Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Wheeler basement has always been warm in a way Will never quite knew how to name.

Not just the temperature, though it helps. It’s the kind of warmth that comes from being used. From years of bodies on the floor, knees pressed together, voices raised in argument and laughter. From stories told out loud until they became real enough to be feared.

The air smells like old carpet and dust and something faintly sweet, like soda spilled long ago and never fully cleaned. It smells like dice and paperbacks and safety. Like a place that learned, early on, how to hold what didn’t fit anywhere else.

This is where Mike used to sit cross-legged behind the Dungeon Master screen, chin lifted, voice sure even when the story wasn’t. This is where Lucas argued rules and Dustin cheated and Will pretended not to care. This is where Eleven slept, curled in on herself, learning what it meant to be allowed to exist without running.

This basement has always been a shelter for the fragile.

Which makes it feel almost inevitable that Will ends up here.

Will stands at the bottom of the Wheeler basement stairs and lets the door close behind him.

The sound is soft. Familiar. The muted thud of wood against wood, followed by the faint rattle of the handle as it settles. It cuts the upstairs noise in half immediately. Karen’s voice becomes distant. Holly’s cartoon laughter dulls into background hum. The house exhales, and so does Will.

The basement opens out in front of him, low-ceilinged and wide, the way it always has been. The exposed beams run overhead like ribs. The hanging paper lantern casts a warm, amber light over the center of the room, pooling over the square table where dice once clattered, and arguments once mattered. The walls are paneled and crowded. Shelves stuffed with board games and old radios. Posters curling at the corners. A workbench tucked into the back left corner, cluttered with tools and half-finished projects that look like they haven’t been touched in years.

The couch sits against the far wall, worn flat in the middle from too many bodies collapsing into it. A plaid blanket is thrown over one arm. A side table beside it holds a lamp with a yellow shade, already turned on, making the space feel smaller. Safer.

It smells like dust and fabric and time.

It smells like childhood.

Jonathan moves first. He crosses the basement without stopping, drops his duffel bag near the couch, and pulls the fold-out bed open with the tired efficiency of someone who has done this before. The metal frame creaks softly as it locks into place. Jonathan smooths the thin mattress, sets his bag at the foot, then steps back like he’s making sure it won’t disappear if he looks away.

“I’ll take this,” Jonathan says.

Will nods from near the stairs. “Okay.”

He carries his own things to the right side of the basement, closer to the shelves and away from the couch. He unrolls his mattress on the floor beneath a shelf stacked with board games and a cardboard box labeled D&D STUFF in Mike’s uneven handwriting. The letters are a little wonky, written by someone who didn’t realize they were leaving history behind. 

The sight of it makes something ache low in his chest. 

Will places his sketchbook on the pillow. He does it without thinking. Like claiming territory. Like proof of existence, a marker, a promise to himself that he’s still here.

Jonathan straightens, looks around once, then nods to himself. “I’m gonna go help Mom upstairs.”

He climbs the stairs and disappears, the door opening and closing again, the basement returning to its quieter state.

Will is alone.

He sits on the edge of his mattress and lets the room settle around him. The heater hums softly from the corner. Dust floats lazily in the lantern light. For a moment, he can almost hear voices layered over the silence. Dustin arguing about the rules. Lucas laughing. Mike’s voice, clear and certain, telling them what happens next.

This room remembers them.

Upstairs, Hawkins pretends to function, and the house hums with life. Down here, everything feels suspended.

Karen Wheeler’s voice drifts down through the ceiling, calm and steady as she talks Joyce through things that sound temporary but don’t feel like they are. Paperwork. Aid. Words like assessment and containment. Ted clears his throat loudly, twice, like the room won’t listen the first time. Holly laughs at the television, bright and unafraid, and Will feels something twist painfully at how wrong it sounds against the backdrop of a town that’s been split open.

Hawkins is sealed.

Chain-link fences cut across streets that used to lead somewhere. Military trucks idle at the ends of blocks, engines humming low and constant. The ground itself is cracked open, four massive scars running through neighborhoods like the town tried to tear itself apart and almost succeeded.

They came back from California thinking they were coming home.

Instead, they walked into a place that won’t let them leave.

Will sits on the edge of his mattress and presses his palms flat against his knees. The basement light casts a soft yellow glow, warm and forgiving, catching dust motes as they drift lazily through the air. For a moment, if he closes his eyes just right, he can almost believe this is a sleepover. That tomorrow will be bikes and bad cereal and nothing worse than a failed saving throw.

Footsteps approach the basement stairs.

Will hears them before he sees anyone. Slower than Jonathan’s. Hesitant. Familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten. His body reacts before his mind does.

The door opens.

Mike appears at the top of the stairs and stops there, one hand still on the doorknob, like he’s bracing himself. He’s wearing a faded hoodie Will remembers from middle school, sleeves pulled over his hands, collar chewed between his teeth without him realizing it. He looks thinner somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like something inside him hasn’t stopped vibrating since California. He looks down into the basement like he’s unsure whether he’s interrupting something sacred.

“Oh,” Mike says. “You’re… already set up.”

Will looks up from his mattress. “Yeah. You can come down.”

Mike exhales, relief loosening his shoulders before he can stop it. He releases the door and steps inside, closing it behind him. He descends the stairs slowly, eyes moving across the room. He finishes the descent, eyes flicking instinctively to the corners of the room like he’s cataloging exits. Old habits. Old fear. The table. The couch. The shelves. The mattress on the floor.

His gaze lingers on Will.

“This feels weird,” Mike says, half under his breath.

Will swallows. “Not bad weird.”

“No,” Mike agrees quickly. “No. Just… different. Guess this is… your space now,” Mike says, trying for casual and missing.

Will’s mouth curves into something small and soft. “I don’t mind.”

It’s true. More than true. The basement feels safer than anywhere else right now. Safer than upstairs, where adult voices lower when they talk about the cracks. Safer than outside, where soldiers pretend they aren’t watching.

Mike moves toward the center of the basement and stops near the table, the same spot he used to sit when he ran campaigns. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he rocks slightly on his heels, hands pulled into the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Mom said you and Jonathan could have the basement,” Mike says. “As long as you need. Joyce, too, but she’s-” He gestures upward. “She’s sleeping on the rollaway bed by Holly’s room.”

Will nods. He expected that. That tracks. Joyce always makes herself smaller, so her kids don’t have to.

“Thank you,” Will says quietly enough that it feels like something he’s been holding back.

Mike’s eyes flick up to his, and he looks at him like the words matter more than they should. “Of course.”

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he finally sits on the floor near the table, legs crossed, close enough that Will can feel the shift in the room, like gravity adjusted slightly to accommodate him. 

Close enough that Will can feel his presence without looking. Close enough that the distance between them feels deliberate, like a choice rather than an accident.

They sit like that for a moment. Not facing each other directly. Close, but not touching.

“I keep thinking it’s strange,” Mike says, staring at the couch, voice softer now, “how this room still feels the same. Like nothing bad ever happened here.”

Will’s fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans. He doesn’t look away. “A lot happened here.”

Mike nods slowly. “Yeah. I know. I just mean… it was good too. It was good things too.”

Good. Safe. Before the world cracked open.

A low rumble passes through the walls. A military truck rolling down the street. Mike’s shoulders tense immediately. Will notices. He always does.

“You don’t have to stay,” Will says gently, even though he doesn’t truly mean it.

Mike shakes his head. “No,” He says at once. Too fast. “I want to.”

He swallows, embarrassed, then adds, quieter, “I just didn’t want to make it weird.”

Will almost laughs. Almost cries. Instead, he says, “You’re not.”

Mike exhales, relieved. “Good.”

They sit in silence. The basement holds them easily, like it’s done this before. Like it knows its job. The quiet settles around them like a blanket. The heater hums.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike says suddenly.

The words are simple. Earnest. Unarmored in that way, Mike never quite learned how to hide.

Will’s chest tightens painfully. “Me too.”

Mike looks at him then, really looks, like he’s trying to memorize this version of Will. The one who survived. The one who came back and is still here.

“If you need me,” Mike says, voice dropping, “I’m around. Upstairs. Or here. Or-” He shrugs helplessly. “Anywhere.”

Will nods. “I know.”

Mike stays a little longer. Then a little longer after that.

Mike stays a few more minutes. Then he stands.

“I should probably go help upstairs,” he says, reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Will says, equally reluctant.

Mike hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, turns back once, then climbs up and disappears, the door closing softly behind him.

Will remains on his mattress, sketchbook unopened, heart loud in his chest.

Above him, Hawkins is broken and watching and waiting.

Below ground, in a room built for stories and sheltering the extraordinary, Will, sitting, lets himself hope, just a little, that this place might be strong enough to hold what’s coming next.

By the time school starts again, it feels wrong to be still surprised by it.

Spring break ends without asking anyone’s permission. There’s no announcement. No moment where the town pauses and agrees it’s ready. Hawkins is still cracked open, the earth scarred and cordoned off, soldiers still posted at the edges like they’re guarding something contagious. The fences still hum faintly when the wind moves through them. The air feels wrong if you pay attention to it too closely.

And still, school starts again.

Will wakes before his alarm, the way he has every morning since they moved into the Wheeler basement. The basement has shifted in the days since they arrived. Not changed, exactly- just settled. The room is dim and warm, the soft glow from the lamp near the couch still on, forgotten overnight. The small window near the ceiling lets in a slice of pale morning light that creeps farther across the floor each day, marking time whether he wants it to or not. His mattress doesn’t feel temporary, like it belongs to a guest, anymore. That realization lands quietly, heavier than he expects.

Jonathan is already gone. He’s been leaving early most mornings, quiet as a shadow, slipping out before breakfast with an excuse that changes just enough to be believable. Will doesn’t ask where he’s going. He has a sense that it's somewhere that requires silence.

Upstairs, the Wheeler house is awake.

Karen moves through the kitchen, efficient and gentle, with the same practiced calm she’s always had. Holly hums to herself at the table, feet swinging. Mike’s voice carries easily through the floorboards, familiar enough now that Will doesn’t freeze when he hears it anymore.

That’s new.

Will pulls on his jacket, grabs his backpack, and heads upstairs.

Mike looks up the second Will enters the kitchen.

“You ready?” Mike asks.

Will nods. “Yeah.”

They eat quickly. Toast. Juice. Ordinary things. No one says first day back. No one says after the end of the world. It sits there anyway, unspoken and heavy.

Outside, spring is doing what it always does. The sky is bright. The air is crisp. Trees are budding. The world looks offensively normal.

Mike helps Holly with her bike, steadying the seat while she adjusts her backpack.

“Stay on the sidewalk,” Mike reminds her.

“I know,” Holly says, rolling her eyes.

Will watches the exchange with quiet fondness. The way Mike’s hand lingers at the back of Holly’s seat until she’s balanced. The way he doesn’t let go until he’s sure.

They ride together like they’ve fallen into a habit already. Holly in the middle. Mike on one side. Will on the other. A formation that feels practiced now, almost comforting.

At the elementary school, Holly peels away and disappears inside without looking back.

Mike waits until the doors close.

“Okay,” he says. “High school.”

Will exhales. “Yeah.”

The ride there is quiet but easy. Tires hum against the pavement. Leaves scatter across the road. Mike rides close enough that Will is always aware of him, even without looking. He doesn’t mind.

The high school looks unchanged. Brick and glass and banners advertising dances that may never happen. Inside, the noise hits all at once. Lockers slam. Voices echo. Everyone pretends the word earthquake explains everything.

Mike and Will move through the halls together without discussing it. They always have. It doesn’t feel like choosing each other. It feels like gravity.

At lunch, Dustin sits with his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his tray. He doesn’t react when a couple of jocks mutter things under their breath. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t push back. He lets it happen, quiet and distant in a way that makes Will’s chest ache.

Mike notices too. Will can tell by the way his jaw tightens, the way his foot taps under the table. But Mike doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Grief has made Dustin fragile, and Mike knows better than to shatter him further.

Lucas arrives late, drops into his seat like nothing is wrong, like he’s decided that fine is a role he can play convincingly if he commits hard enough. Will doesn’t know how to read him anymore.

Max’s seat stays empty.

Eleven’s is, too. She isn’t here. She won’t be. Everyone knows it.

Classes blur together. Teachers talk about exams and assignments like the future is still intact. From certain windows, you can see the edges of town where things still don’t look right, but if you don’t stare too long, you can pretend.

In history class, Mike turns around and slides a folded note onto Will’s desk without meeting his eyes.

you okay?

Will writes back carefully.

yeah. you?

The reply comes a minute later.

same.

It feels important, even though it’s small.

After the final bell, Mike finds Will at his locker without searching.

“Ready to head back?” Mike asks.

Will nods. “Yeah.”

They bike home slower than they rode in, tired and quiet. Joyce’s car is already in the driveway when they arrive.

Inside, Joyce’s voice carries from the kitchen, warm but careful; there’s laughter there, but it’s restrained, like joy with the volume turned down. She’s talking about errands. About food. About normal things. She doesn’t mention where she’s been or where she’s going next.

No one does.

Mike and Will don’t linger.

They head down to the basement together, the door closing behind them, sealing off the upstairs world. The lamp is on. The couch waits. The room feels like it’s been holding their places all day.

Mike drops his backpack near the table and sinks onto the couch with a long breath. Will sets his things down more carefully and sits beside him, close enough that their knees brush when he shifts.

Neither of them moves away.

“How was it?” Mike asks, staring at the ceiling.

Will thinks about the day. About hallways that still smell the same. About watching Mike exist beside him in the world. About how wrong and right everything feels at once.

“It was… okay,” Will says.

Mike hums. “Yeah.”

They sit there in silence, not doing much of anything. The basement hums quietly around them, familiar and patient.

Outside, Hawkins is broken and pretending not to be.

Inside, school will happen again tomorrow.

And Will realizes, slowly and without panic, that he and Mike are already learning how to live inside the space between disaster and routine together.

They stay where they are. They don’t move.

The basement slowly settles into the evening around them without ceremony. The heater clicks on. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks and then stills. The lamp beside the couch casts a soft circle of light that doesn’t quite reach the corners of the room.

Mike stays slouched against the back of the couch, head tipped against the cushion slightly toward the ceiling, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing. Will sits beside him, hands folded too carefully in his lap, acutely aware of every point of contact, aware of the space between their knees, the way you’re aware of a low flame. Not touching. Close enough to feel, a soft, constant reminder that neither of them acknowledges out loud.

Neither of them speaks.

The quiet doesn’t feel empty. It feels crowded.

Mike shifts first, just enough to stretch his shoulders. The movement brings his arm to rest along the back of the couch, behind Will. Not touching him. Just there. An accident that doesn’t get corrected.

Will notices immediately. His breath catches, barely audible, and he forces it steady again. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t lean in. He stays exactly where he is, suspended between two wrong choices.

Will’s stomach twists.

This is the dangerous part.

Not monsters. Not gates.

This. The stillness. The way it feels too easy to stay.

The basement hums.

“It’s weird,” Mike says eventually, voice low, like he’s testing whether the sound will hold. “Being back.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Mike exhales through his nose, a sound that might almost be a laugh. “Feels like everything’s supposed to be the same. But it’s not.”

“No,” Will agrees quietly.

Silence stretches again. Not awkward. Heavy. Full of things neither of them knows how to touch.

Will stares at the far wall, at the old posters curling at the corners, at the shelves of games they used to fight over. He thinks about how many times he sat in this room wanting to be closer and convincing himself he didn’t deserve it. His thoughts spiral in familiar, unwelcome directions. The long distance. The letters that went unanswered. The space that opened up and never quite closed again. He thinks about loyalty and about timing and about how wanting something doesn’t make it allowed.

He thinks about how close Mike is. And how it feels worse.

Because Mike is with the girl who has grown to become a sibling to him.

The thought drops into Will’s chest like a stone.

He hasn’t let himself think about it properly since California. Since the airport. Since Mike held Eleven like that, like gravity only worked when she was in his arms, Will knows what that looks like. Knows what it means. 

He swallows hard.

Mike shifts again, knees brushing Will’s this time. The contact is brief, light, unmistakable. Neither of them reacts. Neither of them apologizes.

Mike swallows. “You doing okay? You’re quiet.”

Will hesitates, just long enough to be noticeable, and stiffens before he can stop himself. “Sorry.”

Mike turns his head slightly, studying him from the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to be.”

Will nods, because that’s easier than explaining the knot in his throat. The guilt. The way every soft moment feels like he’s stealing something that doesn’t belong to him.

Will’s fingers curl into his sleeve. “Okay.”

Mike shifts on the couch. He looks like he wants to say something else. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Whatever he’d been about to say stays trapped behind his teeth.

Instead, he nods. “Okay.”

The word sits between them, thin and careful.

“I keep thinking,” Mike says finally and slowly, “that everything feels… louder now. Even when it’s quiet.”

Will understands instantly. “Like you’re always waiting for something to happen.”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Like if you relax, you’ll miss it.”

They fall silent again.

Will’s heart beats too fast. He can feel it in his throat, in his fingertips. He wonders if Mike can hear it. Wonders if Mike feels the same tight, restless energy under his skin.

He shouldn’t want this.

He shouldn’t let himself.

Eleven is hiding somewhere miles away, training, surviving, trusting Mike to be hers when the world finally settles. Will knows what loyalty looks like. He knows what love looks like. He has watched it from the outside for years.

Being this close feels like a betrayal, even if nothing is happening.

Mike exhales and rubs a hand over his face. “Do you ever feel like you’re… taking up too much space?”

Will’s breath catches. “What?”

Mike shrugs, staring at the ceiling again. “Like you’re always worried about being in the way. Or wanting the wrong thing.”

Will’s chest aches sharply. He presses his lips together, afraid that if he speaks too quickly, the truth will spill out.

“Sometimes,” he says instead. “Yeah.”

Mike nods like that’s the answer he expected. “Me too.”

They sit there, shoulders nearly touching now. The space between them feels charged and delicate, as if one wrong movement could shatter it.

Will wants to lean in.

Wants to close his eyes and pretend, just for a second, that this is allowed.

Instead, he shifts back slightly, creating the smallest gap.

Mike notices immediately.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” Will says too fast. His voice wobbles. He hates that. “I just-”

He stops. Forces himself to breathe.

Mike waits. He always does.

“I just… needed to move.” Will finishes quietly.

Mike nods, but something flickers across his face. Confusion, maybe. Or disappointment. Will doesn’t let himself look too closely.

The arm behind him stays where it is.

They sit like that, not touching, not separate either. The room feels like it’s holding its breath along with them.

Mike speaks again, quieter this time. “Sometimes I feel like… like I’m waiting for something to end before I’m allowed to start anything else.”

Will’s heart stutters. He keeps his eyes on the floor.

“I think I get it,” he says.

Mike studies him, eyes searching, like he knows that isn’t the whole truth but won’t push. After a moment, he nods.

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

He shifts again, carefully this time, leaning back into the couch. The gap between their knees remains. Not wide. Just enough to hurt.

The admission feels heavy, even without context, even without names.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere far away, the world keeps moving.

After a while, Mike speaks again. “You know you can tell me stuff, right?”

Will’s throat tightens. “I know.”

“Okay.”

They lapse into silence once more. Will thinks about distance again. About words unsent. About how silence can stretch into something that feels intentional even when it isn’t. He wonders if Mike thinks about it, too. Wonders if Mike notices the same gaps.

He doesn’t ask.

Will stares at his hands, at the faint smudge of graphite on his thumb from earlier. He thinks about all the things he has never said. All the ways thinking about Mike has always felt like standing too close to a fire.

Mike shifts his arm, withdrawing it slowly, deliberately, like he’s afraid of making a mistake he can’t take back. The loss of the warmth behind Will feels sharper than the contact ever did.

Will’s breath stutters. 

He presses his lips together, fighting the urge to fill the space with something meaningless.

He doesn’t move.

Neither of them moves. 

The basement holds them in its quiet warmth, a room that has always known how to keep secrets. And Will thinks, with a painful, helpless kind of longing, that this might be the worst part of wanting something, wanting someone: not the distance, but the closeness that still isn’t enough.

After a long moment, Mike stands. “I should probably-” He gestures vaguely toward the stairs. “You know.” 

Will nods. “Yeah.”

Mike hesitates, then adds, “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” Will says.

Mike climbs the stairs and leaves the basement, the door closing softly behind him.

Will stays where he is.

The room feels larger without Mike in it. Colder, somehow. He stares at the place on the couch where Mike had been sitting, at the faint impression left behind.

Nothing happened.

And yet, Will’s chest aches like something almost did.

He lies back against the cushion and closes his eyes, letting the quiet press in around him. Somewhere above, the house continues on. Tomorrow will come. School will happen. They will sit together and not say anything again.

And Will knows, with a certainty that makes his stomach twist, that this is how it’s going to burn: not in fire, but in restraint.

Time does not pass all at once.

It stretches.

The thing about staying somewhere longer than expected is that it stops feeling temporary before anyone admits it.

Will learns the rhythms of the place the way you learn a new song: quietly, by repetition. The way the basement smells faintly warmer by afternoon. The exact creak of the third stair from the bottom. How the lamp near the couch gets switched on before anyone realizes the room has gone dim.

Will notices it one morning when he wakes up and doesn’t immediately remember that he isn’t home. The basement is dim and warm, the small window near the ceiling letting in a thin stripe of daylight that cuts across the floor. His sketchbook rests where he left it the night before. His shoes are tucked neatly against the wall. The room feels… used. Lived in.

That realization startles him more than it should.

He lies there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the soft hum of the heater and the distant sounds of the house waking up. Footsteps overhead. The clink of dishes. Mike’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, drifting down through the floorboards.

Will exhales and sits up.

Days blur together in the Wheeler house, not fast enough to disappear but not slow enough to linger on individually, and mornings fall into a pattern quickly. He learns when to come upstairs so he’s not in the way. Learns where Karen keeps the good cereal. Learns that Mike always waits, leaning against the counter, pretending not to be impatient until Will appears.

He learns when to fold his blanket in the mornings so it doesn’t look temporary. Where to leave his shoes so they’re not in the way. How to exist here without feeling like he’s borrowing space.

He learns Mike’s routines, too.

Mike comes downstairs most evenings without announcing himself. Sometimes he brings homework. Sometimes he doesn’t. He almost always drops his backpack by the table and collapses onto the couch like gravity has finally won. Will pretends not to notice that it’s always the same spot, the one closest to him.

They do homework side by side more often than not. Not together, exactly. Just near enough that Will can hear Mike’s pencil tapping when he gets stuck. Near enough that Mike occasionally glances over, like checking that Will is still real.

Their shoulders touch sometimes.

It’s never planned. A shift on the couch. Reaching for the same book. Leaning in to look at a diagram. Every time it happens, Will’s whole body lights up, sharp and electric, before he forces himself to go still.

Mike always stills too.

Neither of them comments on it.

They bike to school together every day now. No discussion, no planning. It just… happens. The route etched into their muscles.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t. When they do, it’s about small things. Homework. Movies they half-remember. Things that feel safe to say out loud. When they don’t, the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels shared.

School settles into something resembling normal, which feels wrong in a way Will can’t articulate, like it’s own kind of lie. Bells ring. Teachers assign work. People complain about tests, as if the ground hasn’t literally split open nearby. Mike and Will move through it all side by side, close but not touching, eyes flicking toward each other when the noise gets too loud; a constant presence in each other’s peripheral vision.

They sit together at lunch. Sometimes Dustin joins them, quieter than he used to be, laughter replaced with a hollow sort of endurance. Sometimes it’s just the two of them, the empty seats around them loud with absence.

Mike notices when Will doesn’t eat much. Will notices when Mike zones out, staring at nothing, jaw tight.

They don’t ask each other about it.

Will starts to realize how often Mike looks for him without thinking.

In the hallway between classes.

Across the lunch table.

At the bike racks after the last bell.

It’s never obvious. Never pointed. Just a quick glance, a check-in, like Mike’s body needs confirmation before it can move on.

At home, letters go unwritten.

Phone calls don’t happen.

Will notices the absence the way you notice a missing sound, something you only realize was there once it’s gone. Mike’s room stays untouched most evenings. When Mike does mention anything distant or unfinished, it’s vague. Half-formed. Like talking around a bruise.

They spend most afternoons in the basement.

Sometimes they do homework. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the TV is on low, playing something neither of them is really watching. Will sits on the couch more often now, close enough that Mike’s presence feels unavoidable.

The accidental touches start small.

A shoulder brushing when they sit down at the same time.

Their hands colliding when they reach for the remote.

Mike’s knee knocking against Will’s under the table.

Every time it happens, Will’s breath stutters. Every time, Mike stills, like his body has done something before he could stop it.

They never comment on it.

But the pauses afterward stretch a little longer each time.

Once, late at night, Will finds Mike sitting on the basement steps instead of the couch.

Mike doesn’t look up when Will comes down. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

“Me neither,” Will replies.

They sit on different steps, close enough that Will can feel Mike’s warmth but not close enough to touch. Mike fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, pulling it down over his hand, then pushing it back up again.

“It’s stupid,” Mike says quietly.

Will waits.

“I keep thinking I should feel more… sure,” Mike continues. “About things.”

Will’s chest tightens. He keeps his voice even. “You don’t have to.”

Mike huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Will doesn’t ask.

They sit there until the house goes completely quiet.

Another evening, they’re bent over the same textbook, trying to make sense of an assignment neither of them cares about. Mike leans in to look closer, his shoulder pressing against Will’s. It’s warm. Solid. Real.

Neither of them moves away.

Will’s heart beats so hard he’s sure Mike can feel it through the contact. He keeps his eyes on the page, even though the words have stopped making sense. He tells himself to breathe. To stay still. To not ruin it.

Mike shifts slightly, adjusting his weight. The contact changes but doesn’t disappear.

“Sorry,” Mike murmurs automatically.

“It’s fine,” Will says, too quickly, then softer, “Really.”

Mike nods, like he believes him. He doesn’t pull back.

They finish the assignment without acknowledging what just happened.

Later that night, Will lies awake on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment until it feels worn thin. He hates how much it matters. Hates how little it took.

The guilt creeps in quietly.

It’s not sharp. It doesn’t accuse him outright. It just sits there, heavy and persistent. Will knows what Mike has had before. Knows the shape of that kind of attachment. Knows how deeply Mike commits when he commits at all.

Will tells himself that whatever this is doesn’t mean anything. That closeness doesn’t automatically equal intention. That he’s reading into things because he always has.

And yet.

Mike grows quieter about some things. Thoughtful in a way that wasn’t there before. Sometimes, when Will glances over, he finds Mike already watching him, expression unreadable, like he’s halfway through a thought he doesn't say.

One night, as they’re both sprawled on the couch, the TV casting blue light across the basement walls, on but muted, both of them pretending to read. Mike shifts closer without looking. The movement subtle but deliberate, closing a gap that hadn’t been there before. Just a few inches. Enough that their shoulders touch again.

This time, Will doesn’t freeze.

He stays exactly where he is.

Will’s heart pounds so hard he’s sure Mike must feel it. He keeps his eyes on the page, words blurring together, afraid that if he looks over, something irreversible might happen.

The contact burns slow and steady, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore. Mike’s breathing changes. Slower. More deliberate.. Will notices, because of course, he does.

“Will?” Mike says softly.

“Yeah?” Will nods, even though his chest aches with the weight of the unsaid.

There’s a pause. Mike swallows.

“You ever feel like,” Mike says quietly, then stops.

Will waits.

Mike swallows. “Like you’re not supposed to think about certain things, but your brain doesn’t really listen.”

Will’s chest tightens. He keeps his voice neutral. “Yeah.”

Mike exhales, relieved by the answer. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t pull away either.

They sit like that until the episode ends, neither of them moving when the screen goes dark.

The contact lingers for a few more seconds. Then Mike shifts, just enough to break it.

Will doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The feeling is so sharp it almost makes him dizzy.

Weeks pass like this. Not enough to call it a pattern, but too many to dismiss. Quiet accumulation. Gentle repetition. The slow realization that this isn’t a phase, or a fluke, or something that will resolve itself if ignored long enough.

Another day, another afternoon, another small moment.

Mike laughs at something Will says and reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing Will’s wrist. He freezes immediately.

“Oh-  sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Will says, forcing a smile that feels too tight. “You didn’t— it’s fine.”

Mike hesitates, like he wants to ask something, then drops his hand back into his lap.

The absence feels louder than the touch ever did.

Will starts folding his laundry with the Wheelers’. Starts leaving his things out without apologizing for the mess. Starts to feel like this place might hold him longer than he expected.

Mike starts acting like it already has.

Mike starts looking at Will when he laughs, like he’s surprised by the sound. Will catches Mike watching him from across rooms, expression unreadable, quickly masked when their eyes meet.

Sometimes Mike’s knee bumps Will’s under the table. Sometimes his hand brushes Will’s when they reach for the same thing. Every time, Mike freezes for half a second, like his body has done something before his brain approved it.

He waits for Will before leaving rooms. Saves him a seat without comment. Leans closer without realizing he’s doing it. Looks confused when Will pulls away. 

Will feels guilty.

Sometimes Will does pull away. He tells himself he has to. That he should pull back. That this closeness isn’t fair. That this closeness is a mistake. That wanting something doesn’t make it right. He tries, sometimes, to sit farther away. To excuse himself earlier. To put space between them.

Mike always notices.

He never says anything. He just goes quiet, eyes flicking away, shoulders tensing like he’s done something wrong. He just looks confused. Hurt, maybe. Like he’s lost something he didn’t realize he was holding.

It makes Will ache in a way that feels almost unbearable.

And then there are the moments that undo all of Will’s resolve.

The way Mike smiles at him without thinking. The way he says Will’s name, softer than anyone else’s. The way he always waits for Will before leaving a room, even when he doesn’t have to.

One night, after a particularly long silence, Mike says softly, stumbling over his own words, “Everything is…do you, do you feel like things are… changing, like you’re… different now?”

Will’s hands still in his lap. “Different how?”

Mike shrugs, eyes on his backpack. “Like things that used to make sense don’t. And stuff you never thought about won’t stop bothering you.”

Will swallows. “Yeah.”

Mike looks at him then. Really looks.

“Okay,” he says, relieved by the answer in a way Will doesn’t fully understand.

That’s all they say. They don’t talk about it again.

But later, when they sit on opposite ends of the couch, Mike shifts closer again without looking. Their shoulders brush, and neither of them moves, closing the distance inch by inch until Will can feel his presence again. Will understands that whatever this is, whatever they’re doing by not naming it, it’s becoming harder to step away from than he ever imagined. And it’s not going away on its own.

The burn is slow. Constant. Gentle and devastating. It’s settling. Deeply.

Like the basement. Like the house. Like the way Mike Wheeler has started to feel less like a constant and more like something dangerous.

Something that could change everything if Will ever lets himself reach back.

The world hasn’t ended again.

But something inside him feels like it’s quietly, irreversibly changing.

The basement is quiet in a way that feels intentional, in the way that only happens late.

Not asleep. Not empty. Just holding still, paused, like it knows something is about to happen and doesn’t want to scare it away.

The lamp beside the couch is on, casting a low, amber light that softens the room and blurs the edges of everything else. The TV hums faintly, the movie long past the point of needing attention. Will couldn’t tell you what it’s about. He barely registers the sound.

The rest of the house has gone still above them. No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint hum of the heater and the distant tick of something mechanical that Will can’t place.

They’re on the couch again. Of course they are.

Mike sits at one end, one leg bent up under him, the other stretched out. Close enough that Will can feel the heat of him, the quiet shift of weight when Mike adjusts his posture. 

He sits closer than he means to, closer than he’s been letting himself lately, his shoulder nearly brushing Mike’s arm. They’ve ended up like this without discussion, the way they always do now, pulled together by something neither of them names, pretending not to notice how naturally they ended up like this.

Will keeps his hands folded in his lap. If he doesn’t, he’s afraid they’ll reach for something they shouldn’t.

A movie plays on the TV. Something old. Something neither of them chose. The volume is low enough that dialogue drifts in and out, unimportant. Will couldn’t tell you what it’s about if you asked.

He’s too aware of Mike.

Of the way Mike’s jaw tightens and relaxes. The way his fingers keep worrying at the seam of his sleeve, thumb rubbing over fabric like he’s grounding himself. The way he keeps shifting, like he can’t get comfortable even though he hasn’t moved more than an inch.

Will keeps his eyes on the screen. He’s learned how to do that. Learned how to look like he isn’t paying attention while every nerve in his body stays tuned to the person beside him.

Mike exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in for a while.

“Hey, Will…” he starts, then stops.

Will’s stomach flips.

He waits. He always waits.

Will doesn’t look at him. He’s learned better than that. If he looks, he’ll give himself away.

Mike rubs his thumb against the seam of his sleeve, over and over, shaking his head slightly, like he’s annoyed with himself. “It’s dumb.”

“Then don’t say it,” Will replies quietly. The words come out softer than he intends. Too open. He hates that his voice does that with Mike, like it forgets how to protect itself.

Mike doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the TV, eyes unfocused, like he’s watching something happening somewhere else.

Mike huffs out a small breath that might be a laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of what I’ve been doing.”

Silence settles again, thick and waiting.

The heater clicks on. Somewhere upstairs, the house creaks as it shifts into the night. The sound feels far away, like they’re underwater.

“I just… I feel like I keep messing things up. Even when I’m not doing anything.”

Will turns his head before he can stop himself. Looks at Mike properly.

Mike’s expression is tight. Not upset, exactly. More like he’s holding something back because he doesn’t trust it not to spill everywhere.

“You’re not,” Will says.

Mike swallows. “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

Will’s heart starts to race. “About what?”

Mike hesitates. Long enough that Will almost thinks he won’t answer.

“About how stuff used to be,” Mike says finally. “And how it’s… not. Anymore.”

Will’s stomach twists.

Mike’s knee shifts, brushing Will’s thigh this time. The contact is brief, accidental, or maybe not. Will can’t tell anymore.

They both freeze.

Mike’s gaze flicks down. Then back up. His mouth opens like he’s about to apologize, or joke, or retreat.

Instead, he stays.

“I don’t really talk to her anymore,” Mike says quietly.

The words land softly. Carefully. Like he’s testing how much weight they’ll hold.

Will’s chest tightens. He keeps his voice neutral, even though it costs him. “You can’t see her all the time, it’s hard.”

Mike nods, but it doesn’t look like that’s what he meant.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not just that.”

Silence presses in again, heavier now.

Mike’s arm, stretched along the back of the couch, lowers slightly. His fingers brush the fabric of Will’s hoodie near his shoulder, barely there. A ghost of a touch.

Will’s breath stutters.

This isn’t accidental.

Mike stills, hand hovering like he’s realized too late what he’s doing, but doesn’t know how to undo it without making it worse.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mike says, voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like… I feel like I keep wanting the wrong things.”

Will’s heart slams against his ribs.

He should move. He should say something sensible. He should shut this down before it becomes something unforgivable.

Instead, he stays.

“You’re not wrong for feeling things,” Will says carefully. It’s the safest truth he can offer.

Mike turns his head then, really looks at him. Their faces are closer than they’ve ever been like this, the space between them charged and fragile.

“What if I am?” Mike asks.

The question hangs there, unanswered.

Will’s gaze drops to Mike’s hand, still hovering near his shoulder. He can feel the heat of it even without contact. He wonders, dimly, if Mike knows how close he is to crossing a line neither of them knows how to step back from.

Mike's knee shifts, brushing Will’s thigh.

They both freeze.

The contact is light. Barely there. But it might as well be an electric current. Will’s breath stutters before he can stop it. He feels heat rush up his neck, into his face.

Mike notices.

His gaze flicks down. Then back up. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, an apology, maybe, or a joke, but nothing comes out.

Instead, he moves.

Just a little.

Enough that his shoulder presses fully against Will’s now.

Will’s heart slams so hard it’s almost painful.

This is different.

This isn’t an accident.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither does Mike.

The movie keeps playing. Someone on screen says something meant to be funny. Neither of them laughs.

Mike’s breathing has changed. Will can hear it now, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of making noise. Will mirrors it without realizing, the two of them falling into the same quiet rhythm.

Mike shifts again. His arm, still stretched along the back of the couch, lowers slightly. His fingers brush the fabric of Will’s hoodie near his shoulder.

Will’s entire body lights up.

He goes perfectly still.

So does Mike.

Time stretches thin, fragile as glass.

Will can feel Mike’s warmth, solid and real at his side. Can feel the hesitation in the way Mike’s hand doesn’t quite settle, hovering like it’s waiting for permission it doesn’t know how to ask for.

This is the fake-out moment.

Will knows it instinctively.

This is where something could happen.

His chest aches with the wanting of it. With the fear of it. With the guilt that rushes in right behind.

He thinks of distance. Of letters unanswered. Of the way Mike has been quieter lately, distracted in a way that feels like loss even before anything has been lost. He thinks of promises made in other places, in other versions of this life.

He shifts.

Just barely.

Enough to break the spell.

Enough to break the moment.

Mike’s hand retreats instantly, like he’s been burned.

Mike glances at him, startled by the certainty. Their eyes catch. Hold.

Will’s entire body reacts.

He goes still, breath catching painfully in his chest before he forces it steady again. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t lean in. He stays suspended, every nerve awake.

Mike notices immediately. Will can feel it in the way Mike’s breathing changes, in the way his shoulder stiffens for half a second before relaxing again.

The air between them shifts.

It’s subtle. Nothing dramatic. Just a sense of pressure, like the room has drawn slightly smaller around them.

Mike doesn’t look away immediately. Neither does Will.

“Sorry,” Mike murmurs automatically.

“It’s okay,” Will says, softer than he means to. 

Mike nods, but he doesn’t move away. Something has changed. His shoulders tense. His expression closes off, not angry, not hurt exactly-  just uncertain.

They sit like that for a long moment, the contact light but unmistakable. Will can feel the steady rise and fall of Mike’s breath, the warmth through the fabric. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

The movie ends without either of them noticing. The screen goes dark. The credits roll in silence.

After a long moment, Mike clears his throat. “I should probably go up.”

Will nods. “Yeah.”

Mike stands, movements awkward, like he’s not sure where to put his hands. He lingers, glancing at Will like he wants to say something else. Like there’s a sentence stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

He doesn’t finish it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mike says instead.

“Okay,” Will replies.

Mike heads for the stairs. At the bottom step, he pauses.

“Will?”

Will looks up. “Yeah?”

Mike opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“Never mind,” he says quietly.

He leaves.

The door closes behind him with a soft, final sound.

Will stays where he is, heart pounding, skin buzzing where Mike almost touched him. His hands shake slightly in his lap. He presses them together, grounding himself in the pressure.

Nothing happened.

But something has shifted.

He leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over, the words Mike almost said, the way his hand hovered, the question he didn’t answer.

Will knows this feeling. Knows what comes after it.

Distance. Confusion. Silence thick enough to choke on.

And the worst part is that for the first time, he’s certain Mike felt it too.

Will notices the change on a Tuesday.

Not because anything significant happens. Not because Mike says or does something obvious. It’s smaller than that. Subtler. The kind of shift you only catch if you’re already paying too much attention.

At school, Mike doesn’t wait at Will’s locker.

He isn’t avoiding him. He still smiles when they see each other in the hall, and still falls into step beside him between classes. But there’s a half-second delay now. A moment where Mike seems to hesitate, like he’s recalibrating before moving closer.

They sit together at lunch. Mike jokes with Dustin, listens when Lucas talks. Everything looks normal from the outside.

But Mike doesn’t lean in the way he usually does.

Doesn’t brush Will’s knee under the table.

Doesn’t glance over as often.

Will tells himself it’s nothing.

By the end of the day, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek raw from overthinking it.

They bike home together like always. The space between their handlebars feels wider than usual. Will keeps pace anyway, refusing to let himself lag behind.

In the basement that evening, Mike comes down later than usual. He drops his backpack by the table, mutters a distracted greeting, and sits on the opposite end of the couch instead of beside Will.

The distance is deliberate.

Will feels it immediately, a cold pocket of air where warmth used to be.

They do homework in silence. The heater hums. The lamp flickers once and steadies. Will waits for Mike to shift closer.

He doesn’t.

That night, Will lies awake staring at the basement ceiling, replaying the almost from nights before. The hand that hovered. The words Mike didn’t finish.

I don’t really talk to her anymore.

The memory twists in his chest, sharp and unresolved.

The next day, Mike is different again.

He waits for Will at his locker. Grins when Will almost crashes into him, turning the corner. Walks too close in the hallway, their shoulders brushing more than once.

Will’s pulse stutters every time.

At lunch, Mike leans in to whisper something stupid about a teacher’s tie. Their heads nearly touch. Will laughs before he can stop himself.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

That afternoon, in the basement, Mike drops onto the couch beside Will like nothing ever changed. Their knees knock together. Mike doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move away.

Will doesn’t either.

They sit like that for a while, watching TV that neither of them cares about, the quiet between them humming with unspoken things.

Will thinks, maybe I imagined it.

The relief almost makes him dizzy.

Then Thursday comes.

Mike barely looks at him all day.

Not in a cruel way. Not even an obvious one. He’s just… elsewhere. Distracted. His smile feels rehearsed, his laughter half a beat late. He keeps his hands to himself, posture closed, like he’s holding something fragile and doesn’t trust himself not to drop it.

Will tries not to stare.

By dinner that night, the Wheeler house is full.

Karen moves between the kitchen and the table, setting down plates, smiling at everyone like this is just another night. Joyce sits beside Will, posture relaxed but eyes alert in that way she has when she’s pretending not to worry. Ted talks about something unimportant. Jonathan nods along, distant.

Mike sits across from Will.

The table feels too small.

Conversation flows around them, easy and unremarkable. Will answers questions automatically, barely registering what he’s saying. His attention keeps drifting downward, to the space beneath the table.

Mike’s foot brushes his ankle.

The contact is unmistakable.

Will’s breath catches.

Mike freezes.

For half a second, neither of them moves.

Will’s heart pounds so loud he’s sure everyone can hear it. He keeps his gaze on his plate, fingers tightening around his fork, waiting for Mike to pull away.

Instead, Mike’s foot shifts again.

Not away.

Closer.

Just enough to press lightly against Will’s.

It’s a small thing. Almost nothing. But it sends a shock through Will’s entire body. His leg tenses instinctively, then relaxes, unsure what it’s allowed to do.

Mike’s foot stays there.

Will dares to move his slightly, testing. Their feet brush again, deliberate this time. Slow. Careful. Hidden beneath the tablecloth and conversation.

Will feels dizzy.

He risks a glance up.

Mike is staring resolutely at his plate, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He looks like he’s bracing for something. Like he’s one wrong move away from bolting.

Will’s guilt flares hot and sudden.

He pulls his foot back.

The contact breaks.

Mike reacts instantly, his foot retreating like it’s been burned. Will doesn’t look up again, but he can feel the shift in the air, the way something fragile has just shattered quietly between them.

Dinner continues.

No one notices anything wrong.

Afterward, Mike clears his plate too quickly and excuses himself. Will watches him leave the room, chest aching with a confusing mix of relief and regret.

Mike doesn’t come back to the table.

Will helps Joyce clear plates because his hands need something to do. He stacks dishes too carefully, like precision might keep his thoughts in line. His pulse is still racing, a phantom echo of pressure against his ankle that won’t fade, no matter how hard he tells himself it didn’t mean anything.

It meant something.

He knows it did. He also knows that meaning doesn’t make it survivable.

Conversation drifts around him in pieces. Someone asks Jonathan about work. Karen talks about groceries to Nancy. Ted comments on the news. Will answers when spoken to, nods when expected, but he’s listening for footsteps overhead, for any sign that Mike might come back down.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, Joyce nudges Will gently with her elbow. “You okay, honey?”

Will forces a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Joyce studies him for half a second longer, the way she always does when she knows there’s more but won’t push. Then she nods. “Why don’t you head downstairs? You’ve had a long day.”

Will doesn’t argue.

He takes the stairs slowly, the house quieting as he descends. The basement door opens and closes behind him with a soft, familiar sound. The room greets him the same way it always does: warm light, worn couch, the low hum of the heater filling in the gaps where words might go.

He sits on the far end of the couch this time.

Not as a statement. Just… because.

He’s barely been there a minute when the basement door opens again.

Mike comes down without looking at him at first, shoulders tense, movements careful like he’s afraid of making noise. He pauses at the bottom step when he realizes Will is already there.

“Oh,” Mike says. “I didn’t know you were already-”

“It’s okay,” Will says quickly. He always does that. “I just… headed down anyway.”

Mike nods, relief flickering across his face before he reins it in. “Yeah.”

He closes the door behind him. The sound feels louder than it should.

Mike stands there for a moment, unsure, then crosses the room and drops onto the couch. Not next to Will. Not far away either. The space between them is careful. Measured. Like they’re both acutely aware of the line they keep almost crossing.

They sit in silence.

The quiet feels different down here. Heavier. Like the room knows what almost happened upstairs and is holding onto it for them.

Mike rubs his hands together once, then laces his fingers, then unlatches them again. He looks like he wants to say something and doesn’t trust himself to.

Will watches him out of the corner of his eye, heart aching with the effort of not staring.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Will says suddenly.

Mike freezes.

“What?” He turns, startled.

Will swallows. “At dinner. I just- I didn’t want you to think-”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t.”

There’s a beat.

Then, quieter, “I mean. I don’t think that.”

They lapse into silence again, but it’s sharper now, edges exposed.

Mike leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer guidance. “I don’t get why I keep doing that,” he mutters.

“Doing what?” Will asks, even though he knows.

Mike hesitates. His voice drops. “Getting close. And then… freaking out.”

Will’s chest tightens painfully. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know,” Mike says. “I just-”

He stops himself, jaw working. His foot taps against the floor, restless.

“I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something,” Mike continues, finally, words slow and careful. “And every direction feels wrong.”

Will’s fingers curl into the cushion beneath him. “You don’t have to pick a direction right now.”

Mike laughs softly, humorless. “Feels like I already did. I just didn’t realize it.”

Will doesn’t ask what he means. He doesn’t trust himself with the answer.

Mike shifts on the couch. Their knees brush.

This time, neither of them reacts right away.

The contact is brief, but it sends a familiar spark through Will’s chest, sharp and unwelcome and wanted all at once. He stays still, waiting for Mike to pull away.

Mike doesn’t.

Instead, he lets his knee stay where it is, pressed lightly against Will’s, like he’s testing whether the world will end if he doesn’t move.

Will’s breath goes shallow.

Mike notices and swallows. His gaze drops to where their knees touch. Then flicks back up, conflicted.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Mike says quietly.

Will’s throat tightens. “I know.”

“And I don’t want to keep pretending nothing’s happening,” Mike adds, then immediately looks panicked, like he’s said too much.

Will’s heart stumbles. “Mike- ”

“I don’t mean- ” Mike cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. “I just mean things are… different.”

They sit there, knees still touching, the contact now unmistakable. The basement feels impossibly small, the air charged with everything they’re not saying.

Will could pull away.

He doesn’t.

Neither does Mike.

For a long moment, they exist like that: close, tense, hovering on the edge of something neither of them knows how to step into without breaking something else first.

Finally, Mike exhales and shifts back, breaking the contact.

The loss hits Will like a physical blow.

Mike stands abruptly. “I’m-  I’m gonna grab a drink.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before heading toward the stairs.

Will watches him go, chest aching, heart still racing.

The basement door closes behind Mike, leaving Will alone in the warm, familiar quiet.

He sinks back into the couch, staring at the ceiling, the echo of Mike’s presence still buzzing in his bones.

Nothing has been resolved.

But something has deepened.

And Will knows, with a certainty that settles heavy in his stomach, that whatever happens next is going to hurt- because Mike Wheeler is already halfway in, and terrified of what that means.

In the days that follow, the pattern continues.

Some days, Mike is close again. Laughing easily and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder and letting his hand brush Will’s wrist without flinching.

Other days, he’s distant. Polite. Careful. Like he’s walking around something dangerous and pretending it isn’t there.

Will stops trying to predict it.

He tells himself this is what he deserves for wanting something he shouldn’t. Tells himself that Mike pulling away is the right thing, the responsible thing.

It doesn’t make it hurt less.

One evening, after Mike has gone upstairs early, Will sits alone on the couch and stares at the place Mike usually sits. He presses his fingers into the cushion, grounding himself in the familiar texture.

He wonders if Mike is pulling away because he’s realized something.

Or because he’s trying very hard not to.

Either possibility makes Will’s chest ache.

The burn doesn’t fade.

It just flickers hot, cold, hot again, leaving Will suspended in the uncertainty, waiting for something to finally give.

Will has convinced himself that the night days before was a fluke.

That’s his first mistake.

He bikes to school with Mike like usual, the ride familiar enough now that his body knows when to slow down without being told. Mike stays close today. Not crowding. Just… present. Their handlebars drift nearer than necessary. Will notices. Pretends not to.

At the bike racks, Mike waits while Will locks up. He always does, but today he leans back against the rack instead of pacing, watching Will with an expression that feels unreadable in the early light.

“You almost done?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Will says, pocketing the lock.

Mike smiles. It’s small, easy, and unguarded. The kind of smile that used to mean nothing and now means everything.

Inside, the halls are loud in the way they always are, lockers slamming and voices echoing off tile. Will moves through it all with Mike beside him, a steady presence that keeps the noise from getting overwhelming.

They take their seats in history class- Will two rows back, Mike directly in front of him.

Will barely has time to open his notebook before a folded piece of paper lands on his desk.

He freezes.

Slowly, carefully, he opens it.

you survived dinner last night

Will bites his lip before he can stop himself. He writes back beneath it, neat and careful.

barely

A moment passes. Mike shifts in his seat, shoulder lifting slightly like he’s suppressing a laugh. The note comes back.

im impressed

Will’s chest warms. He stares at the words longer than necessary, then adds:

you ran away

This time, Mike turns just enough to glance back at him. Their eyes meet for half a second, long enough for Will to see the flash of something playful there.

The note returns.

strategic retreat

Will snorts quietly, earning a look from the teacher. He ducks his head and scribbles back.

coward

Mike’s shoulders shake. He doesn’t look back this time, but Will can tell he’s smiling.

The lecture drones on. Dates. Names. Things that used to matter. Will barely hears any of it. His attention keeps drifting forward, to the back of Mike’s head, to the way Mike taps his pencil against his desk when he’s thinking.

Another note slides back.

you okay today?

Will pauses.

The question is simple. Casual. It shouldn’t feel like it matters this much.

yeah, he writes. Then, after a second, adds: you?

The reply comes slower this time.

i think so

The honesty hits Will harder than any joke would have.

In English, they sit closer. Same table. Side by side. The teacher assigns group work that they don’t care about. Will opens his book. Mike leans in without thinking, shoulder pressing lightly against Will’s.

Neither of them reacts.

Mike’s handwriting appears in the margin of Will’s notebook instead of on a folded note this time. Small. Messy.

your notes are way neater than mine

Will glances at him. “You’re literally writing in the margins.”

Mike grins. “Efficiency.”

Will shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Mike writes again, closer now, his arm brushing Will’s.

you draw little boxes around everything

Will’s face warms. it helps me focus

Mike considers that, then writes:

it looks cool

Will swallows.

Lunch is louder. Dustin sits with them, quiet but present. Mike jokes just enough to keep things light. Will watches Mike more than he should-  the way he gestures when he talks, the way his eyes flick to Will occasionally, like he’s checking in.

When Dustin leaves early, the space at the table feels more noticeable than usual.

Mike leans closer, voice dropping. “You wanna ditch next period?”

Will blinks. “We can’t ditch.”

Mike shrugs. “We can walk slower.”

It’s such a Mike solution that Will almost laughs.

“Okay,” he says.

In math, Mike passes another note.

this class sucks

Will writes back.

you say that every day

yeah but today im right

Will smiles to himself, then adds:

youre distracting

The note comes back quickly.

good

Will’s heart skips.

He risks another glance. Mike is facing forward, expression neutral, but his ears are faintly pink.

The rest of the day moves like that- small moments stacking on top of each other. Mike brushing Will’s arm when he passes papers back. Mike leaning over just a little too close to point something out. Mike’s knee bumping Will’s under the desk and not immediately moving away.

Nothing crosses a line.

Everything flirts with one.

By the final bell, Will feels lightheaded from the accumulation of it all. Mike meets him at his locker, leaning against the metal like he belongs there.

“You ready?” Mike asks.

Will nods. “Yeah.”

They walk their bikes out together. The air is warmer now, spring settling in. Mike kicks his pedal once, then looks over.

“You were kinda quiet in last period.”

Will shrugs. “Thinking.”

Mike tilts his head. “About?”

Will hesitates. Then, carefully: “Stuff.”

Mike smiles. “Yeah. Same.”

They ride home together, closer than usual, shoulders nearly brushing when they slow at intersections.

At the Wheeler house, Mike holds the basement door open for Will, an old habit that suddenly feels charged. Will ducks past him, heart pounding, aware of Mike’s presence at his back.

Downstairs, the basement greets them with familiar warmth.

Mike drops his backpack and flops onto the couch, stretching out. “Long day.”

Will sits beside him, close but not touching. “You survived.”

Mike grins. “Barely.”

Their eyes meet.

Something unspoken lingers there-  playful, charged, unresolved.

And Will realizes, with a mixture of hope and terror, that Mike isn’t pulling away today.

He’s leaning in.

The basement feels smaller than it did a minute ago.

Mike is now stretched out on the couch, one arm slung over the back, legs crossed at the ankle like he’s trying to look relaxed. Will sits beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat coming off Mike’s side, close enough that the space between them feels intentional.

Neither of them reaches for the TV remote.

“So,” Mike says, glancing sideways, voice light. “You were kind of destroying everyone in history today.”

Will blinks. “What?”

Mike grins. “You answered, like, every question. I’m pretty sure the teacher thinks you’re secretly thirty.”

Will laughs, surprised by it. “I just… read the chapter.”

Mike hums. “Yeah. Sure. That’s all it is.”

He nudges Will’s knee with his own, playful. “You always do that thing where you pretend you don’t know you’re smart.”

Will rolls his eyes, but his face warms. “I don’t pretend.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike shifts closer, turning slightly so he’s facing Will more than the TV. “You do. You did it in middle school, too. And California. And now.”

Will shrugs. “Someone has to keep you from failing.”

Mike snorts. “Wow. Rude.”

Will laughs softly.

Their eyes catch.

The moment stretches.

Mike’s grin fades into something quieter, more intent. His gaze lingers on Will’s face like he’s noticing details he’s missed before, like he’s taking inventory without realizing it.

“You know,” Mike says, casual but not really, “it’s… easier when you’re around.”

Will’s heart stumbles.

“What is?” he asks, even though he knows.

Mike shrugs, but it’s not convincing. “Everything. School. Stuff. Hawkins.”

He laughs, trying to soften it. “Guess I just got used to you not going anywhere.”

The words land wrong.

Will’s chest tightens. He forces himself to keep his voice steady. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Mike nods too fast. “Yeah. I mean. I know.”

Silence creeps back in, heavier now.

Mike shifts again, restless. His foot bumps Will’s ankle. Doesn’t move away this time.

“Sometimes I…,” Mike starts, then stops, laughing abruptly. “Okay, this is gonna sound stupid.”

Will turns toward him. “You keep saying that.”

Mike exhales. “I just- sometimes I forget how things were before. Like… before everything.”

Will swallows. “Me too.”

Mike’s eyes flick to his mouth, then away.

“And then,” Mike continues, voice dropping, “I remember that not everything can just- stay like this.”

The air tightens.

Will’s fingers curl into the cushion. “Why not?”

Mike opens his mouth to answer automatically.

Then stops.

His expression changes so fast it almost hurts to watch. The warmth drains out of it, replaced by something sharp and panicked, like he’s suddenly seen a cliff edge where there wasn’t one before.

“I shouldn’t be saying this,” Mike says quickly.

Will’s stomach drops. “Saying what?”

Mike sits up straighter, creating space between them. The loss of contact is immediate and cold.

“This,” Mike says, gesturing vaguely between them. “All of this.”

Will’s throat goes tight. “We’re just talking.”

Mike shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem.”

The words spill out faster now, unguarded. “I keep acting like- like this doesn’t mean anything. Like I’m not-”

He stops himself, breathing hard.

Will waits, heart pounding, every part of him braced.

Mike laughs, sharp and humorless. “God. This is so messed up.”

“What is?” Will asks quietly.

Mike looks at him, then really looks at him, and for a second, the mask slips completely.

“I miss her,” Mike says suddenly.

The name doesn’t need to be spoken.

Will feels it anyway.

“And I don’t,” Mike adds, just as quickly, like he’s afraid of the first admission and needs to balance it. “Not like I should. Not like I used to.”

Will’s chest aches.

“I keep thinking about her,” Mike continues, voice low, strained. “About what I’m supposed to feel. And then I’m here. And I- ”

He cuts himself off, standing abruptly. “I can’t do this.”

Will looks up at him. “Do what?”

Mike shakes his head, pacing a step away like the couch is suddenly dangerous. “I’m messing things up. Again. She’s hiding. She’s in danger. And I’m down here joking around and-”

“You’re allowed to be here,” Will says, standing too now, unable to stay seated. “You’re allowed to feel things.”

Mike lets out a shaky breath. “That’s just it. I don’t trust what I’m feeling.”

Silence crashes down between them.

The flirtation is gone now, burned away by fear. The air feels raw, exposed.

Mike finally looks at Will again, eyes dark with something like regret. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Will’s heart twists. “You aren’t.”

Mike flinches like he doesn’t believe him. “I think I already am.”

He grabs his backpack, movements hurried, avoiding Will’s gaze.

“I should go upstairs,” Mike says. “I need to- think.”

Will nods, because there’s nothing else he can do. “Okay.”

Mike hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the railing. For a second, it looks like he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, harder than before.

Will stands there in the quiet, heart pounding, the echo of Mike’s words looping endlessly in his head.

I don’t trust what I’m feeling.

He sinks back onto the couch slowly, staring at the empty space where Mike had been moments ago. His skin still buzzes with the memory of closeness, of laughter, of almost.

The thread has snapped.

Not cleanly.

Just enough to leave them both bleeding.

And Will knows, with aching certainty, that Mike isn’t pulling away because he feels nothing.

He’s pulling away because he feels too much.

The house feels different when it’s empty.

Not abandoned. Just… unobserved.

Will realizes it the moment he wakes up and doesn’t hear anyone moving upstairs. No cabinets opening. No voices drifting down through the vents. Just the low, steady hum of the heater and the soft morning light filtering in through the small basement window.

Saturday.

He lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over him. There’s something almost dangerous about it, the way the day stretches out without structure. No school. No bikes. No bells to tell them where to be or when to stop.

He pulls himself up slowly, changes clothes, runs a hand through his hair like that might help him feel more awake than he is.

When he climbs the stairs, the kitchen is empty.

There’s a note on the counter in Karen’s neat handwriting. Errands. Groceries. Something about being back later. Joyce’s name is added at the bottom, a quick looping signature like she’d been pulled into the plan last-minute.

Will reads it twice.

Then he hears movement behind him.

Mike appears in the doorway, hair still sleep-messy, sweatshirt pulled on over a T-shirt like he didn’t bother trying very hard this morning.

“Oh,” Mike says, blinking. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Will replies.

They stand there for a second too long, both clearly registering the same thing.

Just us.

Mike glances at the note on the counter. “Everyone’s out?”

“Looks like it,” Will says.

Mike nods slowly. “Okay.”

He doesn’t sound relieved. He doesn’t sound upset. Just… aware.

They eat breakfast in a quiet that feels loaded. Cereal bowls clink softly against the table. Mike sits across from Will, knee bouncing slightly, gaze drifting toward him and then away again like it’s a habit he hasn’t learned to hide yet.

“You want to… I don’t know,” Mike says finally. “Watch something?”

“Sure,” Will says.

They migrate downstairs together, the basement greeting them with familiar warmth. Sunlight sneaks in through the window, brighter than usual, dust motes floating lazily through the air. The couch looks different in daylight. Less secretive. More exposed.

Mike hesitates before sitting down.

Will notices.

He takes the other end of the couch on purpose this time, leaving space between them like a peace offering.

Mike sits anyway. Careful. Deliberate.

They put something on the TV. A rerun. Something safe. Something neither of them has to pay attention to. The volume stays low.

Minutes pass.

Will is painfully aware of his own body. The way his knee keeps angling toward Mike without permission. The way his hands fidget in his sleeves. He forces himself to stay still.

Mike doesn’t.

He shifts, stretches out a little more, arm draped over the back of the couch. The movement closes the distance between them by inches. Will feels it like a pull in his chest.

“Sorry,” Mike says automatically.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” Will says softly.

Mike huffs a quiet breath. “Habit.”

They lapse back into silence.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere far away, Hawkins continues pretending it isn’t cracked open.

Mike clears his throat. “So. Uh. I might head to the store later.”

“Oh,” Will says, surprised by the disappointment that hits him. “Okay.”

“But not yet,” Mike adds quickly. “I mean. I was just- thinking.”

Will nods. “Yeah.”

Mike glances at him, like he’s checking to see if that was the right answer.

They sit like that for a long time, the air between them thick with things they keep circling but never landing on. Will tries to focus on the TV. Tries not to catalog every small movement Mike makes.

Eventually, Mike laughs quietly at something on screen.

Will smiles without thinking.

Mike notices.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Will says.

Mike watches him for a second longer than necessary. “You smile like that when you’re about to say something and don’t.”

Will feels heat crawl up his neck. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “You always have.”

Will swallows. “You notice a lot.”

Mike shrugs. “Guess so.”

Another silence. This one feels fragile.

Mike shifts again, foot brushing Will’s ankle. It’s light. Probably accidental.

Probably.

Neither of them moves.

Will’s pulse spikes. He keeps his gaze forward, afraid that if he looks at Mike, he’ll give everything away.

Mike’s foot presses a little more firmly this time.

Will’s breath catches.

He risks a glance.

Mike is staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. He looks like he’s holding himself back from something.

Will pulls his foot away.

The contact breaks.

Mike reacts instantly, foot retreating like it’s been burned. “Sorry,” he says again, too fast. He rubs his hands together, restless. “I’m really bad at this.”

“At what?”

Mike laughs under his breath. “Not making things weird.”

Will almost smiles.

Almost.

“Mike,” Will says quietly, before he can talk himself out of it. “You don’t have to- ”

“I know,” Mike interrupts. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “I just-”

Will waits.

“Things used to feel really clear,” Mike continues. “And now they don’t. And I don’t know if that’s because everything changed, or because I did.”

Will’s chest aches. “People change.”

Mike nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah. I just didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

“Like what?”

Mike turns toward him then.

Their faces are closer than they’ve been all morning. Close enough that Will can see the uncertainty in Mike’s eyes, the fear underneath it.

Mike opens his mouth.

Closes it.

He looks away.

“Never mind,” he says quietly.

Will doesn’t push. He doesn’t trust himself to.

They sit there until the light in the basement shifts, the sun climbing higher, the day slipping away unnoticed. The house remains empty. Quiet. Holding them inside it like a secret.

When the front door finally opens upstairs hours later, both of them flinch.

Reality rushes back in.

Mike stands abruptly. “I should- yeah.”

Will nods. “Yeah.”

They don’t talk about the almosts. They never do.

But as Will watches Mike head for the stairs, heart pounding, he knows something irreversible has started.

The space between them is too charged now.
The quiet too full.

He sits on the edge of the basement couch long after Mike leaves, staring at the place where Mike had been standing, the air still buzzing like it remembers him. The lamp hums softly. The house above him settles into night. He should stay where he is. He knows that. He should let this cool. Let Mike have space. Let whatever just happened remain contained.

But his chest won’t settle.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Mike’s face. The way his voice sounded when it cracked. The way his hand hovered, unsure, like it was waiting for Will to give it permission to exist.

Will stands before he can talk himself out of it.

The stairs feel longer than usual. Each step creaks softly under his weight, announcing his presence. Halfway up, he pauses, fingers curling around the banister.

This is a terrible idea.

He continues anyway.

The hallway upstairs is dark, lit only by the faint glow spilling out from under Mike’s door. Will stops just short of it, heart hammering so hard he’s sure Mike can hear it from inside.

He raises his hand.

Doesn’t knock.

Lowers it again.

This is where he usually turns back. Where fear wins. Where wanting something doesn’t get to be louder than common sense.

Except tonight, the wanting is unbearable.

He knocks softly.

There’s movement inside the room. A chair scraping. Footsteps. The door opens a crack, then wider.

Mike stands there, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting Will but somehow knew it might happen anyway.

“Oh,” Mike says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Will replies.

They stare at each other for a second too long.

Mike steps back without thinking, opening the door fully. “Uh- come in. I mean. If you want.”

Will nods and steps inside.

Mike’s room feels different after dark.

It always has, but Will notices it now in a way he never let himself before. The door is closed. The house is quiet. The only light comes from the desk lamp, low and warm, casting long shadows across the walls where posters hang slightly crooked from years of being peeled off and put back again.

This is Mike’s space. Fully. Undeniably.

Mike’s room smells like clean laundry and something warmer underneath it. Familiar. Safe. Dangerous. 

Mike closes the door behind Will.

The click sounds loud.

They stand there, facing each other, neither of them moving toward the bed or the chair. There’s nowhere neutral to stand. Every inch of the room feels charged.

“I didn’t mean to freak out,” Mike says quickly.

Will shakes his head. “You didn’t.”

“I just-” Mike stops himself, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to leave it like that.”

“Me neither,” Will admits.

Silence stretches between them, thin and fragile.

Mike finally gestures toward the bed. “You can sit. Or- I can. Or- whatever.”

Will sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded together, posture too careful. He’s aware of everything. The softness of the comforter beneath his palms. The faint smell of clean laundry and something unmistakably Mike. Mike drops into the desk chair again, putting space between them like he doesn’t trust himself any closer.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Will says quietly, “I almost didn’t come up here.”

Mike’s breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“I kept thinking you’d want me to leave you alone,” Will continues. “But it didn’t feel right.”

Mike nods, eyes fixed on the floor. “It didn’t feel right to me either.”

That admission hangs there, soft and devastating.

Mike looks up. Their eyes meet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mike says. Not joking. Not deflecting. Just honest.

Will swallows. “I know.”

“And I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Mike adds, voice barely above a whisper.

Will’s chest tightens. “I know that too.”

The air shifts.

Mike leans forward slightly in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s bracing himself.

“I feel like if I don’t say something,” Mike says slowly, “it’s going to eat me alive.”

Will’s heart starts to race.

He nods. “Okay.”

Mike closes his eyes for a second.

Finally Mike laughs, short and strained. “I keep pretending everything’s fine. Pretending I’m not-” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “I feel like I’m lying all the time.”

The word hangs there.

Will swallows. “You don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready to.”

“I know,” Mike says. “But that’s the problem. I’m never ready.”

Silence presses in, thick and electric.

Mike looks at Will then, really looks at him, and something in his expression cracks open. Fear, yes. But something else too. Relief. Want. Something dangerously close to honesty.

“I think about you,” Mike says quietly.

Will’s breath stutters.

Mike rushes on, words spilling faster now. “Like, not just normal thinking. I mean- when I’m in class. When I’m trying to sleep. When I’m supposed to be paying attention to literally anything else.”

Will’s heart pounds so hard it hurts.

“And I keep telling myself it doesn’t mean anything,” Mike continues, voice shaking. “That it’s just because we’ve been… close. That it’s because everything’s been messed up lately. But it doesn’t go away.”

Will stands slowly, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile in the air.

“Mike,” he says softly.

Mike flinches at the sound of his name.

“I’m still with her,” Mike blurts out.

The words land like a blow.

Will’s chest aches sharply, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t step forward either. He just… holds still.

“I know,” Will says quietly.

Mike’s eyes shine with something dangerously close to panic. “And that makes me a terrible person. I know it does. Because I shouldn’t be saying any of this. I shouldn’t-”

He cuts himself off, breath coming too fast.

“I feel like I’m standing on a fault line,” Mike says. “Like one wrong step and everything splits open again.”

Will closes the distance between them slowly, stopping just short of touching.

“You’re not terrible for feeling something,” Will says. His voice is steady even though his chest is breaking. “But you can’t pretend it’s nothing either.”

Mike’s gaze drops to Will’s mouth before he can stop himself.

The air shifts again.

Mike steps closer.

Not decisively. Not like he’s chosen anything. Just enough to close the space that had been holding them apart, like the distance itself had become unbearable.

Will doesn’t move.

He can feel Mike now- the heat of him, the nervous energy buzzing just beneath his skin. Mike smells like clean cotton and the faint trace of soap, familiar in a way that makes Will’s chest ache.

Mike’s hands curl at his sides, unclench, then curl again.

His eyes flick down again, traitorous, lingering for half a second too long before he looks away. Will feels the awareness of it like a physical thing, sharp and electric.

The room feels too small.

Another step. Barely a step at all. Just a shift in weight. But it’s enough that Will’s breath catches.

Mike’s voice drops. “I keep thinking if I just- stop. If I pull back hard enough, it’ll go away.”

Will shakes his head, just slightly. “That’s not how it works.”

Mike looks at him then. Really looks.

“That doesn’t make this easier.”

Mike takes one more step.

Their foreheads nearly touch.

The world narrows down to breath and closeness and the fragile line between restraint and surrender. Will tilts his head without meaning to, the movement instinctive, unconscious, like his body has already made the decision his mind is still afraid of.

Mike freezes.

For one suspended second, everything holds.

He sees it all at once: the fault lines, the consequences, the fear. He sees Will standing there, open and terrified and still choosing not to walk away.

Something in Mike snaps.

Not violently.
Not recklessly.

Just… finally.

Mike steps closer.

Not because he’s decided anything.
Not because he’s brave. 

Because standing still has become unbearable.

Will doesn’t move.

“Okay,” Mike breathes, the words barely there..

Mike’s breath ghosts over his cheek, warm and unsteady. The space between their mouths feels impossibly small, charged with every unsaid thing.

For a suspended second, it feels inevitable.

Then-

A door slams somewhere downstairs.

The sound is sudden and loud, reverberating through the house like a shockwave.

Both of them jolt.

Mike pulls back immediately, hand dropping to his side. Will’s heart lurches painfully as the moment shatters.

The sound is sudden and loud, reverberating through the house like a shockwave.

Both of them jolt.

Footsteps. Voices. The murmur being a reminder they’re not alone.

Reality rushes in all at once.

“Oh-” Mike breathes, panic flooding his face. “I- I should-”

“It’s okay,” Will says quickly, even though it doesn’t feel like it. “It’s fine.”

Mike nods too fast, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah. I just-”

He steps back, putting distance between them again, like he needs it to breathe.

“We should probably,” Mike gestures vaguely toward the door. “Before anyone-”

“Yeah,” Will says.

They stand there for a moment longer, the ghost of almost still buzzing between them, undeniable and unresolved.

Nothing happened.

And everything almost did.

Mike opens the door, letting the hallway light spill in, harsher and cooler than the warmth they’d been standing in.

“I’ll-” Mike starts, then stops. “I’ll see you.”

Will nods. “Okay.”

Will slips past him and into the hallway, heart pounding, skin still humming with the memory of closeness that never quite became touch.

Behind him, Mike’s door closes softly.

The interruption lingers longer than the silence ever did.

The days don’t pull them apart so much as they slip past them.

It isn’t intentional. There’s no sharp turn, no moment where either of them decides to create distance. It just happens the way things do when the world keeps insisting on movement. School stretches later than expected. Errands pile up. Someone always needs something, and time becomes something that gets spent before either of them realizes they meant to save it.

Mike still looks for Will in the halls.

Will still waits for Mike at the bike racks.

They just don’t linger like they used to.

Monday turns into Tuesday, Tuesday into Thursday. They exchange smiles in passing, shoulders brushing as they squeeze past lockers, fingers knocking together when they both reach for the same book. It’s all there. Just… thinner. Like the space between moments has grown wider.

In class, they pass notes again, but the handwriting is quicker now. Less lingering. More shorthand.

you alive?

barely

same

Mike doodles little lightning bolts in the margins of Will’s notebook and pretends not to notice when Will keeps them instead of erasing them. Will sketches idly in the corners of his papers and catches Mike watching more than once, gaze soft and unreadable.

They smile.

They look away.

After school, they bike home together most days, but not always at the same pace. Sometimes Mike rides ahead and waits at the corner. Sometimes Will lags behind, pretending his chain slipped. Neither of them says anything about it.

It’s easier to keep things light.

The almost still hangs between them, unresolved but alive, like a held breath neither of them quite exhales.

Friday afternoon, they end up in the kitchen together by accident.

Will is digging through the fridge, looking for something to eat that doesn’t require thinking. Mike leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching him like he’s about to say something and hasn’t found the right entry point yet.

“You’re hovering,” Will says without looking up.

Mike snorts. “Am not.”

“You are.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Will closes the fridge and turns around, eyebrows raised. “What’s up?”

Mike shrugs, eyes flicking toward the hallway, then back. “Nothing. Just- wanted to check in.”

Will nods. “I’m good.”

Mike smiles, relieved in a way that feels too big for the answer. “Good.”

They stand there for a second too long, the kitchen quiet around them.

Mike breaks it first. “I’ve got to run. Dustin’s waiting.”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Go.”

Mike hesitates like he might add something else. Then he doesn’t. He leaves with a wave over his shoulder that feels almost shy.

Saturday passes in pieces. They’re both home, but not at the same time. Missed connections. A note left on the counter. A jacket abandoned on the couch. When they finally end up in the basement together that evening, it’s late and both of them are tired.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the TV on low.

“So,” Will says after a while. “You’ve been busy.”

Mike huffs a laugh. “You could say that.”

There’s something different in his voice. Not lighter. Not heavier. Just… steadier.

“Everything okay?” Will asks.

Mike nods. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “Yeah. I think so.”

He shifts, turning toward Will a little more. “Can I tell you something?”

Will’s chest tightens, but he keeps his voice calm. “Yeah.”

Mike takes a breath. Lets it out slowly. “I talked to her.”

Will doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t need to.

Mike continues, words careful, deliberate. “We didn’t fight. It wasn’t like that. We just… kind of said the things we’ve both been thinking.”

Will’s fingers curl into the couch cushion. “And?”

“And we decided to stop pretending,” Mike says quietly. “About where we’re at. About how everything’s changed.”

Will nods, heart pounding. “That sounds… hard.”

“It was,” Mike admits. “But it was also… kind of gentle. Like we were finally being honest instead of trying to force something to feel the way it used to.”

He glances at Will, searching his face. “She deserves that.”

Will meets his gaze. “So do you.”

Mike swallows, something like relief washing over his features. “Yeah.”

They sit with that for a moment, the quiet different now. Less strained. Still fragile.

“I didn’t tell her everything,” Mike adds softly.

Will’s pulse jumps. “Okay.”

“But I didn’t lie either,” Mike says. “I just said… I need time. To figure out what I feel. Without pressure.”

Will nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

Mike watches him, eyes warm and nervous all at once. “I didn’t want to tell you and make it weird.”

Will huffs a small laugh. “Too late for that.”

Mike grins, sheepish. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Their shoulders brush when Mike shifts closer without thinking. This time, neither of them moves away.

The touch feels different now. Still electric. But steadier. Earned.

“I’m glad you told me,” Will says quietly.

Mike’s voice is softer when he replies. “Me too.”

Two weeks is long enough for things to change shape.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But enough that Will starts to feel it in the small moments. In the way Mike’s name settles differently in his chest now. In the way their shared silences no longer feel awkward, just charged.

After that night in the basement.

After the quiet, careful truth Mike trusted him with.

After the end of something gentle and necessary.

They don’t talk about it much.

They don’t have to.

Mike doesn’t bring it up again, not directly. He doesn’t say her name unless he has to. He just… exists differently now. Lighter in some ways. More careful in others. Will notices how Mike’s shoulders don’t tense the way they used to when someone mentions the future. How he laughs more easily, but sometimes goes quiet out of nowhere, like he’s standing at the edge of a thought and doesn’t know how to step into it yet.

They fall into something that feels like a truce with time.

School keeps them busy. Projects pile up. There are days where they only see each other in passing, exchanging a smile in the hallway or a quick note slid across a desk. On those days, Will feels the distance keenly, but it doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like life being rude.

Other days, they end up together without trying.

Studying at opposite ends of the library table that slowly shrink. Sitting side by side at lunch with their knees touching under the table. Riding home together in silence that feels companionable instead of strained.

Mike bumps Will’s shoulder on purpose when he walks past.

Will steals Mike’s pens and pretends not to notice when Mike lets him.

They hold eye contact a beat too long and then both look away like they’ve been caught doing something dangerous.

Nothing crosses the line.

Everything leans toward it.

By the time Saturday comes, Will feels like he’s been holding his breath for fourteen days straight.

The house empties slowly that morning.

Errands again. Groceries. Appointments. One by one, doors open and close, footsteps fading until it’s just Will and Mike left behind, the quiet settling in like it knows it’s welcome.

Will is already in the basement, sketchbook open on his lap, not really drawing. He hears the familiar sound of Mike’s steps on the stairs before he sees him.

Mike stops at the bottom step.

“You down here already?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Couldn’t focus upstairs.”

Mike nods like he understands exactly what that means. He closes the door behind him and crosses the room, dropping onto the couch beside Will without hesitation.

Not touching.

Close.

They sit like that for a while, the heater humming softly, sunlight filtering in through the small window and catching dust motes in the air. It feels suspended. Like this moment has been waiting for them.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Mike says eventually.

Will shrugs. “So have you.”

Mike smiles faintly. “Fair.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not empty. Will is acutely aware of Mike’s presence beside him. The warmth of his arm. The way his knee is angled toward Will’s without quite making contact.

Mike studies him for a moment, searching his face like he’s looking for permission or reassurance or both.

Their shoulders brush.

This time, neither of them reacts.

The contact feels grounding. Warm. Real.

Mike’s voice is barely above a whisper now. “You ever feel like you’re standing right at the edge of something?”

Will nods. “Yeah.”

“And like stepping forward would be incredible,” Mike continues, “but stepping back would hurt worse than anything?”

Will turns to him fully now. Their faces are close. Not dangerously close. Just enough that Will can see every flicker of emotion crossing Mike’s expression.

“Yeah,” Will says again.

Mike’s gaze drops, just briefly, to Will’s mouth. He catches himself and looks back up, ears flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Will smiles softly. “You don’t have to be.”

The room feels impossibly quiet. Like the world is holding its breath with them.

Mike shifts closer by inches. Will doesn’t move away. Their knees touch now, a steady point of contact that sends warmth spiraling up Will’s spine.

Mike’s hand rests on the couch between them, close enough that Will can feel the pull of it without the touch. Will’s fingers curl against his own thigh, resisting the urge to bridge the gap.

“I think,” Mike says slowly, carefully, “that whatever this is… it’s been here longer than I realized.”

Will’s heart pounds. “I think so too.”

They sit there, knees pressed together, shoulders warm against each other, the truth hovering just within reach. Neither of them leans in. Neither of them pulls away.

The moment stretches, taut and luminous..

Mike clears his throat. “Can I-”

He stops, searching for the words.

Will turns toward him fully now. “Yeah.”

Mike’s eyes flick up, meeting his. “You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

Will smiles softly. “I trust you.”

That does something to Mike. It shows in the way his expression shifts, something tender and overwhelmed passing across his face.

“Okay,” Mike says, almost to himself.

He lifts his hand.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers brush Will’s knuckles first, tentative, like he’s checking if this is real. When Will doesn’t pull away, Mike’s hand settles fully over his, warm and steady.

Will’s breath catches.

The contact sends a quiet, electric warmth through his chest, spreading slowly, like something blooming rather than igniting.

Mike watches their hands for a second, then looks back up at Will. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

Will squeezes his hand gently. “I know.”

The admission feels safe between them. Not heavy. Not scary. Just true.

Mike shifts closer again, their shoulders fully pressed together now. He tilts his head slightly, studying Will’s face like he’s committing it to memory. Will feels seen in a way that makes his chest ache.

The moment stretches.

Mike’s thumb begins to move, tracing a slow, unconscious arc over Will’s knuckles. Will feels it everywhere.

Mike’s gaze drifts again. Lingers.

This time, when it drops to Will’s mouth, he doesn’t look away.

“Will,” Mike says softly.

Just his name. Nothing else.

Will tilts his head slightly, giving permission without words.

Mike leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Careful. Intentional.

He pauses just short of contact, close enough that Will can feel his breath, warm and unsteady against his cheek. Close enough that the world narrows down to this small, perfect space between them.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” Mike whispers.

Will’s voice doesn’t waver. “I want it.”

That’s all Mike needs.

He closes the distance.

The kiss is gentle. Unhurried. More a meeting than a collision. Mike’s lips are warm and soft, fitting against Will’s like they’ve been waiting for this exact shape. Will exhales into it, a quiet sound that Mike feels more than hears.

Mike’s hand tightens around Will’s, grounding himself as he kisses him again, a little deeper now, still careful, still reverent.

Will’s free hand comes up, resting lightly at Mike’s wrist, then his sleeve, like he’s afraid of moving too fast and breaking something sacred.

They part only long enough to breathe.

Mike rests his forehead against Will’s, eyes closed. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

Will smiles, small and genuine. “Okay.”

They kiss again, softer this time, like a promise instead of a question. When they finally pull back, neither of them goes far. They stay close, breathing the same air, hands still linked.

Mike laughs and pulls Will into a quiet, careful embrace, arms wrapping around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will rests his head against Mike’s shoulder, breathing him in, feeling safe and chosen and home all at once.

They stay like that for a while.

Not frozen. Just… settled.

Mike’s arms are still around Will, loose but certain, like he’s afraid that if he lets go too soon the moment might unravel. Will fits there easily, like he’s been practicing this in some quiet corner of himself for years. The couch dips beneath their weight, familiar and grounding, the basement holding them the way it always has.

Mike exhales slowly, the sound warm against Will’s hair.

“This feels,” he starts, then stops, like he’s afraid of jinxing it.

Will shifts just enough to look up at him. “Feels like what?”

Mike smiles, small and honest and a little awed. “Like something that was always supposed to happen.”

Will’s chest flutters while Mike’s thumb moves idly at his shoulder, slow and absentminded, a grounding touch that feels almost domestic in its ease.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, the house creaks.

The world keeps going.

Mike shifts, resting his chin lightly against the top of Will’s head. “I don’t know what this looks like yet,” he admits. “I don’t have a plan.”

Will lets himself relax fully against him. “We don’t need one.”

Mike huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re really good at that. Not panicking.”

Will smiles. “I panic internally. You just don’t see it.”

Mike grins at that, the tension easing further from his shoulders. “Good. I’ll handle the external panicking then.”

Will laughs softly, the sound muffled against Mike’s chest. It feels good. Easy. Like joy without sharp edges.

They sit there, legs tangled now without either of them remembering how it happened, warmth pressed into warmth. Mike’s hand finds Will’s again, fingers lacing together this time without hesitation. The contact sends another quiet thrill through Will, gentler now, less urgent and more reassuring.

“This doesn’t feel scary anymore,” Mike says after a moment.

Will looks up at him. “It doesn’t?”

Mike shakes his head. “Not like before. It just feels… real.”

Will’s eyes soften.

Mike looks at him then, really looks, his expression open and fond in a way that makes Will’s heart feel too full. He leans down and presses a brief, gentle kiss to Will’s temple, unthinking and sweet.

Will closes his eyes.

They don’t talk about what comes next. About labels or timelines or explanations. They don’t have to. Whatever this is doesn’t feel like something that needs to be rushed or defined to exist.

For now, it’s enough to sit together in the basement where so much of their lives began. Enough to feel the warmth of each other, the quiet certainty settling between them like a promise that doesn’t need words.

When footsteps sound upstairs later, distant and familiar, neither of them startles.

They stay where they are, shoulders touching, hearts buzzing, letting the moment stretch just a little longer before the world comes back in.

For the first time, the future feels less like a shadow and more like a horizon, soft with promise, where whatever comes next is lit by the quiet certainty that they found each other before the dark could.

End.