Work Text:
“Come on!” Mike laughs, kicking Will’s ankles without malice. “Open it! I’m carrying the heavy stuff.”
“I’m working on it!” Will snaps back with a broad grin, propping the large box in his hands against the door as he attempts to reach the doorknob around it with little success. He struggles for a few moments, unable to get a good grip on it, before someone opens the door from the other side and he stumbles through it, just managing to miss landing on the box.
“Ooh, sorry, man,” says Lucas with a grimace before offering his hand. “Need some help?”
“I almost had it,” he grumbles, but accepts the lift up anyway. As he stands, Dustin swoops in to grab the box, hoisting it onto the coffee table.
The Wheeler living room looks like an explosion of Christmas, decorations strewn in haphazard formation all across it as the Party makes a valiant effort to organize the excessive amount that Mrs. Wheeler has accumulated over the years. She’d allowed them to take on the task themselves with the caveat that it had to look “presentable”, which likely meant she would come through and change everything the next day.
“Yeah, you would’ve had it if Lucas hadn’t sabotaged you,” says Mike, placing his box down next to the others. “Pretty fucked up, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, Lucas,” says Max, surrounded by a pile of holiday hand towels and other various linens, “what the fuck?”
“Yeah, Lucas!” El chimes in.
Dustin gives him a stern, disappointed look and shakes his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Lucas rolls his eyes. “I’m never doing any of you a favor ever again. Remember this moment when you all come begging me for math help next week.”
“Next week is still winter break,” says Dustin.
He opens his mouth to retort, but is cut off by a red and green throw pillow hitting him in the face. “Put those on the sofa,” Max says, looking all too innocent.
He frowns, but instead of heading towards the sofa, walks back towards Max. “You know, in some places, it’s considered rude to smack your loving and caring boyfriend in the head with Christmas décor.”
“Really?” she says, barely looking up from her sorting. “Where?”
“In normal relationships.”
“You don’t have one of those.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says, but he’s grinning and he leans down to kiss her, catching her face in his hands.
“Gross!” Dustin yells, grabbing another pillow to hurl at them.
“Ugh, get a room!” Mike jeers.
“Here, El,” Will says, tossing what he just pulled from the box to her. “Go hang that up as far away from us as possible.”
She holds it in front of her, eyebrows furrowed, and Will reads the question on her face without thinking. “Mistletoe,” he explains. Her expression does not change. “You hang it up for Christmas, and if two people stand underneath it, they’re supposed to kiss.”
“Why?”
“Uh,” Will starts, then pauses, looking around at the others for help. “I don’t actually know. It’s just—that’s what you do.”
“It’s bad luck not to kiss under mistletoe,” Dustin says.
“It’s also poisonous,” Max adds conversationally. El shoots her a wary look, holding it as far from her as possible. “Only if you eat it though. So don’t eat it.”
“Yeah, and that one’s plastic,” says Mike.
“Okay, so definitely eat it, then.”
“Don’t tell her that!” he snaps, glaring at Max, before turning to back to El. “Don’t eat plastic.”
El looks at him with patient but exasperated eyes. “I know jokes, Mike.”
“Yeah, Mike,” Max says, “she knows jokes.”
“Yeah, Mike, what’s your problem?” Lucas adds.
“Alright!” Mike shouts, throwing another pillow at Max, which she blocks by holding a different one up to her face. It takes no time at all for her to retaliate, and soon enough there’s pillows flying through the air and shrieks of laughter echoing off the walls and it almost feels like nothing’s changed at all.
It’s sort of strange being back in Hawkins, in a way that Will can’t quite describe. He can’t help but remember the time he and Mike went to pick up Holly from their old elementary school, and as they walked through the halls, everything felt uncomfortable and small, even though it all looked exactly the same.
They disperse back to their tasks eventually, and it’s not long before the house begins to look like there’s some semblance of order to it. The group breaks for lunch sometime in the afternoon, milling towards the kitchen one by one. Will is the last to get up, too focused on trying to detangle a stubborn string of lights.
“C’mon, Will,” Mike says, standing under the arch between the living room and the foyer. “Sandwiches. And Dustin’s making hot chocolate.”
“Just a second,” he replies without looking up. “I almost got it.”
“Here, what kind do you want? I’ll get it started.”
“No, it’s fine,” he insists, giving the cord one final tug. “See? Got it.”
“Nice. C’mon.” Mike waits for him in the archway, and by the time Will makes it to him, the rest of their friends have started to migrate back out to the living room, carrying plates and mugs.
“And just where do you think you two are going?” Max says, blocking their path.
“…the kitchen?”
Max doesn’t reply, but points up, an eyebrow cocked. They follow her gaze and find themselves staring at the mistletoe, hung directly above them.
“Oh, come on!” Mike huffs. “Why would you hang it in the most-used doorway of the house?”
“I didn’t hang it!” Max says, but her wicked grin isn’t very convincing.
“I didn’t see anyone hang it,” Will says, frowning up at it. “Who hung it?”
“You told me to,” says El.
“Yeah, far away.”
“Enough chit-chat,” Max interrupts, waving her hand impatiently. “C’mon.”
Everyone’s staring at him, like it’s some sort of funny joke that they’re expecting him to play along with. They’re staring, he can feel it, his heart beating faster, and he can feel Mike turn towards him from the side and he can feel his face heating to a furious red, so he ducks his head and pushes past them towards the kitchen. “Don’t be dumb.”
Everyone’s still staring as he heads towards the fridge to get sandwich ingredients and force his face to cool down. Stupid. He was being stupid, and they’re being stupid, and everyone needed to stop being stupid.
“Yeah, fuck off, Max.”
“But…” he hears El’s voice, small and tinged with confusion, “bad luck?”
“It’s not real,” Lucas explains. “It’s just a stupid tradition.”
“It could be bad luck. Will’s just willing to risk it.”
“Yeah, well,” he drawls, staring at the open fridge and not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice, “I think I’ve had enough bad luck to last me a lifetime. Pretty sure it can’t get much worse.”
Everyone shuts up after that.
There’s nothing quite like a Christmas tree lit up in the middle of the night, lights shimmering a warm white glow between the branches and tinsel, casting off shadows to dance along the walls. Some sort of magic hangs in the air around it, and even though Will’s too old for Santa, it still feels like home, like comfort, like warmth and safety and happiness.
There’s a strange sort of magic in Hawkins, too.
It’s not the same kind. Hawkins feels different, older and darker and more ancient, like at any moment some amazing or something horrific could happen, perhaps at the same time. It’s not safety, but it’s not quite terrifying. There’s comfort in Christmas lights, but there’s comfort in familiarity, too.
That thought does not lend itself to sleep.
“Hey. Everything okay?” Mike’s voice appears behind him, raspy with midnight grogginess.
“Yeah, fine. Sorry I woke you. Just couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh. Is it…?”
“No, nothing bad,” Will says, and it’s almost not a lie. “Just miss my bed, I think.”
“Do you want mine? I can pull out my sleeping bag, you can take the—”
“No, Mike. Thank you.” There’s a moment’s silence, and then Mike joins him on the sofa, a silent invitation to continue. “I—I don’t know. It’s just weird being back here but knowing I can’t go back to my house, you know? Like, I grew up there. That’s my home. That’s my room someone else is sleeping in. Plus, it’s weird seeing everyone again. Great, but weird. I mean, we’ve spent our entire lives together, and now you guys, just, I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Like, you guys have your own group that I’m not apart of now. And it’s not—stop,” he says, holding up a finger as Mike tries to interrupt. “It’s not intentional, I know you guys aren’t trying to exclude me. But I mean, you guys talk about your math teachers and suddenly I can’t relate anymore, because I have no idea who the Hawkins High math teachers are.”
“Actually, Dustin has Mrs. Freeman. From fourth grade, remember? She moved up to high school now.”
That is not what he meant, and Mike knows it. “…okay. I just mean that there’s stuff you’re all going to experience together, but without me.”
“I know what you mean. I just mean that no matter what happens, you’re still a part of Hawkins. You’re still a member of the Party.”
Will is quiet for a long moment. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t know what to say after that, so he slumps down further into the sofa and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the wind whipping around the house.
“So. How’s living with El been?”
“Different,” he says honestly. “Nice. I always thought I wanted a sister. She hogs the bathroom, though. And eats all the Reese’s Pieces whenever mom buys them for me. She puts them on top of her waffles with, like, piles and piles of whipped cream. It’s disgusting. But it’s good to have her around.”
“Yeah?” There’s a smile in Mike’s voice.
“Yeah. She gets it.”
Mike nods. He gets it, too.
“How’s Hawkins High? Everything you dreamed?”
“Well, all my dreams about it were nightmares, so yeah, you could say that.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You know all the good parts of middle school?”
“…no?”
“I mean, like, Mr. Clarke. And having easy classes you didn’t have to study for. And Mrs. Johnson’s sticky rolls on Fridays. High school doesn’t have any of that. You just get up earlier and the classes are harder and you and El are gone and Lucas and Max are always together and Dustin’s always hanging out with Steve and it sucks.”
A minute passes before Will knows what to say. “I’m sorry. I miss you, too. So does El. We miss all of you. It sucks not being together anymore.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just our luck, isn’t it?” Mike sighs. “Although, maybe it’s our fault. Since we definitely just cursed ourselves by not kissing under mistletoe.”
Will can feel his face getting hot again. “Yeah, that’s probably what’s caused all of this. I walked under a ladder once, you think that’s why the Mind Flayer possessed me?”
Mike fights back a surprised laugh. “How long do you think mistletoe bad luck lasts? If you break a mirror, it’s seven years, right?”
“Good question. Maybe until next Christmas? Or maybe until you kiss someone else under the mistletoe.”
“Maybe it’s infinite. Maybe it never ends and we just cursed ourselves forever.”
“Oh, great,” Will says, pushing up from the sofa. “Thanks, Mike, now I’ll be able to fall asleep.”
“Well, maybe it’s not too late,” he replies, standing up as well.
“What?” Will turns back to face him, cocking his head, and finds himself much closer to Mike than he realized.
“Y’know, maybe it still counts.” Mike takes another step towards him, close enough that they’re almost touching, and Will can’t breathe. This is some kind of sick joke, a stupid prank where he’ll lean in and then everyone will pop out from around the corner and make fun of him, because did he seriously believe anyone would want to kiss him? It’s not real, it’s not real, but Mike is getting closer and closer and it’s definitely not real.
“We could change our luck,” Mike whispers, and leans in.
This is a dream. It has to be a dream, right? He’s had this one before, over and over again, a thousand different iterations of the same outcome, Mike taking Will’s face with gentle hands and kissing him slowly. There’s no way it’s real this time around. It’s just his imagination, just his subconscious conjuring another fantasy he could hide in.
Except there’s no haze, no sluggish, dream-like drag to his movements, no subtle blur to the things his imagination can’t quite replicate. Instead, everything is sharp contrast, bold and painstakingly present, from the fingers under his chin to the chap of lips against his own to the warmth radiating from the chest in front of him, pulling him in and telling him this is real, real, real.
This is real. Mike is kissing him and it’s real, not a stupid daydream for a boy who knows better than to waste his time on dangerous fantasies. It’s real and holy shit, he needs to do something that isn’t stand here like an idiot.
Shit. Shit. Is this even real? Sure, it’s happening, but is it really? Mike’s kissing him, but Mike likes girls, so—so it’s probably just—some weird friendship thing, right? That’d be just like Mike, to figure out how Will feels and try to—to do this for him, in some strange, twisted sort of way.
Before he can even decide what to do, before he can figure out what his options even are, Mike is pulling away. They stand a foot apart, too close and too far all at once, until Mike takes a huge step back, chest heaving.
He looks stricken, terrified, struggling desperately for some sort of answer to a question Will hasn’t even asked. “Um, sorry, I just—uh, sorry.”
Will blinks.
“I didn’t mean to, okay? Like, make it weird or anything. It was—I was just—I mean, mistletoe!” He gestures wildly towards the plant hanging a few feet away. “You’re supposed to kiss someone under mistletoe, so I was just, I mean, doing that. So, it’s not—it’s nothing weird. Sorry. We can just forget about it, okay? We don’t have to talk about it anymore. Let’s just go to bed, okay?”
Mikes staring at him like he’s supposed to respond. But what is he supposed to say? ‘Oh, it’s cool, Mike, no worries! You can just kiss me and then we’ll ignore it forever, and I’ll just dream about this moment for the rest of my life!’
“Mike.”
He does not respond, but just his name makes him shrink, shoulders hunching towards his ears as he prepares for some sort of attack.
“Why did you kiss me?”
“I—mistletoe, you know? Sorry, I just—I just thought—”
He’s breathing heavy, and he turns towards the hallway, shoving his fingers though his hair. For a moment, Will think he’s just going to leave and march back up to his room, but then he whips around and faces him squarely.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to before?” Mike spits out, like keeping the words in any longer would have caused him to explode.
Will stares at him for a long moment. “Huh?”
“Just—you don’t—you don’t like—” Mike’s confidence seems to have left him, and he deflates more with every word. “I mean, you don’t ever really care about girls that much, and I just thought, maybe, that—”
“That what?” He doesn’t mean to spit it out like that, but he can’t help it. Of course he couldn’t fool Mike. Of course. He wasn’t a good liar in the first place, and Mike could read him without trying. It was stupid to think he could get away with it, stupid to think he could hide it if he was careful enough, stupid, stupid, stupid—
“God, you know what? It’s stupid, it was so stupid, let’s just forget it, please?” Mike at least has the decency to look ashamed, but Will’s not willing to let it go that easily.
“Forget what? You haven’t even answered my question yet.”
“I—what do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know! You just kissed me! What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing! Anything! I don’t know!”
This is ridiculous. What the fuck was Mike playing at? Kissing him, accusing him of being gay, and then refusing to explain anything. What right did he have to be yelling at Will now? Why on earth did he get to be the one upset?
Wouldn’t you be upset, a small, errant thought whispers in his ear, if you kissed someone and they didn’t kiss you back?
But that was stupid, because it wouldn’t bother him if it was a friend. It’d only hurt if—
Oh.
And his blood is rushing in his ears and his thoughts are swirling in spastic, unintelligible circles around his head but he sort of gets the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Mike wants him to just kiss back.
He takes two steps forward, and Mike takes one back, eyes wide and terrified. He flinches when Will reaches out, like he’s expecting to get punched, but instead Will grips the front of his shirt into his fists and tugs.
He’s not quite tall enough to reach Mike’s lips without him bending down, so he pushes up on his toes and closes the already small distance between them again. This time it’s Mike’s turn to freeze, turning rigid as Will allows his hands to rest on his shoulders.
Will is patient. It’s only fair. He holds still for a long moment, allowing Mike to breath, to focus, to realize that Will just dove headfirst off a cliff. It’s slow, but it blossoms as Mike slides tentative hands around his waist and blooms as he pushes forward and kisses him back.
This is real. He’s kissing Mike and Mike is kissing him back and it’s real.
It’s everything and nothing like he could have imagined, warm and bright and calm. He’d thought it might be wild and frenzied, like he wouldn’t ever be able to get enough, but instead it’s patient. Slow. Like they could stay in this moment forever, like they never had to rush or leave or hide or be scared.
It feels like home, finally.
Mike pulls away, a furrow in his brow and a thousand questions on his tongue. Will doesn’t really want to answer them, and Mike’s having trouble getting them out.
“Wha—I mean, why? What’s—”
“What?” Will asks, and pushes him back two steps, until they’re firmly under the archway, and he leans in again with a grin. “Mistletoe.”