Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mike’s downfall first begins at dinner. 

And – it isn’t even his fault this time, too! It isn’t even his fault, because all he had done was join his family for a pleasant meal, with amicable chatter between his mom and Nancy, because apparently going to college has suddenly made Nancy very tender to be around, and now his parents are extra nice when she’s around. 

After seventeen years of living with them, Mike has acquired the very careful skill of tuning out his family’s conversations, and this has always been proven to be a pretty useful thing, and especially when they’re talking about something so utterly boring, like the economy or something. Mike has no idea what the stock market is. 

It can’t be helped that his mind is focused on the Party coming over for a sleepover, later; it’s the weekend, and Steve got them a discount on renting both Ghostbusters and Ghostbusters II, and it's senior year and they’ve all been busy, and it’s been an awfully long time since Mike’s gotten to hang out with his friends (plus Max), so sue him if he’s looking forward to it. 

It feels like his brain is melting out of his ears when the phone suddenly rings, and he shoots up out of his seat. 

“I’ll get it,” he announces, making his way to the landline handing on the wall, and Nancy gives him a look when he nearly trips over himself to get to the phone. Some part of him is worried that someone is about to cancel plans at the last minute, and there’s a small notch of anticipation in his stomach when he picks up the phone and greets, “Hello?” 

"Hey, Mike," Will says, and Mike brightens. "I just wanted to let you know I might be coming over a little late." 

“Oh.” His eyebrows furrow. “Why? Is something wrong?” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Will reassures, “it’s just that our washing machine exploded, so we –” 

“It didn’t explode,” Mrs. Byers – or, Joyce, as she has been recently insisting, calls from the background, “honey, that’s an exaggeration. Is that Mike? Tell him our washing machine didn’t explode, there’s just been a – mild inconvenience.” 

“Right,” Will reports flatly, and Mike snorts, “sorry. There’s just a mild inconvenience.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, and he knows he’s smiling like an idiot. Thank God, he’s turned around from the dinner table. “It’s – that’s fine. Still clear to stay over?" Mike's fingers fiddle with the landline's coiled string. It’d suck if Will couldn’t stay over, the night wouldn’t be the same. 

“Yeah,” Will answers, and Mike is transported out of the nightmarish world where Will couldn’t stay over. "'Course, the sleepover is still on.” 

Mike nods, despite it going unseen, and he says, “Cool.” 

“Very cool,” Will agrees, and he sounds like he’s smiling. Mike bites down on his own grin. “Okay, I have to go help the explosion that –" 

“There’s no explosion! I did not cause our washing machine to explode because there was too –” 

“– the mild inconvenience,” Will dutifully corrects, and Mike can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “See you later.” 

“Yeah,” Mike replies. “See you.”

He places the phone back on the holder, and inhales very deeply. Mike doesn’t know why he feels so jittery; he feels like one of those plasma balls, the sort that he remembers seeing on a school field trip to a science center in sixth grade, where a line of energy would reach out to his finger. Will had been so impressed by it. 

He walks back to his plate, where Holly has decided to place all the carrots in her meal onto Mike’s. It’s quiet for a second, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Nancy continues eating. His dad chews on a spoonful of peas. 

His mom is cutting through a slice of meat when she asks, "Is Will still coming over? I've still got those vases I need to give Joyce." 

"Yeah," Mike answers, picking at his carrots, “his washing machine is having a mild inconvenience, so he – wait. Wait,” he frowns, before looking up, and his mother meets his eye. "How'd you know it was Will?" 

He supposes this is where it all went wrong, because, frankly, Mike should have just minded his own merry business, but he had been slightly alarmed with the way his mother had seemingly known it was Will with no actual information given to her beforehand, and especially when there’d been no question about it, some sort of certainty when she’d asked. 

Mike should have nodded, said yeah, and finished his food. He shouldn’t have asked. He should have not stayed curious. The curiosity voyage should have been beaten to the ground with an on-fire baseball bat. 

No, instead, Mike had to be a bumbling idiot, because Nancy lets out a short laugh into her food, and his dad looks up to raise an eyebrow, and Mike’s confusion is only getting worse when his mother shrugs, looking all too casual. 

And, on that fateful night, Karen Wheeler jumpstarts the end of her son’s world when she says, “Well, I don’t know, honey.” She forks lasagna into her mouth. “You’ve always talked to him differently.” 

Mike blinks, and then blinks again, and blinks for a third time, before looking around the table, where everyone else seems completely unfazed, and, for a long moment, Mike thinks that maybe he’s losing his mind. 

And then Holly tosses another carrot at his face, and he yelps. 

“Holly!” 

He spends the remainder of dinner stuck in his own head, because what in the world does that mean? 

You’ve always talked to him differently.

His mom has no idea what she’s talking about. He talks to Will just like he talks to any other human being. He’s not talking to him differently, she’s talking to him differently. His family has always been delusional. 

Mike – gets the overwhelming urge to walk into the sea.

Alas, Mike is unable to run up to his room and suffocate himself with his pillow, because, approximately twenty-three minutes after he clears his plate, the Party decides to barge into his home and tumble down the stairs like a pack of feral ostriches. 

Only a few seconds into arriving, Lucas pulls out a family-sized bag of cool ranch Doritos from his backpack, and Dustin settles onto the floor. Max and El arrive just a few minutes after, having gone to the mall together a few hours prior to do whatever girls did, such as shop for shoes and explode milkshakes with their minds. 

“Blanket,” Max commands when she flops onto the sofa, “now.” 

“You need to be detained,” Mike says, but tosses a quilt from the basement closet, and there’s a quick flash of satisfaction when it hits her in the face, which later results in him dodging a throw pillow being hurled at his frail body. 

El huddles under the blanket with her, and Mike hands another one to Dustin, who is unresponsive as he lays on the floor, hat askew and looking mildly out of it. Mike would question it if his thoughts weren’t so occupied. 

You’ve always talked to him differently.

He doesn’t even know what that means. 

What did she mean by differently? Is that a bad thing? Why did no one ever point this out to him? What does that mean? Why did his whole family act like it was normal? Why is Dustin still not moving? Does the Party also think this? Do they know? Does Will know? Someone needs to check on Dustin? 

“Where’s Will?” Lucas questions, leaning back into the sofa. El leans over and steals a chip from him. Mike wonders, for a second, if he can read minds. 

“He said he’d be running late,” he answers, stepping over Dustin’s limp body. “We’re all out of Sprite, by the way. Everyone gets Coke.” 

Dustin lets out a loud groan, something gutted and wretched, before sitting up. His hat is tilted across his face. He holds out a hand. “Coke me.” 

“Dude,” Lucas grimaces, “you gotta stop saying that.” 

“It’ll catch on,” Dustin says, followed by a it won’t, stop it, and a please stop saying that. Mike doesn’t bother responding, too sucked into his own turmoil. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act when Will finally comes around – he doesn’t even know what differently means, and he doesn’t know what needs fixing, or if this is such a normal thing that him acting differently from differently is going to bring more attention to it all. 

His overthinking this. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine. 

You’ve always talked to him differently.

What does that even mean? 

“Yeah, but she’s, like, a bitch,” Max says, and Mike looks up from the ground where he’d zoned off. 

Dustin makes a distressed noise. “But free booze,” he emphasizes, and Max makes a considering face. 

“I’m sold,” she decides, and El nods next to her. 

“I want to get hammered,” she says conclusively, and Max grins, giving her a high-five. 

Mike blinks. “What’s happening?” 

Max rolls her eyes, and he flips her off, which she easily returns. Lucas, the saint he is, clarifies, “Kennedy Baker’s Halloween party. We’re going.” 

“Right,” Mike nods, complacent, and the conversation picks back up without him. 

“Do we dress up?” 

It’s not that – well, he knows he might talk a little differently to Will than he does to anyone else, but that’s normal. He talks differently to Max than the rest of his friends, always a little snarkier, more biting, but she does it back, so it’s okay. He’s less commanding around El, and maybe a little more inquisitive around Dustin, just a bit more dynamic with Lucas. A little more everything with Will. 

So, yeah. It’s fine. It’s normal. Everything is so normal and fine, and he isn’t overthinking at all. 

“I’m not associating with any of you losers if you dress up this year.” 

“Ha! You said that last year, and the year before, and you still stuck with us. You can’t fool – ow!” 

Because he isn’t. Overthinking, that is. He’s not overthinking anything because he isn’t – there’s nothing to overthink. Will will come over, and Mike will act just like he always does, because they’re best friends, and Will is sweet and nice and Mike is a little bit of an idiot, but they work so well together through the power of friendship and, like, love, or something, and that’s why they make a great team. 

“Dustin should be the talking dog.” 

Not that – love is why they work so well together, but – he means that, well, obviously he loves Will, of course he does, but it’s a different kind of love, different from his friends and family and the world and – he’s not going to think too hard about that one, but that’s not the point. 

“Yeah, right, no way both of us would fit, and I don’t want your butt in my face the entire –” 

“Okay, well, it’s either that or one of us is dressing up as the van, and I’d rather your face in my butt than –” 

The point is, he and Will work so well together because of various, different reasons. Will gets him like no one else, and Mike gets him like no one else, and they accommodate each other because they always know what the other needs, and if one of those things happens to be that – that Mike talks a little differently around him, then that’s fine. 

It’s fine. That’s normal. This is normal.

“Why do all of you hate me? Do you despise me? Would you like to see me wither away into the ashy remnants of a man?” 

“Ruh-roh, someone’s upset because they don’t get to dress cute for Halloween.” 

“Okay, that is not the issue, it’s the fact that I’m clearly Velma, and you have the audacity to –”

This is so normal. Not different, at all. Not even a little bit. His mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about. 

Because – it’s just different with Will, but that doesn’t mean it’s weird, or anything. He’s not being weird. She’s weird. 

He vaguely realizes he’s thinking in circles. 

“What do you think, Mike?” 

Mike looks up to find all four of his friends staring at him. 

“Huh?” He says brilliantly, and Lucas groans, pinching his nose bridge, and El raises her eyebrows. 

“We are talking about costumes,” she offers, and Mike scrambles to fit together the pieces of conversation he had barely hung onto. “Dustin and Lucas are going to be the talking dog.” 

“Oh.” Mike presses his lips together, and presses his fingertips into the rug underneath him. “Cool.” 

Lucas frowns. “What is up with you, dude?” He stops crunching on his chips as he asks, and that’s a little intimidating, because that means he actually cares, like a good friend, and that’s stupid and Mike feels a little stupid. 

“Nothing,” he waves off, but the four of them keep staring at him, and he lets out a groan. He hates having friends that care about him. “It’s nothing,” he insists. “Just – was thinking about something.” 

“What is it?” El inquires, and Mike sighs. 

“Do I,” he begins, albeit reluctantly, and he carefully avoids looking at any of them in the eye, “like, say – so, when I – God, okay, so –” 

“Holy shit, just spit it out,” Max complains, and Mike considers getting up and leaving his own house. 

“Fucking – fine.” Mike sucks in his cheeks, before taking in a deep breath. His audience, aside from Max, waits patiently. “Do you guys think that I, like, sometimes, talk – differently with Will?” 

His eyes are pointed directly to the floor, and maybe that’s a good thing, otherwise he would have seen all four of them exchange careful glances, before Lucas slowly asks, “What do you mean?” 

If there’s a god out there, Mike is sincerely begging to be shot down by lightning. 

“I mean,” he forces out, with the struggle of Sisyphus, “that I was on the phone with Will earlier, and my mom knew it was him without me telling her, because apparently, I ‘talk differently with him’.” He raises his hands in quotation marks. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so mortified. 

“Um,” Dustin says, and Mike turns to him, where he seems to be struggling to find the right words. “I – well, yeah.” 

Mike stares at him. “Yeah?” He echoes incredulously, and Dustin shrugs helplessly. 

“I – I don’t know! I mean, yeah, you do, you talk, like,” he gestures ambiguously for a second, and Mike, open-mouthed and eyebrows furrowed, keeps staring at him, growing more confused by the second. Dustin flops his hands onto his lap, and turns to Lucas. “Dude, help me out here!” 

“Listen,” Lucas starts, and Mike’s attention tunnels onto him, “you just – you just talk to him, like, nicer than the rest of us.” 

Mike frowns. “That’s not true!” 

“Uh, yeah, it is,” Max interrupts, and she sits up. “It’s always, oh my God, Will, are you okay,” she mocks, her voice overly soothing and concerned, and Mike glares, “Will, are you sure? Will, you’re clearly my favorite. Will, let’s be best friends and make our friends be our third wheel. Will, we should –” 

“That is not what I sound like,” Mike argues, “and that is not how I talk.” Max raises her eyebrows, and he looks to the others. “Guys, help me out here.” 

He’s met with silence, and Dustin shrugs when Mike meets him with a scrutinizing gaze. “Hey,” he says, “you do talk kind of,” he fumbles with his hands again, before settling on, “soft with him.” 

“Soft,” Mike repeats tonelessly, and he’s moments away from picking Dustin up and throwing him out of his house. 

“It is a little true,” El admits. 

He sends her a betrayed look. “It is not,” he defends, and she shrugs. 

“It is not our fault you are blind,” she retorts, and Dustin chokes out a surprised laugh. 

Mike bites his cheek. “You need to stop hanging out with Max,” he decides, and she only grins in return. 

“It’s not, like, a problem or anything,” Lucas mentions. “It’s not – I mean, it’s kind of weird, but, like, it’s always been like that, so none of us ever thought it was that weird, you know?” 

“I thought it was weird,” Max mutters, and Mike sends her another glare. 

“What she means,” Dustin appeases, “is that it’s just how you guys are, so it’s not, like, that weird.” 

“You,” Mike begins, and is abruptly interrupted by the doorbell. 

They all raise their eyebrows. Their synchronicity is a little freaky, actually. He’s glad Will got here in time. 

He squints at them, and slowly gets up. “This isn’t over,” he promises, and turns on his heel to get the door. 

Maybe this is what the royals during the French revolution felt like, he thinks as he slowly makes his way to the door, where he knows Will is standing behind, because this can’t be too unlike his head is about to be chopped off. 

The doorbell doesn’t ring again, and he takes a single second to compose himself, which is stupid, because there’s no reason for him to be not composed, or the opposite of composed – frazzled. He’s not frazzled, he is very composed. 

Composed. Normal. Right. He’s got this. 

Mike opens the door. 

“Hey,” Will greets, a slight smile on his face, and Mike smiles back automatically. 

Clutching his backpack in one hand, Will wears the band t-shirt he stole from Jonathan a while ago, the one just a little loose on him, despite his growth spurt, just with the peak of collarbones and slight on his broad build, and the color green always looks good on him. It’s distracted Mike in their shared physics class far too many times. 

“Hi,” Mike replies belatedly, and Will raises an eyebrow. “You – um, come in.” He gracelessly moves to the side, pulling the door open, and he really hopes he isn’t blushing right now. 

Will gives him an amused look. “O–kay,” he draws out, and steps inside, wiping his shoes on the doormat like he always does, always polite, always considerate. He supposes it’s one of those things that makes moms fawn over him so much. Mike wants to roll him up in a blanket and hold him close, like a maniac. 

Right. Normal. He’s supposed to be normal and sane and not a maniac. Right. He’s got this in the bag. 

“You – I like the shirt,” Mike blurts, because he’s still thinking about it, the way it’s just a little too big, the way it makes him look soft all over, because Will always looks so touchable, but especially now. “You look, um – the shirt. Yeah.” 

Apparently, Mike would not know normal if it smacked him across the face. 

Will opens his mouth, before closing it, at a loss, until he responds, “Thanks?” 

“Uh-huh,” Mike replies, a little too loud. “Let’s – downstairs.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response when he hurries past Will, jogging downstairs, and he hears Will make a questioning noise, but then his steps follow just a second later, steps creaking under his weight. 

“Byers!” Lucas jeers when he catches sight of Will, and Dustin looks up to wave. Max raises a hand in greeting, and Mike moves back to watch Will wave back. 

“Hey,” he greets, and walks over to put his backpack on a chair. 

El regards him with a placid expression. “I heard about the situation,” she says gravely, and all four of them swivel around to look between the two, concerned. 

“Our washing machine exploded,” Will elaborates, and there is a collective sigh of relief, because, for all that El Hopper is lovely, she is also very ominous at times. 

“I thought it was just a minor inconvenience,” Mike mentions, and Will lets out a laugh, nudging his arm. Mike grins.

When Mike steps over to take a seat on the floor, back against the bottom of the sofa, it’s to his satisfaction that Will follows, sitting next to him. Mike unravels a blanket for them to share, and maybe he scoots a little closer, enough for their thighs and arms to press together, but that’s normal. He does that all the time, it’s nothing unusual. 

And if Will presses back, just slightly, and if Mike’s heart does a cartwheel in his chest over it, then – that’s no one’s business but his. 

Over the course of the week, Mike’s mind has been stuck on it. 

Will. It’s been stuck on Will. And himself. Him and Will. 

Mike’s mind has been stuck on him and Will. 

Which – sounds weird, except there’s no better way to put it. He couldn’t recollect the past thirty-eight minutes of his Calculus class even if his life depended on it, because he’s been zoning out to the droning voice of Mr. Wilson and trying very hard not to think about his friend, but that proves to be an impossible task because that’s all he seems to be doing recently. 

After receiving an array of somewhat-upsetting answers, in his inquiry as to how his voice was different with Will, he’s been trying to get to the bottom of it all and figure out his innate need to differentiate Will from the rest of his friends. 

Now, most might point out that this journey might lead to discoveries about himself that he might not like, and that such introspection is a little overboard for a small comment made just four days ago, and that might be true, perhaps even reasonable. 

Mike, however, has not been reasonable ever since he found out that everyone and their moms think – or rather, know he has a separate kind of voice he talks with for Will, and it was his own mother to inform him of it. He has ditched all rationale. He is going to get to the bottom of this. 

The school bell rings, and Mike looks down at his blank notebook page. Well, fuck. 

Ever so glad for the reprieve of lunch time, he hurries out of the room and to his locker. The hallway is crowded with students, and he scowls when people come bumping a little too close to him. God, he hates high school.

He doesn’t hesitate to messily shove his things into his locker, refusing to look back when his notebook crumples under the force of his hands, and he takes a second to grab his leather jacket. Mr. Wilson had to be some sort of monster to have his room so cold all the time. 

He shrugs it on, and straightens his posture from the constant parabola that is his spine. Frowning, he glances over his locker, before slamming it shut. 

“Mike!” 

He turns around to spot Will making his way to him, and he perks up at the sight of him, offering a small wave and a slight smile. Will returns it, and swerves around a gaggle of students, and then he’s right next to Mike. It’s a good place to have him. 

“Hey,” Mike says, feeling the fatigue of Calculus roll off of him. “What’s up?” 

Will shrugs non-committedly. “Nothing, just wanted to walk together.” 

Mike nods, and there’s a flurry of, like, pink rose petals in his stomach or something, because he feels all warm and giddy over it. “Cool,” he replies, except it’s more than cool, which probably isn’t very cool of him to think, because just walking together to lunch isn’t that cool.

Will grins. “Yeah, cool.” 

Their arms bump when they walk together, and Mike isn’t focusing on it, on the way Will is wearing a denim jacket, how it suits him so well, how they’re walking just a little too close, how Mike is barely holding back the urge to wrap an arm around Will and bring him even closer. 

He isn’t thinking about it. He isn’t even thinking about it a little bit. 

He needs to get a grip. 

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Will asks, and Mike nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, and they turn to the main hallway. “I just need to read the last chapter. You know, for being into writing, I hate English.” 

Will’s laughter that follows feels like a reward, and Mike bites down a smile. “It isn’t so bad,” he tries to soothe. “At least we have it together.” 

Mike’s head bobs in a nod of agreement, and he doesn’t know how Will says everything so sincerely, as if it doesn’t twist and turn Mike’s insides over and under. He’s so nice, sometimes, it makes Mike want to pull him close and – 

“You okay?” 

Mike blinks out of his thoughts, and Will looks mildly concerned, a thin line between his eyebrows that Mike wants to press away. “What? Yeah,” he waves off, “no, yeah, I’m fine.” 

Will frowns. “Are you sure? You seem kind of out of it.”

Mike’s heart squeezes at the genuine concern, the care that seems to bleed out of everything Will does. “Yeah, totally. Just thinking.” 

Will stares at him for a second longer, and Mike offers a cheesy smile that Will rolls his eyes at, but he’s smiling, too, and Mike loves him. Mike loves him. 

Oh, God. 

And – yeah, yeah, of course he does, they’re best friends, and Will is kind of the paragon of humanity, and Mike loves him, and that’s normal and fine and he isn’t freaking out even a little bit. He is so normal, right now. 

Except he is freaking out, just a little, actually, a lot, and his mind is a constant stream of what the fuck running through his head, and he just thought it so casually, he doesn’t know what to do. He means it in a friend way, right? Friends think that all the time. Should he say it out loud? Why the fuck would he say it out loud? That’d be weird. This is weird. 

“Um,” Mike says, and he sounds a little strangled, so he clears his throat, “so, tomorrow? My house?” 

“Sounds good,” Will affirms, and they step into the cafeteria. 

He’ll – think about this later, when Will isn’t right there and can’t look at him with his hazel eyes that seem to see right through him and read his thoughts, and not with the smell of artificial chicken and the stench of high schoolers in the air, and some part of him questions if this is just the radioactive material in their school cafeteria milk finally getting to him. 

Later. He’ll think about this later.

Turns out, later comes in the form of later that night, because the train of I love him, I love him, I love him, has been running through his head constantly for the past eight hours, and Mike doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

His book for English looks back at him blankly, and it’s after an unsuccessful fifteen minutes of trying to process a single word that he gives up. Whoever made the English class curriculum was a psychopath. Maybe he should revoke his college applications of being an English major. 

Even in spite of his self-awareness, he can’t help the fact that he’s been caught up in his thoughts so much; ever since that fateful dinner, it feels like it’s all he can think about, a knot he’s been trying to untangle, pulling on a stray string of a sweater and watching the entire thing unravel. 

He tosses his book back into his bag, and throws himself onto his bed in a similar fashion, springs squeaking under the pressure, and he twists himself into the covers. He stares up at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back. He frowns. 

He can’t even begin to blame his mother, partially because she hadn’t meant anything by it, and also because it is, kind of, entirely his fault, no matter how naturally it all comes to Mike, being gentle with him, thinking I love you while they walk together, that turbulent, constant urge to touch him. Maybe he’s officially gone crazy. 

It’s not anything he can track down, either, for the fact that it’s always been there; Mike can’t find the root it all, despite how hard he tries, and, looking up at his ceiling, he recalls this feeling being there since last year, since 1983, since before that, since their first meeting, since always. 

He doesn’t know what that means, but he knows he’s loved Will for as long as he can remember. It doesn’t feel as scary as it probably should. 

Mike would guess that it’s harder to be shocked by it when his panic had been earlier in the day, and, okay, in hindsight, it kind of makes sense, because he has never stared at anyone’s lips as much as he has Will’s, and he’s really only ever reached out to hold Will’s hand, and he would totally die for the entire Party, but he’d rather lick their high school’s gym floor than do half the stuff for them that he does for Will. 

Because he’s in love with Will. Right. Cool. 

He takes a shuddering breath. 

So, he’s in love with Will, and the only reason why he realized is because half the population of Hawkins knows about his supposed voice for Will. Cool. That is so cool and okay and Mike is not bitter even a little bit. 

He glares at his ceiling, not bitter at all, and turns away, facing his wall. There’s a sketch of him as his D&D character, drawn by Will. 

God, Mike can’t escape him. Mike doesn’t want to escape him. 

He shoves his face into his pillow. 

He’s hopeless. 

“Okay,” Will says, “so, we’ll go over the study guide, and then the flashcards?” 

Mike nods. “Yeah, sounds good,” he replies, except he’s been staring at Will’s lips this entire time, and he’s trying very, very hard to pay attention, but that’s difficult when last night’s revelation has taken over his thoughts.

Not that his thoughts weren’t already swarmed by the topic of Will, but this is a different territory to be stuck in, because – yeah, he used to stare at Will’s mouth before he knew his unrelenting crush on him, but he thought that was normal, even if he doesn’t do it to anyone else. 

Maybe he was a little clueless. Whatever. He got there in the end. 

Will flips the packet over. “Okay,” he starts, “first question.” 

In all honesty, studying with Will isn’t the worst thing ever, because he makes little quips and comments and it helps with the constant inquiry of how am I supposed to remember this ringing through him. It also helps with the attentiveness Mike pays to everything Will does, and if it’s him reciting the notes off their English study guide, then so be it. 

He flops onto his back, and Will pokes him with a socked foot. Mike yelps and swats him away, and Will giggles. It’s sweet and fond, and Mike looks up just in time to catch his smile. Will pokes him again. “What does doublethink mean?” 

“Um,” Mike says, and tries to recollect anything that doesn’t include Will’s smile. 

Despite his lack of a functioning brain, however, the next few hours slip by, because time seems to move strangely around Will, always flying by or shuffling along, either too quick or unnaturally slow. He supposes he’s another sort of crazy for enjoying studying, just at the hands of Will. 

Mike splays out his legs, and Will drops his own over Mike’s, and doesn’t look up from the packet all the while. Mike resists the urge to roll over and scream into his bed. 

He doesn’t understand what his problem is, because he had this problem before, with the constant want to touch Will all over, but now it sends him into overdrive every time they do, every time Will says something especially sweet or initiates casual contact. Will has always been special to Mike, that much is true, but it’s so much worse now, because now Mike knows why. 

Mike is going insane. 

Will seems entirely normal, and Mike would guess that’s because he is normal. Will is not freaking out over Mike because he’s not into Mike. Will is focusing on the study guide because they have a test tomorrow. Will is sensible.

Mike has not been sensible in several years. Mike is going to fail his English test. Mike needs to be admitted to Pennhurst Mental Hospital. 

He can’t find it in him to care too much, though, when they slowly move onto flashcards, and he watches Will’s hands, built like an artist’s, shuffle through them, the way he leans back into Mike’s pillows like he’s meant to be there, and he is, and Will’s hair, a little longer than it used to be, brushing over his eyes, and how he keeps having to push them away. 

Mike swallows, and curls his fingers into his palm. Will spares him a glance when he asks, “What is the point of Oceania constantly being at war?” 

He fidgets with his shirt, then moves them to the sheets underneath him. His hands feel so awkward, suddenly. He picks up his book and flips through it. He needs to be calm. 

Mike is being an idiot over this, all because he can’t get over his big, stupid crush on his best friend, but he can’t be blamed – anyone that has seen Will Byers would get it, and Mike would say he doesn’t understand why there aren’t hordes of people asking for his hand in marriage, except there are, and, God, Mike doesn’t know what he’d do if Will ever got a boyfriend that isn’t him. 

Will shuffles through the cards once more, and he places them down to stretch, raising his arms above his head, and he lets out a deep sigh. Mike’s eyes dip to where Will’s shirt rises up, just the littlest bit, with the tan sliver of skin, before quickly glancing away, and Will picks up the cards again, and Mike thinks, God, I want to kiss him, and – yeah, that seems on par with all the ridiculous bullshit running through his head right now.

Except it doesn’t float along with everything else, because it stays at the forefront of him mind, because Will looks really kissable right now, because he’s just sitting there, furrowed brows and absentmindedly chewing on his lower lip, because he’s actually studying and not zoning off, thinking about kissing his best friend. 

And that’s something else, because the idea that Will might want to kiss him – that’s uncalled for, because Will has never implied such a thing, even if he’s into guys, and Mike isn’t some asshole who thinks all gay guys are into him, but he’s into Will, and he wants to kiss Will, push aside their English work and flashcards and press him into the mattress and kiss – 

He looks at his book. 

Right. George Orwell. Right. 

Will, oblivious to Mike’s inner homosexual crisis, flips to another flashcard. 

“What is the primary purpose of the story?” 

Mike has never been a fan of parties. 

He’d bet it would be a better experience if he were drunk, but, being the designated driver, Mike is cursed to mope and glower in the corner while he watches Dustin and El join a conga line around the room. He isn’t even sure how they’re doing a conga line to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

He’s lost all track of Will, Lucas, and Max, all of whom are somewhere submerged into the party. The beat of the song thumps under his feet, and he wonders what Will is up to right now. 

In the spirit of it being a Halloween party, many have gone for casual costumes, normal clothes arranged to half-heartedly pass off as a costume, and, not for the first time, he’s glad none of them dressed up, even though Lucas and Dustin showing up in a two-person Scooby-Doo costume would have been really funny. 

As it is, he’s starting to feel a little bit of a loser, just standing there. He can’t really bring himself to go talk to people, especially with the loud speakers drilling into his head, and he can barely focus on anything that isn’t the soda in his hands. 

He would have preferred staying at home tonight, spending Halloween watching scary movies and overfilling on junk food, maybe with Will next to him and his side for Mike to flinch into. 

Mike wonders if it’s too late to ditch the party alone and force Lucas to drive everyone home. He’d deserve it for spilling apple juice all over Mike’s homework at lunch yesterday. 

Nonetheless, he’s beginning to feel a little pathetic. Michael Jackson sings about fighting for his life, and there’s Mike, leaning against a wall and sporting a Sprite in his hand. 

This is almost embarrassing. 

“This is embarrassing.” 

Mike looks away from the crowd he’d been focusing on to find Max and Lucas next to him, and he heaves a heavy sigh. “What do you want?” 

Max wrinkles her nose. “Nothing from you. I just wanted to point out how depressing you look, right now.”

“Thanks,” Mike replies dryly. “At least I don’t look like Daphne’s fucked up twin.” 

“I look good,” Max snaps back, no real bite. “Big talk coming from a guy who still –” 

“Dude,” Lucas interrupts, “we talked about this.”

And that makes Mike cringe, because it makes him sound like a victim of an intervention of some sort, and that is not the case. He just – happens to get in his head sometimes, and distance himself in social situations. 

It’s not a big deal. He’s got the Party, and this can of Sprite, and that’s all he needs. 

“I’m not lonely,” Mike mutters, crossing his arms. He’s not. Lonely is being involuntarily alone. He just – happens to be alone, without his own consent. He’s not lonely. 

Lucas stares at him. “Sure.” 

There’s a cheer from the other side of the room, and none of them pay any mind. There’s a girl singing Whitney Houston, except Thriller is still playing, and it doesn’t sound great. There’s the constant smell of beer hanging in the air. 

Max leans a little heavily on Lucas, much more than she would sober, and Lucas seems happy with this arrangement. Mike hates happy people in love. 

“Why don’t you go find Will?” Lucas gently suggests, and Mike squints at him, before detecting no malice. 

He shrugs, before frowning. “You don’t know where he is?” 

Max gives him a look. “He’s fine, you overly protective asshole. He can handle himself.” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “I know that. I just think he’s probably lonely,” he says, except that’s not the full truth. He’s not crazy for wanting to know where his best friend is. 

“In a house full of people,” Max mentions, and Mike flips her off. “With people that we know. And have spoken to. Befriended, even, if you knew how to make any friends.” 

“He was fine last time I saw him, like, ten minutes ago,” Lucas says, and Mike deflates against the wall. “He was in the kitchen.” 

He fiddles with the tab of his can, before leaning off the wall. “I’ll check if he’s okay.” 

“You’re doing that thing again,” Max grins, and how she manages to be so snarky while drunk is beyond Mike. He glowers. “Will, are you okay, Will, where did you go, Will, I love you, Will, Will, I’m obsessed with you, Will, I’m going to surgically attach us at the hip –” 

“I don’t talk like that,” Mike sputters. He has never proposed surgically attaching himself to Will in his life. 

The rest – well. Whatever. 

Lucas raises his eyebrows. “No offense, man, but you kind of do.” 

Mike opens his mouth to argue once more, but then there’s a brush of a hand against his elbow, and Will appears next to him, clearly intoxicated when he stumbles where he stands. He does that, sometimes, materializing right when Mike is thinking about him.

Then again, Mike thinks about him a lot, and Will is around a lot, so he supposes it isn’t that strange. 

“Hey,” Mike says, placing a hand on the dip of Will’s back to steady him. “Are you okay?” 

Will nods, and Mike glances over him, because he seems fine, not with the rigidness of when crowded places get to him, and he’s got a slight smile on his face, eyes glazed over. “‘Course,” he replies easily, but he’s leaning back into Mike’s hand, swiping at his cheek. He seems tired. 

“Do you want to go home?” He questions, leaning close and voice soft, and Will pauses, before nodding again. Mike lets out a breath, and lets his hand press against Will a little more firmly when he starts to sway in place again. “Okay, let’s go.”

Then he looks up and is met with smug faces, and Mike flushes when he realizes his own hypocrisy. 

“I don’t talk like that,” Max recalls, voice high-pitched and overly girly and – Mike definitely doesn’t talk like that. 

He sends her a withering glare. “Shut the fuck up,” he throws back, and she beams. “We’re leaving. Where’s Dustin?” 

Lucas dismisses him easily. “He won’t want to leave right now. I’ll drive him home.” 

Mike nods. “Thanks,” he says, and lets his hand fall away to hold Will’s wrist. Will lets it happen. “Let’s go.”

Will is entirely compliant on the way home, and it’s a little bit of a struggle to find out that Will doesn’t have his keys, and Mike would rather face a thousand Demodogs than ever wake up Jim Hopper at three a.m., all of which leads to Mike bringing Will back to his own house. 

Mike’s only glad his parents could probably sleep through the world exploding, in sake of the incredibly difficult feat of carrying Will to his room, trudging up the stairs one by one while Will seems determined to go limp on him. Unfortunately for Mike, Will had always been the stronger one of the duo. 

“Okay, big guy,” he groans, heaving Will onto the last step, and they stumble towards Mike’s bedroom. “Here we go.” 

There’s a silent moment as Mike turns the knob, and Will lolls his head against Mike’s shoulder. Mike sucks in his cheeks, before stepping towards his bed, and dumping all five-foot-eleven mass of a teenage boy onto his white bed sheets. 

“Tired?” Mike asks, and Will makes an incomprehensible noise in turn, barely sitting up straight. Mike huffs a slight laugh, and wanders over to dig through his closet, until he fishes out a sleep shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “Here,” he says, placing them onto the bed, and Will lazily blinks. “Change into those.” 

Will nods, and starts to tug off his shirt, no care for Mike’s gawking, and Mike quickly turns around, cheeks red.

He stares at the wall in front of him, and, wow, the blue is definitely interesting. He has never stared at it for so long. Maybe he should put up another poster here. Mike is not thinking about Will changing behind him at all. That would be weird. 

“Done,” Will mumbles, and Mike turns around. His clothes are placed on his lap, and he’s sitting back on the bed, hair mussed and shirt loose around the shoulders. He’s always looked effortlessly good. Mike presses his lips together, fingers twitching. 

“Okay.” He moves the disregarded clothes to his desk chair, along with his jacket, and when Will doesn’t move, he tilts his head towards the bed. “Want to sleep?” 

“Yeah,” Will rasps, and his eyes are wide when they look at Mike, enticing, as if he’s waiting for something, and it’s so late into the night, Mike doesn’t have the self-control when he moves away from the chair to where Will sits. 

It’s more of a hassle than it should be to get Will, who is pliant under his hands, into bed, swaying where he stands and clumsily arranging his limbs, and Mike can’t be too frustrated for the slight endearing nature of it all. 

Will looks good, laying in his bed, wearing his clothes. It makes something else hum deep and pulsating in his chest, and he tries not to pay too much attention to it while Will wriggles in the sheets, trying to get comfortable. His hair is fanned out against the pillowcase, and the tiredness is clear on his face. 

“Here,” Mike mutters, and he leans over Will to pull the covers over him. He can hear the deep inhale, exhale of Will’s chest, and he’s trying so hard to stop noticing the little space between them. “Just let me know if you need anything else, okay? I’ll – you probably want water. Hang on.” 

He’s rambling a little, he knows, and he’s about to move away when Will quietly murmurs, “Mike.” 

His voice is soft and deep, mouth barely moving, and his name is squished between Will’s lips. When Mike looks down at him, Will’s eyes are already focusing on him, attentive and intentional. Mike, for the strangest reason, flushes. “Yeah?” 

“You’re so – nice,” Will mumbles, looping an arm around Mike’s neck, and his hand is warm where it presses against the side of Mike’s neck, and that does no favors for Mike’s internal struggle to pay attention to literally anything else but Will’s lips. Will’s words sound crammed together, mouth struggling to enunciate, like there isn’t enough room for the words in his mouth. “You talk so nice.” 

And – Mike doesn’t know what that means. He carefully swallows. “What d’you mean?” 

“You talk nice,” Will reiterates, and that doesn’t help, until he elaborates, “just – warm. I like when you talk to me.” He blinks slowly, eyes shiny when they look up at him. “You’re so nice to me.” 

Mike doesn’t know what to make of it, with Will’s slurred speech and low-lidded eyes, but he doesn’t know how Will would say this without it being something he sincerely thinks, and it makes him blush because apparently Will knew of Mike’s soft spot for him, too. God, he’s so transparent. 

“Are you calling me mean to everyone else?” He decides to question instead, and Will is quick to shake his head from one side to the other, hair rubbing against the pillowcase. It’s cute. His subtle hold to the side of Mike’s neck seems to become firmer, just the slightest. 

“No,” he stresses, frowning, as if his point is very important to get across, “you’re just – you’re nice. I like it.” 

Mike knows he’s blushing. God, he feels hot from mortification. “Alright,” he slowly replies, hoping his voice doesn’t betray him this time, even though it already definitely has. 

“I like you,” Will finally concludes, voice a little clearer and the sentence less crowded together, confident, certain, sure, and Mike – 

Mike doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“I – I like you, too,” he croaks, and Will gives him a pleased smile, hand going limp, although his arm is still draped around Mike’s shoulders. “We – sleep. You need to sleep.” 

Will makes an agreeing noise, and doesn’t protest when Mike tentatively unravels his arm from him. He’s entirely silent as Mike gets him settled under the covers, and it’s only when Mike moves away to sleep elsewhere that Will frowns, bringing up a hand to gently hold Mike’s wrist. 

“Where’re you going?” He questions, squinting, and Mike blinks. The universe is testing him tonight. 

“To sleep?” Mike answers, more like a question. 

Will keeps frowning. “Not here?” 

“Um,” he says, and it’s a little jarring, because Will sounds genuinely confused, as though he’d expected them to share the bed, and Will is pulling, pulling, until Mike is almost towering over him again. “No?” 

Will shakes his head, and his eyes keep slipping shut. “Just sleep here,” he suggests, and Mike doesn’t know if that’s a good idea, even if the idea is so entirely tempting. Will is still holding onto his wrist, and Mike feels his resolve chip away when Will gently adds, “Please.” 

Mike chews on his lip, and there’s a beat of silence, before he slowly nods. “Okay.” 

Will’s mouth shifts into a small smile, and it’s a quiet affair, as Mike shuffles around to get ready for bed, and he hurries to change into a different shirt, a different pair of pants, and when Mike looks over, Will’s face is carefully directed towards the ceiling, eyes slipped shut. 

His sheets are cool to the touch, and he rolls around to face Will, who is already facing him, cheeks flushed and looking warm all over. Will wastes no time to squirm close, closer, until he slots a leg between Mike’s, and slings an arm over him. Will keeps leaning forward, until their foreheads press together, and their noses brush.

Mike is going to die. 

He wants to run away, but there’s that ache to touch and hold, so much stronger than he has ever been. He slowly brings up a hand to place against Will’s side, the slight dip between his ribcage and hip, and it feels like his palm pressing against Will’s skin is something innate. 

Will doesn’t seem to mind. His lips twitch into a proper smile, and Mike can feel every puff of breath he takes. Mike really wants to do something he shouldn’t. 

“You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow,” Mike whispers, throat dry, and Will shrugs to the best of his ability, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“You always take care of me,” Will whispers back, so certain, and Mike feels hot to the touch. 

Will’s eyes slide shut, and Mike is carefully still, terrified of breaking them out of this unsteady haze in the dark. He watches Will’s face slowly smooth out, the gradual steadiness of his breath, and he knows he’s probably being a little creepy, tracing over Will’s features with his eyes like this, in the middle of the night, in the dark, in his bed. He can never help it.

Everything about Will fascinates him, has Mike wanting to stare at him for as long as possible; the strong arch of his nose, the dip of his lips, the tan expanse of his skin, the kindness in his eyes. His capable hands, the broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his chest, and the softness of Will’s nature that counters it all, a well-placed juxtaposition, and it’ll always draw Mike in, because it’s perfect, he’s perfect, Will is perfect. 

And – maybe not perfect perfect, but just right for Mike, the erosion to his jagged edges and the kindness in his constant abrasion, and something about Will makes him gentler, makes him want to be better, so much more eager for approval and the care for him that’s always been there, even before they knew chaos, even before they knew what the word friend really held. 

Maybe Will is not perfect, but he is perfect for Mike. Mike wonders if he’d be enough for Will.

 He chews on his lip, and winces when he bites too deep. He shifts, just enough, to pull Will closer to his chest, and tuck his head under Mike’s chin, hold him near and feel the steadiness of his body against him. 

It takes a while to finally fall asleep. 

“Turn it off.” 

“I think turning off the sun is the one thing I can’t do for you right now,” Mike replies, and holds back a smile when Will rolls over in bed and shoves his head into his pillow. He places the bag of food on his nightstand, and walks over to slide his curtains half-shut, just enough to cascade the bed just a shade dimmer. 

Will groans, and slowly turns out of the pillow, squinting and slowly sitting up. “Thanks,” he croaks, and Mike shrugs. He watches as Will slowly drags himself out of bed. He stumbles, and yawns as he stretches, shirt lifting with the motion, and Mike – doesn’t stare. “I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, clearing his throat, and narrowly avoids walking into the wall as he leaves. 

Mike sits on his side of the bed, crossing his legs. He’d already been up for a few hours, the day slowly seeping into the afternoon, and he’d gone out to get food, arriving back just in time for Will to wake up. 

He lifts the styrofoam take-out boxes from the plastic bag, and it crinkles under his touch as he tries to find the napkins at the bottom. There’s the rush of the faucet heard from the bathroom, and Mike opens a box of fries to chew on. 

When Will trails back into the room, clothes rumpled and cheeks red, his hair is in disarray, and Mike grins at the sight of it. 

“You got food,” Will notes, clambering onto the bed beside him, and Mike nods as he pushes a burger towards him, which Will takes up easily, quick to bite into it. “Thank you,” he says, a little muffled, a swipe of sauce on the corner of his mouth. Mike really wants to kiss it away, instead of, like, offering a napkin, like a normal person. 

“No big deal,” Mike replies. “I also told your mom you were staying over. She says it’s fine, she just wants you to pick up the laundry and get home before dinner.” 

Will nods, mouth full, and there’s a quiet few moments while they chew. 

He looks warm, comfortable, with his messy hair and lively cheeks and how he looks like the best of autumn, no matter how hard this time of year tends to be. Not for the first time, Mike wants to reach out and touch, press his palms against his ribcage and arms and shoulders and neck and cheeks and click their mouths together, kiss him until he knows how much Mike cares. 

But he’s okay with this, eating greasy food on Mike’s bed while the day slinks past them. He’s more than okay with whatever Will gives him. 

“Want to watch something?” Mike proposes, and Will swallows before answering. 

“Sure.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Your pick, I don’t care.” 

“Okay.” Mike watches Will lean over and steal a fry, and he lets him get away with it when Will sends him a simpering smile. Mike squints at him. “Thief.” 

“Uh-huh,” Will responds, stealing another one, and Mike shakes his head, before taking a fry for himself, and their knuckles brush, if only for a second. 

Will grins, and it’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

It’s nearing six when Will has to go. 

After a few hours of lounging around together in the basement, to which they later travel up to Mike’s bedroom once more to read a few old comics in the light of having nothing else to do, it’s time for Will to leave, much to Mike’s dismay.

And – he knows he’s being a little bit of a clingy idiot when they spent all last night and today together, but he doesn’t think he could ever get sick of Will. Maybe that’s a childish thought. He doesn’t care. 

“It’s freezing,” Mike huffs when he pulls open the door, and watches a few leaves glide along the ground. He turns around to where Will pulls on his jacket; he’d have to walk home, being without his car, but it’s unnaturally cold for October. Will only shrugs in return, and Mike frowns. “I’ll give you a ride home.” 

“What? No,” Will frowns, shaking his head. “I’m only, like, a fifteen-minute walk away, Mike.” 

“A fifteen-minute walk,” Mike points out, a little distressed, and Will gives him a look. No one has ever known stubbornness until they meet Will. 

“Seriously, Mike,” he says, “it’s fine.” There’s a pause as he zips up his jacket, pulling on his sleeves, looking away from Mike. “You’ve already had to deal with me all day.” 

Mike frowns. “So? I –” 

And there’s a lot he wants to say, too much that’s incriminating, questionable, something along the lines of I want to, I like to, I don’t have to deal with anything, I like doing things for you, I’d do anything for you, I want you around all the time, I love you, I love you, I love you.

“– like having you around,” he finishes, because he still has a shred of dignity to hold onto, and Will still isn’t looking at him. Mike can’t tell if the flush on his cheeks is from the cold. “Come on, Will. You’re going to get a cold, or something.”

Will rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine, mom.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “And I still need to stop by the laundromat, anyway.” 

“Let me drive you home,” Mike insists, but Will sends him a look, and this is clearly a fight that Mike isn’t going to win. They stare at each other, before Mike lets out a heaving sigh. “Fine, but you’re going to get cold like that.” 

Will looks down at his jacket, and looks back up. “Well, I can’t really –” 

Mike hurries back upstairs, leaving Will on his Welcome mat, and he thinks he’d rather dig his own grave than let Will walk home and get a cold. He swings open his door and rifles through his drawers, before a small aha! escapes him, and he rushes back downstairs. 

Will is still standing where he’d been left. “Mike, what –” 

“Here,” Mike says, brandishing a pair of gloves, a gray bobble hat, and a red, checkered scarf. “Now, you’re, like, thirty percent less likely to catch a cold.” 

Will gives him an unamused look. “Mike, seriously,” he says, except it goes unheard when Mike places the gloves in his hands, and he slowly, begrudgingly, pulls them onto his fingers, wiggling them when the gloves are on. Mike sends him a satisfied smile, and Will rolls his eyes, despite his own smile. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you’re not going to get sick,” Mike proclaims, a little proud of himself, and Will doesn’t stop him when he gestures to Will’s face. “Come here.” 

Will dutifully takes a step closer, except it’s not close enough, and it never is, but Mike shuffles even closer, and maybe he should have thought this through, because they’re barely a few inches apart while he tugs the hat onto Will, who makes a slight whining noise that he grins at. He pulls it away from his eyes, and a few locks of hair escape the hat, just around his eyes and ears. He looks cute. He looks sweet. Mike wants to kiss him. 

Mike, like a sane person, does not focus on that last thought, and directs his attention to untangling his scarf, the thick wool soft under his hands, and Will groans. 

“Mike,” he starts, “don’t you think this is a little overboard?” 

“Maybe,” Mike relents, but neither of them make any move to stop when Mike raises the scarf to wrap around Will’s neck. 

He doesn’t know why it feels so strangely personal, almost too close when he can feel Will’s eyes on him from this close, and he focuses intently on properly wrapping the scarf around, until it settles onto Will’s chest properly, and he gives it a little pat. 

“There we go,” he breathes out, more to himself, and he looks up to meet Will’s eye, who peers at him through tufts of hair. “All set.” 

Mike doesn’t move away, because he’s an idiot and he likes being so close, and Will doesn’t move away, for reasons unknown, for reasons Mike dreams about and is a little delusional about, and especially when he swears Will is getting pinker in the cheeks, eyes glancing elsewhere.

“You really didn’t have to, you know,” Will says, quiet, and the space between them feels only a breath away. 

Mike raises a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I wanted to,” he says, and it’s true. 

He still has his hands on Will, just on his chest, fingers on his shoulders. Will doesn’t seem to mind when he leans a little closer. 

“Why?” 

Mike blinks. “I – what?” 

Will looks him in the eye, and Mike couldn’t tear his stare away even if he tried. He almost feels stuck, held hostage where he stands, except he doesn’t think he’d escape if he could. It feels so revealing, almost exposing and invasive, the way Will looks at him, and Mike wants to squirm. 

Will tilts his head up, just a little, and now they’re face to face. “Why?”

If Mike leaned in, just a little, their noses could bump, and they –

“I – I don’t know,” Mike answers, feeling strangely breathless, too warm to handle, despite the cold air seeping through the open, front door. “I don’t – I was just –” 

“Mike,” Will interrupts, and Mike tries not to pay too much attention to how his name sounds in Will’s mouth like this, soft, gentle, something tender, something sweet. Will slowly raises a gloved hand to carefully place on his shoulder, the cotton of it soft and gray. “I – you know I appreciate it, right?” 

“Right,” Mike echoes, except it hadn’t occurred to him that Will had seen it as anything meaningful, because he’d assumed Will had seen it as Mike just being the way he is sometimes, caring too much, always so concerned. “Right. Yeah. ‘Course.” 

He doesn’t know what to do with the acknowledgement, because he’d been mostly doing it for nothing in return, no expectations of gratitude, because it doesn’t matter if Will appreciates it or not, he just – Mike cares for him, maybe a little too much. 

He hadn’t expected any appreciation. Mike just wants to be the best for Will. 

Will frowns, and Mike can’t blame him, because he wasn’t very believable, and Will’s eyebrows furrow, and then he lifts himself up and he’s so much closer, now, and Mike can feel his breath on his lips and – then Will is kissing Mike. 

“Oh,” he says into Will’s mouth, and then he blinks, once, twice, before making a strangled noise and cupping Will’s face in his hands, leaning down to kiss him properly, and he can feel it when Will laughs against his lips. 

His fingers slot between Will’s jaw and his ear, poking into his hat that Will wears, and Will is warm, a cure for autumn chill. Their noses brush, with the gentle, constant hold of Will’s hand on Mike’s shoulder, the other one wrapped around Mike’s wrist, as if to keep him there, as if Mike would ever want to pull away. 

Will tilts his head a little more to the right, and Mike thinks oh, because they fit so well together, even with his own bitten lips and Will’s softness, the chastity of it all, kissing him sweetly like he means it, like he’s trying to be careful. Mike loves him. 

And then Will taps a finger against Mike’s shoulder, and Mike parts his mouth, and Will hums in satisfaction, licking at his teeth, and Mike thinks he might be trembling where he stands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, the uncontrollable hitch in him when Will swipes his tongue over Mike’s, and he falls into Will. 

Will is strong, he knows this, the world knows this, because he has – arms, and he takes Mike easily, hand dropping from his wrist to place around Mike’s waist, pressing them close, torsos against each other. It feels like everything he’s wanted, more than Mike had ever asked from Will, but Will is giving it to him, kissing him like he wants to, and Mike pulls away. 

“I – I didn’t,” Mike stumbles, swallowing, and Will looks at him with wide eyes, face still flushed and in Mike’s hands. “Was that – okay?”

Will raises his eyebrows, lost, before his mouth, kissed-red and pretty, twitches, and he laughs. “Mike, I kissed you.” 

“I know that!” Mike complains, and he can’t be too serious with it when Will is giggling, smiling against Mike’s palms. “I was just – making sure.” 

“Uh-huh,” Will says, and Mike offers a faux frown that he snorts at. “Yes, Mike. It was okay.” He pauses, chewing on his lip, before adding, “More than okay.”

“Oh,” Mike replies, because some part of him still hadn’t expected it. “I’m – that’s good. I – I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Will grins with his teeth, and it’s so attractive on him, front teeth poking out, and Mike wants to kiss him again, so he does. 

It’s a little firmer, close-mouthed and sweet, and Will is still smiling into it, and there’s something bright and lovely blooming in Mike, and then they’re just smiling into each other, and they probably look stupid, except Mike has never and will never care. 

He still lingers close when they part, and Will keeps him close, arm still around his waist. It’s a good place to be. 

The screen door rattles with a gust of wind. Will’s hold on him tightens. 

“Let me drive you home,” Mike whispers, and Will rolls his eyes, but he looks handsome and fond, and Mike wants to kiss him again. He leans in close, and Will doesn’t stop him, the gloved hand on his shoulder traveling to his nape. 

“Fine,” he mumbles, and their lips brush. Then, he grins. “I still have to stop by the laundromat, though.” 

“That’s okay.” Mike tilts Will’s head a little further up, and watches him blush under Mike’s stare. “I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s because it’s true. 

He doesn’t mind. Mike doesn’t think he ever will.