Archive of Our Own ^omega

“Wait,” El says, then uses a thumb to swipe a bit of stickiness from the tip of Mike’s nose. They stare at each other for a moment, then burst into giggles. They make happiness look so easy.

Will knows it wasn’t easy for them. He’s had front row seats to the fights and the worries and the confusion and the doubt. But that’s all so forgettable, still in his front row seat, watching El in her pretty summery pink jumper leaning back to avoid the cone Mike’s threatening her with, kicking her sneakers at his bare knees in retaliation.

Well, maybe he should just fucking leave the theater.

He darts his eyes away, guilty, and when he feels Jonathan glance at him, he offers a smile and redirects his eyes to his popsicle, which desperately needs his attention as it drips red all over his hand. He’d wanted strawberry ice cream, originally, but he knew Nancy would want it as well. He’s heard from Jonathan that they both share the flavor as a favorite, and on a hot day like this (where the strange cold hasn’t reached yet, anyway), kids milling in and out of the ice cream shop as numerous as flies, there wasn’t a lot left. So he asked for the popsicle, instead. He knows Jonathan noticed, but he hasn’t said anything and Will isn’t going to, either.

Nancy peers around his brother, strawberry ice cream already half gone. None of it has managed to melt or make a mess. Everything about Nancy is succinct, refined. Neat. Nothing like her brother. It’s no surprise to Will that Mike got ice cream on his nose. It’s probably on his shoes, too. Honestly, El probably shouldn’t sit that close or she’s gonna have a big chocolate splotch on her—

Stop , Will tells himself as he smiles again, this time at Nancy, more awkwardly.

He shouldn’t have come. He’s worse than a third wheel; he’s a fifth wheel: the spare tire collecting dust in the trunk. Or a horrifying addition to a mutated four legged animal, making it difficult to walk. He isn’t sure how exactly the plan had been made. Nancy and Jonathan deciding to go out, and Nancy offering to bring Mike to meet Eleven? Then Jonathan offering to Will? Mike hadn’t asked Nancy in the first place, and then Jonathan just brought Will with him, right? God, that’d be awful.

He’s let it go. He has. He wants Mike and El to be happy.

So why the fuck can’t he seem to stay away from them?

It’s just ice cream , he tells himself as he twists uncomfortably on the wooden bench. And you’re clearly not bothering them. 

He hasn’t realized that his eyes have moved back to the pair until Jonathan’s voice startles him — “Will—” and a large clump of his popsicle slips off and sizzles on the pavement.

“Whoops,” he says stupidly, staring at the mess at his feet before standing in a rush. “I’ll go get some napkins.”

“Will, it’s fine. Just leave it,” Jonathan says dismissively. Nancy nods in agreement.

“My hands are sticky,” Will tells them. “I’ll be back.” He pops the rest of the ice in his mouth, and tosses out the stick as he passes the trash. He glances back without thinking: Nancy and Jonathan squinting at him in the sun with furrowed brows, and Mike and El, who haven’t noticed at all.

Will shivers as he enters the air conditioning. A father is fighting with a young boy in the men’s room, and Will averts his gaze as he scrubs away the red. When he comes back to the bench, Jonathan belatedly offers to buy him another popsicle, which he declines politely. With no excuse to leave, with no ride home but Jonathan, he waits anxiously until they can go.

Before they do, Mike tells El he loves her. Her smile is brighter than the sun that’s burning their faces. 

Will smiles and ignores the tears pricking the back of his eyes. Mike’s made so much progress. Good for him.

~

“Mike’s here,” calls Joyce from the front door.

Will hears his mom beckoning Mike in, asking him how he’s doing, the mandatory hug and everything from his room. A few moments later she pops her head into the doorway. “Gonna say hello?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. She knows what he’s like when he’s painting: focused, hard to draw away from task. It’s a subtle reminder that she didn’t raise impolite sons.

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute,” he tells her, making sure to look up from the painting to meet her eyes so she knows he is paying attention.

He is also lying.

Because Joyce didn’t raise impolite sons, and in this case, it would really be most polite for him to just leave El and Mike be. Really, emerging from his room to say hi only to slink right back will just be pathetic and awkward for everyone. He can grab a glass of water from the kitchen later, say hi then, or before Mike leaves. They are friends. They are on good terms. But Mike is not here to see him. And that’s okay.

His nerves are buzzing a bit, but he takes a deep breath and focuses back on the landscape in front of him. He’s almost ready for the subjects, but with this interruption, now he’s unsure; he looks for details to add to the scenery, stalling.

“What’re you working on?”

Will starts. He knows he must look like an idiot, fumbling the paints and his brush and flushing like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. In a way, he always feels like that when caught painting.

Mike watches his clumsy juggle with the materials from the doorway, eyes honest and curious. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

There was a time when Will would work on drawings in front of Mike, beside Mike, drawings he would give to him right after. Some he kept for himself or his mom or Jonathan, but usually, they were for Mike. Mike always made him feel proud of his drawings, showering the silly crayon scribbles with praise and hanging them up in his room or in the basement. And even though Will’d been horribly nervous about that painting — God, he thought it might be too transparent — Mike had responded with the same positive regard he always did. He hadn’t thought it was stupid, or weird.

So why is Will struck with such a strong desire to hide the canvas from him? There’s nothing damning on it — yet, anyway.

“Oh, ’s fine, I just,” Will stutters a bit, where’s El? He stops himself from adding this. It’s shitty, pushing Mike away. His heart twists to see him, yes, but it is good to see him. And Mike came to him . He’s not stealing time from El or anything. “Sometimes I just, ah, lose myself when painting,” he explains, then wonders if it sounds stupid, elitist, I lose myself painting, like he thinks he’s some sort of art prodigy. “Like, I get really focused,” he amends.

“Oh,” Mike nods, “yeah, I get that.” Will feels like he’s said too many words already. His first friend. His best friend. And he can’t even figure out how to speak words to him. God.

Mike steps into the room, which feels more normal. “Can I see?” he asks.

The comfort of normalcy drowns in a small wave of panic. Which is dumb. Nothing’s wrong with the stupid painting. It’s just a background. Mike will take one glance and be bored of it.

Maybe that’s the problem. 

Get over yourself, Will chastises himself as he says, “If you want. Not much going on in it right now.” He’s been working on it for two hours already, but Mike doesn’t need to know that.

As Mike steps around a laundry basket and the chair holding the water and paints — Will’s had to make do with the feeble furniture in Hopper’s cabin — Will wonders vaguely if he should be worried that his subconscious has painted Mike’s face in the clouds or some shit. He scans the painting beside Mike, seeing its faults, its lacking.

“Looks so professional,” Mike commented. “Like it belongs in a museum or something.”

Will feels both ridiculous and giddy. He clears his throat, willing the blush to go away. “Not really. It’s still boring. Only halfway there.”

Mike looks over at him. “What are you adding to it?”

Too cowardly to meet Mike’s eyes, Will pretends to focus on the painting as if thinking. He was planning to paint another D&D scene, but he can’t say that. That’s what his last painting was, and he told Mike El commissioned it — not that that made much sense — and he doesn’t want to bring that up now. Besides, even if Mike had joined that Hellfire club, Will feels like a total idiot any time he brings up D&D. He still flinches to think about how hard he’d tried to win over the other members of his party into playing a game. Their rejection was not mean spirited, but it still stung.

“Mm, I don’t know yet,” he hums, continuing to avoid Mike’s gaze and now dropping his eyes from the painting as well. He stares at Mike’s sneakers next to his. Obviously, it wouldn’t work with the perspective and background of this painting, and Will still hasn’t mastered realism, and he really does prefer fantasy subjects in his art, but beside all that, he thinks that as simple paintings go, it would make a nice one. Once he has the thought, he knows it’s stupid and buries it.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Mike says, then adds casually, “or maybe El will.”

Will’s stomach drops to his feet. Mike’s oblivious, he always has been, but Will can tell it’s an accusation from his tone. He’s so surprised by being called out, especially now, that he has no response. He meets Mike’s eyes and regrets it immediately; Mike’s daring him to challenge the implication, to deny it.

His mouth works, but no words come out.

“C’mon, Will,” Mike says. The tips of his long eyelashes are just obscured by the fringe of his hair. Will tries to focus on this instead of looking directly into Mike’s prying eyes. He feels cornered. 

At his failure to speak, Mike continues, “El doesn’t care about D&D. I don’t get why you would even lie about that.”

That being the painting. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t suspect anything about the rest of the conversation. That’s good. It means Will can fix this.

“Well,” he starts carefully, “You were really upset about everything with El at the time, and I thought maybe the painting would cheer you up. But I didn’t want to make it about-”

Us.

Will can’t say it. The last time he said “Us,” Mike threw back at him, “We’re friends. We’re. Friends.” Just like that, twice. Like he knew. So the word curls and dies in Will’s throat and he leaves the sentence to trail off, does a small, vague hand motion that could mean anything.

“You?” Mike guesses.

Will’s mouth twitches, but then he just nods. That’s fine. Let Mike understand it as he wants. His hesitation (surprisingly) does not slip past Mike unnoticed, and it looks like he might say something about it, so Will adds hastily, “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Mike frowns, opens his mouth. But before he can say anything, El, ever the savior, pops into the room. “Hey, Mike. Hey, Will.”

“El,” Mike says as Will unintentionally breathes a sigh of relief into his “Hi.” Maybe Mike glances at him for this, maybe Will imagines it. Either way, he ignores the impression.

“Did you still want to watch a movie?” she asks, eyes moving from Mike to Will. Despite having no part in welcoming Mike into his room, Will feels like he has intruded again. But then Mike looks over at him as he replies, “Yeah,” and Will considers that this is perhaps an invitation.

“Will?” El asks, clarifying that he is, in fact, invited.

For a second, a lightness flutters in his chest, feeling wanted, something he hasn’t really felt much from Mike and El together, especially not since the skating rink episode. But then the feeling freezes in place as he wonders if this is some sort of test. If it is, he’s already failing it as he looks between the two of them with a blank, stupid expression.

Is it kinder to excuse himself, and let them enjoy the movie themselves? A movie for couples is a movie for cuddling. Or is him saying no weirder, somehow, continuing to distance himself from his sister and his friend? Best friend? Used-to-be-best friend?

“You can pick,” El adds, smiling. Without thinking, he smiles back, which she seems to take as a yes because she says, “C’mon,” and heads down the hall to the living room.

Mike smiles too, bumping his arm gently before they both pick their way around Will’s cluttered floor to follow El. Will feels stupidly happy and nervous to hang out with them. The fluttery feeling is back, but his stomach is also twisting a little.

“My paint,” he says suddenly, remembering he needs to put it away so it doesn’t dry out. Mike blinks at him but Will waves him on, “I’ll be a minute.”

He treats his materials with care, stopping to clean the brushes so that they won’t get stiff and grouping the paint together on the chair, making sure all of it is closed and preserved. When he gets to the living room, or really, just the open front room of Hopper’s cabin where the TV is, El and Mike are already sitting together on the couch. Mike’s digging into his backpack to pull out the options he brought over. The couch isn’t very big, but their knees are pressed together, as close as can be on one side.

Will heads for Hopper’s chair hesitantly. It’s the only other piece of furniture. “Will,” El calls, and he almost flinches, thinking she’s gonna yell at him for trying to sit in her father’s seat, but she just motions him over to the couch. “You pick,” she repeats. “I will make popcorn.”

She gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen for the box of microwave popcorn that Joyce graciously keeps stock of. Will hovers over Mike for a moment before the other boy says, “I don’t bite, Byers.” Mike quirks a smile at him, but he doesn’t scoot over, forcing Will onto a third of the couch. It shouldn’t bother him, lord knows they’ve sat closer before, but somehow all of that feels distant, and hopelessly so; a thing so far in the past it could’ve been a dream.

Mike starts handing him VHS tapes, and it’s just one more decision that Will doesn’t feel like making. “I really don’t care what we watch,” he says, trying to be dismissive without sounding disinterested. Mike pauses to frown at him.

“Your opinion matters, Will,” he tells him, which startles Will a little, because somehow they’re not talking about movies anymore. Even so, he’s not quite sure what exactly they are talking about. He thinks about their conversation from a few minutes ago, then for just a second of saying, Why do I matter now ?

But that’s bitter and confrontational and is more appealing to think than to actually say to Mike’s face. Instead, he brushes off Mike’s serious tone: “Wow, pressure’s on.” He raises his eyebrows and looks down at the options.

And then they’re both bent over the VHS tapes, close enough that Will feels Mike’s curls brush his forehead. Close enough that Will feels guilty. But Mike doesn’t seem to find it strange or uncomfortable; his gaze lifts to Will’s face as if he can predict what his movie choice will be from his expression, which Will is trying to school for a different reason entirely.

“What’re you guys up to?”

Will startles so bad that he and Mike smash heads. Mike darts back with a hiss of pain, while Will gasps as he scrambles backward, though being temporarily stunned tempers his panic.

“God, Jonathan,” Will groans, humiliated, guilty, ashamed. His brother’s given him no reason to feel these things, but he feels them anyway. Will glances quickly at Mike to see his eyes screwed shut, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Sorry,” Jonathan says, sounding more curious than apologetic. Then, “Is someone making popcorn?”

Will has some poisonous thought of accusing his brother of having the munchies before chasing it out of his still ringing head. “El,” he replies. “We’re watching a movie.”

“I’m already seeing stars,” comments Mike.

Will winces, ignoring the look Jonathan gives him before walking out of the room. “Sorry.”

Mike looks at him through his fringe. “You have a hard head.”

“It’s the bowlcut, actually,” he quips. “Highly protective.”

Mike gives him a funny look before he starts snickering, and it feels like an undeserved gift, being able to make him laugh. Will’s face splits into a grin.

When El returns with the popcorn, the three of them sandwich together on the couch and watch the VHS Will selected (at random). Will hears Mike’s laugh echo over and over on a hopeless loop. He barely hears the movie.

It makes the murmurs between El and Mike easier to ignore.

~

“Will,” El calls. “It’s for you!”

Will frowns, leaving his comic splayed open on his bed as he gets up for the phone. El gives him a look that says she is annoyed with how slow he was to retrieve the phone from her hand, then prances back towards the kitchen table to finish her stack of Eggos. It’s midmorning, quiet, sunny, chilly. Chillier because of the gate leaking Upside Down into Hawkins.

Shivering at the thought, Will speaks into the receiver, “Hello?”

“Will.” It’s Mike. Somehow both the most and least obvious person to have called him. It’s sort of uncomfortable that he has managed to call him here, in Hawkins, when they have seen each other just a few days ago, but left him in radio silence back in California. But Mike sounds sort of amused. “How come you never answer the phone?”

“Because it’s never for me?” Will realizes halfway through the response that he doesn’t want it to come out of his mouth, which is why it becomes a question. It seems it is easier for bitterness and honesty to slip out when he doesn’t have to say it to someone’s face. He’ll have to keep that in mind. “So uh, what’s wrong?”

Mike’s amused tone grows more forced. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

“Because something always is.” Will says this one flatly. Plays it off as a joke. It still hits a little close to home considering everything, but that’s also what makes it funny.

Neither of them laugh. “You sound like you don’t want to talk to me.” This, too, is supposed to be a joke, but it’s clearly laced with an accusation. Or at the very least, asking for reassurance.

Will obliges immediately: “I do,” he says, and it’s too hurried, too sincere. Pathetic. Transparent. He coughs a little, then adds, “I just don’t want my toast to get cold.”

He sees El lean back in her chair and peer at him suspiciously. He’d eaten a bowl of cereal half an hour ago. He makes a sort of rude waving gesture at her and she rolls her eyes at him as he turns away, faintly blushing. Will Byers is a liar. He knows he is. So fucking what.

“Your-” Mike stops, offended. “Oh. I see what your priorities are.”

“Perfectly sensible,” Will suggests.

“Y’know what,” Mike says. “Come over. I’ll make you some toast.”

Why the hell does that make Will’s heart accelerate? He hates himself.

“Why would I go to your house for toast,” Will asks reasonably, “if I already have toast here?”

“Because your toast is cold,” Mike answers matter-of-factly.

“It might not be if I hang up now.”

“I’m serious, you asshole,” Mike laughs. And that’s all it takes for the smile to win over Will’s face. “You’ll come over?”

Will stops. Mike’s invited him over hundreds of times over the phone. But that was also ages ago. Even as familiar as it is, it’s wholly unexpected, and Will’s never felt nervous about the prospect, like he is at the moment. “What, now?”

“ Yes , now,” Mike drawls like he’s an idiot.

“I don’t have a bike or anything.”

“Can’t you ask Jonathan?”

Presumably, that question means Jonathan must be around here somewhere, if he’s not over at the Wheeler residence already. Unless, that is, he’s smoking with Argyle somewhere.

“El, have you seen Jonathan?” he directs to his sister, who takes her time chewing before responding: “In his room.”

“So?” Mike’s voice insists.

“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.” There’s fondness in his voice, unintentional, inescapable.

He can feel Mike about to say something else, but before he does, Will slams the phone back into its place with a pinch more force than necessary.

“Are you going to Mike’s?” El asks him.

He wants to lie for a split second, which is idiotic; she answered the phone, she knew who it was, she heard the conversation. But he wants to keep this to himself. Have something for himself.

Will swallows. “Yeah. Did you wanna come?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be with Hopper,” she says.

“Oh,” he says, at first relieved, then understanding. Mike probably asked El to hang out first, found out she was busy, and then decided to kill time with him. Will Byers, always second choice. Maybe he should just be grateful he’s still a choice at all.

A bit dampened, he twitches a smile at El. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.” She smiles back with a small wave.

He knocks on Jonathan’s room, glancing down to see if there’s a jacket stuffed underneath the door. Nothing, so he probably isn’t smoking. “Hey,” Jonathan greets him, opening the door.

“Can you take me to Mike’s?”

Will doesn’t miss the look he gives him. “Sure, buddy.”

The car ride is not long, but it’s still awkward. Jonathan keeps eyeing him. “You and Mike are hanging out again, then?”

Which sounds sort of weird, considering the fact that the two of them spent several days traveling in a pizza van together and hung out multiple times since, though it was always with El. Will shifts in the passenger seat, uncomfortable. Because Jonathan knows. And even though they haven’t explicitly talked about it, his brother has made attempts to be as supportive as he can without pushing the subject. But something about this comment, about the tension in the car, feels distinctly like disapproval.

“Yeah,” Will says. It’s a little sharper than he intends.

Jonathan’s expression softens a little. He reaches out to pat the back of Will’s hand. “Hey. I just don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”

“It’s not like that,” Will snaps, pulling his hand away. It sounds like denial to the both of them, but it’s not like that, it isn’t, because Will’s not — he’s not pursuing anything. He knows what he’s getting into, or more accurately, what he’s not getting into, and it’s fine, he can deal with it.

“Okay,” Jonathan says, and nothing else. Will feels like shit. He knows he should be grateful, lord knows his brother is one of the few people that actually cares for and watches out for him, but it’s also frustrating to have a warning like that from him. Because this is something Jonathan doesn’t understand, can’t understand, not through any fault of his own, but just because he’s not like Will. Blissfully not like him.

By the time they get to the Wheeler residence, Will knows he shouldn’t have come. He was stupid to think he should have. He wants to ask Jonathan to just pull back out of the driveway and take him back home.

Instead, he resigns himself to his fate, thanks Jonathan, and knocks on the front door.

Mike isn’t even the one to answer the door, which is a bit discouraging. Holly peers at him with judgement that Will really doesn’t need that morning, then cocks her head over her shoulder and bawls, “MIKE.”

“Is he in the basement?” Will asks her, still sort of marveling at how grown Holly is.

But then Mike appears behind her, looking a bit flustered. “Shit,” he mutters, then shoos Holly away. “Hey, Will.”

“Hey,” Will says hesitantly. He is graciously distracted from the awkward moment by a particular smell. “Is something burning?”

Mike’s mouth sets into a grim line. “I burnt your toast.”

“What?” Will’s brow furrows. “Mike, you didn’t have to make me toast.” Then, “You can’t even make toast?”

“Shut up,” Mike grumbles, turning away. “I swear I left the room for like ten seconds. . .” 

Will follows him into the kitchen. Nancy is at the table reading the newspaper, but she could never be mistaken for her father; her eyes scan the text attentively, mouth twitching with concentration. She glances up as they enter. “Hi, Will.”

“Hello.” There’s a plate sitting on the counter. The toast is the color and texture of tree bark. Its blackened edges have been hacked off; the knife responsible sits on the plate with dark crumbs and ash clinging to the surface. It also drips with butter. This monstrosity has been buttered.

“It’s not that bad,” Will says.

Nancy drops the paper and cackles in a way that suggests she has been holding it in awhile. Mike shoots a glare her way. Will politely ignores the exchange and picks up the toast.

“Will, just throw it out,” Mike says.

Will takes a bite out of it. It makes a very audible crunch. He’s pretty sure Nancy’s hiding a smile behind her paper.

Mike crosses his arms. “Well,” he says, “is it better than your toast?”

“Mmm,” Will struggles a bit to swallow the dry wad in his mouth before replying. “I can tell you, I’ve never had toast like that before.”

Mike’s eyes drop briefly. Will must have crumbs on his mouth. Still, it’s unfair what the small motion does to his pulse. He takes another awful bite to distract himself.

“Will!” Mike protests, laughing. He chokes on it this time, and Mike steals away the poor crumbly piece of ex-bread to toss into the trash before getting him a glass of water.

“C’mon,” Mike says, not waiting a second after pressing the cold glass into Will’s hand. Will gulps enough to clear his throat before following Mike to the basement.

They settle into the couch. Will hasn’t realized how much he missed being here. It’s as familiar as his old house, which Will suddenly feels an acute longing for, despite all the painful memories that happened here. Because good ones happened there, too. And so many are here.

Sinking further into the cushions, Will eyes Mike. At once it strikes him how much they’ve both grown, something that had been thrown in his face when Holly answered the door and now he’s just starting to digest, even after seeing Mike over spring break. He wonders vaguely, when it changed. When the weed of his feelings took root and started choking their friendship. But trying to trace back his complicated and intense emotions towards his best friend, all of them, positive and negative — everything’s all tangled up in intricate knots. 

Mike takes a breath. “Right. So. I was hoping you could help me.”

Will just waits for him to continue.

“I was thinking, since there won’t be a proper funeral or anything, we could honor Eddie’s memory by a D&D campaign.”

Will stiffens a bit, heart fluttering. A D&D campaign with his friends sounds like a slice of heaven. A comforting piece of his slipping childhood.

It also sounds too good to be true.

“I know it seems like a bad time,” Mike continues, “especially with Max in the hospital, but I thought it might be good for Lucas to have something to distract him, and it seems like something Eddie would have wanted.”

Mike senses Will’s hesitation and deflates a little. “You think it’s a bad idea.”

“No!” Will exclaims immediately. “No, it sounds great. I-” he scrambles for an explanation of his reaction, then redirects, “What did Dustin think?”

Mike blinks at him. “I didn’t tell Dustin. Yet,” he adds. “You’re the first one I’ve told.”

Unexpected warmth fills Will at the statement. He’s the first one Mike’s told. Before Dustin, before El, before Lucas. Before anyone. Because they’re best friends, aren’t they? It’s a selfish train of thought, and Will lets it linger longer than it should.

“Why?” Mike goes on anxiously, “Do you think he’d-”

“Mike,” Will interrupts, smiling. “It’ll be fine. More than fine. Do you have any ideas for a campaign?”

Mike takes a breath; the exhale is a sigh. “That’s why you’re here.”

Hours later and they’re still stretched out on the basement floor with splayed notebooks and scattered paper, Mike scribbling ideas while Will sketches. Just like old times. Mike runs some of his plans by Will, who points out a plot hole or two, and in his frustration Mike dramatically tears out the page, crumples it, and throws it across the room. Will laughs as notebook paper tumbleweeds gather in corners of the room. He’s no better; when his sketches don’t turn out the way he wants, he either mimics Mike or scratches them out until they’re dark and indecipherable.

“Nobody else would have even thought of that!” Mike exclaims, scowling, after Will points out another hole in his plans. This one, admittedly, is small.

“Then just go through with it ,” Will says, fighting a smile.

“But now I know , so I can’t,” Mike groans. “You’re the worst.”

Giggling, Will glances up from his pencil lines to just look at Mike for a moment, to just feel what it was like to be here again. To have what he thought he’d never have again.

“Will?”

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring, or more importantly, how long Mike’s caught him at it. He shakes his head, flushing. “Sorry.”

“Something up?”

“Nothing,” Will says, pretending to be engrossed in his drawing, though he’s suddenly lost in the leadmarks. He feigns careful strokes, but really, he’s just adding random lines. Now he’ll have to scrap this one too.

“Will,” Mike says again, which startles Will into complying, looking right at him.

He hesitates. “Thanks for helping me with this.”

“Oh,” Will blinks, feeling relieved and warm again. “Yeah. I’m glad to-”

“No,” Mike interjects, which makes Will falter, because No what? Mike goes on, “I mean. Really. After everything. . .” He’s searching for words, and Will’s no help because his relief is gone. “Look. I didn’t forget what we said. Before you left.”

They meet eyes on this last sentence. Oh? , Will tries to say, but his mouth remains clamped shut, so he just sort of hums a question mark, because he thinks he might know what Mike’s talking about, but he’s also not quite sure he’s following.

“About joining another party,” adds Mike. His mouth presses into a guilty line.

Will's eyes drop, dart away. “Oh,” he can say it this time, dismissive, “I mean. There were no D&D clubs in California. Like, at the school El and I went to. But if there was one, I probably would’ve joined,” he lies.

“Don’t,” Mike says, and Will glances back up furtively. Now Mike can’t meet his eyes. “Let me explain. I— It was so hard with you gone. And after everything we’ve been through, school seemed so meaningless, but Eddie—”

To Will’s disbelief, Mike scrubs roughly at his eyes for a half second. He can’t tell if his friend has actually shed any tears, but he’s certainly fighting them. “I wish you could’ve met him, Will. You would’ve liked him. He was a much better dungeon master than I ever was.”

“I don’t know about that,” Will says. Maybe he should just stay quiet, and let Mike speak, but he feels bad watching him flounder like this.

Mike offers him a small twitch of a smile that he would have missed, had he blinked. “It made me think of you,” he says. “It wasn’t the same. But it reminded me of you. Made things more bearable.”

Will’s chest burns as Mike swipes at his eyes again. “I didn’t mean to- to break our promise. I’m sorry. And last summer, too. I just—” His eyes clamp shut in frustration. “It’s like I just don’t know what’s important until it’s too late.”

“You were kind of a dick last summer,” Will says before he can change his mind. When Mike looks up at him, Will smiles, a little sad. “It’s okay, though.”

“It’s not,” Mike says, defeated.

“It is now.”

Mike takes another deep breath, and nods. Will reaches out to place a tentative hand on his shoulder, because it seems like the thing to do.

They sit there for awhile, until Mrs. Wheeler calls down to offer them lunch. Will makes some offhanded comment about how he’s glad that Mike hasn’t taken it upon himself to make lunch, and there’s scowling and laughing.

Will feels better than he has in awhile. 

~

“Here we are,” Will says, settling into the couch beside his sister and handing her a spoon.

“This helps?” she asks, watching Will pop off the top of the ice cream tub. It’s brand new, which will make the first scoop even more satisfying. He offers the three stripes of neapolitan for her to do the honors as he sets aside the lid, then grabs his own spoon, momentarily perched between his lips.

“Of course,” he says with a bustling confidence that he doesn’t really have. It works on TV and in movies. And Will hasn’t dated anyone, so hell if he has any applicable experience.

“It’s not that bad, you know,” El tells him, but she’s sniffling a little. “We dumped each other’s ass.”

“I know,” Will replies, “but it still sucks, and it’s a good excuse to eat ice cream straight out of the container.”

She giggles at him and finally digs in, going for chocolate. Only after she eats her first spoonful does Will join in, glad for an excuse to pick out from the strawberry stripe.

“I wish I could take you to the mall,” he says after a few minutes; then, what he had meant but hadn’t wanted to say slips out anyway: “I wish Max were here.”

He feels horrible for saying it. Not because it’s true, but because it’s bringing up a bad subject on an already shitty day. Because it’s bringing up their comatose friend in response to a breakup, which inadvertently belittles the latter, which is not at all what Will means to do.

But El doesn’t take it that way. “Me too,” she says, and leans her head on Will’s shoulder. They’re silent again for a couple minutes, then El says, “I don’t think I ever had that much fun. When Max and I went shopping. When I got to be normal.” She curls up onto the couch, leaning into him more.

Will twists his mouth, thinking about how Mike had dragged him into the mall looking for a gift for El with a limited budget. He shakes the thought away. It’s unimportant and irrelevant. “If it’s any consolation,” he says in the tone of a person who knows that it isn’t, “this is pretty normal.”

“Eating ice cream together and leaving the vanilla?” El asks, wrinkling her nose. Will looks down to realize that they have left twin gouges in the ice cream; the vanilla indeed remains untouched. He laughs at that.

“I meant the breakup,” he says.

He turns on the TV, but neither of them are really paying attention to it. The movement is just distracting enough to be comforting.

“Why did he even bother saying it?” El wonders out of nowhere. “If he didn’t mean it. Why did he say it then?”

Will considered this as he sighed. He was sick of speaking for other people. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “It’s a stressful time. A lot’s on everybody’s mind. Lord knows Mike can only figure a few things out at a time,” he adds in a mutter, which is a little unfair, but it makes El giggle, so he doesn’t find himself regretting it.

When Joyce gets home from work, she takes over, and Will vaguely hears her offering to listen if El wants to talk. He smiles at his mom taking his place on the couch, warmed by such a simple sight of his family together.

After dinner, when everyone has pretty much retreated to their rooms, Will gives into the thought that’s been nagging him all day and finally picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler. It’s Will.” He hesitates.

“Oh, hello, Will,” she says in the space it takes him to gather his thoughts. “Give me one moment to get Michael-”

“No!” Will interjects, more panicked than he intended. He softens his tone, “Wait, can you just, uh, give him a message for me?” He doesn’t want to force Mike to talk to him. He’s not even sure there’s anything to talk about. He’s also a little worried that Mike would refuse, which would be awkward and embarrassing doubly so with Mrs. Wheeler as intermediator. 

“Oh,” she sounds surprised. “Sure.”

He’s been thinking about how to phrase it all afternoon and still isn’t sure what the hell’s about to come out of his mouth until it does. “Just— tell him if he- if he needs me, or, or wants to talk or anything. I’m here.”

It sounds stupid after he’s said it, and he cringes to think of her actually repeating it to Mike, but he also feels better for reaching out. 

“Okay,” Mrs. Wheeler replies, sounding a little suspicious, and Will feels guilty, wondering whether she knew about the breakup and if he’s just subjected his best friend to an interrogation, which would only make things worse.

“Thank you,” he manages, then tacks on, “Have a good evening, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“You too, Will, honey,” she replies, and then they both hang up.

~

A couple of days pass before Will gets the call he wasn’t sure he would get.

“Hello?”

“Will.” Mike sounds relieved. Will wonders if it had been El to answer whether he might have hung up.

“Hey, how are you holding up?” he asks, leaning against the wall.

“Fine.”

There’s a silence between them. The only thing passing through the phone lines is anxious energy.

Then, “Do you want to come over?”

Will swallows. Mike’s never been one for vulnerability, but it’s there, in the question, in the tone of his voice, in the shaky breath he took before he asked.

“Yeah, as long as you don’t make me any toast.”

The breath Mike releases might have been a laugh if one used their imagination. “Okay. I won’t.”

Jonathan doesn’t make any comments this time, though the glances are still there. Ones that ask, Still in those front row seats to the Mike and El shitshow?

Of course he is. They’re his friends. He’ll see any and all of his friends’ shitshows to the end. If this one in particular hurt, that was his own business.

He tells his brother thanks and raises his hand to knock on the door, but before his fist can land, the door opens.

It’s almost comedic. Will drops his hand as if burned. “I heard the car in the driveway,” Mike explains after a moment, then turns around without saying anything else.

Will shuts the door behind him and follows Mike to the basement. They both sit down on the couch, but this time Will doesn’t let himself sink in. For some reason, he’s sort of braced in the seat, as if his body is contemplating the fight or flight instinct. Which is stupid. He said he’d be there. He wants to be there, for Mike.

After a few minutes, Mike asks, “How’s El?”

Will’s tense feeling does not dissipate. “She’s been better. She’s also been a lot worse. Wouldn’t worry about it too much, in the scheme of things.”

Mike’s gaze slides to him and he suddenly feels insensitive for putting it like that, though he’s not quite sure if it’s offensive to El or Mike. Maybe both.

“She’s alright, Mike,” he assures him. “Taken care of. What about you?”

Will just catches tears pooling in Mike’s eyes before he ducks his head into his hands. “I shouldn’t have asked you over.”

That hurts, but Mike’s miserable, so Will tries not to take it personally. “I’m sorry, Mike,” he tells him.

Mike glares up at him with gorgeous blurry eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

Will’s too shocked to respond, but luckily, Mike isn’t finished. “I led El on like an idiot. Why can’t I say it. Feel it.” His head drops back down.  “And I’m a horrible friend. All I do is hurt everyone.” 

“C’mon Mike,” Will says. “That’s not true.”

“How can you say that, Will?” The emphasis on you is unmistakable, unarguable. Unforgivable. Mike’s voice wavers, muffled through his hands, spoken to the floor: “I heard you crying.”

Will freezes.

“In the van.” Mike tips his head to the side so that his words are clear, but he doesn’t quite look up, just stares unseeingly at Will’s hands knotting themselves in his lap. “I told myself that you wanted privacy. Because you turned away. I figured you didn’t want me to ask. But I should have.” The words are pushed out. “I should have asked if you were okay. I should have asked about the painting. I should have asked—”

Mike forces himself to sit up. Will remains immobile, except for his hands: twisting, knuckles white with their grip, as if attempting to rub some feeling back into him. He feels numb. He feels nothing.

Mike looks straight at him, eyes full of tears again, but his expression isn’t incredulous this time. Just confused and hurt. He shakes his head, as if trying to loosen a thought. “Why do you think you’re a mistake, Will?”

His voice cracks on the word and it echoes over and over again in Will’s head.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

Mike’s staring at him, and Will has nothing. No words to defend himself.

When you’re different, sometimes you feel like a mistake.

He doesn’t realize his own eyes are brimming until it’s apparent how blurry his best friend is before him. He looks down, trying to blink them away.

But you make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all.

Mike’s waiting. And Will’s powerless as ever. He was powerless against his father and his bullies and the Mindflayer, and he’s powerless against his friendship with Mike falling the fuck apart, no matter how many times he has tried to salvage it.

He braces himself against the shudders, against the growing pressure behind his eyes and in his chest and in the back of his throat and fights it all, and then manages in a low shaky voice: “Do you remember the names that my- what Lonnie would call me? And- and Troy and the bullies?”

He dares at last to meet Mike’s gaze. Mike doesn’t even nod, just stares back with an intensity that is a yes on its own.

The ends of Will’s mouth push themselves up into a horrible mimicry of a smile, as if it’s a joke. A big joke on him. “Well, they were right.”

After it’s out, the tears win and he cracks, shoulders quaking as he starts to sob.

“No, they’re not,” Mike says.

Wills cries harder. “They’re right, Mike,” he bawls. “They’ve always been right.”

“They’re wrong,” Mike says, voice harsher, firmer than before. “Because they said bad things about you. And there’s nothing bad about you. You’re not a mistake, Will.”

He raises his gaze again to find that Mike, despite everything — his confession, his complete loss of composure, the tears and snot making his face sticky — has scooted closer. And when his hands settle on Will’s upper arms, Will gives up. Gives in.

He collapses into Mike, finally trusting him again to make it right, to make the world leave him alone for a damn minute. Mike’s arms encircle him, a hand rubbing his back and another cradling the back of his head, and Will can’t think about being selfish, being guilty, being wrong. All he can do is cry.

It’s difficult to decipher how long he leaves open the floodgates. Will doesn’t want to decipher much of anything. Already, a new slough of thoughts are gathering in the background of his head like storm clouds, but for now, he just feels exhausted and relieved. The volcano is ready to lie dormant again. Time to see if anything survived the eruption.

“Sorry,” he mutters against Mike’s shoulder. He should push away. He doesn’t. Mike doesn’t either. 

“Don’t be,” Mike tells him. His hands are settled loosely at the base of Will’s spine; one of his thumbs lightly traces the bone. Gentle. Unworried. Thoughtless.

Will turns his head, still resting it on his friend’s shoulder, feeling too drained to do much but trail his eyes over the Wheeler family basement.

“Oh shit,” he says suddenly, sitting up. “You broke up with El.”

Mike doesn’t let go, but he does stare back with wide, startled doe eyes. “Yeah?”

“I just hijacked your mope session. Shit. Sorry.”

The startled look fades, and a small manic note of a laugh slips out of Mike. “Shut up, Byers,” he says. “I wasn’t moping.”

Will gives him an incredulous look. “Really? How do you define ‘moping’?”

“I’m glad you told me,” Mike says softly, ignoring the jab. He smiles, though the expression is sad. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t.”

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” Will admits. “Well. Jonathan knows. But he figured it out himself.”

Mike pulls him closer again, into a hug, hands moving up to his shoulder blades. “I never apologized. For what I said last summer.”

Will tenses, and Mike’s hands flutter over his back as if they can’t decide whether to soothe him or try and keep him from running away.

It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.

“I didn’t even mean it that way. I didn’t realize until I said— I’m sorry. I fucked up.” After a moment, he adds, “I wish you hadn’t destroyed Castle Byers.”

Thoughts of that night tug more painful strings in Will’s chest. “Stop trying to make me cry again, Mike,” he half chokes. “I don’t have any tears left.”

“Sorry.”

Mike knocks his head against Will’s for a moment, then finally pulls back and releases him. Will shuffles back against the arm of the couch and arcs his back to stretch, letting out a long sigh as he does it.

When he sits up, Mike’s watching him with glazed eyes. “So. What now?”

Will takes another breath before he speaks. “El and I already ate a lot of ice cream.”

“Strawberry?” Mike guesses.

“For me,” Will agrees. “Chocolate for El.”

“Right. Movie marathon, then?” Now Mike stretches as he stands. “Or did you and El do that already, too?”

Will shrugs. “Yeah, but mostly stuff she wanted.” He grins at his friend. “I’m sure your breakup marathon’ll be different.”

“My breakup marathon,” scoffs Mike. But then he smiles warmly as he glances back at Will. “We both know we like the same things, anyway.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Will smiles back.

It’s enough.