Chapter Text
Mike hacks as yet another spore weasels its way into his throat, tensing at the sound as it seems to echo. His teeth are damn near clattering, and his chest feels heavy with unease and something else he’d rather not think about.
His hand aches and burns, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his ankle turns out to be some degree of sprained. Cold mud cakes his sweatpants and jacket, clinging uncomfortably and rubbing against his skin in all the wrong ways.
Even worse, the silence that surrounds him makes his whole being itch with both the urge to speak and the caution to remain quiet. Will has yet to say more than a few words to Mike since they’ve started walking, and he feels as though he might explode in the next half hour.
The consequences of chasing after Will were very clear, yet Mike couldn’t bring himself to care in the moment when it came down to it. He would never let Will go anywhere alone if there was even the slightest chance he could be in danger. Especially when the circumstances were as dire as they came.
—
About an hour earlier…
Rain softly hits the window, filling the otherwise silent room with the sound of its impact. It’s nothing more than a gentle patter against the glass, but it’s enough to keep Mike’s eyes wide open in the darkness.
At least, that’s what he wishes was keeping him awake. He wishes his problems were as simple as rain keeping him awake. But he lives in a world where he hasn’t been so lucky with his troubles. He hasn’t lived such an easy life since November 6, 1983—in terms of supernatural means, that is.
In terms of the supernatural, he’s currently in the process of getting screwed over by it. It’s affecting his eating habits, his mood, his sleep—it’s been absolutely destroying him for the past two weeks. Dark circles are starting to develop under his eyes, and he moves through every day in a slight haze, simply going through the motions that have come a part of his routine. Wake up, go to school, reinforce safety, sleep, repeat.
Except he doesn’t quite sleep now, does he? He tries, but he finds that it’s a little hard to drift off when nightmares project onto the back of his eyelids every time he closes them.
For most people, bedtime is the most anticipated time of every day—it even used to be Mike’s. Sleep was his escape for this hell on earth that he has to call home, providing him the sanctuary of not being conscious to hear his own thoughts. But now, dread curls in his gut at the thought of having to be in a dark room and lie his head on a pillow, alone with his own mind.
And alone with him.
Because Mike is just so incredibly lucky, Vecna has decided that he’s an easy target to play with as he licks his own wounds. Maybe he’s still too weak and can only manage to visit Mike in his dreams, but he’s making it a point to reinforce his position of power. Still, no real visions have occurred, and he can’t decide whether or not he appreciates that.
He knows that when Vecna preys on you, you get nosebleeds, you get headaches, sounds of a grandfather clock are heard, and you begin to see things that aren’t real; things meant to slowly tear you apart from the inside. The first two symptoms have definitely made themselves present, the third is sparse, and the last is unclear.
From what he’s heard, the visions are meant to materialize seamlessly in the middle of the day when you least expect it. But he only ever has them after he falls asleep, and he’s only ever heard what he thinks is the clock once. And that’s what confuses him. Is Vecna actually doing this to him? Are they real visions? Because if they are, then why isn’t Mike seeing them the same way Max, Chrissy, and Fred did? Why is this different?
It’s these questions that have led him to the decision to keep quiet about it all. The visions are the main part of this curse; it’s what truly confirms that you’re marked as a victim. But the thing is, Mike can’t figure out if any of it is real. It feels pretty fucking real to him. It’s nothing like any other dream he’s ever had. His usual dreams are hazy and unclear, easy to forget the next morning. There’s the occasional nightmare; a fuzzy flashback of a small, lifeless body being pulled from the water, a girl saving their lives just to disappear right before his eyes, his best friend screaming bloody murder as the Mindflayer used him, his friend’s brother being stabbed in too many places and too much blood pooling on the floor. It’s whatever, they all deal with it. And it all happens often enough to get used to it and brush everything off by the time the sun comes up.
But these recent nightmares…They’re so distinct with this terrifying sharpness to them. So much so that it makes Mike shiver when they play back in his head in the morning with precision, going frame by frame to make sure he doesn’t forget a thing.
It’s harder to distinguish all the voices and scenes from the real world around him. Oftentimes, he’ll find himself talking to someone and hearing different words than what they’re actually saying.
He’ll speak to his mom and hear ‘I’m so disappointed’ and he has to shake his head and focus. Or he’ll see El’s face shift to a scowl and hear ‘I never needed you, you were just always too pathetic to see it,’ and he has to blink a few times before he sees her normal smile again. The morning after a really bad night, he remembers accidentally nudging Will during breakfast, and he couldn’t sworn he heard ‘Get the fuck off me, you queer!’ Mike pulled away like he’d been burned and ignored Will’s concerned gaze as he stared at the soggy cereal swirling in his bowl. Or he’ll take a glance at Will and see his eyes blown black and empty, shivering but insisting that the heat go lower, then Mike takes a breath and sees him sitting fine in a warmed house and a sweater. Seeing Nancy with vines around her neck, choking until she goes limp then shaking his head and seeing her just fine. Holly suddenly vanishing before his eyes then reappearing in a blink.
Every echo of what sees and hears in his stupid dreams is blending into his life, and it’s getting harder to distinguish reality from whatever hell he visits at night.
He contemplates whether or not this is his own brain torturing him or if Vecna really has deemed him worthy to experience his own special breed of torment. With the other indicators, the entire notion is easy to shrug off. Headaches have always been common, and their evolution to intense migraines can be passed off as an effect of overworking and lack of sleep. The sudden nosebleeds are probably due to the dry cold that hasn’t left in months; that was often the case when he was younger. It could be that easy to push it all away. Those symptoms alone aren’t enough to really alarm him.
So if these nightmares are nothing more than his own cruel mind playing tricks on him, then what’s the point of burdening everyone else with worry? Maybe he’s stupid for keeping this to himself, but he just can’t bring himself to tell anyone. If he talks about it, he’ll never be free again. People will hover, his favorite song would become intolerable, he’d always be watched, every misstep step would be investigated and dissected—all that chaos just for it to possibly be nothing.
But it’s not only the fear of being observed that’s stopping him. If he tells people that he’s being targeted, he’ll have no choice but to speak out loud about what it is that’s being used against him.
He would rather die than tell the truth.
And maybe Vecna knows that. Maybe he knows that Mike is pathetic enough to let himself get driven to the edge of death in lieu of asking for help, of exposing the weakest parts of himself, of letting people witness the feat of his truest desires tearing him to shreds. Maybe that’s why Mike was the one chosen. He’s the weakest link. He always has been.
When he says his life since he was twelve hasn’t been easy due to the supernatural, he means it. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been dealing with shit other than that—shit that messes him up more than any demogorgan ever could.
Even before the Upside Down came into his life, the main problem had always been a part of him. It just wasn’t labeled as a problem then because he didn’t quite realize that it would be. Until it did.
He doesn’t want to call it a problem—it isn’t. A problem is something that you need to get rid of; it darkens your day, causes turmoil, and makes you frown. Will is the farthest thing from a problem. In Mike’s opinion, Will is nothing short of a blessing. One that he surely isn’t deserving of.
Anytime he’s around him, Mike’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard and his stomach cramps from laughing too much. The sound of Will’s voice is like a melody that one might hear in the heavens, and Mike will savor every one since he’ll never hear the real thing—not that it could be any better. Will’s presence is enough to distract Mike from the fact that they could die any day now, that the end of the world is upon them. Will isn’t Mike’s problem; never has been, never will be.
It’s Mike’s own stupidity and ignorance that’s going to kill himself. It’s self-sabotage and he knows it. He foolishly let himself fall in love with Will without even realizing it. Love is already a fatal flaw when a person feels it as strongly as Mike does; it makes you go crazy and do irrational things—and that ship sailed a long, long time ago. But now that he’s older and has recognized the full depth of it? Now that he’s recognized that his love will always be sinful and forbidden? It’s the final nail in the coffin.
Loving his best friend has been a vicious cycle that never fails to give him whiplash. He’ll be at a peak of joy where he shamelessly stares into Will’s eyes, unafraid to touch him, only comforted by his presence, and he feels like everything just might turn out well for him. The sun shines brighter, doom doesn’t seem so absolute, and his heart beats steadier and insanely erratic all at once. He doesn’t feel the shame, or the guilt, or the pain—he only feels love. That high only lasts until he gets an offhand comment from his father or a deranged thought from his own mind, and suddenly Mike is terrified to breathe around Will. Not because he gets a giddy type of nervousness, but because he can’t bear to see the reminders of who he is—what he is. He fucking hates himself for feeling the way he does, and the anger piles higher by the minute, but at the same time, it’s Will. It’s the Will that he used to have to defend against bullies who did anything but love him. Mike can’t imagine feeling any other way and quite frankly, he never wants to—it’s like breathing. Loving Will is warm and gooey and sweet and maybe if they lived in any other universe, he could bask in all the glory.
But they don’t live in another universe. They live in a universe with evil dark wizards, alternate dimensions, people who say this love is wrong, and laws that push it down even further, because to love like this means to sign your certificate of alienation. Maybe if Will miraculously reciprocated feelings, it could be worth it. But he knows better than to let himself linger on that thought for too long. He loves Will and he wouldn’t wish away the feeling even if he could. But more than anything? He’s scared.
Not scared of the love he feels for Will, but scared because he doesn’t know what to do with what it means. A part of him knows he’s a freak and that he needs to be fixed. That part looks in the mirror everyday and wishes he didn’t have to. That part scrubs his skin raw in the shower, praying he can cleanse himself of his deformity. That part prays for peace, even though the church he used to go to every sunday with his parents tells him that the one listening has no regard for him or his pleas.
But another part of him likes to think that love is a beautiful thing, regardless of who it is he directs it to. That part allows himself to beam at Will for no apparent reason other than the fact that he just can. That part lets himself dream of intertwined hands, ghosts of lips, slow Sunday mornings spent tangled in bed. He’d never frown ever again, nightmares would be foreign concepts, there’d never be a gloomy day—laws and opinions be damned. It even plants the idea that Will could love him just the same. With the big shining eyes Will gives him, like Mike hung the moon and pinned the stars, the way he’s endlessly forgiving Mike and his idiotic choices, it’s easy to fall into that hole. He also knows that letting himself believe it could happen would be a fucking lie. That’s the part that’s naive enough to believe things could be okay for him.
Love is only a beautiful thing when you do it the right way. In the sixteen years Mike has roamed this earth, he can’t do anything the right way, it seems. He is only capable of being wrong and dirty and lost. He knows this, yet he still hasn’t found a solution in the ten years this curse has plagued him. Given, he only realized this was something that needed to be fixed in recent times, so he’s a bit behind. Still, he pounds his head for a cure, just to come up with nothing.
Releasing his feelings isn’t a wise tack, but to keep everything in is getting harder with each passing day. Every joke they share, every gentle touch, every shared look; it's killing him—almost literally. He’s been suffering these consequences even more intensely these past two weeks, yet he can’t bring himself to rid himself of his issues. He can’t bring himself to go to the root of it and remove himself from Will’s life. He almost wishes he could push him away and make things easier, but he knows it’s impossible. He tried it in the summer of ‘85 all the way through spring of ‘86 and it could’ve worked if it weren’t for the fact that he caused Will pain in the process.
Hurting himself is one thing, but to hurt Will? That’s not something he can deal with—not even if it would solve all of Mike’s problems. He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure Will remains unharmed. Mike will present himself in the truest form to make Will drift on his own, or whatever elaborate plan he has to orchestrate—no matter how Mike feels about it. If keeping Will safe means Mike has to damn himself, then so be it. If he can do it for the past decade, he can always go a little longer.
At least until Vecna wins—if this is all real, anyway.
Because in all honesty, Mike doesn’t quite mind an end to it all. It’s not that he wants every bone broken and his eyes sucked into his skull, but would it be so bad for everything to finally get quiet? Would it be so bad if his brain stopped running and everything got quiet? For someone who’s never been keen on getting in touch with their feelings, Mike’s head always seems to be a very busy place. Always feeling far too much, but never being able to make sense of anything.
It’s a draining predicament that Mike has yet to solve since the first time he encountered it at the age of seven when he saw how loveless his parents’ marriage is. He told himself he would never put himself in such a situation. Then came the mind static when he realized he can’t see himself in a marriage at all. He’s always tried to imagine a nice, big house in a suburban neighborhood with a faceless woman by his side, but none of it felt right. In that scene, his eyes are always distant as if they’re thinking of something—or someone—else entirely, the house is cold and empty, and the woman next to him wears an eerie smile as she digs her nails into his arm.
Is it because real love is a foreign concept to him? Is it because he doesn’t really know how to love? Is it because it’s hard to imagine a future for himself? Is it because he doesn’t even want to think of the future? Is it because he could see himself spending forever with Will, who he has no right putting in that position? He has still yet to figure that out, but he knows that it’s still a malfunction that remains in his brain, as do every one of those questions.
But there goes another easy target: his inability to love. He doesn’t know if he can call it that. Obviously he loves Will, but the wrongness of it all makes Mike wonder if that’s what it truly is. What if it’s some weird disfigurement in his brain? What if the want to be needed crossed signals with the purpose to love?
His chest fills with this comforting warmth anytime Will crosses his mind, which is always. Sparks run through his veins when their fingers brush, and he gets lightheaded. His favorite song is Will’s laugh—specifically the one only Mike seems to bring out of him.
If love should feel any way, shouldn’t it be this? But why couldn’t he do it the normal way? Why couldn’t he love El? She has pretty eyes, she’s a badass, she has the kindest heart, she’s funny, she’s determined, she has her shit together, she loved him.
So why couldn’t Mike love her back the way she wanted him to? Why couldn’t he do that one thing right? He loved her then and he loves her now, but not the way he’s meant to. He wants her by his side, he adores her hugs, and he never wants to lose her ever again, but he doesn’t love her.
Not the way he loves Will.
So if he couldn’t love a perfect girl who loved him, but his heart flutters at the sight of his boy best friend, is he truly capable of love?
These issues are the catalysts to the inevitable destruction of Mike Wheeler. Then there’s all the little things that follow. The way he always feels out of place, like he never truly belongs anywhere. His gangly limbs, awkward facial structure and strange tallness—fitting in has never been something he’s able to achieve. The bullying may have stopped back in freshman year, but the words never left his conscience. During the early parts of that year, he tried embracing the parts of him he’d ignored—the parts that were truly him. He never really let himself explore the person he wanted to be or the things he wanted to do. Not until he befriended Eddie, who encouraged him to grow out his hair, wear dark clothes, and stop trying to impress everyone. And for a while, he believed in it all. What he saw in the mirror didn’t make him frown, and he didn’t feel like judging eyes were on him all the time. That bliss had only lasted for a couple months before he looked a little too hard into his reflection, and saw the same little bit banged Frog Face who realized that no matter how hard he tried, it just would never be enough.
After that spring break, he cut his hair. Keeping it long made him feel like a poser, like he was trying to fit into a skin that wasn’t his, no matter how badly he wanted it to be. But that’s just it, isn’t it? He’ll never fit into any skin, no matter how hard he tries, no matter what he changes.
He knows he’s not the ideal “man”. A sports ball would deflate if he does so much as glance at it, he spends his time writing away, and the closest thing he’ll ever get to a big tournament is an important DnD campaign. Sure, he’s smart and he does really well in school, but that’s never enough to make him any sort of important.
He pretends not to notice the way his dad’s eyes scrutinize his every move, or the way his mouth morphs into a scowl when he stares for too long. His dad will never say it out loud, but Mike understood early on that he wishes he didn’t have such a poor excuse for a son. He can’t blame him, really, but it still sucks to feel unwanted by the ones who should love you unconditionally.
Even all his friends have something going for them. Lucas is amazing at basketball, Dustin is an absolute genius who doesn’t care what people think, Max was always one to flip off anyone who dared to have an opinion on her, and El has achieved so much for herself. And Will is fucking perfect. Despite what his piece of shit father and middle school bullies used to preach, Will is so worthy of anything and everything. He’s kind, incredibly talented, perseverant, brave, strong…he’s everything. Mike can’t and won’t ever achieve half of what his friends have done, but that’s something he can live with — he doesn’t need to be the greatest. All he wants is to feel like he’s something.
But it seems like his life recently has served as a clear reflection of the fact that he doesn’t really deserve what he wants. No one actually needs him the way he needs to be. He used to lie to himself and say that El needed him, but she’s made it very clear that it’s quite the opposite. And Will, the person he truly needs to be needed by, is doing just fine on his own. From there, what can he do? It scares Mike—not having a purpose.
The only purpose he serves these days is being a burden. He’s always been told he’s overly angry, always snapping at sudden moments. In reality, it’s just a result of the emotional buildup he creates for himself. All of this—the fear, the anger, the pain, the confusion—he lets it spread him so incredibly thin. He really, really doesn’t want to, but having to talk to someone about anything is too much. The brain static always takes over before he can even speak, and it’s always just a futile attempt at getting better. Much to his (un)luck, Will happens to be the only person that doesn’t cause the static—relieves it, actually. And maybe that would lift some weight off Mike’s chest if it weren’t for the fact that he can’t ever tell Will his deepest, truest complications—the ones causing the most static.
So maybe it’s the accumulation of unresolved issues that makes Mike such an easy target; he’s always just a couple straws from breaking the camel’s back. He’s stupidly in love with his best friend who’s a boy, he’s insecure as shit, he’s scared of not feeling wanted or needed, and he’s forced himself to deal with it all on his own. Vecna doesn’t even have to try—Mike is damn near willing.
Once again, the concept of dying isn’t foreign to Mike. It’s sort of lingered in the back of his mind ever since it almost happened when he was twelve. He thinks about it a lot—that day at the quarry. Death wasn’t exactly what he was going for at the moment; he was just trying to spare Dustin’s life. But the more he looked down at the jagged rocks on the shore, the more he was okay with it. He was under the impression that Will, his only reason for smiling on the days when it felt impossible, was gone forever and died at the hands of the very body of water below him. He didn’t want to die then, but the thought of being at peace again was very appealing. Maybe that’s why he didn’t really hesitate as much as he should’ve to shift his body weight forward over the ledge. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment when El stopped him halfway down. Maybe that’s why he still feels that slight disappointment now that Vecna still hasn’t acted or that none of this might be real. Mike Wheeler doesn’t want to die, but he wants peace. He craves to feel as loose as he did when there was nothing but the wind holding him above that quarry.
Some part of him thinks he probably shouldn’t think this way. That maybe his lack of existence would have an impact on people. He knows his mom would be sad, Nancy would be pissed, Holly would miss him, his friends would grieve. Don’t get him wrong, he knows they all care about him to some extent, but people also care about stray dogs. So there goes the other part reminding him that eventually, they’d realize that they never really needed him anyway. They’d realize nothing changes now that he’s gone, and things would probably get better. And that’s enough for him.
The greedy part of Mike wants to stay for the sole purpose of Will. He hopes none of it is real so he can bask in his presence and drink in everything that makes Will into the boy he loves—which is quite frankly everything that he is. He wants to be able to gaze upon Will, even if it’s from afar. The delusional part that blends with the greed says that there’s a possibility he could be happy with Will—pour out his love and get the same passion in return. But he’s learned to never dwell on that fantasy for too long. The times he does let himself slip—which is more often than not—he catches himself letting his touch linger on Will more often or staring into his eyes for longer than he needs to. He lets himself smile back when Will nudges his knee on accident, and he beams even more when he nudges back and Will grins. But then he crashes from that high. Vecna’s voice echoes, or the voices of the puppets he controls in Mike’s dreams repeat on loop, and he’s sent into a pit of despair because it’s nothing but a tease. It’s one big, cruel joke where Mike lets himself believe for just a second before realizing the dramatic irony, that everyone in the audience is waiting for him to remember reality. Mike is tired of being the punchline.
Mike sighs into the quiet night, blending with the rain that’s gotten heavier. He’s going in circles—the same ones he’s been going in for the past few nights. He throws himself at each of his problems, hoping to get something out of it. But he never gets clarity or arrives at a new conclusion or a possible solution—not that he’s really looking for one anyway—and is instead left with nothing but further acceptance. He lulls his head over on his pillow to glance over at the clock beside him with tired eyes.
2:47 AM
Everyone’s sure to be in bed by now and the majority is probably asleep. He envies those who have that escape. He could lie here until the morning like he usually does on these sleepless nights, wait until sunrise for the light to peep in and tell him it’s over for now, to relieve him of the suffocation of the darkness.
But lying here wishing for something better won’t have a different outcome than the previous nights, so he might as well do something.
Mike slides himself from under the covers and shudders when the frigid air sweeps over his body. The rain is lighter now, not loud enough to cover up the sounds of him moving around. He slips on some socks in hopes it makes his steps quieter and less likely to disturb everyone else. His hand finds the doorknob and slowly turns it, pulling it toward him and tiptoeing out. The door softly clicks shut behind him, and he starts downstairs.
He doesn’t really know where he’s going or what he plans on doing. There’s not much that seems enticing, but staying in his room for another hour sounds worse than anything else. Water. Water sounds good.
A quiet thump comes from the kitchen, and Mike makes a face to himself. Who else is up this late?
“Shit,” the voice whispers.
Mike turns the corner into the kitchen and makes a sound adjacent to a yelp at the figure standing at the far counter. The five-foot-nine frame stiffens and he can immediately tell who it is despite their back facing him.
“Will?”
Will turns to face Mike and even in the dark of the night, his sheepish smile is still bright as day.
“Oh, Mike, hey. I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?” Will asks timidly.
Mike shakes his head, though Will probably can’t really see it in the darkness. “No. No, I just couldn’t sleep. You’re fine.”
Will hums in acknowledgment and gets back to whatever it is he was doing—grabbing a cup it seems. Or rather, trying to get a cup. Mike watches as Will pushes on his tip toes to get to the top shelf, fingers outstretched and the cup just out of reach. Mike tries—and fails—to ignore the way the sight makes him feel all fuzzy inside.
Mike chuckles lightly. “Do you need help over there?”
A frustrated huff comes from Will and he grumbles something incoherent, probably something about being able to do things just fine on his own. Mike stands there a few seconds more, watching the boy in front of him strain before deciding to put him out of his misery.
He takes a couple strides over to where Will stands until he’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. That’s another thing he’s always loved—Will is practically a walking heater. It’s also one of the many excuses Mike used to give himself when he wondered why he always felt the need to be so close to him. How idiotic he was to believe his own lies.
“I got it,” Mike strains out, all too aware of the rise and fall of Will’s shoulders against the front of his body. He leans into Will a little more, finally getting a hold of the cup. Balance has never been his strong suit, so he finds himself resting his hand on Will’s lower back for support. Or at least, that’s the excuse he’ll use if asked. He just wants to feel the grounding heat of him under his palm.
And if Mike wasn’t so focused on controlling his own breathing, maybe he would notice the way Will lets out a stuttered exhale under the pressure of his hand, or the way Will clenches his eyes shut in an attempt to gather himself. He doesn’t, though, for he is far too concerned with keeping his heart rate at a healthy pace.
Mike is flatfooted on the ground again and turns to give Will the cup. Except when he does, he feels Will’s breath mingling with his own. They’re so close. Will looks up at him with big eyes, pupils dilated—probably due to the darkness. If Mike were to tilt his head down, bring Will’s up to meet him in the middle… His heart feels like it’s going a million miles an hour, and he worries Will can somehow hear the rapid thumping through the confines of his sternum.
Neither of them have moved for a while—a few seconds, a few minutes? It’s all the same to Mike. Either way, being this close always makes him feel like he’s teetering on the edge of insanity. He needs to do something.
Scooting his hand holding the cup over to Will’s hand, he lets out a breathy, “H-here you go.” It hardly comes out as a whisper, one only possible to hear at such proximity as he and Will are in.
Warm fingers slide flush against Mike’s as they wrap them around the cup. “Thanks,” Will mutters. Mike can probably let go of the cup now. Correction: he should let go of the cup now.
But Will’s bare skin feels so good against his own. It’s hardly anything; they’re not even holding hands. Yet breathing has become significantly more difficult and he feels incapable of moving even an inch away.
But it’s not like Will is pushing him away either. He hasn’t awkwardly cleared his throat or made an effort to pull away. No, he stays right where he is, letting his eyes bore into Mike’s, soft and so painfully easy to get lost in. And Mike does.
He lets himself slip into the abyss of Will’s eyes. It feels like drowning, it feels like falling, it feels like fresh air, it feels like warmth. Each flutter of Will’s long eyelashes has Mike’s chest clenching, and Will is just so pretty it hurts. He feels his breath fanning on his face, and his eyes drop to Will’s nose. There’s not a lot of things Mike wouldn’t do just to be able to trace his finger over its slope just once. He wants to feel the prominent curve of it and every miniscule bump.
And who would Mike be if he didn’t let his gaze end up where it always does? Will’s lips just look so incredibly soft and pink, and they’re goddamn magnets for Mike’s eyes. If he put them against his own, would they be warm? How would Will react if his teeth nipped at the bottom one? Would he react at all?
No. No, he needs to stop. This is getting too much. It’s one thing to fantasize in the confines of his empty room, but to do so with the subject of interest right in front of him? He needs to get a grip now.
His eyes flick back up to Will’s, and his heart stutters at what he finds. Will’s own eyes seem to be zeroed in on something below Mike’s nose. Shit. Does he have, like, drool or something painfully embarrassing? God, and his hair’s probably sticking up in a thousand different directions, too. Will quickly looks back up at Mike, looking guilty and caught with dusted pink cheeks. But that… That doesn’t make sense. Why would Will be guilty or embarrassed? Why was he looking there, his brain proposes.
Mike mentally shakes the thoughts out of his head. He’s just imagining things; the lack of sleep is finally getting to him. Or maybe it’s more similar to recent events; maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe this is the part of the nightmare where Will's eyes turn dark and shallow as his mouth curls in disgust. The part where his words become sharp and lethal, scathingly effective. If that’s the case, then it’s okay. Mike will wake up soon enough and another day will pass.
But Will’s eyes remain their usual bright green, and his mouth hasn’t changed other than the fact his lips are slightly parted like he wants to say something. Maybe the words are still coming. “What the fuck are you looking at?” “Back away, fag!” “I could never love someone like y-“
“Do you want to go on a walk?”
Snapping back to focus, Mike takes in Will’s words. His first thought: This isn’t a nightmare. Though he can’t tell whether that settles him or not. It’s not a dream, so he won’t be torn to shreds by the hands of a puppet of someone he loves. It’s not a dream, so he doesn’t have the slight comfort of knowing what comes next.
Will wants to walk with Mike. In the middle of the night and outside where it’s cold and freshly rained on.
There’s no telling what it is that Will wants from Mike, or if he wants anything at all. There’s no telling what Mike could mess up or make better. The notion is confusing and a little dizzying, but intriguing nonetheless.
“Yeah, of course.”
Will gives him a soft smile in response and straightens up before he turns away. Mike mourns the loss of Will’s presence, and Will’s warmth, and Will’s smell, and everything Will. It’s a little pathetic, really, but Mike has become accustomed to the fact he’ll always be like this with Will.
Mike finally brings himself to push off the counter, cup empty and forgotten. He walks over to where Will is tying his own Adidas, letting a soft smile take place as he watches him do the bunny ear method. It’s the only way he’s tied his shoes since he first learned in first grade. Mike teases him about it from time to time but finds it to be one of the most endearing things ever.
Tying his own raggedy Converse with his plain adult method, Mike wonders what he and Will are going to talk about on this walk. Things have been slightly tense between the two—probably due to Mike’s lingering fear of being too transparent. They talk easily all the time and it’s never awkward, per se, but sometimes, he finds that they tread rather lightly around each other. Almost like each and every word from the both of them is too fragile, just waiting to shatter from a wrong move. Mike hates that. He wants that gone. Anything to get back to their normal state, or at least as normal as it can be. If he can’t have Will that way he wants, he can at least have him the way he needs—as his best friend.
Maybe Mike can open up, tell him about what’s been going on these past weeks—like some sort of an olive branch. Mike’s stomach twists at the thought of saying it out loud. If he lets the words fill any space other than his own mind, it all becomes too real—like the end of him is truly near.
He shakes the thought away, not wanting to dwell on it any longer. He’s going to tell him. Saying it could help him feel better. Really, Will could make him feel better by merely breathing, but Mike wouldn’t mind some of those gentle, reassuring words that Will always seems to be perfect at giving, even if they’re all lies. Mike sighs and rises to his full height.
“Ready?” he asks while he grabs a jacket from the coat rack.
“Ready,” Will echoes.
Mike shrugs on his jacket and reaches for the doorknob before peeking back a Will and frowning.
“Will, it just rained,” Mike says.
Will tilts his head. “So?”
“So it could start raining again, and it’s cold as shit outside. You need a jacket,” Mike deadpans.
“I mean I guess, but mine’s downstairs, and I don’t want to wake Jonathan. I’ll be fine, Mike, don’t-“
But Mike is already moving, grabbing his extra jacket from the rack and jutting it out to Will.
“Here, you can use mine,” Mike says, nudging it further into Will’s chest.
Will’s eyes widen as he stammers out objections. “No really, I’ll be alright! You could probably use that, I mean, you said you’ve been feeling sick these past couple of weeks, right? You should-“
“Take it or I’ll put it on you myself.”
Will’s eyes narrow as he debates fighting it. “Fine,” he grumbles, begrudgingly snatching it, sliding his arms into the sleeves, “happy?”
Happy is an understatement. Seeing Will in his own clothes sends his heart soaring, and Mike suddenly wishes he had a camera to capture the sight in front of him. The sleeves are a little snug on Will’s shoulders and biceps—because why the fuck is he do built?—and a little too long that they cover his hands. He looks perfect.
Mike hums, taking a step closer. His hands find the zipper, and he latches onto it, pulling it half way up. “Very happy. Thanks for your cooperation,” Mike quietly teases, looking down at Will.
Will rolls his eyes and reaches past Mike for the door. “Yeah whatever, don’t get used to it,” he mumbles and he holds the door open. “Ladies first.”
Mike glares at him with no real malice and he takes a few steps out the door. “Has anyone ever told you how truly unfunny you are? Because if they have, just know they were lying to your face.”
“Nope, but I only ever see a positive reaction on your face every time, so I must be at least amusing to you,” Will shoots back as he gently shuts the door behind him.
Mike’s cheeks flush a little at the statement. Yeah, so what if he laughs a little harder at Will’s jokes than he should? It’s not a crime! Most times it’s real laughter from the jokes themselves, but others, it’s just the pure giddiness that arises when he’s around Will.
Steps get louder behind him as Will gets closer to where Mike stands, and he wills the color to lighten on his own face. This will be good, he tells himself.
He isn’t too sure.