Chapter Text
May, 1988
Everybody moved on.
Or, that's what Mike thinks, or maybe he makes a pathetic excuse of compartmentalizing his emotions. Because ever since Eleven died, he hasn't quite been the same, and everybody else was cruising through life with the grace of a feather dancing in the wind, carrying it somewhere far, far away.
For one, they'd graduated— precisely four months after her death, with Dustin making it as a valedictorian, he gave a tearful speech and then tore off his robe (and then got asked out by Stacy). Max had been in a coma for two years, so she'd missed out on tons of material, but her teachers took pity on her and she'd just barely passed with an average of 61 (if Mike felt any better, he would have dogged on her for it). Lucas didn't gain the popularity he'd been wanting for since the beginning of freshman year, but he was happy enough and was so proud of Max for graduating— he couldn't read Will anymore.
After everything, even after he'd apologized to Will for his behaviour three summers ago, (he was an insensitive asshole), things weren't quite right. Will pulled away from him. Or, Mike from Will. Of course, Eleven died, so, he didn't get out of bed, he wouldn't write and he strained his eyes in the dark while reading so he'd need to get glasses later on. He didn't eat and he was skinnier than before, which made him mean. And he almost didn't show up for graduation (Hopper had to talk him into it). But, more alarmingly— he didn't allow himself to see Will through it all.
And it was horrible, he knew for Will, it was; that was his sister, and Mike— he couldn't be there for Will. Will who was selfless to a fault, Will who took great care in making sure he was okay before himself.
He didn't even call. He was mean, he knew that, okay? But he felt like maybe it was taboo to see Will. Like, he would do something rash and unspeakable and so so disloyal.
But it was so lonely, he missed him so much.
How pathetic it is; it's one thing to miss somebody whose soul is absent from this world— it's another entirely to miss somebody who never even left in the first place. They were one call away or channel— or one bike ride across town.
So, just like Mike, he didn't jump back like everybody else had. No, he stayed rooted firmly to November 6th of 1987. He stopped reaching out to his friends, ignored their calls, he switched back to that particular channel on his walkie in hopes that just like before, Eleven would magically come back, magic was real. He'd seen it before.
Which is why, six months later, he was surprised to discover that Will had a boyfriend.
A boy, who was his romantic partner. Like, they kissed, and made out— like he had with El.
He wasn't surprised, of course Will had found a significant other. Will was pretty, he was smart and creative, so of course he'd had no trouble at all finding someone who loved him. romantically. anyone would be beyond lucky to be the object of his affections.
But Mike was, outraged. Eleven was dead and Will was swapping spit with some guy he'd never even heard of (maybe because he hadn't bothered to call in half a year, but, weren't they supposed to be best friends?)
It made him a bit sick, is all. That Will hadn't bothered to ask for Mike's approval and that he was playing with the calloused fingers of some guy.
And then, one night, when the party was all together, Will told them all that Joyce and Hopper were engaged.
Which brings us to here, and now.
Mike had to clean himself up, he fell behind on his hygiene and didn't iron his clothes (and the last time he'd worn a suit was back in ‘83 at Will’s funereal) so, it was needless to say that he was long overdue.
He sat next to Karen, his father in the seat next to him (Holly was set to be the flower girl), a row behind the Byers (and Nancy who was sat next to Jonathan).
It was a relatively small affair, with only a few families (including the Byers’ own), Hoppers ex wife, a few Hawkins police who worked in close proximity with Hopper at one point, though Mike couldn't tell you their names if he tried, And of course, Lucas, Dustin and Max.
Will is seated in front of Mike.
He hadn't gotten much of a look at Will. He hadn't looked at Will much, period. When they see each other, they exchange little more than a few pleasantries, let alone meet each other's eyes— that'd been Mike's fault, too cowardice to face Will after icing him out. But what he had seen of Will left him feeling similarly to what he imagines it'd be like to fall from a landing and onto your back, punching the air from your lungs and leaving you winded.
If Mike paid any attention at all in the last year, he'd find that his best friend's green eyes had shone a brighter, slightly dirtier shade of green, almost hazel. He'd find that he grew his hair out (now it held an elegant wave) but trimmed his fringe accordingly. He'd find he grew into himself, that he had this confident air about him, not obnoxiously so.
But Mike didn't pay any attention, he lay down, he moped, and was spiteful.
He did, however, pay copious amounts of attention to Will's boyfriend; the times Mike did come around, when the walls of his bedroom were too tight and he was sick of staring at the painting Eleven commissioned for him; he found that he hated Will's boyfriend more than he did the yellow stars on his ceiling that glowed in the dark. He hated that they snuck off when they wanted to go to the movies (he did that with El, but now El is gone so they're just being insensitive), he hated that they curled up next to each other instead of participating in a game of DnD, and most of all, he hated that Will looked at his boyfriend like— like how he used to look at Mike. That used to be Mike. Why did Mike want that so bad? And why did it make him feel guilty?
Which is why he knows now that Will's boyfriend isn't at the ceremony.
Yes, he whipped his head around frantically, searching for Will’s boyfriend in the crowd, and found himself fighting back a grin when he realized he was nowhere to be found.
“What are you doing?” Nancy's voice is a question, her eyebrows furrowed distastefully, Will turns to look at Mike expectantly.
Mike's heart stutters at the beauty mark above the curve of Will's full lips and he swallows audibly.
“I—nothing.” he stumbles, he can't tear his eyes away from the way Will tucks a line of hair behind his ear— and how he pierced his ear. That was new.
Nancy gives him a weird look, like, what the hell is wrong with you? and turns around in her chair. Will lingers for a moment, and Mike smiles awkwardly before Will turns in his chair along with Nancy.
He missed when they would joke about Nancy questioning their antics.
Suddenly, soft music starts up in the background, and everyone stands up, tucking their hands in front of them or behind them and heads following as Holly strolled across the hall, a bright and flower patterned dress swishing around her ankles, flower petals following, like they grew where she stepped.
Joyce enters the room like spring, floats elegantly across the long carpet, elbow locked with Hopper.
She looks young, with a simple dress, it wrapped around her shoulders, and when she passed him and his family in the front, her dress was open in the back.
When she came to a stop, turning around so the crowd could see her profile— the reason she looked so young was because she was finally happy.
Funnily enough, Murray was initiating the wedding. He came to a stand in between Joyce and Hopper, a big dopey grin on his face, and a Bible in hand (none of them were particularly religious, but, you know) and he cleared his throat.
Will sniffled tearfully, Mike knew it was him— he knew his breathing and the way he sounded when he tried not to cry. And he resisted the urge to reach out and wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind.
With a start, everyone sat back down, and Murray began to read off some verse Mike hadn't been bothered to memorize when he was a boy.
***
The ceremony was beautiful.
Full of flowers and tears and grins— Joyce held Hopper's cheeks, clasped in her hands so tightly and kissed him with the force of all the love she had, and more to come in the years of their marriage.
When the ceremony concluded, they all made their way back to Hopper’s cabin (everyone knew Joyce and Hopper were simple like that) and Karen prepped all of them a meal— the rest of the party meandering outside.
The trees, and the cabin itself were strung in warm lights, creating the illusion of fairies dancing across the newly ink stained sky, soft and slow music playing in the background.
Looking around, he felt lonely and guilty again.
Everybody had somebody. Everybody except for him— and everyone was happy. Joyce would move with Hopper soon, he would take a job in the city and Will would most likely go with them, and it was like El had never even existed. Why was he the only one who cared? Lucas and Max were moving on, they'd go to college together somewhere far away. Dustin went to parties, and his friends liked to follow.
Mike breathed, wandering back inside with the rest of the crowd to eat.
Joyce and Hopper made the choice of everyone eating at one big table— those long ones like Mike liked to imagine his DnD character sat across from the villain in his campaigns. They didn't like that it was like they were above everyone else, and that they just wanted to be with their friends and family. So, with everyone pressed together from thigh to shoulder at the table, they ate.
He still struggled to eat much of anything— he ate a few sour candies when he went out with the party, and his mom forced down his food, so now he just scarcely ate the meat and mashed potatoes.
It was dim in the cabin, candles set across the table and dancing across the happy faces of everyone sat down— the only face Mike cared much for was Will's.
His face was still as soft as ever— the candle light just reaffirmed that. His smile was broad as he listened to Dustin harp on about something. He played with his hair (this was a new habit) and nodded along, the charms on his necklace overlapping one another every few— wait, necklace? That was definitely new.
It was a dainty chain, two charms lay overtop of his sternum, metal slabs that were rusting but the colors shone through anyway; blue and yellow.
If Mike thought too hard about it, he'd get the wrong idea, like Will was wearing blue on his necklace because Mike's favorite color was blue— is he really so full of himself?
Mike shook his head, his eyes snapping back up to Will's face, only to find that he was already watching him— doe eyes sparkling in the light and he was staring right into Mikes, like he was trying to speak with him, maybe he was. But Mike was too lightheaded trying to understand what he was trying to tell him. There was heat radiating up his arms and legs and curling in the pit of his stomach and it was suddenly very hot in here. Maybe it was the candles?
He clears his throat and reels back in his chair, the legs scraping the wooden floors. Will’s eyes follow him, curious, and he tilts his head in question and mouths what?
Mike, pathetic and a hot mess, stumbles, clambering off his chair and pushing it back in before making it to the other side of the table and coming to a stop in front of Will.
The table had cleared already, Joyce and Hopper had left to go dance out in the opening of trees next to the cabin, and the rest followed, so a bit dumbly, Mike asks, “can i have this dance?” he holds out his hand, and nearly faints when Will just looks at him, lashes nearly touching his brows, and nods. “Sure,” he says in a tone that's indiscernible to Mike, and takes his hand in his own softer one.
Mike is a mess when Will leads them outside into a clearing, the fairy lights casting a halo on the crown of Will's head, and circles his arms around Mike's neck loosely. “Do you want me to lead instead?” He asks lowly, like there were ears privy to their conversation, but it was only the two.
Distantly, the lyrics of some sad song carries in the wind, an intimate atmosphere falls over Will and Mike, and Mike feels guilty again.
“..How you broke my heart
If I stay here just a little bit longer
If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?
Oh, my heart”
Mike cups Will’s hips in his hands, albeit a little awkwardly, and then pulls him close, because even though he feels guilty, he doesn't want to let go— doesn't want to be any further away from Will than he already is. “I'll lead,” he whispers, beginning to sway minutely to the guitar.
Will nods, a soft smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “Good,” he says.
“Good.” Mike echoes.
It's silent for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes, again trying to communicate something but Mike has never been good at communication, so he says, conversationally; “I-I like your necklace.” His voice cracks on just I, but he bulldozes through anyway. “Is it, uh, is it new?”
Will's chuckle is like light wind chimes, and makes Mike feel warm, his grip tightens around Will's waist. “No, Mike, I've owned it for a year now.” He talks to him like Mike is special, like he doesn't understand big words. “You must not wear it very often, then,” Mike says stupidly.
“No, I have. You were just too busy to notice, I guess.” Will says lightly, kindly, like it's not a big deal and shrugs. Mike clears his throat, “right.” he says, then clears his throat again, “where’s uh.. him?” he asks.
Will cocks his head, his brows furrowed questioningly, and shakes his head, like who are you talking about?
“Your boyfriend,” Mike chokes out, like it's poison. Will laughs. “He has a name, you know.” He shakes his head again, fondly.
“Yeah, Yeah. Where is he?” Mike asks again, he's entirely too aware of Will's arms wrapped gently around his shoulders and his own hands digging into the fabric of his sweater vest, like he's an anchor.
Will sighs, biting the corner of his lip in contemplation before saying, “he couldn't make it.”
And that's just stupid. Mike is positively outraged. Sure, Will and his boyfriend hadn't been dating that long, but this was Joyce, and Joyce has been through some shit— Will even more so, they'd fought so hard for this bit of happiness, for the ability to love even after they'd dealt with so much hate. And you mean to tell Mike he couldn't be here for Will? When he's likely the happiest he's been in eighteen years? That's bullshit.
“You look like you're going to murder someone, Mike. Really, it's fine.” Will soothes.
“He should've been here.” Mike says.
Will smiles, tsking under his breath, “just think of the here and now, okay?” he says, “because, I'm happy, aren't you?”
And Mike is struck with the realization that yes, he is happy, for the first time in a year, since El. For once, he wasn't pouting in his room and looking at Will's drawings and thinking of what could have been. For the first time, he's in the now, with Will— solid and present in his arms. And he finds that he's quite pleased with the revelation that it's him who's holding Will and not his absent boyfriend.
“..I don't wanna talk about it
How you broke my heart
If I stay here just a little bit longer
If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?
Oh, my heart..”
“Yeah,” Mike whispers, nodding and resting his forehead against Will's. “I am.”
“Good.” Will says.
“Good.” Mike echoes.
The instrumental of the song comes to a close, and neither bother to pull away, green staring into brown.
The crickets fill in the silence that was once occupied by song, and Will seems on the brink of something, it shone in the way his eyes widened minutely, but then he seems scared, like it's something that shouldn't have ever crossed his mind in the first place and instead asks if Mike wants to return inside.
And who is Mike to say no?
***
It's nearly midnight when everyone is leaving.
Mike spent the rest of the evening by Will's side, and for the first time in a long time, they were best friends. Will still drank his chocolate milk with regular milk, and Mike still teased him for it. Will still liked Nintendo and played the same games as Mike. They still laughed at the same jokes and made the same jokes, and it was perfect.
He was sad when he had to go. His parents were already in the car somewhere parked with the rest of them, and everyone was wishing the Byers a farewell inside.
And Mike was outside on the steps leading up to the door with Will, their thighs and shoulders touching. It was quiet. They were alone.
“I missed this,” Will says into the quiet, and the words have physical evidence in the cold air before disappearing.
Mike freezes, guilt pooling in his stomach. “Yeah, yeah, me too.” Mike says. He means it, but it's numb when it comes out of his mouth.
“‘Wish it was always like this.” Will continues, his head tilted up at the sky, he looks pale in this lighting, but still beautiful, and Mike feels sick.
“Why can't it be?” He asks quietly, even though he knows why already. He's selfish and Will is happy.
Will whips around to face Mike, his lips curling into a frown. Mike reaches forward, alarmed, his hand lingering in the air beside Will's rose tinted cheek. But he doesn't dare touch. “Will? What is it? What's wrong?” he cries, brows furrowed in worry.
“Why can't it?” Will repeats. And Mike pauses.
Because Mike was ashamed.
He hated who he was and hated himself even more for letting Eleven go without telling her the truth— that he lied about loving her the way he said he did until the very end. He hated himself because when he looked at El, he saw Will and he got sick because she wasn't Will and she never would be so he'd never love her the way she deserved to be loved. But when he looked at Will, he saw El and all he felt was guilt.
And it couldn't be because Will deserved better than that, and he did have better than that. And it would be mean of Mike to ask him to give it up— when he was just so bad.
And Mike was still bad. “I don't know,” he lied. Just once. He needed to feel Will once— once was enough to last him a lifetime.
He lets his hand rest against Will's cheek, and shivers at how cold he is, and leans in minutely. Just a fraction of an inch as to not scare Will.
Will doesn't flinch away though, he stares at Mike with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights and lets Mike brush his thumb across the planes of his cheek. Mike thinks he even relaxes into it.
He's proven right when Will's hands come up to cup Mike's wrist gently. “I think you do.” He whispers into the air between them, and tilts his head into Mike's palm, barely blinking. Mike feels faint.
“You're not stopping me,” Mike points out.
Will shakes his head. “Because despite it all I still want it to be this way.” His voice is barely audible now, and Mike’s self restraint was slipping.
He gave a wobbly smile, his hand trailing down Will's cheek and coming to rest under his chin. Will's fingers dug into the skin of his forearm. “Me too,” He whispers, and then he's leaning in, his eyelids falling shut—
BEEP!
The pair jump back, startled, and limbs flailing to untangle from one another.
Mike was one inch away from doing something he'd forever regret. He was quickly falling into a spiral, standing up from where he was seated next to Will. If he'd bothered to pay any attention to him, he'd see that Will was just as frightened as he was (but Mike doesn't pay attention and a part of him thinks he never has when it comes to affairs regarding him and Will.)
Will stares at him with wide eyes, standing up in front of him, he opens his mouth, like he wants to say something and then closes it again.
Mike's brain is functioning similarly to the way Will's mouth is. He doesn't register it when Will presses a palm to his chest, standing on his tip-toes to press a kiss to Mike's cheek and then whispers sadly, “I have a boyfriend.”
When Mike comes to, Will is already opening the door to the cabin and slipping inside. Go home, Mike hanging low in the air behind him.
Mike feels sick.