Work Text:
A random December night, 1986
“Will, I swear, if you cut my ear off—” Mike starts complaining. He slightly flinches backwards after a particular close cut behind his ear is made, chopping a good chunk of one of his grown, dark curls and making it fall on the floor next to the growing bunch of hair.
Will can only sight, a bit annoyed but, again, unfortunately, he wouldn’t prefer to be anywhere else. “I’m not gonna cut your ear off. Just… stop moving,” he mumbles, trying hard not to roll his eyes mockingly, tip of his tongue between his teeth and focusing on Mike’s long waves.
He holds Mike’s head in place. Gently. Fingertips running through the soft hair that — now Will has learned — smells like what probably is Nancy’s shampoo and brown sugar and tenderness. Scissors ready and at work on his other hand.
Truth is, if Will had been asked in the beginning of that monotonous winter morning — if you can even call any morning in Hawkins monotonous after everything the small town had been through — if he thought he would end up the night kneeling in front of his best friend, scissors in hands, as he cut said best friend’s hair he has only ever dreamed of running his pathetic, dirty fingers through, the answer would have been of course not. Not in a million years, no.
But then, he is helpless, he is weak, and Mike had asked him if he knew how to cut hair — had asked him to cut his mullet off because he had grown out of it and thought he’s too old to ask his mom or sister to do it for him — with that hypnotizing, sad puppy look on his face, and Will could only say yes, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.
So there they are, locked inside the upstairs bathroom of the Wheeler house, confined from the cold of the season just outside the walls, trying to make as least noise as possible because it is way past the normal time to be awake alone with a best friend in a bathroom. The only source of light helping Will at his task is the single yellowish bulb on the ceiling — and the only source making his task harder by distracting him is the reflection of said yellowish light on Mike’s ever so warm, dark brown eyes that stare back at him shamelessly.
Or maybe what is distracting Will so much is the fact they are sitting so close to each other after he’s finished working on the actual mullet behind Mike’s head, and positioned himself in front of him, now working on his bangs. So close Will feels scared to move away — or closer.
Will doesn’t know who moved enough so they would end up like that. Truly. And he honestly doesn’t have the energy to question who was the first to move in a way that he ended up kneeling in front of Mike and in between Mike’s opened legs. Mike sits at the edge of the bathtub, pale hands gripping at it in search for support, back slightly leaned forward for a better angle. And the tiled floor is harsh and cold under Will’s barely protected knees, but it doesn’t bother him so much as he feels Mike’s warmth effortlessly moving towards him, touching his skin even under all the layers of pajamas and sweaters.
Still, he tries not to think about any of that, he tries to keep his mind clear of any thoughts that can easily make his heart speed up or his hands sweat on Mike’s hair. It would only make him fall down an abyss he won't come back from.
Just enjoy the moment without overthinking about it. There’s nothing to think about, anyway. Mike asked a friend to cut his hair. That’s it.
“I’m not moving. I’m breathing,” continues Mike, oblivious to anything going on inside Will’s mind, mouth almost completely still and words barely slipping from his soft-looking lips as if to prove himself to Will; it almost makes Will laugh.
He can’t hold off at least a grin. “You’re breathing aggressively." He cuts a bit of another lock of hair, this time closer to the top of Mike’s head.
It doesn’t really bother him to hear Mike’s breathing — to feel his lungs rising and falling so close to his own, to feel Mike’s warm breath on the fabric of his sweater. It’s soothing, calming. But in this situation he’s put himself in, it is nothing but distracting. And he doesn’t want to mess up.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you’re holding scissors near someone’s eyes at one in the morning,” Will leans back just a bit to stare sharply at Mike’s eyes, involuntary smile on his lips. Yet he maybe regrets doing so as he watches Mike blink, almost in slow motion; as he watches Mike’s long eyelashes flutter, kiss the fading freckles under his eyes.
Every winter since they were so little he can’t remember, Will missed Mike’s vibrant, honeyed freckles like he had missed watching the clouds back in Lenora. He missed them when he drew Mike in his fantasy drawings and in his secret drawings which were only for his own eyes, because he couldn’t quite remember what their exact color was after a month into the cold, gloomy season. But then, they always did come back during spring just as the new flowers bloomed. Every year. Like a ritual.
Will also watches Mike barely lick his bottom lip before smiling; he observes with a dry throat the smallest tip of Mike’s pink tongue touch the silky skin of lips. And Mike says, eyes accusing: “You’re the one who said you knew how to do this.”
He swallows and decides it was best to continue focusing on his friend’s stubborn hair. “I do know how,” he makes a cut, running from Mike’s big eyes. “I told you, my mom used to cut my hair all the time, and I always watched her do it to Jonathan’s too.” Will tries his best not to make unnecessary moves with his fingers, not to accidentally touch or brush his fingertips against Mike’s cheeks, ears, and neck as he holds the dark, wavy hair in his hands. Even if his fingers itch to softly scratch Mike’s scalp, see what shaky breath or goosebump that would cause Mike. See if that would even get something out of Mike at all. “He let me practice on him. Once. And either way, you were the one who asked for my help.”
“That didn’t sound confident.” Mike moves his head again.
And Will sees, with the corner of his eyes, Mike’s left leg barely shifting beside him, towards him — and his knee almost touches Will’s hip. Almost. Hesitant. Just enough to make Mike’s pants brush against the hem of Will’s sweater.
His heart squeezes a little inside his chest. Did Mike notice it? Was that on purpose? Will doesn’t dare look in his eyes to find out.
“Mike.” It’s meant as a warning for Mike’s bickering and agitation, but it comes out between his set teeth, probably weak, by the way the name trembles in Will’s lips. And he can’t really tell, still focused on friend’s innocent knee brushing against his side, on the heat that radiates from their skin close to one another that makes his mind feel dizzy and leaves his skin burning and— No. Will puts a stop to that voice in his mind. Control yourself.
This is not what it looks like.
Stop being disgusting.
Mike isn’t like you. He isn’t dirty like you.
“Okay, okay,” giggles Mike. Innocent, childish. The sound of it burns a hole deep within Will’s core. “I’ll be still, I promise.” And he does so, keeping his head frozen in front of Will’s hands once again. Distancing his knee from Will’s hipbone — like it had been on purpose.
Will chooses not to answer, and falls back into his external silence of concentration while he cuts more bits of Mike’s incredibly long hair; would it ever end?
In the lack of words, Will’s annoying, filled mind thrives. And he swims through a river of thoughts that leave him remembering about how differently they were acting around each other not even a year ago; when the distance had been harsh on Will and they naturally grew apart after the Byers moved away. But that was normal, Will believed; it was common for friends to lose contact after so many months apart. Still he had hoped that, maybe, the curse wouldn’t fall onto him and Mike at the beginning, just as he had waited anxiously for stacks of letters and calls in return (but that had only been an innocent, ingenious thought. Mike did not call or write him, not so much that Will could have lost count.)
Still, Will had always known no absence of Mike would make him forget about him. Because Will found him everywhere.
In the little children from his neighborhood spending fall afternoons on swings or riding their bikes in Lenora, right after he moved. In his movie nights with El, Jonathan and their mom, when they used to watch Star Wars or The Goonies or Ghostbusters.
In his science classes. He always wondered if Mike was having that same class back in Hawkins.
In Mike’s favorite song he listened to before bed on repeat, trying his best to picture Mike beside him, listening to it with him.
Because Mike had always been sewn to every part of Will. To every inch of scenery he’s in.
And then they saw each other again for spring break, and Will had never remembered feeling so lost in his whole life.
But then all the tragedies circling their lives brought them back to Hawkins, and Will found himself quarantined inside this Godforsaken town, living in Mike's basement, clinging to every last bit of their shared childhood.
And awkward silences were suddenly turning into comfortable ones again. And lingering touches on the breakfast table and side by side in the school hallways still burned and felt wrong, but left Will wondering.
It’s funny, really. How in just a few months of living together after that terrible spring were enough to make that old intimacy return — that consuming adoration, innocent worrying and affection of best friends, just the same as their childhood. Like nothing had ever happened. It makes Will feel warm inside just by realizing it, sitting in that bathroom while cutting Mike’s hair; like a hot drink spreading through him on a winter night. He wouldn’t trade that regained proximity for nothing.
And that’s also why he still tries to bury further away than ever any nonsense, old and bone-deep love he’s ever felt — not to ruin their perfect friendship. Even if Mike and El aren’t in a relationship anymore.
Will had noticed the lack of mentioning of his sister coming from Mike not much after spring, and he and the others didn’t have much information about it either — all Will knew was that it had been a mutual break up, apparently. He tried to question El about it, but she’d just give him some poor talk about how ‘they figured it was the best thing for the both of them’.
He had found it weird. Just how Mike had never come to him to talk about it — he used to do so all the time. Still, Will didn’t want to push him into opening up. And it didn’t matter.
Will still knows that isn’t the reason Mike would never reciprocate his feelings. Mike isn’t stained like he was. Mike is clean.
Mike is looking at him from below, eyes switching from Will’s, to Will’s sweater, to the floor filled with hair, to Will’s eyes again.
And Mike bites his bottom lip. And Mike starts talking again, breaking the comfortable and warm silence apart from the click of scissors, because he can’t stay quiet for the life of him.
“Just tell me when you mess up, okay? Don’t stay silent. I wanna see it before you continue,” he is still frozen, but his eyes burn Will’s, and he tries his best to ignore them.
“I won’t mess up.” Will mumbles under his breath. Another cut.
“Did you hesitate?”
“I’m concentrating.”
“On what, my tragic bangs?” There’s the hint of a smirk on Mike’s tone, Will senses it more than sees it. He sighs.
“On…” Will cuts again, right above Mike’s eyebrow. His finger accidentally brushes against Mike’s temple. “…getting it right.”
And he pulls slightly at the next lock of hair in between his fingers to cut it, but Mike flinches. Not running away, just probably surprised by the gentle tug on his hair. “Are you—”
It all happens so fast, Will only notices Mike’s knee is connected to his hipbone again when he interrupts him.
“Hold still, Mike.”
And the leg at his side is still there, burning, because Mike doesn’t move it away this time. It’s pressure against Will’s body is a bit heavier than the one from minutes before — and it leaves his restless heartbeat increasing by the second at the mere contact.
“Sorry, reflex,” is all Mike mumbles in response, voice light, eyes pouring over Will’s.
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Moving.”
“Because you keep pulling at my hair,” it doesn’t come out in an accusatory voice, he doesn’t seem to mind, Mike just whispers the words into existence. Will notices, again, how close they are — how the space in between them is even smaller with Mike’s leg clinging to him. And he can only wonder if Mike feels warm this close to him as well, if Mike is intoxicated by his scent just as he is by his.
“That’s how haircuts work,” he scoffs, but he can feel heat crawl up his face. He just wishes he doesn’t look as red as he feels. But the thought of pulling more of Mike’s hair and seeing if Mike would still not mind isn’t helping.
They fall into silence once again after that, and Will shifts slightly as he decides to work on the hair of the other side of Mike’s head and face — still, very careful not to move enough that Mike’s knee would be unglued from him.
Slowly, with Will’s careful and slow work with the scissors, the new haircut starts taking shape around Mike’s sharp features. The dark curls that now fall perfectly on his pale forehead, the lack of length on the locks behind his neck and ears — it all slowly, partially erases the image of Mike’s mullet from Will’s mind. He still vividly remembers seeing that haircut for the first time at the airport, and it all feels like it happened yesterday. The awkward hug and hello’s. The wall in between them. The fights. But now, that is all in the past. And Will’s hands are the last to touch the hair of that Mike, his eyes are the last to see that version of the boy.
At some point, Will doesn’t remember when, Mike’s other knee touches the other side of his hips. Now pinning Will completely in between his legs, Mike doesn’t even seem to notice it. Doesn’t seem even a bit shaken by the fact the bones of his knees dig into Will’s waist and it can almost be as if no clothes are in between them.
Will only sees the way Mike’s hand slightly grips harder onto the bathtub. The way Mike’s eyes, for the first time in what felt like hours, aren’t focused on his own, but on the yellow sink next to them.
It’s amazing in the same way it is frustrating. Because Will doesn’t want to move ever again, wants to be forever pinned in between Mike Wheeler’s legs in such a small distance from each other. But he also wants to scream. He wants to ask Mike if he knows what he is doing to Will. He wants to kiss him right then and there and—
Will sighs. Will takes a deep breath. And continues his work on Mike’s hair, as if nothing is happening.
Looking for a better position, Will gently grabs Mike’s face by the chin with three fingers to keep him still in an angle he can reach his hair; Mike obeys to his silent orders of moving his neck a little without questions. And, seeing his friend is still weirdly focused on the sink, Will finally allows himself to steal a look at Mike’s serene face.
He lets his eyes wander carefully, watching Mike for a second, as if he can still learn about some undiscovered detail about his bone structure — but it is impossible, Will knows all the details. He knows about every inch and curve of Mike’s sharp jawline and cheekbones, of the defined bridge of his nose; about the closest freckle to his mouth, which is right under his bottom lip; about the small scar on his chin from when he was pushed onto the ground by their bullies in middle school, face planted into a small rock and cut it — but Will hadn’t been around on that week.
And Will watches his reddish fingertips from the cold sink softly into the pale, barely freckled skin. They tingle against Mike’s warmth.
But he deviates his eyes back to his actual task again. And Will cuts Mike's hair, scissors in the hand that doesn’t hold his face. One, two, three times—
Before he feels something cold touch the sensitive skin of his belly, tickling him. Slowly, unsure.
It doesn’t take much longer for Will to understand it is Mike’s fingers sliding under his sweater and shirt. Softly. Just the slightest of touches against the warm skin of Will’s hip, right under his bellybutton.
Cold fingers. But they make Will burn.
And he freezes in place. Not daring to look down at Mike’s hand under his clothes. Or at Mike’s eyes — so close.
What is this?
This has to be on purpose.
Maybe…
But no, Will mentally shakes his head to get rid of any hope. He had accepted a long time ago that he is different — in a way Mike isn’t. That something about him is wrong in a way the world doesn’t forgive. That he had always been born a crime.
That his love for Mike is a torture he begs for, a cut that refuses to heal. And, God forgive him, a death wish.
He had felt this way before anything even happened to him — before the Upside Down, before anything that felt nothing less than payment for his ways of being. Will guesses he’d felt heavy on the chest because of a great sorrow since he was seven or so. A feeling planted deep within his ribcage. He’d always felt that, inside him, there is no solid ground, but just a hole. One so deep and hollow he is always falling through it.
He had accepted the fact he would never find love.
What would be the appropriate word for being born wrong? For belonging nowhere? For living a life Mike doesn’t understand — and never would?
And Will’s breath gets lost inside his lungs as his mind makes him slowly sink more and more into that internal abyss. His heart hammers against his bones, too heavy on him.
The decorated tiles on the bathroom floor can swallow him whole, and he would feel better, and—
But then Mike breathes beside him again, reminding Will of his unnatural but comfortable hand in his belly, reminding him of his knees grounding him better than any floor; and just exists with him.
Their eyes meet, naturally this time. And there’s no fear behind Mike’s. And everything seems a bit right again.
Will takes a long breath, falling into the silent moment.
“Your hand is freezing,” he mumbles, face so close to Mike’s he can count his long lashes if he concentrates just enough. And he tries to focus on his task, but the contrast of temperature from the fingers in the skin of his belly make Will’s skin shiver.
“Yours too,” answers Mike, just as softly, same whisper and big, dark eyes frozen on Will’s like he might just discover something if Will gives in just enough. That reflection of the yellow light from the ceiling is still there, like stars in the night sky.
Will can’t deviate his eyes this time.
But he lets go of Mike’s face, figuring his fingers had been holding his chin and jaw for long enough.
And yet, Mike doesn’t slip his own fingers from under Will’s sweater. They stay there, staining Will’s skin, giving power to the electric wave traveling through them.
“Can you tilt your head a little?”
Mike obeys. “Like this?” He shifts his head to the left, eyes soft, never leaving Will’s. There is something old glistening in his irises, something close to knowing and comfort and curiosity.
Will asks himself if Mike’s back hurts from the uncomfortable position, just as his knees scream at him against the hard floor.
“No, the other way.”
“This way?”
“Yes,” Will swallows, hands stupidly floating in the air as he waits to start cutting Mike’s hair again — at least it would give him something to do. But Mike’s piercing gaze is confusing enough. “Don’t— Don’t look at me like that.”
Don’t look at me like we’re thirteen again.
And there’s some stupid words about going crazy together spoken into the air.
And your hand is in mine.
And you’re grounding me to reality with the memory of the day we first met in that rusty swing set.
And—
There’s a grin on Mike's lips. “Why?”
“It’s distracting me. Just… Close your eyes for a minute, I’m almost done.”
Mike obeys silently again, because he can’t say no to Will, and the stupid, smug smile on his face slowly eases to a peaceful expression, just as his eyelids close. Will sighs.
He starts cutting the last section of Mike’s hair, and he is almost done. Still, Will can’t settle with the idea of rolling back into his tiny mattress on the basement’s floor after this, he can’t agree to the idea of just simply falling asleep after all of this.
He steals glances at Mike’s closed eyes that he allows to last longer this time. Will remembers their old sleepovers from when they were young enough to not care how close they slept from each other. And he used to lie beside Mike, watching him sleep. He remembers lying awake, trying to memorize the way Mike’s collar bones curved, and the way his lips twisted during a nightmare.
Will thought it was the closest he would ever get to true peace.
He cuts a bit of the last lock next to Mike’s temple, before painfully removing his hands from his hair and inspecting his work.
Mike looks… so beautiful.
His gentle and now short dark curls fall down perfectly around his sharp features, hugging his pale face; reminding Will of a kinder Mike and of kinder times.
Will wants to touch Mike’s slightly parted lips. He wants to feel his cheek against his own. He wants to kiss Mike’s closed eyelids.
He only shoves all of those secret desires down his throat. “You can open them now,” is all Will manages, still whispering because he wouldn’t need to properly voice any words with how close they were. Only a few agonizing inches are in the way of their noses touching.
Mike slowly opens his eyes.
“How do I look?” And his voice is heavy.
“Get up and check it in the mirror.” Wills says.
But Mike doesn’t dare moving. Mike is still frozen in place, one hand inside Will’s sweater and knees pining Will in front of him. And his eyes can’t seem to get tired of Will’s.
And they stare into Will with longing and desperation and— Will feels seen. Completely seen. Bare and enough.
Mike’s hand crawls up, touching more of Will’s belly. Searching, exploring. And Will finds himself just as frozen, breathless.
“Mike…”
The scissors in his hand are slowly lowered, forgotten. Words get lost in his throat and he is left tongue-tied. The air is thin and the voice in his head calling him ugly names is almost completely silenced by the loud beats of his heart.
Mike blinks agonizingly slow.
“Have you ever noticed that your eyes get darker during winter? Like, dark green.” His eyes are warm, heavy. His cheeks are slightly red, and Will is sure he isn’t imagining it.
He whispers back. “No.”
“They do.” And then Mike searches for something in Will’s face, gaze falling to his mouth, then back at Will’s eyes. Will feels on fire.
Because Mike is so close to him and his lips are so sharp but soft-looking, welcoming. And he craves to be touched by them, he wishes to be craved. He wishes to have his heart held in between those cold hands of Mike, those pale, skinny fingers. To be kissed.
Because they’re already there. And Mike perceives him as something. And Will has already committed the atrocity of knowing him and the sin of falling in love with Mike Wheeler. And the words touch his tongue with a fuzzy feeling. Please—
“Will, can I—”
“Kiss me.” Please.
The scissors slide out of Will’s hands and fall on the floor with a loud noise the second their weak lips meet.
Will doesn’t know who leaned in first — who gave in first — but it’s like something in both of them shatters, and they collide.
Skin on skin. Pressure and softness. He might break. He might get completely lost in the feeling of Mike’s mouth against his and Mike’s breath mixing with his own.
But Will doesn’t, because they both pull away. It lasts a total of three seconds, it’s short enough for him to see the way Mike’s eyes are wide in terror when they break apart.
And he gets it. It all clicks. How stupid, how delusional; to think Mike had kissed him back, to even dream about being kissed back by someone. Mike is there, right in front of him, engrossed and probably angry and Will feels like dying. He is disgusting and dirty and a curse and he—
He is being pulled closer once again by his sweater, he is being held by the back of his neck and there’s still a hand exploring the skin of his back, he is being kissed by Mike.
Mike is kissing him.
Mike is hugging Will with greedy fingers that try to grasp everything they can, holding onto the short hair of his nuke. And he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.
Will is being kissed.
Mike’s lips are warmer than he expected. No, they are astonishingly hot. Mike starts moving his lips, loosening his jaw and slightly opening his mouth and Will melts. The feeling of Mike’s tongue softly and carefully gracing at his upper lip is enough to make him let out a broken breath that maybe is too much. But Will opens his mouth just the same, because he’s never kissed anyone and he doesn’t know what he’s doing and decides to just imitate Mike.
And then all they’ll ever be are gawky hands and desperate lips and tongues. Quick breaths and clumsy bodies. They kiss with all the power they still have inside them, making up for all the years, months, days, hours their miserable, chapped lips hadn't been touching.
Will’s hands grasp at Mike’s neck and hair and he pulls him down, deepening the kiss. Mike leans in even more, connecting their chests, slightly sucking at Will’s bottom lip and Will’s mind goes blank.
He doesn’t know how to be slow. How to keep calm. Because it’s him. Will cannot describe it anymore than that, it’s Mike. Mike is the only one that he’ll ever want. Everybody around him has always seemed obsessed with doing this, and now he gets it. It’s intoxicating; crawling inside the skin of the person you love and making a home for yourself there. Mike is intoxicating.
He tastes like minty toothpaste, sweet and warm and familiar. The kiss tastes like the longing and stupidity of lonely teenagers and short breaths and intimate noises between lips that would last a month worth remembering. Like intertwining cold fingers along dark curls and touching long eyelashes. Like aftertaste.
And it feels like dreaming. It feels like Will is riding his bike in the middle of the cold rain and just sped past the local church, but he is free.
So it is a death wish between them. So he still doesn’t know that word, screw him. But maybe he does belong; right then and there, in that moment, in between two arms that belong to Mike Wheeler, under yellow lights and against the cold tiles of Mike Wheeler’s bathroom.
It feels intimate. Sacred.
It all feels like a sin Will would commit over and over again.
Even if something inside him still tells him to enjoy it while it lasts. Because the world isn’t forgiving — and, maybe, Mike isn’t truly like him.
“Mike.”
Mike slowly slides down, falling onto the cold floor around his own cut hair, pulling Will down with him and sitting against the bathtub. “Come here.” And they are gasping, tongues sliding against each other, tangled together. Will sits on Mike’s lap and his hungry fingers grasp at the now short hair of Mike’s head, fingers threading through the locks, memorizing their patterns.
But the kiss is still careful, hesitant. Like they’re slowly breaking barriers and learning together how it all works — where they can touch and what makes the other weak in the shoulders and sigh in between mouths. It’s messy, it’s clumsy. It’s consuming every last ounce of sanity from Will’s mind, because he is sure that, after this, Mike’s lips will forever be his anchor in turbulent waters, his ceiling on a cold winter night like this one.
Mike licks the side of his mouth and slides his tongue inside Will’s again, the sound of saliva clicking filling the bathroom. Will tries at biting Mike’s bottom lip just as the other did to his minutes ago, learning, and earns a broken breath out of Mike and a gentle scratch of nails on his back, because Mike’s hand is still inside his sweater, and Will might die. And he doesn’t know for how long they’ve been kissing, just that he doesn’t want it to ever stop.
Not when they’re both clearly short of oxygen. Not when it gets too hot and even their thin pajamas feel like too much. Not when his lips start getting sore.
But eventually their movements start slowing down and their kisses are sloppier, a bit tired, even. Will asks himself what time it is. Maybe three in the morning.
Mike is the first to break apart — just a little. Just enough to breathe and to look into Will’s eyes again. Will sees how red and messy Mike looks; he’s probably just as. “Will…” His voice is still low, hoarse now.
Will starts speaking before Mike can.
“I know, this doesn’t change anything.”
“What?” A painful look of confusion fills Mike’s eyes, which shine back at Will. “No. I— I want this.”
“You do?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice.
And a shy smirk blossoms in Mike’s plumped lips. “Wasn’t I clear?” Will is sure now that he is probably dreaming, even if it all feels so real.
He smiles back. “Maybe.”
“I want this… so much.” Although there’s the obvious smile in Mike’s eyes — and the relief in his voice to be saying that out loud and the way he gently grips more fiercely at Will’s back, as if to check he is real — there’s still something glistening in his eyes. They’re glassy, fragile.
“Me too,” Will breathes.
“Really?” And it sounds broken.
Will smiles. “You have no idea.” Oh, if only he knew. And Will will still tell him everything, and he also has so many questions. But not now.
Because now, there’s a broken sob stuck in Mike’s throat, which he tries to hide with his smile but, when he blinks, there’s no way to mask the lonely tear that runs down his face.
Will’s heart stops.
“Mike? Is everything okay? Did I-I say something—?” His face immediately falls in concern, and his hands rest at the sides of Mike’s face, holding his cheeks, thumb gently brushing the tear away.
“No, no, you didn’t, it’s not that. It’s just…” Mike trails off, eyes running from Will’s. “I’m still figuring this out.” It comes out low and broken, ashamed. And it brings Will back to the reality they face outside that bathroom door; Mike is scared, just as he is. Probably even more confused.
“Oh, that’s—”
“Will,” he looks up immediately, his gaze finds Will again, and the weight is visible behind his glassy, sad eyes. “Is it okay if we don’t tell anyone? That we—?” The words fail him and he fights another tear. Will sees it.
He sees, as if in front of a mirror, the fourteen year old version of himself, watching the rain of a harsh summer night rolling down the wooden walls of Castle Byers, heart hollow and cracked and suddenly he is discovering and accepting how actually different he is from everyone else around him.
Will drinks all the confusion and fear in Mike’s face, cups his face, tries to soothe him. “Yeah, of course, I know. You don’t have to ask me that,” he softly reassures. Because he also knows there’s no other option — no other solution for their problem.
Because love is free; to receive, to give. But not a love like his — like theirs. Such love must stay hidden inside dark rooms and behind closed curtains. Must be felt silently, hidden beneath bones.
“I’m sorry,” Mike mumbles. He’s stopped the tears.
He leans his head forward, their stubborn strands of hair tangle together where their foreheads meet in the middle of it.
And Will tries to smile. “It’s okay, me too. You look good, by the way. Your hair.” Will plays with the dark locks on the back of Mike’s head.
Mike smirks, his nose bumping with Will’s and with his playful eyes so close Will can’t see them properly. “Oh, I look good?”
“Shut up.”
And Mike kisses him again — just softly, innocent and caring. Will takes him in like a breath he doesn’t know for how long he’s been holding. And they just hold each other on the bathroom floor, planning to stay there until the Sun is out and the world is up again — but they still have some hours left.