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“Shit, shit, shit—”
“Mike, shh—”
“Shit—”
“Mike!”
The worst thing about Will clamping his hand over Mike’s mouth to shut him up has to be the taste of blood that smears from his palm to Mike’s lips. And it’s not so much the taste, exactly, that’s the problem, it’s the fact that there’s blood to begin with. Will’s blood. From Will’s not-fatal-but-not-exactly-casual Demodog-inflicted injury. Shit doesn’t cover it no matter how many times Mike says it, but he doesn’t know what else to do.
In the darkness of the Hawkins High janitor’s closet, the brightest thing is the alarm in Will’s eyes.
“It’ll find us no matter where we hide, it can smell your blood,” Mike whispers.
“That doesn’t mean we should help it by making noise,” Will whispers back. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly in a rush to die.”
The problem with hiding in the janitor’s closet is that it’s roughly the size of Mike’s closet at home, which was hardly big enough to fit one person at age twelve, and is definitely not big enough to fit two people age sixteen. The only reason he and Will aren’t chest-to-chest right now is because Will has slumped back against the wall and has a hand pressed to his bleeding side.
The other problem with the janitor’s closet is that it’s a shitty closet at an underfunded high school and when Mike yanked the door shut he wound up with a doorknob loose in his hand, which means they’re gonna have a hell of a time getting out of here, but that’s a problem for the future. A problem for a future where they hopefully haven’t become Demodog dinner. And that relies pretty heavily on the Demodog not sniffing them out like a couple of dumb snorkelers in shark-infested waters. Mike licks the blood off his lips, trying not to think too hard about the fact that it’s not his own, and also trying not to think about how easily its metallic scent could lead that Demodog straight to them.
Wait. But this is the janitor’s closet.
“I have an idea.” Mike slides his flashlight beam up and around, taking as much of a rapid mental inventory as he can until his eyes land triumphantly: “There!” His quarry is up on the third shelf, just barely too high for Mike to reach on his tiptoes.
“Mike, what are you—”
“Just trust me. Damn it! Is there anything to stand on in—”
Then he nearly trips backwards as Will straightens and reaches with an audible wince. His fingers close around the handle Mike was scrabbling at, and he pulls down a gallon of bleach to Mike’s hands.
“I do,” Will says. “Trust you.”
Now is not the time to be distracted by the intensity of Will’s tone, so Mike forces himself not to. With difficulty.
“Thanks,” is all he says. He clicks off and pockets his flashlight. Unscrewing the bottle of bleach, he adds, “Watch your feet,” and “This is gonna smell awful,” before he pours the whole gallon onto the linoleum, watching it seep underneath the crack of the door and pool in the base of the closet and outward.
“What?” Will tries to avoid it, but it quickly fills every crevice, and it’s not like there’s anywhere else to step. “Mike, what…”
Mike looks up at him, the empty jug held in his hands. His eyes water and his nose prickles from the fumes.
“Chemicals,” he says. “Pure bleach should cover the scent of blood, don’t you think?”
Will’s second hand covers his first, both putting pressure on the next problem for Mike to solve: that injury.
“That’s really smart,” says Will, in a low voice. “Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only smart if it works. You called for help, right?”
“I tried, no one answered,” Will says. He starts to move, but Mike stacks a third hand over Will’s two, holding him in place.
“I’ll do it,” Mike says. He doesn’t need volume; he could whisper in this closet and it would carry. “Just keep pressure on that.”
Will clears his throat. “I’ll be fine, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“If you bleed out in here, then it’ll look like I killed you, and the cops won’t exactly believe me if I tell them it was a monster from another dimension, so personally I’m not willing to risk it.”
Will breathes a laugh, which hits Mike like a warm burst of air in the winter. “So you don’t want me to die because…you don’t want to go to jail for my murder?”
“Exactly,” Mike says. “So do me a favor and don’t die.”
“Oh, well if it’s a favor.”
Mike smiles a little. He doesn’t know if Will can see it, but he can see—or maybe just sense—that Will smiles too. His stomach does that uncoordinated flip it does every time Will smiles, tripled when the smile is directed at him.
God, it’s inconvenient to be as smitten with your best friend as Mike is. Especially when there are monsters.
“I do need to get the radio from your bag, though.”
Will shifts his weight, freeing the backpack from being crushed into the wall. Mike tells himself it’s necessary to brace himself with a hand on Will’s shoulder so he can access the walkie in the biggest pocket. Mostly he hopes Will can’t tell how obviously it isn’t, how many excuses Mike routinely comes up with to touch Will when he doesn’t have to.
They used to be like two kids sharing one skin, and then growing up happened. Growing in opposite directions. When Mike would touch Will, Will would— not flinch, exactly, but he’d stare at Mike’s hands until they were removed, and Mike would feel like he’d committed some crime, even though Will never seemed mad. He taught himself restraint, but he learned it wrong; it manifested as withdrawal, and Will didn’t argue with it, and suddenly best friends lost a superlative. It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t anything. It was Will-and-Mike, and then Will and Mike.
And, only recently, tentatively re-hyphenated. But it’s different now. They’re sixteen. Grown. Mike has learned things. About himself. About Will. About how many times you can touch your best friend before he starts to suspect you’re making excuses to touch him. (The answer is: it varies, depending on how well you can justify the contact.)
He finally learned restraint the right way, but he hasn’t put it to the test yet. Every time he thinks he’s starting to get out of line, Will does something to make him wonder. And then Mike thinks maybe he’s not the only one finding excuses to be closer. And then he decides he needs more data. And the whole thing starts from square one.
It’s so not the point right now, but he can’t help noticing—can never help noticing when it comes to Will—the way Will leans oh-so-carefully to rest his forehead on Mike’s shoulder. Could be he’s flagging from his not-fatal-but-not-exactly-casual blood loss. Could be something else.
Could be both.
Mike swallows and reorganizes his priorities and grabs the radio out of the backpack. His fingers are on the push-to-talk when a loud clattering noise makes him whip towards the door. Will’s head snaps up at the same time, so Mike’s nose is in his hair, and normally that would be the distraction of a lifetime.
Except the clattering came from out there. The hallway beyond the door. And the only other thing in this school right now is—
“The Demodog.”
“Shh. Don’t move.”
As if Mike would be dumb enough to move. Still, not moving leaves them in what some would call a compromising position. When it was brief, Mike could stand not to notice every little detail, but rooted to their spots, he’s hyper-aware: their feet aligned in a puddle of Clorox, hips brushing, Will’s shoulder pressed into Mike’s chest, the tickle of Will’s hair against Mike’s nose. Mike clutching Will, Will clutching Mike.
Wait, Will clutching Mike since when? He should be keeping pressure on his injury. Mike didn’t notice his free hand move; it must have happened when they heard the clatter. Will has the unrelenting grip of a skilled painter, and all of that grip is cinched around Mike’s forearm, the same arm attached to the hand on Will’s shoulder.
Mike doesn’t move, but the same can’t be said for his heartbeat, which rockets into the stratosphere. He breathes silently, through his mouth, fighting every urge to reposition. In the utter stillness of the space, he can feel Will’s racehorse heartbeat through his fingertips.
A low growl comes from the hallway.
Will holds Mike even tighter. Mike does the same. He thinks they’re both unconsciously pressing together, like a united front will save them if the Demodog sees (smells) through Mike’s, let’s face it, haphazard-at-best cover and claws this door to splinters to finish what it started.
They might be about to die, Mike realizes. If the bleach trick doesn’t work, the Demodog will find them, and it will tear them asunder. They have nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. This closet was a last resort, but it could just as soon be a last stand.
Will suddenly turns his head like he’s having the same realization. All Mike can see is the faintest silhouette, and that only because his eyes have adjusted to the near-pitch darkness of the closet. He can see how wide Will’s eyes are, and he can feel the rise and fall of Will’s chest pick up speed. Panic. Will is panicking.
Mike shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say with it, but whatever the message, it does not reach Will. His nails dig through Mike’s sleeve and burn half-moons on his skin. He’s hyperventilating. It’s getting loud. Mike shakes his head again, moving to press his palm over Will’s heart like, See? Still beating. Beating is a word for it; pounding at Mach 5 is another.
There’s another growl, closer than the first. The deliberate stride of a prowling beast becomes audible.
Something else becomes audible, too: Will’s sharp inhale.
Mike’s eyes widen. The prowling halts. There’s a rumbling snarl outside the door; the Demodog heard.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Will is panicking, and Mike doesn’t blame him, but his freaking out is gonna give them away unless Mike does something, something to calm Will or at least keep him quiet, so it’s logic more than anything that makes him do what he does.
Makes him move in and press his lips to Will’s, silencing the next breath Will expels.
He kisses Will. It’s the best excuse he’s ever had for something as impulsive and selfish as this, because it works: Will stops breathing loud, in fact seemingly stops breathing at all. Half of Mike’s brain is kissing Will while the other half is counting seconds, listening for the monster, praying that this works, that any of this works.
And then his attention wavers as Will tilts his chin and kisses back.
For a split second, the second half of Mike’s brain rejoins the first, and all his senses flood with Will, even the stench of bleach momentarily overpowered by Will’s earthy musk, his soft and dry lips moving to recapture Mike’s own, the stutter of an exhale lost between Mike’s teeth. For a second, they’re not trapped in a janitor’s closet, and they’re not about to maybe die, and there’s not a gallon of sodium hypochlorite eating away at the soles of their shoes. For one fleeting second, they’re just boys, in a room, kissing to kiss, instead of to survive.
With a Herculean effort, Mike reorients his focus. He hears the angry snuff of the Demodog. It roars in frustration, or perhaps in warning. Will startles backwards, breaking the kiss, but Mike doesn’t have the privilege of parsing through all his feelings about that right now. Before Will can make a sound, Mike covers his mouth with his palm, just like Will did to him when they first skidded into this hiding place.
The tension is more taut than a stretched-out elastic. Mike can’t quite figure out if it’s because they’re prey on borrowed time or if it’s because that kiss might be the last thing they ever do. Or if it’s because it might not be.
The uneven footfalls of the Demodog start up with renewed purpose, and the monster moves away and away until it’s out of earshot.
Only then does Mike drop his hand.
“I think it's gone,” he whispers, listening hard for any sign that he's wrong. There's none. For now, they're safe. “Holy shit, I can't believe that actually worked.”
“Yeah, holy shit,” Will says hoarsely, and somehow Mike doesn’t see it coming when Will pulls him in and kisses him again with all the force of someone who was significantly holding back the first time.
All logical thought flies from Mike’s brain, flooded with the adrenaline of surviving when by all rights they should have died. He’s humming with it, that energy. He lets the radio fall into the backpack again and curls his fingers around Will’s neck. It’s intoxicating not to need an excuse, and it’s all Mike can do not to give away how desperately he’s wanted to do this since— since who knows when. Since the growing apart, if he’s honest. Since he stopped having a built-in reason to be surgically attached to Will’s side.
It isn’t close enough, not even this. He wants more, wants to climb into Will’s skin where he used to live, to be the mechanism that beats his heart and draws air to his lungs. There’s hardly space between them, but he squashes whatever’s there, moving flush against Will’s chest as his tongue skims over Will’s teeth. He doesn’t know who gasps; maybe both of them.
Maybe Will wants this too. Maybe, but not like Mike does. Mike has a living thing inside of him, and the thing is hungry. The thing is starving.
God, is he starving for this.
They almost died. Mike almost died never knowing. You only make that mistake once.
“Wait, Mike—”
Mike’s name in the wreck of Will’s breath goes down Mike’s throat smooth, dizzying. Mike buries a hand in Will’s hair, and Will comes back so easy, with a helpless noise and parted lips, deliciously clumsy licking into Mike’s mouth. He fists the front of Mike’s shirt, and Mike grasps blindly for Will’s hips but his fingers land someplace sticky-wet—
“Ah, ow, fuck,” Will swears, recoiling. He releases Mike to curl over, shoving both hands onto the shallow gash left in his side.
“Shit,” Mike manages to remember English to say. “Sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“Seriously, sorry. I totally spaced.”
“Spaced,” Will grits out, sagging against the wall. There’s a smile in his voice, under the pain. “Is that what you call that?”
“Fine, you distracted me.” Mike runs a hand through his hair, fighting a heartbeat that’s running for its life. He wants to kiss Will again, and he’s having a hard time holding that urge at bay. He flexes his fingers. Restrains himself. “You— you said wait, sorry I didn’t—”
“No, that wasn’t what I— I just, um.” Will exhales, the sound of finding something funny in a completely un-funny situation. “I thought maybe we should call for backup, now that we’re not in…immediate danger.”
“Oh. Right.” The radio, Mike remembers. He was supposed to do that. “Yeah. Good idea.”
The ensuing pause is more loaded than a shotgun.
“Are you okay?” Mike dares to ask. “Did I, um, did I hurt you?”
“No, no. I’m fine. To be honest, I also forgot that I was hurt,” Will replies. “You distracted me, too.”
“Well, I had to do something or you were gonna totally give us away,” Mike says, chewing his lip.
After a moment, Will murmurs: “Is that the only reason you did it?”
Mike closes his eyes. He tries to do some deep breathing or whatever and fails instantly. The thing living in him is pleased, but not sated. It’ll probably have to survive awhile longer on that diet, but Jesus. If Will really thinks Mike only did it to shut him up, then he’s blind as a fucking bat.
“No. No, of course it wasn’t.”
“Okay,” Will says softly, his voice a warm buzz, like when Mike snuck a beer from his dad’s stash last year and got the whole thing down just long enough to feel tipsy before he conked out. It was a pleasant heat behind his ribs, between his ears, across the nape of his neck, and when Will speaks now, the sensation comes back.
(Nancy found him that time, snoring in the basement with an empty can of Bud Light at his feet, and shook him awake with a severe look, promising not to tell Mom and Dad this time but not to count on her being this chill next time. But she kept her promise. She must have known he was just curious. Nothing has ever driven Mike like morbid curiosity.)
“I should call,” Mike says. He doesn’t totally trust himself to reach towards Will without reaching for Will, but his discipline must be stronger than he remembers. He gets the walkie, this time without Demodog interruptions or any kissing at all, so it’s a partial shame but ultimately a worthy trade-off. Mostly.
“Does anyone copy? This is Mike and Will, we’re trapped in the high school with a Demodog and we need backup. Anyone?”
A loud crackle has Mike scrambling to turn the volume down. It’s Dustin. “Copy, this is Dustin, I’m with Steve. We’re on our way to you right now but we’re coming from the other side of Hawkins. Are you safe? Over.”
“Will took a hit, but he’ll survive until you can get us,” Mike says.
Steve’s voice comes over the radio. “No, no no no, you guys gotta get out of there, they’re like sharks, remember, they can smell your blood. You can't just hide, you gotta get out.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike answers. “We figured that part out, we just need a rescue mission. Preferably one with Demodog-killing weapons.”
“You figured it out? What exactly does that mean?”
“Just trust me, we figured it out. Are you coming or not?”
“Yes, okay, don’t get your panties in a twist. We’re about ten minutes away. Can you meet us out front?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Mike says, smiling when Will snorts a laugh. “We’re sort of…trapped in the janitor’s closet.”
Where did he put that doorknob, anyway? In all likelihood it’s on the floor, taking a bleach bath. Whoops. Not that Mike would have any clue how to reattach a doorknob.
“Bring an axe,” he suggests over the walkie, and then releases the button and says, “What, you have a better idea?” over Will’s poorly-suppressed laughter.
“Please confirm, did you say trapped in the janitor’s closet?” Dustin asks. “Over.”
“Just get here as soon as you can,” Mike responds. “And don’t get eaten by the Demodog or I’m definitely going away for murder. Over and out.”
“Not funny,” Will says, hitting Mike’s arm.
“You laughed.”
“They won’t get the joke.”
“Maybe I didn’t say it for their benefit.”
Will harrumphs, not unhappily.
“How’s the injury?” Mike gestures. “Still bleeding?”
“I can’t really tell. My shirt’s soaked, so it’s hard to tell if it’s more blood or just the same blood from before.”
“Hmm,” Mike says, nudging Will’s shoes to widen his stance and then parking himself in the space between Will’s legs. “Then I guess we should be careful.”
“Not too careful,” Will breathes. “Like you said, I’ll survive until we’re rescued.”
Mike lifts Will’s chin and tips his own face down, relishing the momentary return to form—Mike the taller, Will looking up at him.
“Ten minutes until then,” he says, low, cradling Will’s face. That buzz returns, more electric than before. The living thing inside of him bares its fangs. “Any ideas for how to pass the time?”
“One or two.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s not really the kind of idea you tell,” Will says quietly. “But I could show you.”
Mike makes a noise, half-intentional, half-clawed out of his throat. He blames the hungry thing in him, but he’s increasingly sure that thing is just more of himself.
“Mike,” Will says, a breath fluttering against Mike’s lips like butterfly’s wings. “Are you sure this isn’t just…I mean, are you sure?”
“Yes,” Mike says. He doesn’t know exactly what Will’s asking about, but he knows the answer is yes no matter what the question is. “I’m sure.” Then, helplessly, “Show me.”
Will laughs, sounding just as helpless. He drums his bloodstained fingertips along the line of Mike’s throat where Mike’s pulse is jumping rope and he says, “Okay,” and his lips brush Mike’s just enough to make them part before moving away, and Mike wants to believe he would wait forever, but as it is he thinks waiting another second may kill him. It was there and gone, and Mike has a bone-deep desire to remedy that. Mike has a bone-deep desire, in general.
He says, “Will,” with all the breath left in his lungs.
“Okay,” Will says again, not laughing anymore. And he captures Mike’s lips with his face tilted up, like a sunflower towards the sun.
(Even before they emerge into light and Mike sees all the places his skin and clothes are smeared with the dark red of Will’s blood—even before then, Mike kisses Will and knows that this is something that will never ever fade. Not even with bleach.)