Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is December 15^th, 1988, and Hawkins, Indiana is nearly drowning.

It’s raining hard in the little town and no inch of the land goes unscathed by the icy downpour that pelts the streets outside. It’s been pouring for weeks, it seems. Like the entire town is under some sort of chilling gloom that it can’t shake. Some wonder if it will ever stop, if maybe the town might get drenched in a flood that takes out homes, well groomed flowers and flower beds, sweeping away cars, bikes and street signs in it’s wake. This will never happen, of course: nothing bad ever sticks forever in Hawkins. It just reoccurs on a rollercoaster type pattern.

It is on this day, just as the sun dips unnoticed behind the treetops surrounding Hawkins, that Will Byers realizes he is truly alone.

Safe from the torrential weather behind the slate grey exterior shingles of his house, Will Byers is bundled up in the living room, not quite asleep but not truly awake either. He’s been enjoying the sound of the rain landing and trickling down the large glass window nearby for almost 45 minutes, taking in the silence that radiates through his home like he can’t predict the next time he’ll experience such peace. It wouldn’t be a far fetched thought; the Byers’ household seldom gets to experience many moments like these, and so instead of indulging himself in a book or taking to drawing like he typically does on rainy days, Will just sits, his hooded green eyes fixed on the droplets as they trickle downwards.

He doesn’t realize that he is alone at first. It comes creeping like it usually does, a passing thought that swells like a balloon, filling up Will’s insides with a bitter taste as it courses through him. He knows he’s alone, of course, because he always has been.

Almost always, Will thinks to himself in shapeless disagreement, bringing his legs up closer to his chest as his eyes remain fixed on the weather. Almost always.

Will would prefer a more definite loneliness than the short comfort he’d experienced before. The short comfort that brought him nothing but heart ache, anger, guilt. The comfort that left him once more, as he ultimately was; alone. It had felt fine at the time, though, hadn’t it?

Even if it was wrong.

Stop it. You can’t think about this anymore, Will chides himself inside the confines of his brain.

He didn’t mind it, of course. If he did, he always said he’d do something about it. Instead, Will runs a finger over the knee of his jeans, gazing out the window as he soaks up the thoughts like he can’t get enough of them. Silence breeds these things, of course. He can’t curb his loneliness no more than the moon can stop it’s cycles, or the ocean can stop it’s tides. It’s bound to happen, he thinks. I’m bound to be alone, and that’s how it has to be. What other way has he lived?

So why does it still hurt?

The silence is well needed, a blessing in disguise for the short time that it lives inside of the Byers’ home before the vibrant ringing sound of the home phone cuts through the quiet like a razor blade.

With a low groan, Will untucks himself from his formerly comfortable position on the chesterfield and crosses the threshold of the living room towards the hallway in his sock feet, padding across the laminate as the phone lets out a couple more struggled rings. He doesn’t run, doesn’t even speed walk to the receiver, but there is a rushed fashion about his movements that he knows only he and his brother really truly relate to. As Will reaches out and plucks the phone off of it’s holder, propping it between his ear and his shoulder as he turns back towards the living room window, a couple brief blips of static rush through the phone before the caller finally pipes up.

“Lonnie?” a thin, cautious voice murmurs on the other end. Will pauses.

Speak of the devil.

“He’s asleep, Jonathan.” Will replies smoothly into the phone, leaning into the wall as he watches the rain dribble down the window. From his own end, Will can hear Jonathan pull away from the phone and let out a deep exhale. He knows he wasn’t meant to hear it, yet he can’t help but relate.

“Oh, hey, Will… er… I didn’t wake him up, did I?” Jonathan asks nervously through his end, going quiet as though he’s waiting for Will to check. He does, of course; leaning away from the wall for only a second, Will glances down the hallway and pulls the receiver away from his face.

Taking in the overwhelming silence in the house once more, Will returns the phone to his ear.

“Nope, thankfully,” he mumbles, eyeing the hall as though he’s all too aware of it now.

“Good, ah… I was calling to talk to you, anyways… about tonight,” Jonathan admits adamantly, and Will can feel whatever tension is pulling at his shoulders deflate with understanding. Sliding a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, Will thumbs two thin, rectangular slips of paper that he’s been keeping good care of for the past two weeks. He can feel his heart sinking before Jonathan has even clarified himself. He knows what’s coming.

Sliding the two tickets together in his pocket, Will swallows hard, pressing the receiver tighter to his ear.

“You’re bailing.” He whispers, crushed.

Will feels miniscule, for a moment, for being as let down as he is. The tickets in his pocket show the result of him putting away his last two paychecks from working part-time over the summer at the theatre in downtown Hawkins, however, and he can feel the meaning inside of their papery, mass printed faces. He and Jonathan had planned to go see the reshowing of Killer Klowns from Outer Space for several weeks, ever since they’d seen the Hawk theatre’s marquee announcing it’s return to the silver screen for a limited time one morning when Jonathan had driven Will to school.

He knows how important this is to me, Will thinks, refraining from the urge to grumble like an upset child as his fingers press into the cool cover of the phone. What could be more important than this?

School. School is more important.

“Will, I’m not— listen, I really want to be able to go, alright? But I’m just—“ a moment on the other end, a shuffle, the sound of the mouthpiece being brushed. “I'm really preoccupied here right now.”

Being an adult. Or being the opposite of an adult. Working, or pretending to work. Staying away from here, ultimately. Will hates being as bitter as he is.

“Will?” Jonathan murmurs, and Will is drawn back in, clearing his throat as though that might fight off his disappointment. It's not like this was the only reason I got up today, Will thinks harshly, his stomach turning.

“It’s fine.”

“You could still go see it, y’know. Maybe Dustin or Lucas would go with you.”

Will flinches at this. Not in hearing his best friends’ names, of course, and not really at the suggestion of doing something with them specifically. Will thinks of the last time he’s done something with his brother that hasn’t had something to do with complaining about their father, cross legged on Jonathan’s bedroom floor. He finds, tucked into a creeping sense of hurt, that he can’t remember.

“I said it’s fine.” Will responds shortly as he hears the sudden creak of bedsprings from the end of the hallway. He leans into the wall harder, running a thumb over the plastic piece.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Jonathan asks quietly from his end, and Will lets out a brief sigh just as his father shuffles out of his bedroom door. Will’s eyes dart towards him if only for a moment to assess the shape that he’s in.

Lonnie trudges quietly, barefoot, down the hall towards the kitchen, fitted in a loose white t-shirt and plain, slate grey pyjama pants as he doesn’t give Will a second look. Letting out a less than half-assed grumble as he passes his youngest son, Will’s teeth clench together hard, like an instinct. From the other end of the call, Jonathan presses on.

“Will?”

“Yeah, I’m here. No, I’m—“ Will hesitates, glancing back towards his father as he steps in front of the fridge, kneeling down and pulling open the cooler, “—I’m not mad, I’m just— we were going to do this together, y’know? Us.”

“I… I know, Will, and I’m sorry I just—“

“Who’s on the phone?”

Will’s posture tenses, surely, as he hears his father’s subtly slurring voice chime in from the kitchen, the sound of the cooler sliding shut ringing inside his ears like a train whistle. Pressing the phone harder against his ear, Will acts as though he hasn’t heard his father’s half asleep questioning.

“— And it gets really busy here, y’know? School work, and stuff.” Jonathan finishes, completing his point inside of a sentence that Will has only heard half of. 

“I get it, Jonathan. Can we go some other ti—“

“If it’s your mother, tell her I need the fuckin’ money she owes me.” Lonnie snips from somewhere behind Will, and as though Lonnie has lit a flame beneath the boy’s already aggravated temper, Will stomach yanks itself into a sickening knot and he twists back around to look at his father. Pulling the phone away from his ear, Will watches Lonnie’s already half-drunk antics in disdain.

He’s propped against the counter with a chilled can of beer in his hands, trying with tired inadequacy to crack open the top. As he finally gets a hold on the tab and pulls it upwards, the opening peels open, a cool ‘pop’ announcing his success, and Will can’t seem to keep his temper in check. Something he never really has trouble with. Something he only really has trouble with when Joyce is brought up.

“If you need your money so bad, talk to her yourself for once,” Will snaps, catching his father’s attention immediately like the crack of a whip. Lonnie clutches the can in his hand, staring at Will as though he’s just spontaneously combusted right before his eyes.

Before Will can watch his father’s expression shift into anything else, he turns back towards the wall and presses the phone back to his ear. Jonathan is beginning to question Will about Lonnie, but the boy can’t seem to find the time to listen.

“I did wake him, didn’t I—“

“You know what, don’t worry about it honestly, okay? It’s just a stupid movie, anyways. Listen.” Will says, wrapping the phone cord around his finger and letting it slide away moments later. “I’m gonna go, but, uh… I’ll see you when you get home, okay?”

“Will?” Jonathan asks cautiously, knowing in some sense what situation the boy is in, but having his protest denied.

“Bye, Jonathan,” Will utters into the phone, pulling away from the receiver and letting it slide back into it’s holster with a click that almost seems deafening in the home’s quiet. He doesn’t know why his words feel so final, but something about them rings heavy.

Will wants to lift the phone up again, dial Jonathan’s number back, get an answer, get something. He wants to tell him to come over anyways, just in case, because he might need to. Hell, he does need to. The situation never gets that bad when he talks back, but he always wonders if one day it will. He knows someday it will. He just doesn’t know, exactly, when that day might be.

Stepping back and turning away from the receiver, Will is immediately met with a vicious shove that sends him reeling back into the wall, shoulder blades slamming hard into the unfinished wallpaper. The hurt in this action on it’s own is enough to send chills of pain down Will’s upper arms.

“Fuck did'jou just say to me, boy?” Lonnie spits through a squared jaw, can abandoned on the kitchen counter dripping condensation as he steps in front of his youngest. Will wants to stay quiet, of course; he wants to say nothing and receive nothing in return, but it never quite works out that way. His heart rate picking up at an alarming rate, Will inhales sharply as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I said, if you—“

Will is interrupted by the pale flash of his father’s hand rising and grabbing the front of his shirt, the fabric balling up inside his fist as he yanks Will forward with a jolt, their noses nearly bumping together as Lonnie stares into Will’s face with an expression full of complete and utter annoyance. Will can smell the man’s breath, ripe with liquor and the sickening smell of beer, in such a close proximity.

He’s not angry with me, Will thinks, and in some strange form, this comes as a relief. In his own saddened way, he knows his father isn’t quite angry. Annoyed, irritated. Feeling disrespected, even. He isn’t angry, though. Will knows because he’s seen angry. It’s uglier than this, and he knows it.

Anger hurts in a different way.

“You think I really want an answer?” Lonnie barks in response, the volume of his voice raising a few octaves as his grip never loosens. The panicked part of Will wants to pry his hand off. The seasoned part of Will remembers what happened the last time he tried to do that.

“Don’t give me any of your shit, you little bastard. I’m asking one simple thing, and I expect you to do it without any fuckin’ attitude,” Lonnie assures him with words like dripping, corrosive sludge. As Will stares at the bridge of his father's previously broken nose, the tip of his cheekbone, his forehead, anywhere but his eyes, he realizes that he is shaking.

After several seconds of lengthy, unimpressed staring, Lonnie’s fingers unfold themselves from the collar of Will’s shirt, and he steps back, almost teetering, turning towards his abandoned beer as though any irritation in his being has simply vanished. Snatching the can from the counter and stepping back towards Will’s direction, the boy stays flat against the hallway wall as his father glides past him. He flinches, instantly berating himself internally for it, and watches Lonnie disappear back into his bedroom, the door ramming shut behind him as he goes.

Will stands there for what seems like a century, shaking, before he reaches up finally and straightens the crumpled part of his button-up with trembling fingers. He hates himself, for a moment; for several reasons, but the most significant being his lack of adjustment.

He wants to get used to this, but some part of him doesn’t seem to cooperate. Some part of him knows it isn’t right.

Just because it isn’t right, doesn’t mean it should scare me, Will thinks.

Even if it does scare him. Even if it should.

In one hideous though, Will thinks himself lucky. Lucky because he didn’t get hit. Lucky.

As Will stands with his back to the wall, clutching at the neck of his shirt, he spots the small dish of change that they keep on the counter. In one blistering movement, completely forgetting the weather he had been so fixed on before hand, Will crosses the room and digs a hand into the dish. Fishing out no more than four dollars in change, Will stuffs the quarters into his shirt pocket and moves towards the kitchen table, his lungs tightening in his chest as he feels the steady emotional weight of the house crushing him.

Gotta get out. Gotta go.

God, it feels like I’m drowning.

Snagging the first of his jackets that he sees hung limply on the back of a kitchen chair, Will pulls the coat on with purpose, not bothering to zip it up as he practically bolts to the door. He can’t seem to throw his shoes on fast enough, snatching up his backpack and shoving the front door open, taking in the suddenly much louder sound of rainfall against thick, fresh mud as he steps outside. He bumps the door shut behind him, not too thoughtful about how loud he must be shutting it to hear it through the downpour.

Drowning in there, and somehow this is better, Will thinks.

He doesn’t know where he’s going at first, only knows that he is, indeed, going somewhere.

He knows the way into town, and so he heads in this direction with really no true definite location in mind. All he knows in the time being is that anywhere is better than his own house, and that thought sits with him for his entire walk down the old dirt road that leads out to the Cornwallis and Kerley intersection. After approximately ten minutes of trying not to careen and slip into developing mud sockets in the back road, Will’s feet finally hit pavement, and his being relaxes, if only slightly.

Mirkwood, Will thinks fondly, observing the road for a moment before he remembers just how drenched he truly is already. He ponders the old name, a name he and his friends had come up with once when they were younger, as he turns and carries on down towards town, rain splattering against his already dripping bangs. The streetlights don’t do much more than just enough, keeping Will from accidentally losing his footing and twisting an ankle while slipping off the edge of the asphalt. Will takes a moment to breathe. He needs it badly, more than he imagined, because outside of his house, Will can be Will. To his own imaginary extent.

Once I’m eighteen, I’m out of here, Will thinks, and it’s true, he hopes. Three and a half months isn’t too far away, and he knows if he can manage to save up enough of his money, he can catch a bus and watch Hawkins, Indiana disappear behind him like a cloud of smoke. He knows how easy it sounds, and he knows it’s likely much harder to actually do, but being seventeen feels like hell.

Will can drive, legally, but he can never really leave. He can run away, he thinks as he does so, but he can never really stay gone. Under the not-so-careful eye of his father, Will Byers feels like an ant under a magnifying glass. His position isn’t helped, of course, by the fact that his friends, his brother and his father, specifically, know nothing about him. Especially not one particular thing he can’t seem to forgive himself for.

When I turn eighteen, I’m gone, Will thinks. When I turn eighteen, I’ll come out, too, his mind echoes.

Being seventeen is hard. Will knows this. He’s got the money stashed away to leave, he’s got the will to go, but it’s always something he can’t control that’s blocking him.

Being seventeen and still stuck in the closet however, to Will Byers, feels like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Through the darkness, as Will makes his way slowly but surely towards downtown, he can feel the tears coming even if they blend seamlessly into the chaotic weather around him.

Why am I crying?

He wants to swat them away, but he can’t separate his own tears from the rain. Ripping his bag from off his shoulder, Will digs through his belongings until he feels the familiar chord of his headphones, still attached to his cassette player. Hitting the on and play buttons in swift succession, Will leaves the device in his bag as he numbly stuffs the headphones into his ears. Almost as though he’d been preparing for this moment, the lonely drone of Morrissey’s voice fills Will’s ears as There Is A Light That Never Goes Out begins to play. The shittier part of Jonathan’s old music taste, Will thinks briefly, before that sick, sick feelings washes back into his throat. He almost wants to claw it out for a moment. It was shit but somehow, it only propelled his tears.

Why am I crying? Why am I upset?

As he makes his way towards town, his mind settling on a destination, Will lets his head dip slightly, a startling sob ripping through his chest like a set of jagged claws, and a singular thought accompanies him on his way there. He wills his feet to move, to keep going, and they do.

Just because it isn’t right, doesn’t mean it should scare me.

The rain never ceases.

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

At the sound of the voice of his childhood best friend on the other end of the line, Will Byers exhales pleasantly, peering out of the phone booth he is huddled inside as he stares upwards at the large, glowing café sign above him. He’s dwindled long enough in the booth for his body to stop shaking for the most part, even if he thought initially that he might never be still again. He’s glad, in this moment, that he thought ahead enough to stuff change into the front pocket of his jeans when he had zipped out. Even after Jonathan had cancelled their plans. Even after his father. Before he walked a good, solid hour in the piss-pouring rain just to get to the spot he’s in. As Will presses his fingers to the inside of the glass phone booth, the glass fogs up around his warm touch.

“Dustin, it’s Will,” Will speaks easily into the phone, his sleepy green eyes tracing the neon lettering of the sign overhead. In beautiful, cursive writing, the word Honey’s shines through the dim, moody nightscape of downtown Hawkins like a beacon. The letters are muddled by the droplets falling against the tiny safe haven of the booth, but Will’s read the sign too many times to ever forget what it says. Will’s fingers find the edge between the glass plates boxing him in, and he begins to traces his hand along the cool metal framing. Listening closely, Will hears Dustin shuffle on his end.

“Will? Hey, uh… did’ja get your home number changed or something?” Dustin asks inquisitively, and Will cringes, turning his head down towards the floor of the phone booth as he attempts to shake his hair dry with his free hand. He can tell by the way Dustin’s sentence spills through the earpiece that he’s begging for this to be so, rather than what he knows is true.

“That’s kinda what I was calling about, actually… I’m, er… not home. I’m in town right now,” Will responds, listening in as he eyes the time ticking upwards on the face of the phone box.

“You’re… Will, it’s, like, 10:30. On a Thursday.” Dustin chimes in impatiently, and Will can sense that Dustin expects something bad from him. Like he’s out, careening into garbage cans and citizens, drunk as a skunk. Will isn’t the type of boy to do that sort of thing, of course. Then again, he also isn’t the type of boy to be out this late, on a school night, in this type of weather. He makes a point to not take offence. He thinks, briefly, that if Dustin were in his situation, he’d likely wonder the same thing.

“I know, and I’d like to be home, I just— okay, hold on—“

At the sound of the automated voice clocking in through his receiver to let him know he’s short on time, Will drops his hand from the glass window, clumsily digs change from his pocket, and jams two more quarters into the machine with a gentle click. Before he can continue his sentence, Dustin chimes in again.

“Do you need me to come get you?” he asks, stealing the words right from Will’s mouth, and his voice isn’t anything more than slightly irritated by the lateness of his best friend’s phone call. He’s done this before, his tone screams. He’s done this before but he doesn’t mind. He knows Will would do the same for him. As Will forces his lips shut, studying the way the fluorescent pink light dances across the dampness radiating from his jacket, he brings the receiver closer to his face.

“Yes, please,” Will mumbles, embarrassed. From the other end, Dustin shifts again, like he’s switching the phone to his other ear.

“Honey’s?” Dustin asks, flatly, because the both of them know very well that this isn’t the first time Will’s had to disappear from his own home. Adjusting his footing, Will nods, before mentally clocking himself, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, Honey’s,” Will agrees, tasting the words as they pass his tongue.

“I’ll see you in… well, give me a half an hour, alright,” Dustin begins. More shuffling. “I’m not supposed to be going out, either, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Will acknowledges, grateful. “Thanks, Dustin.”

“Roger… and listen; you owe me lunch tomorrow, Byers,” Dustin chides, only half joking in his response, and as Will begins to reply, the harsh buzz of a dropped call rings through the receiver. Grimacing at the noise, Will removes the phone from his ear and lets it slip back into it’s holster with a clunk.

Half an hour is good, Will thinks. Half an hour is enough time for him to down a coffee and doodle his shakes away. He could think plenty in half an hour, if given the proper peace and quiet he desperately wants. Wringing his jacket out one last time and letting the excess droplets splatter onto the floor of the phone booth, Will takes a long inhale before he throws open the door, letting it flutter closed behind him as he zips across the nearly entirely empty café parking lot. He’s ready for warmth, for something other than the viciously cold rain that’s been attacking his senses for the past hour.

Death by hypothermia, Will thinks to himself. Pneumonia, if I get off lucky.

Shifting his elbow against the push bar and giving it a gentle shove, Will slides in through the left side door and steps back out of the way to let it close quickly behind him, fingers grabbing and lingering on the handle so it doesn’t shut hard and announce his presence to everyone within a 20 foot distance.

The bell above the door jingles ever so slightly, and Will pauses for only a moment in the entrance just to inhale and take in the relaxing, familiar scent of coffee beans and baking bread. As his fingers drop from the metal handle and Will’s eyes dart around looking for an empty spot to sit, his eyes land on a window booth down the right side, and he sets off for it, his hands sliding into his pockets subconsciously as he goes.

Will found the place early in his freshman year of high school, back when his parents were still in the lower stages of divorce suggestion, when the words were just a passing whisper, and he wasn’t flinging back and forth between houses every second weekend. The two most primary, consistent things Will had to preoccupy himself back then was his music and Honey’s, and he’d made a habit of coming to the place at least twice a week when things got too unbearable at home and he felt the need to escape to a place that was a little easier on his head. All he needed was some change, his cassette player, earbuds and a notebook, and he was set for several hours while he let things at home work themselves out. Eventually, though, they just stopped working themselves out and everything just… broke. Honey’s was still the place to be, of course. Will needed something to hold onto, somewhere to sit and be.

Honey’s is just right for that; the sweet smell, the light ambience of chatter behind the counter from the waitresses he’d become well acquainted with, the sound of coffee dripping into plastic pots like a metronome’s tick. Everything about the place was therapeutic, safe, Will found; just the way he liked it.

In time, through the two years that he’d spent there, he found that Honey’s had grown into a second home for him. A better home, he would think subconsciously, and often, before he felt too bad about his own ideas.

Slipping into the slick red leather seat in the booth he’d spotted, Will slides the strap of his backpack off of his shoulder and places his bag momentarily on the cushioned spot next to him. He knows his manners, and the waitresses at Honey’s know him all too well. As one of the waitresses behind the counter peers over the front line and notices him down the isle, Will hastily digs his notebook and pencils out of his bag, both astonished and violently pleased that they aren’t soaked as he grabs the hem of his backpack and shoves it down onto the floor next to his feet. As his bag hits the floor, Will moves to place the earbuds of his cassette player back into his years, before his eyes dart up and he notices the young lady that is making her way towards him, pen and pad in hand.

Will recognizes her from school, though he’d only really spoken to her a couple times and he can’t seem to remember her name right off. He knows she’s worked here for a while, and he knows she knows his name. Hell if he can remember hers, though.

She’d been a year or two ahead of him when he was in tenth grade; a pretty girl, Will thinks, and this thought of course pretty much ceases at that. Shaggy blonde hair and freckle faced, Will remembers the way that Dustin had swooned over her all that year of school, before she had surprisingly dropped out of the twelfth grade and never returned. Oh, Will had heard plenty about how heart broken Dustin was for the first few weeks after her absence.

Robin, Will suddenly thinks, the name coming to him like the flick of a light switch. Broke Dustin's poor old heart, Will thinks sarcastically in turn, almost wanting to roll his eyes before he realizes she’s almost at his table.

Freddie Mercury’s voice hums quietly from Will’s palms as he clutches the headphones tight.

Yeah, her name’s Robin, Will thinks to himself, eyes settling for a moment on a distinct chip in the corner of the table. Robin… Robin, what? Robin….

“Will! Late evening to be grabbing a cup, isn’t it?” Robin hums in a kind voice, thumbing back a used page of her notepad as she rests an elbow on the divider between Will’s booth and the empty one in front of him. He appreciates her sweet demeanor, and for a moment, he reminisces about how nice she had always been to him in high school, even if their chats were limited.

Closing his fingers around his earbuds even tighter and resting his fist on his thigh, Will gives Robin a passing, tired smile as his eyes dart out the window.

“I’ve… got plenty of work to do. I guess I kinda need it,” Will suggests with a weak shrug, watching as the girl in front of him tips her head ever so slightly as she listens.

“Plenty of work, huh?” Her eyes flicker down towards Will’s tiny pouch of coloured pencils. “Well, alright” she responds curiously, running the tip of her thumb over the notepad as she watches him in waiting. “You gonna be having anything else with that, or just your coffee? Regular, two sugar with no milk, right? Maybe a towel to go with?” Robin asks quietly, glancing out the window in the direction that Will’s eyes have turned. As she raises a brow inquisitively, Will brings his attention back to her, subtly embarrassed as he brings his coat tighter around him.

“J-Just the coffee is fine,” Will responds slowly, and he almost feels irate over the fact that he comes there so often that they all know his sugar and milk. Robin observes the boy before her, like she’s trying to read the subtext in his words, and then lets her elbow drop from the divider, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth twice in acknowledgement as she twists around and heads off behind the front counter. Will’s eyes drop back down towards the table top and as he runs a fingertip along it’s smoothed out edge, he slides his earbuds back into his ears. Brighton Rock has been long replaced by the homemade cassette’s next track in line, and the gritty hum of Jon Bon Jovi’s voice fills his ears.

Blood red nails on your fingertips

A school boy's dream, you act so shy

Your very first kiss was your first kiss goodbye

Will remembers, for a moment, the first time he had seen Bon Jovi performing on the television. He and Jonathan had been sprawled across the living room floor on their stomachs, faces cradled in their hands as they gazed in wonder at the stage presence that the band members held. Funny enough, Will thinks to himself, I really got into the band’s music after seeing them live.

 It totally wasn’t because the lead singer is a handsome young blonde guy, Will thinks with amusement and sullen embarrassment as he flips open the cover of his notebook, popping off the cap of his pen with a successful click.

No. Definitely not that at all. No, no, no.

Robin comes quickly with Will’s coffee, the liquid still blistering hot when she sets it down a comfortable distance from his open notebook, even though Will hasn’t drawn anything on the stark white pages yet. He doesn’t quite know what’s blocking him, because he usually doesn’t fixate on one thing and plan it from there. His pen wants to move, wants to be used, but he can’t seem to push it.

Will hadn’t seen Robin soon enough to be able to yank his headphones out and give her a thanks, and by the time he’s reaching up to pull them out, she’s giving him her parting smile and has begun her walk back towards the counter. A tiny twinge of guilt curls in his throat, and Will taps the back of his pen against the table as he watches her go, the hiss of a guitar solo ringing inside of his ears.

As Will’s eyes roam across the empty booths stretching down the line in front of him, only a person or two here and there, he understands for what feels like the first time just how quiet the place always seems to be. Some part of him wonders if the workers know Will so well because they like him, or because he’s one of the few people that keeps them from going home early on Thursday nights, for example.

Before he can get too self degrading, Will’s attention is caught by the swift opening of one of the café’s front doors as a thin young man steps into the threshold. He’s tucked into a thick, dark hoodie, unzipped near the top and exposing an orange and black striped shirt, and as he peels his hood away from his head, his shoulders dotted with damp patches like he’d been walking for quite a while, Will gets a good look at his face.

The boy, Will guesses as he stares absently, is about his age, maybe even eighteen. His hair is thick, wavy and dripping, tucked back behind his ears, pitch black just like the stormy night sky outside of Honey’s. Will thinks, for a moment, that he looks familiar, even if he can’t quite place his face. Handsome, Will’s mind echoes, and Will leans forward a bit, resting his chin in his cupped palm. Freckle faced and damp, the boy shakes his hair our briefly with one hand, rubs his hands together like he’s trying to conserve heat and glances around the café; first to the left, and then far right. Directly into Will’s relentlessly staring eyes.

It takes Will a moment to realize that he is staring, absent and thoughtful, and by the time he has, the boy has turned slightly towards him, head tilted ever so subtly like a curious puppy. A playful smile seems to tug at his lips, and Will’s head drops quickly, his eyes widening as he ducks a bit lower in his seat.

Just stand up on the table, why don’t you, Will thinks to himself as he blushes furiously. Just stand up on the table and scream about how cute he is. You may as well.

He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks as his eyes fixate on the cup in front of him and, in attempt to pass off his nervousness, he loops two fingers around the mug handle, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a long sip of coffee. The bitter taste against his taste buds is wicked, and Will runs his tongue over his teeth absently, hyper-focusing on the paper in front of him in order to keep himself from sinking any lower in his chair.

You give love

You give love (a bad name)

You give love

You give love

Sliding the mug back onto it’s small white serving plate, Will grips his pen tightly in his hands and begins to doodle, anything, everything he can think of. Coffee mugs, salt and pepper shakers, tiny packets of honey and his own hands and eyes and dark, wavy hair and striped shirts and –

When Will feels the table move just slightly beneath his elbow, his fidgeting hands go still almost immediately.

Lifting his head, already having some sort of idea of what he’s about to see, Will still finds that he can’t really breathe as he stares into the face of the boy he was caught gawking at. The boy shifts into the booth seat across from easily, his lanky frame barely taking up any room as he doesn’t give Will any mind, his face turned down as he straightens out his hoodie. Unzipping the front all the way, the boy rests his elbows on the table and lays his hands on their opposite forearms, turning his face up towards Will finally after a moment of what seemed like preparing.

Will lets the fading music drone in his eardrums for only a few more seconds before he realizes that he must look like a marble statue frozen in place, reaching up and cautiously, hesitantly pulling the earbuds from his ears before the next track can kick into gear. The boy squints slightly, as though he’s entertained by Will’s confusion, his eyes (just as dark as his hair, Will thinks) scanning Will’s face for something. Anger, upset, maybe? Whatever it is, he’s not finding it. The stranger’s eyes dart down towards the table, and Will instinctually touches his notebook.

“You know it’s, like, 9:30 at night, right?” the boy finally says, so abruptly that Will has to stifle a sharp inhale. His voice is sweet like honey, quiet and curious as he studies Will. He sounds like he sings, Will thinks suddenly, the thought powering through his brain out of the blue. Definitely. He must. I hope he does.

Forgetting for a moment how odd the situation he’s in is, Will snaps back into reality.

“W-What?” Will sputters quietly, choking out the first thing that he can think to say.

The boy’s smile only grows, a flash of pearly white teeth, before he lifts a hand and throws a lazy gesture towards Will’s cup.

“You’ve got a long night ahead of you, pal,” the boy says, letting his fingers drop back against his forearm. Will’s lips part, though words aren’t coming to him. He can’t seem to keep his head straight, and the barrage of questions banging around inside his skull isn’t helping him. The boy’s brows flicker upwards once, and Will can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage like freight train going full speed. He doesn’t know quite why he’s got chills running down the backs of his upper arms, or why he seems to be blanking like he hasn’t spent the past seventeen years of his life speaking real, human words, but his body feels like it’s given up.

A panic attack, Will questions himself.

 He’s panicking and he doesn’t know why. He’s panicking but not the scary kind, at least, scariest. Not the cold sweats and not the splotchy vision. When he flexes his fingers, releasing his headphones onto the table, and he prays the boy doesn’t notice, he doesn’t feel like he’s out of his own body. He feels there, present. Present and staring straight into the coal black eyes of the inquisitive boy leaning across the table ever so slightly in his direction. He’s staring again, but he can’t seem to hold it back this time. His eyelashes are so long, Will finds himself thinking, obvious, so obvious he doesn’t know how he’s kept from blurting it out. The boy tips his head, a bit more than he had in the doorway, and Will wants to measure every inch between them, he wants it exact. Two feet? He cracks it, then.

 A…. A gay panic attack? Is that what this is?

Internally, Will wishes he could kick himself right in the shin.

“What’re you—“ he begins, but he’s interrupted by the voice of someone he hadn’t even noticed approaching the table.

“Oh man, I’m sorry! If I’d have known you were waiting for someone, I would have waited to get your coffee,” Robin admits sincerely as she approaches the table, taking in the sight of the stranger across from Will as though he’s a familiar face. Will’s lips fall shut and press thin for a split second, and he sits back a bit in his seat as he watches the boy across from him turn towards Robin, giving her a sickly sweet smile that Will can only describe, to his dismay, as absolutely intoxicating.

“It’s really no trouble… Robin?” he assures her, his eyes flickering down to her name tag and landing on her face once again, his smile widening ever so gently. She returns the smile carelessly, though as Will’s eyes, previously fixed on the boy’s face, dart towards her, she gives him a curious look before leaning into the divider. He knows what the look means. He just wishes that she hadn’t given it to him.

Take care of your friend here, it says.

“You folks wouldn’t happen to serve milkshakes, would you?” the boy asks, his voice almost childlike with curiosity as he draws an arm back and rests it on the top of the seat. With a gentle nod, Robin clumsily flicks strand of thin beige hair out of her face, giving the strange boy an odd smile.

“Morning to night, yeah. Got a flavour preference?”

He seems to consider for a moment, touching two fingers to his chin as his eyes wander. Will can feel his palms heating up.

“Vanilla would be great, actually.”

Strawberry is better, Will thinks to himself, before he finds himself wishing to be kicked again.

As Robin turns away and gives Will a last questioning glance, she makes her way back behind the counter, leaving the two boys to face each other on their own once again. Will feels like his nerves are shot, and as the boy in front of him rests his elbows back on the table, Will wonders, of all the things to wonder, how he takes his coffee.

There is a moment of silence between them where Will has long forgotten the words that he’d attempted to say before Robin had approached them, and the boy doesn’t seem to be urgent to remind him. As though he’s been jabbed with a cattle prod, the boy suddenly sits upright a bit more, his eyes widening as his attention is caught. Gleaming, intrigued, he outstretches a hand across the table to offer it out to Will, eyes flashing briefly with something that Will can only describe as pure surprise.

"God, I'm sorry. Names would be good, right? What's yours?" the boy asks, voice low like he's trying to keep his words sheltered from the other booth occupants. Will can feel a lump building in his throat, and as he pushes himself, reaching out and stiffly taking the boy's hand to shake, the warmth from the inside of this stranger’s palm sends him into a fit of contradictory chills. He almost doesn’t want to give it up for a moment, but the words seem to cross his lips before he can stop himself.

 "....Will. Er..... Will Byers," Will answers after a moment, crossing the silence between them out as they meet eyes, and something clicks deep down inside of Will's brain. He doesn't quite know what it is yet, but he understands that this boy isn't just being courteous and wishing him a good night. He understands that he’s got an ulterior motive, whether it be altogether a friendly one or less so. All he knows for sure is that he’s been holding onto the boy’s hand since he’s offered it, and for several seconds, as Will’s face flushes, neither of them seem to be letting go.

"Will Byers? Byers? Like with a ‘Y’?” the boy asks inquisitively, leaning forward onto the elbow of his free arm. Their hands are still wrapped around each other, and Will feels like he’s suffocating.

Byers like however you want to spell it, Will wants to say.

“Byers with a y, yes,” he repeats instead, eyes glazing with curiosity. The boy beams at this, a warm smile that matches the feeling growing in Will’s chest.

“Sick name. Nice to meet you," he says as he finally releases his grip on Will's hand, leaning into his palm as Will’s fingers drift closed. Taking his hand back from the table, Will’s fingers fly towards a loose thread on the thigh of his jeans.

"Well, my name's Mike. Short for Michael, last name Wheeler," the boy, Mike, exhales slowly, his ebony eyes scanning Will's face for some sort of reaction. As Will stiffens under his gaze, his fingers begin to tap against the hem of his pants.

“Wheeler? Like with a ‘w’?” Will asks dryly.

Mike's subtle smile breaks into a full on grin and he lets out a playful laugh, shaking his head as though Will has said something truly hilarious. Will suddenly can’t find it in himself to feel mortified about his piteous joke. The only thing he can think about is when the next time he’ll be able to make Mike laugh will be.

“You’re slick. I like that.” Mike hums softly, his eyes flickering down towards the table as Will leans into it, flipping the cover of his notebook closed before Mike can get a good look at it. Almost sensing the anxiety rippling through Will, Mike’s eyes dart upwards again, studying Will’s expression like he’s cracking his code. Their eyes fix on each other for a moment, and somewhere deep in the back of his brain, as no words threaten to separate them, Will thinks he can hear the second coming of the Big Bang inside his own head.

"You look nervous, Will Byers," Mike offers, eyes finally peeling away from Will as his gaze darts towards the front counter and back down towards the laminated mini menu inside of it’s stand on the table. Will knows Mike isn't really looking towards the menu. He almost seems to be trying to play like he isn't playing attention, and Will, who finds this both confusing and compelling, leans forward in his seat.

“Might have something to do with the strange boy who just barged in on my peace and quiet,” Will suggests suddenly, almost biting down on his own tongue immediately following as his fingers grip the edge of his notebook. Mike’s lips part ever so slightly, an astonished smile threatening to give him away as his brows flick upwards, his face a mirror of the shock Will feels internally. It’s the same wit that his friends had always loved, the same wit that got him in trouble at home, with his father.

Don’t think about that, Will’s thoughts scream.

Before he can grab a moment to apologize for his snip, Mike’s surprise has twisted into a pleased, almost bemused smirk.

"Strange? Ah, maybe. Peace and quiet?” Mike raises a brow as he glances towards the discarded earbuds connected to Will’s cassette player. His eyes trace the writing along the inside of the clear player. As his gaze finds Will’s once more, stare full of amusement, the tension between them is sliced thin again by the gentle clink of a glass against the tabletop.

“Vanilla milkshake for you, my dude,” Robin says softly as she places a napkin down right next to Mike’s glass, brushing her hands against her apron and shooting a look between the two boys. Where Mike must seem so calm, collected, even playfully amused, Will imagines he looks like he’s struggling to breathe, red in the cheeks as he peers across the table at the frothy white drink. Mike gives her a quick nod, another warm smile. Will’s hands find the tabletop once more, begging internally for himself to stop fidgeting.

“Thanks.”

As Robin disappears one more time, Will runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, watching as Mike blindsides the drink that has just been delivered to him as he turns back towards Will, eyes on the pamphlet again.

“Say…" Mike begins, his lips parting as he seems like he's spotted something particularly good on the menu. Glancing down the stretch of cafe behind Will as he leans into the table, folding his fingers together and showing no sign of interest towards his milkshake, Mike finally looks back towards Will. "Have you got a girlfriend, Byers with a Y?" 

He's just flat enough in his delivery that Will can’t tell whether he’s joking or not. Crossing his right foot behind the ankle of his left, Will feels instantly unsure of himself.

In passing, he wonders: Do you?

“No…” he mumbles, somehow embarrassed of something he never considered before, watching as Mike nods like he’s been expecting such an answer. Will feels a cheap response crawling into his throat, but Mike poses another question before he can say anything.

“Okay, well,” Mike begins again, leaning forward far enough that there is barely a foots distance between their hands, “have you got a boyfriend then?”

There’s the kicker.

Will’s eyes widen as he stares into Mike’s face, watching as his previously passive expression shifts into something of brimming amusement. Will can feel his face heating up with every passing second and as he tears his gaze away from Mike, unable to look him in the eyes any longer, Mike lets out a low, patient chuckle.

“I don’t judge, you can tell me,” Mike says, cooing like a worried mother.

The blush, growing more furious with Mike’s chide, crawls upwards from Will’s cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears.

“I—I’m not sure why any of this matters, but no,” Will stammers, resisting the urge to drum his fingers against the tabletop. As Mike watches him, gaze intent like a hawk, his attention flickers towards the half empty coffee cup sitting in front of Will.

“Is that still hot?” Mike asks, and Will finds that he’s unable to keep himself from speaking off topic.

“What’re you doing, honestly? Do you just get a kick out of messing with people? Is that your idea of a peaceful Hawkins Thursday night?” Will exhales sharply, and Mike’s attention is caught once more. Eyes turning back towards Will, he gives the boy a tender smile. He prays for some sort of explanation, anything, something. He can feel his heart thumping against his chest and he doesn’t know if he can keep up the guessing game much longer.

Mike leans back in his seat, just enough to make Will regret his question.

“I’m meeting somebody here pretty soon, and I need your help with something. It’s easy, alright? You’ve just got to answer my questions first,” Mike explains, slowly but surely, and even this dull piece of information gives Will some sort of temporary ease. As he quirks a brow in response, Will pulls his hands from the table and crosses his arms over his chest, ensuring himself a break from his nervous fidgeting. He doesn’t know why he feels so fine with a stranger asking him things, or why he doesn’t feel worried about his demands, but some part of him wonders, deep down: what’ve I got to lose?

“O--kay,” Will murmurs, passive, watching Mike as he begins again. He’s not quite sure what’s about to spill out of the boy’s mouth, and yet he is still taken back.

“How expensive is that jacket?” Mike asks, a question that Will finds completely irrelevant to whatever situation Mike seems to be putting him in.

Before he can open his mouth and bark back an unimpressed response, Will is interrupted by the sudden harsh whap of the café’s front door against the wall. The jingle of the bell hanging above the entrance is violent in response, and as Will peels his eyes off of Mike and glances nervously over the boy’s shoulder, he watches a rather unhappy looking blonde marches into the foyer, her shoes clicking sharply against the laminated flooring as she lets the door sling shut behind her with a sharp click. Will can practically feel the anger radiating off of her from half a dozen seats away, and as Mike twists back towards the doorway in quick succession, peering back over the divider and spotting the young woman by the door, his posture grows tense.

As the young lady turns either way, her thin curls bouncing in an almost cartoonish fashion, she finally settles her gaze on the two of them far down the right, and Will recognizes her face to his dismay just as her eyes ignite with hot, bubbling anger.

Now, what the hell does someone like this guy have to do to piss off Liza Fring, Will thinks.

Liza Fring, of course, isn’t exactly average. Indeed, she’s far from it.

This is mostly common knowledge, particularly at Hawkins High.  The spoiled rotten daughter of one of Hawkins’ more well off families, Will’s seen and experienced her many times at school, daily; none of them having been quite pleasant experiences. They were always somehow filled with non-so-quiet chides about his demeanor; the way he walked, talked, the way he seemed to fit in so much better with the women in his classes than the bumbling jocks she always slung herself around with, even if he really never speaks to anyone outside of his two childhood best friends.

As Will sinks back into his seat a bit, his fight or flight locked and loaded and ready to kick into gear, Mike twists back around towards Will and, with a passing, trusting glance into his eyes, reaches out and spreads his fingers around the edge of Will’s coffee cup, sliding it towards the inside of the table next to Mike’s right side.

“Remember: play along,” Mike urges, a trusting smile crossing his lips as he reaches up and zips up the front of his hoodie a couple inches. Liza is at their table, heels clicking loudly in her wake, before Will has any time to question what he’s playing along with.

“Michael,” Liza hisses through frowning crimson lips, crossing her arms over her chest as her eyes dart between Mike and Will, a bitter glimmer of hatred flashing behind her stare as she observes Will for more time than he’s comfortable. He feels like dying prey being observed by a circling pack of vultures, and as his gaze darts down towards the table, she finally tears her eyes away from him, turning back to Mike as he watches her with something even less than disinterest.

“Michael, darling,” she tries again, resting a thin, pale hand on the table, stepping towards Mike’s side of the booth as she blindsides Will entirely. “Are you going to explain that phone call to me? Because if this is your idea of some shitty fuckin’ joke…”

Darling, Will repeats in his brain, refraining from cringing. Darling, darling, darling.

Her tone is acidic, bitter like freshly cut lemon as she makes an attempt to slide into the seat next to Mike. Before she can even crouch, however, Mike juts an arm out to block her from doing so. Will thinks in blind fear, as her fingers press hard into the table, that she might burst into flames at any moment, like a vampire in sunlight.

“There’s really no point in sitting down,” Mike insists, his tone ice cold in the face of this girl in comparison to the way they’d been speaking moments earlier. “You’re not going to be here for very long, I don’t think.”

Mike has lit the match, and with each word he’s dousing the fiery young girl in gasoline. Her nails click sharply against the tabletop, and it takes everything in Will not to get up and run.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispers in a white hot fury.

“Listen, Liza—“ Mike begins, but he is silence by the blast of anger that comes spewing from her lips. His mouth falls shut in bored protest, and though his eyes dart down briefly, Will watches as Mike’s gaze meets his, and they exchange what feels like a look of pure, dwindling understanding. Against the tense air around them, Mike raises a brow in Will’s direction, as if to say: can you believe this shit?

“No, you listen to me, Wheeler,” she cuts into him, hand gripping the edge of the table fiercely as she continues, face tight with anger. “You’re not breaking up with me. You know why that is?” she demands, and almost comically, Mike leans back into his seat like he’s having an absolutely leisurely time, giving her such a dull shrug that only seems to make her grow even more furious, a feat that Will didn’t think was possible.

He’s almost to preoccupied with her statement, though, to be entirely concerned about where her anger is coming from. He’d heard about Liza having boyfriends, sure, she always has boyfriends, Will thinks. But as he slinks back in his chair ever so slowly, like he’s trying to sink right into the leather upholstery itself, his brain can’t quite wrap itself around the situation at hand. He can’t imagine Mike being one of those boyfriends.

What does this shit have to do with me?

“I’ll tell you why; it’s because I don’t get broken up with. Not by you, not by anybody, and certainly not because you think all of a sudden that you’re a god damn qu—”  

Will’s heart, he’s sure, stops for several seconds, just as Liza turns her serpentine gaze upon him.

There is some sort of a realization in her eyes, something that Will is entirely missing, until she presses her lips tightly together, like she’s forming words for several seconds before she sneers at him.

“You,” she seethes.

For a minute, Will thinks as his eyes lock with Mike’s, a testing, dark eyed gaze meeting his, he’s sure that he hates Mike Wheeler. He’s sure of it.

So that’s what he wanted from me.

“I—“ Will stammers, but Liza’s gaze has shot back towards Mike before he can defend himself.

“This is who you’re breaking up with me for?” Liza babbles disbelievingly, a stunned laugh escaping her lips as she observes Mike with nothing less than doubtful aggravation. Mike, a warm, clearly infuriating smile playing on his lips, simply shrugs once more. Will imagines, in a moment, that Mike really must want to get his ass kicked. It takes Will a moment, however, to realize that he’s been holding his breath since Liza’s gaze silenced him.

For the first time since she approached the table, Mike seems to take interest, looking as though he’s thinking quite hard about the situation at hand as he leans towards Liza, watching as she eyes him with some sort of mistrusting confusion. As he raises a hand from the table, making a beckoning motion with his hand, Liza’s thin brows furrow and she leans in ever so slightly closer. Will can feel his stomach churning, violent like a raging sea.

“Liza, baby—“ Mike begins, his voice a sweet hum that, even in it’s own context, sends a spike of chills up the sides of Will’s upper arms. He senses the mocking in Mike’s tone, seemingly before Liza does, and Will can feel his face draining of colour.

Whatever it is, Will thinks desperately, don’t you fucking say it.

With a pleasant smile, Mike’s eyes scan Liza’s face for some sort of entry into her mind. With a passive, relaxed sigh, he shakes his head.

“He’s better in bed than you are. That’s enough reason on it’s own, never mind the fact that you’re just super boring,” Mike purrs, his voice as sultry as it is outright cutting.

Will thinks he might pass out, choke, or scream, each for a multitude of reasons he doesn’t understand. Will, normally pretty passive Will, wants to reach across the table and strangle the boy in front of him himself.

Any sense of cooling confusion in Liza’s eyes floods with an overwhelming sense of outrage. Will can feel his fight or flight kicking in, but as he sits trapped inside his seat with Liza blocking his only exit, he can only sit and relish in the sheer embarrassment of his fictional place in the situation.

Stepping back, Liza takes no time to reel back and land a hard slap across Mike’s cheek. His head whips only slightly to the side as his mouth drops open, unable to hide the sheer shock and entertainment sinking into him as he reaches up and presses his fingers to his cheek, likely incredibly hot in comparison to his already warm hands. As though he can’t control himself, a short gasp-like laugh escapes Mike’s throat.

“Hah— holy shit!” he mumbles, his voice ripe with amazement as Will looks on in sheer dismay.

I can’t take it, Will’s mind screams. I can’t. I can’t do this.

“Liza, listen—“ Will suddenly gasps, her name whizzing from his lips before he can think to stop himself. He doesn’t know what he’s about to say, or what difference it might make. Though in an instant, as Mike’s eyes fill with sheer disbelief and he turns to look at Will, still clutching his cheek like a wounded child, Will understands that he’s made a mistake. He understands even more surely, as Liza zones in on him and her fingers likely grow desperate for something else to claw at, what Mike’s thinking was early on. All his questions. As Liza’s eyes dart down towards the untouched milkshake lingering at the outer edge of the table, Will understands exactly why Mike did what he did. Why his still hot coffee is sitting just far enough out of reach from the girl’s fidgeting hands, where Mike made sure to place it.

“No, wait—“

He applauds Mike’s planning internally, but only for that sheer moment, before Liza grabs the bottom of the decorative glass and flings it’s contents into Will’s chest.

Will discovers, immediately, that there isn’t much worse than the feeling of milk and ice cream soaking into a denim shirt. Squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a tiny yelp as the mixture splashes into his chest, throwing his hands up in defense just a couple seconds too late, Will grimaces hard, the cold mixture seeping into his clothes almost immediately.

As he finally lets his eyes cautiously open into a squint, Will watches as Liza storms back towards the front doors, her heels tapping furiously against the floor as she marches away in a huff. Blonde hair swaying back and forth as she finally makes it to the door and flings it open, Will wonders if this second time she might truly take it off it’s hinges. As it bangs against the wall once more, whipping shut with a simple whoosh of escaping air, Will catches movement behind the front counter along with a flash of crimson hair as Robin peers over the counter towards the front door, having rushed out likely to come confront whoever was causing the ruckus but having come just too late.

“Better than hot coffee, right?”

In an instant, Will remembers just who is sitting directly across from him. He can’t seem to pry his eyes away from Robin, however, and when she gives her head a simply shake and turns to head back behind the counter, her eyes land on Will and she stops dead in her tracks. She stares, baffled for a moment before she makes direct eye contact with Will and goes to shimmy around the side of the counter to go see what the mess is about.

Before she can get too far, however, Will gives his head a quick shake, snapping back into reality as he understands his predicament. He thanks whatever luck he has that Robin understands and listens to his simple gesture, as she stops once more, eyeing him with displeasure for a moment before she purses her lips and gives him a questioning stare. She stands, impatient only for another split second, before she lets out a visible sigh and turns, escaping back behind the counter. Will turns back towards Mike quickly, ready to tear into him immediately.

“Why the hell did you tell her that we’re—“

Will is cut short by the sight in front of him, his hand outstretched but hovering next to the napkin holder as he observes the boy before him, the subtle anger in his voice dribbling away. Will knows, immediately, that he’s making himself obvious at this point. Whether Mike reads his pause as something personal or simply a moment of shock, Will doesn’t know. He hopes the latter.

Mike is sitting with both his elbows resting on the table in front of him, slouching like he’s just sat down after a long day’s work. In his free hand lays the side of his face that had gone unscathed by the vicious wack that Liza had given him, and in his other hand he clutches the empty milkshake glass, still chilled enough for the purpose he’s using it for as he has it pressed to his vibrantly pink cheek. He’s got his eyes lightly shut, a look of sudden peace reflected on his face as several jet black curls hang loose in front of his eyes. For a moment, Will’s words slink back into his throat, which has since slammed shut. His lips fall closed, quickly, and he finds that he can’t bring himself to interrupt this sheer moment of bliss as Mike lets out a soft hum of relief.

“That we’re what?” Mike chuckles, eyes still closed. “Finish your sentence, Will. You don’t seem like the type to say what I think you’re about to.”

Who’d have thought that such a pretty boy would have such a loud mouth, Will thinks, swallowing hard as he watches Mike come back from his momentary sense of euphoria. Heavy lids drifting open, Mike’s dark eyes fixate on Will as a pleased, sleepy smile forms on his soft pink lips. Removing the glass after several seconds, Mike places it back down on the table with a quiet clink and reaches back up, using his sleeve to wipe a spot of vanilla milkshake from his cheek.

“Byers?” Mike hums softly, reaching his opposite hand towards where Will’s fingers hang still frozen by the napkin dispenser.

“Huh?” Will questions easily, watching in an almost hypnotized state as Mike presses his now cooled fingertips to his cheek.

He smiles, sweet like sugar, and Will nearly melts into his seat.

“You’re staring at me,” Mike coos, his voice ever so complacent as Will snaps immediately back into the present, ripe with embarrassment.

Dropping his gaze from Mike’s face, Will’s attention returns to the mess that is rapidly growing sticker by the minute. Reaching out and snatching napkins from the dispenser in a rushed fashion, Will begins wiping desperately at the thick mess on his button up, doing his best to get off the majority before it really starts to dry. He knows it’ll likely stain, and if not, he’s forever going to have this memory ingrained in his subconscious.

This shirt here marks the day I played gay for a boy who needed to break up with his girlfriend, all while being actually super gay for the boy himself, Will thinks stubbornly, his cheeks flushing in response. In turn, he dabs at his shirt with more energy.

“Vanilla is less likely to stain, I think… yeah, I think that’s true,” Mike murmurs as he offers out a handful of napkins, letting Will snatch them from his grip without another word. Will glances up only briefly, long enough to catch Mike zipping up the front of his jacket and drawing his hood up. Will slows, pausing as a frown crosses his face.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving me like this,” Will exhales sharply, hating how desperate he sounds but knowing he’s got a point. Mike turns his head upwards as his zipper reaches just below his collarbone, eyes darting down towards Will’s notebook. He considers the object for a moment, and, sparing a glance at Will, Mike reaches out and snags it from the table, ignoring the look of complete horror that crosses Will’s face as he does so. Will’s free hand darts out to grab it, but Mike swings it just out of his reach, giving Will a trying look.

“No grabbing,” Mike chides, like he’s scolding a child, and Will can’t help but gawk.

“Says you!” he rebukes, watching impatiently as Mike grabs one of Will’s pens in return. He wants to make another grab for it, the sight of his drawings in the hands of a stranger rather unsettling, but as he watches Mike through his shot nerves, he finds he’s growing less concerned about what Mike might do with his book and more concerned about what he’s writing in it.

Flipping the cover back, Mike leans into the table just slightly and pens in a short brief sentence, hardly visible from Will’s spot at the other side of the booth. Continuing to half-heartedly clean his top, Will’s brows furrow as Mike closes the cover on his work, capping the pen and sliding the contents back towards Will, careful not to slide them right into the ice cream mush on the table.

“As much as I’d love for you to not think I’m an asshole, I really can’t stay here and help you,” Mike admits, his voice suddenly apologetic as he slides out towards the end of the booth, turning out and stretching his legs momentarily with an accompanying groan as he continues. “Thanks for this, though. I know I didn’t really give you much of a choice, but it sort of had to happen,” Mike sighs, glancing back at Will as he climbs out of the booth, raising his arms over his head as he gives his back a gentle stretch. Will’s hands have stilled once again, most of the goop off of the front of his shirt as he stares, baffled and perplexed, up at Mike’s face.

“Had to happen, huh?” Will mumbles, piling all his napkins together in an effort to keep from making more of a mess.

“I like you, Will Byers. You make a good fake boyfriend,” Mike suggests through a small laugh, a flash of teeth, and Will feels his heart clench hard inside of his chest, hands freezing over the damp tissues.

Boyfriend.

Fake boyfriend, stupid. Calm down.

“I wrote my phone number in your book, there,” Mike carries on, adjusting the bottom of his jacket as he begins to walk down the stretch in front of the booths. “So if you want to help me again, y’know, in the future… I’d definitely take you up on it.”

Take me up on it.

You’d take me up on what?

Flabbergasted, Will stares at the back of Mike’s hood as he heads down towards the door, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. Dropping his final napkin onto the table with a dull splat, Will stands up from his spot inside of the booth, watching as Mike rounds the corner towards the door.

“What the hell are you even doing?” Will calls after him, finally finding his voice centuries after he should have in the first place. He doesn’t care if the few other customers hear him now. His words nearly snag in his throat as his nerves creep up on him, but Will stands his ground.

As Mike wraps his fingers around the door handle, glancing back towards Will as the boy calls out to him, that same kind, peachy smile that he’d been giving Will the entire time tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Not much, really. I’m just trying to ruin my life,” Mike offers, eyes darting towards towards the floor before he tugs the door open and escapes out into the rainy outdoors, leaving Will with the same tinkle of the bells he’d heard when he’d arrived.

In the ten minutes between Mike’s departure and Dustin’s arrival, Will’s mind never strays from the image of Mike’s face.

He wonders why he can’t quite pull his mind away from the boy, wiping away at the table with quickly soaking napkins as his mind wanders.

If you want to help me again.

I’d definitely take you up on it.

What does that even mean?

When Robin comes by to try and stop Will from cleaning the mess himself, he is adamant, ensuring her that he has to do something about it because in a way, the mess is his own fault. It takes a bit of convincing, but she disappears back behind the counter for several minutes to grab a wet rag by his request, watching him with tentative pity as he wipes the counter clean before she turns and hurries down the aisle to tend to the last few customers they’ll likely have for the night.

Help you with what, exactly?

Last time I ‘helped’ you, I got milkshake all over me.

I’m going to hear all about this tomorrow, Will thinks. Like Liza doesn’t have enough to scream about.

By the time Dustin arrives, Will has got his backpack slung over his shoulders, dropping the mess of napkins into the trash bin out front as the headlights from Dustin’s Chevy cut through the glass front windows like a laser. Will raises a hand and gestures for Dustin to give him only a second more as he makes his way back towards the table, feeling like a right asshole for causing such a mess, and even more so like an idiot for being left to clean it up on his own. He wants to be frustrated with the boy over this, and deep down, he is. Yet, those dark eyes still haunt the backs of his eyelids, and he can’t seem to calm his heartbeat as he scoops his notebook up off the table, shoving his pencil case into his jacket pocket.

I like you, Will Byers.

You make a good fake boyfriend.

Shithead.

Gripping his notebook under his arm so as not to take any extra time prying his bag off his back, Will ducks his head down as he spares a last apology to Robin on his way out the door, giving her a slight wave as he tucks his book under his coat. Stepping out into the rain and rushing to the passenger’s side of Dustin’s truck, Will yanks open the handle and climbs into his seat at a rate that might suggest his life depends on it.

I wrote my number in your book, there.

From the driver’s seat, Dustin peers across at Will’s shirt as though the boy’s grown three heads since he’s sat down. Will is shivering already. In response, Dustin reaches out and cranks up the heat.

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Dustin croaks, peeling his eyes away from Will as he glances upwards into the rear view mirror, backing out of the parking lot and wasting no time. Will leans into his seat, pulling his notebook out and setting it on his lap easily. He lets out a small scoff, cringing at the idea of what Dustin is likely thinking.

“Vanilla milkshake,” Will responds, and Dustin eases, but only slightly. His disgust is rapidly replaced with confusion.

“Still just as fuckin’ gross. We all know chocolate is superior. You gonna explain that?” Dustin murmurs through a laugh, pulling out onto the main road and turning in the direction of Will’s home, downtown Hawkins looking like nothing more than an abandoned ghost town in the rear view as the two stare ahead through the path of the Chevy’s headlights. As Will turns his attention down towards his notebook, something clicks inside of him.

If you want to help me again.

Flipping open the cover of the notebook, Will is barely able to read the writing scrawled on the front page at first. He can see enough to know that it’s written in a sinful red. Fitting, Will thinks, as his heart drops into the pit of his stomach, the streetlights illuminating the text periodically, enough for the boy to see what it says.

“It’s a long story. Tomorrow, maybe,” Will breathes as he stares down at the page, touching a fingertip to the paper.

Just dried, in crimson ink, reads the digits of what Will presumes to be Mike’s real phone number, along with a crudely scribbled note:

I’ll make it up to you, Will Byers. If you’ll let me.

- Mike

Chapter Text

It’s nearly two full weeks before Will finally decides to dial the number in red.

He doesn’t quite know what’s been stopping him. He’d torn the scrap of paper out of his book the moment he’d gotten into the private quarters of his room that evening, and ever since then it’s been pinned on the wall above his bed frame, just below his wrinkled, well loved Men At Work vinyl held up by push pins. Every time he passes it, Will considers the digits for what feels like ages before he finally blows it off once more and retreats to do whatever he’d been planning on doing.

But two weeks after Will met Mike, he makes the decision one early afternoon to call him.

Standing in front of his home phone, Will presses his back tight against the wall as he stares down into the half-crumpled slip of notebook paper between his fingers. He taps a finger patiently against the back of the receiver as his best friends chatter through the three-way line about something that feels meaningless, but isn’t really. Something school related, maybe. Something Will really can’t bring himself to care about. He can hear the lull of Bowie’s Diamond Dogs album playing from record player down the hall, too loud for anyone’s taste but his own, and as Will takes in the lack of human presence between him and his bedroom, he can’t help but smile.

He is alone, in the best way. Home alone.

Will doesn’t know where his father escapes to on Wednesday mornings, or week day mornings in general, and truthfully, he had never really cared to know. As long as he isn’t home, Will is completely at peace with whatever section of town Lonnie might be stumbling around in, because it is, indeed, not his problem. He knows the bar, any bar, is the most likely place to find him. Will remembers in a daze, one day when he was younger and he had tagged along with Jonathan to go pick up their father from one of his escapades. They’d sat in front of the bar, whatever it had been called, for several minutes before Jonathan had simply muttered something in a rather disdainful tone before climbing out of the car and going inside to fetch Lonnie himself.

Like a pig in shit, Will remembers suddenly. That was what he said.

The sudden twist in his stomach isn’t new. He’d felt it that day several years back, too. Like a pig in shit.

That feeling, that awful feeling, crawls back through Will’s nerves like molten steel.

Stop thinking about it.

“Jesus… fuckin— Earth to Will!”

Returning to the real world from his short, depressing delve into the far parts of his brain, Will straightens up against the wall, suddenly viciously aware of his current situation.

“Right,” Will blurts in response, running his index finger over the back of the paper, “yeah, no, I agree.”

A moment of silence.

“Will,” Lucas sighs through the receiver, “we’ve been trying to get your attention for, like, 5 minutes.”

Lucas doesn’t mean to be condescending, but Will sure does feel small then.

“A-Ah… I’m… I’m sorry, I just—”

“Do you want us to just call you later?”

Will responds slowly, his voice unsure but honest as he feels embarrassment creeping over him. He knows Lucas isn’t angry. Instead, his heart fabricates that idea on it’s own, stirring a reaction in Will that makes him feel ill.

“No, I’m listening now, you were saying—“ Will mumbles softly, clutching the phone a bit tighter. He doesn’t want to admit that he wants to get off this three way call and tap in the digits on the slip between his fingers, before he loses the courage to do so.

“—That we’re still on for tonight,” Dustin finishes for him, and Will can almost picture the boy pacing back and forth over the carpeted flooring of his living room. In an instant, Will remembers the plans he’d made earlier that week with the two of them. He runs his finger over the paper in his hand, grimly contemplating wrapping the phone cord around his neck and going slack.

Bringing the phone away from his ear for a moment, Will shuts his eyes impatiently, tapping the receiver against his forehead twice before bringing it back to his ear.

“— Y’know, for Star Wars.” Dustin continues, his voice growing lilted like his point hasn’t already been proved.

“For Star Wars,” Will repeats, blank. Almost too obvious. Lucas, as he always has and always does, catches Will’s tone immediately.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I— No, I didn’t forget,” Will begins, thumbing the paper once more. He forces his fingers to still, thinking that if he keeps rubbing he might wear the ink right off the page.

He doesn’t know how to explain that he’s had other things to worry about. He doesn’t know how to explain that he wants to see the two of them, that he always does, but sometimes their presence is a little too much. He doesn’t know how to say this and assure them that it’s his fault, not theirs. He doesn’t know how to tell his friends that he’s been thinking about a boy with dark hair and dark eyes and freckled cheeks, a boy he’s seen once in person but can’t stop dwelling on. He doesn’t know how to tell them anything, really. He knows he can. He just doesn’t know if he wants to.

I’ve been thinking too hard about my father lately even though he doesn’t think hard about me, Will wants to say.

“I just forgot what day today is,” Will tries instead, not the first lie he’s told and certainly not the last.

“Tuesday, you space cadet,” responds Dustin, and Lucas’ silence speaks for itself.

“You’re still coming, right?” Lucas asks finally, his voice level but unimpressed. Will can feel his displeasure through the phone.

“Yes.”

“You better be,” Dustin sighs into the phone, “because we’ve been talking about doing this for weeks. All night, no sleep. Sleep is for the weak, you dig? Also; you’re still on chip duty.”

“Chip duty?”

“Is that a problem?”

The tiniest of smiles breaks across Will’s lips at the sound of Dustin’s mock aggression. He can’t take him seriously.

“What flavour, your Majesty?” Will replies, wryly.

“Not barbecue,” Lucas chimes in suddenly, earning a laugh from the two other boys.

“Not barbecue. Got it,” Will mumbles, suddenly remembering the paper clutched between his fingers. “Listen, I’ve got some more work to do, but I’ll see you guys around 6, alright?” Will speaks clearly into the receiver. He feels like he’s being obvious, practically itching to get off the phone at this point, but neither of the boys seem to call him out on it.

“Sure, Will.” Dustin sounds amicable as one of them shuffles on the other end of the line. “I’ve got to clean my place a bit, but I’ll shoot you a phone call before 7, alright?”

“Alright,” Lucas and Will say in unison, and they can hear the sound of a phone click as Dustin places his home phone back into the receiver, ceasing his side of the conversation and leaving the other two boys alone. Will feels this already, through the silence that stretched across the connection between their landlines. Will has been friends with Dustin and Lucas long enough to know the main difference between the two of them, though there were many.

Will had called Dustin the night he’d met Mike for a multitude of reasons. He’d called Dustin because Will knew he’d still be awake, where Lucas was usually in bed at a reasonable hour. He’d called Dustin, also, because he knew that Dustin would come and get him without making him explain himself. The primary reason Will had called Dustin, however, was that Dustin wouldn’t have needed an answer. Dustin is passive, and taking one look up and down at Will as he had climbed into the boy’s truck was almost enough of an answer for him. Lucas would have worked an explanation out of him. An explanation that would open up a whole new can of worms for Will.

He still might. Will didn’t really give him one, and he really hadn’t given him the time in the past week and a half to talk about it. When Will brings the headset away from his ear to slot it back into it’s holder, he hears Lucas speak up.

“Don’t hang up,” Lucas rushes, quickly, but firmly. Will’s fingers dig into the headset as they hover over the wall mount, before he brings it back to his ear.

“I wasn’t going to,” Will lies.

“Sure you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t— look, I just need to get going.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

Will lets his eyes fall shut, knowing just how long this conversation is going to feel.

“Is not telling you even an option?” Will asks, and though he hates how off-putting it comes across as, he means it that way. Fully. Will remembers the last time he told Lucas about something, about his father. Lucas had kept a close, parental eye on him for the rest of that week. He’d hated it more than he hated being home.

It isn’t that Will hates that someone cares, of course not. He just hates that someone cares enough to do something about it.

On the other end, Lucas scoffs.

“You’re sounding awful condescending right now.” Will listens as a long sigh escapes from Lucas’ lips through the phone line. He doesn’t open his eyes, only leans his head back into the wall.

“I don’t mean to be, I swear,” Will replies, quietly.

“But you are. Whether you mean to be or not.”

“I just… it was a weird night. It’s difficult to try and explain,” Will tries, raising his free hand and pressing his index and middle finger into the hollow of his cheek.

“So try.”

Will does his best not to huff, though he desperately wants to.

“I can’t.” He pushes the phone tighter to his ear. His fingers begin to rub, slowly, against the firm bone of his bottom jaw. He can feel his urge to be on the phone dwindling at a significant rate.

“You said it’s difficult. You didn’t say you can’t.”

“Can I just talk to you tonight? After I…  after I get my work done?” Will asks, briskly. My work, he thinks to himself. What work? There is a pause on the other end of the line that Will isn’t too keen about.

“Fine. You promise you’ll explain yourself?”

“I promise.” Will is bringing the phone away from his ear when Lucas speaks up again.

“Will?”

A pause.

“Yes?”

“You know you can always talk t—“

Will cuts that one short unapologetically. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Lucas,” Will urges, quickly, before his eyes flutter open and he turns back towards the wall, sliding the phone into it’s receiver with a sharp clunk. The room is silent now except for the hum of Will’s music in the background, and Rebel Rebel won’t stop the sudden emptiness that echoes inside of Will’s chest. He feels hollow, like a carved out jack-o-lantern. Bowie’s voice burns into the back of his brain and Will rests his right shoulder hard against the wall, placing his right temple there, too.

He thinks, finally, he doesn’t hate that they act like they care. He only hates that he has to see it. 

When things get bad, Will thinks, pressing the back of his hand against the wall as well like he wants to sink right into it, I don’t need to be coddled, or cared for. Because what’s the point?

What’s the point in acting like you’re loved if everything points to the fact that you aren’t?

Suddenly, he remembers what he’s promised to do. He swallows hard, his throat dry as a desert as he straightens himself back up. He needs to stop wallowing. Stop sinking into it or else he’ll never get anything done. He clears his throat, staring down at the slip before he brings the phone back out of it’s cradle, propping it between his shoulder and the side of his face so he has a free hand to dial.

He inputs every single number with precision, checking the paper a million times over (as if he hasn’t already done so) just to make sure he’s done it completely right. Even as the phone begins to ring, he wonders if he did. He begins to dwell, to think maybe he should just hang up before anyone answers. Mike won’t even remember anyways, he tells himself. All it is was a weird night in town with a strange boy who was just fucking with you. You know that. So you ought to just hang up the phone now and—

The line picks up midway through the third droning ring.

“Wheeler residence,” a young woman says, catching Will off guard and throwing his mind into a blank state. He wasn’t expecting anyone to pick up, let alone a girl. Some part of him, even, had wondered if Mike gave him a fake number. As he fumbles with his words, Will sputters out a name, shaking his head to try and clear the odd surprise that has washed over him.

“Yes— Mike Wheeler,” Will blurts, giving himself a mental kick as he realized what a lunatic he must sound like. “Is… Is he home?”

“Who’s asking?” the woman on the other end asks in a brisk snip. Will pauses.

Is there a right answer to that question?

“A friend from school.” Will responds slowly, hoping his words are enough of an explanation. He prays it is.

As though she’s read his mind, the girl lets out a small, airy laugh.

“My brother has friends?” she asks, baffled, and before Will can formulate a proper answer, he hears a sort of commotion on the other end of the call. What sounds like the phone being bumped, tugged, and the muffled sound of disgruntled argument. Will wants to ask if everything is fine, but he doesn’t know if it’s even his place to ask. He wants to ask for Mike again.

He doesn’t really know if he can do that either.

“Don’t grab things, you germ—“ the girl hisses.

“Give—stop– give me the fuckin’ phone, dummy,” a familiar voice suddenly echoes in the background, and with a little more ruckus, the noise settles down and Will can hear a sharp exhale on the other end.

“Wheeler residence, Michael speaking,” Mike says sweetly into the phone. Will suddenly realizes, shamefully, that he actually feels quite happy to hear the boy’s voice. He is glad that Mike can’t see him in any way, because he’s gotten to clenching the receiver hard. He thinks, this was a mistake. He’s not even going to remember that stupid shit at Honey’s. He’s not going to even remember who I am. Why does it matter? Hang up. Hang up.

He doesn’t know why but it does. He wants to hang up the phone. He doesn’t.

“Mike?” Will begins, feeling his nerves creeping up on him again, “Hey, it’s, uh… it’s—“

“Will Byers?” Mike finishes in a knowing hum, not even waiting for Will to spit out his own name.

Will nearly drops the phone right to the floor. He doesn’t think to point the mic away from himself when a startled, sharp exhale escapes his throat. In truth, he hadn’t even known it was coming. He thinks, now would be a good time to hang up the phone. Yes, it would.

He doesn’t.

“You—wh—yeah, it’s Will.” Will finally manages to say, listening intently to the other end of the line as he hears a thin laugh resonate through the ear piece.

“I thought that sounded like you,” Mike chides, his voice so casual that Will almost feels jealous. He wants to ask Mike how he recognized him, but he hides that deep down, burying the thought.

“You remember what I sound like after almost two weeks?” Will murmurs, embarrassed.

“I do. You’ve got a memorable voice. Besides, it wasn’t hard to figure out who might be calling for me.”

A memorable voice. My voice. Will pauses to think for a moment, trying to drive away the knot in his stomach. He thinks, you’ve got a memorable voice, too, Mike. Very memorable.

“What do you mean?” Will asks. He’s paying too much attention to how he sounds now.

“You heard big sis,” Mike explains easily, his voice still that consistent hum that makes Will want to push himself harder into the panelled wall behind him, “I don’t exactly have many friends. Don’t really have any, honestly. So, I assumed it was you.”

Will nods to himself, weakly, a bit let down though he’ll never admit it.

“You? Not having friends?”

“I know, right?” Mike scoffs on the other end, and Will imagines he’s smiling that same toothy grin Will had seen before. “I’m so charming. You’d think I’d be more popular.”

Will can’t curb the smile that tugs at his lips.  

“So you didn’t really recognize my voice.”

“No, I did, actually,” Mike said, his words spoken quick as though he doesn’t have to think about lying. Will, of course, assumes that he is. “I didn’t think you were going to call. I thought I was going to have to find a new friend.”

“You thought I’d let you down?”

“’Course not! I was getting antsy, but I knew you’d call, baby, I just knew it,” Mike says suddenly, a dramatic lilt in his voice like he’s reading a line off of a soap opera script.

Will can feel the blistering heat rushing in his cheeks and ears before it even fully washes over him.

Baby.

Jesus, he thinks.

Do you ever shut up?

Suddenly, as though he’s been entertained by nothing at all, Mike lets out a sharp, hearty laugh.

“Not really,” he admits, passively, and Will doesn’t really register what he’s responding to until he takes a moment to think. To think about what he’s just said out loud. Before he can squeeze out a mortified apology, Mike is chirping in again.

“What made you decide to call finally?”

Will doesn’t know how to tell the truth this time. He doesn’t know if he really can.

“I wasn’t sure if you were for real or not,” he admits, shifting the phone a bit closer to his ear. It’s the truth, even if it isn’t the whole truth. It’s easier than saying he’d thought about their strange first encounter over those two weeks more than once. “I thought maybe you just decided to fuck with some random dude because you got bored. You still might be doing that.”

“I’ve got better things to do when I’m bored.” Then, “Speaking of bored. What are you doing right now?”

Right now, Will thinks. Right now I’m talking to you when I should be getting ready to go out. He twists the phone against his palm a bit.

“Erm… right now?” Will repeats, feeling like a broken record. Mike chuckles quietly on the other end.

“Yes, you little song bird. Right now. What’re you doing?” Mike asks, his teasing only superficial, even if it makes Will squirm.

“Do you want to do something or did you just want to pick at me? ‘Cause I’ll hang up.”

“You’re just fun to pick at,” Mike says, quickly. “Don’t— don’t hang up. Just… what’re you doing?”

“Nothing. Not a thing,” Will responds, cautiously, not quite sure what’s about to be proposed to him.

“Okay,” Mike hums, as though he’s thinking. There is movement on the other end of the line. “What’re you going to be doing in the next few hours?”

Will knows he’s pushing it, and his logic isn’t the best either. He throws a glance towards the stove: 3:37.

“Nothing.”

Another lie, but he’s convinced he’ll make it.

“Do you know where the library is? In town?” Mike asks, the first fully serious thing he’s said likely since he’d picked up the phone.

“Downtown, by the Hawk theatre.” Will sees the building often when he travels by on his to school, finding himself ogling at it’s well-kept grey brick finish as he passes by. He can picture it, easily. Only an extra ten minutes away from Honey’s, at best. This is the perk of living in such a tiny town; nothing is ever too far apart.

“Yes, exactly,” Mike speaks briefly. “You think you can meet me there in, er, like an hour?”

Will smiles at the thought.

“That can be done. Should I bring clothes I don’t mind getting milkshake on?” Will asks slyly, joking for the most part but really, truly not knowing what to expect. The shirt he’d worn that night isn’t stained and most of the dairy drink came out of it, but Will can’t seem to look at it without thinking about the disgusting feeling of cold milk against his chest. He doesn’t think himself all too funny until he hears the rather joyful sound of Mike’s laugh on the other end of the line, light and breezy like the jingle of bells.

“No, no... no milkshake attire,” Mike assures him, stifling his laughter as he keeps talking, his own statement coaxing a few more stray giggles out of him. “I don’t have any more girlfriends to break up with. Promise. I just… want to make that up to you.”

Promise, Will’s mind echoes. I sure hope not. My wardrobe can’t take it. Neither can I.

“Promise?” he repeats out loud.

“Swear on my life. It’ll be great.” A pause. “So you’re in?”

He doesn’t take long to decide.

“I’m in,” Will caves, sealing his own fate.

“Lovely. I’ll see you in an hour.” Will can picture Mike nodding to himself, dressed just as post-sleep as he sounds. “Bring a jacket. It’s cold.”

“Yes, mom,” Will hums impatiently, ready to hang up the phone before he hears Mike pipe up once again.

“Oh, and Will?”

Will’s hand hovers, clutching the receiver a couple inches away from his ear, before he brings it close again.

“What?”

There is another pause on the other end, and Will hates it.

“Bring a blanket, too.” Mike tells him, and Will can imagine the shit-eating grin on his face as he slides the receiver into it’s holder at home, cutting their conversation short with the gaudy noise of a dropped call. Will’s lips open and close for a moment like a fish out of water, and he brings the receiver away from his ear, staring into it as though he might be able to find some sort of reasoning inside of the microphone.

After several seconds, Will places the phone back in it’s register and pads down the hallway, the ending of Rebel Rebel growing louder as he approaches his room.

Where'd you wanna go?

Will grabs his backpack from the foot of his bed. He moves in an almost rhythmic fashion. He peels the thin blanket draped across the end of the bed away and folds it up neat, stuffing it into the bag. Music narrates his movements as he kicks off the old sweatpants he’d woken up in, dressing up as quickly as he can as he tugs on a pair of dark brown corduroy pants and wiggles his way out of his oversized white t-shirt, exchanging it for a dark, navy coloured sweater with a thick red line wrapping around the torso like a racing stripe.

What can I do for you?

He’s quick now, and anxious. He’s going to see this strange, strange boy he’d met two weeks before and he doesn’t quite understand what’s so enthralling about that, about Mike specifically. Maybe the fact that he’s not sure what he’s getting himself into. That must be it, he thinks.

Looks like you've been there too

Will Byers has spent his entire life knowing exactly what to do, knowing exactly what’s going on. Yet, he can’t seem to predict anything about this. Not a thing. Can’t read this new boy like a book, not like he can with everyone else. Maybe that’s why he’s excited to see him again.

Because for once, Will doesn’t know what the fuck to expect.

Mike is a challenge Will is ready to take.

He takes almost no time to grapple with his hair, pushing it back from his eyes and snatching his coat from the hook on the wall beside his closet. Zipping up his bag and flicking off his record player, Will almost flies out the door, swinging it shut easily behind him as he goes. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t mind the walk as he heads down the lengthy dirt drive leading out towards the main road. He has something too look forward to at the end of that next 45 minutes, for the first time in a while. Something that isn’t coffee and crying. Something human.

-

It is nearly New Years Eve, and Hawkins is warm for the first time in weeks. Even if it won’t last.

The walk goes much quicker than Will expects it to. It is hardly drizzling that afternoon, but the threat of rain still hangs over Hawkins like a bitter warning. It never stops, not really. Even through winter, the weather is pretty dreary, and the sidewalks often grow slick with ice the moment the temperature drops below zero Celsius. Not today, though, and Will thanks his lucky stars that it hasn’t.

Hawkins is sleepy but jammed, and Will can’t act like he knows why. He imagined on his way in that people would be plentiful today, marching about and looking at the last remaining Christmas lights before the store owners finally buckle up and head outside to take them down. He’s almost spot on about that. Christmas has never been all that great for Will, but he never takes it to heart. He hopes in silence that the store owners will keep the lights up for another few days, at least. Just until New Years. He wants to come in and look at them one last time. He wants to savour that last little boost of seasonal joy before his little town goes back to being exactly what it’s always been; Hawkins, Indiana. The town that never stops crying.

How disgustingly relatable, Will thinks, as he rounds the corner towards the library, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. As he approaches that corner, the corner he knows leads to where he needs to be, Will takes a long, much needed inhale and stares at the edges of the alleyway like it’s a hungry, gaping mouth. Then he turns and steps into the opening.

When Will sees Mike again for the second time, he almost wants to turn around and walk that next 45 minutes right back home again.

The alleyway next to the library isn’t near as shady as Will remembered it to be. He hasn’t been there since he was a child, maybe thirteen, but it still gives him the heebie-jeebies as he steps into it’s entrance. It’s dim; shaded from the sun three quarters of the way across the sky as spokes and vents let puffs of smoke trail upwards and away from the roofs. Aging red brick adorns either side of the alley, and as Will gazes down it, he spots the boy down at the far end, right shoulder leaning into the wall next to the library’s roof escape as he fiddles with the opening of a bag in his hands.

Dressed the same way Will imagines people with hangovers dress to run errands, Mike’s thin frame is hidden beneath a baggy black sweater overtop a slightly too big black plaid button up, light wash jeans cuffed at the ankles as he crosses and uncrosses them almost impatiently. He hasn’t seen Will yet, and Will takes this as a blessing. In his hands is a rather conspicuous brown paper bag, along with the added storage of his backpack, a dark jean one slung over his shoulder. His semi-tamed hair is wavier now, untucked from his ears and drifting a bit into his eyes, and for a moment, Will almost doesn’t recognize him. When Will gets closer, and Mike finally raises his head to catch him walking down the alleyway, Mike turns and Will notices the several tiny pins attached to his shirt peeking out from beneath his heavy sweater. The italic text “Jesus Loves U” adorns one particular red, shiny button.

He gets a little bit pissed off, only in a superficial sort of way. Pissed off that Mike looks like he just crawled out of bed and somehow Will still seems to have a hard time looking at him without feeling that innocuous, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Fingers wrapping around the curled opening of the paper bag, a toothy smile flashes across Mike’s face.

“Afternoon, kind sir,” Mike says in a rather uppity tone, lifting the brown bag as a gesture and standing up straight from his lean against the wall. “Glad you came to join me.”

“You did tell me to,” Will pokes lightly, eyes fixating on the bag, then back on Mike’s shirt. “’Jesus loves you’?”

Mike throws his brows up, before glancing down at his own shirt, a wry smile tugging on his lips. Will can’t help but stare at him. “It’s ironic, you see,” he explains briefly, like he’s done it a million times before, “because I think he forgot about me.”

Will doesn’t know if he should smile or frown at that.

“You definitely invited me here so you could kill me, didn’t you?” he asks.

“Caught me.” Another grin, eyes scrunching up slightly as he smiles, before Mike glances down at the bag in his hands as well. He studies it for a moment, before he looks back up to Will. Crouching down and pulling his backpack off of his shoulder, Mike rests it easily on the ground as he unzips the top. “This whole thing has just been a murderous ploy to get you alone.”

“Mm… thought so,” Will says, a trying smile working it’s way onto his lips as he watches Mike stuff the paper bag into his knapsack. It’s contents make a satisfying clunk, and Will tips his head slightly as he tries to identify some sort of imprint on the outside of the bag. Mike zips the pack up before he can do so, however, and as he slides it back up onto his shoulder, Mike raises his head to look upwards at Will.

“Ready to head up?” Mike asks, plain and simple, as though Will should have every sort of clue what he’s talking about. He straightens once more, taking a moment to raise his arms over his head and give his back a good stretch. Will’s brows furrow.

“Head up where?” Will asks, perplexed, watching with slow realization as Mike’s face washes with a smile and he rests a hand on the roof ladder next to him. An instant flush of understanding flows over him like a tidal wave, and Will’s eyes wander upwards, tracing the cracking brick as he eyes the ladder like an old enemy. Will doesn’t think he has a fear of heights, per se. Not enough to turn him off climbing trees, going on rides at the local fair, anything like that. He can do all that perfectly fine.

Climbing 3 stories on a rickety fire escape style ladder, however, isn’t on his to do list.

When Will’s head drops back down and his eyes land on Mike’s beaming, mischievous grin, disbelief stamps his answer in hot wax for him.

“No. No,” Will speaks plainly, straightforward. Mike’s smile falters only slightly, because he puts on a pout. Batting thick lashes, his deep brown gaze grows doe-eyed, and Will hates that he’s only joking. Only a façade. His lips fall open, involuntarily, and Mike’s grin finds it’s way back across his lips. Will hates it. He hates it because it’s working, because he looks at Mike and thinks: Stop being fucking cute. It’s not only rude, it’s distracting.

“Puppy eyes don’t work on me, Mike,” Will asserts, raising a brown in the boy’s direction. As though Mike can sense his lie, he crosses his arms over his chest, raising his own brows in a cocky return.

“I said no.”

“I told you I’d make it up to you,” Mike groans, letting his arms slip from their crosses position as he lets his head roll back slightly. He sounds like a child, for a moment, and Will wants to find frustration in that. How whiny Mike is. He can’t, though. “You called me, Byers. Didn’t you?”

Will’s lips press into a thin, stubborn line as he shifts his weight to his other foot.

“I—“

“Didn’t you?”

“… Yes. I did.” And you’re making me regret it, Will wants to say.

“You came here with the knowledge that I was going to make it up to you, correct?” Mike carries on, seemingly trying and almost failing at keeping that playful smile away. He’s trying to be serious, Will can see it. It only makes him more huffy.

“Correct,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Hm? I can’t hear you, pal, you’re mumbling.”

“I said correct,” Will pipes up, feeling his will to deny Mike growing more and more shallow as he carries on with his lawyerly routine. Mike shifts the backpack on his shoulders, raises his hands as though he’s just confirmed his point, whatever it was, and steps towards Will. Will’s brows furrow in confusion, before Mike settles his hands on the boy’s shoulders, meeting his eyes head on. Will’s heart begins to hammer in his chest.

“So are you ready?” Mike asks, eyes searching Will’s face a little too tightly as Will tries to keep his cheeks from lighting up.

“R-Ready for?” Will stammers, still not quite understanding. This makes Mike smile, fully, unabashedly.

“To let me make it up to you,” he says, simply, as though it ought to make sense just like that. Will nods anyways, before he can even acknowledge the fact that he is doing so. Mike savours this as a victory, flashing a grin before he puts space between them again, thin hands dropping from Will’s shoulders as he exhales sharply, breath drifting from his lips in a chilled, smoke-like plume. Will thinks about heights, about how he isn’t scared of them. No, not a bit. He isn’t scared of heights. Just scared of what might happen to him when he’s challenging them.

“I’m glad you’re finally on board, then,” Mike says, and he turns towards the ladder once more, placing his right hand on a rung. “Because we really ought to head up. The sunset won’t wait for us.”

As he leans back, Will stares at the ladder, feeling betrayed by his own body as he stiffens. Mike watches him, curiously, before telling, not asking: “B before W. You first. And don’t look down.”

-

Will Byers is afraid of heights. He decides, or rather, realizes this as he does exactly what Mike told him not to do. He looks down, and is immediately met with visual vertigo.

He practically scrambles up the ladder the rest of the way, hands clinging to the bars both too tight and not securely enough as he finally rounds the top and nearly tumbles to his hands and knees onto the roof. Mike lets out a sharp bark of a laugh from below him, and as he hears the boy take the last up remaining rungs and step onto the roof, much more carefully than Will has, Mike dusts off his pants like he’s just accomplished a long day’s work. Will has his hand propped against a large metal vent, and as he leans his weight into it, Mike clears his throat.

“Glad you flew up here like you did just now,” he says lightly as Will peers back over his shoulder, eyeing Mike with a displeased glare as he sets his bag down near an empty patch of roofing. “Thought the damn thing was gonna fall off any minute.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Will chides back, hating how his jab practically comes out as a groan of horror. Mike catches his glare, shooting back a brief wink, before he crouches down in front of his backpack, unzipping it again.

“It was. Thought I was gonna fall.”

“You did not.”

“You’ll never know,” Mike says finally, the delightful lilt in his tone giving away his bluff as Will’s gaze eases and he tears his eyes away from Mike, surveying the roof. It’s mostly flat, a gravelly surface covering the entire thing exempt for the vents and a large structure near the far end with a doorway built into it. For cleaning and repair, Will thinks absently as he walks tentatively towards the most open part of the rooftop, keeping back from the fence-less edges. Not for kids like us. Not for Mike, particularly.

“Can you put down the blanket?”

Will had almost forgotten that Mike was there with him. Almost. As he twists back around to face the boy, he sees him digging out the paper bag that he’d tucked neatly into his backpack. Sliding a unidentifiable tool into his back pocket, Mike glances towards Will and cocks his head slightly.

“Pretty please?” Mike asks, watching as Will returns from his former haze and pulls his backpack off of his shoulders.

“Right,” Will nods, dropping his bag down and unzipping the front, keeping an eye on Mike as he snatches the head of his bag, bringing it lazily over to Will as he gets the blanket put down. It’s a fine pink; a thin cotton thing that Will doesn’t have much attachment to. He has no idea what might happen to it, but in reality, he doesn’t really care.

“All set,” Will says, and as he glances towards Mike, his heart practically stops.

Mike is already finding a spot on the blanket, stretching his legs out as he looks over the edge and towards the view they have of downtown. He looks pleasant, peaceful, handsome even. Will isn’t really taken aback by him, however. He’s taken aback by the bottles he’s drawing out of the paper bag he’s brought.

Will has seen the logos plenty. Hell, he’d gotten quite good at drawing over the years, and if someone for whatever reason had asked him to draw them, he’d likely be able to do it just from memory. Like some morbid sort of response to an art project. Draw what reminds you of your friends. Will would have drawn Dr. Brown’s DeLorean.  Or maybe a video game controller, or D&D die or something like that. Something good. Draw something that reminds you of yourself. That one would be blank. Blank as a fresh white sheet.

Draw something that reminds you of your family.

Will would have drawn those logos.

 He smells them every day. He wonders if there is such thing as second hand smell with that sort of thing. Not like smoke, a different kind of second hand. He wonders if people can smell the alcohol his father drinks on him.

Will stares at the beer bottles, stunned into silence, before he realizes Mike’s been talking to him.

“Houston to Byers,” Mike hums softly, and Will takes note of the subtly concerned look on the boy’s face as he balances a bottle against each knee. Will swallows hard, throat dry, before he steps onto the blanket and gets himself down into a cross-legged position.

“Byers, receiving,” Will mumbles quietly, his eyes darting out over the view.

“Are you alright?” There is an honest worry in Mike’s voice. Will doesn’t like it one bit.

“I’m fine.”

“You looked white as a ghost for a second there.”

“I’m fine,” Will assures him as he finally pushes himself, one last good one, before he glances back towards the bottles, then upwards into Mike’s face. Mike hasn’t taken his eyes off of Will, watching him with a cool confusion that shifts when Will meets his gaze. Will wants to tell the boy that he isn’t going to shatter, he won’t break, not then. He knows he’s not being convincing.

“You’ve just got a shitty taste in beer, that’s all.” Will suggests, throwing up the most convincing bluff he can manage. “Just surprised.” It’s not a lie. It is a shitty taste. Will just thinks any taste in beer is a shitty taste.

This does the deed. A slow, subtly worried smile crosses Mike’s face before his expression turns to one of mock irritation. Slapping the back of his hand gently against Will’s knee, Mike finally drops his locked gaze from Will’s face as he leans to the side a bit, digging into his pocket. “Oh, whatever,” Mike groans, fishing out a tiny instrument from his jeans, the object he’d shoved in there just before. The silver bottle opener gleams lightly under the sun as it hangs low in the sky, and Mike grips it easily in his hands, leveraging it against the bottle tops one at a time as he pops them clean off.

He hands a bottle to Will, and he takes it, pretending like taking it doesn’t feel like sticking his hand into the open, drooling mouth of a lion. He watches as Mike brings the bottle to his lips, taking a swig like drinking is as easy as talking to an old friend. Will grips the glass to try and stifle his nerves, and as he keeps an eye on Mike, the boy turns towards him, tearing his eyes away from the view of the city as a dull smile curls on his lips.

“So. Who are you?” Mike asks.

Will hadn’t the faintest clue on the way there of what making it up to him might mean coming from Mike, but as the time passes, he finds that he’s glad it turned out the way it has. They talk, for what feels like forever, or at least until the sun dips below the trees and the sky begins to grow that beautiful hue of blue that Will loves so much. They talk about everything that can be talked about with someone you know hardly at all. Will takes his first sip, gags, then takes another sip moments later. The smell is foul, and the taste isn’t much better, but something about it settles his nerves.

Over the two hours that they seem to spend there, the two of them make their way from cross legged, poised positions to flopped and sprawled on their backs in the late December sun, tucked into their coats snugly as they continue to jab and poke each other through witty remarks for information. Will feels, for a moment, like he’s really getting to know who Mike is. He thinks he quite likes the person he’s talking to. He thinks he couldn’t imagine doing something as foolish as trespassing and drinking on the library’s rooftop with someone like Lucas or Dustin. He thinks, maybe Mike makes more sense than I thought.

Mike stands, after several minutes of silence near the end of their lengthy talk, and as he turns back towards Will, he sees a look in Mike’s eyes that he hadn’t expected to see. It is curious, tempting, and something else that Will can’t quite place. He speaks, and Will understands it, though. He’s seeing something impulsive.

“What do you think would happen if I jumped?” Mike asks, and Will feels the silence between them shatter like a thin windowpane. He’s never heard somebody say something so dark in such a nonchalant way.

“What?” Will sputters.

“I said, what do you think would happen?” Mike muses, throwing a glance back towards Will as he steps towards the edge of the building. Will feels like he’s about to be sick, inhaling sharp and quick, the sudden pang of fear striking him right in the centre of his chest. As he watches Mike, he feels his own fight or flight kick in at the sight of the dwindling feet between Mike and the edge.

“What the fuck are you—“

“Good evening, citizens of Hawkins!” Mike suddenly hollers out over the empty air, throwing his arms out to his sides as he stares across the vast sea that is the crawling landscape of roads and lawns. Will lets out a small yelp, under his breath, and he reaches out for Mike, even if he’s too far from him to grab him.

“You’re in for a show tonight! The one, the only, me, myself and I: I’m going to jump from this ledge and splat on the ground like a pancake!” Mike shouts, and Will can only imagine what the people below are seeing as he bellows above them. Will jolts forward, sitting up and turning onto his knees and clutching his bottle in his free hand as he grabs onto Mike’s pant leg.

“Are you rea—“

Mike doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he is yanked backwards, tumbling flat onto his ass with a startled squeak as Will pulls him away. He falls just past Will’s kneecaps, his legs landing against Will’s own, and when he looks down to check if he’s scraped his hands, Mike meets Will’s gaze with a completely stunned glare.

And then he busts into laughter.

“Did you really think I was going to jump?!” Mike practically howls with laughter, fingers grasping at his stomach as he leans back into the ground beneath him. Will just watches, stunned.

“Well I didn’t—“ he fumbles, “— well, you—“

Will is startled, to say the least. He stares at Mike for several seconds before the laughter becomes too much to ignore, and he begins to giggle himself. Over what? The sheer confusion and strangeness of the situation that had just unfolded? He doesn’t know. He reclines backwards as he lets that brief bit of adrenaline dissipate inside of him, feeling the gravel against his back once again but not minding it.

“Don’t do that shit again. You’re insane,” Will whispers.

“It’s my greatest attribute,” Mike sighs in return.

Will raises the bottle to his lips, careful not to spill the liquid on himself in his reclined position. He thinks he knows Mike, surely now. Knows crazy fucking Mike Wheeler, Mike Wheeler who will act like he’s going to jump off a roof to get a reaction. It can’t possibly get any worse than that. But Mike twists a bit, turning onto his side and looking at Will with that look, that searching look that feels so invasive but so splendid, and when he speaks, Will realizes he still doesn’t know Mike at all.

“Can I kiss you?” Mike asks, a dull whisper against the breeze.

Will chokes instantly on the stark liquid pouring down his throat, and he has to turn away from Mike, rolling onto his side and letting out a controlled cough as he sets the bottle down against the concrete with a clink.

He’s drunk, Will thinks, but contradicts himself immediately. You can’t get drunk off one bottle of beer, Will. It doesn’t work like that. He reaches up, wiping a bit of the drink from his mouth.

“Can you what?” Will babbles, fighting himself for a moment before he gives and turns back to face Mike. He wants to sucker him right then and there, only for the absolutely astonished look of giddiness on Mike’s face.

“Kiss you,” Mike repeats, before he seems to realize how his words must sound. “I mean, you are my fake boyfriend. I’m assuming you’ve agreed to continue helping me, but tell me if I’m wrong.”

“That means I need to kiss you?” Will demands, squinting slightly in disbelief at Mike’s smile grows.

“Am I that unappealing?” he asks in mock hurt, and Will feels choked up.

No, you aren’t unappealing. You’re quite appealing. That’s the issue.

“That’s not my point.”

“I mean, should a situation happen where… you know, I’d need to kiss you.” Mike’s eyes wander upwards, as though there is something to be found in the sky that he can’t explain with words. Will can’t bear to tear his eyes away from his face, however. He still thinks it’s some sort of test. A test he’ll fail.

“What kind of situation would that be?” Will manages. Mike instantly meets his gaze again.

“I’m a bit of an in-the-moment type of guy. You haven’t noticed that?” Mike asks, amusement laced between his words. “You never know.”

“I’ll never know,” Will repeats, his tone thin as he stares at Mike. There is a moment of silence again, just like the one before, but Will feels heavier in it now.

“So can I kiss you?” Mike asks again, his words sincere, as sincere as one can sound, and Will wonders if there is a right answer. I should say no, he thinks. I ought to say no. For my own benefit. Will stares at Mike, and he stares right back.

Will says yes.

Or, at least, he begins to. Before the sudden, loud trifecta of bangs echoes against the door to the roof. Will’s heart seizes immediately.

“Open up, right now!” an angry, gruff voice screams from the other side of the door, and Will doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he hears Mike shuffle suddenly ahead of him. Everything seems to move in a blur over the next several seconds; Mike scrambling to his feet as the bangs continue, Will following not to far behind as the two of them lurch forward and grab their backpacks.

There is a rush blasting through every inch of Will’s body as the two of them abandon the blanket Will had brought, dashing towards the ladder, pausing and exchanging looks as though they’ve got the time for that. Where, for once, Mike doesn’t speak, Will does.

“W after B. Your turn,” Will says, breathless and startled, eyes wide in a panic as Mike meets his gaze. He doesn’t realize he’s made no sense. For a second, what feels like an endless standoff, Mike stares at Will, utterly stunned, before a disbelieving grin rises on his lips. The laugh that escapes his throat then is chaotic, in the most beautiful way Will can imagine.

“W after B” Mike repeats, as he swings a leg over the edge of the building and catches the top rung of the ladder. “W after B. What a funny man you are.”

“It’s my greatest attribute,” Will mimics, waiting only half a second for Mike to get down several rungs before he swings himself over, hearing the pounding on the door growing more solid, less hollow and sound. Somewhere below him, he thinks he hears Mike scoff in disagreement.

They’re gonna turn that door into a god damn half pipe, Will thinks blindly as he begins his way down the ladder, and he’s sure Mike must think he sounds batshit insane when he begins to laugh at such a mediocre thought. Laughing from fear or from true, unbridled crazy, he doesn’t know. Whatever it is, it’s the most horrifying, content feeling he’s ever felt.

The moment their feet hit the ground, they are running.

Will doesn’t know where to, or when they get there, but they’re running. He catches a glimpse of a police cruiser parked over the entrance of the alleyway, followed by the feeling of Mike’s fingers tugging his jacket in the opposite direction as they scramble back into the far end of the alley, taking a hard left around the first turn that they can make, taking them out towards another string of alleyways leading away from the library.

He can’t focus on anything but Mike’s back, his instincts and reactions at top speed as adrenaline courses through his veins. He hears Mike shouting, not angered but rather commanding, and when he snaps himself out of his trance, he catches a look from Mike over his shoulder.

“Your jacket!” Mike is hollering, and it takes Will a moment to realize he’s laughing as he says it. He’s pulling off his sweater like he’s just been lit on fire, and it dawns on him just what Mike is doing.

Blend, Will thinks, as he unzips his coat swiftly, not thinking too hard about what he might be dropping behind him as he yanks it off his shoulders and drops it in his tracks, never stopping as he veers around the sweater Mike has discarded as well. The cold takes a hold of him, nipping at his thinly covered arms as they keep running. They never stop, it seems. Will wonders if they ever will. The cold bites at his wrists. Left, right, right again. The alleyway seems like an endless labyrinth.

“Is that as quick as you can go?” Mike says from somewhere ahead of him, laughing all the way like he hasn’t ever heard anything funnier, and Will finds disbelief and amazement bubbling inside of him.

Like a rotating wheel, one thought keeps spinning around the track of Will’s mind.

I’m about to get arrested for some stupid boy I barely know. He wants to be angry. He wants to be scared, but the long term effects of this haven’t caught on to him yet. He’s not angry. He’s practically grinning from ear to ear.

Will is laughing. Hard. He finds it hilarious, even. Because their laughter echoes around the brick walls boxing them in as they sprint away from the cops, and Will thinks, honest:

This must be what living feels like. 

Chapter Text

What feels like half an hour of running really only turns out to be about 2 minutes, and Will doesn’t think he’s ever been so excited to see the vibrant Big Buy light-box sign as he is right then.

He doesn’t even notice it at first. He’s too busy trying not to trip over his own feet, eyes zoning in on the pavement, or at least, what he can see of it in the rapidly dimming daylight as the police sirens echo distantly behind him. When Mike grabs onto his hand, not wasting any time with intertwined fingers as he drags him along in through the front doors, Will is snapped back into reality, adrenaline busting through his veins like a damaged flood gate. He can’t breathe, not well, at least: he’s not sure if it’s from the danger in this situation or from the fact that he’s been running like he stole something. Regardless, he puts all of his effort into not dying right then and there with Mike Wheeler attached to his arm, and when a hot gust of air slaps him across the face as they enter through the store’s sliding doors, he almost up and pukes right in the entry. 

Mike doesn’t seem to notice, and Will doesn’t blame him, based on both the fact that Will has a steady poker face, and the fact that Mike doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything right now besides where to go. His hair is hanging heavily in his eyes, and he lets go of Will if only to swat it away, glancing back at the boy and catching his gaze with eyes the size of dinner plates.

“You alright?” Mike asks Will, and honestly, Will wonders if he should be asking Mike the same question. He’s turning forward again, leading them down into the snack isle as he awaits a response. But he doesn’t really get one, because Will can’t really breathe, and it’s not really improving. 

He knows what’s going to happen if he gets in trouble with the cops. He knows what’ll happen because people know his father, and his father knows the town, the cops, the deputies and likely the Sheriff as well. He’ll hear it out on a bar crawl one evening, if Will doesn’t tell him, which he wouldn’t in a million years, seeing as he hardly tells his father where he’ll be any average day. Or he’ll tell Jonathan, and on some rare occasion that his brother and his father cross paths, it’ll get mentioned. It won’t be that big of a deal. It’ll get played like it’s not a big deal. Then, he’ll wake up one evening in the midst of a deep sleep to a splitting pain in his cheek bone and a red faced drunk standing over him like a looming plague. 

He’ll hurt for it. He can’t get caught. He doesn’t realize that he’s stopped walking at first until he speaks, and realizes that Mike is several metres away from him. 

“We’re fucked.”

Mike turns back towards Will, blown pupils and all, and pauses. He crosses the space between them in minimal strides, and takes a hold of the boy’s shoulders in an instant. 

“We’re fine,” Mike tries, his voice full of confidence in his statement. Will just shakes his head. Mike’s grip on his shoulders is firm, but gentle. As he notices Will’s disagreement, he cocks his head a bit, like a curious animal.

“We’re fucked,” Will corrects him, the low hum of music playing over the loudspeakers reverberating against his very being. It’s not even loud— hell, it’s only Kim Carnes, if anything. If Will is hearing things correctly, which is questionable. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a wind tunnel. Who the fuck plays Kim Carnes to last them through a night shift?

“No. No. We’re alright. Look at me, yeah?” Mike says to him, his voice growing notably gentler as he rubs a thumb against the boy’s shoulder. Will doesn’t look. He just stares through his feet, like he’s looking directly into the earth’s core.

“Will.”

Prying his eyes off of the floor, Will turns his gaze up towards Mike, breathing wavering still as he watches the boy’s face. Mike flicks his eyebrows upwards slightly, a non-verbal question, to which Will shakes his head. 

“We’re fine,” Mike hums under his breath, tipping his head up as he watches Will like he’s looking for a proper response. Will chokes on one.

“Uh-huh.” What the fuck.

“Say it with me,” Mike says, softer this time, his voice a dull whisper as his fingers clasp Will’s shoulders a bit tighter to keep him from falling over. Will realizes just how dry his throat is now. Opening his mouth, Will nearly flushes from the way Mike mirrors him, his heartbeat beginning to slow to a regular rate.

It’s impressive, really. How the two of them whisper a mutual “we’re fine” just as the crimson and blue reflection from the lights of a police car coat the large front windows of the grocery store, and a cruiser pulls into one of the spots by the double entry doors. 

Will notices it first, because Mike’s got his back to those same doors while Will, on the other hand, has full view. He watches, wide eyed and ill, as the lights shut off, and the headlights dim, and the officer climbs out of his car and begins the short trek towards the front doors. He’s rather intimidating, not somebody that Will would ever want to see himself in a fight with. When Mike glances back towards the doors, he goes sheet white, and whips back towards Will, staring down at the boy as he speaks. Will isn’t sure how the officer got the idea to check down here. Had he been following them all the way? He must have. But they’d been nothing but shadows, hadn’t they? Shadows dancing across Downtown Hawkins in the dark, something like the way Peter Pan’s shadow acts on it’s own. 

Standing next to the chips and lozenges, Will thinks: I’m about to be arrested and I’m thinking about Disney movies.

“Act natural,” Mike tells Will, glancing towards the doors before he turns back to face the shelf behind them. Colourful bags and labels dance across Will’s vision, and he twists back towards the opposite side of the shelf, completely ignoring the officer as the doors slide open and he takes a few strides in. Out of his peripheral, Will can see him turn to look either way before delving into the row next to them. He feels like his lungs might explode right out of his chest— like he’s been holding his breath and diving too deep and he’s put himself in a life or death situation. Maybe he won’t recognize us, he thinks in a feverish moment, exhaling hard. Maybe he didn’t really get to see us. As he reaches out, borderline robotic, and snatches a bag from the shelf in front of him, Will swallows thickly, heart threatening to bust right through his ribcage. He’s caught. He’s practically caught. He ought to just cut this short and offer out his hands for cuffs now, because he is royally caught.

Will stares into the back of the package in his hands like he desperately needs to know the sodium content of whatever it is he’s holding. After a few, lengthy seconds, he glances down towards the end of the isle and spots the officer mingling in the row down from them, eyes on high alert as he surveys the customers around him. He is gruff, tall and thick in build with the face of somebody who, Will imagines, is not afraid to rough someone up to get what he needs. There is something in the way his face settles, however, that makes Will linger, still gazing down the isle like he’s seen something he can’t tear his eyes away from. It comes to Will in a quick wave, and it almost makes him lose his balance from lack of attention. 

He’s got a fatherly face, Will thinks. His gut twists, vicious. 

He’d keep staring if Mike hadn’t stepped forward, snapping him out of it in what felt like the worst and best way possible. 

“Byers,” Mike urges through his teeth in a hushed whisper as he turns and crosses to Will’s side of the isle, having spotted the way Will is staring unrelentingly at the officer who just so happens to be looking for two hoodlums quite like them. As he steps up behind Will, keeping his posture loose and his stride easy so to seem like a regular customer, Mike lands a hand on Will’s hip, a gentle touch as he gives Will a slight tug back towards him. 

“One time. One time.” Mike exhales sharply as he leans into Will’s shoulder, inches away from Will’s face as he mutters his comment into the boy’s ear. Mike’s fingers drop from Will’s hip just as quickly as they had landed, but the touch lingers like a fresh slap. Will knows, of course, that Mike is trying to guide him; trying to keep them from getting caught, trying to ease his nerves, prompt him to act more natural. Yet it almost makes him worse.

He just touched me, Will thinks, and his skin catches fire. He takes Mike’s guidance, numbly stepping away from the rack in front of him. 

He—

Calm down. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Pull yourself together. This isn’t the time.

When has it ever been the time?!

Stepping back and sliding the package in his hands back onto the shelf, Will turns and begins to put on a farce like he’s ogling at all the granola bar choices behind him. As he reaches up and runs a finger over a randomly chosen price tag, out of the corner of his eyes, Will catches Mike shooting him a cautious glance, an airy chuckle escaping his throat as he picks up a cardboard fruit snack box. Will, to the best of his ability, tries to keep his act up, but he can feel the cheeky grin threatening to steal it’s way across his lips as he gazes absently at the groceries in front of him. As the two boys do their best to seem as domestic as teenagers can be, the cop gives them a passing glance, hesitant, before he turns in the other direction and rounds the corner out of sight. As though he can sense Will’s struggle, Mike pulls the box of chewy snacks off of the shelf and leans his shoulder into the rack, leisurely, holding them up like a game show assistant presenting a prize.

“So, ‘Orange Madness’ or ‘Raspberry Tang’?” Mike mocks, eyes searching Will’s face for a crack in his facade.

Will can’t curb the stupid smile that surfaces on his lips. In the back of his mind, his thoughts are still reeling with the remnants of the feeling of Mike’s hand on his hip. But in the moment, he abandons the snacks in front of him and turns towards Mike, splitting the couple feet between them as he reaches out and gives the boy’s arm a playful slap. Mike recoils as though he’s been stung, trying to stifle a laugh. 

“You absolute loon.”

“Deputy Dickhead is still lurking. You wanna bring him back over here?” Mike presses, only half joking as he pauses a moment to admire Will’s comment. It didn’t register with him at first, but he catches it seconds later, slotting the fruit snacks back into their spot on the rack.

“Did you just call me a loon?”

“Yes, I called you a loon. You loon.”

Mike grins in response, raising a finger to his lips as his eyes fixate on Will’s own. His eyebrows flick upwards in questioning, watching as whatever comment that was about to escape Will’s mouth is silenced by Will’s act of pressing his lips tightly shut. They wait, for what? Will isn’t quite sure. If anything, they’re making themselves more obvious. After about a minute of mutual silence, Mike’s eyes dart out towards the sliding front doors of the grocery store, and Will follows, watching as the officer that had entered the store peels off his cap and trudges irately outwards into the cool outdoors. The automatic doors slide shut easily behind him, and Mike makes a point to turn away before the man takes notice of their not so subtle staring. Will lingers, however, because eve as he’s seeing it, he can’t quite believe it. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers. Mike grins, enthused. 

“Mm. He’s not the brightest pig in the pen, huh?” Mike suggests, a sly, uneven smirk twisting on his lips in response to his own chide. 

“What the fuck!” Will repeats, a whispered scream, as he looks back at Mike, disbelieving. 

“I may be a loon,” Mike begins, giving Will a dull shrug as he leans back into the shelf behind him, not too hard to push anything over. “I may be a loon. But this loon just outsmarted a cop.”

“Oh yeah?” Will snips quickly, a questioning smile flashing across his face. “You outsmarted him, alright. If you hadn’t pulled that shit the way you did, he wouldn’t have even been after us.”

Mike’s smile is contagious.

“Maybe,” he mumbles, defeated.

“Maybe,” Will repeats, peeling his eyes away from Mike and shooting a subtle glance out towards the cruiser beyond the Big Buy windows as it pulls out of the lot and teeters off down the street. He feels relief, finally washing over him, and as he lets out a tremendous sigh, Will raises one hand and lands one last playful push against Mike’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe you.”

“What, you don’t like a little adventure?” Mike coos, tipping his head just slightly as he observes the boy in front of him. Will feels like he’s being watched under a magnifying glass. Stop doing that, he wants to say. Because it’s starting to have a connotation, and Will doesn’t quite know what it is. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten arrested before.”

Will doesn’t like the way Mike says this. The same way someone might ask if you’d had wine at dinner before. The same way someone might ask if you’ve ever played an Atari.

“You have?” Will demands, watching as Mike’s face lights up.

“Never said that at all,” a grin, then, “I’m only saying you’re, what, like, eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” Will corrects, suddenly feeling like a child. Mike seems to reflect those feelings outwardly.

“Ah, so you’re still a kid, then. No taste for chaos,” Mike’s voice is playful, trying, like he wants Will to react. Will thinks Mike is just the right amount of chaos for him. He kicks the toe of his shoe against the floor. “It’s probably past your bedtime right now, isn’t it?”

Will squints ever so slightly, eyes narrowing in a baseless frustration. He opens his mouth to snap back, something witty or quick (something to make him laugh) when he really considers what Mike’s said. It’s now, for the first time in what’s probably been about three hours, that Will remembers time. Remembers he was supposed to be keeping track of it. When he turns his gaze away from Mike, searching for some sort of wall clock, a rush of anxiety floods Will’s body as his eyes settle on it.

High up above the front doors, the clock, ticking sluggishly, reads: 7:42 PM. He’s late. Very late.

“I’ve got to go,” Will blurts suddenly, eyes darting upwards towards Mike before he begins a brisk walk to the doors. Mike follows suite, and Will doesn’t need to look to know that he’s jogged a moment to catch up to Will’s sudden burst.

“Hey, I was only joking,” Mike assures him, “I don’t really care that you’re still a baby.”

“Shut up,” Will groans. He feels a hand on his shoulder suddenly, bringing him to a sudden halt before he reaches the door’s sensors. Glancing back, Mike peers down at him with what seems to be worry. For a moment, even as Will has to look up at him, he looks like a lost puppy.

 “You know I’m kidding, right?” Mike asks. Will feels the honest sorry in his voice. It’s alarming, for a moment, before he remembers what he’s doing.

“It’s not that.” He turns a bit to look at Mike, shifting the shoulder of his backpack a bit. “I had plans. Have plans that I committed to. Didn’t realize what time it was.”

Mike’s expression shifts a bit, and Will wants the automatic doors to squish him. That pout, subtle but there, definitely there. He looks more like a puppy than ever before.

Don’t look at me like that, he thinks. I can’t take it. After a moment, Mike shrugs, submissively. 

“I thought we were just getting started,” Mike sighs dramatically, mockingly disappointed. Will scoffs.

“Just getting started? That’s terrifying.” He shifts his weight to his opposite foot. “Are you coming? Or are you staying here with the fruit snacks?” Will asks lightly, watching as Mike can’t seem to curb the slow smile that tugs at his lips. He knows he’s gotten a good one on him. The corners of his eyes, squinting against his smile, bring forth already forming laugh lines.

“Fuck you and your fruit snacks,” Mike responds, fingers dropping easily from Will’s shoulder as Will stifles a laugh. “I’ll stick with you.”

“Stick with me, then. I’m going back to get my coat,” Will replies briefly, his heart hammering against his chest as the two of them push outwards, escaping into the night air. It’s refreshing, if only for a half a second, before it gets frigid. Bringing his hands upwards and cupping his elbows, Will shoots a look back towards Mike, watching the boy as he studies the way his breath drifts upwards into the air. He looks peaceful, relaxed against the breeze, and as Will eyes him, a thought crosses his mind.

“If I’m a baby, how old are you, then?” he asks. Mike’s eyes dart back down from the sky, landing on Will’s face. The silence between them, however brief, is saturated and heavy. 

“Oh, me?” Mike asks, a thin grin curling on his lip. “I’m seventeen.”

-

“So, where’d you park? Somewhere in town?”

The night is violently cold, and Will is thankful for the Hawkins PD’s lack of attention to linger at the library as he lifts his coat from the ground, giving it a good shake as though any sort of bug might have made a home so quickly inside of it in the middle of the winter. He feels almost embarrassed by the sudden question, sliding his arms into the jacket as he watches Mike in the bare-minimum of light that the moon is providing them. He moves towards the edge of the alleyway, still jumpy from their previous escapade, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, observing Hawkins and it’s gently night-time hum as Mike steps up next to him.

“I, uh… I walked here,” Will admits, avoiding Mike’s gaze as his eyes wander down the sidewalk. He glances back in Mike’s direction, if only to nod for him to follow, and begins a slow stroll down the lane. If I’m already late, I may as well be extra late, he thinks. What’s the rush now? If they’re mad, they’re mad. There’s not much I can do about it but apologize. From beside him, Mike nods his head slowly, taking in Will’s answer as he lets out a long sigh. Likely well needed.

“You walked here?” he asks.

“… Yeah.”

When Will turns a bit to look at Mike, he’s got a dazed, sleepy sort of smile on his face. Will thinks he’d like to see more of that. For sure.

“Heh, alright.” Mike brings his shoulders tight to his ears for a moment, before letting them relax again. Trying to block out the wind. “Where’d you walk from?”

Will’s fingers begin to fidget against the inside of his pocket. He knows this is where he’s going to start looking like the loser he really is. Embarrassment creeps across his shoulders.

“Er… do you know Mirkwood?” Will asks, not really thinking about his wording as he speaks until he catches the look on Mike’s face; subtle, but definitely confused.

“I don’t think so,” Mike replies, slowly, as though he feels he should. Will feels a hot wash of knowing flood his cheeks. 

Of course he doesn’t know what Mirkwood is. You’re the only one who calls it that.

“Sorry, Jesus…” Will begins, bringing a warm hand out of his pocket and pressing his palm against one frigid cheek. “Where Cornwallis and Kerley intersect. You know that one?”

Mike halts for a moment, right in place. Will almost teeters forward, stopping nearly as quick but not enough. A loser, Will’s brain repeats on a cycle, and he can feel his body practically radiating awkward. A loser with a license who can’t even drive themselves around. A loser. As Will turns to look at Mike head on, trying to feign surprise, the look of disbelief on Mike’s face make him want to sink into the asphalt. 

“That’s, like… 8 miles from the edge of downtown,” Mike says, as though he’d confirming with Will the statement he’s just made. “In the other direction, too. Nice joke.”

“I’m going to a friend’s place, remember?” Will adds curtly with a nod of understanding, only furthering Mike’s confused expression. Disbelief turns to amazement, and Mike draws a hand out of his sweater, zipping it up all the way before he begins walking again. 

“You’re shitting me. What, you don’t have your license yet?” Mike asks patiently, his eyes now trained on the side of Will’s face as the two of them walk the stretch down closer towards where Dustin’s home is. Will wants to assure Mike that he doesn’t need to stay and walk with him, but he knows how presumptuous that is. In a physical display of his discomfort, Will turns his head away from Mike as he speaks, watching the twinkling lights above them.

“I’ve got my permit, I just… don’t have a ride.”

That’s a lie. He’s got a ride, but it isn’t his. His brother isn’t ever home during the day, not even on weekends, and so Will, who has a ride that isn’t entirely his own, is left without said ride, and hell might freeze over before he asks his father to borrow his car. He likes to act like he’s got a car, because on the absolutely rare occasion, he does. He’d have told Mike he just didn’t have any gas if he’d had a second to think about it. But something about Mike felt like it needed instant attention. There was no time to think, only time to answer. He’d just have to get used to that.

“You should’a told me. I would’ve came and got you.”

“What, you’ve got a ride then?” Will asks curiously, finally bringing his eyes off of the lights and turning back to look at Mike. The look on his face is not one that he expected. A mingling of sheepish amusement, Mike suddenly lets his eyes dart down towards his feet. He’s the one avoiding eye contact now.

“I’ve…” A pause. Mike kicks a small stone out of his way. “Yeah, Byers. I’ve got a ride. It’s old as the hills, but it drives.” Will snickers at this, watching his breath drift from his lips.

“Maybe I’d rather walk, anyways,” Will suggests in response, coaxing a warm laugh from the boy beside him as they carry on walking. They’re not far now, maybe ten minutes away from Dustin’s place. Next to Will, Mike scuffs his feet once, loudly.

“Eh, hush. You’ll see it when I come get you Tuesday.” Mike doesn’t acknowledge the suddenness of his statement, but Will catches it immediately. Eyes widening just slightly, he stares at the side of Mike’s face as they continue, watching as the boy doesn’t give attention to anything but the twinkling strands above them. His brain is swimming for a brief moment in time.

He wants to see me again, Will thinks. He turns away from Mike, gazing down the road.

“You’re coming to get me Tuesday?” He questions.

“Mhm.”

“For what exactly?” 

“Dinner. My place.” Mike answers, finally glancing towards Will. Will finds he hates the little game they seem to be playing. He just wants to look at Mike, even if he’s looking back. Still, he faces forward. 

“Who says I want to see you again?” Will asks suddenly, more out of suggestion than the implication that he doesn’t. He does. Goodness, he does. If Mike is the only thing that’s made him feel this giddy in years, he plans on keeping him around as much as he can. “I mean, you did almost get me arrested today.”

Will doesn’t like the way that Mike chuckles like he already knows Will’s bluffing. Doesn’t like it one bit.

“Almost being the key word, right?” A pause, then, “I’d like to see you. You don’t want to see me?” Mike asks in a washed out, surprised tone. Will knows he’s just mocking. When he finally breaks the barrier between them, disobeying the rules of their little unspoken game, he catches the tiny smile crossing Mike’s face. 

“Maybe,” Will says, softly. Mike’s eyes light up, intense. 

“Maybe,” Mike repeats, tasting the word slowly. Will’s breath is catching in his throat again. He didn’t like the game they were playing, no sir. Yet he suddenly wishes they could go back to it. Mike is the first to break their gaze, looking upwards into the pitch black sky above them. Will is more than thankful for that.

“At your place, huh? Does that mean I’m meeting your parents?” Will asks, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks as he speaks. He hasn’t stopped looking at Mike, studying the way the boy’s cheeks are flush with red from the brisk winter air. The way he squints just slightly against the breeze, tired eyes hunting for something interesting. Will knows what he’s looking at, knows just how to describe it. Just doesn’t know if he can say it.

“That’s what that means, yes.” Mike responds easily, unbothered. Will practically squirms under his words.

“Wow,” Will begins, instantly letting his eyes dart away when he notices Mike turning to look at him. The image of wind burned cheeks and chapped lips is forever etched against the back of his eyelids. “I mean, I don’t know, Mike. I’ve only been your fake boyfriend for, like, two weeks. Don’t you think that’s a big step for us?”

Will doesn’t need to look all the way in Mike’s direction to catch the Cheshire Cat-esque grin that crosses Mike’s face.

“Are we almost to your destination, Mr. Byers?” Mike asks, glancing down the road veering off to the left a couple dozen metres ahead of them. “My street is that way, I’m afraid.” Mike blindsides Will’s statement for a moment as he gestures towards a split in the street across the road, mirroring Will in turning forward. Neither of them look at one another. It feels out of place.

“Almost.” Will peers forward through the dimly lit road ahead of them. He can see the turn he needs to make, only a few minutes away. Mike clears his throat.

 “Besides. I think my parents will like you.”

Something about the way that Mike says this feels off. It is slow, calculated, like the words don’t mean much but he’s putting them out there anyways. When Will steels his nerves and peers back over at Mike, he notices the boy twisting a bit away so Will can’t see the look that’s painted on his face. 

“You haven’t talked to them about any of this, have you?” Will asks, watching as Mike stubbornly boots another stone out of his way. His eyes dart towards the ground. This? What is this? Will isn’t sure, but Mike seems to get it, regardless.

“Nope,” he replies easily. The two of them cross the street, Will checking both ways before he steps out onto the crosswalk. He admires and simultaneously hates the way that Mike doesn’t even glance in either direction. He stares ahead at the spot where the sidewalk splits, sending them in two different directions. 

“So you’re just going to crack it on them in the middle of, what… pasta Tuesday?” Will suggests weakly, unable to bear through his imagination just how awkward of a situation that would be. He can imagine Mike, lanky, wobbly Mike, climbing up onto an upholstered dining chair, nearly knocking over his food. Hey everyone, Will imagines Mike announcing, the same way he had on the rooftop earlier. Hey everyone, just so you know, I’ve got a boyfriend! A gay boyfriend! That’s right: Two guys! In a relationship! Even if it isn’t technically real, it counts. So suck it! Suck it, Wheelers! 

From beside him, Mike lets out a joyful laugh, and Will fears for a moment that he’s spoken aloud again. If he has, Mike ignores it.

“The best night of them all!” Mike enthuses, drawing his hands out of his pockets and throwing them upwards into the air. “When would you crack it on ‘em, then? Wing night? Is that somehow better?”

Will is sent into a brief fit of giggles at the absolute lunacy in their conversation. They fall to a stop at the corner, still trying to curb their laughter as they halt in understanding of their parting for the night. Will drops his head, shaking it lightly as the last few chuckles spill from his lips. He thinks Mike is the best kind of crazy that there is, even if he won’t tell him that. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ strange.” Will reaches up, brushing stray hair from his eyes as he looks back up into Mike’s face. He’s got a grin on, full power, as though Will’s just told Mike the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to him. 

“You got a thing for the strange, Will Byers?” Mike asks suddenly, his voice lower than expected, low like he’s trying to keep a secret in a crowd full of people. The corners of his flushed lips turn upwards into a subtle smile, just enough that Will notices it under the light of the half-visible moon above them. He shifts his weight to the opposite foot, feeling the breath in his lungs practically dissipate just by looking up at Mike. He takes notice now, just how much taller Mike is than him. He thinks, at any other point in time, it might make him feel small. The height is the last thing he’s thinking about now.

“Not your kind of strange, Mike Wheeler. Get home safe.” Will replies, a thin smile tugging at his mouth before he steps back and away from the boy, taking a few tentative steps in the other direction. The air rushes back through him then, and he is overly grateful. He doesn’t know why he’d felt so breathless, but hell. If he didn’t make the first move, he might have never left. Mike stares at him, just stares, like Will’s just cracked the world’s best joke, before that tired smile turns into a full fledged grin.

“Last names are my gig!” Mike feigns as Will pauses a few metres away, wondering now if he really ought to be leaving. Part of him wants to ask Mike if he can stay a little bit longer, just a bit. He’s had too much of a good day to let it go now, but he knows he has to. 

“My mistake.” Will responds lightly, though he’s realized just now, that he’s right. He’s also realized, just now, that Mike’s addressed him plenty tonight, but only now has he used his actual first name. 

“I’ll see you Tuesday, darlin’,” Mike exhales smoothly, his breath caught and pulled away by the subtle night-time breeze. Will is staring now, though he doesn’t mean to. He’s stopped mid-step, having planned to be the first one to walk away, but he can’t seem to do it. He watches Mike as he flashes Will one last smile before twisting away and bringing the shoulders of his sweater up tighter to his neck. Will wonders now if he’s even got a winter coat to wear. He hopes so. A hat, mittens, anything. He watches as Mike takes leisurely strides away, down the other end of the sidewalk, crossing the street and still not looking, not even twisting slightly to glance around for oncoming cars. The street is dead but it doesn’t matter. Habit is habit.

Will watches Mike go, and that word comes to him. The word he’d been searching for before. The tired eyes, the curl of his lips when Will’s made a sharp comment, the warm hum of his voice, the way Mike walks like he has every bit of time in the world. 

Will understands as he watches Mike go, that he’s looking at something beautiful.

He stands there, bending against the breeze when it blows too hard, until Mike disappears from sight. Then he carries on down the drive alone.

-

Will has never seen Lucas so frustrated. At least, not in several years. When he opens the door, it’s like he knows just who’s going to be on the other side, because he’s got a significant scowl on his face that doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere any time soon. It’s warranted, of course. He’s practically snapping at Will before he even gets the door open all the way.

“You are such a liar,” Lucas is saying, his tongue sharp, and Will can already feel the boy’s words digging into his chest.

“Shit— I’m sorry, honestly, I didn’t mean to—“

“Is that who I think it is?” Will can hear Dustin calling from somewhere inside, likely from the warm confines of his own living room. Lucas doesn’t even spare a glance back over his shoulder. His eyes bore into Will like hot lasers.

“Yep!” he calls back, never moving from the doorway. If anything, he leans into it more. Will feels like his throat’s got a hand wrapped around it.

“Lucas, seriously—“ Will sputters, weakly, but he can’t get anything out before Lucas leans in, stepping a bit past the door as he stabs a finger through the air towards Will’s direction.

“No, don’t seriously me.” Lucas looks only completely aggravated, unimpressed, shot down. All of the above. He looks how Will felt when Jonathan had bailed on him those weeks before. Will winces, slightly, at the jab, even if it doesn’t touch him. “Honestly, what is with you and making promises that you can’t keep?” 

“I didn’t—“ But you did. “—Look, can you just let me in?”

“Why should I?”

Will flounders a bit at this, growing flustered. “Because it’s fucking cold, that’s why!” he croaks, hating the timing of the wind as it rushes against his face again, stinging his cheeks like a whip. He can only imagine how rosy he must look. Yet, Lucas just stands, stares at him, like he’s sizing him up for a good few seconds (in winter temperatures, what feels like 20 minutes) before he grabs onto the door and mutters a sharp “walk home”. Will’s lips drop open.

“Lucas—!” Will barks, watching at the boy steps back to swing the door closed right in his face. He is not walking home. Not right now. Not if he wants to survive the travel. Lips opening and closed like he’s searching for his words midair, Will decides to tell the truth. 

Tonight is a night of firsts. 

“I was almost arrested on my way here!”

Will’s foot, jutting out, collides with the bottom of the door, and it bounces back into Lucas’ chest. He grabs it swiftly, fingers wrapping around the inner face as he gives Will one of his looks. One of the looks he doesn’t see very often, for good reason. Lucas holds onto the door, and Will receives a “buttons have been pushed” sort of look. 

“Almost arrested, my ass.” Lucas shakes his head briskly, a low scoff escaping his lips as he stares at Will like he’s just grown another limb. “Mm. My ass, Will. I’m not gonna let you in if you— if you—“ There is something, clearly, in the way Will doesn’t move back, doesn’t flinch or hesitate or even look away, that makes Lucas slow down. He stares, blinking a couple times in Will’s wake, for several stretching moments before he draws the door open a bit more into his shoulder, brows knotting together in confusion.

“You’re serious,” he says finally. Thinly. It’s a statement, and definitely not a question. Will finally moves, but only to shift the weight from one of his feet to the other. He tucks his chilled fingertips into his palms.

“Dead serious,” he replies, stoically. 

The laugh that comes out of Lucas’ throat isn’t a joyful one. “Will, what?” Lucas urges, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he stares at his friend in what ultimately feels like an expression of horror. Will wishes he could shrink, right there on Dustin’s front porch, into the slick steps beneath him. Into nothing. God, this is more embarrassing than I thought it’d be. I thought I’d be scared, or even thrilled. But I just feel like a dumbass.

“Long story.”

“Well, you better start talking, then.” Lucas doesn’t budge from his spot, cradling the door against him. Will is struck in the cheek with another cool gust of wind, and he can feel his resolve crumbling.

“Are you gonna let me in first so I don’t freeze during the good part?” Will asks, his voice rushing through the sly joke as he watches Lucas above him, standing down a step like he’s begging for entrance into the gates of Heaven, and Lucas is God himself. God has always been a little less faithful to Will than Lucas has, however. He observes Will, eyebrows loosening as he exhales a smooth, warm breath, watching it drift into the cool night air as he steps back from the entry and pulls the door open with him. Will nearly slips on the steps as he practically flies into the household, the rush of heat against his face almost too much to bear as he sets his bag down by the door, just standing, taking it in for a moment. It feels incredible to be inside, warm, safe. Away from the cold. He just stays there in the foyer for what feels like a century but has probably only been 20 seconds, basking in the light and the warm wash of the indoors sinking into him. 

He’d stand there forever, if he could. Just bathing in the ambient yellow light from the lamp in the hall. Only he hears Lucas shut the door tentatively behind him, and he knows what he needs to do. For once, he needs to keep up with his dedications, with his promises. So when Lucas veers to the side and slips around Will, guiding him into the living room like an usher, he tells Will: “Start talking.”

And Will does.

-

“His name is Mike Wheeler?”

Will feels like he’s being interrogated. In a way, he is. He’s perched on the side of Dustin’s dark brown couch, awash in the light coming from the TV as two of his best friends berate him with questions. He doesn’t mind (that’s what he tells himself, anyways) because he knows he owes them this much. But as he stares, gaze flickering towards Lucas, seated on the edge of the coffee table, and back to Dustin, cross legged and facing him to his left, he can’t help but feel a little bit claustrophobic. 

“Yeah,” Will responds, shrugging. “That’s the name he gave me.”

Dustin’s nose scrunches just a bit. Will knows that means a light bulb has sputtered to life inside of his head. 

“As in any relation to Nancy Wheeler?”

Will stares at Dustin, peeks at Lucas, catches his brows raising in expectation, and then looks back at Dustin. His brows have shot up as well. 

“N-Nancy Wheeler?” Will asks, slowly.

Dustin blinks, twice, not moving, as though he’s not understanding Will’s confusion. He tries again.

“I don’t think I know who that is,” he says, softly, and Dustin’s face goes blank, before his brows furrow tightly. He looks to Lucas, like the other boy might be able to translate.

“You don’t—“

“I-I don’t know, I guess so.”

“There isn’t an abundance of Wheelers in Hawkins,” Lucas pipes in briskly before Dustin can slip into a short rant, inching forward a bit from his spot on the coffee table. He looks genuinely compelled. Will doesn’t like that. “And you said—“

“We were up, on the library roof,” Will begins again, rushed, because he’s already stated this. He picks mindlessly at his fingers. “Like, drinking and stuff. And—“

“Stuff?” Dustin presses, visibly leaning forward. Will leans back.

“Talking about life,” Will clarifies, feeling his heart constrict.

“Are you drunk right now?” Lucas asks, brows knotting tightly, and Will’s gaze flickers towards him. He hates how condescending that statement feels, even if it wasn’t intended that way. He’s not drunk, but he feels— not sober. He doesn’t think he’s buzzed, no, not off one beer. But he’s something. A little high off the adrenaline, still. Maybe that’s it.

“No, I’m not. Jesus, you guys—“ he begins to try and fight them off, but they press further.

“Then? Well?” Dustin urges. 

“Then—“ (‘Can I kiss you?’) “— the cops saw us up there. Came banging on the rooftop door.” Will pauses as his eyes dart into his lap, almost like he’s a bit shameful. He is. “Never ran that fast in my fuckin’ life.”

It’s true. Will thinks the boys can feel it, because for the first time since he’s started talking, they go quiet for more than a few seconds. Lucas is the first to speak again, cradling one hand in the other.

“What were you even up there for?” he asks. It’s Will’s turn to go quiet now. What was he up there for? Why did he even go? Because he wanted to see Mike again? 

“I don’t know,” he lies, sheepishly. They don’t catch him.

“Did you have a good time?” 

Will is still staring into his lap when they ask him this, and he knows it’s come from Dustin, but he can’t seem to find a moment to look up at him and answer him properly. Did you have a good time? Did you have a good time? There isn’t a simple answer for that. Will had the worst time and the best time of his life. But how does he put that into words? He thinks Mike would be able to. He thinks Mike is the best and the worst time. So maybe that’s his answer. 

Instead, running the backs of his fingers against his jeans, Will whispers, slowly: “Yes.”

-

“I want to meet him.”

Will almost doesn’t hear Lucas over the sound of blasting sound effects from the speakers in Dustin’s living room, accompanied by exuberant visuals on screen. The room is dimmed once again, the previous golden glow announcing someone’s conscious presence gone as the three boys are awash in a rapidly changing haze of colours. Will has to lean back a bit from his spot on the end of the couch, tucked into the corner, and turn his attention fully to Lucas in order to hear him better. Han Solo still preoccupies most of his attention. 

“Hm?” he says, softly.

“Mike. This guy of yours. I wanna meet him.”

That catches him. Guy of yours. Will tucks his arms over his chest subconsciously, listening to Lucas as his eyes dart back to the screen as though he’s trying to distract himself from that statement in particular. Guy of yours. He isn’t. He’s a friend, practically a stranger. Well, he was. 

“Alright,” Will acknowledges the statement, the mere idea of introducing Mike to his friends giving him a weird, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. His eyes don’t leave the screen when he speaks, and at first, he thinks this is why Lucas lets out the tiny scoff that he does.

“I do,” the boy repeats, never peeling his eyes off of Will.

“I heard you.”

“I know you heard me,” Lucas hums quietly, because he knows the difference. Will is listening, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to act on it. He shifts a bit in his spot, drawing his knee up closer to his chest as he eyes the television. Lucas’ words sit heavy on his shoulders. Will wants to want his friends to meet Mike, wants them to understand just how special he is. Just how unique he really is. That he isn’t all trouble. But the idea snags a bit, throat constricting, and Will just looks down into his lap again. 

“You will,” he says to Lucas, and he really does mean it. He really does. He really really does. Because if Mike spills about him, about them, about all this: it’s fine. It’s really fine. It’s super fine. 

It’s all fine. That’s what he keeps telling himself. Unlike the prospect of them meeting, this thought doesn’t stick. Doesn’t seem tangible. It just soars right past him. 

Because it isn’t. 

Will can’t seem to pay attention to the TV for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Watching his mother frantically zip around the kitchen like a chicken with it’s head cut off, Will doesn’t really blame her. Even on their regular, occasional weekend visits, she’s never really this strung out. Fluctuating between baking last minute cookies, dinner and decorating, Joyce keeps whipping back and forth like a bouncy ball ricocheting of the walls.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Will tries for a third time, a forced push on the word ‘sure’ as he watches her with growing concern. From his spot against the open entry into the kitchen, his mother looks like she’s running a full ship on her own without a crew, and as much as he wants to just step in and help her regardless of her protests, he doesn’t want to rile her up even further. Joyce isn’t the type of lady who gets mad— and certainly, she’s never been really mad with her boys— but stress can do other things to a person, and Will doesn’t know how to handle himself when he cries, let alone his own mother. So he keeps back a good few feet, like he’s watching tigers inside of an enclosure.

“I’m sure, baby. Look, can you—“ Joyce lets out a tiny sigh, cutting herself off as she peels dough off the side of the bowl with a spatula, still slightly soupy. On the stove, vegetables bubble evenly inside of a closed pot. Will crosses into the kitchen quickly, drawing up the sleeves of his dark flannel already as though he’s about to go arm first into the dough.

“What do you need?” he asks softly. It coaxes a small, embarrassed smile from her.

“The flour. Centre shelf,” Joyce nods to the cupboards above the stove, eyes darting back down to the dish in front of her. Will can’t help but observe her for a moment. He wonders why she’s so embarrassed to ask for help. It’ll be easier for him to grab it anyways— hardly done growing, Will, even if he’s no more than 5”8, is still a head taller than his mother. So he steps around her and reaches up, hardly needing to crane upwards on his tip toes as his fingers wrap around the cupboard handle and he tugs it open with a satisfying pop.

Juniper green eyes inspecting the shelves, dancing over cocoa powder and baking soda and a few half empty boxes of tea among other things, Will’s gaze flickers back down towards Joyce as she de-lids the vegetable pot.

“Uh, mom?”

“Hm?” She mumbles as she gives the food a finicky stir.

“We don’t have any flour,” Will replies, slowly, because he doesn’t know if his mother needs another issue to deal with. Actually, he knows she doesn’t. He can tell by the way that her hands still their motions and she shoots a perplexed look upwards towards the cabinets.

“Are you sure?”

“Extra sure,” Will adds with a weak nod, watching as his mother’s eyes drift closed for a second as she processes this information.

“Ah, damnit,” she murmurs, capping the food again as she lays her tongs haphazardly against the soup spoon holder. Resting her fingers against her cheek for a moment, she drums her index finger once, twice, and then she turns away from Will, head flicking back and forth once like she’s trying to juggle a few thoughts at one time.

“Okay, uh— Jonathan?” Joyce calls out into the living room, catching her eldest son’s attention pretty quickly as he steps into the room no more than ten seconds later, tucked into a heavy sweatshirt.

“Yeah?” he murmurs softly.

“Can you— I can’t leave, but I really need to get some flour. Could you run out and pick up some for m—“

“Of course,” the boy replies swiftly, not even waiting for his mother to finish before he does so. Will can feel the appreciation radiating from Joyce as Jonathan rounds the kitchen counter and palms his keys from the change dish. He can see it too, then, when she turns back to spare Will an embarrassed little smile. He thinks that Joyce must wonder if she asks too much of them. Will thinks, of course, that she could ask so much more.

“Thank you, baby,” Joyce sighs sweetly, catching Jonathan’s little smile as he disappears out through the hallway and towards the door. Will’s eyes drift back towards the cupboard as he shuts it with a clink, and out of the blue, in tune with the shutting of the front door like somebody had flipped a switch in his brain, Will wonders what Mike is doing this evening. Cooking with his family? His sister? Maybe he’s out with his friends? Then again, he said he didn’t have any. He was probably kidding. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with him?

 Will could call him, of course, but wouldn’t that make him look a little bit desperate? Isn’t he desperate?

I just like talking to him, Will tells himself, drawing back from the shelves and scooting himself up into a sit on top of a clear part of the counter behind his mother’s cooking station. I just like having another friend. That’s fine. He can picture Mike baking like this, apron around his waist, flour in his hair. Stop that. A new friendship is always exciting.

This is one fuckin’ weird friendship, though, isn’t it?

“Honey?”

Snapping out of his daydreams, Will lifts his head, eyebrows thrown up as he observes his mother before him. She’s kneading the dough a bit to see if she can work it, but she’s stopped, eyes trained on her son now as though he’s just done something rather peculiar. For a moment, awash with fear, Will thinks maybe he’d spoken out loud by accident, but then she smiles and tips her head a bit, observing him like a cat would.

Why does everybody look at me like I’m an oddity?

“Thought I lost ya there for a moment,” she whispers tenderly, hands in the dish as she turns a bit more to look at him. “Everything alright? You looked a bit frazzled.”

Frazzled, Will thinks. That’s a good word for it. I’m frazzled over Mike Wheeler. A lot of things, but frazzled sounds right. She’s still gazing in his direction, waiting for an answer, and Will doesn’t know if he should give her one. A truthful one. Then he thinks about the fact that he told Lucas and Dustin. Which, to Will, means he ought to be able to tell Joyce too. Right? Right?

It takes him a few seconds of thought before he speaks.

“I made a new friend,” Will finally squeaks out, and it sounds so juvenile, but it’s anything but. It’s not some dumb first day of kindergarten sort of thing. That would make sense to bring up. This is just—

Joyce is staring at him.

 She’s stopped, fingers hovering outstretched over the dish towel, and when Will catches her gaze, she hurriedly grabs it and acts as though she hadn’t just frozen in movement. “A new friend?” she repeats, as though she’s trying to confirm what he said. Will can sense some sort of curiosity pulling through her reaction, and he feels his chest start to tighten a little bit in sync. Leaning back onto the counter a bit more, he clears his throat. He knows what she’s thinking, and fuck, if he isn’t tired of having to clarify.

“His name is Mike,” Will adds onto that statement, watching as his mother wipes her hands of the batter while he speaks. She looks like she’s soaking in each word, like some sort of sponge: eyes fixed on her son’s face as she drapes the towel back over the oven door handle. He’s preparing himself, never enough of course, for a barrage of questions. He tries not to flinch when she opens her mouth to finally speak, because the tiny upturned corners of her mouth tell Will that she won’t react like Lonnie probably would, and he knew this already. Yet some part of him fears it. Always.

“Is he nice?” is what Joyce asks first. It sounds like a warm up question to an interrogation. Only Will isn’t sitting in a dingy steel room with a single table and a chair, hands cuffed to the table. He’s sitting on his mother’s kitchen countertop, warm beneath the quiet hum of a yellow light fixture, watching vegetables boil on the stove.

“He’s really nice,” Will replies, slowly, because each words feels like an answer to a test he has to pass. “Really funny. I think you’d like him.” It’s true. He means it when he says it. Of course, this makes Will think about Mike and Joyce having friendly kitchen conversations over morning coffee and that just can’t be thought about.

“Likes the same stuff you do?” she asks. Will nods, because he thinks about sitting on the roof with Mike, watching the sun going down, talking about broken bones, records, family vacations that the two of them never got to experience and favourite movies. Mike had said his favourite was Back to the Future (“Or maybe Alien!”). Will liked that a lot when he’d heard it, and he likes it even more now, because it feels like a secret that he gets to disclose.

“Yeah, he does,” Will whispers. He almost clears his throat to speak up, to save himself, but Joyce cuts into him with her next question before he can.

“What did your dad say when you told him about this new boy?”

Will doesn’t really think before he replies to that question, even if there is a long stretch of silence between the ask and the answer. The question itself slices him up like a knife.

“I never told him.”

Will says this slowly, like he’s still trying to figure out if he should be admitting it. When Joyce stills, honey brown eyes zoning in on her son like he’s just sprung a great surprise on her, Will tacks on a quick “it didn’t seem important.”

Of course, it is important. That’s why he’s told Joyce. That’s why he hasn’t told Lonnie.

Joyce lifts a hand, fiddling with the button on the wrist of her sweater for a moment before she steps forward and crosses the short bit of space between her and the stove, uncapping the vegetables and fumbling with the tongs again.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Will watches the side of his mother’s face under the stove light; soft, worn, tired. She looks like she hasn’t slept well recently. He hopes she has. Will thinks, for a moment before he answers, that he loves Joyce more than he could ever love himself. Loves that she doesn’t push him to speak, only guides him to say what he wants. He doesn’t know if she’s thinking what he thinks she is. He hopes not. Still, he shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

“Best that you don’t,” is all Joyce says in response, brisk, like she’d been waiting to be able to say such a thing. Like she’d been hoping Will would tell her no. She turns a bit away from the stove, not before turning the burner off, and reaches out to her son, cupping a tender, subtly freckled cheek in her palm. Will leans into the touch, even if it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Go wash your hands, alright? Time to eat.” Her voice is gentle, like it always is. Like a mother’s voice should be. The smile she gives him is patient. It’s understanding, maybe a little bit too much so. There are times when Will wonders if Joyce knows and just hasn’t told him, just like he hasn’t told her. He thinks maybe she does, but he can’t confirm it, so he won’t ask. He just nods and eases himself off of the counter, landing back on his feet with the tiniest of thud’s.

Will thinks, as he has thought many times before, that Joyce just might be the only person he doesn’t feel the need to hide from.

Or, she was the only person. Will steps out of the kitchen, padding down the carpeted hallway, and he thinks:

Mike.

My mom and Mike. That’s it.

He wonders if that’s enough. He thinks maybe it is. For now.

-

The Byers don’t really get phone calls. Which is why it’s so strange that, at 7 minutes to midnight on New Years Eve, they do get one.

Will is alone in the house when the phone actually starts to ring. Not alone on the premises, of course. Joyce and Jonathan had already trickled outside onto the back lawn, dragging folded up lawn chairs with them out the back door as they went. Will’s got his own tucked under his arm, now drowning inside a deep blue sweater with a little tiny sun emblem on the right side of the chest. He’s got no idea what it means, but he does know that it has a thick inner lining, and that’s enough for him.

He’s practically hauling the chair out the back door when that sharp ring cuts through the quiet hum of the house like a laser through glass. Nearly dropping the chair in his wake, Will let’s out a displeased hiss and props the thing against the countertop, eyeing the receiver as it sits cradled against the phone box. He can see the number from where he stands, a couple feet away. No name, not one he’s ever seen before, but it does have a Hawkins area code. He almost doesn’t even bother with it for a moment. But after a few seconds of debating, he finds he’s passing back towards the small end table shoved up against the kitchen wall.

He picks up the receiver on the last ring. Will wonders, in the back of his brain, if maybe he should have just left it to go to voicemail, if phone scammers even care that much. “Hello?” Will inquires, waiting a moment as he listens to silence echo on the other end. Weird. He draws back, and he nearly hangs up the phone, but from the other end, someone finally speaks.

“You know, if I keep calling me at these late hours, my wife’s gonna get suspicious,” Mike’s smooth, playful voice croons through the speaker, and Will has to use every bit of power in his body not to let out a pleasantly surprised little noise. Shooting a look over his shoulder and peering at his family out on the yard through the kitchen window, cloaked in darkness, Will turns forward once more.

“You haven’t left her yet?” Will whines softly, slipping his fingers beneath the base of the home phone as he tugs it forward slightly, searching for the cord. When his eyes lock on it, plugged into the wall with it’s length wrapped up with a loose zip tie, Will places the receiver tight between his ear and shoulder and reaches down behind the table to slip off it’s restraints. Mike’s giddy laugh rings through the speaker, and Will halts for a moment, just listening to that sound, bathing in it, like someone’s pressed pause on his entire being. Then he moves again, slowly, yanking the zip-tie off.

“What kind of a man do you think I am, Byers?” Mike demands in feigned shock, a couple more loose, airy chuckles whispering through the receiver. “Where’re your parents? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?”

“I am celebrating.”

“Clearly. By talking to me?”

Will exhales shortly, dragging the phone towards the back step, easing it and it’s chord out past the screen door as cool air singes the boy’s tender cheeks. “You’re the one who called, pal,” Will croons. “Besides, I am celebrating. Fireworks. Decorations, all that.” The phone chord begins to grow less slack. It won’t make it to the bottom step, but it doesn’t need to. Will parks himself right down on the highest one, drawing his knees up closer to his chest as he sets the box against the top of his thighs. “— How did you even get this number?”

“Phonebook, my good sir. Not many Byers in Hawkins,” Mike replies coolly. Will has to actively slam his lips shut. Otherwise they’d gape open for god knows how long. "Should ask where I'm picking you up, too."

“Weirdo,” Will whispers into the mic. A chuckle rings back. In reality, Will’s heart is ready to burst out of his chest. "The, uh— where Cornwallis and Kerley intersect, there's a dirt road that turns off to the right. Little grey house. But—" Will shakes his head, as if Mike can see him, "— I'm sure you could have figured out where I live somehow."

“Hey, I called the number you called me from, and no one answered. So I took a peak just in case. How else am I supposed to wish you a happy New Year?” Mike groans from the other end of the line. Will tsk’s softly, shaking his head even if Mike can’t see it. He doesn’t address the sick, sick feeling that Mike’s words give him. He called the house. He called the house and he got no answer, but god what if Lonnie had picked up?

That’s why you called? New Years?

“How d’you know you weren’t just calling some other Byers?” Will questions.

“Well, I didn’t,” Mike assures him, voice crisp and clear as he speaks. “I’d either get someone who could point me towards you or some random lady named Joyce. I mean, maybe I’d rather talk to her. Is she around?“

If Mike was with Will right now, he’d be reeling from a punch to the arm.

“That’s my mom, you dork,” Will squeaks, eyes trickling out towards his mother as her and Jonathan unfold two fabric lawn chairs beneath the moonlight. “Are you celebrating at all, then? Or did you just call to interrupt my celebrations?”

“They’re gonna light fireworks here, if you call that celebrating,” Mike comments shortly. He sounds much less than thrilled.

“Don’t like ‘em all that much?” Will asks. There is a silence on the other end of the line that lasts a little bit too long. Then—

“Not really. I— okay, hold on a sec,” Mike murmurs into the mic; then, a small kerfuffle that makes Will lean away from the speaker, a shuffle of what sounds like fabric on the mic, and a strange thunk noise. Will clears his throat.

“Mike?” he asks weakly.

“Yessir. All good,” Mike mumbles from his end, words chipper but his tone a bit sour. Will is about to respond, but from far out in the back lawn, Joyce twists around to search for her youngest. When she spots him, she waves.

“Come on down! Only two minutes to go!” Joyce calls out sweetly, waving an arm out as if to guide Will over. He limply throws a hand up, waving back dryly as he pries the phone away from his mouth and flattens the mic against his sweater.

“Too loud! I’ll watch from here!” Will yells softly in return, catching his mother’s nod as he slips the phone back between his ear and his shoulder. On the other end, Mike has started humming.

“Can I ask you something?”

The humming stops.

“Yeah, shoot,” Mike mumbles softly from his end.

Will pauses, for what is probably a little bit too long, before he speaks again.

“Did you get your home phone number changed?” Will asks. It’s a harmless question. Will thinks he recognizes the noise that he hadn’t been able to specify a moment ago, though, and it makes him a little bit confused. Because it’s New Years Eve, at least, it is for the next two minutes, and Will— well, Will is sure that little thunk sounded a lot like coins being driven into a slot. Mike sniffles from the other end. That only makes his unspoken answer a little more necessary.

“Mm, uh— not that I know of,” Mike replies slowly, voice a bit gravelly like he’s got a sore throat. He sniffles, once more, before he continues. “Why? Did you try to call and it didn’t go through?”

Will shifts his own home phone against his shoulder.

“No,” he answers, cautiously, because he’s realizing that maybe he shouldn’t have asked— “The number you’re calling me from. It’s different.”

Mike pauses. “Oh,” is all he says for another few seconds. Then, like Will had posed a silly joke, a thin, nervous laugh slips through the speaker.

“I, uh—“ Mike begins, and Will can imagine the boy’s thin fingers balancing against the back of his neck. He sounds anxious. “I didn’t— I’m not calling from home.”

Will somewhat expected that. His brows knot slightly together. Any minute now, he thinks Mike is going to prove him wrong. So he poses another statement. A subtly begging one. Please tell me you’re just out somewhere, it says.

“So Mike Wheeler does have friends! Out parting, huh?” Will coos softly, and even through the layer of anxiety swarming him like a colony of hornets, Mike’s little laugh anchors him. He fixes his eyes on the lawn, dim beneath the moon.

“Not— Not partying, and uh, sorry to disappoint,” Mike replies weakly, his voice a cautious sounding purr, “but still no friends either. Except you.”

Except me. I’m your friend.

Wow.

“The number, then?” Will asks now, directly, because he doesn’t like dancing around this as much as they have. There is a shuffle on the other end of the phone. That noise again. This time, Will almost asks directly. Mike buries the need for that.

“Yeah, uh, my—“ a pause, then, “— my ‘rents just kicked me out.”

He says it so nonchalantly, as though that’s a regular thing that happens every two days. Will is frozen for a minute, both by Mike’s admission and the chilly weather, struck in silence. Mike carries on to fill it. “So, I’m calling you from a payphone. I’m spending quarters on you, Byers. We’re next level fake dating now.”

“Mike,“ Will interjects, not liking the images that plague his brain, “where are you right now?”

“Ah, around downtown, somewhere. Can’t remember then name of this—“ Mike’s voice strains, a moment, before he lets out a small sigh. “Yeah, I can’t see a street sign from here. But I’m right by a park. Some shitheads are gonna light a few good ones off in the grass.” He speaks like this is no big deal. Will wonders if it’s happened before.

“Mike—“ Will tries, but he sounds a bit too much like a parent.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Why don’t you just come over? I could— I could come get you,” Will offers, before his brain goes on red alert. You’re inviting him over? For what? Tea and biscuits? Who says he even wants to see you? You don’t even have a car.

“It’s just for the night, probably,” Mike interjects, voice slightly muddled and passive. “But, er, thanks. I think I needed the fresh air anyways.”

“Why’d they kick you out?” Will asks sharply, his voice ripping with concern now as he looks up towards the moon. With the toe of his shoe, Will nudges a dried piece of dirt from one of the steps. “It’s New Years Eve.”

“It is, huh?” Mike mumbles in agreement, sounding like he’s shifting the phone. “I don’t—

uh, not really 100% sure this time.”

“This time?” Will squeaks. There is a long pause before Mike speaks again.

“If I were to guess, I think it’s because they just wanted to have some people over.”

“So they kicked their own son out of the house?”

“Hm, yeah,” Mike says in agreement. It almost sounds like he’s smiling. “Social status is quite important to ‘em. See, I’ve got a bit of a bad mouth. If I was them, I’m sure I’d rather my crackpot of a son didn’t hang around my uppity bitch friends.”

Will smiles a bit at this, through that fear. “A bad mouth? You don’t say,” he replies.

“Hey,” Mike hums into his own mic, distant yells in the back hardly audible on Will’s side, “you find it endearing, I bet.”

He does. Will finds most things about Mike endearing. He won’t say that, of course.

“Ten seconds!”

Will’s eyes dart out over the grass, barely illuminated. The shout came from a neighbouring house. Or maybe from his brother. He isn’t really sure.

“Mike?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got somewhere to go, right?”

“Seven!”

A pause.

“Six! Five!”

So many pauses.

“Yeah, I will.”

“Four! Three! Two!”

It’s the neighbours. Will can hear them from the steps.

I will. I will. What does that mean?

“Mike—“ Will begins to speak again, but the sudden scream of fireworks soaring up over the tops of the trees and bursting into colourful fractals drowns out whatever he was going to say. His lips fall open ever so slightly as he cranes his head upwards to look at them, most of the noise from his neighbours drowned out by the chaotic sounds of pops and bangs hanging over their heads. He wonders if the context of these noises is the only reason he isn’t afraid. Sometimes he thinks maybe he lives a lot of his days without any context. Mike is talking to him, of course, and Will doesn’t notice until there is a moment of quiet between golden streaks and red plumes dancing across the night sky like fiery beacons.

“They’re shooting off those fireworks here now. I’m— I mean, I’m sure you can hear them,” Mike says from the other end of the phone, and Will can picture the grimace on the boy’s face just from his tone. But he doesn’t mind. If anything, it coaxes a small, airy laugh out of Will, and he draws the phone cord a little bit closer to him, wrapping a finger around it. The hoots and hollers from nearby neighbours is hardly muffled through the layer of trees around the property, drunken cries echoing like wolf howls between the pines. Light flows over Will’s dark clothing like sunlight through stained glass.

“You don’t think they’re at least nice to look at it?”

“They’re a bit much,” Mike replies, passively. “Bright. Loud. But they’re beautiful, I guess.”

Will feels like a child: sitting out on the back steps, on the floor, home phone cradled in his lap as he stares upwards at the blasts of colour above him. He’s always liked fireworks. Never the noise, really, but the sight: beautiful. Just like Mike had said. Just like Mike had been. Has been. Is.

He doesn’t know how far away Mike is, but Will imagines he isn’t far at all. He imagines that he’s right there with him.

“Happy New Year, Mike,” Will mutters softly as he gazes up at the sky, his body awash with light. From the other end, Mike hums again, like he’s thinking, before he whispers back, barely heard on Will’s end through another chain of firework blasts but he catches it, nevertheless:

“Happy New Year, Will.”

- 

Tuesday comes way too fast. Regardless, even if the weekend had dragged on forever, Will thinks he still wouldn’t be prepared for what’s about to happen.

On the day of New Years Eve, the sky had been crystal clear, not a single cloud wafting through the sky to block out the oceanic blue above Hawkins. That never lasted, though. Not here. It’s been raining ever since— almost like somebody had pitied the town and it’s residents for one fine evening before sending a week’s worth of rainy days back down upon them. That would be God, wouldn’t it? Yeah, well, Will has plenty to say to God if that’s the case. Before now, Will was loosely anticipating this dinner with full excitement. Now? Well, now he’s changed. Still excited, sure. Only now he’s petrified too. Before it had been dry as a bone outside. Now it’s raining again. Before Will had been giddy, ready to dress up all tidy and go have dinner with a handsome young man and his parents. Now is different.

Now, Will stands in front of the full length mirror propped against the wall next to his closet, taking in his figure, brushing fingers against polished shirt buttons, and he thinks ‘Jesus Christ, I look like a fucking serial killer’.

The dress shirt, the same one he’d picked out a couple nights before, feels strange against his own skin now that everything is really happening. Feverishly, Will gives a yank against the collar of his button up, twisting fingertips against his shirt and undoing the top. He’s never dressed up to go out to dinner before, not really. Going out to dinner, even when his family was one piece instead of fractions of a whole, was never a thing. They’d never had enough money to spend on the rare occasions that the four of them got chances to go out somewhere, especially not somewhere that you had to dress up for. He’d never needed to dress up to go eat. Maybe he doesn’t even need to now. But yet, here he stands, staring into his reflection like he’s gazing into a funhouse mirror. Men at Work rings heavy against his right ear, and when he moves to turn the player down a bit, he catches something in the mirror that startles him.

“You look like you’re having a crisis.”

Will almost jumps right out of his own skin as he whips back around to take in the sight of his older brother leaning into his open bedroom doorway. Jonathan looks almost corpse-like— now, not in a mean way. In a way that makes Will wonder when he’s slept last. Nimble fingers working at the buttons on the front of his shirt, Will scoffs slightly, eyes lingering on Jonathan for another brief moment before he fully turns away from the mirror and peels the dress shirt off of his torso.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks. It’s meek. It’s supposed to be a joke. Neither of them laugh.

“What’re you getting all dressed up for anyways?” Jonathan asks with a curious lilt in his tone, shifting his footing, and Will keeps his eyes trained on the floor until he turns away and marches over to his closet. Dinner with my fake boyfriend. Will wants to say. Of course, he doesn’t know if Jonathan will take it as a joke or not. It sure sounds like one.

“I’m not getting all dressed up. I’m just going out for dinner,” he urges, drawing the doors open and letting his eyes run over the few shirts he’s got strung up. His fingers flip through them, mindless, before he settles on a worn, slightly too big Journey raglan with red sleeves. It’s seen every inch of Hawkins and it’s outskirts 30 times over, but Will is wearing himself out. It’s fine. It’s fine. Then he thinks, as he’s bunching up the bottom to tug it over his head: what if Mike doesn’t like Journey?

Who the fuck doesn’t like Journey?

That just might be the deal breaker.

“… Will?”

Will yanks his head through the opening of his shirt, drawing it down over his hips. Too big, still. It might even be Jonathan’s. From the entertained look on his brother’s face when Will turns back around and sifts a hand through his hair, he thinks he might be right.

“What?”

“I said who are you going to dinner with?” Jonathan asks, and Will realizes he’d been zoned out for a good minute or so. A subtle crimson flush rises to his cheeks as he makes strained eye contact with his brother for a beat, before he steps lightly back over to the mirror.

“Just a new friend,” he replies, taking another once over of himself as he eyes his reflection. Good enough. Good enough? Will’s hands rise from his sides to his stomach, fingers ghosting against the fabric. You look fine, he tries to assure himself. But he can’t help but still feel like he’s underdressed.

“A new friend?” Jonathan repeats curiously, and Will’s eyes dart to the boy in the reflection of the mirror, watching as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this new friend a girl?”

Will wants to act like that means nothing, but he knows exactly what it means. He hopes Jonathan can’t see his shoulders square a bit as his eyes dart towards his record player. Would it be rude to just turn the volume up until I can’t hear him? Probably.

“Not a girl,” Will almost chokes, clearing his throat, a slight flush rising to his cheeks from the sheer embarrassment. Will. With a girl. Now that feels out of reach. Rolling his shoulders back a little bit, Will brushes his sleeves down so they aren’t wrinkled as he shifts back and turns around to face Jonathan. He looks like he’s about to skip out on tonight’s segment of Dealing with Dad too— already wrapped up in his coat and mittens , which poke out from underneath his sleeves as he observes Will like an animal in an enclosure. “It’s just supper. Just some new guy from school.”

Jonathan’s face doesn’t fade from that overly curious little smirk. Will pads across the room towards his dresser, and once he’s got his back to his brother again, he rolls his eyes.

“A new boy? This late in the year?” Jonathan questions, and Will can hear him shift his feet. Like he’s planning on staying there.

“Not a new student, just new to me. Can—“ Will sighs, softly, a pause because you don’t need to get snippy with him. He’s just making conversation, and you’re just stressed. Over nothing, at that. “— He’s just new to me. New friend.” Will grabs his coat from it’s spot hooked on one of his dresser knobs.

Jonathan smiles at that. “New friend,” he repeats. Will doesn’t really like that.

Throwing his arms into his coat, Will’s gaze flickers towards the small clock resting against the corner of his night table. 4:46 pm. That sends a little tiny jolt of electricity through his entire being. Mike is going to be here any second. Mike is going to be here any second! You know that! He told you almost a week ago that this was happening! Calm down!

He can’t calm down, of course. When can Will ever calm down? It’s just not part of his code.

“Look, I’d love to talk, but I’ve got to go, really.” Will hurries across his bedroom, slipping out through the remaining space Jonathan has left in the doorway. He practically leaves his brother in the dust, ignoring the subtle “okay, see ya—“ from his brother as his socked feet fall almost completely mute against the floorboards in his rush towards the door. Snatching up his shoes at the mat, Will steps back into the kitchen, resting a hip against the closest countertop piece to him as he tries to pry his shoes on. He gets the first one on, of course, before he draws his other foot up and shoots a look out the window to see if Mike is actually there yet. The sight outside makes him jump, at first. Because he is there and Will has no idea how long he’s been waiting.

Mike’s car is just as he expected—a little dark green piece, a Volkswagon GTI that Will most definitely cannot figure out the year of, sometime earlier that decade. From behind thin, lacy curtains, Will can see that one of the headlights is out. He’d smile at that, because of how fitting it is, if his blood hadn’t run cold that very second.

Because Mike’s car isn’t the only one out there.

Stepping back away from the window as he manages to get his second shoe on, Will feels suddenly viciously small in comparison to everything around him. Like he’d just drunk a shrinking potion and now he’s descending down and down until he’ll be nothing but a spec drowning inside of a thick winter coat. Swallowing thickly, Will takes one step, then two, then more and more until he reaches the door. He’s not going to hide inside. There’s no point. You’re cornered. So he grabs the handle, and he turns, and he still isn’t quite ready when he yanks it open and his father is drawing himself up onto the last porch step right in front of him.

They make eye contact, if only for a split second, before Will blinks himself out of his frozen stupor and takes a long inhale through his nose, stepping out of the doorway and leaving it ajar behind him as slips past his father. Lonnie’s gaze doesn’t dwell on his son, the expression plastered on his face completely liquored as he shuffles towards the door, boots clunking against the floor. That makes Will’s stomach churn a little bit. Knowing he drove home like that, even if he’s done it countless times before.

You’re almost there, Will thinks. He doesn’t care, see? You knew he wouldn’t give a shit that somebody else is here. He never gives a shit. Will thinks he’s about to win a race, you see. He’s never won anything before. He feels like he’s really got this one in the bucket.

Even if he doesn’t.

“Don’t stay out late,” his father grumbles under his breath, tweaking the nerves that make up Will’s pretty level temper as he trudges across the porch and passes his son. It’s a stupid comment. It’s a baseless comment, because Lonnie won’t be sober enough, or lucid enough to remember if Will is home or not. Which means it’s a comment to be ignored, but if Will inherited one thing from his father, it’s his lack of ability to keep his mouth shut.

“Not like you’d care anyways,” Will mutters as he steps down onto that first step, then the next, and he gets down a couple before he’s realized that he can’t hear the sound of boots on wood behind him anymore. He gets down all four steps before—

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” his father barks in a low growl from behind him, instantly draining all the colour from Will’s cheeks as he whips back around to look at his dad. He’s not sure which emotion is weighing more inside of him: embarrassment or fear. When his father, who’s shoulders are squared like a bull ready to charge, crosses those few steps between them in short time, Will thinks it’s over. It’s over. Mike is literally sitting right there waiting and I had to open my mouth. And now it’s over.

Yet, for some reason, when Lonnie steps up close to Will, barely sparing a foot’s distance between them, he doesn’t swing, or scream, or even spit at the boy’s feet, because he’s done even that before. He just stares like a predator searching for an unmoving prey, watching Will with hazy, glazed over eyes. Will can smell it, the booze on him. He can always smell it. He doesn’t answer, though his mouth opens and closes twice like a fish out of water. They just stare— locked in this eye contact battle as if they’re trying to determine who swings first.

After a tense few moments, which chalks up to about fifteen seconds but feels like fifteen minutes, his father sneers and spits out a shallow “get out of my fuckin’ sight”, before that lingering gaze passes and he veers in the other direction, teetering back up towards the front door and whipping it closed with heavy force behind him as he disappears into the house. This leaves Will, of course, standing at the base of the porch absolutely dumbstruck and a little (little?) bit mortified. Unable to look in Mike’s direction for a good 20 seconds, and when he does, man, he regrets it. He wishes he could just slink back up the steps and follow his dad inside, because Mike is leaning back in the driver’s seat of his car, leisurely, and he looks lovely, but he’s got that look on his face.

The same look Mike had given him when Will had freaked out about the beers. So unsettled, but trying, trying to grasp what’s happening and searching for that missing puzzle piece that belongs in the jigsaw of how things work but every single time he thinks he’s got it, the piece doesn’t fit. He looks— he looks— shaken up. Will almost wants to storm right up to that driver’s side window, jab a finger in the direction of the ground to tell Mike to put his window down, and when he does, demand that the boy tell him why he’s staring like that. He doesn’t, of course. Instead, Will’s eyes glaze over Mike’s face and shoot out towards the trees as he draws his coat tighter around his chest, marching down the dirt path like nothing had happened.

When he climbs into the car, Mike doesn’t say hello. He keeps that look, only now, Will realizes that Mike wasn’t staring at him at all, really. Will buckles up, following Mike’s eyes out towards the face of his house, windows and door forming an imaginary, metaphorical demonic face with snarling teeth and jagged shingles dripping off of it. It feels like that sometimes— like a monster itself. Mike wasn’t staring at Will— he was staring at his father, and now, he’s staring at that thick empty space that he’d previously taken up.

Focus on anything but Mike’s face. That’s what Will tells himself, even if he’s had issues with that in every situation that’s included the boy since he’s met him, regardless of context. The tiny pine air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. The clean console (clean, but untidy; a clutter of slips of important looking paper and various other objects, cassettes, gum packages, a lighter) and the tiny chip in the windshield and the small, rectangular sticker slapped on the passenger’s dash that reads, in plain black and white text: I used to be cool. Will thinks that’s a little funny. Cute, even. He’d comment on it, if he could find the right thing to say.

Will takes a moment (likely a moment too long) to observe Mike’s own attire, too. Dark, dark brown jeans, loose fitting black pullover with a Hawkins High School logo printed into it, curving around the subtly fading orange decal of a tiger. He’s got a blank black baseball cap on— does he ever dress for the weather? — sweater tucked into the waist of his jeans, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Will notices something else that he won’t comment on. Something that makes a feeling inside of his stomach curl upwards into his throat. Mike’s hair, previously unruly and slowly creeping down over the tops of his ears, has been trimmed— not too short. Black wavy strands still hang in his eyes as he turns a bit to peer over at Will. The boy’s gaze darts away immediately, out towards his house as Mike shifts the car into reverse.

“Big fan of Hawkins High, Mike?” Will chides softly, and it feels aggressively awkward because of how tense the air is between them. Mike remains silent, unresponsive for a few seconds. Then, slowly, like letting the air out of a balloon, Mike drums his fingers against the wheel, and Will catches his slow moving grin out of the corner of his eyes. Finally. Something other than that look. The car let’s out a low grumble, like a vehicle’s version of a sigh.

“Go Tigers,” Mike hums back as though he’s been trained to do so, and Will juts an elbow out, knocking it against Mike’s in return. “What? You don’t love Hawkins High?”

Will experiences what feels like an internal sigh of relief.

“Not really. Mediocre lunch food and shitty students and faculty? Not really my gig,” he replies thinly as he leans back into his seat. Mike’s eyes flicker to the side and seem to linger on Will’s face a moment before he finally looks forward again, flexing a hand against the steering wheel as he pulls around and out of the Byers’ driveway— house growing smaller behind them as they carry on down the dirt stretch. Mike shoots another glance in Will’s direction, quickly, and for a moment Will thinks he might have actually offended the boy. Then, he laughs.

I forgot how pretty that is in person.

“You actually go there?” Mike asks, sounding a bit dubious as his head shoots forward again. Will doesn’t know where the curiosity comes from. He’s got one of two options in terms of formal education— Hawkins High, or homeschooling. Hell if Will wouldn’t prefer to be home-schooled. Hell if he could afford it, though.

“You sound shocked,” Will replies, slowly. He’s staring into the side mirror, watching the face of the building behind them shrink. He shrinks a bit with it.

“I am shocked,” Mike replies, briskly, fingers drumming still. The speakers are turned quite low, merely a silence blocker, but Will can still hear the sound of some new song humming over the radio. “I’ve never seen you. And I’d know,” Mike clarifies, coy smile creeping over his lips when Will takes a peek at him. “I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”

Will wants to accept the compliment. Wants to question Mike about why he said it, what it means, if he means it, but he can’t. He blushes, though. Then he speaks when he doesn’t mean to and he’s mortified again.

“I’m sorry you had to see all of that,” he says, out of the blue. Mike pulls up to the edge of the dirt road, ready to turn out onto the pavement, but he lingers. There isn’t a stop sign. There’s never been one. Will wants to ask him what he’s waiting for, but Mike’s curious glance in Will’s direction answers that. His eyes are trained on the radio. He struggles to hear which song is playing, but he can’t figure it out. He doesn’t even want to. He just wants to focus on anything but the fact that Mike is staring, hard.

“Had to see—?” Mike asks, softly, leaving his statement open ended for Will to finish. Will doesn’t think he needs to.

“That,” Will repeats, clearly not interested in elaborating.

“That being—“

“My dad. Y’know—“ Will tries, only he knows that Mike doesn’t know. Not exactly. He doesn’t know what happens behind those paper thin walls. Will hopes that he will never have to find out. Mike shifts a little bit in his seat as though he’s turning towards Will. Will, in return, subconsciously leans away.

“Being a jerk?” Mike questions.

Will nods. No words needed. So Mike shifts forward again, fingers settling against the steering wheel once more as he peers out over the front of the hood. Will wonders for a moment if maybe he’s actually looking at something, and so he raises his head a bit, peering out over the hood as well, but then the car draws forward, creeping out and then turning out onto the road, as though they hadn’t even stopped in the first place.

Will exhales, a little bit too relieved, as the tension seems to burst like a metaphorical bubble around them. He even leans his head back into the headrest, ready to let his eyes drift shut for the brief little drive that he’s about to sit through. Comfortable in Mike’s presence. Mike seems comfortable enough, too. The conversation has dribbled out into nothingness, Will thinks. Good. Great.

Will feels something brush against his hand.

 By the time he actually opens his eyes, there is something in his hand. His heart nearly seizes inside of his chest— he thinks he might sink right through the frame of the car, right through the asphalt it’s driving on. He might disappear. Because Mike’s reached across the console, elbow propped against it, and he’s taken Will’s hand inside of his, fingers interlaced as though their hands were professionally carved just to fit together. Mike isn’t looking at Will, but Will stares at Mike anyways. Looks right into the side of his face, practically gazing into the boy’s soul. He watches as Mike parts his lips, fingers fanning over the wheel as he drives his palm into it, turning the car down the next street.

He’s fucking holding my hand.

Is this part of the arrangement? Clearly it must be.

Could we have discussed this?

Say something!

“That’s on him. Not you.” Mike says this, slowly, like he’s tasting the words as they slip past his lips. Will can feel his shoulders drawing a little tighter, throat feeling like it’s being squeezed. “If he wants to be an asshole— that’s not your fault. That’s who he is. Not you.”

Will recognizes the song now, at the chorus. He’d tap his foot along to Alannah Myles voice if he could, but he is stone cold still. Unmoving. Not able to.

Not you.

Why does he sound like he’s had to say that before?

“Okay?”

Will’s eyes dart over towards Mike, who is still keeping his eyes trained on the road as his little car putters along, the dullest of rumbles narrating their travels. Does it count as a lie if you don’t know what you’re committing an answer to? Will isn’t really sure. But he lets his head tip to the side still, watching. Observing.

“Okay, Mike,” Will says quietly, studying the boy to see if his face changes. To see if he accepts that answer. He seems to, because he goes rather quiet, and when Will feels the boy’s thumb rub tenderly against his, he remembers.

He’s still holding my hand.

The radio plays softly, a mere hum against the car’s many noises, but Will can still hear it. The sun is slipping below the tree line, and if Will were to look in the rear view, he would see the entrance to his road disappearing against the trees. He just stares out the front window though, eyes trained on the shoulder of the road as they whip past, and he listens to the woman sing, sing, sing:

Every word of every song that he sang was for you

In a flash he was gone, it happened so soon

What could you do?

Chapter Text

“I can’t be your fake boyfriend anymore.”

Will says this with pure intent, with a bit of disdain that is totally fake. He tries his best to sound serious, because he’s trying to be. He still breaks down into a fit of laughter when Mike lets out a choked, disagreeing groan, dropping his head back for only a mere moment because he is, indeed, operating a vehicle. He’s at least that safety cautious.

“What, because I don’t listen to Journey?” Mike croons through a hearty laugh, fingers tap tap tapping against the steering wheel as he pulls the car off into a side street, different openings branching off of the long stretch between houses like roots. They’ve been talking about this for most of the drive— Mike spotting Will’s shirt, asking him (touching the fabric of it’s crimson arm) about his favourite songs, followed by an admission that he’d never heard any of them. This, of course, is the exact problem Will had been dwelling on. It’s not so much of a nightmare as Will had expected it to be, of course. Mike listens to good music. He just doesn’t listen to Journey.

“How can you not like Journey!”

“They’re fine, okay? I never said they weren’t! I just said they’re fine.”

“’Fine’,” Will croaks as though he’s been shot, sinking back into his seat a little bit to further his point, draping a hand over the spot above his heart. Mike’s eyes dart over towards Will, who’s eyes only widen. “You fucking wound me, pal. You know that?”

“Poor boy,” Mike coos, catching a brief whip from the back of Will’s hand against his forearm, a tiny shriek escaping his lips. “Look! Give me one good Journey song.”

“One?” Will gasps, pretending like his heart doesn’t absolutely soar out of his chest when Mike’s smile grows toothy and open, a vibrant, heart warming laugh flowing from him. Will thinks if laughter could light a city, Mike could power New York for a million years. He wonders, briefly, before returning to the conversation again, if Mike has ever been sad a day in his life. “They’re all good. What have you heard?”

Mike is quiet for a few seconds too long. When Will peeks back over at him, face framed against the trees and houses gliding past his his window, he looks madly embarrassed. “Er, uh— what’s that one— the really popular one?“

Will almost rolls his eyes, but refrains. “Don’t Stop Believing?”

Mike nods, a sheepish smile crossing his face before he parts his lips in shock as Will slinks a bit into the window. “I’m sorry!” he feigns, reaching out like he’s begging for a touch, and though Will sincerely wants to give into it, he slaps Mike’s hand away delicately. The car is so full of laughter, the sweet croon of music filling up whatever spaces their joy doesn’t occupy. It’s beautiful, this— exceptional.

“Jesus­,” Will groans softly, almost hurt as he places a palm flat against his cheek. “My first boyfriend and he doesn’t even like Journey. Where did I go wrong?”

“Good thing we aren’t really dating then, huh?” Mike sighs dramatically, and Will feels that; sinking heavy into his bones even if he already knows this to be true.

Good thing we aren’t really dating.

Yeah. Good thing.

Will opens his mouth to agree, or to feign agreement, but he cuts himself off when the car noticeably slows, inching off to the side of the road as Mike pulls up to a curb. The sky is growing dark, but he can still see plenty fine. They’ve turned into a cul de sac in the midst of their fake argument, and Will, in the middle of his little blissful ride with Mike, had almost forgotten the reason they were driving in the first place. Now, he remembers it. The small little tin mailbox, the honey brown and red brick finish on the house they’re parking in front of: it brings that back to him. Dinner. They’re here for dinner.

So this is where Mike Wheeler lives. Will didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t trimmed lawns and a nice little station wagon and beautiful exterior trim. Maybe something— regular. Something average.

Will has to correct himself. This is average. It’s Will that isn’t quite average. He swallows that down like a dry pill.

He’s studying the shingling when Mike nudges him.

“Nervous?” he asks, having rolled the gearshift into park and released his foot from the pedal while Will was preoccupied with his mind. Peeling his eyes back off of the house (they’ve got garden gnomes, for fucks sake), Will meets Mike’s questioning stare with a weak smile.

“Only a little bit.”

“Never ‘met the parents’ before?”

Will shifts a bit in his seat, suddenly acutely aware of every inch of the upholstery beneath him. No, he’s never ‘met the parents’ before. He’s never been with anyone before in general, not seriously. He supposes, in this case, it still isn’t serious. There have never been parents to meet for him.

“No.” Will admits. Mike doesn’t really slow down in his actions, though— stuffing his keys into his sweater pocket as he speaks. Will looks at movement as a mirroring game— it helps him not think about where he’s going. So when Mike unbuckles his seat belt, he unbuckles his seatbelt. When Mike pops open his door and climbs out, Will does the exact same. From over the car roof, Mike peers across at Will and gives him a warm little smile.

“Well, okay,” he replies, shutting his door with a thunk. Will does the same. “So, just— avoid eye contact and try to make yourself seem bigger. Y’know, arms outstretched, loud noises—“

Will would playfully smack Mike if he was close enough. Lips parted, a smile dotting the corners of his lips, Will watches as Mike rounds the front of the car, gesturing for him to follow. He does, trailing after him like a lost puppy.

“You know,” Mike finishes, breath drifting from his lips against the winter chill, “like brown bears.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Will snips softly, unable to play off the look that is painted across his face; a wanton mix of anxiety, entertainment and worry. He’s glad Mike is looking forward when he leads the two of them up to the front door. It feels like they’re walking straight into the open jaws of doom itself, even when Mike opens the front door, instantly bathing them in a welcoming glow. The heat from inside radiates outwards, instantly slapping Will right across the cheeks as he steps in and to the side, letting Mike shut the door behind them.

The place? It’s nice. Like, definitely too nice. It looks slightly upper class, almost. A decorative table with an intricately designed plate on display, a wide, stretching painting hung up down the hallway across from the entry. The whole place is saturated in a warm light, and Will thinks maybe he’d like to take a look around. He also thinks maybe he’d like to see Mike’s room, because he’d be flabbergasted if it looks anything like this. Before he can really think about Mike’s décor, though, a thin figure slips around the corner from what Will assumes to be the dining room, draped in a honey brown pants and shirt ensemble.  

“Ah, good. I was beginning to wonder when you two were going to show up,” the woman hums thinly, not in a spectacularly bitter tone but in a testing one, surely. She holds out a hand, eyes fixed on Will’s clothes for a moment before her lips are thread with a small smile. “Karen. You must be the Will that I’ve been hearing about.” She seems friendly enough, and she certainly looks done up; shoulder length hair curled back, apple-cheeked and bright eyed. She looks a little bit like the china she seems to collect.

“Mom,” Mike croaks, slipping past the two into the main foyer, his voice a touch impatient as though he hates their formalities. Will’s throat seizes a bit at her comment. That I’ve been hearing about. So Mike’s mentioned me. But— in what way? Staring down into her hand, Will sees that her nails are manicured. He can’t remember the last time he’d even seen his own mother paint her nails, let alone get them done.

So you’re the sweet lady that kicked Mike out in the middle of the winter, on New Years Eve no less. This is what Will would like to say. Instead, he reaches out and shakes Karen’s hand delicately. It’s smooth, but cold. Something about that is a little bit unsettling.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wheeler.” The smile that Will puts on is nervous, and that’s only because he can feel forced radiating off of the woman before him. She gives him a tight lipped smile in return anyways, eyes flickering between Will and her son as Mike scoots past them, hardly sparing his mother a proper hello. Mike shoots a look back, dark brown eyes glowing with anticipation as he tips his head in a gesture for Will to follow. Will eyes the boy for a moment before he nods, slowly, a cautious, embarrassed look crossing his face as he hurries over. He’s struck immediately by the smell— vegetables, carrots and the like, definitely some sort of chicken— or maybe roast. Whatever it is, Jesus, it smells amazing. It smells like home, only— it’s different.

Something feels a bit off about the way things are here— not in the way a haunted house feels haunted, more like the way a non-haunted house still holds some sort of ghosts in the walls. History has made it’s impact here, recent or not. Will can feel it when he trails after Mike, Karen distant behind them as he resists the urge to reach out and grab onto Mike’s sleeve to keep up. The lights are golden, an aged yellow, the wallpaper is almost outdated but pristine. The distant smell of wax, candles half burnt sitting on coffee tables and four plates set out for a house that feels like it should hold more. Will doesn’t realize it at first— it takes a couple china figures and chipped plates in cabinets to figure it out.

Staged, Will thinks, watching as Mike trickles over towards the table, where plates are already filled and set. It feels staged.

He can’t figure out if that’s a good or bad thing yet.

- 

Mike Wheeler has broken his right wrist in two places, both at once, when he was nine. Mike Wheeler never learned how to ride a bike, but he liked to climb trees when he was younger. He has a younger sister named Holly, who is staying at her friend’s house for a sleepover tonight, and an older sister, Nancy, who will be on her way any second. He doesn’t like peas very much— but Will wasn’t told that. He can tell because Mike is pushing around them to get at his carrots like they’re nothing but an obstacle, eyes averted to the plate in front of him as he confirms brief childhood retellings when they pop up in conversation with little to no interest.

The food is wonderful— Will didn’t expect any less, of course. He only stops eating in periods to respond sheepishly to little questions. It doesn’t take long, of course, for the topic to settle on Will himself, and when it does, well— he starts skirting around the peas on his plate, too. Now it’s Mike’s turn to eye him.

It starts easy. Are you both in the same year? Yes. Hawkins High? Yes. Where does your mom work? Will dances around that one a moment before he responds to it, of course, because he can tell that Mike’s parents are the type of people his mother is forced to smile at during her nine to fives, even if they knock over inventory and leave without a thank you. When he tells them, he gets that same silly, tight lipped little smile that he knows she gets, and it makes him a little bit queasy. He thinks maybe Mike senses it, too, because when Will’s eyes dart over towards him post question, their gazes meet immediately, and Mike’s, as short as it lingers before he turns to look at his food again, is apologetic. Like he knows what Will is thinking. This, of course, isn’t the first time he’s looked at Will like that. That’s what makes it all the realer.

Then the questions get a little bit harder. Where does your dad work? He doesn’t, of course, but Will tells them that he works at a logging company in the country— which, well, it isn’t a lie. He did work there. He just doesn’t now. What do you want to do when you finish school? Will has to lie about that one too. He thought maybe an illustrator for a while. Maybe a filmmaker. Now? Now he doesn’t know. So he puts on a little smile and tells them that he wants to be an artist. That isn’t enough, either. He can see it in their eyes. He’s lost, even if he wasn’t playing a game to begin with. That’s alright, though. The conversation begins to dribble out, until the gentle clinks of glasses and forks narrate their every move. When Mike’s father, Ted, as he’d introduced himself, speaks up again, Will has to stop himself from thanking the man for shattering that silence.

“Don’t see a lot of people around here for Mike,” Ted mumbles quietly into his napkin, not a chide, rather just something that the whole table seems to accept. Even Mike, who spears a green bean and tugs it off his fork with his teeth bitterly. “You two working on something together?”

That coaxes a different sort of reaction out of Mike. Mid chew, the boy’s head jerks up, brows flying up as he hurries to swallow, glancing to his left and giving Will a wry, knowing smile accompanied by the most transparent wink in history. So brief that if Will had even begun to blink at that moment, he’d have missed it. He wishes he had.

This dinner is going good, but Will won’t even get to finish half of the food on his plate.

“Ah, right! Yeah, I mean, kinda,” Mike begins, his voice chipper and reasonable, but Christ, Will knows this isn’t going to end well. He gives his parents, both of whom have paused to shoot a look of surprise towards their suddenly perky son, a warm smile. Then, prodding a soft piece of carrot on the edge of his plate, Mike shrugs lightly and says, with vigour; “See, we’re actually in a gay relationship.”

When Will drops his fork against his plate with a loud tink, none of them seem to notice. They’re all frozen in their seats, still in their movements like some sort of muddy renaissance painting that reeks of anxiety and distraught. Nobody says anything. Nobody moves. The first one to budge, not stunningly, out of all of them, is Mike. He raises the fork to his lips and takes the bite he’d been planning to. Will can’t help but stare at his parents, the subtly angry look on his father’s face in contrast with the startled, flabbergasted expression reflected from his mother. When neither of them budge, or even speak a word, Mike chews a few more times before swallowing and clearing his throat.

“You know. Like, together, together,” he says, watching as his father sets his fork against his napkin.

“You’re not doing this right n—” Ted begins in a weighted, warning voice.

“Like, we’ve been fuc—“

“Michael!” his mother barks in response, her words shrouded in a thick fog of anger. Her voice, as high and unfiltered as it is, makes everyone at the table jump. Even Mike. Will’s organs feel like they’re turning themselves inside out. From the seat next to him, Mike leans back, as though he’s lounging in a beach chair.

“You sound stressed out, Mom. Does the chicken taste gamey to you, too?” the boy asks in an unpolished hiss, and Will can see Karen’s shoulders square out of disbelief. The whole thing would be a little bit funny if Will was watching it on television. He does let out the smallest of laughs, though, anyways— it’s airy and high pitched and under his breath. It sounds, actually, more like a wheeze. Karen doesn’t even notice this little squeak, but Ted does— and even then, he only eyes Will for a fraction of a second before this whole scenario turns into an even more sitcom-like situation and the front door opens. They always just open doors like that in tv shows, don’t they? Nobody knocks. Every home is a free for all. Still, this one feels like a private event.

Everyone looks towards the noise except Mike, who spoons a green bean into his mouth lazily.

When Will spins around in his chair, his eyes land upon the slender figure of a girl who, from behind, looks to be about his age, probably a bit older. He can’t really tell at first. She’s kicking off a pair of winter boots that come up just above the ankle, shrugging a thin coat off of her back as shoulder length brown hair cascades over her cheeks.

“It smells amazing in here!” she calls into the open air, owner of the familiar voice Will had experienced over the telephone, clearly assuming that someone is in the vicinity. They are, of course: four somebodies. None of them are apt to take that compliment, though. Right now, the air feels stale and stagnant— coating each of the people at the table like soap residue. None of them speak. None of them can force some sort of reply, so, as anyone would, the girl drapes the neck of her coat against the coatrack and she turns around, wearing a perplexed expression.

Will sees her face, and he feels like a hundred ton steel brick has been dropped right onto his gut.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“—What’s going on?” the young woman inquires from the front door, assessing her family members before her eyes finally settle on Will. They shift, so abruptly that Will feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Mike doesn’t seem to notice their laser-like gazes when he twists around in his chair to face her.

“Impeccable timing as always, Nancy. Me and the folks are just chatting about how much of a queer I am.” Mike hums easily as his mother babbles behind him, unable to figure out just what to say to her son. His eyes remain on his sister for only a moment more before his gaze glides over Will and back towards his parents. Will keeps staring, though, because Nancy hasn’t moved from the foyer, looking into Will’s face like a bull seeing red. He can feel her eyes drilling into him, first shock, then disbelief, then a wash of what appears to be disbelief. Will can’t pretend like he doesn’t get it, because he does. It’s what makes him want to dissolve into the chair cushion in the first place. It’s been months. More than months, he thinks, maybe about a year since he’s seen Nancy’s face this close. But here she is.

Nancy Wheeler, he thinks now. So that’s who you are. Will thinks he might vomit.

Will knows Nancy. Knows her face, rather. He won’t say that, of course. Admitting that he knows Nancy, well, that would just give every bit of himself away, and he doesn’t need that. He doesn’t know how to say it even if he wanted to. Doesn’t know how to tell someone that he knows those pearly blue eyes; knows the surprise they can hold. Will doesn’t know how to explain that he knows Nancy, because admitting that would mean admitting she knew him, and that would mean admitting that she’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

That, of course, would require further explaining. And Will doesn’t think he’s ready to explain that the first time he’d interacted with Nancy Wheeler, he’d been trapped between a set of fire-truck red lockers and the Hawkins High men’s football captain. Devon, wasn’t it? His smug, condescending face flashes across Will’s brain, and he has to refuse the urge to gag. How do you do that? How do you explain that to someone?

You don’t. Not in Will Byers’ world.

He can’t explain to anyone, let alone Nancy, what she’d done. What sort of avalanche she’d created for him. She got to pretend like it never happened, which, Will imagined, must have been heaven. Must have been wonderful and easy. He had to forget, too, but only because he hadn’t been given a choice. Only it was a little bit hard to do, considering the same boy he had been in such close proximity with now body checks him whenever he gets the opportunity.

Nancy got to forget. Will didn’t. He thinks, if this were a sitcom in retrospect to the way he’d been thinking, the audience would be dead silent.

Trapped is the word that comes to mind for Will when he thinks of the predicament he’d been found in, the predicament that, on record, never happened, but he knows he put himself in that position willingly. Trapped is better suited for something else. Trapped is better suited for how he feels sitting at the Wheeler’s dinner table, seated dead centre between Nancy’s accusatory gaze and the arguing going on behind him.

He knows her, sure. Knows her in the worst way possible. She knows Will, too, of course. Knows him in the sincerest way possible. Will has always been up for blaming himself for most situations. He doesn’t mind putting himself in his own mind’s line of fire. But Nancy?

Nancy might have done the most damage to him without really knowing it. Being able to put a name to the face now; that makes it worse.

Every inch of that memory: Nancy, the crying, the begging, the talk he’d received from the principal about how important sports scholarships are, that significant feeling of being ‘unclean’ in his secret: it all swims back into Will’s mind in a matter of seconds. It feels, though, like hours of reliving it.

“Why are you doing this?” Ted questions, to the further dismay of Karen, physically, as she lets out a low, scoffing noise and sets her silverware haphazardly back down on the table. Will only hears her do this, doesn’t see it— because he’s still locked in an eye contact battle with Nancy, who has since not moved an inch from the doorway. “Are you angry? Is that it?”

The laugh that Mike lets out next, though, actually startles Will so much that he whips back around to look at the boy next to him. It’s callous, rude; spiteful, even. It stings even Will.

“Am I angry? Am I— wow—” Mike repeats in a disbelieving scoff, folding up his napkin and dropping it against his plate. It’s barely audible, the hush of the fabric against porcelain. The action itself though is deafening. “You need to ask that?”

“Michael—“ Ted hisses briefly. Mike ignores him as though he’s not even there, instead, turning his gaze, questioning and brutal, towards his mother. Will doesn’t look at Karen, mostly because he doesn’t think he wants to see what she’s thinking spread thin across her face. He just keeps his eyes trained on Mike. Mike, who is holding him out like bait in front of two snarling dogs. Will, who is letting him do so. Later on, he’ll think about how he’d probably let him do it again if need be.

“You think this is about being angry?” Mike whispers, and Will wonders if he does so because he’s got nowhere to go in between a mumble and a scream.

“Get out.”

Now, that takes the cake. The pinnacle of this week’s episode of “Mike Wheeler and His Quest to Ruin His Life.” The whole table goes quiet, for way too long, and startlingly enough, from behind them, Nancy is the first one to speak.

“Mike, what the hell is this?” Nancy squeaks, her voice laced with heavy confusion. From the corner of Will’s eye, Ted shifts in his seat, like he’s going to scold her for her language.

“He’s just acting out. Michael, listen—” is what Ted begins to say instead. Will can see Mike’s posture tighten, his face morphing from something like muddled entertainment to disbelief.

“Acting out, my fuckin’ ass,” Mike replies harshly, slipping into a laugh halfway through his statement as his father’s shoulders square again.

“Language!” he barks sharply, catching both of the siblings off guard, heads whipping towards their father like two meerkats peeking out of a gaping hole in the dirt.  

“Get out,” Mike’s mother repeats, her words thin and angry. Her face is a compendium of reds, bulging and mixed like a still wet watercolour painting. Where she once looked frail, almost like she might crack if you breathed too hard around her, she now looks like she might burst on her own. Mike makes a sound, low in his throat, that almost sounds like the stifling of a laugh, and Will nervously eyes him.

“Where am I going to go, huh?” he asks, voice airy and amused, before he gets this particular look on his face. An “I’ve got an idea” type look. Will thinks he might keel over.

“Mike,” he squeaks, a pathetic plea. Stop, it says. Stop while you’re ahead. Of course, Mike won’t. Will knows enough about him to know that.

Prying his eyes off Mike’s face, his mind swimming in a sea of panic, Will looks on helplessly as the boy raises his hands slightly, open palmed like he’s just come up with the greatest idea possible. Will is stuck between a rock and a hard place. More like being stuck between two hundred ton trucks squishing him flat.

“Right!” Mike sighs in a sugar sweet voice, laced with bitter undertones, “I’ll just sleep in the same place I’ve been sleeping for a while now!”

This is where the laugh track is supposed to kick in. Or maybe the theatrical sound of crickets. Or maybe the credits. The credits, definitely. This show is fucking over.

Will watches, in a look of what he imagines comes across as stunned horror, as Mike’s mother stands, abandons her napkin like a filthy rag against the tablecloth, and strikes her son, open palmed, across the face.

It is harsh, one might even say it’s a little overly violent. It’s heard and felt among the table and most definitely by Nancy, likely standing dumbfounded behind them, taking in the sudden energy shift. It’s point isn’t to break skin. It’s the slap of somebody who is trying to knock someone out of a stupor during some sort of breakdown. Not the kind of slap somebody throws to seriously damage, but to injure, sure. Mike isn’t having a breakdown, though.

Will doesn’t realize, at first, that he’s flinched himself; his fingers digging into the fabric of his pant legs beneath the dining table, nails threatening to cause some real damage. He doesn’t realize that he’s tensed, but he surely is. He’s too focused on the fact that Mike didn’t budge at all. He’s just gone silent. Will doesn’t look at him dead on, not at first, because his eyes are trained on the salt and pepper shakers and unused butter knives on the table while he thinks, hard, hard, hard: There’s only two reasons why a good boy in a nice home like this wouldn’t flinch from a slap of his own mother’s hand. The first? You weren’t expecting it. You didn’t have the time to react.

Will forces his fingers to ease, his knuckles screaming from the tense swell of pressure during their release.

The second? Will thinks. The second reason would be that you were expecting it. It’s happened before.

When Will looks upwards towards Mike, he sees his hands first; floating against his lap, wrists resting limply in a ghostly position as though somebody has snatched his soul right from his hands. In that moment of silence, that thin space between Will’s eyes drifting from Mike’s hands to his face, Will notices how the dead quiet echoing against each of the Wheeler’s forms feels oddly reminiscent of home.

The unspoken silence between him and Jonathan at times when he cranes his neck to spot something on the top shelf of his closet and Jonathan sees those pink hued, thumb shaped splotches dancing across his windpipe like jellyfish bobbing against an ocean current. That type of silence. A silence based on understanding that talking can sometimes make things worse.

They all know what’s happened. What this means. So does Will. He doesn’t have to be blood to sense it. He sees it in Mike’s face, knows without asking, that this isn’t like Liza. When Liza had hit him (Will remembers it like it wasn’t nearly a month ago) he’d laughed. He’d turned into the table, hand against his reddening cheek, and he’d laughed in such a stunned way that Will had to keep himself from doing the same out of sheer shock. When Liza had slapped Mike, called him names, everything but spat into his face: he’d reacted so different.

Now, he looks like a miserable child.

Here, hunched over at the table, twisted towards Will with his head down, pushed back tight in his chair like the tablecloth might burn his skin right off, Mike holds his face with his furthest hand from Will, fingers pressing unkindly against the skin over his cheekbone. He’s bleeding, but only slightly; a thin sliver against the flushed pink flesh of his mouth, curving down to where his lips meet in the middle. His brows are furrowed over glassy, emotionless eyes. Nothing, no expression crossing his face seems real. Will wants to reach out and cup Mike’s cheek himself. He wants to feel the heat against his skin, wants to tell him he knows that burn. The deeper kind, the kind of burn that violence doesn’t create, but ignite. He wants to bring Mike into him like a child, tuck his face into his sweater and offer ice or the comfort of speaking or something, Christ, something! But he doesn’t know how to do that.

Will’s always been the one begging for the drink, the ice; never the person to help. Only the one to hurt.

He doesn’t know how to help Mike now. It’s even worse because it’s the one thing he wants to do more than anything else.  

Mike looks like he might cry. Will thinks he’s going to. That’s the reason, Will assumes, that he kicks a leg out so suddenly, shoving his chair back with a scrape, his fingers lingering against his cheek for only a moment more before he stands up and brushes his pants off as Will looks on, bewildered and sick to his stomach.

He forgets even Nancy, for a moment; that brilliantly familiar face that had stuck out like a swollen thumb against the sea of pale wallpaper behind her. He doesn’t know really what he hates the most about this entire situation, because none of it is good. Not a single ounce of it. Will can’t bring himself to assess anything or anyone across the table from him. He doesn’t want to see eyes on him. He doesn’t need to look because he knows they are. He just moves, brisk like the wind, hardly hearing what Mike is saying at first before he turns back towards him, watching him slide his coat off the back of his chair.

Mrs. Wheeler is saying something, and the tears are visible now brimming against her eyes, but Will feels disconnected, detached or maybe plugged in, but like a red cord in a yellow socket. He can’t even bring himself to look at Nancy, to assess the anger that must still be reflecting on her face, showing in her deep blue eyes ripe with a fiery hot rage. He can picture it, but doesn’t look. He only stares blankly at the bickering, watching as Mike turns back towards Will, catching his gaze for the quickest of moments before his eyes dart towards the floor, hooded, and his thin fingers loop around Will’s wrist, delicately; just enough to pull him away from the scene. He doesn’t know where they’re going, except that they’re going out, away, anywhere else. His ears echo every noise coming in, flushing out any sort of meaning. He doesn’t know why he feels this disconnect until he realizes that he’s shaking pretty badly. They are out before he can realize it, and the winter air smacks into him like a train going full speed. He’s panicking. That’s what it is. He’s panicking but in a fully accepted sense. Where any other time, his panic would resemble something like the sudden shock from touching a doorknob, now, he feels like he’s stuck a fork into an open socket on his own accord. Oh, Jesus, I’m panicking, he thinks. But so casually it feels wrong.

“Your house?”

Will doesn’t respond at first, but Mike taps his thumb against Will’s wrist, drawing him back. When he looks into the back of Mike’s head, he gulps, realizing just how dry he is.

“My—“ There is a pause. Will tries again, clearing his throat. “Yes. Yeah, I—“ He thinks about his father, Jonathan, the two of them reacting to him sneaking into his bedroom with a bloodied, dark eyed boy— “Sure. My house it is.”

Mike tugs open the driver’s side door, flinging it open and only speaking again once Will has climbed into his own seat, a bit dazed and confused, and in one fowl swoop, Mike throws a look to the side, spotting Will’s empty stare, and he whispers “I’m sorry you had to see all of that.” Like a tape recorder, a broken record. Like he’s had to say it before, but this time, he’s really, really trying to sound like he hasn’t.

It feels sincere, when it probably isn’t. That isn’t what hurts the most.

What hurts the most is that, at it’s core, Mike is apologizing for being hit in front of him. Will thinks, in that agony, as Mike approaches the driver’s side of his car, something almost insane.

He remembers himself, hours before, saying almost the same thing, and through the haze of this absolutely treacherous evening, he thinks: Jinx. You owe me a Coke.

- 

Will Byers always thought he was the king of ‘not talking about it’. But he learns, quickly on their drive back to the Byers’ house, that Mike Wheeler? Mike Wheeler is the supreme ruler of not talking about it.

The drive back is agonizing, only because there is so much that isn’t being talked about that needs to be talked about. Instead of figuring this whole thing out, of course, the silence between them is filled with the hushed sound of the radio, and even then, that is drowned out against the sound of rain splattering against the windshield, only partially impairing Will’s vision of the road before them. They grind through Whitney, Eurhythmics, hell, even Prince before they finally turn down that dirt drive again. Will feels like he’s being brought home after a date, and in a way, yeah, he is, only his date isn’t leaving. I’m bringing a date home. That means it was successful, right? Will would laugh or even mention this little thought to Mike, to try and get him to laugh, if he didn’t feel like he’d be sick in the process.

Will does want to make Mike laugh. Always, but now specifically, because the last thing he wants to see this very moment is Mike crying, and they’re at high risk for that.

The light is on in the living room when they finally get within view of the house, pulling up to the right side of the driveway as Will stares. Somebody is awake. Which means the front door is a bust. He leans forward a bit in his seat, the sound of raindrops drowning out most of his thoughts as he tries desperately to grab at them. From the stereo, Prince sings sweetly along to the chorus of When Doves Cry, and Will tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, curling a bit at the ends from the little bit of rain exposure. He turns to look at Mike finally, and he doesn’t know if he’s glad to see how empty of pain the boy’s face is, or if he’s worried. Maybe a little bit of both.

“We going in?” Mike asks softly, head tipped back a bit as he observes the rain coming down. Will doesn’t respond at first; just continues to stare out front window as Mike shuts the car off, submerging them in the dark. He wonders if maybe he might get lucky on his way out, and get struck by a bolt of lightning. He wants to beg Mike to talk about it, but what’s the point? Talk about what?

It’s not his fault. It’s not.

Will thinks Hawkins might never see sun again, just rain. Sometimes, though, you can't change something as much as it might need to be changed. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he thinks people are a lot like this, too. Just like Mike’s parents. Just like Will’s, too.

“We’re going in,” Will confirms, quietly, “through the back window.”

Mike finally looks in Will’s direction. Synthesizers growl through the speakers, low and humming.

“Sneaky,” is all he says, a joking lull of a statement. “I like it. Now?”

“Now­,” Will confirms, and as though they’d been set to spring at the same time, the two launch themselves out of their respective sides, the torrential downpour taking hold of them almost immediately.

It doesn’t take them too long to round the house, but by the time the two of them manage to pry the window open, they are drenched. They bicker only for a moment, before Mike finally agrees to go first, easing himself up on top of a couple strategically placed cinderblocks that Will is sure he wants to ask about but won’t, and climbs inside. The room is dark— he prays the boy doesn’t trip over anything. Will draws himself up quickly too, bumping a hip on the windowsill painfully as he eases himself inside.

The sudden lack of millions of tiny droplets crashing into his shoulders is beautiful, and Will shudders briefly as he grips the window frame, shutting it tightly behind them, only barely curbing the noise. He can’t see a thing, but he knows this room like the back of his hand, passing a shivering Mike and rushing to his bedside table where he flicks on his lamp. Outside, lightning illuminates the lawn for the briefest of seconds, followed by a heavy boom. When he turns back to face Mike, shivering, dripping wet and discarding his slightly muddy shoes by the window, Will’s heart seizes.

“Clothes,” is what Will manages to squeak out, throwing a hand out towards the closet. Mike’s eyes, even his lashes dripping, follow that point, and he practically tip toes over to the rack, gaze rolling over his options. “Take whatever you want. You can’t sleep in a wet sweater.”

“I can,” Mike manages to sputter, eyes roaming the room as he takes in his surroundings, but Will isn’t really having it. Kicking his shoes off by the bed, he shakes his head, turning his back to Mike as he lets the boy change, drawing his legs up and crossing them.

“You can, but you won’t,” he replies, hearing the gentle jingle of clothes hangers behind him and sighing at that confirmation. Good. He’s listening. Will sits in silence, hearing the tiny thump of a wet sweater hitting the floor and instinctually throwing a glance back over his shoulder. When he catches sight of Mike’s pale frame, struggling with the mouth of a patchwork brown and red sweater that Will hasn’t worn in years, he almost teeters forward and dives headfirst into the floor. He’s so pale, Will wonders if he’s ever seen an inch of sunlight in his life. He should—

Will freezes. Stone cold.

Mike’s almost done tugging the sweater on when Will sees it first, though, and he just gets it down towards his ribcage when Will chokes out a little tiny “wow.” He hadn’t meant to speak out loud; it was more of an involuntary reflex. Mike’s gaze flickers towards him, and for a moment, Will think’s that Mike has gotten the wrong context from that tiny squeak, because he turns back a little bit more, and he—

Will swallows thickly, saliva acting like tar, because Mike Wheeler is blushing. A fiery red blush, at that.

He must be aware of it— must feel how hot his face has just gotten, because he drops his surprised stare, eyes on the hardwood. “Something wrong?” is all he asks, patiently, quiet, and Will almost wonders if his voice has gone up an octave or if he’s imagining things. Then, slowly, Will raises a hand and throws a quick point towards the boy’s midriff. It takes Mike a moment to look back over, follow Will’s point and understand what he’s gesturing to. When he does, though, that blush begins to dissipate. Now he gets it.

“You—“

“Have a tattoo?” Mike finishes softly, voice laced with amusement now as he prods the tiny design with his index finger carefully. It’s only an outline— a sweet, minimalistic little thing, a permanent tint against the exposed flesh of Mike’s hip. Will recognizes the shape completely— the geometrical multi-faceted Dungeons and Dragons die permanently ingrained in his brain from plenty of youthful years full of sessions. He hasn’t played in years. The sight of Mike’s tattoo almost makes him want to rekindle that.

“Yeah. The tattoo.” Will manages to nod, eyes never leaving it. Mike pulls the sweater the rest of the way on before Will can even tear his gaze away.

“Do you like it, or is that a hate stare?” Mike asks, curiously.

“N-No, I like it!” Will assures him quickly, crossing his legs a bit tighter as he leans forward on his knees. I like it too much, actually, Will thinks. I’ve never had a boyfriend with tattoos before.

His jaw tightens.

I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I still don’t.

“What’s it for?” Will tacks on as Mike peels his socks off and stuffs them into his shoes, abandoned by the window.

“Couple coworkers wanted to get matching tattoos,” Mike replies smoothly, trickling over towards the bed as he speaks. He moves like a spectre would— barely there, hanging on by a thread. When he finally seats himself, he lets out the dullest sigh of relief. “We all used to play D&D. So we went with that.”

“What were you?” Will asks, softly, because Mike looks like he might break. Slicking damp curls back off his forehead, Mike smiles numbly.

“A paladin,” he answers. He sounds confident about it, like it was almost too big of a chunk of him. Regardless, he shifts upwards on the bed a bit, drawing his legs up slowly, like he’s unsure. Will takes this moment, of course, because his brain is rattling, to ask something he should have asked a good bit ago. Maybe he just starts it poorly.

“You know, we're going to have to talk.”

God, that sounds so much worse than it’s meant to be. Will thinks Mike takes it that way too, because as he’s easing himself onto his back, Mike’s eyes dart towards Will, and for a split second, he looks a little bit petrified.

“About D&D?” Mike tries. Like that would bring him relief.

“Rules,” is what he says next. “About this whole thing.”

Mike is in control again. Quickly. He’s always in control, it seems, but now that he knows what’s going on, he seems to ease up a bit, raking his fingers through his hair again before he drops his arms onto the bed. “Oh,” is all Mike says at first. Like he was expecting that, just not right now, but he lets himself recline into the mattress, stretching his arms out above him for a moment. Will pushes once more, fingers intertwining in his lap as he watches the boy relax.

“There must be rules, right?” Will offers, a bit unnerved sounding even if he’s mostly just scared to hear them. “Give me a guideline.”

“Hah— uh, okay,” Mike begins, slowly, his voice a tuckered out little hum. He appears to think for a moment, eyes roaming the ceiling, before clearing his throat. “No kissing other boys,” he tells Will, reclined like he’s laying on a stretched out lawn chair. His arms are draped above his head, eyes peaceful and borderline sleepy as he looks at Will, like none of this evening’s previous events have happened. A slip of his stomach, pale as a sheet of paper, peeks out from beneath the borrowed sweater Will had loaned him. The sweater that is definitely too short for him. It still looks better on him than me, Will thinks.

Wow, I fucking love men.

“Wh— What if I like kissing girls?” Will prods, his voice definitely an octave too high for somebody who wants to sound like they’re calm.  He doesn’t know why he says this. It only comes out as a variation of ‘Look at me! I’m as straight as they come!’ Mike definitely catches it like that, too. Definitely. Will can tell from the slow moving smile on the boy’s face, like he’s just cracked a piece of valuable encrypted code.

“Well, I mean, same thing applies. Are you saying you don’t like kissing boys?” Mike asks, in the same way a parent would ask if you made a mess that only you could have made. Will squirms a bit. It’s an awful question, only because Will doesn’t hate kissing boys. In fact, he quite prefers only kissing boys.

“Do you?” he counters. Now he really sounds like a child, but Mike doesn’t seem to take it to heart. He just gazes up at Will, watchful, patient. Then, he grins.

“’Course I do,” Mike replies. That’s when Will’s heart ceases to beat, at least for a good few seconds.

The blush that rises to his cheeks is condemning.

“You had a girlfriend,” Will murmurs sharply, like he doesn’t want to risk the rest of the house hearing them, even if everyone else is likely dead asleep.

“I did,” Mike replies, plainly. “You’ve met her. Rats in the attic, if y’know what I mean.”

“B-But—“

“I’ve kissed girls too, Will,” Mike assures him, raising a hand from it’s spot over his head and laying it across his stomach. He studies Will through hooded eyes, dark brown irises searching his face. Will doesn’t like that one bit.

“Y-You can do that?” Will asks, knowing full well that he sounds like he has no idea what he’s talking about. Mostly because he doesn’t. Mike’s lips curl into a small smile.

“You can kiss whoever you want,” Mike replies. “S’long as they want to kiss you back. Boys, girls, whatever.”

Well, now I’m definitely thinking too much about kissing Mike Wheeler.

“So, you kiss whoever you want?” Will whispers, like it’s a secret. This draws an even wider smile out of Mike. Will’s heart can barely take it.

“Uh huh,” Mike responds simply.

“As long as they want to kiss you back?”

Mike nods.

“So what does that make you?” Will asks, tucking his legs a little bit tighter in their crossed position as he looks down at Mike. This was about Will at first. Now it’s so entirely about Mike and Will could not be more content with that. The boy tips his head to the side a bit, trimmed dark hair falling into his eyes as he raises his brows a touch, like Will’s just crossed a line. Before he can even think about apologizing, though, Mike meets Will’s confused stare with an equally confident one, and he hums:

“A good kisser.”

Will thinks he might sink right through the floor.

“A-Anymore rules that I should know about?” Will manages to squeeze out, thinking God, if I were any more obvious, I’d better write it across my forehead. I don’t want to kiss any other boys, let alone any girls! I’d like to kiss you though! If you don’t mind!

Mike is staring, like he knows something Will doesn’t. Will’s fingers fold tighter against themselves as he watches Mike in his silence.

“Nope,” Mike shrugs delicately, drawing his other hand out from behind his neck and resting it on his chest. “No cheating on your fake boyfriend. That’s about it.”

That’s about it, Will thinks. No cheating on your fake boyfriend.

Will is about to open his mouth, likely to say something he ought not to, when Mike lifts his head a bit, eyes flickering over towards the other side of the room. He begins to sit up then, easing himself up out of his reclined position as he slides his legs under the covers.

“Hey, can we—“

Will will wonder what Mike was going to say for a long while, but he’ll never really know. Maybe Mike wanted to open a window, or play some music, or God, who knows. If the thunder didn’t boom across the sky at that very moment, if Will’s lamp hadn’t fizzed out with a little tink right then and there as the power got knocked out, maybe he’d have gotten to hear what Mike was going to say. But it does, and Will lets out the most childish little squeak known to man as the two of them are suddenly thrust into of almost pitch blackness, except for the dim light of the moon outside, illuminating the droplets of rain as they pitter patter against Will’s window.

“— Christ,” Mike murmurs glumly, inching in some direction that Will can’t see as he sounds like he’s trying to get his bearings. “You— hey, you alright, man?” It’s now, of course, because the action had been so sudden, so instinctual, that Will realizes he’s done something spectacularly foolish. Even more than that— he’s done something spectacularly not straight.

Prying his hand off of Mike’s wrist, Will knows his face must be lit up like a Christmas tree. He’s glad Mike can’t see him.

“Fine,” Will exhales sharply, skin of his palm feeling like it’s been held over a lit flame. “Not a big fan of the dark. Scared me.”

“Bet it did,” Mike mumbles in response, a thin, airy laugh escaping his throat as he seems to recline once more, seemingly un-phased by the sudden lack of light around them. “That’s cool. Uh— me neither,” he adds subtly in contradiction to his actions, and Will can’t tell if he’s saying this just to try and relate, or if he means it. Either way, Will subconsciously decides to be stupid about it. To act like his free hand isn’t gripping the bed sheets furthest from Mike.

“You know,” he whispers, dramatic, his voice so mocking that it almost hurts, “cuddling keeps the monsters away.”

Mike laughs, and as soft as it is, Will doesn’t care, for once, if he wakes up everyone in a 20 mile radius. He just wants to hear it again.

“Good suggestion,” Mike replies in a tiny whisper, and in the darkness, a smile threads itself over Will’s lips. He’s so lost in that sweet little laugh, for a moment, that he almost doesn’t hear his bedroom door open. He sees the flashlight before he has time to react, the sudden beam cutting through the dark like a laser. This time, Will lets out a childish little yelp, knees drawing tighter to his chest as he throws an arm up, shielding his eyes.

“Whoa, hey, chill,” a familiar voice rushes from behind the torch, soothing Will but only slightly as he struggles to see the outline of his brother’s figure from his semi-blinded position. The light scans Will’s blankets like it’s looking for something, before settling on the boy’s chest. “Just me. I thought I heard you in here.”

“It is my room,” Will mutters, a bit too sharply, as he untucks his legs a bit, knees growing sore. “Can’t you knock?”

“You didn’t come in the front door. I thought someone—“ Jonathan cuts himself off, like he’s made a discovery, before Will understands why he’s stopped. The light flitters across the covers towards a spot behind Will as Jonathan points the light towards Mike, and Will can’t help but cringe when the boy draws his hand up to shield his eyes from it.

“You must be the new boy,” Jonathan poses the statement quietly, an interested lull in his tone. Will wants to cover his eyes and ears and dive right under the blankets. Instead, he glances back and watches as Mike’s smile, illuminated by the flashlight, grows wider with amusement, shaded eyes flickering towards Will’s cross legged figure next to him. Will looks away sharply then, but not before their eyes meet for the smallest sliver of a second.

“I must be,” Mike replies, gaze locked on Will’s face. Will, of course, pretends like he doesn’t notice. “You can call me Mike, though.”

“Jonathan,” his brother replies briskly, friendly, even for it’s curt nature.

“Dad asleep?” Will asks, sharply, as though changing the subject might make this whole situation a little less awkward. It only makes Will stick out a little bit more. The flashlight beam darts towards him, his brother’s figure still behind it.

“Don’t think he’s even home. Which means you two definitely could have come in through the front door,” Jonathan coos, his voice a little too entertained over this whole thing as he watches Will’s eyes drop to the comforter. He feels like he’s centre stage with that light on him. He wants to slap it right out of Jonathan’s hand, trying to curb a blush. “That’s why I left it unlocked, after all.”

Will doesn’t want to picture the amused smile that’s probably surfacing on Mike’s face at this very second.

“We were trying not to wake the house,” Mike answers in Will’s place, catching the two of them off guard as he leans into his elbow a bit more, dropping his hand from shielding his eyes back onto the comforter.

“Gotcha,” Jonathan murmurs with a timid little chuckle, targeting the light down at the blankets. “Do you need a light?”

“We’re going to sleep anyways,” Will urges, watching as the beam targets the ground and his brother steps away, back towards the door.

“Alright. Shout if you need me?”

“Will do,” Will replies swiftly, mostly because he knows he won’t need him. Mostly because he wants Jonathan to leave as quickly as he came.

“Nice to meet you, kid,” he comments in Mike’s direction, and Will feels the boy shift behind him, not knowing or wanting to know what he’s doing.

“You too,” is all he says, sweetly, like— well, like Will had spoken to Mike’s parents earlier that evening. Jonathan nods once, his silhouette only subtly visible, and turns, slipping back out through the bedroom door and shutting it gently behind them. They are bathing in the dark again, Will’s eyes wide and staring into absolutely nothing as he lets himself recline back onto the bed. Mike doesn’t speak. Neither of them do for a good few seconds, before Will drapes a hand over his stomach and, almost in sync, Mike pipes up.

“Goodnight, Will,” he whispers. Will stays silent for a moment, brain wandering to the ideation of Mike, tucked into his patchy, too small sweater, snug beneath Will’s sheets. It’s a dangerous mental imagine. He doesn’t want to sleep. Not at all.

“Goodnight, Mike,” is how Will replies, even though he has so much more to say, and man, does it quiet down. Only the weather keeps their entire world from falling into a silent pit of nothingness. Will thinks they’re really both going to fall asleep, like maybe he’d meant it, because he can hear Mike’s breathing grow deeper, heavier, and he thinks he’s never heard anything so peaceful in his entire life.

Only five minutes pass in this bliss before Mike, good, sweet Mike, sniffles. Then, he mumbles, sincerely— “I’m sorry.”

Will’s eyes flicker open, even if he knows he won’t be able to see a damn inch of Mike before him.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, quietly, not knowing if he wants to hear the answer. Mike draws the blankets closer. There is a long pause— five, ten seconds even, before Mike carries on.

“Got mud on your floor,” he murmurs in a sleepy haze, his voice half shrouded in a nonsensical lull as he speaks. Will stills, head drawn back against the pillow as he tries to figure out whether Mike is trying to apologize for something else or if he really means what he’s saying. He stays stuck in the middle. He doesn’t care about the mud on his floor. God, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care— neither does Mike. Mike doesn’t seem to care about anything that’s gone on tonight— and he’s sorry about mud?

“It’ll wash off. Hardwood, y’know?” is what Will mumbles in response, catching nothing but an agreeing hum from Mike as the sound of rainfall drowns out anything that the boy might have wanted to say. Will thinks, now, that Mike was pausing to figure out an acceptable answer. To figure out something else to say besides what he really wanted to.

In that mess of black, where Will is sure he can hear a shudder escape Mike’s chest beneath the noise outside, he speaks.

“You know what you said to me earlier?” Will whispers softly against the thudding on his bedroom windows. “About it not being on me that my dad’s a jerk?” There is a stiff moment where Mike doesn’t respond, a good lengthy bit, until he turns, the bed making little to no noise beneath them.

“Hey, come on—“ Mike murmurs under his breath, his tone tight and sleepy as he rolls over a bit, and though Will can’t see him in the dark, he can tell by the way Mike’s voice is traveling that he’s turned to face him. Will wonders if he’s blushing, and just that makes him do so.

“It’s not on you, either,” Will tacks on, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him, or at least, the thick darkness where he knows it must be. Even then, the world around him feels a little bit loose. Like it’s drifting away from the two of them, further and further every second. “Just because— because your family is one big collective asshole, doesn’t mean you are.”

“It’s not even that big of a—“

“Don’t—“ Will begins, short and quiet, his voice wavering a bit because geez, I don’t start these conversations. I’m always the one who has to listen to them. “— Don’t just brush it off. Okay? This isn’t your fault. It’s not. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Will.” Mike exhales, his voice a little bit tinier, less of a brushing off of the boy’s words and more of a sort of beg. Please can we not talk about this, it says. The name catches Will off guard— because it’s Byers with Mike. Each time his first name is used, as seldom as it has been so far— it’s never been in the midst of a joke. So Will shifts, turning onto his side a bit, facing that empty space where Mike may or may not be in the dark.

God, please, keep the power off. I don’t know what I’ll do if the lights turn back on right now.

“I just want you to understand,” Will murmurs, his own voice sounding a bit childish.

“I hear you,” Mike whispers back, slowly, patiently. It sounds more like ‘if I tell you I get it, will you stop?’ but Will accepts it anyways. Sometimes it’s easier not to talk about it. Sometimes talking about it just makes it worse. Will knows that. “I hear you. I do. But I can’t. Not right now.”

From Will’s side of the bed, Mike feels like he’s a hundred miles away, tucked into deep blue sheets, wrapped in his borrowed sweater, a borrowed blanket— none of it his but ready to be his if he wants it to be. Huddled beneath the covers like a sunken ship full of treasure hiding beneath a torrential ocean current, Mike is miserable— Will doesn’t need to touch him, or even see him to know that he is.

“Okay, Mike,” Will responds in a tired voice, eyes drifting closed again. “Not right now.”

For the rest of the night, buried in dreams of golden coins, barnacle encrusted chalices and bruised lips, Will feels like he’s drowning. And when Mike reaches out, only once at some point early in the morning to find Will in that sea of material, like he’s making sure he’s still just a few feet away, Will doesn’t flinch.

Chapter Text

As he always has, and presumes he always will, Will Byers wakes up early on the morning of January 4^th, 1989— all alone.

He doesn’t realize he’s alone at first— in fact, he doesn’t even realize he’s awakeat first. He’s turned over on his side, forehead driven into the plushy warmth of his favourite pillow, tucked into it like he might tuck into another human being. This, of course, is what he thinks immediately following his awakening— before that, well. He’d been dreaming, and after the night that he and Mike had— there’s not much else that he could be dreaming about besides that freckled faced boy with a runaway mouth on him. So he does dream of this— only it’s not so pleasant as he wishes it would be.

It’s dining room tables, peeling wallpaper and stretching furniture. It’s all Will, seated on one end, Mike on the other. Silence echoing between them like they’re sitting inside of an empty stadium. Mike is saying something in the dream— mouthing something that Will can’t quite pin down, and every time he reaches out, that table grows longer and longer, dragging him further out until they’re miles apart. An awful, awful droning noise blaring against his unconscious eardrums that he doesn’t quite understand.

It had been recurring all night long, or at least it feels like that— Will tossing and turning a bit in bed, and when he wakes up, it’s in a sort of cold sweat. Hands clammy, clutching at the fabric beneath him, Will thinks that maybe he’s turned over onto Mike in his sleep. His face lights up with a tender blush, and as he bolts up in bed, understanding that droning noise in his dream to have been the home phone ringing, he realizes that he isn’t tucked into Mike. There’s no way he could be.

Mike isn’t even there.

What ungodly hour is it?

Yanking himself out of bed, Will groans numbly as he pads across the floor, still in his socks from last night. He thinks, for a second, that maybe last night had entirely been a dream. He chalks it up to that, his brain too fuzzy and half-asleep to try and determine whether it was or not. His fingers wrap around the edge of his door, stepping out onto the much cooler hallway hardwood. If he couldn’t see light streaming through the windows over the entire abode, Will might think that it was still the middle of the night. The house is dead quiet aside from the ringing— thatringing— and Will grinds his teeth a bit, subconsciously. It’s the last thing he wants to hear in the morning the moment after he wakes up. Well, besides his alarm.

His gut sinks a little bit. In his foggy, in and out state, he almost stops dead in the hallway. He powers through it, though.

Did I sleep right through my alarm? What day is it?

As he steps leisurely down the hallway, Will works all this out in his head. It’s a Wednesday.I’ve got work tomorrow right after school until dinner. I’ve got Astronomy 12 first today. Gathering his bearings, Will steps out quietly into the living room, crossing the carpet as slow as he can manage without missing the phone. Then, he looks out into the threshold of the room, and that meandering little walk turns into a brisk, striding sort of tip-toe. He’s surprised his father hasn’t arisen yet— his body a shell beneath a thin woolen blanket hanging off the couch cushions, tangled around his feet. He looks well knocked out— likely will be for a good chunk of the day— and Will hates that he won’t be home to enjoy the quiet. But right now— he’s got more to think about. Like grabbing the phone before it wakes him. Suddenly, Will feels completely awake.

Snatching the receiver off of it’s holder, cutting the ringing short, he props the piece lazily between his shoulder and his ear.

“Yes?” Will grumbles.

“Good morning, Commander Byers,” a familiar voice, cloaked in a piss-poor imitation of some generic sci-fi colonel, rings through the speaker. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission to kiss my ass,” Will grumbles in return, his displeasure thinly masked as he keeps his eyes trained on his father’s sleeping figure on the chesterfield. “What is this?”

“Is that a no?” Dustin poses in his regular voice. Will wants to strange himself with the telephone chord again.

I could be in bed right now.

Speaking of bed— Where is Mike?

A dream. It was a dream.

Just another thing Will has to figure out before what feels like the crack of dawn. Regardless of how badly he wants to hang up the phone, tired Will still has a conscience.

“Fuckin’— come aboard, then,” he grumps, hearing the softest little enthusiastic sigh from Dustin on the other end.

“Sweet,” the boy says, swift and fine, before he clears his throat, realizing he’s broken whatever sort of character he’d been trying to upkeep. “I— I mean, excellent. So— here’s the thing,” Dustin carries on, façade slacking again as he finally digs into what he’s been meaning to say. Will, eyes focused like a hawk, leans into the wall, shoulder blades aching a bit from the pressure. Two thoughts rattle around inside Will’s head like loose marbles: Don’t talk too loud. Go back to bed.

“We’re kickin’ it old school after classes today,” Dustin announces into the phone like that’s supposed to mean something. Will raises his free hand, thumb and index finger working at decreasing the tension between his eyes.

“Is that lingo for something?” Will asks, his voice a sleepy hiss.

“Palace,” a second voice chimes in. Will recognizes it instantly— Lucas, pre-coffee, sounding rather draggedinto this phone call. “The arcade. You, Dustin, and me.”

“Well, good morning to you too,” Will hums, unimpressed. He wants to go back to bed. He wants to go back to bed and find Mike there— something tangible that can confirm that the night before wasn’t just a dream. He’s got nothing but cold sheets and a tiny, budding headache.

“So are you in?”

Will rolls his shoulders a bit, letting his head loll to the side as he cups the receiver to keep it in place. Across the stove, the time reads: 7:01 AM.

“You couldn’t have just asked me at school?”

There is an unsure silence on the other end of the line that confirms Will’s point.

“Just wanted to make sure you were on board,” Lucas responds in Dustin’s place, the gentle clinking of glasses coming through on one of their ends. “So?”

Will prods the back of his teeth with his tongue. He needs a shower, maybe a cup of tea. More than that— he needs some time to himself. But then again— maybe he needs time out with his friends even more.

So why do I want to say no?

“Yeah,” Will replies, driving a bit of pressure into his right temple. It soothes him only momentarily. He doesn’t know if he’s got change, but he’ll find it if not. Something to get him out of the house. Anything. “Sure. I’m down.”

“Cool,” Dustin chimes in, his tone lively as he speaks. “See you in an hour, space cadet.”

“See you,” Will murmurs, softly, ignoring that little dig, and he doesn’t know if he’d meant to say soon at the end of that sentence, but it doesn’t make it through before he’s hanging up the phone anyways. He hasn’t woken his father— he’s still snoring at an annoying rate, incentive for Will as he twists around and steps back into the hallway, assessing Lonnie’s figure with something even less than disappointment as he traipses down the dimly lit corridor.

It was all a dream, Will thinks. If I were to call Mike, right here, right now— well, he’d be unhappy about the hour. But he’d pick up. Safe at home, draped in sweats and a t-shirt, bed-headed and groggy. Safe. Sound.

It ought to be a dream. That might make things a little bit easier to go forward with. But Will steps back into his own bedroom, the space nearly silent around him besides the gentle padding of his bare feet against hardwood, and he pauses at the end of his bed, fingers wrapping around one iron rung on the end board. Looking down towards his floor, only partly illuminated by the still half-dark sky outdoors, Will tips his head like a cat might, observing the muddy boot prints and the still-damp Hawkins sweater draped over the back of his wooden desk chair. Not a dream, but maybe better off as one.

Mike is gone. Where he is— Will won’t get to know.

- 

Will floats through his day like he’s an inch off of the ground, tied down only by the promise of something to do away from home after three in the afternoon.

 He drifts from class to class like an empty shell tumbling through a salt water current, and as much as he tries to act like he isn’t, he’s actively looking for Mike’s face among the crowds trickling back and forth before the creamy beige backgrounds that make up Hawkins High’s interior. He doesn’t see him, of course— as much as he wishes he would, just once. Even a glimpse, no talk, no eye contact, no nothing might soothe him— but there is nothing. Mike is missing. Not missing-missing— but certainly not around. Will wonders if he’s gone home— or if he’s tried to. All that’s left of him is a muddy scrape across the floor in Will’s room. An empty side of the bed. A discarded Hawkins High sweatshirt that still smells like pine needles and something else Will can’t place. A phone number that’s likely useless now. A thin, metaphorical thread of these thoughts is the only thing that keeps them connected, even if Will has no way to get ahold of him.

He’s virtually gone. Will doesn’t know why that upsets him as much as it does.

Lucas and Dustin can tell something is wrong— Will can sense it all day, in the way they talk, the way they both look at him only to exchange looks with each other when they think he won’t notice. For once, though, they don’t ask him what’s up. They seem to put all their energy into making sure that Will can’t focuson whatever is bothering him which, in turn, almost starts to work by the time they enter the single swinging door that leads into the Palace arcade.

Almost none of it is the same, and yet it feels so recognizable. Most of the consoles have changed, except a few select old ones that Will is surprised to see still kicking. The carpeting is the same pattern, Will thinks unsurely, but has been replaced, most definitely— the violently neon triangles and octagons overlapping in a much cleaner fashion than they used to. The walls too— a brilliant royal purple, are even illuminated by the blue-tinted lights above. Even the workers are different— that, of course, isn’t much of a surprise. Workers change like seasons, they always had— the young lady at the counter isn’t an exception to that.

Will recognizes her from somewhere— the scowl she emanates, radiating from her particularly during the moment when Dustin thinks leaning over the counter and flirting might get him more tokens, is aggravatingly familiar, like an itch he just can’t scratch. She cocks an eyebrow in Will’s direction anyways, as if to ask: does your friend want a kick in the teeth? The smile he gives back, apologetic and patient, says no, thank you.

Will has always been a watcher, and today isn’t any exception— particularly because he’s got things on his mind. Things, people, situations all clouding his conscience like gun smoke. The thought of Mike, lingering around downtown somewhere with nowhere to go— it chills him almost as bad as the winter air outside the Palace had. He plays a few rounds, but for the majority of the time, he’d observing— the little characters on screen dancing pixel by pixel across it’s face as Dustin and Lucas work the controls. At one point, Dustin slots three coins into a Space Invaders console about an hour after their initial arrival, having not done a round on the system in years, only to find he hasn’t fed it enough. Thick brows knotting together, Dustin pats at his pocket— only to find nothing inside it. From his spot leaning into the Donkey Kong system to the right, Will lifts his head a bit, drawing himself out of his thick little thought bubble.

“Out of gas?” he asks, to which Dustin lets out a tiny wheeze of disappointment.

“Completely,” replies Dustin.

“How many do you need?” Will asks curiously, illuminated by the fluorescent purple on the console’s screen. Dustin, in reply, shrugs, diving into his pocket with one hand to search for change. After a moment’s notice, his face falls a bit.

“Ah, just one, for a round. Could you grab me like, 16? I’ll get you back for it,” Dustin half asks, half tells Will, a hopeful little smile crossing his face.

“Sure, yeah,” is all Will replies with, his voice light and airy, not phased an inch. He turns away from the two and walks casually down the isle and up around the corner, passing the ends of a couple Pac-Man and Ms. Pac-Man systems as his eyes travel over the patterns on the floor beneath him. The sound of young kids talking and chattering a little bit too loud— the sound of distant rock music, Joan Jett, if he’s hearing it right, playing weakly over the aging speakers installed into the corners of the room’s ceilings— it all acts as melancholic ambience for him. The whole vibe of the place feels like it might put him to sleep with it’s hazy black-light glow. He needs a nap now. Numbly, he thinks maybe he’ll give Mike a call when he gets home. Only— he can’t. He’d been kicked out, hadn’t he? Does he really want to risk Nancy picking up the phone in case he’s wrong?

That makes Will shudder, twice.

The lack of stability of the whole situation sets him on edge.

Approaching the front desk, Will doesn’t see the young woman who’d greeted them (and amusingly enough, rebuked Dustin’s cheap flirtation with ease) anywhere. Only when he gets tight up to the purple countertop does he hear a shuffle beneathit, a mutter of something displeased-sounding, then a slight little bang, almost drowned out beneath the background noise. Nervous frown tugging at his lips, Will eyes the cheesy t-shirts for sale, strung up on the neon wall behind the register.

“Uh—E-Excuse me?” Will offers softly, his voice a feeble chirp as he leans over the counter a bit, like that motion might help his tiny voice project a little bit further. Peering down towards the multi-coloured geometric carpeting, Will can see the cozy, patch-like back of a sweater as someone fumbles with the base of the register above them.

He freezes, still leaning in, fingers still clamped onto the counter.

He recognizes that sweater. That patchy, woolen sweater. That messy, dark bedhead trapped beneath a backwards facing baseball hat. And when the young man behind the counter finally straightens, he has to wrap his thin fingers around the bottom of that sweater and tug it down a bit. Like it’s too small for him.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Mike begins, eyes still turned down as he gives the register another little bump with the blunt side of his closed fist, straightening up from his crouch and turning his head upwards with zeal. “Thing likes to jam up on me. What can I ge—“

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t really need to, because honestly, for a second, Mike looks as though he’s been doused with cold water. Lips falling open as though he’d just been told the world’s least appropriate joke, Mike seems to freeze for a moment, hand wrapped around the edge of the counter just like Will, before a creeping smile slides across his lips. He’s got a little tiny ‘Palace’ badge pinned to his sweater. Will notices that, and it’s enough drive for him to lean back from his craning position.

“Hey,” is all Will manages to say. It’s quiet. Almost drowned out against the sound of younger kids shouting in the background and game soundtracks. Mike still hears him, face growing soft.

“Hey yourself,” says Mike, fingers loosening from the counter as his eyes dart over Will’s shoulder, eyeing the rows of systems behind him. He looks almost distracted, before he finally peers back at Will again, a smile lighting up against his cheeks like a sunny glow. “You following me now?”

“N-No,” Will rushes, opening and closing his lips once before he forces a relaxed looking smile. “I’m here with some friends.”

“Some friends, huh,” Mike nods in understanding, gaze flickering out towards the gaming machines once more. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Ditto, Will thinks.

“It’s been, er— a while.”Then, “how long have you worked here?”

“About— a year and a half, after school and weekends, mostly. Give or take,” Mike says with a meagre shrug.

Wow. It really has been that long, hasn’t it?

“Ah,” Will whispers almost to himself, his face dropping a bit. My, why does this feel so awkward? Maybe because he knows Dustin and Lucas are in the exact same room as they are. Maybe because he’d like to keep this little secret from his friends for as long as possible. Maybe because he’s now in the red zone. Either way— he’s glad to see Mike. Even if it’s unexpected. He wants to ask why he left so soon that morning. He wants to ask if it was because of school. If it was because of something else. He wants to ask a lot.

When he comes back from zoning out a bit, Mike’s eyebrows are raised.

“How many tokens do you need?” Mike asks, finally bringing his gaze elsewhere from Will’s face as he drops his head and fishes out a roll of them, packaged nicely like they’d been shrink-wrapped.

“Just, like—“ Will glances back, unfurling the five in his grip and peering out towards the machines. He can’t remember the number now— his mind’s been wiped like a whiteboard. He can hardly see the tops of Dustin and Lucas’ heads from where he stands, but he can see the machines down from them, begging for you to fork over four big ones for a round. Four tokens for a round—how long did Lucas say we were gonna hang around here? Another hour or so, give or take.Take that— then, how long it takes to play a round—

Will almost jumps when he feels a weighted object drop onto his open palm. Head whipping back to face Mike, he sees the boy trickling towards the back wall, removing the Palacecap from the top of his head. In his hand— the whole roll of tokens, still wrapped tight, rests like a paperweight over his fiver.

“Hey— wha—“

“I was gonna give you the lot anyways,” Mike says surely from the back, snagging the strap of his cap against one of the coat hangers as he turns back around, fishing a hand into his jacket pocket as he pats what sounds like a few coins. “Just wanted to see how long you’re gonna be hangin’ around.”

“How many tokens is this?” Will asks, only receiving a shrug as a response at first. When his face reflects his displeasure, Mike crumbles a bit and sighs.

“Fifty in a pack like that,” Mike juts a finger in Will’s direction, eyes fixed on the boy for a moment as a little bit of shock washes over Will’s face. A tricky little smile surfaces on Mike’s lips. “What?” he asks.

“Fifty,” Will repeats. Mike nods. “Fifty tokens?”

“That’s what I said,” he says with a smile.

“Mike, that’s like—“

“I know,” he assures Will swiftly, rounding the counter now and peering a bit past the boy’s shoulder, searching for something until his eyes land on the young woman Will had seen when he and his friends had first come in, accompanied by a smaller brunette at her side. Will peers back too, watching as the girls drift towards the exit, the redhead catching Mike’s gaze with a stuck-out tongue as she pushes the door open and slips out, thin little cigarette package between her black-polished fingertips. He sighs, almost displeased, before he looks back to Will. They’re head on now— feet apart. Will knows this. He’s practically calculated the distance between them already, twice. “You hanging out for a little bit longer?”

“Maybe,” Will says slowly, curious, crossing his arms over his chest hesitantly. “At least a couple rounds. Why?”

“Just— going on a quick break. You’re welcome to join me outdoors,” Mike replies with quick precision, drumming his fingers against the top of his thigh as he looks down, just a bit, to meet Will’s eyes. Will wonders for a moment how they must look to an outside party. They’re close enough to be whispering, and still be heard over the ambience of electronic beeps and buzzes. “I mean, your friends are here, so maybe not, but— the offer’s there.”

Will assesses Mike’s words, carefully, watching him for another moment before he can’t stand it anymore, looking back towards the Space Invadersconsoles, half hidden. He can see Dustin twisting to the side to comment something to Lucas, but only hardly— his messy curls his only visible, distinguishable trait. Swallowing back a denial, Will glances back at Mike, and for a moment, he swears the boy’s eyes glisten like marbles in the sun.

“Five minutes?” Will asks. The grin on Mike’s face is astonishing.

“No more, no less,” He says, voice rippling with sugary sweetness as he drapes a hand across his heart for extra emphasis. Will almost reaches out to swat his hand away, chastise him jokingly, but he doesn’t. Mike tilts his head towards the doorway in a sharp motion, twisting around and heading off towards it. Will follows him almost like a lost puppy might, shooting a look back towards Lucas and Dustin before he reaches out and takes the door that’s being held open for him.

The cool air hits Will like a ton of bricks, and it takes quite a bit of his strength to keep himself from turning around and walking back into the heat. Mike trickles down off towards the right of the doorway, where several long, stretching planters with long-bare bushels of branches where flowers once bloomed remain stuck in the dirt like bitter reminders. From behind Mike, Will spots the two girls he’d seen moments before— the small brunette with a bob haircut, tucked into a warm looking bright red jacket with what appears to be a fur-like lining around the neck— and the redhead; dressed in a dark green parka with a honey yellow, flannel inside. When she spots Will, her eyes, blue like tropical waters, widen with curiosity. The two shift slightly, the brunette adjusting herself and bringing her hands forth into her lap.

“’Bout time you took a break,” the redhead says sharply from her seated position, craning back and dodging a light swat from Mike’s hand as she hands over her cigarette package. Mike takes it willingly, tired eyes flickering downwards towards his fingers as he fumbles to open it and drag a cigarette out. Will tips his head ever so slightly, watching, not so much bothered as surprised, and when he catches Mike’s side eye, he’s almost to quick to look away. “Who’s this?”

“You brought a friend,” the brunette speaks up suddenly, her voice soft like she doesn’t want to disturb even the air around them. When she smiles, Will can’t help but return it.

“This is Will,” Mike says in as though they ought to know that, locking eyes with Will and squinting ever so slightly from the kind smile that crosses his face. “The guy I’d told you about.”

Screw butterflies in your stomach, Will thinks, eyes widening involuntarily. There are full blown sparrows nesting in my gut.

“Well, hey, Will. I’m Jane,” the brunette, Jane, says, tapping her ankle to an inaudible beat as she stretches out her hand. When Will glances down to take it, he notices that her nails are painted a multitude of colours, what seems to be each nail designated to one colour for the rainbow. He doesn’t know why, but that, paired with the welcoming warmth of her hand, is rather comforting.

“Maxine,” the redhead follows up firmly, like the name just doesn’t jive well with her. She doesn’t give him any alternative, though, so Will takes it with a grain of salt. The name itself, of course, acts like a little light switch in his head. Maxine. Now, I know that, don’t I? Science class. Second period on Monday’s and Fridays. Maxine. Maxine—

“—Mayfield!” Will blurts out loud, catching all three before him off guard. Mike looks a bit puzzled, and Jane isn’t far off that mark, either. Will wants to be embarrassed. In fact— it starts to swell a bit inside of him, before Maxine’s eyebrows flicker upwards and a smile quirks on her cherry red lips.

“That works too, I guess,” she murmurs, not so enthused but not sounding put off, either. “Y’know me from somewhere?”

“Science,” Will explains quickly, his fingers fidgeting against the broken seams on the inside of his front pocket. When his eyes dart towards Mike, he notices the boy staring, right down at his hands. Like a kid caught red handed, Mike drops his head, flicking non-existent ash from the end of his smoke. He looks nervous. It’s still so weird seeing him smoking. “With Kavanagh. We’re in the same class.”

“—Oh!” Maxine blurts out after a moment of thought, her shining blue eyes alive with understanding. “I’ve seenyou. God, I knew I’ve seen you before. Byers, right? You—“ she laughs slightly, tipping her head like she’s observing the boy before her. Will wonders why so many people look at him like he’s a tiger behind bars. “You draw a lot during class. I’ve seen it. You’re real good, y’know. Comic book level stuff.”

From Will’s left, Mike hooks one ankle behind the other, eyes fixed on the pavement. He looks almost— proud.

“That’s me, heh— thanks,” Will nods slowly, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

“Is that what you wanna do? After, y’know— graduating from that shithole?” Maxine asks, her voice a peculiar mix of genuine curiosity and dull nothingness. Half there, half not. She raises the cigarette to her lips. To her right, Mike leans onto his knees a bit, sparking his up.

“Maybe,” is all he says— shyly, at that. He doesn’t admit that he’d like that quite a lot. He doesn’t want to have to explain to a brand new face why he’ll probably never get to do something like that.

“You should. Go somewhere bigger, better—“ Maxine tilts her head back, flashing a pearly white smile. “The Big Apple, or something. NYC. Don’t hear of many famous Hawkinsresidents.”

How painfully true that is.

In a moment’s notice, Jane withdraws her head from Maxine’s shoulder delicately, murmuring a small farewell against the girl’s ear before she tips her head up, smiling at Will behind short, brown curls.

“Nice to meet you again, Will, but somebody’s gotta man the station,” Jane says sweetly, and she sounds like she means it. Will can’t help but smile right back in return. She stands gently and practically drifts back towards the door like a spectre might, gliding so easily as she steps indoors. When Will peeks back over at the two remaining before him, he can’t help but notice the redhead’s lingering stare on the front doors.

“So, Maxine—“ Will says slowly, like he’s tasting the name. From the edge of the flowerbed, Maxine perks back up, slipping out of whatever tiny daze she’d sunk into. Will shuffles to his other foot. “Have you worked here very long?”

She seems to blink, processing this question like a computer might, before peculiar smile creeps over her face.

“Longer than bozo over here,” she assures Will, receiving a gentle elbowing from Mike. “’Round two years. Since tenth grade.”

Will admires that quietly. “Wow,” he whispers, supposedly under his breath, though Maxine flicks some ash from the burning end of her smoke, furrowing her brows a bit.

“Is that a bad thing?” she asks thinly. Will flushes.

“N-No, definitely not!” he assures her, watching as she eases once more, one lively brow cocking upwards.

“Thought not,” she says quietly through the veil of a laugh, her voice still a little bit on edge. She tips her head upwards, eyeing Will cautiously. “Don’t come for my gig, boy toy. I’m a little defensive over my Galactic Supervisortitle.”

Will, fingers barely peeking out of the thick sweater he’s practically swimming in, freezes almost stiff.

“B-Boy toy?” he repeats, his voice tiny like a mouse. From the corner of his eye, Will sees Mike’s head crane upwards, his own posture stiffening.

“Max—“ Mike says suddenly, speaking up for the first time in several minutes, and his voice acts as such a warning that Maxine actually glances towards him, crystal blue eyes widening.

“Hey, I’m just messin’ around—“ she says briskly, a bit defensive as she waves her cigarette about in a dismissive gesture. “Wha— It’s nothin’ against you,” she asserts towards Will. Will, of course, feels a bit clammy. Hardly at the idea of Mike telling someone about their— situation, but rather the choice of words. “I mean, it would be awful hard for me to have a problem with that sort of thing,” Max tacks on with a shy little laugh, tipping her fiery red head towards the doorways. “Y’know, with Jane n’ all.”

Will shifts his weight again, chest calming down a bit. He’d wondered about that. He was sure he’d seen, for a moment before he’d made it all the way over, that the two of them had been holding hands.

“It’s fine,” Will says, his voice coming out a hush, much lower than he’d anticipated. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head lightly. “I—It’s fine. Seriously.”

“Must have been nice to have birthday dinner with the family though, huh?” Maxine asks suddenly, leaning back into the frame of the bench a bit. Will frowns, actively,his brows furrowing a bit like he’s trying to piece together her statement. Birthday? I didn’t go to a birthday dinner.

Will glances across at Mike. Mike’s fingers are locked around his cigarette like he might snap it in half if he’s not careful. His eyes are elsewhere— ghostly in their blankness.

Oh. Oh.

“Birthday dinner?” is what Will repeats next, stunned, like he doesn’t understand what Maxine means even if he’s pretty sure he gets it now. Mike won’t meet his eyes, face turned out towards the parking lot like he’s hunting for something to say. Will doesn’t peel his gaze off of him. Will understands, of course, that Mike isn’t required to tell him everything. It’s not about the information, even if he would have liked to know.

It’s about the fact that, if he’s reading this right— Mike spent his birthday in tears. Mike spent his birthday feeling as bad as he had.

Why didn’t he just tell me?

Will feels a pang of sadness in his chest, heavy like a rock dropped into an empty well. He tries to bury it. He thinks maybe Maxine notices it plastered across his face, because her ocean eyes flicker between the two boys for a moment before she extinguishes her cigarette quickly, like she can’t get out of there fast enough.

“I better go help J. I’ll, uh— I’ll see you in there, kid,” she says with a nudge against Mike’s heel with the toe of her boot. She abandons the pack of cigarettes in his hand, his fingers hardly moving to grip it. “Just give it back when you get inside,” she says, and Will is sure she’s trying to seem like she’s not in a rush but she oh so clearlyis. Twisting around, Maxine gives Will a lasting little grin. “Nice to meet you again, boy toy.”

The look at Mike shoots back towards her radiates with some sort of extreme displeasure, that nickname sticking to Will like liquid rubber, but Mike doesn’t comment, only waving his smoking hand in her direction as she hurries back inside. Boy toy. He doesn’t think he likes that very much. When he glances back at Mike, the boy’s face is practically parallel with the ground, like he’s too tired to care about spine health.

The silence is so thick Will thinks he could drink it if he tried.

“Boy toy?” Will mumbles under his breath, catching Mike’s attention like he’d flipped the boy’s on switch. His head draws upwards, catching Will’s stare and physically cringing.

“Not a fan of it either. She doesn’t like to listen to me though,” is all he says. His eyes remain fixed on Will’s. “Doesn’t like to listen to anyo— why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” Will hums in a down tone, watching as Mike’s hooded eyes flicker downwards, and he spins the filter of his smoke between his fingertips.

“You never asked,” he says, eyes locking on Will’s face, like he’s testing him. Will’s brows furrow.

“I have to ask?”

Mike blinks, once, twice, like he’s analyzing Will’s response, before he shrugs meagrely. “I just don’t think my birthday is thatbig of a deal. It never hasbeen,” he tells Will, not in a self deprecating way, but rather like it’s just a fact. He leans forward on his knees, elbows digging in as he flicks the ash from his cigarette. Will shifts his weight.

“Well, alright­, but it’s your eighteenth birthday. We could’ve done something.”

The devious, hooded look that Mike gives him almost skyrockets Will into space.

“Done something, huh?” he offers, pointing the burning end of the cigarette towards Will slightly in offering. Will shakes his head, trying not to turn up his nose, watching as Mike drops his hand back again.

“Plenty of people go crazy for their eighteenth,” Will suggests, watching Mike as a slick laugh spills from him. It’s only funny, Will thinks, because Mike seems to do enough crazy on the regular. “It’s a big day.”

“Yeah, eighteen. Pretty crazy. I can finally buy cigarettes legally now,” Mike suggests, and Will can’t control the entertained smile that tugs at his lips.

“Mm, no. No, I don’t think you can do that yet,” Will says softly, watching as Mike’s brows flutter upwards. He shrugs again, leaning back a bit and turning his head as a coy grin crosses his lips.

“Maybe not. I’m a year older, no more special than I usually am.” Mike sighs dramatically, like he’s Will’s leading man, and Will speaks out loud before he can stop himself.

“You’re pretty special on the regular, though,” he says, voice soft and controlled, and he can feel the hot pink blush creeping over the tips of his ears as he watches Mike react. He almost doesn’t at first, minus the pause he takes. Like Mike was expecting Will to just respond with a confirmation to his statement. Fingers freezing around the filter of his smoke, he stills, going blank for a moment, before he glances back up, tipping his head a bit like a cat, eyes gleaming with interest. Then, slowly like he’s trying not to get caught, Mike reaches upwards and guides Will’s hand into his, studying the lines criss-crossing the boy’s palm like a creased tapestry.

“Ah, Byers crawls out of his shell at last. Don’t flirt with me at work, tiger,” Mike purrs sweetly, but Will swears there’s almost a look of modest embarrassment layered beneath his playful grin. Like he doesn’t believe Will, or like he does, and he can’t stand it. Will thinks he might combust if he keeps that up, and so he shoves his free hand into the pockets of his jeans to keep himself from fidgeting. Dropping his stare, Will drives the toe of his shoe into the asphalt before Mike speaks again, answering a question he hadn’t yet asked.

“You grabbed my hand in your sleep last night,” Mike murmurs softly, the words barely forming against his lips as he turns Will’s hand over, delicately. “Did you realize that?”

Will’s cheeks light up. He tries not to tense.

“I didn’t,” he responds quietly. “Didn’t, uh— realize that. I mean. Sorry.”

“No, nosorry. Were you having a bad dream?” Mike suggests, eyes dropping down to look at Will’s hand, tracing the tip of his index finger over the love line of Will’s palm. Will swallows thickly, hoping Mike can’t hear him as he stifles a shiver. He was indeed having a bad dream— not the worst he’d had, but terrible still. How does he explain it to Mike? Should he? Considering, well, the face that it was about Mikehimself.

“I was, yeah,” Will says quietly, fingers twitching a bit against Mike’s touch subconsciously.

“You wanna talk about it?” Mike asks, carefully, like he doesn’t want to shatter what’s going on. Will only manages to shake his head, watching as Mike peeks at him, lifting his head up a bit further. “Alright, s’all cool,” Mike leans back then, still cupping Will’s hand in his as he props his ankle up beneath his knee on the bench. Then, as though he’s slipped back into his regularly-scheduled jokester attitude, he leans forward, eyes hooded, and shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me you were dreaming about me. I got that much.”

Will chokes up a little bit. It’s true, of course. He can’t quite tell if Mike is joking, but the over-exaggerating scoff that leaves his lips is almost condemning.

“You fuckin’ wish I was dreaming about you,” he jabs back, fingers twisting, palms crashing together as Will squeezes Mike’s hand playfully. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until Mike’s eyes dart down towards their intertwined fingers, glassy and slightly wide, and then Will almost let’s go from the shock of this realization. Keep it together, Will. If he wants to let go— he will.

He doesn’t.

He does, however, swing their hands slightly, before whispering, timidly for once: “You’re flirting again. Who are you and what have you done with my Byers?”

Will imagines the colour slipping out of him, that moment, like water down a tub drain.

My. My. My?

He inhales sharply, fixing his eyes on the ground. Say something else. Say something else.

“I’m not—“

“Flirting?” Mike aims to finish, never changing from that entertained stare. Will looks away, towards the front doors, a blush returning to his cheeks. He’s glad, for once, that it’s so cold out. That he’s already a rosy pink, even through the sudden ghostly pale he’d probably turned.

“— I was going to say I’m not busyFriday. If you wanted to, you know—“ flirt a little bit more, “—do something for your birthday.” Will speaks softly, like he’s asking his parents for an allowance, or for a new toy. When Mike doesn’t speak, Will looks back at him, finding the boy nudging pebbles across the pavement as he now avoids Will’s gaze, and, seemingly, his offer. For a minute, Will feels like his heart might drop into his chest, until Mike lifts his head to respond, a tired, dreamy look on his face.

“I would love—“

“Fuckin’ fags!”

Whatever calm little world Mike and Will had been apart of is shattered like a prized snow globe, glittery, opalescent syrup dripping from the shank-like glass edges of their peace of mind as Will lifts his head, eyes searching in a panic for the owner of the voice. It doesn’t take him too long to spot them, of course, because they stick out easily— two fellows strolling down the other side of the parking lot in the opposite direction, eyes pin-point and predatory as they nudge each other in some sort of inside jokefashion. From next to him, Mike is quick to pipe up.

“What was that?” he shouts out over the parking lot, his voice thin and colder than the wintery breeze around them as the boys merely snicker in response.

They’re both dressed in a garb that Will can only explain as jock-like— baseball tees hidden beneath letterman jackets, prime examples and stereotypes of homophobic small-town teenage boys.

Not Mike. The opposite of Mike, if Will has ever seen one. Both verbally, and physically. Where Mike is slender, tall and light on his feet like a spring fox, eyes full and black-brown and subtly sunken from sleeplessness behind loose, lightly curled black hair, these boys are stocky and firm. Blonde haired, blue eyed anti-christ types. The sort of guys who would loom over you in the gymnasium after beaning you in the ear with a basketball, only to ask why you were in the way in the first place.

Will thinks he might be sick.

The two boys are sneering and Will can’t bring himself to look at them. He can feel that sickening feeling growing and swelling in his chest, that feeling he gets every time he thinks about those words a little bit too hard. Where Will finds tears budding in the corners of his eyes, Mike shows almost no sign of remorse. He feels Mike move beneath the grip of his hand against the boy’s sweater, and before he can look up and even take in what’s happening, Mike is shouting.

The rate at which he stands from the planter’s edge is both aggressive and alarmingly quick.

“What, you want a piece?” Mike hollers across the parking lot, looking probably tiny at this angle to the two assholes climbing the lot in the other direction. Twisting a bit away from Will, seemingly not catching the hot wash of surprise crossing his face, Mike slaps the thigh of his jeans, throwing his hand up in succession. “Come get some then, baby!”

 There is something wild about his voice. Something unhinged, unforgiving. Will doesn’t know if it worries him or amazes him. Likely both. Either way, he gives a sharp tug on the sleeve of Mike’s sweater.

“Knock it off!” Will whispers sharply, not even able to comprehend the weak blush that stains his cheeks.

“We’re on our ownkinda date, eh, man?” The darker haired fellow nudges his friend on the ribs, the two of them cackling like hyenas. Will doesn’t get it at first. He doesn’t want to get it. Still, like they’d read his mind, the lighter haired boy croaks out, through his laughs: “To the freak show!”

“Front row seats, too!” One of the boys snips in return, coaxing another wheezing laugh from the other, their grinning faces burning against the backs of Will’s eyes like staring into the sun for too long burns a bright red hole into your vision. His stomach twists, feeling like he might empty the nothingness inside his stomach right onto the pavement. As he grips into Mike’s sweater arm, Will feels woozy. The cigarette between Mike’s fingers is quickly discarded, half smoked and still smouldering when Mike takes a step forward, slow and jolting like a tree uprooting itself.

“Come the fuck down here then,” Mike shouts across the lot then, his voice twisted with something that Will recognizes as hatred, “I’ll give you a fuckin’ show.” His voice cracks at some point, between that first statement and the last. Will doesn’t think Mike notices it. He’s too preoccupied. Taken back by the sudden show of disdain, Will grabs at Mike’s wrist, giving him a tender tug.

“Mike,” he warns, watching the boy as his squared shoulders ease. His eyes, wide and narrowed like a hawks, remain on the two boys until they drift off towards a sector of the parking lot that Mike can’t see. When he doesn’t respond, Will whispers his name once more, almost pleading. Then, like a switch had been flipped inside of him, Mike lowers his head, pulling back and not bothering to shake Will off as he drops back down into a seat against the planter. Like nothing had happened.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, his voice hardly registering as a whisper. Who is he apologizing for? Will doesn’t think Mike even knows, himself.

For a moment, Mike looks like he might cry. He doesn’t, though— he only drives his lighter down into an almost half empty pack of Marlboros, turning his nose up a bit at the smell like he hadn’t been smoking half-heartedly only a moment before. Will doesn’t know exactly what to say, but he thinks he better find something soon. Finding a seat against the wooden edge of the planter next to Mike, Will swallows back the metaphorical lump in his throat.

“I missed you this morning,” he says, watching Mike’s twitching fingers as they still over the packet. He’d be embarrassed, if he’d had more time to consider what was coming out of his mouth. Mike’s eyes, previously fixed on the slightly ripping knees of his jeans, dart up towards Will’s face, stunned.

“Huh?” Mike squeaks, sounding like he’s a full head shorter than Will instead of a half a head taller. That lump that Will had tried to swallow crawls back upwards, and Will tears his gaze away, aiming it at a patch of muddy grass next to his sneaker.

“I said I missed you,” he repeats, his voice a bit smaller, a bit more aware. He traces a circle against the pavement below him with the tip of his shoe. “You just left. I didn’t even hear you go.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Mike explains, his voice gravely. He clears his throat. “I left kinda early.”

“Back to your wife?” Will asks, tipping his head a bit, eyeing Mike. The smile that is worming it’s way over the boy’s lips is encouraging. In reality— Will isn’t sure he really wants to know where Mike had gone.

“’Course,” he replies, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just some sort of mistress, huh?” Will murmurs in mock dramatics.

Mike actually scoffsat that. No shame. “Absolutely not.”

“No goodbye or anythin’,” Will jokes lightly, scuffing his heel against the gravel beneath his foot. Mike’s eyes flicker upwards, like he’s been taken off guard, and he actually frowns.

“I did too say goodbye,” he says, softly, like a shunned child. He almost sounds— upset. One would only notice, though, if they were paying full attention. Will, of course, is.

“What, while I was sleeping?” Will asks in return, his heart twisting a bit in his chest. It does him no good to picture something like that. Sleepy Mike, hair a mess of dark waves (like it still somewhat is), climbing out of bed in Will’s sweater and whispering a little goodbye before retrieving his shoes from beneath the window, bathing in early morning light. The mere idea of it makes Will turn his head away a bit, unable to look Mike in the face for a good moment before the boy speaks again. This time, he sounds a little bit confused.

“You—“ Mike begins, but pauses, like he’s trying to sort something out. Will picks himself up and peeks back over at Mike, chest seizing a bit at the sight of his expression. Knotted brows, squinting ever so slightly, eyes fixed on Will’s face. “You didn’t get the note?”

Will’s fidgeting fingers cease their motions.

The note?

“What note?” he says, slowly, the question dribbling from his lips as the two of them hardly take notice of the arcade door swinging open to their left. Will is too wrapped up in that thought to process much— and still, when he hears his name, sees Mike craning back to look past his shoulder (as if he couldn’t look straight above Will’s head)— he snaps out of it like the word was a crisp slap across the cheek.

“Will?” Lucas calls softly from a few metres away, shoes scuffing gentle against the asphalt as he makes his way towards the two boys. Will’s head snaps up, eyes doe-ish and startled, but distracted still. Empty, like he knows to be surprised, so he acts it— his mind elsewhere. On the note.

What fucking note does he mean?

Lucas, bundled up in a scarf, mahogany eyes fixing on Will first, slows his roll a bit when he catches sight of Mike, elbow to elbow with his best friend. Will can’t see his mouth from behind the scarf. He wonders if Lucas is smiling or scowling for a moment. He doesn’t say a word, but Mike speaks before Lucas can even come to a stop. Mike, Mike, Mike. Oh-so-friendly Mike.

“Sorry to tear him away from you,” he comments boldly to Lucas, driving a hand down into his pocket as he offers the other one out for Lucas to shake. Will wants to close his eyes in horror. “He just dropped in for a chat. Mike Wheeler.”

Will doesn’t have to look Lucas in the face dead on to see his expression change, but he does anyways. Lucas’ eyes light up like little glass bulbs of pure intrigue. He hardly spares Will a second glance after he draws his scarf down from his mouth so he can speak better, a tiny little grin forming on his lips.

“Lucas Sinclair,” he replies calmly, taking Mike’s hand like he might take an elderly relative’s for an old fashioned shake, their palms connecting and dropping quickly. It’s so business like it’s almost embarrassing. “So you’re the Mike I’ve been hearing about.”

Please God, let this be over, Will begs. From next to him, he can see Mike peeking.

“You’ve been hearing about me?” he asks, his voice too playful for his own good. Will straightens up his posture, pretending he doesn’t feel like he’s got two sets of eyes drilling into either side of his face.

“Quite a lot, actually,” Lucas says, a small laugh slipping past his lips. The cold in the air exposes Will as he lets out a sharp exhale, his face shielded for a fraction of a second behind hot breath.

“Sorry,” Will croaks softly, aiming to sound as casual as he can but sounding more like he’s staring dead into the eyes of a seven foot crocodile. “I was just about to come back in. Did— Did you guys finish with Space Invaders already?”

Lucas’ eyes dart back towards Will, his gaze softening a touch. He shifts to his other foot, standing in front of the two boys like a witness on the stand, even though Will feels more like the defendant in this case, head ready to be crushed beneath a giant gavel. “Ah, see—“ Lucas begins, his voice a bit hesitant as he tips his head a bit. “Dustin’s got a bit of an issue. Has to shoot home to feed his creaturessince his mom’s not gonna be home.” Will, even through his shot nerves, can’t help but smile a touch at Lucas’ use of the word creatures; referring to Dustin’s cat and box turtle, of course. Will doesn’t think Lucas has ever had any problems with pets— his words fall not with disgust, but with lighthearted jealousy, more like. Will gets it— and with a sudden papery object tacked to the back of his mind— he doesn’t mind the sudden urgent need to leave.

“No Dig Dug?” Will poses, his words easy as Lucas gives him a tiny, entertained little grin.

“Not today,” he replies, eyes darting back curiously towards Mike. “Sorry, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

Will parts his lips, without thinking, to ask Lucas: Like what? What could you have interrupted out here? Mike speaks before him, like a record echoing through the open mouth of a gramophone.

“Not a thing,” he says, rising from his spot on the edge of the planter and dusting off the front of the thighs of his black jeans like he’d just endured a long day of work. “I was just heading back inside anyways. Can’t stay out here too long or I won’t be around to give you folks tokens much longer, hm?”

Will has to resist the urge to reach out for him. “Right,” is all he says, softly, quiet. Mike’s dark eyes dart down towards him, curious in their own right.

“He’s just finishing his last round,” Lucas explains, driving his free hands down into his pockets, grabbing for his car keys. He glances between Mike and Will. Will hopes he can’t sense the previous little tiff they’d experienced. He doesn’t seem like he can, because instead of staring too long, Lucas twists away towards the parking lot, stepping down from the curb. “I’m going to warm up the car. You comin’, Will?”

“’Course,” Will says without thinking, being the last to rise from the planter’s edge. Lucas peeks back over his sweater shoulder, raising a hand and throwing a limp wave back.

“Nice to meet you again, Mike,” he says simply with a curt nod, twisting back around and fumbling with his keys as he crosses a couple spaces alone. When Will steps forward, drawing his coat tighter around him as he dips his head, Mike catches his attention once more.

“Byers?”

He’s almost to quick to look back at Mike, one foot off the edge of the curb already. The two might look like previously quarreling lovers to an onlooker, the way they’re look at each other like they aren’t sure if a goodbye is warranted. Instead of granting Will one, Mike tilts his head upwards a bit, slipping Maxine’s cigarette pack into his front pocket.

“Look for that note when you get home,” is all he says, with a thin but warm little smile that seemingly eradicates the cold around them. Then, coolly, stepping down off the curb and cutting the distance between them in half as he shifts forward, Mike wraps his arms around himself, giving Will a tidy little grin. “’Cause I did leave you one. I’ll see you Friday.”

He turns, like nothing had happened, like Will’s heart isn’t constricted in his chest. Mike drifts back indoors, and Will only lingers another moment, weightless, before he spins around and trickles after Lucas, images of paper notes dancing across his eyes.

-

The entire ways home, Will’s body is like a breeding ground for the nervousness that erupts from deep inside his chest.

Lucas and Dustin don’t ask much about Mike, and Will’s rather glad that they don’t, because he doesn’t know if he can handle talking about the boy without blabbing about everything. He’s not so much afraid of what Mike’s said, really— he’s more afraid of the fact that a note has been placed somewhere in his home, and he has no sweet clue where. Even the simplest of statements could be misinterpreted by somebody who might find it— somebody, being his father, but also his brother. He wonders why Mike thought that might have been a good idea. He also thinks, of course, if he’s so petrified of what might be on it and who might find it, then he ought to be less excited than he is. Yet he still sits, for the entirety of the ride, tapping his fingers against his kneecaps like he’s drumming his anxieties out against his jeans.

The goodbyes Will gives are trivial, weak even, as he dons a fleeting smile and throws a wave towards the car, practically fleeing into the house before Lucas even gets his car turned around properly. The whole place is overbearingly quiet, and usually, Will would stop to relish in this, only he feels like he’s running out of time on an hourglass that doesn’t even exist. His father, figure bulking and slack against the couch, practically hasn’t moved all day, and yet he still stirs only lightly as Will kicks his boots off and whizzes down the hallway in a flurry, thoughts acting as mental horse blinders as he enters his bedroom.

Everything becomes suspect— his room a stage to be broken apart. He tears into his comforters first, already a mish-mashed pile together as he draws them apart messily, finding nothing amongst their folds. He moves to his wall— posters of Bowie, Madonna, even Prince staring down at him with doubtful gazes as his eyes wander up and over the wall. Nothing new— nothing out of place. He moves to the windows, to his dresser drawers, to his closet, rifling through the shirts he’s got strung up.

Nothing. Not a damn thing to be found. He fears that Mike’s put it somewhere else— but that wouldn’t make any sense. Shutting his door firmly, Will’s pearly jade green eyes scan the empty wooden back of it. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He thinks maybe Mike was fooling with him. He’s about ready to flop down onto his bed and just say fuck it, when he turns around to do so and sees a tiny post-it stuck to the named sides of his cassette tape collection.

Will doesn’t do sports— but the speed at which he crosses his room and snatches the post-it note up makes him think that maybe he should consider track. His hand is quick to rest at the top of his cassette stack so that it doesn’t topple over when he tears the note away from it’s spot with his other hand. It’s creased slightly, like Mike had planned on tucking it somewhere else but decided against it. Heart thumping against his chest like a bass drum, Will takes a step back and seats himself against the edge of his bed. On the post-it note’s yellowed surface, scrawled in red pen, reads:

Thanks for not leaving me alone. You make a good pillow. I didn’t use the front door, don’t worry. Call you soon.

- M

Fuck, Will thinks, as he realizes he’s been holding his breath.

His bed feels like it’s stretched out something like a piece of sugary-sweet taffy, reaching miles on each end as Will lets his body fall back gently into the fabric, tiny yellow note acting as a life-raft for his broken little body as he floats aimlessly in a sea of comforters and blankets, unmade from that morning. His pulse is thumping so hard he thinks his most vital organ might bust right through his rips, shattering them into vicious fractals as his heart tears off down the street towards the cul-de-sac where the Wheelers reside. He doesn’t think, logically, that Mike is actually there right now. He’s likely still at work— leaning over the counter, cheeks a flushed pink from the mid-winter cold outdoors, rubbing his sweater arms and sparing finicky little smiles to the kids demanding tokens from him for wrinkled bills. Maybe, maybe— Mike is done his shift, even; walking around downtown now, off for the evening, a beer or two in his system already from his unexplained stash as he wanders aimlessly, looking for somewhere to go. Maybe he’s crashing on a coworker’s couch, Jane’s, or Maxine’s. Maybe he’s laying there, somewhere in downtown Hawkins, deep brown eyes fixated on a ceiling that doesn’t belong to him as his mind tethers itself to thoughts of Will, too.

Is he thinking about me?

Will doesn’t know where Mike is, but he thinks, if his heart really did bust out of his chest now, it would be able to find him anywhere.

When Will drifts off on his back, dreams of birthdays and popcorn ceilings and warm touches echoing around in his brain, he realizes, just as he tilts over the edge into the cusp of sleep, that he can’t hear a single drop of rain outside his bedroom windows.

Chapter Text

Thursday morning, bright and early before the sun has even broken across the tree line, Will Byers walks the dirt mile. Instead of stopping to get the mail at the end of the drive, however, he bypasses the mailbox and keeps going, going, going— all the way into town.

He’d dreamt of it, the night before— Mike’s birthday gift. He’d gone to bed with the preface that he wouldn’t even get the boy anything. That maybe just going out (or even staying in) and doing something would suffice. Instead, however, Will’s mind had subconsciously changed overnight. And it had started, of course, with a dream about Steve Perry.

He doesn’t know if it was the banter from earlier in the week or what, but Will dreamt that night about Journey. Front row, flashing beacons twinkling along the edge of the stage and blasting through the crowd like hot beams of light. Mike hadn’t even been there— but it had been the song. He could have sworn that he’d heard it for real right then, twisting around a bit, feet knotted against the sheets as he dreamt. Perfectly clear— the haunting sound of Perry’s voice twisting around the lyrics to Will’s personal favorite—Who’s Crying Now— and he’d awoken with a start, like he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. The clock on the dresser had read 6:02 AM in a disgusting neon green, and the sky outside had only just started to lighten. Drowsy and half dressed, Will had scrambled out of bed and nearly tripped over his own pant legs as he’d seated himself, still basically asleep, at his desk. And he had begun to write— scribble, actually— the tracks. That one, and another, and another. He’d dreamt it. Mike’s birthday gift.

Just as he’d dreamt about music, he’d woken up to it, too— still playing on repeat, dull against the light shower outside.

He’d dreamt about the mixtape like it was a premonition, and at 7:05 AM, after deciding ultimately that Thursday morning English lectures are for people who have nothing better to do, Will had headed off towards the Radio Shack.

He doesn’t take too long— only a two hour trip, at best, and he breaks that time up into chunks each time he has to check again to make sure he did, indeed, get dressed, and he hadn’t just left the house in penguin printed pajama pants. When he gets home, it’s nearly 9:30, and Jonathan is bent over the kitchen counter when Will shuts the front door behind him, trapping the cold outdoors and startling his brother. By the time Will has sluggishly peeled off his jacket and hung it up against one of the rungs on the standing coat rack, Jonathan has trickled out of the kitchen and into the opening towards the front door, cereal bowl in hand, spoon clinking crisply against the porcelain.

“Mornin’,” he says softly, watching as Will lazily digs his heel into the toe of his opposite foot and pries off a shoe. His voice is chipper, but confused. “Don’t you have school?”

Yes is the right answer. “Maybe” is what Will grumbles, prying his other shoe off and discarding it by the front door as he peers over at his brother. Jonathan isn’t dressed yet, no surprise— still draped in sweats and a thin looking jumper. “Don’tyouhave school?”

Jonathan smiles lightly, cheek full of cheerios, before he chews and swallows them, setting his bowl of milk on the counter. “Not for another two hours. What’s your excuse?”

“I’ve got things to do,” Will replies, pulling his hand back out through the handles of the tiny bag they’d given him to protect his tape from the weather. Then, like a light bulb had been flicked on inside his brain, Will lifts his head a bit, stilling, surveying his brother. Will’s sure that Jonathan can practically see the cogs turning inside his head, because he furrows his brows in response.

“—What?” he asks.

“Actually,” Will hums slowly, eyes wandering across the room. The puzzle pieces of his little idea are coming together, slowly but surely. “You’ve got something to do, too. If you have the time.”

“Depends on what it is,” Jonathan responds briskly, resting his fingertips against the counter. Easily, Will replies.

“Music related,” is all he says. It’s all it really takes for Jonathan to nod in agreement. Slowly but surely, the boy stretches his hands up over his head, a tiny groan escaping his mouth as he stretches.

“Show me the job,” he says eagerly, flashing a coy smile.

It doesn’t take long to set up, but Will knows he wouldn’t have been able to do it on his own. Jonathan makes it look like a work of art, like a trade— slipping each tape in as necessary and recording each song dutifully as he checks the list of them. Will had worked neatly that morning— making sure he hadthe tapes he needed before he ended up demanding a song from one of them and finding himself in trouble. Jonathan spends the beginning of the process talking about what he’s doing, or commenting eagerly on the song choices. Only after the third song does he settle back on the end of Will’s bed and actually take a full look at the track list while one of the songs burns onto the clean tape.

“Huh— you put that song from Top Gun on here?” Jonathan asks lightly; not a criticism, but rather a surprised question. He’s leaning back a bit, paper trapped between his fingers as he taps his foot softly against the carpet. Will’s eyes drop to the case in his hands, still perched on his knees as he watches the cassettes spin in sync behind their tiny viewing windows. He wants to speak, but he doesn’t really know what to say. Does he explain himself? Yeah, Jonathan, I did. Take My Breath Away is super cheesy, and I think it’ll make him laugh, or maybe, I think it’ll make his heart warm, if I’m lucky. Just a minute ago, I wondered about how nice Mike would look dressed up as Maverick for Halloween. It’s a cheesy song. I know it is. If anyone knows that, it’s me. You can’t just say that stuff though, can you? Not when you’re Will.

Will’s tongue, not literally, is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He clears his throat to try and help himself.

“It’s a good song,” he responds defensively, and he instantly wants to whack himself across the forehead. It’s a good song? Nice one. Shifting, Will leans back against his heels. “I thought he’d like it.”

Jonathan only hums. From his spot by the player, a few feet away from his brother, Will hears Jonathan check the back of the paper, then turn it front facing again in his hands. Then, like it’s just something to say, Jonathan clears his throat and speaks up again, the same way one would speak to a coworker about the weather.

“It’s pretty romantic, you know. The whole playlist thing,” Jonathan says, perched somewhere on the edge of the bed behind Will. The sudden statement drives a spike of awkwardness through Will’s chest like a stake, and he can’t help but feel himself drain. His hands grow hot to the touch, fidgety, and he let’s the Journey tape keep spinning through, the song only half over just yet. Romantic? Why would he say something like that?Will doesn’t look back at his brother. He doesn’t want to give himself away. He doesn’t know why Jonathan said it. He thinks he’s going to make a dig at Will for how this looks. He doesn’t. Instead, he says something worse.

“It’s— supposed to be, right?” Jonathan asks, filling a silence that might have been better left alone. Cutting through the veil of his previous observation like a laser to glass.

Will’s heart absolutely seizes in his chest, like an old engine dry on oil. He almost drops the clear cassette container, but instead, he grips it so tight he nearly cracks it, thumb smudging the writing on the outside.

The fingers on his opposite hand don’t drift from his lap— they only stiffen. For a moment, Will wishes he could dig right down through the floor into the dirt below the house and bury himself. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

He slinks back a bit for a moment, letting the song continue playing as it records a twin of itself onto the half-empty cassette in the other side of the player. He isn’t panicking— maybe a little bit, but not physically. Jonathan hasn’t said anything else. Hasn’t moved an inch, likely just watching Will as he turns into a puddle of nothingness. It’s supposed to be, isn’t it?

There are tears in his eyes. He doesn’t even realize they’re there. They don’t fall— just linger like little tiny diamonds, pieces of glass shrapnel dotting his lashes. He’s afraid, hell, more afraid than he’s been in a very long time. It feels, almost, like there is a hand wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe beneath a violent pressure.

Take me away. Take me away. He knows. He knows, how does he know? Is it obvious? He’s going to hate me. He’s going to think I’m terrible. Disgusting. Not him. Please, not him.

God, he’s going to hate me, he’s going to hate me, he’s going to—

“Will—?”

“Please don’t tell Dad,” Will shudders, his skin flaming hot and blindingly chilled at the same time. Every exhale feels like a million tiny needles against the tender parts of his skin. He’s never sounded so terrified in his entire life. Even the sound of his own voice throws him for a loop.

He doesn’t actually start crying until Jonathan touches his shoulder, so lightly, yet he still flinches like he’s been slapped. Then, a few previously blinding tears trickle down his cheeks, and he lets out a trembling breath.

“Whoa— hey, hold on—“

“Don’t—“ Will croaks, not yet crumbling into a mess like he’d expected. Tearing a bit at the seams, maybe. The tears flow from him so freely, he thinks maybe he’s bumped a faucet on inside of his brain. Yet, he doesn’t make a single sound to indicate it. “Don’t tell him. Just don’t tell Dad. Please— please, Jonathan.” He’s begging like a child who’s made an irreparable mess and doesn’t want to be caught. His mouth feels dry, dry, dry.Everything is uncomfortable. Everything is wrong. Then his brother grips his shoulder a bit tighter, like he’s trying to ground him.

“Why would I tell him?” Jonathan says, his voice a confused hush now. Will hears him stand and cringes softly, not looking at his brother as he finds a spot down on the floor next to Will on his knees, hand still resting on Will’s shoulder. The air between them is so heavy, it almost feels like it could pin Will to the floor. All he can do is shake his head in response. He doesn’t know. From the sound system, Steve Perry asks the two of them: Who’s crying now?

I am, Will thinks. I’m crying now.

He doesn’t know why he thought Jonathan to do such a thing first. Yet, again, he whispers: “Please. Please just don’t.”

He looks towards Jonathan out of habit, not thinking, but regretting. He freezes when he sees.

His brother, for some startling reason, is crying too.

Tears streak his cheeks like snail tracks. Will has to blink back his own and furrow his brows, looking a bit closer to make sure he is, indeed, seeing what he thinks he is. Yeah. He is.

Jonathan’s crying.

“Buddy, seriously,” he says through a wispy laugh, his voice hardly audible against the sound of the record playing behind them. The song is coming to an end, and Jonathan peels his light, reddening eyes away from Will for only a moment just to stop it so the tapes don’t carry on without them. Clicking the buttons in with a little chnknoise, Jonathan’s fingers fall back into his lap. “I don’t tell Dad my own god damn business, let alone yours, and I wouldn’t tell him something like this.”

Will reaches up and wipes at his running nose with his sleeve. His face feels swollen, aching from being so tense and distressed all in such a short timeframe. He needs to sleep now. He needs to get out of the house and go for a walk or take a shower or do somethingto distract himself. This is happening, though. Why is this happening?

The words don’t really settle. So Will needs to ask again, because it almost doesn’t make any sense to him.

“You’re— you’re not going to tell him?” he repeats, trembling.

“No,” Jonathan assures him, his voice hard and certain as he keeps his eyes trained on Will’s face. “Not a single thing.” That hand on Will’s shoulder begins to rub tender, tender circles into the delicate skin of his clothed shoulder blade. Will can feel his heart pumping at a rate that might challenge that of a bullet train’s engine.

Will slacks a little bit.

“You aren’t angry with me?” he asks now, feeble in his delivery. It sounds so childish coming from his mouth, and based on the look that crosses Jonathan’s face, it probably sounds pretty peculiar, too.

“Will—“ Jonathan begins, another tear dribbling down into his lap as he lifts an arm, pressing what must be the cool back of his hand to his hot cheek. He lets out the tiniest of exhales, like he’d been holding onto the last bit of oxygen in his lungs for a while. “Fuck— Will, you knowthis isn’t a bad thing, don’t you?”

He doesn’t. Not fully. Mostly, yes. He knows that being— being gayisn’t a bad thing. But sometimes, other people— they make him wonder if it actually is.

“Yes,” he whispers. It’s almost a lie, but it works. Jonathan carries on.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, withdrawing his touch from Will’s shoulder and instead, taking his younger brother’s hand between his two palms. Will’s stomach continues to ache. “I’m not mad. Not at all, because there is nothingfor me to be mad about. I’m happyfor you.”

Will blinks. Once, twice, three times even. Another tear slips down his cheek eagerly.

“Not mad,” Will repeats, like a youngster. “Happy. For me.”

“Exactly,” Jonathan replies, a slow, nervous smile tugging at his lips. Will might have smiled back, of course, if he wasn’t so sickly nervous still. It sinks in— slowly, slowly, slowly. Slower than the Titanic took to sink, almost. Jonathan isn’t mad.  Jonathan doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t hate me, he knows I’m gay, he knows, somebody knows— for real.

He doesn’t hate me. He loves me.

Will feels love, then, too. So much love for his brother he thinks he might cry again. Then, softly, he whispers: “Well, I’m happy for me too.”

And he means it. He really, really means it.

So when the silence between them thickens again, leaving the two of them to fight for comfort next to each other, Will doesn’t mind it. And when Jonathan breaks that silence, Will doesn’t mind that either.

“You’re gay,” is what Jonathan says. Like he’s confirming the date for a doctor’s appointment.

It’s Will’s turn to answer. For a few seconds, he just lets that sit, hovering over his head like a halo. Then, lifting his chin and bringing his knees tighter in their crossed position, he does respond.

“Yeah,” Will utters, for the first time out loud. “I’m gay.”

Jonathan only nods. “Alright,” he replies, donning a thin little smile as he watches his brother. “Sounds good.”

Like nothing even happened, Jonathan peels the cassette case from Will’s fingers, checking the track list and reaching up to grab the next tape they need for Mike’s mixtape. That’s it. That ends it, not for Will, but in the current sense.

And fuck, does it everfeel good to just say it. It doesn’t fix anything— god, if anything, it makes things a little more uneven and mismatched. But it feels good. Yes, it does.

It feels amazing, that. To tell the truth for once.

 -

Will is always awake when he shouldn’t be.

Particularly lately, with all the dreams he’s been having. It’s not like he isn’t trying— he’s stopped drinking coffee, tea too, and he’s started trying to go to sleep earlier than the dead center of the night, but he can’t seem to do anything to fix it. He lays awake that night, or rather, early Friday morning, underneath a veil of darkness, wondering why exactly he can’t seem to stop tossing and turning.

He’d debated just getting up and flicking on the television in the living room, knowing his brother isn’t home to be disturbed, and neither is his father, but his bones and joints feel too frozen to move. It would be easier if he could just fall asleep— then he wouldn’t have to deal with his mind running rampant like a rabid dog without a leash. He doesn’t know why he’s awake, but he is. In a way, that’s good.

Because if he was sleeping, he wouldn’t have heard the knocking.

It’s gentle, at first— it blends right in with the sound of the rain coming down outside. It had only thundered a couple times in the past few hours, splitting the humidity outside like an axe through wood. The knocking goes almost unheard, for the first couple raps. Then, almost like the rain decided to cooperate with whomever is trying to visit, it dulls only for a split moment. Then— thenWill hears it properly.

He’s never bolted up so fast in bed, his heart sinking back into his ribcage, beating viciously inside his chest as he sits stagnant for a second, just listening. He hears it again— even clearer, more needy this time— and he feels, for a moment, like he might be sick. He might have mistaken it for something else if it were anywhere else in the house. But it’s not. Instead, it’s right at his bedroom window. Clear as a whistle.

Will scurries out of bed like a madman and, knowing all too well where it is in the dark, teeters over grimly towards the back of his closed bedroom door and snatches the small aluminum bat that leans into the wall’s conjoined corner.

He doesn’t know how to play baseball, but he’s sure he can swing it hard enough if he needs to.

His brain tells him it’s a stray cat, one of the neighbors, or maybe an injured bird that’s driven itself face first into the window’s reflective plate a couple times. He even debates with himself that maybe he hasfallen asleep, and this is just a piss poor nightmare that he’s got to suffer through. The way he stubs his toe against the metal leg of his bed tells him otherwise, though. That pain is toorealistic, and he curses over it, stepping a bit quicker towards the window now with the bat clutched tightly in his grasp. Inching towards the dresser, Will can’t see a damn thing outside of the window. Pitch black and cloudy that evening, the rain hisses from behind the glass barrier. There isn’t another knock. Will hopes that means whoever is there has gone away. Reaching out, Will fumbles with the switch beneath his lamp’s shade for a moment before he finally finds it.

Will’s actually pretty glad he’s alone, all of a sudden, that feeling fluttering against his ribcage like the wings of a butterfly. Glad, because when he flips on the light with one distracted hand, and he sees Mike’s slender figure, drenched, waiting patiently at the window, he doesscream.

Mike, from outdoors, still flinches, throwing his hands up, waving them back and forth like he’s trying to show Will that it’s him. Rain drips down his freckled cheeks like he’s standing beneath a showerhead. Thin nose and curved lips tinted an almost cherry red, Mike knocks again, gentler this time. Will notices, fingers wrapped in a white knuckle grip around the baseball bat— that Mike isn’t wearing a jacket. He’s never wearing a jacket.

“— Christ, wha—“ Will exhales sharply, out of breath from doing almost nothing but worrying, thinking he was going to have to bean someone in the head with a steel bat. He crosses towards the window, dropping his bat with a dull thunkagainst the hardwood next to the sill as he reaches up with his now free hands and pries it open and upwards. The rain, where it had been a sluggish sort of ambience to Will’s shapeless little thinking session before, is now blaring— like it’s being projected through a speaker. Craning his head a bit to look at Mike, staring at him as he wipes at his nose with a damp sleeve, Will bites down hard on his tongue. Mike, in return, smiles, embarrassed, then lets out the tiniest of sneezes, shielding his mouth and nose. He sneezes like a fuckin’ Chihuahua. Will would laugh if he wasn’t so stunned.

“What the hell,” is all Will says. A sharp whisper. A demand for an explanation.

“Knock, knock,” Mike responds in a gravely, rough murmur. That apologetic smile is back again, full force. He looks like a child who’s been caught stealing. “Can I come in?”

“It’s, like— twoin the morning,” Will whispers back, unsure if Mike can even hear him over the downpour. Mike, in lieu of responding, drops his gaze to the baseball bat laying discarded nearby, then looks back up to Will’s face, amused.

“Ah— Good morning, then,” Mike offers weakly. Will had been planning on letting Mike in anyways— he wouldn’t just leave him out in the rain— but something about the way he says that. Like he’s trying to act funny but he can’t even force it. Something about that strikes a sick chord in Will’s stomach. An agonizing qualm stretches across his train of thought.

Did something happen at home again?

He doesn’t ask. Stepping back from the ledge, which is already beginning to grow dotted with raindrops, Will pushes the window open a bit more.

“Hurry, hurry,” Will urges thinly, stepping away to allow Mike some space to get in. He does, rather swiftly, because Will is sure he wants to be out of the downpour as soon as he can be. Will knew Mike was tall— but he still has to curb a disbelieving laugh as the boy helps himself up onto the window sill and manages to contort himself enough to get in, just like last time, long limbs bumping corners and even the tip of his head knocking against the edge of the window frame, coaxing a fiery little cuss out of him. He’s speaking all the way through, mumbling about this and that like he can’t find enough time to tell Will what’s up. But the way he starts it— the way he starts it makes Will wary already.

“You know when I said Friday, I meant, like, tonight,” Will says slowly.

“Have you ever dyed your hair, Byers?” Mike asks blindly as his shoes hit the floor. Will, stepping back in his sock feet to avoid the dampness, watches in dumbstruck confusion as Mike twists back around and shuts the window tight behind him. He shakes his head. For which reason, he’s not sure. All of them.

“No, and I don’t intend to. So whatever you’re planning— no,” Will assures Mike, catching the toothy little smile the boy makes when he faces Will again, shooting a disappointed little gaze at him before peeling his backpack off of his shoulder. Soaked, just like the rest of him. He crouches down gently, like his knees might give, and sets the pack down in front of him.

“I’m not asking you to,” Mike chuckles sweetly, unzipping the top of the bag with a swift whiz. “I want you to dye mine.”

“You—“ Will pauses, staring, stunned as he watches Mike dig down into his knapsack, the shoulders of his t-shirt completely soaked into an even blacker-black than it must have been before. Mike sways slightly, even in his crouch. Will has to bite down on his tongue to keep from making a disinterested noise. “Are— Are you drunkright now?”

Mike’s head whips upwards, a startled expression washing over his face.

“I can’t possibly look thatbad, can I?” Mike asks in return, followed up by a flash of pearly white teeth. Will feels like he should be more frustrated. He can’t even force himself to be slightly miffed. In fact— he’s rather happy to see Mike. Even if it’s on a school night. Even if it’s nearly two in the morning and Will, exhausted, is doing his best not to stumble to either side himself. The world may as well be twisting and reforming around the two of them.

“You don’t look bad,” Will replies, his voice a sleepy hum as Mike drops his head again. “I asked you if you’re drunk. It’s—pretty last minute for a sleepover.”

“I won’t stay, don’t worry. Plus— I’m not drunk,” Mike replies, fishing out a bundle of fabric, folded neatly into a square. Will recognizes it to be the sweater he’d loaned Mike a few nights before— and his stomach twists in a weird sort of admiration like a wet dish cloth. Mike rises to his feet, lanky and damp, offering out the sweater like a gift. He makes a point of looking Will in the eyes, even if he has to crane his neck a bit, bend his knees, even; capturing Will’s downturned gaze. As he speaks, water drips down onto his lashes, dotting his cheeks like tears. “Maybe I wish I was, sure. But I’m not. Honest.”

The sincerity in his voice, while admirable, is a bit too much for Will. He takes the tiniest step back and peers down at the sweater, reaching out and making a point to take it in such a way that keeps their hands from touching. “Okay,” Will replies softly, his voice so delicate it sounds like it might break. Mike only hums in response, digging an arm back into his bag and drawing out a small box of what is most definitely hair dye. Only it’s not black, or brown, or even red. It’s blonde. Will’s lips part ever so slightly.

“Oh my god, you’re not,” he says. Mike lets out a tiny laugh in response.

“Just a streak,” he comments, watching as Will’s eyes flicker up to his face and he rakes his damp hair back from his face. “Gotta dry the locks, first, though. Think you can do it?”

My hands can. My heart can’t.

“Sure,” is what Will really says, blinded by the idea. He shakes his head numbly, like he’s trying to knock a thought (or a few) out of his brain, then he nods towards the bedroom door, still shut tight. His brain feels like strained pulp, but he still steps out towards it a bit. “Bathroom’s just across the hallway. Go dry yourself off. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mike nods and drops a brief salute to Will, flashing a dimple-ey little smile as he crosses the room and gentle opens up Will’s bedroom door, slipping out and leaving him to his own accord. Will just stands— soaking this in for a moment— before his eyes flicker back towards his reason for dwindling. Atop his record player, seated just on the edge, lays the mixtape in it’s pretty red wrapping paper. It doesn’t feel real, really— any of this. But he takes a couple steps forward anyways, grabs it, and drifts back towards his bedroom door, able to hear Mike towel drying his hair and humming to himself as he goes. He drives the mixtape into his back pocket, his heart thumping. He can’t tell if he regrets it or not. He definitely doesn’t. No, no he doesn’t. Because Mike needs to hear it.

Even if Will doesn’t know why.

 -

“I have something for you.”

Mike is seated on the floor when Will says this, legs stretched out as much as they can be in front of him, still bent at a 90 degree angle as he peers up at Will like a confused puppy dog. Will, back to the sink as he leans into it, can feel the mixtape resting safely in his back pocket. Not ready to come out, but definitely needing to. Mike, with the bleach in his hair, taking quite well, tips his head ever so slightly. Will hates that it looks as good as it does. Nothing so impulsive has ever turned out so right before.

“S’that so?” Mike replies slowly, cautiously.

Wordlessly, like he just can’t seem to stand it any longer, Will nods and reaches back into his pocket, drawing the tape out and outstretching his hand, offering it up to Mike in silence.

Mike, curls slicked back from his face and tucked behind his ears, bleach taking to one violent little streak of his hair, takes the tiny package into his hands like it’s a bomb. He holds it the same way Will might hold a basketball— like he’s got no sweet clue what to do with it.

When Mike doesn’t respond, face pale against the yellow bathroom bulb, Will squats down next to him, nudging him gently with the tips of his fingers, pressing his back into the cabinet behind him as he seats himself. “Open it,” he mumbles.

Mike meets Will’s anxious gaze for only a split second, but it sends a shock of electricity through the tip of his skull right down through his spine. Mike looks like he wants to say something, but he just can’t seem to find the words, so he turns his face back down towards the gift. He peels back the paper carefully, like he’s drawing back the skin from an onion. The space they’re in, even though the bathroom itself isn’t tiny, feels miniscule. Will, back to the sink, watches as Mike unwraps the cassette tape, his shoulders pressed to the caramel brown wall behind him. When he gets the gift halfway opened, his fingers halt, like somebody’s bumped the pause button on him.

“Oh,” he exhales. At first, it sounds surprised— and in Will’s overactive brain, a little sullen. His fingers, thumbing the side of the cassette, gently coax the rest of the wrapping off, however, and when Mike’s eyes track along the gently printed mixtape name on the white title sticker, his eyes widen and light up like two bulbs.

Written in red sharpie, the tape reads: ‘Listen to more Journey, asshole.’

“Oh my fucking god,” he squeaks. Will’s face is practically glowing with a fiery blush. Mike flips the tape over, once, twice, reads the title again, and then lets out a disbelieving little laugh. Then, looking back up at Will, lips parted and grinning, Mike shakes his head. “You didn’t.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Will urges swiftly, his voice growing quieter by the word. “Just a late birthday gift.” But it’s too late— Mike is already leaning forward, bringing himself up onto his knees. For a moment, a moment of sheer anxiety and excitement, Will thinks that Mike might be lurching forward for a hug. Instead, he does something even worse— worse, of course meaning condemning for Will. He cranes forward on his knees, a foot or two between their heads, and he rests the back of his hand, still clutching the tape, against Will’s knee. Eyes shining like diamonds, Mike locks his gaze onto Will’s.

“Can we go listen?” he begs, and at almost comedictiming, a little strand of hair dips down into Mike’s eyes. He looks like a kid on Christmas Day. Will, even through the sudden lack of air in his lungs, can’t help but smile.

“You’ve—“ Will’s eyes wander upwards, fixed on the dyeing streak, “—you’ve got bleach in your hair.”

Mike’s other hand cups Will’s knee cap, hands folded over one another, tape sandwiched between, but oh so gently. Will heart clenches tight, and he almost up and Road Runner style runsout of the bathroom in a blushing haze. “Wash it out then,” Mike urges. When he notices Will’s reaction, his eyes dart down, and he pulls his hands back into his own lap briskly, cupping the tape. “Just wash it out. Fuck it.”

“You’ll look half done,” Will replies with a sweet sigh. He doesn’t know if he means that fully, or if he’s just stalling.

Mike tips his chin up a bit, eyeing Will with a cocked brow. “Look at me, pal,” he replies blankly, raising an open palm to the side, “I already look half done.”

He doesn’t make it past Will’s unimpressed glance. His hands fall back to his lap, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking. From before him, Will rests his head back against the edge of the sink. “I’m not gonna ruin your hair just so you can listen,” he assures Mike. “Besides— it’s literally three in the morning. You really want to start blasting music at three in the morning?”

Mike shrugs limply, carefree. “We’ll listen in the car, then, if you care that much about your folks.”

Will watches Mike for another moment, feeling vibrantly shy. “Nobody’s home. That’s not the point.”

“Tapes sound better on a nice rainy drive, anyways,” Mike responds briskly, followed up by a pearly white grin. “Come on, wha’dya say? How long until I can wash this shit out?”

Will wants to tell Mike that he’s probably wrong about that statement, but he looks much more chipper compared to how he had looked framed against Will’s bedroom window, and Will isn’t keen on destroying that. If anything, he wants to preserve it. “Eh— ten minutes, at best,” Will responds after a moment of consideration, unable to curb the tiny little smile that tugs at his lips when Mike nods eagerly.

“Ten minutes,” he repeats. He leans forward a touch. “You sure?”

“Wh—“ Will’s brows furrow, and he draws his knees closer to his chest. He feels a bit like he’s being interrogated, but not like a cop and a criminal— he feels more like a parent explaining to their child why they can’t go on all the rides at once. “Yes, I’m sure— God, you reallywant to listen to it right now?”

“I don’t want,” Mike explains simply, eyes fluttering shut briefly as he shrugs once more. “I need. It’s a need, pal.”

Will laughs, snorts a little bit actually, and Mike’s eyes fix on him again, hovering.

What a fuckin’ dork.

“Ten minutes, then, Bride of Frankenstein,” Will murmurs under his breath, dropping his face down a bit as he gazes into his lap. Mike raps his knuckles ever so softly against Will’s knee. It’s nice, this— sitting on the tile of his bathroom floor, just being in Mike’s presence, talking, not talking, all of it. Will thinks time spent with Mike is so much better than time spent without him. Definitely. Then Mike stands, impatient in the way he moves but docile through words, and he steps up next to Will, looking into the circular mirror above the sink.

“Guess that makes you Frankenstein’s Monster,” Mike prods lightly, his voice joking as it always is, teasing in the way he speaks. Will, gaze turned down, smiles ever so slightly, his face flushed. His socked feet flat on the tile, his fingers drumming the side of the box.

And suddenly, he can’t wait for Mike to listen to the mixtape. Because suddenly— as though there hadn’t been one before— it holds meaning.

-

Mike is quiet for the entire duration of his playlist which, Will had counted after creation, had ended up being just over an hour long.

He drives the whole time, carrying the two of them through the outskirts of Hawkins on a flurry of not tooold rock anthems. In the dark, even after spending his entire life here, Will can’t really dictate which parts of Hawkins they’ve been traveling through. He wouldn’t care to, anyways— Mike could be whisking them off to Oklahoma, or Albuquerque, even, and he wouldn’t have a lick of say against it. He’s too hyper-focused on what’s happening on the interior of the car— the sweet red glow of the radio, the breezy hum of the cassette playing properly through the sound system. The cassette. The playlist.

Will tells Mike to look at the track list if he’d wanted, but he does no such thing. He doesn’t say a word for the second half of the tracks, and even in the beginning, he only makes a couple one or two worded comments after the passing of Second Skin and Twilight Zone. After the first Journey song, Who’s Crying Now, he goes completely silent. By the time the end of the playlist draws near, Mike has pulled off somewhere— into some parking lot outside of a tidy little downtown pub.

A dangling, neon pink ‘The Double Barrel’ sign dips ever so slightly against the breeze above the double front doors, and from outside, Will can see a couple workers through the marbled glass shifting around and tidying up after a long night. He would never have noticed them if he wasn’t in such a situation, of course, where he wants to focus on anything butwhat’s going on right in front of him.

The silence is so thick Will can feel it, wrapped around his neck like a clenched fist.

In the midst of that silence, that imaginary grip loosens, and Mike clears his throat to speak.

“Will—“ he begins, his voice barely registering as a whisper. The sudden need to interrupt whatever Mike is about to say busts out of Will like one of Ridley Scott’s chestbursters. The use of his first name goes almost completely over his head, he’s so nervous.

“God, you don’t have to say anything,” Will croaks weakly, his head tipped back against the window, staring out across the lot as rain assaults the roof of the car. The sound is distant— Will isn’t sure if that’s just his hearing droning out from the tension seizing hold of his body, or if the rain truly is dying out. Likely the former. “If you think it’s lame—“

“It’s not,” Mike cuts in sharply, fingers still against the leather of the steering wheel cover. When Will forces himself to peer across the console, his heart thumping inside his chest, he thinks he might be dead. Mike’s face is tipped upwards, bathed in a weak amount of light coming from the bar front. His bottom lip is trapped gently between his teeth, like he’s trying to work out some physics math problem completely by memory, and his hair is nearly dry after rinsing out the dye, rich curls starting to surface, falling into his eyes, that little blonde streak drawing Will in like a beacon. When his head lolls to the side ever so slightly, gaze fixing on Will, the light hits his cheeks just right, and Will can see tears dotting the boy’s lashes.

And it’s a weird sensation, the one that rises in Will’s stomach. Because he’s never seen anybody look so beautiful and yet simultaneously, so close to tears.

“It’s— It’s not?” Will responds slowly, feeling suddenly quite a lot like a blood slide under scrutiny. Like Mike’s watching him through a magnifying glass. The boy’s brows knot together, and for a moment, he looks vibrantly confused. Then, he turns his head forward once more.

“Are you kidding?” Mike manages to ask, clearly rhetorically, his tone light and disbelieving as his dark eyed stare drops down towards the dashboard. Will’s eyes never leave his face. “You think anyone’sever made a playlist for me?”

Is there a right answer to that question, Will wonders. He shifts a bit in his seat, face heating up.

“Nobody has?” He asks softly.

“Nope,” Mike responds simply. Will shifts once more, leaning back a bit into the cushioned chair backing.

“Not—“ His voice is a bit ragged, so he clears his throat, face growing even hotter. “Not— Not Jane? Or Max? Or— or—“ He fumbles for a name, but doesn’t come up with one. That proves Mike’s point in itself, in a way. Regardless, Mike’s fingers run along the edge of the steering wheel.

“Nobody’s ever made me one,” he restates fully, eyes fixed on the road before him like it might split and crumble beneath the GTI’s tires if he looks away. He moves a bit in his seat, leaning forward as he pops his buckle out of position and frees his hips. Then, like it was a given but he felt the need to declare it, Mike shakes his head. “Besides— I think even if they gave it a go, they couldn’t have done this.”

Will’s eyes, stuck on the glass outside of the Double Barrelseconds before, flicker over towards Mike. He begs, internally, for that to be a positive statement, because his stomach twists.

“This?” He repeats, bewildered. Mike’s gaze darts over towards Will, and for a moment, he looks absolutely, perpetually stunned. Then, no malice in his tone, he scoffs.

“Yeah, this,” Mike says through what sounds like a gasp of air, sinking back a bit into his seat, his head cushioned against the seat behind him. He looks stressed for a moment, eyes a bit desperate. “This, Byers. This playlist. This—Fuckin’— fuckin’ you.”

You. Whatever that means.

Will’s heart, as steady as it always has ticked, has never felt so ready to just cease it’s beating. Mike isn’t done, of course, but he does look away now, like he can’t stand to make eye contact when he speaks all of a sudden. Will keeps his eyes fixed on Mike’s face, however. He doesn’t know what Mike is about to say, but he knows if he doesn’t look right at him when he says it, he won’t believe it’s true.

“You,” he mumbles at first, tapping a finger against the center of the wheel lightly. “You and all this. Sitting at Honey’s all by yourself in the dead of the evening. Making me a playlist like this. Handling my jokes and fuckin’ throwing them right back at me.” Mike tips his head in the other direction, and Will has to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing a hold of him to draw him back. He’s only tipping his face in either direction, though— like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the words that are coming out of his mouth. “Actually bothering with a birthday gift for me. Giving—“

Will waits. This pause is long, and he thinks it must need to be, because Mike’s bottom lip is trapped between his teeth again. Will begins to wonder if he’s doing this because he’s thinking, or because he wants to keep it from trembling when he speaks. When he finally releases it, he lets out a tiny, cooped up sigh that Will almost doesn’t even hear over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“—Giving me a place to stay when you didn’t have to,” he finishes, words hanging in the air like glitter flakes trapped in the gel of a snowglobe. Will opens his mouth to rebuke that— for many reasons— but Mike isn’t done. His hands work their way into his lap, nervously tapping still. A distraction. “You’re really something, aren’t you?”

You’re supposed to respond to that, Will’s brain shouts. Snapping himself out of his daze, Will’s tongue feels like it’s being weighed down by barbells.

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” Will asks, slowly, his voice barely hovering over a whisper. Mike simply shakes his head, so, so softly.

“No,” he replies, his voice growing tender. Quiet, like he hasn’t really discussed it before. “Nobody I know does that.” Then, he glances across the console, fingers wandering upwards and turning the volume down just a couple notches, so that the music is just below the sound of rainfall. “Nobody but you.”

Will is taking a nice, much needed exhale when Mike meets his gaze. Because he hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding his breath. Words look like meaningless paint strips against the back of his brain. His train of thought is awash with confused musings. Nobody but you. Nobody but you.

“I guess that makes me strange,” is how Will responds. Hardly missing a beat, the corners of Mike’s lips turn upwards into a forgiving little smile.

“You’re the best kind of strange, then,” is how he counters that, settling back into his seat as his eyes hover over Will. Then, sweetly, he reaches into the console and plucks out the cassette case, flipping it over and finally checking the track list, his hooded, dark eyes sleepy and soft. “I love it. I really, really love it. Thank you.”

He is, of course, talking about the playlist. That doesn’t stop Will’s heart from yammering at the thought that he might be talking about Will’sway of being. Then, comes the wondering of why it matters what Mike thinks of him. In an effort to stuff that, Will blurts out a tiny “no problem” and drops his head back gently against the headrest behind him, cloaking the two of them in a silence thicker than paint.

Outside the car— for a moment— feels surreal. Like it doesn’t truly exist; only the projection of it seems to serve as proof that there is something else beyond what’s going on inside the Volkswagen. Rain trickles down the windows at such a rate that it doesn’t seem like it’ll ever slow down. Will is almost sure that it won’t. His eyes, glassy and distant with how deep in his thoughts he’s driven himself, are fixed on the side mirror outside his door, reflecting the stretching parking lot behind him. Mike’s voice is soft when he suddenly speaks up, sounding miles away. It’s his words that act like a hammer to the open face of a glass sheet.

“I’m getting out of here soon, you know,” he begins carefully. Will, of course, doesn’tknow this. Had no idea of this plan whatsoever, though it doesn’t seem so unexpected with the way that Mike seems to act all the time. It still freezes Will’s pulse, or it feels like it does— stuck mid swallow for a moment before he peels his eyes off of the mirror and looks back at Mike like a deer caught in the headlights. Mike doesn’t look at him. Instead, he watches the rain as it splatters against the windshield.

“Don’t know when,” he tacks on, his eyes tearing away from the downpour as he glances down into his lap again. When Will’s eyes follow his, he notices that Mike is fidgeting with a tiny rip in the thigh of his jeans. Pulling at the strings, tearing them loose ever so delicately, like it’s a surgical operation. “Just know that I am. Once I’ve got the money.”

Will doesn’t know why these statements send such a vicious chill through his organs, icing his heart, stomach and all, but they do. He plucks up the energy to respond after a slightly too long silence. “Oh yeah? Sounds like a dream,” he murmurs, eyes drifting aimlessly towards the dashboard as he stares at the buttons, surrounded by a neon glow in the dark. His tongue feels like rubber, the inside of his cheeks feeling like they’ve been stuffed with damp cotton balls. Why is it hard to speak? It does sound like a dream. I want that too, Will tells himself.

So why is it so hard to fucking speak?

From across the console, Mike’s fingers fall flush against his thigh.

“Wanna come with me?” he asks suddenly.

Will thinks, as much as he can manage to think right now, that he might drop right through the metal base of the car, right through the dirt and stone, right down to the center of the earth. He’d be embarrassed by the sudden flush of goose bumps against the back of his neck if he weren’t so focused on what the fuck Mike just said. When he feels like he can speak without choking on his words, he does.

“What?” Will manages to squeak.

“Out of here,” Mike replies, softly but quickly, like he’s thought of this before, many, many times. He tips his head back into the headrest behind him. “Somewhere else. NotHawkins. No more—“ he pauses, only to gesture to the windshield, letting his hand drop back, flush against the steering wheel’s face. “No more rain,” he finishes dreamily. “Maybe even somewhere extrasunny. Like California. Or fuckin’— I don’t know— Arizona. Anywhere.”

Will parts his lips, but they fall shut just as fast as they’ve opened. Mike lets his head loll a bit to the side, sleepy eyes fixing on Will’s. For a moment, they seem like they’re connected by some invisible thread, pulled taut. Then, Mike shrugs, as if what he’s said was as casual as any conversation could be. Will’s chest tightens at that. He doesn’t care to figure out why.

“Come on, loverboy,” Mike utters, blinking a couple times like he’s trying to clear his train of thought. “Whatd’ya say?”

If Will could think about anything else besides that proposition, he’d think about the fact that Mike just called him loverboy. Whether it’s another nickname on the short list he’s got, or whether Mike was just paying thatmuch attention to Will’s playlist— he can’t find the time to think about it.

“Wha—“ He chokes on his words, so he tries again. “— Just, like— just up and leave?”

Mike smiles, that smug little smile.

“Yeah,” he replies thinly. “Why not?”

The scary part isn’t that Mike is asking, or that Will is somehow, deep down, genuinely considering it. The scary part, of course, is that Mike asks Will ‘why not’, and in that moment, he can’t think of a single reason why.

“What about the people who’ll miss you?” Will asks in a tiny voice, trying to do anything but focus on the offer. Mike lets his gaze linger on Will for a moment before he lets his head flop forward again.

“Nobody will,” he responds blandly.

Without thinking, Will lifts his head a touch. “I would,” he shoots back. Mike, from the driver’s seat, blinks a couple times in succession before he looks back in Will’s direction, brows knotted together ever so slightly as he surveys Will’s expression. Like he doesn’t quite believe it. After a moment, he licks his lips.

“Welllll,” he replies slowly, dragging out the word, “that’s why I want you to come with me.”

“I— I don’t—“ Will stutters, quite literally flabbergasted. I don’t what? “That’s not—“

“You don’t have to answer,” Mike rushes, raising a hand and scratching gently at the base of his neck. From over his forearm, he still watches Will, his eyes gleaming with perpetual worry. “I’m just— I’m just throwing It out there. Y’know— I wasn’t even going to tell anyone I was going.”

But he told me, Will thinks. He can’t help but shift in his seat, resting a knee against the dash. Everything feels like it’s trembling, even if nothing is.

“Yeah— let alone, y’know, ask anyone to come with me,” he carries on, fingertips trailing down to his collarbone, tapping some invisible beat. “But—“

Will expects Mike to carry on, because hell, there are so many words that could sit perfectly right at the end of that dropped statement, and Will is rattling through all of them, testing each one out like piano keys. Mike says nothing, though. Like the word hadn’t even left his mouth. But they had— and now it’s stirring up a storm inside Will’s chest.

“But?” Will asks, tries not to demand.

“I think—“ Mike tries, but he pauses. Trying again, he shakes his head. “I think that I’d—“ Nothing. A cut off.

Mike waves his hand. It doesn’t dismiss that curling feeling in Will’s stomach. “Nevermind. No big deal. Think about it. Okay? Just think about it.”

Will doesn’t know what that means. He so desperately wants to. Instead of asking, of course, he just nods. “I’ll think about it.” About leaving. About leaving with you. I’ll think about it, Mike. I will. A lot.

Why did you ask me? Of all people?

“Byers?” Mike suddenly picks up again, his voice distant like he’s a thousand miles out. Will, snapping out of his little though bubble, lifts his head again, the rain narrating his movements like a million tiny drums.

“What?”

Mike has gone still. So still he looks like a statue. When Will opens his mouth to try and catch his attention again, Mike shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. So thinly Will wonders if he really spoke at all.

Sitting up a bit straighter in his seat, Will’s brows narrow.

“What do you think you need to apologize for?” he asks slowly, his tone fully reflecting how confused he feels. He watches, painfully, as Mike’s jaw squares, his chest rising and falling slowly, irregular and in tune to nothing.

“For— I—“ Mike seems to clench his teeth, looking so easily intimidating even though he’s only struggling with his words. He exhales sharply through his nose. “Jesus, I know this is going to sound stupid, but— just let me say it, okay? Nobody ever sticks around. And—“ he pauses to swallow, as brief as a pause can be, “— man, you could easily just say ‘fuck you, Mike’ and leave, and never speak to me again, because I’m sure this whole situation feels out of balance.”

Will hates where this is going.

“Mike—“ he squeaks out, but he’s not done.

“You probably aren’t getting much out of this.”

“Mike,” Will tries again, turning a bit in his seat to look at the boy next to him. Mike won’t look back. He just stares out the front windshield, eyes glassy and nervous.

“No, listen. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that shit earlier this week, and I’m—“ He pauses, a shaky inhale that rips Will up a little bit inside, then— “I’m sorry I forced you to come. I’m sorry you had to be a part of any of this.”

That hurts. That really— really hurts. Will isn’t sure if he wants to explore why, but his chest pulses with a steady hum now, like someone had struck him right in the solar plexus.

“Okay, first of all,” Will begins, trying to keep the anxious shaking out from beneath his voice. He sits forward a bit, leaning in, trying to capture Mike’s gaze. He only pins his eyes to the driver’s side floor, dark eyes hooded and heavy. “You didn’t force me to do anything. If I didn’t want to go— I wouldn’t have gone. Trust me.”

Will waits a moment before he continues, to see if Mike might change his mind and meet his gaze. He doesn’t.

“If I didn’t want to be around you, I wouldn’t be. You get me?” Will asks, his voice tiny, not as tiny as Mike’s was, and patient, unable to be anything less. He gets that pain, now, watching Mike shrink a little bit like this. It aches deep down inside of his stomach, and it speaks for itself. He thinks he’s hurt me. He thinks he’s hurt me.

After a few drawling seconds, Mike tips his head, unsure, before he nods in silence.

“I get you,” he mumbles in return. Will thinks maybe he could stop here. Of course, he didn’t even need to start. Now that he’s cracked open his little glass box of feelings, however— they’re flowing out. He’d like to stop. He doesn’t think he can.

“I—“ Will pauses. The words stick to his throat like tar. Mike turns his head a touch in Will’s direction, like he’s noticed. Clearing his throat, Will continues. “I like being around you. I— I enjoy being around you. I don’t know what this is, but I don’t have to. I’m in it with you. It’s what friends do. They help each other.”

That word drags on Will’s tongue like a freshly sharpened razorblade; friends. The statement is true, but the context— it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right to be saying that.

To be calling Mike his friend.

Mike’s eyes, finally, dart upwards. He lifts his face, staring at Will from his side of the car like he’s just heard something he’d never expected to hear. His lips, chapped, Will notices, open and close once, like he’s lost whatever thought he was about to say. Then, cautiously, Mike swallows.

“You—“ he begins. Will doesn’t want to hear the word leave his lips.

“Yeah,” Will whispers from his seat, leaning back into the cushion, wishing he could fall right through it. “You’re my friend.”

His brain—

His brain says no, you aren’t. I don’t look at my friends like this.

So what, then?

Shifting in his seat, eyes still glued to Will, Mike can’t seem to hold back the little smile that curls on his lips. “Well— you’re my friend, too,” he responds, the words seeming to crawl from his throat as breezy as silk. As easy as anything can be said. The words don’t seem to hurt Mike.

“Mike Wheeler has a friend now,” Will jokes lightly, trying desperately to inch the conversation away from it’s serious demeanor. “Look, you’re already making progress.”

Mike laughs. For the first time in what feels like forever, Mike Wheeler laughs, and it is beautiful, and it shatters every single bad feeling Will has felt in these past few minutes. Will will think about that laugh when he can’t sleep tonight. He’ll think about a lot.

“You’re too nice to me,” Mike responds, his voice shrouded a bit behind the noise outside. Will doesn’t think when he answers back. He doesn’t have to.

“You deserve it,” he says, fingers pulling at the hem of his jacket like he wants to hid himself inside of it. Antsy and restless inside of his own body, his mind swimming and, well, drowningin fact from all of the things Mike has proposed, Will can’t seem to focus on this conversation anymore. All he can think about is driving. Anywhere. Anywhere else but here.

And they could.

“Can we do another loop?” he asks simply.

“Around where?” Mike responds, easy to work with, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel as he peers across at Will. Runaway is playing softly. Will wishes they could. So he leaves it up to Mike.

“Anywhere,” Will mumbles, tipping his head back into the headrest. He barely hears Mike whisper back an ‘of course’, barely notices the car as it backs out of their parking space and cruises off into the dark, blowing through the rain like it poses no obstacle. He doesn’t think about any of it. He’s floating, elsewhere, his brain drifting from him. Because something new is happening, and it’s so beautiful, he thinks he could cry.

For the first time, ever, Will Byers has found someone he doesn’t feel the need to hide from.

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler, where he had before been a once or twice a week occurrence, becomes a daily dose in Will’s life. 

Over the course of the next while, Will learns things about Mike that he hadn’t even thought to ask about. They come in brief little stints— nothing big, nothing major or life changing, but they’re nice things to know. The way that Mike takes his coffee (“Only a little milk,” he’d said, “because it’s better when you get that bitter taste”) and the way that he taps his fingers along to every song on the radio, even if he doesn’t truly know it all that well. The way he crosses his unused foot behind his driving foot when he’s taking them somewhere by car, and the way that his hidden, restrained smiles seem to slip out of him one side at a time— a gentle quirk of the mouth, one side, followed by a full faced grin. Will doesn’t know when he’s started to notice these things. He only knows that he does now— and he probably has been for quite some time.

Lately, it’s starting to seem, to Will, like he can’t get enough of it. These little factoids, bits and pieces of Mike being slotted together like minute details of a puzzle building up into something bigger: Mike Wheeler. Mike Wheeler with his beat up car and hands like cool marble and his refreshing, lavender-ey laundry soap smell. Mike Wheeler and his big sweaters with obscene and gaudy prints on them, smiley faces and cross stitched flowers (did he do that?) and tight little fonts and slogans— Class of 65, God Loves You, My Eyes Are Up There (yes, they are, and they’re enchanting). Mike Wheeler and his arcade job and his cheeky little smile and the way he looks at Will like the sun shines out of his ass, though Will doesn’t see it that way, because Mike Wheeler can’t look at Will Byers like that, no. Mike Wheeler, the puzzle, being put together.

Will has started looking at Mike like a challenge. A fun one. One that he’s willing to take. Whatever that means, he doesn’t really know. He doesn’t even really acknowledge it.

Mike, unknowingly, or maybe completely knowingly, has started to unfurl like a blossoming flower— like one of the beauties rooted inside the planters outside the downtown shops in the midst of the late spring. His moods, his energy— a slow leveling, a reveal like the drawing back of a red curtain atop a theatre stage. Mike, flipped open, pages bared— Will reading them like a dedicated student, studying every word like he could be tested at any moment. He can tell when Mike’s having a rough day, a good day— even when he hasn’t been sleeping well. Of course, anyone can read that if they spent enough time with someone else. One day, Will does address it— but drawing back into his shell like a turtle, Mike doesn’t give Will much to go on.

“You look tired,” Will comments softly as he climbs into the car that day, watching as Mike clucks his tongue and side eyes him. He holds out the small red and blue streaked Styrofoam cup like it’s a blessed offering, almost drowning in the thick red sweater he’s got on. From his spot in the passenger’s seat, Will can see the rippled appearance of an upside down smiley face decal on the front Mike’s top.

“I am tired,” he replies almost eagerly, a teensy little smile gracing his lips as Will takes the cup from his hands, immediately pulling a sip of the still warm liquid inside. It’s not too hot, even for hot chocolate— but Will doesn’t drink it that way anyways, not scalding. Drawing his knees in a bit, Will lets out a dreamy, pleased sigh, the taste of refined sugar and cocoa and something else fragrant dancing across his tongue.

“Sugar,” Will hums contentedly, coaxing a light, airy laugh from Mike as the car cruises easily down Cornwallis, heading in towards the outskirts of downtown Hawkins, towards the school.

“Sugar indeed,” Mike assures him, fingers drumming along to the radio against the rim of the steering wheel. “Thought you’d enjoy it. Mind if I take the long way?”

Will’s instant reaction is to say no, not at all, not ever, drive us around the state’s border if you feel like it. Still, his eyes dart towards the clock, wincing at the time, knowing he’s damn well going to be late but not really caring, “— Sure. Since somehow, you managed to get me a killer hot chocolate at 7:49 in the morning rush.”

“I have my ways,” Mike coos in response, rehearsed, definitely a tease even if Will wouldn’t be shocked if he was serious. He tips his head this way and that for a moment before settling, turning the corner at the end of the lane. “The baristas downtown just really like me.”

The baristas like you,Will metaphorically runs a tongue over that thought. It doesn’t stun him at all. Who’d have known? Who wouldn’t like you?

“Flash ‘em a nice smile and they don’t mind taking an extra few minutes to start up the machine,” Mike explains limply, his voice dim and sing-songey like he’s trying to sound less tired than he is.He’s joking— for some reason, he must think he needs to clarify. Because he eases into the scoop of the road, one hand on the wheel and the other fumbling in his pocket for something, the jingle of change, patting whatever he was looking for reassuringly, then surrendering his free hand to his mid thigh. “Kidding. It was already on, somebody else had the same idea. Don’t— hey, what?“

Mike is— Mike is looking at Will. Will, oddly enough, hadn’t noticed. He’s been too enamored with the taste, so rich, padded against his tastebuds with a dull hint of— of—

“Is there cinnamon in this?” Will asks, his lips cherry red from the swelling heat of his drink as his mouth hovers over the opening. From above the cup’s lid, Will tips his chin back, peering across the console at Mike. He’s got a tiny, twisting, almost embarrassed smile on his face.

“Might be,” he says, and then, a frigid pause, where his almond eyes, burnt chocolate irises widen into a doe-eyed fright, and he shoots a look back at Will, the car slowing a touch. “You’re not allergic, are you—?!”

Will, lips opening and closing like a fish flopping on a dock, shakes his head vigorously. “N-No, not allergic, but—“

There’s only one place that Will has ever found in Hawkins that puts cinnamon in their hot chocolates by recipe. Mike’s eyes, still faintly concerned, or maybe stunned, drift back towards the road, trapping his lip lightly between his teeth.

“Did you—“

“Yeah, they were fuckin’ busy,” Mike assures Will, tapping his index finger against the wheel cover, hissing a complaint under his breath when the fellow driving in front of them stops too quickly, making Mike tap the breaks. It throws neither of them much, regardless. Will is eyeing him, still like a woodland creature on high alert. “Line out the door. I got up a little early to go, I usually do.”

I usually do, he says.

“All the way to Honey’s,” Will replies out loud, like he can’t quite wrap his brain around it, “and back out here to get me?”

“Mhm,” Mike hums soothingly, his tone chipper and already high off coffee, the one he’d likely been plucking away at on the drive down towards Will’s. In the wake of his surprise, that refreshing taste puckers against Will’s tongue, drips down into his soul, awakens that little bit of him with a sultry good morninghiss. He’s almost too distracted to listen to Mike— almost. “You ought to be glad I like you so much. Who brings screaming children to a café at seven in the morning?”

The cup slips a centimeter down in Will’s grasp, and he does his best not to let his hand fly up to catch something that isn’t falling, cradling the little Styrofoam container between his two palms as he lets that statement soak into him. Instead of responding, Will forces his eyes down, across, like playing some sort of emotional board game. His eyes settle on Mike, his dark jeans, the shape of a lighter outlined against the inside of his pocket, a thin little slit stretching across one pale thigh, exposing the skin there ever so subtly. Cheeky.

He’s wearing a shirt that Will hasn’t seen before— it looks quite nice on him, in fact. But it springs forth that question that Will had been dwelling on. He eases into it like he’s slipping into a still scalding hot bath.

“Did you get things sorted out with your parents?” Will asks, so out of the blue that he’s not even sure if he consciously decided that he would speak it out loud. His voice is low anyways— but not low enough for Mike to mistake it for the rumble of the car. They’re getting close now— stopping at a light, the car cruising to a delicate stop— but close enough to the school grounds that maybe Mike willpretend that he hadn’t heard it.

He taps his thumb roughly against the side of the wheel, sinking back a bit. When Will finally peeks across at him, Mike has a peculiar smile on his face, like he doesn’t quite know how to answer that.

“A-Ah—“ Mike begins, a dry little laugh slipping from him. He watches the light like the two are performing in a staring contest. “Not— not really.”

There is a brief pause where Mike doesn’t say a word, and only the sound of the engine accompanies them in their quiet, skipping a beat like a heart might. Then, he adds: “I mean, truthfully, I don’t think it’s gonna get sorted out.”

There is a sadness in Mike’s voice that is so much more telling than his words are. Where he expresses a passive energy— his tone is wounded. Like it’s something he’d like to fix. Or maybe, like it’s something he wishes he didn’t have to deal with in the first place. Trying to ease Mike out of it, Will shakes his head, eyes trained on the car before them as they begin moving forward again.

“So you’ve just been buying new outfits to wear every day, then?”

It’s a joke. It’s really,really supposed to be a joke. But the way Mike shifts in his seat— glances out the side window and then back out through the windshield— it’s completely avoidant. Will feels a bit sour from it, the taste of the words heavy on his tongue.

Mike clears his throat, softly. “H-Hah— well, no,” he assures Will, though assurance wasn’t really needed. One hand flitters away from the steering wheel, dusting a few stray hairs out of his face, that blonde streak as bold and brazen as ever. “See, I told you the ‘rents are kinda— what’s the word—“

Mike snaps his fingers, trying to form the adjective, and though he hadn’t realized he was in a sort of road trance, Will is yanked out of it anyways.

“Socialites?” he offers weakly, watching as Mike throws a hand up slightly from the wheel and lets it thump back down against the leather.

“Socialites! Yes,” he replies briskly, thumbing the wheel. “Smartie-pants. Yes. Thank you. Regardless— they aren’t home very often.” He cranes his head a bit, trying to peer around an upcoming corner, before settling back down. Will, peering out across the hood, can see the school lawn coming up. Suddenly, he’d rather choke than sit in a rigid, traffic cone orange desk chair for the next six and a half hours.

Mike carries on. “Nance came and got me from work the other day. Last week. Brought me back to the house and told me about their future plans, if you catch what I’m saying. So—”

Will gets him, sure. It’s just that Nancy’s name makes his skin crawl.

“I see what you’re saying,” Will replies as the GTI cruises up into the parking lot, filing in behind a slate grey Lexus on it’s way. They’re hardly pushing 10 mph now— Will feels like everything is moving in slow motion, except him. He’d so much rather be home. He’s so much rather be doing something else. Hanging out with Mike. Sleeping. Digging himself a grave. Anything.

While he’s glad that Mike has some semblance of a consistent place to stay, Will still wonders if he goes to sleep, scared that his parents will come home early. That thought rips through him like an unguarded chainsaw blade.

“You know you’re welcome to stay over,” Will blurts suddenly, his voice draining and dropping as he goes, because Mike is peeking over at him, eyes sleepy and docile in their curiosity. Will’s mouth works faster than his brain does— and his brain works on overdrive constantly. “You know. A couple nights— or something. If you need it.”

Mike’s eyes should be on the parking lot before him, even if they are stopped. Instead, he tips his chin up, like he’s trying to glance into the mirror, before he peers across at Will, squinting a little bit as though his eyes are speaking for themselves. You’re never going to stop being nice, are you, they ask.

The answer to that unspoken question is no. Definitely not.

“As much as I do like our little sleepovers,” Mike hums, eyes drifting back out towards the road and trailing over the trunk of the car before them as it begins to crawl sluggishly forward again, “I don’t want to intrude on you like that. It’s all cool.”

Will doesn’t have the heart to tell Mike that he’d love to have him over again. Instead, he merely repeats after the boy, like a parrot might. “All cool.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will catches Mike smiling at that.

The parking lot is crowded, as it always is— seniors driving in from just a few blocks away just to take up much needed spaces. Will had never really cared about being late, even if he is really riding the line right now. Mike does seem to care either, drawing up towards the drop off section of the school’s drive in and pulling to the side, slowing to a stop. Will aims to ask what he’s doing, why he doesn’t just tuck the little mobile into a parking spot so they can walk in together. But Mike fills that in for him without a demand, like tracing out the thematic constellation-esque points in a Connect the Dots book.

“You go on in,” he tells Will, gazes meeting, the hustle and bustle of students shuffling lazily towards the front doors, the fuzzy hum of the radio. Will drops his stare just as Mike locks his own onto the boy in front of him. It’s too quiet even with the tender ambience of flopped rock n’ roll one hits narrating them. Mike fumbles with his pocket before finally peeling his eyes away, digging out his lighter, the object he’d been patting for before hand. “I’ve got to park. Quick smoke.”

A goodbye feels awkward here. See you inside? Unlikely. Will hasn’t seen Mike in any of his classes, let alone the breaks in between them for as long as he can remember, and he doubts that’s about to start now. Then again, it might. Will seems to be glancing everywhere for Mike nowadays, even if he isn’t 100% aware of it.

“Sure.” The silence where Will is drenched in this only lasts for maybe three seconds. Enough time for Mike to snatch a half empty pack out of his console and let his eyes fall upon Will again as he pries out a polished and somewhat crinkled cigarette.

Will is wrapping his fingers around the door handle when Mike leans back, pushing harder on the brake, fingers fanning over his coffee cup, and asks: “What’re you doing after school?”

There isn’t a dodge-able answer for Will to give. Nipping at his tongue, Will peeks back at Mike, resting his cup against his knee.

“I’ve got a four to eight at work,” Will responds gravely. Like he’d rather dig himself a hole and lay in it than spend four hours behind a counter. Mike’s eyes trail back into his lap for a moment, processing that like a computer. A smile quirks at the corner of his lips and Will, not meaning to, stares hard.

“Think you can squeeze me in from eight to nine?” Mike asks, fitting the filter of the smoke between his subtly wind-chapped lips. Still staring. Compelling but worrying.

“Depends,” Will responds trickily, taking note of the way Mike’s eyebrow flickers upwards, lively look on his face, lifting his hands to light his cigarette but stilling.

“Do you mind if I light this in here?”

“Do what you want,” Will tells him easily, no hatred or discontent ringing in his tone. Still, Mike’s hands hover, watching, until Will rephrases his given consent. “No, I don’t mind.”

Mike, sheepish smile playing on his lips in responds, dips down a bit to light the cigarette, a crisp little sch of the lighter, bending away from a non-existent breeze out of instinct. When Mike doesn’t elaborate, Will shifts a bit in his seat, leaning his elbows into his knees, cup tight in one hand.

“What’s going on tonight?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“Eight,” Will repeats softly, Mike’s gaze darting towards him, curious for only a fraction of a second before he understands his lack of explanation. Eyes still fixed on Will, Mike shrugs, shoulders up to his ears. Will bites down on his tongue to keep himself from popping a large grin.

“You get hungry after work, don’t you?” he asks quizzically. Will wants to roll his eyes, to curb the smile that seems to curl against the corners of his lips. He just can’t.

Rather suddenly, with a confidence Will has never know, he responds: “What, like a date?”

The comment does what it’s supposed to do, even if Will was being mostly serious: it makes Mike laugh, a twinkling little laugh, one that destroys every last bit of oxygen in the car. Will’s heart drifts off with it.

“If you want it to be,” Mike replies, eyes almost pearlescent in the way they seem to gleam with compassion. Will, who can’t bear to look any longer, lets his gaze narrow on something insignificant outside, a patch of grass, slowly re-growing wild pansies. Breath hitching in his throat a bit. Will, deflecting, shrugs his shoulders limply, mirroring Mike.

“Who says I wanna go on a date with you?”

Another laugh. This one sounds chalky— a touch forced. From out of his peripheral, Will catches Mike turning his gaze forward again.

“You wound me, Byers,” Mike croons, hand falling flush against his sweater, where his heart is supposed to be, as he leans a bit closer to Will’s side of the car. Will, in response, scoffs, pops open the door handle, and Mike’s attention snaps to him like a rubber band.

“See you inside, Mike.”

“No, hey—“ Mike urges, his voice airy and light, easy going, the way he always sounds— like nothing stresses him out. Then, when Will halts (a little bit too quickly), allowing a redemption period— Mike’s smirk surfaces. “— You wouldn’t want to go on a date with me? Really?”

Will does climb out of the car this time, fully, and he’s glad he’s got some sort of joking demeanor on, this whole little thing a game, something for show— because he doesn’t know how to answer Mike, honestly, and tell him that he would in a heartbeat. One hundred percent he would.

“Asshole,” Will comments meaninglessly, a shaky laugh slipping from him as he steps up off the curb and onto the walkway. He only gets a couple steps forward before he hears Mike pipe up from behind him.

“I’ll come get you after work, alright?” Mike calls out softly over the console, craning a bit so he’s closer to the window, the car creeping forward a couple steps to catch up. Somebody in line beeps, and Will thinks maybe he ought to be embarrassed, but he isn’t. From his spot on the sidewalk, streams of students passing by him with little to no criticism of his lack of movement, Will only nods. Softly. Enough to coax a winning smile out of Mike, teeth and all. Gold medal for you, Mr. Wheeler. Gold Medal for your Heart-Stealing Smile.

“Sure, yeah,” is all Will can manage to reply with. Mike nods once.

“Which, of course, would be at—?” he alludes.

Will, smile slipping through his attempt to hide it, shrugs. In return, like they’re playing a mirroring game, Mike shrugs back.

“The Video Buff,” Will replies, almost embarrassed for a moment, before he shifts his weight. “The rental store on Greenwood.” A job that his brother had gotten him, no less. Not highly paying, barely minimum wage— but Will knows how to save, lining a tin can on his dresser back home which had once housed coloured pencils with a plentiful amount of bills.

Mike smiles at that— warmly, amused. Will doesn’t know why.

“The Video Buff,” he repeats, and nods a second time, followed by another quirk of the lips. “See you there then, Byers. Go learn some stuff.”

“See you after work,” Will responds, and as the car drifts outwards towards the other end of the parking lot, clear parking spots in the distance as Mike parts him with a smile, Will steps out onto the dewy morning grass and disappears into the school, knowing, with much enthusiasm based on his rapidly beating heart, that he has a date.

-

“Impulsive,” Lucas finally speaks up, his elbows driven into his desk as his two best friends lean into it from either side. The classroom is almost dead silent in the midst of a study period. Too quiet to be making sensible conversation. “That’s the word I was looking for.”

In the wake of describing Mike Wheeler, the word impulsive shines like a lighthouse, a welcome beacon to latch onto. There’s no more than fifteen minutes left to their Friday afternoon math period, but Lucas and Dustin have somehow managed to wiggle Will’s second life into the equation. Of course, they don’t know everything that they’re potentially dredging up— they only know bits and pieces, detached chunks about Will’s little ‘friend’ and how the two of them have been hanging out more often lately. The word boyfriend— it hasn’t come up once. And it won’t, because the last thing Will needs right now is more outing. Still— Mike hovers over the conversation topic like a plague. And when Will is weaseled into talking about the events of the week before and the surprise midnight visit from Mike, Lucas finally pinpoints it.

Drawing faint lines into the empty back of his worksheet with his eraser, Will’s tongue prods the roof of his mouth uneasily. “Impulsive sounds about right,” he replies plainly, itching to get out of his chair and drift away from the conversation. There is no space for him to escape, and there’s almost no point. Even if these next fifteen minutes are going to feel like they’ve been stretched out to double their size.

“He just randomly showed up? Just out of the blue?” Dustin questions from across the length of the table, not for the first time. Will has to curb the urge to bite something impatient back in return, and he manages to keep his tongue in check, draping the pads of his fingertips against the side of his neck. The skin there is flush, hot like it’s just been slapped. Calm down. Take a breath. It’s not that big of a deal. Just say yes. Say yes.

But it does feel like that big of a deal. Why?

“Yeah, basically,” Will replies, his voice as quiet and stony as a face off Mount Rushmore. Dustin snorts softly in reply, catching a bleak little look from their professor over the desk lamp partially blocking a direct line of sight between them. When Dustin notices, he feigns a tight, wide little smile, then drops his head a bit, eyes widening in displeasure.

“You’d kick my ass if Idid that,” Dustin admits in an even smaller voice as he cranes his neck a little bit closer to the center of Lucas’ desk, eyes hooded and curious like he’s waiting for an answer from Will. Will, however, doesn’t quite know what to say. He thinks at first maybe he should answer as honestly as he can. No, Dustin, I’d let you in because I’m not an asshole. But I’d like to kick your ass a little bit right now. His body thinks maybe a shrug is suitable, but he can’t seem to force that either. His only response is represented in the furrowing of his brows.

“Of course he would,” Lucas mumbles in that silence, the only one still peering down actively into his worksheet. The tip of his pencil’s eraser rests against his chin, tapping delicately. He’s deep in though, but he’s still very much paying attention. “So would I. So would anyone.”

“Is there an issue back there, boys?”

Will’s posture bristles like a nervous puppy’s might. When he peeks across the room, he can see Mr. Daniels, hair combed to the side and steely grey eyes fixed on the three of them, unimpressed. Lucas, for the first time since the beginning of their hushed little conversation, raises his head like a deer caught in the headlights.

“No, sir,” he replies smoothly, catching drifting bits of attention from a couple other students before they return to their work. “Just discussing the formula, that’s all.”

Daniels’ gaze lasts only another second, before he clucks his tongue and drops his head back down to the face of the papers he is in the midst of grading. Lucas, from beneath the table, digs a quick kick into Dustin’s ankle, almost harmless but still receiving an impatient little hiss in return.

“Bite me, Sinclair,” Dustin grumbles like a shunned child, sitting back in his seat with a huff and crossing his arms eagerly over his chest.

“Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” Will speaks up delicately, stooping his head down a bit, his voice barely breaching a whisper. He tips the side of his face into his left palm, eyes hooded and sleepy as he doodles aimlessly against the corner of his page. “He just wanted to hang out.”

Wanna come with me?

Just up and leave?

Dustin is leaning a bit into the table now, head dropped like that might keep his voice from being heard by the professor again. He’s looking at Will like he expects something more, like that little statement wasn’t enough. When Will shoots a questioning gaze towards Lucas, the boy doesn’t even seem like he’s paying attention any longer. He’s scrawling a couple numbers into their designated spaces on the page. He’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Are you sure?” Dustin asks slyly, catching Will’s attention again like he’d cracked the boy with a whip. The surprise that crosses Will’s face— it makes Dustin cock a brow out of curiosity.

“I don’t even know what you mean,” Will insists, and it’s the honest truth. He tries, so desperately, to sound like he’s not being defensive. It’s hard to do that when you’re practically speaking through your teeth, though. From beside the two of them, Lucas turns over his pencil, tapping the eraser against the page as his eyes roam the questions.

“I don’t know, man,” he says finally, poking a little comment into the conversation as Dustin slumps into his seat, pushing a few stray honey brown curls out of his face as he checks the wall clock impatiently. Lucas carries on, peering across at Will with a subtly squinting little stare. Will feels like a test subject being monitored for abnormalities. Squaring his shoulders, Lucas shrugs. “It just seems— you know—“

Lucas makes some sort of gesture— a tip of the head, a quirk of the lips, like he knows what to say in place of charades but he doesn’t really feel like saying it. Or maybe he knows that he ought not to say it. Will doesn’t quite get it, whatever his mute reasoning. Then again, he’s not really sure if he wants to get it, because Lucas is rather eloquent in the way that he speaks. He only talks when he knows he means what he’s saying. And if he won’t finish his sentence—

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Will asks anyways, driving his elbow a bit further into the polished surface of the desk. Lucas, all focus and attention to his work, lets his gaze flicker towards Will in what almost comes across as a warning. Like he’d been ready to do so, Dustin speaks up from before Will, his voice distant like the words flowing from him are second nature.

“Queer,” Dustin says in an almost authoritative voice, eyes drifting shut as he shrugs the word off of his shoulders like a coat. “It’s a little queerof him, that’s all.”

Will does his best not to stiffen at the sound of that ugly use of the word, but even then, his fingers, which had previously been resting limp against his sleeve, dig into the fleshy part of his arm. From beside him, Lucas lifts his head, eyes reprimanding and uneasy.

“Dustin,” he bites back. Dustin straightens in his seat, lifting his hands up in some half-assed surrender. Will knows Lucas isn’t speaking for him— hell, who ishe speaking for? Regardless, it sure looks like it— Will turning a bit into himself as his eyes, glassy and distant, trace one of the equations on his page. The first time he’s given the question an actual glance, even if he doesn’t mean it, since the class had begun an hour before.

“Wha— no, hey, look,” Dustin begins quickly, shuffling through a few tones before he settles on slightly stand-offish. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. All I’m saying is he suresounds like he likes you, and not in the buddy-buddy sort of way.”

Just say in a gay way,Will wants to say, his tongue pressing hard against his teeth. Even then, that feels off. Because Mike doesn’t like him that way. No, he doesn’t.

Lucas sets his pencil down gently against a shady little indent in his desktop. “Do you know how to shut up?” Lucas asks in such a genuine tone of curiosity that Will actually cracks a smile, even through his miniscule little heart break. Dustin remains ever defensive.

“Get off my back,” he grumbles childishly, slinking back into his seat a bit further.

“Do you, though?” Lucas asks, and though Will can tell he’s joking, the displeasure in his voice is as present as it has ever been. Dustin’s gaze darts over towards him, disbelieving.

“Are you actually mad about this?” he demands, his lips parting in surprise when words cease to flow from him. He scoffs— a blade to Will’s neck— and shrugs, tipping his head in the other direction like he hadn’t done anything wrong. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I wouldn’tmean it in a bad way. All I’m saying is this dude seems a little—“

Will won’t hear that finished. He refuses.

“Dustin,” Will blurts, his voice rising a single octave too high, fingers tight to his arm, “just for once, shut up.”

That snaps Dustin out of it. Mostly because he’s a little bit too loud.

“You three,” Daniels suddenly barks across his desk, catching the attention of a few other students as he peers unimpressed towards the three boys. The three of them look like they’ve been caught red handed, black gloved and masked in the middle of a bank vault. “Split it up. Now.”

Will, peering across the aisle and catching the sharp, disgruntled look from his teacher, feels like a bug crushed with a swatter. Tongue pressed hard against his teeth, Will scrapes his chair back gently, no hesitance, hardly able to even feign embarrassment as he scoots as quietly as he can back to the table next door to his friends. He’d caught Dustin’s look of startled bewilderment, mouth agape, in the split second before he’d shifted away obediently, but he doesn’t really care to think about it.

Lucas was right. Dustin doesn’tknow how to shut up.

From behind him, Will can hear Lucas, or maybe Dustin, shifting away from the desk and scooting down to a different spot. Yes, Dustin— because Will can hear him grumbling something unhappy sounding under his breath, a chide in direction of the teacher for being so uptight, most likely. Will doesn’t look back— but he can still see that look on Dustin’s face against the backs of his eyelids. The shock, the surprise of Will snapping back like that. It’s not uncalled for— the bite back or the reaction. The shock is warranted. Will doesn’t talk like that— not unless he feels like he has to. Then begs the question, of course: why did he feel like he had to?

He doesn’t know why the speculation of Mike’s sexuality makes him so riled up— hell, he knows himself that Mike isn’t straight. The way Dustin had been talking about him— not inherently harmful, no, but not the most kind way to make a suggestion or two— set Will’s teeth on edge. The whole conversation had felt like it was painting a target right on Will’s back, and hell, it wasn’t even about him. He wonders, setting his book and papers back down on the tabletop before him, if maybe he’d just gotten upset because he can’t really talkabout that stuff without feeling like a witch during a witch hunt. Like he could be exposed anytime, curtain drawn, Will, sitting center stage with the word gaypainted on his forehead in Crayola markers. Of course, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense either. Because in no way had Dustin suggested that he was gay— never even brought his own feelings about how Mike is ‘coming off’ into the equation.

So maybe it’s not the discussion. Maybe it’s just Mike that he’s defensive about.

Will, pencil grinded down to a nub and dried up pen for arsenal, stares into his worksheet for the last few minutes of class like he’s got no idea what to do with himself. Because he doesn’t.

-

“What’re you doing after school?”

The anger inside Will’s chest, though it had been gnawing away at him hardcore for a few minutes, doesn’t last long— just before the bell rings, Will has cooled down, his frustration dwindling from a steady torrent, or a burst dam to an IV-like drip. He’s not happy with the conversation they had, no, how could he be— talking with his friends about Mike never seems to go as smoothly as he’d like it to. But he doesn’t hold onto that grudge. And by the time the bell’s chimes have reverberated through the school walls and the students begin filing out of the classroom towards lunch period, Will is feeling better about himself and his reactions. Dustin, of course, doesn’t hold onto anything ever— he’s approaching Will and Lucas again before the two of them are even up out of their seats.

“Taking a nap, but,” Lucas replies to Dustin steadily, bringing his bag up into his seat to unzip, “that’s about it.”

Will, back to the two, listens, but doesn’t respond. He thinks maybe Dustin isn’t talking to him, or maybe he can act like he isn’t talking to him. Maybe he can pretend he hadn’t heard, even though he does have an excuse.

“Will?”

God dammit.

Twisting to the side a bit to look back, feigning surprise, Will raises his eyebrows. “Hm?”

“What’re you doing after classes?” Dustin poses the question again, book bag up on the table as he closes up his work, or lack there-of, for the day. The look in his eyes is passive— like an omega bending down in the presence of an alpha. Will feels a twinge of guilt for a moment, but drives it down into his stomach, knowing that Dustin will be fully over their little tiff by the time the day has ended.

“I’ve got work,” Will replies eagerly, glad to skirt around whatever plan Dustin’s got up his sleeve. It’s not that he doesn’t like spending time with his friends— rather, he enjoys it quite a lot. But something in their earlier conversation has left a bad taste in his mouth, and he can’t quite seem to get it out.

“Till when?”

Oh, lovely. See, he could easily just lie. He’s done it before, harmless. But the way Dustin is looking at him, like a child begging for a new toy— it softens him up. Shifting his weight a bit from one foot to the other, Will hums and haws for a moment as though he doesn’t already know the answer.

“From four until eight,” he replies, shaking his head slightly, because he sees Dustin’s brows raising, eyes glimmering like a crystalline vase struck by sunlight. “But I’m busy after.”

Dustin’s whole aura deflateslike a balloon. Frowning a bit, he pauses, shutting the cover of his school book with a gentle whoosh of air. “At eight o’clock at night?”

“Yes,” Will replies, avoiding eye contact, packing. When Dustin doesn’t answer again, Will does peek over, only to find, to his dismay, that Dustin is staring at him with a somewhat knowing look on his face. Will can feel a blush creeping up his neck, so he does what anyone might do in such a situation. He panics.

“What’s it matter?” Will rushes quickly, eyes a bit too wide to be casual, voice a half an octave too high. Dustin’s no sleuth, but he catches it. If this were a video game, Will has died— used up his last life, Game Over flashing in red, pixelated font across the screen, locking him out.

“You’re busy with Wheeler, aren’t you!” Dustin pesters, resting a hand, fingers fanned out, on top of his text book like he wants to linger inside the classroom. It takes a good bit of self restraint for Will not to immediately bark back something cutting.

“Again, what’s it matter?” he exhales sharply, driving his papers into a random section of his schoolbook as he slides the contents of that classes work into his knapsack. Dustin shrugs sharply, and when Will glances up at him, his lips are slightly parted in shock.

“What?” Will asks, eyes rounded and questioning, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Dustin’s lips quirk ever so slightly.

“Dustin, seriously, will you move itso we can leave?” Lucas interjects peacefully, something in his voice a little bit impatient. But Dustin glances in his direction and completely sweeps over his request, raising his hands up as though he’s got a gun to his chest, dead center of the bull’s-eye decal on his tee.

“I didn’t say a word! God—“ Dustin jabs, letting out a disbelieving chuckle as he zips up his knapsack. From out of the corner of his eye, Will can see Lucas glancing in his direction, like a check up. It makes Will bite down on his tongue. “You two are sensitive today. Who shit in your cornflakes?”

“Bite me,” Lucas comments for the both of them, wrestling with his straps for a moment before he finally manages to get them settled on his shoulders. Will, during this, doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t quite know what to say, and if he tries to just jut in, well— he’s going to end up being mean. Trickling after Dustin and Lucas, like elephants walking in a straight row, Will drowns a bit in his thoughts, straying back only a touch as they shimmy out of the rows of desks.

“I was just going to see if you wanted to come over to my place,” Dustin says in an overdramatic ruse, shrugging his shoulders in a mocking, melancholic gesture as he lets out an exasperated sigh. “But if you’re sleeping, and you’re out with your boyfriend—“

Will, loose tongue, unable to hold it— why does it make him so frustrated— snips again. “Dustin— fuck off.”

“Right, right!” the boy barks back quickly, backing down, raising his hands once more and waving this time, as though he’s trying to mimedon’t shoot.“Just teasing. Just teasing.” Dustin rounds the end of the desks, sparing a feigned wave to a grumpy looking Mr. Daniels as he steps out towards the open classroom door. From his spot directly in the middle of the two, Lucas glances back at Will, obvious this time, his eyes poignant and questioning. The unspoken question of are you alright? lingering in the air between them. Without saying a word, Will nods. Fine. It’s all fine. He’s just messing with me. I know that.

So why is it keeping my teeth on edge?

Will would like to know the answer to that question, but before he can even try to wrestle one out of his deeply tangled train of thought, he’s walked straight into a suddenly stopped Lucas, like walking face first into a brick wall.

“What the fuck?” he can hear the boy in front of him speaking, genuine surprise in his tone as Will takes a step back and peers over Lucas’ shoulder. From his position behind Dustin and him, Will can see a rather extensive crowd gathered outside of the classroom, backs to the boys as they seem to ogle as something on the off-white painted surface of the hallway’s sides. Confused, his face a wash of baffled unease, Dustin glances back at the two of his friends, shrugging his shoulders once more, only this time, he means it.

“What’s up?” Will questions, not liking the nervous feeling crowding inside of his stomach.

Dustin only shrugs, perplexed.

“What is it, like, spirit day posters or something?” Will offers, trying to coax some sort of explanation out of Dustin. He gets zilch.

“Don’t know,” Dustin replies weakly, honestly. “Can’t see.”

“Just shove through, I’m fuckin’ starving,” Lucas groans softly, to which Dustin obeys, stepping further out and elbowing, gently to his credit, through a few students in front of him, packed into each other like sardines. Will follows his two friends through the consistent gathering of teenagers, catching a few startled looks from passersby that he isn’t quite fond of. Their eyes, a mix of what appears to be something condescending and something stunned, maybe a little piteous— they burn holes into Will, making him flinch without a lick of contact. Do I have something on my face? What’s up?

They almost break through towards the wall when Dustin suddenly stops again, sharp as a tack, a slam on his breaks. Lucas, a thin, unhappy curse slipping through under his breath, punches Dustin lightly in the upper arm.

“Come on, what’re you stopping for?” he demands, his voice growing snippy, but before he can add anything else, he stills as well, the two of them looking like they’d just made bedroom eyes with a gorgon. Will, already a touch nervous, now feels his body, every inch of his skin, shimmering with unease, seeping into him, sticking to him like wet concrete.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, what’s causing a ruckus. But he doesn’t think he wants to, anyways.

“What?” he demands. When Lucas glances back at him, a bit pallid and stunned looking, Will feels chills trickle down his back like a ghostly fleet of freshly hatched spiders. Again, he asks, more frantic this time: “What? What is it?”

“Will— you’re—“ Dustin seems to squeak from before the two, stone cold. He teeters to the side and twists back around to look at Will as the boy steps up past him, next to him, shifting by a couple chuckling young women as he breaches the surface of the group like breaking through a glass wall. Will thinks, at first, that maybe Dustin’s going to tell him to take a look at the bullshit that’s wasting their lunch period when they could be taming their softly rumbling stomachs. But when he sees what’s in front of him— what everyone is staring at, what several collective groups seem to be ogling at in different sections of the hallway, because there is more than one, definitely more than just this one— he thinks maybe Dustin was going to tell him not to look.

And he wishes he hadn’t.

Dustin’s voice holds the same power that Martin Brody’s did in Jaws, dead in tone and heavy worded— only this time, there aren’t any marine killing machines. No boats to be had. A sea, yes, a sea of students still counts. The chatter that echoes between the teenagers, boxing Will in like an impenetrable, exit-less void; it’s louder than the rush of deep ocean waves, pummeling the boy into smithereens, knocking him off of his perch and filling his lungs with water. In place of the goliath shark, no teeth gnashing, no blood and fins and scaly, sharp skinned surfaces lining torn gills— there are posters. Violent shades of pink, yellow, orange— like the carpeted patterns at the arcade. Posters. Will’s face, docile, grinning ear to ear for some pathetic yearbook photo— plastered on this one, and likely all of them too. Posters. Posters.

Posters everywhere.

Chapter Text

This must be a nightmare.

That’s what Will tells himself, though it doesn’t seem to be helping much of anything, really. He can try to downplay it all he wants, call it a bad dream, a hallucination, whatever he can muster— but all in all, it’s happening. This whole thing— this whole thing is real, and it’s right in front of his face, his face, plastered on countless fluorescent poster after poster, stretching down the hallway, strung up every few metres as if the person who had created them wanted to send a message— you won’t want to miss this, folks!

Will wishes he could miss this. He wishes, as he stands before the first poster he’s seen, face as white as a sheet of paper, practically holding his breath— he wishes he could fall right through to the center of the earth and never return to the surface.

Will doesn’t read what it says— or maybe he does read it, in a way, subconsciously, but his mind just blocks it outbecause he knows, oh, he knows it’s going to hurt him. He can feel a dozen sets of eyes on him, burning holes right through his skin, sucking the life force right out of him against his will. Instead of dwindling any longer like an idiot, Will tries to loosen up his fingers which, he hadn’t noticed until now, are shaking so hard he thinks he might drop a pencil if he tried to pick it up. Posters. Fucking posters.

Who put these up?

Will’s mind is going full steam ahead, so erratic in his thought process that he can feel a stress headache budding against the delicate corners of his eyes like weeds. None of his thoughts are making sense. He’s worried about Mike seeing these god awful things, and then, because he’s being illogical, he starts worrying that somehow, his father will see them. And then the tears are growing, and he’s forcing them back, and all he can do is try to level his breathing and not let himself drift into a full fledged panic attack over this. But he can feel the cold chills crawling over him like quick sand, sucking him in, and he thinks: Wow. Am I really going to pass out right here in the hallway? But he won’t. He can’t focus on a single thing at a time, let alone panic over each and every thought one by one. Hell, Will doesn’t even realize he’s torn the poster off the wall until Lucas speaks up from behind him, right where he’d left him, and Will realizes that he’s balling the colourful sheet up in his fists like he’s trying to turn it into a paste.

“Will?”

He doesn’t want to turn, but he does anyways, because if he cares about anyone’s reactions specifically right now, it’s his friends. Lucas’ expression isn’t disgusted, or appalled— well, maybe a little bit. It’s mostly just— stunned, stone cold and disbelieving as he stares into Will’s face like he’s waiting for some sort of explanation. Less of an “is this true” sort of look and more of a “why did somebody put these up” one. And Will can relate, shaking his head to this unspoken demand like a puppet being forced to waggle it’s head back and forth. He doesn’t know why. He thinks he would like to know, though. Dustin is almost mirroring Lucas’ reaction, cadet blue eyes scanning the wall and the faces that are murmuring and peeking back in Will’s direction like he wants to clobber each and every one of them. His lips are parted, like he wants to say something, to make it better (or worse, even), but only a disgruntled little exhale slips through. Like a scoff.

Lucas must see the cogs turning inside of Will’s head, must see him moving before he even begins to, because he steps a little closer, squaring his jaw. “Will, just wait a second—“

Will doesn’t tell him, he doesn’t need to— that waiting a second is the last thing he’s going to do right now.

He moves quicker than the flashing beat of a hummingbird’s wings, nicking a few shoulders as he goes but not really finding the time nor the patience to apologize. He’s got one (well, many, but one specifically) thing on his mind, and that’s finding this issue at the root. Finding out who’s put up these— these awful things, blindingly bright like homing beacons, sending a bolt of pain through his chest every single time he focuses on the blurred presence of one of them for more than a half second. He can feel, practically see, his heart beat thrumming in his ears, vision pulsing and draining as he goes. From behind him, Will can hear Lucas calling out to him, something about waiting up, but Will knows he can’t do that. He knows he’s only going to find the energy to stop when he comes across what he’s looking for. The white bricked walls flicker past him like trees outside a car cruising at sixty— he’s not even running, but he can’t train his eyes on anything for too long without feeling them start to glass over.

Then Will is stepping out into a bulbous little section of the hallway, rounded like a hub with exit doors to the far left, and stairs to the far right. Just past this little opening— the entrance to the cafeteria, where students upon students, even more than he’d seen back by his classroom, huddle and giggle and ogle at the displays. And then Will slows, like his brain is shutting off, dying, a dead battery.

He sees her first— that wisp of golden blonde curls, dipping just below her shoulders. Will thinks maybe, in some dream like panic, that if she were to turn and face him this very second, he’d see a face of warped and lizard-like skin, a Medusa. She does turn to look at him, as though she’d heard his thoughts from a mile away, the light in her eyes contemptuous and cruel, cherry red lips tugging up into a smile of delight. There he is, her eyes say. Like she’d been waiting all along. Only this time, she isn’t as angry as the last time Will had seen her. This time, she doesn’t have a milkshake to throw on him, either. She won’t need one.

Will sees him next. And that, of course, feels even worse. Mahogany eyes scanning the crowd like a pleased dictator before his gaze finally lands on Will, and man, does he glow like a Christmas tree then. A flash of pearly white teeth, tucked into his football jersey like it’s fused to him. Will’s seen him a few times, of course, and they’ve never been good times— but none of them have ever been thislevel of bad. This?

This is going to ruin Will’s life.

Leaning past Liza, a couple of his friends jabbing their thumbs in Will’s direction and snickering, Devon unfurls himself from his lean against the wall, as though he’d been waiting this whole time, just ogling at the pure chaos he had created. He isn’t holding posters, no markers, nothing— he doesn’t need to be. Will knows that he did this. Of fucking course he did this.

“There he is!” Devon yelps with enthusiasm, catching the attention of a few onlookers as they notice Will and react in a few different fashions— tiny little gasps, some murmurs, some laughter, even. “The boy of the hour. Say, do you like the colour choices? We thought plain white was a little too restrained for your taste. You get me?”

Will can barely breathe. Maybe he isn’t even breathing. He’s stopped only a few feet away from the two of them and their posse, too close for his own comfort, but he’d only just dwindled to a halt as he’d come into the realization of who was responsible for this— this mess. Devon stares at Will with the contempt of an abused rattlesnake. Will doesn’t really understand how you can hate someone who had never done anything wrong to you in the first place. Maybe he’ll ask Devon if he survives this.

Will stares at Liza with some muddled sort of shock swiped across his face like a layer of mud. Liza only gazes back with pure, steely contempt. Will wants to speak, to beg an explanation, but does he really not get it? All he can manage to fumble with is:

“Why?”

Liza, laugh stinging like a barbs of an urchin against his throat, crosses her thin, tanned arms over her chest.

“What? You think I wouldn’t say anything?” She giggles, like she’s truly getting a kick out of this. Will stiffens at the sound of her excitement, dropping his pleading gaze to the floor. No, he hadn’t thought she would say anything. He hadn’t thought it would be that big of a deal. Certainly not a public stint level of big. “This is too rich,” she shrugs, lightly, manicured nails tapping silently against her forearm. Will thinks maybe she’s going to say something else, but another voice cuts her off. A deeper, more menacing memory accompanies this voice. Will thinks he might shrink into nothingness and just disappear with a little pop.

When Devon speaks, Will wants to sink right through the floor. He’s tiny, sure, on average: but with a six-foot football quarterback hovering over him like a vulture, he feels small on a molecular level.

“Good of you to join the party, Byers. You know, word on the street is that you’ve been stickin’ it to Wheeler,” Devon crows, his voice still a level hum, enough of a consistent tone that Will is likely it’s only target, even with the building crowd of students around them. He looks over Will’s head, observing his audience as he licks his lips. Will’s face has gone a flush red, he can feel it: from embarrassment, from anger, what: he’s not really sure he can pinpoint it. Devon rights himself, straightening up like he’s announcing an award. Will can’t seem to find it in him to acknowledge the people who are stopping to look at the posters. He doesn’t want to see their faces. He doesn’t want to know who’s going to be looking at him differently after today.

In some weird, shrunken thought process, diluted by confusion and the madness of what’s going on, Will thinks: Don’t call me Byers. That’s his, not yours.

It’s Will’s, if anyone’s. But that’s not what’s running through his brain right now.

“Not Nance, though, is it? Not the hot college bitch— her faggotlittle brother,” Devon carries on, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s having a casual conversation. Will feels that one— and it burns. Not because he’s hurt, no, not really: because he’s pissed. “Who’d-a thought? Well, I mean, I guess I’mnot that surprised.”

Will opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t form a single word.

“Hey, shut the fuck up, you dick—“ Will can hear Lucas speak up aggressively from behind him, but he can feel himself glassing over, turning in on himself like a turtle drawing back into it’s shell. He remembers now, that his friends are hearing, seeing, experiencingall of this right along with him. Another wave of nausea washes over him. Devon’s head whips towards where Lucas’ voice came from, and Will takes that moment to turn away, fumbling with his movement for a moment before he steps around Devon and reaches out, tearing a fluorescent pink sheet off of the wall. On it, a photo of Will— what’s that, like, tenth grade—with the words “Will Byers: Flamin’ Fuckin’ Queer!” plastered in thick Sharpie writing over the rest of the empty space on the page. It’s juvenile, middle school shit. But it still draws tears to Will’s eyes— and he tries to shove them down as he turns to another one, butting past two students as he rips it down right in front of them. This one’s a variant, faggot scrawled in deep blocky letters. He wonders, as tears sting his eyes, how creative they really got with this. How determined.

“Hey, was I talkin’to you, Sinclair? Byers—!“ Devon barks quickly, having clearly noticed that Will has forced his attention to the posters. He’s not done, somehow. Will feels like his throat is swelling and closing over, as he grabs the top of a neon green sheet, tearing it down as well. Jesus, why did they have to make them so bright?

Why did they have to make them at all?

“Hey, Byers,” Devon begins again, from somewhere behind Will, maybe 6 feet, at max. He’s sticking close, invading the space Will so desperately craves. His mind is running at full speed, conscious brain flitting through thoughts at a rapid rate. Stop saying my name. Stop talking to me. What the hell is going on? Why now? Why this? What do you think you know about Mike?

Will is about to try and feign a response when, of all the people, Dustin pipes in after Lucas. His voice is distant, unfamiliar— Will will understand much later on that this is because he has never heard Dustin sound so angry in all the time they’ve known each other.

“Back off, Langford,” he cuts in, his voice thin and sharp like the edge of a steak knife. Will does actually pause to peer back at his friend this time, regretting it a bit, because the look on Dustin’s face is unique— a weird, soupy mess of fury and confusion. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows that it’s nothing good. He knows that much. From behind him, Devon’s borderline evillittle smile falters with disinterest, and he squares his jaw, glancing back in Dustin’s direction. Will thinks he might explode right here, right now— nothing but a mess of torn clothes and confetti.

“Getting defensive, Henderson? You wanna step up and stand in alliance with your butt buddy, here?” Devon demands, tipping his head like a predator surveying it’s prey. Dustin stiffens at that, dropping his gaze, losing his nerve. Whether it’s because it angers him, or it’s because he doesn’t want to be associated with that— Will can’t pinpoint. His fingers, balled up at his sides, clutching the wads of paper— they’re trembling hard.

“Nothing to say?” he tacks on, shamelessly. “You their flower boy or somethin’?”

“Go away, Devon.”

Will can’t tell if Devon is really turning back around slowly or if everything is just crawling along because he’s panicking, but regardless— Will whips around the other way as well, not too eager to make eye contact. He starts to wonder if he might vomit right here on this very floor.

“So he does speak for himself!” Devon laughs, a joyful, terrible laugh, and it makes every single hair on Will’s neck stand up. “Hey, pal, you wanna answer something for me?”

Will doesn’t pay any more attention, except for the churning of disgust inside of his stomach that comes automatically in reaction to the sound of Devon’s voice. He used to think he sounded pretty. Now he just thinks he sounds like hell. When Will rips down another poster, Devon hums eagerly, which Will won’t be able to stop dwelling on, and speaks again.

“What’s that like, anyways?”

Will doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want to get it, but his fingers still falter a second before he’s back to stepping a couple feet forward, ripping posters down as he goes. Devon speaks without being acknowledged. Will will surely think later that it would have been better if he hadn’t.

“What’s that like—“ Devon says, voice growing closer as Will balls the paper into his palm, “—screwing someone who’s an even biggerfuckin’ loserthan you are?”

And that’s when Will stops. Like slamming on the brakes, freeze frame, a glitch in the system like his body is shutting down. He stops so hard he almost falls forward.

He doesn’t know exactly what about that statement digs up the reaction that he’s about to have, but his entire body has gone cold. On any other day, in any other situation, Will would have been able to deal with this. Or, rather, not deal with it. Just walk away like he ought to do, like he’s taught himself to do before. It’s never really been like this before, though. It’s always been about Will. Will, Will, Will and how gayhe comes off. Well, there’s a reason for that.

This time it isn’t about Will alone.

From behind him, Will hears Devon laugh, and that flips whatever switch lies deep inside Will’s stomach. A switch that seldom gets touched. A switch that’s been flipped only twice— the first time being when his father had slapped his mother for the first and last time. The second? The second being now.

“Oh, what? Didn’t like that one?” Devon coos in a mockingly concerned voice, and if Will had turned now to see him, he’d see Devon with his arms outstretched, turning to face the few people that have crowded around to observe this little spectacle. Instead, Will focuses on the white tile below him. Even that dims a bit, like the colour’s been sucked right out of his world. Don’t, he tells himself. Don’t.

“What’re you gonna do about it, Byers?” Devon asks aloud, hardly to Will, mostly to the crowd around him. His eyes are split open with an electric fire that any of the onlookers might describe as pure, unadulterated bliss. Will twists around to face him, almost so quickly that he doesn’t register it himself. “Huh? What? You gonna sick your little faggot friends on m—“

Devon turns around to face Will, likely with the intent to taunt him more. Instead, he’s cut off by the sudden, blasting contact of the boy’s fist square against his teeth.

The impact bounces off of every single person that has swarmed around the two of them, and the emotion behind it is nothing less than visceral. He doesn’t even know what’s happened at first— almost like he’d zoned out for the past ten seconds and he’s just now waking up again. Like getting your blood drawn and passing out at the sight of the butterfly needle’s gracious head. Only here— there is no needle. No blood drawn from himself, not on a graceful accord, certainly. He’s not coming to in a hospital bed after a little spell. He’s coming to, and he’s standing straight up, fingers balled up at his sides, and Devon, six feet tall and bulky from the amount of practicing he’s been doing, is down on the floor like he’s just been hit square in the chest by a 50 ton wrecking ball.

Will comes back, blinking like that might clear his headache, and the crowd has both dissipated and, as a collective, stepped back. Maybe that isn’t such a bad idea.

Because Will can feel a vicious anger boiling inside of his chest, erupting into his throat and constricting his insides as his hands twist into even tighter fists. He can feel his heartbeat drumming hard in his ears, his equilibrium off as he feels violent zaps of pain coursing through his closed palms. Peering down into his hands and flexing his fingers open, loosening the tension in his wrist, Will notices the darkening red and purple bruises staining his knuckles almost immediately. When he straightens out the fist, he feels, truly, like every one of the joints in his fingers has been shot individually with a handgun.

It doesn’t take him long to understand what exactly he’s done. He sees the teeth laying discarded on the floor soaked in blood and saliva where Devin has spit them out, barely able to push himself back against the wall as blood dribbles onto his shirt. He sees the look of regret mingling with pure, unbridled anger crossing his face, even if he seems too punch drunk to act upon it. Will understands the pain, and as he stares down at the knuckles he’s battered in Mike’s name, his public partner, Will knows he would do it all again, twice over if he had to.

Broken. All four of the second digits on his right hand; swollen to hell, strips of bruising slithering up over the thin length of his fingers like paint swatches. He can feel it now, as the adrenaline dies down. Oh, he can feelit.

Holy fuck this hurts, Will’s thoughts cry out.  

 When Devin twists his head upwards to sneer at Will in front of him, looking so small now compared to his brutish demeanor only minutes before, Will peers down at him, flexing his fingers through the pain as though he’s proving a point. He leans down, just slightly, just far enough that he can keep away from any swing Devin might try to throw. And yet still, the boy cranes his head upwards a touch.

“I’ll get you for this,” he spits, his face warped with a blurry diluted mix of anger and pain. Will, through the haze and the gun smoke of this god awful situation, has to force a laugh back down into his chest. Because man, Devon’s teeth had always been straight— when they were in his mouth.

“Cool, right. But in the mean time,” Will whispers coldly, his voice drenched in something so confident, so vicious, that he almost doesn’t recognize himself— “keep his fucking name out of your mouth.”

-

It’s bad. Of course, it’s not as bad as it could be. But it’s pretty bad.

Jonathan doesn’t question Will about it at first— not in the car ride there, not in the waiting room of the hospital. The only consistent interaction Jonathan keeps with Will during the first majority of this little extravaganza is the ever-present cupping of his little brother’s hand, delicate to the touch and only giving Will’s palm a place to rest like a little tiny pedestal. Again, while Will can’t help but feel a primitive urge to draw his hand away and smack away any contact, he can’t help but understand that again— it could be so much worse.

He could have easily ridden to the hospital in a police vehicle.

He doesn’t know why the school’s admin team had chosen not to call the police— maybe it was something that his brother had said over the phone, or maybe Devon had decided against pressing some sort of charge, and he’d decided that a little back alley shanking would do for later on in the future. Whatever the reasoning— Will is vibrantly grateful for it, at least for the time being. He’d gone from being dutifully but quietly picked on to being a pretty big spectacle in the Hawkins High twelfth grade populace in a matter of minutes, and he’s definitely not too proud of that. Not too excited to have to live with it, either. Everything beyond the white walled domain of the hospital seems a little bit fickle— beyond real, beyond tangible. It doesn’t matter right now.

In one way, Will is doing fine. In another, he’d both misinterpreted and undermined the breaks in his hand by a long shot.

Will had cried. He’s never been a cry baby, but on the way in to the hospital, with the delicate top of his hand swelling and bruising to the purple skinned shade of a plum, he had cried out in pain a good few sanctioned times. He’d broken his pinky finger only once before— playing basket ball in gym class in elementary school— and he hadn’t remembered it being such a violent, throbbing pain. His memory did, of course, serve him correct. Will had broken a pinky finger back then, the digit— he hadn’t broken two fingers and a metacarpal.

It’s late when they actually get around to taking him in and getting to him, no less than late dinner time, and the room, in an odd sort of way, decreases Will’s appetite almost entirely. He had battled a little bit with the idea of staying overnight, but for the first time since they’d arrived at the ER, Jonathan had piped up and spoken directly to him. Telling him that they really didn’t have a choice if he wanted to get his hand checked out. He had a point, didn’t he? Of course he did, and Will knew that he was just being stubborn. So for one night, he thinks he can manage. And then he sees the room.

It looks almost like a film set, really—the eerie pallid pink of the walls, the thin, white separator curtain with a silhouette of the bed and nightstand cast onto it like a macabre light show. The only furniture that adorns the room is this bed and table, a heart monitor, an IV stand, a small wall television with no more than four channels and couple chairs for guests. Will doesn’t think he could fill up those chairs if he tried. The light, itself, is the only really soothing thing about the place; a sweet, honey yellow glow from a small lamp seated on the light wood end table. The main lights are off when the two of them are led into it, to Will’s pleasure. He hadn’t been sure if he could handle the stark white blinding brightness of hospital lights on top of the searing pain in his hand.

The needle doesn’t hurt—well, it does, but only for the smallest fraction of a second. A hot pinch against the supple skin of his arm, and then, nothingness. Quite literally—nothingness. Will had expected the painkillers to take a much more scenic route down through the channels of his veins and straight to his brain, like an over the counter prescription pill for nausea or headaches. No such thing—it hits him only seconds later, wiping the pain away from his hand like a dry erase board swiped clean with a cloth, the pain fizzling out towards the tips of his fingers like sparks, and then— that nothingness. He’d been so accustomed to pain for the last few hours that he’d forgotten what life had been like without it. A distant dream, an inch out of his reach. He allows himself to rest his head back against the hospital bed’s thin pillow, exhale, inhale, exhale again. No pain. Not anymore.

It is here when Jonathan finally brings up the elephant, hell, the blue whale in the room. Seated in one of four visitor chairs, uncomfortable against the weak cushion, Jonathan almost whispers: “You know, I don’t really care that you did it.”

Will, fishing around in his brain for some sort of response, let’s his eyes, which he hadn’t even rememberedshutting, flicker open again. The room looks a bit brighter. Like somebody’s cranked up the power.

“W—What?” He asks dully, blinking a couple times like he’s trying to figure out if the room is genuinely tipping or if it’s just him.

“I said I don’t really care that you did it,” Jonathan reiterates, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His cheeks are still pink from the cold. The room isn’t all that warm, either. “I mean, I don’t like that you’re hurt. That feels pretty shitty.”

Will, easing himself up into a sit, the room swirling around him like wine in the bottom of a glass, shakes his head, a bad idea because it throws him for a loop.

“That makes two of us, then,” is all he manages to respond. The smile that parts Jonathan’s lips is sad—there’s really no other way to put it.

“You know I want to stay, right?” Jonathan asks him, or rather, proposes the idea to him. He fidgets with something inside his pocket. “But you know I’ve got to get home. Got to get at least some sleep before I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Will doesn’t mind this— he might if he were stable enough to feel anything but relief. So he just nods, aimlessly, head rolling up and down like a puppet being worked with a string.

“Just tell me something, Will.”

Will cranes his neck up a bit then, eyeing his brother from the bed. “Y-eah, sure. What?”

Jonathan seems to hesitate for a moment, though he does stand up, brushing off his pant legs. Like he’s cleaning up after being on the floor, but Will knows, even in this state, that he’s just doing it to keep himself from standing there still for longer than he has to. Then, shifting his weight to one foot, Jonathan peers up at Will.

“Did they deserve it?” he asks.

Will doesn’t hesitate, though a million variations of one thought plow through his conscience like a train busting through a brick wall.

“Yes,” he says, firmly. Without doubt. Without a hint of resignation. “Yes. Yeah… they did.”

Jonathan seems to take that as an acceptable answer, the one that he was hoping for, because he nods and moves now, less slow and diluted, fishing out whatever he’d been playing with from his pockets and setting the handful of it with a few metallic tinksagainst the night stand next to Will’s bed. Just about two dollars in change.

“Call me if you need me to come get you early, alright?” Jonathan tells him, sternly but not mean, like he wants Will to remember it. “Or if you need to talk about it. Just call the house, alright? I’ll be there.”

“Alright,” Will tells him, but he won’t really need to. He will if he must, but knows, he just knows he will be completely fine on his own tonight. Sleeping more soundly than he probably ever has, away from home, away from worry. He’ll be fine. “Sure. I will.”

Jonathan eyeballs him for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if Will is telling the truth or not. By now, Will has shoved that offer to the back of his brain. Now— well, now he’s focused on how dull the colours in the room seem to be. Even duller than when they had initially arrived. Jonathan reaches out after a moment, giving Will’s hair a little bit of a ruffle.

“You be good,” he says. But they both know he will be. Nothing can hurt him here. There is a connected sense of peace and knowing between the two of them over that. So Will nods again, head feeling like it’s twenty pounds heavier.

“You know it.”

With Jonathan gone, the room feels even emptier than before. Half of the life force sucked out of it, Will thinks maybe he just ought to go to sleep, force this whole thing to it’s end as quickly as he can. The sky outside has already dimmed substantially, the lights from downtown shining in the distance. It’s then, as Will peers out across the trees from his bed, IV dripping steadily, that he realizes he is most definitely supposed to be somewhere right now.

The way he bolts up in bed almost makes him puke on sight, catching his head with the palm of his bad hand, not yet casted but praying that soon it will be. For the time being, they’ve slotted his fingers into a thin little straight brace, but the top of his hand still radiates with a bristling pain, like it’s being used as a pincushion.

It takes Will a good, solid two minutes after this minor whiplash to help himself up off the bed. Not because of his hand, not really. Mostly because the floor beneath him almost seems to bend and twist with the light, throwing off his depth perception, arms splayed out and IV stand tight in one hand’s grip as he guides himself over to the phone on the wall. It looks almost out of place, the phone up on the wall like that, darkly coloured and completely out of alignment with the pastel theme that seems to be running through the rest of the décor. Fumbling with the coins in his hand, Will manages to slot them into the register just fine, and manages to punch in the number he needs to call just fine, too. He only knows for sure, of course, when the other line picks up, and he hears the familiar, gritty sound of his manager cutting through the distant musical ambience.

“Thank you for calling the Video Buff,” a tired, aged voice croons into the phone. Will only teeters a bit in response, listening as the man carries on. “Nathan speaking, how can I help you?”

Will can hear the irritation deep down in his voice, knows the sound of displeasure in Nathan’s voice from working with him so often. Numbly, Will thinks: God, I’m in trouble.

“Nathan?” Will begins, his voice tiny and nervous, like he’s waiting to be yelled at. In a way, he is. “N-Nathan, it’s— it’s Will.” There is a beat of silence, so he continues where he doesn’t need to, his semi-filtered brain working overtime. “Y-y’know— Will Byers?”

“Wi—“ Nathan’s voice, sharp like a tack, cuts in then out, like he’s curbing himself. A huff, like he’s trying to keep himself chipper and upbeat around a few passing customers. Then, he drifts back to the phone, his voice an unhappy hiss of a whisper now. “Will, where the hell are you?”

“I’m sorry, I—“

“You’re supposed to be here right now,” Nathan interjects, his voice all but drenchedin disappointment. Will doesn’t realize that he’s flinching, but he is. “You know that right?”

The room teeters before him, and he releases his grip on the IV stand to brace his palm against the wall. He thinks he might hurl, but he keeps it together, crease in his arm warning him to keep it straight, mind that fucking needle. He focuses on doing just that.

“Yeah, look, I had—“ Will steadies himself, grabbing onto the IV stand again. “I had a little something come up. It’s no biggie, right?”

No biggie? What’re you, thirteen?

“No b— listen, you can’t just not show up for shifts,” Nathan urges into the phone, sending a spike of cold shivers up Will’s arms. He knows this. This, sadly, isn’t the first time this has happened. Though, the other time (rather, times) were under better circumstances. Forgetting. Sleeping in. Not breaking his hand off a football player’s mouth. Fishing out another quarter, Will drives it into the coin slot.

“I can only cover for you so many times.”

“No—“ Will begins, do painkillers always give you headaches like this, pinching the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes. “No, I know. Look— I know that, right? Just chill. Just—“

“Are you on something?”

Will’s eyes spring open so fast the room actually seems to pulsate.

“Huh?”

“You are, aren’t you?” Nathan asks, his voice warped with shock and disbelief. “Oh my god… are you high right now?”

Will, cheeks flushing even more than they already are, loosens his shoulders as much as he can and prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. How embarrassing. That he can hear that on him. Why should he lie?

He doesn’t. It might be the drugs, or it might be the energy wearing off from earlier, but Will is a little bit tired. Too tired to try and fake it if he’s being obvious already. So, instead of making a bold-faced lie, Will shrugs, like Nathan can see it.

“Yeah,” he admits, his voice quiet and cool. “Yeah, uh, I guess I am.”

And it would be so easy to explain. To say listen— I got into an accident, I’m at the hospital, they’ve got me on regulated painkillers.It would be so easy to explain in the simplest terms what is going on— Will knows that. So why doesn’t he just do that? Explain it? He thinks, maybe, maybe he’s just exhausted of it. Exhausted in general. Maybe he can let things go terribly for once, because he’s grown weary of trying to hold them together. Briefly, in the midst of Nathan’s disbelieving reply, Will’s brain drifts towards the old Greek myth of the titan who was cursed to hold the sky away from the earth for all eternity.

Well, Will is tired of holding the sky away from the earth. He thinks maybe, just this one time, he’ll let it crush his body between the two; crush him flat.

“You know what, Will?”

“What’s that, Nathan?” Will replies, in a voice so nonchalant that Nathan’s reply is fueled forward even quicker.

“Don’t bother coming in,” he says, cold, as though Will were planningto anyways. “Don’t come in the rest of the week. Or at all.”

Will knows what that means, but Nathan finishes it up for him. Right before he hangs up, he adds, sharply: “You’re done.”

In the weirdest, most disconnected way, it feels splendidto be hung up on.

Will stands there, jobless and swaying like a passenger on a cruise ship, for a few seconds in pure silence. The gentle drone of the dropped line echoes inside of his brain, filling his skull up with noise, so Will drops the device back into it’s holder. He thinks maybe he’ll go back to bed in a minute, knowing that the doctors ought to be coming for him any second to get his hand sorted, but he doesn’t budge. In a way, for once, his body has decided his next step before his mind could. He doesn’t know if he’s fully processed what has happened in that last phone call just yet, the whole thing feeling like a fever dream, but he’s punching in another number before he can even take a moment to really graspit. This number feels even more fluid— that sort of happens when you call it almost every day.

He could have gone and laid down. But his commitments hadn’t ended at work.

“Hello?” Mike answers after a couple droning rings, voice stunned and grainy like he’s just woken up from a nap. Will doesn’t even have time to be thankful that Mike has picked up instead of another Wheeler— he’s too focused on Mike’s voice itself. The feeling that slips over Will is almost indescribable on it’s own, only comparable to that of pulling fresh sheets out of the dryer— warm and irresistible and absolutely lovely. In the throws of painkiller bliss, his hand hardly feeling the break at this very moment, Will exhales dreamily into the phone, something he usually wouldn’t be able to do without blushing. “Man,” he groans, “it’s good to hear your voice.”

Mike remains quiet for a moment, like he can’t quite figure out how to respond. Will likes to think it’s because he’s blushing on the other end of the line.

“You know you have a very pleasant voice?” Will carries on, almost a question, his own voice a sleepy lull. To this, Mike laughs. No he doesn’t laugh. Mike giggles, he does, a shy, embarrassed giggle. And fuck, the feeling of warm sheets pales in comparison to the hot lull against his skin. Cradling the IV stand in between his good fingers, Will tips his shoulder into the wall and thinks, for a moment, that he might evaporate against it.

“I—“ He laughs again, and Will almost dies right then and there against the squeaky clean tile, “wha— Byers?”

Yours truly, Will almost says. But the mere prospect of calling himself yours in terms of Mike makes a deadly fit of goose bumps drift over his being. Instead of saying so, Will continues, swaying a touch. The flowers on the wall seem to drift back and forth with him, like he’s got a pair of 3D glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Have— have I ever told you that? About your voice?”

There is a shuffle on the other end of the phone, a distant little hum of approval or maybe just acknowledgement, before Mike seems to return the receiver to his ear. “No, you haven’t,” he replies, the smile audible in his voice, then: “Slow night at movie rental central?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Will answers easily without needing to think about it, the little laugh Mike lets out in return feeling like a jolt of energy coursing through him.

“You’re that zoned out, huh?”

Will should consider his words more carefully, and usually, in a more sobered up circumstance, he might. But right now, he can’t seem to find the time to think before he speaks. So, quickly, his voice light as air, Will replies: “I’m not even there.”

A pause, the air feels almost stale, but Will thinks it must just be the fact that he’s in the hospital. Then, Mike exhales a bit sharply, followed up by a delicately posed question.

“You’re— huh, uh— what’s with the weird number then?”

 “Weird n— oh!”Will exclaims in a breathy whisper, nodding his head once, which, he decides he won’t do again. It feels as though he’s thrown his brain into a brick wall. Then, wrapping the phone chord around his unbroken index finger, Will adds, all too casually— “See, I’m not at work. I’m in the ER for the night.”

There isn’t a reaction to be gained from Mike. Well, surely, he’s reacting in some way, shape or form. Just not verbally. Will thinks maybe the call has dropped for a moment, so he decides to tack onto the end of that explanation, sliding a coin into the slot to allot him more time.

“So, like,” Will tips his head, “I’m calling you from the room phone.”

Nothing. Well, something— Nancy’s voice in the background, too distant to be analyzed. Nothing from Mike. So he isthere— he’s just not speaking. Will, desperate for some kind of answer, a scoff, anger, enthusiasm, something, slips into a joke without even intending to.

“So,” he tries, weakly, “I don’t know if I can make it to dinner. Rain check would be best, mayb—“

“You’re in the hospital,” Mike finally speaks up, re-clarifying what Will had said, only so much more hollow— stunned and a bit harrowed. Will shrugs, as if Mike can see him. He thinks maybe, regarding his reaction, that it’s best that he can’t.

“Yeah, just for the n—“

“Why are you at the hospital?” Mike interjects— there’s something in his voice now, not flabbergasted nothingness, but something— fear? Nervousness? Panic?  What for? Will aims to ask, but Mike carries on like a distressed parent. “What happened? Are— are you alright?”

Will tries to shrug off the intense way Mike’s voice seems to radiate with worry, but it sticks to him like tacky paint.

“Well, I—“

“Is someone there with you?” Mike cuts into Will’s attempt to explain, and as he stills a bit, resting his tired and almost incorporeal-feeling body against the wall, Will thinks he can hear Mike’s voice— shaking? Why does he sound— scared? Tongue feeling like nothing more than a deadweight against his teeth, Will grips the phone a bit tighter. Was his voice shaking, or is that just the drugs?

Shaking his head (stop doing that), Will shrugs to no one in particular. “Mike—“

“Do you need me to come get you? I’m— I was just about to run out anyways, I can bring you a coffee. Or come— come get you.”

Twisting his face back towards the window behind him, Will catches sight of a blush he hadn’t even felt creeping over his cheeks, almost silhouetted against the sight of the streetlights glowing dully below. He doesn’t know how many stories up he is, but he’s pretty high, in more ways than one. He’d thought the painkillers were just making him feelwarm and fuzzy— guess I was wrong.

“Slow down,” Will tells him, speaking softly into the phone’s mic, waiting until he notices an audible pause in Mike’s speech before he continues. What he receives, to the reactive jolt of his own heart, is a delicate little sigh— followed up with a hum of acknowledgement. He’s listening. Finally. So Will continues. “I’m— I’m fine. I’m doing absolutely peachy keen.” He sounds so grossly unlike himself that he almost bolts and hangs up the phone, but he resists the urge. Instead, in his considerably sleepy croon, he tacks on: “I just— got in a bit of a tiff, that’s all.”

The silence on the other end of the line is stifling. Will thinks he might suffocate in it, until Mike let’s out the grittiest, breathless laugh he’s ever heard. Like Will’s just made a seriously inappropriate joke that he ought not to laugh at. Then, slowly, Mike whispers—

“Peachy fuckin’ keen?”

Will parts his lips, but Mike isn’t finished. Another distorted little laugh, this one a bit more tense, before he adds: “Painkillers are a hell of a thing, huh?”

Whatever blush Will had felt before has just amplified, doubled over and stretched. He actively reaches up with his bad hand, resting the hot, clothed palm against his cheek as though he might be able to wipe away the deep lobster red tinting his skin. He only flinches. He hadn’t noticed the slur before, but now, it’s all he can think about. The world does another rotation, his room tipping with a cock of Will’s head.

“You can hear that?” he asks, his voice a quiet squeak. “That’s— fuck, that’s embarrassing.”

Mike laughs, lighter, less distressed. Then, he replies: “No, I can’t hear it. I just assumed. You know, because you sound like a geezer.”

In the midst of a dripping, melting haze of (mostly) painless bliss, Will thinks— there he is. There’s my Mike.

The blush burns on, furious against his skin like he’s battling with a fever. Instead of shriveling into nothing, Will lets out a laugh of his own, airy and disbelieving. “Screw you.”

“Tell me,” Mike begins immediately, swiping right past Will’s little snip, earning a roll of Will’s eyes that he can’t even appreciate in person, “what kind of tiff puts someone in the hospital?”

Will thinks he wants to sound like he’s joking, but his tone is suddenly serious again, worried, far from subtle and passive. Will finds himself wishing, oddly enough, that he could reach through the headset and clutch Mike’s hand. Give it a squeeze. Make sure he knows that everything is fine. Whipping that thought out of his head, Will prods his tongue against his cheek.

“The kind that I don’t really get into. That kind.”

“At school?”

Will bites at the soft skin on the inside of his lip. “Yeah, at school.”

“Anyone I know?”

Will sees Liza’s pale greyhound face, long and sharp eyed and hateful; a menace, an awful expression of contempt. Then, shaking his head like Mike can see him, Will sighs softly into the mic as he slots in another quarter. “No,” he lies harmlessly. “I don’t think so.”

There is a brief pause, where Will thinks he hears Mike shuffling through something on the other end. Then, with a displeasure that sends Will’s heart right up into his throat, Mike mutters, coldly: “For their sake, I hope not.”

The air feels stagnant and cold, reflective of Mike’s warning tone— then, softly, he adds: “So why’d you get into it if it’s not something that you do?”

Will doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He debates going the honest route, playing it out in his head like an old super eight film. Oh, no biggie, Mike. Someone— someone being an old fling of mine, and your ex girlfriend— thought it would be funny to hate crime me and say terrible things about you. So I hit him pretty hard. I knocked a few of his teeth out. I don’t think he’ll talk bad about you again if he knows what’s good for him. Although, I must say— I didn’t even feel like myself when I hit him. It was like I was someone else entirely. I’ve never felt that protective over anything in my life, and I’ve written journals with things in them that I’d rather die than read out loud. How weird is that? That I’m so protective over you— like you’re mine. But you aren’t.

You aren’t, are you?

No, that won’t do. Will squirms a bit himself, wrestling with this little thought, before he finally responds.

“Come see me tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be— home around noon-ish. Okay? I’ll explain then.” Before Mike asks, because Will can hear him inhaling, he adds— “And no, I don’t need you to pick me up.”

There is a beat of silence— then Mike, who’s expression Will could kill to see right now, snickers softly, like he’s just realized he set himself up for defeat in a round of chess. “I— Okay, sure. Noon.”

“Noon,” Will repeats, and he doesn’t know when this mirroring trend had begun, but he thinks it’s going to be awful hard to break in the future.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

There’s an easy answer to that— no. No, Will isn’t alright, and the overwhelming sense of bliss he’s feeling right now will come crashing down eventually, just like everything else does. But he decides that maybe telling the truth isn’t always the best thing to do, and certainly it isn’t the easiest. Sometimes it’s better to keep things to yourself. So he does.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assures Mike, a white lie that twists him up a bit, for some reason. So he tacks on: “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Not missing a beat, Will cradling the phone like an antique, Mike murmurs back: “Oh, I definitely will.”

“It’s just a couple flesh wounds,” Will assures him, though, God, that really won’t help, will it? Will thinks of this moments too late. Because Mike runs with that silence again, his breathing inaudible on the other end of the line. Will squeezes his eyes shut, fueled with regret for his poor word choice.

Then, softly, Mike replies: “Somebody did that to you?”

“Will you let me explain this to you tomorrow?” Will asks, almost pleading, because right now, he can feel the headache bristling against his forehead, and he knows if he gets into anything remotely condemning in this state, he’ll spill things he shouldn’t. Mike clears his throat.

“Sure,” he says simply. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Will lets that simmer between them, the agreement, before he (rather pitifully) adds: “Sorry for missing dinner.”

Briskly, like he hadn’t needed to think about it, Mike replies, his voice a playful whisper: “I’m sorry for missing you pummeling some jerk’s ass.”

Something twists deep down in Will’s stomach. Something heavy, almost like guilt, but not the same sentiment. The same level of power, though. It sweeps over him like a storm cloud. Glancing out the window, admiring the lights, gentle beeps drifting in and out from the hallway, Will flexes his thumb against the phone’s receiver, wincing.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he finally says, to his distaste. Mike doesn’t say a word, and for a minute, Will fears the call has dropped again. Then, from the other end, Mike exhales, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“Goodnight, Will,” he says softly, his voice a purr into the speaker. Will, fingers wringing the IV stand absently, chokes on his words for a moment before finally managing to spit them out.

“Goodnight, Mike,” he whispers back, being the first to slot the phone back into it’s holder in fear that if he doesn’t force it, he’ll never hang up.

Mike is gone. And Will is alone again.

Will doesn’t realize he’s crying until he’s laid down again, craning over to flick off his lamp and noticing the sudden splat of a teardrop against the bed covers. He doesn’t understand the reason for the freefalling tears— but in the darkness, listening to the beep of a monitor somewhere down the hall, the distant chatter from nurses and doctors drifting by his door like ghosts in the night— but then again, he thinks: he’s got plenty of things to cry about. Maybe it’s the build up of everything coming down around him. Maybe it’s his hand. Maybe it’s the last remaining bit of control he feels like he has leaving his body. He doesn’t know. Maybe it’s Mike. Mike not being there. Mike being so concerned when he ought not to be. Mike in general.

Will doesn’t realize he’s squeezed his eyes shut until he feels that strain in his forehead growing moments later, like he’s trying to block that thought out. Waiting, impatiently now, to be fetched for a cast, Will is thinking about Mike. And he won’t stop.

He regrets it, see— telling Mike to wait, to stay back. Because he thinks if anyone would understand what’s going on, if there’s anyone he really wants to see this very second— it’s Mike.

And then he recognizes that sick— that twisting feeling in his gut. The feeling of missing something. Of missing someone.

Missing Mike.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Will awakes like a child rousing from a bad dream.

It, of course, hadn’t been a bad dream— the entire day and night before, the phone call with his boss, with Mike— none of it. His brain immediately registers it as one though, before he can even manage to open his eyes. The pain wakes him up, at least, that’s the first thing that he notices when he comes to, and immediately, he can feel the cold, spotted, slimy sweep of illness drifting over him. The pain brings forth the chills, his hand radiating with it, and when he opens his eyes, he almost jumps right out of his skin. He wouldn’t have minded that too much.

What had really woken him up was the young lady standing before him, a kind looking woman in a nurses get up, scrubs and all with little tiny flower prints all over. She looks reasonably tired, middle aged, likely having been there all night from the way her eyes seem to be drooping. She had reached out to brush his shoulder as gently as she could, but had given him quite the start, jumping only slightly when Will draws in a sharp inhale, eyes flickering open, goose bumps running up his arms. Will, forgetting momentarily where he is, has to look around the entirety of the room, scathing over the nurse, the heart monitor, the IV with the bag that’s been sucked dry. Will thinks maybe she’s come in to change it, praying that to be true. But when he finally eases himself up into a bit more of a sit, one handed and struggling to do so, he notices that she hasn’t gotten a fresh IV bag in her hands.

“Oh, I’m sorry—“ she squeaks softly as Will leans forward, his hand nothing more than a gravitational pull for pain— “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

Will gives her a sheepish, tired smile, still not fully connected with the going’s on inside of his hospital room. The slow, creeping understanding that the day before hadn’t been a nightmare is settling into his bones like cooling plastic, hot and uncomfortable. He wonders, awkwardly, if the nurse knows why he’s in here. “No, no—“ he assures her, his voice sleepy, a gravelly whisper. He clears his throat gently, raising the back of his (good) hand to his mouth out of politeness when he coughs. He doesn’t think he could move his other hand if he wanted to. They’d come in the night, the doctors; right before he’d drifted out and a good while after he’d stopped crying, to get the cast on him. And now, while it feels better to not have to worry about moving it the wrong way, Will’s fingers and the delicate stretch of the back of his hand pulsate inside of the thick cast like a caterpillar inside of a cocoon.

“You didn’t—“ Startle me? Yes, you did. Will finds himself lying, and curbs it, raising his head and rubbing a bit of sleep from his eyes. The overhead lights exude heat into the room, though compared to the cool outdoors, Will is grateful for it, now. “It’s fine. I needed to wake up anyways. What— what time is it?”

He knows there is a clock in the room, but he’s still too fuzzy to remember this. Giving Will a small smile, the nurse humours him.

“Just past eleven, kid,” she says in a gentle tone, shifting her weight from one foot to the other fidgeting a bit. In a weird, disconnected way, the woman reminds Will of his mother. That’s comforting, even in the midst of his horrified realization that this isn’t just a daydream. As she watches him, Will, head feeling like it weighs a ton, glances up towards his IV again, skittish.

“My IV’s empty,” he murmurs, more of a statement than a question. It couldn’t be a question if he wanted it to be— his hand is already screaming the answer.

From behind him, he hears the nurse shift again. This time, she seems like she’s stepping back. “You’re hurting, are you?”

“Yeah,” Will responds, eyes dim and a bit nauseous seeming, before he glances back at her, embarrassed. “P-pretty badly, yeah.”

Her eyes light up a touch, like she hadn’t even realized. “Oh, dear—“ she murmurs, looking like she doesn’t know whether she should linger or not. “I’ll head down in a moment to see what I can get for you. The doctor’s already written up a prescription for you, he’ll be up to brief you shortly. Keep the cast on for a little over a month, take your pills, that sort of thing.”

For a moment, she looks like she might leave. Then, as though she’s spontaneously changed her mind, she glances up at Will with friendly, honey brown eyes.

“The young man who was with you; he spoke to us last night before he left, said he’d be here for you for discharge at noon. That sound about right to you?”

Will shifts in bed, feeling the sudden urge to just get up and walk home, even through his pain. “Y-yeah,” he offers in return, “sounds about right.”

She eyes him, cautiously. Then, slowly, she adds: “And he’s been calling for you— see, I wouldn’t have come up to tell you this directly, because you’ve got a phone in here and everything, but he’s… rather insistent.”

Will’s awake now. Like he’d just been jabbed with a shot of adrenaline, right in the side of the head, straight to the brain. Eyes flickering open, no longer glassy and half asleep, Will sits up a bit further, purposefully trying to ignore the spike of pain in the top of his hand.

“W—“ he begins, unsure of where he’s heading with it, so he swallows, through mild cotton mouth, and tries again. “M-My brother?”

“Must be, yes,” the nurse says with a minute little shrug, placing a hand against her hip. Her nails are polished, but kept short, likely for the job. Will doesn’t think about it too much. He’s too busy imagining the hundreds of scenarios that might have befallen his brother in the past twelve hours. Throat clamping tight, Will hopes his heart monitor won’t pick up too much. Not enough for it to be clear that something, deep down, is giving him the heebie-jeebies.

What if it’s something with Dad?

What if something happened?

Deep down, he knows what something means. He just doesn’t want to think about it.

The nurse is still speaking, so Will tries to tune into that, his head thumping with a mild dose of fear now. “That’s what he says, anyways. Something urgent, he keeps saying.” She gives Will a strained little look, like she’s trying to express her distaste without making the boy think it’s about him. Those nails against her hip tap agitatedly. “He really ought not to call the phones at the front and block the lines, but—“

“Is he still calling?”

The fright is in his voice, and he can see, based on the way that the woman raises her brows, eyeing him like he’s grown another head for only a flash of a second, that it must be apparent in his colourless face. Terrified, but he won’t admit that. The nurse’s eyes soften a bit, pitiful, before she replies.

“Most definitely,” she admits. “Has been for the past hour and a half. I doubt he’s stopped.”

That almost makes Will keel over in frozen horror. He tries his best to hide the perturbed look on his face, but he’s not doing well. “Can I go speak to him?”

The nurse seems to pause for a moment, debating the answer to this question. She gives him a bit of a mistrusting look, before she lets out a cool sigh.

“I suppose you could,” she begins, her voice slow and sure, like she wants to make sure Will is catching every syllable. “There is a working phone that connects to the front desk down the hallway. I can ask the woman in reception to transfer it.”

Will begins to ease himself up towards climbing out of bed, but his arm screeches in protest, and the nurse holds up a stiff finger as if to say ‘I’m not done’.

“If— you promise you’ll make it quick,” she carries on, brows flickering upwards. Will has already promised twice in his head as she’s been finishing her sentence, so at this point, he’s just nodding fruitfully. “Patients aren’t usually allowed to use the landlines here, but he’s—“ she pauses, scanning Will, before; “— well, he’s very insistent. I wouldn’t want to make you use a pay phone if something’s really wrong. You understand?”

Will is still nodding, but he has been for a moment, so he forces himself to make eye contact with her.

“O-Okay, yes, please,” Will agrees, his voice a welcome croak as he eases himself out to the edge of the bed. “If you could.”

The nurse stands still.

“Quick?” she repeats, tipping her head in questioning.

Will doesn’t think he could be anything but.

“As a whip,” he replies.

-

Will nearly makes record time getting down to the phone at the end of the hallway. It looks almost just like the type of phone his mother has back at home; creamy yellow and familiar, but strung up on the wall with no signage. The woman on the other line transfers his call too slowly for Will’s taste, though she’s actually being quite speedy with it, likely not wanting to have to hear Jonathan’s voice for another second longer. Will had scrabbled down the hall with his IV, barefoot and still half numbed out from the new dose of medication kicking into him. But the wake of relief and panic that collides inside of him when he hears the line pick up is like nothing he’s ever felt before. He swallows thickly, saliva as dense as mud.

“Jonathan—?” Will croaks, preparing for the worst.

The voice that rings through on the other end is undoubtedly notJonathan.

“Er— well, no,” the voice, Mike, responds with a lick of humour in his tone, Will’s shoulders loosening up in sync with it. “But I mean, you can call me that if you’d like.”

Will doesn’t know whether he wants to clutch the phone closer to him or biff it across the hallway. Slotting it between his shoulder and his ear, Will reaches up with his now free hand and presses the pads of his fingers tight against the bridge of his nose.

“Mike?” I’m going nuts.

“Bingo,” the boy chirps in return, though his voice has gotten a touch quieter. “Good morning. Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

Will squeezes his eyes shut tight. His heartbeat is still drumming in his ears, agitated, and Mike’s little joke (joke?) only enforces that. He lets out a sharp exhale. “You scared the shit out of me, you asshole.”

Silence echoes on the line for a moment, and Will finds he’s regretting the harshness of his tone. Then, Mike clears his throat, as quiet as can be, like he’d drawn the receiver back just to do so.

“Well, there’s a new one,” he replies, his voice tiny. “All about the nicknames today, eh?” Then, when Will doesn’t reply, too focused on massaging out the headache between his eyes, he adds: “I’m sorry. Did I really?”

Will, guilt pooling inside his stomach, shuts his eyes, leaning his phone-less shoulder into the wall. “Y-yeah—it’s fine—“ he tries, allowing himself to take a breath, cooling himself off. “Whatever, uh, good morning.” He drops his hand from his face, wrapping a finger around the phone chord.

Patiently, Mike repeats: “Good morning.”

“I thought I said—“

“Yeah, I know what you said,” Mike cuts into Will’s scolding like a hot knife to butter, not letting Will start in on him. “And I’ll see you in—“ a pause, “—like, an hour or so. But I wanted to check in.”

Will, eyes flickering open like he’s got something to look at, pauses. He can hear monitors from down the hallway, chatter at the front desk, the clicking of a pen back.

“Check in—?” he repeats, a bit frazzled still. The thought leaves a warm feeling deep inside of his tummy, however. “Not much has changed.”

“How’d you sleep?”

Will pauses to consider that. Besides being awoken with a jolt to a threading of pain between his likely heavily bruised knuckles, he hadn’t slept all that bad. The IV had carried him through most of the night, and he hadn’t remembered having any bad dreams of any sort. Only little pieces of them, disconnected. Like flashes of images on a heavily damaged piece of film.

“Not bad,” he settles on. “I don’t think. Besides the nurse spookin’ me awake.”

Mike’s voice sounds apologetic. Will doesn’t need to think twice to know that he means it. The hospital gown hangs weakly over his jean clad legs, the strings tickling his back in a bothersome way.

“Ah, sorry about that again,” he replies delicately, his voice a bit distant for a moment. Will can tell the boy is leaning away from the phone when he hears Mike, chipper and upbeat unlike he usually sounds, speaking in a muffled manner. Will’s sure he can hear the wordssuck a fuck in unison at some point, followed by a responding and rather short sounding feminine voice. Will cocks a smile at that, and lets said smile drift as though Mike can see it when he returns to the phone. “Again, it was a bit of an emergency.”

“I feel like it really isn’t,” Will replies, amused now, feeling lighter than before, the steel ball of anxiety having dropped out of his gut.

“Well,” Mike squeaks, “a coffee emergency. Still an emergency, see—“

Will cuts him off before he can continue, raising a hand as though Mike can see him. When he notices one of the nurses passing by eyeing him questioningly, he parts with a weak little smile and turns towards the wall to dumb down the sound of his voice. “A coffee emergency?” he whispers.

“What, don’t want your mom hearing our top-secret conversation?” Mike teases blindly.

“Hush.What do you mean a coffee emergency?”

“What I mean,” Mike replies slowly, Will’s eyes drifting shut in response, “is exactly that. Ah— how do you take it?”

Will’s eyes flicker open again. The disbelief is evident in his face, though only the wall can witness it. “Wha— my coffee?”

“M-hm.” Nonplussed, as always. Will nips at the tender skin on the inside of his lip, unimpressed. “Oh, hold on—“ Mike adds.

There is a shuffle on the other end of the line. Will lets out a cooped up breath.

“I don’t—“ Will carries on anyways, glancing around, then leaning back into the wall. He can hear movement, a soft, oddly endearing little humph out of Mike that makes his heart seize up briefly. “I don’t drink coffee anymore. Just tea— sometimes.”

“O-kayyy,” Mike replies, more focused than mocking, and momentarily, Will can’t help but notice how even after just a night’s rest, he’s missed the familiar, sleepy jive of Mike’s voice. There is the sound of something thumping on the line, and Will, in the middle of waking up still, thinks maybe, maybe— he can hear the scribble of a pen on paper. “Tea. Cool. And how do you take your tea, Mr. Byers?”

Will raises his casted hand again in protest. This time, there is a tickling sting.

“You’re not bringing me tea,” he responds. He has to make an effort to wipe the smile off of his face, and he doesn’t even catch it until Mike is chuckling softly into the receiver, like he can hear it through Will’s words.

“I might be,” he says coyly, like a child lying about how many sweets they’ve eaten. Will squirms a little.

“Mike, you really don’t have to—“

 “I’m going out anyways,” Mike assures him, his voice level but with a clear driving force behind it. A cautious smile slips across Will’s lips. He wouldn’t mind a tea, actually. He hadn’t noticed before now how dry his lips really are. “Humour me, Byers. Puh-lease?”

Will rests his forehead against the wall now, appreciating the dull bit of pressure the brick gives him. It makes his headache feel a bit less noisy.

“—Just straight,” Will finally says, his voice low as his sugary sweet green eyes drift back over his shoulder. When he sees nobody is giving him the time of day, he turns back to the wall. “No sugar or anything. Green— green tea. If you can.”

Eagerly, Mike hums in response. “A purist— cool.” Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wishes he hadn’t padded down the hallway in his sock feet. The linoleum is frigid beneath his soles.

“Was that it?” Will whispers again, eyes roaming the walls around him aimlessly as he listens closely for any hint of a laugh from Mike. He doesn’t get a full, hearty one, sadly enough— what he does get does twice the damage to his poor little heart, though. Because Mike is too quick.

Voice dropping in volume, Mike snickers, his tone nothing but a breezy hush. Then, softly, like he hadn’t even needed to think about it, Mike chirps back sharply: “No. I really called because I wanted to confess my undying love to you, oh, dear princess.”

Will clutches the phone so tightly he swears he can hear the plastic creak. His face, fifty one shades of pinks and reds like a bleeding watercolour bouquet, drops and he huffs. Not in an aggressive way. More in a ‘did he really just say that to me?’ sort of way.

“I’m hanging up the fuckin’ phone,” Will responds, his voice hardly a dead giveaway without the paired image of his blushing face. Yeah, if you don’t break it first, his inner voice rings back boldly. Will is pulling the phone away from his ear and lifting it up to slot it back into the holder when Mike hurriedly responds.

“No, hey—“ he urges, drawing a pause out of Will who, mindlessly, brings the phone eagerly back to his ear like he hadn’t wanted to hang up in the first place. Somewhere in the distance, there is dull shouting, or maybe just near complaining. Will can’t tell. “Are you actually feeling any better?”

Will consults the bitter, slowly dying sting inside his cast, the medication already doing a fair bit to coax him into painless bliss, minus the unrestricted mouth from the night before. He consults his headache, and his attire— the gown, his jeans, his striped black and grey socks, collecting whatever minimal dust laid upon the floor. Then, slowly, because there is no really good answer, Will mumbles: “A little.”

Mike, relentless, as always, chipper and delighted, grins over his words. Will can hear it.

“Now that you’re talking to me?” he asks.

Without thinking, Will’s mind shouts into the oblivion: Yes, undoubtedly.

“Hanging up,” Will answers faintly in return, shutting his eyes as though that might curb the deep set grin on his face.

“Right,” Mike agrees, though his tone suggests otherwise. “See you soon.”

Will almost repeats after him, starting a new round of the mirroring game they’ve played over and over, but the words that come out seem to be some sort of Freudian slip instead. And you too, he had intended to say. But his mouth and brain had been severed from their hip to hip connection and Will, painkillers and sips of water and dehydration still built into a tiny frame, mutters tightly into the phone: “And yes.”

The blush can’t possibly get any worse and yet, Will is sure he gets hotter as the following silence encapsulates the both of them, even miles away from each other. Then –

“Huh?” Mike asks quietly.

Will, not knowing how to back out, sort of knowing that he can’t, drives down the sick in his stomach and scrunches up his toes against the floor. It cools him to the bone.

“Yes, I feel better after talking to you.”

That silence is back, only this time, it has a face and a name. This silence belongs entirely to Mike Wheeler, and it’s heavy— eyelids sagging and mouth agape with sharp teeth. It’s a silence that could sever whatever little tie they’ve got going on, or it could double knot it. But Will doesn’t know where his little slip carries them, because Mike is so quiet, Will wonders for a moment if he’s stopped breathing. Then, as delicately as ever, Mike exhales.

“Ah,” is all he says. It’s breathy— like he hadn’t even intended for it to come out. He repeats himself after another stretch of quiet. This one feels lighter— cloudy, confusing. It makes Will want to go back to his room, change, and walk over to Mike’s himself, dragging a clunking IV stand behind him, just to ask:

Were you quiet because you’re flattered? Or were you quiet because— because—

“I’ll see you soon, Will,” Mike offers, first naming it, green lighting it, check marking it and sealing Will’s tiny frame inside a shrink wrapped package signed “deliver straight to hell”.

Will stands in the hallway, holding the phone to his ear until he hears a disconnect— Mike hanging up first, because Will knows he couldn’t. And then he places the handheld device back into it’s spot on the wall unit, and trudges back down towards his room. When he gets there, he completely abandons the idea of a solo room being lonely. Because he thinks maybe it’s come in handy when he snatches the pillow off of his bed, ignoring the waning protest of the bones in his hand, and screams like a foolish schoolgirl into it’s skin.

- 

An hour later, with a prescription for painkillers in his jacket pocket and a hiss of pain in his arm, Will climbs into the car and turns to tell Jonathan about how much he hates the smell of hospitals. Only as he’s climbing in, words ready to flutter from the tip of his tongue, Will finds that statement evaporating against his lips, which, suddenly, feel dry and chapped and uncomfortable, just like the rest of him.

Because he’s not about to start talking to Jonathan. He’s about to start talking to his dad.

The words fly off, distant, never to return as Will eases himself like a cornered elk into the seat, watching the wolf before him as he gazes straight ahead, never looking at his son, his expression stoic, his eyes burning with something a bit more frustrated. Will doesn’t want to be in the car. He wants to go back inside and tell the nurses to call for the coroners. But instead, as he usually does, he pretends all is fine and climbs into the vehicle, barely getting the door shut before the car begins rolling out of the parking lot, silence thrumming heavy against the boy’s eardrums.

“Where’s Jonathan?” Will finally offers, his voice so puny, so tiny in comparison to the way his father’s presence takes up every bit of air in the car that he may as well have kept quiet. Lonnie’s eyes remain fixed on the road before him, never faltering, that dark eyed, purple rimmed and absent stare. There is something peculiarly scary about his father being sober. One would think that sobriety might be a good thing, and in many cases like this, it is—but there’s something different about Lonnie Byers. He doesn’t treat his sons the way that he does because he’s drunk all the time, though granted, it’s a pretty big encourager. He treats them that way because he can. Because he’s got the temper and patience of a rabid show bull. Sobering up only makes his accuracy so much more direct. It only makes him swifter in all manners. Still, perma-drunk in a way, Lonnie’s voice slurs ever so slightly when he responds, as bluntly as he can:

“At school.”

Will’s gut drops out, emergency doors jammed open, every thought and feeling sinking right down through into that pit of nothingness inside of him as he leans back into his chair. There is nothing to say to that, and there is nothing to be had from trying to force leisurely conversation with his dad. So Will stays silent, and gladly so, because Lonnie kicks it up again, a layer of anxiety settling over Will like dust when he speaks, and it’s best not to interrupt him when he’s talking.

“You plan on telling me what the fuck this is all about?”

The conversation, where it had been once moving at a sluggish crawl, picks up now. Too quickly, too suddenly. Will swallows thickly, his throat dry and scratchy.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal—“ he is saying. But Lonnie cuts into Will’s attempt at deflecting with unbelievable ease, a heavy hitting scoff slamming right into him.

“Not that big of a deal?” he repeats, but his voice is so low that Will finds he’s absentmindedly leaning away, preparing for what he knows is coming. And when Lonnie raises his voice, just to repeat his point further, Will still flinches. His tongue feels as though it’s glued to the roof of his mouth, and every time he speaks, he has to pry it down.

“He was being a jerk—“ Will chokes out after Lonnie finishes, shrinking by the second, staring out across the dashboard with a pallid, colourless sheen to his face. “He was making fun of me—“

Lonnie’s gaze upon the road snaps like a twig and his face whips in Will’s direction. Will, too nervous to know what would come of him not making eye contact, peeks over at his father. The concentrated look in his eyes, keen like a fox, makes Will’s guts wring like a sopping wet towel. It’s not out of concern, god no. It’s about the idea that his son has something to be bullied about. A suspicion his father had longheld. Will understands his mistake perfectly. But like a rat crushed inside the killing mouth of a rodent trap, there is no going back from this decision. He just has to deal with it now.

“Whatabout you?” Lonnie asks, demands.

Will squares his jaw, cold sweats creeping across his sweater clad shoulders. He knows, god, he knows deep down that his father isn’t asking out of compassion. He’s asking like he’s trying to prove himself right over something. Like he and God have a bet, and he’s just waiting to earn his entry in if Will answers honestly.

“Just me in general,” Will tries, to no avail. Lonnie huffs indignantly, like he’s got a rightto everything about his son, a right he hasn’t held in years.

“What, your clothes? The way you walk? What?” Lonnie is insistent as can be, and when Will squirms, that grants him the signal to push harder, a sign if he’s ever seen one. “Tell me.”

Will can feel his inhibition crumbling, his nerves wrecked and shattered like fine tendrils of glass, prodding and puncturing. Knees drawn together tight, Will’s arms, left hand tucked under his right arm, stuck tight to his torso, afraid to release himself. In fact, if anything, as his father’s gaze darts back and forth between his son and the road, Will tightens even further.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tries, his voice shuddering with an eagerness to get out of the car and walk all the way back to his house. Or even, for that matter, walk all the way to Mike’s place. And then there is that wash of realization— that Will had planned this going so much more smoothly. He’d planned that Jonathan was going to pick him up, and that his father wouldn’t hear a lick of this, and that Mike would come visit him, and everything would be dandy. He isn’t sure he likes the idea of Mike being within a shouting distant of his father. Not again. Not ever again.

But Will isn’t in his element here, see. Will isn’t in control anymore.

“Tell me,” his father repeats, his voice hollow and bleak from the frustration. Chills trickle down Will’s back and, if it weren’t so cold in the car and outside of it, he would be sweating bullets from the nerves.

“It doesn’t matter,” Will urges back, his voice growing steadily a bit louder, but not more than regular speaking volume. If he risks going any higher, he risks more than a sore throat. He tries to keep himself contained, but he can feel his temper, a dormant animal, bubbling up inside him. Not an angry sort of temper— a panicked one. Like a creature trying to wiggle free from a cage before it can be put down. The car cruises to an abrupt halt as they come upon a red light, so close but so far from home, only a few minute drive and this red light acting as a glowing, fiery antagonist for Will. He just wants to be back at the house, inside of his room and far away from this conversation. But there isn’t anything he can do but wait it out and try not to drown in the process. As they sit at the light, silence thick and sticky like mud, Lonnie snickers under his breath. It’s not a funny laugh, not like he’d heard a good, level adult joke— it’s more disbelieving. Or knowing. Yeah, knowing.

That’s even worse.

“Did you ever think, then,” he asks suddenly, his voice malicious, no love, never any to spare, “that maybe it’s on you, then?”

The discomfort rises and rises until Will is up to his eyeballs in it, doing all he can not to practically writhe beneath it and shrivel up into nothingness. And then he hears this, this—what, mockery? And that discomfort drops down into the pit of his stomach, and with the drive he wishes he didn’t have, Will finally glances over at his father, eyes shining with something bitter and upset.

“He was being an asshole,” Will begins, his voice as level but trembling, that anger bubbling up inside of him, the embarrassment, the nerves. “So I just hit him.”

There’s his first slip up—his emotions bleeding through into his tone. His second slip up is the slight lean forward that his body does involuntarily, craning towards the dash and resting his elbows on his knees, untucking himself. His third slip up (strike three, you’re out!) lies in the way he finishes, or almost finishes, his sentence. “You know,” he adds, his voice wavering, almost like he knowshe should shut up, “of all the things I do, you’d think thiswould be something you’d be proud of me ov—“

The jutting out of the hand scares him more than the impact does, though the impact rips him out of his still semi-drugged state like the snap of one’s fingers. It isn’t painful, open handed, all knuckles, aside from a diluted little sting, but it’s hardly about the physical sharpness of it. It’s the act itself—and the act itself, particularly in this case, seems to be instinctual. Just like Will reaching up to cup his subtly reddening cheek, the softened skin there hot like it had been held tight to a lit flame. It had only been a back-hand, he justifies with himself immediately. It could have been worse. But does it need to be worse? The idea of anyone in surrounding traffic seeing him turning in on himself like this almost draws tears to Will’s eyes. Lonnie hadn’t even taken his gaze off of the road, but his facial expression had degraded from patient mocking to unbridled rage in a matter of seconds, and when he barks back his first response, as he always does, Will flinches, shoulders drawn tight as can be.

“Why would I be proud of you for this bullshit?”

When Will doesn’t say anything, Lonnie wrings his hands over the steering wheel’s leather covering, watching as the car before them pulls out into the lane as the light swaps to a green glow. The car doesn’t move, and embarrassment claws it’s way up inside of Will’s throat.

“You know who’s kid you hit, don’t ya?” No response. A car beeps from somewhere behind them and Will shuts his eyes. “Well, don’t ya?!”

“No—“

“You don’t fuckin’ get it, clearly. I should just let them press charges and lock you up. See what happens.” His father’s voice is unforgiving and brutal, and Will draws back from it, stunned from the whiplash against his cheek and the idea that his father has any say in the matter. Or maybe he’s just lying to prove a point. Regardless, Will lets his head lean into the passenger’s side window, watching as someone rolls down their crank-powered window from behind them and throws an impatient hand out in a waving motion. There are tears bristling in his eyes, and he almost lets them drip down onto the stinging flesh of his cheek, but he tips his head upwards in protest. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.

But that doesn’t make it right. Of course it isn’t right. But Will reminds himself painfully, as he often feels he has to:

Just because it isn’t right, doesn’t mean it should scare me.

But it does.

His father continues, as he always does.

“You fucked up. You get that right?” He barks, his voice a low, humming growl, face flushed red and sneering like a bulldog. “Because—“

From behind them, someone lays on the horn once more, and after cranking the handle to roll down his window, Lonnie throws an arm out and, though his hand is blocked off by the top of the car, Will can make his own assumptions about the hand symbol he had decided upon sharing. When he finally draws his hand back in through the opening and wraps his thick fingers around the wheel again, the car creeping forward, eyes slit and aggravated like a snake’s, Lonnie presses his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip, letting a whistling sigh escape through his nose. 

“Because you can’t possibly understand how much this is going to costme,” he finally finishes, through gritted teeth, through a squared jaw and knuckles fitted so tightly onto the wheel that Will thinks they might have to be pried off. Those words sink right into Will, but they don’t fully clue in until Lonnie finishes the rest of his sentence, and by the time he does that, Will is staring at him with frigid wonder, gaze restrained but wide, lips pinned shut in a tight, super glue line. It’s shock on his face, but maybe it comes across as horror. His father doesn’t see it anyways. “New teeth. New teeth for that spoiled fucker, and for what? To keep your troublemaking ass in the clear? You think I wanted that phone call today? You think I have the money for that?”

As his father is talking, borderline shouting, riding that line, Will is thinking about Mike. Not because he’s distracted, it’s purposeful. Not in a cutesy, ‘missing him’ sort of way. In a panicked fever that sends another trembling round of goose bumps to take to the skin of his upper arms. And it is in the silence following Lonnie’s outburst that Will really does understand his problem in full, and though he tries not to let it control him, it grips his heart tight in it’s cold fists.

What if Mike gets there before I do?

And that in itself is the main issue at hand for Will right now. Or it is until, like he’s read Will’s mind, Lonnie speaks up again, his tone lower, more controlled. Precise.

“This have anything to do with your friends?”

Will’s blood runs cold, his palms freezing, his face a white flush of nothingness.

“W-What?” he asks, his voice nothing more than a startled squeak. Lonnie wrings the wheel.

“Any new people you’ve been hangin’ around?” He tries, not like he knows, but like he’s pretendingto know. Will can’t really tell the difference. “Troublemakers like you?”

I’m caught, Will thinks. I’m caught, I fuckin’ know I am. Call the coroners, please!

“No,” Will answers almost immediately, the most solid, confident response he’s given yet. Lonnie chuckles, but it’s dry and humourless.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snips, flipping Will’s panic switch.

“No,” Will repeats, his voice raising an octave like he’d trained it not to, “it’s not! It’s not about my friends!”

They’re almost to the dirt stretch before their road, but Will feels like this conversation is far from over. Because Lonnie glances at him, finally glances at him, and he looks at Will like he might look at a cornered intruder. Like he’s got him right where he wants him.

“No,” he agrees, his words sharp like busted china, “it’s about you. Fuckin’ hell. You can’t give me a break, can you?”

Will, eyes trained on the passenger’s seat floor mat, feels as tiny as a mouse.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, because he is. Then, again: “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“Of course you didn’t,” Lonnie finishes for him in a way, the trees gliding sluggishly past the car window like ignorant bystanders. “Course.”

The conversation looks to be over, finally. So Will let’s out a sigh right before Lonnie continues, just as they’re coming into view of the house, and when his father picks up again, Will’s heart grows stony.

“And you might think you’re sorry now,” he finally finishes, drawing the car into park and flicking the door open with too much aggravation, “but if you keep this shit up, I swear you’re gonna be.”

-

Will waits out on the porch, tucked into a loose fitting t-shirt that works well with the ugly, bulky wrist high cast on his arm but not so well with the weather, until Mike shows up. He goes indoors once, and when he does, he maneuvers himself, clumsy and one-armed, into the back entry to his bedroom as quietly as he possibly can, just to change into this t-shirt. His sweats grow a bit damp to the touch from the mist outdoors, and the cooling temperature lays what feels like a never-ending chill into the marrow of his bones themselves.

He knows his father is probably well into it at this point, maybe even passed out in his own bedroom for once, but Will doesn’t dare go in. He doesn’t even know if he’s going to go in after Mike leaves— god, Mike. Will, for the first time (since he’s met the boy) in a long time, doesn’t want to think about him. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that Mike had sounded so chipper on the phone earlier that morning, and he would now have to deal with Will, the dark storm cloud version of himself, the downer, the busted pipe, the grumpy way that he is. Will can picture him— something he’s grown good at— his dimply smile and his warm eyes and his apple cheeks, and the stickers on his dashboard and a tea in the cup holder with Will’s name on it. It’s almost painful to think like this, and Will actually does bring his knees a bit closer to himself as he sits on the steps, waiting eagerly and nervously for the boy to arrive. It hurts because he knows he’s going to rain on Mike’s parade. And goodness, if that isn’t the last thing Will wants to do.

Mike does enter the Byers’ lot just like that. Whether that says that Will’s got some internal questioning to do, or whether Mike Wheeler is just incredibly predictable, one can’t be too sure.

Will can hear his music from the car, though it’s not too loud. Just loud enough for Will to appreciate Dolores O’Riordan for half a second before that inching dread grows closer and Mike shuts off the car, peering over the steering wheel before he gets out and throws up a brisk, twitchy wave. Will smiles back, though he’s sure he looks like he’s been ill: elbows resting on his kneecaps, cast cradled gently on top, watching with an increasing sick in his stomach. Mike finally pops open the driver’s door and steps out, all legs as he usually is, half hidden behind the ajar door and a bit clumsy in the snow as he grabs the frame of it to keep himself stable in the slick slush, lifting his head and parting with Will a deeply blushing grimace of embarrassment beneath a bed head of curls. Will’s heart does jump at the sight, and the cacophony of emotions deep inside of his stomach is almost too much to bear, provoking the boy to actually shift in his position, good hand turning inwards to rest against his stomach as if he were trying to cajole a stomach ache back into nothingness.

It’s weird, that— to have your heart both sink and skip when you see somebody. Will’s never experienced it before. He won’t even know what had happened exactly until Mike’s long gone.

“You could sled down this drive, y’know that?” Mike calls out softly over the top of the door’s rim, not catching the visible hitch in Will’s breath as he leans back down into the car to grab something. When he withdraws from the inside once more, he’s got two cups in his hands, and he glides easily around to the edge of the door to bump it closed with his elbow, careful not to spill a drop from either drink. Will watches him, in what feels a bit like admiration, as he steps carefully up the rest of the drive towards the porch, drowning inside a much too large black hoodie, his torso nothing more than a ghostly suggestion. Overtop of that even, Mike is clad in a well worn denim jacket, the first time Will’s ever seen him (almost) dressed for the weather. Even then, the holes in the knees of his jeans contradicts his efforts, and when he finally gets close enough to Will to outstretch a hand and pass him his tea, Will can finally read the faded, clearly penned-in writing on the tiny piece of paper sandwiched between his own cup and his fingers: Green tea, plain. On the lid of his cup, Will’s eyes trace out the sight of a tiny, white inked smiley face.

Will would comment on it if he could find the breath to do so, but it feels as though it’s been stolen from him. As he reaches out, Mike surveys him, dark, sleepy eyes fixed on Will’s chest, or, more likely, his summer attire. “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure if the Bat-mobile was gonna make it up.”

Will’s fingers hover for a moment around the cup, allowing his fingers to brush the other boy’s in the process of grabbing it. His touch is fleeting, but hot, like lifting your hands to the opening of an oven. It’s much appreciated. Even through his pressing nerves, Will’s mouth curls a bit at the corners.

“TheBat-mobile?” He replies slowly, a quiet, rough little whisper as he regards the car. Mike seems to try to restrain a smile, but can’t.

“That’s her,” he replies, jutting the thumb on his now free hand back towards the vehicle. Will drops his head a bit, the cold getting to him now as expected, sending a spike of chills up his neck as he sniffles. Mike pauses at the sound of this, and when Will wipes at his nose aimlessly with the back of his hand, meeting Mike’s chocolate brown stare, he feels a bit pitiful for how poorly he’s dressed. How the tables have turned. “You look freezing.”

“Ah,” Will replies, ready to play it off at first, like most things, but Mike’s gaze is boring down on him, and he can’t find it in him. “I—well, I mean I guess I am.”

“How long have you been out here?” Mike asks.

“Too long, probably,” Will replies and, along with the weather, it’s a bit cold. Mike cocks his head and leans forward, and for a moment, Will’s stomach twists like someone’s got an iron grip on his gut. When he notices that Mike is only leaning forward to put his cup on the step, Will’s eyes dart between his drink, which smells strongly of black coffee, and Mike himself.

“W-What’re you doing?” he asks, and the shudder in his voice is further condemning. Mike cranes his shoulders back a bit, beginning to shrug off his jean jacket.

“Saving you from hypothermia,” he answers promptly, as though he were doing something as simple as washing the car or throwing in a load of laundry. Will is glad the cold has already taken a greedy liking to the skin of his cheeks, because he does blush, even if he’d die before admitting it.

“Please don’t,” he croaks quickly, raising his good hand’s palm away from his stomach in protest. Mike furrows his brows, not ceasing his actions. Will, a bit flustered, raises up his cast as a wordless explanation. That doescatch Mike’s attention, thank God, though the look in his eyes is almost worst than Will imagines the pain of trying to slip that jacket on would be. It’s a bit glassy, a flash of intrigue and muddled worry, and then, for a moment, complete unhappiness. And then, all those emotions, crammed into one tiny glance, drift away, and all that is left in Mike’s eyes is a sparkle of confused, pitiful understanding as he reluctantly brings the jacket back up over his shoulders.

I should have just taken the coat, Will thinks, his own face spread with a bit of regret.It would have hurt less than seeing him looking at me like I’m a broken antique.

“Won’t fit,” is all Will says in explanation. Mike shifts his footing a bit, nervous in his composure, eyes never leaving Will’s face as he dips back in to grab his coffee from the step.

“Forgot,” he replies slowly, taking an uninterested sip, his voice numbed but present. He licks at his chapped lips, giving Will a bit of heart ache in turn. “You and your double life. Out fighting resident douchebags.”

Will wants to laugh. All he can manage is a tiny little smile, his father’s presence indoors looming like some sort of dead weight on his shoulders, but he still smiles, albeit sadly. Mike smiles, too, and it’s understanding. The mood isn’t right for you, it says. I don’t know why but I don’t mind. That, in itself, is terrifying.

“Cool cast they gave you, anyways,” Mike tries again with the lack of footing Will is giving him, a mountain climber without a harness, hanging by a thread. Then, he adds, almost painful itself— “It looks like it hurts.”

The statement isn’t necessary— of course it hurts. Part of Will wonders if maybe Mike is trying to fill a silence he doesn’t need to. That same part of him wishes Mike could just exist in this silence without that nagging feeling inside the back of Will’s brain. Deep in his conscious, like a lightening bolt, a thought blasts through his mind as he gazes up at the boy before him, eyes distant and struggling.

God, please don’t make him leave. Why can’t you just let him stay?

Just let him stay.

That presence, that black glow from indoors persists, and with every passing second, Will feels a bit sicker to his stomach. He drops one foot down to a lower stoop, tapping the heel of his red shoe against the wood beneath him. Don’t lie. You don’t need tolie.Then, simply—

You don’t need to lie to Mike.

Dropping his gaze to the boy’s shoes, Will eyes the faint ballpoint pen writing against the toe, a bleeding and fading ‘Maxine Rulez’.

“It really does,” he admits, nudging a bit of snow off the bottom step with the toe of his shoe. He doesn’t look back up at Mike, but the subtle yet noticeable tensing in his stance does something inexplicable inside of Will’s heart, lighting up it’s frigid interior like a match to gasoline. “Pretty bad, yeah.”

Mike drives the toe of his shoe into the thin skim of snow beneath him. There is a beat, and somewhere else, a bird whistles through the trees.

Then, snapping the veil of silence in two, Mike kicks a couple frozen pebbles out of his way. “Can I sign it?”

Will tips his head up, eyes darting from Mike to his cast, bulky and obnoxious in a pristine white wrap around his wrist. The idea brings a fluttering sensation to the confines of his ribcage. “W— yeah, go for it. But, er— I don’t—“

Mike is holding up a hand before Will can finish, flicking that flat palmed gesture into a finger gun as he steps back and twists around to face that car. “No pen? What kind of artist are you, Byers? Hold on—“ he assures Will, waving a hand. It is here that Will notices, a stickler for details (and Mike Wheeler has a lot of them), the single, darkly polished ring fingernail on Mike’s right hand. Something about that strikes an chord in his electric heart.

Mike, taking tentative steps like a gazelle traipsing through snake infested grass, hurries as much as he can back to his car and pops the door open once more. Whipping the hair away from his eyes, the boy leans inside, craning over his seat as he digs a writing utensil out of the console. Will thinks Mike’s definitely got anything a human being could possibly need in that car, and yet he manages to keep it neat. “A-ha—“ Mike chirps softly as he untangles himself from his position over the front seats, heels landing eagerly in the snow again as he straights and shuts the door with a sugary sweet click, fiddling with the pen in his hand as he toddles back over. Utensil between his fingers, Mike’s brows flicker upwards as he gestures to something Will can’t see before them.

“You mind?” Mike asks.

“Huh?”Can you say anything else? A sheepish smile crosses Mike’s lips.

“Sit,” he explains in a statement of caveman-esque detail, one blatant word as he takes a step towards the step. Then: “Can Isit, I mean?”

Will swallows thickly, and nods, of course, watching as Mike dips his head and smiles meagrely. As he seats himself down on the subtly damp spot next to Will, their knees knocking delicately together, Will offers his arm out weakly, too shy to throw it across Mike’s lap directly. Mike, of course, is too nervous to touch it— understandably, but in the next few dragging moments, the two boys come to some sort of middle ground— Will resting his undamaged elbow gently against Mike’s knee cap as the boy leans into his work, eyes fixed on the wrapping, etching each letter carefully into the surface of the cast in red Sharpie. The silence between them grows and swells like a boat taking on water, and Will, arm shaking ever so slightly, thinks he might just drown in it. As Mike drops his free knee down so he can rest his heel against the dirt drive, however, he parts his lips, whispering as he’s working, and Will can barely read the words ‘Hawkins’ Resident Superhero’ penned in red before Mike catches him off guard again.

“You seem a little off,” he hums, dotting the ‘i’ in Hawkins with a tiny x. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

When Will doesn’t answer (because he doesn’t quite know how), Mike peeks over at him. Will can see it, even out of the corner of his eye. Just to give Mike something to run with, a most honest answer if he were to give one, Will responds: “I don’t know if I really want to.”

Because it’s true. Will isn’t keen on approaching this with Mike. Just skipping over the skirting and beating around the bush and telling him that this was most definitely related to him. That— hey, it’s no big deal, those dickheads were making fun of you and I got myself expelled for punching half of his pearly whites out because he called you a loser.

He called me so much worse, but he called you a loser. Emotions are funny sometimes, aren’t they?

Will won’t say that. But he can’t find it in him to boldly lie to the boy, either. So this is where he settles. Indecisively, right in the middle. Mike snickers nervously, his laugh anything but humorous.

“That bad?” he asks, his voice low and concentrated on the tiny little lightning bolt he’s now doodling next to his ‘signature’, if you could call it that. He caps the pen, glancing up at Will who, though he’s been sitting in silence for the past few seconds, hasn’t come up with a pliable answer.

“Just some people being jerks,” is what he settles on. Mike, gaze fixed on his complexion, finally tears his eyes away, driving the pen into his coat pocket along with his paling, pink tinged hands. The sudden urge to snatch Mike’s palms up into his own and warm them hits Will like a steam train, but he doesn’t budge. If anything, he stiffens. He couldn’t warm them anyways. He’s froze.

“Somepeople, huh?” Mike repeats, sounding particularly parental, allowing Will to withdraw his casted arm back into his own lap. Mike leans into his knees, jacket-clad elbows driving into the flesh of his thighs gently. His head droops down a bit. Tired. He looks tired, to put it lightly. Then, he adds: “These people got names?”

Squaring his shoulders, the cold that runs through the entirety of Will’s being isn’t only due to the weather and his lack of proper dress. Without control, he blurts, softly, too quickly—

“Does it matter?— I don’t think it does.”

Of course it matters. If anything in this situation matters the most, it’s who did it and why. Surely Mike must know this too, because that mop head of curls twists a bit to the side, and then shakes back in forth with disagreement, accompanied by a dry, plain, airy little laugh. Mike turns an arm over and opens up his palm, shifting his torso to face Will. When the two finally look at each other head on, Will can sense the disbelief in Mike’s face in his parted lips, his furrowed brows, his stare— a stare that asks, wordlessly: Are you kidding me? That polished finger gleams.

“W—“ he tries, lips curled into an ‘o’, but that fleeting little grin his back in an instant, and it’s startled. When Will doesn’t budge, doesn’t add, doesn’t even smileback because he feels more sick than gleeful— then, Mike’s grin falters into realization.

“What do you mean does it matter?” he repeats, emphasis dragging on the last word. Then, thumb driving the tiny silver ring on his middle finger into a forced spin, Mike bites at the inside of his cheek. “Of course it matters.”

Will drops his gaze back down to the aged wooden plank beneath his feet. Mike’s gaze never moves. When he fully understands that Mike has nothing else to add, Will squares his jaw, and whispers: “I knocked his teeth out.”

Glancing at Mike, Will feels his hear fly up into his throat, crushing itself between his overworked windpipes. Mike’s jaw has half dropped, not staged and dramatic— a genuine slacking of the muscles. Swallowing thickly, like his mouth had been chock full of cement, Will’s eyes dart from Mike’s visage to the muddied snow before them. “There’s nothing else that needs to be done.”

Mike leans forward a touch, both towards the driveway and towards Will, like he’s about to share a secret. Will, jade green eyes frenzied and embarrassed, peers quickly back at him. Mike is staring at him like a third eyeball has just sprouted in the centre of his forehead, goat-pupilled and blinking dumbly.

Flustered, Will exhales, and it almost sounds like a shudder. “W-What?”

“You—“ Mike begins, slowly, sounding the word out like he’s reading for the first time ever. His lips part a bit further, a confused little noise escaping his throat, before he blinks a couple times and sits back, leaning his flushed, likely freezing cheek into his palm. And then he’s laughing— softly, only a dull chuckle for a fraction of a second, but still laughing, and then he’s looking at Will. Really looking at him, almost looking through him. Will, turning his face downwards, in a blind haze, almost thinks he sees admiration in Mike’s stare.

“Wow,” he finally says, or exhales, rather, like an astounded child. Then, softly; “Okay. Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“So they must have done something pretty shitty to you.”

Will can feel his blood pressure rising like a thermometer level, and he’s sure if he could check it, the levels would be skyrocketing. He doesn’t know how else to say it, so he reiterates. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

Will’s words are like an angular piece of jagged wood being driven between the two of them. It cracks open a fresh can of tension, the knowledge that Will isn’t telling the full truth soaking into the two boys like water to a sponge.  It’s a long moment before either of them speaks again, Mike with his head down, avoiding Will’s gaze, even if it isn’t on him. He’s the first one to speak again, right in tune with the sudden whistle of the trees blowing around.

“Don’t shut me out.”

It startles Will— not because Mike has shouted it or anything. Rather, he’s mumbled it so faintly that Will actually cranes a little bit closer without thinking about it. His cheeks, wind-whipped and crimson, sting in the cold.

“Huh?” Will whispers back.

“I said don’t shut me out,” Mike responds eagerly, as if he knew he was going to be asked. He turns his head back up as he’s speaking, catching Will’s eyes with a stiff stare. He looks wounded— not like he’s just lost someone he loves, but more like he’s got the knowledge that he’s about to. “Okay? I want to help.”

This is the stake through Will’s heart, killing him. This is the distant shatter of glass and the later knowledge that Will has fucked up, and nicely, too. This is the statement that rolls him haphazardly into a shallow grave and buries him. This is the one that hurts the most. Because that shadow hangs over them, waiting to strike, and Will knows Mike means what he’s saying, on some level. It just hurts that—

“You can’t help,” Will whispers back, letting his head hang a bit, the dull headache of knowing what he needs to do throbbing behind his eyes. Mike shifts a bit, stretching forward a bit before he eases himself up off of the step, dusting off the back of his thighs. Habit.

“Maybe I can,” he offers, back to Will for a moment as he draws his shoulders up, fishing a lighter out of his pocket. He grabs a cigarette from his pack, lights it, and smokes it. At least, that’s what he’s intending to do when Will reaches his cap, stress bubbling off of him like hot tar in the sun, and he blurts, aimlessly, without really wanting to but knowing that he needs to:

“I really just need you to go, Mike.”

Mike does get his smoke lit by the time Will says this, but when he turns back around and peers down at Will with a bewildered look of sad confusion, it’s pretty clear that he’s charred the side of the cigarette in the process. It sticks limply from the corner of his mouth. A dribble of smoke drifts from the boy’s lips before he removes it.

“Y—“ Mike begins, his face stunned for a moment before a tiny, fretful little smile crosses his lips. When Will doesn’t take it back, doesn’t pull an ‘I’m joking’, that smile falters.

“Wait— what?” Mike murmurs.

“I just need you to go,” Will repeats, this time a bit more sure, which isn’t much of a step up from being not sure at all. He doesn’t elaborate, mostly because he can’t. He doesn’t have a good reason, or at least a reason he can tell Mike.

Mike, who always knows too much without being told, stares at Will for a moment in peculiar silence, before he twists the smoke between his fingers, where it will likely stay (away from his mouth). Then, like he just knows, Mike glances past Will and upwards at the house, eyes glittering like diamonds. Will is struck, even by this harmless motion, with a strong wave of fear, and he darts his head back too quickly to be subtle, frightened to find that his father might be looking outdoors at them. When he finds no such thing, Will turns forward again, hand throbbing tightly in his cast, and though his face is already dark from the winter cold, his cheeks blaze red again as Mike looks from the house front back to Will, understanding swimming to the surface inside of his stare.

“What’s up,” he asks, less of a casual question and more of a demand for an explanation. “Did something happen?”

Will’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he croaks, his resolve crumbling a little bit. “My broken handhappened.”

It’s not meant to be sharp, and surely Will doesn’t want to be, but the look on Mike’s face is a bit hurt. He tips his head to the side, eyes following that movement as he he peers out towards the lawn, snowy, patchy, untouched.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mike mumbles, discarding his hardly smoked cigarette in the slush as he drives his hands into his pockets swiftly, every movement bunchy and nervous. Will wonders if this is stressing Mike out just as much as it’s stressing him. He doesn’t think such a thing is possible. Nobody in the world, let alone Indiana, is as stressed as Will Byers right now.

“Nothing happened,” Will deflects, his voice slick and stoic, trying to be emotionless but doing the opposite. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Mike nudges at the snow with his boot. “You’re being wei—“

“Can you just please go?” Will cuts into Mike’s sentence, and it wakes him a moment to repeat himself, because when he speaks— when he speaks the first time, Mike actually jumps slightly, startled by the subtle but sudden rise in Will’s voice. Then, painfully, Will repeats: “Just please— listen to me and go?”

The air has grown heavy, thick and dripping around the two of them like candle wax. Mike stares at Will, all while Will stares into the snow between his shoes, stares at the deep red tips of his fingers, stares at the mist in the air. Stares at anything but Mike, because if he looks at the boy, it’s going to be game over. He’ll say never mind, just come inside instead, better yet, let’s both leave together, and then not come back. If he looks at Mike, this is surely what will happen.

So he stares at the ground.

And when Mike responds— “You want me to— yeah, sure. Okay.”— Will doesn’t look up. And when Mike steps away much later, more like twenty seconds after the demand, giving it a grace period, a chance for Will to change his mind— he doesn’t look up. It’s only when Mike has drifted all the way back to his car, when he calls out Will’s name again, that the boy finally lifts his head.

“Will?”

His voice is sweet, desirable, but sad. Worried. Afraid. Everything that Will wants to take away from Mike is there, soaked inside of his words. And it’s Will’s fault.

Isn’t it?

“What?” he asks, from the step, his voice hardly audible, but Mike hears it, hears it just fine. Will does peer over at him, and he sees Mike standing by the open driver’s door, hand on the rim, staring back at him with something pleading inside his gaze. He won’t ever realize it, but a piece of him leaves with Mike then, and though he will see the boy again, of course, of course— it never comes back.

“I’ll see you soon, right?” Mike asks, truly asks, and for the first time in a while, Will lies. Not because he wants to. Not because he knows he’s lying. He only lies, of course— because he doesn’t know what the truth it.

“Sure,” he replies, eyes fixed on Mike now, begging him not to leave but knowing he has to. “Soon.”

Mike looks like he wants something more sure, dwindling a moment before he finally turns and climbs back into his car. And Will doesn’t know if he’s thankful for Mike leaving him alone, or angry that he’s listened. More thankful, he decides. Surely. And not angry. He didn’t have much anger for Mike, and the bit he had expelled before was merely a fluke. He wasn’t angry. He was scared. He still is. He won’t stop being scared for a long time.

There is a period of nothingness, where Mike is beyond hearing him, that Will wants to call out and tell him to stay instead, but the sudden chime of the vehicle’s engine drowns that thought out completely. Will wonders if in some way, a person can sense that they’ve made a wrong decision before anything chaotic happens because of said choice. He doesn’t know, and he likely never will. He does know, however, that as he watches Mike’s car cruise out of sight, he’s made a badchoice. Will it turn out to be wrong? He can’t be sure.

But it is wrong. Regardless of outcome. It’s put Mike out of Will’s reach.

Doesn’t that automatically make it the wrong choice?

Chapter Text

Once you’ve built up a habit, it’s hard to shake it.

This goes for most things. Somebody who showers every single day might feel out of place if on random undetermined intervals, they missed their daily shower. If you were somebody who incessantly chewed your nails down to a nub, it would feel exceptionally strange to have them grow all the way out and interferewith the things you do. Habits are hard to break, and most of the time, people don’t want to break them.

Mike, for the past two months, has been a habit for Will. A daily one, and one which he very much would like to keep up. Which is why it’s so abominably criminalthat Will hasn’t seen him for almost two weeks.

He hears from him, sure, but that’s hardly the same thing as looking Mike in the face and speaking to him right in the moment, seeing his reactions, the quirks of his lips at Will’s spotty little jokes. Will’s never been one to do drugs, hell, he’s never even smoked pot, though he’s sure that both Dustin and Lucas have, and he’s sure Mike has too, most likely. But suddenly, without the boy, he feels a bit like he’s in withdrawal from something of the same stature. An addict without his tools, aimless and stumbling through his days without some sort of grounding pull to keep him on the straight and narrow. Without Mike, things start to bleed, and because they are bleeding, Will finds he’s forced to wonder why. He’s not gone— no, not really. He’s just away. But isn’t that the same thing? Being away feels just as bad.

Why does it feel just as bad? Why does it feel so bad at all?

That is the first time Will really, really has too much time on his hands, to the point where he begins to question this— this urge.

He tells himself it’s just the habit of it. That it feels different not seeing Mike almost every single day, not being around him consistently so suddenly. And of course, he’s got a point, and to an extent, he’s right. But he won’t even realize that he’s just breached the tip of the iceberg until halfway through this extended stretch of absence. He won’t even be forced to pinpoint it until the brisk, sunny morning of February 9^th. It’s a Friday, but that’s hardly exciting beyond any other day in the past two weeks. Will hasn’t been at school, anyways.

Being suspended surely isn’t as fun as Will had anticipated it would be. He’d expected that he would be enjoying all this free time off, all this time to work at his own pace and not worry about the assholes at his school. Rather, the time seems to envelope him, sucking him into a black pit of boredom with nothing to do during the day but meander around his home, go for lengthy walks in town, or take naps. He finds he’s watching old movies he hadn’t even heard of before on the sci-fi channels, films that they screen for the type of people who have nothing to do during the day— retirees, old folks, that sort of thing. The black and white kind— not very riveting, but charming, nevertheless. Still— there is certainly nothing to do. And the morning of the ninth, after packing his things for the weekend and sitting down to catch the last few moments of Krakatit, Will decides to call Mike.

It’s hardly a decision, but rather a subconscious choice. He’s drifting out towards the front door, towards the outdoors, towards the car where his older brother waits for him when his eyes fall upon the home phone, strung up on the wall, an off white sheen like bone that gleams in the light that pours in from the curtains. It’s not half bad out— it had actually snowed the night before, and the ground is still blanketed in a thin layer of it. For once, the rain isn’t blasting through the snow and turning it into soupy, murky slush. At least, not immediately. Will regards this as a sign, or maybe, he convinces himself that it is so he can step towards the phone with purpose. Regardless, he approaches it— hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder a bit further as he stares at the thing.

His fingers tremble as he types in the number. And lets it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring, until eventually, he understands that nobody is coming, and the voicemail kicks in.

There isn’t even a customized voice recording— just a generic, bot-like voice and a beep for the answering machine. That speaks for itself. It takes Will a heavy moment just to understand that he is, right now, supposed to leave a message and not just a trailing minute or two of silence. So, choking on his breath (quite literally, as he clears his throat), Will begins to rush a message.

“Hey, Mike,” he begins, casually, like he’s just dropping in for a chat. “It’s Will— er— Will Byers. But… ah, I’m sure you know that—“

This is starting bad already. Will can feel the words bubbling in the back of his throat, begging to be released, but there are too many of them at once, and he thinks maybe they’re all going to end up dribbling from his lips like a hot, garbage-y mess.

“Listen, I was just calling to, uh— (where do I begin?)—see if you’re doing alright. It’s been a few days, and I haven’t heard from you, so— I don’t know,” Will croaks softly, his voice timid and quiet, like he knows how clingy and embarrassing he sounds. He shuts his eyes as though that might help.

“I just thought I’d call. See if you’re busy. Maybe… you know, if you’re not… you’d like to go on a drive? With me? Or just— go do something. Or come over. They’re playingBack to the Future tonight if— if you wanted to come see it with me. Ah— anyways. Call me back, er, at the same number you called on— on New Years. Okay?”

There is a moment where Will lingers, hoping that maybe the calls are being screened in a selfish way, hoping that Mike will suddenly yank the phone off his receiver and belt a ‘wait!’into the mic. But he doesn’t. There is nobody there but Will, and the almost corporeal presence of loneliness that drips off of him like spring rain. So he opens his eyes once more.

And then he’s hanging up the phone on nobody, but my, the pressure in his chest sure makes him feel like he’s hanging up on God himself. 

He doesn’t even notice, this time, that he’s gotten a bit teary eyed. He notices how upset he seems to be, how shaky he is, by the time he trickles out to the car, but by then, there’s really nothing to be done about it. He just shuts the back door on the sight of his backpack in the seat and climbs into the front, letting himself drown in small talk with his brother about college and the weather and what their mother might be cooking for dinner. Just letting it smother him until he’s almost positive he can’t possibly think about Mike anymore.

Almost is the keyword. Because, of course— he does.

-

“Christ,” Dustin says when he sees Will for the first time in what’s felt like a century, resting a packet on the coffee table in Joyce’s living room as he takes a seat, ogling at the cast. “That’s a fuckin’ doozy.”

“Don’t I know it,” Will murmurs lightly from his spot on the couch across from the boy. He’d been sitting here for a good solid hour before the two boys had shown up, school having just been let out in the past little while. The days, at this point, have been bleeding together for a bit now. Everything has gotten a little bit grayer, not in a particularly sad way, but in a boring way. As much as he likes drawing, likes writing on occasion, too— one can only draw so much before his hands get restless. And so he’d found himself here— sitting easily on the couch, slumped like he’s made of nothing more than molasses. Rain clouds loom dauntingly overhead, they have been for a few hours now, but the sun still peers out from between the thick cottony layers of them every now and then, like it’s debating whether it should show itself.

“Does it hurt?” Dustin asks, like a curious child, leaning forward a bit on his kneecaps. He threads his bandaid-ed fingers together, eyeing Will’s cast like he wants to poke it to make sure it’s real. From behind him, as he sets his bag against the backwards facing leg of the couch, Lucas sighs predictively, taking a seat next to Dustin. Like he’d been expecting that.

“What kind of question is that?” Lucas scolds Dustin lightly, to which Dustin only rolls his eyes, further slouching his posture. “’Course it hurts. It’s broken.”

“It’s not too bad, honestly,” Will assures them with a weak little smile. He adjusts himself a bit, leaning into the arm rest and bringing his legs up onto the cushion next to him. His cast, as puffy and annoying as ever, rests easily against his right thigh. “It’s gotten a lot better,” he admits. He’s not lying— for the past few days, there has been noticeably less pain.

Now, if he could just get the cast off and forget that it had ever happened: that would be fantastic.

“Oh, good!” Dustin chirps softly. His demeanor is expressive as it usually is, but jeez, if something doesn’t feel slightly off. Slightly over the top. Maybe Lucas notices it too, because when Will glances over at him, just a glance, Lucas is already looking at him. When caught, he looks away, down at the packet on the table, reaching up to fix his shirt collar but— for that split moment— he’d almost looked a little bit apologetic.

There is a moment of silence, the cheery undertone in Dustin’s voice doing nothing to help it, before he picks up again, reaching out and tapping the edge of the table once, softly.

“Not to be a bummer,” he begins, his tone contradictory, “but I brought your work for you. Not too much, really. Just some worksheets and like, a book report, or something.”

“Thanks,” Will replies immediately, and when he realizes he sounds a bit sharp, not touching the packet, leaving it on the table and regarding it like a ticking time-bomb— he adds, loosening his shoulders, “I really do appreciate it.”

This does nothing to help the tense feeling behind their exchanges. It does nothing to keep the elephant in the room from parading in, crushing end tables and lamps and couch corners in it’s wake. The silence is too fast for any of them to stop it, and it dribbles in swiftly, heavy and thick like melting rubber. In another last ditch effort (at least, it feels like that), Dustin clears his throat and wrings his hands softly.

“You know,” he mutters, tipping his head, letting the thoughts rumble around inside his brain for a moment like tumbling dice. “Everyone’s talking about you at school.”

Lucas juts out his elbow, catching Dustin right in the rib. It’s not meant to hurt him—in fact, it hardly connects, but Dustin still lets out a tiny noise of feigned pain.

“Dustin—“ Lucas mutters quietly under his breath, as if Will isn’t directly across from the two of them, feeling like a fly on the wall, for Christ’s sake. Dustin, never subtle, turns his arm over, dropping his hand, open palmed, in questioning.

“What?” he snaps back quietly, practically stage whispering. Will brings his knees up a bit further, knotting his brows as he watches the two of them. “It’s true. They are.”

Will already knows whatpeople are talking about. So, instead of asking, he allows himself to sink a bit further back into the cushion, watching the two mildly bickering before him.

“Oh?” Will murmurs.

He’s hardly surprised, really, it’s just that he’d sort of been ignoring it; the prospect of what had happened. He’d been trying to pretend that it just hadn’thappened. Tried to switch up the memory and replace it with something that hadn’t even taken place— which, of course, isn’t really possible. And now he’s left to face it again, watching as Dustin and Lucas cease their pathetic attempts at concealed conversation and turn towards Will, heads whipping up a touch almost like meerkats.

Dustin feigns an embarrassed smile, but it comes off more as a grimace.

“Okay— that sounds bad, probably,” he admits, drawing his arm back in and cupping his elbow, likely to keep himself from fidgeting. “What I mean is, they’re talking about you, but like, in a good way. You know?”

Will doesn’t know, clearly, so he shakes his head, a bit numbly at that. People in Hawkins don’t talk about gay rumors without drilling that same, unregulated slur into their hate speeches. That’s another thing too— it’s never just talk.

It’s always hate speech. Hawkins sometimes feels like it has one opinion— and it’s not a nice one.

When Dustin senses that Will isn’t following, he shifts a little, eyes dropping to the floor before he glances back up again.

“It’s easy,” he says with a minute little shrug, untucking his hand moments later to do exactly what he’d been trying not to. He fusses with the cuff of his flannel mindlessly as he speaks. “People think you’re a regular hotshot for punching that prick Devon Langford in the mouth.”

Will is rightfully stunned, but he still looks a bit foolish when his eyes widen as much as they do. Even Lucas cracks a tiny smile, watching Will with a content but curious eye.

Will doesn’t know what to say. All he can settle on is something that is almost entirely a lie.

“People likeLangford,” Will utters, watching as Dustin drops his gaze, snickering like Will’s just told the funniest, most inappropriate joke he’s heard in a long while.

“Yeah,” Lucas interjects weakly, turning his hand over, surveying the lines in his own palm, “because they were intimidated by him.” He sneaks a peek at Will, gaze shimmering with some sort of appreciation. “Now they aren’t. Because of you.”

Will probably shouldn’t smile at such a prospect, but he does, even if it’s secretive and slight. He, too, lets his gaze drift from Dustin and Lucas, eyeing the carpet, unable to look at the two any longer without busting into a prideful little grin. He restrains it, glancing down into the white flesh of his cast, eyes tracing the scant, fading lines of a spaceship he’d doodled onto it a week before.

“He had it coming,” Will assures the two of them, shrugging meagerly. The pride in his chest boils like lava. “Anyone could have done it.”

And it’s true, really. Hell, anyone could have done itbetter, Will thinks. He knows that. But Dustin still shakes his head a touch in response.

“Sure,” he admits, watching Will, “but you did it. You’re the hero.”

Now, Will smiles, apple cheeked and squinty-eyed, turning his face away to hide the look of clear flattery on his face. He parts his lips slightly, his smile escaping from his visage like air squealing out of a balloon. It’s hard to try not to smile. Even harder than trying not to cry, for example.

“St-ooop…”

“No, for real,” Dustin tacks on hurriedly, leaning back finally, loosening up with the intensity, nudging Lucas for backup who, in turn, bites back a smile and glances away towards the wall, like he’s trying not to laugh. “You should see the fucker. Parading around with his new falsies, grinning at everyone like a hyena. Really showing them off, but nobody wants to give him the time of day. It’s goddam hilarious. You’d really get a kick out of it.”

If you weren’t expelled, Will finishes inside of his head. “Sounds rich,” is what he says out loud, a sad smile curling against his lips as he glances across the coffee table at the two boys. The conversation, for a sheer moment, had been almost blissfully ignorant— impartial to the elephant in the room, still trampling everything, ready to crush Will at any moment. For a second, it hadn’t even been there. But like a needle stuck sharply into a flush of skin, it’s slowly dribbling back into the air, injecting the three of them with a sense of impending dread. Will doesn’t actually know if the boys feel it too. But he thinks maybe it’s too strong of a sensation for them not to.

“You’re a hero,” Dustin adds, quieter now, smug. He rests a palm against his thigh, eyes fixed on something Will can’t see; nothing important. “A hero, I say.”

“I’m on a late spring break, is what I am,” Will offers back, his tone a bit sullen. Even Lucas notices the change, though he seems to make an effort of not reacting too strongly, only quirking his head a bit in Will’s direction. Dustin’s face falls only slightly.

“That can’t be too bad, right?” he asks. It’s an open ended question— it doesn’t need an answer, but maybe there should be one. Because the silence that blows through the room right after it is cold, blistering cold, and Will wishes he had answered. The elephant continues it’s destruction. They’re all aware of it now. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d let them stretch it out a bit further, but he hadn’t. And now there’s really nothing else to address. Nothing else to skirt around it with.

Now Will’s gay, as he always has been, but they’re all acutely aware of it. Or at least, aware of the prospect of it. And now Will can feel the unasked questions soaking into him like he’s a sponge. How did Devon know? Didhe know? Do you know? And how?

Well, that’s a good one. Because Will wouldn’t know how to answer that one if they decided to ask it.

They don’t ask any of those, not exactly. And they certainly don’t start in on him that way. They start much easier, and it’s Dustin who starts— not leaning forward, not to show intrigue. If anything, leaning back slightly, like he’s craning away from an impending explosion.

Everything does explode. Inside of Will’s brain in half a second of invisible, colliding thoughts and understanding and realization that he can’t avoid this anymore. And it explodes at the exact moment that Dustin clears his throat and finally, finally asks—

“So— is it true?”

It’s so painfully obvious whatDustin is asking— what itis referring to. Yet, still, stagnant on the couch like he’s been frozen in place, Will, after a good, heavy moment of contemplation, parts his lips.

“Is—“

“What he said,” Dustin clarifies, not giving Will the hassle of having to wiggle it out of him even if he wasn’t going to try anyways. He rolls the heel of his socked foot against the carpet softly, like he’s trying to work out a kink. “Is it true?”

Will parts his lips once more, to respond, genuinely, but Lucas’ voice cuts in.

“Not what he said,” he adds, though he doesn’t need to. Will gets it— you could practically drink the tension in the room of you placed a straw between your lips and sucked. “Certainly not like that.”

“No,” Dustin agrees, the two of them battling with themselves and, seemingly, each other, over who can spill out the most meaningless chatter. “Not like that. Just… the idea of it. Is… is it true?”

Again, Will opens his mouth.

“You don’t have to answer,” Lucas assures him, earning a faint, unimpressed little scoffing noise out of Will. He must have interpreted this wrong, because he immediately straightens and raises his fingers off of his kneecap.

“You don’t even have to talk about it, honestly—“

“Yes,” Will finally responds, dropping the hundred-ton weight off his shoulders.

Shrinking that elephant in the room to the size of a mouse, or a pinhead. Yes. He responds, quick, so he can get it in, and so he doesn’t have to hear Lucas and Dustin try to give him an exit anymore. He doesn’t want an exit out out of admitting it. He only wants a doorway he can barge through, screaming about it.

His entrance comes in the form of the silence that follows, because it is as thick as mud, and it completely suffocates the three of them. But it’s out there— the yes. The admission. It’s been released from his chest like a bird trapped in a cage, and Will, whether they decide to get up and leave, yell at him, chastise him, what have you— is fucking relieved.

He doesn’t think he has to say it, even if he wouldn’t mind doing so. But Lucas sits forward a touch, eyes trained on Will like he’s waiting to read the winning numbers in a lottery draw.

“Yeah what?” he asks dumbly.

Lucas isn’t stupid. Everybody knows that, even people that aren’t fond of him, but certainly Will knows that. Which means maybe he just wants to hear Will say it for good measure.

Instead of doing that, though, Will just lets his hand fall flush against his kneecap, injured fingers emitting a low throb of pain.

“Yeah, it’s true. Those things.”

Those things.

You know, the gaythings.

That does shut them up for a moment, silence returning, if only for a few fleeting seconds before the two of them, pretty much unanimously, respond.

“Oh,” from Dustin.

“Wow, okay— cool,” from Lucas.

Will would laugh, and he almost does, if not for the deafeningly uncertain way that the two of them are reacting. Like waiting in a dentist’s office, the two of them lean into their knees, Dustin pressing a palm flush to the side of his face and rubbing gently, while Lucas just fusses with his hands. They both keep their eyes pinned to the floor now, like they don’t want to look at Will. Or maybe they don’t want Will to hate them for looking. Either way, they sit like two shunned children, waiting to be scolded by a principal. Then, thumbing the side of his face, and squaring his shoulders, Dustin clears his throat quietly, dropping his head to the side a bit.

“Thought so,” he murmurs under his breath.

Quickly— quicker than Will has ever seen him react— Lucas’ head whips upwards and he lays a another sharp jab into Dustin’s arm, receiving a hiss of pain in response. That one did hurt.

“Dustin!”

—What?

Will’s lips feel bone dry, and as his eyes dart between the two, he can feel embarrassment creeping up across his cheeks. He repeats that thought out loud, but it sounds so much more hollow and tiny.

“What?” he croaks, his brows furrowed, waiting for an explanation rather impatiently. Dustin glances across the coffee table at him, his face both simultaneously pale as a sheet of paper and flushed a violent, embarrassed red.

“I mean—I— well, hah— we kinda thought so,” he explains, his voice a bit shaky, like he understands the implications of his words. Bringing his cast closer to his chest, Will’s eyes dart between Lucas, who has resorted to covering his face with his hands, and Dustin, who is now gazing down at the floor with a wash of colour spreading over his cheeks.

“Thought so what?” Will demands quietly, gaze never faltering, asking even if he knows the answer. Dustin shifts awkwardly.

“You know—“

“Jesus…” Lucas mutters in the middle of Dustin’s words, rubbing his hands downwards as he drops them back into his lap, face full of disbelief. Will almost feels like a kid whose parents are trying to figure out how to crack it on him that they’re getting a divorce.

God, he knows what they’re talking about. He just doesn’t want to believe it.

“You—“ Will pauses, shutting his mouth blinking back the mildly offended tone in his voice. Then, softly, shutting his eyes, he exhales: “You thought so? You— what!?”

Neither of the boys speak, but when Will opens his eyes, Dustin places a hand against the side of his neck anxiously.

“I had a hunch,” he replies briskly. Then, almost immediately, Lucas lifts his head.

“—Yeah,” he admits slowly, rubbing the palm of his left hand, eyes darting everywhere before finally settling on Will. “We’ve… uh, we’ve talked about it.”

That breaks Will out of his bubble. His eyes widen, his posture stiffens, and his hand, rather, his goodhand, turns over— open and questioning, like the way his lips part in stunned, unfiltered response.

“You’ve—“ Pause, Will. Breathe. He does just that, then decides, ultimately, that it isn’t helping. Swallowing tightly, he continues. “You’ve th—“

The words don’t seem to want to come out, so, with a bit of an exasperated sigh, he manages to croak: “Okay, based on what!”

Neither of them seem to want to answer at first. But, as per usual, Dustin is the first one to speak.

“Well, we’ve asked you if you’re interested in any girls at school before. Like, back in middle school, we used to ask you that.”

“O—kay?” Will frowns.

“And you’ve always told us that you’re not interested in girls,” Lucas finishes for Dustin, like the two of them had mulled this over many times. That mere thought adds kindling to the nervous fire inside of Will’s chest. Stammering for a moment, he shakes his head wickedly, settling back into the couch.

“Because I wasn’t!” Will assures them, glancing between them like he’s trying to see if they’re understanding his point. “We were like, what— thirteen?”

“Remember when Hanna Gorman asked you to the dance last year?” Dustin continues regardless, scratching aimlessly behind his ear. Lucas reacts to this only slightly; raising his brows, leaning back.

“Sure,” Will mutters, smoothing his palm shakily over his knee. “And?”

“And you totally brushed her off?” Lucas finishes. For a moment, Will swears they must have coordinated this back-and-forth.

Will’s lips part momentarily, then slam closed, like he’s trying to keep himself from spilling something secret. Of course— it isn’t a secret anymore. He doesn’t even quite know why he’s trying to combat it.

“W—Well, yeah,” he replies through a slight huff, doing his best not to roll his eyes. “She’s… she wasn’t my type.”

“Clear-ly,” Dustin chirps back almost immediately, his voice raised a touch, more comfortable. He must be, because he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and adds: “She’s a girl.”

The silence in the room that follows this statement is brief, but heavy. That statement echoes against Will’s very being, prompting his mouth to drop open, eyes widening, staring at Dustin like he’s just been slapped blindly right across the face. Even Lucas seems taken aback by it— tensing up, eyes darting away, back of his hand reaching upwards to shield his lips. For a moment— all is still.

And then Lucas, who is usually the most well composed out of the three, snorts with laughter that he’d been trying to curb. And that— well, that just about breaks each of them into pieces.

It brings tears to their eyes— good tears. The hard laughing sort of tears. Will had been ready for both kinds, the bad and the good, when the two boys had called to tell Will that they were coming over that afternoon— but my, is he glad that he hadn’t felt the urge to start bawling when they’d been asking him those questions. Now— now, it is light, these tears, and they don’t really flow; only linger in their lashes. Dustin clutches at his stomach, face bright red from second hand embarrassment, cackling into his palm, while Lucas has, at this point, completely bent into his knees— covering his face as the laughter spills from him like warm honey. Will, himself, sits, still curled up in his tiny position on the couch end, eyeing the two with disbelief and amusement, the giggles escaping him like air from a balloon. And it feels nice— to laugh with these two again. To not worry. It feels nice that they know— because now they don’t have to talk about it. And if they do, well… it won’t be as scary as before. It’ll be good.

Hell, it is good.

“Fuck off, the both of you,” Will manages to choke out after a moment’s notice, his laughter clouding his speech, making him sound so much less serious than he could. Their snickering has begun to die down, though a few little chuckles here and there still slip out as the boys try to regain their composure. It’s here where Will feels the best— good arm wrapped around his gut like he’s trying to cage his previous laughter, warm and comfortable, out in the open, exposed but in the most easy-going way possible. It’s here, right before Dustin pipes up again, this time softer than before, that Will feels peaceful.

And then, as Lucas is resting his cheek in his palm and Dustin is leaning elbow first into his knees, the curly haired boy lifts his head, pearly blues gleaming with a touch of anxiety. It’s here that Dustin continues, briefly, in a voice too quiet for him: “You know I’m sorry— right?”

This catches Will off guard, and for a moment, he tightens his arm around his mid-section, regarding Dustin with a look of mild confusion.

“About?” Will asks softly.

Dustin lets his gaze flicker out towards the window. Will doesn’t follow his look— not yet.

“All that shit,” is how he starts. Which, of course, is painfully vague— it takes a minute for Will to catch on, but when he does, his stomach turns a little bit. “All those jokes. I shouldn’t have made them. All those times when—“

“It’s fine,” Will assures him, his voice steady and serious. He really does mean it. They’d hurt a little bit at the time, of course— but Will knows that everything Dustin had said, retrospectively crude or not, was harmless. It wasn’t intended to hurt him. Still— the boy shakes his head in response to Will’s deflection, raising his thumb to nip at the edge of his fingernail anxiously.

“It’s not fine,” Dustin replies delicately, and Will keeps his gaze steady on Dustin for another moment, just until the boy looks at him. Only then does Will finally glance outwards, peering out the window in quiet as he listens to Dustin go on, watching the slight mist that has started attacking last night’s snowfall. “But I want you to know that I’m sorry for it. It wasn’t nice of me. I know that.”

Will thinks, in a hazy moment, that this is the easiest he’s ever seen Dustin come to apologize for anything. That, itself, strikes a chord inside of him and, though he’s already done it privately in the confines of his mind— Will glances back at Dustin for just a moment, just to respond, as quietly but as confidently as Dustin has been apologizing.

“Well, I forgive you,” he admits, watching as Dustin’s shoulders slack with a touch of relief before he glances back outdoors. Dustin doesn’t say thank you— he doesn’t really need to. Will can feel his appreciation through the way that Dustin relaxes back into the couch cushion behind him. For a moment, nothing needs to be said.

It’s a nice quiet, this. After the storm, after everything chaotic has been dealt with.

Or, at least, almost. Lucas, sometimes, as he usually does, can find or see things that neither Will or Dustin can. And if there’s one question left to ask— which, of course, there is— Lucas finds it.

“So, this Mike guy,” Lucas suddenly asks, proposing a segue into the exact thing the two of them had surely been wondering. Will, eyes flickering away from the window and landing back on Lucas’ face, glimmer with an unmatchable tension. He appears to hum and haw for a few moments, and when their gazes connect, there seems to be a moment where Will understands that Lucas is waiting for him to elaborate. But there is so much to elaborate on, Will doesn’t quite know where to start.

Thank goodness Dustin seems to, because when neither of the boys complete that open-ended sentence, he straightens up.

“Is he like— actually your boyfriend, then?”

Will can’t see himself, but he knows he turns about seven shades of red in that very moment. His lips part, rushing to move and to explain and to deny, but— he hesitates. It’s only a split second of hesitation, almost not even noticeable, but hetakes notice of it. Still, he shifts forward a bit on his cushion and lets out a nervous laugh, letting his forehead drop towards the carpet, pupils blown in tune to the thumping of his heart. There is any easy answer to this, a technically right answer to this question, so that’s what he gives them.

“No,” Will replies, turning his cast over, red sharpie turned down at the floor. “He isn’t. It’s not like that.”

The boys accept that answer pretty easily. And there are a few branch-off questions that could be asked, but they don’t ask them. And there are a few off handed remarks that could be made, but neither of them dare to make one. Will is grateful for that, even through the sudden upset that is gliding easily through him. It’s not the question that makes him upset, no, and it’s not the fact that his friends are bringing up Mike in the first place, for once. It’s neither.

It’s that hesitation— momentary but still real. It’s that hesitation, between the question and the given answer. Will rubs his palms against his kneecaps gently, as if he’s trying to work the stress right out of his bones. It’s the hesitation.

Because for a moment, even if it wasn’t the right answer— Will had almost said yes.

-

The second time Will nearly cries in this same day, much later towards the night, is with his mother. It is over dinner, rather, over leftover meatloaf sitting cross legged on the couch with her, the sun still working it’s way downwards for the evening, that Mike is brought up again for the second time with Joyce.

“How’s your new friend?” she asks as she spears a tiny chunk of her food, peeking over at Will with motherly curiosity.

Will doesn’t know how to answer, is the problem. And he thinks maybe Joyce notices, because she doesn’t take her premeditated bite. She hovers, waiting, watching her son struggle a bit with a response before he forces out a clean cut little smile and whispers: “He’s good. Yeah, good.”

But is he? Will doesn’t know. He loses his appetite, and when his mother gets up to take their plates to the kitchen a few minutes later, he lets out a shuddering breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been cooping up inside of him.

- 

The last time that Will is threatened with tears on February 9^this that night, around ten o’clock, when the phone rings sharply and cuts through the heavy, sleep filled silence of the Byers’ living room.

Will, himself, isn’t asleep, though he knows that by now, his brother and certainly his mother are. He’s been laying on the couch, tangled up in a fleece blanket for the past hour, basking in the Technicolor glow of David Hasselhoff’s face on their television screen. He’d never really been the type to follow shows, but he isn’t really watching anyways. In fact, he’s dwelling, over everything and nothing at the same time, and it almost feels eerie when the phone shocks him out of his stupor just as he’s debating whether he should get up and call Mike again.

He only flies off the couch the way that he does because the phone’s bitter cry is loudand he’d like to catch it before it shrieks again, waking someone up this time. Discarding the blanket haphazardly, half on the couch and half off, Will scurries across the floor in his thick woolen socks towards the phone resting on the edge of the kitchen counter just as the second ring begins to chime. He snatches it gracefully from the receiver, pressing a heated palm to the mic as he twists back towards the hallway, illuminated by nothing but the bathroom light, left on for assistance in half asleep treks to the bathroom. He doesn’t hear a sound.

Letting out a cool breath of relief, Will glances down at the incoming caller ID, but can’t seem to see the numbers in the dark. Regardless, he un-cups the mic and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Byers residence, Will speaking,” he offers quietly, his voice nothing more than a tired creak.

For a moment, there is nothing but a weak shuffle of movement on the other end. Then, the caller clears their throat, and Will’s paper heart is lit aflame.

“Don’t you mean Byers residence, Byers speaking?” Mike suggests, though the words come out in such a foreign delivery that Will almost doesn’t recognize him. Where he once sounded dutifully warm and lighthearted, albeit tired, now Mike just— sounds tired. Just tired, maybe a touch of apathy thrown in for good measure. But it carves his words out strangely, like he’s trying to jam a puzzle piece into a spot where it just won’t fit.

Clutching the phone tight, Will glances out towards the living room. A rerun of Knight Rider plays dimly in the background.

“… Mike?”

“Hey—“ Mike begins to mutter into the other side of the call, his voice scruffy and brisk, but he cuts himself off just as quickly as he started. “Sorry, hold on—“

It’s a good thing, too. Because as Mike draws back but not back enough from the phone to speak to someone (Nancy), Will has to take a moment to compose himself. He doesn’t know why his body is having such a sudden reaction to the voice on the end of the line, but it is, and he finds he’s actually tipping his forehead into the flowery wallpaper before him and letting out a cool breath without his brain even asking for it. Subconscious, his heart fluttering like a pulsing, dying bulb. The same thing he does when he’s having a bit of an anxiety attack, only he isn’t afraid, or fearful in any sense here. He’s hardly even anxious. Only when he dwells on it, as Mike is whispering sharply to Nancy, does he realize that he’s not really having an average breakdown. He’s just overwhelmed.

He’s just excited to be hearing Mike again.

“I know,” Mike is practically stage whispering, though Will thinks maybe he just doesn’t care enough to move the phone far enough from his mouth. “—How long?— Well, I’ll make it quick, okay? Cool it.”

There is a moment of silence, a gentle murmur in the distance, then, Mike’s voice rings through the line again, and Will is reeled back in like a cod impaled on a hook.

“Sorry about that,” Mike mumbles into the phone. His voice is different, but it’s him— just a much more tired, gravelly sounding him. It sends Will mentally reeling for something to say, a hello, a ‘hey, sorry it’s been so long’ but he can’t seem to find anything to settle on. The best he can do is the least effective.

“It’s fine,” he finally croaks into the mic, thumb running along the edge of the receiver as he tips a bit to the side, leaning his shoulder into the wall. The heavenly, pearlescent glow from outdoors as the moon hovers just above the tree line is absolutely divine. Will wonders if, from where he is standing, Mike can see it too. Shutting his eyes from premeditated embarrassment, Will murmurs, half-heartedly: “You sound well.”

He doesn’t. He sounds like he’s just risen from the grave, or maybe like he’s just plowed through an entire pack of cigarettes one after the other. Either way, Mike doesn’t follow that up with any sort of witty response. He doesn’t follow it up with anything period, and so, forced to push a bit once more, Will leans back on the balls of his feet.

“… You there?”

“Yeah,” Mike cuts back in almost instantly, though his tone is still shrouded and dull, quiet like he’s just woken up. “I’m still here.”

There is silence again, and Will finds that he’s rapidly growing tired of it. Swallowing thickly, he cups his elbow with his left hand, cradling his bad arm. “You alright?”

Will actually cringes at the sound of his own voice, coming off so patronizing, so stupid and void of any substance. Are you alright? Does he sound alright?

No, he sure doesn’t. But that’s Will, and he thinks maybe in a way, Mike’s getting a taste of his own medicine, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Filling the silence between them just to fill it. It leaves a bitter taste in Will’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Mike manages to respond after a moment’s notice. Then, softly: “It’s just—“

He pauses again. For a moment, Will almost thinks the line has dropped and he hasn’t realized it. But then Mike kicks back in, his voice an octave lower, and he practically whispers: “It’s just really nice to hear your voice. That’s all.”

That’s all.

Sure.

That’s all, but Will doesn’t know what to say to that. Because for just a little moment, though it’s just a kind statement, that’s it,that’s all, as Mike had said— his breathing ceases.

“Oh,” is all Will says moments later, when he finally finds the courage to say anything at all. Then, swallowing thickly like his throat has been coated with rubber cement, he buries a shuddery laugh deep down inside of his chest. “I— ah—“

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier,” Mike adds quickly but softly, his voice ghostly and numbed, as it will remain. Will is glad for the gentle interruption. Truthfully, he hadn’t really been too sure where he was going with his babbling. There is the sound of the headpiece being adjusted on the other end, then, Mike lets out a cool little hum. “I was sleeping,” he elaborates weakly.

Something about that draws a weird, upset little pinch inside of Will’s stomach. He doesn’t mind that he’d not gotten back to him right away, or even answered the phone— well, maybe a little, but only in the moment. It’s not that that bothers him.

He just wonders, curling the phone chord around his finger, why Mike was sleeping at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. Maybe he was sick, Will thinks. Maybe that’s why he sounds a bit off.

“That’s— fine,” Will ultimately responds, rubbing the pad of his thumb into the plastic shell of the phone. Then, because he can’t seem to help himself, Will clears his throat a couple inches away from the phone and, when drawing it back, asks: “You’re not sleeping well?”

It’s a bit presumptuous, but he can’t stop himself. He thinks, in the brief but thick silence that follows, that maybe he should have just kept that curiosity to himself. But then— Mike responds, after what feels like a decade between question and answer, and though Will won’t notice it until later— Mike’s voice seems to shrink.

“Not—“ A pause, another short moment of silence. Then: “Not great, really. No.”

“Anything bothering you?”

Will hates himself for that. Genuinely, really hates himself for a moment or two. What kind of question is that? He knows Mike. Man, he knows Mike well enough to be able to tell just by his tone that something is bothering him. Or if not bothering him, something is off with him. He, himself, hates when people ask him hollow questions like that.

Mike seems to hesitate, yet again. Then, quietly, he exhales into the mic, just loud enough that Will picks up on it.

“Maybe,” he says. Then, softer: “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”

Will tries, as much as he can, to ignore the fact that— in his own personal dictionary— I don’t knowgenerally means yes. Shutting is eyes momentarily, Will leans a bit harder into the wall. From behind him, he can hear the TV buzzing with excitement.

“’I don’t know’?” Will repeats, questioningly. Mike, though— like a turtle drawing back into it’s shell— closes up, and Will doesn’t need to see him to know so.

“Not really,” he explains briefly, coldly even, followed by a mild scuffle on the other end. “Just haven’t been sleeping. That’s all. It’s fine.”

It’s fine.

It’s not convincing. In fact, Will finds that he doesn’t really believe Mike for one second, even if he wishes that he could. When Will doesn’t answer, Mike forces out perhaps the worst conversation feeder of all. That, itself, confirms Will’s suspicions.

“How was your day?” Mike asks meekly. Will can’t help but cringe ever so slightly at how plastic and foreign that statement is. How was your day?

Well, you would know, Will thinks bluntly, suddenly, if you’d come over.

“It—“ God, how do you answer that? Oh, good, Mike, it was good. I’ve been thinking about calling you and not calling you, and I finally came out to my friends, and maybe I could tell you about that, but I don’t know if I want to have that conversation with you yet. Because that means I’d have to— I’d—

Will, as a headache begins to weasel it’s way between his eyes, presses the thumb of his bad hand against the bridge of his nose.

“It was alright,” he finally announces, statement cold and shaped perfectly to slot right against Mike’s question. Will wonders if Mike hates the sound of that response as much as he does. “I— I’ve been home all afternoon, pretty much. I was— actually just thinking about getting up and calling you.”

For a moment, Will wants to take back those words. Take back all of his words, this entire conversation, all of it, and hang up. But then Mike laughs— god, and it’s a stark laugh, but it’s a laugh. It’s a little bit bitter and it’s exhausted; the laugh of somebody who’s gotten no rest in perhaps several years. But god— it’s a laugh. It’s Mike’s laugh.

The feeling that it sends through Will is startling— comforting and foreign to him, all at once.

“Good timing,” Mike mumbles into the phone. Will thinks maybe it’s supposed to be lighthearted— but it just feels scripted.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Will tries again, weaker now.

As though he’s used up his one ‘get out of jail’ card, Mike pauses like he’s trying to figure out an approach. Or at least, that’s what the quiet on the other end of the line tells Will.

“Absolutely fine,” he feigns, though he doesn’t succeed in being convincing. Then, before Will can call him on it, he begins to say: “I just—“

Will waits for Mike to continue. To explain what he’s thinking, what’s going on, where he’s been, why he sounds like an entirely different Mike. But there is no explanation— only a void-like space, an emptiness that echoes, Will thinks, throughout the entire town. He wonders how far sadness can stretch— and then, depressingly, he thinks it must be able to stretch pretty far, because he can feel it, even though Mike is miles and miles away.

He can feel that sadness radiating like hot coals in a dying fire. Hardly there— but there, regardless.

“What?” Will whispers into the phone. He’s clutching it hard— he only notices that now.

“Nothing,” Mike mutters, briskly now, sharply. Which, of course— ultimately means something.

“No, what is it?”

Mike waits— for what, Will isn’t sure. Then, slowly, like he’s trying to decide if he should say anything, he replies: “It’s really stupid.”

Will knows it isn’t. Whatever it is, he wants to hear it. And he does, of course, when Mike decides he isn’t finished. When Mike decides he’ll be honest. When Mike sniffles, softly, and adds, like an embarrassed child: “I just— I missed you. That’s all.”

That’s all. That’s all, that’s all, that’s all. As if that isn’t enough. As if any of this isn’t enough. But surely, it is. It’s enough to make Will’s heart seize for a moment in his chest. It’s enough to draw a mild shiver out of him. It’s enough for him to, dumbly, repeat in a tight little murmur:

“You— missed me?”

There is a shuffle on Mike’s end, before his voice chimes back in, surer than it’s been the entire conversation.

“See, I told you it was stupid,” he assures Will, voice thin and nervous, unable to wait to allow Will to fully take this in. “Forget I said anything.”

Well, that’s one thing that won’t happen. Guaranteed.

“It’s—“ Will fumbles, lips parting and shutting, and then parting once more once he finally figures out where he stands. “It’s not stupid at all.”

“It’s pretty stupid,” Mike rebukes.

“It’s really not,” Will assures him quickly, dropping his fingertips from his forehead, and before he can even think about lying, or skirting around it, he adds: “I miss you too.”

And it feels a little bit weird. Because while he does miss Mike, more than almost anything right now— he’s never really said it out loud. He’s glad, now, that Mike can’t see him, even if that thought doesn’t hold up for very long. Because the crimson wash that spreads over Will’s cheeks is absolutely condemning. And, of course— embarrassing.

It would be worse, of course, if he’d realized that he’d saidmiss and not missed.

“You…” Mike begins, his voice low and slow, like he’s trying to make sense of it. “You did?”

Will wonders, for a brief moment before continuing, why his mouth is so goddam dry.

“Yeah,” he replies in a hush, licking at his lips, turning his face downwards towards the floor, staring down at his socked feet. He doesn’t say yes, of course, and he doesn’t say yes, I’ve missed you since you left that day, and hell, he doesn’t say yes, I still do. He just says yes. Admits it, and then, because he feels like he needs to explain: “That’s why I was calling.”

It dulls down his words, intentionally or not. Mike must notice this, too, because he seems to sniffle again and settle, croaking out a tiny “I guess” and leaving it at that. Done. The admission is over, and they can move past it. Will can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. But then Mike speaks again and—

Shit, for a moment, he almost sounds like the Mike that Will knows.

“It’s a real shame we might miss Valentines Day together,” is what he says. It’s light, airy, but still cloaked beneath that voice— that sad, slippery tone of absolute exhaust. “Isn’t that what fake boyfriends are supposed to do? Hang out on Valentines Day like regular couples?”

Will would laugh if it could find it in him, but it’s nowhere in sight. Instead, heart yammering inside of his chest, full speed ahead— all he can manage to reply is, where before he would jab something smart and witty back at Mike— “Yeah. Probably.”

There is a beat, and it’s long. Will can hear Mike let out a breath— not a sigh, just… just a breath, low and a bit shaky, but that might just be the connection. Yeah. Just the connection.

Mike exhales, once, twice more, in routine— inhale, exhale— and then, quietly, shattering the deafening silence between them:

“I’d really like to come see you.”

Will doesn’t know what else to say, besides one thing. The truth. He adjusts the phone against his ear. He’s sure, for a moment, he can almost hear his own heartbeat drumming inside of his ears. Then, after a short debate— he tells the truth. He says all he can think to say. All he wants.

“So come see me,” he whispers.

Mike doesn’t respond right away, certainly not audibly. Not enough that Will can hear. But in a way, that’s a response in itself. The quiet that stretches taught end to end between the two boys, tight like wound piano wire, sharp to the touch. Will hopes this is because Mike is considering it. Hopes it’s because he’s going to. Prayshe will.

In Will’s mind, Mike has already said yes. He’s already hung up the phone, and he’s already grabbed a coat, and he’s already hopped in his car and he’s bound to be there any minute. In Will’s mind, Tears For Fears is playing quietly on the stereo, the rain thumping against the windshield gently like tiny pebbles as Mike makes his way towards the street Will lives off. In his mind, Mike is pulling in, and he’s crossing the dirt drive to the porch, and Will is already swinging the door open and diving into him for a hug. And then the apparition, this figment of an event, it ends. Mike turns to dust. Will turns to dust. But the sentiment— it still rings heavy like a church bell, echoing inside of Will’s ears at a violently loud octave.

In a bold, blinded moment, Will thinks: I’ll hug him when he gets here. Not if, when. When he gets here. I’ll hug him. He's never done it, but he thinks this sort of thing, this stretch of time, this weird, discombobulated hiatus: it warrants a hug. Doesn't it? He'll do it, he thinks, when Mike gets there.

It won’t be that big of a deal. He hugs Dustin and Lucas sometimes, and it really isn’t all that different than that, right? Of course it isn’t, Will tells himself, acknowledging that Mike hasn’t said a damn thing in a good few seconds, all while Will’s head has been whipping back and forth with metaphorical fantasies. That’s alright. He’ll relish in this another moment. Because this silence— this silence must be good, right? It must mean Mike is figuring out how. How to come over. How much gas he has, if he needs to get some, which coat he’ll wear. And Will— Will is thinking plenty, too, so it’s no big deal. Thinking about what he’ll say. He’ll say a lot, of course, because man, it’s been weeks. His chest throbs at that— only subtly, but it does; constricting tightly like it’s caught in a vice grip.

I’ve missed him, Will thinks hard, and for a moment, he actually does squeeze his eyes shut. And then, painfully, honestly, in tune with the throb behind his ribcage: It feels like an entire piece of me is missing without him.

Will had been swaying slightly, the movement caused by breathing, by being, by exhaust. Now— he stills. Almost instantly, he’s swarmed with that minute little headache.

Wh—

Well, it’s clearly not like that. Not in the same sense. That doesn’t —

His head pulses with a nervous beat. How can you backtrack a thought? Will doesn’t know, but he tries. And when he fails, he tries to justify it. But he can’t really do that either.

No. It’s not—

He’ll hug Mike when he sees him, but he won’t get there tonight. He won’t get there for a good while, actually. The image, the dream, the pleading, desperate ideation of it— it shatters before him when Mike does sigh quietly on the other end, like he’s finally come to a conclusion.

“I— I can’t,” he tells Will, and this time, surely, because he’s so acutely-fucking-aware of every single change in the room, in the electronic hum of the phone, in the sound of Mike’s voice— he does hear the stumbling, nervous tremble in Mike’s words.

It’s not the connection. It’s not a signal glitch. It’s Mike.

It’s all Mike.

Will, drowning in that thought, repeating like a misbehaving child’s handwritten, chalked-in words on a blackboard over and over against his skull. Missing. A piece of me. Missing.

Mike is talking, and he’s not listening, so he pops back in for just a moment, words, words, words on the tip of his tongue. 

“Listen, I’ve got to go, but,” Mike is saying. His voice is rushed— trembling, like he’s just received terrible news. Like he’s just understood something that Will will never grasp. In turn, Will grips the phone tighter. Don’t bring it up. It’s just a thought. It’s just a little metaphor. You don’t miss him that much.

But yes, Will corrects himself, shaking his head like he’s denying Mike’s words. Yes, you do. You do, you do, you do. And have you thought about why?

Will wants to throw up, a little bit. His stomach aches. Everything aches.

“Mike—“ Will betrays his own wishes, lips parted, trembling, like his hands, like Mike’s voice, like the entire room.

Have you ever thought about why? About why you miss him so much?

Think about it.

(Don’t think about it. God, don’t. Don’t think about it.)

Is he like— actually your boyfriend, then?

And Will had almost said yes.

Why?

Don’t think about it. Please, god, don’t think about it.

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” Mike is practically whispering now. Will wonders, silently, if somehow he knows. If somehow, he’s quiet for the same reason that Will is quiet. Because nobody knows what might happen to Will’s composure if he raises his voice any higher than a soft mumble. He might just crumble like dried up clay. Crumble right into nothingness.

It makes sense. Doesn’t it?

Think about it.

Will doesn’t want to say goodbye. He doesn’t. And he knows, god, there’s no way that Mike has sensed what’s going on. Right? There’s no way. But that breathless wonder hovers over him like a strong humidity that can’t be beat.

Will is mute for only a moment more before he croaks out, reluctantly: “Alright. Sure.”

(Don’t hang up.)

“Goodnight, Will,” Mike whispers sweetly on the other end of the line, and to that, Will does crumble. He shuts his eyes once more, the dark, unending stretch of nothingness behind his eyelids all but comforting. He lets out a breath, shaky, coarse, and he’s sure Mike must hear it.

He’s thinking about it. He’ll not stop thinking about it for a long while.

 “Goodnight,” Will murmurs, only with half a heart, and hangs up, for the first time, before Mike.

That sets forth a chain of emotions inside of Will, the lot of it, the whole overwhelming, disgusting thickness of it and the conversation flowing through him. The urge to reach through the phone and touch Mike, it takes hold of him. And the urge to pick the receiver back up and redial that number and tell Mike, if he answers, when he answers, that he’s on his way, that he’s coming over because he can’t stand not seeing him— it’s violent, and it’s raging inside of Will, and it’s tempting, and it’s emotional, and Will can’t drive, and god, they don’t even have enough gas most likely, but he feels that need like a fresh wound. Because he does want to see Mike. He wants to see Mike so badly that he’s sure, if he were a toddler, he’d be having a tantrum right now. Even as an adult, he can barely manage the overwhelming cluster of feelings inside of his chest, there for quite a long time but only now being given the long-awaited attention they’d deserved.

But Will— can’t stand it. Because now, disguise-less, alone, standing in the middle of the kitchen poorly lit by stove-light with his back to the hallway, he has nowhere else to go but here. Nothing else to do but this. No one else to be but himself. And to do that— he has to be honest. He has to admit it.

Now, Will cries.

Hand drifting from the receiver to the face of the wall, head tucked against the wooden paneling of it’s surface, he cries. It’s not a bold-faced, mournful cry— it’s soft, quiet, a cry of realization. There’s nothing to be upset over, well, besides trivial things. He cries because he’s understanding, of course. He cries because it makes sense and because it has always been making sense, but it has been terrifying, and it won’t stop being terrifying for another good while. He’s crying because he gets it, because he’s gotten it for a little while now and he’s just been trying not to. Because all the tightening moments and brief stints of panic inside of his chest when Mike does fucking anything around him now has meaning, and it has for a while, it’s just been blurry and unfocused. The veil has been pulled away, and now Will can see it, clear as day, right before him.

He’s crying because he likes Mike.

Hell, he’s liked Mike since they met, of course, but not this way. Not in this way. No, this is more recent. It wasn’t born in Honey’s— it was born in the moments since then, growing with each touch, each careless smile, each admission. He’s not a baby, right? He can say it. He can say it.

He has feelings for Mike. Whatever type of feelings they are, however strong, they’re there, budding like flowers inside of the very molecules of his being. He’s crying because he gets it now. And while it’s not particularly a bad thing, though some might say that it is, well—

He can’t pretend like he doesn’t see it anymore.

Chapter Text

Will— though he does not find it funny the day of— will find it funny, much later on, that the day he and Mike see each other again for the first time in almost three weeks just so happens to be on the fourteenth.

It’s even funnier (or maybe less so) now, because Will knows. He knows something that he’s been feeling for a little while now, and since he’s become aware of it, everything has sort of begun to make a pinch more sense. The way his mind will wander to Mike when he’s just laying— feeling, breathing, living. The way he thinks of Mike instantaneously when something good or bad or absolutely ridiculous happens to him. He gets it now, which both makes it easier and a little bit harder at the same time.

He ought to be thinking about other things. He ought to be thinking about school, and how he goes back no more than 24 hours later after a much too lengthy break. Instead, that morning, Will wakes up with a start, and he isn’t greeted with such a thought at all. He couldn’t care less.

Will gets up, or rather, finally drives himself to crawl out of bed on the afternoon of the fourteenth, and he is immediately greeted with the recollection of all these thoughts once again. The past week has been like that— since the phone call with Mike, one of twothat he’s had with the boy in the past seven days, Will hasn’t been able to wiggle out of it: that understanding. There hasn’t really been a moment of peaceful quiet inside of his skull from then on. Of course, it hadn’t been all that quiet to begin with.

But he’d had breaks, every now and then. Like when he slept. He used to be able to sleep just fine.

But on the night of the thirteenth, and surely the early morning of the fourteenth too— Will tosses and turns, and wakes and drifts, and dreams about Mike.

About that phone call, about that voice, the words, the feeling of warm, melting plastic against the palm of his hand, everything dripping and crumbling like a demolished building. Nothing was tangible, and everything is forgotten the moment that his eyes slam open and he squeaks out a tiny gasp, grabbing at his chest to make sure he, too, isn’t melting. But it’s gone within minutes, the dream— and if somebody were to ask him if he could retell the dream again to them, he wouldn’t be able to.

Will had never liked Valentine’s Day to begin with. It had always seemed like a cheap financial scheme; conning people in love out of their money. But Valentine’s Day 1989 feels even more off-putting. This year, Will only spends his day in bed, ignoring the outside world, curtains drawn, lamp flicked on from across the room, glowing yellow light hardly illuminating the room’s expanse.

There is no point, really, is there? To be excited about today. Though he supposes, as he lays in bed, sheets tangled around him like some sort of fabricated python, that if he weren’t so glum— if he weren’t still nursing a half-healed hand, if they weren’t in this weird stagnant stretch of not seeing each other— Will would probably be out with Mike right now.

There’s no point in dwelling on it. He knows that. But he still does— laying there, limp, hand resting tenderly on his stomach as he tips his head a touch backwards. From his position, though he does have to turn his head at a bit of an uncomfortable angle, Will can definitely see the small, red lettered post-it note stuck to his wall. It’s the first one, from the month before. The post-it that Mike had left the night that he’d slept over. The night after he’d made a big show at his family dinner table, the night that he’d apologized and Will had taken it a completely different way than he should have. He can see that post-it now, barely lit by the light of the lamp, glaring at Will like a beacon. Remember me, it says. Look at me! Look at me!

Will stares at the note. The note stares back, condescending. Look at me. Remember when Mike left me for you to wake up to? Everything was fine then. So what happened?

I’m losing my mind, Will thinks to himself, driving his palms into the mattress and helping himself up into a sit.

He’d been listening to the weather channel a couple night before when they’d forecasted the impending rainstorm, and as he climbs up out of bed, nimble on his feet almost like a fawn, he can already hear the dull trickle of rain outside his shut window. It’s this that makes him actually glance towards the clock— catch sight of the numbers ‘5:49 PM’ and groan— then proceed to trudge over towards his dresser. He can’t really tell if it’s too late in the day to bother getting dressed, but he’s going to do it anyways if that’s what makes him feel like he’d done something productive.

He throws on the first sweater he sees, and the same goes for his pants, making for a strange mashup of deep brown corduroy jeans and a black and yellow striped sweater. It’s warm, though, and that of course is the priority. Slipping his arms around himself after tugging a pair of thick socks on, Will trickles over towards his bedroom door and halts.

The post-it, still glaring, clothed in red handwritten letters, radiates like a beacon in Will’s brain. He forces his tongue into the roof of his mouth.

Where are you, he thinks to himself, his mood growing a bit sour as he drops his gaze and opens up his bedroom door.

Where are you?

When he takes that first step outside of his room, sock feet warm against the frigid touch of late evening hardwood, the heater not doing much to keep the floors comfortable, Will can already hear the arguing.

He doesn’t notice the one-sided-ness of it at first— he only hears his father’s voice replying to somebody, and initially, stilling in the open doorway, light from his lamp poorly illuminating the dimly lit hallway, he thinks that his father is arguing with his brother. Not a welcome situation, but not so bad as it could be. Will takes one timid step out into the corridor, then another. Then, he hears his father speak up, and it is so crudely not towards his brother that Will has to restrain himself from turning around and scurrying back into his room.

“You think I want them around here?”

This is what Lonnie Byers growls into the mouthpiece of their home phone at nearly 6 in the evening, stirring up a mean feeling inside of Will’s stomach that begins to chew away at him with every slow, calculated step he takes. He can still hear talking, though it’s lower now— more precise, more cutting. He only catches snippets of it, passing his brother’s empty bedroom, hearing no sound other than his father’s disgruntled replies into the phone. Are you kidding me here, and a couple why’sandbitch’s thrown in for good measure.

Will knows that Lonnie is talking to Joyce. And that makes it worse, because it’s never good to come into the threshold of your home with your hands in tight fists. But that’s what Will does anyways. And by the time he’s gotten out to the open concept living room and kitchen, passing by the home phone, his father is already in the kitchen, having abandoned the phone, bent over the sink like he’s processing a death.

Will, stepping into the room like he’s trying to keep his presence as quiet as possible, walks timidly past the tiny half-wall that poorly separates the two spaces, untucking his clenched hands and snatching his half empty bottle of prescription pills from the cabinet’s top shelf.

As he drifts back down onto his heels, having needed to stand right up on his tip toes to reach them, Will almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of his father’s voice.

“Your mother’s not going to be able to take you over this weekend,” is what he says. The words send an unmatchable chill through Will’s veins. Pill bottle clutched in his grasp, Will peers back at his father, his gaze cold and confused.

“W-What?” he asks, his voice much more shaky than he’d intended.

From his spot across the kitchen, Lonnie, back still to Will, grumbles under his breath.

“She’s not gonna be home, she says,” he reiterates, placing his ringed fingers on the lip of the sink and squeezing slightly. Will cringes to himself, the whole sight unsettling in an unexplainable way. “That’s her reason. She’s working all weekend. You believe that?”

Will doesn’t say a word. Both because he doesn’t think he ought to, and because his lips feel like they’ve been glued shut. When he doesn’t answer, Lonnie twists away from the counter, hardly sparing his son a glare as he moves towards the entry.

“You ought to find somewhere to be,” he tells Will, raising a hand and scratching mindlessly at the back of his neck. “The both of you. I don’t want you two shits ‘round here.”

Well, see, Will hadn’t needed to be told that general statement. He was sure of that anyways. But, thickly, he swallows and, before he can think about it, he’s responding, and it’s not nice, and it’s going to get him in trouble but he’s doing it anyways. Like he tends to.

What he means to say is how he doesn’t have anywhere to go. Instead, Will stuffs his pills into his sweater pocket and sharply murmurs, a bit louder than he’d intended: “That’s bullshit.”

That stops Lonnie in his tracks. Will, genuinely, as sad as that it, debates diving through the small opening between the cabinets and the counter to the right just to get out, because his father has halted right in the doorway. Instead, he freezes up like a deer caught in headlights. He’s sure he must be as white as a sheet of paper.

Twisting back around, Lonnie furrows his brows, eyeing his youngest.

“What’d you say?” he asks blindly, clearly knowing exactly what’s been said but just wanting to hear it again. Will swallows thickly. When Lonnie steps forward, Will does everything in his power not to bolt like a coward.

“I don’t know where to go,” is what he’s about to say. Which, in itself, would be a fine statement to say to anyone else. Lonnie, of course, doesn’t even let him expel it. Mid word, he snatches the front of Will’s sweater in his grip and Will, tense like a marble statue, is glad that he’d shoved his medication into his pocket. If he hadn’t, it would be spilt all over the floor by now.

Stepping into Will’s space, Lonnie’s dark eyes search his face for some sort of explanation, even if none would ever be good enough.

“You think I was looking for your opinion?”

He’s clearly not asking so that Will can give him an answer. Will knows that too, but he still feels that subdued urge to say something, and when he doesn’t, he can’t tell if he’s made the right decision or not, because Lonnie’s hand still juts out, fist loosening around his shirt, and he shoves Will hard in the center of the chest, driving him back into the countertop behind him. The pain skyrockets upwards through his hipbone, and it takes everything inside of Will not to cuss out loud because of it, biting down so hard on his tongue he swears, for a moment, he can taste the irony flavor of blood. He doesn’t know if he should have answered or not. In a way, as he tries not to arch his back in pain, remaining against the counter and holding his breath, pressing a shaking hand to his side, he thinks that maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. His father would have pushed him anyways.

That’s just usually how it goes.

Like usual, he gets physical, and like usual, it’s over just as quickly as it starts, and, like usual, he’s already teetering off in a different direction, attention averted to some other baseless idea, grumbling about how aggravating this minor predicament is as he disappears down the hallway. There is one thing about this situation that isn’t usual, though. It’s Will.

He usually gets upset, sure. But again— brisk like the wind, like his father, he’s generally quite quick to push it aside and focus on something else. But as of late— and he’ll never quite pinpoint why— he’s been getting more and more strung up on it. He’s been crying about it more and more, for the past several occasions, but as he stands against the wall now, arms wrapped around himself, face a hot wash of shame and anxiety, he isn’t crying— not yet. He’s stoic, intense and uncomfortable and pushing tight against the countertop, his hip screaming in protest. Now, he just feels like he’s not supposed to be here. This is something that he’s known for a very long time— that he shouldn’t be in the situation he’s in. But it’s more than that now. It’s molecular.

It’s like he shouldn’t be inside of his body— period. Like it’s too small. Like he’s squeezed himself in and now he can’t breathe and he needs to get out.

He wants to be anywhere else. ‘Course, he has his preferences, but he wants to be anywhere else right now. Somewhere where he can walk around without having to tip-toe. Somewhere where he won’t get shoved into walls for doing nothing at all.

He wants to go. So, after a heavy couple minutes of standing and soaking in this madness, the chaotic energy of everything— he does.

He grabs his bag first once he gets back to his room and shoves what he can into it’s opening— writing utensils, his sketchbook, his cassette player and his headphones, and drives a handful of coins from his change jar into his sweater pocket. He yanks his jacket off of the coat hanger by the door and furiously drags it up over his arms. He assumes he’s breathing during this entire process— he won’t realize he’s been practically holding his breath until he starts gasping for air on his way out the door.

And then, as he opens that front door, the previously ambient sound of gentle rain now louder and growing, with the storm, the oxygen is actually ripped out of him again.

Because he immediately opens the door, and makes eye contact with his brother, who, as he climbs out of the driver’s side of his car and glances out towards the porch, sees Will and stops. He looked, momentarily, like he was about to say hello, hand half lifted in a wave, pink cheeked from the chill and wrapped in a plaid fleece coat. But he sees the look on Will’s face, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had just happened.

Instead of greeting Jonathan, Will simply shuts the door tight behind him, draws the vibrant yellow hood of his coat up over his head, and begins to trudge down the stairs without a word.

“Whoa, hey—“ He can hear Jonathan’s startled protest, coming closer, likely rounding the front of the car just as Will passes it, feet crunching hard against the dirt and gravel, a quick paced walk. He doesn’t want to have any sort of conversation with his brother right now, with anyone really, let alone about this. He can feel his head throbbing, his mouth cottony and dry, his breathing labored and stressed. He just wants to go. But clearly, this is going to be a bit of an issue. Because as he passes the back of the car, he is startled out of (or further into) his panic by the feeling of a hand wrapping around his wrist.

“Will, hey, stop for a second—“ Jonathan tries, and Will does stop, though it’s not because he wants to. It’s mostly accredited to the gentle grip on him. He doesn’t look at his brother for a lengthy moment, which only seems to make things even worse. Jonathan steps in front of Will, attempting to crane down and peek under his brother’s hood, but Will twists his head away, attempting to do the same with his wrist. “Talk to me. What’s going on? What did he—“

There is a pause, and Will can almost really feel what Jonathan is about to ask. Clearing his throat slightly, Jonathan looses his grip on Will’s wrist but doesn’t let go.

“Did he hit you?” Jonathan asks. It’s an easy question to ask, but not so easy to answer. Something in his voice sounds like it’s breaking.

Will doesn’t actually answer. Not because he doesn’t know the answer. He can still feel the answer, swelling against the skin of his back. He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know what might happen to him if he does. He steps back away from his brother, withdrawing his wrist from the boy’s touch, a much sharper movement than he had intended, clearly, because Jonathan almost seems to flinch.

He doesn’t know what to do. The answer is no, he hadn’t hit him, he’d just shoved him pretty hard, but it hadn’t been bad. Right?

He might not even bruise.

“Will, answer me!” Jonathan urges, and Will acts like he doesn’t see Jonathan reach out to him but stop, like he’s frozen in time, like he’s too scared to touch his brother again. Will doesn’t take it to heart. That’s what he tells himself, at least, as he reaches up and wraps his own arms around himself, like he’s trying to comfort the sadness out of his torso, the whole black, endless mess of it. Sometimes he feels like he’ll never be able to sweat it out. Now is one of those times.

“No,” he tells his brother, because it’s the truth and because he doesn’t really know what else to say to prove that. “He didn’t.” The cold is already nipping at the exposed parts of him, the backs of his hands ripe with thin blue veins, skin so pale he’s almost translucent, the back of his neck, his cheeks, already damp from the mist, cherry red both from the aggravation of his situation and from the weather. Every movement feels like it’s pinching, and his brother’s tight, petrified gaze does nothing to keep him off edge. Stepping back from Jonathan’s presence, watching as his brother seems to make another attempt at reaching out to him, Will begins down the drive once more.

“He’s in a bad mood, though,” is all he offers, yanking the strings on his hoodie a bit tighter. “You might wanna just go somewhere else for a while.”

His voice is cold. It’s not supposed to be, though maybe it should be, for all he’s just experienced. The only reason it doesn’t come across as mean as it could is because it trembles when he speaks.

“Will?”

Will pauses a couple meters back from the bumper of Jonathan’s car, twisting back to look at his brother. There are tears in his eyes again, and this time, they’re actually flowing down his cheeks, too. He thinks maybe the rain helps them blend seamlessly into his skin— but he has no way to be sure. Like he doesn’t know where he was going with his words, Jonathan shifts his footing, his gaze pleading.

“Where are you going?” he asks, or rather, begs for an answer. “It’s pouring. You’re gonna catch your fuckin’ death out there.” When Will doesn’t answer, Jonathan places a free palm against the back of his neck, unsure. “At least let me drive y—“

“No,” Will cuts him off, dragging his hood a bit further over his head, the growing trickle of rain against his hood like hail against a tin roof. “I’m just going for a walk. I’ll be back.”

Jonathan’s lips part, but Will doesn’t linger long enough to hear what he’s trying to say. Ultimately, Will doesn’t think he says a word. Jonathan lets his brother drift away from him with no complaint, though Will's sure there are dozens swirling around inside of his head. He doesn’t want to hear them.

He knows where he’s going, even if he doesn’t tell Jonathan. He’s going for a walk, but the way he’d said it has surely sounded like he had a premeditated route planned out. He does— only in his brain, this route doesn’t lead him back to his place. It doesn’t lead him around a loop, or into the woods, or even to Honey’s, though there is something so painfully familiar in his planning that reminds him of the last time he’d walked there like this.

Will disappears down the end of the drive, quarters jingling in his pockets softly like the screams of a bad omen, backpack already beginning to dampen, pens and pencils and sketchbook all tucked safely into it’s confines. He hikes the straps up further, tears dripping from his ocean eyes, dripping and dripping and never ceasing, so painfully reminiscent. This happens too often, he thinks, cringing as his feet hit pavement and he begins down the stretch of road that their driveway stems from. This happens way too often. He doesn’t have The Smiths to accompany him this time, however. He’s all alone.

Will knows where he’s going, even if it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. He knows where he’s going, even if he hasn’t had any reason to think he’s welcome there, even if he hasn’t had any reason to think this is a good idea. It’s what he needs— it’s what crying, damp and chilled Will Byers needs, and it’s the only place he thinks he might feel alright inside right now.

So, taking off down the road with a petrified pep in his step, Will walks towards Mike’s.

 -

At some point, common sense hits Will, because he decides, hair damp right through his hood, that he ought to call Mike and let him know that he’s coming before he shows up and comes face to face with the boy’s parents.

He hadn’t intended to end up at Honey’s in the first place, of course, but it’s as far as he gets before he decides that he can’t stand the quiet and the thoughts that come with it, barricading his every sense all while his small frame is being showered with a now furious torrent of rain.

His sweater has gotten plenty damp beneath his coat, and he’s sure that the rain must nearly be pummeling the hood of his slicker to pieces. And so, without even entering through the front doors to sit in the warmth and grab a coffee, Will ducks his head in through the narrow entry to the payphone outside of the coffee shop and slams the door behind him with a slippery thunk.

He snatches up the phone so quick that he can’t help but hiss out of surprise when he pinches his finger between the receiver and it’s holder, exhaling briskly and tucking the phone up between his soaked shoulder and his ear. He pulls his hood down, too distracted by the fact that his finger is screaming at him to notice that he’s punched the number in and shoved his coins into the slot already. Much too tied up to notice that he hadn’t even needed to think about what Mike’s number was before he jammed the buttons in the right order.

Sticking the corner of his finger in his mouth to sooth it for a few seconds, Will eyes the floor. He doesn’t think about a whole lot when he lifts the phone tighter to his ear. He doesn’t think about much because he’s waiting for an answer, one that he might not even get— and what would he do then? What if nobody picks up? Will he just head home, head down like a beaten dog, taking the (sopping wet) walk of shame into his house for his brother and his father to see? And then what?

Does he just go to sleep? Pretend he hadn’t ran away like that?

He can’t sleep. He’s hardly been sleeping as it is.

“Come on,” Will whispers, voice trembling and coarse and dim, as he listens for the rings. The first comes, and his heart rushes up into his throat, good fingers gripping the receiver like he’s clinging to life itself. The neon light from the Honey’s sign illuminates the tendrils and droplets of rain skidding down the window, turning the boxed-in telephone booth into some sort of kaleidoscopic, artistic experience. He’s too tired to be dealing with this shit. He’s too tired to be alive, for god’s sake. Leaning his forehead into the glass of the window, breath fogging up it’s clear face, Will begs for someone to pick up.

They do, thank god— they pick up on the third ring. And Will exhales, relieved, when he hears the sudden hush of room-tone on the other end. He opens his mouth to speak—

But the voice on the other end doesn’t sound right.

Well, it’s right. Sure. She lives there, too. It’s just not the voice he’d been hoping for. In all actuality— he’d been praying for Mike.

“Hello?” Nancy speaks softly from the other end of the line, the way one might speak if they were standing next to a sleeping baby.

To say Will goes stiff might be an understatement. Rather, he freezes over entirely. So much so that, after a solid five seconds of dead silence on his end, Nancy feels compelled to speak up again.

“— He-llo?” She tries again, her voice a touch more unsure. As though he’s just broken free from a spell, Will chokes on his own words, fight or flight kicking in, and grips the phone so tightly he swears he can feel it creaking beneath his fingers.

It’s so simple. Just ask for Mike. It’s real easy.

“Wrong number,” Will finally squeaks, his voice tiny but firm, rushed. “I’m sorry. I— I made a mistake.”

He’s drawing the phone away from his ear, his heart hammering against his ribcage, internally cursing himself, but before he can get it even halfway to the holster, Nancy’s voice chimes in again, stopping him in his tracks.

“Will Byers?”

Will, phone held half a foot away from him like it’s a ticking bomb, slowly draws his arm back up, placing the phone to his ear. He’s ready to get yelled at. Well, not ready, but he’s preparing for it. His pulse feels like it’s racing faster than a bullet train.

“— Yes?” Will replies slowly, flinching in preparation.

There isn’t any yelling. That is the first surprise. The second comes, throwing Will for a loop, when Nancy doesn’t even bite back at Will with something cruel to say. Instead, she merely pauses, for much too long, before dipping back in and asking, gently:

“Are you looking for Mike?”

Will has to gather himself for a moment. Glancing down into the mildly damp face of his cast beneath his jacket wrist, Will swallows hard, the sound of the rain coming down serving as white noise to backlight their conversation. Of course he’s looking for Mike. And he worries, by the way that Nancy asks such a thing instead of just calling for her brother, that he’s going to come out with a loss. That maybe Mike isn’t even there.

“Yeah, I am,” he's saying before he can think about it, but it's rushed— spilling from him like hot tar, because he presses the curved edge of his cast against the side of his neck, fingertips grazing the back of his head, and he continues. “It’s just— honestly, it’s not a problem. I can just call back later—“

Or not at all, he’s about to say. Until he can hear Nancy take in a breath, and he halts.

After a quiet beat, she mumbles: “Where are you calling from?”

Will blinks, once, twice, like he’s a robot in the midst of resetting. Then, swiping that bad hand against the side of his face, brushing his hair out of the way, Will shrugs like she can see him. His face, at this point, is a healthy beet red.

“Ah— I’m in town,” he replies, glancing out the phone booth window. From his spot here, he can see Amy, working steadily at her paper pad as she takes a couple’s order, smiling dutifully, her hair in a tidy ponytail. He debates going inside and saying hello for a moment, but decides against it once he hears Nancy’s confused voice ring through the line once more.

“In this weather?” Nancy asks, like Will’s just told her that the entire town has spontaneously caught aflame before his eyes.

“Y-Yes,” Will begins, fidgeting now, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The cold is seeping through him— unforgiving, ruthless as it chills him right to the bone. Stiffening his shoulders, Will squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a cool, visible breath. In front of him, the window fogs up ever so slightly. “I was just calling to—“

To see if I could talk to Mike. Rather, to tell Mike that I’m coming to see him. That’s what courses through Will’s brain, but, of course, instead of speaking that out loud, he simply shudders and changes direction.

“Nevermind,” he offers. “It’s not that importa—“

“Where in town are you?” Nancy interjects.

Will doesn’t need to open his eyes and look around to check, as he knows exactly where he is. So why does he hesitate for so long? Nipping nervously at his bottom lip, Will shivers once more.

“Honey’s,” he replies, his voice quieter now. “That café on Fairview Avenue.”

There is a shuffle on the other end of the line, like Nancy’s just stood up, and, as Will hears her confirming footsteps, the young woman replies, swiftly: “Okay. Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

This is the moment, of course, where Will’s eyes fly open like he’s been zapped by a stun gun, and he actually cranes a bit forward, like getting closer to the machine will help him hear Nancy clearer.

“No,” he replies almost immediately, listening as Nancy doesn’t cease motion, the schlep of a zipper being drawn up on a coat audible on his end. His heart throbs. For a moment, he thinks it might explode from the stress of his shot nerves. “No, listen, you don’t have to—“

“I’ll come get you,” Nancy reiterates like an impatient mother, cutting Will’s rebuttals right out of his throat. He stammers, uselessly, and doesn’t manage to get anything out before she continues. “It’s no trouble, alright? You’re gonna get hypothermia or something. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Nancy—“ Will exclaims softly, but he doesn’t get anywhere. The line cuts, that absent ring of the phone droning in his ear, and two seconds of it is even too much, because he’s all too quick to slam the phone back into it’s receiver, his heart pumping at a concerning speed. He swallows thickly, spit like wet gravel, and squeezes his eyes shut even more. He’d like to just walk home, now. Now that seems like the better option.

He’d just wanted to call and tell Mike that he’s coming. And now? Well, now there’s so much more on his plate. Now, Will hikes his backpack strap up further onto his shoulder, the weight of it damp almost too much for him. Now, Nancy is coming to get him. Now, he’s not going to talk to Mike.

He’s going to see Mike.

Now— he waits.

-

Nancy gets there sooner than Will is prepared for.

She also comes into the parking lot, gently cruising at a fully acceptable speed, headlights cutting through the dark— in Mike’s car. This— this doesn’t help Will’s case either.

He’s still in the phone booth when she arrives, and he even pretends like he doesn’t see her at first just to give himself another moment to breathe. She pulls right into one of the front spots, surveying the inside of the café like she anticipates finding him somewhere inside. In the warmth, drying off, where he should be. He, of course, is not there, though Nancy’s eyes do seem to settle on something— perhaps the nice ambience of the place— for several seconds until she glances back down into her lap.

Will takes too long to move, but when he does get moving, he doesn’t plan on stopping, hurriedly shutting the booth’s door behind him and raising his casted arm above him uselessly as he scurries over towards the passenger’s side of the car. He doesn’t even look right at Nancy, surely not at first, and not even when he climbs into the car initially, his teeth nearly chattering, the heat inside the vehicle a welcome embrace, even if it surely almost sends him into shock.

It’s not just that— it’s everything, of course. Even aside from Nancy— it’s the smell of the car. The warm, nicotine and pine rush of it. It’s the small ashtray in the middle compartment and it’s the mint chapstick and stapled receipts in the side compartment and it’s the stickers on the dashboard and— a new addition, one that yanks on his heart like a fish caught on a hook— it’s the mixtape, case and all, slotted nicely into the cassette holder just beneath the centre armrest, still affectionately reading: Listen to more Journey, asshole. It’s everything and all of it and it nearly make Will turn around and hop right back out of the car. But he doesn’t. Surprisingly.

Because when Will finally glances to the left, only for a moment before he thinks he might be sick, shooting his gaze down— Nancy is eyeing him.

It’s not a mean look. Rather, it’s the sort of look you’d give Bigfoot if you were to spot him unexpectedly in the underbrush on a nice hike. It’s a look that says nothing and everything at once. If it could speak, it would scream ‘would you look at this. I never thought I’d be sitting in a car with you— rescuing you from the rain— but here we are. Here we are. Weird world, isn’t it?’

As she drags the gearshift into reverse and backs out of the parking spot she’d cruised nicely into, Nancy mumbles a soft, sudden: “Shitty weather, huh?”

There is nothing worse than this, Will thinks. Of course, he’s wrong. He’ll learn that soon enough. But for now— there is nothing worse than small talk with Nancy Wheeler.

-

They get almost halfway towards the Wheeler’s house without saying a single word to each other.

This would be entirely fine, Will thinks to himself, for the entire ride. He’ll spare a thank you at the end, of course, because he likes to think he isn’t a total asshole, and that will be enough. The silence is deafening but it’s enough. It’s enough. All of this is plenty enough, and any sort of communication would send him off the rails.

Well, he ought to be prepared for that, then. Because after that lengthy several minutes of dead quiet— Nancy does speak up again, for the second time. And fuck, it’s so much worse than small talk.

“Will,” Nancy asks suddenly, her voice tiny and controlled, but still wavering slightly, “can I ask you something?”

His immediate reaction is to say no. His secondary reaction, after mulling it over for a few seconds, is also to say no. Regardless, choking back that instinct, Will swallows thickly and wraps his arms around himself. The dampness of his sweater only adds to his discomfort.

“Sure,” he says. And then, because he’s not thinking about it, he glances in Nancy’s direction.

She’s dressed for the weather— something she definitely did not glean from being around her brother. Comfortable looking in a navy blue, insulated jacket, hair down, face fixed forward, Nancy almost looks like an angel, silhouetted against street lights as they flicker by. As he turns his gaze back towards the floor, Will catches sight of a small, thin leather bracelet with square, white lettered beads on her right wrist. In the dark, he can barely make out the spelling ‘AW+NW’.

By the time he glances back down fully, Nancy has caught his stare. Instead of biting something nasty at him for it, however, she simply relishes in the silence a touch longer, before her fingers noticeably tighten around the leather binding of the wheel.

“Have you noticed anything different about Mike lately?” Nancy asks suddenly.

The question is off putting. It’s sudden, and a bit confusingly vague, and Will does manage to stop himself from glancing in her direction this time, fixing his eyes onto his open palms. His cast, still subtly damp from the downpour, is all he can focus on. He hadn’t been expecting that. Hell, he’d been expecting something entirely different.

Not about Mike at all.

Different?

Different how? His hair? Well, I did that.

“What do you mean?” Will shivers, allowing himself one tiny glance in Nancy’s direction. The absent expression on her face makes him wish that he hadn’t, and so, chills trickling up the backs of his arms, Will sits back in his seat, leaning a touch to the side.

Nancy doesn’t speak for a few more seconds. Will watches as they drift closer and closer to their neighbourhood.

“Has my brother ever talked to you about—“ Nancy pauses, like she doesn’t know how to phrase her statement. Then, wringing the steering wheel with polished fingers, she mumbles, softly: “How sad he is. Has he ever talked to you about that?”

That’s a new one.

Will doesn’t fully know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He doesn’t know how to answer at first— it’s not something he’s really considered fully. There’s an easy answer to it— no. Not directly. Mike has never struck Will as the type of person to talk about something like sadness outright.

Still, though he can’t see it himself, his face pales.

No, never outright.

Which, of course, makes sense. It makes Will think even harder, that thought. No, he’s never talked about it directly. But of course, it’s been brought up before. It was brought up in their last phone call, rising in Mike’s voice like bile, and it was brought up a few weeks before that, in Mike’s car, after the mixtape. And it had been brought up other times, too, hadn’t it?

How sad he is? What kind of a question is that?

“He’s a pretty sad kid,” she murmurs under her breath, her voice nothing more than a hush. She taps a finger against the wheel numbly, crystalline blue eyes fixed forward on the slushy roads ahead. “I’m worried about him. That’s why I’m asking. He’s—”

Nancy pauses, and Will hates every second of it, but he hates the end of it even more. Because Nancy straightens a bit, turning her head away a touch, and Will can feel his throat closing up. Like he already knows what she might say. Even then— he isn’t prepared for it when Nancy practically whispers:

“He’s pretty depressed. I just— wanted to know if you’ve seen anything… you know. Troubling.”

It takes Will a moment to get it— what she’s asking. And by the time he gets it, he’s thinking about other times when Mike has been sad and he hasn’t had to say anything. He’s getting a stomach ache— how sad he is— and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. And then, as he peers out over the hood and watches the traffic lights reflect into the shallow puddles tainting the street, twinkling and glimmering with movement, Will thinks about something else, and he thinks he may actually need to tell Nancy to pull over, because he’s going to be sick. He’s surely going to be sick.

Troubling. If you’ve seen anything troubling.

Will thinks about the way Mike’s shirt had felt beneath his fingers when he’d yanked him off the edge of the roof that late afternoon in December.

Pull over, Nancy, I’m going to be fucking sick, his brain screams. His mouth says nothing.

He wants to tell her that Mike isn’t like that. That he isn’t what she’s insinuating. But the funny part about that, that truly isn’t funny at all— is that he can’t. Because the more he looks, the more he sees it. In tiny mannerisms. In the way his voice has been changing.

Of course he’s sad. Just because he hasn’t outright said it— doesn’t mean he hasn’t been showing it this entire time.

“N-No,” Will manages to respond, though his voice comes out like a dusty gasp— more like someone in denial than someone responding to a question. Ultimately, he’s not in denial though. He wishes it was that simple. He wishes that he could believe that Nancy is full of lies, and maybe he should— but honestly? He knows Mike well— but he doesn’t live with Mike every single day. She gets to see part of him that Will can only imagine, and likely vice-versa. Everything feels so painfully uncomfortable that he nearly blurts out a beg for her to pull the car over, but he can’t even manage that. Painfully, he adds, weakly: “No, he— he hasn’t. Has something—“

“No, nothing’s happened to him,” Nancy cuts in, thankfully, because Will hadn’t been sure if he could finish that sentence anyways. “I’m just— I’m worried that something will. You know?”

From beside him, she shifts slightly, turning off of the main road that they’d been traversing, passing by a couple kids trying and failing miserably to do some sort of skateboard trick. Will’s eyes follow them, dull, glazed over and aimless. He needs something to look at, something else to think about, but nothing can cloud over the heaviness of that one, ringing, deafening thought, and the ones that branch from it like infected veins:

What if I hadn’t yanked him back?

Would he have done something?

Please tell me that I’m interpreting this wrong.

But he knows he can’t be. He wonders if Nancy is just as uncomfortable talking about this as he is. Selfishly, he immediately concludes that she can’t possibly be. Maybe she knows more about this than he does, or maybe she’s just assuming. Regardless— she doesn’t know what Will does.

She doesn’t know about the roof.

“Do you understand what I mean?” Nancy tries again, looking towards Will this time. When he finally finds the courage to peer across at her, he’s sure she can see how ghostly white he’s gone, because her baby blue’s grow even more pitiful and concerned.

“I think—“ Will croaks, dropping his gaze, staring into the balled up form of one of Mike’s sweaters on the floor. He almost picks it up, just to hold something. “I think I do. Yes.”

He does. He surely wishes he didn’t.

“I just want to make sure that he’s alright,” Nancy continues, her voice growing steadily quieter by the second. “That— that he’s not going to do anything… irrational. Okay?” She wrings her hands against the wheel again, her bracelet sliding down her wrist as she spins the wheel subtly, flicking on her (Mike’s) blinker, and, to Will’s nervous surprise, turning onto her street. He hadn’t realized how close they were already. He’d been— well.

He’d been preoccupied.

“Sure,” Will exhales, once he realizes he ought to respond to her. Out of the corner of his eye, Nancy glances at him, and Will feels like he might just melt right into the passenger’s seat upholstery. She doesn’t look at him very long— but long enough. Just enough that Will can tell, before she even says it, that she’s going to ask him something. She tips her head back a touch, watching the road before her behind the windshield wipers.

“Will?”

His name sounds poisonous coming from someone else’s mouth. Not particularly mean, but— he hates it. Suddenly, he hates it. Still, he shifts in his seat— what feels like the first time he’s moved in ages.

“What?” Will replies, or, rather, he tries to. But it mostly comes out halfway and then trails off into nothingness at the sight of the cul-de-sac before them, the sight of the street sign and the mailbox and the house.

Mike’s house.

The Wheeler’s house.

 Always pretty and proper, the lawn trimmed and mostly kept up, even in the winter. It looks almost the same as the last time Will had seen it: pretty dark brown shutters, the half-brick front. This is why his voice cuts out on him. His message must still come across, however, because as Nancy pulls forward into the drive, no station wagon in sight to indicate their parents’ presence, she parks the car and shows no motion of getting out.

Will fixes his eyes forward, tearing them away from the sight of the front of the house and focusing, instead, on Mike’s dashboard stickers. A men’s washroom sticker with a crude addition to the decal. A small rainbow flag. A skateboard, which almost makes Will smile, because he’s pretty sure Mike’s too lanky to do such an activity. Almost is the keyword, of course. Because he’s focusing so tightly on these designs, trying to hold all his stitching together, and he almost smiles, but Nancy responds just before he can force it out.

“Take care of my brother,” she is saying, facing forward, not looking at Will. Her head is tipped downwards, eyes on the wheel, car shoved into park. She doesn’t drop her hands from the wheel, and Will doesn’t bother to wonder why. He can feel his heart climbing up into his throat, his skin crawling from the nerves, his eyes glassy and his vision blurry. Gosh, don’t cry. Please don’t be a baby.

The roof. The rooftop.

“Please,” Nancy continues, her voice trembling. “I usually wouldn’t ask something like that, but—“

When Will finally finds the courage to look towards her, he can see the tears lingering on her lashes though, like him, he’s sure she won’t let them fall. She even reaches up to wipe a few away before they can touch her cheeks, turning her head towards the side window.

Gazing out into the dimly lit street, light poles lining it’s edges like soldiers at ease, Will can still see the side of Nancy’s face and, in a blind haze, he admires how much she and Mike look alike.

“I feel like maybe you’re planning on doing that anyways,” she whispers now, exhaling sharply and tucking a strand of chocolate brown hair behind her ear. “So consider this an extra beg from me. Just take care of him. Please.”

Will doesn’t need to consider Nancy’s offer. He only watches her face, still fair, warped by worry but not by much, her eyes pools of blue, catching the light in the worst way. He can see the pain. Christ, he can feel it himself. It’s been radiating through him since this conversation started.

“Sure I will,” Will replies softly, his voice a mere breath. Then, correcting himself: “Of course I will.”

For a moment, there is stillness. Nothing but the rain moves, nothing else budges, no radio static or even music. Nothing. Then, Nancy twists a bit to look at Will, and he can see her even better. The fear of this situation, the way it changes her appearance. Or maybe the fear of having to ask someone to help.

“I—“ Nancy begins, but fumbles, before dropping her gaze and sitting back in her seat, taking in a breath. Her voice trembles when she speaks. “Maybe I shouldn’t be asking anything of you, but—“

That strikes Will, a bit harder than he’d expected, and so he’s all too quick to reply.

“It’s fine, Nancy,” he says, the name thick on his tongue, thick like hardened molasses. He almost cringes, but keeps it back. “I will. I promise.”

She seems alright with that. At least, that’s what Will gleans from it. The headlights are still on, illuminating dead hydrangeas by the front of the house, cradled in their planters. Nancy, from the driver’s seat, flicks them off, as though the two of them are thinking the exact same thing. Then, coarsely, she fits her arms around herself, for comfort or what, Will doesn’t know.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Will had never thought he’d hear those words coming from Nancy Wheeler. Not directed at him.

Never.

Hell, he’d been sure he wouldn’t even hear from her again after that fiasco from before.

There is nearly a moment, between their last bit of conversation and the act of getting out of the car, where Will almost apologizes. To Nancy, for everything, for all this mess and the mess before it and the nonsense he’d unintentionally included her in. He almost apologizes— but he doesn’t. He merely lets that apology hang lifeless inside of him, struggling to get out, and by the time he really thinks he’s about to blurt it out, Nancy twists the key and tugs it out of the ignition, wiping her eyes once more and huffing before climbing out of Mike’s car without a word.

He feels he needs to apologize, of course, because it’s his fault. At least— he feels as though it’s his fault. Not this mess with Mike (well, yes, but no), but everything before hand. All the nonsense with Devon, all the chaos it’s created for him, and likely her as well. He thinks maybe it would be a different story if Nancy could have just been a bystander, like he’d thought she was. You’d think that, itself, would give Will some sort of understanding that it isn’t his fault. Her reaction, or anything that stemmed from it.

He had anticipated that Nancy was just devoid of emotion about it. That’s what he’d been told, of course. And Will— such an idealist that he is— had believed it. Because people mean things when they say them, don’t they?

Because when people say they’ve broken up, they mean it— don’t they?

Will glances across the seat at where Nancy had been sitting only moments before, and he thinks maybe, if he hadn’t just believed what he’d heard and he’d left it alone— none of this would matter. He wouldn’t feel so suffocated by it, by the fact that not only had Nancy caught Will like that with somebody she knew even better than he did, but now, to see him with her brother—

He’s sick. Or he’s going to make himself sick, and though he can’t figure this out right now, it’s not something worth getting sick over. It’s not his fault. In his seat, he squirms, eyeing the plethora of gaudy stickers on Mike’s dashboard one last time. The smell of pine and the smell, lingering from another time, of coffee and cheap smokes. Mike is ingrained in the car. That comforts Will, but not enough.

He hadn’t known. How can it be his fault if he didn’t know?

This isn’t what I’m here for. I’m not here to apologize to Nancy. I’m here to see Mike. I want to see Mike.

I need to see Mike.

Will almost lingers here, too. A lot of ‘almost’s will be faced tonight. These are only the first, and they won’t be the hardest. So he climbs out of the car in suite and doesn’t say another word about it, even if there are a million that ought to be said. He even cranes upwards slightly, to try and tell her over the top of the car, to try and sort out the bubbling urgency inside his chest, but she cuts him off painlessly.

“Around back, on the porch,” Nancy tells Will abruptly, drawing the blue stretch of her hood up over her head as if her hair hasn’t already gotten damp. She locks the car door behind her as quietly as she can manage, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she crosses the drive and passes Will, heading up towards the front door. He almost asks her why he’s got to go around the back if their parents aren’t home, of course, but as his lips are parting to speak and he’s drawing the zipper on his coat up even higher, right up to his chin, he understands what she means.

He doesn’t have to go in using the back entry and porch. That’s not what Nancy’s getting at. Rather, she’s more than likely telling him that something is waiting for him there. Something of his. Something tired and sad and probably cold. 

No, Will thinks, shutting his eyes, turning his head away. He takes a step towards the back walkway. That’s not correct. Not something of yours. Don’t you even begin to think like that. He couldn’t be yours if you wished for it.

Stop thinking about the roof, he tells himself. Stop fucking thinking about that.

He rounds the corner, feet tapping softly against the cobblestone path, the slick of rain over everything amplifying his movements. The grass dampens his chucks, turning their subtly dulled red to a deep, wine shade around the edges. If he stares down into them long enough, he won’t have to face what’s coming up just around the corner.

He wants to see Mike. God, he really wants to see Mike, and it’s only been getting worse with every passing day. So why isn’t he rushing? Why isn’t he practically sprinting around the corner to get to him quicker?

There’s an easy answer, one that doesn’t need to be skirted around. He doesn’t run because he’s afraid. Afraid of seeing him again, afraid of what he’ll say, of what Mike will say. Afraid that maybe Mike doesn’t even want to see him. He almost turns around to follow Nancy in through the front, even, but ultimately decides against it.

The only thing that stops him from doing so is the fact that, when he raises his head and tears his gaze away from the toes of his shoes, he’s already rounded the corner, and he’s already crossed that point of no return, and if he were to turn around now and run away from the sight before him, he would look like an absolute fool. Because he’s standing in the rain, out in the open, jumper and rain coat tight over his shoulders, soaking in droplets now with ease. The porch light isn’t on— but it doesn’t need to be.

The light from inside the house illuminates enough of the back porch for Will to see what he needs to. Enough for him to see the outline of the roof overhanging the steps, enough for him to see the deck chairs and patio furniture covered over for the winter beneath thick tarps, and enough for him to be sure that, based on the way that the slouched figure seated facing him on the back porch steps stiffens and raises it’s head— Mike has already seen him.

Will almost does run, then. Just based on the sheer amount of adrenaline that forces it’s way through the narrow channels of his veins at light speed.

He stares at Mike, seated on the top step, elbows resting on his knees. In one hand, he’s got a lit cigarette, pinched tightly between his fingers, which, Will shall notice once he gets closer, are trembling from the cold. The other is cupping an exposed kneecap, the torn fabric of his jeans doing nothing to conserve his body heat. His head, before he’d noticed Will standing there, had been tipped downwards, toe of his shoe poking at a dying weed stuck in between a crack in the final cobblestone block that makes up the path. When he sees Will, he stops digging at it. Well— when he sees Will, he stops doing almost everything. Even the hot end of his smoke seems to cease burning for a moment.

Will doesn’t step forward at first, but that’s not a bother. Mike doesn’t move an inch, only watches for a moment, before he draws the heel of his shoe back up onto the step. Will does move, after this— stepping tentatively forward, slowly, unsure, just until he’s a couple feet away. There is still plenty of space left for him to say something, anything— hello, hey, how are you, why the hell haven’t you been around— but nothing gets said. Will looks down at Mike, eyes glued to him, unable to tear his gaze away, and thank God for the winter cold biting at the skin of his cheeks, because his face is a fiery pink, and he couldn’t calm it down if he tried. From confusion— from the lack of distance, from this and that and everything— Will can’t blame his blush on just one plain reason. It’s a million reasons, even if they all evidently lead to Mike.

Neither of them speak. It’s almost embarrassing— but Will knows he can’t, and he thinks maybe Mike can’t either.

Mike looks up at him for the first time in too long, eyes glazed like marbles, widening and glistening, not with anger, but with stunned surprise, and Will almost cries, right then and there, for what feels like the millionth time in the past week. Because the puzzle piece inside of him that had been missing has been slotted back into place, and it does so with a flick of ash from the burning end of a half smoked cigarette, and a tired, terrifyingly dreamy little quirk of the lips.

“Long time no see,” Mike hums against the hiss of rain atop the overhang.

Chapter Text

The first thing Will notices about Mike, tonight at least— in this light, in this mood— is that he’s wearing slippers. Will can’t decide, as he watches Mike relight his cigarette, forest green windbreaker clinging to his thin torso, if that makes him want to laugh or cry.

Will doesn’t even respond at first. The rain continues beating down against his hood, though he feels the sudden urge to pull it off— to expose himself, his face. Let Mike understand the wash of surprise that is pulling him under, stronger than the fiercest tide. Will thinks, though, after another drawn out few seconds, that Mike understands that wash of surprise just fine. Because even in the dark— Will can see the startled, steady expression on Mike’s face.

Mike’s face. For a moment, the rain feels like it’s stopped. It’s nice to see Mike’s face. It’s hard to picture him when they’re talking on the phone. Will would so much rather look at him when he talks. When they talk.

And yet, here they are. Not saying anything.

The silence doesn’t last as long as it could. It could stretch on forever and Will might not protest such an idea. For the first time in what feels like forever, though— Mike breaks that silence like a sledgehammer to a windowpane. The cherry of his smoke rolling between his fingers, Mike leans forward onto his knees a bit, the light on his face morphing and changing as he does. Will almost chokes on a breath he has yet to take in.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Byers,” is what he says, secondary to his first comment, the words rolling off his tongue like water dripping steadily from a tap. Will watches Mike as he moves, every motion graceful but slowed— like he’s too tired to be so delicate.

Will opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it again, like he’s debating what he should say. In reality, he’s trying to combat the hazy, drunken feeling going on inside his chest like a mess of whiskey and butterflies.

“Mike?” is what he says first. He does, actually, physically cringe at the sound of his own voice, though he’s too fixed on the boy before him to acknowledge it. Mike, of course, raises his brows, and if Will could see him better, he’d see the soft pink flush rising to his cheeks, tacked on top of the cold chill like a magnet to the face of a fridge.

Mike’s free hand, picking aimlessly at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans, cups his kneecap like he’s just been kicked right in the centre of it. His face— eyebrows flickering up even more, lips parting— looks almost relieved. Then, eyes dragging from Will’s visage to the cobblestone flat in front of him, Mike sniffles.

“In the flesh,” he replies, a grim mumble. His lips part, trapping the filter of his smoke between his teeth as he takes a heavy drag. Sniffling, exhaling, smoke filtering out through his lips like a dragon, Mike shudders, nails digging into his knee. “In the freezing cold flesh,” he corrects himself.

Will could really use a drink. Of water or something else. Maybe both. Standing as awkwardly as a kid in line for a flu shot, Will shifts his weight, barely able to hear his own thoughts as the rain bounces off his hood.

“Wh—“ Will begins, his voice an octave too high. He places the flat back of his hand against his lips, clearing his throat, before trying once more, the cold seeping into his bones. “Wh-y’re you outs-side?”

Lifting his head a touch, blinking once and then twice, almost robotically— a tiny, tricky smile forms on Mike’s lips, and he raises a thin hand, almost as though he’s offering his cigarette out as a reply. As he drops his hand back, wrist limp, Will realizes that has been exactly the attempt Mike was making.

“Needed air,” Mike replies, though he’s really getting the opposite. Eyes flickering over Will’s form, he adds: “What about you, huh? Why’re you outside?”

This is so annoying, Will thinks. This is so fucking annoying. Just speak. Open your mouth and ask.

He doesn’t.

“Well,” Will begins, searching for a good answer, an acceptable one, but he comes up short. Instead, he tells the truth, shifting his footing. He forces his frozen hands into his pockets even further. “I’m outside because you’re outside.”

The air between them is stiff, even though it isn’t still— the rain carries on, relentless. Mike seems to regard Will for a heavy moment, as though he’s tasting his reply in the back of his throat still. After a moment of silence, Mike licks his lips.

“Right,” is how he responds, eyes fixed on the pavement, stubborn with his lack of eye contact. There is a smile on his face, but it’s not a real one. It’s a cold, frightened smile. The smile of someone who’s been caught red handed and is backed right into a corner with nowhere to go.

Mike doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and when he picks up again, it pushes Will right over the cusp, like water spilling over the lip of an overflowing glass.

“You look good,” he tells Will, as though they’re two office-working colleagues seeing each other at the water cooler on break. Will tenses up, water rising, as Mike reaches up, a ghostly hand swiping several curls away from his forehead. “Healthy, I mean. You look healthy.”

“Can we not do this?” Will asks blankly, catching Mike off guard like he’d just slapped the boy right across the face.

Mike, though he clearly reacts— eyebrows flickering upwards, lips parting just slightly— does not look up, still.

“Do what?” he asks, in such a way that proves— without having needed to say it directly— that Mike knows exactly what Will means.

Will draws his hands out of his pockets, embracing the cold just to place his scarcely warmed palms against his temples, sliding his fingers up and through his hair. Just say it.

He doesn’t. Not yet.

“This,” Will replies weakly, the breathy noise coming from his throat more like a dry, half-sob than a laugh. Mike, reactive still, flinches but doesn’t look up. He pulls another drag from his cigarette as he listens, examining how close he is to finished with it. It almost feels like a timer, that smoke. “This— small talk shit. Can we… just skip that? Please?”

There is a moment where Mike almost looks like he’s going to say yes. Then, staring down into that lit end, he twists away a bit.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” Mike is saying, crushing the lit end of his cigarette against the porch step, eyes dark, hooded, and averted from Will. He almost immediately reaches into his coat pocket to draw his package back out, placing a fresh filter between his chapped, cherry red lips. He doesn’t look at Will, not even once. “It’s dry under here. Well, it’s sort of dry—“

“I don’t care,” Will bites back sharply, sudden, wiping at a few droplets against his eyelashes. He sniffles, unintentionally tearing down his strong, impatient demeanor as he rubs his nose. “Honestly, I don’t care,” he repeats, trembling. “You’re not listening to me.”

Mike brushes the crushed butt off the step and finally, finally peers up at Will. His gaze is so tired Will wonders, for a moment, how he’s even sitting up straight.

“I’m listening to you just fine,” he replies, eyes now stuck on Will, exhausted but pleading. Fumbling with his lighter, Mike sparks up the end of his cigarette. For a moment, the very hollows of his cheeks seem ghastly. “Look, just come inside. I’ll get you a blanket or something.”

When Will doesn’t speak, Mike lets out a cool sigh. He leans into his knees, arms of his windbreaker gleaming slightly under the light.

“Will you at least step under the awning, then?” Mike asks, raising a brow as though he’s talking to a child.

Will has never wanted to simultaneously hug and throttle somebody so badly at the same time before. Struggling with the combination of cotton and rain against his jacketed shoulders, Will steps up only a step or two, aligned with Mike, just beneath the jutted out edge of the roof. It feels better— not by much, but it does, even if he won’t admit it.

Mike doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at Mike, both because he can’t bear to and because he’s still not 100% sure he’s really there. After an imbalanced, dead moment of quiet, nothing but the rumble of droplets assaulting the pavement narrating their unspoken questions, Will finally shudders and croaks:

“Where were you?”

Mike’s gaze darts up towards Will almost immediately, startled.

“What?” he murmurs.

“I said where were you?” Will repeats. His lips tremble subtly when he speaks, and though he thinks it’s because of the cold, he’s only half right. “You— I mean, you know I’ve been trying to call you, right?”

He despises himself for how pitiful that sounds. Reaching up and pressing his palms against his eyes, Will exhales forcefully.

“Look— fuck— I don’t care if you don’t want to talk to me— (yes, I do)— but you could have at least told me, you know? I thought something b-ad happened,” Will continues, shaking, that last word leaving his tongue like it’d been ripped right out of his throat. He stiffens, dropping his hands. It’s his turn to not look at Mike now— though out of the corner of his eye, he can see the boy staring at him, eyes like saucers. “And if you suddenly decided that you want nothing to do with me, then—“

“That’s not it,” Mike tries to interject suddenly, his tone sharp and slightly desperate. “That’s not it at all.”

“— Then you can just tell me that,” Will carries on, stocking that protest away for later. “At least tell me that and I’ll leave you alone. I swear I will.”

Will glances down at Mike, and he wishes he didn’t, because truthfully, Will’s never seen anybody look this mortified before. Mike, who cringes softly against the tight embrace of Will’s final statement, stabs out the end of his new smoke like he’s lost his appetite for it. His eyes flicker down to the lawn again, ashamed. Will nearly even apologizes in the silence following, but not before Mike lets out a weak, airy laugh.

“You know,” he begins, paying no mind to the fact that Will, involuntarily, has begun staring again, “I never thought I’d be happy to see you mad at me. But— I guess it’s better than not seeing you, so.”

Stiff, leaning back a bit into the railing, Will, without thinking, chokes out a soft: “I’m not mad at you.”

The worst part is that it’s true, even if he ought to be. He knows it wasn’t fair. He knows he should be at least a little irritated. He’s just— not. The truth bleeds into his voice, saturating his words. He’s not mad. He wishes he could be, but he’s not. He’s just—

Confused.

When he comes back to, Mike is looking right up at him, eyebrows knit together like Will’s just spouted out something in an entirely foreign language.

“No?” Mike asks slowly, drawing his hands from their respective spots and placing them tightly into his pockets. “If I were you, I’d be mad. I’d be pissed, actually.”

He pauses, like he’s considering his words, eyes darting out across the lawn and up into the sky a moment, before he looks back at Will, confusion glittering in his eyes like diamonds.

“Why’d you come then?” Mike asks suddenly, his voice tiny but sure. “If you’re not mad? Why?”

Will’s mouth, though it’s definitely impossible, feels as though it goes instantly dry.

“Why’d I—“ Will begins, but there is a break in his voice, and that simple act makes his fingers curl into his palms, fists tight in his pockets. He can feel his jaw tensing, squaring, frustrated. Still not mad— but hell, if he isn’t nearly there. “Why did I come?”

Mike glances up at him, and there is regret in his eyes, but it’s so subdued that Will wonders if Mike actually wants him to yell.

“I came because I missed you,” Will suddenly snips, an admission he’d be embarrassed of any other time, but now— now it merely acts as the twisting of a valve, the release of pressure. “I came because I wanted to see you! Because you were ignoring me and I didn’t know what to do because— because I was fucking worried about you!”

Will’s not yelling, he won’t, but his voice is raised a touch, and that’s enough to snap Mike to attention. Eyes widening and then falling, like he’s processing the information given, Mike prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, turning his head away and— almost shaking it.

Will, breathless from just this tiny outburst, leans back harder into the railing.

“That’s why,” he finishes sharply, watching as Mike drops his head and sighs.

“Oh, you’re breakin’ my heart, Byers,” Mike exhales briskly, pressing his forehead against the butt of his palm, the subtle sway of his frame the only thing giving off a sense of life around his being. “I’m just fine. Fine and dandy.”

His voice is low, mockingly distant. It would almost come off as crudely sarcastic if he didn’t sound so serious.

Will does wonder if he means that. He wonders, painfully, in the case that he’s not lying, if Mike has always sounded like he’s treating a broken heart, and Will just hasn’t known him to sound any other way.

Every time he looks at Mike like this, he just finds something else that makes his heart clench.

“You don’t look dandy, Mike,” Will replies quietly, his voice placid. It’s the truth— Mike doesn’t look well. He looks a little bit dead. Will shouldn’t still find him so beautiful, but he does.

Easily, as though he’s said it a million times, Mike shifts and presses his cheek into his hand.

“So stop looking,” he grimaces.

Just as easily— too easily— Will replies.

“I don’t want to,” he says, catching the small shift in Mike’s gaze. “You might just disappear on me again.”

That one does hurt. Both of them but, more specifically, as Will understands, it hurts Mike. The way his head flicks upwards quickly, catching Will’s fretful gaze, his eyes glassy and startled. His irises, pools of ebony brown, seem to melt and change with his expression. From surprise, to realization of some sense, to blazing hurt. The statement, though it hadn’t been intended to hurt Mike like this, has done just so.

Mike’s lips part subtly, like he wants to say something, anything, but they merely close again. He doesn’t look away. Neither does Will, though God, he wants to. He can feel words churning inside of his stomach, bubbling up into his throat, threatening to spill out at any given moment. He doesn’t want them to leak out, but he thinks they might have to if he wants to get anywhere with this. Because Will looks down at Mike, and he looks into those teary eyes, and he can hear the words rebounding inside his skull like a bouncy ball. Crashing into everything.

So, as he peers down at Mike, his heart thrumming hard against his ribs, his lips trembling both from the cold and from the sudden blast of sadness radiating from him, Will clears his throat, and the flood gates are opened, and the words— those words, that thought, that one, breezy thought— they escape from him.

“Mike,” Will begins, pretending he doesn’t see the boy flinch at his own name. Fingers clutching at the damp edges of his sleeves, the sour taste on Will’s tongue only grows heavier, more pungent.

Say it.

It’s too fucking hard to, though. Will shuts his eyes, but he can still feel Mike’s own on him.

“That day,” he gasps, “when we snuck onto the roof. When— when you got up onto the edge—“

“Will,” Mike attempts to cut in, too fast, his tone sharp and fearful. Will’s eyes snap open again. Mike, if possible in this cold, has gone as pale as a sheet of paper.

Will doesn’t stop.

The flood gates are open. They aren’t so easy to close.

“Were you just joking? About jumping?” Will squeaks, his voice pleading, watching as Mike’s brows furrow and his eyes grow subtly cloudier, understanding, realizing. Mike’s lips part in response, but before he can manage to squeeze out a single word, Will finishes, the words nothing but a breath: “Please don’t lie. Please.”

Mike Wheeler, for the first time since Will’s met him, looks— frankly— furious. It might be scary if he didn’t look so petrified at the very same time.

Rising to his feet, eyes dropping from Will’s, Mike lifts his hands and barely manages to smooth them over his own face before he lets out a quiet, startled, gasping little laugh. Will had forgotten how tall Mike was— and now, as he notices it again, he can’t help but feel small. Mike steps away from Will, up the steps onto the flat porch floor, his slippers padding weakly against the foundation.

“Did you and Nancy have a nice talk?” Mike asks, his voice nervous and shaky, but cold. It almost, for a moment, seems as though he’s about to head inside and leave Will out in the rain. Instead, though— Mike twists back around, dropping his hands from his face, interlacing his fingers behind his neck. He looks, frankly, like he’d rather die than have this conversation.

Cautiously, Will steps up the stairs until they’re on level ground, the rain less of a thunderous noise beneath the roof.

“Listen,” Mike tries, and Will already hates where he’s going with it. He dips his head back a touch. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Will replies, watching as Mike peers at him, several feet away, gaze exhausted and frightened. He’s never seen Mike look this fearful before.

Mike laughs, still. It’s quiet, and it’s not funny in any sense, but he laughs, dropping his hands, fidgeting, shoving them into his pockets. It’s a laugh of somebody who’s being interrogated about something they’re struggling to hide.

“Look,” Mike tries again, and it’s Will’s turn to cringe. “As much as you probably don’t want to hear this— if I wanted to jump, I would have.”

Mike’s right there. Will hadn’t wanted to hear that at all. Stepping closer to Will, cautious like he’s trying not to scare off a wild animal, Mike shakes his head.

“I was just fucking around,” he tells Will, no more than three feet from him now, painfully close, eyes pleading for Will to believe him. “Okay? Just joking.”

Will licks his lips, chapped and dry, even after walking through the rain. Stiffly, he replies: “Nancy doesn’t think you were joking.”

The reaction is almost instant. Mike’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, not towards Will but towards his words, and his gaze flickers away, like he’s searching for some sort of logic to be found. Numbly, he glances back at Will.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” he admits, his voice stronger but still low as he studies Will’s face shamelessly. “I care what you think. And I think you—“ Mike pauses, pushing hard on that last word, creeping back a step and crossing his arms protectively over his chest. Drifting back towards a small chest near the back door, Mike takes a seat on it’s thick top, dropping his head.

“You,” Mike finishes quietly, “have got it all wrong.”

“Then explain it to me,” Will replies through a gasp, inching over, hardly taking a breath before replying, his hands tingling both from the cold and from the anxiety of it all. The frigid air tightens every part of him, making him feel like he’s turning to stone. “Because— you don’t think I understand, and maybe I don’t, and it’s—“

Will shudders, shutting his eyes, but not before he catches Mike glancing ever so slightly upwards at him.

That thought blows through him again, like a gust of wind.

“It’s— I don’t—“ Will tries again, fumbling with his wording, pressing his palm against the side of his neck in a feeble attempt to warm it. “I can’t think about it anymore,” he exhales, shaking, both to himself and to Mike. He can feel his voice breaking, and that’s the ultimate turning point for not only him, but the both of them. He doesn’t realize it, but it is.

Because it’s the soft break in his voice as the word anymore drifts from his lips that makes Mike’s head flick upwards, eyes glassy and wide, staring up at the boy before him. Staring up at him like he’s seen a ghost. If the rain weren’t so loud, maybe the two of them would have been able to hear his heart snap right in two.

Mike stares up at Will for a moment, though Will’s eyes are still squeezed shut and he cannot see, like he’s just made the world’s biggest mistake. By the time Will opens his eyes once more, rubbing at his neck, Mike has made a decision, his dark gaze averted, cloudy and fearful. When Will looks at him, he doesn’t see what he usually does when he looks at Mike. Instead of the smiling, cheeky, tiny ball of light— he sees worry. Worry for something Will can’t understand. He shifts his feet, sniffling.

“Explain it to me,” he tells Mike, softly. So, Mike does.

It takes a moment, of course, because this isn’t easy to do. It takes Mike looking back up at Will, which is a feat in itself, and it takes Mike tipping his head away, a silent demand for Will to come closer. It takes Will drifting from Mike’s side to the front of him, standing before his sitting figure like a statue. It takes several breaths, a good few seconds in real time, a couple millimeters of rain, about three glances away.

Then, of course, Mike looks up at Will, and for half a second— not even that— Mike looks like he’s already died.

“Do you—“ Mike begins, but pauses, like he’s about to change his mind. Then, sniffling, gaze distant and absent, Mike looks down again. “Do you remember when I took you to school last month? The day you got in that fight, and I dropped you off at the door. When I told you I had to go park?”

Will can’t tell if Mike is going somewhere with this.

“Y-Yes?” He responds, slipping his arms tighter around himself.

Mike draws his hands out of his pockets, folding them together, then smoothing them over the knees of his jeans. He doesn’t stop fidgeting. As he picks a loose thread from the seam of his leg, he mumbles: “I didn’t. I didn’t need to find a spot.”

Will stares at him, blank, brows furrowing. From outside the safety beneath the porch roof, the wind whistles slightly. For some reason, his mouth has gone dry.

“What does that mean?” Will asks, not sure if he wants the answer.

Mike gives it to him. He takes a second to do so, but he does give it. Eyes hooded and nervous, Mike eyes the floor before he begins. When he does, he doesn’t stop.

“I dropped out of school over a month ago,” he tells Will, and that in itself is a bit of a surprise, but he doesn’t end it there. As Will’s brows flicker upwards, intrigue and, for some reason, relief flooding his senses, he feels as though this isn’t the end of that statement. If anything, it’s only the beginning.

He would be correct.

“I don’t know if you care,” Mike continues, picking relentlessly, “but I did. And— I’ve spent all the time off— y’know— thinking a lot about what’s going on. Like, about this. And—“

Mike pauses, like he’s building up the courage to do something. He confirms that to be true when he looks up at Will and catches his confused stare. Somewhere inside his brain, Will’s almost sure— an explosion goes off.

“I decided—” Mike begins again, surveying Will’s expression, praying he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. “I decided that I’m tired of not telling you everything. Because… I think maybe you’re the only person who won’t run away if I do. So… now you know.”

The silence after this confession is thick, but brief. Will, processing this information for several seconds, stares at Mike like he’s trying to preserve this image of him inside his head. He feels like he’s missing something. He has to be missing something.

Of course, he is.

Scratching the back of his head with numb fingers, heart still thumping in his chest, Will slowly replies: “That… you’re a high school dropout?”

Mike’s lips part like he’s just been completely shut down. Gaze flickering to the side, embarrassed, he grimaces.

“That’s not really it, though,” he mumbles. His voice is so low, Will has to strain a touch to hear it. He’d known that, surely— that doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t drop when Mike admits it, though.

So, sluggishly forcing his hands back into his pockets in an effort to keep them still, Will tips his head a touch, watching Mike.

“So tell me the rest of it,” he whispers, regrettably.

Mike, brushing his tongue over his lips, looks like he’d rather do anything else. The valve has been opened, however.

It’s too hard to shut it now.

“I wanted to come see you,” he admits in a callous whisper, leaning further forward, rubbing his hands against his knees nervously. Will’s heart climbs up into his throat, begging to jump right out of his mouth. He wants to take Mike’s hands— but doesn’t. “I did. I really did. I just— didn’t know if I could manage to do it. I can’t—“

Mike lifts a hand, placing it against his neck again. He looks like he’s about to keel over.

“I can’t… manage a lot right now,” he adds, his voice nothing but a breath. “It’s part of the process; that’s what my doctor says. The withdrawals being pretty bad, I mean.” He smooths his hand over the side of his neck, not taking notice of the fact that all the colour has drained from Will’s face. With a shuddering exhale, Mike adds: “Makes me feel like I can’t even move, sometimes.”

There is a lot to process. So much so that Will isnt’ 100% sure he’s registering any of it. His throat has gone dry, his hands still trembling in his pockets. The word withdrawal rings heavy against his eardrums, the weather not helping him sort his thoughts out. As he stands before Mike, he gazes down at the boy, fearful himself now— and he almost lurches forward into his arms.

Of course, almost is the keyword. There is so much more to do.

So much more to say.

Speaking his thoughts directly out loud, Will, no longer worried about the cold or the way it’s attacking his senses, whispers: “Withdrawals from what?”

Mike still doesn’t look at him. It’s almost like a magnet’s pulling his gaze towards the ground, eyes fixed there like a shamed dog.

“I— From—“ Mike tries to begin, but he can’t seem to settle. He leans forward and, nearly shocking Will’s soul right out of his body, he reaches forward and touches the boy’s wrist, like he’s asking for permission. His gaze, finally, flickers upwards, pleading and damp. Afraid.

The most afraid Will has ever seen him.

“Fuck,” Mike hisses through his teeth, frustrated but not at Will… just everything else. It takes a moment for Will to notice the damp tracks down Mike’s cheeks, and when he does, it takes everything inside him not to choke up himself. “See— why is this still so hard—“

Instead of freezing up like he usually would, however— Will twists his hand out of the safety of his pocket and grab’s Mike’s own, fingers clenching tight as they can, a guaranteed hold as Mike's fingers brush against the supple skin of Will's wrist. Mike’s hand is so cold, Will’s shocked it hasn’t turned black and fallen off.

“Easy—“ he croaks, watching as Mike tilts forward. “You’re fine. It’s fine.”

But is he?

That’s the question. As Mike registers Will’s hand on his, his grip on the boy’s fingers solidifies, and he turns Will’s hand delicately, peering at the lines criss crossing over his palm. The two of them staring down at Will's skin— this is the closest they’ll get to looking at each other for this very moment.

“I wasn’t a happy kid,” Mike begins again, voice trembling and nervous. “I— haven’t been in a long time. I used to take medication for it,” he says, his voice hush as his free hand reaches out to touch the tiny spaceship on Will's cast. “B-But I started getting better and— well, they—“

Will’s eyes dart up to look at Mike’s face. Mike doesn’t need to continue.

“They took you off it,” Will attempts to finish, watching in diluted worry as Mike purses his lips and nods.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, thumb dragging over Will’s. “They took me off it.” Mike’s hand, the one tracing out invisible designs on Will’s cast, drops back into his lap with a dull thud. “And it was— I mean, it was good, you know?” He glances up into Will’s face now, finally, searching still, eyes desperate for an explanation. “Super fuckin’ good! And then, it wasn’t good. I felt like shit. I’ve been feeling like shit. And—“

Mike pauses, staring up into Will’s face, the two of them practically staring into each other’s souls. Snapping that connection clean in two, Mike’s gaze drops, and he lets out a cool breath.

“Honestly,” he mumbles, flexing his fingers against Will’s, “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I know that’s not fair.”

Will’s gaze never falters from Mike’s face. To say that this entire situation is breaking his heart would be an understatement.

“See you like what?” Will asks, his voice quiet, higher than it ought to be. The anxious air between them grows thicker. “Like this?”

Will still doesn’t know what this means. Of course— he can’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t want to see Mike in any state.

As though he hasn’t broken Will’s heart enough, Mike tips his chin up a touch, eyes on the floor, and nods. “Most people don’t prefer sad me,” he tells Will, blind to the way Will’s eyes grow glassier, tearful and afraid. “I don’t blame them, and truly, I won’t blame you if you don’t like it, either.”

The words that come out of Will’s mouth next do not need to be thought about, or planned, or debated. Hardly thinking about it beforehand, Will bends at the knees ever so slightly, craning down a bit to try and see Mike’s face. When he catches the boy in motion, Mike does look up, his face a wash of pale pink embarrassment.

“There isn’t a part of you that I don’t like, Mike,” Will utters. That seems to catch Mike off guard; his brows flickering upwards, his doe eyes curious and disbelieving. Will doesn’t stop. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to continue. “You don’t have to be afraid of me seeing you like this.”

Mike’s gaze, so distant and avoidant before, could not be torn from Will’s face if he fell right through the earth this very second.

“I’m afraid you’ll leave after you do,” he tells Will, petrified.

Without thinking, Will, clasping Mike’s fingers tight until his own ache from the pressure, replies: “I won’t.”

For a moment, everything feels as though it’s gone still. Mike staring up at Will, processing that short but sure sentence. Will, gazing down at Mike, trying to place this smiling, giddy boy into this story that Mike has told him. It doesn’t fit. Maybe it’s not supposed to, though. Who says it has to? Who says you’ve got to see the sadness from the outside for it to be there? Even the rain feels like it’s gone still for a moment, hovering mid air, millions and millions of glossy droplets.

And then Mike’s grip on Will’s hand tightens and he’s so careful, when he pulls Will against his chest, not to hurt his healing fingers— and everything is in motion again, only now it feels almost sped up. Like this moment, as Mike embraces Will and Will embraces Mike in return, cannot last long enough. Mike arms around Will’s hips, Will’s arms around Mike’s shoulders. One sitting, one standing, but it isn’t a bother. They’re touching, and it’s a long awaited touch, and it takes everything in Will to try not to melt right into it.

But it’s not enough. He does so anyways, and Mike follows, like some twisted contemporary dance where the two of them end up in each other’s arms forever. It sure feels like they could.

It is broken, but not shattered, by the hefty, shuddering sigh that escapes Mike’s lips. Briefly— in some weird, convoluted way— Will almost thinks Mike’s soul has left his body.

“Fuck,” Mike manages, one hand dwindling back from the hug just to touch Will’s upper arm. Like he’s trying to stabilize himself. “I didn’t want to jump, and I don’t. You understand?”

Will doesn’t understand, but he thinks he could. So he brushes his fingers against the fabric of Mike’s jacket, his mouth crushed against the boy’s shoulder. He reeks, in the best way, of cigarette smoke and holiday scented candles. “I understand,” he tells Mike. Even if it’s not 100% true.

“I’m getting better,” he carries on, sinking into Will’s touch. His thumb skirts over the arm of Will’s coat. “It’s— taking a while, but— I am. Okay?”

“I understand, Mike,” Will repeats, softer this time, because he thinks maybe he’s beginning to.

“So you’ll stick around then? You— won’t leave?”

Will didn’t think he could get any colder, but in that moment, he does. His fingers curl against the fabric of Mike’s jacket, clutching the material like it might rip right out of his hands at any second. His heart begs for mercy that he can’t give it. He hopes, in the silence following, that Mike doesn’t think he’s debating it. There’s nothing to be debated.

“I never planned on leaving in the first place,” Will replies, feeling Mike’s shoulders ease beneath his chin.

“I just wanna go,” Mike tells him, his voice an unsteady wheeze. Neither of them show any sign of moving back, away. “I don’t want to be— gone. I just— I want to be somewhere else. Somewhere better.”

The words almost leave Will’s mouth. Simple words, words he could easily spit out if he truly wanted to. Let’s go, he almost says. Let’s leave. Let’s go somewhere else, together, just you and me. We could do it. Fuck— we could do anything.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales into Mike’s shoulder, his breath hot; the embrace warm and perfectly carved out like two puzzle pieces sliding into place. He doesn’t say a thing, because there is still going too far, and Will thinks if either of them would be the one to make it weird— it would be him. But he thinks about it. And he won’t really stop thinking about it.

“You will,” he tells Mike, fingers skirting across his back. He doesn’t tell Mike he wants to leave with him. He doesn’t tell Mike that he cares about him. Right now—he doesn’t think it’s fair. “You will someday. For now—,” he adds, feeling the way Mike’s form trembles beneath his touch, “I think you need to go inside.”

-

Mike isn’t hard to convince. Or maybe, Will is just very persuasive. Either way— the inside of Mike’s home is just as comforting as it was the night Will had stayed for dinner.

He doesn’t see Nancy— in fact, he doesn’t see a whole lot. In truth, the kitchen light had been the only real light on over the expanse of the first floor— the rest of the space cloaked in darkness. Mike doesn’t motion to turn anything on, and so Will follows suite, drifting through the home like a ghost walking through beams and walls built post-mortem.

Doors remain left open, like gaping mouths of blackness. From somewhere in the house, Will can hear Stevie Nicks’ haunting voice, singing through the dark. He thinks, as he trickles up the stairs, abandoning his wet shoes near the base of the carpeted finish, that wherever the music is coming from would lead him back to Nancy. He doesn’t have the drive to seek it, or her, out however, and so he continues after Mike, the subtle smell of blown out candles and baby powder radiating through the house.

Will has no idea where they’re going, and he has no idea when he’d agreed to follow Mike, but he’s doing it anyways, and he won’t even realize their destination until Mike places a flat hand against the slightly ajar door and pushes, light seeping from inside the room’s confines— sourced by nothing but a humble little desk lamp, Will will see.

Mike’s room does not look how Will expected it to look. Though, then again, he isn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

The walls are red. This is the first thing he notices— a nice, wine red— and the dark hardwood on the floor only serves to complement that. His bed is large— large enough for two and a half people, Will muses— and unmade; dark sheets crumpled and a thick knitted, navy blue quilt half-dangling off the mattress. Along the walls, posters and old notes both lie flush against their painted surfaces, creating character that takes it’s own form.

As they step into the room and Mike trickles off aimlessly towards the closet, where handles are nothing but ghostly suggestions beneath abandoned sweaters hooked on their necks, Will drifts towards the wall, feeling so out of place and yet so comfortable all at once. He skirts around Mike’s night table, ignoring the mild mess of pens, burnt out tea lights and doodles on scrap paper. Joan Jett, Alannah Myles, Pixies. Glamourous faces sit on pedestals of Mike’s handwriting, beneath, around, on top of them. In one free flush of red, in white ink, reads: don’t forget to take your medicine. Gut twisting, Will glances towards another. It reads, lovingly: Stop fuckin’ writing on your walls, dickhead!

“Hey, Major Tom.”

Snapping out of his trance, or whatever kind of stupor he’d been in, Will’s head twists towards the sound of Mike’s voice, catching the boy standing in front of his open closet, arm outstretched and clutching two masses of fabric. When he sees the look on Will’s face— the one Will hadn’t even realized he’d been making— a short little smile curls against his lips.

“Somethin’ for you to wear,” he explains, glancing around his room as if he’s just seeing it now for the first time. “D’you like? Sorry, it’s a mess. That’s pretty regular.”

As Will, nervously, crosses the room and approaches, retrieving these bundles, he can feel his heart yammering in his chest. Tongue dry and sandpapery, Will shakes his head numbly, trying to pretend that his brain isn’t screaming wholeheartedly about the fact that he’s taking Mike’s clothes.

“No, it’s really great,” he tells Mike, honestly, and maybe Mike catches onto that, because for a mere flicker of a second, his brows knot a touch, and he seems… stunned. Clearing his throat, Mike turns back around, finding those spectral handles and shutting the doors lightly.

“Bathroom’s the next door over,” he tells Will, his voice still trembling. Will can tell he’s frozen. Straying back and turning to face Will, Mike wraps his arms around his torso, cupping his elbows feebly. “Or— I mean, you can change in here. I could wait outside.”

“N-No,” Will assures him almost too quickly, already stepping towards the door. The clothes feel heavy in his hands. “Bathroom’s fine. I’ll be back.”

Stepping back out into the hall alone, Will doesn’t wait for Mike to respond for him to hurry down the hall, finding the door with utmost ease. It’s decorated just as regularly as any other bathroom— nude colourings, a small framed photo of Nancy’s high school graduation, seashell soaps. Will steps into it, feel cool against the tile, shutting the door behind him and drowning in the scent of lavender laundry detergent before he regards the clothes in his possession.

He strips off easily, trembling the moment the cool air hits his already frigid skin. It feels almost too weird to be standing in this foreign bathroom, in this semi-foreign house, boxers and socks and goose bumps as his only remaining cover. He’s all too quick to unfold that sweater, fingertips appreciating the plush knit of it, the delicate orange colour inviting HIM IN.

He drags the thick jumper over his frozen torso, savouring the automatic heat that comes with wearing something completely dry. His pants are swiftly replaced by sweatpants that are almost too big for him— but he makes them work. Tying the strings at the waist a bit tighter than Mike likely has them, Will allows himself to lean back onto the edge of the tub, sliding his arms around himself, his skin pink and chilled.

Will sits in Mike’s bathroom, the Wheeler’s bathroom, heating up inside the flush of his clothes, and he pretends like he hasn’t noticed the lack of photos of Mike. Not just here, no— but everywhere. All over the house.

It’s almost like he never existed.

-

February 14^th, 1989.

A month and a half after Will has met Mike’s parents and garnered their hate, four weeks on top of that since the two met, only a week since he’s come out. It is nearly three months since Will has met Mike, and it is almost exactly that to the date as Will sits back against the headboard of Mike’s bed, watching Mike tinker away at a Rubix cube, that Will first wonders if he is too far gone.

Will watches Mike working tirelessly over the puzzle, loosening his neck and dropping back a bit more until he feels his head press gently into the wall behind him. It is here that Will’s mind is invaded with these thoughts, and he finds his eyes falling shut in immediate response, dark negatives of images dancing across the backs of his eyelids.  The gentle sliding of plastic against plastic seems far off and distant for a moment. Rain trickles against the firmly shut windowsill in Mike’s bedroom. His old bedroom, Will supposes.

It’s been raining for days, Will thinks to himself. It’s been raining for days, and yet it feels like it’s been years. Wringing his hands and letting his fingers pass carelessly across the knees of his borrowed pants, Will is drawn easily out of his daydreaming as Mike’s voice rises from the end of his bed.