Work Text:
Summer has a way of sending Hawkins into a heat-hazed frenzy. Usually a town of drab streets and quiet afternoons, the second the sun comes out it’s all soft-serve cones, kids hurling water balloons, and too-short shorts.
The amount of upper thigh Will has seen since he returned is astounding.
But it’s also familiar - a testament to how, no matter how far you go and how much time has passed, some things don’t change. Home is where the thighs are, or however that saying goes.
Will is sitting in the Wheelers’ living room, just barely listening to the TV going in the background while he draws in his sketchbook. Across the room, Mike is sprawled out on the couch, long limbs dangling over the edge like a ragdoll. The hem of his polo has ridden up over his stomach, which might just be a deliberate attempt at airing out his skin in front of the buzzing fan beside him.
It’s been two days since he came to visit for summer break. The Wheelers have graciously taken him in once again, which he’s grateful for, because Max and Lucas’s place is way smaller and traps heat like a sauna from Hell. The Wheelers’ house, on the other hand, has thick walls that keep the rooms cool longer. And should it ever get too hot to function, there’s always the option to seek refuge in the basement, dark and perpetually chilly.
Nowadays it’s rare for the whole party to be in the same place like this. With Mike, Dustin and himself off at their respective colleges, it’s been hard to find time to meet up and hang out. That’s why they spent the first few days together almost incessantly, braving the summer heat to visit the spots they used to frequent when they were younger. It’s been fun.
But amidst the summer rush and childhood nostalgia, one thing still looms in the back of Will’s mind.
He stares down at his sketch, the hasty pencil lines coming together to depict what he thinks is supposed to be a man sitting down. He thinks, because already he hears his anatomy professor’s nitpicky voice in his head telling him he got it all wrong - the calves are too short, joints too stiff, and the shading falls in all the wrong places, blah blah.
‘You need to get the basics down, Mr. Byers.’
He wishes he didn’t care about one poor critique of his work, but it keeps nagging at him that he can’t seem to figure out the human body. He can draw eyes, torsos, he is even getting better at drawing hands, but when he puts the pieces together, it always comes out looking a bit off, like he hasn’t quite cracked the code of where joints should go or how they connect into a whole person.
Mike must have heard his groans of frustration, because he pushes himself upright and looks at him from across the room.
“What’s up?” he asks, voice drowsy with the heat.
“It’s this stupid anatomy course I’m taking. I suck at it,” Will responds through gritted teeth. He grips his eraser and starts viciously rubbing it across the page, desperate to delete all traces of his shame.
“No way,” Mike says quickly, dismissing it outright. “It can’t be that bad. You’re the best artist I know.”
Will would have smiled at the compliment had he not already convinced himself that he’s actually the worst.
“I’m serious, Mike. I can’t get this stupid anatomy right.”
“Let me see.” Mike stands from the couch and walks over, bare soles dragging across the rug in a way that only sleepy summer laziness allows. He leans down to glance at Will’s sketch.
“It’s bad, it’s really bad,” Will exhales, but Mike just quietly observes the figure on the paper, its lines smudged and half-erased from Will’s frantic eraser marks.
Then he finally opens his mouth again. “I think you’re overreacting. But I get it, I’m hypercritical of my own writing too.”
Will figures as much. To pour hours into a project you end up despising by the time it’s finished is the name of the game for creatives.
“Yeah, but still... I got a pretty bad critique.”
“Have you tried, like... what’s that called? When you draw from a reference?” Mike’s lips purse while he searches for the right word. “You know, like when we all had to draw a bowl of fruit in school, but with people.”
“Life drawing,” Will says in a matter-of-fact tone. “And no, I haven’t. Not really.”
“Why don’t you try it? Isn’t it supposed to be helpful?”
Will sighs again and closes his sketchbook. “Who am I supposed to draw? I don’t have a model.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Huh?”
Mike rolls his eyes, then makes a show of puffing out his chest, striking a pose like he belongs on the cover of a Fabio romance novel. It makes Will laugh, incredulously, because there’s no way this is a serious offer.
“What’s with that face? Are you calling me ugly?” Mike’s arms fall back down his sides, his face twisting in feigned hurt. “That’s cold, man.”
And only then does the idea that maybe, just maybe, Mike is actually being serious about this cross Will’s mind.
Oh God.
The basement becomes their de facto art studio, because it’s the only space in the Wheeler house that feels private enough to do something like this. The lighting might suck, but at least they’re less likely to have Ted Wheeler walking in on them with a disapproving grunt.
Will’s hands are clammy as he carries his materials down the stairs, his grip tightening around the sketchbook the further he descends. It’s kind of Mike to offer to help him out, but part of him wishes that he hadn’t, because this already feels like a mistake.
These are dangerous waters, ones which Will has made a point not to swim in for years. And he’s been doing fine like this - at a comfortable distance from Mike, just far enough away not to poke at the butterflies lying dormant in his stomach, waiting for a chance to spread their wings and flutter about. But sitting across from Mike like this, having to study him for a prolonged time and actually draw him, he’s not confident they won’t wake from their hibernation.
He takes his sweet time arranging his supplies on the table, buying himself a moment to mentally prepare for what’s about to happen. Mike stands in front of him in his white striped polo shirt and denim shorts, looking more and more like the kid Will grew up with. It’s like he’s been frozen in time like this, down here in the basement where they spent the best parts of their childhood together.
“What do I do?” Mike breaks the silence between them. He sounds completely unbothered, which only makes Will feel worse about the nervous knot in his stomach.
“Uh, well.” Will swallows as he picks up his pencil from the table, fiddling with it awkwardly in his hand. “Let’s do one pose per minute. You can just, like, move around a bit when time’s up.”
“Who’s checking the time?” Mike asks, and it’s a fair question.
“Let’s just feel it out.”
Mike’s first pose is barely a pose at all. He stands with his arms at his sides, weight just barely shifted onto one leg, looking more like someone waiting for the bus than a model. Will tries his best to ignore the burn of Mike’s gaze resting on him, expectantly, as his pencil skids across the paper, mapping out a crude sketch of Mike’s body with rushed, almost frantic strokes.
Each time his eyes lift from the paper, he struggles to concentrate on actually taking in his shape. Instead, he notices details unimportant to the assignment: Mike’s dark curls that hang just below his ears, a tad frizzy from the humidity. The freckles scattered across his nose like a microcosm of stars. His long fingers that used to curl around Will’s shoulders and shake him back to reality whenever he was scared and delirious as a kid.
It feels like he’s looking through the eyes of his younger self, who so desperately wanted the chance to stare at Mike like this, without feeling guilty about it.
It’s a bit dangerous.
“I think time’s up,” Mike notes after a while. Somewhere along the way he must have started counting the seconds in his head.
His voice snaps Will back to reality, and only then does he fully acknowledge the sketch his hand has been working on while his brain was drowning in its own thoughts. It’s not his best work. The outlines look hesitant, like they‘re placed there by someone afraid to fully commit to the process.
The hair, however, is drawn in big, bold strokes, as detailed as the short timeframe allows. It exposes his priorities.
Focus, Will, he tells himself as he turns the page. This is supposed to be educational, purely educational. Other artists don’t get distracted by their models like this. Only bad people can’t stop thinking strange thoughts while drawing someone. Will should be better than this.
Mike twists into a second pose, a bit more dynamic this time. He stands with his side facing Will, his head downturned like he’s contemplating something. The back of his neck peeks through the gap between where his hair ends and the collar of the polo begins, the bones of his spine sticking out just slightly.
It’s the first thing Will draws, although it’s not the most obvious starting point for a sketch.
“Time,” Mike calls again. Then, turning his head toward Will, he adds, “How’s it going?”
Will doesn’t want to lie, but he can’t be completely honest either. So he offers a smile and an indeterminate shrug he hopes lands somewhere between ‘not great, you’re distracting me’ and ‘it’s going awesome!’
Then, disaster strikes.
“Can I see?”
Will tenses in his seat and instinctively slaps his hand over the paper, covering the drawing. Mike raises his brows.
“They’re not very good-“ Will explains, a bit apprehensively. “I still struggle with the anatomy.”
It’s almost a lie, but not entirely. It’s true that he finds it hard to focus on analyzing joints and muscles, where they overlap and how they tie together, but Mike doesn’t need to know why.
“Then let’s keep going,” Mike says, in an offhand tone that makes Will want to scream. It seems so logical to him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to have his body gawked at by someone like Will.
He has probably lulled himself into thinking Will is over him.
And Will really wishes that were true.
That day, Will ends up filling seven pages in his sketchbook with figure drawings of Mike. By the seventh one, Karen Wheeler had called them up for dinner, and this was Will’s saving grace, because he was damn near about to die in that basement. Somewhere between drawing lines and staring hopelessly at Mike, he had forgotten how to breathe.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” Mike says over breakfast the day after their session. He pokes at his eggs with his fork, chin resting in his palm. It’s just the two of them at the large table, since they slept in, as you do on summer break, and missed the classic Wheeler breakfast spectacle.
“Yeah?” Will answers around a mouthful of bread. “What’s up?”
“How come you won’t show me those sketches?” Mike’s voice is neutral, void of any venom, but his words feel like little knives pricking at Will’s chest.
“I told you, they’re not good,” Will tries to reason, reaching for his glass of milk with a slight tremble in his hand. Please, oh God, don’t ask again.
“So what? You only had a minute to draw them. I don’t expect them to be the next Da Vinci or anything.”
When Mike presses for an answer, a real one, Will feels himself tense further. It’s easy to say that his drawings aren’t good, but much harder to admit they’re actually incredibly incriminating. That each line leaves a trail of clues that spell out ‘hey, I’m still in love with you, by the way’.
At least it feels that way. He’s not sure Mike would even know to think of it like that. He never seemed to.
“I just want to get better before you see them,” Will mumbles, this time teetering closer to the truth. “I can’t get the shape right. Something feels... off.”
“Is it because I was wearing clothes?”
Will nearly chokes on his milk.
“What?”
“I mean, don’t people usually draw nude models? Like in that movie where the guy paints a girl on an island and then-”
“Mike.”
Will cuts him off, shaking his head profusely as if to physically ward off the unwelcome thoughts trying to form inside it.
Mike throws his hands up disarmingly, and there’s the sliest, most annoying smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“All I’m saying is, I could lose the shirt.”
Will is not sure how the hell he was convinced to draw Mike shirtless, but there he is, back in the basement with all his art supplies scattered across the table.
He busies himself sharpening his pencil, far longer than necessary, while Mike yanks his shirt over his head. It lands discarded somewhere on the floor among cardboard boxes and old toys.
When Will lifts his gaze, he wants to die.
Oh no.
Mike’s dark hair sits wonderfully tousled on his head, his slender torso turned toward him with soft shadows stretching under his sharp collarbones and chest, smoothed out by the yellow tinge of the lamp above him. The ridges of his ribs travel down like shallow steps to his stomach, where the skin looks warm and velvety.
Will tightens his grip around the pencil, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Focus, he reminds himself.
“I’m thinking something like this.” Mike turns to face away from the table. Then, with an effortless tilt of his head, he glances back at Will over his shoulder, a soft crease forming along the side of his neck where the skin compresses with the turn. His back looks almost delicate like this, narrow frame carried by a pair of broad shoulders.
“O-Okay,” Will gulps and forces his eyes back to the sketchbook.
The basement is cast in near silence for a moment, save for the pounding in his ears and the soft scrawl of his pencil across the paper. He draws the outline of a back, delicately curved in at the waist before stopping at narrow hips. Then, the sharp lines of shoulder blades where taut skin stretches over pointed bones. He guides the pencil down the page, mapping the line of Mike’s spine and dotting the little cluster of moles that live in the dip of his lower back.
“Time,” Mike calls, but the tip of Will’s pencil lingers on the paper. Like he isn’t ready to let go of this sketch yet.
Mike turns to face him again, leaning forward to peek at the paper. Will is too distracted to stop him this time.
“Looks good,” Mike says encouragingly, his smile almost too pretty to bear. “Let’s continue.”
He leaves his spot only to drag a chair over, the legs scraping across the floor with a screech. He sits down, leaned back, relaxed, long legs slightly spread. His fingers card through his hair, and they stay there, nestled in his curls, while his head tilts just enough for his eyes to be half-hidden by his long, dark lashes.
His gaze feels like a spotlight when Will draws, illuminating the things he wants to keep in the dark. Will bites down on his lip, hard, trying not to squirm under the added attention while he sketches in the contours of the lean muscles on Mike’s abdomen.
His brain screams at him to focus on the pose, just the pose, and not let his gaze linger too long in places it doesn’t belong. But he can’t help himself, not when Mike sits in front of him like this. Not when years of latent pining bubbles in his chest like he’s thirteen again, undoing all the progress he’s made to move on.
And so, Will abandons the idea of homework, or whatever he’d deluded himself into thinking this was, and gives in to the self-indulgence of just, well, drawing Mike. Not to analyze the anatomy of his body, but to capture this moment with the first person he’s ever truly loved like this, the person who, in his eyes, is the most beautiful subject in the world.
Mike’s body is a study in where edge meets softness. Long, angular limbs, lean muscles under pale skin, and the slightest rounding at his lower abdomen, so subtle it might as well not be there at all. But Will sees it. He sees it, and he wants to burn it into his memory, to remember it forever.
Mike’s hair is wild and unruly, and so very drawable. His eyes are dark and glistening under the light, his lashes naturally curling at the ends. And his lips... God, his lips. Plush and perpetually the perfect shade of pink.
Will is so lucky he gets to draw him like this.
His pencil works tirelessly, like it’s desperate to capture every detail before the moment passes. Each stroke is followed by a shaky breath, the tip pressing too hard down on the paper, overeager.
Chest. Shoulders. Hair. Lips.
When the lead snaps, the world comes rushing back in.
The sound of the pencil falling from his cramped hand and onto the paper echoes in his head. Then, a rush of shame crashes through him like an avalanche, intense and ruthless as it pushes him back to reality. What on earth is he doing?
He hears Mike shift, but he doesn’t dare look up.
The basement is too quiet now, the air heavy with something unspoken.
“I-” he finally manages in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t think this is a good idea after all.“
The chair creaks when Mike stands.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern in his voice.
Will keeps his head down.
Does he really not know?
Is it really that unthinkable to him that this was a terrible idea because Will is still deeply, utterly and hopelessly in love with him?
His body begins to shake, jaw clenching when a familiar fear pools in his chest again, drowning the words he so desperately wants to say. But he can’t, he can’t, because he already let himself get carried away, and, like a coward, he isn’t ready to deal with the consequences.
“Will?” Mike calls, waving his hand over the sketch Will is staring at to get his attention. “Talk to me, you’re freaking me out.”
“It’s just not a good idea,” Will mumbles, too afraid to elaborate.
Silence.
“Why...?” Mike sounds genuinely confused, and almost... hurt?
It makes Will’s heart flinch, and he finally gathers the courage to look up and face the mess he’s made. Mike’s dark brows are furrowed, his expression a mix between shock and confusion.
“Because-” Will hesitates, pulse hammering in his ears. His face feels warm under Mike’s attention, cheeks burning red-hot. “Because I just don’t think so.”
“Oh.”
And there it is again, the hint of hurt in Mike’s voice. Will isn’t sure if he imagined it the first time, but this one makes it clear. Somewhere in all of this, he’s hurt Mike’s feelings.
“N-No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that-“ Will stands up quickly, chair almost falling backward from the sudden movement. “I just- it’s-“
“I guess I just don’t get it,” Mike cuts him off, his words like daggers. “You’ve been shutting me out this entire time, you don’t even want me to see your drawings. And now you want to stop, and you won’t tell me why. What could possibly be so bad that you can’t just tell me? I’m your best friend, Will.”
Will’s blood runs cold. He hasn’t seen Mike this upset with him in years. These types of arguments belong to their past selves, the versions of them that were young and hormone-driven, growing in different directions and needing to find each other again along the way. They broke this pattern long ago, so why? Why now, why again?
Worst of all, Mike is right. Will has been acting weird and shifty, shutting him out and making little effort to explain why. He has regressed back into the version of himself that secretly pined for his best friend, moody and full of self-pity that he couldn’t have him. They moved past that long ago. They were supposed to have moved past that.
But who is he kidding? He never really moved past that.
“Because you don’t get it!”
His voice is harsher than he wants, overcome with frustration and stuck with the image of the little boy he once was, sobbing into his pillow because his best friend didn’t understand.
“What don’t I get, Will?” Mike answers, equally heated, his bare chest heaving with short, rushed breaths. “How can I begin to understand when you’re not talking to me?”
“I told you already, I told you.” Will snatches the sketchbook from the table in a single aggressive motion. Then, without thinking, he shoves it against Mike’s chest. “I told you how I feel about you, and you still make me do shit like this! You keep making it hard for me.”
Mike’s hands close around the sketchbook, and for a moment it looks like he’s stunned. Will’s heart pounds painfully as he watches Mike look down at the page, studying the sketch of himself on the chair.
Silence stretches between them, thick enough that the air feels heavy in his lungs. Mike doesn’t turn the page at first. He just stares at the drawing, tracing every line with his eyes.
Then, after what feels like hours, he looks back up at Will.
“You made me look so good,” he says, his tone softer now, like he didn’t hear what Will just said.
It’s how I see you.
“Thanks...” Will mumbles, cheeks flushed and body weighed down by how heavy his chest feels.
“Can I..?” Mike’s finger trails along the edge of the page like he wants to turn it over.
Will nods, dejected.
It’s not like there’s anything left to hide.
There’s another long pause. Mike flips through the sketchbook, taking in every drawing of himself with an expression Will doesn’t recognize. Every time he turns a new page there’s this subtle quirk to his lips, an almost-smile. Waiting for him to finish is torture.
“Wow,” Mike finally says, shutting the sketchbook carefully. “It’s like I said, you’re so talented.”
“Didn’t you hear me just now?”
“I heard you.”
Mike sets the book back down on the table and steps closer to where Will is standing on the other side, trembling with nerves, fists clenched, praying Mike will make quick work of him. That he’ll please, please just let him down gently.
“Can I say something now?” Mike asks, standing dangerously close to Will now.
Will nods, swallowing hard and bracing himself for what’s about to come.
Gently, please.
“Well, first of all, you’re an idiot.”
Will flinches. So much for gentle.
Before he can spiral though, he feels the light brush of a hand against his bare forearm. Mike’s palm is warm and a bit damp, like he’s been sweating, and the pads of his fingers press into Will’s skin with just enough pressure to keep him grounded.
“Secondly, I want you to know that I don’t enjoy modelling, at all. Especially not with my shirt off like this,” Mike says, and for the first time since they started this conversation, Will notices the faint flush high on his cheekbones. “But I do it for you, Will. I came down here to help you, because I feel the same, obviously.”
“O-Oh,” Will stutters, still processing. He must have heard wrong, or misinterpreted what Mike is telling him entirely, because this sounds suspiciously close to a confession. But that can’t be. Mike’s not like him, and he never will be, no matter how many times Will begs the universe for it to happen.
Mike’s hand travels up the length of Will’s arm, over his elbow, across his shoulder, past his neck, until it rests against his cheek. Will feels a bit dizzy.
“Say something,” Mike whispers, his thumb tracing Will’s cheekbone. And Will wishes he could, he really does, but he’s too focused on not choking on the air in his lungs. He just stands there, frozen, eyes wide and lips parted.
“Will, seriously, say something. You’re killing me,” Mike adds shortly after, the words tight with desperation.
“I, uh,” Will swallows, trying to ignore the warmth of Mike’s hand long enough to form a sentence. “I think that, uh. That you, that... that...”
“Will, I like you,” Mike reassures, almost as if he read Will’s mind. Like he knows this outcome is too impossible for Will to understand unless spelled out plainly.
For the first time since they entered the basement, Will feels his shoulders drop.
His expression softens, the skeptical crease on his forehead smoothing into something lighter, something hopeful rather than guarded. When he smiles it’s full of relief and heartbreak, all rolled into one upturned curve of his lips. Like the joy of the moment and the pain of years thinking he’ll never have it have met in the middle.
“Mike...” His voice comes out smaller than he means it to. He lifts his hand to rest it over Mike’s, no longer hiding the way it shakes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, yes.” Mike is smiling now too, his eyes warm as they meet Will’s. Will can see his own reflection in them, and somehow that’s the last confirmation he needs to believe this is real.
“When did you...?” he asks softly.
Mike is the one reluctant to speak now. His eyes flicker with nerves, and his chest is flushed bright red. It’s all Will can do not to reach over and smooth his hand across the skin, to feel the warmth against his palm. But he stays put, waiting for Mike to answer first.
“It’s a long story,” Mike finally says, and strangely, Will doesn’t feel the need to push him to elaborate. That conversation can wait, because Mike’s hand is on the back of his neck now, his fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.
“Okay,” he whispers, leaning closer when Mike pulls him in with gentle insistence. Their faces are close like this, and Will feels Mike’s breath against his skin, stirring the fine hair there. His gaze travels from Mike’s eyes, down the bridge of his nose, all the way to his lips, soft and slightly parted. It makes his head spin.
When they close the gap between them, something inside him shatters. The shame, the fear, the constant need to hide, it all implodes into fragments, almost making him forget it was ever there to begin with. Mike’s lips feel as soft as they look, just like Will imagined when he traced the delicate line of his cupid’s bow in his sketchbook. There’s a faint dampness to his upper lip, a hint of salt against the sweetness of the kiss.
Will closes his eyes and lets himself linger in this moment, gentle and unhurried, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Mike’s fingers press into his nape, holding him there, as if anchoring him in place.
Then their lips move, and it’s clumsy at first, like an unchoreographed dance. But it’s so tender, so warm, and somewhere between noses bumping and teeth grazing, they fall into an easy rhythm.
Will’s hands find Mike’s waist, resting in the shallow dip there as he opens his mouth just enough for Mike to brush his tongue along his bottom lip. Mike tastes like morning coffee and warmth, the heat of it enough to make Will lightheaded. His fingers slide up Mike’s side, counting the ridges of his ribcage before settling over his chest where Mike’s heart beats unsteadily against his palm.
This is something he can never draw - the living thud of Mike's heart under flushed skin - and it only makes him want to savor it even more.
Will presses closer, their bodies knocking together as he kisses Mike deeper, more insistently, like years of dreaming about this moment have finally caught up to him. Mike’s breath hitches into his mouth when Will brushes his tongue against his, licking and tasting, claiming what he’s wanted for so long.
Mike’s hand at his neck lingers a second longer, thumb brushing the spot under Will’s ear before trailing down his back, mapping the contours through his shirt. Then it slips under the hem to brush the skin of Will’s lower back, sending a shiver down his spine.
He’s imagined this before, but never like this. This is warmer, sweeter.
When Mike stumbles backward, he pulls Will with him, hand roaming under Will’s shirt like he can’t quite stop himself. He falls back onto the couch, and Will follows, landing half on top of him, their knees bumping and their mouths still firmly pressed together.
Will is straddling him now, one leg between Mike’s and the other just barely balanced on the edge of the narrow couch, and his hands are greedy, so greedy, exploring every little inch of Mike’s torso.
They break apart only to catch their breaths, foreheads touching while they pant into the small space between them, winded by the realization of what just happened. Mike’s eyes are wide when he looks up at him, his lips swollen from kissing.
I did that, Will thinks to himself.
Will’s fingertip draws idle circles against Mike’s chest while their breathing slows. Mike’s hand ventures up the plane of Will’s spine to gently push a strand of hair out of Will’s face, letting out a shaky chuckle when it falls right back over his eyes immediately after.
When they kiss again, it feels effortless. Will can feel the smile at the corners of Mike’s lips against his own, and it makes him smile too. Soon they’re struggling to keep their mouths together from the way they’re both grinning stupidly.
“Stop that,” Mike says, his laugh muffled against Will’s mouth.
“You’re doing it too,” Will fires back, nipping lightly at his bottom lip.
“Whatever.”
They lose all track of time like this, mouths meeting again and again while their hands wander, tracing each other’s bodies as if to memorize them. Every touch is shy and certain at once - unfamiliar and familiar in equal measure, but safe all the same.
“So,” Mike breathes under Will, curls sticking out in all directions and cheeks a beautiful pink. “I guess I should be taking off my pants for our next session, huh?”