Work Text:
His eyes, as always, wander up. They stay there.
Something about it is mesmerizing since it was handed to him. Perhaps even before, when he saw Will holding it at the airport. And it's not surprising: no, he's always thought of his art as something to hold dear.
But this is different, evidently so: the traces are not made by a crayon, are not drawn by a child. They are measured strokes, each one carefully threading the canvas.
He stares. He might as well be boring holes into his wall. He does not care.
Yes, it is mesmerizing indeed. Even more so knowing the story it tells. A tale of friendship, childhood. Love.
He knows. He's known for a while. He also knows he's not supposed to know.
It happened a few weeks after they got back from California. The air was filled with dread, with death, but life goes on. It always does.
He was at Hopper's, sitting awkwardly across his girlfriend as she munched some Eggo's. Things had been tense. He thought things would eventually go back to normal, but they didn't really. She didn't say much to him, seemed to be in a different wavelength.
He's good with ice-breakers. He thought he was.
"By the way, about the painting," he started, a cheeky grin tugging his lips upwards, "when did you learn so much about D&D?"
El paused her chewing and shoot him a weird look. "What?"
"You know, the painting. It's supposed to reference D&D, right?"
Her confused frown deepened. "What painting?"
An awkward laugh escaped him. "What do you mean what painting? The one you commissioned Will for? With the hydra and all?"
"Commissioned?"
He sighed. "You told him what to draw, basically."
"I didn't do that," she replied, putting down her fork. He opened his mouth, not a single sound being uttered, probably looking like a confused, stupid gaping fish. El did not comment on it and instead kept staring at him with a crease between her brows. Then, she asked: "Did he... lie?"
He didn't want to say it. He just nodded, a bitter taste taking hold of his tongue.
Why would he lie? What even is there to lie about in the first place? Did he not trust him? Mike could see that being the case, yes. They had undeniably drifted apart. And no matter how much he regretted said gap, it was still there.
But if El did not know about it, then whose feelings were those?
He knew the answer before even posing the question to himself. Of course he did. Michael Wheeler is many things, but dumb isn't one of them. Oblivious, yes, perhaps. Hardly so when it comes to Will.
He hasn't brought it up. He's had the chance to. Plenty of chances, naturally: the Byers have been living with them for months. More than a year. That's a lot of time. Time in which he's gotten his best friend back, in which they've grown just as close as they used to be.
But Will feigns ignorance just as much as he does: he's seen him looking at the painting, stealing glances, and just as quickly looking away when he's caught. Like he has anything to be caught for. Which, in truth, he does.
So why did he lie?
He ponders. He wonders. Rather redundantly, yes, for he knows the answer.
"Mike?"
Speak of the devil.
He doesn't immediatly turn around. He takes a couple more seconds to contemplate the painting before doing so. "Hey. Need something?"
Will looks at him cautiously, his eyes following his own until they land on the painting. He visibly swallows before tearing his gaze away, as if the mere sight of his artwork pains him. "Could you lend me some clothes?" he asks.
Right. That's the whole reason they came back to his house. His rundown and very much unsafe house. For supplies.
He hurriedly nods and makes his way to the mawled closet, silently praying that the damn demogorgon didn't also somehow eat his clothes.
At least it was smart enough not to touch the painting.
Luckily, there's still some intact hoodies in there that he quickly snatches. Will is looking at him strangely. Again. He's been acting odd, Mike must say. Suspicious, almost, ever since he learned about his seemingly hidden powers —which in his opinion are cool as fuck—. It's like he gained clarity of some sorts. Mike isn't sure he really understands what that means.
So he doesn't pretend to and only hands him the small stack of folded clothes, which Will receives apprehensively. His grip tightens around the cloth, his expression unreadable. Then, he takes a deep breath and finally looks at him in the eye.
Mike swallows. Hard. He hopes his nerves aren't obvious.
"You know about the painting, don't you?" is what ultimately comes out Will's mouth, eyes squinting questioningly.
He wants to say no. He wants to feign ignorance. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He's not sure he can.
"Yes," musters his treacherous, unfortunately sincere lips.
Will snorts, humorless. "Wasn't expecting the lie to remain unaddressed for so long."
"It didn't," Mike hurries to correct. When Will arches a brow, he urges himself to continue: "It didn't. I found out months ago."
"How many months?"
His tone is calm. Too calm. And Mike knows he's going to be pissed. He sighs. "Just a couple weeks after we got back to Hawkins, actually."
Will's eyes widen for a split second. A moment later they are filled with disbelief. "You knew for over a year and didn't say anything?"
"Why did you lie?" he counters, his own brows furrowing. "Why pass your ideas as someone else's?"
He rolls his eyes, not so gently dropping the pile of clothes into the bed. "That's hardly what happened."
"It's exactly what happened," he argues, taking a step forward. "You said the whole concept was given to you by El. You said she told you what to draw. Which didn't happen, did it?"
Will opens his mouth only to close it right away. He looks frustrated. Mike sure is feeling frustrated.
"You two were going through a rough patch. I didn't know how else to help," he finally replies, looking all too sincere for how dishonest he's actually being.
But Mike knows better. Has learned to know better.
"Bullshit," is what he says, his tone coming off harsher than he intended. He takes one deep breath. "Forget about the why. I'd rather know the what you're lying about."
Will blinks, slowly. "You just answered that yourself, didn't you?"
"That's only half of it. What about—" He cuts off himself. Bites his tongue. He's probably shooting himself in the foot. He shouldn't venture this route.
But Will is naturally not letting him off the hook. His eyes squint up at him almost defiantly, arms folded. "What about what, Mike?"
"What about the other things you said?" he splutters, face growing embarrassingly hot. Since Will says nothing, he continues: "All those things about me being the heart, holding the party together. How El needs me. How I make her feel. What about that?" The silence that follows is tortuous. He can feel a familiar and unsavory knot forming in his stomach, against all odds. "Will?"
"Not a lie," he mumbles, low, just loud enough for him to hear. "None of that was a lie." And his tone is definitive. Uncertain, yet incredibly sure at the same time.
He doesn't believe he's ever seen Will so vulnerable before. He knows he hasn't. He would remember. He would know.
So he fights against the dread, pushes it well into the depths of his mind. Forces himself to talk before Will shuts down that gate himself. "Back there. Were you really talking about El?"
Will's gaze falls, drops to the floor. It's not shame. It's not sorrow. It's resignation. It shouldn't hurt Mike the way it does. But it does.
"No. Not about El. Nor her feelings."
There's no sound at all, other than their breaths. Mike doubts he could hear it anyways, given the way his heartbeat rings loudly in his ears, how he feels every pulse in every damn limb. "Whose feelings, then?" he musters, barely above a whisper.
Will doesn't respond. Not verbally. He only lifts his gaze to meet Mike's, an indecipherable something in his eyes. But it's all Mike needs, because he knows. He's known. Probably always has, subconsciously, for it doesn't feel like a revelation. It's just a fact. A truth he's familiar with.
"I'm sorry about the lying," Will says. He's scared. It's a different kind of fear than what he's used to seeing on his face. It's raw fear. But also courageous, contradictorily enough. Then, he takes a deep breath. Mike does too, for good measure. "I'm not sorry about the way I feel. Don't misunderstand it."
"I didn't," he quickly says, perhaps a little too quickly. Something flickers in Will's eyes, gone too fast for him to catch. He swallows. "I didn't misunderstand. I don't."
His whole body is vibrating with an unknown sensation: a thrilling sensation. His skin itches in the best way possible— he wants to reach out, infect Will with the same feeling. Will, who's looking at him with a mixture of awkwardness and, again, that damned fear. It's not a good look on him. Mike can't stand to see him fearful. Can stand it even less knowing he might be the reason.
Will sighs, arms falling to his sides. "Listen, Mike—"
He doesn't let him finish. Can't, really. His legs stride forward before he allows them to, his hands reach up to cup Will's face without realizing until he's made aware of the soft, cold feeling of his skin beneath his fingertips, his lips press over Will's just before it clicks for him just how right it feels. How right it is.
He doesn't even get to take in the feeling it before Will pulls back: not entirely, not escaping his touch. Just far enough for his breath to ghost over his lips.
"We broke up," he hurries to say before Will even asks. He looks a bit taken aback, but not as surprised as he had expected. "Few months ago, actually. Long, long story. Mind if we unpack that later?"
He's shamelessly looking down at his lips, he knows. Plump and flushed. Has he ever been so eager to know what something tastes like? Probably not.
Will notices. Of course he does. A smile makes way. Might as well be a coy smirk. Mike loves every bit of it.
"Why later?" he asks, grin widening. He looks happy. He is happy. It's contagious, incredibly so.
He feels a smile of his own tugging his lips upwards, dumb and stupidly genuine. "I really don't want to talk now, Byers."
Will laughs. Short. Sweet. "Byers? Since when?"
"Not smitten enough? Let's stop talking. Cool?"
Will's eyes glint with something, his smile turning knowing. "Cool."
Mike wastes no time. He's wasted enough already. And, truly, it's an entirely different sensation. Kissing Will, that is: it's slow and tender but also messy and uncoordinated at its core, sweet and hungry in its own right. Will's arms come up to hug his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. It's somehow far from being enough. Mike allows his hands to roam down, settling atop his waist.
His lips, too, have a flavor of its own. It's sweet. Nostalgic. He's not sure that's a thing. Doubts it. Couldn't care less. All that matters is that Will's mouth is pressed against his, a tight seal he does not ever want to break. His best friend. Partner.
They part if only for air, Will's face a funny rosy tone that of course suits him because he's unfair like that. He's still smiling. It might be imprinted. Mike is not about to complain.
"We'll talk later, Wheeler," he teases, playfully shoving him. Mike can only but grin like a fool. "But now we should probably head back before my mom goes nuts."
He nods. "Yes. Agreed. Wouldn't want her to hate me. She really scares me, Will."
Will does his signature eye roll. Mike might not have realized how fond he is of it up until now.