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If Will ever sat down and made an honest list of all the things he’d done wrong in his life, this would almost certainly rank somewhere in the top three.
And that’s saying something, considering the sheer volume of stupid decisions he’s made, the lies he’s told that only ever spiraled into more lies, the way he’d even ruined Jonathan’s favorite t-shirt the very first time he’d tried to do laundry like a normal person.
Still, none of that compares to this.
What he’s doing now is categorically worse. He knows it with an uncomfortable, sinking certainty.
For one thing, it puts him at an immediate disadvantage. When your best friend, the same one you’ve harbored a quiet, hopeless crush on since you were twelve, asks you to try out the date he’s planned for his girlfriend before actually going on it with her, the sensible response would probably be to say no. To laugh it off. To set a boundary. To protect yourself, just a little.
But Will has never truly known how to say no to Mike Wheeler.
And then there’s the second problem: Will can’t ice-skate. At all. He’s never learned, never even tried. Life had a way of filling his time with other things, leaving no room for frozen ponds or rented skates and easy afternoons spent falling and laughing.
So yes, this is a terrible idea. Objectively.
But it’s far too late to back out, not after he agreed to it over a crackling walkie-talkie at two in the morning, exactly a week ago. Not after Mike had sounded so excited, so sure.
And now Will is stuck, standing on the edge of something he doesn’t know how to navigate, with no clear exit in sight.
He tightens the yellow scarf around his neck and closes his eyes for a brief moment. He can do this. He has to be able to do this. How long can a date even last, anyway?
He wouldn’t know. He’s never been on one.
The truth is, he’s never really had the chance, not when you’re a kid quietly in love with your very much unattainable best friend. Not when every feeling has to be folded inward, made smaller, kept carefully out of sight.
Even so, Will finds himself hoping, irrationally, that Mike was joking. Not just because the situation is guaranteed to turn him into a flustered, blushing mess and deepen a crush that already hurts more than it should, but because something about it feels… wrong. He feels like this whole situation will lead to very unpleasant consequences.
“Ready?” Mike asks, appearing beside him at the door.
He’s wearing the red wool beanie that matches with its scarf, the one Joyce insisted on gifting him years ago, back when they were ten and perpetually cold. A few soft curls escape from under the hat, and it’s unfair how effortlessly charming he looks.
“Are you sure you want to go out? It’s snowing,” Will says, his voice small, almost tentative, as he stares through the window at the falling flakes. He’s genuinely hoping this will be enough. That Mike will reconsider. Because surely you can’t go skating while it’s snowing. Surely this counts as a good enough excuse.
But Mike doesn’t hesitate.
“It’ll be even more fun,” he says easily. “Just make sure you’re warm.”
He reaches out, adjusting Will’s scarf without thinking twice. It’s such a familiar gesture, so casual and caring, and it’s exactly this quiet attentiveness that’s made Will’s feelings grow sharper ever since they started staying at the Wheeler house.
Will swallows hard and looks away as Mike’s cold fingers brush against the warm skin of his neck.
He silently curses himself for agreeing to this, because helping the love of your life prepare the perfect date for his girlfriend instead is a special kind of self-inflicted misery.
Will curls further into his coat, teeth clenched against the cold. They’ve only been walking for a few minutes, and yet he’s already mentally cursing at himself at least three times. Mostly because Mike is right there in front of him, a few steps ahead, talking animatedly about something Will can’t quite follow.
Something about the rink. Or the music they play there. Or maybe a story about Lucas, Will honestly isn’t sure.
The truth is, Will doesn’t like the cold. Not really. Not after everything that happened, not after years of associating freezing air with fear that seeped into his bones and never fully left. Winter has a way of crawling under his skin, settling there, making his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t like to acknowledge.
He lags behind without realizing it.
Mike stops mid-sentence and turns around, instantly noticing the distance between them. “Hey,” he says, frowning a little. “You okay?”
Will blinks, startled, and nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just—cold.”
Mike doesn’t hesitate. He steps back toward him, closes the gap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and reaches out. Before Will can even process it, Mike’s tugging gently at the sleeve of his coat.
“Here,” he says, voice soft. “Walk closer to me. It helps. Blocks the wind.” It’s such a simple thing. Such a Mike thing. Practical and instinctively kind, even though Lucas would swear otherwise.
Will hesitates for half a second, long enough to feel stupid about it, then moves closer. Their shoulders brush, once. Then again. Mike doesn’t move away.
In fact, he slows his pace just enough to match Will’s.
Mike keeps talking, but quieter now, like the conversation is meant only for the space between them. Will still misses half of it, but it doesn’t matter as much anymore. He finds himself focusing instead on the way Mike’s breath fogs in the air, the way his scarf slips loose and brushes against Will’s sleeve, the warmth that seeps through layers of fabric where they touch.
Without looking at him, Mike thanks him, “You’re really doing me a favor, you know.”
Which, of course, yanks Will sharply back to reality.
His thoughts spiral, crashing straight into the inconvenient truth that he has agreed to take part in a test run for a date centered entirely around ice skating, when he can’t skate. At all.
The realization sits heavy in his chest, and before he can stop himself, he drifts a small step away from Mike. It’s instinctive, unconscious. Will doesn’t like lying to him. Never has.
“Yeah, uh yeah. No problem,” Will lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, eyes fixed on the ground.
He stumbles over his words, just slightly, the way he always does when he isn’t telling the truth. The pauses are too long, the sounds don’t quite connect. But Mike doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t look closely enough.
“I mean, it’s not exactly a given that you’d come on a date with me,” Mike laughs, bumping his elbow lightly against Will’s, his nervous chuckle dissolving into the icy air. Will feels his heart racing at that.
“To help me plan the perfect date for—” he adds a beat later, as if that only occurs to him then.
Will nods immediately, a little too fast, shaking his head as though the motion alone might dislodge the embarrassment crawling up his spine. It doesn’t.
“Yeah, I mean, of course. It’s my pleasure,” Will says, his elbow drifting naturally back against Mike’s as they fall into step beside each other again. “And besides, I’ve never actually been on a date, so… you know.” He trails off, glancing around, realizing far too late that he’s said way too much.
Now he’s mortifyingly embarrassed. But Mike doesn’t laugh in a teasing way, he laughs softly, fondly. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks from the cold, and when he answers, his voice drops, warm and gentle, and he pointedly avoids Will’s eyes.
“So,” Mike says, “I’m your first date.”
The word date slips out almost like a whisper.
Will lets out a small, awkward laugh, his cheeks burning, far redder than the cold alone could justify. Because, of course, Will hears those words very differently than Mike means them.
“Well, I mean—” Will clears his throat. “Not—like—” He gives up, shrugging helplessly. “I guess?”
Mike smiles to himself, hands shoved deeper into his pockets. “Guess I should feel honored, then.” Will risks a glance at him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Mike’s grin widens. “Too late.”
Will thanks God or anyone else listening the moment they reach the bus stop and climb aboard almost immediately, no awkward waiting, no lingering silences to contain the damage he’s done. They slide into a seat, and Mike ends up pressed close to him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.
Will doesn’t dare move. Not even an inch.
Mike’s hand rests on his own knee, far too close to where Will’s hand sits on his. Every small, barely perceptible bump in the road makes their pinkies brush together. Just for a second. Every time.
And every time, Will swallows hard, but never finds the courage to pull his hand away.
The ride to the ice rink feels longer than it should, maybe because of the snow slowing everything down, or maybe because Will is painfully aware of every single thing Mike does. Every breath. Every shift of his weight. Every time their coats brush. God, they haven’t even been out for half an hour, and Will realizes he’s never been this tense in his life.
When they finally step inside, the cold changes, and sharper somehow, laced with the echo of laughter and the scrape of blades against ice. Mike brightens immediately.
“Okay,” he says, glancing around like he’s proud of the place already. “So—rink’s not too crowded, which is good. Less pressure.” He tilts his head toward Will, voice dropping just a little. “And if you fall, statistically speaking, people won’t be looking at you specifically.”
Will snorts despite himself.
“I’ll be right there,” Mike adds easily. “Like, two feet away. Maximum.” His smile turns softer, almost conspiratorial. “Think of me as your emergency anchor.”
That earns him a small smile from Will, even as he swallows hard. Because now there are no more excuses. None at all. His hands are actually shaking, fingers stiff with nerves, and it hits him all at once: he’s not just going to embarrass himself in front of Mike, he’s going to do it in front of an entire ice rink.
So he follows Mike with his head slightly bowed, eyes fixed on the floor. He wants to enjoy this. He really does. But the lie sits heavy in his chest, sour and uncomfortable. He hates this feeling, hates knowing he’s misleading Mike, even if it was never intentional.
They grab their skates and sit down on one of the benches. Will’s movements are clumsy, unfocused. He fumbles with the laces, his fingers refusing to cooperate.
Mike notices almost immediately. “Will?” Mike asks, brow creasing. “Are you okay?” he asks once again, because apparently Will can’t hide anything from him.
Will freezes.
“You just… stopped talking,” Mike continues, concern slipping into his voice. “And you’re, uh, kind of sweating. Do you feel sick? Do you have a fever?” He reaches out without hesitation, pressing his cool hand to Will’s forehead.
Will opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.
Nothing coherent comes out.
“Mike, I— I just,” His voice cracks, and one of the skates slips from his hands, clattering softly onto the floor. Will exhales sharply. “I don’t know how to skate.”
The words hang there. Mike blinks once. Then he shakes his head, curls bouncing, and he laughs. Not sharp, not awkward. Genuinely amused.
“I know,” he says.
Will stares at him. “What do you mean, you know?”
Mike finishes tying his own skates, then casually drops down to the floor in front of Will, grabbing the skate he dropped. “I mean—I know,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. He slips the skate onto Will’s foot, steady hands tightening the laces with practiced ease.
Will’s face goes hot.
Mike straightens up and offers him a hand. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”
That’s it. No explanation. Just that.
Will hesitates, confused, but also oddly relieved. At least now Mike knows. At least now he’s not pretending. He swallows, then takes Mike’s hand. The contact sends a quiet jolt through him almost immediately.
Mike’s grip is warm and steady, fingers curling around Will’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will can’t focus on anything else, can’t think past the way their hands fit together, the way Mike’s thumb presses reassuring circles against his knuckles.
“You just have to relax,” Mike is saying, guiding him gently toward the ice. “It’s mostly balance. Let the skates do the work. I promise it’s easier than it looks.” Will nods, barely hearing him, heartbeat loud in his ears.
They reach the edge of the rink, and Will forces himself to let go. His fingers linger for half a second too long before slipping free. Mike shows him slowly, patiently, like it’s something fragile, like Will is. He demonstrates how to place his feet, how to bend his knees just a little, how to push off instead of fighting the ice.
“Okay,” Mike says, skating backward in front of him, arms slightly outstretched. “Just come toward me. I’ve got you.” Will stares at the ice like it might personally betray him. “That’s… not reassuring.”
Mike grins. “Trust me.”
That’s the problem, really. Will always does.
He pushes off, tentative and stiff, and immediately wobbles. Panic spikes, sharp and sudden, but before he can even yelp, Mike’s hands are on his, firm and steady, fingers lacing together like they’ve done this a hundred times.
“I said I’ve got you,” Mike laughs.
Will lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh of his own. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe,” Mike admits, too fast for his own good, tugging him forward just a little. “You’re doing great, though.”
And, somehow, he is.
He almost falls again, and Mike catches him again, pulling him in closer this time, and Will laughs properly now, the sound breaking free once the tension finally cracks. It’s light and startled and real, and suddenly the cold doesn’t matter, the ice doesn’t matter. He’s having fun. Actually, genuinely having fun.
He doesn’t notice the way Mike’s eyes soften every time he laughs.
Doesn’t notice the faint pink spreading across Mike’s cheeks when Will drifts a little too close, their skates tangling, their bodies almost brushing.
At one point, Will steadies himself by gripping Mike’s jacket, fingers curling into the fabric. “If I die,” he says solemnly, “you have to tell my mom it was your fault.” Mike snorts. “Deal. But you’re not dying. Look—” He nods down at Will’s feet. “You’re skating.”
Will blinks. “Oh.”
They circle the rink slowly, hands not linked anymore but just a few inches away, like they’re meant to stay linked, moving in an uneven rhythm that somehow works. Will stumbles less. Laughs more. Mike keeps him close without ever pointing it out, guiding him with small occasional squeezes of his shoulder, quiet encouragement murmured just for him.
Eventually, they end up back on the benches, breathless and warm despite the cold, fingers numb as they tug their skates off.
Will exhales, smiling to himself. He’s enjoying all of this far more than he should, and he knows it. Every second spent alone with Mike feels borrowed, like something he isn’t really allowed to keep. Because none of this is meant for him. It never was. This time, this closeness, this easy laughter, it all belongs to El.
Even if Mike hasn’t mentioned her once since they left the house.
So Will does it himself. Just to ground himself. Just to remember.
“El’s going to really like this place,” he says, glancing around, voice casual in a way that takes effort. “It’s… cozy. Feels right.”
The words taste a little bitter as they leave his mouth, but he forces a small smile anyway, wrapping his hands around himself. A reminder, more than anything else. For Mike.
Mike stills.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just grabs his coat, nudges Will’s knee with his own. “Come on,” he says, already standing. “I’m starving.”
Will barely has time to protest before Mike’s pulling him along, out into the cold again, snow crunching under their boots. They walk until the rink is behind them, until familiar lights glow ahead, until they’re pushing open the door of their favorite diner like it was always the plan.
The warmth rushes over them, the smell of coffee and fries wrapping around Will’s senses. He glances at Mike, confused, but smiling. “Do you really want to bring El here?” Will asks with a soft laugh, because this place isn’t exactly romantic. It’s more… theirs. And Will can’t quite understand why Mike would want to bring El into something that feels so distinctly like them.
“Maybe… I mean, I don’t know,” Mike deflects easily, glancing around the diner as they slide into Will’s favorite booth. “Do you want hot chocolate?”
Will clears his throat quietly. Mike dodges the topic every single time El comes up, and it’s confusing, especially since Will’s role in all of this is supposed to be that of an objective judge. He’s meant to decide whether this date would work for El. Whether she would like it.
But before Will can say anything, Mike is already ordering for both of them. Of course he is. He knows exactly how Will likes his hot chocolate: extra whipped cream, extra marshmallows, way too sweet by any reasonable standard. And just like always, the second the waitress walks away, Mike leans back and smirks.
“One of these days,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m going to order something normal for you. You drink this like you’re trying to give yourself a sugar coma.”
Will scoffs. “You say that every time.”
“And one day I’ll mean it,” Mike replies solemnly.
He never does.
They end up spending most of the morning there, tucked away in the warmth of the diner while snow piles up outside the windows. They laugh over nothing, over the way Dustin once spilled an entire milkshake on Lucas, over a D&D campaign that derailed within ten minutes, over memories that don’t need context anymore because they’ve been shared for so long.
They even end up talking about California. They talk about airports and unanswered letters, about how easy it was to misunderstand each other when everything already felt fragile.
Hawkins isn’t the same without you.
And then, quietly, they circle back to it.
Mike says something, offhand and unguarded, that makes Will’s cheeks heat up instantly. Something that, to anyone else, might sound easily misinterpreted. Something that wouldn’t mean anything at all if Mike didn’t have a girlfriend.
“I don’t know,” Mike says with a small shrug, stirring his drink. “Things just feel… easier when you’re here.”
Will looks up at him despite himself.
“Like,” Mike continues, glancing over, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I don’t have to think so much. I don’t second-guess everything.” He leans forward on his elbows, voice dropping, softer now. “You’ve always been like that for me. You kind of… ground me.”
Will swallows. Mike laughs quietly, almost embarrassed. “Guess that sounds stupid.”
“No,” Will says too quickly, then falters, heat flooding his face. “I mean—no. It doesn’t.”
Mike’s eyes linger on him for a second longer than necessary, warm and open, and Will’s head spins just a little, because the way Mike says it, the way he looks at him when he does, makes it feel like it means something more than it ever should. And they haven’t mentioned El in over an hour. They haven’t mentioned the date, either.
That’s when it hits him, sharp and unwelcome: the way he’s enjoying this, the way his chest feels light and full at the same time, it isn’t right. None of this is meant to be his. He should rein it in. He should remind them both. He opens his mouth to say her name.
Mike stands up before he can.
It’s only once they step back outside that they realize they’ve skipped lunch entirely. The snow is still falling, heavier now, thicker, coating the world in white. It’s going to take a while to get to the bus stop. They cut through the park, talking about nothing and everything, boots crunching softly as they walk. At one point, Mike glances over at him.
“So,” Mike asks, casual but curious, “did you like the date?”
Will falters. He wants to be honest. He really does. But honesty would give too much away, would expose just how much this meant to him. So instead, he shrugs.
“It was… okay,” he says. “Good. Could be better.”
Mike bursts out laughing, nudging Will’s shoulder with his own. “Wow. Brutal.”
He pretends to be offended, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it quickly into a loose snowball. Will barely has time to react before it hits his coat. “Oh my god,” Will protests, laughing despite himself.
That’s all it takes.
A brief, ridiculous snowball fight breaks out, half-hearted throws, missed targets, laughter echoing through the park. Will slips on a patch of ice mid-laugh and goes down hard, breath knocked out of him—
—and Mike goes down with him.
They land tangled together in the snow, Mike bracing himself just in time, palms planted on either side of Will’s face. For a second, neither of them moves.
Will freezes.
Because Mike is on top of him, their faces only inches apart, snow drifting down around them like something straight out of a romantic movie. And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He shouldn’t feel this way. He turns his head, staring anywhere but at Mike’s eyes.
Mike doesn’t get up. Instead, he studies Will’s face, quiet and intent.
“Hey,” he mumbles after a moment. “You’ve got a snowflake right here.” He reaches up, brushing Will's eyelashes. “Cute.”
Will’s face goes up in flames. His heart is pounding so hard he’s convinced Mike can feel it, can hear it, because they’re pressed so close together it’s impossible not to. “Wh—what?” Will stammers, blinking rapidly, trying to focus on literally anything else.
Mike doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps looking at him, expression unreadable, thoughtful. Will starts rambling about having to head home, about the cold, about—“Can I kiss you?”
The question hits him like a shock to the system.
Will’s breath catches in his throat. For a second, he thinks he might laugh, might ask if this is a joke, because this has to be a joke. They’re lying in the snow. It’s still snowing. Mike Wheeler is hovering over him and asking to kiss him.
Will’s brain short-circuits completely. So he does the only thing that comes to mind.
He jerks upright too fast, panic overriding all common sense and his head collides squarely with Mike’s. The impact is immediate and painfully solid.
“Oh—shit,” Will gasps at the exact same moment Mike lets out a startled, wounded sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a very offended noise. Mike rocks backward, instinctively clutching his nose with one hand as he stumbles a step away, blinking rapidly.
“Oh my god Mike, I’m so sorry,” Will blurts out, scrambling up into a sitting position, horror written all over his face. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
Mike winces, still holding his nose, but then he peeks at Will over his fingers. His eyes are watery, his expression half-dazed.
“You headbutted me,” he says, incredulous.
“I know!” Will groans. “I panicked. My brain just…shut off. Are you okay? Did I break it? Please tell me I didn’t break it.” Mike gently prods his nose, testing it, then exhales. “No. No blood. I think I’m alive.”
Will presses his lips together, clearly on the verge of spiraling. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I—this is the worst possible—”
Mike snorts.
It slips out before he can stop it, sharp and surprised and once it’s out, he can’t hold it back. He starts laughing, shoulders shaking, still half-curled around his nose. Will stares at him for a second, stunned.
“You’re laughing?” he asks.
“I just—” Mike huffs, laughing harder now. “I ask if I can kiss you, and you headbutt me instead.”
Will’s face burns. “That was not intentional!”
“I know, I know,” Mike says, wiping at his eyes.
“It’s just—wow. Definitely not how I pictured that going.” Mike admits it without really paying attention to the words he’s using.
Will, on the other hand, notices everything.
Because somewhere in the middle of Mike’s half-laughing, half-rambling confession, it becomes painfully clear that Mike has already pictured this moment. Thought about it. Imagined it. And Will can’t tell what that means, can’t tell if Mike imagined this with El, if this is still somehow part of the test run, if he’s misunderstanding everything or if his brain has simply tipped into full panic mode.
Then Mike exhales, steadying himself.
“I mean—kissing you, Will,” Mike says quietly. “Not El. Not anyone else.” It’s like someone hits a switch.
Will’s thoughts slam to a complete stop.
He stares at Mike, chest tight, heartbeat loud and erratic. None of this makes sense. Why would Mike want to kiss him if he’s still with El? Guilt floods him all at once, sharp and nauseating.
Mike seems to read it on his face immediately.
“No, hey. I’m not a complete asshole,” he says quickly, pushing himself up and offering Will a hand. His expression is earnest, a little frantic now. Will takes the hand automatically, still dazed. “Then why…?” He trails off, genuinely unable to finish the question.
For the first time since this all started, Mike looks embarrassed. Really embarrassed. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking away.
“Me and El broke up,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather. “A while ago.”
Will blinks. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” he says, uselessly.
His brain scrambles to rearrange everything it thought it knew. So this date, this whole day, was it some desperate attempt to win her back? Some elaborate, misguided plan? And why hasn’t anyone said anything?
“I didn’t know,” Will admits, still reeling. “I thought—”
“Everyone knows,” Mike cuts in softly. He glances at Will just long enough to catch the look on his face, the genuine shock. “I just… I couldn’t tell you.”
Will frowns. “Why?”
Mike’s voice drops. “Because you’re the reason we broke up.”
The words land heavy.
Will freezes completely, caught somewhere between laughter and tears, so overwhelmed his body can’t decide which one makes more sense. A strangled sound escapes him, something halfway between both.
“What?” he manages.
Mike winces, words tripping over each other now.
“I just—I kept thinking about you. All these months, actually. And I didn’t know why, really. And then El kind… understood. Because every time we were together I just kept talking about… you.” Mike confesses, like that alone could make Will understand everything. It doesn’t, because he’s met with silence from Will.
“The date was never for El. It’s kinda hilarious you didn’t pick that up… like, the whole your-favourite-diner thing should’ve made you understand.”
Will shakes his head slowly, like the motion might clear the fog. “Did you do all of this because I said I’d never been on a date? Mike, that doesn’t—”
“No,” Mike interrupts gently. Firmly. He steps closer, grounding the moment before it can spiral again.
“Because I like you.” That does it. Everything goes quiet.
Will’s lips part in a small, stunned oh. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold, from embarrassment, from something dangerously close to hope. He looks at Mike like he’s still trying to translate a language he’s afraid to believe he understands.
“So this was a date for… the two of us?” Will asks quietly, like he’s afraid that speaking any louder might puncture the fragile bubble forming between them, might strip Mike’s words of their meaning.
Snow is falling harder now, thick flakes swirling around them, settling into Will’s hair and clinging to the collar of his coat. The cold seeps through the fabric, sharp and insistent, and he has to fight the urge to shiver.
Mike nods, slow and deliberate, stepping closer. The space between them shrinks until Will can feel his warmth cutting through the chill. Their breaths come out heavier now, visible in the air, partly from the cold, partly from everything else.
“Yeah,” Mike says softly. “For us.”
Will swallows. His nose is freezing, his fingers numb, and yet his chest feels almost painfully warm. He lets out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on Mike’s, afraid to look away in case this vanishes the second he does.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The snow keeps falling. The world feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath right along with them.
“I’m cold,” Will says, the words slipping out before he can stop them, before he can even think about what he’s actually saying. It’s not exactly the right response to I planned this date just for us, but Will’s brain has always had a habit of short-circuiting the moment panic sets in.
Mike doesn’t seem offended. Not really. He just smiles softly, ducks his head for half a second like he’s trying to hide it, then gently grabs Will by the arm and steers him out of the park, toward the bus stop at the edge of the street.
The ride back to the Wheeler house is quiet, but not in the same way it was that morning. They sit close again, thighs pressed together, coats brushing. Mike’s pinky rests dangerously close to Will’s hand, right where his fingers are curled loosely in his lap.
Will keeps thinking about it, thinking about whether he should move, whether he should do something, whether it’s better to leave the conversation for later.
He swallows when he realizes he’s overthinking again.
So he stops.
When the bus takes a small turn, Will uses the movement as an excuse, letting his pinky hook around Mike’s. Just barely. It’s subtle, almost accidental, but it’s real. Heat rushes to his face immediately. He looks down at their intertwined fingers, then flicks his gaze up toward Mike’s face.
Mike isn’t looking at him. He’s staring straight ahead at the road, but there’s that smile on his lips, the small one Will has only seen a handful of times over the years. The one that makes his nose scrunch slightly, his mouth curve in a way that looks both shy and unmistakably happy.
The kind of smile Mike wears when he’s genuinely content.
Will relaxes. Just a little. He lets their pinkies stay tangled for the rest of the ride.
When they get back to the Wheeler house, it hits them both at once how soaked they are, or at least their clothes are. Snow-melt clings to their coats and jeans, damp and cold. Will laughs, breathless, pointing down at Mike’s sleeves.
“We’re literally dripping,” he says.
Mike snorts. “Worth it.”
They laugh louder than they mean to, enough that someone inside the house shifts, a muffled sound carrying through the walls. Mike immediately grabs Will’s wrist.
“C’mon,” Mike whispers, already pulling him upstairs. “Before my mom asks questions.”
They disappear into Mike’s room with a quick excuse thrown over their shoulders.
Mike digs through his dresser and tosses Will a set of clean clothes without hesitation. Will could easily go downstairs and grab something of his own from the basement, he knows that, but this feels different. Mike hands him his favorite T-shirt, the soft one he wears too often, and something about that makes Will pause.
Months ago, Mike had said he didn’t mind Will wearing his clothes. Back then, Will hadn’t really understood what he meant.
Now, standing in the doorway with wet jackets discarded on the floor, he thinks he does.
They change awkwardly, bumping elbows, laughing when Mike nearly trips trying to pull off his jeans. Will’s hair is still damp, curls darkened by melted snow.
“Hold still,” Mike says, grabbing a towel. “You’re freezing.”
He gently dries Will’s hair, careful and focused, fingers brushing his scalp through the fabric. Will tries not to think about how close he is, how natural it feels. He fails.
Somehow, it turns into light shoving, laughter bubbling up again, until they tumble onto the bed together, this time warm, dry, tangled in blankets instead of snow.
Will stares up at the ceiling for a second, thinking about just a few hours ago. About the park. The snow. The way Mike looked at him.
They lie side by side, shoulders touching. Comfortable silence settles between them.
“I was lying earlier,” Will says eventually.
Mike turns toward him immediately. “About what?”
“The date,” Will admits, voice soft. “It wasn’t just okay. It was—” He hesitates, cheeks warming. “It was really nice. Actually… kind of amazing. Definitely the best date of my life.”
Mike laughs quietly, the sound muffled as it presses into Will’s arm.
“That was your only date,” he mumbles.
Will turns his head to look at him, giggling. Mike looks relieved, like he’s glad Will brought it up first, like he was afraid he’d said too much out in the snow.
One second he’s looking at Mike’s face, really looking at it, the familiar curve of his mouth, the way his eyes soften when he’s nervous but trying not to show it, and the next he’s leaning in, slow enough that Mike has time to pull away if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
Their noses bump first, an awkward little knock that makes Will almost laugh and almost panic at the same time.
His breath stutters, warm and shallow, fogging faintly in the small space between them. For a split second, they hover there, so close that Will can feel Mike’s breath against his lips.
Then Will presses their mouths together.
It’s clumsy. Soft. Barely there at first, more of a careful touch than a real kiss, like Will is testing whether this is allowed, whether it’s real. Mike freezes for half a heartbeat, and Will’s stomach drops, but then Mike relaxes.
His lips move gently against Will’s, tentative but sure, like he’s been wanting to do this for a long time and is trying not to scare it away. Will lets out a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his shoulders easing as the tension melts out of him.
The kiss deepens just a little. Not rushed, not desperate, just warmer. Mike tilts his head slightly, and this time their mouths fit better, easier. Will feels the faintest smile against his lips, feels Mike’s hand shift on the bed between them, fingers brushing his sleeve like he’s debating whether to touch more and deciding to wait.
Will’s heart is pounding so loudly he’s convinced Mike must hear it.
They pull back slowly, almost reluctantly, foreheads brushing, noses still close enough to touch. Will’s lips tingle, his cheeks warm, his head spinning in the quiet aftermath of it.
Neither of them speaks right away.
Then, Mike rests his forehead against Will’s shoulder.
“So,” he says lightly, voice teasing but soft, “if you’re okay with it… I was thinking I’d like to try going on a few more test run dates I am planning to go with this guy. Not sure if you know him.”
Will giggles lightly and Mike continues, amused.
“His name’s William Byers.”
❄ ❄ ❄