Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 “You’re being weird,” is the first thing Nancy says when she sees him.

Mike frowns, stopping dead in his tracks on the basement stairs. “I’m literally not even doing anything!”

“You’re here,” Nancy points out, “instead of hanging out upstairs with Will. By definition, that’s weird.”

“I,” Mike starts, immediately crossing his arms and going on the defensive. “Why is that weird? Maybe I just want to hang out here. With you.”

This definitely was not the most inconspicuous thing Mike could have said. He takes a quick glance around the room: the pullout bed is folded back up into its usual sofa form, blankets and pillows set neatly off to the side. Some of the boxes are missing too, from where they had used to be all piled up around the edges of the room. The spare mattress is nowhere to be seen. Mike rolls his eyes.

Nancy raises her eyebrows, pulls her legs up further into the cushions, and asks, “Do you really?”

“Sure,” Mike lies. “Why not?”

Nancy narrows her eyes. “Where’s Will?”

“I don’t have to do everything with him,” Mike tries weakly, and then, when her eyes narrow even further, he caves. “Fine. He’s upstairs watching The Aristocats with Holly.”

“Really? Holly finally got someone to watch it with her?”  

“Apparently, yeah.”

There’s a sharp clattering noise outside, and Nancy and Mike both spin around to stare at the basement door. It swings open to reveal one Jonathan Byers, a healthy layer of dust all down the front of his jeans, and a bit of a disgruntled look on his face. “Hey,” he says when he sees Mike. “Where’s Will?”

Nancy hides a smile behind her hand as Mike groans. “Why does everybody think we do everything together?”

“Because you do,” Jonathan and Nancy say in unison.

Mike makes a face. “I liked it better when you two were on opposite sides of the country.”

“Will’s watching The Aristocats with Holly,” Nancy tells him, ignoring Mike and folding down the page of her book. “Apparently.”

This much is true enough. Will is watching The Aristocats with Holly– her movie of the week, apparently– because he’s the sort of person that does stuff like this for his best friend’s younger sister. Maybe that makes him better than Mike, who sat through the first twelve minutes before bolting. Because Will is the sort of person who does this, the sort of person who engages Holly in her repetitive pleas for company, which Mike feels kind of bad about, because she doesn’t have a Will. That is to say, anyone even remotely close to her own age to talk to in this whole awful shelter-in-place situation. All her friends from school are either across town or across state lines, leaving Holly with absolutely no one else to guilt into watching The Aristocats with her, and leaving Will Byers, out of the goodness of his own heart, to immediately fall ploy to her schemes.

Maybe that does make him a better person than Mike. Which is fine. Mike can deal with that.

Privately, and much more realistically, the reason Mike bolted probably had less to do with The Aristocats– which is, for all intents and purposes, a fine enough movie, even if it isn’t super his style– and more to do with the cramped sofa, Will’s arm bumping against his, and the way Mike had, entirely unknowingly, spent the last couple of weeks digging his own hilariously metaphorical grave by consistently refusing to keep more than five inches of space between the two of them.

That last one has really been coming around to bite him in the ass, because it means, all of a sudden, that this is the new normal– because he’d kicked up such a fuss about Will sitting closer to him and lying down closer to him and, subsequently, staying closer to him, and now Will is actually doing those things, just like Mike had been intending for him to do earlier, just like Mike had been hoping he’d do earlier. Except now that he’s doing it, Mike is slowly but surely losing his goddamn mind.

And really, when he thinks about it, it’s probably his own fault. He wonders if it’s too late to ask Jonathan to switch back, because the last few days have been a slow torture like no other and Mike isn’t sure how much longer he can live like this.

“You didn’t want to watch?” Jonathan is asking him, 

Mike blinks, then glances rapidly between the two of them. “Sorry, what?”

“The movie,” Jonathan says, still brushing dust off his jeans, leaving light streaks behind on the dark blue denim. “Not your thing?”

“Uh, no,” Mike replies, which isn’t maybe the whole truth but it’s not technically not true. “No, I just, uh– needed a change of scenery.”

“So you came back to the room you’ve been staying in for weeks,” Nancy says flatly.

“Um. Maybe?”

Nancy looks at Jonathan, who looks at Nancy, who looks back at Mike, who looks back at Nancy. Mike seriously, seriously hates this stupid non-verbal communication thing they have going on. 

Something must give at last, because Nancy sighs and unfolds her legs. “Okay,” she says, setting her book off to the side and hauling herself up from the sofa, “you know what? Let’s go.”

Mike blinks again. “Um. Where, exactly?”

“The donation center,” Nancy says. “Jonathan was putting the last of the boxes in the car,” and yeah, okay, that explains why it’s strangely empty in here.

“What more do we even have to donate?” Mike asks, trailing Nancy to the basement door. “I thought we already cleared everything out.”

“There’s been junk lying around here for months, even before everything happened,” Nancy says, very matter-of-factly. “So if you need a change of scenery, you can help me lug it all inside the gym.”

“Um,” Mike says, because when he’d been thinking about a change of scenery, he’d been thinking something more along the lines of hiding in the deep recesses of the house, somewhere far, far away from Will and his insanely maddening magnetism. Somewhere far away and safe and preferably dark and quiet so that if Will did happen to walk in, maybe he wouldn’t even see Mike there at all. Manual labor hadn’t exactly been on the to-do list for today. “Why not get Jonathan to help?”

“I was going to,” Jonathan sighs, toeing off his shoes, “but you seem a little– um. What’s the word?”

“Stir-crazy?” Nancy offers, and Mike sticks his tongue out at her. She rolls her eyes. “Mature.”

“Fine,” Mike says anyway, because he can’t deny it– he is going totally and completely stir-crazy, and the only thing worse than being trapped in a motor vehicle with Nancy is being trapped on a couch with Will. Or, you know, the problem isn’t that it would be worse so much as how much better it would be. So, so, so much better– “Fine,” Mike repeats, “let’s go. But you’re lifting all the heavy boxes.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with,” Nancy says.

“Godspeed,” replies Jonathan.

The backseat is piled high with boxes, and Mike doesn’t even know where they got all this shit from, because some of them are dusty and broken-down and look like they’ve been sitting in the basement since before Mike was born. His seatbelt clicks quietly into place as Nancy puts the key in the ignition. “I can’t believe you had the nerve to call me weird,” Mike says, the second the engine starts running, “because you two are gross.”

“Please,” Nancy scoffs, peeling slowly out of the driveway. “We didn’t even kiss in front of you. We didn’t even hug.”

“Yeah, and I’d appreciate it if we kept it that way,” Mike says.

Nancy’s starting to get a certain look on her face as they start driving down Maple Street, and it’s one that Mike’s become quite familiar with. It’s Nancy’s older sister look, her take charge look, her editor-in-chief of the school news look. It’s the look she had on her face when she announced she’d be applying early decision to Emerson, and it’s the look she had when she announced, months later, that she got in. It’s a scary look, is what it is, but Mike also knows what it means– that Nancy is steeling herself to say something distinctly very Nancy of her, and since she’s got Mike trapped in a moving motor vehicle with no way out, he’s pretty sure what it’s going to be about.

(Him, probably. It’s going to be about him.)

He opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid what’s surely going to be the most painfully awkward conversation of his life, but Nancy beats him to the punch.

“I just want to make sure,” she starts, not taking her eyes off the road, “that you’re doing alright.”

“Oh my god,” Mike groans, long and slow. “I should’ve known this was going to be an interrogation.”

“I asked you one question!” Nancy exclaims. “A very casual, simple question! Because I know you’ve been having a bit of a– a rough time, and–”

“We don’t have to do this,” Mike decides, mortified. “It’s fine. We don’t have to have the feelings talk.”

“It’s not a feelings talk,” Nancy says, looking a bit like this is maybe also the last thing in the world she wants to be doing. “I’m just– I know you weren’t sleeping, for a while, and you seem to be doing a little better now, so–”

She sounds like she’s choosing her words very carefully. Mike looks pointedly away and through the window, where the trees have gone barren and lifeless despite the fact that they’d usually be in full early-summer bloom. Probably every house they pass is empty too. Mike crosses his arms and slumps down in his seat. “Why do you even care?”

“Because I’m your sister?” Nancy says incredulously, the end of the phrase turning up into a question. “And I know we don’t do this a lot, okay, I get that, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still care.”

Her voice is rapidly losing its self-assured edge. Mike remembers her Nancy voice well– from when she’d marched into the living room with her Emerson decision letter and announced in the same breath that she’d already committed, and before that, when she’d told everyone she’d be studying journalism and their dad’s face had started to pull up into something ugly and mean. And from before that, too, even. Way, way before that: at the Byers, monsters swarming the house, announcing that she knew how to use a gun, and Mike thinking maybe there was hope for her after all– his uptight older sister with her sweaters and stockings and the stacks upon stacks of flashcards. If Nancy knew how to use a gun, then maybe anything was possible.

“I mean yeah,” he starts, “I know that.”

“And we don’t have to have a feelings talk,” Nancy agrees, her face starting to do a funny scrunched-up thing that perfectly emulates how Mike is currently feeling. “I promise we don’t have to have a feelings talk. Just– I just wanted to ask if you’re doing okay.”

“I guess,” Mike says, before he can think about that question too long, and maybe give something away with an unnecessarily awkward silence. “Yeah,” and doesn’t feel like a lie when he says it, somehow, even if it doesn’t not feel like a lie either. He is doing okay, that’s true enough, and it’s not like he can tell Nancy about the whole– well, he maybe could but he’s not going to, is the point, not when it feels so weird to even refer to the Will thing as the Will thing, like its own separate, conscious entity. He sniffs, and adds, “Yeah, yeah, you know– everything’s great.”

“That’s good,” Nancy says, sounding more than a little relieved. She doesn’t push, and Mike doesn’t blame her. “That’s good. I know you were having a bit of a hard time there, with everything– and Will, especially–”

“What?” Mike blurts out. Despite everything, panic seeps into his voice anyway as he turns to look at her. “What do you mean?”

Nancy gives him a strange look as they approach a stop sign. Leave it to her to follow traffic safety laws even when the entire town has been evacuated. “After the attack, I mean,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining something to a very small child. “And I know you guys already weren’t really talking before that so I’m sure it didn’t help.”

“We were– it was fine,” Mike mutters. “Things were fine.”

“I have eyes, Mike,” Nancy sighs. “And it’s fine, I mean it, we don’t have to have a feelings talk.”

“This sounds an awful lot like a–”

“I mean,” Nancy says, a little louder this time, “I’m just glad you guys are good again. And you seem better too, so– that’s it, we can drop it now, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” Mike says, and then, a second later and definitely against his better judgment, adds, “wait, better how?”

“I thought you didn’t want to have a feelings talk!”

“This– it’s not a feelings talk,” Mike sputters, “but if someone’s saying stuff about you then you’re going to want to know where it came from!”

“Happier?” Nancy suggests, shrugging. “You seem– okay, well, you’re always on edge, a little, so that doesn’t say much, but you seem– I don’t know. More like before, you know? Less sulky for sure.”

“I don’t sulk,” Mike protests weakly. “Do I really seem– you know.”

“This sounds an awful lot like a feelings talk,” Nancy warns him.

“Nancy.”

“I’m just glad you’re friends again, is all!” Nancy shrugs. “I know you missed him. That’s all. Seriously.”

“Okay,” Mike says. He slumps even further down in his seat and tries his hardest to not think about Will. Will and his hair, and his eyes, and the way he always smiles kind of lopsided, like the feeling is too much to contain and it starts spilling out of him before he can reign it in. Will and his–

Obviously, it doesn’t work. “And,” Nancy continues, completely forgoing the point of that’s all, and seriously, “if there’s anything you ever want to talk about–”

“This is now definitely a feelings talk,” Mike announces, and Nancy’s mouth presses itself into a thin, unamused line. “Thanks, but I’m good. I promise.”

“Okay,” Nancy says, then falls silent.

The car sputters silently down the road. Mike can hear gravel crunching under them, the remnants of debris and dust scattered aimlessly over the roads and never cleaned up. Nancy keeps a careful ten-two grip on the steering wheel; she doesn’t spare a glance to the decimated buildings they pass by, the rubble and the abandoned recovery efforts, but Mike sees her lower jaw tense up anyway.

One thing’s for sure. If he were Nancy, he wouldn’t be in this predicament, because Nancy would never have let it get to this point in the first place.  Predicament meaning waking up a week ago to the not-so-sudden realization that he wants to kiss Will Byers. Predicament meaning feeling a little bit like his brain is leaking out through his ears. Predicament meaning running away– again. Just like he always is.

Mike feels like he’s been running for a very long time. If he’s being honest, he’s getting kind of tired of it.

And Will had been saying that thing, forever ago, about how Mike and Nancy were supposedly not that different, and it’s not often that Will is so catastrophically wrong about something, but Mike supposes the day had to come eventually. Because here he is, and here Nancy is, and Mike has never in his life felt less related to her than in this moment.

Nancy gets stuff done. Nancy has the presence of mind to burn the Mind Flayer out of a thirteen-year-old body with a hot poker. Nancy’s decisive and self-assured, and Mike is, like, eighty percent sure that if she woke up wanting to kiss someone– gross– she’d probably do it. Or at least she would maybe know what to do about it. Or at the very least, she wouldn’t abandon the person she wanted to kiss to watch an animated movie about cats with her little sister because she was too mortified to be within five feet of them.

Probably.

The point here is that since, apparently, Nancy goes out of her way to make it so fucking obvious that she knows everything, she’d probably know what to do here too, which is why Mike opens his stupid mouth and blurts out, “Listen, can I, um. Ask you something?”

That look on Nancy’s face, right there, is definitely genuine shock. “Sure,” she says, eyes a little wide, probably realizing that it was her own fault they’ve ended up here, given everything she was saying about their conversation-turned-feelings-talk. “Anything, Mike.”

Oh, no. “Well,” he says anyway, twiddling his thumbs, “how are you so– like you just always know what to do.”

“Uh,” Nancy says, as the movie theater whizzes by, “not really, but that aside– I’m not sure I follow.”

“You know,” Mike says, which is unhelpful, he knows, “you always seem to know what you’re doing. How do you do that?”

“Oh,” Nancy blinks in surprise. “Well, I don’t– not quite, like it’s definitely not– where is this coming from?”

Because Mike does not trust himself to answer– not when he has Will on the brain, not when he has kissing Will on the brain– he keeps his mouth shut and shrugs. “Just in general.”

“Well I don’t,” Nancy starts, “always know what to do, I mean.”

“You know enough,” Mike replies, “like with college. You always knew where you wanted to go. And you’re confident and you have, like, goals and stuff, and you love yelling at people and being in charge–”

“Okay, I wouldn’t say yelling at people, necessarily,” Nancy says smoothly, which is a lie if Mike’s ever heard one. “And– I don’t know. I guess I just had to be confident with that stuff, like the school news or at work. No one would ever take me seriously if I wasn’t.”

“Sure,” Mike concedes, waving his hands around, thinking about Will and Nancy and a flaming hot poker, thinking about Nancy shooting Vecna in the fucking face, “but other stuff too, I mean, like– like you’re good with a gun and you think fast on your feet and you don’t run away from your problems.”

“Well,” Nancy says again, a faint trace of amusement creeping into her voice, “I wouldn’t go that far. And I thought we weren’t having a feelings talk?”

“It’s not a– never mind,” Mike mumbles. Figures that Nancy would be difficult about this too. “Forget it.”

“Mike,” Nancy sighs, and then, “well, what problems are you running away from?”

“I said forget it.”

“Is it about El? I thought you guys–”

“Oh my god, I said forget it,” Mike groans, leaning his head back against the headrest. “How much longer to the stupid donation center anyway, we’ve been driving for forever.”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Great.”

After a moment, Nancy adds, “Okay, look–”

“Nancy, I said–”

“Shut up and listen,” Nancy snaps, and then, all at once, “so, Steve told me he wanted to have six kids with me.”

For a split second, Mike thinks he heard her wrong. “I– sorry, he what?”

“Yeah, you heard me right,” Nancy says woefully, looking about as miserable as Mike feels upon learning this fact– or, more specifically, at the sudden realization that Steve Harrington is now about sixty percent less cool than Mike had previously thought him.

Mike squints at her. “Six kids?”

“So we were fighting for our lives,” Nancy starts, “and this, apparently, is what Steve decides is the best and most appropriate moment to tell me he wants to have six kids with me. And a winnebago. Apparently the winnebago was crucial to the fantasy.”

Mike is still trying to pick his jaw up off the floor. “A winnebago?”

“Unfortunately,” Nancy sighs. “And I don’t want six kids with anyone, by the way, and you’d think he’d know that. You’d think anyone who knew me even a little would know that– and you’d think he’d know me a little, given that he was asking me about six kids and a winnebago, but apparently not. And he’s telling me about this, about– oh, and the exact term he used was six little nuggets–” which is maybe one of the most horrifying things Mike has ever heard, and he fights off a full-body shiver– “and all I can think about is my boyfriend. And how I don’t want six kids with anyone, not even him, and– Jesus, I literally haven’t stepped foot onto a college campus yet, so why are kids being brought into the picture? And winnebagos. Jesus.”

“Um,” Mike says, as Nancy pulls into the parking lot of the high school. It’s nearly deserted, like always, but there are a few cars scattered out front, the donate here banner still tacked up on the front doors, fluttering sadly in a stray gust of wind. “I feel like maybe we’re getting a little off-track.”

“I'm getting there,” Nancy assures him. “Anyway, my point was that– oh, I was so mad. Because here I was thinking we were friends again, and that I was making friends, and– and he turns around and whips out a line about six little nuggets. I was so mad. But my point,” she says, taking a breath in what feels like the first time in a very long time, “is that if Steve had the balls to say that to me, then you, Mike, can do anything.”

Mike stares. “Um. Excuse me?”

“If Steve,” Nancy says again, sighing and turning the car off, “found the confidence in him somewhere to say that to me– and he thought it was a great idea, by the way, I could tell, he really thought I was about to, what, drop everything and leap into his arms– anyway. Sometimes you’ve just got to do it. Sometimes you’ve just gotta have so much confidence that you aren’t scared of looking like an idiot.”

“With all due respect,” Mike points out. “I don’t think this is the most helpful example.”

Nancy groans, and lets her head fall forward until it’s resting against the steering wheel. “You had to turn this conversation around into feelings talk territory! I’m doing my best, okay Mike?”

Mike throws his hands in the air. “I didn’t say anything about feelings!”

“Not explicitly, maybe,” Nancy says simply, and then, before Mike can ask what the hell she means by that– “I’m just saying. In the most blunt way I can possibly think of to say this, sometimes you just need the– the–”

“Balls?” Mike suggests.

Nancy does not look impressed. “Fine. Sure.”

“Okay,” Mike says, even though he’s at least thirty percent more confused now than he had been before, but at least he doesn’t have to think about Steve Harrington telling his sister he wanted to have six little kids– nuggets, he grimaces– anymore. “That’s– a little helpful, I guess.”

Nancy gives him a long searching look, fiddling with the car keys with one hand as her eyes dart over Mike’s face. What she’s searching for, Mike doesn’t know, but after a moment, she sighs and says, “Okay, look. No one knows what they’re doing all the time. No one even knows what they’re doing most of the time.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike huffs, trying not to let on to his frustration, “but I mean more like– you shot Vecna in the face.”

Nancy’s lips twitch. “Technically yes, I did.”

“I mean that,” Mike says, waving a hand around in the air, thinking about Will’s thirteen year old body and glowing hot metal, “like– how do you just shoot Vecna in the fucking face and not even– I mean, when you have issues, you figure your issues out. How do I do that?”

“Well,” Nancy says. “Do the issues in question have to do with you shooting someone in the face?”

“Yeah,” Mike replies miserably. “Myself, because this is really starting to feel like a–”

“Mike.”

“Just,” Mike tries again, “I don’t know, how did you and Jonathan end up together?”

“Uh,” Nancy says, glancing away, “still not sure where this is going but, uh, Murray was there, and there was a– a pullout bed, and a guest bedroom, and, uh– why is this relevant again?”

“I don’t know,” Mike admits, then groans, leaning forward until his forehead hits the dashboard. “I’m just feeling– I’ve just been feeling kind of–”

“Descriptive.”

“I’m starting to realize why we don’t talk, actually.”

Nancy laughs, just loud enough for Mike to turn his head to look at her, still slouched over in his seat. “You know, I’m not– I’m flattered that you thought it was cool when I shot Vecna in the face–”

“Yeah, I’m actually really upset I missed that–”

“But,” Nancy continues, rolling her eyes, “I was also supposed to come with you to California over break and I didn’t, because I was too scared to see my boyfriend. So I guess I didn’t run from my problems as much as I sort of just– stayed still about it.”

“Oh,” Mike says. “Why were you–”

“It’s not important,” Nancy dismisses. “Not anymore, anyway, I mean– my point was that I wish I’d just had the– the balls,” she winces, “to see it through anyway. Wish I’d just– what’s the word?”

“Rip off the bandaid?” Mike supplies drily, because apparently the universe is laughing right in his face today, and maybe it was a mistake to come here at all, and maybe he should have just asked his mom if she needed any help with the laundry.

“Bingo,” Nancy snaps her fingers at him. “Rip off the bandaid.”

“Fantastic,” Mike says faintly. “That’s it, by the way. We can be done now.”

“Cool,” Nancy grins, sounding relieved. “Now help me get these boxes out of the trunk.”

“Hey,” Mike frowns, the second the trunk opens. He grabs at something from the box closest to him, and waves it in the air. “Not my Star Wars box set! Nancy, you can’t give away my Star Wars box set!”

The confusion doesn’t clear itself up by the time Mike and Nancy get back home. He’s starting to regret ever having agreed to go in the first place, except then Nancy would have abandoned his poor, beloved Star Wars box set in a donation bin for it to go unseen and unappreciated for who knows how long. So maybe it was a good thing he went, even if now he’s thinking about how lame Steve Harrington actually might kind of be, because apparently he’s got it real bad for Nancy. Steve, with the cool hair and the cool car and the hair and the car and the reputation for doing at Skull Rock whatever it is he does at Skull Rock– that Steve somehow still has it real bad for his sister who snores like a freight train and organizes her clothes by color and used to be a closet Lord of the Rings fan.

Not that Nancy would ever tell him this last part.

“So,” Nancy says, as she collapses on the couch next to Jonathan, who apparently has not moved an inch since she and Mike left. “Does that help?”

Jonathan raises his eyebrows a little curiously, but doesn’t say anything. “Uh,” Mike says, fidgeting a little in place and shooting Jonathan a tentative glance. “The, uh– the Steve thing? Or the Jonathan thing?”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shoot up even higher. “Oh,” he snorts. “The Steve thing.”

“No,” Mike decides, before Jonathan can ask what the Jonathan thing is, “no, the Steve thing did not help. And neither did the– no.”

“You said no feelings talk!” Nancy exclaims. “That was the best I could do without a feelings talk!”

The basement stairs creak under Mike’s feet as he turns to head back upstairs. “Right,” he starts, “except it was still–”

“Jonathan,” he hears someone call out, approximately half a second before the door to the house swings open ahead of him, “have you seen– oh.” Will’s blinking face peers down at him. “Hey, Mike.”

“Hi,” Mike says, feeling suddenly and entirely disproportionately out of breath for how far up the stairs– barely three steps– he’s walked. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Will smiles, and the breathlessness increases tenfold. “I already said that.”

“Yeah. I mean, I know,” Mike stammers, “I mean– sorry.”

“Were you looking for me?” Jonathan calls from behind him.

“Oh,” Will says, eyes not leaving Mike’s. “I was just going to ask if you saw Mike around, but he’s here now.”

“You were looking for me?” Maybe Jonathan and Nancy were right about the codependency after all.

“Yeah,” Will says, fidgeting slightly. Half his body is still hidden from view by the doorframe, but it looks like he’s holding something behind his back. “Yeah, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I can’t believe you abandoned me.”

Mike leans against the railing. “I wasn’t even gone an hour,” he says. “You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy the quality Holly time?”

Will doesn’t dignify him with a response. “Listen,” he says instead, “can I– talk to you for a second?”

Oh, no. “Sure,” Mike says, despite the sudden series of somersaults his stomach has just launched into. “Yeah, of course.”

“Jesus,” Jonathan mutters from the couch.

“So,” Will says, as soon as the door slams shut behind them. Mike trails him through the kitchen, through the hall, until they’re standing at the foot of the stairs. “Where did you and Nancy head off to?”

“Just for a drive,” Mike says noncommittally. “I started to get a little– I just needed a change of scenery.”

“Can’t believe you abandoned me,” Will says again. He’s leaned up against the bannister, still holding onto something behind his back, tucked out of view. “You said you were going to get water and the next thing I know, it’s been thirty minutes and I’m starting to think you’ve run away.”

Mike coughs. “Me? Run away? Never.”

Will give him a curious look. “Listen,” he starts, expression falling into something more serious.

“Listening,” Mike says, and, as Will shifts from foot to foot, frowns and adds, “hey, what is it?”

“So my mom and I are headed out soon,” Will says, instead of a real answer of any sort, “to the hospital, I mean.”

“Oh,” Mike says, and then– “oh!”

“Yeah,” Will nods, “and I was going to come find you later, but I just finished, and I promised I’d show you the second it was done, so.”

Mike isn’t quite sure where this is leading, but Will looks suddenly very antsy, a little nervous, and Mike doesn’t know what to make of that, doesn’t know what Will could possibly have to feel so nervous about. “Will? What’s up?”

“Um,” Will says, and then there’s a sharp rustling noise of paper against fabric as he thrusts something into Mike’s hands. “Here.”

It’s a drawing. More specifically, Mike realizes, glancing over the page, it’s the drawing Will had been working on earlier, the one he’d so rudely and adamantly refused to let Mike see. And Mike hadn’t seen it then, because he’d been a good friend and resisted the urge to peek inside Will’s sketchbook when he wasn’t looking, but there’s no doubt about it. The contrast of black ink against the white paper is offset by a burst of color, right in the center of the page–

“It’s not the exact same one I was working on,” Will adds after a moment, when Mike doesn’t say anything. He shifts nervously against the bannister, socks sliding across the wood of the floor. “That really was just a sketch, but I redid it and it’s still not much, but–”

The center of the page. The demodog’s five-petal mouth unfurling in rage, the crooked lilt to its posture. The unnatural gray tinge to its skin, shaded in ink. A figure stands next to it, brandishing something long and narrow over one shoulder. Mike can make it out just fine; he remembers how the gun had felt against his palms, cold metal turning warm with body heat and desperation.

“–You know, there’s only so much you can do when you’re stuck somewhere for so long and I was drawing one day and the idea just came to me, so I figured, I don’t know, I might as well–”

What Mike doesn’t remember is the rest, the details giving way to the adrenaline charged fog of it all. He doesn’t much remember the grass under his feet, doesn’t remember the trees in the distance, doesn’t remember standing like that– confident, tall, determined.

“Will,” he hears himself say. “Is this–”

“–what I was drawing earlier, yeah,” Will cuts in, and he’s definitely fidgeting for real now. “I told you I’d show you after it was done, and it’s kind of cheesy, and kind of a dumb idea, I know. But. Yeah.”

Will is talking very fast. Mike is starting to feel a little overwhelmed. “It’s–”

“–not much, I know, I’m sorry, it– I don’t have my paints with me and it’s not nearly as detailed as– I mean, Holly let me borrow some of her colored pencils the other day, so I– it’s really not much, but–”

Mike shakes his head, still staring down at the paper in his hands. He can see every stroke of the pen against the paper, all the quick, assured little lines Will made in sharp, bold angles. The jut of Mike’s elbow, the demodog’s hunched spine. And the softer lines too too, the places where the ink goes sketchy and gray, where Will clearly wasn’t as sure about what he was putting down: the curl of Mike’s hair around the collar of his jacket, the barely-visible hand curled around the barrel of the gun.

He feels, all at once, at a complete loss for words. “No, Will, it’s–”

“And it was kind of rushed too, so–”

“Would you shut up and stop interrupting me for one second?” Mike snaps. 

“Sorry,” Will says, a little sheepishly. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”

“Just give me a minute,” Mike breathes out. Will worries at his lower lip and nods silently at him. “I– is this–”

“Yeah,” Will chimes in, even though he’d just agreed to be quiet. Maybe a good thing, because Mike’s words, all of a sudden, simply aren’t coming to him. “Yeah, it’s, um. You and the demodog. Sorry, maybe you don’t want to think about that, actually, I didn’t even ask–”

Mike shakes his head again. “No, seriously, it’s– do you really remember it like this?”

If Will doesn’t remember, if this whole thing is a hallucination brought on by blood loss, that’s one thing. It would explain the grace Will’s drawn him with, a sort of ease that Mike can’t ever remember carrying around with him in actuality. It would explain why Will’s drawn him like he’s something important, something worth drawing. Something brave, confident– something like a protector.

“I mean, yeah.” Will laughs, but it’s a little tight. “Some of the details, they’re a little hazy, especially after you called Jonathan, and I don’t remember anything after he showed up, but– no, I remember this really well. I remember– well, it hurt like a motherfucker, for one, I'll tell you that.”

Mike laughs, throat tight. “But no,” Will adds after a moment, “I just remember that I was watching you and I was thinking, deep down, that I should be a lot more freaked out than I really was, but I just felt so– what’s the word– I don’t know, safe, maybe?”

“Safe?” Mike stares at him. “Really? While you were bleeding out?”

Will shrugs, like this is obvious, like Mike is the crazy one for even suggesting hesitation at the thought. “Yeah.”

“You really see me this way?” There’s no hiding it now, how choked-up he sounds. Thankfully, Will doesn’t say anything. Mike clears his throat and tries again. “I make you feel safe?

“Are you kidding?” Will laughs in disbelief, eyes a little wide. “Of course you do. You always have, Mike. Even– um.”

“What?”

“I just,” Will starts again, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood behind him. Mike takes a step closer, watches Will press himself up against the bannister to accommodate him, watches Will tilt his head up to keep eye contact. His next breath in is a little shaky, just enough for Mike to hear it in the proximity. “You have to know that you saved me, okay? You did that. And everyone else too, my mom, Jonathan, Dustin and Lucas– but when I was down there, especially when the Mind Flayer had me, and I was in my– um, my now-memories, I kept calling for you. I didn’t know if you could ever hear me but I kept trying.”

It’s a nice thought, and despite himself, despite the uncertainty and the rapid tightening sensation all down his throat and chest, the idea of it makes him feel warm all over– Yes, Mike thinks, growing warmer by the second, yes, it was me he was calling for. “Yeah,” Mike says, a little weakly, looking up to meet Will’s eyes, “yeah, no, I heard you. On Halloween, especially, I just– you disappeared out of nowhere and then I couldn’t find you and then I heard– yeah.”

“Oh,” Will says, shoulders hunched up by his ears. “Okay. Cool.”

“You–” Mike says, a little out of breath, “is this really how you see me?”

Will blinks earnestly up at him. There’s a blush blooming high on his cheekbones, a pretty pink. His hand falls from the bannister behind them, hanging limply at his side. “Yeah, of course,” he says softly, and then, kind of all at once, “but– I don’t think it’s a secret how I see you, Mike. I think I made it pretty clear with the first– um.”

He cuts himself off again, eyes going wide and lips parting in surprise. The pink dusting his cheeks rapidly gives way to a deep crimson, and Mike’s train of thought comes screeching to a halt.

That sounds like– that sounds like something, for sure, even if Mike can’t quite put his finger on it. I don’t think it’s a secret how I see you, Will had said, just now, and Mike feels his brain get caught there, snagging on the edges of the words and not letting go. It’s not a secret, Will had said, but whatever it is, it’s also not as obvious as Will maybe seems to think it is.

The first–

Mike thinks back to the backseat of a van, what feels like a hundred lifetimes ago– thinks about the feel of canvas flexing under his hands instead of paper, paint strokes instead of ink. The same blush adorning Will’s cheeks, the same wide eyes, the same steady gaze, watching for Mike’s reaction. It’s not a secret, Mike thinks giddily, eyes darting between Will’s. Realization nags at him, prickling and incessant. It’s not a secret. It’s not a secret. It’s –

If it’s not a secret– if Will made it pretty clear–

“…Will?”

“Sorry,” Will blurts out, eyes widening even further as he waves his hands in front of his face. He looks mortified. “Sorry, I should– I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, Will,” Mike shakes his head, voice already taking on a frantic edge, “wait–”

“No, sorry, I wasn’t–”

“No, seriously, it’s fine–”

“Just forget I said anything, okay, just–”

“Will, wait,” Mike presses, leaning in and grabbing Will’s wrist with his free hand, just to still him. Will freezes immediately under him, unblinking. It doesn’t seem much like he’s breathing, and Mike isn’t sure how he’s breathing either, but it feels a bit like he’s moving on autopilot– anything, everything to get Will to calm the fuck down. “Just wait a second,” Mike pleads, and Will tenses, before giving him a quick, barely discernible nod that Mike takes as a go-ahead. “Did you mean–”

“Mike,” Will says. He can’t seem to meet Mike’s eyes. “Don’t. Please.”

Mike opens his mouth to say something, anything, when footsteps sound at the top of the stairs. He drops Will’s hand and takes a quick step back, just as Joyce comes into view.

“Hey, you two,” Joyce is saying, smiling down at them with the car keys in one hand. “Will, you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Will says quietly, still frozen in place. And then, snapping quickly out of it, he steps out to the side and away, until Mike is left with cold, empty space in front of him. “Right now? Yeah! Yeah, let’s go.”

“Will,” Mike tries again, shooting Mrs. Byers what he hopes looks like a convincing smile, “hang on one second–

Will still won’t look at him. He tugs his shoes on in silence. “I’ll– um. I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, but– yeah,” Mike says weakly. It’s no use. Will gives him a tight half-smile and a wave before slipping out the door.

Mike stares down at the paper in his hand.

I don’t think it’s a secret how I see you, Will had said. Mike traces over the outline of drawing-Mike, tall and proud and brandishing the gun like it’s a sword and not already a gun, like he had any real idea how to use it, like he wasn’t halfway to throwing up or passing out or both. He thinks about the feeling of Will’s blood on his hands, thinks about being the one to, somehow, make Will feel safe anyway. Thinks about the silence that had followed them from through state lines, the way Will had avoided him entirely after El woke up again. Thinks about himself, sword and heart-adorned shield in hand, taking down a dragon, leading the party, inspiring them, and making Will feel like he’s better for being different.

Mike thinks he might be getting it now. He smooths out a minute crease in the paper and leans bodily against the bannister, feeling a little like he got all the wind knocked right out of him. Mike thinks he might be getting it, and maybe it was on him for not getting it before, and maybe Will was right. Maybe, even after everything, it was never really a secret after all.

It’s a surprisingly pleasant evening.

That’s the first thing Mike notices when he gets up to his room. It’s not nearly late enough for the sun to start setting yet, not at this time of the year, but it’s actually visible for once, hovering just above the line of trees in the distance.

This, coupled with a sudden yet desperate need for fresh air, is how Mike finds himself here– window hoisted up as far up as it’ll go, both legs swung over the windowsill and planted firmly on the strip of roof protruding just underneath. He has to lean forward a little, in order to avoid clipping his head on the last inch of the windowpane– because it apparently wasn’t designed with last year’s growth spurt in mind– but it’s worth it. Finally– finally– he might actually be able to hear himself think.

Of course, the moment he gets up here is the exact moment when thoughts fail him entirely.

Here are the things Mike Wheeler knows:

At fifteen, it’s admittedly pretty limited. Mike knows math and he knows physics and he knows how to struggle through the original version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Mike knows about alternate dimensions, he knows about fighting monsters, he knows how to use a gun– upside down and without once pulling the trigger, but using a gun nonetheless– and he knows what it feels like to have someone’s blood running all over his hands. He knows what Max looks like in a coma, he knows how it feels to wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to breathe, he knows what it looks like when his best friend dies in front of him. Twice.

He knows a million and one ways to hurt the people he cares about, he knows a million and two ways to hurt Will Byers.

He also knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, what this feeling is; Mike is a lot of things, but he’s not a complete idiot. Or maybe he is, to have gone so long without knowing, for having gone this long with Will right in front of him and still not parsing it together. 

Things Mike Wheeler doesn’t know:

Mostly everything else, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t know when the world will stop ending. He doesn’t know if he’ll live to see it, if it ever does. He doesn’t know if Will was saying what Mike thought he was saying– if the panic and the fear and the immediate backtracking meant what Mike thought it might mean, or if it meant something else entirely. He doesn’t know– even though he has an inkling, even though the hope is there, strong enough to make him feel sick on it– if Will was saying–

“Shit,” Mike says aloud, and closes his eyes. It seems too easy, after everything they’ve been through. This seems too easy for someone like him– after he went and fucked everything up, over and over again, after he put the distance and the doubt and the fear between them, after the hurting and the apologies and everything else. He shouldn’t get to have it this easy. He shouldn’t always get the things he wants.

Selfishly, the hope swells up inside him anyway.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring down at the paper in his hand, kicking aimlessly at the tiling of the roof under his feet, but all at once, the silence hanging over Maple Street is cut through by the soft hum of an engine. He hears the front door open a minute or two later, quiet conversation in the landing, and then footsteps, slowly ascending the stairs.

They stop just outside his room, waiting. “Hey,” Mike says, even before a knock can sound, even without turning around. “You can come in, you know.”

“Still your room,” Will says, and Mike turns in time to catch him leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders pulled up to his ears. He looks about as on edge as Mike feels. “Don’t want to intrude.”

“You could never,” Mike says, truthfully and a little pleading too, desperate in its undertone– please intrude. Please always, always be there.

Will gives him a tentative smile in return, which doesn’t do much to quell the nauseating churning in his stomach. “If you say so,” he says, and, as Mike pats the open spot on the windowsill next to him, slides awkwardly into place. The height difference seems to be working in Will’s favor for once; he doesn’t have to hunch over like Mike does. There’s barely enough room for the both of them here– growing teenage boys, all limbs and stilted, uncertain movements. They’ve grown too much to do this, to be all squeezed into a space together, joints knocking awkwardly against each other, but Will doesn’t seem to mind.

Mike swallows, and looks away.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, partly in order to fill the silence, and partly because it’s true– he has been thinking, even if half of his thoughts are completely indecipherable and the other half are too mortifying to ever say aloud.

“That could be dangerous,” Will laughs, but it falls a little flat. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I,” Mike starts, then it hits him– that Will just got back from the hospital. He spins around, and Will’s eyes widen in momentary surprise as Mike adds, “Wait, are you–”

“Oh,” Will says, and then his eyes clear in realization and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean– the stitches are out. Everything looks good, so I guess it’s over.”

“Over,” Mike echoes. He feels strangely hollow, at the knowledge that it’s over, that they’ve made it through another terrible ordeal– even if it was mostly Will who had to make it through, but it’s the principle of the thing. They’re alive, and Will is alive, and he’s more than that, actually; he’s wide-eyed and a little pink in the cheeks and he’s fidgeting in place, like he can’t decide if he wants to lean into where their thighs are pressed together, where Mike’s hand is planted firmly on the wood of the windowsill and brushing against his, or if he wants to lean away. Will is more than just alive; he’s warm and real and his hair is tousled, and his white t-shirt is wrinkling up where he keeps toying with the hem of it. He’s beautiful, magnificent in the early evening sun, and the simple fact of the continued end of the world around them does not make Mike want to kiss him any less.

This isn’t about him, though. This isn’t about Mike or his pathetic inability to pick up on things that are right in front of him. This is about Will, and Will’s terrible ordeal, the one Will made it to the other side of. Will, who’s watching him intently, a little tentatively, like he’s scared Mike might up and bolt if he says the wrong thing.

“How are you feeling?” Mike prompts, when it becomes clear Will isn’t going to say anything on his own.

“Oh,” Will says again, and then shrugs. “I mean, pretty normal, I guess. Just the scar left. Wanna see?” he adds.

“Obviously,” Mike says, because obviously. Will turns so he’s looking Mike dead on and hikes his shirt up, just like he’d done before. Unlike last time, though, there’s a noticeable absence of the sterile white gauze, the medical tape, the air of uncertainty. Unlike last time, Mike can see it– the pink line cutting across Will’s torso, angry, sharp and jagged, but finally, finally harmless.

“There you go,” Will announces, shooting a cursory glance down at it himself, then looking back up. “Underwhelming, I know.”

Mike isn’t so sure about that. He hadn’t ever known that so much blood could come out of a wound this size, of a person this small. The first time Will had died, there had been no blood. And he’d seen Bob die after that, and Billy, and the agent from Lenora, but they were all big men. A lot more adult, a lot more grown up. Nothing like Will.

But then again, Will isn’t the same as he was three years ago. Things are different now. Will is more grown up now.

Mike breathes out, low and slow. “Wow,” he says, as Will lets his t-shirt fall back into place. Eloquent, he knows.

“Yeah,” Will says, in simple agreement. “So. That’s it, then.”

A breeze dances through the air around them, warm and entirely unexpected. Mike grips harder onto the paper in his hand, so it doesn’t catch and fly away. Will’s eyes follow the movement, and he shifts in place before glancing away.

When Mike opens his mouth, what comes out is, “You’re still thinking about it.”

It’s not really a question, but he hadn’t meant it as an accusation either. Will flinches slightly at the words anyway, leaning decidedly away from Mike after all, as if the meager six inches of space he’s just put in between them is going to amount for anything at all. “I– sorry,” Will says, sounding equal parts defensive and apologetic. “I shouldn’t have– any of it, I mean, and it was a dumb idea, I’m sorry, I just– I picked up my sketchbook and I didn’t mean to draw it, but it just sort of appeared on the page anyway–”

“Will,” Mike says, because Will’s voice is starting to pick up in both speed and pitch, the way it does sometimes when he’s upset. He goes to put a hand on Will’s shoulder, but immediately thinks better of it. He elects to put it back down on the wood of the panel underneath them. Safely neutral territory. “Hey, are you kidding? I love this. It’s insane, Will. Anything you ever make is insane. I can’t believe you– just wow.”

Will shrugs again. “It’s barely more than a sketch,” he says quietly. “I just thought– it’s selfish of me, I know, I’m sorry– I just thought that maybe it would make you feel better about the whole thing, which was a bit of a long shot, but I figured why not, you know? I thought that maybe if I got a do-over, maybe this time I could get it right, say the right thing–”

“You mean–”

Will’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what I mean, Mike.” He keeps his hands in his lap, ignores the empty space by Mike’s outstretched fingers. “And it’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it. I promise.”

No, Mike thinks, faintly and from what feels like very far away. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to him. Mike doesn’t get the things he wants like this– without fuss or turmoil or pain. Especially not Will– Will, his best friend. Will, who he’s hurt so many times before. Will, who keeps letting him back in, over and over and over again.

“Can you,” Mike swallows, “can you just– what are you trying to say?”

Will presses his mouth into a hard, thin line. “Mike,” he says, so, so soft, “please don’t make me say it.”

Mike doesn’t think Will gets it. Will seems to think it’s a game, or something– that maybe Mike is toying with him, or dragging this out for kicks. Will seems to think that Mike doesn’t want to talk about it, seems to think that Mike hasn’t been thinking about it. Seems to think that Mike is–

That he’s–

Mike shakes his head, opens his mouth, pauses, then promptly scrambles backwards out of the window. He tumbles onto the floor of his room with a soft groan of protest, and immediately makes for the bed.

Will twists to look down at him, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Just wait.” Mike holds up a finger, rifling around underneath, fingers brushing against old boxes and textbooks and finally emerging, victorious, a moment later. “Here,” he says, throwing his legs over the windowsill and narrowly avoiding braining himself on the window above him.

Will’s lips twitch as he takes the proffered paper. It’s nothing special– just lined paper, folded into thirds– but Mike knows exactly what’s inside. How could he forget? He spent sleepless nights mulling these over, the guilt soaking deep into his skin. Will flips it over, catches sight of the address scrawled in messy blue ink over the cover, and his mouth drops open. “Mike, I–”

“I know you said you never read these,” Mike starts, as Will looks hesitantly over at him, “and I believe you. But I think you should read them. Or one, at least. I think it’ll help.”

“Help?”

“Just read it,” Mike insists, before he can chicken out, and tries his hardest to resist the urge to bury his head in his hands and crawl away.

As it is, it’s an excruciating thing. The original plan was to avoid all eye contact until Will says something first, because the idea of looking at him is, suddenly, on par with looking directly into the sun. Mike chances a glance over anyway, catching sight of Will’s parted lips, eyebrows upturned in confusion, eyes darting across the page. “I don’t–” Will looks up a minute or two later, looking even more confused than when he’d begun reading, “–sorry,” he adds, “I don’t think I understand?”

So he’s going to make Mike say it.

“I– you know El and I broke up,” Mike starts slowly, and Will nods. “Well, the big fight we had– back in Lenora, I mean, at your house, before she left– I couldn’t tell her I loved her.”

“Right,” Will says. The paper is getting creased in his grip, and he smooths it out against his leg. “Right, yeah.”

“Well,” Mike wrings his hands, “she was upset because I couldn’t write it either.”

Will’s eyes flick, almost imperceptibly, to the bottom of the page. “Right,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Okay, so–”

“And,” Mike goes on, “when I was writing to El– it was hard, thinking of what to say. I kept feeling like I was lying to her because I left so much out. About the Party, about everyone, about– how I was doing. I didn’t want her to know. It didn’t feel right.”

Will looks back down at his lap and asks, far too casually to really be all that casual, “How were you doing?”

“Not good,” Mike admits, rubbing his palms against his jeans. God, his hands are so sweaty. His heart might be beating loud enough for Will to hear when he adds, “But you already know that. Because I wrote about it. In that letter.”

“You did,” Will says faintly. “I just– I’m sorry, I’m just feeling a little lost.”

Will’s going to make him say it. Will is definitely going to make him say it.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says, “that I didn’t send these. And I’m also sorry I let you think I never wrote them. I guess–” Oh, god, his palms are so, so sweaty. The intensity with which Will is looking at him isn’t helping. Mike runs his hands over the denim covering his thighs, again and again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was scared.”

Something in Will’s expression softens. He leans back, sets the paper down on the floor by the window, and leans forward again, towards Mike. He places a comforting hand on Mike’s knee and squeezes, once. “Scared? Of what?”

Will is going to make him say it. “Of how hard things were with El,” Mike says slowly, trying to think about anything but where they’re touching, “but how easy they were with you.”

Will blinks. “Oh. You mean–”

“I mean,” Mike interrupts him, head spinning in a way that has nothing to do with how high off the ground they are. He covers Will’s hand with his, winds their fingers together, and hears Will inhale sharply next to him. “I mean– fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to–”

“Mike,” Will says, voice ragged. “What are you trying to say?”

Will is going to make him say it. Mike glances down at their joined hands and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Sometimes,” he starts, “I feel like my brain is going at a different speed than everyone else’s. Like, sometimes it’s going too fast and sometimes it’s way, way too slow.” 

He looks up. Will nods at him and squeezes his hand. “Yeah?”

Oh, god. Mike brings his legs back over the windowsill until they’re planted firmly inside his room, then exhales, moving closer until the small semblance of a gap between them has closed. Until he and Will are facing each other, until he’s no longer holding Will’s hand, but gripping him loosely around the wrist. Until Will’s leaning up against the wall, eyes wide, faces mere inches away from Mike’s.

He’s definitely not breathing.

Mike doesn’t know if he is either.

“Sometimes,” Mike says. His voice is hoarse and his throat is drier than he can remember it being in a long, long time. “Sometimes I’m not good at seeing what’s right in front of me.”

“That’s okay,” Will says. He looks absolutely terrified. “What–”

“And I should have known before,” Mike continues. Will lets out a shaky exhale, warm as it ghosts over Mike’s cheek. His eyes flutter closed, just once, for barely a second, before they snap open again. “And maybe– I think I did, for a while, even if I didn’t know that I knew–”

“Mike,” Will says quietly. His eyes glance downwards, so quickly that Mike almost misses it. “You– I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to spell it out for me, okay?”

Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

Mike is going to have to say it.

“I’m saying,” Mike says. His voice is shaking, which is entirely embarrassing on his part, and his hands might be shaking, and his whole body, actually, feels like it might be shaking. He brings the hand on Will’s wrist up, up, up, until it’s settled over his waist– over the worn cotton of the white t-shirt, over the scar, over the remnants of blood and shock and awful muscle memory– and tugs lightly at the fabric there. The shirt doesn’t offer much of a barrier; Will is warm under him, burning, caustic and a thousand degrees. He tenses slightly, but Mike doesn’t pull his hand away. “I’m saying–” Mike tries again, “I’m going to do something so stupid– so, so stupid– and I need you to tell me not to.”

Will’s always been a bit of a moral compass for him anyway, but now, with Will’s hand coming to rest on Mike’s thigh– gripping, like maybe the touch is as grounding for him as it is for Mike, like maybe he needs it just as badly as Mike does– it doesn’t feel like he’s guiding Mike anywhere near reason. “I can’t tell you that,” he whispers, eyes half lidded, like he’s fighting to keep them open, “until I know what it is.”

Mike bites back a smile, leaning in until their foreheads rest against each other. Will lets him– Will lets him, and this on its own, the simple allowance Will is offering him, feels like an answer. Will’s thumb is tracing small circles over Mike’s leg, and the touch feels abrasive, maddening, despite the hesitancy. “You’re being difficult on purpose,” Mike accuses him, and up close, he can almost feel Will’s answering grin, he can feel the resulting puff of air from his laugh, he can trick himself, maybe, into feeling Will’s pulse ticking away under his palm.

“Maybe,” Will replies lightly. Up close, Mike can hear him fighting to keep his voice even, catches the hitch of his breath as he slips a thumb under the hem of his shirt. He’s tense, Mike notices, a little bit, despite everything.

“Hey,” Mike whispers, bringing his other hand to Will’s other side, slips careful fingertips under his shirt there too, just barely– and he’s warm, so warm– “it’s me. It’s just me.”

Will nods, then relaxes. “Yeah,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. If Mike tilted his head just a little, if Mike moved a hair’s width closer, if he breathed out just a little too forcefully, they’d be kissing. “Just say it, Mike.”

“I love you,” Mike obliges, and Will’s eyes fly open in surprise. Oh, god. “And I– can I–”

“You– yeah,” Will gets out. It’s a little choked, a little stunned, and his restless hands have finally stilled, and he’s warm and he’s real and he’s so, so alive– he’s living and breathing and alive– and it’s for this last reason, mostly, that Mike leans in and kisses him.

He’s even warmer up close, is the first thing Mike thinks, immediately thrown by the warmth of Will’s lips under his, the warmth of him under Mike’s hands, the warmth of Will’s hands, where they’ve drifted over to clutch at Mike’s forearms. It’s followed closely by the entirely unreal knowledge and the instantaneous realization that he’s kissing Will Byers– kissing Will Byers– and Mike’s brain immediately stops forming words.

Will is kissing him. He’s kissing him– or, more accurately, he’s letting Mike kiss him, which feels like it should maybe be the same thing on paper but is nowhere close in real life. Will is letting Mike kiss him, because Will’s lips haven’t really started moving and they’re sitting at this strange, entirely impractical angle, but Will is letting him do this– Will is letting Mike have this– he’s letting Mike press him into the sliver of wall bordering the open window, he’s pressing back, all closed mouth and unsteady force, because he’s never–

Oh, Mike thinks, oh, all at once entirely out of his own head with how quickly the thought bowls him over. Will’s never kissed anyone, because there were no girls in Lenora– and Mike had never gotten around to asking about the boys in Lenora, but if there were, they weren’t important– and there was no one who mattered but now there’s Mike. Mike is the one who gets to do this– Mike is the one who gets to run a thumb along the scorching skin of his stomach; Mike is the one who gets to feel Will shiver underneath him. Mike is the one who knows Will like the back of his own hand, has the shape of him memorized by sight alone, the sound of his breathing as he falls asleep, the way he eats his cereal in the morning, and now Mike is the one who knows what it’s like to kiss him.

The thought is, all of a sudden, entirely too much. Mike presses in harder, and Will lets out a quiet noise of surprise, hands flying up to the sides of Mike’s face, the touch hesitant but wanting all at once. Mike slips a hand around to Will’s back, feels a sliver of raised scar tissue against his fingertips, knows how Will Byers is made of flesh and blood and scars and bone, knows how he’s California sun and ink stained hands, and he’s the sound of seventies rock playing over a radio and bicycle chains rattling down a driveway, and he’s Mike’s best friend; he’s a body that carries too much gravity for its size and Mike is coming to the realization that maybe he’s been falling into him for his whole life.

He pulls away for a second, just enough for their mouths to separate, until they’re breathing the same air, lips barely touching. Will is burning, burning, burning– flushed a deep red, eyes fluttering open. “Will,” Mike whispers. His voice is embarrassingly hoarse for how long it’s been, but it doesn’t seem like Will is in a place to say anything. He looks stunned, a little wondrous, lips parted in surprise. Mike takes in a breath, feels Will’s hands still against his jaw, and says, quietly, “Is this okay?”

For a second, Will doesn’t react, just taps careful fingertips against Mike’s face, like he’s making sure Mike hasn’t dissipated under him, that he’s still real. Mike is just starting to think he’s made some awful, terrible mistake– that somehow, he’s misread every sign leading him here, misinterpreted everything Will had been saying, even when he’d been all but spelling it out for him– when a sound tears its way out of Will’s throat, desperate and stilted, and he’s pitching forward and crashing their mouths together again.

Mike doesn’t have time to brace himself. The impact pushes him back, back, back, and his head makes immediate contact with the bottom part of the window. He lets out a small gasp of pain, feels it bloom sharp and bright at the base of his skull. By the time Will pulls away enough to get anything out, already threading a soothing hand through Mike’s hair– “Sorry, sorry, shit, sorry,” he says, wide-eyed and apologetic– Mike is already shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he gasps, tugging Will back in. “Don’t ever– don’t do that,” and maybe his brain isn’t running at top speed right now, and maybe he’s a little down for the count, but Mike doesn’t know how much of that can be attributed to a minor head injury instead of the simple fact of Will kissing him. Will, who’s everywhere, whose hands are fisted in Mike’s hair, who’s leaning his whole body weight forward and into Mike, like every inch of space between them is physically hurting him. Will’s grip on him turns insistent, reassuring and solid instead of tentative, and Mike hangs on for all he’s worth. It’s insane, this feeling– he feels like a sparking livewire, and everywhere they touch feels electric, alive, like Will is a conductor and Mike is just along for the ride.

His year and a half of adolescent relationship experience, Mike is realizing, has absolutely nothing on this. Kissing had been a weird, alien sensation, and he’d resigned himself to putting up with it because that’s what you do, when you date someone. But this is different– so, so different– and it’s never felt anywhere close to this before, because Will is Will, and he’s running his fingers down Mike’s jaw again, and he’s kissing him back, sweet and slow, hesitant but unashamed, and he’s got a hand on the back of Mike’s head so he doesn’t, presumably, give himself a concussion again. And it’s this, the last thing, the feeling of Will’s palm curled protectively through his hair, the solid weight of his body under Mike’s hands, the careless thoughtfulness of it all, that makes Mike pull away for a second time to stutter, “Wait– hang on–”

Will looks like he can’t decide whether to be pissed off or worried. “What?” he asks, breathless. His lips are so, so red. And then again, at Mike’s sudden inability to form words– “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, feeling inexplicably out of breath. Will’s hand is still in his hair, and his lips are still so red, and his shirt is all wrinkled up at the hem where Mike had been grabbing onto him. He clears his throat and manages, “Just– we should probably get out of the window, I don’t want to– um. Fall off the roof.”

“Oh,” Will says, and then, louder, “oh! Yeah, yeah, good call.”

Mike stands up, reaches a hand out, and hoists Will through, who stumbles onto the floor of the room behind him and gets awkwardly to his feet.

“Um,” Mike says, still holding one of Will’s hands. His heart might actually be going one million miles per hour, and he’s surely as red as Will looks right now, if not more. “So–”

“You kissed me,” Will says faintly, bringing a hand up to his lips– which are still, Mike notices distantly, very red.

“Yeah,” Mike hears himself say, “I did, yeah.”

Will blinks. “You said you love me,” he says, fingers still lingering at his lips. The disbelief in his voice is maybe the worst thing Mike can imagine– Will being told someone loves him, and not immediately accepting it as truth. “Do you– because if you’re kidding, if this is some sort of a joke and you don’t mean it–”

“Why would I ever joke about this,” Mike says, and he’d be more offended about it, about the fact that Will could ever think he’d lie about this, about wanting him, if Will’s eyes weren’t wide, scared, pupils blown in acute wonder. “Of course I do, Will, I don’t know how I couldn’t.”

“Really?” Will asks again.

Mike rolls his eyes. “I kissed you,” he repeats, and Will smiles, pleased.

“You did,” he agrees.

Mike doesn’t know how he managed to keep it in for so long. All this time he'd been so totally unaware, fighting so hard against something he hadn’t even known he’d been fighting, and he supposes this is what happens when you keep a secret too long, even without knowing: it starts fighting its way back out of you with fire and blood and fury. He feels hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him, bright and giddy, and he wants to catch Will around the waist again, he wants to press their lips together again, he wants to kiss him breathless until Will never says anything in that tone again– surprised, in shock, like Mike loving him was ever, ever in question. “I love you,” he says again, and for good measure, “I love you. I love you. I lo–”

“Oh,” Will laughs lightly, and it turns into a bit of a coughing noise. He sounds a little overwhelmed, in a way that Mike can’t help but be endeared by. “I love you too, Mike. Of course.”

He’d kind of been getting the idea, while Will had been kissing him, that his feelings might be at least somewhat reciprocated, but it does nothing to curb the rush of relief flooding his veins, sickly sweet and heady. “Yeah?” he asks, and the relief is seeping into his voice, too, now, and it comes out sounding a little like he might cry– which would be more embarrassing if Will’s face wasn’t doing something very similar.

Will drops his head into his hands with a soft groan. “I thought you knew,” he says, muffled by his fingers. He shakes his head, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and groans again. “I’m so sorry, Mike, I thought you figured it out forever ago, and I thought that was why you were being– I don’t know. You really didn’t know before?”

“Not until you kind of told me,” Mike laughs. He reaches forward, tugs at Will’s wrists until he lowers his hands from his face. Will blinks up at him, eyes big and more green than usual in the evening light. “You were kind of giving me mixed signals, man.”

“You–!” Will stares, incredulous. “I was the one giving you mixed signals?”

“Yes!” Mike exclaims. “You started avoiding me and getting mad at me and–”

“You told my sister you loved her,” Will counters, “in front of me,” which, of course, shuts Mike right up, because yeah, right, yes, he had most definitely done that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, going for sincerity as well as he can manage, which is, admittedly, getting more difficult with every second that Will keeps looking at him like this, “about everything, I mean– that it took me so long to get it together.”

“That’s okay,” Will murmurs, taking a slow step closer. The floorboards of the room creak softly under them as he moves, bringing his hands up and around Mike’s neck, until their faces are only a couple of inches apart again. “You got it eventually, that’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, and then, spurred on by Will’s thumbs stroking down the nape of his neck, and the unabashed way Will is staring at his mouth, adds, “and I’m going to kiss you again, by the way, so if you’re not on board with that feel free to tell me to fuck off, or something–”

“No chance,” Will whispers, and meets him in the middle.

Mike finds himself stumbling backwards, and it’s definitely a good thing they got out of the window, because this would have been an embarrassing way to die– but fulfilling, nonetheless, because the cause of death would, quite literally, have been being kissed by Will Byers– but now the bed catches him right behind the knees and he falls backwards. The mattress squeaks in protest as Will tumbles over and onto him with a small noise of alarm, and Mike is just starting to wonder if Will got hurt when he smiles against Mike’s mouth, huffing out a bright, pleased laugh. That’s addicting, Mike thinks dizzily, it’s dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous: the eagerness with which Will kisses him back, how his hands are moving so fast they’re everywhere all at the same time, the noise that escapes Will’s mouth when Mike bites at his lower lip, wrecked and half-formed, entirely unbidden. Dangerous, dangerous, all of it.

Mike lets himself think about it, just how long Will has known he’s wanted this; how long Will has been thinking about putting his hands in Mike’s hair, how long Will has been hoping Mike might do this, how long Will has wanted this even before knowing he did, an innate sort of desire. Will, who kisses like he does everything else– stubborn and energetic, with all his attention. Mike can’t keep the smile off his face, even as it steers the kiss into something clumsy and uncoordinated, contagious in the way he feels Will start grinning against his mouth. He has to fight to keep them from drifting apart, and manages one, two, three chaste kisses to Will’s lips, all teeth and laughter and a helium-light euphoria in his chest, before the sound of footsteps floats up the stairs.

Will is off him in a flash. They’re laying side by side by the time a knock sounds and the door opens, and Mike tilts his head backwards on the mattress to catch sight of whoever it is. Jonathan Byers stares at them, looking thoroughly unimpressed even while upside down.

“Hey,” he says after a moment of painful silence. “Just, uh– dinner’s ready, whenever you guys are.”

“Cool,” Will says, his voice teetering on the edge of a crack. Mike bites down on his lip to keep from laughing, and promptly contemplates jumping out the open window.

He knows what this must look like. Will’s hair is a mess, where Mike had just had his hands in it, and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are kissed red, and Mike is sure he looks the same. Jonathan Byers is no idiot, and– unfortunately for Mike, whose sister Jonathan is currently dating– definitely no stranger to the just-been-kissed look.

“Hey,” Mike says anyway, still looking at him upside down. He waggles his fingers in the air for good measure. “What’s up?”

Will lets out a snort next to him, which quickly turns into a stifled cough. Jonathan opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then clearly thinks better of it. “It’s tuna noodle casserole again,” he says, instead of whatever he’d been about to say. “Sorry in advance, our mom decided to cook tonight.” He pushes the door all the way open before he steps out of the doorway, though, and shoots Mike an indecipherable sort of look which Mike can only take to mean one thing–

“Oh no,” Mike says, the second he hears Jonathan’s footsteps hit the landing of the first floor. “Your brother hates me.”

Will pushes himself up onto his side, on his elbow next to Mike with both legs dangling off the bed. “He doesn’t,” Will laughs, shaking his head, as Mike throws his head back onto the mattress with an exaggerated groan. “I promise.”

“Okay, well, he definitely knows,” Mike amends. He bumps a knee casually against Will’s, turns his head to catch Will’s fond gaze at full beam.

“Oh, yeah.” Will bites down on his lower lip, and Mike follows the movement with his eyes. “Yeah, he, uh. He definitely knows.”

“Great,” Mike says, reaching up to thread a hand back through Will’s hair, through where it’s still sticking up all along the back and sides. He runs his fingernails over the shorter, cropped strands at the base of his neck, and Will shivers, dropping his head onto Mike’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you guys talked about me.”

“We didn’t– oh, you’re insufferable,” Will says, muffled by the fabric of Mike’s shirt. Mike grins to himself and runs a hand through Will’s hair, over and over and over, reveling in Will’s answering sigh and the way his whole body relaxes, all at once. “I didn’t tell him. He just sort of– knew.”

“What, really?”

“I think he knew before I did, if I’m being honest.” Mike feels Will smile against the skin of his throat, and then Will lifts his head and adds, “About the boys thing, I mean– that I like boys, if that wasn’t clear by now– and also, uh. You.”

Mike can’t help it. He pulls Will back in, slips a hand around to his back to steady him as he teeters above Mike, and whispers, against Will’s lips, “So, the boys in Lenora–”

Another huff of laughter. “Definitely didn’t exist,” Will says quietly, and kisses him again.

It would be easy– too easy– to let himself get caught up in this, now that Mike knows what it’s like, because now that he’s gotten the most minute taste, he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to be able to drag himself away again. He allows himself a few precious seconds more, allows himself the chance to pull Will flush on top of him, allows Will the chance to bite tentatively at his lip, and then again, less tentatively– allows himself the chance to pull away and mutter, “Holy shit,” under his breath, and swallow Will’s answering laugh– allows himself the simple pleasure of kissing Will right over the beauty mark on the corner of his lips, and then, with no small amount of regret, leans back and away completely.

Will goes a little cross-eyed looking down at him, making an aborted movement like he’d been about to lean in, chasing after Mike. “What is it now?” 

“We should go,” Mike says mournfully. His hands are still on Will’s back, around his waist, and they don’t seem to want to let go, so maybe he really is the poster boy for mixed messages after all. “Before Jonathan comes looking again.”

“Oh,” Will says, and then, pulling a face, “oh, yeah, no. That would be bad.”

Will’s hair falls into his eyes as he moves to get up, clambering awkwardly onto his hands and trying to slide off the bed. Mike watches him move, still flat on his back, and kicks aimlessly at Will’s legs as he gets to his feet, just to see him roll his eyes and smile. It’s a contagious sort of smile, and it always has been, but even more so now that Will is backlit in gold light, now that Will is flushed and happy and radiantly, beautifully alive. None of these facts do anything to staunch the want in Mike’s chest as it spills up and over and out of him, until the room feels saturated in it.

It’s getting closer to sunset, and the light streaming into the room is growing heavy with impending dusk. The air is going thick and silent in the way it always seems to get during the summer months, because apocalypse or not, the world never tires of reminding Mike that he lives in Hawkins, Indiana, birthplace of sleepy suburbia. Any other year at this time, they’d be riding their bikes around with their friends until the sun set, or coming back in from a day at the lake, or building bottle rockets in a field, somewhere. Anything, anywhere; all these years, Mike had just been happy to have Will around.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, watches Will stretch out by the open window, long and languid. “You’re staring,” Will says quietly, which Mike can’t refute, because he is, because he simply can’t help it, because a side effect of wanting someone is, unfortunately and tragically, the want itself, cloying and saccharine and so, so addictive. Mike thinks maybe he’d have a better chance of going another round with the demodog than ever taking his eyes off Will again.

“Sorry,” Mike says, and nudges at Will’s knee with his foot again. Will dodges him easily, pulls him up with one hand, rolls his eyes again as Mike groans, long and exaggerated.

“You’re not,” Will says, flushing an even deeper pink as he says it. This is true too; he’s got Mike’s fucking number now, and Mike would probably have a better chance of going another round with two demodogs than have Will give him an easy time about something ever again. Will tugs at the front of his shirt, takes a step backwards, and makes a frustrated noise when Mike’s hands immediately gravitate to his hips again. “Mike,” he huffs, and Mike can see the realization dawn in his eyes– that Mike is never going to give him an easy time about anything either– “we should really go.”

“Yeah,” Mike says. He tilts Will’s chin up for one last kiss, and lets him go.