Chapter Text
Will
The flimsy cardboard box is about ten seconds from crumbling in Will’s hands, his art supplies ricocheting back and forth with every hasty step he takes as he tries to rush into the Wheeler’s basement before facing his fate of dropping his belongings everywhere. He throws his shoulder into the front door, skidding past a groggy Ted, and a Joyce who seems to be having a very one-sided discussion with the straight-faced man.
Whipping around the corner to the basement, he looks back at Jonathan, who also has his arms wrapped tightly around a torn box. A brooding expression of, “I am already beyond my capabilities of handling cardboard. One more box, and you guys will find me hanging from the ceiling.”
Will chuckles, shaking his head sympathetically as he makes eye contact with the overwhelmed nineteen-year-old. He directs his attention back to the basement, and the decaying bag in his arms. Brisky turning the corner in this labyrinth of a house, he rams face first into an also high-speed Mike.
“Fuck!” Will gasps, his box cascading to the floor in a symphony of paint brushes and pallets. He cradles his forehead, looking up angrily at Mike, who is giving him the same furrowing look.
“Yes! Fuck is correct! Jesus, Will, look where you're going.” he grumbles, his hand gently rubbing back and forth over his nose. Will rolls his eyes, laughing sarcastically.
“Watch where I'm going? Watch where you're going,” Will huffs, crouching down to try and salvage the box, in hopes he can still manage to get it to hold as he gets down the stairs. “Where are you running off to, anyway?”
Mike also drops to his knees, helping to collect Will’s supplies. “I was actually coming down to help you unpack. Although, with that attitude, you can continue alone.” he smirks, a cheeky look on his face, as if he was trying to crack a joke.
Will stares as him, his face blank, unamused.
“Joke.” Mike sighs, breaking the awkward eye contact, and collecting the fallen belongings in silence.
Why is he acting like everything is completely fine? Will thinks, his eyebrows knotted together in a moody expression. As if we haven't been arguing constantly for the past week? El, El, El. How's El? Where's El? Can I see El? It seems to be his only circuit of thoughts. Probably why he's already forgotten about their eight hundred disagreements already.
He shakes his head slightly, enough to be unnoticeable, to try and rid his mind of the thoughts. Obviously, he's going to be thinking about El. She's his girlfriend. He then dives bowl cut first into a tsunami like wave of guilt from his selfishness. How could he be thinking about her like that? His sister? She deserves to get attention. She's been through so much. My god, he really is self-absorbed.
He recedes back onto his feet, his arms significantly tighter around the decrepit box, avoiding the almost painfully tense gaze of Mike, whose been staring at him since he stood.
He pushes past the thick fog of Mike’s ogling, thundering down the basement steps.
The box is slammed onto the desk by the window, a hand running through Will’s hair as his cheeks burn with frustration, his knuckles whitening around the curved edge of the table, jaw clenched before noticing the stomping coming from the stairs leading onto the basement.
Another box is placed down, though much calmer in process, before a hand comes to rest on Will’s shoulder.
“Will,” a sympathetic Jonathan says, his thumb rubbing gently over the flexed trap muscles of Will’s neck. He glances back, before turning to face his brother. “You know that I get that you two are arguing, or whatever, but that was a little harsh up there.”
Will gasps a shocked, ‘I cannot believe this is happening’ laugh, before his eyebrows fumble together in a twisted, furious expression.
“Harsh? Oh, sorry, that was harsh? So, him telling El that the day I went missing, was the day his life started, is absolutely fine? Huh? Oh but no, forgive me for being upset. How very dare I.” Will yells, feeling steam practically come out of his ears with the sheer fury he's feeling.
Jonathan's face switches to a look of pity, which unfortunately only escalates Will’s anger.
“Of course that wasn't fine. I know how that made you feel. I- I'm just saying, I don't know how long we’re gonna be stuck here. You know? It’s just- well, he looked like a kicked puppy when he came out to the car. And nobody likes Mike when he's sulking.” Jonathan says gently, visibly trying to soothe the seething Will, who stays silent, simply replying with a death glare.
Jonathan pats his back, before walking away, and going back upstairs to likely flirt with Nancy. Will sighs angrily, turning to look at the basement. He throws himself face first onto his new bed, twisting onto his front, burrowing his face into the pillow, and attempting to distract himself from everything that’s going on.
After five miserable self-pitiful minutes, more footsteps come down the stairs. These steps sound noticeably different to Jonathan's heavy set stomp walk. Gentler, almost nervous. They reach the bottom of the stairs, shuffling forwards hesitantly.
Will turns to look at whoever is standing completely stationary beside him, lying eyes on a sheepish, but also expectedly sulking Mike, whose eyebrows are twitching meticulously between devastatingly heart broken, and stroppy, with a hint of his own frustration.
Will stares at him over his shoulder, unable to decipher if his gaze is one closer to a glare, or a softer, more apologetic look. Will assumes it must be the latter, when Mike invites himself to plonk his butt down beside him on the single bed.
“Do you still hate me?” a smirking Michael says, his head tilting to almost mock Will’s expression, a faux frown covering his face.
Will rolls his eyes, trying to smother the forgiving smile that is desperate to sink into his face. “When did I say I hated you?” he replies, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“Oh, your body language told me just about everything. Killer glare, man. Wish you'd learnt how to use that back when Troy and James were still hanging around. Stone in seconds.” Mike smiles, his face melting into his usual expression which resembles a child that was just offered a double scoop of ice cream, rather than a single.
Will sighs, sitting up. He’s now face to face with the grinning boy sitting before him.
And, you know, he tries his best to stay angry. Really! He does! But the feeling of being on good terms with Mike is admittedly much more favourable over being on bad terms with him. Mike smiles even wider, his chin almost tilting downwards to really put on his best ‘you can't stay mad at me, and you know it.’ eyes.
“So?” Mike simpers irritatingly, his hand coming up to push some of his hair behind his ear.
“So... what?” Will frowns, his eyebrows furring together in a puzzled expression.
“Do you?”
“What? Do I what? Can you- can you please just speak in full sentences?”
“Do you still hate me?”
Will raises his eyebrows, rolling his eyes. “And what if I do?”
An eyebrow quirks up on Mike’s face, a smug, toothy grin dimpling across his delicately freckled cheeks. “Well in that case, I suppose I'd have to make it up to you.”
An uncontrollable smile spreads across Will’s sun-kissed face, his head tipping down as if to try and hide his expression. Glancing back up at the grinning face before him, he sighs. “I suppose you would.”
The dinner table is overwhelmingly crowded, Nancy and Jonathan deep in unintelligible conversation as a large ceramic bowl is passed around. Will avoids eye contact with anyone who dares to look in his direction, trying to phase out the loud chatter coming from seemingly- everyone. He sighs quietly, looking up to glance at Ted, who is concerningly holding the exact same expression as him. A horrified look spreads across Will’s face, and he tries to change his demeanour, unwelcoming any similarities they seem to be currently sharing with the constantly brooding man beside Mike.
Mike, who is sitting opposite him, gives Will a coy smile. This irritates Will. Mike has never, in the history of their life, or... from what Will can remember, sat opposite him.
The bowl eventually is waved before Will, and he scoops a light helping of spaghetti onto his plate, his hand wrapping around his fork. Resting his jaw on his palm, he stabs the noodles, swishing them around the bowl.
Dinner drags by agonisingly slow.
“Something wrong with the spaghetti, Will?” a curious Karen questions, dragging Will from his trance.
“No! No. I’m just- I'm not feeling great. Excuse me.” Will replies, though rather snappily, pushing himself back from the table, and marching into the hallway.
The dining room falls silent as he lingers outside the bathroom door, listening for any signs of anger from anyone, forehead pressed against the wood.
“Michael. Go and check on Will, please.” Karen hisses, audibly trying to keep her voice low.
Wills heart drops, and he swings the bathroom door open, ready to clamber inside and hide for the next few hours, before pausing outside, silently listening for Mikes response.
“Why?”
Will sucks in his bottom lip, his eyebrows pinched together in hurt.
He decides against the bathroom, instead skipping his angry way down the steps to the basement, slamming the door shut behind him.
So much for making it up to him.