Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thank you for being my best friend, and for being here.

That was how the conversation began—words spoken in tandem with a flush of faintly freckled cheeks, glowing a perfect pink in the night, and a sheen of breathless anxiety flitting across dark brown eyes. Will Byers did not know of the quiet, painstaking journey that had led them to this moment, to such conversation and words—but that was fine. 

Mike Wheeler had always been a careful keeper of his own heart.

Much like with every feeling he possessed throughout his life, Mike had retained his most recent realizations to himself for quite some time—for reasons as tangled as the feelings themselves. From the confused heartache he met when El ended their relationship, to the moment he understood that the painting had never been a commission (—for she no longer loved him how the art had once promised—), his entire world pitched on its axis, reshaping every certainty he once knew, until he had no choice but to find himself within the novel pieces left behind. Doing so had been petrifying; he had never before felt so utterly insane. 

To recognize what he had long been feeling inside was like listening for a melody in the middle of a downpour—soft and true in its presence all along, but swallowed whole by the chaos around him. To put into lucid words the tale of his heart’s journey was like stitching together the pieces of a torn-up map—painstaking and delicate, driven by the hope to finally return home. And to convince himself that his feelings were not wrong had been the most painful part—but he knew now that every strenuous step was remarkably worthwhile. Perhaps uncertainty and fear would always linger in his mental orbit; but this was his best friend, and he swore to believe in the unspoken miracle that had always anchored their bond. 

For Will Byers, Mike would do anything. Bend the cords of time. Move mountains to make room for a home. Overcome his shame.

That was the heart of his existence now.

He was in love. 

Mike would have never predicted it, but it was the simplest of things that kindled such bright flames; that revealed to him, through everyday moments, that he was in love with Will. It hadn’t been the grand or gaudy moments that claimed his sensibility, but rather the little, ordinary things. He found himself over breakfast table conversation and late night exchanges of blankets and jokes; through an extra pair of sneakers beside the front door and the sight of side-by-side toothbrushes on the bathroom sink; at the end of the world, where something beautiful bloomed.

He knew it was terribly selfish: setting the apocalypse aside to cope with his feelings—and when those feelings no longer hurt, he knew it was even more selfish to indulge in what had become a true fucking dream. Everyday spent with Will Byers. His best friend. The love of his life.

But what miracle must meet the stars to fashion a “right time” for such love that the law will not permit? He would not have dared to deem the end of the world as some sort of twisted miracle—but he was no longer biting back his laughter and smiles, was moving through the wreckage with a flourishing courage, and had never felt freer from outside expectation than he now did.

He felt like his old self—his true self—once again.

He was feeling, and allowing himself to truly do so for the first time. Unshackled, honest, splendidly human feeling—and he simply had to grant himself small moments of savoring that revelation, even if only in fleeting heartbeats. Even if the fear of rejection tore him up on pensive nights. Even if he had no inclination of how his family would react. Even if his friends were grieving, if he was grieving, and everything in their world was slipping toward ruin.

He was in love. It was beautiful.

And, perhaps cruel as it may be to concede, when has being in love ever made one sane? Madness melted under his muscles like sweet molasses, every moment—of unshakeable laughter and covert eyes lingering and subtle touches of hands, knuckles, and arms—teeming with the quiet delight of a welcomed longing. He was—despite every ugly reason insisting he be otherwise—happy. Just to be in love. Out of a dark cave, stepping headfirst into life. 

Mike had come to this acute realization now—almost entirely in a hindsight spectacle of nearing collapse and the threat of losing (once again) the one person he could not live without—that love has never been an indisputable thing, not like he always believed it was. 

Love defies the noose of long-held patterns. It refuses logic. Seizes reason at its core and discards it. Overturns expectations. It is the most unruly force to ever exist, capable of undoing a person even as it saves them. And yet, it is also the most fiercely held and cherished part of being human—messy, aching, utterly astonishing. It is why some people choose to force forever with a misplaced lover—submitting to toleration and a lifetime of willing the impossible—and overlook the ones that truly fit, no necessary reshaping of oneself required. It is why Mike could feel what he did for El yet come truly alive only at the thought of Will’s touch. 

Why a life with El would be pretty—but with Will, it would be complete. 

It was a change—an unraveling and reassembling—that had bloomed without witness, a wonderful revolution inside that belonged only to Mike. His world had been entirely reshaped: the way he felt, thought, and breathed. Colors emerged brighter than before. Glimmers of sunlight kissed his skin with a warmer embrace. All the silly love songs and stupid decisions on the movie screen finally made sense. He was different now.

And Will could never really know how Mike took grasp of his own heart between ink-stained hands and poured his soul into every word he hoped to speak—because this had meant much more than simply recognizing feelings, more than just wanting a relationship. This was an unearthing, a reckoning; it was Mike meeting himself with open arms for the first time; Mike finally granting his own heart permission to exist without reconstruction. This was his heart recovered from ruin—and he was waiting for the right time to confess that it was he who brought it back to life. 

It was Will. All along, it had always been Will Byers. 

But—still—he was merely Mike Wheeler at the end of the day: both fiercely stubborn and woefully afraid, relentless in how he guarded his vulnerability from the people around him. Dismantling inner walls and speaking honestly had never come easy to him, and it was an effortless instinct to fall back on his deep-seated habits.

So he had been waiting, and was still waiting—maintained not by denial, but by that woeful fear he could not cast aside. Afraid that speaking his feelings aloud would shatter something irreplaceable; afraid that pulling his love into the light of the cruel world would be what finally makes it real, and therefore breakable. 

It had been hard enough to put all of his thoughts into a letter—an outpour of raw emotions and sprawling confessions he had written upon realizing his love for Will—and know that his feelings now existed in a tangible absoluteness. He laid himself utterly bare in every line written, and now the letter burned under his pillow every day, every night, pleading to be uncovered. He had placed it there the night after it was completed, when the light switch clicked and stowing darkness could hide the evidence of its existence. Where he could read and reread it—mulling over each and every word—in secret, then tuck away the proof that such a vulnerable version of Mike had ever existed. In hiding, his letter could be perfect, untouched by rejection, untainted by misunderstanding. In the real world, it could fail. In the real world, he could be hurt.

It had been written in noiseless isolation—but was now shouting to be heard as the days went on without its words unspoken. And each day that Mike withheld his feelings from Will—reasoning with himself that time would supply him the necessary nerve, that just another day of silence would make all the difference between acceptance and rejection—his heart grew tired of carrying such an impending pressure, his mind pounded with the weight of waiting.

The time will come, he told himself, over and over again—but forsook every intimation of its readiness. Not yet. Not yet. He was no longer denying himself the truth of his feelings—far from it, in fact—but he refused, with gritted teeth and trembling hands, to speak aloud his feelings and usher them into the world. Not until this ready notion he held, one of an almost prophetic right time, arrived—which he believed would surely appear with an undeniable pronouncement. 

But, much like how the revelation of his feelings occurred in simplicity, the right time dawned upon him through quiet recognition, small moments that led to grand understanding. Upholding the silence had worn away at Mike—and for the first time in his life, he actually saw it; he wholeheartedly noticed how much the holding back hurt. This constant denial was an erosion—between him and Will; between him and himself; between him and happiness. 

The searing breach between Hawkins and The Upside Down had been growing every day, splintering and swelling to gnaw at more of the town. Tomorrow the rift may sever completely, devouring the world until its end, nothing left but ash and shadow. And in the landscape of his own mind, Mike felt a similar fracture, subtle but relentless. A divide he had permitted to be split in his heart, widening in the silence. The longer he held himself back, the more he felt it cracking, the deeper it seemed to run—a fragile fault line beneath his ribs with only so much weight to bear.

And thus—tonight he would allow the written words to touch his tongue; he would let them greet Will’s ears in offering; he would bring his heart into the world and encourage its truth. 

It had been decided during dinner that night, as the light of a warm, golden evening filtered into the home—when Will peered up at Mike from across the table, eyes meeting over a big bowl of potatoes, and smiled, though nothing could explain quite why he did. Mike knew it then, had decided in such an instant, that tonight he would be honest. He could not live another day pretending that Will Byers was not the most beautiful person to ever exist.

But he was still Mike Wheeler, still sixteen, still (so very) scared—and only within the consuming cast of midnight could he find the courage for honesty.

☽∙∞●∙————————∙●∞∙☾

Now the letter is waxing aflame under a cotton blue pillowcase, which brings the pair of them—Mike and a half-asleep Will Byers—to this very moment, of indigo atmosphere and hushed silence, as the words spoken hang heavily in the air. 

“Thank you for being my best friend,” Mike whispers, breaking the silence of midnight with an artifice grace, “and for being here.”

Outside, a sliver of moonlight peeks through the blinds, smearing pale lines of white across the carpeted floor. The night is foggy, the world beyond the window glowing a rich, dark blue, and within the bedroom, the painted walls catch this muted glow, folding the space into a cocoon of shadows and stillness, where every detail feels heightened, every heartbeat louder than before.

Mike lies on the floor, nestled up in an old sleeping bag, feeling the familiar comfort beneath him, and how it is still not enough to calm the nervous flutter in his chest. Will rests on the bed—Mike’s bed—half-covered by a rumpled comforter. 

Months ago, when the Byers had first moved in, they let a silly game of rock-paper-scissors decide who got the bed. Will won, and Mike had been perfectly happy to give his bed up then, just as he is tonight, though his content to rest on the floor, to give Will the greater comfort, is layered now with the tension of unsaid words, a nervous anticipation that ripples through every breath.

To the words, Will shifts, bed covers rustling softly under him. A low, uncertain sound escapes—somewhere between a question and a hum. 

Mike does not need to see Will to know he is confused. Breaching the conversation in such a way—so late into the night, cutting through a state of half-sleep, no less—is sudden, random, admittedly quite confusing. Mike knows all of this to be true—and yet he simply had to say it. Thank you. Thank you. Of all of his—oh, so many—swirling thoughts and emotions, gratitude was the very first on his mind, the most forward in such moment. 

He is so stupidly happy to see Will every day, for those one hundred days spent apart—with Will lost to another time-zone in Lenora, Mike still suffering in the monotony of Hawkins—had carved something hollow in him, a distance that felt both endless and unbearable. Now they live under the same roof, and it feels like nothing short of a gift from the universe, an opportunity to stitch back together all the time they lost. It feels… good. Unfathomably right. A tremendous ease settles in Mike whenever he remembers Will is nearby. That even when out of sight, he is still here with Mike, just beyond the wall, right there in the next room over.

It is the little things that get him the most giddy. A half-finished can of Coke left sweating on the kitchen counter. A white and yellow -striped sock that tumbled out of the laundry hamper. A set of colored pencils and a sketchbook finding their place next to a deck of cards on his desk. All these tiny, ordinary proofs that Will is here—truly here—embedded into Mike’s everyday life, like a series of constellations he can touch with just a lift of a finger.

Sharing an orbit. Sharing a home. Sharing a life together.

“S-Sorry,” Mike says, “I know it’s random. But, it’s just been on my mind a lot lately, I guess.” The words settle a beat, and his fingers curl into the edge of the sleeping bag, searching for an anchor to grant him some stability. “I’m… really happy you’re here, that you’ve been staying here since California, you know. With my family. With me.”

Another pause meets the room, the sort that expands in the darkness, thinning silence into something softer. Mike hears a subtle drag of fabric sweeping, like hair brushing against a pillowcase, and looks up—into the faint slivers of luminescent moonlight—to find Will completely still, staring up at the ceiling. He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, uh. Well, you know how my mom is. She’s just… always fixing stuff. Good to have around, I guess. Like, a light flickers once, and—and she’s already got the toolbox out.”

Will exhales a wisp of uncertain laughter, and Mike just closes his eyes slowly. Joyce may be like a second mother to him—but that isn’t what he meant. Not even close.

“I mean… that is nice. For sure, but—I’m talking about you, specifically.” Another faint rustle from the bed above, slats of the frame creaking slightly. Mike swallows down the dregs of his fear. His voice softens. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Will goes quiet—utterly quiet—and something within the blue of the bedroom tilts. Mike hears it in the way Will’s breath falters, catching on something softer, deeper, almost disbelieving. Only a singular sound, and yet it trembles faintly at the edges, pulled taut with feeling.

One breath later, Will utters only a fragile, astonished “... Oh.”

Night air drifts in—cool, edged with the scent of damp autumn leaves—and stirs the curtains with their soft whisper. The world beyond the window, beyond this bedroom, turns over, growing languid in its sleep. Stars blinking behind the wash of clouds. A lonely cricket chirping, thin and reedy, at the late hour. Moonlight casting shadows on the wall. Moonlight dancing across Will’s face. And all Mike can think is how that one tender sound, not even a word—“Oh”—feels like a hand brushing against the most breakable part of him.

He says, “It reminds me of when we were younger, you know. Sleepovers on the weekends. Hanging out every chance we got. My mom making us pancakes in the morning.”

“With the chocolate chips.” Will adds—a flicker of brightness nestled back in his voice, the memory easily spoken, almost dreamlike in a crystallized nostalgia. 

A breath catches in Mike’s throat—so shallow, so warm—and he can hardly manage to speak into this breathless beat, where the tears almost fall because Will remembers it, too. 

“You remember that?”

And Will whispers back: “Yes. Of course I do.”

The smile blooms upon Mike’s lips without an ounce of inhibition. Such a little, lovely thing. He feels ten years old again, and something inside him unspools—cards of time caving in, nostalgia rising like an ocean tide. Those old summer-cerulean days. The easy mornings of maple syrup on wrists and crayon wax under fingernails and pinky promises that held the weight of vows. A memory-glow tangles itself in Mike’s chest, and cherished innocence finds its way back to him now, threaded through his love for Will, undeniable in its return.

“I miss that,” Mike says. “How things used to be. With us.”

He speaks in the language of longing; he ushers his body upright in the sleeping bag, eyes searching in yearning, until he finds Will. He’s sitting up, too—and they are no longer lying down. On this indigo night, they have found each other on one page.

“I miss it, too,” Will says, voice beautifully breathless. 

Past and present touch like two hands meeting in the dark, and the boy Mike once was looks right through the years gone by to find the boy he has never stopped loving, right here. 

“Mike?” Will whispers. “Is… Is something wrong?”

Mike waits, then shakes his head, knowing Will likely cannot see him.

“Nothing, I… it’s nothing.”

But Will still shifts in his bed, the pile of blankets crumpling beneath him, and Mike can hear the earnest worry through every small movement. 

“Come up here,” he offers gently. “Please.”

Mike hesitates. “Are you sure? You… You were sleeping.”

“I was still awake.” Will pats the blankets at the end of the bed, an invitation as warm as a hand on the shoulder. “It’s alright. Come up here.”

To the tenderness in his voice, Mike surrenders—but, before he moves, slips a hand beneath his pillow. The letter meets his fingers. He takes it, folds it quickly, and hides it under his thigh before crawling up onto the bed. The shift of weight dips the mattress, bringing him closer to Will. 

They sit cross-legged across from each other, a small universe of dim blue shadow and faraway white stars dangling between them. Moonlight is merely a thin blade on the floorboards. Mike means to speak—truly he does—but the words stall in his throat, too dense, too heavy. 

“Mike,” Will whispers, “What’s going on? Whatever it is—you can tell me.”

And at that, Mike feels something within him tilt, loosen, give. It is the sound of his name, spoken in Will’s most gentle voice, that finally undoes him. All those days—those months—of holding everything inside, completely come undone. 

Mike’s mouth and hand move faster than his courage; his thumb brushes the folded edge of the page. The letter crackles under his thigh, paper whispering in the dark.

“There’s… something that I-I wrote. A few months ago.”

His voice feels too small for the room, and Will stills as the words—every syllable, every emotion dripping from their sound—trickle into the dark from unsteady lips. The bedroom seems to suddenly hold its breath, as if waiting to steady itself around the shape of Mike’s next word.

“I—” He swallows. “I think I need to show you. It’s… for you.”

Mike brings his letter—his feelings, his truth, his heart—into the cracks of light.

He holds the wrinkled page in shaking hands. The bedroom remains dim, lit only by the faraway gleam of stars and planets, and he can only make out the faintest outlines of his writing. But—for this—he hardly needs the vision. He has carried these sentences within his heart for months; turned them over until sculpted into his memory.

“Dear Will,” he begins—quietly, as if the words might shatter if he speaks them too loud. 

But the name hangs between them. It feels too bare. Too honest. His throat tightens, innermost anxiety tying the noose in protest. 

Mike tries to gather a small, shaky breath, eyes fixed on the page, where his fingertips grasp and bend the edges, even though the words blur into nothing but shadow. He can feel Will listening—really listening—and the tender wonder of that almost undoes him.

“I, um…” He wets his lips, tries again. “I don’t really know how to start this.”

Another breath. A tremor through his hands. 

Mike glances up, steals the tiniest look at Will. 

“But—” It is worth it. The knowing of such swells within, behind his ribs. Mike doesn’t even need to tell himself; he just knows it. It’s worth it for him. “I guess I’ll just say it.”

For him.

And so—Mike does.

“Dear Will,

I’m sorry that this is so late. I know I should have written ages ago, but I’ve been trying to figure out the right words for a long time. Whenever I tried to write a letter for you, the sentences got stuck somewhere between my ribs and never made it out. I often think about how easy things used to feel between us. How we could say anything without thinking twice. Share every secret with each other. But then, somewhere along the way, I lost that ease. I lost my words with you.

But it feels like, over the past few months, I’ve found them again. So I—finally—wrote this letter for you. I still don’t know if it’s good, or right, or even fair. But I just… I need you to know what’s been in my head. What’s been in my heart. Everything I should have said a long time ago.”

He swallows hard, his fingers tightening on the page as if such grip may anchor him.

“Will, you mean so much to me. More than the world. You are my best friend… and it’s been absolute hell feeling like I lost you this past year. Like we lost each other. ‘Cause things just haven’t been the same. Since you moved away. Even since you came back to Hawkins. They’ve been better, but still not the same. And I know that’s mostly my fault. And I’m sorry for that. And I… I really hope this doesn’t make you angry… or hate me…

But, I love you, Will Byers. I always have.”

The words fall out of him like something long-caged finally freed. His lungs seize, then open like a flower in the spring; the weight he has carried for months lifts just enough for air to penetrate and dance through his body once again. Pressure builds behind his forehead, pulsing in warning of tears, ones he has spent so long refusing to shed.

Now that the truth is out, he cannot take it back. 

And, thankfully, he does not want to.

“From the moment I saw you on the swings, I’ve loved you. And… And I’ve only loved you more and more everyday since. I just couldn’t let myself believe it. Think it. Feel it. Not until now.

For so long I was scared of what would happen if I let myself love you. I thought it would break everything we had. That it would ruin our friendship. Or even that it would just break me. But the feeling was always there. Quiet and small. In the back of my mind. If I had paid attention—really paid attention—then I probably would have understood sooner what the knots in my stomach meant every time I was around you. I would have realized that you mean more to me than anything or anyone in the world. And maybe… maybe I could’ve told you that sooner. I’m sorry that I didn’t. That I wasn’t able to be brave for you.”

His throat feels raw. His pulse thrums loud in his temples. His breath stutters, the kind of trembling inhale that always comes right before tears.

“But in the past few months I’ve come to understand myself better. I meant what I said in your room, back in Lenora, that Hawkins isn’t the same without you. But it wasn’t the whole truth. The truth is that I had never felt so lost before, like when you were gone. Everything was wrong, and nothing could make the feeling go away. I just missed you, so fucking much. And now, I don’t want to risk losing you again. Because I need you, Will. You have always been my home.”

He pauses, a soft ache rising in his chest—painful, relieving, the breaking-open kind. He exhales, barely holding himself together, and turns the corner he’s been circling for months.

“I love you everyday, every night. And I think about it all the time, how much I wish that things could be different between us. That we could still be friends, best friends, but also something more. I want the quiet mornings and the late nights and all the small, stupid moments in between. I want cooking dinner with you, and laughing in the kitchen at nothing. I want falling asleep beside you, waking up and seeing you first. I want the smell of paint in every hallway. I want to hear your music from another room. I want a life that has you in it in every way it can. That’s all I have ever wanted. You. In whatever way. Always you.

And I’m really sorry if you think that’s gross, or if it makes you uncomfortable to hear, or… or if you don’t even want to be friends with me anymore. But I… I need you to know how I feel. How I’ve felt since the day I met you and asked to be your friend. Since the moment you said yes. No apologies this time, just the truth. I love you, Will. I’m in love with you.

You told me I’m the heart of our party, but mine has always been yours. So here it is, all out in the open. My feelings. My heart. I’ll leave it in your hands now. I trust you with it.”

Mike takes a heavy, concluding breath. His grip on the paper loosens, hands falling open as if releasing a weight he has carried for years, shedding the burden of shame from his skin.

“Yours always. 

Love, Mike.”

Hands slackening around the paper, he lowers the letter, letting it fall to his lap through sweaty, trembling fingers. For the first time since he began reading, he lifts his gaze. An undeniable shock flickers across Will’s face before melting into something unbearably soft—eyes blown wide, lips parted, chest trembling through shaky breaths. Will looks back—utterly still, utterly undone—at him, as though Mike has just cracked open the midnight sky, brought down the stars from Heaven and placed them right before his eyes. He looks… unlike Mike has ever seen him before.

Time stretches taut between them—weightless and shimmering, the silence wavering upon an almost holy fault line. Mike cannot bear the unknowing. He opens his mouth, desperate for some indication of where they stand, any semblance of assurance— Are you okay? Do you hate me? Please, say something, please — but the words barely form their first syllable before Will moves.

The bedframe groans beneath them. Soft hands find Mike’s face—warm palms, feverishly shaking with full-lit adrenaline, alive with the spark of something lightning-bright—as Will pulls him in, closing the distance with one shattered, desperate breath. The kiss lands hard, clumsy and urgent. Teeth grazing for just a moment. Hands wandering from cheeks to the back of Mike’s neck, pulling him in closer. Noses bumping. Breath breaking in surrender. Mike’s whole body stops shock-still, then comes alive all at once. The instant is eternal. A nervous breath stammers out Will’s nose and onto Mike’s cheek, one he has been holding in all his life. It is messy, but neither cares. All Mike can exist within is simply this. An involuntary noise—half-whimper, half-relief—from Will’s mouth. His perfect, glorious mouth, all over Mike’s.

He never knew a kiss could ever feel like this. Like a truth crashing through him. Like a door flung open inside his chest. Will’s mouth is soft; there’s the faintest trace of stubble; the smell of laundry detergent and his mom’s cigarettes and mint toothpaste—and Mike’s heart stutters so violently he thinks it might actually give out. He didn’t know how desperately he needed this. Not until now. Every remaining fragment of worry that has lingered within him suddenly escapes. He wants Will, he just wants Will, and there is nothing wrong about it. 

It is the most beautiful feeling he has ever known. So simple. So natural. 

Mike leans in and kisses back—carefully at first, then with all the held-in ache of the past year, the past decade, the past lifetime, of wanting. His fingers curl into the blankets, knuckles draining white. The room spins slow and bright around them. 

He pulls back only when he can no longer breathe. His forehead drops against Will’s cheek, breath hitching in a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Holy shit,” he manages, voice unbound and frayed. “Wow.”

Will settles back a few inches, eyes wide, the threads of a spiral forming. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I just thought—maybe you didn’t want—”

Mike cuts in instantly. “Don’t you dare apologize.” He reaches forward, snagging a gentle fistful of Will’s shirt, tugging him just an inch closer. “Just… come back here. Please.”

Will smiles—soft, startled, glowing—and he falls back in, kisses Mike again, knowing he is welcome now as Mike hums so candidly alight with his wanting. He pulls at Will’s shirt until the space between them completely dissolves. His hands stay fisted in the fabric, caught close in the center of their chests. He can feel Will’s heartbeat, fast and frantic, against his knuckles. His own matches perfectly, both hearts humming in pure synchronicity, tandem harmony, as though they have always been beating toward the mark of this very moment. And it is good, it is so fucking good, to feel Will give himself wholly to this, as eager as Mike with every touch, every breath.

They continue to kiss—slower this time, deeper in intention, lingering and learning with each union of lips. With every movement they are expanding, acquiring the shape of this new language together—a rhythm that keeps breaking and reforming. Opening, closing. A gentle bite. A stupefied sigh. Mike can feel every place where their bodies touch, the press of their ribcages connecting, and he begs his mind to slow down and memorize how perfectly they fit together. Will’s hand drifts to Mike’s jaw, thumb working as it finds the edge of his cheekbone. He presses into the skin there, hard. Mike shivers. Will tilts his head. And the world falls away.

Will eventually breaks the kiss, just barely, and rests his forehead against Mike’s. He takes a stuttering breath, and whispers his words directly onto Mike’s lips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Mike blinks, stunned. “Really?”

Will nods, eyes half-closed, still so close Mike can feel the warmth of skin radiating onto his own. “I’ve been in love with you for years.” A soft, breathless laugh escapes him. “Probably since we met. I’ve known it for a while now. A few years, at least.”

“You never said anything,” Mike manages, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want… I mean, you were dating El for so long, and I just—” Will’s gaze flickers down. “I never thought you’d feel the same way. And I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

Mike opens his mouth, but no words come. He feels weightless. Unmoored from despondency. Happy in a way that would scare him if he did not trust Will so undoubtedly.

Will goes on, voice quieter. “That painting… I made it completely for you. El never commissioned it.”

Speech deserts Mike entirely. His heart is a bright, aching thing inside his chest. It startles and climbs into his throat, leaping as if trying to reach for Will, to bring him close to Mike’s most intimate self. The truth pours into all the empty spaces Mike has carried the burden of for months—years—filling them until he feels wonderfully whole. The painting. The distance. The hope he never allowed himself to hold. It had always been him. It had always been this.

Scarlet color floods Mike’s cheeks. He ducks his head into his hands and laughs, brimming with equal parts mortification and delight. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Will laughs, too—a warm, breathless sound. His smile, half-lit in the sliver of moonlight, is enough to nearly capsize Mike.

“Maybe," he says, "but at least you’re a good kisser.”

Utterly shameless and giddy with love, Mike giggles—fucking giggles—before he can catch himself, bite his lip, eyes flicking to Will’s mouth and lingering there. He could not dim the heat in his cheeks even if he tried. 

“Oh, am I now?”

Will tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know.” He smirks, but Mike can sense the equally stumbling flush threaded through every word he speaks.  “How about… You kiss me again, and I’ll let you know for sure.”

Mike doesn’t even hesitate.

He raises both hands to Will’s jaw, thumbs brushing the warm skin beneath his cheekbones, and gently draws him forward. Will is already moving toward him, meeting him in the middle like it’s instinct. Their mouths find each other—soft at first, then certain, then hungry. Will’s hand slides up the back of Mike’s neck, fingers threading into his hair, and Mike nudges his head into the touch, deepening the kiss until he can feel Will’s sigh melt right into his mouth.

The stars shine beyond the window, but the real light—the light is all here, caught in the gravity between them, imbued with golden warmth and blinding bliss. 

But something inside Mike suddenly crests too high, too fast. Everything he has been carrying for months, all the weight and fear and longing, breaks the surface under Will’s gentle touch, the kindness rendering him vulnerable and raw. His hands brush Will’s cheek once more—lovingly apologetic— before he folds forward and wraps his arms around Will’s waist. A pained exhale passes his lips, and he presses his face into Will’s chest.

Voice muffled in cotton and warmth, he whispers, “I’m sorry I didn’t send you letters. When you were in California. I’m so sorry.”

Will’s hand comes up instinctively, a warm reassurance resting between Mike’s shoulder blades. “I’d say the one just now pretty much makes up for it.”

Mike huffs out a tiny, painfully weak laugh, but tears still burn at the corners of his eyes. “It’s just… You were there… making me a fucking painting—an amazing, perfect painting—and I… I never even wrote.” He swallows hard. “I was such an asshole.”

A single tear breaks loose, slipping down Mike’s cheek—and though Will cannot possibly feel the mark of hot saline soak into his shirt, he leans closer into Mike, tightening his hold. His arms gather him in, and he lowers his chin to the crown of Mike’s head, resting lightly atop his hair, the touch a quiet and anchoring promise. 

“Even if you were just a bit of an asshole,” he says lightly, “I wasn’t perfect either. I could’ve reached out more. I could’ve written letters, too. It wasn’t all your fault, Mike.”

Mike closes his eyes. Will always forgives so easily, he thinks. He always chooses kindness first. And somehow, that only makes the guilt—and, admittedly, the love—crash into him harder.

“Do you forgive me?” Mike murmurs after a beat. “For being an asshole?”

Will lets out a laugh, warm and breathy, then kisses the top of Mike’s head.

“Of course, Mike. I forgave you forever ago.”

Mike lifts his head, his eyes still damp but with a new spark forming behind them. “Are you sure?” His tone shifts—soft, teasing, animated with an electric energy. “Because if you don’t, I promise I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

“Oh yeah?” Will raises an eyebrow. “How?”

“I don’t know…” Mike says, drawing it out slowly, deliberately. His hands slide up Will’s back, fingers threading through his hair. “I seem to remember you saying something about me being an awesome kisser.”

Will snorts. “I said a good kisser. And I haven’t decided yet. You have to test something out a few times before drawing a conclusion. That’s just science 101, Mike.”

“Right…” Mike’s lips curl. “So what I’m hearing is that you want me to kiss you more ?”

“I mean… I didn’t say that.”

“I know,” Mike murmurs, feeling the heat of Will’s skin kindle beneath his fingertips, a spark that leaps right into his smile, like a secret passed hand-to-hand. “But you didn’t have to.”

Mike has never felt so alive. Every hitch of grinning lips—every modicum of laughter and featherlight touches of fingertips and rougher presses, hands against shoulders—breaks his heart into pieces, coming apart to reveal a novel and better heart that beats only for Will, only in pursuit of moments such as these. Only Will Byers could ever pull this feeling out of him; could unravel his complicated threading and fasten him back together in such a tantalizing, exquisite manner. It fills him with equal parts affection and a flood he cannot contain. Oh, to be known so well. 

Mike leans in again, peppering Will’s face with tiny, fluttering kisses—quick, ridiculous, sublime—before settling upon his lips. Will releases the most lovely sound—one caught between the dazzling pull of laughter and a begging for more—and curls a hand around Mike’s hip, giving the smallest pull. The nudge tips them askew, toppling slow and easy onto their sides.

They tumble into the blankets and pillows with a soft thud. Mouths still pressed close as balance gives way to gravity, Mike braces his hand around Will’s waist, letting their legs tangle together as the mattress dips beneath their weight. Will’s laugh catches in the fabric of an old pillowcase, bright and breathless, and Mike feels the rhythm of it flutter against his chest.

They settle there in Mike’s bed, bodies aligned, breathing each other in. Will’s fingers dance along the nape of Mike’s neck; Mike fits himself lower, closer, until they are lying fully together, the tips of their noses brushing, mouths moving in slow, impossibly sweet kisses. Unhurried now, fallen into a kinder orbit meant only for the two of them, time simply melts. Will’s eyes, a deep brown shade in the dark, pour out tides of tenderness in their gaze, like molasses spilling slow from a fountain, swelling straight in Mike’s direction, much like how a sunflower turns up to the sky. 

Minutes pass, perhaps more, of just warmth and breath and the quiet, stunned realization that this is real, that they are finally here. After everything, they have found each other again, in this entirely new but wonderful way.

This simple scene together—hearts beating, hands adhering, lips crashing—seems so serene, and Will’s face, too, is more beautiful than Mike has ever seen it. More than a mountain silhouette pointed high before a golden skyline; more than the sparkling luster of white snow as sunshine crests over the horizon. More than froth lathering on wet sand as the tide dips in and out, the simmering sound when a blue wave crashes on land. Like wisteria spilling from bending trees, leaves green like spring and violets rich, Will is more beautiful now than all else in the universe.

In this sight, Mike can feel how desperately—perhaps even selfishly—he does not want Will to ever let go of him. How he wants this moment to last forever. And, within the very same breath, an anchor settles in him—a bone-deep trust in Will, an unspoken faith that what exists between them will endure. He can feel—so intrinsically—that he has trusted the right person with the entirety of his heart. His best friend. His forever love.

Eventually, Will pauses their succession of kisses with a small, breathless laugh. “Should we set the alarm clock for extra early,” he whispers, “or… lock the door, maybe?”

Mike blinks at him, dazed. “W-Why?”

“Well…” Will flushes slightly. “I was thinking we wouldn’t want someone to come in here in the morning and see us in bed together, right?”

A ripple of emotion moves through Mike, complicated and sincere, all at once. He may not be ready quite yet to share this with others, his family especially; the thought of such still tightens something deep in his chest, an ache of possible rejection. But at the same time, hiding this—hiding them, all this absolute and splendid love—feels wrong, too. What is blooming between them has sparked a happiness Mike has never thought possible, one he has never felt before, and he wants—with all his heart—to protect its integrity, to preserve it from the opinion of anyone else. But he does not want to smother it, does not want to demand it be small. He wants it to breathe. He wants to let whatever has blossomed grow.

“Yeah, definitely not.” Mike lets out a small, shaky laugh, but the sound settles into something steadier as he meets Will’s eyes, shimmering like a marvel of wonder in the indigo moonlight. His expression shifts—softening, deepening. “But, I—I do want to tell my family. Eventually. About me. About—”

Mike hesitates, but the truth settles between them now—the gentle but undeniable realization that they have become an us. It lives quietly in their marrow, wound through every vein, needing no words at all to make it true. 

“About… us.”

Will breaks into a smile immediately. “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Then, gentler: “We could… tell them together, maybe? If… if you want to.”

Mike snaps up, eyes shining. Even within the night’s obscurity, the flush of Will’s cheeks, the easily-spoken vow in his words, ushers a spectacular light into an innermost stillness and fear that Mike had not known was burrowing within the walls of his chest until now. He releases a long-held breath, heart halting itself in mirthful disbelief, until such light nurses the silence back to life, a rhythm kick-starting once again. 

“Yeah?” Mike says, the word coming out thin, almost broken under the gravity of relief.

“Of course.” Will lays a hand upon Mike’s cheek, gazing at him like a work of art. “We’re a team, remember? Whatever happens next, we’ll get through it, together. Okay?”

Together. It is everything Mike has ever wanted with Will. Everything he has been too scared to hope for; too ashamed to want. Until now.

“Yeah.” Mike nods, smiling through the tear that runs down his cheek. “Okay.”

He reaches up, brushing Will’s hair from his forehead, and lays a soft kiss there—so gentle and kind, it nearly undoes them both. The warmth of Will’s skin meets him like an ardent glow buried beneath snow, quiet but bright. Will tilts closer, almost unconsciously, like he has been waiting his whole life for someone to touch him this kindly. Mike presses his kiss deeper, a silent way of saying, I know, I have been wanting this, too. 

“I love you,” Mike whispers, smoothing Will’s hair back into place.

“I love you, too,” Will says, and he is so beautiful, Mike could cry.

But he is too content for such things.

They fully settle into Mike’s bed now, cuddled up and giving way to slumber. No rush. No urgency. Just warmth and steady comfort and the innocent intimacy of foreheads touching, noses brushing, smiles settling into the same state of untroubled joy. Mike curls into Will’s chest; Will drapes an arm around Mike’s back. No more kissing—just closeness, just being held.

And as they finally drift toward sleep, wholly wrapped in one another’s embrace for the first time in years, Mike thinks: whatever storm is brewing, they will face it side by side. Together. A team, always and forever. He cannot deny the treacherous journey that awaits them, a rift between dimensions threatening to sever at any moment. But such is life, in all its honesty—a string of unfolding moments, both good and bad, come together to compose purpose; the blood coursing through veins; the essence of it all. Truly everything. 

It is never easy, but it is being alive.

And what a miraculous gift it is to merely exist, and how much greater for souls to ever touch. At this very moment, all Mike knows is that he wants to live—to reach for forever and saturate his heart in blessed emotion, the feelings of all such shades and hues. Because, beneath the present grace of this dark blue, gold-imbued night, with his best friend carefully nestled beneath his arms—bodies entwined and rhythmically resting—he never wants to stop feeling; he never wants to run from anything again. He rips up the root of every woe he once planted, buries his doubt in the same grave he had once dug for himself to survive within. 

He is no longer afraid to be himself, no longer willing to deny himself of the life he deserves. No, not anymore. He will live, and the stars above with shine, and rays of sunlight will come, perched in the promise of another morning, and he will love, love, love. Whether they die tomorrow or live to see their hair turn gray, Mike will love Will through every moment he is gifted—drinking in their moments like sweet nectar, nourishing his soul with truth and pleasure. 

He will not waste a second of their time.

And perhaps it is naive, but he truly believes: if they have made it this far, through all the trouble and strife, they will make it forever. If they can be like this, tangled up in a quiet night for even a single moment, the memory of lips seared into skin, then they can exist eternally. 

This is only the start of forever and ever.

And Will, warm and steady at Mike’s side, squeezes his hand like he believes just the same.