Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The spoon slips from Will’s fingers and clinks against the cereal bowl. The sound is loud on this November morning at the Wheelers' dining table, and Will startles like he’s just woken up.

“Sorry,” he mutters, using his sleeve to wipe the spilled milk from the always spotless table.

From the living room comes the rustle of Mr. Wheeler’s newspaper – it’s quick and sharp like a warning. He’s been looking for reasons to kick both Will and Jonathan out of the house, and disturbing his sacred morning ritual of sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and reading the news, probably doesn’t help Will’s case much.  

Holly drops her own spoon into her cereal and giggles at the splash. She and Mrs. Wheeler are up early as usual, and Will likes this time best – when it’s just the three of them in the kitchen.

“You look tired, sweetheart,” Mrs. Wheeler says, her voice floating over the clatter Holly is producing with her spoon. She slips a lunch bag into Holly’s backpack. “Not sleeping well?”

Will fishes his own spoon out of his bowl. “No, I’m fine.”

She smiles and her lipstick is perfect even at this hour. “I know the basement gets cold in the winter, so don’t be shy with the heater, okay?”

The truth is, the heater’s already on full blast every night and Will does feel pretty shitty about not just staying at the Wheelers’ house for free but also sabotaging their electricity bill.

The guilt, however, is not as strong as his fear of the cold.

There is only one thing stronger than that, and that is – 

“Or you could ask Mike to share his room during the winter. It’s much warmer on the second floor.”

There’s a cough and another rustle of newspaper coming from the living room, followed by a low grumble that neither Will nor Mrs. Wheeler catches.

“What was that, honey?” she calls, though her face says she’s pretty sure whatever her husband’s about to say is bullshit anyway. She has a way of making him seem less scary than he’d like to be perceived.

“Grown boys shouldn’t sleep in the same room,” Mr. Wheeler repeats, louder this time. And even though Mrs. Wheeler rolls her eyes, it sends a chill down Will’s spine.

“I’ve got to get Holly to school,” she says and squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

When she leaves with Holly, the quiet folds again, broken only by the occasional turn of a newspaper page coming from the living room. Will sits with his spoon, hunched over the bowl, staring at the soggy flakes. A few minutes of peace.

That’s when the stairs creak.

He doesn’t look up right away, just stirs the milk around his cereal, pretending he doesn’t know the pattern of Mike Wheeler’s footsteps by heart.

“Mom, have you seen –“

Mike stops in the doorway. His hair’s a mess, as if he’s just woken up. It’s shorter than last year, but his curls still fall over his ears. His shirt rides up at one hip, like he just threw it on and hasn’t tugged it into place yet. When he spots Will at the table, his posture stiffens.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Morning,” Will mutters. For the millionth time he wonders if he should just eat in the basement – or avoid the shared rooms altogether. Anything to spare both Mike and himself the awkward reminder that they’re not close anymore. His spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.

Mike crosses the room, eyes looking anywhere but him. He grabs his backpack from the corner, then drifts to the kitchenette to pour his own cereal. For a second, he hesitates, glancing toward one of the empty chairs across from Will.

Their eyes meet.

The air feels thick with how loud the silence is.

Do you wanna sit? The words push against Will’s throat, but he swallows them. There’s no point in asking. Instead, he just stares at the table and hopes his face gives nothing away. He’s done expecting things from Mike – he’s done enough of that for a lifetime.

Mike lingers, clearly uncomfortable. Which really doesn’t come as a surprise. Because despite what he told him last year, about working as a team, about being best friends again, they barely speak. Honestly, they grew apart even before Will moved away. It was stupid to think they could fix that.  

“I’m, uh,” Mike says, awkwardly standing with the bowl in hand. “I’m gonna eat in my room. I’m kinda obsessed with this new comic book series, so ...”

Will wants to ask which one – if there even is one – but he stops himself. They’re way past personal questions.

“Cool,” he says instead, hoping to sound casual.

Mike lingers for half a second longer, like he might change his mind. He doesn’t. Will listens to his footsteps fading up the stairs until the house swallows the sound.  

The heater by the window rattles quietly. Will leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He looks down at his lap and remembers sitting in this same dining chair years ago, with legs half as short, back when his feet didn’t reach the floor and he and Mike would scoot their seats across the floorboards, giggling whenever Mrs. Wheeler scolded them.  

He remembers when sleeping at Mike’s house was the best feeling in the world: Filled with games and laughter, whispered secrets, and the occasional flicker of hope, that each day of their friendship would bring them closer together.

They used to daydream about one of them being adopted by the other’s mom, just so they could live in the same house.

Now, living with Mike is just sad.

It’s one thing to pour your entire heart into a dumb painting, try to confess to your best friend, fail miserably, and help him get back with his girlfriend instead. It’s a completely different thing, to then be forced to live under the same roof and realize you have nothing left to say to each other.

Most of all, it’s lonely.

With Max still in a coma, Lucas spending every afternoon at the hospital, Dustin hanging out almost exclusively with Steve and Robin, El training with Joyce and Hopper, and Jonathan busy fixing things with Nancy, there are not a lot of people to hang out with anymore.

They still eat lunch together at school, but it’s not the way it used to be.

There seem to be too many gaps in the conversations now – with the way they avoid talking about Max or Eddie. And there’s a silence for each sentence that would have been spoken between Mike and Will, if they were speaking.

“You two are ruining the party, you know that?” Dustin has snapped one time, when Mike refused to sit next to Will during movie night. It was one of the only times Will had ever seen Dustin angry. “There’s enough shit going on right now, and you’re making it so much worse. What did you guys even fight about?”

But the truth is, they never fought. They just stopped talking. Will couldn’t look at Mike that night, whose gaze was fixed on the TV, his brows furrowed, as he squeezed in between Lucas and El, even though the space on the couch beside Will was empty. “Just drop it,” he muttered, and Will saw the hurt flash across Dustin’s face before he turned away.

Lucas was – and still is – equally as frustrated. Sometimes he begs Will to forgive Mike for whatever he did.

But there’s nothing to forgive. Nothing to fix. Nothing to say.  

There’s just nothing.

They were close once, now they’re not. Simple as that.

The basement smells faintly of dust and metal when Will climbs down that night. With the heater turned up so high, the pipes rattle and hum. He likes to sleep like this, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders and back pressed against the heater.

Over the past year, he’s made this space his own: The table’s shoved up against the radiator so he can paint and draw in the warmth, and the mattress pushed along the opposite wall. Jonathan’s couch stays mostly untouched – a pile of blankets and a half-empty mug from last month, because he usually sneaks up to sleep in Nancy’s room.

Novembers in Hawkins were always rough, but now with the gates still open and cracks splitting through the streets, something about the air feels wrong. Even the summer was chilly, almost like the cold from the Upside Down is seeping through the cracks into their world.

The cold might actually be one of the few things Will remembers from the Upside Down.

Sometimes he dreams about it – no real pictures, just the cold and the dark. It’s a different kind of cold, almost like it’s alive. Like it moves and listens, it slides under doors and presses against his skin until he wakes up with a gasp, surprised he’s still breathing – his nightmares a constant reminder that this darkness is still inside him, somewhere.

Whenever it gets bad, he presses himself against the heater until the metal leaves red marks on his back. The sting feels like proof – that he’s still here, still in control of his body, and that there’s no dark force inside him, trying to cool down his body temperature.

We had to burn it out of you, his mother told him back in the fall of ’85 after the Mind Flayer. Heat weakens the connection.

And even though Will hates thinking about it, he knows Vecna’s still out there, regaining strength, waiting. Eventually, he will come back. Until then, there’s not much for him to do except stay wary and warm.

He curls up against the heater, presses his eyes shut and tells himself to stop being a coward. Vecna might come back at some point, but tonight is not the night. It’s supposed to be this cold outside – it’s just winter. Everyone’s freezing.

Above him, the house is silent. Somewhere far off, the wind whistles through a tree.

Down here, the hum of the heater is steady.

In the afternoons and on weekends, Will likes to stay out of the Wheelers’ house as much as possible, to lower the chance of running into Mike.

He bikes everywhere. To Hopper’s cabin, mostly, or the junkyard nearby that El’s claimed as her practice space. He was there the first time she floated. It gives him a thrill, seeing her defy gravity like that, doing things she shouldn’t be able to. It makes him feel like they have at least some control over the things the world keeps throwing at them.

Right now, she’s hovering about eight feet up, eyes closed, wind tugging at her wavy hair. When Will reaches out, his fingertips gently brush her ankle, careful not to break her focus. But she’s gotten so good that she just opens her eyes and smiles down at him without even wobbling.

“You’re amazing,” he says.

“I know, right?” she beams, winter sunlight catching her lashes.

By the time the sky turns purple, Will’s back on his bike, pedaling toward the Wheelers’ place, going faster near the forest. He hates the way the shadows shift between the trees after sunset. It almost feels like the forest remembers him.

Even before he reaches the driveway, he knows something’s wrong. The house is dark. Except for a flicker, too subtle to tell where it’s coming from. The motion light in the driveway doesn’t turn on.

Will drops his bike onto the lawn, his breath quickening as he stands in front of the door. His chest feels tight. He hesitates a second, then pushes it open.

“Hello?”

A warm orange flicker glows from the living room. Voices – hushed and low. Will exhales, relieved, and lines up his shoes neatly in the rack before stepping in.

But something is off. The whole Wheeler family plus Jonathan are gathered around the coffee table. It’s unusually dark, the only light coming from several candles, casting shadows across the walls.

Will reaches for the light switch. Nothing happens.

“Will!” Jonathan’s already on his feet, gripping his arm. “Hey. Good you’re home. The power’s out, we’re trying to reach–“

“Uh-huh.” Ted Wheeler is holding a Walkie like it’s a foreign object. It’s weird seeing him with something Will so strongly associates with his friends. “You’re telling me there’s nothing to be done?”

A burst of static, then a tired, mechanical voice, sounding like it’s explained this a million times already: “Sorry, sir. It’s not just your house, whole grid’s down. We’re doing our best. Until then, please use candles and blankets to stay warm.”

Mr. Wheeler mutters something inaudible, before clumsily pushing the antenna back in and handing the Walkie back to Mike, who’s silently sitting beside him. In the dim candlelight, Will can’t help but notice some similarities in their features, the same frown plastered between their eyebrows. He wonders if Mike too will become like his dad one day.

“No lights tonight?” Holly asks excitedly.  

“No, honey. But it’s okay – we’ll make it cozy with candles.” Mrs. Wheeler hands her a flashlight. “Why don’t you go upstairs, and I’ll tuck you in in a minute? Be careful with the stairs!”

Holly scurries off, the flashlight beam bouncing. Ted Wheeler sits on the couch and stares at the dark TV screen, like if he’s looking hard enough, it might turn back on. Nancy is rummaging through drawers for more candles.

“The heaters,” Will suddenly remembers.

“Aren’t working,” Jonathan confirms. “But it’ll be alright. We’ve got blankets.”

“You boys.” Mrs. Wheeler looks between Jonathan and Will. “I know the basement gets cold even with the heating working. Jonathan, you can take the couch, and Will, maybe you could share with Mike –”

“No,” Will says quickly, because he’d rather say it before Mr. Wheeler – or worse – Mike says it. His eyes briefly meet Mike’s across the room, his expression unreadable, brows still furrowed. Will clears his throat. “Uh, no thank you. It’ll be fine.”  

“But if it gets too cold –“

“We’ll let you know.”

The night unfolds in flickers and shadows. Candles, cold leftovers, the soft clatter of dishes under freezing water. Nancy and Mike light the fireplace. It takes a while for the room temperature to rise.

Ted Wheeler turns on the battery radio, flipping through channels in hopes for an update.  

“We reached out to Roane County Water and Electric,” a woman’s voice says through static. “A spokesperson says that the reason for the outage is still unknown.”

Mr. Wheeler grunts and switches stations to settle for some music, but every time a good song comes on, he changes the frequency. Will and Jonathan exchange a pained look and an eye roll.

“Hey,” Jonathan whispers, kneeling beside Will on the carpet, while Mr. Wheeler is holding the radio to his ear to make out the words on a static-filled channel. “I was thinking. Do you want me to sleep downstairs with you tonight?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure? You’ll ask for help, when you need it, right? Please tell me you will.” He squeezes Will’s shoulder. “I know you aren’t on good terms, but I’m sure Mike would be fine with you sleeping in his room, if you’d ask.”

Will hesitates, before shaking his head.  

“Will,” Jonathan’s voice softens, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want you to freeze to death just because you two are too stubborn to talk.”

It’s hard talking to Jonathan about this, because he was with them in Lenora. He caught his eye in the rearview mirror of that van, when his face was still wet with tears. He probably knows a lot more than he’d admit: about the painting, the failed confession, and how badly Will had screwed it all up.  

“I won’t,” Will says. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s just one night. It’ll be fine.”

When he can’t delay it any longer, Will steps into the hallway to head down into the basement. Halfway out of the living room door, the sudden coldness of the house feels tangible – like crossing through an invisible wall.

Mike is sitting at the foot of the stairs, quietly talking into the Walkie. A flashlight is stuck between his knees, casting a light against the opposite wall. Will is about to walk past him, when he hears Lucas’ voice through the speaker.  

“– Emergency power should last a few days, then the generator needs refueling.”

Will freezes. Max. In a coma. In the hospital. Emergency power.

“I was so worried,” Lucas continues, his voice sounding shaky in a way Will’s never heard before. “I drove here as soon as the lights went out, I thought she’d–”

“I know, Lucas,” Mike says softly. “It’s okay. She’s gonna be okay.”

Mike’s voice is gentle in a way Will hasn’t heard in months. He looks up, catching Will’s eyes, and Will realizes he’s just standing there, listening in on a conversation he’s not a part of. He could be – if Mike and him were on good terms. He’d be able to just slip in the space next to him on the stairs and grab the Walkie, offer comfort to their shared friend.  

Maybe Dustin is right – they are ruining the party.

Will averts his eyes, and quickly walks past Mike to head down to the basement.

Despite what he told Jonathan, it is, in fact, not fine.

Downstairs, the cold hits like a memory.

Even on the stairs, Will can feel it creeping through his layers of clothing. He reaches for the light switch out of habit. By the time he lights the first candle, his hands shake so badly the flame dies out. He curses under his breath and tries again.

He’s always hated candlelight. Too much flickering, too many shadows.

It’s just a blackout. It’s fine. It’s just winter. It’s supposed to be this cold with no heating.

Will gets another sweater from the drawer to layer over the one he’s already wearing, before crouching down on the mattress. He checks the heater – dead, of course. Then he slips under the blanket that’s so cold it almost feels wet, and grabs the Walkie, like he wanted to, all evening. She’s probably in bed by now. “El?”

There’s static. Then: “Will?”

Relief floods through him. “Thank god. You okay?”

“Not really,” she says and Will can hear her turn around, a shuffling like the sound of her turning against her pillow. “Mom and I missed our favorite show because the TV’s not working.”  

Will laughs and he swears he can see his breath in the cold air. “Shit.”

“What about you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you lying?”

Will tries to keep his teeth from chattering. She’s too good at reading him. “Maybe. I don’t know, I’m just … tense. Do you think – could he be causing this?”

There’s a silence. El never just answers a question carelessly, she always thinks it through. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “Can you feel him?”

“No, not really. It’s hard to tell. Just – it’s so cold, it reminds me of …“

“I know,” she whispers.

“I guess I’m just worried. I mean, what if he’s looking for me? To take me back?”

“Oh, Will.” Her voice is soft and warm. “I won’t let that happen. Ever. Should I come over? Or do you want to sleep here? We can share my bed?”

“No, no.” The thought of El waking up Joyce and Hopper in the middle of the night to come get him makes his skin crawl. His mother has worried about him enough for a whole lifetime. “It’s okay. I just … wanted to hear your voice.”

Even in the silence Will knows she’s smiling.

“It’s good you’re sharing the basement with Jonathan,” she states, her voice now more like a hum, the way she sometimes sounds overly positive in an attempt to make other people feel better. It’s something very motherly – she probably picked it up from their mother. “You’re not alone. If anything happens, Jonathan can call us.”

Will opens his mouth to say something but stops himself. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets himself be deluded for a second. El doesn’t have to know the truth. In fact, it’s better that way. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.”

When they say their goodnights and the channel goes quiet, Will curls up under his blanket, tucking his hands between his knees, trying to let the softness and warmth of El’s voice linger in the air. He pulls the blanket up into his face, so his warm breath radiates from the fabric right back to his skin.

But even tucked into the blanket, he’s shaking. His hands and feet sting from the cold. And he realizes this is stupid. So so so stupid.

He imagines tomorrow’s newspaper. He might even make it the front page.  

Boy who came back from the dead – also known as Zombie Boy – freezes to death because he couldn’t ask his former best friend to share rooms with him.

The candlelight flickers. Will presses his eyes shut, so he doesn’t have to see the shadows ghosting over the walls and furniture.

Focus, he tells himself. It’s just a blackout. Nothing unusual. It happens in every town, in every part of the world. Yes, it’s cold, but it’s not gonna kill you. And no, the cold doesn’t mean Vecna’s lurking outside the house, it’s literally the end of November.

Maybe – if he waits long enough for Ted Wheeler to go to bed – he can sleep on the couch. But he usually stays in the living room until two or three AM, spending half the night sleeping in his La-Z-Boy. Maybe Will could share with Nancy and Jonathan, but knowing Nancy, she’d bang on Mike’s door and force both boys to get a grip and share the freaking room.

A body as cold as Will’s would make the perfect vessel.  

The thought slips into his mind, and before he can shake it, it makes itself comfortable. It’s true, isn’t it? The Mind Flayer loves the cold, it’s where it thrives. It needs a cooled down host – that’s why Billy almost melted under the sun, that’s why Will refused to take a hot bath when he was possessed.

If Will falls asleep, he’s leaving his body unprotected: a cold, empty vessel, inviting and helpless. It must be so easy to take over his body. Nobody is here to witness it. And there’s no way he could fight it off.

Is it really irrational to think that way? Who’s to say it wouldn’t find him again? Vecna is alive and waiting, lurking – they know he is. Maybe he’s already outside the house, waiting for him to fall asleep. It would be easy. Would Will even notice? Would anyone?  

He shouldn’t have refused Mrs. Wheeler’s suggestion of sharing Mike’s room so quickly. But even if Mr. Wheeler would allow it – would Mike?

He could say no.

Like he had at every single attempt Will had made to spend time with him this year. Mike is always – busy. Not in the mood. Avoidant. “Sorry, I’m really tired,” used to be his excuse, back when Will still asked him to hang out. He hasn’t for months now. It’s pointless.  

His clothes and body feel too cold to preserve warmth under the covers. It feels endless. Incurable.  

And it feels familiar. Like a coldness he once knew but forgot. A place that’s dark and icy. Castle Byers and a young boy, shivering on the ground, waiting to be found. A screeching from far away. And the thuds, like giant feet, stepping on dry roots. Not so far away. Coming closer. Sniffing him out. They’re almost here. He’s almost gone.

Will jolts awake. There’s a sound, like a banging.

Sitting up, he looks through the room, disoriented, trying to identify where the sound came from. Has the flicker of the candlelight gotten stronger? His body is tense, his shoulders pulled up towards his ears. He doesn’t know what time it is.

Then, another bang. Or more like a knock. Coming from up the stairs.

Will doesn’t want to leave his blanket, so he takes it with him, holding it over his shoulders like a cape, as the steps creak under his feet. He reaches for the doorknob and hesitates. Vecna wouldn’t knock, would he?

Will opens the door.

Mike’s holding a lantern in his hand and it’s casting his face in gold and shadow, making his eyes look like black orbs.  

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” Will doesn’t know when lying became so easy. It used to be impossible for him to lie to Mike – but now the words just slip from his mouth, like the truth doesn’t mean anything anymore.

“Um,” Mike says, shifting. “Mom asked me to check on you.”

Of course she did. “I’m fine.”

“It’s freezing down here.”

Will straightens, forcing the shiver out of his voice and hopes his hands are not trembling where he’s holding the blanket over himself.

“I’m okay, Mike. I’ll manage. You can go.”

Mike’s eyes flicker over Will’s face, like he’s studying him. And it’s unfair, really. Because this past year, Will’s gotten away with it. With all the lies and excuses, saying he’s fine when he’s not, and Mike didn’t bother. So why does he have to examine him now, like he’s a puzzle he’s suddenly interested in solving again?

“I talked to El,” Mike says slowly. The shadows make his cheekbones appear even sharper in a way that makes Will’s stomach twist. “She said you’re … scared.”

Oh my god. Will’s chest burns. There it is, the all-too familiar pity. Mike is being pressured not only by his mom but also El to look after him.

“I’m not scared. I’m not a baby, Mike,” Will says, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“No, I know. But she said Jonathan is sleeping down here to keep you company.”

“Yeah, well. He is.” Will knows he’s being stupid now – Mike can see the empty couch from here – and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but for a second it looks like Mike’s rolling his eyes.

“You know I have ears, right? I can hear him sneak into Nancy’s room every single night. I’m literally next door.”

“Can you just go? I’m okay.”

“I don’t believe you. You just don’t wanna cause any trouble, or whatever.”

“No, Mike. I want to be alone. I don’t wanna talk to you, okay?”

If they were still close, Mike would be hurt now. But he doesn’t even flinch, he just stares, unmoving, brows furrowed.

“Fine.” He looks at the wall behind Will’s head. “You made it clear earlier that you don’t wanna sleep in my room. But I just wanted to come down here to say that you can, of course. It’s not exactly warm, but it’s better than this.”

The no already sits on Will’s tongue, when he realizes just how badly he wants to say yes. To accept the offer and release himself from the torture of being alone in a room that feels like everything he ever wanted to forget.

But there’s something about the way Mike’s face looks in the flickering light of the candle, the way his eyes are almost black now, that makes Will want to rather freeze to death, than spend a night with him alone in his bedroom.

“Thanks,” Will says stiffly. “But no.”

Mike stands there for another few seconds, like he’s waiting for him to change his mind. “Okay,” he says finally. He opens his mouth again to say more, but stops himself. He clears his throat. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Will says.

When Mike closes the door, the light disappears with him.

Will stands there, trembling and contemplating the decisions he’s made in his life.

So. Stupid.

He looks back to see the weak light of the candle he’s lit earlier. His body is so cold, he almost feels numb.

This is so freaking – 

He curses under his breath, goes back to blow out the candle, before grabbing his pillow and blanket. He heads upstairs, flashlight in hand.

The house is dark and empty. It’s silent except for Ted Wheeler’s soft snoring from the living room.

Will closes the basement door as quietly as possible – he doesn’t want to imagine Mr. Wheeler’s reaction to seeing him sneak up into his son’s bedroom in the middle of the night. On quiet feet, muffled by two layers of socks, Will steps up the stairs.

He pauses at Mike’s door, clutching the blanket. The light of his flashlight shakes from how much his hand is trembling. Then he knocks. So quietly, he’s almost sure Mike’s gonna miss it. And if he does, Will’s not sure he could gather up the courage to knock again.

The door opens. Warm candlelight floods from inside the room. Mike’s eyes, dark and confused.

“I changed my mind,” Will says.

They stare at each other, and Mike’s expression is unreadable, like it has been for months. What happened to wearing your heart on your sleeve? 

Mike steps aside.

He doesn’t realize how bad of an idea this was, until he closes the door behind himself and the room falls silent. Suddenly, it’s the exact scenario they’ve been avoiding for months.

A smaller version of Will would have daydreamed about being alone with Mike at night. He used to make up little fake scenarios until the early morning hours, to keep himself distracted from everything else that was going on.  

Now he’s here, in Mike’s bedroom, freezing cold, and Mike stands next to his bed, awkwardly fumbling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. They haven’t had a real conversation in so long, it feels impossible to find words.

“Um.” Will considers going back down but there’s no way in hell he’s changing his mind again and making this even more awkward. “Do you still have that spare mattress? The one we used for sleepovers?”

He cringes at the last words – he didn’t mean to make it sound nostalgic. But Mike seems relieved over the given task. “Yeah, I’ll get it.”

While Mike pulls the second mattress from under his bed, Will looks around the room. Not a lot has changed since he’s last been in here – which is strange, because Mike has changed so much. The posters, the clutter, it all feels like an echo of a different life, a different Mike, and a different Will.

Will recognizes some of his old drawings on the walls, ones he made when he was twelve or thirteen. The newest painting he made for Mike – the one that always makes his face burn, whenever he thinks of it – is nowhere to be seen.

“This should work.”

“Thanks.”

Mike sits on his bed, as Will crouches down on the floor and puts his pillow on the mattress. It’s so quiet in the room. No buzzing from a lamp or radio. The electricity is drained from the wires and in this moment, Will swears it creates an unnatural silence.

He slips under the blanket and from the corner of his eye he can see Mike do the same. This is good – if they’re asleep, they don’t have to talk.

“Do you want the candle on or–“

“On, please,” Will says a little too quickly.

“Okay.”

Then it’s quiet again. Will has his blanket up to his chin and tugs his legs up against his chest, hugging himself to warm up. It’s still cold, but nothing like the basement. He tries not to shift too much, too aware of Mike being right there beside him, hearing every ruffle of the fabrics.

Neither of them say a word.

A minute passes. Then another.

“Well,” Mike says eventually and turns his back to Will. “Good night.”

Will looks at his back. “Good night,” he says quietly.

The house falls silent. The flame flickers, and shadows shift over the walls. And even though Will is still cold, the sound of Mike’s breathing beside him distracts him enough to not drift back into his fears. It’s a sound almost as familiar as his own breathing.

Will watches his back rise and fall, black hairs curling just below his ear. He tries to match his breathing to Mike’s.

He might not sleep much tonight. But he’ll sleep. He’ll make it through the night. Tomorrow the power will be back, and everything can go back to normal – or whatever counts as normal for them now. Mike can stop feeling obliged to care for him and Will can regain his dignity.

Eventually, sleep will come.

Chapter Text

By morning, the power’s still out.

It’s not just the neighborhood; the whole town is shut down.

No crackle from the TV, no hum from the streetlights, no distant traffic – because no one needs to drive to school or work anyway. The air feels hollow and still, like time has stopped and all that’s left to do is wait for the world to start spinning again.

The house is colder than last night. Whatever warmth was preserved from the past week of heating has escaped through the walls.

Will keeps his head down at breakfast, reading the ingredients list on the peanut butter jar to avoid Mike’s eyes.

When he woke up, Mike was already gone, and they haven’t said a single word to each other since. It’s back to normal – good old avoiding each other.

And in a way, it feels easier. Will’s gotten used to it. He knows the script.

“Did y’all sleep okay last night? It wasn’t too cold?” Mrs. Wheeler asks in her usual bright voice, while everyone else looks either grumpy, hormonal, or both.   

“It was fine,” Will says, picking at the edge of his untoasted sandwich.

“You do look more rested than usual.”

“Uh, yeah. I–“ He clears his throat. “I slept pretty good.”

The words taste wrong the second they’re out. Sure, it’s true, he did sleep okay – no nightmares or fears – but Mike doesn’t have to know that. Most importantly, Mike doesn’t have to get the wrong idea and think that Will needs him or something.

And sure, the knowledge of Mike sleeping on the bed, about three feet away from him, may have helped a little bit.

But it’s not like Mike did anything. He always had a comforting effect on Will, and maybe that just sticks, no matter how far away they feel from each other now.

Will keeps his eyes on the peanut butter jar, feeling the burn of Mike’s gaze in the corner of his vision.

“Well,” Mrs. Wheeler continues, “since the power’s still out, I say we make the best of the situation. My friend Lucy lent us a camping stove, so we can at least boil water. I’ll make soup later, that’ll warm us up.”

None of the Wheelers seem particularly appreciative. Ted Wheeler flips through the newspaper – there was none in the mail this morning, so he’s reading the culture section of yesterday’s edition that he usually skips. Mike stares into his cereal. Holly, daydreaming as usual, gazes out the frosted window, wide-eyed and distant. 

“That sounds nice,” Will says, just to say something.

Mrs. Wheeler smiles and squeezes his hand over the table. “You boys can use hot water to wash up if you want.” Then, as if it’s an afterthought: “Now, Will, Mike –”

The sound of their names together freezes him. Across the table, Mike stays perfectly still.

Mrs. Wheeler glances between them, but if she notices something, she’s kind enough not to mention it. “Do you know where your siblings are?”

“I’m right here,” Holly says helpfully, eyes still on the window.

“Oh, I know, honey, I meant your big sister and Will’s brother.”

“I don’t know,” Will says.

“No idea,” Mike says at the same time. It’s the first thing he’s said all morning.

The day drags slow.

Will avoids the freezing basement, so he busies himself helping Mrs. Wheeler move food from the dead fridge to the porch to keep it cool. He can see his breath in the air – inside and outside the house.

When they light the camping stove, he warms his hands over the blue flame. The heat from the fireplace seeps into the kitchen. Somewhere in the living room, a quiz show murmurs through the radio, filling the silence with static laughter. When Will glances towards the couch, he sees Mr. Wheeler stare at the blank TV, like he’s trying to visualize the quiz show on the screen.

The soup could’ve tasted like anything – its steaming heat makes it easily the best thing he’s had all year.

“You know,” Mrs. Wheeler says, when they wash dishes in freezing water. “You’ve helped me more this year than all my spoiled children combined.”

“Really?” he grins, rubbing his hands that feel raw from the water. “Well. I like to be useful.”

Will usually avoids the shared rooms, not just because of Mike, but also because Mr. Wheeler doesn’t have to use words to remind him he merely tolerates him in his house (the eyes say it all), so he’s definitely not joining him on the couch.

Instead, he settles for the kitchen table and doodles in Holly’s drawing book – much to her delight (“draw mom next!”) – until Mrs. Wheeler ushers her off for a makeshift bath.

“Oh, Will?” she says, stopping in the doorway. “What you said – about being useful. I’m kinda busy with Holly right now. Would you bring Mike a bowl of soup? He’s been so moody lately, I’m sure it’d do him good.”

Will opens his mouth, freezing mid-crayon stroke. His mind races a million miles a minute, searching for excuses. But after helping her all day, there’s no reason to refuse.

“Um. Sure.”

He fills a bowl, the ceramic hot against his palms, and climbs the stairs slowly, careful not to spill anything. In front of Mike’s door, he hesitates. He could just leave it here. But it’ll go cold.

Bracing himself, he knocks. There’s no answer. He knocks again. “Mike?”

Finally, there’s shuffling. Mike opens the door, hood up, one headphone in. He looks confused to see him – which is understandable, because Will can’t remember the last time he’d knocked on this door – well, except for last night. 

“Hey, um – your mom made soup. She asked me to bring you some.”

“Oh.” Mike glances at the bowl, then reaches out. “Thanks.”

Will passes it over carefully, making sure their fingers don’t touch.

“Thanks,” Mike says again, because there are no words in the world left for them to say to each other.

“Sure.”

Will glances past him to see a bunch of comic books scattered across the bed. He wants to ask about them. Instead, he blinks and takes a step back.

“Okay, then. That’s all.”

“Cool.” Mike lingers for a second, then another. Then he nods and closes the door.

Will stands there for what feels like five minutes, the warmth of the bowl fading from his palms.

Only when he walks down the stairs does he allow himself to let out a long breath. Sharing a room clearly didn’t fix anything.

As the evening approaches, the cold deepens, each hour stealing another degree of warmth from the house.

Will knows his mom is worried – because she always is – but with so many Wheelers filling every corner of the house, there aren’t many places to have a private conversation.

So, Will slips back into the basement despite the cold. He curses under his foggy breath, slipping under the covers, which doesn’t help much – it’s just like dragging an icy piece of cloth over an already cold body.

He grabs the Walkie. “El?”

The sound of static.

“El? Mom?”

A click. Then: “Will! Wait, I’ll get mom.”

Another couple of seconds, then his mom’s voice floods into the room, warm and rushed. “Will! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”

They catch up: Despite not being able to watch their favorite TV show, not a lot has changed for them. They spent the day on the junkyard training like every day of the year. They talk about hot showers, fresh food, and missing each other.  

By the time they hang up, an hour’s passed. Will’s body feels numb, his teeth ache from clenching them so much.

The room’s gone gray-blue in the dimming light. Now, in the quiet, there are sounds in the house that weren’t there before. The wood of the furniture is contracting from the cold, causing it to creak.

The quiet presses on him.

He can almost feel the fear creeping back in through the cracks of the floorboards.

Will tries to move but his limbs are heavy, slow to obey. He forces himself to wash up and brush his teeth, before stripping down to his underwear to change for the night. The cold bites at his skin and turns him into a shivering mess, as he quickly slips into sweatpants and the thick sweater he’s slept in the night before.

Beside the dead heater, his mattress looks miserable, promising nothing but a sleepless night or, if he’s lucky, maybe some nightmares.  

He hesitates. Then his eyes flick toward the stairs.

Mike avoided him all day, so now it’s hard to tell if sharing a room was just a one-time offer, made under the assumption that the power would be working again in the morning.

He doesn’t know what he expected from him – maybe a glance across the table, a nod that said it’s okay to come back to my room tonight.  

But then again, he avoided Mike’s eyes all day, too, so he wouldn’t even know if he had looked at him or not.

Will stands in the cold room, until the shivering of his body decides for him.  

In the hallway, he listens to the static of the radio from the living room. He waits a couple of seconds until he hears Mr. Wheeler’s light snore, then he heads up the stairs on quiet feet.

Mike’s door is cracked open, which is unusual – he’s always been very strict with keeping it closed. A narrow glow of orange light spills over the floorboards. Will knocks gently.

“Hey,” he whispers, so Nancy and Jonathan next door won’t hear him. “Um, is it okay if I–“

“Come in.”

Mike is on the bed, a comic book in hand, a candle on the nightstand. The flame illuminates his face, warm and soft. He looks up briefly, before focusing back on the page. He looks like he’s ready for bed already, the blanket pulled up to his neck.

Will doesn’t recognize the comic, which feels strange, because they used to share every new find: Mike would explain in detail the way the hero used his superpowers, while Will got obsessive over the linework.

Now, Will closes the door behind him and slides onto the makeshift bed on the floor, wrapping the blanket tight. The wood underneath is cold enough to sting through the mattress.

He turns around to face the wall, like he had yesterday.  

Then it’s quiet.

Only the faint crackle of the candle fills the room and the occasional rustle of a turned page.

The candle throws shadows across the wall that move restlessly. The lower it burns, the harsher the flickering.

The silence is too loud.

Will has slept on this floor so many times in his life. When they were younger, he’d often lie awake and imagine Mike asking him to come up to bed in the middle of the night. In his fantasy, they’d snuggle up on the mattress and maybe at some point, when Will got really sleepy, he’d imagine them kissing, but he wouldn’t ever admit that to anyone.

Now he lies still, focusing on his breathing: slow and long breaths, like he’s sleeping.

Time stretches. The candle gutters low. Then – a sound: the soft thunk of a book closing. A shift of weight.

Will counts Mike’s breaths. Then he counts his own.

But then the flickering of shadows on the wall grows stronger, like the candle burns out, and suddenly, the room is covered in complete darkness.

Will is wide awake.

And apparently, so is Mike.

He hears a shuffle, a drawer opens and closes. He listens closely, as Mike puts what sounds like a new candle into the candleholder, then rummages through more drawers.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He’s always been like that during sleepovers when they were young, too – unable to keep quiet, always waking everyone up.

Will holds his breath. He doesn’t want to risk the awkwardness of a conversation, but the question slips out almost immediately. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“Shit, you’re awake. Sorry.” It’s pitch black in the room, so even though Will turns around, he can’t see anything. “I think the lighter slipped from my nightstand, can you –“

“Yeah, wait, I’ll check.” Will feels around the floor. There, just under Mike’s bed, he feels cold metal. “Got it.”

He reaches up blindly.

“Thanks, I – oh my god.”

Mike flinches when their hands brush.  

“What?”

“You’re freezing.“

Will pulls his hand away and hides it back under the blanket, pushing it inside his sweater to warm it on his stomach.

“Well, the basement’s kinda freezing,” he says, a defensive edge in his voice. 

Mike fumbles with the candle and then finally, lights it. The room glows again, soft and orange, and that’s good, it’s comforting, but at the same time scary, because now he can see Mike again – and worse – Mike can see him.

Mike leans on his arm, his hair sticking up on one side from the pillow.

“You should’ve said something.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. Hey, are you shaking?”

Shit. Will thought the covers would hide it. He tries to keep still, but the tremor betrays him. “It’s really not that bad.”

“It looks bad.”

Mike’s tone is serious – almost worried, and in a way, it’s scary. 

The way he insists on how cold Will is, like maybe Will, the perfect vessel, has already lost this fight. Maybe this cold isn’t normal, and the only explanation is that he’s already possessed.

“It’s okay,” Will tries again with a certain urgency.

“It’s not,” Mike insists. “You always say that, but you need to warm up, Will. I’ve never felt skin this cold–“

“Please don’t say that.”

The room falls quiet. Will glances up at the ceiling, so to not look at Mike. His heart has started pounding. He knows it’s unfair to snap at him, but he’s just – 

“Please,” he repeats weakly.

Mike is very still. “What,” he mumbles, his voice suddenly softer than before. Soft like it used to be. “What did I say? I don’t understand.”

Will turns to his side, facing Mike, but his eyes are stuck on the bedframe. “Sorry. It’s just that …”

He hesitates. He hasn’t opened up to Mike in so long. In fact, he’s forced himself not to. To stop depending on him, stop expecting comfort from him. So now, with the words about to slip out, it almost feels like overstepping a line.

“Sometimes the cold makes me feel like he’s still there. Inside me.”

He can feel Mike’s eyes on him but he doesn’t look back, scared to see the pity that he hates so much. “He …” Mike repeats breathlessly.

“I know it’s stupid,” Will adds, just so Mike can’t say it.

There’s a long silence. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. After all, there was a reason why he’d stopped telling Mike things.   

“Will,” Mike says finally. “You’re cold because the power’s out and you spent several hours in a basement, where it’s like … 40 degrees or something. Not because of him.”

And just like that, the words he’s been holding back slip from his lips. As he speaks, he realizes his voice is trembling, but he can’t stop.

“How can you be sure? I mean, think about it. The night I went missing, the power went out. And every time I felt him after that, the lights would flicker, or there would be another outage. Like in the movie theater, remember? And he got me before, Mike. He likes the cold, so maybe he’s creating an environment where I get cold, so he can ... I don’t know. Maybe this is his whole plan.”

Mike chews on his lip while listening. He seems to think for a while. Then he sits up, slips out of bed and starts rummaging through drawers.

“What are you doing?” Will asks, feeling more shaken each minute.

Mike returns to the bed with a pile of blankets. “Have you tried warming up?”

“Have I–“ Will almost gasps at the ignorance of that question. “Have I tried – well yes, Mike, thank you, I haven’t thought of that, it’s just that the power’s out and –“

“Okay, sorry. I get it.” Mike’s mouth twitches, almost like he wants to smile, but then it’s gone again. He kneels on the bed, blankets in his lap, and looks down to where Will is laying on the floor. “Remember how your mom, Jonathan and Nancy got you back when you were possessed?”

“Um. They put all those heaters around me … to burn it out of me.”

“Right. And how did your body react?”

“Well, it hurt?”

“No, I mean. Do you remember how your body reacted to heat – or warmth in general?”

Will remembers his mom telling him that he refused to take a bath, saying the water was too hot, when it was actually just a normal temperature. “He kept telling me he liked it cold. He was repulsed by heat.”

“Exactly.” Mike hesitates and for a split second, their eyes meet. Then Mike drapes one of the blankets over Will.

Will’s throat tightens. There’s a part of him that hates being taken care of. Something about it always felt humiliating to him – like he can’t do things on his own. But there’s another part – a much bigger one – that yearns for Mike to care for him like he used to.

Mike puts his feet on the floor, so he can properly lean over Will, adding another blanket and tucking it around his shoulders. Will watches him, breath stuck in his throat.

He was never meant to be in this room with him. He’s given up fixing their friendship long ago. And now he’s not sure what’s gotten into Mike – it’s almost like this is what he’s been waiting for this past year. To finally be helpful again.

“We’re gonna warm you up,” Mike says, pulling back to sit on the bed, “and unless a voice in your head tells you to stay cold, we can be sure you’re not possessed. Okay?”

It makes a lot of sense, when he says it. Will stares at Mike, astonished by the concept of him being there for him, like he used to.

Mike was always caring, until he wasn’t anymore.

Or did Will just stop asking for help? Suddenly, he can’t remember who was distant first. Was Mike really just gone one day, or was Will pushing him away too? 

Mike hesitates, fidgeting. Only now Will notices the object Mike is holding in his hand. When Will’s gaze drops to it, Mike’s posture stiffens.

“I remembered,” he begins and if Will didn’t know better, he’d say Mike looks embarrassed. “This is what your mom did, when you got possessed, right? Checked your temperature?”

He finally reveals the thermometer in his hand, slowly handing it to Will.

Will takes it from Mike’s hand. The tips of their fingers brush, and Will pretends not to have noticed.

“It’s new, I mean, it’s unused, I haven’t – Mom bought each of us one the last time Holly had a fever.”

Will hesitates. But then Mike’s looking at him all expectantly, and this is the longest conversation they’ve had all year, so Will opens his mouth to place the thermometer under his tongue. He stares at the ceiling, aware that Mike is watching him. They wait in silence.

When finally, the beep sounds, he checks the digits and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“What does it say?”

“Ninety-nine.”

“That’s good. See? Not possessed.”

“I guess not.”

“Are you feeling better?”

With the way Mike is looking at him, all earnestly, expectingly, like the measurement of his temperature has just fixed all of Will’s problems, Will almost wants to laugh. “Yeah,” he breathes.   

Mike lies back in his bed. The silence that follows feels fragile, like just one wrong word could ruin whatever happened just now. Will feels unable to form words, and Mike seems to have just as little left to say. 

Will turns to face the wall and from the rustle of blankets he can hear Mike do the same.

After a long pause, Mike whispers: “You feeling any warmer?”

“A little,” Will murmurs.  

He’s still cold, deep in his bones, but no longer shivering. The three layers of blankets are heavy, grounding, in a comforting way.

He closes his eyes and matches the rhythm of his breathing to Mike’s, and before he has time to worry about the cold, or nightmares, or whatever dark forces are out there, he drifts into sleep.

Chapter Text

Will waits at the top of the stairs, listening.

A quiet murmur drifts from the kitchen. The hallway is silent except for the slow and steady tick of the clock.

Like the morning before, Mike’s bed was empty when Will woke up. And like the morning before, Will quietly carries his bedding down to the basement, careful not to make a sound.

Mike’s parents don’t come to the basement often, but he doesn’t want to risk it. The thought of Mr. Wheeler wandering down here in search of new batteries or candles – only to find Will’s mattress stripped of pillow and blanket – sends a shiver down his spine.

He doesn’t want him asking questions about where Will is spending the night.  

In the kitchen, the Wheelers sit around the table, faces pale from another cold night.

Will glances at Mike, who – surprisingly – holds his gaze. He doesn’t smile, but at least he acknowledges him. That’s progress.

“Morning,” Will says, sliding into the chair beside Jonathan.

“You’re up unusually late,” Mrs. Wheeler says, smiling.

“Um, yeah.” Will reaches for the butter, spreading it carefully over the toast. It’s true he’s usually one of the first people up in this house – but something about sleeping in Mike’s room seems to knock him out every night. He glances at Mike, who’s already looking at him. Both boys avert their eyes quickly. 

“Is the basement very cold?” Holly asks curiously. “Can you see your breath?”  

Will looks up. And maybe he hesitates a second too long, because suddenly every face at the table turns toward him – Holly, Mrs. Wheeler, Jonathan, Nancy and Mike. Even Mr. Wheeler, who for the first time since Will’s known him isn’t sitting behind a newspaper, follows the conversation, one eyebrow raised, waiting for a reply.

Is he already suspecting something?

“Um, yeah.” Will feels heat rushing into his face. “It’s cold. But it’s not too bad and the blankets help. I'm sleeping pretty good.”

He doesn’t know why he’s lying. It’s not like he and Mike did anything wrong.

But Ted Wheeler said it only a couple of days ago and now the words echo through Will’s head: Grown boys shouldn’t sleep in the same room.

He said it like it’s something dirty. Like Will is scheming something, or like whatever’s wrong with Will might rub off on Mike if they spend too many nights behind closed doors. 

And even if it’s just the implication – Will has been hiding this part of himself all his life. It’s like second nature, an old habit, a familiar voice that says: Don’t do anything weird. Don’t act suspicious.

And in the end, Mr. Wheeler does have the power to throw him out. It’s his house. He literally owns it.

“Well, you’ll tell me if you need anything, right?” Mrs. Wheeler presses, glancing at Jonathan, too. “I promised Joyce you two would be warm and taken care of, and I don’t like the idea of you freezing in the basement.”

“No, no. Really, it’s not that cold.”

“It’s fine, really,” Jonathan says, because he too has been lying about where he sleeps for over a year.

When Will looks up again, he sees a frown carved between Mike’s brows. He raises his own brows in question, but Mike looks away.

Mrs. Wheeler looks at Mike and sighs. “You have offered Will your room, right Mike?”

There’s a silence – a beat too long. Will watches, as Mike’s frown deepens. He’s about to reply when Mr. Wheeler clears his throat and mutters, “Jesus, they’re boys, not babies. It’s not like they’re sleeping in the garage.”

“Yeah,” Will says too quickly. “Um, yeah. And we’re grateful. It’s really more than enough.” And then, because Mr. Wheeler’s stare makes him nervous – like he can see right through him – he adds: “I like sleeping in the basement, it feels like our room now. So, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“I like my room, too,” Holly says helpfully. It draws the attention away from Will, and he can feel the air going back into his lungs.

All through breakfast, he tries to meet Mike’s eyes, but Mike keeps his head down, pushing food across his plate. The frown between his brows never leaves.

After breakfast, Jonathan and Will get ready to visit Hopper’s cabin and meet up with their mom and El. Will is just halfway down the basement stairs to grab clean clothes from his drawer when Mike slips through the door.

“Why’d you lie?”

“What?”

Will turns around. Mike stands at the top of the stairs, hood up, curls sticking out.

"Why did you lie?"

The tone in Mike’s voice is unfamiliar. Not angry, but close – his brows furrowed, his mouth a sharp line. Like Will hurt him personally.

Will’s stomach tightens, the air between them suddenly colder. “What are you talking about, Mike?” He steps to the drawer and grabs a fresh sweater. He hears Mike’s footsteps behind him.

“You lied to everybody about where you slept last night and you didn’t even blink. Saying all that about how you prefer sleeping down here – I don’t understand why you’d do that.”

“Okay?” Sure, Will lied – but he has his reasons and maybe he would explain it to Mike, but there’s something about the way Mike just came down here and confronted him that makes him forget all reason. Why does he even care? What’s it to him? “So?”

“So?” Mike repeats. “I don’t understand why you’d deliberately let my mom worry about you freezing down here.” The words seem to bubble up inside him. “And I don’t know – I just think it’s weird how easily you lie, when you were always the one who said lying was wrong, and that you’d never lie to anyone.”

What is this even about? Jonathan has been lying to Mike’s parents about this exact thing for over a year. Mike lies to his parents all the time. Mike lied to him plenty of times – about how they’d be best friends again, how they’d work as a team, how sorry he was for treating him like shit.

“I didn’t lie to you, Mike. You’re acting like I personally offended you.”

Something shifts in Mike’s face; a dimming in his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The softness from last night has vanished, and suddenly Will can’t imagine it ever being there.

“I guess I just didn’t realize how much you’ve changed.”

Will’s stomach drops. Out of all people in the world, how can Mike talk about changing –

“So have you, Mike.”

“Well.” There’s something absolute in his tone. “Then I guess we don’t know each other anymore.”

“Guess not.”

They stare at each other and Will has imagined this moment a thousand times – back when he thought they’d talk things out. Conversations about all the ways they’ve changed and all the things that happened. But it was never like this. Never this cold.

He abandons his plan to change clothes and just throws on another sweater.

“I gotta go,” he says. “So, unless you’ve got something to say that isn’t an accusation, move.”

Mike doesn’t hesitate before stepping aside, face unreadable. And Will doesn’t hesitate to push past him. He runs up the stairs and meets Jonathan in the hallway.

“Can we go? Now?”

On the bike ride, Will is quiet. His heart is beating fast in a mixture of anger and confusion. They were fine last night. They might have even made some progress. How did things escalate so quickly?

He would’ve explained to Mike why he lied, if he just asked him normally.

“Wanna talk about it?” Jonathan calls, biking beside him, passing leafless trees.

“No.” Will doesn’t even wanna think about it.

As soon as they arrive at the cabin, he manages to distract himself, mostly. His mother is all over him, hugging him like they haven’t spoken in months.

With the fireplace lit, the cabin is cozy – like a real home. Growing up, the Byers’ house was always messy, organized in a way nobody really understood. Now that his mother is living with Hopper, their two messes have combined, and nothing seems to have a logical place anymore. But it’s comforting, a stark contrast to the conventional cleanness of the Wheelers’ house, that makes Will overly aware of leaving a single crumb on the counter.  

“We were thinking,” El says now, holding Will’s hand, as they sit around the coffee table. There’s a frozen cake on the table that must’ve started thawing the moment the power went out – it looks a little soggy.

“About the power outage. It’s weird that they don’t give us any information, right?”

El pulls a binder from the ground next to the couch – a perfectly normal place to put it – and opens it. It’s filled with several handwritten papers, doodles and photos of people Will doesn’t recognize.

Will’s mom, who sits on his other side, reaches out to grab one of the pages. “We don’t know for sure, of course. But we wanted to do something. Just to be on the safe side.”

“What’s this?” Jonathan asks, grabbing another page.

Will watches as he traces the lines of something that looks like a mind-map, the middle word being POWER OUTAGE.

“We were thinking it might have to do with the gates. Maybe something’s escaped in the tunnels that messes with the power lines,” their mother explains.  

“Would explain why nobody’s giving any answers,” Hopper adds.

“Escaped,” Will repeats, his heart rate picking up. The last two days this is what he’s been afraid of – an irrational fear, one that he tried not to entertain – the lurking underneath, sniffing him out, finding him in the cold.

It’s enough to make him forget about his argument with Mike.

“We don’t know that,” Jonathan says, noticing Will’s shift immediately. “The military is monitoring the gates. Nothing gets out without somebody noticing, especially not without causing a mass panic. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Yeah, sure. It could just be busted lines or some circuit breaker overheated,” Hopper says.

“We just want to be sure.” Joyce touches Will’s arm and he hates the look she’s giving him.

“Whatever it is,” Will says, digging his nails into his palms and trying to keep his voice calm. “What’s the plan here? Do you wanna go and check the lines or the gates or–“

“Already on it.” El hands him the photos. It’s a bunch of men that Will has never seen before. “Mom cut these out from the newspapers. It’s all the important guys’ faces that might know something about the outage. I’m spying on them.”

“And how’s that going?”

“No luck yet.”

After another couple of sentences, a silence settles around the table. Will gets this feeling deep in his stomach that if it weren’t for him, everyone would be sharing their theories by now – but instead, they hold back. He hates this – the tiptoeing around him.

“It’s really just to be sure,” Joyce says again. “Who wants more cake?”

Later, Will watches El, their mom, and Hopper fake-argue in the kitchen. The way they move around the cabin looks natural – like they’ve found their place here and adjusted into their own little family.

“I’m jealous, too,” Jonathan sighs, slumping down next to him.

“It’s creepy, you know, when you read people’s minds like that.”

Jonathan laughs. “I can only do that with you.”

Will smiles and looks back at the three. “I’m kinda sick of living in the Wheelers’ house.”

Jonathan nudges him softly. “I’m sure you and Mike can work it out.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Get out of my head, please.” 

“Sorry.”

When the sun sets and they remember the streetlights aren’t working, Joyce makes them hurry to get going.

On the way back, Will makes a decision: he’s not going back to Mike’s room tonight.

Honestly, he’d rather freeze to death.

This time Will prepares himself for the cold.

He heats some water on the camping stove and pours it into his mug, dropping a tea bag into the steam. Downstairs, he lights a few candles along the table, hoping their little flames will increase the room temperature.

Forty-eight hours without power leave the air heavy, the kind of cold that slips under your clothes and lingers there, gnawing at your skin until you feel it in your bones.

Will’s breath fogs the air in the dim light. 

He wraps himself in two blankets, shivering as he curls cross-legged at the desk, sipping tea that’s cooling way too fast for his liking, the steam caught in the candlelight.

In front of him lays his opened sketchbook – a sad attempt at a distraction, both from his argument with Mike, but more importantly from what El and their mother had said earlier.

If they think something’s escaped the gates, then how irrational is it, really? To think something’s out to get him?

And even though Will doesn’t want to admit it right now, spending these past two nights with Mike helped. Because now that he’s alone in the cold, dark room, the fear is right back.

It's stupid. He doesn’t want to depend on Mike. He doesn’t want anything from him.

He grips the mug in one hand for warmth and sketches whatever comes to mind. Right now, he’s working on a house. Every few lines, he pauses to rub his palms over his fingers. The pencil feels stiff in his grip. He sketches shapes at first, lines, then details, the shape of the door, window frames, the roof.

When he was thirteen, Will stopped painting for a couple of months. It was just before the snow dance, when he found a stack of drawings in the living room. He’d asked his mom about it, and she told him about the way he frantically sketched all these veins and branches, creating a map of Hawkins that he should have no knowledge of.

He sighs, rips out the page, and starts again.

It's a violating feeling, to know somebody’s taken control of your body.

It’s something Will doesn’t ever want to feel again.

He’s about to press the pencil back against the paper, when he hears a quiet thump. It’s soft enough that he can’t really tell where it came from – maybe a crack of the floorboard upstairs, or the wood of the furniture. Will stares at the darkness of the stairs. Or the door? It could be Jonathan, maybe, hopefully wanting to keep him company.

There’s another sound, and this time he’s sure it’s a knock.

“Come in,” Will calls, voice tight and jaw stiff from trying not to let his teeth chatter.

The door creaks and then there’s the sound of feet on the stairs. It’s dark, so Will only sees him when he steps close, wrapped in a thick sweater, arms hugging himself.

“Holy shit,” Mike mutters, stopping in the middle of the room.

Will stares at him, gripping his pencil. The words they’ve said to each other just hours ago come back to him in a flash.

I guess I just didn’t realize how much you’ve changed.

“It’s freezing down here,” Mike says. “It’s like we’re outside.”

He rocks on his heels, pulling his sleeves over his hands. He looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself. Instead, he crosses the room, looking around like he’s never been down here before.

Then I guess we don’t know each other anymore.

Will watches him, waiting for an explanation as to why he’s here. It never comes.

“Are you drawing?” Mike asks.

“What are you doing here?” Will’s voice comes out rougher than he’d planned.

Mike shrugs, eyes flickering towards the sketchbook. “I thought you’d come up to my room again.” He comes closer, leaning over the table. “That’s pretty good,” he says, pointing at the sketch.

Will rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know what you’re looking at.”

“Sure I do. It’s a house.”

“It’s –“

Will stops himself. He’s showed himself vulnerable in front of Mike last night, and in that moment it felt right – Mike helped him through it, he was there for him.

But after today Will isn’t sure why they’re even trying.

And why it’s suddenly okay to talk again, now that it’s dark outside.

Mike seems to notice his hesitance. He grabs a chair and slowly sits down at the table, facing Will. He pulls his legs up to his chest, awkwardly because of how long they are, and wraps one arm around them, shivering slightly.

“It’s what?” he urges.

Will stares at the page. “Why are you here?”

“I’m just asking. Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No,” Will mutters. “You’re acting like earlier didn’t even happen.”

Mike sits a little straighter and chews on his lip. “Um, yeah. I might have overreacted. Sorry.”

Will stares at him, confused. That’s it?

“So what are you drawing?”

“Why do you care?”

“What?” The obliviousness on Mike’s face makes something snap in Will.

“We’re not exactly speaking, Mike.” Will has started sketching random shapes into the notebook, zigzag lines and endless circles. “I mean, we haven’t really spoken in months. And apparently, we don’t know each other anymore. So, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

The words shut Mike up. Will wants to look at him to see his expression, but he forces himself not to, keeping his eyes on the page. 

“Um, yeah,” Mike says after a while, voice hoarse. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I guess after last night, what you told me … I just – I figured you didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Will slowly shakes his head. It’s not really the answer he wants – but that’s because he didn’t ask the right question.

The question isn’t: Why are you here?

It’s: Where have you been this past year?

“I don’t need company,” Will says in a dry voice, focusing back on his sketches. His pencil moves aimlessly, sketching meaningless shapes, hard to control against the tremor in his hand. He’s sick of being the bitter friend, the one who’s disappointed, always waiting, waiting, waiting for Mike to reach out. In fact, it was easier when Mike was just avoiding him all together.

“Sorry,” Mike says again. It’s very quiet. For a moment, Will isn’t sure what Mike’s apologizing for. Coming down here? Or not coming down here in so long? Their argument? Or something else?

He finally looks up to see Mike looking at the sketchbook. His shoulders are slumped down, he looks almost defeated. It makes Will’s chest hurt. He wants to take it all back, but he knows he shouldn’t.

Silence stretches between them. Finally, Will crumbles, unable to bear it a second longer.  

He leans back, exhaling deeply. “I’ve been trying to sketch. Just random things. But it’s been … hard.”

Mike’s dark eyes flicker from the notebook to Will’s face, his miserable expression faltering, replaced by curiosity. “Why?”

Will’s throat tightens. “It’s stupid,” he says, eyes fixed on the page. “Remember when I almost stopped drawing for months when we were thirteen? For the longest time, I felt like it’s not me who’s controlling the pen. And now with the cold, I just …“ He trails off, gesturing vaguely, not sure if he makes sense at all.

But from the corner of his vision, he can see Mike nod slowly. “Like when you painted the tunnels. You didn’t know what you were painting until it was already there.”

Will chews on his inner cheek. “Yeah. Here, look.” He flips through the pages of the sketchbook, showing Mike all the things he’s drawn in the past hour. “I know technically these are just random things my mind came up with. But it’s like, what if this isn’t just a random streetlamp that I sketched from my memory, but instead him trying to show me a place to go or something.”

Mike studies the pages. “That’s the streetlamp outside my house,” he says, pointing. “And that’s my mom’s mug. It has the same stupid flowers on it. And this – I believe this is Holly’s ugly hairbrush.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay I get it.” Will laughs, pulling the sketchbook from Mike’s grip and meeting his smile that’s a little too cautious to be teasing. But the laugh gets stuck in his throat, when he realizes it’s the first time they’ve laughed together in months.

Mike’s eyes move over his face. “These are just sketches of things in the house. Things you know.”

“Yeah, but.” He huffs, his hands too stiff to properly gesture. “What is it that made me choose to paint these specific things? He took control over my body once, and all our thoughts were intertwined and it’s like, I just don’t know how to be sure, you know?”

Mike leans back in the chair. There’s an obvious tremble in his lower lip and he’s slipped both of his hands inside his sleeves. “I could tell you what to draw.”

“What?”

“That way you know it’s not your – or his – brain coming up with it.”

Will narrows his eyes, but he likes the way Mike is looking at him now, a sheepish face, one that he knows so well. In this dim light, he almost looks like he did four years ago, when they were half as tall and twice as close. All the resentment he’s felt earlier vanishes into the cold air.

“What should I draw then?” Will asks, raising his eyebrows and rubbing his hands to loosen the stiffness of his fingers. 

“The candle?”

Will sighs. “Yeah, I already drew that stupid candle seven times today.” He proceeds to show Mike said sketches – each one focusing on a different detail: some on the texture of the wax, others on the reflection in the silver candleholder.

“Well, the room is dark as shit, so there’s not much here to draw.”

“Exactly my point.”

Mike keeps looking around, until his eyes stop on his own lap. He’s silent for a few seconds. Then he looks up and it’s like he’s hesitating, but the words spill out either way: “You could draw me.”

Will blinks. “You?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m here. I’ll sit still for you.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of sitting still.”

“Try me.”

Will sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looking at Mike.

There was a time when he drew Mike all the time in secret sketchbooks that he hid in the bottom of a drawer. He was only eight years old when he started memorizing the shape of Mike’s eyebrows or the pattern of his curls, stealing glances throughout the day so he could bring it to paper at night. A stupid boy with no idea how dangerous these feelings could be. He wishes he’d stopped himself right then and there, to have never entertained these stubborn butterflies, nesting in his stomach.  

But it’s too late now. A sad story, growing only sadder with each year that he fails to fall out of love with Mike.

He realizes he’s still staring at him, and blinks. “I don’t know,” he says, but he’s already reaching for the pencil.

“Well, I love your drawings. And I have time,” Mike says. He looks sincere, and Will thinks about the alternative, which is deciding where to sleep tonight.  

“Fine,” he says and leans over the sketchbook.

The thing about making a portrait is that you have to observe the object you’re sketching. With the first few lines, Will is overly aware of his eyes that keep glancing at Mike. He tries to look up as little as possible, but then, as he concentrates on the curve of Mike’s nose, he forgets the awkwardness and just looks.

He knows this face like the back of his hand. It’s the same mop of curls he always used as a reference to practice drawing hair. It’s the same dark eyes that helped him learn about light reflections. It’s the same lips that he used to daydream of when he knew very well it was wrong, but it was the only thing that kept him sane during the roughest times.  

“So, how was it with your mom and El?”

The question is harmless. Still, every word between them feels unscripted now. Like they don’t really know their lines, they’re just improvising.

“Um. It was okay. They are … investigating.”

“Investigating?”

“They think the blackout has something to do with the gates. El’s spying on some guys to get more information.”

“Okay, um. It’s good to be safe, I guess.”

Will tries not to make it too obvious that he’s staring at Mike’s lips. The truth is, he’s been staring at them so often in the past ten years, he could probably draw them with his eyes closed. Now, in the candlelight, however, light works differently. The shadows are darker, deeper, the highlights sharp. He has to fully concentrate – so much that he forgets how icy his fingers are or that his teeth are slightly chattering.

Over the past years, Will had to adjust the knowledge he had of Mike’s face several times – with every change in Mike, he had to learn something new. Mike grew, his face became sharper, edges replacing curves. Now, looking at Mike, he finds new things that weren’t there the last time he drew him. His face has grown into proportions, brows dark and expressive, cheekbones sharp, lips full.

When Will looks up again, Mike is still, his breath visible in the air. Will feels his own pulse in his throat.

It’s only when he notices the tremble in Mike’s shoulders that he stops.

“You’re cold,” Will states.

“You too,” Mike says without moving.

“You should go to bed.”

“Are you not coming upstairs with me?”

“I –“

But before he can reply, Mike says: “I wanna see the drawing.”

Will hesitates, examining his own work. It’s always hard, finding something good in the things he’s made, when his eyes are so focused on everything he could improve. But it doesn’t really matter now.

“Here,” he says, slumps the sketchbook on the table and gets up to grab his blanket and pillow. Before he can change his mind, he’s already by the stairs, looking back.

Mike’s bent close to the candlelight, studying the paper. He seems to be scanning the sketch thoroughly, going over every detail. He’s awfully quiet. Will shifts anxiously.

Is it noticeable in the curve of the lines? Is it written all over the page, how much he loves this beautiful face?

“Can you blow out the candles when you leave? I’m gonna go upstairs first.”

Mr. Wheeler’s snoring fills the hallway. Will sneaks upstairs and enters Mike’s empty room. The candle on the nightstand is burning low. Comic books are sprawled on the unmade bed.

Will lies down on the mattress that’s still on the floor, pulling the blanket tight around him.

He listens. A minute later, the sound of footsteps approach. The creak of the bed. The rustle of fabric. And then – 

“I really like the drawing,” Mike says.

Will watches candlelight flicker across the wall.

“I didn’t know how good you’ve become. I mean, the last painting you made for me was amazing, too, but …”

Oh.

The last painting.

Will closes his eyes.

He hates thinking about it. It sums up all his failures in one splash of paint. He remembers making these brush strokes, taking an embarrassingly long amount of time for the details, then hurrying so it would dry up before Mike would arrive at the airport. He kept imagining the face Mike would make when they would see each other again – honestly, it’s astonishing how naïve he was.

“The truth is,” Mike says quietly. He sounds different from before, deep in thought, as if sitting still for so long gave him time to think. “I never understood why you made that painting in the first place.”

Will stares at the wall, his chest tightening.

“And I know you lied about it.”

Truthfully, it’s not the first time he’s brought it up.

Back when El broke up with Mike, he tried to talk to Will about it. He accused him of lying about the painting, and then Will got so defensive and – that’s pretty much the last real talk they’ve had. After that, things just got cold and distant.

“I was angry for a while, you know,” Mike continues, talking into the space between them. “I opened up to you, told you about my insecurities and you just … It’s like, you were playing with my feelings, telling me things you thought I wanted to hear. But it only made me feel worse. You made me believe El said those things to you, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel that way at all. It hurt me.”

Will realizes he’s holding his breath, his stomach sinking. It isn’t like Mike to open up like this. And in a way, Will always craved this kind of honesty, but now he finds himself crushed by the weight of it.

“And not even because of El. I mean things weren’t really working out anymore and that’s fine. She was lying to me in her letters for half a year, and I just – I thought the one person I could trust not to lie to me was you. I think – or I hope – that was the first time you lied to my face. And you never explained it. I still don’t understand. I guess that’s why I overreacted earlier. It just looked so easy for you to lie and it made me wonder what else you’ve been lying about.”

Will’s stomach drops. The silence between Mike’s sentences is deafening and Will wishes he could fill it, but he’s frozen.

“Anyway. What I wanted to say is that I really like the sketch you made. You always make me look … I don’t know. Handsome. You’re very kind, when you draw.”

That’s how I see you, Will wants to say. Silence fills the bedroom. The sound of Mike’s breathing is stiff and short.

“I’m sorry,” Will breathes.

It’s all fuzzy now, in his head. The anger from earlier vanished, replaced by guilt. All he remembers from last year is that Mike was distant. Will always thought he was heartbroken because of El and somehow blamed it all on him.

“I’m not mad,” Mike says. “I appreciate you made me this handsome.”

It takes Will a few seconds to realize he’s made a joke. When it clicks, he can’t help but laugh, and Mike laughs too.

“I’m sorry about the lies, Mike,” he says, hoping it’s audible in his voice that he means it. “Earlier I just – your dad gives me the chills, and I didn’t want him asking questions about where I slept, so I thought it would be easier to lie. But you’re right, I’m … I guess I’m not as honest as I used to be. And I’m sorry for lying about the painting. Really, I mean it.”

A beat of silence. “But you still won’t explain,” Mike whispers.

And it’s true. Will could never explain to Mike why he said what he said in that van.

So, he says nothing. He hears rustling of the blanket, and he swears he can feel Mike’s gaze on the back of his head, like he’s still waiting for an answer.

But there is none. Because despite how desperately Will wants to be honest to Mike, he can’t be honest about this.

And in a way, it’s always circling back to him – the shame of it all. These feelings have been the cause of every lie he told – the lie about the painting and the lie at breakfast this morning – and no matter how many years pass, he can’t seem to be able to escape it. 

At some point, Mike turns around again. It takes Will a long time to fall asleep.  

He doesn’t know what time it is. The room is dark, the candle almost burned down. Was somebody speaking? Did he dream it? What were the words – 

Something warm is brushing against him. Mike’s knee against his shoulder. Half asleep, Will pushes against it, chasing the warmth. There’s a quiet mutter.

“Will, wake up. You’re really cold.”

Will can barely keep his eyes open. He was just dreaming about a cornfield, or maybe canola – something yellow. He blinks to make out Mike, kneeling on the floor beside him. “What?” Will asks, his mouth slow and heavy.

“You woke me up with all your teeth chattering.” Mike’s voice is hushed and close.  

He feels a hand on his forehead, warm and soft.

They have an unspoken rule of no touching. They’ve had it for almost a year now – both being acutely aware to bring as much distance as possible between them. It’s why Mike never wants to sit next to him on the couch during movie nights with the others.

“How is your hand so warm?” Will mumbles, still confused as to why they are awake.

“I don’t know. C’mon. Get up here.”

“What?”

“It’s too cold on the floor. You’re not warming up. We shouldn’t have spent all this time in the basement.”

Will isn’t quite catching up, but he’s already being dragged up by Mike's hands on his arms.

“Mike, no. That’s not necessary.”

“Why are you being so complicated?”

“It’s too narrow –“

“It’s a two-person bed. There’s enough room.”

“No, it’s really not necessary.”

“Will, please.”

His voice isn’t sharp but pleading. Exhausted.

Will lets himself be pulled up. The mattress dips under his weight. It’s warm – Mike has slept on this side of the bed. Will sighs, immediately relaxing into it.

“We can swap blankets. Mine’s all warm. Here.”

The moment he feels Mike’s blanket over his shivering body, Will wants to cry – it’s so warm. Mike picks up Will’s pillow and blanket from the floor and slips into the other side of the bed.

Pulling Mike’s blanket up to his chin, Will exhales shakily. His body starts to thaw, muscles unclenching one by one.

He can’t express how good it feels to be warm.

“This is,“ he starts. Then, at the risk of sounding pathetic, he adds, “really nice.”

Mike huffs out a tired laugh, his voice close. “So, no inner voice telling you to keep your body cold?”

“No.” Will closes his eyes and feels the sleepiness come right back to him, his eyelids growing heavy. “I think I’m safe.”

“You are safe,” Mike reassures him. His voice is low and soft.

And for once, Will believes him.

Chapter Text

Just like the days before, Mike is gone when Will wakes up.

Pale morning light seeps through the curtains. The space beside him on the mattress is still warm, and he lets his hand linger there for a minute, fingers pressed to the fabric where Mike’s body had been.

For once, his limbs don’t ache. His head feels clear.

And he’s – warm.

Judging by the absence of digits on the alarm clock, the power is still out. Will stays under the blanket for a while, knowing it’s probably the warmest he’ll be all day.

It’s Mike’s blanket, he remembers – they’d swapped. Something twists low in his stomach. He closes his eyes, replaying their talk from last night in his head – the urgency in Mike’s voice as he opened up to him. Will knows how hard that must have been, because Mike is a lot of things, but he’s not good with emotions.  

Will fights the urge, telling himself he shouldn’t do it, he really shouldn’t – but then he pulls the blanket over his face.

He stays very still, eyes closed, feeling the fabric against his skin. Then he breathes in – long and deep.  

Mike’s scent has changed over the years – like that time he started using a different shampoo, or when Mrs. Wheeler found interest in a new detergent. There’s a hint of something a little more grown up and manly now – maybe his dad told him to use aftershave, even though there’s barely any reason to.  

Beneath that, there’s the same scent that’s always been Mike – the one he’s known since they were five – smelling of a thousand versions of them, of sleepovers, suppressed thoughts, and butterflies. He’s breathed it in all night, his face inches from the fabric.

Now he presses it into his face, his blood rushing, the sound of his heartbeat inside his ears, suddenly feeling lightheaded and greedy. He’s gonna pretend he didn’t do this later, but for now, he lets himself. Just once – for that smaller, stupider version of him who thought just wanting something was enough to make it real.

Eventually, he forces himself out of bed. The cold in the room is a shocking contrast to the warmth under the covers. He moves quietly, carrying his blanket and pillow back down to the basement, careful not to make the floorboards creak.

He spots the drawing from last night on the table, lying out there for everyone to see and it feels too intimate now in the daylight, too raw and revealing.

When he reaches the kitchen, it’s just Mike, his dad and Holly, their faces pale and drawn, tired from the cold.

The radio on the table plays a song through static, loud enough to prevent conversation.

“Morning,” Will mumbles, sliding into the chair beside Mike. When he looks up, Mike is already looking at him, his hair a mess and Will waits for him to avert his eyes, but he doesn’t. Will’s eyes move over Mike’s frame, remembering the way Mike had sat still for him last night, despite the tremor in his shoulders.  

“Morning,” Mike says with a cautious smile.

But there’s another pair of eyes that Will can feel on his face. He looks across the table and meets Mr. Wheeler’s gaze – no newspaper in sight, one elbow on the table, eyes sharp, mouth tight, against a coffee mug.

It’s strange to see him like that. To see him just be there.

It sends a chill down Will’s spine.

Across the table, Holly pushes a piece of bread onto Will’s plate and nudges the marmalade toward him, her fingers leaving a sticky print on the glass.

Will lets her decide what he’s having for breakfast – he couldn’t choose anyway. When he flips the lid, she smiles up at him.

Now that it’s been three full days without power – and no TV – Ted Wheeler is slowly going insane.

On the first evening of the power outage, he’d sat silently on his La-Z-Boy, staring at the blank TV screen, the newspapers from last week draped all over the couch and his lap, the radio on full blast. He started frantically working through all the crossword puzzles from the past issues, like they could somehow fix the blackout, muttering incomprehensible words.

The next day he claimed the walkie, spending all day trying to reach authorities, mumbling to himself between bursts of static.

Yesterday, he started paying attention.

And today, he’s watching Holly draw.

It’s unclear if he’s actually watching or just looking in her direction, eyes glazed and unblinking. But the sight alone is enough to unsettle Will. Mr. Wheeler doesn’t just sit and watch his kids. He exists near them, not with them.

Mike and Nancy have always been given a lot of freedom – or disinterest – from their father, which is why they were able to use this house as base of operations for the past few years. With Mr. Wheeler no longer distracted by the TV or newspaper, he’s suddenly another pair of eyes watching their every move.

And then he starts asking questions.

“Nancy,” he says after lunch (another watery soup) while Will boils some water on the camping stove. Nancy’s already halfway out the door, coat half-zipped. “What exactly is it you’re doing all day?”

Nancy throws a quick look at Mike, like she’s worried about their dad’s mental state. The fact she’s been dating Jonathan for years is kept a secret, not just because Mr. Wheeler hates the Byers, but also because he could easily throw them out of the house if he knew. Which is why Nancy and Jonathan are usually anywhere but home.

“Just … out. With friends.”

“Do I know these girls?”

“Um, yeah. You remember Amy?” Will recognizes the name as one of Nancy’s childhood friends she hasn’t spoken to in years. Her tone is too light, and a more attentive father would’ve seen right through it.

She starts making up some excuse about preparing for college, dropping a few keywords that she knows her dad likes to hear (“application”, “preparation”, “extracurriculars”), and he lets her go.

At dinner, it’s Mike’s turn to be questioned.

“So, Michael. How’s school?”

Mike looks at his dad like he’s lost his mind. “Since when do you care?” he mutters and Will and Holly exchange a look, trying not to laugh. Will has always been fascinated by how easily Mike could talk back to his dad, because to Will, Mr. Wheeler was always a little scary – even if he didn’t do or say anything.

“I care, son.” Mr. Wheeler dabs his mouth with a napkin, his tone flat as usual.  

Mike mutters something that sounds close to bullshit.

“Any nice girls in your class?”

“Oh my god, dad.” Mike’s groan is so dramatic even his mom hides a smile.

“It’s normal for boys your age to be interested in girls. I certainly broke one or two hearts myself when I was sixteen.”

It’s ironic, really. How when he’s questioning Nancy, the worst thing she could admit to is hanging out with boys – while with Mike, he’s expected to date, be a man and break hearts.

“Sure you did,” Mrs. Wheeler says with a smile, breaking the tension. “I’m boiling water for tea. Who wants one?”

The family spends the day by the fireplace, the warmest part of the house. Holly draws on the carpet, tongue poking out in concentration, occasionally asking Will for advice on the shading or the details.

Will tries to read, sitting cross-legged on the floor, when Mike joins him silently, a comic in hand. His knee brushes against Will’s and he doesn’t look up, like he didn’t even notice.

It feels casual – just them co-existing side by side, reading together like they used to. And maybe something has changed. Maybe things can go back to the way they were.  

Will bites back a grin, hiding behind his book.

But the crackle of the radio, louder than the crackle of the fireplace, reminds him of Mr. Wheeler’s presence, sitting just five feet away from them with a critical lack of distraction, eyes moving around the room like he’s waiting for something to happen.

While looking through the room, his thumb and index finger turn the knob of the radio, clicking through the channels.

Again, Mike’s knee brushes Will’s, as he finds a more comfortable position on the carpet.

Holly hums quietly next to them.

“… no new information on the power outage. Residents are suggested to stay at home and keep warm. For anyone struggling with the cold, there are community spaces free –“

Static, then music. Will tries to block it out, focusing on the words on the page, but he’s too distracted by how close Mike’s knee is to his.

“… and we’re back with this month’s Top 40 –“

A click, more music.

Will throws a glance at Mike, who’s hunched over his comic, fringe falling into his face. He remembers drawing him last night, sketching out the curve of his nose, and now in the daylight he sees so many details that weren’t there last night. His fingers itch to draw him again, to draw him until he’s memorized every single detail to the last freckle. 

He shifts a little, just to make their knees brush again, a touch so light it could have been accidental.  

“… is this not the best song you’ve heard all year? –“

Another click.

Maybe they can be friends again. Go back to where they were, before everything changed. Maybe now they will work as a team, just like Mike had promised.

And maybe, whatever’s coming their way isn’t that scary after all, not when Mike’s there with him.

“… homosexual activists in San Francisco –”

There’s another click, then Mr. Wheeler seems to change his mind, twisting the knob back up the frequency. Will is still watching Mike, but then Mike is looking up in confusion, and their eyes meet and something is wrong, because there’s a glimpse of worry in Mike’s eyes, as they flicker over Will’s face.

That’s when the words on the radio finally catch up to Will.

“… they say it’s not a ‘gay disease,’ but you don’t see churchgoers getting it, do you?” the man on the radio says and Will feels himself freeze. “God sends us signs, and this one is about as clear as can be.”

Suddenly the room feels small and Will is too aware of his own body, sitting on a carpet with a family that’s not his own, next to the boy he’s secretly in love with.

And suddenly it feels like everybody knows. Did Mr. Wheeler skip back to the channel for him specifically? To let him know that he knows? Is this his way of telling Will to scoot away from his son? To stop looking at him?

“Maybe it’s time we start talking about personal responsibility,” the man on the radio says. “Instead of government handouts for prevention methods. The kids don’t need to know all that – at least the normal ones.”

The words are loud and raw and Will blinks; his gaze fixed on Mike’s furrowed brow. He feels the blood rush in his ears.

But then Mike averts his eyes, glancing back down at the page. Will shifts on the carpet, moving his knee a few inches away from Mike’s, as if touch is suddenly something that needs to be avoided. His breathing is shallow, and he wishes he could leave the room, but that would just give it away.  

Instead, Will stares at the blurry page, the spaces between the letters, and tries to melt into the carpet.

Only when the broadcast is over and some Christian music starts playing, he can breathe again. Mr. Wheeler changes the channel, like he’s not interested anymore.

All day, Will can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

It’s strange, because the past days he’d been dreading the night, but right now, the night feels like the safest time of the day, and Mike’s bedroom the safest place in the house.

At around 10 pm most of them have gone to bed, and Will gathers his pillow and blanket from the basement. On the stairs he’s extra quiet.

He knows how this would look.

There were rumors after Will disappeared. Theories about how Will, at only twelve years old, was meeting up with some “other queer” in the woods, before being killed and left in the lake. Nobody said it to Will’s face, but the rumors at school were spreading far enough to reach him.

Somebody said Mr. Wheeler was one of the people talking to other parents about it.

To this day, the thought alone makes Will sick to his stomach.

He thinks about it now, as he silently closes the door to the basement, holding his breath in the hallway, fingers clenching the blanket.

When Will was found that fall, Mr. Wheeler banned him from sleeping in Mike’s room. Will would stay in the basement and Mike would sneak down at night under the noise of the TV blasting in the living room.

But now, there’s no TV. No snoring. The radio’s out. It’s just silence.  

When the floorboards creak under his feet, Will stills.

“Who’s there?”

He holds his breath. The pillow and blanket under his arm feel heavy and stiff.

“Uh,” he manages. “Just me.”

There’s a silence. Will stares at the stairs to Mike’s bedroom right in front of him. He should’ve waited longer. He should’ve made sure Mr. Wheeler was already asleep or distracted by the radio, before sneaking up.

“Come in here for a minute.”

Will’s stomach twists. Holding his breath, he drops his bedding on the floor, before stepping into the living room on quiet feet.

Mr. Wheeler sits in his chair, the silent radio in hand, but it’s unclear what exactly he’s doing. Probably just going in and out of sleep.

A single candle burns on the table, its flickering light trembling across the room, casting shadows that twist the furniture into eerie shapes.

“Why are you up here?” he asks.

“Uh, I just needed some water.” Will’s face burns. There’s a bathroom in the basement, where he can get water from. “I mean, I needed a glass.”

Mr. Wheeler’s eyes slowly drag over Will from head to toe. It’s not even what he says – it’s that he doesn’t have to. The radio voice from earlier echoes through Will’s head.

And maybe Mr. Wheeler doesn’t mean to scare him. But there’s something about him, something father-shaped, that makes Will feel seen in the worst possible way.

Even when he was young, he always got this feeling from Mr. Wheeler, like he knows who he is. It’s like he can smell it on him, the way his mind is messed up, like his brain is filled with a virus that is contagious – and he’d have to make sure his own son doesn’t catch it.

It's what his own dad always said – that Will must’ve caught it from some other boy.

The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand up, the air in his lungs turns thin.

Finally, Mr. Wheeler grunts and looks away. “Okay,” he mutters, releasing him.

Will backs out quietly, throat tight. 

In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, grabs his blanket and pillow from the hallway, and rushes downstairs.

It doesn’t matter how cold it is. He slips under the covers, presses his eyes closed, trying to detach from his mind and body, in hopes of being completely unaware of the freezing cold around him or his thoughts, or the gut-wrenching feeling of not only being perceived a freak, but actually being one.

Because they are right – Mr. Wheeler and his own dad. They’ve always been right.

It's strange, because the last few nights Will had been scared not of the things inside the house, but of what was lurking outside. Surely the homophobic dad of your best friend isn’t scarier than interdimensional monsters trying to find you.

But the darkness didn’t look at him like that.

He felt safe upstairs with his knee brushing against Mike by the warmth of the fireplace. But maybe that was an illusion, only possible through all the lies Will’s telling and all the things he keeps bottled up.

And maybe it is wrong what he’s doing – sneaking up into Mike’s bedroom. Maybe he should never have provoked this much pity, that made Mike feel like he needed to share a bed with – no. No, Will forced himself to stop thinking like that years ago. He’s not gonna fall back into it now. He’s not.

He curls up, hugging his legs to his chest and pulling the blanket over his head, hoping his breath warms up the air inside. His clothes are stiff from the cold and his thoughts aren’t helping.

Mr. Wheeler knows who he is. He’s known for years. Today he reminded him that this is his house, his son, and that he can kick Will out as easily as he let him stay.

And maybe that’s not true – maybe Mr. Wheeler wouldn’t actually kick him out. But Lonnie used to say it all the time, when Will was only six years old and they were still living together. Keep this up, and you’ll need to find another place to sleep.

Will squeezes his eyes shut. The basement feels small and empty. He’s right back where he always ends up – cold, scared, and hiding.

It must have been an hour at least, when a noise startles him out of his racing thoughts. The candle’s burned out, the room is pitch black. Will’s too far up in the blanket and the cold to bring himself to call out a reply. After a couple of seconds, the door creaks open either way, and there’s quiet footsteps in the dark, shuffling over the floorboards.

“Will?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. Not until a small flare of orange light cuts through the dark and Will pulls his head from under the blanket. Mike is right there at the bed, his face wrapped in orange light, as he lights a candle. Their eyes meet.

“Are you okay?” Mike whispers, voice thick with cold.

Will wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything, get this weight that's been building up over all these years off his shoulders. But he can't.

“Yeah.”

“Where were you? I waited.”

Will swallows the lump in his throat, hoping it’s not too obvious how miserable he is. He props himself up on one elbow. “Your dad – um.” His voice feels thick. “I had to go back.”

“Why?” Mike kneels by the mattress, setting the candle on the floor. His breath is visible in the air. He hugs himself, rubbing his arms. “What did he say?”

“Nothing, he just …” Will trails off.

“You should’ve just come up.”

“I told you yesterday, he doesn’t want me sleeping in your room, Mike.”

“He wouldn’t let you freeze down here if he knew how cold it was.”

“He would.” Will suddenly feels stupid, like he’s making it all up. He feels too fragile to fight. “He was like this when we were kids, too, remember? And he literally said it three days ago, he said boys our age aren’t supposed to sleep in the same –“

“Well, he doesn’t know shit,” Mike cuts in, sharper than usual. His fingers slip inside his sleeves and his shoulders tremble with cold. “And honestly, I don’t care what he thinks.”

“I can't talk back to him like you can, Mike.” The exhaustion from explaining himself weighs on Will. “He can kick me out of the house. It's not – I can't just do whatever I want.”

Mike's eyes move over Will's face, softening. 

“Okay, then – how about we go upstairs together and if he hears us, I’ll tell him to mind his own business?”

Will quietly shakes his head. Nothing in the world can convince him to go up there again. Not tonight.

“It’ll be fine, Will. He was asleep just now.”

“No,” Will says again. “It’s not worth it.”

Mike sighs. He looks across the room. Then he disappears into the shadows and returns with the blanket and pillow from the couch that Jonathan barely uses. “Fine. Scoot over then.”

“What? Mike, no, it’s freezing down here –“

“That’s exactly why I’m staying.” Mike’s already crouching beside him, his knees brushing Will’s thigh and Will quickly scoots against the dead heater. He watches, as Mike lies down next to him, adjusting Jonathan’s pillow and pulling the blanket over himself. “Dude,” he mutters, a thick tremble in his voice. “This blanket is like an ice brick.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t sleep down here.”

“Could say the same about you.”

When Mike settles into the small space next to him, Will can’t help but tense up. This is different from upstairs – the mattress is narrow, the space crowded. Even pressed against the heater, with blankets and clothes between them, he can feel Mike’s shoulder and arm brushing against him. It's distracting enough to make him forget about how scared he was earlier.  

“Great,” Will mutters, voice casual to not give away how his breath is hitching. “Now we can both freeze to death.”

Mike chuckles, but the noise is disturbed by the chattering of his teeth. From the movement of the blanket, Will can tell he’s rubbing his arms. They stare at the ceiling for a while, watching the candlelight flicker over the beams, the air clouded by their breath.

“You know,” Mike says after a while. “I liked it better when my dad didn’t care.”

Will laughs. “Yeah.”

“He’s been up in our business all day. Like, who does he think he is?” There’s a grin audible in Mike’s voice and Will turns his head slightly because he doesn’t want to miss it. Mike is close, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. A small smile on his mouth, a slight tremble of his lips.

“Sucks when your dad gives a shit about you.”

“Exactly.”

They used to bond over this: Both having shitty dads in different ways. While Mike’s dad is mostly harmful through being absent, Will’s was aggressive, always calling him names.

Mike seems to follow a similar thought trail. “I know my dad can be an asshole, but he’s not like yours. He’s too lazy to cause real damage. He just wants to scare people, but it’s usually just a bluff. Today he was probably just bored. You don’t need to take him seriously.”

Will remembers the radio broadcast and the way Mr. Wheeler looked him up and down earlier. Maybe it’s true that neither of these things meant anything, but it still made Will feel incredibly small. 

“It’s still his house. His rules.”

“It’s a stupid rule. Why shouldn’t we sleep in the same room? It doesn’t make sense.”

Will watches Mike’s profile, that’s cast with orange light. Does he really not know? Have the blatant homophobic comments his dad muttered in those past years really just – moved past him?

“He thinks I’m … a bad influence,” Will says vaguely.  

Mike snorts. “You? You’re the most innocent person I know, you don’t even drink at New Year’s.”

“It’s not that, Mike.”

Mike turns his head, eyebrows wrinkled in honest confusion. They’re lying so close, Will can see the freckles on Mike’s face. “Then what?”

He hesitates. “You know what he thinks of me.”

Mike’s frown deepens. His eyes search Will’s face. Will looks back, his eyes flickering between Mike’s.

Just like they had earlier on that carpet, when both boys were listening to the violent words on the radio.

Will watches, as a hint of realization washes over Mike’s face, but it’s cautious and hesitant. “You mean – he thinks that you’re – um.” Mike stops, his eyes a little too wide. “That you’re –“

Will cuts him off, before Mike can say a word that neither of them would be able to take back. “He thinks I’m weak and quiet and not interested in the right things.”

His face feels heated and there’s a part of him that wishes he didn’t interrupt Mike. A part of him wanted to hear him say it – this forbidden three-letter-word that their dads like to use as an insult.

“Yeah.” Mike lets out a breath, like he’s relieved he didn’t have to finish his sentence. “But it doesn’t matter what he thinks, Will. He doesn’t know you.”

He knows my secret.

“He doesn’t know you,” Mike repeats with more force.

But what if he’s right?

“Even if you were … um, these things.”

A silence spreads between them. Will’s heartbeat picks up and his eyes widen. Mike’s eyes flicker over Will’s face, then he looks back at the ceiling.

“I mean, even if you were … quiet or weak – which you’re not,” he says, stumbling over his words. “And even if you were … interested in things my dad doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know the first thing about you. He doesn’t know what you like or think about or what you’ve been through. He’s barely spoken to you. His opinion means nothing. Nothing.”

Will looks at the ceiling, blinking. He’s never been so close to speaking to Mike about this and he’s not sure if Mike can feel the underlying meaning of his words. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess so.”

“Tomorrow, you’ll come up to my room again, okay? No matter what my dad says. Cause this is – a really fucking shitty place to sleep.”

Will laughs breathily.  

After a minute of silence, Mike shifts, turning to his side to face Will. He adjusts his leg and in the narrow space, it slips under Will’s blanket, knee bumping Will’s thigh. He doesn’t pull back.

“You’re still shivering.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, this isn’t really working.” Mike sighs, eyes moving over their blankets. “Do you think we should …” He hesitates, making a vague gesture with his hand. “Share one blanket? We could stack them. You know, for body heat. That’s how they used to do it in the army. Or still do, I don’t know.”

Will stares at him. “The army?”

“Yeah, for warmth. Just – never mind.”

“No, uh. It’s probably a good idea. Your dad would hate it, though.”

Mike laughs and Will can’t help but join in – it’s freeing in a way, to joke about it and Will can feel the tightening around his chest loosen a bit. 

There’s a rustle as Mike lifts the edge of Will’s blanket and slides under. The first rush of cold air makes Will shiver. Mike’s clothes are cold and not making this any better. He drapes his own blanket on top, so they’re both buried under the weight of two blankets.  

“This okay?” Mike asks, his voice closer now.

“Yes.”

When they were kids, they’d done this a hundred times – sharing blankets and sleeping bags, giggling as they’d try to stay awake all night, only to fall asleep after barely twenty minutes.

Mike shifts again, turning his back to Will. Will does the same. They lie back to back, sweaters brushing. Mike shifts closer until their spines touch.

“Probably good to stay close,” Mike mumbles.

“Right. Like the soldiers.”

“Shut up.”

The room settles into silence. Will feels too aware of everything – his breathing, Mike’s breathing, the rustle of Mike’s movements, Mike pressed lightly against his back.

How would someone normal feel right now? Someone not in love with Mike Wheeler?

He doesn’t know. It’s hard to imagine because he’d done it for so long.

Then he hears a soft voice, a quiet “Good night.”

And Will remembers. This is Mike. He might not look like the one from ten years ago, but it’s still him. And it’s easier to breathe.

“Night.” Will allows himself to relax, closing his eyes and gently pressing back against him just to feel him there – solid and warm and all too familiar, the rhythm of his breathing humming against his back.

When he wakes up, the candle’s gone out. The room is pitch-black.

Mike shifts beside him, his limbs too long to be subtle, his elbow bumping into Will’s back.

“What are you doing?” Will whispers.

“Sorry. I can’t find a comfortable position.” He sounds awake, restless, like he hasn’t slept yet. “Do you want me to light another candle?”

Will considers for a moment, but he feels safe enough now. “It’s fine.”

Mike is turning again, his chest brushing against Will’s back. Then his voice is at the back of his neck, hesitant: “Can I … put my arm around you? I don’t really know where else to put it.”

“Uh, okay.” Will stays very still, as he feels Mike’s arm on his side. He’s careful not to touch Will with his hand. When Mike sighs, Will can feel his breath in the back of his neck.  

“Your nose is cold,” Will whispers.

“Sorry,” Mike says, but doesn’t pull away from where his face rests against the skin of Will’s neck, just where his hair starts. “Your neck is warm, though. It’s nice.”

Will lets out a quiet breath. “Glad I can be of service.”

Mike laughs softly against him, breath tickling the thin hairs on the back of Will’s neck. Their breaths are short, their bodies a little tense, adjusting to the unfamiliar closeness.

“Is this okay?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Will says.

He stays still and listens, as Mike’s breathing slows down.  

Now Will is the one lying awake, staring into the darkness, while feeling the warm air of Mike’s breath wash over him. His heartbeat is unsteady. But slowly, his body is heating up. He lies awake, until Mike’s nose is all warm and he can feel the heat radiating from the body against him.

He forgets about Mr. Wheeler, or Vecna, or his own inner voice, telling him to be ashamed and scared.

When his eyelids go heavy, he relaxes against Mike, and all that’s left is the feeling of being safe – here, on this bed in the dark, with nobody to witness the way Mike is pressed against him and the way his heart is beating a little too loudly inside his chest.

Chapter Text

Will stirs to consciousness. When he stretches, his shoulders ache – a dull pain that runs down to the base of his spine, like he’d spent the night folded into an unnatural shape.

The cold metal of the heater presses into his shoulder blade so he inches forward.

That’s when he feels a body pressed against his.

Will opens his eyes, breath hitching, as he sees curly black hair spilling across the pillow, brushing against his face. A warm back against his chest. A familiar scent. A boy, once a friend, and now –

It takes him a few seconds to realize how close they are.  

Shit.

His foot is caught between Mike’s calves, his nose tucked into the soft curls at the back of his head, catching the faint smell of the same shampoo he’s using.

Their bodies are flush, closer than they were last night – and now in the pale morning light it feels wrong. It feels impossible.

But it’s a privilege, too. To be able to feel the tickle of those black curls on his lips. To be dizzy from the smell of him. Will’s stomach twists.

The quiet hum of morning fills the basement. No wind, no heater, just breathing – slow and steady. Mike’s frame rises and falls against Will’s chest. He’s sleeping. He’s warm.

It’s like a daydream – one he’d make up when he was thirteen, dreading the moment he’d have to snap out of it and remember that it’s not real.

And this shouldn’t be real either. Mike wouldn’t want this – not if he knew what it meant to Will.

Will slowly pulls his foot from between Mike’s calves, careful not to wake him up. But the small movement is enough to make Mike stir. He mumbles something in his sleep and rolls onto his back, his shoulder brushing Will’s chest, his legs trapping Will’s foot beneath them.  

The morning light bleeding through the basement window washes over his features. 

Will stares, unable to move.

Mike’s face is close, one arm flung over his head. His hair is all messy curls, his face full of sleep, eyebrows furrowed in a small frown, lips slightly parted and a little chapped.

Will takes it all in, eyes wide, and remembers sketching those lips two nights ago, but now in the morning light, they look too real. He looks too soft. And he’s too close.

Mike makes a low sound in his throat. His eyelashes flutter before he blinks, unfocused, squinting against the light, slowly scanning the room – until his eyes land on Will.

The air between them feels charged, thin, like the smallest movement might break it.

“Oh.”

Mike sits up so fast Will nearly jumps. He jerks his leg back and sits up, wanting to bring as much space between them as possible – but being trapped between Mike and the heater isn’t helping, so he gets up, abandoning both the mattress and the warm blanket.

He doesn’t want Mike to think he’s been watching him sleep, but he can’t say that he wasn’t – there’s no way to explain without making it worse.  

Outside the blanket, the air is sharp, biting at Will’s skin. He stands in the room, while Mike looks anywhere but him.

“Um,” Will says. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

“Okay,” Mike mutters, his voice thick with sleep. His curls are a mess, falling across his forehead as he busies himself with the burned-out candles on the floor.

Will leaves the basement without saying another word, and despite the cold air around him, his cheeks burn hot.

Upstairs it smells of burned firewood and coffee.

Will helps Mrs. Wheeler set the breakfast table while she gathers up most of Holly’s art supplies which have somehow taken over half the house – markers, paper and a ridiculous amount of crayons that a younger Will would have been jealous of.

When Mr. Wheeler enters, Will stands a little straighter. But his eyes seem less threatening in the daylight, and then he starts talking about his latest theories for the power outage that are so blatantly stupid that Will almost feels sorry for him.

Apparently, his new coping mechanism for the power outage is conspiracy theories. Blame it on pretty much everybody.

“That damn military,” he says now, standing by the stove and waiting for his coffee. “They’ve been monitoring Hawkins since the earthquake, but for what? Have you ever thought about that?”

Just then, Mike steps into the kitchen, rolling his eyes at Will, who bites back a grin.

It feels true now, in the morning light, what Mike said yesterday. Maybe his dad’s opinion really doesn’t matter. Maybe he really doesn’t know anything. He just likes to talk.

Mike drops into the chair beside him and Will watches, chest tight. He can still feel his hair on his face, the warmth of their entangled legs, the heat his body radiated all night, pressed to his, and the kitchen doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

Mike glances at him, a curious look on his face. “What?” he whispers over the hiss of the camping stove.

“Nothing,” Will says, realizing he’s been staring but not quite able to look away either.

Holly bursts into the kitchen then, holding more crayons and paper, which Mrs. Wheeler intercepts before she can clutter the breakfast table again. Mr. Wheeler talks about the Russians and their possible interest to leave Hawkins without power, until Mrs. Wheeler lets out a sigh, coming from deep within, like she’s been holding it back since the day they got married – which finally shuts him up.

After breakfast, they gather in Nancy’s room to call El and get an update on the investigation she and their mom have been working on.

Mike is slouched on the bed, Will beside him, while Nancy sits on her desk chair. Jonathan, half-distracted, is picking one of his socks from the floor. Nancy’s bedroom was definitely tidier, before he moved in.

“I haven’t found out much,” El says, her voice crackling with static, so Mike adjusts the frequency until it clears a little.  

He sits with one leg crossed over the other, the sole of his foot brushing against Will’s thigh in a painfully casual way. Will looks down at their laps, feeling a tingle in his fingertips. When he glances up, he meets Jonathan’s eyes, who raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

“Most of the guys I’ve spied on say the power outage is caused by an unknown technical defect,” El explains, moving the attention back on the Walkie in Mike’s hand. “They make really long and confusing phone calls. I’m trying the construction workers next, but it’s harder, because we don’t have any pictures or belongings of them.”

Nancy nods along, seemingly deep in thought. She takes the Walkie from Mike. “What would we need? Like a water bottle, a pen?”

“Anything they touched.”

Jonathan frowns at Nancy. “What are you saying?”

“We should go out there. See if we can find anything.” Nancy gets up from her chair and opens her closet. “I’m bored anyway.”

Static crackles again, followed by El’s mechanical voice: “They mentioned something called a substation? That’s where they sent the construction workers to check for defects.”

“That’s just outside of town.” Jonathan rubs his forehead. “Well, okay then. We’re going.”

“Should we come?” Will glances at Mike, who looks back just as unsure.

“No,” Jonathan says decidedly. “You two stay here. We can’t sneak around with too many people.”

It might just be an excuse to keep them safe, but Will doesn’t have the strength to argue. Nancy and Jonathan find their old press badges – they’ve expired but hopefully nobody will look at them too closely.

Will feels the nerves in his stomach. Even if they haven’t found anything yet and this whole thing is just for precautions it feels like something’s going down, now that not only El and Joyce, but also Nancy and Jonathan are working on the case.

“Be careful, okay?” he says a few minutes later, shivering in the cold air on the front porch, arms wrapped around himself.

“Always am.” Jonathan smiles, so his eyes wrinkle. He watches as they drive off in the car.

With the house quiet again, Will and Mike linger in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. Spending time together almost feels natural now, which is absurd, considering it hasn’t been for almost a year.

“They’ll be okay,” Mike says, cupping the steaming mug between both hands, his voice low. From the living room, the usual quiz show blares faintly. “It’s an easy enough task. They’re not putting themselves in danger.”

“Yeah,” Will says, though he’s not fully convinced. “Probably. I just hate sitting around and waiting.”

Mike looks straight at him – eyes dark and serious, like they used to be. Will recognizes something in him, a young boy that he thought he’d never see again. “What would you like to do?”

“I don’t know.” He fumbles with the sleeve of his sweater. “I wish I could do something – like use my senses to locate Vecna or whatever. But I don’t trust my instinct right now. I keep thinking he’s right outside the door, and I don’t know if that’s real or if I’m just going crazy.”

Mike listens quietly, like it’s the only thing he’s ever done, and at the word crazy a small smile ghosts over his lips.

“Fear makes you feel things that aren’t really there, right? I get that. But it’s good to be cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

His voice is soft, a tone he used to reserve only for him, and it feels warm even now, when Will’s fingers and toes are freezing and he has to tense his legs to stop the shiver.

Mike shifts closer, just enough for their arms to brush. Will stares at the table across them, his icy fingers playing with the hem of his sweater.

“And it can be a good thing, right?” Mike continues. “I mean, it was always pretty clear to you when he was close. So if it’s not clear right now, then maybe he’s just not here.”

Will stares at his hands. “Maybe.”

“It’s okay to be scared, Will.” Mike nudges him lightly. “But right now, we’re not in danger, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We can stick together if you want. So you’ll be distracted.”

Will looks up into Mike’s eyes, who’s already smiling at him.

“And if you don’t wanna hang out in the living room – because of my dad or whatever – we can stay in my room.”

In the soft afternoon light, he almost looks like he used to – sure, he’s taller and his voice got deeper, but he’s unguarded, no longer avoiding eye-contact or touch. Something’s changed – really changed.

The hopefulness blooming in Will’s chest is almost painful, because of how much he wants this.

“I’d like that,” he says, smiling back.

They spend most of the day together, not talking much, just keeping each other company. Mike is sprawled across the bed, absorbed in his comic book, while Will sits at the desk with his sketchbook and a pencil, lost in his own little world of colors and shades.

Mike’s Walkman is turned up to full volume, but since it doesn’t have speakers, the music leaks from the headphones lying beside him on the bed – rough and tinny and barely a whisper.

But it’s nice, still. To listen to some real music again.

“I love this song,” Will murmurs, hunched over the desk as he designs an alternate album cover for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane.

“Mh.” Mike seems too engrossed in the story to respond.  

He loves the casualness of this – the way Mike is barely looking up from the page like he isn’t questioning Will being here at all. It reminds him of a time when they could just hang out like this all the time, spending quiet afternoons together, just co-existing.

He’s afraid he’s getting used to it.

“You can take the Walkman if you want,” Mike says after a pause, like the words have only just caught up to him, his eyes still fixed on the comic. “I’m not really listening anyway.”

Will, who’s been itching to get the music on his ears, grabs the Walkman and slips the headphones on.

“Cool.”

Drawing is a million times more fun with music. Will restarts the song again and again and eventually feels himself completely immersed in the activity. Something inside him goes quiet and he’s focused in a way he hasn’t been in months.

When he pauses to sharpen his pencil, his eyes drift around the room. He realizes the mattress from the floor is gone, shoved back under the bed.

Did Mike just want to tidy up or does he –

Well, they did share a mattress those past few nights.

Will’s eyes move to Mike, who’s still reading, brows furrowed in concentration. He’s slipped under the blanket, sometimes closing his eyes like he might fall asleep, then blinking them open again to keep reading.

Then he looks up.

Will needs a couple of seconds for his mind to catch up. Mike raises his eyebrows in question, as if asking what?

Will straightens up, heat rushing into his face. He shakes his head and does a stupid half-shrug as if to say nothing before quickly averting his eyes.

This is the third time today Mike’s caught him staring.

He glances at the pencil in his hand and realizes he’s sharpened half of it off.

Will replays the album once it ends, the familiar notes filling his ears again as he finishes the first sketch. He’s tracing over the outlines with a thicker pencil when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He jumps – he didn’t hear him get up – and quickly yanks the headphones off.

“–the door.”

“What?”

“Nancy is at the door.”

Will blinks, frowning, turning in his chair. The door is still closed, and Mike’s just standing there, and now Nancy is calling, and Mike still hasn’t moved.

“Uh,” Will manages, not quite catching up.

Mike’s hand is still on his shoulder. “Did you – uh, you wanted to keep it a secret that you’re staying here,” Mike reminds him in a quiet voice.

“Oh,” Will says. “Right. No, it’s – um, it’s fine. They don’t know I’m sleeping here.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mike nods, eyes flickering over Will’s face and this whole conversation is ridiculous, because why would they hide that they’re hanging out in front of their siblings?

Sure, it feels sacred in a way, and still fragile, this whole thing, and part of Will does want to hide it from the rest of the world – protect it from everyone else’s eyes. But it’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.

Mike’s hand slips from his shoulder and he nods once more, before turning to open the door.

“Took you long enough.”

“Sorry, fell asleep reading.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to tell you – oh, hi, Will.”

Nancy looks past Mike to find Will at the desk. Will lifts a hand in a small, awkward wave. “Hey.”

She looks between them and for a moment Will can see the questions flickering through her head: Since when are you two hanging out again? Who apologized first? And why the fuck did it take you this long?

Thankfully, she proceeds with her original matter. “We went to the substation, talked to a couple of workers. They said they’re checking the lines for defects but haven’t found anything yet. I don’t know, they could’ve been lying.”

“Could’ve been telling the truth,” Mike says and even though he’s not looking at Will, he knows the words are meant for him.

“Yeah, sure.” Nancy shrugs. “We stole some pens and got them to El.”

“Cool, thanks.”

“So, uh … What are you two up to?”

Mike glances back at Will, then at his sister. “Uh, nothing. Just hanging out.”

“Cool.”

When Nancy leaves, Will stares at the door, already knowing Jonathan’s going to interrogate him about this later.

At night, Will brushes his teeth and washes his face. Down in the basement, he hurries to change his clothes, but the few minutes are enough to bring down his body temperature. He curses under his breath, standing naked in the freezing cold. The fresh clothes he puts on feel stiff from sitting untouched in the wardrobe.

He promised Mike he’d sneak past Mr. Wheeler tonight – but even though he spent most of the day in Mike’s bedroom, he’s dreading it now. He waits at the foot of the stairs. The house above is too silent, too dark at night, and getting caught feels a million times more risky now.  

Slowly, he opens the basement door and listens into the hallway.

There it is – Mr. Wheeler’s light snoring. Will waits another minute, making sure it’s even and steady, before tiptoeing up the stairs to the second floor.

Mike looks just like he did when Will left him: sprawled in bed with his comic book – the ninth issue – but now he’s changed for the night. The candle burns low on the nightstand, throwing soft light across his face, painting the room in warm shadows.

Will hesitates, awkwardly standing in the room. He realizes he didn’t bring his own blanket. And even though they shared one last night, the thought of just climbing in beside Mike makes him feel shy.

“What are you doing?” Mike asks without looking up from the page.

“Um – I – do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“What?” Now he does look up, brows furrowed in confusion. “No, of course not. Get in here.”

With chattering teeth, Will climbs into bed. Mike lifts the blanket, and Will slips under it carefully, trying not to brush against him.

Even with the space between them, Mike’s body radiates warmth that Will can feel through his icy clothes, and it takes all the restraining in the world to not just lean closer.

While Mike reads, Will stares at the ceiling. The silence is comfortable, but there’s a question heavy on his tongue, making it hard to breathe.

“Um,” he croaks out eventually.

Mike glances up, his eyes flickering over Will’s shivering form. He raises his eyebrows in question, reading his mind. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna come closer?”

Will nods, feeling ridiculous.

“Come here.”

Mike lifts one arm, so Will shuffles closer, his head coming to rest on Mike’s bicep. He didn’t plan this position, but now that he’s in it, it feels oddly – cuddly. He immediately feels stupid, but Mike’s hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him there, like there’s nothing strange about it at all.

Maybe Will’s overthinking it. After all, they’re just trying to stay warm. The rules of what’s weird and what’s not don’t apply to situations like this.

“Wait, I can’t turn the page now.”

“I can. Just tell me when.”

Mike huffs a laugh and Will can feel the vibration of it against his shoulder.

He doesn’t know anything about the comic series – but with nothing better to do, he reads along.  

Since they were kids, they’ve always read at a similar pace, so the rhythm of turning pages comes easily. Only sometimes Mike stops him (“Wait, I’m not done yet – okay, now”). Soon Will finds himself engrossed in the story, his body relaxing against Mike’s.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Why did they end it here?”

“There’s more,” Mike replies, setting the comic on his nightstand. “But I’m getting tired. Wanna read them tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Like this is how they’ll spend every night from now on.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Unless the power comes back.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. There’s a pause, then Mike says: “I mean – even if it does, we can read together, right? Or do you not –”

Will feels Mike’s warm leg brush against his cold one. “No. I mean – yes, I want to,” he says, breath unsteady. “That would be nice.”

There’s still a small part of him that expects this to be temporary – that they’re only friends again to survive the abnormal situation they’re in right now. If they have to share a room, they might as well get along.

But maybe that’s not true at all.

“Hey, my arm’s kinda sore.”

“Oh, sorry.” Will lifts his head so Mike can pull his arm free. They stay close. The candlelight flickers over the ceiling and Will watches the orange patterns for a while.

“You’re still cold,” Mike murmurs.  

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to … um –”

Something has shifted between them. Yesterday, Mike could barely touch him. But now he’s reaching out, his hand brushing the strip of skin of Will’s waist where his sweater has ridden up. Will flinches.

“Sorry,” Mike says. “Is my hand cold?”  

“No, you’re warm. I was just – surprised.”

He wants to move closer, to sink into that heat completely, to be entangled in Mike’s arms and legs and body, until he’s all warm and fuzzy. But he already feels too greedy, so he stays still, taking only what Mike is willing to offer.

“Um.” Mike’s hand rests on his back now, over the fabric. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

More would be okay, too.

Mike pulls him, soft enough that Will could easily resist if he wanted to. He doesn’t though, instead he lets himself be drawn in, his hand hovering uncertainly on Mike’s back, afraid to touch.

His cheek brushes against the soft fabric of Mike’s sweater.

Even as kids, they never hugged like this. Sometimes Mike would touch his arm or his hand, but only briefly. Since they were teenagers, they’ve barely had any physical contact at all.

Now, lying here, Will’s chest aches with the knowledge that this is the only circumstance that can ever bring their bodies this close together. Because when the power’s back on, maybe tomorrow or the day after, there’s no way he’ll get another chance to feel him like this.

Maybe they’ll be friends again. But they won’t be … this.

And Will shouldn’t be greedy. But he’s just a boy, and this feeling is so damn old.

Will allows himself to take a deep breath, trying to memorize this feeling, saving it for later, saving it for the rest of his life. Love is hopeless for boys like Will – a yearning meant to ache, never to result in anything.

“Better?” Mike asks.

“Yeah.” Will hopes his shivering isn’t too obvious. Mike’s hand barely hovers over his back, like he’s unsure where to touch. But eventually, he relaxes against him, his hand settling against Will’s spine. Despite his racing heart, Will lets himself relax too, eyes fluttering closed. He melts into him, cheek flushed against Mike’s chest.

“How’d you get so warm?”

Mike chuckles, the sound reverberating through Will. “I’ve been in bed all day. And I guess I’m usually warm by default.”

It’s true. When they were kids, playing in the snow, Mike’s hands were always the warmest. Will used to reach for them when he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, and Mike would warm him up, rubbing his palms over Will’s hands. Even then, Will knew to only do it when no one was looking – his instincts teaching him to be careful long before he understood why.

Now, every breath carries the scent of Mike, comforting and familiar, and it’s a little unsettling, how good it feels to be this close. How easy it is to want to be closer.

“So warm,” he murmurs into Mike’s chest, because it’s pretty much the only thought in his head.

Mike doesn’t say anything, but his hand slowly drifts over Will’s back, rubbing warmth into him.

In his tired mind, Will realizes he’s never been held like this before. And maybe he never will be again. Maybe this is all he’ll ever get.

Then he feels something deep inside of him, giving in.

His body is moving, before his mind catches up, pushing closer to Mike, and somewhere in his brain he knows he’s too greedy, he’s crossing a line, but he can’t help it when Mike is this warm and he is this cold. 

With a quiet sigh, Will nuzzles closer, lifting his head, seeking warmth and finding it in the skin of Mike’s neck, soft and hot.   

Mike flinches.

And Will is awake again. Shit.

“Sorry – sorry,” he stammers, pulling his head back from where he’s pushed his nose into the warmth of Mike’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

He knows he messed up, he crossed a line, he made it weird, and he’s ready to retreat entirely, to curl away and disappear, but Mike’s hand tightens on his back, holding him close.

“No, no, it’s okay.”

He pulls him in again, until Will’s breathing against his neck, short and unsteady.

“I was just surprised. Your nose is really cold.”

“Oh.” Will swallows. “Okay.”

He tries to breathe shallowly, quietly, with his face against Mike’s neck. Being this close, he can hear Mike’s breathing, feel him swallow, his throat shifting, a slow quiet motion. Mike’s pulse moves in a fragile rhythm and the skin there is the warmest.

Mike drapes a leg over his, tucking Will’s cold feet between his own.

It takes a few minutes for Will to stop shivering. But even then, they stay close. Will’s breathing slows down. His eyelids grow heavy. Maybe he can sleep like this. Just one night in the warmth. Just one night in Mike’s arms, to be remembered for the rest of his life.

“Will?”

It takes a second for his brain to tell his mouth how to speak. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re asleep. Sorry. Forget it.”

“No, say it.”

“It’s not important.”

“Just say it.”

“Uh.” Mike shifts slightly, but his hand on Will’s back stays steady. “I was just thinking. It’s nice, that we’re hanging out again. Today was fun.”

Will smiles, careful not to let his mouth brush over the warm skin of Mike’s throat. “Yeah.”

“It’s been kinda lonely. This past year.”

The room is quiet. And maybe it’s something about the night – and the dark – that drives Mike to talk, because they’ve spent all day in near silence, but now it’s like the words are spilling out again.

Will wishes he could see his face, but he’s too close to look up. “Yeah,” he agrees. And then, because he’s feeling courageous: “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

Will closes his eyes, feeling Mike’s fingers trace slow, comforting shapes through his sweater.  

“You know,” Mike says after a minute. “I kinda like this.”

“What?”

“Just this. That it’s cold and we have to sleep like this.”

Will feels his face start to burn. Mike likes – what? Being close to him? Cuddling? Feeling every part of his body pressed against him? Because Will doesn’t just like it, he loves it, but Mike – 

“I know it sounds stupid,” Mike says. “But it makes me feel like I have a purpose, you know?”

Oh. Right.

“This past year I felt like you didn’t need me at all. And now we literally need each other to stay warm. It’s nice.”

Will hums, ignoring the ache in his chest. “You don’t always have to be useful, Mike. Sometimes it’s enough to just be there, you know? Just for company, or conversation.”

I still need you. Even when I’m not freezing. I needed you all year. He doesn’t say it, but the words sit heavy against his throat. And just like that, he feels trapped right back inside that van, trying to tell Mike how he feels and hiding the truth behind some general statement.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. “It’s weird, right? How we spent a whole year not talking. Sometimes I just … I wonder what happened.”

It takes Will a couple of seconds to realize what’s happening. He imagined this conversation so many times, but he’d given up on it ever happening long ago. Even if they’d ever start being friends again, Will always thought they’d just pretend they’d never stopped and not talk about it at all.

“I guess we’ve changed,” Will says quietly. “I mean, even before I moved, we weren’t that close anymore.”

“I never wanted to change,” Mike mutters, almost a whisper.

“You had every right to.”

Will isn’t sure when it all started – the growing apart. Maybe it was that summer the mall opened, and all Mike would talk about was El. Will remembers their fight in the rain. Growing up sucked, and the fact that Mike was growing up at high speed, leaving Will at the tracks, hurt.

“I wanted us to stay kids forever,” Will says. “And I know that wasn’t fair. You were allowed to grow up.”

“Yeah, but I still acted like a shithead.”

Will laughs into his neck and Mike grins against his hair. He sounds wide awake, the sort of restlessness that only comes late at night.

“I never really apologized,” Mike says. “About what I said that day. In the rain.”

Will feels the knot in his chest tighten. “Yeah,” he says, because it’s true.

“I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t – I never meant it like that.”

How did you mean it, then?

That day was the closest they ever came to addressing the elephant in the room. Ever since that day, Will’s wondered how much Mike knows – about him not liking girls. And whose fault that is.

Which is stupid, really. Because of course it’s not Mike’s fault – but if it wasn’t for Mike, Will probably would have taken a lot longer to come to terms with it.  

“This past year was just … stupid,” Mike says. Will can feel him swallow against his cheek. “We should’ve just talked about it, instead of avoiding each other. It was childish.”

“Well.” Will smiles. “We’re still growing up.”

Mike traces circles on Will’s back with his thumb. It’s no longer for warming up – just touch for the sake of it. Will closes his eyes and lets himself melt into it, his tense muscles relaxing one by one. It’s warm and Mike’s scent is all around him. But his heart is still pounding from the weight of the words between them.  

“Are you falling asleep?” Mike asks into the silence.

“No.”

“Good.”

Will can hear the hesitation in his breathing. He waits, focused on the way Mike’s fingertips move over his back, listening to the pulse in his throat.

“Um, I didn’t wanna bring it up again.” Mike shuffles a little, knee bumping Will’s.  “But I guess I just can’t not bring it up. It feels like it’s kinda … sitting between us, you know?”

Will’s breath catches. “What?”

But he already knows what’s coming. After all, it’s what started this whole mess. It’s what made Mike stop speaking to him in the first place.

“I thought, since we’re being honest,” Mike says after a beat, “could you explain why you lied about the painting?”

It’s an innocent question, polite almost. And yet, it’s the hardest question in the world.

Will stares at the hollow of Mike’s throat, feeling his curls tickling his forehead. All this talking, all this honesty, just to lie again. Just to be ashamed again.

His chest is tight and the hand on his back suddenly feels like something he doesn’t deserve – the touch of the boy he’s going to keep lying to for the rest of his life.  

He has to say something.

“Will?”

“Yeah, sorry. I, uh. I – I guess I don’t know.”

“You don’t know why you lied?”

“No, I do. I just don’t know how to explain it.”

A pause. “Is it something bad?”

Mike’s hand has stilled now, and his arm feels a little tense against Will’s side.

Is it something bad? In a way, falling in love with Mike Wheeler might easily be the worst thing Will’s ever done.

“I guess … um, I guess you could say that.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t wanna lie again, so I’m … I just don’t know what to tell you. I can’t tell you.”

“But why can’t you? I can handle it. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

Will opens his mouth, closes it again. “It’s a secret,” he whispers eventually. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

The silence that follows is long enough to make him sick. Is this it? Is this all it takes to lose Mike all over again?

Instinctively he shifts, trying to pull away, bring some space between their bodies, but as soon as he does, Mike’s hand on his back tightens.

“I want to accept that,” Mike says, his voice a million miles away, even though he’s right there. “But it’s – it feels unfair. Because it’s about me. You lied about my relationship. I guess I just feel like I have the right to know why you would tell me that my girlfriend needs me so much, she commissioned a painting from you – when she did not need me at all. I don’t get it, Will. Were you scared that I’d find it weird? Were you embarrassed I wouldn’t like it? Because I don’t understand, you used to draw me all the time. Please, just explain it to me.”

Over the course of Mike’s monologue, Will’s pulse has started racing and he feels too hot, too close, too trapped – but Mike’s hand is holding him right there. He tugs on his arm, trying to free himself.

“Mike,” he chokes. “Let me go, please.”

Finally, Mike’s grip loosens. Will takes deep breaths and shifts a couple of inches away, bringing some distance between them.  

Mike looks at him. The flame of the candle reflects in his wide eyes. He’s handsome like this, all golden and shadows, and he looks so vulnerable, Will almost wants to cry.  

“I’m really sorry,” Will whispers. “I made the painting all by myself.”

It’s not really a confession, because Mike must have gathered that much already. It doesn’t matter anymore.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

Will opens his mouth, closes it again. He’s never going to get past this. It’s always going to be in the way.

“I guess I wanted to comfort you, or – give you courage for what was coming,” he tries, a thousand words racing through his head but not a single one that feels right. “You were so worried about El, and I thought the painting would mean more if it came from her and not me.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know – and I didn’t plan it, I swear. When I made the painting, I wanted to tell you it’s from me.”

He wanted to tell him so much more.

That whole spring just feels like a blur now – Will was just really coming to terms with the fact he was in love with Mike. But what Mike actually needed from him was a friend, not somebody in love with him.

But then again, Mike didn’t really act like a friend either.

“But then you avoided me at the airport,” Will continues, “and you barely talked to me at the rink, and it felt like you didn’t care about me at all. And then I don’t know, it just felt like the only way I could make the painting mean something was by telling you it was from a person you cared about.”

It's not the whole truth, but true enough that it stings.

“But I realize now that was cruel and I’m sorry I hurt you, Mike.”

The frown between Mike’s eyebrows is still there, but it’s softer. Will wants to touch the crease, soften it out. He wants to draw his fingers across Mike’s face and tell him the truth, tell him everything he’s holding back, tell him I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.

“You know that’s not true, right?” Mike says quietly. “That I don’t care about you?”

Will swallows. He remembers this feeling so well, all the third wheeling, the disappointment, after spending six months missing Mike every minute of every day.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I know that now. Back then it was just – I don’t know, all you talked about was El. You didn’t ask me a single question about my new life, the school, whether I had made new friends, you just –”

“I asked about the painting,” Mike cuts in. “At the airport. And you avoided the question.”

Will blinks. He can’t believe Mike still remembers that.

“Because you were acting all weird, barely able to hug me, when it was the longest we’d ever been apart.”

“Yeah, well –” Whatever argument Mike had in mind, he drops it. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is I never wanted to stop being your friend.”

“I never wanted to stop being your friend either.”

There’s a pause and the silence feels heavy with the importance of it.

“Okay, well.” Mike sighs, his eyes searching Will’s face. “I still don’t get why you can’t tell me the truth. Because I’m sure whatever it is, we can work it out. But I won’t ask again.”

And somehow, those words make Will’s stomach drop. He decided long ago, he would never tell Mike the truth. But there’s a part of him that wants him to insist. To force it out of him, so he can stop carrying this weight by himself.

“No,” Will hears himself say, already knowing he’ll regret this. “You can ask again.”

Mike’s frown deepens. “What, so you’ll tell me in like five years?”

Will presses his lips together. “Maybe.”

Mike lets out a small laugh that releases the tension. “I hate this,” he says. “But fine. I’ll ask again. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You can try.”

“Oh my god.” Mike shakes his head, laughing. “Come here. It’s getting cold.”

They move closer again, arms wrapping around each other, chest to chest, Will’s forehead against Mike’s chin.

It feels almost ceremonial.

Like the hug seals the future of their friendship.

The squeeze of Mike’s hand on Will’s back says: I’m sorry.

The squeeze of Will’s hand says: Me too.

The candlelight flickers. Will closes his eyes. Mike’s toothpaste breath washes steadily over his forehead. Mike adjusts his position, and for a moment Will swears he feels Mike’s lips in his hair.

Eventually, Will’s eyelids grow heavy. Even though they’re warm now, Mike makes no attempt to pull out of the embrace and neither does Will. It’s comforting and warm and terrifying all at once.

It takes Will a while to fall asleep, and judging from the sound of Mike’s breath, he lies awake, too. Until their breaths grow equally steady, slowing down.

Will drifts off into sleep, allowing the feeling of Mike’s hand, his chest and head, his legs entangled with Will’s, to comfort him, instead of making him feel guilty.

Chapter Text

The first thing Will notices is that he’s warm. Not just warm, he’s hot and dazed, like he slept for a really long time, his mind still caught in the shapes of a dream that he’s already beginning to forget.

It takes him a couple of seconds to understand where his body ends and Mike’s begins. His face is pressed into Mike’s shoulder, his arm flung across his chest, a leg tangled over his knee. The blanket traps the body heat between them.

Glancing up, he catches Mike’s eyes looking back at him.

“Oh.” Will jerks back slightly, untangling himself without slipping from the heat of the shared blanket. Mike is holding a comic book, issue number ten, his hair sticking out to all sides.

How long has he been awake, letting Will sleep half on top of him?

The thought makes Will’s cheeks burn.

“Hey,” Mike says softly, unmoving, his voice a little rough. “You’re awake.”

“Sorry.” Will rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“For being awake?”

“For … being all up in your space.”

Mike’s mouth twitches. His eyes flicker over his face. “That’s okay.”

There’s a silence that feels a little unnatural, like there should have been words but they both forgot their lines.   

“Is the power –” Will raises his head and glances towards the dead alarm clock.

“Still out.”

He realizes he should be annoyed about this. He should be upset, worried, maybe scared even about how long this is taking – but if anything, he feels a sense of relief.

Will runs his hand over his tired eyes, nuzzling deeper into the blanket. The strong hint of detergent from a few days ago is now almost completely replaced by the mixed scent of both Mike and Will.

He gets another night in Mike’s bed. Maybe if he’s lucky, he gets two.

And it’s stupid because he’s barely awake but all he wants is for it to be night again.  

“Um.” Mike shifts, looking up from his book again, his eyes flickering over Will’s face. “I don’t really wanna get up yet. Wanna read with me?” He lifts the comic between them.

The morning light floods softly over his features, bright enough that Will can count his freckles. They’re not as visible now in the winter, but maybe, if they survive until summer, he’ll get another chance to see Mike’s face all covered in freckles.

Will couldn’t resist the offer if he wanted to.

“Okay,” he says, scooting closer. “But can we restart the tenth issue?”

“No.” Mike shuts the book and sinks deeper into the blanket, getting comfortable.

“No?”

“First, I gotta explain what happens in issues one through eight.” He props his head on his hand, facing Will, expression serious. “The lore is important, and I need you to understand the impact before we move on to this next chapter.”

Will suppresses a laugh and shifts onto his side to face him, knowing this is gonna take a while. “Okay. I’m all yours.”

As Mike starts to talk, gesturing with both hands, Will watches, a smile on his lips. It’s always been his favorite thing in the world – listening to Mike tell stories. He does it like nobody else, because he’s incredibly good at remembering details – not necessarily the important ones, but the ones that stand out to him the most. And he’s invested in a way that makes his stories vivid and somehow personal. Will soaks it all in, the sound of his voice, the rhythm of his words.

It must have been about fifteen minutes of Mike explaining and Will asking questions when Mike suddenly stops mid-sentence.

“You know what?” He shifts, sitting up. “I changed my mind. You need to actually read them.”

“What? You just spoiled, like, five issues for me.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Mike is already out of bed, yanking comics off the shelf until his arms are full. “This is too important. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

They spend the morning reading. From downstairs, they hear the sound of morning, the clack of plates, and the echo of voices. Up here, it’s just the soft flip of pages and the distant hum of wind outside.

Mike insists on reading alongside Will, his shoulder brushing Will’s, his head tilted against him as both boys immerse themselves in the story.

Will manages to stay focused mostly, only sometimes losing track of the words, too distracted by Mike’s warm breath grazing his neck, or the steady rise and fall of his chest, or their hands touching, when Mike stops him from turning a page too soon.  

And it’s strange, because the last few days, physical touch was something only reserved for the night. It was okay in the dark when they were half-asleep.

But now, with the morning light moving over the sheets, it feels natural. Almost normal.

Which is absurd – because this isn’t normal.

They don’t just spend a morning sharing a bed, lying under the same blanket. They never did, not even before they grew distant.   

This is new.

And as good as it feels, Will can’t get used to it. All this physical contact – they won’t maintain it. It’s something they do for warmth, and it could be over any second. He can’t forget that.

The sound of the front door slamming cuts through the quiet, echoing up the stairs.

Before there was chatter, the sound of chairs moving over floorboards. Now, complete silence.

“Did they … leave?” Will asks, lifting his head. A glance at Mike’s watch tells him it’s almost twelve.

“You wanna go check?”

They sneak down the stairs to find the house empty. The air smells faintly of coffee and burnt metal.

Outside, the driveway is empty.

“Car’s gone,” Will notes.

“Probably went grocery shopping or something.”

Mike calls out anyway, voice bouncing through the quiet rooms.

“Oh my god,” he groans dramatically, moving his fingers through his hair. “At last. Freedom.”

Will chuckles. “Come on. They’re not that bad.”

“Yeah, but–“ Mike stretches, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m sick of everyone being home all the time.”

Will pours cereal into two bowls, leaving a spill of milk on the counter that he – for once – doesn’t feel the need to clean up immediately. Mike gets the comic books.

They sprawl across the carpet by the fireplace. The fire crackles, filling the room with a steady warmth. Without the constant sound of footsteps and chatter, Will finds himself relaxing in a room where he usually feels tense.

It’s nice to be able to just sit together and talk freely, without thinking about what Mr. Wheeler might think.

Eventually, they lie down, arms and shoulders brushing, the pages rustling between them, their clothes warm now with the fire heat.

Will tries to focus on the words, but he’s very aware of how close their hands are on the carpet – the backs of their fingers hovering, the heat radiating from Mike’s skin.

“Are you paying attention?” Mike asks. When Will looks up, he can see the fire reflecting in his brown eyes, turning them into something brighter.

“Um, yeah.”

“This part’s important.” Mike’s gaze lingers on Will’s face, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Mike makes him go back a few pages to make sure he’s really following the story.

“Here.” He points to an especially important speech bubble, the tip of his finger brushing black ink, and Will nods along, with half his mind occupied with the familiar smell radiating from Mike, and the other half trying to restrain himself from intertwining their fingers.

Despite all this talk about paying attention, a few minutes later Mike is the one falling asleep.

Will notices it when his head falls against his shoulder, his breath slowing.

“Mike?”

A hum.

Will closes the comic and quietly sets it aside. The fire crackles, throwing sparks of orange light across Mike’s face, reflecting in his eyelashes. His skin glows, soft at the edges. Will watches the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Slowly, Will moves his fingers and lets them slip between Mike’s. Just barely.

It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.  

It’s a stillness that makes Will hear his pulse, loud in his ears.

The sound of the front door startles both of them.

Mike is awake immediately, jerking upright and shifting a couple inches away from Will.

It’s a movement so fast, it leaves Will frozen for a second, the air at his side suddenly cold and empty, and too big, like there’s something sitting between them.

With the speed Mike retreated, it’s like he knows how this could be perceived.

Like he knows that what they’re doing is something his parents wouldn’t understand.

But is it?

Is it something that could be misunderstood?

After that, Hell breaks loose.

Suddenly the house is full – voices overlapping, footsteps, the rustle of paper bags. Nancy, Jonathan, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, and Holly all flood in at once, arms heavy with groceries, cold air sweeping in behind them.

Will and Mike jump up to help, making room on the front porch that’s being used as a makeshift fridge. Cans clatter and Holly asks for sweets.

When they’re finally done and Will is ready to escape the kitchen, Mrs. Wheeler announces it’s laundry day. Within minutes, every spare inch of floor is swallowed by piles of clothes.

Will’s ears start ringing from the sheer chaos.

Mrs. Wheeler divides them into working groups: Will helps her boil pot after pot of water, leaving the kitchen thick with steam and the smell of soap and heated metal.

They carry the pots to the bathtub until Will’s arms start to ache. Nancy and Jonathan sort the piles of clothing by color. It’s all too loud – the slap of wet fabric, the squeak of the floorboards, the muffled hiss of the fireplace trying to keep up. Through all of it, Holly sits at the table, happily drawing and humming a little tune.

It’s too damn crowded in the house.

Nancy and Jonathan string clotheslines through the living room, the only warm place in the house, most likely to dry their clothes.

Will kneels on the floor, wringing out another shirt, his hands slick from the water.

Across the room, Mike’s helping Nancy with the line – one end wrapped around his wrist, the other around the window latch. As Will watches him, he notices Mike hasn’t said a single word since they’ve started. Maybe since the others got back. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, fingers fidgeting with the cord.

It was so peaceful before. Watching him now, all Will wants is to be up there again, tucked into Mike’s warmth, sharing a blanket in the peaceful quiet.

Their eyes meet across the room. Mike looks miserable enough for Will to raise his eyebrows in question, but Mike just shakes his head.

When the clothesline’s finally tied, Mike slips out of the room without a word. Will wants to follow, but Mrs. Wheeler’s already calling for another pot of water. He glances toward the hallway.

How badly he wants it to be night again. To be alone with Mike again. For them to find each other again, in the dark.

By afternoon, the living room is packed with fabric. Clotheslines crisscross the space, shirts and sheets hanging heavy in the damp air, making it impossible to sit on the couch.

Mrs. Wheeler emerges from the bathroom, sleeves rolled up. “We boiled too much water,” she says. “You all should wash up while it’s still warm.”

A metal pot clatters onto the counter. One after another, they go to the bathroom to wash up with a bar of soap.

Will uses the moment to slip out of the room. He steps up the stairs quietly and knocks softly on Mike’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Mike is in bed, tucked into the blanket. He’s not reading – it looks like he’s just been lying there.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No.” Mike doesn’t sound very convincing.

“Everyone’s washing up. You wanna come down?”

Mike hesitates. “Have you gone yet?”

“Not yet.”

He looks small there, sunk into his bed, pale in the dim light. “Can we do it together?”

Will’s chest tightens. “Of course.”

They head to the bathroom on the second floor, where it’s not so crowded. Will waits, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, while Mike gets a pot of hot water from downstairs.

He shuts the door behind him and then locks it, the click echoing across the tiles.

The water steams enough that the mirror turns blurry. It smells of metal and soap. They wash quietly, backs turned, using cloth and soap bars. The warm water is nice, but it’s cooling fast and Will makes sure to hurry, putting fresh clothes on.

It’s quiet between them.

“Will?”

Will turns. Mike is wearing a fresh sweater, and he runs a hand through his tangly curls.

“Yeah?”

“Can you help me wash my hair?”

He looks at him, breath stuck in his throat. There’s something about the way Mike is just standing there, looking at him, asking for help, that makes his knees wobbly.  

“Um, yes,” he says. “Sure.”

As Mike leans over the bathtub, head bowed, Will lifts the pot with both hands. He carefully pours the warm water over Mike’s head, soaking his hair and the back of his neck. Steam moves up around them, then the smell of fresh shampoo.

“Too hot?”

“No. It’s nice.”

Mike exhales, shivering slightly. He works shampoo through his hair, fingers vanishing in the foam. Will stares at the curve of Mike’s neck, the way the water beads along his pale skin. His own fingers twitch against the pot, imagining it was him instead, running the foam into Mike’s scalp, twisting his fingers around those strands of curls.

“Ready?” Will asks. He waits for Mike to nod before pouring more water over his head so he can wash the shampoo out.

Afterwards, they switch places. The hot water feels nice on Will’s scalp, and he closes his eyes as water drips from the ends of his hair into the bathtub. The shampoo foams in his hand. He washes his face too, before Mike pours fresh water over him to rinse it all out. Will watches the bubbles of foam disappear into the drain.

They both get towels, rubbing the water out of their hair.

The quiet feels heavy, sitting between them.

Will catches Mike’s eyes in the fogged mirror.

“Mike?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

With each passing hour of the day Mike seems to have grown quieter. He was fine this morning. But now he’s –

“You’ve been quiet.”

Mike’s eyes roam over Will’s features and for a second he looks like he wants to say something. But then the spark leaves his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“We slept so long though.”

“You did.”

Will turns to face him. Now that he said it, Will can see the darkness under Mike’s eyes, the paleness of his face, the slump in his shoulders. Suddenly it’s obvious.

Just because he’s been sleeping like a baby ever since they’ve been sharing a room, doesn’t mean Mike has.

“You didn’t sleep?”

“Um. No, I did. A little.” Mike’s mouth twitches and he averts his eyes, looking at the tile across the wall. “Doesn’t matter. I just don’t wanna be around so many people today.”

“Okay.” Will nods slowly. “Do you … um. Do you wanna be alone?”

“No.” His eyes move over Will’s face. “I mean … With you, it’s okay.”

Oh.

Will blinks, feeling the warmth rising under his skin.  

“I just –“ Mike fidgets with his towel. “It’s too many people downstairs.”

“Yeah, I get it. I – um, I feel the same.”

He’s wanted to be alone with Mike since the moment they’ve stepped out of the room this morning.

Mike looks him in the eyes, a small smile tugging on his lips.

Will smiles back.

“Well, I’m kinda freezing,” Mike says. “Should we go back to my room?”

The water in their hair cools fast, replacing the warmth on Will’s scalp, face and neck with a chill. They head back to Mike’s room, shivering slightly.

Mike closes the door behind them.

They stand there, unmoving.  

And there it is again – the silence.

Heavy, like something’s weighing on them, making it hard to speak.

It wasn’t there yesterday. Not like this.

“Um,” Mike says. “You wanna go back to bed –“

A sudden hiss cuts through his words – a sharp burst of static.

Both boys turn.

“What the –”

“It’s the walkie.”

“I’ll get it.”

Will is at the desk first, reaching for the walkie and pulling out the antenna. Immediately, the signal clears, and words break through.

“– anyone there?”

He’s about to answer when his eyes land on something all too familiar – a rolled-up canvas, the sliver of red paint visible at the edge. A shade Will had spent hours mixing to the perfect warm crimson.

“Hello?”

Will freezes. He hasn’t seen this painting in over a year. Seeing it now, laid out so casually on the desk, makes his stomach twist – like someone has peeled open something from deep inside him and pulled it out in the open for everyone to see.

Will turns. Mike stands right behind him, eyes fixed on the desk. For a second, their gazes meet. Mike looks like he wants to say something. 

Then the walkie crackles. “Can anyone hear me?”

Will snaps out of it and puts the walkie to his mouth. “Sorry. Hi!”

“This you, Byers?”

“Lucas? What’s up?” Will lets out a shaky breath, trying to concentrate on Lucas instead of Mike. “You okay?”

“I’m bored and none of you assholes ever come to visit.”

“Are you with Max?”

Will resists the urge to look at the painting again, instead sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers feel a little tingly, his heartbeat uneven. He feels Mike move beside him.

“All day, every day.”

“Tell her hi from me,” Will says, adjusting the knob to get a clearer signal. Mike sits down next to him on the bed, their thighs brushing. Will stares at their laps.

“Will do.”

“From me too.”

There’s a pause. Then Lucas’ confused voice: “Wheeler?”

Mike leans closer to the walkie, his knee pressing into Will’s. “Yeah, I’m here, too.”

“What the – oh my god, I can’t believe I’m alive to see the day!” Will can’t help but grin over the excitement in Lucas’ voice, throwing Mike a glance, their faces close together as they sit hunched over the walkie. Mike rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you finally talked it out. You two were driving me nuts!”

“Shut up, Lucas,” Will and Mike say at once, but they’re laughing.

“This is the single best news I’ve heard all year. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“It’s none of your business, Lucas.” Mike grins. “How’s the emergency power supply holding up?”

“No, no, you’re not changing the topic. Hey, should we get Dustin in here? He’s gonna flip when he hears this.”

Despite their protests, Dustin joins minutes later – just as loud and excited as Lucas.

“How?” they demand and Will doesn’t feel like explaining, not when this is still all too fragile, not when he’s just gotten Mike back in his life.

Mike, always the talker, manages to redirect the conversation easily. He grabs the walkie, his cold hand brushing Will’s, and slips into bed under the covers.

Will tries not to look at the painting, but it’s hard to ignore. It wasn’t there this morning, Mike must’ve pulled it out while everyone else was busy with the laundry. Maybe after their talk last night he just … wanted to look at it.

Which is fine.

But maybe he decided he wants a real answer today. Maybe this is why he’s been quiet.

Will follows Mike under the blanket, careful not to touch him. He watches Mike talk to the others. He seems carefree now, his face animated but soft around the edges – nothing like he had before.

“Will, you still there?” Lucas asks. “Mike, please give the walkie to your new old best friend. You know, the one you’re finally talking to again.”

“Don’t know which one you mean,” Mike teases but he hands the walkie over to Will.

Lucas wants to know how Will’s been and Will tells them about El and his mom and their investigation on the power outage.

As he speaks, Mike shifts closer, so casually, so naturally, draping one leg over Will’s, Will can’t even begin to question it.

The sun is setting, the room dimming. Mike sighs, his breath brushing Will’s neck.

“You should come over tomorrow,” Dustin says. “We have to celebrate. I can’t believe we can finally have movie night again!”

“We can’t – power’s out, remember? No TV,” Will reminds him. “But I guess we could come over …”

He tries to throw Mike a questioning look, but he has his eyes closed already, like he’s no longer a part of this conversation. Like he's used up all his energy. 

“Hell, yes you can! I gotta go, but I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

When they hang up, Will pushes the antenna down and sets the walkie aside.

Silence fills the room.

Will stares at the ceiling. Somewhere downstairs, pots clatter, voices murmur. Mike exhales, long and deep, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

And then he’s right there, his hand sliding under the blanket, settling on Will’s bare stomach where his sweater has ridden up.

“Oh my god.” Will flinches and Mike chuckles against his shoulder, scooting close.

“Sorry.” But instead of pulling away, he keeps his icy hand right there on Will’s exposed stomach. “Your skin’s like a heater.”

“But I’m cold!”

“Your stomach’s not.”

Will doesn’t protest, even though the touch gives him chills all over. And maybe Mike had expected him to, because when Will doesn’t say anything, his voice gets a little softer.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

It takes a while before the heat of Will’s skin reaches Mike’s fingers and warms them up. By then, Mike’s breathing has slowed, his face buried against Will’s shoulder.

Will listens to the muffled sounds of the house. Downstairs there’s the faint noise of a wooden spoon on a pot. It’s time for dinner soon.

Mike’s thumb moves – drawing small, lazy circles over the skin of Will’s stomach. Slow touches, barely there.

Will stays perfectly still.

He’s not breathing.

“Mike?” he whispers when he can’t take it anymore.

Mike just hums, like he’s almost asleep.

“Did you … wanna talk to me?”

A pause. “About what?”

He can’t believe he’s the one addressing it.

“The painting.”

Mike is quiet. And just when Will thinks he’s not getting an answer, he mutters a quiet: “No.”

No.

Just no?

Will takes a long breath. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Mike just wanted to look at it – and that’s fine. It’s his, after all.  

Mike’s breathing deepens against his neck. Just when Will thinks he’s asleep, his hand drifts higher under Will’s sweater, fingers resting against his ribs. He murmurs something, words muffled by the fabric of Will’s sweater.

“What?” Will breathes.

“Warm.”

Mike’s fingers trace the pattern of Will’s ribs. Will doesn’t remember how to breathe. Where Mike’s hand had been cold just minutes ago, his fingers now burn. Mike’s chest rises slow and steady, like he’s half asleep. Not even aware of what he’s doing to Will.

How he’s making it so freaking hard to breathe right now.

Downstairs, a door opens. “MIKE? NANCY? WILL? JONATHAN?” Mrs. Wheeler calls. “DINNER’S READY!”

Mike barely stirs.

“Mike,” Will whispers.

“Mh.”

“Dinner’s ready.”

Mike takes a deep slow breath, nuzzling his nose into Will’s shoulder.

“Don’t wanna.”

And despite how hard it is for Will to stay still, how loudly everything inside him screams at him to get out of this bed, another part of him wants to stay right here for the rest of his life.

“We have to eat.”

Slowly, Mike lifts his head. Will makes the mistake of looking at him, his face all close, eyes dark. Mike’s gaze moves over his face.

Finally, he pulls his hand out of Will’s sweater, leaving his skin raw and craving touch. Mike sits up, rubbing his face.

As they head downstairs, through the cold hallway, Will feels flushed and hot, every inch of him buzzing. All through dinner, he barely says a word. Mike is quiet too, eyes fixed on the soup. Will feels both Jonathan's and Nancy's eyes on him, but he can't bring himself to care.

Nerves tickle low inside his stomach. There’s something growing inside him – something new and bright and dangerous.

He realizes that he can’t wait to go back upstairs. To share the close space, to breathe Mike in, to feel him again. His stomach twists, just thinking about it.

And he knows how bad this is. Because he’d spend the better part of his life pushing it down. Never to give in to the things that he truly wants.  

And he knows it’s wrong. He’s misreading this on purpose, twisting it into something it isn’t, and he has no one to blame except for himself.

But he can’t help himself.

Will presses his nails into his palms under the table, trying to calm down, but all he can think about is the feeling of Mike’s hand on his skin.

As they stand in the bathroom to brush their teeth, Will catches Mike’s eyes in the mirror. For whatever reason, he feels caught. He looks away quickly and spits into the sink, washing out his mouth.

It’s stupid.

It’s so so so so stupid.

He follows Mike into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Mike lights a candle, its soft glow washing the room in gold.

When they slip under the covers, Will feels overwhelmed with how much he wants this. He can barely look Mike in the eyes. He turns toward the wall, making himself small so that he doesn’t accidentally overstep a line.

But then Mike is already there, closing the distance, fitting himself into Will’s space like it’s all they’ve ever done.

A hand slips under the blanket, over Will’s hip, and then Mike’s chest is flush against his back.

He doesn’t ask anymore.

Like this is what they do now. Like this is who they are now.  

Will used to dream of things going back to how they were – but this is nothing like that. This is different. It’s new.

Mike settles behind him, head resting just over Will’s shoulder, his arm loose around Will’s waist. His knee bumps the back of Will’s thigh.

His shins, icy where skin peeks out between his sweatpants and socks, press against Will’s legs.

Will can’t keep up, can’t comprehend how it’s gotten this easy for Mike – how he can just slip in this close, like it’s nothing.

It’s awfully quiet.

They’ve talked about so much these past few nights. They’ve talked more than they had in years. And now it’s like there’s nothing left to say but too much all at once.  

Maybe Mike really is just tired. His breath is slow and deep, his chest rising against Will’s back.

Will wants to say something. He needs to say something.

“Your feet are cold.”

“Then warm them.” It’s a mumble against his hair, and it’s slow and thick, like he’s already drifting off to sleep again.

Slowly, Will pushes his legs back between Mike’s, lining their feet together. But his feet are cold too – it’s no use. Mike doesn’t complain.

“Mike?”

“Hm?”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Silence.

Will closes his eyes, the flicker of the candle dancing behind his eyelids. He concentrates on Mike’s breathing – the slow and steady sound of it. He tries to breathe at the same pace. In. And out. In. And out.

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can forget about how much this means to him. Forget about the painting lying five feet away from them. Forget about everything he’s ever wanted and can’t ever have.

Remind himself of who they are.

Don’t be stupid.

It takes him a long time to calm down. Finally, his thoughts blur and he lets himself relax against the warmth of Mike’s back, slowly drifting to sleep.

The candle is burning low when Will wakes again. There’s a rustle behind him, and someone whispers his name.

“Will.”

He turrns his head. Mike is still pressed against him, their legs tangled. It takes Will a second to realize his own hand is resting on Mike’s arm, holding it against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“I’m too warm.”

It’s a sentence Will never thought he’d hear again – but as soon as Mike says it, he feels it too. The air under the blanket is heavy and hot. His sweater clings to his skin. The space where their bodies meet burns.

It’s too hot to be this close.

He releases him and Mike shifts away. The mattress dips, cold air seeps in under the covers. Something falls to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

When Will turns, Mike has peeled off his sweater and is pushing his sweatpants down his legs, arms and knees exposed to the cold air, skin pale in the candlelight.

“I told you. I’m too warm.”

He tugs off his socks too, then slips back under the blanket – now wearing only his shirt and underwear.

And then he moves right back against Will’s back.

He could’ve just slipped under his own blanket if he was too hot.

But he didn’t.

And suddenly, Will wishes he was wearing less. Because then he’d be able to feel Mike’s skin where his leg is brushing against his, or Mike’s arm draped over his ribs.

He holds his breath.

When Mike speaks, his voice is right beside his ear. “Don’t you want this off, too?”

His hand is at the hem of Will’s sweater, and the touch sends a thrill up his stomach.

It’s so easy to read this wrong. To pretend Mike means this in a different way. To lean into the fantasy that this thing that Will’s been dreaming of ever since he was a kid is somehow taking shape in the real world.

“Uh. Yeah.”

Will sits up just enough to pull off his sweater, then kicks his sweatpants and socks to the floor. He barely has time to settle again before Mike’s hand finds his arm, tugging him gently — rolling him onto his other side until they switch positions.

It takes Will a few seconds to understand what Mike wants.

Then he shifts closer, curling against Mike’s back, mirroring the position they were in before – only now with way less fabric between them.

“You’re all warm now,” Mike murmurs.

Will curls his hand into a fist so he doesn’t accidentally touch Mike, his arm draped loosely around Mike’s middle.

“I guess you’re not possessed then.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh, but it comes out wrong, hitched. Possession is the last thing on his mind. He hasn’t thought about it in days. And it’s strange now, to think that fear was what made them share a room in the first place.

His thoughts race so fast he can’t grab hold of a single one of them. His chest feels tight, his breath shallow. The heat radiating off Mike’s back is almost unbearable. Their shirts have ridden up between them, and there’s a small space of skin contact, Mike’s back against Will’s stomach, and it’s all too much and all too heated.

Slowly, Mike reaches for Will’s arm, tugging gently. Will holds his breath, as Mike’s hand slips over his own, uncurling his fingers. He leads him up, placing his hand on Mike’s ribs. The shirt is thin and he can feel the heat of Mike’s skin underneath. His fingers twitch between Mike’s hand and body, wanting to move further, wanting to explore, to feel him all over.

It makes him burn in shame, knowing what he truly wants.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

A pause. Will counts his heartbeat, loud in his ears.

Mike’s hand slips from his, curling loosely around his wrist.

“I’m glad the power went out.”

Will’s stomach twists. Mike’s curls brush his forehead. He wishes he could see his face right now.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Will’s fingers feel dangerous where they rest against Mike’s ribs. He remembers the way Mike touched his stomach earlier and wonders if he’s allowed to do the same. It’s impossible to know where the line is drawn now – what’s okay and what’s too much.

Because Mike was always something Will wanted entirely too much.

His fingers slip down just slightly, brushing the edge of Mike’s shirt, and for a moment his fingertips touch just a hint of warm skin. It’s a small touch but it’s enough to make his mind all dizzy. He feels Mike take a slow, deep breath, his stomach rising under Will’s palm.

Will shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t be doing this.

“You know,” Mike says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat.

Will opens his eyes, curls tickling his lashes, trying to concentrate on Mike’s words instead of his smell and the heat of his skin.

“I was thinking. About what you said last night …”

Will said a lot of things last night. He’s said a lot of things all week and now it’s like all their conversations blur into one.

“What do you mean?”

Mike takes his time to reply. Will listens to his breathing, vibrating through his back.  

“The thing about … me avoiding you at the airport?”

Will swallows, heart thumping. No matter what they do, it seems they keep circling back to that spring.

“Um, it’s not an excuse, of course. I know I was a shitty friend. But I kinda wanna explain what was going on.”

Nerves twist inside Will’s stomach. He didn’t ask for an explanation. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mike sighs, turning slowly until they’re face to face. Candlelight spills across his features in a soft and golden glow.

Mike’s eyes drift somewhere near Will’s forehead, like he can’t look him in the eyes. “I wasn’t really sure how to … approach you,” he says. “I mean, we’ve known each other since we were five. And there you were in a new town with new people and a new life. And I didn’t know –“

He trails off. Will waits.

“I guess I didn’t know how or if I’d still fit into your life.”

Will frowns. Ever since they were kids, Will has always carved out a space for Mike to fit in, right beside him. And maybe that space was a little too big, always left half-empty, because Mike wasn’t there to fill it – or didn’t want to fill it. 

“You’re my best friend, Mike. There’s always room for you.”

Mike’s lips twitch in something like a smile. But then his face straightens. “El told me about you in her letters.”

“What?” Will blinks. This is news to him. “What did she say?” 

“She said you’d been acting weird.” Finally, Mike’s eyes drift to Will’s. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows. “She said there was a girl you liked in Lenora.”

A girl …

Will snorts and realizes that maybe he shouldn’t be laughing at this, but he can’t help it. It’s too absurd to even think about.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Sorry. I just – no. There was no girl I liked in Lenora.”

Mike hesitates but he doesn’t look surprised. His head gives a small nod, like he expected this already.

“She said you were painting something for a girl though.”

The giggle gets stuck in Will’s throat.

“You know, I wanted to ask about it at the airport. But you avoided the question, so I thought you didn’t wanna talk about her.”

Her.

“Mike, there’s no girl to talk about.”

“Yeah, but.”

Mike hesitates, eyes flicking over Will’s face, searching. He chooses his next words carefully.

“There’s someone, right?”

And there they are.

The loose threads all laid out. Mike knows Will made a painting. He knows he’s made it for someone he likes. And he knows he gave it to him. He just needs to connect the dots – and maybe he already has. Maybe he’s just asking for the truth now.

Will breathes in, slow and shaky. “I don’t really wanna talk about this,” he whispers.

Maybe, if Mike insisted, he would tell him – right then and there. He’d tell him everything.

But he doesn’t.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Will stares at the blanket so as not to look at Mike.

“Okay,” Mike says and there’s something soft in his voice – like he understands.

He knows he knows he knows he knows.

Will’s hand on Mike’s back feels wrong – like maybe he shouldn’t be touching him right now. Maybe Mike is already thinking about a way to bring distance between them.

But he doesn’t move.

After a while, Mike exhales and shifts closer, his face resting against Will’s neck, his hand drifting up to his back.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

What’s okay?

That he doesn't want to talk about it? That he lied? That he’s in love with him?

Will stares at the wall, his pulse loud in his ears. Mike’s curls tickle his cheek. Mike knows. He must know. But he’s still here, still close. Still holding him.

Will realizes he’s trembling, but this time it’s not from the cold. Mike’s back feels fragile under his hand, like something that could vanish within seconds if he moves too fast.

Mike takes a long, deep breath, his nose right at the skin of Will’s neck. Will shudders, his stomach twisting into a thousand knots.

He feels Mike’s lips against his neck, his warm breath brushing over him.

They stay like that, the candle burning low. Will listens as Mike’s breathing slows again, but he can’t calm down now.

His chest feels raw, his heart hammering restlessly.

He wants to say it, like he’s never wanted to before. He doesn’t just want to assume that Mike knows.

Because this uncertainty is so much worse.

Chapter Text

Will wakes up to a bang.

“MIKE?”

He blinks just in time to watch Mike’s dark eyes flutter open. A hard gust of wind slams against the house, shrieking through the siding. The window rattles in its frame, like something’s trying to come inside.

Mike’s warm breath ghosts over Will’s face.

Their legs are tangled – Will’s thigh wedged between Mike’s, skin against skin. Mike’s hand rests on the side of his neck, fingers buried in the fine hairs there.

Will stares at the faint freckles scattered across Mike’s cheeks and nose, a pattern he’d need the tiniest brush to recreate.

Mike’s wide, sleepy eyes flick over Will’s face.

They’re too close.

The words from last night come back to him in a flash, bright and stinging. They’ve burned inside his mind all night, hours and hours of struggling to fall asleep.

But there’s someone, right?

Will searches Mike’s eyes for any sign of recognition, or discomfort or even disgust. Anything that might reveal what Mike knows, if he knows, and what he thinks of it.

Will has imagined confessing to Mike so many times, and he always pictured everything breaking apart:

Their friendship would be spoiled by this unwanted, restless longing that would tint every conversation, every touch, making Mike uncomfortable. Will always thought Mike would probably need some time and space before accepting him back into his life.

But now Mike’s hand is steady on his neck, his dark eyes calm, observing, like nothing changed at all.

Maybe he doesn’t know.

Mike was oblivious last spring. Maybe he’s oblivious now.

Will wants to ask so badly. He wants to release the question from his tongue so it can stop choking him, so he can put a stop to this endless loop inside his head.

Another bang.

“MIKE?”

So he didn’t dream it – Nancy’s voice is right outside the bedroom door, followed by her fist pounding the wood, the sound impatient, like she’ll give it a few more tries before entering. They didn’t lock the door.  

“Wait here,” Mike whispers. He untangles himself from Will, the covers lifting and letting in a rush of cold air. Will pulls the blanket up to his chin, already missing the touch even though he knows he shouldn’t.

Mike scoops his clothes from the floor and pulls them on fast. He opens the door just enough to slip out into the hallway before shutting it behind him.

Will holds his breath, listening. Rain sprays against the window, forming irregular dots on the glass. The tree outside groans in the wind.

“What’s up?” Mike’s muffled voice.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Nancy says. “I wanted to make sure you’re not dead.”

Two in the afternoon? If Mike slept this long, did he lie awake half the night too?

“He’s gone.” Jonathan’s voice echoes up the stairs, rushed and thin. Footsteps follow. “He’s not in the basement, Nancy.”

“Maybe he left for Hop’s cabin?”

Will’s already out of bed, heart pounding as he grabs his clothes from the floor. The room is cold as he tries to find his second sock, almost tripping over his feet pulling up his sweatpants.

“He would’ve left a note.” Jonathan sounds breathless. “He wouldn’t just leave.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Let’s call your mom before we start worrying. Mike, can I borrow your walkie –”

“He’s gone, Nancy, he’s –“

“Um …” Mike starts.

Before he can say anything, Will steps into the hallway behind him, tugging his sweater into place. His cheeks are warm against the cold air.

“I’m here,” he says, a little out of breath.

He exchanges a quick look with Mike – who so obviously just stumbled out of bed, his hair a mess and the pattern of the pillow still visible on his cheek. Will probably looks the same.   

Jonathan stares at him, disbelief all over his face. He looks a little pale. “Oh my god.” He steps forward and grips Will’s shoulders. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

The relief in Jonathan’s eyes quickly turns to confusion and his head spins to Mike, frowning. “Why didn’t you say something? You were just standing there!”

“Um.” Mike straightens, looking embarrassed and defensive all at once. “I was going to.”

“Have you been sleeping up here all week?” This question is directed toward Will.

It shouldn’t be hard to admit. But those nights in Mike’s bedroom feel fragile, almost sacred, something that lived quietly between them in the dark – kept to themselves without ever really thinking or talking about it.

They’re not for anyone else to know about, or look at, or form an opinion on.

“Um, yeah,” Will admits because it’s no use lying now.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Both Jonathan and Nancy stare at them, brows furrowed in confusion.

And Will realizes this is weird.

Not that Mike and him are sleeping in the same room, but that they’ve been hiding it, whispering in hallways, tiptoeing around doors, acting like they were scared to get caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do.

“I, uh …”

And honestly, Will can’t explain it. It shouldn’t be a secret for two friends to share a room during a power outage. He looks at Mike, who seems equally at a loss for words.

“We just,” Will mumbles. “I mean, I didn’t want Mr. Wheeler finding out. He doesn’t want me sleeping up here and it’s – I thought he might kick me out of the house.”

It’s not a lie but doesn’t feel like the whole truth either.

“Why would he kick you out?” Jonathan asks, his frown deepening.

“Cause he’s …” He thinks I’m gay and doesn’t want me near his only son.

“Cause he’s an idiot,” Nancy states like it’s obvious. Something like understanding crosses her face. “He’s had this rule forever. No boys allowed in my or Mike’s bedroom.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah,” Nancy sighs, looking from Will to Mike. “Look, you two shouldn’t listen to anything he says. He likes to repeat the shit he hears on the news or at church. It’s all just noise. You know that, Mike.”

“Yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “I know.”

“And you could’ve told us,” Jonathan insists, looking directly at Will, like Will’s hurt him personally.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They head downstairs. The wood creaks beneath their feet. Will and Mike walk close behind their siblings, arms brushing every few steps. Mike keeps his gaze locked on the back of Nancy’s sweater, his face unreadable.

Will wants to reach out – grab him by the wrist and drag him right back into that bedroom, to get a sign from him. Anything to let him know what he’s thinking. Just a minute alone with him, to talk.

But even then Will wouldn’t know what to say, because he can’t bring it up without exposing himself.

His stomach knots, twisting tighter with every breath. He curls his hand into a fist. He needs answers – but he can’t ask.

In the kitchen, they pour their cereal. The radio buzzes with static and the warped voice of a news broadcast. Mr. Wheeler stands by the counter, coffee mug steaming in his hand.

“– still no new information about the cause of the power outage,” the radio crackles. “Roane County Water and Electric are checking the lines one by one.”

“Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?” Mr. Wheeler asks, peering over his glasses, and Will hopes it’s not too obvious that they’ve just stumbled out of bed.  

Mike doesn’t answer. He slumps into the chair beside Holly, who’s hunched over a drawing, tongue sticking out in concentration.

Will slips into the seat on her other side. He’s distracted enough that Holly has to bump him in the arm to get his attention.

“What?”

She pushes her drawing toward him without a word, eyebrows raised in expectation. He drops his spoon and takes the crayon. When he draws a massive snail beside her horse, she leans in until her nose is nearly on the page, paying a ridiculous amount of attention – like just watching him would make her learn his skills.

“Mike, you can add one thing too, but only one,” she explains, scooting the paper over the table. Mike looks up, blinking, like he wasn’t paying attention.

“Sure.” He grabs the yellow crayon and draws what might be a hay bale. “How’s that?”

Holly wrinkles her nose. “Not your best.”

Will snorts into his cereal.

Mike lifts his eyebrows.

“Okay, then I’ll have to try again.” And then he’s all over the paper, adding random things in the sky, drawing stripes onto the horse, until Holly’s protests become loud enough for their dad to shush them.

Across the room, Will catches Jonathan’s eyes, smiling at him as if to say I’m glad you two are okay now.

And maybe yesterday, Will would’ve smiled back. But right now, he isn’t sure anymore.  

He doesn’t know where they stand.

He doesn’t know anything.

Except that he’s finally, utterly, and completely going insane.

He watches Mike, trying to search his face for a sign. His shoulders look a little tense, and his eyes clouded. Even as he’s speaking to Holly, it seems like he’s not fully there.

Then he glances up. Their eyes meet. Will’s breath stutters.

Do you know?

The question presses heavy against his teeth. He wants to spill it out, right here at the breakfast table.

Do you know that I’m in love with you?

But Mike just gives him a small smile, like nothing’s wrong at all, like this is just another morning, and maybe he doesn’t know, maybe the idea of Will being in love with him is so ridiculous, it wouldn’t even cross his mind.

And maybe that’s good.

Will takes a slow deep breath. Be normal, he tells himself. It’s fine.

He smiles back.

“You’d never do that to Will’s paintings,” Holly mutters, inspecting her artwork, but despite the fact Mike clearly ruined it, she’s giggling at the mess.

“Yeah, because Will’s paintings are actually good.”

“Hey!” Holly protests and they burst into laughter.

Will takes the crayon from Mike’s cold fingers. Their skin brushes, sending a wave of electricity through his body that he ignores, and he proceeds to try to fix Holly’s drawing.

He can feel Mike watching him but keeps his eyes on the sheet.

After breakfast, Will and Mike get ready to head to Dustin’s.

As they drag their bikes out of the garage, the clouds are dark and heavy, looming over the sky, like they’re holding something back.

On the road, the wind shoves against them hard enough to make Will’s eyes water. Soft needles of rain prick his cheeks and the branches rattle above them as they pedal past the trees. He stares at the back of Mike’s head as if he could read his thoughts if he just looked hard enough. 

By the time they reach Dustin’s place, the wind has crept under Will’s jacket, the cold settling on his spine. They throw their bikes on the Henderson lawn and ring the doorbell.

Will stares at the door as they wait. Mike shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

The silence hangs between them and Will listens, as if the absence of sound might give him an answer.

He glances at Mike.

Mike’s already looking back.

Will wants to say something. Anything.

Like how confused he is right now. Or how stupidly handsome Mike looks with his hair wet from the rain. Or how sorry he is for being in love with him.

The door swings open.

“There they are – reunited at last!” Dustin beams so wide his eyes nearly disappear. Will hasn’t seen him this happy in over a year. “The Cleric and Paladin rise from the ashes!”

“Shut up,” Mike says, but he’s smiling, already pushing past Dustin to kick off his shoes.

“Yeah,” Will says, grinning to himself. “Shut up.”

“I still can’t believe it’s real!” Lucas appears in the hallway like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. He raises his arms, already coming in for the hug. “The couple’s finally back on speaking terms.”

Will ignores the comment, feeling heat rush up his neck.

“GROUP HUG, IDIOTS,” Dustin shouts and suddenly they’re smashed together in a tangle of jackets and limbs and the smell of wet polyester.

“I missed you guys,” Lucas says, sighing dramatically.

“Yeah,” Mike says, voice muffled by somebody’s head.

“It’s been too long, man.” Dustin squeezes Will’s shoulder.

“Totally,” Will agrees, a little breathless.  

Dustin herds them inside, nudging shoes against the wall. “Mom tried baking a cake in the fireplace – yeah, don’t even ask. We’re eating it. Follow me, sirs.”   

The living room is warmed by the fireplace, smelling like smoke and burnt sugar. They crowd around the table, filling their plates.

And then it’s just normal. More normal than it has been in over a year. Like just the four of them sitting here has cracked something open.

“Pass the fork – no, that’s a spoon, Dustin.”

“It’s multifunctional – hey, are you growing a beard?”

Lucas shrugs, fingers brushing his chin. “So what if I am? You jealous?”   

Still, underneath the chatter, Will sees the shadows – Lucas’s tired eyes, the tight line of Dustin’s smile from months of grief and waiting.

“How’s Max?” Mike asks, slicing his cake with careful concentration.

“I just finished reading her The Two Towers and we might start the third book tomorrow.” Lucas scoots the burned part of the cake to the edge of the plate.

“You skipped the songs, didn’t you?” The crunch of Dustin’s teeth suggests he doesn’t care which part of the cake he’s eating.

“No one reads the songs.”

“You know what,” Mike says. “I think you should sing them to her. I’m sure that’d help.”

“Maybe I will.” Lucas seems unimpressed. “She better remember it when she wakes up, or I’m making her read it all over again.”

“You make it sound like a threat,” Will notes.

“It is.” Lucas looks between Mike and Will and then his eyes start glinting and he looks a little crazy with the way he’s grinning. “Anyway. YOU TWO. What have you been up to? How did –“ he gestures wildly between them. “this happen?”

Will and Mike exchange a glance, both opening their mouths at the same time.

“Uh.”

How did this happen?

“We, um.” Will pokes his fork into the cake. “I guess with no school and stuff we just had a lot of time to talk.”

“Yeah.” Mike clears his throat. “We were stuck inside the house, so we just kinda …” He trails off.

Dustin’s eyes narrow. “So you resolved … whatever the mystery problem was?”

The answer should be simple. Yes, they’ve resolved … something in all those long nights of talking. But last night was confusing, and Will isn’t sure whether they’ve really solved things or just pulled a bunch of stuff to the surface without actually facing it.

And now he’s left with ambiguous words, fragments of a confession, and endless uncertainty to spiral through.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “We talked.”

They could explain this a lot better. They could tell them about how they’re sharing Mike’s room because of the cold, how they’ve stayed up late every night to talk.

But something about this past week feels too personal, and Will feels like no matter how he’d tell the story, words could never describe the little space they’ve carved out for each other in the darkness of Mike’s bedroom.

“Wow. Truly illuminating,” Dustin says with a mouthful of cake.

“Be mysterious about it. Whatever.” Lucas rolls his eyes. “I’m glad either way. It’s about time.”

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees. “It was getting annoying.”

When Dustin’s mom walks in with laundry, it’s their cue to relocate to the bedroom. The room is chilly without heating, so Dustin hands out some blankets as they settle on the floor.

Will thought it would be awkward – four boys who used to practically breathe the same air for years, now trying to remember how – but it feels natural, like muscle memory.

Lucas, wrapped in a blanket like a cape, rants about a plot hole he found in The Two Towers and that gets a rageful conversation going.

“What?” Mike dives in easily, sitting cross-legged with his back against the bedframe. “That’s not a plot hole. That’s literally strategy.”

“Then it’s a bad strategy.”

Will watches Mike – the way he effortlessly joins into the conversation, laughing, arguing, like this is just a normal day. And maybe it is.

Maybe it’s pointless. To look for answers in the way Mike is speaking or the way he’s holding himself. To overanalyze the amount of times Mike looks in his direction, if he’s sitting too close or too far away.

If Mike can be normal, so can Will.

“I’m with Lucas,” he says. “If it’s a strategy, it’s shit.”

“What?” Mike snaps his head toward him, betrayed. “Will!”

“Oh no. Please don’t fight again,” Dustin says, brows raised in fake concern. “Have I told you about my camping trip? Does anyone wanna hear about that?”

While Dustin speaks, Will feels something cold brush his thigh. He looks down at the blanket he and Mike share, draped over both their legs. Mike’s hand has disappeared beneath it, cold fingers grazing Will’s thigh before finding his hand.

Will looks up. Mike is already looking at him, his mouth forming the word cold, before he laces their fingers together – hidden beneath the blanket. He turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.

Will stares at him, confused all over again, his heart pounding in his chest. Mike’s cold fingers rest between his, his thumb lightly brushing the back of Will’s hand.

If Mike really knew the truth, he wouldn’t be doing this.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

And that’s good. That means Will can relax. He can be normal.

At least as normal as it is to hold your best friend’s hand under a blanket, hidden from sight.

It feels secretive, not meant for anyone’s eyes. And Will is afraid he’s losing his mind.

He squeezes Mike’s hand back anyway. 

“Will.”

Will jolts his gaze to Dustin. “Yeah?”

“You’re quiet.”

“Listening.”

“You’re making that face again.”

“What face?”

“Your existential dread face.”

“That’s just my face.” Will rolls his eyes, trying to look casual. “So who did you go camping with?”

“Steve – I said that, right?”

“You went camping with Steve?” Mike blurts, eyebrows shooting up. He sounds utterly invested, as if their hands aren’t intertwined under the blanket. As if his thumb isn’t gently brushing over Will’s index finger up to his knuckle. As if Will isn't holding himself back with every ounce of restraint.

“Yeah man, I thought I said that already.”

“This friendship makes less sense every day,” Lucas mutters. “But I’m not gonna question it anymore.”

“You literally just did. Anyway, what I was saying – what the fuck?”

A burst of static crackles through the room, startling all four of them.

The walkie on Dustin’s bed buzzes.

“Jesus,” Lucas sighs. “That almost gave me a heart attack.”

“–anyone there …. hello ….”

“Yeah, yeah, hold up,” Dustin shouts as if the walkie can hear him. He gets up and grabs it, extending the antenna. “Henderson speaking. Over.”

“Hopper-Byers speaking,” El says in a perfect imitation of him. “Can you get everyone on the line? And I’m not saying ‘over’.”

“Everyone’s already here.” Dustin looks around the room, holding the walkie out. “Say hi to the weirdo.”

He presses the button and Will, Mike and Lucas yell their hellos. Mike’s thumb draws little circles on the back of Will’s hand.

“You’re hanging out again,” El states, unfazed, like this isn’t relevant to her priorities. “Good. I have news.”

Mike slips his hand from Will’s as they all crowd in, gathering around the walkie. Will’s palm instantly feels cold.

Someone murmurs to El in the background. “Yeah, I know, Hop. I’m on the walkie. Okay guys, is everybody listening?”

“Spit it out already,” Lucas groans.

“So, I spied on the workers again today and they found something – a busted line, they say. Not … you know. I thought we would get new information about the Upside Down, but it seems to be just normal damage.”

Relief floods through Will, and he takes a deep breath, finally releasing the looming feeling he’s been carrying over the past week – that something supernatural is causing the power to shut down.

“They say they can’t fix it right now because there’s a storm approaching. But power should be back by morning.”

A beat. Then the room explodes with excitement. Laughter, cheers, and relieved shouts fill the air. Will watches the joy spark on his friend’s faces.

“Hallelujah,” Lucas moans. “The damn coffee machine at the hospital has been calling me.”

“Movie night is back, baby!” Dustin cheers and almost bumps his fist against the leg of the table.  

The grin on El’s face practically crackles through the walkie. “Thought you’d be happy! Okay, gotta run – Will, love you! And bye, everyone else!”

“Oh my god, I can’t wait for a hot shower!”

“This is big!”

Amid the chaos, Will’s eyes meet Mike’s – and there it is, the same feeling mirrored back to him, hitting him full force. A twist in his stomach. A silent, sharp ache.

He doesn’t want it to end.

He’d live in the dark forever if it meant staying close to Mike.

“Speaking of the storm,” Lucas says as the excitement dies down. They follow his gaze to the window. The rain has picked up, tapping harder against the glass. “It looks pretty bad.”

“Shit.” Will straightens. “The streetlights are still out.”

“Yeah, we should go.” Mike is the first one standing, moving with a certain urgency, the blanket slipping off his legs.

They say their goodbyes on the porch. There’s barely enough light left to see the swollen clouds overhead. The wind is loud, whistling around the house. Will climbs onto his bike just as the rain thickens.

“Oh my god,” Lucas groans. “We’re gonna be drenched.”

They take off, sticking close, their bike lights cutting thin slices through the dark. Rain slaps their faces, soaks their jeans, chills their hands until they sting. By the time Lucas turns into his street, yelling “Sleep well, losers!” it’s pouring, water splashing beneath their wheels.

“Shit,” Mike shouts over the roaring rain. “Let’s hurry.”

Will follows Mike’s light through the darkness. Rain drips from his fringe, making it hard to see, hair sticking to his forehead.  

There, the house rises out of the black, windows glowing with soft candlelight.

“Oh my god,” Mike mutters, soaked and visibly shivering.

They throw their bikes onto the lawn, hurrying to get inside, leaving damp footprints across the floorboards. Rain drips from their coats as they peel them off, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering in the dark hallway. The house is quiet except for the low murmur of the radio in the living room and the constant hammer of rain against the roof.

“I’ll get these to the fireplace,” Mike says, taking both their coats and shoes.

Will steps up the stairs to get ready for bed. He flicks on the flashlight hanging near the bathroom door. His jeans cling to his skin and he peels them off, shivering. While he brushes his teeth he tries to rub some warmth into his thighs. The floorboards creak in the hallway.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Mike sits on the edge of the bathtub as he brushes his teeth, pulling off his wet socks, then his jeans. Rain drips from his curls over his shoulders. Will slips off his sweater and drapes it over the dead heater. Their shivers fill the bathroom, accompanied by the sound of rain pouring against the small window.

Mike stands, spitting and rinsing, water sliding down his soaked hair. Will stands beside him, a towel pressed to his head. As Mike stands straight, their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror.

The flashlight casts a pale glow across their faces.

It’s quiet.

This is their last night.

Mike turns to Will and it looks like he wants to say something, his mouth twitching. But he stays silent. His gaze lingers on Will, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at him, drenched and trembling, that makes Will’s chest ache.

Tomorrow morning, the power will be back.

And he might not lose Mike – but it won’t be the same.

They won’t sleep in the same bed. They won’t brush their teeth together. They won’t whisper until the early morning hours.

Tonight is their last chance to –

To do what?

There’s an age-old longing clawing at Will, eating at him, raw and insistent, because they’ve opened up so much this week – and now only one last secret hangs between them, half-ripped to the surface. A part of him wants to spill it all out, to end the week with a bang and finally be free of the shameful weight of it all.  

But he can’t ruin it now. He’s just gotten Mike back.

This is their last night.

Will rises on his tiptoes, bracing a hand on Mike’s shoulder, feeling the dampness of his sweater beneath his cold fingers. He drags the towel over Mike’s curls, gathering the wet strands with careful motions. Mike leans down just enough for Will to reach, eyes tracing every line of his face with a complicated expression.

Will searches his eyes for something like discomfort. There is none.

He doesn’t know.

He tries to memorize this – Mike’s full attention on him, the way the flashlight catches the side of his face, his damp hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks.

He doesn’t know.

It’s like a mantra, something to calm him down. They can spend one last night together and then forget about it. Will can move back to the basement and they can be best friends again, just like Will always hoped for. This is good. It’s the best possible outcome.

Will’s fingers twitch, itching to run through Mike’s soaked curls, just to feel how wet they still are.

Instead, he leans back.

“Thanks,” Mike whispers. His eyes linger on Will’s face. He’s shivering, a tremble in his bottom lip. Will forces himself to look away and steps back to hang the towel over the bathtub.

In the bedroom, Mike lights a few candles, their soft glow casting over the blue walls. They strip down to their underwear, draping their wet clothes over the chair.

Mike pulls two fresh shirts from his drawer, tossing one toward Will.

The cold air bites at his still damp skin, making him shiver as he pulls on Mike’s shirt, his fingers numb.

And there it is again – silence settling over them.

The wind presses against the closed window, rattling the glass, making the candlelight flicker.

Will feels a little sick.

He slips into bed. Mike follows, but stays on his side of the mattress. They stare at the ceiling, teeth chattering. It’s too cold. Normally, they would’ve scooted together by now.  

Why isn’t Mike moving closer?

Will closes his eyes, mind racing, heart thumping, and he wishes he could say something, anything to make more sense of this situation, because there’s a constant loop of the same thought going over and over and over in his head.

This is the last night. This is the last night. This is the last night.

Do you know that I love you? 

The coldness from Mike’s hand jerks Will back to reality.

“Shit,” he gasps and Mike’s laugh smells of toothpaste. His cold hand presses against Will’s side.

“You think that’s cold?” he asks, teasing and it’s good, it’s playful, it’s safe – like they’re kids again, playing a game of making the other freeze, unable to stop giggling.

“Yes, Mike, that’s –”

Will is interrupted by his own sharp intake of breath when Mike’s cold fingers slide up under his shirt, over his stomach, stopping at his ribs. Mike shifts closer, icy feet brushing Will’s bare shins.

“– cold,” Will finishes, holding his breath.  

“Warm me up, then.”

It’s like the night before, like nothing has changed at all. When their bodies meet in the middle, it feels like Will can finally breathe again. He’s waited for this all day, and if he really thinks about it, he’s waited for this way longer.

Maybe this is the one thing he’s always been waiting for.

They shiver together, teeth chattering. Mike starts rubbing Will’s arms and back, and Will does the same, tracing damp skin. They warm each other up, hands moving under shirts and over limbs, damp hair leaving spots on the pillows. Everywhere Mike’s fingers touch, it sends little shocks through Will’s chest.

It’s just warming up. But then Mike’s hands are moving too slow, lingering on Will’s spine or his biceps.

Will holds his breath. It’s all too much to make sense of. But maybe he doesn’t have to, because it’s gonna be over tomorrow anyway. This is the last time he will be this close to Mike and he won’t question it.

Will allows his hands to slow too, mirroring Mike’s movements. His fingers draw over the skin of Mike’s stomach, exploring under the shirt, then his back, feeling Mike’s skin and soft muscle.

Mike’s doing it too – so it should be fine, even though it feels anything but.

This is their last night.

He will remember every detail: Mike’s warm skin. The smell of rain in his hair. The touch of fingertips on his waist. The sensation of hairs brushing on their legs. Mike’s cold feet slipping between his. The candlelight glinting in his dark eyes.

He doesn’t want them to stop being like this.

And it’s selfish, because this isn’t who they are. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. They were never meant to share a bed. Will knew this from the beginning – there’s no reason to grieve it now.

Things will go back to normal and that’s good. That’s good.

Eventually, warmth spreads and their trembling slows. Mike drapes an arm lazily over Will’s side, hand resting on his back.

They look at each other.  

They’ve talked so much during this past week. But still, now, looking into Mike’s eyes, there are a million confessions lying heavy on Will’s tongue, weighing the air between them. He swallows them down. He can’t ruin this. Not now.  

Mike’s eyes are black in the dim light, pupils swallowed by shadow, reflections of candle flames dancing across them. Will is aware that he’s staring, but Mike isn’t looking away either. In fact, his gaze drifts over Will’s face, like he’s searching for something. 

But then again, it’s so dark, it could just be a trick of the light.

“I can’t see you,” Mike whispers in the small space between them.

“What?”

There’s a small furrow between Mike’s brows and his eyes roam restlessly.

“The light … it’s behind you. I can barely see your face.”

“Oh.”

A beat. Will doesn’t know what to say.

“I can’t tell where you’re looking.”

Mike’s voice is soft and quiet. But there’s something there, wavering beneath it, that makes the hairs on the back of Will’s neck rise.

“I’m looking at you.”

The words feel like a confession. Maybe Will shouldn’t have said it. But it only feels fair, because he can see Mike’s eyes.

Mike’s hand slips out of his shirt, sliding up his arm and toward his neck. He stops at Will’s jaw.

Will holds his breath.

Then Mike props himself on an elbow, tilting Will’s face to the ceiling, so the candlelight illuminates his features. Mike is close, his fingers on Will’s jaw, thumb on his cheek. He’s looking at him.

Will looks back.

“Do you see me now?” he whispers.

Mike’s gaze roams over Will’s features, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.”

Will can’t breathe. His chest feels too tight. It takes him everything not to avert his eyes.

With Mike propped up next to him, their thighs brush, shins press together – the sensation of skin, hair, and heat making it all too real.

Mike’s thumb drags over his cheek.

Somewhere in the back of his throat, Will’s breath hitches.

“Your hair’s still wet.” Mike’s fingers move up, sweeping a strand of hair just above Will’s ear, brushing his damp fringe from his forehead.

Will doesn’t know what to do. His hands feel frozen on Mike’s back.

Mike’s curls fall over his face, and Will knows he shouldn’t do it, but he aches for it. He reaches out and threads his fingers through Mike’s curls, brushing them across his forehead. “So is yours,” he whispers.

Mike swallows, staring at him.

And then it’s all too much and Will can’t maintain the eye contact for a second longer. His gaze falters, and he doesn’t know where to look, but Mike’s mouth is right there and so very distracting.

He could draw it from memory, so he knows what to expect – the curve of the cupid’s bow, the fullness of his lower lip. But there’s something at the corners of his mouth that feels different now – like they’ve lost the hint of irony that’s usually sitting right there. Instead, there’s a restlessness, like there’s something caught behind those lips, that desperately needs to be said.

Will realizes he’s been staring at Mike’s mouth for a solid ten seconds.

When he looks up, he meets Mike’s eyes. He must’ve seen it.

Does he know?

Heat rushes up Will’s stomach, his chest, right into his face. This is not going according to plan. He was supposed to savor this last night with Mike – not make it worse.

But Mike isn’t saying anything. He’s just looking, more and more, like he’s studying him.

Until he finally releases him.

The air comes back into Will’s lungs, as Mike leans back, hand slipping from Will’s hair. He clears his throat and lays back on the pillow.

Silence stretches. Just the sound of their breathing. Rain drums against the window. The smell of wet fabric and melting wax sits between them.

Will tries to think of something to say, but the loop continues, over and over in his head.

He knows he knows he knows he knows.

Maybe he should just rip off the bandage and say it, so they can talk about it and finally move on.

At some point Will must’ve slipped into sleep, because when he wakes, the room is pitch black. The candle’s burned out.

Rain thrums against the window in a steady rhythm, drops loud and heavy. Wind pushes at the glass. There was thunder, he remembers. That’s what must’ve pulled him out of sleep.  

He blinks a few times, but nothing changes. Eyes open or closed, it’s all the same darkness pressed to his face.

“Will?”

He can’t see him, but Mike sounds close. Their bodies aren’t touching, but the warmth radiating from them fills the small space between them.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

Is he okay? Will blinks into the darkness. “Yes, why?”

“The thunder.”

Will used to be scared of thunderstorms. Sometimes, as kids, he’d slip into Mike’s bed and make Mike tell him a story, mouth close to his ear to drown out the sound of the storm.

“I’m okay.”  

“Do you want me to light another candle?” Mike’s voice is soft, barely a whisper.

“No. That’s okay.”

The silence that follows is fragile, heavy, like somebody is already toying with the thought of breaking it. Despite only seeing black, Will has his eyes open, staring into the dark as if something might take shape there.

Mike’s fingers twitch. Only then does Will realize Mike’s hand is wrapped around his biceps, slipped under the sleeve of his shirt. He isn’t gripping, but holding with a certain firmness.

Mike’s breath brushes Will’s cheek, a little shaky. He’s closer than Will thought.

“Are you still cold?” Will whispers.

“No.”

More silence.

Will’s side aches, so he shifts, brushing Mike’s knee with his own. Mike does the same, adjusting his position. He drapes his leg over Will’s, pressing them closer, his shin hooked behind Will’s.

It’s too dark to coordinate their bodies, to tell where one ends and the other begins.

So when Mike’s nose grazes Will’s cheek, it catches him by surprise.  

It’s an accidental brush, both unaware of where the other is in the dark.

Except, Mike doesn’t pull away.

Will’s throat tightens. He goes completely still, holding his breath.

Did Mike fall asleep again? Is he aware of how close they are?

He stays still, waiting, feeling his pulse loud in his ears.

Mike’s breath is short, brushing over Will’s cheek. He doesn’t sound asleep. His fingers twitch around Will’s arm, squeezing slightly.

But if he’s awake, then this isn’t some accidental brush. Then Mike is right there with him, half of his face brushing against Will’s, his now-dry curls tickling Will’s forehead.

A million thoughts race through his head at once, tripping over themselves. It’s impossible to wrap his mind around the situation he’s in.

Because he’s so good at reading things wrong – seeing signs where there are none.

When he was younger, he liked to interpret Mike’s behavior as something romantic – his protectiveness, his gentleness. He’d treasure it and let it feed his delusions, pretending it could mean that Mike liked him just as much as Will wanted him to.

And here he is again, reading it all wrong.

This past week has made it too easy to start dreaming again.

But that’s all it ever was: a dream.

He stays still, so he doesn’t do anything stupid. He can’t ruin this over some misreading of the situation.

He waits for Mike to realize how close they are, to pull back. Then they can go back to normal, and Will can spend the rest of his life trying to forget this ever happened.

Mike turns his head. Just barely – enough for his nose to slide across Will’s cheek, drifting toward his. Mike’s curls brush Will’s forehead. His face feels hot.

Mike’s breath washes over Will’s mouth, trembling, and he can feel the warmth radiating from his lips.

Will can’t help it – his breath catches, and the sound is loud in the quiet. Mike must’ve heard.

He doesn’t move.

The tips of his fingers tighten on Will’s arm.

A force grows inside Will, a hunger so old, it’s unbearable, pulling him toward Mike. He clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself, his other hand rests against Mike’s side, on the sliver of exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up – heat against heat.

He wants to move so badly, he feels sick from it – too hot and dizzy, his body electrified and his chest aching from the way he’s holding his breath.

Mike’s upper lip brushes the space beneath Will’s nose – the softest touch, barely there, almost accidental. But Will feels it everywhere.

He would just have to speak, and their lips would touch.

He’s never kept so still in his life. His lungs protest, and he forces himself to take a shallow breath through his nose – the sound unnatural in the quiet.

Mike must know Will’s awake. He must feel the nervousness in Will’s breath – just as Will feels it in his.

And Mike is awake too, it’s obvious. His breathing gives him away, his fingers digging into Will’s skin.

Mike isn’t pulling away from this.

Will isn’t either.

Mike inches closer.

It’s the faintest brush of lips – rough from the cold, shivering with nerves, a little off-center, against the corner of Will’s mouth.

Mike takes a sharp breath. His fingers press into Will’s arm, almost painful.

Then the sheets rustle. Heat leaves Will’s face. Mike retreats, leaving cold air in his place. The hand slips from Will’s arm, leaving a little sting.

Silence.

Will’s lips burn against the cold air, stinging in the absence of Mike’s mouth.

In the darkness of the room, there are no witnesses. It’s hard to tell what’s real or not. There’s no proof – nothing to see.

But Will felt it.

“Mike?”

His voice sounds raw and shaky.

Mike doesn’t answer.

And suddenly, it’s over ten years of friendship sitting between them – a reminder of what could be lost, if either of them made just one wrong move.

But it can’t end this way. Will can’t be stuck here forever, wondering what just happened. He can’t fall asleep, not tonight, not for the rest of his life, if he lets this go.

“Mike.”

He reaches out, his hand finding the front of Mike’s shirt. He grabs the fabric, and pulls him close, bringing their foreheads together. There’s a soft gasp coming from Mike’s throat.

Mike is trembling. His breath comes out quick and uneven.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Will listens into the silence between them, the sounds of their breaths, searching for explanations, any sign that he’s reading this wrong. But nothing makes sense.

Neither of them pushes closer. But neither of them pulls away either. Where his hand is pressed into the fabric of Mike’s shirt, Will can feel Mike’s chest moving with quick breaths.

Will hesitates. He needs to know. He can’t just linger here forever.

His hand slowly moves along Mike’s jaw, feeling out the parts of his face he can’t see in the dark. His fingers brush along his neck, thumb on his cheek.

Mike’s skin feels hot under his touch.

Will is not going to move. Not any further than this.

But something about the touch seems to switch something in Mike. His fingers ghost up his neck, cupping his cheek. Then, as if mapping his face by touch, he traces the shape of his eyebrows and the curve of his nose. Lightly, Mike’s finger draws over Will’s eyelashes, as if checking his eyes are closed. His thumb hovers over Will’s mouth – and then, slowly, drags over his bottom lip.

Will is very still. He can hear Mike swallow. His fingers slip from his face, but Will doesn’t have time to miss the touch, because then Mike lets out a long shuddery breath and inches closer again.

Will meets him in the middle.

In the dark, it’s hard to tell how close they are. So when Will’s upper lip brushes against Mike’s bottom one, they both stop, breaths hitching, like it’s startled them both.

This time, Mike doesn’t pull away.

Will stills as he feels Mike’s lips brush lightly over his, the faint hint of a touch. His eyes flutter shut, despite the darkness and he realizes he’s trembling, scared to make the wrong move.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

He doesn’t know how.

But this barely counts as kissing – it’s just lips brushing against lips, like they just happen to be there.

Until Mike makes a sound – low, from the back of his throat – and his hand slips to the back of Will’s neck, fingers burying inside his hair, like he’s giving in to something buried deep inside him.

And suddenly it’s something completely different.

Holding him by the back of his neck, Mike pulls Will closer, pressing his lips to his in a way that’s anything but accidental.

Will’s body goes hot and weightless and every thought he’s had before is now replaced by a bright buzzing. The sensation almost makes him sick. For a moment he can’t move at all, unable to comprehend that this is happening.

He has to do something.

So he presses back, a tiny, unsure pressure, like he’s just trying it out – and Mike responds instantly. Their lips move against each other, slow and searching, adjusting to the feeling.

The hot air between their mouths feels charged with the weight of what this means, what it could mean for both of them.

But it’s too late now. There’s no way to undo this. And it’s scary, but it’s also a relief, and Will can’t make sense of it. He won't even attempt to.

Instead, he gives in – fingers sliding into Mike’s curls the way he’s always wanted to. He’s touched his hair before, but always restraining himself, never allowing what he truly wanted: to tug on a strand of hair, gently scratch his scalp, pull him closer, his fingers buried in the soft curls at the back of Mike’s head.

Mike gasps into his mouth – a quiet sound, not meant for anyone else – and Will didn’t know how badly he needed to hear it.

Suddenly, there’s no restraining.

Will might not know how to kiss, but he knows what he wants, what he’s wanted for so many years.

He knows how to want Mike, how to love Mike, and now that he can take him, he feels dizzy with the power.

He pushes close. Mike rolls onto his back, and Will follows, leaning over him, kissing him with more confidence. Mike’s lips part under his and his fingers hold him close by the neck.  

Their stomachs brush – bare skin against bare skin where their shirts have ridden up – and it’s too much, too hot. Mike’s knee slips between Will’s.

The sound of their mouths is loud in the room, louder than the rain hammering the window. Thunder growls somewhere in the distance.

Will’s hand braces beside Mike’s head, the other holds his jaw, thumb brushing his hot cheek.  

He opens his mouth against Mike’s, hot, shaky breaths filling the air between them. There’s something desperate about the way their lips move together – open-mouthed and breathless.

Will has no thoughts left, just white noise, a loud buzz, growing only louder when Mike’s hand moves through his hair. His other hand slips under his shirt at his waist, sliding up into the warmth.

Will’s body feels electrified with how badly he wants to be touched. He pulls him closer, making their bodies collide. Will hears a noise and realizes it’s coming out of his own throat, a gasp from deep within.

Will knew about kissing, but he didn’t know what it meant to have his face smashed against somebody else’s – cheeks and noses and teeth and chins bumping.

And more than anything, he wishes he could see Mike, so he wouldn’t have to rely on the noises coming from his mouth to know this is really happening.

More thunder roars. Closer this time.

Mike takes Will’s bottom lip between his, and Will might as well be losing his mind. His mouth is wet, warm, insistent – making Will ache in ways even years of dreaming never could have prepared him for.

He's never felt anything like this.  

He’s never felt Mike like this.

He’s known him for so long, but he’s never known the way his breath hitches when his hair is pulled, or the taste of his mouth, or the feel of his fingers digging into the skin of Will’s waist.

Everything is falling out of place – like a crack in time, reshaping what they are, what they were, what they will be.

More thunder. And then, just as Mike breaks the kiss, catching his breath, and Will presses their foreheads together, gasping for air, a flash of lightning bursts through the room.

For a second, it’s bright.

One second to see Mike beneath him, eyes wide, lips red and wet.

One second for Mike to see him.

One second to realize what’s happening.

Because suddenly, it’s not just their faces and bodies, but the context of them. It’s Will and Mike in the apocalypse, best friends since the day they met. It's two young boys on a playground, saying yes to a friendship that would shape them forever. 

The reality hits them like a lightning strike.

There's so much to lose.

In the darkness, Mike’s breath stutters. His fingers fall away. Will rolls off him.

Their breathing fills the dark room, loud and uneven. Will’s heart pounds against his ribs.

Neither of them says a word, as they catch their breaths.

Will has spent over half his life convincing himself that this will never happen, but now his mouth is still hot and wet from Mike’s lips and he can still taste him on his tongue.

He’s never gonna be able to go back from this.

The rain is loud against the window. More thunder roars.

This whole week, they spent carving their way back into each other’s lives. But they dug too deep, forgot to stop, and now they’ve reached something too close to undo – Will has no idea where to go from here.

He can’t think of anything to say. Just one word would make this real, and they would have to face the consequences of what just happened.

So they don’t talk. They don’t touch.

They just lie there, catching their breaths, a gap between their bodies, waiting for morning, as if it holds the answer to what’s become of them – with this old friendship sitting open between them, pulled at the seams.

Chapter Text

Will had always known he didn’t like Mike the way he liked his other friends.  

It was hard to grasp as a kid, the concept of attraction. Will would look at girls and think they were pretty; he’d look at boys and think they were cute. But then he’d look at Mike and forget how to breathe.

Mike was his first friend and for a long time Will thought that alone would make him somehow more special, more important than everybody else. It would explain the way he felt most himself with Mike, or the way he liked it best when he had all his attention to himself.

His dad would make comments about his “weird obsession” with Mike, how Will would always find a way to bring him up at dinner even when it didn’t fit into the conversation.

But knowing what it meant back then felt impossible. “Gay” was a word his dad used to describe his flaws. It wasn’t just the way he talked about Mike – it was the way he didn’t enjoy baseball, or the colors he chose when making a painting, or the way his arms trembled when holding a gun for the first time.

It was just one of the many things Will knew he would have to grow out of eventually.

He’d always thought it was just a matter of time. One day he’d meet a girl, and everything would fall into place. Growing up would help him grow out of his old habits. But as long as they were kids, he allowed himself to look only at Mike.

Over the years, Lucas and Dustin joined their friend group. At first, it scared Will – because if what he and Mike had was classified as friendship, and they could have other friends, maybe their connection wasn’t as strong to begin with. Still, Mike always had a way of finding him in a crowded room. No matter who was with them, he’d always ask for Will’s opinion first. He’d stay behind with him when Will was being quiet. He always made him feel special.

Until he didn’t anymore.

Will was twelve years old when he realized he was in love with Mike.

It was the same year he realized Mike would never love him back.  

Up until then, he thought they were the same: not interested in girls, obsessed with the same things – and each other. But then there she was, this strange, fierce, impossible girl with superpowers who’d saved Will’s life, and suddenly she was all Mike could talk about.

Will felt them separating – Mike was growing in a direction Will couldn’t follow. Suddenly, he wasn’t like him anymore. He would never be like him.  

It was a feeling like loss. He mourned the future he’d imagined: He and Mike, spending the rest of their lives together, just the two of them in some apartment in the city, growing up together, growing old together.

But that was never going to happen now. Because Mike was normal. Mike liked girls.

Will spent years trying to accept that.

He conditioned himself to accept that.

When he was fourteen, he realized it might be time to fall out of love with Mike. It had become old and a little pathetic, and maybe he’d missed the memo. But there he was, still stuck in a feeling he never asked for to begin with.   

Now Will is sixteen, and everything he thought he knew has collapsed in on itself in just one single night.

When he wakes up, his eyes burn.

The morning light seeps across the covers, pale and washed-out. The rain has stopped, but the window is still stippled with beads, like traces of the night now stretched thin over the glass.

Will turns his head. The space on the bed beside him is empty. He stares at it for a solid minute.

Comic books are scattered around the nightstand. The painting he made is still on the desk. The candles, the lighter, everything’s there, like this is just another morning. 

Slowly, Will reaches out. His fingers brush the fabric where Mike had been. It’s cold, like he’s been gone for a while.

Will rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, vision blurred.

He might’ve slept three hours. The sun was already rising, when exhaustion finally knocked him out. And all the thoughts that kept him tossing in the dark – none of them make any more sense now.

The morning comes with no answers.

He lifts a hand, slowly placing his fingers over his mouth. His lips feel dry and a little swollen.

Like proof.

Of the impossible thing that happened last night.

He tries to picture it, but his mind feels foggy – like the memories aren’t even real. They’re stuffed with cotton, the edges blurred. It all seems like a daze now. Something straight out of a daydream. Something made up.

And it’s weird, because he doesn’t have any visual memories of it. It was dark in the room, except for when it wasn’t anymore – when it was Mike’s wide eyes, his wet mouth, illuminated by lightning.

And the noises he remembers – the sound of their mouths moving together. The gasps and heavy breathing.

Will’s lips tremble under his fingertips.

He kissed Mike.

But it’s impossible. It’s not them. It’s not what they do. Mike doesn’t kiss boys on the mouth. He doesn’t gasp when his hair is being pulled – or maybe he does, but that’s not something Will should have knowledge of. He shouldn’t have these memories at all. They are not his – they can’t be. It makes no sense.

Mike kissed him.

Will throws the thought around in his head, but it doesn’t come past the surface, like it’s stuck in a web, unable to register in his brain.

His brain that’s conditioned to expect rejection. That knows good things don’t happen to him. That’s been trained to doubt – to smother any blooming glimpse of hope for years and years and years.

But his body knows it happened. His skin remembers the tremor in Mike’s fingertips. His hands remember the texture of his curls, the heat of his scalp. His mouth remembers – 

Will exhales shakily, dropping his hand.

He gets out of bed and gathers his rain-stiff clothes from the floor and chair. Only when he stands with bare arms and knees, he realizes it’s unusually warm.

He glances toward the alarm clock and there they are: digital numbers blinking 00:00 in bright orange, like time itself is insistently asking to be reset.

The power’s back.

And Will feels – nothing.

He knows nothing.

Except that he doesn’t belong in this room anymore.

It’s time to move back to the basement.

He slips down the stairs quietly, pillow tucked to his chest.

Holly’s laughter drifts from the kitchen – bright and loud. Something sizzles in a pan, filling the house with the smell of fried eggs. With electricity restored, the hum of the house is back.

Will is not ready to face anyone just yet.

He switches on the light in the basement and turns the heaters up all the way. The pipes rattle awake, a sound that used to feel familiar but now it’s just wrong.

The light is too bright. The room feels hollow and empty. The mattress on the floor seems smaller than Will remembers, like it’s shrunk over the past few days.

He makes his bed – shaking out the pillow. Candles lie scattered across the floor where they left them just a couple of nights ago. He picks them up one by one, wax cold against his palms. Slowly, he puts them back in their box, like he’s packing away a dream.

Something aches deep inside him.

He’s still wearing Mike’s shirt.

When he gets up to put the candle box back on the table, he notices his sketchbook. A page is half-slid out – the drawing he made of Mike just a few nights ago.

Will hesitates. Then flips it open.

And there he is – with his warm eyes and dark curls. With his mouth soft in graphite shadow.

The mouth that Will – 

But it makes no sense. He stares at the sketch. Maybe, if he thinks hard enough about it, he will come up with an explanation. Maybe there are reasons why straight boys would kiss their friends, reasons Will just hasn’t thought of yet.

He needs to talk to him.

He’s never needed it more in his life.

He needs to know what any of this means – if it means anything at all.

He needs to know whether they’re still friends and if not, if there’s a chance they will be again, sometime in the future.

He needs to know why in the world Mike would do something so incredibly stupid and kiss him.

And if it helps at all, he needs to apologize for doing the unthinkable and kiss him back.

It’s never been this urgent. But it’s never been this scary either. 

Because if he talks to Mike, this will all become real – ten years of friendship could be lost in a single breath.

Will takes his first real shower in a week.

He turns the water up too hot, until it leaves his skin red, steam clouding the bathroom. His body loosens under the heat, the weeklong cold melting off him, but it doesn’t really matter because there’s a numbness sitting somewhere the water can’t reach.  

He dresses in clean clothes and stands at the base of the stairs, looking up at the door. He takes a long, deep breath.

Whatever’s waiting up there – he has to face it eventually.

The overhead lamp casts a clean, artificial light across the breakfast table. Eggs, bacon, pancakes – everything they couldn’t cook before now sits in heaps, as if they were expecting more guests.

Mrs. Wheeler’s hair is perfectly curled again. Mr. Wheeler is shaved again. Nancy and Jonathan look freshly showered, their hair clean and still a little damp. The coffee smells like it came straight out of the machine. Holly drowns her bacon in syrup. 

There’s a glow to their faces, like they’d been holding their breath for a week straight, now finally able to breathe again.

And Mike – 

Mike isn’t here.

Will’s stomach drops at the sight of his empty chair. He feels cold, suddenly, like the heaters aren’t working after all. If Mike isn’t here and he isn’t in his room either, then he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Hey, Will. You’re up!” Jonathan looks up from his plate.

But Will’s not in a state for conversation or breakfast or good mood. He’s in a state of numbness – where nothing matters. Not even what Mr. Wheeler thinks of him. “Where’s Mike?” he asks straight out, his voice coming out rough.

“Mike? Um … no idea.”

“He was up early today,” Mrs. Wheeler says, catching a drip of syrup before it slides off Holly’s plate. “He left a while ago. Did you need something from him?”

Will, still standing in the doorway, stares at her, unmoving. Maybe he looks a little crazy right now, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Did he say where he went?”

“No, just that he wanted to go for a walk,” Mrs. Wheeler says, the last words emphasized like she’s confused, too. “Don’t you wanna sit?”

Will forces himself forward and drops into the seat beside his brother. He can feel Jonathan’s questioning gaze, but he ignores him.

“Teenagers,” Mr. Wheeler mutters. “Didn’t know they even took walks.” 

Mrs. Wheeler sips her coffee. “Well, it’s been a long week. He probably just wanted to get out of the house.”

Will’s gaze fixes on the orange juice bottle in front of him. His stomach twists.

Mike doesn’t just go for walks.

Maybe he didn’t want to see anyone. Maybe he didn’t want to see him. Maybe he needs space and time to think. Maybe he’s confused.

Confused about – 

Will digs his nails into his thigh beneath the table. He can’t even think about it.

“Yeah well, I don’t blame him,” Nancy says. “We’ve been trapped in here forever.”

“You’ve barely been home,” her mother remarks with raised eyebrows and attention shifts.

It’s the first warm breakfast in a week, but Will has no appetite, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate.

He can feel Jonathan’s gaze burning at the edge of his vision, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the juice bottle.

He can’t talk. He can’t eat. He can’t think. All he can do is sit and hope that at some point, the mess inside his head will sort itself into something he can understand.

After breakfast, Will quickly gets up and immediately heads for the basement. Even before he hears him, he already knows Jonathan is following.

“Will!” he calls.  

Will stops in the hallway, turning. “I’m fine,” he mutters before Jonathan even has a chance to ask. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

“You’re a really bad liar.” Jonathan nudges him down the stairs and shuts the basement door behind them. “You’re creeping me out. Talk to me.”

Will opens his mouth, but it’s just air coming out. He drags his hands over his face. “I can’t.”

“Did something happen? With Mike?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“You don’t have to deal with these things alone, you know?”

“No, but I do!” This time, the words come out louder than he intended. But this frustration has been building up for years and years and he’s sick of pretending he has the same options as everyone else.

He can’t just talk about these things – not about his feelings for Mike, and definitely not about what happened last night. Not without exposing Mike, too.

Love is the most isolating thing in the world for boys like Will.

And Jonathan might’ve been an outsider his whole life, but at the end of the day he gets to hold his girlfriend’s hand in public, he gets Christmas dinners and movie nights, and it doesn’t matter what kind of music he listens to; he will conform to social norms in a way Will never could. 

Jonathan’s expression shifts, and the hurt flickering in his eyes softens Will immediately.

“Look,” he says, quieter. “I’m sorry, okay? But there are things that I just – can’t talk about.”

“But that’s the point, Will.” Jonathan’s mouth is a thin line. “I want you to tell me exactly those kinds of things, you know? The things you feel like you can’t tell anyone else.”

If Will wasn’t so exhausted, so confused, and sleep-deprived, maybe this wouldn’t feel so impossible.

“Maybe I will,” he says, softer now. “But right now I just – I need to talk to Mike.”

Concern flashes across Jonathan’s face. “Did you fight again?”

“No. I mean – I don’t know.” Will feels wrung out and hollow, and there’s no way to explain it. “Last night we – doesn’t matter. He wasn’t in his room this morning, and now he’s gone, and I don’t know if he’s avoiding me, or doesn’t want to talk, or … if we’re even friends anymore.”

The last words come out small and a little shaky.

“Hey.” Jonathan steps closer, his voice soft. His hand is warm on Will’s shoulder. “Whatever it is … he probably just needs time. When Nancy and I fight, it helps to get out of the house. You know, come back with a clearer head.”

Will doubts that anything Jonathan and Nancy fight about could compare to the existential, harrowing, deadly crisis he and Mike are in right now. He doesn’t say that though.

He just nods, eyes fixed on the wall, vision blurred.

Jonathan watches him for a moment, as if he’s still waiting for him to speak. When Will doesn’t say more, he sighs. “Mom called earlier. She got cake from the store – asked if we wanted to come over and celebrate.”

“Celebrate.” The word feels ridiculous. 

“That the power’s back. That we’re all okay – you know, that it wasn’t Vecna.”

But Will can’t think about any of that. Not today. “I don’t know.”

“It might be good to get out.” Jonathan squeezes his shoulder lightly. “Clear your head. Distract yourself.”

But Will doesn’t want to be distracted.

He wants to stay right here, frozen, until Mike comes home and they can look at the mess they’ve made.

And maybe that conversation will be the last they ever have, but at least Will would know.

But Mike isn’t home. Will’s been awake for an hour, and this already feels like the worst day of his life. Maybe it is good to get out.

He lets out a shaky breath and looks at his brother. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Every light in Hopper’s cabin is on, blazing like a celebration.

Inside, it smells of fresh laundry and hot showers, and there’s something bubbling on the stove. The whole place hums – warm, crowded, vibrating with the sound of people who are – above anything – relieved.

His mother hugs him the hardest. Her sweater smells like detergent and coffee. The cake from the store is a little dry, the heaters turned up too high, like they somehow need to prove they’re working.

They sip coffee that’s weak and too hot, as they talk about how useless their whole “investigation” was.

“I told you from the beginning it was just precautions,” Joyce says, brushing crumbs off the table.

“Yeah, it’s good to be sure,” Hop grumbles. “And at least El’s had some training.”  

Maybe Will would’ve gotten away with it, if it wasn’t for his siblings. El notices instantly. All through coffee, she stares at him, gaze digging into the side of his head, sharp and unblinking like she’s trying to make him speak with her mind.

If he was stronger, maybe Will would’ve put more effort into putting on a normal face. But the numbness sits like fog between him and everyone else – it’s all muted and weightless.

When his mom and Hopper start clattering dishes in the sink, El hooks her fingers around his wrist and drags him toward her room. Jonathan follows, closing the door behind them.

“Will,” she says, taking his hand between both of hers. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t even bother,” Jonathan mutters, but his eyes are gentle. “I tried already.”

El shoots him a look. “Well, have you considered that he’ll talk to me?”

“You know I’m right here, right?” Will sighs. He drops onto El’s unmade bed, sinking into the pile of blankets. “I’m sorry. Can we not do this? I’m not talking to any of you.”

He curls up on El’s bed, dragging the blanket over his head like he’s retreating into a cave.

El lets out a small, frustrated breath.

He can’t see them, but he feels the mattress dip on either side as they climb in. Their weight shifts, careful, their movements soft. He listens to the silence, the low clatter of dishes drifting down the hall from the kitchen.

“Did Mike say something bad to you?” El asks after a pause.

“No.”                                        

“He can be mean.”

“He can be an asshole,” Jonathan agrees.

“Right? Sometimes I look at him and wonder what’s going on in his head – and then I realize it’s not as much as I always thought.”

“You know, he was like this when he and Will were kids too, sometimes it’s like he has no filter at all, and–“

“Guys!” Will groans, pulling the blanket off his face. “Mike didn’t do anything.”

“Are you sure?” El brushes her fingers over his arm. “Because I could talk to him for you.”

“You know, we should.” Jonathan looks at El, then Will. “We could pin him down for you until he apologizes.”

“Yeah,” El says dryly. “I could torture him with my mind.”

Will stares at them – his strange siblings, trying to look intimidating and failing spectacularly. And then he can’t help it, he lets out a scratchy, reluctant laugh and rubs his face. “You two are so stupid.”

El beams as if her plan worked and cups his cheek, her thumb warm. “It’s good to see you smile.”

“Shut up,” Will groans.

“We don’t have to talk about stupid Mike,” she says, scooting closer. “Come on, Will. Share the blanket.”

It’s a one-person bed, but they’ve always been good at fitting themselves into spaces. Under the covers, their feet tangle, elbows bumping into ribs.

El makes it easy for him. She starts rambling – about the gossip she caught while spying on the workers and businessmen, every sentence threaded with her strange, sweet eagerness. As she talks, her fingers sift through Will’s hair, slow and absent. The smell of her shampoo sticks to the blanket and it’s comforting. Will relaxes into the mattress, eyelids heavy, following the rhythm of her voice. She emphasizes some words just like their mother does.

Jonathan throws in a question here and there, keeping her talking so Will doesn’t have to. He just listens to their voices weaving around him. And he realizes how much he’d missed this – just them, a strange trio of siblings, joking and breathing the same air, knees bumping.

It’s good. To remember who he is, outside of the Wheeler house.

When the sun sets behind the trees, the cabin grows dim. Joyce calls down the hall. At some point, Will must’ve drifted off, because El nudges him awake, her hand warm on his shoulder. “Time to go, Will. Come back soon, yeah?”

On the porch, she hugs him tight, her hair brushing his cheek. He wraps his arms around her. “I love you, El.”

The grin is audible in her voice. “I love you, too.” 

Jonathan wraps Will in a half hug before nudging him toward the bikes. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The Wheeler house glows in the dark like it used to. The porch light snaps on as they roll into the driveway, flooding the yard in a soft yellow. They step inside; the warmth immediately seeping straight into Will’s bones.

“I’m gonna go change before dinner,” Jonathan says, squeezing his shoulder before heading upstairs.

Will hangs his scarf and kicks his shoes onto the mat. He hears voices from the living room, the familiar sound of the TV blasting. Mr. Wheeler has probably been glued to the screen since morning as if making up for lost time.

“Will?” Mrs. Wheeler calls. “Is that you?”

He steps into the bright kitchen. Steam clouds above the stove, scented with garlic and something sweet. Mrs. Wheeler stands by the stove, stirring the sauce.

“Thank god.” She throws him a smile but it’s a little rushed. “Everybody else in this family is useless – can you help me set the table?”

“Sure.”

He pushes up his sleeves and reaches for the plates. The 6 PM news blasts from the living room. Holly sits cross-legged on the carpet, threading beads for a bracelet, completely zoned in. The scene looks peaceful, like this is just another day. 

“Um,” Will says as he sets the plates down. “Is Mike –“

“Oh, he came home earlier.” Mrs. Wheeler doesn’t turn, just keeps stirring. “I think he’s up in his room.”

“Oh.” His stomach tightens, crawling with nerves. “Okay.”

He places the silverware, but his hands feel shaky. His throat is suddenly tight, his mouth dry.

He wipes his damp palms on his jeans. “Can I help with anything else?”

“Well, if you’re asking, most of the food is still out on the porch. You can bring it inside, if you like.”

“I’ll do it,” he says quickly. Anything to keep himself occupied.  

He slips back into his shoes and out of the house. Outside, the cold tugs at his sleeves. Boxes of refrigerated food sit under a tarp along the house. He brings them in one at a time, sorting things back into the fridge, trying to remember where everything was.

When he goes back out to grab the last box, he notices the bottom is damp – drenched from sitting on the rain-soaked floor. When he lifts it, the whole thing sags, bottles clinking dangerously.

“Shit,” he mutters, lowering it back onto the concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s dog barks.

He kneels on the wet ground, checking each jar and bottle for cracks, fingers going numb. The cold seeps through his knees. The box is useless now, so he tucks two bottles and some jars under his arms, grabs another in each hand, and heads back toward the kitchen.

He’s halfway through the door when he hears his voice.

“How is it?”

“I haven’t even tried it, Mom.” 

Will freezes in the doorway.

There he is, standing by the stove under the warm ceiling light, fishing pasta from the pot.

His face is relaxed – normal, and for a moment, Will clings to the stupid, desperate thought that maybe he imagined the whole thing – made it all up. That maybe this isn’t happening at all, he’s just gone crazy. 

But then Mike looks up.

Their eyes meet.

Every trace of expression drops from Mike’s face.

And just like that, the numbness is gone. Every nerve inside Will on fire. Burning at the sight of him.

The jars in his arms suddenly feel too heavy. He can’t breathe. 

This is the boy he kissed last night. Mike – with his familiar face that Will has watched grow into shape. With his messy hair that looks like he’s spent the past few hours in bed. Mike, who used to make up stories for him to drown out the sound of Will’s dad yelling. The same boy who came up to him on the swings, asking him to be his friend.

It takes Will everything not to drop the food.

“Mike, I asked you to try the pasta,” Mrs. Wheeler reminds him, impatience in her voice as she stirs the sauce rapidly, keeping it from overcooking.

“Yeah –” Mike blinks heavily, jerking back toward the pot. “Sorry. I think it needs … um, two minutes.”

“Good, can you call Nancy and Jonathan for dinner?”

“Sure.”

He moves fast, like he’s relieved to leave. He doesn’t look up as he passes Will. Their shoulders brush – just lightly – but it's enough to make his heart stutter. 

He stands there, frozen.

Behind him, Mike calls for their siblings.

Will is not going to survive dinner.   

Will sits at the table and stares at the grain of the wood. Holly chatters beside him, but her voice is muffled and warped, like he’s underwater.

Chairs scrape. Slowly, the table fills. Jonathan and Nancy, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, sit down in their seats. Silverware clinks.

He recognizes Mike’s footsteps, slow and hesitant in the hallway.

The chair next to him drags back. Will doesn’t look, but he can feel him at the edge of his vision. Too close and too far away, all at once.

Will’s stomach twists into a thousand knots.

People talk around him, voices blurring into one long, dull note. He pushes food onto his plate just to move his hands.

He feels Jonathan’s and Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes on him. He knows he’s acting strange, and even though he’s always been good at pretending, he can’t do it now. Because it doesn’t even matter anymore.

Nothing matters.

“Is it that bad?” he hears Mrs. Wheeler’s voice through the buzz.

Will jerks his head up to reply, but she isn’t looking at him.

Mike’s plate sits untouched on the table.

“Uh, no,” Mike murmurs. His leg bounces under the table, his fingers twisting in the string of his sweatpants.

“Is something wrong?”

Will’s face burns.

“No, mom.” His voice is rough, scraped raw. “I just – don’t have an appetite.”

“Are you getting sick? You boys were out in that storm last night, right? I saw your shoes by the fireplace.”

Will wants to shrink into himself. He feels too hot. His hand trembles where he grips the fork.

He and Mike, in the storm. Undressing by the candlelight. The smell of rain in Mike’s wet hair. His damp skin under Will’s hands. The heat of his mouth –

“Um, yeah,” Mike says, voice thin. “We were.”

Will digs his nails into his palm until it burns.

The silence is too loud.

Jonathan clears his throat. “I think the food is really good, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you to say!”

Attention shifts and Will forces himself to breathe, inhaling slowly through his nose. Still, his chest feels tight, like he can’t get enough air, like something heavy is pressing down on him.

He tries to eat. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mike’s nervous fidgeting under the table.

Like he wants to leave. Like it’s torture for him, sitting next to Will.

And in a way, this is familiar. The avoiding each other, the silence between them, like they don’t even know each other. That’s how it’s been this whole past year.

It’s like this last week didn’t even happen, and now they’re right back where they started.

Except this time, it’s something they can’t come back from.

When dinner is over, Mike is the first to stand. He gets up fast, grabbing his barely touched plate.

“I’ll eat this later. I’m gonna go back to bed. I don’t feel so good.”

And just like that, he slips out of the room, giving Will not even a glance – nothing.

Will is usually the first to help Mrs. Wheeler clear the table. But now he just sits there, frozen, and stares at the door where Mike’s just disappeared through. Plates clatter around him and Holly rambles something about a book she’s been reading. Jonathan’s hand brushes his shoulder, and he quietly says something that sounds like ‘It’s gonna be okay.’

But nothing can make this okay.

Slowly, Will rises from his chair and slips out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He stands with his face against the door. The quiet settles around him.

He takes a long, deep breath. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want his mind to get the chance to work this out alone – nothing good would come of it.

But he can’t go back in there either. He can’t be in the same room with all these people and pretend everything’s fine.

He turns –

And takes a sharp breath.  

Mike sits at the bottom of the stairs, legs pulled close to his chest, fingers fidgeting with the denim of his jeans.

His eyes are fixed on Will, like he’s been waiting.

Will’s entire body goes still.

For a few seconds, they just stare at each other. Then Mike stands, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I – didn’t wanna startle you.”

Will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His throat feels dry and tight.

“Um.” Mike wipes his palms on his jeans. His eyes flick away, then back at Will. “Do you wanna – can we ... talk?“ 

He makes a vague gesture toward the basement door.  

Will's waited all day for this. For Mike to talk to him. But now that he's right in front of him, he doesn't feel ready.

“Uh,” he croaks, voice cracking. His pulse pounds in his ears. “Yeah.“ 

“We don’t have to – if you need more time.”

“No. No, it’s okay.”

Mike hesitates, then nods. He opens the basement door and looks back over his shoulder, as if to make sure Will is following him.

Will’s legs feel unsteady, as he softly closes the door behind them.

And then it's the sound of their feet on the stairs. A little click, as Mike reaches for the light switch.

The ceiling light flickers before coming on. It feels too bright, too sharp, casting artificial shadows across the room and making everything look hollow.

Will doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous in his life.

His heart is pounding in his chest as he watches Mike hover near the shelves, looking like he’s unsure what to do with his hands. He hooks his thumbs into a belt loop, then lets his hand fall to his side, then brushes his hair out of his face.

The pipes rattle, heating the room insistently. Will wishes they weren’t. He wishes the room was cold and that the ceiling light wasn’t so bright.

Maybe in the dark this would be easier.

The silence presses against his throat, as if trying to coax the words out of him. One of them has to say something.

“Um.” Mike throws him a quick glance before looking away again. “Sorry. If you don’t want me to –“ He pauses. “I can leave.”

“No,” Will blurts out, a little too fast. He’s made it this far, he can’t back out now. “Stay. Please.”

Mike gives him a nervous nod. He makes an attempt at a smile, but it looks wrong, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Okay.”

More silence.

Will wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. His breathing is shallow and he feels a little dizzy.

Nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for this. Not in a million years would he have imagined himself in this situation.

Mike’s mouth twists – like he’s sifting through a million words and can’t pick a single one.

“So,” he says finally, flicking his eyes at Will for a fraction of a second. “What – uh. What have you been up to today?”

It's a question so innocent, so normal, and so painfully irrelevant, Will almost wants to laugh. But maybe this is good – to start safe. 

“Um,” he says, barely recognizing his own voice. “I went to see mom and El.”

“Cool,” Mike says.

Another silence. There’s an ongoing loop inside Will’s head ever since their mouths broke apart last night – the question he needs and fears the answer to so badly. It takes every bit of control not to blurt it out.

Why did you kiss me?

“And you?” he asks instead.

“Oh, I was –” Mike stares at something behind Will’s head. “Just out walking. I needed some time to – clear my head.”

Will nods, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

The silence is unbearable.

“So, did it work?”

“What?”

“Does your head feel … clearer?”

“I –“ Mike hesitates. He glances at him again, just for a second, and then, as if he can’t bear it any longer, he starts pacing: to the shelf, to the desk, to the couch, and back again. “I don’t know,” he says finally, frustration audible in his voice.

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah.”

A long silence.

Will wants him to just say it – to spit it out and stop making this so difficult. But asking questions feels like stepping right back into a storm, because Will isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

“Um,” he starts anyway. “What exactly … don’t you know?”

Mike stops pacing. He stands, mouth opening and closing like the words are stuck. “I don’t know … anything,” he says, the last word almost a whisper.

Will needs him to be a little more specific.

“Like what?”

Mike struggles – it’s obvious. It’s like he doesn’t have any words. None at all. It takes several attempts before he exhales deeply, rubbing his hand over his face. “I – most of all, I don’t know how to talk about this, Will.”

He collapses onto the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, hands wrapped around his shins. He tilts his head back against the cushion and lets out a long sigh.

“Look, I –” he tries again. “All day I tried to find ways to explain it to you. I’m gonna try, but – I don’t know if it’ll make any sense, okay?”

Will stands, staring at his best friend as if his life depends on it. It feels like everything has been leading up to this moment – every glance, every touch of the past week – silently begging for an explanation.

Except Will didn’t see it coming at all.

“Okay,” he whispers.  

“Okay.” Mike nods to himself. He takes a deep breath. “So, this past week has been … confusing.”

Will blinks, slowly nodding. The past week has easily been the most confusing week of his life. He just didn’t think it was confusing for Mike.

“I was happy we were hanging out again.”

“Me too,” Will says quietly, voice coming out rough.

“I really wanna be your friend, Will – I love being your friend.”

Will’s stomach drops. Maybe. Maybe they can be friends. “I do too,” he says even quieter.

“But then last night –“ Mike’s voice cracks. His eyes flick to Will’s, holding his gaze for a couple of seconds.

Last night.

Mike’s shaky breath on his cheek. Their lips brushing like an accident. Will’s fingers in Mike’s shirt. Mike gasping into his mouth. And then – a flash of lightning.

Heat crawls up Will’s neck as he watches Mike’s face flush before him.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed, like they can’t believe what they did to each other.

“Shit,” Mike mutters, running his hand over his forehead. “I can’t talk about it.”

He curls in tighter around himself, and somehow, despite his lanky legs and long limbs, he looks small, arms wrapped around his shins.

“This morning,” he says after a moment. “I felt like I needed to talk to someone. But then I kept walking and I couldn’t think of a single person to go to. It’s like – nobody would understand, you know?”

“Yeah,” Will says. All day, he’s felt just like that. But he’s still confused about what Mike is confused about.  

“And it’s like – in this whole town there’s not a single person who’s –“ He gestures vaguely. “Who would get this. And I don’t even mean they would be shitty about it, they just – wouldn’t understand.”

Will wishes Mike would just say what he means, use the real words instead of vague descriptions, so Will could stop searching for possible interpretations.

But Mike looks so lost, so helpless, like he’s unraveling right in front of him, and it stirs something else in Will – because above everything, Will wants to be his friend. Mike is clearly struggling, and Will’s instinct is to help, to steady him. The feeling is stronger than his own desperation.

“I would understand,” he hears himself say. “You can talk to me about it.”

Mike’s eyes soften. “No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s about you.”

Heat creeps under Will’s skin, and he fights the urge to duck his head. “Oh, okay. Um – but.”

He needs to focus. Focus on Mike, who’s struggling in a way Will has never seen before. Sure, he’s had some crises before, but it’s never been like this. He’s never looked so lost.

Will takes a deep breath. “Um, are we – ” His eyes move cautiously over Mike’s face, searching. “We’re still friends, right?”

Mike frowns. “Of course we are.”

Relief washes over Will, and his next exhale comes out a little shaky. This is good. This is the only thing that matters. This is what he needs to focus on: being Mike’s friend.

“So, as your friend,” he says with newfound courage. He doesn’t know exactly where this is going, but it’s what he’s good at, it’s where he feels safe. “You can talk to me. Because maybe I’ll get it and I – I wanna be your friend first. Before anything else.”      

Mike’s mouth twitches in something like a smile. “I want to, Will,” he says sadly. “But I don’t know how.”

“Me neither,” Will says, because it’s true. He has no idea how to have this conversation – mainly because he doesn’t allow his mind to fully grasp what it’s even about. “But maybe we could try? Together?”

Mike looks at him, his dark eyes now steady on Will’s face. He seems to be contemplating for a while. Then he makes a little half-shrug and leans back against the cushion. “Where would we even start?”

Will realizes he’s still standing, so he sits on the opposite end of the couch, making sure to leave enough space between them.

“Uh, I don’t know,” he says, clearing his throat. “You said this week has been … confusing?”

“Yeah.” Mike exhales. “But it’s been confusing before.”

“What’s been confusing?”

“You.”

Oh.

Will’s heart stutters. He stares, wide-eyed.

He needs Mike to be clearer with his words, because he doesn’t know how long he can keep convincing himself that they’re talking about something else entirely.

“Um,” he says carefully. “How long have I been … confusing?”

“I don’t know.” Mike’s eyes are fixed on the floor now, like he can’t do this while looking at Will. “I guess like – two years?”

Two years.

Will’s thoughts spiral.

Is this –

How –?

And what are they even talking about?

Because rationally, he has a pretty good guess, but every single cell of his body is protesting, refusing to let the thought into his mind. There’s no way. No way at all this is happening.

Because these past two years, Will hasn’t been confused at all. He’s been sure – perfectly positive – that Mike does not like him back. He’s been so certain that it didn’t leave room for any other possibility.

So – how?

“You know,” Mike continues, his chin resting on his knees. “I’m really good at just – ignoring things. Pushing them down. I mean, I knew I was confused about something but it’s like – my mind refuses to make sense of it, you know? So I never really come to a conclusion, I’m just left feeling – whatever.” He groans, leaning his face down and burying his nose between his knees. “God, I’m really bad at this.”

Will is very still. He’s barely breathing.

He stares at Mike, and it takes everything he has to keep it together, to not make this into something it’s not.

“Look.” Mike takes a long, deep breath. He looks up, straight into Will’s eyes. “I’m good at convincing myself of one thing and then realizing it was something else, and then it’s too late and I hurt you, or I hurt El, and then – I don’t even know what’s happening anymore. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m feeling.”

Will soaks in every single word without actually registering it. He’s past the point of asking questions, but he doesn’t need to anymore. Something has changed in Mike, like he’s pushed past the filter in his mind that was keeping him from speaking.

“When you moved away, I couldn’t stop thinking about how different that summer could’ve been if I wasn’t – you know. And every time I thought too hard about it, I wrote El a letter. And I know this isn’t fair on her or you, but I thought it would make it – I don’t know. Somehow less real. Less scary, you know?”

Will doesn’t know. He’s listening, but he’s not comprehending. He slowly nods along anyway.

“And then El told me you liked some girl and I just felt … I don’t know. And when I saw you at the airport, I guess I was – ashamed.”

“Ashamed,” Will echoes, unable to catch up. “Ashamed of what?”

“Ashamed – just.” Mike hesitates. “Of assuming that maybe you’d like me, I guess.”

Will blinks.

“I know it was stupid, and arrogant, but when El said you liked someone else, I guess I felt … betrayed?”

The conversation has reached a point where Will doesn’t understand anything anymore. So this is what it’s about – Will liking Mike? That’s what he’s been confused about? Is this what they’ve been talking about all along?

Will needs time to think, but Mike is already saying more words, and it looks like he’s not going to stop anytime soon.

“So, in Lenora I figured that you didn’t. Like me, I mean. But then you were sending me so many mixed signals.”

“What?” Will hears himself say. “I was – what?”

“You were! First you gave me the painting – and I thought oh, okay, maybe I’m just stupid and you do like me. And then you told me El commissioned it, so I thought okay, I’m really fucking stupid. And then you spent the rest of the day basically telling me how perfect El and I are together – and I thought, you wanted me to be with her. And then next thing I know is El tells me you were lying about it, practically making up the whole thing, and I was – god, I was so confused.”

Will’s ears ring.

Slowly, he realizes they haven’t actually talked at all this past week. From the beginning, Will wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. Mike was only telling half of the story.

“And when we fought, I guess in a way I thought it was … I don’t know. Easier. Safer. To just not talk about it. It’s stupid, but I wasn’t sure about anything. For all I knew, you could’ve made a different painting for some girl – or El could’ve been wrong about you liking someone.”

It’s strange, hearing it all from Mike’s perspective. Realizing he didn’t know what Mike was thinking at all. And it feels impossible, to put it together now.

Mike exhales deeply. His eyes flicker back to the wall, like he can’t hold his gaze any longer.

“This past year I kept going over it in my head. And I thought, maybe you tried to tell me something in that van. That maybe at some point you did like me. But we were already so distant, and I figured you probably didn’t anymore – I mean if you ever liked me.”

If you ever liked me. Will almost wants to laugh.

“And then this week.” His eyes slowly glance at Will, then back again. “Just – being close to you again. I realized what we’d lost, you know? I mean, how could we lose – this?” He gestures between them. “How could we lose us?”

“Yeah,” Will says, voice quiet like a whisper. They hold their gazes for a few seconds.

Then Mike sighs, running his hand over his eyes. “But then – these past few nights, I barely slept, I just –“ He struggles with the words, making several attempts to finish the sentence. “I guess, I kept thinking about different versions of us. It was easy at night, to imagine what we could be if it wasn’t so – complicated.”

What we could be.

They look at each other.

It’s quiet.

Mike looks drained and empty, his breathing is a little unsteady. And Will can’t maintain this much longer – he knows he will crumble, all the walls he’s built around himself for so many years, always shutting out the possibilities.

Of what they could be.

This is really happening – right?

Will blinks, realizing he still hasn’t said anything.

“Um,” he starts. “I’m sorry. I’m – I’m a little slow right now. I’m confused.”

Mike huffs. “That makes two of us.”

Mike fidgets with his jeans. Will stares at his hands. He needs to say something, but his mind is fighting a war and it’s hard to concentrate on words.

“So, um … what you’re saying,” he says finally. He stares at Mike, trying to read it in his face, to see what this is really and truly about, but he’s scared, so so scared to read this wrong. “Sorry, can you make this – a little clearer?”

Mike stares, mouth open. “What – I told you, I don’t know how to talk about it!”

“Okay, but. I’m afraid that I’m – reading this wrong, or something.”

“You’re not.”

“But when you say that I’m not – what do you mean –“ 

“I mean just what you think I mean.”

“But what –“ 

“Is it really that hard to believe?”

“Yeah!” Will huffs, frustrated. “It is. It’s – it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me either.” Mike looks frustrated. “I know this sucks. I know I should be more confident about this, and I get it if you wish it was different. You don’t have to give me an answer right now if you need more time, that’s fine.”

Will looks up, frowning. What –

And only then, he sees it: the sheer nervousness, the red tint in his cheeks, the tremor in his hands – the mess Mike is right now, like this is the most vulnerable he’s ever been in his life.

This is ridiculous.

“Mike.” Will stares at him, wide-eyed. “You know that I like you, right?”

Mike stills his fidgeting. His eyes widen, lips slightly parted. “Oh.” His gaze nervously flickers over Will’s face. “Um – I mean. I guess I figured. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand.”

“What?”

“I’ve –“

Will struggles. There’s no way he’ll find words for this – it’s impossible to make it clear. The weight of it. The years of it.

But the words have been waiting.

Patiently sitting at the back of his throat for all these years. And that’s where they should’ve stayed, tucked away under his tongue until the day they’d lose their meaning.

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

Mike stares at him.

Will stares back.

An age-old confession sitting between them and Will can’t take it back.

He didn’t read this wrong, did he?

“Oh,” Mike says, slowly blinking. “You –“

He doesn’t finish. Just stares at Will, wide-eyed.

And suddenly, Will feels like he’s said too much. Because it is too much – always has been. It’s not a crush, it’s not something he just realized. Why did he have to say love instead of like? Love, like it’s big and it’s old and it’s out there, and Will doesn’t know how to breathe.

“I –“ he stutters. “I mean, I’m. Shit. Sorry, I didn’t wanna make it weird. I just – I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I did. But it’s –” He trails off. Nothing he can say can make this any better.

Mike opens and closes his mouth. His eyes flicker between Will’s, like he’s struggling to understand. “How –” There’s a small frown between his brows and Will stares at it, so he doesn’t have to look into his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Will almost laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“How long have you known?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” He feels the heat rising under his skin. “Maybe since we were twelve or – thirteen?”

Mike stares. Like all the years they’ve known each other, all the things they’ve said to each other, need to be reevaluated with this new piece of information.  

“How –” The frown between his brows deepens. “How did you – do it? I mean. All this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just –” Mike searches his face. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time. He looks straight through him – straight into the truth of him – but his eyes are soft and warm. “That must’ve been hard.”

Will’s stomach drops. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says.

“Sorry – for what?”

“For not noticing.”

Will blinks and quickly looks down at his hands. “Well, I didn’t want you to notice.”

“Yeah, but – you were so young, and your dad – you were alone with this for so long.”

Will meets his eyes. Out of all the things he’d expected from Mike, it wasn’t this. For Mike to really see him, to know him with all the pain of loving him. He didn’t know how badly he needed to hear it.

Because it’s not just about loving Mike. It’s about the isolation and the secrets and the hiding, too.  

“Um,” Will croaks, his voice a little shaky. “I guess so.”

He wants to make it sound casual, like it wasn’t that bad after all. But the truth is, it was. Loving Mike was a constant reminder of how wrong he was, of all the things he could never have.

He doesn’t see it coming – only feels it – when Mike’s fingers brush his arm, and he can barely look up before Mike is already moving closer, sliding his hands around him in a slow, careful pull.

Mike hugs him. Tight.

Will doesn’t want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Mike murmurs into Will’s hair. And he repeats it, over and over again, until Will melts against him, shaking, his fingers gripping into Mike’s shirt.

And for a moment it doesn’t even matter – all the confusion and the spiraling.

Because for the first time in his life, he’s seen.

And that almost feels more important.

When they pull apart just a minute later, Will’s vision is a little blurry. Mike stays close, their thighs and shoulders touching.

Will stares at their laps, trying to steady his breathing.

“You know,” Mike says quietly. “You should’ve picked someone who’s – more confident with this stuff. I mean – I’m so bad at this.”

Will laughs but it comes out shaky. “It’s not like I got to choose, Mike. Believe me, you wouldn’t have been my first pick.”

“Ouch.” Mike raises his eyebrows indignantly, but he’s smiling.

For a moment it feels easy.

But nothing – absolutely nothing about this is easy.

“So.” Will’s throat feels tight. Because despite everything, he’s still not quite there yet. And he’s scared, but this conversation has been going on for too long and he needs an answer.

“When you say that you’re – not confident or … that you’re confused. Um. Does that mean you’re not sure if you –” He gestures vaguely. “You’re not sure how you … feel about me?”

It’s a deadly question. And that’s exactly why he needs to ask.

“What?” Mike says. “No. I’m sure about that.”

Will blinks at him. “Oh.”

“I –“ Mike sighs. “I mean, I wasn’t sure for a long time, but this past year I had a lot of time to think. At some point, I thought that maybe it’s all just in my head, but after this week, after last night, I guess – that’s why I … kissed you, I wanted to know how it would feel, and now I do, and – I really have no doubt about it.“

About –

“About –“ Will starts, saying it like a question.

“Oh my god, Will.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Yes, about that. How clear do I have to be?”

“Just saying it would help.”

“I –“ Mike huffs in frustration.

Will watches him search for words. But it’s obvious now how hard this really is for Mike. With the way he’s been raised, with the things he believes, with his dad – sure, Will’s dad is a nightmare, but at least Will has had years of coming to terms with it. This is still fairly new to Mike.

Maybe Will can be brave for them both.

“What you’re saying is that–“ he starts, quietly. He takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he’s doing this. “Um, that you –like me?”

Mike looks at him, surprised. But then he closes his mouth, and something soft flickers across his face. “Yeah”, he whispers.

Will looks at him. And it should have been clear a while ago – maybe it should’ve been clear last night. But it still catches up to him, and Will thinks he might need a few days to really let it sink in.

“Oh,” is all he can say.

Mike frowns, slowly shaking his head like he can’t believe Will is still questioning it. “Why do you think I kissed you?”

Heat rises under Will’s cheeks. “Uh, I don’t know, Mike. I wasn’t exactly expecting it, you know?“ 

“Well, I didn’t plan it.”

They look at each other.

For a moment, it's quiet – but the truth is out there, and they can't take it back.  

Mike’s eyes roam over his face in a way that makes Will’s heart stutter. He's is still waiting for the moment he wakes up from this dream.

“Um,” he says. “I’m glad you did it. Kissed me, I mean.”

Mike’s hand brushes his thigh. Will looks down to watch him reach for his hand, threading their fingers together. Just like he had at Dustin’s, only now they’re out in plain sight.  

“Yeah?”

Mike’s fingertips brush over the back of his hand, and the touch is light, innocent – but it’s all different now. It has nothing to do with warming up. It’s not accidental. It’s a touch just to touch.

They stare at each other’s hands. It’s quiet. Will hears the blood rush in his ears.

“So …” He swallows and there’s a light tremble in his voice. “If you’re not confused about – uh. Liking me.” He says it just to hear the words again. They ring in his ears. “What is it that you’re so confused about?”

Mike’s thumb brushes his skin. He takes his time to reply and when he does, his voice is more serious. “I’m confused about how to handle it. Like – what to do with it.”

Will looks at him, eyes moving over the faint freckles. “Like – what happens next?”

“Yeah.” Mike’s shoulder is warm even through the sweater, as he presses slightly against Will.

“I kept going over it in my head this week. Thinking about – what it would look like. And it’s not even about what I want, or what you want, it just feels – impossible.”

“Yeah,” Will says, voice thin. “I get it.”

He’s gone over this in his head so many times. The sheer impossibility of a future – not just with Mike, but with any boy. There’s no blueprint, no pattern they could follow. Not their friends, not their parents, not their parents’ parents – none of them could show them how.

“I know that it’s different in some parts of the world, but this is Hawkins,” Mike says. “And it’s stupid, because there’s like – a million worse things going on, but. It doesn’t make it go away, you know?”

Committing to a life like this would mean isolation: living with a constant secret, unable to open up to anyone about it. Maybe they could tell their closest friends, but even they would probably need time to adjust – let alone Mike’s parents.

“It’s scary,” Will says.

“Yeah.”

All of this – all of what Mike is saying, it’s true. He’s building a case against them, and the worst part is that Will agrees. He too does not see a future where this could be possible. He’s never even seen a future where Mike likes him back.

The silence between them is loud, weighted with everything that’s wrong with the world. But it doesn’t feel as heavy as it did when Will was a young boy, alone with his thoughts in the middle of the night, feeling sick, and twisted, and wrong. Because now, Mike is being all these things with him.

“So …” Mike says after a while, fingers continuing to brush Will’s hand. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know.”

Maybe they shouldn’t do it.

Maybe they should stay friends, as long as they still can.

Go back to their separate rooms. Hope that sleep helps them forget. Share a smile over the breakfast table, remembering what could’ve been, but knowing this is for the better.

And in a few years maybe, if they survive, they’ll leave this town and move on. Maybe they’ll see each other on Thanksgiving or Christmas, treasuring the secret they’ll keep for the rest of their lives.

But at least then Will would know that there was a time when Mike liked him.

“I know it’s stupid,” Mike says quietly. “But I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”

Will swallows. “Me neither.”

Their joined hands rest warm against Will’s thigh.

It’s quiet around them. Quiet and too bright.

And Will wishes it was cold, so they’d have a reason to slip into bed, to touch. He wishes it was dark, so they could pretend none of this matters in the morning.

The dark has been keeping secrets for them.

The light is not as forgiving.

If they want to be close, they have to make a decision.  

“Um …“ Will’s gaze flickers over Mike’s face. “Do you wanna – sleep here tonight?”

They’d slept in the same bed for these past nights, so it shouldn’t even feel so different. But it does. Something spreads across Mike’s face, a deep flush, a glow in his eyes. He nods.

Mike pulls him up by the wrist to the bathroom. They brush their teeth in silence, changing for the night. Mike slips into one of Will’s shirts. It’s a familiar ritual.

Except nothing about this is familiar.

The space where their shoulders brush burns.

Mike’s gaze through the mirror makes it hard for Will to breathe.

They don’t say a word. All Will can hear is his pulse rushing in his ears.

They shut the lights. Will turns the heater off. Mike lights a candle by the bed. And it’s just like it was when the power was out, only now there are no excuses left. There’s no reason to sleep in the same bed – except for the fact that they want to.

Will climbs onto the mattress, settling by the heater. They’d slept here together just a couple of nights ago, in the cold dark. Touch had still felt like something incriminating then. Now it feels like something Will doesn’t think he can hold back much longer.

Mike settles in beside him, pulling the blanket over their bodies. On the narrow mattress, their shoulders press together.

They stare at the ceiling.

None of them says a word.

It’s too quiet.

“Mike.” The word comes out like a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I need to know what happens now.”

A pause.

“What do you want to happen?”

When Will looks at him, Mike is already looking back. His eyes are warm and soft, like it’s all okay. Like whatever Will says next, it’s going to be fine.

But he’s never been asked what he wants before. And maybe that’s good, because he wants too much – he’s always wanted too much. But what he wants and what’s the right choice are two completely different things.

“I wanna be your friend,” he whispers.  

“You are my friend.”

“Yeah, but I wanna keep being your friend. Your best friend.”

Mike smiles. “You’ll always be my best friend.”

His eyes are dark and steady. But there’s something glowing in them, the same hopefulness Will never allowed himself to feel.

“What else do you want?”

Mike is washed in warm orange light, familiar shadows curling over his features. His face is so familiar it aches. 

“You know what I want,” Will whispers.

Mike’s eyes roam over his face. Slowly, he reaches for Will’s hand again, nudging his fingers and intertwining them. “Do you think it would be … stupid?”

“Yeah.”

“Risky?”

“Definitely.”

Mike slowly turns to his side, facing him. His feet nudge Will’s under the blanket, their bare shins brushing. Will’s heart stutters. All this talking was one thing, but now that they’re this close, he realizes what it means. What it could mean. 

The air between them is filled with everything that could happen now – a million possibilities Will didn’t even dare to dream. And it’s all wrong, but it’s right, too. And most of all, it’s unfamiliar – for Will to get something that he wants so badly.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

Mike is inching closer. The candle behind him casts his shadow over Will’s face. He’s not looking at Will’s eyes but somewhere lower. “No,” he whispers. “I’m not sure about anything. I told you, I’m really good at making bad decisions.”

Will breathes out a laugh, but it catches in his throat when he feels Mike’s breath on his face.  

He’s too close.

Will watches Mike look at his mouth for several seconds. It makes it hard to breathe, knowing Mike wants this. That he’s wanted it for a while – that Will is the reason Mike was struggling for so long.

Will leans forward to close the gap between them.  

“Wait.” Mike pulls back.

Will stares at him. “What?”

“Sorry. I just –“ He falls back onto his back.

“You – don’t want to?”

“No, I do. I just –” He grabs Will’s arm and pulls. Then he’s rolling them over, switching places, and Will doesn’t even have time to register what’s happening – because Mike is already hovering above him, suddenly very close. Will looks up at him, heart stuttering.

Mike places both hands on Will’s jaw and gently tilts his head, so the candlelight catches Will’s face. He feels the warmth of the flame on his skin. Mike’s eyes move over his face, slowly, deliberately.

“I wanna look at you this time,” Mike whispers.  

Will’s breath catches.

He stays still, as Mike studies him carefully. Like he’s really seeing him. Every part of him. Like he isn’t afraid of what he might find. And if he’s not afraid – then maybe Will doesn’t have to be either.

Slowly, Will slides his hand to the back of Mike’s neck, just where his hair starts. His skin is warm and soft.

Mike’s breathing is shallow, a little shaky. His fingers brush over Will’s jaw, tracing his face like he did last night – only this time, his eyes follow.

“Are you gonna do it?” Mike asks, voice low.

Will can’t breathe, astonished by how close they are. “Do what?”

“Take what you want.”

What he wants.

What he wants is to kiss Mike breathless. To bring their bodies together until he’s hot, dazed, and gasping. He wants to kiss him for as long as it takes for him to understand that he can. And then, in the morning, he wants to talk and talk and talk until they find a way to make this work.

Will pulls him in by the neck. Mike meets him halfway. Their lips brush, just slightly, and Will’s eyes flutter shut, but then Mike is already pulling back again.

He looks at him, tracing his thumb over Will’s cheek, as if to really see that it’s him he’s kissing. Slowly, Mike leans in, placing soft kisses across Will’s face – his cheek, nose, forehead, jaw, the corner of his mouth – always coming back to look at him, as if he’s slowly learning that this is really them.

Until Will can’t take it anymore. He grabs the front of Mike’s shirt and pulls him close, tilting his head to meet Mike’s mouth in a real kiss. 

Mike’s breath hitches in surprise, but he leans into him as Will opens his mouth and brings their lips together.

In a matter of seconds, everything loses its weight. Because this is so easy, and so good, and they should’ve done this years ago.

Mike settles above him, their bodies flush. Will feels his heartbeat against his chest. His hand slides through Mike’s curls, holding him close.

Their lips move slowly together, deliberately, finding a soft rhythm as they adjust to each other. The sound of their mouths fills the room. The hitch of their breaths. 

Will wants to take it all in, to be fully present so his mind can catch up with everything that has happened today. But his heart is beating too fast, and the way Mike takes his lower lip between his, slowly tugging with his teeth, makes his brain shut down.

He realizes he might be a little too eager.

But it doesn’t matter, because so is Mike.

Suddenly, they’re not cautious anymore. Mike pushes the covers off them without breaking the kiss. His breath is shaky and it’s like he’s seeking Will, pressing closer, his hands a little clumsy and desperate as he grabs Will by the waist.

It’s nothing like the way he touched him yesterday or the night before, and Will realizes just how much Mike must’ve been holding back. There's the same neediness in his touch that’s inside him, too. Their teeth bump, making Will laugh, but a muffled sound comes from Mike’s throat, like laughing is the last thing on his mind right now.

It’s electrifying – the way he presses forward like he can’t be close enough. He pushes his knee between Will's and tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

Nothing Mike could’ve said to him would’ve made it as clear as this. It's like this wasn’t even a choice at all. Like there’s no way they could’ve just moved on from this.

For the first time in his life, Will feels wanted. Wanted by Mike’s hands, sliding over his stomach, making everything burn and tingle. Wanted by Mike’s mouth, opening above his in a way that makes every cell in his body buzz.

He shudders when he feels Mike’s tongue brush over his lower lip, and his mouth immediately falls open.

Suddenly, it’s something completely different – it's hot, and it's wet, and it's driving him insane. They gasp into each other's mouths. Mike's fingers dig into Will's waist. Will tugs at his hair. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing – not until it's all too hot, and all too much. 

They break the kiss.

“Shit,” Mike gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “How are you so good at this?”

Will catches his breath, staring at the wet glow of Mike's lips. He smiles lazily. “Don't know – I guess I'm ... usually good at things.”

Mike lets out a breathless laugh. Will's thumb traces over his cheek.

They look at each other, like they’re recognizing each other – in all the ways they want each other.

The sound of their breaths is loud in the room. Will closes his eyes, trying to calm down, as Mike puts their foreheads together. He can feel his heart thumping against his chest.

After a minute he opens his eyes, looking at the sight of Mike: His messy black curls, his red mouth, flushed cheeks, the glow in his eyes. Will can’t believe how lucky he is.

Mike meets his gaze. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, still a little breathless.

Will can’t count the number of times he pictured kissing Mike. He was a haunted boy, afraid of the dark, lost in a sweet daydream about his best friend. It was meant to distract him, a silly fantasy – not to become real. “Yeah,” he whispers and he smiles. 

Mike kisses him again, lingering, their lips brushing. Then he looks at him some more. And something crosses his face, his eyes soft, but a frown between his brows. “Will?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re – um.“ 

He stops, eyes flicking back up to Will’s.

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No, say it.”

Mike’s face flushes. He stares somewhere at Will’s cheek. “Um. I just – it’s stupid. But I wanted to say –” His eyes flicker back up. “You’re ... really pretty like this.”

Will’s breath hitches. “Oh.”

For a moment, Mike looks mortified, and then he groans. He buries his face in Will’s neck. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Will laughs, as Mike starts pressing little kisses to the skin of his neck.

“Yeah, but you thought it.”

And then Will can’t laugh anymore, because Mike’s mouth moves differently, lips sucking on the soft skin. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how sensitive his neck was.

His breath catches, his eyes fluttering shut. His hand drops to the back of Mike’s head, fingers burying into his hair, as Mike pulls at his skin, gently grazing his teeth in a way Will is sure is going to leave a mark.

When he pulls back a minute later, Will is flushed and breathless. Mike slowly runs his fingers over the sore skin on Will’s neck, like he’s inspecting his work. “You’re gonna have to hide that.”

His nose nudges against Will’s jaw before drifting back up, his lips ghosting over his mouth. Will leans up to kiss him – just because he can.

“We’re gonna have to hide more than that,” he whispers. He searches Mike’s face for any sign of regret or doubt – any indication that he thinks this is a bad idea after all, that it’s not worth it.

But Mike just smiles and nods, and kisses him again.

And Will still can’t process everything that happened today – but maybe, if he kisses Mike long enough, he’ll understand.

Maybe they’ll find a possible future somewhere in all the places their mouths and bodies meet. A reason why this is worth it, for every reason that it’s not.

And at some point, Will might look inside himself for the familiar guilt, the shame of what they are and what they’re doing.

But Mike is doing it, too – Mike’s kissing him, too, and for the first time in his life, Will shares the guilt. He shares the shame.

And in sharing, it turns into something entirely different.