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The last thing Will wants to be doing after his 8am final exam is packing for a twelve hour drive across the states, but here he is shoving his suitcase with three different variations of his favorite sweater. His bus is leaving in an hour, and Will clearly overestimated his ability to pack his things in a limited time. How is he supposed to know if he should bring his sketchbook back for a three-day stay in Hawkins?
Nonetheless, Will begrudgingly packs the last of his things into the suitcase as he makes a run out of his dorm. He ignores the cold bite of the winter air as he scrambles to the bus stop around the corner. By some sort of miracle his shuttle hasn’t left yet, passengers still trickling on as Will arrives panting like a mad dog. He offers a few excuse me’s as he joins the line onto the bus, catching his breath.
It isn’t long before the bus welcomes its last few passengers, rumbling as it begins its journey into the midwest. Every bump on the road seems to shake the automobile’s core, but Will accepts it as the cost of cheap transportation and being granted the seat with the heater underneath.
On top of the long distance and the cost of the trip to Indiana from New York, Will hasn’t been back to Hawkins since he moved to the city nearly half a year ago in July. His entire family is there now in Montauk, New York. Hopper somehow revives his status as a police chief; his mom finds peace in taking up a new position at the town’s library, while Jonathan joins Will at NYU through filmmaking. The change was fast and newer than anything Will has done before (if he ignores the other-wordly aliens and that one time he gained powers from Vecna), but Will loves it more than anything now.
His new life doesn’t stop him from missing his old, however, as Hawkins seeps into his thoughts every now and then. Somehow, despite nearly dying four (or maybe more) times, Hawkins still sits warmly in Will’s heart, now more than ever. In particular, the party. Will hasn’t seen the other four in ages. Their letter-game is seriously lacking, and their phone calls are never really long other than that one time at the end of October when Max informed him about how Mike had gotten shit-faced drunk at their Halloween party and was begging for her to call Will, only for the conversation to turn into a three-hour-discussion about how New York City was going to be taken over by rats and pigeons in fifty years.
Right.
Mike.
It came as a surprise to Will when he received a call from the latter a week prior, asking if he’d come visit Hawkins this winter. Mike even offered his basement to stay in, seeing as they had no trouble coexisting during the eighteen months after he got back from California a couple of years ago. Plus, it’d be cheaper - way cheaper than booking a hotel.
“I—we all miss you,” Mike had said, the soft static of the residence hall’s communal phone clearer than ever as Will’s mind swirled. Will’s excitement didn’t mask the anxiety that softly coated his thoughts, however, as he recounted his last few days in Hawkins. Or more specifically, his last few days with Mike. Everything had become unraveled in those final forty-eight hours—the painting, the bottle of emotions that had been waiting to burst, and most importantly, the truth about Will’s feelings. Will hadn’t let Mike finish speaking before he walked away, afraid of hearing the harsh truth—unreciprocated love.
The embrace, both tender and tense, that the two shared before Will departed Hawkins still gnawed at his thoughts. Will knew damn well that endless pondering could never bring back the warmth of Mike’s breath that grazed his ear as he muttered a weak goodbye. Maybe that’s the cost of being a hopeless romantic.
Will shakes his head as he leans into the scratchiness of the bus’s seat, pressing his temple against the cool of the window as if that’d erase the memories etched into himself.
He remembers the excitement of a new environment when he arrived at NYU; blind dates and shameless attempts at flirting had become Will’s new experiment during this past freshman semester. While it certainly helped him grow more accustomed to the university, it also made him realize one thing: somehow, despite living twelve hours and seven-hundred miles away, Will, unfortunately, remained deeply and utterly in love with Mike Wheeler. In every prospective partner he’d search for those same dark curls and chiseled jawline. With every nerdy joke he made that was returned with the husk of a laugh and shift in gaze, Will only regurgitated his old thoughts; he would never fall in love again.
He wonders what it’ll be like to see Mike again.
Will huffs as he closes his eyes. Exhaustion from his finals finally begins to wash over his senses as he focuses on the low hum of the bus and soft chatter of other tired students around him.
---
The first thing Will notices after being jolted awake by the lurch of the bus is just how dark it is outside. He’s somehow slept through the shuttle’s two guaranteed meal breaks. The cloudiness of the morning sky is now replaced with pitch-black. Will’s stomach growls softly as evidence of the missed meals—finals week’s sleep debt has clearly done a number on him.
The second thing Will notices is how slow the bus is moving. Despite the absence of light outside, Will can see the flurries of snow that whip across the highway as the bus cautiously chugs along the road. It inches alongside other cars that dare to drive on the ice that only becomes slippier as the minutes pass. Casting a glance around, Will notices several other passengers gripping onto their seats for dear life as the bus begins to make strange noises, each creak taunting them as wind violently shakes the vehicle.
Before Will can think further, he nearly falls out of his seat as the bus suddenly turns onto an exit, resulting in several gasps and oh dear god’s. Will grips onto his seat—this is worse than his driving, and he doesn’t even have a license yet. He hopes no one pukes—he hopes he doesn’t puke.
It takes a few more agonizing minutes for the bus to finally skid to a stop in the parking lot of an awfully packed hotel as the driver stands from his seat with an exasperated sigh.
“We’re gonna have to stop here tonight, folks,” he announces, hands on his hips as he wriggles the keys out of the ignition, “any more driving on these roads and we’d be on the news in a ditch before y’all’s destinations.”
Irritated murmurs fill the air as the driver steps off the vehicle, gripping tightly onto his jacket as the doors open with a slam from the wind.
“Step outside to grab your luggage! We’ll leave tomorrow morning, 9 AM sharp. You folks can find a room at this hotel for tonight.”
Will hurries to the front of the bus with the other passengers as the cold air of the winter storm greets them, frigid snowflakes slapping his face raw as he stands in line for his luggage. The second he gets his suitcase he shuffles as fast as he can through the iced-over pavement and into the hotel lobby, the warmth a relief.
“I’m assuming you’re also looking for a single room?” The receptionist asks with a sympathetic smile as Will approaches the counter, hounded by other travellers that were struck with the horrid midwestern weather.
“Yes please,” he says with a sigh, happily accepting the complementary water bottle and cookie as he receives his room key. It’s a blur, but somehow Will makes it to his room as he plops his suitcase onto the ground, still under the influence of drowsiness but now covered in half-melted drops of snow.
Fuck.
Well, so much for a cheap winter break.
Mind swirling, Will does the only thing he knows to do in this situation: make a call. He picks up the hotel’s phone with ease as he punches in his home number. The line connects almost immediately, a familiar voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hey mom,” Will says as he crouches beside the bedside table where the phone is; he doesn’t want to get the bed dirty.
“Oh, Will! It’s so nice to hear your voice, you don’t know how worried I was with all the snow! You know how Indiana’s weather can get,” his mom says with what Will can only assume is a sigh of relief. “How are you? How was your art history final? Have you made it to Hawkins yet? I haven’t gotten a call from Karen yet.”
“About that,” Will murmurs, “I’m kind of at a hotel. The bus couldn’t make it, the roads are too icy.”
The relief in his mom’s voice is instantly severed with a gasp, “you’re not in Hawkins? Oh no, are you okay?”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Will reassures, softly chuckling as he begins playing with the hem of his sweater, “I’m gonna stay the night here and we’re leaving again tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” his mom says, though Will knows she’s anything but okay. “Where are you staying? Have you eaten yet?”
“I’m in a Hilton hotel right off exit 326. I think I’m in Fort Wayne?” Will ignores the rumble in his stomach as he reaches for his complimentary cookie; the last thing his mom needed was to know that her child was cold and hungry. Every restaurant near him was closed anyways, and Will wasn’t in favor of venturing outside into the raging winter storm. “And yes, I’ve eaten.”
“Okay,” his mom repeats. Will can practically feel the anxiety in her voice.
“Okay,” he parrots, “I’ll be alright, so don’t worry about me. I’ll call as soon as I get to Hawkins tomorrow, alright?”
“Okay.”
“Cat got your tongue?” Will jokes, taking a bit of the cookie. It’s stale but he appreciates the generous serving of three whole raisins wedged inside.
“Oh, you know I’m just a little worried,” his mom says with a snicker, “just call me if you need anything, alright? Anything. I’m here…well, like ten hours away. But you know what I mean.”
“I do. And really, don’t worry, mom. It’s only one night.”
Will hears a soft sigh. “Just call if you need anything, alright? Bundle up and stay warm, honey.”
“I will. Same for you, mom,” Will says, grinning softly.
“Alright. Have a good night then, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too mom, goodnight.”
Will waits for the click of the line ending before he slides the hotel phone back into its place. He chews on the rest of the stale cookie.
Then, he reaches for the phone again. A pit of anxiety sprouts in his stomach as he dials in an all-so-familiar set of numbers, hesitantly pressing the phone to his ear. Will listens as the phone rings once…twice…then a click.
“Hello?”
Will’s breath hitches at the sound of the voice, still so deep and painfully comforting even through the hotel phone’s average quality. He’s been moving on autopilot for the last half hour and he just begins to realize he’s started a new call with someone other than his mother.
“Hey Mike,” Will says choppily, his voice slightly trembling for some reason. Maybe it was the fact he’s still recovering from the nine hour nap, or maybe it’s because he’s suddenly talking to Mike Wheeler for the second time since moving, but Will’s breath feels stuck as he waits for a response.
“Will? Wha—how? Aren’t you still on the way back? How are you calling?” The unmistakable voice of a confused Mike blares through the phone. Will bites down on the twitch in his lips as he leans impossibly further into the bedside table, its corners digging into his shoulders while the phone remains pressed against his ear.
“We got caught in some sort of winter storm so the driver pulled over for the night.”
“Ah.” The soft static caught in Mike’s voice is soothing. “Yeah, we’ve been getting a lot of snow lately. Are you okay?”
Are you okay? Will’s chest tightens.
“Yeah, we’re fine. I just thought I should call to tell you that I won’t be able to make it back to Hawkins tonight.
“What? Why not?”
“The winter storm,” Will reminds, “the bus is stopping for the night but we’ll be back on the road by nine tomorrow.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
A shared silence fills the phone, the static noise creating little comfort for the two.
“I’m—”
“Where are—”
Silence again.
“You go first,” Will manages, breaking the suffocating quiet. If the winter storm isn’t going to take him out by tonight, he was sure this conversation would happily do the job.
“Where are you?” Mike asks tentatively.
“At a hotel right off of exit 326in Fort Wa-”
Will doesn’t register what happens as the line suddenly cuts off, the lights of his room flickering briefly. “Mike?” he calls into the phone, listening closely, but the line is silent.
He calls into the phone a few more times and attempts to dial Mike again, but after three failed attempts Will deduces that the phone is fried and sets it back in its place. The hotel seems to be feeling the effects of the winter storm as well.
Sighing, Will eyes the clock—8:45 pm—it was nowhere near his usual bed time, but he figures he doesn’t have anything better to do as the winter storm rages outside. He should have known better as a former Hoosier than to drive into the midwest in the middle of December.
Hanging his clothes up, Will continues on autopilot as he takes a shower and gets ready for the night. He tries to scrub the tired out of his eyes, though it still seeps from every corner of his body despite the egregiously long nap on the bus. He slips on one of the sweaters he’d packed and grabs his sketchbook before making himself comfortable on the bed, now glad he had packed it before he left that morning.
Will begins by creating small doodles in the corner of the page - a tired cartoonish cat; a pigeon with glasses too big for its head. As his pencil moves, however, he begins to map out the structure of a face. He creates soft shadows that curve along its high cheekbones, making sure he’s careful with each eyelash as he cranes his neck to match that of the person forming in his sketchbook. Will bites the inside of his cheek as he dots in each freckle, eyebrows scrunching together in distaste as he holds up the finished sketch. Despite being cursed to draw the same face for the past fourteen years, Will is still unable to capture the full beauty of Mike Wheeler. There’s always something off—his gaze, the dip of the curve of his nose, or the way his lips pursed when he had something to say—the inability to perfect him pains Will, now more than ever as he stares back at the portrait of someone he can’t recognize. Sometimes he wishes he had just sucked it up and visited Hawkins more this past semester.
Setting the sketchbook aside, Will curls into a ball on the bed as he closes his eyes. The stale sheets are still cold as he shivers underneath them; if there was anything that stayed consistent for Will after November 6, 1983, it’s his distaste for the cold. The goosebumps that line his skin every time a chill runs up his spine is enough to make him nauseous, memories of the Upside Down tainting his thoughts. And now, despite the layers of clothes, Will still shivers as he holds himself under the covers. He wishes sleep came sooner.
---
11:25pm is what the clock reads when Will wakes up, sucking in a breath while he slowly registers the ringing of the phone (seemingly working now) beside his head. His eyes are barely open as he fumbles for it, yanking the phone to his ear. He shudders at the welcome of a fresh breeze of cold air under the sheets he’d warmed for the past hour.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, this is the front desk! So sorry for the interruption this late at night, but is this Will Byers of room 217?”
Will rubs his eyes as the soft hue of the lamp beside him sluggishly brings him back to the real world. “Yes, this is him.”
“Wonderful! We’re calling to let you know that you have a Mike Wheeler waiting in the lobby for you. He said it’s an emergency?”
The breath in Will’s throat hitches as the words register in his head.
Mike Wheeler.
Mike Wheeler.
Mike?!
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Will asks, biting back a cough as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
“You have a Mike Wheeler in the lobby for you! He says it’s an emergency,” the voice repeats, still as chipper as a moment ago.
“I - okay, thank you, please tell him I’ll be on the way down,” Will says, the flood of words spilling out of his mouth as he slams the phone back down.
What the hell was Mike doing here?
Will doesn’t give himself time to think, however, as he slips his shoes back on. He nearly trips as he rushes out of his room and descends the stairs, finding his way to the lobby. His heart beats loudly in his ears with each step he takes as if it’s about to burst at any moment - he wouldn’t be surprised if it actually did. As he turns the corner to the lobby, he can barely hear the soft jazz of the radio on the front desk as his eyes scan the room for any signs of his old best friend.
“Will?”
Will doesn’t even need to look to recognize the voice. He knows who it is by heart, the rough edges that line a soft melody. However, he still sucks in a breath as he turns around to face its creator.
“Mike.” Walking towards him is none other than Mike—still lanky, chiseled jawline, expressive eyebrows, dark curls, and painfully Mike. He’s half-covered in snow, gathered on the tuft of black curls that sit messily on his head as if he’s been swept with a broom. Will swallows as the other stops a few feet from him, those dark coffee eyes scanning his face like a book. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t seen him for half a year, but Will swears Mike has gotten even taller.
“Hey,” Mike starts, his lips pursing for a moment as his eyes meet Will’s. The dark brown gaze feels like home as Will peers back.
“Hey,” Will echoes. He takes everything in—the sound of Mike’s breaths, ragged, and the melting snowflakes on his face as they slide down to his chin. He’s real, and he’s there, standing in front of Will at that very moment.
Fuck.
Of course he’s still gorgeous.
Will reminds himself to breathe again as he cards a hand through his hair, the reality of the situation beginning to seep in. “I—Mike, what are you doing here?”
“You said your trip got delayed.” Mike shrugs.
“It did.”
“I thought you might need a ride back to Hawkins?”
“I booked a room here for tonight.”
Mike’s face falls, his lips forming an ‘O’ as his gaze darts to the ground. “I didn’t think that through.”
“You didn’t,” Will says, his lips tugging into a small grin against his will. Mike hasn’t changed at all, and he isn’t sure if he’s grateful for that or not.
The other meets his gaze, returning a soft grin as he takes a step forward. “You don’t need a ride back to Hawkins right now then?”
Will gestures to Mike’s disheveled, half-soaked appearance and lets a laugh slip, “in this weather? I don’t think you can go back either without sliding off the I-69!”
The two share a laugh as Mike brushes off the last of the melting snow off of his shoulders, though it does little to mask his already-wet jacket and hair. If Will didn’t know better he’d think Mike went for a late night swim.
“C’mon, follow me,” Will says as he turns back towards the stairwell to his hotel room. He doesn’t have to check to know Mike is following close behind him, shoes squeaking against the hotel’s tiled floor as the two journey back.
“Nice setup,” Mike comments once they reach the room, the dingy yellow lighting of the single room greeting the two. Will holds his breath as he closes the door behind them; suddenly, the air feels thick and there’s not enough space to stretch his legs.
“Not sure if it’s worth the fifty per night,” Will mutters. He shudders at the thought of having to take up extra shifts at his part-time job once he gets back to New York.
“You wouldn’t need it if I just drove you back.”
Will turns to Mike, an eyebrow cocked as he joins him in standing by the foyer closet. "You—we are not driving in that shitty weather,” he says, “besides, I already paid for the room. You didn’t have to come.”
“You can ask for a refund! You’ve barely been here,” Mike retorts. He then pauses, his gaze adverting to the ground, “plus, I was—I mean, my mom and I were worried.”
“That’s not how it works, Mike.” Will ignores the other’s stutter. His words feel breathless. He swears there’s not enough oxygen in the room. “Just…”
For a moment the two are both speechless and the room turns quiet. The soft hum of the lamp sings a soft melody that fuels the tension that fills the room, almost palpable. The quiet is only broken when Mike suddenly sneezes; Will bites back a laugh as Mike’s entire face scrunches, head tilting back slightly before sneezing as if someone shoved his head from behind, the lanky boy staggering forward.
Seriously, what are they doing right now?
Will finally lets himself breathe as he kneels to his suitcase, grabbing a spare hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. He figures he’ll just use the Wheelers’ laundry if he runs out of clothes during his stay. He turns back to Mike, tossing the dry clothes to him.
“Don’t get sick. Take a shower and change into these,” Will prompts. He gestures to the bathroom, to which Mike merely nods. There’s a sniffle, then he shuffles into the bathroom. It’s not until the handle turns and the sound of the shower running fills the silence that Will’s mind starts to function again. He makes a mental list of the top five thoughts rampaging through his mind:
- It's nearly midnight.
- The winter storm is still raging outside.
- There’s a puddle of melted snow in the foyer.
- Mike Wheeler is here in his hotel bathroom taking a shower.
- Mike Wheeler is here.
Will stifles a groan as he throws his face into his palms, falling back onto his bed with a stiff. If he was struggling to sleep earlier, he’s definitely not getting any sleep now. His mind is running through all the different possibilities that could possibly be possible. Was Mike planning on staying the night here? If not, was he just going to drive back to Hawkins? In this weather? No way, Will would never let that happen. But then what? Oh my god, Mike is staying the night here. In this room, a room with one bed, with Will, alone.
The crisis has barely begun but Will doesn’t have the leisure of pondering his life choices as the bathroom door swings open. He checks the time; has it already been twenty minutes?
“Hey,” Mike says, his voice piercing the tension. Will looks up from his hands and perks himself on the bed with his elbows. The words in his throat die down as he catches a glimpse of the other’s dark curls, now fully damp with water droplets that trickle down his neck. The towel around Mike’s neck is clearly not doing its job.
Will’s eyes briefly venture down and he needs to stop himself from turning red when he sees his sweatpants, a little short, and his hoodie, perfectly oversized, hanging on Mike’s lanky frame. He clears his throat, pressing his fingers to his eyes one last time before sitting up fully.
“Hey,” Will echoes. Mike flashes him a soft smile as he rustles those dark curls with his towel—god, he needs to snap out of it.
“So, what now?”
Will bites his cheek, “well, I’ve thought about the options. And they’re not looking good.”
“How so?”
“First things first, there’s no way you’re driving me back to Hawkins tonight. It’s still snowing like hell outside and those cars looked like they were about to play hockey on the highway earlier.” Will holds his hand up when Mike opens his mouth. The latter’s jaw snaps shut. “And, you’re not driving back on your own, either. Same reason.”
“So.” Mike’s lips form an ‘O.’
“So.”
“Should…should I get another room and meet you in the lobby in the morning?”
“The hotel’s fully booked.” Will recounts the receptionist announcing that “only three rooms are left!” when he’d booked his room, a line of at least eight more people still behind him.
“Then what do I do?” Mikes stares back at him with those puppy-dog eyes, and Will thinks he might just combust. For someone who graduated with a 3.89 GPA (emphasis on the 0.89; Mike thinks it’s stupid the school wouldn’t round it up), Mike Wheeler could be so clueless sometimes. Will silently reprimands himself for staring for a beat too long.
“You can just stay here tonight.” Will sucks in a breath, “I-I mean, it’s the most logical choice. It’s cheap since I already paid, you you’re letting me stay at your house anyway so you don’t even need to really pay me back for anything, there’s enough space on the floor to make a makeshift bed from the seat cushions for me, and that way I can just get on the bus again next morning and you can drive back to Hawkins on your own time, and I can meet you back at your pl—”
“Okay,” Mike says, his lips slightly tugged into a damn smirk as he reaches out to put a hand on Will’s shoulder. He holds him steady, although now Will can only focus on how warm his fingers feel through the fabric of his sweater. He hadn’t noticed how cold the room was. So much for wearing layers.
“However,” the other continues, snapping Will out of the momentary daze, “one, I am not letting you sleep on the floor. You said it yourself, it’s snowing outside and it’s cold. And two, I’m still driving you back tomorrow morning.”
“But the bus—”
“—would take longer to get back to Hawkins. Plus, do you seriously want to sit with thirty other people for another four hours? I could get you back to Hawkins in three and you’d only have to deal with me.”
“Big drawback,” Will teases. “Listening to you complain for three hours?”
“What, you don’t want to listen to my beautiful voice?” Mike pulls out his keys from his pocket, dangling them like a toy, “certified chauffeur here.”
Will huffs a laugh, and his muscles relax as he recounts the endless times Mike used to drive him around in high school. Whether it was going home after a DnD campaign or simply getting out of town for a change of scenery, Mike always insisted he’d be the one to give Will a ride. In fact, he’d driven Will around so often that he’d written a small sign on the passenger seat that said ‘reserved indefinitely for Will Byers.” Mike really was his chauffeur. Maybe that’s why Will still didn’t have his license. It felt okay to blame him.
“Oh shut up, I’m gonna be the one driving some day.”
“Until then I’ll just drive you around like I used to. So,” Mike holds his pinky finger out expectantly, “we’ll drive back to Hawkins tomorrow. Together.”
“And sleeping? There’s only one bed. Where am I gonna sleep if it’s not the floor,” Will retorts, though he’s sure he knows the answer already.
“We’ve had plenty of sleepovers before. We’ll just…pretend like we’re kids again and take the bed.”
Will stares up at Mike, though he can’t hold his gaze for long as those dark brown eyes zero-in on him with an unreadable expression. It’s the same expression he’d seen when they fought about the painting—it stings. It reminds him of the past, and he wonders why Mike is doing all of this for him. He knows about Will, about his abnormal feelings. How could he act normal about this situation?
Nevertheless, Will extends his finger in return and hooks it gently with Mike’s. He gives it a soft jerk, briefly meeting Mike’s gaze for what’s probably the thousandth time tonight.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Mike’s finger tightens one more time around Will’s before he releases it, both their arms falling to their sides.
“We should get to bed if we want to get up tomorrow morning,” Will says, gesturing to the half-used bed beside them. His heart is still pounding. He doesn’t wait for Mike to respond before crawling under the sheets, shuddering at the stale coldness. He hopes it’ll warm sooner this time.
He doesn’t look, but Will can hear the hesitance in Mike’s steps as he shuffles to the other side of the bed. Moments later, the sheets rustle and the mattress sags slightly beside him. Will wonders if his heart is next to a megaphone as it thumps in his chest. Maybe Edgar Allan Poe was right about those tell-tale hearts.
“We should uh, turn off the light,” Mike’s voice murmurs.
“Right.”
Will feels slight tremors in his hand as he reaches to shut off the lamp. For a moment he’s thankful as the room turns to darkness. The soft hue of the moonlight outside is the only thing that keeps the room illuminated as his eyes adjust to the change.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight Will,” Mike echoes.
Despite the exhaustion that overtook Will an hour ago, the last thing on his mind now is sleep. He can barely hear his own jumbled thoughts as his heart decides to play jungle gym within his ribcage. He swears it's the loudest thing on Earth; so loud that he nearly misses the sound of someone calling his name.
“—Will?”
Jolting out of his daze, Will turns his head towards the voice; through the darkness he can vaguely make out the silhouette of Mike beside him. He’s on his side facing Will. He can almost make out the vague glisten of his eyes.
“I called your name like five times,” Mike whispers, though there’s no one else in the room with them. “Did I wake you? Are you okay?”
Will laughs internally. Of course he would be awoken if his name was called five times. “No. I’m okay. Sorry, I was just spacing out.”
“I’m not sleepy at all right now,” Mike murmurs, “that shower woke me up.”
“Not the part where you drove three hours here and ran through a blizzard?”
Mike laughs; it’s a sweet sound. “I guess that, too.”
For a moment everything is as normal as can be for two old friends laying in a cheap hotel bed, the wind outside rattling against the room’s window. However, the laughter eases Will’s muscles, and he finds the courage in him to shift slightly, now also facing Mike.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For driving all the way to Fort Wayne in this weather. I mean, it’s like a three hour drive and you somehow didn’t die on the way here.”
“It would kind of suck if I died. Then you wouldn’t be able to get back to Hawkins in three hours.”
“A tragedy. I’d be stuck in that bus with all the stinky people,” Will says, and he allows himself to chuckle more. He doesn’t need the help of a lamp to know Mike’s smiling. He can hear the soft huffs of a laugh escaping the other’s lips, shaped in crescent moons.
The two begin to catch up on the past couple of months with ease, and everything they had missed over the phone calls begin to spill out, starting with Will. He narrates to Mike, voice still hushed, about how his art professors never noticed how he snuck a miniature WSQK chicken into each one of his art pieces until the final piece. It was a miracle how only two points were docked. That spins into Mike excitedly telling Will about how Steve’s now ex-girlfriend—apparently now an Annelise and not a Victoria—found out his hair wasn’t naturally shaped like a cloud on steroids.
Will snorted, “she broke up with him over his hair? That’s insane!”
“I don’t even know if it counts as fraud or not because he’s literally Steve the hair Harrington.”
They laugh again, weightless in the stale post-midnight air. Despite the cold, Will feels warm inside.
As the laughter dies down, a string of silence hangs between the two. It takes a moment for Mike to break it, clearing his throat.
“This might be off topic, but I actually wanted to…ask you about something.” There’s something in his voice that Will can’t exactly pinpoint—it’s not fear, but it’s not confidence, either.
“Shoot,” he prompts.
Mike hesitates. “Remember that day before you moved from Hawkins? Our…fight.”
Will’s breath hitches and he wishes he’d just crumble away into fine dust. Mike, however, doesn’t give him the leisure to do so as he continues on.
“I was thinking. About the painting, specifically, and…I guess it got me thinking even more about things—about us.” There’s a shift in the bed. Mike inches closer.
“What do you mean?” Will says, his voice barely a whisper. There’s a hot coil in his stomach and he feels he might just throw up if Mike comes any closer. Not because he hates him, but because it’s everything he’s ever wanted.
“You never told me why you really made that painting.
“It’s just the party fighting a dragon.”
“But why?”
“Because I missed you guys.” That wasn’t a lie. Will remembers the countless nights he’d spend staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, wondering what it’d be like if he was still in Hawkins. If he was in Hellfire with the others, attending Lucas’s basketball games, learning how to skateboard with Max, and sneaking books out of the library with El. How would it feel to study chemistry with Mike without the fear of the world ending in the back of their minds? The fear of missing out is real, and Will experienced it nearly every day for a year.
“But that’s not why you made that painting, was it?” Mike presses further. “I—I didn’t tell you this last time, but El, she told me about the painting way before you even gave it to me.”
Will’s heart drops.
“What?”
“In a letter she wrote to me. She told me you were working on a painting. That you were acting weird. That…” Mike hesitates. Will can hear the opening and closing of his mouth, air stifling between his lips as he struggles to continue. “...that she thought you had a crush on someone.”
A hard lump formed in Will’s throat, “you know how I feel already,” he says slowly, recounting their argument months ago. In a flurry of wild hand gestures and mindless thoughts, Will remembers how he’d let it slip that he was in love with Mike. The frozen limbs and silence that had followed after those words left his lips was something he never wanted to remember. Unfortunately for him, Mike seems to remember it well.
Before Mike can open his mouth again, Will shifts himself onto his back, facing the dark pit of the ceiling. And just like he did all those months ago, he doesn’t let the other speak the truth.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Will mutters, shutting down the conversation. He knows it’s not right to run away from the truth—to continue hoping that somehow, somewhere, his feelings aren’t just arrows that’ll never find their bullseye. However, tonight’s not the night he’ll let that truth sink in. Certainly not when his hope is laying less than a foot from him.
Mike doesn’t argue, only whispering something that sounds like a soft goodnight. Will can’t tell. He tries to allow the soft hum of the room’s electricity lull him to sleep; it does little to keep the flashes of memory from invading his mind.
---
It doesn’t take long for the sound of rain, harsh and uninviting, to fill his ears.
By some unfortunate coincidence it was raining—storming—outside. Maybe Will should have taken it as a bad omen for the big move to New York in a couple of days.
The scene begins to play out in his head. It feels like watching the moments before a car crash.
Thunder crackles as Will barges out of the Wheeler’s house. It reminds him of when he was thirteen, ripping off his Will the Wise gown as he ran from his problems again.
“Will, come on! You can’t just leave like this,” Mike shouts, following closely behind as Will yanks his bike from the ground. The handles are cold from sitting in the basement all day.
“It’s just a painting I made. What’s the big deal about it?” Will retorts, eyes trained on the ground.
Mike’s arms flail in the air before they drop to his side in an exasperated motion. “Just a painting. Just a painting?!” he glares at the other, brows narrowed with irritation. “Will, you know that’s not what that is.”
However, Mike wasn’t the only one angry. The mountain of frustration that boiled in Will’s throat finally snapped as he spins to face the other. He lets his bike drop to the ground again; the gears make an ugly sound.
“Really, Mike? Then what is it? Tell me, please, what you think it is other than some stupid painting. Because that’s what that is to me!”
A flash of pain scatters across Mike’s race, but it’s gone before Will’s words can soften.
“It’s a lie! A lie that you so callously spun for some shitty reason. I mean what did you think would happen from lying, really? That me and El would break up? Because if that was your goal, you succeeded!”
Will can’t help his jaw from dropping, a thick laugh escaping his lips. “You couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Then what’s the truth that I’m so far from?”
“I can’t say that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I just,” Will stammers, voice weakening. His eyes are now blurry, the objects in the garage bouncing from corner to corner in the pond of truths that threaten to collapse away with just a blink. “I can’t.”
“You can never say anything,” Mike scoffs. “You couldn’t even tell me what the painting was at the airport at first—hell, was what you told me even the truth? That I’m the heart? Or was that all some lie as well?”
Will notices the sheen of Mike’s eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks away; he didn’t deserve the liberty of that gaze.
“No. That’s true.”
“Then why’d you lie about how El loves me? That she needs me? That I make her feel good for being different, when none of those things are true?”
“It’s not all a lie,” Will says quietly. His hands form balls by his side and his knuckles turn white as he digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand.
“Then what is it?!”
It’s silent other than the downpour next to them.
Mike speaks again, softer. Familiar. “Will, what is it?”
That breaks Will.
“It’s how I feel, Mike.”
There’s no going back now.
“It’s how I’ve been feeling for years, for forever! And I’m sorry I had to tell you in some convoluted way to fix a relationship that you couldn’t handle, but it’s the truth.”
Mike’s lips part in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Words begin to tumble out in shaky breaths, and the words Will has been yearning to say for years spill out in one go.
“It means I need you, Mike!”
Thunder crackles in the distance as rain continues to pour outside. Stray mists of rain tickle Will’s ankles as his hands go numb. It’s only after another roar of the thunder that he finds the courage to look up at Mike.
What meets him is not disgust—not fear, nor anger. In fact, Will can’t even tell what it was as he stares into Mike’s eyes, unreadable, before he steers his gaze away. It’s too much. He yanks his bike from the ground, away from Mike, and steers it towards the driveway.
“Will, wait,” Mike says, softly like he always did to him. Only now, it rings in his ears like a taunting melody, no longer comforting.
“What,” Will says. He stops by the border of the garage; one step further and he’d be engulfed by the storm. His escape is right in front of him. A swing of his leg and one pedal and he would be on his way back home, alone.
“What you said,” Mike pauses, “what do you mean?”
Will grimaces. He bites his lip, but that doesn’t stop a tear from escaping his eyes. “It means everything I told you when I gave you the painting is the truth,” he says slowly, trying his best to keep his voice steady. He’s failing miserably. “Almost everything.”
“You made me feel like I was okay—better for being different, for being myself,” he continues, “you gave me the courage to fight on. It’s just…I was just scared. Scared of losing you. And scared that you wouldn’t care about losing me. ‘Cause I need you, Mike, and I always will. You’re the heart—my heart.”
Will turns, not caring that tears were now rolling down his cheeks. They’re warm, a startling contrast from the chilly rain.
“I love you.”
Will’s voice cracks with those last words alongside the thunder.
There it is. The truth. The wound under the bandaid that’s too deep to heal with just kind words. Will can hear the ringing in his ears as he stares at Mike’s shoes, planted in place as his words ring back in his head. He’s disgustingly in love with his best friend and now the truth is out and never coming back. Over a decade of beautifully crafted friendship, and Will just ended it with his stupid feelings.
When his words are met with silence, Will can’t bear it anymore. He tears his gaze away from the other’s, still somehow unreadable but now brimming with their own tears as he finds the strength in him to pedal away. He can hear the strained shouts of Mike as he bikes away, but not as strong as they could be. The bike wobbles as rain soaks through his clothes. He can’t tell his tears apart from the rain, and goosebumps mercilessly cover every inch of skin. The rain is cold—colder than usual.
It’s cold.
So cold.
It jolts Will from his daze, his memories washing away as he stares into the darkness of the hotel room once more. The rough winds of the winter storm outside still persist, threatening to break through those flimsy hotel windows through vicious rattles.
A cold draft pricks Will’s skin. He shivers.
He clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from clattering as he wipes away the stray tears that had betrayed him through the momentary dream. He shifts, curling himself into a familiar ball. He wraps his arms around his chest, fingers curling around tensed shoulders.
“Will.”
For a moment Will thinks he’s dreaming again. He pulls himself closer to his body, fully in the fetal position now.
“Will.”
Okay, that wasn’t his imagination. The voice came from behind, quiet and familiar.
Before Will can find it in himself to respond, a hand, large and warm, lands on his bicep.
“I’m sleeping,” Will deadpans.
“Bullshit. You’re shivering so much I can feel it from my side of the bed,” Mike says. He keeps his hand on Will, his thumb twitching ever-so-slightly on the cusp of Will’s elbow.
Will grimaces; first he inconveniences Mike by somehow dragging him to Fort Wayne, and now he can’t even let the man sleep.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mike snaps back almost instantly. Will almost smiles, momentarily forgetting the weight of reality as silence falls upon the two again. However, this time, Mike’s is touching Will, sharing a polarizing warmth against the cold hotel room.
It takes a few more moments before Mike speaks again, his voice laced with hesitance. “I could help you.”
Will shifts onto his back, turning his head just enough to face Mike. The latter’s hand pulls away, leaving the cold to bite at Will’s goosebumps once more.
“Help me?”
“Yeah!” Mikes says eagerly, “Like…”
It takes a second for Will to make out the movement of Mike’s arm—it’s a hand gesturing for him to come closer. He hesitates but eventually finds it in him to shift onto his side, inching closure to the other. He can feel the mattress turn warmer and the sound of Mike’s breath becomes clearer.
Mike mutters something that Will doesn’t quite catch through the sound of his pounding heart. Maybe he should have listened harder, because he nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him in.
“Mike, what are you doing?” Will gasps, his voice losing all oxygen as an arm wraps around his waist. He feels the hand connected rest delicately on the small of his back, fingers barely resting on the soft of his sweater but still there.
“You’re cold,” Mike says, his voice even closer. Will can feel the warm puff of his breath graze his forehead. “Is this okay?”
His actions speak before words as Will nods slowly, allowing himself to be pulled even closer to Mike. Warmth envelopes his body as the other arm snakes around his shoulders. Will’s own hands rest cautiously by his chest, scared to make any moves.
“Geez you’re freezing,” Mike whispers, and this time Will can feel the softness of his lips gently bump against his forehead. He finally finds it in himself to crane his neck upwards, searching for Mike.
It takes longer than he’d hoped, but once his eyes adjust to the darkness he sees another pair staring at him. They’re impossibly dark, glistening only slightly in the light that floods in through the cheap hotel curtains, but they’re undoubtedly Mike.
Will’s breath hitches in his throat as they stare at each other, a million unspoken words swirling in the inches between the two. It’s both suffocating and soothing.
“Am I still cold?” Will asks. He knows the answer from the way his goosebumps feel like a tattoo on his skin, but he can’t help asking.
“Very,” Mike says. He proves the impossible by pulling Will even closer to him, their chests lined perfectly now. Will shudders as the hand on his back begins to stroke soft shapes into the sweater, pressing against his skin in a way that tells him I’m here.
“You’re still shivering,” Mike whispers when everything is too quiet again. His hands weave warmth into Will. It’s impossibly intimate.
Will doesn’t respond, only searching Mike's eyes as he melts into his grasp. It’s everything he could have ever wished for; to be held by Mike Wheeler. And yet it feels undoubtedly wrong.
He eventually finds it in himself to reach out with his hand, tremors threatening to make it collapse at any moment as he cups the other’s cheek. It’s warm, just like the rest of Mike, and chiseled perfectly in the same way that Will drew for the past decade. He brushes his thumb under Mike’s eye; eyelashes flutter to tickle his fingers in response. He bites back a smile.
“Will,” Mike says quietly. It’s loud, however, in the room with just the two of them. His breath still smells like the hotel’s toothpaste.
“Mike,” Will echoes. He draws his other hand up to Mike’s face now, cupping it entirely. He wonders if his fingers are too cold.
Then, tentatively, the hand on Will’s back slides up his body, grazing the sweater in its path before it lands just below his eyes like a feather. Mike’s fingertips are impossibly warm, and they blossom small circles of heat as they cup his face like a delicate vase.
They lay there, just staring and breathing as time ticks by. Will can’t imagine hearing anything other than Mike’s soft breathing, the gentle rise and fall of their chests now almost in unison. He focuses on every movement, every purse of Mike’s lips, and every blink that severs their gaze for even a second. He relishes in the comfort the embrace grants him. He knows he may never get it again.
“Will,” Mike whispers. Will notices the way his lips scrunch slightly to form an ‘O’ to say his name, the sound rolling off his tongue. He wishes he’d discovered it sooner. “I want to do something.”
“Do what?”
Mike’s mouth trembles open but no words fall. Instead, the hand on Will’s face twitches. It moves to cup the curve of the back of his head, long fingers weaving through his nest of hair as Mike’s thumb rests snug behind his ear. Then, slowly, Will feels himself gravitate closer to Mike. He knows he’s not moving on his own; it’s unmistakably Mike.
A hand pulls Will even closer before their noses brush together. The contact blossoms another sprout of warmth as the other’s breath lands as a whisper on Will’s lips. He can still smell that goddamn toothpaste.
A million thoughts run through Will’s mind, but they’re so jumbled that he can only focus on the way Mike’s hand gently strokes his shoulder, the other still warm against the back of his head as their breaths mingled only centimeters apart. They’re so close that Will can feel every twitch of Mike’s body, every shudder of a breath; their legs are intertwined like a plant around a stake.
The air between them is palpable with a tension that suffocates their senses.
Then, in a brief moment, Will sees the shift of Mike’s face as he closes the gap between them.
It’s instantaneous, the way warmth spreads like wildfire through his lips as Mike brushes it with his, soft and cautious. They linger on Will for only a moment before they pull back tenderly. The warmth stays, however, pulsing where flesh touched flesh.
Will stares.
His heart pounds in his ears, but it’s accompanied by the soft thuds of Mike’s, now close enough to hear. Their gazes meet again. Mike’s eyes are wide, staring back at Will with a glint that screams was that okay?
That’s all it takes for Will to lean forward, meeting him in the middle again.
It’s clumsy. Will’s never kissed anyone before, but he can’t find it himself to care as their lips find each other in the darkness. His eyes flutter shut and he can’t help himself from smiling when Mike’s nose nudges his cheek. He allows the sheets to shift as Mike swiftly pulls him underneath, one hand tenderly grasping Will’s chin and the other planting itself firmly on his hip as he hovers above him, lips still connected. It’s only a second but Will gasps softly as Mike tilts his jaw, angling themselves to kiss him deeper. It encourages Will to reach out, one hand navigating itself into the tussle of black curls while the other pulls Mike down closer by his neck. With the full weight of Mike pressing him into the mattress, Will can’t think of anything else but how their lips move against each other with ease.
He doesn’t think it can get any better. Mike must have read his mind, because a tongue slides across his bottom lip, begging for entry. Will obliges, of course, and the gasp in his throat dies as tongue meets tongue. His mind is a haze and he can barely breathe when Mike finally pulls away, also breathless.
Their chests heave synchronously as Will stares up at the other, eyelids heavy. He admires what he can through the darkness and he can’t choose his favorite; is it the dark curls that fall towards him, the soft glistening of Mike’s lips now coated with a concoction of each other, or the way Mike’s eyes were so Mike? Will finally pieces together what he couldn’t read earlier in those eyes: desire.
“You never let me finish,” Mike says, though each word is a breath on its own. It sounds like they’ve both been running.
Will blinks.
“What?”
“When we fought back in July, and when we were talking earlier. You never let me speak,” Mike says but without a trace of malice in his voice. His hand comes up to brush the loose hairs away from Will’s eyes. It lingers by his lips, a thumb perched delicately on its curve.
“What did you need to say?” Will asks softly.
There’s a moment where everything is quiet again, Mike’s breaths stilling as his thumb strokes circles into Will’s hip. It’s comforting.
“I was so mad about the painting because I thought…I thought it was from you.”
“It is from me.”
“I wanted every part of that painting to be from you. Not just the paintstrokes, but also the thought. The meaning behind it. And I guess when you told me El commissioned it, I was disappointed. But when El told me the truth, I was just…so confused.”
There’s a crack in Mike’s voice and the grasp on Will’s hip tightens. “But I was almost…happy? I mean, I was sad that you lied. But it meant that you made the painting, not El, and I was so relieved. If that makes sense. Does that make sense?”
Mike doesn’t give Will the time to respond as he continues rambling.
“And I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he pauses, catching his breath, “I love that painting. I love how you drew it, why you drew it, and the words you told me when you gave it to me. The only reason I was angry was because you lied. I shouldn’t have blown up about it. You said I’m the heart. I should act like it.”
He lifts his gaze, eyebrows etched into a delicate frown as he stares at Will like a lifeline.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
Will’s jaw drops. Mike doesn’t notice, he’s too busy rambling.
“A-and I guess…I’ve always kind of known. I knew it the most when you moved to California, but now I’m sure of it. And maybe it’s presumptuous to think that you still feel the same as you did half a year ago, but—”’
“I do.”
Mike blinks.
“What?”
“I still feel the same way,” Will says, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. His mind is still swirling, and he wonders if this is all a dream—a wondrously crafted nightmare to make him hopeful. But he can’t care for it at all when Mike is still hovering above him, eyes wide with the same hope Will has carried in his for more than a decade.
“I still love you,” Will repeats with an exasperated chuckle. He moves his hands to cup Mike’s face, tracing gentle lines along his cheekbones. “I’ve loved you since third grade and I haven’t been able to stop since.”
Mike laughs, “third grade?”
“Yup. Miss Harris’s class.”
“Jeez, how blind have I been?”
Will barely has time to let a laugh slip before Mike’s mouth finds him once more, lips slotting together like they’ve been practicing for years. It’s soft, needy, and precious; their bodies press together.
“I can’t believe it,” Mike says between kisses, eventually moving his target from Will’s lips to his cheek, then jawline, before settling his face in the crook of Will’s neck.
“Trust me, neither can I,” Will whispers, “I feel like this is a dream.”
Will lets out a yelp when a hand gently pinches his side. It doesn’t actually hurt. The other lifts his head from the bed, curls tussled and a proud smile already stretched across his face. “Not dreaming.”
The two laugh. It fills the air of the hotel room with a new warmth, lifting all the weight off of Will’s shoulders. His mind is still a daze, but for once he’s happy.
He accepts it when Mike shifts slightly to his side, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist as he pulls him close. Will doesn’t hesitate now to press against the other, carding his fingers through Mike’s curls as they hold each other close. Mike’s nose is pressed against the crook of his neck and it tickles every time he breathes, but Will couldn’t care less.
“We’re gonna have to update the rest of the party quite a bit,” Will huffs, a wide smile still plastered across his face as he strokes Mike’s shoulder.
“Tell me about it,” Mike murmurs; Will can feel the smile pressed into his skin.
The last thing Will imagined would happen on his trip back to Hawkins was a love confession from one Mike Wheeler, but alas the world has proven to him that his predictions are hardly correct. Nonetheless, he accepts it as is. The bed is no longer cold, and he barely notices as the storm outside lulls to a calm, snowflakes drifting gently to the ground.