Chapter Text
Flat on his back, Mike Wheeler studies his bedroom ceiling like it holds all the secrets of the universe. It’s well past midnight in Hawkins, and Mike is decidedly not tired.
He’s on top of his comforter and his movements are restless, fidgeting with his hands and cracking his knuckles. Another 60 Minutes rerun buzzes from the T.V. downstairs, and the wind whips tree branches against his window.
He could flip on a lamp and finish reading the comic he’s been flying through, or bury his face into his pillow and force himself to sleep, or - he thinks momentarily, glancing out that window again - he could climb out of his window, hop off the gutter, and sneak into the basement, avoiding the living room entirely.
But there’s about five inches of snow piled up on the slant of the roof beneath his window, and it would be a pretty stupid way to fall and break his neck, after everything. He can envision the headstone now: Here lies Michael Joseph Wheeler, 1971-1986, who faceplanted climbing out of his second story window, broke his legs and froze to death, because he couldn’t go two hours without seeing Will Byers. Fly high.
Despite this, Mike genuinely does think about trying it. Didn’t he see Steve Harrington do that once? Well, Nancy has a tree conveniently growing right beneath her window, and all Mike has is a spindly, half-dead elm a few feet to the left of his, whose branches would definitely snap if he tried to step on them.
He’s like a giddy, overactive kid with a crush. At this rate, it won’t be long before he’s doodling their initials in the lined margins of his homework, Mike realizes with sheer terror. Is he insane? Look, he just realized he liked guys - a guy, specifically - like, eight months ago. Cut him some slack.
It’s not Mike’s fault that can still taste Will on his mouth, and that his sweatshirt still smells like him, and he’s literally only two flights of stairs away right now. It’s also not Mike’s fault that his dad decided to marathon World War I documentaries until - Mike throws a glance at his clock - one-goddamn-forty-eight in the morning.
Finally, the muffled voices from the television set go quiet, and Mike holds his breath, listening for the signature creak of Ted’s recliner.
Please, Mike thinks, pained. Just fucking go to bed. How much more is there to know about World War I?
There’s no such noise from downstairs, and Mike huffs, turning onto his stomach. He stares at the carpet, studying every fiber in the dark. Will’s probably asleep by now, and Mike should be, too, but his bed isn’t nearly as comfortable, somehow, as the shitty trundle on the floor of the basement, the lumpy one with an askew spring sticking out of the side. Mike’s simply grown accustomed to not sleeping alone the past few months, that’s all. It’s not like he’s tearing his hair out over it.
Mike fitfully rakes a hand through his hair. A fucking World War I documentary. You’re kidding.
He’s about to give up, bunching back his comforter to slip under it and tuck himself in when the stairs groan. He knows it’s Ted; it’s something about the pattern of his footsteps.
Mike also knows his father is far too absent-minded to care if his son were to go into the basement this time of night, especially now that school’s on break. But you can never be too careful, Mike wholeheartedly believes, especially since he’s doing a pretty piss-poor job of concealing his question mark of a relationship with Will as it is.
Down the hall, his parents’ bedroom door opens and closes, and Mike waits exactly three and a half minutes before sliding off of his bed, his socks landing on the carpet soundlessly.
When he slowly tilts his bedroom door open, the hallway is dark with the exception of a small nightlight near the floorboards. Mike is careful to shut his bedroom door tight behind him, and pads down the hall. If someone were to see him, if his father suddenly appeared in the hallway like a zombie, or Holly peeked her curious head out of her door, or Nancy called for him to stop ‘running around’ (somehow, her ears are trained to amplify everything Mike does, which puts him in a permanent state of irritating her) - he’s already fabricated an explanation for each of them.
If Karen or Holly were to inquire what he’s doing up at this hour, he’d simply respond that he couldn’t sleep. But for Nancy, he can just say he’s going to see Will. She’d quietly understand, Mike likes to think, not because he wants her to know, but because he has the leverage of knowing Jonathan isn’t supposed to be in her room either, and yet he almost always is.
So.
If Mrs. Byers were to appear out of the guest room (which is a rarity, considering how much time she spends at the cabin - Christ, it’s something about the entire Byers family, is that what it is?) - he imagines Mrs. Byers would be content to just let Mike do his thing, and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. If it’s Ted, Mike’s just getting water from downstairs - which is an excuse he’s used before, and it’s usually met with a disinterested hmph, and then Mike is responsible for retrieving a glass of water he doesn’t even want, and he’s back to square one.
Mike turns the corner, starting down the stairs, where he’s met with the one probability in this house he hadn’t really considered, and it’s the most difficult one to navigate.
Like a ghost, Jonathan Byers lingers at the foot of the stairs, blinking owlishly at Mike. A frown is engraved on his lips, and his hand freezes on the bannister.
Mike is about ninety-nine percent certain Jonathan likes him.
Ninety-eight.
Spring break a few years ago kind of butchered Mike’s standings in Jonathan’s favor, and he’s pretty sure Lucas has been Jonathan’s favorite for a while now, but - whatever. Ever since that spring break, Jonathan eyes Mike like he knows something, which would be horrifying if Mike didn’t cut it up to Jonathan’s permanent, naturally protective state over Will. At least, he hopes that’s what it is, because Mike has, honest to god, been trying to get back on Jonathan’s good side for ages now.
“Oh, um. Hey.” Jonathan is the first to break the silence, still lingering at the foot of the stairs.
Mike’s face heats, feeling cornered. He steadies himself, remembering he should still have the upper hand here, since it’s his house, and he knows damn well that Jonathan is going to Nancy’s room. By the way: gross.
“Hey,” Mike whispers awkwardly, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “Uh, what’re you doing up?”
Jonathan’s eyebrows furrow. “What’re you doing up?” Jonathan’s characteristic quiet politeness goes out the window when he talks to Mike, he’s noticed. People always talk about the struggle of winning over potential partners’ fathers (god knows that in Mike’s last relationship, the best he could land on was a mutual disrespect with Hopper) and mothers (Mrs. Byers simply adores Mike, and he’s trying his best to keep it that way) but nobody ever talks about the brooding older brother, who looks at you like he’s already planned where to bury the body if you fuck up.
“Getting water,” Mike says.
Jonathan just nods, askance. Sweet lord. Can Mike not treat himself to a lukewarm glass of tap water, coincidentally at the same exact time Jonathan also happened to hear the coast was clear in the living room? It’s like the world’s worst and slowest game of musical chairs, this routine of waiting for Ted and Karen to call it a night so they can clandestinely switch locations. It would be amusing, running into him, only if Jonathan didn’t still kind of scare the shit out of Mike.
Mike clicks his tongue, and manages to continue his walk downstairs, one step at a time. He passes Jonathan, and feeling his glare land on his shoulders.
Smugly, he lets himself have one thing, further burying his good graces with Jonathan Byers, but those were already six feet under. “Tell my sister I said hi,” he mumbles under a breath, because he sincerely cannot help it.
Jonathan sighs like he wants to say something, but gives up, eventually ascending the stairs.
Will stirs awake when Mike makes it to the basement. His hair is rustled at the crown of his head, and he sleepily rubs the heel of his palm under his eye. Such a sight is impossibly endearing, adorable even, and Mike is now mentally repulsed with himself for even using that word.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mike says, Will raises his head from the pillow to blink blearily at him, a small smile of relief on his face. He moves to get up, and Mike hurries to sit beside him. “You don’t have to get up,” he says, and Will lazily rolls to the side of the trundle bed instead, letting Mike crash next to him. “Sorry. I didn’t wanna wake you up. I just didn’t think my dad would ever leave the living room.”
“S’all good,” Will yawns. Mike lays down and Will sleepily follows, resting his cheek on the fabric of Mike’s sweatshirt. Immediately, Mike wraps his arms around Will’s torso, and as awake as he feels, and for as much as he wants to talk to Will right now, Mike also loves to watch him sleep.
Jesus. Maybe he is insane.
“We can still put a movie on,” Will mumbles. “If you want. I can stay-”
“Oh, you can go back to sleep,” Mike says, tilting his head to press a kiss to the top of Will’s hair. “I just wanted to see you.”
Will hums contently, and it’s quiet for a moment before he asks, “did you see my brother? Thought I heard him going up.”
Mike smacks his lips, thinking over the interaction. “Yup.”
“Wh- what did you say?” Will raises his head, concerned and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “What did he say?”
Mike shrugs. “I said to tell Nancy I said hi.”
“Gross.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Mike gently nudges Will’s head back to his chest, reveling in the way they fit so well together, like puzzle pieces. He’s no longer restless and irritated, no longer fitful, and this is the most peaceful place in the world, just laying here, with Will. “Hey, you think he-?”
“Knows?” Will finishes, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I didn’t tell him anything.”
“I was going to say likes me, but yeah, that, too.”
“He… likes you,” Will murmurs, lazily playing with the drawstring of Mike’s hoodie, pulling at a loose thread. “Well. You know how he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s just protective, I guess,” Will says through another yawn. “Think he thinks I’m hiding something from him.”
Wonder why that is, Mike thinks, and presses yet another kiss to Will’s hair.
“I think we could tell him,” Will adds, hesitant, and Mike’s heart starts to pound.
“Will,” Mike says carefully, his head already going a mile a minute, “what if he-?”
“He wouldn’t say anything. I’ve just never… not told him something before, you know?”
“What if he tells Nancy?”
“I don’t think he would.”
“What if he does, though?”
“He won’t.” Will lifts his head from Mike’s chest again, frowning but understanding. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll drop it.”
“You don’t-” Mike sighs, taking his hand to brush a loose strand of Will’s hair away from his forehead. “You don’t have to drop it, I just don’t know if- like, what if you tell him, and he says he doesn’t want you to see me anymore?”
Will chuckles. “He wouldn’t say that.”
“But what if he does?” Mike repeats, ever stubborn.
“Then I’d see you anyway,” Will says, and leans forward to press his lips against Mike’s, giving him a chaste peck that still makes him melt entirely. “I’m not saying we have to. I’m fine with not telling anyone, really, I am. But Jonathan can keep a secret. Our friends, though-”
“Yeah, they can’t keep shit to themselves.” Mike smiles fondly, but his heart is still hammering with the implication of people knowing this deeply veiled secret about him.
Sometimes, Mike’s mind pendulums back and forth between frustratedly wanting everyone to know Will is his, to shut their friends up when they joke about, about Will getting with girls (don’t get Mike started on that tangent either; it does nothing but make him, embarrassingly, see red) and wanting to keep this as close to his heart as possible. He’s never even said the word out loud, the word that all the evidence points to Mike being - and it terrifies him.
But being with Will doesn’t scare him at all, at least, not in the dark privacy of his basement, behind a shut door. He wishes he could just fucking get over it, and take Will out somewhere in public, bring him to a restaurant and do all that corny garbage, like holding the door open for him and pulling his chair out before he sits down.
When Hawkins is off lockdown, Mike swears, they’ll be the first ones over the county line, and they’ll speed all the way to a bigger city, a better city that doesn’t have billboards calling for repentance and the rapture of queers and Ronald Regan’s face plastered everywhere. It was one of his first thoughts when Mike got his drivers’ license (passing with a 71 percent, thank you very much), that he’d like to put Will in the passenger seat and take him far, far away from fucking Hawkins.
But, a small, petrified part of Mike thinks, the part he tries to not let Will see, if you can’t even tell your sister, or your friends, and you make him hide from his own brother for your own selfish sake, who’s to say you’d be any braver beyond the county line?
“Hey,” Will says gently, and Mike realizes his face must’ve displayed every spiraling thought regarding coming out (and god, does Mike despise that phrase more than anything) and he feels his face redden. “I didn’t mean to push. I was just thinking a little about telling him, that’s all.”
Mike swallows. “You’re- you’re not pushing. I’m just-”
“I know,” Will says. “I’m at your pace. I’m just happy to be with you.”
“Okay,” Mike breathes out. “Well, I’m just happy to be with you, too.”
Will smiles softly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Mike nods, but it’s slow, like he’s trying not to make any sudden movements and break the way Will’s forehead is gently pressed to his. He moves his hand to the nape of Will’s neck, testing, and when Will offers his own miniscule, barely perceptible nod back, Mike takes him in, latching their lips back together.
It’s not long before Mike kisses Will like he’s starving, and he’s pretty sure he’s really fucking bad at this, but couldn’t care less. Will brackets Mike’s face with one forearm laid flat, the other cradling his jaw. Mike runs his hands through Will’s hair - it’s getting longer, because Mrs. Byers finally put that goddamn bowl and scissors down (although Mike always thought the bowl cut was cute, sue him) - and smiles into the kiss, touching his tongue to Will’s lower lip.
It’s like Will knows exactly what to do, gently reciprocating each kiss, sending Mike’s eyes fluttering shut. For how long it’s been, it doesn’t get old, and it stuns Mike every single time. He’s making out with Will. That Will. Best friend Will. His Will, and Mike’s the only one who’s allowed to - he’s the only who’s ever even kissed Will, and that factoid never fails to send him spiraling into the most ridiculous of daydreams.
Mike pulls back, breathing unsteadily, and continues brushing his fingers through Will’s hair. He smiles, and Will mirrors it, laughing under his breath. “Jesus. You’re sure I was your first kiss?”
“Mike.” Will rolls his eyes. “Be serious.”
“What?” Mike laughs again, drawing Will back in to press another short kiss to his cheekbone. “You’re just… really good at it.”
Will parts his lips, about to speak when something above them creaks twice, and Will’s eyes shoot upward, and he rolls onto his side. Mike throws a panicked glance towards the door, still shut tight and locked, and reaches for Will’s arm.
“Just the house settling,” Mike says, running his hand up and down Will’s arm reassuringly. “The wind always makes it do that.”
Will’s throat bobs. “Oh.”
“Come here,” Mike says, gesturing for Will to return his head to his chest. “I missed you too much for you to be so far away, now.”
Will crawls back beside him, a small smile playing at his lips. “You saw me, like, two hours ago.”
“And it was the longest two hours of my life,” Mike says simply, and gently balls his fist in Will’s sweatshirt - his sweatshirt, Mike would prefer for everyone to know - pulling him closer. The sound of the house settling startled him, too, but he’d rather Will didn’t know that, and the only word on his mind right now, despite the anxiety of being found out, is again, again, again, and he's kissing Will all over again.
It isn’t long before the kiss mellows into something slow and lazy, and there’s enough of a gap between their lips for Mike to smile into Will’s. “Can I sleep down here?” Mike asks between breaths.
Will hums into his mouth. “Mhm. Alarm’s set.”
“M’kay.” Mike peppers kisses across the corner of Will’s mouth, along his cheekbone, as if he’s drawing a dotted line. This routine - sneaking downstairs around one and hustling back upstairs before his parents emerge from their room by five-thirty - is not really ideal for Mike’s sleep schedule. He gets drowsy during the day, and it makes him endlessly crabby in the morning, causing his mother to chide that Mike must’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but he’d really been waking up on the wrong side of the house for several months.
“You’re sure you don’t wanna put a movie on?” Will sounds tired again, his words slowing down.
“You never stay awake for a full movie,” Mike assures him, and Will returns his head to his chest. And Mike’s grateful for that; recently, Will’s been sleeping through the night, which is usually such a rarity for him. He’ll still kick and fidget in his sleep, but it’s been a while since the last time Will’s woken up from a nightmare. Either way, Mike couldn’t be surgically removed from where he’s laying right now, because when the inevitable night terrors do return, he wants to be as closeby as possible. “Just go to sleep.”
Will sighs softly, not debating that fact. “And I really promise I’m not going to tell Jonathan,” he adds. “I was just thinking about it.”
“I know,” Mike replies quietly, once he knows Will has already fallen asleep. “I was thinking about it, too.”
In the morning, Mike’s first thought is that he wants to hurl that fucking alarm clock off the nearest bridge.
“Mike.” Will’s poking him in the face, chuckling. “You gotta get up.”
In a half-delirious state, Mike groans, tossing onto his stomach. His arm is still thrown out over Will, and his leg hangs off the trundle, since Will (while he’ll try to deny it) is a bed hog of the highest degree. “Please don’t make me.”
Will shuffles to the edge of the bed, and quiets the alarm’s robotic beeping. “Come on,” he says. “Out.”
“Fine.” Mike leans forward to kiss Will’s cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Will answers, and the routine continues, with Mike trudging, half-awake, up the stairs.
At the breakfast table, Mike is made aware of Jonathan’s serious staring problem.
He pours the milk over his cereal, feeling studied. The only sound is his father periodically flipping the newspaper, and the chatter of Mrs. Byers and Karen in the kitchen. Mike’s too tired to pay any attention, his head foggy and spinning with Will, Will, Will.
“Mike.”
He blinks to attention, meeting Jonathan’s stare. “What?”
Jonathan gestures towards Mike with his spoon. “You got enough there?”
Mike glances down and realizes he’s overflowed the bowl in his half-awake state, milk starting to drip down the edges. “Shit.”
“Language,” Ted says flatly, face shielded by the newspaper.
“You look horrible,” Nancy says - ever kindly - settling next to Jonathan with a plate of toast. “Like, more than usual.”
“Thanks,” Mike mumbles, stirring his Cocoa Puffs that are now level with the rim of the bowl. He sets the spoon down and goes for coffee instead.
“You do look a bit tired,” Karen says as Mike refills his mug. “Did you and Will stay out too late?”
Mike downs his scalding black coffee like he’s trying to drown himself.
“Don’t we have a curfew in this house?” Ted mutters.
Mike sets his mug down, the inside of his mouth now thoroughly burnt, scowling. “We made curfew.”
“Well, good. Gonna need your help around the house today.”
Mike’s eyebrows divot, annoyed. “With what?”
“Need you boys to shovel the driveway,” Ted says, and Mike sighs. Although, it’s kind of funny how Jonathan is now roped into the chores Ted Wheeler used to reserve for his only son.
“Course,” Jonathan answers, and even in Mike’s permanently irritated mindset, he gracefully resists calling him a kiss-ass.
“I’ll help,” Nancy supplies, spreading jam over her toast. “Mike’s useless in the morning.”
Okay, he didn't realize it was national Attack Mike Wheeler Day. He throws his hands up. “Hey.”
“Just saying,” Nancy repeats.
Will emerges from the basement, and Mike perks up a bit. He’s dressed for the day, in his own jeans and yellow sweater. Will’s clothes, Mike thinks, with a small pang of disappointment, having gotten used to seeing Will in his own sweaters that hang a bit too long on the hems.
God, he’s lost it. Entirely and completely. Maybe he should pick up a hobby.
Will sinks into the last empty chair across from Mike and right next to Jonathan with a plain piece of toast on his plate. He’s always been more of a morning person than Mike is, which isn’t saying a lot. From Will, the ‘good morning-s’ are exchanged, and now Mike’s back to stirring his bowl of cereal and keeping his eyes low.
“You’re sure you don’t want any coffee, Will?” Karen asks. “About a cup left.”
“Oh, I’m alright,” Will answers. “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler.”
“Gimme it,” Mike says through a mouthful of cereal, reaching for the pot.
“Jesus, Michael, gimme?” Karen scoffs. “A please would be nice. I thought you would’ve caught on to Will’s manners by now, with all that time you two spend together.”
Mike pauses, his mouth hanging slightly ajar, and Will has to pointedly cough for him to even remember he has to continue the conversation, and “okay, please gimme it, then,” is what he lands on.
Sighing, Karen passes him the carafe, and Mike forces a smile. “Thank you.”
“Uh huh.”
Throughout breakfast, Mike allows himself a few discreet glances Will’s way between bites of food and sips of coffee. He also allows himself to nudge Will’s ankle with his sneaker beneath the tablecloth, just to see if the tops of his ears might redden.
Mike presses the toe of his converse to Will’s, waiting for a response - a nudge back, a smile, anything. He even taps his shoe against Will’s ankle, just beneath the hem of his jeans, and Will’s poker face does not waver when he scoots his leg out of reach. Okay, maybe not. Mike returns to his overflowing cereal, and as the crowded table finishes their breakfasts, chattering away, Jonathan keeps goddamn staring at him.
“Shovels are in the garage,” Ted says while the dishes are being scrubbed and loaded into the washer, already on his path to the recliner. “Don’t forget to salt the driveway, too.”
“I can’t do the driveway, I have plans,” Mike complains. Really, he doesn’t, but he’ll find some if it means getting out of this house.
“No one’s going anywhere before the driveway’s cleared,” Karen tuts over the rush of the sink water. “It’ll only take thirty minutes, max, with all of you. Go.”
“Let me run and grab my coat,” Will says, drying another plate he practically had to wrench out of Karen’s hands, always trying to be helpful.
“Will doesn’t have to shovel the driveway,” Mike decides aloud, abruptly enough for even Will to look at him, confused. “I mean,” he corrects stiffly, “we’ve got it.”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” Mrs. Byers says. “Right, Will?”
“Not at all. I’ll go put my coat on.” Will’s eyes meet Mike’s for a brief, what the hell? and Mike returns to his coffee. In Mike’s perfect world, for anyone out there asking, he’d do anything and everything for Will so he wouldn’t have to, but they are not in Mike’s perfect world, they’re still stuck on Maple Street, and aspects of said world are bleeding into their fabricated, friendly reality. Oh, well. At least Jonathan’s stopped staring.
Out in the cold, Mike’s mittened hands are pushing the world’s worst shovel over the world’s most stubborn layer of snow. But the snow’s stopped falling, and he’s motivated to get a path for his car out of this house.
“So,” Nancy says, small puffs of vapor forming at the front of her mouth. She’s standing next to Mike at the foot of the driveway, while Jonathan and Will had taken up the area near the carport. “Jonathan said he saw you on the stairs last night.”
Of course he did. Mike pauses his shoveling, the winter wind biting his face. “So what?”
“You gonna tell mom and dad?”
“No,” Mike says flatly. “I literally don’t care.”
“Why were you up?” Nancy questions, ever the journalist.
“Hanging with Will,” Mike replies with a shrug.
“At two in the morning?”
Mike blinks, scanning Nancy’s unreadable expression. “Why does that matter?”
“It doesn’t.” Nancy stuffs her hands in her pockets. “I was just curious. I think that’s sweet.”
“I guess,” Mike mumbles, and goes back to moving snow.
“Really, it’s sweet.”
Now even more bewildered, Mike adjusts his grasp on the shovel. “Okay, are you actually going to do anything? Or just stand there?”
Nancy withdraws her hands from the pockets of her overstuffed coat, motioning for Mike to pass her the shovel. “Go hang out with your friends. Me and Jonathan’ll finish it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, so go, before I change my mind.”
Mike passes it to her, vaguely surprised. “Have I ever told you you’re the best?”
“Literally not even once.” Nancy nudges his arm. “Just go. And, um, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
Nancy smiles. “Be more subtle, okay?”
Watching the small, knowing grin play on Nancy’s face, Mike waits for that familiar shame to arrive, the shame of being found out, and for the fabric of his carefully oriented relationship with Will to fall apart at the seams.
Mike waits for the shame to curl around his gut, rise through his throat and catch him.
Oddly enough, it never does, and he smiles hesitantly back.
“I don’t know, maybe Lucas?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Mike replies, one hand fidgeting with the steering wheel.
They’re in Mike’s car again, pulled off at their spot and having escaped the rest of the chores back at the Wheeler household. They are, also, running through their list of hypothetical friends to tell, for the nine-hundredth time. But that’s all they are, hypotheticals. Their hands are intertwined over the cupholders. “Maybe we should just, like, find some random, and test it out,” Mike says. “Like ripping off a band-aid. Like, someone who, it won’t matter if they hate us after.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Will says, deadpan. “Why not Dustin?”
“Eh. I’ll just give you a giant hickey on your forehead, and see if he catches on.”
“Oh, god.” Will chuckles. “But, do you actually think you’re ready to tell people?” he adds, mind-reader that he is. “Because it’s totally okay if you’re not. I don’t… I don’t really want a lot of people knowing, either.”
Mike puffs out a sigh, keeping his attention focused out the windshield and down at the icy lake. “Well,” he starts, the truth building up in his throat the way it has been for months now, tasting sharp, like bile. How can something that makes him this happy be so terrifying, all at once? “I sure as hell can’t tell my parents, for one.”
He can see Will’s throat bob as he swallows uneasily. “Yeah, I know.”
“But,” Mike adds, “I feel kind of okay with Nancy. I think we’re already halfway there with Jonathan, anyway.”
“I promise, I didn’t tell him anything.”
“No, I know you didn’t,” Mike interrupts. “I just think they’re… catching on.”
‘Catching on’ is generous, considering that Mike can rattle off a grocery list of close-calls the past several months, including (but not limited to), swapping clothes, meeting Jonathan on the stairs a handful of times, breaking a kiss exactly as a door hinged open, and Will’s apparent fucking hickey heard ’round Hawkins - it’s kind of impressive, to Mike, how bad they are at this.
“Oh,” Will says, apprehensive. He cups his other hand over Mike’s, gently brushing his nails over the knuckles. “Well, maybe we could start with them, whenever you feel up to it. Maybe when the, um, world-ending stuff is over?”
Mike nods, watching the wind rustle the barren trees. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon, soon, soon. Soon, he’ll be able to actually say it out loud, and they won’t have to hide (as much) anymore. The notion of it all is a paradox, thrilling and mortifying at the same time. Admitting what he is still terrifies Mike to his core - he’s yet to even say the word out loud - but admitting he’s in love with Will is ridiculously easy. He must’ve worn the nerves on his face, because Will moves to gently scratch Mike’s back over the wool of his sweater.
Mike tears his eyes away from the windshield, and the way the early afternoon sun reflects through the glass and onto Will’s face, illuminating the spry pieces of his hair like a halo, melts some of the anxiety away.
“Yeah, I think I’m ready,” he says unsteadily, “guess I’m just worried things will… change. I dunno. Is that dumb?”
Will shakes his head. “Not dumb. I don’t want things to change either.”
In the eight months since, to put it eloquently, this started, not much has changed between him and Will. They still hang out with their party, they still argue - god knows they’re prone to that - and Will is still his best friend, something as irrevocably true to Mike as the sky being blue and grass being green. They just so happen to kiss now, him and Will, which is something Mike’s wanted for as long as he can remember being able to reason. It’s always been just Mike and Will. Him and Will. Will and him. The words jumble through Mike’s head on an endless loop until they hardly sound like words anymore. Just him and Will.
“I like you in yellow,” Mike says abruptly, veering off topic. He traces his fingertips over the mustard-colored collar of Will’s sweater. “Well, no, I mean, I like you all the time, but I like this.”
Will stops scratching, and rests his palm just where Mike’s neck meets his back. He tilts his head forward, leaning in closer. “Wanna know a secret?”
“Always.”
“It’s my mom’s.”
“No shit. Actually?”
“Yep. A Joyce Maldonado high-school hand-me-down. Guess she was kind of a tomboy back then.”
“Took a break from stealing my clothes then, huh?”
“Well, I thought that was kind of… on the nose. Obvious.”
“Probably.” Mike keeps his hand gingerly on the collar of the sweater, brushing his thumb against Will’s collarbone. “But I like when you wear my stuff.”
“I’ll steal your clothes more, then,” Will says, and they’re so close that Mike can feel the reverberation from his words.
His eyes fall everywhere: to the bow of Will’s lips, the gentle curve of his jaw, the warmth in his eyes that spreads across his entire face. Will’s dark pupils dilate over his hazel irises, like an oil spill polluting Lover’s Lake. Mike abruptly wishes he was the one who could draw, because Will rarely does self portraits, and he wishes there was some way to capture the beauty of his features, to show Will the way Mike sees him.
Only a few centimeters remain between their foreheads when Will asks, “cars?”
“Didn’t see any,” Mike answers, just a hair above a whisper, and Will leans over the center counsel and kisses him.
The hand on Will’s yellow sweater turns into a fist as Mike clings to a handful of fabric, pulling Will closer. His eyelids drift shut, and Mike thinks, for what’s likely the millionth time in his life, please, please, just don’t let me screw this up. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and can’t, for the life of him, remember what on Earth he had been so afraid of just a moment ago-
A buzz from behind them, a rush of static, and a fuzzy voice calls from the back of the car, and Mike internally chides himself for even bringing the thing when they depart from the kiss.
“Hell-ooo?” Dustin, to be sure. “Mike, you copy? Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike-”
The back of Mike’s head thumps against his seat. He throws a glance Will’s way, who’s smiling, stifling a laugh. His lips are already flushed a darker shade of red and kiss-bitten, and Mike momentarily entertains the thought of chucking the walkie out the window and just keeping Will to himself forever.
“I hate our friends,” Mike murmurs, not able to mean that if he tried.
Will swats Mike’s arm and soundlessly mouths be nice, as if Dustin could already hear them on the other line, and passes him the radio.
Mike presses the call button, lifting it to his face. “Yeah, yeah, I copy. What?”
“Thank god. I’m bored as hell. Pick me up? Over.”
Mike squints one eye shut, wincing. “Does it have to be right now?”
“Yes, right now. Please, man? I can’t keep watching reruns of The Waltons with my mom, or I’ll literally blow my brains out. And I know you’re not busy.”
Unsure whether or not to be offended, Mike presses the call button again, his stray hand wandering to rest on Will’s knee. “Uh, for your information,” he says with a gentle squeeze to Will’s leg, “I am busy. Try Lucas?”
“Uh, for your information, Lucas is still at the hospital, Steve’s at work, and before you get up on your high horse, I already tried Will and he didn’t answer, so you’re my only option.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “You know, you’re really not helping your case for me to come pick you up.”
“Fine,” Dustin groans. “Please, Mike, you’re my best friend in the entire world, and I’m suffering from torturous boredom, and the only cure is fearing for my life in your old man Honda accord. I literally cannot imagine a more perfect way to spend my Saturday, so would you please pick me up?”
Mike looks at Will, who offers him a nod. “Fine,” he says into the walkie. “I’m on my way.”
“Sweet. Hey, you know why Will’s not answering?” Mike’s mouth parts, about to mention that Will is, in fact, less than a foot away in the passenger seat, when Dustin adds, “you don’t think he’s hanging out with that uh, that mystery girl, do you?”
Despite himself, Mike takes the bait, his eyebrows already scrunched in agitation. “What? No. There’s no girl.”
“Dude, think about it,” Dustin cuts in. “Do you even know where he is, right now? The hickey, man! Think about the hickey!”
I do. Literally every single day, Mike thinks, and grits his teeth. “Wh- you’re still on that? Why?”
“I am still on that,” Dustin argues, pointedly, “because I’m right on the money, I swear. He has a girlfriend, doesn’t he? And you know something I don’t, and that’s why you’re being weird.”
Will rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Mike, just give me the walkie.”
Mike clutches the call button, disregarding Will’s exasperation. “I’m not being weird, you’re being insane, and I hate to break it to you, but Will is literally sitting right next to me. No mystery girlfriend. Sorry.” He extends the walkie towards Will, who leans forward, providing the proof of life: “Yeah, hi, Dustin.”
A groan on the other line breaks through the static. “Oh, so you are alive, and you’re just, what? Hanging out with Mike instead of me? What are you guys even doing?”
“Um,” Will says uncertainly, glancing at Mike. “Driving around?”
“Well, drive around to my house, and all will be forgiven. Over and out.”
“Smooth,” Will says when Mike pushes the antenna back into its slot and reverses out of the overlook.
“Like you were any better,” Mike scoffs, returning his hand to Will’s knee. He flexes his left hand over the steering wheel, thinking. Fine. “Let’s just tell them.”
Will blinks. “What?”
Mike shrugs away the nausea in his stomach. “Rip off the bandaid, right?”
“And Dustin, you’re…” Mike scans the receipt, his car idling in the drive-through. “Two twenty-seven.”
“Uh, add it to my tab?”
“Jesus Christ, man.”
“Here,” Lucas reaches from the backseat, pressing a crumpled dollar bill into Mike’s expectant hand. “Get you the rest next time?”
“I’m putting you both on a payment plan,” Mike mutters, stuffing the dollar into his pocket. “And be careful with the ketchup, you got it all over the seat last-”
“Mike, this car is already a mess,” Lucas counters. “And we pay you with our company.”
“Exactly,” Dustin agrees. “Are my fries in there?”
“Uh, yeah, here.” Will passes the greasy paper bag behind him. “Mike, how much was mine?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike says automatically. “On me.”
Dustin hums something from the backseat that sounds a lot like that’s bullshit, and Lucas chuckles. Mike doesn’t really care enough to dignify that with a response, he’s too busy trying to talk himself out of imminent cardiac arrest.
Mike’s (in fact, not old-manish) 1984 Honda accord sits in a parking lot, filled with the sounds of papers unwrapping and eating, and the heater’s nonstop, gentle hum. Mike’s food sits on his lap, and he has no interest in touching it. He notices Will isn’t eating, either.
Out with it, he thinks, parking in front of a gray snowbank while his friends eat. Like we talked about. Band-aid. Out with it.
“Okay,” Lucas smacks his lips between bites. “What were you gonna say?”
Shit. Mike has purposefully talked himself into a corner, which is apparently his favorite passtime. He’d already told his friends they had something to talk about once visiting hours had ended and they’d picked up Lucas. Will seems okay - at least from where Mike can see him, out of the corner of his eye - but Mike’s heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest.
Dustin and Lucas remain unphased, tearing through their lunches, and Will shoots Mike a small, imperceptible glance, reminding him of everything they’d talked about on the way to Dustin’s. You first. Your pace.
Mike swallows harshly. Out with it. You don’t have to say that word, you just have to say, hey guys, I’m in love with Will, yes, this Will, our Will, and we’ve been kind of dating for, like, eight months. Please don’t tell anyone else. Surprise!
He meets Will’s eyes again, grateful for the ability they have to read each other since they were kids. Will’s eyes soften. You okay?
“Dude,” Dustin says, snapping Mike back to reality. “What is it? You’re weirding me out.”
Despite never having been less hungry in his life, Mike stalls by taking a bite of his burger, hoping he chokes on it. Beside him, Will fidgets restlessly with the hem of his sweater, still looking at Mike, waiting.
Actually, everyone’s looking now. Why the hell did he do that? Why did he say that?
They are going to hate us, that mean, small part of Mike’s brain supplies, when he knows that can’t be true. They’ll laugh. They’ll say something, and it’ll hurt Will’s feelings, or they’ll say we’ve really gone and ruined the party this time, or they’ll tell people, or they’ll ask what that makes me, and I can’t-
Mike glances at Will again, and with a small, jerky motion, shakes his head. No.
Understanding, Will’s face falters slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He seems to compose himself, turning back towards the group.
“It’s nothing, guys,” Will says for Mike. “There’s nothing to talk about, really.”
“Oh,” Lucas says, sipping a soda. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” Mike says uneasily, and he can’t look Will in the eyes anymore. “I forgot what I was going to, um, talk about. Lost my train of thought.”
“Better find it before it derails and kills a bunch of civilains, then,” Dustin says, then cuts himself off with a guffaw. “Wh- Lucas! That’s my root beer, dick.”
“Calm down,” Lucas complains, and a slurp sound comes from the straw. “I just wanted a sip-”
“Then you shouldn’t’ve ordered ice water, like an idiot- you did not just finish that. Mike, Lucas drank my root beer. Like, the whole thing. He just killed it.”
Mike forces a chuckle, but it’s hollow. “And what am I supposed to do about that?”
He’s ever thankful for their group’s ability to never stay on track, but he feels sick, completely and entirely sick, especially when he notices how Will’s now gone quiet, and is back to gazing out the window.
To Mike, Will has never been just Will.
His brain has simply never allowed it.
He subconsciously searches for Will in everything; in the music he listens to, in the clothes he wears, in the way he decorates his room. Sure, he remembers being twelve and terrified, shining a flashlight beam through the woods hoping to find Will, but he’d been looking for him a long time before that, and a long time after that. Will exists at the forefront of his mind and occupies all his thoughts, and it’s never, ever been like that with any of his other friends, or with El, or with any of the other girls he’s tried to convince himself he likes.
Maybe that’s why being in love with Will Byers comes as naturally to him as breathing. Why is it so easy, when it’s just him and Will, and yet so petrifying in front of anyone else?
And the only thing Mike hates more than letting Will down, is being afraid in front of him, and the guilt gnaws at him.
“Sorry,” Mike says, wincing, once they’d dropped off Lucas and were alone again. Alone, where everything is impossibly lighter and easier. And while Mike’s never considered himself to be a very gentle person - and he’s made his peace with that, really - the word sorry tumbles through his lips easily, whenever he speaks to Will. “I’m sorry. I honestly wanted to tell them, I just got so-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Will replies, but there’s a palpable sadness in his voice, and Mike frowns. With a slow, deliberate movement, Will interlaces their hands. “I get it.”
“I don’t,” Mike mumbles. “I don’t get why this is so hard. How did you- how did you tell Jonathan you were-”
“What, gay?”
Mike runs his tongue along his top row of teeth, uncomfortable. “Yeah.”
Will shrugs. “I dunno, it was- it was definitely hard. But I tell him almost everything. We just started talking, and the time felt right, and I just… told him.”
“And what did he say?”
“Dunno. Just hugged me,” Will replies, giving a small squeeze to Mike’s hand. “Told me he loves me. Proud of me, all that stuff. And it just felt… good. To have someone know, but only because I wanted to tell them. And, like, just having that one other person helped. I didn’t, like, set out to tell him, it just felt like the right time, you know?”
“Yeah,” Mike says numbly.
“So maybe, um, if the time feels right, you could just start with someone-”
“Someone who, I won’t care if they hate me?”
Will smiles. “I was going to say someone easier, but, sure.”
“I just don’t really understand how to, like, talk about it. Like, me being…” Mike’s voice trails off, as if hiding from the sentence’s natural conclusion. “I don’t know. I feel like I’d only want somebody to know about, like, just about you, you know? Like, that part of me. I don’t know how to say the rest of it.”
“Well.” Will pauses, thinking. “You like talking about me, right?”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Obviously.”
“Then talk about me. Maybe to someone easy. Or to someone who, you won’t care if they hate you, if you want to get it out. Doesn’t even have to be today, or even this year. Just-”
“Someday, yeah.” Mike lifts Will’s hand to his face, pushing a kiss to his wrist while he drives. “I’m still sorry, though.”
“It’s okay. But it would’ve been pretty romantic to announce our relationship in a Dairy Queen parking lot.”
“Oh, totally.”
“Does that count as that ‘fancy date’ you wanted to take me on?”
“Respectfully,” Mike says, dropping Will’s hand when he flicks the turn signal onto Maple Street, “fucking shoot me if our first real date involves Dustin and Lucas in any way. And if it’s in a drive-through. I’ll take you someplace, like, way nicer. I swear.”
“What, like Enzo’s?”
Mike twists his mouth in distaste, pulling into the driveway. “Hell, no. Who do you think I am?”
They both laugh at that, a light and bubbly sound rising out of their chests, despite how heavy everything else feels right now. When they exit the car and start inside, Mike repeats what Will said, like a manta.
Doesn’t have to be today, just someday.
Just one other person.
And Mike knows exactly who he trusts, and who he wouldn’t really mind hating him, if it came down to that. Incidentally, it’s the same person.
About two hours before Mike starts his routine of pretending to sleep in his own room, he’s pacing. His sneakers leave imprints on the carpet as he follows the same path through his bedroom, obsessively picking at hangnails and chewing on his lip.
There’s a high probability Nancy already knows, which both mortifies and comforts Mike. He replays their interaction on the driveway, running into Jonathan on the stairs - and the way he stared at Mike like he already knew - god, maybe he should just carry this to his grave. Let sleeping dogs lie, or however the saying goes.
But it’s too isolating. He wonders how Will was able to do this on his own for so long, because at least Mike has someone to shoulder the secret with already.
By the time Mike knocks on his sister’s door, his nails are already bitten down as far as they can go, he’s paced the equivalent of a million miles, and he feels like someone dropped a brick of lead in his gut.
“Yeah, mom?” Nancy’s voice rings out from behind the shut door, and Mike winces.
“It’s, um, it’s Mike,” he responds, lowering his knuckles from the door. “Can I come in?”
“Oh.” He hears the springs of Nancy’s bed creak. “Yeah, sure.”
Mike, honest to god, cannot remember the last time he was in here. In contrast to his room, Nancy’s space is meticulously organized - he recalls exactly where she keeps her stash of change, and, more recently, recalls that there are two rifles stuffed under her bed, and the thought amuses him.
He clicks the door shut, lingering in front of it awkwardly. Nancy sits on her bed, holding her place in a book with her index finger and giving Mike a bewildered glance. Fair enough. This is weird.
“Did you need something?”
“No,” Mike says. “I mean, not really.”
“Okay,” Nancy says, and flips her book back open. “I moved my old piggy bank, by the way. You’re not gonna find it.”
Mike tries to be annoyed at that, but just puffs out air through his nose. He studies the walls of Nancy’s room; his eyes land on posters, a bulletin board of Nancy’s own newspaper bylines with her Emerson acceptance letter pinned in the center, and countless photos, most of which must’ve been taken by Jonathan.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a murder mystery.” Mike breaks the silence, and Nancy just sighs. “With your red string board of newspaper clippings.”
“They’re my articles, moron.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
Nancy slots a sticky note into her book to save her place and shuts it. “Look, did you actually need anything?”
One of the smallest photos on her wall catches Mike’s eye, just as he’s about to cut his losses and back out. A tiny, square polaroid is tacked to the pink wallpaper: Mike must've been no older than six there, and he’s baring his teeth in a positively horrifying grin. Slightly out of focus, Nancy beams behind him, her hair in two curly pigtails.
“I didn’t know you had that hanging up,” Mike says, tilting his head in the direction of the photo.
“Yeah,” Nancy replies, sliding her book onto the nightstand. “From back when you used to actually smile in family photos.”
“Ha.” Mike sways on his feet a little, cracking his fingers. His gaze is still locked to the polaroid when he sits on the edge of Nancy’s bed, continuing to aimlessly fidget with his knuckles.
“What’s with you?” Nancy scoots back, pulling her knees to her chest. “You never come in my room. You also don’t ever knock. Are you dying?”
Probably. “I just wanted to talk to you,” Mike starts uneasily, feeling like he’s just cut his parachute strings and is about to collide face-first with the pavement. “Um, if you don’t… if you don’t tell anyone.”
Nancy blinks, a bit taken aback. “Oh. Okay, so, what’s up?”
If Mike keeps popping his knuckles, he’ll surely break a finger, so he settles for balling his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. Jesus, he has no clue where to even start with this, but it’s just Nancy. If she hates him - whatever, but a small and rather unjustified part of Mike’s brain hopes that’s biologically impossible, to hate, like, really hate a sibling. Parents are another story.
“Do you remember that night, like, three years ago, when we were at the middle school?” Mike starts, his voice thick. “Like, right before Will got back?”
“Sure.”
“And we said, uh, that we’d tell each other everything? No more secrets?”
Nancy scoffs. “You definitely never came through on that promise.”
Mike rolls his shoulders back, exasperated. “Okay, so, I’m clearly trying to tell-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nancy interrupts. “Sorry. Go on.”
Mike looks at the scuffs on his converse, the fibers of the carpeted floor, the baseboards, anywhere that isn’t Nancy. He cannot, and will not vocalize what all signs point to him being - not under this roof, at least - but he can talk about Will; for some reason, that feels okay. It’s a closet within a closet (as much as Mike isn’t fond of the terminology, it’s true) and this one’s easier to walk out of.
“I’ve kind of been dating someone,” Mike says, biting the inside of his cheek so hard the skin nearly breaks, and suddenly he’s crossed into a territory he can’t return from, and it terrifies him. “Like, for a while now.”
“Oh.” Mike doesn’t look her way, but knows Nancy’s voice well enough that he can imagine her curious expression. Then, the word just … hangs there. It doesn’t even echo, and Mike mentally braces himself for the natural follow-up to such a confession. But Nancy doesn’t demand who, or even ask for details. Maybe because she already knows.
“Well,” she says quietly. “Are you happy?”
Mike glances in her direction, disoriented. “What?”
“I asked if you were happy,” Nancy repeats calmly, like they’re just discussing the weather.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah. I’m happy.”
Nancy’s eyes soften, the lines near them crinkling from the smile pulling at her lips. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” Mike breathes out. “It’s good.”
“Do, um, do mom and dad know?”
Mike draws his mouth into a thin line and shakes his head, back to staring at the floor. His elbows dig into his knees, and he props his chin on his hands.
“Are you going to tell them?”
Another head shake.
“Do you think you can tell them, though?”
Head shake, quickly from left to right. A lump rises in Mike’s throat; something hurts, just behind his eyes that makes them sting. Nancy swings her legs over the side of the bed and scoots next to him, wrapping an arm around his back. While he can’t remember the last time he and Nancy had ever hugged without being prompted to do so by Karen, he leans into it.
“So I’m guessing it’s not a girl, then, is it?”
All the words catch in his chest, and Mike just nods, thinking, please don’t make me say it out loud. His eyes are dry, but his breath rattles when he inhales, and his shoulders quaver.
“Oh, Mike.” Nancy gives him another squeeze around the ribcage, tilting her head to his shoulder.
Mike drags his wrist across his eyes, only mildly humiliated. “It's, um-”
“I know,” Nancy interjects.
Despite himself, Mike smiles thinly, asking, “I wasn’t being subtle, was I?”
“No,” Nancy whispers, plain and simple. “But I can tell when you’re happy, because you get, like, ten times more irritating. And you’ve been a total pain in my ass lately.”
“Sorry,” Mike chuckles, his hands still trembling.
Nancy scratches her nails against his back, and after a moment, asks, “do I know him?”
Mike blinks. “Know who?”
“Your, um.” Nancy shrugs, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Your boyfriend.”
Now, Mike just furrows his eyebrows, more agitated than emotional. “It’s Will, Nancy. Literally who else would it be?”
“Oh, thank god,” Nancy says through a deep sigh. “I’d be really concerned if it wasn’t.” Mike laughs at that - more so just pushing air out of his mouth, but it’s like a weight has been taken off of his shoulders, and everything feels a bit less serious. Nancy stops scratching his back, and nudges his shoulder, adding, “I should’ve known you’d never date outside your friend group.”
“Okay,” Mike huffs. “Rude.”
“So, what did your friends say? When you told them?”
Mike clicks his tongue. “We’re still… working on that.”
“Wait-” Nancy blinks, perplexed. “Am I the only one who knows?”
“Don’t- don’t get an ego,” Mike complains, waving a hand. “I only told you first because if you wound up hating me for it, I wouldn’t really care.”
“Oh, come on. You know I’d never actually hate you. At least - not for that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mike says, taking in another breath, more stable. His eyes land on the polaroid of his younger self and Nancy again, and he smiles. “But… thanks, Nancy. Really.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She offers another pat to his back, just between the shoulderblades. “Maybe we should talk more.”
“Probably. See you in six months?”
Nancy scoffs, scooting back to her spot near the headboard. “But, Mike,” she says, voice dropping a bit. “I really am happy for you. Kinda always thought it’d end up being you and him, anyway.”
“Did you actually?” Mike asks.
“Oh, yeah.” Nancy pulls the book back onto her lap, smiling to herself. “I knew you had a crush on him when I found that binder of all his drawings and stuff in your room. This was literally, like, years ago.”
Mike groans, his face warming. “That’s private-”
“I was looking for my money! Besides, you know you’re obvious. Oh, and by the way, please stop trying to play footsie with Jonathan at the kitchen table. You’re genuinely scaring him.”
“I- what?”
Nancy flicks a page. “You heard me.”
“I didn’t-” Mike racks his brain, then lands at the most haunting conclusion possible - breakfast, just this morning. “Oh, my god. Oh, my god.”
“I would say to get your own Byers, but you did,” Nancy shrugs, nonplussed. At Mike’s mortified expression, she laughs. “What? Oh, come on, it’s funny.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes, Mike gets to his feet. “I’m leaving now.”
“Uh-huh,” Nancy responds. “Love you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Mike sighs, but the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth disagrees. Traitor, he warns the smile, but it doesn’t go anywhere, at least for a while.
“And close the door!”
Mike leaves it wide open.
The following morning, the basement alarm sounds at five on the dot, and Mike doesn’t mind the fatigue behind his eyes that much this time.
The sun isn’t up yet, and the T.V. is still on, stuck on a shiny blue square from the endscreen of last night’s movie. He smacks the alarm off, careful not to disturb Will, who somehow managed to sleep through its beeping.
It’s a Sunday; his parents won’t be up for a bit longer, but the routine will resume as it always does. Will is going to turn from the Will he is now, back to best-friend Will once they separate - at least to their friends and parents, who remain blissfully out of the know.
But for now, Mike rests his head back on the pillow, keeps his arm hooked around Will’s stomach, and places a kiss to the back of Will’s head.
Someday, the fantastical future he and Will refer to, the one where they can tell their friends and go on a real, proper date, is still far off, but feels a tiny bit closer, at least measured by one more day and one more person.
And that’s more than okay with Mike.