Work Text:
Mike Wheeler is standing outside the Hopper-Byers house (if that’s its official name), tapping the side of the beaten up cardboard box between his arm and his side. The melody stuck in his head is an unfamiliar one, but a preferred distraction from going inside. He’s being dramatic, no question about it. Since his breakup with El, they have been able to be normal (and even friendly!) a million times over. Mike will never admit it, but the friendship between them feels more normal than any part of their relationship ever did. Still, despite this comfort, there’s something about returning her things that feels very uncomfortable. He remembers Nancy returning Steve’s clothes (he had swiped a sweatshirt that Steve was still looking for). Their mom had made a big deal about it, saying to Nancy, “This means it’s really over, huh, sweetheart?” Nancy barely hesitated and Mike isn’t hesitating now. He knows things with Eleven were over long before they were over. Hell, El knew it too.
He stops his tapping and, crunching the snow beneath his feet, walks over to the door. Mike clears his throat and knocks, straightening his back in case Hopper opens the door. “Coming!” he hears a yell from inside. The creaky door swings open, revealing El in one of the shirts she had bought with Max at the mall a few weeks ago. “Oh! Hey Mike,” she says. Mike isn’t oblivious (despite popular belief)–he notes the slight strain in her voice. “What’s up?” She pushes the door further, signaling for him to come in. He nods, taking his hat off and looking around. He’s been to the cottage before, but every time he visits, he likes to look around. With every passing day, it becomes less of ‘the property on the edge of town where the Chief lives’ and more of a home, one that reflects the people within it. A few more paintings hang on the wall, a byproduct of having two painters for kids. Loads of jackets burden the coatrack, a sign of Joyce’s overprotective nature.
“Oh, nothing much,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I had some of your stuff to give you.” Not knowing the reaction coming up, Mike slightly braces.
“Cool,” El says without looking backwards. “I’ve got a few of your things too, they’re in my room.” Mike considers protesting that maybe he shouldn’t go to her room, but it’s very clear to him that if anyone is making things awkward, it’s him. El is as free-spirited as usual, floating through the thin hallways to her room. Light seeps through the thin curtains, brightening up the whole place.
They pass Will’s room, the lights turned off. Mike tries to get a glimpse inside, but El pulls him by the arm before he can see anything of substance. Her room, just like the rest of the house, is more her. A poster of Ralph Macchio hangs on the wall next to her bed and a small teal boombox sits on the top of the shelves, playing some bright music Mike is unfamiliar with. El energetically opens a few of the shelves, carelessly searching through the clothes to find what she’s looking for. Meanwhile, Mike sets his box down, idly standing next to the door.
“Stop being awkward and come inside,” she says, rolling her eyes. “This is, surprisingly, not a plot to ‘get you back.’ Here.” A burgundy t-shirt flies his way, hitting his face before he can react. El lets out a small laugh. “I think I’ve also got a pair of pants from that time you got caught in the rain. Give me a sec.” Mike nods to himself, fiddling with the shirt in his hands. “What’ve you got?” El asks, attention still on her piles of clothes.
“Nothing much, honestly,” he says, picking up a few of the things in the box. “Sorry for getting your hopes up. It’s just a few hair things–I don’t know what they’re called–a sweater. Oh, and the painting.” El sends a quick confused side glance his way. “I really appreciate it, El, don’t get me wrong. By far, this is the best gift I’ve ever received. Like, I don’t think I can even explain to you how… seen I felt. Fuck, that sounds fucking stupid.
“I just, when Will explained to me all the things that you had said, I was so, so thankful. You were always much nicer to me than I was to you, I’m sorry for that.” Once again, El looks over at him, eyebrows even more furrowed. “I figure, you put so much effort into this and it’s not even about me so I thought you might want it back. Not that I don’t really like it, because I do.”
A pair of denim jeans hit Mike’s face. “What are you talking about, Wheeler?” El asks, exasperated. Now Mike’s confused. He digs under the sweater in the box and gently passes the rolled up painting to El.
“Ring any bells?” he asks her, a little annoyed that she’d forget. “You know, about how I’m the heart and stuff. Really cool that you did D&D research about the Thessalhydra, by the way. Nice touch.” El opens the painting, her face unchanged. Somewhere between five seconds and five minutes she spends taking it in. Mike doesn’t expect what she does next.
El tosses it back to him. “I didn’t paint that,” she says simply, unbothered. The painting sits in Mike’s lap, still unfurled, as the girl grabs the box beside him and starts sorting through her things.
“I’m sorry, what?” Mike asks, getting up quickly.
“I didn’t paint that,” repeats Eleven.
“Yeah, you did,” he insists. “Will told me about it when we were on our way to get you. With Argyle and Jonathan? He said you’d painted for me.” This stops El. She takes a second before turning around.
“You really were a bad boyfriend, huh, Mike?” Her hand is on her hip and she’s looking at him as if he’s positively crazy. “I don’t paint. At least, not like this. Not pictures of you and Will and Mike and Lucas. Not of a Thessalhydra, whatever that is. You genuinely thought I made this? A painting that has nothing to do with me or us, even. You’re serious?” Something builds up in his gut, a feeling that hasn’t been there since his breakup with El. He’s confused again. All he ever was when he was with her was confused. It’s in no way El’s fault, it’s fully Mike’s. But he thought that, after the breakup, this feeling would dissipate. Would leave his body in a way reminiscent of the Mind Flayer leaving Will’s.
“Who painted it then?” His voice is quieter. El just looks him over, thoughts clearly swirling in her brain–Mike could see it on her face.
“Mike,” she says, tilting her head. “Come on.” He’s interlacing his fingers, looking for anything to do other than meet El’s slightly judgemental gaze. “Will, Mike. Will painted it,” she finally lets up. There’s a look in El’s eye he can’t quite decipher. He’s never been good at reading people. She seems almost saddened.
“You’re not fucking with me?” he double-checks, eyebrows raised in anticipation. If Lucas or Dustin were here, they’d die making fun of him. ‘It’s not that serious, Mike, jeez,’ they’d say, despite what is surely a look of pure dejection on his face.
Earnestly, a reply, “No, I’m not. Will made that painting. He worked on it for months.” Mike just stands there, like an idiot. He’s in his ex-girlfriend’s room, frozen because he got a painting from his best friend. Who does that? Who cares that much? El cautiously takes a few steps closer before pulling him into a soft embrace, her arms under his, her eyes focused on his face. “Okay?” she asks him. Mike’s just looking off in the distance, trying to untangle whatever knots exist in his mind. He gives her a quick smile, one meant to reassure her, before patting her back. El pulls away and says to him, “I like that we’re friends.” He’s appreciative of the change of topic. “But as your friend, I do have to tell you that I’m supposed to meet Max in, like, fifteen minutes so you need to go.” She chucks his clothes into the cardboard box and hands it to him, still smiling kindly.
“I know my way out,” he says, the slight shame seeping, his cheeks dusted pink. It’s gotten darker outside, with bland rays of sunlight barely illuminating the inside of the house. Eleven accompanies him down the hall, closing the door to Will’s room, and pats him on the shoulder before leaving. As Mike’s hand reaches for the door handle, the whole door swings open, bumping the side of his arm.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry–Mike?” Will’s voice sounds. Speak of the devil, Mike internally laughs. In front of him stands Will Byers, shorter than usual. Looking down, Mike spots the many bags weighing on his arms. It’s been maybe a day or two since he’s seen Will but already he can spot how he’s changed, same as he can with the house. His hair is styled differently–although Mike isn’t sure how many ways there are to style a bowl cut–and seems more messy, slightly hiding his eyes. Instinctively, Mike’s hand goes up and brushes the hair away. They just stand there, Mike’s fingers slightly grazing Will’s forehead. “Mike, what are you doing here?” His voice has softened and so have his eyes. Will’s eyes are, stereotypically, the windows to his soul. Mike can, without the glasses no one knows he’s supposed to wear, decode every single glint in Will’s eye from a mile away. Right now, Will just seems happy.
Mike’s been standing there, unresponsive for who knows how long, so Will’s eyes naturally take him in, the box included. “Oh,” he just says, spotting the clothes. “Were you here to, um… did you talk to Jane?”
“No!” Mike’s awakened. “No, I came to return some of her stuff. Hair-holding-thingies and…” he loses his train of thought, too preoccupied with the way the dim sun is hitting the boy in front of him. The soft background of snow and clouds makes the specific blue of his eyes all the more noticeable. “Did you go Christmas shopping?” he asks, desperate for a way out of the Eleven conversation.
“Yeah,” Will smiles. “I know it’s a bit late, since we’re doing exchanges and everything tomorrow, but I figured it’s better now than… well, never.”
Mike nods. He’s noticing about himself that he nods a lot. “Anything for me?”
Will’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he looks down, imperceptibly frantic. “No…” the word stretches out, as if he’s unsure he should say it.
Dustin should never be allowed to make hot cocoa for a large group of people ever again. Everyone’s cups sit, cold and full, on the Wheelers’ floor, far away from the Christmas tree around which everyone is huddled. Only Lucas drank his cup (and Max’s), out of pity (and out of a hidden enjoyment for the strange tangy taste of Dustin’s recipe). Nancy, every few minutes, tells everyone to be careful with how they’re moving, warning that her father once slipped on wrapping paper and couldn’t play golf for a few months.
Mike is quite happy with how the day is going. It seems everyone was truly on point with their gifts. Robin got every member of the group a record, one attuned either to their preexisting interests (ex: Jonathan got The Queen is Dead by the Smiths) or to their future interests, as per Robin’s judgement (ex: Steve got Cream’s Wheels of Fire and complained about it). Mind you, Steve’s gifts weren’t that much better–most of them were hair-related products.
It’s Dustin’s turn to pick next. He moves a few of the bigger, more compact gifts around, stretching to reach, and grabs the thin tube-y one. “Just out of curiosity,” he comments as he pulls it into his lap. “Whose is it! ‘Fess up!” While Mike is looking around, he almost misses the look Eleven gives Will. He’s been on the receiving end of that urgent eyebrow raise before. Just as he’s about to ask, he’s interrupted.
“I’m starving!” Eleven announces, pulling Max into a side hug. “Can we make the Eggos you got me?”
“But it’s my turn!” Dustin says.
“Yeah, it’s Dustin’s turn,” Steve backs him up.
“It’ll still be your turn when we’re done eating, Dustin, jeez,” El says, already getting up and heading to the Wheelers’ kitchen. “Grab the Eggos, Max.”
“Got you.” Eleven quickly spins, mouthing something urgent to Will. Mike just watches the room empty out, conversations already going strong. He straightens his legs, stretching after sitting in the same position for so long, but is stopped from getting up by a hand on his chest. “Wait,” Will, from beside him, says. His hand doesn’t move and Mike doesn’t realize he isn’t breathing just to keep it from staying there. His eyes are on Will, tuning out the background noise of kitchen discussions. It’s soft chatter compared to whatever Will is about to say.
“Yeah?” he asks, urging him to go on. Slowly, Will pulls his hand back, as if he’s realized it’s not supposed to be there. Mike glances down. Will maneuvers around the gifts on the floor, basically crawling to grab the light, wrapped in blue gift Dustin had been curious about. To Mike’s content, he sits down back where he was, his knee brushing against Mike’s.
“It’s for you.” He extends his hand out, steadily, almost as though he’s worried that Mike will actually take it. The sight of Will who, yes, is shy, being this scared of him baffles Mike. What has he done that his best friend is unable to look him in the eye as he hands him a Christmas gift, of all things?
Wordlessly, Mike takes it from Will’s hands, making it a point to smile and not rush to open it (even though he’s dying to know). It’s really well wrapped. You can barely see the tape and the corners are pristine. Nancy always has to wrap Mike’s gifts for him because he ends up origami-ing himself to the presents. He uses his nail to get between the papers and, without ripping, open the ends of the gift. From inside slides out a rolled up canvas, similar to the one he tried returning to Eleven yesterday. He glances at Will. The boy next to him is rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and playing with the edge of his sweater with the other. Mike doesn’t know why, but the view makes something inside him warm.
He takes the end of the paper and slowly unrolls it to reveal a beautiful landscape, a deep blue sky contrasted with a bright yellow sun, rising from behind Hawkins. Distinctively, the Hopper-Byers cottage is portrayed up the hill and even the Wheeler house is noticeable from the center of town. Everything else blurs together. The sky is very clearly the focus. Mike rakes over the sky, over and over again, simply mesmerized by how well the colors compliment one another. He’s always liked blue, but up until how, he’s never realized how good it looks with yellow by its side.
“Will,” he says breathily. “It’s… I love it.” It takes Will a second, a second during which he assesses Mike, the way he’s sitting, the way he’s smiling. Mike allows this assessment, maintaining eye contact to prove to the boy beside him that he fucking means it. “I love it. So much.”
“That’s why I said no yesterday. I didn’t ‘buy’ you a present,” Will clarifies. “Do you really like it?”
“Will, I told you, I love it,” Mike grins. “But, can I be honest?” A mortified expression takes a hold of Will. “It’s not the best painting I’ve ever received. Just wait here.” Mike jumps off the floor at the exact moment total confusion rushes through Will, sprinting up the stairs (and garnering the attention of everyone in the kitchen) to grab the painting. The original. The one that started it all.
Whatever ‘it all’ may be. Mike isn’t sure yet. He just… it just seems like something he needs to talk to Will about now. Now or he’ll combust and die and never be seen again and never get to look at the new painting again. Especially after that look El had given him yesterday. He’s been haunted by it. Mike. Come on. Will, Mike. Will painted it.
He trips on his way down the stairs, almost dropping the canvas and hitting his head on the banister, but even a near accident doesn’t stop Mike. Will is static, unmoved from where Mike left him. “Here,” he says in between deep breaths. “This is the better painting.” Will’s eyes, for a millisecond, brighten, illuminated by the lights on the Christmas tree across from him. Just as fast, they dim. “I know you made it. El told me.”
“Um…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Mike’s hands go up defensively. “Let me say stuff for a change.” He chuckles. “That day in the van, when you gave me this. I was basically as speechless as you are now, hah. And now just because it’s a beautiful painting–which, don’t get me wrong, it really is–but also because… it’s never been more obvious to me. That you just know me. It’s simple and probably stupid, but you do. I don’t think anyone knows me better. Not Lucas, not Dustin. And, you know, I like to think I know you too. Now, I might not be as good at painting as you are, clearly, but… tell me how I did.” Mike pulls out a small figurine from his pocket, the familiar purple of its clothing striking Will. He lets Will take it and examine its finer details (as if there are any) while he goes on, “It’s you. Or, at least, a mini D&D version of you. Will the Wise is who you are, anyway. Sorta felt fitting. I’ve had this lying around for a while, same way you had that painting. Although, I will say, I feel a bit braver than you were for not telling you that Max made it or something.”
When Will finally speaks, he says, quietly, “Thank you.”
Mike’s insulted! “Of course!” he insists. “You gave me such a great gift, fully unprompted. It’s genuinely the least I could do.” It only now hits him that they’re very close together. His thigh is completely pressed against Will’s, their elbows bumping every few seconds. Will turns his head, just slightly. Mike doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in.
“What’s the most you could do?” Will asks in a whisper. Officially, Mike Wheeler is now dead. He’s gone. But that look, that completely new, completely melting look in Will Byers’ eyes, is so worth it. He’s okay. Vecna can come back, can have his demodogs tear Mike apart. All of that is completely okay by him. As long as this look stays tattooed at the forefront of his mind, it’s all okay.
“What do you mean?” Mike replies, his voice in just as hushed a whisper.
“I mean–”
“Present time!” Dustin’s singing voice rings through the room, accompanied by the bustle of steps behind him. “Where’d the skinny gift go?” Will has scooted away from Mike, leaving way too much space between them now.
He clears his throat before replying, “You must’ve hallucinated it.”
As the night passes, more and more people slowly begin to leave the Wheelers’. Robin is the first to go, saying something about having to meet Vickie for dinner. Lucas and Max go after, giggling about a movie date watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Friends disperse until only four are left. Nancy apparently desperately needs Jonathan’s help editing her op-ed piece on public education in Hawkins, so the two of them innocently head up to her room. That just leaves Mike and Will.
“I should probably get going, huh?” Will smiles. Mike’s hands are stuffed in his pockets as he watches the other boy layer his winter clothes on, a sweater, followed by a thick jacket, followed by a pretty green scarf Joyce knitted him. Since the gift exchange, Mike hasn’t had all that much to say to Will but, simultaneously, he’s absolutely wanted to gush. He wants him to stay, most of all. There’s been moments with Will, throughout Mike’s life, that he hasn’t been able to replicate. One of those was the van ride from Lenora. Moments where they both strip everything bare and talk both about and around the strange peculiarities that define their relationship. A few years ago, when Mike slept in Will’s bedroom, that was another moment. Today is one too.
That’s why Mike just stands there, leaning against the wall, and watching Will.
“Mike?” Will asks, breaking the other from the trance he seems to be in.
“Hm?”
“I should probably get going, right?” he repeats, an urging look on his face.
Mike bites the corner of his mouth, thinking, before quickly grabbing his own jacket, swinging a scarf dangerously around his neck, “I’ll walk you home.” They step into the piercing cold, crunching on the snow beneath their feet. Will insists that he doesn’t need Mike to walk him home, all the while he wears the widest grin on his beaming face. Impressively, Mike’s hands haven’t left his pockets. He’ll blame the cold, if Will asks. Every now and then, a street light flickers (Hawkins’ electricity hasn’t been the most stable since the gates opened) and Will notably tenses, burrowing into his scarf and picking up the pace ever so slightly.
“I was scared,” out of the blue, Will says. “I was really scared to give you the painting, Mike. We hadn’t talked in so long and I brought it to the airport but then you gave me that weird, stick-up-your-ass hug and I just… things were different. And don’t argue with me, you know I’m right. Things were different. I made that painting for someone who cared about me. I wasn’t sure if you did.
“We’ve already argued about the letters and the calls and stuff, I’m not trying to fight you about that again or anything. But that’s the reason why. Why I lied.”
Mike finds himself moving closer to Will on his left, still not breaking the synchronized stride they have. His left hand slides out of his pocket, instead fidgeting with its zipper. “You know,” he begins, already dreading where he’s going, “El thought you were making it for some girl. That you liked.” Mike tries to change his tone, make his comment seem funny rather than pointed, but he very clearly fails. Mostly because this isn’t something he wants to brush off.
“I didn’t like a girl in Lenora.”
“Well, I assumed so,” Mike says, “considering you gave the painting to me, not to a girl in Lenora.” Will stops. He slowly looks up at Mike, a few steps ahead of him.
“It’s not what you think,” he defensively states, bucking himself up for an unexpected explanation.
“What do I think it is?” asks Mike, taking a few steps closer to Will.
He can’t even bear to look at him, “You know what you think it is, Mike. Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean.”
“You are.”
Mike takes his final step, surprised to find that Will is slightly taller than him. He, to this day, has this image of his best friend as someone he needs to protect. Whenever Will gets cold or loses control of his bike (happens way more than you’d expect), it’s not Will that Mike sees or worries about. It’s the Will from the Missing posters. The one with wide eyes, eyes that, in retrospect, seemed so doomed that Mike spent months feeling guilty for not noticing sooner. The boy from the hospital, with wires and doctors and horrible night terrors. The boy whose hand he took.
“Just tell me,” Mike whispers, as if the streets are listening. Will is slightly taken aback by the tone. The diminished husk of Mike Wheeler that stands before him. “I know you know. What I want to hear. I know you know. And I know I’m a dick for making you be the one to say it. But please, Will. You’re braver than me. You’ve always been.”
Will just breathes. It’s a relief for Mike, honestly, to see his chest rising up and down because he’s quite concerned that he himself isn’t breathing. Will can breathe for both of them. Fuck. Will is doing everything for both of them. Their whole friendship has been Will, Will, Will. Will, setting up campaigns. Will, making an effort all the way from California. Will, creating beautiful paintings. Mike has been a bystander for far too long, simply watching his best friend get more and more tired. He’s never offered to lighten his load.
“No,” Mike interrupts Will, whose mouth was open, ready to talk. “No, wait. You’ve always been braver than me. That’s not fair to you. I’m gonna be brave now. For you. If you’ll let me?” He’s unsure as to why he’s asking for Will’s permission, but seeing the other boy nod loosens his shoulders a bit. “I wanted you to say that El was sorta right, about the painting. It was for someone you liked. I wanted you to tell me… to say… it’s me. I wanted it to be for me. When I visited California, it was all I could think about. Will’s painting for the person he liked–me. I wanted you to look at me. I want you, I want you to.” He’s rambling now. His own words don’t make sense to him and, for the first time, he can’t read the expression on Will’s face. Doesn’t look like he understands anything either.
“I need you,” Will starts, taking a step closer. Mike can smell the peppermint on his breath, “to tell me what you mean. What you want.”
Mike, despite the moment not calling for it, smiles. “I just told you what I want.”
Will’s hand finds its way to the back of Mike’s neck, holding on tightly, almost like he’ll fall if he lets go. “No,” he corrects, relaxing his hand into the ends of Mike’s dark curls, “you told me what you wanted, back in Lenora. I’m asking what you want right now. Do you… want this?” Mike’s too lost in Will’s eyes to nod as quickly as he wants to (which is probably good, considering he’d break his neck). “This?” Will’s other hand gently tugs on the edge of Mike’s jacket, urging him closer. Mike hasn’t stopped nodding. “This?” He’s just looking at him now. No words need to come out of Will’s mouth for Mike to know what he means. To this, he gives one curt nod. “It’s Christmas,” Will states. “On Christmas, you get what you want.”
Before he can even do anything, Mike’s hands reach out of his pockets, pulling Will in by his arms. He’s had Dustin’s hot chocolate, Steve’s mom’s cherry pie, Holly’s peppermints, Eleven’s Eggos–none of these even hold a candle to the taste of Will Byers. He tastes, stereotypically but accurately, like heaven. Like a sweet minty mix of everything Mike has ever needed or wanted.
Fuck. He wants this. All his life, all he’s wanted has been this. He saved the world so he could kiss Will, feel his hands roam his body and settle back in his curls, pulling ever so often. Every fight he’s marched into, every deep-set fear he’s faced, every truth he’s ever told. All of them culminate in Will Byers. For Will, about Will. He can’t explain it to himself any better. He must be here for this. A minute in and Mike has found his purpose. In the middle of a dimly lit suburban street, snow softly falling, kissing Will is his goal. What he was made for. Hearing the noises the boy makes, laughing alongside him when their teeth clank together. This is just it.
“Mike,” Will says in between breaths.
“Yeah,” Mike barely gets out.
“Did you get what you wanted?” Mike gathers his breath as quickly as he can, nods, and pulls the Byers boy back in.
“Fuck yes.”