Chapter Text
Will has frostbite.
Well… not quite; but the house is freezing, and his fingers are turning purple.
The house is always freezing, he notes. The air vents sprinkle snow in droves, flurrying down to the carpet in a maddening cycle. Each sweater fiber prickles against his skin in a pathetic attempt to mimic warmth. As he toes past the hallway doors, he wonders if they can feel it too. If everyone (his family included) were all bundled to the nines, burrowed in their beds like field mice.
Early January in Hawkins is a tyrannical season.
Frost latches onto life and drains it, stripping nature bare. Danger is hidden. Buried, but ever present beneath the snow, lying in wait. Preparing for the right moment to trap him again, to hurt his family, to kill the ones he loves.
Will shakes his head. It does no good to think that way.
Circling past the entryway staircase, the front door comes into view. By the glass strip adorning it, he can just make out a field of white surrounding the planet that is the household.
The glass is frosted over; he wipes at the condensation with his thumb. The scene smears. A shiver racks through him.
Where is everyone, anyway?
He scans the aging foyer for signs of life. Not a rumble, or whistle, or groan. Not from any of the patrons, and certainly not from the house.
Another shiver.
The house opens its lush maw, swallowing him in the blanketed quiet. He doesn’t resist, however. He makes his way to the kitchen—normally lively, now silent.
Every prop is fixed in position: the coffeemaker, the placemats, the cutting boards, as if he had intruded on a play in progress, and the action was occurring in the other room.
He sighs, fetching a bowl from the cabinet, cereal from the pantry, and frosty milk from the fridge. A penurious meal for a starved boy.
He takes up a seat at the head of the table. The refrigerator hums a broken tune. His heart matches the frequency, whispering tales of isolation and yearning.
What could he do but wonder what if?
A thick bite of grain sloshes around his teeth. He gulps down roughly. It sours his stomach.
No, things are better off this way. He doesn’t need to ponder on what ifs, what about me’s, or how comes. He has his answer. The boy he adores lives for another.
Twirling the spoon around the ceramic, he chases the bits of cereal around the rim. They’re shy. They giggle and chase around it childishly, too milk-soaked to truly protest.
Another exhale. Blue rays stream through the paned windows. Melancholic light that brings an air of dead winter. He doesn’t bring himself to flick the lights on—to shock the house to life. He doesn’t wish to break the seal of silence just yet.
Just a little longer, he pleads.
No one is keeping score.
He begs again, turning to the window. Heated palms press on the cooled wood grain in front of him, forming circles of fog.
Just let me stay here a little more. Long enough to figure out how to bear it.
This house is borrowed. It has no duty towards him. Despite his many years amongst its walls, plastering over holes and whispering his secrets between bathroom breaks, it is not his to claim; this structure is not beholden to him.
Therefore, what desire does it have to grant his wishes? Obdurate in its power, it resists him. His final plea had escaped his lips for only a moment before a figure appeared, and the house groaned in the wind as if to laugh at him.
Will looks up then, seeing the object of his devotion glide through the kitchen, as swift as a ghost. He stills.
The boy in front of him says nothing, rubbing at his eyes. His pink lips part into a yawn. His dark hair is disheveled, each strand rising to stiff peaks in alternate directions. His skin is creased from sleep, and he wears no sweater, no socks, and no pants—his thin legs bound only by boxer shorts.
Upon witnessing this, Will folds into himself. Gooseflesh rises on his skin. In contrast, he’s swaddled up more than a newborn. Thick socks, long pants, and two sweaters, one for each degree the house drops.
His counterpart must feel nothing. His room must be warmer than the frozen basement where Will sleeps. Yes, that’s it. The room this boy dwells in must be drenched in heat. Its soporific effects haven’t rubbed off yet.
The boy grabs a mug from the same cabinet. He slides one of the props towards him—the coffeemaker—and changes the filter, scooping fresh grounds into it. A fresh cup of water soaks the dust, and he slams it shut, plugging it in. It bubbles to life.
A second yawn. He turns, tugging at his hair and rubbing at his bare chest. At the table, Will gulps at the sight.
Relax, he thinks. He’s just your friend.
His best friend. So why is his throat dry?
Mike reaches for the light switch to turn it on, but stops before doing so.
Will’s been spotted, and the imaginary spotlight lands on him. He stays neutral, hoping not to scare his best friend, as if he were a young explorer encountering a stray bear cub.
Unlike the house, luck regards him with kindness: this cub is softened by his home environment. He doesn’t see Will as a threat, rather as a shock.
“Have you been sitting there the whole time?” He asks, hands on his hips.
A beat passes.
Will nods, clutching the spoon again.
“…Yeah.”
He shifts in his seat. Arctic air seeps through the window panes. He bites his lip to block out the sensation.
Mike furrows his brow. Nonchalantly, he rests against the counter, slender arms crossing over his chest. His gaze rests upon Will, analyzing him with a mother’s scrutiny.
There isn’t much to see, he thinks. He can’t be much of a looker. His family has garnered enough ire from the Townspeople over the years, each one whispering the same scalding words: Homely. Strange. Peculiar. Poor.
His best friend is rich beyond wealth. If time is anything to go by, he figures. He’s grown into his features.
Mike’s soft baby face melted into sharp, angular cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lean arms. He’s still lanky, but not overbearingly so. It suits him, his thin frame.
For Will, puberty tipped the balance the other way.
His frame is shorter and stockier, with layers of pubescent muscle peeking out behind childhood fat. He’s… softer. Pink with youth and sensitivity.
Mike’s voice cuts, honeyed and precise. It demands attention. Will’s voice is rounded and earnest. Passive—it doesn’t lead, only follows.
Infuriatingly so.
Mike doesn’t let up. Will doesn’t expect him to.
Perhaps, he should leave the room. It doesn’t do much to stay rooted in this spot, after all. Will can’t bear to have a conversation in this manner.
His best friend’s chest is visible, his hair is tousled from sleep, and his voice is sweet. But his stare is boiling. Will’s haphazard hormones can’t decide which temperature to feel. The icy home makes him quiver. Those brown eyes bring beads of sweat along his hairline.
Leaving wins.
He grabs his milky bowl—half-eaten—and rises to his feet, gliding around the large oak table and towards the kitchen sink. He makes a note not to stare back as he turns to exit.
Unfortunately for him, Mike is oblivious to his internal conflict. He catches up quickly.
Placing a warm hand on Will’s shoulders, he shifts to face him. Will looks up then, making eye contact.
How silky those eyes look. How hot they feel.
“Hey,” Mike begins, pressing down on his bone, “you okay?”
Will hesitates, then nods.
“…yeah. Yeah, I’m just… tired. It's hard to sleep on that cot, I guess.”
It’s hard to sleep for other reasons, too.
It’d be easier to rest if he could dream of other things. Each time Will thinks he’s in the clear, he short-circuits, jolting awake.
Over and over and over.
Mike breathes out. He tilts his head, confused. His rosy lips are pursed. Will traces the shape with his eyes, wondering if they feel as warm as Mike’s hand does.
“Yeah, I figured. I hate those things.”
His best friend’s hands fall to his sides.
“Well, if you want, you can take a nap in my bed. It’s a lot softer. Warmer, too,” he offers, “the heating in the basement’s bad. It’s a lot better up there.”
Will chuckles, gesturing over Mike.
“I can tell.”
Mike surveys his scantily clad body. When he lifts his head, fresh blood peppers his cheeks. He crosses his arms over himself; a minuscule attempt at modesty.
He’s an article away from revealing his birthday suit, and his once burning gaze dwindles to an ember; he shies away from Will.
“Okay, so it’s a lot warmer,” he admits, “but that’ll be good for you, right?”
He picks at Will’s collar, returning his gaze.
“I mean, how many sweaters do you even have on?”
Will balks. It’s his turn to blush now.
“Two.”
“Jesus,” Mike mutters.
“Two of everything, actually.”
Mike’s eyes widen; he raises a brow.
“Really?”
He’s incredulous. Again, Will nods.
“Yeah… just head on up, man. Before you turn into a popsicle or something.”
Considering the offer, a wave of apprehension crashes over Will.
From what he’s told, Mike’s bedroom is hot. His bed must be hotter. How many layers could he shed before it’s too much? Before it gets weird? Uncomfortable? How deep could he sink into the mattress—into Mike’s scent—before he loses himself in it?
The house quakes again. It shakes loose a new wave of blistering air, dusting the kitchen’s entrance.
Will trembles again. The gesture isn’t anonymous this time. Mike’s tongue clicks against his teeth. His head gives a gentle shake, tilting towards the stairs.
“Just go. I’ll meet you up there.”
Will stays put, bringing his hands together. He pinches the skin on the back of his hand in a futile attempt to ground himself. He aligns his body towards the basement’s entrance.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just take a hot shower or something. That should warm me up.”
There it is again. The scrutiny. His best friend’s spine pulls taut. He towers over Will, and a stray hand once again finds itself positioned at his shoulder. It’s heavier this time, Will notes, drenched in heat and quiet authority.
“Dude. Go. Trust me, that basement’ll make you sick.”
Will flounders, buying time.
Sensing his hesitation, Mike leans against him. Will’s knocked back a step. Then two. Then three, until he’s adjacent to the staircase, staring up into its dark throat.
Another push. Will holds his hands up in surrender.
“Alright, alright. I’m going.”
He marches up the steps slowly, looking over the landing to see if he’s being tracked.
His best friend waits at the base of the stairs. His arms snake over his bare chest once more, staring him down.
Will gets the hint. He turns his attention forward, up, and away from ground level.
///////////////////
Mike doesn’t sleep in a room, Will realizes.
He sleeps in a furnace.
At the top of the stairs, there was no way to tell where his body ended and the heat began.
Nauseating and thick, the temperature difference punches through him like the flu. Clear liquid leaks from his nostrils; he wipes at it with the sleeve of his sweater.
Will blinks. The corners of the wallpaper warp in the air around him.
A trick of the light, he hopes.
His head swims; his mouth slavers, compensating for the lack of moisture. He tugs at his collar.
Each breath felt drier than the one before. Mucus stuck to the crevices in his throat; as he made his way to Mike’s room, he coughed roughly, eyes watering.
No wonder his best friend was nearly naked. The house has changed seasons, a sharp contrast to the icebox that was the basement. The Wheelers never complained much over the dizzying January air, and Will sees why. They don’t run at a different frequency, pace, or degree than the Byers do. They simply have enough money to transform their home into a terrarium when need be.
A luxury his family was never afforded.
During the harsh winters of his childhood, Will remembers hunkering down in front of the rusted oven, quilted blankets wrapped around his brother, himself, and his mother as they crouched around the appliance’s metallic face, hands outstretched into its gaping mouth—beggars pleading for scraps of heat.
In those days, his useless father preferred liquid blankets over cloth. He’d left them to fend for themselves and sobered up somewhere on the living room floor.
As such, winter sleepovers at Mike’s house were not a way to pass the time, as Will often told his best friend. It was an escape. A white lie to hide a dark truth. Mike, with his grand and luscious mansion (in Will’s eyes), had hot chocolate and movies and games and warmth.
So much warmth.
If not from the vents, then from him.
Evidence of that is present in the gentle buzz of the doorknob. Opening the door, Will comes in contact with the richness of summer. It’s boiling in here. The house sags around him, wheezing—then a resounding creak, like a sneeze.
It’s here that Will decides to shrug off the first layer of clothing. Closing the door behind him, he tugs his brother’s brown striped sweater over his head, folding it neatly on the corner of Mike’s bed. His sweatpants are next, leaving him with his fleece-lined tights. Finally, a layer of socks is slipped off, and Will feels free, as though someone loosened the restraints on his straightjacket.
Sighing in relief, he clutches the molted layers and places them in a pile on his best friend’s desk.
He’s not as bold as Mike. Will won’t strip down to his skin, not when he’s face-to-face with his best friend’s inner sanctum. Then again, Will takes in his surroundings and realizes he couldn’t sully this room’s good name if he tried.
Comic books are strewn along the carpet, crinkled at the edges from being stepped upon. Mounds and mounds of clothes sprinkle over them.
The closet must be there for decoration.
Mike’s thick blue comforter is peeled halfway to the ground, revealing crisp white sheets soaked in the scent of bergamot and pine. One of his pillows is resting on his nightstand, halfway out of its yellow casing. It lands right where his bedside lamp would be. The lamp in question lay supine underneath it, knocked over and left defenseless.
Jesus, Mike.
Will shifts his gaze to the deep blue walls.
Each corner is littered with posters. He steps closer. Some aren’t posters at all, but smaller pieces of art, ripped from a sketchbook. He reaches towards one, ghosting a finger over the drawing.
It’s his artwork, he notes. Will swallows, circling his gaze around all four sides. Mike taped up his artwork, adorning his room with traces of Will.
Next to the window, he catches a piece he created in elementary school. A crude illustration of a few Dungeons & Dragons characters walking through a forest.
He catches another pinned up adjacent to the door.
He’d drawn that one a few years ago, during the summer of ‘85. It denotes a colorful depiction of the whole Party together at Starcourt Mall, wounding the Mind Flayer with fireworks.
Initially, Will kept it close to his chest in fear of being called childish, as he did many times that year, so he’d sketched it in secret. That night, while the rest of the group (plus their siblings) occupied themselves with celebrating its defeat, Will stayed in the corner of Mike’s basement, scrawling color fervently onto the page.
So imbued with the task, he disappeared into it. Will must’ve been alone only an hour or two at most before his best friend flew down the basement stairs—Party in tow—calling out his name with reckless abandon, as if the Upside Down had devoured him a second time. Lying to save face, Will squirreled the picture away, embarrassed.
Will tilts his head to the side; his green eyes trace over the wrinkles on the page.
It must’ve slipped away from him, then. Mike saved it, smoothed it out, and taped it up.
Will’s stomach flips at the thought. He flushes, turning away from it.
Lastly, across the room, framed front and center above the headboard, sat Will’s painting.
He stops short.
Bright and ornate—pinned reverently at the edges—it towered over all.
There they are. The Ranger, the Cleric, the Bard, and the Paladin.
His heart thumps against his ribcage.
Transfixed, he toes over a few comics. The art beckons Will further, calling his name and drawing him close. His right hand reaches towards it. He aches to feel the soft canvas underneath his fingertips, but falters, unwilling to mar the material.
It doesn’t belong to him anymore.
Pulse quickening, he bites his lip.
His best friend—the Heart—hung Will’s painting above his head at night?
Does it soothe him to see his work?
When he wakes from nightmares, could he twist in bed and face it, tracing each brush stroke in his mind the way Will does?
Flurries of hope well up from deep inside him.
Is… is it a sign? Could Mike care about him in return, in the same way?
Waves of air crest around his throat, breaking over his ears. He steps back all too sudden and crashes to the carpet. Deep breaths are siphoned from his lungs, replaced with quick bursts of scorching oxygen. They bite at his cells, cut at his pores, and fill his abdomen with static. Each beat of his heart turns his blood to powder. His coughs are violent; his vision spins around him.
It’s not a big deal. Don't… don’t think too hard about it.
Will lies flat against the ground, gripping the skin around his thighs, hard enough to bruise. Eyes closed, he inhales deeply, focusing on stabilizing the floor underneath him.
A minute passes. Two. Three. Four.
By the fifth minute, his erratic heart slows to a skip. Sweat beads along his collarbones, stretching to the nape of his neck. His eyes pry open. He’s greeted by the white popcorn ceiling.
There’s that scent again. Mike’s scent intermixed with the stale heat. Pinching his brows, he turns his head.
The comforter’s fleece-lined edge tickles his cheeks. The fabric rushes over his nose, his lips, and kisses along his jaw. Another exhale claws its way out from the lion’s den that is his chest. Upon inhaling, all he smells is Mike.
For a moment, all is well. For a moment, he is claimed. He belongs. His feelings are requited; his heart is protected. Free.
Moments are just that: moments. For that, he takes another one to sit up, rubbing his delusions out from between his shoulder blades.
Mike… Mike isn’t like him. Will knows that. His best friend likes girls. He sits around with the rest of the Party and talks about what kinds of jewelry suits them, the clothes they like to wear, and the music they like to listen to—like the opposite sex is a puzzle he wishes to solve.
He talks to Will about not wanting to get married or have any children, but they’re young. Of course, he’s not thinking about things like that just yet. Will isn’t.
Then again, Will’s not thinking of that for other reasons; reasons that jolt him from sleep; reasons he couldn’t possibly share with his childhood best friend.
No, Will knows Mike better than anyone else—like the back of his hand. When it comes to this, they’re just… not on the same frequency.
The knowledge of that makes it no easier to digest.
Massaging his sore legs, he rises to his feet again. He bunches the comforter with both hands, pulling the material over the white top sheet in a crude attempt to tidy up.
A quick peek at the stately painting is enough to extinguish his mirth.
He should leave.
He’s doing nothing in this room except torturing himself, after all. Every inch is tattooed with traces of him, of the love he gives so openly to others.
A small part of Will wants so badly to be loved as he loves. He knows that he is—in some way—loved by his friends and family. But not in the way he wishes. Not in the same way that’s available to the rest of them.
If that kind of love is available, he has yet to see it.
The house moans around him. A soft whrr sparks up above, and newly minted air zags through the room, just as suffocating as when he walked in.
He should leave.
Back straight, he steps towards the entrance.
He’s warm enough now. Hopefully, the basement will be more forgiving, cradling Will in its icy embrace and crystallizing his heart.
The door flies open before he can grip the knob.
Shuffling backwards, Will comes face to face with his best friend, who smiles.
In Mike’s hands, he holds two mugs, one steaming with the loud scent of burnt coffee, the other filling the air with something softer—sweeter. The heady mixture fills Will with tranquility and a touch of drowsiness.
Mike glides past him, placing both drinks onto his wooden desk. He steps back towards the door, closing it with a gentle click.
Will stands speechless, awaiting direction.
“Sorry I took so long,” Mike starts, facing Will, “I started to make myself a coffee, but then I added too much grounds and not enough water, so I burnt it. Again. It’s cool, though, I can handle burnt coffee, you know? It’s not too bad.
“But then I remembered that you’re not a big coffee fan, so I tried to make some hot chocolate with those little packets, but I had already put the milk in the microwave when I realized that Nancy used up the last of them.”
Mike runs a hand through his dark hair. An erratic breath escapes him. It bobbles against his Adam’s apple—a buoy lost in a sea of words.
“So I’m sitting there, thinking, okay, what do I do now? So then I remembered I had one of those big chocolate bars stashed away in the pantry. The king-sized Hershey ones, right?
“So I took it out, but it wouldn’t melt in the mug, so I had to dump the milk into a pot and boil it on the stove, which took forever—“
Will stands back, eyes wide. He places a hand up between them in surrender. Mike stills, inhaling quietly.
“Mike, relax,” he says, “it’s okay, I promise. I’m not mad or anything. I mean, you didn’t need to do all that for me.”
His best friend’s brows pinch together, as if confused.
“Why wouldn’t I make you something? We always drink hot chocolate together. Well, I’m not into it that much lately, but you get the point.”
Together. It sucker-punches Will with desire. His best friend didn’t want to undergo their tradition without him. They do things in unison; together.
The painting bites at the back of his mind.
He sends Mike a polite smile.
“You’re right. Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
Mike relaxes. His lips curl upwards, and he reaches behind him, grasping the mug and handing it to Will. The milky sweet scent steams up his nostrils. It fills his chest with warmth.
He takes a curious sip, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s… delicious. Will wouldn’t have thought to melt a whole chocolate bar, but now that he’s tried it, it seems the most obvious choice. Mike eyes him with caution as he sips from his own mug.
Steam coats his nose; rich, decadent fumes swirling up his sinuses. He oscillates side to side, feeling velvet line his stomach and spread to his extremities. Will’s eyes droop a little.
They stay like that for a beat, standing and sipping. His best friend awaits a verdict; Will is enjoying his drink more than he should.
Mike breaks first.
“Oh come on! Is it good?”
Will blinks towards him. He’s pulled from his chocolate stupor, and it takes a second to absorb his question. He smiles once he does, nodding.
“You might have to make it this way for the rest of your life, dude. It’s way better.”
Mike beams. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
Will clutches his mug reverently in his palms. He turns, sitting on the edge of his best friend’s bed. Mike follows suit. They sit side-by-side, absorbing the quiet.
That’s all that exists to Will, as far as he knows. The soft buzzing around his ears, the warmth of Mike’s body next to him, the heated air soaked with chocolate, bergamot, pine, and a fourth scent. Something delicate; more gentle. Lavender warmed in the morning sun.
His best friend’s bare knee brushes against Will’s clothed one. The sensation laps up his skin. He scoots to the side, opening space.
It's just Mike, he thinks. Nothing to worry about.
Sweat blooms along Will’s spine; his last layer of clothing now suctioned to his skin, like a surfer’s wetsuit. Moisture gathers around his tailbone, the crease of his elbows, and behind his knees. He wipes at the beads underneath his hair.
The combination of hot chocolate, hot air, and even hotter skin drenches him entirely.
When he rises to his feet, it peeks out once more: that subtle floral scent. He shifts the mug in his grasp. A free hand tugs at his collar, pulling it away. Sticking his nose into the gap, it punches into his brain.
Damn it.
Will should’ve known better than to listen to his mother when buying body wash.
Sandalwood and cedar, his ass. Hints of lavender? Please. He crinkles his nose. He’s a honeybee’s wet dream right now.
His best friend mirrors him and stands. Mike’s mug leaves his hand and returns to the desk.
Will rubs at his neck, shimmying in place.
It’s uncomfortable, but he has no other clothes to change into. His tongue is sticking, the room is swaying, and his heart is in his ears.
At this point, the Wheelers must be squeezing every damn drop out of the sun.
Mike tilts his head, analyzing Will once more.
His best friend reaches out and places a hand on Will’s bicep. As much as Will wishes to swoon at the contact, he remains still.
“Hey,” he starts, “what is it?”
Mike’s voice—normally acerbic and brash—drops considerably. Silky, calculated, it regards Will with gentle veneration, pressing him into reality.
Reality is too much for Will right now. His throat turns sour.
Will scrunches his face, heat swimming up his skin.
“I… I should probably go,” he replies.
It’s an unsatisfactory answer. His teeth grind in protest.
His toasted mind begins to hallucinate. It catches whispers cascading through the curtains—fantasies of requited affection at his expense.
Look, Will. Look at how he pays attention to you. He’s so attentive, so perfect, so pretty.
Will blinks up at him, swallowing at nothing. Brown eyes weld onto his green ones.
His eyes are only on you. Who else does he stare at like this? He cares. He sees you.
Mike takes a step back and gives him a once-over. Eyes widening, his fingers bunch around the sweat-soaked sleeve of Will’s sweater. He inhales.
“It’s too hot, isn’t it? Shit, I’m sorry, man. Do you—” he stops, shaking his head, “no, you should change. Hold on.”
Mike lets go, walking to the dresser.
Flinging drawers open, clothes of various sizes and colors fly through the air, papering the already crowded carpet.
Will bites at his lip.
His best friend buzzes around in true worker bee fashion before materializing a simple black David Bowie graphic tee and thin gray sweatpants.
No socks. No underwear, either. The idea of that alone makes Will breathless.
He wishes to resist, but his heart steps in.
If you wear it, you’ll smell like Mike instead of a bouquet. Wouldn’t that be nice, Will? To smell like him?
Mike straightens up, returning to position like a soldier to their post. He holds out the bunched-up articles, which Will doesn’t take. He won’t bite. Not now.
He takes a deep breath. Self-control overpowers him.
“It’s okay, Mike. I have my own clothes downstairs. I can go. Don’t worry about it.”
His best friend balks—eyes narrowing. Will isn’t sure which action would be right in the moment, to push further or say nothing more.
Either way, Will sees a flash of emotion zip through Mike’s sharp features. Quick, nearly indecipherable; it borders on protection, or perhaps a touch of possession. Will shuts that thought down, too.
His best friend is protective. He’s possessive of everyone. That’s who he is; who he’s always been. Mike is the heart of the Party. The whole Party. Hearts don’t stop beating just because one person wants them to.
Will sighs.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Mike asks, tossing the unclaimed clothes onto the bed. It frees up his arms, which fold against his chest.
Will slides his sweater sleeves up to his elbow. A thin veneer of perspiration makes his skin shine.
“Doing what?”
His best friend groans out, clicking his tongue.
“That. Deflecting everything I say! I suggest something, and you push back, like—like it’s bothering you when I speak. I-I mean, what is this? Are you mad at me or something?”
Mike’s voice comes out higher than usual, his words thin.
Will stops in his tracks.
Above them, the air shuts off. It should be a welcome relief, but it amplifies the static between them, enough to chew on.
“What? Why would I be mad at you?”
His best friend scoffs, swinging his arms outward.
“Oh, I don’t know. I suggest you come up here, and it’s like pulling teeth. I hand you a drink,” he gestures to the mugs on the desk, “and you’re suspicious of it. You’re barely talking to me. The minute I walk in, you’re uncomfortable, like I’m holding you hostage—”
“I am not!” Will interjects.
It does little to quell the fire in Mike’s throat.
“—you’re clearly sweating buckets, man! I hand you clothes to change into, but no, you’re just too good for them, aren’t you? Is that it?”
The house creaks around them. Late morning sunlight bathes the room in yellow light. There’s a pulsing behind Will’s eyes at the contrast in ambiance, and he stifles a sigh.
Humorously, he feels the first stirrings of torpor consume him. He steals a glance towards Mike’s mattress, desiring nothing more to sink into its cushioned bosom.
He is tired. He did like the hot chocolate. He wants nothing more than to wear Mike’s clothes.
He wants, he wants, he wants.
“That’s not true—“
“Then say it. Say it, Will!”
Will hesitates. “Say what?”
A beat. Then—
“Tell me that I’m wrong. Tell—”
He gulps. Will’s eyes dilate in shock.
“Tell me what’s going on with you, Will. For fuck’s sake, just talk to me!” Mike exclaims.
A stray sunbeam crawls up Mike’s cheek. At first, Will believes it to be another hallucination: that odd glassy sheen around his best friend’s waterline.
But when he concentrates, he notes that it isn’t a trick of the light at all. Rather, wetness brims in Mike’s eyelids, staining his eyes red.
Oh. Oh no.
Shame slithers down Will’s back. It mingles with his scalding sweat, setting him alight. It’s hard to breathe. He finds himself adrift, lost in a sea of confusion and guilt.
Say something, Will. Don’t leave him like this.
“Nothing…” Will starts, feeling the words sputter in his vocal cords, like a car that won’t start, “nothing’s going on, Mike. It’s not—“ he swallows, “it’s not like that.”
Isn’t it, though?
His best friend grits his teeth. From glass to stone, Mike’s eyes darken into something wilder, indignant.
“It’s not like that? You’re my best friend, Will! We’ve been best friends since kindergarten! Now, you can’t stand to be in the same room as me!
“You leave when I walk in, you—you sit away from me when we hang out with our friends, you run away to Hopper’s cabin with El without even thinking to invite me. She’s my girlfriend, Will, and she’s the only person you want to be around!”
Will scoffs, glaring back with a look of incredulity.
“So that’s what this is about? Jane? You don’t own her, dude! She’s my sister—“
“God, it’s not about her!” He barks out.
“So what? We don’t have to be attached at the hip, Mike!”
Shut up, shut up, shut up—
“If I remember correctly, you’re the one who had no time for me when I moved to California!” He continues.
Will steps forward, pressing a stern finger into Mike’s chest.
“You’re the one who said I should’ve reached out more. You’re the one who said I needed to grow up! So what? You’re upset that I listened to you? You’re upset that I want to spend time with people who don’t drag me down?”
There it is.
The little bubble of peace in his best friend’s room bursts. Regret blooms from deep inside Will: blinding, cold, and swelling with sadness.
Will didn’t want to say that. He shouldn’t have. Mike is crestfallen, his face cycling through each stage of grief at warp speed.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression…
Will waits. No, it’s not a complete loop. His best friend is caught halfway, as a View–Master gets stuck between slides. Mike’s jaw clamps shut, his hands curling into fists on his sides. Will sees it then, the emotion.
There’s no acceptance. Mike’s hands shake.
“I drag you down? I drag you down?”
Will interrupts, eating his words.
“That’s not how I meant it. I didn’t—“
“Drag you down? Really? Is that really how you feel, Will?”
A quiver rips through his best friend’s bottom lip. Mike’s eyes are cemented onto Will’s, flicking through each iris, as if attempting to put the pieces together.
If you knew how it feels, Will thinks, you wouldn’t look at me the same.
But he says nothing.
Everything is knotted up inside him. Mike. His eyes. His scent. His words. The way he talks to him, the way he smiles at him, it tears at Will from the inside out, turning him into goo.
Mike inches closer. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is flushing, and he is so, so beautiful.
Will wishes a gate would materialize right under his feet. He hopes it drags him by his ankles, yanking him right through its red maw and into the Upside Down. He’ll be Vecna’s puppet. He’ll swallow that black, acrid vapor once more—anything, anything—but witness the love of his life glare at him this way.
“I know that I was an asshole in California. I was shitty to you and El. I probably still am, I don’t know. But I—I try, Will. And maybe I don’t always say the right things, or I push too hard, or something. But…” Mike trails off, biting his lip.
A pause.
His fingers uncoil. His shoulders drop.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just not the same anymore,” he finishes.
Will shakes his head. Wetness blurs his vision. He blinks in quick succession, hoping to reabsorb them before they stain his eyes red, too.
Don’t leave him like this, Will.
“No, Mike, that’s not what I meant.”
His best friend pushes that aside.
“Just tell me, Will. If I’m—” Mike gulps, “if I’m bothering you, then just tell me to, like, leave you alone. I don’t want you to keep lying to me, you know? You’re my best friend. Friends don’t lie.”
Some friend Will is, he thinks.
Will wants to speak. He does. He wants to defend himself, but where would he even start?
Should he start with the nightmares?
With how intoxicating it is to live with Mike?
How about the pain he feels around Mike and Jane?
Hell, why not go for gold and open up about the fucking painting?
Speaking of, he glances at it. He still hasn’t told Mike the truth. Deep down, Will’s not sure he should. If he reveals that, he risks losing not only them but everyone.
Will is honest; he is not cruel.
Mike’ll simply never know Will’s heart. If that’s what it takes to keep the two people he loves happy, to keep everyone happy, then that’s what he’ll do.
He’s spent too long in his head. Silence grows between them. Mike nods and falls back, brown eyes sinking to the carpet.
“Got it. Just—just go. It’s cool. Plus, you really should get out of this heat, dude. You’re drenched.”
He toes over to the edge of his bed, grabbing his bunched-up clothes from before and holding them out between them.
“In case you change your mind. It’s better to take a shower, anyway. You can use ours, if—“ Mike starts before shaking his head.
“Nevermind. You’ll probably be more comfortable with the one in the basement, I guess.”
His suggestion shrivels in the hot air, which kicks on once again. A sick joke.
Will looks at the clothes. Against his better judgment, he grabs the articles and clutches them in the crook of his elbow. They’re soft in his grasp, smelling of Tide.
Maybe he shouldn’t wear them. He shouldn’t wear them.
But his best friend is already turning away, busying himself with the rest of the fabric that litters the ground around them.
Languidly, Mike gathers each article of clothing and opens the dresser drawers—taking his time to fold them neatly, something Will frowns at.
Normally, he’d say something at the task—a slight remark, a funny joke—but it dries in his throat, along with all the moisture it had left.
Instead, Will spins on his heels. He shuffles over to the door, turning the knob and pulling it towards him. The air outside is just as hot, but to him it might as well be subzero. He steals a glance backwards, but Mike doesn’t look at him.
Mike is done with him.
Bolstering himself, Will gulps down the lump in his throat. He opens the door and steps over the threshold, swinging the door closed with a soft click.