Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cold fingers, cold feet. The pearls of his ankles feel heavy and Jonathan's shirt is loose, smells like condemnation and hopelessness and then again — there's a note of hope, of less tangy laundry detergent and brushing teeth under a bulb that doesn't flicker.

Somewhere along the road, Will lost hold of his brother, but it didn't feel bitter. Their troubles outgrew each other and maybe Jonathan's easy distance is a testament to how much he actually loves Will in the end: wholly, enough to give him up and trust he can scrape all the broken shit together by himself.

Jonathan's breathing echoes around the basement and he sounds like their mother when he sleeps. Will doesn't tell him that. But he can hear it and it helps him fall asleep most times, but tonight is different. 

The days do get easier. The sun spills and it's so invasive even if fall has very well festered into the year for a while now. So warm days, warm days that only really demand a cheap bike and a walkman to feel like something valuable. Grapefruit gum, tap water. Will's stomach turns every time he sees the long, green-blue stretch of Hawkins in his periphery, and he still doesn't forgive this place for what it has done to him, but he doesn't want to be anywhere else either.

Still, the nights are cold. Something at the window bars keeps rattling and Will's blanket isn't long enough to keep him warm like he wants to be. His body is ready to sleep, he feels the throb in his eyes and legs; everything always regurgitates when it gets dark. 

He shifts, huffs out a breath, puts a hand to his bare stomach hoping it'll break him out of his spiral staircase of thoughts. Endless repetitions of questions that are purposefully left unanswered by the world. Will has come to hate uncertainty. He doesn't enjoy learning about the cosmos as much as he did when he was eleven, doesn't like the endlessness of it. He spent most of his teenage years spilling blood because everything in life was uncertain during that time and the wrong people can take the right advantage of that. 

Will won't ever know everything. But he knows that he can't stay in this basement if he wants to sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday. Mom will go out and try to find a house cheap enough to rent for the three of them because they can't spend forever here, even if Will isn't opposed to it. 

But dreams are big and they've always been poor and the Wheelers can only offer them so much solace until they bend under that weight too.

Another thought he hates dwelling on. A new home, something old and probably soaked with undiscovered Asbestos that will kill them eventually. It's going to be in Hawkins, but a new Hawkins. It's not their private corner edging the woods, it's not heat-soaked California. It's something new, and Will feels worn out.

He needs familiar. He needs trusted. He gets up on his naked feet before it truly registers in his mind. The moon falls in behind him and a wide shadow climbs over Jonathan's body. Will lifts a hand to brush at his hair, all unevenly sheared to erase the bowlcut. He's hungry. The hunger feeds into his looming exhaustion, but still he gets moving, timed steps on the stairs so he doesn't alarm his brother. He owes Jonathan some peace.

With the whole ground floor empty, he feels like an intruder. It thrills him a bit but really it just weighs him down. He knows this place, has spent entire summers here, sat here when the snow outside got too tall and his mama's Peugeot couldn't fight it. Hours of board games, exchanging clothes, burning CDs with game scores and songs that meant nothing to anyone but them. He's eighteen now, but this eighteen is just an accumulation of all the things he's felt before.

He can feel his heart sigh, and this feeling gets him like nothing else does. Because he can act like he's deeper water, darker ink, a kind of pit that doesn't end. But he isn't. He knows where he wants to go each time he feels like this. He knows the hunger isn't really physical, just something his mind makes up so he can act on it. Will wants to believe he's strong, has all the evidence for it, but he's not above everything. 

So second set of stairs. This one is trickier. This one is going to cost him something if the timing isn't right, if something in the air shifts and it all gets too tight. His hands are so cold. He's trembling. He makes his way up with little error.

This floor feels more alive. More breaths, maybe a snore, the sound of a radio play not turned off slowly mumbling in Holly's room. Will can hear his mom, he can smell Nancy's floral perfume. And hints of Jonathan. So odd. He makes his way down, finds the door he wants, doesn't knock yet.

It's a little past midnight. Mike might be burning himself as he stays awake until morning to philosophize on things he won’t talk about or he's been out for a while, asleep for the next ten hours in some horrid compensation for the hours he did not dedicate to sleeping. 

Will swallows on a dry throat and puts a few knuckles to the door. His knocks are too weak to really count, but it's enough to stir a reaction from inside, and suddenly his eyes ache less, but his ribcage feels like it's being drawn apart in the center. He feels both pathetic and responsible. He knows this will fix him, even if just temporarily.

“Will,” Mike opens the door, bleary-eyed, a hand combing through his more rebellious strands. Doing so, his shirt offers a glance at his waist and a stomach softened by comfort. His pants sit low at his hip bones, he looks like he's spent the last ten years hibernating. Will's heart is properly pounding as he takes it in, all before the dim glow of an orange lamp. Mike's voice is tangled in his throat. “Knew it was you.”

“How?” Will laughs, awkwardly, bordering a whisper. 

“Your steps. Nobody walks like you.” 

Will scoffs. “Dude. That's creepy.” 

Mike shrugs, yawns into the curled back of his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Will responds fast, feels his throat sizzle. “M’alright.” 

“You sure?” Mike gazes straight at him. He’s got eyes like coffee and he’s losing freckles now that it gets dark much earlier in the evening. Will is stuck on that for a moment, how these things never seem to fade out of him, even if his face has gotten sharper and he’s more sullen now, strained by the same shit all of them have gone through and some things he lived by himself. 

“I can’t sleep, is all.” 

“Okay.” Mike says, relieved. This is something they’ve gone through a thousand times. Will was always an antsy kid and sleepovers were sanctuaries for him. Four small bodies lax on spread out blankets, leg to leg, spilling into laughter when the lights went off. Sometimes it was just Mike and him, breathing things back and forth, new campaign ideas and more sentimental things that washed away with the morning.

Or didn't. Will remembers Mike's vulnerability, every small part of it that he decided to share. It wasn't much, but it meant something. Bad grades, parents that don't really love each other anymore, feeling like freak is more of a name to him than Mike. 

“Do you want, like, valerian or something? My mom keeps a stash.” Mike interrupts his thoughts, rubbing one eye with a slight grimace. His arms are still slightly tanned, it's barely there because Mike has always been impossibly pale, but it serves as a nice reminder for the summer that's come to pass. 

“No.” Will replies meekly. He's had enough of swallowing pills and supplements and the deficiencies he needs to balance out to save himself. Even if it's just something to help him sleep, he wants to believe he can do it by himself… or something along those lines. 

“Alright. Come in.” Mike steps aside and Will enters, a little awkward on sore legs. He feels so fragile all of a sudden. His clothes are thin and he's so tired it makes him laugh. That, and the way Mike's room looks more disassembled with the years, with more disregard for whatever rules Karen has set up when it comes to his space. 

Because it's his. Sun bleached posters and little trinkets from the arcade. Consoles buried in dust, collared shirts, jeans that probably won't fit him around the same time next year. Dated gadgets, post cards from American cities that aren't as sad as Hawkins, another collared shirt, Will's shoes. 

Right. That makes him smile more than anything. They grow but they still share shoes. 

“Do you plan on spending the night here?” Mike asks, examining his own space and sitting between slightly embarrassed and totally, surprisingly fine. Will nods. “It's not a big deal or anything, I just don't have that spare mattress underneath my bed anymore, so.” 

Will swallows again, but this time his throat is wet and he's kind of burning without really sweating. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Mike says, fixing the flipped hem of his shirt. “But I can pile some stuff up and sleep on the floor.” 

“What? No.” Will retorts as fast as he can before Mike grows certain that his idea is a good one. 

Will thinks he's worth something, but not ruining your back over. Plus, he knows Mike's skin is sensitive. The carpet is itchy. It's not worth the trouble. Mike doesn't seem fazed by his own suggestion, however. 

“I'll take the floor, Mike. I sorta forced myself all up in your room anyway.” 

“I'm not letting you sleep on the floor.” 

Will looks around, definitely aimless, his hands not warm but hot now. All the blood's back, but so is that feeling of damnation that always comes when he gets too bold. 

“This is kinda stupid. I'll just go back.” 

“No.” Mike says, insistent, almost harsh in tone.

He gets too loud for the situation they're currently in, paper thin walls and curling wallpaper. Will used to think the Wheelers had something utopian going on, perfectly in the middle between dirt poor and obnoxiously, asshole-level rich. He used to think Mike's talks about conquering the world in their campaign plays would someday flourish. That he was manifesting things. But nothing and nobody here is truly fine, and Mike's just as much of a loser as the rest of them are. And Will doesn't see that as a weakness, or something to pity, it's just a truth he has come to accept. 

Will puts a hand to the side of his thigh, tries to hold onto something to redirect the panging in his spine, his ribs, his neck. Something razes straight through him but it's dull. Is that possible? Dull-sharp, hot-cold, soft-hard. Why is he thinking about antitheses when Mike isn't letting him go right now? 

Cloud-boy, that's what his mom used to call him when he was so much smaller and every thought felt like a liberation. She always said it in endearment, because she loved his dreams, the abstract things he came up with that he tried to vomit onto the printer paper she'd steal from her old office job. His hands were always smudged rainbow from the crayons. 

“We can share the bed. If that's fine with you.” Mike suggests, and he tries to be casual about it, but something in his voice falters a bit towards the end. 

Will looks to the bed, tries to pretend that he's contemplating it, but his mind's a snowscreen and he forgets about colors and the clouds he supposedly swims in. His lips unclasp involuntarily, the air in the room is warm. 

“Yeah.” He replies. “Is it fine with you, though?”

“One hundred percent.” Mike says, more confident this time. Maybe he notices Will's apprehension. Maybe he doesn't want to be alone either. Will doesn't really consider the latter. Mike can be alone. He never really was, but he doesn't want to doubt his best friend. They're not the same, with Will having to relearn that alone isn't going to cut his throat. “I have a spare blanket in my closet, let me get it.” 

“Pillow?” Will asks, noticing just now how laconic he's being. 

“Yeah, got that too. You can sit down if you want.” 

Will does as told, sits on the covers he's sat on a million times at this point, taking in the scent of old plastic and sweet wood. One of his hands grabs a fistful of the blanket beneath him. His leg bobs a bit. 

“Is this really fine with you? It's kinda spontaneous.” And invasive, but Will leaves that out. He doesn't need to be moping like crazy in order to get a point across. 

“Will,” Mike sighs, opening the doors of his closet. The wavy hair on the back of his head is a little flat from lying down. “You're obviously here for a reason.” 

Mike bends down, shirt once again rolling with it, giving a view of his lower back, the heights and valleys of his spinal cord. Even if contorted like this, he's still so tall. More freckles on his back, which Will remembers from days spent at the community pool. They used to talk about piercing their ears and Lucas grimaced before Max made him do it a few weeks ago. It's surprising that Hawkins still breathes after the earthquake, that barely anyone left. They love this void. Will sort of does, too. 

“If this helps you sleep,” Mike rises up again and tosses a pillow into Will's lap, which he catches with both hands. “Then I'm not going to leave you at the door like some asshole.” 

Mike's got the thick blanket at his side, has the phantom urge to brush hair away that isn't there anymore. Will smiles, Mike kisses his teeth. 

“Also, I literally suggested you sleep in my room when you moved in.” 

“Yeah. That's when you still had that mattress here, though.” 

Mike pouts, slightly, subconsciously. “It doesn't really matter to me.” 

“Okay.” 

Mike smiles tightly at him. “Alright.” 

He comes over and Will grabs the blanket out of his arms. It's soft and pliant in his hands. He should've probably just asked to get this one instead of the one he has now, Mike wouldn't mind, but they've already demanded so much.

Ironic, given he's here now. Cloud boy, parasite boy. He's kind of everything at the same time. 

“Is the temperature in the room fine? I know you don't really like it that hot.” 

Will waves him off. “I was kinda cold, anyway.” 

“Is the basement too cold?” Mike asks, concerned now. He's still standing in front of Will, and he has to look up to see his face. 

“No, it's actually perfect.” Will says, which is true. It's lukewarm down there and perfect for sleeping. “I just get chills sometimes, I don't know.” 

He does know. His body is still recovering from more mangled things, and he's got doctors who check up on him because of that. Sometimes a part of him dismantles and does things it's not supposed to, sometimes his body replaces utter happiness with immediate sadness and he has to excuse himself again because he can't stop crying around his friends. Now they don't mind, it was scary at first, but now it's something they understand. Will still feels raw underneath their eyes. Sometimes his arm tingles. Sometimes his gums bleed. His legs go sore and it feels like there's weights in his back and shoulders. 

“You're probably better off than me.” Mike says, laughing underneath his breath. “I get so fucking cold all the time. It's annoying.” 

“Mike, I know that.” Will reminds him, because sometimes they all tell him things that he has memorized like his own name and pretend it's new. Distance does weird things. 

“Right. Sorry.” Mike says, averting his gaze to the side. He grabs the pillow and places it against the headboard for Will. “Goldfish mind.” 

“No, it's fine. It's good to know even greats like you have weaknesses.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Mike walks around the bed to occupy his own space. “It's so hard being humble.” 

Will sits for a moment longer, looks at the slightly ajar closet doors. Mike doesn't have mirrors in his room. The window beside the bed is blue and throws a shadow of four, elongated rectangular shadows. The flutter of leaves. Will doesn't want to look over his shoulder. It feels too real.

“Hey,” Two fingers brush over his lower back. Will tenses up a bit. It's something Mike does a lot, fleeting touches. “You can lay down now.” 

Will's body isn't activating fight or flight, which is good, but there's still this persistent, aching gnaw on his heart that sends oceanic ripples through his body. And his body's too small for that kind of impact right now. It won't ever be big enough.

To make things less awkward, he does lay down, looking mostly to the ceiling. It's quiet enough that every sound that Mike makes seems to echo in his ears. Reverbs of he's here, here, also there. Will puts a hand on his stomach again, which has become a habit. His middle finger goes out to toy with the draw strings of his pajama pants. 

“Why aren't you sleeping?” Will asks, and it's an obsolete question because being awake at midnight isn't really that out of the ordinary, especially on the weekend. 

“Can't waste the silence. ‘Wish I could bottle it.” 

Will almost laughs. He's still not used to whatever maturity Mike has been working towards ever since they've returned to Hawkins and El decided to break it off for good. It's refreshing, it's nice. Feels like they're being reborn. Even if it costs things, even if he's been a bit aimless without being attached to the girl he's loved ever since he was a kid. But he doesn't seem so rueful now.

“Yeah, the house is kinda full.” 

“Which is fine, by the way.” Mike acknowledges, too familiar with Will's guilt. “Or would be fine, if your brother could stop giving me death glares at the dinner table.” 

This time, the laughter does flood out of him. It slips from his mouth very easily. “Jonathan's just protective. I don't blame him.” 

“Wow. Am I that bad of a friend?” 

Will shakes his head. “You were a bit of a jerk in California, though. And he tends to hold grudges.” 

“Touché.” Mike says. He runs a hand over his arm. There's small imprints on his wrist from the bracelets he wore. There's a scar above his elbow from middle school from when he slipped in the rain and the concrete consequently bit at him. He knocked out a milk tooth too, one of his last. 

Will grows more aware of the space, or the lack thereof. 

It's only a full sized bed, even if it's more than he's really ever had. Still — they've got shoulders now, they're taller. They don't look like dangling keychains anymore, they look like boys. True boys, like the ones on album covers and the ones Will would stare at in dissonance as they passed by, older and brighter, but also so horribly mean.

Will doesn't know if they're them. Usually those boys were jocks. Valedictorians with larger money. Or the type like Harrington who offered so much and, then again, so little. They don't really play DnD these days, but if Will asked, they probably would. Dustin has boxes filled to the rim with comics he intends on finishing by the end of the year, which serve both as a love letter to his true self and an escape from his grief. Will doesn't doubt that he can do it, will probably finish much earlier. Lucas slips nerdy references all the time now, now that everyone's back together. They're still clueless and just better at owning that now. 

Will looks at Mike, briefly. He's stoic, much more buried in his mind right now than Will could ever be. He's both present and fighting presence. Just because they've done this before doesn't mean it doesn't feel new now. Mike smells different, of showered skin, slight sweat and a scent that is undeniably his. Will gets a bit overwhelmed by it when they're close, when Mike hooks an arm around him because he's not feeling steady enough again. His jackets, which Will got to wear a lot when they first got back, carry that scent nicely. A more diluted, authentic variation of it. Will feels weird for dwelling on it, but he dwells.

He's the most raven he's ever been. Not just in hair, but in entirety. His hair is like an upside down, dark tulip placed on his head that serves as a neatly contained mess. The first time Will saw it after they rushed back home in the rain, he almost started crying. Parts of him that were always soft stay soft, some molded with the edge that came naturally. He resembles Nancy more now. Sharp jaw, eyes that take everything in. They've got timeless faces. Will finds him both easy and eternally hard to draw because of this.

His hands halt. He gets these urges. To reach, to lash out. Maybe not lash. Maybe lash. He doesn't like the violence in him that he doesn't really know. Fuck. Will's fingers curl together. He feels like a goddamn dog, he feels a lot like he thinks Jonathan felt at his age. Not as angry, but definitely desperate to be swooped up by the collar and never let go.

“We're fine now.” Will says, to disperse any doubts Mike might've gotten while they were both verbally absent. 

“For sure.” Mike hums something deep in his throat to fill the quiet in the room. “Also, sorry if I've been keeping you from falling asleep. I can turn off the lights if you want that.” 

“No, keep them on. Not ready yet.”

“Okay.” Mike scoffs, disbelieving. “You could barely stand on two feet when you entered.” 

“Rude.” Will huffs, looking straight at his best friend, and he looks back. Mike cocks a brow.

“Maybe you're just scared of the dark and you don't want to admit it. It's fine.”

As a matter of fact, yes he is. But for reasons that go deeper than whatever Mike is hinting at. Will hates when things get wide, and darkness always gets the widest. 

“You're projecting.” Will counters, and it's sort of weak but they're both in this tired trance that makes everything said less significant.

“Maybe.” Mike shrugs, and they're still looking at each other. Will tries to keep eye contact, but he does flicker away every few seconds. It's a lot on him right now. 

Then it's back to silence. The one Mike wants to bottle up, which Will understands. It's very tranquil, even if there's this slight buzz from the cables outside. There's even the occasional car driving through the street. The streets are wet still with afternoon rain and the noise the tires make on the asphalt is delicious. Will loves normalcy more than anything. 

“What was keeping you up?” Mike asks, and he uses the kind of tone that lets Will know that he's not expecting an answer if he doesn't feel like it. But he does, definitely right now, with everything pooling together into a somber, lenient mass.

“Thinking about things I won't ever be able to answer. I don't like the maybe of it all.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Mike runs two hands down his face. “Fuck Schrödinger's Cat.”

Will chuckles. “Exactly.” 

“No, but I think we'll be okay. We've been spat out a million times but we always came out in one piece.” 

“Wise words.” 

Mike puts a hand to his chest. “Straight from the heart.” 

Will looks at his fingers. One taps against his sternum. “For the record, I'm going to believe you. So if anything goes wrong, you're a false prophet.” 

“Jesus.” Mike snorts. “Can't even speak a word of wisdom without you bringing me down.” 

“I'm supposed to be the wise one, anyway.”

“You are.” He says so with strange confidence, and Will loses his smile. “You know everything before I ever do.” 

Will wishes there was a glass of water here, even if he isn't really thirsty. He wants to wash his face and slip some ice into his mouth to help himself out of the burn he's feeling. Again, he's not above everything. And it always catches up to him, knowing that he's actively gambling with the one thing in this life that has always felt secure enough to serve as a pillar to hold him. Mike and him met on the swings and ever since then they swung in a rhythmic, symmetrical back and forth of giving and taking. Sometimes it was off balance, sometimes one of them hopped off, but they always got back. Houses are built and people live in them expecting them not to crumble.

Maybe Will can't truly forgive Hawkins because he sees so much of himself in it. They're both bodies trying not to slump, they split in the middle when it gets too much. His next exhale is heavier than the others before, and he hopes Mike doesn't catch it. 

“You can't just say stuff like that.” Will says, at the very least bashful, afraid when he truly thinks about it. 

Mike's body shifts until he's laying sideways. Will just lets his head fall in his direction, but that rolls down on him like an avalanche. He doesn't like the feeling. Mike is too close.

“You need to give yourself more credit.” 

Just another round of reassurance. Will doesn't want to be reassured anymore, doesn't want to fight so much just to feel stable on his own forever. He just wants to be wanted. Wants to see somebody turn themselves inside out for him because he's worth that discomfort.

“You're not my therapist, Mike.” Will says, with no malice. Simply wants to direct them away from all of this. “You don't need to tell me good things about me right now. I just want you to be here.” 

Okay. That might be too real, too baring of a truth to just be disregarded like everything else. Will is undeniably worked up and Mike's face gets a bit more dark as he speaks. There's still light in it, because he realizes why Will is here, and that he doesn't want to leave either. But there's something at stake right now. 

“I'm not trying to tell you who you are.” Mike says, apologetic. “And I'm here. I can shut the fuck up and just be here if that's what you want.”

Like he's dough, like Will can make whatever he wants out of him.

“This used to be easier,” Will closes his eyes, concentrating on the scent he can't let go. “Us talking.” 

“I think it's still easy. We're just a bit angsty sometimes, it gets in the way.” 

“I used to get this feeling like I could hold my entire life in my palms if I wanted to.” 

“And now?” Mike asks. Will reopens his eyes. He gathers the courage to mirror his best friend's position when he sees the look in his eyes, a bit dazed, eager to know things.

“Doesn't feel like that anymore.” 

Mike listens attentively, even if he looks a bit stunned by the way they're getting closer. Will's not exactly calm either, one of his legs twitches and his eyes dart around. 

“I'll be here. So it gets easy again.” 

Will nods, doesn't give him another lighthearted remark. His face rubs against the pillow, and his eyes don't feel like moving around anymore, they just settle on Mike. Mike, who's alternating between Will's hair and his lips. That's a habit Will picked up on right before Mike got cruel for the summer when they were fifteen. He saw it in the movie theater, even when they argued, especially in California. 

“I'm trying my best.” 

“I know.” 

“At everything.” Will whispers this time. He feels like his voice is going to break. He gets that rush of emotional decapitation. His body might detach from his mind and then everything else is instinct, and his first instinct is always crying. Hawkins gives birth to sad boys. 

“Hey, I know.” Mike matches his tone, shifting to gentle. His hand travels until he finds Will's where he has hidden it underneath his blanket. He hooks their fingers together, and a big star of need blows apart in Will's stomach. The tremble returns, he feels like he'll implode and grind himself down to dust.

“Mike,” Will says with urgency. First as a whisper. Then louder, more stern. “Mike.” 

“I got you.” 

“No, I'm not drifting away.” Will says, which is a fair assumption. It happens often. He hears his own pulse in his ears. “I'm so here right now it hurts.” 

“Why does it hurt?” Mike asks, once more concerned, waiting to carve all the answers out of Will so he can care for him better. Just like he did when they found him again, and he had to remember his life before everything. Mike spent so many hours in the hospital he started smelling like sterile metal and disinfectant. He brushed the sweat from Will's gleaming forehead when he randomly woke up at night, he brought the water and he brought all the good stuff his family couldn't afford at that time. He was unbearable and then he apologized and the world flipped around again. He told Will how to cut his hair, he cut the first strand. He sat outside the door when Will bathed and it felt like somebody was going to get him from the drain if he was alone. He's all hands and he's eyes and he tries to cauterize every wound Will knows will be there forever. His fingers are cold, it's a good cold, it's a lot. 

Will feels the shatter like glass. “Because all I can think about right now is how much I want to kiss you.” 

It's five seconds. Mike's eyes don't widen, but there's something in his eyelids that does speak for a reaction. It's one breath that Will can feel from the small distance. A still body. Maybe it's his imagination, but he thinks he can hear Mike's heart ring out like a bass. Five seconds is pretty long when Will realizes how much he's able to take in. Mike, changeless. He doesn't let Will's hand go until he does, but only to bring it up to his neck and pull him in. 

It's not entirely careful but that is what breaks Will to complete shards. His hands are helpless as one grips Mike's shoulder and the other tangles into his shirt. He kisses him exactly how Will imagined he would — sudden, like this is the only time he can give himself up. Will makes a small noise of overwhelmment, before he opens his mouth to kiss him back.

Mike goes with it, brings his other hand up to loop it through the space between Will's neck and the pillow. He holds him with both, strokes his scalp with his thumbs. Pulls him closer, again. Will tries to aid him with that, drags his body over the bed until their knees knock together like a Newton's cradle, but there's no bouncing back. It's not hard to keep up, but Will still pulls away when he feels like he's suffocating, his forehead to Mike's. The realization comes as anything does: unkind, like a slap to the face on the hottest day of summer. 

“I don't know—”

“Me neither.” Will shuts him down, doesn't really want to hear it. “I don't know what I'm doing.” 

Mike nods against him, still open-eyed, runs one hand down to Will's shoulder and puts a few fingers into the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Can I kiss you again?” 

Regained oxygen and a globe finally disintegrating in his throat, Will can barely form a sound around the word yes before Mike's back, carefully and uncarefully working to open him up like fruit. 

That's that, then. Comfort, security and over a decade of friendship risked for some proximity they could get anywhere. Will knows it's not the same with other people. That he wants this because it is Mike. He doesn't want this with anyone else, he realizes. This isn't about wanting to kiss, wanting to be touched, wanting to be wanted by anyone. It's about Mike. 

Will doesn't know when they get close enough for their ribs to meet. There's something ruthless about the way they're moving, the way their limbs work with the absence of space and adjust just for that. Mike puts his thumb on Will's chin to pull them apart, gets some air, gets right back. It feels lazy in a practiced way. The potential of this not being all they're able to give makes him terrified of his own desire. Let him always be tired when he needs something. Please. His stomach is not swirling around some diluted, daydreamed version of this anymore — it's so in on it. Will feels like all his organs are going to collapse from how soft he feels inside, like he's become taxidermy. The most alive taxidermy ever. 

No, not taxidermy. That doesn't do justice to how alive he feels right now. He has a witness to his vigor. Mike can probably taste his heartbeat in all the things he's holding on to right now.

Slowly, he pushes back and works his way under Will's blanket. Their ankles lock and Will laughs when Mike does too. Their bangs mingle on their foreheads, sometimes Mike slips and kisses the corners of Will's mouth. He puts a hand to his hip, stays there for a moment, toys with the fabric of the shirt above it. Will doesn't know how to give him permission, but somehow he does and then there's a hand dancing along his bare waist and his shoulder blade. Mike runs a finger down the entirety of Will's spine and it's enough to unthread him from himself. He gasps between their lips.

The next thing he does is so subtle and so minor compared to anything that Will barely catches it. His knees must've unbuckled without him noticing, because he feels Mike inch closer and his thigh sits between Will's legs. Before he does anything further, Will stops him, brings a fast hand to his leg to put an end to something that hasn't even begun. Mike interrupts his litter of kisses to look at his best friend. His brows draw together, not perplex, just uneasy.

“Too much?”

Will looks at the way Mike's throat bobs. “Yeah.” 

“Shit, sorry.” Mike apologizes. “I'm not— I usually ask and stuff.” 

He scrunches his nose, must think that what he's saying sounds weird. Will's lips press into a straight line to keep himself from laughing at his face. “I should've asked.” 

“It's okay. Seriously.” 

Mike hums, a bit insecure. “Okay, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” 

He peels some loose string from Will's sleeve. “Is this your first time doing something like this?”

“What, kissing?”

“Yes, but also no.” Mike's face softens. “Getting close to someone this way.”

“Is it that obvious?” Will whispers, giving Mike an accusatory look. Mike kisses him for that. 

“No.” He returns the energy by whispering straight back. “I'm just curious.” 

“Yeah, that's a big problem of yours.”

“I know. It's horrible.” 

Will runs a finger along Mike's jaw like he's playing an instrument. He finds it hard to go inwards in his mind. All of him is all of Mike's too. He wonders if he can hear his thoughts right now. He wonders if they wonder at the same time.

“No, but this is my first time. I've never kissed anyone before. I've never—” He looks at his best friend and tries to figure out what's behind all that brown in his eyes. 

“You've never kissed anyone?” 

Will shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“You let me be your first?” 

Right. “Who else is going to kiss me around here, Mike? You weren't my best bet, either.” 

“But I was a bet.” 

Will feels like a kid. “You were my only bet. I didn’t want to bet on anyone else.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh.”

“Okay, listen.” Mike starts, still whispering, pressing a supple kiss to Will's cheek. “You can't tell anyone about this. I…” 

Will nods, vigorously, because he knew this would come. The anticipation doesn't help though. He thinks it just makes it all more bloody, more disgusting. He starts crying, and can't move his head anymore. It gets so horrible so fast with him. Hawkins gives birth to sad boys, and Will might be the saddest one of them. He's still not stitched together. 

“Shh,” Mike wrangles his hand out of Will's shirt and wipes at the first tear that exits his eyes. He's fucking this up. “It's not your fault. It's not because it's you.” 

Will wants to respond, but the spit in his mouth keeps him from it and he focuses on keeping all of that down before he detonates for good. Reality has this thing where it works like an ice pick down his soul until he's oozing all he is out on the concrete floors of high school that he never left entirely. 

“You're great, Will.” Mike shakes his head. “Okay, sorry. That's empty words. Listen.” 

Will doesn't want to look at him, keeps his eyes shut and feels his throat wobble around a sob he can't let out. Mike brushes over his eyelids. 

“I want to do this again. With you.” Will stumbles over the strain in his gums as Mike speaks this. “I really want you. It scares me.” 

In another life, Will wishes he was bullet proof. That all the things that bother him now may never bother him again. He likes to think he deserves it.  

He doesn't know how he deserves this. The fight Mike is putting up right now, negotiating, resisting whatever this world has drilled into his head — as much as he can. Because Will hides too, is well aware that the world isn't kind enough yet. Even if he's ready to send himself flying. He wants to fly so bad. 

“I'm scared too. All the time.” He forces out, hoarse, beaten.

Mike gives him a weak smile, but he looks very disheveled so it's not too convincing. He's very pretty like this. His hair looks like a bundle of feathers. He works himself back into Will's space bit by bit, kisses the space beneath his lips, then he kisses his jaw. He leans back, searches for approval. He gets it. Will's head inclines upwards on the pillow and Mike finds his throat, kisses it without adding anything carnal or strong to it, he just wants to be here for a second. Then further down, he puts two fingers around the collar of Will's shirt and tugs it down so he can place his mouth to the space between Will's collarbones. 

He's still sniffling, there's a tear that runs over the bridge of his nose and that ends up melting on the pillow. His lashes are wet. His body rocks when it hits him again, but Mike tries to keep him still. A few more kisses on each bone that holds his shoulders together, and then Mike flips him over and sits himself down between Will's legs. The blanket falls away. Mike just sits kneeling with himself right there, panting, brushing the baby hairs from his forehead that have come to get stuck with clean sweat. Will takes the opportunity to wipe his eyes. He laughs wetly when Mike fixes his shirt for him. 

“You're really pretty.” Mike says. “Not like girl pretty, it's something else.”

“Jesus Christ.” Will continues laughing. The world could be coming down on him right now and he'd be fine with it. It's an obscure feeling.

Mike puts both hands on Will's waist and puts his face to the dip of his stomach. He groans weakly, sort of curls in on himself. Will combs his fingers into Mike's hair. It feels insane just to do it, he always wanted this and now he gets to. Will it ever stop feeling great and new and overpowering? He hopes it won't. 

“I won't tell anyone.” Will says. 

“You've got really soft hands.” Mike seems to just dismiss his best friend's promise to keep this monumental shift in their dynamic a secret. Alright, then. He plucks one of Will's hands from his scalp and puts it to his mouth where it is hiding in the fabric of the shirt. When his hand becomes a fist, Mike kisses his knuckles, leaving a trail that dries faintly on his skin. “Fuck, I'm so tired.” 

“Me too.” Will blows some of the warm air out of his lungs. “Someone's gonna have to turn the lights off.” 

Mike places a final kiss on his torso before he lifts up again and does them the favor. He slumps to his side and yawns into his palm. It takes another two minutes until he's right back, pulls Will closer, deeper, deeper — kisses him more than he's done before because they're doing it in the shadows. It pulls the last flutter of energy in Will's body straight out of him and he's afraid he'll fall asleep any second. Mike notices, apologizes for being so abrupt for the past hour. 

“Do you feel guilty?” Will whispers. 

He can't see Mike's face. He wishes he could see his eyes, the way his lips change. “No. Just scared.” 

Why is that better? Will doesn't really want to know. Mike nuzzles himself into his side, holds him firmly and loose. He exhales like dogs do sometimes, heavy and long. It's nice. He lets his fingers cascade down Mike's back, feeling bigger than him for the moment. He hears the squeak of swing sets in his half-sleep delirium, hears the way Mike laughs underneath his breath. He hears bathtub water protest as he leaves and drains it, hears the roll of the die on a board. Then he hears nothing, just feels the drift. 

Will doesn't remember the door being locked.

⋆

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