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Will, Mike notices, has been tired.
Exhaustion, Mike could call it, but sleepy is more like it; dark smudges underneath his eyes and a millisecond slower in responding, it’s clear that his mind is somewhere else. Probably his bed, assumedly.
Mike, being the deducing detective and expert in Will Byers that he is, is ninety-nine point nine percent sure that Will’s been having trouble sleeping, with the leering shadow of Vecna and trouble behind him again, and he definitely and absolutely doesn’t want Mike to know. Unluckily for him, Mike has half his brain dedicated just to filing away any minute changes to Will, even before the Upside Down – in a not-weird, concerned-best-friend way.
Nonetheless, it’s clear; Will is tired. Sleepy.
Susceptible to nap times, is the point. Or, what Mike thinks is the point. He doesn’t know.
What Mike does know, though, is that, back when they were twelve and their biggest problem had been only the Mind Flayer, Will also had trouble sleeping then. What Mike also knows is that, to cure this, the Party had held multiple sleepovers, with high rates of success, sometimes with all of them, sometimes with only Mike and Will.
So, with his high intellect and problem-solving skills, Mike’s come to a reasonable, rational, understandable, logical answer.
“We should sleep together.”
Granted, this is probably not the most tactful or elegant way of putting it, but if he doesn’t say it now, when it’s just the two of them in his basement, watching a movie that he had stopped paying attention to, to instead stare at Will’s side profile for, then he’ll completely lose the nerve and never say it at all.
Even after knowing each other almost all their lives, Mike’s lack of finesse with things like this clearly catches Will off-guard, when he turns to Mike with a startling speed and blurts, “What?”
Mike presses his lips together and tries his very best not to feel embarrassed. He’s doing this for the sake of Will’s brain activity, which, he had read a long time ago, might have a lull in alertness and interest in the world around him if he isn’t getting adequate sleep.
Therefore, he reasons, he’s merely being the best friend possible when he repeats, “We should sleep together.”
Will stares at him, and it’s a little unnerving, actually, how long he can go without blinking, before he croaks, “What are you talking about?”
“Well,” Mike begins, rolling out his mental map of lateral thinking, “you haven’t been sleeping well.”
At this, Will frowns. Even when he’s frowning, he looks gentle, and Mike wants to reach out and poke at his face until it goes away, like he used to when Will would get irritated over smaller, less world-shattering things. “Did El tell you that?”
Mike blinks. “No, but you did.” Will gives him a look, raising a hand to pinch his nose bridge, and Mike raises his hands in a What-can-I-say? manner. “And – I mean, I could kind of tell! You’ve been acting different. Tired.”
“Sorry,” Will mumbles, looking away, and Mike is quick to shake his head.
“No, no,” he says, and Will spares him a glance. “I – I just meant – I – I’m worried. And I –”
There’s a lot of things he could say here, a lot of logical phrases that would fit with them, and he’s been trying to put into words the large sum of his soul or body or whatever it is that holds this great, large – feeling in him, the lurch of his heart whenever he thinks or sees or talks to Will, for the past who-knows-how-long. For this, he doesn’t know how to say it.
And, after a long, long pause, to which Will is still staring at him, eyes wide and blinking, he lamely finishes, “I want you to be – okay.”
For all the writing and mental planning he does, the lack of elegance in Mike is not surprising to either of them. Will, thankfully, mercifully, seems to get it anyway, like he always does, when he offers a small smile and says, “Oh. Okay.”
“Okay,” Mike echoes. “So, I was – thinking. We should sleep together.”
Will, for some reason, still looks lost, but he looks cute – sweet, like that, pink cheeks and eyes wide and glossy and the slight furrow of his eyebrows like Mike has given him something outlandish.
“I,” he starts, “don’t understand.”
“Sleepovers used to help before, right?” Mike explains, and recognition slowly clicks onto Will’s face. It’s always a satisfying thing, and Mike wants to see it for the rest of his life. “With the, uh, Mind Flayer? So, I was thinking – since you’re, you know, having trouble sleeping, then taking a nap together or something would help.”
“Oh,” Will says, a little quiet, a little like it wasn’t supposed to escape his mouth, and Mike watches him blink once, twice, thrice. “You – that’s really –”
It’s incomparable, rendering Will flustered like this, and, Mike thinks, he’d offer sleepovers for the rest of their lives if it gets him this reaction every time. Then again, Mike reconsiders, he’d offer them anyway, even if Will gets used to it.
After some fumbling, Will gets a hold of himself to say, “That’s – nice of you.” Belatedly, he adds, “Thanks.” It holds much more weight than Mike thought a single word could.
Mike beams. “No problem.” He thinks he’d do anything for Will.
Which, in his opinion, isn’t an insane thing to say. He’s already helped defeat several monsters from alternate dimensions and kind of save the world for Will, and he’d do it again if he had to, even if he’d prefer not to. Still, anything sounds like no big deal at all. And, if it were a big deal, Mike would still do it. If Will asked for it, he could do it – although, Mike supposes, Will would never ask for something like that, which makes him someone worth that kind of sentiment.
When a lapse of silence follows, save for the quiet mumble of the television, and neither of them move, Mike pointedly says, “So. Are we going to?”
“I – now?” Will asks, sounding surprised.
Mike shrugs. “Well, yeah. Both of us watched this, like, eight times already,” he tilts his head towards the movie, “and you’ve been yawning this entire time, so.”
He’d be more embarrassed about the admission of half-watching Will this entire time, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Will’s mouth opens and closes, a little like a goldfish, before he gets out, “Really?”
Mike gives a nod. “Yeah.”
“You,” Will begins, and, when Mike waits, unperturbed and sitting in front of him, he falters. A flurry of emotions pass over his face, too quick for Mike to make out immediately, and then Will sighs, body deflating. He looks away, before looking back at Mike, and he repeats this for a few seconds, until he, almost defeatedly, says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Mike repeats, sitting up, and Will nods, rubbing a hand against the side of his face.
“Sure,” he mumbles. “Where are we –”
Mike moves faster than Will gets a chance to finish, already walking over to the closet in their basement, which has held all sorts of linens and blankets for movie nights and impromptu sleepovers. On the lower shelf sat the same, two sleeping bags they’ve owned for so long – his, and the extra one reserved for Will since forever.
Will turns off the movie, puts all the bowls to the side, folds the blankets on the couch, and, when that’s all done with, he turns to where Mike situates the sleeping bags right next to each other, moving the coffee table to rest upon the soft rug underneath.
When Mike moves away to stand next to Will, they both look down at the sleeping bags.
They’re – a little small. Admittedly, they are definitely not the same children they used to be, but it should work.
“Um,” Will says. “They’re a little –”
“Small?” Mike provides, and Will gives a sheepish smile. He chews on his lip, before looking up to meet Will’s eye. “I mean, we could just go up to my room and share my bed?”
“No,” Will answers, voice coming out a little loud, and his face is oddly pink. “That’s – no, actually, these – these should be fine. These are fine. This – I’m – this is good.”
Mike gives him a look. Maybe Will is more out of it than he had previously thought. “Alright,” he replies dubiously, “if you say so.” When neither of them move, he crouches down to the sleeping bags, lifting the cover. “Come on.”
The basement is quiet, occupied with the rustle of the nylon-material rubbing against itself, and there’s some shifting, and, Mike thinks, he’d prefer sharing a bed over this, but whatever Will wants, goes, he supposes, so this will have to do.
After a few moments, they both settle in properly, both of them staring up at the ceiling of the basement, the same shade of off-white it’s always been. They’re on their backs, both with their hands clasped over their rib cages, and Mike kind of wants to roll over and look at Will. He doesn’t.
Silence passes.
“You know,” Will murmurs, “now I’m not so sleepy.”
Mike lets out a sigh. “That defeats the whole purpose of this, Will.”
“Sorry,” Will replies, but he sounds like he’s smiling, and Mike doesn’t resist looking over, catching the amused tilt of Will’s mouth, and he glances over at the same time. He’s still so charming, even now, laying on Mike’s basement floor, in their sleeping bags that they haven’t used in forever.
When, after a moment, it becomes clear that neither of them would be spontaneously passing out within the blink of an eye, Mike exhales, letting himself properly relax. “Should I, like, tell a story or something?”
Will lets out a small laugh. “What, like a bedtime story?”
“If it helps,” Mike mumbles, and then he’s turning on his side, facing Will, and it shouldn’t feel so intimate, especially when they’ve done this several times, more times than he remembers, more times than he can ever fully appreciate, but it feels so much – closer, now, purposeful, when he rolls over, and Will’s right there, just a brief touch away.
“I don’t know.” Will slowly breathes out, and Mike watches the slow descent of his chest. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” Mike says simply, thinking for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a bird and a squirrel.”
Will raises an eyebrow. “What kind of bird?”
“ What kind of – I don’t know, a normal bird,” Mike answers, at a loss, and it’s not an unusual occurrence, Will asking specific questions about random details that they both know Mike doesn’t have an answer to, but it’s worth the little giggle Will lets out. “A normal bird and a normal squirrel.”
Will nods. “Sure.”
“Right,” Mike nods back. “They’re best friends, and the normal bird always visits the normal squirrel at the normal tree that the squirrel lives at.”
“Sounds normal,” Will agrees, and he rolls over, too, and suddenly they’re facing each other, barely apart, just like they always are. Mike can feel his heart kicking around in his chest, as if it’s trying to remind both of them that it’s still alive.
“Very,” Mike replies. “They’re very normal, and they talk every day, until the normal bird goes away for the winter, and the squirrel stays in its tree for the winter.” And Mike thinks, for a moment, until he continues, “And then a group of campers come around, because they’re insane and camping during the winter.”
“Right.”
“Right,” Mike repeats, “and because they’re camping during the winter, they’re cold, so they chop down the tree and use it for a fire, because they also have no regard for wildlife.”
Will blinks. “Oh. That’s terrible.”
“Totally.” Will’s eyes are nice, Mike thinks, so close next to him. They always make him look so sweet, so earnest. Mike goes on to say, “The squirrel escapes, and then it’s spring, and the normal bird comes back, but the tree isn’t there any more, so they – um, they can’t find each other.”
“Oh,” Will says again, and his mouth is a downturned twist. “That’s – pretty sad.”
“But the bird, like, chirps around for the squirrel, and the squirrel looks around for the bird,” Mike indulges, “until they find each other. And then they move somewhere that’s always warm, like – Florida or something.” Will laughs, small and bright, and something prideful glows in Mike. “And they live in a tree that’s, like, a protected species. Or something. And then they live normally and happily ever after. The end.”
“The end,” Will echoes, and he’s smiling, tangible and touchable, and Mike’s fingers twitch where they lay, curled around his middle. “Good story. I liked it.”
Mike brightens. “Yeah?”
Will nods. “I’m glad they found each other,” he says. “But I don’t think people camp during winter.”
“That’s why they’re insane,” Mike replies sagely, and Will shakes his head, despite his unwavering smile.
“Okay,” he murmurs, and it’s quiet, small in the grand scheme of things, but seems to bubble up and grow in the bit of space between them. Mike feels warm all over. “Thanks for the story.”
“‘Course,” he returns, and some part of him wants to say, Anything for you. He would have said it years ago, when they were younger, except he’s thinking too hard about it now, and suddenly it feels too awkward in his mouth, melting on his tongue like chocolate on his fingers, so he says nothing at all.
After a long pause of silence, but nothing very apprehensive, nothing held up in the air, Will’s blinking becomes slower, and his posture slackens, but he’s not asleep yet, the way his eyes flicker up to look at Mike’s face every few moments. It would make him feel more self-conscious if this were anyone else.
As it is, it’s Will, and Will’s seen him, through and through. Knows him – likes him, even after witnessing the lowest slopes of Mike. For that, he’s entirely relaxed when Will looks at him, and he looks back.
The basement lighting, dim in its nature, is warm, inviting for slumber, and it’s not entirely silent, with the sound of the heating, the very, very muted clatter of his mother’s moving around in the kitchen, the steps of the other residents in the house. It’s nice. Even in the apocalypse, there are bits of normalcy, still.
When Will’s breathing has slowed significantly, Mike quietly asks, “Sleepy yet?”
“Yeah,” Will answers, mumbled. He takes a brisk breath, before his eyes open a little wider, looking up to Mike, and, because he knows him, adds, “the story helped.”
Mike tries not to preen under the sentiment. “Good.”
“Thanks,” Will says, when a moment passes, and he shifts a little in his bag. “For, um, this, I guess. You know.”
And Mike does. “‘Course,” he replies again. It’s no obligation of his, he knows, but some part of him will always be dedicated to doing anything to make Will a little happier, he thinks. Not an obligation, not an entirely self-imposed responsibility, because Will would hate to impose, but something else. Something more, something he’ll always want to do. After a while, he opens his mouth. “You’re my best friend,” Mike says, although it’s a clear fact, he thinks, at this point in their lives.
Will’s lips quirk up in a smile. “I know, Mike.”
“And I’m yours,” he adds, and Will nods, satiating. “Cool.”
“Totally,” he murmurs. “Very cool.”
After some hesitation, he proposes, “We should – live together, one day.”
Will blinks, and his eyelids aren’t drooping so much anymore, as if he’s suddenly a little more alert than he was. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Mike nods, hair rubbing against the sleeping bag. “I mean, because it makes sense. We’re best friends, we like the same things, and – and we could have sleepovers all the time like this, in case you needed to, or just for fun, and,” he slows, feeling a little dumb, “I mean – I don’t know.”
Despite his eagerness, his disregard for what’s probably a very odd dream to have, Will’s smiling, anyway, and it’s lovely, he wants to see it, be the reason for it for the rest of forever, and then some. “Sounds nice.”
Mike tries not to feel so elated, and it doesn’t work in the slightest. “Really?”
“‘Course,” Will mumbles. “You can – write books and stuff, and –”
“And you’ll make us rich with your famous art,” Mike prophesizes.
Will snorts, raising a slow hand to lightly nudge at Mike, whose smile doesn’t waver. His hand falls away, but it doesn’t retreat back into his sleeping bag, lingering in the space between them. Momentary insanity and temptation takes over him, and Mike brings up his hand to hold Will’s in.
Will, the gracious and merciful boy that he is, doesn’t immediately recoil and take back his hand. He blinks again, eyes flickering between Mike’s face and their hands, and doesn’t move away. Mike doesn’t know why he feels so nervous.
“Yeah, right,” Will says lowly, and it takes a second to remember what they were talking about. “But – whatever. We can have movie nights and you can take out the trash.” Mike makes a face, and he lightly laughs. “And I’ll cook, or else you’ll burn the entire place down.”
“I wouldn’t burn the entire place down,” Mike denies, but Will stares at him, and he can feel his face warm.
“It’s okay,” Will placates, “we can just order food, with the millions of dollars you’ll make with your books.”
“And your art,” Mike mentions, and Will huffs a light laugh. It’s lovely, and Mike spends a little too long looking at the shape of it, the pink of Will’s mouth, the slope of his smile.
“Yeah,” he says, “okay. Sure.”
Mike nods, and Will nods back, and they look ridiculous, nodding silently at each other like this, grins on their faces, and Mike wonders if the sleepiness in Will is contagious, if it’s meant to make him feel so loopy, so loose with his words, his body, if it usually makes people feel so – much. Mike feels insane, a little.
“Good,” he decides.
“Good,” Will replies.
They’re still nodding. “Good.”
“Good.” Will has the best smile he’s ever seen, Mike thinks. Sincere, significant in any sense possible, Mike wants to treasure it. It’s not the first time he’s wished to be a painter, an artist to capture it.
Mike’s mouth feels dry. “Good.”
“Good.” Will is so close.
Good. “I want to kiss you.”
Will freezes.
Mike’s mouth stays open, for just a second, before it quickly clicks shut. It hadn’t been, evidently, what he meant to say, and there’s probably over a million things he should say, to explain himself, except Will’s staring at him, and Mike’s staring back, and both of them are frozen in their sleeping bags, hands still clutched, and barely a distance away.
Will croaks, “What?”
“What,” Mike immediately replies, and this, clearly, does not dissolve the change in atmosphere, and they both keep staring.
“No,” Will says, and then, “no, what – what did you say?”
Mike presses his lips together. “That I – want to kiss you?” He offers, a little questioningly, as if he isn’t sure himself, even though he’s never been so certain about anything in his life.
“I,” Will begins, red in the face, and Mike wants to press his palms against his cheeks, feel the warmth of it in his hands, “don’t understand.”
“Um,” Mike says, because he’s articulate and writes in his spare time. “I meant, because – because –”
For once, Mike can’t think of a singular explanation. There’s no line of reasoning, except –
“I want to kiss you,” he admits.
Will stares at him.
He’s entirely silent, and, even with the sound of the heating, the movement upstairs, Mike can’t hear anything over the chatter of his own thoughts, the rushing noise in his ears, and he wonders if this is the end, the smash of a hammer against the dream of their shared life together.
Mike flounders under his stare, and he carefully swallows. “Sor–”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentiment when Will is suddenly crashing against him, hands still entwined and body leaning over his, and his mouth is on Mike’s, and he’s – kissing Mike, and Mike has no idea what to do with his body.
Will kissing him is, Mike will admit, probably the best outcome he could have imagined, except it doesn’t click so quickly, eyes widening and frozen in place and his free hand hovers in the air while Will kisses him for approximately half a second, before he immediately moves back and, as if he’d transferred the word from Mike’s mouth to his, says, “Sorry.”
Mike blinks.
“No,” he says, and tugs Will back into a kiss.
His hands move up to cup Will’s face, and Will’s lips are sweet from the soda they’d been drinking earlier, and he’s warm everywhere, on the smooth skin of his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth, which is warm, a little dry, and good, the greatest, the best when he kisses Mike back.
It’s a little awkward, because Mike isn’t some expert on kissing, and especially when he’s only been in one relationship his entire life, and he, fleetingly, wonders if Will’s been kissing anyone else, a thought that he forgets when Will’s hand travels from his shoulder to his nape, fingers shoving themselves into Mike’s hair.
It’s a little awkward, and it’s a little clumsy, both of them half-sitting half-lying-down, and Mike doesn’t know if it’s strange, holding Will’s face like this, even if he’s thought about it for so long, and he doesn’t know how good he is at kissing, and it’s definitely a little awkward and very clumsy and it’s Will and it’s perfect and Will, Mike thinks, knows, is perfect.
It is, decidedly, just as perfect when they’re both suddenly tipping back, and they depart when Will’s suddenly tilted way too back, and then he’s laying on the ground, spine against his sleeping bag and cheeks flushed pink. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide and shining.
He looks gorgeous.
Mike wants to kiss him again immediately, so he does.
Will isn’t expecting it, like most of this exchange, but he pulls Mike close anyway, an arm wrapped around Mike’s back and a quick, close-mouthed kiss, before Mike leans back, just to kiss him on the cheek, on one of the several birthmarks on his face, on the spot right underneath his eye, hands tilting his jaw up to kiss Will there, too. He’s been thinking about it too long not to, anyhow.
“Mike,” Will says, and it comes out like the bubble-up of laughter, like soda fizz, like the feeling in Mike’s stomach, “Mike, this –”
He moves away, but only enough to look Will in the eye, hands still curled around his face, and it isn’t helping, the way Will leans into his touch, the smile split on his lips. Will isn’t quick to say anything, only looking, and Mike tries not to blush even harder than he already is. “What?”
“Nothing,” Will replies, smiling steadily. “But – we were supposed to sleep.”
“Oh,” Mike says, remembering who and where he is. “Right. Yeah, we can do that.”
Will watches, unmoving while Mike rearranges his limbs, shuffling even closer, until their thighs press together, through the thin layers of nylon and polyester, and then even closer, when Will only looks at him invitingly, as if he wants this.
Mike wraps his arms around Will, a little too tight if it were anyone else, but Will’s accustomed to the suffocating embrace of Mike, and only wriggles a little to return the hug. Mike brings Will close, his face against Mike’s neck, the puffs of his breath fanning against the brief sliver of Mike’s bare skin.
“We’ll get married,” Mike decides out loud, and feels it when Will nearly chokes against him.
“Mike,” he coughs out, “we aren’t even eighteen.” Mike shrugs to the best of his ability, still holding Will. “That’s – that’s not even – you can’t even –”
“We’ll get married,” Mike says again, and, this time, Will only lets out a small, muffled sound, shoving his face into Mike’s shirt, and that’s just as swell, Mike thinks.
After a second, Will barely retreats from Mike’s chest to say, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Mike beams. “Good.”
“Yeah,” Will replies, sounding a little dazed, and Mike’s smile widens. “Good.”
Mike squeezes him, just a little. “Good.”
Will’s hands curl into Mike’s shirt. “Good.”
“Good.”
“Sleep,” Will interrupts finally, smile audible, and, when his hold on Mike tightens imperceptibly, Mike can’t think of anything better.