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April 2nd, 1986
Robin has been staring at him as if he’s a specimen under a microscope for the past ten minutes. Will thinks she’s attempting to be subtle about it; darting her eyes away from his any time he tries to establish eye contact, talking loudly over Steve when the conversation strays to who wants to be grouped up with whom for a quick supply run, angling her body toward Nancy’s, the whole nine yards. He still feels her gaze burning a hole into the side of his head, however, and he racks his brain yet again for anything he could have possibly done to the older girl to warrant this odd behavior.
His question is answered for him once she beelines toward him, steering him by the shoulders over to her group—Steve, Nancy, and herself. Mike’s protesting fades into the background as he lifts his hand in an awkward greeting, dropping to the floor beside a cross-legged Nancy.
“So…”
“So…” begins Robin.
“So! We thought it’d be fun to switch things up today; keep it fresh, you know?” says Steve as Robin enthusiastically bobs her head up and down. Nancy is the only person who is as perturbed as he is; Will can count the number of interactions he’s had with the older teenagers on two hands—he supposes he’s seen Nancy a lot more often than the infamous dynamic duo but one-word conversations and sparing a passing glance to her on the way to Mike’s room likely don’t count—and is, in all honesty, the teensiest bit afraid Robin is planning to eat him alive or something.
Their group rises first and Robin yanks him back by the lower arm while Steve and Nancy converse a few steps ahead of them. “I want to ask you something. About you and your friend,” she says, jerking a swift thumb at Mike before turning her imploring eyes on him. She is definitely going to eat Will alive.
He gulps as he nudges the door open, ushering her through first as he mulls over a socially acceptable response. “What do you want to know?” asks Will, guarded.
“I really don’t mean to offend you, just be warned that Nancy is going to come after you if you try to beat me up and she is locked and loaded—“
“Why would I beat you up?” asks a puzzled Will. She takes a deep breath as she casts a fleeting look around the premises. They’re as alone as they can be at the moment. A few spores collect in Will’s bangs as she cautiously steps back, bracing her arms in front of her.
“I think the Wheeler kid has a crush on you and I was curious—are you guys already dating? I really don’t mean to accuse either of you of anything but I had to say something about—“
“Wait," Will says, eyebrows furrowing. “You think Mike has a crush on… me?”
“Well… no shit?” says Robin as she arches a thin eyebrow back at him, confusion etched on her face. “It’s pretty obvious. We can forget I said anything if you want to, I just thought you and Mike might be different like me, and Jonathan was saying I could—“
“Different like you?” Will seems to only be capable of asking questions. In fairness, he hadn’t expected a conversation of this nature to happen with anyone in his lifetime. He’d been resigned to quietly pine from afar until the Upside Down claimed him permanently.
“I like women, Will. More than society thinks I should,” she bends down slightly to whisper in his ear and it’s like his world has tilted on its axis. Steve shouts at them from his parked car to hurry up, beeping a few times to emphasize his point, and Robin collects him in a brief hug before bounding over to the backseat, holding the car door open in what he can deduce is a ceasefire of sorts.
He’s stunned into utter silence for the entirety of the car ride, the hyper chattering of the three older teens flying in one ear and out the other. Robin has dropped no less than three bombs on him in the past few minutes—she is acting like nothing is wrong too, kicking at the back of Steve’s seat and squirming into the center to ruffle Nancy’s hair. When they exit the vehicle, Robin slides him a nearly imperceptible look, punctuated with apprehension. Will stops her for a second.
“I’m… I like boys. The way you like girls,” he whispers quietly, worried eyes flickering between the backs of Steve and Nancy.
“I know. I’m just saying Mike is totally the same,” she says, grinning at him.
“He’s not,” replies Will vehemently. “And his girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing you say that.”
“Oh,” Robin says, frowning. “His girlfriend? Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“Can we get going please?” says an annoyed Nancy as she faces them, tapping her foot, effectively diffusing their uncomfortable conversation. He catches Robin’s sympathetic grimace for a moment before she’s sprinting to catch up to Nancy, throwing a careless arm around her shoulders once she barrels into her. Will watches as Nancy hides a small smile behind her raised hand, stomach tied in knots.
April 5th, 1986
“You’re close with Dustin, aren’t you?” Steve asks Will out of the blue. Most of the broader group is scattered across what remains of Hawkins; Robin is an everlasting presence in Hopper’s cabin alongside him and El, though she’s in her old bedroom searching fruitlessly for Max. Jonathan snorts in his slumber, curled inward toward the couch.
“Yeah, he’s one of my best friends. Why?” Will replies.
“He ever talk about Eddie Munson?”
“Eddie… Munson?” Will repeats slowly, mouth quirked in confusion. He vaguely recognizes the name from the defaced missing posters at school and wasn’t he some kind of cult leader for—? Oh. “Hellfire Eddie?”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “That would be the one. I don’t know, I thought you would be friends with him too. Seems like all you little guys are.”
“I didn’t even meet him. He sounds like he was cool from what everyone says about him though,” Will says as he shrugs, resuming his previous task of polishing one of Nancy’s ever-growing collection of shotguns. He wonders how such a petite person even develops the taste for a hobby such as this one. Will wishes he had never been forced to learn how to operate a gun; why would Nancy choose to?
“I thought he was kind of a douche—“ Steve’s eyes comically widen as Will stifles a laugh. “I said thought, not think! He’s a good dude when you get to know him. Wish I’d have talked to him more.”
“Wish I’d have talked to him at all,” states Will. The conversation falls flat as Will finishes scouring the nearly spotless gun, carefully setting it aside as he stretches, rewarded with some satisfying back-cracking noises.
A flustered Mike slams the door to the cabin open, eyes searching wildly around the living room before landing on Will. His stance softens. “There you are. You scared me—us.”
“Well, congratulations. You found me,” Will says, giving him a weak wave as he perches on Jonathan’s legs, ignoring his brother’s half-asleep complaints. He also resolutely ignores Robin perking up out of the corner of his eye, staring directly at Mike.
“Have you given it any thought? What I asked you?” Mike rocks on his heels as he skids to a stop in front of Will.
At the risk of sounding like a shitty best friend, Will has completely forgotten what it is that Mike had asked him. His cluelessness must show on his face as Mike’s mouth tugs downward, shoulders hunching. “If you want to live with us while the whole—” he waves a careless hand around, “—apocalypse is happening and whatever.”
Will blankly stares at him. “Live at your house? With you?”
“Um…” Mike’s bangs shadow the majority of his face but Will can plainly see the hurt Mike is trying to stomach. He feels bad for the briefest of seconds. “Can we maybe continue this talk outside?” he asks meekly, sparing nervous glances to the teenagers in the room who are now all paying rapt attention to them both. Will acquiesces, if only because he too is uncomfortable with having a spotlight sear his skin.
Mike looks at him then looks away; this agonizing process lasts for a minute before Will leans against one of the porch railings, crossing his arms as he huffs out an impatient sigh. “Why don’t you want to stay with us?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t really take a genius to figure out why I might not want to stay with someone who called the day I went missing the ‘start of his life.’” Will finger quotes at him before re-crossing his arms. It’s awfully petty of him but he’s so tired of extending forgiveness to someone who doesn’t care about it. He barely knows why Mike is bothering to fix their relationship at all; he’s more than proven himself incapable of balancing romantic and platonic relationships. Being privy to these facts doesn’t lessen the awful pang in his chest once he glimpses Mike’s heartbroken expression.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Will! Come on, you know I didn’t,” says Mike, sniffling behind his raised fist.
“What else could you have possibly meant by saying that?” Will replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“I only said it because I thought El was dying, I swear I really didn’t—“
“You know what?” Will says, inching toward the door handle, one hand poised over the knob as he stares at his shoes. “I’m not staying with you. Thank your mom for me. Good talk.” He trips over a loose section of carpeting that dislodges with the toe of his sneaker, windmilling as the occupants of the living room cast matching worried expressions at him. Mike is behind him, babbling an incessant stream of apologies and apparently beyond the point of caring about his dignity as he trails after Will into Hopper’s empty bedroom.
Will is fully prepared to dive under the covers and block out Mike’s existence when he hears the door click behind him and Mike’s hardened voice spitting out, “you’re being really fucking unfair.”
Blood rushes in his ears, harsh and pounding as he whirls around. “I’m being unfair? I’m being unfair?!”
Mike has the nerve to glare at him like the petulant child he’s far too capable of channeling. “Yeah. I mean, why do I always have to be the bad guy? You didn’t even apologize to me for lying to my face about the painting! I’ve done nothing but try to make up for my mistakes with you.” By the time his outburst concludes, his face is dropping as though he’s surprised by the words that have taken flight from his own mouth.
“Fine. I’m sorry for lying to you about the painting. I’m sorry for trying to help fix my best fucking friend’s relationship who, for some reason, can’t communicate with his girlfriend and my sister even though they’ve basically been dating for two years! I’m sorry that I didn’t call you and that you thought I ignored you even though you—you did the same goddamn thing to me. I’m sorry for being angry that my friend’s life supposedly started the day my life ended! I’m sorry that I—“ Will rants, running a hand over his face in a futile attempt to stem the flow of tears streaming down his cheeks. Mike is gaping at him, entirely unreadable as he approaches Will as he would a feral, wounded animal.
“Will, just… tell me why you lied?”
“For your own good. Because I, unlike you, Michael, give a shit about the wellbeing of my friends.”
Mike cringes. “I hate when you say my name like that.”
“Are we done now?”
“Wha—no! I’m so confused, why would lying to me be for my own good? El didn’t even remotely need me, I don’t think she has since last summer. I don’t think I… want her to. That isn’t the point.”
“Oh my god.” Will sighs. His eyes are stinging, his guts are churning, and he doesn’t have the faintest clue as to why Mike Wheeler is standing in front of him still fucking yapping. He lays down, flinging a pillow atop his head.
“My point is that I really have been a shitty best friend. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.” He pauses to sit next to Will on the bed, who only notices because the bed very obviously sinks at a distance too close for comfort. “And I’m sorry. I—I think I understand why you lied to me. I’m not the easiest person to talk to. But I still really want you to stay with me. It can be like old times.”
Old times, he claims. Will remembers the countless hours spent hunched over various paperback comics, poring through horror and fantasy literature in the school library, and watching horror movies that Mike detests but Will secretly adores. Before Castle Byers became nothing beyond a pile of rubble, the ghost of childhood dreams. Before Will had vanished to a parallel dimension and subsequently got to taste what endless suffering tastes like for three years in a row. If he were any other person, he’d have picked a physical fight with Mike and cut off contact shortly thereafter but he’s Will Byers: the doomed gay kid in love with his best friend who doesn’t actively give a shit about his existence.
He mumbles a pained confirmation to Mike anyway because he, against all odds, is somehow so in love with him that he’s willing to set aside the number of grievances that have only stacked throughout the years of becoming intimate with the Upside Down and the crippling fear of abandonment in favor of torturing himself further with the pain of unrequited love.
April 7th, 1986
Will wakes up screaming, as he usually does three out of seven nights a week. It turns out that being back in Hawkins possibly permanently is not the best for his PTSD according to his mother and Hopper. It doesn’t matter that he has night terrors, he thinks. The world has bigger things at stake.
As he checks his watch, it dawns on him that today is Mike’s birthday. In all the chaos that has ensued since Vecna’s initial defeat, not one person had addressed the fact that Mike’s birthday was rapidly approaching. Not that anyone had remembered Will’s birthday either, even though he remembers a bit bitterly that his had occurred prior to their knowledge of Vecna’s existence. He hadn’t had time to purchase a passable gift amidst the havoc of his day-to-day life but he had sketched out some background scenery of the rapidly dying hills on the outskirts of Hawkins. He rummages around his pockets, grimacing as his hand lands on a packet of Skittles gifted to him by Robin yesterday. It would have to do.
Will knocks on the door softly. “Mike.”
“Hi,” says Mike, knuckling the last vestiges of sleep out of his weary eyes. His hair is an utter mess; Will’s fingers twitch at his sides.
“Um,” he says, passing his folded drawing over and dropping the candy packet into Mike’s waiting hands. “Happy birthday. Sorry, I’ll get you something better when we aren’t living in a wasteland.”
“El didn’t commission this one, did she?” Mike asks lightly. Will’s shoulders go rigid as he chews the inside of his cheek. “Shitty attempt at a joke, my bad.” He unfurls it, breath catching as he roves over the detailing of the sketch.
“Anyway—“ Will turns, intent on grabbing breakfast to go and making himself scarce. Mike would more than likely be spending the day with El anyway, and he’s sure he could catch Robin or Steve volunteering at the high school. “See you later.”
Mike’s surprisingly strong grip on his sleeve halts him in his tracks. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. To find Robin or something?”
To his amazement, Mike scoffs, kicking the ground with a socked foot. “You’re hanging out with her? On my birthday?”
“What?” Will asks. He vaguely recalls when he and Mike used to be on the same page about everything. Two peas in a pod, as his mother would lovingly refer to them. He is unable to pinpoint when that section of their relationship met its violent end but then again, he simply isn’t aware of a lot of Mike’s reasoning behind his actions anymore.
“Especially when I never got to give you my birthday gift?” Mike continues. “Actually, it wasn’t meant to be your birthday gift because I’m pretty sure my actual present for you got destroyed in the shootout at your old house. I would say it still counts though.”
“You got me a present?” Will asks, completely blindsided by this realization. Why had Mike refrained from mentioning anything to him? He tags along with him down the stairs, tying his shoelaces as Mike shouts a parting goodbye to his parents, and fumbling as Mike throws a granola bar at him.
“Close your eyes,” says Mike. Will has a sneaking suspicion of where they are, having cycled down this road so many times he knows practically every crack in the asphalt by heart. Mike covers his eyes with his own clammy hands; Will hates the way he constantly notices Mike’s easy proximity (and how his heart rate skyrockets), hates how he is unknowingly stringing him along for inevitable disappointment. He thinks maybe it’s some sort of twisted retribution for Mike’s behavior in the past as if their relationship can be smoothed out to be nothing but an alabaster scoreboard, scarred with new and faded tally marks of every action they’ve weaponized to hurt each other.
“Oh,” says Will. Castle Byers is much more distinguishable from its glory days. Twigs are haphazardly sticking out around the top and some of the backside, and the sign now reads Castle Byers: All Friends (Especially Mike) Welcome! in Mike’s crude handwriting. The fort is certainly less sturdy than it had been when Jonathan’s woodworking skills were put to use but Will’s heart swells all the same. “Wow. Did you do this all by yourself?”
“Uh…” Mike trails off as he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “Dustin helped a couple of times. But it was mostly me, yeah. I would come here and work on it whenever I was stressed or bored or missing—yeah. You like it?”
“I really do,” Will says before he crawls inside, pressing his lips together as his sight is magnetically drawn to the previously ripped photographs lodged on a pilfered couch pillow, taped together almost seamlessly. Mike joins him, knees touching as they huddle to fit inside the smaller fort. “I don’t remember Castle Byers being this tiny.”
“To be fair, we are a lot taller. And you’re bigger.”
“Bigger? What do you mean?” Will asks, arching an eyebrow as he elbows Mike’s thigh.
“I mean like—“ Mike tries to flail his arms around but he only succeeds in nearly whacking Will upside the head a couple of times. “Like, you’ve got muscles. I didn’t expect… I don’t know? That?”
Maybe Will is feeling braver today because Mike is choosing to spend his birthday with him (like old times). It could be that Castle Byers has always wrung a deep-seated comfort out of him; he finds it impossible to hold on to negative energy in his one respite from the world, which he reminds himself was rebuilt just for him.
“Mike,” he starts. “You’ve been looking at my muscles? Shopping for some guns?”
“Holy shit, you have to stop hanging out with Steve, immediately.”
Will cackles, soaking in the sheer happiness that envelops him until he notices a mixtape sticking out under the corner of a navy blue blanket Will recognizes from the Wheeler’s linen closet. “What’s that?”
He watches as Mike flushes a pale pink, highlighted against the slats of sunlight peeking through the gaps of the fort. Will bites his lip, gluing his gaze to the tracklist before he can notice Mike’s irises trained on his bottom lip. “Oh man, Head Over Heels? Jonathan hates that song! I love it though. This one’s pretty good too—“
“Which one?”
“Don’t You Want Me. Kind of a dumb song but it’s so catchy.”
“Totally,” Mike says, grinning as he leans into Will’s space, arms bracketed on each side of Will’s shins. “Don’t—don’t you want me?” he belts out obnoxiously, relishing in Will’s amused giggles as he half-heartedly shoves Mike away. “You know I can’t believe it when I hear that you won’t see me!”
“Mike—“ Will snorts, trying to distract himself from how abnormally red his cheeks are. The other boy is too caught up in his off-key rendition of The Human League’s song, sprawling himself across Will’s lap.
“You know I don’t believe it when you say that you don’t need me!” Mike finishes, and then it’s only the sounds of their breathing and the eerie quietude of the surrounding forest to fill their meager space. Mike looks at him imploringly, and Will looks back, and for a fractured moment in time, Will has the fleeting thought that Mike is trying to communicate a message to him beneath the veil of cheesy lyricism, a fool’s heart song.
The thought passes as quickly as it comes. It really is no use dwelling on impossibilities and it’s a crying shame that his heart hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet.
Their stomachs growl after another hour—or two, or three, Will hadn’t kept track of time—so they embark back to the Wheeler household, where Will supposes he will have to part ways with his best friend and figure out better things to do with the remainder of his afternoon. He could perhaps still track Robin down; he does have her home phone number now, courtesy of Nancy.
Mike heats up two plates of leftover spaghetti and flicks the tab off of two cans of Coke for them. “What do you wanna do after we eat? Movie marathon?”
“Um…” Will begins cautiously. “I think I’m going to see what Robin’s up to.”
“Robin?” Mike asks before he pouts, nose wrinkling like he’s walked past a landfill. “I don’t want to hang out with her.”
“I’m assuming you want to spend most of your birthday with El—your girlfriend?” Will says pointedly. Do normal people act this way in relationships, forgetting about their significant other at the drop of a hat? He hypothesizes that the issue could be chalked up to Mike’s generally avoidant personality instead but that boggles his mind all the same. El is his girlfriend. Will knows he’s second-best and has had months of solitude to accept that fact.
“El and I… we actually… broke up?”
“You what?”
That’s at least one of Will’s infinite series of questions about Mike answered. Only a million more to go.
“It was mutual, don’t worry! She said she needs to like, figure out who she is. And I majorly fucked up with the superhero speech. We really weren’t working for a while though, which sucks, but I think we’re way better off as friends, honestly? I don’t feel so… lost anymore.”
Will picks at a half-bitten meatball, icy cold in the center but warm in the residual heat of his pasta. He registers distantly that he is supposed to muster up a reply but he can’t help but feel as though a tsunami has crashed over him. Mike is done with El, and Will agonized over them for so many painful months, and he had gone and pinned a whole painting on his sister just because he’d been convinced they are—were soulmates. “You honestly feel that way? What was that whole monologue then?”
“I didn’t really, um. I don’t know. It was in the heat of the moment, and you said I was the heart, and I don’t know. I’m supposed to be a good writer but I felt like I had forgotten the whole English language when I was watching her die.”
“I know what you mean,” admits Will. It’s physically painful to recall a day that had occurred hardly over a week ago. Life continues to pass him by.
“And I want to spend my birthday with you. Joint birthday of some type?”
“No party for the Party?” Will asks wryly.
“Maybe not. What do you think about a Paladin and Cleric-themed birthday party?”
“I’m not sure where you’re planning on finding decorations,” says Will, grin threatening to split him apart. Mike unwittingly reminds him (over and over and overandover) how absolutely head over heels he is, and he thinks back to the shiny black mixtape nestled in the crevices of Castle Byers, wondering what was running through Mike’s head when he assembled it.
June 17th, 1985
“Steve, I know I ask you this at least twice a week but why are you friends with a bunch of babies?” Robin asks, directing an exasperated sigh to her coworker.
“And like I’ll continue to answer, I don’t know! I just became their babysitter basically out of nowhere.”
“Uh-huh,” Robin says in disbelief as she arches a thin eyebrow. The ice cream shop’s bell dings, indicating a new customer. She heaves herself off the desk chair she’d been hogging as she peers through the window to be met with the infamous sight of two of Steve’s gang of awkward middle schoolers. The one with the bowl cut is relatively sweet, from the limited interactions she’s had with the younger boy. He’s usually hiding behind the taller kid with the black hair—it’s adorable. She wishes she could tell Steve that but she gets the vibe that he isn’t exactly… safe to confess that to.
Thankfully, Steve understands that she is in no hurry to assist them, so he tugs his sailor hat on, grimacing as he lazily asks the kids what they’re going to order. She lurks at the window, interest piqued at the way the kid with the black hair keeps brushing hands with the shorter one. Robin wonders if either of them is aware that they're doing that.
Steve marches back into the break room, oblivious to the panicked leap she does away from the front of the store, fiddling with her hands as she pretends she wasn’t just blatantly staring at two of their customers. “That little asshole asked me for a discount! I swear, the entitlement—“
“Always with the drama, Harrington,” Robin says, lightly punching his bicep. “Hey, who are those kids though? I feel like I should know the names of the people we keep letting through the back door.”
“Mike and Will.”
“And Mike is…?”
“The taller one. Will’s bowl cut is pretty distinct though.”
“Nice,” Robin says as she nods and swipes her previously abandoned soda off the desk, inspecting her chipped manicure. She hopes she’d get to see more of them this summer. In the meantime, she decides to terrorize Steve about his failed date last night—“She left while I was in the bathroom! Who does that?!”—and lounge on company time.
April 15th, 1986
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Will states bluntly. Robin chops the air as though her arms are windmills, eyes blown wide.
“Okay. Let me rephrase it this way—I’m plugging Steve into the equation, by the way—Mike acts differently around you. Steve, the straightest of straight men, I think—well, Steve told me that how you guys look at each other is how I look at Vickie.”
“I’m sorry but I forgot who Vickie is.”
“Jesus, Byers, get your head in the game! I have a…” Her voice lowers to a whisper even though they are alone in the safety of her bedroom. “I have a crush on her.”
Will’s forehead creases. “You lost me again. Maybe I do look at Mike that way and I should work on being more subtle but Mike isn’t like that.” Robin’s mouth opens; he’s quick to interject. “I’m serious, just because he broke up with his girlfriend doesn’t mean that he’s going to magically start liking boys. He’ll find another one.”
She clicks her tongue, clearly disregarding every word Will says to her. It’s a useless effort but he falls for it hook, line, and sinker every time. Even if Mike turns out to be somewhat… similar to him, he doubts Mike would choose him. Miracles have proved not to be feasible in his short lifespan and the universe is out for his blood. “I’m just saying that Steve is pretty oblivious. So if he picked up on something, then there’s something there. Law of physics, dude.”
“Can we talk about more interesting things instead? Who’s Vickie? Tell me about her.”
“I hope you know that I am seeing right through your façade. I’m going to be nice and oblige though because holy crap there is no one to talk to about her! She’s in band with me but we met a couple of years ago, or at least I knew she existed then. She’s so fucking pretty, Will, she has this Molly Ringwald charm about her—“ Her lovestruck rambling slowly gets tuned out by him as he drags his eyes around her bedroom, content in hiding from the horrors that bely them outside for another day. Vecna is lying low, according to his gut feeling; the man (or once was) is badly injured and Will finds himself for the millionth time thanking his lucky stars that he’d been stranded in various parts of America for much of the battle, far away from Hawkins, as horrible as it sounds to admit.
Robin shoos him out of her household once they finish listening to Low-Life, an album by New Order that Will thinks Jonathan would enjoy. The sun is beginning to wane, an orange glow tinting off the lush treetops that Will would normally appreciate if not for the glaring red streaks of the Upside Down tainting the sky. He kicks his bike up, blinking a few spores out of his eyelashes as he pedals back to Mike’s house.
Will towels his hair after shaking it out like a wet dog, carding a few fingers through it as he descends to the basement. He shivers as he feels for the light switch, chest flooding with relief as the lights immediately turn on and don’t flicker.
He hums the chorus of some song from the album he’d listened to with Robin, scrawling the lyrics he’s able to recall into his sketchbook so he could match the song to the tape he’d eventually procure. New Order has a stellar ring to it; he idly wonders if they’ve released any previous albums.
The door opens behind him but it’s only Mike bounding down the steps, sinking into the couch a few feet away from Will’s position on the floor. “Hey, what are you up to?”
“Thinking about this album I’m gonna buy in the future. It’s called Low-Life by New Order.”
“Oh, cool. Is this another life-changing album recommendation from Jonathan?”
“I only said that one time. And no, from Robin actually.”
Mike is suspiciously quiet so he stops doodling in his sketchbook, angling his body toward him. “Everything okay?”
“I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?” Will asks. Mike’s shoulders hunch as he hides his face and Will’s gut tells him he should be moving to the couch. He repeats his inquiry.
“She’s like… this cool older girl. Is that why you’re spending all your time with her?” Mike questions, hurt palpable in his tone despite the stony look overtaking his facial features. “Did I miss something?”
“What?” Will scrambles. “What—no? Cool older girl?”
“You said I was bad at managing my time between my girlfriend and my best friend but you’re basically doing the same thing.”
“Girlfriend?!” Will spits out, thoroughly shell-shocked.
“I don’t get it! You could’ve told me you had a crush on someone, I would’ve—and when did you ever talk to Robin? You move to California and all of a sudden you’ve got all these girls hanging off of you and you’re interested in older girls—“ Mike’s voice embarrassingly cracks. He decides to quit while he’s ahead before he delves into the forbidden.
“What? Is that seriously what you think?”
“You obviously—“
“Mike, stop. I live with you right now. And I really need us to circle back to why we’re fighting, which is because Robin,”—he mimes rifling through a binder of notes, trying in vain to elicit a laugh from Mike—“dared to make me listen to an album she thought I’d like?”
“I… I, um. You don’t have to say it like that.”
“What is this really about then?”
Mike inches closer. “I’m scared of losing you again,” he confesses and exhales softly. Will would roll his eyes but he has no fight left in him to rally. He settles instead for scooping the remote off the coffee table, flipping to a mindless sitcom as he shakily lays a flat palm atop Mike’s.
“I’m here. Always will be,” he says. Mike links their pinkies together, and if there is any moment Will hopes fruitlessly he could preserve, take a snapshot of or carve the memory of it out of his assortment of sketchbooks, it is this one. But time marches onward, a steady stream of hours that blend with the faded hum of the television, and it allows Will one small mercy of seeing Mike’s sleep-laden face so near to his, hand firmly clasped in his own.
March 8th, 1985
Springtime is becoming one of Will’s least favorite seasons. He used to love the pretty jade hues that would return to the forests of Hawkins after winters of austerity, and he used to look forward to what he has affectionately termed as the birthday season. He doesn’t feel the same this year, not last year, maybe not even the year before that. Now that he is ruminating on the matter, he wonders if he still has a season to call his favorite anymore.
Will picks a leaf up outside of the school gate, rubbing it between his fingers as he searches the parking lot for his mom’s car. It’s browning at the edges, minuscule pieces snapping off the more he thumbs it. It could be a metaphor for a subject out of his grasp, this random leaf he found on the ground. Mike could spin a better composition about the metaphor of a fallen leaf than he could; he’s always excelled in English courses, has possessed an intricate ability to express himself through storytelling since childhood much more vividly than the rest of the Party could aspire to.
“Will! I’m here!” His mother calls to him from across the parking lot, sticking an arm out of the window as if he hadn’t already heard her. He slides into the passenger seat, tossing his backpack into the backseat as he rests his head against the window. “How was school, sweetie?”
Troy had called him a flaming queer and a pussy earlier today for relying on his supposed boyfriend to avoid confrontation. He has bruises splattered like patchwork across his stomach and torso, yet to see the light of day but the involuntary wince he does each time the seat belt tightens across his chest is more than enough to convince him that he’d be spending the latter half of his day in the bathroom. “It was fine,” Will says.
“Anything interesting happen?”
There had been three of them. Will hasn’t the faintest clue as to how Troy has mysteriously sustained two friendships being the huge dick he is. To be fair, the taller one—James, he recalls sourly—is also prone to knocking Will around like a ragdoll but the third one never lays a hand on him. He merely watches as his two friends work toward their goal of making Will’s life a continued shitstorm. “No.”
His mother glances at him, suspicion written all over her but she blessedly drops the subject, choosing to rant at length instead about the horrid way a customer had treated her earlier. He interjects here and there to keep up the illusion that he’s invested in this conversation but his mind is light years away, stuck in the memory of Troy’s sneaker smashing into his ribcage. His breath hitches in his throat all over again.
“Oh good, Mike and Nancy are already here,” she comments offhandedly as she pulls into their driveway. Will immediately does a double take at her, wildly scanning their front lawn for any sign of Mike’s bike.
“Mike’s here?”
“Yep. You excited?” She asks, smiling at him and despite the storm churning his insides, he forces an agreeable smile onto his face as he enters the household to Jonathan and Nancy cuddling on the couch, Mike nowhere to be found.
“Ew,” says Will automatically and Jonathan offers him a sinister smirk before smacking a loud, wet kiss on Nancy’s cheek. He flees the scene to the tune of his brother and Nancy’s combined snickering, heartbeat accelerating once he spots Mike in his room inspecting a recent drawing he had pinned to his wall.
Mike lights up in sight of him. “Hi!”
He resists the urge to let out a world-weary sigh, instead marching over to Mike and ripping the drawing down with more force than intended. “Hi, Mike. Sorry, I didn’t want anyone to see this, it isn’t finished yet.”
“But it looks so good! What else could you have to add to it?”
“I mean, I should probably color it,” Will says, shrugging. Mike gathers him into a brief hug, unfortunately not quick enough to stop Will from gasping in pain. Mike immediately steps away, face scrunched in concern.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he wheezes out. “Just—I’ll be right back.”
Will scrapes himself down the hallway, arm wrapped limply around his midsection as he inches along the wall, far too aware of the ache blossoming in his entire being. It reminds him of being possessed by the Mind Flayer—he pushes himself forward on the pretense that if he can overpower a demon beyond human comprehension, then he can make it past a few well-aimed punches and kicks.
He practically rips his striped t-shirt off, wincing as his vision is flooded with a spectrum of purple and yellow bruises splattered across his midsection. He’s like a fucked-up color palette of sorts, he thinks distantly as he, on autopilot, rifles through his family’s medicine cabinet in search of gauze and aspirin.
Will doesn’t know how long it takes to patch himself up but as he wobbles back toward his room, dread pours over him; Mike has always been overprotective of his friends. There’s no possibility of escaping any of the other’s invasive questions he will no doubt be bombarded with.
“Are you okay?” Mike asks the instant he slinks through the doorframe, arms crossed in accusation.
“Yes. So…” he says before sitting on his bed and drumming his fingers on his thighs. “What are you and Nancy doing here?”
“Nancy said she was having dinner at your house so I asked to go too. But seriously though, did something happen? Like…” Mike says, drifting off; Will is quick to catch on, eyes widening.
“No, nothing with the Upside Down. Um…”
“What? I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything.” Mike says.
“You won’t tell the rest of the Party, will you?”
Mike’s eyebrows crease. “Depends on how serious it is.”
Will reluctantly hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt, raising it to Mike’s wounded gasp. He lets the shirt go immediately, intently focused on his comforter. If Mike’s eyes find his, he might keel over and die. Your faggot boyfriend isn’t here to save your ass now, huh Zombie Boy? Maybe we should kill you, you’ll just come back to life anyway. Will blinks as Troy’s grating voice echoes around him.
“Who did that? I’ll murder—no, we have to tell El! As long as she isn’t seen, she can give that asshole—”
“Mike.”
“—what they deserve and I get if you don’t want to tell everyone else but this is insane! And I’m sorry that—”
“Mike.”
—you keep getting harassed by them. I told you I would walk you to class! I don’t know why you won’t just—”
“Mike!” Will exclaims. He rarely raises his voice—and hardly can, considering Mike pauses in his pacing only to shoot him an annoyed glance instead of looking spooked—but Mike isn’t helping matters by wearing his carpet fibers down. “Stop. It’s just Troy and his other cronies. You know how it is.” He pauses, tilting his head at Mike like a puppy. “Right?”
Some of the anger within Mike evidently dissipates as he approaches the bed, his body fanning out across the top half as he stares sideways at Will. “I get it. But I still think we should get El involved—”
“You wanna get El involved in everything,” Will interrupts, rolling his eyes, praying his tone had been lighthearted enough.
“She’s my girlfriend,” states Mike. It feels like there’s more that should be tacked onto the sentence; he says that as dully as he recaps his family’s affairs to the Party when they bother to ask but Mike makes no effort to elaborate further and Will wonders not for the first time if he’s going crazy alone. Mike had once promised that they would go crazy together and Mike doesn’t know he grips onto that moment like a dehydrated man would water so he elects to stay silent.
“So… how long have you been here anyway?” Will asks.
“Not too long. Twenty minutes maybe, I didn’t really keep track.”
“You were standing in my room doing nothing for twenty minutes? Weirdo.”
Mike splutters, sitting up as he points at the wall. “I was not—I was checking if you put anything new up!”
“For twenty whole minutes?”
“Screw you, Byers,” Mike says with no hint of malice.
“Okay,” replies Will as he collapses onto his bed, eyes glued to the cracked, stained ceiling above him.
Dinner is somewhat awful—his mother still fails to understand that pork does not need to have the texture of cardboard to be edible and Jonathan’s hushed conversations with Nancy are reaching the precipice of borderline disgust—but Mike is a solid presence next to him, answering all of Joyce’s perfunctory questions about academics and fetching him water when he notices Will’s glass is empty.
As he watches Mike turn on the faucet for the third time, fading rays of sunlight filtering through the beige kitchen curtains haloing his body, he thinks maybe he understands why Jonathan spends nearly all of his spare time in Nancy’s company. Why Lucas and Max are practically inseparable, skating and biking their way through the arcade and giggling to each other in the corner of a room when they assume the rest of the Party is preoccupied. Maybe he understands why it has felt like shrapnel lodges itself in his chest each time Mike blows everyone off to visit El.
The worst part about today, Will decides officially, is not that Troy and those assholes had delivered a heavier beating upon him than usual. It’s that they are right about him. They have every reason to come after him.
Mike silently places the filled water glass next to Will, sticking his tongue out at Nancy when she interrogates him as to why he isn’t refilling the rest of the table’s beverages. “I’m not your waiter.”
“Will’s the only one who gets special treatment? I’m so shocked,” says a deadpan Nancy and Mike narrows his eyes at her, one hand balled into a fist. They miss Jonathan’s amused glance at Will, who he is expecting to share in the antics but Will is staring resolutely at the floor, mouth twisted into a somber frown. He furrows his eyebrows and he means to check on his younger brother once the kitchen and dining table are cleared but Nancy dangles a set of car keys in front of him, and he knows what that means.
Will snorts as he catches Jonathan nearly tripping over the door frame on his way back to his room—those two are never subtle about sneaking out but they somehow always time their departure in line with his mother’s shower schedule, leaving them unnoticed most of the time—and wonders what he’s supposed to do with the remainder of the night. He’s only got a few hours but he’s not sure what to do to ward off the impending headache he can sense will engulf him if he lets himself muse about this dinner discovery of his.
“I don’t think I like pork chops very much,” announces Mike as he kicks Will’s bedroom door shut with his foot, sleeping bag rolled under one arm and a pillow clutched in the other.
“I don’t either. I wish she’d just stick to cooking bacon.”
“Exactly! You can’t go wrong with bacon,” says Mike as he unfurls the sleeping bag at its usual position of a few inches from Will’s bed before ambling over to Will’s inherited record player from Jonathan, thumbing through his short list of records. It’s only then that Will turns around from his desk chair and finally spots the sleeping bag. He flinches.
“You’re… staying the night?” He asks slowly.
Mike strides over to him, fingers clutched around a vinyl displaying a man in a suit flashing a deck of cards. “Yeah. Is that not okay?” He asks. His nose does that odd crinkle that Will should not find so endearing.
“It’s okay,” he says, exhaling dolefully. “Sorry, I’m just not in a good mood right now. I’m not trying to push you away.” Something in his stomach plummets when he finally meets Mike’s eyes, softened around the edges.
“I understand,” he says in the same quiet voice he’s used countless times before with Will. He usually finds safety in the comfort belying that undertone but all he can feel is dread pooling throughout his being. It’s on a similar level to when the Mind Flayer possessed him except he’s in the front seat for all of these terrible emotions, consciously having to remind himself that Mike has a girlfriend, isn’t like him. He can’t claim to be a bystander now, not when he’s the only person here who is innately flawed.
Will takes the record from his hands, trying to focus on the guitar riffs and singer’s melancholic droning. “Feeling easy on the outside but not so funny on the inside,” Eric Bloom croons, and Will laughs at the irony of the opening lyric. Not so funny on the inside and the outside—just Will’s luck.
“I’m going to the bathroom. Make yourself comfortable, I guess,” Will says after a couple of songs have reached their conclusion. He keeps his mind carefully blank until he locks the door behind him, peering at his disheveled appearance. Peeling his shirt off, he sucks in a deep breath at the sight of the (poorly wrapped) rapidly darkening purple area that’s supposed to be his stomach.
At least his mother hadn’t used the last drops of hot water so he can hyperfixate on non-supernatural issues in his life instead, like how the hell he is going to comfortably fall asleep tonight and how he’s going to bury this unnatural feeling that keeps popping up in Mike’s presence.
Spring is officially demoted to his least favorite season.
June 4th, 1986
Vecna, unbelievably, has not made a single move since his first defeat. Sure, Will can vaguely sense him plotting something he isn’t privy to, is aware of the full-body shivers that have returned as a symptom of being in close proximity to Vecna (or Hawkins, Will hasn’t made up his mind).
He resumes filling the kettle, glancing once at the never-ending stream of spores that permeate Hawkins’s atmosphere before gingerly sitting in a chair, careful not to awaken Mr. Wheeler in the next room over. A half-finished pink tulip is scrawled onto a piece of green construction paper, accompanied by a scattering of the premium crayons Will wishes he had when he was younger. He’s happy at least one of the Wheeler siblings may have an interest in visual art.
A subtle click alerts him that the water is done boiling; he quickly stirs in a packet of instant coffee and a sugar cube as he approaches the basement, hand hesitating over the knob.
They have to talk. He knows they do—he’s the one who asked—and he knows why he is biding his time at a snail’s pace. It’s just- how many different shades of heartbreak must he experience? Who’s to say that he should proceed with entertaining Robin’s ramblings of yesterday? If he had reacted correctly…
It doesn’t matter. Will unlocks the basement door with his free hand, jumping slightly as he’s greeted by Mike’s disgruntled form sitting on the bottom step, completely blocking any entry points.
“I—“ Will starts.
June 2nd, 1986
“Love you,” says Mike quietly as if Will isn’t meant to hear him in the suffocating darkness of midnight. His heart abruptly stops, red coloring his face as he struggles to breathe for a moment before the gravity of his words can finally hit him.
“Thanks, Mike,” replies Will, flinching when he hears Mike’s breath hitch from a few feet away.
“Oh. I thought you were asleep,” Mike says sheepishly. The low vibration of the television is Will’s only source of light in Mike’s dim basement; he steals a glance at Mike’s crooked back swathed in the silvery glint of the alien movie he’d stopped paying attention to.
Mike’s reply leaves him puzzled—is it that weird for Mike to admit he loves him?—so he warily presses closer to him, questions flitting about his mind.
“You thought I was asleep?”
Mike scoots away. “Yeah, it’s late, isn’t it? We’ve seen this movie with Dustin too, remember? So I thought you fell asleep and I was going to wake you up when it ended.” His voice sounds off as if he’s two seconds away from a sneeze every couple of syllables.
“That doesn’t really…” Will trails off, dubious as to how he wants to end the sentence. Really what? What could Will possibly be expecting to gain from this interaction besides another unintentional blow to his confidence from his painfully straight best friend? “Never mind.”
It’s silent for a long minute, wherein Will flounders in the hole he seems to have dug for them both and Mike stares blankly at the movie, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Love you too,” says Will at the speed of light before he has the chance to focus on all the reasons why he isn’t allowed to confess words of that nature to his best friend, and Mike jumps, sinking into the back of the couch.
“Do you—” starts Mike.
“I meant—“
“Shit. Sorry, go ahead,” Mike says as he gestures to him, the faintest hint of a smile brushing his lips.
“Um,” Will says, blinking, trying desperately to recollect himself. “I meant, I was gonna say—if you want me to tell you that I love you more often, then I will.”
Mike visibly brightens at that; he shifts so that he’s fully facing him, dropping his tense shoulders.
“Obviously, uh, the same would go for Lucas and Dustin and everyone else. Just… in case you need to hear that more,” Will finishes lamely. An alien tears a woman’s heart out on screen; Will wishes he could exchange places with her.
“… Lucas and Dustin?” asks Mike incredulously. “Why would I—“ he stops talking as he puffs out a heavy, frustrated breath, shaking his head as he resumes his earlier attempt of disappearing into the opposite armrest.
“Was that the wrong thing to say?”
Mike runs a hand over his face, letting out another agitated breath. “No. No, I just—I don’t want Lucas or Dustin or anyone else to start telling me they love me.”
“Then…” Will says, hoping Mike will fill in the blank for him as he’s done so many times before but Mike refuses to cooperate with him, sullenly twisting a loose thread on the couch between his fingers. “Why’d you say no? I wouldn’t have been mad at you for saying yes.”
The ending credits flash on screen with a terrifyingly loud orchestral boom, successfully startling them both as Mike fruitlessly searches the messy coffee table for the remote. Will has his hands protecting his ears and his eyes shut so he isn’t exactly aware of when Mike manages to mute the damn thing but he eventually flops down beside him, muttering curses under his breath.
“I feel like that should be illegal!” Mike exclaims, angrily tossing his arms up in the air. Will nods, his entire body shivering as the blessedly silent credits roll before them. “What do you want to do? You tired?”
“Kind of,” he says, eyes darting over to Mike. “You didn’t answer me earlier, by the way.”
Mike sighs as though the weight of the world is upon his shoulders, much like Will has caught himself emulating before. Perhaps the Mind Flayer had left him with unscanned brain damage because he feels as though he’s missed out on fifty percent of their conversation despite being one of the active participants. As much as he loves Mike, the other boy has a tendency to be vague enough to cause frustration. Or Will is simply unable to read him as he used to anymore—it’s probably the latter conclusion.
“Listen, Will, can I be honest with you?” Mike doesn’t wait for a response as he continues, settling on looking at a drawing of his Paladin character Will had gifted him in elementary school. “I don’t think I ever told you the real reason El and I broke up, right?”
“Uh—“
“It wasn’t because we’re better off as friends—we obviously are but that wasn’t the main reason. I couldn’t tell her something.”
Will raises his eyebrows. Mike has somehow lost him again and he’s been speaking for less than a minute. He decides to let him continue, squinting at the drawing Mike is seemingly hypnotized by. It isn’t his finest work; he hopes Mike isn’t picking the artwork apart in his head as he watches Mike noticeably droop out of the corner of his eye. “I couldn’t tell her that I loved her.”
Will’s immediate thought is that’s it? He refrains from saying so once he’s under the scrutiny of Mike’s pained eyes. He seems uncharacteristically frightened, knees pulled taut to his chest as he awaits a response Will hasn’t formulated. He should probably trust his gut. He has no clue what Mike is seeking from him and he has enough common sense to know that a line like friends don’t lie currently would not sit well with Mike.
“Is that it?” Will asks, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“What do you mean…” Mike starts, tone lowering in a poor imitation of Will’s voice. “Is that it? That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m sorry,” says Will reflexively.
“You’re sorry? Sorry for what?”
“I-“ Will says, biting the inside of his cheek, an odd mix of disappointment and vexation washing over him. “I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”
“That you…” Mike’s head drops to his hands as he says something unintelligible. Will’s brain hasn’t stopped spinning since Mike opened his mouth—this is all too out of his depth. He sits there uselessly until Mike whips his head up. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Mike, don’t say that.”
A broken laugh bubbles out of him as he blinks slowly to stave off the sudden wave of tears threatening him. “I am. I really, really am.”
Will pats him on the shoulder, leaving his hand there as comfort while he frowns at Mike. “Did you realize you love her now? I’m sure if you’re willing to wait, you’ll get her back.” He feels as though he’s choking on ice shards as he contemplates the years he’d have to face watching Mike experience love with someone else. It’s only inevitable.
“I don’t want her back. Fuck!” Mike exclaims hotly, shaking his hand off and standing up. “If you don’t—it’s fine.”
“Wait, Mike—“
“I’m going to bed.”
“Wait—“ Will says, gripping his sweater sleeve hard enough for Mike’s footing to stumble. “We should talk about this again. I know it’s a lot for one night.”
Mike grants him a long, hard look before he relents, placing his free hand over Will’s outstretched one. “Okay.” He clears his throat as he says goodnight, trudging up the steps.
June 3rd, 1986
“Material Girl” plays at medium volume in Nancy’s car, punctuating the otherwise awkward silence between her and Will. Robin’s house is a mere ten minutes away but each minute feels like it has stretched on for an eternity, subjecting him to the torture of pine-scented air freshener and pulsating crimson gates in his peripheral vision. Will had caught her at the front door this morning after an hour of restlessly passing the time organizing the Wheelers' kitchen cabinets and living room, hoping to hitch a ride. She had, as fate would have it, been on her way to Robin’s house as well though she’s mentioned if he is aware that he won’t be welcome for long.
“Nothing personal, it’s girl business,” she had reasoned and Will suspects that claim to be a load of bullshit but beggars can’t be choosers. Nancy, Robin, and him would make an odd group in hindsight; he needs the solidarity of a four-person or more squad to fall back on.
He lags slightly behind her as she rings the doorbell, giving Mrs. Buckley a curt smile as she welcomes them in.
“Pardon the mess,” she says as she retrieves a broom, brushing out the spores that venture inside with them. “Robin is upstairs, make yourselves at home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Buckley,” says Nancy pleasantly while Will asks if she needs any help.
“That’s okay dear, thank you.”
Will follows Nancy instead, surprised to find Robin nose deep in a Wonder Woman magazine; it’s an edition he hasn’t read, not that he’s ever found himself captivated by any of Wonder Woman’s plotlines. El keeps him updated on the various twists and turns well enough. She immediately springs up, excitedly asking why they’re here so early.
Nancy rolls her eyes though she has a sunny grin plastered on her face. “I was gonna surprise you with breakfast but he wanted to come too.”
“Cool. Where’s the breakfast?”
“We should get brunch instead,” says Nancy, pointedly tilting her head towards Will and darting her eyes back and forth.
“Oh! Fine by me. What brings you here?” Robin asks, directing her attention towards Will. Hovering over her bed, he silently questions if he has permission to sit despite having no real reason to be nervous.
“I need to talk to you,” Will replies after he’s made up his mind and hopped on top of her covers. “Alone.”
Robin and Nancy share a confused look between them, the latter of the two pausing to squint suspiciously at him before she’s leaving, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as she bumps the door shut with her hip. He waits until her footsteps are out of his hearing range before shooting Robin a panicked glance.
“I think I’m going insane. Again.”
“Oh?” Robin hums, slouching against her bed frame as she swings a dangling leg back and forth.
“Mike and I were watching a movie last night—“
“Oh shit, Mike did something? I so told you—“
“I’m not done! We were watching a movie and he said he loves me. Not a big deal, I told him I love him too and that if he needs my—our friends to say that to him more often, then we would. I thought that would be the end of it, you know, even though I think it’s weird he told me he loves me when he thought I was sleeping. Then he said that he doesn’t want anyone else saying he loves him and started talking about breaking up with El, I don’t know, I was pretty lost at this point.”
“… Is that the end of the story?” Robin prompts.
“No. Um… he said he couldn’t tell her he loved her.” Robin makes a sound of triumph which Will wholeheartedly ignores. “That’s a huge reason why they broke up apparently. I asked him if that was it because he made it sound like such a big deal but he got super mad at me and called himself stupid. I don’t know, was I being a douchebag?”
“Definitely not a douchebag,” Robin says before she wholeheartedly loses her composure, one hand covering her face as she slams a fist down on a quilted blanket. “Holy shit, you’re telling me this really happened with Mike? And you didn’t—“ She snorts again, kickstarting another round of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Will asks, letting out a few nervous giggles himself. This is not the reaction he’d been fishing for. “Seriously, what did I do?”
“Dude! Put two and two together,” Robin says. She stares at him; he stares at her. “Wow. Let me break it down for you. Mike, under the impression that you were sleeping, tells you that he loves you. You overhear it and he gets defensive because he doesn’t want anyone else saying it back to him. Then, he said he broke up with El because he couldn’t tell her he loved her. Who could he tell that to?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
“But Mike isn’t like us. He doesn’t mean it the way I do and that’s why I need help because I don’t know what to say to him without him figuring me out.”
“Honestly,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose as she raises her head to the ceiling. “When will you learn that I’m right? I’ve been saying the kid’s liked you for months already.”
“But I—“
“Nah, nope, not hearing it. Nancy promised me brunch and I’ve decided I would like to take her up on her offer instead of listening to you whine about your boyfriend.”
Will huffs. “Fine, let’s assume you’re right. I still don’t know what to say, it’s not like we’ve been the best at communication this year.”
“Be honest,” she says, granting him a tiny smile. “Sounds corny but it’s true.”
“You’ve been so honest with Vickie and where has that gotten you?”
“Shit, Byers, no need to hit where it hurts,” Robin replies, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “Tell you what, if you promise to talk to Mike tomorrow and update me then I will ask Vickie out.”
A gentle knock on the door draws their attention but Nancy doesn’t turn the knob, only sardonically asking if she’s allowed inside yet.
“Hold on!” Robin bellows before extending a pinky out in an unspoken promise. “Swear it?”
“Sure,” says Will, briefly linking their pinkies as she grins at him and promptly kicks him out of her bedroom.
“What do you think sounds better, hash browns or—“ Robin’s amiable question is abruptly interrupted by the door clicking shut. Will rolls his eyes; Nancy hadn’t been kidding when she’d said his time with the other teenager would be limited. With no bike available, he decides to walk to Hopper’s cabin, shielding his head from the brutal sunshine beating upon him.
The California heat is just as unbearable but at least he had wind as a result of living somewhat close to the coastal line. There’s nothing but still air and apocalyptic dread in Hawkins and as he forges down a familiar passage into the neighboring forest, he hums his favorite song under his breath in an attempt to stave off his growing sense of unease from remaining outdoors by himself.
Once Will arrives at the cabin, he can hang out with El and help her with whatever she needs, and he doesn’t have to ruminate on Mike’s existence for the next twenty-four hours of his life. He could be useful, could be more than a liability everyone keeps a wary eye on when they think he can’t see them.
He winds up falling asleep on El’s bedroom floor, surrounded by the scraps of her abandoned project—a half-sequined toothbrush holder—and groggy awareness that he’d napped far longer than he’d intended to.
A turkey sandwich in a Tupperware container and a small bag of chips is on her nightstand alongside a note from his sister informing him that she is in the living room trying to locate Max and to be quiet. He wonders how long ago she had written that note considering she’s fast asleep in bed now.
Will flips the note over, scrawling his gratitude for the meal on it before he lowers himself back to the floor, curling up on the pillow El must’ve thrown down prior to him falling asleep and closing his eyes.
June 4th, 1986
“Where have you been?” Mike asks cordially though his rigid posture radiates indignation, effectively cutting him off. Will blows some air on his coffee cup before slowly drinking it, descending the steps until he’s one above Mike.
“I was at Hopper’s cabin.”
“For two days?”
“I think it was more like one.”
Mike frowns at him. He hasn’t moved an inch so Will decides to join him in sitting down, leaning against a banister as he takes another sip. “You wanted to talk, right?”
“Right, yeah,” Will says as he presses his lips together, nostrils flaring in frustration as he racks his brain for a tolerable sentence starter. “I was being a total asshole the other night. I’m sorry.”
“You really weren’t. But okay.”
“And I want to ask you something.”
Mike raises his eyebrows, eyes snapping up to Will’s. He wonders what he’d been focusing on. “All right.”
“Why… hm. Why did you tell me you love me when I was sleeping? Do you always do that to people when they’re asleep?”
“No, I don’t,” Mike says, sighing and leaning against the same banister, shoulders pressing together. “You gonna interrogate me some more?”
“Yes,” says Will slyly. “I have about eighty more questions for you.”
“Can’t wait.”
The only sounds in the basement are their quiet breathing and the muffled noises of Mrs. Wheeler cooking lunch behind the barrier of the door. Will considers breaking their stalemate in an assortment of methods, ranging from following through on his threat to simply tackling Mike and never discussing this subject with him again.
He doesn’t get the chance to do much of anything before Mike is tugging his sleeve, eyes soft and pleading. “Can you tell me about your life? Like, what you did in California. If you’re not planning on interrogating me at least.”
“There isn’t—“
—much to say, yeah you always say that. You were gone for a whole year though, and I still…”
Will chugs some of his coffee before launching into the day he found out Jonathan smoked weed—he’s glad he never offered to paint the supposed flower vase in his brother’s room once he figured out what it was—and some of his more mundane days at school. He didn’t lie when he had said there isn’t much to say about California; he can scarcely recall what he did himself outside of the hours he dedicated to painting and family dinner conversations that blurred together.
Mike assents and hums along like he’s actually invested and Will lets the last of his tension drain out of his body as he sticks his legs out over Mike’s lap, who rests his hands on top of his thighs.
“When I said we should talk, I didn’t mean about me,” Will says after he’s concluded the story of the time El had stolen a large number of pudding cups from the school cafeteria, apparently multiple times before Will had caught her slipping out of one of the school’s back exits while he’d been sketching a tree.
“You should talk about yourself more,” Mike says, knocking his shoulder into Will’s. “I like listening to you.”
“Yup.”
“I’m serious,” Mike says before retrieving his hands from Will’s lap, moon-eyed and flushed as Will sends him a calculating gaze. There’s a crick in his back from slouching on the Wheeler’s wooden staircase for an extended period of time and he wants to say as much but he’s apprehensive of shattering the tentative peaceful atmosphere. Mike isn’t usually so uninhibited with him and he is afraid, like he perpetually is, of stepping out of line with him. One wrong move is all it takes—Robin has ingrained that into him.
“Do you think we can move to somewhere more comfortable now? I’m pretty sure my leg is asleep,” Will suggests once he’s drained the last of his lukewarm beverage, letting it dangle in his hand as he stands. He extends his free one to Mike on instinct, sucking in a small breath as Mike leads them to the couch and doesn’t untangle their loosely intertwined fingers.
“Hey,” Mike says in the stark sheet of quietude enveloping them once their watches tick past three o’clock and Will has resorted to tracing patterns in the fabric of the Wheeler’s weathered couch. “How long do you think our parents will let you stay here?”
As long as you’ll let me is on the tip of Will’s tongue, but he swallows it down, locking his gaze on the neatly alphabetized titles lining the bookcase. Will had learned the first time how deeply Mike could carve into him if he said anything that could constitute as overwhelming to him. “I don’t know,” he replies, withdrawing his hand from Mike’s.
“Wouldn’t it be cool if you stayed here until we go to college?” Mike says dazedly before he’s propping one of his knees up to his chest and hugging it.
“I guess. It’s not like that’s too realistic though,” Will says dryly before huffing out a derisive laugh, nearly inclined to shake his head at his own stupidity. Only Mike would be oblivious enough to suggest that; Mike Wheeler, unaware of how intense (and wrong, wrong, wrong) Will’s love is for him; Mike Wheeler, running a stressed hand through his hair as he groans.
“Let me dream, all right?”
“Let you huh?” says Will automatically before his brain catches up to his mouth. Mike is fully facing him, looking a bit angry and scared and sort of kissable, and then he’s five inches away from Will’s lips, glancing up and down.
“You know what I said.”
“I don’t think so,” Will replies, leaning a little closer. “Let you dream?”
Mike hooks his thumbs around Will’s belt loops, his knee falling to the floor. “Yeah, you did hear me.”
Delirium thrums through him coarsely as he ducks his head.
“Will,” Mike says as he jerks him closer. “Hey, can you look at me?”
That is the last thing Will wants to do in the world but he is nothing if not pliable in Mike’s unwavering hold, so he obeys, breath hitching as the sheer lack of space between them registers. Mike’s own breath is gently puffing on his lips and he has a smattering of fainter freckles across his nose bridge that aren’t noticeable unless he’s at this vantage point. Will hopes the heat radiating off of his face isn’t burning his best friend. He’d be lucky if Mike happens not to notice.
Mike hovers an inch away from him, eyes going crossed. "Hi."
“What?” Will barely croaks out. “… Hi.”
“I forgot to say how glad I am that you actually didn’t meet someone else in California,” says Mike, curling a possessive hand around his shoulder. “Not that you—“
“I know what you mean,” Will swiftly interrupts. He has to disengage from Mike’s suffocating embrace but it’s hard to form a coherent sentence mentally, much less move his body when he’s grounded by two contact points and the distracting proximity of Mike’s face to his—about a foot away from what Will can even begin to consider a safe distance apart from him.
“Do you?”
Will blinks.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you, Byers,” Mike says, his voice drenched in melancholy. “I don’t think you understand.”
It’s a lengthy, agitating moment of Will fighting a losing battle against keeping himself under control and to quit staring at Mike so abashedly. He is torn between fleeing to god knows where (maybe into a gate) and pouncing on Mike like he’s a prisoner starved of food. Will’s rational side does manage to win by a sliver as he swallows thickly, swinging his arm up to lightly grasp Mike’s bicep as his lips part. “Help me understand?”
Mike flushes darkly and his face morphs into a blur of unrecognizable features until his vision is all brown freckles and eyelashes fanning the tips of his cheekbones and dark, curly hair spilling around his peripherals. It feels very, very right like the first drink of water he sips when late-night dehydration sneaks up on him or when he’s finally picked the correct corresponding colors for a drawing.
It feels very, very wrong when Will remembers that it is Mike he’s kissing. Until he suddenly isn’t, on account of Mike backing away as if he’s been scalded, all stiff breaths and sheer panic.
“Why’d you stop?” Will asks instead of the questions he should be asking.
“You wanted me to stop.” Mike’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Um…” Will has to actively resist the urge to slam his head into the coffee table. He focuses instead on how scared Mike looks—he hasn’t seen him this spooked ever, not even when he’d taken that pop quiz on a unit in math he hadn’t begun to study or gotten yelled at by Lonnie when they were kids for holding Will’s hand. “You’re being serious?”
“What the hell?” Mike asks incredulously. He straightens the collar of his shirt as he casts a weary glance at Will. “Yeah, no, I kiss all of my best friends as a joke. Lucas is next in line for his kissing appointment.”
“Okay, sorry,” Will says, officially surrendering. “I believe you.”
“And…”
“And?”
Mike emits some sort of strangled noise from the back of his throat. Will takes that as his cue to clumsily align his mouth with Mike’s again except he doesn’t have the precision that Mike does and he kisses the upper corner of his top lip, screwing his eyelids shut since he’d seen Mike do so. It’s like smooching a brick wall until Mike’s lithe fingers are deftly tilting Will’s jaw up, and then the floodgate is unleashed.
Mike is on him in the blink of an eye, clambering into his lap and kissing him into the center of the couch cushions, desperately clutching the fabric of his plaid overshirt as if Will is going to pull back (like Will ever dreams he could) if Mike dares to loosen his chokehold. Not a care is paid to the ditched mug still positioned on the grainy wood of the basement steps nor the muted conversations of Mike’s family just beyond the sanctity of the shut door; it’s nice to sit here and pretend that nothing else in the world around them matters and Will doesn’t, not really, care about the unspoken possibility of someone walking in. But he knows their track record.
“Mike,” he whispers, turning his face to the side when Mike tries to dive back in. “Come on, not here.”
“Where?” bemoans Mike desperately—and a bit pathetically—as he scowls at nothing in particular.
“Your—room?” supplies Will and that’s enough for Mike as he leads them out of the basement (knocking over the poor coffee cup Will swears to retrieve later), past his family and their flurry of questions, barely missing knocking a portrait off its hinges in the pair’s haste.
The door slams behind him, not that he notices. He looks at Mike’s puffy lips, planting his hands firmly at his sides to prevent them from wandering to Mike.
“Can I—“
“Why are you asking?” Mike says as their lips reconnect and Will allows himself to touch him like he’s dreamed of doing, locked away in vaults of recollections he wouldn’t dare touch had he not had Mike warm and pliant against him, swiping his tongue across his lower lip.
They maneuver to the bed somewhat clumsily—Mike’s lack of athleticism continues to bite them both in the ass—amidst the general fog that Will’s brain can’t break free from, induced almost entirely by how insistently Mike presses himself against him as if he might vanish. The wet slide of his tongue against someone else’s should feel kind of gross but it’s Mike. That’s the only explanation he needs.
June 6th, 1986
“Will, please?” Mike flashes him his puppy-dog eyes that Will only has the determination to resist because a lot has happened over the course of two days. Namely that Mike hasn’t stopped making out with him at any available moment when they’re left alone. Mike is attached to him like a limpet to its shell, however, which results in—if Will had to keep track, which he isn’t—approximately three hours and twenty-six minutes of kissing Mike in the last forty-eight hours. That’s fourteen percent of two days which isn’t that significant now that Will has calculated it, but it feels like something of substance.
He needs to tell Robin because maybe she doesn’t entirely have her shit together, but she’s older, and she’s hilarious, and she listens to him about problems he doesn’t have the courage to confess to anyone else in his life. He considers confessing all of this to Mike, but he has a weird grudge against her for some reason, always scoffing to himself and crossing his arms the few times Will had mentioned her name.
“I’m only going to be gone for a few,” Will says, clucking his tongue.
“But why are you even going? Where are you going?” Mike attempts to angrily demand in his half-sleepy tone of voice which makes it much harder for Will to take him seriously. He rolls out of bed—he’s a quarter of the way there before Mike’s arm is shooting out and dragging him back down. “Just—stay here.”
“Mike,” Will says as Mike lets out a languid yawn. There is no way he fell asleep that quickly. “I’m only going to Robin’s—“
That jolts Mike out of his slumber, slack-jawed as he freezes. “Robin’s? For a few what? Hours? Days?”
“Hours, I guess? I promised to, like, to talk to her…”
Mike squints at him for a beat before he’s wrapping his arms around Will and he finds it that much harder to breathe.
“Or,” says Mike as the silence overtakes them. A neighbor cursing down the street at a pothole caused by the gate filters through Mike’s open window alongside Mrs. Wheeler scolding Holly for a matter unknown to him; he thinks about having to bike the entire way to Robin’s house, alone, and thinks about how openly Mike is offering affection to him. “You could stay here instead. With me.”
“Who else?”
“Shut up,” says Mike, tightening his hold on Will, soft breaths fluttering into his hair. It somewhat tickles as he presses a light kiss to the top of his head. “I convinced you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” replies Will because what else can he say? He’d do whatever Mike asked of him. And maybe, maybe Mike would do whatever he asked of him too. Maybe he’d follow Will to the ends of the earth like he would. “You did.”