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Coming back to Hawkins wasn’t exactly the plan, but with the window down as they drive past the Welcome to Hawkins sign, Will can’t help but smile. He breathes in the scent of summer air and all that comes with it; the freshly cut grass, the surrounding vegetation, the bloom of flowers that preen under the sun’s gaze.
He encompasses it all, welcomes it with open arms and an open mind. This will be good. Really good. Granted, perhaps not as good as becoming the next college graduate, but maybe that was never in his path. Art as a hobby is what makes it fun — doing it as a course sucked all the life from it.
See, after graduating Hawkins High, Will hadn’t wasted much time in moving back to Lenora for college. He had dreams of new friends, new weather and maybe even a few casual boyfriends. But after a year of judgy acquaintances, too-hot days and endless streams of super straight fratboy assholes, Will had become sick of it.
Sick of college, sick of California, sick of pretending that the bridge of distance between him and his long-time friends wasn’t chipping away at what’s left of their bond.
He had thought the distance would be good for him. After everything, after El… But he was wrong. If anything, he’d needed his friends then more than ever. But he wasn’t the only one who tried to escape.
Dustin went off to Massachusetts for college (MIT, no less!) to get his degree in astrophysics. He, unlike Will, has loved every second of it since the moment he stepped foot over the threshold of his dorm building. They keep each other up to date with weekly letters. He’s the one who convinced Will to follow his heart, even if that meant dropping out of college and returning to the only other place he’s ever known.
Lucas and Max are in Hawkins, but that’s only a recent development. They moved into the heart of Indianapolis for a while, but the prices got to be too much for their part-time jobs — Max as a swim instructor at a local pool and Lucas as a server at a quiet restaurant — and now they’re back in Hawkins, sharing what they describe to be somewhat of an armpit not dissimilar to Mike’s basement.
And, speaking of Mike, he’s the only Party member who’s stayed firmly in the space of Hawkins. Will… doesn’t know much about what Mike gets up to these days.
They’re still best friends, always will be, but the letters have been a bit scarce and the phone-calls even scarcer. But it’s not like that dreadful year of almost no-contact between ‘85 and ‘86. This is more that they don’t know what to say except ‘I miss you’ and ‘It’s so weird being without you’ and ‘When you visit we have to play DnD’.
It’s awkward, and Will hasn’t got a clue whether it’s all in his head or not. Logically, he knows it isn’t. He also knows it’s his fault. Mike, true to his words (“Friends? No thanks. Best friends.”) had tried in vain to stay in touch with Will from the day they parted. Letters flowed in, almost daily, and Will didn’t respond to many of them. The ones he did respond to were short and stilted, and he didn’t mean for it to happen, but he didn’t know what to say.
Mike was gutted over El. Will was also gutted over El. He wanted to talk to Mike about it, to give him a branch, to say I miss her too. But he couldn’t. Because he still loved Mike, and what if Mike knew it? What if he thought Will was trying to slide in and take El’s place in his life?
At the thought, Will rolls his eyes. What an absolute fucking moron he’s been. That was only the first few months, though. He realised his mistake after a few months. Mike’s always been understanding. He’s also always been oblivious. He doesn’t know about the feelings Will has always had and even if he did know, he’d never think Will was trying to replace El.
So he fixed it. He wrote Mike and found out he’d spent those few months working on a fantasy novel, found out how irritatingly secretive about said novel Mike is. He also knows that Mike sometimes writes for the Hawkins High paper, The Weekly Streak.
But apart from that, he doesn’t know much about Mike’s current life. Because, yes, all they really talk about is what they miss and what they’ll do when they finally hang out again. And while it sounds like they’re in contact all the time, they’re not. Communication is still few and far between.
It won’t be like that anymore, though. No, as Joyce drives him through the familiar winding streets of the town he thought he escaped for good, Will smiles at the prospect of life rediscovered with Mike at his side. They’ll force Lucas and Max into hours-long campaigns, bike across town to find Will a part-time job, take Holly out for greasy food at the shitty diner on the outskirts of town.
Will’s going to find inspiration and paint until his hand cramps because he can, not because he has to. He won’t stress about deadlines and grades and overbearingly whimsical teachers. He’ll take it slow, one day at a time. He’ll enjoy it here, take in the towns’ beauty and bask in the nostalgia of it all.
Well, maybe not all of it. Best not to think about the load of fucked-up shit that went on for a few years there… Um, anyway! Back to less traumatic things.
He closes his eyes and takes in the familiar sound of leaves crunching under tyres and trees swaying in the breeze. They’re approaching Hop’s cabin. Well, the Hopper-Byers cabin, as it’s now called.
A distinct feeling of peace settles between his ribs. He sighs, winds up the window and turns to face his mom.
“I’m so glad to be back, Mom,” he says. “I feel like I can really breathe here.”
Joyces, as the car slows to a roll outside the cabin, turns a near-beaming smile his way. “You’re home, baby.”
“I’m home,” Will echoes, feeling the truth of the statement in his bones. Despite everything that’s happened here, it’ll never not be home. “I missed it. I missed you.”
The car stutters to a stop and she turns in her seat. She brings up a hand to grasp his face and just looks him over for a second, like if she makes any sudden movement, he’ll disappear.
“Oh, Will.” Joyce’s tone is warm and sincere, and it surrounds him like an embrace. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So, so proud.”
“Proud that I’m a college drop out?” he jokes.
“Yes. I’m selfish; I missed having my son around to keep me on my toes.” She laughs, drawing her hand back and unbuckling the seatbelt. Will does the same. “Seriously, though. I’m proud that you were able to accept that you weren’t getting what you wanted out of college and that you had the courage to leave. You tried your best and I admire that. It’s more than I ever did.”
Will flushes, embarrassed. “You’ve always supported me, no matter what. There aren’t many moms as great as you, you know.”
“You won’t be saying that when I’m nagging you about cleaning your room in a few weeks’ time.”
“Please, I’m totally clean. My room’s never been messy.”
“Right, of course,” Joyce deadpans.
Will laughs.
They get out and lug Will’s suitcase and duffle over to the door. Will’s got one foot holding the door open and the other keeping his balance against the fighting weight of his suitcase as Joyce shuffles in with the lumpy duffle bag. Before she can make it all the way in, the doors being pulled open wider to reveal a freshly-shaven Jim Hopper.
He takes the bag from Joyce and Will pushes the rest of his luggage over the threshold before sagging against the doorframe. He can feel a bead of sweat travelling slowly down his temple.
After catching his breath (when did he get so unfit?), he beams a cheeky grin up at Hop.
“Hey, kid,” the man greets, pulling him into a one-armed hug that Will returns enthusiastically. He’d missed Hopper more than he thought he would. When they pull back, Hop smiles down at him. “How was the flight?”
“Shit,” Will says. “I had to sit next to a couple who had no issues with PDA and there was a kid behind me who kicked my chair the whole way here.”
Hopper snorts and claps him on the shoulder. “Could’ve been worse.”
Will arches a brow. “Worse than loud kissing and karate-induced bruises?”
“Sure.” Hop shrugs and leads him into the kitchen. “You could’ve been sitting next to Vecna.”
“Hop!” Joyce scolds as they sit at the small dining table. She brings Will a glass of water and a chicken sandwich. Yum. He tucks in immediately, his empty stomach growling in approval. “Don’t joke about that,” she continues, swooping in to kiss the smirk off his face.
Will looks away. “Lighten up, Mom. It was funny.”
“Yeah, Joyce. It was funny.”
Joyce darts her eyes between the two. She crosses her arms and there’s an amused smile tugging at her mouth. “I don’t like this little alliance you’ve formed. Will, don’t let yourself be corrupted by this manchild.”
“Hey! I’m a respected cop! The chief of police!”
Will laughs as he finishes his sandwich. “That’s right, Hop. Don’t let her get you down.” He washes up his plate and on his way to his room, kisses Joyce on the cheek. “I’m in desperate need of a shower and a nap. I’ll be a charming guest later, okay?”
“You’re not a guest,” Joyce and Hopper remind him at the same time. Hop continues, “And you’re not charming, either!”
Will chuckles and flips him the bird.
After a much-needed shower, Will collapses into bed and barely has time to yawn before he’s falling victim to the enticing lull of sleep that reaches for him.
—
When Will wakes up, there’s a noticeable warmth coming from somewhere in front of him. He’s lying on his side, knees drawn up, hands under his cheek. God, this bed is comfortable. The one in his dorm room was hard and lumpy, like it was made as a punishment rather than a place to rest.
The dull glow of his bedside lamp shines through his closed eyelids. It’s annoying for only a second before his frown shifts from one of frustration to one of confusion. The lamp wasn’t on when he went to sleep.
He sighs. Any chance at falling back to sleep has escaped him.
Huffing, he peels open tired eyes. The world’s blurry until he blinks a few times, and then multiple things happen at once: he sees big, brown eyes blinking back at him and screams; he jolts back and topples right over the side of the bed; he knocks his funny bone on the bedside table and pain bursts in fiery sparks down his arm.
The nap-time intruder breaks out into raucous chortles, falling straight back into the creased pillows and clutching his stomach in laughter. Will, glaring from the floor and still cradling his elbow, asks, “Is this what you do now? Break into people’s homes and watch them sleep?”
Mike turns onto his side, still laughing, and tries to take a breath. When he sees Will’s expression, his amusement increases tenfold. It’s a long time before he can bring himself to respond.
“Yeah, it’s a thrilling lifestyle. You should try it some time.”
Snorting, Will pulls himself up and pokes Mike’s shoulder until he sits up. He sits cross-legged in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.” Mike’s smile has eased now, comfortable rather than mirthful. Familiar. “It’s been a long time, Byers. Don’t say you didn’t miss me.”
“Me? Miss your annoying ass? Never,” Will teases, grinning when Mike rolls his eyes.
“Please, while you were in California surrounded by pretentious art nerds and sweaty frat boys, I know all you could think about was my pretty face,” Mike counters, jabbing a finger into Will’s chest.
Will grabs his wrist and stares him in the eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“Nope,” Mike says. “But you have. Look at this tan you’ve got. What happened to the ghostly Will Byers I know and love?”
It’s true. The Cali sun had done wonders for his pale skin. Now his body is kissed a golden brown colour that will probably be gone within the week. Oh well. He’ll enjoy it while it lasts.
“You’ll have him back soon enough.” Will shrugs. “How long have you been here?”
“Ten minutes-ish. I expected a warmer welcome.”
Will splutters. “You were watching me sleep for ten minutes?”
“No.” Mike laughs. “I’m not that creepy. Hop made me a sandwich. I came in here, like, a minute before you woke up.”
“Hop… made you a sandwich?” What a weird development. “That’s oddly nice of him.”
“Oh, we’re kinda friends now,” Mike admits, cheeks flushing a soft pink.
“What?”
“Yeah, I guess we understand each other, or something. We’ve been hanging out.” Mike looks down at his fidgeting fingers, drawing circles into his knee. “He didn’t really like it at first, I think, but he does now.” Mike meets Will’s eye, mischievous. “He lets me drink beer with him sometimes.”
Will’s eyes couldn’t get wider if he tried. Hop’s gone soft on Mike! Will’s got teasing material for life.
“Oh my god, Mike. That’s– I don’t even know. You finally wore him down,” Will says, chuckling in disbelief.
Mike pouts. “Sounds like you didn’t have any faith in me.”
“I didn’t have any faith in Hopper. He hasn’t exactly been your biggest fan.”
Mike smiles something lopsided and free. The hand tracing shapes into his knee pauses and shifts over to write random letters over Will’s thigh. It makes him shiver.
“Hawkins has been really dull without you,” he murmurs. “With everyone gone, it was pretty lonely. And even with Max and Lucas back, it isn’t the same. It’s kinda like everyone has someone but I’ve just been here alone, waiting for something. Waiting for someone.”
He looks up, eyes intense, tone sincere. “I’m glad you’re back. I guess that makes me pretty selfish, huh?”
“I don’t think so,” Will answers. He knows exactly how Mike feels. He was lonely, too. “Even if it is, I think you deserve to be a little selfish. After all that’s happened, it’s only fair.”
Mike smiles, small but so, so loud. And… And Will thought he was over it. Those feelings that never wavered through childhood, he thought that they were finally gone, left to the wind of the past. He thought it’d be something to look back on and laugh, because isn’t it so stupid to feel that way for your best friend? But…
But now, in this moment, Will feels all of those feelings rushing back to him like a favourite season shifting back into place — winter into spring, where sun rays sparkle light over life that, for months, had only known a dreary drizzle.
These feelings never disappeared, not like he had thought. It’s like a breath of fresh air, welcoming the charge of love that surges through his bloodstream after months of stagnation.
He lets it glow within him. Lets it encompass him like an old friend. Lets Mike continue to trace patterns over his skin. He lets it all in, lets a content smile stretch his expression. This, right here, is how things should be.
The peaceful silence between them is disturbed by a light knock on the door. The door opens and Joyce stands there with a fond smile on her face.
“It’s nice to see you two hanging out again,” she coos. “It reminds me of when you were little boys. You used to spend every day together. And now…”
“And now we aren’t so little,” Mike finishes, giving her a charming smile. “But don’t get too nostalgic, Mrs. Byers. I plan on being here to annoy Will every day now that he’s back. It’ll be just like old times.”
Joyce shakes her head with a small laugh. “I just wanted to let you know dinner’s ready. Hop and I made chicken alfredo.”
Will’s stomach grumbles audibly as Joyce leaves. Mike laughs and pokes his mid-section. “Stop!” Will squawks, shielding his stomach against Mike’s attack. “You know I’m ticklish!”
Mike lies back against the pillows, chuckling. His hair, longer than when Will left, frames his face like a halo. When he talks, it’s with a certain glimmer in his eyes.
“Sorry, Will. I must’ve forgotten while you were off in another land forgetting about me.”
Gasping, Will smacks his leg. “I was not forgetting about you! How could I? You’re the most annoying person on the planet!”
Rolling off the bed (a sight comparable to a deer learning to walk), Mike stands and stretches with a groan, a sliver of pale skin drawing Will’s gaze.
“You can tell me all about how terrible I am over dinner,” Mike says, snapping Will’s focus away from his bare skin and up to his deep, dark eyes. He holds out a hand for Will to take and pulls him up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as shit.”
Will gestures to the door. “Lead the way.”
—
After dinner, they revert back to the bedroom. It’s dark now, the sun having set somewhere between waking up and dinner.
The cabin brings out a different side to Will. Here, nature is something he can appreciate. After he was taken all those years ago, he’d grown a dislike for the woods. But here, it’s peaceful. Here, he feels at home.
Even more so with Mike at his side.
They sit on the open windowsill, legs dangling out in the cool air. The room behind them is bereft of light, their only source the moon that breaks through the tall, swaying trees.
The window is only just big enough for the two to sit side-by-side comfortably; thighs, hips and arms are pressed together as they stare out into the trees. It’s quiet between them, just the rustle of leaves and the croak of the crickets to break the silence.
Will missed this. Missed Mike. So much.
California wasn’t quiet. It was loud at all times, the streets and the dorms alike. Will is the kind of person who needs quiet though, so this moment, here and now, he’s craved for a very long time.
He sighs, leaning his head against the wall and flexing his sock-clad toes in the cold air. He should’ve never left. Hawkins — and a certain few people who reside here — is his home.
Mike shifts. His ankle brushes Will’s. Taking an indulgent moment for himself, Will lets himself really look at Mike. He hasn’t changed much. He’s a little taller and his jaw is a little sharper, but apart from that, he’s the same Mike he’s always been. Kind, funny, comforting. Just… unfalteringly Mike.
His nose, large and crooked, is dusted with a pattering of freckles that stick out in the moonlight. They soften his sharper features, along with his beautiful brown eyes. He really is a vision; so ethereally imperfect, like he was sculpted by a most celebrated artist.
His hand is brushing nonsensical shapes into Will’s thigh again. It’s intimate, this shared contact in the chilly quiet.
“Will?” Mike asks, his voice hushed and gravelly. Will hums in acknowledgement. “What made you decide to come back?”
He turns the question over in his head in consideration. Equally hushed, Will answers, “There are a lot of different reasons. The main thing, I guess, is that everything was so different and I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t like it at all.”
“Did you like majoring in visual arts?” Mike wonders, and his lips quirk up. “I bet you were the best in the class.”
“Mike,” Will says very seriously. Their eyes connect and Will continues, “I fucking despised it.”
The laugh Mike lets out gets lost in the wind. “What? But you love to paint and draw and whatever else. You’ve always been so good at it.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Will says, scratching the bridge of his nose. “I do love it, but school was sucking all the fun out of it. I rarely choose what it is I’m going to create; I let the muse in me flow freely until I’ve got a finished piece in front of me. But at school… Well, everyone is so pretentious.”
“Right?” Mike draws the word out like he isn’t following. “Right, but what’s that got to do with your art?”
“Pretentious art nerds are far worse than regular pretentious people,” Will explains. “I create portraits. They splatter paint on a bit of yellowing paper and call it exquisite. I was told multiple times that I don’t have the vision. Whatever that means.”
“They told you what?” Mike exclaims, whipping around and almost falling out of the window in his haste to face Will. He looks incredulous. “You were probably the best fucking artist in the entire school. What do they know about vision?”
Will snorts. Mike’s outrage on his behalf feels incredibly validating.
Fueled, Will rages on, “Like, I’m so sorry I don’t want to throw a paint-covered feather at my canvas and call it abstract. That’s not abstract, and some of us like using a brush and some fucking imagination!”
Mike is staring at him, lips stretched wide. He bites down on his lower lip in an attempt not to laugh, but doesn’t quite contain it. The hand already on Will’s thigh pauses to smack down on his knee as cackles start up, laughing right in his face.
Will, confused but used to this behaviour, falls victim to his own mirth. They sit there, facing each other on the windowsill, wobbling with amusement, leaning in to each other as they gasp for air. God, it feels good to act stupid with his best friend. It’s been far too long.
“I hate California,” Will admits once he’s caught his breath, “but I really wanted to love it. I guess I just didn’t belong there.”
“You don’t have to belong everywhere,” Mike says gently. “You belong here, though. In Hawkins, with me. It’s you and me forever, right?”
“Yeah,” Will whispers. “Forever.” He leans back against the window, watching as Mike does the same. With the leg hanging out the window, he kicks at Mike’s shin playfully. “I missed you.”
“Yeah,” Mike says quietly, kicking him back. He looks so happy. “I missed you, too.”
“So.” Will breaks the momentary silence that followed their confessions. “Tell me what you’ve been doing all this time. You haven’t said much.”
Mike’s gaze shifts away. “There’s not much to say. I haven’t really done anything. The Hawkins High paper is decent money and sometimes I mow Mrs. Bakerfell’s lawn.”
Will smiles. “Your elderly neighbour?”
“Yeah,” Mike grumbles. Will can’t see it in the dark, but he imagines that an embarrassed blush is staining Mike’s cheeks. He grins ruefully and looks back to Will. “She feeds me these really good honey and oat cookies.”
“Oh, Michael, aren’t you sweet?” Will teases. “First you befriend Hop, and now you’re telling me you’ve taken the old lady across the road under your wing? You’re a changed man!”
“Shut up.” Mike laughs, leaning forward to shove at Will’s chest. The heat of his fingertips lingers long after his touch falls away. “I haven’t changed. Still the same old Mike.”
“Really?” Will deadpans.
“Really,” Mike confirms.
“So, do you think I’ve forgotten that you’re writing a book, or?”
Mike winces. “I hoped.”
“Why?” Will blurts, confused. Mike seems embarrassed, but it’s just like Will’s art, isn’t it? An interpretation of thoughts and feelings spread over a page. Mike’s medium is words, and Will’s paint and pencil. “You look embarrassed. Why?”
“Well, it is embarrassing,” Mike tells him. He huffs, looking back into the night as he continues, “It’s basically just my mind written on paper for everyone to see. What if I’m judged for it, you know? Or what if it’s shit but I’m not aware until someone tells me?”
Will frowns. “It’s only me. You know I won’t judge you for something like that. And I’m not asking you to let me read it, not if you’re not ready for that. I just want to know how it’s going, how you feel about it.”
He reaches out, taking Mike’s hand. “And, Mike? You’ve always been a talented writer. If I can say anything with certainty, it’s that whatever you’ve produced — it’s not shit. It’s probably remarkable.”
Mike, with his fierce flush breaking through the darkness, turns back to face Will. Their legs press together entirely as Mike shuffles as close as he can get, and he tugs Will into an abrupt hug. Or, he attempts to — both of them have to shoot their arms out to keep their balance.
Laughing, Mike tucks his face into the crook of Will’s neck. “Sorry. I’ve been a bit of a disaster recently.”
“Ah. Nothing new, then,” Will whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
They stay like that for a long time, quiet in embrace. Will’s fingers end up tangled in the soft curls at the nape of Mike’s neck, eliciting soft purrs to fall from his throat. The lick of warm breath on Will’s neck rises goosebumps all down his arms and stirs a serene feeling in his gut.
Will looks at the stars and wishes for this feeling to stay forever.
“What do you want to know?” Mike asks quietly a little later, turning his face to rest his cheek against Will’s shoulder. “About the book, I mean.”
Inhaling the calming scent of oak trees and Mike’s apple scented shampoo, Will answers, “How far into the story are you?”
“It’s almost done. I just need to, uh, write the ending,” he says. “There are two ideas I have in mind. I haven’t decided whether it’s going to be happy or not. It all depends on a question I’m not sure how to answer.”
“What’s the question?”
Mike shifts back enough to look Will in the eye. “Is the love requited or are all the signs just made up in my– uh, my main character's head?”
“Oh.” Will blinks, surprised. He’s wondered over and over about this novel of Mike’s, but not once has he ever thought it’d be a romance. He shares this with Mike, who smiles shyly and shrugs.
“It wasn’t supposed to be,” he confesses. “It’s mostly fantasy, but there was this nagging… thought in the back of my head: What if through all the months of battle, they come out on the other side surrounded by revelations and need for one another.” Mike chuckles, self-deprecating. “It’s stupid. Why would fighting evil creatures make anyone fall in love?”
But Will sees it differently. After all, he knows a thing or two about coming out of a life-or-death situation with his love only magnified. He thinks it's the adrenaline of surviving that really makes the feeling that much stronger, steadier.
“Is it the fight that makes them fall in love?” Will muses. “Or is it the relief of their win that makes it impossible to ignore the pre-existing love?”
Mike is quiet, a pensive furrow of brows etched over his face. “What do you mean?”
“I– Okay, you know as well as I do that surviving something like that — think of the demogorgons at the Mac-Z for a second — is like… I don’t know, being reborn. You think you’re going to die and when you don’t, the air feels cleaner and breathing feels like a reward. Everything you feel is bigger. Relief, happiness, nausea, fear…”
He trails off, watching understanding flash through Mike’s eyes.
“So,” Will continues, “if you already love the person by your side in battle, surviving expands that love in the same way it expands your relief of life. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.” Mike nods slowly, his dark eyes searching Will’s lighter ones. “But what if one of them doesn’t realise that what they feel is love until after battle? What if they didn’t go into it knowing, but they know after?”
Will smiles. “Call it clarity. Love is powerful.”
Fingers tangle with his. He looks down at his knee to find Mike’s hand there, holding Will’s own. There’s a thrum of static in his brain, as calming as it is relentlessly overbearing. Hot and cold, scared and hopeful. Will and Mike.
“You seem to know a bit about that. Love, I mean,” Mike prompts, but Will doesn’t take the bait. He hums, tilting his face up to locate his favourite cluster of stars, always visible here.
“Maybe a little,” he eventually says. “Now, tell me about this story. I want to know as much as you’re comfortable sharing.”
“Fine,” Mike groans, but there’s a smile playing on his mouth. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. If it wasn’t you asking, I wouldn’t be saying anything.”
If it wasn’t you asking.
Will’s heart flutters.
“Cross my heart,” he promises.
“It’s about a boy called Peter who’s made to fight the most terrible creatures. The one featured in the story is a three-headed dragon.” He pauses to nervously chew on a hangnail. “Everyone thinks he’s okay with it — being the person destined to bring peace to the town. But he’s not. He’s so scared all the time and no one seems to notice.”
Will listens with rapt attention, soaking in the story as Mike tells it. His embarrassment is clear, but the passion he so clearly has for his story is palpable — so obvious Will thinks that, if he wanted to, he could reach out and feel it in the chilled air.
“The only person who does notice is his best friend, Dean. Dean is Peter’s oldest friend, the one who’s been there for him through every awkward stage and every battle. Dean is his favourite person.” With a significant glance at Will, Mike adds in a near whisper, “Peter’s tried to ignore it for a long time, has tried to pretend it isn’t true, but… But he loves Dean. As more than just a friend.”
And… oh.
It’s not that Will is surprised that Mike would write queer characters, but he just… he hadn’t expected it at all. Especially with a story that feels a bit too close to home.
Nodding, Will says so quietly it’s almost inaudible, “What else?”
“Dean is incredibly caring. So selfless and brave, too. And…” He hesitates, and the moon is breaking through the trees enough to light them up. Mike’s cheeks are pink. “And Dean tells Peter that he’s the heart of the town. He says it every time Peter says he’s scared, that he’s tired. It makes his heart flip over every single time.”
The heart. Will isn’t breathing. Does he mean…?
“Anyway, they end up fighting the dragon together. For a moment, Peter thinks Dean has died. He’s never felt pain like it; his heart almost tears in two. But he’s okay, and Peter feels relief like he’s never known.”
Mike smiles, looking down at his lap. His fingers tighten around Will’s. “After they’ve defeated the beast, Peter’s crush feels like so much more. He realises he’s in love with Dean, there on the battlefield while they’re both covered in blood and grime.”
A memory flashes to the front of Will’s mind: Mike, having almost died at the hands of a demogorgon, and Will, whose first thought wasn’t ‘holy shit I have powers’, but ‘he’s alive, oh my god, Mike’s alive, I love him so much, oh my fucking god’.
“I’m stuck now, though,” Mike says. “This is the part where I decide: does he confess his love in hopes that Dean feels the same, or does he stay silent and long for something more until it consumes him?”
“I…” Will’s voice comes out croaky. He feels as if he’s in a trance. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “I think he should confess,” he manages quietly. “Taking the risk is better than forever wondering. Don’t you think so?”
Mike’s gaze is intense. He nods. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He shakes his head, frowning a little. “It’s not like I’ll be able to publish it, though. Not with all the prejudice that goes on around here.”
“Mike–”
“No, it’s fine.” He huffs a weak laugh. “Anyway, sorry to bore you.”
Immediately protesting, Will shakes his head. “I’m not bored. That was… god, Mike. It was amazing. There was one part that I… Well, the three-headed dragon. I couldn’t help but think of–”
“The painting you made for me?”
“Yeah, exactl– what?” Will forgets how to breathe. Does he know? “The painting I made… for you?”
Mike nods, a tiny smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eye. “Yeah.”
Will has no idea what to say.
So he changes the subject. “It’s a beautiful story, Mike. I’d love to read it when you finish.”
“If you’re lucky,” Mike teases, but his smile falls slightly. “You’ll probably be the only person other than me who ever reads it.”
He looks so sad about it that Will shakes his head, needing desperately to bring the smile back to his face. “You should publish it,” he says, tone determined. When Mike tries to disagree, Will ploughs on, “No, really. You can use a pen name and self-publish.”
“No one’s gonna want to read it, Will.”
“Really?” Will challenges, letting go of Mike’s hand to gesture as he speaks. “Imagine all of the queer kids who think it isn’t okay to be queer — to be themselves. Don’t you think queer literature would help? Because if it were me, and I hadn’t come to terms with myself yet, a fantasy book with gay characters would have changed my life. It would’ve made me feel seen.”
Mike’s now-free hand settles on Will’s thigh. Higher than usual. Not tracing patterns into the fabric. Stagnant. The air thickens, charged.
“I never thought of it that way…” Mike admits. He’s so close that Will could count his freckles if he wanted. “Do you really think it would help people?”
“Of course I think so.”
“Oh.”
In the pause, a question nags at Will’s mind. Mike is just being so… But he can’t ask, can he? Well, it is only Mike…
Fuck it.
“Mike?”
“Hm?”
“Is your story, um. Is any of it true? Like, are some parts real to– to you?”
It’s so obvious that he’s fishing for answers, but isn’t it like he said? Taking a risk is better than forever wondering. Is it so stupid for him to have hope sparking between his ribs?
Mike’s gaze moves between Will’s eyes, and slowly, it travels down. To Will’s lips. And… and there it is. The shift.
“Loosely,” Mike whispers, and it’s impossible, but he finds a way to shuffle closer to Will. They’re almost in each other’s laps, but there isn’t time to think about that because Mike’s hand is brushing hair behind Will’s ear and Will can’t breathe.
“Were you seeing anyone back in California?” Mike asks quietly, steering them right away from safe territory and straight into the danger zone.
“No,” Will breathes out. It’s not a lie. “The boys in California aren’t really my type.”
His heart is racing. Mike smiles. “No? What is your type? You’ve never told me.”
Will stutters, feeling his cheeks glow red. “Oh, you know. Dark hair, dark eyes. Nothing too specific…”
Mike’s smile grows into a grin. “Can I ask you something that I’ve been wondering about for a really long time?” Will nods jerkily. Mike’s hand is resting on his nape, his fingers scratching heavenly over his scalp. “Who’s Tammy?”
What?
That is not what Will expected him to say. They’ve never really spoken about that conversation back at the WSQK. Mike must see his bemusement, because he adds, “When you came out, you said the boy you liked was just your Tammy. Who is that?”
“Oh, um.” He chuckles nervously. “It was just a metaphor, I guess — something Robin told me to help me understand my feelings. ‘Tammy’ means someone who wasn’t as important to my story as I thought they were. Someone who I thought was my one true love, I guess, but wasn’t really.”
Will inwardly rolls his eyes at his former self. Mike was never his fucking Tammy. Mike’s his whole universe and he always will be. Sure, he wasn’t the reason Will discovered who he really is like he once thought, but he’s still important. More important than anything else in his life. He’s… he’s Will’s entire goddamn sky.
Mike nods, expression softening into something unsure. “And that person — was he really your Tammy?
Softly, Will admits, “No, but I thought he was for a while. I think I just lost hope, you know? So, in telling myself that he was my Tammy, I thought it’d help me to move on.”
“Did you?” Mike’s warm breath fans teasingly across Will’s mouth. Unable to speak under the intense eye contact, Will shakes his head. “You still like this person?” A hesitant nod. “Who is it?”
Their noses bump together ever so slightly. Will fights to keep his eyes open.
“I think you know,” Will whispers.
Another smile appears on Mike’s face, this one gentle but blinding. “Yeah.” He nods. “I think so, too. Tell me anyway?”
Mike’s eyes are trained on Will’s lips, absolutely shameless. That’s what gives him the courage to say, “It’s you, Mike. Obviously, it’s you.”
Letting out a breathy chuckle, Mike presses their heads together and says slowly, “I thought so, I just… I needed to make sure.” He lets his lips drag torturously over Will’s. “I’m gonna kiss you now, ‘kay?”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my fucking god.
“Get on with it,” Will teases, and there’s no time to say anything else because Mike’s lips are on his and all he knows is Mike.
There’s a static fuzz ringing around in his head and his heart is downright pounding against his ribcage. Mike’s lips are plush and inviting, his warmth bleeding into Will in a way that lights him up from the inside out.
This is happiness like he’s never known. It’s what he’s been daydreaming about, what he’s been craving since before he ever knew he liked boys. This closeness, this intimacy — it’s exactly what Will needs.
Mike kisses like it’ll be the last time; his lips push desperately into Will’s, soft and tender yet needy and aching. His eyelashes flutter against Will’s cheeks and their noses are pressed together as they pull each other closer.
Will has one arm braced on the wall and the other clutched in the front of Mike’s hoodie. Mike’s hands are in his hair, fingers tugging, making Will gasp into his mouth.
I’m kissing Mike Wheeler.
Mike Wheeler is kissing me.
They stay like that for a long time, just learning the shape of each other’s lips until they have to (reluctantly) pull away to breathe.
Lips tingling, Will wonders if this is a dream. If it is, he never wants to wake up.
The huge, beaming smile that stretches his mouth when they meet eyes is completely out of his control. His brain is scrambled and the only thing he can bring himself to say is, “You wrote a fucking book about us.”
Mike, who’s just as smiley as Will, accuses, “How very presumptuous of you, William.”
Will raises a brow. “Am I wrong?”
Squinting guiltily, Mike answers, “No, you’re exactly right. You’re my Dean.”
Will has to kiss him for that. He can’t stop smiling. “I knew coming back was a good idea.”
“Never leave me again,” Mike jokes, but there’s definitely an undertone of desperation.
“Never,” Will agrees.
He’d be an idiot to say anything else.
—
A few hours later, the town is asleep. It’s a peaceful kind of quiet, where the crickets click noisily outside and the wind speaks in whispers, but no words are uttered by the towns’ occupants.
Well, by most of its occupants. Will Byers and Mike Wheeler are tip-toeing through the creaky cabin in the woods, careful not to step on the faulty floorboards. After hours spent kissing, catching up, kissing again, apologising for months of radio-silence, and kissing some more, the boys are hungry.
Luckily, Joyce mentioned over dinner that there’s some ice-cream in the freezer for them to dig into. And while it might be cold as shit outside, two spoons and a tub of boysenberry swirl sounds like heaven to two boys high on life — on love.
They stand in the kitchen, sweet-treat on the counter between them, and get lost in each other. Kisses are exchanged between sugar-sweet lips, hands are finding their way under hoodies and fingers over bare skin, and night is disrupted with currents of a friendship finally evolving into more.
Nothing will ever amount to this night. This night where Will claims Mike as his own in a whisper between kisses. Where Mike nods with a glowing smile and tells Will this is the happiest he’s ever been. There’s absolutely nothing that could possibly stop the frantic beating of his heart.
Except, there is something that makes it speed up even more — in panic: there’s a gruff clearing of a throat coming from somewhere off to the side of them.
Will all but flings himself away from Mike, half-way across the kitchen. He very reluctantly locates the source of the noise. Hop is standing there with his arms folded, glaring at Mike.
“I will kill you, Michael Wheeler,” is what he eventually says after a prolonged awkward silence. Will’s cheeks are burning like never before. Mike, though, doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. He’s snickering at Hop’s threat. “Stop kissing my children!”
“Stop adopting the people I like!” Mike shoots back, a cheeky grin on his face.
Will coughs awkwardly and puts in, “Technically, I’m not adopted.”
Mike snorts. “You know what I mean.”
“It seems,” Hopper interrupts, “that when you told me you like boys, you forgot to mention that my step-son is the object of your affection.”
He tries not to, he really does, but Will can’t help the little chuckle he lets out. The thought of Mike gossiping with Hopper about boys… It’s also the tone Hop is using — it’s obvious he’s trying to come off menacing, but he’s standing there in a fluffy, blue robe and slippers. He’s never looked less scary.
“Oh, really?” Mike’s tone slips into something sarcastic. “I recall you saying that no matter who I like, you’ll support me. Are you taking that back now because it’s Will that I like?”
Will’s heart soars, both at the fact that Mike can so blatantly admit to his feelings, and that Hopper has been such a support system for Mike.
Realising that Mike is right, Hop sighs. “No, obviously not. Just… be safe.” He grimaces at his choice of words. So does Will. “Jesus Christ. I’m going back to bed.”
As he turns and walks back to his bedroom, Mike calls out, “Night, Dad!”
Hopper doesn’t turn, but Will knows he’s rolling his eyes. “Treat him well and that might be kind of true one day,” he says. Will gapes at the door that closes behind him.
Mike spins around and jumps over to Will, grabbing his hands and whisper-shouting, “He wants to be my father-in-law!”
Will snorts, exasperated and amused all at the same time. “Is that really what you heard?”
“Yep!” Mike kisses him. “And it’s gonna happen, too. Just you wait.”
“So, I’m stuck with you for life?” Will jokes, pulling a face.
“You are,” Mike tells him, matter-of-fact. “Better get used to it, Byers.”
Will shrugs, grinning from ear to ear. “Fine, I guess I can put up with that.”
They eat until the ice-cream tub is empty. It takes a lot longer than it should, what with all the kissing they do.