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The night is soft overhead and Mike wants to set it on fire.
He stomps across the parking lot of their cheap-ass motel, laces half-tied, already regretting leaving his jacket back in the room. It’s midnight and the desert air is cold as a witch’s tit, sneaking in every gap in his stupid windbreaker and turning his damp hair to ice on the back of his neck.
But he can’t go back inside. He can’t .
Because-
Just fucking because . Okay?
He makes it about a hundred paces into open desert before he remembers that, like, rattlesnakes probably exist. He hasn’t survived armies of demo-freaks and a year at Hawkins High just to get taken out by something that stupid.
He huffs a curse at the empty horizon and twists, changing course to a worn little track that goes round the perimeter of the motel. It feels like he’s walking a cliff edge. On his left are battered brown chalets, bleached by the occasional yellow light clustered with bugs. On the left is pure nothing; when he looks, his breath swirls white against the flat, bruise-black night, so thick it might as well be a wall.
It takes him longer than he thinks to make a loop, but when he does he’s still full of the jitters that chased him out here in the first place. He can’t go back yet. Maybe if he goes round another time he’ll-
Wait.
Someone is coming round the path in the opposite direction. Mike stops, chest constricting; he’d recognise the shape of those shoulders, and that particular soft-footed stride, anywhere.
“Will,” he says. It should be a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. Will’s face, when he lifts his eyes to meet Mike’s, is welcoming and equally unsurprised.
“You left.” Will murmurs. There’s no judgement there, but there is the hint of a query.
Mike shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed air.”
“Yeah.” Will shifts from one foot to the other, “I get that.” He holds out his hand, and there’s a bundle of cloth in it that looks familiar. It’s black leather; Mike’s favourite jacket.
“Is that mine?”
Will nods. “Your hair’s still wet from the shower. Thought you might need it.”
“Oh. Um, thanks.”
“Unless you’re heading back inside?” Will hesitates. “In that case I can take it-”
“What? No.” Too late, Mike realises he is supposed to take the jacket, so he does, shrugging into it in an awkward flail of limbs. “I’m gonna stay out a bit longer. Find somewhere to sit or something. Thanks.”
Will nods, still lingering. “Can I…can I sit with you?”
“Um, yeah.” Mike blinks, surprised. “Sure.”
They look for a bench but there isn’t one, so they settle for a patch of ground on the edge of the parking lot, a wall against their back, close enough to one of the lights that they can see each other, but not so much that they’re in a spotlight. It’s not exactly comfortable, and Mike can feel the cold concrete turning his butt numb already, but Will’s here so…
…so it’s okay, he guesses.
Silence stretches for a while. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s…curious? Mike waits; he speaks ‘Will Byers’ fluently enough to know his best friend wants to say something.
Eventually, Will speaks. “It wasn’t…because of me, was it? The reason you’re out here?”
“What? No!” Mike blurts, flustered.
Because he’s lying. It was because of Will. Or, well, it had something to do with Will, something that he can’t quite articulate right now.
Their room is fine; a bit mildewy, a bit dated, and the beds were shit, but Mike had been so tired and ready for sleep he should have been out in seconds.
Except he wasn’t . Because…
Because it was all warm , and quiet and peaceful and Will was in the other twin bed minding his own business but he was also all wrapped up like a burrito and his lips were parted a bit and he was whistling just a little when he breathed - really quiet, not a big deal- but…but somehow...
Mike drops his head back against the brick, then winces. Ow .
What’s he supposed to say? The truth? Sorry, Will, I stormed out because you were breathing ?
He’s an asshole, but he’s not that kind of asshole.
“It was just…no reason.”
There’s a split second pause, and Mike fears the worst, but then Will shrugs and hums his acceptance, because of course he does. He’s just…he’s Will . Instead of speaking, he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a little plastic bag with something dark inside it.
Mike squints. “What’s that?”
Will’s lips twitch. “Purple Palm Tree delight.”
“ Jonathan’s ?” Mike blurts, tensing all over with that electric, kid-like we’re-gonna-get-in-trouble rush. “Did you…did you steal it?”
Will produces a lighter and flicks it on. His eyes glitter in its flame. “Maybe.”
A question and an answer flicker unspoken between them (“ Want to?” “Sure, okay.”) and Mike watches Will light the blunt with expert hands.
“Have you, um, done this before?”
“Only smoked it once.” Will admits “But Argyle lets me roll his for him sometimes. He says I make them like an artist. Whatever that means.” His nimble fingers bring the lit blunt to his lips, and the whole movement is elegant, like the opening glide of a dance.
Mike’s throat catches. “Yeah.” he says, without thinking “I can see that. Sort of.”
Will rolls his eyes and exhales, herbal smoke swirling into the still night air. Then, like it’s no big deal at all, he offers it to Mike.
They swap in a fumble of fingers, and each touch zips up Mike’s arm in anxious little sparks. Fuck, he’s so on edge. What’s with him?
He sticks the blunt between his lips and breathes in.
It’s not…great. It’s not bad either, but it’s thick and cloying and he’s not sure he likes it. But then he remembers how zen Argyle is, and the glassy darkness in Jonathan’s eyes that he’s seen and envied ever since he stepped off the plane from Indiana. He grimaces, coughs, and tries again. It’s better this time, and Will’s murmur of approval makes it sweeter still.
“This isn’t bad.” Mike says, because he feels like he should say something “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Will says “I mean, seriously, don’t. Argyle’s so absent minded we’ll probably get away with this if we keep it to ourselves.”
“Deal.” Mike smirks. “Look at us, eh? Two nerds, smoking like the cool kids.”
“I know, right?” Will’s eyes twinkle again “We’re meant to be the honour-roll kids, doing everything expected of us. Whatever will people say?”
It’s a joke, or at least it’s clear WIll means it that way, but Mike finds himself frowning all the same.
“Fuck what people say.”
“Hm?” Will perks up a little “You mean that?”
“Yeah. Why are you surprised?”
“Because I thought…isn’t that what you want? To do what’s expected of us? Like, a normal life? Wife, kids, everything?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Uhm, of course ?” Mike snaps. He’s defensive. Why is he so defensive? Fuck .
He takes another long drag - it’s a lot, and fast, but he doesn’t care. Something is itching inside him and he doesn’t know what it is but he wants it to go away, to get out, right now.
He looks over at Will, but Will’s just watching him, waiting and listening in that way of his; it’s so careful and absolute that Mike can almost feel it.
So Mike hands him the blunt and stumbles on. “It’s…it’s like our campaigns, yeah? We go off and save the princess and whatever, but that’s just like, a goal , it’s what you’re supposed to do . But at the end of the day we’re a Party. That’s for life. That’s…the meaning .”
“Life isn’t a campaign, Mike.” Will hands the blunt back, his movements growing looser.
“Damn fucking right it’s not.” Mike takes another long toke. “A campaign would be fairer - and our lives wouldn’t suck like they do right now, and we’d know the right thing to do next and which monster to slay and it would just make sense . But it doesn’t, and it hasn’t since we were kids, and it’s not gonna change even once we get rid of the Upside Down. If we get rid of it.”
“I know but…don’t you want, like, a home and a family and stuff?”
“What? You think, after everything, my ideal happy ending’s just some 1950s shit like my parents? White picket fences and 2.5 kids and all that bullshit? Fuck no. Not for me.”
“So…what do you want?” Will’s voice is barely above a whisper. Mike frowns - why is he pressing this? Isn’t it obvious?
“Just…I don’t want it to be over. I want the bad stuff to be over, obviously, but…it’s like you said once, remember? I want to be okay and hang out and see you every day and we can play D&D for the rest of our lives.” The words come out in a tangled blur and he hopes he articulated it all right because he needs Will to understand this.
He looks over, worried, and Will is still fucking staring at him, pupils blown wide and endless, lips parted, brows pulled together just a little.
“You…want that?”
“Yeah. Obviously.” He falters “Unless…unless you don’t want that anymore?”
“No. I mean yes.” Will’s lips tilt up at the corners, and it’s like watching a flower bloom. “Of course I do.”
“Thank god.” Mike slumps against the wall with a heaving sigh. “You scared me. Sometimes I don’t even know if you want to be my friend, let alone…that.” To his horror, the words come out ragged and raw and choked . Is he crying? He hasn’t cried since…since…
Will sees everything; Mike knows by the soft noise he makes in the back of his throat, and the way he lifts an arm and draws Mike closer, so that they’re leaning on each other, so that Mike can curl into Will’s side and put his head on his shoulder and count his heartbeats until they slow down and his eyes are dry again.
Minutes pass. Will doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask a single thing, and Mike’s whole chest aches with gratitude.
“I don’t deserve it.” he mutters after a while, so quietly that he thinks maybe Will won’t hear it.
But he does, of course.
“Hm? What don’t you deserve?”
“You. I don’t deserve you.”
“Mike, that’s-”
“ No , stop it.” he sits up and waves a hand in Will’s face so he can’t interrupt. “You’re way too good a friend. You put up with so much of my bullshit and you always listen and give advice and just understand what’s in my dumb brain even when I don’t. Plus you’re…like…hot now.” He makes a wild gesture at Will whole…everything.
“ What ?” Will repeats, but it sounds more like a squawk this time. Mike doesn’t really register that; the haze of Purple Palm Tree delight is creeping into every corner of his brain now, and the sensible parts shut down a long time ago.
“Don’t be stupid, look at you. You’re…look at your stupid broad shoulders and your goddamn hair and arms and face . Like, California’s changed you. You’re like…like California hot.”
“California hot?” Will repeats again, and the syllables slur a little. He’s grinning, and it’s really wide and a little bit goofy and Mike thinks it looks good on him, actually.
Everything looks good on Will.
“Yeah. California hot.” he doubles down, determined now. “And I’m still the frog-face twig that Troy-”
“No.” Now it’s Will’s turn to wave at him like a madman. He claps a hand on Mike’s shoulder and damn his grip is strong. Mike tries not to lean into it but it’s sort of hard because the ground is a bit swingy and his head feels like it’s floating off the top of his neck. Which is weird. But maybe it’s cool. Will is looking at him all nice and smiley like he thinks it’s cool. “No you are not frog-face. You never were a frog-face, you’re…You look like…like…” his brow scrunches as he tries to get the word, then clears like a burst of sunlight “like a rock star .”
Mike throws his head back and cackles, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Am not!”
“You are too!” Will uses his free hand to pepper Mike’s shoulder, then his chest, with little pokes. “Like…like? Okay, like your hair is…so
wild
. And you’re all tall and lean like Bowie or Mick Jagger or something and…” He catches the edge of Mike’s jacket and pinches it between finger and thumb. “And when you’re wearing your leather jacket like this, it’s…It looks good on you.” His grip slides down a little as Mike leans closer. Something about that sends a shiver down his spine. Will’s eyes drop to his hand, and his lashes are dark against his cheeks. He swallows, still speaking. “You look so…”
This time the silence stretches. Will doesn’t look up, but his fingers shift, inching into the gap where the leather meets-
“So…what?” Mike breathes, giddy.
“So-” Will looks up, and it’s so sudden they both freeze. It’s too dark to see the colour of his eyes but Mike knows anyway; for a second he can see them, those melting green-gold-brown summer’s day hues. “So-” Will repeats, and now Mike can see the colour of his cheeks too; the bloom of pink beneath the golden tan, the way it tones perfectly with the shade of his lips when -
“Mm?” he asks, and all he can register is Will’s breath on his cheek, warm and sweet.
“So
rock star-y
.” Will finishes, like it’s obvious.
The tension pops like a soap bubble and they’re giggling again. Mike tips forward so his forehead hits Will’s shaking shoulder.
“You’re killing me.” he groans into the warm, cottony scent of his friend. “You’re killing me, Will.”
“No, silly.” Will pats the back of Mike’s head. “That’s you. You’re doing that.” His fingers settle into Mike’s hair, combing it in long, soothing strokes.
“M’not.” Mike nuzzles closer with a sigh. This is nice. Will’s twirling some curls round his fingers and it feels like he’s stirring Mike’s thoughts too, like hazy, sparkly soup.
…soup ?
Mike snickers again. Fuck , he’s high.
“S’funny?” Will asks. He tilts his head so his breath is right by Mike’s ear and it’s still fucking cold out here but the warmth of it blooms right down to Mike’s toes.
“Dunno. Soup.”
“Soup?” Will blurts out a laugh and pulls Mike back so he can see his face. They’re both a bit unsteady, a bit giggly, but when their eyes meet the look they exchange is sober and still; the tender eye of a storm that they’ve both been weathering for far too long. The smile slips from Will’s lips and Mike watches it go, mesmerised.
They’re too far apart, he decides, so he leans in again, gently, touching his forehead to Will’s.
“Soup,” he repeats. “When you touch me, my thoughts all go like soup. But this…” he moves his head just a tiny bit. Their noses brush. “This is better.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Your soup thoughts. Maybe the weed was a bad idea.”
“No.” Mike insists. He grabs a fistful of Will’s jacket, just in case he’s thinking about moving. “No, no that’s not it. My thoughts are always soup now anyway. Sad soup. Bad soup. Angry soup. But you make it better.”
“You said it’s worse when I touch you though.” Will sounds concerned now. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.
“ No .” Mike pulls Will in closer, so his legs are now lying across Mike’s. “I was lying. I lied.” Will’s shoulders are half turned and, with their foreheads touching, they’re so close that Will is almost in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Will stays tense. Then his body softens and he laughs again, low and quiet. “You’re weird, Wheeler.”
“I am.” Mike grins “But you love me anyway.”
“Yeah.” Will breathes, and there’s something in those words that melts the space between them. “I really, really do.”
The itches under Mike’s skin are back with a vengeance; hot little sparks, tingling, shifting, restless, wanting . Every part of him is wrong unless it’s close to Will, unless it’s touching Will. He shifts again and lifts his hand so that it finds Will’s cheek, tilting his face up so that they’re no longer forehead-to-forehead, but nose-to-nose. It’s so intimate. It’s beautiful.
Will’s breath shudders as their eyes meet and Mike’s heart is hammering right in his throat..
“Is this…okay?” Mike manages.
“Yeah.” Will’s voice is thick, a little shaky. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
It isn’t okay. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much and not enough. Mike’s blood is on fire but he’s somehow so calm and the sky is full of stars but somehow there are even more of them in Will’s eyes and if Mike can get just the tiniest bit closer then he’s going to fall and fall and-
Something pushes at his chest. Will’s hand. He looks down, bewildered.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t.”
“What? Did I…? Do you not -?”
“No, it’s….” Will’s hand is still on his chest but it’s trembling. Mike grabs it, holds it, lending warmth. He watches, aching as Will’s shoulders draw up and his gaze drops to his lap. “It’s El.”
El.
And just like that, the cold of the night rushes back. Mike’s on his feet before he knows what happened, and Will is sprawled against the wall at an angle that can’t be comfortable. His hair is mussed and his eyes are glazed and he looks so…so…
Oh.
Oh fuck .
“I’m sorry.” Mike blurts, loud enough to shatter everything they’d built in a few short seconds. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve…I’ve got to- I’ll go.”
He can’t bear to wait for a reply. Instead, he runs again, straight across the parking lot. He fumbles for the spare keys Argyle gave him and lets himself inside the Pizzamobile, locking it behind him. He curls up in the dark and waits, panting and alone. A minute passes, then another, then another, but no one comes after him.
By the time he plucks up the courage to look outside, the parking lot is empty; Will and the stars and the haze of something sweet and right and terrifying, have vanished like a dream.
Mike leans his head against the cold, hard glass, and stays there until dawn, not moving until he has tucked the pain back down, as deep as he can bear.