Chapter Text
If you had told fifteen year old Will Byers that he’d be at a club, he’d laugh in your face.
If you had told fifteen year old Will Byers that he’d be at a gay club, he’d assume you were delusional.
If you had told fifteen year old Will Byers that he’d be at a gay club, making out with a guy, he’d turn cherry red from breathlessness.
But here he was, a hand gripped firmly onto his waist, another tangled into his hair, the taste of cheap whiskey flavouring his mouth. The queer scene (or lack there-of) in Hawkins had made Will expect there to be an equal absence in the rest of the states, but that was before New York, where it’s flourishing. In fact, this is the second gay club Will has been too, and the second gay club Will has very severely enjoyed.
The guy canoodling him - Jason, a friend of a friend with raven hair - is funky and flirty and is always fun to hang around. They’re not dating, but this isn’t the first time they’ve both had the shared problem of being a little bit tipsy and keen to kiss. Will’s hand is slowly creeping under Jason’s tank top when the latter pulls back.
Will bites his lip to hold back a whine, and glances up. Jason’s face is flushed but not tired, but he is looking around hesitantly. Will raises an eyebrow, takes his hands off of Jason’s muscular build and places it on the man’s hips.
“My ex comes here at this time,” Jason says. His voice is low, almost like he’s afraid his ex will hear.
Will’s heard enough about Jason’s mysterious past partner to know that she’s not a very nice person, and she was one of the reasons Jason was still in the closet for so long. He slips himself off of the table where he was perched, and takes Jason’s hand.
“That's fine. We can go back to mine?” he offers. Jason has been back to his house maybe once or twice before. They’re past the point of it being awkward and unsettling.
Jason nods. Will only has to shrug his jacket on, make sure nothing's been stolen, hire a cab, and they’re on their way.
***
Will is a little drunker than he thought, he realises in the taxi. His usual insistence of being dignified and modest in public (or at least around strangers) is gone. He’s stupid and giggly and chasing the feeling of Jason kissing him, so they’re back to being lip-locked. The driver looks too dead inside to care, but Will still makes sure to tip him generously.
He’s grinning like a schoolboy as he gets in the lift, staring at the mirror as Jason presses kisses all over his face before moving down to his neck. Sometimes, Will thinks back to his middle school days: being so deep in the closet nearly killed him without Vecna’s help. He could’ve never even imagined what his life would be like now. He would never have imagined his friends and family supporting him. He would never have imagined how much coming out would save him.
But thinking about that makes him teary, and being teary ruins romance, and he certainly doesn’t want this to stop anytime soon. The elevator stops at his floor with a ding, and Jason practically shoves him out. It’s hard to walk to his door while half making out with Jason, who is clung onto his shoulder, far more drunk than he is.
His laughter stops when he notices someone crouched by his door.
Homelessness is a real problem in New York City, and Will’s heart aches at the thought of someone being desperate enough to get their way into an apartment block as shitty as this one. He shrugs Jason off of him, who lets out a pitying tut.
But then the someone looks up, and it’s no longer a someone. It’s Mike Wheeler.
Will sobers up almost immediately. He lets out a strained gasp - partly from not seeing Mike for.. Almost seven months at this point, and partly from the sheer shock of Mike’s state. His eyes are bloodshot and wet, cheeks rosy and his nose is running. It reminds Will of a child who's fallen and scraped their knee and is trying desperately not to weep over it. It reminds Will of thirteen year old Mike Wheeler.
Jason seems to clock the seriousness and tries to sober up, but he’s considerably hammered, and standing up straight is proving difficult, so he looks like a terrible actor. Will pats him on the back and puts his arm back around his waist.
“Let me call you a taxi,” Will says to Jason, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from a different person.
The next few minutes pass in a blur. He passes some cash to Jason and prays it’ll be enough for the ride home, bundles him in a taxi, and then he’s up the elevator again. It takes him a second to realise that he hasn’t let Mike in, and the ravenette is still trembling in the hallway.
He unlocks the door in silence, then gestures for Mike to come in. Mike seems out of place in the world he’s created for himself.
Mike is dressed in almost completely black; a contrast to how Will has decorated his flat in colourful rugs and yellow walls. His gloominess bleeds into the entryway, where he’s standing, still in his soaking jacket and muddied shoes.
It’s odd, Will thinks as he looks his childhood best friend up and down, I can’t even imagine him in my life.
He shoos the thought away before it fully settles, but he still feels a surge of guilt. How dare he think thoughts like that. The years between ‘83 and ‘87 are still alarmingly fresh in Will’s mind. He could’ve lost Mike at any point in that time, and probably would’ve died without that friendship. He couldn’t imagine life without him, is what Will firmly tells himself. He couldn’t.
And yet–
"I’m sorry,” Mike croaks out.
It’s one of the only times he’s ever heard Mike say he’s sorry. He usually apologies in some other way because he’s never been good with emotions, and words feel so foreign coming from the same boy who jumped hoops just to never verbally admit he was in the wrong.
“I– I really wanted to talk to you before,” he continues, “I really did, I swear, but then– then there were deadlines for my exams and stuff and I guess- yeah, I guess I never got ‘round to it.”
Will sucks his teeth and frowns at him. “Really, Mike, it’s fine. I should’ve also made an effort–”
“No!” Mike argues, and Will can see a glimpse of the boy he grew up with in place of this miserable man. “No, you did try. You’ve always made the effort when I just haven’t bothered.”
Will knows from years and years of experience that there’s no use arguing with a stubborn Mike, so he changes the subject.
“You must be freezing, Mike,” he says smoothly, “Take your jacket off and sit on the couch. No buts- Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”
All he has in is chamomile tea, but he’s willing to do anything to try to calm Mike’s nerves. He’s trembling, and Will suspects it’s not just from the cold. Mike is sodden through his coat through to his dark jumper. For a boy who used to take up the whole sofa with his gangly limbs, Mike is but a ball.
They sit in silence for God knows how long. Will doesn’t want to start - he’s worried he’ll pressure Mike into telling him what the hell is wrong before the latter is ready. He’s worried that Mike’s got some horrible news he has to break to him in person instead of over the phone. He’s worried, full stop. Mike’s mug is half empty before he starts to speak.
“I had a dream.”
The words are heavy in the air. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the dream wasn’t good, especially if it drove Mike to come all the way here from Indianapolis.
“I had a dream that El came back. She was right outside my doorstep, and she was weeping.”
Will sucks in a breath. He thinks about his sister almost daily: about the life that was robbed from her prematurely, and how she never lived without stress and fear. He also has dreams about her where he protects her, and nightmares where he kills her. If his dreams are this awful, then he can only imagine what hell Mike’s brain makes him live through.
“And I took her in and I tried to kiss her, but she’d push me away. She asked ‘where’s Dustin, where’s Lucas, where’s Max, where’s Will,’ and all I could do was say ‘I don’t know, El, I don’t know.’ And there was something about her, Will, she looked so…”
Will places a hand on Mike’s back, but he shrugs it off.
“She looked so haunted, Will. She was so haunted.”
He hunches over and, much to Will’s horror, starts sobbing. The sound is muffled by his hand and makes Will wonder how many nights Mike has spent laying in his bed, crying himself to sleep. Will doesn’t know what to do, because he’s not seen Mike Wheeler since El’s death, and even before then the event was far and few in between. Luckily for him, the ravenette sits up and bites his tongue, almost willing himself to stop the cascade of tears.
“And she kept on asking until I woke up, and I remember thinking that I don’t know what you guys are doing. And I– erm– I couldn’t leave my bed. For days. I just laid there and I thought–” his voice is broken up by a sob, but he continues talking, “I thought that I’d never have the courage to speak to anyone again.”
The collapse is imminent. He leans forward into Will’s arms and all but melts into him, and Will receives him gracefully. Since he was a child, the only way Will has ever known how to comfort is by physical touch. Despite often being labelled as the most empathetic and caring of any given group, Will often feels awkward when it comes to soothing someone, so he’s glad that he can at last do something.
It feels a bit like rocking a toddler. Will doubts Mike slept or ate in those days in his bed if his clear exhaustion is anything to go by, and it’s almost like the taller is begging for sleep. With one hand pressed against his crown and the other wrapped around his hip, Will sways him gently until the sobs become sniffles.
“You need a good night’s rest, Mike,” he says, soft but firm, just like his own mum used to do. “Come on, I’ll show you to my room.”
Mike isn’t able to protest before Will shushes him, and helps guide him to his room. Will hasn’t felt this close to the other for… for years, almost. He hates how he can’t remember being this close to Mike at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, or the rest of his teenage years up until now. The way Mike never stops being the slightest bit tense tells Will that he feels the exact same way.
He eases Mike into bed, predicting that he’s too tired to change, and senses him slump into the mattress. He flicks the light off but leaves the lamp off to leave, but–
“Don’t,” Mike says fearfully. “Please don’t leave, please stay, I can't, I can’t–”
Before Mike can work himself back up into a tizz, Will sits back down. “I’ll stay, Mike, I’ll stay.”
After all, what’s so wrong with sleeping on the floor of your own room for your best friend?