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Mike knew he was done for the minute he saw Will leave the bathroom in his green button-up shirt and dark jeans, his hair still damp from the shower. Green wasn’t a colour Will would usually wear but, looking at him now, Mike definitely thought he should wear it more. It seemed to bring out the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, making them brighter somehow.
Mike hadn’t realised he’d been staring until Will spoke, snapping him out of his daze.
“How do I look?”
Right. Talking. That was a thing Mike was supposed to be able to do. Except ever since two weeks ago, when he’d come to the earth-shattering realisation that his feelings for his best friend were anything but platonic, he hadn’t been able to hold a normal conversation with Will. Not without turning into a flustered, blushing, stuttering mess.
“Mike?”
Perfect. He was still staring.
Mike blinked rapidly, cheeks burning. Words. He should probably use them.
“You, uh—” His voice cracked. Fantastic. “You look… good. Great. I mean—normal. Not normal. Like—good-normal. Like—”
Mike shut his eyes for half a second, bracing for death to take him out of sheer embarrassment. But then Will just laughed—the soft, breathy kind that always hit Mike directly in the chest like a thrown brick.
“Okay,” Will said, amused. “Good-normal. I’ll take it.”
Will grabbed his wallet off the dresser, still smiling to himself, and Mike had to look away before he melted into a puddle on the floor. It was fine. Everything was fine. All he had to do was get through one celebratory night out with his best friend without blurting I’m in love with you like a lunatic.
“C’mon,” Will said, nudging Mike’s shoulder as he headed for the door.
Mike followed, trying very hard not to focus on the warm patch of skin where Will had bumped into him. He tried even harder not to think about how ridiculously good Will's shampoo smelled, something piney and clean, something Mike absolutely should not be noticing, because normal best friends did not stand there breathing in each other’s shampoo like lovesick idiots.
The bar was only a ten-minute walk from their apartment, but Mike spent every one of those minutes trying to force his heartbeat back into a reasonable rhythm. Will, meanwhile, walked beside him with that easy, unhurried confidence he’d grown into during college—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, humming whatever song had been stuck in his head all week.
Mike couldn’t even look at him. Not directly. Not when every streetlight they passed seemed determined to spotlight the fact that Will Byers was stupidly, unfairly gorgeous.
It’s fine, he told himself. Just don’t act weird. Don’t be obvious. Don’t ruin anything.
The bar was already buzzing when they stepped inside—people pressed around small tables, music rumbling under the chatter, lights dim and warm. Will turned to Mike with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“First round’s on me. You want anything specific?”
“Uh—beer?” Mike said, even though he kind of hated beer. But Will liked it, so of course Mike panicked and said beer.
Will raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but didn’t comment. “Okay. Grab us a spot?”
Mike nodded, weaving through the crowd until he found an empty high-top near the back wall. The second he sat down, he dropped his head into his hands
Pull it together. For God’s sake, Wheeler, get a grip—
Mike tried to look anywhere in the room except the bar—anywhere but at Will. But no matter how hard he tried, his gaze kept drifting back. He shouldn’t be noticing how perfectly Will’s shoulders filled out that green shirt. God, when did his shoulders get so broad?
Mike was still staring when Will turned with two beers in hand, so he snapped his gaze to a random painting on the opposite wall and pretended it was fascinating.
“One beer for Mr Michael Wheeler,” Will announced brightly, dropping into the chair across from him, “who, as of this morning, officially graduated with a Bachelor’s of Creative Writing with Honours.”
He set the beers down with a soft clink—one in front of Mike, one in front of himself.
“Thanks,” Mike smiled weakly.
He took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the noise of the bar—the hum of conversation, the clatter of glasses, the faint thump of bass—but it didn’t help. Every little movement Will made seemed amplified: the way he shifted in his chair, the slight tilt of his head as he studied the beer in front of him, the careless brush of his fingers against the rim of the glass. Mike’s brain kept screaming don’t stare, don’t stare, but his eyes betrayed him anyway. He imagined what it would be like to just reach across the table and—no. Nope. Not here. Not now.
Will raised his glass. “To surviving college—and not dying of boredom or stress in the process,” he added, winking. “Or at least, not too much.”
Mike lifted his beer with shaky hands. “To surviving,” he echoed, voice a little too high-pitched.
They clinked bottles, and Mike let himself take a cautious sip. It tasted bitter, but he barely noticed. Instead, he was watching Will, the way the light caught the slight curl at the end of his hair, the easy smile tugging at his lips. Warmth bloomed across Mike’s cheeks, sharp and sudden, like a warning light he couldn’t switch off.
They fell into easy conversation after that—talking about anything and everything. Post-college plans. The people they were glad to never see again. Will’s interview for a summer job at an art gallery. The short story Mike wanted to write now that he finally had time.
They took turns going up to the bar as their glasses emptied.
For a while, it almost felt normal.
And then Mike started to notice it.
They were on their fifth round when he caught it–the way heads turned whenever Will laughed. His laugh was like that: bright, infectious. Some people glanced only briefly. Others lingered a little too long.
One guy lingered.
Mike noticed him because he didn’t look away—not when Will laughed at something Mike said, not when Will leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the back, green shirt pulling just slightly at the buttons. The guy was standing near the bar, dark hair, leather jacket, nursing the same drink he’d had for a while now. He was watching Will like he’d found something worth keeping his eyes on.
Mike’s stomach twisted.
He told himself it was nothing. People looked at Will all the time. That wasn’t new. Will had always been… noticeable. It just hadn’t bothered Mike before. Or maybe it had, and he’d just never known what to call the feeling.
Will laughed again—this time louder—and the guy smiled. Not a polite smile. A I’m-about-to-do-something-about-this smile.
Mike took another drink, too fast. The bitterness burned on the way down, and he welcomed it. When he lowered the glass, he realised it was empty. He glanced at Will’s.
Empty too.
And, unfortunately, it was Will’s turn to head to the bar.
Will pushed his chair back, already half-standing. “Be right back,” he said easily, grabbing both empty glasses. “Same again?”
“Yeah—sure,” Mike said, a little too quickly.
Will smiled at him—soft, familiar—and then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
The second Will turned away, the guy at the bar straightened.
Mike watched it happen in slow motion. The leather jacket guy shifted his weight, set his glass down, and angled himself just slightly—enough that when Will stepped up beside him, there was no mistaking the intention.
Mike’s chest tightened.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Will talks to strangers all the time. He’s friendly. He’s nice. He’s—
The guy leaned in to say something.
Will laughed.
Something hot and unpleasant flared in Mike’s chest.
It wasn’t just the laugh—it was the way Will angled his body toward the guy without even thinking about it, the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his smile softened into something a little more deliberate. Mike knew that smile. He’d seen it before, aimed at professors and gallery owners and anyone Will wanted to charm without trying too hard.
The guy said something else, and Will shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair. Mike could practically hear it—Oh, no, it’s nothing, or Yeah, we just graduated, or Thanks, that’s nice of you.
Mike swallowed hard.
He tried to look away. He really did. He focused on the condensation ring his glass had left on the table, tracing it with his finger like that was a normal thing to do instead of sitting here slowly imploding. But his eyes betrayed him again, snapping back to the bar just in time to see the guy laugh and lean closer.
Too close.
Will didn’t move away.
Then the guy reached out and rested a hand on Will’s arm.
Will looked down, then back up—suddenly flustered.
Mike’s grip tightened on the edge of the table until his palm ached. He shoved his chair back, the screech cutting through the bar and drawing a few curious looks.
He couldn’t watch anymore, he needed air. Mike stood so fast he nearly knocked the table over. He turned and pushed his way toward the door before his brain could catch up with his body.
The summer night hit him like a slap as he burst outside.
He sucked in a breath that felt like it went straight to his lungs and nowhere else, sharp and useless. The noise of the bar dulled behind him, replaced by the distant rush of traffic and the hum of a streetlamp overhead. His hands were shaking. He shoved them into his jean pockets like that might hide it.
What the hell was he doing?
Mike paced once, then again, shoes scraping against the concrete. His chest felt too tight, like something had wrapped itself around his ribs and pulled. He tried to tell himself this was stupid—jealousy was stupid, spiralling was stupid, running away like a dramatic asshole was pathetic.
Mike stopped pacing and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. He dragged in another breath, slower this time, forcing his lungs to cooperate.
You don’t get to act like this, he told himself. Will isn’t yours. He never has been.
That thought hurt more than it should have.
He straightened, scrubbing a hand over his face. It was just some guy at a bar. A stranger. Someone Will would maybe talk to for five minutes, exchange a smile with, and then forget by morning. Mike knew that. Rationally. But rationality had abandoned him somewhere around beer number three.
The door to the bar creaked open behind him.
Mike didn’t turn around.
He didn’t trust his face—not with the way his chest was still heaving, not with the way his eyes burned like he was one bad thought away from doing something irreversible, like crying on a public sidewalk at ten-thirty on a Friday night.
“Mike?”
Will’s voice.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut.
He could pretend he hadn’t heard him. He could stay very still, hope Will would think he’d imagined it and go back inside. He could—
“Mike,” Will said again, closer this time. Concern threaded through his voice now, unmistakable. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
That did it.
Mike straightened slowly and turned around. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Will stood a few feet away, one hand still on the door like he’d rushed after him without thinking, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that had always meant Mike mattered enough to worry about. It made something in Mike’s chest crack.
“You left,” Will said gently. “You okay?”
Mike laughed—a sharp, humourless sound that surprised even him. “Yeah. Totally. I just—needed air.” He gestured vaguely at the street, like the night itself had personally offended him.
Will didn’t look convinced.
He let the door swing shut behind him, the muffled noise of the bar sealing them off in their own little pocket of night. The streetlamp overhead cast everything in a hazy yellow glow, softening the sharp edges of Will’s face, catching in his eyes.
Will studied him for a moment, eyes searching, like he was trying to read between the lines Mike wasn’t saying. Mike had always hated that Will could do that—see straight through him with barely any effort.
“Mike,” Will said quietly, “you don’t just bail like that unless something’s wrong.”
Mike’s chest tightened again, and he wanted to shove his hands into his pockets, hide behind his own rationalisations, pretend everything was fine. He wanted to do everything except what he should do, which, he realised with an aching clarity, was probably just… admit it. Admit that seeing Will flirt, even just a little, had sent him spiralling. Admit that he was in love with his best friend and maybe always had been. Admit that it hurt like hell to even watch him look at someone else.
But words didn’t come. Not the right ones. Not anything that sounded like coherent human speech.
“I– I just. No, no. Forget it. It’s stupid. Forget it.”
Will stepped closer, his brow furrowed and lips parted slightly, like he wanted to argue but didn’t want to push too hard. The streetlight caught the faint sheen of sweat at his temples from the warm night and the bar’s crowded air. Mike could hardly breathe, every shallow inhale feeling like it might betray him.
“You’re not making any sense,” Will said softly, his voice low enough that Mike could feel it vibrating in his chest. “Talk to me, Mike. Please.”
Mike shook his head, trying to force the words away, but the spiral had begun and there was no stopping it. He let out a laugh that was half sob, half hysterical, and it made Will flinch back slightly.
“I’m… I’m… I’m an idiot,” Mike admitted, voice cracking. “I can’t— I can’t even be normal tonight! You’re… you’re there, talking to some guy, smiling at him like—like—like he’s… like he’s important and not me! And I—”
He stopped, overwhelmed, chest tight, and his hands trembled as he ran them through his hair. He looked up at Will, eyes glossy and desperate. “I didn’t like seeing him touch you. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. And I know I don’t get to feel like that, because you’re not—” He stopped, throat tight. “You’re not mine.”
Will froze.
For a heartbeat, he just stared at Mike, like the words needed time to land—like they’d hit him square in the chest and knocked the air out of him.
“Mike…” he started, then stopped. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What?”
Mike let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging like he’d finally dropped something too heavy to hold. “I’m sorry,” he rushed on, the words tumbling over each other now that the dam had cracked. “I know it’s not fair, and I know I’m being ridiculous, and you didn’t even do anything wrong. I just—God, Will, I saw him touch you and my brain just—” He gestured helplessly at his head. “It short-circuited.”
Will didn’t move. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched Mike with an intensity that made Mike’s pulse stutter.
“I didn’t realise it was this bad until tonight,” Mike continued, voice quieter now, raw. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I could just… shove it down and be normal and not ruin everything. But then I realised I’m not just a little messed up about you. I’m—” He laughed weakly, eyes shining. “I’m completely screwed.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and buzzing.
Mike braced himself. This was it. This was the part where Will would gently let him down, where he’d say something kind and careful and devastating like, I love you, but not like that, or You’re my best friend, Mike, and that’s enough, right?
He could already feel the shape of the heartbreak forming.
Will didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Mike couldn’t read his face—not really. His expression had gone careful, unreadable in that way that always meant Will was thinking hard about something important. Mike’s stomach dropped. He nodded to himself, already preparing to retreat.
“Okay,” Mike said quickly, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his face. “You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to say anything. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. I’ll just— I’ll go for a walk or something. Sober up. Pretend this never—”
“Mike.”
Will said it firmly this time, stepping forward and catching Mike’s wrist before he could turn away. The touch sent a jolt straight up Mike’s arm. He froze.
“Don’t,” Will said quietly. “Don’t run away.”
Mike swallowed. He looked down at where Will’s fingers were curled around his wrist—warm, steady—then slowly back up at his face.
“You don’t get to disappear on me,” Will said, voice low but steady. “Not after that.”
Mike’s throat burned. “I’m not trying to— I just—”
“I know,” Will interrupted softly. His thumb shifted, brushing over the inside of Mike’s wrist without thinking. The touch made Mike’s pulse jump. Will noticed. His eyes flicked down, then back up again, something unreadable passing over his face. “I just… I need you to look at me.”
Mike did.
Up close, Will looked flushed from the heat and the alcohol, his cheeks pink, his eyes bright in the streetlight. There was a crease between his brows, worry etched there—but underneath it was something else. Something careful. Something hopeful, maybe.
Will’s lips parted slightly. He looked away for half a second, then back at Mike, eyes shining. “You know what’s really unfair?”
“What?”
“I spent most of college convincing myself I was over you.”
Mike’s heart slammed against his ribs. “You were—what?”
Will smiled, small and crooked. “Yeah. Because you never looked at me like this.” He gestured vaguely at Mike’s face—too close, too intimate. “And I figured if you hadn’t realised by now, you never would.”
Mike felt dizzy. “Will…”
“I told myself I just loved you as my best friend,” Will continued. “I dated other people. I told myself I was being stupid, that you were straight, that you were my best friend and that was all it would ever be.”
The words hit Mike one by one, each landing heavier than the last. “You—” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You were in love with me?”
Will laughed softly, a little breathless. “God, yeah. For a long time.”
Mike stared at him, the world tilting violently on its axis. “And you just… didn’t say anything?”
Will shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “You never gave me a reason to. Not until tonight.”
Something in Mike’s chest cracked wide open.
“I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I was an idiot. I am an idiot. I didn’t see it because I didn’t see myself.” He swallowed. “But I do now. I swear I do.”
Will searched his face, really searched it, like he was making sure this wasn’t just the alcohol talking, like he was afraid to believe it. His grip on Mike’s wrist loosened—not letting go, just shifting—until his hand slid down, fingers threading together instead.
“Say it again,” Will said quietly. “Not the sorry part. The other part.”
Mike’s breath hitched. He squeezed Will’s hand, grounding himself in the warmth, the reality of it. “I’m in love with you,” he said, the words tumbling out raw and unpolished. “I think I have been for a long time. I just—” He swallowed. “It took me a while to figure it out.”
Will’s breath shuddered as Mike said it. For a second, neither of them moved—like the night itself was holding its breath with them.
“Mike,” Will said softly, like the word was something fragile. His thumb brushed over Mike’s knuckles. “You’re not just saying that because you’re drunk, right?”
Mike huffed out a weak laugh. “I mean, I am drunk,” he admitted. “But this?” He squeezed Will’s hand, harder, like he needed Will to feel how real it was. “This isn’t that. This is the thing that’s been wrecking me for two weeks. Probably longer.”
Will searched his face one last time. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle something inside him, because his shoulders finally relaxed, tension bleeding out of him like he’d been holding it for years.
Will exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d finally let himself believe the ground wasn’t going to give out beneath him.
“Okay,” he said, almost to himself. Then, louder, steadier, “Okay.”
Mike blinked. “Okay… good okay? Or okay like—”
Will stepped closer.
It was such a small movement, barely a foot of space closing between them, but it felt seismic. Mike’s back brushed the cool brick of the building behind him, and suddenly Will was right there—close enough that Mike could see the flecks of green and gold in Will’s eyes, smell his ridiculously good piney shampoo and the beer on his breath. Close enough that the world narrowed down to the space between their bodies and the way Will’s hand was still laced with his.
“Good okay,” Will said softly. His mouth quirked, nervous and fond all at once. “Very good okay.”
Will’s gaze flicked down—to Mike’s mouth—and then back up again, like he hadn’t meant to do it but couldn’t stop himself.
Mike noticed.
God help him, he noticed.
He drew in a shaky breath and leaned forward, slow and careful, giving Will every chance to change his mind, to pull back. Will didn’t. Instead, he closed the distance too, meeting Mike halfway.
Their noses brushed.
Mike’s breath caught painfully in his chest, his whole body buzzing like he’d stuck his fingers in an outlet. For one terrifying half-second, he thought Will might pull back anyway—that this was where reality would snap back into place and he’d wake up from whatever reckless, alcohol-soaked fantasy this was.
Instead, Will whispered his name.
“Mike.”
That was all it took.
Mike closed the last inch between them and pressed his lips to Will’s.
It was soft—far softer than Mike had ever imagined—more a tentative meeting than a real kiss, lips touching gently as if he was afraid that any more pressure might break the moment entirely.
Will inhaled sharply against his mouth, a quiet, surprised sound that sent a jolt straight through Mike’s chest.
For a heartbeat, Will didn’t move.
Then his free hand came up, fingers sliding into Mike’s hair and curling there, anchoring him in place—and he kissed him back.
Mike’s knees nearly gave out. The world shrank until it was nothing but the press of Will against him, the warmth of his hands, the softness of his lips. He’d imagined this moment a thousand times in his head—awkward, fumbling, a disaster waiting to happen—but none of that mattered now. None of it could compare to the reality, to the way Will’s mouth fit perfectly against his, to the quiet desperation in the way he was kissing him back.
Mike’s hands moved on their own, curling around Will’s sides, pulling him just a little closer. He felt the rise and fall of Will’s chest, the tremor in his fingers as they dug into Mike’s hair. Their kiss deepened slightly, slow and exploratory, like they were both trying to memorise the other.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mike registered that they were on a sidewalk, outside a bar, probably very visible. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. All that existed was Will’s mouth and the way his hand tightened in Mike’s hair like he was afraid Mike might disappear.
Mike’s hands wandered again, up along Will’s sides, across his shoulders, tracing down his arms and back up, as though trying to memorise every inch. They moved up his neck, resting finally at his jaw, thumbs brushing softly over Will’s cheeks, committing everything to memory in a single, breathtaking moment.
They broke apart only when they needed air. Will’s forehead rested lightly against Mike’s, breath mingling with his, chests rising and falling in sync.
Mike’s vision blurred slightly, the world around them reduced to the halo of streetlight, the hum of the city, and the feel of Will pressed against him. He could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, echoing the rapid, chaotic rhythm of his thoughts. I kissed Will. I actually kissed Will. And he… he kissed me back.
Mike looked down, eyes searching Will’s face for any sign of regret or hesitation—but found none. Will’s eyes remained closed, a soft, tender smile tugging at his lips, pink and slightly swollen from the kiss, and in that moment, Mike felt something inside him shift completely.
It was like all the tension, all the fear, all the weeks of agonising over his feelings had condensed into this one, perfect, shaky moment. He leaned in again, careful but impatient, and pressed another kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth–then to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead—and finally back to his lips, softer this time, lingering, as if memorising the taste and warmth of Will all over again.
Will laughed softly into the kiss—an airy, breathless sound that Mike felt more than heard. It vibrated against his lips, against his chest, like proof. Like something real.
“Okay,” Will murmured when they finally pulled back again, his voice low and a little unsteady. “Wow.”
His hand slid down from Mike’s hair to his shoulders, thumb brushing over his collarbone, grounding and warm.
“Wow,” Will repeated, forehead pressed to Mike’s. “So that actually happened.”
Mike huffed a shaky laugh, his own hands still cradling Will’s face like he was afraid to let go. “Yeah. I was just thinking that. Thought I might’ve hallucinated it.”
Will opened his eyes then, really looked at him. The streetlight caught in them, bright and honest and a little dazed. “You didn’t.”
Mike swallowed, his throat dry and tight all at once. He let out a breath that felt like it’d been sitting in his lungs for years.
“Okay,” he echoed, quieter. “Good. Because I don’t think I could survive finding out I imagined that.”
Will’s smile softened, something warm and unmistakably real settling there. He leaned in again—not quite a kiss this time, just close enough that their noses brushed, breath mingling.
“You’re kind of dramatic,” he murmured fondly.
Mike snorted. “You’re just now noticing?”
Will’s smile lingered, then softened into something quieter. He glanced back at the bar door, then down the street, like he was weighing two different futures and finally deciding which one he wanted more.
“So,” Will said eventually, eyes bright. “Do you want to go back inside and actually celebrate graduating?”
Mike considered it for half a second, then shook his head. “Honestly? I kind of want to walk. And talk. And maybe kiss you again.” His hands fell from Will’s face, one of them reaching out instead to lace their fingers together.
Will’s smile turned fond. “You’re really bad at easing into things, you know that?”
“I know,” Mike said, squeezing his hand. “But you love me anyway.”
Will squeezed back. “Yeah,” he said, sure and warm and real. “I do.”
Will tugged gently on Mike’s hand, already turning them down the sidewalk, away from the bar’s glow and into the quieter stretch of street. The city hummed around them—cars passing, music bleeding faintly from open windows—but it all felt distant, softened. They walked like that for a while—hands laced, shoulders bumping, steps falling into an easy, shared rhythm. Every now and then Will would glance over at Mike like he couldn’t quite believe he was really there, and every time Mike caught him, his chest would do that stupid, fluttery thing again. A few blocks down, Mike slowed, tugging Will gently to a stop under another streetlamp. “Hey,” he said, suddenly shy all over again. Will raised an eyebrow, amused. “What?” Mike leaned in and kissed him—unhurried this time, sure in a way he hadn’t been before. Will smiled into it, kissing him back like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Will laughed softly against Mike’s lips, warm and incredulous, like he was still half convinced this was a dream. Mike grinned into the kiss, heart hammering.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice raw and certain.
Will froze for a second, then smiled—the kind of smile that made the whole world feel lighter—and whispered back, “I love you too. Always have.”
They stood there for a long moment, foreheads resting together, fingers intertwined, letting the city hum around them like it was nothing more than background noise. Mike felt like he could finally breathe again, like every frantic heartbeat, every sleepless night, every second of anxious longing had led to this perfect, steadying moment.
Mike squeezed Will’s hand, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, and started walking again—toward home, toward whatever came next. Mike glanced sideways at Will, still half-expecting the moment to vanish if he looked at it too hard. But Will just smiled back, warm and real, their fingers still intertwined—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Mike knew he wasn’t imagining any of it.