Chapter Text
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Mike’s POV
March 86 - Nov 87
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Late March 86
Mike had always assumed that the hardest part of a breakup would be missing the person but he was wrong.
The hardest part was not missing them as much as he thought he should.
The days after El ended things were a blur of half-formed thoughts and a crushing, nauseating kind of guilt. He kept waiting for the collapse, for the heartbreak to hit, for the sobbing to come, for his world to split in half again but it never did.
What came instead was something quieter, meaner and sharper.
A question he couldn’t say out loud: Why don’t I feel devastated?
Maybe it was the fact that they were already separated by miles before. Sure, they exchanged letters, sure they met that one day in Lenora, but it was off. It was off since their goodbye.
And beneath that, buried like a live wire: The person that he keeps thinking about is not El at all?
He hated himself for the thought so much that he refused to finish it.
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Early April 86
It’s the first night Will sleeps downstairs.
The first night Will slept in the basement and Mike lay awake upstairs, staring at his ceiling.
He told himself it was a concern. Reasonable concern. Best-friend concern.
Will’s alone down there and doesn’t like thunder. What if he can’t sleep?
He rolled over. Then rolled back.
There was a soft thud from downstairs, maybe Will shifting on the couch, and something in Mike’s chest clenched.
Why was he thinking about Will instead of El?
The guilt sliced deep and immediate.
He’s basically her brother. And he’s your best friend.
Mike shut his eyes tight.
And he’s a boy. A boy. Stop it. Stop it right now.
What is wrong with me?
Stop thinking.
He didn’t sleep.
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Mid April 86
Mike avoided the basement for a week.
Every time he passed the stairs, he felt that familiar warm, magnetic, terrifying in its softness pull, and he panicked.
He heard Will laughing with Jonathan, Joyce humming while helping Will unpack.
He heard the basement come alive.
And Mike stayed upstairs, gripping the railing, frozen. Because going down there felt too dangerous.
He kept thinking: If I don’t go, I won’t do anything stupid, like… I don’t know… Feel things.
Feel what, exactly? He didn’t finish that thought either.
He just misses his best friend.
Guys miss their friends. That’s normal.
This is normal. It has to be normal.
He repeated it like a prayer.
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May 86
It was obvious that Jonathan did not sleep where he pretended to.
Nancy’s door would close. The house would go quiet. And then creeeeak Jonathan would sneak upstairs like a cartoon burglar.
Mike heard it one night and almost choked on his own spit trying not to laugh.
The next morning, Will said quietly “He didn’t even bring his pillow this time.”
Mike snorted, then froze.
Because Will’s smile hit him like a punch.
He felt it in his chest first. Then lower.
And that second hit, that warmth low in his stomach scared him more than anything.
He looked away immediately and guilt washed over him like ice water.
You’re terrible. Stop it.
He’s El’s brother. Your ex’s brother!
He’s your best friend.
And he’s a boy. A boy.
Boys don’t — Stop it, stop it, stop it.
He sat perfectly still, hoping the panic wouldn’t show on his face.
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October 86
Mike went downstairs searching for a missing die.
Will looked up from his sketchbook, eyes softening instantly, smile blooming without hesitation.
Something in Mike’s ribcage turned over.
He hated it. He loved it. He despised himself for loving it.
“Did you need something?” Will asked gently.
“Uh — no — I mean, yes — I, um — die. Dice. A dice. Die.”
Will giggled. Mike spiraled.
Why does his laugh do that? Stop. Stop. STOP.
This is normal. This is fine. Best friends laugh.
You’re imagining things.
Stop. Stop. STOP.
He’s your ex’s brother. And your best friend.
You’re the worst person alive.
…But then a smaller thought slipped in, quiet and unwelcome:
But is it really that wrong? Why does it feel like it shouldn’t be?
He shoved the thought down so violently it almost made his stomach twist.
Absolutely not.
No. No. No.
He grabbed the die and left the basement before he could think for another dangerous second.
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December 86
Mike started noticing patterns.
He always walked slower when Will walked beside him. He always sat closer to Will than anyone else. He always asked where Will was if he wasn’t in the room.
He noticed Will’s smiles. And his hair. And the way he bit his lip when concentrating. And the way his voice got softer in the winter. And how he always smelled faintly like soap and old paper.
And every time he noticed, guilt roared through him.
You’re disgusting. You shouldn’t feel this. Stop staring. STOP.
But it wasn’t that simple anymore.
Because somewhere between late fall and December, Mike had started telling himself small justifications that made everything feel almost harmless.
We’re close because we’ve always been close.
He needs you. He trusts you.
It’s normal to worry about him.
It’s normal to sit near him because the basement’s cold anyway.
It’s normal to pay attention, friends pay attention.
But then Christmas came, and Will proved him wrong without meaning to. Because Will always cared too much.
He gave everyone thoughtful gifts. A tape for Jonathan, a scarf for Joyce, a new set of brushes for El
But Mike’s was different.
A small drawing, framed with cardboard Will had cut by hand.
A sketch of the two of them on the couch in the basement, laughing at something Mike couldn’t remember anymore but could suddenly feel in his chest like it was happening again.
Mike froze the second he unwrapped it.
Because the way Will had drawn him, the softness in the eyes, the easy smile, it felt like being seen too deeply. Too kindly.
It felt intimate. Dangerous.
Will’s smile faltered. “You don’t… Like it?”
“No, I—” Mike’s throat closed around the truth. He loved it too much. “I do. I… really do. It’s perfect.”
Will brightened instantly, warming the whole room like a lamp turning on. And Mike’s stomach twisted painfully.
Because he realized something in that moment, something he didn’t want to think about:
The reason Will’s gifts always felt special wasn’t because Will was thoughtful. It was because everything from Will felt like it meant something.
Like it was meant for him, not just anyone. And Mike told himself, desperately, stubbornly, terrified: He’s just your friend.
It’s fine. This is fine. It’s Christmas. Friends do this. It doesn’t mean anything.
But when Will leaned forward and hugged him, quick, warm, gentle, Mike felt the world tilt.
And guilt flooded him so fast it almost made him dizzy.
He shouldn’t want the hug to last longer.
He shouldn’t feel that spark under his skin.
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he did.
And he couldn’t shake the horrible question forming in the back of his mind:
If it’s so wrong… why doesn’t it feel wrong when it’s him?
He couldn’t stop.
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February 87
One Sunday, his mom found Mike and Will reorganizing the basement couch cushions for the fourth time that month.
Mike said, “We’re fixing it.”
Will said, “It’s crooked.”
Karen blinked at them like she’d walked in on a species she didn’t fully understand.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “Well… Looks fine to me.”
“It wasn’t,” Mike blurted, way too fast.
Will nodded solemnly, as if the structural integrity of the entire basement depended on his judgment. “It was leaning to the left.”
She hummed, the confused kind. “Right. Well… Lunch in ten.”
Then she left.
That was it. Just ‘lunch in ten’.
No smile. No knowing look. No suspicion.
But Mike still felt his face burn like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
He stared at the stairs long after she went up.
Why did that feel like getting caught? We’re literally just sitting here. Fixing a stupid couch.
This is normal. Friends fix couches. Friends hang out. Friends—
Will nudged the cushion into place. “Does it look better?”
Mike’s breath stuttered.
Because Will was looking at him like his opinion mattered.
Like he cared what Mike thought.
Like Mike was the only one he was checking with.
“Yeah,” Mike said. Too soft. Too honest. “It looks good.”
Will smiled, small, warm, pleased.
Mike immediately looked away, throat tightening.
He hated how good that smile made him feel. He hated how normal it seemed for Will to look at him like that. He hated how fast he spiraled over nothing.
And then the thought, the intrusive, terrifying one, crawled back up his spine: Why does it feel wrong to feel this guilty about something that doesn’t even feel wrong?
He swallowed hard.
He still didn’t have an answer.
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May 87
A brush of knees while picking a movie. A hand on the shoulder that stayed half a second too long. A shared headphone bud.
Will fell asleep on Mike’s arm once, just once, and Mike stayed perfectly still until Will woke up, because moving felt like breaking something holy.
Every touch was tiny and harmless but destroyed him just a little because of how much he wanted it.
Because he shouldn’t want it. Because wanting made him awful. Because Will trusted him, and Mike didn’t trust himself.
But Will was always close.
What if the things people say were true?
They probably weren’t, because Will would’ve told Mike.
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July 87
Dustin joked one day:
“You two act like an old married couple now that you live together.”
Lucas choked. Will turned the color of a ripe tomato. Mike nearly died on the spot.
He shoved Dustin too hard.
He laughed too loudly. He overcorrected so badly it was suspicious.
Later that night, he couldn’t sleep.
Do we? Is it that obvious?
If we do, does that mean people are noticing it on Will too?
There was no girl that they had seen Will with, but there was that girl in Lenora. El had mentioned.
No, no, no, it's just Dustin being Dustin. But Lucas laughed.
Oh god.
Do people see something? Is there something to see?
No. No. Right?
He spiraled until dawn.
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August 87
One night, Will fell asleep before finishing a drawing.
Mike saw it by accident.
It was him.
Mike.
Sitting on the basement couch.
Smiling at something off-page.
The softness in the drawing made Mike’s stomach twist.
He touched the page with shaking fingers.
Why would he draw me like that?
He was sketching Mike by heart?
He snapped the sketchbook shut like it burned.
His whole body shook.
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September 87
He whispered into his hands: What is wrong with me?
He wasn’t supposed to think about Will this much. He wasn’t supposed to notice Will like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel warm every time Will looked at him.
He was supposed to be normal. Not twisted. Not confused. Not… whatever this was.
He cried silently for a few minutes.
Just enough to breathe again.