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Mike really wasn’t expecting it.
You see, here he was, on a Sunday morning at the breakfast table, comic book gripped in one hand, the pages crinkling from the force of which he held it, and the spoon for his cereal hanging discarded in the loose fingertips of his other. He had graciously narrowly avoided the Wheeler-family’s new religious ritual of attending church once a month under the guise of a headache, and Nancy and Jonathan were off somewhere doing God knows what. Probably making out or something, he didn’t care.
It was just him, his coco puffs, the faint sound of a radio somewhere in his general proximity and an intense fight scene laid out over the whole two pages of his comic book, dialogue and character arcs forgotten as the protagonist and antagonist spun kicks into tornadoes and hand gestures turned into wild animals. Life couldn’t have been better.
His eyes darted through the pages like a pair of ravenous animals, soaking in every detail, and he somewhat registered the casual tune of ‘Without or Without You’ fade into another — a familiar one. ‘Head over Heels’ by Tears for Fears ruminated through the kitchen, pale sunlight pouring through the windows like dreams passing through nightmare-catchers. Absentmindedly, he bobbed his head along, black curls weaving with the motion like charcoal bouncing along a train-track — a strange visual, but true nonetheless.
Then, however, piercing through the tranquility, came the silent thud of descending footsteps. He didn’t hear them at first, too focused on the flow of motions he had curated for himself, and far too engaged as the protagonist began to take blow after blow from the villain, significantly losing — it stressed him out, okay?! Mike felt connected to this damn book! It could practically feel the hits, chest tightening and gut churning with every onomatopoeia of pain to reach his eyes.
Although as the sounds became nearer and nearer, he had no choice but to look up, and return to reality, albeit begrudgingly. However, then it became not so begrudgingly, as just entering the kitchen was none other than Will Byers himself, and Mike immediately felt a soft grin stretch across his freckled cheeks and his heart began to race for no particular reason.
Comic book be damned; who could ignore this boy, seriously? He stepped slowly into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, at — Mike spared a glance reluctantly at the clock to his left, not wanting to take his eyes off of the opposing teenager for too long — 12:56pm. Will’s hair was messy and completely disorganised, its usual brown looking almost chestnut in the shining light, and his normally forest moss eyes were enchanted to a wonderful mint in the golden reflection. It was gorgeous. Well, Mike means, anyone would think that, right? No one could even begin to deny it. It was a fact, and he declared so.
Mike felt his cheeks flush, which was obviously the summer sun taking its toll on him, and smiled softly at the newcomer, purring a soft, “Good morning, sunshine.” He teased, unable to stop the sly mischief from leaking through the lilt of his voice.
Will laughed delicately, and God, wasn’t that just the best sound in the whole wide world, and yawned with a simple, “Shut up, Mike.” He rolled his eyes, stretching like a tired cat as his maroon hoodie rolled up and exposed a small thin line of revealed skin to the open-air of the room, and Mike really did try his best to not let his eyes linger onto the sight for a moment too long.
…He let it linger for two moments too long, but at least it wasn’t three. A win is a win, right?
“No good morning back?” Mike pouts, putting on his best kicked-puppy look and narrowing his eyebrows upwardly, bottom lip jutting out. He even made it wobble. When your sister tells you have puppy-dog eyes, sometimes you gotta capitalise on that fact — Mike doesn’t make the rules, sorry. (Even though he literally just declared he did. He’s also a hypocrite, so what?)
Will holds strong for exactly a moment, chest puffed and eyebrows screwed tight as he remains deathly stationary… before he promptly deflates, slumping over himself as he moves across the space to open a cabinet, gripping a bowl between his thumb and index finger. He subtly shakes his head, tutting, “You have to stop doing that face. It works too well.”
“Then why I would stop doing it?” Mike leans forward onto his hands, setting his comic book to the side as he has larger priorities now, AKA Will, and he beams lopsidedly, head tilting to the side with the imbalance of his smile.
“Because you love me?” Will smiles hopefully, eyes gleaming with mirth as he pivots on his socked foot across the polished kitchen tiles, grabbing his own box of cereal — he chooses Sugar Smacks every time, not like Mike has it memorised or anything — and pulls out the chair opposite Mike, it’s wooden legs scraping awkwardly across the floor.
Frowning inwardly, because obviously Will should be much closer, Mike grins outwardly, accusingly pointing his dripping-with-milk spoon in the brown haired boy’s direction, “You still didn’t wish me good morning.” He playfully calls out, eyes squinting with the faux suspicion.
Will’s hand reaches out to grab the milk after he’s placed the cereal in the bowl (‘The correct way!’ is what he calls it, scolding Mike every time he puts in the liquid before the yummy snacks), and he huffs fitfully, visibly trying to conceal his smile and failing miserably, “Good morning, Michael.”
Mike gasps, holding a hand fatally to his heart and dramatically slamming the table with the other, “Michael!? Michael!?” He exclaims with mock umbrage, shaking his head with disdain and only barely managing to keep the corners of his lips from tilting upwards into a smirk.
Unfazed, Will shrugs, “Yup.” He replies, popping the ‘p’.
“I see how it is, William.” Mike scowls childishly, one corner of his top lip quirking into a sneer and he can faintly feel the smallest part of his upper-teeth exposed to the chilly breeze from the open window.
“God, please, no!” Will covers his ears at the name, sliding down into his chair with an obnoxious groan, it’s fragile frame creaking beneath his weight as he practically slips under the table, the only visible part of him being the top of his brunette strands.
“Hey, I know I’m cool and all, but there’s no need to call me God.” Mike jokes, refocusing back on his food as he cradles the porcelain bowl infront of him with one hand, hugging it to his chest where the fabric of his tshirt meets the table.
“Oh my gosh, you’re so stupid.” Will complains futilely, facial expression hidden yet the smile is palpable in voice. From where he’s slouching, he tries to aim in a kick at Mike’s shins, but the taller boy narrowly avoids the abuse by quickly tucking his legs up onto his chair into a criss-cross-apple-sauce position.
“Stupid for you.”
Will’s hand all of a sudden makes a rise, like a zombie crawling up through the soil of their grave, and his fingertips hurriedly scan across the table, before they blindly come across a scrunched up wad of tissue. Will throws the white fabric, completely misses, and hisses, “What is wrong with you?”
“My mom asks me the same thing.” Mike sighs, slurping coco puffs into his mouth.
“No wonder.” Will scoffs as he uses the table to push himself up from his improper posture, face grumpy and pouting, and Mike feels his heart warm at the mere sight of his boy in his full glory.
“Hey!” He bites back a bashful grin, cheeks hurting from how much he’s smiling, comic book long forgotten in the midst of the sun’s prescence — not the actual star in their solar system, but the teen before him — and Mike’s eyes instinctively flicker down to that damn hoodie Will wears. It’s familiar. Very familiar.
Will has went back to his activites, munching calmly on his breakfast as he seems to be trying to read the blurb on the back of Mike’s book, squinting and tilting his head whilst he tries to make out the upside down text facing away from him.
Mike absentmindedly turns the book so that Will can properly read the blurb, and something in his chest ignites with realisation, his voice coming out skeptical and slow as he contemplates, “Wait, hey…”
Will hums in response, hazel eyes briefly flickering up to meet Mike’s opaque ones before they return right back down to the small white comic sans text plastered onto the back of the plastic, flimsy short-story. Mike picks his next words carefully, cautious to not tread too harshly over what it is already a very peaceful environment.
“Is that—“ Mike clears his throat, suddenly parched, “Is that my hoodie?”
Because it was. That’s why it was so familar! Why the folds of it’s washed-too-many-times fabric were so recognisable and the disgustingly chewed hoodie strings were so endearing, and why Mike had a strange churning in his gut at the sight of Will wearing it. And now knowing it was his hoodie? Well, it made it all make sense. There was a strange purring in Mike’s chest at the idea of Will in his clothes — an odd satisfaction he couldn’t quite place, yet he welcomed nonetheless.
The pleasure ruminated through him like a train on tracks, starting from a heat to his cheeks all the way down to butterflies in his stomach, fluttering and pirouetting and causing unimaginable tingles. It felt like someone had shoved fingers down his throat and was tickling his intestines, weird as it sounded. God, the hoodie probably smelt like Mike, too! Will was quite literally clouded in his cologne! Why did that cloud Mike’s head so unbearably, like his own brain was being sprayed in fragrance? Shit. This is bad. Or good? Nothing is bad truly when it comes to Will.
Mike was fucked.
However Will’s voice, definitely an octave higher, snaps Mike out of his interal discovery, face flushed, likely from embarrassment, and lips pursed, “Oh— um. Hah. That. Uhm. Yes? I’m sorry— is this okay? I can go change, I just. Y’know, slept in your room and it was the first thing I saw so— You know, I’ll go change, be right back.” Will scrambles to make out, fingers nervously tapping against the table in an odd rhythm through the whole tirade, till he uses that momentum to push himself off of the table with his fingertips, clearly preparing to spin on his heels and exit the room promptly without so much as a glance back.
But Mike, the annoying prick he is, can’t let this adolescent out of his sight, needing to savour the sight of him in his clothes for as long as he can; it was as addicting as drugs, and Mike had his dealer on speed-dial. Standing up so quick his chair flies back, Mike leans across the table and efficiently grabs Will’s wrist, the contact causing his breath to hitch and his body to shudder, electricity coursing through his veins.
Still he perseveres, swallowing back to the lump in his throat and smiling weakly, “No, no. No need. Seriously, it’s okay. I was just a bit shocked. Sorry. Don’t worry about it. No problemo.” He reassures in what he hopes is a convincing display, and praying to whatever deity may be out there that the florid fluster on his face isn’t as visible as it feels.
Thankfully though, Will seems to relent as he hesitantly sits back down, doe eyes wide and big like that of a fawn’s as he cautiously confirms, “You’re sure?”
Mike internally scoffs. Like he could ever be mad at him.
He doesn’t say that though. Instead, Mike hooks a foot under his escapee chair, making sure to maintain his hold on Will for as long as he can milk it as he sits back down, beaming and chuckling out, “Positive.”
——————————
“This better be important, Wheeler.” Dustin says with raised eyebrows, standing in Mike’s basement and clad in full scientific gear — goggles, lab coat, a belt full of tools, the whole lot. Mike doesn’t even want to know anymore, he’s too busy having a crisis.
It’s not been long since Will departed for the day, only roughly an hour ago and roughly two hours after breakfast, through which in between the gap of post-breakfast and pre-departure that Mike and Will had respectively spent their time reading comic books over one another’s shoulders and either laughing over crazy plot devices or planning out what storylines to steal for their next D&D campaign.
Unfortunately their time was cut short when Will glanced over at his watch on his wrist — having to pull up Mike’s hoodie’s sleeve to check the digits because it was a little too long on the boy — and decisively closed his book all the whilst moaning about some photography exhibition Jonathan was making him travel out to go see, curious for his artistic opinion.
Mike understood it, Will did have an eye for things most people don’t see after all, yet the boy himself seemingly didn’t understand his elder brother’s thought process, complaining to Mike and saying can’t he go with Nancy, or something?! They’re literally dating; it could’ve been a date!
However, much to Will’s chagrin and Mike’s begrudging nature, he had left the house — in Mike’s hoodie — and the black-haired boy was officially allowed to contemplate and mope in peace, finally taking a moment to address his newfound epiphany. He was going to survive with his own feelings. And deal with them!
…
Mike got through an hour of that mental torture, then he realised he definitely couldn’t do anything on his own and ended up folding to the allure of a telephone on the wall — which is exactly how the whole party (minus Will) found themselves in Mike Wheeler’s basement at 3PM.
Tuning back into the present, Mike heard Max snort and add onto Dustin’s claim, rolling her eyes and slyly smirking, “The most important thing ever, actually. This is my very valuable, very precious, very desirable time for me to go engage in my activities.”
“Those activities being…?” Dustin asks, squinting his eyes with skepticism and leaning forward from where he was sitting on an orange beanbag, one he had found in the cupboard beneath’s the Wheeler’s staircase a year ago, lugged it down the stairs to the basement, and had a primal claim on ever since the new development was made.
Of course, when that had happened, Max’s jealousy had turned as green as her favourite vans, so she had made Lucas wheel her all the way to the cupboard in her wheelchair, ordered him to rummage through it in the hopes of finding another cushiony seat, and when he came out triumphant with a red matching one, she instantly placed that square next to Dustin’s one, and it had been a weird beanbag-off ever since. Currently though, the pair of the rivals were complacently sitting next to each other on those exact same beanbags, with Dustin on his alone and Lucas and Max sharing the crimson one.
El was on the reclining arm chair that was a worn-out leather and was slighted tilted towards the springy and broken sofa that Mike was currently having his dilemma upon — a couch he typically shared with Will, but for previously noted reasons, was entirely his today. Mike drearily missed the boy, and the absence of his warm heat and lovely cologne was all too apparent.
Logging back into the reality, Mike witnessed Max widen her eyes in a comical attempt to look threatening — which kind of worked? — and tilted her head, “You don’t want to know.”
Dustin scrunches his nose before kicking her beanbag with enough force to sway Max, and in addition Lucas, who has his arm wrapped around her waist, to the left and he emphasises, “No, yeah, I definitely do—“
“Don’t ask her man, I’ve tried. She’s scary.” Lucas interrupts to warn, tucking Max back into the crook of the beanbag, whilst he himself straightens up and leans forward to make eye contact with the curly-haired boy, slowly shaking his head as if telling Dustin bodily to heed caution as he slowly leans back.
“Max, what are you doing?” El inquires from her seat, where her knees are tucked up to her chest and where her lavender hoodie is framing both legs like a cocoon, her big brown eyes full of insatiable curiosity and a slight lift to her right eyebrow painted of concern.
“I’ll tell you later, El.” Max promises, smiling slightly and sending a wink in the girl’s direction, to which the brunette grins and nods enthusiastically.
“She gets to know?!” Lucas squawks, incredulity laced within his tone as he gawks at his girlfriend, mouth wide and eyes offended with shock, yet theres no real heat behind his irises.
Max merely shrugs, jutting her bottom lip out in an unbothered manner and explaining as though it’s the most simple concept in the world, “She’s my priority.”
“I’m your boyfriend!” Lucas rebuttals, pointing to himself and tapping his finger against his chest a couple of times of emphasis, looking around at Mike and Dustin a few times as though seeking out back-up and validation.
And where Mike just sighs, his very important predicament seeming to be momentarily forgotten at the woes of his dearest friends, Dustin pipes up. “I’m her boyfriend?!” He says with confusion, gesturing to El with overexaggerated hand movements. Lucas agrees with Dustin enthusiastically, nodding his head hard as though it’ll prove a point, and Mike just huffs through his nose even louder. He misses Will.
“Misogynists.” El tuts at her boyfriend, shaking her head in disapproval, and a loud laugh cuts through the offended stammers of Dustin and Lucas combined.
“I’ve taught you so well!” Max cackles, slapping Lucas’ knee as she throws her head back in amusement, and Lucas looks so briefly besotted, brown eyes glimmering with unfiltered adoration and fondness, it’s hard to believe they were bickering in the first place. In a way, Mike gets it he supposes; It’s nice to see Max so… alive, especially after she spent practically two years on a deathbed. Still, he would rather they listen to him!
Meanwhile, Dustin remains unaffected by the display of happiness as he proclaims, “You’ve infected my precious, wonderful Girlfriend so well, you deadly virus—“
Although he’s cut off by the voice of his once-ally, Lucas interrupting and defending,“Hey, man! If Max was a disease, she’d be an STD, okay?! She’s infecting no one!”
Silence ensues.
It’s the worst defense Mike has ever heard.
And then a sound bursts out of the stunned, albeit humourous, silence, “Why is she an STD?!” Dustin exclaims, leaning so hard out of his beanbag he’s almost completely out of it, and his face morphs into an expression of pure befuddlement — like he’s itching to examine and explore every crevice of Lucas’ mind after such an audacious statement.
“Yeah, why am I a—“ Max begins, and Mike can already tell this is about to be a whole other debacle, probably involving the words ‘oral’ and ‘hepatitis’, so he tries to put a pause to it immediately.
Mike stretches his nimble and large hands out, as if stopping an imaginary argument between two men in a bar, and he declares, “Ladies! Please! I’ve called you in for a meeting. Let’s respect the host!”
Max’s mouth closes.
For a second.
Then she says, blanked-faced and entirely unamused, “Respect and Mike in the same setting. I just laughed out loud.”She says as she settles back into the beanbag from where she had been itching towards the edge, when she had getting indulged and entirely merged into her passion for being sarcastic and argumentative.
“No, you didn’t?” Mike says confusedly, scrunching his nose, because there truly was no sign of anything funny on her face.
“Misogynist.” El gets out between fake coughs.
“Jesus christ…” Mike hoarsely mutters as he pinches his brow, the dark furrows of the hair of his eyebrows deftly brushing the side of his fingers, “Okay, listen, I’m having a crisis. An important one!”He proclaims, even going to the drastic lengths of hitting the couch next to him for dramatic flair.
Lucas, the most relatively considerate of them all despite just comparing his girlfriend of years to an STD, nods kindly and says casually, “Okay man, go ahead, we’re all ears.”
“Finally!” Mike groans, eager to explain his difficult situation as he wrings his fingers around one another. Then, he realises he has no idea how to word anything or what to say, unable to differentiate the jumble of emotion within his mindspace. “Okay. Uh, how do I say this? I should’ve prepared this, okay so— What if— Hypothetically— like—“
“Spit it out, lover boy.” Max says tiredly, raising a confused eyebrow, but its not unkindly, like even she cares enough to stop her professional hobby of being annoying for once to actually guide Mike.
Don’t tell anyone, but Mike was unfortunately grateful for her — he sort of reminded her of both of his sisters combined. Well, she was practically a Wheeler at this point, so it kind of made sense he loved her infinitely but could definitely be endlessly irritated by her temporally — the wonders of a sibling-esque friendship, truly.
Although, that didn’t mean her comment was entirely appreciated. Flushing red, Mike squeaks as he feel his whole face turn a lucky scarlett and his shoulders tense, instinctually defensive, “I am not a lover boy.”
“Oh, so it’s a romance thing.” Dustin purrs, rolling his ‘r’ on the romance and waggling his eyebrows with a grin. Mike can register El laugh at the arrangement and Dustin instantly turns at the sound to beam at her — they made sense, Mike had to admit. They were so soft with each other; it was actually really wholesome.
…Occasionally. Sometimes he wanted nothing more to tell them to go away with their ushy-gushy romanticism. Those were the wonderful days when Will had to kick him in the shin and tell him to stop being so salty and to be more open to love. Oh, and the way Will would say it, with unadulterated fondness and happiness for his friends, with a far-away look on his beautiful face. Mike misses Will. He misses Will all the time, actually. God, how did Mike not notice?! He internally sighs.
“No— well— Maybe? Will you listen to me?” Mike groans, sinking down into the couch and laying his head back on the top of it, looking up to the ceiling where the sticky ceiling stars he had placed up there when he was twelve layed, green in the sunlight shining dimly through the small windows that only captured a fraction of light.
“Spit it out!” Max urges, patience tearing to a wit’s end, and Lucas chuckles from beside her at the enthusiastic words.
“Okay,” Mike takes a deep breath, preparing to spit it all out in one singular take, “ifyousawoneofyourmalebestfriend’sinyourhoodieandgotbutterfliesfromitandthenrealisedyouactuallyhaveromanticfeelingsforyourverymalebestfriend,whatwouldyoudo?”
Mike’s face is blue when he finishes, throat dry and eyes wide, and a beat passes where no one says anything.
Another beat passes.
“Again?” Max asks, simply for once with no snark nor bite.
“Really!?” Mike yells at he sits up from his slouching postire, gripping the sides of his short, curly black hair and lifting up his converse from the carpet to tuck his legs underneath his butt in a criss-cross-apple-sauce position — a nervous habit to stop his legs bouncing obscenely when anxious.
“Yes, really, again!” Max says louder, nodding her head as if it was obvious, ginger hair catching upon the rays of sun and turning a fluorescent orange, like that of a burning lantern’s.
“Dude, that was quick as hell.” Lucas confirms from beside her, wincing at the Mike’s death glare, which is only momentary, before it fades off into the black-haired boy staring off into the distance.
“Again, please?” El speaks softly and politely.
Mike huffs, “Thanks, El, for the manners,” He says pointedly, as he braces him to talk slowly. He takes a more collected breath this time, opening his mouth to undoubtedly blabber, “Okay. So, hypothetically, of course, If you hypothetically saw your best friend in your hoodie and you hypothetically got butterflies from it and then you hypothetically realised you had feelings, romantic ones, for your hypothetical best friend, what would you hypothetically do?”
Silence ensues once again, because that’s all these people know how to do, apparently. Mike waits in trepidation, an uncomfortable churning in his stomach as sweat collects in the creases of his palms.
Then it’s broken again as Dustin speaks quietly, almost like he’s afraid of breaking the fragility within the space. “This is about Will, isn’t it?”
The thing is, Mike doesn’t even feel a pang of pain or guilt or any sort of wound to his pride when it’s spoken aloud. It just feels right. The sky is blue, El has powers, and Mike Wheeler has a thing for Will Byers in his maroon hoodie. And a thing for Will Byers all of the time, actually. In fact, it might not even be a thing so to speak, but Mike hasn’t come to those levels of terms just yet. He doesn’t even feel a rush of fright course through him like he fought he would’ve, but rather a wave of acceptance washing over him, like his secrets were writing in the sand that’s been taken away from the incoming of the tide.
“…Yeah.” Mike admits defeatedly. Acceptingly.
You’ll never believe it. Silence.
Then a burst of noise, coming in the form of Max’s voice as she extends her legs all the way in front of her and they get hidden beneath the low coffee table, her words muffled when she covers her face with both freckled hands, “No! Crap, you couldn’t have waited till Christmas?!”
Confusion instantaneously floods Mike’s gut at the words, and he tilts his head confusedly, trying to process the words like a phone receiver trying to dial a number that never exists. Christmas? Waited? What on earth does that have to do with him confessing his secret crush on Will? He just shed his soul!
The befuddlement only continues as Dustin whines, stretching his legs and thowing his head back to match Max’s. The symmetry is comical. “Or New Year’s Eve!? I thought you seeing Will in a sparkly top would’ve done it.”
“I was sold on the cheesy Christmas jumper idea.”Max complains in solidarity, removing her face from her hands and turning her head to glance drearily at Dustin, and they share a connected look of… loss? Mike is so confused right now — they look like kicked puppies mourning a broken toy!
“Ladies… you know what that means?” Lucas butts in, and he’s seemingly a direct contrast to the other two, joy radiating off of him as he grins cheesily, all pearly-whites out on an astonishing display.
“Oh, shut up, you gloater.” Max glares daggers at him, poking him in the space between his ribs with a singular finger without even looking. Lucas yelps in surprise, sounding like a little girl because some things truly never do change, and Max’s expression briefly morphs into one of pure amusement… before it shuts back down into one of grumpiness only a split-second after.
“Guys, what is happening right now?” Mike interrupts their silly interaction, like they forgot he was even here, and it seems to go on that way as none of them answer his question.
“Pay up! Five each please.” Lucas laughs despite the attack on his ribcage, and he holds out two grabby hands with a smug face, preening and looking far too pleased with himself, so prideful infact that Mike is getting irked that he’s out of the loop.
“Not me. I didn’t bet.” El purrs, grin lopsided in amusement as she watches the whole showdown, and the gentle wave that had washed over Mike earlier turns into a tsunami as realisation hits him coldly.
He screeches, scrambling up to sit on the edge of his seat in disbelief and stupefaction, “You guys bet on my love life?!” Mike gawks, words pronounced with consternation and slowly said as though he’s processing the idea himself.
Max rolls her eyes and pulls her wallet out of her pocket, reluctantly handing Lucas a five dollar bill. He kisses her temple, and she swats him away as she explains sarcastially, “No, We bet on when you would find out your head over heels for Will.” She says, as though it’s any better.
“You knew! You knew? You knew?!” Mike gapes as he goes through all five stage of grief simultaneously, scanning the faces of all of his friends to find expressions of indifference, guilt and mirth alike. This has singlehandedly been the most confusing day of his life — and he’s fought off interdimensional demons!
He’s watched Will develop powers and then watched those same powers be used to destroy the Mindflayer, the same demon that’d be haunting the brunette boy for years through tormented visions, and yet somehow this day may take the cake for the most mind-boggling.
“You’re more obvious than a sign saying ‘obvious.” Dustin says pointedly, tilting his head downwards and looking at Mike through his eyebrows with a look of really, you didn’t know? written across his pupils.
“Agreed.” El nods solemnly, eyes wide as though she’s internally flashing back on all the times Mike has been so called ‘obvious.’ When he thinks about it, she probably did know about his feelings for Will earlier than Mike did, especially considering all of his bullshit she had to deal with. She looks borderline traumatised.
“And you never told me!?” Mike gawps, lolling back on the sofa and slumping down like a ragdoll, cheek smushing against the soft yet scratchy fabric.
“Not our place, man.” Lucas explains softly with a shake of his head. Closest to Mike in proximity, he even reaches out to give his black curls a litte tussle.
“I— I… Okay, fine, but I couldn’t have got little hints?” Mike groans, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring daggers at any person who dares to make eye contact with him. Dustin skillfully avoids it, whereas Max meets it head on, and they engage in iris warfare temporarily before Dustin speaks up.
“That was considered illegal within our betting agenda.” He explains, stupidly, Mike thinks. Betting, he internally tuts. They were a ton of gambling addicts, was what they were.
“You’re all ridiculous. Actually abhorrent.” He voices just as much, sitting back up straight and leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. El grins at the words, like they’re humorous, and he supposes to her, they are. She’s a spectator in this whole thing, and it must be the most interesting soap opera out there, truly, it sort of reminds him of when Derek and Sheila from ‘Love behind Pizza’ realised they lik— Well! It’s y’know, not even important — Not like Mike watches soap operas! He totally doesn’t get caught up on the one’s his mother watches. Totally not. Hah. Ha…
“Thanks, love you too.” Max sighs, checking her cuticles with a look of indifference upon her face.
Mike scowls, before waving her off, “Whatever. I’m glad Max lost. But now what do I do?!”He chooses to ignore the whole betting scandal, because he still needs help! All he’s gotten so far has been lying and betrayal and traitorous actions — he needs advice, because how do you even begin to deal with the boy of your dreams becoming the boy of your dreams when beforehand, you just thought he was a boy you occasionally thought was beautiful and really liked to listen to talking?
“With what?” El asks genuinely, face contorting into confusion and her head tilting like a confused dog’s. Mike honestly can’t tell if she’s joking from how serious and genuine she asks it — like she just forgot the entirety of the last twenty, give or take, minutes! El may not be entirely up there grades-wide, but she was by no means stupid, so surely she wasn’t this clueless?!
“Will! William Byers!” Mike explains, feeling like he must speaking an entirely different language to his friends, because didn’t he just confess that? He spreads his hands out in the universal gesture for frustration, whatever that is, and slams back into the sofa with the force of exasperation with a rebound that only sends him bouncing back into the material again.
“You… confess, dude.” Dustin says like it’s an utterly easy solution, tone wearisome like he can’t believe he even has to spell this out for Mike, and his eyebrows scrunch in audacity. Dustin lifts one hand to tug a loose curl from where it’s caught between the straps of the scientific goggles nestled upon his head of brown hair, and he unravels it carefully till it’s straight and then watches with wonder as it ricochets back into it’s natural state.
Scrunching his eyes shut at the complete ridiculousness of the suggestion, Mike rears his head back as though trying to dispel the possibility of that scenario even existing — because, confessing, really? And ruin all the joy Will’s friendship brings him? No, thank you, — and he says as much, “Uh. No? Next option.”
Now, it’s time for Max to rear her head back as she almost gets whiplash from the aghast look she darts in El’s direction, before she immediately locks her forget-me-not blue eyes onto Mike with a startling intensity, mouth wide and eyes appalled as she cries, “What do you mean?! Just confess?!”
Mike scoffs at the idea, crossing his arms defensively over his chest, and pointedly dismisses the idea, “Any more for any more?”
“Mike, just tell him how you feel.” Lucas says cautiously, each word treading over his tongue with trepidation like calming a frightened canine, and Mike feels irritation surge in his chest — why does no one listen to him?! Ever!? He’s like almost certain all of this doubt in his ideas originates from when he was set on getting an orange mohawk before freshman year; So what if he had a bad idea once!? They need to put some more trust into his thinking!
“No way in hell, man! He probably doesn’t even like me! I need something else!” Mike exclaims with flair, gripping his hair with frustration, and writhing about on the sofa till he gets to a comfortable position — which happens to be grabbing the nearest pillow (on the further corner of the couch) and quickly scrambling back to his previous position and tucking it between his knees, chin resting on the top of it and tassels brushing his skin.
“Yeah, you need Will. So go get him.” Max states, raising her eyebrows and emphasising each word with patience evident in her tone, like she’s trying to explain the concept of Star Wars to an eighty-year-old grandma from a nursing home.
“Are you hearing me?” Mike groans, genuinely wondering if everyone is selectively deaf, and he briefly resists the urge to bit down into the cushion in front of him — and then, because he is a weak, weak man, he succumbs to that urge and bites down so hard he’s pretty sure he feels the indent of his opposing sets of teeth grind against each other through the fabric. When he pulls away, there’s a wet blob of saliva there, but he can’t bring himself to care, even though his teeth are tingling slightly.
“I’m hearing bullshit.” The ginger singsongs mockingly, head swaying left to right as she interlinks her hands together and rests her chin on them. Mike feels his secrets bubble in his gut, to the point they begin to boil to the surface from the amount of heat being pressed into them, and the steam from their residue rolls out of his throat and off his tongue before he can figure out what he’s saying.
“Will doesn’t like me! I can’t ruin our friendship. It’s important to me. It’s the best thing in the world, maybe. I can’t just lose that because of some silly infatuation I have. I’d rather pine in silence than risk not having Will in my life — I don’t think I’d be able to breathe without him. It’s like— gosh, how can I word it? Listen, my family has been going to church, and we learnt the story of how Eve was made from Adam’s rib. If we’re comparing us to that, I’m Eve and He’s Adam! I’m made from him; I live for him, I want to help him every second of the day. Make him meals, hold his bags after school, be gifted his paintings. I want him to wear my hoodie and recognise me by my dad’s cheap cologne. I can’t lose that. Not him.”
Mike takes a deep breath in, having lost it all through his tirade, and when he realises he closed his eyes with strenuous passion, he hesitantly creaks them open to see dumbfounded faces staring back at him, likely surprised by his sudden soliloquy — yet when his irises scan round to meet El’s, they hold a fond looking of knowing and happiness; She’s proud of him. He averts his eyes back to the spit-stain in front of him.
Dustin finally speaks after a weighted pause, words carefully plucked like ripe fruit from a field, “…Wow, man. Comparing homosexuality to the Bible is kind of beautiful.”
The tension is immediately cut, and where Lucas chuckles and Max snorts, Mike groans and shoves his face into the pillow in front of him, banging into the fabric a couple times for emphasis, “Shut up.” He moans, hiding his face so his friends can’t observe the secret grin upon his face, or the way his eyes slightly tear up, although he wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear the wetness in his voice. He was so grateful for them. Even Max, but don’t tell her that.
Mike lifts his head from the pillow, ensuring he subtly wipes his eyes on the cotton as he scrapes his face against it, and Lucas smiles softly whilst patting him on the shoulder, jolting him slightly from the innate firmness within his grip, “Seriously, man. We’re not kidding with you. Confess. There’s no other advice to be given. Just trust us, okay?”
Dustin smiles with all of his teeth, slapping his thigh as he gets up, “Now, we have to go interrogate Robin for her money. And by tomorrow, Wheeler? I expect good news.” He declares, clasping his hands together with a wink.
Mike chooses to ignore the fact that it appears Robin is also apart of this betting business, and he breathes in deeply, shaking his shoulders in preparation, “I— Okay. Okay. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can!” Lucas beams as he stands up from his perch upon the beanbag, dragging Max up with him as she follows reluctantly despite smiling, and he presses a firm kiss to her cheek before releasing her hand to jump on Mike on the couch, letting out a happy grunt and Mike responds with an ‘oof!’, legs flying up from the body pushed onto his chest.
Unfortunately, Dustin follows right after and pounces onto the pile of teenage boys’ astray bodies, “He’s finally manning up, whoo!” He shouts gleefully as he ruffles Mike hair, and links his arm around Lucas’ neck.
“Our boy is growing, Dusty-buns!” Lucas giggles, giggles, and laughs brightly at Mike’s protests of the weight atop of him.
“Shut up!” Mike yells despite laughing all throughout, rolling his eyes fondly and shoving the two boys off of him, grinning even when they roll onto the floor with a thud and when the sight of both El and Max watching the scene with matching looks of amused disappointment becomes visible to him after the boys on him finally stop blocking his vision.
El drags Dustin up with a sigh, and he laughs and looks at her adoringly before gripping onto her wrist and pulling her out of the room quickly, her eyes startled and body moving freely at the unanticipated motion. Still, her laugh at the freeing tug is exuberant and bright, and before she’s pulled out of the room, she makes sure to look over her shoulder and send Mike a reassuring grin and thumbs up, and he manages to send a smile weakly back.
“Okay, gotta bounce, man!” Lucas cheers and darts his thumb behind him, practically doing the same thing with Max that Dustin did with El, thudding up the weak staircase with her in tow and promptly attempting to get out of there — probably so Mike can gather his own thoughts and stop being a pussy. The usual.
Although, just as Lucas exits, Max pulls back to grip onto the doorway, leaning down into the basement, “And Mike?” She speaks, voice delicate and reticent, like she’s finally being serious for once and not making a sassy retort like she typically would. Mike perks up, listening attentively.
“Go get him, Tiger.”
——————————
Mike spends the rest of his day patiently waiting, not fidgeting at all, for Will’s return. Totally calm. All tranquility. No worries here, no anxious or irrational thoughts over there. Hah. Because that’s definitely how things go down in the Wheeler household. Y’know — casualty and nothing on high emotions at all. Pure, stable rationality.
Now, who was he kidding?! This family was full of emotionally repressed assholes (maybe not Holly, though, as she never seemed frightened to tell Mike that his outfit looked horrible before he set off for school), and to be frank, telling someone the truth about… feelings… was a foreign code that Mike had never really learnt — sure he could tell you what atoms thrived in covalent bonds and what hardware stores to go to if you happened to want to defeat a demonic monster who dealt his killings in clock chimes and broken bones, but if you ever asked him for romantic advice? You’ve came to the wrong person.
He had literally dated El for two years just to gain a sense of normality within his life — which didn’t work, by the way — and couldn’t even tell her he didn’t love her, even if she probably already suspected the ugly truth to that fact, so the fact he was mentally preparing to tell Will Byers of all people that he was more or less in love with him was a terrifying prospect.
He had practically been hiding in his room like a hermit crab in a shell, trying to bury himself into the fantastical worlds of comic books or actually completely a college application for another college that wasn’t NYU, because unfortunately that was the only one he had ever applied to because it seemed to be the only one that actually appealed to him, (totally not just because Will was sold on going there much like Jonathan. Totally not, hah.) but he just kept getting distracted.
Blinded by thoughts of Will’s soft chestnut hair that he wished to tangle his fingertips into and get lost within, by thoughts of the mole above his lips that he wanted to press a firm, teasing peck onto in his free time, by thoughts of his broad shoulders and a lean waist that was criminally enticing; Mike briefly imagined his two large palms enveloping the soft skin there with a grip so wide his fingers could connect across Will’s sternum, and then had to blink the thoughts away before he developed a hard-on. He still got a semi. It was humiliating.
Softer thoughts also contaminated his mind like the excessive radioactivity of Will was irremovable from his system, and Mike didn’t want it any other way, because he was pathetic and just a boy. There were thoughts of the way Will’s lip curved upwards into intimate smiles just for Mike, the way his fingers curved around an artist’s pencil with precision and familiarity, thoughts of his eyes glimmering beneath the sunlight and turning into a exuberant green compared to the hazel they typically were; Irises Mike could get lost in whenever he wanted.
Mike was trapped in one of these thoughts when the soft thud of the front-door hitting the hallway wall echoed through the house, and a muttered profanity of accident ensued right after. Mike knew who it was — he could tell by the distant voice and the way in which his footfalls fell across the wooden-panelled floors, and he was probably imagining he could smell familiar cologne — it was Will. Glancing to the alarm on the side of his bedside table, the flickering red pixels showed the tallied lines of ‘6:43pm.’
Mike was still the only one in the house — well, up till now at least — likely because Nancy was probably with Robin and they were probably talking about gun policies and some other girly shit like that; his mother was probably out still doing her daily errands or could possibly even be in Hopper’s cabin and have a cup of coffee with Joyce, and his father had probably gotten dragged by Holly to one of her friend’s houses and he was likely stuck making small chat with other parents when he more than likely wanted nothing more to come home to sit on his LA-Z boy. So in summary, Mike was home alone with Will now. Great.
He could do this. He could so do this, he thinks in a way to motivate himself as he pushes himself off of the safe comfort of his mattress to timidly approach his door, pulling it open with a slight creak and creeping around to the staircase to look at the front entrance.
And there Mike saw Will, shrugging his coat off with a haggardness that was so very typical of him, and he watches as the brunette scoops out the keys from his left pocket before entirely shoving the sleeve off. He simultaneously hangs his jacket on his designated hook by the doorway and tosses his keys into the small bowl beside the Wheeler’s shoe rack, settled upon a small table that also hosts the teal house-phone, with scary precision. It made his heart warm, with the domesticity of it all, the simple sight of Will painfully comfortable within his own childhood home.
Although that tender moment was broken proficiently once Will turned around fully, immediately sensing Mike’s looming presence and putting a hand to his heart as he jolts in fear, “Jesus, Mike! Oh my God, oh my Goodness, What the hell?” He squeals, chest rapidly rising and falling in stress and Mike can’t help the laugh that helplessly escapes his mouth.
“Oops. Sorry.” Mike apologises lamely, still chuckling lightly, and he stays hovering at the top of the staircase, leaning smoothly against the banister and watching as Will’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes slowly revert to their normal state.
“No, you’re not.” Will states, blank-faced.
“No, I’m not,” Mike grins, easy.
“Asshole.” Will mutters, shaking his head as he bends down to kneel on the third carpeted stair, untying his shoelaces belonging to yellow dandelion converse, yet the pronunciation of his cheeks and sly glimpse that Mike can make out of his teeth tell him singlehandedly that Will’s profusely trying to hide a subtle grin — and utterly failing.
“Mmmm. You love me.” Mike says matter-of-fact-edly, all nerves that were previously extremely prominent dissipating in the presence of the opposing teenager, and he implores, “Come up?” He asks, voice soft and coated in something that’s identifiable as vulnerability, nodding his head in the direction of his bedroom, where warm light glides out and paints Mike’s back in a cool orange-tone, haloing him.
Will hums, tucking his shoes into his gap on the shoe-rock, right next to Mike’s favourite navy blue converse, and stands up straight, tugging his hoodie down and smiling, “Sure.”
Mike beams in reply, watching as Will ascends the staircase and he politely holds his arm open in invitation as though a royal butler guiding their highness into a their bed chamber, and Will’s green eyes spot the outlandish gesture, rolling in their sockets with fondness and adoration painted within their mint streaks.
“Thank you very much, Michael the Brave. My oh-so-kind paladin.” Will jokes as he rounds into Mike’s bedroom, taking his designated perch on the side of Mike’s bed with a bounce and Mike laughs as he shuts the door behind him.
“Oh, of course, my sorcerer.” He jests as he struggles to close the door where the door-hinge rubs against the chipped wood with friction, but Mike pulls it with one final huff and the materials slide against each other with a satisfied click, and he turns back around with a triumphant look plastered upon his facial features, dusting his hands off as though he’s just completed extremely hard work.
“You’re never gonna get over that, are you?” Will sighs, scooting back till he reaches the navy wall behind him, careful to not scrunch up his jeans with the movement as he lands back against the harsh concrete.
“What? That you’re a real life, honest-to-God, sorcerer?” Mike cheekily smirks, sidling up to the bed and flopping beside Will, landing belly flat on the quilt and tilting his head to look up at Will, who looks down at him with incredulity written upon the lines of his flesh. Because, obviously — Mike would never forget the day Will literally gained powers and killed three (count ‘em, three!) demogorgans in one foul go, and he quite frankly doesn’t get why Will is so hesitant, God forbid embarrassed, to talk about it!
Taking praise has always been something Will has continuously struggled with ever since the two boys were the mere ages of four and swinging on swing-sets in local playgrounds, and Mike truly doesn’t get it because he’ll take every open opportunity ever to shower Will in the most affection he can; compliments galore. Hell, Will literally still has some embers of his powers lingering inside of his soul even after the Mind Flayer was defeated, small fragments of magic harnessed within his veins, and yet he never uses them!
Only once or twice on a rare occasion has Mike witnessed Will shamefully levitate a remote from a coffee table when he was too lazy to grab it, or unscrew a wattle bottle with his mind when his hands are too exhausted to do so. Logically, it makes absolutely no sense how he still managaes to harness these powers; Especially with the hivemind completely and utterly collapsed, yet no one brings themselves to question it — It doesn’t seem inherently evil, so they let it rest rather than meddle with it.
Mike pulls himself out of his daydream to listen to Will. “Yes, that.” Will sighs as he sends Mike an unimpressed book, idly fiddling with the hem of his jean’s seams on the side.
“Hmm. Probably not. I’ll think about it.” Mike teases as he rolls from his belly onto his back, waddling upwards till he’s shoulder to shoulder with Will and making direct eye contact with his exasperated, yet startled eyes — probably from the speed at which Mike just wiggled about. His cheeks also look a little flushed, and Mike notes that faci expression in his mind for safe-keeping before pulling down the fabric of his shirt that had hitched up to his abdomen.
Still looking flustered, Will averts his eyes and murmurs sarcastically, “Didn’t know you could do that.”He says, words barely audible but Mike manages to latch onto them.
“Hey! You’ve been hanging around Max too much.” Mike gasps in faux-offense, hand placed to his chest theatrically like he’s mortally wounded.
At this flair of histrionic exaggerations, Will lets out a bright laugh after dropping his fake grumpiness, face immediately morphing into something lighter, all the stress and woes carved into his face since childhood finally ironing out for a rare moment. He looks young, Mike thinks, and he can’t help but stare at the look of pure happiness radiating off of the boy beside him without his chest filling with unadulterated joy; something warm, soft and glowing igniting within his ribcage.
Mike smiles softly whilst Will’s not looking, soaking up all the memories of the moment quickly, before he nudges Will’s leg beside his with the back of his hand, “So… how was the exhibition?” He queries, voice tainted with curiosity.
Will hums absentmindedly, tilting his head up to the ceiling as though his answer is there as he replies, “Oh, that? Hm. It was good, I guess. It definitely gave me a lot more inspiration for future paintings, that’s one bonus. A lot of the people there were very pretentious though. I’m telling you, Mike, they were literally walking with their hands clasped behind their backs unironically!” He grins, turning his head down look at Mike with a lumiscent smile attached to his face, and Mike feels the glare of it reflect off his irises; it would’ve blinded him, had he not been so adapted to it.
“Pretentious pricks.”Mike tuts.
“Right?! God, I wish you were there so we could’ve talked shit together.”Will agrees enthusiastically, spreading his arms out as though he’s thanking the Lord he has confirmation that he’s not insane, and he bangs his head back against the wall with a nostalgic, delicate tone.
“William Byers! Talking shit? Disgusting. We, as noble gentleman, do no such thing.” Mike gasps, completely breaking the tenderness with his mockery, and he leans forward to poke Will accusingly in the chest.
Will bats the hand away harmlessly, missing by quite a large margin and laughing under his breath gently, “Don’t be a pretentious prick, you hypocrite.”
“Hey! Very rude.”
“You started it.”
“How dare you accuse me, a noble gentleman, of a such a—“ Mike begins, devillish in his grin and annoying words, but he’s promptly cut off by a mouthful of pillow as it hits his face, slamming right into his teeth and interrupting him with a loud thwack — it’s an attack undoubtedly directed and targetted by Will and his incessant need to apparently shut Mike up, and the room is left in stunned silence.
When the bundle of feathers leaves Mike’s face after remaining there for a prolonged, suspenseful amount of time, Mike slowly blinks once he readjusts quickly to light, meeting Will’s sheepish yet playful expresson instantenously. His mouth is still open from when he was previously talking, y’know, prior to the attempt on his life, and it closes quickly with a large smack.
And then, with an evil glint in his eyes, Mike smiles evilly, “Oh, Byers, you are so done.”
From there, it’s unfiltered chaos.
Somewhere along the way, Mike grabs a pillow himself and they begin to unabashedly belt each other with the cushions, kneeling on the bed and getting in tactical hits and dodging blows like they’re pre-schoolers on a sugar rush. The air is full of energy and adrenaline, as profanities are exchanged and Mike jumps onto Will, only for Will to kick him off mid-air, and he goes flying onto the other side of the bed. There’s dirty tactics, feathers coming out of seams, and belly-laughter whenever Mike makes an inhumane squealing sound. It’s pure bliss.
At some point, Will runs circles on his knees around Mike on the bed, hitting him on the back of his neck every time he reaches that point behind him, and laughing manically whenever Mike misses his own hits. And then, Mike, after getting hit on the nape at least ten times, grabs hold onto Will’s ankles and practically drags him across the mattress, pinning him to the head board and slamming the pillow down onto the other boy’s chest.
Not hard, of course, not hard, but firm enough that Will gets the words out between laughter, “Okay! You win! I surrender!” He grins, face flushed and hair mused from their play-fighting.
“Thank fuck.” Mike breathes, smiling but tired as his chest heaves, and he promptly tosses the pillow away to the other side of the room, happy to be done with violence and welcoming what he hopes will be incoming tranquility.
Although, with no other barrier between them, Mike rests his forearms down on either side of Will’s head as he catches his breath, legs caging in Will’s jean-clad trousers, and they both pant heavily after such a heated workout.
Will’s chest is rising and falling beneath him, the motion of it emphasising the pure muscle there and how easy it would be for Mike to just run his hand over it, get a feel of what he’s been dying to for months. He feels like he’s Eve, Will is forbidden fruit, and his chest directly in his eye sight is the ficking snake — because God, the way it moves is utterly mesmerising. And it sounds weird, Mike knows that, but he’s shamelessly entranced by the whole thing, eyes locked there with no regard whatsoever.
Because not only is it extremely attractive and kind of hot, but it also reminds Mike undoubtedly that Will is alive. Will is not the same dead body that he saw be pulled out of a Quarry years ago, nor is he the same possessed teenager he was tormented by, and he’s certainly not out of Mike’s sight. He’s not gone, or dead, or missing, because Will, even after all he’s gone through, is still managing to breath oxygen into his lungs and release carbon dioxide — Will is still fucking standing, and Mike couldn’t be anymore grateful for his unwavering resilience.
Although Mike is cut out of his reverence by the sound of Will inhaling sharply, “Oh— Um. Sorry. Didn’t realise I still had the hoodie on. I— y’know— we got caught up reading before I left, so I had no time to change, and then I just sort of left the house in this, and It all kind of happened—“ He rambles, apparently coming to the conclusion that Mike staring was because of the stupid hoodie, and Will’s face is twinged in embarrassment. Mike hates that. Dreadfully so.
Mike interrupts as soon as he can, “No, Will, it’s fine. I don’t care, really. I kind of like it.” He soothes, letting that last line slip out unprompted, and he really hopes the way heat floods his cheeks isn’t visible. The idea of Will taking off this hoodie is more than unsatisfactory to Mike — he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to deal with seeing it off again.
Will pauses momentarily, hesitanting before seemingly coming to his senses, eyes glimmering with clarity, “I— no, Mike, it’s not right. I have my own clothes you have yours,” He shakes his head, still beneath Mike’s lean frame, and his words send a course of displeasure throughout Mike. Yet, the brunette perseveres, “Don’t worry, I’ll put it in my laundry pile then give it to you after, in-fact I’ll do that now—“
And then, Will begins to lift up the hoodie, a white t-shirt sticking out from beneath it at the miniscule movement, and Mike does the only thing his addled brain can think of to stop the curve of Will’s fingertips from tugging the hem of the hoodie any further — he kisses him.
A roar of possession floods Mike’s primalistic system, and before he knows it, his lips are upon Will’s ungracefully. It’s closed-mouthed and firm and full of undignified power, yet Mike somehow finds it to be the most sensational experience he’s ever felt, even as his eyes flutter closed and Will doesn’t reciprocate.
Then, it registers that Will doesn’t reciprocate, so Mike mentally curses all of his friends in his head who told him this would be a good idea, and he pulls away, panicked and stammering, “Fuck. Shit. Will, I’m so sorry— I don’t know what came over me; I just. I didn’t want you taking it off. Fuck. I like it. I really like you wearing my clothes and I don’t know why, like at all. It just pleases me. Shoot, that sounds weird. I promise I’m not weird — no I am weird, which is why you like me. Not like me! Not like like me. That’s why you like me — as a friend. Even though I’m beginning to discover I like you more than that, and I’ll shut up now and we can just pretend this never—“
And then in the most confused minute of Mike’s life, his words are cut off much like Will’s actions were; with a slam of lips against his. This time, however, Mike melts into the feeling of Will’s lips sliding against his much more rapidly, turning soft and pliant as the boy beneath him pushes Mike away from hovering above him, all of a sudden being twisted so he’s sitting upwards against his headboard and Will is straddling him. Because Will Byers is straddling him. Holy fuck!
Will tastes faintly of mint toothpaste, a strange honey in the back of his throat, and perhaps the most present, a sweet lollipop. The heat from his mouth is all encompassing, warm and slick against Mike, and Mike prods his tongue out to gently lick Will’s bottom lip, where an array of cuts and bitten sores are painted, and when his tongue darts across a particularly fresh cut, Will makes the sweetest gasping sound, and Mike takes that as his invitation in.
His hands curl round the back of both of Will’s thighs, rubbing up and down the muscly length of them as Will’s own hands escape to the roots of Mike’s curls, tugging slightly at the base of his cranium and drawing a long, drawn-out groan from Mike.
It feels like stars are falling around them, that the sky is crumbling into balls of powdered sunlight, and that neither of them can bring themselves to care from the sparks that are igniting like fireworks in their guts, butterflies roaming their intestines like free territory. It’s all Mike’s been searching for his whole life. It’s addiction and rehabilitation mixed into one; like religion mixing with science and heresies rhyming with prophecies.
He doesn’t know how long they kiss for, hands roaming and grunts escaping one another, it could be minutes or even hours, maybe even mere seconds, yet the minute they run out of breath, Mike immediately latches himself onto Will’s neck.
The boy above him is haggard and his breath is lagged, Will’s chest rising and falling quickly in motions as Mike circles his tongue over Will’s pulse point, sucking and biting simultaneously — determined to make a mark. His mark. Mike squeezes Will’s ass as he leaves in a finalising bite, pulling back and seeing the bloom of purple and red where his mouth had been prior. He smirks smugly internally. Or maybe externally, he doesn’t care.
“You are a territorial bastard.” Will laughs at the expression on Mike’s face, and he revels in the way the other boy’s voice is utterly wrecked, hoarse and ruined, yet tiredly happy.
“I— Shut up.” Mike grins, moving his face back up to Will’s. He plants a kiss firmly on Will’s cheek, then moving to press a matching one over his mole, because thank the Lord, Mike has desperately always wanted to be able to do that, and he could resist no longer.
“No, no. It’s cute. I like it.” Will smiles cheesily, leaning back in Mike’s lap to meet his face and leave another peck on his lips, like he can’t contain himself.
“You do?” Mike asks softly as they pull away, leaning his forward tenderly against Will’s.
“I like everything about you, Mike.” Will whispers, like it’s a reverent secret, and he closes his eyes like he’s soaking in the moment before opening them and batting up through his eyelashes to look up at Mike. He’s so pretty. Mike’s heart races.
“Really?” The black-haired boy asks in awe.
Will looks up to the ceiling, like he’s preparing a mischevious answer, and Mike raises one brow inexplicably in preparation. The brunette smirks devilishly, speaking, “Well, maybe not the fact it took you this long to realise your feelings.”
“What?! When did you know?” Mike gasps in faux umbrage.
“The sweet, sweet age of twelve.” Will replies, acceptingly and nodding off into the far-away distance, as though reminiscing on distant memories. His pink, plump lips curl into a fond smile, and Mike would kiss it right off him if he wasn’t involved in other priorities at the moment.
“When we were twelve!? What!? I could’ve had this all these years!?” Mike gasps for real this time, flabbergasted, and pouting in defeat.
Will chuckles at the hurt-puppy look on Mike’s face, before reaching one gentle handle to cradle the other boy’s face, to which Mike nuzzles into, and his tone is reassuring when he says, “You have me now, you do know that, right?”
“You’re sure? You’ll have me?”
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Then I give myself to you.”
“Ugh, now that makes me sound like a territorial bastard.” Will grimaces, desite the gleam of pure joy in his irises.
“From the way you pounced on me there, I wouldn’t put it past you.” Mike raises his eyebrows mockingly.
“That’s bullying. I’m telling Max you’re abusive. She’ll shave all your hair.”
“You wouldn’t! You love my curls!”
Will raises a singular eyebrow, “When did I say that?”
“Your hands certainly did.”
“Okay, shut up, you prick—”
THE END