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Will can't believe he let his friends convince him to go out tonight. It's not that he doesn't like going out. In fact, when Naomi knocked on his door and said they were all going out tonight so he better get ready, Will was fine with the idea. Excited by it, actually. Even though he has a miserable headache piercing behind his eyes, going out saves him from pulling an all-nighter to work on his last big projects before final exam season, and then having to redo all of that work because he'll end up hating it once he gets some sleep.
He was perfectly happy earlier this evening. Except by now, three people have spilled drinks on him, his other friend and roommate Matthew ditched them to meet up with his sister somewhere, and Will is currently shouting across the bar trying to order tequila shots because Naomi insisted they do shots and she insisted on those shots being tequila because "it's a tradition, Will! We have to!" It's not a tradition. Will doesn't think they've done shots with regularity since they were eighteen and high on the freedom of living on their own for the first time. However, this place is more crowded than normal, and Will's headache is getting worse and he's already one too many drinks in, so he might as well make it all worse by doing, for some reason, a singular shot with his best friend at college.
The bartender slides Will the little glasses. Will thanks him and offers a smile drilled into him by a childhood of Midwestern politeness, any actual polite intention gone with his fading social battery. They had to come to the most popular club on their usual list of establishments around a time when there's about a million tourists passing through the city, and it feels like every single one of those tourists who also happens to be gay wants to come here.
Stupid New York City and it's tendency to attract college students on spring break and tourists from wherever else on the planet. Stupid New York City and it's freedom from oppressive Bumfuck, Nowhere. Stupid City that Never Sleeps and it's gay clubs Will enjoys more on days he hasn't gotten multiple drinks spilled on him before midnight.
God, they should've just gotten drunk off cheap seltzers and shitty beer on the floor of their apartment. At least then Will's shirt wouldn't smell like the fascinating combination of vodka soda and Diet Coke.
He manages to scoot down the bar until he gets to where Naomi's waiting. Her perfect blonde curls are drooping a little, but they haven't quite passed into frizzy yet. The colorful lights of the club reflect on her pale skin, tinging her pink and blue and bright yellow and every shade in between. Her plain pink tube top and dark wash jeans aren't notable on their own, but she's covered herself in so much silver jewelry and artfully placed pink body glitter Will's surprised she hasn't blinded someone.
"Stop moping!," Naomi yells when he hands her the glass. "Live a little!"
"I'm not moping!," Will shouts back.
Naomi raises an eyebrow. "No comment. Happy 21st birthday, Will Byers!"
"That was weeks ago!"
"Whatever!"
Will raises his glass in a mock toast to play along and downs it at the same time as Naomi does. The alcohol burns the back of his throat. He resists the urge to start coughing all over the place. After all, he's trying to, in Naomi's words, live a little. He dug himself out of his finals cave to go clubbing with his friends. He let Naomi pick out his earrings from her own collection of handmade jewelry, so he's sporting small silver hoops with little blue star beads hanging off them. He even let her sprinkle some of that glitter over his shoulders, even though he knows it won't come off his forest green t-shirt and plain jeans ever again. He's doing so-called 21st birthday shots even though his birthday was almost a month ago. He'll probably make out with a guy who's name he won't remember. This is the definition of living a little. He likes to think he's better at it when it's not the evil stretch of the school year between spring break and finals, but this is certainly a passable attempt that's made significantly easier with the amount of alcohol in his system.
His teenage self would probably pass out seeing this. In a good way. Maybe. Probably. Whatever, it's not worth worrying about right now.
"Stop overthinking!" Naomi grabs his arm with a smile. "Let's dance!"
Will grins and lets himself get dragged over to the dance floor. He stopped paying attention to the music long ago, the sound a blur of catchy pop vocals and beats that are easy to dance to. He gets lost in it a little, smiling and laughing as Naomi pretends to flirt with him and he spins her around a few times. Will pretends Naomi's singing doesn't suck and that he likes the sour drink she shares with him. He feels a little floaty, just the right amount of drunk for it to be fun without him blacking out completely. He should drink something else, something non-alcoholic. That beverage should probably be water, but whatever. Water can be a later issue.
After a few more songs, they move away from the crush of people to stand off to the side near the door. Every time someone walks in or out, the chilly early April air washes over Will and clears his head a little. His headache is gone for now, but it'll be back in the morning and amplified by his hangover. He and Naomi are both holding cups of water, taking small sips in between pointing out different people the other should flirt with. It derails quickly into people watching with a heavy air of judgment. Most of the judgment is Naomi poking fun at Will's type by pointing out every single man she sees who's taller than him with dark curly hair, but Will has enough alcohol in his system it doesn't bother him beyond an eye roll. There's no use dwelling on it. He has a type, so what? Everyone has a type.
"Hey," Naomi says into his ear, continuing her little judgment game. "Right by the bar. Guy with the blue shirt and the long hair."
She points, stack of silver rings glinting on her finger and her bracelets rattling. Will follows the line, and his heart stops right along with the next gust of wind that comes in through the door.
The so-called guy with the blue shirt and the long hair is definitely his type. In fact, Will might say this guy is the origin of his type. He would recognize that profile anywhere. It practically got him into Pratt, the angles sketched over and over in countless different lights and contexts as Will honed his skill over the years. Will just never thought he'd see that profile under bright blue and yellow lights as some pop song about long lost lovers played over the speakers.
Standing there, at this stupid gay club in stupid New York City, is Mike Wheeler.
Mike looks different. Good different, unfortunately. He grew his hair out again, the loose curls skimming his shoulders in a way that would've killed fourteen year old Will right in that airport. At the moment, Mike is rolling the sleeves up on his navy long sleeve, his silver rings glinting under the lights. Of course Will is staring. He's nothing if not predictable. Those hands are also about half the reason he lives in New York now, and it's even worse now because Will swears he catches a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of Mike's wrist.
And then Mike laughs. Will knows he can't actually hear it, but it feels like he can, the sound ingrained in the depths of his mind after a childhood of hearing it and teenage years of wishing to hear it again. He watches as Mike keeps laughing and then trades another comment with the three other people he's standing with.
His friends, Will's mind supplies rather unhelpfully as a bitter taste fills his mouth. Those are his new friends.
The four of them managed to carve out their own quiet spot in the middle of the crush. Will nearly falls over when the pretty East Asian girl standing next to Mike holds out her cigarette and he leans down to take a drag without even taking it from her. The other two people they're standing with, a guy who looks a lot like Steve and a girl with dark skin and long braids, act like this is normal behavior and not something near deranged. The Steve lookalike says something, and Mike flips him off before turning around to grab their drinks from the bartender. Will stares at the glass in Mike's hand like he'll learn which of the many clear alcoholic drinks it is just by sight alone.
Because the universe hates Will, Mike's new little friend group all swaps drinks too. Mike pulls a face at one of them. It's probably too sweet. Mike's never liked things that are too sweet. His friends laugh in a way that shows they know this too. Will kind of wants to cry. Or laugh. He blames Naomi and her ridiculous idea to do shots for the emotion that's very quickly suffocating him.
And as if that wasn't enough, another person enters the little circle of Mike's new besties. Based on their reaction to him, they don't know him. The guy is objectively attractive with light brown hair, a confident smile, and a shirt that shows off his build. This objectively attractive guy starts talking to Mike, leaning forwards and very clearly flirting. Will expects Mike to tell this guy he's uninterested, say he's straight and here with friends and go on with his life.
That is not what happens. Instead, Mike sets his hand on the guy's arm and quirks up his lips in a smile. It's a smile Will can tell is flirty even if he didn't have a lifetime of practice looking at the intricacies of Mike's face. Will used to see the very same smile directed at him across D&D tables or during strategy sessions for crawls or in the back of a van in a whirlwind trip across the desert. He spent hours turning those smiles over in his mind as he tried to figure out if they were intentional or not, and now here the smile is again, directed at a random, kind of attractive guy Will dislikes more every second.
Will can process Mike flirting with someone well enough. But Mike flirting with a man? On purpose? And acting like he knows what the hell he's doing? Last Will checked, ignoring the whole thinking Mike is straight thing, Mike doesn't have a singular molecule in his body that could ever help him be as smooth as he's acting right now.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
"Will?," Naomi asks, concerned. "Are you okay? Fuck, are you about to puke? Did you drink too much? Will?"
Will shakes his head. He sort of feels like he's about to puke, but only in a vaguely uncomfortable way. His alcohol and headache addled brain can't keep up with all this new information. Mike, about ten times more attractive than the last time Will saw him during winter break their first year of college. Mike, in a gay club. Mike, openly flirting with another man in said club in front of his friends after sharing a cigarette with a pretty girl.
"That's um," Will says, words catching in his throat. "That's Mike. The Mike."
Naomi looks from Will to Mike to Will again before settling on staring at Mike. She's scrutinizing him, filling an actual person into all the stories Will told about falling for his best friend.
"Well, you're right. He is pretty attractive," she says after a minute. "However, right now, he doesn't seem very straight."
Will groans and tilts his head back against the wall. Another gust of wind, but this one doesn't offer any clarity. "Well, he was straight at the time."
Naomi pats the top of his head a couple times, ruffling his hair before she pulls her hand away. "You gonna talk to him?"
Will looks at her like she's the one who's traveled to other dimensions. "And say what? 'Hey, Mike, it's been a while! Nice to see you here at this bar. This gay bar, in fact. Are you gay? I had no idea!'"
Naomi levels a flat look at him. "You're impossible."
"You're worse." Will looks over at Mike again. Poor timing, because Mike is grinning at his friend with the braids as they dance and scream-sing along to the current song. Will's heart aches. Mike looks…well, he looks beautiful. Electric. Free.
It would be a little ridiculous on Will's end to say he's still in love with Mike. His teenage self would probably cry about that, but Will's twenty-one now. He moved to New York and left Hawkins in the rear view. He left his feelings for Mike scattered across his other relationships, wishing them away with every touch. He's kissed and hooked up with and dated multiple other guys since then. He still cares for Mike, of course he does, but he's not sure he's as head over heels as he once was.
Will knows he can fall in love again if he finds the right person. He's still young, and even if it doesn't always seem like a possibility, he has the rest of his life ahead of him. He'll fall in love again, and Mike will be a fleeting memory. Will will look back on middle and high school, and Mike will simply be a part of it and not all of it. Proclamations about Will being magic and eyes locking across a battlefield will fade away into the backdrop of a horror series that's already becoming fuzzy around the edges.
His teenage self wouldn't just cry about no longer being in love with Mike. Will's teenage self would cry about all of this. Not being in regular contact with the Party, being in a position where he has to watch Mike from afar instead of being right next to him, the fact Will senses there's something missing from his life even though it's everything he's ever dreamed of. He feels like someone is kicking his heart down the sidewalk like a loose pebble, forcing him onward moments after he settles. It's all such bullshit, and he knows it.
Mike's friend leans in and says something to him. Mike raises an eyebrow and scans the room, gaze panning across the crowd until it lands firmly on Will.
Will's breath catches. Emotions pass over Mike's face before Will can even place them, and then Mike is smiling and walking over, gaze trained on Will like nothing's changed between them. They're seven years in the past, thirteen years old as Mike looks for him across a school dance. They're five years in the past, sixteen years old with the world burning around them as Mike doesn't stop looking even after Will snaps the bones of three monsters. They're in the present, Mike pushing through bodies in a club in New York without taking his eyes off Will even as he trips and gets dirty looks thrown at him because he's not paying attention to where he's going.
Will needs to get out of here. He mutters an excuse and a promise to be home by three to Naomi before he turns and walks outside.
The cold breeze is a miracle. It dries the sweat on Will's skin instantly. The air smells like cigarettes, reminding Will of their front porch in Montauk and burying his face in his mom's sweaters. He takes a deep breath. Okay. He can do this. He'll just catch the subway back to his apartment, and then he can smoke and cry while eating some of the chocolate chip cookies Nancy dropped off when she was in the city last week and-
He's a block away from the club when someone grabs his arm. Will whirls around, heart beating fast and teeth on edge, every nerve in his body on high alert and ready to punch whoever this is and run if necessary.
Instead of a stranger, Will finds himself face to face with Mike. It does nothing for his nerves. If anything, seeing Mike up close sucks all the air out of the vicinity. Mike's hair is a mess. An attractive, possibly intentionally styled mess, but a mess nonetheless. His hand is warm on Will's forearm, and from this angle, Will can see Mike's tattoo in better detail. It's a stylized black outline of a sun with numbers underneath it. 67, 71, 80. Will recognizes it as the Wheeler siblings' birth years. It's so sentimental in such a Mike way Will isn't sure what to do with it.
"Will," Mike says, a little out of breath. "It really is you."
Will just blinks at him. What does he say? These aren't typical circumstances by any means. He can't just say "hello" and move on like any of this is normal.
Mike smiles. If Will didn't know better, he'd think Mike looks a little nervous. "You, um," Mike continues. He looks Will up and down fast, like he can't help himself but doesn't want to get caught. "You look good."
Jesus Christ. Well. That just happened, and it was definitely intentional if Mike's nervous smile and bright eyes are anything to go by.
"Thanks," Will replies. He keeps his eyes focused on Mike's face. "You look nice too."
Understatement of the entire goddamn century, and that really means something considering they're almost done with it and this century had all kinds of insane shit like the World Wars and the giant interdimensional rift that opened in Will's backyard. Mike doesn't just "look nice." He looks movie star gorgeous. Like, go to the theater multiple times and then rent the movie over and over just to see him levels of movie star gorgeous. As in could star in a string of shitty movies and Will would still pay to watch them gorgeous. As in sometime in the last two years, Mike's become the kind of beautiful that goes on magazine covers and fashion campaigns and untouchable levels of fame.
So yeah. Saying Mike "looks nice" is the understatement of the century.
"It's been awhile," Mike says. He gestures back down the street with his free hands. "Do you want to grab a drink somewhere quieter? Catch up?"
Will does want that. He wants it more than anything, actually. Seeing Mike in front of him brings back the ache. Not the ache for a childhood romance that could never be, but for his best friend he stopped talking to once he had no reason to go back to Hawkins anymore. Will wants his best friend back, the one he learned to play D&D with and who he remembered alongside his family the first time he was possessed.
They left that version of their friendship behind a long time ago, but maybe three years away from living in Hawkins and six years away from the Upside Down can help them bring it back.
Will nods. "But let's not do drinks. I've had too many."
If this goes south, he can just blame the drinks he's already had. He'll blame his headache too, just for good measure.
"Let's just walk then." Mike's smile switches from nervous to excited, lighting up his whole face. He slides his hand down Will's arm and laces their fingers together before tugging Will down the street.
"Do you even know where you're going?," Will asks. It's partly because he doesn't want Mike to get them lost, but mostly so he can focus on anything other than Mike's hand in his. Mike's hands are rough and chapped, no doubt from the winter winds that still tear through the Midwest well into April. Mike tightens his grip when they push through a crowd, and his rings dig into Will's fingers a little.
Mike nods. "We're not far from where my friends and I are staying. There's a little park near there."
They're walking next to each other now, dodging other groups walking down the street as they weave through the late Friday night crowd. Will tenses when they walk past two women kissing, gearing himself up for a reaction that never comes. Mike walks right by like it's any other day, and he even shoots Will a small, private smile that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners.
"Tell me about your friends," Will says. He wants to know who made the version of Mike with the long hair and the rings and the tattoo. The one who wears soft long sleeve shirts and black straight leg jeans and battered white Converse to the club. The one who openly flirts with men and walks past gay people on the street and doesn't bat an eye despite his conservative upbringing and the fact he still lives in the Midwest.
That little group he saw earlier is behind this version of Mike. Will doesn't know what to do with the knowledge those three made Mike into this, and Will and their other childhood friends weren't a part of it.
Mike turns a corner. "Well there's James, the guy who looks like Steve but with darker hair. He was my random roommate freshman year. We met Alice and Becky in our discussion for English 101, formed a study group based around hating our TA's interpretation of the books, and boom. Now we're friends and roommates."
"They sound great," Will says. Mike deserves his little group of equally nerdy and beautiful English major friends. Because he's desperate for an answer about anything he saw back in the club, he asks his next question. "And who's the one you shared the cigarette with?"
Mike laughs, quick and nervous. "You saw that? That was Alice."
Alice, who's pretty and has the same taste in books that Mike does. Alice, who Mike shares cigarettes with. Alice, who lives with Mike and is a girl, though that piece doesn't seem as important anymore.
"Cool," Will replies, trying incredibly hard to keep his voice neutral. Curse his drunk self being less able to hide his feelings. "She seems amazing."
"She is," Mike agrees. They stop to wait for the walk signal at a crosswalk. Will doesn't feel like telling Mike they're in New York and everyone jaywalks. It's kind of cute to see him wait here even though there's no cars coming.
"We're not like that though," Mike continues. The walk signal comes on and they start to cross the street. He looks over at Will. "Alice has a boyfriend, and I'm gay."
Will almost trips up the curb. "You're…you're what?"
He's well aware that's not an appropriate reaction to someone coming out, but Mike isn't "someone." Mike is Mike, which sounds so ridiculous but it's true. Mike, Will's "straight" childhood best friend who dated Will's sister for years, is gay. And based on Mike's tone and phrasing, he's not bisexual, not gay as an umbrella term, but gay in the same way that Will is, meaning Mike is gay as in he's a man who's only attracted to other men. Will would have an easier time believing they had to stop another dimensional collision. Hell, he has an easier time believing El is out there somewhere even though she died right in front of their faces.
Once it sinks in a little, Mike being gay doesn't shock Will as much as the casual way he says it. It's tacked onto the end of a sentence, said in Mike's normal cadence and tone, and treated as something easy and normal. It's a long way from the teenager who shouted "it's not my fault you don't like girls!" at Will on a stormy summer day. Mike hasn't been that teenager for a long time, but Will can't say he ever expected Mike to go fully in the other direction and realize he's gay himself.
Mike laughs again, but this one's genuine. "Yeah. It's new. New-ish."
"What does that mean?," Will asks. At least his brain managed to clock back in after his immediate reaction. Again, he can blame being drunk for that one.
Mike counts on his free hand. "Like, three years? I figured it out our first semester of college, so not new, but…"
"New to me," Will finishes. His voice sounds faraway. Three years. Three years. Mike has known he's gay for three whole years and didn't think to reach out to Will.
Mike doesn't owe him anything, but Will can't help the petty jealousy stinging in his throat. There's still a part of him that considers himself Mike's best friend, and yet here he is, learning something so important about Mike three years after Mike figured it out himself. Doesn't Mike still consider them friends? Doesn't he still trust Will with his secrets?
He drops Mike's hand. "Have you found someone?," he asks, challenge clear in his tone. They've made it away from the crowds. Will doesn't feel bad about picking a fight here.
"Have I-Will, what?" Mike moves so he's standing in front of Will. "Where is this coming from?"
Pressure builds in Will's throat. Why does he always cry when he's angry? He hates that he cries when he's angry. "Answer my question."
Mike looks confused, but he doesn't look hurt. That's not right. He should hurt. "No," he says slowly. "I haven't found anyone else. Does that matter?"
Anyone else. Will left the "else" part of the statement unsaid when he first asked, but why is Mike bringing it into the conversation?
"It's not fair," Will says before he can stop himself. He shakes his head when he feels tears on his face. "Why did you get to figure it out in the exact way you wanted after everything?"
Will doesn't know what he means by "after everything." After everything he's been through. After everything they've been through. After what Mike said, what Will said. After a childhood where Will is gay and Mike is straight and everything happened on Mike's terms, because Mike is so open about how he feels and Will can't say everything he means even now.
Maybe that's the betrayal here. Mike is so open and honest about everything, and he's always been the most open and honest with Will, even when it hurt them both. Why did he close himself off this time? Why hide when this is the one thing Will is sure to understand?
Mike's expression goes neutral, which is how Will knows he's mad. Mike's expression is always something, his face betraying his emotions before he even says anything. Will relied on that for years, picking apart Mike's expressions in the hope he'd find any hints. Turns out, Will's horrible at finding those hints, because Mike's been gay this entire time and Will had no idea.
"Don't assume that," Mike shoots back. His anger is there, barely concealed under the veneer of this being a normal conversation. So now Mike's got emotional regulation too. Fantastic. "Don't assume this is what I wanted."
Will scoffs. "I can't fucking stand you, Mike."
"You're drunk," Mike says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. His voice is calm, but Mike's face is back to showing his true feelings. He's still angry. Will didn't scrutinize every tilt of Mike's eyebrows for years just so he could miss the small furrow in them now.
Will debates smacking Mike's hands away. "No shit. So are you."
"We're drunk," Mike amends as he takes a step closer. "And sometimes drunk people say things they don't mean."
"Bullshit." Mike's standing close enough now where Will has to look up to glare at him. "Alcohol makes you honest."
"Will-"
"Bullshit," Will repeats. His tears are salty on his lips. He's sure he looks pathetic, glaring at Mike while very clearly crying. "Everyone wants the chance to take their time figuring all of this out, and even more people want the chance to share it with those closest to them on their own terms."
He lets the last statement hang between them. Realization crosses Mike's face, and his expression goes from slightly angry to entirely too sympathetic. Everyone is always so sympathetic. Will sometimes thinks it'd be easier if they all hated him.
Will forces himself to keep glaring, looking right into Mike's eyes. "So it's bullshit if you wanted otherwise. You have everything when it comes to this, Mike. Every single thing."
Mike steps closer still and rests his hands on Will's shoulders. Will looks away and shakes his head, forcing a deep breath in the hopes it'll stop his tears. It doesn't. If anything, it makes him cry more as the oxygen flows to his brain and it gains more fuel to deal with all of this.
Will rests his forehead on Mike's shoulder. "I hate you sometimes." There's too many unsaid pieces here. Will hates how Mike makes him confront himself and make hard choices over and over and over again. He hates how much he wants to know this new version of Mike, and he hates that he wasn't there to help Mike become this person.
He hopes Mike picks up on at least one of those reasons, because he also hates how well Mike can read him.
"That's alright," Mike says quietly. "That's alright."
Before he has a chance to overthink it, Will wraps his arms around Mike's waist. He holds on tight, grabbing Mike's shirt in his hands in a silent plea for him to stay.
Don't just accept that I hate you, he thinks as he buries his face in Mike's shirt. It's not alright. I don't hate you. I love you, even after all of it. Not in the same way as before. I'm not in love, but I do love you. Let me love you. Let me fall in love again.
Mike hugs him back without hesitation. He brings one hand up to run his fingers over Will's hair. It's too real for a random street a block away from wherever Mike is staying, but Will grabs onto the moment anyway. If he holds on long enough and tight enough, all these unsaid words will seep through his skin and right into Mike's soul. Will has to say them out loud eventually, but not tonight. Tonight, this has to be enough.
"I miss you," Will mumbles into Mike's shirt, quiet enough Mike might not be able to hear it. "And I don't hate you. Not really."
"I know," Mike replies, voice also muffled. "And I miss you too."
Will steps back. He wants to look Mike in the eye when he says this next part. "It's easy to resent you for it," he says, choosing his words carefully. "But I don't, okay?"
"Okay." Mike doesn't sound like he believes it, voice small and quiet.
"Hey. Look at me." Will grabs Mike's face in his hands. "I don't, and if I did, that's my own shit to deal with. Seriously, thank you for telling me at all." He smiles, emotion sparking in his chest when Mike offers a slight smile in return. "You look happier than I've ever seen you."
"I am," Mike says, voice rough with tears. "But, you know. It's not the same."
Will frowns. "As Hawkins?," he asks, voice stumbling over the "a" in "Hawkins."
Mike shakes his head. "As being with you."
Will inhales. Does Mike mean what Will thinks he means? His heart is racing, which doesn't help any of the emotions already swirling in his chest. Can someone get a heart attack from feeling too much at once? If not, Will's sure he's about to have the first case of it. Will Byers, killed by a heart attack induced by Mike Wheeler's insane sentence structures that haven't gotten any less vague despite his degree in English Literature.
"All of you," Mike clarifies. "I mean, there's something about you in particular, but I'm talking about the whole Party. James and Alice and Becky they're great, but they're not us, you know?"
"Yeah," Will replies, trying really hard not to draw more meanings out of that statement. "I know."
"It's not that I miss Hawkins," Mike says, voice quiet. "I miss you."
"Me?" Will's eyes involuntarily drop down to Mike's lips, but he forces his gaze right back up to Mike's eyes. "Or everyone?"
"You."
It's not that I miss Hawkins. I miss you. You. You, as in Will. You, as in Mike is happier than he's ever been, but he thinks of Will as a key missing piece.
Memories flood back. Will's bedroom in California and a conversation much like this one. It's Hawkins. It's not the same without you. Lines crossed out of a letter. I miss clouds. I miss you. Winter break in 1989, sharing a bottle of wine on the Wheeler's back porch. I love Michigan. I have great friends, but none of them are my best friend, at least not like you. They sat pressed shoulder to shoulder long after the bottle sat empty on the step below them, and Will dared to ask if Mike knew. Mike didn't even need clarification on what Will was talking about. I did. I'm sorry. Will got up from the porch and left. He slowly stopped calling Mike as often, and even if Will didn't know it at the time, it was the last time he'd go to Hawkins for a school break.
Mike knows Will used to love him. Now, it seems like Mike figured some shit out and wants to approach this again with a different outcome. Will thinks, hopes, he'll fall in love with Mike again, because he really likes the man Mike is becoming and wants to be there for every moment.
"Whatever this is," Will says, brushing hair out of Mike's face. "You need to know I didn't wait around for you. I got on with my life."
"I didn't expect you to wait." Mike's arms are loose around Will's waist. He leans closer, so slight he might not even be aware of it. "God knows I made you do that enough when we were kids."
"You're an asshole." It comes out too affectionate. "What if I have a boyfriend?"
"Do you?," Mike asks, teasing and a little sincere at the same time. "If so, tell me now. You're too good to be a cheater."
"Damn right," Will replies in the same tone. "And I don't. My most recent ex is a piece of shit, so I stopped dating for a bit."
One of Mike's hands traces the bottom of Will's t-shirt. "Shitty how?"
"Funny you should ask." Will swipes a thumb over Mike's freckles, gaze trained on Mike's lips. "He cheated on me." He flicks his eyes back up to look Mike in the eye. His stomach flips when he sees Mike already looking, something intense sparking in his brown eyes. "Twice."
Mike's hand stops to rest on Will's hip. "Let's kill him."
"Hm. Later." He keeps his eyes on Mike. His voice comes strong and sure when he speaks. "Kiss me first."
It's a challenge. Is Mike brave enough for this version of Will? Is he capable of leaning in and kissing him right here on the street? Will looked around before he asked. There's not many people out, but like always, anyone could see. By Will's current standards, it's an easy hurdle to jump. If Mike can't do it or offer a plausible reason not to, this all stops right here, right now, and they go back to being friends.
The key difference between fourteen year old Will and twenty-one year old Will is that the last seven years have given him the confidence that comes with seeing more of the world. Will's had multiple boyfriends. He's ended up in a really ill-advised friends with benefits situation with a guy he still sees in every single core class for their illustration program. He's kissed guys right out in the open. He had to get held back from cursing out a homophobic classmate last week. There's no hiding, not anymore.
Will knows it's hard. It took him seven years to get here after all, but he promised himself when he was sixteen that he wouldn't wait around for Mike ever again. He has to hold himself to that.
And Mike, movie star gorgeous Mike who wears his normal soft casual clothes to the club, is brave enough. He leans in and kisses Will right there where anyone could see. He goes willingly when Will deepens the kiss, threading one hand in Will's hair and letting the hand on his waist wander. Sparks fly through Will's veins at each new point of contact. His arm, down his spine, over the belt loops on the back of his jeans. Will reaches down and grabs Mike's wrist when his fingers skim under Will's shirt right over the small of his back. Mike's pulse is fast and strong under his fingers, an echo of Will's own heartbeat.
"Careful, Michael," Will warns. He's more out of breath than he expected, but who cares? He's kissing Mike, and Mike wants it bad enough his heart might be beating faster than Will's and he was getting a little more handsy than appropriate for their current setting. Not that Will minds that piece. He just wants to be somewhere private enough for this to go beyond a little kissing. "At least come back to my place before you start that."
Mike grins, blush obvious even in the dim street lights. "Inviting me over now? I thought I'd have to buy you dinner first."
"Time for that later." Will smiles back, certain he's blushing as well. "After you come over and after we kill my shitty ex."
Mike raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I see how it is. I'm just here to kill your ex."
"Yep," Will teases right back. "And so you can buy me pancakes tomorrow morning."
Mike sighs dramatically. "A bank and a murderer. We've known each other for sixteen years, yet that's all I am."
The drama and the flirty tone from the rest of their conversation doesn't cover the unease in Mike's eyes or the worried tilt in his eyebrows. It squeezes at Will's heart enough to shake him from the weird fog he's been in all evening.
"Hey," Will says, tilting his head to catch Mike's gaze again. "I mean it. Come over. No pressure if you don't want to do anything-"
"Now I never said that-"
"Shush. I'm still talking." Will lets go of Mike's wrist and places his pointer finger over Mike's lips. He pointedly ignores the way Mike's breath catches. "You come over, and tomorrow morning we get pancakes at the mediocre diner across the street from my apartment, and then we decide where this goes when we're both sober. Deal?"
Mike nods. "Deal," he says, lips tracing over Will's finger. "Before we do all of that, can I get another kiss?"
Will has to roll his eyes at that one, but affection pushes behind his ribs and seeps into his tone anyway. "You are such a loser."
"Your loser," Mike replies, already leaning back in. "If this all goes to plan."
Will meets him in the middle, giggling when his fingers get caught between them as he adjusts his hold on Mike's face. Smiles and laughs get caught between their lips, turning the kiss clumsy but oh so perfect anyway.
How many other people get a chance to fall in love with their best friend twice? They've done the doomed cast of a supernatural horror story thing, and now they get to do the normal college student thing. He's excited for this story to feel a lot like this moment, like giggling between kisses and dragging Mike to his apartment. He wants it to feel like waking up next to Mike tomorrow morning and tasting maple syrup off Mike's lips before he leaves. He wants the ache of Mike being out in Ann Arbor while Will is in New York. He wants the annoyance at all of Mike's slightly bothersome habits, including his infuriating tendency to always leave a glass of water with half a sip left on the table. He even wants to fight and cry and make up and do it all over again for the rest of forever, because despite those moments, Will knows they'll be okay. They've always been okay, stuck to each other's sides from the day Mike walked up to the swing set in kindergarten.
If last time was all dark with pockets of light peeking through, this time will be brilliant and shining. And Will can't wait to fall in love with Mike all over again.