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September 21st, 1992
Mike knows that he shouldn’t have had that expresso at nine o’clock pm. But, since he had an essay to buckle down and write for tomorrow’s (today’s) deadline with only two-thirds of the book he was supposed to have read actually read, he had no other choice but to succumb to the influence of caffeine.
Anyways, it’s quiet now, which sort of makes it better, absent of the rowdy college kids walking home from frat parties, which, if Mike’s being honest, he does participate in now and again. Minus the rowdy part because look, he gets tired when he’s drunk, okay? And it’s more of a reason to cuddle up to Will when they get back to their apartment. However, tonight is not one of those nights, because he’s not stupid enough to drunk-write an essay.
It’s all to say that that’s the reason why he’s been staring at the wall for the past hour, with Will sleeping next to him. The wall, usually lit by a nightlight, is dark.
They've been dating for four months. In that time, Mike had made it his mission to find a double bed. He remembers Will’s grin when they’d found one on the side of the road over the summer. Up until then, they’d shared Mike’s bed after they’d finally gotten together, (and sometimes before without the assurance of returned feelings) and since then, nights have never been more quiet.
Will's arm is slung around his middle, comforting and always there at night when Mike needs Will to just hold him. Which, if he's being honest, is about eighty-five percent of the time. It isn't a bad thing, because Will always wants to, and Mike knows that if he doesn't, he'll just say it, or better yet, Mike will be able to tell without Will saying anything at all. He’s also got a little more muscle than him, so Mike feels protected like this. The same protection that he’d shown Will. His arms are tight around Mike but still giving enough room for him to breathe, grasp unyielding and certain. There's been a lot of certainty these days.
Will’s grip tightens, and it’s no longer quiet anymore.
Mike turns his head around to look. The soft glow that usually lights his face up isn’t there. So. Both nightlights are dead. So much for the “ten-year guarantee!”
Mike purses his lips, turns his body around, and then extracts Will’s hands.
“Hey,” Mike says. He puts a hand on his shoulder.
Will frowns, eyes darting back and forth beneath his eyelids, still dreaming. Or nightmare-ing. Mike should know. Both his college degrees depend on words, for Christ’s sake. More importantly though, Will is crying; there are a few tears running down his face, still damp.
“Will,” Mike tries, tapping a thumb on his shirt collar.
One of his eyes flutters open, the other looking like it’s in its hazy-limbo state of half-consciousness. His other eye opens, slowly as if the eyelid has been stuck with glue. Mike moves his hand from his shoulder to Will’s face, wiping away the stray tears.
Will sighs, and groans, and sticks his face into Mike’s chest. “So fucking stupid.”
It does catch him by surprise, the fact that he’s having half the wind knocked out of him at— he checks the clock— two-seventeen in the morning, but it’s a nice surprise. Will is warm, and Mike likes having him here.
“Woah, hey, no,” Mike says, moving one hand to rub at his back a few times and his other to comb through a few strands. After a few moments, Will pulls away, leaning on his forearms and huffs out a breath.
“Do… you actually think it’s stupid?” Mike’s eyebrows furrow, knowing the answer is no, knowing that Will understands his own trauma, knowing that in the six years since everything’s ended back in Hawkins, neither of their nightmares have stopped.
(If the answer is yes, though, Mike knows the algorithm by heart.)
Will pulls away, blinks a few times, and sits up. He scrubs at his eyes, and shakes his head. “No. Just annoying. I know you never get tired of dealing with it, but sometimes I do.”
The admission saddens Mike, but still, it’s something that Will knows that Mike wants him in whatever fashion he’ll offer.
He doesn’t say that One is dead. He doesn’t say that the Upside Down is gone. He doesn’t say it’s over, over and over and over again, because he knows Will knows.
And Will is a patient person. He waited a whole week in the Upside Down, huddled in his house, or Castle Byers, or the woods, communicating through Christmas lights. And then he waited until the Mind Flayer was extracted from him. He waited when Mike and El were inseparable from the fall of 1984 until the next. He waited when Vecna was trying to bend the Upside Down backwards, and played his part with precision and resilience in his eyes. And lastly, he waited until Mike finally realized his feelings and confessed.
So yes, Will is a patient person, but that doesn’t mean that Mike can’t tell when all that waiting is on the edge of becoming frustration, wringing in his chest like a washcloth. For Mike, second-hand sadness to a T, and then some, because he experienced most of it along with him. He isn’t sure what to call it, but he wants to call it something because he’s had Will in his life for the longest time, shared a bulk of the same pain as Will for just as long, it only seems right. Maybe he’ll pull a Shakespeare and just make one up. He’s good at improvising.
Mike reaches out and rubs his thumb in circles on Will’s palm. “It isn’t even dealing,” he says. “You don’t just forget what happened. That’s why they’re memories.” Mike raises a hand to tap Will’s temple a couple times, and he can see him blush, even in the darkness. “I know they make you impatient,” Mike continues, emphasizing the you because he wants to make it clear that that’s not how he feels about Will. Mike wants Will to be patient with himself, kind like he is with literally everything else, but he knows that at the end of the day, it’s gonna be hard. He’s seen Will at his worst, chastising himself, but it doesn’t warrant any chastising from Mike. The hypocrisy would be immeasurable, nevermind the douchiness. Mike knows impatience front and back. He knows what it feels like to not get his way, to be surrounded by bad memories and always looking for good ones but coming to no avail.
Mike takes a deep breath. The rest come easy but precise. “And it’s sick as fuck that they torment you when you’re not even awake to control it, but… if it’s staying, I’m staying. And if one day it decides to pack up and leave, I won’t be joining.”
“I love you,” Will murmurs, a little tired around the edges, but genuine nonetheless. He leans back against the headboard and adjusts his fingers to squeeze Mike’s hand. It’s comfortable, fingertips pressing together like a light beam traveling back and forth.
Mike gazes at Will, hopeful. “I love you, too.” He sits up and leans back as well.
It isn’t as exhilarating as saying it the first few weeks of dating Will, but it's still just as true, still feels just as right, and probably even more now that they both know they know each other a walk beyond best friends. Mike supposes that’s what happens when you love someone that much— it’s easy to fit into that comfort at the trade of the initial flames going away.
(And before, loving Will had felt wrong. So when Mike finally realized that it wasn’t, it was… freeing. The initial feel of saying I love you made him want to write it all over his skin in a language only Will can understand. Now, it sits in his mouth, casual and accepted. Cementing the fact that it’s never actually been wrong.)
Nothing felt right with El. He hadn’t felt the exhilaration of dating her, but rather, dating a girl. I love yous were sparse, and even when Mike said it he knew he didn’t mean it. He would know, since he’s the quintessential example of saying meaningless shit. Saying those three words to El made him feel like his heart was missing from his chest, and not in a good way.
Will closes his eyes, tilts his head up and a couple of tears drop. “All of us were in the Upside Down again. And… our plan— it didn’t work. He got me again.”
Mike remembers El taking down Vecna in the final battle, the blood dripping from her nose. He remembers Lucas and Dustin, Nancy and Jonathan, and Joyce and Hopper with weapons of their own. He remembers Will, with a gun in his hand, firing at the remaining demodogs.
Mike drags his hand to Will’s nape and hugs him, bringing him close enough to hear the soft, “god,” echoed from his lips. His other hand rubs circles on his shoulder blade.
“You weren’t there,” Will says into Mike’s shoulder. “I kept on looking for you, but I… I couldn’t find you.”
Mike presses his lips to the exposed skin on Will’s shoulder for one, two, three, four seconds, hoping that he’s pouring the intent of his presence into it, however small a gesture it is. He’s certain it does. “One minute.”
It is a little cruel, Mike thinks, to dash out of the room just after his boyfriend confessed to having a nightmare featuring his lack of presence, but Will doesn’t object. The fact of the matter is that Mike’s gotta number one: go, well, number one, and number two: get another blanket.
When he’s washing his hands, he sees that the counter is a little empty— empty of toothpaste, because he was the last of them two to get ready for bed, and he threw it out without even thinking that they’d need a replacement tomorrow. So. Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll make a quick run to CVS to get toothpaste and a nightlight. Maybe something else for Will, because he more than deserves it.
Then, Mike walks to the living room to retrieve a blanket from the couch, walking back into their room after, blanket in hand. Will is blinking rapidly, no doubt trying to get rid of his buffering tears. He looks up at Mike, who kneels by the side of the bed and presents it like a knight with sword to a noble. “Here, my lord.”
He watches Will’s face melt, and it reminds him of how he looked when Mike had word-vomited at him in his garage at midnight. The vague memory of when Mike had asked to be best friends again comes to mind also, along with Will’s watery eyes, and he grins just a little bit. It’s nice to be able to act like himself and have a compliment to his actions. Maybe it’s also a little fun to see Will get flustered like this.
“Thank you.” Will leans forward and takes the blanket, wrapping it around himself like some kind of burrito. In that time, Mike flips his torso around and grabs his alarm. He sets it for seven, giving himself a quarter hour to get ready. Tomorrow, (technically today, the elementary schooler in him says), he doesn’t have class until noon, while Will has an eight-thirty. He’ll try to make as little noise as possible.
Then, Mike turns towards him and asks, “Do you feel better?”
“Yeah,” Will nods curtly. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Anything for you,” Mike says, drawing out the “ou ” and leaning in to make the brush of their noses tickle. He flashes Will a cheeky grin and pulls back, his body weight on his elbows. “You want me to spoon you?”
“No,” Will decides. “I wanna face you.”
Mike’s gonna be honest here— he wouldn’t mind that either. Things are always easier when they’re facing it together. Mike relishes in the peace that coats over his chest as Will lays them both down. Once both their heads are on the pillows, Will shifts closer, bumping their foreheads. He winds a hand around Mike’s waist and tucks his other hand into his hair, fingertips brushing where his curls swoop up and down. “Good?”
Mike adores how he’s soft with him.
“Perfect.” Mike rubs his forehead against Will’s. He puts a hand around Will’s nape. Will shuts his eyes and Mike relaxes when he feels lips meet his for a second-quick kiss. Finally, with the warmth of proximity, Mike closes his eyes as sleep pauses his consciousness for the following hours.
‣ ‣ ‣
Five hours passes faster than he’d like.
Mike’s alarm buzzes once, twice, three times before he hits it with his palm and groans.
As little noise as possible. Right .
Before the light even hits him, he feels a headache crashing through his skull. It’s bright and overcast. Nevermind hangovers, someone should’ve warned him about the headaches in line when chugging coffee at night. It’s weighty and demanding and absolutely foul.
And Will is half on top of him.
That gives him something else to think about. It wouldn’t be a problem on any other day, but today, Mike does have somewhere to be before his creative writing class. Two legs thrown across his aren’t helping, unfortunately.
“Will.”
He doesn’t move. The weight on Mike’s legs is starting to feel a little too comfortable, like if he doesn’t get up soon, his legs will fall asleep and then he will too.
Nevertheless, Mike lets himself have a solid thirty seconds of Staring-At-Will time, because he can. It’s— look, the yellow glow from the escaping window light shines on the length of his face, still and purposeful and composed. If he had any less sense, Mike would throw away his literature essay and just wax poetry about this, submitted with full confidence.
And then Mike remembers. “I have to go.”
That wakes Will up.
Will’s eyes open in a fashion similar to how they did last night. “Huh?” he says. “Go where?” His words slur together and he frowns.
Mike sits up. “Somewhere. It’s— yeah. Somewhere.” He itches his ear. This is sounding gratuitously cryptic. “A surprise,” he adds.
Will’s frown deepens. “Are you doing drugs?”
Mike wrinkles his nose. “No! It’s not a drug deal. I’ll show you what it is after. I promise.”
Will laughs. “Okay. I better not find out my boyfriend is doing heroin.”
Mike slides Will’s legs off of his and gives his calves a small pat. “You won’t. I’ll be back in twenty. Well, not from right now, ‘cause I still have to get ready and shit, but… twenty from when I leave.”
The small nod from Will is his queue. He speeds out the door, takes one quick look at his appearance (wearing a blue JCrew sweatshirt his mom got him for Christmas and a pair of sweatpants is acceptable CVS-wear, right?) and brushes his hair and teeth, the latter with water because that’s the best he can do right now. He practically inhales a banana on the kitchen counter, grabs a piece of gum for good measure, and breathes into his hand while shoving his feet into his converse. Yeah, the gum is still needed.
It’s 7:18 by the time he gets out the door. Summer’s on its last legs, the cool morning breeze of it sweeping over his legs as he walks the two blocks. He swings open the door and immediately scans the place. His sense of direction’s pretty shit, and his memory worse, so even though he’s been here countless times over the last three years, he still isn’t sure where the most important item on the list is.
He walks through three aisles, and stops at aisle 8. There’s two nightlights in stock. He takes a look around to make sure there’s no one to bear witness to his hoarding and then takes them both.
Toothpaste next. He finds it in aisle 4.
Candy’s the easiest thing to find; he’s gone to aisle 12 enough times on his and Will’s movie nights to know that the Reese's are next to the Junior Mints, four spots down from the left. With the Reese’s in hand, he also grabs a box of Nerds for himself.
Once it’s his turn, he puts his five items on the counter. The cashier, a woman in her late thirties with voluminous hair and glasses who kind of reminds him of the librarian in Hawkins, rings him up. Once he’s paid the balance, she nudges the bag towards him, hands him the receipt, and mumbles a “have a nice day.”
“You too,” he says, before walking out the sliding doors and back to his apartment.
Mike checks his watch, which says 7:28. Will should be up by the time he gets there, maybe even getting dressed, which Mike isn’t opposed to seeing.
When he walks into his apartment, he sees that the bathroom light is on and the door’s ajar, with the sound of brushing teeth. Mike puts down the bag and unties the shoelaces of his converse.
Once in front of the door, he knocks. “Hey,” he calls from outside.
Mike hears Will stop brushing his teeth, spit in the sink and then open the door. “Hi.” There’s a decent smear of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth and on his chin. Mike wants to kiss it away.
Wait… toothpaste? Mike’s starting to believe that Will’s got magic. “Wh— how— We had toothpaste?”
“Cabinet under the sink,” Will says, suppressing a smile.
“Oh,” Mike utters.
Mike, with the lack of memory he has, must’ve forgotten the few things they have stored in there. Leading his whole knight-in-shining armor alter-ego to fail him.
“Well, we could always stock up,” Will points out, and gives him a once-over. Mike’s disappointment fades and a slow grin makes its way to his face. “A prepper would be a good look for you.”
“Yeah?” Mike smiles wider. “Still, let’s hope that doesn’t come to fruition.” He clears his throat. “Ready for show and tell?” He holds up the bag.
“Yeah, sure, go for it.” Will puts his palms on the counter, leaning on the edge of it.
“Okay, first off: toothpaste,” Mike says as he pulls the tube from the bag. “Shocker.”
“Mhmm.” Will nods, taking it from him and putting it below the sink.
“Second: these guys.” Mike gives the two packages of candy a little shake and then places them on the counter. “For… a movie night on Thursday?”
“On board, for sure.”
“Perfect,” Mike grins. “And last but not least,” he says, dragging out the words. “Drumroll?” he asks, glancing up at Will from the bag.
Will pats his thighs enthusiastically, closing his eyes and his face pinching up.
“These.” Mike holds out the two packages of nightlights for him to see.
Will opens his eyes, mouth going a little slack, and Mike’s reminded a little of Chester when either he or Will had a plate of food in their hands. Something about owners looking like their dogs, or whatever, endearingly in this case.
“I swear to god, if these go out in a month, I’m gonna call that number on the back of the package that no one ever—”
Will surges forward into a kiss. Despite the surging, it’s slow, fitting for the early morning, and Mike tastes the toothpaste still coating Will’s teeth and he smiles, dropping the nightlights on the counter. He angles his face a little to the right, lingering. This sort of quiet is his favorite: when time passes slow enough for him to enjoy it, whether or not he’s with Will, or the rest of the Party. These moments that he gets to have with Will specifically are his most favorite, because he knows that the compliments to his actions are genuine and wanted.
“I love you,” Will says, confident and sure.
“You’re welcome,” Mike grins. Then, because there’s still toothpaste there, he plants a kiss on Will’s chin, tasting the mint again.
When they both turn to face the mirror, they double over laughing at the mess on both their faces, the sound more refreshing than the toothpaste.