Work Text:
August, 1999
All things considered, Mike’s actually a really patient guy.
No, really, he is. As a teenager he’d been known for his short-tempered outbursts. He had a nasty tendency to lash out and say things he didn't mean largely out of fear and insecurity, words coming from a fragile place he's never been able to quite pinpoint; but he’s a lot more mature, now. He's past all that, his rough edges by and large shaved down by years of what can pretty accurately be described as domestic bliss. Turns out, all it took was nearly dying a couple times, saving the world, and then the hard part - finally just admitting to himself how he felt about his best friend, and realizing that it wasn't the end of the world. The end of the world wasn't even the end of the world, turns out.
Genuinely, he's doing okay, now. Better than okay - he’s happy. He’s been to therapy. He does his breathing exercises. He sits with his feelings and talks about them instead of isolating and losing himself in a delirious anxiety spiral, and when he needs help or something he -yuck- asks for it, even when it's embarrassing. Point being: he's so well-adjusted and mild-mannered at this point he could probably win an award.
If there were awards for that kind of thing. He should check.
A good example of his newfound self-control is that Will’s been painting for seven (nearing eight) hours straight working on what is, in his humble and unbiased opinion, a frankly mind blowing portrait of Max and Lucas in a field of lush flowers. It draws inspiration from their engagement photo; Max and Lucas holding hands in a field of lavender, but all the shading on the shadows isn't done, so the flowers are more of a blue right now.
Which means for the last seven hours, Mike's barely bothered him at all. Even though he always looks so tantalizing when he’s putting all his focus into something, and arguably even better when you bother him about how good he looks.
Sure, yes - he’ll admit that he did cave in a little around three hours into it. He'd walked into their bedroom to find Will was completely zoned out in front of the canvas, to the point Mike watched him almost drink his paint water three times in the same two minute stretch, which shouldn't have been as endearing as it was. He snuck in behind him, gently wrapping his arms around his waist, tucking his chin in the crook of his neck and reveling in the way he relaxed back into him.
And, because he’s still only human and his impulse control isn’t completely infallible, he maybe just slightly licked Will’s cheek, rejoicing at the scandalized shriek he received for it. Will pretended to swat at him with a colourful rag he had tucked in his pocket, but still giggled, wiping his cheek against Mike’s shirt like they were kids. Then, completely undercutting any kind of protest he'd just given, he bunched up his hands into Mike's collar and hauled him in for a coffee-flavoured kiss that reminded him Will hadn't put anything un-caffeinated in his system since breakfast.
He forced him to eat a couple granola bars, swapped out his mug of coffee with water, and then he let him get back to work. Other than that mild lapse in willpower, he’s just been sitting on their bed, waiting.
The wedding - Max and Lucas's, that is, is in five days, which leaves a pretty slim window to get it done.
It's not like there's any risk of it looking bad. It already looks beyond amazing, but Will's kind of a perfectionist when it comes down to it. He's been agonizing over the most minute details of their gift ever since the Save the Date first came in. Mike feels a little bad that after all things are said and done he's just going to slap his name onto the gift alongside Will's, but there's always something about giving a gift as a couple that overrides any guilt pretty easily. Will paints the most beautiful thing in the world, basically, and as an equally heartfelt gesture, Mike restrains himself from interrupting the artistic process. Totally on the same level.
To bide the time he’s reading some book Jonathan sent in the mail for his birthday. He’s had about five months to read it, but he’s still only a little more than halfway through. They’re gonna be seeing him in person for the wedding, and there's an irrational part of him that insists it's going to be weird if he's still not done it by then. It probably isn't even going to come up, but if it does he wants to be prepared. He doesn't want to, like, fuck up and chase away the good relationships he's got with Will's family at the moment.
It’s a little pretentious, if he’s completely honest, though. He's not sure what specifically inspired that choice, given the fact he's pretty sure he's not known for being high-brow. He guesses it's a compliment, though, if Jonathan thinks he can follow the winding paragraphs of lilting prose. That, or he's fucking with him. You can never really tell with him. Either way, it hadn’t escaped Mike’s notice that he hasn’t gotten a birthday gift from either of his parents since he came out to them, and Jonathan's found something to get him every year. It's completely separate to Nancy, too, because she's extremely specific and needlessly obsessive about the gifts she gives.
Which makes her a great gift-giver, and a complete and utter lunatic around the Holidays. Do not talk to Nancy Wheeler-Byers during the month of December. It doesn't even make any sense; she does her shopping in September.
Then there's Hopper, who doesn't send gifts, but sends gift cards when they’re available. It's maybe the only newer thing he's genuinely seen Hopper get excited about. He'll send money if they're not. Mike doesn't think he's unsentimental as much as he's just a dad, and dads express themselves best in passive-aggressive worrying and offers to fix things than they do in any other way. They always come with a signed card with a bad joke. He'd warmed up to Mike once he stopped being - well, how he'd been with El. All Mike's apologies might have helped, too, but more than likely he's just softer than he used to be. El and Joyce foisted a certain mushy quality onto him that Mike wouldn't have thought possible of the guy who trapped him in his car and threatened him as a kid.
...Character growth. Mike's not the only one who's had it. He calls every Sunday to check in on them, and he always uses a softer voice when he knows Will's listening. Mike's dad hasn't talked to him in years, so, he'll gladly take it.
Hopper does still always feels the need to remind Joyce he wasn't crazy and this was not the version of 'Mike Wheeler dating my kid' that he'd gotten, but it's fine. Joyce always rolls her eyes and pretends not to believe him, because she's hilarious.
She also always sends something homemade, no matter what Holiday it is. Clothes, usually, but there's been baked goods more than once. She's not ...exactly... a particularly renowned chef, but El likes to cook with her, so she does. There's two or three recipes she knocks out of the park, and she sticks to those a lot of the time. She writes long letters addressed to the two of them, usually mentioning work or something Mike and Will had done as kids that made her smile, now.
El takes and sends entirely too many pictures, but they’re one of their favourite things to open. They always commemorate something new she’d done, something fun she’d seen or liked. She’ll also throw in whatever she'd run into in her day-to-day that made her think of them. There’s been pressed flowers, jewelry, tiny statues of clay wizards and knights, pottery, shimmery rocks or even a really large feather, once. Her gifts come sporadically, not exclusively stuck to any kind of pattern, but she always calls and talks for hours when there's anything worth celebrating. And El finds a lot of things worth celebrating nowadays. Turns out, she's a very happy person when she just gets to live in the world instead of being tasked with saving it. Not having a boyfriend half-assing dating her suits her.
The entire Byers family accepted him as one of their own, wholeheartedly, without a second thought. So - he’s...
...trying to read this book. Slowly. Which is nothing in return for what he's gotten from them, especially given that he's not sure he remembers the last five paragraphs he's read.
Slowly. Very slowly.
In his defense, he just has the extremely unique issue of a poor attention span paired with a ridiculously good-looking boyfriend painting a goddamn masterpiece two feet away from him, in too-short running shorts and a too-big Gremlins T-shirt Mike found at a garage sale right after they moved into this place. Which, granted, has moved farther and farther into Will's wardrobe, but it's still technically his, sort of- which makes the fact Will's in it unbearably captivating.
He's doing it on purpose, he's pretty sure. He knows he’s always had a particular fascination with the way he creates art. One hand on his hip, a paintbrush in the other, eyes scanning over his painting like it’s a puzzle. Personally, he’s always been easily distracted, and he can be pulled out of even a really good flow if so much as one thing stops aligning itself to his exact specifications. It never ceases to amaze him that Will doesn’t have that problem.
He’s been saying ‘just a little bit longer’ and ‘I just need to find a good stopping point.’ for the last hour, eyeing the bed more and more longingly each time he procrastinates resting. He's giving bedroom eyes in more than just the one way, and Mike's better than he used to be, but is not remotely above being conniving; so, after the third time Will's eyes lingered on their mattress for just a bit too long, he started subtly arranging the bed to look increasingly more appetizing, emphasizing the softest blanket on the bed and vastly overselling how comfortable he was with content little noises.
Really, he’s been sitting in a pretty static position for the last hour, so he could probably do with moving around a bit. He’s not gonna admit that, though.
Will finally gives into the temptation and collapses into their bed, just a bit lower than Mike, who’s sitting propped against the headboard. He looks up at him through his bangs. There’s a smear of green paint just under Will’s left eye and he reaches for it instinctively. Part of it chips away in his fingers, but the rest of it stays behind. His eyelashes flutter delicately against his cheeks as he leans into the touch.
I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life like this.
That’s another thing he’s had to be patient about.
It’s not the first time he’s thought of it, not by a long shot. He thinks about it a lot - marrying Will.
After seeing his parent’s marriage growing up, it’s really not something he’d expected to ever care about, if he’s honest. He found out when he was about nineteen, with a startling clarity, that he really does. The idea of gathering in front of everybody he’s ever loved (or at least, everyone who made it out) just to pay tribute to them? It's something he desperately craves, now.
After spending so long fighting their connection, it definitely deserves something like that. He spent so, so long running away, drenched in a debilitating shame. Ruminating on it, like it was this dark and evil thing waiting to ruin his life. Now, all he wants now is to stand up and celebrate it. How special it is, how forgiving, how they survived.
Now he just wants this, forever.
He wants to pick out rings together. He wants to be taken over by whatever impulse it is that makes someone care about the exact shade of green a napkin can be. He wants to make everybody fly out to see them do that smash-cake-in-eachother's-face thing he’s never understood the purpose of. He wants Will to be his husband.
It's not so much that boyfriend has lost its sparkle as it is that at this point, they've gone through more than enough together to deserve a more profound word to describe it. He wants to propose in some over-the-top cheesy way and to talk about the moment to anyone who'll listen. He wants to be able to talk about it, if he wants. When he wants.
There's been few times he’s even let himself think they might be close to it; that weird future world where he can just admit - no matter where he is or what company he's with, that he's in love, and the hard part of it is over. He wants the hard part of it to be over. He knows they aren’t anywhere close to it. Every New Year's eve, he sends a wish out, anyway.
Maybe things will change this year. I hope they do.
They haven’t, yet. They don’t live in Hawkins anymore so it’s better, but some days it doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough. It's safer, but it's not... safe, exactly. Unlike Vecna splitting Hawkins open; there is no clear-cut solution or puzzle to solve. It's out of their hands and mostly in the hands of shitty old dudes.
Whatever. Mike is patient, he really is. He'll keep being patient, even if there’s no fuckin’ way Clinton’s getting them there, to that mystical, utopic future world where it's not inexplicably wrong to be in love. Maybe the next asshole, or whoever they bring in after that. He'll wait if he has to, because it's Will. That's all there is to it. This is enough, even if he doesn't get to also have it on paper. Yet.
Will lets out a tired noise and stretches out wide enough to knock his arm into the book and bend one of the pages. "Sorry," He says when Mike makes a show of straightening out the crease in mock-offense.
“Yeah, you’re a real villain, man. Don’t know how I’ll forgive you for this one.” He jokes, throwing the book unceremoniously to the side in favour of inching lower onto the bed to be closer. He winces, because it's still a gift and it means a lot to him, meandering protagonist or not. Impulse control. He's working on it.
He throws his arms around Will, who leans into it on instinct. One arm is tucked into his side, but he runs his free hand up and down Mike’s arm, twisting his body in closer so he can rest his head on Mike’s chest. It doesn’t matter how many times it happens, a small smile breaks out across his face. He leans in, presses a kiss to the top of his head and closes his eyes, tracing indiscernible patterns into Will’s shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?" Mike asks.
"Mm... I hope they like it." He admits, voice wavering a bit. His eyebrows are furrowed, so Mike moves to smoothe out the line in between them, massaging gently. Will sighs contented, eyes lolling closed like a kitten, but continues. "The painting, I mean. I keep going back and forth on it, but I've been staring at it so long I can't tell if it even looks like anything, anymore. I'll feel pretty stupid if I just spent all that time on it and they hate it. Not that they'd tell me, I just don't want to give them a shitty wedding gift, you know? It's one night. It's important. I don't want to disappoint them."
"They'll love it." He insists, easily. "Seriously, Will. It's incredible, you know that, right? People pay a shit-ton for art like that. Hell, a guy I knew commissioned someone for a picture of his cats, and it was - like, four hundred for super shitty quality. Cats all came out looking like these fucked up little gargoyles. Honestly, if they don't like it then they've been, like, possessed or something. And then I'd have to fight them for your honour, and it'd be a whole thing. Put a real damper on the reception."
"You're an amazing man with a lot going for you, but I don't love the idea of betting against Max. She's made of adamantium at this point." He interjects, but he looks a lot more relaxed, now, eyes brighter. "What about you? Thinking anything ...interesting?" Will wonders, brushing his knuckles against Mike's jaw. His tone's veering into flirtatious, like he's pretty sure he does have a good idea of what Mike might be thinking, and it sounds like he's thinking about it too. A shiver runs up his spine.
He shrugs playfully, then looks down and threads his hand through Will's hair. He's intending to say something lascivious, but all that comes out is,
"I’m gonna marry you one day, Byers.” He says. It comes out like a promise. It is one; though tossed out much more casually than an admission like that should be. It surprises both of them.
“Is that your idea of a proposal, Wheeler ?” Will laughs, untangling himself so he can look at him point-blank in bewilderment. He doesn't go far, but he already feels much colder. Mike whines at the loss, making exaggerated grabbing motions with his hands.
“Get back here, you little weasel.” He pouts. "How could you do this to me?"
“That’s how you talk to a guy you just proposed to?” He teases, but he draws back in at the request, throwing an arm around Mike's waist when he does.
“No way. I mean, yeah, I would, but I mean - my real proposal’s gonna be so much more romantic than this.” He turns himself just enough, so they’re completely face to face, noses brushing against eachother. He resists the urge to lean in. “Everyone’s going to be all, wow, how’d he get Mark Hamill to show up ?”
“Oh, yeah? And how did you swing that, hypothetically?”
“Showed him a picture of you in those shorts.” Mike says, as salaciously as he can muster. He lets his gaze wander suggestively. “Hey. You wouldn’t leave me for Luke Skywalker, right?”
“No promises.” Will replies easily, rolling his eyes. He brings his hands gingerly to the sides of Mike’s face, thumbs brushing circles into his jawline delicately. He doesn't know who finally bridges the gap between them, but he melts into the kiss, hands trailing down to Will’s sides so he can unabashedly fiddle with the waistline of those goddamn shorts that've been taunting him since 7 am - and that's before he even started working on the painting.
Will lets out a soft noise, eyes twinkling mischievously. He shifts them, pushing him until Mike’s on his back and he’s crawling on top of him, slyly straddling him. Mike's obviously not the only one who's been thinking about this.
Will kisses lazily down the line of his jaw down into the hollow of Mike’s throat, biting sharply when he reaches the crook of his neck. His shirt rides up a little and Mike settles a possessive hand on his hip, digging his fingers in just slightly. He bites down again when he does, tongue darting out and dragging up and - oh , he's definitely not gonna be able to keep his train of thought at this rate.
It's becoming rapidly less clear why he needs to, hands dragging up and under the back of Will's shirt, fabric pooling over his arm, but there's an ever-present thought darting in and out of the back of his mind, waving hysterically for him to voice it.
“Don’t try and distract me.” His voice is already coming out lower, rougher. Frantically, he frames Will’s face with his hands and looks into his eyes. He wants to kiss him again, but he also just - needs him to understand. Even though prioritizing anything but more of this, immediately does feel like sort of an insane reverse from his thought process during the last seven hours. “I’m really gonna marry you, you know.” He insists, and tries to swallow down the pang he feels when he says it.
I’m going to. I know I will. Just… when? When do I get to?
Will pulls away again and looks at him for a moment, scanning his face carefully. Whatever he finds there, he nods. “I know you will.” His voice is assured, but it's still so soft, like he’s afraid it’s going to break something. He stills for a moment and then clears his throat, sitting up. It doesn’t do a ton of good for Mike’s focus, given that he’s now sitting in his lap, but he’ll take it. God, how is he actually sad right now? Will Byers is in his lap. Priorities, Michael.
And yet, he can't really help it.
He closes his eyes and just breathes. It comes in waves, and he knows it’ll get better again in a month or so. It won't go away entirely, but it'll get easier.
It only feels this way because your friends are getting married and you have a borderline pathological jealousy issue, he reminds himself. It’s not gonna hurt the whole time.
Max was pretty firmly skeptical of marriage as a concept because of - well, a myriad of reasons. Some that Mike could even relate to, partially. She hadn't ever ruled it out entirely, but she took it summarily off the table until she could be absolutely sure. Given how much they'd went through as kids, it just seemed practical not to rush into it, especially so young. Totally logical conclusion to the lives they've lived. Smart, well-articulated and thought-out, but entirely unrelatable.
Around two years ago, she gave Lucas the ‘ okay’ to propose. He did, of course. He waited about six months hoping it would be a surprise, even though his actual behaviour around that time made it abundantly obvious. Thus, the arduous process of planning and scheduling commenced, and with it came the embers of jealousy that he's been adamantly tamping out because it's not about him. Unfortunately, knowing that doesn't make a difference.
It still settled in heavy in his chest, this childish want: if you can, why can't I? By all accounts, it's a shitty thing to feel as put out about as he does. He knows that, entirely. It's not anyone's fault. They're all just moving on with their lives, doing exactly what he wants to do by marrying the loves of their lives, and how could he actually fault them for that?
He can't. He doesn't. Lucas is one of his best friends. Mike's the best man, and as strange as it is, he and Max are close . They pretend they can't stand eachother, but they still make time to call at least once a week to catch up and, usually, to insult whichever of Max's coworkers is pissing her off that week, because both of them love to complain but their personal lives are so nice at this point there's not much else to whine about. They still butt heads, but it's much more jovial and less genuinely competitive like it was when he was with El. An inside joke. Of course he wants them to get married and be happy.
It's not just them, either. As the years have gone on more and more of their friends and family have started talking about settling in and settling down. A couple of them have even already gone through with it. Nancy and Jonathan, a few college friends - hell, even Argyle ended up tying the knot in one of the most baffling and off-kilter ceremonies he’d ever seen.
He and Will are always good sports about it, of course. They wear the suits, bring the gifts, sign the guest books, pose in the pictures, and above all they pretend they don’t feel like they’re missing out on something.
“Good.” He affirms, trying to steady his voice. God, that's a mood killer. That wasn't his intention. “Just making sure you know. Even if - even if it’s not okay until we’re like, eighty. I’ll hobble my ancient ass up the aisle to you.”
Will chuckles, his hands twitching against the fabric of Mike’s shirt playfully. “That’s so hot. Tell me more about Grandpa Wheeler.”
“He’s inexcusably horny. All the time. I mean, it’s incredibly excessive.” He titters, some of the tension draining from him. “He’s also, like, four feet tall.”
“You lose more than two feet?”
“Yeah, but I get them back again in my nineties. Rapidly, overnight. You like it, don't worry. Grandpa Byers is freaky for it.”
"I thought I was the artist, but you paint quite the picture. Thank you for that charming glimpse into our future."
"You're welcome."
“Do you… I just realized I never asked if you, you know, want to take my name or - or vice versa.” He tilts his head, and Mike's almost positive he's trying not to let on that he's thought about it before.
They don’t really talk about marriage. It's not a forbidden topic, or anything. It's just that in general, well... They don’t really need to. It's hardly pressing, and outside of a few late nights where they've briefly lamented homophobia, it's unfortunately not relevant. It’s an open wound they pretend not to have, edging their way around the topic especially around other people. As much as they love the people around them, they wouldn’t get it. They met a couple other gay people in college, but other than that Robin’s the only one who’s really equipped to understand this in particular, and as supportive as she'd been of them, he's not about to call her up in the middle of the night, like, 'Hey, Buckley! Just wanted you to know I'm depressed about the state of the world. ' She'd probably say something trying to put it in perspective, and then give up half-way and say, 'It sucks, Wheeler.'
“Do you wanna give me your name?” He asks. He'd always thought Byers sounded better, anyway. "'Cause, well - if you're offering..."
“I wouldn’t be opposed." Will answers, clearly pleased with the idea. He looks away, seems to think for a second. “It definitely sounds better than Will Wheeler."
“Yeah? Michael Byers it is. Get ready for a lifetime of Halloween jokes. I'm talking really bottom of the barrel stuff.”
“From you or other people?”
“Both, definitely.” He grins. “Can you imagine my dad's face if I told him I'm gonna be taking another man's name?"
"He'd be so scandalized." Will does a little shoulder shimmy when it says it, and Mike can't hold back his laughter. He's so fucking cute.
"Right? And just wait til he hears what else I take.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and runs his hand up Will’s spine before settling it on his hips again and squeezing to emphasize his point. "Hey-o! Talkin' about di--,"
“--Nope! No. I’m putting a stop to this. You can’t make sex jokes and talk about your dad in the same sentence, Mike. We have to draw the line somewhere.” Will groans, despite being more than used to his antics. It's largely out of obligation, he thinks.
“I disagree. Anyway, you’re the one attracted to me, so. You’re the weirdo here.” He waves him off, sticking his tongue out briefly. "Which I’m pretty fuckin' psyched about, by the way. Keep up the good work, champ." He rolls his hips lazily just to see the blush sprawl across Will's face.
“Oh, my God. You’re such a pervert.” He exclaims, but given the fact he’s saying it while still sitting on top of him, it loses a lot of the integrity. All bark, no bite.
Well, actually: a moderate amount of bark, and a lot of bite. It's one of the reasons Mike owns many, many collared shirts. And concealer.
“You’re the one trying to seduce me right now. All I’m trying to do is marry you. Totally innocent! Platonic, even.”
“Seduce you?” He quirks an eyebrow, biting back a grin. The impish little glint in his eye is back. What, did he think Mike wouldn't notice? “How am I seducing you, exactly...?”
“You totally know how. With your stupid little shorts–,”
“--It’s summer! What else am I going to wear, a parka?" He throws back sassily, all faux-innocence. "Do you want me in long Johns? Am I'm supposed to catalogue your reactions to every piece of clothing I own?"
"--Not to mention you're wearing my T-shirt.” Mike points out. “It's too big on you. It practically screams 'take me off!' It's a dirty trick. I definitely without a doubt feel seduced right now.”
“There’s nothing sexy about Gizmo, Mike.”
“There didn’t used to be. Now? Hubba hubba. Chekov’s dog, or whatever.” He jokes.
“It’s Pavlov’s dog. Chekov has the gun.” He corrects him, eyes still full of amusement.
“Okay, well, I change my mind then. This is all his fault." He says conspiratorially, poking Gizmo's smushed face where it rests over Will's chest. "He's my nemesis, now. He's single-handedly pushing back the gay rights movement and making me mildly insane. Is that better?"
"Not even remotely. You're crazy."
"He is. He’s doing it to spite me because he knows I really, seriously can’t wait to get a ring on you.” He mutters against his lips, voice low and face flushed. Like a child, something sparks in his mind. "My precious. Smeagol promises to precious, promises faithfully." He adds, in a croaky, high-pitched voice, which does probably undercut the seriousness of his message a bit.
"Am I the ring or is the actual ring the ring? Are you planning to throw me into Mount Doom? That's definitely going to affect the honeymoon."
"Shh, it's a metaphor."
"That's not a no. If you make a Lord of the Rings reference when you’re proposing, I’m saying no.” His eyes are hooded and a smile’s playing at the corners of his mouth.
Mike cackles maniacally. “You and I both know that’s not true! You’d say yes even harder, you fuckin’ nerd. You think I don’t know my own future husband?”
Will’s breath hitches at the word husband, face red and eyes wide. His breath is noticeably shallower and he swallows thickly. It's an expression he is extremely familiar with, but sends a jolt of exhilaration through him regardless.
“Oh my God. You’re, - like - into that. Holy shit. Is that -- wow. It's, like - it's a thing for you.” He teases, but it comes out more reverently than he intends, running his hands appreciatively over Will’s arms.
“Shut up. It’s Chekov’s dog." He mocks. "You conditioned me. And by the way, the next line is ‘never come again.’ It would be a terrible thing to propose with unless what you’re really proposing is celibacy. Which is becoming rapidly more tempting---"
“Nuh-uh, bullshit! No changing the subject, mister. Just admit it. You’re thinking about it. You want me to make an honest man out of you. It gets you going.”
“You - oh my God, stop talking. You’re such a—,”
Mike cuts him off by surging forward and crashing their lips together, humming in contentment when Will opens his mouth against him, slipping his tongue in before Mike has the chance. He shudders, gripping hard when Will grinds down with precise, practiced movements, biting at his lower lip when he does.
"Fuck." Mike puffs out, pulling away and panting. His head falls back against the pillow, dazed as he watches Will - the way his eyes are glazed over, chest heaving, lips wet. He's quiet for a few moments, running the back of his hand against his still reddening cheek and steadying his breathing.
"...You want to be my hu~sband." Mike sings in an upbeat, but admittedly affected voice. Will rolls his eyes, but does nothing to hide his soft little grin.
“Of course I do. Stupid.” He agrees easily, linking their hands together. He looks down and away and his voice comes out softer. "I've wanted that since - God . At least since I was thirteen. Maybe longer. I...I at least knew I wanted a life with you, even when I was completely sure the most I could ever get was just us playing DND and Nintendo in your basement while I pretended I didn't want that. I just wanted - whatever it was I could have with you."
“Kinda sounds like you're in love with me, or something."
"Oh, does it, Michael? Does it really?" He challenges, pursing his lips.
"Yeah, actually. It also kind of sounds like you're kind of a sap.” He says. His heart thrums deafeningly in his ears, feeling a radiating warmth spreading in his chest. He knows Will loves him, obviously. The fact he loved him when he was arguably at his worst is something that always astounds him, though; it puts things into perspective. Will waited for him, feeling completely alone in a selfless kind of love that Mike's never 100% been positive he deserves. Thank God Will doesn't mind reassuring him.
"Uh, I'm the sap? Says the guy who turned down sex so he could, like, basically pop the question."
"Woah, woah. Definitely did not turn it down. Let's get that on the record, here. I just pressed pause. I still want to fuck you, I mean, come on, man. I'm a romantic, I'm not a saint." He protests indignantly. "I just... wanted to talk about it, I guess."
"Duly noted." Will chuckles. "Uh, but, um. Hey, I, you know, we can... We can talk about it more often, too. If it's weirding you out that we never mention it, or anything, just - let me know. I really only don’t bring it up since…” He trails off.
Mike grabs both his hands in his and brings them up to his mouth.
“Hey. Me too. Seriously, it’s - it’s fine. I get it.” He presses a kiss to Will's knuckles. “That’s why I don't bring it up. It just... Yeah. I know."
“And I just, I don't want you to think that I'm unhappy." Will rambles, slipping his hand across Mike's cheek. "You know? It's not the worst thing in the world. I'm not disappointed with the life we have. At all. It's still surreal to even get to have all this, and - not everyone gets married right out of college, anyway, I mean - my mom and Hopper, for one example. Just…”
“Yeah.” Mike nods, his voice coming out whisper-quiet. “Yeah, me either. I'm really happy. I - sometimes I feel totally crazy for even, I don't know... caring about it at all, I guess. Does that make sense? It - I don't know, it... It’s just such bullshit we have to wait for everyone else to get their shit together. All these piece-of-shit douchebags in office have no idea they’d probably all be dead if it wasn’t for a couple of gay teenagers helping save their sorry asses in the 80s. They fucking owe us! The least they could do is let me marry you.”
“I wish they would.” Will confesses, his voice so tender and small Mike almost misses it altogether. He collapses forward and buries his face in the junction where his neck meets his collarbone, and just inhales. Mike wraps him up tighter. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He runs his hand up Will’s back, letting himself zone into the rhythm of it. The soft fabric jostling under his fingertips, the dragging sound of it on loop and their breathing synchronizing. He smells like cinnamon and dried paint.
Will, in a white suit standing framed in an archway of flowers. Green carnations, maybe. Illuminated by golden light, slipping on matching silver bands. He could even propose by writing a campaign. Will would like that. Mike would probably stress himself out trying to make his vows the most perfect they could be, because that's what Will deserves. Lord of the Rings isn't the worst idea, either. Definitely not Sméagol, but maybe something else? Don't go where I can't follow is a good candidate.
He can see it all: their friends taking the 'throw rice' portion of the wedding way too seriously, Lucas and Dustin trying not to get choked up during their best-man speeches. Max would probably make fun of him at some point, El would demand every single person there to dance with her - and it'd all be so...
far away. It's okay, though. Right now, he has the love of his life in his arms, warm and bright, and he loves him back just as fiercely. For now- he still has this. All of it; the soft, tender moments and the domestic mundanity he's so incredibly fond of.
They might not let him marry him yet, but they can't take away moments like this. How it feels when it's just the two of them, clambering around in their lacklustre kitchen to make dinner, or staying up too late watching movies from when they were kids, or making shopping lists, or folding laundry, or doing anything that means they chose to be happy in a world that told them they weren't allowed, and Robin can be a little on the nose, but she's right when she says it's as brave as any of the other big, terrible things they've had to do.
They spend a few minutes like that, lost in the moment. Will breaks him out of his reverie when he starts chuckling. “Michael Byers. Can’t believe that’s gonna be your name. No one’s gonna take you seriously.”
"Do people take me seriously now?" Mike asks.
"Good point. You are prone to the absurd. For example, slanderous rages against innocent mogwai."
"He's not innocent. He's ruining my life." He whines, not at all dramatically. "He's covering up my favourite guy."
"Want me to ask him to give us a moment?” Will offers sweetly. "I think I can talk some sense into him."
“Yeah, get the fuck outta here, Gizmo. Read the room. I don’t share.” He whines, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
"There it is. Absurd."
“He’s just looking at me so smugly! Look at him.” He gestures wildly at the disarmingly fuzzy face and steadfastly refuses to admit to being ridiculous, partially because he just sort of is, but mostly because Will's cute when he's a little bit exasperated with him. Will squints, and then his lips curve into a smile. He beckons Mike closer then starts fiddling with the collar of his shirt, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
"I do know you like these shorts, actually." He drawls, voice low and rumbling in a way that makes him suck in a harsh breath that he knows doesn't escape his boyfriend's rapt attention. His hands tighten in his collar. "Especially with how you kept looking at me today. You're not subtle at all. I was honestly surprised you held out so long."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, throwing his arms around him and tugging him closer, beaming. "You're worth the wait, Byers."