Chapter Text
Mike feels bad about it. Not constantly—he’s not a monster—but often enough that it registers. It’s background noise. Like a low battery warning he keeps ignoring because the walkie talkie still works fine.
And honestly, he didn’t even know what he and Will were doing. After eighteen months of being together for basically every waking second, things didn’t really start. They just… occurred. Naturally. Like leaning too close and not pulling away. Like breathing.
They never talked about it, which Mike thinks is actually very mature of them. Talking would’ve made it real, and this wasn’t real. It was more like something that happened after midnight and politely disappeared by morning. Daylight rules. Nighttime doesn’t count as much.
Which is why it’s not like he’s lying to his sort-of on-again, off-again girlfriend. He just doesn’t mention it. You can’t explain something you don’t have a definition for. Especially when that something is “seeing someone new,” and that someone is—okay, yes—her brother.
But technically her brother.
And if technically matters. Will was Mike’s first, which feels like an important footnote in all this. Firsts are confusing. Firsts don’t follow rules. Plus, calling them siblings is kind of a stretch. They only actually lived as a family in California for less than a year, which is barely anything. Mike’s had band phases that lasted longer.
So in Mike’s head, this isn’t wrong-wrong. It’s just… messy. Misfiled. A gray area with a lot of fine print.
And if he doesn’t read the fine print too closely,
everything almost makes sense.
It also makes things complicated when you’re dating—or not dating—someone who doesn’t really have a concept of what two guys can even do together. El doesn’t. Not really. Mike’s not even sure how much she knows beyond kissing, or if she’s thought about it at all. Probably not. She doesn’t think about things like that unless someone makes her.
He and Will haven’t done everything. That feels important to note. But they’ve definitely done stuff. Enough stuff that Mike knows the difference now, even if he doesn’t have the words for it.
With El, they never went very far. Part of that was timing, probably. Part of it was that it felt… almost wrong. She was so trusting. So earnest. Sometimes it felt like he was borrowing something fragile and wasn’t sure he could give it back in one piece. Their relationship didn’t always feel fair.
They honestly got along better when they were broken up anyway.
And he does love her. He thinks. In his way. He just can’t say it. Or show it. Or write it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s what he’s supposed to feel, so of course he feels it. Probably. He tries not to dwell on that too much.
He also tries not to compare El and Will, because that doesn’t seem productive. But it’s hard not to. It’s like night and day. El is innocence and puppy love and fairytales. In a world where she’s the main character, it would be their storybook ending—clean and perfect and uncomplicated.
But he’s never felt what he feels with Will.
Maybe it’s because it’s secret. Maybe because it’s forbidden. Maybe because he knows that if his dad ever found out, he’d be furious—and the thought of that fills Mike with a strange, buzzing giddiness. Like proof. Like confirmation.
That whatever this is,
it’s already made sure he ends up nothing like Ted Wheeler.
He doesn’t exactly remember it happening.
One moment they’re in lockdown because of toxic fumes or some other end-of-the-world announcement crackling through the radio, and the next they’re on the basement sofa, bored out of their minds, kissing like they’re trying to steal oxygen from each others lungs. It feels unreal in retrospect. Like a jump cut he keeps rewinding and still can’t fully track.
It definitely wasn’t planned. Not on Mike’s end, at least.
He replays it anyway. He knows how it started. He stared too long at Will’s mouth. Sat too close. Let the space between them disappear. And then—suddenly—he was grabbing onto him like he was drowning, like if he didn’t hold on he might lose something vital.
He remembers the urgency more than anything. The way everything narrowed. How fast it escalated from this is happening to this is all that exists. At some point they were stretched out on the couch, tangled together, caught in a kind of intensity Mike had never felt before.
That’s the part that rattles him.
He never asks Will if it was his first kiss. He doesn’t think he wants to know. Will seemed too sure, too natural, like this wasn’t new territory. And the idea of that—of whatever might have happened in California, of a version of Will that existed without him—gets under Mike’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
It makes him angry. Unreasonably so.
So he doesn’t ask.
He lets the not-knowing sit there instead, sharp and unresolved, and tells himself that digging into it would only make things worse.
Some things feel safer left unexplained.
Mike kind of expects Will to feel bad about it. To be torn up. To be guilty and weird and avoid El like she’s radioactive. That just feels logical. That’s what Mike would do.
But Will doesn’t.
If anything, he’s happier than Mike’s ever seen him. Looser. Brighter. Like something inside him finally unclenched. And the sight of it fills Mike’s chest with so much warmth it scares him a little—like if he doesn’t keep a tight grip on it, it’ll spill out of his mouth in front of everyone.
He has to look away sometimes.
Which is when he notices it.
Or rather—everyone does.
There’s a faint line of bruised kisses along Will’s neck, unmistakably shaped like Mike’s mouth. It’s not subtle. It’s there. And the second the gang clocks it, it becomes a whole thing.
They swarm him. Tease him. Demand explanations.
“What kind of girl does that?”
“Damn, Byers.”
“Should we be impressed or concerned?”
Will turns pink instantly. Stammers something about spider bites. Maybe bugs. Possibly an allergy. The excuses stack on top of each other until even he knows they’re bad.
Eventually, he gives up with a huff and says he doesn’t kiss and tell.
And when he does, he looks at Mike.
Just for a second.
A quick, knowing glance.
It hits Mike right in the chest—half panic, half something dangerously close to joy.
They don't talk about it.
And in all fairness, El’s been busy. Like, end-of-the-world busy.
Her days are packed with training—Hopper hovering, drills that leave her exhausted, conversations that all circle back to Henry and what comes next. Saving the world apparently doesn’t leave much room for normal relationship stuff, which honestly feels like a relief more than anything else.
She’s different lately. Snippier. More impulsive. Like every thought jumps straight to her mouth before she can stop it. She snaps at Mike sometimes, then looks immediately guilty, then snaps again anyway. She’s wound tight.
Mostly, she’s desperate to prove herself. To Hopper. To everyone. Especially to Hopper. Mike can practically feel it vibrating off her—this need to be useful, powerful, enough. She talks about defeating Henry like it’s a test she has to pass or else something terrible happens, and Mike’s not sure she even knows what that something is.
When she comes to him, it’s not romantic. Not even close.
She vents. About Hopper being overbearing. About being treated like a weapon instead of a person. About how no one trusts her instincts anymore. She paces when she talks, fists clenched, voice sharp with frustration. Mike listens. He nods. He says the right supportive things.
They don’t kiss. They don’t hold hands. They don’t even sit very close.
She never comes to him like she used to. Not soft. Not seeking. Just stressed and buzzing and already halfway turned toward the next problem she has to solve.
And Mike tells himself that’s fine.
That it makes sense.
That the world ending is a pretty good excuse for everything else to be on pause.
He doesn’t think too hard about how easy it’s become to let it stay that way.
In Mike’s weirder, more carefully controlled fantasies, everyone knows.
Not in a dramatic way. No yelling. No ultimatums. Just… understanding. Like they all sit down, talk it through, and come to the obvious conclusion that this doesn’t actually have to be a problem if no one makes it one.
In those versions, El knows about Will. Will knows about El. And somehow, impossibly, they agree that Mike doesn’t have to choose. That he can have both halves of his life without ripping himself in two.
He gets the pretty girl he can bring to family gatherings and walk through town with. The one everyone already expects. She’s gentle and sweet and uncomplicated in a way that feels safe. The kind of love that looks right from the outside.
And then there’s Will.
The quiet certainty. The comfort of someone who knows him so well it’s almost eerie. Someone who can read him without asking questions. Who makes everything feel easier, brighter, like the volume on the world has been turned down just enough to breathe.
In Mike’s head, if he could just combine them—take the best parts and make one clean, livable future—everything would make sense. No guilt. No fear. No choosing.
Life would be simpler.
So he doesn’t think about it. Not really. He shoves the idea into the same place he puts everything else that feels too big and too honest.
Because wanting it doesn’t make it possible.
And pretending he doesn’t want it at all feels safer than admitting how badly he does.
Things escalate because of course they do.
It’s Mike’s birthday—the kind of cosmic joke timing that feels intentional—and the Party decides to surprise him first thing in the morning. Which would be sweet if they were capable of being quiet. They are not.
Mike wakes to the sound of clumsy whispering and feet thudding up the stairs. Someone hisses “Shh!” much too loudly. Something bumps into the railing. Mike isn’t sure how they’ve survived monsters when they can’t manage basic stealth.
Then he realizes.
Will is sleeping in his bed.
They lock eyes.
Panic detonates.
There’s a frantic scramble for clothes, limbs tangling, whispers overlapping. Mike dives back under the covers like he’s been there all night. Will grabs the nearest shirt—Mike’s—and squeezes himself into the closet just as the noise reaches the landing.
They barely manage not to laugh at the irony of it.
The door swings open. The lights flip on. An aggressively off-key “Happy Birthday” fills the room.
Mike squints, groans, plays along.
El leans down and gives him a quick peck on the lips. It’s soft and familiar and easy, like muscle memory. No one notices the way Mike’s heart is still racing for an entirely different reason.
Eventually, they decide to give him time to get dressed. The Party spills back out into the hallway, already arguing about breakfast.
Will slips out later and joins them downstairs like nothing happened.
They’re all crowded around the breakfast table—parents, Nancy, everyone talking over each other. The room smells like coffee and toast. It feels painfully normal.
Then Dustin squints at Will.
“Dude,” he says. “Are you wearing Mike’s shirt?”
Will doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Laundry day mix-up,” he says, laughing easily.
Mike holds his breath.
No one questions it. Nancy nods absently. His parents don’t even look up. The conversation rolls on.
Nobody suspects a thing.
Mike exhales, heart still hammering, and thinks—not for the first time—that he’s getting dangerously good at this.
Sometimes Mike lets himself imagine just coming clean.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just… telling the truth. First to his friends. He’s pretty sure they’d freak out a little—there’d be questions, awkward pauses, maybe some poorly worded jokes—but it would pass. The shock would fade into understanding. Into that familiar acceptance they always circle back to.
They’d say it makes sense. That it always has. That if you look back far enough, this was inevitable. That this is the only version of things that ever really fit.
Nancy and Jonathan would get it too. That part feels easy. Obvious. They’d probably be their biggest supporters, honestly. Joyce would be happy—relieved, even—to see Will happy. That alone feels like it should count for something.
Mike’s parents are the harder part.
He thinks his mom would understand. Not right away. There’d be shock, definitely. Maybe some tears. But she has gay friends. She’s not clueless. Eventually, she’d come around. She’d support him. She always does.
His dad, though.
That one’s harder to picture. Mike can see it going a couple different ways. Maybe his dad wouldn’t even really care. He’d ask who this Will guy is, grunt in acknowledgment, then fall asleep on the couch halfway through the conversation. Say something dry and vaguely supportive, like at least he doesn’t have to worry about wedding costs or accidental grandkids.
Insensitive, but not cruel.
Or—worse—he could freak out. Say it goes against their values. Call it a phase. Act like it’s something Mike just needs to outgrow.
Mike figures the first option is more likely.
Mostly because the second one would require effort.
And a backbone.
He holds onto that thought longer than the others.
And then there’s El.
In his best-case version of things, she’d understand. She’d want them to be happy. She’d take it with this calm, grown-up grace, and somehow they’d all stay friends. Time would pass. Joyce and Hopper would get married. Their families would blur together into something easy and familiar—shared holidays, crowded kitchens, laughter. One day they’d all joke about how Mike and El used to be a thing, like it was just another chapter they’d outgrown.
He tries to picture it from her side, too.
She was raised like a lab rat. A tool. Taken from her mother, stripped of warmth, of normalcy, of choice. The first real kindness she ever knew came from Mike. He was her introduction to safety. To love. To being wanted.
She’s had no practice for what a breakup even is. No roadmap for loss. No emotional preparation for being left—not really. And that’s not even accounting for the abandonment issues that cling to her like a shadow.
When Mike lets himself think about it honestly, the picture gets messier. Sharper. Less like a movie montage and more like something fragile cracking under pressure.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to cross that bridge yet.
So he doesn’t.
And he won’t.
Not until he has to, at least—and that could be never, if the world blows up first. Which honestly feels like a non-zero possibility lately.
Until then, he’ll take whatever scraps of happiness fall into his lap. He’ll hold onto the small, bright moments and pretend they’re enough. He’ll sidestep the big conversations, the messes waiting just out of view, and tell himself that survival comes first.
This is fine. This is temporary. This is manageable.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
And for now, it works.