Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will, contrary to popular belief, has never claimed to be sensible. 

This, of course, could be argued against with the fact that, up until this point, he has been able to function as a relatively normal person – he is scarcely as insane as the rest of his friends, because at least he’s never taught an entire day of P.E. in a Darth Vader mask, or hidden a rabbit in the library all day, or covered Mike’s entire classroom in gift-wrap and duct tape for fun, or even had a lab experiment go wrong and dye his arms blue for an entire week. Really, one might argue Will is the sanest person in the entire staff of Hawkins High School. 

“Mr. Byers!” 

So, to find him doing some kind of half-jog half-walk that is strangely reminiscent of a PTA mom to get away from a colleague, then, well – he thinks he’s allowed a little bit of ridiculousness. 

This is not as out of the blue with the context of spotting Ms. Lisa Wilson, who, since Will has transferred into the staff of Hawkins High, has been unrelenting in her tendency of trying to woo him with way too many innuendos and terrible pick-up lines, and not in the cheesy, makes-him-laugh kind of way, but the sort that makes everyone within earshot cringe horribly. 

It’s almost impressive how she has yet to realize that he is more of a Luke than a Leia guy (Han Solo guy, really, if he were to actually get into it), even after bringing his very brief boyfriend around for one of their office parties. Sometimes, he fights the urge to write Very Not Into Women on his forehead and hope she has the sense of taking the hint, lest she think gay was only a synonym for happy. 

All this being said, when Will takes a moment to look up from the mural he was currently painting on the wall next to his door and comes to find Ms. Wilson rounding the corner and gaining on him, he does the most rational thing he can think of. 

He makes a run for it. 

Which is – not his proudest moment, he’ll admit, and it’s probably a little comical, how his eyes widen before he looks around himself and finds the hallway entirely empty and therefore unable to hide behind anyone. It only takes him a second to decide that rather than, perhaps, thinking of a good reason as to why he’s too busy to talk, he instead turns around and bolts. 

He’s grateful for the fact that the school year has yet to begin and the hallways are mercifully empty, and the only sound occupying the hall is the sound of his shoes squeaking against the waxed floors and her quickening pace of heels. The click of her steps is almost ominous, accompanied by nothing but silence, and he wonders how she could possibly be moving so fast in such a restricting pencil skirt. She, he thinks, might just be some undercover supervillain. 

J. Miller High in Indianapolis was barely any better for the little time he worked there, but he’d choose students pulling the fire alarm every week to running for his life like this. Working in the circus of a school that is Hawkins High can only have so many perks. 

He makes an abrupt left turn into a different hallway, before sliding into Room 313, slinking against the wall and out of sight. The hurrying sound of Ms. Wilson’s heels gradually grows nearer, until, after a brief pause, it continues, and slowly fades. When Will carefully peers out of the doorway, she’s nowhere to be seen. 

Will can’t help the sigh of relief he lets out, and when he turns back to the classroom, Mike is standing atop a chair, clearly not having noticed Will, eyebrows frowning as he fiddles with the projector propped up on the ceiling. 

He, despite himself, relaxes at the sight of Mike. It’s hard not to. There’s a reason Will had fallen in love with him. 

Although, he does spare a second to question his taste as he watches Mike nearly fall off a tiny, blue chair. 

“That can’t be safe.” 

“Holy – fucking Christ on a bike –” 

Will tsks, leaning against the doorway and concealing a laugh when Mike wobbles on the chair and nearly tips over and onto the waxed floors. He’s already tall on just his legs but, on the chair, he’s looming close to the ceiling to fix the projector where, as Will silently watches, he has been trying to get the Signal Not Detected off the board. 

“Language,” Will chides idly, and Mike stares at him. He looks, with his ruffled hair and displeased expression, like a disgruntled cat. Will cracks a grin.

“I’m stressed,” Mike sniffs, as if personally offended, and returns to messing with the wires. “I have, like, barely a week to prepare emotionally and physically before a bunch of – goblins are in my room and complaining about a – a curriculum, as if I have any control over it, and this stupid fucking projector,” he connects two red and yellow plugs together and presses a button in front of him, “that’s been harboring a grudge against me ever since I compared it to Aunt Janine two years ago won't fucking work, and – finally!” The screen flickers to the view of his default desktop home screen, and he huffs. 

Will watches as he hops off the chair, a gangly mess of long limbs in a button-up and black jeans and a clumsy tie, which, even after three years of shared meetings, he still is so terribly at tying, letting it hang messily around his collar. It is, unfortunately, charming. Will’s thought too many times about reaching out and fixing it for him. 

“You like the goblins,” he points out, because, despite all of Mike’s complaints, it’s true. “And I’m pretty sure the projector isn’t sentient.”

“Yet,” Mike mutters, and Will bites down an amused smile. “You know, I’m, like, ninety-nine point nine percent sure they’re going to create, like, little robot things that are going to replace us at our jobs, and then I’m going to be homeless and die in the streets, and then I’ll be lonely, because I’ll be dead, and my students are going to point and laugh at my dead body and leave me for the –” 

“You know,” Will interrupts, like he often does when Mike goes on a spiel about the inevitable overtaking of society by technology, “I think there’s a movie coming out about something like that.” 

And, like Mike often does when Will mentions a new movie to watch, brightens to ask, “Oh. Really?” 

“Yeah,” Will nods, and Mike shuffles over to his desk to grab a tower of books for the shelf in the back. “It’s about this whole fake reality that they – do you want some help?” 

Mike’s arms very much shake when he slowly carries the heap of books to the back. “I’m good,” comes Mike’s muffled response. “What about the fake reality?” 

Will would say that he’s become quite the expert in acting like a normal, sane person, who doesn’t have a hopeless, deeply-ingrained romantic love for a man that doesn’t find anything wrong with eating eight pudding cups for breakfast, but alas, there is only so much normalness and sanity to find in falling in love with Mike Wheeler in the first place.

Nonetheless, he’d give himself the credit in saying that, for the past six years or so, when he had just become cognizant of his very terrible, no good feelings for Mike, he’s been doing a pretty good job at hiding them, even if Mike makes it horribly hard to do so. He’s helplessly charming and sweet at all the right times, ever so everything Will could ever envision wanting in someone. 

Right now, however, when he watches Mike’s tower of books come collapsing out of his hands and onto the floor, it’s a little less difficult to hide the skip of his heart. 

Will presses his lips together. “I did offer help.” 

“I got it,” Mike says, staring at the books, before he begins picking them up. When Will takes a step forward to help him, he threateningly holds up a book. “Don’t you dare try and lift a finger, or so help me Byers, I’ll throw Mary Shelley right at you.” 

Will puts his hands up in surrender, a small smile as he takes a step back, although it’s not very threatening, a flimsy copy of Frankenstein jostling around in Mike’s hand. “Fine,” he shrugs. “Suffer.” 

Mike squints at him, before picking up Hamlet. "Maybe I will."

Will takes the time to let his gaze wander around the blank walls, ever so consistent with Mike’s classrooms, even over the past few years. It’s a sharp contrast to Will’s art classroom, or even Mike’s own apartment, which is spilling over with character. 

“You know,” he begins, walking over to the whiteboard, “I say this every time, but you seriously need some decorations.” 

“They,” Mike huffs, carrying nine books in his arms, “do not pay me enough to care about the interior decoration of my classroom. And, also, I don’t want the goblins to know I have a – a personality,” he says, shuddering. 

Will turns around and takes a long, long look at Mike’s dragon-themed tie. “Right.” 

“Besides,” Mike continues, slowly placing the books on the shelf, the sound of his hard copies and paperbacks clear, even as Will turns back around and grabs the blue marker, “you decorate enough for the both of us, I think. Like, uh, yin and yang.” 

“I don’t think that’s what that is,” Will says, leaning up to the top-right corner of the board. “Or how that works.” 

“Same difference,” Mike says, definitely and absolutely wrong. 

A quiet settles over them, as Mike shoves his books onto his bookshelf, the sides littered with students’ signatures over the years, and Will doodles onto the board, pristine and blank and incredibly tempting to mark. Outside, there is the low chatter of other teachers, and, periodically, the blasting of muffled Backstreet Boys as Mr. Tavarez makes his rounds around the building with his obnoxiously loud portable speaker. Ms. Wilson, thankfully, does not make an appearance again. 

He’s only drawing for a few moments, but the book stacking begins to cease, and then Mike is next to Will’s side, close enough for Will to catch a hint of the cologne that Mike is so keen on wearing, mahogany and named something stupid like No. 3 Western Life or something stupid like that and makes Will momentarily lose his mind. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Giving your sad little room some life,” Will mutters, and Mike makes a noise of protest, even if, when Will lands back on his heels and glances at him, he’s smiling. 

He’s peering up at the little drawing Will had quickly scribbled onto his board, a little knight – a paladin, if anyone were the wiser, with a determined little face and sword drawn, Mr. Wheeler, English, written right beside it. 

“Oh,” Mike says. “That’s really cute. You – wow.” He’s grinning when he looks at Will. “Thanks.” 

“Sure,” Will shrugs, feeling a little warm in the cheeks when Mike turns to properly look at him. It’s probably in his head when they stare at each other a little longer than necessary. It’s with more deliberation than necessary that he caps the marker and places it back down. 

“I’m glad they moved me closer to the art block,” Mike mentions after a second, and Will blinks at him. “It’ll be easier to bother you, now.” 

Will clicks his teeth. “Incredibly professional,” he notes, and Mike’s smile widens. Sometimes, Will’s heart feels moments from exploding, like a firework someone had poured gasoline onto and threw in a fire. 

“I’m the pinnacle of professional,” Mike decides, oblivious to Will’s cardiovascular issues.

“Totally,” Will replies dryly. He glances at his watch, ticking a little after noon. “Want to grab lunch? Dustin mentioned rehearsing his first-day introduction a few minutes ago, and I’m not about to stick around for when he sets the fire sprinklers off again.” 

For how highly esteemed he was, Dustin had a too-often tendency of setting something aflame during his science classes. It is beyond Will as to how someone hasn’t banned him from their chemistry labs. 

“Oh, God,” Mike grimaces. “Yeah, I’m down. Remember when he stained his arms blue for two weeks?” 

Will makes a face. “The smurf jokes lost their charm two days in.” Mike huffs a laugh, grabbing his jacket off his chair. Will suggests, “Thai?” 

“A man after my own heart,” Mike sighs, pressing a hand against his chest. Will rolls his eyes, and pretends his heart doesn’t jump in his chest as they head to the hallway. “Think that lady is there again? The one that hates me?” 

“Pearl doesn’t hate you,” Will denies, and their arms brush as they walk. “She’s nice! She gives me extra rice without charge.” 

“Pearl has deliberately gotten my order wrong three times last month,” Mike sniffs. “I’m pretty sure she’s tried to poison me before. You just don’t notice because she likes you and thinks you’re all cute and strong and – handsome.” He pokes at Will’s arm with each word, in some attempt to drive his words home. It only feels like attempted homicide.  

“I have no idea what you mean,” Will replies, and Mike lets out a despaired sigh. They walk towards the exit, and Mike jogs a little to reach the doors first, holding it open for Will to pass through, and Will hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel when he shyly mumbles, “Thanks.” 

Mike merely does a theatrical little bow, and Will looks away before he grins too hard and explodes out of, like, sheer happiness or something. 

Hopefully Pearl has the good grace to put poison in his food instead, this time.

“– about going to the bathroom, just go. I do not care if you need to piss, and especially not enough to interrupt me in the middle of derivatives, and, trust me, I am not against throwing –” 

“Um,” Will says, and twenty-two heads swivel towards him. “You called for me?” 

Max looks over to the door, eyes brightening when they land on him. “Hey. Yeah, hold on.” 

She makes her way over to him, before tugging them both out into the hall and closing the door behind them. Will shoves his hands into his pockets. “What’s up?” 

“I need to run to my car and fetch Lucas a spare shirt,” Max explains, digging her keys out of her pocket, “because he’s a dumbass and volunteered to be a part of Dustin’s setting-everything-on-fire thing he does, and Dustin burnt his shirt. You mind watching them real quick?” 

Will shakes his head. “No, go ahead.” 

“Thanks,” Max grants him a quick smile, and begins jogging through the halls and out an emergency exit. 

Will eyes the shut door in front of him warily, before pulling it open and walking in. Twenty-two heads turn back to look at him and watch like hawks as he heads to Max’s desk and leans against it. He presses his lips together and taps his fingers against the edge of the desk.

“So,” he says, “um. Numbers.”

Being forced to spend a few minutes in a room full of psychopaths who willingly take AP Calculus, surprisingly, isn’t the worst way he’s ever spent his prep hour, although most things seem to pale in comparison to the Umbrella Incident™.

Working in the zoo that is Hawkins High, even with its insanity of staff and students alike, still is, Will will admit, not the worst thing in the world. Enjoyable, even, if he were to be completely fair. It definitely isn’t boring. He’s never hated it, despite when it’s put baffling trials onto his everlasting patience. 

The saving grace, he supposes, is in the functionality in it all, how his coworkers and he seem to all work well together, know how to duck away from the ones they can’t stand and somehow end up with classrooms close to the ones they love. Maybe it’s in a system that loves chaos, that sells whole pineapples in the cafeteria for charity, that has more spirit than a haunted house during spirit week, that won’t fire Dustin, even with the fire he causes. 

Despite all this, however, the world is testing him, just a little, when he walks into his supposed-to-be-empty classroom, and finds two students lingering next to his desk. 

“Mr. Byers,” one of them, pink-haired and wide-eyed, greets. 

“Hi,” he returns, slowly taking a seat in front of them. “What’s up?” 

“We have a question for you,” the other one says, with hair that resembles a tornado. 

Will raises an eyebrow. “Alright, go for it.” 

“Are you and Mr. Wheeler,” the pink-haired one begins, looking a little apprehensive, and this is already worrying, even before he leans in close and loudly whispers, “romantically involved?” 

Which is – he doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“You,” Will says, feeling, a little bit, like he’s lost his mind. “What?” 

“You know,” tornado-hair says, waving a hand. “In kahoots. Smooching. Canoodling. Whatever old people say.” 

“That is,” he croaks, and there’s probably a million ways to react to that, probably something like scolding them, or reconsidering his career, or maybe even marching into the principal’s office and insisting on some ground rules on what goes on in this godforsaken school, except all he settles on is, “I – I’m not – old.” 

“You’re past twenty,” one points out, with the conviction of teenager-logic. “That’s old. Are you dating or not?” 

“Um.” Will wonders if he’s finally gone insane. “That’s – wildly inappropriate. And uncalled for. Um. Why are you asking me this?” 

“That’s not a no,” pink-hair observes. 

“Yearbook,” the other one offers. When she’s only met with a blank stare, she clarifies, “We’re doing a page about the relationships and friendships between teachers. We already have Ms. Mayfield and Ms. Hopper’s unlikely friendship listed, and the fact that Mr. Clarke plans on taking Ms. Patel to the Monster Mingle next week.” She shakes her head. “But journalism, Mr. Byers, calls for something – more. Something fresh.” 

“Fresh,” the other one nods. 

“Juicy.” 

“Juicy.” 

“Huge.” 

“Huge.” 

“Breaking news.” 

“Breaking –” 

“Okay!” Will interrupts, voice a little higher than he anticipates, and cheeks very, very warm. He needs to talk to whoever approved of this. “That’s – okay, I don’t even – we aren’t – is the – journalism –”

He sucks in a deep breath, and they’re both still staring at him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and leans back in his chair. He makes a mental note to track down Mr. Tyler and maybe threaten keying his car before the end of the year rolls around and Will finds some collage of him and Mike on page ninety-four of the yearbook. 

“Okay, first,” he decides to begin from, “that’s – not the most appropriate thing to ask a teacher. Second of all, no, we – no. We’re just – friends. Best friends.”

Tornado-hair stares at him, and slowly begins writing rapidly in his notepad. Will has a very, very bad feeling brewing. “Uh-huh,” he replies, sounding more skeptical than Will likes. “And when would you say you first started falling for each other?” 

“Holy shit,” Will breathes. “I’m – this school is insane. You know what? Go ask Mrs. Hayes about her recent adventures in Greece with a very special someone. She’d love to tell you all about it.” 

Granted, the special someone Jennifer had spent Greece with was Mr. Puff-Puff, who just happens to be a grumpy, white cat that hates everyone and everything, other than Jennifer herself. 

He, however, does not mention this, and feels relief seep into his body when the pair deem this interesting enough to step away, squinting at him before heading to the door. 

Unfortunately, the world is cruel and finds joy in Will’s misery, evidently, when Mike, of course, chooses this time to stop by Will’s door and ask, “Hey, Will?” 

The students pause, and Will considers jumping out the window. He croaks, “Yeah?” 

“We still on for tonight?” Mike asks, seemingly unbothered by Will’s soul gradually leaving his body. 

“Um,” Will says again, for perhaps the hundredth time today. His brain is leaking out of his ears. He isn’t sure if it helps or worsens his case if he clarifies that tonight refers to gorging on cheese puffs with Indiana Jones movies playing in the background while they grade their respective classes. “Yes.” 

Mike beams. “Great!” He drums his hands on the doorframe, and leans away, just as his eyes catch onto the pair of students right next to him. “Oh, hey. Marlene, right? What’re you two doing here?” 

“Journalism,” the tornado-haired one replies. She clicks her pen. “We’ve seen all we need to.” 

They both promptly make their exit, and Mike stares after them, before looking back at Will, who is desperately trying not to melt into the floor. He raises his eyebrows. 

“What’s their deal?” 

El is sitting on the table and eating lasagna with a spork when Will enters the teacher’s lounge. 

“Where did he even get the eggs?” 

“I don’t know,” Dustin answers, pressing his fingers against his temples, “but then he started throwing them – everywhere.”

She, alongside Lucas, occupies the large table in the side of the room, while Dustin moves about in one of the cushioned chairs, coffee cup precariously held in his hand and World’s Best Teacher hat, which he, undoubtedly, bought for himself, tilted away from his face. 

Will easily slides in the seat next to him, holding his own box of grilled cheese. “What happened?”

“Troy’s kid got into another fight,” Lucas informs him, similar to how one would report the weather, chewing idly on a grape. A large bag of popcorn sits in front of him. 

“And it was insane,” Dustin adds, taking a sip. “There were eggs. Slander. Betrayal. Mutiny. Banana peels.” He wriggles in his seat. “It was almost Shakespearian.” 

“Someone called him a shrimp face,” El chips in. Will blinks. 

“What’s a shrimp face?” 

“No idea,” Lucas and Dustin simultaneously chorus, and Dustin continues, “but it’s true.” 

Lucas swats at him. “You can’t talk shit about a fourteen year-old, man.” 

“But he is a shrimp face,” El brings up. Lucas seems to consider this, before shrugging. 

The teacher’s lounge is, in summary, only ever used for quick coffee breaks, staging coups, or gossiping over lunch on the times when Susan from the front desk finally finds time to fill Will in on the exclusive insanity that runs in the school’s staff, or when Dustin and Lucas get tangled up in one of their several fights about this or that, or, on this occasion, multiple of his friends found in the room at once. 

Will, for not the first nor last time, is grateful that the teacher’s lounge is relatively empty, if only because of Dustin’s dramatic retelling or their collective inability to be quiet around each other if their lives didn’t depend on it. Even now, he enjoys himself more than he should when he’s leaning back in a cushioned chair and chewing on a cookie El offers him.

Unfortunately, his appreciation runs thin when Dustin suddenly swivels around in his seat to ask, “So?”

Will gives him a puzzled look. “So, what?” 

“So,” he gestures incomprehensibly, “how’s it going with, you know,” he gestures some more, which is, shockingly, just as incomprehensible. Will stares at him blankly. “You know, the – thing. The thing about wooing Mike into a date,” he whispers, except he doesn’t know how to whisper in the slightest, and it comes out as loud as if he had yelled it. 

Will presses his lips together. “First of all,” he says, “there is no wooing to be done.” This is, of course, met with protests, from both El and Dustin, and Lucas raises his eyebrows in doubt. “Second of all, I never even – agreed to – to wooing anyone.” 

“Not true,” El counters immediately. “You said last week, you would ask him out to coffee.”

“As friends,” Will stresses, rubbing his eyes. “We – I meant as friends.” 

“You didn’t say that,” El sniffs, and chews on a cherry tomato. “Perhaps specify next time.”

“You should go for it,” Lucas decides, leaning over and grabbing one for himself. El gives him a look, and he offers a cheesy grin. “You like him, and he’s, like, head over heels for you, and he knows that, and you know that, so –” 

“I don’t know anything!” Will sputters. “He has never even implied that he feels that way about –” 

“Dude,” he cuts in, “we’ve been over this.” 

“It’s always Will this and Will that,” Dustin mentions. “It’s so obvious. I don’t know how you’re so blind.” 

Lucas gives him a look. “Didn’t you think Steve and Robin were dating?” 

Dustin squawks. “I – I was twelve, I didn’t – I wasn’t –” 

“It’s very obvious,” El interrupts. “He treats you differently from the rest of us. You’re just blind.” 

Dustin nods. “It’s almost as bad as Max and Lucas when we were younger.” 

“Remind me,” Lucas says, “how’s it going with you and Suzie-poo?” 

“Dude,” Dustin complains, pushing at Lucas, who barely budges. “Terms of affection are our love language. It’s not as weird as your and Max’s weird fighting-flirting thing.” 

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Just trust us,” he tells Will, who has been trying to sink into the chair underneath him. “Seriously.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Will replies weakly, with a tone that says he will definitely not be thinking about this, until it creeps back up on him in the middle of the night. 

The three groan in response. El sighs mournfully. “No, you won’t.” 

“I will,” he protests, except it comes out a little meek and not very confident at all, and El gives him a look. 

Lucas suddenly gets a look on his face – the same one he’d get when they were younger, and if he still wore that red bandana around his head, Will is sure he’d be tightening it right about now. “Alright,” he sits up from where he had slouched in his seat. “You know what, Byers? I’ve had enough of this.” Suddenly, a very bad feeling begins to wriggle its way into Will’s stomach. Lucas points a grape at him. “Twenty bucks says Mike wants to go out with you.” 

“What?” Will frowns. “Then you’re just out of twenty bucks.”

“Nuh-uh.” Lucas shakes his head, waving his grape around. “I’m going after my twenty bucks. You’ve gotta ask him out, and if he says yes, you pay up. If he says no, then you get your share.” 

Dustin clicks his tongue. “Great idea. No harm, no foul.” 

His friends are insane. “There is harm,” he points out, vaguely dizzy. “There is so much harm. I’m not asking him out.”

El furrows her eyebrows as if she couldn’t comprehend a single reason for his indignation. “Why not?”

Will rubs a hand against his face. “Because,” Will sighs, “what do I do if he says no? I can’t look him in the eye ever again, and that’s a whole twenty years of friendship down the drain. I can’t do that over some stupid bet. That’s not – this is not worth twenty bucks.” 

Lucas frowns. “Dude. You know Mike. Even if he wasn’t into you – and he is –”

“Lucas –”

“– but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be weird about it!” He pauses, seemingly rethinking this, before continuing, “I mean, yeah, he’ll probably be a little awkward for, like, a week, but he likes you way too much to let that get in the way of your friendship. If anything, it’d be you trying to run away from him because you get all avoid-y and quiet when you’re embarrassed –”

“No, I d–” 

“Yes, you do,” El, Lucas, and Dustin reply at once, and Will deflates in his seat. 

“– and then he’d chase you down until everything was fine again,” Lucas concludes. At that, he relaxes back into his chair again and pops the grape into his mouth. “You know how he is with you.” 

Will stares at him. He doesn’t know, not really, anyway, and he’s a little scared to ask. 

Unfortunately for him, El decides to answer his mute inquiry anyway. “He’s very jealous,” she nods affirmatively. “And biased. And clingy. Do you remember when you had the flu last year?”

“Oh my God, don’t remind me.” Dustin rolls his eyes. “You’d think you accidentally contracted, like, the plague or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much chicken soup in such a large quantity.” 

Will’s face feels like it’s on fire. “That’s not true. He’s just – he’s a good friend.” 

Lucas snaps his fingers. “Exactly! So if he’s such a good friend, then asking him out couldn’t do too much damage, right?” 

“Right,” Dustin agrees, because they are two insufferable peas in a pod. “And he’ll say yes, because he’s totally into you. Like, very obviously into you. It’s kind of sickening.”

“Will will wait until retirement to do anything,” El mentions, as though Will was not sitting mere inches away from her. He wonders if suicide by grilled cheese is a thing. 

Lucas nods and points at her. “Good idea. Will, you’ve got until prom to do something about it.” 

Will pushes his palms into his eyes. “This is a terrible idea.” 

“This is your best idea yet,” Dustin says, and the two high-five, before turning to high-five El as well. 

“I’m not doing this,” he tries helplessly. 

“I’m telling Max,” El decides, taking another bite of lasagna. “And she will make you.” 

That’s how Will’s life, before fifth hour, begins its doom. 

For his own mental sake, he tries to forget about the conversation, just like the countless others that have been imposed upon him for the past so many years.

It’s far more difficult this time around, though – they’ve never been so insistent on getting him to do something about it. Sure, there had been passing holidays or office parties where El had urged him to make a move, or the times Mike has gotten him gifts out of the blue or hugged him for a second too long, which had resulted in suggestive looks and slightly concerning gestures from his friends, but they’d been compliant with Will pushing it all under the rug. 

The thing is, he knows that they would never purposefully lie to him, and especially not in regards to something as serious as this, but none of his friends have ever been the brightest when it comes to romance, and Will, despite himself, knows better than to trust them with anything involving romantic endeavors.

But after almost a decade of insisting, there has to be a shrivel of truth to it. Right? 

The idea makes his stomach do a somersault and the worm all at once, so he tries to push it the front of his mind and quickly shove the entire situation into the slowly growing pile of Things He Refuses to Think About, which, shockingly to no one, consists of other times they’ve tried to convince him of the requiting nature of his – feelings. They have, evidently, failed. 

Not because Will feels hopeless in his Mike Situation™, or anything, but it’s simply less messy to think about it. Their lives are entirely entangled into one another, and the likelihood of Mike returning his affections and Will not noticing is very slim, he’d like to say, because he might be oblivious –

“Will!”

– but he isn’t that oblivious. 

Will looks away from where the sophomores and the seniors currently play Tug of War, the squeak of their shoes against the shiny gym floors entirely unheard under the cheering of the students on the bleachers, the most school spirit seen all year. Will absently wonders about the magic of pep rallies. 

“Hey,” he greets, once Mike’s reached him. “What’re you in for?” 

“Watching the freshmen,” he answers, looking a little rattled, with his sky blue, toucan-decorated Hawaiian shirt and terrible yellow-rimmed glasses, in the theme of the last day of spirit week: Tropical Vacation. It’s only a miracle that he had ditched his flip-flops. He, much to Will’s chagrin, still looks so unbearably attractive, hair tied up and a small seashell necklace donned on, a gift from Mrs. Wheeler’s vacation to the Bahamas. “I owe Spencer for taking my place for the last one, so he decided to cash in. You?”

Will juts a finger towards the doors behind him. He probably looks much more ridiculous, his own brightly colored shirt, yellow shorts, and a pink, plastic lei a student had thrown onto him. He feels ready to be plastered onto a vacation advertisement. “Making sure no one tries to sneak out.” 

“Sweet,” Mike replies. “Want to sneak out?” 

Will raises his eyebrows. “And get fired?” He questions, although, realistically, the most they would receive is a light slap on the wrist. 

Mike tilts his head. “Patel can cover for me,” he says, “and security is, like, right there.” He motions towards the doors, where Alejandro from security stands, wearing a purple lei and an unamused expression. 

Will chews on his cheek, before shrugging. “Yeah, okay.” 

Alejandro pays them little to no attention, only returning a wave when Will raises his own hand first, and leans forward to open the door for him. Mike tosses an arm around his shoulders as he follows, and it’s a futile attempt to not think too hard about it. Mike’s warm and smells vaguely of – coconut, actually. Something tropical themed. Will tries not to smile. “Any idea where we’re going?” 

“Absolutely not,” Mike returns. After a second, he proposes, “We could go for smoothies before anyone notices.” 

“You guys are getting smoothies?’ 

They both pause. When they turn, Dustin and Lucas stand in the conjoining hallway to the right, beside long, blue lockers, and a bright orange mural claiming, Go Tigers!. Lucas holds a large bag behind him. 

Mike squints at him. “What’s that?” 

“None of your business,” Lucas, very briskly, answers. 

“We might be,” Will settles on replying to Dustin. “Want anything?” 

“I could go for a Baja Bananza,” Dustin says, before he follows up with, “do they do – corn?” 

Lucas smacks him. Will blinks. “You want – corn?” 

“He meant if they could add corn to his smoothie,” Lucas hurriedly explains. “You know him and his food choices.” This makes enough sense, and Will slowly nods, although Mike seems less than impressed. 

“What’s in the bag?” He asks again, clearly not having moved on. 

“None of your business,” Dustin sniffs. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we –” 

There is a loud squawk. 

They stare at each other. 

“What was that,” Will says.

“Dustin,” Lucas answers immediately. “Dude, get yourself under control.” 

Dustin turns red at an alarming speed. “That – was not –” 

“Would you look at the time,” Lucas interrupts, looking at his very-empty-of-any-watch wrist. “We’ve gotta get going. Papers to grade, students to berate. You know how it is.” 

Mike and Will stare at him as the bag begins to rustle restlessly. “Absolutely,” Dustin agrees. “Goodbye.” 

They watch as the two quickly walk away. 

Mike presses his lips together, before, clearly, deciding it’s better to not question it. 

“So,” he prompts again, turning back to Will, arm still around his shoulders, “smoothies?” 

Contrary to what evidence may indicate, however, Will does, in fact, enjoy his job. 

This can be exemplified in him volunteering to participate in whatever strange skit students have come up for morning announcements, occasionally assisting a student’s campaign for student council, taking the time to help paint murals around the school, or, perhaps, his own establishing of a club – art club, specifically, running afterschool on Thursdays. Anyone is free to join. 

The holidays had only just passed, students having grudgingly returned from break, and, now, with the new year, Will is a little scrambled in catching up with grading work. As a result, most of the club’s participants have been using the time and materials to work on their own personal projects, and Will uses this time to grade papers until a student comes by and asks for his input that he is more than happy to provide. Art is still one of the few things he is steadily confident in. Right next to, like, Star Wars lore, which is probably a little less cool. 

“Mr. Byers?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Help,” the student says emphatically, offering a painted canvas with what seems like George Washington holding an on-fire head of cabbage. 

He stares at it. “Um.” More often than not, he’s a little lost as to how and why he ended up here. “What’s the problem?” 

“That’s supposed to be Mr. Henderson,” she elaborates. 

Will presses his lips together and stares a little more.

“Okay,” he says slowly. 

She widens her eyes as she gestures. “And he looks like a pumpkin!” She wails. None of the other students spare her a glance. 

“No, no,” Will hurriedly placates, “that’s not – it just – it needs some work, all the great artists rework their pieces all the time, you know, and pumpkins – pumpkins are good, pumpkins are great, so we – it’s not too bad, I think we can start by changing the proportion of cabbage to head, which is – um, not the most –” 

Granted, it’s always a little difficult, satiating a student unsatisfied with their own work, but with a few years of experience on his shoulders, he’d like to say he has a good hold of constructively yet kindly reducing the portrait of Mr. Henderson’s pumpkin-ness from ninety percent to almost none. 

It’s a nice atmosphere he’s got going for himself, he thinks, with one of the mixtapes he had taken great care of making playing overhead quietly, and he gets a sufficient amount of work done, the subtle chatter and clatter of students surrounding him. It’s the same thing he had wanted when he was younger. 

Still, when it’s rolling a little close to four, he finds himself a little worn out from people, when he’s had to spend so long around other individuals and keep up the facade of a put-together adult. He finds his stomach twisting from the half-hearted lunch he had brought in for himself earlier, and he’s sure he’ll daydream about the cheap, not-really-Mexican food from two blocks away on the drive home. 

The building is only, at this rate, left with kids waiting to be picked up, sport players, others in clubs, and sparse staff. The hall is relatively empty when he steps out, the gaggle of students left chorusing a goodbye when he locks up behind them. Reasonably, most people have gone home. 

It’s a little surprising, then, when he passes by Mike’s room, only to find him leaning over his desk and scribbling away. 

He frowns and halts beside the doorway. “Mike?”

Mike’s head jerks up to face him, clearly startled when his pen stops in motion and his eyes land on Will, expression smoothing out when recognition clicks. He offers a small smile. “Hey.”

“What’re you still doing here?” He questions, taking another step into the room. His fingers curl around the strap of his bag, and Mike slouches back in his swivel chair, turning to face him. It squeaks in protest. 

“Practice essays for AP exams,” he explains, and curls and uncurls his hands, dropping his pen. His fingers have always been spidery, thin and pale, and Will’s drawn them far too many times. “I lost track of time.” 

“Clearly,” Will replies dryly, and Mike shrugs, smile growing. “When are you leaving?” 

He glances at the time, and bites at his lip. Will only spares three looks at it. “Now, probably,” he sighs. He rolls back his shoulders, and looks down at the paper. “Wait while I pack up?” 

Will nods. “‘Course.” 

Mike sends him a pleased smile, one that Will feels too electric over, and he chews on his cheek while he watches Mike jot one last thing down, sliding the rest of the papers in a folder and shoving them in his bag. He grabs his coffee cup as he stands up, stretching a little. 

It’s ordinary and mundane, but he treasures the slight slouch of Mike’s shoulders, the slight scuff of his shoes, the sound of his leather jacket rubbing against itself when he pulls it off his chair, the slight stain of ink on the side of his palm, never having liked using pencils. 

“Thanks,” Mike says, when they step outside, the January air frigid around them. The sky is already growing dark, the quick endings of winter days. “For waiting, I mean.” 

“No problem,” Will mumbles, before he stops abruptly. “Hold on.”

Mike pauses next to him, furrowed eyebrows when he watches Will open his bag, rummaging through it before his hands find purchase in a small, wrapped box. Mike looks unsuspecting, his hair scrunched around the collar and patiently waiting, and Will wants to squeeze himself close. “What is it?” 

He shrugs. “Nothing. But – here.” 

He hands the box to Mike, who stares at it like it’s the last thing he could have expected, before looking back up at Will, sliding his hand off the strap of his bag to tear the wrapping off, the crinkle of the paper in the relatively empty parking lot. He pries the box open. 

The mug itself is ordinary, handmade, glazed in cream and a simple design – stick figures, if Will were allowed to be entirely honest, of their group of friends in varying colors, and it’s not the best thing he’s ever made, more just with the intent of having something with some meaning rather than the most professional thing he could have made, but – 

Mike looks at it like the most prized possession in his hands, eyes wide and mouth breaking out into a smile, and he holds it delicately when he stumbles, “Really?” 

Will shrugs again. His body feels oddly useless, right now, out of his control. “Yeah. I mean, I know we already did Christmas gifts and stuff, but the sophomores just finished their ceramics lesson, anyway, and – well.” 

Mike’s smile has only been growing wider, eyes scrunched upward when he turns it in his hands once, twice, thrice, before he carefully places it back into the box and into his bag, and he pulls Will into a hug. 

“Oh,” Will says into Mike’s shoulder, frozen in the feeling of being held, until he raises his own hands, belatedly, to return the gesture, spring blooming in his ribcage in the middle of winter. Mike’s cologne, familiar and attractive as it is, makes his heart thump a little harder when Will’s face is pushed against Mike’s shoulder like this, cheek against the leather of his jacket and nose brushing the warm skin of Mike’s neck. 

“Thanks,” Mike murmurs, pressing him closer in the snowy parking lot. His hold is steady, unwavering, until he lets go, hands still on Will’s arms and keeping him close. “I love it. I love it.”

“Oh,” Will repeats. “That’s good. Great. I’m glad.” 

Mike’s eyes shine when they look at him. “I love everything you make,” he announces, and squeezes Will’s arms. “Seriously. You – you have no idea.” 

“I think I have some idea,” Will replies absently, a little stuck on Mike’s hands on him and him so close, peering into his eyes at such a small distance. It feels horribly intimate. “I just thought you’d like it. I don’t know. You – um. Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, grinning. “I do. Thanks, Will.” 

Even after several years of giving Mike all sorts of art pieces, it still, now, has him surprised, all sappy and sugary inside when Mike is so earnest in his thanks, in his flattery, like Will will never stop surprising him. He hopes that stays the case. 

“It’s nothing,” Will replies, clearing his throat. 

Mike shakes him a little, and it makes Will laugh. Mike’s eyes gleam. 

“It’s everything,” he says, with a tone of finality, and that’s that. 

Will, between going out and the teacher’s lounge, prefers spending lunch in one of the classrooms instead. 

It’s a nicer, more private option, no worries about eavesdropping staff or being too loud, and Will gets to perch himself upon a desk or one of his long art tables, or even one of the beanbags Lucas has in his office. They’ll play music and muffle out the rumbling halls of students passing by. 

“Who queued up the entirety of Britney Spears’ discography?” 

Granted, it had taken a little bit of bargaining and swapping, getting all six of them to share the same lunch period, and it helps that Will had done a few free-of-charge commissions for a few of the teachers, and both Mike and Max seem to, mystifyingly, intimidate a few of the others. El, a little unfairly, gets almost two hours of break, although she counters this by sneaking in a few students who hide from the warfare of the cafeteria into the library. 

It’s a Wednesday, an easy one that’s been mercifully sparse with any sort of disasters, that has them all piled into Mike’s room, which is, unsurprisingly, just as empty of decorations as it had been in the very beginning, although the blue character remains on the board, save for a few erased edges, where Mike’s attempts at preservation had fallen through. Will is tempted to get up and fix it, if the feeling of four other people watching him wasn’t so mortifying. 

He watches as Mike returns to his classroom, bowl of macaroni and cheese in one hand, pen in the other, and makes his way to his computer, frowning as Britney Spears pleads for a sign. 

Max scoffs when Mike gives her a pointed look. “Don’t look at me. I had nothing to do with it.” She kicks out from under her desk, takeout box jostling when she makes contact with Lucas’ seat beside her. “Look at him.” 

Mike blinks at him. “Lucas, seriously?”

Lucas raises his hands in surrender. “Listen, man, she’s got some hits! The entirety of her first album is an underrated masterpiece.” 

Will stifles a laugh, and Mike glances at him, shaking his head while his own smile peaks through. “I still don’t get why we can’t use one of your guys’ rooms instead,” he huffs, collapsing into his swivel chair. It rolls away a little, hitting the whiteboard behind him. “I hate having my room smell like food.” 

Max shrugs. “I already offered yesterday,” she replies, through a mouthful of rice. Mike wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

Will nods. “I did Monday, anyway.” After a second, he adds, “And I had to clean up your mess.” He knocks a shoe against Dustin’s desk, who yelps when the table wobbles from underneath him. 

“No food in the library,” El points out. She carefully cuts through a slice of cake, a little bit of pink frosting in the corner of her mouth. 

They turn to Dustin and Lucas, who have remained awfully quiet. Dustin takes care to direct his stare towards his pasta, shielding himself with his Yoda-themed lunchbox, coordinated dining utensils and all. Lucas says, “Fine. But no one gets to complain about my music.” When Dustin stays quiet, he raises an eyebrow. “Hey, thanks for offering, man.”

“Yeah, Henderson,” Max crosses her arms, “what’re you hiding in your room?”

“Nothing!” Dustin answers, voice awfully high. All eyebrows collectively raise. “Can’t a guy just – enjoy being out of his classroom, sometimes?” 

“Not you,” she replies. “We all know you like eating under your weird Star Wars shrine.” 

His face flushes pink. “Am I not allowed to have interests for –” 

“You’re acting suspicious,” El notes, factual. “You’re hiding something.” 

Dustin crosses his arms. “Am not.” 

“Sure,” Will agrees. “So we’ll eat in your room tomorrow.” 

Dustin opens his mouth, before making the calculated move of shutting up. “Fine,” he relents. “You win – and I’m not hiding anything.” 

Will shrugs. “Never said you did.” Dustin squints at him. He offers a wide grin. 

“I’m changing the music,” Mike announces, once Britney Spears begins to start up again, and is met with immediate protests from Lucas. “Dude, this queue goes on for three fucking hours –” 

“It’s good music, you –”

“– I’m not listening to this during my lunch break, who the hell –”

“Is it because of your fragile masculinity?” El questions, and it’s startling enough for Mike to halt mid-sentence. Max lets out a loud laugh. “Hopper refuses to admit he likes Madonna, even though he knows all the words to Like a Virgin, and Joyce says it’s because he has a hard time dealing with –” 

“I,” Mike sputters, “do not –” 

“Yeah, asshole,” Lucas joins, having found a leeway for keeping his music on, “what are you, a misogynist?”

El lets out an unruly cackle, and Mike gapes, mouth opening and closing, vaguely looking like a goldfish. Will can’t help the giggle that escapes him. Mike sends him a betrayed look. “I’m being set up,” he says. “I – my masculinity and I are completely unwavering.” He sniffs. “I just don’t like pop music.” 

“Get with the times, idiot,” Max tells him. She stabs at a potato. “The world runs on pop.” 

“That’s just not true.” He swivels in his seat and meets Will’s eye. “Will, you agree, right?”

Will opens his mouth, but Dustin beats him to the chase. “Don’t ask him, man, he’s, like, the only one in the room who’s a huge music snob.” 

He blanches. “I’m not!” He protests, dropping his fork into his bowl. “I don’t dig on your guys’ music.” 

“That’s true,” Max nods, and turns to Mike. “Just ‘cause you always agree with him doesn’t mean he’ll agree with you, you know.”

Mike looks, a little, like he might combust into nothingness. “I don’t always agree with him,” he denies quite loudly, and Will raises his eyebrows. “I’m not just – he – he has some good points a lot of the time!” 

Will shrugs. “It’s true,” he says, and is met with several boo’s. El throws a stray strawberry stem at him, and it goes sailing over his shoulder. He grins. 

“See,” Mike gestures to him, “I can admit when another guy is right, that’s – that’s not fragile-masculinity behavior!” 

Max snaps her fingers. “You’re right. It’s you being in lo– mmph phmmphmm–” 

She glares as Lucas quickly covers her mouth with a palm, and mutedly chatters behind his hand, which serves very little to censor her swearing. “You’ve just got some clear favoritism going on,” Lucas hurriedly adds, and Mike gives him an undistinguishable look, growing red in the cheeks. Will decides not to read too much into that. 

“Yeah,” Mike says, “because we’ve been friends the longest. That’s called loyalty.”

A silent moment passes. Britney Spears continues singing over the speakers. Will feels inexplicably flustered. 

“Yes,” El returns carefully, after a long, long moment of the six staring at each other. Will tries to ignore Lucas mouthing prom across from him, or the quiet rumbling emitting from his Things He Refuses to Think About pile. “That is why.” 

Dustin turns in his seat to look at Lucas, who quickly shuts his mouth. “Dude, why don’t you agree with me like that? What happened to loyalty?” 

Lucas gives him a withering look. “I’m not answering that.”

The bet remains unmoved in his brain for the entirety of November, December, and January, until Valentine’s Day comes into his third hour to hand out candy grams. 

In order to rack up money for school activities and also influence school spirit, Hawkins High, alongside thousands of other schools across the country, conduct an incredibly lucrative business of selling candy grams – for only eighty cents, anyone could purchase a heart-shaped lollipop with a note attached to it and have it delivered to someone else via student. Capitalism does breed innovation, after all. 

A trio of students walk into his room, all dressed on theme for Valentine’s Day. One has dressed up as Cupid, it seems, while the other two seem to be her helpers, donning large heart antennas on their heads. 

“Hi, Mr. Byers!” Two of the students greet together, and the third is busy rifling through a large box to say anything. Will looks away from the paper in front of him to watch the trio make their way to his desk. His students, previously focused on their work, have already begun to chatter, ready for a distraction from any class. 

“Hey, guys,” he replies, rolling away from his desk to scoot over to the large box, peering inside. “Wow, all these for me? You shouldn’t have.” 

“Ha ha,” one of the girls dryly responds, and Will cracks a grin. “We need to pass these out, you mind?” 

“Feel free,” he gestures, before rolling away once more. It’s an easy routine every year, passing out candy grams, and after many years of going through this procedure, he’s used to letting the students take the lead. The mood is always a little happier afterwards, and he likes the atmosphere of the day, sleep-deprived high schoolers a little peppier from a sugar boost. 

After they leave, there’s seven candy grams on his desk. 

He’s not the most popular teacher by any means – there’s El, who, despite not being a teacher at all, has garnered quite a fanbase regardless and usually has a solid pile of lollipops on her desk, as well as Dustin, for his ridiculous yet irrefutably interesting experiments and demonstrations. Ms. Khan, the organizer of several student-run organizations, often gets a hefty amount of candy grams every year, and so does Mr. Jones, the custodian everyone is friendly with. 

Will does appreciate the ones he gets – five out of the seven are from students, although two are anonymous, but he cherishes the sentiment. Two notes are written by students from his art club, and the third is from a student from his first hour. 

The other two are from El and Mike; El, who sends one to all their friends every year, and Mike, who sends one to Will every year. 

It isn’t unexpected by any means, and he himself had sent out one for each of them. Still, his heart flips a little at Mike’s, because the only person Mike goes through the effort of sending a candy gram to is Will. Other than El, but Will isn’t sure if she counts when they all send her one, out of love – also fear of Max going after them if they don’t, but mostly love. 

It is, as usual, empty of any sender’s name, but Will would recognize Mike’s chicken scratch anywhere, always in blue ink because he hates pencils and has been buying the same ten-pack of ballpoint pen since 1988. There’s not much on the little square of pink paper other than, in his horrible handwriting, written, Be ready for this weekend, Byers!, followed by a tiny drawing of two stick figures and a large bucket of popcorn. 

Will doesn’t know why it makes him so oddly giddy; he and Mike had already confirmed for a movie together sometime this weekend, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary, because they’re friends, and friends go out for a movie from time to time. It’s nothing particularly crazy or romantic, and yet his heart is doing jumping jacks in his chest. 

Maybe it’s because Mike sends him one every year on Valentine’s Day without fail, and Will wouldn’t say it is out of reciprocity, because Mike had been the one to send Will a candy gram first, all those years ago when they had first worked together. When Will had questioned him about it, a little pink and feeling bad about not having gotten Mike one as well, Mike had shrugged and said, “I wanted to.”

Maybe it’s because Will is the only one to get a stupid little lollipop from Mike every year, and it’s only candy, but maybe it’s not only candy at all, because it’s Mike waiting to leave work with Will almost every day, or making gallons of chicken soup for Will when he’s sick, or how he’s the first person Mike seeks out at a pep rally or a school dance or how, maybe, Mike is a good friend, the best, but he’s beyond simply a friend with Will.

It’s perhaps a little stupid to reanalyze every aspect of his friendship with Mike over a lollipop, but he can’t help it. Maybe it’s because it’s some tradition he and Mike had begun several years ago, and Will is still surprised every year. Maybe it’s because he still stashes every note away for safekeeping. 

You know how he is with you, Lucas’ voice decides to chime in at the worst possible time. Will would question why he does it, but he supposes he got his answer the first year they had started working together. 

“I wanted to,” Mike had said. “I wanted to.” I wanted to. 

Will stares at the lollipop in his hand and, for the first time since being in love, feels something like hope rise in his chest. 

The rest of the day is spent, embarrassingly, thinking too hard about the note.

This is terrible for several reasons, one being that he sports a steady blush every time he thinks about the note, and it spirals into thinking about Mike, because Will knows he’s a good friend, the best that he could have ever asked for, and that had been the reason why he had ever fallen in love with Mike – Will has always thought of him as attractive, but it’s Mike’s personality, his relentlessness and care, that made Will crash headfirst into love. It makes his stomach feel scrambled, like terribly made eggs in the morning, like crushed up clay pieces, like his sock drawer, like his collection of pens at his desk. 

He doesn’t like thinking about it too much, because he knows he’ll be doomed for the rest of eternity if he convinces himself there’s even a sliver of hope that Mike feels the same. An unrequited crush is nothing new, but Will fears his might be the kind that’s eternal, the kind that never goes away and leads to him growing old and alone and maybe even bitter. 

He’s a little scatterbrained for the rest of his classes, stuttering over his words from time to time, but one of the beauties of being an art teacher is being able to zone out at his desk while his students get to work on whatever new project is set for the week. He teaches a student how to properly crosshatch shade, and he distributes acrylic paint and oil pastels while thinking about the curve of Mike’s mouth. 

He needs to get a hold of himself. 

Retribution only comes when it’s time to go home, being a Wednesday with no art club to be hosted, although he still, humiliatingly, lingers by Mike’s room, anyway, and spends a few moments saying goodbye while Mike stays a little longer to grade papers. Mike shoots him an easy grin, and Will tries to forget about it at the red light on the drive home. He fails horrifically. 

It’s approximately six p.m. and he’s staring at Harrison Ford’s face, which is usually a cure-all to most crises, except he’s staring and staring and staring and all he can think about is Mike’s stupid-but-not-stupid-at-all face and his hair and his crooked ties and the way he gets pink when Will sometimes nudges at him with a hand or pulls him closer by the chair during their breaks. 

It is so much worse today. He recalls one of his students sneezing near him seven times in great succession during his third hour. Maybe he’s contracted a disease. That might be it. 

He stares at Harrison Ford’s bare chest, and doesn’t even swoon a little. 

He groans into his hands. There’s no fooling it. 

“Hello?” 

So, he calls Jonathan. 

“Help me,” he says, a little uselessly, and Jonathan makes an alarmed noise. 

It’s usually productive, calling him, because, despite being almost half a country away, Will finds it unnaturally easy to go to him for things like this. He can’t even bring himself to care too much about the very possible and definite prospect of Jonathan blabbing about everything Will says about Mike to Nancy at the moment. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Mike,” he doesn’t whine even a little, and hears it when Jonathan, very poorly he might add, stifles a laugh.

There’s shuffling on the other side, before he asks, “What’d he do this time?” 

Will pauses, and thinks about it. 

Nothing, is the thing, and that’s all the bigger of a problem, because it would have been better to have such a distressing evening if Mike had done anything in particular, but he’s done nothing at all, except continue a tradition they’ve established years ago, which isn’t alarming by any means.  

Maybe it’s just a gradual build up of the past few weeks, he thinks. Maybe it’s because he hadn’t spent enough time blushing about it when Mike had helped him carry new art supplies from his car to his classroom, or when Mike had shared an umbrella with him when Will had forgotten his own, or when Mike had held his hand during one of their lunches, apropos to completely and utterly nothing. 

Maybe it’s because of the looming pressure of the bet that he hadn’t even really agreed to, ignoring it when Lucas, Dustin, El, or even Max from time to time, tilt their heads towards Mike and send him looks that read something akin to Ask him out!. 

Or maybe he’s finally going insane. Maybe this crush – he grimaces at that, because it’s never really been a crush, it’s never been that easy to describe in such a small number of letters – has finally killed off all his remaining sanity, and he’s now doomed to be admitted to the nearest psych ward and destined to spend the rest of his life going crazy over the slightly wavy texture of Mike’s hair. 

“Maybe you’re just in love,” Jonathan suggests, “and maybe, just maybe, he’s also in love.” Will makes a distressed noise, and doesn’t have the heart to deny it. “You know, there’s a really easy solution to this.” 

He brightens. “What?” 

Jonathan says, with the tone of pointing out something absolutely revolutionary, “You could ask him out.” 

Will hangs up. 

It’s Sunday afternoon when his doorbell rings. 

It’s one of the quieter, relaxed ones, where he has nothing urgent to grade and Will finds himself pulled to one of his canvases, a painting he never really had the chance or energy to finishing: his childhood living room, currently his mother’s home, with its warm lighting, floral wallpaper, imperfections in the furniture and old carpet. It was always messy, always lived in.

When the doorbell rings, he blinks out of the haze he gets into during painting, separate from reality in an inexplicable way, and he can never tell if it’s from the oil paint fumes or something about art itself. He places his paintbrush and palette down and makes his way to the door. 

“I brought lunch,” Mike announces when he walks in, two takeout bags in hand, and he pauses when he catches sight of Will. “Oh, sorry, were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” Will shrugs, “but it’s okay. I needed to eat soon, anyway. I forgot to eat breakfast.” 

“Oh.” Mike perks up again. “Well, then, come on. I think Pearl knew I was coming over ‘cause she gave me way bigger portions than usual.” 

Will scoffs. “You’re ridiculous. She’s, like, sixty, Mike.” 

“A consenting adult,” he nods. “I’d even say she looks pretty good for her age if she wasn’t, you know, trying to kill me via food poisoning.” He pulls out styrofoam boxes full of warm food, and Will already knows what’s in each. It’s hard not to, after a full year of ordering the same things.  

“Are you wingmanning for Pearl?” 

“Unless that leads to us getting a discount,” Mike begins, fishing around for utensils, “no way. You’re stuck with me, Byers.” 

Will tries to get the butterflies in his stomach to leave for an early migration. “Who says I’d be sharing a discount with you?” 

Mike sends him a betrayed look. “Who else are you doing Thai runs with?” 

“Hopefully Pearl,” Will replies, and Mike almost chokes on a spoonful of rice. 

“You’re leaving me behind for Pearl?” 

“You were just wingmanning her!” 

Mike shakes his head. “Actually, I just said I wasn’t, and if you play the record back, you’ll find that I’m right.” 

“Nerd,” Will says, and Mike grapples at his chest, sending him a hurt look. It’s futile, trying to bite down his smile. He opens a styrofoam box and notes, “You came over way earlier than expected.” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Mike replies through a mouthful of food, and if Will hadn’t been accustomed to seeing him inhale five bags of Doritos in record time, he’d be far more disgusted. “Turns out, building a desk is way less difficult than I remember. You said you were painting?” 

Will chews on a piece of chicken. “Yeah.” 

“You haven’t painted in, like, forever,” Mike remembers. “What’s with the switch?” 

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, feeling weirdly tingly suddenly. He had told Mike he’d been far more into oil pastels than anything else recently, and he knows Mike hadn’t forgotten, but it makes him feel all weird, knowing he remembers, that he noticed enough to mention it. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, warm, “painting’s, like, familiar, I guess, and it’s nice to just go back to something simple sometimes.” 

Mike hums, and it’s a comfortable silence as they eat. The sun blankets them in the kind of golden film it brings in late spring, making the mundane things just a little prettier. In this light, Mike’s hair almost looks brown, and his hands are gentle in the way they hold his spoon, the same way he holds his pens. 

Despite the warmer weather, he’s come dressed in his usual leather jacket, and his hair is a little shorter than it used to be in high school, barely brushing his shoulders and a little unruly, and it suits him. He’s always been attractive, Will thinks, with sharp features, pale skin but dark eyes, the sort that make him shiver a little when Mike stares at him the way he tends to during conversations, deep and attentive. 

It’s the same now, too, when Mike asks, “Is something bothering you?” 

Sometimes, Will isn’t sure if he hates or loves being known so easily by Mike. “Kind of. I don’t know.” A pause. “It’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Mike says, sure of himself. “What is it? Did Wilson get to you again? I can tell her to stop hitting on you, you know, or, like, report her to H.R. or something probably. She’d deserve it. Plus, her haircut is, like, totally botched. You know she isn’t even a natural brunette? She –” 

“No, it – it’s not that,” Will shakes his head, and he stares at a cube of carrot on his spoon. Mike chews as he patiently waits. 

He doesn’t know how to navigate this. It’s true that he has a lot on his mind, but saying, Actually, you’re on my mind, like, all of the time. It’s kind of concerning, and in fact, now that I mention it, I’m in love with you and all our friends are saying you love me too, and I don’t know what to do or say and I might spend the rest of my life killing myself over this. More chili oil?

Protective, El had said. Clingy. Jealous. Jealous.

Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Lucas and Dustin, Will wonders, because a terrible, terrible idea pops into his head. 

“Hey, Mike?” 

“What?” He replies, although it comes out more like whaf through his mouthful of food. 

Will chews on his lip contemplatively, before jumping the gun. “What did you think of Eric?” 

Mike pauses in chewing. He has a little bit of sauce on the corner of his mouth, and it should be gross. Will wants to kiss him so bad. “Is that the one that you were way too good for?” 

Will flushes. “You say that about all of them.” 

“No,” Mike denies, drawing out the word, “that’s Eric. John was the one that you were way out of his league for, and Peter was the one that just sucked. Who names their child Peter, anyway? And there was George, who had that weird wolf tattoo, which – yikes, by the way, and –” 

“Peter is a perfectly fine name,” Will protests. “Anyway, that’s – that’s not the point. I’m just – I was just wondering what you thought of him. Eric.” 

“I didn’t like him,” Mike says immediately. 

Will blinks. It makes sense, because he had always been oddly tense whenever Will had brought his previous boyfriend around, although he could never tell if it was wishful thinking or not. He doesn’t know what to do with the confirmation. “Why?” 

Mike thinks for a moment, cheeks a little bunched as he chews, and he looks off to the side. “He was an asshole,” he decides after a long moment. 

Will frowns. “Mike –” 

“He was totally pretentious,” Mike barrels on. “He didn’t watch, like, any movies you recommended to him! Also, no offense, but I don’t even think you guys had anything in common. He was a total finance dude, and that’s, like, fine, if that’s your thing, but I just – I don’t know.” He pauses for a moment, before seemingly remembering something, firing up again. “And he didn’t even go to your art exhibit!” 

“It was a last minute invitation,” Will tries, but Mike still looks unconvinced. 

“That’s stupid. Why’re you asking about him, anyway? Did you guys talk recently? I can tell him to stop. Or – I mean, are you, like,” he looks vaguely pained when he says, “missing him, or something?” 

Will can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “No. No way.” 

Mike squints at him. “Then what?” 

“I don’t know,” Will replies, which is true. “Lucas and I were talking about my love life, or the lack of one, I guess. It just got me thinking and – I don’t know.” He chews on his cheek. “Sometimes I feel like I’m watching everyone else rush past me and I’m just kind of standing there alone.” 

Mike knocks their feet together. “That’s not true. You have me.” He tops it off with a smile, one of the sweeter, softer ones, the ones that makes Will melt a little more on the inside every time. His eyes stare into Will’s, sincere as always.

Will smiles back despite himself, and looks down before his face betrays himself. “Thanks, Mike,” he mumbles, so, so warm. 

“And Pearl,” Mike mentions after a long pause, and Will grins. 

“And Pearl,” he agrees. 

He spends a little more time debating it. 

Asking Mike out, that is. Not the – not Pearl. 

Truth be told, Will knows that Lucas is right; worse comes to worst, Mike rejects him, and even in the most twisted universe, some part of his heart, the one wracked with the rings of a tree and gone through sleepless nights, knows that Mike would never discard their friendship. Will’s given him far too many chances to do that in the past, anyhow. 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. Fear, maybe, of the irrational scenarios his mind comes up with without him watching. Maybe his fragile ego, or the hopeless romantic in him, where he’d rather have the moon shine the right way or the wind blow the right direction, and suddenly rose petals fall from the sky and he and Mike share one glance and they’ll both just know. 

Alas, life is not all it’s cracked up to be, and he instead spends his time complaining to his sister. 

“Have you considered eating a lot of carrots?” 

Will gives El a look. “What for?” 

“You would turn orange,” El says sagely. 

That has Will pause in the middle of the hallway, only a few steps away from Dustin’s classroom. He asks, very slowly and a little reluctantly, “How do you know that?” 

El gives him a wide-eyed look, and does not respond to that. “Mike likes oranges. I think.”

Unfortunately, speaking to El about his suddenly heightened obsession with Mike is no use, as predicted, since she has had to deal with a frankly humiliating amount of complaining already, far worse than anything Jonathan has had to face, if only because of proximity issues. It’s far easier to find a reason to stroll into the library and complain than to make a call to New York during work, lest anybody asks. Granted, no one ever does, but still. It doesn’t hurt to be safe. 

He supposes he’s been a little annoying about it, but he gets to be annoying, and especially after several years of having to listen to whatever new crush El has harbored, or being kicked out of the living room because she and Max have claimed it for their weekly Girls’ Night. He’ll let himself be unashamed about this. Besides, El has never made him feel anything but pleasantly embarrassed, anyway.

It’s a little earlier than planned when they approach Dustin’s room for lunch, because El gets an hour prior to lunch already, and Will’s fourth hour had been entirely empty because of the freshmen’s field trip to some sort of historical museum which everyone had been eager to sign up for, seeing as it was an excuse to skip out on multiple classes without any repercussions. 

That is why, when he and El enter Dustin’s classroom without knocking, the first thing he notices is that Lucas is already, for some reason, there. 

The second thing he notices is the very large chicken sitting on the desk between them. 

“What the hell,” El expresses. 

The chicken squawks loudly.

“Dude,” Lucas groans, “I thought you locked the door!”

“I did, asshole!” He hisses, before turning back to the duo, hands cupped and holding a pile of corn. After a moment, he asks, like one would greet a coworker in any space outside of the workplace, “What are you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here,” Will tonelessly echoes. He blinks, before gesturing with a hand, “What is that doing here?” 

It comes out a little loud, and Lucas makes a shushing noise, hurrying over to close the door, which he then locks, something that might have been useful five seconds ago. “Keep it down,” he says. “This,” he motions between all of them, the chicken included, “is top-secret stuff, alright?” 

El purses her lips. “Why is there a chicken?”

Lucas makes no attempt at explaining, and instead raises a hand to his forehead. Dustin carefully places the remaining corn on the desk surface, and the chicken begins to peck at them, the click of its beak as it eats. 

Dustin drops his face into his hands and lets out a loud groan. They stare at him, until he looks back up, and heaves a deep, deep sigh. He clears his throat.  

“Susie,” he begins, and that, frankly, explains most of it already, “has a brother that owns a bunch of chickens, alright, and he suddenly moved to the Caribbeans, and obviously, you can’t bring chickens onto a plane, which I don’t get, because if you can bring a cat or a dog on, then why can’t you bring a chicken on the – I mean, I guess there’s some difference, since they’re pretty delicate compared to most domestic animals, and I guess they’re more susceptible to –” 

Lucas smacks his arm. “Dude. Focus.” 

“Ow!” Dustin scowls, but continues on. “Anyway, so he gave a bunch away, but he still had one left, and he was leaving in like two days so we agreed to take care of it, but that was kind of a bad idea, because we can’t just leave it alone at home, because what if it, like, figures out how to turn on the stove and sets the house on fire or something – I don’t know!” He raises his hands in surrender when they all give him a dubious look. “You can’t underestimate them! Anyway, Susie can’t just bring it into the lab because that’s probably, like, a healthcode violation, and no one else would take the chicken for a few hours, even though it’s just a chicken, how hard can it even be, but no one would take it, and I can’t afford to have my house burn down, and Susie can’t take it, so – so, really, I had no choice!” He motions with his hands at the chicken. “He has to be here!” 

“Holy shit,” Will emphatically offers. If Mike were here, he’d probably say the same, too. 

El furrows her eyebrows. “How long have you had him in the school?” 

Dustin stares at them. “Um.” 

“Since homecoming,” Lucas replies, and Will facepalms. 

“Lucas,” Dustin complains, “we talked about this – loyalty, man. You’ve got none.” 

“And you’ve got a chicken on your desk!” He says, and there’s very little to defend that with, really, and Dustin visibly deflates. “Come on, man, the jig is up. They know!” 

“What do they know?” 

Mike and Max walk into the room, and everyone collectively freezes. The chicken continues pecking at the corn. 

Lucas, a little uselessly, says, “You need a new lock.” 

Mike presses his lips together. “Holy shit.” 

“What,” Max stares, “the hell is that?” 

“A chicken,” Dustin croaks. The chicken, as if sensing the subject of the conversation, straightens, and lets out a loud squawk. 

Will takes a seat as the explanation begins once again, unwrapping a sandwich while El sits beside him, and he supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised, because El has hidden a collection of animals in her library’s office, and he’s pretty sure Max had once taught an entire class outside when a dog had strolled into the parking lot beside her classroom. 

After the initial inertia of walking in on a chicken in a classroom has worn off, Will recollects the past two months. If he had been any more vigilant, he probably would have realized way later, he thinks. “Wait, was that why –”

“I fucking knew it!” Mike announces, dropping his bag on a desk next to Will. “I knew you two were hiding something, I said the same fucking th– Will, didn’t I say, like, two months ago, they were totally hiding something, and all of you said I was crazy, and –” 

And Max, who is often unrelenting in her efforts to drive Mike insane, says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She squints at Lucas and Dustin. “You’re idiots. Both of you.” 

Will looks down at his sandwich. It feels weird to eat a chicken sandwich in front of a live chicken. He puts it back in his bag.

Lucas sputters. “It’s his chicken!”

“Our chicken,” Dustin corrects, “you’ve agreed to help me for the past, like, five months. It’s basically joint custody, at this point.” Lucas presses his lips into a thin line, and walks away to take a seat while Dustin reaches behind his desk and pulls out another handful of corn. 

Mike glances at him and silently offers one of his two bagels. Will waves him off, and tries not to blush so wildly when Mike places one in his hand anyway. “I was right,” he says resolutely. “I was right and none of you believed me, and none of you can ever doubt me again.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Max rolls her eyes, and Mike tosses a crumpled napkin her way, scooting his chair a little closer to Will’s. 

Will ignores the very pointed look El gives him, or the very loudly whispered, “Carrots.”

It resonates on a fundamental level when the chicken lets out a despaired squawk. 

By some terrible twist of fate, Will ends up chaperoning for prom. 

The heat of an oncoming summer has begun to pick up, and Will is in some rented black suit, swiping his hair out of his eyes and trying not to drown himself in his fourth Shirley Temple of the night. It’s only by some mercy that Mike, Max, and Lucas have also been assigned to chaperoning, which makes him feel a little better. 

He does wish he was home right now, or even joining El and Dustin, who have both decided to go to a showing of Little Shop of Horrors, which Will loves, but he’s not bitter even at all. Not at all. 

Still, it isn’t a bad night. A free meal with an endless amount of drinks to be provided isn’t the worst way to spend an evening, although he isn’t sure how to feel about Earth, Wind, and Fire singing to him about the twenty-first of September, the beat hammering into his core and rattling him around like a maraca while he watches two seniors do the worm on the dancefloor. Nonetheless, it isn’t terrible, even if he has to stop two students from doing backflips off each other, and he looks away when a few of the students do, frankly, a terrible job of subtly sneaking in a few beers. 

“Come here often?” 

Will looks away from the dance floor of high school seniors and finds Mike next to him, slyly leaned against the bar and looking a little very irresistible in his dark blue suit. “Ha ha,” he deadpans, despite the flutter in his stomach, and he hopes it’s covered by the low lighting of the auditorium, although it could always be blamed by the disco blaring from the speakers or the too-hot temperature in the building. 

Mike gives him an easy grin. “Not a fan of prom?”

Will considers the question. “I don’t not like it, but – you know how our first prom went,” he settles on saying. “Dancing in the parking lot with everyone was way better than this.” When the Spice Girls begin to play, and Carol from his third hour, along with five other girls, starts to shout the lyrics, he winces. “I don’t remember it being so – much.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t think you’d turn out to be the bitter old man between the two of us.” 

Will nudges at Mike’s arm, and he gets a satisfied look in return. “I’m not bitter, just tired. And between us two, you’re already old man material.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Mike squawks, and Will grins. “I’m young! And very welcoming! And happy!” 

“Absolutely,” Will agrees. “Very welcoming and happy.” 

Mike pokes at his arm. “And young, too.” 

“Very young and youthful,” Will appeases, and Mike beams at him. Will’s mouth quirks up. “You know, we are getting kind of old.” 

“Speak for yourself, old man,” Mike sniffs. “I’m not even thirty, yet.” 

“Neither am I!” Will protests, and Mike laughs. His hair is tied up tonight, and he’s undeniably handsome, Will thinks, with his rings and messily done tie. Reminiscent of their high school days, but just a little older. A little more grown up, a little more himself. Will loves him. 

They watch as the students dance and mingle. There are a couple of students still sitting at their tables, alone and looking unsure what to do. They’re braver and better than him, Will thinks. He’d left the second it became even remotely unbearable. 

“If you could go back to our prom,” Mike begins, “do you think you’d do anything different?” 

Will fiddles with the cuff of his suit as he thinks. “No,” he answers after a moment, “I don’t think so. I mean, it wasn’t perfect by any means, and we left pretty early on, but I mean, it ended pretty happy. And us getting wasted afterwards was a plus, too.” Will gives into temptation when he looks over at Mike again. “Remember when you tried to swim in Lover’s Lake fully dressed?” 

Mike sputters and the low light doesn’t do any favors to hide his pinkening cheeks. That answers his previous dilemma, he supposes. “You said you didn’t remember anything from that night!”

“What night?” Will innocently asks, and Mike gently pushes at his arm. 

“Friends don’t lie,” he whines, and Will shrugs, no use in hiding his smile. Mike is smiling, too, and Will suddenly feels so vulnerable, looking at him like this, and he’s a little afraid his face is too open and easily read. Before he can turn away and find an excuse to get up, Mike asks, tilting his head towards the large crowd of dancing students, “Hey, want to join them?”

Will tsks. “Isn’t that a little unprofessional?” 

“Tavarez is up on the DJ stand right now leading the Cha Cha Slide,” Mike dryly points out. “And Lucas is leading a conga line.” 

True to his word, Lucas, followed by at least twenty students, makes their rounds around the auditorium, and Will raises a hand to his mouth as Lucas catches his eye and waves him over. Max, only a few feet away and making amicable chatter with Mr. Anderson, facepalms. “Oh.” 

“So,” Mike draws out, standing up and holding out a hand, “what do you say?” 

Will bites at his cheek. “I don’t know. I’d rather not be surrounded by a swarm of sweaty teenagers.” 

“That’s fair,” Mike acquiesces, before looking around. “What about here?” 

“I don’t know,” Will replies, “I –” 

“Come on,” Mike makes his eyes all wide, “please?” 

Will stares at him, before letting out a low groan. “Fine,” he relents, and takes Mike’s hand. 

It’s less dancing and more taking a few steps to the rhythm, and Will feels better about it when Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Patel have also joined in across the auditorium. They sway together in their corner of the auditorium, until Mike lets go of Will’s hand and twirls him in his place. 

Will nearly knocks into Mike, and it’s only with Mike’s arm wrapped around him that he doesn’t, ending up far too close to Mike and holding him there. “You can’t do this to me,” Will complains, blushing as he shuffles away, and Mike doesn’t let him stray too far, tugging him back. “I don’t know how to dance.” 

“Me neither,” Mike says evenly. “No one does. Dancing is a marketing scheme designed by the government to sell us more music.” 

Will’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “You are such a nerd, sometimes.” 

Mike tilts his head, looking horribly smug. “You like it.” 

Will turns away before he says something crazy, something wild like, I do. I like you.

“Shut up,” he says again, and when another round of disco music begins, he gives into one of his many urges and pulls Mike a little closer. “Let’s dance.” 

Prom is a success when no one sets anything on fire or calls the National Guard or recreates Carrie in any way. When all the students have piled out and it’s only a handful of faculty members left, Will helps in picking up discarded cups and other miscellaneous pieces of trash. It’s awfully quiet, other than the muffled chatter from others, and Will tries not to get too stuck in his own head, replaying the feeling of Mike’s hands in his, or his arm around Will, or their faces so close to each other. He doesn’t particularly succeed. 

Mike is on the other side of the auditorium, talking about something or another with Mr. Anderson about whatever English teachers talk about. Will tries not to be too aware of him, but it’s hard not to be. 

Lucas catches him just as Will is packing up, tie undone and looking like a man on a mission. “Time’s almost up, Byers.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Will mumbles. He throws one last cup into the trash bag before he stands up straight. “It’s not going to happen, Lucas. Just – forget about it.” 

Lucas frowns. “Come on, man. I saw you guys flirting, like, all night.” 

“That,” Will blushes, “was not flirting. At all.” 

“Right,” he raises his eyebrows. “It was just two grown men dancing two inches away from each other, platonically.” 

“Shut up.” He ties the trash bag up and moves to grab his suit jacket, as a result of overheating. “And time is up. Prom’s over.” 

“I’m giving you some leeway here,” Lucas explains. 

Will gives him a look. “You really want the twenty bucks that badly?” 

Lucas waves him off. “It’s less about the twenty dollars and more about the principle. I don’t think I can survive another five years of your pining, man. Please.” 

“I don’t pine,” Will objects. “I just –” 

“Lucas!” Max calls, and they both turn to her, already near the exit. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

Lucas looks back to Will and presses a finger against Will’s chest – just where his heart is, and he leans in oddly close to peer into Will’s eyes. “Mark my word, Byers,” he says, “I’m not listening to another year of yearning.” 

Will grimaces at the word yearning, and watches as Lucas skips over to Max, who shakes her head but accepts a kiss on the cheek. Will tucks his jacket under his arm and fixes the cuffs of his sleeves as he walks towards the door, feeling oddly lonely despite the social evening. 

When he steps outside, the night air is a cool sort of refreshing, the kind that comes from a sip of water or sitting in the shade, serving a well-deserved relief after a horribly humid night of dancing high schoolers. The trees bristle in the breeze, and the parking lot is remarkably empty, only a few cars left. 

He heads for his own when someone calls, “Hey, wait up!” 

Will pauses and turns to find Mike jogging his way, hair undone and curls unruly. His own suit jacket is off. 

“Hey,” he breathes, once he’s only a few inches away from Will. 

Will returns the smile. “Hi,” he indulges. “What’s up?”

Mike gives him a shrug, stepping a little closer. “Nothing. Just wanted to walk with you.” 

Will raises an eyebrow. “My car is, like, five steps away, Mike.” 

“I know.” Mike’s smile widens. Will decides not to read too much into it or stare at it as long as he really wants, and they insead start walking, Mike matching his pace. He asks, “Did you have fun?”

“I guess so,” Will responds. “How about you?”

Mike nods. “Weirdly enough, I did. Although, it doesn’t beat our own prom.” 

“No?”

“No.” Their arms brush against each other, and he looks good like this, Will thinks, in a simple dress shirt. “But it was way more sweaty, if I recall correctly.” 

They reach Will’s car, and Mike leans against the hood of it while he looks at Will. Will joins him, and he faces out to the parking lot. Still, he can feel Mike’s eyes on him. “Maybe you’re mixing that up with you walking into Lover’s Lake,” he suggests, and Mike makes a noise of indignation. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sniffs. 

Will grins. “I’m sure.” 

Mike pushes his shoulder into Will’s, and Will pushes back. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, soft, and he says it like it’s a far better thing than it is. 

Will doesn’t reply, feeling far too lovesick and similar to a peeled orange, and looks up to the night sky instead of Mike when the temptation gets a little too much. He doesn’t know how honest his face is tonight, and he’s a little terrified. 

The moment of silence that follows doesn’t help the urge, and he’s so close to looking over when Mike says, sincere in the silent night, “You looked really nice, tonight. Or, you do look nice.” A pause, and Will can imagine the way he chews at his lip at times, before continuing, “You look nice.” 

His body is out of his own control when he looks at Mike. Out of a sudden surge of bravery, he says, “Thanks. You do, too.” 

Mike brightens, looking pleased. “You think so?”

The corner of Will’s mouth lifts into a slight smile. “I do, yeah.” He lets his gaze fall a little downward, until landing on Mike’s terribly done tie. “Except for your tie. It’s been years, Mike, I don’t know how you manage to still –” 

“It’s not my fault,” Mike complains, except it can’t possibly be anyone else’s doing. “I don’t have great hand coordination, you know, and ties are arbitrary anyway! Whose bright idea was it to make some piece of fabric around our necks so socially necessary? No one even –” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Will repeats, and Mike merely grins. “Come here.” 

Mike obeys easily, shuffling a little closer, and Will’s fingers graze his chest as he undoes Mike’s tie. He’s never really done someone else’s tie, so it takes a little longer than usual, and the entire time is spent resolutely staring at the piece of black cloth between his hands. If he looks up, he knows he’ll find Mike’s face far closer than needed, his unnecessarily intense eyes staring at him. 

“There,” he says after a moment. “Done.” He gives Mike’s chest a final pat, and moves to take a step back. Mike grabs his hand before Will’s falls away, and Will stills where he is. 

He doesn’t dare to move, lest his body betray him and accidentally move closer or something equally crazy. Mike, however, doesn’t move either. “Hey, Will?” 

Will offers a meek hum in response. “Yeah?” 

And Mike, in the low and quiet voice he only ever uses for oddly intimate moments like these, asks, “Can you look at me?” 

It isn’t until then that Will realizes he had firmly planted his eyes on the tie in front of him, too afraid to look up. When he does drag his eyes up, the sight of Mike’s gaze, intent on meeting his eyes, is unavoidable, and he is far closer than Will could have hoped to predict. When their eyes meet, Mike’s mouth lifts in a small smile. 

“Hi,” he greets. 

“Hi,” Will weakly replies. 

Mike’s thumb brushes over Will’s wrist, where he still holds onto his hand, until he loosens his grip to instead entwine their hands. Mike’s palm is warm against his, and Will wonders what’s happened to him to have him blushing over holding hands. Despite the years that have passed, maybe he’s still a teenager at heart, shoving his face into a pillow and kicking his feet over his best friend. 

He’s pretty sure the parking lot is empty, but it could be full of an entire arena of people and he’d be none the wiser. He feels so exposed like this, inches away from Mike’s face and subjected to making such intense eye contact. 

When Mike raises his other hand to press a palm against the junction of Will’s neck and shoulder, Will questions, briefly, if Mike can feel the way his heart skips a beat. He tries to swallow over the sudden dryness in his throat and mouth, and has no choice but to watch the way Mike’s eyes fall to the movement. 

Maybe that, he’ll think later on, was the final push to get him to open his mouth, just as Mike begins to say, “Can I –” 

“Go out with me,” Will blurts. 

And – oh, no, he thinks, dread settling in, and this, he decides is why he never feeds into his impulses, because he doesn’t know how to read the surprised look on Mike’s face, entirely shocked, as if Will couldn’t have given him a bigger whiplash.

“Will,” Mike starts to say, and Will’s heart beats so fast, he’s half afraid it’ll hammer out of his chest. “I d–”

“I was just,” Will says, unaware of his next words, “wanted – I mean, I was hoping you’d say yes, but I don’t – if you don’t, then that’s okay, too, because – because –”

Mike blinks at him, and his face softens into something else, something Will doesn’t want to linger on describing, just in case he finds something he doesn’t like. “Will –” 

“– you’re a good friend, I mean, my best friend, and if I read this all wrong or – or messed things up, then I understand, but Lucas said it wouldn’t hurt to try, and I might murder him after this because it’s kind of hurting right now, or I might set his baseball cards on fire, I don’t know, I haven’t really decided yet, but I’m –” 

Mike kisses him. 

He catches Will close-mouthed, just on the ending part of I’m, and the gasp in his throat gets stuck there, startled and unmoving when Mike tilts his head up a little by a hand to Will’s jaw and meets him all the way. Mike’s lips are a little raw from his habit of chewing on them, and Will can feel the way his hand shakes where it holds Will’s jaw, but that’s okay, because Will is nervous, too. 

He wonders if there’s some innate part of love that remains young no matter what, if there’s something in the motion of kissing or holding hands or even looking at each other in the eye that makes his heart leap and make his hands shake or make his face far too warm. 

Their noses brush against each other, and Mike’s hair tickles Will’s cheek, but he doesn’t care, he thinks, or maybe it makes it all the better, the little reminders that it’s Mike he’s kissing when Will finally pushes himself out of his stupor and leans up, up, because even after all these years, Mike has a few inches on him. 

Will grabs at Mike’s tie and pulls him closer, and he tastes the surprised noise that Mike lets out. Will brings a hand to Mike’s face, just to hold him, he thinks, he isn’t really sure, but it’s something to do with having a hand on his cheek and his jaw and holding him there. The gesture makes Mike smile, and Will can’t help it. He smiles back. 

And then it’s simply them smiling against each other and not really kissing at all, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect. 

Mike is the first to lean away, but he doesn’t move far when he only tilts to the left to brush a soft kiss to Will’s cheek. It’s terribly sweet. Will’s face is hot with the sweetness of it, the care. 

“Yes,” Mike says, after a moment, lips brushing against Will’s cheek, and Will’s heart seizes in its place. It takes a moment to remember what he’s answering. 

“Oh,” Will croaks. “You – seriously? Are you sure?” 

Mike laughs, and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world, Will decides. “What d’you mean, am I sure? I was just about to ask you!” 

Will blinks, and he leans back to properly look at Mike, just to make sure he doesn’t have that look in his eye he gets when he’s trying to pull off one of his terrible pranks. “Really?” 

“Yes,” Mike insists, and Will knows they’ve grown up, but it still surprises him when Mike tips Will’s face up to meet his eyes, unashamed when he leans in a little closer. “Of course. How could I not?” 

“Oh,” Will says again. He swallows around the doubt in his throat. “I didn’t know.” 

Mike’s mouth quirks into a smile, and Will looks away, before he remembers he doesn’t have to. “Me neither.” 

Will can’t help the surprise on his face. “And you were going to ask anyway?” 

Mike drops Will’s hand to wrap his arm around Will. “I guess so. It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?” 

“It would,” Will points out, not meanly. “It could’ve.” 

Mike shrugs. “Maybe. But I know you wouldn’t have let me stay hurt.” 

And that’s true, Will knows. Maybe it would hurt to try, but he wouldn’t have stayed hurt. 

“You’re right,” Will says, and watches the way Mike’s smile widens. “I wouldn’t have.” 

The following Monday in the teacher’s lounge is solemn, quiet when he walks in. El, Lucas, and Dustin occupy a table, huddled together as they whisper, and when they catch sight of him, they abruptly shut up. 

“Will,” El begins, but Lucas cuts her to the chase. 

“You win,” he sighs, fishing out a twenty-dollar bill. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to push you.” 

Will shakes his head. “You gave me some leeway, right?” He asks, just to be sure, and Lucas furrows his eyebrows. 

“I mean, I guess so, yeah.” 

Will presses a twenty-dollar bill into Lucas’ hand. “Here,” he says, before turning on his heel and promptly making a run for it. There’s only a brief moment of silence as he runs out into the hall, before –

“Will!”

“What do you –” 

“What’d I say? Best idea yet, this is why you –” 

He hurries around the corner, nearly running into Kyle the custodian, and he ducks into the gym to make his way to the other side of the school, and maybe it’s ridiculous of him to be running away from his friends of all things, he’ll admit that, and that any relatively normal person would face the repercussions of his actions – but he’s never claimed to be sensible.