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On the first day of winter break, Hawkins’ signature unpredictable snowfall makes its debut, and blankets the entire town. Mike’s car hardly made it to the Sinclairs’ – horrible driver that he is. The three of them practically slid the entire way there, but a rare escape from the stale quarantine routine is always welcomed. It’s the little things, when preparing for the imminent apocalypse and all.
When the more reserved hand of the clock in the Sinclair’s basement inches towards eight o’clock, Will has taken his usual seat at the edge of the couch, idly picking at a loose bit of thread on the upholstery. Next to him, Dustin loudly munches on popcorn, mid-rant over his complete bullshit history final while Lucas and Mike have resorted to shouting obscenities at Lucas' basement television set, which seems to require a masters degree in engineering to operate. It’s loud. It’s good. It's perfect. It’s normal.
It’s a generous use of the word, because Will has never felt less normal in his life.
And there are several, several instances in his sixteen years of life that he can list right now that should combat that statement.
In all cases, it should be normal. It’s Will’s favorite thing in the world: his friends, his party, (partially - with the exception of El, who hasn't been able to leave the cabin, and Max) reunited again. But even if you removed the … apocalypse of it all from the equation, it wouldn’t do anything to kill the butterflies rattling in Will's ribcage right now, especially when he glances up from the arm of the couch and meets eyes with Mike. Briefly, Mike shrugs, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth - and it’s still enough to send those stupid damned butterflies into Will's throat.
Lucas loudly smacks the T.V., muttering something under his breath that brings Mike back to the task at hand. The onscreen static finally flickers, fades, and the opening credits roll, and Lucas raises his arms in triumph. “Finally!”
The lights are shut off, encasing the Sinclairs’ basement in darkness.
“I still don’t wanna watch this bullshit,” Lucas grouses, taking his spot on the floor. “Can you pick literally anything else?”
“It’s a classic,” Mike says as he peels his sweatshirt off. And no, Will's eyes don't fall anywhere when Mike stretches his arms, revealing a sliver of pale skin between his t-shirt and his jeans. “And it’s my turn to pick.”
“Pick a Christmas movie, then. Something seasonal.”
“Horror is seasonal.”
“Every day is already a horror,” Dustin complains. “Only you two watch stuff like this year-round, I swear. Will’s probably the one who picked it out, anyway.”
“Because it’s good,” Will pipes up, not really caring to debate that fact.
“Scoot,” Mike says to Dustin, balling his discarded sweatshirt in his arms as he approaches the couch.
“I’m sitting here.”
“But I always sit next to Will.”
Dustin raises an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you say seat check?”
“Seat check? What, are we ten years old?”
Will takes a handful from the shared popcorn bowl. “You didn’t say it, though.”
Backlit by the T.V., Mike’s frown deepens. “Dude, move.”
“You move.”
“You’re missing your precious movie,” Lucas says. “So sit down and shut up, or I’m putting something else on.”
Sighing, Dustin relents and shuffles to the other side of the couch, not before shielding his own bowl under his arm. “Fine, sit. But don’t even think about taking my popcorn.”
“I’m not,” Mike huffs, and sinks into the middle of the couch. Will spreads the quilt on his lap over Mike’s leg, and for the moment their knees brush, he feels like a jolt of electricity has passed through his entire body - and although Will did in fact choose this movie at the shop yesterday, he suddenly has no interest in watching it at all.
“Dude, these effects suck.”
“The scary part hasn’t even happened yet.”
“But I know they suck.”
“Uh, you literally love this movie.”
“Uh, no, I don’t, because there’s a trillion other way better, way scarier ones.” Lucas begins counting on his fingers, goading Mike. “Halloween. Evil Dead. Forbidden World. Even Friday Part 2 is better-”
“Uh, actually,” Mike retorts, “Part 2 would be nothing without the integral lore established in the first-”
“Oh, my god, shut up,” Dustin interjects. “Are we watching or not?”
“Isn’t the cardinal rule of movie night to not complain about someone’s pick?” Mike reaches for Dustin’s popcorn, and gets a smack to the hand. “Fine. Just watch the movie, alright?”
“We’re trying to watch the movie,” Will points out, and nudges Mike’s arm. “Stop bickering.”
They watch two counselors clad in yellow polos sneak off from the rest of the group and duck into a cabin for a lackluster-looking kiss. Will’s seen this movie back to front - if Family Video had Poltergeist or The Thing stocked, those probably would’ve been his pick - but still, not a bad movie, at least, from what he's watching. He catches the film in snippets, allowing himself a few spare moments to glance at Mike to his left, his side profile illuminated by the screen.
For a second, Mike seems to catch him looking, and Will snaps his attention back to the screen. Shit.
“Don’t you think they would’ve shut this camp down after the murders?” Dustin asks. “Like, seriously. Who the hell is sending their kids here?”
“It’s abandoned,” Will says.
“Yeah, but-”
“You’d know if you were paying attention,” Mike says.
“I literally am.”
Beneath the quilt, Mike rests his hand on the couch cushion, and his outermost finger grazes Will’s knee. Will glances at him, and Mike has his head tilted, intently watching the screen.
It still, somehow, doesn’t feel normal.
Then again, normal is not something Will nor Mike have aspired to be in a very, very long time.
Slowly, as if trying not to trigger a motion-sensor, Will hides his own hand beneath the quilt and lays it on top of Mike’s, sandwiching it. And he really, really hopes the poor lighting in Friday the 13th masks the redness that’s spreading across his face now.
He could die, Will’s pretty sure, right here and now, die pretending to be enraptured by one of his favorite movies when his best friend’s hand is discreetly inching over his knee. Would be a rather anticlimactic ending for Zombie Boy, but when Mike’s palm finally lays flat and gently cups his knee, Will’s made his peace with his finale.
“Uh, oh! Busted!” Lucas announces, and both Mike and Will suddenly snap to attention; Mike pulls his hand into his own lap like he’s been burned, and Will can hear the blood roaring in his ears.
But Lucas is still fixated on the screen, chuckling to himself. “Look, guys, it’s Dustin and Suziepoo.”
Dustin flicks a piece of popcorn at Lucas, and Will relaxes a bit. Of course, the onscreen couple has just been found out by a serial killer, which, strangely enough, is what eases his rampant heart rate. Mike returns his hand to Will’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Screw you, man,” Dustin frowns.
“Yeah, too bad you didn’t get axe-murdered at Camp Know Where.”
“First kisses at summer camp are inherently romantic,” Dustin scoffs, which does nothing but elicit a groan from the rest of the group. “This movie’s ruining a fond memory.”
“This-” Lucas gestures to the screen, “is obviously not their first kiss.”
“Point still stands.”
Mike snaps his fingers, gesturing towards the screen. “You’re missing it. Watch.”
“There’s just no way that was romantic,” Lucas says after a moment, restarting the argument. “Summer camp is, like, sweaty. And there’s bugs everywhere. No way.”
“And axe murderers,” Will adds helpfully.
“What’s your beef?” Dustin sputters, jostling the bowl of popcorn. “You know what - whatever. I don’t have to prove shit because my first kiss? Better than yours.”
“That’s just not possible,” Lucas responds, folding his hands behind his head. “Hate to break it to you.”
Mike groans, craning his neck. “Please watch the movie.”
“Me and Mike had our first kiss together,” Lucas goes on, letting out an embellished, wistful sigh. Will can’t help but snort, and Mike shoots him a look. “Snow Ball, ‘82.”
“How many times have I asked you to stop saying that?” Mike says, and reaches his spare hand to turn up the volume on the remote, which does not drown out Dustin’s giggling. “Phrase it literally any other way, man. I’m begging.”
Lucas makes animated smooching sounds with his mouth. “You were so magical, Michael.”
“That wasn’t even my-” Mike snaps his mouth shut, giving up when he tosses the remote back onto the coffee table. He settles back on the couch, and cups his hand along the inside of Will’s leg. “Just, stop talking.”
“Just saying.” Dustin balances his hands, weighing the options. “Gross school gym, or star-crossed, summer camp romance? Hmm.”
“Don’t get jealous,” Lucas says. “It’s not a good look on you.”
“You guys don’t get it,” Dustin replies. “Girls in Hawkins just aren’t the same.” Lucas rolls his eyes, about to interject when Dustin adds, “Will, c’mon. Back me up here.”
Will blinks himself back to reality. “What?”
“Back me up,” Dustin repeats. “I mean, in California-”
Will laughs, lifting his shoulders. The notion itself is ridiculous. “What about California?”
“I mean, El said you liked a girl there, right?”
“Oh!” Lucas sits up as Mike huffs out air through his nose, adjusting his hold on Will’s leg. “The, uh, the girl from your art club, yeah? God, I totally forgot about that.”
“I have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Will says, trying to rack his brain for a time he even spoke to anyone - not to mention, a girl - in Lenora. Sure, there was Betty Sherman, who had passed him a few confusing notes and nudged his shoe once or twice, and Linda Carlyle, who he’s pretty sure just wanted to copy his chemistry report.
“Can we just watch the movie?” Will pleads. It’s not very convincing, but he’s never claimed to be that great of an actor. Underneath the blanket, he feels the toe of Mike’s sneaker nudge his ankle, just beneath the hem of his jeans. A warmth crawls up his neck, likely flushing his face a deeper shade of crimson.
“It’s the, uh, the Betty girl,” Lucas continues, finally finding it. “Max said El mentioned her before in a letter.”
“Who’s Betty?” Mike cuts in. His attention is now fully ensnared in the conversation, and a crease forms between his brows.
“Well, that’s news,” Dustin announces, leaning forward to drum his hands on the coffee table. “You still talk to her?”
Will’s face heats again, less with embarrassment and more with confusion as he breathes out a laugh. “What? No. Come on.”
“Do you ever radio her from the station?” Dustin asks thoughtfully. “Long distance - very romantic.”
“No, no, he’s there to hang with Robin,” Lucas corrects through a mouthful of popcorn. “This isn’t breaking news, guys. Girls like Will. He’s got the, like, quiet, sensitive thing going. Artsy.”
“Should I try that?”
Lucas thinks it over, scanning Dustin from head to toe. “...Wouldn't hurt.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Will says through a half-stifled laugh, because he can’t help but notice how, if his own skin has risen warmth, Mike’s face has devised an entirely new shade on the color spectrum. He fidgets with the wrist of a sweater that’s a bit too long on his arms, digging his thumbnail into the fabric. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“See?” Lucas prods. “Sensitive. Will’s never gonna kiss and tell. We all know my boy’s secretly got game.”
“Game?” Will scoffs.
“And there was the-” Lucas places a finger against the side of his throat, motioning vaguely. And for all the love Will has for his friend, he wants to sink into the couch and disappear here and now, for real this time, if Lucas doesn't stop talking. “...little something-something you had last week.”
Shit.
“What?” Dustin exclaims over the movie, which could be part of the reason why Mike seems to grow more agitated by the minute. “You’re shitting me!”
“Remember?” Lucas says. “You were all like, it’s a bug bite, and I was like, who gets a bug bite in December, and-”
Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up, astonished. The movie has entirely fallen by the wayside, despite Mike - who is still doing a pretty bad job at looking uninterested in the conversation at hand - and his best efforts. “You had a hickey? And you told Lucas and not me? What the hell?”
“It wasn’t a … hickey,” Will says unsteadily, and clocks the waver in his own voice with an internal sigh.
“Told you.” Lucas shrugs, vindicated. “Game.”
“We’re your best friends, man! Who was it?”
“Dude, imagine it’s Jennifer Hayes.”
“No, no, it’s Alice Wentworth, remember? She-”
“Can we please just watch the movie?” Mike cuts in sharply, huffing out another discontented sigh. “You’re literally missing all of it. You can unpack Will’s- his, his love life when it’s someone else’s night to pick.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin waves his hand. “Don’t get all jealous. Will’s always pulled.”
Now, Will’s even more bewildered than before. “Pulled?”
“I just want to watch the movie,” Mike repeats, flustered.
“You’ve seen this movie a thousand times. Rowdy no-good teens get murdered at summer camp. Whoop-de-doo. Oh, no! Don’t go in there! Jason’s gonna get you!”
“It’s not even Jason in the first-” Mike closes his mouth, shaking his head. Not worth the fight. Finally, he wrenches the bowl of popcorn out of Dustin’s arms, as is his right. “It’s like you guys are trying to piss me off today, seriously.”
“It’s just so easy,” Lucas says.
“And funny,” Dustin agrees.
Mike discretely glances at Will, who offers him a minuscule shrug. Kinda funny.
Mike’s sneaker nudges Will’s foot again, and unlike with Betty Sherman, Will nudges him back. The spot on his leg where Mike rests his hand burns, and Will, despite himself, leans into the warmth of Mike’s shoulder in the darkness of the basement.
“Alright,” Lucas is shooing them out of the basement as the end credits roll, and the change in lighting forces Will to blink the fatigue out of his eyes as they adjust. “Everybody out. I gotta get up and see my girl in the morning.”
“Gimme a ride home?” Dustin asks while Mike’s retrieving the tape from the player.
It doesn’t matter; he was always going to give Dustin a ride home, no matter what, and Mike knows it. And yet: “Gimme gas money?”
“Oh, come on,” Dustin groans. “You never ask Will to pay for gas.”
“That’s because Will literally lives at my house.” Mike grabs his coat, and passes Dustin his. Their typical bickering continues while Will folds the quilt over his arms, replacing it on the couch.
Lucas plucks Will’s coat off the floor and extends it to him. Once Will takes it, Lucas pauses, tilting his head - specifically in the direction of Will’s sweater. “Is that Mike’s?”
Will hesitates - no, he may as well be frozen, really. Yeah, it’s probably obvious, looking back on it, because only Mike wears these clunky cable knit sweaters. “Oh. Yeah, it is,” he says, and when he finally regains use of his limbs, Will tugs the coat over his shoulders. “I mean, my stuff’s all back in Lenora.”
Lucas purses his lips like he’s on the precipice of something, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Will’s face runs so warm it feels like it could melt, here and now. Not to mention he still can feel the phantom touch of Mike’s hand on his knee, as if it had left a bright red handprint over his pants.
Instead, Lucas merely shrugs, taking an empty bowl of popcorn into his arms. “I figured. Dude’s got no style.”
“Are we going?” Mike - who Will does think has decent style, but he could be slightly biased - asks. His coat is zippered to his chin, and he’s stuffed a beanie back on top of his curls - and what Will wouldn’t give to run his hands through them, right now. He always thought Mike looked the most like himself, in winter.
“Yeah, one sec,” Will answers, buttoning his coat over his incriminatory sweater. “See you, Lucas. Thanks for having us.”
“Bye Lucas!”
“Later!”
“I’m not saying you have to tell me,” Dustin is rattling on from the backseat, “but you totally should. I mean, you told Lucas and not me? Mike, did you know? Did just, like, everyone know but me?”
“Know what?” Mike’s lips quirk into a frown, and he flexes his fingers over the steering wheel. Will sits shotgun; his feet are propped on the glove box, and knees tilt towards the door. The snow has stopped, making the roads a bit smoother as the beams of Mike’s headlights illuminate the path to Dustin’s house.
Dustin reaches to shake Will from the backseat, and he overenunciates each individual word: “about the hickey!”
Mike frowns. “Will definitely never had a- a hickey, or whatever it is you guys keep going on about. Definitely not.”
“Why definitely?” Dustin prods on. It’s a thinly veiled attempt at baiting Mike into an argument, which, granted, is one of Dustin’s preferred hobbies. “Lucas agreed with me: Will pulls.”
Will snorts and swats Dustin’s hand off his shoulder. “I don’t pull. And what does that even-”
“Mike’s just jealous because he’s been chronically single since he got dumped for the ninth time,” Dustin assures him. “Don’t worry, Will. I believe in your love life.”
“I don’t have a-”
“That’s not what I’m saying, I’m just-” Mike spins his hand, struggling to articulate. The back of Will’s head bumps against the headrest. As far as playing it discreetly goes, Will’s never considered himself much of an actor, but he’s much better at it than Mike, who can never quit while he’s ahead. “I’m saying I'm sure there’s a ton of people out there who would- who would greatly enjoy giving Will a, a hickey, but-”
Dustin’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Dude, what?”
Will turns towards Mike, also lost. “What?”
“That’s not-” Mike shakes his head. “That’s a- no. I just meant if something was going on, we’d know. So stop grilling.”
“I still call bullshit,” Dustin says, settling back in his seat as Mike signals into the Henderson’s neighborhood. “But okay, sure, fine. No girls in California, you didn’t have a hickey last week, and you still aren’t talking to anybody at all.”
Will turns to grin at Dustin. “See? You got it.”
“It’s hot as hell in here, Mike,” he pipes up from the backseat, beginning another argument anew. He’s not entirely wrong; the heater’s been blasting the entire drive, much longer than it needed to defrost the windshield. “What is it, ninety degrees in this car?”
“Cry about it.”
“God, you’re a ray of sunshine.”
Mike shrugs. “I try.”
They park at the foot of the Hendersons’ driveway. Dustin undoes his seatbelt and scoops his backpack on the floor, not before clapping Mike on the shoulder and saying, “I’ll get you next time, buddy.”
“Uh-huh,” Mike calls through the open door as Dustin hops out. “And hell will freeze over. See you tomorrow!”
“See you!”
The moment the Hendersons’ garage door seals shut, Mike drums his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, then looks Will’s way.
“I don’t really feel like going home yet,” Mike admits, voice low under the melody from the stereo.
Will lifts his shoulders, smiling thinly. “Me, neither.”
“I think you pulled that off.”
“Did I?”
“Oh, yeah. Very smooth.”
They pull off to a lookout just above the lake, one Mike swears up and down he found all on his own, which Will believes, since it’s close enough to the edge of town to not be spotted, but well within the county lines to not alert the patrol a few miles north. Y’know. Apocalypse and all.
The time is inching towards midnight, which is the Wheelers' lackluster curfew for all of them to be tucked away on Maple Street. When they return to the house, Will knows the routine. They’ll separate; Will to the basement and Mike to his bedroom. Sometimes, though, Mike appears in the basement staircase after midnight, and sometimes he doesn’t. The former has become more and more common lately.
But here, in their parked car on the edge of the frozen lake, they are, for once, entirely and completely alone. It’s just him, Mike, the hum of the car’s heater, and the staticky music floating through Mike’s crappy, blown-out speakers.
Carefully, Mike reaches over the center counsel and touches Will’s cheek, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The touch is featherlight, his hand warm. Mike bites down on his lower lip, and his eyes fall downward. “Can I?”
Will pushes out a breathy laugh. “You better.”
And like it’s the simplest thing in the world, Mike leans over the center counsel and kisses him, because there’s this thing about the last eight or so months of Will Byers’ life.
He’s been spending his nights, on and off, semi-occasionally, very frequently, kissing Mike Wheeler.
He’s confused about it too, don’t even worry.
Will’s not really sure how it started, or why it started. He’s not exactly used to things like this - good things - happening, and he’d rather not pull at the details or do anything but preserve it. It’s like a snowflake, this weird thing he and Mike have. Small, fragile, carefully and uniquely designed - something that’ll melt into nothing if he clutches it too close or holds it up to the light, he’s sure of it.
He’s still not entirely used to this, despite wanting this nearly his entire life. Will knows what he wants. He’s known it since he was, god, what was it? Twelve years old?
He knows what he wants, and he wants to date Mike Wheeler. He wants to sit on the bleachers with him at school and make fun of the football team. He wants to hold Mike’s hand and rub his thumb in tiny circles over his skin. He wants to sit in the passenger seat of his car and let Mike’s hand rest on his knee. He’d even put on a suit and go to some lame dance with him, if Mike asked. He’d cook dinner if he had a kitchen of his own. He’d rest his temple against his shoulder while Mike does the dishes.
He wants to hold doors open for him, and paint him with every single shade in his repertoire. He wants to date him, to love him. Will’s wanted this for as long as he can remember.
And Mike wants to kiss him, which is more than enough for Will.
God, the even phrase itself being reality bewilders him to this day.
He used to entertain himself, tucked away in the safety of his childhood bedroom, or secluded in the loneliness of California, with the thought of what it might be like to be kissed by Mike Wheeler. Only in the privacy of his innermost thoughts would he speculate how the words would sound out in the alternate-dimension alien-reality where Mike likes him.
Likes him, likes him.
He always just assumed he’d grow out of it; he’d find someone else - a girl, he used to hope - to replace the slot in his brain that Mike had occupied since the seventh grade.
But as Will grew, his dreams spurred on, and on, and on, and his heartstrings grew weaker by the day. Mike got taller. He grew into his features: his sharp jaw, his crooked nose, his lips. His dark hair grew longer, curlier. Will would imagine combing his hands through it just to know what it would feel like against his fingertips.
And in the privacy of the car, Will takes his hand, pulls that beanie off of Mike’s head, and threads his fingers through his hair, because they can do that, now. He smiles against Mike’s lips, cradles his jaw with his free hand. Mike angles his head and deepens the kiss, nipping at Will’s lower lip.
“Hi,” is all Mike says when he pulls away, his lips already flushed red, matching the blush coloring his cheeks.
It’s as if someone took every single passing thought and dream Will had for the last five years and bled them into reality. It’s bizarre. It’s confusing. It’s exciting. Mike’s kind of like a good puzzle that way - intricate, confusing, frustrating at times. But not everyone loves puzzles the way Will does.
“Hi,” Will says, and he can’t suppress the laugh that floats out of his chest, and nudges his palm against Mike’s shoulder. “Hi, Mike.”
“And how was your first kiss?” Mike asks, pushing back in and planting his lips on Will’s cheekbone, peppering a few kisses down his jaw. “Since everyone’s just dying to know.”
A small laugh escapes Will again. He’s always liked that Mike was his first kiss - he wouldn’t have it any other way - but if Will likes that fact of their relationship, Mike revels in it.
“I think… think it was fine,” Will finally answers, his laughter beginning to simmer.
“Fine?” Mike clutches his chest in faux-astonishment, playing wounded. “Just fine?”
Will nods. “Might have to have a do-over.”
“Works for me.” Mike’s voice is slightly muffled by him pushing his lips to Will’s again. When he pulls back, he asks, “better than girls in Lenora?”
Will nudges Mike’s shoulder again, letting his fingertips graze the fabric of his overstuffed coat. “Were you actually jealous?”
Mike’s quiet for a moment, thinking. He laces his fingers into Will’s, clasping their hands together on Will’s lap.
“Do I sound insane if I say kind of?”
“Probably.”
“Did I actually give you a hickey?” Mike asks, wincing.
Will rolls his eyes. “You know you did.”
Mike smiles to himself, shrugging. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” Mike whispers into Will’s hair, and presses a kiss to his temple, which sends a euphoric sort of buzz through him, coating his skin in goosebumps. “I actually - I kinda thought about saying something, actually.”
Will blinks, dumbfounded. “What, today?”
“No, not- not actually,” Mike corrects. He draws in a breath, and Will waits patiently for him to continue. “I dunno. I know, it's like, I’m the one who-”
“Mike.” Will squeezes his hand again. “It’s okay. Honestly.”
Mike doesn’t appear convinced, and his eyes draw to their hands together. As much as Will wishes he could tell everybody, anybody, what they have between them, he’s okay with keeping it a secret a bit longer. For as much as Will wants, he’s more than happy to keep Mike to himself for right now.
“I’m sorry,” Mike whispers. “I think I just need a little more-”
“Time,” Will finishes, brushing his thumb in tiny circles over the back of Mike’s hand. Will has had more than his fair share of the bullying and harassment - but so has Mike. And God knows he’s heard enough horror stories outside of the ones they’ve already lived.
While Will can’t necessarily say he’s out, since only his brother, Robin, and Mike know, he’s still not sure if he ever will be. And he doesn’t know if Mike ever will be, either. At least not in Hawkins. While Will imagines he’d be able to tell his mother, one day, but isn’t sure if he can picture the same for Mike and his own parents.
“Take all the time you need,” Will finishes, and watches Mike melt into a sad but sincere kind of smile. “I’d keep you a secret forever, if you wanted.”
“Not forever,” Mike says with his nose pushed into Will’s hair again. “Well, I mean - no, yeah, like, you and me forever, or, like, only if you want that, but-”
“Not a secret forever.” Will’s made a habit of finishing Mike’s sentences for him, stopping the train before it derails entirely. “I know what you mean.”
“Yeah.” Mike says. “It’s like, I know I can tell them, but it’s just… scary. I don’t know.”
“I know,” Will replies, his voice small and his heart fluttering. “I’m still scared, too.”
“I guess,” Mike supposes, “I also don’t really feel like sharing you right now.”
Will laughs, stealing a look at their hands intertwined, the curl of Mike’s hair around his eyes, the low tilt of his crooked smile, the redness of his nose from the cold, all of it - and he still can't fathom that Mike is his. “You don’t think they know, right?”
“Oh, they’re totally oblivious,” Mike says. “At least, I hope they are, mainly for, well. Everything. But also because I’d kinda like to just, one day, be like: ‘guess what?’”
Will smiles. They know their friends would be supportive; there isn’t a bad bone in any of their bodies, they’re sure of it. He likes to picture the day - maybe somewhere out of the Midwest - someplace close with all their friends, Max, El, everyone, where it doesn’t feel like a crime to hold hands. He likes to imagine a world like that exists, somewhere.
“Someday,” Will says.
“Someday,” Mike agrees. “And I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Dinner, like, a real date. Somewhere that isn’t the shitty movie theater, or my basement. I promise, Will, seriously.”
Will takes his spare hand and wraps it around the nape of Mike’s neck, combing through the curliest parts of his hair that hang off near the base of his head. He narrows his eyes. “Take me somewhere… like, super fancy, then.”
“Done,” Mike breathes. “Done and done. I’m serious, Will.”
Will just laughs, and the heater keeps humming.
“What?” Mike’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m serious!”
“So serious,” Will teases.
“Always am,” Mike says simply, “when it comes to you.”
“Oh.” Will hums in thought, wishing away the rampant butterflies in his stomach. “Is it because I have game?”
“Don’t ruin the moment,” Mike complains, and Will cuts him off by pulling him in for another kiss. He can feel Mike smile against his lips when he knots his fingers into his hair all over again, and it’s still so easy. He moves to kiss Mike’s neck, and can't help but relish in it a bit - the startled noise that comes out of Mike’s throat when he nips at the skin where his jaw meets his neck. He takes his hands and bunches them in the lapels of Mike’s coat, and they’re laughing into their next kiss.
It’s the easiest, most delicate thing in the world to Will.
“But, really,” Mike continues when he breaks their kiss, always one to stay on topic. He’s stubborn that way. “When we get out of this-”
“If we get out of this-” Will has no idea if he’s talking about the imminent apocalypse, their secret relationship, or the fact that the snow is picking back up and might strand them on this lookout.
“When,” Mike says steadily. “When we get out of this, we’ll go somewhere. Just you and me.”
“Okay,” Will says, running his hand down Mike’s jacket, entertaining the thought. “Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here. I’m not kidding, Will. Not even talking about, like, dates and stuff. We’ll go somewhere where people won’t… where they might not mind us as much, yeah?” It’s as if Mike has read his mind. He has a knack for that. “You and me.”
“Yeah. Course,” Will agrees, feeling like the breath has been knocked from his chest but rejuvenated all at once. “Of course.”
“I’d follow you anywhere, Will. I mean it.”
“I know.” Will must not have looked convinced, because Mike frowns, and pulls Will’s hand into his lap.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises, with a gentle, warm squeeze to Will’s hand. “Or us. Not when I just got you.”
Will steadies his breathing, feeling studied beneath Mike’s intense gaze. But it’s not like getting wires taped to his forehead when he was thirteen, or being subjected to the cruel, pointed states of others, it’s the safest thing Will’s ever felt, to be observed by Mike this way.
“I won’t, either.”
The heat from the furnace brushes Will’s face, and he pulls away to look out the windshield. The heat’s still set to the highest level possible; it’s an unspoken thing, on Mike’s end. He knows how the cold makes Will feel. He’ll keep that heater on until the day it gives out, regardless of which passengers complain.
“It’s snowing again,” Will notes. Sure enough, flurries billow through the December wind, bright against the dark trees. “Should probably head back.”
Mike sighs, pressing his face back into Will’s hair. “Do we have to?”
“Your funeral, if your car gets buried in snow out here and we turn into popsicles.”
“Hey, you really think I held it together back there?” Mike asks.
Will squints one eye shut and deadpans, “you want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“No,” Will admits, grinning. “But I’m glad to hear you greatly enjoy giving me hickeys.”
Mike sighs. “God. I can’t believe I said that.”
“I can.”
“Shut up.” Mike peppers a few more kisses into Will’s hair. “You think Jonathan’s downstairs tonight?”
“Definitely not,” Will affirms. Jonathan hasn’t spent a full night in the Wheelers’ basement in several months; always poorly sneaking upstairs to ‘take a walk.’ Doesn’t matter much to Will, though - apart from the few times Jonathan’s and Mike’s routes awkwardly crossed each other on the steps at one in the morning. “Movie tonight? I’ll let you pick.”
“Friday 2?”
Will snickers. “Sure. But only because I heard the lore from the first is integral.”
“Alright, alright.” Mike rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he joins his right hand in Will’s. He lifts it to his mouth, dotting kisses on Will’s wrist. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know,” Will says softly, and their intertwined hands land in between them as Mike reverses out of the lookout. “I love you, too.”
Mike’s hold on Will’s hand doesn’t falter the entire drive, and even though it’s a secret, it’s theirs.
And that’s more than okay with Will.