Archive of Our Own ^beta

The phone rang at 10:47 PM, which meant Mike was calling right on schedule.

Will fumbled for the receiver in the dark, his hand knocking over the half-empty coffee cup perched precariously on his desk. Cold coffee spread across his notes on color theory, but he barely noticed. His roommate Marcus groaned from across their cramped dorm room, pulling a pillow over his head with theatrical aggression.

"Hey," Will whispered, keeping his voice low as he untangled himself from his sheets and stepped into the fluorescent-lit hallway, the phone cord stretching behind him like a lifeline.

"You were painting." It wasn't a question. Mike always knew.

"How can you tell?"

"You sound tired but awake. That specific kind of tired you get when you've been staring at a canvas for hours and lose track of time. Plus, I can practically hear the paint under your fingernails."

Will looked down at his hands—sure enough, there were traces of burnt umber and cadmium yellow embedded under his nails, in the creases of his knuckles. He smiled despite himself, despite the way his chest tightened at the easy familiarity in Mike's voice, and slid down the wall to sit on the industrial carpet that probably hadn't been cleaned since the building opened. Through the phone, he could hear the familiar soundscape of Mike's dorm room at Indiana University—the distant thump of bass from someone's stereo, voices laughing down the hall, the particular hollow quality of a small space shared with another person.

"Fair. How was your day?"

"Long. Had to write this analysis on Faulkner's 'The Sound and the Fury' and I kept thinking about how you'd draw the imagery better than anyone could explain it. That whole fractured perspective thing, the way time works in that book—you'd make it visual in a way that would just... make sense. You know?"

Will's throat felt tight. Mike always did this—found ways to weave Will into every aspect of his life, to make it clear that even when they were apart, Mike was thinking about him. It should have felt normal. They'd been best friends since they were five years old. But somewhere along the way, probably around the time Mike held his hand during that first encounter with the Demogorgon, Will's feelings had shifted into something deeper, more painful, more impossible to ignore.

"I miss you," Mike said, and his voice dropped lower, more intimate. "God, Will, I really miss you."

It was the third time that week Mike had said it, and each time felt like a small wound opening in Will's chest. He pressed his palm against the rough carpet, grounding himself in something physical and real.

"I miss you too. It's only been four days since you saw me."

"Four days too many." Mike paused, and Will could hear him shifting, could picture him lying on his narrow dorm bed, staring up at the ceiling the way he did when he was thinking too hard. "Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe without you nearby. Does that sound crazy?"

Yes, Will wanted to say. It sounds crazy because you're supposed to be straight, because you loved El, because this is the kind of thing people in love say to each other, not best friends, no matter how close.

"No," Will said instead, his voice barely above a whisper. "It doesn't sound crazy."

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Marcus emerging from their room, headed toward the communal bathroom. Marcus caught sight of Will sitting in the hallway with the phone pressed to his ear and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, mouthing "boyfriend?" with an exaggerated kissy face that would have been funny if it didn't make Will's stomach twist with want and impossibility.

Will flipped him off halfheartedly.

"Who's that?" Mike asked, and his voice had suddenly taken on a sharp edge that Will didn't quite understand. "Is someone there with you?"

"Just Marcus being an idiot. So, Faulkner, huh? Are you enjoying the class?"

Mike allowed the subject change, but Will could hear something in his voice—tension, maybe, or disappointment. They talked for nearly two hours, the way they always did, about everything and nothing. Mike told him about his professor who wore the same ratty cardigan every Tuesday and had a habit of throwing chalk when students weren't paying attention. Will described the painting he was working on for his advanced studio class—a fragmented landscape that looked unsettlingly like the Upside Down if you tilted your head just right, all wrong angles and sickly colors that made his classmates uncomfortable in ways they couldn't quite articulate.

Mike listened the way he always did, asking questions that showed he really understood what Will was trying to do, making connections Will hadn't even considered. It was one of the things Will loved most about Mike—how he saw Will's art not as something foreign or pretentious, but as another language they both spoke fluently.

"There's this girl in my American Literature seminar," Mike said suddenly, interrupting Will's explanation of his color choices. "She keeps trying to get my number. Yesterday she wrote it on my notebook when I wasn't looking."

Will's hand tightened on the phone. "Oh. Is she... I mean, is she nice?"

"I guess?" Mike sounded confused by the question. "I don't know, I haven't really paid attention. But she cornered me after class today and I finally had to tell her I wasn't interested."

Something in Will's chest loosened slightly. "Why not?" he asked, trying desperately to keep his voice casual, normal, like he was just a friend asking about another friend's love life and not someone whose entire emotional state hinged on the answer.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Mike spoke again, his voice was different—quieter, almost hurt.

"Will, are you serious right now?"

"What?"

"You're asking me why I don't want some random girl's number?"

"I'm just—I don't know, I'm just asking. She might be nice. You might like her if you gave her a chance. You don't have to make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird, you're making it weird." Mike's voice had taken on that confused, almost wounded quality that Will had been hearing more and more lately. "Will, I'm—we're—"

He stopped abruptly, and Will could hear him take a sharp breath, like he was physically biting back words.

"Never mind. I just... I don't think I could imagine dating anyone else, okay? After everything with El, I don't want to be with someone unless it means something. Unless it's real."

Will was quiet for a moment, thinking about El. About how vibrant she'd been, how fiercely she'd loved Mike, how her powers had ultimately burned too bright and consumed her in that final battle. It had been ten months since they'd buried her, since Will had stood next to Mike at the funeral and watched his best friend break apart. Ten months, but sometimes it felt like yesterday. Sometimes Will would turn to say something to her, to make her laugh with some sarcastic observation, and the memory of her absence would hit him all over again like a physical blow.

"That makes sense," Will finally said. "You loved her. Of course you'd want the next person to mean something too."

"Do you think I'm talking about El?" Mike asked, and there was something strange and almost desperate in his voice that made Will's heart start to race.

"Aren't you?"

"Jesus, Will." Mike laughed, but it sounded broken. "Sometimes I feel like we're speaking completely different languages. Like I'm saying one thing and you're hearing something else entirely."

"I don't understand."

"I know. That's—" Mike stopped again, and Will heard something that might have been a hand hitting a wall. "Nothing. Forget it. Tell me more about your painting. You were saying something about the color palette?"

Will let Mike change the subject, describing the series he was working on for his portfolio— Mike listened intently, asking questions, here and there.

"Has anyone ever tried to give you their number?" Mike asked suddenly, cutting into Will's explanation of his technique. "Like, random people at school? You never talk about anything like that."

Will's stomach flipped. "No. I mean, I'm too busy with classes and painting. And honestly, even though New York is supposed to be more accepting, it's not like the dating pool is great for people like me."

What he didn't say was that he couldn't date anyone because every time he tried to imagine being with someone, all he could see was Mike. Mike, who called him every night without fail. Mike, who'd held him while they both sobbed at El's funeral, Mike's tears soaking into Will's shirt as he whispered "I can't lose anyone else, I can't lose you too." Mike, who was straight and grieving and completely, impossibly off-limits in every way that mattered.

"Good," Mike said firmly, and then quickly added, "I mean, not good that the dating scene sucks for you. Just good that you're focusing on your art. You worked so hard to get into that program. You deserve to enjoy it without distractions."

"Right. Distractions."

"Will, I didn't mean—" Mike sighed. "I just meant that your art is important. You're important. Anyone who gets to be with you should understand that."

"Anyone who gets to be with me," Will repeated softly, tasting the words. "That's a nice thought."

"It's not just a thought." Mike's voice had gone intense again, that quality that made Will feel like Mike could see straight through him across hundreds of miles of distance. "You're incredible, Will. You're talented and brave and beautiful and any person would be lucky to have you look at them the way you look at the things you love. The way you look at your paintings. The way you—" He stopped. "Never mind."

"The way I what?"

"Nothing. I'm tired. I should let you go."

"Mike—"

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Same time."

When they finally said goodnight, Will sat in the quiet hallway for several more minutes, the phone still warm in his hand. Mike had sounded off tonight—that comment about them speaking different languages, the confusion when Will asked about the girl, that weird moment when he'd called Will beautiful and then caught himself. Will replayed it all in his mind, trying to parse meaning from tone and pauses, trying to understand what he kept missing in these conversations.

"You know he's in love with you, right?" Marcus said when Will finally came back into the room, his voice matter-of-fact in the darkness.

"He's not. We're just friends."

"Byers, that man calls you every single night at the exact same time. Every. Single. Night. That's not friendship, that's devotion."

"We've been friends since we were five years old. We've been through things together that—" Will stopped, because he couldn't explain the Upside Down, couldn't make Marcus understand that he and Mike had been forged in fire and blood and darkness, that their bond had been tested in ways most people couldn't even imagine. "It's complicated."

"Uh-huh. And I'm sure all your friends from age five call you at midnight to tell you you're beautiful and that they can't breathe without you nearby."

Will turned off his lamp and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "He lost someone important. He's still figuring things out. He's grieving."

"And you're what, waiting around forever while he figures it out? Will, I've been watching you for three months now. Every night, same routine. You light up when that phone rings, you spend hours talking to him, and then you come back in here looking like someone kicked your puppy. That's not healthy."

"I'm not waiting around. I'm living my life. I'm here, in New York, at one of the best art schools in the country. That's always been the plan. Mike has nothing to do with it."

Marcus was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. "You're my friend, so I'm going to be real with you. That boy is in love with you, and you're too scared to see it. Or maybe you see it and you're too scared to believe it. Either way, you're torturing yourself. And probably him too."

"Goodnight, Marcus."

"Goodnight, Will. But think about what I said."

But Will lay awake for another hour, staring at the ceiling, Mike's voice echoing in his head. He thought about the way Mike had sounded when he asked if anyone had tried to give Will their number, the sharp edge of something that might have been jealousy. The way Mike said "I miss you" like it physically hurt. That weird moment when Mike had seemed genuinely confused about why Will was asking about the girl, like the answer should have been obvious.

No. He couldn't let himself go there. Mike had loved El with an intensity that had been beautiful and terrible to witness. Mike was still grieving El. And even if he wasn't, even if there was some infinitesimal possibility that Mike could feel that way about him, Will couldn't risk their friendship. Not when Mike was all he had left of Hawkins, of home, of the life they'd survived together. Not when losing Mike would mean losing the only person who really understood what they'd been through, who knew about the monsters and the darkness and the way Will still sometimes woke up feeling the ghost of possession crawling under his skin.

He couldn't survive losing Mike. So he wouldn't risk it. No matter what Marcus thought he saw, no matter what Will himself hoped for in his weakest moments, he would not risk it.

—-

Three days later, Will was in his figure drawing class, struggling with the proportions of the model's shoulders, when someone knocked on the studio door. His professor—a severe woman named Dr. Thornton who believed in discipline and precision above all else—looked annoyed at the interruption, but waved Will over when the student assistant said there was an urgent phone call.

Will's heart immediately jumped into his throat. Urgent calls were never good. Urgent calls meant someone was dead or dying, meant the Upside Down had opened back up, meant the fragile peace they'd won was shattering. He nearly tripped over his easel in his rush to get to the hallway.

"Hello?" His voice came out breathless, panicked.

"Will! Finally. I've been trying to reach your room for the past hour but your roommate said you were in class."

"Mike? What's wrong? Is everyone okay? Is it Joyce? Is it Jonathan? Did something happen in Hawkins—"

"What? No, everyone's fine. Will, breathe. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I just—" Mike took a breath. "I needed to tell you something and I couldn't wait until tonight. I was afraid if I waited I'd lose my nerve."

Will's heart was still racing, adrenaline flooding his system. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, trying to calm down. "Okay. Okay, what is it?"

"I'm transferring to NYU for spring semester."

The hallway seemed to tilt. Will's vision went fuzzy at the edges. "What?"

"I applied over the summer, right after we moved into our dorms. I got my acceptance letter last week. I just signed all the paperwork this morning to make it official, to transfer my credits and everything. I wanted to tell you as soon as it was real."

"Mike, what are you talking about? You can't just transfer schools in the middle of your freshman year. That's—that's insane."

"I already did. I talked to my advisor, worked out how my credits would transfer, got all the approvals I needed. It's done, Will. I'm coming to New York."

"Over the summer?" Will's voice came out small, almost breathless. He pressed his back against the wall, needing the support. "You've been planning this for months and didn't tell me? Mike, we've talked every single night..."

"I wasn't sure it would work out. I didn't want to get your hopes up in case I didn't get accepted or my credits didn't transfer or my parents said no. I couldn't tell you and then have it fall through. That would have been worse."

"But why?" Will could hear his voice shaking, could feel the confusion and something dangerously close to hope building in his chest. "Mike, Indiana has a good English program. Your family is there, Dustin and Lucas are there, your whole life is there—"

"You're not there," Mike said simply, and the words hit Will like a physical blow. "Will, I hate it here without you. Every single day I wake up and you're not here and it's wrong. It's all wrong. We spent almost every day together for seventeen years, and now I get to call you for an hour or two at night and see you once a month if we're lucky and we can both afford the bus ticket, and it's not enough. It's nowhere near enough."

"Mike—"

"I know what you're going to say." Mike's voice was rushing now, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for too long. "That I'm making a big decision and I should think it through more, that I'm running away from something. But I have thought it through. I've been thinking about it since the day we moved into our separate dorms and I realized I was going to have to spend the next three years without you. This isn't about running away from anything. It's about running toward something. Toward you."

Will couldn't breathe. Toward you. Toward you. The words echoed in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull, demanding to be examined, demanding to mean something more than friendship, more than the bond they'd always shared.

"When?" Will managed to ask. "When do you get here?"

"January. Spring semester starts January 10th. I'll move in the week before, get settled. I found a sublet in the East Village—it's tiny and probably overpriced but it's close to campus and close to your dorm and that's all that matters."

"That's three weeks away. Mike, that's so soon."

"I know. Is that okay?" The confidence had drained from Mike's voice, replaced by sudden uncertainty. "I should have asked if it was okay. God, I didn't even think—maybe you don't want me there, maybe I'm being too much, maybe you need your space and your own life and I'm just barging in like I always do—"

"No," Will said quickly, urgently. "No, of course I want you here. You're my best friend, Mike. I always want you around. You have to know that."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Mike spoke again, his voice was quieter. "Yeah. Of course."

Will frowned at the strange tone. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Great, actually. Just excited to get out there. Listen, I know you need to get back to class. Dr. Thornton is probably pissed that I pulled you out, right?"

"How did you know I have Dr. Thornton?"

"You told me. Last week, when you were complaining about how she made you redo your gesture drawings five times. I remember everything you tell me, Will."

Will's throat felt tight. "Yeah. She's probably going to make me stay late to make up the time."

"Then I should let you go. But I'll call you tonight, okay? Same time?"

"Always."

"Will?" Mike's voice had gone soft, almost vulnerable. "Are you happy? About me coming?"

"Of course I am. I'm..." Will searched for words that wouldn't reveal too much, wouldn't expose the desperate, aching want in his chest. "I'm really happy, Mike. It'll be good to have you here."

"Good. Okay. Good." Mike sounded relieved. "I can't wait to see you. To be there with you. To actually build a life together instead of just talking about our days on the phone."

After they hung up, Will stood in the hallway for several more minutes, trying to process what had just happened. Mike was moving to New York. Mike was going to be here, in the same city, close enough to see every day instead of once a month. Mike, who called him every night without fail, who said things like "toward you" and "build a life together," who was upending his entire college experience to be near Will.

When he got back to class, he couldn't focus on the model or his drawing. His hands were shaking too much to hold the charcoal steady. Dr. Thornton noticed, her sharp eyes tracking his failed attempts at proportion, but she didn't comment. When class ended, she called him back.

"Mr. Byers. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry about the interruption."

"The phone call. Was it bad news?"

Will thought about Mike, about the way his voice had sounded when he said "toward you," about the three weeks separating them from something Will didn't dare name.

"No," he said softly. "Not bad news. Just... surprising news."

Dr. Thornton studied him for a long moment. "Surprises can be good. They can also be terrifying. Sometimes they're both. Now go. Your work today was distracted, but I expect better next class."

Will practically ran back to his dorm, needing to tell someone, needing to process this impossible thing that was happening. He found Marcus in their room, along with Lydia—a girl from Will's Drawing 101 class who'd become one of his closest friends, all bold opinions and purple-streaked hair and an uncanny ability to read people.

"Will!" Lydia looked up from the fashion magazine she'd been critiquing. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Which, knowing your history with weird shit, might be literal."

"Mike's transferring to NYU. He's moving here in three weeks."

Lydia and Marcus exchanged one of their looks—the kind that said they were having an entire conversation with just their eyes.

"Oh my god," Lydia said slowly, a smile spreading across her face. "Oh my god, he's moving for you."

"It's not for me. NYU has a better English program than Indiana does. He probably just wants a change of scenery, a fresh start after everything with El—"

"Indiana has excellent English programs," Marcus countered, reaching over to steal one of the pretzels from Will's care package from Joyce. "Try again."

"Maybe he just wanted to experience city life. Maybe he hated his roommate. Maybe—"

"Maybe he's desperately in love with you and couldn't stand being hundreds of miles away anymore?" Lydia suggested, not unkindly.

Will felt his face heat up. "You guys don't understand. Mike and I, we've been through things together. Things that made us close. But he was with El for years. They were everything to each other. She died less than a year ago. He's not over that. He's not capable of thinking about anyone else like that yet."

"Did he tell you that?" Lydia asked gently, setting down her magazine and giving Will her full attention. "Or is that what you're telling yourself?"

"I know him. I've known him my whole life. I know when he's grieving."

"Do you though?" Marcus leaned forward, his expression serious. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're telling yourself a story so you don't have to face what's actually happening."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Marcus said carefully, "that you've been in love with this guy since forever, right? That's what you told me when we stayed up talking during orientation week, when you were drunk on cheap vodka and missing home. You said you'd been in love with Mike Wheeler since you were twelve years old and realized that the way you felt about him was different from the way you felt about anyone else. And you've convinced yourself it's impossible, so you interpret everything he does through that lens. He calls you every night? Just friends being close. He moves across the country to be near you? Just needs a change. At what point do you consider that maybe you're wrong? That maybe the story you're telling yourself isn't the truth?"

Will stared down at his hands, at the paint still embedded under his nails. "You don't know what it's like. Mike is—he's everything to me. He's been everything to me since we were kids. Before the Upside Down, during it, after. He's seen me at my absolute worst. He's held me when I was screaming from nightmares. He knows parts of me that no one else will ever know. If I tell him how I feel and I'm wrong, if I misread everything and ruin what we have, I lose him. And I can't lose him. I already lost El and—" His voice cracked. "I can't lose Mike too. I can't."

Lydia and Marcus exchanged glances. Will had told them some things about Hawkins—carefully edited versions of the truth. They knew about the Upside Down in broad strokes, knew that something terrible had happened, that Will had been taken and that people had died. They'd seen some of the news coverage, the government cover-ups, the strange explanations that never quite added up. But they didn't know everything. They didn't know about the Mind Flayer's voice in Will's head, about the feeling of being hollowed out and filled with something ancient and evil. They didn't know about watching himself hurt people he loved while being unable to stop it. They didn't know about the nights Mike had stayed by his bedside, talking to him for hours, anchoring him to reality when the possession made him forget who he was.

Some things were too big to explain. Some things required you to have lived through them.

Lydia reached across and squeezed his hand. "I get it. Being vulnerable is terrifying, especially when you've already lost so much. But Will, you're already losing him in a way. You're not letting yourself have what might be right in front of you because you're too afraid to reach for it. And that's a kind of loss too. A slow loss. The worst kind."

"And even if you're right," Marcus added, his voice gentle but firm, "even if Mike doesn't feel that way about you—which I personally think is bullshit, but let's say you're right—do you really think he'd stop being your friend? From everything you've told us about this guy, he's been by your side through literal hell. Multiple hells, actually. He's not going anywhere just because you have feelings for him."

But Will couldn't let himself hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope was what had gotten him through years of pain in Hawkins, through being called a freak and a fairy, through watching Mike kiss El and knowing that could never be him. Hope had kept him alive when the Mind Flayer had his hooks in Will's brain, when he'd wanted nothing more than to give up and let the darkness win. Hope that someday, somehow, Mike might look at him the way Will looked at Mike.

But hope had also slowly destroyed him. Every time Mike mentioned El, every time Mike talked about their future together, every time Will had to smile and nod and pretend his heart wasn't shattering into smaller and smaller pieces—hope had done that. Hope had painted Mike's face in secret in the corners of Will's sketchbooks, had written feelings he could never say out loud in the margins of his notebooks, had whispered "maybe someday" into the darkness of his bedroom.

He couldn't survive that kind of hope again.

—-

The weeks leading up to Mike's arrival were torture. They talked every night like always, but now every conversation felt weighted with meaning Will couldn't quite name, significance that shimmered just out of reach. Mike asked detailed questions about Will's favorite coffee shops, the best places to get art supplies, what the weather was like, whether Will's dorm had a decent cafeteria or if Mike should plan on cooking more.

"You can't cook," Will reminded him one night, trying to inject some normalcy into the conversation. "You burned water once. Actual water."

"That was one time, and in my defense, I was distracted because you were bleeding and I was trying to help."

"I had a paper cut."

"It was a serious paper cut. You were very brave." Will could hear the smile in Mike's voice. "But I can learn. We could cook together. Make it a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yeah, like our thing. You know." Mike paused, and when he spoke again his voice had gone softer, more intimate. "A weekly dinner thing. We could try making something new every week. Just the two of us. Get groceries together on Saturdays, spend Sunday afternoons in my kitchen, figure it out as we go. I've been thinking about it a lot, actually. About us having our own routines in New York. Our own place we go for coffee every morning. Our own spot in the park where we sit on the same bench and watch people go by. Building a life there. Together."

Will's heart was pounding so hard he was sure Mike could hear it through the phone. "Mike, you're going to have your own life too, though. You'll make friends in your classes, probably join some clubs or the school newspaper or something—"

"I don't need other friends." Mike's voice was firm. "I have you. That's enough."

"But that's not healthy. You can't just revolve your whole life around one person."

There was a long pause. When Mike spoke again, his voice had gone quiet, almost cold. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I'm just saying you should keep your options open. Meet new people. Maybe start dating again, eventually, when you're ready. You're a catch, Mike. People will want to date you. You shouldn't limit yourself."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Mike sounded frustrated now, and there was something else underneath—hurt, maybe, or confusion. "I've told you, probably a dozen times now, that I don't want anyone else. I don't understand why you keep bringing this up. Why you keep trying to push me toward other people when I've made it clear that's not what I want."

"I just don't want you to feel like you have to spend all your time with me. I know I'm your best friend, but New York is huge and there are so many interesting people and experiences and—"

"Jesus Christ, Will." Mike cut him off, his voice sharp. "Do you really not get it? Do you really not understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Get what?"

"Nothing. Forget it. I have to go."

"Mike, wait—"

But the line was already dead, leaving Will staring at the phone in confusion and growing dread. These weird moments kept happening more and more frequently—Mike getting upset about things Will didn't understand, long pauses where it felt like Mike was waiting for Will to say something specific, but Will had no idea what. Conversations that felt like they were happening on two different levels, like Mike was speaking in code Will didn't know how to crack.

He tried calling back immediately, but the line was busy. He tried again fifteen minutes later, and Mike's roommate answered, sounding annoyed.

"Mike's not here. He went out. Don't know when he'll be back."

Will lay awake that entire night, replaying the conversation over and over, trying to figure out what he'd said wrong, what hidden meaning he'd missed. The phone never rang. For the first time in months, Mike didn't call at their usual time the next evening. Or the evening after that.

On the third day, Will finally broke and called Mike's number again. Mike answered on the first ring, like he'd been waiting by the phone.

"Hey," Mike said, and his voice was carefully controlled, deliberately casual. "Sorry I haven't called. Just been stressed about packing and coordinating the move and everything."

"It's okay. I was worried I said something wrong."

"No. You didn't do anything wrong." But there was something in Mike's voice that suggested Will had, in fact, done something very wrong, Mike just wasn't going to say what. Or couldn't say what. Or didn't know how.

They talked for less than an hour that night, the conversation stilted and awkward in a way it never had been before. Mike answered Will's questions in short sentences. He didn't ask about Will's day. He didn't tell any stories or share observations or do any of the things that usually made their calls feel essential, like oxygen.

When they hung up, Will felt like something fundamental had shifted between them and he didn't know how to shift it back. He thought about calling again, about apologizing even though he didn't know what he'd done wrong. But he was afraid. Afraid that pushing would make whatever this was worse. Afraid that Mike was already pulling away and any move Will made would just accelerate the inevitable.

Over the next two weeks, their calls continued, but they were different. Shorter. More surface-level. Mike stopped saying "I miss you." He stopped asking what Will was wearing or what he'd eaten that day or any of the small, intimate questions that had made Will feel seen and known. They talked about logistics instead—when Mike's bus was arriving, where they'd meet, what Will's schedule looked like that first week.

Will told himself it was fine. That Mike was just stressed about the move. That things would go back to normal once Mike actually got to New York and they could see each other in person.

But late at night, alone in his dorm room while Marcus snored softly across the room, Will couldn't shake the feeling that he'd broken something between them, and he didn't know how to fix it.

—

Mike arrived on a gray January morning that threatened snow, the sky the color of old bruises. Will had recruited Marcus and Lydia to help with the move, and they all met at Mike's new apartment—a cramped studio in the East Village that smelled like old cigarettes and cleaning products, with a window that looked out onto a brick wall. Mike could barely afford it even with his parents helping, he'd told Will during one of their recent stilted phone calls, but it was close to campus and close to Will's dorm, and that made it worth it.

When Mike opened the door, Will's breath caught in his throat. It had only been six weeks since they'd seen each other over winter break, but somehow Mike looked different. Older, maybe. More tired. There were dark shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before, and he'd lost weight—not much, but enough that his frame looked almost gaunt. His hair was longer too, curling around his ears in a way that made Will want to reach out and touch it.

"Will," Mike said, and then Will was being pulled into a hug so tight he could barely breathe.

Mike's arms wrapped around him completely, one hand pressing against the center of Will's back, the other cradling the back of his head. Mike's face was buried in Will's neck, his breath warm against Will's skin, and the hug went on and on, lasting far longer than any of their previous hugs. Long enough that Will became hyperaware of every point where their bodies touched—chest to chest, hip to hip, Mike's heart hammering against his own.

"I'm here," Mike murmured into Will's hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm finally here. God, Will, I'm finally here."

Will wanted to say something, but his throat was too tight. He just held on, breathing in the familiar scent of Mike—laundry detergent and something warm and cedar-like that was just Mike, that Will would recognize anywhere, in any universe.

When they finally pulled apart, Mike kept one hand on Will's arm, his fingers wrapped around Will's bicep like he couldn't quite let go, like Will might disappear if he stopped touching him. His eyes were searching Will's face with an intensity that made Will want to look away, except he couldn't. He was caught, pinned under the weight of Mike's gaze.

"I missed you so much," Mike said, and his voice was raw. "You have no idea how much."

"I missed you too."

Mike's thumb rubbed small circles on Will's forearm, the touch almost unconscious. "You look good. Tired, but good. Have you been sleeping enough? Eating enough?"

"When did you become my mom?" Will tried to joke, but his voice came out shaky.

"I just worry about you. Always worry about you." Mike's other hand came up to cup Will's face, his palm warm against Will's cheek. "I hate being away from you. Hate not being able to make sure you're okay."

Behind them, Marcus cleared his throat loudly. "So! This is sweet and all, but should we maybe start unloading the truck before we get a parking ticket?"

Mike dropped his hand quickly, but his eyes never left Will's face. "Right. Yeah. Of course."

They spent the afternoon unpacking Mike's things, and the whole time, Will couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. Mike was different. More tactile, more openly affectionate in a way that was new and strange and made Will's heart race uncomfortably.

Every time Will moved past him, Mike found a reason to touch him—a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, fingers brushing as they passed boxes back and forth, standing so close their hips bumped. At one point, Will was kneeling down organizing books on a low shelf when Mike reached across him to grab something from a box, and Mike's whole body pressed against Will's back for a long moment, heavy and warm.

"Sorry," Mike murmured, his lips close enough to Will's ear that Will could feel the words. "Tight space."

Except it wasn't that tight. There was plenty of room to go around. Mike had chosen to reach across Will instead of walking three feet to the left.

Will's hands shook as he shelved the next book.

"You could've found something cheaper in Brooklyn," Will said later, trying to focus on arranging Mike's sparse collection of kitchenware and not on the way Mike was watching him, like Will was something fascinating and new. "This place is probably eating up your budget."

"But you're here," Mike said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His hand came to rest on Will's hip, casual and possessive all at once. "I wanted to be close to you. As close as physically possible."

Across the room, Lydia and Marcus exchanged significant looks. Will pretended not to notice, but his face felt like it was on fire. This wasn't normal. This wasn't how friends acted, was it? But then again, he and Mike had never been normal friends. They'd shared too much, survived too much together. Maybe this was just how they were.

By evening, the apartment was mostly organized—which didn't take long, considering Mike had never been someone who accumulated much stuff. A few boxes of books, mostly sci-fi and fantasy novels with cracked spines from multiple readings. Some clothes, practical and worn. His laptop and the record player he'd had since eighth grade, along with a crate of records they'd collected together over the years. And the photos.

The last box Will opened made his throat go tight. Inside were photos from Hawkins, carefully wrapped in tissue paper like precious things. The Party at various ages, all of them squeezed into frame—awkward middle school versions of themselves, high school graduation, that last photo they'd taken all together before the final battle. El and Max laughing at something off-camera, their arms around each other. A photo of Will and Mike from eighth grade, both of them skinny and awkward, with bad haircuts and worse fashion choices, Mike's arm slung around Will's shoulders like even then he'd been unable to not touch Will.

"I couldn't leave them behind," Mike said quietly, coming to stand beside Will. He stood closer than necessary in the small space, close enough that Will could feel the heat radiating off him. "They're the only copies I have of some of these. The only proof that those people existed, that those days happened."

At the bottom of the box was a smaller frame—El on her own, captured mid-laugh, her eyes bright with that fierce joy she'd carried like a weapon against the darkness. Mike picked it up carefully, his expression growing complicated and distant.

"I'm going to put this on my desk," he said. "Is that weird? I know we broke up before she died, but she was still important to me. She'll always be important."

Will looked at Mike sharply. "You broke up? Mike, you never told me that."

"I know." Mike was still staring at El's photo. "We broke up about two months before the final battle. It was mutual. We both knew we were holding onto something that wasn't right for either of us anymore. We loved each other, but we weren't in love. Not the way you're supposed to be."

"Why didn't you tell me? All this time, I thought—"

"I was going to. After the battle, after we won, I was going to tell you everything. But then she died, and I felt so guilty. Like I'd caused it somehow by not loving her the right way, by wanting—" He stopped abruptly. "By wanting things I shouldn't have wanted. And then at the funeral, you were so sad, and I couldn't add to that by telling you we'd broken up. It felt selfish. It felt like I'd be making her death about me."

"Mike, that's—" Will didn't know what to say. His whole understanding of the past year had just been rewritten. "That's not how it works. You couldn't have caused her death by breaking up with her."

"Logically, I know that. But grief isn't logical." Mike finally looked away from the photo, turning to face Will fully. "You know what she told me? When we broke up? She said that if something happened to her in the battle, she wanted me to be happy. Really happy, not just going through the motions. And she said that I should tell people the truth, because we never know how much time we have left. That I should be honest instead of hiding things." Mike's hand found Will's, their fingers tangling together naturally. "She wanted me to tell the truth. About everything."

Will's breath caught. His hand tightened reflexively around Mike's. "What truth?"

Mike looked at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Will's face like he was trying to find something there. His thumb traced patterns on the back of Will's hand. "Just... the truth. About how I feel. About what's important to me. Who's important to me."

The room felt like it was spinning. Mike was still holding his hand. Mike's thumb was tracing patterns on the back of Will's hand. Mike's eyes were so intense, so vulnerable, so full of something that looked terrifyingly like—

"Guys!" Lydia's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "We need help with this bookshelf! And maybe you two want to stop having an intense moment in the corner and actually help us with the furniture?"

Mike dropped Will's hand immediately, and the moment shattered. "Right. Sorry. Coming."

But as they moved to help with the bookshelf, Will felt Mike's eyes on him, heavy with meaning he didn't know how to interpret. His hand still tingled where Mike had been touching it. His mind was reeling. El had told Mike to tell the truth about his feelings. Mike and El had broken up before she died. Mike kept talking about being honest about what was important to him, who was important to him.

But what did that mean? The truth about their friendship? About how much Will meant to him as a best friend? Or something else, something more?

No. Will couldn't let himself think like that. Couldn't let himself hope like that.

They finished assembling Mike's bed frame as the sun started to set, the light through the grimy window turning everything golden and hazy. Mike kept finding excuses to touch Will—steadying himself with a hand on Will's shoulder that lingered several seconds too long, brushing past him in the cramped space even though there were other, clearer paths around, standing close enough that their arms pressed together while they worked on the same section of frame.

"There," Mike said with satisfaction once they'd tightened the last bolt. He tested the frame, shaking it slightly. "Solid. Nice work, team."

"Now you just need an actual mattress," Lydia pointed out. "What are you sleeping on tonight?"

"I've got a sleeping bag and some blankets. I'll be fine on the floor for a few days until the mattress delivery comes."

"That's ridiculous," Will said before he could stop himself. "You can stay at my dorm until—"

"Really?" Mike's whole face lit up, and Will's protest died in his throat. "You mean it?"

"I mean, if you want. Marcus won't mind, right Marcus?"

Marcus, who'd been watching their entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, just shook his head. "Sure, why not. What's one more person in our shoebox of a room."

They moved on to organizing the kitchen next—a task that didn't take long considering Mike's collection of kitchenware consisted of two plates, three mismatched mugs, and a single pot that looked like it had survived a war. Lydia was arranging the mugs in the cabinet, trying to find the best configuration, while Will helped Mike unpack a box of dry goods and figure out which cabinet should hold what.

"Pasta goes here, I think," Will said, reaching up to place a box of spaghetti on the top shelf. Mike moved to stand directly behind him, ostensibly to hand him another box, but standing far closer than necessary.

Will's breath caught, but he forced himself to just take the box and put it away, pretending this was normal, pretending his heart wasn't racing.

Marcus watched this entire exchange with raised eyebrows. When Will stepped down and Mike finally moved back, Marcus cleared his throat meaningfully.

"You know what Mike really needs?" Marcus said, glancing at Will with barely suppressed amusement. "A proper housewarming gift. Will, didn't you say you made something for him?"

Will felt his face heat up immediately. "That was—it was supposed to be private—"

"Oh please, false modesty doesn't suit you. Show him."

Reluctantly, Will pulled out a small wrapped package from his bag. "It's not much. Just something I've been working on."

Mike unwrapped it carefully, and his hands stilled when he saw what was inside. It was a painting—small, maybe eight by ten inches—of a specific moment from their childhood. The scene showed the woods behind their houses in Hawkins, with late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. Two small figures sat with their backs against a large oak tree, close together, one with dark hair and one with a bowl cut, looking up at something beyond the frame. Will had painted it from memory—the day in fifth grade when Mike had found him crying in the woods after some kids at school had been particularly cruel, and instead of trying to fix it or tell him it would be okay, Mike had just sat with him. They'd stayed there for hours, barely talking, just existing together until the world felt manageable again.

Will had captured that feeling—the golden light, the quiet peace, the way even as kids they'd understood that sometimes presence mattered more than words. It wasn't sad or dark like most of Will's recent work. It was gentle, nostalgic, full of the kind of tenderness that came from knowing someone your entire life.

"Will," Mike breathed, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame. "This is—when did you paint this?"

"Over winter break. I kept thinking about that day. About how you've always just... known what I needed. Even when we were kids. I wanted you to have something that reminded you of home. Of the good parts, before everything got complicated."

Mike was staring at the painting like it was something sacred. When he looked up at Will, his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I love it. I love—thank you. I'm going to hang this right here, next to El's photo. The two most important people in my life, right where I can see them every day."

He hugged Will again, and this time the hug felt different. More desperate. Mike's arms were tight around Will's waist, his face pressed into Will's shoulder, and when he pulled back slightly, his face was so close to Will's that for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, Will thought Mike might kiss him.

But then Marcus's phone rang, shattering the moment, and Mike stepped back.

By the time they ordered Chinese food and sat on Mike's floor eating straight from the containers—his table hadn't arrived yet—Will's mind was spinning. Mike sat pressed against Will's side even though there was plenty of room, his thigh warm against Will's, occasionally reaching over to steal food from Will's container with an intimacy that felt both familiar and new.

"So, Mike," Lydia said, twirling lo mein around her fork with studied casualness. "Will tells us you're an English major. What do you want to do with that?"

"Write, hopefully. Fiction, maybe journalism. I'm still figuring it out. But I've always loved stories, the way they can make you feel things, make you understand people's lives and choices. I want to do that. Tell stories that matter."

"And you decided NYU would help you figure that out better than Indiana?"

Mike glanced at Will, and his hand found Will's knee under the edge of his jacket, resting there casually like it belonged there, like touching Will was as natural as breathing. "NYU has some great professors, yeah. The writing program here is one of the best. But mostly I just needed to be here. With Will. It sounds crazy, I know, but being apart from him was—" He paused, searching for words. "It was killing me. I couldn't do it anymore."

"That's really sweet," Lydia said, and her voice was carefully neutral. "You two must be incredibly close."

"We are." Mike's thumb started tracing small circles on Will's knee, and Will tried not to react even though his skin felt like it was on fire under Mike's touch. "Will's my person. He always has been, from the day we met."

"Your person," Marcus repeated thoughtfully. "That's an interesting way to put it. Like a soulmate kind of thing?"

"Yeah, exactly." Mike smiled at Will, and there was something so open, so vulnerable in his expression that Will's breath caught. The way Mike was looking at him—it was the way people looked at each other in movies, in love songs, in all the art Will had studied that depicted yearning and devotion. "Will's my soulmate."

Will's heart was hammering. Friends didn't talk about each other like this, did they? Friends didn't touch each other this constantly, didn't move across the country for each other, didn't call each other their soulmate with that particular weight in their voice and look in their eyes.

But Mike had loved El. Mike was grieving. Maybe this was just how Mike processed loss—by clinging to the people he had left, by being intense and overwhelming in his affection. It didn't mean anything romantic. It couldn't.

"Will?" Mike's voice pulled him back to the present. "You okay? You went somewhere."

"Yeah, sorry. Just tired. It's been a long day."

Mike's hand squeezed his knee gently, intimately. "We should probably head back to your dorm soon, right? Get settled before it gets too late?"

"Yeah, probably. I have Dr. Thornton at 9 AM tomorrow and if I'm late she'll murder me."

"I'll make sure you're up. We can grab coffee on the way to campus." Mike's thumb traced a small circle on Will's knee. "Thank you for letting me crash with you. I know it's going to be cramped with three of us in there."

"It's fine. Better than you sleeping on the floor here."

"Still." Mike's eyes were soft, vulnerable. "It means a lot. Getting to spend my first real nights in New York with you. Waking up and having you be the first person I see. That's—that's what I wanted. What I've been wanting."

Will's throat felt tight. He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to interpret the weight in Mike's voice, so he just nodded.

Marcus and Lydia announced they were heading to the library to study around nine. While Mike excused himself to use the tiny bathroom, Marcus pulled Will aside into the narrow hallway, his expression serious.

"Okay, I'm just going to say it because someone needs to. That man is all over you. Like, all over you. Touching you constantly, talking about you being his soulmate, saying you're his person. Will, that's not how straight guys talk about their male best friends."

"He's just affectionate. That's how he is. He's always been like that."

"Has he though? Or is this new?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Because from what you've told me about him, he was with El for years and never acted like this with you until she died. And now suddenly he's transferred schools to be near you and he can't seem to stop touching you. That's not grief, Will. That's something else. When are you going to stop being afraid?"

"I'm not afraid. I'm being realistic. I'm protecting what we have."

"No, you're building walls. And I think Mike has been trying really hard to break them down, but you won't let him. You're so convinced that he can't possibly feel the way you do that you're missing all the signs that he does."

"You don't know that. You don't know him like I do."

"Maybe that's exactly why I can see it clearly. I'm not clouded by years of history and trauma and fear. I just see two people who are clearly gone for each other, and one of them is too scared to acknowledge it."

Marcus glanced back toward the bathroom, then lowered his voice. "Look, I'm going to stay at Lydia's tonight. Give you two some space on your first night actually living in the same city."

"Marcus, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to. Besides, three people in that shoebox is going to be miserable, and I'd rather sleep on Lydia's floor than listen to you two have some emotionally intense conversation at 2 AM." He squeezed Will's shoulder. "Just... think about what I said, okay? About letting him in."

After Marcus and Lydia left, Will and Mike gathered up Mike's overnight things—a duffel bag with clothes and toiletries, his laptop, the painting Will had given him that Mike insisted on bringing. They walked back to Will's dorm through the cold January night, their breath fogging in the air. Mike walked close enough that their shoulders bumped with every few steps, and halfway there, his hand found Will's, their fingers tangling together.

"Cold," Mike said, as if that explained it.

Will didn't point out that their hands in his jacket pocket wasn't actually warming either of them up. He just held on.

The dorm was quiet when they got back, most people either out for the evening or already shut in their rooms. Will's room was on the third floor, a cramped space with two twin beds, two desks crammed against opposite walls, and barely enough floor space to walk between them. With Marcus gone, it felt bigger somehow, but also more intimate.

"So this is home," Will said, suddenly self-conscious about the art prints taped to his wall, the sketches scattered across his desk, the clothes he'd forgotten to put away.

"It's perfect," Mike said, setting down his bag and looking around like he was memorizing every detail. His eyes lingered on Will's desk, on the photos pinned above it—mostly of the Party, several of him and Mike together. "You kept all of these."

"Of course I did."

Mike smiled, soft and warm, then grabbed the blankets from Will's bed. "Movie time?"

They settled on Will's bed—a narrow twin that forced them to press close together, shoulders and hips and legs all touching. Mike had pulled the blankets over both of them, creating a cocoon, and somehow in the process of getting comfortable, Mike's head had ended up on Will's shoulder, his arm across Will's stomach, their legs tangled together.

They put on some old sci-fi movie neither of them really watched, the laptop balanced precariously on Will's desk chair pulled up next to the bed.

"This is nice," Mike murmured, his breath warm against Will's neck. "This is what I've been missing. What I've been needing."

"What, falling asleep during bad movies?"

"Being close to you. Touching you. God, Will, it was killing me being in Indiana, only getting to see you once a month when I visited. I need this. I need you. Need to know you're real and safe and here."

Will's throat felt tight. "You have me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know. Finally." Mike shifted, turning so he was looking up at Will, his eyes dark in the dim light from the TV. "I was starting to think I was going crazy, you know? Like I was imagining what we had, or reading too much into things, or making it all up in my head. But being here with you now, it feels right. It feels like coming home. More than Hawkins ever did. You're home to me, Will. You've always been home."

"Mike—"

"I love you," Mike said softly, and the words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. "I know I don’t say it all the time, but I do. So much. More than I know how to express."

They'd been saying "I love you" since they were kids. It was easy, familiar, the way you loved your best friend. But the way Mike was looking at him now, the weight in his voice, the way his thumb was stroking the back of Will's hand—it felt different. It felt like Mike was trying to say something more, something deeper, something that made Will's heart race and his palms sweat and his breath come short.

"I love you too," Will said, and Mike smiled, soft and content and beautiful.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together on Will's couch, and Will let himself pretend, just for a few hours, that this meant what he desperately wanted it to mean. That when Mike said "I love you," he meant it the same way Will did. That when Mike held his hand, it was because Mike wanted him and not just because Mike needed the comfort of familiar touch after months of grief and loneliness.

Just for a few hours, Will let himself hope. And it was the most terrifying thing he'd done in years.

—

The next morning, Will woke up to find himself completely wrapped around Mike. His face was pressed into Mike's neck, one arm thrown across Mike's chest, their legs intertwined. Mike was already awake, his hand stroking slowly up and down Will's back in a way that felt absurdly intimate.

"Morning," Mike said softly when he felt Will stir. "You're a cuddler when you sleep. I didn't know that about you."

Will jerked back, embarrassed, suddenly aware of how tangled up they were. "Sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize." Mike's hand on his back pressed him back down gently. "I liked it. I've always wondered what it would be like to wake up with you. It's even better than I imagined."

Will's face felt hot. He carefully extracted himself from Mike's embrace and sat up, trying to create some distance, some space to think clearly. "We should get ready. Dr. Thornton's class is in an hour and I still need to shower and—"

"Will." Mike sat up too, concerned, his hand finding Will's, their fingers tangling together automatically. "Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No. I just—I need to get ready for class."

"Okay." But Mike looked uncertain, almost hurt, his thumb rubbing anxious circles on the back of Will's hand. "Can I come with you? To campus, I mean. I want to see where you spend your time, see your studio. And maybe we could get breakfast after your class? I want to hear all about what you're working on."

How could Will say no to that? How could he ever say no when Mike looked at him like that?

They got ready in the communal bathroom, Mike borrowing Will's toothbrush without asking in a way that felt absurdly intimate, like they'd been doing this for years. They walked to campus together through the cold morning air, Mike's hand finding Will's every few blocks, squeezing and then letting go, like he couldn't help touching but was trying to show some restraint.

Will grabbed coffee and a bagel from the campus café while Mike waited outside his studio building, settling on the steps with a book. When Will emerged three hours later, exhausted from Dr. Thornton's brutal critique of his latest piece, Mike was still there, exactly where Will had left him.

"Hey," Mike said, jumping up immediately and crossing to him. His hands came up to cup Will's face, his thumbs stroking Will's cheekbones as he studied his expression. "How'd it go? You look stressed."

Will's breath caught at the casual intimacy of the touch. "She hated it. Said my color choices were 'emotionally manipulative' and I need to 'trust the viewer more.'"

"She sounds like she doesn't understand your work."

"She understands it perfectly. That's the problem." Will sighed, and Mike's hands dropped to his shoulders, squeezing gently. "I'm too obvious. She can tell I'm working through trauma and she thinks it's heavy-handed."

Mike's arm went around his shoulders, pulling him close as they started walking. "Your work is honest. That's not the same as heavy-handed. You've lived through things most people can't imagine. That comes through in your art. That's what makes it powerful."

Will leaned into him, grateful. This was what he'd missed during those months apart—Mike understanding, Mike supporting, Mike knowing exactly what to say.

"Hungry?" Mike asked. "I found this diner that does amazing pancakes. My treat."

They fell into a routine over the next few weeks, and it was simultaneously everything Will had ever wanted and a special kind of torture. Mike's mattress arrived, but he still spent most nights at Will's dorm, stealing Marcus's blankets even though Marcus was rarely there—he'd essentially moved in with Lydia, giving Will and Mike space neither of them had asked for but both seemed to need.

Every morning, Will would wake up to find Mike already awake, watching him with a soft expression that made Will's chest ache. Mike would wait outside Will's classes, usually with coffee and something to eat because he'd noticed Will forgot to take care of himself when he was stressed about a project. They'd study together in the library, Mike's foot hooked around Will's ankle under the table like he needed the constant physical connection. They'd get dinner together most nights, cooking in Mike's tiny kitchen—Mike slowly learning not to burn things while Will chopped vegetables and told him about his day—or grabbing takeout and eating on his couch, pressed together even though there was plenty of room.

Mike had started a tradition of "Sunday painting days" where he'd sit in Will's studio and work on his writing while Will painted. But mostly Mike would just watch Will work, his expression soft and fond in a way that made Will's hands shake if he looked back too long.

"You're beautiful when you paint," Mike said one Sunday afternoon in early February. "You get this look of complete focus. Like nothing else in the world exists except you and the canvas. Your whole face changes. I could watch you for hours."

Will's hand slipped, dragging cadmium red across where he didn't intend. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true. You are beautiful. Especially like this."

"Mike—" Because it makes me hope. Because it makes me think you might mean it the way I want you to mean it. Because I don't know how to protect myself when you look at me like that. "Just don't."

Mike was quiet for a moment, his expression troubled. "Will, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why do you always do that? Pull away when I compliment you or say something about how I feel?"

"I don't—"

"You do. Every time I try to tell you how important you are to me, how much you mean to me, you change the subject or deflect or make a joke. Why?"

Will kept his eyes on the canvas, on the painting that was supposed to be about memory but was really just about Mike, the way everything he painted was somehow about Mike. "Because I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything specific. I just want you to hear me. To believe me when I tell you these things." Mike stood up from his spot across the room and came to stand beside Will. His hand found Will's, stilling the brush. "Do you believe me when I tell you you're beautiful?"

"Mike, we're best friends. You don't have to—"

"That's not what I asked." Mike turned Will to face him, his hands on Will's shoulders. "Do you believe me?"

Will couldn't look at him. "I don't know what you want from me."

Mike's hands tightened on his shoulders, then dropped away. He stepped back, and the hurt in his expression made Will's chest ache. "Right. Okay."

"Mike—"

"I should go. Let you work." Mike gathered his things quickly, shoving his laptop and notebook into his bag. "I'll see you later."

"You don't have to leave—"

"I need some air. I'll call you tonight, okay?"

But Mike didn't call that night. Or the next night. Will tried calling him, but Mike didn't pick up. On the third day, Will went to Mike's apartment and knocked until Mike finally opened the door.

"Hey," Mike said, and his voice was carefully neutral. "Sorry I haven't called. I've been working on a paper."

"For three days straight?"

"It's a big paper." Mike leaned against the doorframe, not inviting Will in. "What's up?"

"What's up? Mike, you've been avoiding me. Did I do something wrong?"

"No. You didn't do anything wrong. That's kind of the problem."

"I don't understand."

Mike laughed, but it sounded broken. "I know. That's what I'm trying to figure out." He ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "Will, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."

"Okay."

"Do you want this? Us spending all this time together, me staying at your dorm, all of it. Do you actually want it, or are you just going along with it because you don't know how to say no to me?"

"Of course I want it. Mike, you're my best friend. I always want to spend time with you."

Mike's jaw tightened. "Best friend. Right." He pushed off the doorframe. "I should get back to my paper. I'll see you around, Will."

"Mike, wait—"

But Mike had already closed the door, leaving Will standing in the hallway, confused and hurt and with no idea what he'd said wrong.

After that, things changed. Mike still came around, still studied with Will, still showed up outside his classes. But there was a distance now that hadn't been there before. Mike was more careful with his touches, less likely to reach for Will's hand or pull him into long hugs. He stopped sleeping at Will's dorm, claiming he needed to get used to his own place. The easy intimacy they'd built over the past month had fractured, and Will didn't know how to fix it.

"You need to talk to him," Lydia said one afternoon when Will was having lunch with her and Marcus, picking at his food miserably. "Whatever's happening between you two, it's eating you both alive."

"I don't know what to say. Every time I try to talk to him, I make it worse."

"Maybe try listening instead of talking," Marcus suggested. "It seems like Mike has been trying to tell you something for a while now, and you keep shutting him down."

"I'm not shutting him down—"

"Will." Lydia reached across the table and took his hand. "Sweetie. You are. Every time he gets close to saying something real, something vulnerable, you redirect. You call him your best friend like it's a shield. You pull away when he touches you. You act like all of this is normal when it very clearly isn't."

"I just don't want to assume—"

"At what point," Marcus interrupted, "does it stop being assuming and start being willful ignorance? That man moved across the country for you. He spends every possible moment with you. He looks at you like you're the sun. And you're still convinced he just wants to be friends?"

"He loved El—"

"And El has been gone for a year. And from what you told us, they'd already broken up before she died." Lydia squeezed his hand. "Will, I know you're scared. I know you've been hurt before and you're protecting yourself. But you're also hurting Mike in the process. And you're hurting yourself."

Will pulled his hand back, frustrated. "You don't understand. If I'm wrong about this, if I tell him how I feel and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose him. I lose the most important person in my life. And I can't—I can't survive that."

"And if you're right?" Marcus asked gently. "If he does feel the same way and you're pushing him away? How is that any better?"

Will didn't have an answer for that.

—

Will meets one of Mike's friends on a Wednesday in early March. They ran into Jake—a guy from Mike's Contemporary American Literature seminar—while walking around campus. Will and Mike had just left the library, Mike's hand resting on Will's lower back as they walked, when someone called out.

"Wheeler! Finally!"

A tall guy with shaggy blond hair jogged up to them, slapping Mike on the back. "Dude, you've been impossible to pin down. I've been trying to get you to come to study group for weeks."

He looked at Will, then back at Mike, then at Mike's hand on Will's back, and his face broke into a grin. "Oh—you must be Will. The boyfriend. Finally! Mike would not shut up about you in class."

Will's heart stopped. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

Mike's hand tightened on Will's back, but he didn't move it. He looked confused by Jake's enthusiasm but not by the assumption. "Will, this is Jake. We have Contemporary American Lit together. Jake, this is Will."

"Yeah, I figured." Jake was still grinning. "Nice to finally meet you, man. Mike literally brings you up constantly. 'Will thinks this about Faulkner, Will would appreciate this imagery, my boyfriend has this interpretation.' It's actually pretty sweet, if a little nauseating."

"Jake—" Mike's voice had an edge of warning, but it seemed more about Jake's oversharing than about the boyfriend comment.

"I mean, I get it now." Jake gestured between them. "You two are clearly in your own world. I've invited you to study group like five times and you're always 'busy with Will.' Which, I mean, good for you. New relationship energy and all that. Just maybe come up for air occasionally? Some of us could use your take on the Morrison essay."

Will's mind was spinning. Jake thought they were together. Jake thought they were dating. And Mike wasn't correcting him. Mike wasn't saying anything at all, just standing there with his hand still on Will's back, looking increasingly uncomfortable but not with the assumption itself—with something else.

"We should get going," Will managed to say, his voice coming out strained. "I have... I need to get to my studio."

"Oh, sure, yeah." Jake was still grinning, oblivious to the tension. "Hey, some of us are getting drinks Friday night if you guys want to come. And yes, Will, that invitation includes you, obviously. I know Mike doesn't go anywhere without you."

"We'll think about it," Mike said shortly. "See you later, Jake."

They walked in silence for a full minute after Jake left, Will's mind reeling. Mike's hand had dropped from his back, and they weren't touching at all now, an unusual amount of space between them.

"So," Will finally said, his voice tight. "Your friends think we're dating."

Mike stopped walking, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Does that bother you?"

"Does it bother me? Mike, he called me your boyfriend and you didn't correct him."

"Why would I correct him?" Mike's voice was flat, carefully controlled.

Will stared at him. "Because we're not dating?"

Mike's expression did something complicated—hurt and confusion and something that looked almost like anger. "What?"

"Mike, we've never—we're best friends."

"Best friends." Mike laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Right. Best friends who sleep in the same bed every night. Best friends who hold hands and cuddle and spend literally every waking moment together. Best friends who—" He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. "You know what? Never mind. You're right, I'm tired of doing this. We're just friends."

"Mike, I don't understand why you're upset—"

"Of course you don't." Mike started walking again, faster now, like he was trying to put distance between them. "You never do."

"That's not fair! How am I supposed to understand when you won't tell me what's wrong?"

Mike whirled around, and there were tears in his eyes. "What's wrong is that I moved across the country for you. I spend every night in your bed. I hold your hand. I tell you I love you. I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought we were on the same page. I thought we had been for months. Since last summer, Will. Since I told you how I felt."

Will's mind raced back to last summer, to those final weeks before they'd left for college. They'd spent almost every day together, knowing their time was running out. Mike had been clingy, emotional, more tactile than usual. And one night, sitting on the roof of Mike's garage watching the stars, Mike had turned to him and said—

He had told him he loved him. But Mike said that all the time.

Will had thought he meant as a friend. Had thought it was Mike being emotional about them separating. He'd said "I love you too" and Mike had kissed his cheek and pulled him close, and Will had let himself enjoy the moment without reading too much into it because he'd been so sure Mike was straight, was still grieving El, could never want him that way.

"Oh my god," Will breathed, the realization crashing over him like ice water. "You thought—this whole time, you thought we were together?"

Mike's face was doing something complicated, cycling through emotions too fast to track. "You told me you loved me too. You—we've been acting like a couple for months, Will. What was I supposed to think?"

"I thought you meant as friends! Mike, we've been saying 'I love you' since we were kids. How was I supposed to know you meant it differently?"

"Because I told you!" Mike's voice was rising now, months of frustration spilling out. "I told you I was in love with you. Those were my exact words. And you said it back. You said you loved me too. And then we went to college and I called you every single night and told you I missed you and I couldn't breathe without you and I was moving to be with you, and you never once said no, never once pushed back. You let me believe—" His voice broke. "You let me think we were together this whole time?"

"I didn't know!" Will could feel tears streaming down his face now. "Mike, I didn't know. I thought you were grieving. I thought you were being emotional about college. I've been in love with you since we were twelve years old and I never thought you could feel the same way so I just—I didn't let myself see it. I couldn't let myself hope."

They stood there on the sidewalk, both crying, years of miscommunication laid bare between them. Students walked past, giving them curious looks, but neither of them cared.

"You've been in love with me since we were twelve?" Mike's voice was small, broken.

"Since forever," Will admitted. "Since before I even knew what being in love meant. But you were with El, and—even after El, I thought you were grieving her, that you needed time. I never thought you could want me. Not really. Not the way I want you."

Mike let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Will, I've been trying to show you for months. I moved here for you. I sleep in your bed. I hold your hand. What else did I need to do?"

"Use your words!" Will's voice was raw. "Actually tell me instead of assuming I understood! Mike, we've been saying 'I love you' platonically for years. How was I supposed to know last summer was different? You never said 'Will, I want to date you' or 'Will, I want to be your boyfriend.' You just said you loved me, and I thought you meant it the way you always had."

"I kissed your cheek! I held your hand! I told you I was in love with you, not just that I loved you. In love, Will. How much clearer could I be?"

"Clearer than that! Because I was so convinced it was impossible that I explained away everything you did. The kissing my cheek, the hand holding, all of it—I told myself it was just you being affectionate, just you processing your grief, just you needing a friend."

Mike slumped back against a nearby building, sliding down to sit on the ground. He looked exhausted, devastated. "So this whole time. All these months. You didn't know."

Will sat down beside him, not touching, a careful few inches between them. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry, Mike. I'm so, so sorry."

They sat there on the sidewalk for a long time, neither knowing what to say, the weight of their miscommunication pressing down on both of them. Students passed by, the city moved around them, but they stayed frozen in that moment of terrible clarity.

"I need time," Mike finally said. "To think. To process this."

"Okay." Will's voice was small. "How much time?"

"I don't know. Not long. I just—I need to figure out how I feel about all of this. About the fact that you didn't know. That I've been thinking we were together when we weren't. That you—" He stopped, took a breath. "That you've wanted me this whole time but wouldn't let yourself have me."

"Mike—"

"I'm not angry. I'm just—I'm hurt and confused and I need to sort through it." Mike stood up, not looking at Will. "I'll call you. Okay? I just need a few days."

"Okay," Will whispered, even though it felt like his heart was being ripped out.

Mike walked away, and Will sat there on the sidewalk, watching him go, wondering how something that should have been a happy revelation had turned into this.

—

Mike didn't call for four days. They were the longest four days of Will's life. He went through the motions—went to class, worked on his paintings, tried to focus—but his mind was always on Mike. Wondering what Mike was thinking, if Mike hated him now, if they could find their way back to each other or if Will had ruined everything.

Lydia and Marcus hovered, worried but not pushing, giving Will space to process.

"He'll come around," Lydia said one night when they were all in Will's dorm room, Will lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. "He loves you. That doesn't just go away."

"But what if it does? What if he decides I hurt him too much, that it's not worth it?"

"Then you respect his decision," Marcus said gently. "But Will, from everything you've told us about Mike, he's not the type to give up on someone he loves just because things got complicated."

On the fifth day, Mike finally called.

"Can you come over?" His voice was quiet, careful. "I think we need to talk."

Will practically ran to Mike's apartment, his heart pounding the entire way. When Mike opened the door, he looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, wearing the same NYU hoodie he'd been wearing when Will last saw him.

"Hey," Mike said.

"Hey."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Mike stepped back, letting Will in. The apartment looked different—cleaner, like Mike had been stress-cleaning. The painting Will had given him was still hanging next to El's photo, exactly where Mike had put it on that first day.

"I've been thinking a lot," Mike said, sitting on the couch and gesturing for Will to sit too. Will sat on the opposite end, maintaining distance, not sure if he was still allowed to be close. "About everything. About us. About what happened."

"Mike, I'm so sorry—"

"Let me finish." Mike's voice was gentle but firm. "I've been thinking about how we got here. And I realized something. You were right. I never actually used clear words. I said 'I'm in love with you' once, last summer, and then I just assumed you understood everything that meant. But I never said 'I want to date you' or 'I want to be your boyfriend.' I never asked you on a date or had an actual conversation about what we were. I just assumed we were on the same page and got hurt when we weren't."

"But I should have known—"

"How? Will, you thought I was straight. You thought I was grieving El. From your perspective, none of what I was doing made sense as romantic interest. You explained it away because you were trying to protect yourself from hoping for something you thought was impossible." Mike finally looked at him, and his eyes were red-rimmed but clear. "I'm not saying you didn't hurt me. You did. Spending months thinking we were together when we weren't, that hurts. But I hurt you too. I put all this pressure on you to understand something I never clearly communicated. And I got frustrated with you for not being a mind reader."

"So what does that mean? For us?"

Mike was quiet for a moment. "It means I want to start over. For real this time. With actual words and clear communication and no assumptions."

Will's heart jumped. "Start over?"

"Yeah." Mike shifted closer, closing some of the distance between them. "Will Byers, I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time—longer than I realized, honestly. I want to date you. I want to be your boyfriend. I want to hold your hand and kiss you and take you on dates where we both know it's a date. I want to build a life with you. Is that something you want too?"

Tears were streaming down Will's face, but this time they were happy tears, relief and joy flooding through him. "Yes. God, yes. Mike, I've wanted that for so long. I love you. I'm in love with you. I want all of that."

"Then can I kiss you? Like, actually kiss you, not just kiss your cheek?"

Will nodded, not trusting his voice.

Mike crossed the remaining distance between them, his hands coming up to cup Will's face gently. He paused, just for a moment, giving Will a chance to change his mind. When Will didn't pull away, Mike leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft and tentative at first, both of them figuring out how they fit together. But then Will's hands found their way into Mike's hair and Mike's arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepened. Years of wanting, of miscommunication, of almost-but-not-quite crystallized into this moment of finally, finally getting it right.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard, both smiling through their tears.

"That was—" Will started.

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "That was worth waiting for."

They kissed again, and again, making up for lost time. Eventually they ended up tangled together on Mike's couch, Will tucked against Mike's chest, Mike's arms wrapped around him securely.

"So we're really doing this?" Will asked. "For real this time?"

"For real this time," Mike confirmed. "With actual communication and everything."

"I'm going to need you to be patient with me. I'm not good at this. At believing I can have good things. At believing you could actually want me."

"I'll be patient. And I'll keep telling you every day how much I want you until you believe it." Mike pressed a kiss to the top of Will's head. "We'll figure it out together. That's what we do, right? We face things together."

"Together," Will echoed, and let himself finally, finally believe that this was real.

—-

They told their friends the next day, meeting up for lunch at their usual spot in the student union. Marcus and Lydia took one look at them—at the way they were holding hands above the table, at the matching smiles on their faces—and knew immediately.

"Finally!" Lydia shouted, loud enough that half the cafeteria turned to look. "Oh thank god. I thought you two were going to dance around each other forever."

"So you figured it out?" Marcus asked, grinning. "About the whole... miscommunication thing?"

"You knew?" Will asked.

"We had theories," Lydia admitted. "The way Mike acted, it was pretty clear he thought you were together. And the way you acted, it was pretty clear you thought you weren't. We were just waiting for you two to finally have an actual conversation about it."

"You could have said something," Mike pointed out.

"And rob you of the chance to figure it out yourselves? Where's the fun in that?" Marcus stole a french fry from Will's plate. "But seriously, I'm happy for you guys. You're good together. Even when you thought you were just friends, you were good together."

"So what now?" Lydia asked. "Are you going to do the whole proper dating thing? Go on actual dates?"

Mike looked at Will, his eyes soft. "Yeah. I want to do everything properly this time. Take Will on real dates where we both know it's a date. Hold his hand in public. Introduce him as my boyfriend. Make sure everyone knows."

"I like the sound of that," Will said, and kissed Mike right there in the cafeteria, not caring who saw.

—

Spring break came two weeks later. They'd planned months ago to go back to Hawkins together, but now everything felt different. They were actually together now. Actually dating. And they had to tell everyone.

"Are you nervous?" Mike asked on the bus ride home, Will tucked against his side, Mike's arm around his shoulders.

"Terrified. What if they think we're moving too fast? What if they think I took advantage of you after El—"

"Will. They're going to be happy for us. The Party's been trying to get us together for years."

"Your mom might not be thrilled. We literally just started dating."

"My mom adores you. And she's not stupid. She's probably suspected for a while." Mike kissed his temple. "It's going to be fine. Better than fine."

Joyce picked them up from the bus station, and if she noticed the way they were holding hands or sitting closer than usual, she didn't comment. But Will saw her smile in the rearview mirror, soft and knowing.

That first night, they had dinner with the whole Party at the Wheeler house—Dustin and Lucas and their girlfriends, Max in her wheelchair looking stronger than she had in months, Mike's sister Nancy and Robin. Everyone was talking over each other, sharing stories about college and catching up, the kitchen full of warmth and noise and laughter.

"So," Dustin said, grinning at Mike and Will across the table. "How's New York treating you? Mike, are you stalking Will like you threatened to?"

"I'm not stalking him. We just spend a lot of time together." Mike's hand found Will's under the table, squeezing gently.

"Every waking moment from what I hear," Lucas added, his eyes twinkling. "Mike's basically become a New Yorker now. Don't think he's coming back to Indiana anytime soon."

"Not when everything I want is in New York," Mike said, and his hand found Will's under the table.

The table went quiet, everyone suddenly paying attention. Will felt multiple pairs of eyes on them, saw Dustin and Lucas exchange knowing looks, noticed Max's smirk. Under the table, Mike's hand squeezed his gently. Will looked at Mike, who was watching him with a soft, questioning expression—asking permission without words.

Will squeezed back and nodded.

Mike's whole face lit up. He turned back to the table, his arm sliding around Will's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Actually, there's something we wanted to tell you guys. Will and I are together. Like, officially together. He's my boyfriend."

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then—

"FINALLY!" Dustin shouted, jumping up from his chair so fast it nearly tipped over. "Oh my god, it only took you like ten years! Lucas, you owe me twenty bucks!"

"You bet on us?" Will asked, torn between amusement and embarrassment.

"Everyone bet on you," Max said, smirking. "We have a whole pool going. Dustin bet you'd get together before the end of sophomore year. Lucas said junior year. I said it would take till you graduated because you're both idiots."

"Thanks, Max," Mike said dryly.

Nancy was beaming at them from across the table. "I'm so happy for you guys. You're perfect together. You always have been."

"Even when you were in denial about it," Robin added, raising her glass. "To Mike and Will, who finally pulled their heads out of their asses."

They spent the rest of dinner fielding questions and enduring good-natured teasing. Joyce kept getting misty-eyed, clearly delighted. Even Mike's mom, when she found out, pulled them both into an awkward hug and said she'd been hoping for this.

Later, after dinner when everyone had migrated to the basement for games like old times, Dustin pulled them aside.

"I'm happy for you guys," he said, serious for once. "You've both been through so much. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy."

"Thanks, Dustin," Mike said, his arm around Will's waist.

"But if you hurt him," Dustin continued, looking at Mike, "I'll kill you. Slowly."

"I'm not going to hurt him," Mike said firmly, his arm tightening around Will's waist. "Not if I can help it."

"You better not." Dustin's expression softened. "He's been through enough. You both have."

"I know," Mike said quietly. "Trust me, I know."

Dustin studied them both for a moment, then seemed satisfied. "Good." He grinned again, the serious moment passing. "Now come on, we're playing D&D and you're DM-ing whether you like it or not. Some things don't change just because you two finally got together."

—-

They spent the rest of spring break in a happy haze—seeing friends, visiting their favorite spots in Hawkins, spending time with family. But mostly just being together, properly together, without the weight of miscommunication between them.

One night, they snuck out to Castle Byers—or what was left of it. The structure had mostly deteriorated, but the spot remained, tucked away in the woods, their childhood sanctuary.

"Do you remember when we built this?" Mike asked, sitting on a fallen log, pulling Will down beside him. "We were like, eight years old. We thought we were so cool, having our own fort."

"I remember. You insisted on being the one to hammer in the sign. You hit your thumb and cried."

"I did not cry."

"You totally cried." Will leaned into him, Mike's arm coming around him automatically. "But I didn't tell anyone. Even then, I would have done anything to protect you."

"You've always protected me. Even when I didn't deserve it." Mike was quiet for a moment. "El told me, you know. Before she died. She said that you loved me. That you had for a long time. And she said she knew I loved you too, even if I hadn't admitted it yet."

"She was smart. Smarter than both of us."

"Yeah." Mike's voice was thick. "I miss her. But I'm grateful to her too. For seeing what I couldn't. For telling me to be honest. For giving me permission to move on."

"She loved you. And she loved me too, in her way. She would have wanted us to be happy."

"I know." Mike kissed the top of Will's head. "And I am happy. For the first time in a long time, I'm really, genuinely happy."

"Me too," Will said softly. "Me too."

They sat there until the stars came out, talking about everything and nothing, making plans for the future. For summer, for next semester, for all the years stretching out ahead of them.

"Move in with me," Mike said suddenly. "When we get back to New York. Officially. We're basically living together anyway. Marcus has moved in with Lydia, you sleep at my place most nights. Why not make it official?"

Will's heart raced. "Are you sure? We've only been officially together for two weeks."

"We've been together longer than that, we just didn't know it." Mike turned to face him, taking both of Will's hands in his. "I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to come home to you every night. I want to build a life with you. Say yes."

"Yes," Will breathed. "God, yes. I want that too."

Mike kissed him, deep and thorough, and Will thought about how far they'd come. From confused almost-boyfriends to this—to actual plans and actual commitment and actual certainty about their future together.

—-

When they got back to New York after spring break, they told the housing office Will wouldn't be renewing his dorm contract. They spent a weekend moving Will's things into Mike's apartment—which wasn't hard since Will didn't have much. His clothes, his art supplies, his books. The photos from his desk, the paintings he'd hidden in his closet, all the secret art he'd made of Mike over the years.

"You really painted me a lot," Mike observed, looking through the canvases. "Is this from sophomore year of high school? Look how skinny I was."

"You're still skinny."

"Yeah, but less so." Mike held up another painting. "And this one is from... when is this from? I don't recognize it."

"Last spring. Right before finals. You were stressed about your AP exams and you fell asleep on my bed while studying. I painted you from memory later."

Mike studied the painting—himself asleep, peaceful, soft in a way he rarely let himself be. "You made me look beautiful."

"You are beautiful."

"Only to you." Mike set the painting down carefully. "We should hang these up. All of them. I want your art everywhere."

They spent the afternoon arranging Will's paintings on Mike's walls, mixing them with the photos from Hawkins, creating a space that was truly theirs—full of memories and art and love.

That night as they lied in their shared bed for the first time, Mike traced lazy patterns on Will's shoulder.

"I love you," Mike said softly. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too." Will kissed his shoulder. "And you don't need to be scared. We're going to be okay. Better than okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We survived the Upside Down, Mike. We can survive anything."

—

The rest of the semester passed in a blur of happiness. They settled into domestic life—learning how to share space, figuring out whose turn it was to do dishes, having small arguments about Mike leaving his socks everywhere and Will staying up too late painting. Normal couple things that felt miraculous after everything they'd been through.

Will met more of Mike's friends from his classes, and they all treated Will like Mike's boyfriend without question. Sophie from Will's figure drawing class admitted she'd known Will was lying when he'd denied dating Mike. "You two were way too obvious," she said, laughing. "The way you looked at each other gave it all away."

They went on actual dates—dinner at restaurants, movies, art galleries, all the things they'd been doing before but now with the explicit understanding that this was romantic. Mike would hold open doors and pull out Will's chair and kiss him goodnight at the end, and every time Will felt like his heart might burst from how much he loved this boy.

In May, they went to the spring art show where Will's work was being exhibited. Mike stood in front of Will's pieces, studying them intently, and when he turned back to Will his eyes were bright with tears.

"You're so talented," Mike said. "I know I've said it before, but Will, seeing your work like this, all displayed and professional, it hits different. You're going to be famous someday. I'm dating someone who's going to be famous."

"I'm not going to be famous," Will said, embarrassed.

"You are. And I'm going to be there for all of it. Every gallery show, every success, every moment. I'm not going anywhere, Will. You're stuck with me."

"Good," Will said, and meant it with everything in him. "I don't want you anywhere else."

—-

That summer, they didn't go back to Hawkins. They stayed in New York, subletting a slightly bigger apartment, spending their days exploring the city properly. Mike got an internship at a small publishing house, learning the industry from the inside. Will took a summer course and worked part-time at an art supply store, spending his free time painting.

They found their rhythm—their routines and rituals. Sunday morning breakfast at the diner down the street. Thursday nights cooking dinner together, trying new recipes and usually failing but laughing through it. Saturday afternoons in the park, reading or sketching or just people-watching.

"Happy?" Mike asked one Sunday morning, across the table at their favorite diner, stealing a bite of Will's pancakes.

"Incredibly," Will said. "Are you?"

"I've never been happier." Mike's foot hooked around Will's ankle under the table. "I know we had a rocky start, with all the miscommunication and confusion. But I wouldn't change it. Not if it meant ending up here, with you."

"Even the part where we spent months thinking completely different things?"

"Even that. It makes the real thing sweeter, you know? We almost lost each other. But we didn't. We found our way back. That means something."

Will reached across the table, taking Mike's hand. "I love you. Just in case you forgot in the last twelve hours."

"I love you too. And I'll never get tired of hearing it."

They sat there as the morning sun streamed through the diner windows, holding hands across the table, their whole future stretching out ahead of them. It wasn't always going to be easy—they both knew that. There would be fights and misunderstandings and hard days. But they'd faced literal monsters together. They could handle anything life threw at them.

Together. Always together.