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The plan was stupid, bordering on suicidal; but the wait was the worst part of it all. Instinctively, the party had paired off, afraid to face each other as they waited for the Abyss to come crashing down upon them.
Delightful—happy trauma anniversary to one Will Byers—this is just how he liked to spend it: knees tucked up to his chest, back pressed up against the cold, hard wall in effort to ground himself, to justify what he had promised to do—to swallow his fear and be the sorcerer everyone wants him to be.
He let out a shaky sigh, tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, telling himself he needed to “man up” in a voice that sounded an awful lot like his father’s.
Fuck Lonnie Byers; and good fucking riddance to him too.
A fresh wave of tears—a mix of shame and relief—began to bubble up inside him as he thought about the secret he shared with his friends earlier today, about the horrible things his father would have said—would have done—if, or rather when, he found out his son was the queer freak he always knew him to be.
Great.
Honestly, great—this was exactly the headspace he needed, the perfect breakdown; his own custom boiling point as he awaited the end of the world.
“Hey, are you ok?”
Will didn’t need to lift his head to know who spoke; the gentle lull of Mike’s voice had been imprinted on his mind since the moment they met on the playground all those years ago. And not long after, it imprinted upon his heart with a comforting warmth it would take years for Will to recognise as Love—and more years still beyond for him to recognise that feeling, be able to call it what it is, even if it was wrong.
Even if he was all wrong.
He let himself laugh and tried to convince himself it was real. “Yeah, totally ok—couldn’t be better. Saving the world? Piece of cake, I do this everyday!”
Mike nodded, clicked his tongue as a smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. He invited himself to sit beside Will; the latter didn’t push him away. How could he? He was about to save the world—or die trying—the least he deserved was a tiny reminder that his best friend—the quiet love of his life—was still willing to stay by his side in spite of what he learnt about him.
If only he knew Will’s other secret; maybe then he wouldn’t be as understanding.
But he shook that thought away—whether he died tonight, or decades down the line, his feelings for Mike would follow him to his grave. Some secrets didn’t need to be let out. He would rather suffer in silence than lose his best friend.
His best friend, who had apparently lent his head upon Will’s shoulder during his latest mental spiral. The moment he processed the gesture, felt the tips of Mike’s hair brushing his neck, he went stiff—frozen, terrified to make the most lest it betray the way his heart leapt at the gesture, the way his body was screaming; more, more, more.
“Can we talk about earlier?” Mike asked.
It was by some miracle alone that they couldn’t look into each other’s eyes; Will knew he would be swallowed whole if he was able to read Mike’s expression in this moment. Instead, they both unknowingly focused on the same crack in the ground just beyond their feet. It was only then that Will noticed Mike had assumed a similar position to his own; though his arms were not wrapped tight around his legs as Will’s were; instead, they hung limply at his sides—useless, pathetic; and the back of his hand barely brushed up against Will’s ankle.
He focused all his energy on that stupid crack, willing his mind away from the point of contact. Though they hadn't been close like this in years—physically speaking—Mike’s head on his shoulder was a familiar enough occurrence that he was able to block it out; and it had been an intentional one too. The hand was far worse—unconscious, so casual it hurt. It burnt through his body like fireworks, sending aftershocks jolting down his spine.
God, he hoped Mike couldn’t feel how much he was shaking; he didn’t know how he would explain it.
Instead, he swallowed; his voice coming out thick from the weight of his tongue in his mouth, held down with the weight of words he needed to hide behind a simple, “sure. What do you want to talk about?”
He felt Mike take a breath more than he could hear it; there was too much blood rushing to his head, pounding in his ears.
“Who was the boy you liked—the one that helped you figure out who you were?”
“You,” he almost confessed, feeling too secure in the relaxed inflection behind the question; living proof that Mike’s view of him truly had not changed after his confession. So long as he could guard his heart nothing had to change between them.
He had long since accepted that nothing ever would.
All too quickly, the warmth of Mike cuddled up beside him evaporated, pulled Will back to reality with a harsh blast of cold air. He looked up at the shock, ready to plead his friend to return to his side. Instead, he was met with Mike sat in front of him, eyes shining with tears, and that special glow reserved only for Will, a compilation of constellations colliding, fighting to get out, wrapping stardust around his fragile soul.
And his hands, loosely holding Will’s wrists—pressure enough to feel secure, but soft enough that Will was sure he could tell just how fragile he felt right now.
“Don’t make me say it.”
The words repeated in his head like a mantra, lower lip trembling as he fought to keep his mouth shut, clung to the hope that the truth wouldn’t slip out.
There was one thing he knew, though; Mike could always see right through him, always knowing exactly what he needed. His body relaxed, his composure crumbled. He tucked his knees under himself and tried to hold his head high—pretended he knew what bravery was when faced with the bravest person he knew.
And then, he watched Mike’s eyes slip closed, leaning closer until their faces were only a hairsbreadth away. Will dare not let his eyes close, afraid he would wake from a dream—wanting to memorise every detail, every freckle on his friend’s nose, every strand of hair that framed his perfect face as his breath ghosted over his lips.
He took a breath, lent his forehead upon Mike’s, scared to actually give into what was being offered—was this his coveted reciprocity, or mere pity from a very good friend.
He needed to know.
“It was you.” Will’s voice was small, but his words echoed between the two of them, “it was always, always you.”
Mike hummed in recognition of the confession before finally closing the gap, Will letting his own eyes fall closed to savour the sensation of his best friend’s lips on his own. Their noses knocked together, hands grasping at air in a vain effort to find each other. It was fleeting and awkward; chaste and desperate—absolutely perfect.
Will could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks when Mike pulled away, but laughed at seeing the same in the face he allowed himself to look at—to study, to keep, to want. Mike reached out to cup his cheek, and he sank into the touch; a serene smile growing in response.
“Don’t get yourself killed tonight,” Mike teased, fondness wrapped around every syllable, “This plan might just work—but it’s still crazy. I need you to come home—to me. Ok?”
Will felt himself nod before he even processed the words being spoken. “Always—crazy together, right?”
This earned him a genuine laugh; and he knew that Mike’s smile was the most beautiful sight in the world, a vision worth fighting for.
Mike opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the alarm on his watch.
“Time to go save the world,” was what he said, offering a hand to help Will up, the smile never leaving his face.
He gave a hug—a proper one that told Will he understood that he needed to make up for lost time, reminded him that everything would work out; they did have time.
He could save his “I love you” for after the war was won; he already could tell Will felt the same.