Work Text:
Admittedly, Mike had been wandering through senior year– and life in general– aimlessly. Not poetically, like a leaf or something, but more like a stray piece of lint. Ever since the Upside Down got destroyed, he’s had absolutely nothing to do but eat, sleep, read, repeat. He was a hermit, most of the time. And there’d been a gaping, El-shaped hole in his heart that wouldn’t be going away any time soon.
People liked to call him depressed, but he preferred to call it his ‘processing’ stage. He could handle the nightmares, the terrors, the longing for the familiarity of danger. He couldn’t handle emotional vulnerability. So he’d call his situation something mechanic, something less real. Processing.
The thing is, everybody else had already processed, it seemed. To him, he was being left behind, left for dead, in a landfill of trauma he somehow still hadn’t seen the exit to. As he saw the light re-enter the eyes of his friends, he couldn’t help but feel an ache, and maybe further dimming in his. He felt so stuck. So useless.
He’d grown used to saying yes to things, just to get himself out of the house when it got particularly bad. And for people to stop nagging him about being a recluse. ‘Want to mow my lawn?’ Yes. ‘Want to go to the supermarket?’’ Sure. ‘Want to run until you feel like your body will break?’ Okay. He became a yes-man. Kind of creepy, considering the old him. He was robot Mike Wheeler.
So, when a girl with glasses too big for her face walked up to him and handed him a pamphlet, saying, “You should audition for A Midsummer Night’s Dream! I think you’d be a great fit,” Mike said, “Alright.”
And that’s how he ended up in this situation. Senior year of high school, doing his first and last play. And, hey, he got cast in a main role. King Oberon. Mike liked it well enough. Shakespeare was cool, he supposed. It gave him something to do. Though, he did feel ten times nerdier than he’d ever been whenever he said, “I have rehearsal.”
Dustin had joined him in auditioning, because it seemed like something he’d be good at. A Shakespearean comedy. A perfect fit for the bard. As such, he got cast as Puck. No surprise there.
Mike thought that was where his friends’ involvement ended, so you can imagine his surprise when Will walked into the male dressing room around an hour and thirty minutes before the show, right at call time.
“Will?” Mike swiveled around, sat on a spinning chair in the middle of the small room.
“Mike,” Will smiled, tiny. “I thought I’d find you here,” he had a black bag in his hands, like something he’d fill art supplies with.
“Yeah, it’s call time. I’m surprised I’m not late,” Mike toyed with the hem of his sleeve. “Are you.. uh, gonna watch the show?”
Will squinted and tilted his head, mildly amused. “Mike…”
“What?”
“I’m on the stage makeup crew. Didn’t Dustin tell you?”
“Oh. Ohhhhh,” Mike nodded. “I thought you were just, I don’t know, breaking in here. Didn’t question it.”
Will chuckled, “With Mrs. Wilkins roaming the halls? I’m not risking it.”
“Fair.”
Will made his way to the mirror, placing the black bag on the small shelf in front of it. He hummed a quiet tune, zipping it open and placing two makeup palettes side-by-side with some brushes and other items Mike had no clue about. He glanced at Mike, only to look down and continue arranging the supplies like they were a part of a puzzle.
“How’ve you been?” Mike suddenly chimed, still watching Will.
“Oh, uh–” Will looked up, seeming surprised. “ I’ve been good,” he nodded, albeit a little awkwardly. “I never thought I’d make it here. I mean– not here, here,” he motioned to the room, “But, you know. Senior year. It’s nice to finally have a break.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mike pursed his lips. He stared at the water-stained ceiling.
“And you? How are you?” Will rested his hands on the shelf, rocking back and forth until he eventually reached a standstill. “Just… it’s been a while.”
How was he, really? Mike thought. The past couple of months had been a blur. November 6th wasn’t long ago. To be honest, he wasn’t great. But he wasn’t bad either. He felt like he was in a weird sort of limbo. Of numbness.
“‘M fine,” he decided. “Little nervous.” He was going to perform in front of a crowd, after all.
“I get it, I’d totally be freaking out,” Will leaned against the wall. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re off-book, right?”
“What?”
“Like, you know all your lines?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Totally.”
Will picked up one of the palettes and walked over to Mike with a brush in his hand.
“Woah, wait,” Mike startled. “You’re going to put makeup on me?” He felt cornered, all of a sudden.
“I mean, yeah?” Will squinted. “It’s my job.”
“Uh–”
Will rolled his eyes. “Like Bowie, you know? It’s stage makeup. It’s not like– it’s not like weird or…” He contemplated. “Gay.”
Mike’s eyes widened, he stuttered, “I– I didn’t mean it like that!”
Will shook his head in amusement, “I know, Mike, I’m joking.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Will furrowed his eyebrows, studying him. Mike felt like he was being read, except there were like, seven words removed from the pages that made it all totally unintelligible or something. Like he was a paper in Arabic or Russian. What was Will confused about? Is he not acting himself?
“I’d change into your costume first,” Will paused. “So that you don’t ruin my handiwork,” he added a tilt to the end of his sentence.
“Yeah. Uh, yeah, sure, okay,” Mike got up, unsure why he was stumbling over his words. He walked over to the costume rack and picked out his hanger. He laid out his costume on a nearby table and took off his shirt, only to hear–
“Jesus, Mike,” Will gasped, covering his face.
Mike looked at him, confused. And shirtless. “What?”
“A warning would’ve been nice,” he responded, muffled. His ears were a light shade of pink.
“Am I that grotesque?” Mike teased.
“No–! No, it’s just–”
A loud knock came from the door, followed by a voice yelling, “Sign-up sheet’s on the wall! Write your name down!”
“I’ll write our names down,” Will blurted out, walking out of the room.
Oookay. Mike nearly smiled, but his expression dropped as soon as Will shut the door. He finished getting undressed and put on the costume, which was honestly pretty nice considering the Hawkins High theatre department’s non-budget. He looked all medieval, in a blue, silky robe with silver ornaments and details all over. He wore armour-like shoulder pads, making him look more imposing than he is.
Will made his way back inside, peeking his head through the door like a jittery meerkat before doing so. His eyes focused on Mike, now in full costume. He seemed like he was holding something back, like he had water in his mouth he couldn’t swallow.
“Good,” Will choked out, trying to seem casual. “You look good. Like a knight,” He nodded, giving Mike a quick grin before zeroing in on his supplies again.
“Thanks,” Mike nodded, sitting on the spinning chair again. He pat his thighs rhythmically, “I’m ready,” He paused for dramatic effect. “Paint me, sorcerer!” Mike announced, in a mildly British-transatlantic-fantasy-esque accent that sounded stupid as hell.
Against all odds, Will snorted, “You’re ridiculous,” Will pulled up a chair in front of Mike, tools in hand. He seemed to hesitate for a beat before he grabbed one of the bigger brushes and playfully fluffed it over Mike’s nose in response to his stupidity, “Abracadabra.”
Mike giggled, “Will! Stop, that tickles!” Will only continued, “I know makeup does not work that way!” He kept on laughing, grabbing at Will’s hands and wrist to get him to cut it out. He finally succeeded, though, it’s unclear whether Will let him win or not.
When Mike’s vision cleared, he saw Will smiling sweetly, his cheeks slightly flushed. Something in his eyes read like nostalgia as he whispered, “Missed that.”
“Harassing me?”
“Your laugh,” Will let it slip before he could stop himself.
“Oh.”
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” Will conveniently started to study the blues on his makeup palette, “..I mean it, though,” he added, quietly.
Mike watched as Will looked at the colors beneath him like a math problem, his flustered demeanor quickly dissolving into something more thoughtful as he transitioned into artist mode. He watched as a crease appeared between his eyebrows. He wanted to rub it off with his thumb.
“How do you do it?” Mike muttered, thinking out loud.
“Hm?” Will looked up, snapped out of his trance. For a moment, Mike hoped Will hadn’t heard him, before Will said, “What do you mean?”
“How are you so normal… so put together? So happy?” He didn’t mean it like an accusation, though a whisper of resentment tainted his tone. Will didn’t seem to mind, or he simply just understood Mike so well, he got what he meant.
Mike had been endlessly proud of his friends, really, considering everything they’d been through. But he couldn’t help but feel envy gnawing at him, making him feel more guilty than he already was. He saw them above ground while he was still drowning, trying to pick up the pieces of himself that had been chipping off over the years. Truthfully, he’d been like this even before El left, but afterward, there was no running away from it. He was fully cracked, a vase whacked off balance. And fragile, in that way, too.
It was Will, too, who made him feel particularly jealous– or inept, more like. Will had suffered, so, so much. Even before he was taken by the demogorgon, his life was a whirlwind, with the whole Lonnie situation. He lost El, too, a girl who’d become like a sister to him. She was taken away from everybody else just as ruthlessly as she was taken away from Mike. But he was so brave, and so incredible, that he kept on moving. He still saw the best in people, and he wasn’t bitter. He didn’t stay in his room all day, beating himself up. He got peace and made the best of it, when he’d been at the center of all this mess. Will thrived. Mike didn’t understand, and he wanted to. He wanted to know his secret. Or maybe an uglier part of him wished his misery had company; the company of his best friend. Though, considering the way Mike’s been pulling away, he’d be hard-pressed to hear Will call him that anymore.
“I’m not,” Will replied, pushing one of the bigger brushes into a separate, skin-toned powder-thing. Bullshit, Mike wanted to retort, but he stopped himself.
Will continued, still not meeting Mike’s eyes, “That’s just what you see. I mean, yeah, I’ve learned how to cope, I think we all have, but it’s been tough. I’ve had to try and push it all back, but sometimes I get nightmares or I think of El and all I want to do is cry,” he finished the end of his sentence with a light, pained scoff.
“Or scream,” Mike added, a small and sympathetic smile on his face.
“Yeah,” Will added, breathlessly. He locked eyes with Mike. “Scream.”
“I don’t know why I thought you were just… fine,” Mike said, a little sheepish. “I–”
“I guess it’s different for everyone,” Will cut in, without meaning to. “You’re allowed to be more overt. You shouldn’t feel bad. Especially you,” he blew some excess powder off the brush. “Ready?”
“I have to wear makeup?” Mike asked, just to make sure. He’d seen Nancy after washing her face. She looked like a raccoon.
“Mike,” Will warned, smiling.
“Alright, alright, just make it painless,” Mike shut his eyes, and he felt the sensation of a million little bristles hitting him all at once. He felt the brush push into his cheeks, eyelids, forehead, chin– anywhere it could go, really. The somewhat violent nature of it turned gentle as Will glided the brush across Mike’s face to spread the product.
As he felt the brush leave his face, Mike asked, “Did you finish? Is it done?” He opened his eyes.
Will was astoundingly close. Like, whoa. His expression was a mix of amusement and focus, but it shifted into something unreadable. But he could see the slight flush on his cheeks that seemed to always be there, the tinier moles most people can’t see from a distance, and his long lashes. Mike could feel Will’s breath on his face; his big, hazel eyes locked onto his own for a brief second before they darted somewhere else, followed by him backing away, “Sorry, sorry, too close,” he sniffled, casually.
“Are we? Done, I mean,” Mike asked again, unaware that he literally looked like a literal ghost.
Will reignited, smirking as he grabbed a small mirror from his lap and showed it to Mike, “I don’t know, you tell me.”
“Yeah, alright, keep going,” Mike didn’t beg. He didn’t.
“That’s what I thought. You don’t have to close your eyes for this part, just do it when I ask you to,” Will grabbed another brush and coated it in blue. Mike nodded.
Will used an assortment of blues and different cool colors to create shadows on Mike’s face, notably blush. Oberon was a fairy, so it only made sense. He imagined Mike as a canvas, and that went kind of as Mike expected: really well. He had an innate sense and talent for these sorts of things, even if he was doing it on a living, breathing surface. So, he made an art piece out of Mike, with some hiccups. Like, he’d tell Mike to close his eyes and he'd squeeze them shut again, only for Will to tell him to relax. He accidentally poked Mike’s eye, which ruined the eyeshadow, which had to be practically re-done. Will had become particularly slow when it came to doing Mike’s lipstick, which was weird, because it was even barely that. It was chapstick and some color to avoid making him look undead (see: when he put foundation on him). Through it all, Will subconsciously started to hum some songs to fill the comfortable silence, and Mike joined him every now and then, if he could.
“Okay,” Will said, breaking the silence. “Done.”
“And you’re not lying?”
“I never lied in the first place, you just assumed,” Will rolled his eyes. He brought up the mirror again, “Ta-da.”
Mike looked at himself in the mirror and, man, he couldn’t help it! He gasped. He knew Will was amazing, but this was next-level. It felt a lot cooler when the art was on him, you know? He reached out to touch his face, but he stopped himself because he knew he’d smudge it. He stared in silence, amazed.
“Umm.. do you like it?” Will asked, nervous. He suddenly seemed a little burdened.
“Like it? No,” Mike said, taking an unnecessarily long pause. Will deflated for a second, “I love it! It’s so cool, Will! I didn’t know you could do something like this!”
Will bit his tongue, “You’ve got to stop doing that.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it,” Will dropped it, chuckling, “I’m glad you like it.”
“Are you getting hearing problems, Will? I said I love it. I look kick-ass, like an actual fairy. It’s incredible, really. Really. You know, I never thought of myself as a makeup guy, but after this, I think Robert Smith might be onto something–”
“Oh my god, Mike,” Will covered his face with his free hand, flustered.
Mike gently took the mirror from Will’s hands. “I mean it. You’re super talented, Will. I’m gonna be the most awesome Oberon ever.” He smiled.
Will took his hands off his face, grinning, “Thanks, Mike.”
“Of course,” he kicked Will’s shin gently. “You’ve been applying to art schools, right?”
“Oh,” Will chimed, seemingly in surprise. “Yeah. Yeah, I have, it’s like, super hard, but yeah. I have my fingers crossed.”
Mike blinked at Will for a beat, still beaming. He rolled in a little closer, instinctually. “I’m proud of you, Will. I–” He swallowed, “I’m sorry I don’t say it more.”
Will’s eyes seemed to get glassy at Mike’s words as he shut the palettes closed, moving to fiddling with his sleeves again. He took a sharp breath before leaning forward to give Mike a careful hug, as to not ruin his makeup. Mike’s eyes widened in welcome surprise as he wrapped his arms around Will’s back, squeezing him ever so slightly. They held each other like they were both fragile.
“I’m proud of you too,” Will said, in the voice he had whenever he was trying to sound like he didn’t have a lump in his throat. “So proud. For pushing through.” Mike felt a lump form in his own throat as he felt his eyes well up. “But I miss you,” Will continued even if his voice shook, resting his chin on Mike’s shoulder. His voice reduced to a whisper, “I feel like I don’t see you anymore. The real you.”
Will pulled back from the hug, but Mike moved to grab Will’s hands in his own automatically, causing Will to take a short pause before elaborating, “Remember the time… on the tower? Before we went into the abyss–”
“Before we killed–”
“Yeah. When you said we’d always be best friends?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“My best friend– I find myself asking where he is. I see him pretending not to care about things, just coasting by, cooping himself up. But I know he cares, I know he does, because he’s the only cast member in this stinky dressing room and it’s thirty minutes until everybody has to be on stage, even though he’s always late to everything. He’s making my job as the stupid makeup artist ten times easier. You make my life easier by being around. And that goes for everyone. You do it by being you, Mike, not a cheap knockoff. I feel like you act as if the party’s losing their heart but you’re right here. You’re here. You're showing up, and that’s what matters.”
Impossibly, Mike’s eyes softened even more as he bit his cheek, resisting the urge to cry. His hands tightened around Will’s. “I know it’s hard, but I believe in you, okay? And so did El. She would want you to fight, like you always told her to. Remember that.”
Mike sniffled, letting out a small, pained noise at the display of sheer empathy before him. Will always had a way of getting to him, of understanding Mike, atom by atom. If soulmates existed, he had one in Will Byers.
“I won’t,” Mike choked out, pathetically. “I’ll forget.”
Will let out a wet laugh, “That’s okay. I know. But everyone will be here to remind you, to remind ourselves. You’ll remind me. We’re in this together, okay?”
“Okay,” Mike said, as a tear escaped from his eye. “Oh, shit, I’m going to ruin all your work,” he chuckled.
Will huffed, “Don’t worry about it.” He let go of Mike’s hands.
“Hey, uh,” Mike suddenly felt shy, “After this. Do you want to.. I don’t know, go to a diner? Hang out?”
Will paused in surprise. He blinked before cracking into a smile, “Totally. I’d love to.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Will got up, putting all his makeup supplies on the nearby table rather than the shelf, “You should start heading out. It’s gonna be a disaster here in a little bit.”
“Alright. See you, Will.”
“Bye, Mike.”
So, yes, a plethora of unprepared men flooded the dressing room shortly after, and became subject to the wrath of Will Byers Under Pressure. The show went decently well, and Mike got kudos for his performance and got told it was the ‘best yet’ and that he ‘actually had energy’. They chalked it up to him being in front of an actual audience for the first time, adrenaline, if you will. And Dustin, of course, was magical, but that wasn’t a surprise. The hangout at the 24/7 diner was fun-filled and ended in a little sleepover which ended in Mike staring at the ceiling, next to his best friend who passed out on the floor, feeling strangely safe for the first time in months. He’d be happy to know that he was in it for life.
Ding!
The toaster went off, and the bread was subsequently swiped away onto a plate by Will’s hand. The calendar in the kitchen of the small apartment read MARCH 1999, several dates decorated with expo-marker doodles, particularly March 22nd. Will placed some scrambled eggs onto the plate with a shudder as loud footsteps approached him.
“Will,” Mike called out, all smiles. “Look at what I found,” he shoved a photo into Will’s line of vision, causing him to grab Mike’s wrist and pull it away slightly.
“Is that…” Will grinned, amused.
“It is,” Mike retracted his hand, looking down at the photo.
It was a photo of Mike and Will, side by side, right after the bows of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mike was in his full Oberon get-up, while Will was in all-black. They had their arms wrapped around each other, smiling wide at Jonathan’s camera and leaning against the foot of the stage.
“Some of your finest work, I must say,” Mike added.
“Oh, please,” Will tilted his head backwards.
“You should totally do my makeup again.”
“I already do, sometimes.”
“Yeah, but not like that!” Mike argued. Will shrugged, motioning towards the plate with the toast and eggs on it.
“You made me breakfast? You’re the best,” Mike grabbed the toast and took a bite. “You ate already, though, right?” He had to make sure.
Will nodded, crossing his arms. He raised an eyebrow and tapped his cheek with his index finger, signaling something while grinning. I’m waittiinng, he said, without really saying it.
“Oh!” Mike swallowed his bite, knowing he made a mistake. He leaned in and gave Will a kiss on the cheek. He then put down the toast, looking at the photo, and cupped Will’s cheeks between his hands to pepper him in kisses.
Will giggled, “Mike! You smell like butter!”
“Sorry, my love, I can’t help it,” Mike pulled away and gave Will one last kiss on his lips before turning back towards the breakfast, the photo. Will rested his forearms on the counter. Mike grabbed the photo again.
“You know,” he uttered, leaning into Will’s space, “That night was the first time in months I actually felt, like, happy. Alive. Like I wasn’t stuck or doomed.” Mike turned towards Will and gave him a grateful smile, nudging his shoulder. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome, Mike,” Will nudged him back.
“I mean it. I mean it,” Mike now turned fully towards Will, ignoring the fact his eggs were definitely going cold. “I didn’t realize how much it changed then, but I know now. You’re my rock. My best friend.”
“And you’re mine. We’re in this together, remember?” Will tiptoed, pressing his mouth to Mike’s. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Shut up,” he lightly shoved Mike.
“I’m serious. How can I ever repay you?” Mike whined.
“I have a couple ideas,” Will teased.
“Oh, yeah?”
They laughed, soon dissolving into their usual, easy conversation. Life wasn’t easy, not by a long shot– the course of true love never did run smooth– but at least they have each other. Intertwined forever.