Chapter Text
Mike spent that night staring at the ceiling.
His mind playing the same scene over and over again. The way Will had looked at him. The way his breath had hitched when Mike kissed his neck. The way he had kissed back.
And then the way he had left.
Mike barely moved, barely blinked. Just layed in bed with his heart still racing, the ghost of Will’s lips still lingering on his own.
And every time he closed his eyes, he was there again—back in the backyard, the taste of alcohol on his tongue, the feeling of Will’s breath hitching against his lips.
He could still feel the way Will had trembled beneath his hands, the way his fingers had curled into Mike’s hoodie like he wanted him closer. Like he didn’t want to let go.
And then—God—the way he had pulled back.
The look in his eyes.
Terror. Shame. Guilt.
Mike squeezed his own eyes shut, his chest tightening.
Feeling the same things.
But underneath it, tangled deep in his ribs, something worse. Something darker.
Want.
He wanted it.
Every second of it.
Every breathless, shaky, too-close moment.
Every time Will’s fingers curled into his hair like he needed him. Every soft, stunned sound that slipped past his lips. Every bit of warmth, every second of gravity pulling them closer together, every impossible, undeniable truth that had settled between them.
Mike had liked it.
And that terrified him.
Because if he liked it—if he wanted it—then what did that mean?
What did it make him?
The ceiling gave him no answers. It just stared back, blank and unmoving, while his thoughts tore through him like a storm.
The room felt too small. Too quiet.
He flipped onto his side. Onto his stomach. Onto his back again. Nothing helped.
The shame was still there, clinging to his skin like something he’d never be able to wash off.
It wasn’t just about liking it. It was about the fact that Will had looked at him like that before.
So many times.
And Mike had ignored it. Had shoved it away, buried it deep, pretended he didn’t see the way Will looked at him like he was waiting for something—waiting for him.
But he had seen it.
And now, all he could think about was how long Will had known. How long Will had carried that weight alone. How long he had spent looking at Mike like that while Mike refused to even acknowledge what was right in front of him.
And then, the worst thought of all—
How cruel it was that the one time Will let himself have it, Mike had been drunk.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Will was right.
They shouldn’t have done it.
Not like that. Not with alcohol in their veins, with a party buzzing just behind them, with fear still wrapped around every touch, every breath.
God, what if someone had seen? What if Lucas had come outside just seconds earlier? What if Dustin or Max or anyone had walked into that backyard and found them there, too close, hands clenched in fabric like it was the only thing keeping them from falling apart?
What if Will hated him for this?
What if he never wanted to look at him again?
Mike turned onto his side, gripping his own arms, trying to will the thoughts away, but it didn’t work.
It didn’t stop the aching, the twisting, the suffocating pull in his chest.
He should’ve stopped himself. Should’ve pulled away.
But he hadn’t.
Because for one, terrible, fleeting moment,
He had wanted Will to want him back.
And then he had gotten exactly that.
And now?
Now, he didn’t know how to live with it.
The house felt unbearably normal the next morning.
His mom was making breakfast. Holly was watching cartoons. Nancy was on the phone, twirling the cord around her finger while she talks to Jonathan like she always does.
It was… normal.
Everything and everyone around him was completely normal.
Everything.
Everything, except him.
And Mike felt like he was going to be sick.
His skin burned with it—this heavy, gnawing wrongness that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times he washed his face or tried to shake the memory loose from his skull.
He didn’t say a word as he sat at the kitchen table, staring at his plate of eggs like they’d personally offended him. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything.
But his mom was looking at him.
He could feel it.
“Mike?”
He tensed. “Yeah?”
Karen tilted her head, studying him. “You feeling alright?”
He hated how easily she could tell something was off. He forced himself to nod, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth even though it tasted like nothing.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Just tired.”
Karen didn’t look convinced, but thankfully, she let it go.
Mike swallowed thickly, staring down at his plate.
“Don’t forget to finish your homework before school tomorrow,” she said already turning back to the stove.
Shit.
Mike completely forgot about school.
He hadn’t even thought about it—not once.
Not after the party. Not after Will. Not after the way everything had unraveled in his hands like a thread pulled too tight.
How was he supposed to walk into those halls, sit in those classrooms, act like nothing had happened? How was he supposed to see Will?
He couldn’t just go to school tomorrow, sit next to Will in class, and act like his world hadn’t just cracked open at the seams.
What if…
What if Will wouldn’t look at him. Or worse—what if he would, but not the same way. Not like before.
Fuck.
He was so screwed.
Mike didn’t go to school on Monday.
He had woken up that morning feeling like his ribs were too tight, like the weight of everything was pressing against his chest, heavy and unbearable. He couldn’t face the hallways of Hawkins High, couldn’t face Lucas’ worried eyes, Dustin’s oblivious cheerfulness or Max’s side remarks. And he definitely couldn’t face El.
But most of all—he couldn’t face Will.
He told his mom he was sick. It wasn’t a total lie—he felt sick. He’d felt sick since the moment Will walked away from him, since the moment Lucas’ voice broke through the haze and reality came slamming down like a brick wall.
He spent the day in bed, staring at his ceiling, the shadows shifting across the room as the hours dragged by. His mom knocked on his door every so often, checking his temperature, bringing him soup he didn’t eat. He muttered that he was fine, that he just needed to rest, that his stomach hurt.
Another half-truth.
Because it did hurt—just not in the way she thought.
His body still carried the ghost of it— of Will. Mike’s fingers ached from the way they had gripped Will’s shirt, his lips still felt raw, like they weren’t his own anymore. His stomach twisted every time he closed his eyes, because all he could see was Will’s face.
All Mike could think about was the way his lips felt like they belonged there—like they fit against Will’s in a way that was too natural, too easy, too right.
Because it’s you, Mike.
Mike buried his face in his pillow, gripping the sheets like they could anchor him.
He hated himself.
He hated the way his chest still ached for something he wasn’t supposed to want. The way his hands itched to reach out, to fix things, to do it all over again.
Because that was the worst part.
The worst part wasn’t the regret.
It was the fact that he didn’t regret it.
Not really.
And that—that was suffocating.
By Tuesday, his mom was watching him more closely, her brows furrowed in concern when he barely touched his breakfast, when he flinched at the sound of the phone ringing.
“You sure you’re feeling okay, honey?” she asked, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.
He nodded, too quickly. “Yeah, I—I’m good.”
She didn’t look convinced. “You barely ate yesterday.”
“I just—wasn’t hungry.”
She frowned. “Are you sure nothing’s bothering you?”
Yes.
No.
Everything.
He forced a shrug, reaching for his glass of orange juice just so he had something to do with his hands. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
She studied him for another second, like she knew something was off but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Then, finally, she sighed.
“Alright,” she said, ruffling his hair before she stood. “But you’re going to school tomorrow, okay?”
Mike swallowed. Nodded.
“Yeah,”
And then Wednesday came,
and he had to go.
So he forced himself up, forced himself to go through the motions—brushed his teeth, shoved a sweatshirt over his head, ignored the way his reflection looked like a stranger in the mirror.
It felt like Mike had been trapped in a fog for days.
The kind that settled thick in his lungs, heavy in his bones, making everything feel slow and unreal. The kind that made it impossible to think about anything except that night.
Except Will.
He still hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t talked to him. Hadn’t even tried.
Because what was he supposed to say?
Sorry I kissed you? Sorry you kissed me back? Sorry that I can’t stop thinking about it?
The thought alone made his stomach churn.
The walls of his house felt too small, his room suffocating. Even just staring at the damn ceiling—his mind betrayed him.
It replayed the way Will had looked at him, like he wanted it, wanted him.
Then it replayed the way he had pulled back. The way his voice had cracked when he said we can’t.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut.
He wasn’t ready for this.
But the world didn’t care.
His legs felt heavy, like they were carrying more than just his own weight.
And maybe they were.
He didn’t see him.
Not in the morning. Not at lunch. Not after school.
It wasn’t like Mike was looking, but he didn’t have to. Normally, Will was there. At the table in the cafeteria, sitting next to him in class, biking home together without even thinking about it.
But now—
Now it was like Will had disappeared.
And maybe Mike should have been relieved.
Maybe this made things easier.
But instead, it felt like something inside of him was dying.
He went home that day with his stomach in knots, gripping the handlebars of his bike too tight, his knuckles white.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.
But maybe this was his punishment.
Because Will wasn’t just avoiding him. He was gone.
Will was running from him.
He didn’t come to school because of him.
Mike clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
It was the right thing, wasn’t it?
Will had been right. They shouldn’t have done it.
They had ruined everything.
He had ruined everything.
And yet—
Yet Mike still caught himself wanting it.
Still caught himself staring at Will’s empty seat in English, stomach hollow, hands restless, remembering the way Will had leaned into him.
The way he had let Mike hold him.
The way he had kissed him back.
Every shadow, every sound, every goddamn thing reminded him of Will.
Mike sucked in a sharp breath, shoving his hands into his hoodie, curling them into fists so tight they shook.
God, he was so stupid.
So selfish.
Because Will had been trying to protect them.
And all Mike could do was wish he could do it again.
By Thursday, Mike was losing his mind.
Will still wasn’t here, and according to Lucas and Dustin Will wasn’t here Monday or Tuesday either.
And it was driving him insane, because he didn’t know what Will was thinking, he didn’t know if he was angry, or disgusted, or if he just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened.
And God, that—that was the worst possibility of all.
Because Mike couldn’t forget.
He had tried.
He had spent every second of this miserable, endless week trying to erase it, trying to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything.
That it was a mistake. A stupid, drunken mistake.
But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t, and he knew it.
Because it hadn’t just been him.
Will had kissed him back.
And that should’ve made it better. Should’ve reassured him, should’ve stopped this horrible, aching panic from eating him alive.
But it didn’t.
Because Will had pulled away.
Because Will had left.
Because Will wasn’t here.
And it was killing him.
What if Mike had ruined everything between them?
The thought made his chest cave in, made his stomach churn with something thick and ugly.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
Mike couldn’t take it anymore.
And maybe that was for the best—maybe it was what Mike deserved. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.
Friday was the worst. The most suffocating day of them all.
The walls of Hawkins High felt smaller, tighter, like they were closing in with every step he took. The air was too thick, his clothes too warm, his skin too tight around bones that felt foreign to him.
Mike walked through the halls like a ghost, barely aware of the people moving around him, of the conversations buzzing in the background. He didn’t hear them. Didn’t see them. It was all just noise—distant, muffled, meaningless.
Because all he could think about was Saturday.
It had been six days.
Six days since that night at the party, and it hadn’t left him. It was in his lungs when he breathed, in his fingers when he clenched his fists, in his throat when he swallowed around the lump that had been there since the moment Will walked away from him.
Mike kept his head down, moving through the halls like he was trying to outrun something. Maybe he was.
Maybe he was trying to outrun himself.
But no matter how fast he walked, no matter how much distance he put between himself and that night, it stayed.
His hands curled into fists at his sides as he walked faster, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. He needed to get out of here. Out of this hallway, out of this school, out of his own fucking head.
But there was nowhere to go.
So instead, he shoved himself into the nearest bathroom, locking the stall door behind him and pressing his back against it like it might keep the world from following him inside.
He squeezed his eyes shut, dragging his hands through his hair, breathing too hard, too uneven.
This was wrong.
This was so fucking wrong.
He should be able to forget about it. Should be able to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch him.
But he can’t.
Because it’s him.
Because it’s Will.
And no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, no matter how much he wants to pretend it never happened, the truth is clawing its way out of him, bleeding through every crack, every breath, every thought.
And the truth is, he’s not sure he wants to forget.
And that was the part that made him feel the most shame.
The moment he got home, he slammed the door behind him and pressed his back against it, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His whole body was tense, wound up so tightly he felt like he might snap in half.
He felt restless, hollowed out. He needed to do something, needed to fix this, but how could he fix something when he didn’t even know how badly it was broken?
His eyes burned. His throat felt tight.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing his room, breathing too fast.
He couldn’t—he couldn’t keep doing this.
He needed to see him.
Just to talk. Just to know.
Even if Will hated him. Even if he never wanted to see him again.
Mike just needed to hear him say it.
Because the not-knowing? The waiting?
It was torture.
So that night, long after dinner, long after the house had gone quiet, he grabbed his jacket.
And he left.
Will’s house was dark when he got there.
Mike stood at the edge of the driveway, staring up at the window he knew was Will’s, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break through his ribs.
God what was Mike doing?
This was stupid.
This was so stupid.
But he couldn’t not be here.
He couldn’t spend another night lying awake, drowning in regret, in shame, in this horrible, suffocating silence.
So he moved.
Raised a hand to knock—
And then he stopped.
Because through the window—
Through the dim glow of a bedside lamp—
Mike saw him.
Will.
Sitting on his bed, hunched over, curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his head down, and even from here, Mike could tell.
Will wasn’t okay.
Mike’s breath caught in his throat.
His hand dropped to his side, suddenly cold.
Because what was he doing?
What was he going to say?
That he was sorry? That he missed him? That he hadn’t stopped thinking about him for a single second?
Will hugged himself even closer to his chest like he was trying to make himself smaller.
He looked pale. Tired.
Like he hadn’t slept, either.
He should call out to him.
He should say something.
Anything.
But his throat locked up.
Because suddenly, all he could hear was that night.
The sharp hitch in Will’s breath. The way his fingers had tightened. The way he had pulled back like he had seen a ghost.
We can’t.
Mike clenched his jaw.
He swallowed hard, chest tightening.
Will was already hurting.
And Mike had done this to him.
He couldn’t do this—he couldn’t.
So he stepped back.
Let the night swallow him whole.
And left Will alone.