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“My butt fucking hurts,” Mike complains, leaning forward in his seat until the soreness from sitting for hours leaves his body.
He lingers there for a few moments before reverting back to his original position. The soreness surges back through him and he groans in annoyance.
Will’s elbow moves gracefully, peaking out past the easel and canvas in front of him.
Mike cannot see his face, but he can imagine exactly what it looks like—he’s seen it hundreds of times before. He has a certain look when he’s concentrating, and right now Mike assumes he is more concentrated than ever.
It’s Will’s nineteenth birthday and the only thing he begged for was to use Mike as a reference for a painting.
Though Mike had saved money to get Will a real, thoughtful present, he let himself be talked into it, which is why he is sitting in front of Will right now.
“I’m almost done, you big crybaby.” Will snickers and dips his brush gently into the cup of water before dragging it through the blue watercolor well.
He thinks carefully about the placement of his next stroke before bringing his brush to the canvas.
He peers over to the side every few moments, even though Mike swears Will should know what he looks like by now after more than a decade of friendship.
Something about sitting still for Will as he studies him stirs something in Mike. When Will looks over his body, a shiver is sent down his spine with it.
These shivers have been happening a lot more frequently, Mike has noticed. They’ve been living together for months now, ever since college started.
But the last few weeks, when they would sleep in each other’s rooms, or when Will would place a cup of coffee on Mike’s desk after he had spent multiple long hours studying for the upcoming exam, or when he caught a glimpse of Will, shirtless, stirring the teabag in his mug in the early morning, he felt a jolt like never before.
He didn’t know how to label this feeling—or why it was happening. He barely even let himself think about it too hard, because it sent him down a never ending spiral that ended in an ache in his chest and a pit in his stomach.
Mike didn’t know why he was noticing how perfect Will’s features were or just how nicely the fresh sunlight hit his face in the morning when he was sprawled in his own bed.
He didn’t know why he wanted to roll his eyes, gesture wildly at himself, and laugh when a boy came up to Will to start a conversation that so obviously had flirtatious connotations.
He told himself it was to protect Will. Because he was in college, making friends, and was out as a gay man, and people could use it against him. He was just making sure they didn’t. That’s all.
But here Mike Wheeler sits, pushing back the wishful thoughts that he could see the look on Will’s face right now as he paints him.
He can’t help but think how intimate all of this was. There’s something about being taken in, features completely considered and understood so well it can be accurately drawn onto a blank canvas.
And Will was always so good at capturing Mike’s essence, he can’t help but wonder how often he’s been drawn by Will.
He rocks his heels, pressing down against the floor on the balls of his feet, to try to relieve the pain from the hard wooden stool he sits on top of.
“Can you stop squirming?” Will swerves his head past the canvas.
“Sorry,” Mike mutters through half-closed lips.
Will hums as he makes a few more strokes, the final one with a tinge of drama and flare, before nodding. He sits back in his chair and looks over Mike one last time.
Mike looks up at him through his brows, watching as his eyes move from the canvas to Mike’s face. His cheeks warm up. Will’s eyes move back to the canvas, then to Mike’s chest. His heart leaps to his throat. Back to the canvas. Then back to Mike’s face.
“Okay, finished.” Will scoots his chair back, looking over the complete painting with pride.
Mike dramatically ragdolls, collapsing straight to the floor with his arms above his head to catch his fall. He slides down to the ground, taking note of the tension relieving from his back and bottom.
Will scoffs, a smile tugging on his lips. “We were only here for a couple hours. I even gave you a break!”
Mike looks up at him through a parted section of the curls draped over his forehead. It was a tad too long since Will had told him it looked good grown out.
“God, everything hurts!” Mike groans into the hardwood floor. He flops onto his back, the cold seeping through his thin pajama shirt.
Will rises from his chair, bones popping quietly, and stands over Mike, towering towards the ceiling. Mike looks up at him, a beat skipping in his chest.
Will’s hair falls toward the ground. His jawline was prominent at this angle, and so was the contour of his tight shirt, which made Mike just want to gulp at the sight of as he let his eyes fall further down Will’s figure.
He extends a hand out towards Mike, and he briefly wonders if this is what it would look like to be taken to heaven. Like he was a real life angel, whisking him away to paradise.
Mike would let him without hesitation.
He reaches out, letting their palms slip together perfectly, like they were made to fit, and Will yanks him up to his feet.
He pulls a little too hard, which causes Mike to gasp and stumble one step too far forward, suddenly too close to Will. Too much in proximity to his chest that he had just been admiring from the ground. Too close to his eyes that peered back into his own so warmly, so softly, so innocently. His lips—
Fuck. Absolutely not.
Mike pulls back a little too quickly. He notices the way Will’s eyes widen, and plays it off by letting go of his hand slowly as if he didn’t hate it. Because he didn’t.
His fingertips find their way against the nape of his neck, tugging at his own curls.
“Thanks,” Mike says sheepishly. Thanks?
“No, thank you. Now, I have a new masterpiece.” Will puts his hand in his pocket, steps back, and looks at his work. He has a proud look on his face.
Mike’s eyes soften. Then he looks away. His hand falls off his neck and he shoves both into his own pockets with a shrug. “I don’t know, that painting from when you lived in California is a tough one to beat.”
Will looks over to where it is hung above their couch. He tugs on his sleeve.
When he and Mike moved into this apartment, Will claimed he wanted to vomit at the plain, undecorated walls, and insisted they had to go shopping for artwork.
”Why don’t we hang up your art?” Mike had suggested as they stared at the empty space above the couch.
Will refused at first, arguing that his art wasn’t good enough, or that it was too egotistical to hang your own art in your home, but Mike didn’t budge. ”I even have one in mind.”
Will’s hand rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck, opening his mouth to argue, but Mike was quicker; he was already reaching for the nails and a hammer.
Mike has caught onto the slight nervousness that any mention of that painting evokes from Will. It’s happened multiple times now, which is by definition, a pattern.
Whether he actively avoids the topic by evading any conversation about it or diverts his eyes from Mike’s gaze, it was enough to help Mike deduce that there was something vulnerable at the core of it all.
This was also one of those things Mike refused to let himself think about for too long.
After defeating Vecna, the issues Mike faced were not as dangerous as the full-scale monsters and interdimensional travel, but they were battles he had to face entirely alone.
He began to notice things about himself, like how he wasn’t in love with El, which she was so understanding and supportive of when the topic arose.
Or other things that came with the subject of sexuality becoming a more popular topic throughout the years, especially at college.
He and El had a long talk about a month after Vecna died, circling back around to his inability to say “I love you.”
It was an annoying subject to Mike—he just struggled with feelings, as a teenage boy does.
But when she asked follow-up questions, like ”Do you like kissing me?” or ”Are you attracted to me?” his responses were less snappy.
He couldn’t even think of a response, but he wasn’t clueless enough to not know this shouldn’t happen in a healthy relationship. She didn’t deserve the answers that he could possibly give.
Somewhere in this long conversation, this painting that Will loved to avoid so much was brought up when Mike mentioned things that kept him grounded in their relationship.
Mike said Will telling him about how much El needed him made him want to push through the inner turmoil of a potential loss of feelings.
He had pushed all of the conflict to the side, telling himself he was looking at it wrong, and with this painting she commissioned, he and El were meant to be.
With genuine confusion, she looked at Mike. He clarified the meaning of “commissioned,” thinking that’s where her confusion lay. But, the next words that were about to come out of her mouth, as simple as they were, made Mike rethink everything.
I asked Will to make a painting?
That was the start of it. The start of his world crashing down on him. Of the comfortable facade he had built and lived in for years, caving in on him.
Everything else—the sexuality stuff—he had no clue how any of it applied to him. He’d been in a cookie cutter shape since birth, with his parents pushing girls onto him left and right.
But with all the exposure to his own independence came a lot of time to think.
He knew something was not the way it should be, but the only thing he did know—that Will was the root of all of it.
And here Will stands, looking at the painting above the couch, something looming in his eyes.
Mike pushed himself off the floor, twisting and stretching his tight limbs.
He steps behind Will and his hand gravitates to his lower back without a thought. “Do you want coffee?”
Will draws in a quick breath as his eyes snap to Mike. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”
One thing about their relationship was that it wasn’t a typical friendship you’d see between two boys.
They both knew it, but it was never acknowledged. It was just a known fact that lingered in the air, up for grabs if either of them wanted to talk about it.
They didn’t.
If someone had asked Mike about it years ago, he would claim they were just comfortable, having known each other for so long.
Now he stares at his open hand, still warm with the memory of that touch on Will’s back, and he wasn’t so sure.
He wills himself to open the cupboard. Ceramic clanks together as he sets two mugs down on the counter. He grabs the coffee pot off the warmer and pours them both three-quarters full.
The coffee was reheated and two hours old, but it was well-needed after doing nothing but sitting for so long.
He carefully leaves the kitchen, both mugs in either hand, and leans over Will, who sits on the couch.
He dangles the mug in front of Will’s chest.
Will peers up at him, which makes Mike want to fold at the sight of, accepting the mug with a smile.
God, it chewed him inside and out.
He feels his eyebrows instinctively react with a slight raise.
The other side of the couch dips down when he climbs onto it.
Will’s focus returns back to the TV, which is streaming the newest episode of some reality show.
Will crosses his legs on top of the coffee table, mug still close to his chest, which he lifts to his mouth to sip every few moments. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows and his free arm is folded against his taut chest.
He brings the cup to his mouth, but giggles breathily at something the people on TV had said, pausing. Mike’s heart skips a beat—he almost grabs his shirt at the abrupt feeling.
Will looks over at Mike quickly, gesturing toward the television, and mutters between laughter, “Did you hear that?”
Mike nods, laughing back because it felt right, but he didn’t hear the question—not really. His eyes don’t leave Will’s lips as they brush his mug mindlessly.
He is captivated by the screen and is unaware of his movements, unaware of what he’s doing—specifically to Mike.
His breathing becomes more shallow, less rhythmic, as Will presses the cup to his lips.
Why was this driving Mike insane?
Will’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and the breath hitches in Mike’s throat. It seemingly closes in, pressurizing the air stuck inside.
He forces himself to look at the TV screen.
“Hey, did I show you what Jonathan got me for my birthday?” Will asks, interrupting all the confusing thoughts barreling through Mike’s mind.
Mike wonders if his face gives away his thoughts. “No, I uh, I don’t think you did.”
Will sits forward, planting his feet on the floor, and gently pulls the drawer under the coffee table open. His fingers search for something inside and eventually pull out a small bag containing two joints.
“Are those—“
“Yep,” Will interrupts. “He handed this to me after dinner last night. I’m surprised you didn't notice, it wasn’t his sneakiest moment.”
Everyone had gotten together at their apartment the night prior—El, Lucas, Dustin, Max, Mrs. Byers, Hopper, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, and Robin.
It was their first time hosting an event at their new home, and it was such a special night; everyone hadn’t seen each other in awhile, with school and everything. Thankfully, everyone was home from college for break, so not only was it Will’s birthday celebration, but also somewhat of a reunion.
They played games, gave gifts, and talked about their new lives.
Max and Lucas were still going strong, both living together and going to college, but pursuing their own passions. Dustin was doing pretty well in his school, sticking strong to his studies after graduating as Valedictorian. El was still finding herself. Hopper and Joyce were soon to be married. And Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin had ultimately decided to live together in a small 4-bedroom in the suburbs.
Will and Mike even made dinner instead of buying takeout like they normally did.
That experience, which was not short of laughter and putting ingredients anywhere other than the mixing bowl, did end in a successful meal that everyone seemed to enjoy.
Will shakes the bag in his hands, a mischievous smile tugging on his lips. “It wouldn’t be a bad way to celebrate turning nineteen…”
Mike laughs and rolls his eyes. A typical Mike Wheeler response.
Will scoots closer, now turned fully towards Mike on the couch. Quiet panic settles within him.
He rolls his eyes again, masking the nerves flooding through his system. “Okay, sure, why not?”
A playful grin finds its way onto Mike’s lips as Will opens the Ziploc, handing one of the joints to Mike.
He takes it, fiddling with it in between his fingertips unfamiliarly. He’s smoked once before as a dare at a high school graduation party, but he swears that joint was faulty.
Will leans over to grab a lighter from the same drawer.
Mike lets the cylinder rest in between the knuckles of his first and middle finger, like he’s seen done by other people before. It felt comfortable there.
Will was close now, way closer than before. Mike’s back is against the couch’s arm, his legs crossed. Will’s were crossed, too, and were pressing against Mike’s.
The pressure increases as Will leans forward to light the joint between Mike’s fingers.
All Mike can see is Will’s face focused on his hands. His eyes are so intense, but somehow make Mike feel so calm and safe doing something he’s almost never done before.
The tip illuminates an effervescent orange glow and as the smoke wisps through the air, Mike watches Will for a moment, who nods.
Mike brings the end closest to him to his lips, gently, and inhales, a burning sensation flooding his throat, and he coughs, smoke roughly escaping his lips.
He then laughs, because all of this really is just stupidly hilarious, which only makes the coughing worse.
Will giggles and waits for his coughing to still.
He hands Mike the lighter next, and places the joint between his own lips.
Will leans forward again, eyes firmly placed on Mike’s, who can’t tell if the pressing feeling is still coming from Will’s legs against his or the aching in his chest as the space between them decreases.
His eyes don’t leave Will’s, who watches him eagerly as the lighter catches aflame.
Here, Mike lets his eyes drop down to take in the sight—his soft lips, separated partially in the center for the cylinder to rest between. He sits patiently for Mike, and this knowledge alone makes Mike feel insane.
He lifts the lighter to Will’s mouth, but his eyes don’t leave Mike’s as they wait for his joint to ignite.
Will inhales, brings his two fingers to his mouth, and exhales without breaking eye contact once.
And suddenly his throat is closing in again at the sight, like he needs to cough it all out like before, but can’t. Like all his breath is leaving his system and his throat is collapsing from the lack of sustainability.
Oh, my god, that made him feel some sort of way he couldn’t label. How could you even describe that? Hot? Completely and utterly breathtaking? Literally?
He brings the joint to his lips again instead of saying anything, because he’s afraid of the response that would splutter from his mouth. The burning sensation is not as intense.
His throat closes around the earthy warmth, and blows the smoke out of his mouth.
This time around, the heaviness on his eyes is much more noticeable, though he recalls getting plenty of sleep the night prior.
His heart steadies, though it was just leaping out of his chest at the sight of his best friend doing something so normal in such a way so indescribable.
His thoughts fluttered from one idea to the next, and laughter burst from his lips for no reason. He quite literally has nothing to be laughing about, and Will knows this, which makes him laugh, too.
Will takes a long inhale.
The thoughts in Mike’s head are so loud, and suddenly the urge to say literally every single one of them is, too. “Did you know you’re, like, totally breathtaking?”
Will snickers, leaning his shoulder and head against the back of the couch. “You are high.”
His laughs echo in Mike’s head. He leans his head back, soaking them in, secretly praying they would play on repeat. He whispers, “Maybe. But it’s true.”
“Mike.”
Will’s eyes are half-open as his head rolls against the couch.
Mike’s eyes flick back over to Will, and he is sober for a moment when his name comes out of Will’s mouth. It felt right to hear, but was unexpected.
Mike hums expectantly.
His eyes close. His head sinks further into the couch. “Nothing, I just wanted to say your name.”
Mike nods, like that answer made complete sense and was the only answer in the world that would ever make sense. He decides to try, too. “…Will. Oh—“
And suddenly it does make sense. Saying his name felt so right, and he wants to do it a million times over again. It brought comfort stronger than he’d ever felt before, like his name was an anchor to home.
“Will,” Mike whispers. He sinks deeper.
“Mike,” Will whispers back, like calm water. He opens his eyes, and his hand slowly finds its way to Mike’s knee. Their eyes meet. “Let me paint you again.”
He stands up slowly, pressing his legs against the couch for stability, and holds both hands out in front of Mike.
He helps Mike up, stumbling over each other on the way back to the dreaded stool. His whole backside is already throbbing at the sight of it.
Their hands don’t leave each other until Mike sits and he doesn’t know if his hand is tingling from the weed or Will’s nonexistent touch.
Suddenly Will has a new canvas and saturates his brush, drops of water falling to the floor as he slowly brings it over to the watercolor palette.
Mike finds himself only able to think about his hand as Will mindlessly paints, how he wishes it was still on Will’s.
His thoughts feel so loud, like the only things that matter on Earth, and paranoia sinks through his chest as he wonders if all of his thinking really is just in his head.
Either he must have gotten lucky or Will was choosing not to say anything about them.
He is not sitting there for nearly as long this time, and when Will says he’s finished, Mike comes up to his feet and crosses the border between the painter and the subject. His eyes land on the canvas, and he is struck with complete awe.
His painted self was completely disfigured, the body entirely separate from the head. The lines were squiggly and swirly and it was anything but an accurate resemblance.
“Wow, this is literally terrible, Will.” Mike can’t help but laugh. He nearly folds over.
“Hey,” Will whines, “I was distracted. I couldn’t focus.”
Mike straightens, definitely aware of how close they are now. Will had to actually look up at him. “Distracted? Distracted by what?”
“Well, you were muttering some bullshit nonsense the whole time.” Will laughs and the world stops.
Shit, he really was saying all that out loud.
His laughter never really stops, only strings itself into smiles and escaped breaths. Mike’s eyes gravitate down to Will’s mouth, and suddenly that’s all he can think about, like it’s the only thing to exist in the extent of the universe.
And he swears he tries to look away, but his throat is dry and he is captivated—and now he can’t stop.
“What were you talking about?” Will asks in a whisper. His words are quiet, but still louder than the rest of the world feels right now.
It was a good question, because Mike wasn’t entirely sure which thoughts had made their way into reality. “Just that I liked the way your touch felt.”
He doesn’t mean to say it but suddenly the words are out, and feel so tangible now. Will could do whatever he wanted with this small confession.
“My touch?” Will asks, confused, but heat rushes through Mike from the brush of Will’s hand on his fingertips. He giggles softly as Mike swallows.
Why does his mouth feel so dry? Why is—Oh my god, and Will’s hand is on his and everything is so bright, the colors are so vibrant, and Will is bringing Mike’s hand up to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. And it’s such a sight to see as Will leans into Mike’s palm.
Will’s face is cold for a few moments until Mike’s warmth invades.
He tries to choke out a few words, but nothing seems fitting enough to say, so he laughs nervously instead.
He takes the opportunity to let his other hand find its way on the other side of Will’s face, somewhere in his hair.
Mike looks everywhere but at Will’s gaze, which he feels burning straight into him, because he knows if he makes eye contact right now, he’s going to have to face the consequences of his actions later.
He knows he’s already going to have to figure everything out later.
But the only thing Mike is sure of right now is how beautiful Will is and though he might not know how he feels about boys in general, he knows how he feels about Will Byers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
His whole world shatters before him. He’s always denied any feelings for his best friend—Mike? Liking boys? It felt absurd.
But now, as all of his thoughts and beliefs about Will become so much more real and clear as he holds him this close, it didn’t feel as crazy.
He’s never admitted it before, but he allows his mind to think about it now, to divulge into its existence, since it’s currently inhabited by weed and very strong weed at that.
He didn’t have time to think about the meaning of it all, just that the feelings were there.
Mike inhales as steadily as he can, tugging gently at the hair at the back of Will’s head. Will lets out a small noise that makes Mike’s heart run incessantly; it floods his senses, and suddenly all he wants to do is hear more of it.
Any doubt he may have had about his previous realization was out the window.
Holy shit. What’s wrong with him?
And now he can’t help but let his eyes fall onto Will’s, which look up at him with a glimmer of—what was it? Desire? Whatever it was, it pierced Mike with rampant inner panic.
“Is this what you wanted?” Will whispers. His words are soft but Mike swears he’s a siren from how it lures him in.
If Mike didn’t know any better he’d let himself assume Will was flirting. It’s foolish to assume it’s anything other than just the drug in his mind.
Mike nods breathlessly. Hands crawl up to his hips, and Mike can feel as they settle there against his bones, pulling in, not too much, but the pressure is there.
Here, he wanted to risk over a decade of friendship, he wanted to ruin it, to feel it all crumble under him.
And even though he’s accepted that he’s into Will Byers, he doesn’t have it in him to do it. Not yet.
To think everything could change right now if he just let it.
But he won’t do it to Will.
To do that would feel like taking advantage of him—because, even though they were both high, Mike knew Will was gay and would rather die than let him believe he was using him to discover things about himself.
He’d rather carve his own heart out.
Finding out Will was gay was not as surprising as it was to other people—though Mike had no clue, suddenly the comments said to Will over the years, as rude as they were, started making sense. Even the ones he regretfully had said, as well.
He confessed it completely out of the blue one night while watching a movie in the basement of Mike’s old house. Mike’s head was on top of Will’s lap, eyes focused on the screen. Will had been fidgeting anxiously the whole time up until he blurted the words out.
Mike, of course, was ruled by confusion and asked him to repeat himself, which he feels like was one of the worst things he could have responded with.
When he caught it the second time around, he reassured Will profusely that it didn't change anything.
But Will doesn’t know it made Mike feel closer to him than ever. Or maybe he did—it wasn’t too hidden.
So, now, with Will’s fingertips buried into his hips, he can’t help but let guilt infiltrate his mind at the reminder of Will’s confession, so he steps backward, removing his hands from Will’s face and hair, thinking of any way to change the subject. He really doesn’t want to, but it’s what’s best for Will.
“We still have that leftover cake, right?” Mike asks gently. The pit in his stomach helped him decide what to say. Clearly.
A burning sensation lingers where his hip bones jut out.
Complete confusion strikes Will across the face, and Mike’s gut wrenches at the sight.
Suddenly he wonders if that was the right choice.
Mike forces himself to walk into the kitchen and opens the fridge. The door bangs against the kitchen counter, revealing a rare sight—a stocked fridge.
It’s only stocked because he and Will had gone grocery shopping for party essentials.
Mike’s eyes find what he was in search of—the red velvet cake on the blue cake platter. It is hard to miss since it’s taking up almost a whole shelf.
He pulls it out and sets it on the counter, yanking the drawer underneath open and grabbing a fork. He sets an extra on the countertop just in case Will comes in.
In fact, he does it in hopes that he does come in so that he could prove that everything was normal and he didn’t almost just fuck up their whole friendship. They would just go back to how it used to be.
Even though that’s not what Mike had in his interests at all.
Mike digs his fork in and crumbs tumble down onto the platter with the motion. Will’s footsteps echo lightly to the entrance of the kitchen, and as he watches Mike he stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight against his chest.
He leans against the wooden frame, cross-legged with an intense look.
Mike peeks up at him through his lashes, too worried of the look on Will’s face to commit to the stare.
His heart thumps through the thick hazy sensation he feels throughout his body.
Will doesn’t move.
“What the hell was that?” Will demands.
Mike’s heart anchors itself to the floor at the tone in Will’s voice. It’s not exactly angry, but more so confused? Irritated?
The fork clanks softly against the platter. Mike lifts his chest and chin up, palms pressing into the countertop. “I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.”
The drugs in his system are highlighting the boldness inside of him that he’s almost never capable of using with Will. Like in Lenora over break, or when Will came out to him in his basement, or literally minutes ago when his hands were tangled in his features.
He’s always been a coward. And even more when it comes to Will.
“Leftover cake, Mike, seriously?” Will quotes him and rolls his eyes. But he can’t really be mad, not right now, so he laughs softly until it turns into uncontrolled laughter, which Mike can’t help but join in on.
He catches his breath. The floating feeling intensifies and he grabs onto the counter behind him for stability.
He swallows tightly and lets his mouth move before his mind. “I’m sorry if I, I don’t know—overstepped.”
Will hops up onto the counter, now looking down at Mike across from him. His legs are parted, dangling over the cabinets below, hands folded in his lap.
The air shifts from something capable of provoking laughter to something deeper and more vulnerable. It’s like a slap to Mike’s face even though he started it; suddenly the topic of conversation felt so real to him and the haze started to dissipate.
“You overstepped? I thought I scared you off.” Will leans forward slightly.
This breaks the funnel of thoughts in Mike’s head, exploding all at once in confusion. How could he have overstepped when Mike was the one head over heels?
“What? No. No, it’s not like that. I mean—maybe a little bit, but not in that way. I guess I—I did get scared but more scared of, like, manipulating you?”
“But you’re not manipulating me?”
“No, but, I feel like I am. I mean you’re…” Mike trails off. God, he couldn’t even let the words leave his mouth. “You know…”
Will’s eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion for a moment before he understands what Mike is getting at. “Gay?”
“Yeah.” Mike gestures towards him in agreement. Will scoffs. “And I… Well, I don’t want you to think that because you like boys that I’m like—using that against you?”
“Mike, you’re confusing me. What do you mean?”
He nods, admitting in silence that he was being extremely vague.
“I don’t know. I…” Mike trails off. But he knows exactly what he’s trying to say. He just doesn’t want to say it.
He actually regrets saying anything. That little tinge of boldness? He wanted it gone.
Now he was stuck talking about this situation, knowing it was going to eventually lead to something he can’t take back, and Will would probably hate him forever.
But the look in Will’s eyes is so sincere, so gentle, and so inviting, and a pang shoots through his heart. He hates keeping him in the dark.
“I guess I just don’t want you to think I’m doing all of these things because I don’t want to… Because I do. And I don’t know why for sure, but I don’t want you to think it’s because I’m… experimenting on you?” Mike answers the best he can with his mind not being at full capacity.
Will just looks at him. Mike begs him silently to say something. Anything. He just laid out all of that in front of him and needed Will to do something with it.
After opening and closing his mouth a couple times, Will finally decides what to say. “And you’re saying… what exactly?”
He really didn’t want to have to say it outright. Sure, let’s have Demogorgons and interdimensional travel, but not telepathy when he needs it the most.
“Fuck, I’m trying to say that I’m fucking into you.” Mike breathes out.
These words strip him of his confidence almost completely. This conversation could go any direction.
He shuddered at the slight chance that Will might not even think of him in that way.
A pause.
“Are you serious?” Will asks, his voice small and fragile.
Mike’s eyes feel like they’re going to pop out at how wide they’ve opened. “Why would I lie about that? Shit, I’ve been going insane for the last couple years.”
Will’s eyes go wide. A bullet of clarity digs into his chest. “Last couple years?”
Mike closes his eyes in embarrassment, leaning back against the counter. “Yes. Ever since El and I broke up. At least—that’s when I noticed it, but honestly, it’s been happening ever since I’ve known you. And I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to lose you.”
And Will goes silent again. This time, it wrenches Mike’s guts even more.
He mentally prepares himself for rejection and how awkward the next few chapters of his life will play out.
“You really are clueless, huh?”
What?
Mike’s confusion must be painfully obvious, because Will continues, his words shaky and unplanned. “Mike… you basically just told my, like, life story. I’ve been “into you” for so long it’s embarrassing to admit.”
The gears in Mike’s brain shift, working together for once. Things were adding up—things that didn’t quite make sense before.
The painting was one of them, which had an inconclusive reason for its existence up until this moment. The evidence had piled up over the last few years, starting with what Will had told him in the van—that El had commissioned it, and that she needed him in her life, when what she really needed was stability and independence.
This had become clear to him in the next set of evidence—his and El’s breakup.
Everything about his feelings had become so clear over time; all of it crashed down into his reality when she had brought everything up, and suddenly their demise was inevitable.
But this was the missing piece, and his clueless haze was beginning to clear up: Will wasn’t speaking from Eleven’s feelings then. He was speaking from his own.
Mike searches Will’s eyes for any signs of falter. “You’re serious?”
He takes a step forward, now inches away from Will’s legs that still dangle down below him. His foot taps against the wood haphazardly.
Will moves his head to look down at Mike as he’s closer now. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
Will has made him discover so many new things about himself, put himself so far out on the line, and take so many risks. It only feels right to verify the stance Will takes on the situation. “You asked me first.”
Will rolls his eyes and nods slowly. “Yes, I’m serious, Mike.”
His eyebrows jolt upwards instinctively. The admission makes all of this feel so much more real, but the world around him still feels a little fake.
Will’s legs part slightly and he continues to speak in Mike’s absence of a response. “So… what are you going to do about that?”
Holy shit.
He was inviting Mike in, giving him space to make a countermove.
And the words that just came out of his mouth did things to Mike that made him want to rush in immediately, closing the space between them and evoking the same sound from him now that he heard when he tugged on his hair earlier.
But knowing now was the chance of a lifetime, he takes a slow step forward, letting his hands find their way up onto Will’s knees, pushing them even further outward.
It gives him enough space to move in closer, Will’s knees closing against his hips.
Mike’s hands trail up to Will’s side. His heart is racing and his head is wild but instinct leads his actions.
Will swallows as Mike looks him over, eventually meeting his gaze. They are inches apart and Will does not do any of the moving.
He stays put, watching eagerly and quietly as Mike brings one hand up to his face. It drags down, fingertips grabbing lightly at the hair on the bottom of his scalp.
The awaited groan escapes Will’s lips as his eyes flutter shut, which Mike’s mouth parts in response to.
A slight grin clings onto his open mouth and suddenly he can’t stop himself from pulling Will in and connecting their lips.
It was one abrupt kiss and Will disconnects it before Mike can go in for another, shoulders tight and an exhilarated look on his face.
A sharp qualm of fear is sent through Mike, thinking he did something wrong.
Will’s eyes dart between Mike’s, searching for something within.
But he must find what he was looking for because he rushes back to Mike’s lips like it was his only mission in life.
Warmth floods his senses, it’s all he can feel. Their lips adjust to each other, finding a rhythm that makes sense to them.
Will’s arms wrap around Mike’s neck and a lifted hand digs into his curls. Now Mike groans into Will’s mouth at the sudden tug, which evokes a reaction of deeper, intensified kissing.
Will pulls backward, exposing Mike’s neck. He lets his kisses trail down his jaw to his neck, nipping at his skin, tempting and bare.
Is this fucking real? This is all Mike can think as Will pulls back, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he looks at Mike’s neck.
Mike can only imagine the extent of the marks he’d have to cover up later.
Mike manages to pull him closer; Will is on the edge of the counter, legs and arms wrapped around Mike, and Mike’s fingers are yanking at Will’s sweater in an attempt to bring him in further.
Nothing was close enough.
After waiting so long for this, he craved Will’s touch and now that he was finally getting it, he wants more. If that’s even possible.
Mike is snapped unwillingly back into reality by the landline ringing.
He pulls back, exasperated.
Will’s lips are red and wet and his breathing is quick and uncontrolled—and hell, is it a sight.
Will walks over to the phone, answering in the most normal voice he can achieve. It wasn’t very convincing.
Mike stifles a laugh, but inside is going fucking ballistic.
I just kissed Will fucking Byers. I just kissed my best friend. I just kissed a boy.
And god, did he enjoy it.
He is completely sober now, or at least he feels like it, and all of his nerves are crashing down on him at once.
He knows everything is going to change now.
But will it really?
It was Will. It was the boy he’s grown up with. The boy he met on the first day of school, the boy he asked to be friends with, and the boy who made his life exponentially bearable as they got closer. He knows Will. So why would anything change?
Mike steps close behind Will as he’s on the phone. He can tell by the conversation it’s Joyce wishing him a happy birthday.
His hands slither around his waist. Will’s body tenses and he stops talking mid response. “Thank you, Mom. Hey, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”
Mike rests his chin on Will’s shoulder. Joyce is understanding and says goodbye.
“Love you too, Mom,” Will mutters quickly. He thrusts the phone into the holder and spins around to look at Mike. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” Mike admits, shocking even himself. He really is just running with the boldness tonight.
“Yeah? Well, I bet I understand more than you think,” Will says. His arms find their way around Mike’s body again.
Mike gives him a daunting look, daring him to take action. “Prove it.”
Will moves in at the provocation, pausing just before their lips meet, knowing he has Mike right where he wants him.
His look is playful, but Mike’s is desperate, and he truly just can’t do it anymore, so he surges forward into the kiss.
Their bodies move flush against each other, Will’s movement strong against Mike’s chest.
He pulls back slightly to catch his breath for the shortest amount of time possible before rushing back in again, hungry for more.
He still can’t believe how real all of this is.
His hands mindlessly move to the back of Will’s neck and Will’s dig into the fabric on his back. His skin burns under his fingertips, his lips melt under his reciprocated touch.
His lips feel electric. Will’s tongue runs along his bottom lip, which he parts in surprise at the feeling.
Their tongues collide, at first feeling unfamiliar and rough. But they soon find the calm of the sea, moving at a steady pace.
He knows how Will tastes now and he’s never felt more accomplished in his life.
The kissing becomes slower, more controlled, but still passionate. They pull back, foreheads against each other as they gasp for breath.
God, the intimacy of it nearly kills Mike right here.
He lets out a short, breathy laugh.
“Happy Birthday.”