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Mike was making spaghetti.
It didn’t look too hard, really. The side of the box proclaimed it’s three-step ease for even the most abysmal of cooks, including a certain 22-year-old guy who had never made pasta before. But hey, why not? Just boil some water, dump in the noodles, stir every so often. He chucked a jar of tomato sauce in the microwave. Will would never know, and he could make it fancy with parmesan or some such later.
It was easy. While the pasta bubbled away on the stove, he headed to his decrepit coffee table/footrest/desk and snatched a piece of paper off the top. Not just any piece of paper, but an inexpressibly important one. Finally he could rehearse. He lifted the paper, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth-
Mike froze before he could get a word out. A strange sound was emitting from somewhere inside the apartment, and a burning smell proved that it was the kitchen.
Bewildered, he set the paper facedown on the table and strode out of the tiny living room. What was that sound? Pasta couldn’t burn, could it? No, it was completely submerged in water. He decided that it wasn’t possible.
So, it was fair to say that his shock was very great when he saw water foaming over the sides of the pot and sizzling on the burner.
What the hell? He hasn’t put soap in the water somehow, had he? He fluttered uncertainly around the kitchen for a moment, never having had to deal with this type of situation before, before the very wise idea of turning off the heat came to him. He rushed to the stove to act on this realization. The water was still foaming everywhere, even getting on the floor, so he instinctively grabbed the pot to move it out of the mess—
Fuck. He didn’t realize it would be that hot.
By knee-jerk reaction, the full pot clattered to the floor and Mike let out a loud string of curses as both of his hands burned ferociously. He rushed to the sink, the cool water seeming like a blissful promise to his throbbing hands. The mess was the last thing in his mind as he drowned his hands in beautifully icy water. A low groan of ecstasy passed his lips, dropping his head forward.
“M-Mike?”
Mike’s head lifted just as quickly as it had fallen. Oh. Will was here. Of course Will was here, holding his peeling paint-spotted briefcase and looking adorable in a button-down shirt while there was pasta all over the floor, foam all over the stove, and Mike’s hands were on fire. Not exactly the romantic-spaghetti-dinner effect he had intended. Mike’s face burned painlessly. “Um. Hey,” he managed, leaning on the sink with an attempt at charm. Will’s shocked expression told him that it failed.
“So…spaghetti, huh?” Will asked, looking less astounded and more amused. This made even more humiliation color Mike’s face.
Mike grinned sheepishly, still brilliantly crimson. “Uh, that was the end goal…” he trailed off in uncertainty before he was seized with the sudden need to defend himself. “But there was like something wrong with the water, or something! It like, got all foamy and I tried to clean it up and grabbed the pot and…well, you see what happened.” He held out his angry red hands in further evidence. His head hung in shame.
But Will was laughing. “Have you ever even made pasta before?” he asked, turning on the tap for Mike to further cool his hands.
“Um. Kraft mac and cheese?”
“That’s in the microwave, idiot.”
“Hey!” Mike tried to sound stern. “I’ll have you know that Holly said that was the best macaroni she’d ever had. Ever.”
Will was practically limp with laughter by this point, and Mike could no longer control himself. Will never got mad when Mike screwed things up. Well, except that time Mike used Will’s watercolors and…shaking off a shudder from that particular memory, Mike focused on the present. Will always laughed it off, be it spilled pasta or whatever else. Will always made Mike feel like he wasn’t a massive failure. Sometimes, like now, the mistake even seemed funny.
Just another reason to love him.
Their shared-custody cat, Tempera, was happily feasting on the spilled noodles. Mike carried her out, barricading her in the living room with a chair, and returned to the kitchen to help Will clean up the pasta disaster.
Mike technically lived alone in his small apartment while Will technically lived at home. However, Will came over so frequently and spent so many nights that they could’ve split rent. Mike offered to come over to the Byers’ some nights instead, but Will shook his head every time Mike brought it up. “It’d feel like a playdate with Mom at home,” he would protest. “Anyway, this is on my way home at school.” Mike didn’t mind. He loved it when his boyfriend stayed, loved it when he came out of the shower smelling like Mike’s shampoo.
He especially liked the evenings together. Usually they ordered pizza or Chinese food and rented a movie to cuddle on the couch with, or Mike pouted at Will while he did college homework. After winning first prize in an art show, Will was given a full-ride scholarship to a pretty prosperous art school. He always came home with charcoal-blackened fingertips and paint-splattered clothes. Mike worked a couple easy part-times, paying for his apartment while he figured out what he wanted to do in life. Occasionally he dreamed of being a comic book writer so he and Will could work together, author and artist…a pretty fantasy, but Mike simply sucked at writing. Not that he didn’t try.
When every last noodle was removed from the creaky floor, the couple opted for aforementioned Kraft mac and cheese instead. Will was still grinning from the spaghetti incident as they sat down to the steaming plastic cups of neon-orange noodles. “Y’know, you make really good microwaveable macaroni,” he teased. “I get that it’s pretty hard. You have to measure the water and even press the buttons on the microwave—”
“Shut up, Will,” Mike gave a mock-glare, still grinning in that stupid way only Will could cause. “I don’t see you making your caring, handsome boyfriend extra-fancy spaghetti.”
“I know, I know. You win.” Will leaned over to press a small kiss to Mike’s cheek. “Why so fancy, anyway? Is there some occasion I missed?”
“Ah, no, nothing,” Mike lied, like a liar. His pocket burned like he had left a lit cigarette in it, screaming to be extinguished.
But he couldn’t. It wasn’t the right time. Not now, not when his hands were all covered in band-aids and they were eating microwave noodles in his shitty apartment. His hand curled around the little box in his pocket, as though urging it to stay closed a while longer. The moment had to be perfect.
.He smiled at Will. “Just wanted to do something a little special.”
The following week, Will noticed a definite decrease in their beloved evenings together. Whenever he called Mike to see if coming over was possible, Mike said he was working late or was too tired. The first time he understood completely. The second time was a coincidence, right? Just a difficult work week.
The third time felt like rejection.
After yet another evening of crashing at home after college—Will hated this, he felt like a burden on his mom but money was so tight that he didn’t have a choice—Joyce started to notice. When she agreed to let Will live at home until he could afford a house, Joyce promised to treat him like an adult. However, she was still his mother, and Will’s steadily decreasing mood filled her with concern.
“Everything okay with Mike, honey?” asked Joyce, concern creasing her brow. Will had just walked in, dropping his briefcase with unnecessary force in front of the door. Joyce knew of Mike and Will’s relationship and supported it completely.
Will couldn’t help but give a frustrated sigh. He wasn’t a high schooler any more, he was 21 for god’s sake, but he still felt tempted to open up to Joyce. Maybe it would make him feel better. Maybe she’d give him some magical mom wisdom that would fix everything.
“Yeah, it’s fine. He’s just been busy all week. At work, I guess,” Will admitted, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.
Joyce frowned. “He hasn’t had you over at all? I’m sorry, Will. You know you can stay here as long as you need to.”
“I know, it’s not that, it’s just…” His face burned. He hated this. He felt like a little kid, complaining to his mom about something completely trivial. It probably was just trivial, probably was just a really tough week for Mike and Will was being too clingy. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” He wanted to go to his room and cry.
Joyce softened instantly at her son’s struggle for words, reaching up to rub his shoulder. “Don’t downplay it, honey. No matter how old you are, you’re still my son. You don’t have to hide stuff from me.” Joyce gave a motherly, reassuring smile. “Now let’s sit down, and you can tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”
Will felt even more like a child sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate, talking through his doubts, but in the end he felt better. He felt convinced that everything was going to be fine and okay when he woke up the next morning. He got up early to bike to school, which tripled as exercise, tranquility, and gas-saving.
It was a cool, drizzly morning, but Will didn’t mind. He’d always had a tendency towards chillier weather anyway. He took a roundabout way, sweeping through a nearby park. It was nicely empty save for a few locals: a man jogging, a woman sipping coffee, a skinny guy with fluffy black hair who looked pretty cute from behind—
Will just about fell off of his bike.
It was Mike, no doubt about it. The aqua-colored jacket and frizzy long hair was a dead giveaway. He was leaning on a tree, talking to someone, a brown-haired, flannel-shirted someone.
Eleven.
They were smiling. Smiling as Will was punched in the gut, something like dread, fear, jealousy pooling in his belly, burning, stinging, smarting. They were smiling as Will’s bike slowed to a stop, smiling as the air was sucked from his lungs, smiling as Will’s heart of glass fell to the ground and shattered into dust. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think anything beyond that Mike had betrayed him, too busy for Will, perfectly available for Eleven.
Will stood, frozen beside his bike, just staring. How badly he wanted to turn his eyes away. How badly he wanted to watch and break himself even more. He watched the nightmare that had plagued him so long unfold in front of him, opened the horror story that he’d kept shut all these years.
But it wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t a horror story. It was real, and this burned Will from the inside out.
The tiny, almost nonexistent bit of logic that remained within Will protested that it could just be a conversation between friends, but logic was the last thing he wished to listen to. Everything added up; the excuses, the avoidance. Will was watching his worst fear personified.
And then Mike saw him. Will knew that his face must’ve been nothing short of dumbstruck, of hurt, because Mike reacted almost immediately. He blanched, eyes widening and shock marring his expression. His mouth sputtered and fumbled for words unsaid. Eleven looked stricken, but Will could only see Mike. Mike, his childhood friend, Mike, his beloved boyfriend, Mike, his one and only love.
Will could stay no longer. His eyes burned and he was beyond grateful for the now-steady rain to conceal his tears. He swung his legs over the bike, shaking so badly that he missed the pedals multiple times. He could hear Mike shouting after him, but Will didn’t turn. His vision blurred with tears, he biked as fast as he could away from Mike’s panicked yells. They were hollow in Will’s ears.
Will biked mindlessly for hours. School and responsibilities were all forgotten as he weaved through rainy streets. Everything was a blur, shock gripping his heart and numbing his senses. All he could see was Mike. Mike and Eleven. This made his heart hurt so badly that he contemplated collapsing on the side of the road.
He only turned to go home when he registered chills wracking his body and a burning soreness in his legs. When he showed up at the house, soaked and dripping, Joyce came to him immediately. Will felt so disconnected that he barely noticed her dragging him to the couch and drying his hair, caring for him like she had when he was a small child. Only when the shock started wearing off did he begin to cry.
And he cried. He cried, heartbroken, sick with what he had seen. He sobbed onto Joyce’s shoulder like he was six again, unrelenting and inconsolable. He was broken to the very core, heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on. And what made it worse was that Mike didn’t call. Mike didn’t show up at his door to explain himself, Mike didn’t even bother looking for him. This only made Will cry more.
Hours passed and he was lying weak on the couch. Joyce was giving him space, save for a few concerned glances, but Will was so spent that he could scarcely move, let alone repeat his horror story.
His legs hurt. His eyes hurt. Every inch of him hurt. And it was all because of Mike.
The doorbell rang a little after nine, and Will brought himself to stagger to the door, expecting Hopper or Jonathan. He wiped his eyes, hoping they weren’t nearly as puffy as he thought, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He opened the door and froze.
Mike.
A wave of heartsickness gripped Will, so powerful that his knees shook. There was a man on his doorstep, a beautiful, handsome man with those deep dark eyes, the boy who had been his friend. The boyfriend that made every day worth it. The man who broke his heart.
“Will,” Mike gasped, breathing hard as though he had been running. It was still pouring and his scraggly black hair was drenched. “Will, you need to listen—”
“To what, Mike?” Will didn’t know what he was saying before he was saying it, and his voice was as sharp as a knife. “You and Eleven are back together? Congrats. I’m glad you found time for her.” He spat the words like poison, moving to slam the door before he turned into a sobbing mess.
A scuffed Converse shoe and a cry of pain prevented this. Mike had jammed his foot between the door and doorframe. “God damn, guess I deserve that,” Mike hissed in pain. Will felt slightly guilty for crushing his foot with a door, but also wanted to do it again.
“Will, please—”
“Why are you here, Mike?” Will’s voice trembled, tears filling his eyes no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. “W-what are you playing at? I really believed you, I really thought…. I really thought that you…” Will cut himself off, feeling like a rock was blocking his throat.
Mike was looking at him with pain in his eyes. That stupid, stupid soft expression, the one he knew made Will melt into a puddle. He knew what he was doing. He knew it. He knew it and he didn’t care, because he would never care. Playing with his heart like a toy, twisting it this way and that. Right when Will was fooled into believing that Mike really, truly loved him, he smashed his heart again. Again and again and again.
Hadn’t they fought on this doorstep? Summertime when they were thirteen, when Will felt like Mike was outgrowing him. It had been raining then too. That was when Mike all but uncloseted Will, not realizing that he was the sole reason that Will wasn’t into girls. How had that fight ended? Will biking away, heartbroken and utterly destroyed.
Just like he was now.
“Will.” Mike grabbed Will’s wrist, and Will didn’t even want to pull away. If Mike was breaking up with him, he may as well enjoy his touch while he could. Will looked up to meet Mike’s gaze, tear-filled green and brown looking at each other. A trembling smile curled Mike’s lips, much to Will’s confusion, and then dread. Oh no. He was going to say words that would demolish Will even further. He was going to hurt him until he was a shell. Will braced himself.
“Eleven and I aren’t together,” Mike said calmly and evenly.
“What?” Will sputtered out, mind exploding.
Mike’s eyes were shining in the porchlight, and Will realized he was crying, tears hidden in the rain. “Oh, honey,” Mike choked out, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, Will, did you really think—”
Mike didn’t even finish before his arms wrapped around Will, head burrowed into his chest. His hands held Will’s back firmly, desperately, trembling hard. He was crying. No, he was sobbing. Why was he sobbing?
Will’s brain, still trying to process this turn of events, did the only thing that felt right. He held Mike back, holding him close and tenderly. Not quite sure how he still had tears, he cried too. Mike was soaked and shaking, but nothing mattered. Nothing mattered but Mike, Mike in his arms, Mike’s heart clear in his ears, the reassuring heat of Mike’s body.
How could he have thought that this was all over? Will knew that Mike was telling the truth, that Mike still wanted him, that Mike still loved him, because the way he clung to him was proof enough. And Will’s heart sang because of it.
“I’m sorry,” Will managed through the tears. “I know you wouldn’t do that, I totally overreacted.”
But Mike shushed him with a finger to his lips, straightening upright. “No, I should be sorry. I neglected you, I was a total jerk, I—" Mike took a breath and smiled, smiled that smile that was only for Will. “But I had a reason. A cowardly reason.”
Mike dropped to one knee and Will’s very breath froze.
“Will, I didn’t have you over, because I was scared. I was scared out of my mind. Still am, really,” Mike gave a watery laugh. “I didn’t want you over because I was rehearsing. I practiced with Eleven. I kept rewording my speech, pacing the streets for the perfect place, because it just has to be perfect, you know, I know that this isn’t ideal, I was thinking the park—”
“Mike.” Will’s voice shook, and he didn’t know why. “What are you talking about?”
Mike took a deep breath, fumbled in his pocket, and positively beamed when he took out a tiny little velvet box. Will’s head spun with all that was happening, and his eyes widened when he popped it open.
“William Byers,” Mike began, his own voice shaking. “I had this whole beautiful speech planned out, but I think I can do it better without.” He cleared his throat, looking up with a crooked smile and eyes full of love. “William Byers, Will the Wise…will you marry me?”
Absurd happiness, almost giddiness filled Will. Suddenly the earlier events of the day hadn’t happened at all, suddenly everything was all sunshine and butterflies and Mike, perfect beautiful Mike.
Will beamed, eyes full of tears yet again, but for a different reason.
There was only one response to give.