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They’re standing under this awful red sky, the one that booms now and then, always making Will flinch, no matter how many times he hears it. He doesn’t remember the Upside Down as a noisy place. He remembers how cold and still it was, and this eerie silence that made him feel like the monsters would find him if he dared breathe too loudly, but not this brutal, constant thunder. He’s waiting with Mike, leaning on a rusted bus that was somehow spared enough by the vines so that they can rest their backs on it without risking one of them grabbing them. The restlessness of the wait is a unique kind of torture for both of them. Mike, because he’s never been able to stand still, especially when there’s a plan ready to be set in motion. He’s ready to spring into action, but has to wait for Dustin to tell them when the Abyss is close enough to the tower, so they can start climbing it. He hates it, long fingers drumming against the steel of the bus. Will is agitated for more obvious reasons: because he hates this place, cannot go into it without feeling that cold seep into his bones, and because once he’s in it, he feels like he will never get out, or rather, like the cold will follow him everywhere.
Mike doesn’t seem fazed by the atmosphere of the Upside Down, chewing on his lip with that furrowed look he gets when he’s thinking about something and can’t reach a satisfying conclusion. His eyes have an absent, vacant look, unfocused on the ground beneath their feet. Will has half the mind to ask him something, anything, because this silence is killing him. But there’s Vecna’s voice at the back of his mind that prevents him from speaking to his best friend, reminding him of how Mike barely reacted when Will was confessing his deepest, most shameful secret to everyone he ever cared about, while hyperventilating in a way that makes him cringe just thinking about it. He’s disgusted by you, disturbed. He knows. He can’t stop replaying this vision of his best friend, the way he hesitated just a second too long before getting up and joining his family and friends in comforting him. Replaying the memory is soothing, but there’s always Mike in the background, staring into space like a dark spot on the film reel.
So Will keeps silent too, ears perked up and painfully awaiting the crackle of the walkie strapped on Mike’s camo vest. He doesn’t even look at him, doesn’t dare to. That’s why Mike’s voice makes him flinch. It would make him feel embarrassed if he weren’t so surprised by the fact that Mike is actually talking to him.
“So who was it?”
“What?”
That’s the moment Mike chooses to look at him at last, and Will immediately knows this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. There’s this intent look in his eyes, laser-focused, the one he gets when there’s a mystery to uncover, a puzzle he needs to unravel. It’s an annoying habit of his, because no force on Earth can make him drop the subject once he gets like this, and they’ve bickered numerous times because of this. Will knows it’s not necessarily a bad thing, that sometimes it’s the only thing that gets him to step outside his comfort zone. Right now, he hates it though.
He also hates it because Will always gets embarrassingly weak in the knees when Mike is looking at him so directly. He always thought he had gorgeous eyes, that his dark, wide eyes were the most mesmerizing thing about him, even when he was a scrawny, awkward kid with too long limbs.
“Your crush, who was it?” Mike asks again, unwavering and unforgiving. It’s blinding, suddenly being the sole focus of Mike’s attention, partly because Will has grown unused to it, but mostly because this question feels heavy. Pointed. Mike isn't making conversation to kill time; he’s on a mission.
Still, Will tries to dodge. “Is this really the right time? The world is literally ending, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He tries to inject as much sarcasm and irritation into his words as possible, but he knows he falls flat. He can hear how breathless he suddenly got, the way he’s gasping between words. He’s half afraid Mike can hear his heart slamming uncomfortably against his ribs.
Mike doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t even look abashed for a second, and keeps pressing on him with a shrug: “Well, we’ve got nothing to do until Dustin radios, and who knows how long it’s gonna take, so… who was it?”
He’s not even bothering to pretend he’s making small talk. He’s just letting Will know he can’t evade this conversation, because they’re stuck together, sitting ducks while the world is ending above them.
“No one. Just a friend,” Will mutters.
Mike doesn’t hesitate for a second: “I know all your friends.”
And then Will actually gets annoyed. How come Mike gets to blissfully live in oblivion for years, letting Will pine torturously as he gets a girlfriend and new friends and leaves him behind, and suddenly, precisely when Will is actively trying to move on and forget about this devastating, unrequited, one-sided crush, just then Mike starts asking questions? This feels unfair and wrong, and he can't take it right now, because Will just confessed in front of twelve people his most hurtful secret, and he’s still raw from it, and yet Mike dares ask more from him now? And who the hell does he think he is, acting like he still knows him, like they didn’t drift apart to the point Mike didn’t even notice that Will was agonizing and dying from loving him for years? Will can feel his chest tighten, the tears of rage that he can never hold back when Mike gets under his skin this way.
“Mike… I don’t wanna do this. Not right now.” There’s a plea in there, one that says “please don’t make me say more,” and also “if I talk about it, I’ll say too much,” but Mike doesn’t care. He presses on: “When did you meet him? Was it when you were in California?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Will explodes and immediately regrets it. This burst of anger says too much; at best, Mike will think he’s overreacting; at worst, he’ll know. And then Vecna can taunt him, go after Mike, because he knows that Will would sacrifice his secret, his friendship, his own body, just to keep Mike safe. “It’s not about him, and I guess it never was. It’s over anyway. I told you, he’s not like me. I just need to move on.”
He spits the words bitterly, unable to contain the hurt behind them. He feels like he actually has to push down others to let them out, but he’s practiced them in his mind for the last two days, and got to tell them to a whole room full of people a few hours ago. He keeps hoping it’ll get easier, that someday he’ll be able to tell them and that they will stop ringing false to his own ears. Maybe he needs to tell them directly to Mike to make them real, so that he can finally accept the reality and move on. He doesn’t have a choice anyway, because he knows how it ends if it doesn’t move past it. He’s seen -or rather was shown- how it ends for Mike, what his stupid, delusional feelings do to Mike. There’s nothing good coming out of that.
Mike keeps silent for a few seconds, and Will holds his breath, hoping that this finally did the trick and convinced Mike to drop the case.
But then, softly, with devastating hesitation, Mike speaks again: “How… how do you know? That he’s not like you, I mean.”
There’s something in his voice that Will hasn’t heard from a long time, that reminds him of hushed secrets during a sleepover, of a tiny hand in his while he’s lying on a hospital bed, unable to recognize anyone but knowing in his soul that he loves the boy looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. It’s intriguing enough that Will finds the courage to look at Mike. He’s back to staring at the ground, with that same damn kicked puppy look on his face. His arms are crossed, fingers tightly squeezing the sleeves of his god-awful jacket.
“Well, he has a girlfriend for starters,” and Will has to actually laugh at that, because pining for a boy who’s been with the same girl for years… it doesn’t get more pathetic than that. “And he never showed me signs. I thought he did, I looked for them, but I think I just need to accept it’s not going to happen.”
There’s that silence again, and it makes Will feel like he can almost see his words linger in the air, floating around with the spores. But maybe Mike finally understood that it’s a non-issue, that they can stop talking about it and never have to acknowledge this massive, towering thing between them that’s been growing ever since Mike told him, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls". Things won’t go back the way they were, but oh well. Maybe it’s for the best. Either way, Will just has to move on. But to his surprise, Mike keeps talking: “But… boys can have girlfriends, and it doesn’t mean they love them. Or that they love them in the right way, anyway. It’s part of growing up, I guess? My dad and my mom… I’m not sure they feel much towards each other these days, but they still stay together. You’re supposed to, you’re supposed to fight for it.”
Will is at a loss for words because this sounds so, so terribly sad to him. He knows what it’s like when people do not love each other, but he’s also seen how it is when two people who love each other find their way back. He has his issues with Hopper, but he knows his love with his mom is not a struggle. “I guess… but it sounds painful. For everyone involved, I mean. You’re either lying to yourself, or to the person you’re supposed to love.”
Mike argues frantically, increasingly agitated: “But what if you didn’t know you were lying? What if you thought you were struggling a bit because you’ve never done this and no one told you how, but now someone told you -or rather made you realise- it can be different, and now you can’t stop thinking about it?”
This is making Will’s head hurt (and also filling his heart with burning hot, dangerous hope), and he lifts a hand to rub against his forehead, squinting his eyes at Mike: “What are you saying, Mike?”
Mike opens and closes his mouth a few times, physically unable to utter words. This is a foreign sight to Will. Mike always, always has something to say, to the point that he sometimes says the worst thing just because it was the first thing that came to his mind. Finally, he recovers, visibly struggling to get the words out: “I’m saying I don’t know if I like girls either. I’m saying I feel things I thought were just... I don't know, confusion, but maybe they’re not? Maybe they’re just the way I’m supposed to be feeling, and I can’t see it because no one told me it didn’t have to be with a girl.”
Mike is back to looking at him, with that intent look on his face, and his hands are moving around too much, in the way they do when he’s trying to convey something but can’t find the right words. Will usually finds it endearing, but right now, he is too busy hating his stupid, useless vocal cords, terrified of speaking because he’s not sure he can let out more than a pathetic choking sound if he tries to say something. And also, he’s pretty sure Mike is now fighting back tears too, and the implications of that feel terrifying, like he’s brushing his fingertips against something he shouldn’t be allowed to covet, let alone have. Something that can bite, but can also reach back. Something dangerous, exciting, terrifying.
He finally finds the strength to speak, in a choked whisper: “I think you’re trying to tell me something, but you need to say it to me, Mike. I don’t know if I can trust myself to understand what you’re trying to say, so you need to say it.” Will can feel familiar tears rolling down his cheeks. “You need to say it, Mike.”
Mike gets that determined, resolved look in his eyes, and Will actually sees the moment he decides to go for it. His eyes zero in on his lips, and he’s leaning over Will, crossing the distance between them in one long stride and cradling his cheek in his hand. Will barely has time to register what is about to happen, because then Mike is kissing him, warm lips moving against his, and Will reacts on autopilot. He’s never kissed anyone, but there’s a hunger in the way Mike is kissing him that he understands, that he immediately connects to, and he knows this is exactly the way it’s supposed to be. He can taste his tears, and Mike’s too, and somehow it’s perfect. They grow impatient, breathless and desperate, fingers tugging on dark hair, a beanie falling to the ground, and large palms wrapping around a waist. They both have to separate at some point, gasping as if they were coming up for air after exploring unknown deep ends. They lean against each other, foreheads pressed together, both letting out stupid sighs, and Will actually laughs at some point, dizzy on their conversation and their kiss.
Mike breaks the silence first: “God, I hope we didn’t miss Dustin’s signal because we were too busy swapping spit.” Will giggles breathlessly (he always gets giggly around Mike). “Yeah, can you imagine if the world ended just because you couldn’t wait a few hours to tell me you also liked boys?”
Mike looks offended at that, taking a step back so he can look at Will disapprovingly. Will can breathe better, without Mike’s intoxicating presence so close, but immediately misses it. God, get a grip. Mike’s palm is still resting on Will’s neck, on the exact spot he gets the goosebumps whenever Vecna's lurking. “Well, you’re the only boy I’ve ever liked, so that was more me confessing I like you. I don’t care about the other boys, really.”
Will actually has to roll his eyes at that: “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Michael, no offense, but two hours ago, you didn’t even know this was a possibility. You’re very new to the whole liking-boys-thing.”
Will might be gloating a little, because for once he’s in control and he enjoys it. He likes that he can glide his fingers through Mike’s hair and visibly see him blush. He likes that Mike is already crossing back the distance between them, how his voice gets husky, and how he can’t tear his eyes away from Will’s face as he says: “Well, maybe, but I’ve always wanted to kiss you.”
Will actually gapes at that. He can only whisper a surprised “What?”, to which Mike responds with the most obnoxiously nonchalant shrug, as if he hadn’t just shattered Will’s interpretation of these last few years of tensed friendship by revealing that he’s always wanted to kiss him, Will Byers, his best friend, on the lips.
“Yeah, I just thought I was confused, like I was too stunted by the fact that I had been a massive nerd during my formative years and that I had missed the memo on romantic love. Like I had friendship and love all mixed up, and that was why I wanted to kiss my best friend.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Mike.”
He can see Mike is about to argue back -because every conversation Michael Wheeler is part of is a verbal joust that he has to win- when the radio comes to life, Dustin’s voice warped by the static.
“Paladin, Sorcerer, this is Dustin. Beanstalk almost in position. Are you ready? Over.”
Mike reaches for the walkie, eyes roving over Will’s face. Their bubble has suddenly burst, the reality of where they are and what they’re about to do rushing back, and Will anxiously swallows. He can feel that old familiar weight in his chest returning because he knows he needs to let go of Mike to go fight. It’s the only way they can be together afterwards.
“This is Paladin, Sorcerer ready to go. Over.”
Mike keeps looking at him, then slowly reaches over to kiss him one last time. It’s soft, and it feels as casual as the hugs they used to share when they were kids who didn’t know you’re not supposed to feel that way for another boy.
“You’re ready?” Mike asks.
“Yeah.”
“You’re scared?”
“Yeah, shitless. You?”
Mike laughs, and a tear discreetly shines on his cheek in the blue glow of the Upside Down. “Me, too. Let’s do it together, then?”
Will tearfully nods, and Mike grabs his hand, leading the way so they can fight one last time.