his eyes are immediately drawn to them. "Okay. And you think that could work for me?"

He's immensely grateful for the change of topic, but he doesn't say that. "Definitely. Writing is an art form as well, right?"

Mike nods, slowly. "Yeah. It is." Will can't help but feel like they're not exactly on the same page, but he says nothing about it. Neither does Mike add something.

The music stops and the TV screen goes black, leaving them in complete darkness. Will turns his neck instinctively to make sure that it's because the tape finally ended and not because of some other completely unrelated thing he wants not to think about, but just as quickly he's snapping his gaze back to Mike— because suddenly, Mike's slender fingers are tentatively looking for his over the couch, his cold skin meeting his own. And Will would like to have the instinct to pull away, but it's the exact opposite: when Mike wraps his hand around his, he simply surrenders to the contact.

Will swallows, his heart beating so fast he's afraid it'll pop out of his chest. "Mike?" he tries, voice barely a whisper as if he's afraid that words alone could be enough to break the moment.

But Mike doesn't let go. He stays quiet for a beat so long Will fears he might as well not say anything. Then, after what seems like hours, he finally seems to works up the courage to say something: "Will, can I—"

The basement door swings open. As the light from upstairs filters through, both lean back the way one would pull their hand away from a burning stove, heads snapping upwards to see who's coming.

No one comes down, though. Mrs. Wheeler does yell at them from the door: "Will! Your mom needs you. Come up here, honey!"

Will all but jumps off the couch, scrambling to the stairs. But then he pauses, turning to look at a conflicted Mike. He clears his throat as he gestures towards the mess they've yet to clean. "Hey, do you—"

"I got it," Mike hurries to say, voice an octave higher than usual. "I got it. Just go with your mom. Don't worry."

He only nods, because he can't bring himself to say anything else. And as he climbs up the stairs, he has to tell himself that he's not the type of person that should jump to conclussions. He can't.

November 4, 1987

It's not that he thought he was the only gay person in the world, much less in Hawkins: he knew that somewhere, someone had to be like him, silently carry the same weight he does and struggle with the thoughts he fights against. However, he wasn't expecting that someone to be so near and hiding in plain sight— and he believes it's stupid that he didn't take note of it sooner, because he should've known that the way Robin winced ever so slightly whenever dates were brought up was a familiar one, a grimace not of disgust but of hurt, almost.

But above all, he wasn't expecting to feel hope, something so foreign to him in pretty much every aspect of his life. He's not someone that allows himself to be hopeful simply because throughout all his life he hasn't been taught to expect the best outcome, but to prepare for the worst possible scenario instead— it's the idea his dad used to tell him, it's what bullies in school made him believe and a philosophy that the Upside Down only exemplifies. So among all this mess, among Holly's disappearance and all that entails, he wasn't expecting to feel hopeful.

Because suddenly, it's as if what he feels isn't nonsensical like everyone says it is; suddenly, the concept of him and another boy, of him and Mike, doesn't seem so out of reach like it always has felt. And maybe it's wishful thinking, but he can allow himself that. He knows he should.

So when Robin pulls them into one of the rooms as they hide from her very special friend, Will can't help himself.

"You know, you could always just... kiss her again," he says, unable to help a grin that pulls his lips upwards.

After a brief pause, she tears her gaze away. "I knew that was your goddamn bowl cut."

He grimaces. "Yeah, I mean, they're not that... popular anymore."

She says nothing for a moment. Then, "Did I look like I knew what I was doing at least?"

"I mean," he lets out a laugh, "yeah. To me."

She huffs out a laugh too, the awkwardness gone. "I guess that's something."

Once more, his mouth works faster than his brain: "So, how did you know that with— Vickie, right?" Robin angles her body, arms folded as she looks at him with interest. "How did you know that Vickie wanted to—"

"Make out?"

"—to date?"

She blinks. "Oh. Well, we volunteered together. You know, there were, like, signals."

His brows come together. "Signals?"

"Yeah, you know, like a brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look," she offers, her wide eyes on his. "It all just kind of accrued, like a snowball rolling down a hill until it was obvious."

A heat coils inside of his chest, something he'd now dare to name as hope. "How obvious?"

She takes a peek through the window, a smile on her face. "Let's just say the, uh, snowball became an avalanche."

Will's gaze drops to the floor as images start flooding his brain, and he ponders. He ponders as he loads Robin's backpack with drugs they are definitely not stealing, he ponders as they bike back to the Squawk, he ponders as he's left alone in the couch. 

A brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look.

How many times has Mike started contact? How many times has he purposefully bumped their knees together, and how many times has he not pulled away upon noticing?

A brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look.

How many times has Mike completely bypassed his personal space? How many times have their elbows brushed as they walk side by side? How many times has he felt the warmth of Mike's body against his because of just how close they are?

A brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look.

How many times have their eyes met halfway, entirely unintended? How many times has Will turned to look at Mike only to find him already staring at him? How many times has he caught Mike gazing down at his lips and pretended not to notice?

How many things has he not noticed?

He runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep and agitated breath.

Let's just say the snowball became an avalanche.

But what does an avalanche look like? How can he be sure? Does he want to know?

He swallows, the ceiling staring back at him almost with pity. 

He does want to know.

He really wants to know.