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Mike tucked his knees to his chest, pressing his cheek into the sharp bone and wrapping his arm around himself. If he breathed through his mouth, he could almost pretend he wasn’t in a pizza van driven by someone who was almost definitely high, that, oh yeah, somebody had literally died in. The air sat warm and heavy in his lungs, just as it had for the last however-many days.
Will was next to him, the two feet of sticky pleather car seat separating them feeling like a chasm. He was drawing with a ballpoint pen on an empty pizza box, and Mike found himself captivated by the movements of his friend’s (they were still friends, right?) hands as he sketched and shaded absentmindedly. Maybe after he was done, Mike could find a way to snag it and bring it back home to Hawkins.
The grease-stained cardboard wouldn’t really fit in the binder he’d dedicated to Will’s art, but that didn’t matter. He’d been deprived of any new drawings since… probably before last summer, and flipping through that binder had started to make him feel sort of hollow inside. Like Will had died rather than move halfway across the country. (Not that they’d spoken any more than they would have had Will really died.)
He bit down on his lip hard, until the coppery taste of blood welled over his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to wallow in his own self imposed misery. He was in a pizza van, and look, even Mike had standards for where his breakdowns would take place. Rule one: not in a pizza van. Rule two: definitely not in front of the boy who was the cause of the breakdowns in the first place.
Well. That made it sound like it was Will’s fault, and no matter what bullshit Mike had been saying, he knew that wasn’t true. He was the one who was acting like a huge asshole, who’d ignored his best friend’s birthday, who’d never written (Will hadn’t either). He was the one letting his stupid gross feelings get in the way of the boy who he’d once shared everything with.
When his eyes sparked with the beginnings of tears, Mike blinked harshly. No breakdowns in the pizza van, he reminded himself.
Turning his head to the side, Mike watched Will’s hands move across the cardboard, tanned and steady. He—kind of pathetically—couldn’t pull his eyes away from his best friend’s precise movements, but that was nothing really out of the ordinary for him. He had always been, and always would be, a pathetic gay loser.
“Your hands—” Mike blurted out before he could stop himself, shattering the silence of the van. Shit. Will jolted, pen swiping left as he looked up, and Mike cringed. Hopefully he hadn’t just ruined the drawing. (Not that any of Will’s drawings could ever be bad.)
For a second, Will didn’t say anything, just blinking in a strange shock. “...What?” His eyes were wide with confusion and so very green in the midday sun streaking through the dusty windows. Mike felt his cheeks flush, and pressed his face a little harder into the knees of his jeans.
“Your hands look… bigger?” He said lamely, and wished he had never been born.
Will looked confused, but his mouth broke into a small grin, just a hint of front teeth in his smile, and his smile. For a dragging second, Mike stared stupidly at the expression, before he tore his eyes away. God, it was like the months apart had just made him even more hopeless.
Caught up in the moment, before he could think better of it, he grabbed one of Will’s (firm) hands in his, gently splaying the fingers out. This wasn’t weird. This wasn’t weird at all. His hands felt spindly and breakable as he ghosted a thumb along Will’s palm.
A glance at Will’s face showed the other boy with his eyes pinned wide and frozen, cheeks gently pink and looking afraid to even take a breath. So was Mike. It felt like anything he did would shatter the moment they were caught up in. (Was this a moment?)
He cleared his throat. “Look, your hands are almost as big as mine!”
And the strange silence evaporated, something Mike was very glad for. If it had dragged on just a few more seconds… Well, he wasn’t sure what he would have done, but it probably wouldn’t have been very good.
“They are not, look how long your fingers are. You could probably bend a full knuckle over mine,” Will argued back, easily shifting into the new tone with what was maybe a hint of relief? There was a hint of a laugh on his voice, and Mike snorted, chest floating higher and higher as their hands remained pressed together.
The steady pulse of Will’s heartbeat transferred through their hands, and Mike wanted to grab on and never let go.
“But your hands are broader,” Mike argued playfully, not commenting on how Will’s entire body had gotten broader. It didn’t really feel like a normal friend thing to say. Besides, everybody was broad next to Mike, especially when he’d had a growth spurt that only affected his vertical dimensions.
With a hum, Will flipped their hands over, the difference between their skin tones even more stark. California had given Will a healthy suntanned glow, while Mike’s constant withering in the basement had turned him into nothing short of a corpse.
For a second, they stayed like that. Then Will intertwined their fingers. and Mike’s heart stopped.
That didn’t—mean anything, did it? No, it couldn’t. Definitely not, but— fuck if Mike didn’t want it to mean something. It was like something had opened up in his chest, something that was desperately sucking at all the contact he could get. He was all too aware that his grin must be wide and clear as he stared at their hands, but he didn’t dare to look up. He knew that if he did, he’d end up saying something stupid like I want to kiss you.
A second passed. Mike’s mouth opened against his will, and he could feel the words pressing at his tongue, the words that would be exceptionally embarrassing and maybe ruin his life and all his relationships—
The van hit a pothole, earning a “whoa, dude!” from Argyle and jerking Mike and Will apart. He withdrew his hand as if it had been burnt, clutching it close to his chest, because—what had he been thinking?
(His hand felt very cold and alone.)