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Living with the Wheelers has been much different from what Will had expected. Not that he ever in a million years expected he would live with the Wheelers, but once he finally moved on to accepting that fact, he began to imagine how things would be. Though he and Mike had settled some of their differences in Lenora, their relationship had still been far too strained to try and act like they used to. Will had imagined staying nestled tidy and lonesome in the basement, Mike barely talking to him, and sitting as far away from each other during dinner or movie nights as was feasible.
Will had expected Mike to act like, well, Mike. New Mike. The way he has for the past couple of years—all holier-than-thou and moving on to bigger and better things, adult things. Moving on from Will. His surprise, and delight, when Mike of all people suggested they share a room had been palpable. Will had jumped at the opportunity, of course he had, but Joyce and Karen had shut them down rather quickly.
So, Will has been locked in the basement, even thirteen months later. That hasn’t stopped Mike though, no. Things have been better between him and Mike. Too much so, even. Will can hardly stand to be in a room with him anymore because all he gets is a soft voice and everlasting eye contact. It’s like the past two years never even happened, like Will is still Mike’s best friend. Like asking Will to be his friend is still the best thing Mike’s ever done—not finding El in the woods.
Too many of Will’s nights are spent around Mike anymore. What time Will would once use for drawing or spending time with his family slowly filtered into just spending time with Mike. His days and nights became filled with movies, video games, card games, lengthy discussions and debates, and just so much interaction with Mike. It felt as though Will had become magnetized and Mike couldn’t help but be drawn to him. It’s not a complaint—far from it—but part of Will knows it’ll only serve to hurt him more when this living arrangement situation is rectified. Now, after getting to live a life so surrounded by Mike, Will doesn’t know if he can survive going back to living without him.
Though, Will supposes, he is having a lot of trouble living with him as well. Will has known for years that he loves Mike, irrevocably and uncontrollably. He has tried to stamp it down, tried to force it from his heart for as long as he’s known, but nothing has worked. Now, with Mike so involved, so attached, it’s impossible for Will to focus on anything. It’s gotten so bad that Will can hardly stand to be in the main part of the house, choosing to hide away downstairs, away from any lurking eyes or Mikes.
Will has taken to biking around more frequently as a result. With it becoming summertime, the basement has become insufferably hot. The air conditioner down there has never worked right, and though Will finds it difficult to function in that heat, he will never complain. It’s not his house, not his money, and Will is just thankful that he has somewhere to go in general. Biking is a nice reprieve, though it’s just as hot outside as it is inside, there is no beating the feeling of the wind whipping his exposed skin and combing through his hair.
Usually, Will spends hours outside biking around. When his legs get tired, he finds a park or a tree and sits and draws until his wrists become cramped. A tradeoff, because Will is nothing if not self-punishing. His body hasn’t known reprieve since he was twelve, but it reminds him that he’s alive. The burn reminds him that he’s in control of his body, his mind, so he continues the pattern regardless of how unhealthy it may be.
Will finds himself in the park by Lover’s Lake today, leaning up against a willow tree overlooking the water. Back against the bark, Will uses pastels to try and sketch the way the water reflects the cloudy sky. With the way the charcoal bubbles in the sky, Will knows he’s very limited on time. If he doesn’t wrap up the drawing before it begins to downpour, there’s a good chance that his entire sketchbook and his pastels could become ruined, and Will can’t afford that. He’d left all of his art supplies in Lenora, and with the Hawkins lockdown, he hadn’t been able to get most of his stuff back. Dr. Owen’s had made sure that someone had retrieved the “important stuff” for them, but apparently his art supplies hadn’t made the cut.
Mike had given Will these pastels for his birthday this year—pastels, colored pencils, gouache, acrylic, watercolors, and oil paints were all wrapped individually and placed at the foot of the basement stairs. Will had awoken to the sight of them all sitting, delicately placed, dedicated to him. Mike hadn’t written his own name on them, but Will has seen Mike’s handwriting enough to recognize it quicker than even his own. He must’ve spent a fortune, and part of Will wonders if it’s because he feels so bad for not remembering Will’s birthday when he came to Lenora—the very worst birthday of his life.
Mike hadn’t said anything when Will came upstairs for breakfast, but Will could tell he was being studied harder than usual. Mike’s eyes didn’t leave him for a second, and when Will became brave enough to trust he wouldn’t blush under the scrutiny, he allowed himself to look up and smile at Mike, who had startled wholeheartedly. It almost seemed as though he hadn’t realized he was staring at Will, like it was just an innate thing his body had resorted to. Mike had smiled back, and a small understanding and appreciation wafted over the both of them.
Will had stayed up almost that entire night drawing something for Mike in appreciation. It was a character study, Mike the Brave, a paladin sitting elegantly, purposefully. Will had placed him in a throne, sword and shield propped against the front of the armrests beside him. Will hadn’t needed a single reference photo. He could draw Mike with his eyes closed, and every freckle and pore would be in the exact right place. Every shadow on his face, every highlight positioned exactly as they’re supposed to be. Will has spent most of his life just watching Mike. His face was burned into Will’s brain like a scene paused for far too long on a television screen.
Will doesn’t realize that the rain has started, too focused on his own memories of Mike for him to hear the pitter-patter of it hitting the tree branches above him. It isn’t until a drop lands on his paper, causing the pigments of the soft pastels to bloom, ruining the entire drawing, that he does notice. Will snaps out of it quickly, closing his sketchbook and stuffing it into his backpack in the blink of an eye. That drawing may have been ruined, but there are far more important ones in there that he can’t risk wrecking.
Picking himself off the ground, Will throws his backpack halfheartedly across one shoulder. He has never minded the rain, appreciating the peaceful distraction that it always provided his ever-overthinking brain. No, Will always enjoyed the rain from a distance. Being caught in it, however, with no raincoat and no way home besides a bike, is not something that Will has ever been particularly fond of. He practically hurls himself onto his bike, pedaling as quick as he can. Lover’s Lake is on the complete other side of town from the Wheelers, but he’ll be damned if he gets more soaked and frozen than he needs to.
The storm picks up quickly, turning from a light sprinkle to a thunderstorm, wind crashing violently against the trees. Will had chosen a terrible day to leave, but he always had a bad habit of never checking the weather channel before doing anything. Will is incredibly close to the Wheelers, just entering the cul-de-sac, when it happens. The rain is too heavy, the clouds too dark. Will can barely see five feet ahead of him, which is why he doesn’t notice the branch, which would’ve been easily detectable and avoidable in any other situation. When Will finally sees it, it’s far too late to slow down enough to prevent a crash.
Will feels like he’s floating, like he’s watching his life five seconds ahead of when it’s really happening. He flies off of his bike, crashing into the rough concrete of the road. A sharp pain strikes his thigh, and he can just make out the thick slash across his thigh from the rock he had hit on the comedown. It immediately bubbles with thick, dark blood, spilling over the side of his leg. For some reason, it makes Will feel lightheaded. He’s seen so many injuries in his lifetime, even on himself, but something about the way this had been so unexpected threw his stomach off guard.
Will forces himself to stand up, watching as the rain causes the blood to pool quickly down his leg, staining his sock pink. The blood flows past it and below his foot, smushing between his toes. Will rushes home, not bothering to get back on his bike as he limps down the road to the Wheelers. He just needs to get inside, then he can patch it up and give it a few days to heal. Without school, Will never has to go anywhere. He just wants to make it home before anything else can happen. Knowing Will’s luck, a bolt of lightning smiting him then and there isn’t that far out of the question, so timing is everything.
He throws open the door far more intensely than he intends, and he is suddenly incredibly thankful the Wheelers have door-stoppers. He’d feel so bad if he damaged Mrs. Wheeler’s house while she was kind enough to let them stay for free. Will leaves his shoes on as he staggers to the basement, figuring a small amount of mud is probably better than blood stains. He makes his way toward the kitchen, wincing as the force of the step causes blood to splash off of his leg, right onto the carpet.
“Shit!” Will curses, hurrying now more than ever to the basement door.
More blood splats in the living room, in the kitchen, and Will is only slightly relieved by the fact that there’s tile there instead of carpet. Blood can still stain the grout between the ceramic, and Will doesn’t necessarily want to have to squat down tomorrow and scrub it all out with this kind of injury. He opens the basement door gentler than the front door, grabbing onto the thick, wooden railing with white knuckles as he hobbles down the stairs.
“Holy shit!” Will hears from his left, head snapping in the direction.
Mike stands there, jaw dropped as he takes in the blood splatter on the floor. In the blink of an eye, he’s there by Will’s side, grabbing onto his waist to support his weight.
“Will, what happened? Where are you hurt?” Mike’s voice is frantic as his eyes search all over Will’s body.
Will flushes under the scrutiny, suddenly feeling far too exposed in his t-shirt and gym shorts. It takes Will a moment to relax with Mike’s gaze and hands burning into him. He slowly releases his callous-causing grip on the wood, allowing himself to put some weight onto Mike.
“I’m fine, Mike. I wrecked my bike. I’m just gonna go patch it up really quick,” Will informs, hoping Mike will take the hint and let him go.
Mike does nothing of the sort—if anything, his fingers tighten around Will’s waist, nudging the hem of his shirt up enough to where the skin of Mike’s wrist sits flush against the small of his back. Will shudders, and Mike pauses for a moment, obviously taking it the wrong way.
“C’mon, let’s get you to the bathroom.” Mike’s voice is tender, bleeding with a care that Will can’t believe is reserved for him.
“No, wait. I’m gonna get more blood on the carpet,” Will sputters, and Mike has the audacity to laugh.
“Will, my mom’s not gonna care that you bled on the carpet. She will be upset if you bleed out on the carpet, though.” Mike reassures, causing Will to roll his eyes.
“Whatever,” Will concedes because Mike is right. When is he not?
Will allows himself to be led to the bathroom, where he grabs a ratty washcloth from the towel rack as Mike fiddles with turning on the light and shutting the door. He straddles the tub, pressing the washcloth down onto his cut. The pain of it blindsides him, making him feel woozy and discombobulated. Will removes the fabric from his leg for a moment after this, allowing himself a peek to try and gauge just how bad the damage is.
“Fuck. Jesus, Will.” Mike blurts out, clearly unable to hold back as he eyeballs the wound on Will’s thigh.
“It’s fine, Mike. Don’t be…don’t be dramatic,” But he stumbles on the words, swallowing greatly at a new, serrated sting from the air of Mike moving to sit on the bathtub in front of him.
Will doesn’t miss the way their knees brush, the way Will’s injured thigh now rests sandwiched between the soft warmth of Mike’s and the cold hardness of the bathtub. Mike’s hesitant hand reaches down to touch the skin beside the cut, and though Will loves Mike’s hands, he’s still having difficulty facing the utter depth and gore of his wound.
“Definitely not fine. That thing might need stitches,” Mike deduces as he looks closer. “We need to clean it for now at least.”
Mike stands up, presumably to look for anything to clean Will’s wound with, and Will is struck by the sudden lack of warmth against him. Mike’s touch had been grounding, distracting, his mind much more focused on MikeMikeMike than ouchouchouch. Now, the latter is true, a sharp inhale passing through Will’s gritted teeth as he’s struck with the pain once more.
“Sorry, I’m going as fast as I can,” Mike apologizes, ripping open a drawer so harshly it derails from its track.
Mike doesn’t seem to even notice that he’s done this as he grabs what he needs from the drawer. Gauze, medical tape, and hydrogen peroxide occupy Mike’s palms as he resumes his position in front of Will.
“I can get it from here, Mike, really. I know how to clean a cut,” Will tries to reassure because he sees where this is going, can practically feel the ghost of Mike’s hands trailing up his thigh.
“Jesus Christ, Will. Just let me help you. I know you aren’t a kid, but this looks bad,” Mike’s eyes are pleading, brown pushed to the side and replaced by giant saucers of black pupils.
Will holds his tongue for once, deciding saying nothing in response is better than saying anything. Mike takes his silence as permission, shaking hands reaching for the faucet behind Will. He turns the water on, grabbing another washcloth from the towel rack beside the tub. Mike douses the fabric, taking it over to Will’s thigh, and rings it out. The water nips at Will’s cut, once again causing him to feel like he’s going to black out. Mike does this a few more times to loosen up the old blood before Will has to bring up a hand to prevent him from doing it anymore.
“Did I hurt you?” Mike asks, voice pitched high in concern and fright.
“Just need a minute,” Will mutters, eyes focused on the way the small flow of now-reddened water scuttles toward the drain.
“Okay,” Mike nods vigorously, leaning his torso ever-so-closer to Will’s.
A good thirty seconds passes between them. Nothing but elevated breathing rates can be heard, both too scared to rupture whatever pseudo-peace they’ve lulled themselves into.
“Can I keep going?” Mike finally requests, and Will puffs out a laugh at his impatience.
“Yeah,” His voice is barely audible, but Mike is hanging onto Will’s every word, every movement.
Mike picks up the bottle of peroxide, muttering small reassurances to either himself or Will, or both, as he slowly begins to pour it on Will’s cut. The burn is intense, and Will realizes he hasn’t had to feel this sensation since he was a child. Probably for a similar reason, scraping hands or knees falling off of bikes or swing sets. It does little to reassure him, and Will unintentionally lurches forward, head practically resting in the crook of Mike’s neck.
“Fuck.” Will hisses, and he can hear the way Mike draws in a sharp breath at the sudden movement.
Will doesn’t mean to do it, doesn’t mean to rest his wet hair against Mike’s shoulder, but the touch is so grounding. Tentatively, Will lets his head drop fully, pressing all of the weight of it into Mike. The peroxide doesn’t sting nearly as bad now, and after a moment of recouping, Mike pours a bit more on.
Seemingly deciding he’s had enough, Will feels as Mike presses a wad of gauze against the length of the cut. Will’s hand grips his upper thigh as Mike unwraps the medical tape, beginning to wrap it around Will’s thigh. Will is breathing heavy, a rapid sort of animalistic thing, and he’s vaguely reminded of the fact that he has been through so much worse than a stupid bike crash.
“Sorry. Don’t mean to be a baby,” Will tries to joke, still heaving to catch his breath.
Mike looks at him once more, a pointed look this time, and Will has to avert his gaze.
“Please. I would’ve been crying like a baby if I were in your shoes,” Mike murmurs, deciding to change the subject from Will’s self-deprecation.
“Whatever, Mike the Brave,” Will smiles slightly, wincing as he moves just a bit too much, the skin around his cut stretching too far.
Will lifts his head slightly, not missing the way Mike’s fingers still hover over his thigh, fingertips brushing it so softly it tickles. Will can’t bring himself to say anything despite it all, not wanting the touch to leave him. Their faces are far too close, close enough that one shutter would have their lips touching. Instinctively, Will’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he watches insanely as Mike’s eyes flicker down to trace the movement.
If this cut doesn’t kill him, he’s pretty certain that Mike Wheeler will. Mike stays glued where he is, eyes homed in on Will and Will alone as he slowly rises back to his original spot. He makes no move to pull his face away from Will, to pull his body away.
“Thank you, Mike,” Will whispers, and he can feel the way his breath ricochets off of Mike’s lips, bouncing back against his own.
Mike says nothing in response, eyes boring into his face, full of an emotion Will has literally never seen them hold before. If he hadn’t known better, if Will didn’t already know Mike is not into him like that, he would’ve assumed the opposite.
“No problem,” Mike gasps out, breathing shallow as his eyes remain glued to Will.
Will can’t bring himself to move further away. Mike’s stare is so deliciously enveloping, and Will feels high off of it. This is the closest he’s ever been to kissing Mike Wheeler in his entire life, and if Mike isn’t pulling away, Will sure as hell isn’t either. Brown eyes flicker back down to Will’s mouth, lingering there for far longer than what could be passed off as a nervous tick. Mike stutters forward with a deep inhale, and their mouths inch even closer.
“Can you help me up?” Will interrupts, knowing if they stay in that position much longer he won’t be able to help himself from folding.
Will watches the way Mike’s brain short-circuits and then rebuilds itself. It’s as if he had been entranced, hypnotized by Will’s closeness. Mike blinks a few times before jerkily shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Mike says, closing his eyes and sighing—regrouping.
The loss of warmth against him is once again dizzying, but all is resolved when Mike sticks out his hand, a balance offering for Will, who gladly accepts. Mike does most of the walking as they make their way to the main part of the basement, but he stops short of the couch.
“Actually, I feel like you should come upstairs. Hang out in my room for a while.” Mike states, avoiding Will’s eyes.
“What? Why? I was just going to lay down,” Will clarifies, genuinely confused as to how getting Will to hobble up two flights of stairs would be beneficial for either of them.
“I know. You can do that in my bed. I’d just like to…keep an eye on you, you know? You lost a lot of blood, so I wanna make sure you’re okay,” Mike reasons, and Will supposes this could make sense, if he didn’t know how the body works.
“That’s not really…okay,” He agrees, changing his mind about correcting the boy and turning clumsily to face toward the stairs.
Mike’s arm snakes around his waist once again, fingers digging into his side as they make the trek to Mike’s room. Two sets of stairs are no joke when your thigh feels like it’s ripping in half, but Will wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to stay with Mike if his thigh literally was ripping in half.
Once upstairs, Mike makes quick work of un-making his bed, throwing the blankets to the side and moving the pillows to sleeping level.
“Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes, huh?” Mike’s tone is softer than ever, as his hands toy with the fabric tight around Will’s hipbones.
“Mike, I don’t—“ Will begins, but he cuts himself off with a gulp and a shudder at the utter desperation in Mike’s look, begging him for permission.
After reading the ‘okay’ burning on Will’s face, Mike lifts up the shirt clinging to Will’s still-soaked body. His fingertips trace Will’s side, sending goosebumps to every corner of his body. Will tries extensively to not think about why Mike could’ve been so adamant on helping Will out of his shirt, especially when his arms weren’t even the part of him that had been injured. He can’t seem to focus on any excuses as he watches Mike’s gaze linger on his torso, eyes raking up and down as he seems to take all of Will in. Will clears his throat, unable to stand it any longer, and Mike blinks a few times before turning to go rummage around in his dresser.
Mike shoves a fresh t-shirt, underwear, and pair of shorts into Will’s chest, probably more aggressively than he means to. Will slips on the shirt, but is mortified to realize that it‘s nearly impossible to keep his balance as he tries to pull off his shorts. The injury on his thigh pulsating too much to allow him to stand there and change, so he stumbles to the chair at Mike’s desk. Mike is kneeling by his side in an instant, face wild with worry at Will’s sudden movement.
“Are you okay?” Mike questions, looking all over for any signs of distress. Will huffs out a laugh.
“I’m fine, Mike. I just couldn’t keep my balance.” Will says, gesturing at his pants.
“Oh, right.” Mike shakes his head slightly, but makes no move to leave Will’s side.
“Um…privacy?” Will requests, and Mike’s eyes widen in horror.
“Oh, right,” Mike repeats stupidly, and Will would have laughed if the energy between them hadn’t been so charged with something Will knows they can’t come back from.
Mike stands up and spins around, facing the other side of the room as Will changes shorts and underwear. Once he gives Mike the confirmation of his decency, the boy returns to Will’s side, like his own personal knight in shining armor. Mike grabs onto his waist again, and though Will doesn’t need the support for such a small amount of distance, he keeps quiet. The feeling of Mike’s fingers lingering on his exposed torso is not something that Will wants to pass up.
Now lying in the bed, Will can only watch as Mike makes quick work of getting him comfortable. A pillow comes to prop itself under Will’s foot, elevating it to help blood flow to his thigh. Mike’s comforter is then brought down over Will, and Mike tucks it up to his chin, the same way Will has liked to have his blankets since he was five. Will is honored that Mike remembers something so trivial, but today, Mike has been nothing short of compassionate and doting. It’s a privilege to have someone like Mike in his life, and though Will often wishes they could be more than they are, he’ll take stolen moments like this any day.
"Night, Will,” Mike whispers, eyes glistening with pure love and care as he brings a hand down to brush the hair from Will’s forehead.
A beat passes between them as Will tries to process everything, all of the little movements that Mike has pulled just in this one night. Mike has always cared for Will, has always been there for every minor scratch or bruise he’s ever received, but this feels ridiculous. There’s no plausible explanation for why on earth Mike would be so involved if he didn’t…
Will doesn’t dare let himself finish that thought.
“Night, Mike. Thank you again. Seriously,” Will hopes Mike can tell how sincere he’s being, how important it is to him that Mike set aside time in his day and space in his room to help Will out.
“No problem. I’d do anything for you, Will,” Mike tells him, but it comes out like a confession, and Will can’t stop his breath from catching.
Mike turns quickly, treading his floor to turn off the lights. Will is glad he does, longing surely coating his face in an overwhelming scarlet. Mike doesn’t need to see that, to see the way he effects him so deeply. Will’s eyes catch on a picture of Mike and Eleven sitting on Mike’s desk, and he’s suddenly guilt-ridden. Today hadn’t meant anything, Will is sure of it. It had just been the ever-caring Mike making sure his best friend is okay. Nothing more, nothing less. But Will can’t bring himself to fully believe it, not when he thinks back to the closeness of their faces or the way Mike’s eyes kept finding their way to Will’s lips.
Will compels the thoughts away—Mike hadn’t meant anything by their interaction. He had just been overwhelmed by Will’s injury. Mike would never do anything to hurt El—especially not, and Will has a hard time even letting the idea plant itself in his mind, cheating on her with Will. Her brother. Will forces his eyes shut then, forces his sight away from the way Mike’s fingers dance as they fiddle with the trinkets on his desk. He lets out some staggered breaths, prompting his mind to think of anything else as he wills himself to go to sleep. It’s hard, swaddled in so many things that smell like Mike, to think of anything but the boy, but eventually he succumbs to sleep, his mind finally granting him freedom from the burn of his cut and of Mike’s perpetually complicated feelings.