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There’s a sort of hum to Will’s skin as he clamps his fingers around the old ladder. He rolls his shoulders back; tells himself there isn’t an ache. Maybe it’s from the air of the Upside Down. Maybe it knows that he’s been here before. Maybe it sees him as something familiar in a way that’s almost haunting. Maybe it's from the adrenaline of their mission that’s still coursing through his veins, that rush of go, go, go, that reminds him of pedalling faster and faster on his bike to catch up with his friends when he felt nothing but left behind.
Or maybe it’s from Mike.
Mike and his words. Mike and his smile. Mike and his eyes; the way that they crinkle at the corners when he’s smiling particularly brightly. Mike and his telling pause between “friends” and “best friends” that had stuffed Will’s heart right into his too-tight throat. It had led to a cough, a downturning of his gaze, and perhaps, now, the hum to Will’s skin.
It’s not particularly pleasant, nor unpleasant, it just—is.
He’s willing to let it go, pay it no more mind as his foot settles on one of the rungs. Will’s just about to heave himself up - follow after his mother who’s not too far ahead - when a hand clasps around his own.
“Wait.”
Will glances down. His brows pinch together, lips parting to form the questioning utterance of, “Mike?”
Mike visibly swallows; Adam's apple bobbing. He pulls his hand away from Will’s just as quickly as he had placed it there. The suddenness makes Will’s face feel a little flushed in the most nauseating of ways. It’s a tad too reminiscent of what Vecna had shown him only hours before: the hesitance to be around him; the disappearance of easy companionship; the fear of who he is at his core.
Will’s fingers tighten around the metal of the ladder. He sucks in a breath between his teeth, and then shakes his head slightly. A smile tugs at his lips. It feels a little pathetic, but he’s trying.
“You ready to go?” He asks. “Or did you want to go first? I don’t mind.”
“No,” Mike says, and then falters. “I mean–-I don’t want to go first. I just..”
Mike wipes his hands over his pants. Once, and then twice. It’s a nervous habit he’s had since before he and Will had ever met. He fiddles with a loose hem on his jumper, next, and then attempts to tuck back a lock of hair that is already held down by his hat. It’s a heart-aching sight, familiar in ways that make Will feel nothing but fond, and so he decides to do something to at least attempt to ease the anxiety running through his.. best friend.
Will steps down from the ladder. He lets go of the metal. The hum gets worse.
“Did you want to say something else?” Will asks. He does his best to keep his tone as gentle as possible. He’s not entirely sure why. It feels a little like coddling, maybe, but this is Mike, and Will is nothing but weak for him, even in the most humiliating of ways.
“No,” Mike responds, and then—”Yes, I mean. Yes. I. I want to say—something else. Something, uhm, different.”
Will tries to smile. It ends up a little wonky, and a lot confused. Mike’s stuttering, stumbling over his words, and seeming to look just about everywhere but Will. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, especially when, after a few beats of heavy silence, Mike blurts out—
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
Will’s entire world comes to a stop. His heart is beating its angry, little fists against his ribcage. His lungs are squeezing as if they’ve forgotten their purpose. His jaw is clenched and his skin feels clammy. Hot, and clammy.
“About—” Will runs his tongue over his lips to wet them. In his panic, he doesn’t notice the way that Mike seems to manage to track that action, rather than avoid it completely. “About, um, what? What didn’t you mean?”
“Will—”
Is Will smiling still? He doesn’t know. He’s trying to, he thinks, he’s still trying. He wants Mike to be at ease with him. He wants him to be comfortable, but it sort of feels as if his soul is being torn into tiny little pieces, and then he’s being forced to watch as they’re stomped on over and over again. Does that paint a coherent picture? Will isn’t sure about that, either, but he’s not sure it matters all that much, not when Mike didn’t mean what he had said.
Which part was it? The part about accepting Will? The part about being sorry? The part where he says that he still wants to be friends - best friends - with Will despite the fact that Will is—is wrong?
“Not about—not about,” Mike shakes his head. “Will—I don’t want to be your best friend.” The first time he says it, his tone is shaky, and so he repeats himself. “Will. I don’t want to be your best friend.”
The clarity of it is inexcusable. Will cannot pretend as if Mike had said something else. His entire world is collapsing in on itself, and this time, it’s not because of Vecna or the Mind Flayer. “Whatsqueezes.
“Not just your best friend,” Mike continues, pleading. “Will.”
Will doesn’t understand. Confusion ebbs away at his panic. The next time that what leaves his lips, it’s more questioning than torturued. He’s more aware, though, less blurry-eyed and wishing his mother was there to usher him away somewhere warm and safe, and the evidence of this within his expression gives Mike the confidence to continue.
Mike takes a deep breath. Glances up for just a moment, before settling his gaze back on Will. He shifts their hands to twist their fingers together. Mike’s hands are surprisingly warm.
“I should have said this before,” Mike starts after a beat. “I should have said it when you first—came out to us. Or just after. Or, or maybe I should have told you years ago but, but it’s taken me a while to get to this point, and I know that’s not really an excuse, and I’m not trying to make excuses, I just..” He heaves a breath; shakes his head. “No, no. I mean.. just, look.”
Will is looking. Mike is looking, too.
“I don’t want to be ‘just’ anything to you, Will,” is what Mike finally settles on, and his words are all tangled into a rush. He’s speaking fast, breathing fast, too, as if this is one of the most exhilarating, nerve-wracking moments of his life. His eyes sparkle hopefully as he stares at Will, and maybe it is. “I don’t—I don’t even know who Tammy is, but I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be like them. I want—I want to be your Mike. I want to be Mike to you, Will, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Mike's hands are shaking. Or maybe that’s Will who’s shaking. Neither can really tell.
“And I’m really, really sorry that it’s taken me this long to just, god,” Mike laughs, even though nothing is really funny, and his throat is clogging up, “to just spit it out, to get it, but, but I really hope that you’ll have me in the same way that I want you, Will. Because I do. I want you, in every way that you’re willing to give me. In any way. Just—just you.”
Will’s eyes are wide. He can hear the thudding of his heart in his ears. Thump, thump, thump. He can hear the rush of his blood, the creak of the radio tower, the puffs of air that tumble from Mike’s bitten lips. He can hear everything and nothing at once, over and over again, until all he’s doing is replaying Mike’s words to himself.
‘I don’t want to be ‘just’ anything to you, Will. I want to be your Mike. Your Mike.’
His Mike. Mike wants to be.. His?
It’s quiet between them. Mike has resorted to rubbing tiny circles into Will’s hands, over and over again. The repetition is nice—soothing, really. It helps ground Will, brings him back into conscious thought until his lips are twitching at the corners. They rise, splitting into his cheeks until his lips eventually break out into a smile that only widens as Mike stares.
It isn’t long before Will is—he’s laughing. Loud, heaving, breath-sucking laughs that have his chest aching in a way that’s both unpleasant and pleasant all at once. He can barely supply his lungs with air between them. His eyes are watering, joy spreading across his skin like a virus that only serves to please.
“Will,” Mike says, and then repeats it when it seems as if Will hadn’t been able to hear it over his own laughs.
Will shakes his head. Tears sink down the flush of his cheeks. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
Mike’s calling his name like a prayer. Will’s tears have turned to something sad. Joyce’s voice is spreading from high above them. Will leans up onto his tiptoes, hands leaving Mike’s to fist and his shoulders instead, and then everything is quiet.
“You idiot,” Will is saying against Mike’s lips. Their breaths are mingling, hot puffs of air that twist against one another. Will’s forehead presses against Mike’s. Mike’s hands drift to Will’s waist. His fingers squeeze through his jacket. “You idiot, Mike Wheeler.”
“Will,” is all that Mike manages. It’s a little pathetic-sounding, and Will hiccups a wet laugh.
“Right now,” Will says. “I can’t believe you chose right now to say that. We’re climbing up to what could be our certain doom. We’re running headfirst at—at Vecna, and the Mind Flayer, and whatever the hell else he has up his sleeve. We might not see tomorrow. We might not ever make it out of the Upside Down, and yet you—you—”
“Will,” Mike says again, and then, as Will is rambling, “I love you.”
Joyce’s voice is getting closer. Will is still on his tiptoes. Mike’s hands grip at his waist, and he’s the one to lean in this time, slotting their lips together all over again. Will’s eyes close. He sinks into Mike’s embrace, wraps his arms around his neck. Mike’s tongue presses against the seam of his lips, and Will can do nothing but open them, accepting anything and everything that Mike has to offer.
It’s warm, and it’s wet, and there’s a string of spit connecting them when they finally pull apart.
“I’ve loved you since the swingset,” Will whispers.
Mike pulls him close. Will’s head is tucked underneath his chin. Mike’s arms hold him tight. Will’s skin hums with something warm. “Not a day goes by where I don’t love you, Will,” Mike says, his admittance just as quiet as Will’s whisper; it’s just for them, after all, nobody else. “I’m just sorry I didn’t realise that until now.”