Archive of Our Own ^beta

England

Will has always loved arrival more than departure.

There’s something about the moment the plane touches down—about the brief, collective stillness before everyone unbuckles and reaches for their bags—that makes him feel like he’s allowed to be someone else for a while. Someone without a history. Someone who exists only in the present tense.

England smells like rain and jet fuel and coffee when they step outside Heathrow. The sky is a washed-out gray, low and heavy, but not threatening. Just… there. Mike squints up at it like he’s trying to decide whether it’s disappointing.

“That’s it?” Mike says. “That’s the famous British weather?”

Will laughs, the sound surprising even himself. “Give it time.”

They’re both running on maybe four hours of sleep, their backpacks too full, their nerves stretched thin in that pleasant, buzzing way that comes from having said yes to something enormous. Will keeps checking that Mike is still beside him—on the escalator, through customs, onto the train into the city—even though he knows he is. Mike always is.

The hostel is tucked down a narrow street in Bloomsbury, all brick and ivy and a faded blue door with peeling paint. Inside, it smells like detergent and toast and too many people. There’s a chalkboard listing weekly events—pub quiz, walking tour, movie night—and a girl at the front desk with a nose ring who switches between English and Spanish without missing a beat.

“Six-bed mixed dorm,” she says brightly, handing over keycards. “You’re in with a couple from Denmark and two guys from Berlin. It’s a bit of a party room,” she laughs. “Lockers are under the bunks. Sheets and towels are on the beds.”

Mike blinks at her. “Right. Yeah.”

Will nudges him gently with his shoulder, amused. “Thank you,” he tells her, steering Mike down the hall. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Just—this is… a lot.”

Will understands that feeling intimately. He’s felt it every time the subway doors slide open in New York and spill him into a neighborhood he doesn’t recognize over the last year. Growing up in Hawkins didn’t prepare them for life outside of their tiny town. It was jarring for Will, at first. The difference is that now, standing here with Mike, the feeling is softer. Safer.

Their room is exactly what Will expected: cramped, mismatched, faintly chaotic. One of the Berlin guys is already there, shirtless and cheerful, waving as they come in.

“Hey! You American?” he asks.

Mike nods. “Yeah.”

“Cool. I’m Stefan. You want beer later, yeah?”

Mike glances at Will, eyebrows raised, like he’s checking the answer. Will smiles. “Sure.”

They drop their bags onto the lower bunks across from each other. Will claims the window side without thinking; Mike doesn’t comment, just tosses his hoodie onto his bunk and flops dramatically onto the mattress.

“Okay,” Mike says, staring at the ceiling. “I’m officially in Europe.”

Will watches him for a second too long. “How does it feel?”

Mike turns his head, smiling, their eyes meeting. “Like… I forgot something important. And then suddenly remembered.”

Will just laughs. 

“This is your first time?” Stefan asks, as he pulls on a shirt and begins buttoning it haphazardly. 

“For both of us,” Mike answers. 

“You will enjoy,” Stefan promises. “The clubs are extremely fun. And the girls are very attractive.”

Mike’s eyes slide over toward Will briefly before he answers Stefan. It makes Will want to sink into the floor. “Good to know. We can’t go to clubs in America.”

Stefan laughs, his eyebrows shooting up dramatically. “You are eighteen, yes?”

“We’re nineteen,” Will says. 

“You can go,” Stefan says. “I will take you.”

Mike lets out a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

“Of course. You are in London now,” Stefan says, like that explains everything. He finishes buttoning his shirt wrong—one button off—and doesn’t bother fixing it. “You cannot just… sleep.”

Mike snorts and finally sits up, propping himself on his elbows. “I mean, I’m not opposed.”

Will rolls his eyes. “You fell asleep on the train.”

“That was strategic,” Mike says. “I’m conserving energy.”

Stefan grins like he doesn’t believe him for a second. “We leave in one hour. You will want a shower. Many people will come from the hostel, you will have fun.”

He disappears back out into the hall, humming to himself.

The room settles into a quieter kind of chaos—distant voices, footsteps on the stairs, someone laughing somewhere below them. Will unzips his backpack and starts pulling things out slowly, methodically, grounding himself in the familiarity of it. Mike just lies there, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for it to do something interesting.

“So,” Mike says. “The club?”

Will hums. “We don’t have to go.”

“I know.” Mike turns his head to look at him again. “But it might be fun. Right?”

Will shrugs, trying for casual. “Probably.”

Mike studies him for a second, like he’s trying to read something in his face. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” Will says, too quickly. Then, softer, more honest, “Yeah. I think it would be fun. I mean, we’ve never been to one before.”

That seems to satisfy Mike. He grins and flops dramatically back onto the mattress. “Wow. Europe is already changing me. I’m being spontaneous.”

Will smiles to himself as he lines his sketchbook up neatly with his clothes. He doesn’t point out that Mike has always been spontaneous—just not usually like this. Not open. Not relaxed.

They shower in shifts, using towels that smell aggressively of detergent. When it’s Will’s turn, the water is lukewarm at best, but he barely notices. His thoughts are too loud.

By the time he gets back to the room, Mike is sitting on his bunk tugging a clean T-shirt over his head. Will catches the brief flash of skin—collarbone, the soft dip at the base of his throat—and turns away before Mike notices him watching. He hates it when he has moments like this. He has spent the last two years getting over Mike, and he’ll be damned if he lets himself fall into old habits on this trip.

“Hey,” Mike says, rummaging through his bag. “Which shoes?”

Will blinks. “What?”

“These.” Mike holds up two pairs like it’s a life-or-death decision. “Which ones say ‘I belong in a European club’?”

Will laughs despite himself. “Neither of those say that.”

“Will, come on,” he whines.

“The left ones,” Will says. “They’re less… Hawkins.”

Mike brightens immediately. “I knew you’d know.”

Something about that—I knew you’d know—lands warm and heavy in Will’s chest. He looks away before Mike can see his expression.

When they head downstairs, Stefan is already waiting, flanked by a few other hostel people Will recognizes only vaguely. The night air is cool, the streets buzzing even this late. London feels alive in a way that makes Will straighten his shoulders, like he’s being invited into something instead of tolerated.

“The Americans!” Stefan calls, waving them over. “Come on, we are having shots.”

“Sort of,” one of the girls says, blanching at the bottle that Stefan is holding, a brown paper bag around it to conceal the liquid inside. They continue passing it around and all taking swigs, some longer than others. 

“Hi, I’m Will,” he says. Mike introduces himself and they are immediately handed the bottle as a barrage of names are tossed at them that Will is certain he will not remember in five minutes. Mike grins at him and wiggles his eyebrows before taking a rather large swig from the bottle, choking only a little at the after taste. 

“Bottoms up,” he tells Will, shoving it into his hands. As he could’ve guessed from Mike’s reaction, it was terrible. The group starts walking and drinking and laughing, and Will can’t help but feel like this is an alternate reality. 

As they walk, Mike drifts closer to him without thinking, their arms brushing occasionally. Every time it happens, Will’s skin sparks like static. Mike’s pace matches Will’s, staying just close enough that Will can feel him there without being crowded. It’s small. Thoughtful. The kind of thing Mike does without realizing it’s intimate.

The club itself is loud and dark and pulsing, lights slicing through the space in erratic bursts. Will doesn’t love it—but he doesn’t hate it either. He sticks close to Mike, who seems to be having the time of his life just taking it all in. The more he drinks, the more he begins to like it. 

At one point, Stefan presses beers into their hands. “To Europe,” he declares.

Mike clinks his bottle against Will’s. “To Europe.”

They drink. They laugh. They drink.

The beer is warm and slightly bitter, nothing special, but Mike makes a face like it’s the worst thing he’s ever tasted anyway. Will laughs, the sound tugged out of him easily, like the night keeps handing him reasons to loosen up.

They don’t dance—not really. Not the way the people around them do, bodies loose and confident and unbothered by space. But they move enough that it counts. A sway here. A shift of weight there. Mike bounces slightly to the beat, shoulders jerking in a way that’s more enthusiasm than rhythm.

At one point, the music changes—bass heavier, lights strobing red and blue—and Mike leans in close to Will’s ear.

“Okay,” he shouts, far too loudly, “if I did dance, hypothetically—”

“You don’t dance,” Will shouts back.

“I’m saying if I did,” Mike insists, crowding closer so Will can hear him. His breath is warm against Will’s ear, his mouth so close that Will can feel the shape of the words. “—would I be, like, embarrassing?”

Will laughs, shaking his head. “Yes.”

Mike gasps theatrically. “Wow. Brutal.”

He doesn’t move away, though. If anything, he stays close, one hand lifting to gesture wildly as he continues narrating his thoughts—about the DJ, about how British people somehow look cool doing nothing, about how he’s pretty sure that guy over there is wearing sunglasses indoors.

None of it makes sense. Will laughs anyway.

He laughs because Mike is flushed and bright-eyed and alive in a way Will hasn’t seen in years. Because this version of Mike—unburdened, present, leaning into the world instead of bracing against it—feels like something fragile and precious. Will is suddenly so grateful for the friends he made in New York at school who urged him to do this. He had been so surprised at how fast Mike had agreed to go, but now he understood it. Mike had been as desperate for escape, for new experiences outside Hawkins, as Will was himself.

The night goes on.

At some point, Will becomes aware of being watched.

A girl stands a few feet away, dark hair pulled back, her expression open and curious. She smiles at Mike—not shy, not aggressive. Just interested.

Mike notices a second later.

He smiles back politely, reflexively, the way he’s always smiled at strangers. It’s warm, brief, unassuming. He even lifts his bottle slightly, like a greeting.

And then—almost without thinking—he turns.

He leans toward Will, mouth opening like he’s about to say something. His eyes flick to Will’s face, searching, expectant.

“What?” Will asks. 

The moment stretches.

It’s only a second. Maybe less. But it’s long enough for Will to feel it everywhere—in his chest, his throat, the backs of his eyes. Long enough to wonder what Mike was going to say. Long enough to feel, suddenly, chosen.

Mike blinks, like he’s just realized what he’s doing.

He straightens with a soft laugh, glancing away, something like embarrassment crossing his face. He takes a longer drink from his beer than necessary and shifts his weight, creating space where there hadn’t been any before.

Will looks away too.

He pretends not to notice the way his heart stutters, trips over itself. Pretends that moment didn’t affect him. 

The night carries on around them—music surging, laughter bursting, bodies colliding—and Stefan eventually comes back to dance with them. Mike’s eyes staring into his are suddenly forgetting, or forcefully forgotten, and they have fun, they have so much fun. 

When they finally stumble back to the hostel, feet sore and ears ringing, it’s well past midnight. Probably hours passed. They climb the stairs quietly, collapsing into their bunks with shared, breathless laughter.

“That was—” Mike starts, then stops, grinning into his pillow. “That was actually really fun.”

Will lies on his side, facing the window, the city lights smeared across the glass. “Told you.”

Mike goes quiet for a moment. Then, softer, “I’m really glad you’re here with me.”

Will closes his eyes.

“Me too,” he says, meaning more than he can safely explain.

“Shut the fuck up,” someone says from the other side of the room, in a thick accent.

Mike bursts into laughter and Will hears him cover his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Will whispers, holding back his own laughter. 

Outside, London hums on—unbothered, generous, full of possibility. And Will lets himself believe, just for tonight, that this trip might be just what he wants it to be. 

The next day they spend the afternoon walking with no real destination. That’s the thing Will has learned to love most about being away from Hawkins—how the city doesn’t demand a purpose. They wander past bookshops and parks and pubs older than anything Will can properly conceptualize. Mike keeps stopping to read plaques, to point at architecture, to ask questions like, “Why are the doors so small?” and “Is that church still in use?” as if Will should have all the answers.

At one point, rain starts without warning—fine and misty, barely a drizzle—and they duck into a café with fogged-up windows and a chalkboard menu written entirely in cursive. They sit shoulder to shoulder at a tiny table, knees knocking under the wood.

Mike pushes his coffee toward Will without asking. “You’ll like this. It’s not too bitter.”

Will smiles. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Mike says, confidently. “I know you.”

Something about the way he says it—easy, certain—makes Will’s chest tighten. He stirs his drink slowly, watching the milk swirl in.

“You’ve changed, you know,” Mike adds, quieter.

Will looks up. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Mike says immediately. “No. Just… different. In a good way. It’s like, you’re finally happy all the time instead of just sometimes.”

Will hums, considering. “I feel happier.”

“Because of New York? Or…”

“Yeah, I guess. I think some of it is just growing up and getting out of Hawkins. It’s kind of suffocating for me.”

Mike nods in agreement. “Yeah, I think I’m starting to feel like that too. Hawkins sucks now. Maybe I should come to New York.”

“Maybe,” Will says easily, knowing he didn’t really mean it. “You’re still changing, even in Hawkins.”

Mike snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“You have,” Will insists. “You’re—” He stops himself, unsure how to finish the sentence without saying too much. You’re softer. You’re braver. You look at the world like you’re finally letting it look back.

Mike watches him closely, like he’s waiting.

Will clears his throat. “You’re taller.”

Mike laughs, loud and unselfconscious, and the sound settles something inside Will that he didn’t realize had been restless. He really did miss Mike. They talked on the phone sometimes and sent letters, but it just wasn’t the same. Ever since what happened with El, it seemed like there was always something off with Mike that he couldn’t shake. For the first year, it was like he didn’t want to move on. He told Will once about his conversation with Hopper, and how that had changed the way he viewed the world and grief, and missing El, and moving on. Will is pretty sure that whatever Hopper said had really changed Mike’s entire world, and he was so grateful for that. Will was so glad to have Hopper around, and glad it had worked out with him and his mom. It was good, in the end. 

That night, they all end up at a pub down the street—sticky floors, low ceilings, music playing too quietly to matter. Will nurses a cider while Mike talks to Stefan and the others about college and movies and whether American accents sound “fake” in real life.

At some point, Mike drifts back to Will’s side, their shoulders brushing.

“You good?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Just tired.”

Mike nods, then leans in slightly, his mouth close to Will’s ear. “I’m really glad you talked me into this.”

Will’s heart stutters. “You didn’t need much convincing.”

“Still,” Mike says. “Wouldn’t have done it without you.”

The words linger between them, fragile and unexamined.

“That’s what friends are for,” Will says easily, laughing softly. 

“Best friends,” Mike says, grinning and nudging him. Will hates the way his chest tightens at the words, and the proximity of the boy who is saying them. 

“Mike,” Stefan calls, waving his arm. “I have American question!”

Will feels his cheeks color and suddenly can’t think of anything more important than whatever the hell Stefan is animatedly saying. 

Later, back at the hostel, they get ready for bed in companionable silence. As the room settles around them—breathing, shifting, the distant hum of the city—Will closes his eyes and tells himself this is enough. That this is what best friends do. That the warmth curling low in his stomach is just jet lag, just excitement, just the strange, temporary magic of being somewhere new.

He believes it.

For now.

France

France feels louder than England.

Not in sound, exactly—but in color, in motion, in the way everything seems to insist on being noticed. The buildings are warm stone instead of brick. The streets curve instead of cut straight through. Even the air feels heavier, scented with bread and smoke and something sweet Will can’t name.

They take the train from London early in the morning, knees brushing under the tiny table between the seats. Mike dozes almost immediately, head tipped toward the window, mouth slightly open. Will tries to read but keeps glancing up, watching the reflection of Mike’s face in the glass as the countryside blurs past.

At some point, without fully waking, Mike shifts closer. His shoulder presses into Will’s, solid and warm, and his head falls onto Will’s shoulder. 

Will stares up at the ceiling and sighs softly. He tells himself not to overthink it. Mike has always been touchy when he’s tired. It’s just proximity. Just convenience.

He wishes that it didn’t make his stomach flip. He wishes that he could just be normal about Mike. He doesn’t know what it is about this trip that is bringing back all the feelings he’s buried over the last few years, but he is getting tired of it. He doesn’t want to be the pathetic boy he was in highschool, yearning for a best friend that doesn’t want him back. He thought he had grown out of that. 

Paris greets them with chaos: traffic, voices layered over one another, scooters weaving dangerously close to the curb. Their hostel is up three narrow flights of stairs, the kind that make Will grateful for a year of city living and make Mike swear loudly behind him.

“Do people just—live like this?” Mike pants.

Will grins over his shoulder. “You get used to it.”

“Fucking hell,” Mike nearly sings. Will just laughs at him.

Their room is smaller than the one in London, the window cracked open to let in distant sirens and laughter from the street below. They dump their bags and immediately head back out, fueled by adrenaline and the unspoken understanding that sleep can wait.

They walk for hours.

Paris unfolds around them like it’s showing off—wide boulevards opening into sudden plazas, quiet side streets that smell like coffee and damp stone, bridges that feel too pretty to be real. Will tries to keep track of where they are, but the map is a lot more confusing in Paris than it was in England.

Mike squints at it. “Okay, so either this map is lying, or Paris has decided to rearrange itself specifically to mess with us.”

“We’re not lost,” Will says automatically.

Mike stops walking. “Will.”

Will stops too, turning back. “We’re just… exploring.”

“That’s what people say when they’re lost.”

Will smiles anyway. “You’re having fun.”

Mike considers that, then nods. “Yeah. I am.”

They end up in a tiny café by accident, the kind with only three tables and a chalkboard menu entirely in French. The man behind the counter rattles something off at them with alarming confidence.

Mike freezes. “I—uh—”

Will steps in, ordering for both of them in careful, practiced French. The man nods approvingly and disappears into the back.

Mike stares at Will like he’s just watched him perform magic. “Since when do you speak French?”

“I don’t,” Will says. “I just know how to ask for coffee and pastries.”

“That was, like, a lot of French.”

Will shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Art school class requirement.”

Mike grins, leaning back in his chair. “Wow. You’re cool now.”

Will snorts. “I was always cool.”

Mike laughs so hard he nearly knocks his chair over. “Absolutely not.”

They eat croissants that shatter into flakes everywhere, powdered sugar dusting Mike’s jeans. Will points it out. Mike brushes at it uselessly, making it worse.

They try the metro next and immediately get it wrong.

The train doors close behind them with finality, and Mike looks at the map above the door, then at Will. “This doesn’t look right.”

Will squints. “It’s fine.”

Three stops later, it is very much not fine.

They end up in a neighborhood that feels residential and quiet, laundry hanging from windows overhead. Mike steps off the train and looks around.

“On the bright side,” he says, “we’re definitely experiencing Paris.”

Will laughs, breathless, the sound echoing down the platform. “We can walk back.”

They do—arguing over directions, stopping for street food, sitting on the edge of a fountain with their feet dangling dangerously close to the water. At one point, it starts to rain, sudden and warm. They huddle under an awning, shoulders pressed together, watching the street blur.

Mike nudges him. “This is kind of romantic, right?”

Will’s heart does something unpleasant. “You’re thinking of the movies.”

“Still counts.”

By the time night settles fully, they’re exhausted and glowing with it, feet aching, minds buzzing. Paris looks different after dark—quieter, softer, lights reflected endlessly in the river.

As they continue through the city, Mike keeps drifting closer without seeming to realize it.

It starts small. Standing too near when they stop to squint at menus written in looping French script, his shoulder brushing Will’s arm as if the space between them is optional. When Will hands him coins or a receipt, Mike’s fingers brush his—quick, careless touches that still send a jolt straight through Will’s chest. When Mike talks, he leans in automatically, even when the street is quiet enough that there’s no need to raise his voice.

He doesn’t notice. That’s the worst part.

Mike has always been like this—affectionate without thinking, warmth given freely. But here, in Paris, it feels sharpened somehow. Intentional without intention. Gentle, in a way that makes Will’s chest ache. 

Will tries to compensate by pulling back, by keeping his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, by focusing on the city instead of the boy walking half a step too close to him. But Mike keeps finding him anyway, adjusting his pace to match, angling his body toward Will like gravity is doing the work for him.

They slow near the river, the water dark and reflective beneath the streetlights. Will’s feet drag without him meaning them to.

“You okay?” Mike asks, glancing over, concern immediate.

Will forces a smile. “Yeah. Just taking it in.”

Mike studies him for a second, eyes warm and curious, like he’s trying to read something just under the surface. Then he smiles—soft, almost fond. “You do that a lot.”

Will looks away before his face can give him away. “Someone has to.”

They buy cheap crepes from a street vendor who doesn’t bother asking what they want before handing them over. Will burns his fingers on the paper, hissing softly.

Mike laughs. “Careful.”

“I am careful.”

“That is not what that looked like.”

They sit on the edge of the Seine, legs dangling over the water, shoulders brushing in a way that feels unavoidable now. Boats pass slowly beneath the bridges, lights trailing across the surface like broken stars. The city feels quieter here, like it’s holding its breath.

Mike talks while they eat, gesturing with his crepe as he goes, powdered sugar dusting his knuckles.

“I’ve been working on this short story,” he says. “It’s kind of… weird.”

Will turns toward him, attentive despite himself. “Weird how?”

Mike shrugs. “It’s about this boy who keeps dreaming of roads that don’t exist anymore. Like he knows he’s supposed to go somewhere, but every time he tries, the map is wrong.”

Will listens, heart tightening. He knows this Mike—the one who circles his feelings instead of naming them.

“I don’t know how it ends,” Mike admits, tearing off another piece of crepe. “I think I’m scared to finish it.”

Will watches him chew, watches the crease form between his brows like the answer is just out of reach. Watches his hands, ink-stained and expressive and familiar.

“You’ll figure it out,” Will says gently.

Mike bumps his knee against Will’s, an easy, affectionate nudge. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Mike hums, pleased, leaning back on his hands. The sound vibrates low in his chest, and Will feels it more than he should. For a terrifying second, Mike turns toward him fully, their faces closer than they’ve been all day.

Will’s breath catches.

He thinks—absurdly—that this might be it. That Mike might say something. That he might finally look at Will the way Will has been trying not to look at him since England. That this fragile, shimmering thing between them might finally tip into words.

Then a boat glides under the bridge, laughter drifting up from its deck, and Mike’s attention is stolen away.

“Whoa,” he says softly, watching it pass.

The moment slips through Will’s fingers, dissolving into the night.

Will stares out at the river, heart pounding, and tells himself—again—that this doesn’t mean anything.

He tells himself that he’s fine.

Later—after more wandering than they can account for—they end up at the Eiffel Tower almost by accident, following the crowd until it rises in front of them, impossible and sparkling. Will has seen pictures, obviously. Everyone has.

It’s nothing like this.

They sit on a low stone ledge with a dozen other people, legs stretched out, sharing a bottle of cheap wine Mike insisted on buying. The tower lights up on the hour, glittering like it’s alive.

Mike exhales slowly. “Holy shit.”

Will watches the lights, the reflection in Mike’s eyes. “Yeah.”

For a while, they don’t talk. The city hums around them, distant laughter, the river moving steadily on. Will feels suspended in the moment, like if he moves, it might break.

Mike shifts, then leans—just slightly—until his head rests against Will’s shoulder.

It’s easy. Casual. Like it belongs there.

Will goes very still.

Mike sighs, content, eyes still on the tower. “I’m really glad we did this,” he says quietly. “Just us.”

Will swallows. His chest feels tight, full to the point of pain.

“Me too,” he manages.

The lights sparkle brighter, and something in Will gives way. The realization hits him with awful clarity, sharp and undeniable.

I am in love with you.

The thought sits there, heavy and true. He hates it immediately. Hates that it’s still here. Hates that after all this time—after New York, after distance, and healing, after telling himself he was past it—Mike can still undo him just by leaning close.

Will closes his eyes briefly, breathing through it.

He doesn’t move away.

He lets Mike stay.

Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a guitar badly. Laughter drifts through the air in bursts.

“This is—” He exhales. “I can’t believe you’ve been doing stuff like this without me.”

Will’s throat tightens. “I haven’t.”

“Well, not like Europe. But other stuff. New York fun stuff.”

“I didn’t want to,” he says before he can stop himself.

“You didn’t?” Mikes voice is soft.

Will shrugs, eyes fixed forward. “I always want you there.”

The words spilled out of him in the wrong way, like they always seemed to. The silence that follows is thick, weighted. Will is painfully aware of every inch of space between them. Of how easily it could be crossed.

Mike sighs contentedly, eyes closed. “I’m really glad it’s just us on this trip.”

Will swallows hard. “Me too.”

He lets himself stay still. Lets the moment exist exactly as it is, even though it’s tearing him apart. Because he knows—he knows—that if he moves, if he speaks, if he lets himself want too much, he might lose this entirely.

And Will can’t survive that.

Not again.

Italy

Italy hits them like a wave.

The air is thick and warm, clinging to Will’s skin the second they step off the train. It smells like heat and stone and something citrusy, like someone peeled an orange nearby and forgot about it. The light feels different too—brighter, harsher, the sun reflecting off pale buildings until everything looks slightly unreal.

Florence, though it almost doesn’t matter. It could be anywhere in Italy and feel like this.

The city doesn’t seem to believe in restraint. Laundry hangs between buildings like prayer flags, fluttering lazily above narrow streets. Music drifts out of open windows—something old and melodic from one, something loud and modern from another. People talk with their whole bodies, hands moving like punctuation marks, standing far too close and not caring at all.

Mike turns in a slow circle as they step onto the street, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. This is different.”

Will smiles despite himself. “You say that every country.”

“I mean it this time,” Mike insists. “This place feels… loud. In a good way.”

Will understands immediately. He feels it too—like the city is pressing in on him, asking something of him. Demanding participation.

The walk to the hostel winds through streets that feel too narrow for cars and too busy for walking. Mike keeps getting distracted—by a street performer playing violin near a fountain, by a group of people arguing animatedly over gelato flavors, by a dog wearing what appears to be a silk scarf.

“Why is everyone here so cool?” he asks, half awed.

“They’re not,” Will says. “They just don’t care if they look like it.”

“That’s worse,” Mike mutters. “That’s unattainable.”

The hostel announces itself before they even see it—laughter spilling out onto the street, music thumping faintly through the walls. Inside, it’s chaos in the best way. The lobby doubles as a bar. The front desk is plastered with flyers for pub crawls, cooking classes, day trips, all of them aggressively enthusiastic.

A courtyard opens up in the back, strung with warm yellow lights that glow even in the early evening. Someone is already dancing barefoot near the bar. Someone else is arguing loudly in Spanish about football.

Will feels something in his chest loosen.

Before Will can even process it, the room erupts into motion.

A group of people—Italians, he realizes immediately—spill toward them in a flurry of voices and laughter. Someone claps Mike on the shoulder. Someone else grabs Will’s arm like they’re already friends.

“Ciao! Ciao!” a guy with dark curls and an open button-down says, grinning. “Americani?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, laughing, a little startled.

“Benvenuti!” another voice chimes in.

And then it happens.

One after another, they’re pulled in—hands on shoulders, hands at their backs—kissed on both cheeks with dramatic enthusiasm. Will barely has time to register one before there’s another. Left cheek. Right cheek. Warm breath. Laughter right in his face.

“Sorry, sorry,” a girl says cheerfully, already kissing Mike’s cheek. “We do this.”

Mike blinks, then laughs, caught off guard but clearly delighted. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. This is—this is happening.”

Will’s ears burn, but he can’t help laughing too, swept up in it. The affection is loud, unapologetic, completely unselfconscious. No one asks permission. No one hesitates.

Someone hands Will a drink. Someone else slings an arm around Mike’s shoulders like they’ve known him for years.

“You drink with us tonight,” a guy declares, pointing between them. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” Mike says easily, glancing at Will. “Yeah, we’re in.”

The room feels suddenly smaller, fuller. Ten people at least—maybe more—talking over one another in a blend of Italian, English, and something else Will can’t place. Music starts playing from a speaker someone produces like magic. A girl hops up onto her bunk to dance, nearly hitting her head on the ceiling and laughing when everyone yells at her.

Will stands there for a second, disoriented, heart racing—not with fear, but with something like exhilaration.

This is different from Paris. Different from England.

Here, closeness is assumed. Touch is currency. Affection is offered freely, without subtext or apology.

Mike leans toward him, voice pitched low so only Will can hear. “I think we just got adopted.”

Will laughs, the tension easing out of him despite himself. “Yeah. I think we did.”

Someone presses a drink into Mike’s hand. He raises it automatically, clinking cups with half the room.

“To new friends!” someone shouts.

“To Italy!” someone else adds.

Mike looks at Will, eyes bright, flushed already. “To Italy,” he says, smiling.

Will clinks his cup against Mike’s.

“To Italy.”

And just like that, something in Will loosens. The rules he’s been holding himself to—the careful distance, the quiet restraint—start to blur around the edges.

Italy doesn’t ask him to hold back.

It just pulls him in.

“This place rules,” he says, turning to Will. “I take back every bad thing I ever said about hostels.”

Will laughs, genuine and easy. “Give it a night.”

They barely have time to unpack before someone knocks on the doorframe.

“Bar crawl starts in twenty!” a girl with glitter under her eyes announces in a thick british accent. “First drink’s free. You lot coming?”

Mike looks at Will immediately, eyes bright, almost boyish with excitement.

“We’re doing it, right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Will says. “We’re doing it.”

Mike’s grin is instant and radiant. He grabs Will’s wrist without thinking, tugging him toward the door.

“That’s my guy.”

The words land warm and reckless. He keeps his hand wrapped around Will’s wrist all the way down into the lobby, and only lets go once they have been standing there for a moment. He looks back at Will as he grabs two beers from the cooler and hands one back to him. Their hands brush and Mike smiles softly at him. Will’s stomach flips as he takes it away and opens the can. 

It isn’t long before the entire group heads on to the bars. 

They start in the hostel bar, crowded shoulder to shoulder with people who already feel like friends. Someone presses a plastic cup into Will’s hand. Someone else shouts “Salute!” and everyone cheers like they know each other.

The drink burns on the way down. Will coughs. Mike laughs and thumps his back.

“Lightweight,” Mike teases.

“Shut up,” Will says, smiling despite himself.

They spill into the street in a loose pack, moving from bar to bar like a migrating thing. Each place bleeds into the next—cheap wine, loud music, sticky floors. Will loses track of how many drinks he’s had somewhere between a neon-lit club and a tiny place that serves shots in mismatched glasses.

Italy doesn’t seem to care how close people stand. Or how much they touch.

Hands on shoulders. Arms slung around waists. Strangers pulling them into laughter, into motion. At one bar, a woman grabs Will’s hands and spins him without warning, laughing when he nearly trips. Mike watches, amused, clapping when Will recovers.

“Look at you,” Mike says when Will stumbles back to him. “All European now.”

“Don’t,” Will says, dizzy and warm. “I’ll fall.”

Mike’s hands come up automatically, steadying him by the hips. It’s casual. Unthinking.

Will freezes for half a second too long.

Mike doesn’t seem to notice. He just leaves his hands there, grounding, solid, before letting them drop again.

Cheap shots in crowded bars. Stickers slapped onto their shirts. Someone yelling directions in three languages at once. Will loses count of how many drinks he has somewhere between the third bar and the fourth, when the music gets louder and the space between bodies disappears entirely.

Mike is flushed, laughing too hard at everything, his curls damp with sweat. He keeps finding Will in every room, like they’re tethered by something invisible. A hand at Will’s elbow. Fingers brushing his wrist. A grin flashed across the crowd like a secret.

At the last bar, there’s dancing.

The floor is packed, bodies pressed close, music thundering through Will’s chest. He tries to stay near the edge, to breathe, but Mike grabs his hand and pulls him in before he can think better of it.

“Come on!” Mike shouts over the music.

Will lets himself be dragged.

They start out laughing, moving awkwardly, the way they always have. 

It starts as movement—swaying, bouncing, laughing. But Italy doesn’t do half-measures. The rhythm sinks into Will’s bones, into his blood. He lets himself move with it, lets go of self-consciousness piece by piece.

Mike is right there with him.

Closer than he’s been all trip.

Their bodies brush constantly—hips, shoulders, hands. At one point, Mike’s hand settles at Will’s lower back, guiding him through the press of people. Will tells himself it’s just practical. Just crowded.

But Mike doesn’t move it.

But the music shifts—slower, heavier—and the crowd tightens around them. Someone bumps into Will from behind, and suddenly there’s nowhere to go.

Mike’s hands find Will’s waist.

It’s like the world narrows to that single point of contact.

When the beat drops, Mike laughs, loud and exhilarated, and pulls Will closer without asking. Their chests brush. Will can feel Mike’s heartbeat through his shirt. The heat of him is everywhere.

This is different.

Will knows it even through the alcohol haze. This isn’t Paris softness. This is something bolder. Less careful.

He should pull away.

He doesn’t.

The music swells. Someone shouts. The room moves like a living thing around them.

Mike leans in, mouth close to Will’s ear. “You having fun?”

Will nods, breathless. “Yeah.”

Mike smiles—wide, reckless—and dips his head closer.

“Good.”

And for the first time on the trip, Will doesn’t know where this is going.

Will sucks in a breath, eyes snapping to Mike’s face. Mike looks… gone. Pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open, gaze locked on Will like he’s the only thing left in the room.

Mike’s hands tighten, pulling Will closer. Their bodies fit together frighteningly well, moving in sync without instruction. Will’s heart pounds, the rhythm matching the music, the pressure, the impossible reality of this moment.

Some people around them are kissing, and Will notices that there are several men and women that are dancing exactly like he and Mike are, with men and women of their own. He hasn’t really seen any gay couples out much, even in New York, so this surprises and pleases his drunk brain and makes him smile. 

When he looks back at Mike, he blinks at how close his face is to Mike's now. Their bodies are flush against each other, and he feels Mike's hand against his back, pulling him even closer, as if he could get closer if he tried. 

They’re grinding. There’s no other word for it. Slow and deliberate and intense enough that Will’s brain short-circuits entirely. He’s painfully aware of Mike’s hands, Mike’s breath, the way Mike’s forehead dips forward until it rests against Will’s.

Will’s brain feels like mush between the combination of the alcohol and Mike pressed up against him like this. He can’t tell which way is up or down. 

He feels Mike’s hand slide up his neck and tug, and he leans back just enough to catch a glimpse of Mike’s eyes, drooping and intent, before he pulls Will into a kiss.

When Mike kisses him, it’s clumsy and desperate and probably fueled entirely by alcohol, but Will couldn’t bring himself to stop this even if he wanted to. Will’s hands come up automatically, gripping Mike’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss is messy. Teeth bump. Someone whistles nearby. No one cares.

Italy doesn’t care.

The world doesn’t end.

They kiss again—harder this time—and Will feels something inside him crack wide open. Mike’s mouth is warm and familiar in a way that makes no sense at all. Like this was always supposed to happen. Like Will has been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

Will gives into the moment and kisses back with the same energy Mike is giving him, and the kiss turns sloppy and wet immediately. Mike’s hands tighten on Will’s back and they are grinding against each other again to the beat of the music as they kiss. Will can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care. 

Eventually, someone pulls Mike away, shouting something about the next club, and the spell breaks as abruptly as it began. Mike just grins and tugs Will along behind him. They stay close to each other for a while, and then Mike is pulled into a conversation with someone else from the hostel and Will feels a small pit building in his stomach. 

Will lingers where Mike left him, the noise rushing back in all at once. The music feels too loud now. The lights too sharp. His mouth still tingles, like Mike’s name is burned into it.

He watches Mike from a few feet away—laughing, animated, one hand wrapped around a drink, the other gesturing wildly as he talks to someone from the hostel. Mike looks… normal. Like nothing seismic just happened. Like he didn’t just kiss Will in the middle of a crowded Italian club and crack something open that Will has spent years trying to keep contained.

Will presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, grounding himself. He tells himself not to panic. Tells himself this doesn’t mean anything. Tells himself it was alcohol, atmosphere, Italy.

The group starts moving again—someone shouting about the next place, hands grabbing hands, bodies spilling out into the street in a laughing, chaotic tide. Mike finds Will automatically, fingers hooking into the belt loop of Will’s jeans for a second before he seems to realize it and lets go.

“Hey,” Mike says, breathless, eyes still bright. “You good?”

Will nods, even though his chest feels too tight. “Yeah.”

Mike smiles, relieved, and bumps his shoulder against Will’s before turning back to the group. The contact is brief, casual—and somehow worse than the kiss.

They don’t stay out much longer. The night winds down in fragments: laughter echoing off stone walls, the sticky sweetness of spilled drinks on the sidewalk, Will’s feet aching as they walk. By the time they head back to the hostel, the city has softened, quieter now, like it’s finally exhaled.

The courtyard lights glow when they step inside. Someone collapses into a chair, groaning dramatically. Someone else is still singing, badly.

Mike drops onto a bench and runs a hand through his curls, pushing them back from his forehead. He looks exhausted now, flushed fading into something softer.

“That was—” he starts, then laughs quietly. “Wow.”

Will hovers nearby, unsure where to put himself. His body still feels tuned to Mike, like it hasn’t gotten the message that the night is over.

“Yeah,” Will says. “It was.”

They go upstairs together, the dorm already dim, the air heavy with the sound of sleeping bodies. Will moves on autopilot—brushing his teeth, changing into a T-shirt, avoiding mirrors. Mike does the same, movements slower, clumsier.

For a second, Will thinks Mike might say something.

He doesn’t.

Mike just flops onto his bunk with a quiet groan, turning onto his side to face the wall. “I’m dead,” he murmurs.

Will climbs into his own bed across from him, heart still racing, the silence suddenly too loud. The events of the night replay behind his closed eyes in vivid, unwanted clarity—Mike’s hands, Mike’s mouth, the way it all felt terrifyingly right.

“Hey,” Mike says suddenly, voice low.

Will’s breath catches. “Yeah?”

A pause. The room holds it.

“Night,” Mike says, softer than usual.

Will swallows. “Night.”

The beds creak as Mike settles, already drifting. Will lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the hostel—the distant hum of the city, someone snoring softly, the faint echo of laughter from somewhere below.

His mouth still tastes like Mike.

He turns onto his side, facing away, pressing his palm to his chest like he can keep his heart from doing anything stupid.

Will closes his eyes.

Nothing has been said. Nothing has been explained. And somehow, that feels worse than if it had been.

Because silence leaves room for doubt. For rewriting memory. For convincing yourself you made it all up.

Not the next morning, either.

Will wakes slow and aching, tongue thick, head pounding like punishment. For half a second, before consciousness fully settles, there’s warmth in his chest—residual, fragile. The echo of Mike’s laugh. The weight of his hands. The certainty, brief as lightning, that something real happened.

Then reality snaps into place.

The dorm is already awake. Someone’s rummaging through a bag. Someone else is laughing softly near the door. And Mike—Mike is sitting on his bunk, back against the wall, knees pulled up, reading something he picked up at the train station like nothing was amiss. 

Like he didn’t change anything.

“Morning,” Mike says, casual, easy.

Will’s stomach drops.

“Morning,” he manages. His voice sounds wrong to his own ears—too thin, too careful.

Mike doesn’t notice. Or does, and doesn’t say anything. He swings his legs down, stretches, complains about his neck. Normal. Completely, infuriatingly normal.

Will hesitantly gets up, his eyes following Mike as he braces to say something. He has to say something, right? They can’t possibly just ignore it. 

But Mike does ignore it. He starts pulling clothes on and getting ready immediately, like they always do in the morning. 

“Mike,” Will starts, his voice low so he doesn’t wake anyone else up. 

Mike looks at him with an expression that betrays nothing. “Let’s go,” he says. 

His eyes flicker briefly at Will, and then he turns away. 

Will feels his stomach twisting inside of him in the most painful of ways. That was his answer, he decides. Mike was drunk, and it was stupid. 

They go out for coffee because that’s what they do. Because routine is safer than thinking.

The café is bright and loud, sunlight bouncing off white stone and metal tables. Will squints, blinks against the headache, watches Mike talk with his hands while he orders, animated and warm and devastatingly familiar.

They sit across from each other. Talk about museums they didn’t make it to. About how hot it’s going to be later. About trains and schedules and how Joyce is going to want pictures of everything.

Mike keeps touching him.

A hand at Will’s back as they step off the curb. Fingers brushing his knee under the table like it’s muscle memory. His foot nudging Will’s when he laughs.

Every touch lands like a spark.

Will flinches internally each time, his brain lighting up with too many questions at once. Is this on purpose? Is he pretending? Is he waiting for me to say something?

Mike doesn’t kiss him.

He doesn’t even look at him like he did last night.

And Will feels like he’s slowly unraveling.

The day stretches on in pieces. Heat and noise and color blurring together. Will drifts in and out of conversations, nodding at the right times, smiling when Mike smiles. Inside, he’s running in tight circles.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Maybe it was just alcohol. Just Italy. Just a moment that only mattered to him.

The thought makes his chest ache in a way that feels dangerous.

Every so often, he catches Mike looking at him—just for a second, unreadable—and his heart stutters. Hope flares, sharp and stupid.

Then Mike looks away.

Will is determined to let the illusion shatter. He can’t hold on to this, not if Mike isn’t. 

The next few days pass quickly, and they are good. They really are. There are only moments that feel out of place, and Will knows that it’s only to him. Because Mike says nothing, and is acting completely normal again. 

By the time they’re packing their bags for the next destination—the last one, the nice one Joyce and Hopper insisted on paying for—Will’s nerves feel raw, scraped down to nothing. He folds clothes mechanically, hands shaking when he thinks too hard.

Mike hums while he packs. Sings under his breath. Normal. Fine.

Will sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the floor.

He doesn’t know how to ask about what happened without breaking something.

So he stays quiet.

He has gotten over Mike Wheeler before, and he knows he can do it again, if he has to. And he knows it deep in his chest—he does have to. 

The Villa 

The car winds up the hill slowly, the road narrow and flanked by olive trees that glitter silver in the afternoon sun. Will watches the landscape change through the window—city noise falling away, replaced by cicadas and wind and something like peace.

Mike leans back in his seat, unusually quiet.

When they arrive, Will understands immediately why Joyce and Hopper insisted on this.

The villa is small but beautiful—warm stone walls, blue shutters that look like they were painted by someone who knew exactly what they were doing, a terrace that stretches wide enough for a table and two chairs, overlooking the ocean and the cluster of white buildings that tumble down the hillside. The air smells of rosemary and sun-baked earth, mixed with salt from the sea. The kind of place that asks you to slow down, whether you like it or not.

“Okay,” Mike says finally, his voice low, almost reluctant. He’s standing in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, taking in the space like he’s trying to decide if he deserves it. “I get it.”

Will smiles despite himself. “Not against it anymore?”

“No,” Mike says. “I just… didn’t expect this.” His gaze flits to the terrace, the soft waves catching the sunlight, the mountains in the distance. His expression softens, but there’s a trace of disbelief.

Inside, the villa is simple but elegant. A small kitchen, the kind that makes you want to make meals just because you can. A sitting area with wide windows letting in the last of the afternoon sun, dust motes dancing in golden beams. And one bedroom.

One bed.

Mike freezes. Will freezes. The air suddenly feels thicker.

“Oh,” Mike says, voice flat, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

“It’s—” Will clears his throat, suddenly aware of how close they are in this space. “It’s fine. I can take the couch.”

Mike shakes his head immediately, brushing past him to the bed. “No. I mean. We’ve shared beds before.”

Not like this, Will thinks, his stomach tightening, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”

“Besides, after weeks of hostels,” Mike adds, turning to give him a grin, “I’m kind of happy not to be surrounded by strangers for a few nights.”

Will laughs quietly, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “Agreed.”

They spend the afternoon unpacking. Mike moves lazily around the space, checking drawers, flipping open windows, and making a joke about how Will will probably decorate with too many throw pillows. Will finds himself smiling at Mike more than usual, noticing how the sunlight catches the curls at the nape of his neck, the way his shirt clings slightly from the heat.

Will doesn’t know how he has allowed Mike to talk him into it, but a few hours later he is standing off to the side while Mike hands money to a bike rental employee. 

There is a single bike leaning against the stone wall near the villa, paint chipped, basket slightly bent, clearly meant for slow afternoons and not much else.

Mike is grinning before Will can even ask. “Blue one over there.”

“Are you sure these are safe?” Will asks, eyeing the thin tires and the narrow road that winds down toward town.

Mike spins one pedal idly with his foot. “They’ve survived worse tourists than us.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Mike grins, already climbing onto the bike. “C’mon. It’s downhill most of the way.”

Will sighs, long-suffering, and looks around for a bike. 

“They only have one,” Mike clarifies, motioning Will over to him. There’s no proper seat in the back—just two small metal pegs on either side of the rear wheel.

“Oh,” he says. “So I’m… standing.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, like it’s obvious. “You just hold on.”

Hold on.

Will opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. He doesn’t want to say no. He just—hasn’t done this before. Hasn’t stood this close. Hasn’t trusted balance to someone else in a way that feels this intimate.

“I’m fine,” he says instead, stepping onto the pegs carefully.

Mike glances back over his shoulder. “You good?”

“Yep,” Will says, immediately wobbling.

Mike reaches back without thinking, steadying him by the wrist. “Whoa. Okay, definitely hold on. Here.”

Mike grabs Will’s hands and wraps them around his waist, patting them as if that would keep them there. Then he smiles, soft and unmistakably pleased. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Will mutters.

They start slow. The road slopes gently, olive trees lining either side, the sea flashing blue through breaks in the stone walls. Wind rushes past them, warm and smelling faintly of salt.

He grips the front of Mike’s t-shirt, fingers bunching the fabric between his hands.

Will’s balance improves—but his hands don’t move.

He tells himself it’s practical. Necessary. The road is uneven. Mike swerves slightly to avoid a pothole, and Will’s chest presses tightly against Mike’s back. Instinctively, he tightens his grip on his waist. 

Mike laughs. “Sorry! Didn’t see that one.”

“It’s fine,” Will says quickly, even though his heart is doing something weird and frantic.

They pick up speed.

The wind is louder now, tugging at Will’s shirt, pressing him closer. The road curves, and Mike leans into it, steady and confident, and Will leans with him without thinking—his body trusting Mike’s before his brain catches up. 

“Fun?” Mike calls over his shoulder.

Will swallows. “Yeah.”

They pass a couple walking their dog. Someone waves. Mike lifts one hand briefly from the handlebars in return, then settles it back, steady as ever.

Will laughs, breathless and surprised by it. “You’re going to kill us.”

Mike grins wider. “Nah. I’ve got you.”

And—annoyingly, terrifyingly—Will believes him.

When they finally slow near the edge of town, Mike brakes gently and puts his feet down. Will steps off the pegs, legs shaky, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.

“That was…” Will searches for the word.

“Fun?” Mike offers.

Will meets his eyes, still smiling despite himself. “Yeah. Fun.”

Mike looks at him for a second longer than necessary, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the ride. “I should get those on my bike in Hawkins. They’re pretty fun.”

Will nods, though he can’t imagine a reality where he would stand on the back of Mike’s bike and ride around Hawkins. “Totally.”

And this time, when they head back up the hill later, Will doesn’t hesitate at all before holding on.

By evening, they cook pasta together. The kitchen is cramped, and they bump into each other constantly, hands brushing over flour-dusted counters. Mike laughs when Will nearly drops a tomato, and Will laughs in turn, the sound echoing in the small room. Wine glasses clink. Steam rises from the sauce, fragrant with garlic and basil.

When the food is finally done, they carry plates out to the terrace. The sky is turning pink, melting into deeper shades of purple and blue. The ocean is quiet, a slow rhythm that seems almost to breathe.

They sit side by side at the small table, shoulders nearly touching. Conversation comes easier now, safer topics resurfacing like muscle memory: art museums they’ll visit, the cities they’ve loved most so far, Mike’s new short story ideas, Will’s observations about the way the sunlight makes the ocean glitter. Their hands occasionally brush over the table, lingering a second longer than necessary, sending sparks through Will’s chest.

The villa grows quiet as the night deepens, but the stillness isn’t empty—it hums with possibility. The ocean stretches endlessly in front of them, dark and slow-moving, reflecting the moon in a shimmer that makes everything feel both intimate and impossibly vast. Will sits on the terrace with a glass of wine, letting the warmth of the drink spread through him, and he notices Mike watching him from the edge of the terrace, leaning against the railing, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes him look taller than usual.

Mike’s curls catch the moonlight. His eyes glint, sharp with mischief and something softer that Will can’t name.

“God, it’s beautiful here,” Mike murmurs. He leans back against the railing, stretching one leg out lazily. “I could stay forever. Just… this.”

Will swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, taking in the city below, the lights twinkling like they’ve been scattered by hand. “It’s… perfect.”

Mike looks at him then, not the city, not the lights, just him. And Will feels it—the small, electric tug in his chest that makes him want to move closer, to cross the terrace until there’s no space left between them.

Mike moves and sits down in the seat next to him, brushing against him as he sits down. It’s a small touch, almost accidental, but it makes Will’s stomach twist.

They talk about the trip. About Italy, about France, about everything they’ve seen—and about nothing at all. Laughter bubbles easily, too easily, because beneath the jokes, beneath the casual stories, there’s a tension that neither of them can name aloud.

At one point, Mike rests his head back against the railing, eyes closing, and Will notices how the moonlight traces the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. Will’s fingers itch to reach out, but he stops himself, keeping his hand on his glass instead, trembling slightly.

“You’re quiet,” Mike murmurs after a moment, eyes opening just enough to catch Will’s. “Everything okay?”

Will nods, though he doesn’t move. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Mike hums softly, tilting his head toward him, as if the proximity alone is enough. “Good thinking?”

“Stressful thinking,” Will admits before he can stop himself.

Mike freezes, eyes locking with his. There’s a long pause, where the air seems to thicken. Will’s heartbeat drums loud enough that he’s sure Mike can hear it.

“You’re always nervous around me,” Mike says, voice low, teasing, but not entirely joking.

Will can’t look away. He swallows hard. “I… I’m not—” He stops. Doesn’t finish. The truth tastes too sharp on his tongue.

Mike leans just a fraction closer, until their knees touch. “It’s okay,” he whispers. The words are soft, but they feel like a promise, like a question, like a warning.

Will’s chest tightens. His fingers curl around the edge of the chair. He wants to close the space between them, wants to feel Mike’s hands on his own, wants to stop pretending that everything is casual.

“Shut up,” he settles for. 

Mike just laughs.

They sip wine in silence for a while, letting the night stretch around them. And then, slowly, Will moves a little closer, careful at first, then with more intent. Mike doesn’t pull back.

“Want to go inside?” Mike murmurs, voice low and easy, but Will sees the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his gaze follows Will’s hands as they rest on his own knees.

Inside, the villa is warm, scented with rosemary and the faint lingering aroma of pasta. They leave the terrace doors open, the cool night air drifting in, carrying the sound of waves and the faint music from the city below.

Will changes into a T-shirt, feeling the soft cotton against his skin, and Mike follows suit. The bedroom is dim, moonlight spilling through the shutters, painting silver lines across the bedspread. They settle into the sheets together, side by side, shoulders touching, knees brushing, the world outside the villa suspended in a quiet hush.

Mike hums softly—a tune Will doesn’t recognize but that feels impossibly familiar—and Will lies awake for a long time, listening to the rhythm of his friend’s breathing, the faint lapping of the ocean below, the pulse of the night in the quiet house.

No words are necessary. Italy taught them chaos and noise. The villa teaches them something else: patience. Proximity. The kind of quiet that is almost dangerous because it makes you feel everything at once.

Will lies on his back, staring at the faint shadow the ceiling fan casts as it turns. The room is dark but not fully black—moonlight spills in through the open window, silvering the edges of the bed, the curve of Mike’s shoulder a few inches away.

Too close to ignore.

Not close enough to touch.

Every sound feels magnified. The slow rush of the ocean outside. The creak of the villa settling. Mike’s breathing—deep, steady, deceptively calm. Will wonders if he’s already asleep, if he’s always breathed like that and Will is only noticing now because everything feels sharpened, tuned too tight.

He tries to relax. Tries to let his body sink into the mattress instead of hovering just above it, alert to every shift.

Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten.

Then Mike moves.

It’s barely anything—a subtle roll of his shoulder, a bend at the elbow. The mattress dips slightly between them, the change registering in Will’s body before his brain catches up. His breath stutters, then stills completely.

Nothing happens.

Another minute drags by.

Mike shifts again, slower this time, like he’s negotiating with gravity. His arm inches closer—not touching yet, just near enough that Will can feel the warmth radiating from him, an invisible line drawn between their skin.

Will keeps his eyes on the ceiling. He doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t dare breathe too deeply.

The space between them shrinks by degrees. Mike’s forearm brushes Will’s shirt once—light, fleeting, almost accidental.

Mike freezes.

Will does too.

The contact lingers just long enough to be unmistakable before Mike pulls back a fraction, like he’s reconsidering, like he’s decided he went too far.

Will’s heart pounds painfully in his chest.

He waits.

Time stretches. The room hums with unsaid things.

Then, cautiously, Mike tries again.

His arm slides back, slower now, more deliberate. This time it settles at Will’s waist, resting there with almost no weight, as if Mike is only borrowing the space, as if he’ll pull away the second Will reacts.

Will’s body goes taut, every instinct screaming at him to either lean in or pull back—do something.

He does neither.

He lets the moment exist.

Seconds tick by. Ten. Twenty.

Mike exhales, long and quiet, the tension easing out of him in a way Will feels more than hears. The arm at his waist tightens just slightly, enough to make the contact real, undeniable.

Mike shifts closer, careful not to jostle him, until their sides touch fully, heat shared, edges softened.

Will finally lets himself breathe.

Mike’s arm curves more securely around him now, hand resting at his hip like it’s always known where it belongs. His forehead dips forward, brushing the back of Will’s shoulder, a warm, unconscious press.

Neither of them speaks.

The contact is gentle. Careful. Nothing like Italy. Nothing like Paris. It feels… domestic. Real.

Will lets himself lean back into Mike’s chest.

They fall asleep like that.

In the morning, Will wakes first.

Mike’s arm is still around him. His face is tucked into the back of Will’s neck, breath warm and even. Will closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the simple intimacy of it—by how right it feels, how terrifyingly easy.

They don’t mention it over breakfast.

They don’t need to.

The second day stretches like honey. The sun is warm but not oppressive, the sky impossibly blue. They leave the villa with no real plan—just a loose idea of wandering through the winding streets of the town clinging to the cliffs. Mike slips on sunglasses that make him look way too casual for someone who’s actually three hours late leaving the villa.

“Do I look Italian enough?” he asks, tilting his head, one eyebrow raised.

Will laughs, shaking his head. “You look like an American tourist with a sunburn, Mike.”

Mike feigns offense. “Excuse me, these are my European vibes.” He brushes past Will, just lightly enough that his shoulder grazes his. The touch is brief, but Will feels it anyway, like static electricity.

The town is everything they hoped it would be: narrow cobblestone streets, walls painted in muted yellows and peaches, tiny cafes tucked into corners, laundry fluttering overhead. The smell of fresh bread and rosemary drifts from a corner bakery, mingling with the salt air from the ocean.

They stop for gelato, standing shoulder to shoulder in the tiny square. Mike picks chocolate, of course, and stares at Will’s choice like it’s a personal affront.

“Lemon?” he asks, suspicious. “Are you trying to be sophisticated?”

Will smirks. “Nope. Just… adventurous.”

Mike leans close, just enough that Will can feel his breath on his neck. “Careful,” he murmurs. “I might have to steal some.” And before Will can react, Mike has swiped a small bite off the top of his gelato. Will’s eyes widen, part indignation, part something he can’t name.

“Mike!” he protests, laughing, but there’s heat rising in his cheeks anyway.

“You’re so easy,” Mike says, grinning, returning to his own gelato like nothing happened. But Will notices the way his eyes linger on him as he eats.

They wander through the town, weaving in and out of shops filled with ceramics, linens, and olive oil. Mike keeps brushing against Will—sometimes accidental, sometimes not. A hand on the small of his back to guide him through a narrow doorway. Fingers brushing the back of his hand while they check a display. Mike’s touch is constant, light, teasing.

“Mike, stop,” Will urges when Mike leans in too close to whisper something about the price of a hand-painted bowl.

Mike shrugs, grinning. “Make me.”

Will can feel his eyes bulging out of his head at that, and Mike just laughs. Will isn’t sure what the hell is going on all of the sudden.

They stop for lunch at a tiny outdoor trattoria. The waiter sets a plate of fresh pasta in front of them, and Mike immediately starts making ridiculous faces as he twirls the noodles around his fork. Will laughs, camera in hand, capturing everything he can.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“Am I?” Mike asks, poking at a piece of pasta as if he’s offering it to Will like a peace treaty. 

Will rolls his eyes, but he reaches for the fork anyway, leaning across the table. Mike’s hand brushes his as they both reach for the same bite. There’s a pause—long enough for Will to feel every tiny spark of contact. Mike grins. “Hey, I’m sharing.”

By mid-afternoon, they’ve climbed a hill overlooking the ocean. The view is breathtaking, the white buildings tumbling down the cliffs to the water. They sit on a low stone wall, legs dangling over the edge, sun warming their shoulders.

Mike leans back on his hands, watching Will adjust the camera to take a picture of the view. “You take pictures like a pro,” he says, voice low. He scoots just a little closer, until their thighs touch. “Though maybe you should practice taking pictures of me too.”

Will glances at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh really? You’d be my model?”

Mike shrugs, smirking. “If you’re offering.” He nudges Will gently with his shoulder, and Will feels the heat of it all over again.

They stay there for a long while, talking, laughing, and occasionally letting the quiet stretch comfortably between them. Mike keeps leaning closer, joking about everything from the pasta they ate to the tourists passing below, and every time, Will notices the subtle brush of hands or shoulder, the weight of proximity that makes his chest feel tight.

By the time they return to the villa, the sky is painted in streaks of pink and gold. They carry a quiet tiredness, the kind that comes from wandering all day and laughing too much.

Without the heat of the sun, the air feels cool enough to send a chill down Will’s spine.

“You cold?” Mike asks. 

“A little.”

“We have extra blankets,” Mike says. “I saw them yesterday.”

“Great,” Will says. Before he can ask where, Mike is already in the bedroom retrieving them. 

“Do you want to sit on the porch for a while?”

“Yeah, sure,” Will says. 

So they do. They don’t say much, but they sit as close as they ever have. Just relaxing into each other. Eventually, the cold gets stronger and now even Mike is shivering. 

Neither of them pretends to sleep apart. The single bedroom, the soft linens, the quiet hum of the ocean outside the open window—it feels inevitable.

Mike sheds his clothes lazily as they head to bed, still smiling, and turns toward Will. “Why is it so cold?”

“You’re telling me,” he says. Will slides under the covers, heart hammering. “I hate the cold.”

“I know,” Mike says, more seriously than Will was expecting. “Here, come here.”

Mike immediately wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. Their bodies fit together as if they’ve been learning this rhythm for weeks, the warmth and weight of Mike against him both comforting and intoxicating. Will has no idea how Mike is so comfortable all the sudden. 

“Finally,” Mike breathes, forehead resting against the side of Will’s head. “Much better than a hostel.”

Will can’t stop the laugh that escapes him, quiet and breathless. “Much better than a hostel.”

And just like that, the villa feels like more than a place. It feels like a threshold—between them, between the trip, between the chaos of travel and the intimacy of now.

Mike’s hand finds its way to Will’s side, fingers tracing lazy patterns, and Will melts against him. For the first time in a long time, the world is only this room, only this bed, only this closeness. Will turns in his arms, faces him. They’re inches apart, eyes searching, breath shared.

Mike swallows. “Will.”

Will’s heart feels like it might burst. “Yeah?”

“I—” Mike stops, then tries again. “About Italy. And… everything.”

Will forces himself to stay still. His heart is jack hammering inside his chest.

Mike’s hand tightens at Will’s waist. “I don’t want to pretend that didn’t happen. And I don’t want to mess this up. But I also—” He laughs softly, nervous. “I think I already have.”

Will studies his face, open and earnest and achingly familiar. 

“You haven’t messed anything up,” he says, voice low, careful. “Not for me.”

Mike’s eyes flick down at his lips, then back up, searching. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I mean, I wanted it to. But then it just felt so stupid, and I didn’t want you to regret it.”

“I thought you regretted it,” Will whispers. 

“I regretted the stupid part,” Mike clarifies. “The drunk part. Not that I kissed you. I didn’t regret that.”

There’s a pause in his words, a weight there. Will knew to expect this. “But?”

Mike blows out a tense breath and Will can feel his fingers fiddling with the side of the fabric of his t-shirt. His words come out in a rush. “But it was scary. You’re my best friend. And it’s been like two and a half years since you mentioned liking me. Which, you also said you were over, by the way. And you’re in New York now, getting all this experience, and I’m just in Hawkins, doing fuck-all, so why would you even want—I just felt stupid.”

“Mike, you’re not stupid,” Will says. 

Mike lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in his chest for years. He stares at the space between them instead of Will’s eyes, like if he looks too closely he’ll lose his nerve.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Logically. I know. It’s just—” He swallows. “I’ve spent so long being useful. Being the guy people need. And when I realized I wanted you like that—really wanted you—I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Will stays still, lets him talk.

“I didn’t want to need you in a way that wasn’t fair,” Mike continues. “Because I know that part of me—the part that panics when I don’t feel important to someone—that’s not… healthy. I’ve been trying to unlearn it. So when you moved to New York and started building this whole life that doesn’t revolve around me, I thought maybe this was me finally doing the right thing. Letting you go.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He presses his lips together, embarrassed by it.

“But I can’t,” Mike says, softer now, “I can’t. I don’t even want to. I want you around all the time.”

Will’s chest feels tight, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“In Italy,” Mike says, “I kissed you because I wasn’t thinking too much. I was just—there you were, and I was tired of pretending I didn’t feel it. And then afterward I panicked, because what if I’d just proved every bad thought I’ve ever had about myself right? That I only want people when I’m scared of losing them.”

He finally looks at Will then, eyes bright and open and terrified.

“But this—” He gestures vaguely between them, the bed, the room, the quiet. “This doesn’t feel like panic. And I still want you just the same. And that scares me more.”

Will’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why?”

“Because it’s you. My best fucking friend. Who also lives three states away and is becoming someone who doesn’t need me to survive anymore. And I’m proud of you for that. I really am.” 

“Mike…”

His laugh is small and broken. “I just don’t know how to stop trying to earn my place.”

Will shifts closer, just enough that their knees touch. “You don’t have to earn anything.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” Mike’s tone is resigned, like he knows his fears are coming true. Will thinks maybe it’s time to start speaking up. 

“You aren’t losing me,” Will promises. “Mike, I’ve wanted you forever, you know that.”

“You used to.”

“It didn’t fucking change,” Will says with a panicked laugh. “I’m sorry to tell you.”

Will watches the words compute in Mike’s brain, the gears shifting and light coming back into his eyes. “You—”

He doesn’t finish. Just stares at Will with wide eyes. Silence stretches. The ocean hums through the open window.

Will doesn’t speak right away. He lifts his hand, slow, deliberate, and rests it over Mike’s chest, right where his heart is racing. Mike’s hand immediately shoots up and closes around Will’s wrist, his grip tightening and loosening with rapid fire uncertainty. 

“I don’t need a hero,” Will says softly. “I just need you.”

Mike closes his eyes at that, like it hits somewhere deep and sore and healing all at once. His eyes open and it’s a different look, one that Will has gotten to know all too well: longing. Mike leans in slowly, like he’s still half-convinced this might vanish if he moves too fast. Their noses brush first—an accident, a pause—and they both exhale at the same time, a shared, shaky breath.

Mike looks like he might retreat, so Will slides his hand up his neck into the bottom of his hair, tangling in his curls. 

That’s all it takes.

Mike closes the distance, finally, gently, like he’s been carrying this moment in his hands for years and doesn’t want to drop it. The kiss is soft at first—uncertain, almost reverent. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just Mike’s mouth pressing to Will’s like he’s confirming something he already knew but needed to feel.

Will’s breath catches anyway.

It’s different from Italy. There’s no crowd, no music pounding through their chests, no blur of noise and heat and alcohol. This is slow. Careful. Real. Mike’s hand stays warm and steady at Will’s waist, grounding him, thumb barely moving like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

Will kisses him back, tentative at first, then surer when Mike makes a small sound against his mouth—surprised, relieved. The sound goes straight through Will’s chest. He shifts closer without thinking, closing the last inch of space between them, and Mike responds immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission.

The kiss deepens, not frantic, just fuller. Mike tilts his head, instinctive, familiar in a way that makes Will’s heart ache. He tastes like wine and salt and something unmistakably Mike—warm and earnest and a little undone.

Mike pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Will’s, eyes still closed. He runs his hand up and down Will’s bicep, finally stilling on his shoulder as he leans back a bit, searching Will’s face one more time, like he’s checking for cracks or second thoughts. Whatever he finds there makes his shoulders loosen, something unknots behind his eyes.

He kisses Will again—still gentle, but more confident now. Like a choice. Like a beginning.

The softness gives way to heat—mouths moving with more intention, more need. Mike’s hand slides from Will’s shoulder down his side, fingers spreading like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him. Will makes a quiet sound without meaning to, something startled and breathless, and Mike reacts instantly, like he’s been waiting for it.

He kisses him deeper, slower but firmer, like he finally trusts himself to want this. Will’s hands tangle in Mike’s shirt, pulling him closer, closing any space left between them. Their legs slide together under the covers, knees knocking, bodies fitting in a way that feels both new and impossibly familiar.

Mike’s thumb brushes along Will’s jaw, then up to his cheek, gentle even as everything else feels charged. It feels so fucking romantic, Will feels like he’s going crazy. He kisses back with equal urgency, learning the rhythm of Mike’s mouth, the way he breathes, the way he pauses just long enough to make Will chase him.

They break apart only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing.

“This is—” Mike laughs softly, a little dazed. “Wow.”

Will smiles, flushed and warm. “Yeah.”

Mike leans in again, peppering kisses along Will’s mouth, his cheek, the corner of his jaw—nothing rushed, nothing careless, but undeniably heated. Will’s fingers curl into Mike’s hair, tugging just enough to make Mike suck in a sharp breath and grin against his skin.

“Careful,” Mike says, voice low and playful now, eyes dark with feeling. “I might get ideas.”

Will’s pulse jumps. “So?”

Mike laughs, soft and breathless, and kisses him again instead of answering—long, lingering, full of promise. Will can feel something shift in the way Mike’s hands are moving against his body now, like the permission was all he needed. Mike’s mouth trails kisses down Will’s neck and he can’t help but keen into the touch. Heat pools in his abdomen as Mike’s grip locks into his hip, rubbing circles into the skin there with his thumb as his lips move to Will’s ear. 

Will is gripping Mike’s neck, both holding him there and encouraging him. His brain short circuits when he feels Mike’s hips press into his, and he can’t help the gasp that leaves his mouth. This seems to excite Mike even more. 

Will tugs Mike back up to his mouth and kisses him deeply, moving his tongue against Mike’s as their bodies form a rhythm together. The rest of the world—the villa, the ocean, the town below—fades until it’s just them. Each movement, each touch, is deliberate, like they’re discovering each other all over again, this time without fear. Will lets himself get lost in Mike’s warmth, the safety of the rhythm they’ve always shared, now with a new closeness that’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. 

Mike rolls on top of Will, using one hand to hold himself up and keeping the other hand locked on Will’s hip, squeezing so tightly that Will thought it might start to hurt soon. Will lets his hands run wild against the newly available spaces, slipping under Mike’s shirt to feel the skin of his back, sides, chest. When his hand slides down to Mike’s stomach, he gasps softly and presses his hips down into Will again. Their bodies are flush against each other now, and Will can feel parts of Mike that he never thought he would. 

This was them. This was everything. Just as it was supposed to be, Will is pretty sure. He can’t imagine a better story for them, a better outcome than this. This is what he has wanted for so long that he can’t even remember a time when he didn’t. Part of him thinks he always wanted Mike. The way that the sky is blue and the grass is green, Will Byers wants Mike Wheeler. 

And now, finally, he has him. 

There’s no confusion, no worry; just them. 

When Will lies with Mike in the afterglow, smiling and sated and warm, he looks over at the plaque hanging on the door. 

"La vita è bella,” it says. Life is beautiful. 

And it is.