Chapter Text
✨Vibes✨
Mike opens the lid of the enameled pot and grimaces at the wet, searing heat that singes the thin skin of his face and the fact that this whole cooking thing is decidedly not going his way. He raises an eyebrow at the sort of tomato sauce he’s concocted with suspicion before groaning under his breath and replacing the lid to its home on top of the pot. He swears this is the way his mom had said to make it.
It simmers away and he watches the water in the larger metal pot next to it start to boil. He’s picked linguini, and he has no fucking clue if Will even likes linguini. But he does know that homemade Bolognese sauce and fresh baked bread and salad with the fancy greens definitely wasn’t something he ever got to eat at home when he was little, and Mike would be damned if tonight wouldn’t be special.
His eye twitches as he warily stares at the stove and he tries his best to quell the obnoxious shaking of his too thin thigh. He tugs at the collar of his baggy sweater and paces over to the window that looks onto the sidewalk below. He peeks down even though he knows there is no way he could tell if anyone was here or not. It’s too hot in here and if it wasn’t ten fucking degrees outside and he wasn’t a cheap ass who didn’t want to waste heat, he might open the window for some relief. Instead, he decides to forgo the nice sweater and rips it off over his head in one smooth motion, deciding to spend the rest of the night in his white undershirt.
Mike stalks back over to the kitchen, checks the sauce again, grabs another beer out of the fridge and snaps the cap off with a satisfying hushed sound, discarding it into the trash and heads towards the door to look through the peephole. No one’s there. He shakes out his free hand and shouts out an exasperated, nervous exclamation as he heads back to his tiny kitchen. His entire body is jittery.
The truth is, Oh God , the truth is… Mike hasn’t seen Will in about seven years. He thinks the last time was like a couple Christmases after high school graduation or something insane. They’d parted with the Upside Down, an unfortunate thing of their decidedly fucked up shared past, and Will had gone to the East Coast; looking for freedom and people like him, and the anonymity promised by millions of humans stacked on top of each other. And Mike had understood. Of course he did. After all, Will was artsy and different and wanted to go to a school where he could meet people he could connect with. He wanted to explore and find freedom that was impossible in somewhere as beige and dull and small as Hawkins, Indiana. He got it . And yet—it didn’t make the dull pang in Mike’s heart ache any less as the years wore on and on.
Mike had dreams that were similar if he was being honest. He had dreams. Big ones. Magical ones. Dreams that he realizes now were nothing but the fanciful wishes of a child. But—his family stayed pretty local after he graduated high school and so did his other friends. So did El . She wanted to attend the community college down the interstate. And he couldn’t just leave her. Not after everything. That would be cruel. So he stayed. Purdue for a stint and then the furthest he’d ever made it was Chicago for graduate school.
And now he’s back in Indianapolis, writing freelance articles and thinking about teaching. He’s pushing thirty and as confused as he’s ever been. Graduate school seemed like a waste of time in the end. And too fucking expensive. The closeness he thought his family might have as they all got older never really panned out, even though his mother was still so sweet to him sometimes it made his insides twist. Even if he still wasn’t married yet and seemed adrift. Things did go a little haywire after her and his dad’s divorce, but that was to be expected. But she did get over it, and she met someone, and he’s nice. He pays attention.
Mike doesn’t have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or anything for that matter. There weren’t too many prospects in that department anyway. El broke up with him their first year out of high school. When he looks back on it now, it makes him blush with how blind he was. He should have seen that coming. He had one sort-of-girlfriend in college, and a boy he actually really liked who he saw for a long while. But that boy didn’t want to be with someone who wasn’t out to his parents. Or anyone , Mike thinks broodingly. And the same with Will, he didn’t blame him. He sees Lucas and Dustin from time to time, hangs out with Max and El when he’s in Hawkins, but—it’s just…..Mike works , he takes care of his apartment, sleeps, he tries to go for hikes even though he hates the fucking mosquitos. And time has passed on, life has floated right on by. Or so it feels like anyways.
And maybe that’s not necessarily true. Maybe he and El and Max meet up for drinks every two weeks somewhere between Indianapolis and Hawkins and they laugh in some sticky booth of a dive bar until they can’t breathe, and maybe he does like the time he spends taking his mother out to lunch on her birthday and when there are flowers she likes at the greenhouse in the spring, and maybe he and Lucas catch a Blackhawks game in Chicago when they have the potential to make it to the playoffs. And he enjoys it when Dustin invites him to visit the science museum with Suzie during the summer when their three kids are bored out of their minds. He enjoys being “Uncle Mike.”
He acts like his life is a waste, but… maybe it isn't. Maybe that’s just his perception. Maybe he just is asking for too much. Nancy has always told him he’s a pessimist. A Debbie Downer. A buzzkill. And maybe that’s true. Maybe he’s making it all up.
But—it feels real—it feels lost all the same. Time lost. People lost.
Will. Lost.
Suddenly, there’s a light knock at the door and Mike slams the heavy ceramic lid of the saucepan he’d peeked under again back down with a heavy thud. His heart pounds in his chest and he stares at the door as if goons from Hawkin’s Lab are going to break it down. Pressing his lips together and pulling his brows into a crease of determination, Mike sets his beer on the counter and heads towards the door.
He straightens his tshirt, brushes his black curls out of his face and frets that he hasn’t put on shoes. It feels strange for some reason to be in his bare socks. Vulnerable. He catches a glimpse of himself in the small mirror above the table where he keeps his keys and bills and other miscellaneous things he doesn’t know what to do with. Nothing special to see there. His eyes are still blackish-brown, his hair is still the same color as a raven's wing, and falling around his face in tangled curls, his shoulders are still too broad and pointed and his arms and waist are still too fucking skinny. He never did get around to working out to put on weight like Lucas and Steve had suggested. He brushes at a stain near his hip where his tshirt meets his faded black jeans and sighs. It will have to do. All of it will have to do.
Mike tugs at the door in a huff and Will is revealed to him. The first thing Mike notices is how Will’s mouth slackens in panicked surprise and the small, simple bouquet of mauve flowers in one hand. In his other is a bottle of red wine and he holds them out and smiles a hesitant little smile. His lips are still full and a dusky pink as they spread out over his straight, white teeth.
“Hey,” Mike greets him, his voice high and awkward and making him cringe when it reminds him of an airport in California a lifetime ago. Will’s green eyes shine brown against the beige backdrop of his apartment building’s hallway and widen with the same wonderment of having seen someone for the first time in a very long time. They catch on Mike’s chest and wander up his neck, along the length of his nose, briefly shooting up towards his hair, and then meet his eyes again.
“Hi,” Will says, bouncing on his feet and his voice deep and raspy with nervousness. He smiles again and his eyes dart towards the wall briefly before settling back on his with purpose. The awkwardness of it makes Mike’s cheeks burn.
“How are you?”
Mike stands back from the doorway and lets him pass through the threshold. “I’m good, man,” he answers, immediately regretting his choice of words. “Come on in.”
He sucks in a breath and scratches the back of his neck, his entire body pulsing with electricity when Will looks at him again. Mike bites his lip and smiles again. “How have you been?”
Will twists his mouth and stretches his body awkwardly to set the wine down on the counter before turning back to him. “Oh,” he says nonchalantly with a small, breathless chuckle. He’s bouncing again. “Same old, same old really.”
“I get that,” Mike says quickly, walking towards the kitchen and unable to look at Will’s eyes for the time being. He grabs for the wine bottle and moves towards the drawer where he keeps the opener. He pulls two glasses out of the cabinet, desperately trying to ignore how Will’s eyes singe holes in the back of his neck.
Is it still hot in here? The stove has definitely made it too hot in here.
He pours each of them a pretty full glass of the wine he’s never seen before and turns back around, offering one to Will and wondering if he only bought it for the pretty label. Will breathes a smile and thanks him softly. He takes a good long sip and then leans up against the counter, gazing at Mike with watchful eyes.
Mike copies him and then there is a long beat of smiling and nervous sighs and silence before Will looks down at the flowers he’s still holding. He bites his lip. “Here,” he says, holding them out with a nervous expression as Mike takes them. “They were at a stand outside the liquor store. I thought they were pretty.” He shrugs and takes another sip of his wine, one arm crossing over his compact chest. “I don’t know—it seems stupid now.”
“No, man,” Mike says nervously, wishing he would stop fucking saying ‘man’. “These are great.”
He rushes over to the sink and pulls out the only vase he owns, unties the stems, and arranges them as neat as he can before setting them on the edge of the counter where the stove meets the breakfast bar. They do look nice. He chuckles, “I just killed my only houseplant last week by accident, so these are actually much needed.”
“So you’re a gardener then?” Will jokes with a raised eyebrow.
“T’yeah,” Mike scoffs sarcastically. “A regular old Bartram over here.”
Will’s eyes widen and he’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his wine, and Mike knows by that face that he has no fucking idea what Mike is talking about. He notices how his fingers tighten around his ribs as he glances down at the pots on the countertop stove. “And a chef?” he asks again, his tone still teasing and too light.
Mike blushes at that, lifting one shoulder to his ear. He blinks. “Yeah—uhm. I don’t know. My mom taught me a couple things when I got my first apartment. I think she thought I was gonna starve or something.”
Will chuckles at that, and Mike beams when he realizes his laughter is real. “Your mom was always a good cook,” he tells him.
“Yeah,” Mike says softly, watching the way Will wets his lips after he takes another sip of his wine. Before he gets caught staring he quickly glances back to the simmering sauce. “I don’t know—I just wanted to make you something— nice .”
Will’s smile is swiped from his face, and there’s something serious and sad rushing up behind his eyes now. He opens his mouth to say something, but Mike cuts him off.
He rushes over to the stove. “I have…linguini? Uhm, is that okay?”
Will nods at him and his smile returns. “Yeah, that sounds great.” Mike’s breath catches in his throat as their arms brush when he comes around the back of him and settles to his left. Mike puts his glass down and works on throwing the pasta in the boiling water.
“Do you need help with anything?” he asks gently, his gaze watching Mike’s hands.
Mike throws the pasta in the water and stirs, shaking his head as he peeks back at Will. “No,” he says with a small smile, desperately trying to ignore the fuzzy happiness blooming in his chest. It’s already too domestic, too close, too quickly returning to exactly how Will has always made him feel.
Too much like home.
He’s staring at him, he knows this. Mike should be paying attention to the fucking boiling water he’s stirring, but Will is looking back at him, a gentle blush on his cheeks, his bottom lip already a little stained from the burgundy wine, and Mike is starting to wonder if this was the best idea he ever had or the dumbest.
“You sure?” Will asks, one side of his mouth tugging up playfully.
Mike nods and swallows heavily. “Yeah,” he says again, too rough and quiet. He clears his throat and nods towards his living room. “You’re the music guy. Why don’t you go and put something on.”
Will’s still peeking at him when he meets his gaze again, irises olive and bronze and lit up like gold. “Okay,” he says, still playful and a little too knowing. “I can do that.” Mike’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches Will lose two inches when he slides his boots off and quietly pads across the room in faded white socks. He studies the lean muscles of his back that he can see through his thin sweater roll and flex as he sits cross legged in front of the bookshelf where his record player lives. He sits quietly and sifts through his many used vinyl store purchases, and Mike presses his lips together against the emotion welling up in his throat already. He knows why he had avoided this for so long. Avoided him. He isn’t too much like home. No. That’s just an excuse. Will is home.