Archive of Our Own ^beta

As the Byers stood in the Wheelers' living room, their few belongings in hand, Will expected only one outcome: he'd be sent down to the basement. Jonathan would get the spot next to him, and that would be that. Sure, he and Mike had shared rooms as kids—even squeezed into the same bed more than once—but that was when things were easy. When everything about being a kid was simple.

But now? Now their friendship was... messy, awkward. Mike hadn't written, hadn't called, and there's only so much a chaotic cross-country van ride can fix. That whole trip only happened because they were trying to save El, anyway. And Will is still pretty sure Mike only flew to California for her. Add the awkward conversation, the painting, the way Will's heart still stutters at the memory—yeah, he's not sure he'd want to sleep in Mike's room even if it was offered.

So truly, the last thing he expected to hear was—

"Will can sleep in my room! And, uh... you guys can figure out the rest."

In Will's possibly delusional opinion, Mike said that way too eagerly. And even as Will told himself none of this meant anything, he still met Mike's eyes and nodded. Mike waved him over, and—like it was Will's first time here instead of his hundredth—he led him upstairs.

Mikes room looked slightly different in a clear preparation for Will. Mike's desk had been pulled from the corner, replaced with a twin-sized mattress. The desk now sat beside it like a makeshift nightstand. Mike took Will's backpack from his hands and set it gently on the desk, and for some reason that simple gesture made Will's heart flutter.

"It's not a five-star hotel or anything," Mike said, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I won't stop you from sleeping in the basement if you want more space—"

 "No, it's fine! Really. Thanks, Mike."

Will might have been feeding his delusions, but he could've sworn there was a faint red dusting to Mike's freckled cheeks. The only downside was knowing his own face was probably mirroring it. The question then became if Mike noticed, which was easily shut down because there's no way Mike feels the same.

Will sat on his new bed for the foreseeable future while Mike settled onto his. Mike's eyes were already on him, softer than Will expected. "Is it weird?" he asked quietly.

"Is what weird?" Will tilted his head, trying (and failing) to maintain eye contact. But Mike broke it first. "Being back in Hawkins. I mean I know it hasn't been that long, but still."

Will hummed, staring down at his shoes. "Weird isn't the word I'd use. I'm happy to be back. Happy to be somewhere that feels normal again. I missed you guys... so maybe nostalgic is the better word."

When he looked up, Mike looked almost hurt—like a kicked puppy. Will immediately regretted saying anything.

"I'm sorry—again—for not writing," Mike said. "I definitely should have. And the shitty part is I can't really even figure out why I didn't. I guess... maybe part of me thought I had to talk to my girlfriend to keep her, you know?"

He paused, sinking into himself for a moment before continuing. "But with us... we're best friends. Part of me thought I didn't have to write. Like our friendship was so solid I didn't need to. That you'd still be my best friend even if I didn't call."

Finally, he looked at Will again—really looked—his gaze steady and determined, like he needed Will to understand.

"Mike—"

"You're gonna say it's okay. That you're fine. You always do." Mike let out a frustrated breath and slid off his bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor directly in front of Will. "But I know you. And I know it's not okay."

Will's breath caught when Mike reached out and took one of his hands. He nearly jumped—something Mike seemed to notice, because his grip softened but didn't pull away.

"You'd throw yourself in front of a bus if it meant everyone else got to be happy," Mike said gently. "But I need you to realize that what I did wasn't okay. And that you're allowed to be upset."

His eyes softened again, full of something that made Will's stomach twist. It had been a long time since he'd seen this Mike—the one who cared so fiercely it felt like sunlight and pressure all at once. So when Mike squeezed his hand, Will nearly melted.

"You're my best friend. And I don't think I made you feel like you were." Mike swallowed hard. "So if I ever do that again... call me out. Or don't. I'll still pick up on it."

That made Will laugh—a small, real laugh. It made Mikes furrowed brows soften.

I was being a total self-pitying idiot.

I didn't say it.

You didn't have to.

It was strange how distance had strained their friendship so much. And yet here, in the same room, Mike could still read him like a book. If only Mike knew some of the pages had been torn or crossed out with black ink.

————

With Mike out running errands with Nancy, Will took it upon himself to pull out his sketchbook. Where his old drawings were mostly their Dungeons and Dragons characters, his recent sketches were different. Real. Things he'd seen, moments he wasn't sure anyone else remembered.

Some pages were fragments of the Upside Down he still wasn't sure were accurate. They were spotty, blurry at the edges, but there were images of Castle Byers covered in slimy vines, floating dust-like sparkles from when he communicated through the lights, even the Demogorgon itself.

But now, in a space as safe as Mike's room, Will found himself doodling the things that made him smile. The small dinosaur collection Mike still hadn't donated. His perpetually messy bed, because Mike Wheeler would rather fight a Demogorgon than commit to making it. The basket of clothes in the corner, half of which Will could match to memories without even thinking.

The walkie-talkie half shoved under Mike's bed, proof that he had definitely fallen asleep using it. His backpack thrown haphazardly into the corner, school notes and pencils spilling out. Even the older drawings of Will's still pinned to Mike's wall, tucked between posters like they'd always belonged there.

Everything was just so Mike that Will can't help the soft smile that appears as he sketches pieces of Mikes life. So when the door suddenly opened and Mike walked in, Will flipped the page faster than humanly possible. Mike didn't seem to notice the chaos, but he did notice the sketchbook.

"Whatcha drawing?" he asks, closing the door and settling into his usual spot on the floor—right beside Will's makeshift bed. Will definitely couldn't admit he had been drawing everything in the room that made his heart swell. So the next best answer became:

"Oh, uh... I don't know yet. Mind's drawing a blank, y'know?"

Mike looked almost disappointed before humming in thought. Will had every reason to be nervous about what Mike would suggest as it wasn't the first time he'd caught him sketching. Then Mike's eyes brightened like he's come up with something life changing, which only made Will more terrified.

"Draw me! I can be, uh... what do they call it? Oh! Your muse!"

Will was pretty sure Mike had absolutely no idea what calling himself a muse implied—the depth, the admiration, the devotion tied to the word. And yet... it was cute. No one had ever offered themselves so willingly for Will's art before.

"Are you sure? I'm not the quickest drawer..." Will said, unsure Mike knew what he was signing up for.

Mike scoffed like that was ridiculous. "Yeah! I mean, unless Vecna decides to show his ugly face, I've got nothing better to do."

Will just gives Mike a smile, and then immediately began sketching Mike exactly as he was. Mike looked briefly confused, almost like he expected Will to position him like a mannequin, but he didn't complain. Instead, he crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned forward just enough to watch every stroke of Will's pencil.

As the portrait slowly came together, Will noticed how bright Mike's eyes have become. Each time Will glanced up for reference—which wasn't often, considering he practically knew Mike's face by heart—Mike's gaze was locked on him. His pupils followed the pencil, widening whenever a line fell into place perfectly.

Will briefly considered adding tiny stars in Mike's eyes, but that felt... maybe too much. Maybe weird. Was it weird to notice things like that?

When Will glanced up again to capture the freckles across Mike's nose, the idea hit him. Instead of dots, he began turning Mike's freckles into tiny stars—some large and bold, others small and nearly invisible. But to Will, it made sense. He'd always believed some of Mike's freckles lined up like constellations.

Will wished he had the courage to go further—to turn Mike into a galaxy. His eyebrows as shooting stars, orbiting the planets of his eyes. His curls swirling like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. But he kept those ideas tucked away for later, when no one was watching.

Mike doesn't say a word while Will works. Strangely, the silence wasn't awkward. It didn't need filling. It was soft, comfortable. A reminder that maybe their friendship hadn't changed after all—that being together in a room, even without talking, was enough.

Will is almost sad when he adds the final touch. The world had given him maybe thirty minutes under Mike Wheeler's careful, adoring (?) gaze without the rest of the party barging in and shifting the atmosphere.

Ah.

This must've been what Lucas meant—that there was a different Mike Wheeler, a quieter, gentler version, who only came out around Will. Will used to think Lucas was exaggerating, but then he'd see Mike yelling with Dustin, bickering with El, or snapping at Lucas. Tones Mike rarely ever used on Will. Hmmm.

Mike stared at the sketch like it was a brand-new video game, eyes sparkling in the exact same way Will had drawn.

"You like it?" Will asked, though he already knew.

"Like it?" Mike took the sketchbook gently, as if a stiff breeze could tear it. "Will, this is amazing."

Will muttered a quiet thanks, because anything more would've turned into embarrassing nonsense. His instinct was to downplay it, to soften Mike's awe—awe that made the heat rise in Will's cheeks.

Mike didn't look away from the drawing. His fingers tightened around the page nervously.

"Can I... can I keep this?"

And who was Will to deny those puppy eyes? As if Mike even needed them. Mike wanting something he made was already enough to make Will's heart do a stupid fluttery jump.

It's cute. Like everything else Mike does.

"Yeah! Here — let me take it out."

He trusted Mike with his life, but not with ripping out a sketchbook page. Mike would absolutely destroy the spine or tear the drawing in half on accident, and then be devastated at the destruction. So Will gently takes the sketchbook, still warm where Mike had held it. He folded the page carefully, creasing it just right. He could feel Mike's gaze now—not just at the art, but at him.

He should've been flustered. But somehow, it felt normal. Like they were thirteen again, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, never a moment where they were apart.

Will finally rips the page out perfectly, and Mike gives him a look like he's just performed the impossible. When Will moved to hand it over, Mike held out a pencil. "Will you sign it? I want to be able to gloat when you're a famous artist."

Will chuckles, taking the pencil from Mike. As he signs, Mike rambles happily beside him. "People will brag about owning a Will Byers original. But you know what I'll say? I got his art when he was just Will the Wise. I got it before the price tag—because we are best friends."

Will snorted as Mike continued. "I used to play D&D with that guy! And you all only get to look at his pretty artwork."

When Will looked up again, Mike was still going. "Hell, I got to watch him draw! I have a portrait of myself made by his very hands!"

If Mike felt the same way Will did, Will's expression right now would absolutely give him away. He adored Mike—and when it was just the two of them, that adoration was obvious on his face.

"They'll say they learn about you through your art," Mike tells him. "That your pieces tell your story. And I'll get to say I lived that story with him. That I know Will Byers."

Mikes eyes are twinkling again. But Will is simply stuck on that fact that there was no past tense. That Mike talks like he will know Will forever. That in Mikes future, he sees Will there.

"Unlike those phonies. What do they even know about Will Byers?”

Will giggled and handed over the portrait. "Clearly nothing that you know."

Mike met his gaze, eyes playful. "Exactly! I mean, come on—what don't I know?"

Will could've listed several things Mike didn't know—one very big thing—but he only shrugged. "I guess... now that I think about it, I'm not too sure."

Mike let out a content sigh. He looked down at the drawing, then back at Will.

“I think there is something."

Will realized Mike had been talking so animatedly that he'd scooted closer. Their knees now touching. Will's breath hitched. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"

Mike leaned forward slightly, almost challenging.

"The painting."

Will's mind scrambled until—oh. That painting. The one that had consumed months of his life and every unspoken feeling he couldn't say aloud.

"I showed it to El," Mike says. "But she didn't know what I was talking about." His tone isn't angry—just curious. "So clearly she didn't commission it. Right?"

Will stared at anything but Mike. His first ridiculous thought was El, you snitch, before remembering El had no way of knowing. Hell, She'd assumed the painting was for a girl.

It was fine. He could lie his way out of this. But friends don't lie. Except this felt like life or death.

"No," he said quietly. "She didn't."

Mike nodded slowly. Still no anger—just confusion. "So why did you tell me she did? You've made stuff for me all the time. What made this so different?"

And believe that Will had imagined a scenario like this in his head. He felt ashamed that he had the lies on pre-order. But gosh what was he supposed to do?!

"I dunno," he said softly. "It just felt like... you needed it. You and El were struggling, and I just wanted both of you to be happy. So I said what I thought you needed to hear. And none of it was untrue."

Untrue for someone else? Maybe. Untrue for Will? Never.

Mike hummed, looking strangely torn. "Is it weird," he said slowly, "that I would've felt better if what you said... had been how you felt?"

Will froze

What?

Mike sputtered. "I mean—like—I would've felt better if the painting was from you, okay? Sure, El's part of the party now, but you're the original party. It just... makes more sense."

Will tried so hard not to feed into his delusions, but Mike's cheeks were pink and his hands were waving in that flustered way Will recognized in himself.

"Yeah... that makes sense. I don't think El even knows much about D&D," Will said, chuckling at the idea of El trying to play.

Mike grinned, calmer now. "I didn't teach her, so if you didn't, she's clueless."

Will's face said loud and clear that he had not taught El D&D. Mike snickered, the room suddenly light again. Will could breathe.

"I don't think I ever thanked you," Mike said. Will tilts his head in confusion.

"For what?"

"The painting," Mike replied. "I'm really thankful for it. I know those personas are made up, but seeing them brought to life by your hands... it's amazing."

Will wants to tell him that that was sort of the point. But at the same time, it's means so much more to Will. He wonders if Mike will noticed the heart on his characters shield, you're the heart. Or if Mike noticed that Will the Wise flanks the paladin, spell casted and ready to protect their heart.

He wonders if the dragons three heads remind him of the three battles they'd fought when Will first started painting it. Losing Will in the upside down and fighting of the Demogorgon. Will being possessed and fighting off the hive mind. And lastly, fighting of the mind flayer and it the minds it flayed.

Will had no idea that they'd begin another battle when he’d started the painting, and that it would be their biggest one yet. But his point still stands. The party against the world. Will the Wise and Mike the Brave against the world.

But maybe Mike wasn't supposed to see all that. Maybe it was enough that Will could express it secretly, and Mike accepted it without knowing. Mike looked like he wanted to say more, his eyes soft and his whole body relaxed. But then his mom called up the stairs.

Mike groaned. "See you at dinner?" he asked, like Will would ever say no.

Will nodded. Of course. Always.

————

The Byers have been living with the Wheelers for a couple months now, and Mike still isn't used to it. Nor is he used to whatever the fuck is going on in his head. When they first got back to Hawkins, El sat him down to talk about "moving forward."

She told him she loved him with all her heart—always would—but that the love had shifted into something different. She said she figured it out because she could feel the way his emotions had changed. She even referenced the whole "from Mike" situation as her evidence, like it was some kind of case she'd solved.

When Mike tells her he does love her, that he'd always wanted her to need him, El was the one who explained where that feeling actually belonged. Apparently having two brothers now has given her all kinds of insight. She talked about Jonathan—how quick he is to help Will, how protective and attentive he is. She said Jonathan must feel the same way Mike does, because it matches.

Jonathan loves Will with his whole heart, wants Will to need him, because that's what an older brother does. And what kind of older brother would he be if he couldn't?

It's... awkward, going from a romantic relationship to being told that maybe your relationship was meant to be built on the grounding of siblings. That you just wanted to take care of them, help them grow. Mike knows he should treat the conversation seriously, but the thought of incest crosses his mind way too many times. He begs El to stop talking—he gets it, he gets it a little too well—and maybe this is the clarity his emotions needed.

So now, single and newly self-aware, Mike is struggling. Not because he's single, but because there are feelings he no longer has to excuse or shove into dark corners. He used to be good at hiding them, mostly because he honestly believed they didn't exist. But now he's aware, and he's pretty sure he isn't subtle.

I mean seriously—what normal person wakes up before sunrise, sees it's still dark out, and instead of going back to sleep, rolls over just to stare at his best friend? Who is passed out cold, looking half-dead in the way only deeply exhausted people do.

Mike's just happy that Will seems to be sleeping better. Will's had plenty of nightmares—trauma doesn't magically evaporate—and Mike had thought they were getting better. But being back in Hawkins, and after an episode of what Steve calls the "goosies," it's like Will's relapsed.

Mike's learned quickly that Will doesn't like the dark—a dim lamp stays on all night in his bedroom now. Will doesn't like the cold—Mike has piled so many blankets on him that he gets overheated, which oddly comforts him. Sudden noises in the night make Will jump—so Mike has become a light sleeper, always ready to calm him down.

So subtle? Yeah, no. At least it doesn't feel subtle to Mike. But he hopes it seems normal to Will. They've always taken care of each other, always prioritized each other's comfort and safety. And after how awful Mike was while Will was in California, this is the very least he can do.

So now, like a totally normal person, Mike watches Will sleep. Will looks like an entirely different person like this. Mike's seen every version of him—angry, sad, terrified, ecstatic. But peaceful? Relaxed? That's rare. Mike had gotten used to furrowed brows, restless turning, sharp gasps as Will jolted awake.

Now it's quiet. Completely quiet. And all Mike can think is: God, Will deserves this. Three blankets cocoon him, only the top of his head poking out. His face slack and gentle. His hair curling against his forehead, the rest fanned over the pillow. His chest rising and falling in a rhythm Mike could memorize.

There is even a bit of Moonlight that spills faintly through the window, brushing over Will's face. It's almost angelic—and Jesus Christ, Mike needs to get himself together.

His gaze drifts to the portrait hung beside the painting that he finally put up. Will's drawing of him—Mike the Brave—next to Will the Wise. The paladin standing in front of the others, protecting them with his entire heart.

Mike wonders if the painting mean anything. If it reflects any real feeling. Will did call him the heart of the party. People don't say things like that unless they mean them... right?

Then he thinks about the things Will said in the van, the feelings he claimed El had. Mike wants so badly to believe it's bullshit. He'd even tried to say it as Will sketched his face—tried to get the truth out—before backtracking so fast he practically tripped over his own tongue.

Mike meant what he said the first time. He wishes, desperately, that Will said those things because he felt them. Not because El did.

Mike's eyes drift back to Will, still lost in Dream land, still safe. And it hurts—really hurts—to think that maybe that's all it'll ever be.

Just a dream Mike can't have.

————

December is brutal, and Mike never realized how much he takes summer for granted until his room is basically a walk-in freezer. The wet hair probably doesn't help—Nancy's warned him a thousand times it'll make him sick. Whatever. He's lazy.

The dim lamp glows warmly against the winter dark, and Will sits practically on top of it, a blanket slung around his shoulders as he bends over his sketchbook. He's angling the page toward the light, brow furrowed in concentration.

Mike can't really see what he's drawing, but with Will, it's always something cool. And Mike would know—his walls are basically a shrine to Will's art at this point.

But eventually Will lets out a frustrated huff, and Mike swears he hears teeth chattering. His head snaps toward him so fast he's surprised he doesn't dislocate something. 

"Are you cold?" blurts out before he can stop it.

Will glances up, embarrassed at being caught. "No. I'm fine. Really. You guys have already given me enough."

Mike frowns, unimpressed. A look very clearly says you're lying. Before he knows it, he's scooting toward the wall, patting the space beside him. Will stares like Mike has lost his damn mind. Maybe he has—but only one person ever scrambles his brain like this.

"Are you sure?" Will asks. And if Mike had a nickel for every time Will asked that question, he'd be set for life. He rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Yes. Now get your ass over here before you turn into a popsicle."

There's zero room for argument, so even though Will looks uncertain, he gathers all his (Mike's) blankets and settles beside him. Mike throws the comforter over both of them and adds the other blankets on top. And now they're lying shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the ceiling, and Mike is suddenly regretting every decision that led to this moment.

He can feel how stiff Will is. It's like he climbed into bed with a marble statue. And well, he started this. So he turns on his side, and Will immediately looks at him. "Will, I can literally feel you shaking." Will turns away, hands fidgeting where they rest on his chest.

"You can scoot closer if you're still cold. I don't bite," Mike teases, fully expecting Will to remain frozen. But Will peeks back over with that same are you sure expression. Mike offers a soft smile, hoping it reads as reassuring.

It must work, because Will moves closer—close enough that their legs touch under the covers. And god, Will is freezing.

"Dude, when did you get ice cubes for toes? Your feet are freezing!"

Will laughs, then gives him this wicked look Mike knows all too well. Nothing good has ever followed that look. Sure enough, Will deliberately presses his freezing cold feet against Mike's bare legs.

Mike feels like a girl when he screeches. "William! Your feet are literally Antarctic. I beg you—put them away. Or—y'know what—"

He flings the covers off, bolts to his dresser, digs through a drawer, and produces the fuzziest socks he can find. Then he pelts them at Will with the force of a vengeful god.

It's Wills turn to yelp as he throws his arms over his face. The socks bounce off and land beside him. Mike, looking as stern as he can, and pointing at Will with an accusing finger, "You put those damn things on or you're sleeping on the couch."

Will laughs—really laughs. Not a soft giggle, but one of those deep, genuine laughs that shake his whole chest. Mike's heart does about twelve somersaults, and his ears go warm like he's hearing his favorite song. Thankfully, Will grabs the socks, because Mike was absolutely not getting back in that bed until those things were on.

To Mike's shock, once Will has them on, he smacks the empty space beside him with a grin. Mike has never been more thankful for his sense of humor. If he hadn't joked about Will's frostbitten toes, they'd probably still be stuck in awkward misery.

Now, Will watches him climb back into bed with a soft, tired smile. Mike pulls the covers over them again, and now they're hip-to-hip. The tension has drained from Will's shoulders; he lies loose and comfortable beside Mike.

Mike has no complaints.

The room falls quiet, save for a few muffled giggles between them. Mike thinks it might be the best sleep he's gotten in months—especially when he wakes to find Will's head resting on his shoulder, an arm tossed over Mikes chest, still dead to the world, soft snores warming the space between them.

God. Mike was down bad.

————

Will isn't exactly sure when the shift happened. But it didn't take long to notice. If he thought he and Mike were inseparable as kids, he has no idea what to call whatever they are now. Where Will goes, Mike goes. Where Mike goes, Will follows. There are exceptions, sure—but Will could count those on one hand.

When they sit on the couch, they always end up shoulder to shoulder. On colder nights, they still sleep in Mike's bed, hip to hip, pretending it's only about warmth. No one mentions the way they wake up tangled together. Their fingers brush every time they pass something to one another. Their eyes linger a second too long when that happens.

Will keeps insisting to himself that this is just what best friends do. That it's not that different from when they were kids. That they're simply making up for the time they lost when Will was in California.

It also doesn't help that he has no idea what reciprocated feelings look like between two boys. He saw it with Lucas and Max. He saw it when Mike and El were together. But Will is a boy, and Mike is also a boy, and Will genuinely doesn't know what signs he's supposed to be looking for—or if those signs even work the same way.

So Will is both having the time of his life... and suffering what feels like slow, constant heartbreak. He's lost and clueless, sure of nothing except how he himself feels.

"Dude, you're so blind," Lucas tells him one day. It's the one class they alone share, and while they're supposed to be working on a partner assignment, Lucas is far more interested in poking at Will's personal life.

Mike acts different around you.

You get the Will voice. 

You should see how he looks at you. He is so down bad.

Will still isn't convinced. What does Lucas know? Sure, Lucas saw how Max liked him back—but Max is a girl. That's different. It has to be. It can't possibly be that simple, and Will refuses to let himself hope until he's sure.

"Will, I'm telling you. He likes you," Lucas insists. Will huffs. He appreciates the effort, but Lucas will never fully get it.

"Yeah—as a friend," Will mutters. "We've been friends the longest. Obviously we're just... on a different level than you guys."

Lucas clutches his chest dramatically, pretending to be wounded. "Maybe," he says. "But I don't think even best friends cuddle."

Actually, Lucas can absolutely shove it. Will is never telling him anything again.

"I can't control what my body does when I'm asleep!" Will snaps. "What matters is that we fell asleep not cuddling."

Lucas hums, unconvinced. The Yeah, uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that goes unsaid.

And Will will keep telling himself that. Because there is no universe in which Michael Wheeler—his best friend—feels the same way he does. Mike just isn't like that. He dated El. He clearly has a type.

And that type definitely isn't Will.

————

The kicker comes a couple months later, when the door to Mike's room slams open one morning.

The night had been chilly, so Will hadn't hesitated to crawl into Mike's bed. They'd spent an hour doodling in his sketchbook, with Mike giving him increasingly terrible prompts. Which included a version of Mike with a bright orange mohawk. The concept alone horrified Will, but he'd drawn it anyway.

They stayed up later than usual, laughing so hard they had to bury their faces in pillows. Late enough that the rest of the house was awake before they were. Late enough that Ted Wheeler barged in while they both were still under sleeps hold, Mikes name on his tongue.

"Mike! I need you to take your sister to a friends hou—"

He stopped dead, face paling.

In the doorway stood Mr. Wheeler, staring at the two disheveled teenagers who had clearly just woken up. Will saw the horrified look on the man's face and instantly felt all the blood drain from his body. 

He looked like he'd walked in on something far, far worse. And gosh, Will wished—genuinely wished—a demogorgon would claw through the floor and swallow him whole. Anything to escape this nightmare. Mike himself looked startled, sure, but nowhere near as petrified as Will. Why would he be? Mike had nothing to fear. Mike wasn't a que—

Mr. Wheeler said nothing else, he silently closed the door. His heavy footsteps thudded back through the hallway and down the stairs.

Mike shot upright with a muttered, Shit, and launched out of bed. He scrambled around the room, pulling on jeans, socks, whatever he could grab. Will just watched numbly, heart plummeting so fast he felt dizzy.

He'd embarrassed Mike. He'd ruined everything.

Everybody in this town talked; parents gossiped more than teenagers. Ted Wheeler had definitely heard the rumors whispered about Will. And now? Now he probably thought the same things about his own son. That Will had spread whatever disease he had.

"Mike, I'm so—" Will started, voice cracking.

But Mike tugged a sweater over his head and bolted out the door before Will could even finish. The back door could be heard slamming shut seconds later. Will sat frozen for a full minute, staring at the empty doorway. Then panic and humiliation flooded in all at once.

He scrambled out of Mike's bed, heart in his throat.

In two frantic trips, he gathered everything—blankets Mike had given him, the mattress that had practically become his, his overflowing bag of clothes, and his sketchbook. He dragged it all down to the basement, where Jonathan was still dead asleep on the couch.

Will set up his new "bedroom" silently, mechanically. Then he crawled into the cold mattress and pulled the covers to his chin.

It was early.

He was mortified.

He was heartbroken.

Goddammit he was going back to bed.

————

There was another shift after that—one that definitely wasn't in Will's favor. It was like he'd been dropped right back into California, staring across a distance so wide it made talking to Mike feel impossible. Whenever they ended up alone together, the room filled with a thick, awkward tension, something heavy and unsaid pressing against both of them. And Will knew why. Mike had to be mad at him for ruining his image, for embarrassing him in front of his dad.

Will told himself he deserved it. He knew that Lucas had been wrong, that Will himself had been wrong from the start for letting feelings grow where they didn't belong—feelings that weren't supposed to exist in this world, not for him. 

So if Mike wanted distance, if that was the price for Will's mistake, then he'd give it to him. Even if it tore something inside him a little more each day.

————

"So how did you know, with Vickie, Right? How did you know that Vickie wanted to—"

"Make out?"

"—to date?"

"Oh well we volunteered together. You know, there were, like, signals."

"Signals?"

"Yeah you know like a brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look. It all just kind of accrued like a snowball rolling down a hill, until it was obvious."

"How obvious?"

"Let's say the, uh, snowball became avalanche." 

And suddenly the last eighteen months race through Will's head like a montage. Mike's soft touches in moments where they absolutely weren't required. That tone of voice he used for no one but Will. The way Mike held his gaze with something warm and gentle, something that made Will's chest ache. The mornings tangled together in Mike's bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. And—most terrifying of all—how Mike had looked like he enjoyed it.

Will can't help but think that It would be the end of the world when he finally thinks that Mikes feelings just might be a replica of his own.