Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

prologue

everlasting fall

Will Byers has always been easy to love.

Loving him comes naturally to Mike; he does it effortlessly, without thinking, like breathing. Like he was born to do exactly that; even before he fully grasped the concept of what love was.

Will is kind, and selfless, and absurdly, extremely caring, even at his own cost. He’s smart, and clever, and funny, and sweet despite the multiple horrors he’s gone through. How could Mike not love him? How could anyone not love him?

Mike has always adored him — has always wanted to protect him, has always wanted to be around him, has always felt warm when Will was close. He’s always been awed by Will — by his drawings, and his sweet smile, and his big, puppy-hazel eyes, and the multiple spells he showed Mike when they were kids. By his mind, and his heart, and his soul. By the way Will made the world feel okay just by existing near Mike.

Will has always, always been easy to love.

Except that at some point — loving Will becomes harder. Not because Will is any less lovable, but because Mike is not sure the kind of love he has for Will is something he’s allowed to have. Because loving Will becomes confusing and overwhelming and makes him want things he’s not sure he should want.

So, he tries to push it away — to bury it and pretend it’s not there. Mike is good at doing that: repressing his emotions so deep within himself, under a lock, and never ever looking back at them. Maybe that way they’d go away. Maybe like that, they’d disappear without Mike realizing it.

Mike is fourteen and just trying very, very, very hard to be normal. To be like everybody else. To not acknowledge the way his best friend makes him feel now that he’s back. He’s trying to be a grown up; do things teen boys do at his age. Kiss girls, be cool, and definitely not play stuff he used to play when he was a kid. He’s tired of being a nerd, he’s tired of being bullied, and he’s happy a cool girl — The Superman — doesn’t think he sucks. He has a girlfriend now — he can finally forget that the way he feels about Will is different to the way he feels about Lucas or Dustin. Because what if he does? Will and him have been closer for a long time, it’s normal that maybe, perhaps, he feels different around him. It doesn’t matter, because he has a girlfriend and he feels different around El too, so it should be okay, right? Maybe if he spends less time with Will now that he’s fine, Mike can finally bury whatever confusing emotions he has under that lock and throw away the key.

Except he makes Will feel like shit in the process, and he feels like a stupid, colossal asshole. And he tries to make things up after. Because he can’t have Will mad at him— he can’t have Will feeling like he did something wrong. Will won’t ever make anything wrong. But then Will is leaving, and Mike couldn’t even spend time with him during summer because he was being a prick. And then Mike is missing him like crazy, and Joyce won’t ever stop being on the phone when he calls to hear his voice, and Will won’t ever reach out himself.

(He feels alone, and confused, and stupid.)

Mike clings to D&D. Imagines how Will would play, ponders about Will’s thoughts about the campaigns Eddie prepares, fantasies about Will sitting next to him during club, making high school feel definitely less shitty. Making Hawkins feel like Hawkins again. Because Will is just everywhere — in the halls, in the cafeteria, in his basement, in the woods. In his room, plastered in the drawings he hasn’t taken off the walls, in the binder he keeps close to himself at nights. In the roads he bikes, in every D&D play they plan, in the arcade, in the mall, in the cinema, in Scoops Ahoy. He can’t even have a milkshake without thinking Will would absolutely love the new flavor they have for the month. Except Will is not in Hawkins anymore and his absence echoes.

It's horrible. And it’s like no one feels it as strongly as he does. Of course, Lucas and Dustin miss Will, but they don’t seem to care this awfully much. So maybe Mike is being weird. Maybe he’s just awfully clingy. Or maybe it’s just that best friends miss each other more, and Will is definitely Mike’s best friend, so— maybe he’s not weird at all. Is he? Nope. Totally. He’s fine. He’s doing peachy. He just misses Will a considerable, perfectly decent amount of time for best friends.

But then again — Will won’t write to him. He won’t call. He won’t reach out. And the only things he hears about him are from El’s letters. Meanwhile, Mike has this stupidly massive pile of letters for Will buried in his closet that he won’t send, because he can’t. He just can’t. Because what if it’s weird? Will won’t write to him, so maybe guys shouldn’t write to each other. What if he says something wrong in those letters and scares Will away? What if he says something and Will knows— knows that Mike is missing him like a stupid fool, that he wants to hear his voice again, that Hawkins has always felt shitty but feels even worse when Mike doesn’t see Will every day, and what if all of that is weird?

Mike is fifteen and he just messed up his relationship with his girlfriend and his best friend again, because he won’t make a sense of the jumble of thoughts he has inside his brain. Because he can’t love his girlfriend the way he should love her, and he probably, likely, maybe, also loves his best friend wrong and he can’t make it stop or go away, no matter how hard he tries.

Mike is fifteen and seeing Will again after so long makes him feel like he’s on trial with everything he says. With everything he does. Because Will won’t show him what he painted, because Will wouldn’t call him or write to him after so long, and he very probably has someone he likes now and he won’t even tell Mike who she is. He’s painting for other people now, meanwhile Mike was miserable missing him all this time; and Will is in California making new friends and growing up and looking… looking like this now, taller and glow-y, with his flannels and jeans and big eyes, and Mike is such a loser and he can’t stop thinking about Will forgetting all about him and D&D and Hawkins and Mike. His friend Mike. Who he won’t talk to about his new life in California or the person he’s painting for or the girl he likes and—

And maybe focusing on El is easier — except it isn’t, because he can’t stop noticing how sad and mopey Will suddenly looks, and he can’t tell Eleven that he loves her the way she wants to be loved, and why is Mike so wrong in so many fucking ways? Why can’t he love her the way he should? He cares about her. He cares about her so much. And he enjoys reading her letters, and he wants her to be okay, and he will forever be grateful that she saved Will, and— why can’t he love her the way she wants? Why can’t he stop thinking about Will Byers instead? Why?

Mike is sixteen and the world is ending. Mike is sixteen and Will Byers is living on his house, sleeping on his basement — despite his insistent protests about Will simply sharing his room — and sitting next to him on the breakfast table. Mike is sixteen and he doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore and he can’t stop looking at Will Byers’ messy hair in the mornings and his collection of colorful jackets and the gentle smiles he gives Holly when they’re drawing together. Mike is sixteen and he wishes he could have some time alone with his best friend, to— what, exactly? He doesn’t know. He just wants Will back. He’s just tired of missing Will, all the time, when he’s right there.

Mike is seventeen and the world is ending, and his family is breaking apart — with his little sister gone, kidnapped, and his parents, his mom in the hospital.

Mike is seventeen and Will Byers is a sorcerer, magic pure and innate, magical like he’s always, always been, ever since they were little kids and he kept making life less shitty just by his existence. Ever since he survived hell and came back; because he’s so incredibly strong and brave, and the coolest, kindest person Mike has ever met, and asking him to be his friend has been the best thing he’s ever done, and— Mike is seventeen and the world is ending, but Will is a sorcerer, a real-life, honest-to-god sorcerer, and he’s smiling at Mike and saying his name and hugging him back like he’s been wanting to hug him since so long ago, and why hasn’t Mike hugged him more? Why was he so scared of doing so? He can’t remember. He just doesn’t want to let him go.

Mike is seventeen and Will is hugging him — tucking his chin on Mike’s shoulder, breathing his name, tilting his head to meet Mike’s, holding Mike gently. He’s warm and soft and he fits perfectly in Mike’s arms, like he’s always belonged there. He’s comfort buzzing underneath Mike’s skin, and having him so close is the only thing keeping Mike from breaking apart as the world erupts in flames around them. Mike is seventeen and he’s being held like he’s something worth treasuring, like he’s worth saving, like he’s Will’s. Mike is seventeen and, for a second, the world is just Will, Will, Will. Holding him. Grounding him. Making life better. And hasn’t it always been like this?

Mike is seventeen and he’s already missing Will as he steps back from their hug; he’s seventeen and Will is looking at him so full of tenderness, smiling like Mike doesn’t look like an absolute mess.

Will is seventeen and Mike is ducking his head to look up at him, and Will has dirt on his face and his hair sticks to his forehead from sweat and he’s never in his life looked as breathtaking. (And that’s saying a lot, because Will has always been beautiful, in many ways Mike didn’t want to admit to himself, scared of what thinking like that meant.)

Will is seventeen and he’s incredible and bewitching, and he’s smiling at Mike with big, pretty eyes, and Mike is afraid he’ll do something stupid. Will is seventeen and he’s still holding Mike’s shoulder, his other hand cupping Mike’s face, thumb brushing just under the blood tricking down his cheek, asking if Mike is okay with a soft, worried tone of voice, and Mike is overcome with a wave of affection and love so big he wonders how is it that he’s been able to spend so many years without screaming how much he loves Will Byers at the top of his lungs.

(Mike is seventeen and the world is ending and he’s finally, finally realizing how deeply he loves Will.)

Mike is eighteen, and he’s sitting at the back of Jonathan’s old car, listening to him and Nancy banter about whatever songs and bands they’re gonna be listening all the way to Mike and Will’s new home. Will is eighteen and he’s sitting there across from Mike, laughing at Jonathan’s choices, legs brushing against Mike’s, knees bumping as he stretches and mirrors Mike’s sitting position, both resting against the doors of the car, opposite to each other, trying to fit in the narrow seats. It reminds Mike of the time they sat back together at the trunk, except they’re much closer now — except Mike is taller and Will is broader, and Mike notices those things — and Mike is cramped up against the backrest and the door, but he doesn’t care as long as Will’s legs stay almost on top of his, as long as he gets to look at Will without needing to turn his head.

Mike is eighteen, and Will is looking back at him, smiling — finally, finally, finally safe — and the sunlight bathes over him, over his honey-brown eyelashes and the everlasting blush on his skin, and Mike is so painfully aware of every point of his body coming in contact with Will’s; of the way his stomach flips as Will giggles again; of the way he’s in love with Will Byers.

But as scary as that last thought is, as Nancy and Jonathan drive them out of Hawkins, as Will pokes at his ankle playfully, he knows he’ll be okay. Things finally look hopeful for him. For them.

After all, loving Will Byers has always come naturally to Mike. He’ll know how to deal with it.

i.

love echoes

Mike is nineteen and he gets to wake up to Will Byers making eggs in their small kitchen. What a wonderful life.

Moving in with Will to a small apartment out of Hawkins felt inevitable. Something that was building up to happen ever since they met. It just felt right, for the both of them to live together after all that mess.

It felt nice. To have Will around all the time. To wake up and fall asleep with Will on the other side of a thin wall. To see Will’s smile when Mike asked if he wanted to move in with him.

To be honest, when he asked, he was all shaky hands and trembling voice, pale as ever, because what if Will thought it was weird? What if he didn’t think it was something meant to happen like Mike did? But then, when he did, Will seemed just as excited as Mike felt about the idea, so it was definitely a good choice to ask him.

They already lived together for a year in Mike’s house, just after everything went to hell in Hawkins — but there were too many people around, and he barely had time alone with Will back then. It was different with just the two of them.

The apartment is cheap and small and they don’t always have hot water. Sometimes their neighbor is too loud. But their college is two blocks apart, and their walls are pale blue and soft yellow, and Will has hanged his beautiful paintings all over their living-room. Mike gets to walk with Will to his faculty every morning, and gets to see Will half-asleep on their couch, and gets to sit on the floor with him and watch movies they’ve watched a million times on their TV. He gets to write silly notes and leave them everywhere on their apartment for Will to find and respond with doodles of his own.

Most importantly, he gets to spend time around Will. He gets to see him every day.

Mike has never been happier. Life is wonderful and worth living.

Mike Wheeler is nineteen and living with Will Byers.

Mike is nineteen and he can’t stop thinking about the way Will’s bedhead looks, all messy and soft; can’t stop thinking about the way it’d feel if he tugged at the strands between his fingers; at the sound Will would make if only Mike reached out and gave in to his impulses. Mike is nineteen and he can’t stop thinking about how green Will’s eyes are, how pretty is the way he smiles, how he keeps wrinkling one eye when he’s making fun of Mike.

Mike is nineteen and he can’t stop staring at Will— at his bubbly-pink lips, at the delicate arc of his neck, at the soft, ever-present blush on the high of his cheeks. He can’t stop thinking about how it’d be to trace the moles at the side of his pulse. He can’t stop thinking about how badly he wants to hug Will; nuzzle on his neck, wrap his arms all over his chest and feel his heartbeat underneath his palm — feel Will’s warmth sip into him, feel Will arch back into Mike’s chest, soft and pliant and his.

“I think you’re probably dead wrong about what the author wants to convey,” Will says, right after Mike’s rambling about the last book he’s reading.

What’s fun about this, it’s that Will and him have so many things in common, so he’s never bored talking to Will. Will has always interesting opinions about the books and comics Mike reads. He’s always so creative with his theories. And he’s always listening to Mike’s wildest ideas.

“Hey!”

“Your theory is fun, though,” Will reassures, giggling at Mike’s pout. “Definitely better than what the author is trying to do.”

Mike shifts on the counter, facing Will as he swings his legs and pokes at Will’s hip. He loves sitting on the counter as Will cooks, if only for the fact that he gets to see the way the sunlight cascades over him from the window at his back.

“See,” he flails. “If it were me, I’d say killing the main character right after they escape is stupid. Like, what was the point?”

Will hums, squinting his eyes and crinkling his nose in that cute habit of his. “Totally useless.”

“Right!”

Will laughs at his enthusiasm.

“You should write an alternate ending to that,” he says. “I’d read it. You’re a good writer.”

Then, Will does this — grin, the kind he does when he has a teasing edge on his mouth, but the gentlest warmth in his eyes. The way he looks at Mike when he’s proud of him, when he’s praising him, when he’s terribly endeared.

Mike grips the edge of the counter, trying to push down the urge to hook his fingers on the hem of Will’s tee and pull him close, maybe in between Mike’s legs. To grab his waist and look up at him with puppy-eyes and wait for Will to kiss him stupid, Mike telling him a plethora of ‘I love you’s breathed out against Will’s pretty lips.

Don’t be weird— get it together.

“Cool,” he chokes. He can’t believe he’s needy as hell. Jesus.

Will quirks an eyebrow, amused. “Cool.”

“I mean—” Mike clears his throat. Don’t think about Will kissing you. “Have you ever thought about making a comic? I’d definitely read that.”

“I mean,” Will echoes, shrugging. “I’m not that good with plots.”

“Bullshit, you’re amazing,” Mike frowns, like he was personally offended. “You were always giving me ideas for the plot holes I had for my campaigns.”

“Well, yeah,” Will smiles, somehow sheepish. “But you thought most of them yourself.”

“But you helped when I needed it,” Mike insists. “I say you’re truly special, Will Byers. You just don’t believe in yourself enough.”

He smiles, tilting his head so he’s closer to Will.

“And if you ever decided to go for it, whatever you feel like you’re lacking, I can always back you up, like you do for me,” We’re a team. “That’s what we do, right?”

Will softens. “Right.”

Mike nods to himself, satisfied. He needs Will to know he’ll always have Mike.

“A comic, then,” Will ponders. “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe make it about a paladin,” Mike suggests.

Will’s teasing smile makes a comeback. “A paladin.”

Falling irrevocably in love with a sorcerer, Mike doesn’t add.

“Yeah, I want to be your main character.”

“Should I add a sorcerer in there, then?”

“Sure,” Mike grins. “They’re the best team, don’t you know? Very compatible.”

Will mirrors his smile, nodding, eyes twinkling. “Aah.”

Mike thinks about Will actually drawing a comic of them falling in love as a paladin and a sorcerer, doing something cheesy like kissing under the sunset, and feels incredibly, comically giddy. Then he feels like a moron.

But the idea of Will drawing them on silly dates is just…

Ah, Mike’s brain buzzes. Dates.

Suddenly, the tickets burning a hole on the jeans he left on the floor yesterday, are talking to him like they’re sentient. Hello, they’re saying, with a voice painfully familiar to Max’s, don’t be a coward, Wheeler. Ask him already.

“Listen,” Mike leans back, searching for Will’s eyes as he swings his legs, trying to act casual. It doesn’t work. “About our weekend…”

Will blinks, like he’s trying to figure out Mike’s abrupt change of topic. “…Yes?”

Shit. Mike is nervous as hell. “Do you, uh, have, like, plans?”

“Not really?”

Will tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together, the hint of a smile ghosting his mouth. He looks confused, but also like he’s about to laugh in Mike’s face. He’s too nice to do that, of course, but he’s definitely entertained with Mike’s stutters; and if it were Max, she’d probably be like ‘dude, why do you look like you just shit your pants?’

“…Did you want to do something?”

“Well,” he shrugs. Cool. He’s being super cool about all this asking-Will-out thingy. Amazing. Very normal. Yup. “I know we’re not big fans of sequels, but— do you remember they’re screening Ghostbusters 2 on theaters since last week?”

Will shoots him a look, between amused and fondly exasperated.

“Do I remember?” he huffs, half-laughing, a lopsided smile curling on his lips. “Mike, you’ve been talking about it all month.”

“Hey—” Mike can already feel his cheeks heating up, embarrassed. He can’t act normal for shit, can he? “You like Ghostbusters even more than me. I thought you’d be excited about it!”

“I am,” Will says, smile softening. He turns off the stove and turns around to look at him. “What about it?”

Ah, fuck. Suddenly, Mike can’t look at Will anymore, with all his undivided attention on Mike. He looks down at his lap, hyper-fixated on the way his shorts are riddling up on his pale, freckled thighs. He taps his fingers on the counter a couple of times, bites down on his bottom lip until it hurts.

Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.

He looks up at the ceiling, eyes flickering for a second to Will’s attentive face, then back at his lap, then straight at some spot on the wall across the kitchen. He scratches his cheek, clears his throat.

Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird.

“Well, I— uh. You know, I thought we could go and, like, watch it. Tonight. Together.”

“Together,” Will echoes, slowly. “As in… together with the rest of the party…?”

“Uh,” Mike’s head buzzes radio static. “I mean— yeah, that’d be fun. That’d be really fun. But— uh, I. I was thinking of only the two of us this time.”

Will looks at him. Blinks. Mike can’t look at him longer than two seconds or he’ll explode in Mike confetti all over their kitchen.

“If that’s— that’s okay,” he rushes to add, when Will still doesn’t answer.

Will makes a sound at the back of his throat— something between a hum and a grunt. Then, when Mike finally musters the courage to look back at him, he smiles. His eyes sparkle in the dim light of the kitchen, and his grin is somewhat boyish and coquettish and absolutely fucking cute. Mike wants to kiss him.

“Like a date?”

Ah.

Mike blinks. A swarm of mini-Mikes panic inside his head, running around his useless brain, desperately trying to find a coherent response that doesn’t make him a fool of himself. Hard task.

Face searing-hot, he stumbles, flustered, “I— I mean— we— I—”

Will snorts, then laughs, patting Mike’s knee. His fingers linger there right after, thumb brushing lightly Mike’s inner thigh. Mike inhales so sharply he’s sure he can hear the breath catching in his throat.

Oh, my fucking god. Mike is about to blurt out the stupidest confession ever known to humankind.

“I’m just joking, Mike,” Will smiles, teasing. Something about the glint in his eyes tells Mike that he knows exactly what he did. Does he know? “Yeah, we can go. The two of us.”

Ah.

Okay.

Mike nods, tongue stuck inside his mouth in fear he’ll say something stupid.

(And if Mike tries for about thirty times to hold Will’s hand during the movie before regretting it, that’s only for him to know. At least he makes Will laugh when they walk back home after the movie. At least he gets to brush shoulders and elbows and pinkies with him as they walk side by side on a quiet night. At least he gets to hear Will say his name, over and over and over again, like Mike is the only person that exists in the whole wide universe.

And if that’s the only thing he’ll get with Will Byers, then… well, it’s better than nothing at all.)

ii.

dreams

Sometimes, Mike still dreams about that night. About Will’s body coming out of the water, damp and lifeless, cold and blue. He wakes up in sweat, with an ache in his chest so big he doesn’t know what to do with it, pressing down his lungs until it’s even hard to breath. He feels like throwing up, opening his teary eyes, scrambling to get out of bed, trembling, just to see if Will is still breathing in the next room.

The dreams are not as common as they were — back in Hawkins, back when Will was still in danger, back when Will wasn’t around most of the time — but they still happen. He can’t go back to sleep most of the time, just sitting there outside Will’s room like a dumbass. Awake and pained and hurting. He can’t imagine what it was like for Will. He can’t imagine what it’d be like for him if Will never came back. And maybe it’s a selfish, ugly thought, but he’s so glad Will came back. To him.

Sometimes, in those dreams, Mike is nineteen, and Will is nineteen too, coming out of the water with dark, empty eyes. And Mike crumbles to the floor, alone, screaming for Will to wake up. To wake up, to wake up, to look at him, to open his eyes, to not leave him. Sometimes, Will is nineteen, and he’s not coming out of the water, but he’s being killed by Vecna, taken from Mike, possessed or dead or cut up right over his chest.

It feels like torture. Will dying, over and over and over. His mind playing cruel tricks to him.

Sometimes, he’s not dying, but looking at Mike like he knows— like he knows Mike’s deepest thoughts, like he knows about his other dreams — the nice ones; the ones where Will is confessing to Mike that he loves him, the ones were they’re kissing, or holding hands, or Mike is hugging him and—

“Mike.”

He barely registers the voice, low enough as Mike rolls on his bed, asleep.

Mike.

But it keeps going. Louder.

Mike!

Will?

Mike! Mike! Mike!

Will. It’s Will.

The next time Will calls his name, Mike’s eyes fly open, and he hears it.

“Mike!”

Suddenly, he’s thirteen again — scared and alert and protective — tossing away his sheets to stumble to Will’s room. “Will!”

Oh my god. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit—

“Will!” he yells, running barefoot, uncaring of the way he trips and bumps his knee on the doorframe on his way to Will. “Will! What’s wrong?!”

He gasps for air, opening Will’s door with fear contracting his lungs and pressing down his chest. Will is moving on his bed, like something pains him. Mike is thirteen again, watching Will twist in his bed in sweat, scared, scared, scared—

“Will!” he breathes out, running to the bed, gulping as he reaches out for Will’s frame. His hands shake on Will’s shoulders as he tries to speak softer this time, “Will.”

Will is not waking up, pressing his eyes tight, teeth grinding together as he trembles under Mike’s hold.

“Will,” he says again, “It’s just a bad dream, Will. It’s not real.”

He can feel the tears welling up his eyes as he tries once again, this time cupping Will’s face — shifting closer on the bed, until his hair is tickling Will’s forehead.

“Will, wake up,” he says, trying to speak louder this time, but keeping the soft tone. “Please, wake up. I’m here. Please.”

Something about the urgency in his voice, or maybe how close they are, makes Will finally, finally opens his eyes — they’re unfocused for a moment, full of unshed tears, darting everywhere, panicked.

“Will,” Mike says, brushing his thumbs over the tears rolling down his cheeks. “You’re okay. It wasn’t real.”

Will blinks, adjusting to the darkness of the room, to the view of Mike hovering over him, trying to reconnect with reality.

“I’m here,” Mike says.

Will breathes in— exhales, shaky. “Mike.”

Mike nods, tries for a reassuring smile despite how much his chest aches; despite how much his heart lurches.

“It’s me.”

He slowly lets go of Will’s face, backing away to give him space to breath. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him, or touch him and trigger something inside Will. He watches him sit up slowly, still trembling, against his pillow. It’s dark in the room, but Mike can still see the traces of tears staining his cheekbones.

It hurts.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

“Will,” Mike says, moving closer. His voice is gentle, and softer than he ever recalls, even with how soft he usually talks to Will. “Can I— touch you? Is it okay if I hug you?”

He wants to hold him— close, close, closer. He wants to hug him until Will isn’t shaking anymore.

Will nods, arms already coming up like he’s prepared to hold him back. Mike’s heart presses so tight inside his ribcage at the sight. He scoots close — close, close, close — and takes Will into his arms. Wraps them around Will’s waist and all across his back, hands resting on his shoulder blades. He can feel Will holding him back, hands spread open across Mike’s upper back; he’s tucking his chin on Mike’s shoulder, then hiding his face on the crook of Mike’s neck. He’s saying Mike’s name over and over again, like he’s trying to decipher if he’s real.

Mike holds him tighter, trying to shield him from everything else. To embrace him completely.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m here, okay? Don’t worry, you’re fine. You’re okay, everything’s okay.”

He traces Will’s column, gentle, up and down.

“It was just a bad dream. It wasn’t real,” he says, cradling the back of Will’s head. “You’re okay.”

He can feel Will sniffing in his chest, fingers digging at Mike’s nape to pull him closer. It hurts— deep inside his chest. He feels that ugly emotion swirl in his stomach, pushing on his lungs, stinging like rosebuds on his throat. He feels like crying. But he holds him— he holds Will close, hugs him until he can’t feel him shake anymore, until he’s breathing normal against Mike’s chest.

Mike doesn’t want to let him go. He wishes he could protect Will from everything; make him feel just as safe as Will made him feel when they were kids and Will used to cast ‘healing’ spells his way. He wishes he could make everything bad go away.

He’d burn the world if only to keep Will safe.

Mike pulls back only enough to see Will’s face. He’s not crying anymore, and he looks… calm. But there’s something haunting in his eyes— tired and drained.

“Hey,” Mike breathes, tilting his head to lock eyes with Will. Will looks back at him through his eyelashes, blinks when Mike reaches up to brush the hair out of his face — that is, Will has long ago cut his bowlcut, but the small, wavy bangs fall messily over his forehead now, and Mike brushes them away as he strokes Will’s face. “You okay?”

“I—” Will glances at him. His fingers twitch on Mike’s shoulders, as if he wanted to reach up and touch Mike’s face himself, “—yeah. I think so.”

He looks down, eyes flickering to Mike’s neck, chest— they’re still so close, and Mike can feel the faint warmth breath tickle his cheek when Will moves.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he whispers.

“Hey, no— don’t apologize,” Mike frowns. “You scared me, but I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Will hums. His fingers curl in Mike’s collarbones. He’s still not looking up at Mike’s eyes.

Don’t pull away, Mike wants to say. I’m here.

“Do you— do you want to talk about it?”

A pause. Will doesn’t answer— quiet as he looks down at his lap. Silent for so long Mike thinks he did something wrong asking him. But then, he speaks up again, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was… Vecna,” he says. “He took me again, and he was… creeping, all over me, inside me,” there’s a tremor in Will’s voice; an exhale of breath hanging by a thread. His fingers twitch again in Mike’s shoulders, sliding down slowly over Mike’s chest. “I know… I know it wasn’t real, but it felt real. Because I already lived it, and I know what it’s like. And I know he’s… not alive anymore, and it’s not like I’m thinking of him all the time,” Will shakes his head. “Sometimes, on really good days, I even forget about him. That he existed, and that he— he touched me. And that he— he— put those things in me. But other times — sometimes, I can still feel him. In me. Everywhere. And I try to make him go away, but I can’t. And… I don’t know, it makes me feel… dirty. Like something’s wrong with me.”

“You’re not,” Mike says, throat clenching.

He blinks the tears pooling in his eyes away, forces himself to ignore the ugly, nasty, bitter anger in his chest. He cups Will’s face again instead, touch warm and tender, and watches as Will’s face crumbles, like he didn’t expect to be touched. It hurts. It hurts so much; deep to the core, twisted in his roots. He can’t bear see Will in pain. But he holds him, holds Will because he needs him to know there’s nothing wrong with him— there’s nothing in Will that’s not beautiful.

He tilts his head back, ever so slightly, and meets his gaze halfway, because he needs Will to look at him.

“You’re not dirty, Will,” Mike says. “And there’s nothing wrong with you. Absolutely nothing. Despite how fucked up that was— because, god, that’s just… I can’t even imagine how that feels. Life has been so fucking unfair to you, but you’re not at fault… there’s nothing wrong with you. And none of that was your fault.”

Will sucks in a shaky breath, eyes watering. He calls his name like Mike is the oxygen he breathes, “Mike.”

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, okay?” Mike repeats. “There’s nothing dirty about you, or… or… anything unlovable.”

I love you, the words get stuck in his throat, echoing and reverberating inside his chest. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“God, Will, you’re so— so beautiful,” Mike breathes, uncaring about the way that will sound. “I wish you could see the way I see you. You’re my—” my world, my everything, Mike wants to say. The words etch, burn inside his tongue like they’re been carved there.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“You’re wonderful, and strong, and so brave,” Mike says, smiling softly at him. “You’ve always been. You’re the bravest, kindest person I know. Asking you to be my friend was honest to god the best decision I’ve ever made, I stand by that.”

He presses his forehead to Will’s, thumbs at the stray tears under his eyes. The bridge of his nose bumps against Will’s, and he moves, tracing the slope of Will’s nose with his. Will’s warm breath ghosts over Mike’s mouth. They’re so close.

“And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that, and I wish I could do something to make it all go away,” Mike says. “But like you said, he’s not alive anymore. You did that, remember? You defeated that monster, Will. You did. Because you’re stronger than him. And he can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t. He won’t.”

Mike smiles, hoping he can somewhat be reassuring. His eyes firm but gentle as he looks back at Will.

God, he wishes he could just protect him from everything—

“And I won’t let anyone else hurt you again,” Mike says, fingers curling against Will’s face. He’s warm. And soft. And absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. And he’s the most precious person Mike will ever, ever meet. “I won’t. I promise. I promise, Will.”

Will closes his eyes, then drops his head to thump lightly against Mike’s shoulder. He doesn’t hug him again, but he clings to Mike’s shirt and pulls him close. Close, close, close.

“Thank you,” he says.

Mike shakes his head. He wishes he could do more. There’s nothing he could ever do to make things right for Will, and he wishes he could do more.

He caresses the back of Will’s head; cards his fingers through the strands of his hair, feels Will slowly relax under his touch.

“…Is there anything else I can do to help you feel better?”

Will’s fingers flex on his shirt. “Could you…” he hesitates. “Could you… stay…?”

Almost immediately, as if recoiling at his own words, Will pushes back from Mike’s hold. He shakes his head, as if scolding himself, and hugs his own shoulders, looking away.

“Sorry,” he blurts out, a second later. “I know we’re not kids and we don’t do these things anymore, I— sorry.”

“No,” Mike reaches out, frowning, and gives Will’s knee a squeeze. “No, no. Hey. Will, don’t apologize, it’s okay. Why are you even apologizing? It’s fine,” Mike says, tilting his head, searching for Will’s eyes. “Seriously. I’ll stay.”

When Will finally meets his eyes again, Mike smiles. Like saying, ‘see? I’m not mad. Everything’s okay’. But it’s comical, judging by the way Will asked him for something so simple. He could very well have said ‘kill someone’ and Mike would’ve done it, if only that’d ease Will’s fears and worries away.

“You wouldn’t have been able to kick me out anyway,” he tries to joke. Maybe that way Will is gonna be less tense at the whole prospect of them sleeping together. It’s been so long since the last time they’ve shared a bed. It’d be scary as hell if only Mike wasn’t so focused on making Will feel better. “I was planning on staying even if you didn’t ask me to.”

He shifts and moves under the covers, swiftly taking one side of the bed as he lies down next to Will’s sitting form.

However, when Will blinks down at him, quiet, Mike starts feeling self-conscious— frozen on the spot. What if he got it all wrong? Maybe Will just meant stay, as in, the same room. Or lie down next to him, sit next to him— not sleep together. Or maybe he meant sleep, but not on the same bed.

He doesn’t know anymore. Boundaries feel weird with Will. He’s perpetually confused, feeling like he’s waving a thin line between them, pulling and pulling and pulling — getting it blurrier on the edges each time; stretching it so far beyond its reach. Like he’s constantly crossing a line he shouldn’t, and then stepping back again in fear. Back and forth, back and forth. Again and again, again and again. And he never knows when he’s stepping too far, or too much, or when’s lacking.

“I can— take the floor if you prefer some space, though,” he mumbles, muffled under the sheets.

Will’s face contorts, like what he just said made it all worse.

“—or kick you in your sleep on the same bed,” he hurries to add. “Whatever you prefer is fine by me. You know, Paladin Wheeler is willing to give you anything you want,” he’s starting to ramble, mouth-brain filter long gone. “Just ask, my Sorcerer.”

Ah. He winces, cringing at himself. What the hell. He’s being too corny, isn’t he? Is it the lack of sleep? Is it Will’s big, hazel-green eyes staring down beautifully at him making him stupider by the second?

He’s about to take it back— ramble on so maybe Will can ignore the last bit— and the way Mike just called him his out of fucking nowhere. But just as he’s about to do so, Will smiles— smiles, for real; sweet and soft and warm and all kinds of mesmerizing. It even reaches his eyes. So, whatever the fuck. He can be a clown and corny and stupid if that’d make Will smile, he’s more than fine with it.

He closes his mouth shut.

“Idiot,” Will says, huffing a watery, small laugh.

“Your idiot,” Mike grins.

He can feel the heat creeping up his neck at his own cheesiness, but Will rolls his eyes, affectionate and fond and endeared and amused, and his smile widens a fraction enough to make Mike’s pathetic heart flutter with happiness.

Will lowers himself, parallel to Mike, and starts to lie down on the bed, right next to him.

“We can sleep on the same bed,” he says, voice soft— like it’s a secret between them. “The floor is too cold.”

He looks so gentle— all messy hair and face still wet from the tears, eyes puffy and red. Moonlight cascading over him in pale blue. He’s so devastatingly beautiful.

Mike gulps, fingers itching to touch him again, to hold him close, to feel him breathe against his neck.

“Did… hugging you help?” he tries, staring at Will as he lies across him. “Would you want me to hold you when you sleep?”

The question seems like such a complicated math problem to Will— he frowns and bites down on his bottom lip, like he’s afraid his answer might be wrong.

“I- I mean,” Mike stumbles, eyes flickering all over Will’s face— his round eyes, his long eyelashes, the slope of his nose, the moles on his neck, the pretty lips. “I would— like to hug you, if that’s fine with you. I want to be close to you.”

A confession. Breathed into the air— hanging between them. It feels tender. Echoes in the walls of Will’s small room, containing multitudes— years of Mike’s aching love. Tangible and real.

Mike wonders if Will knows.

“…It helps,” Will says. “Your touch. It makes me feel better.”

Mike can feel himself soften, already reaching out to hold Will again. “Then come here.”

Will nuzzles in Mike’s chest, pressed up against Mike’s body, hair tickling Mike’s chin, hands trapped between them as Mike wraps his arms around Will’s middle and pulls him close.

Will doesn’t wake up again in the middle of the night, sound asleep as soon as he relaxes in Mike’s arms.

(After that, Mike starts sleeping a lot more in Will’s bed.

Sometimes, Will sneaks into his room instead, cozy and already half-asleep under Mike’s covers, hair spread all over Mike’s pillow, smiling when Mike steps into the room like he’s been waiting for him all this time.

And oh boy, isn’t Will Byers going to be the end of Mike Wheeler someday?)

iii.

heartbeats

Mike is sitting on the couch, flipping through one of Will’s sketchbooks, looking in awe at all the traces and lines and colors. Will has always been insanely talented— Mike still keeps that binder next to his bed, and has hanged some of Will’s arts all over his new room to make it feel more like home — but he’s getting better and better every day. He loves watching him paint for his classes, or simply sketch something for fun. He always looks so focused— lips pressed together or slightly open, a small line knitted between his eyebrows, eyes sparkly with ideas. He wonders if he imagines the blush tinting his cheeks when he’s drawing Mike.

And he has a lot of Mike’s sketches — most of them, Mike doesn’t even know when did he make them. He just finds about them when he’s looking through the pages and finds more than the last time.

It’s honestly endearing, and Mike loves the way Will paints him. It’s like he always looks better in Will’s drawings— more heroic, and gentler, and cooler, and definitely more handsome. Will is just being kind to him. It makes him smile. Will is sweet even in his art.

He’s waiting for Will to come out of his room so they can decide which movie to watch for movie night. The others should be arriving soon, as well. Lucas and Max were getting pizza and Dustin was coming here with El after getting ice cream too.

Everything is like a normal, idle Friday.

Except when Will comes out of his room, and Mike sits up on the couch, he realizes a bit tad late what Will is wearing.

“Hey, I was thinking we could watch—” Mike trails off, eyes flickering down to Will’s black tee. “—Is that my shirt?”

He doesn’t even know why he’s asking— Will’s wardrobe is definitely different than Mike’s— more colorful, full of yellows and soft pastels and flannels. Mike’s being more blues and blacks and whites. And that’s definitely Mike’s tee; he’s sure he slept on it the other night. He’d recognize the patterns and the silly stamp of a D&D’s character anywhere. It’s also hanging a bit loose on Will’s shoulders, fitting him a bit too big.

Mike’s mouth suddenly goes very dry— a desert as he stares at Will’s collarbones peeking through the wide collar. Oh my god.

Will’s collarbones. Will in his shirt. Will in Mike’s clothes.

Holy shit.

Will fidgets with the hem of the tee, looking back at Mike nervously. And maybe Mike is staring a bit too hard, because Will’s neck is starting to look rosy and pink. Mike gets the ridiculous urge to kiss it— press down his fingertips to see if his skin is hot there, if his pulse skyrockets when Mike touches him.

“Ah,” Will grabs the back of his neck, “Um. Sorry, I just— you left it at my room the other day, and I thought—” he closes his mouth, cuts himself off like he regrets what he’s going to say.

Mike’s eyes flicker up. His chest feels heavy, pounding and wanting and longing—

“I can change,” Will finishes, awkward.

“No,” Mike says— almost yells— and then clears his throat when Will blinks at him. Maybe too loud. “Uuuh. I mean— no, man, it’s— fine. Great. Fine.”

Mike wants the sofa to swallow him. Why can’t he speak like a composed person ever?

Will squints, tentative. “Are you sure…?”

“Totally. Super fine,” Mike clears his throat again, because that definitely sounded more high-pitched than he would’ve wanted. “You look good.”

Good is the understatement of the year. Will looks stupidly, ridiculously hot. How is he able to look this attractive in Mike’s simple, plain tee? He’s seriously magical.

“Okay,” Will says, slowly, as he makes his way to the couch. “Thanks?”

“Yeah, cool,” he manages.

Except that he’s not cool, he’s not cool in the slightest— because then Will is sitting next to him on the couch, bumping shoulders, and Mike’s head is an everlasting buzz of holy shit, holyshitholyshitholyshit—

And Will is talking, looking down at his sketchbook resting on Mike’s lap, but Mike is not listening. Like an idiot.

Will looks back at him, and Mike’s head just reels— dizzy. I love you. You look really fucking hot. I want to kiss you. I love you. I really, really want to kiss you.

He stretches his arm behind the backrest, just above Will’s shoulders, trying to act casual.

I love you. I want to kiss you. I love you.

Will side-eyes him, then looks back at his arm. He frowns.

Eh. He definitely noticed that. You’re being weird, Mike.

“Are you okay…?”

“Yeah— yeah, fine, I’m cool.”

He licks his lips, nods to himself, then fidgets as he reaches for the TV’s remote.

“Just— just thinking about we could watch, you know,” he stumbles.

“Oh,” Will utters. “Okay.”

Jesus Christ. Get it together, Michael. You’re scaring him away.

“Mhm,” Mike nods again. “Just that.”

Will leans back on the couch, seemingly deeming all of Mike’s weird behavior a lost cause. He crosses one leg over the other and watches the TV screen glow.

“Wait,” he says then, and Mike freezes. Fuck. What now? “It was my turn to pick.”

Ah.

Aah.

Wait. Wait. He can use this. This is familiar territory. He can tease Will. That is normal. That is something they do. That’s something Mike can play with without losing his goddamn mind. Mike can focus on that instead of how gorgeous Will is.

He shakes his head, “Definitely not.”

Will squints. “It is.”

“Well, you can ask the others when they’re here,” Mike says, already smiling at the way Will is crinkling his nose. Fuck, he’s so cute. Mike wants to kiss him. “But it’s definitely my turn.”

“That’s so not true, you chose Star Wars last time. Again.”

Mike shrugs, smile widening— boyish and playful. “It’s a good movie.”

“True. But we already know all the dialogues,” Will huffs. “It should be vetted from your choices.”

“Excuse you, I have impeccable taste,” I like you, for example, he doesn’t say. “And I started movie nights, so I can pick whatever I want.”

“Okay, but this night is not your turn—”

Will reaches out to take the remote out of Mike’s hand, but Mike moves his hand away, stretching his arm all the way to the opposite direction. Will blinks, then moves, crawling over Mike’s lap to snatch the object away.

Mike is faster, already stretching his arm up before Will can take the remote from him.

The result is Will blinking up at him, hovering above Mike’s lap, eyebrows arched up.

“Are you serious?” he huffs— between a choked-up laugh and a whine.

Mike grins, shrugging as he fiddles with the remote from one hand to the other.

“Mike,” Will rolls his eyes, sitting up. His knees bump against Mike’s thighs, and one of his hands rests on his knee as he still tries to steal the remote away. “Are you ten?”

“Nineteen,” Mike corrects, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “Last April. You gifted me a small comic of Mike the Paladin, remember?”

Will looks flatly at him, “Hah-hah, you’re really funny,” he deadpans.

“Hilarious, I know,” Mike chuckles.

Will stares at him, eyes flickering down at Mike’s mouth for a second as he watches him laugh. It seems to make him more determined in a way, because he’s moving on the couch again, caging Mike’s hips with his thighs as he presses a hand on Mike’s shoulder and stretches up. One of his sleeves slips down, and Mike is met with Will Byers’ bare shoulder in full display. It’s a good play— it almost makes Mike drop the remote on the spot and push Will into the couch.

But he’s already in, and he’s not giving up. He moves his arm back, back, back. Will sways on his lap as he tries to reach back enough to grab it. Mike tries his luck, pretending to steady Will as he wraps one hand on Will’s hip.

Will doesn’t say anything— doesn’t look back at him even— still focused on their back-and-forth, so Mike thinks it’s safe territory.

“Mike,” Will says, and it’s obvious he’s trying not to laugh, but he’s already giggling, “Stop, what are you doing—”

“It’s not my fault I’m taller than you,” Mike says, looking up at him as Will stays sat back on Mike’s thighs.

Wow. What a wonderful life. Will sitting on his lap. Mike grabbing his hip; thumb teasing the edge of Will’s shirt.

“You’re acting like a child,” Will whimpers, but he’s already laughing.

“Really?” Mike says, getting distracted by Will’s neck and pretty eyes and how warm he is as he presses and collides against Mike’s body. He’s touching Mike everywhere. Mike wonders if Will’s even aware. He is painfully aware.

“You are,” Will breathes, so close Mike’s brain malfunctions for a second.

He moves, trying to create some space between them, flipping back on the couch and stretching back, lying all the way down across the seats as Will follows him.

Bad idea.

Definitely bad idea.

He has his arms all the way back above his head, and as Will is still trying to win, he crawls all over Mike’s body— legs tangling, hands touching all across his stomach and his chest, planting on his shoulder as he makes a last effort.

Mike stares at him— at the hair falling on his face, at the tongue poking out to wet his lips, at the shirt slipping off his shoulders. Will is so pretty, it makes him ache— heart thundering like a storm inside his chest.

Mike can’t do this, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“Oh no,” he says, pretending to be hurt, “Ooh no, you’re really strong.”

Mike finally lets his arms drop between them— very much at Will’s reach— faking a dramatic defeat.

Will huffs a laugh. “Really? You’re giving up after all that?”

“What do you mean?” Mike looks up at him, hoping the way his blood is rushing in his ears and creeping up his neck is only obvious to him. “I’m not giving up. You won fairly.”

Will smiles, soft as he settles back on Mike’s thighs. One of his hands holds the back of Mike’s, not even trying to get the remote whatsoever— just lingering over Mike’s knuckles.

“You definitely let me win there.”

“You don’t know all my secrets, Byers,” Mike shrugs. “Maybe this was all a planned strategy. Maybe I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Will’s smile twitches, and his eyes glint with a very familiar twinkle. Teasing, playful. “You mean under me?”

Mike blinks. In lieu of a verbal response— he thinks he might blurt out how irrevocably in love he is with Will if he opens his mouth— he shrugs again.

“What, are you saying you did all this because you wanted to have me sitting on top of you?” Will asks, and yes, there’s something playful in his voice, but there’s absolutely, definitely something else entirely.

Mike breathes in, shaky. Is he— is Will…

“Because if that’s what you wanted,” Will says, eyelashes fluttering as he looks down at a stunned Mike, “You could’ve just asked, Michael.”

Mike exhales, trembling all over.

Okay.

Okay.

He looks up at Will— eyes flickering to everywhere they can reach— the skin of his shoulders, of his neck. The moles he’s been wanting to trace, to taste under his tongue. The pretty blush on his face, the messy hair, the beautiful eyes.

Mike is just Mike. But Will is— perfect. All yellow and golden shades; all pink hues. Comfort and love incarnate. Magic in its purest form. He’s warm laughter, and summer breeze, and secret late talks on Mike’s basement. He’s a set of swings and a promise of a friendship that’s gonna change them forever; that’s gonna reshape Mike’s entire world. A promise that the world can be good, and sweet, and kind. He’s the center of Mike’s universe— the sun to Mike’s Icarus. He’s bravery if it was a person, kindness and selfness and beauty. He’s the reminder of Mike’s happiest memories. He’s Mike’s very own devotion, very own destruction, very own fatal weakness, very own source of strength and courage. He’s home.

And now he’s looking at Mike, and Mike is all want— want and affection and love; raw, untamed and fragile— overwhelming, consuming him whole, buzzing underneath his skin like it’s lived so long inside him he can’t contain it anymore.

Mike is hit with it like it’s devouring everything from the inside, like it’s a fire— flames licking every bone and curve and edge inside himself.

And he’s going to do something so, so stupid.

He’s already reaching up, cradling the side of Will’s face and pulling him close, calling his name.

“Will—”

Then, as if casted there, a voice ripples through the small hall leading to their living-room.

“Heeeello guys!” Lucas chirps, pizza in one hand. “Who’s ready for movie— night…?”

His voice startles them— making Will spring back on the couch in a second, trying to detangle himself from Mike to put distance between them. They both scramble on opposite directions, sitting far away from each other, on either side of the couch. Will is hugging his knees to his chest, and Mike is trying very hard not to look back at him, but the way Lucas is looking at them tells Mike that he saw enough.

“O-kay,” he says, looking between them like he’s wondering if he should come back later. “I’m regretting having a spare key right now.”

Mike’s face feels red-hot, and he opens his mouth at the same time Will is stuttering an answer.

“We weren’t doing anything!”

“Mike was just messing around!”

“You just stepped inside in the worst possible moment.”

“It’s definitely not what it looked like—”

“And you asked for the spare key, asshole!”

“—I was only trying to get the remote—”

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“—and he wouldn’t stop moving, so I—”

“—should be more grateful I gave you a spare key out of the kindness of my heart—”

It doesn’t matter how much they try to explain themselves, Lucas just gives them both a look and, a second later, sits down with Max like nothing happened. Mike thinks he’s purposely ignoring them.

(Will’s blush creeps down his neck and stays there the rest of the night, though.

Mike would know. He can’t stop stealing glances at him during whatever movie they’re watching.

He also can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if Lucas had stepped inside just a minute after. Would he really have kissed Will Byers?)