Chapter Text
When he was little, Will used to love staying over at Mike’s. It was better than being at Dustin or Lucas’s. Mike had the best snacks, they were allowed to stay up late, there was never any yelling. They’d play D&D, watch movies, pull dumb pranks on Nancy. At the end of the night, they’d pile in together—the four of them, the two of them—stuffed into sleeping bags, waking up squashed next to each other like sardines.
But they aren’t little kids anymore, and isn’t a sleepover—not really.
Outside, it feels like the world is ending. Inside too, sometimes. But mostly, after months and months, it just feels cramped. The Wheelers are nice enough about it, but it is.
It’s almost immediate, how fast Will snaps back into some version of his younger self, from before his dad left. Tiptoeing around the grown ups, always quiet, helpful, never causing any trouble. He and Jonathan always knew there was never any reason to give Lonnie another excuse to pick a fight. Now, it’s that same feeling—that if he can make himself small enough, he’ll get through it.
So Will always keeps the basement clean and tidy. He covers for Jonathan when he sneaks up to Nancy’s room. He draws with Holly when she’s bored. He sets the table at dinner for Mrs. Wheeler. No one asked him to, but he can tell she appreciates it—this is what he’s aiming for. He eats what he’s given and doesn’t ask for seconds, doesn’t complain about it when they’re eating the same meal again for the third, fourth night in a row because that’s the only thing that can get through the military blockade, even though Mike and Nancy always do.
Most importantly, Will locks away his feelings for Mike and tells himself he’s thrown away the key. It’s easier than thinking about how torturous it is, how much Will wants him even though he knows he shouldn’t. That it’s a pointless crush, a stupid, messy, messed-up part of him that could ruin everything.
When they first moved in, he tried avoiding Mike. Not blatantly, not like he was mad or anything—that would only make Mike try to talk to him about it—but just enough to keep his distance and his sanity.
But Mike is persistent with his patience, his kindness—he waits for Will in the morning when they walk to school; he invites him up to read comics in his room; he insists they take bike rides together to get out of the house when the weather holds.
And in the end, Will has never been able to deny Mike anything.
So they’re back to being… friends. Best friends. Will tells himself that it’s enough, because some days, it is. The days when he’s the one to hold Mike’s attention, to make him laugh—the days when it feels like everything is almost back to how it was.
But some days, it isn’t enough, not at all. The days that Mike goes to visit El and doesn’t invite him? Those are bad days. Or the days when he does invite him—those are bad days, too.
Sometimes Mike stalks around the house, moody and distant, and Will knows that he and El had a fight, or he’s worried about her, or he’s missing her.
Will loves El, he really does. He wants her to be happy; he wants Mike to be happy too.
So he does what he always does, when Mike is stuck on El: He gives him a shoulder to lean on. He listens to his complaints and confessions. He gives advice—he gives good advice, even when it feels like it will kill him. He wants to scream and punch the wall but he does it, because this is the trade off.
And in turn, Mike keeps coming down to the basement to ask him to hang out, sketch out story ideas for a new campaign, go to the arcade.
Will knows that this is just how it is between them, now. This is how it’s been ever since Mike met El.
This is as much as it will ever be.
Will tells himself he understands the rules now. He knows where the lines are, how not to cross them. So when Mike asks if he wants to watch Star Wars, Will says yes like it doesn’t matter, like he hasn’t already decided to want less than he does.
And anyways, it’s their semi-regular Friday tradition these days, but today Dustin is busy with Steve and Lucas is visiting Max at the hospital. It’s Mike’s turn to pick. He insisted on a classic.
They’re at the part where Luke is lost in a blizzard on Hoth, when Will feels it. Mike’s thigh, brushing against his own. There’s a gentle pressure, the quiet rustle of denim against denim. Will feels hot all over, a heat that radiates out from the place where their legs overlap and rushes over his whole body.
Mike’s eyes are straight ahead on the tv, so Will keeps his trained on the screen too. It’s accidental, Will tells himself. It’s just Mike, getting comfortable. He probably isn’t even aware he’s doing it. It means nothing.
The basement is dark. The Empire Strikes Back plays on. While Han and Leia bicker on the Millennium Falcon, Mike reaches behind Will and grabs the throw laying on the couch behind him. Passes Will half the blanket, pulls the rest over himself. “Chilly,” he says by way of explanation with a small smile, the one that slices through all of Will’s careful denial. Readjusts his legs, relaxes back into the cushions, still touching Will’s thigh with his own.
It’s because we’re friends, Will reminds himself as he looks down at the fabric, running his fingers along the quilted seams. It’s because this is Mike’s house and Mike’s couch and Mike’s basement and Mike can put his legs wherever he wants. It means nothing.
“Are you even paying attention?” Mike asks, something between a joke and concern, and Will schools his face back into neutral. “Yeah,” he mutters, shoving his hands under the blanket and pulling his eyes back to the scene. It’s worse that Mike is like this, but he also cherishes it. His attentiveness, his kindness, his care.
“We can turn it off, if you want,” he offers, and Will knows he could say yes, pretend to be too tired to keep watching, and Mike wouldn’t mind. That would be better, easier.
But Will doesn’t want to, not really, because if he does, Mike will move his leg and the rest of his body and go back up to his room; fall asleep in his own bed. And Will will still be here, alone in the basement with his racing heart and racing thoughts.
“No, I’m good.” It’s just Mike being Mike, he reminds himself. It means nothing.
He feels it then. Mike shifts his arm slowly, so slowly, until his hand is next to Will’s. Brushes the back of it against his, scrapes his knuckles so lightly, all the way down Will’s fingers til it’s gone, resting centimeters away on the couch. Will fights a shudder. Mike didn't mean to, he tells himself. It means nothing.
On the tv, Luke begins his training with Yoda. “Do. Or do not do. There is no try.” And, there it is again: the soft ghost of pressure as Mike skims Will’s hand from tips to palm and back again.
Will holds his breath, for a few seconds or a minute or maybe a lifetime, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore, because then Mike slides his hand under Will’s and entwines their fingers and it’s impossible because now, somehow, they’re holding hands, under the blanket, sitting on the couch in the Wheeler’s basement, watching Star Wars.
Will does not—cannot—move. He does not turn to look at Mike. Instead, he listens to his heart beat, echoing in his ears. Mike is with El, Mike loves El. Mike doesn’t like Will like that. The earth orbits the sun, the sky is blue, water is wet. These are the facts, the basic foundational principles that make up Will’s reality. He’s gotta be missing something; he’s reading this wrong. Holding hands must just be what best friends do, sometimes. This means nothing.
Mike drags his thumb against Will’s, back and forth.
“I love you,” says Leia.
“I know,” says Han.
Will can’t breathe.
Mike lets out a shaky exhale.
Will watches the back half of the plot unfold in front of him with a mask of rapt attention, as though he hasn’t seen this movie hundreds of times. As though Mike isn’t tracing lazy circles across him with his thumb.
Luke fights Vader; loses a hand, learns the truth about his father. Will can’t tell what he wants more: To look at Mike, or to not look at him. There’s possibility in the uncertainty, there’s hope—and Will has not allowed himself to feel hope like this in so, so long.
It means nothing, he tells himself again, but the voice sounds less certain.
It means nothing, he thinks, when the credits roll and Mike gently squeezes before letting go. Chews on his lip, smiles. Stands up, wishes Will a good night and heads upstairs.
It means nothing, nothing, nothing. Will clings to it, like a prayer.
But. It might mean something, he allows himself to think as he tries to fall asleep that night.
It might mean something, he remembers months later when Robin tells him about signals and signs.
It might mean something, whispers a small, pathetic part of him—always, even after it is clear that it means nothing, nothing, nothing.