Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Mike Wheeler is in trouble, real trouble, and the worst part is that he can’t even explain why.

He’s never felt like this before, not even during the messiest, most embarrassing moments of his life. And he’s not talking about the time he got caught cheating on a test, or when he tripped down the stairs in front of half the school. No.

He’s thinking about the real nightmares, the kind with teeth and claws and government cover-ups. The kind where he was chased by a demogorgon through the woods, or when a helicopter exploded right beside him… though, to be fair, that one was El’s doing.

But this? Waking up like this? It feels worse, somehow.

He jerks awake all at once, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts, drenched in sweat despite the bite of mid-October cold seeping through his window. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his hands tremble against the sheets, and his breath comes in shallow, uneven pulls. 

He knows he dreamed something awful, more than awful. A full-blown nightmare. And yet he can’t catch even a corner of it. Every time he tries, the memory slips away like water through his fingers.

He shifts restlessly under the covers, already irritated with himself. Mike Wheeler simply isn’t an “I have nightmares” kind of guy. He never has been. That’s more Dustin’s department. And still, here he is, absolutely certain something terrified him in his sleep with no idea what it was.

He drags a shaky hand through his damp hair, trying to steady his breathing, to force the dream back into focus, but nothing. Just a hollow, buzzing feeling in his chest. His gaze drifts toward the alarm clock, glowing too brightly in the dark. 

It’s not even six-thirty. Great. Perfect.

With a reluctant groan, Mike pushes himself out of bed. Today already feels wrong, and he’s not even standing yet. His own skin feels too tight, like he’s wearing a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit. 

He still can’t remember the dream, not even when he reaches the bathroom and splashes freezing water on his face, noticing the faint flush on his cheeks that shouldn’t be there.

The house is silent, eerily silent. Lately that’s been rare, at least since the Byers moved in. Mike doesn’t mind that, not really; his dad does, but Mike actually enjoys getting under his skin.

So he exhales, long and slow, and lets the cold water run down his face as if it could wash the unease out of him. He doesn’t want to start his Saturday like this, not today, not on movie-night day.

It takes him a moment to realize someone is knocking at the bathroom door. And it takes him another beat to realize he’s been in the bathroom for nearly an hour, an entire one, without noticing. At some point, time simply slipped away from him. Which means Miss Byers, or “Just Joyce,” as she always insists, must already be awake too. Just like him.

The realization hits him so abruptly that the words tumble out of his mouth in a jumble of half-formed syllables. 

He’s not even sure what he says. All he knows is that, for some ridiculous reason, he’s frantically smoothing down his hair, as if that might undo the fact that he’s been standing here staring at his own reflection like an idiot for sixty straight minutes. Which, apparently, is exactly what he’s been doing.

“Morning!” Mike chirps, too brightly and too high-pitched. He sounds exhausted. Joyce looks just as tired, giving him a distracted glance and a soft, worn-out smile that says she’s been awake since long before she wanted to be.

Quarantine hasn’t been easy on anyone. Mike knows that. 

But having his best friend around every hour of every day has turned life into something that feels like a perpetual sleepover. Even if they don’t actually share a bed, and even if, over the last seventeen months, they’ve only slept in the same room twice, three times, at most.

Mike exhales, the kind of breath that feels heavier than it should. 

His mind flickers, unbidden, and suddenly Will is there: Will laughing at something stupid, Will curled up with a sketchbook, Will in one of those oversized sweaters that swallow his shoulders. And the moment the image forms, something twists under Mike’s skin. A flutter, a jolt, a strange throb of discomfort that isn’t really discomfort at all.

For some reason, thinking about Will this morning makes him feel… off. Unsettled. Wrong in a way he can’t name. And the worst part is that he can’t shake the feeling that it’s connected to the nightmare he can’t remember.

Mike slips down the hallway toward his room, moving on the balls of his feet, instinctively trying not to make a sound. He doesn’t want to wake anyone, though it hits him almost immediately that the house is already alive.

From the kitchen, he hears Jonathan’s low voice blending with Nancy’s, the familiar rhythm of two people who have been orbiting each other for years. A second later, Holly’s bright giggle cuts through the quiet morning, followed by—

Will.

Mike swallows hard the moment he recognizes that voice. Will is saying something to her, some kind of joke or gentle tease that earns another delighted burst of laughter.

Mike freezes mid-step, breath catching. His pulse jumps, slamming against his ribs as fragmented and quick flashes burst behind his eyes. Not images, exactly. More like sensations. A presence.

Someone.

And then, suddenly, hands. Warm. Careful. Sliding along his jaw, cupping his face like he was made of something breakable.

The memory, or whatever it is, hits him so sharply he almost flinches.

Mike swallows again, but his throat feels tight. The echo of that touch lingers on his skin, impossibly vivid for something he doesn’t remember living.

Almost on autopilot, Mike drifts down the stairs, completely forgetting his earlier plan to disappear from the world for as long as humanly possible. A faint smile tugs at his lips as he approaches the kitchen, drawn in by the familiar, messy chaos spilling out of it: Nancy arguing with Jonathan about something that sounds like burnt pancakes, Holly still giggling, and Will’s voice weaving through all of it.

Mike stops in the doorway, watching them from a distance.

He likes this, he likes this sense of fullness he gets when the Byers are here. When Will is here. Will in his house. Will in his kitchen, laughing with his little sister. He freezes at the thought, a sudden swallow sticking in his throat. God. He has no idea what’s wrong with him this morning.

“Morning. It’s weird seeing you up already,” Nancy teases, turning just in time to catch him lingering there.

Mike’s face burns instantly. Perfect. Now they’re all looking at him, and he feels caught in the act, even though none of them have the slightest clue what he was actually doing: staring at Will like some kind of sleep-deprived creep.

He scratches the back of his neck and pulls a dramatic grimace as he heads for the fridge, desperately trying to look normal. He tries to ignore Will entirely, sitting at the end of the table like he always does, quiet and gentle and perfectly unaware of how Mike’s nerves are spiraling. It’s almost as if Mike himself doesn’t want to be noticed.

But Will is there, and even though he isn’t paying Mike any attention, Mike is painfully aware of him. He can hear him. He can feel him. And he hates how his brain instinctively tunes out every other voice in the room just to focus on his.

Then it happens again.

The moment Mike bends into the fridge to search for the orange juice, the flashes return, and they are rapid-fire images, sounds, sensations. A rush of breath, quick and hot near his ear. Then slow, softer, like someone calming down after laughing. Quiet giggles, intimate and close. And finally a voice. Familiar. Whispering his name in the dark of his bedroom.

Will’s voice.

The juice container nearly slips from Mike’s hands the moment the truth hits him hard and cold, like a bucket of ice straight to the spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rising unpleasantly. He’s remembering Will.

Not the kitchen Will, not the real-life Will in front of him, but the Will from his dream. Which means it wasn’t an actual nightmare. Not even close.

“Are you okay?” Will asks softly, suddenly right beside him at the fridge.

Mike doesn’t remember seeing him get up. One moment Will was laughing with Holly; the next, he’s standing close enough that Mike can feel the warmth he’s radiating. Mike jerks around so quickly the carton of juice crinkles in his grip, held way too tight against his chest.

“What?” he blurts, way too loud, voice cracking with nerves he can’t hide.

Will blinks, head tilting in that gentle, curious way that has always been Mike’s downfall. Mike meets his eyes for barely a heartbeat before tearing his gaze away, because the second their eyes lock, there it is again.

The flashes.

Eyes, bright and alive and impossibly close, looking at him in the dark of his bedroom. Will looking at him. Will staring at him like he’s something precious.

And then those same eyes half-lidded, soft, intimate—

“I said, are you okay?” Will repeats, quieter now, a little confused, his voice dipping in concern. His lips move gently around the words, and that’s all it takes.

Mike’s breath stutters. Because in the half-memory flickering behind his eyes, those lips weren’t speaking.

They were pressed against his, close enough to swallow his breath, close enough to leave him shaking when he woke up. And now they’re inches away again.

Mike’s throat feels impossibly dry, sandpaper and dust. He can’t force out a single word. He can’t even think of one. His mind is blank except for the unbearable fact that his eyes keep drifting toward Will’s mouth.

And suddenly he’s noticing things he wishes he weren’t.

Like the way Will’s upper lip is a little fuller than the lower one, how has he never seen that before? Or the faint red mark where Will must’ve bitten down only minutes earlier. Or the way his lips curl up, just slightly, when he smells something burning in the kitchen; it’s the perfect distraction, the perfect excuse, and Mike grabs it like a lifeline.

“Just—headache,” he lies, words tumbling out as he snatches a charred pancake with all the grace of a panicked animal. He bites into it as he backs away, then bolts for the stairs, running away from Will.

His heart slams in his chest, and it has nothing to do with sprinting. His head is a mess, a storm of tangled thoughts, and every single one of them leads straight back to Will.

And to his stupid, impossible dream.

By the time he reaches his room and manages to slip inside, he’s shaking all over. He shuts the door, presses his back against it, and slides down until he hits the floor. And that’s when it crashes into him, the memory. All of it. Every detail.

Will’s body, warm and solid, pressing him into the mattress. Will’s cold hands slipping under his sweatshirt, making him gasp. Will’s breath against his ear, followed by a soft, breathy giggle.

And then—God—Will’s lips on his, their mouths meeting again and again as they made out on his bed, tangled together in the dark, their breaths mixing, their hands everywhere, that dizzy heat; Mike drags both hands through his hair, shaking. He’s trembling and he hadn’t even realized it until now.

He dreamed about making out with Will Byers. Will. His best friend.

Will.

Mike feels sick. Like he’s the world’s biggest idiot. Like he’s betraying everyone all at once. Guilt hits him hard, crushing and cold, because he’s never even dreamed of El that way. Not once or ever.

And that truth terrifies him more than the dream itself. 

He gets up and starts pacing, short and frantic steps across the floor, back and forth and back again, because standing still feels impossible. His palms are sweating, sliding helplessly against the sides of his pants every time he wipes them down, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Because somewhere between his fifth and sixth pass across the room, the truth slams into him with breathtaking clarity. He’s not disgusted or horrified. He’s not feeling any of the things he knows he’s supposed to feel. Instead, something far more dangerous coils hot and alive in his chest, a burn of intensity and of curiosity and of bone-deep guilt all tangled into one unbearable knot.

Because whatever he felt in that dream, like that heat or that closeness and that dizzy, aching pull: he wants it again. Here, now, in this room. On his bed.

Mike Wheeler wants to kiss Will Byers, wants it with a sharpness that knocks the air out of him. Wants Will pressed against him, real and solid and breathing the same air. Wants the dream without the fog of sleep between them.

“No,” Mike mumbles to himself, shaking his head violently, like he can fling the thought away before it settles too deeply. Terror lashes through him, because wanting Will? That’s unthinkable.

The panic hits him like a cold wave. It crawls under his skin, tightens around his chest, clouds his mind. Mike can feel his heartbeat racing too fast, like it’s trying to escape before he does. 

He can’t believe this is happening to him. Not now. Not when his relationship with El has finally, at least on the surface, stopped wobbling. Not when he already feels like he’s balancing a thousand other problems. Not when he just told El I love you and how that sentence is eating him alive since the moment he said it.

Because he knows he did because he had to, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, because it was what everyone expected from him. Not because he truly felt it.

He does love her, of course he does… but not like that. Not in the way he claimed to love her in California. Not in the way you’re supposed to love a girl when you say those words out loud. Not if his mind keeps circling back to Will in his dream, again and again, refusing to give him a single moment of peace.

He feels like a coward. Like a complete, irredeemable bastard. Because, of course, it’s all his fault. 

Maybe he should never have stayed up all night, talking to Will over the walkie-talkie. That must be it, of course it is. That’s why he dreamed about Will. Will was the last person he spoke to before sleep swallowed him whole. It’s the hormones, he tells himself. He needs El, he needs to kiss her to feel those same sensations he felt in his dream.

Mike shakes his head violently, trying to wrestle his thoughts into submission. It’s just his mind playing cruel tricks. Rational, harmless tricks. The dream doesn’t mean anything. Absolutely nothing. He won’t dream like that again. Ever. He decides it firmly. Problem solved.

He straightens his back, forcing his legs to carry him. A hot shower, he tells himself, will wash away every insane, dizzying thought. He only needs a long, scalding shower to reset his brain, to wash away the heat and the guilt and the longing.

But even under the relentless spray of hot water, he can’t stop thinking about Will. About the dream. About that impossible, maddening closeness.

And this time, somehow, he doesn’t panic. He forces himself to breathe through it, repeating it in his head like a mantra: it’s normal, it’s just a dream, it doesn’t mean anything. He tells himself this as he towels off, as he carefully avoids looking at Will lounging on the couch, as he slips past the house without answering a single question, yelling a simple “Going to El!” as he literally bolts from the front door.

He grabs his bike and pedals with every ounce of energy he has, legs burning, lungs heaving, heart pounding in a desperate rhythm, until he’s far enough away, at last outside El’s house, to finally hope that, maybe, just maybe, he can quiet his racing thoughts.

El definitely isn’t expecting to find him standing on her doorstep, breathless and flushed and looking like he’s been running from something he can’t outrun. She barely has time to open her mouth to say his name before Mike surges forward and presses his lips to hers with a force and urgency she hasn’t felt in months.

She gasps, startled, then melts almost instantly, a small laugh fluttering in her chest as she kisses him back.

“Mike— what are you—” she manages between breaths, but he doesn’t let her finish. He just leans in again, his lips chasing hers like he’s drowning and she’s the only air left in the world.

“Hi,” she whispers against his mouth, smiling.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice tight, and kisses her again.

“Is everything—?”

Another kiss. Harder this time.

“Mike,” she tries, breathless, “slow down, you’re—”

But he doesn’t. He can’t. He cups her face with trembling hands and kisses her like the act itself could erase something, overwrite something, bury something deep enough that he’ll never have to look at it again. He kisses her even though the angle is wrong, even though it feels strange, even though he can’t stop noticing the difference, her lips against his instead of the ones he remembers from the dream.

“Mike,” she laughs softly, confused but flattered, glancing over his shoulder as if Hopper might appear any second. “What’s gotten into you?”

He kisses her again so she doesn’t ask. So she doesn’t look too closely. So he doesn’t have to answer.

If he just keeps going, he tells himself, it’ll feel right again. It’ll feel good, familiar, warm. It always has. This is El. His girlfriend. The girl he’s supposed to love. The girl he does love, maybe just not in the way he said in California, not in the way he tried to force the words out.

If he kisses her enough times, the dream will fade. The memory of Will’s mouth against his will dissolve. The heat curling low in his stomach when he thinks of Will will burn itself out.

He clings to that hope.

But the truth hits him, sharp and devastating, with every passing second.

Because as he kisses El, again, and again, and again, he feels nothing but the hollow echo of what he wants to feel. There’s no spark. No fire. No dizzying rush. No warmth blooming in his chest.

Just the heavy, sinking realization that the kiss he’s trying so desperately to recreate isn’t hers. And Mike Wheeler knows, with sickening clarity, that he is terribly, catastrophically wrong.

It doesn’t stop him from spending the whole day far, far away from home. It doesn’t stop him from sticking close to El as if staying with her long enough might drown out the noise in his head.

And it certainly doesn’t stop him from asking her, too quickly, to skip training. Just this once. El lights up at the idea, delighted by this sudden attention she’s convinced is all for her.

She doesn’t notice that Mike’s mind keeps drifting, that his smiles feel stretched thin, that even when he squeezes her hand his eyes are elsewhere.

She rambles through the hours: about Hopper, about a new book Joyce bought her, about her latest visit into Max’s mind and Mike answers in soft, distracted echoes. But truthfully?

His thoughts keep circling back to Will, no matter how fiercely he tries to force them away. By the time the sky bleeds into orange, he’s wrung out, exhausted from fighting his own brain and he bikes off before she can ask why his voice sounds so thin.

For reasons he can’t even begin to understand and definitely can’t justify, Mike expects to walk into the living room and find Will exactly where he left him that morning: curled comfortably into the corner of the couch, socked feet tucked under him, maybe sketching something or talking softly to Holly.

Some part of him is absurdly certain Will will be there, waiting. Like the day hasn’t shifted off its axis. But the couch is empty. The room feels still, dim, and strangely hollow, like the air has been drained out of it. No laughter. No soft humming. No presence Mike can feel even with his back turned.

The absence knocks the breath out of him.

His stomach sinks, heavy and guilty. He spent an entire day dodging Will like he was made of fire, like looking at him might burn him alive. And now… Will’s simply gone.

“Finally home,” his mother calls, breaking his trance.

Karen pokes her head out from the kitchen doorway, a towel slung over her shoulder and the smell of roasted something hanging in the air. She gives him a look that is equal parts relieved and mildly accusatory. “Where on earth were you all day? You left in the morning and never came back.”

Mike shrugs, shifting his weight awkwardly, still staring at the empty couch.

“I said I was going to El,” he says, and even he can hear how flat and unconvincing it sounds. “Missed her.”

Karen lifts an eyebrow, the you’re hiding something eyebrow, but she lets it go. She turns back into the kitchen, plates clinking softly as she resumes her work.

“Oh,” she adds, tone breezy, “Lucas called. He said movie night is still happening. You’re going, right?”

Mike blinks. Movie night.

He had entirely forgotten about it. Yesterday he was excited, today it feels like a relic of some distant past where his brain wasn’t sabotaging him.

“Yeah, I—yeah. I’m going,” he says, though he sounds like someone reciting lines he’s only half memorized. Something presses insistently at the back of Mike’s tongue, more urgent than his mother’s questions, more immediate than the sting of guilt settling into his chest.

Where’s Will?

The thought burns hot and uninvited.

And somehow, as if she’s always had the ridiculous superpower of sensing what her children are thinking, Karen glances at him with a knowing little hum.

“Oh—right, I forgot to tell you.” She gestures vaguely toward the living room, completely oblivious to the way Mike stiffens. “Will is already there, so don’t search for him. He spent the whole day at the Sinclairs’. Honestly, it was funny…both my boys were gone all day. The house was too quiet.”

Mike swallows, slowly and tightly, like the motion scrapes going down. Will. At Lucas’s. All day.

His stomach twists. Something complicated and sour coils underneath his ribs, an emotion he refuses to name. It’s irrational. It’s stupid. It’s unfair. He knows that. Will can spend time with whoever he wants. Will owes him nothing. And Lucas is one of his best friends too.

He forces a thin, brittle smile. Will was not waiting for him to come back home. “That’s… cool,” he manages. But his voice sounds like someone else’s.

Mike reaches the Sinclair house thirty minutes later.

He should have been there sooner, but he wasted precious minutes fending off Holly, who had burst into dramatic tears upon learning she couldn’t tag along for movie night. It took bribing her with promises of leftover brownies for her to finally let go of his sleeve.

By the time he’s standing on Lucas’s porch, cold air scraping his lungs, Mike is exhausted and desperately trying to calm the storm in his chest. 

It’ll be fine, it’s just been a weird day. That’s all. He’ll see Will, and it won’t feel like anything. And that’ll prove it: the dream didn’t change anything.

You’re fine. You’re totally, completely fine. He repeats the lie like a prayer as he knocks.

The door swings open. And everything in his chest stops.

Because Will is the one standing there.

Will, with his hair still ruffled from the wind, sweater sleeves pushed up absentmindedly, a faint glow on his cheeks like he’s been laughing for hours. And he is laughing, he has that tiny, crooked half-smirk he does when something’s genuinely funny, the kind of smile that shows up naturally, effortlessly.

And then Will’s eyes meet his.

Green, clear, bright, like someone turned the world up a notch.

“Hey,” Will says, soft and warm, and his lips curl into a small, amused grin. Mike’s gaze drops to them before he can stop himself. Lips, soft ones, curved in a smile.

The same ones against his in that dream. He swallows so hard it hurts.

He jerks his eyes up again, too fast, because he can feel the panic clawing up his throat. He forces his shoulders back, tries to look normal, tries to breathe.

“H–hey,” he croaks, sounding like someone who forgot how words work. “Uh—sorry, I—hi.” Smooth. Very smooth.

Will’s brows pinch, like he’s trying not to laugh.

Mike clears his throat, steps past him, and instantly regrets it, because squeezing by Will means brushing so close their sleeves nearly touch. And he swears he can feel shivers down his spine.

Inside, Lucas and Dustin are sprawled on the floor surrounded by soda cans, popcorn bowls, and at least three remote controls no one knows how to use.

“Oh, look who finally showed up,” Dustin announces dramatically, waving a handful of red vines like an accusation. “Did you get lost? Or just ditching us for your girlfriend again?” Mike sputters something unintelligible, cheeks flaring hot. Will must have told them. 

Lucas snorts. “Relax, Henderson. Let him sit down before you interrogate him.” Mike lowers himself onto the couch, trying to act normal.

Act cool.

Act like his entire worldview didn’t just explode under the pressure of Will Byers’ smile. He can feel Will’s presence next to him, exactly three feet away on the couch, like gravity is stronger there. He can hear Will shifting, hear the brush of fabric, hear the faint hitch of a breath.

And that is all it takes to send Mike’s pulse into an unsteady sprint. He keeps his eyes glued to the TV. Mike scrambles for something that will make him sound normal. Casual and unbothered. Like he hasn’t spent the entire day having a crisis over Will Byers’ mouth.

Dustin raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Well,” Mike finally blurts, “sorry I’m late, but unlike you, some of us actually have… uh… lives.” It comes out flat, dead on arrival. Dustin stares. Lucas stares.

Even Will blinks like he’s not sure whether Mike is joking, faint amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth, but not enough to save him.

“That wasn’t even close to funny,” Dustin mutters, unimpressed.

“Shut up, Henderson,” Mike grumbles, sinking lower into the couch and wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

A moment later Lucas hops onto the couch, right next to Will, shoulder bumping his as he settles in. Will nudges him back with a laugh, easy and familiar, like the two of them have been sharing some inside joke since sunrise.

Mike tries not to notice. He fails instantly.

He tries not to notice the way Will leans toward Lucas to say something under his breath, something that makes Lucas snort loudly.

He tries not to notice that Will’s smile is softer when he looks at Lucas, like they’ve been in sync all day. Like they’ve been orbiting each other while Mike was off spiraling alone.

He tries not to notice anything. Anything at all.

But he notices everything.

Why is Will sitting so close to him? Why are they laughing like that? Why does it twist hot and unpleasant in Mike’s stomach every time Lucas elbows Will playfully?

And why now, of all times, is Mike suddenly aware of every tiny interaction between them? He digs his nails into the fabric, mentally chanting at himself to get a grip. It’s stupid.

He has no right to feel like this. Will isn’t his. Will isn’t obligated to look at him. Will isn’t required to save his smiles for him. Lucas is one of Will’s best friends too, so of course they can hang out. Of course they can laugh. Of course Will can sit next to him without it meaning anything. So why does it feel like a punch in the gut?

Mike shifts uncomfortably, throat tight. Because the truth is painfully, humiliatingly simple: Will’s attention isn’t on him. Not even a little. It’s on Lucas. And now Mike can’t stop seeing it, can’t stop feeling it, like a splinter under his skin. A reminder, sharp and unwelcome that he’s not the center of Will’s world. Will has not spent his entire day thinking about him like he did. 

Mike stares rigidly at the TV, pretending to watch, pretending not to care. But every laugh Will shares with Lucas cuts a little deeper. And that’s when it hits him, sudden and brutally clear: he’s jealous because Will’s attention isn’t on him tonight. 

Dustin explodes into laughter at some joke on the screen, but Mike couldn’t explain what’s happening in the movie if his life depended on it. He hasn’t tracked a single scene. Not one. His eyes keep drifting to the middle cushion of the couch and every time they do, it’s like lighting a fuse in his chest.

Will and Lucas.

They’re still laughing together. Still leaning in toward each other. Still whispering like they’ve got some secret all to themselves.

And Will keeps tilting his head toward Lucas, that tiny, automatic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one Mike used to think was reserved for him. It needles him. It crawls under his skin. And he hates that it does.

He hates that he’s acting like this. He hates that it feels personal. Because Will’s attention isn’t on him. Not once. Dustin bursts out laughing again at something Lucas says this time, and Will joins in completely oblivious to the way Mike’s jaw tightens.

And before Mike can stop himself, before he can reel the words back in, he snaps, low and sharp and absolutely directed at the wrong two people:

“Seriously? What’s even that funny?”

The irritation bleeds through every syllable, unmistakably aimed at Will and Lucas. And the moment the words leave his mouth, Mike knows he’s screwed, because it wasn’t about the joke at all. It was about them.

Lucas stares at him for a long, incredulous second before his expression twists like he’s picking up a bad smell. “Seriously, what is wrong with you tonight?” he snaps, pointing the remote at Mike as if it’s a loaded weapon. “You walked in with that storm-cloud face and you haven’t dropped it once.”

Mike parts his lips to answer, but Lucas barrels right over him. “And by the way, you apparently spent the entire day with El. The entire day. So don’t tell me nothing happened, because you’ve been acting like—”

“Nothing happened,” Mike cuts in, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “Okay? Nothing happened.”

Lucas blinks, thrown for half a second. “So what, you’re just… naturally a jerk now?” he asks, voice dripping sarcasm. “Because you’ve been glaring holes in Will and me all night, and I’m starting to think you’ve got some sort of problem.”

“I don’t—” But Mike does. He knows he does. He can feel it boiling under his skin, all that irritation he can’t explain, all that heat that flares every time Will leans in toward Lucas to whisper something, every time Will laughs at something that isn’t him.

Lucas raises his eyebrows, folding his arms. “Really, Mike, did you guys fight? You and El? Did something happen?”

Mike’s jaw tightens. No. Nothing happened with El. Nothing at all. And that’s exactly the problem, because he keeps thinking about Will instead, thinking about Will’s eyes, Will’s smile, Will’s stupid soft laugh— “Take a breath, man,” Lucas says, tone going flat. “Better yet, take it outside. You’re killing the vibe in here.”

It’s meant as a jab, but it lands like a shove. Mike pushes himself up from the couch, exasperated, humiliated, furious at Lucas, furious at himself, furious at the entire damn evening. He steps out into the backyard, the cold air hitting him like a slap. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing, trying to steady the chaotic mess in his head.

He gets maybe twenty seconds of solitude.

Then the door clicks open behind him, soft and hesitant, and footsteps follow.

Will.

Of course it’s Will.

Mike lets out a laugh and drags a hand through his hair, catching on a knot he’s been ignoring for days. It stings, but not as much as the mess inside his chest.

Will stands framed in the doorway, swallowed by the warm light from the living room. His posture is small, hesitant, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other hanging uselessly at his side. When Mike finally lifts his eyes to meet his, he finds confusion there… and something softer. Something warm. Something that should not make his stomach twist the way it does.

It only makes everything worse.

“I don’t need your advice right now, Will.”

Mike exhales the words like a curse, sharper than he intends, frustration curdling into cruelty. It’s instinct, self-defense, whatever. Mike Wheeler has always been good at pushing away the people he cares about most.

But the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he sees it, Will’s face falls, the hurt flickering across his eyes, delicate and devastating. It punches the breath out of Mike’s chest. He hates himself for it. Hates how automatic it is. Hates that it’s Will standing there, absorbing the blow.

Will steps forward anyway. Of course he does. Because he’s Will, because he’s good and patient and impossibly loyal, because he never walks away even when Mike practically hands him a reason to.

“Mike…” Will’s voice is soft, careful, the way someone speaks to a wounded animal. He takes another slow step into the yard, the grass whispering under his shoes. “I just wanted to check on you.”

And that’s exactly the problem. Will being kind. Will being close. Will caring.

Mike’s heartbeat kicks up painfully. He looks away, jaw tight, trying to shield himself from that gentleness, because every time Will looks at him like that, something inside him unravels. He can’t stop thinking about him. And he doesn’t know how the hell he missed it for so long.

Flashes of moments crowd his brain, small and stupid things that now glow with a meaning he never saw: like the way he feels this irresistible urge to touch him every single time Will is close; or his fingers itching with the urge to push his hair out of his eyes every time Will’s hair fall on his face. And his fingers lingering on Will’s wrist a second too long when passing him a pencil, his knee always bumping Will’s under the table, even when there is plenty of room. His chin on Will’s shoulder while pretending to read whatever he is drawing. His stomach twisting painfully every time someone dares to mention that someone likes Will, every time El casually brings up that Will has a crush on a girl.

And most of all, how his chest tightens, warm and stupid, every time Will laughs at something he says, even the unfunny jokes he makes just to hear Will laugh.

And God, every time Will gets hurt, even just a scraped knee or a stupid paper cut, Mike feels this bolt of panic, this need to make it better with his own hands. He used to tell himself it was “because that’s what friends do.” Now he knows better.

His thoughts keep drifting to the rare nights during those seventeen months when Will would fall asleep on his bed while they talked, and Mike would lie there in the dark, quietly watching him, his chest tightening with a silent, unspoken affection he had never dared to name.

And now, with Will standing right in front of him, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin everything, Mike’s breath stutters.

“Mike, talk to me,” Will says gently, searching his face. And Mike wants to.

Oh, he wants to. But every thought in his head is loud and terrifying and shaped like I like you, and he has no idea how to cage that, how to hide it, how to stop it from bleeding into the space between them. So he swallows hard, eyes fixed on the ground, because looking at Will right now feels like freefall.

All because of a stupid, useless dream. 

Mike takes a step back, then another, until the cool night air feels like it’s pressing against his spine. He folds his arms across his chest like that might hold him together, like it might keep everything from spilling out.

“You don’t get it,” he says, and his voice comes out wrong, too sharp. Meant to cut. Meant to make Will stop looking at him like that. “You should’ve just stayed inside.” Will flinches at that, just barely, and that should be enough. It should make Mike stop.

It doesn’t.

“I’ve had a day, okay?” Mike keeps going, words tumbling out faster now, tripping over each other. “And you just, you make it worse without even trying.”

He laughs, breathless and brittle. “I couldn’t even think straight. Not for one second. I kept—” He stops short, jaw clenching, like he’s caught himself saying too much. Then he shakes his head, frustrated. “I mean, all day. I couldn’t shut it off.”

Will’s brow furrows. “Mike, what are you talking about? Is this about El?”

Mike drags a hand down his face. “That stupid dream,” he mutters, like it’s an accusation. “I wake up and it’s still there, stuck in my head, and then I try to be normal, I try to fix it, and it just… doesn’t work.”

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes fixed somewhere over Will’s shoulder. “I went to El. I kissed her. I thought that would… I don’t know. Reset things.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “But it didn’t fix a damn thing,” he snaps, the words coming out rough, scraped raw by frustration. “Because every time I kissed her—”

He stops himself too late. His jaw tightens, breath stuttering, like he’s hit a wall inside his own chest.

Will takes a step closer. “Every time you kissed her, what?”

Mike laughs, sharp and bitter. “Don’t,” he says immediately, holding a hand up like he can physically stop this from going any further. “Don’t do that thing where you look at me like you’re trying to understand me.”

“I’m just asking,” Will replies, quieter now, but there’s something defensive under it. Hurt, maybe. “You’re the one yelling at me like I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Mike fires back instantly and then, because nothing is simple, he adds, “That’s the problem.”

Will exhales, frustrated. “Then why are you taking it out on me?”

Mike’s shoulders tense. He paces a step to the side, then back again, restless and cornered, like a caged animal that can’t find the exit.

“Because I can’t fucking get you out of my head,” he blurts, anger fraying the edges of his voice. He doesn’t stop there. He can’t.

“And I hate it,” he adds immediately, words spilling faster now, tripping over each other. “I’ve been like this all day. All day I felt wrong, like something was clawing at me from the inside, and then I come back here and—” He gestures vaguely toward the house behind them, toward the living room, toward the couch. “—you’re laughing, you’re leaning into Lucas like everything’s fine.”

Will stiffens. “What—”

“I’m jealous,” Mike snaps before Will can finish, the admission ripping itself out of him with surprising force. “Okay? There. I said it.” He laughs again, breathless and sharp. “Which is stupid, because I don’t get to be. I don’t own you. I know that. I know you and Lucas are friends. But it still—” He presses a hand flat against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “It still makes me feel sick.”

Will opens his mouth again, but Mike barrels right over him, voice rising, frantic.

“And I tried to fix it,” Mike continues, pacing again, hands shaking now. “I went to El. I kissed her like I was supposed to. Like that was going to reset everything.” He repeats once again.

He stops abruptly, jaw tight. “And it didn’t do anything. Nothing. I felt empty.” His voice drops, rough and exposed. “And the whole time I was kissing her, I was wishing she wasn’t her.”

Silence crashes down between them.

Mike exhales hard, eyes darting away, then back to Will like he can’t help himself. “I just keep thinking about you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense. “There’s something about your voice or the way you look at me. And it’s driving me insane, because I shouldn’t want what I want.”

Will finally finds his voice. “Mike, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Mike cuts in immediately, panic flaring. “I don’t want you to tell me I’m confused or tired or just stressed or whatever. Because I know what that feels like, and this isn’t it.” He stops moving. Stands still. Looks at Will properly for the first time.

Mike cuts himself off like he’s gone too far. His breathing turns shallow, uneven, his gaze dropping to the ground before he can stop it. When it lifts again, it finds Will almost by accident. He feels sick to his stomach, because he’s just confessed something there’s no coming back from now, because he’s just crossed a line he can’t uncross, maybe even ruined their friendship for good. Because Will is looking at him, and for the first time, Mike can’t tell what’s behind his eyes.

Will doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is lower than usual, tight with something carefully held back.

“Do you think it’s easy for me?”

Mike’s head snaps up.

Will takes a step forward, then stops, like he’s weighing how much he can afford to say without breaking something. “You keep acting like you’re the only one losing sleep over this,” he says quietly, and there’s a trace of frustration there, soft but unmistakable. “Like I don’t… feel it.”

Mike stares at him, stunned. “Feel… what?”

Will swallows. His hands curl into the sleeves of his jacket, knuckles whitening. “You,” he says, and it sounds like an admission he’s been rehearsing for years. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Mike. Longer than I should’ve. I just—” He lets out a shaky breath. “I never thought it mattered. I never thought you saw me that way. Never even had the courage to tell you.”

The words land hard.

Mike’s chest tightens painfully, his throat burning. He takes a step forward without thinking, then another. Will liked him. His best friend likes him.

Mike doesn’t know what to say, or how to say any of it, because every variable in this whole messed-up situation seems stacked against them. The timing. El. The others inside. Everything he’s done wrong. Everything he’s felt and buried.

So he blurts the simplest, scariest question instead.

“Do you… like me?”

The words leave his mouth rough and uncertain, but the moment they’re out, something inside his chest loosens. Just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough to feel lighter than he has all day.

Because Will liking him feels right in a way nothing else has. Because for the first time in so long, Mike doesn’t feel like he’s forcing himself into emotions that don’t fit. Will doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Mike, eyes still glassy, still honest.

Mike swallows hard. He wonders if he should admit, out loud, that he doesn’t love El, that whatever he’s been holding onto there has already slipped through his fingers. He wonders if he’s brave enough to tell the truth, brave enough to not hurt Will in the process.

His voice drops to a whisper. “I like you too.”

The admission lands softly, but it shakes him to his core. It feels less like something he’s telling Will and more like something he’s finally allowing himself to hear. Something that’s been there for months, longer than he wants to admit. Longer than the dream. The dream wasn’t the beginning; it was just the moment everything spilled over.

No matter how many times he’d clung to El, how many times he’d tried to feel something else, to convince himself that wanting Will wasn’t real, this had been there first. Quiet. Persistent. Waiting.

“I’ve been such an asshole,” Mike adds quickly, shame rushing back in. “I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t even know how someone like you could—could like someone like me—”

He cuts himself off, because Will is moving.

And he’s closing the distance between them in a few hesitant steps and he’s pulling Mike into a hug before Mike can finish tearing himself apart. It’s not rushed or desperate, it’s careful; Will’s arms wrap around his shoulders, firm enough to be real, gentle enough not to scare him off.

Mike freezes for half a second, then melts into it.

He exhales shakily, forehead pressing into Will’s shoulder, hands coming up on their own like they’ve been waiting for permission. Will smells familiar. Like Mike’s favourite perfume. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike murmurs again, muffled. “I really am.” Will squeezes him once, a quiet answer. Mike’s hands slide down Will’s hips, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. The press of Will’s body against his sends him straight back to the dream but now, it’s different. Will is crying in his arms instead of laughing, and this isn’t a dream. This is real.

They pull back just enough to look at each other, breaths uneven, foreheads almost touching. Mike’s heart is racing now, not panic, not fear. Want. 

Will’s eyes glisten, tears streaking his cheeks, and his lips are red from biting them, and of course Mike wants nothing more than to kiss them, to kiss away every tear, because Will doesn’t deserve a single one.

“It’s… so complicated. It’ll be complicated,” Mike whispers, voice low and uncertain, unsure even of what he means or how to say it.

Will lets out a soft, tearful chuckle. “I know,” he murmurs, so close that for a fleeting second, Mike thinks he might lean in and kiss him, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Will presses a small, careful kiss to the corner of Mike’s mouth, just the side, and Mike closes his eyes instinctively, savoring it. So Mike says nothing about how desperately he wants to kiss him, nothing about how his hands are trembling at the thought. He simply holds him a little tighter, letting the moment exist, for now.

Then, the sliding door opens behind them.

“Hey—” and they spring apart instantly, hearts pounding, the moment snapping but not disappearing. It lingers in the air between them, fragile and undeniable, waiting. 

“We heard yelling—are you guys okay?” Lucas asks, concern plain on his face as his eyes immediately flick to Will.

Will straightens a little too quickly. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, we’re fine. Just—talking.”

Lucas doesn’t look convinced. His gaze lingers on Will, searching his face like he’s trying to read something written between the lines. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Will insists, softer now, steadier. He gives a small nod, like he’s reassuring himself as much as Lucas, quickly wiping at his tears, brushing them away with the back of his hand, as if trying to erase the evidence of what they were actually doing.

Mike stays silent. He doesn’t trust his voice not to give him away, doesn’t trust his face not to betray everything still buzzing under his skin. He just nods once, hands shoved deep into his pockets, heart still hammering.

Eventually, Lucas steps aside, letting them back in.

They return to the living room and sink back onto the couch, the movie still playing, the dialogue completely lost on Mike. A blanket is pulled back over their laps, Dustin immediately launching into a commentary about a scene no one asked for.

Will settles beside him, close but careful.

Then, under the cover of the blanket, Will’s hand finds Mike’s.

It’s tentative at first, just fingers brushing, testing. Mike’s breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away. He curls his fingers around Will’s instead, their hands fitting together like they’ve done this before, like it’s always been meant to happen this way.

Lucas keeps talking, laughing softly at something on screen, leaning toward Will now and then to whisper a comment. Mike still feels that faint spark of jealousy, but it’s dulled, softened, no longer sharp enough to hurt. Because Will’s hand is still in his, warm and real, grounding him.

The movie keeps going. The room settles. And for the first time all day, Mike feels… right. Even though it’s complicated, even though he now has more problems than he did this morning, he doesn’t want to think about that. 

Not tonight.

Not when Jonathan comes to pick them up later, keys jingling in the quiet night. Not during the drive back, when the world feels strangely muted and unreal. Not when they end up sharing Mike’s room, sitting on opposite sides of the bed at first, pretending this is just another normal night.

But this is not a normal night. 

♢ ♢ ♢