Work Text:
“And that’s how it ends,” Mike announced, though nobody missed the slight waver in his tone, undermining his finality. The Party was currently huddled around the table in Mike’s basement, and their final campaign had just concluded. The antagonist’s figurine was knocked over, symbolizing his death. Max was the first to stand up. She tucked her labeled three-ringed binder under her arm and crossed the basement to stand before the bookshelf. She didn’t need to ask which shelf to put it on anymore, as she was a frequent participant in the Party’s campaigns, much to Lucas’s delight.
“I’m so excited for Mrs. Wheeler’s lasagna, dude. That’s the good stuff,” Lucas said aloud, to nobody in particular. He stretched his hands above his head and then closed his binder with a definitive snap, opting to stand and reshelf his binder beside Max’s.
“It’ll get colder if you don’t hurry up,” Max teased. She was the first one up the stairs, and the squeak of the door hinges alerted everyone of her departure. Lucas rolled his eyes, nothing short of fond, and thudded up the stairs after her.
“No fair! You’re gonna steal the corner pieces!” Dustin hollered after them. He slammed his binder shut and pushed his chair away from the table. Without bothering to put it away, he rose from his seat and jogged over to the bottom of the stairs. Mike looked at the abandoned binder and glanced sidelong at where Will was still sitting.
“Nobody even likes the corner pieces except you, Dustin. The pasta is too crunchy. Everyone knows the center pieces are better,” Will argued. Dustin opened and closed his hand in a blabbering motion as Will talked.
“The crunch is what makes it so good!” With that, he was up the stairs and out of the basement. Neither Mike nor Will moved from their chairs at first. The silence wasn’t awkward, at least not for Will, but Mike’s shoulders were hiked up near his ears, posture more tense than usual.
“We should—”
“Will,” Mike said. “Oh, sorry, you go.”
“We should clean up. They left the board to us.” Will jabbed a thumb at the board and the sculpted figurines.
“Nah, it’s fine. Holly and Derek and their friends are gonna play after us,” Mike said flippantly.
“Wait, Holly is playing D&D? Actually, more concerning, Derek is playing D&D?” Will asked in disbelief. Mike nodded. A beat of silence passed, one where Mike still hadn’t decided to get up, but Will was starting to suspect that there was more going on than he was letting on. He opened his mouth and paused, the shallow check-in dying on his tongue. An ‘are you doing okay?’ simply didn’t feel like enough to encapsulate his concern. Mike’s huge, all-encompassing feelings couldn’t be summed up in a ‘yeah, I’m okay’ or a ‘no, I’m not doing too good’. Will paused, gathering his thoughts, and then tried again.
“Are you thinking about El?”
“No— I mean, yeah, always, but… that’s not… why I’m, uh,” Mike trailed off. He gestured wildly at himself, as if to say, “acting so weird”. For once, the words weren’t coming to him.
“What’s going on, Mike? You said it yourself, she’s probably in a small town somewhere, building a new life where Doctor Kay can’t find her. Do you not believe it?”
“Will. That’s—” he hesitated, voice straining. He swallowed thickly, bracing himself. “That’s not what I’m thinking about.”
“Oh.” Will stopped. “What, uh, what are you thinking about, then?”
“It’s been, what, three years? And I haven’t— I still think about the… the painting.” There was an air of uncertainty surrounding Mike, as if he wasn’t sure whether it was worth bringing up. “It sounds… weird. Bringing it up now. I mean, three years later and I’m still— It doesn’t make sense.” Will tensed, mirroring Mike’s earlier posture. His shoulders hiked up and his foot began tapping on the basement floor. Evening sunlight filtered through the tiny window at the top of the basement, bathing Mike’s contemplative expression in yellow light.
“When El said goodbye,” Mike started, breathing deeply, “I told her that ‘the heart’ couldn’t beat without her. She didn’t, uh… she didn’t know what I was talking about. I told her that you gave me the painting she commissioned.” Will flinched, preparing ways to dig his way out of the lie. “Her last words, Will? ‘It wasn’t me. It never was.’” The last three words landed like a blow to Will’s chest. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Mike found out that he lied. Friends don’t lie, yet it slipped from Will’s lips with ease back in the van.
“Mike—”
“Wait. Just, let me finish. Please. I have one question.” Will sat up straighter. His breath was coming quickly, shallowly. Mike crossed his arms over his chest, and with great strength, asked, “Am I really just your Tammy?” Will’s eyes widened. Mike spoke so clearly, there was no way he could’ve misheard. A million questions flitted through his mind, but the one he settled on was, “How— how do you know what that even means?” He tried to laugh, to diffuse the tension, but it fell flat. Mike at least had the awareness to look sheepish as he responded.
“I talked to Robin. Um, a while ago. She told me the story.”
“You talked to— Mike! How did—” Will scrambled for the truth, mind spiraling.
“We can come back to that later, okay?” Mike insisted. He tried again, sounding almost urgent. “Am I your Tammy?” Distantly, Will registered the sounds of chatter floating from upstairs, where the rest of the Party was most likely huddled around the Wheeler’s kitchen table, much to Ted’s chagrin. Everything came down to this moment between the two of them. Everything rested on Will’s answer to this simple question. He inhaled, exhaled, and wrung his fingers together under the table.
“No. You’re… you’re not my Tammy,” Will declared weakly. He looked down at the grain of the wooden table, then at the cement of the basement walls where his old crayon drawings were taped up. The scotch tape was messily done, folded over itself in some places and crooked in others. Will tried his hardest to keep looking away, to prolong the inevitable ‘I’m flattered, but,’ that he was sure to receive. There was silence. Not comfortable, at least not to Will.
“Good. Tammy has an awful voice.” Even in the most narrow moment of Will’s recent life, Mike still had the gall to make jokes. Will’s expression soured. “Oh, shit, that was supposed to, like— nevermind. Will. I don’t want to be your Tammy. I want to be your Mike.” A moment passed, one where Will finally worked up the courage to make eye contact again, and he was puzzled at what he saw. Mike’s expression was nothing if not pleading, desperately trying to convey something his words couldn’t.
“‘Your Mike’? What do you mean? You’re already… you’re my friend, Mike.” Mike groaned in exasperation, dragging his palms down his face. His eyesockets dragged and the corners of his mouth were downturned.
“I was trying to be, uh… romantic. Your Mike, y’know? Like, yours—” The world stopped. There was a ringing in Will’s ears, he felt like he was going to vomit, his head was splitting open.
“Wait, just—stop talking. Mike. Are you trying to tell me that—”
“That I like you? Yeah. I just… I feel crazy. My words aren’t working. I planned this better, I promise, like, Robin and Johnathan were given instructions and everything and, uh…” Will couldn’t keep up anymore. His mind was reeling with the sudden overload. He wasn’t even sure what prompted this, and if it was real.
“Mike, you promise you’re not… wrong?”
“Friends don’t lie.” Mike said it with such confidence, such assurance, that it gave Will pause. He looked at Mike, really looked at him, and it clicked. He was serious. There was a grand plan, no matter how off-track it got, and Mike was sitting before him, declaring that he wanted to be Will’s. “I… you were always in a different category. I had my family, my friends, and then I had Will. That day, on the swingset, it changed my life. I asked you to be my friend, and it was the best choice I ever made. And now…” Mike stood up, finally, and circled around the table to kneel in front of Will’s chair. He grasped Will’s sweaty palms in his hands and laced their fingers together. Will marveled at the look of lanky, veiny hands against his own. It was nothing like holding a girl’s hand. It was everything he could’ve ever wanted. “And now, I have another choice to make. We have another choice to make. Will, I’m asking you to give me a chance. Let me take you on a date. I want to prove that… that I won’t mess up anymore.”
Words couldn’t encapsulate anything Will was feeling. His emotions were too big for his body, pouring out at the seams. His mouth opened and closed, trying to find a way to express how strongly he felt. There was nothing. A ‘yes’ wasn’t enough. He leaned forward, gently pressing his lips against Mike’s.
There were no fireworks. There were no world-ending revelations. It just felt like home, like familiarity, like this is what had been missing. Mike’s eyes slid shut, and his clumsy hands reached up to cradle Will’s jaw like he was something precious. Not fragile, because Will had proven himself to be anything but. Will’s hands perched on Mike’s shoulders before looping behind his neck, pulling him closer. Mike smiled into the kiss, and Will pulled away.
“It’s hard to kiss when you’re smiling that much,” Will said fondly.
“Can’t a guy be joyous?” Mike teased, grinning wider. His hands slid down from Will’s face, one settling on the small of his back and the other back in Will’s palm. He gently tugged Will upright, and they stood face to face for a bloated moment before meeting once again. They kissed like it was second nature, like they had been doing this all along.
“Shit, I forgot to put away my binder— oh. Oh! Oh, fuck! They did it! Lucas, you owe me your new X-men!” Dustin called from the top of the stairs. Mike and Will separated, practically repelled like magnets, at Dustin’s frantic voice. A loud stomping shook the ceiling overhead, signaling that Lucas was sprinting across the living room towards the basement door. The two of them—and Max—crowded on the top step, and Will’s lips upturned in a shy smile.
“Wait! This is important! Did you just kiss or are you dating too?” Lucas asked. Will and Mike shared a glance.
“We’re dating,” Will answered confidently. Mike’s eyes turned glassy with unshed tears, and his hand snaked down to hold Will’s once again.
“Damn it! Lucas, you son of a bitch!” Dustin cried. He fished his wallet from his pocket and slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill in Lucas’s open palm. Max made eye contact with Mike, and though it was a threatening stare by default, he could sense an air of approval. Always one to have the last word, Dustin yelled,
“I call dibs on being the best man!”