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With the campaign over and the others filtering out of the room, Mike found himself unable to move. His limbs had slackened, as though demanding that he stay here, in the basement, in this moment. At last, Will stood, gripping the D&D folder that held as many memories as loose, faded sheets of paper. As he slotted it onto the shelf—their shelf—he shut his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.
Every step, every movement, every breath brought him closer to leaving—the comfort of Mike's home, the safety of his basement—and Will wasn't quite ready to let go. He ran his fingers down the spine of his folder, tracing the yellow lettering of his name. He tapped the shelf twice, gently, before turning away, to the stairs.
Mike was still seated, watching him with glossy eyes, but stood quickly when he noticed Will's hesitation at the bottom of the staircase.
He felt as though he had been caught out, but didn't rush to get his folder away. Instead, he and Will shared a small smile as they brushed past each other. Will took to the first few steps, while Mike found himself stood before the shelves.
When he finally brought himself to slide his folder away, beside the others, his fingertips bumped the spine of Will's folder. Mike couldn't help himself—
"Will!" He called, his voice louder than he anticipated, perhaps out of fear—or hope—that he'd already gone. To Mike's delight, Will had apparently been struck by the same idleness that he had been.
Will had hardly made it up three stairs—three slow, painful steps—when he heard Mike call after him, the sound of his name on Mike's tongue ringing in his ears, so loudly that it took him a few seconds to fathom a response. It was something wonderfully articulate, like,
"Hm?"
They stood there, both staring, both avoiding the other's gaze, as Mike tried to continue. He didn't think he'd get this far. He glanced over to the sofa; a pizza box lay open on one side, blankets strewn across the other. Mike gestured vaguely at the mess,
"Do you mind helping me clear up a little? I know that Holly wants to play down here, and she hates—"
"Sure." Will replied, knowing how Mike could get so swept up in his own rambling that he'll often fail to arrive at the point. They tidied up in a silence Will had never felt with Mike before; it was tense, heavy, like the moment between the strike of lightning and the sound of thunder. Will couldn't even come up with an excuse to break the silence: he knew where everything went, how Mike liked the blankets to be folded on his sofa.
Will's mind was racing: why him? Was it just convenience? He was the last in the basement.
Could it be something more? He knew something was troubling Mike, but he'd spent the last eighteen months trying not to entertain thoughts or ideas about Mike opening up to him. They'd had a few talks—casual chats—about school or D&D or their futures, but nothing serious. The last time they'd properly talked, it was on the radio tower, in the Upside Down. That moment was burned into his mind, seared into his memory.
"Friends? No thanks."
Mike had said, and Will's heart leapt with both joy and terror. The moment's silence that followed was almost unbearable, until Mike added,
"Best friends."
Causing something in Will to shift. To languish, almost. Will didn't know what he'd been hoping for, because what could be better than being Mike's best friend?
At times, it was enough. Plenty, even. And Will had tried—tried to move on, tried to remind himself that, on evenings when they'd play D&D all through the night, that this was as good as it gets, but his own words rang in his ears;
"He's just my Tammy."
In retrospect, the line was so stupid that he sometimes wondered if he'd imagined saying it. Mike didn't know who Tammy was. Hell, most of the people in that room hadn't heard her name before then. But still, he'd said the words, in the vain hope that they'd breathe themselves into existence.
They hadn't.
As Mike reordered the cushions on the sofa and binned the last of the pizza—gross—he caught himself glancing over at Will; once, twice, too many times to count. He had no reason to: he trusted him, knowing that the basement was as much Will's space as it was his own. Still, he couldn't help but watch as Will folded the blankets, draped Mike's favourite over the back of the sofa, and tucked the others into their drawer. He did so with such care, his movements so gentle that—
Nevermind.
It hadn't been long—six minutes, maybe seven—but the tidier the room became, the more anxious Mike felt. When he wasn't watching Will, he was casting looks at the basement door, awaiting the sound of his mum's voice, calling them up for dinner. The past eighteen months had been the longest of his life—longer even than the time the Byers had spent with the Wheelers before they'd gotten their own place—and Mike had practically driven himself mad trying to understand why.
At first, the answer came easily: grief. Losing El had muted the vibrance of the entire party, and Mike was no exception to this. In the six months that followed her loss, he played their final moments over and over in his head, scolding himself for being unable to say more, for not telling her that he loved her one last time. He was haunted by how things might've been, had he been more honest with her.
But how could he be honest with her, when he couldn't face the truth himself?
In the nights he spent lying awake despite his exhaustion, he found himself talking to the darkness—staging conversations he couldn't imagine having with another person. There was so much he wanted to say, about El, about his fears, about his feelings, but who to tell? He couldn't tell his parents—his mum hardly even knew El—Nancy was never available, and his friends would never understand.
He'd been wanting to talk to Will for well over a year now—they used to confide in each other for everything—but, each time he tried, each time he tried to fathom words, his voice wouldn't reach past his throat. The last time any honest words had passed between them, it was in a room full of people, some of whom barely knew them, who didn't even know Will—not as Mike did, at least. He'd tried to talk to Will afterwards, but there was no time—and when there was time, Mike had no sense.
"Best friends."
He'd said, and his stomach dropped to his feet at once. He didn't know what he wanted with Will, but he knew that it wasn't simply friendship. Even best friendship was a lie—Mike wanted more.
But what would he say? How could he say it?
Mike's lips were moving before his brain could tell them to stop,
"So, did you like it?"
There was an unusual cadence to his voice. He prayed, fruitlessly, that Will didn't catch it.
The sound of Mike's voice was a shock against the silence Will had grown comfortable in. He replied sooner than he could process the question,
"Like what?"
Mike gestured vaguely towards the table, looking empty now with just the D&D board atop it.
"The campaign."
Mike wanted to say more, but words escaped him—frustrating, since he'd never had such trouble talking to Will before.
"Oh." Will nodded, following Mike's gaze to the table. He absently adjusted the chair nearest him. "Yeah. I liked it. Some of the characters' endings could have been a little better, I think, but the campaign itself was great."
"Better?" Mike asked, his voice surprisingly sharp. "How?"
"Well," Will took a step away from the table, debating how to continue. He took a seat on the sofa, then said, "The Zoomer and the Knight make sense, I think—as does the Bard. But Will the Wise? I doubt he'd travel too far, or seek out somewhere loud and bustling. And the Storyteller—I can't imagine him spending his life alone, his stories his only company."
The cushions sank as Mike joined Will on the sofa. He rested his elbows on his knees, interlacing his hands.
"The Storyteller might enjoy the peace, after so many years of adventuring."
His answer was reluctant, restrained, but Will's heart sank regardless. Mike studied him, then added,
"But you're right, about Will the Wise. He likes the quiet too. So, maybe, he doesn't travel too far, but finds somewhere beautiful to settle. Somewhere he can turn to his other hobbies, like his artwork—his painting."
Mike had turned his attention back to the D&D board, but, feeling Will's eyes on him, he glanced over to his best friend. He thought for a moment, then smiled,
"If he does stay nearby, he could keep the Storyteller company. The Storyteller could write, and Will the Wise could paint—or draw—continuing their legacy together. I think the Storyteller would like that."
Mike's voice had grown wistful, and this was not lost on Will, who smiled back,
"I think Will the Wise would like that too."
There was a softness shared between them in that moment, one Will wished he could commit to memory. Similarly, Mike thought back to the conversations they'd had in this basement—on this very sofa—over the years. One particular memory surfaced:
"Crazy together."
They'd agreed. Those words were never spoken again, as though the sanctity of the moment might be broken by repetition. Mike had never told Will, but it was secretly one of his favourite things about their bond: the moments they had—they shared—that were entirely their own, for nobody else to know about. They existed solely in Mike's and Will's minds, and Mike couldn't be happier about it.
He'd told Will that El would understand the things their other friends didn't, but now—given everything—he wondered if she would.
As if reading his thoughts, Will spoke, his knee brushing Mike's as he leaned forward to say,
"And the story about the Mage. I—Will the Wise liked that one the most. The Storyteller said that they could never tell others about her, but some of the best stories aren't told. They're crafted—sketched, drawn, painted—because, that way, they hold their value without giving away their secrets."
Mike grinned, this time—he couldn't help it. He knew he talked a lot, which was perhaps why Will was so quiet all the time; but when Will did speak, he found himself captivated, because he always strung his words together with such care.
He considered the painting Will had given him...over three years ago, now. Initially, Mike had kept it in the basement, alongside his other favourite things, but, with Will sleeping there, he worried that Will might think him rude for leaving it, so he brought it up to his room. There, he had taken to leaving it unrolled on his desk, as he often found himself spending hours studying it, poring over every little detail, delighted to discover something new each time. Eventually, Mike hung it up on his wall, after his room was rebuilt and repainted, and still he found himself examining it like something in the Louvre. It was one of the first things he'd decided on taking to college.
Sometimes, he'd mention it to Will, to tell him again and again just how much he liked it, but Will would simply thank him and quickly change the subject. At first, Mike thought that Will was just being humble—he never liked drawing attention to himself—but then, after that day at the Radio Station, something clicked.
In one of the last letters she'd written to him, El had said that Will was painting—something for a girl she thought he liked. It should have been obvious, then, when Will gave the painting to Mike in the van—but Mike was so oblivious, so caught up in his own troubled feelings that he completely missed Will's.
Then, again, when Will told the party that he didn't like girls, Mike's own words rang in his ears;
"It's not my fault you don't like girls!"
He hadn't meant it, and he certainly hadn't meant to hurt Will—he regretted it instantly, and felt a pang of guilt every time he remembered their fight—but, since that day at WSQK, they'd acquired a new meaning, and Mike had asked himself the same question every day since: did Will blame Mike?
The sound of Will's voice, accompanied by a gentle tap on his elbow, tore Mike from his thoughts.
"Mike."
Mike had fallen quiet, and part of Will was quite content to let him stay that way, to enjoy the silence with him, as if they were Will the Wise and the Storyteller. However, he knew that something was troubling Mike, and with Karen having called them up for dinner already, Will knew he was on a timer.
As Will spoke his name, Mike glanced up wordlessly. He pressed on, dreading what Mike might say in response, but also terrified of letting the silence swallow them whole.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," Mike nodded, hesitantly, then added, "I was just thinking."
Will's stomach turned, as though the dread was marching about his organs, trying to crawl out of his throat. Mike used to bring up Will's painting often, but, since El disappeared, Mike hardly mentioned it—though Will was certain that he wanted to.
Sometimes, when he passed Mike's room on the way to the bathroom, he'd see Mike at his desk, staring at the painting on the wall. Initially, it warmed Will's heart to see Mike care so much for something he'd made. But, then, the floorboards would creak under Will's feet, Mike's head would snap in his direction, and Will would feel like he'd been caught in a lie. The sickening dread would kick back in and Will would flee the scene, as though Mike wasn't his best friend and the painting wasn't simply a gift he'd made.
Will swallowed, hard, pushing down the dread, and asked,
"About what?"
Mike took a breath, not quite sure how to continue. The question had spent so long dancing about his head that he wondered if he'd ever be able to ask it. He contemplated Will, then adjusted himself on the sofa, their knees bumping again as they turned to face each other. Mike noticed Will flinch, but neither of them moved away.
With his hand on his leg, forefinger tapping against his thigh, Mike replied,
"The painting you made. El didn't commission it, did she?"
When Mike shifted on the sofa, Will wanted to move too, his brain screaming for distance but his body refusing to comply.
But there was a softness to Mike, from the way he spoke to the gentle brush of his leg against Will's, that enveloped Will in a familiar, albeit uncertain, safety. It was as though they were twelve again, and Will was telling Mike,
"It was a seven."
Truth came naturally to Will when he was with Mike. There was nothing forced or compelled about it; Mike was his safe space, and he'd never seen any reason to lie. And yet, when they were in the airport and Mike asked about the painting he'd poured his heart and soul into, Will instinctively told him that it was nothing. At first, Will had just told himself that Mike had asked the question so quickly, so sharply, and Will just answered in turn. However, as time passed, Will grew into the lie; some small, weak part of himself accepting it as truth because he didn't believe he'd ever be able to tell Mike the real truth. Will didn't deserve the grace of honesty if he couldn't share it with Mike.
Then, when Mike was disconsolate, loathing himself for being inferior to El—as he saw it, anyway—Will saw something of himself in his best friend. A few years ago, he'd drawn a picture titled Bob Newby: Superhero, not only because he'd heroically saved Will, Mike, his mum and Hopper from the demodogs, but also because his mum needed it. When Will was painting the party, yes, it was a gift for Mike, but it was also Will's safest way to get his feelings onto paper. He'd tried writing to Mike, like El did, but he could never find the right words—or, if he did, he'd write too much, be forced to start again, winding up so frustrated that his vision blurred and his writing would be scribbled, his notebook tear-stained.
To see Mike, who had saved him countless times, feel just as powerless as Will often did both broke his heart and gave him the courage to share the painting with him, after Will had all but convinced himself he'd bin it as soon as they'd gotten home.
He'd righted the first lie in the van, and now Mike deserved the full truth. Will shook his head, then forced himself to speak,
"No, she didn't."
The words were so short, so simple, that they almost made Will laugh.
"Actually, I don't think she knew that I was painting for quite some time. It was only in those last few weeks before Spring break, when I was painting all the time because I wanted it to be ready for the day you landed, that she started asking what I was up to."
"Yeah," Mike smiled, his voice still soft—hesitant, almost, as he continued, "She mentioned, in a letter, that you'd been painting a lot."
The silence settled between them—thick and heavy, like the dust on the shelves Mike hadn't cleaned in years—as Mike debated his next words. It had been a long time since he and Will had talked like this, and Mike was terrified that he'd say the wrong thing and scare Will away.
But he had to know.
So, he added,
"She thought it was for a girl you liked."
Will tensed at once, making a strangled, gaspy sound, and Mike wondered if he'd gone too far. He contemplated taking his words back, saying something quick or funny to ease the tension he'd built.
Then, Will laughed: this light, airy thing that was the most wonderful sound Mike had heard in weeks. He laughed too, if only out of relief, and for this brief, fleeting moment, he felt at complete ease. He realised, then—though he suspected he'd known for a while—that this was what he wanted out of life. To sit in his basement—or anywhere, really—with Will, playing D&D and laughing at things that weren't actually funny, sharing their lives with each other as though they hadn't spent almost all of it together.
When their laughter dulled, Mike said,
"That's why I was confused, when you brought it to the airport." He pursed his lips, bumping Will's elbow with his own. "I was a jerk that day. There's no excuse, really, but..."
Mike trailed off, his gaze dipping beneath Will's. Will tilted his head, trying to catch Mike's eyes again, as though it would force him to continue—because Will was desperate to know what Mike wasn't saying.
Karen would call them up again soon. He didn't have the time to let Mike slip back beneath his own thoughts. He flexed his fingers, then, with a very tentative hand on Mike's forearm, he asked,
"But?"
Will's hand was warm. Mike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the heat from Will's hand crept beneath Mike's skin at once. He tensed, and Will's fingers twitched, but then Mike relaxed again and so did Will. A very small, very quiet part of Mike wanted to slip his arm back and catch Will's hand in his own, because he wondered how that might feel. He'd wondered that for a while, ever since he had realised how Will felt—perhaps even longer—but he knew it was silly.
He wanted to be honest with Will, to tell him that, when he'd read El's letter and seen what he presumed to be Will's painting, he'd initially felt incredibly jealous. Will had never painted him anything, and they'd known each other for more than a decade at that point. What right did some girl, that Will had hardly known for a year, to receive a painting?
He didn't understand his jealousy then—granted, he had only a vague understanding now—but he wanted to tell Will that that's how he'd felt. Maybe Will could help him understand.
Before he could reply, the growing sound of footsteps announced someone's approach, then Karen appeared in the doorway.
"Boys! Dinner's—"
Perhaps it was the way both boys flinched, or how swiftly Will retracted his hand from Mike's arm, or simply the bewilderment in their eyes, but Karen's voice softened as quickly as it came—her expression with it.
"Dinner's on the table." She said, glancing between Mike and Will, her expression unreadable—save for the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Come up when you're ready."
Then, she disappeared, the basement door closing behind her with a gentle click.
Mike's mouth went dry, his throat tight. His mum's tone had never shifted so suddenly, especially when they were late for dinner. Will leaned forward, as though to stand, but Mike instinctively put a hand on his thigh, a few inches from his knee.
"I made something for you." Mike blurted. It may not have been what he wanted to say, but it was enough for now. "It's no painting, but—well, here..."
He trailed off, forcing himself to stand and walk away from the sofa. With every step towards his shelves, the warmth continued to seep from his forearm, where Will's hand had been just minutes before. He quietly tutted at himself for getting up, but then reminded himself that he'd gotten up for a reason, and that it'd be worth it.
Hopefully.
On the very top shelf, tucked behind a shoebox and wrapped in tissue paper, was a gift Mike had made a few years ago, when Will was living in California. He'd spent hours choosing songs, debating whether to add ones Will didn't know, worrying that Will's taste in music had changed over time, questioning if Will would even like to listen to songs that Mike liked, eventually settling on a mixtape that he was sort of happy with.
He never did get round to giving it to Will.
The tissue paper, once canary yellow, was now faded, almost beige, so he unwrapped it and tossed it aside as he made his way back to Will. Attached to the mixtape by a single piece of sellotape was a note Mike had written so long ago he'd almost forgotten its contents. Sitting beside Will, Mike's chest grew cold as he recalled the wording of the note—the very reason for which he'd been unable to give the mixtape to Will in the first place.
But Will had seen it now, and there was no point in trying to brush it aside or hide it away. With his mind buzzing, he handed the mixtape to Will.
"I actually ended up bringing it with me to California, but then..."
Again, Mike's words were lost to the space between them, but Will didn't mind. Having carefully removed the note from the mixtape—which proved easier than expected, because the sellotape wasn't particularly sticky—he ran his thumb over the words,
Dear Will,
The note was short and, for a moment, Will checked himself. It was like when he was reading a good book, and the pace was picking up, and he was torn between jumping to the end of the page and the fear of spoiling the action for himself. Such was his hesitation before he read the note, tracing each line to stop himself from reading further;
I think you'll like these songs. I'm sorry I couldn't get it done in time for Christmas, but you mean so much to me and it's been really hard without you these past few months. I hope this is enough to last until we see each other again.
Love, Mike
He read those last words three times over, as though he were consigning the loops of each "e", and the way the tail of the "i" in "Mike" crossed over to the "k", to memory. He blinked away the pain that stung the back of his eyes, remembering that Mike had handed him more than just a note. Still clutching the paper, Will turned the mixtape over in his free hand, scanning the tracklist, getting caught on the last song. His voice was rough when he asked,
"You listen to Bowie?"
"Of course! Doesn't everyone?" Mike responded—he'd forgotten many of the songs that he'd added to the mixtape. He leaned over Will's shoulder to get a better look, reaching his right hand towards the mixtape. As he pulled it towards himself, his fingers came to rest beneath Will's. Mike ran his thumb down the tracklist,
"Sorry, I'd completely forgotten what songs I put on here."
Will should have moved. He should have released the mixtape and let Mike hold it, but he couldn't. It was like all those times Mike had caught Will staring—at the dinner table, when they were playing D&D, outside Mike's bedroom when Will was supposed to just be passing by—and he lost all mental faculties. Yet, despite being frozen in place—and Mike's hands being so damn cold—a warmth took to Will's chest. He let himself relax into Mike's hand, ignoring the derisive, scornful laughter that echoed in the back of his mind.
For a minute, they both sat in silence, reading and rereading the tracklist. Then, Mike, in usual fashion, started tapping his heel against the floor.
Will, acutely aware of their proximity, considered the note clutched in his left hand.
Love, Mike
Over time, Will had figured out that during Spring Break Mike was having trouble telling El that he loved her. He'd picked up on the way El would take any letters up to her room, then re-emerge some time later with no hint of a smile on her face. Before then, she would open letters as soon as she received them, her face sometimes falling as she reached the end of them.
She had never explicitly told Will what was wrong, but sometimes she'd ask if he thought Mike loved her, or if they were too young for that. It was obvious that Mike cared about El—Will told her this—but he didn't feel that it was his place to say whether Mike loved her. Those conversations always left a tense unease between them.
Will hadn't received a single letter from Mike during their time apart, but—somehow—two words at the bottom of a four-line note made up for everything. It was silly, really, for his heart to leap as it did, but Mike loved him. Or, at least, he did once. It wasn't the way that Will had loved Mike—and still did—and yet...
Will's thoughts were punctuated by the sound of Mike's trousers against the sofa, and he considered telling Mike to stop. But then Mike was still examining the mixtape, and he might get the wrong idea. He might let go and release Will's hand and—
Without another thought, Will leaned into Mike, resting his leg against his best friend's. Mike's leg stopped at once, his attention snapping from the mixtape to Will, who shot a pointed look at his feet. Mike seemed to catch on, smiling and muttering a 'sorry', but he didn't move away.
With Will so close, Mike was reminded of a time when they were this close—not just physically, but emotionally. When they'd agreed to go "crazy together", it was more than just an agreement between two best friends to keep each other's secrets. Mike had spent nights by Will's bedside, whether it be in the Byers home or at the lab, and days debating how best he could help him. It was he who figured out that Will was a spy, who later formulated the plan to get Will to spy back.
They'd both been brought to tears that day when Mike confessed that asking to be Will's friend was the best thing he'd ever done, and Mike felt the most delightful ache in his heart when, just a year ago, Will revealed that it was that same memory which helped him overcome Vecna's malicious hatred.
"What happened to us?" Mike asked, his shoulder brushing Will's as he turned to him.
Will, whose mind was still on the note, was shocked first at the sound of Mike's voice, then at the question. Without thinking, he voiced this,
"What?"
"Well," Mike began, warmth taking to his cheeks. The basement was fairly dim, so he hoped that Will didn't catch it. "When there was everything going on with the Mind Flayer, I know it was terrible for you, but we were so much closer. I liked us then."
Will didn't miss a beat,
"I like us now."
If the crimson on Mike's cheeks wasn't obvious then, it certainly was now. He bowed his head, his curls spilling over Will's shoulder. Mike longed to lean in to Will, to rest his head on his friend's shoulder and breathe his scent in, committing it to memory, but he knew that it'd be too much. It wouldn't be fair to Will.
"Mike..." Will called his name quietly. Mike felt Will's hand slip away from the mixtape, then a familiar warmth return to his left forearm. Mike reluctantly tilted his head up, only to find Will's face a few inches from his.
He was gorgeous.
Mike shook his head, shamefully dismissing the thought, along with a certain other idea that came to mind. He chewed his lip, then said,
"I do too, but I liked us more then. Ever since, it feels like you've been slipping away from me. And now, with graduation and college, what if we grow apart completely? We've fought monsters, dealt with mind control, stopped the world from ending, but, somehow, this feels worse. Scarier.
"When you moved to Lenora, I felt like you took a part of me with you—but then you came back and I felt whole again. Like I could function again—which is ridiculous, because who is so pathetic that can't function without their best friend?
"And now I feel like I'm losing you all over again and I have no idea how to stop it and—"
"Mike." Will repeated. A little more forceful, but still in that gentle, loving tone—completely devoid of malice—which Mike always found so endearing. Mike cast his eyes to the mixtape, then to Will's hand. He tried for a smile, but it ended up being this insecure, watery thing that dropped instantly.
"I'm ridiculous, I know. But—" He sighed, the words stuck in his throat. He took a breath, forced his eyes shut, blinked them open and continued, "I've never been careful enough with you. Like, I've never paid enough attention. There are things you've told me that I should have known sooner."
"Mike, you couldn't have—"
"No." He stopped Will by raising his right hand, then letting it fall back into his lap. "I should have. You made it so obvious. You were reaching out to me and I was too oblivious—and then too scared—to reach back.
"I'm fine with who we are now, but I wish we were—"
"Better?" Will suggested.
"More." Mike corrected.
Will's heart dropped to his feet, like he'd just gone over the edge of a particularly high rollercoaster ramp.
More, Mike had said, after telling Will that he was afraid of losing him and that he could hardly function when they were apart.
Will knew how that felt; he'd lived the feeling himself—so much so that he crafted a painting in a disillusioned attempt at keeping Mike close. Mike didn't feel so far away when Will was thinking about him.
But if Mike felt the same sense of loss, what did that mean? And if Mike was too scared to reach back...scared of what?
Will had long since given up hope on Mike. There were moments, when his family was staying with Mike's, that he dared to let himself have just a little hope. When Mike suggested that he and Will share a room, only to be immediately shut down by Ted, Will felt an equal mix of delight and despair. He and Mike hadn't had sleepovers in years, but Ted thought that boys of their age "shouldn't be sharing a room".
Occasionally, when Jonathan would sneak up to Nancy's room, Mike would join Will in the basement, so that they could "keep each other company", because they were both terrible sleepers. They would read comic books together, plan their next campaign, speculate about Dustin and Hellfire throughout the night, then discuss everything all over again at the breakfast table like they hadn't spent the night talking.
Now, here Mike was, so close that Will could feel his breath on his skin, and the tiniest wisp of hope flickered in his chest, like the flame on a match in the cold. He'd spent so long pretending that he was past Mike that, at times, he almost believed it. But then Mike would talk to him like this and Will would be reminded that his heart burned for Mike. Hope was dangerous—thrilling and exciting, yes—but cruel and debilitating if it was false. Will couldn't afford misplaced trust in hope again, so he had to be certain.
"What do you mean?" He asked.
"I mean—"
Mike knew what he meant, and he was half-certain that Will did too. But how to tell him? It would be selfish if he did, but he'd never forgive himself if he didn't. Words escaped him, as they often did.
Mike took a shaky breath, then turned his forearm—still beneath Will's hand—so that his palm faced the ceiling. He flexed his fingers, then slid his arm towards the back of the sofa, his elbow grazing his ribs as Will's fingertips brushed his wrist. Mike continued until Will's hand rested over his, their palms together. Will's fingers were about half an inch shorter than Mike's—which his exhausted mind found incredibly amusing. He smiled, then slipped his fingers between Will's, gasping at the sensation of his best friend's hand in his own.
Will made a similar sound, like a stifled inhale, but then relaxed into Mike's hand. As he did so, Mike curled his fingers over Will's knuckles, ran his thumb over the back of Will's, then grinned in triumph,
"This."
Will's heart was screaming. The walls could have collapsed around them and he would hardly have noticed, much less cared. Mike had trouble articulating himself, so Will knew he'd have to give him time.
It had been worth it.
Mike's hand was cold, which didn't surprise Will, despite the countless nights they'd spent huddled under blankets, sharing body heat. When Mike's fingers came to rest over Will's knuckles, he could feel the pulse hammering in Mike's fingertips, and so he curled his fingers over Mike's knuckles aswell.
I feel it too, he tried to communicate.
Feel what, exactly, he wasn't sure. Dustin had tried to explain electricity to him once, when they were fourteen. It made sense to Will—he felt like a thousand volts were passing down his spine when Mike was near, when their elbows bumped while they were walking alongside each other.
Now Mike's hand was in his and Will was just about ready to pass out. Before he could, Mike cleared his throat,
"I want this. I know you said it was just a crush and that I was just your 'Tammy', or whatever that means, and you said I'm not like you but—
"But I think I am. Or might be. I'm not sure. All I know is that I want this." He twisted their hands so that his was on top. "Us. And maybe it's something you don't want anymore—or never even wanted in the first place—but I had to tell you. I couldn't—"
"Mike?" Resting the note on his lap, Will placed his now-free hand over their interlaced hands. "I lied."
"What?"
"Not intentionally. I thought I was over you—or past you—because it didn't hurt like it used to. I was okay with it. But it was only later that I realised there was a difference between being okay with it and being over it. I felt this—" Will took a moment to find the right word, "...lightness, and I mistook it for being over you. When we were on the Radio Tower and you said—"
"Please," Mike groaned, lifting their joined hands and pressing his forehead against them, "don't remind me."
Will breathed a laugh, his left hand falling into Mike's lap.
"Okay. Well, in that moment, then, I was a little sad, but to be your best friend was enough for me. I knew we'd never have anything more, and that this was as good as it got. I was happy with what we were, so I didn't bring it up again."
Mike's heart sank. He couldn't believe what he'd put Will through, how he was okay to believe that what his best friend had felt was just a crush because it was easier that way.
"Mike." Will was staring at their hands with growing concern.
"Oh!" Mike relaxed his grip. "Sorry."
That's it, Mike. Crush his hand.
"It's fine." Will smiled, his eyes sparkling with something more. He licked his lips, then asked, "When did you know? Or think you did? Was there a specific moment?"
Mike thought for a moment, then replied,
"I don't know if there was." He shook his head. "A specific moment. Maybe I always knew, or always did. I've always felt differently about you than about Lucas and Dustin, but I just thought it was because you were my best friend. It was only in '85, when we had that fight and you biked away in the rain, that I first considered—or feared—that it was something different. Something more.
"Then you were moving away and I felt this emptiness, but—you know—my best friend was moving to the other side of the country. It's natural to feel empty, I think. I tried writing to you, but I couldn't find the right words. Nothing felt good enough.
"So I made this." He lifted the mixtape, then rested it on the sofa. "But then I was like: oh! Why don't I write something on here? And you saw how that went. When I saw you at the airport, it felt like my stomach was twisting itself into knots because of what it could all mean. So I was an asshole.
"I don't mean that as an excuse. But I just want you to know that it wasn't you. It was me trying to work things out, then I felt this insane jealousy when I saw the painting and I sort of just...collapsed. I don't know.
"Anyway, we fixed things, and even with all the end of the world shit going on, the year and a half that we were living together felt really nice. I liked sneaking down from my room to the basement to spend the night with you. I only wish I did it more."
He sighed, then continued,
"But I was with El, and it felt safe, because she never expected anything from me. It was a really shitty thing of me to do, I know that now—hell, I knew it then—but it was just easier for me to hide like that. To ignore my feelings and hope they'd go away. They didn't, obviously."
Mike ran his thumb back over Will's forefinger. His head snapped up as he realised,
"I think that's what she meant. In the void. When she was saying goodbye. She said that I would understand, one day. Maybe this is what she meant."
He looked to Will for confirmation, as he often did—even when they were too young to distinguish between close friendship and something more. As he thought, Will brought their hands to his chin, elbows propped on Mike's leg. Resisting the urge to lay a kiss on Mike's hand, he replied,
"I wouldn't be surprised. El always knew more than she let on. She didn't talk a lot, so she was always listening."
"Yeah, and I was always talking, so..." Mike said bitterly, resting his chin against Will's hand. His hair tickled Will's forehead, but Will didn't care to move.
"Mike, you can't put that on yourself. She wouldn't have wanted you to."
Despite their proximity, Mike refused to meet Will's eyes. He didn't bring El up often, and rarely engaged in conversation when she was the subject of it. When he did, he always sounded guilty, like it was his fault that she was gone. Will tried to remind him that it was El's decision, but Mike would always argue that he should have convinced her not to. Will knew that there was no persuading Mike otherwise, so he usually left it at that.
This time, though, things were different. He understood Mike in a way he'd never been able to before.
"She'd want you to be happy. To get whatever it is you want out of life." He began tentatively. Mike fixed his gaze somewhere beneath Will's eyes. Will had his attention. He tilted his face forward, trying to hide a smile behind Mike's hand as he continued, "And if that's holding hands with me in your basement, letting dinner get cold, then maybe that is what she meant."
"You're not funny." Mike's tone was flat, but he was grinning nonetheless. He met Will's eyes, "And you know that this," he squeezed Will's hand, "isn't what I meant by more."
"No?"
Will's eyebrows were knitted in mock confusion, but his eyes glittered with glee. Mike hadn't seen Will playful, not since the first time he'd called Will a sorcerer. Mike still remembered the warmth that had blossomed in his chest when Will pushed him away with a smile on his face.
"No, that's not what I meant. You know that." Mike's tone softened, but Will wasn't finished yet.
"I do?"
"Yes, Will, you do." Reluctantly, Mike resolved to play along. They were late for dinner—so late that their excuse had to be miraculously believable—but Mike hadn't felt this close to Will in years, and he would have happily spent eternity in that moment.
For a second, Will wondered how far might be too far, fearing that Mike might retreat if he continued, that he'd suddenly stand and say that he didn't want his mum to call them up a third time. But then, Will realised, that Mike was fully there, in that moment with him. That they'd done the hard part and they were holding hands and he was inches away and he hadn't moved back. That they might, somehow, be okay, so Will stated,
"Maybe I have an idea. But I need you to be clear with me, so I don't—"
The tip of Mike's nose bumped Will's as he pressed their foreheads together, muttering,
"Okay. To be clear..."
A moment's silence. The brush of skin as Mike tilted his face to the right. His lashes swept over Will's cheekbone, and then—
It wasn't a kiss so much as the grazing of Mike's lips over Will's, but it didn't matter. They had countless evenings, numberless mornings to figure it out. To get it right. They had each other, and they loved each other, in a way neither had dared to dream.
Adulthood no longer loomed, childhood was no longer something they longed for. Hours, days, years would blur into one. A lifetime, shared by two best friends who were finally—finally—ready for more.