Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Shape of the Unknown

Mike can’t pinpoint the moment it started — only that it did.

There was no clean beginning, no singular memory he can hold up and say this, this is where it went wrong. Just a slow accumulation of things he noticed and then taught himself not to notice. A look held a second too long. The way his attention always seemed to tilt toward Will without him meaning it to. The quiet, unreasonable weight in his chest when Will laughed with someone else, or went distant, or looked at him like he was waiting for something Mike didn’t know how to give.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Easy to file it away as loyalty, habit, history. They’d been best friends since they were kids — of course Will mattered more. Of course he felt protective. Of course his moods seemed tied to Will’s. That was normal. That was explainable.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the feelings didn’t stay small and manageable anymore. Until they didn’t sit quietly in the background of his thoughts, but pushed forward instead. Insistent. Alive. Until they started demanding space. A lot of it.

Lately, they’ve been impossible to miss. Too loud. Too present. Like a caged flock of birds trapped behind his ribs, wings beating hard enough to bruise, feathers rattling against bone. Every time he tells himself to calm down, to focus, to be normal, they only grow more frantic — louder, sharper, desperate for release.

And Mike knows, with a sick, sinking certainty, that the cage shook harder than it ever had when Will laid himself bare in front of them. When he offered up his deepest truth along with himself, holding it out in trembling hands, trusting it wouldn’t be seized, torn into, or ripped apart by teeth he couldn’t see.

Mike doesn’t say anything in the moment. Of course he doesn’t. Mike Wheeler: champion of big feelings expressed in the most complicated ways possible, preferably through a speech delivered at the brink of death or a confession disguised as a pep talk or a metaphor about paladins.

But now isn’t the brink. Now is the middle of a dangerous path, everyone moving, everyone needing him to keep moving too.

So he nods, or makes some kind of noise that passes for understanding, and he keeps moving forward because the alternative is stopping and looking at Will and letting his face give him away.

Because it will. His face always does.

And because he can’t tell what’s happening inside him. Not cleanly. Not in any order that makes sense.

It isn’t just shock. It isn’t just sympathy. It isn’t even just that sharp, awful grief-flash of realizing Will has been carrying something alone for a long time while Mike was busy being “normal.” Being stupid. Being absolutely blind.

There’s something else underneath threaded through it.

Something that’s been there for a while now, quietly, like a low radio frequency he never knew to tune into — until it starts to hum through him, impossible to mistake once you finally hear it.

He keeps moving anyway. Because what else is there to do? They’re gearing up. They’re heading in. They’re about to fight. Maybe die. And Mike has learned, over and over, that the world doesn’t pause just because his insides are doing something complicated.

Ahead of them, the fissure looks like the mouth of something that wants to swallow them whole. Familiar, in the worst way. Familiar like nightmares you’ve had so often you start recognizing them as an old friend.

The Upside Down waits, as patient as rot.

But it isn’t patient enough to give Mike the luxury of stopping. Not now. Not here. Not with everyone depending on him to keep it together. There’s no time to pry his own chest open and examine what’s living inside it, right? There’s only the next step, and the next.

Mike adjusts every strap he can find — pulling them tighter, re-centering his pack, fussing with buckles that don’t need fussing with — like pressure can force his brain back into a single, manageable lane. Like if he can just cinch everything down hard enough, he can cinch down whatever’s trying to rise in him, too.

Somewhere nearby, Dustin’s voice cuts through the tension — complaining, probably, or trying to lighten the mood by making it worse — and Lucas answers him with that tight, controlled calm he’s been wearing lately. They've grown up, unmistakingly. Every single one of them. Maybe faster than they needed to, given the fact that they've been fighting for their lives ever since they've been twelve years old.

And everyone looks focused. Nancy, eyes intense and scanning. Hopper, all grit and readiness. El, quiet but coiled, like a storm held behind skin.

And yes — even Will.

Which is the part that doesn’t make sense. Will should be anything but steady after what he just did. After what he just said. After sitting there and laying himself out in the open like it wasn’t the most unbelievable kind of bravery.

But he is.

He’s a steady presence beside Mike, a little quieter than usual, but not in a way that screams insecurity. In a way that says he’s conserving himself. That says he’s already made a decision and that whatever happens next, whatever anyone does with the truth he offered up, he isn’t taking it back.

That thought hits Mike strangely. It crawls up his spine and settles behind his ribs, heavy and warm and unsettling.

Brave.

Will Byers. Brave.

If anyone had asked Mike two years ago who the most powerful person he knew was, he would’ve said Eleven without hesitation. He would’ve said it like a fact of gravity — obvious, immutable, beyond debate.

But now…

Now he’s starting to understand that power doesn’t always look like raw strength. Or destruction. Or standing your ground against monsters without flinching. It doesn’t come from how many times someone needed saving, or how many times they were the one doing the saving.

Sometimes power looks quieter than that.

Sometimes it’s Will Byers, right here, right now — sitting beside him in the back of an old truck, shoulders squared like he’s bracing against a storm that isn’t just weather. His hands rest loose in his lap, calm. Hazel eyes gone darker in the bad lightning that keeps strobing through the insides, turning everything into brutal contrasts — bone and shadow, fear and resolve. Every so often, a flash from the cab catches on his face and makes him look unreal, like an image flickering into focus: jaw set, mouth pressed tight, the kind of control you don’t learn unless you’ve had to hold yourself together while the world tries to pull you apart.

Mike watches him. He’s aware of the weight of his own attention, the way his gaze keeps sliding back as if it has a mind of its own.

He tries not to. He tries to do what a normal person would do: stare straight ahead, keep his hands still, keep his thoughts in the safe lane. Act like he isn’t taking inventory of his best friend’s face, isn’t cataloging each small detail as if he’ll need it later to prove this moment happened. Will sitting next to him like this. Will saying what he said and didn’t fold.

But Mike can’t stop.

He hasn’t been able to for a long time.

And as much as today knocked him sideways, surprised him, rattled something loose… it isn’t as if he’s never suspected. Mike isn’t an idiot. Not completely, at least. He’s had eyes his whole life. He’s noticed things, because how could he not? The lingering looks that last a fraction too long. The way Will goes quiet when someone brings up girlfriends. The way he folds inward when Mike says certain things without thinking, certain Mike-isms that land more jagged than he ever intends.

The thing is… Mike only noticed any of it because he’s always been tuned to Will. Always. In a way that feels automatic and terrifying, like some part of him has been tracking Will’s weather since they were kids, even when he pretended he wasn’t. It’s impossible to stand that close to someone for that many years and not learn the shape of their silence.

And still — he knows he missed plenty.

Worse, he knows he ignored what he did see. He knows how long he let himself skate by on denial and distraction, how long he acted like an asshole because it was easier than admitting he was scared. Easier than admitting that the truth might require something from him he didn’t know how to give.

So yeah. Mike is observant when he wants to be.

He just didn’t want to be… for way too damn long.

He tells himself there will be time later. After this. After the gate is sealed or the world ends or whatever version of survival they manage to claw their way into. He tells himself he can afford to wait because waiting is what he’s always done best.

It’s a lie, and he knows it.

Because the feelings don’t recede when he ignores them. They don’t dull or soften or behave. They pace. They press. They crowd up behind his ribs, restless and sharp-edged, like they’re running out of air. And every glance at Will — every flash of lightning, every brush of proximity — sets them off again.

The truck lurches over uneven ground. Someone swears from the front. The engine growls, and Mike anchors himself in the noise of it, in the physicality of the moment. Metal. Motion. Forward.

Forward, he tells himself. Always forward.

Except something in him has already started pulling sideways. Backward. Inward.

He keeps circling back to Will’s words. I am different. The simplicity of it. The way Will didn’t soften it, didn’t apologize for it. I just pretended I wasn’t, because I didn’t want to be. There was fear there, yes — Mike could hear it, could feel it — but underneath it ran something steadier. Fearlessness beneath the fear.

It sounds poetic, and maybe it is. But it was also devastatingly real.

Will didn’t say it like someone still running. He said it like someone who’d reached the end of the road and decided that facing it was less terrifying than continuing to disappear.

And Mike Wheeler doesn’t know how to do that.

Mike knows how to strategize. How to redirect. How to tell stories and invent quests and give everyone a role so no one has to look too closely at what’s actually happening underneath. He knows how to turn love into usefulness, fear into plans, courage into motion. He knows how to be brave when the danger has a shape and a name, when it’s something he can point to and fight.

He doesn’t know how to be brave when the threat is the truth.

The truck slows, then stops. Doors open. Cold air rushes in, carrying that wrong, metallic scent that always clings to the edges of the Upside Down as a warning. Mike hops down last, boots hitting dirt a little too hard. He rolls his shoulders, resets his pack, checks straps again even though he already did. Anything to stay busy. Anything to keep his hands from shaking.

They gather. Confer. Point. Plan.

Mike listens. Nods. Contributes where he’s supposed to. He slots himself into the rhythm of it because the rhythm is familiar and comforting, because it gives his hands something to do and his mouth something safe to say. Because if he lets himself fall out of step, even for a second, he’s pretty sure everything he’s been holding back will hit him all at once.

Will stands near him. Close enough that Mike can sense him without looking.

That awareness has become constant. Background radiation. The low hum he can’t shut off, can’t escape. Only now it feels different — more intense, more insistent. Something in him is leaning toward Will whether Mike gives permission or not. To the point where not reaching out is starting to feel physically wrong.

They start moving again, this time on foot. The ground beneath them is soft with ash, uneven, dead growth cracking under their boots with every step. The sky churns overhead, bruised and restless, lightning crawling through it like exposed nerves. And in the distance, the radio tower rises — thin, skeletal, cutting into the dark as symbol of warning and promise in the same breath.

Mike’s chest tightens at the sight of it.

This is the split. The point where they separate. Where plans turn into smaller plans, where people peel off and trust that everyone else will still be standing on the other side.

Before they part, El steps toward him.

It catches Mike off guard — her sudden closeness, the way she pulls him into an embrace without ceremony. Her arms are warm, solid. Real. For a brief second, the world narrows to the familiar press of her against him, the steadiness she’s always carried even when everything else was breaking.

Mike exhales shakily, and hugs her back.

She leans in, close enough that her breath brushes his ear. Her voice is quiet, but there’s no uncertainty in it.

“Talk to him,” she whispers.

That’s it. No explanation. No qualifiers. Just the truth, delivered like a directive she knows he’ll understand.

Mike freezes.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, searching her face for something — anger, sadness, accusation. There’s none of it. Just that steady, knowing calm. As if she’s already walked this thought all the way through and decided where she stands.

Mike’s throat tightens. He nods, once, because that’s all he has.

El gives him the smallest smile before stepping away, already turning back toward Hopper as if the moment is finished and she hasn’t just dismantled the last excuse Mike had been clinging to.

Then they split. Different routes. Different purposes.

Mike watches them go for a second too long before forcing himself to turn back toward the tower.

Will is already walking that way.

Mike follows.

Each step feels heavier than the last. And certainly not because of the uneven terrain, or the looming danger, but because he knows what comes next. Knows there’s no version of this where he keeps everything neatly contained. Knows that once he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to put the words back where they came from.

The hum under his skin swells. The birds beat harder against his ribs.

He fixes his gaze on Will’s back — on the line of his shoulders, the familiar tilt of his head — and starts walking with intent. His mind doesn’t follow in a straight line. It splinters, doubling back on itself, picking apart thoughts he should have examined earlier, when there was space and time and the luxury of not standing on the edge of something irreversible. But life has a way of throwing the unexpected at you.

And it's not the hand he was dealt.

So his brain does what it always does when things feel too big: it starts sorting. Categorizing. Trying to stack the chaos into neat, labeled boxes as if order alone can make it harmless.

He’s dated a girl. He’s kissed a girl. He’s—

But that doesn’t answer the new question.

It just proves he’s been able to do one thing.

It doesn’t prove he can’t do another.

Mike hates the way that realization makes his skin feel too tight, like his body has suddenly become unfamiliar territory. Like he’s wearing himself wrong. He hates the way his heartbeat feels too loud, too present, as if it’s trying to announce something he isn’t ready to hear.

And the part he can’t quite reconcile, is that the thought of liking boys doesn’t hit him first as shame.

It hits him as fear.

It's not because he thinks it’s wrong. He doesn’t, not really, not in the clear, simple way adults in Hawkins talk about “wrong.”

But because he knows what people do to things they don’t understand.

He knows what happens in small towns when someone becomes a rumor instead of a person. He knows what happens when your existence stops being invisible.

He thinks about Will walking those halls, shrinking himself down to a point. He thinks about the slurs thrown like rocks. He thinks about Lonnie Byers and his stupid, cruel laugh. He thinks about his own mom, her worried eyes, her soft voice, her Mike, be careful. He thinks about his dad, too. The set lines of his beliefs. The way certain things are said, and others never are. The quiet understanding of what’s acceptable, and what isn’t.

He thinks about El's face.

He thinks about how much he’s already hurt her by staying when he should’ve been honest, by loving her past the point where it was real because leaving felt worse than lying. Because the truth is, Mike doesn’t even know if he loved her the way she deserved. Not fully. Not in the way he told her he did.

He tries to imagine saying it out loud.

I think I might like boys.

It feels foreign.

He tries again, because his brain is relentless and refuses to let the thought dissolve.

I think I might like Will.

That one doesn’t snag.

That one settles with a frightening kind of ease.

It isn’t foreign at all.

It’s… terrifyingly familiar.

It explains too much.

The way Mike has started to register every slight shift in Will’s expression before he even realizes he’s looking. The way his attention keeps drifting to Will’s mouth — how he’s begun, without meaning to, to associate it with words like full and pretty. The way his chest tightens when Will pulls away, like something essential is being taken with him. The way Mike always feels like he’s failing some invisible test in Will’s eyes, one he never remembers agreeing to but desperately wants to pass.

The way Will’s silence gets under his skin worse than any argument ever could.

The way the thought of Will looking at someone else the way he looks at Mike makes something ugly and unreasonable twist in his gut.

He’s had that thought before. In fragments. Stinging little flashes that came and went too fast to examine properly. Moments he shoved aside the second they surfaced, dismissed as nothing, as coincidence, as a misfire of loyalty and friendship tangled too tightly together.

Because what kind of person thinks that about his best friend?

What kind of person—

Mike’s heart does something painful.

He can’t tell if it’s breaking… or rearranging.

They reach the base of the radio tower, and the metal looks colder up close. Everyone moves with purpose, because that’s what they do now: they take the next step. And the next. And the next.

One after the other, they start up.

Mike goes second-to-last. Will is last.

Mike can hear the ladder rungs complaining under their weight, the faint creak of metal, the wind threading through the structure in a sound that almost resembles breathing. He climbs because he has to, because he chose this, because there’s no backing out without looking like a coward.

And then — halfway, at the first stage — he stops.

Just stops.

His hands tighten around the railing as he steps onto the platform, boots clanging softly on grated metal. Above him, the others keep climbing, silhouettes pulling themselves higher into the deep red. He watches them go, one by one, until their shapes thin out and the space between them grows.

He looks down over the railing.

The ground feels too far away. The world below is all shadow and ash and broken outlines, the Upside Down stretching out as vast land. The air hits, cold enough to make his eyes water. It should be sobering.

It isn’t.

It just makes him more aware of how loud his blood is in his ears.

The urge to talk — really talk, not Mike-talking-around-things — is so strong it borders on nausea. It climbs his throat like bile, his body's way of trying to purge the secret out of him before it poisons him from the inside.

He swallows. It doesn’t go away.

Beneath him, there’s movement. Will’s shoes on the rungs, the scrape of metal against metal, the steady, measured rhythm of someone climbing with controlled precision.

Mike doesn’t look right away. He can’t. Not yet.

Because the moment Will steps onto the platform, the conversation becomes real.

His chest feels too tight. His mouth, suddenly, is bone-dry, as if every drop of moisture has been siphoned straight out of him and replaced with nerves. He fumbles for his pack, grateful for the excuse, and pulls out his water bottle. The cap clicks as he twists it open, takes a quick, pointless sip that does nothing to help.

Get it together.

He keeps his gaze fixed anywhere but behind him — at the horizon, at the warped sky, at the jagged outlines of a world that feels safer to look at than Will does right now.

Then the platform shudders faintly.

Will steps onto it.

Mike feels it more than he hears it. The added weight, the shift in balance, the sudden awareness of another body occupying the same small, exposed space. The air between them tightens, charged in a way that has nothing to do with the storm overhead.

Still, Mike doesn’t turn yet.

He just holds out the water bottle, arm extended a little stiffly, like muscle memory has taken over for the part of him that’s frozen solid.

“Here,” he says, voice rougher than he expects.

Will takes the bottle with a small smile and drinks deeply. Mike’s eyes betray him immediately. He tracks the movement of Will’s throat with each swallow, the long line of it exposed to the bruised sky as Will tips his head back. It feels intrusive — too intimate for a moment that’s supposed to be casual — but Mike can’t seem to make himself look away.

He forces his gaze elsewhere only when Will lowers the bottle and twists the cap back on.

For a second, there’s nothing but wind and the low groan of metal.

Then Will glances sideways. His eyes flick to Mike’s face and dart away again, too fast, like holding the look for even a heartbeat longer might hurt.

Mike’s chest squeezes.

He wants to say something. Anything. He wants to say a hundred things at once — apologize, explain, rewind time and answer Will earlier with something better than a stupid nod and silence.

But his tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth.

Will stays quiet beside him. Patient, or maybe just used to waiting for Mike to find the right words, or any words at all.

God.

Mike closes his eyes for a brief second, and the guilt that crashes into him is so brutal it nearly knocks him sideways. It hits him all at the same time. Every missed chance, every moment he chose silence because it felt safer, every time Will waited while Mike hid behind half-truths and good intentions.

When he opens his eyes again, he turns slightly.

Will is already looking at him.

There’s a wariness there that makes Mike’s throat ache — the careful distance of someone who’s been burned by hope before and learned to brace for it. His eyes are open, bright, too honest to hide behind anything.

Mike’s mouth goes dry all over again.

“I—”

They both start at the same time.

The collision of two voices reaching for the same opening hangs between them for a heartbeat, almost absurd in its timing. Almost enough to make Mike laugh, if he didn’t feel like his heart was about to tear itself out of his chest.

“Sorry,” Will says softly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You first.”

You first.

Like it’s that simple.

Mike’s pulse slams against his ribs. He has the sudden, irrational thought that if his heart keeps beating like this, something is going to give. He rubs the back of his neck, a reflex he can’t stop, caught between holding Will’s gaze and breaking it, until he makes himself keep it. Head-on. Straight into Will’s eyes, which are waiting and wide and full of what might as well be literal question marks.

Where does he even begin?

“This is… well,” he starts, and immediately knows that’s not it. Not even close. He backpedals hard, words tripping over themselves. “Listen—um. About what you said earlier. At the Squawk. I’m sorry.”

The moment the word leaves his mouth, he flinches.

“I mean—not sorry about what you said,” he rushes to correct, shaking his head. “That came out wrong. Or—not came out wrong—” He winces again, heat creeping up his neck. “Jesus Christ.”

Will chuckles softly, the sound a warm embrace that feels entirely unfair in a moment like this. It slips between them as some kind of pressure relief. Mike's hyper aware of how much he likes it and how it settles something frantic in his chest without even trying.

“It’s okay,” Will assures him.

Mikes shoulders drop a fraction. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I'm… really bad at not tripping over my own mouth."

The wind worries at the tower around them, metal complaining softly, but the real noise is inside Mike, everything beating against his ribcage, frantic and desperate and impossible to organize. He forces himself to stop. To actually think before he says anything else.

He looks at Will.

Will is watching him with that careful stillness he gets when he’s bracing for something. Like he’s already half convinced whatever comes next is going to hurt.

“Listen,” he beings, slower this time, deliberate. “I messed up. I know I did.”

"Mike—"

“No, let me—” Mike cuts himself off before he can bulldoze. He swallows, reins himself in. “Please. Just… let me get through it before I chicken out.”

Will stills completely, uncertainty flickering across his face. Then he nods once.

Mike’s fingers tighten around the cold metal. He can feel his pulse in his hands.

“I should’ve been there for you,” he says quietly. “Really there. And I wasn’t.” His mouth twists, frustration and shame tangling together. “I was stuck in my own head. And I think—” He exhales. “I think I was blind on purpose. Because I was scared of what seeing you might mean.”

Will’s brow furrows. “Mike… I don’t quite—”

“I know,” Mike adds quickly, wincing. “I’m sorry. I’m doing it again.” He forces himself to slow down, breath long and shaky, then presses on before his courage evaporates. “What I’m trying to say is—I saw you this time.”

His voice tightens.

“And I still didn’t say anything. And that was… the worst possible response.” He shakes his head, a sharp, self-directed motion. “You trusted us with something huge. You trusted me. And I just… froze.”

He looks at Will then and the weight of that failure settles heavy in his chest.

Will’s mouth opens, then closes again. “I didn’t expect you to—”

“But that’s the point, Will,” Mike interrupts him, trying his best not to sound harsh. “You shouldn’t have had to expect anything. And I still wish I’d given you more.” His voice drops. “You didn’t deserve silence. You didn’t deserve me acting all weird and distant like that.”

Will’s hazel gaze dips for a heartbeat, then lifts again, guarded. “It’s fine,” he says too quickly, too practiced, the words worn smooth from overuse.

Mike shakes his head. “No. It’s not.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to, and he flinches immediately, but he doesn’t take them back. He can feel the moment slipping, feel how easily this could fold back into avoidance if he lets it.

“You were… so brave,” he continues, careful with the word. His throat constricts around it anyway. “And you tried to make it look like it didn’t cost you anything, but it did. I know it did. And I—” Frustration scrapes its way to the surface. “I should’ve said something... I should’ve—” His voice cracks, and he hates that it does, hates that Will sees it. “I should’ve made it safer, not… quieter.”

Will’s eyes widen a little at that. Like he doesn’t know what to do with Mike apologizing in full sentences.

Mike drags in another breath. His chest hurts with a sensation that feels like something in there is pressing against bone.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, hoping it finally lands the way he means it to. “For how I acted. For leaving you standing there with your heart in your hands while I… kept mine locked up like I always do.”

Will swallows visibly. He’s turned fully toward Mike now, no more half-angles or careful distance. There’s something in his eyes Mike can’t quite decipher. Something intense and colorful and frighteningly vulnerable.

“Mike, you didn’t leave me. You’re literally here...”

“I know that,” Mike intejects, then immediately soothes his tone because Will’s not wrong. “I know I’m here. I’m always here for you, Will. I always will. That’s not what I mean.”

He shifts closer, turning fully toward him now, mirroring Will without even realizing it. The wind tugs at their jackets, rattles the tower beneath their feet like it’s impatient with them, knowing something is about to break open and doesn’t want to wait.

“Can I ask you something?”

Will’s eyes flicker. He weighs the question, every possible outcome flashing behind them, before giving a hesitant nod.

“Okay.”

“What you said,” Mike proceeds, “about the crush… and the Tammy thing.” He hesitates, words catching. “You said… you thought he was your Tammy.”

Will’s face changes. Not dramatically and not enough that anyone else would notice. But Mike recognizes it regardless. The quick flash of alarm. The way something shutters closed behind his eyes, guardedness sliding into place.

“I—” Will starts, then stops. His voice turns careful. “Mike, you don’t have to...”

“I do,” he corrects, quietly but firmly, because if he backs out now he knows he’ll never circle back. “And you know why? Because I keep hearing it in my head. And I keep thinking about what it means. About what you meant.”

Will’s throat works. “It was just— I was explaining—”

“I know you were,” Mike replies. “And I’m not— I’m not trying to… put words in your mouth.” He laughs once, breathless, humorless. “God, I’m barely managing my own.”

Will’s wary eyes stay locked on him, seemingly bracing for a blow he's afraid he can’t see coming. “Okay.”

Mike’s hand flexes on the railing. He forces himself to look at Will when he says the next part, because it feels cowardly not to.

“When you said you had a crush,” Mike recalls, “my first thought was… I wondered if it was me?”

Will goes very still.

The wind surges through the metal beams, loud in the sudden, heavy tension. A flash of lightning slices across the sky and catches Will’s face in stark relief — shock first, then disbelief, then something like panic, flickering as if it can’t decide which way to run.

Mike’s heart lurches.

“I’m not saying it was,” he rushes, immediately, because Will’s expression makes him feel like he’s stepped on a landmine. “I’m not— I’m not assuming. I just—” He breaks off, jaw tightening, breath catching. “I heard it and I couldn’t not think it. Because I—” He shakes his head, flustered. “Because it lined up with too many things.”

His best friend stares at him, eyes wide. “Why would you—”

“Because I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. And today I… I think I started seeing them more clearly.”

Will glances back, eyes searching Mike’s face. “Like what?”

Mike takes a breath that feels like the seconds before jumping off a cliff. “Like the painting.”

Will's body stiffens imperceptibly.

Mike rushes on, heart hammering. “I never asked El about it. I should have, maybe, but—I don’t know. Part of me didn’t want to. Because when you gave it to me, and you said what you said—about me being the heart, about holding everyone together—it felt…” He falters, then steadies. “It felt real in a way I didn’t know how to explain. And later I started thinking—what if it wasn’t commissioned at all? What if it wasn’t El’s words I heard that day? What if it was just… you?”

The silence that follows is fragile enough to shatter.

“Mike, I—”

“I’m not mad,” Mike assures quickly, the words tumbling out before Will can retreat. “I swear. I’m not. I just—I think some part of me already knew. And I think I let myself believe it came from El because that was easier. Because it fit the story I was already telling myself.”

Will’s voice comes out thin. “You thought I— that I—”

“I think,” he chooses his words wisely, “that you cared. A lot. And I think I took that and… redirected it. Because I didn’t know what it meant if I didn’t.”

Another gust of air howls through the tower. Will looks stunned, caught between disbelief and fear. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to make you feel anything. Least of all bad. Or uncomfortable.”

“I know,” Mike says, softer now. “I know that. That’s the thing. You weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just… being honest." He pauses. "And that honesty scared me a little.”

Will shakes his head, clearly overwhelmed. He's biting the inside of his cheeks. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean—” He forces himself to finish, because half-truths are how he got here, and he’s done with them. “If you— if you were talking about me. And if I’m wrong, tell me. I’ll stop. I’ll drop it. I promise.” His breathing stutters. “But if I’m not— I don’t want to be the person you convince yourself you’re okay with losing. I don’t want to be the almost. The workaround. The thing you tell yourself never really mattered.”

He stares at Mike like he has suddenly grown a second head. “What are you saying?”

Mike lets out a breath that feels like it takes years off his life. He looks at Will and doesn’t look away. No. This time he does the opposite. He takes a measured step toward him. Then another. Unhurried. Intentional. Closing the distance as if he’s crossing a line he’s been standing in front of forever.

“I’m saying your speech caught me off guard,” he admits, voice stripped raw. “Because it made me realize I’ve been… doing my own version of pretending.” He stops when Will’s back meets the railing.

Will’s eyes flick down to Mike’s mouth, then back up like he’s afraid of what he might see there. Mike’s heart stutters at the action and now he's the one who's looking at Will's mouth. This time without hiding it.

“I don’t know what I am exactly,” Mike admits truthfully. “But what I know is… I don't want to be your Tammy.”

Will doesn’t breathe for a second.

Then, softly, almost accusingly: “You can’t just say that.”

Mike flinches, but he doesn’t retreat. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. But I’m saying it anyway because I don’t— I don’t want to keep doing this thing where I’m brave for monsters and cowardly for… you.”

Will’s face tightens, confusion and something else warring there. “Mike, I thought— I thought you and El...”

“I did too,” Mike concedes, and it hurts. “For a long time I thought that was what I was supposed to want. And I cared about her. I still do.” He closes his eyes briefly, shame hot behind them. “But somewhere along the way, I started lying. To her. To myself.” A thoughtful breath escapes him. “Honestly… I think El knew things before I ever really wrapped my head around them.”

Mike's right hand moves before he can overthink it, careful not to startle. The touch feels dangerously intimate, far beyond the safety of best friend, but he doesn’t stop himself. His fingers brush the seam of Will’s jacket, light and unsure. He doesn’t grab. Doesn’t pull. Just touches. Fabric under his fingertips, warmth beneath it. The grounding proof that this moment is real. That Will is real.

Will’s voice is barely audible. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Mike lets out a quiet, anxious laugh that doesn’t carry any humor. He keeps his hand where it is, anchoring himself as much as Will.

“The real question,” he says softly, eyes never leaving Will’s, “is why I haven’t done it sooner, isn't it?”

Skepticism flickers across Will’s face. Caution follows immediately after. He doesn’t look convinced, doesn’t look like someone who trusts the shape of what Mike just said, or the box Mike has just cracked open and set between them, its contents exposed and fragile and suddenly very real.

Will’s gaze drops to Mike’s fingers on his jacket seam. “If that’s a joke, Mike,” he mumbles, “it’s not funny.”

Mike swallows. He feels clumsy, all elbows and uncertainty. He’s stepped into a room where he doesn’t know the rules and he’s terrified of breaking something that can’t be replaced.

Am I allowed to touch him? Should I?

Something in him refuses to retreat.

He gathers what little courage he has left. Slowly, deliberately, he lets go of the seam of Will’s jacket. His hand rises instead and he gently lifts Will’s chin, just enough to bring his face up.

And the second Will’s eyes meet his, Mike pulls his hand back, like the choice was always Will’s and it always will be.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Will’s gaze wavers.

“You have to look at me to answer that question,” Mike points out, with the smallest edge of helplessness to it.

“I know that,” Will returns. Then his voice falters. “I just— it’s kind of hard to understand, Mike. You can’t blame me for that.”

"I don't," Mike swiftly replies. "God." He sighs, fed up with himself more than anything. "I'm really bad at this."

He rips the stupid beanie off his head and drags a hand through his hair, mussing it into worse chaos, as if he can physically shake the words loose.

“Listen,” he rambles on. “All I can tell you is this: I can’t stop thinking about you, Will.” A lump forms in his throat. “Like—actually can’t. It’s not something I’m choosing. It’s not something I can shut off. Not for one second.”

That finally makes Will look at him.

And when he does, Mike’s palms start to sweat.

They’re so close now that the air between them feels charged, tight, like it’s waiting for a decision. Mike takes Will in fully this time. Lets his eyes trace the familiar curve of his face, the line of his nose, the soft concentration in his brow, the slight chapping at his lower lip, the way his lashes tremble once before going still. Mike maps every detail like he’s afraid he’ll forget them if he blinks.

He knows he’s about to sound cheesy. But he also knows that he’d rather sound stupid than stay silent.

“I’ve been doing it for years at this point,” Mike admits, his voice barely carrying over the wind. “Watching you. Not like—” He winces, heat creeping up his neck. “Not like a creep. Just… when I’m not looking at you, I’m thinking about you. And when I am looking at you—” His voice stumbles, then stabilizes. “I feel like I’ve been standing in the wrong place my whole life.” He searches Will's face. “Does that make sense?”

Mike isn’t sure it does. Not even a little.

Will nods anyway. “It does.”

Something in Mike’s chest loosens, just a fraction.

“I’m not joking, Will,” he says firmly, because he needs that to be clear. “I’m blind and stupid, yeah. I was an asshole a lot of times, and I’m sorry for that. I really am.” His voice drops, no humor left in it, no defenses to hide behind. “But I would never joke about something like this. Not about you.” He hesitates, heart thudding, then forces himself through the last step. “Not about… liking you.”

The words hang between them. Simple. Terrifying. Irrevocable.

Will just stares at him.

His lips part slightly, then press together again. His throat works. He doesn’t say anything, and with every second that stretches on, Mike’s chest tightens, anxiety clawing its way up his ribs. He’s talked himself raw. Minutes of truth laid bare. He isn’t sure he has anything left in him to offer if this lands wrong.

“Can you—” Mike starts. “Can you say something, Will? Anything. If I misinterpreted—” He shakes his head, breath shaky. He realizes that he never even waited for Will to confirm it. The crush. The Tammy. Maybe he did read it wrong. Maybe he crossed a line that only existed in his head.

He starts to pull back, just a fraction. An instinctive retreat.

Will doesn’t let him.

Fingers curl into the front of Mike’s vest — sure, desperate — and yank him forward. The world tilts. Mike barely has time to register the movement before Will’s mouth is on his.

Mike’s eyes fly open in shock.

Will’s eyes are already closed, dark lashes resting against his cheeks like this is something he’s known how to do forever.

For a heartbeat, Mike is frozen, stunned by the warmth of it, the pressure, the realness. He registers, stupidly, how soft Will’s lips are. How they don’t even really move at first, just resting there. Mike takes too long to catch up. Because one second he’s trying to rein in his violently beating heart, trying to get used to the way his whole chest has turned into a field in bloom — bright and dizzying and too alive — and the next…

Will lets go.

Steps back.

The look on his face tells Mike everything. Shock, nerves, the sudden realization of what he’s just done.

“Sorry,” Will blurts. “I shouldn’t have, you—” The words start tumbling over each other, apology stacking on apology. Will trying to take it back before it can be taken from him.

Mike barely hears them.

Because there’s something in him that refuses to let Will turn this into a mistake. Refuses to let him fold himself up and retreat into shame.

“Will,” Mike breathes.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t analyze. Doesn’t second-guess. He steps forward before his brain can interfere, before fear can catch up and pull him backward into silence.

He closes the distance in one movement, hands coming up to cradle Will’s face, thumbs warm against his cheeks. Will stills under the touch, eyes searching Mike’s for half a second — just long enough to find the certainty there. The choice.

Then Mike kisses him.

It’s soft. Careful. Almost shy, like they’re both afraid the moment might vanish if they move too fast. Mike’s lips brush Will’s with a kind of reverence, the contact light enough that it feels like a question as much as an answer.

Will makes a quiet sound and leans in.

That’s all it takes.

The kiss deepens just a fraction. It’s unpracticed in the way first truths often are, a little unsure of where to land, but full of intent. Their noses bump awkwardly. Mike tilts his head the wrong way, then corrects, smiling faintly against Will’s mouth before he can stop himself. He can feel Will smiling too — barely, but it’s there — like relief sneaking in around the edges of something unexpected.

Mike feels the warmth of Will’s breath, the faint tremor that runs through him, the little sounds he makes into the kiss, and something twists low and bright in his stomach, sweet and so overwhelming.

Will’s lips are warm. Softly moving. There’s no rush in it. No hunger. Just a careful meeting of mouths, that are both afraid of startling the other into disappearing.

Mike deepens the kiss just further, more pressure than before, and Will exhales again — this time with more control — and leans into him. The movement is subtle, but it sends a strong, tingling thrill through Mike’s chest. He feels it everywhere: in the flutter behind his ribs, in the way his knees threaten to go weak, in the slow, blooming warmth curling in his gut.

Will’s hands hover for a second, caught between motion and restraint. Mike can feel the hesitation, the same fragile question that’s been looping through his own head this entire time — is this okay? am I allowed? — and then Will answers it by placing one hand at Mike’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. The other slides up to rest at the back of his neck, thumb brushing little circles into the sensitive skin there.

That does something to Mike.

He makes a quiet, involuntary sound into the kiss, and it’s messy after that. In the best way. They’re still gentle, still careful, but there’s more intent now. More certainty. Mike angles his head again, and this time it works. Their lips fit together better, learning each other in real time, muscle memory being written where there was none before.

And suddenly, Mike doesn’t know why it took him so long.

All the questions he’s been carrying — every doubt, every careful what if — they evaporate. Dissolve into nothing, like morning dew burning off the second the sun breaks through the clouds. There’s no static anymore. No second-guessing. Just this. Just Will. Just the undeniable rightness of it.

Will kisses back a little more boldly, just a brush of movement, just enough to make Mike’s heart stutter. It’s not smooth. They pause. Readjust. Breathe against each other’s mouths, sharing the same air, foreheads nearly touching, neither of them wanting to be the first to pull away again.

When they finally break apart, it’s only because they both need air.

Mike stays close, as if distance has become an unfamiliar concept. His forehead rests against Will’s for a second, the bridge of their noses touching, their breaths mingling in short, uneven pulls. The wind keeps trying to pry itself between them, cold and insistent, but the heat of Will’s face under Mike’s hands makes the whole ruined world feel far away.

Will’s eyes are wide when he opens them. Lively. A little wet around the edges. As if he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to be standing here with Mike’s palms cupping his cheeks and Mike’s mouth still tasting faintly of him.

Mike lets out a shaky breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

“Okay,” he whispers, because he needs some word to put in the air. Anything to make sure this is real. "So… that happened."

Will’s lips quirk — small, tremulous. "It did."

Mike’s thumbs move without thinking, caressing the skin along Will’s cheekbones. He can feel Will’s pulse under it, rapidly fast. Mike’s own heart is still doing gymnastics in his chest, but now it feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says suddenly, and then immediately grimaces, because of course that’s what comes out of him after kissing his best friend. “I mean— not for that.” He groans. “Definitely not for that. Just—” He huffs out a breath. “For… being late. To everything.”

Will’s gaze softens. “Mike…”

“I should’ve—” Mike starts, then stops. There’s no fixing the past in a sentence. No apology that can reach back through every missed cue, every cowardly detour, every moment he chose the safer story over the honest one. There’s no making up for years of wrong turns with one kiss on a radio tower in a dead world. He knows that. Will knows that.

So Mike doesn’t try to rewrite what’s already happened. He reaches for something else instead, something forward-facing. Something that proves he isn’t about to repeat the same mistakes with different words.

“I don’t want you thinking this was… a moment,” Mike clarifies. “Like I’m gonna come down from this tower and suddenly forget what I said. Or what you said. Or what we just—” His throat tightens. “I don’t know what comes next. I’m not pretending I do. But I do know I’m not taking it back.”

Will stares at him, throat working again. “You’re not… scared?”

Mike snorts softly, a breathless sound. “I’m terrified,” he admits. “I’m terrified of, like… everything all the time. That’s kind of my thing.” A flicker of a smile tries to form, fails. His face sobers completely. He leans in, close enough that Will can’t miss the steadiness underneath the shaking, close enough that the honesty can’t be misread. “But I’m not scared of you. Or this.”

Will’s face changes at that. The careful composure slips, the guard he’s learned to hold so well finally lowering. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief finally turning into something solid enough to hold.

Mike watches it happen and feels his chest ache in the best possible way.

He doesn’t hesitate and folds Will into him.

The hug is firm, encompassing, an instinct more than a decision. Mike wraps his arms around Will and holds him close, pressing his face briefly into Will’s hair, breathing his scent in as some kind of reassurance. Like if he can just keep Will here, warm and real against him, his brain won’t have room to sprint back into doubt.

Will’s arms slide around his waist immediately, gripping tight. He buries his face against Mike’s shoulder, breath shaking out of him, and Mike’s hold tightens without thought, one hand settling between Will’s shoulder blades. The other braces at Will’s side, a silent promise made with pressure instead of words.

They stand there like that for a moment, just holding each other, while the tower creaks and the storm churns overhead and the ruined world keeps spinning around them.

Mike’s chest feels painfully full.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, the words almost lost against Will’s hair. “Okay? I’m… I’m here.”

Will nods against his shoulder, too close for Mike to see, but he feels it. Feels the small, desperate confirmation of it.

When Will finally pulls back just enough to look at him, his hazel eyes are red-rimmed and damp. His smile is small, yet real enough to make Mike’s heart ache all over again.

“So what—” he gulps, voice catching. “What now?”

Mike’s breath catches on the question. It’s so simple. So huge.

What now.

He lowers his hands slowly, but he doesn’t step away. His fingers find Will’s wrist instead, then lace gently with Will’s hand. Will’s grip tightens almost immediately.

Mike looks down at their hands for half a second, like he can’t quite process it. Then he looks back up.

“I don’t know,” Mike conveys. “I mean— we probably have to not die first.”

Will chuckles, a sound that is pulled from deep inside his chest. It’s shaky, but real. Mike smiles, and it feels strange on his face, like he hasn’t worn one like this in a long time.

“But after,” Mike continues, voice softer, “I want to figure it out. Together, right?"

Will’s eyes shine again, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Together,” he whispers, as if he’s afraid to say it louder in case the world hears and takes it.

Mike squeezes Will’s hand.

“Hey!” A voice shouts from above them. “Are you two planning on setting up a picnic down there, or can we please get moving before Vecna sends a memo?”

Mike looks up, startled — and then groans. “Jesus.”

Robin leans over the higher platform, hands cupped around her mouth, grinning like she’s having the time of her life. “Seriously,” she adds, loud and unapologetic, “because from where I’m standing, this is very rom-com-third-act and I did not bring popcorn.”

Will lets out a laugh and Mike can’t help joining in. He glances back at Will, eyes crinkling. “You think she saw?”

“She definitely saw.”

"Coming," Mike calls back, though he makes no move to let go yet.

They stand there for another beat, the Upside Down breathing around them, the tower creaking beneath their feet, the sky pulsing faintly with distant lightning. Everything is still dangerous. Everything is still unknown. The world is still broken in ways that might never fully mend.

But Will’s hand is in his.

And that changes the shape of the unknown.