Chapter Text
1998
It's been ten years since Will Byers has seen Mike Wheeler in person.
He's standing in a phone booth located on a corner just outside the coin laundry, perched diagonally from his apartment. Right next to the bus stop where a line of people are either standing or squeezing onto the already packed bench. A busy street of traffic full of honking horns and pissy drivers makes it hard for him to hear. Will strains to listen, face scrunching up in total concentration and he even covers his other ear to muffle bothersome noises not buffered by the phone booth door.
"Please. It's been so long. Come back home, baby." Joyce pleads on the other side of the line.
A shattering of glass echoes in his eardrums. Half of it is the recently made litter by a local drunkard, angrily smashing his empty liquor bottle on the cracked concrete sidewalk, as he yells in an incoherent state to no one in particular. The second half is the glass heart belonging to his dear mother that Will knows he's breaking once more.
He shakes his head even though Joyce isn't able to see through the phone, deadening his voice to cover-up his own sentimental tenor.
"I can't. It still hurts to… To be at that place. Mom, you gotta understand."
"Oh. Baby, my baby, I know. I know. You say it to me all the time when we have our talks." She softens her tone to a whisper, resignation weaving and shaping on her tongue, entering Will's ear in a way to make him feel guilty for his choice.
It's necessary, the choice he chose. He can't afford to regret it. If Will wants to keep his sanity, he has to stick to his guns and say goodbye. Stay gone for good. Hawkins is just a relic to him.
"Mike's still here, by the way. He never left like El, and Jonathan, and your other friends did. He's waiting for you to return. Will, do you know what that means?"
He likes to think he does. One of the few things Will looks forward to in his weekly sporadic calls to home. He selfishly likes the routine reminder that he has such an effect on Mike even after all this time. A dash of excitement flows within his blood from the information. Not that it's anything new. Joyce is just stating what he's already known for years now. Still, Will's traitorous skin burns hot at the temptation to see Mike in person. See how he's changed in features, perhaps with stubble, five o’clock shadow, or a voluminous beard. They're both in their late twenties and have matured far from the jaded boys they once were.
He ponders a tad on the fact that Mike hasn’t left Hawkins yet. Not even to travel the globe. He never left Indiana after his Spring Break in Lenora Hills. Truly stuck in the past unlike Will who fought hard, tooth and nail, to move on from his demons. Maybe those moments they shared in Mike's childhood bedroom (when the Byers had to be temporary guests-turned-roommates of the Wheeler house) actually meant something real, and it wasn't just meaningless experimentation because neither wished to die young without experiencing certain teenage milestones, as their worlds kept crumbling to dust and promising futures to ashes. They had rushed into things, hoping to catch up after having their youth robbed early on while persevering Vecna ruthlessly hunting them down. Not much time or room for discussion and reflection after realizing they wouldn’t die too soon.
"Tell Mike to forget about me." Will advises - no - technically he demands with a clenched fist on the phone's neck. Veins are showing in his hand from the tensed up muscles being white knuckled.
A continuous tapping on the glass window of the booth notifies Will that someone else is itching to use the phone next, impatience coloring the stranger's face. Will's preoccupied shooting the stranger a frigid glaze in his eyes, the first survival tactic he quickly picked up on since moving to the hectic city. It is disturbing, much like when he was possessed. Upon viewing Will’s vacant expression, the tetchy stranger instantly calms, not wanting any trouble as he retreats from the booth to wait his turn, hands up in front of his chest in surrender.
Will focuses back on conversing with Joyce once resolving that issue. Except his mother has stopped speaking for several concerningly long seconds. There's a pause after he had casually dismissed her comments about Mike. A lapse in conversation that's uncomfortable, though not abnormal between them. It's prickly and ominous to all of his five senses. In a flash, Will has a sensation of flowing liquid at the back of his throat and a desire to frequently swallow in reflex. He feels the telltale signs of his nosebleed threatening to happen as his brain buzzes, the thrumming like a bee flying frantically in his skull.
Quite literally, he buckles down and wills it away, eyes shut. Exactly how he trained himself back when he first discovered his condition on his eighteenth birthday and told not a single soul sans Mike.
Mike doesn’t count in his book.
.
.
.
.
.
Joyce is still silent on her end.
.
.
.
.
.
He hasn't attempted to ask if she's still there. There's no dial tone to believe the call's been disconnected. He'll need to put more coins in the coin slot soon, before the robotic operator’s voice warns them about the call getting cut off if they don’t properly extend it through extra payment.
Eventually, Will hears Joyce speak again.
"Baby, you know he can't just do that. He misses you. We all do." She sounds very worried, more than normal. Bothers Will a great deal. He refuses to ask further about it. If he pries then it might give her the wrong impression. So, he listens to Joyce persist without budging on his stance. "Mike… I guess he has it the worst out of us all. It's not that he can't forget you. He doesn't want to. He won't forget you, Will. He won’t. He just won’t. "
Joyce said she had no favorites amongst his friends, but Will can tell Mike held a special space in her heart. He’s seen the glimpses between them, carefully concealed conversations his mother and his best friend have exchanged through gatherings with the Party and Co from mere shared looks alone. To be expected with how the pair bonded, being fiercely protective over Will in his times of need. They're the most stubborn people Will has the pleasure and misfortune of knowing. At times, he can't help thinking Joyce adopted Mike as her third son.
She talks to Mike more than his own family does.
Mike talks to Joyce more than Will does.
Evens out, he guesses.
"I'm not going back. My life is finally…” He tries to correctly describe it. Get the right adjective that conveys and bears it all. “... Peaceful. It’s peaceful. The way it should have always been. I’m living my wildest dreams. The life that I never thought I’d ever have and I can't risk ruining that for Mike's feelings. He may miss me, Mom, but I don’t miss him."
Will has to get her to let this go. Every phone call always leads to her wanting Mike and Will to reconnect, pick back up where they left off. Joyce is adamant. She's tenacious. Especially when she believes she's right, in the right. Well, Will doesn't care if he's wrong, or in the wrong, or whatever. Running away was the best decision he has ever made. He’s happy. He’s happy and he got that way without having Mike within arm’s reach to complete his ideal fantasies! He found his way to happiness without depending on Mike accepting his tragically undying love. Will considers that success compared to the other options he’s seen with heartbroken gay men pining for their unattainable best friends. Tale as old as time.
"Fine. Fine. I'll stop nagging for now. Doesn't mean I won't keep trying." Will pictures Joyce leaning on the kitchen counter, left index finger playing with the house phone's cord with a determined visage that Jonathan and him never quite inherited. "Just consider visiting at least, baby. That boy… Mike… He's not doing too hot. Hasn't been since you upped and left. Trust me. I’ve seen the difference."
"Wait. What do you mean?" Will knits his brows together, pensive. She seldom mentions whatever is going on with Mike beyond a common cold or trip to the dentist. Very small talk debriefings aren’t cause for panic. Joyce’s somber tone has the tiny hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand at attention.
"Something happened in the last couple of months. He needs…” She hesitates. Will wishes he could hit fast forward on a remote to speed her speech up like with VHS. Get to the point. “... Support."
His voice betrays him as emotion riles in his nerves from her cryptic and filtered wording. "Huh?! What happened? Support? What do you mean, Mom?! Is he okay?"
"Let’s just say that he’s barely hanging on, baby. Needs you more than ever. You don’t even know. But… It's not my place to say. Just… Just think about it again. Visiting, I mean. Check up on us. Check up on Mike!"
His breath hitches at the request. Fear creeping and nesting in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down so heavily that he's certain the phone booth is sinking into the concrete beneath his feet, forming a crater that’ll drop him to the center of the Earth. Images of Mike struggling to fight and shield him from danger pull at his heartstrings despite swearing he got over his stupid enamoration towards him. Will remembers being the only one to check up on how Mike’s feeling after seeing the Wheeler basement in a junky disarray, tipping him off that the move to Lenora did equal damage to them both that neither completely addressed back in sunny California, or in the dragged out van ride through the boiling desert.
Who's there for Mike now that Will is gone?
He shudders at the thought that no one is.
"I'll… I'll think about it."
Will hangs up the payphone with a thud after saying a brisk "Talk to ya later. Love you." Joyce couldn’t even reply as he peels the phone from his ear lightning fast, his movements a blur.
It's been ten years since Will Byers has seen Mike Wheeler in person. Not just him, really. Will hasn't been back to see any of his loved ones since Vecna was defeated in what would’ve been deemed their senior year of high school, right on his birthday.
Back then Will thought he was doing everyone, including himself, a huge favor by leaving abruptly like that. Disappearing so smoothly with the lie of "needing fresh air" as they were distracted by other things in the vicinity. He wasn’t surprised that they noticed his permanent departure too little too late. Will’s affectionate family, his loyal friends, and the boy he’s been mooning over since he was twelve or younger, the ever doting and ardent Mike, are always somehow distracted with more important matters than remarking on how Will is distancing from them each ticking second on the clock. A countdown to taking his life in his own hands for once instead of letting things merely happen to him.
That's the first time in Will’s life where he can relate to his absentee father, Lonnie, just leaving without a word or verbal goodbye. Just walking out on the Byers family in a carefree manner, an air of good riddance radiating off him that Joyce, Jonathan, and Will were simply trash to be disposed of. Will didn't view his loved ones to be trash like his coldhearted father, but he did compare himself often to a child outgrowing people he once related to that now appear foreign, no matter how hard he tried to make it work. They could never understand, not even El, the type of anguish, the baggage he carries on his shoulders and keeps a secret. Sure, he was surrounded by people who obviously care and cherish him, and Will felt it, he really did. He also felt isolated when in their presence. His happenings with unyielding sorrow is too unique for his Party and family to fully empathize with.
The easiness of Will’s feet walking farther from the beautiful ranch house Joyce and Hopper settled on buying in a reconstructing Hawkins, made him feel like he took a step in the right direction, continuing his trek to the still functioning bus station leading out of town, and purchasing his one-way ticket to a promising elsewhere.
No one would miss me that much, is genuinely what Will thought in his head.
To Will, they'd all endured so much and needed a break. Surely they felt the same as his heart and thoughts. Every time he saw his family. His friends. Mike. Hell, even his own jarring reflection in a mirror, car window, or the back of the silver spoons he'd washed in the kitchen sink - Will kept getting triggered.
Gut-wrenching blinding blizzard memories of his and everyone else’s trauma that freeze him up in ways he still can't find the right words to express flickered in his mind. Reminded him that regardless of how safe it is now, the experiences he suffered has forever tainted him. He'll never be clean of it. Soapy baths and sudsy showers unable to scrub it off. He’s made his skin raw, aching flaming red to no avail.
Will still feels dirty.
He is dirty.
But Will isn’t entirely broken. Definitely not in tip top shape either. He's a fruit at a grocery store overlooked at getting bought because he's bruised, perceived as ugly to onlookers and the bruise won't go away. Won't heal. Doesn't make him any less appealing, less sweet, yet others can spot that he's not as well put together as they’d prefer, so he’s dismissed. Until someone possibly chooses him or discards him.
"Is this for sale?"
Will blinks away his vacant gaze to look at the customer posing the question. He tends to frequently do that. Zone out when reminiscing on what could have been done differently if he hadn't gone no-contact. Mind blanking until suddenly he’s not in a phone booth fending off his mother’s incessant interrogations and pleas. Somehow, he's now sitting on a wooden stool at the weekly Art Show Street Fair, a creative haven of the city highlighting independent artists, newcomers and virtuosos alike equally welcomed. He doesn’t remember driving here, parallel parking on an already gridlocked block of cars, and setting up shop on his tiny piece of reserved curbside gallery in the middle of a woman’s fanciful pottery collection and a man’s homemade jewelry display.
Loosely a cigarette hangs from between his lips, unlit. He rarely smokes. Just likes the feel of the drug in his mouth. Makes him feel closer to Joyce and Jonathan, how they both each had their preferred plant to puff and inhale, white fumes blown into imitation cumulus or stratus clouds. Will wondered sometimes if he had stayed in Hawkins would he have regular smoking sessions with his mom and older brother as quality family bonding, letting the nicotine or cannabis soothe him while Hopper contentedly sips on a cold beer or scalding coffee, and El smiles with her large watchful doe eyes.
"Are you asking about this piece?" Will gestures to one of his charcoal drawings, haunting and horrid, utterly gorgeous in nature. A demogorgon stylized to be unrealistic in design, purely tenebrous. The initial reaction Will had when facing it alone in the shed, powerless and small when gawking at the creature that appears unreal. A beast straight from a horror movie, maybe an old wives tale. "Or is it this one right here, ma'am?"
The other option is a portrait of Mike that he’s pointing to. Will's gotten better at drawing all the detailed features of the people he holds near and dear in his heart. He paints them a lot in his spare time, and it's enough to sell at local flea markets, or other events scattered around art aficionados with lump sum pockets. This particular portrait is of Mike dressed in his paladin armor wielding a chipped Sword of Holy Devotion stained in vibrant crimson blood from a fallen enemy. His dark brown eyes, usually soft and warm, reminding Will of melted chocolate, are hardened and stony like seaside beach pebbles which is fitting since the theme is of unrelenting war.
Will lifted a memory of Mike gripping a rusty metal pipe from inside an abandoned building's crumbling wall interior. Mike had brandished the pipe as a weapon when, during a botched scavenging supply run when rations ran low and the shelter needed to urgently restock, they were chased by lurking demo-dogs on the prowl. They were merely seventeen. The year Will almost thought, once more wishful thinking rearing its nasty head to taunt his foolish optimism, that Mike might be reciprocating his veiled confession after revealing El didn’t commission the Dungeons and Dragons painting, and noting how it didn’t rip their friendship to shreds even though Will lied and friends don't lie.
The customer standing in front of him, with an attitude of elegance and affluence emanating from her person in droves, waves a manicured diamond ringed finger at the portrait of Paladin Mike. Good taste, Will reticently approves.
"That is just speaking to me! The medieval flair is to die for! And the guy in it, the model, is quite the looker, too!" She gushes, already opening her purse.
Will's hazel eyes are keen at recognizing name brands. He has El and Nancy to thank for such knowledge, a stack of dated fashion magazines the only reading material to cure boredom for a while since the Hawkins library got decimated (Dustin was elated to find a copy of the Baby-Sitters Club that got passed around by the boys like gold). Vivienne Westwood is what his soon-to-be longtime customer flaunts. She's got money to spend.
Fantastic.
He's grateful his dedication to his craft has attracted the right kinds of people to maintain his cozy lifestyle. Will's built up quite the repertoire among the niche art community of this city, Chicago, a few hours away from Hawkins by car or train. Word of mouth helped Will get sought after for his distinctive takes on grotesque monster imagery that were virtually unseen in the level of uncanny he perfected. People who came across his works always said it moved them to tears or other plethora of sentiments, like the creatures were palpable and not figments of imagination, part of the appeal of why Will’s art got so popular. Occasionally, like today, a portrait would be sold if his interpretation of the meaty fleshy Mindflayer from the Battle at Starcourt Mall, or the grisly cartoonish image of Vecna and his tentacles, weren’t solicited.
"Thank you for your business!" He politely grins, charming, bidding the satisfied woman clicking away in her high heels a farewell.
This is his life now. The type he's always envisioned.
Though not remarkably famous or madly rich, Will is successful by his own merits. He can afford to rent an apartment with zero roommates (probably because it's a cheap studio with a lax landlord). He has an ample sized networking pool in his career path accrued the moment he touched down at eighteen years old when the bus pulled into the city limits. Will does what he loves as both a hobby and as a job.
He’s an independent pragmatic adult, defying lingering trauma, endured having no autonomy only to regain it after striving, and it’s good for him, looks good on him, to be free of his past at last.
The real reason he left in a hurry like a thief in the night. He wanted to be free and figure himself out. Will had thoroughly reflected on how to live for his present and future with Vecna's link officially severed, goosebumps and cold chills on his nape reduced to phantom hunches. He needed to not feel like a baby anymore, like his friends were leagues ahead of him while he stayed stagnant as that scared little kid trapped in the shed when nobody was around to save him.
It weighed woodenly on his spirits.
Will spent a majority of his childhood and adolescence either bullied or abused. He didn't even have the luxury of being called by his name. Zombie Boy, fag, and fairy stalking and cursing his every whereabouts in Hawkins. Even if unsaid. If it wasn't looks of pity and panic, it was looks of disdain and apathy. He felt out of his body, out of his element. Hawkins may have been where he was born, but it certainly never felt like home sweet home. Will needed to start afresh. A re-do of what Lenora Hills was supposed to be for Joyce, Jonathan, El, and him. He longed to heal from the oozing wounds that couldn't correctly scab over. In order to do that he had to be alone.
Utterly alone.
Bad as his soul jumped for joy at a seventeen year old Mike telling him they'd run off together, be a team, inseparable until the very end in their elderly age playing games and watching movies, Will couldn't let it be. He had to cut the cord from every label associated with him to molt the old battered husk of skin in order to progress into the unrestricted butterfly.
From the insults to the terms of endearment. He is more than Joyce's son who got kidnapped and possessed. He is more than Jonathan's kid brother he had to keep an eye on when they're parents were tirelessly arguing with thrown items at walls, or working long overnight shifts that left them eating cereal and sandwiches for dinner. He is more than the best friend, a boy who must be guarded, a compass and superspy to Vecna's hideaway. He is more than the despairing gay one in his Party, his family, his hometown.
He is…
Will found himself. A whole decade later at the big age of twenty-eight. Nearly thirty. When he was confined to the Upside Down for a week, starving and dehydrated, the simple idea of reaching his late twenties seemed far-fetched to him as he staved off dying in an unknown environment the best he could. Constantly coming close to death, it being annual like a calamitous prophesied holiday, aggravated Will's ruminations on mortality. The anniversary effect got spitefully worse despite the Party claiming definitive victory with extra proof on top of that.
Yet he's not dead. Will beat the odds. The feeling is akin to getting high, lounging on cloud nine, touching the sky and flying amongst the stars. Euphoric although Will’s above taking drugs to cope less he becomes sorely paranoid. One catastrophic reaction to weed had him decline Argyle’s joints. Never again.
Oh well, at least, Will’s made it!
This time, Will had relied solely on himself and not on others for aid to keep him afloat. A ten year celebration is planned for tonight. He'll go order scrumptious food. Eat at a decent sit-down restaurant with his new creatively artsy friends that aren't replacements of the Party, per se, just great for socializing. Then Will's to club hop in Boystown until he picks up a random handsome guy to keep him company at the bar and on the dance floor. Preferably someone taller than him with dark hair who’s a bit silly. Bonus points for freckles.
Nothing too out of the ordinary except for the fact that Will had hit it off with the random guy from the club impeccably well. So much so, that he brings him to his studio instead of the usual discreet one-night stand hookup at a hotel room, car backseat, bathroom stall, alleyway.
He's in the middle of senselessly kissing and hastily undressing the moment he shuts the door when a wintry chill passes through his entire body that stops him from pursuing his tryst. All movement ceasing.
Will's muscles lock up, goosebumps form on his flesh, and his heart is racing laps in his chest. This isn't an Upside Down alarm bell ringing. Feels familiar, but it isn’t that. Will violently shudders at being switched on, electricity sparking at the tips of his fingers. An unwanted parting gift from Vecna's last breath prior to fizzling into squishy goop, bones included, unsealing Will's quelled powers at full potential. One of them being his heightened sensitivity to syncing up with loved ones’ emotions and minds.
In the midst of his relatively untarnished night with a random half-naked handsome guy on standby in his bed, Will is plagued with the thoughts of Mike's mind from thousands of miles away.
I need help. I need help! I NEED HELP! WILL!
Mike's chanting is looped and Will touches his head, groaning and rubbing his temples at the developing headache as his psyche syncs with his evidently distressed best friend. He usually has his powers under control. Able to manage and shut down. If he didn’t then city life would be impossible. Will’s electrified fingertips at his temples mollify somewhat. Similar to acupuncture as he prods, massaging with purpose.
"You alright, man? Your nose is bleeding." The handsome guy's rightfully perturbed. Cordial tone quivering. Welp, there goes the mood.
"Oh, it is? Sorry 'bout that." Will wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Mike's thoughts are yelling in his brain in a glitching format now, distorted like when a mixtape jams. "You should probably go."
His guest, thankfully, is a gentleman about it and writes his number down on a blank space of a coupon catalog flattened on the end table for Will to call next time he needs a no-strings-attached. Will sighs, intently breathing in and out to mentally unhook himself from Mike’s thoughts, and throwing himself on the mattress in relief of the lessened pressure in his head.
When he's done recovering, brain quieting, Will rises to his feet and strides to his closet without delay, dragging out his dusty suitcase stowed away behind accumulating clutter and piling a bunch of clothes haphazardly into it. This isn't what he planned for, but Joyce is right. Mother knows best, irksomely.
Will has been fine by himself, wholly satiated. Mike apparently isn’t. His cry for Will stirring. He needs Will badly.
So, Will's going back to Hawkins.
Back to all the avoided trauma.
Back to the only man he's ever craved.
Back to the past he fled like a bat out of hell.
1988
Staring at a blade of grass, Will watches some kind of bug nibble hungrily. He's comfortably lying on his belly, arms folded to pillow his head and settle his chin. Beside him is Mike, who rests on his back and gazes up at the thick clouds suspended in the murky sky that block part of the sunshine. Things are starting to get normal around here. A repose and also a tad peculiar. The duo have grown accustomed to Hawkins being a combat zone, billowing darkness and spores clinging to the air, with gates unlocked to bridge the gap between the Upside Down and Hawkins into a perilous merger. Seemed to be the end of times how the Party and their families felt desolate then.
"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" Mike's feathery voice is close to Will's right ear.
He must've sat up and rolled to his side just to lean in for a whisper. It's unnecessary to be this intimate, almost touching as Will internally swears at the feel of long raven curls titillating his cheek and temple all plumy. It’s ethereal. Mike's caging him in, their shadows mixing to create one amalgamation on the ground beneath them.
"Probably somewhere far away from here."
Will casually answers, angling his head to meet Mike's pools of glistening dark brown with his own immersive hazel eyes of intrigue. Their faces are too close. The caps of their noses grazing. They've recanted personal space ages ago. Spit in the face of it when nobody’s around to spectate.
"C'mon! Be specific, Will. Imagine!"
Mike huffs cutely and Will fights to remain strong, lips tingling, ready to iron onto the boy he's pining for. His thoughts about romance are now whimsical and idealistic. Younger Will would be appalled to know that older Will didn’t believe falling in love is gross and synonymous with cooties anymore.
"I really wouldn't care where, Mike. As long as you're there with me, I'll make do."
He's honest. Will always tries to be honest when it comes to these matters with Mike. Hellish days and agonizing nights were spent with Mike planning a detailed future with Will to give them something to look forward to. Something to keep their wits amongst them as Vecna slowly gnawed at their resolve by spreading nearby fear and chaos.
"Well, duh! That's a given. We can't do that again. I can't dream of moving somewhere and you're not at my side."
"As best friends, right?" Will fails to recognize the disappointment splashing Mike's face.
"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sure."
"What's that for? You don't wanna be best friends? Are we demoted to just friends, now?" Will teases, pretending to pout with a suspicious eyebrow raised before breaking into a breezy grin.
Mike is not catching the hint at Will's mischievousness. He hastily rejects such a possibility of them ever being less than best friends, a solid hand gripping Will’s shoulder tightly. The pressure is almost painful.
"No! No, no, no! I want to… I just thought…" Mike doesn't finish his sentence, teeth snatching on his bottom lip to harshly chew.
The motion captivates Will, who observes the natural pink lip color redden from Mike's nervous biting.
"Thought? Thought what?" Will inquires, drifting his eyes from Mike’s mouth. He notices Mike leaves a lot unsaid. He's nostalgic for the days when Mike would talk a mile a minute unfiltered.
"Nevermind! It's nothing!"
The extra warmth Will had been basking in is achingly gone. Mike went from just about pressing their foreheads together in need to rolling away, returning to lay flat on his back at a safe distance, skin flushed in embarrassment. Will's got no clue what just happened.
"Nuh-uh, Mike. Say it!" He insists. Will sees in Mike’s twitching lip and broody eyes that he’s hiding what’s on his mind. He’s good at that, being unreadable.
It's Will's turn to scooch closer as he leans over, vigilantly looking down while Mike looks up at him earnestly. He daringly lowers his head to the point of them trading breaths, nose to nose, and if he were braver a person would steal a kiss.
"Seriously, it's nothing, Will. Drop it."
"Nope." Will honeys his tone and pulls away to roll on his back as well, licking his lips, wetting them, and ignores how Mike zeroes in specifically on his poking tongue. "For real. Tell me! You tell me everything else already."
"I swear it's nothing. I'm just… Agreeing with you. We're not just friends. We're best friends! Until death do us part!" Mike blurts, blushing deeply.
Will chuckles in surprise, amused. Skin reddening also. "Save that last bit for marriage. Why dontcha?"
Mike doubles down. His face rivals a tomato. He maintains having eye contact with Will. “No can do! We're best friends even after death. We're a pair. You and me."
"Oh, yeah? Really?" Will's cynical, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Mike shines with hurt for a moment, then immediately masks it. "Yeah. Yeah, really."
They’re staring at each other hushedly. Staring too long for it to be considered a healthy spell of fondness. Will is a sponge soaking in Mike’s lashes and intensely sparkling eyes like moonlight atop water reflecting stars above. Will observes the thick brows he compares to thick paint brush strokes created on blank canvases. Will revels in the constellation of freckles he promises the Little Dipper is camouflage in. Mike’s hair is curly and cascading, framing his sharp angles nicely and is fanned out on the grass in a false halo.
He knows. Will knows he’s given up on subtly. His expression must be plain on him the way he can’t tear his attention from Mike who shifts closer. Like he relishes in being watched and appraised.
“I want us to go to a place where no one knows anything about us.” Mike breathes, a hand reaching to clasp onto Will’s.
His thumb gently caresses Will’s knuckles distractedly. Both are being gutsy with Mike not letting go anytime soon, and Will not recoiling, instead intertwining their fingers.
“Fresh start, huh.”
“Fresh start.” Mike reaffirms.
“Sounds sweet.”
“The sweetest.”
“You always come up with the best plans.” Will chuckles, slanting further into Mike, and if he hadn’t steadied his body, he’d be collapsing right on top of the boy who makes his heart sing.
Mike mirrors Will’s chuckling. When they laugh in unison it is magic. “Stop it or you’ll make me blush.”
“You’re already blushing.”
“I am? Damn. Sure it’s not the sun cooking me again? I sunburn easy.”
“Maybe? You do sunburn easy, but I can tell the difference.” Will cups Mike’s left cheek with his right palm and brushes his blunt nails lightly on a few freckles.
Mike shuts his eyes, leaning into the touch, delicately exhaling. “You know me better than anyone. You know that, right?” He sincerely admits.
Will moves his hand from Mike’s cheek to twiddle with a tendril of silky bouncy curls, contemplatively humming. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t.”
“No, you do. I… We… We can talk to each other about anything. You get me, Will.”
“Being real. Mike, you’re not exactly an openbook. You’re really fucking hard to read.” Will candidly admits.
Mike gutturally laughs at that, eyes still shut and hand interlocked with Will’s. “Then we’re the same cuz you are, too. On occasion.”
“Guess that’s why we get along so well.”
“Must be.”
By now, Will's entire free hand is carding through Mike's hair messily, scratching his scalp and gently tugging at fluffy curls. He's fascinated at how it quickly grew, faster than El's even after Ted gave Mike a haircut to look less girly.
“We should head home. Dinner’s almost done.” Will suggests, hesitantly unfurling his hand from Mike's head.
Mike props himself on his elbows to fix Will with a poignant, somber gaze. “Hey. Will.”
“Hmm?”
There is an edgy shush befalling them. Will waits for Mike to speak. He doesn’t understand why he’s looking at him like that. Mike is searching for something in his penetrative gaze that pins Will rigid.
“Are you… Are you ever gonna tell me?” He says in a wispy tone, eyes unblinking.
Will isn’t sure what the question is. He squints. “Tell you what?”
“That you’re gay.”