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“Can I… talk to you, for a sec? I think there’s something you need to hear.”
Mike’s head snapped up at the sound of Will’s voice from the doorway, where he was hovering tentatively, as if unsure Mike would want to see him.
“Yeah, of course, Will,” Mike said softly. “Are you… are you okay?
Will sat on one of the chairs scattered around the room, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “I think so?”
Mike went to take a seat beside his friend. “Is this about Vecna? Did he say something? Show you something?”
Mike had heard enough about the tricks Vecna could pull from Nancy and the others — the visions, the threats, the way he was able to feed into someone’s fears. He hoped Will had managed to avoid it when invading Vecna’s mind, but the way Will wrung his hands a little tighter as Mike spoke was enough of an answer in itself.
“In a way, yeah,” Will started, a thin tremor beneath his words. “Henry, he… he showed me the future. My future.”
“Like he did with Nancy?” Mike asked quietly.
“Yeah, like that, except it wasn’t about the town, about Hawkins. It was personal. It was about me.”
Mike felt his blood run cold. He couldn’t even start to imagine what lies Vecna had fed Will. “Whatever he showed you, he was lying, Will, you have to know that, right?”
“But what if he wasn’t?” Will turned to Mike. Mike noticed tears glistening in his friend’s eyes and felt a tug at his heartstrings, sheer worry for Will overwhelming him. “He knew things, Mike. Things I’ve never told anyone. He showed me what would happen if I did, if I trusted someone with this, if they found out. What they’d think of me. What they’d do.”
Mike had to physically fold his hands together to stop him from reaching out to touch Will, to comfort him in any way he could, to tell him it’s okay. I’m here.
“Will, I promise you, we’re all here for you. I’m here for you. I don’t know what he showed you, I don’t know what you haven’t told us yet, but nothing, and I mean nothing would change the way we think of you.”
Will laughed bitterly. “Sure, Mike.”
Mike just stared at him a little sadly, taking in the look on Will’s face. He recognised the fear, the guilt. He sometimes felt like that.
Mike had learned, over time, how to live with some feelings. The ones that he knew he shouldn’t have. The ones he knew would make him unwelcome in Ted Wheeler’s home. The ones that would make his friends push him away.
These feelings, the ones he harboured for someone he knew he shouldn’t, had gone through dozens of disguises. At first he’d told himself it was friendship, just platonic love. Then it was loyalty to just one person. Then it was familiarity. Now it was simply there, something he felt all the time, something he was able to block out, now fading to a constant background noise provided he didn’t think about it then too hard.
Mike told himself it was normal to notice the way Will’s mere presence settled him, calmed him down, normal to notice the way Will’s voice cut through the static in his mind like a clear signal. It was normal to measure time in the moments they shared, to feel unmoored after a day or two apart. If he told himself it was normal often enough, he was almost able to convince himself.
Almost.
Sometimes the truth rose up too fast for Mike to reshape it. A brush of the knee. A laugh caught off guard. The way Will looked at him when he had a campaign idea, as if Mike was worth listening to. When that happened, the feeling weighing Mike down sharpened into something that hurt to carry. It was too specific, too warm, too close to wanting. Mike would feel it lodged between his ribs, heavy and unmistakable, before he did what he always had to — push it down, away. Name it something safer. Anything but what he suspected it may be.
Wanting Will wasn’t just a risk to their friendship. It was wrong, wrong in a way that went deeper than a fear of rejection. It felt as if Mike had failed, had deviated from the rules the world had made for him. He didn’t have words for what the feeling was that didn’t sound like a weak excuse in his own head. Even alone, in thought, where nobody without psychic powers could get to them, he hesitated to listen to those thoughts. It was easier to pretend. He had tried so hard to tell himself he would grow out of these silly feelings if he waited. He dated a girl, hoped that would make them go away. Mike liked El, he really did. Just not in the way he liked Will.
Mike had drew himself a line, one between his feelings for Will and his for El. He and Will were just friends. He told himself his friendships were supposed to feel as important as his did with Will. That the closeness didn’t have to mean anything more. That his chest didn’t tighten a little when Will smiled at him. It was just brotherly fondness, friendly affection, the kind of bond boys had in books and in the movies. It was okay as long as it stayed neatly within its borders. Mike clung to these examples of friendship like proof he wasn’t crossing a line just by feeling too much.
Still, Mike felt he had to watch what he did around people constantly. Every reaction to Will was monitored so nobody would see it as something more. On occasion, when he was sure nobody else was near, he would let his gaze linger a little, or stand closer than necessary, elbows bumping. Will didn’t seem to notice.
Shame was woven between all of it, quiet but persistent in Mike’s gut. It wasn’t enough to feel like panic, but Mike thought the steadiness was worse. It was manageable, though. He didn’t think it was wrong because he was broken. He just felt out of place, misaligned, his emotions not quite fitting into the world he lived in. The warmth spreading through his body whenever he was around Will felt like further evidence of his misalignment, undeniable and embarrassing, something to bury and contain.
Often, lying awake at night, thinking about Will sleeping softly two floors down, tucked up in the Wheeler basement, he wondered when it had started. There hadn’t really been a moment he could pinpoint, no sudden, crushing realisation. Just a slow understanding, an accumulation of meaning. Will was always the person he looked for first in a room. The one whose absence was the loudest for Mike. The little details Mike remembered about him, like his favourite malted shake from Melvald’s, or the way he liked his popcorn, or his favourite comic editions. Those small details had lodged themselves in Mike’s mind without consent, making themselves a home there.
Mike privately thought the worst part of it was how natural it felt, even though he knew it was anything but. There was no strain around Will. He didn’t have to perform. No pressure to say things he didn’t mean, no expectation of being someone he’s not. Mike felt more like himself with Will than he did with anyone else, which only made the shake stronger, more distinct. If that was the person he was when he didn’t have to guard every edge, what did that say about him? What did that say about the parts of himself he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist? Maybe the version of himself he was desperately trying to hide was the truest. Mike felt like that was unfair.
Mike worried a lot about what would happen if Will ever saw too clearly. He could picture it clearly in his mind, the way Will’s expression would change from confusion to disgust, his tone turning angry and betrayed. Mike feared the idea of rejection less than he did the way Will would start to see him for who he really was through a new, clearer lens. Being known felt scarier than being turned down.
Therefore Mike chose silence, again and again and again. He swallows his words before they could leave his mouth, redirected his thoughts before they got too bold. Loving Will the way he did became an exercise in restraint. Wanting him meant never asking for more than he already had, despite the fact that what he had been given felt like barely enough to survive.
When Mike was free of distraction, his mind wandered to Will no matter what he did and the sheer weight of it pressed harder. He quietly wished that he lived in a world where wanting Will didn’t come with a cost, where who he was didn’t need to be hidden or softened. He’d heard of cities in New York or California where people like him could find community, could be more confident than Mike was in Hawkins. The imagined relief of living a life like that made his chest ache painfully, made his reality seem heavier in comparison. He never stayed in those thoughts for long. Hope was a risky thing to indulge in, because it always hurt harder when it was crushed.
No matter how hard Mike tried, no matter how much he told himself it was wrong, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was just confused and he’d grow out of it, the wanting never faded. It simply waited, and adapted. It learned how to exist in the margins of Mike’s life, in the looks he shared with Will, in the comfortable paused between conversations they had. Mike carried it with him like a secret he was both protecting with his life and punishing himself for keeping. He didn’t know which frightened him more, the idea of letting it be seen, or the possibility that he might spend his life making room for it without ever giving it a name.
What scared Mike most was how deeply Will mattered. This wasn’t a crush that could be outgrown or replaced. It had roots now. This was why he had ended things with El — their relationship didn’t have those roots, was overshadowed by the magnitude of his feelings for someone he couldn’t have. Mike could imagine losing Will, and the thought hollowed him out. He could imagine Will staying, too, staying exactly as they were, while Mike learned to live with the ache of wanting something he would never ask for. Both futures felt unbearable in different ways, and Mike didn’t know which one would be worse to choose.
For now he existed in a strange limbo between the two points. Outwardly, he smiled, he joked, he showed up as much as he could without crossing a line. Inwardly, he loved silently, carefully, as if his love had to gradually be siphoned out in small, unnoticed ways to stop it from bursting out all at once. Somewhere, deep down, he knew he couldn’t keep this a hidden forever. Truths left unspoken always surfaced eventually, whether he wanted them to or not. Knowing that didn’t make Mike feel any braver, though. It just made the secret feel harder to carry.
Mike held on to Will, to the version of himself that felt safest, and to the persistent glimmer of hope that one day the shame would go away and loosen its grip, that he could move on from these stupid, crazy feelings and be normal. He kept his feelings folded inward, hidden in plain sight, and told himself that this was enough. That it had to be. That he had to take what he could get.
He leaned forward, close enough to grab Will’s hand the way he would have done when they were both small, before they both learned about why their fathers frowned a little when they did so, but held back.
“What… what did he say to you? Vecna?”
Will took a deep, shuddering breath. “He showed me the group. Everyone, leaving, turning away. Me, alone.”
He turned to Mike, a tear fully rolling down his cheek now. “Henry showed me you, Mike. You were… repulsed. You couldn’t even look at me.” Will’s chest began to heave with sobs he was valiantly trying to stop yet failing to hold in.
Fuck it, Mike thought, and laced their fingers together. Will tensed a little. “Will, that wasn’t real. Vecna, he tries to get into your mind, to make you scared, to isolate you. It’s because you intimidate him, you know.“
Will raised a sceptical eyebrow. “He’s intimidated.”
“Yeah!” Mike insisted. “You’re a sorcerer. You’re powerful. You can get into his head the way he does to other people. He feels threatened by you. That’s why he showed you this, to try and intimidate you and make you leave him alone.”
“I’m not really a sorcerer,” Will said, although Mike thought he seemed slightly reassured.
“You’re a sorcerer to me,” Mike said quietly. He wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line, if he’d made it too obvious. Will didn’t seem upset. If anything, he relaxed, his fingers lightly squeezing Mike’s where their hands lay interlocked between them.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Mike said carefully. “But maybe, if you tell me whatever it is Vecna used against you, it’ll get some worry off your chest when I don’t react the way he told you I would.”
“But what if you do?” Will sighed frustratedly, tears beginning to fall harder again. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to say. It’ll change things. It’ll be different.”
“Then let things change,” Mike said bravely. “Sometimes change is good.”
Will pulled his hand out of Mike’s, as if burned.
“I don’t… I don’t like girls.”
Mike was confused for a second, before he understood what Will was telling him. Will was… Will was like him.
Will dropped his head to his hands, not meeting Mike’s eyes.
“You don’t have to stay here with me if you don’t want to,” he said, muffled. “If you’re not… comfortable.”
Mike let out an incredulous laugh at that, before realising that it probably wasn’t appropriate for the situation.
“Not comfortable?” he asked. “Will, are you crazy? You’re my best friend. Nothing would make me uncomfortable around you.”
Will’s red-rimmed eyes connected with Mike’s as he turned his head, something that looked a little like hope shining there with the tears.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks… thanks for telling me, Will.”
Will straightened up and sighed, smiling a little as the tears began to ebb. “Thank you, Mike.”
He moved a little, as if about to hug Mike, but then moved back, like he thought better of it. Mike just rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around Will, clinging on tightly, holding on for longer than strictly necessary.
“See,” Mike said into Will’s shoulder. “I told you Vecna was lying.”
“Yeah,” Will sniffled. “Maybe.”
Will’s words hovered in the air around Mike. I don’t like girls. They made it feel as if everything had shifted inside. Mike was proud, first and foremost. It was instinctive and fierce, the joy that his friend had found the courage to tell someone but also the fact that Will had trusted him first. It took effort not to let it show too much, not to let Will see how much this moment meant beyond what it should. Mike told himself to stay present, to be what Will needed right now. This wasn’t about him.
And yet.
The moment Will had said those words, something in Mike surged forward, urgent and reckless. The truth rose up so fast it nearly startled him. Me too, it wanted to say. You’re not alone. You never were.The words pressed against his teeth, tinged with possibility. For one terrifying second, he almost let them out, almost let himself be honest for the first time.
He didn’t.
The restraint came just as quickly, years of practice snapping into place. Mike swallowed the impulse down, his pulse loud in his ears. This was Will’s moment. Will’s risk. To follow it immediately with his own truth felt wrong, almost invasive somehow, like he’d be stealing space that wasn’t his. He told himself it was respect that stopped him. He wasn’t sure how much of that was true.
“I’m glad Henry was wrong,” Will whispered. “I might be different from… from you, from other people, but I didn’t want us to be changed for the worse.”
“Wouldn’t happen,” Mike promised.
“I’ve been turning this over in my head for so long,” Will confessed. “I think I sort of hoped it was a phase. I wanted so badly to be normal. But at some point, I kind of had to stop hiding, stop pretending it wasn’t there. I thought I was okay with it until Henry started showing me all of that stuff. The idea of having it out in the open still scares me a little.”
He shifted, restless. “What scares me isn’t even the fact that I’m… that I’m queer. It’s what happens after. The way people look at you once they find this out and think they know everything about you because of it. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be to everyone now. I don’t know if I get to stay the same.”
Will’s hands curled in the sleeves of his shirt. “I’m afraid I’ll say this to everyone, make it real, and then realize I don’t fit anywhere anymore. Like I’m a broken piece of a puzzle that doesn’t slot into any of the places anymore.”
“You’ll always have a place in the Party, Will, you know that. You’ll always have a place with me.”
“I know that, logically. I just-” He hesitated, then finished, “I don’t want to be alone in it. I don’t really know many other people like me.”
Every word felt familiar in ways Mike didn’t dare acknowledge aloud. He recognised the careful phrasing, the hesitations, the way Will tried to hide the weight of it even as it clearly mattered to him. Mike wanted to reach across the space between them, to tell him he wasn’t strange or late or wrong for taking this long. He wanted to say he understood, only held back by fear curling in his gut.
If Mike told him now, everything would shift at once. Will would be looking back at everything, re-examining and reframing. Mike imagined Will replaying years of moments with new context, and the thought made his stomach twist. He didn’t want Will to feel tricked, or watched, or wrong-footed by proximity. He didn’t want to turn Will’s relief into discomfort.
The line between telling Will they were the same and telling him about the crushed, hidden feelings inside. The line between the two felt dangerously thin. Mike could imagine saying it in a way that stayed neutral, factual. I’m not straight either. I’m like you. Simple. Clean. But he knew himself well enough to know that wouldn’t be the whole truth. Will wasn’t just the person he was telling, he was part of what he’d be telling. And Mike didn’t know how to separate those things without lying right to Will’s face.
There was a muttering, sly voice in his head that whispered he was being selfish, opportunistic, taking advantage of an opening he didn’t deserve. It was the same voice that insisted he was dirty, that he was wrong for wanting Will. That his love was a sin.
Mike couldn’t shake the sense that something had opened that couldn’t be fully closed again. Will had trusted him with a truth, a truth Mike could only dream of being brave enough to put out in the open.
“I know someone like you,” Mike said tentatively, finally pulling back from the embrace. He felt anxiety curdle in his stomach.
“Yeah?” Will asked.
“There’s, uh, there’s something I should probably tell you.” Mike thought he was going to be sick.
Will’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, like he was bracing for impact. “Okay,” he said. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t joke. He just waited, watching Mike with knowing eyes.
Mike took a breath that didn’t feel like it reached all the way down. “What you said, about being scared. About not knowing who’ll accept you.” He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “I get it.”
Will frowned slightly, apprehension edging in. “Mike-“
“I know,” Mike said quickly, before he lost his nerve. “I know this is your moment. I’m not trying to take that away. I just-” His voice wavered despite his effort to keep it steady, and he hated that Will noticed, his brow furrowing sympathetically. “I don’t want you to think you’re alone in this. Or that I don’t understand.”
The truth pressed hard against his ribs, urgent now. Mike closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them again and met Will’s piercing look.
“I’m… I’m queer,” he said.
Will blinked. “You’re… you mean-”
“Yeah,” Mike said, a quiet exhale leaving him. “Yeah, I am. I’ve never said it out loud before. I don’t think I’ve ever let myself think it before now..”
For a moment, Will didn’t speak. He just looked at Mike, searching his face for answers to questions Mike didn’t know. Mike held himself still, resisting the instinct to explain, to justify. He’d said it. That had to be enough.
“I didn’t know,” Will said finally. “Were you ever gonna tell me?”
Mike looked away then, unable to hold Will’s gaze any longer. The shame crept in, familiar and unwelcome. “I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to complicate things. Or make you uncomfortable. Or make it feel like… like I was waiting for you to say something first. I probably wouldn’t have told you. Or anyone, for that matter.”
Will’s expression softened, something like hurt crossing his face. “You could’ve told me.”
“I know,” Mike said. “I know.”
“So,” Will said slowly, “when I was worried you’d see me differently…?”
Mike looked at him again. “I don’t,” he said, immediately and without hesitation. “If anything, I-” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “You trusting me with that means a lot.”
Will studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said, like he was testing the word. “Okay.”
The relief that hit Mike was sharp enough to make his eyes burn. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding himself together until something finally loosened in his chest.
“I’m still scared,” Will admitted. “About my family. About the Party. And everyone else.”
“I know,” Mike said. His voice gentled without him meaning it to. “But you don’t have to worry about me. Not about this. I’m here.”
Will let out a small, shaky laugh. “Guess that makes two of us.”
Mike huffed quietly, something warm and fragile settling in his chest. “Guess it does. But hey,” he said, boldly linking their fingers together again. “We have each other now. We’re doing it together.”
“Crazy together, right?” Will chuckled.
“Yeah,” Mike laughed. “Crazy together.”
Will was quiet for a long time after Mike spoke, longer than before. He stared at his lap like he might betray himself if he looked up too soon. Whatever he was turning over in his head clearly wasn’t small. Mike could see it in the way Will’s shoulders had gone tight again, the way his breathing had gone shallow.
“There’s… something else,” Will said finally.
Mike’s chest tightened. He nodded once, careful not to rush him. “Okay.”
Will let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. “I didn’t plan to say this. I mean, I didn’t even let myself think about saying it.” He shook his head, a faint, incredulous huff escaping him. “Honestly, I kind of hoped I’d get through tonight without admitting it. But I feel like I owe it to you to be honest.”
Finlay’s pulse kicked up, sharp and sudden. “You don’t owe me anything, you know that?”
“I like a guy,” Will sighed. “It’s stupid.”
Mike felt his spirits instantly fall. Of course Will liked someone. “Yeah?” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. “Is he handsome?”
Will giggled. “Maybe,” he said. “He’s a bit of a dork, actually. Spends too much time in the arcade or buried in a book. Likes science too much to ever be properly cool to anyone but his friends.”
God, I’m like that, Mike thought sadly. Why do you like him and not me? I could do all of that.
“He sounds… nice.”
“Yeah,” Will agreed. “He is. He’s a bit oblivious, though.”
Mike huffed a small, reluctant laugh. “I hope things work out with him.”
Will sighed incredulously. “You’re so stupid for a guy so clever,” he said. “It’s you, you idiot.”
Mike’s brain stopped working around the same time his heart stopped beating.
“I like you- no, I’ve been in love with you, for years. Since we were kids.”
Mike seemed to lose the ability to form coherent sentences. “Huh?”
“Like,” Will went on, voice uneven now, “Even back when I didn’t have language for it. When it was just… you were my favorite person, and I didn’t question why.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed but determined. “You remember the summer when we were twelve? Before any of this ever happened? I think I spent every day either in your basement or in the arcade with you. I just didn’t want to be apart.”
Mike did remember. The memories rose unbidden — the stuffy heat, the bleeping of games, Will always there, lingering at the edges of everything. He hadn’t known. Or maybe he had, and just never let himself understand.
“I told myself it was normal,” Will said. “That everyone felt like that about their best friend. And when I got older and realized it wasn’t the same for everyone, I just…” He shrugged, helpless. “I decided it was safer not to look too closely, and just tucked it away in a little box in the back of my mind.”
Mike felt frozen in place, like any movement might shatter something fragile between them.
“I never expected anything from you,” Will said quickly, panic flickering through his expression. “I swear. This isn’t me asking you to feel the same. God knows I don’t expect you to. I just, after everything we’ve said tonight, it felt wrong not to be honest. Especially now that I know I’m not alone.”
He swallowed. “You mattered to me before I knew why. You mattered to me when I was scared of what that meant. And you still do.”
Mike’s chest ached more, full to the point of pain. “Will,” he said softly, but Will shook his head.
“I need you to know,” Will continued, voice low and earnest, “That if this makes things weird, or if you need space, or if you don’t want this to mean anything at all, I promise I can handle that. I’ve handled it before.” He hesitated, then added, quieter. “I just didn’t want you thinking I was only scared about the label or other people. Some of it was about you. About losing you.”
Mike couldn’t say anything. The confession rewrote years in his mind. All that time he’d spent believing he was alone in his wanting, misaligned and ashamed, out of place in the world, when Will had been carrying something just as quiet, just as careful.
“Sorry,” Will mumbled. That snapped Mike back to the present.
“Will, you have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “Hearing you say that… I don’t want to sit here pretending this doesn’t matter. Or that you’re on your own. Because you’re not.”
Will’s breath caught, just slightly.
“I was scared,” Mike went on, the words tumbling out now, fueled by momentum. He couldn’t have stopped if he tried. “Scared of changing things. Scared of wanting something I knew I shouldn’t. But I don’t want to be careful anymore, if it means lying to you.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to lose out on what this could be because I was too afraid to be brave.
“I love you,” Mike confessed. “I think a part of me always has.”
For a moment, Will didn’t move. Then his shoulders eased, like something in him had finally been set down.
“Mike,” he said, breath catching. “Are you sure?”
Mike nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The silence that followed was charged, humming with something new and unsteady. Will shifted a little closer, slow enough that Mike could have pulled back if he wanted to. He didn’t. Every part of him felt focused, truly alive for the first time in his life.
“Can I…” Will started, the unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Yeah,” Mike breathed. “God, please.”
Their fingers were still tangled together. Will lifted his other arm to hover near Mike’s shoulder, not quite touching. Mike reached out instead, fingers brushing Will’s sleeve invitingly. Will’s eyes flicked up, searching Mike’s face for any doubt.
There was none.
The kiss was tentative, more a meeting than a motion. Will leaned in slowly, giving Mike every chance to pull away. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Their lips brushed, barely there at first, like they were both learning the shape of something new. It was so different that they way he used to kiss El. That had felt necessary. This felt… electric. Mike felt the moment register all at once. The warmth, the softness, the quiet disbelief of it actually happening.
Will was kissing him. Will loved him back.
When the kiss deepened, it did so gently. No rush, no urgency beyond the simple need to be close. Will’s hand settled at Mike’s elbow, grounding and warm. Mike exhaled into the kiss, tension easing out of him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. He brought his hands up to wrap around the back of Will’s neck. It felt less like crossing a line and more like stepping into alignment, finally finding somewhere he fit.
They pulled back after a moment, foreheads nearly touching, both breathing a little unsteadily.
Will let out a small, breathless laugh. “Wow.”
Mike smiled — really smiled, the kind that reached his eyes without effort. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah.”
His lips still tingled, warmth lingering where Will’s had been. The reality of it kept catching up to him in small, delayed waves. That had happened. He hadn’t imagined it. He hadn’t crossed a line, and fallen through the floor afterwards. Will was like him. He loved him back.
Mike felt exposed in a new way, not just because Will knew now, but because Will had stayed. Had leaned in. Had chosen him back. He kept his breathing steady, afraid that if he let himself react too strongly, he might scare the moment off, might wake up from this.
The shame was still there. He could feel it, tucked into the familiar corners of himself, reflexive and quiet. It told him not to get carried away. Not to assume this meant safety everywhere else. It reminded him of all the years he’d spent shrinking, hiding, keeping himself acceptable. That didn’t vanish with one kiss from Will. He didn’t expect it to.
But it had shifted.
It was harder to believe the shame completely now, harder to let it speak without question, difficult to let it sink its claws fully into his mind. Will was sitting right there, close enough that Mike could feel the heat of him, close enough that denial felt absurd. Whatever was wrong with him, whatever he’d been taught to hide, hadn’t driven Will away. If anything, it had drawn him closer. The thought unsettled Mike in the best possible way. They could be different together.
Will cleared his throat softly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself either. Mike glanced at him, catching the faint, disbelieving smile still lingering on his face, the way his eyes kept flicking back like he was making sure Mike hadn’t disappeared, that he hadn’t left. The sight made something in Mike loosen, just a little more.
“Hey,” Will said, quiet. Just letting Mike know he was still there.
Mike nodded, the motion small but sure. “Hey.”
Will let his head drop to Mike’s shoulder.
“So, what now?”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know, really,” Will admittted. “I’m not sure what comes next. With us. With the rest of the group. With Henry. There’s a lot to think about here, you know.”
Mike laughed lightly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “For us? We’ll just take things one day at a time.”
“We might not have days,” Will reminded him gently. “November 6th, remember? Lucas’ theory?”
“We’ll beat Vecna,” Mike said firmly. “We can’t lose. Not now. Not after all this.”
“If you say so,” Will sighed. “For everyone’s sakes, I hope you’re right. I really hope you’re right.”
“Me too,” Mike said, pressing a kiss into Will’s hair.
They didn’t say anything else right away. They didn’t need to. The silence between them felt earned now, no longer something to endure. It had become something to share. Mike let himself stay in it, let himself feel the steady fact of Will beside him. He wasn’t cured. He wasn’t suddenly fearless. There was still everything outside of the room to deal with, Vecna, and the military, and the Upside Down. But he wasn’t alone anymore, either. He had Will’s hand to hold onto.
And for the first time, that felt like it might be enough.